The little community was thrown into some commotion by these events. The dangerous wound of so prominent a person as the Assistant, and the capture of the renowned Indian sachem—not to speak of the lady—could not fail to occasion a lively interest. As soon as the results of the night expedition were known, (and the news flew with wonted celerity,) every body was in the streets, giving and receiving information, or what purported to be such, and making and listening to comments thereupon. We cannot, however, remain to hear the conversation of the grave citizens at the corners, but must follow those whose particular fortunes we have undertaken to portray.
The unfortunate Spikeman, unable to suppress his groans at the pain occasioned by the motions of his bearers—his clothing saturated with blood, which kept oozing from the orifices of the wound—was borne to his dwelling, and delivered to the weeping household. It would be absurd to suppose that any great grief was felt by Dame Spikeman, and hers was partly the feeling arising from early associations and long familiarity; but it is impossible for the most stoical to contemplate, without emotion, one in the condition of the suffering man, and the tears of Eveline and of Prudence were mingled with those of the dame.
It happened that Dr. Samuel Fuller, of the Plymouth colony, who had come over with the first Pilgrims was in Boston at the time. He was immediately brought to the wounded man, and was soon followed by Governor Winthrop, Mr. Eliot, and other friends. The corselet had been removed, and a portion of the clothing cut away, and Spikeman lay on his side, spasmodically breathing. Yet had resolution not entirely deserted him. His strong character still spoke in his face, and he looked like one who, though conquered, was not subdued.
Doctor Puller approached the couch and gently touched the arrow, but it produced such a spasm that he did not repeat the experiment. The eyes of Spikeman were fastened on the countenance of the surgeon, and read therein his doom.
"There is no hope?" he gasped.
"I humbly trust," said the doctor, who was "not only useful in his faculty, but otherwise, as he was a godly man, and served Christ in the office of a deacon in the Church for many years, and forward to do good in his place" according to an old chronicle—"I humbly trust that a crown of glory awaits thee in the other world whither thou art hastening."
A groan, which shook the couch whereon he was lying, and gent the blood gushing from the wound, burst from Spikeman, as he heard the answer.
"Yea," said good and tender-hearted Mr. Eliot, let our brother anchor his mind on the promises which are very comfortable—For ye have not received the spirit of bondage again to fear, but ye have received the spirit of adoption whereby we cry, Abba, Father.' For I reckon that the sufferings of the present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us. 'Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, and their works do follow them.'"
"Works?" interrupted Spikeman. "Who speaks of works? They are filthy rags."
"They are indeed but filthy rags," said Mr. Eliot, "to them who rely upon them for salvation; yet are they not unpleasing as being the fruits of saving faith."