Читать книгу The Loyalist - James Francis Barrett - Страница 23

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The Corner of Market and Front Streets was brisk with life and activity at twelve, the change hour, every day. Here assembled the merchants of the city, members of the upper class who cared enough about the rest of the world to make an inquiry into its progress; men of leisure about town whose vocation in life was to do nothing and who had the entire day in which to do it. All conditions, all varieties of character joined the ranks. Soldiers, restless from the monotony of army life and desirous of the license usually associated with leave of absence; civilians eager in the pursuit of truth or of scandal; patriots impatient with the yoke of foreign rule; Tories exasperated with the turn of the war and its accompanying privations;—all gathered together at the Old London Coffee House day after day.

It stood, an imposing three-storied, square structure, with a great wing extending far in the rear. Its huge roof, fashioned for all the world after a truncated pyramid with immense gables projecting from its sides, gave every indication of having sheltered many a guest from the snows and rains of winter. A great chimney ran up the side and continually belched forth smoke and sparks, volumes of them, during the days and nights of the cold winter season. A portico of no particular style of architecture ran around two sides of the ancient building and afforded a meeting place for the majority of the guests. It was furnished with many chairs, faithfully tenanted when the season was propitious.

Thither Stephen and Mr. Allison were directing their steps more than a week after they had last met at the home of the latter. It was by the merest chance they encountered. Stephen was seeking a healthful reaction from a vigorous walk through the less-frequented part of the city; Mr. Allison was making his daily visit to the Coffee House. Stephen had often heard of the tavern, but had never been there. Still he was resolved to seek an introduction to its clientèle at the first propitious moment. That moment had now come.

Upon entering, their attention was at once arrested by the animated discussion in progress at a table in the nearest corner of the room. An officer of the Governor's Guard, in full regimentals, booted and spurred, in company with a gentleman, finely dressed, was talking loudly to Jim Cadwalader, who was seated before them holding a half-opened newspaper in his hand. It was plain to be seen that the soldier was somewhat under the influence of liquor, yet one could not call him intoxicated.

"Gi' me that an' I'll show y'," exclaimed the soldier as he grabbed the paper from Cadwalader's hand.

"Y' were told," he went on to read from it, "that it was t' avoid the 'stabl'shment 'r count'nancin'," he half mumbled the words, "of Pop'ry; an that Pop'ry was 'stabl'shed in Canada (where 't was only tol'rated). And is not Pop'ry now as much 'stabl'shed by law in your state 's any other rel'gion?" "Just what I was sayin'," he interpolated. "So that your Gov'nor and all your rulers may be Papists, and you may have a Mass-House in ev'ry corner o' your country (as some places already 'xper'ence)."

"There!" he snarled as he threw back the paper. "Isn't that what I wuz tryin' t' tell y'."

"You can't tell me nothin', Forrest," retorted Jim.

"Course I can't. Nobody kin. Y' know 't all."

"I can mind my own bus'ness."

"There y' are agin," shouted Forrest, "y' know 't all, ye do."

"Don't say that again," Jim flared back at him. "I'll—I'll—I'll——. Don't say it again, that's all."

"'Cause y' know 'ts true."

"It's a lie," Jim interrupted him. "Ye know it's a lie. But I don't 'spect much of ye, 'r of the Gov'nor either. None of ye 'll ever be Papists."

"Now you're talkin' sens'ble; first sens'ble thing you've said t'day. No Papists here if we kin help it."

Stephen and Mr. Allison, keenly interested in this remark, moved nearer to the table. Cadwalader was well known to Mr. Allison. The others were total strangers.

"What's he goin' t' do about the help from France? Refuse it 'cause it's from a Catholic country?" asked Jim.

"He don't like it and never did."

"Is he fool 'nough t' think we can win this war without help?"

"He won it once."

"When?"

"Saratoga."

"That's his story. We didn't have it won and it won't be won without troops and with somethin' besides shin-plasters." He turned sideways, crossed one leg over the other and began to drum upon the table.

"We must hev help," he went on. "We must hev it and it must come from France 'r Spain."

"They y' are agin," repeated Forrest, "as if one wuzn't as much under th' Pope as th' other."

"Forrest!" he turned toward him and shook his finger at him in a menacing sort of way. "Don't say that agin. Mind what I tell ye. Don't say it again—that's all. When I'm mad, I'm not myself."

"Is that so? I s'pose I'm wrong agin, an' you're right. Tell me this. What did yer fool leg'slature in Vi'ginya do th' other day?"

"I don't know," murmured Jim. "What did they do?"

"There y' are agin. I thought y' knew it all. Think y' know ev'rythin' an' y' know nothin'. Passed a resolution fur a Papist priest, didn't they?"

"And why?" pronounced Jim, flushed with anger, his lower lip quivering with emotion. "'Cause he did more fur his country, than you or I'll ever do. Father Gibault! And if it wazn't fur him, Colonel Clark'd never hev op'nd th' Northwest."

"That's just what I say. The Papists'll soon own the whole damn country."

Stephen and Mr. Allison moved as if to join the discussion, which had at this juncture become loud enough to lose the character of intimacy. Jim was well known to the guests of the house. The man who was known as Forrest, was, it was plain from his uniform, a Colonel in the army. The other man was a stranger. Much younger than his companion, tall, manly, clad in a suit of black, with his hair in full dress, well-powdered and gathered behind in a large silken bag, he gave every appearance of culture and refinement. He wore a black cocked hat, whose edges were adorned with a black feather about an inch in depth, his knees as well as his shoes adorned with silver buckles.

"If they did own th' country," was Jim's grave reply, "we'd hev a healthier place to live in than we now hev."

"An' whose doin' it?" shouted Forrest. "The Papists."

"Thou liest!" interrupted Mr. Allison, intruding himself into their midst, "a confounded lie. Remember, the Catholics have given their all to this war—their goods, their money, their sons."

"Heigh-ho! who're you?" asked the soldier. "What d' you know 'bout the army? Hardly 'nough 'f them to go aroun'."

"A malicious untruth. Why, half the rebel army itself is reported to have come from Ireland."

"How do you know?"

"From the testimony of General Robertson in the House of Lords. And if these soldiers are Irishmen, you can wager they're Catholics. And why should we pass laws 'gainst these crowds of Irish Papists and convicts who are yearly poured upon us, unless they were Catholic convicts fleeing from the laws of persecution?"

"What ails ye, Forrest," rejoined Jim, "can't be cured."

"Take care 'f yourself," angrily retorted the Colonel, "an' I'll take care o' myself."

"If ye did, and yer likes did the same, we'd git along better and the war'd be over. I s'pose ye know that yer friend Jay lost Canada to us."

"What if he did. Wazn't he right?"

And then he explained to him.