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Title: The Spy

Author: James Fenimore Cooper

Release Date: October 23, 2003 [EBook #9845]
Last updated: December 7, 2019

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

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[Illustration]




The Spy

A TALE OF THE NEUTRAL GROUND

by James Fenimore Cooper

EDITED BY
NATHANIEL WARING BARNES

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH COMPOSITION IN DE PAUW UNIVERSITY GREENCASTLE,
INDIANA

Contents

 JAMES FENIMORE COOPER
 AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION
 CHAPTER I.
 CHAPTER II.
 CHAPTER III.
 CHAPTER IV.
 CHAPTER V.
 CHAPTER VI.
 CHAPTER VII.
 CHAPTER VIII.
 CHAPTER IX.
 CHAPTER X.
 CHAPTER XI.
 CHAPTER XII.
 CHAPTER XIII.
 CHAPTER XIV.
 CHAPTER XV.
 CHAPTER XVI.
 CHAPTER XVII.
 CHAPTER XVIII.
 CHAPTER XIX.
 CHAPTER XX.
 CHAPTER XXI.
 CHAPTER XXII.
 CHAPTER XXIII.
 CHAPTER XXIV.
 CHAPTER XXV.
 CHAPTER XXVI.
 CHAPTER XXVII.
 CHAPTER XXVIII.
 CHAPTER XXIX.
 CHAPTER XXX.
 CHAPTER XXXI.
 CHAPTER XXXII.
 CHAPTER XXXIII.
 CHAPTER XXXIV.
 CHAPTER XXXV.




JAMES FENIMORE COOPER


“I believe I could write a better story myself!” With these words,
since become famous, James Fenimore Cooper laid aside the English novel
which he was reading aloud to his wife. A few days later he submitted
several pages of manuscript for her approval, and then settled down to
the task of making good his boast. In November, 1820, he gave the
public a novel in two volumes, entitled _Precaution_. But it was
published anonymously, and dealt with English society in so much the
same way as the average British novel of the time that its author was
thought by many to be an Englishman. It had no originality and no real
merit of any kind. Yet it was the means of inciting Cooper to another
attempt. And this second novel made him famous.

When _Precaution_ appeared, some of Cooper’s friends protested against
his weak dependence on British models. Their arguments stirred his
patriotism, and he determined to write another novel, using thoroughly
American material. Accordingly he turned to Westchester County, where
he was then living, a county which had been the scene of much stirring
action during a good part of the Revolutionary War, and composed _The
Spy—A Tale of the Neutral Ground_. This novel was published in 1821,
and was immediately popular, both in this country and in England. Soon
it was translated into French, then into other foreign languages, until
it was read more widely than any other tale of the century. Cooper had
written the first American novel. He had also struck an original
literary vein, and he had gained confidence in himself as a writer.

Following this pronounced success in authorship, Cooper set to work on
a third book and continued for the remainder of his life to devote most
of his time to writing. Altogether he wrote over thirty novels and as
many more works of a miscellaneous character. But much of this writing
has no interest for us at the present time, especially that which was
occasioned by the many controversies in which the rather belligerent
Cooper involved himself. His work of permanent value after _The Spy_
falls into two groups, the tales of wilderness life and the sea tales.
Both these groups grew directly out of his experiences in early life.

Cooper was born on September 15, 1789, in Burlington, New Jersey, but
while still very young he was taken to Cooperstown, on the shores of
Otsego Lake, in central New York. His father owned many thousand acres
of primeval forest about this village, and so through the years of a
free boyhood the young Cooper came to love the wilderness and to know
the characters of border life. When the village school was no longer
adequate, he went to study privately in Albany and later entered Yale
College. But he was not interested in the study of books. When, as a
junior, he was expelled from college, he turned to a career in the
navy. Accordingly in the fall of 1806 he sailed on a merchant ship, the
_Sterling_, and for the next eleven months saw hard service before the
mast. Soon after this apprenticeship he received a commission as a
midshipman in the United States navy. Although it was a time of peace,
and he saw no actual fighting, he gained considerable knowledge from
his service on Lake Ontario and Lake Champlain that he put to good use
later. Shortly before his resignation in May, 1811, he had married, and
for several years thereafter he lived along in a pleasant, leisurely
fashion, part of the time in Cooperstown and part of the time in
Westchester County, until almost accidentally he broke into the writing
of his first novel. Aside from the publication of his books, Cooper’s
later life was essentially uneventful. He died at Cooperstown, on
September 14, 1851.

The connection of Cooper’s best writing with the life he knew at first
hand is thus perfectly plain. In his novels dealing with the
wilderness, popularly known as the Leatherstocking Tales, he drew
directly on his knowledge of the backwoods and backwoodsmen as he
gained it about Cooperstown. In _The Pioneers_ (1823) he dealt with the
scenes of his boyhood, scenes which lay very close to his heart; and in
the other volumes of this series, _The Last of the Mohicans_ (1826),
_The Prairie_ (1827), _The Pathfinder_ (1840), and _The Deerslayer_
(1841), he continued to write of the trappers and frontiersmen and
outpost garrisons and Indians who made up the forest life he knew so
well. Similarly, in the sea tales, which began with ‘The Pilot’(1823)
and included ‘The Red Rover’(1828), ‘The Two Admirals’ (1842) and ‘The
Wing-and-Wing’(1842), he made full use of his experiences before the
mast and in the navy. The nautical accuracy of these tales of the sea
could scarcely have been attained by a “landlubber”. It has much
practical significance, then, that Cooper chose material which he knew
intimately and which gripped his own interest. His success came like
Thackeray’s and Stevenson’s and Mark Twain’s—without his having to
reach to the other side of the world after his material.

In considering Cooper’s work as a novelist, nothing is more marked than
his originality. In these days we take novels based on American history
and novels of the sea for granted, but at the time when Cooper
published ‘The Spy’ and ‘The Pilot’ neither an American novel nor a
salt-water novel had ever been written. So far as Americans before
Cooper had written fiction at all, Washington Irving had been the only
one to cease from a timid imitation of British models. But Irving’s
material was local, rather than national. It was Cooper who first told
the story of the conquest of the American continent. He caught the
poetry and the romantic thrill of both the American forest and the sea;
he dared to break away from literary conventions. His reward was an
immediate and widespread success, together with a secure place in the
history of his country’s literature.

There was probably a two-fold reason for the success which Cooper’s
novels won at home and abroad. In the first place, Cooper could invent
a good story and tell it well. He was a master of rapid, stirring
narrative, and his tales were elemental, not deep or subtle. Secondly,
he created interesting characters who had the restless energy, the
passion for adventure, the rugged confidence, of our American pioneers.
First among these great characters came Harvey Birch in ‘The Spy’, but
Cooper’s real triumph was Natty Bumppo, who appears in all five of the
Leatherstocking Tales. This skilled trapper, faithful guide, brave
fighter, and homely philosopher was “the first real American in
fiction,” an important contribution to the world’s literature. In
addition, Cooper created the Indian of literature—perhaps a little too
noble to be entirely true to life—and various simple, strong seamen.
His Chingachgook and Uncas and Long Tom Coffin justly brought him added
fame. In these narrative gifts, as well as in the robustness of his own
character, Cooper was not unlike Sir Walter Scott. He once modestly
referred to himself as “a chip from Scott’s block” and has frequently
been called “the American Scott.”

But, of course, Cooper had limitations and faults. When he stepped
outside the definite boundaries of the life he knew, he was unable to
handle character effectively. His women are practically failures, and
like his military officers essentially interchangeable. His humor is
almost invariably labored and tedious. He occasionally allowed long
passages of description or long speeches by some minor character to
clog the progress of his action. Now and then, in inventing his plots,
he strained his readers’ credulity somewhat. Finally, as a result of
his rapid writing, his work is uneven and without style in the sense
that a careful craftsman or a sensitive artist achieves it. He is even
guilty of an occasional error in grammar or word use which the young
pupil in the schools can detect. Yet his literary powers easily
outweigh all these weaknesses. He is unquestionably one of America’s
great novelists and one of the world’s great romancers.

There is abundant reason, therefore, why Americans of the present day
should know James Fenimore Cooper. He has many a good story of the
wilderness and the sea to tell to those who enjoy tales of adventure.
He gives a vivid, but faithful picture of American frontier life for
those who can know its stirring events and its hardy characters only at
second hand. He holds a peculiarly important place in the history of
American literature, and has done much to extend the reputation of
American fiction among foreigners.




AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION


The author has often been asked if there were any foundation in real
life for the delineation of the principal character in this book. He
can give no clearer answer to the question than by laying before his
readers a simple statement of the facts connected with its original
publication.

Many years since, the writer of this volume was at the residence of an
illustrious man, who had been employed in various situations of high
trust during the darkest days of the American Revolution. The discourse
turned upon the effects which great political excitement produces on
character, and the purifying consequences of a love of country, when
that sentiment is powerfully and generally awakened in a people. He
who, from his years, his services, and his knowledge of men, was best
qualified to take the lead in such a conversation, was the principal
speaker. After dwelling on the marked manner in which the great
struggle of the nation, during the war of 1775, had given a new and
honorable direction to the thoughts and practices of multitudes whose
time had formerly been engrossed by the most vulgar concerns of life,
he illustrated his opinions by relating an anecdote, the truth of which
he could attest as a personal witness.

The dispute between England and the United States of America, though
not strictly a family quarrel, had many of the features of a civil war.
The people of the latter were never properly and constitutionally
subject to the people of the former, but the inhabitants of both
countries owed allegiance to a common king. The Americans, as a nation,
disavowed this allegiance, and the English choosing to support their
sovereign in the attempt to regain his power, most of the feelings of
an internal struggle were involved in the conflict. A large proportion
of the emigrants from Europe, then established in the colonies, took
part with the crown; and there were many districts in which their
influence, united to that of the Americans who refused to lay aside
their allegiance, gave a decided preponderance to the royal cause.
America was then too young, and too much in need of every heart and
hand, to regard these partial divisions, small as they were in actual
amount, with indifference. The evil was greatly increased by the
activity of the English in profiting by these internal dissensions; and
it became doubly serious when it was found that attempts were made to
raise various corps of provincial troops, who were to be banded with
those from Europe, to reduce the young republic to subjection. Congress
named an especial and a secret committee, therefore, for the express
purpose of defeating this object. Of this committee Mr.——, the narrator
of the anecdote, was chairman.

In the discharge of the novel duties which now devolved on him, Mr.——
had occasion to employ an agent whose services differed but little from
those of a common spy. This man, as will easily be understood, belonged
to a condition in life which rendered him the least reluctant to appear
in so equivocal a character. He was poor, ignorant, so far as the usual
instruction was concerned; but cool, shrewd, and fearless by nature. It
was his office to learn in what part of the country the agents of the
crown were making their efforts to embody men, to repair to the place,
enlist, appear zealous in the cause he affected to serve, and otherwise
to get possession of as many of the secrets of the enemy as possible.
The last he of course communicated to his employers, who took all the
means in their power to counteract the plans of the English, and
frequently with success.

It will readily be conceived that a service like this was attended with
great personal hazard. In addition to the danger of discovery, there
was the daily risk of falling into the hands of the Americans
themselves, who invariably visited sins of this nature more severely on
the natives of the country than on the Europeans who fell into their
hands. In fact, the agent of Mr. —— was several times arrested by the
local authorities; and, in one instance, he was actually condemned by
his exasperated countrymen to the gallows. Speedy and private orders to
the jailer alone saved him from an ignominious death. He was permitted
to escape; and this seeming and indeed actual peril was of great aid in
supporting his assumed character among the English. By the Americans,
in his little sphere, he was denounced as a bold and inveterate Tory.
In this manner he continued to serve his country in secret during the
early years of the struggle, hourly environed by danger, and the
constant subject of unmerited opprobrium.

In the year ——, Mr. —— was named to a high and honorable employment at
a European court. Before vacating his seat in Congress, he reported to
that body an outline of the circumstances related, necessarily
suppressing the name of his agent, and demanding an appropriation in
behalf of a man who had been of so much use, at so great risk. A
suitable sum was voted; and its delivery was confided to the chairman
of the secret committee.

Mr. —— took the necessary means to summon his agent to a personal
interview. They met in a wood at midnight. Here Mr. —— complimented his
companion on his fidelity and adroitness; explained the necessity of
their communications being closed; and finally tendered the money. The
other drew back, and declined receiving it. “The country has need of
all its means,” he said; “as for myself, I can work, or gain a
livelihood in various ways.” Persuasion was useless, for patriotism was
uppermost in the heart of this remarkable individual; and Mr. ——
departed, bearing with him the gold he had brought, and a deep respect
for the man who had so long hazarded his life, unrequited, for the
cause they served in common.

The writer is under an impression that, at a later day, the agent of
Mr. —— consented to receive a remuneration for what he had done; but it
was not until his country was entirely in a condition to bestow it.

It is scarcely necessary to add, that an anecdote like this, simply but
forcibly told by one of its principal actors, made a deep impression on
all who heard it. Many years later, circumstances, which it is
unnecessary to relate, and of an entirely adventitious nature, induced
the writer to publish a novel, which proved to be, what he little
foresaw at the time, the first of a tolerably long series. The same
adventitious causes which gave birth to the book determined its scene
and its general character. The former was laid in a foreign country;
and the latter embraced a crude effort to describe foreign manners.
When this tale was published, it became matter of reproach among the
author’s friends, that he, an American in heart as in birth, should
give to the world a work which aided perhaps, in some slight degree, to
feed the imaginations of the young and unpracticed among his own
countrymen, by pictures drawn from a state of society so different from
that to which he belonged. The writer, while he knew how much of what
he had done was purely accidental, felt the reproach to be one that, in
a measure, was just. As the only atonement in his power, he determined
to inflict a second book, whose subject should admit of no cavil, not
only on the world, but on himself. He chose patriotism for his theme;
and to those who read this introduction and the book itself, it is
scarcely necessary to add, that he took the hero of the anecdote just
related as the best illustration of his subject.

Since the original publication of _The Spy_, there have appeared
several accounts of different persons who are supposed to have been in
the author’s mind while writing the book. As Mr. —— did not mention the
name of his agent, the writer never knew any more of his identity with
this or that individual, than has been here explained. Both Washington
and Sir Henry Clinton had an unusual number of secret emissaries; in a
war that partook so much of a domestic character, and in which the
contending parties were people of the same blood and language, it could
scarcely be otherwise.

The style of the book has been revised by the author in this edition.
In this respect, he has endeavored to make it more worthy of the favor
with which it has been received; though he is compelled to admit there
are faults so interwoven with the structure of the tale that, as in the
case of a decayed edifice, it would cost perhaps less to reconstruct
than to repair. Five-and-twenty years have been as ages with most
things connected with America. Among other advantages, that of her
literature has not been the least. So little was expected from the
publication of an original work of this description, at the time it was
written, that the first volume of _The Spy_ was actually printed
several months, before the author felt a sufficient inducement to write
a line of the second. The efforts expended on a hopeless task are
rarely worthy of him who makes them, however low it may be necessary to
rate the standard of his general merit.

One other anecdote connected with the history of this book may give the
reader some idea of the hopes of an American author, in the first
quarter of the present century. As the second volume was slowly
printing, from manuscript that was barely dry when it went into the
compositor’s hands, the publisher intimated that the work might grow to
a length that would consume the profits. To set his mind at rest, the
last chapter was actually written, printed, and paged, several weeks
before the chapters which precede it were even thought of. This
circumstance, while it cannot excuse, may serve to explain the manner
in which the actors are hurried off the scene.

A great change has come over the country since this book was originally
written. The nation is passing from the gristle into the bone, and the
common mind is beginning to keep even pace with the growth of the body
politic. The march from Vera Cruz to Mexico was made under the orders
of that gallant soldier who, a quarter of a century before, was
mentioned with honor, in the last chapter of this very book. Glorious
as was that march, and brilliant as were its results in a military
point of view, a stride was then made by the nation, in a moral sense,
that has hastened it by an age, in its progress toward real
independence and high political influence. The guns that filled the
valley of the Aztecs with their thunder, have been heard in echoes on
the other side of the Atlantic, producing equally hope or apprehension.

There is now no enemy to fear, but the one that resides within. By
accustoming ourselves to regard even the people as erring beings, and
by using the restraints that wisdom has adduced from experience, there
is much reason to hope that the same Providence which has so well aided
us in our infancy, may continue to smile on our manhood.

COOPERSTOWN, _March_ 29, 1849.

[Illustration: MAP TO ILLUSTRATE THE STORY OF THE SPY]

[The footnotes throughout are Cooper’s own.]




CHAPTER I.


And though amidst the calm of thought entire,
Some high and haughty features might betray
A soul impetuous once—’twas earthly fire
That fled composure’s intellectual ray,
As Etna’s fires grow dim before the rising day.


—_Gertrude of Wyoming_.


It was near the close of the year 1780 that a solitary traveler was
seen pursuing his way through one of the numerous little valleys of
Westchester.[1] The easterly wind, with its chilling dampness and
increasing violence, gave unerring notice of the approach of a storm,
which, as usual, might be expected to continue for several days; and
the experienced eye of the traveler was turned in vain, through the
darkness of the evening, in quest of some convenient shelter, in which,
for the term of his confinement by the rain that already began to mix
with the atmosphere in a thick mist, he might obtain such
accommodations as his purposes required. Nothing whatever offered but
the small and inconvenient tenements of the lower order of the
inhabitants, with whom, in that immediate neighborhood, he did not
think it either safe or politic to trust himself.

The county of Westchester, after the British had obtained possession of
the island of New York,[2] became common ground, in which both parties
continued to act for the remainder of the war of the Revolution. A
large proportion of its inhabitants, either restrained by their
attachments, or influenced by their fears, affected a neutrality they
did not feel. The lower towns were, of course, more particularly under
the dominion of the crown, while the upper, finding a security from the
vicinity of the continental troops, were bold in asserting their
revolutionary opinions, and their right to govern themselves. Great
numbers, however, wore masks, which even to this day have not been
thrown aside; and many an individual has gone down to the tomb,
stigmatized as a foe to the rights of his countrymen, while, in secret,
he has been the useful agent of the leaders of the Revolution; and, on
the other hand, could the hidden repositories of divers flaming
patriots have been opened to the light of day, royal protections would
have been discovered concealed under piles of British gold.

At the sound of the tread of the noble horse ridden by the traveler,
the mistress of the farmhouse he was passing at the time might be seen
cautiously opening the door of the building to examine the stranger;
and perhaps, with an averted face communicating the result of her
observations to her husband, who, in the rear of the building, was
prepared to seek, if necessary, his ordinary place of concealment in
the adjacent woods. The valley was situated about midway in the length
of the county, and was sufficiently near to both armies to make the
restitution of stolen goods no uncommon occurrence in that vicinity. It
is true, the same articles were not always regained; but a summary
substitute was generally resorted to, in the absence of legal justice,
which restored to the loser the amount of his loss, and frequently with
no inconsiderable addition for the temporary use of his property. In
short, the law was momentarily extinct in that particular district, and
justice was administered subject to the bias of personal interests and
the passions of the strongest.

The passage of a stranger, with an appearance of somewhat doubtful
character, and mounted on an animal which, although unfurnished with
any of the ordinary trappings of war, partook largely of the bold and
upright carriage that distinguished his rider, gave rise to many
surmises among the gazing inmates of the different habitations; and in
some instances, where conscience was more than ordinarily awake, to no
little alarm.

Tired with the exercise of a day of unusual fatigue, and anxious to
obtain a speedy shelter from the increasing violence of the storm, that
now began to change its character to large drops of driving rain, the
traveler determined, as a matter of necessity, to make an application
for admission to the next dwelling that offered. An opportunity was not
long wanting; and, riding through a pair of neglected bars, he knocked
loudly at the outer door of a building of a very humble exterior,
without quitting his saddle. A female of middle age, with an outward
bearing but little more prepossessing than that of her dwelling,
appeared to answer the summons. The startled woman half closed her door
again in affright, as she saw, by the glare of a large wood fire, a
mounted man so unexpectedly near its threshold; and an expression of
terror mingled with her natural curiosity, as she required his
pleasure.

Although the door was too nearly closed to admit of a minute scrutiny
of the accommodations within, enough had been seen to cause the
horseman to endeavor, once more, to penetrate the gloom, with longing
eyes, in search of a more promising roof, before, with an ill-concealed
reluctance, he stated his necessities and wishes. His request was
listened to with evident unwillingness, and, while yet unfinished, it
was eagerly interrupted by the reply:

“I can’t say I like to give lodgings to a stranger in these ticklish
times,” said the female, in a pert, sharp key. “I’m nothing but a
forlorn lone body; or, what’s the same thing, there’s nobody but the
old gentleman at home; but a half mile farther up the road is a house
where you can get entertainment, and that for nothing. I am sure ’twill
be much convenienter to them, and more agreeable to me—because, as I
said before, Harvey is away; I wish he’d take advice, and leave off
wandering; he’s well to do in the world by this time; and he ought to
leave off his uncertain courses, and settle himself, handsomely, in
life, like other men of his years and property. But Harvey Birch will
have his own way, and die vagabond after all!”

The horseman did not wait to hear more than the advice to pursue his
course up the road; but he had slowly turned his horse towards the
bars, and was gathering the folds of an ample cloak around his manly
form, preparatory to facing the storm again, when something in the
speech of the female suddenly arrested the movement.

“Is this, then, the dwelling of Harvey Birch?” he inquired, in an
involuntary manner, apparently checking himself, as he was about to
utter more.

“Why, one can hardly say it is his dwelling,” replied the other,
drawing a hurried breath, like one eager to answer; “he is never in it,
or so seldom, that I hardly remember his face, when he does think it
worth his while to show it to his poor old father and me. But it
matters little to me, I’m sure, if he ever comes back again, or
not;—turn in the first gate on your left;—no, I care but little, for my
part, whether Harvey ever shows his face again or not—not I”—and she
closed the door abruptly on the horseman, who gladly extended his ride
a half mile farther, to obtain lodgings which promised both more
comfort and greater security.

Sufficient light yet remained to enable the traveler to distinguish the
improvements[3] which had been made in the cultivation, and in the
general appearance of the grounds around the building to which he was
now approaching. The house was of stone, long, low, and with a small
wing at each extremity. A piazza, extending along the front, with
neatly turned pillars of wood, together with the good order and
preservation of the fences and outbuildings, gave the place an air
altogether superior to the common farmhouses of the country. After
leading his horse behind an angle of the wall, where it was in some
degree protected from the wind and rain, the traveler threw his valise
over his arm, and knocked loudly at the entrance of the building for
admission. An aged black soon appeared; and without seeming to think it
necessary, under the circumstances, to consult his superiors,—first
taking one prying look at the applicant, by the light of the candle in
his hand,—he acceded to the request for accommodations. The traveler
was shown into an extremely neat parlor, where a fire had been lighted
to cheer the dullness of an easterly storm and an October evening.
After giving the valise into the keeping of his civil attendant, and
politely repeating his request to the old gentleman, who arose to
receive him, and paying his compliments to the three ladies who were
seated at work with their needles, the stranger commenced laying aside
some of the outer garments which he had worn in his ride.

On taking an extra handkerchief from his neck, and removing a cloak of
blue cloth, with a surtout of the same material, he exhibited to the
scrutiny of the observant family party, a tall and extremely graceful
person, of apparently fifty years of age. His countenance evinced a
settled composure and dignity; his nose was straight, and approaching
to Grecian; his eye, of a gray color, was quiet, thoughtful, and rather
melancholy; the mouth and lower part of his face being expressive of
decision and much character. His dress, being suited to the road, was
simple and plain, but such as was worn by the higher class of his
countrymen; he wore his own hair, dressed in a manner that gave a
military air to his appearance, and which was rather heightened by his
erect and conspicuously graceful carriage. His whole appearance was so
impressive and so decidedly that of a gentleman, that as he finished
laying aside the garments, the ladies arose from their seats, and,
together with the master of the house, they received anew, and returned
the complimentary greetings which were again offered.

The host was by several years the senior of the traveler, and by his
manner, dress, and everything around him, showed he had seen much of
life and the best society. The ladies were, a maiden of forty, and two
much younger, who did not seem, indeed, to have reached half those
years. The bloom of the elder of these ladies had vanished, but her
eyes and fine hair gave an extremely agreeable expression to her
countenance; and there was a softness and an affability in her
deportment, that added a charm many more juvenile faces do not possess.
The sisters, for such the resemblance between the younger females
denoted them to be, were in all the pride of youth, and the roses, so
eminently the property of the Westchester fair, glowed on their cheeks,
and lighted their deep blue eyes with that luster which gives so much
pleasure to the beholder, and which indicates so much internal
innocence and peace. There was much of that feminine delicacy in the
appearance of the three, which distinguishes the sex in this country;
and, like the gentleman, their demeanor proved them to be women of the
higher order of life.

After handing a glass of excellent Madeira to his guest, Mr. Wharton,
for so was the owner of this retired estate called, resumed his seat by
the fire, with another in his own hand. For a moment he paused, as if
debating with his politeness, but at length threw an inquiring glance
on the stranger, as he inquired,—

“To whose health am I to have the honor of drinking?”

The traveler had also seated himself, and he sat unconsciously gazing
on the fire, while Mr. Wharton spoke; turning his eyes slowly on his
host with a look of close observation, he replied, while a faint tinge
gathered on his features,—

“Mr. Harper.”

“Mr. Harper,” resumed the other, with the formal precision of that day,
“I have the honor to drink your health, and to hope you will sustain no
injury from the rain to which you have been exposed.”

Mr. Harper bowed in silence to the compliment, and he soon resumed the
meditations from which he had been interrupted, and for which the long
ride he had that day made, in the wind, might seem a very natural
apology.

The young ladies had again taken their seats beside the workstand,
while their aunt, Miss Jeanette Peyton, withdrew to superintend the
preparations necessary to appease the hunger of their unexpected
visitor. A short silence prevailed, during which Mr. Harper was
apparently enjoying the change in his situation, when Mr. Wharton again
broke it, by inquiring whether smoke was disagreeable to his companion;
to which, receiving an answer in the negative, he immediately resumed
the pipe which had been laid aside at the entrance of the traveler.

There was an evident desire on the part of the host to enter into
conversation, but either from an apprehension of treading on dangerous
ground, or an unwillingness to intrude upon the rather studied
taciturnity of his guest, he several times hesitated, before he could
venture to make any further remark. At length, a movement from Mr.
Harper, as he raised his eyes to the party in the room, encouraged him
to proceed.

“I find it very difficult,” said Mr. Wharton, cautiously avoiding at
first, such subjects as he wished to introduce, “to procure that
quality of tobacco for my evenings’ amusement to which I have been
accustomed.”

“I should think the shops in New York might furnish the best in the
country,” calmly rejoined the other.

“Why—yes,” returned the host in rather a hesitating manner, lifting his
eyes to the face of Harper, and lowering them quickly under his steady
look, “there must be plenty in town; but the war has made communication
with the city, however innocent, too dangerous to be risked for so
trifling an article as tobacco.”

The box from which Mr. Wharton had just taken a supply for his pipe was
lying open, within a few inches of the elbow of Harper, who took a
small quantity from its contents, and applied it to his tongue, in a
manner perfectly natural, but one that filled his companion with alarm.
Without, however, observing that the quality was of the most approved
kind, the traveler relieved his host by relapsing again into his
meditations. Mr. Wharton now felt unwilling to lose the advantage he
had gained, and, making an effort of more than usual vigor, he
continued,—

“I wish from the bottom of my heart, this unnatural struggle was over,
that we might again meet our friends and relatives in peace and love.”

“It is much to be desired,” said Harper, emphatically, again raising
his eyes to the countenance of his host.

“I hear of no movement of consequence, since the arrival of our new
allies,” said Mr. Wharton, shaking the ashes from his pipe, and turning
his back to the other under the pretense of receiving a coal from his
youngest daughter.

“None have yet reached the public, I believe.”

“Is it thought any important steps are about to be taken?” continued
Mr. Wharton, still occupied with his daughter, yet suspending his
employment, in expectation of a reply.

“Is it intimated any are in agitation?”

“Oh! nothing in particular; but it is natural to expect some new
enterprise from so powerful a force as that under Rochambeau.”

Harper made an assenting inclination with his head, but no other reply,
to this remark; while Mr. Wharton, after lighting his pipe, resumed the
subject.

“They appear more active in the south; Gates and Cornwallis seem
willing to bring the war to an issue there.”

The brow of Harper contracted, and a deeper shade of melancholy crossed
his features; his eye kindled with a transient beam of fire, that spoke
a latent source of deep feeling. The admiring gaze of the younger of
the sisters had barely time to read its expression, before it passed
away, leaving in its room the acquired composure which marked the
countenance of the stranger, and that impressive dignity which so
conspicuously denotes the empire of reason.

The elder sister made one or two movements in her chair, before she
ventured to say, in a tone which partook in no small measure of
triumph,—

“General Gates has been less fortunate with the earl, than with General
Burgoyne.”

“But General Gates is an Englishman, Sarah,” cried the younger lady,
with quickness; then, coloring to the eyes at her own boldness, she
employed herself in tumbling over the contents of her work basket,
silently hoping the remark would be unnoticed.

The traveler had turned his face from one sister to the other, as they
had spoken in succession, and an almost imperceptible movement of the
muscles of his mouth betrayed a new emotion, as he playfully inquired
of the younger,—

“May I venture to ask what inference you would draw from that fact?”

Frances blushed yet deeper at this direct appeal to her opinions upon a
subject on which she had incautiously spoken in the presence of a
stranger; but finding an answer necessary, after some little
hesitation, and with a good deal of stammering in her manner, she
replied,—

“Only—only—sir—my sister and myself sometimes differ in our opinions of
the prowess of the British.” A smile of much meaning played on a face
of infantile innocency, as she concluded.

“On what particular points of their prowess do you differ?” continued
Harper, meeting her look of animation with a smile of almost paternal
softness.

“Sarah thinks the British are never beaten, while I do not put so much
faith in their invincibility.”

The traveler listened to her with that pleased indulgence, with which
virtuous age loves to contemplate the ardor of youthful innocence; but
making no reply, he turned to the fire, and continued for some time
gazing on its embers, in silence.

Mr. Wharton had in vain endeavored to pierce the disguise of his
guest’s political feelings; but, while there was nothing forbidding in
his countenance, there was nothing communicative; on the contrary it
was strikingly reserved; and the master of the house arose, in profound
ignorance of what, in those days, was the most material point in the
character of his guest, to lead the way into another room, and to the
supper table. Mr. Harper offered his hand to Sarah Wharton, and they
entered the room together; while Frances followed, greatly at a loss to
know whether she had not wounded the feelings of her father’s inmate.

The storm began to rage with great violence without; and the dashing
rain on the sides of the building awakened that silent sense of
enjoyment, which is excited by such sounds in a room of quiet comfort
and warmth, when a loud summons at the outer door again called the
faithful black to the portal. In a minute the servant returned, and
informed his master that another traveler, overtaken by the storm,
desired to be admitted to the house for a shelter through the night.

At the first sounds of the impatient summons of this new applicant, Mr.
Wharton had risen from his seat in evident uneasiness; and with eyes
glancing with quickness from his guest to the door of the room, he
seemed to be expecting something to proceed from this second
interruption, connected with the stranger who had occasioned the first.
He scarcely had time to bid the black, with a faint voice, to show this
second comer in, before the door was thrown hastily open, and the
stranger himself entered the apartment. He paused a moment, as the
person of Harper met his view, and then, in a more formal manner,
repeated the request he had before made through the servant. Mr.
Wharton and his family disliked the appearance of this new visitor
excessively; but the inclemency of the weather, and the uncertainty of
the consequences, if he were refused the desired lodgings, compelled
the old gentleman to give a reluctant acquiescence.

Some of the dishes were replaced by the orders of Miss Peyton, and the
weather-beaten intruder was invited to partake of the remains of the
repast, from which the party had just risen. Throwing aside a rough
greatcoat, he very composedly took the offered chair, and
unceremoniously proceeded to allay the cravings of an appetite which
appeared by no means delicate. But at every mouthful he would turn an
unquiet eye on Harper, who studied his appearance with a closeness of
investigation that was very embarrassing to its subject. At length,
pouring out a glass of wine, the newcomer nodded significantly to his
examiner, previously to swallowing the liquor, and said, with something
of bitterness in his manner,—

“I drink to our better acquaintance, sir; I believe this is the first
time we have met, though your attention would seem to say otherwise.”

The quality of the wine seemed greatly to his fancy, for, on replacing
the glass upon the table, he gave his lips a smack, that resounded
through the room; and, taking up the bottle, he held it between himself
and the light, for a moment, in silent contemplation of its clear and
brilliant color.

“I think we have never met before, sir,” replied Harper with a slight
smile on his features, as he observed the move ments of the other; but
appearing satisfied with his scrutiny, he turned to Sarah Wharton, who
sat next him, and carelessly remarked,—

“You doubtless find your present abode solitary, after being accustomed
to the gayeties of the city.”

“Oh! excessively so,” said Sarah hastily. “I do wish, with my father,
that this cruel war was at an end, that we might return to our friends
once more.”

“And you, Miss Frances, do you long as ardently for peace as your
sister?”

“On many accounts I certainly do,” returned the other, venturing to
steal a timid glance at her interrogator; and, meeting the same
benevolent expression of feeling as before, she continued, as her own
face lighted into one of its animated and bright smiles of
intelligence, “but not at the expense of the rights of my countrymen.”

“Rights!” repeated her sister, impatiently; “whose rights can be
stronger than those of a sovereign: and what duty is clearer, than to
obey those who have a natural right to command?”

“None, certainly,” said Frances, laughing with great pleasantry; and,
taking the hand of her sister affectionately within both of her own,
she added, with a smile directed towards Harper,—

“I gave you to understand that my sister and myself differed in our
political opinions; but we have an impartial umpire in my father, who
loves his own countrymen, and he loves the British,—so he takes sides
with neither.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Wharton, in a little alarm, eying first one guest, and
then the other; “I have near friends in both armies, and I dread a
victory by either, as a source of certain private misfortune.”

“I take it, you have little reason to apprehend much from the Yankees,
in that way,” interrupted the guest at the table, coolly helping
himself to another glass, from the bottle he had admired.

“His majesty may have more experienced troops than the continentals,”
answered the host fearfully, “but the Americans have met with
distinguished success.”

Harper disregarded the observations of both; and, rising, he desired to
be shown to his place of rest. A small boy was directed to guide him to
his room; and wishing a courteous good-night to the whole party, the
traveler withdrew. The knife and fork fell from the hands of the
unwelcome intruder, as the door closed on the retiring figure of
Harper; he arose slowly from his seat; listening attentively, he
approached the door of the room—opened it—seemed to attend to the
retreating footsteps of the other—and, amidst the panic and
astonishment of his companions, he closed it again. In an instant, the
red wig which concealed his black locks, the large patch which hid half
his face from observation, the stoop that had made him appear fifty
years of age, disappeared.

“My father!-my dear father!”—cried the handsome young man; “and you, my
dearest sisters and aunt!—have I at last met you again?”

“Heaven bless you, my Henry, my son!” exclaimed the astonished but
delighted parent; while his sisters sank on his shoulders, dissolved in
tears.

The faithful old black, who had been reared from infancy in the house
of his master, and who, as if in mockery of his degraded state, had
been complimented with the name of Caesar, was the only other witness
of this unexpected discovery of the son of Mr. Wharton. After receiving
the extended hand of his young master, and imprinting on it a fervent
kiss, Caesar withdrew. The boy did not reenter the room; and the black
himself, after some time, returned, just as the young British captain
was exclaiming,—

“But who is this Mr. Harper?—is he likely to betray me?”

“No, no, no, Massa Harry,” cried the negro, shaking his gray head
confidently; “I been to see—Massa Harper on he knee—pray to God—no
gemman who pray to God tell of good son, come to see old fader—Skinner
do that—no Christian!”

This poor opinion of the Skinners was not confined to Mr. Caesar
Thompson, as he called himself—but Caesar Wharton, as he was styled by
the little world to which he was known. The convenience, and perhaps
the necessities, of the leaders of the American arms, in the
neighborhood of New York, had induced them to employ certain
subordinate agents, of extremely irregular habits, in executing their
lesser plans of annoying the enemy. It was not a moment for fastidious
inquiries into abuses of any description, and oppression and injustice
were the natural consequences of the possession of a military power
that was uncurbed by the restraints of civil authority. In time, a
distinct order of the community was formed, whose sole occupation
appears to have been that of relieving their fellow citizens from any
little excess of temporal prosperity they might be thought to enjoy,
under the pretense of patriotism and the love of liberty.

Occasionally, the aid of military authority was not wanting, in
enforcing these arbitrary distributions of worldly goods; and a petty
holder of a commission in the state militia was to be seen giving the
sanction of something like legality to acts of the most unlicensed
robbery, and, not infrequently, of bloodshed.

On the part of the British, the stimulus of loyalty was by no means
suffered to sleep, where so fruitful a field offered on which it might
be expended. But their freebooters were enrolled, and their efforts
more systematized. Long experience had taught their leaders the
efficacy of concentrated force; and, unless tradition does great
injustice to their exploits, the result did no little credit to their
foresight. The corps—we presume, from their known affection to that
useful animal—had received the quaint appellation of “Cowboys.”

Caesar was, however, far too loyal to associate men who held the
commission of George III, with the irregular warriors, whose excesses
he had so often witnessed, and from whose rapacity, neither his poverty
nor his bondage had suffered even him to escape uninjured. The Cowboys,
therefore, did not receive their proper portion of the black’s censure,
when he said, no Christian, nothing but a “Skinner,” could betray a
pious child, while honoring his father with a visit so full of peril.

 [1] As each state of the American Union has its own counties, it often
 happens that there are several which bear the same name. The scene of
 this tale is in New York, whose county of Westchester is the nearest
 adjoining to the city.


 [2] The city of New York is situated on an island called Manhattan:
 but it is at one point separated from the county of Westchester by a
 creek of only a few feet in width. The bridge at this spot is called
 King’s Bridge. It was the scene of many skirmishes during the war, and
 is alluded to in this tale. Every Manhattanese knows the difference
 between “Manhattan Island” and the “island of Manhattan.” The first is
 applied to a small District in the vicinity of Corlaer’s Hook, while
 the last embraces the Whole island; or the city and county of New York
 as it is termed in the laws.


 [3] Improvements is used by the Americans to express every degree of
 change in converting land from its state of wilderness to that of
 cultivation. In this meaning of the word, it is an improvement to fell
 the trees; and it is valued precisely by the supposed amount of the
 cost.




CHAPTER II.


And many a halcyon day he lived to see
Unbroken, but by one misfortune dire,
When fate had reft his mutual heart—but she
Was gone-and Gertrude climbed a widowed father’s knee.


—_Gertrude of Wyoming_.


The father of Mr. Wharton was a native of England, and of a family
whose parliamentary interest had enabled them to provide for a younger
son in the colony of New York. The young man, like hundreds of others
in this situation, had settled permanently in the country. He married;
and the sole issue of his connection had been sent early in life to
receive the benefits of the English schools. After taking his degrees
at one of the universities of the mother country, the youth had been
suffered to acquire a knowledge of life with the advantages of European
society. But the death of his father recalled him, after passing two
years in this manner, to the possession of an honorable name, and a
very ample estate.

It was much the fashion of that day to place the youth of certain
families in the army and navy of England, as the regular
stepping-stones to preferment. Most of the higher offices in the
colonies were filled by men who had made arms their profession; and it
was even no uncommon sight to see a veteran warrior laying aside the
sword to assume the ermine on the benches of the highest judicial
authority.

In conformity with this system, the senior Mr. Wharton had intended his
son for a soldier; but a natural imbecility of character in his child
interfered with his wishes.

A twelvemonth had been spent by the young man in weighing the
comparative advantages of the different classes of troops, when the
death of his father occurred. The ease of his situation, and the
attentions lavished upon a youth in the actual enjoyment of one of the
largest estates in the colonies, interfered greatly with his ambitious
projects. Love decided the matter; and Mr. Wharton, in becoming a
husband, ceased to think of becoming a soldier. For many years he
continued happy in his family, and sufficiently respected by his
countrymen, as a man of integrity and consequence, when all his
enjoyments vanished, as it were, at a blow. His only son, the youth
introduced in the preceding chapter, had entered the army, and had
arrived in his native country, but a short time before the commencement
of hostilities, with the reinforcements the ministry had thought it
prudent to throw into the disaffected parts of North America. His
daughters were just growing into life, and their education required all
the advantages the city could afford. His wife had been for some years
in declining health, and had barely time to fold her son to her bosom,
and rejoice in the reunion of her family, before the Revolution burst
forth, in a continued blaze, from Georgia to Massachusetts. The shock
was too much for the feeble condition of the mother, who saw her child
called to the field to combat against the members of her own family in
the South, and she sank under the blow.

There was no part of the continent where the manners of England and its
aristocratical notions of blood and alliances, prevailed with more
force than in a certain circle immediately around the metropolis of New
York. The customs of the early Dutch inhabitants had, indeed, blended
in some measures, with the English manners; but still the latter
prevailed. This attachment to Great Britain was increased by the
frequent intermarriages of the officers of the mother country with the
wealthier and most powerful families of the vicinity, until, at the
commencement of hostilities, their united influence had very nearly
thrown the colony into the scale on the side of the crown. A few,
however, of the leading families espoused the cause of the people; and
a sufficient stand was made against the efforts of the ministerial
party, to organize, and, aided by the army of the confederation, to
maintain an independent republican form of government.

The city of New York and the adjacent territory were alone exempted
from the rule of the new commonwealth; while the royal authority
extended no further than its dignity could be supported by the presence
of an army. In this condition of things, the loyalists of influence
adopted such measures as best accorded with their different characters
and situations. Many bore arms in support of the crown, and, by their
bravery and exertions, endeavored to secure what they deemed to be the
rights of their prince, and their own estates from the effects of the
law of attainder. Others left the country; seeking in that place they
emphatically called home, an asylum, as they fondly hoped, for a season
only, against the confusion and dangers of war. A third, and a more
wary portion, remained in the place of their nativity, with a prudent
regard to their ample possessions, and, perhaps, influenced by their
attachments to the scenes of their youth. Mr. Wharton was of this
description. After making a provision against future contingencies, by
secretly transmitting the whole of his money to the British funds, this
gentleman determined to continue in the theater of strife, and to
maintain so strict a neutrality as to insure the safety of his large
estate, whichever party succeeded. He was apparently engrossed in the
education of his daughters, when a relation, high in office in the new
state, intimated that a residence in what was now a British camp
differed but little, in the eyes of his countrymen, from a residence in
the British capital. Mr. Wharton soon saw this was an unpardonable
offense in the existing state of things, and he instantly determined to
remove the difficulty, by retiring to the country. He possessed a
residence in the county of Westchester; and having been for many years
in the habit of withdrawing thither during the heats of the summer
months, it was kept furnished and ready for his accommodation. His
eldest daughter was already admitted into the society of women; but
Frances, the younger, required a year or two more of the usual
cultivation, to appear with proper _éclat_; at least so thought Miss
Jeanette Peyton; and as this lady, a younger sister of their deceased
mother, had left her paternal home, in the colony of Virginia, with the
devotedness and affection peculiar to her sex, to superintend the
welfare of her orphan nieces, Mr. Wharton felt that her opinions were
entitled to respect. In conformity to her advice, therefore, the
feelings of the parent were made to yield to the welfare of his
children.

Mr. Wharton withdrew to the Locusts, with a heart rent with the pain of
separating from all that was left him of a wife he had adored, but in
obedience to a constitutional prudence that pleaded loudly in behalf of
his worldly goods. His handsome town residence was inhabited, in the
meanwhile, by his daughters and their aunt. The regiment to which
Captain Wharton belonged formed part of the permanent garrison of the
city; and the knowledge of the presence of his son was no little relief
to the father, in his unceasing meditations on his absent daughters.
But Captain Wharton was a young man and a soldier; his estimate of
character was not always the wisest; and his propensities led him to
imagine that a red coat never concealed a dishonorable heart.

The house of Mr. Wharton became a fashionable lounge to the officers of
the royal army, as did that of every other family that was thought
worthy of their notice. The consequences of this association were, to
some few of the visited, fortunate; to more, injurious, by exciting
expectations which were never to be realized, and, unhappily, to no
small number ruinous. The known wealth of the father and, possibly, the
presence of a high-spirited brother, forbade any apprehension of the
latter danger to the young ladies: but it was impossible that all the
admiration bestowed on the fine figure and lovely face of Sarah Wharton
should be thrown away. Her person was formed with the early maturity of
the climate, and a strict cultivation of the graces had made her
decidedly the belle of the city. No one promised to dispute with her
this female sovereignty, unless it might be her younger sister.
Frances, however, wanted some months to the charmed age of sixteen; and
the idea of competition was far from the minds of either of the
affectionate girls. Indeed, next to the conversation of Colonel
Wellmere, the greatest pleasure of Sarah was in contemplating the
budding beauties of the little Hebe, who played around her with all the
innocency of youth, with all the enthusiasm of her ardent temper, and
with no little of the archness of her native humor. Whether or not it
was owing to the fact that Frances received none of the compliments
which fell to the lot of her elder sister, in the often repeated
discussions on the merits of the war, between the military beaux who
frequented the house, it is certain their effects on the sisters were
exactly opposite. It was much the fashion then for the British officers
to speak slightingly of their enemies; and Sarah took all the idle
vaporing of her danglers to be truths. The first political opinions
which reached the ears of Frances were coupled with sneers on the
conduct of her countrymen. At first she believed them; but there was
occasionally a general, who was obliged to do justice to his enemy in
order to obtain justice for himself; and Frances became somewhat
skeptical on the subject of the inefficiency of her countrymen. Colonel
Wellmere was among those who delighted most in expending his wit on the
unfortunate Americans; and, in time, Frances began to listen to his
eloquence with great suspicion, and sometimes with resentment.

It was on a hot, sultry day that the three were in the parlor of Mr.
Wharton’s house, the colonel and Sarah seated on a sofa, engaged in a
combat of the eyes, aided by the usual flow of small talk, and Frances
was occupied at her tambouring frame in an opposite corner of the room,
when the gentleman suddenly exclaimed,—

“How gay the arrival of the army under General Burgoyne will make the
city, Miss Wharton!”

“Oh! how pleasant it must be,” said the thoughtless Sarah, in reply; “I
am told there are many charming women with that army; as you say, it
will make us all life and gayety.”

Frances shook back the abundance of her golden hair, and raised her
eyes, dancing with the ardor of national feeling; then laughing, with a
concealed humor, she asked,—

“Is it so certain that General Burgoyne will be permitted to reach the
city?”

“Permitted!” echoed the colonel. “Who is there to prevent it, my pretty
Miss Fanny?”

Frances was precisely at that age when young people are most jealous of
their station in society; neither quite a woman, nor yet a child. The
“pretty Miss Fanny” was too familiar to be relished, and she dropped
her eyes on her work again with cheeks that glowed like crimson.

“General Stark took the Germans into custody,” she answered,
compressing her lip; “may not General Gates think the British too
dangerous to go at large?”

“Oh! they were Germans, as you say,” cried the colonel, excessively
vexed at the necessity of explaining at all; “mere mercenary troops;
but when the really British regiments come in question, you will see a
very different result.”

“Of that there is no doubt,” cried Sarah, without in the least
partaking of the resentment of the colonel to her sister, but hailing
already in her heart the triumph of the British.

“Pray, Colonel Wellmere,” said Frances, recovering her good humor, and
raising her joyous eyes once more to the face of the gentleman, “was
the Lord Percy of Lexington a kinsman of him who fought at Chevy
Chase?”

“Why, Miss Fanny, you are becoming a rebel,” said the colonel,
endeavoring to laugh away the anger he felt; “what you are pleased to
insinuate was a chase at Lexington, was nothing more than a judicious
retreat—a—kind of—”

“Running fight,” interrupted the good-humored girl, laying a great
emphasis on the first word.

“Positively, young lady”—Colonel Wellmere was interrupted by a laugh
from a person who had hitherto been unnoticed.

There was a small family apartment adjoining the room occupied by the
trio, and the air had blown open the door communicating between the
two. A fine young man was now seen sitting near the entrance, who, by
his smiling countenance, was evidently a pleased listener to the
conversation. He rose instantly, and coming through the door, with his
hat in his hand, appeared a tall, graceful youth, of dark complexion,
and sparkling eyes of black, from which the mirth had not entirely
vanished, as he made his bow to the ladies.

“Mr. Dunwoodie!” cried Sarah, in surprise; “I was ignorant of your
being in the house; you will find a cooler seat in this room.”

“I thank you,” replied the young man, “but I must go and seek your
brother, who placed me there in ambuscade, as he called it, with a
promise of returning an hour ago.” Without making any further
explanation, the youth bowed politely to the young women, distantly and
with hauteur to the gentleman, and withdrew. Frances followed him into
the hall, and blushing richly, inquired, in a hurried voice,—

“But why—why do you leave us, Mr. Dunwoodie? Henry must soon return.”

The gentleman caught one of her hands in his own, and the stern
expression of his countenance gave place to a look of admiration as he
replied,—

“You managed him famously, my dear little kinswoman; never—no, never,
forget the land of your birth; remember, if you are the granddaughter
of an Englishman, you are, also, the granddaughter of a Peyton.”

“Oh!” returned the laughing girl, “it would be difficult to forget
that, with the constant lectures on genealogy before us, with which we
are favored by Aunt Jeanette; but why do you go?”

“I am on the wing for Virginia, and have much to do.” He pressed her
hand as he spoke, and looking back, while in the act of closing the
door, exclaimed, “Be true to your country—be American.” The ardent girl
kissed her hand to him as he retired, and then instantly applying it
with its beautiful fellow to her burning cheeks, ran into her own
apartment to hide her confusion.

Between the open sarcasm of Frances, and the ill-concealed disdain of
the young man, Colonel Wellmere had felt himself placed in an awkward
predicament; but ashamed to resent such trifles in the presence of his
mistress, he satisfied himself with observing, superciliously, as
Dunwoodie left the room,—

“Quite a liberty for a youth in his situation; a shop boy with a
bundle,
I fancy.”

The idea of picturing the graceful Peyton Dunwoodie as a shop boy could
never enter the mind of Sarah, and she looked around her in surprise,
when the colonel continued,—

“This Mr. Dun—Dun—”

“Dunwoodie! Oh, no—he is a relation of my aunt,” cried the young lady,
“and an intimate friend of my brother; they were at school together,
and only separated in England, when one went into the army, and the
other to a French military academy.”

“His money appears to have been thrown away,” observed the colonel,
betraying the spleen he was unsuccessfully striving to conceal.

“We ought to hope so,” added Sarah, with a smile, “for it is said he
intends joining the rebel army. He was brought in here in a French
ship, and has just been exchanged; you may soon meet him in arms.”

“Well, let him—I wish Washington plenty of such heroes;” and he turned
to a more pleasant subject, by changing the discourse to themselves.

A few weeks after this scene occurred, the army of Burgoyne laid down
their arms. Mr. Wharton, beginning to think the result of the contest
doubtful, resolved to conciliate his countrymen, and gratify himself,
by calling his daughters into his own abode. Miss Peyton consented to
be their companion; and from that time, until the period at which we
commenced our narrative, they had formed one family.

Whenever the main army made any movements, Captain Wharton had, of
course, accompanied it; and once or twice, under the protection of
strong parties, acting in the neighborhood of the Locusts, he had
enjoyed rapid and stolen interviews with his friends. A twelvemonth
had, however, passed without his seeing them, and the impatient Henry
had adopted the disguise we have mentioned, and unfortunately arrived
on the very evening that an unknown and rather suspicious guest was an
inmate of the house, which seldom contained any other than its regular
inhabitants.

“But do you think he suspects me?” asked the captain, with anxiety,
after pausing to listen to Caesar’s opinion of the Skinners.

“How should he?” cried Sarah, “when your sisters and father could not
penetrate your disguise.”

“There is something mysterious in his manner; his looks are too prying
for an indifferent observer,” continued young Wharton thoughtfully,
“and his face seems familiar to me. The recent fate of André has
created much irritation on both sides. Sir Henry threatens retaliation
for his death; and Washington is as firm as if half the world were at
his command. The rebels would think me a fit subject for their plans
just now, should I be so unlucky as to fall into their hands.”

“But my son,” cried his father, in great alarm, “you are not a spy; you
are not within the rebel—that is, the American lines; there is nothing
here to spy.”

“That might be disputed,” rejoined the young man, musing. “Their
pickets were as low as the White Plains when I passed through in
disguise. It is true my purposes are innocent; but how is it to appear?
My visit to you would seem a cloak to other designs. Remember, sir, the
treatment you received not a year since, for sending me a supply of
fruit for the winter.”

“That proceeded from the misrepresentations of my kind neighbors,” said
Mr. Wharton, “who hoped, by getting my estate confiscated, to purchase
good farms at low prices. Peyton Dunwoodie, however, soon obtained our
discharge; we were detained but a month.”

“We!” repeated the son, in amazement; “did they take my sisters, also?
Fanny, you wrote me nothing of this.”

“I believe,” said Frances, coloring highly, “I mentioned the kind
treatment we received from your old friend, Major Dunwoodie; and that
he procured my father’s release.”

“True; but were you with him in the rebel camp?”

“Yes,” said the father, kindly; “Fanny would not suffer me to go alone.
Jeanette and Sarah took charge of the Locusts, and this little girl was
my companion, in captivity.”

“And Fanny returned from such a scene a greater rebel than ever,” cried
Sarah, indignantly; “one would think the hardships her father suffered
would have cured her of such whims.”

“What say you to the charge, my pretty sister?” cried the captain
gayly; “did Peyton strive to make you hate your king, more than he does
himself?”

“Peyton Dunwoodie hates no one,” said Frances, quickly; then, blushing
at her own ardor, she added immediately, “he loves you, Henry, I know;
for he has told me so again and again.”

Young Wharton tapped his sister on the cheek, with a smile, as he asked
her, in an affected whisper, “Did he tell you also that he loved my
little sister Fanny?”

“Nonsense!” said Frances; and the remnants of the supper-table soon
disappeared under her superintendence.




CHAPTER III.


’Twas when the fields were swept of Autumn’s store,
And growing winds the fading foliage tore
Behind the Lowmon hill, the short-lived light,
Descending slowly, ushered in the night;
When from the noisy town, with mournful look,
His lonely way the meager peddler took.


—WILSON.


A storm below the highlands of the Hudson, if it be introduced with an
easterly wind, seldom lasts less than two days. Accordingly, as the
inmates of the Locusts assembled, on the following morning, around
their early breakfast, the driving rain was seen to strike in nearly
horizontal lines against the windows of the building, and forbade the
idea of exposing either man or beast to the tempest. Harper was the
last to appear; after taking a view of the state of the weather, he
apologized to Mr. Wharton for the necessity that existed for his
trespassing on his goodness for a longer time. To appearances, the
reply was as courteous as the excuse; yet Harper wore a resignation in
his deportment that was widely different from the uneasy manner of the
father. Henry Wharton had resumed his disguise with a reluctance
amounting to disgust, but in obedience to the commands of his parent.
No communications passed between him and the stranger, after the first
salutations of the morning had been paid by Harper to him, in common
with the rest of the family. Frances had, indeed, thought there was
something like a smile passing over the features of the traveler, when,
on entering the room, he first confronted her brother; but it was
confined to the eyes, seeming to want power to affect the muscles of
the face, and was soon lost in the settled and benevolent expression
which reigned in his countenance, with a sway but seldom interrupted.
The eyes of the affectionate sister were turned in anxiety, for a
moment, on her brother, and glancing again on their unknown guest, met
his look, as he offered her, with marked attention, one of the little
civilities of the table; and the heart of the girl, which had begun to
throb with violence, regained a pulsation as tempered as youth, health,
and buoyant spirits could allow. While yet seated at the table, Caesar
entered, and laying a small parcel in silence by the side of his
master, modestly retired behind his chair, where, placing one hand on
its back, he continued in an attitude half familiar, half respectful, a
listener.

“What is this, Caesar?” inquired Mr. Wharton, turning the bundle over
to examine its envelope, and eying it rather suspiciously.

“The ’baccy, sir; Harvey Birch, he got home, and he bring you a little
good ’baccy from York.”

“Harvey Birch!” rejoined the master with great deliberation, stealing a
look at his guest. “I do not remember desiring him to purchase any
tobacco for me; but as he has brought it, he must be paid for his
trouble.”

For an instant only, as the negro spoke, did Harper suspend his silent
meal; his eye moved slowly from the servant to the master, and again
all remained in impenetrable reserve.

To Sarah Wharton, this intelligence gave unexpected pleasure; rising
from her seat with impatience, she bade the black show Birch into the
apartment; when, suddenly recollecting herself, she turned to the
traveler with an apologizing look, and added, “If Mr. Harper will
excuse the presence of a peddler.”

The indulgent benevolence expressed in the countenance of the stranger,
as he bowed a silent acquiescence, spoke more eloquently than the
nicest framed period, and the young lady repeated her order, with a
confidence in its truth that removed all embarrassment.

In the deep recesses of the windows of the cottage were seats of
paneled work; and the rich damask curtains, that had ornamented the
parlor in Queen Street,[4] had been transferred to the Locusts, and
gave to the room that indescribable air of comfort, which so gratefully
announces the approach of a domestic winter. Into one of these recesses
Captain Wharton now threw himself, drawing the curtain before him in
such a manner as to conceal most of his person from observation; while
his younger sister, losing her natural frankness of manner, in an air
of artificial constraint, silently took possession of the other.

Harvey Birch had been a peddler from his youth; at least so he
frequently asserted, and his skill in the occupation went far to prove
the truth of the declaration. He was a native of one of the eastern
colonies; and, from something of superior intelligence which belonged
to his father, it was thought they had known better fortune in the land
of their nativity. Harvey possessed, however, the common manners of the
country, and was in no way distinguished from men of his class, but by
his acuteness, and the mystery which enveloped his movements. Ten years
before, they had arrived together in the vale, and, purchasing the
humble dwelling at which Harper had made his unsuccessful application,
continued ever since peaceful inhabitants, but little noticed and but
little known. Until age and infirmities had prevented, the father
devoted himself to the cultivation of the small spot of ground
belonging to his purchase, while the son pursued with avidity his
humble barter. Their orderly quietude had soon given them so much
consideration in the neighborhood, as to induce a maiden of
five-and-thirty to forget the punctilio of her sex, and to accept the
office of presiding over their domestic comforts. The roses had long
before vanished from the cheeks of Katy Haynes, and she had seen in
succession, both her male and female acquaintances forming the union so
desirable to her sex, with but little or no hope left for herself,
when, with views of her own, she entered the family of the Birches.
Necessity is a hard master, and, for the want of a better companion,
the father and son were induced to accept her services; but still Katy
was not wanting in some qualities which made her a very tolerable
housekeeper. On the one hand, she was neat, industrious, honest, and a
good manager. On the other, she was talkative, selfish, superstitious,
and inquisitive. By dint of using the latter quality with consummate
industry, she had not lived in the family five years when she
triumphantly declared that she had heard, or rather overheard,
sufficient to enable her to say what had been the former fate of her
associates. Could Katy have possessed enough of divination to pronounce
upon their future lot, her task would have been accomplished. From the
private conversations of the parent and child, she learned that a fire
had reduced them from competence to poverty, and at the same time
diminished the number of their family to two. There was a tremulousness
in the voice of the father, as he touched lightly on the event, which
affected even the heart of Katy; but no barrier is sufficient to repel
vulgar curiosity. She persevered, until a very direct intimation from
Harvey, by threatening to supply her place with a female a few years
younger than herself, gave her awful warning that there were bounds
beyond which she was not to pass. From that period the curiosity of the
housekeeper had been held in such salutary restraint, that, although no
opportunity of listening was ever neglected, she had been able to add
but little to her stock of knowledge. There was, however, one piece of
intelligence, and that of no little interest to herself, which she had
succeeded in obtaining; and from the moment of its acquisition, she
directed her energies to the accomplishment of one object, aided by the
double stimulus of love and avarice.

Harvey was in the frequent habit of paying mysterious visits in the
depth of the night, to the fireplace of the apartment that served for
both kitchen and parlor. Here he was observed by Katy; and availing
herself of his absence and the occupations of the father, by removing
one of the hearthstones, she discovered an iron pot, glittering with a
metal that seldom fails to soften the hardest heart. Katy succeeded in
replacing the stone without discovery, and never dared to trust herself
with another visit. From that moment, however, the heart of the virgin
lost its obduracy, and nothing interposed between Harvey and his
happiness, but his own want of observation.

The war did not interfere with the traffic of the peddler, who seized
on the golden opportunity which the interruption of the regular trade
afforded, and appeared absorbed in the one grand object of amassing
money. For a year or two his employment was uninterrupted, and his
success proportionate; but, at length, dark and threatening hints began
to throw suspicion around his movements, and the civil authority
thought it incumbent on them to examine narrowly into his mode of life.
His imprisonments, though frequent, were not long; and his escapes from
the guardians of the law easy, compared to what he endured from the
persecution of the military. Still Birch survived, and still he
continued his trade, though compelled to be very guarded in his
movements, especially whenever he approached the northern boundaries of
the county; or in other words, the neighborhood of the American lines.
His visits to the Locusts had become less frequent, and his appearance
at his own abode so seldom, as to draw forth from the disappointed
Katy, in the fullness of her heart, the complaint we have related, in
her reply to Harper. Nothing, however, seemed to interfere with the
pursuits of this indefatigable trader, who, with a view to dispose of
certain articles for which he could only find purchasers in the very
wealthiest families of the county, had now braved the fury of the
tempest, and ventured to cross the half mile between his own residence
and the house of Mr. Wharton.

In a few minutes after receiving the commands of his young mistress,
Caesar reappeared, ushering into the apartment the subject of the
foregoing digression. In person, the peddler was a man above the middle
height, spare, but full of bone and muscle. At first sight, his
strength seemed unequal to manage the unwieldy burden of his pack; yet
he threw it on and off with great dexterity, and with as much apparent
ease as if it had been filled with feathers. His eyes were gray,
sunken, restless, and, for the flitting moments that they dwelt on the
countenance of those with whom he conversed, they seemed to read the
very soul. They possessed, however, two distinct expressions, which, in
a great measure, characterized the whole man. When engaged in traffic,
the intelligence of his face appeared lively, active, and flexible,
though uncommonly acute; if the conversation turned on the ordinary
transactions of life, his air became abstracted and restless; but if,
by chance, the Revolution and the country were the topic, his whole
system seemed altered—all his faculties were concentrated: he would
listen for a great length of time, without speaking, and then would
break silence by some light and jocular remark, that was too much at
variance with his former manner, not to be affectation. But of the war,
and of his father, he seldom spoke and always from some very obvious
necessity.

To a superficial observer, avarice would seem his ruling passion—and,
all things considered, he was as unfit a subject for the plans of Katy
Haynes as can be readily imagined. On entering the room, the peddler
relieved himself from his burden, which, as it stood on the floor,
reached nearly to his shoulders, and saluted the family with modest
civility. To Harper he made a silent bow, without lifting his eyes from
the carpet; but the curtain prevented any notice of the presence of
Captain Wharton. Sarah gave but little time for the usual salutations,
before she commenced her survey of the contents of the pack; and, for
several minutes, the two were engaged in bringing to light the various
articles it contained. The tables, chairs, and floor were soon covered
with silks, crapes, gloves, muslins, and all the stock of an itinerant
trader. Caesar was employed to hold open the mouth of the pack, as its
hoards were discharged, and occasionally he aided his young lady, by
directing her admiration to some article of finery, which, from its
deeper contrast in colors, he thought more worthy of her notice. At
length, Sarah, having selected several articles, and satisfactorily
arranged the prices, observed in a cheerful voice,—

“But, Harvey, you have told us no news. Has Lord Cornwallis beaten the
rebels again?”

The question could not have been heard; for the peddler, burying his
body in the pack, brought forth a quantity of lace of exquisite
fineness, and, holding it up to view, he required the admiration of the
young lady. Miss Peyton dropped the cup she was engaged in washing,
from her hand; and Frances exhibited the whole of that lovely face,
which had hitherto only suffered one of its joyous eyes to be seen,
beaming with a color that shamed the damask which enviously concealed
her figure.

The aunt quitted her employment; and Birch soon disposed of a large
portion of his valuable article. The praises of the ladies had drawn
the whole person of the younger sister into view; and Frances was
slowly rising from the window, as Sarah repeated her question, with an
exultation in her voice, that proceeded more from pleasure in her
purchase, than her political feelings. The younger sister resumed her
seat, apparently examining the state of the clouds, while the peddler,
finding a reply was expected, answered,—

“There is some talk, below, about Tarleton having defeated General
Sumter, on the Tiger River.”

Captain Wharton now involuntarily thrust his head between the opening
of the curtains into the room; and Frances, turning her ear in
breathless silence, noticed the quiet eyes of Harper looking at the
peddler, over the book he was affecting to read, with an expression
that denoted him to be a listener of no ordinary interest.

“Indeed!” cried the exulting Sarah; “Sumter—Sumter—who is he? I’ll not
buy even a pin, until you tell me all the news,” she continued,
laughing and throwing down a muslin she had been examining.

For a moment the peddler hesitated; his eye glanced towards Harper, who
was yet gazing at him with settled meaning, and the whole manner of
Birch was altered. Approaching the fire, he took from his mouth a large
allowance of the Virginian weed, and depositing it, with the
superabundance of its juices, without mercy to Miss Peyton’s shining
andirons, he returned to his goods.

“He lives somewhere among the niggers to the south,” answered the
peddler, abruptly.

“No more nigger than be yourself, Mister Birch,” interrupted Caesar
tartly, dropping at the same time the covering of the goods in high
displeasure.

“Hush, Caesar—hush; never mind it now,” said Sarah Wharton soothingly,
impatient to hear further.

“A black man so good as white, Miss Sally,” continued the offended
negro, “so long as he behave heself.”

“And frequently he is much better,” rejoined his mistress. “But,
Harvey, who is this Mr. Sumter?”

A slight indication of humor showed itself on the face of the peddler,
but it disappeared, and he continued as if the discourse had met with
no interruption from the sensitiveness of the domestic.

“As I was saying, he lives among the colored people in the
south”—Caesar resumed his occupation—“and he has lately had a scrimmage
with this Colonel Tarleton—”

“Who defeated him, of course?” cried Sarah, with confidence.

“So say the troops at Morrisania.”

“But what do you say?” Mr. Wharton ventured to inquire, yet speaking in
a low tone.

“I repeat but what I hear,” said Birch, offering a piece of cloth to
the inspection of Sarah, who rejected it in silence, evidently
determined to hear more before she made another purchase.

“They say, however, at the Plains,” the peddler continued, first
throwing his eyes again around the room, and letting them rest for an
instant on Harper, “that Sumter and one or two more were all that were
hurt, and that the rig’lars were all cut to pieces, for the militia
were fixed snugly in a log barn.”

“Not very probable,” said Sarah, contemptuously, “though I make no
doubt the rebels got behind the logs.”

“I think,” said the peddler coolly, again offering the silk, “it’s
quite ingenious to get a log between one and a gun, instead of getting
between a gun and a log.”

The eyes of Harper dropped quietly on the pages of the volume in his
hand, while Frances, rising, came forward with a smile in her face, as
she inquired, in a tone of affability that the peddler had never
witnessed from her,—

“Have you more of the lace, Mr. Birch?”

The desired article was immediately produced, and Frances became a
purchaser also. By her order a glass of liquor was offered to the
trader, who took it with thanks, and having paid his compliments to the
master of the house and the ladies, drank the beverage.

“So, it is thought that Colonel Tarleton has worsted General Sumter?”
said Mr. Wharton, affecting to be employed in mending the cup that was
broken by the eagerness of his sister-in-law.

“I believe they think so at Morrisania,” said Birch, dryly.

“Have you any other news, friend?” asked Captain Wharton, venturing to
thrust his face without the curtains.

“Have you heard that Major André has been hanged?”

Captain Wharton started, and for a moment glances of great significance
were exchanged between him and the trader, when he observed, with
affected indifference, “That must have been some weeks ago.”

“Does his execution make much noise?” asked the father, striving to
make the broken china unite.

“People will talk, you know, ’squire.”

“Is there any probability of movements below, my friend, that will make
traveling dangerous?” asked Harper, looking steadily at the other, in
expectation of his reply.

Some bunches of ribbons fell from the hands of Birch; his countenance
changed instantly, losing its keen expression in intent meaning, as he
answered slowly, “It is some time since the rig’lar cavalry were out,
and I saw some of De Lancey’s men cleaning their arms, as I passed
their quarters; it would be no wonder if they took the scent soon, for
the Virginia horse are low in the county.”

“Are they in much force?” asked Mr. Wharton, suspending all employment
in anxiety.

“I did not count them.”

Frances was the only observer of the change in the manner of Birch,
and, on turning to Harper, he had resumed his book in silence. She took
some of the ribbons in her hand—laid them down again—and, bending over
the goods, so that her hair, falling in rich curls, shaded her face,
she observed, blushing with a color that suffused her neck,—

“I thought the Southern horse had marched towards the Delaware.”

“It may be so,” said Birch; “I passed the troops at a distance.”

Caesar had now selected a piece of calico, in which the gaudy colors of
yellow and red were contrasted on a white ground, and, after admiring
it for several minutes, he laid it down with a sigh, as he exclaimed,
“Berry pretty calico.”

“That,” said Sarah; “yes, that would make a proper gown for your wife,
Caesar.”

“Yes, Miss Sally,” cried the delighted black, “it make old Dinah heart
leap for joy—so berry genteel.”

“Yes,” added the peddler, quaintly, “that is only wanting to make Dinah
look like a rainbow.”

Caesar eyed his young mistress eagerly, until she inquired of Harvey
the price of the article.

“Why, much as I light of chaps,” said the peddler.

“How much?” demanded Sarah in surprise.

“According to my luck in finding purchasers; for my friend Dinah, you
may have it at four shillings.”

“It is too much,” said Sarah, turning to some goods for herself.

“Monstrous price for coarse calico, Mister Birch,” grumbled Caesar,
dropping the opening of the pack again.

“We will say three, then,” added the peddler, “if you like that
better.”

“Be sure he like ’em better,” said Caesar, smiling good-humoredly, and
reopening the pack; “Miss Sally like a t’ree shilling when she give,
and a four shilling when she take.”

The bargain was immediately concluded; but in measuring, the cloth
wanted a little of the well-known ten yards required by the dimensions
of Dinah. By dint of a strong arm, however, it grew to the desired
length, under the experienced eye of the peddler, who conscientiously
added a ribbon of corresponding brilliancy with the calico; and Caesar
hastily withdrew, to communicate the joyful intelligence to his aged
partner.

During the movements created by the conclusion of the purchase, Captain
Wharton had ventured to draw aside the curtain, so as to admit a view
of his person, and he now inquired of the peddler, who had begun to
collect the scattered goods, at what time he had left the city.

“At early twilight,” was the answer.

“So lately!” cried the other in surprise: then correcting his manner,
by assuming a more guarded air, he continued, “Could you pass the
pickets at so late an hour?”

“I did,” was the laconic reply.

“You must be well known by this time, Harvey, to the officers of the
British army,” cried Sarah, smiling knowingly on the peddler.

“I know some of them by sight,” said Birch, glancing his eyes round the
apartment, taking in their course Captain Wharton, and resting for an
instant on the countenance of Harper.

Mr. Wharton had listened intently to each speaker, in succession, and
had so far lost the affectation of indifference, as to be crushing in
his hand the pieces of china on which he had expended so much labor in
endeavoring to mend it; when, observing the peddler tying the last knot
in his pack, he asked abruptly,

“Are we about to be disturbed again with the enemy?”

“Who do you call the enemy?” said the peddler, raising himself erect,
and giving the other a look, before which the eyes of Mr. Wharton sank
in instant confusion.

“All are enemies who disturb our peace,” said Miss Peyton, observing
that her brother was unable to speak. “But are the royal troops out
from below?”

“’Tis quite likely they soon may be,” returned Birch, raising his pack
from the floor, and preparing to leave the room.

“And the continentals,” continued Miss Peyton mildly, “are the
continentals in the county?”

Harvey was about to utter something in reply, when the door opened, and
Caesar made his appearance, attended by his delighted spouse.

The race of blacks of which Caesar was a favorable specimen is becoming
very rare. The old family servant who, born and reared in the dwelling
of his master, identified himself with the welfare of those whom it was
his lot to serve, is giving place in every direction to that vagrant
class which has sprung up within the last thirty years, and whose
members roam through the country unfettered by principles, and
uninfluenced by attachments. For it is one of the curses of slavery,
that its victims become incompetent to the attributes of a freeman. The
short curly hair of Caesar had acquired from age a coloring of gray,
that added greatly to the venerable cast of his appearance. Long and
indefatigable applications of the comb had straightened the close curls
of his forehead, until they stood erect in a stiff and formal brush,
that gave at least two inches to his stature. The shining black of his
youth had lost its glistening hue, and it had been succeeded by a dingy
brown. His eyes, which stood at a most formidable distance from each
other, were small, and characterized by an expression of good feeling,
occasionally interrupted by the petulance of an indulged servant; they,
however, now danced with inward delight. His nose possessed, in an
eminent manner, all the requisites for smelling, but with the most
modest unobtrusiveness; the nostrils being abundantly capacious,
without thrusting themselves in the way of their neighbors. His mouth
was capacious to a fault, and was only tolerated on account of the
double row of pearls it contained. In person Caesar was short, and we
should say square, had not all the angles and curves of his figure bid
defiance to anything like mathematical symmetry. His arms were long and
muscular, and terminated by two bony hands, that exhibited on one side
a coloring of blackish gray, and on the other, a faded pink. But it was
in his legs that nature had indulged her most capricious humor. There
was an abundance of material injudiciously used. The calves were
neither before nor behind, but rather on the outer side of the limb,
inclining forward, and so close to the knee as to render the free use
of that joint a subject of doubt. In the foot, considering it as a base
on which the body was to rest, Caesar had no cause of complaint,
unless, indeed, it might be that the leg was placed so near the center,
as to make it sometimes a matter of dispute, whether he was not walking
backwards. But whatever might be the faults a statuary could discover
in his person, the heart of Caesar Thompson was in the right place,
and, we doubt not, of very just dimensions.

Accompanied by his ancient companion, Caesar now advanced, and paid his
tribute of gratitude in words. Sarah received them with great
complacency, and made a few compliments to the taste of the husband,
and the probable appearance of the wife. Frances, with a face beaming
with a look of pleasure that corresponded to the smiling countenances
of the blacks, offered the service of her needle in fitting the admired
calico to its future uses. The offer was humbly and gratefully
accepted.

As Caesar followed his wife and the peddler from the apartment, and was
in the act of closing the door, he indulged himself in a grateful
soliloquy, by saying aloud,—

“Good little lady—Miss Fanny—take care of he fader—love to make a gown
for old Dinah, too.” What else his feelings might have induced him to
utter is unknown, but the sound of his voice was heard some time after
the distance rendered his words indistinct.

Harper had dropped his book, and he sat an admiring witness of the
scene; and Frances enjoyed a double satisfaction, as she received an
approving smile from a face which concealed, under the traces of deep
thought and engrossing care, the benevolent expression which
characterizes all the best feelings of the human heart.

 [4] The Americans changed the names of many towns and streets at the
 Revolution, as has since been done in France. Thus, in the city of New
 York, Crown Street has become Liberty Street; King Street, Pine
 Street; and Queen Street, then one of the most fashionable quarters of
 the town, Pearl Street. Pearl Street is now chiefly occupied by the
 auction dealers, and the wholesale drygoods merchants, for warehouses
 and counting-rooms.




CHAPTER IV.


“It is the form, the eye, the word,
The bearing of that stranger lord,
His stature, manly, bold, and tall,
Built like a castle’s battled wall,
Yet molded in such just degrees
His giant strength seems lightsome ease.
Weather and war their rougher trace
Have left on that majestic face;
But ’tis his dignity of eye!
There, if a suppliant, would I fly,
Secure, ’mid danger, wrongs, and grief,
Of sympathy, redress, relief—
That glance, if guilty, would I dread
More than the doom that spoke me dead.”
“Enough, enough!” the princess cried,
“’Tis Scotland’s hope, her joy, her pride!”


—WALTER SCOTT.


The party sat in silence for many minutes after the peddler had
withdrawn. Mr. Wharton had heard enough to increase his uneasiness,
without in the least removing his apprehensions on behalf of his son.
The captain was impatiently wishing Harper in any other place than the
one foe occupied with such apparent composure, while Miss Peyton
completed the disposal of her breakfast equipage, with the mild
complacency of her nature, aided a little by an inward satisfaction at
possessing so large a portion of the trader’s lace; Sarah was busily
occupied in arranging her purchases, and Frances was kindly assisting
in the occupation, disregarding her own neglected bargains, when the
stranger suddenly broke the silence by saying,—

“If any apprehensions of me induce Captain Wharton to maintain his
disguise, I wish him to be undeceived; had I motives for betraying him,
they could not operate under present circumstances.”

The younger sister sank into her seat colorless and astonished. Miss
Peyton dropped the tea tray she was lifting from the table, and Sarah
sat with her purchases unheeded in her lap, in speechless surprise. Mr.
Wharton was stupefied; but the captain, hesitating a moment from
astonishment, sprang into the middle of the room, and exclaimed, as he
tore off the instruments of his disguise,—

“I believe you from my soul, and this tiresome imposition shall
continue no longer. Yet I am at a loss to conceive in what manner you
should know me.”

“You really look so much better in your proper person, Captain
Wharton,” said Harper, with a slight smile, “I would advise you never
to conceal it in future. There is enough to betray you, if other
sources of detection were wanting.” As he spoke, he pointed to a
picture suspended over the mantel piece, which exhibited the British
officer in his regimentals.

“I had flattered myself,” cried young Wharton, with a laugh, “that I
looked better on the canvas than in a masquerade. You must be a close
observer, sir.”

“Necessity has made me one,” said Harper, rising from his seat.

Frances met him as he was about to withdraw, and, taking his hand
between both her own, said with earnestness, her cheeks mantling with
their richest vermilion, “You cannot—you will not betray my brother.”

For an instant Harper paused in silent admiration of the lovely
pleader, and then, folding her hands on his breast, he replied
solemnly, “I cannot, and I will not.” He released her hands, and laying
his own on her head gently, continued, “If the blessing of a stranger
can profit you, receive it.” He turned, and, bowing low, retired, with
a delicacy that was duly appreciated by those he quitted, to his own
apartment.

The whole party were deeply impressed with the ingenuous and solemn
manner of the traveler, and all but the father found immediate relief
in his declaration. Some of the cast-off clothes of the captain, which
had been removed with the goods from the city, were produced; and young
Wharton, released from the uneasiness of his disguise, began at last to
enjoy a visit which had been undertaken at so much personal risk to
himself. Mr. Wharton retiring to his apartment, in pursuance of his
regular engagements, the ladies, with the young man, were left to an
uninterrupted communication on such subjects as were most agreeable.
Even Miss Peyton was affected with the spirits of her young relatives;
and they sat for an hour enjoying, in heedless confidence, the
pleasures of an unrestrained conversation, without reflecting on any
danger which might be impending over them. The city and their
acquaintances were not long neglected; for Miss Peyton, who had never
forgotten the many agreeable hours of her residence within its
boundaries, soon inquired, among others, after their old acquaintance,
Colonel Wellmere.

“Oh!” cried the captain, gayly, “he yet continues there, as handsome
and as gallant as ever.”

Although a woman be not actually in love, she seldom hears without a
blush the name of a man whom she might love, and who has been connected
with herself by idle gossips, in the amatory rumor of the day. Such had
been the case with Sarah, and she dropped her eyes on the carpet with a
smile, that, aided by the blush which suffused her cheek, in no degree
detracted from her native charms.

Captain Wharton, without heeding this display of interest in his
sister, immediately continued, “At times he is melancholy—we tell him
it must be love.” Sarah raised her eyes to the face of her brother, and
was consciously turning them on the rest of the party, when she met
those of her sister laughing with good humor and high spirits, as she
cried, “Poor man! does he despair?”

“Why, no—one would think he could not; the eldest son of a man of
wealth, so handsome, and a colonel.”

“Strong reasons, indeed, why he should prevail,” said Sarah,
endeavoring to laugh; “more particularly the latter.”

“Let me tell you,” replied the captain, gravely, “a lieutenant
colonelcy in the Guards is a very pretty thing.”

“And Colonel Wellmere a very pretty man,” added Frances.

“Nay, Frances,” returned her sister, “Colonel Wellmere was never a
favorite of yours; he is too loyal to his king to be agreeable to your
taste.”

Frances quickly answered, “And is not Henry loyal to his king?”

“Come, come,” said Miss Peyton, “no difference of opinion about the
colonel—he is a favorite of mine.”

“Fanny likes majors better,” cried the brother, pulling her upon his
knee.

“Nonsense!” said the blushing girl, as she endeavored to extricate
herself from the grasp of her laughing brother.

“It surprises me,” continued the captain, “that Peyton, when he
procured the release of my father, did not endeavor to detain my sister
in the rebel camp.”

“That might have endangered his own liberty,” said the smiling girl,
resuming her seat. “You know it is liberty for which Major Dunwoodie is
fighting.”

“Liberty!” exclaimed Sarah; “very pretty liberty which exchanges one
master for fifty.”

“The privilege of changing masters at all is a liberty.”

“And one you ladies would sometimes be glad to exercise,” cried the
captain.

“We like, I believe, to have the liberty of choosing who they shall be
in the first place,” said the laughing girl. “Don’t we, Aunt Jeanette?”

“Me!” cried Miss Peyton, starting; “what do I know of such things,
child? You must ask someone else, if you wish to learn such matters.”

“Ah! you would have us think you were never young! But what am I to
believe of all the tales I have heard about the handsome Miss Jeanette
Peyton?”

“Nonsense, my dear, nonsense,” said the aunt, endeavoring to suppress a
smile; “it is very silly to believe all you hear.”

“Nonsense, do you call it?” cried the captain, gayly. “To this hour
General Montrose toasts Miss Peyton; I heard him within the week, at
Sir
Henry’s table.”

“Why, Henry, you are as saucy as your sister; and to break in upon your
folly, I must take you to see my new home-made manufactures, which I
will be bold enough to put in contrast with the finery of Birch.”

The young people rose to follow their aunt, in perfect good humor with
each other and the world. On ascending the stairs to the place of
deposit for Miss Peyton’s articles of domestic economy, she availed
herself, however, of an opportunity to inquire of her nephew, whether
General Montrose suffered as much from the gout as he had done when she
knew him.

It is a painful discovery we make, as we advance in life, that even
those we most love are not exempt from its frailties. When the heart is
fresh, and the view of the future unsullied by the blemishes which have
been gathered from the experience of the past, our feelings are most
holy: we love to identify with the persons of our natural friends all
those qualities to which we ourselves aspire, and all those virtues we
have been taught to revere. The confidence with which we esteem seems a
part of our nature; and there is a purity thrown around the affections
which tie us to our kindred that after life can seldom hope to see
uninjured. The family of Mr. Wharton continued to enjoy, for the
remainder of the day, a happiness to which they had long been
strangers; and one that sprang, in its younger members, from the
delights of the most confident affection, and the exchange of the most
disinterested endearments.

Harper appeared only at the dinner table, and he retired with the
cloth, under the pretense of some engagement in his own room.
Notwithstanding the confidence created by his manner, the family felt
his absence a relief; for the visit of Captain Wharton was necessarily
to be confined to a very few days, both from the limitation of his
leave of absence, and the danger of a discovery.

All dread of consequences, however, was lost in the pleasure of the
meeting. Once or twice during the day, Mr. Wharton had suggested a
doubt as to the character of his unknown guest, and the possibility of
the detection of his son proceeding in some manner from his
information; but the idea was earnestly opposed by all his children;
even Sarah uniting with her brother and sister in pleading warmly in
favor of the sincerity expressed in the outward appearance of the
traveler.

“Such appearances, my children,” replied the desponding parent, “are
but too often deceitful; when men like Major André lend themselves to
the purposes of fraud, it is idle to reason from qualities, much less
externals.”

“Fraud!” cried his son quickly. “Surely, sir, you forget that Major
André was serving his king, and that the usages of war justified the
measure.”

“And did not the usages of war justify his death, Henry?” inquired
Frances, speaking in a low voice, unwilling to abandon what she thought
the cause of her country, and yet unable to suppress her feelings for
the man.

“Never!” exclaimed the young man, springing from his seat, and pacing
the floor rapidly. “Frances, you shock me; suppose it should be my
fate, even now, to fall into the power of the rebels; you would
vindicate my execution—perhaps exult in the cruelty of Washington.”

“Henry!” said Frances, solemnly, quivering with emotion, and with a
face pale as death, “you little know my heart.”

“Pardon me, my sister—my little Fanny,” cried the repentant youth,
pressing her to his bosom, and kissing off the tears which had burst,
spite of her resolution, from her eyes.

“It is very foolish to regard your hasty words, I know,” said Frances,
extricating herself from his arms, and raising her yet humid eyes to
his face with a smile; “but reproach from those we love is most severe,
Henry; particularly—where we—we think—we know”—her paleness gradually
gave place to the color of the rose, as she concluded in a low voice,
with her eyes directed to the carpet, “we are undeserving of it.”

Miss Peyton moved from her own seat to the one next her niece, and,
kindly taking her hand, observed, “You should not suffer the
impetuosity of your brother to affect you so much; boys, you know, are
proverbially ungovernable.”

“And, from my conduct, you might add cruel,” said the captain, seating
himself on the other side of his sister. “But on the subject of the
death of André we are all of us uncommonly sensitive. You did not know
him: he was all that was brave—that was accomplished—that was
estimable.” Frances smiled faintly, and shook her head, but made no
reply. Her brother, observing the marks of incredulity in her
countenance, continued, “You doubt it, and justify his death?”

“I do not doubt his worth,” replied the maid, mildly, “nor his being
deserving of a more happy fate; but I cannot doubt the propriety of
Washington’s conduct. I know but little of the customs of war, and wish
to know less; but with what hopes of success could the Americans
contend, if they yielded all the principles which long usage had
established, to the exclusive purposes of the British?”

“Why contend at all?” cried Sarah, impatiently. “Besides, being rebels,
all their acts are illegal.”

“Women are but mirrors, which reflect the images before them,” cried
the captain, good-naturedly. “In Frances I see the picture of Major
Dunwoodie, and in Sarah—”

“Colonel Wellmere,” interrupted the younger sister, laughing, and
blushing crimson. “I must confess I am indebted to the major for my
reasoning—am I not, Aunt Jeanette?”

“I believe it is something like his logic, indeed, child.”

“I plead guilty; and you. Sarah, have not forgotten the learned
discussions of Colonel Wellmere.”

“I trust I never forget the right,” said Sarah, emulating her sister in
color, and rising, under the pretense of avoiding the heat of the fire.

Nothing occurred of any moment during the rest of the day; but in the
evening Caesar reported that he had overheard voices in the room of
Harper, conversing in a low tone. The apartment occupied by the
traveler was the wing at the extremity of the building, opposite to the
parlor in which the family ordinarily assembled; and it seems that
Caesar had established a regular system of espionage, with a view to
the safety of his young master. This intelligence gave some uneasiness
to all the members of the family; but the entrance of Harper himself,
with the air of benevolence and sincerity which shone through his
reserve, soon removed the doubts from the breast of all but Mr.
Wharton. His children and sister believed Caesar to have been mistaken,
and the evening passed off without any additional alarm.

On the afternoon of the succeeding day, the party were assembled in the
parlor around the tea table of Miss Peyton, when a change in the
weather occurred. The thin _scud_, that apparently floated but a short
distance above the tops of the hills, began to drive from the west
towards the east in astonishing rapidity. The rain yet continued to
beat against the eastern windows of the house with fury; in that
direction the heavens were dark and gloomy. Frances was gazing at the
scene with the desire of youth to escape from the tedium of
confinement, when, as if by magic, all was still. The rushing winds had
ceased, the pelting of the storm was over, and, springing to the
window, with delight pictured in her face, she saw a glorious ray of
sunshine lighting the opposite wood. The foliage glittered with the
checkered beauties of the October leaf, reflecting back from the
moistened boughs the richest luster of an American autumn. In an
instant, the piazza, which opened to the south, was thronged with the
inmates of the cottage. The air was mild, balmy, and refreshing; in the
east, clouds, which might be likened to the retreating masses of a
discomfited army, hung around the horizon in awful and increasing
darkness. At a little elevation above the cottage, the thin vapor was
still rushing towards the east with amazing velocity; while in the west
the sun had broken forth and shed his parting radiance on the scene
below, aided by the fullest richness of a clear atmosphere and a
freshened herbage. Such moments belong only to the climate of America,
and are enjoyed in a degree proportioned to the suddenness of the
contrast, and the pleasure we experience in escaping from the
turbulence of the elements to the quiet of a peaceful evening, and an
air still as the softest mornings in June.

“What a magnificent scene!” said Harper, in a low tone. “How grand! how
awfully sublime!—may such a quiet speedily await the struggle in which
my country is engaged, and such a glorious evening follow the day of
her adversity!”

Frances, who stood next to him, alone heard the voice. Turning in
amazement from the view to the speaker, she saw him standing
bareheaded, erect, and with his eyes lifted to heaven. There was no
longer the quiet which had seemed their characteristic, but they were
lighted into something like enthusiasm, and a slight flush passed over
his features.

There can be no danger apprehended from such a man, thought Frances;
such feelings belong only to the virtuous.

The musings of the party were now interrupted by the sudden appearance
of the peddler. He had taken advantage of the first gleam of sunshine
to hasten to the cottage. Heedless of wet or dry as it lay in his path,
with arms swinging to and fro, and with his head bent forward of his
body several inches, Harvey Birch approached the piazza, with a gait
peculiarly his own. It was the quick, lengthened pace of an itinerant
vender of goods.

“Fine evening,” said the peddler, saluting the party, without raising
his eyes; “quite warm and agreeable for the season.”

Mr. Wharton assented to the remark, and inquired kindly after the
health of his father. Harvey heard him, and continued standing for some
time in moody silence; but the question being repeated, he answered
with a slight tremor in his voice,—

“He fails fast; old age and hardships will do their work.” The peddler
turned his face from the view of most of the family; but Frances
noticed his glistening eyes and quivering lip, and, for the second
time, Harvey rose in her estimation.

The valley in which the residence of Mr. Wharton stood ran in a
direction from northwest to southeast, and the house was placed on the
side of a hill which terminated its length in the former direction. A
small opening, occasioned by the receding of the opposite hill, and the
fall of the land to the level of the tide water, afforded a view of the
Sound[5] over the tops of the distant woods on its margin. The surface
of the water which had so lately been lashing the shores with
boisterous fury, was already losing its ruffled darkness in the long
and regular undulations that succeeded a tempest, while the light air
from the southwest was gently touching their summits, lending its
feeble aid in stilling the waters. Some dark spots were now to be
distinguished, occasionally rising into view, and again sinking behind
the lengthened waves which interposed themselves to the sight. They
were unnoticed by all but the peddler. He had seated himself on the
piazza, at a distance from Harper, and appeared to have forgotten the
object of his visit. His roving eye, however, soon caught a glimpse of
these new objects in the view, and he sprang up with alacrity, gazing
intently towards the water. He changed his place, glanced his eye with
marked uneasiness on Harper, and then said with great emphasis—

“The rig’lars must be out from below.”

“Why do you think so?” inquired Captain Wharton, eagerly. “God send it
may be true; I want their escort in again.”

“Them ten whaleboats would not move so fast unless they were better
manned than common.”

“Perhaps,” cried Mr. Wharton in alarm, “they are—they are continentals
returning from the island.”

“They look like rig’lars,” said the peddler, with meaning.

“Look!” repeated the captain, “there is nothing but spots to be seen.”

Harvey disregarded his observation, but seemed to be soliloquizing, as
he said in an undertone, “They came out before the gale—have laid on
the island these two days—horse are on the road—there will soon be
fighting near us.” During this speech, Birch several times glanced his
eye towards Harper, with evident uneasiness, but no corresponding
emotion betrayed any interest of that gentleman in the scene. He stood
in silent contemplation of the view, and seemed enjoying the change in
the air. As Birch concluded, however, Harper turned to his host, and
mentioned that his business would not admit of unnecessary delay; he
would, therefore, avail himself of the fine evening to ride a few miles
on his journey. Mr. Wharton made many professions of regret at losing
so agreeable an inmate; but was too mindful of his duty not to speed
the parting guest, and orders were instantly given to that effect.

The uneasiness of the peddler increased in a manner for which nothing
apparent could account; his eye was constantly wandering towards the
lower end of the vale as if in expectation of some interruption from
that quarter. At length Caesar appeared, leading the noble beast which
was to bear the weight of the traveler. The peddler officiously
assisted to tighten the girths, and fasten the blue cloak and valise to
the mailstraps.

Every precaution being completed, Harper proceeded to take his leave.
To Sarah and her aunt he paid his compliments with ease and kindness;
but when he came to Frances, he paused a moment, while his face assumed
an expression of more than ordinary benignity. His eye repeated the
blessing which had before fallen from his lips, and the girl felt her
cheeks glow, and her heart beat with a quicker pulsation, as he spoke
his adieus. There was a mutual exchange of polite courtesy between the
host and his parting guest; but as Harper frankly offered his hand to
Captain Wharton, he remarked, in a manner of great solemnity,—

“The step you have undertaken is one of much danger, and disagreeable
consequences to yourself may result from it; in such a case, I may have
it in my power to prove the gratitude I owe your family for its
kindness.”

“Surely, sir,” cried the father, losing sight of delicacy in
apprehension for his child, “you will keep secret the discovery which
your being in my house has enabled you to make?”

Harper turned quickly to the speaker, and then, losing the sternness
which had begun to gather on his countenance, he answered mildly, “I
have learned nothing in your family, sir, of which I was ignorant
before; but your son is safer from my knowledge of his visit than he
would be without it.”

He bowed to the whole party, and without taking any notice of the
peddler, other than by simply thanking him for his attentions, mounted
his horse, and, riding steadily and gracefully through the little gate,
was soon lost behind the hill which sheltered the valley to the
northward.

The eyes of the peddler followed the retiring figure of the horseman so
long as it continued within view, and as it disappeared from his sight,
he drew a long and heavy sigh, as if relieved from a load of
apprehension. The Whartons had meditated in silence on the character
and visit of their unknown guest for the same period, when the father
approached Birch and observed,

“I am yet your debtor, Harvey, for the tobacco you were so kind as to
bring me from the city.”

“If it should not prove so good as the first,” replied the peddler,
fixing a last and lingering look in the direction of Harper’s route,
“it is owing to the scarcity of the article.”

“I like it much,” continued the other; “but you have forgotten to name
the price.”

The countenance of the trader changed, and, losing its expression of
deep care in a natural acuteness, he answered,—

“It is hard to say what ought to be the price; I believe I must leave
it to your own generosity.”

Mr. Wharton had taken a hand well filled with the images of Carolus III
from his pocket, and now extended it towards Birch with three of the
pieces between his finger and thumb. Harvey’s eyes twinkled as he
contemplated the reward; and rolling over in his mouth a large quantity
of the article in question, coolly stretched forth his hand, into which
the dollars fell with a most agreeable sound: but not satisfied with
the transient music of their fall, the peddler gave each piece in
succession a ring on the stepping-stone of the piazza, before he
consigned it to the safekeeping of a huge deerskin purse, which
vanished from the sight of the spectators so dexterously, that not one
of them could have told about what part of his person it was secreted.

This very material point in his business so satisfactorily completed,
the peddler rose from his seat on the floor of the piazza, and
approached to where Captain Wharton stood, supporting his sisters on
either arm, as they listened with the lively interest of affection to
his conversation.

The agitation of the preceding incidents had caused such an expenditure
of the juices which had become necessary to the mouth of the peddler,
that a new supply of the weed was required before he could turn his
attention to business of lesser moment. This done, he asked abruptly,—

“Captain Wharton, do you go in to-night?”

“No!” said the captain, laconically, and looking at his lovely burdens
with great affection. “Mr. Birch, would you have me leave such company
so soon, when I may never enjoy it again?”

“Brother!” said Frances, “jesting on such a subject is cruel.”

“I rather guess,” continued the peddler, coolly, “now the storm is
over, the Skinners may be moving; you had better shorten your visit,
Captain Wharton.”

“Oh!” cried the British officer, “a few guineas will buy off those
rascals at any time, should I meet them. No, no, Mr. Birch, here I stay
until morning.”

“Money could not liberate Major André,” said the peddler, dryly.

Both the sisters now turned to the captain in alarm, and the elder
observed,—

“You had better take the advice of Harvey; rest assured, his opinion in
such matters ought not to be disregarded.”

“Yes,” added the younger, “if, as I suspect, Mr. Birch assisted you to
come here, your safety, our happiness, dear Henry, requires you to
listen to him now.”

“I brought myself out, and can take myself in,” said the captain
positively. “Our bargain went no further than to procure my disguise,
and to let me know when the coast was clear; and in the latter
particular, you were mistaken, Mr. Birch.”

“I was,” said the peddler, with some interest, “and the greater is the
reason why you should get back to-night; the pass I gave you will serve
but once.”

“Cannot you forge another?”

The pale cheek of the trader showed an unusual color, but he continued
silent, with his eyes fixed on the ground, until the young man added,
with great positiveness, “Here I stay this night, come what will.”

“Captain Wharton,” said the peddler, with great deliberation and marked
emphasis, “beware a tall Virginian, with huge whiskers; he is below
you, to my knowledge; the devil can’t deceive him; I never could but
once.”

“Let him beware of me,” said Wharton, haughtily. “But, Mr. Birch, I
exonerate you from further responsibility.”

“Will you give me that in writing?” asked the cautious Birch.

“Oh! cheerfully,” cried the captain, with a laugh. “Caesar! pen, ink,
and paper, while I write a discharge for my trusty attendant, Harvey
Birch, peddler, etc., etc.”

The implements for writing were produced, and the captain, with great
gayety, wrote the desired acknowledgment in language of his own; which
the peddler took, and carefully depositing it by the side of the image
of his Catholic Majesty, made a sweeping bow to the whole family, and
departed as he had approached. He was soon seen at a distance, stealing
into the door of his own humble dwelling.

The father and sisters of the captain were too much rejoiced in
retaining the young man to express, or even entertain, the
apprehensions his situation might reasonably excite; but on retiring to
their evening repast, a cooler reflection induced the captain to think
of changing his mind. Unwilling to trust himself out of the protection
of his father’s domains, the young man dispatched Caesar to desire
another interview with Harvey. The black soon returned with the
unwelcome intelligence that it was now too late. Katy had told him that
Harvey must be miles on his road to the northward, “having left home at
early candlelight with his pack.” Nothing now remained to the captain
but patience, until the morning should afford further opportunity of
deciding on the best course for him to pursue.

“This Harvey Birch, with his knowing looks and portentous warnings,
gives me more uneasiness than I am willing to own,” said Captain
Wharton, rousing himself from a fit of musing in which the danger of
his situation made no small part of his meditations.

“How is it that he is able to travel to and fro in these difficult
times, without molestation?” inquired Miss Peyton.

“Why the rebels suffer him to escape so easily, is more than I can
answer,” returned the other; “but Sir Henry would not permit a hair of
his head to be injured.”

“Indeed!” cried Frances, with interest. “Is he then known to Sir Henry
Clinton?”

“At least he ought to be.”

“Do you think, my son,” asked Mr. Wharton, “there is no danger of his
betraying you?”

“Why—no; I reflected on that before I trusted myself to his power,”
said the captain, thoughtfully. “He seems to be faithful in matters of
business. The danger to himself, should he return to the city, would
prevent such an act of villainy.”

“I think,” said Frances, adopting the manner of her brother, “Harvey
Birch is not without good feelings; at least, he has the appearance of
them at times.”

“Oh!” cried his sister, exulting, “he has loyalty, and that with me is
a cardinal virtue.”

“I am afraid,” said her brother, laughing, “love of money is a stronger
passion than love of his king.”

“Then,” said the father, “you cannot be safe while in his power—for no
love will withstand the temptations of money, when offered to avarice.”

“Surely, sir,” cried the youth, recovering his gayety, “there must be
one love that can resist anything—is there not, Fanny?”

“Here is your candle; you keep your father up beyond his usual hour.”

 [5] An island more than forty leagues in length lies opposite the
 coasts of New York and Connecticut. The arm of the sea which separates
 it from the main is technically called a sound, and in that part of
 the country _par excellence, the_ Sound. This sheet of water varies in
 its breadth from five to thirty miles.




CHAPTER V.


Through Solway sands, through Taross moss,
Blindfold, he knew the paths to cross:
By wily turns, by desperate bounds,
Had baffled Percy’s best bloodhounds.
In Eske, or Liddel, fords were none,
But he would ride them, one by one;
Alike to him was time or tide,
December’s snow or July’s pride;
Alike to him was tide or time,
Moonless midnight or matin prime.


—WALTER SCOTT.


All the members of the Wharton family laid their heads on their pillows
that night, with a foreboding of some interruption to their ordinary
quiet. Uneasiness kept the sisters from enjoying their usual repose,
and they rose from their beds, on the following morning, unrefreshed,
and almost without having closed their eyes.

On taking an eager and hasty survey of the valley from the windows of
their room, nothing, however, but its usual serenity was to be seen. It
was glittering with the opening brilliancy of one of those lovely, mild
days, which occur about the time of the falling of the leaf; and which,
by their frequency, class the American autumn with the most delightful
seasons of other countries. We have no spring; vegetation seems to leap
into existence, instead of creeping, as in the same latitudes of the
Old World; but how gracefully it retires! September, October, even
November and December, compose the season for enjoyment in the open
air; they have their storms, but they are distinct, and not of long
continuance, leaving a clear atmosphere and a cloudless sky.

As nothing could be seen likely to interrupt the enjoyments and harmony
of such a day, the sisters descended to the parlor, with a returning
confidence in their brother’s security, and their own happiness.

The family were early in assembling around the breakfast table; and
Miss Peyton, with a little of that minute precision which creeps into
the habits of single life, had pleasantly insisted that the absence of
her nephew should in no manner interfere with the regular hours she had
established; consequently, the party were already seated when the
captain made his appearance; though the untasted coffee sufficiently
proved that by none of his relatives was his absence disregarded.

“I think I did much better,” he cried, taking a chair between his
sisters, and receiving their offered salutes, “to secure a good bed and
such a plentiful breakfast, instead of trusting to the hospitality of
that renowned corps, the Cowboys.”

“If you could sleep,” said Sarah, “you were more fortunate than Frances
and myself; every murmur of the night air sounded to me like the
approach of the rebel army.”

“Why,” said the captain, laughing, “I do acknowledge a little
inquietude myself—but how was it with you?” turning to his younger and
evidently favorite sister, and tapping her cheek. “Did you see banners
in the clouds, and mistake Miss Peyton’s Aeolian harp for rebellious
music?”

“Nay, Henry,” rejoined the maid, looking at him affectionately, “much
as I love my own country, the approach of her troops just now would
give me great pain.”

The brother made no reply; but returning the fondness expressed in her
eye by a look of fraternal tenderness, he gently pressed her hand in
silence; when Caesar, who had participated largely in the anxiety of
the family, and who had risen with the dawn, and kept a vigilant watch
on the surrounding objects, as he stood gazing from one of the windows,
exclaimed with a face that approached to something like the hues of a
white man,—

“Run—Massa Harry—run—if he love old Caesar, run—here come a rebel
horse.”

“Run!” repeated the British officer, gathering himself up in military
pride. “No, Mr. Caesar, running is not my trade.” While speaking, he
walked deliberately to the window, where the family were already
collected in the greatest consternation.

At the distance of more than a mile, about fifty dragoons were to be
seen, winding down one of the lateral entrances of the valley. In
advance, with an officer, was a man attired in the dress of a
countryman, who pointed in the direction of the cottage. A small party
now left the main body, and moved rapidly towards the object of their
destination.

On reaching the road which led through the bottom of the valley, they
turned their horses’ heads to the north.

The Whartons continued chained in breathless silence to the spot,
watching their movements, when the party, having reached the dwelling
of Birch, made a rapid circle around his grounds, and in an instant his
house was surrounded by a dozen sentinels.

Two or three of the dragoons now dismounted and disappeared; in a few
minutes, however, they returned to the yard, followed by Katy, from
whose violent gesticulations, it was evident that matters of no
trifling concern were on the carpet. A short communication with the
loquacious housekeeper followed the arrival of the main body of the
troop, and the advance party remounting, the whole moved towards the
Locusts with great speed.

As yet none of the family had sufficient presence of mind to devise any
means of security for Captain Wharton; but the danger now became too
pressing to admit of longer delay, and various means of secreting him
were hastily proposed; but they were all haughtily rejected by the
young man, as unworthy of his character. It was too late to retreat to
the woods in the rear of the cottage, for he would unavoidably be seen,
and, followed by a troop of horse, as inevitably taken.

At length his sisters, with trembling hands, replaced his original
disguise, the instruments of which had been carefully kept at hand by
Caesar, in expectation of some sudden emergency.

This arrangement was hastily and imperfectly completed, as the dragoons
entered the lawn and orchard of the Locusts, riding with the rapidity
of the wind; and in their turn the Whartons were surrounded.

Nothing remained now, but to meet the impending examination with as
much indifference as the family could assume. The leader of the horse
dismounted, and, followed by a couple of his men, he approached the
outer door of the building, which was slowly and reluctantly opened for
his admission by Caesar. The heavy tread of the trooper, as he followed
the black to the door of the parlor, rang in the ears of the females as
it approached nearer and nearer, and drove the blood from their faces
to their hearts, with a chill that nearly annihilated feeling.

A man, whose colossal stature manifested the possession of vast
strength, entered the room, and removing his cap, he saluted the family
with a mildness his appearance did not indicate as belonging to his
nature. His dark hair hung around his brow in profusion, though stained
with powder which was worn at that day, and his face was nearly hid in
the whiskers by which it was disfigured. Still, the expression of his
eye, though piercing, was not bad, and his voice, though deep and
powerful, was far from unpleasant. Frances ventured to throw a timid
glance at his figure as he entered, and saw at once the man from whose
scrutiny Harvey Birch had warned them there was so much to be
apprehended.

“You have no cause for alarm, ladies,” said the officer, pausing a
moment, and contemplating the pale faces around him. “My business will
be confined to a few questions, which, if freely answered, will
instantly remove us from your dwelling.”

“And what may they be, sir?” stammered Mr. Wharton, rising from his
chair and waiting anxiously for the reply.

“Has there been a strange gentleman staying with you during the storm?”
continued the dragoon, speaking with interest, and in some degree
sharing in the evident anxiety of the father.

“This gentleman—here—favored us with his company during the rain, and
has not yet departed.”

“This gentleman!” repeated the other, turning to Captain Wharton, and
contemplating his figure for a moment until the anxiety of his
countenance gave place to a lurking smile. He approached the youth with
an air of comic gravity, and with a low bow, continued, “I am sorry for
the severe cold you have in your head, sir.”

“I!” exclaimed the captain, in surprise; “I have no cold in my head.”

“I fancied it then, from seeing you had covered such handsome black
locks with that ugly old wig. It was my mistake; you will please to
pardon it.”

Mr. Wharton groaned aloud; but the ladies, ignorant of the extent of
their visitor’s knowledge, remained in trembling yet rigid silence. The
captain himself moved his hand involuntarily to his head, and
discovered that the trepidation of his sisters had left some of his
natural hair exposed. The dragoon watched the movement with a continued
smile, when, seeming to recollect himself, turning to the father, he
proceeded,—

“Then, sir, I am to understand there has not been a Mr. Harper here,
within the week?”

“Mr. Harper,” echoed the other, feeling a load removed from his heart,
“yes, I had forgotten; but he is gone; and if there be anything wrong
in his character, we are in entire ignorance of it; to me he was a
total stranger.”

“You have but little to apprehend from his character,” answered the
dragoon dryly. “But he is gone—how—when—and whither?”

“He departed as he arrived,” said Mr. Wharton, gathering renewed
confidence from the manner of the trooper; “on horseback, last evening,
and he took the northern road.”

The officer listened to him with intense interest, his countenance
gradually lighting into a smile of pleasure, and the instant Mr.
Wharton concluded his laconic reply he turned on his heel and left the
apartment. The Whartons, judging from his manner, thought he was about
to proceed in quest of the object of his inquiries. They observed the
dragoon, on gaining the lawn, in earnest and apparently pleased
conversation with his two subalterns. In a few moments orders were
given to some of the troops, and horsemen left the valley, at full
speed, by its various roads.

The suspense of the party within, who were all highly interested
witnesses of this scene, was shortly terminated: for the heavy tread of
the dragoon soon announced his second approach. He bowed again politely
as he reentered the room, and walking up to Captain Wharton, said, with
comic gravity,—

“Now, sir, my principal business being done, may I beg to examine the
quality of that wig?”

The British officer imitated the manner of the other, as he
deliberately uncovered his head, and handing him the wig, observed, “I
hope, sir, it is to your liking.”

“I cannot, without violating the truth, say it is,” returned the
dragoon. “I prefer your ebony hair, from which you seem to have combed
the powder with great industry. But that must have been a sad hurt you
have received under this enormous black patch.”

“You appear so close an observer of things, I should like your opinion
of it, sir,” said Henry, removing the silk, and exhibiting the cheek
free from blemish.

“Upon my word, you improve most rapidly in externals,” added the
trooper, preserving his muscles in inflexible gravity. “If I could but
persuade you to exchange this old surtout for that handsome blue coat
by your side, I think I never could witness a more agreeable
metamorphosis, since I was changed myself from a lieutenant to a
captain.”

Young Wharton very composedly did as was required and stood an
extremely handsome, well-dressed young man. The dragoon looked at him
for a minute with the drollery that characterized his manner, and then
continued,—

“This is a newcomer in the scene; it is usual, you know, for strangers
to be introduced; I am Captain Lawton, of the Virginia horse.”

“And I, sir, am Captain Wharton, of his Majesty’s 60th regiment of
foot,” returned Henry, bowing stiffly, and recovering his natural
manner.

The countenance of Lawton changed instantly, and his assumed quaintness
vanished. He viewed the figure of Captain Wharton, as he stood proudly
swelling with a pride that disdained further concealment, and exclaimed
with great earnestness,—

“Captain Wharton, from my soul I pity you!”

“Oh! then,” cried the father in agony, “if you pity him, dear sir, why
molest him? He is not a spy; nothing but a desire to see his friends
prompted him to venture so far from the regular army in disguise. Leave
him with us; there is no reward, no sum, which I will not cheerfully
pay.”

“Sir, your anxiety for your friend excuses your language,” said Lawton,
haughtily; “but you forget I am a Virginian, and a gentleman.” Turning
to the young man, he continued, “Were you ignorant, Captain Wharton,
that our pickets have been below you for several days?”

“I did not know it until I reached them, and it was then too late to
retreat,” said Wharton sullenly. “I came out, as my father has
mentioned, to see my friends, understanding your parties to be at
Peekskill, and near the Highlands, or surely I would not have
ventured.”

“All this may be very true; but the affair of André has made us on the
alert. When treason reaches the grade of general officers, Captain
Wharton, it behooves the friends of liberty to be vigilant.”

Henry bowed to this remark in distant silence, but Sarah ventured to
urge something in behalf of her brother. The dragoon heard her
politely, and apparently with commiseration; but willing to avoid
useless and embarrassing petitions, he answered mildly,—

“I am not the commander of the party, madam; Major Dunwoodie will
decide what must be done with your brother; at all events he will
receive nothing but kind and gentle treatment.”

“Dunwoodie!” exclaimed Frances, with a face in which the roses
contended for the mastery with the paleness of apprehension. “Thank
God! then Henry is safe!”

Lawton regarded her with a mingled expression of pity and admiration;
then shaking his head doubtingly, he continued,—

“I hope so; and with your permission, we will leave the matter for his
decision.”

The color of Frances changed from the paleness of fear to the glow of
hope. Her dread on behalf of her brother was certainly greatly
diminished; yet her form shook, her breathing became short and
irregular, and her whole frame gave tokens of extraordinary agitation.
Her eyes rose from the floor to the dragoon, and were again fixed
immovably on the carpet—she evidently wished to utter something but was
unequal to the effort. Miss Peyton was a close observer of these
movements of her niece, and advancing with an air of feminine dignity,
inquired,—

“Then, sir, we may expect the pleasure of Major Dunwoodie’s company
shortly?”

“Immediately, madam,” answered the dragoon, withdrawing his admiring
gaze from the person of Frances. “Expresses are already on the road to
announce to him our situation, and the intelligence will speedily bring
him to this valley; unless, indeed, some private reasons may exist to
make a visit particularly unpleasant.”

“We shall always be happy to see Major Dunwoodie.”

“Oh! doubtless; he is a general favorite, May I presume on it so far as
to ask leave to dismount and refresh my men, who compose a part of his
squadron?”

There was a manner about the trooper that would have made the omission
of such a request easily forgiven by Mr. Wharton, but he was fairly
entrapped by his own eagerness to conciliate, and it was useless to
withhold a consent which he thought would probably be extorted; he
therefore made the most of necessity, and gave such orders as would
facilitate the wishes of Captain Lawton.

The officers were invited to take their morning’s repast at the family
breakfast table, and having made their arrangements without, the
invitation was frankly accepted. None of the watchfulness, which was so
necessary to their situation, was neglected by the wary partisan.
Patrols were seen on the distant hills, taking their protecting circuit
around their comrades, who were enjoying, in the midst of danger, a
security that can only spring from the watchfulness of discipline and
the indifference of habit.

The addition to the party at Mr. Wharton’s table was only three, and
they were all of them men who, under the rough exterior induced by
actual and arduous service, concealed the manners of gentlemen.
Consequently, the interruption to the domestic privacy of the family
was marked by the observance of strict decorum. The ladies left the
table to their guests, who proceeded, without much superfluous
diffidence, to do proper honors to the hospitality of Mr. Wharton.

At length Captain Lawton suspended for a moment his violent attacks on
the buckwheat cakes, to inquire of the master of the house, if there
was not a peddler of the name of Birch who lived in the valley at
times.

“At times only, I believe, sir,” replied Mr. Wharton, cautiously. “He
is seldom here; I may say I never see him.”

“That is strange, too,” said the trooper, looking at the disconcerted
host intently, “considering he is your next neighbor; he must be quite
domestic, sir; and to the ladies it must be somewhat inconvenient. I
doubt not that that muslin in the window seat cost twice as much as he
would have asked them for it.”

Mr. Wharton turned in consternation, and saw some of the recent
purchases scattered about the room.

The two subalterns struggled to conceal their smiles; but the captain
resumed his breakfast with an eagerness that created a doubt, whether
he ever expected to enjoy another. The necessity of a supply from the
dominion of Dinah soon, however, afforded another respite, of which
Lawton availed himself.

“I had a wish to break this Mr. Birch of his unsocial habits, and gave
him a call this morning,” he said. “Had I found him within, I should
have placed him where he would enjoy life in the midst of society, for
a short time at least.”

“And where might that be, sir?” asked Mr. Wharton, conceiving it
necessary to say something.

“The guardroom,” said the trooper, dryly.

“What is the offense of poor Birch?” asked Miss Peyton, handing the
dragoon a fourth dish of coffee.

“Poor!” cried the captain. “If he is poor, King George is a bad
paymaster.”

“Yes, indeed,” said one of the subalterns, “his Majesty owes him a
dukedom.”

“And congress a halter,” continued the commanding officer commencing
anew on a fresh supply of the cakes.

“I am sorry,” said Mr. Wharton, “that any neighbor of mine should incur
the displeasure of our rulers.”

“If I catch him,” cried the dragoon, while buttering another cake, “he
will dangle from the limbs of one of his namesakes.”

“He would make no bad ornament, suspended from one of those locusts
before his own door,” added the lieutenant.

“Never mind,” continued the captain; “I will have him yet before I’m a
major.”

As the language of the officers appeared to be sincere, and such as
disappointed men in their rough occupations are but too apt to use, the
Whartons thought it prudent to discontinue the subject. It was no new
intelligence to any of the family, that Harvey Birch was distrusted and
greatly harassed by the American army. His escapes from their hands, no
less than his imprisonments, had been the conversation of the country
in too many instances, and under circumstances of too great mystery, to
be easily forgotten. In fact, no small part of the bitterness expressed
by Captain Lawton against the peddler, arose from the unaccountable
disappearance of the latter, when intrusted to the custody of two of
his most faithful dragoons.

A twelvemonth had not yet elapsed, since Birch had been seen lingering
near the headquarters of the commander in chief, and at a time when
important movements were expected hourly to occur. So soon as the
information of this fact was communicated to the officer whose duty it
was to guard the avenues of the American camp, he dispatched Captain
Lawton in pursuit of the peddler.

Acquainted with all the passes of the hills, and indefatigable in the
discharge of his duty, the trooper had, with much trouble and toil,
succeeded in effecting his object. The party had halted at a farmhouse
for the purposes of refreshment, and the prisoner was placed in a room
by himself, but under the keeping of the two men before mentioned; all
that was known subsequently is, that a woman was seen busily engaged in
the employments of the household near the sentinels, and was
particularly attentive to the wants of the captain, until he was deeply
engaged in the employments of the supper table.

Afterwards, neither woman nor peddler was to be found. The pack,
indeed, was discovered open, and nearly empty, and a small door,
communicating with a room adjoining to the one in which the peddler had
been secured, was ajar.

Captain Lawton never could forgive the deception; his antipathies to
his enemies were not very moderate, but this was adding an insult to
his penetration that rankled deeply. He sat in portentous silence,
brooding over the exploit of his prisoner, yet mechanically pursuing
the business before him, until, after sufficient time had passed to
make a very comfortable meal, a trumpet suddenly broke on the ears of
the party, sending its martial tones up the valley, in startling
melody. The trooper rose instantly from the table, exclaiming,—

“Quick, gentlemen, to your horses; there comes Dunwoodie,” and,
followed by his officers, he precipitately left the room.

With the exception of the sentinels left to guard Captain Wharton, the
dragoons mounted, and marched out to meet their comrades.

None of the watchfulness necessary in a war, in which similarity of
language, appearance, and customs rendered prudence doubly necessary,
was omitted by the cautious leader. On getting sufficiently near,
however, to a body of horse of more than double his own number, to
distinguish countenances, Lawton plunged his rowels into his charger,
and in a moment he was by the side of his commander.

The ground in front of the cottage was again occupied by the horse; and
observing the same precautions as before, the newly arrived troops
hastened to participate in the cheer prepared for their comrades.




CHAPTER VI.


And let conquerors boast
Their fields of fame—he who in virtue arms
A young warm spirit against beauty’s charms,
Who feels her brightness, yet defies her thrall,
Is the best, bravest conqueror of them all.


—MOORE.


The ladies of the Wharton family had collected about a window, deeply
interested in the scene we have related.

Sarah viewed the approach of her countrymen with a smile of
contemptuous indifference; for she even undervalued the personal
appearance of men whom she thought arrayed in the unholy cause of
rebellion. Miss Peyton looked on the gallant show with an exulting
pride, which arose in the reflection that the warriors before her were
the chosen troops of her native colony; while Frances gazed with a
singleness of interest that absorbed all other considerations.

The two parties had not yet joined, before her quick eye distinguished
one horseman in particular from those around him. To her it appeared
that even the steed of this youthful soldier seemed to be conscious
that he sustained the weight of no common man: his hoofs but lightly
touched the earth, and his airy tread was the curbed motion of a
blooded charger.

The dragoon sat in the saddle, with a firmness and ease that showed him
master of himself and horse,—his figure uniting the just proportions of
strength and activity, being tall, round, and muscular. To this officer
Lawton made his report, and, side by side, they rode into the field
opposite to the cottage.

The heart of Frances beat with a pulsation nearly stifling, as he
paused for a moment, and took a survey of the building, with an eye
whose dark and sparkling glance could be seen, notwithstanding the
distance. Her color changed, and for an instant, as she saw the youth
throw himself from the saddle, she was compelled to seek relief for her
trembling limbs in a chair.

The officer gave a few hasty orders to his second in command, walked
rapidly into the lawn, and approached the cottage. Frances rose from
her seat, and vanished from the apartment. The dragoon ascended the
steps of the piazza, and had barely time to touch the outer door, when
it opened to his admission.

The youth of Frances, when she left the city, had prevented her
sacrificing, in conformity to the customs of that day, all her native
beauties on the altar of fashion. Her hair, which was of a golden
richness of color, was left, untortured, to fall in the natural
ringlets of infancy, and it shaded a face which was glowing with the
united charms of health, youth, and artlessness; her eyes spoke
volumes, but her tongue was silent; her hands were interlocked before
her, and, aided by her taper form, bending forward in an attitude of
expectation, gave a loveliness and an interest to her appearance, that
for a moment chained her lover in silence to the spot.

Frances silently led the way into a vacant parlor, opposite to the one
in which the family were assembled, and turning to the soldier frankly,
placing both her hands in his own, exclaimed,—

“Ah, Dunwoodie! how happy, on many accounts, I am to see you! I have
brought you in here, to prepare you to meet an unexpected friend in the
opposite room.”

“To whatever cause it may be owing,” cried the youth, pressing her
hands to his lips, “I, too, am happy in being able to see you alone.
Frances, the probation you have decreed is cruel; war and distance may
separate us forever.”

“We must submit to the necessity which governs us. But it is not love
speeches I would hear now; I have other and more important matter for
your attention.”

“What can be of more importance than to make you mine by a tie that
will be indissoluble! Frances, you are cold to me—me—from whose mind,
days of service and nights of alarm have never been able to banish your
image for a single moment.”

“Dear Dunwoodie,” said Frances, softening nearly to tears, and again
extending her hand to him, as the richness of her color gradually
returned, “you know my sentiments—this war once ended, and you may take
that hand forever—but I can never consent to tie myself to you by any
closer union than already exists, so long as you are arrayed in arms
against my only brother. Even now, that brother is awaiting your
decision to restore him to liberty, or to conduct him to a probable
death.”

“Your brother!” cried Dunwoodie, starting and turning pale; “your
brother! explain yourself—what dreadful meaning is concealed in your
words?”

“Has not Captain Lawton told you of the arrest of Henry by himself this
very morning?” continued Frances, in a voice barely audible, and fixing
on her lover a look of the deepest concern.

“He told me of arresting a captain of the 60th in disguise, but without
mentioning where or whom,” replied the major in a similar tone; and
dropping his head between his hands, he endeavored to conceal his
feelings from his companion.

“Dunwoodie! Dunwoodie!” exclaimed Frances, losing all her former
confidence in the most fearful apprehensions, “what means this
agitation?” As the major slowly raised his face, in which was pictured
the most expressive concern, she continued, “Surely, surely, you will
not betray your friend—my brother—your brother—to an ignominious
death.”

“Frances!” exclaimed the young man in agony, “what can I do?”

“Do!” she repeated, gazing at him wildly. “Would Major Dunwoodie yield
his friend to his enemies—the brother of his betrothed wife?”

“Oh, speak not so unkindly to me, dearest Miss Wharton—my own Frances.
I would this moment die for you—for Henry—but I cannot forget my
duty—cannot forfeit my honor; you yourself would be the first to
despise me if I did.”

“Peyton Dunwoodie!” said Frances, solemnly, and with a face of ashy
paleness, “you have told me—you have sworn, that you love me——”

“I do,” interrupted the soldier, with fervor; but motioning for silence
she continued, in a voice that trembled with her fears,—

“Do you think I can throw myself into the arms of a man whose hands are
stained with the blood of my only brother!”

“Frances, you wring my very heart!” Then pausing, to struggle with his
feelings, he endeavored to force a smile, as he added, “But, after all,
we may be torturing ourselves with unnecessary fears, and Henry, when I
know the circumstances, may be nothing more than a prisoner of war; in
which case, I can liberate him on parole.”

There is no more delusive passion than hope; and it seems to be the
happy privilege of youth to cull all the pleasures that can be gathered
from its indulgence. It is when we are most worthy of confidence
ourselves, that we are least apt to distrust others; and what we think
ought to be, we are prone to think will be.

The half-formed expectations of the young soldier were communicated to
the desponding sister, more by the eye than the voice, and the blood
rushed again to her cheek, as she cried,—

“Oh, there can be no just grounds to doubt it. I know—I knew—Dunwoodie,
you would never desert us in the hour of our greatest need!” The
violence of her feelings prevailed, and the agitated girl found relief
in a flood of tears.

The office of consoling those we love is one of the dearest
prerogatives of affection; and Major Dunwoodie, although but little
encouraged by his own momentary suggestion of relief, could not
undeceive the lovely girl, who leaned on his shoulder, as he wiped the
traces of her feeling from her face, with a trembling, but reviving
confidence in the safety of her brother, and the protection of her
lover.

Frances, having sufficiently recovered her recollection to command
herself, now eagerly led the way to the opposite room, to communicate
to her family the pleasing intelligence which she already conceived so
certain,

Dunwoodie followed her reluctantly, and with forebodings of the result;
but a few moments brought him into the presence of his relatives, and
he summoned all his resolution to meet the trial with firmness.

The salutations of the young men were cordial and frank, and, on the
part of Henry Wharton, as collected as if nothing had occurred to
disturb his self-possession.

The abhorrence of being, in any manner, auxiliary to the arrest of his
friend; the danger to the life of Captain Wharton; and the
heart-breaking declarations of Frances, had, however, created an
uneasiness in the bosom of Major Dunwoodie, which all his efforts could
not conceal. His reception by the rest of the family was kind and
sincere, both from old regard, and a remembrance of former obligations,
heightened by the anticipations they could not fail to read in the
expressive eyes of the blushing girl by his side. After exchanging
greetings with every member of the family, Major Dunwoodie beckoned to
the sentinel, whom the wary prudence of Captain Lawton had left in
charge of the prisoner, to leave the room. Turning to Captain Wharton,
he inquired mildly,—

“Tell me, Henry, the circumstances of this disguise, in which Captain
Lawton reports you to have been found, and remember—remember—Captain
Wharton—your answers are entirely voluntary.”

“The disguise was used by me, Major Dunwoodie,” replied the English
officer, gravely, “to enable me to visit my friends, without incurring
the danger of becoming a prisoner of war.”

“But you did not wear it, until you saw the troop of Lawton
approaching?”

“Oh! no,” interrupted Frances, eagerly, forgetting all the
circumstances in her anxiety for her brother. “Sarah and myself placed
them on him when the dragoons appeared; and it was our awkwardness that
has led to the discovery.”

The countenance of Dunwoodie brightened, as turning his eyes in
fondness on the speaker, he listened to her explanation.

“Probably some articles of your own,” he continued, “which were at
hand, and were used on the spur of the moment.”

“No,” said Wharton, with dignity, “the clothes were worn by me from the
city; they were procured for the purpose to which they were applied,
and I intended to use them in my return this very day.”

The appalled Frances shrank back from between her brother and lover,
where her ardent feelings had carried her, as the whole truth glanced
over her mind, and she sank into a seat, gazing wildly on the young
men.

“But the pickets—the party at the Plains?” added Dunwoodie, turning
pale.

“I passed them, too, in disguise. I made use of this pass, for which I
paid; and, as it bears the name of Washington, I presume it is forged.”

Dunwoodie caught the paper from his hand, eagerly, and stood gazing on
the signature for some time in silence, during which the soldier
gradually prevailed over the man; when he turned to the prisoner, with
a searching look, as he asked,—

“Captain Wharton, whence did you procure this paper?”

“This is a question, I conceive, Major Dunwoodie has no right to ask.”

“Your pardon, sir; my feelings may have led me into an impropriety.”

Mr. Wharton, who had been a deeply interested auditor, now so far
conquered his feelings as to say, “Surely, Major Dunwoodie, the paper
cannot be material; such artifices are used daily in war.”

“This name is no counterfeit,” said the dragoon, studying the
characters, and speaking in a low voice; “is treason yet among us
undiscovered? The confidence of Washington has been abused, for the
fictitious name is in a different hand from the pass. Captain Wharton,
my duty will not suffer me to grant you a parole; you must accompany me
to the Highlands.”

“I did not expect otherwise, Major Dunwoodie.”

Dunwoodie turned slowly towards the sisters, when the figure of Frances
once more arrested his gaze. She had risen from her seat, and stood
again with her hands clasped before him in an attitude of petition;
feeling himself unable to contend longer with his feelings, he made a
hurried excuse for a temporary absence, and left the room. Frances
followed him, and, obedient to the direction of her eye, the soldier
reentered the apartment in which had been their first interview.

“Major Dunwoodie,” said Frances, in a voice barely audible, as she
beckoned to him to be seated; her cheek, which had been of a chilling
whiteness, was flushed with a suffusion that crimsoned her whole
countenance. She struggled with herself for a moment, and continued, “I
have already acknowledged to you my esteem; even now, when you most
painfully distress me, I wish not to conceal it. Believe me, Henry is
innocent of everything but imprudence. Our country can sustain no
wrong.” Again she paused, and almost gasped for breath; her color
changed rapidly from red to white, until the blood rushed into her
face, covering her features with the brightest vermilion; and she added
hastily, in an undertone, “I have promised, Dunwoodie, when peace shall
be restored to our country, to become your wife. Give to my brother his
liberty on parole, and I will this day go with you to the altar, follow
you to the camp, and, in becoming a soldier’s bride, learn to endure a
soldier’s privations.”

Dunwoodie seized the hand which the blushing girl, in her ardor, had
extended towards him, and pressed it for a moment to his bosom; then
rising from his seat, he paced the room in excessive agitation.

“Frances, say no more, I conjure you, unless you wish to break my
heart.”

“You then reject my offered hand?” she said, rising with dignity,
though her pale cheek and quivering lip plainly showed the conflicting
passions within.

“Reject it! Have I not sought it with entreaties—with tears? Has it not
been the goal of all my earthly wishes? But to take it under such
conditions would be to dishonor both. We will hope for better things.
Henry must be acquitted; perhaps not tried. No intercession of mine
shall be wanting, you must well know; and believe me, Frances, I am not
without favor with Washington.”

“That very paper, that abuse of his confidence, to which you alluded,
will steel him to my brother’s case. If threats or entreaties could
move his stern sense of justice, would André have suffered?” As Frances
uttered these words she fled from the room in despair.

Dunwoodie remained for a minute nearly stupefied; and then he followed
with a view to vindicate himself, and to relieve her apprehensions. On
entering the hall that divided the two parlors, he was met by a small
ragged boy, who looked one moment at his dress, and placing a piece of
paper in his hands, immediately vanished through the outer door of the
building. The bewildered state of his mind, and the suddenness of the
occurrence, gave the major barely time to observe the messenger to be a
country lad, meanly attired, and that he held in his hand one of those
toys which are to be bought in cities, and which he now apparently
contemplated with the conscious pleasure of having fairly purchased, by
the performance of the service required. The soldier turned his eyes to
the subject of the note. It was written on a piece of torn and soiled
paper, and in a hand barely legible, but after some little labor, he
was able to make out as follows—

“_The rig’lars are at hand, horse and foot._”[6]


Dunwoodie started; and, forgetting everything but the duties of a
soldier, he precipitately left the house. While walking rapidly towards
the troops, he noticed on a distant hill a vidette riding with speed.
Several pistols were fired in quick succession; and the next instant
the trumpets of the corps rang in his ears with the enlivening strain
of “To arms!” By the time he had reached the ground occupied by his
squadron, the major saw that every man was in active motion. Lawton was
already in the saddle, eying the opposite extremity of the valley with
the eagerness of expectation, and crying to the musicians, in tones but
little lower than their own,—

“Sound away, my lads, and let these Englishmen know that the Virginia
horse are between them and the end of their journey.”

The videttes and patrols now came pouring in, each making in succession
his hasty report to the commanding officer, who gave his orders coolly,
and with a promptitude that made obedience certain. Once only, as he
wheeled his horse to ride over the ground in front, did Dunwoodie trust
himself with a look at the cottage, and his heart beat with unusual
rapidity as he saw a female figure standing, with clasped hands, at a
window of the room in which he had met Frances. The distance was too
great to distinguish her features, but the soldier could not doubt that
it was his mistress. The paleness of his cheek and the languor of his
eye endured but for a moment longer. As he rode towards the intended
battle ground, a flush of ardor began to show itself on his sunburnt
features; and his dragoons, who studied the face of their leader, as
the best index to their own fate, saw again the wonted flashing of the
eyes, and the cheerful animation, which they had so often witnessed on
the eve of battle. By the additions of the videttes and parties that
had been out, and which now had all joined, the whole number of the
horse was increased to nearly two hundred. There was also a small body
of men, whose ordinary duties were those of guides, but who, in cases
of emergency, were embodied and did duty as foot soldiers; these were
dismounted, and proceeded, by the order of Dunwoodie, to level the few
fences which might interfere with the intended movements of the
cavalry. The neglect of husbandry, which had been occasioned by the
war, left this task comparatively easy. Those long lines of heavy and
durable walls, which now sweep through every part of the country, forty
years ago were unknown. The slight and tottering fences of stone were
then used more to clear the land for the purposes of cultivation than
as permanent barriers, and required the constant attention of the
husbandman, to preserve them against the fury of the tempests and the
frosts of winter. Some few of them had been built with more care
immediately around the dwelling of Mr. Wharton; but those which had
intersected the vale below were now generally a pile of ruins, over
which the horses of the Virginians would bound with the fleetness of
the wind. Occasionally a short line yet preserved its erect appearance;
but as none of those crossed the ground on which Dunwoodie intended to
act, there remained only the slighter fences of rails to be thrown
down. Their duty was hastily but effectually performed; and the guides
withdrew to the post assigned to them for the approaching fight.

Major Dunwoodie had received from his scouts all the intelligence
concerning his foe, which was necessary to enable him to make his
arrangements. The bottom of the valley was an even plain, that fell
with a slight inclination from the foot of the hills on either side, to
the level of a natural meadow that wound through the country on the
banks of a small stream, by whose waters it was often inundated and
fertilized. This brook was easily forded in any part of its course; and
the only impediment it offered to the movements of the horse, was in a
place where it changed its bed from the western to the eastern side of
the valley, and where its banks were more steep and difficult of access
than common. Here the highway crossed it by a rough wooden bridge, as
it did again at the distance of half a mile above the Locusts.

The hills on the eastern side of the valley were abrupt, and frequently
obtruded themselves in rocky prominences into its bosom, lessening the
width to half the usual dimensions. One of these projections was but a
short distance in the rear of the squadron of dragoons, and Dunwoodie
directed Captain Lawton to withdraw, with two troops, behind its cover.
The officer obeyed with a kind of surly reluctance, that was, however,
somewhat lessened by the anticipations of the effect his sudden
appearance would make on the enemy. Dunwoodie knew his man, and had
selected the captain for this service, both because he feared his
precipitation in the field, and knew, when needed, his support would
never fail to appear. It was only in front of the enemy that Captain
Lawton was hasty; at all other times his discernment and
self-possession were consummately preserved; but he sometimes forgot
them in his eagerness to engage. On the left of the ground on which
Dunwoodie intended to meet his foe, was a close wood, which skirted
that side of the valley for the distance of a mile. Into this, then,
the guides retired, and took their station near its edge, in such a
manner as would enable them to maintain a scattering, but effectual
fire, on the advancing column of the enemy.

It cannot be supposed that all these preparations were made unheeded by
the inmates of the cottage; on the contrary, every feeling which can
agitate the human breast, in witnessing such a scene, was actively
alive. Mr. Wharton alone saw no hopes to himself in the termination of
the conflict. If the British should prevail, his son would be
liberated; but what would then be his own fate! He had hitherto
preserved his neutral character in the midst of trying circumstances.
The fact of his having a son in the royal, or, as it was called, the
regular army, had very nearly brought his estates to the hammer.
Nothing had obviated this result, but the powerful interest of the
relation who held a high political rank in the state, and his own
vigilant prudence. In his heart, he was a devoted loyalist; and when
the blushing Frances had communicated to him the wishes of her lover,
on their return from the American camp the preceding spring, the
consent he had given, to her future union with a rebel, was as much
extracted by the increasing necessity which existed for his obtaining
republican support, as by any considerations for the happiness of his
child. Should his son now be rescued, he would, in the public mind, be
united with him as a plotter against the freedom of the States; and
should he remain a captive and undergo the impending trial, the
consequences might be still more dreadful. Much as he loved his wealth,
Mr. Wharton loved his children better; and he sat gazing on the
movements without, with a listless vacancy in his countenance, that
fully denoted his imbecility of character. Far different were the
feelings of the son. Captain Wharton had been left in the keeping of
two dragoons, one of whom marched to and fro on the piazza with a
measured tread, and the other had been directed to continue in the same
apartment with his prisoner. The young man had witnessed all the
movements of Dunwoodie with admiration mingled with fearful
anticipations of the consequences to friends. He particularly disliked
the ambush of the detachment under Lawton, who could be distinctly seen
from the windows of the cottage, cooling his impatience, by pacing on
foot the ground in front of his men. Henry Wharton threw several hasty
and inquiring glances around, to see if no means of liberation would
offer, but invariably found the eyes of his sentinel fixed on him with
the watchfulness of an Argus. He longed, with the ardor of youth, to
join in the glorious fray, but was compelled to remain a dissatisfied
spectator of a scene in which he would so cheerfully have been an
actor. Miss Peyton and Sarah continued gazing on the preparations with
varied emotions, in which concern for the fate of the captain formed
the most prominent feeling, until the moment of shedding of blood
seemed approaching, when, with the timidity of their sex, they sought
the retirement of an inner room. Not so Frances; she returned to the
apartment where she had left Dunwoodie, and, from one of its windows,
had been a deeply interested spectator of all his movements. The
wheelings of the troops, the deadly preparations, had all been
unnoticed; she saw her lover only, and with mingled emotions of
admiration and dread that nearly chilled her. At one moment the blood
rushed to her heart, as she saw the young warrior riding through his
ranks, giving life and courage to all whom he addressed; and the next,
it curdled with the thought that the very gallantry she so much valued
might prove the means of placing the grave between her and the object
of her regard. Frances gazed until she could look no longer.

In a field on the left of the cottage, and at a short distance in the
rear of the troops, was a small group, whose occupation seemed to
differ from that of all around them. They were in number only three,
being two men and a mulatto boy. The principal personage of this party
was a man, whose leanness made his really tall stature appear
excessive. He wore spectacles—was unarmed, had dismounted, and seemed
to be dividing his attention between a cigar, a book, and the incidents
of the field before him. To this party Frances determined to send a
note, directed to Dunwoodie. She wrote hastily, with a pencil, “Come to
me, Peyton, if it be but for a moment”; and Caesar emerged from the
cellar kitchen, taking the precaution to go by the rear of the
building, to avoid the sentinel on the piazza, who had very cavalierly
ordered all the family to remain housed. The black delivered the note
to the gentleman, with a request that it might be forwarded to Major
Dunwoodie. It was the surgeon of the horse to whom Caesar addressed
himself; and the teeth of the African chattered, as he saw displayed
upon the ground the several instruments which were in preparation for
the anticipated operations. The doctor himself seemed to view the
arrangement with great satisfaction, as he deliberately raised his eyes
from his book to order the boy to convey the note to his commanding
officer, and then dropping them quietly on the page he continued his
occupation. Caesar was slowly retiring, as the third personage, who by
his dress might be an inferior assistant of the surgical department,
coolly inquired “if he would have a leg taken off?” This question
seemed to remind the black of the existence of those limbs, for he made
such use of them as to reach the piazza at the same instant that Major
Dunwoodie rode up, at half speed. The brawny sentinel squared himself,
and poised his sword with military precision as he stood on his post,
while his officer passed; but no sooner had the door closed, than,
turning to the negro, he said, sharply,—

“Harkee, blackee, if you quit the house again without my knowledge, I
shall turn barber, and shave off one of those ebony ears with this
razor.”

Thus assailed in another member, Caesar hastily retreated into his
kitchen, muttering something, in which the words “Skinner,” and “rebel
rascal,” formed a principal part of speech.

“Major Dunwoodie,” said Frances to her lover as he entered, “I may have
done you injustice; if I have appeared harsh—”

The emotions of the agitated girl prevailed, and she burst into tears.

“Frances,” cried the soldier with warmth, “you are never harsh, never
unjust, but when you doubt my love.”

“Ah! Dunwoodie,” added the sobbing girl, “you are about to risk your
life in battle; remember that there is one heart whose happiness is
built on your safety; brave I know you are: be prudent—”

“For your sake?” inquired the delighted youth.

“For my sake,” replied Frances, in a voice barely audible, and dropping
on his bosom.

Dunwoodie folded her to his heart, and was about to speak, as a trumpet
sounded in the southern end of the vale. Imprinting one long kiss of
affection on her unresisting lips, the soldier tore himself from his
mistress, and hastened to the scene of strife.

Frances threw herself on a sofa, buried her head under its cushion, and
with her shawl drawn over her face, to exclude as much of sound as
possible, continued there until the shouts of the combatants, the
rattling of the firearms, and the thundering tread of the horses had
ceased.

 [6] There died a few years since, in Bedford, Westchester, a yeoman
 named Elisha H—— This person was employed by Washington as one of his
 most confidential spies. By the conditions of their bargain, H—— was
 never to be required to deal with third parties, since his risks were
 too imminent. He was allowed to enter also into the service of Sir
 Henry Clinton, and so much confidence had Washington in his love of
 country and discretion, that he was often intrusted with the minor
 military movements, in order that he might enhance his value with the
 English general, by communicating them. In this manner H—— had
 continued to serve for a long period, when chance brought him into the
 city (then held by the British) at a moment when an expedition was
 about to quit it, to go against a small post established at Bedford,
 his native village, where the Americans had a depot of provisions. H——
 easily ascertained the force and destination of the detachment ordered
 on this service, but he was at a loss in what manner to communicate
 his information to the officer in command at Bedford, without
 betraying his own true character to a third person. There was not time
 to reach Washington, and under the circumstances, he finally resolved
 to hazard a short note to the American commandant, stating the danger,
 and naming the time when the attack might be expected. To this note he
 even ventured to affix his own initials, E H, though he had disguised
 the hand, under a belief that, as he knew himself to be suspected by
 his countrymen, it might serve to give more weight to his warning. His
 family being at Bedford, the note was transmitted with facility and
 arrived in good season, H—— himself remaining in New York. The
 American commandant did what every sensible officer, in a similar
 case, would have done. He sent a courier with the note to Washington,
 demanding orders, while he prepared his little party to make the best
 defense in his power. The headquarters of the American army were, at
 that time, in the Highlands. Fortunately, the express met Washington,
 on a tour of observation, near their entrance. The note was given to
 him, and he read it in the saddle, adding, in pencil, “Believe all
 that E H tells you. George Washington” He returned it to the courier,
 with an injunction to ride for life or death. The courier reached
 Bedford after the British had made their attack. The commandant read
 the reply, and put it in his pocket. The Americans were defeated, and
 their leader killed. The note of H——, with the line written on it by
 Washington, was found on his person. The following day H—— was
 summoned to the presence of Sir Henry Clinton. After the latter had
 put several general questions, he suddenly gave the note to the spy,
 and asked if he knew the handwriting, and demanded who the E H was “It
 is Elijah Hadden, the spy you hanged yesterday at Powles Hook.” The
 readiness of this answer, connected with the fact that a spy having
 the same initials had been executed the day before, and the coolness
 of H——, saved him. Sir Henry Clinton allowed him to quit his presence,
 and he never saw him afterwards.




CHAPTER VII.


The game’s afoot;
Follow your spirit.


—SHAKESPEARE.


The rough and unimproved face of the country, the frequency of covers,
together with the great distance from their own country, and the
facilities afforded them for rapid movements to the different points of
the war, by the undisputed command of the ocean, had united to deter
the English from employing a heavy force in cavalry, in their early
efforts to subdue the revolted colonies.

Only one regiment of regular horse was sent from the mother country,
during the struggle. But legions and independent corps were formed in
different places, as it best accorded with the views of the royal
commanders, or suited the exigency of the times. These were not
unfrequently composed of men raised in the colonies, and at other times
drafts were had from the regiments of the line, and the soldiers were
made to lay aside the musket and bayonet, and taught to wield the saber
and carbine. One particular body of the subsidiary troops was included
in this arrange ment, and the Hessian yagers were transformed into a
corps of heavy and inactive horse.

Opposed to them were the hardiest spirits of America. Most of the
cavalry regiments of the continental army were led and officered by
gentlemen from the South. The high and haughty courage of the
commanders had communicated itself to the privates, who were men
selected with care and great attention to the service they were
intended to perform.

While the British were confined to their empty conquests in the
possession of a few of the larger towns, or marched through counties
that were swept of everything like military supplies, the light troops
of their enemies had the range of the whole interior.

The sufferings of the line of the American army were great beyond
example; but possessing the power, and feeling themselves engaged in a
cause which justified severity, the cavalry officers were vigilant in
providing for their wants, and the horse were well mounted, well fed,
and consequently eminently effective. Perhaps the world could not
furnish more brave, enterprising, and resistless corps of light
cavalry, than a few that were in the continental service at the time of
which we write.

Dunwoodie’s men had often tried their prowess against the enemy, and
they now sat panting to be led once more against foes whom they seldom
charged in vain. Their wishes were soon to be gratified; for their
commander had scarcely time to regain his seat in the saddle, before a
body of the enemy came sweeping round the base of the hill, which
intersected the view to the south. A few minutes enabled the major to
distinguish their character. In one troop he saw the green coats of the
Cowboys, and in the other the leathern helmets and wooden saddles of
the yagers. Their numbers were about equal to the body under his
immediate orders.

On reaching the open space near the cottage of Harvey Birch, the enemy
halted and drew up his men in line, evidently making preparations for a
charge. At this moment a column of foot appeared in the vale, and
pressed forward to the bank of the brook we have already mentioned.

Major Dunwoodie was not less distinguished by coolness and judgment,
than, where occasion offered, by his dauntless intrepidity. He at once
saw his advantage, and determined to profit by it. The column he led
began slowly to retire from the field, when the youthful German, who
commanded the enemy’s horse, fearful of missing an easy conquest, gave
the word to charge. Few troops were more hardy than the Cowboys; they
sprang eagerly forward in the pursuit, with a confidence created by the
retiring foe and the column in their rear; the Hessians followed more
slowly, but in better order. The trumpets of the Virginians now sounded
long and lively; they were answered by a strain from the party in
ambush that went to the hearts of their enemies. The column of
Dunwoodie wheeled in perfect order, opened, and, as the word to charge
was given, the troops of Lawton emerged from their cover, with their
leader in advance, waving his saber over his head, and shouting, in a
voice that was heard above the clangor of the martial music.

The charge threatened too much for the refugee troop. They scattered in
every direction, flying from the field as fast as their horses, the
chosen beasts of Westchester, could carry them. Only a few were hurt;
but such as did meet the arms of their avenging countrymen never
survived the blow, to tell who struck it. It was upon the poor vassals
of the German tyrant that the shock fell. Disciplined to the most exact
obedience, these ill-fated men met the charge bravely, but they were
swept before the mettled horses and nervous arms of their antagonists
like chaff before the wind. Many of them were literally ridden down,
and Dunwoodie soon saw the field without an opposing foe. The proximity
of the infantry prevented pursuit, and behind its column the few
Hessians who escaped unhurt sought protection.

The more cunning refugees dispersed in small bands, taking various and
devious routes back to their old station in front of Harlem. Many was
the sufferer, in cattle, furniture, and person, that was created by
this rout; for the dispersion of a troop of Cowboys was only the
extension of an evil.

Such a scene could not be expected to be acted so near them, and the
inmates of the cottage take no interest in the result. In truth, the
feelings it excited pervaded every bosom, from the kitchen to the
parlor. Terror and horror had prevented the ladies from being
spectators, but they did not feel the less. Frances continued lying in
the posture we have mentioned, offering up fervent and incoherent
petitions for the safety of her countrymen, although in her inmost
heart she had personified her nation by the graceful image of Peyton
Dunwoodie. Her aunt and sister were less exclusive in their devotions;
but Sarah began to feel, as the horrors of war were thus brought home
to her senses, less pleasure in her anticipated triumphs.

The inmates of Mr. Wharton’s kitchen were four, namely, Caesar and his
spouse, their granddaughter, a jet-black damsel of twenty, and the boy
before alluded to. The blacks were the remnants of a race of negroes
which had been entailed on his estate from Mr. Wharton’s maternal
ancestors, who were descended from the early Dutch colonists. Time,
depravity, and death had reduced them to this small number; and the
boy, who was white, had been added by Miss Peyton to the establishment,
as an assistant, to perform the ordinary services of a footman. Caesar,
after first using the precaution to place himself under the cover of an
angle in the wall, for a screen against any roving bullet which might
be traversing the air, became an amused spectator of the skirmish. The
sentinel on the piazza was at the distance of but a few feet from him,
and he entered into the spirit of the chase with all the ardor of a
tried bloodhound. He noticed the approach of the black, and his
judicious position, with a smile of contempt, as he squared himself
towards the enemy, offering his unprotected breast to any dangers which
might come.

After considering the arrangement of Caesar, for a moment, with
ineffable disdain, the dragoon said, with great coolness,—

“You seem very careful of that beautiful person of yours, Mr.
Blueskin.”

“A bullet hurt a colored man as much as a white,” muttered the black,
surlily, casting a glance of much satisfaction at his rampart.

“Suppose I make the experiment,” returned the sentinel. As he spoke, he
deliberately drew a pistol from his belt, and leveled it at the black.
Caesar’s teeth chattered at the appearance of the dragoon, although he
believed nothing serious was intended. At this moment the column of
Dunwoodie began to retire, and the royal cavalry commenced their
charge.

“There, Mister Light-Horseman,” said Caesar eagerly, who believed the
Americans were retiring in earnest; “why you rebels don’t fight—see—see
how King George’s men make Major Dunwoodie run! Good gentleman, too,
but he don’t like to fight a rig’lar.”

“Damn your regulars,” cried the other, fiercely. “Wait a minute,
blackey, and you’ll see Captain Jack Lawton come out from behind yonder
hill, and scatter these Cowboys like wild geese who’ve lost their
leader.”

Caesar supposed the party under Lawton to have sought the shelter of
the hill from motives similar to that which had induced him to place
the wall between himself and the battle ground; but the fact soon
verified the trooper’s prophecy, and the black witnessed with
consternation the total rout of the royal horse.

The sentinel manifested his exultation at the success of his comrades
with loud shouts, which soon brought his companion, who had been left
in the more immediate charge of Henry Wharton, to the open window of
the parlor.

“See, Tom, see,” cried the delighted trooper, “how Captain Lawton makes
that Hessian’s leather cap fly; and now the major has killed the
officer’s horse—zounds, why didn’t he kill the Dutchman and save the
horse?”

A few pistols were discharged at the flying Cowboys, and a spent bullet
broke a pane of glass within a few feet of Caesar. Imitating the
posture of the great tempter of our race, the black sought the
protection of the inside of the building, and immediately ascended to
the parlor.

The lawn in front of the Locusts was hidden from the view of the road
by a close line of shrubbery, and the horses of the two dragoons had
been left, linked together, under its shelter, to await the movements
of their masters.

At this moment two Cowboys, who had been cut off from a retreat to
their own party, rode furiously through the gate, with an intention of
escaping to the open wood in the rear of the cottage.

The victorious Americans pressed the retreating Germans until they had
driven them under the protection of the fire of the infantry; and
feeling themselves, in the privacy of the lawn, relieved from any
immediate danger, the predatory warriors yielded to a temptation that
few of the corps were ever known to resist—opportunity and horseflesh.
With a hardihood and presence of mind that could only exist from long
practice in similar scenes, they made towards their intended prizes, by
an almost spontaneous movement. They were busily engaged in separating
the fastenings of the horses, when the trooper on the piazza discharged
his pistols, and rushed, sword in hand, to the rescue.

The entrance of Caesar into the parlor had induced the wary dragoon
within to turn his attention more closely on his prisoner; but this new
interruption drew him again to the window. He threw his body out of the
building, and with dreadful imprecations endeavored, by his threats and
appearance, to frighten the marauders from their prey. The moment was
enticing. Three hundred of his comrades were within a mile of the
cottage; unridden horses were running at large in every direction, and
Henry Wharton seized the unconscious sentinel by his legs, and threw
him headlong into the lawn. Caesar vanished from the room, and drew a
bolt of the outer door.

The fall of the soldier was not great, and recovering his feet, he
turned his fury for a moment on his prisoner. To scale the window in
the face of such an enemy, was, however, impossible, and on trial he
found the main entrance barred.

His comrade now called loudly upon him for aid, and forgetful of
everything else, the discomfited trooper rushed to his assistance. One
horse was instantly liberated, but the other was already fastened to
the saddle of a Cowboy, and the four retired behind the building,
cutting furiously at each other with their sabers, and making the air
resound with their imprecations. Caesar threw the outer door open, and
pointing to the remaining horse, that was quietly biting the faded
herbage of the lawn, he exclaimed,—

“Run—now—run—Massa Harry, run.”

“Yes,” cried the youth as he vaulted into the saddle, “now, indeed, my
honest fellow, is the time to run.” He beckoned hastily to his father,
who stood at the window in speechless anxiety, with his hands extended
towards his child in the attitude of benediction, and adding, “God
bless you, Caesar, salute the girls,” he dashed through the gate with
the rapidity of lightning.

The African watched him with anxiety as he gained the highway, saw him
incline to the right, and riding furiously under the brow of some
rocks, which on that side rose perpendicularly, disappear behind a
projection, which soon hid him from view.

The delighted Caesar closed the door, pushing bolt after bolt, and
turning the key until it would turn no more, soliloquizing the whole
time on the happy escape of his young master.

“How well he ride—teach him good deal myself—salute a young lady—Miss
Fanny wouldn’t let old colored man kiss a red cheek.”

When the fortune of the day was decided, and the time arrived for the
burial of the dead, two Cowboys and a Virginian were found in the rear
of the Locusts, to be included in the number.

Happily for Henry Wharton, the searching eyes of his captors were
examining, through a pocket glass, the column of infantry that still
held its position on the bank of the stream, while the remnants of the
Hessian yagers were seeking its friendly protection. His horse was of
the best blood of Virginia, and carried him with the swiftness of the
wind along the Valley; and the heart of the youth was already beating
tumultuously with pleasure at his deliverance, when a well-known voice
reached his startled ear, crying aloud,—

“Bravely done, captain! Don’t spare the whip, and turn to your left
before you cross the brook.”

Wharton turned his head in surprise, and saw, sitting on the point of a
jutting rock that commanded a bird’s-eye view of the valley, his former
guide, Harvey Birch. His pack, much diminished in size, lay at the feet
of the peddler, who waved his hat to the youth, exultingly, as the
latter flew by him. The English captain took the advice of this
mysterious being, and finding a good road, which led to the highway,
that intersected the valley, turned down its direction, and was soon
opposite to his friends. The next minute he crossed the bridge, and
stopped his charger before his old acquaintance, Colonel Wellmere.

“Captain Wharton!” exclaimed the astonished commander of the English
troops, “dressed in mohair, and mounted on a rebel dragoon horse! Are
you from the clouds in this attire, and in such a style?”

“Thank God!” cried the youth, recovering his breath, “I am safe, and
have escaped from the hands of my enemies; but five minutes since and I
was a prisoner, and threatened with the gallows.”

“The gallows, Captain Wharton! surely those traitors to the king would
never dare to commit another murder in cold blood; is it not enough
that they took the life of André? Wherefore did they threaten you with
a similar fate?”

“Under the pretense of a similar offense,” said the captain, briefly
explaining to the group of listeners the manner of his capture, the
grounds of his personal apprehensions, and the method of his escape. By
the time he had concluded his narration, the fugitive Germans were
collected in the rear of the column of infantry, and Colonel Wellmere
cried aloud,—

“From my soul I congratulate you, my brave friend; mercy is a quality
with which these traitors are unacquainted, and you are doubly
fortunate in escaping from their hands uninjured. Prepare yourself to
grant me your assistance and I will soon afford you a noble revenge.”

“I do not think there was danger of personal outrage to any man,
Colonel Wellmere, from a party that Major Dunwoodie commands,” returned
young Wharton, with a slight glow on his face. “His character is above
the imputation of such an offense; neither do I think it altogether
prudent to cross this brook into the open plain, in the face of those
Virginian horse, flushed as they must be with the success they have
just obtained.”

“Do you call the rout of those irregulars and these sluggish Hessians a
deed to boast of?” said the other with a contemptuous smile. “You speak
of the affair, Captain Wharton, as if your boasted Mr. Dunwoodie, for
major he is none, had discomfited the bodyguards of your king.”

“And I must be allowed to say, Colonel Wellmere, that if the bodyguards
of my king were in yon field, they would meet a foe that it would be
dangerous to despise. Sir, my boasted Mr. Dunwoodie is the pride of
Washington’s army as a cavalry officer,” cried Henry with warmth.

“Dunwoodie, Dunwoodie!” repeated the colonel slowly, “surely I have met
the gentleman before.”

“I have been told you once saw him for a moment, at the town residence
of my sisters,” replied Wharton, with a lurking smile.

“Ah! I do remember me of such a youth; and does the most potent
congress of these rebellious colonies intrust their soldiers to the
leading of such a warrior!”

“Ask the commander of yon Hessian horse, whether he thinks Major
Dunwoodie worthy of the confidence.”

Colonel Wellmere was far from wanting that kind of pride which makes a
man bear himself bravely in the presence of his enemies. He had served
in America a long time, without ever meeting with any but new raised
levies, or the militia of the country. These would sometimes fight, and
that fearlessly, but they as often chose to run away without pulling a
trigger. He was too apt to judge from externals, and thought it
impossible for men whose gaiters were so clean, whose tread so regular,
and who wheeled with so much accuracy, to be beaten. In addition to all
these, they were Englishmen, and their success was certain. Colonel
Wellmere had never been kept much in the field, or these notions, which
he had brought with him from home, and which had been greatly increased
by the vaporing of a garrisoned town, would have long since vanished.
He listened to the warm reply of Captain Wharton with a supercilious
smile, and then inquired,—

“You would not have us retire, sir, before these boasted horsemen,
without doing something that may deprive them of part of the glory
which you appear to think they have gained!”

“I would have you advised, Colonel Wellmere, of the danger you are
about to encounter.”

“Danger is but an unseemly word for a soldier,” continued the British
commander with a sneer.

“And one as little dreaded by the 60th, as any corps who wear the royal
livery,” cried Henry Wharton, fiercely. “Give but the word to charge,
and let our actions speak.”

“Now again I know my young friend,” cried Wellmere, soothingly; “but if
you have anything to say before we fight, that can in any manner help
us in our attack, we’ll listen. You know the force of the rebels; are
there more of them in ambush?”

“Yes,” replied the youth, chafing still under the other’s sneers, “in
the skirt of this wood on our right are a small party of foot; their
horse are all before you.”

“Where they will not continue long,” cried Wellmere, turning to the few
officers around him. “Gentlemen, we will cross the stream in column,
and deploy on the plain beyond, or else we shall not be able to entice
these valiant Yankees within the reach of our muskets. Captain Wharton,
I claim your assistance as an aid-de-camp.”

The youth shook his head in disapprobation of a movement which his good
sense taught him was rash, but prepared with alacrity to perform his
duty in the impending trial.

During this conversation, which was held at a small distance in advance
of the British column, and in full view of the Americans, Dunwoodie had
been collecting his scattered troops, securing his few prisoners, and
retiring to the ground where he had been posted at the first appearance
of his enemy. Satisfied with the success he had already obtained, and
believing the English too wary to give him an opportunity of harassing
them further, he was about to withdraw the guides; and, leaving a
strong party on the ground to watch the movements of the regulars, to
fall back a few miles, to a favorable place for taking up his quarters
for the night. Captain Lawton was reluctantly listening to the
reasoning of his commander, and had brought out his favorite glass, to
see if no opening could be found for an advantageous attack, when he
suddenly exclaimed,—

“How’s this! a bluecoat among those scarlet gentry? As I hope to live
to see old Virginia, it is my masquerading friend of the 60th, the
handsome Captain Wharton, escaped from two of my best men!”

He had not done speaking when the survivor of these heroes joined his
troop, bringing with him his own horse and those of the Cowboys; he
reported the death of his comrade, and the escape of his prisoner. As
the deceased was the immediate sentinel over the person of young
Wharton, and the other was not to be blamed for defending the horses,
which were more particularly under his care, his captain heard him with
uneasiness but without anger.

This intelligence made an entire change in the views of Major
Dunwoodie. He saw at once that his own reputation was involved in the
escape of his prisoner. The order to recall the guides was
countermanded, and he now joined his second in command, watching as
eagerly as the impetuous Lawton himself, for some opening to assail his
foe to advantage.

But two hours before, and Dunwoodie had felt the chance which made
Henry Wharton his captive, as the severest blow he had ever sustained.
Now he panted for an opportunity in which, by risking his own life, he
might recapture his friend. All other considerations were lost in the
goadings of a wounded spirit, and he might have soon emulated Lawton in
hardihood, had not Wellmere and his troops at this moment crossed the
brook into the open plain.

“There,” cried the delighted captain, as he pointed out the movement
with his finger, “there comes John Bull into the mousetrap, and with
eyes wide open.”

“Surely,” said Dunwoodie eagerly, “he will not deploy his column on
that flat. Wharton must tell him of the ambush. But if he does—”

“We will not leave him a dozen sound skins in his battalion,”
interrupted the other, springing into his saddle.

The truth was soon apparent; for the English column, after advancing
for a short distance on the level land, deployed with an accuracy that
would have done them honor on a field day in their own Hyde Park.

“Prepare to mount-mount!” cried Dunwoodie; the last word being repeated
by Lawton in a tone that rang in the ears of Caesar, who stood at the
open window of the cottage. The black recoiled in dismay, having lost
all his confidence in Captain Lawton’s timidity; for he thought he yet
saw him emerging from his cover and waving his sword on high.

As the British line advanced slowly and in exact order, the guides
opened a galling fire. It began to annoy that part of the royal troops
which was nearest to them. Wellmere listened to the advice of the
veteran, who was next to him in rank, and ordered two companies to
dislodge the American foot from their hiding place. The movement
created a slight confusion; and Dunwoodie seized the opportunity to
charge. No ground could be more favorable for the maneuvers of horse,
and the attack of the Virginians was irresistible. It was aimed chiefly
at the bank opposite to the wood, in order to clear the Americans from
the fire of their friends who were concealed; and it was completely
successful. Wellmere, who was on the left of his line, was overthrown
by the impetuous fury of his assailants. Dunwoodie was in time to save
him from the impending blow of one of his men, and raised him from the
ground, had him placed on a horse, and delivered to the custody of his
orderly. The officer who had suggested the attack upon the guides had
been intrusted with its execution, but the menace was sufficient for
these irregulars. In fact, their duty was performed, and they retired
along the skirt of the wood, with intent to regain their horses, which
had been left under a guard at the upper end of the valley.

The left of the British line was outflanked by the Americans, who
doubled in their rear, and thus made the rout in that quarter total.
But the second in command, perceiving how the battle went, promptly
wheeled his party, and threw in a heavy fire on the dragoons, as they
passed him to the charge; with this party was Henry Wharton, who had
volunteered to assist in dispersing the guides. A ball struck his
bridle arm, and compelled him to change hands. As the dragoons dashed
by them, rending the air with their shouts, and with trumpets sounding
a lively strain, the charger ridden by the youth became ungovernable—he
plunged, reared, and his rider being unable with his wounded arm, to
manage the impatient animal, Henry Wharton found himself, in less than
a minute, unwillingly riding by the side of Captain Lawton. The dragoon
comprehended at a glance the ludicrous situation of his new comrade,
but had only time to cry aloud, before they plunged into the English
line,—

“The horse knows the righteous cause better than his rider. Captain
Wharton, you are welcome to the ranks of freedom.”

No time was lost, however, by Lawton, after the charge was completed,
in securing his prisoner again; and perceiving him to be hurt, he
directed him to be conveyed to the rear.

The Virginian troopers dealt out their favors, with no gentle hands, on
that part of the royal foot who were thus left in a great measure at
their mercy. Dunwoodie, observing that the remnant of the Hessians had
again ventured on the plain, led on in pursuit, and easily overtaking
their light and half-fed horses, soon destroyed the remainder of the
detachment.

In the meanwhile, great numbers of the English, taking advantage of the
smoke and confusion in the field, were enabled to get in the rear of
the body of their countrymen, which still preserved its order in a line
parallel to the wood, but which had been obliged to hold its fire, from
the fear of injuring friends as well as foes. The fugitives were
directed to form a second line within the wood itself, and under cover
of the trees. This arrangement was not yet completed, when Captain
Lawton called to a youth, who commanded the other troop left with that
part of the force which remained on the ground, and proposed charging
the unbroken line of the British. The proposal was as promptly accepted
as it had been made, and the troops were arrayed for the purpose. The
eagerness of their leader prevented the preparations necessary to
insure success, and the horse, receiving a destructive fire as they
advanced, were thrown into additional confusion. Both Lawton and his
more juvenile comrade fell at this discharge. Fortunately for the
credit of the Virginians, Major Dunwoodie reentered the field at this
critical instant; he saw his troops in disorder; at his feet lay
weltering in blood George Singleton, a youth endeared to him by
numberless virtues, and Lawton was unhorsed and stretched on the plain.
The eye of the youthful warrior flashed fire. Riding between this
squadron and the enemy, in a voice that reached the hearts of his
dragoons, he recalled them to their duty. His presence and word acted
like magic. The clamor of voices ceased; the line was formed promptly
and with exactitude; the charge sounded; and, led on by their
commander, the Virginians swept across the plain with an impetuosity
that nothing could withstand, and the field was instantly cleared of
the enemy; those who were not destroyed sought a shelter in the woods.
Dunwoodie slowly withdrew from the fire of the English who were covered
by the trees, and commenced the painful duty of collecting his dead and
wounded.

The sergeant charged with conducting Henry Wharton to a place where he
might procure surgical aid, set about performing his duty with
alacrity, in order to return as soon as possible to the scene of
strife. They had not reached the middle of the plain, before the
captain noticed a man whose appearance and occupation forcibly arrested
his attention. His head was bald and bare, but a well-powdered wig was
to be seen, half-concealed, in the pocket of his breeches. His coat was
off, and his arms were naked to the elbow; blood had disfigured much of
his dress, and his hands, and even face, bore this mark of his
profession; in his mouth was a cigar; in his right hand some
instruments of strange formation, and in his left the remnants of an
apple, with which he occasionally relieved the duty of the
before-mentioned cigar. He was standing, lost in the contemplation of a
Hessian, who lay breathless before him. At a little distance were three
or four of the guides, leaning on their muskets, and straining their
eyes in the direction of the combatants, and at his elbow stood a man
who, from the implements in his hand, seemed an assistant.

“There, sir, is the doctor,” said the attendant of Henry very coolly.
“He will patch up your arm in the twinkling of an eye”; and beckoning
to the guides to approach, he whispered and pointed to his prisoner,
and then galloped furiously towards his comrades.

Wharton advanced to the side of this strange figure, and observing
himself to be unnoticed, was about to request his assistance, when the
other broke silence in a soliloquy:—

“Now, I know this man to have been killed by Captain Lawton, as well as
if I had seen him strike the blow. How often have I strove to teach him
the manner in which he can disable his adversary, without destroying
life! It is cruel thus unnecessarily to cut off the human race, and
furthermore, such blows as these render professional assistance
unnecessary; it is in a measure treating the lights of science with
disrespect.”

“If, sir, your leisure will admit,” said Henry Wharton, “I must beg
your attention to a slight hurt.”

“Ah!” cried the other, starting, and examining him from head to foot,
“you are from the field below. Is there much business there, sir?”

“Indeed,” answered Henry, accepting the offer of the surgeon to assist
in removing his coat, “’tis a stirring time.”

“Stirring!” repeated the surgeon, busily employed with his dressings;
“you give me great pleasure, sir; for so long as they can stir there
must be life; and while there is life, you know, there is hope; but
here my art is of no use. I did put in the brains of one patient, but I
rather think the man must have been dead before I saw him. It is a
curious case, sir; I will take you to see it—only across the fence
there, where you may perceive so many bodies together. Ah! the ball has
glanced around the bone without shattering it; you are fortunate in
falling into the hands of an old practitioner, or you might have lost
this limb.”

“Indeed!” said Henry, with a slight uneasiness. “I did not apprehend
the injury to be so serious.”

“Oh, the hurt is not bad, but you have such a pretty arm for an
operation; the pleasure of the thing might have tempted a novice.”

“The devil!” cried the captain. “Can there be any pleasure in
mutilating a fellow creature?”

“Sir,” said the surgeon, with gravity, “a scientific amputation is a
very pretty operation, and doubtless might tempt a younger man, in the
hurry of business, to overlook all the particulars of the case.”

Further conversation was interrupted by the appearance of the dragoons,
slowly marching towards their former halting place, and new
applications from the slightly wounded soldiers, who now came riding
in, making hasty demands on the skill of the doctor.

The guides took charge of Wharton, and, with a heavy heart, the young
man retraced his steps to his father’s cottage.

The English had lost in the several charges about one third of their
foot, but the remainder were rallied in the wood; and Dunwoodie,
perceiving them to be too strongly posted to assail, had left a strong
party with Captain Lawton, with orders to watch their motions, and to
seize every opportunity to harass them before they reëmbarked.

Intelligence had reached the major of another party being out, by the
way of the Hudson, and his duty required that he should hold himself in
readiness to defeat the intentions of these also. Captain Lawton
received his orders with strong injunctions to make no assault on the
foe, unless a favorable chance should offer.

The injury received by this officer was in the head, being stunned by a
glancing bullet; and parting with a laughing declaration from the
major, that if he again forgot himself, they should all think him more
materially hurt, each took his own course.

The British were a light party without baggage, that had been sent out
to destroy certain stores, understood to be collecting for the use of
the American army. They now retired through the woods to the heights,
and, keeping the route along their summits, in places unassailable by
cavalry, commenced a retreat to their boats.




CHAPTER VIII.


With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide;
And many a childing mother then,
And new-born infant, died;
But things like these, you know, must be
At every famous victory.


—SOUTHEY.


The last sounds of the combat died on the ears of the anxious listeners
in the cottage, and were succeeded by the stillness of suspense.
Frances had continued by herself, striving to exclude the uproar, and
vainly endeavoring to summon resolution to meet the dreaded result. The
ground where the charge on the foot had taken place was but a short
mile from the Locusts, and, in the intervals of the musketry, the cries
of the soldiers had even reached the ears of its inhabitants. After
witnessing the escape of his son, Mr. Wharton had joined his sister and
eldest daughter in their retreat, and the three continued fearfully
waiting for news from the field. Unable longer to remain under the
painful uncertainty of her situation, Frances soon added herself to the
uneasy group, and Caesar was directed to examine into the state of
things without, and report on whose banners victory had alighted. The
father now briefly related to his astonished children the circumstance
and manner of their brother’s escape. They were yet in the freshness of
their surprise, when the door opened, and Captain Wharton, attended by
a couple of the guides, and followed by the black, stood before them.

“Henry—my son, my son,” cried the agitated parent, stretching out his
arms, yet unable to rise from his seat; “what is it I see; are you
again a captive, and in danger of your life?”

“The better fortune of these rebels has prevailed,” said the youth,
endeavoring to force a cheerful smile, and taking a hand of each of his
distressed sisters. “I strove nobly for my liberty; but the perverse
spirit of rebellion has even lighted on their horses. The steed I
mounted carried me, greatly against my will, I acknowledge, into the
very center of Dunwoodie’s men.”

“And you were again captured,” continued the father, casting a fearful
glance on the armed attendants who had entered the room.

“That, sir, you may safely say; this Mr. Lawton, who sees so far, had
me in custody again immediately.”

“Why you no hold ’em in, Massa Henry?” cried Caesar, pettishly.

“That,” said Wharton, smiling, “was a thing easier said than done, Mr.
Caesar, especially as these gentlemen” (glancing his eyes at the
guides) “had seen proper to deprive me of the use of my better arm.”

“Wounded!” exclaimed both sisters in a breath.

“A mere scratch, but disabling me at a most critical moment,” continued
the brother, kindly, and stretching out the injured limb to manifest
the truth of his declaration. Caesar threw a look of bitter animosity
on the irregular warriors who were thought to have had an agency in the
deed, and left the room. A few more words sufficed to explain all that
Captain Wharton knew relative to the fortune of the day. The result he
thought yet doubtful, for when he left the ground, the Virginians were
retiring from the field of battle.

“They had treed the squirrel,” said one of the sentinels abruptly, “and
didn’t quit the ground without leaving a good hound for the chase when
he comes down.”

“Aye,” added his comrade dryly, “I’m thinking Captain Lawton will count
the noses of what are left before they see their whaleboats.”

Frances had stood supporting herself, by the back of a chair, during
this dialogue, catching, in breathless anxiety, every syllable as it
was uttered; her color changed rapidly; her limbs shook under her;
until, with desperate resolution, she inquired,—

“Is any officer hurt on—the—on either side?”

“Yes,” answered the man, cavalierly, “these Southern youths are so full
of mettle, that it’s seldom we fight but one or two gets knocked over;
one of the wounded, who came up before the troops, told me that Captain
Singleton was killed, and Major Dunwoodie—”

Frances heard no more, but fell lifeless in the chair behind her. The
attention of her friends soon revived her when the captain, turning to
the man, said fearfully,—

“Surely Major Dunwoodie is unhurt?”

“Never fear him,” added the guide, disregarding the agitation of the
family. “They say a man who is born to be hanged will never be drowned;
if a bullet could kill the major, he would have been dead long ago. I
was going to say, that the major is in a sad taking because of the
captain’s being killed; but had I known how much store the lady set by
him, I wouldn’t have been so plain-spoken.”

Frances now rose quickly from her seat, with cheeks glowing with
confusion, and, leaning on her aunt, was about to retire, when
Dunwoodie himself appeared. The first emotion of the agitated girl was
unalloyed happiness; in the next instant she shrank back appalled from
the unusual expression that reigned in his countenance. The sternness
of battle yet sat on his brow; his eye was fixed and severe. The smile
of affection that used to lighten his dark features on meeting his
mistress, was supplanted by the lowering look of care; his whole soul
seemed to be absorbed in one engrossing emotion, and he proceeded at
once to his object.

“Mr. Wharton,” he earnestly began, “in times like these, we need not
stand on idle ceremony: one of my officers, I am afraid, is hurt
mortally; and, presuming on your hospitality, I have brought him to
your door.”

“I am happy, sir, that you have done so,” said Mr. Wharton, at once
perceiving the importance of conciliating the American troops. “The
necessitous are always welcome, and doubly so, in being the friend of
Major Dunwoodie.”

“Sir, I thank you for myself, and in behalf of him who is unable to
render you his thanks,” returned the other, hastily. “If you please, we
will have him conducted where the surgeon may see and report upon his
case without delay.” To this there could be no objection; and Frances
felt a chill at her heart, as her lover withdrew, without casting a
solitary look on herself.

There is a devotedness in female love that admits of no rivalry. All
the tenderness of the heart, all the powers of the imagination, are
enlisted in behalf of the tyrant passion; and where all is given, much
is looked for in return. Frances had spent hours of anguish, of
torture, on account of Dunwoodie, and he now met her without a smile,
and left her without a greeting. The ardor of her feelings was
unabated, but the elasticity of her hopes was weakened. As the
supporters of the nearly lifeless body of Dunwoodie’s friend passed
her, in their way to the apartment prepared for his reception, she
caught a view of this seeming rival.

His pale and ghastly countenance, sunken eye, and difficult breathing,
gave her a glimpse of death in its most fearful form. Dunwoodie was by
his side and held his hand, giving frequent and stern injunctions to
the men to proceed with care, and, in short, manifesting all the
solicitude that the most tender friendship could, on such an occasion,
inspire. Frances moved lightly before them, and, with an averted face,
she held open the door for their passage to the bed; it was only as the
major touched her garments, on entering the room, that she ventured to
raise her mild blue eyes to his face. But the glance was unreturned,
and Frances unconsciously sighed as she sought the solitude of her own
apartment.

Captain Wharton voluntarily gave a pledge to his keepers not to attempt
again escaping, and then proceeded to execute those duties on behalf of
his father, which were thought necessary in a host. On entering the
passage for that purpose, he met the operator who had so dexterously
dressed his arm, advancing to the room of the wounded officer.

“Ah!” cried the disciple of Aesculapius, “I see you are doing well; but
stop; have you a pin? No! here, I have one; you must keep the cold air
from your hurt, or some of the youngsters will be at work at you yet.”

“God forbid,” muttered the captain, in an undertone, attentively
adjusting the bandages, when Dunwoodie appeared at the door,
impatiently crying aloud,—

“Hasten, Sitgreaves, hasten; or George Singleton will die from loss of
blood.”

“What! Singleton! God forbid! Bless me—is it George—poor little
George?” exclaimed the surgeon, as he quickened his pace with evident
concern, and hastened to the side of the bed. “He is alive, though, and
while there is life there is hope. This is the first serious case I
have had to-day, where the patient was not already dead. Captain Lawton
teaches his men to strike with so little discretion—poor George—bless
me, it is a musket bullet.”

The youthful sufferer turned his eyes on the man of science, and with a
faint smile endeavored to stretch forth his hand. There was an appeal
in the look and action that touched the heart of the operator. The
surgeon removed his spectacles to wipe an unusual moisture from his
eyes, and proceeded carefully to the discharge of his duty. While the
previous arrangements were, however, making, he gave vent in some
measure to his feelings, by saying,—

“When it is only a bullet, I have always some hopes; there is a chance
that it hits nothing vital. But, bless me, Captain Lawton’s men cut so
at random—generally sever the jugular or the carotid artery, or let out
the brains, and all are so difficult to remedy—the patient mostly dying
before one can get at him. I never had success but once in replacing a
man’s brains, although I have tried three this very day. It is easy to
tell where Lawton’s troops charge in a battle, they cut so at random.”

The group around the bed of Captain Singleton were too much accustomed
to the manner of their surgeon to regard or to reply to his soliloquy;
but they quietly awaited the moment when he was to commence his
examination. This now took place, and Dunwoodie stood looking the
operator in the face, with an expression that seemed to read his soul.
The patient shrank from the application of the probe, and a smile stole
over the features of the surgeon, as he muttered,—

“There has been nothing before it in that quarter.” He now applied
himself in earnest to his work, took off his spectacles, and threw
aside his wig. All this time Dunwoodie stood in feverish silence,
holding one of the hands of the sufferer in both his own, watching the
countenance of Doctor Sitgreaves. At length Singleton gave a slight
groan, and the surgeon rose with alacrity, and said aloud,—

“Ah! there is some pleasure in following a bullet; it may be said to
meander through the human body, injuring nothing vital; but as for
Captain Lawton’s men—”

“Speak,” interrupted Dunwoodie; “is there hope?—can you find the ball?”

“It’s no difficult matter to find that which one has in his hand, Major
Dunwoodie,” replied the surgeon, coolly, preparing his dressings. “It
took what that literal fellow, Captain Lawton, calls a circumbendibus,
a route never taken by the swords of his men, notwithstanding the
multiplied pains I have been at to teach him how to cut scientifically.
Now, I saw a horse this day with his head half severed from his body.”

“That,” said Dunwoodie, as the blood rushed to his cheeks again, and
his dark eyes sparkled with the rays of hope, “was some of my
handiwork; I killed that horse myself.”

“You!” exclaimed the surgeon, dropping his dressings in surprise, “you!
But you knew it was a horse!”

“I had such suspicions, I own,” said the major, smiling, and holding a
beverage to the lips of his friend.

“Such blows alighting on the human frame are fatal,” continued the
doctor, pursuing his business. “They set at naught the benefits which
flow from the lights of science; they are useless in a battle, for
disabling your foe is all that is required. I have sat, Major
Dunwoodie, many a cold hour, while Captain Lawton has been engaged, and
after all my expectation, not a single case worth recording has
occurred—all scratches or death wounds. Ah! the saber is a sad weapon
in unskillful hands! Yes, Major Dunwoodie, many are the hours I have
thrown away in endeavoring to impress this truth on Captain John
Lawton.”

The impatient major pointed silently to his friend, and the surgeon
quickened his movements.

“Ah! poor George, it is a narrow chance; but”—he was interrupted by a
messenger requiring the presence of the commanding officer in the
field. Dunwoodie pressed the hand of his friend, and beckoned the
doctor to follow him, as he withdrew.

“What think you?” he whispered, on reaching the passage. “Will he
live?”

“He will.”

“Thank God!” cried the youth, hastening below.

Dunwoodie for a moment joined the family, who were now collecting in
the ordinary parlor. His face was no longer wanting in smiles, and his
salutations, though hasty, were cordial. He took no notice of the
escape and capture of Henry Wharton, but seemed to think the young man
had continued where he had left him before the encounter. On the ground
they had not met. The English officer withdrew in haughty silence to a
window, leaving the major uninterrupted to make his communications.

The excitement produced by the events of the day in the youthful
feelings of the sisters, had been succeeded by a languor that kept them
both silent, and Dunwoodie held his discourse with Miss Peyton.

“Is there any hope, my cousin, that your friend can survive his wound?”
said the lady, advancing towards her kinsman, with a smile of
benevolent regard.

“Everything, my dear madam, everything,” answered the soldier
cheerfully. “Sitgreaves says he will live, and he has never deceived
me.”

“Your pleasure is not much greater than my own at this intelligence.
One so dear to Major Dunwoodie cannot fail to excite an interest in the
bosom of his friends.”

“Say one so deservedly dear, madam,” returned the major, with warmth.
“He is the beneficent spirit of the corps, equally beloved by us all;
so mild, so equal, so just, so generous, with the meekness of a lamb
and the fondness of a dove—it is only in the hour of battle that
Singleton is a lion.”

“You speak of him as if he were your mistress, Major Dunwoodie,”
observed the smiling spinster, glancing her eye at her niece, who sat
pale and listening, in a corner of the room.

“I love him as one,” cried the excited youth. “But he requires care and
nursing; all now depends on the attention he receives.”

“Trust me, sir, he will want for nothing under this roof.”

“Pardon me, dear madam; you are all that is benevolent, but Singleton
requires a care which many men would feel to be irksome. It is at
moments like these, and in sufferings like this, that the soldier most
finds the want of female tenderness.” As he spoke, he turned his eyes
on Frances with an expression that again thrilled to the heart of his
mistress; she rose from her seat with burning cheeks, and said,—

“All the attention that can with propriety be given to a stranger, will
be cheerfully bestowed on your friend.”

“Ah!” cried the major, shaking his head, “that cold word propriety will
kill him; he must be fostered, cherished, soothed.”

“These are offices for a sister or a wife.”

“A sister!” repeated the soldier, the blood rushing to his own face
tumultuously; “a sister! He has a sister; and one that might be here
with to-morrow’s sun.” He paused, mused in silence, glanced his eyes
uneasily at Frances, and muttered in an undertone, “Singleton requires
it, and it must be done.”

The ladies had watched his varying countenance in some surprise, and
Miss Peyton now observed that,—

“If there were a sister of Captain Singleton near them, her presence
would be gladly requested both by herself and nieces.”

“It must be, madam; it cannot well be otherwise,” replied Dunwoodie,
with a hesitation that but ill agreed with his former declarations.
“She shall be sent for express this very night.” And then, as if
willing to change the subject, he approached Captain Wharton, and
continued, mildly,—

“Henry Wharton, to me honor is dearer than life; but in your hands I
know it can safely be confided. Remain here unwatched until we leave
the county, which will not be for some days.”

The distance in the manner of the English officer vanished, and taking
the offered hand of the other, he replied with warmth, “Your generous
confidence, Peyton, will not be abused, even though the gibbet on which
your Washington hung André be ready for my own execution.”

“Henry, Henry Wharton,” said Dunwoodie reproachfully, “you little know
the man who leads our armies, or you would have spared him that
reproach; but duty calls me without. I leave you where I could wish to
stay myself, and where you cannot be wholly unhappy.”

In passing Frances, she received another of those smiling looks of
affection she so much prized, and for a season the impression made by
his appearance after the battle was forgotten.

Among the veterans that had been impelled by the times to abandon the
quiet of age for the service of their country, was Colonel Singleton.
He was a native of Georgia, and had been for the earlier years of his
life a soldier by profession. When the struggle for liberty commenced,
he offered his services to his country, and from respect to his
character they had been accepted. His years and health had, however,
prevented his discharging the active duties of the field, and he had
been kept in command of different posts of trust, where his country
might receive the benefits of his vigilance and fidelity without
inconvenience to himself. For the last year he had been intrusted with
the passes into the Highlands, and was now quartered, with his
daughter, but a short day’s march above the valley where Dunwoodie had
met the enemy. His only other child was the wounded officer we have
mentioned. Thither, then, the major prepared to dispatch a messenger
with the unhappy news of the captain’s situation, and charged with such
an invitation from the ladies as he did not doubt would speedily bring
the sister to the couch of her brother.

This duty performed, though with an unwillingness that only could make
his former anxiety more perplexing, Dunwoodie proceeded to the field
where his troops had halted. The remnant of the English were already to
be seen, over the tops of the trees, marching along the heights towards
their boats, in compact order and with great watchfulness. The
detachment of the dragoons under Lawton were a short distance on their
flank, eagerly awaiting a favorable moment to strike a blow. In this
manner both parties were soon lost to view.

A short distance above the Locusts was a small hamlet where several
roads intersected each other, and from which, consequently, access to
the surrounding country was easy. It was a favorite halting place of
the horse, and frequently held by the light parties of the American
army during their excursions below. Dunwoodie had been the first to
discover its advantages, and as it was necessary for him to remain in
the county until further orders from above, it cannot be supposed he
overlooked them now. To this place the troops were directed to retire,
carrying with them their wounded; parties were already employed in the
sad duty of interring the dead. In making these arrangements, a new
object of embarrassment presented itself to our young soldier. In
moving through the field, he was struck with the appearance of Colonel
Wellmere, seated by himself, brooding over his misfortunes,
uninterrupted by anything but the passing civilities of the American
officers. His anxiety on behalf of Singleton had hitherto banished the
recollection of his captive from the mind of Dunwoodie, and he now
approached him with apologies for his neglect. The Englishman received
his courtesies with coolness, and complained of being injured by what
he affected to think was the accidental stumbling of his horse.
Dunwoodie, who had seen one of his own men ride him down, and that with
very little ceremony, slightly smiled, as he offered him surgical
assistance. This could only be procured at the cottage, and thither
they both proceeded.

“Colonel Wellmere!” cried young Wharton in astonishment as they
entered, “has the fortune of war been thus cruel to you also? But you
are welcome to the house of my father, although I could wish the
introduction to have taken place under more happy circumstances.”

Mr. Wharton received this new guest with the guarded caution that
distinguished his manner, and Dunwoodie left the room to seek the
bedside of his friend. Everything here looked propitious, and he
acquainted the surgeon that another patient waited his skill in the
room below. The sound of the word was enough to set the doctor in
motion, and seizing his implements of office, he went in quest of this
new applicant. At the door of the parlor he was met by the ladies, who
were retiring. Miss Peyton detained him for a moment, to inquire into
the welfare of Captain Singleton. Frances smiled with something of
natural archness of manner, as she contemplated the grotesque
appearance of the bald-headed practitioner; but Sarah was too much
agitated, with the surprise of the unexpected interview with the
British colonel, to observe him. It has already been intimated that
Colonel Wellmere was an old acquaintance of the family. Sarah had been
so long absent from the city, that she had in some measure been
banished from the remembrance of the gentleman; but the recollections
of Sarah were more vivid. There is a period in the life of every woman
when she may be said to be predisposed to love; it is at the happy age
when infancy is lost in opening maturity—when the guileless heart beats
with those anticipations of life which the truth can never realize—and
when the imagination forms images of perfection that are copied after
its own unsullied visions. At this happy age Sarah left the city, and
she had brought with her a picture of futurity, faintly impressed, it
is true, but which gained durability from her solitude, and in which
Wellmere had been placed in the foreground. The surprise of the meeting
had in some measure overpowered her, and after receiving the
salutations of the colonel, she had risen, in compliance with a signal
from her observant aunt, to withdraw.

“Then, sir,” observed Miss Peyton, after listening to the surgeon’s
account of his young patient, “we may be flattered with the expectation
that he will recover.”

“’Tis certain, madam,” returned the doctor, endeavoring, out of respect
to the ladies, to replace his wig; “’tis certain, with care and good
nursing.”

“In those he shall not be wanting,” said the spinster, mildly.
“Everything we have he can command, and Major Dunwoodie has dispatched
an express for his sister.”

“His sister!” echoed the practitioner, with a meaning look. “If the
major has sent for her, she will come.”

“Her brother’s danger would induce her, one would imagine.”

“No doubt, madam,” continued the doctor, laconically, bowing low, and
giving room to the ladies to pass. The words and the manner were not
lost on the younger sister, in whose presence the name of Dunwoodie was
never mentioned unheeded.

“Sir,” cried Dr. Sitgreaves, on entering the parlor, addressing himself
to the only coat of scarlet in the room, “I am advised you are in want
of my aid. God send ’tis not Captain Lawton with whom you came in
contact, in which case I may be too late.”

“There must be some mistake, sir,” said Wellmere, haughtily. “It was a
surgeon that Major Dunwoodie was to send me, and not an old woman.”

“’Tis Dr. Sitgreaves,” said Henry Wharton, quickly, though with
difficulty suppressing a laugh. “The multitude of his engagements,
to-day, has prevented his usual attention to his attire.”

“Your pardon, sir,” added Wellmere, very ungraciously proceeding to lay
aside his coat, and exhibit what he called a wounded arm.

“If, sir,” said the surgeon dryly, “the degrees of Edinburgh—walking
your London hospitals—amputating some hundreds of limbs—operating on
the human frame in every shape that is warranted by the lights of
science, a clear conscience, and the commission of the Continental
Congress, can make a surgeon, I am one.”

“Your pardon, sir,” repeated the colonel stiffly. “Captain Wharton has
accounted for my error.”

“For which I thank Captain Wharton,” said the surgeon, proceeding
coolly to arrange his amputating instruments, with a formality that
made the colonel’s blood run cold. “Where are you hurt, sir? What! is
it then this scratch in your shoulder? In what manner might you have
received this wound, sir?”

“From the sword of a rebel dragoon,” said the colonel, with emphasis.

“Never. Even the gentle George Singleton would not have breathed on you
so harmlessly.” He took a piece of sticking plaster from his pocket,
and applied it to the part. “There, sir; that will answer your purpose,
and I am certain it is all that is required of me.”

“What do you take to be my purpose, then, sir?”

“To report yourself wounded in your dispatches,” replied the doctor,
with great steadiness; “and you may say that an old woman dressed your
hurts—for if one did not, one easily might!”

“Very extraordinary language,” muttered the Englishman.

Here Captain Wharton interfered; and, by explaining the mistake of
Colonel Wellmere to proceed from his irritated mind and pain of body,
he in part succeeded in mollifying the insulted practitioner, who
consented to look further into the hurts of the other. They were
chiefly bruises from his fall, to which Sitgreaves made some hasty
applications, and withdrew.

The horse, having taken their required refreshment, prepared to fall
back to their intended position, and it became incumbent on Dunwoodie
to arrange the disposal of his prisoners. Sitgreaves he determined to
leave in the cottage of Mr. Wharton, in attendance on Captain
Singleton. Henry came to him with a request that Colonel Wellmere might
also be left behind, under his parole, until the troops marched higher
into the country. To this the major cheerfully assented; and as all the
rest of the prisoners were of the vulgar herd, they were speedily
collected, and, under the care of a strong guard, ordered to the
interior. The dragoons soon after marched; and the guides, separating
in small parties, accompanied by patrols from the horse, spread
themselves across the country, in such a manner as to make a chain of
sentinels from the waters of the Sound to those of the Hudson.[7]

Dunwoodie had lingered in front of the cottage, after he paid his
parting compliments, with an unwillingness to return, that he thought
proceeded from his solicitude for his wounded friends. The heart which
has not become callous, soon sickens with the glory that has been
purchased with a waste of human life. Peyton Dunwoodie, left to
himself, and no longer excited by the visions which youthful ardor had
kept before him throughout the day, began to feel there were other ties
than those which bound the soldier within the rigid rules of honor. He
did not waver in his duty, yet he felt how strong was the temptation.
His blood had ceased to flow with the impulse created by the battle.
The stern expression of his eye gradually gave place to a look of
softness; and his reflections on the victory brought with them no
satisfaction that compensated for the sacrifices by which it had been
purchased. While turning his last lingering gaze on the Locusts, he
remembered only that it contained all that he most valued. The friend
of his youth was a prisoner, under circumstances that endangered both
life and honor. The gentle companion of his toils, who could throw
around the rude enjoyments of a soldier the graceful mildness of peace,
lay a bleeding victim to his success. The image of the maid who had
held, during the day, a disputed sovereignty in his bosom, again rose
to his view with a loveliness that banished her rival, glory, from his
mind.

The last lagging trooper of the corps had already disappeared behind
the northern hill, and the major unwillingly turned his horse in the
same direction. Frances, impelled by a restless inquietude, now timidly
ventured on the piazza of the cottage. The day had been mild and clear,
and the sun was shining brightly in a cloudless sky. The tumult, which
so lately disturbed the valley, was succeeded by the stillness of
death, and the fair scene before her looked as if it had never been
marred by the passions of men. One solitary cloud, the collected smoke
of the contest, hung over the field; and this was gradually dispersing,
leaving no vestige of the conflict above the peaceful graves of its
victims. All the conflicting feelings, all the tumultuous circumstances
of the eventful day, appeared like the deceptions of a troubled vision.
Frances turned, and caught a glimpse of the retreating figure of him
who had been so conspicuous an actor in the scene, and the illusion
vanished. She recognized her lover, and, with the truth, came other
recollections that drove her to the room, with a heart as sad as that
which Dunwoodie himself bore from the valley.

 [7] The scene of this tale is between these two waters, which are but
 a few miles from each other.




CHAPTER IX.


A moment gazed adown the dale,
A moment snuffed the tainted gale,
A moment listened to the cry,
That thickened as the chase drew nigh;
Then, as the headmost foe appeared,
With one brave bound the copse he cleared,
And, stretching forward free and far,
Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.


—_Lady of the Lake._


The party under Captain Lawton had watched the retiring foe to his
boats with the most unremitting vigilance, without finding any fit
opening for a charge. The experienced successor of Colonel Wellmere
knew too well the power of his enemy to leave the uneven surface of the
heights, until compelled to descend to the level of the water. Before
he attempted this hazardous movement, he threw his men into a compact
square, with its outer edges bristling with bayonets. In this position,
the impatient trooper well understood that brave men could never be
assailed by cavalry with success, and he was reluctantly obliged to
hover near them, without seeing any opportunity of stopping their slow
but steady march to the beach. A small schooner, which had been their
convoy from the city, lay with her guns bearing on the place of
embarkation. Against this combination of force and discipline, Lawton
had sufficient prudence to see it would be folly to contend, and the
English were suffered to embark without molestation. The dragoons
lingered on the shore till the last moment, and then they reluctantly
commenced their own retreat back to the main body of the corps.

The gathering mists of the evening had begun to darken the valley, as
the detachment of Lawton made its reappearance, at its southern
extremity. The march of the troops was slow, and their line extended
for the benefit of ease. In the front rode the captain, side by side
with his senior subaltern, apparently engaged in close conference,
while the rear was brought up by a young cornet, humming an air, and
thinking of the sweets of a straw bed after the fatigues of a hard
day’s duty.

“Then it struck you too?” said the captain. “The instant I placed my
eyes on her I remembered the face; it is one not easily forgotten. By
my faith, Tom, the girl does no discredit to the major’s taste.”

“She would do honor to the corps,” replied the lieutenant, with some
warmth. “Those blue eyes might easily win a man to gentler employments
than this trade of ours. In sober truth, I can easily imagine such a
girl might tempt even me to quit the broadsword and saddle, for a
darning-needle and pillion.”

“Mutiny, sir, mutiny,” cried the other, laughing. “What, you, Tom
Mason, dare to rival the gay, admired, and withal rich, Major Dunwoodie
in his love! You, a lieutenant of cavalry, with but one horse, and he
none of the best! whose captain is as tough as a pepperidge log, and
has as many lives as a cat!”

“Faith,” said the subaltern, smiling in his turn, “the log may yet be
split, and grimalkin lose his lives, if you often charge as madly as
you did this morning. What think you of many raps from such a beetle as
laid you on your back to-day?”

“Ah! don’t mention it, my good Tom; the thought makes my head ache,”
replied the other, shrugging up his shoulders. “It is what I call
forestalling night.”

“The night of death?”

“No, sir, the night that follows day. I saw myriads of stars, things
which should hide their faces in the presence of the lordly sun. I do
think nothing but this thick cap saved me for your comfort a little
longer, maugre the cat’s lives.”

“I have much reason to be obliged to the cap,” said Mason dryly. “That
or the skull must have had a reasonable portion of thickness, I admit.”

“Come, come, Tom, you are a licensed joker, so I’ll not feign anger
with you,” returned the captain, good-humoredly. “But Singleton’s
lieutenant, I am fearful, will fare better than yourself for this day’s
service.”

“I believe both of us will be spared the pain of receiving promotion
purchased by the death of a comrade and friend,” observed Mason kindly.
“It was reported that Sitgreaves said he would live.”

“From my soul I hope so,” exclaimed Lawton. “For a beardless face, that
boy carries the stoutest heart I have ever met with. It surprises me,
however, that as we both fell at the same instant, the men behaved so
well.”

“For the compliment, I might thank you,” cried the lieutenant with a
laugh; “but modesty forbids. I did my best to stop them, but without
success.”

“Stop them!” roared the captain. “Would you stop men in the middle of a
charge?”

“I thought they were going the wrong way,” answered the subaltern.

“Ah! our fall drove them to the right about?”

“It was either your fall, or apprehensions of their own; until the
major rallied us, we were in admirable disorder.”

“Dunwoodie! the major was on the crupper of the Dutchman.”

“Ah! but he managed to get off the crupper of the Dutchman. He came in,
at half speed, with the other two troops, and riding between us and the
enemy, with that imperative way he has when roused, brought us in line
in the twinkling of an eye. Then it was,” added the lieutenant, with
animation, “that we sent John Bull to the bushes. Oh! it was a sweet
charge—heads and tails, until we were upon them.”

“The devil! What a sight I missed!”

“You slept through it all.”

“Yes,” returned the other, with a sigh; “it was all lost to me and poor
George Singleton. But, Tom, what will George’s sister say to this
fair-haired maiden, in yonder white building?”

“Hang herself in her garters,” said the subaltern. “I owe a proper
respect to my superiors, but two such angels are more than justly falls
to the share of one man, unless he be a Turk or a Hindoo.”

“Yes, yes,” said the captain, quickly, “the major is ever preaching
morality to the youngsters, but he is a sly fellow in the main. Do you
observe how fond he is of the cross roads above this valley? Now, if I
were to halt the troops twice in the same place, you would all swear
there was a petticoat in the wind.”

“You are well known to the corps.”

“Well, Tom, a slanderous propensity is incurable—but,” stretching
forward his body in the direction he was gazing, as if to aid him in
distinguishing objects through the darkness, “what animal is moving
through the field on our right?”

“’Tis a man,” said Mason, looking intently at the suspicious object.

“By his hump ’tis a dromedary!” added the captain, eying it keenly.
Wheeling his horse suddenly from the highway he exclaimed, “Harvey
Birch!—take him, dead or alive!”

Mason and a few of the leading dragoons only understood the sudden cry,
but it was heard throughout the line. A dozen of the men, with the
lieutenant at their head, followed the impetuous Lawton, and their
speed threatened the pursued with a sudden termination of the race.

Birch prudently kept his position on the rock, where he had been seen
by the passing glance of Henry Wharton, until evening had begun to
shroud the surrounding objects in darkness. From this height he had
seen all the events of the day, as they occurred. He had watched with a
beating heart the departure of the troops under Dunwoodie, and with
difficulty had curbed his impatience until the obscurity of night
should render his moving free from danger. He had not, however,
completed a fourth of his way to his own residence, when his quick ear
distinguished the tread of the approaching horse. Trusting to the
increasing darkness, he determined to persevere. By crouching and
moving quickly along the surface of the ground, he hoped yet to escape
unseen. Captain Lawton was too much engrossed with the foregoing
conversation to suffer his eyes to indulge in their usual wandering;
and the peddler, perceiving by the voices that the enemy he most feared
had passed, yielded to his impatience, and stood erect, in order to
make greater progress. The moment his body arose above the shadow of
the ground, it was seen, and the chase commenced. For a single instant,
Birch was helpless, his blood curdling in his veins at the imminence of
the danger, and his legs refusing their natural and necessary office.
But it was only for a moment. Casting his pack where he stood, and
instinctively tightening the belt he wore, the peddler betook himself
to flight. He knew that by bringing himself in a line with his pursuers
and the wood, his form would be lost to sight. This he soon effected,
and he was straining every nerve to gain the wood itself, when several
horsemen rode by him but a short distance on his left, and cut him off
from this place of refuge. The peddler threw himself on the ground as
they came near him, and was passed unseen. But delay now became too
dangerous for him to remain in that position. He accordingly rose, and
still keeping in the shadow of the wood, along the skirts of which he
heard voices crying to each other to be watchful, he ran with
incredible speed in a parallel line, but in an opposite direction, to
the march of the dragoons.

The confusion of the chase had been heard by the whole of the men,
though none distinctly understood the order of Lawton but those who
followed. The remainder were lost in doubt as to the duty that was
required of them; and the aforesaid cornet was making eager inquiries
of the trooper near him on the subject, when a man, at a short distance
in his rear, crossed the road at a single bound. At the same instant,
the stentorian voice of Lawton rang through the valley, shouting,—

“Harvey Birch—take him, dead or alive!”

Fifty pistols lighted the scene, and the bullets whistled in every
direction round the head of the devoted peddler. A feeling of despair
seized his heart, and in the bitterness of that moment he exclaimed,—

“Hunted like a beast of the forest!”

He felt life and its accompaniments to be a burden, and was about to
yield himself to his enemies. Nature, however, prevailed. If taken,
there was great reason to apprehend that he would not be honored with
the forms of a trial, but that most probably the morning sun would
witness his ignominious execution; for he had already been condemned to
death, and had only escaped that fate by stratagem. These
considerations, with the approaching footsteps of his pursuers, roused
him to new exertions. He again fled before them. A fragment of a wall,
that had withstood the ravages made by war in the adjoining fences of
wood, fortunately crossed his path. He hardly had time to throw his
exhausted limbs over this barrier, before twenty of his enemies reached
its opposite side. Their horses refused to take the leap in the dark,
and amid the confusion of the rearing chargers, and the execrations of
their riders, Birch was enabled to gain a sight of the base of the
hill, on whose summit was a place of perfect security. The heart of the
peddler now beat high with hope, when the voice of Captain Lawton again
rang in his ears, shouting to his men to make room. The order was
obeyed, and the fearless trooper rode at the wall at the top of his
horse’s speed, plunged the rowels in his charger, and flew over the
obstacle in safety. The triumphant hurrahs of the men, and the
thundering tread of the horse, too plainly assured the peddler of the
emergency of his danger. He was nearly exhausted, and his fate no
longer seemed doubtful.

“Stop, or die!” was uttered above his head, and in fearful proximity to
his ears.

Harvey stole a glance over his shoulder, and saw, within a bound of
him, the man he most dreaded. By the light of the stars he beheld the
uplifted arm and the threatening saber. Fear, exhaustion, and despair
seized his heart, and the intended victim fell at the feet of the
dragoon. The horse of Lawton struck the prostrate peddler, and both
steed and rider came violently to the earth.

As quick as thought, Birch was on his feet again, with the sword of the
discomfited dragoon in his hand. Vengeance seems but too natural to
human passions. There are few who have not felt the seductive pleasure
of making our injuries recoil on their authors; and yet there are some
who know how much sweeter it is to return good for evil.

All the wrongs of the peddler shone on his brain with a dazzling
brightness. For a moment the demon within him prevailed, and Birch
brandished the powerful weapon in the air; in the next, it fell
harmless on the reviving but helpless trooper. The peddler vanished up
the side of the friendly rock.

“Help Captain Lawton, there!” cried Mason, as he rode up, followed by a
dozen of his men; “and some of you dismount with me, and search these
rocks; the villain lies here concealed.”

“Hold!” roared the discomfited captain, raising himself with difficulty
on his feet. “If one of you dismount, he dies. Tom, my good fellow, you
will help me to straddle Roanoke again.”

The astonished subaltern complied in silence, while the wondering
dragoons remained as fixed in their saddles, as if they composed part
of the animals they rode.

“You are much hurt, I fear,” said Mason, with something of condolence
in his manner, as they reentered the highway, biting off the end of a
cigar for the want of a better quality of tobacco.

“Something so, I do believe,” replied the captain, catching his breath,
and speaking with difficulty. “I wish our bonesetter was at hand, to
examine into the state of my ribs.”

“Sitgreaves is left in attendance on Captain Singleton, at the house of
Mr. Wharton.”

“Then there I halt for the night, Tom. These rude times must abridge
ceremony; besides, you may remember the old gentleman professed a
kinsman’s regard for the corps. I can never think of passing so good a
friend without a halt.”

“And I will lead the troop to the Four Corners; if we all halt there,
we shall breed a famine in the land.”

“A condition I never desire to be placed in. The idea of that graceful
spinster’s cakes is no bad solace for twenty-four hours in the
hospital.”

“Oh! you won’t die if you can think of eating,” said Mason, with a
laugh.

“I should surely die if I could not,” observed the captain, gravely.

“Captain Lawton,” said the orderly of his troop, riding to the side of
his commanding officer, “we are now passing the house of the peddler
spy; is it your pleasure that we burn it?”

“No!” roared the captain, in a voice that startled the disappointed
sergeant. “Are you an incendiary? Would you burn a house in cold blood?
Let but a spark approach, and the hand that carries it will never light
another.”

“Zounds!” muttered the sleepy cornet in the rear, as he was nodding on
his horse, “there is life in the captain, notwithstanding his tumble.”

Lawton and Mason rode on in silence, the latter ruminating on the
wonderful change produced in his commander by his fall, when they
arrived opposite to the gate before the residence of Mr. Wharton. The
troop continued its march; but the captain and his lieutenant
dismounted, and, followed by the servant of the former, they proceeded
slowly to the door of the cottage.

Colonel Wellmere had already sought a retreat in his own room; Mr.
Wharton and his son were closeted by themselves; and the ladies were
administering the refreshments of the tea table to the surgeon of the
dragoons, who had seen one of his patients in his bed, and the other
happily enjoying the comforts of a sweet sleep. A few natural inquiries
from Miss Peyton had opened the soul of the doctor, who knew every
individual of her extensive family connection in Virginia, and who even
thought it possible that he had seen the lady herself. The amiable
spinster smiled as she felt it to be improbable that she should ever
have met her new acquaintance before, and not remember his
singularities. It however greatly relieved the embarrassment of their
situation, and something like a discourse was maintained between them;
the nieces were only listeners, nor could the aunt be said to be much
more.

“As I was observing, Miss Peyton, it was merely the noxious vapors of
the lowlands that rendered the plantation of your brother an unfit
residence for man; but quadrupeds were—”

“Bless me, what’s that?” said Miss Peyton, turning pale at the report
of the pistols fired at Birch.

“It sounds prodigiously like the concussion on the atmosphere made by
the explosion of firearms,” said the surgeon, sipping his tea with
great indifference. “I should imagine it to be the troop of Captain
Lawton returning, did I not know the captain never uses the pistol, and
that he dreadfully abuses the saber.”

“Merciful providence!” exclaimed the agitated maiden, “he would not
injure one with it, certainly.”

“Injure!” repeated the other quickly. “It is certain death, madam; the
most random blows imaginable; all that I can say to him will have no
effect.”

“But Captain Lawton is the officer we saw this morning, and is surely
your friend,” said Frances, hastily, observing her aunt to be seriously
alarmed.

“I find no fault with his want of friendship; the man is well enough if
he would learn to cut scientifically. All trades, madam, ought to be
allowed to live; but what is to become of a surgeon, if his patients
are dead before he sees them!”

The doctor continued haranguing on the probability and improbability of
its being the returning troop, until a loud knock at the door gave new
alarm to the ladies. Instinctively laying his hand on a small saw, that
had been his companion for the whole day, in the vain expectation of an
amputation, the surgeon, coolly assuring the ladies that he would stand
between them and danger, proceeded in person to answer the summons.

“Captain Lawton!” exclaimed the surgeon, as he beheld the trooper
leaning on the arm of his subaltern, and with difficulty crossing the
threshold.

“Ah! my dear bonesetter, is it you? You are here very fortunately to
inspect my carcass; but do lay aside that rascally saw!”

A few words from Mason explained the nature and manner of his captain’s
hurts, and Miss Peyton cheerfully accorded the required accommodations.
While the room intended for the trooper was getting ready, and the
doctor was giving certain portentous orders, the captain was invited to
rest himself in the parlor. On the table was a dish of more substantial
food than ordinarily adorned the afternoon’s repast, and it soon caught
the attention of the dragoons. Miss Peyton, recollecting that they had
probably made their only meal that day at her own table, kindly invited
them to close it with another. The offer required no pressing, and in a
few minutes the two were comfortably seated, and engaged in an
employment that was only interrupted by an occasional wry face from the
captain, who moved his body in evident pain. These interruptions,
however, interfered but little with the principal business in hand; and
the captain had got happily through with this important duty, before
the surgeon returned to announce all things ready for his accommodation
in the room above stairs.

“Eating!” cried the astonished physician. “Captain Lawton, do you wish
to die?”

“I have no particular ambition that way,” said the trooper, rising, and
bowing good night to the ladies, “and, therefore, have been providing
materials necessary to preserve life.”

The surgeon muttered his dissatisfaction, while he followed Mason and
the captain from the apartment.

Every house in America had, at that day, what was emphatically called
its best room, and this had been allotted, by the unseen influence of
Sarah, to Colonel Wellmere. The down counterpane, which a clear frosty
night would render extremely grateful over bruised limbs, decked the
English officer’s bed. A massive silver tankard, richly embossed with
the Wharton arms, held the beverage he was to drink during the night;
while beautiful vessels of china performed the same office for the two
American captains. Sarah was certainly unconscious of the silent
preference she had been giving to the English officer; and it is
equally certain, that but for his hurts, bed, tankard, and everything
but the beverage would have been matters of indifference to Captain
Lawton, half of whose nights were spent in his clothes, and not a few
of them in the saddle. After taking possession, however, of a small but
very comfortable room, Doctor Sitgreaves proceeded to inquire into the
state of his injuries. He had begun to pass his hand over the body of
his patient, when the latter cried impatiently,—

“Sitgreaves, do me the favor to lay that rascally saw aside, or I shall
have recourse to my saber in self-defense; the sight of it makes my
blood cold.”

“Captain Lawton, for a man who has so often exposed life and limb, you
are unaccountably afraid of a very useful instrument.”

“Heaven keep me from its use,” said the trooper, with a shrug.

“You would not despise the lights of science, nor refuse surgical aid,
because this saw might be necessary?”

“I would.”

“You would!”

“Yes; you shall never joint me like a quarter of beef, while I have
life to defend myself,” cried the resolute dragoon. “But I grow sleepy;
are any of my ribs broken?”

“No.”

“Any of my bones?”

“No.”

“Tom, I’ll thank you for that pitcher.” As he ended his draft, he very
deliberately turned his back on his companions, and good-naturedly
cried, “Good night, Mason; good night, Galen.”

Captain Lawton entertained a profound respect for the surgical
abilities of his comrade, but he was very skeptical on the subject of
administering internally for the ailings of the human frame. With a
full stomach, a stout heart, and a clear conscience, he often
maintained that a man might bid defiance to the world and its
vicissitudes. Nature provided him with the second, and, to say the
truth, he strove manfully himself to keep up the other two requisites
in his creed. It was a favorite maxim with him, that the last thing
death assailed was the eyes, and next to the last, the jaws. This he
interpreted to be a clear expression of the intention of nature, that
every man might regulate, by his own volition, whatever was to be
admitted into the sanctuary of his mouth; consequently, if the guest
proved unpalatable, he had no one to blame but himself. The surgeon,
who was well acquainted with these views of his patient, beheld him, as
he cavalierly turned his back on Mason and himself, with a
commiserating contempt, replaced in their leathern repository the
phials he had exhibited, with a species of care that was allied to
veneration, gave the saw, as he concluded, a whirl of triumph, and
departed, without condescending to notice the compliment of the
trooper. Mason, finding, by the breathing of the captain, that his own
good night would be unheard, hastened to pay his respects to the
ladies—after which he mounted and followed the troop at the top of his
horse’s speed.




CHAPTER X.


On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires,
E’en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.


—GRAY.


The possessions of Mr. Wharton extended to some distance on each side
of the house in which he dwelt, and most of his land was unoccupied. A
few scattered dwellings were to be seen in different parts of his
domains, but they were fast falling to decay, and were untenanted. The
proximity of the country to the contending armies had nearly banished
the pursuits of agriculture from the land. It was useless for the
husbandman to devote his time and the labor of his hands, to obtain
overflowing garners, that the first foraging party would empty. None
tilled the earth with any other view than to provide the scanty means
of subsistence, except those who were placed so near to one of the
adverse parties as to be safe from the inroads of the light troops of
the other. To these the war offered a golden harvest, more especially
to such as enjoyed the benefits of an access to the royal army. Mr.
Wharton did not require the use of his lands for the purposes of
subsistence; and he willingly adopted the guarded practice of the day,
limiting his attention to such articles as were soon to be consumed
within his own walls, or could be easily secreted from the prying eyes
of the foragers. In consequence, the ground on which the action was
fought had not a single inhabited building, besides the one belonging
to the father of Harvey Birch. This house stood between the place where
the cavalry had met, and that where the charge had been made on the
party of Wellmere.

To Katy Haynes it had been a day fruitful of incidents. The prudent
housekeeper had kept her political feelings in a state of rigid
neutrality; her own friends had espoused the cause of the country, but
the maiden herself never lost sight of that important moment, when,
like females of more illustrious hopes, she might be required to
sacrifice her love of country on the altar of domestic harmony. And
yet, notwithstanding all her sagacity, there were moments when the good
woman had grievous doubts into which scale she ought to throw the
weight of her eloquence, in order to be certain of supporting the cause
favored by the peddler. There was so much that was equivocal in his
movements and manner, that often, when, in the privacy of their
household, she was about to offer a philippic on Washington and his
followers, discretion sealed her mouth, and distrust beset her mind. In
short, the whole conduct of the mysterious being she studied was of a
character to distract the opinions of one who took a more enlarged view
of men and life than came within the competency of his housekeeper.

The battle of the Plains had taught the cautious Washington the
advantages his enemy possessed in organization, arms, and discipline.
These were difficulties to be mastered by his own vigilance and care.
Drawing off his troops to the heights, in the northern part of the
county, he had bidden defiance to the attacks of the royal army, and
Sir William Howe fell back to the enjoyment of his barren conquest—a
deserted city. Never afterwards did the opposing armies make the trial
of strength within the limits of Westchester; yet hardly a day passed,
that the partisans did not make their inroads; or a sun rise, that the
inhabitants were spared the relation of excesses which the preceding
darkness had served to conceal. Most of the movements of the peddler
were made at the hours which others allotted to repose. The evening sun
would frequently leave him at one extremity of the county, and the
morning find him at the other. His pack was his never-failing
companion; and there were those who closely studied him, in his moments
of traffic, and thought his only purpose was the accumulation of gold.
He would be often seen near the Highlands, with a body bending under
its load; and again near the Harlem River, traveling with lighter
steps, with his face towards the setting sun. But these glances at him
were uncertain and fleeting. The intermediate time no eye could
penetrate. For months he disappeared, and no traces of his course were
ever known.

Strong parties held the heights of Harlem, and the northern end of
Manhattan Island was bristling with the bayonets of the English
sentinels, yet the peddler glided among them unnoticed and uninjured.
His approaches to the American lines were also frequent; but generally
so conducted as to baffle pursuit. Many a sentinel, placed in the
gorges of the mountains, spoke of a strange figure that had been seen
gliding by them in the mists of the evening. These stories reached the
ears of the officers, and, as we have related, in two instances the
trader had fallen into the hands of the Americans. The first time he
had escaped from Lawton, shortly after his arrest; but the second he
was condemned to die. On the morning of his intended execution, the
cage was opened, but the bird had flown. This extraordinary escape had
been made from the custody of a favorite officer of Washington, and
sentinels who had been thought worthy to guard the person of the
commander in chief. Bribery and treason could not be imputed to men so
well esteemed, and the opinion gained ground among the common soldiery,
that the peddler had dealings with the dark one. Katy, however, always
repelled this opinion with indignation; for within the recesses of her
own bosom, the housekeeper, in ruminating on the events, concluded that
the evil spirit did not pay in gold. Nor, continued the wary spinster
in her cogitations, does Washington; paper and promises were all that
the leader of the American troops could dispense to his servants. After
the alliance with France, when silver became more abundant in the
country, although the scrutinizing eyes of Katy never let any
opportunity of examining into the deerskin purse pass unimproved, she
was never able to detect the image of Louis intruding into the presence
of the well-known countenance of George III. In short, the secret hoard
of Harvey sufficiently showed in its contents that all its
contributions had been received from the British.

The house of Birch had been watched at different times by the
Americans, with a view to his arrest, but never with success; the
reputed spy possessing a secret means of intelligence, that invariably
defeated their schemes. Once, when a strong body of the continental
army held the Four Corners for a whole summer, orders had been received
from Washington himself, never to leave the door of Harvey Birch
unwatched. The command was rigidly obeyed, and during this long period
the peddler was unseen; the detachment was withdrawn, and the following
night Birch reentered his dwelling. The father of Harvey had been
greatly molested, in consequence of the suspicious character of the
son. But, notwithstanding the most minute scrutiny into the conduct of
the old man, no fact could be substantiated against him to his injury,
and his property was too small to keep alive the zeal of patriots by
profession. Its confiscation and purchase would not have rewarded their
trouble. Age and sorrow were now about to spare him further
molestation, for the lamp of life had been drained of its oil. The
recent separation of the father and son had been painful, but they had
submitted in obedience to what both thought a duty. The old man had
kept his dying situation a secret from the neighborhood, in the hope
that he might still have the company of his child in his last moments.
The confusion of the day, and his increasing dread that Harvey might be
too late, helped to hasten the event he would fain arrest for a little
while. As night set in, his illness increased to such a degree, that
the dismayed housekeeper sent a truant boy, who had shut up himself
with them during the combat, to the Locusts, in quest of a companion to
cheer her solitude. Caesar, alone, could be spared, and, loaded with
eatables and cordials by the kind-hearted Miss Peyton, the black had
been dispatched on his duty. The dying man was past the use of
medicines, and his chief anxiety seemed to center in a meeting with his
child. The noise of the chase had been heard by the group in the house,
but its cause was not understood; and as both the black and Katy were
apprised of the detachment of American horse being below them, they
supposed it to proceed from the return of that party. They heard the
dragoons, as they moved slowly by the building; but in compliance with
the prudent injunction of the black, the housekeeper forbore to indulge
her curiosity. The old man had closed his eyes, and his attendants
believed him to be asleep. The house contained two large rooms and as
many small ones. One of the former served for kitchen and sitting room;
in the other lay the father of Birch; of the latter, one was the
sanctuary of the vestal, and the other contained the stock of
provisions. A huge chimney of stone rose in the center, serving, of
itself, for a partition between the larger rooms; and fireplaces of
corresponding dimensions were in each apartment. A bright flame was
burning in that of the common room, and within the very jambs of its
monstrous jaws sat Caesar and Katy, at the time of which we write. The
African was impressing his caution on the housekeeper, and commenting
on the general danger of indulging an idle curiosity.

“Best nebber tempt a Satan,” said Caesar, rolling up his eyes till the
whites glistened by the glare of the fire. “I berry like heself to lose
an ear for carrying a little bit of a letter; dere much mischief come
of curiosity. If dere had nebber been a man curious to see Africa, dere
would be no color people out of dere own country; but I wish Harvey get
back.”

“It is very disregardful in him to be away at such a time,” said Katy,
imposingly. “Suppose now his father wanted to make his last will in the
testament, who is there to do so solemn and awful an act for him?
Harvey is a very wasteful and very disregardful man!”

“Perhap he make him afore?”

“It would not be a wonderment if he had,” returned the housekeeper; “he
is whole days looking into the Bible.”

“Then he read a berry good book,” said the black solemnly. “Miss Fanny
read in him to Dinah now and den.”

“You are right, Caesar. The Bible is the best of books, and one that
reads it as often as Harvey’s father should have the best of reasons
for so doing. This is no more than common sense.”

She rose from her seat, and stealing softly to a chest of drawers in
the room of the sick man, she took from it a large Bible, heavily
bound, and secured with strong clasps of brass, with which she returned
to the negro. The volume was eagerly opened, and they proceeded
instantly to examine its pages. Katy was far from an expert scholar,
and to Caesar the characters were absolutely strangers. For some time
the housekeeper was occupied in finding out the word Matthew, in which
she had no sooner succeeded than she pointed out the word, with great
complacency, to the attentive Caesar.

“Berry well, now look him t’rough,” said the black, peeping over the
housekeeper’s shoulder, as he held a long lank candle of yellow tallow,
in such a manner as to throw its feeble light on the volume.

“Yes, but I must begin with the very beginning of the book,” replied
the other, turning the leaves carefully back, until, moving two at
once, she lighted upon a page covered with writing. “Here,” said the
housekeeper, shaking with the eagerness of expectation, “here are the
very words themselves; now I would give the world itself to know whom
he has left the big silver shoe buckles to.”

“Read ’em,” said Caesar, laconically.

“And the black walnut drawers; for Harvey could never want furniture of
that quality, as long as he is a bachelor!”

“Why he no want ’em as well as he fader?”

“And the six silver tablespoons; Harvey always uses the iron!”

“P’r’ap he say, without so much talk,” returned the sententious black,
pointing one of his crooked and dingy fingers at the open volume.

Thus repeatedly advised, and impelled by her own curiosity, Katy began
to read. Anxious to come to the part which most interested herself, she
dipped at once into the center of the subject.

“_Chester Birch, born September 1st, 1755,_”—read the spinster, with a
deliberation that did no great honor to her scholarship.

“Well, what he gib him?”

“_Abigail Birch, born July 12th, 1757,_” continued the housekeeper, in
the same tone.

“I t’ink he ought to gib her ’e spoon.”

“_June 1st, 1760. On this awful day, the judgment of an offended God
lighted on my house._” A heavy groan from the adjoining room made the
spinster instinctively close the volume, and Caesar, for a moment,
shook with fear. Neither possessed sufficient resolution to go and
examine the condition of the sufferer, but his heavy breathing
continued as usual. Katy dared not, however, reopen the Bible, and
carefully securing its clasps, it was laid on the table in silence.
Caesar took his chair again, and after looking timidly round the room,
remarked,—

“I t’ought he time war’ come!”

“No,” said Katy, solemnly, “he will live till the tide is out, or the
first cock crows in the morning.”

“Poor man!” continued the black, nestling still farther into the
chimney corner, “I hope he lay quiet after he die.”

“’Twould be no astonishment to me if he didn’t; for they say an unquiet
life makes an uneasy grave.”

“Johnny Birch a berry good man in he way. All mankind can’t be a
minister; for if he do, who would be a congregation?”

“Ah! Caesar, he is good only who does good. Can you tell me why
honestly gotten gold should be hidden in the bowels of the earth?”

“Grach!—I t’ink it must be to keep t’e Skinner from findin’ him; if he
know where he be, why don’t he dig him up?”

“There may be reasons not comprehensible to you,” said Katy, moving her
chair so that her clothes covered the charmed stone, underneath which
lay the secret treasures of the peddler, unable to refrain from
speaking of what she would have been very unwilling to reveal; “but a
rough outside often holds a smooth inside.” Caesar stared around the
building, unable to fathom the hidden meaning of his companion, when
his roving eyes suddenly became fixed, and his teeth chattered with
affright. The change in the countenance of the black was instantly
perceived by Katy, and turning her face, she saw the peddler himself,
standing within the door of the room.

“Is he alive?” asked Birch, tremulously, and seemingly afraid to
receive the answer.

“Surely,” said Katy, rising hastily, and officiously offering her
chair.
“He must live till day, or till the tide is down.”

Disregarding all but the fact that his father still lived, the peddler
stole gently into the room of his dying parent. The tie which bound the
father and son was of no ordinary kind. In the wide world they were all
to each other. Had Katy but read a few lines further in the record, she
would have seen the sad tale of their misfortunes. At one blow
competence and kindred had been swept from them, and from that day to
the present hour, persecution and distress had followed their wandering
steps. Approaching the bedside, Harvey leaned his body forward, and, in
a voice nearly choked by his feelings, he whispered near the ear of the
sick,—

“Father, do you know me?”

The parent slowly opened his eyes, and a smile of satisfaction passed
over his pallid features, leaving behind it the impression of death,
more awful by the contrast. The peddler gave a restorative he had
brought with him to the parched lips of the sick man, and for a few
minutes new vigor seemed imparted to his frame. He spoke, but slowly,
and with difficulty. Curiosity kept Katy silent; awe had the same
effect on Caesar; and Harvey seemed hardly to breathe, as he listened
to the language of the departing spirit.

“My son,” said the father in a hollow voice, “God is as merciful as He
is just; if I threw the cup of salvation from my lips when a youth, He
graciously offers it to me in mine age. He has chastised to purify, and
I go to join the spirits of our lost family. In a little while, my
child, you will be alone. I know you too well not to foresee you will
be a pilgrim through life. The bruised reed may endure, but it will
never rise. You have that within you, Harvey, that will guide you
aright; persevere as you have begun, for the duties of life are never
to be neglected and”—a noise in the adjoining room interrupted the
dying man, and the impatient peddler hastened to learn the cause,
followed by Katy and the black. The first glance of his eye on the
figure in the doorway told the trader but too well his errand, and the
fate that probably awaited himself. The intruder was a man still young
in years, but his lineaments bespoke a mind long agitated by evil
passions. His dress was of the meanest materials, and so ragged and
unseemly, as to give him the appearance of studied poverty. His hair
was prematurely whitened, and his sunken, lowering eye avoided the
bold, forward look of innocence. There was a restlessness in his
movements, and an agitation in his manner, that proceeded from the
workings of the foul spirit within him, and which was not less
offensive to others than distressing to himself. This man was a
well-known leader of one of those gangs of marauders who infested the
county with a semblance of patriotism, and who were guilty of every
grade of offense, from simple theft up to murder. Behind him stood
several other figures clad in a similar manner, but whose countenances
expressed nothing more than the indifference of brutal insensibility.
They were well armed with muskets and bayonets, and provided with the
usual implements of foot soldiers. Harvey knew resistance to be vain,
and quietly submitted to their directions. In the twinkling of an eye
both he and Caesar were stripped of their decent garments, and made to
exchange clothes with two of the filthiest of the band. They were then
placed in separate corners of the room, and, under the muzzles of the
muskets, required faithfully to answer such interrogatories as were put
to them.

“Where is your pack?” was the first question to the peddler.

“Hear me,” said Birch, trembling with agitation; “in the next room is
my father, now in the agonies of death. Let me go to him, receive his
blessing, and close his eyes, and you shall have all—aye, all.”

“Answer me as I put the questions, or this musket shall send you to
keep the old driveler company: where is your pack?”

“I will tell you nothing, unless you let me go to my father,” said the
peddler, resolutely.

His persecutor raised his arm with a malicious sneer, and was about to
execute his threat, when one of his companions checked him.

“What would you do?” he said. “You surely forget the reward. Tell us
where are your goods, and you shall go to your father.”

Birch complied instantly, and a man was dispatched in quest of the
booty; he soon returned, throwing the bundle on the floor, swearing it
was as light as feathers.

“Aye,” cried the leader, “there must be gold somewhere for what it did
contain. Give us your gold, Mr. Birch; we know you have it; you will
not take continental, not you.”

“You break your faith,” said Harvey.

“Give us your gold,” exclaimed the other, furiously, pricking the
peddler with his bayonet until the blood followed his pushes in
streams.
At this instant a slight movement was heard in the adjoining room, and
Harvey cried,—

“Let me—let me go to my father, and you shall have all.”

“I swear you shall go then,” said the Skinner.

“Here, take the trash,” cried Birch, as he threw aside the purse, which
he had contrived to conceal, notwithstanding the change in his
garments.

The robber raised it from the floor with a hellish laugh.

“Aye, but it shall be to your father in heaven.”

“Monster! have you no feeling, no faith, no honesty?”

“To hear him, one would think there was not a rope around his neck
already,” said the other, laughing. “There is no necessity for your
being uneasy, Mr. Birch; if the old man gets a few hours the start of
you in the journey, you will be sure to follow him before noon
to-morrow.”

This unfeeling communication had no effect on the peddler, who listened
with gasping breath to every sound from the room of his parent until he
heard his own name spoken in the hollow, sepulchral tones of death.
Birch could endure no more, but shrieking out,—

“Father! hush—father! I come—I come!” he darted by his keeper and was
the next moment pinned to the wall by the bayonet of another of the
band. Fortunately, his quick motion had caused him to escape a thrust
aimed at his life, and it was by his clothes only that he was confined.

“No, Mr. Birch,” said the Skinner, “we know you too well to trust you
out of sight—your gold, your gold!”

“You have it,” said the peddler, writhing with agony.

“Aye, we have the purse, but you have more purses. King George is a
prompt paymaster, and you have done him many a piece of good service.
Where is your hoard? Without it you will never see your father.”

“Remove the stone underneath the woman,” cried the peddler,
eagerly—“remove the stone.”

“He raves! he raves!” said Katy, instinctively moving her position to a
different stone from the one on which she had been standing. In a
moment it was torn from its bed, and nothing but earth was seen
beneath.

“He raves! You have driven him from his right mind,” continued the
trembling spinster. “Would any man in his senses keep gold under a
hearth?”

“Peace, babbling fool!” cried Harvey. “Lift the corner stone, and you
will find that which will make you rich, and me a beggar.”

“And then you will be despisable,” said the housekeeper bitterly. “A
peddler without goods and without money is sure to be despisable.”

“There will be enough left to pay for his halter,” cried the Skinner,
who was not slow to follow the instructions of Harvey, soon lighting
upon a store of English guineas. The money was quickly transferred to a
bag, notwithstanding the declarations of the spinster, that her dues
were unsatisfied, and that, of right, ten of the guineas were her
property.

Delighted with a prize that greatly exceeded their expectations, the
band prepared to depart, intending to take the peddler with them, in
order to give him up to the American troops above, and to claim the
reward offered for his apprehension. Everything was ready, and they
were about to lift Birch in their arms, for he resolutely refused to
move an inch, when a form appeared in their midst, which appalled the
stoutest heart among them. The father had arisen from his bed, and he
tottered forth at the cries of his son. Around his body was thrown the
sheet of the bed, and his fixed eye and haggard face gave him the
appearance of a being from another world. Even Katy and Caesar thought
it was the spirit of the elder Birch, and they fled the house, followed
by the alarmed Skinners in a body.

The excitement which had given the sick man strength, soon vanished,
and the peddler, lifting him in his arms, reconveyed him to his bed.
The reaction of the system which followed hastened to close the scene.

The glazed eye of the father was fixed upon the son; his lips moved,
but his voice was unheard. Harvey bent down, and, with the parting
breath of his parent, received his dying benediction. A life of
privation, and of wrongs, embittered most of the future hours of the
peddler. But under no sufferings, in no misfortunes, the subject of
poverty and obloquy, the remembrance of that blessing never left him;
it constantly gleamed over the images of the past, shedding a holy
radiance around his saddest hours of despondency; it cheered the
prospect of the future with the prayers of a pious spirit; and it
brought the sweet assurance of having faithfully discharged the sacred
offices of filial love.

The retreat of Caesar and the spinster had been too precipitate to
admit of much calculation; yet they themselves instinctively separated
from the Skinners. After fleeing a short distance they paused, and the
maiden commenced in a solemn voice,—

“Oh! Caesar, was it not dreadful to walk before he had been laid in his
grave! It must have been the money that disturbed him; they say Captain
Kidd walks near the spot where he buried gold in the old war.”

“I never t’ink Johnny Birch hab such a big eye!” said the African, his
teeth yet chattering with the fright.

“I’m sure ’twould be a botherment to a living soul to lose so much
money. Harvey will be nothing but an utterly despisable,
poverty-stricken wretch. I wonder who he thinks would even be his
housekeeper!”

“Maybe a spook take away Harvey, too,” observed Caesar, moving still
nearer to the side of the maiden. But a new idea had seized the
imagination of the spinster. She thought it not improbable that the
prize had been forsaken in the confusion of the retreat; and after
deliberating and reasoning for some time with Caesar, they determined
to venture back, and ascertain this important fact, and, if possible,
learn what had been the fate of the peddler. Much time was spent in
cautiously approaching the dreaded spot; and as the spinster had
sagaciously placed herself in the line of the retreat of the Skinners,
every stone was examined in the progress in search of abandoned gold.
But although the suddenness of the alarm and the cry of Caesar had
impelled the freebooters to so hasty a retreat, they grasped the hoard
with a hold that death itself would not have loosened. Perceiving
everything to be quiet within, Katy at length mustered resolution to
enter the dwelling, where she found the peddler, with a heavy heart,
performing the last sad offices for the dead. A few words sufficed to
explain to Katy the nature of her mistake; but Caesar continued to his
dying day to astonish the sable inmates of the kitchen with learned
dissertations on spooks, and to relate how direful was the appearance
of that of Johnny Birch.

The danger compelled the peddler to abridge even the short period that
American custom leaves the deceased with us; and, aided by the black
and Katy, his painful task was soon ended. Caesar volunteered to walk a
couple of miles with orders to a carpenter; and, the body being habited
in its ordinary attire, was left, with a sheet thrown decently over it,
to await the return of the messenger.

The Skinners had fled precipitately to the wood, which was but a short
distance from the house of Birch, and once safely sheltered within its
shades, they halted, and mustered their panic-stricken forces.

“What in the name of fury seized your coward hearts?” cried their
dissatisfied leader, drawing his breath heavily.

“The same question might be asked of yourself,” returned one of the
band, sullenly.

“From your fright, I thought a party of De Lancey’s men were upon us.
Oh! you are brave gentlemen at a race!”

“We follow our captain.”

“Then follow me back, and let us secure the scoundrel, and receive the
reward.”

“Yes; and by the time we reach the house, that black rascal will have
the mad Virginian upon us. By my soul I would rather meet fifty Cowboys
than that single man.”

“Fool,” cried the enraged leader, “don’t you know Dunwoodie’s horse are
at the Corners, full two miles from here?”

“I care not where the dragoons are, but I will swear that I saw Captain
Lawton enter the house of old Wharton, while I lay watching an
opportunity of getting the British colonel’s horse from the stable.”

“And if he should come, won’t a bullet silence a dragoon from the South
as well as from old England?”

“Aye, but I don’t choose a hornet’s nest about my ears; rase the skin
of one of that corps, and you will never see another peaceable night’s
foraging again.”

“Well,” muttered the leader, as they retired deeper into the wood,
“this sottish peddler will stay to see the old devil buried; and though
we cannot touch him at the funeral (for that would raise every old
woman and priest in America against us), he’ll wait to look after the
movables, and to-morrow night shall wind up his concerns.”

With this threat they withdrew to one of their usual places of resort,
until darkness should again give them an opportunity of marauding on
the community without danger of detection.




CHAPTER XI.


O wo! O woful, woful, woful day!
Most lamentable day; most woful day,
That ever, ever, I did yet behold!
O day! O day! O day! O hateful day!
Never was seen so black a day as this;
O woful day! O woful day!


—SHAKESPEARE.


The family at the Locusts had slept, or watched, through all the
disturbances at the cottage of Birch, in perfect ignorance of their
occurrence. The attacks of the Skinners were always made with so much
privacy as to exclude the sufferers, not only from succor, but
frequently, through a dread of future depredations, from the
commiseration of their neighbors also. Additional duties had drawn the
ladies from their pillows at an hour somewhat earlier than usual; and
Captain Lawton, notwithstanding the sufferings of his body, had risen
in compliance with a rule from which he never departed, of sleeping but
six hours at a time. This was one of the few points, in which the care
of the human frame was involved, on which the trooper and the surgeon
of horse were ever known to agree. The doctor had watched, during the
night, by the side of the bed of Captain Singleton, without once
closing his eyes. Occasionally he would pay a visit to the wounded
Englishman, who, being more hurt in the spirit than in the flesh,
tolerated the interruptions with a very ill grace; and once, for an
instant, he ventured to steal softly to the bed of his obstinate
comrade, and was near succeeding in obtaining a touch of his pulse,
when a terrible oath, sworn by the trooper in a dream, startled the
prudent surgeon, and warned him of a trite saying in the corps, “that
Captain Lawton always slept with one eye open.” This group had
assembled in one of the parlors as the sun made its appearance over the
eastern hill, dispersing the columns of fog which had enveloped the
lowland.

Miss Peyton was looking from a window in the direction of the tenement
of the peddler, and was expressing a kind anxiety after the welfare of
the sick man, when the person of Katy suddenly emerged from the dense
covering of an earthly cloud, whose mists were scattering before the
cheering rays of the sun, and was seen making hasty steps towards the
Locusts. There was that in the air of the housekeeper which bespoke
distress of an unusual nature, and the kind-hearted mistress of the
Locusts opened the door of the room, with the benevolent intention of
soothing a grief that seemed so overwhelming. A nearer view of the
disturbed features of the visitor confirmed Miss Peyton in her belief;
and, with the shock that gentle feelings ever experience at a sudden
and endless separation from even the meanest of their associates, she
said hastily,—

“Katy, is he gone?”

“No, ma’am,” replied the disturbed damsel, with great bitterness, “he
is not yet gone, but he may go as soon as he pleases now, for the worst
is done. I do verily believe, Miss Peyton, they haven’t so much as left
him money enough to buy him another suit of clothes to cover his
nakedness, and those he has on are none of the best, I can tell you.”

“How!” exclaimed the other, astonished, “could anyone have the heart to
plunder a man in such distress?”

“Hearts,” repeated Katy, catching her breath. “Men like them have no
bowels” at all. Plunder and distress, indeed! Why, ma’am, there were in
the iron pot, in plain sight, fifty-four guineas of gold, besides what
lay underneath, which I couldn’t count without handling; and I didn’t
like to touch it, for they say that another’s gold is apt to stick—so,
judging from that in sight, there wasn’t less than two hundred guineas,
besides what might have been in the deerskin purse. But Harvey is
little better now than a beggar; and a beggar, Miss Jeanette, is the
most awfully despisable of all earthly creatures.”

“Poverty is to be pitied, and not despised,” said the lady, still
unable to comprehend the extent of the misfortune that had befallen her
neighbor during the night. “But how is the old man? And does this loss
affect him much?”

The countenance of Katy changed, from the natural expression of
concern, to the set form of melancholy, as she answered,—

“He is happily removed from the cares of the world; the chinking of the
money made him get out of his bed, and the poor soul found the shock
too great for him. He died about two hours and ten minutes before the
cock crowed, as near as we can say.” She was interrupted by the
physician, who, approaching, inquired, with much interest, the nature
of the disorder. Glancing her eye over the figure of this new
acquaintance, Katy instinctively adjusting her dress, replied,—

“’Twas the troubles of the times, and the loss of property, that
brought him down; he wasted from day to day, and all my care and
anxiety were lost; for now Harvey is no better than a beggar, and who
is there to pay me for what I have done?”

“God will reward you for all the good you have done,” said Miss Peyton,
mildly.

“Yes,” interrupted the spinster hastily, and with an air of reverence
that was instantly succeeded by an expression that denoted more of
worldly care; “but then I have left my wages for three years past in
the hands of Harvey, and how am I to get them? My brothers told me,
again and again, to ask for my money; but I always thought accounts
between relations were easily settled.”

“Were you related, then, to Birch?” asked Miss Peyton, observing her to
pause.

“Why,” returned the housekeeper, hesitating a little, “I thought we
were as good as so. I wonder if I have no claim on the house and
garden; though they say, now it is Harvey’s, it will surely be
confiscated.” Turning to Lawton, who had been sitting in one posture,
with his piercing eyes lowering at her through his thick brows, in
silence, “Perhaps this gentleman knows—he seems to take an interest in
my story.”

“Madam,” said the trooper, bowing very low, “both you and the tale are
extremely interesting”—Katy smiled involuntarily—“but my humble
knowledge is limited to the setting of a squadron in the field, and
using it when there. I beg leave to refer you to Dr. Archibald
Sitgreaves, a gentleman of universal attainments and unbounded
philanthropy; the very milk of human sympathies, and a mortal foe to
all indiscriminate cutting.”

The surgeon drew up, and employed himself in whistling a low air, as he
looked over some phials on a table; but the housekeeper, turning to him
with an inclination of the head, continued,—

“I suppose, sir, a woman has no dower in her husband’s property, unless
they be actually married.”

It was a maxim with Dr. Sitgreaves, that no species of knowledge was to
be despised; and, consequently, he was an empiric in everything but his
profession. At first, indignation at the irony of his comrade kept him
silent; but, suddenly changing his purpose, he answered the applicant
with a good-natured smile,—

“I judge not. If death has anticipated your nuptials, I am fearful you
have no remedy against his stern decrees.”

To Katy this sounded well, although she understood nothing of its
meaning, but “death” and “nuptials.” To this part of his speech, then,
she directed her reply.

“I did think he only waited the death of the old gentleman before he
married,” said the housekeeper, looking on the carpet. “But now he is
nothing more than despisable, or, what’s the same thing, a peddler
without house, pack, or money. It might be hard for a man to get a wife
at all in such a predicary—don’t you think it would, Miss Peyton?”

“I seldom trouble myself with such things,” said the lady gravely.

During this dialogue Captain Lawton had been studying the countenance
and manner of the housekeeper, with a most ludicrous gravity; and,
fearful the conversation would cease, he inquired, with an appearance
of great interest,—

“You think it was age and debility that removed the old gentleman at
last?”

“And the troublesome times. Trouble is a heavy pull down to a sick bed;
but I suppose his time had come, and when that happens, it matters but
little what doctor’s stuff we take.”

“Let me set you right in that particular,” interrupted the surgeon. “We
must all die, it is true, but it is permitted us to use the lights of
science, in arresting dangers as they occur, until—”

“We can die _secundem artem_,” cried the trooper.

To this observation the physician did not deign to reply; but, deeming
it necessary to his professional dignity that the conversation should
continue, he added,—

“Perhaps, in this instance, judicious treatment might have prolonged
the life of the patient. Who administered to the case?”

“No one yet,” said the housekeeper, with quickness. “I expect he has
made his last will and testament.”

The surgeon disregarded the smile of the ladies, and pursued his
inquiries.

“It is doubtless wise to be prepared for death. But under whose care
was the sick man during his indisposition?”

“Under mine,” answered Katy, with an air of a little importance. “And
care thrown away I may well call it; for Harvey is quite too despisable
to be any sort of compensation at present.”

The mutual ignorance of each other’s meaning made very little
interruption to the dialogue, for both took a good deal for granted,
and Sitgreaves pursued the subject.

“And how did you treat him?”

“Kindly, you may be certain,” said Katy, rather tartly.

“The doctor means medically, madam,” observed Captain Lawton, with a
face that would have honored the funeral of the deceased.

“I doctored him mostly with yarbs,” said the housekeeper, smiling, as
if conscious of error.

“With simples,” returned the surgeon. “They are safer in the hands of
the unlettered than more powerful remedies; but why had you no regular
attendant?”

“I’m sure Harvey has suffered enough already from having so much
concerns with the rig’lars,” replied the housekeeper. “He has lost his
all, and made himself a vagabond through the land; and I have reason to
rue the day I ever crossed the threshold of his house.”

“Dr. Sitgreaves does not mean a rig’lar soldier, but a regular
physician, madam,” said the trooper.

“Oh!” cried the maiden, again correcting herself, “for the best of all
reasons; there was none to be had, so I took care of him myself. If
there had been a doctor at hand, I am sure we would gladly have had
him; for my part, I am clear for doctoring, though Harvey says I am
killing myself with medicines; but I am sure it will make but little
difference to him, whether I live or die.”

“Therein you show your sense,” said the surgeon, approaching the
spinster, who sat holding the palms of her hands and the soles of her
feet to the genial heat of a fine fire, making the most of comfort amid
all her troubles. “You appear to be a sensible, discreet woman, and
some who have had opportunities of acquiring more correct views might
envy you your respect for knowledge and the lights of science.”

Although the housekeeper did not altogether comprehend the other’s
meaning, she knew he used a compliment, and as such was highly pleased
with what he said. With increased animation, therefore, she cried, “It
was always said of me, that I wanted nothing but opportunity to make
quite a physician myself; so long as before I came to live with
Harvey’s father, they called me the petticoat doctor.”

“More true than civil, I dare say,” returned the surgeon, losing sight
of the woman’s character in his admiration of her respect for the
healing art. “In the absence of more enlightened counselors, the
experience of a discreet matron is frequently of great efficacy in
checking the progress of disease; under such circumstances, madam, it
is dreadful to have to contend with ignorance and obstinacy.”

“Bad enough, as I well know from experience,” cried Katy, in triumph.
“Harvey is as obstinate about such things as a dumb beast; one would
think the care I took of his bedridden father might learn him better
than to despise good nursing. But some day he may know what it is to
want a careful woman in his house, though now I am sure he is too
despisable himself to have a house.”

“Indeed, I can easily comprehend the mortification you must have felt
in having one so self-willed to deal with,” returned the surgeon,
glancing his eyes reproachfully at his comrade. “But you should rise
superior to such opinions, and pity the ignorance by which they are
engendered.”

The housekeeper hesitated a moment, at a loss to comprehend all that
the surgeon expressed, yet she felt it was both complimentary and kind;
therefore, suppressing her natural flow of language a little, she
replied,—

“I tell Harvey his conduct is often condemnable, and last night he made
my words good; but the opinions of such unbelievers is not very
consequential; yet it is dreadful to think how he behaves at times:
now, when he threw away the needle—”

“What!” said the surgeon, interrupting her, “does he affect to despise
the needle? But it is my lot to meet with men, daily, who are equally
perverse, and who show a still more culpable disrespect for the
information that flows from the lights of science.”

The doctor turned his face towards Captain Lawton while speaking, but
the elevation of the head prevented his eyes from resting on the grave
countenance maintained by the trooper. Katy listened with admiring
attention, and when the other had done, she added,—

“Then Harvey is a disbeliever in the tides.”

“Not believe in the tides!” repeated the healer of bodies in
astonishment. “Does the man distrust his senses? But perhaps it is the
influence of the moon that he doubts.”

“That he does!” exclaimed Katy, shaking with delight at meeting with a
man of learning, who could support her opinions. “If you was to hear
him talk, you would think he didn’t believe there was such a thing as a
moon at all.”

“It is the misfortune of ignorance and incredulity, madam, that they
feed themselves. The mind, once rejecting useful information,
insensibly leans to superstition and conclusions on the order of
nature, that are not less prejudicial to the cause of truth, than they
are at variance with the first principles of human knowledge.”

The spinster was too much awe-struck to venture an undigested reply to
this speech; and the surgeon, after pausing a moment in a kind of
philosophical disdain, continued,—

“That any man in his senses can doubt of the flux of the tides is more
than I could have thought possible; yet obstinacy is a dangerous inmate
to harbor, and may lead us into any error, however gross.”

“You think, then, they have an effect on the flux?” said the
housekeeper, inquiringly.

Miss Peyton rose and beckoned her nieces to give her their assistance
in the adjoining pantry, while for a moment the dark visage of the
attentive Lawton was lighted by an animation that vanished by an
effort, as powerful and as sudden, as the one that drew it into being.

After reflecting whether he rightly understood the meaning of the
other, the surgeon, making due allowance for the love of learning,
acting upon a want of education, replied,—

“The moon, you mean; many philosophers have doubted how far it affects
the tides; but I think it is willfully rejecting the lights of science
not to believe it causes both the flux and reflux.”

As reflux was a disorder with which Katy was not acquainted, she
thought it prudent to be silent; yet burning with curiosity to know the
meaning of certain portentous lights to which the other so often
alluded, she ventured to ask,—

“If them lights he spoke of were what was called northern lights in
these parts?”

In charity to her ignorance, the surgeon would have entered into an
elaborate explanation of his meaning, had he not been interrupted by
the mirth of Lawton. The trooper had listened so far with great
composure; but now he laughed until his aching bones reminded him of
his fall, and the tears rolled over his cheeks in larger drops than had
ever been seen there before. At length the offended physician seized an
opportunity of a pause to say,—

“To you, Captain Lawton, it may be a source of triumph, that an
uneducated woman should make a mistake in a subject on which men of
science have long been at variance; but yet you find this respectable
matron does not reject the lights—does not reject the use of proper
instruments in repairing injuries sustained by the human frame. You may
possibly remember, sir, her allusion to the use of the needle.”

“Aye,” cried the delighted trooper, “to mend the peddler’s breeches.”

Katy drew up in evident displeasure, and prompt to vindicate her
character for more lofty acquirements, she said,—

“’Twas not a common use that I put that needle to—but one of much
greater virtue.”

“Explain yourself, madam,” said the surgeon impatiently, “that this
gentleman may see how little reason he has for exultation.”

Thus solicited, Katy paused to collect sufficient eloquence to garnish
her narrative. The substance of her tale was, that a child who had been
placed by the guardians of the poor in the keeping of Harvey, had, in
the absence of its master, injured itself badly in the foot by a large
needle. The offending instrument had been carefully greased, wrapped in
woolen, and placed in a certain charmed nook of the chimney; while the
foot, from a fear of weakening the incantation, was left in a state of
nature. The arrival of the peddler had altered the whole of this
admirable treatment; and the consequences were expressed by Katy, as
she concluded her narrative, by saying,—

“’Twas no wonder the boy died of a lockjaw!”

Doctor Sitgreaves looked out of the window in admiration of the
brilliant morning, striving all he could to avoid the basilisk’s eyes
of his comrade. He was impelled, by a feeling that he could not
conquer, however, to look Captain Lawton in the face. The trooper had
arranged every muscle of his countenance to express sympathy for the
fate of the poor child; but the exultation of his eyes cut the
astounded man of science to the quick; he muttered something concerning
the condition of his patients, and retreated with precipitation.

Miss Peyton entered into the situation of things at the house of the
peddler, with all the interest of her excellent feelings; she listened
patiently while Katy recounted, more particularly, the circumstances of
the past night as they had occurred. The spinster did not forget to
dwell on the magnitude of the pecuniary loss sustained by Harvey, and
in no manner spared her invectives, at his betraying a secret which
might so easily have been kept.

“For, Miss Peyton,” continued the housekeeper, after a pause to take
breath, “I would have given up life before I would have given up that
secret. At the most, they could only have killed him, and now a body
may say that they have slain both soul and body; or, what’s the same
thing, they have made him a despisable vagabond. I wonder who he thinks
would be his wife, or who would keep his house, For my part, my good
name is too precious to be living with a lone man; though, for the
matter of that, he is never there. I am resolved to tell him this day,
that stay there a single woman, I will not an hour after the funeral;
and marry him I don’t think I will, unless he becomes steadier and more
of a home body.”

The mild mistress of the Locusts suffered the exuberance of the
housekeeper’s feelings to expend itself, and then, by one or two
judicious questions, that denoted a more intimate knowledge of the
windings of the human heart in matters of Cupid than might fairly be
supposed to belong to a spinster, she extracted enough from Katy to
discover the improbability of Harvey’s ever presuming to offer himself,
with his broken fortunes, to the acceptance of Katharine Haynes. She
therefore mentioned her own want of assistance in the present state of
her household, and expressed a wish that Katy would change her
residence to the Locusts, in case the peddler had no further use for
her services. After a few preliminary conditions on the part of the
wary housekeeper, the arrangement was concluded; and making a few more
piteous lamentations on the weight of her own losses and the stupidity
of Harvey, united with some curiosity to know the future fate of the
peddler, Katy withdrew to make the necessary preparations for the
approaching funeral, which was to take place that day.

During the interview between the two females, Lawton, through delicacy,
had withdrawn. Anxiety took him to the room of Captain Singleton. The
character of this youth, it has already been shown, endeared him in a
peculiar manner to every officer in the corps. The singularly mild
deportment of the young dragoon had on so many occasions been proved
not to proceed from want of resolution that his almost feminine
softness of manner and appearance had failed to bring him into
disrepute, even in that band of partisan warriors.

To the major he was as dear as a brother, and his easy submission to
the directions of his surgeon had made him a marked favorite with Dr.
Sitgreaves. The rough usage the corps often received in its daring
attacks had brought each of its officers, in succession, under the
temporary keeping of the surgeon. To Captain Singleton the man of
science had decreed the palm of docility, on such occasions, and
Captain Lawton he had fairly blackballed. He frequently declared, with
unconquerable simplicity and earnestness of manner, that it gave him
more pleasure to see the former brought in wounded than any officer in
the squadron, and that the latter afforded him the least; a compliment
and condemnation that were usually received by the first of the parties
with a quiet smile of good nature, and by the last with a grave bow of
thanks. On the present occasion, the mortified surgeon and exulting
trooper met in the room of Captain Singleton, as a place where they
could act on common ground. Some time was occupied in joint attentions
to the comfort of the wounded officer, and the doctor retired to an
apartment prepared for his own accommodation; here, within a few
minutes, he was surprised by the entrance of Lawton. The triumph of the
trooper had been so complete, that he felt he could afford to be
generous, and commencing by voluntarily throwing aside his coat, he
cried carelessly,—

“Sitgreaves, administer a little of the aid of the lights of science to
my body, if you please.”

The surgeon was beginning to feel this was a subject that was
intolerable, but venturing a glance towards his comrade, he saw with
surprise the preparations he had made, and an air of sincerity about
him, that was unusual to his manner when making such a request.
Changing his intended burst of resentment to a tone of civil inquiry,
he said,—

“Does Captain Lawton want anything at my hands?”

“Look for yourself, my dear sir,” said the trooper mildly. “Here seem
to be most of the colors of the rainbow, on this shoulder.”

“You have reason for saying so,” said the other, handling the part with
great tenderness and consummate skill. “But happily nothing is broken.
It is wonderful how well you escaped!”

“I have been a tumbler from my youth, and I am past minding a few falls
from a horse; but, Sitgreaves,” he added with affection, and pointing
to a scar on his body, “do you remember this bit of work?”

“Perfectly well, Jack; it was bravely obtained, and neatly extracted;
but don’t you think I had better apply an oil to these bruises?”

“Certainly,” said Lawton, with unexpected condescension.

“Now, my dear boy,” cried the doctor, exultantly, as he busied himself
in applying the remedy to the hurts, “do you not think it would have
been better to have done all this last night?”

“Quite probable.”

“Yes, Jack, but if you had let me perform the operation of phlebotomy
when I first saw you, it would have been of infinite service.”

“No phlebotomy,” said the other, positively.

“It is now too late; but a dose of oil would carry off the humors
famously.”

To this the captain made no reply, but grated his teeth, in a way that
showed the fortress of his mouth was not to be assailed without a
resolute resistance; and the experienced physician changed the subject
by saying,—

“It is a pity, John, that you did not catch the rascal, after the
danger and trouble you incurred.”

The captain of dragoons made no reply; and, while placing some bandages
on the wounded shoulder, the surgeon continued,—

“If I have any wish at all to destroy human life, it is to have the
pleasure of seeing that traitor hanged.”

“I thought your business was to cure, and not to slay,” said the
trooper, dryly.

“Aye! but he has caused us such heavy losses by his information, that I
sometimes feel a very unsophistical temper towards that spy.”

“You should not encourage such feelings of animosity to any of your
fellow creatures,” returned Lawton, in a tone that caused the operator
to drop a pin he was arranging in the bandages from his hand. He looked
the patient in the face to remove all doubts of his identity; finding,
however, it was his old comrade, Captain John Lawton, who had spoken,
he rallied his astonished faculties, and proceeded by saying,—

“Your doctrine is just, and in general I subscribe to it. But, John, my
dear fellow, is the bandage easy?”

“Quite.”

“I agree with you as a whole; but as matter is infinitely divisible, so
no case exists without an exception. Lawton, do you feel easy?”

“Very.”

“It is not only cruel to the sufferer, but sometimes unjust to others,
to take human life where a less punishment would answer the purpose.
Now, Jack, if you were only—move your arm a little—if you were only—I
hope you feel easier, my dear friend?”

“Much.”

“If, my dear John, you would teach your men to cut with more
discretion, it would answer you the same purpose—and give me great
pleasure.”

The doctor drew a heavy sigh, as he was enabled to get rid of what was
nearest to the heart; and the dragoon coolly replaced his coat, saying
with great deliberation as he retired,—

“I know no troop that cut more judiciously; they generally shave from
the crown to the jaw.”

The disappointed operator collected his instruments, and with a heavy
heart proceeded to pay a visit to the room of Colonel Wellmere.




CHAPTER XII.


This fairy form contains a soul as mighty,
As that which lives within a giant’s frame;
These slender limbs, that tremble like the aspen
At summer evening’s sigh, uphold a spirit,
Which, roused, can tower to the height of heaven,
And light those shining windows of the face
With much of heaven’s own radiance.


—Duo.


The number and character of her guests had greatly added to the cares
of Miss Jeanette Peyton. The morning found them all restored, in some
measure, to their former ease of body, with the exception of the
youthful captain of dragoons, who had been so deeply regretted by
Dunwoodie. The wound of this officer was severe, though the surgeon
persevered in saying that it was without danger. His comrade, we have
shown, had deserted his couch; and Henry Wharton awoke from a sleep
that had been undisturbed by anything but a dream of suffering
amputation under the hands of a surgical novice. As it proved, however,
to be nothing but a dream, the youth found himself much refreshed by
his slumbers; and Dr. Sitgreaves removed all further apprehensions by
confidently pronouncing that he would be a well man within a fortnight.

During all this time Colonel Wellmere did not make his appearance; he
breakfasted in his own room, and, notwithstanding certain significant
smiles of the man of science, declared himself too much injured to rise
from his bed. Leaving him, therefore, endeavoring to conceal his
chagrin in the solitude of his chamber, the surgeon proceeded to the
more grateful task of sitting an hour by the bedside of George
Singleton. A slight flush was on the face of the patient as the doctor
entered the room, and the latter advanced promptly and laid his fingers
on the pulse of the youth, beckoning to him to be silent, while he
muttered,—

“Growing symptoms of a febrile pulse—no, no, my dear George, you must
remain quiet and dumb; though your eyes look better, and your skin has
even a moisture.”

“Nay, my dear Sitgreaves,” said the youth, taking his hand, “you see
there is no fever about me; look, is there any of Jack Lawton’s
hoarfrost on my tongue?”

“No, indeed,” said the surgeon, clapping a spoon in the mouth of the
other, forcing it open, and looking down his throat as if disposed to
visit the interior in person. “The tongue is well, and the pulse begins
to lower again. Ah! the bleeding did you good. Phlebotomy is a
sovereign specific for southern constitutions. But that madcap Lawton
absolutely refused to be blooded for a fall he had from his horse last
night. Why, George, your case is becoming singular,” continued the
doctor, instinctively throwing aside his wig. “Your pulse even and
soft, your skin moist, but your eye fiery, and cheek flushed. Oh! I
must examine more closely into these symptoms.”

“Softly, my good friend, softly,” said the youth, falling back on his
pillow, and losing some of that color which alarmed his companion. “I
believe, in extracting the ball, you did for me all that is required. I
am free from pain and only weak, I do assure you.”

“Captain Singleton,” said the surgeon, with heat, “it is presumptuous
in you to pretend to tell your medical attendant when you are free from
pain. If it be not to enable us to decide in such matters, of what
avail the lights of science? For shame, George, for shame! Even that
perverse fellow, John Lawton, could not behave with more obstinacy.”

His patient smiled, as he gently repulsed his physician in an attempt
to undo the bandages, and with a returning glow to his cheeks,
inquired,—

“Do, Archibald,”—a term of endearment that seldom failed to soften the
operator’s heart,—“tell me what spirit from heaven has been gliding
around my apartment, while I lay pretending to sleep?”

“If anyone interferes with my patients,” cried the doctor, hastily, “I
will teach them, spirit or no spirit, what it is to meddle with another
man’s concerns.”

“Tut—my dear fellow, there was no interference made, nor any intended.
See,” exhibiting the bandages, “everything is as you left it,—but it
glided about the room with the grace of a fairy and the tenderness of
an angel.”

The surgeon, having satisfied himself that everything was as he had
left it, very deliberately resumed his seat and replaced his wig, as he
inquired, with a brevity that would have honored Lieutenant Mason,—

“Had it petticoats, George?”

“I saw nothing but its heavenly eyes—its bloom—its majestic step—its
grace,” replied the young man, with rather more ardor than his surgeon
thought consistent with his debilitated condition; and he laid his hand
on his mouth to stop him, saying himself,—

“It must have been Miss Jeanette Peyton—a lady of fine accomplishments,
with—hem—with something of the kind of step you speak of—a very
complacent eye; and as to the bloom, I dare say offices of charity can
summon as fine a color to her cheeks, as glows in the faces of her more
youthful nieces.”

“Nieces? Has she nieces, then? The angel I saw may be a daughter, a
sister, or a niece,—but never an aunt.”

“Hush, George, hush; your talking has brought your pulse up again. You
must observe quiet, and prepare for a meeting with your own sister, who
will be here within an hour.”

“What, Isabella! And who sent for her?”

“The major.”

“Considerate Dunwoodie!” murmured the exhausted youth, sinking again on
his pillow, where the commands of his attendant compelled him to remain
silent.

Even Captain Lawton had been received with many and courteous inquiries
after the state of his health, from all the members of the family, when
he made his morning entrance; but an invisible spirit presided over the
comforts of the English colonel. Sarah had shrunk with consciousness
from entering the room; yet she knew the position of every glass, and
had, with her own hands, supplied the contents of every bowl, that
stood on his table.

At the time of our tale, we were a divided people, and Sarah thought it
was no more than her duty to cherish the institutions of that country
to which she yet clung as the land of her forefathers; but there were
other and more cogent reasons for the silent preference she was giving
to the Englishman. His image had first filled the void in her youthful
fancy, and it was an image that was distinguished by many of those
attractions that can enchain a female heart. It is true, he wanted the
personal excellence of Peyton Dunwoodie, but his pretensions were far
from contemptible. Sarah had moved about the house during the morning,
casting frequent and longing glances at the door of Wellmere’s
apartment, anxious to learn the condition of his wounds, and yet
ashamed to inquire; conscious interest kept her tongue tied, until her
sister, with the frankness of innocence, had put the desired question
to Dr. Sitgreaves.

“Colonel Wellmere,” said the operator, gravely, “is in what I call a
state of free will, madam. He is ill, or he is well, as he pleases. His
case, young lady, exceeds my art to heal; and I take it Sir Henry
Clinton is the best adviser he can apply to; though Major Dunwoodie has
made the communication with his leech rather difficult.”

Frances smiled, but averted her face, while Sarah moved, with the grace
of an offended Juno, from the apartment. Her own room, however,
afforded her but little relief, and in passing through the long gallery
that communicated with each of the chambers of the building, she
noticed the door of Singleton’s room to be open. The wounded youth
seemed sleeping, and was alone. She had ventured lightly into the
apartment, and busied herself for a few minutes in arranging the
tables, and the nourishment provided for the patient, hardly conscious
of what she was doing, and possibly dreaming that these little feminine
offices were performed for another. Her natural bloom was heightened by
the insinuation of the surgeon, nor was the luster of her eye in any
degree diminished. The sound of the approaching footsteps of Sitgreaves
hastened her retreat down a private stairway, to the side of her
sister. The sisters then sought the fresh air on the piazza; and as
they pursued their walk, arm in arm, the following dialogue took
place:—

“There is something disagreeable about this surgeon of Dunwoodie,” said
Sarah, “that causes me to wish him away most heartily.”

Frances fixed her laughing eyes on her sister; but forbearing to speak,
the other readily construed their expression, and hastily added, “But I
forget he is one of your renowned corps of Virginians, and must be
spoken of reverently.”

“As respectfully as you please, my dear sister; there is but little
danger of exceeding the truth.”

“Not in your opinion,” said the elder, with a little warmth. “But I
think Mr. Dunwoodie has taken a liberty that exceeds the rights of
consanguinity; he has made our father’s house a hospital.”

“We ought to be grateful that none of the patients it contains are
dearer to us.”

“Your brother is one.”

“True, true,” interrupted Frances, blushing to the eyes; “but he leaves
his room, and thinks his wound lightly purchased by the pleasure of
being with his friends. If,” she added, with a tremulous lip, “this
dreadful suspicion that is affixed to his visit were removed, I could
consider his wound of little moment.”

“You now have the fruits of rebellion brought home to you; a brother
wounded and a prisoner, and perhaps a victim; your father distressed,
his privacy interrupted, and not improbably his estates torn from him,
on account of his loyalty to his king.”

Frances continued her walk in silence. While facing the northern
entrance to the vale, her eyes were uniformly fastened on the point
where the road was suddenly lost by the intervention of a hill; and at
each turn, as she lost sight of the spot, she lingered until an
impatient movement of her sister quickened her pace to an even motion
with that of her own. At length, a single horse chaise was seen making
its way carefully among the stones which lay scattered over the country
road that wound through the valley, and approached the cottage. The
color of Frances changed as the vehicle gradually drew nearer; and when
she was enabled to see a female form in it by the side of a black in
livery, her limbs shook with an agitation that compelled her to lean on
Sarah for support. In a few minutes the travelers approached the gate.
It was thrown open by a dragoon who followed the carriage, and who had
been the messenger dispatched by Dunwoodie to the father of Captain
Singleton. Miss Peyton advanced to receive their guest, and the sisters
united in giving her the kindest welcome; still Frances could with
difficulty withdraw her truant eyes from the countenance of their
visitor. She was young, and of a light and fragile form, but of
exquisite proportions. Her eyes were large, full, black, piercing, and
at times a little wild. Her hair was luxuriant, and as it was without
the powder it was then the fashion to wear, it fell in raven blackness.
A few of its locks had fallen on her cheek, giving its chilling
whiteness by the contrast a more deadly character. Dr. Sitgreaves
supported her from the chaise; and when she gained the floor of the
piazza, she turned an expressive look on the face of the practitioner.

“Your brother is out of danger and wishes to see you, Miss Singleton,”
said the surgeon.

The lady burst into a flood of tears. Frances had stood contemplating
the action and face of Isabella with a kind of uneasy admiration, but
she now sprang to her side with the ardor of a sister, and kindly
drawing her arm within her own, led the way to a retired room. The
movement was so ingenuous, so considerate, and so delicate, that even
Miss Peyton withheld her interference, following the youthful pair with
only her eyes and a smile of complacency. The feeling was communicated
to all the spectators, and they dispersed in pursuit of their usual
avocations. Isabella yielded to the gentle influence of Frances without
resistance; and, having gained the room where the latter conducted her,
wept in silence on the shoulder of the observant and soothing girl,
until Frances thought her tears exceeded the emotion natural to the
occasion. The sobs of Miss Singleton for a time were violent and
uncontrollable, until, with an evident exertion, she yielded to a kind
observation of her companion, and succeeded in suppressing her tears.
Raising her face to the eyes of Frances, she rose, while a smile of
beautiful radiance passed over her features; and making a hasty apology
for the excess of her emotion, she desired to be conducted to the room
of the invalid.

The meeting between the brother and sister was warm, but, by an effort
on the part of the lady, more composed than her previous agitation had
given reason to expect. Isabella found her brother looking better, and
in less danger than her sensitive imagination had led her to suppose.
Her spirits rose in proportion; from despondency, she passed to
something like gayety; her beautiful eyes sparkled with renovated
brilliancy; and her face was lighted with smiles so fascinating, that
Frances, who, in compliance with her earnest entreaties, had
accompanied her to the sick chamber, sat gazing on a countenance that
possessed so wonderful variability, impelled by a charm that was beyond
her control. The youth had thrown an earnest look at Frances, as soon
as his sister raised herself from his arms, and perhaps it was the
first glance at the lovely lineaments of our heroine, when the gazer
turned his eyes from the view in disappointment. He seemed bewildered,
rubbed his forehead like a man awaking from a dream, and mused.

“Where is Dunwoodie, Isabella?” he said. “The excellent fellow is never
weary of kind actions. After a day of such service as that of
yesterday, he has spent the night in bringing me a nurse, whose
presence alone is able to raise me from my couch.”

The expression of the lady’s countenance changed; her eye roved around
the apartment with a character of wildness in it that repelled the
anxious Frances, who studied her movements with unabated interest.

“Dunwoodie! Is he then not here? I thought to have met him by the side
of my brother’s bed.”

“He has duties that require his presence elsewhere; the English are
said to be out by the way of the Hudson, and they give us light troops
but little rest. Surely nothing else could have kept him so long from a
wounded friend. But, Isabella, the meeting has been too much for you;
you tremble.”

Isabella made no reply; she stretched her hand towards the table which
held the nourishment of the captain, and the attentive Frances
comprehended her wishes in a moment. A glass of water in some measure
revived the sister, who was enabled to say,—

“Doubtless it is his duty. ’Twas said above, a royal party was moving
on the river; though I passed the troops but two miles from this spot.”
The latter part of the sentence was hardly audible, and it was spoken
more in the manner of a soliloquy, than as if for the ears of her
companions.

“On the march, Isabella?” eagerly inquired her brother.

“No, dismounted, and seemingly at rest,” was the reply.

The wondering dragoon turned his gaze on the countenance of his sister,
who sat with her eye bent on the carpet in unconscious absence, but
found no explanation. His look was changed to the face of Frances, who,
startled by the earnestness of his expression, arose, and hastily
inquired if he would have any assistance.

“If you can pardon the rudeness,” said the wounded officer, making a
feeble effort to raise his body, “I would request to have Captain
Lawton’s company for a moment.”

Frances hastened instantly to communicate his wish to that gentleman,
and impelled by an interest she could not control, she returned again
to her seat by the side of Miss Singleton.

“Lawton,” said the youth, impatiently, as the trooper entered, “hear
you from the major?”

The eye of the sister was now bent on the face of the trooper, who made
his salutations to the lady with ease, blended with the frankness of a
soldier.

“His man has been here twice,” he said, “to inquire how we fared in the
lazaretto.”

“And why not himself?”

“That is a question the major can answer best; but you know the
redcoats are abroad, and Dunwoodie commands in the county; these
English must be looked to.”

“True,” said Singleton, slowly, as if struck with the other’s reasons.
“But how is it that you are idle, when there is work to do?”

“My sword arm is not in the best condition, and Roanoke has but a
shambling gait this morning; besides, there is another reason I could
mention, if it were not that Miss Wharton would never forgive me.”

“Speak, I beg, without dread of my displeasure,” said Frances,
returning the good-humored smile of the trooper, with the archness
natural to her own sweet face.

“The odors of your kitchen, then,” cried Lawton bluntly, “forbid my
quitting the domains, until I qualify myself to speak with more
certainty concerning the fatness of the land.”

“Oh! Aunt Jeanette is exerting herself to do credit to my father’s
hospitality,” said the laughing girl, “and I am a truant from her
labors, as I shall be a stranger to her favor, unless I proffer my
assistance.”

Frances withdrew to seek her aunt, musing deeply on the character and
extreme sensibility of the new acquaintance chance had brought to the
cottage.

The wounded officer followed her with his eyes, as she moved, with
infantile grace, through the door of his apartment, and as she vanished
from his view, he observed,—

“Such an aunt and niece are seldom to be met with, Jack; this seems a
fairy, but the aunt is angelic.”

“You are doing well, I see; your enthusiasm for the sex holds its own.”

“I should be ungrateful as well as insensible, did I not bear testimony
to the loveliness of Miss Peyton.”

“A good motherly lady, but as to love, that is a matter of taste. A few
years younger, with deference to her prudence and experience, would
accord better with my fancy.”

“She must be under twenty,” said the other, quickly.

“It depends on the way you count. If you begin at the heel of life,
well; but if you reckon downward, as is most common, I think she is
nearer forty.”

“You have mistaken an elder sister for the aunt,” said Isabella, laying
her fair hand on the mouth of the invalid. “You must be silent! Your
feelings are beginning to affect your frame.”

The entrance of Dr. Sitgreaves, who, in some alarm, noticed the
increase of feverish symptoms in his patient, enforced this mandate;
and the trooper withdrew to pay a visit of condolence to Roanoke, who
had been an equal sufferer with himself in their last night’s
somersault. To his great joy, his man pronounced the steed to be
equally convalescent with the master; and Lawton found that by dint of
rubbing the animal’s limbs several hours without ceasing, he was
enabled to place his feet in what he called systematic motion. Orders
were accordingly given to be in readiness to rejoin the troop at the
Four Corners, as soon as his master had shared in the bounty of the
approaching banquet.

In the meantime, Henry Wharton entered the apartment of Wellmere, and
by his sympathy succeeded in restoring the colonel to his own good
graces. The latter was consequently enabled to rise, and prepared to
meet a rival of whom he had spoken so lightly, and, as the result had
proved, with so little reason. Wharton knew that their misfortune, as
they both termed their defeat, was owing to the other’s rashness; but
he forbore to speak of anything except the unfortunate accident which
had deprived the English of their leader, and to which he
good-naturedly ascribed their subsequent discomfiture.

“In short, Wharton,” said the colonel, putting one leg out of bed, “it
may be called a combination of untoward events; your own ungovernable
horse prevented my orders from being carried to the major, in season to
flank the rebels.”

“Very true,” replied the captain, kicking a slipper towards the bed.
“Had we succeeded in getting a few good fires upon them in flank, we
should have sent these brave Virginians to the right about.”

“Aye, and that in double-quick time,” cried the colonel, making the
other leg follow its companion. “Then it was necessary to rout the
guides, you know, and the movement gave them the best possible
opportunity to charge.”

“Yes,” said the other, sending the second slipper after the first, “and
this Major Dunwoodie never overlooks an advantage.”

“I think if we had the thing to do over again,” continued the colonel,
raising himself on his feet, “we might alter the case very materially,
though the chief thing the rebels have now to boast of is my capture;
they were repulsed, you saw, in their attempt to drive us from the
wood.”

“At least they would have been, had they made an attack,” said the
captain, throwing the rest of his clothes within reach of the colonel.

“Why, that is the same thing,” returned Wellmere, beginning to dress
himself. “To assume such an attitude as to intimidate your enemy, is
the chief art of war.”

“Doubtless, then, you may remember in one of their charges they were
completely routed.”

“True—true,” cried the colonel, with animation. “Had I been there to
have improved that advantage, we might have turned the table on the
Yankees”; saying which he displayed still greater animation in
completing his toilet; and he was soon prepared to make his appearance,
fully restored to his own good opinion, and fairly persuaded that his
capture was owing to casualties absolutely beyond the control of man.

The knowledge that Colonel Wellmere was to be a guest at the table in
no degree diminished the preparations which were already making for the
banquet; and Sarah, after receiving the compliments of the gentleman,
and making many kind inquiries after the state of his wounds, proceeded
in person to lend her counsel and taste to one of those labored
entertainments, which, at that day, were so frequent in country life,
and which are not entirely banished from our domestic economy at the
present moment.




CHAPTER XIII.


I will stand to and feed,
Although my last.


—Tempest.


The savor of preparation which had been noticed by Captain Lawton began
to increase within the walls of the cottage; certain sweet-smelling
odors, that arose from the subterranean territories of Caesar, gave to
the trooper the most pleasing assurances that his olfactory nerves,
which on such occasions were as acute as his eyes on others, had
faithfully performed their duty; and for the benefit of enjoying the
passing sweets as they arose, the dragoon so placed himself at a window
of the building, that not a vapor charged with the spices of the East
could exhale on its passage to the clouds, without first giving its
incense to his nose. Lawton, however, by no means indulged himself in
this comfortable arrangement, without first making such preparations to
do meet honor to the feast, as his scanty wardrobe would allow. The
uniform of his corps was always a passport to the best tables, and
this, though somewhat tarnished by faithful service and unceremonious
usage, was properly brushed and decked out for the occasion. His head,
which nature had ornamented with the blackness of a crow, now shone
with the whiteness of snow; and his bony hand, that so well became the
saber, peered from beneath a ruffle with something like maiden coyness.
The improvements of the dragoon went no further, excepting that his
boots shone with more than holiday splendor, and his spurs glittered in
the rays of the sun, as became the pure ore of which they were
composed.

Caesar moved through the apartments with a face charged with an
importance exceeding even that which had accompanied him in his
melancholy task of the morning. The black had early returned from the
errand on which he had been dispatched by the peddler, and, obedient to
the commands of his mistress, promptly appeared to give his services
where his allegiance was due; so serious, indeed, was his duty now
becoming, that it was only at odd moments he was enabled to impart to
his sable brother, who had been sent in attendance on Miss Singleton to
the Locusts, any portion of the wonderful incidents of the momentous
night he had so lately passed. By ingeniously using, however, such
occasions as accidentally offered, Caesar communicated so many of the
heads of his tale, as served to open the eyes of his visitor to their
fullest width. The gusto for the marvelous was innate in these sable
worthies; and Miss Peyton found it necessary to interpose her
authority, in order to postpone the residue of the history to a more
befitting opportunity.

“Ah! Miss Jinnett,” said Caesar, shaking his head, and looking all that
he expressed, “’twas awful to see Johnny Birch walk on a feet when he
lie dead!”

This concluded the conversation; though the black promised himself the
satisfaction, and did not fail to enjoy it, of having many a gossip on
the subject at a future period.

The ghost thus happily laid, the department of Miss Peyton flourished;
and by the time the afternoon’s sun had traveled a two hours’ journey
from the meridian, the formal procession from the kitchen to the parlor
commenced, under the auspices of Caesar, who led the van, supporting a
turkey on the palms of his withered hands, with the dexterity of a
balance master.

Next followed the servant of Captain Lawton, bearing, as he marched
stiffly, and walking wide, as if allowing room for his steed, a ham of
true Virginian flavor; a present from the spinster’s brother in
Accomac. The supporter of this savory dish kept his eye on his trust
with military precision; and by the time he reached his destination, it
might be difficult to say which contained the most juice, his own mouth
or the Accomac bacon.

Third in the line was to be seen the valet of Colonel Wellmere, who
carried in either hand chickens fricasseed and oyster patties.

After him marched the attendant of Dr. Sitgreaves, who had
instinctively seized an enormous tureen, as most resembling matters he
understood, and followed on in place, until the steams of the soup so
completely bedimmed the spectacles he wore, as a badge of office, that,
on arriving at the scene of action, he was compelled to deposit his
freight on the floor, until, by removing the glasses, he could see his
way through the piles of reserved china and plate warmers.

Next followed another trooper, whose duty it was to attend on Captain
Singleton; and, as if apportioning his appetite to the feeble state of
his master, he had contented himself with conveying a pair of ducks,
roasted, until their tempting fragrance began to make him repent his
having so lately demolished a breakfast that had been provided for his
master’s sister, with another prepared for himself.

The white boy, who belonged to the house, brought up the rear, groaning
under a load of sundry dishes of vegetables, that the cook, by way of
climax, had unwittingly heaped on him.

But this was far from all of the preparations for that day’s feast;
Caesar had no sooner deposited his bird, which, but the week before,
had been flying amongst the highlands of Dutchess, little dreaming of
so soon heading such a goodly assemblage, than he turned mechanically
on his heel, and took up his line of march again for the kitchen. In
this evolution the black was imitated by his companions in succession,
and another procession to the parlor followed in the same order. By
this admirable arrangement, whole flocks of pigeons, certain bevies of
quails, shoals of flatfish, bass, and sundry woodcock, found their way
into the presence of the company.

A third attack brought suitable quantities of potatoes, onions, beets,
coldslaw, rice, and all the other minutiae of a goodly dinner.

The board now fairly groaned with American profusion, and Caesar,
glancing his eye over the show with a most approving conscience, after
readjusting every dish that had not been placed on the table with his
own hands, proceeded to acquaint the mistress of the revels that his
task was happily accomplished.

Some half hour before the culinary array just recorded took place, all
the ladies disappeared, much in the same unaccountable manner that
swallows flee the approach of winter. But the springtime of their
return had arrived, and the whole party were collected in an apartment
that, in consequence of its containing no side table, and being
furnished with a chintz coverlet settee, was termed a withdrawing-room.

The kind-hearted spinster had deemed the occasion worthy, not only of
extraordinary preparations in the culinary department, but had seen
proper to deck her own person in garments suited to the guests whom it
was now her happiness to entertain.

On her head Miss Peyton wore a cap of exquisite lawn, which was
ornamented in front with a broad border of lace, that spread from the
face in such a manner as to admit of a display of artificial flowers,
clustered in a group on the summit of her fine forehead.

The color of her hair was lost in the profusion of powder with which it
was covered; but a slight curling of the extremities in some degree
relieved the formality of its arrangement, and gave a look of feminine
softness to the features.

Her dress was a rich, heavy silk, of violet color, cut low around the
bust, with a stomacher of the same material, that fitted close to the
figure, and exhibited the form, from the shoulders to the waist in its
true proportions. Below, the dress was full, and sufficiently showed
that parsimony in attire was not a foible of the day. A small loop
displayed the beauty of the fabric to advantage, and aided in giving
majesty to the figure.

The tall stature of the lady was heightened by shoes of the same
material with the dress, whose heels added more than an inch to the
liberality of nature.

The sleeves were short, and close to the limb, until they fell off at
the elbows in large ruffles, that hung in rich profusion from the arm
when extended; and duplicates and triplicates of lawn, trimmed with
Dresden lace, lent their aid in giving delicacy to a hand and arm that
yet retained their whiteness and symmetry. A treble row of large pearls
closely encircled her throat; and a handkerchief of lace partially
concealed that part of the person that the silk had left exposed, but
which the experience of forty years had warned Miss Peyton should now
be veiled.

Thus attired, and standing erect with the lofty grace that
distinguished the manners of that day, the maiden would have looked
into nothingness a bevy of modern belles.

The taste of Sarah had kept even pace with the decorations of her aunt;
and a dress, differing in no respect from the one just described, but
in material and tints, exhibited her imposing form to equal advantage.
The satin of her robe was of a pale bluish color. Twenty years did not,
however, require the screen that was prudent in forty, and nothing but
an envious border of exquisite lace hid, in some measure, what the
satin left exposed to view. The upper part of the bust, and the fine
fall of the shoulders, were blazing in all their native beauty, and,
like the aunt, the throat was ornamented by a treble row of pearls, to
correspond with which were rings of the same quality in the ears. The
head was without a cap, and the hair drawn up from the countenance so
as to give to the eye all the loveliness of a forehead as polished as
marble and as white as snow. A few straggling curls fell gracefully on
the neck, and a bouquet of artificial flowers was also placed, like a
coronet, over her brow.

Miss Singleton had resigned her brother to the advice of Dr.
Sitgreaves, who had succeeded in getting his patient into a deep sleep
after quieting certain feverish symptoms that followed the agitation of
the interview. The sister was persuaded, by the observant mistress of
the mansion, to make one of the party, and she sat by the side of
Sarah, differing but little in appearance from that lady, except in
refusing the use of powder on her raven locks, and that her unusually
high forehead and large, brilliant eyes gave an expression of
thoughtfulness to her features, that was possibly heightened by the
paleness of her cheek.

Last and least, but not the most unlovely, in this display of female
charms, was the youngest daughter of Mr. Wharton. Frances, we have
already mentioned, left the city before she had attained to the age of
fashionable womanhood. A few adventurous spirits were already beginning
to make inroads in those customs which had so long invaded the comforts
of the fair sex; and the youthful girl had ventured to trust her beauty
to the height which nature had bestowed. This was but little, but that
little was a masterpiece. Frances several times had determined, in the
course of the morning, to bestow more than usual pains in the
decoration of her person. Each time in succession, as she formed this
resolution, she spent a few minutes in looking earnestly towards the
north, and then she as invariably changed it.

At the appointed hour, our heroine appeared in the drawing-room,
clothed in a robe of pale blue silk, of a cut and fashion much like
that worn by her sister. Her hair was left to the wild curls of nature,
its exuberance being confined to the crown of her head by a long, low
comb, made of light tortoise shell; a color barely distinguishable in
the golden hue of her tresses. Her dress was without a plait or a
wrinkle, and fitted the form with an exactitude that might lead one to
imagine the arch girl more than suspected the beauties it displayed. A
tucker of rich Dresden lace softened the contour of the figure. Her
head was without ornament; but around her throat was a necklace of gold
clasped in front with a rich cornelian.

Once, and once only, as they moved towards the repast, did Lawton see a
foot thrust itself from beneath the folds of her robe, and exhibit its
little beauties encased in a slipper of blue silk, clasped close to the
shape by a buckle of brilliants. The trooper caught himself sighing as
he thought, though it was good for nothing in the stirrup, how
enchantingly it would grace a minuet.

As the black appeared on the threshold of the room, making a low
reverence, which has been interpreted for some centuries into “dinner
waits,” Mr. Wharton, clad in a dress of drab, bedecked with enormous
buttons, advanced formally to Miss Singleton, and bending his powdered
head nearly to the level of the hand he extended, received hers in
return.

Dr. Sitgreaves offered the same homage to Miss Peyton, and met with
equal favor; the lady first pausing to draw on her gloves.

Colonel Wellmere was honored with a smile from Sarah, while performing
a similar duty; and Frances gave the ends of her taper fingers to
Captain Lawton with maiden bashfulness.

Much time, and some trouble were expended before the whole party were,
to the great joy of Caesar, comfortably arranged around the table, with
proper attention to all points of etiquette and precedence. The black
well knew the viands were not improving; and though abundantly able to
comprehend the disadvantage of eating a cold dinner, it greatly
exceeded his powers of philosophy to weigh all the latent consequences
to society which depend on social order.

For the first ten minutes all but the captain of dragoons found
themselves in a situation much to their liking. Even Lawton would have
been perfectly happy, had not excess of civility on the part of his
host and Miss Jeanette Peyton kept him from the more agreeable
occupation of tasting dishes he did want, in order to decline those he
did not. At length, however, the repast was fairly commenced, and a
devoted application to the viands was more eloquent than a thousand
words in favor of Dinah’s skill.

Next came drinking with the ladies; but as the wine was excellent, and
the glasses ample, the trooper bore this interruption with consummate
good nature. Nay, so fearful was he of giving offense, and of omitting
any of the nicer points of punctilio, that having commenced this
courtesy with the lady who sat next him, he persevered until not one of
his fair companions could, with justice, reproach him with partiality
in this particular.

Long abstemiousness from anything like generous wine might plead the
excuse of Captain Lawton, especially when exposed to so strong a
temptation as that now before him. Mr. Wharton had been one of a set of
politicians in New York, whose principal exploits before the war had
been to assemble, and pass sage opinions on the signs of the times,
under the inspiration of certain liquor made from a grape that grew on
the south side of the island of Madeira, and which found its way into
the colonies of North America through the medium of the West Indies,
sojourning awhile in the Western Archipelago, by way of proving the
virtues of the climate. A large supply of this cordial had been drawn
from his storehouse in the city, and some of it now sparkled in a
bottle before the captain, blushing in the rays of the sun, which were
passing obliquely through it, like amber.

Though the meat and vegetables had made their entrance with perfect
order and propriety, their exeunt was effected much in the manner of a
retreat of militia. The point was to clear the board something after
the fabled practice of the harpies, and by dint of scrambling, tossing,
breaking, and spilling, the remnants of the overflowing repast
disappeared. And now another series of processions commenced, by virtue
of which a goodly display of pastry, with its usual accompaniments,
garnished the table.

Mr. Wharton poured out a glass of wine for the lady who sat on his
right hand, and, pushing the bottle to a guest, said with a low bow,—

“We are to be honored with a toast from Miss Singleton.”

Although there was nothing more in this movement than occurred every
day on such occasions, yet the lady trembled, colored, and grew pale
again, seemingly endeavoring to rally her thoughts, until, by her
agitation, she had excited the interest of the whole party; when by an
effort, and in a manner as if she had striven in vain to think of
another, Isabella said, faintly,—

“Major Dunwoodie.”

The health was drunk cheerfully by all but Colonel Wellmere, who wet
his lips, and drew figures on the table with some of the liquor he had
spilled.

At length Colonel Wellmere broke silence by saying aloud to Captain
Lawton,—

“I suppose, sir, this Mr. Dunwoodie will receive promotion in the rebel
army, for the advantage my misfortune gave him over my command.”

The trooper had supplied the wants of nature to his perfect
satisfaction; and, perhaps, with the exception of Washington and his
immediate commander, there was no mortal whose displeasure he regarded
a tittle. First helping himself, therefore, to a little of his favorite
bottle, he replied with admirable coolness,—

“Colonel Wellmere, your pardon; Major Dunwoodie owes his allegiance to
the confederated states of North America, and where he owes it he pays
it. Such a man is no rebel. Promoted I hope he may be, both because he
deserves it, and because I am next in rank in the corps; and I know not
what you call a misfortune, unless you deem meeting the Virginia horse
as such.”

“We will not differ about terms, sir,” said the colonel, haughtily. “I
spoke as duty to my sovereign prompted; but do you not call the loss of
a commander a misfortune to a party?”

“It certainly may be so,” said the trooper, with emphasis.

“Miss Peyton, will you favor us with a toast?” cried the master of the
house, anxious to stop this dialogue.

The lady bowed her head with dignity, as she named “General Montrose”;
and the long-absent bloom stole lightly over her features.

“There is no term more doubtful than that word misfortune,” said the
surgeon, regardless of the nice maneuvers of the host. “Some deem one
thing a misfortune, others its opposite; misfortune begets misfortune.
Life is a misfortune, for it may be the means of enduring misfortune;
and death is a misfortune, as it abridges the enjoyments of life.”

“It is a misfortune that our mess has no such wine as this,”
interrupted the trooper.

“We will pledge you a sentiment in it, sir, as it seems to suit your
taste,” said Mr. Wharton.

Lawton filled to the brim, and drank, “A speedy peace, or a stirring
war.”

“I drink your toast, Captain Lawton, though I greatly distrust your
construction of activity,” said the surgeon. “In my poor judgment,
cavalry should be kept in the rear to improve a victory, and not sent
in front to gain it. Such may be said to be their natural occupation,
if the term can be used in reference to so artificial a body; for all
history shows that the horse have done most when held in reserve.”

This dissertation, uttered in a sufficiently didactic manner, was a
hint that Miss Peyton did not neglect. She arose and retired, followed
by her juniors.

Nearly at the same moment, Mr. Wharton and his son made an apology for
their absence, which was required on account of the death of a near
neighbor, and withdrew.

The retreat of the ladies was the signal for the appearance of the
surgeon’s cigar, which, being established in a corner of his mouth, in
a certain knowing way, caused not the slightest interruption to his
discourse.

“If anything can sweeten captivity and wounds, it must be the happiness
of suffering in the society of the ladies who have left us,” gallantly
observed the colonel, as he resumed his seat after closing the door.

“Sympathy and kindness have their influence on the human system,”
returned the surgeon, knocking the ashes from his cigar, with the tip
of a little finger, in the manner of an adept. “The connection is
intimate between the moral and physical feelings; but still, to
accomplish a cure, and restore nature to the healthy tone it has lost
from disease or accident, requires more than can flow from unguided
sympathies. In such cases, the lights—” the surgeon accidentally caught
the eye of the trooper and he paused. Taking two or three hasty puffs,
he essayed to finish the sentence, “In such cases, the knowledge that
flows from the lights—”

“You were saying, sir,” said Colonel Wellmere, sipping his wine,—

“The purport of my remark went to say,” continued Sitgreaves, turning
his back on Lawton, “that a bread poultice would not set a broken arm.”

“More is the pity,” cried the trooper, “for next to eating, the
nourishment could not be more innocently applied.”

“To you, Colonel Wellmere,” said the surgeon, “as a man of education, I
can with safety appeal.” The colonel bowed. “You must have observed the
dreadful havoc made in your ranks by the men who were led by this
gentleman”; the colonel looked grave, again; “how, when blows lighted
on their frames, life was invariably extinguished, beyond all hope of
scientific reparation; how certain yawning wounds were inflicted, that
must set at defiance the art of the most experienced practitioner; now,
sir, to you I triumphantly appeal, therefore, to know whether your
detachment would not have been as effectually defeated, if the men had
all lost a right arm, for instance, as if they had all lost their
heads.”

“The triumph of your appeal is somewhat hasty, sir,” said Wellmere.

“Is the cause of liberty advanced a step by such injudicious harshness
in the field?” continued the surgeon, bent on the favorite principle of
his life.

“I am yet to learn that the cause of liberty is in any manner advanced
by the services of any gentleman in the rebel army,” rejoined the
colonel.

“Not liberty! Good God, for what then are we contending?”

“Slavery, sir; yes, even slavery; you are putting the tyranny of a mob
on the throne of a kind and lenient prince. Where is the consistency of
your boasted liberty?”

“Consistency!” repeated the surgeon, looking about him a little wildly,
at hearing such sweeping charges against a cause he had so long thought
holy.

“Aye, sir, your consistency. Your congress of sages have published a
manifesto, wherein they set forth the equality of political rights.”

“’Tis true, and it is done most ably.”

“I say nothing of its ability; but if true, why not set your slaves at
liberty?” This argument, which is thought by most of the colonel’s
countrymen a triumphant answer to a thousand eloquent facts, lost none
of its weight by the manner in which it was uttered.

Every American feels humbled at the necessity of vindicating his
country from the apparent inconsistency and injustice of the laws
alluded to. His feelings are much like those of an honorable man who is
compelled to exonerate himself from a disgraceful charge, although he
may know the accusation to be false. At the bottom, Sitgreaves had much
good sense, and thus called on, he took up the cudgels of argument in
downright earnest.

“We deem it a liberty to have the deciding voice in the councils by
which we are governed. We think it a hardship to be ruled by the king
of a people who live at a distance of three thousand miles, and who
cannot, and who do not, feel a single political interest in common with
ourselves. I say nothing of oppression; the child was of age, and was
entitled to the privileges of majority. In such cases, there is but one
tribunal to which to appeal for a nation’s rights—it is power, and we
now make the appeal.”

“Such doctrines may suit your present purposes,” said Wellmere, with a
sneer; “but I apprehend it is opposed to all the opinions and practices
of civilized nations.”

“It is in conformity with the practices of all nations,” said the
surgeon, returning the nod and smile of Lawton, who enjoyed the good
sense of his comrade as much as he disliked what he called “his medical
talk.” “Who would be ruled when he can rule? The only rational ground
to take is, that every community has a right to govern itself, so that
in no manner it violates the laws of God.”

“And is holding your fellow creatures in bondage in conformity to those
laws?” asked the colonel, impressively.

The surgeon took another glass, and hemming once, returned to the
combat.

“Sir,” said he, “slavery is of very ancient origin, and it seems to
have been confined to no particular religion or form of government;
every nation of civilized Europe does, or has held their fellow
creatures in this kind of _duresse_.”

“You will except Great Britain,” cried the colonel, proudly.

“No, sir,” continued the surgeon, confidently, feeling that he was now
carrying the war out of his own country, “I cannot except Great
Britain. It was her children, her ships, and her laws, that first
introduced the practice into these states; and on her institutions the
judgment must fall. There is not a foot of ground belonging to England,
in which a negro would be useful, that has not its slave. England
herself has none, but England is overflowing with physical force, a
part of which she is obliged to maintain in the shape of paupers. The
same is true of France, and most other European countries. So long as
we were content to remain colonies, nothing was said of our system of
domestic slavery; but now, when we are resolute to obtain as much
freedom as the vicious system of metropolitan rule has left us, that
which is England’s gift has become our reproach. Will your master
liberate the slaves of his subjects should he succeed in subduing the
new states, or will he condemn the whites to the same servitude as that
in which he has been so long content to see the blacks? It is true, we
continue the practice; but we must come gradually to the remedy, or
create an evil greater than that which we endure at present. Doubtless,
as we advance, the manumission of our slaves will accompany us, until
happily these fair regions shall exist, without a single image of the
Creator that is held in a state which disqualifies him to judge of that
Creator’s goodness.”

It will be remembered that Doctor Sitgreaves spoke forty years ago, and
Wellmere was unable to contradict his prophetic assertion.

Finding the subject getting to be knotty, the Englishman retired to the
apartment in which the ladies had assembled; and, seated by the side of
Sarah, he found a more pleasing employment in relating the events of
fashionable life in the metropolis, and in recalling the thousand
little anecdotes of their former associates. Miss Peyton was a pleased
listener, as she dispensed the bounties of the tea table, and Sarah
frequently bowed her blushing countenance to her needlework, as her
face glowed at the flattering remarks of her companion.

The dialogue we have related established a perfect truce between the
surgeon and his comrade; and the former having paid a visit to
Singleton, they took their leave of the ladies, and mounted; the former
to visit the wounded at the encampment, and the latter to rejoin his
troop. But their movements were arrested at the gate by an occurrence
that we shall relate in the next chapter.




CHAPTER XIV.


I see no more those white locks thinly spread
Round the bald polish of that honored head:
No more that meek, that suppliant look in prayer,
Nor that pure faith that gave it force, are there:
But he is blest, and I lament no more,
A wise good man, contented to be poor.


—CRABBE.


We have already said that the customs of America leave the dead but a
short time in sight of the mourners; and the necessity of providing for
his own safety had compelled the peddler to abridge even this brief
space. In the confusion and agitation produced by the events we have
recorded, the death of the elder Birch had occurred unnoticed; but a
sufficient number of the immediate neighbors were hastily collected,
and the ordinary rites of sepulture were now about to be paid to the
deceased. It was the approach of this humble procession that arrested
the movements of the trooper and his comrade. Four men supported the
body on a rude bier; and four others walked in advance, ready to
relieve their friends from their burden. The peddler walked next the
coffin, and by his side moved Katy Haynes, with a most determined
aspect of woe, and next to the mourners came Mr. Wharton and the
English captain. Two or three old men and women, with a few straggling
boys, brought up the rear. Captain Lawton sat in his saddle, in rigid
silence, until the bearers came opposite to his position, and then, for
the first time, Harvey raised his eyes from the ground, and saw the
enemy that he dreaded so near him. The first impulse of the peddler was
certainly flight; but recovering his recollection, he fixed his eye on
the coffin of his parent, and passed the dragoon with a firm step but
swelling heart. The trooper slowly lifted his cap, and continued
uncovered until Mr. Wharton and his son had moved by, when, accompanied
by the surgeon, he rode leisurely in the rear, maintaining an
inflexible silence.

Caesar emerged from the cellar kitchen of the cottage, and with a face
of settled solemnity, added himself to the number of the followers of
the funeral, though with a humble mien and at a most respectful
distance from the horsemen. The old negro had placed around his arm, a
little above the elbow, a napkin of unsullied whiteness, it being the
only time since his departure from the city that he had enjoyed an
opportunity of exhibiting himself in the garniture of servile mourning.
He was a great lover of propriety, and had been a little stimulated to
this display by a desire to show his sable friend from Georgia all the
decencies of a New York funeral; and the ebullition of his zeal went
off very well, producing no other result than a mild lecture from Miss
Peyton at his return, on the fitness of things. The attendance of the
black was thought well enough in itself; but the napkin was deemed a
superfluous exhibition of ceremony, at the funeral of a man who had
performed all the menial offices in his own person.

The graveyard was an inclosure on the grounds of Mr. Wharton, which had
been fenced with stone and set apart for the purpose, by that
gentleman, some years before. It was not, however, intended as a burial
place for any of his own family. Until the fire, which raged as the
British troops took possession of New York, had laid Trinity in ashes,
a goodly gilded tablet on its walls proclaimed the virtues of his
deceased parents, and beneath a flag of marble, in one of the aisles of
the church, their bones were left to molder in aristocratical repose.
Captain Lawton made a movement as if he was disposed to follow the
procession, when it left the highway, to enter the field which
contained the graves of the humble dead, but he was recalled to
recollection by a hint from his companion that he was taking the wrong
road.

“Of all the various methods which have been adopted by man for the
disposal of his earthly remains, which do you prefer, Captain Lawton?”
said the surgeon, as they separated from the little procession. “In
some countries the body is exposed to be devoured by wild beasts; in
others it is suspended in the air to exhale its substance in the manner
of decomposition; in other regions it is consumed on the funeral pile,
and, again, it is inhumed in the bowels of the earth; every people have
their own particular fashion, and to which do you give the preference?”

“All are agreeable,” said the trooper, following the group they had
left with his eyes; “though the speediest interments give the cleanest
fields. Of which are you an admirer?”

“The last, as practiced by ourselves, for the other three are
destructive of all the opportunities for dissection; whereas, in the
last, the coffin can lie in peaceful decency, while the remains are
made to subserve the useful purposes of science. Ah! Captain Lawton, I
enjoy comparatively but few opportunities of such a nature, to what I
expected on entering the army.”

“To what may these pleasures numerically amount in a year?” said the
captain, withdrawing his gaze from the graveyard.

“Within a dozen, upon my honor; my best picking is when the corps is
detached; for when we are with the main army, there are so many boys to
be satisfied, that I seldom get a good subject. Those youngsters are as
wasteful as prodigals, and as greedy as vultures.”

“A dozen!” echoed the trooper, in surprise. “Why, I furnish you that
number with my own hands.”

“Ah! Jack,” returned the doctor, approaching the subject with great
tenderness of manner, “it is seldom I can do anything with your
patients; you disfigure them woefully. Believe me, John, when I tell
you as a friend that your system is all wrong; you unnecessarily
destroy life, and then you injure the body so that it is unfit for the
only use that can be made of a dead man.”

The trooper maintained a silence, which he thought would be the most
probable means of preserving peace between them; and the surgeon,
turning his head from taking a last look at the burial, as they rode
around the foot of the hill that shut the valley from their sight,
continued with a suppressed sigh,—

“One might get a natural death from that graveyard to-night, if there
was but time and opportunity! The patient must be the father of the
lady we saw this morning.”

“The petticoat doctor!—she with the aurora borealis complexion,” said
the trooper, with a smile, that began to cause uneasiness to his
companion. “But the lady was not the gentleman’s daughter, only his
medico-petticoat attendant; and the Harvey, whose name was made to rime
with every word in her song, is the renowned peddler spy.”

“What? He who unhorsed you?”

“No man ever unhorsed me, Dr. Sitgreaves,” said the dragoon, gravely.
“I fell by mischance of Roanoke; rider and beast kissed the earth
together.”

“A warm embrace, from the love spots it left on your cuticle; ’tis a
thousand pities that you cannot find where the tattling rascal lies
hid.”

“He followed his father’s body.”

“And you let him pass!” cried the surgeon, checking his horse. “Let us
return immediately, and take him; to-morrow you shall have him hanged,
Jack,—and, damn him, I’ll dissect him!”

“Softly, softly, my dear Archibald. Would you arrest a man while paying
the last offices to a dead father? Leave him to me, and I pledge myself
he shall have justice.”

The doctor muttered his dissatisfaction at any postponement of
vengeance, but he was compelled to acquiesce, from a regard to his
reputation for propriety; and they continued their ride to the quarters
of the corps, engaged in various discussions concerning the welfare of
the human body.

Birch supported the grave and collected manner that was thought
becoming in a male mourner, on such occasions, and to Katy was left the
part of exhibiting the tenderness of the softer sex. There are some
people, whose feelings are of such nature that they cannot weep unless
it be in proper company, and the spinster was a good deal addicted to
this congregational virtue. After casting her eyes around the small
assemblage, the housekeeper found the countenances of the few females,
who were present, fixed on her in solemn expectation, and the effect
was instantaneous; the maiden really wept, and she gained no
inconsiderable sympathy, and some reputation for a tender heart, from
the spectators. The muscles of the peddler’s face were seen to move,
and as the first clod of earth fell on the tenement of his father,
sending up that dull, hollow sound that speaks so eloquently the
mortality of man, his whole frame was for an instant convulsed. He bent
his body down, as if in pain, his fingers worked while the hands hung
lifeless by his side, and there was an expression in his countenance
that seemed to announce a writhing of the soul; but it was not
unresisted, and it was transient. He stood erect, drew a long breath,
and looked around him with an elevated face, that even seemed to smile
with a consciousness of having obtained the mastery. The grave was soon
filled; a rough stone, placed at either extremity, marked its position,
and the turf, whose faded vegetation was adapted to the fortunes of the
deceased, covered the little hillock with the last office of
seemliness. This office ended, the neighbors, who had officiously
pressed forward to offer their services in performing their solemn
duty, paused, and lifting their hats, stood looking towards the
mourner, who now felt himself to be really alone in the world.
Uncovering his head also, the peddler hesitated a moment, to gather
energy, and spoke.

“My friends and neighbors,” he said, “I thank you for assisting me to
bury my dead out of my sight.”

A solemn pause succeeded the customary address, and the group dispersed
in silence, some few walking with the mourners back to their own
habitation, but respectfully leaving them at its entrance. The peddler
and Katy were followed into the building by one man, however, who was
well known to the surrounding country by the significant term of “a
speculator.” Katy saw him enter, with a heart that palpitated with
dreadful forebodings, but Harvey civilly handed him a chair, and
evidently was prepared for the visit.

The peddler went to the door, and, taking a cautious glance about the
valley, quickly returned, and commenced the following dialogue:—

“The sun has just left the top of the eastern hill; my time presses me:
here is the deed for the house and lot; everything is done according to
law.”

The other took the paper, and conned its contents with a deliberation
that proceeded partly from his caution, and partly from the unlucky
circumstance of his education having been much neglected when a youth.
The time occupied in this tedious examination was employed by Harvey in
gathering together certain articles which he intended to include in the
stores that were to leave the habitation with himself. Katy had already
inquired of the peddler whether the deceased had left a will; and she
saw the Bible placed in the bottom of a new pack, which she had made
for his accommodation, with a most stoical indifference; but as the six
silver spoons were laid carefully by its side, a sudden twinge of her
conscience objected to such a palpable waste of property, and she broke
silence.

“When you marry, Harvey, you may miss those spoons.”

“I never shall marry.”

“Well, if you don’t there’s no occasion to make rash promises, even to
yourself. One never knows what one may do, in such a case. I should
like to know, of what use so many spoons can be to a single man; for my
part, I think it is a duty for every man who is well provided, to have
a wife and family to maintain.”

At the time when Katy expressed this sentiment, the fortune of women in
her class of life consisted of a cow, a bed, the labors of their own
hands in the shape of divers pillowcases, blankets, and sheets, with,
where fortune was unusually kind, a half dozen silver spoons. The
spinster herself had obtained all the other necessaries by her own
industry and prudence, and it can easily be imagined that she saw the
articles she had long counted her own vanish in the enormous pack, with
a dissatisfaction that was in no degree diminished by the declaration
that had preceded the act. Harvey, however, disregarded her opinions
and feelings, and continued his employment of filling the pack, which
soon grew to something like the ordinary size of the peddler’s burden.

“I’m rather timersome about this conveyance,” said the purchaser,
having at length waded through the covenants of the deed.

“Why so?”

“I’m afraid it won’t stand good in law. I know that two of the
neighbors leave home to-morrow morning, to have the place entered for
confiscation; and if I should give forty pounds, and lose it all,
’twould be a dead pull back to me.”

“They can only take my right,” said the peddler. “Pay me two hundred
dollars, and the house is yours; you are a well-known Whig, and you at
least they won’t trouble.” As Harvey spoke, there was a strange
bitterness of manner, mingled with the shrewd care he expressed
concerning the sale of his property.

“Say one hundred, and it is a bargain,” returned the man, with a grin
that he meant for a good-natured smile.

“A bargain!” echoed the peddler, in surprise. “I thought the bargain
already made.”

“Nothing is a bargain,” said the purchaser, with a chuckle, “until
papers are delivered, and the money paid in hand.”

“You have the paper.”

“Aye, and will keep it, if you will excuse the money. Come, say one
hundred and fifty, and I won’t be hard; here—here is just the money.”

The peddler looked from the window, and saw with dismay that the
evening was fast advancing, and knew well that he endangered his life
by remaining in the dwelling after dark; yet he could not tolerate the
idea of being defrauded in this manner, in a bargain that had already
been fairly made; he hesitated.

“Well,” said the purchaser, rising, “mayhap you can find another man to
trade with between this and morning, but if you don’t, your title won’t
be worth much afterwards.”

“Take it, Harvey,” said Katy, who felt it impossible to resist a tender
like the one before her; for the purchase money was in English guineas.
Her voice roused the peddler, and a new idea seemed to strike him.

“I agree to the price,” he said; and, turning to the spinster, he
placed part of the money in her hand, as he continued, “Had I other
means to pay you, I would have lost all, rather than suffer myself to
be defrauded of part.”

“You may lose all yet,” muttered the stranger, with a sneer, as he rose
and left the building.

“Yes,” said Katy, following him with her eyes, “he knows your failing,
Harvey; he thinks with me, now the old gentleman is gone, you will want
a careful body to take care of your concerns.”

The peddler was busied in making arrangements for his departure, and he
took no notice of this insinuation, while the spinster returned again
to the attack. She had lived so many years in expectation of a
termination to her hopes, so different from that which now seemed
likely to occur, that the idea of separation began to give her more
uneasiness than she had thought herself capable of feeling, about a man
so destitute and friendless.

“Have you another house to go to?” inquired Katy.

“Providence will provide me with a home.”

“Yes,” said the housekeeper, “but maybe ’twill not be to your liking.”

“The poor must not be difficult.”

“I’m sure I’m anything but a difficult body,” cried the spinster, very
hastily; “but I love to see things becoming, and in their places; yet I
wouldn’t be hard to persuade to leave this place myself. I can’t say I
altogether like the ways of the people hereabouts.”

“The valley is lovely,” said the peddler, with fervor, “and the people
like all the race of man. But to me it matters nothing; all places are
now alike, and all faces equally strange.” As he spoke he dropped the
article he was packing from his hand, and seated himself on a chest,
with a look of vacant misery.

“Not so, not so,” said Katy, shoving her chair nearer to the place
where the peddler sat. “Not so, Harvey, you must know me at least; my
face cannot be strange to you.”

Birch turned his eyes slowly on her countenance, which exhibited more
of feeling, and less of self, than he had ever seen there before; he
took her hand kindly, and his own features lost some of their painful
expression, as he said,—

“Yes, good woman, you, at least, are not a stranger to me; you may do
me partial justice; when others revile me possibly your feelings may
lead you to say something in my defense.”

“That I will; that I would!” said Katy, eagerly. “I will defend you,
Harvey, to the last drop; let me hear them that dare to revile you! You
say true, Harvey, I am partial and just to you; what if you do like the
king? I have often heard it said he was at the bottom a good man; but
there’s no religion in the old country, for everybody allows the
ministers are desperate bad!”

The peddler paced the floor in evident distress of mind; his eyes had a
look of wildness that Katy had never witnessed before, and his step was
measured, with a dignity that appalled the housekeeper.

“While my father lived,” murmured Harvey, unable to smother his
feelings, “there was one who read my heart, and oh! what a consolation
to return from my secret marches of danger, and the insults and wrongs
that I suffered, to receive his blessing and his praise; but he is
gone,” he continued, stopping and gazing wildly towards the corner that
used to hold the figure of his parent, “and who is there to do me
justice?”

“Why, Harvey! Harvey!”

“Yes, there is one who will, who must know me before I die! Oh! it is
dreadful to die, and leave such a name behind me.”

“Don’t talk of dying, Harvey,” said the spinster, glancing her eye
around the room, and pushing the wood in the fire to obtain a light
from the blaze.

The ebullition of feeling in the peddler was over. It had been excited
by the events of the past day, and a vivid perception of his
sufferings. It was not long, however, that passion maintained an
ascendency ever the reason of this singular man; and perceiving that
the night had already thrown an obscurity around objects without doors,
he hastily threw his pack over his shoulders, and taking Katy kindly by
the hand, in leavetaking,—

“It is painful to part with even you, good woman,” he said, “but the
hour has come, and I must go. What is left in the house is yours; to me
it could be of no use, and it may serve to make you more comfortable.
Farewell—we shall meet hereafter.”

“In the regions of darkness!” cried a voice that caused the peddler to
sink on the chest from which he had risen, in despair.

“What! another pack, Mr. Birch, and so well stuffed so soon!”

“Have you not done evil enough?” cried the peddler, regaining his
firmness, and springing on his feet with energy. “Is it not enough to
harass the last moments of a dying man—to impoverish me; what more
would you have?”

“Your blood!” said the Skinner, with cool malignity.

“And for money,” cried Harvey, bitterly. “Like the ancient Judas, you
would grow rich with the price of blood!”

“Aye, and a fair price it is, my gentleman; fifty guineas; nearly the
weight of that carcass of yours in gold.”

“Here,” said Katy, promptly, “here are fifteen guineas, and these
drawers and this bed are all mine; if you will give Harvey but one
hour’s start from the door, they shall be yours.”

“One hour?” said the Skinner, showing his teeth, and looking with a
longing eye at the money.

“But a single hour; here, take the money.”

“Hold!” cried Harvey. “Put no faith in the miscreant.”

“She may do what she pleases with her faith,” said the Skinner, with
malignant pleasure, “but I have the money in good keeping; as for you,
Mr. Birch, we will bear your insolence, for the fifty guineas that are
to pay for your gallows.”

“Go on,” said the peddler, proudly; “take me to Major Dunwoodie; he, at
least, may be kind, although just.”

“I can do better than by marching so far in such disgraceful company;
this Mr. Dunwoodie has let one or two Tories go at large; but the troop
of Captain Lawton is quartered some half mile nearer, and his receipt
will get me the reward as soon as his major’s. How relish you the idea
of supping with Captain Lawton, this evening, Mr. Birch?”

“Give me my money, or set Harvey free,” cried the spinster in alarm.

“Your bribe was not enough, good woman, unless there is money in this
bed.” Thrusting his bayonet through the ticking and ripping it for some
distance, he took a malicious satisfaction in scattering its contents
about the room.

“If,” cried the housekeeper, losing sight of her personal danger in
care for her newly-acquired property, “there is law in the land, I will
be righted!”

“The law of the neutral ground is the law of the strongest; but your
tongue is not as long as my bayonet; you had, therefore, best not set
them at loggerheads, or you might be the loser.”

A figure stood in the shadow of the door, as if afraid to be seen in
the group of Skinners; but a blaze of light, raised by some articles
thrown in the fire by his persecutors, showed the peddler the face of
the purchaser of his little domain. Occasionally there was some
whispering between this man and the Skinner nearest him, that induced
Harvey to suspect he had been the dupe of a contrivance in which that
wretch had participated. It was, however, too late to repine; and he
followed the party from the house with a firm and collected tread, as
if marching to a triumph, and not to a gallows. In passing through the
yard, the leader of the band fell over a billet of wood, and received a
momentary hurt from the fall; exasperated at the incident, the fellow
sprang on his feet, filling the air with execrations.

“The curse of heaven light on the log!” he exclaimed. “The night is too
dark for us to move in; throw that brand of fire in yon pile of tow, to
light up the scene.”

“Hold!” roared the speculator; “you’ll fire the house.”

“And see the farther,” said the other, hurling the brand in the midst
of the combustibles. In an instant the building was in flames. “Come
on; let us move towards the heights while we have light to pick our
road.”

“Villain!” cried the exasperated purchaser, “is this your
friendship—this my reward for kidnapping the peddler?”

“’Twould be wise to move more from the light, if you mean to entertain
us with abuse, or we may see too well to miss our mark,” cried the
leader of the gang. The next instant he was as good as his threat, but
happily missed the terrified speculator and equally appalled spinster,
who saw herself again reduced from comparative wealth to poverty, by
the blow. Prudence dictated to the pair a speedy retreat; and the next
morning, the only remains of the dwelling of the peddler was the huge
chimney we have already mentioned.




CHAPTER XV.


Trifles, light as air,
Are to the jealous confirmations strong
As proofs of holy writ.


—_Othello_.


The weather, which had been mild and clear since the storm, now changed
with the suddenness of the American climate. Towards evening the cold
blasts poured down from the mountains, and flurries of snow plainly
indicated that the month of November had arrived; a season whose
temperature varies from the heats of summer to the cold of winter.
Frances had stood at the window of her own apartment, watching the slow
progress of the funeral procession, with a melancholy that was too deep
to be excited by the spectacle. There was something in the sad office
that was in unison with her feelings. As she gazed around, she saw the
trees bending to the force of the wind, that swept through the valley
with an impetuosity that shook even the buildings; and the forest, that
had so lately glittered in the sun with its variegated hues, was fast
losing its loveliness, as the leaves were torn from the branches, and
were driving irregularly before the eddies of the blast. A few of the
Southern dragoons, who were patrolling the passes which led to the
encampment of the corps, could be distinguished at a distance on the
heights, bending to their pommels as they faced the keen air which had
so lately traversed the great fresh-water lakes, and drawing their
watch coats about them in tighter folds.

Frances witnessed the disappearance of the wooden tenement of the
deceased, as it was slowly lowered from the light of day; and the sight
added to the chilling dreariness of the view. Captain Singleton was
sleeping under the care of his own man, while his sister had been
persuaded to take possession of her room, for the purpose of obtaining
the repose of which her last night’s journeying had robbed her. The
apartment of Miss Singleton communicated with the room occupied by the
sisters, through a private door, as well as through the ordinary
passage of the house; this door was partly open, and Frances moved
towards it, with the benevolent intention of ascertaining the situation
of her guest, when the surprised girl saw her whom she had thought to
be sleeping, not only awake, but employed in a manner that banished all
probability of present repose. The black tresses, that during the
dinner had been drawn in close folds over the crown of the head, were
now loosened, and fell in profusion over her shoulders and bosom,
imparting a slight degree of wildness to her countenance; the chilling
white of her complexion was strongly contrasted with eyes of the
deepest black, that were fixed in rooted attention on a picture she
held in her hand. Frances hardly breathed, as she was enabled, by a
movement of Isabella, to see that it was the figure of a man in the
well-known dress of the Southern horse; but she gasped for breath, and
instinctively laid her hand on her heart to quell its throbbings, as
she thought she recognized the lineaments that were so deeply seated in
her own imagination. Frances felt she was improperly prying into the
sacred privacy of another; but her emotions were too powerful to permit
her to speak, and she drew back to a chair, where she still retained a
view of the stranger, from whose countenance she felt it to be
impossible to withdraw her eyes. Isabella was too much engrossed by her
own feelings to discover the trembling figure of the witness to her
actions, and she pressed the inanimate image to her lips, with an
enthusiasm that denoted the most intense passion. The expression of the
countenance of the fair stranger was so changeable, and the transitions
were so rapid, that Frances had scarcely time to distinguish the
character of the emotion, before it was succeeded by another, equally
powerful and equally attractive. Admiration and sorrow were however the
preponderating passions; the latter was indicated by large drops that
fell from her eyes on the picture, and which followed each other over
her cheek at such intervals, as seemed to pronounce the grief too heavy
to admit of the ordinary demonstrations of sorrow. Every movement of
Isabella was marked by an enthusiasm that was peculiar to her nature,
and every passion in its turn triumphed in her breast. The fury of the
wind, as it whistled round the angles of the building, was in
consonance with those feelings, and she rose and moved to a window of
her apartment. Her figure was now hid from the view of Frances, who was
about to rise and approach her guest, when tones of a thrilling melody
chained her in breathless silence to the spot. The notes were wild, and
the voice not powerful, but the execution exceeded anything that
Frances had ever heard; and she stood, endeavoring to stifle the sounds
of her own gentle breathing, until the following song was concluded:—

Cold blow the blasts o’er the tops of the mountain,
    And bare is the oak on the hill;
Slowly the vapors exhale from the fountain,
    And bright gleams the ice-bordered rill;
All nature is seeking its annual rest,
But the slumbers of peace have deserted my breast.

Long has the storm poured its weight on my nation,
    And long have her braves stood the shock;
Long has her chieftain ennobled his station,
    A bulwark on liberty’s rock;
Unlicensed ambition relaxes its toil,
Yet blighted affection represses my smile.

Abroad the wild fury of winter is lowering,
    And leafless and drear is the tree;
But the vertical sun of the south appears pouring
    Its fierce, killing heats upon me:
Without, all the season’s chill symptoms begin—
But the fire of passion is raging within.


Frances abandoned her whole soul to the suppressed melody of the music,
though the language of the song expressed a meaning, which, united with
certain events of that and the preceding day, left a sensation of
uneasiness in the bosom of the warm-hearted girl, to which she had
hitherto been a stranger. Isabella moved from the window as her last
tones melted on the ear of her admiring listener, and, for the first
time, her eye rested on the pallid face of the intruder. A glow of fire
lighted the countenance of both at the same instant, and the blue eye
of Frances met the brilliant black one of her guest for a single
moment, and both fell in abashed confusion on the carpet; they
advanced, however, until they met, and had taken each other’s hand,
before either ventured again to look her companion in the face.

“This sudden change in the weather, and perhaps the situation of my
brother, have united to make me melancholy, Miss Wharton,” said
Isabella, in a low tone, and in a voice that trembled as she spoke.

“’Tis thought you have little to apprehend for your brother,” said
Frances, in the same embarrassed manner. “Had you seen him when he was
brought in by Major Dunwoodie—”

Frances paused, with a feeling of conscious shame, for which she could
not account; and, in raising her eyes, she saw Isabella studying her
countenance with an earnestness that again drove the blood tumultuously
to her temples.

“You were speaking of Major Dunwoodie,” said Isabella, faintly.

“He was with Captain Singleton.”

“Do you know Dunwoodie? Have you seen him often?”

Once more Frances ventured to look her guest in the face, and again she
met the piercing eyes bent on her, as if to search her inmost heart.
“Speak, Miss Wharton; is Major Dunwoodie known to you?”

“He is my relative,” said Frances, appalled at the manner of the other.

“A relative!” echoed Miss Singleton; “in what degree?—speak, Miss
Wharton, I conjure you to speak.”

“Our parents were cousins,” faintly replied Frances.

“And he is to be your husband?” said the stranger, impetuously.

Frances felt shocked, and all her pride awakened, by this direct attack
upon her feelings, and she raised her eyes from the floor to her
interrogator a little proudly, when the pale cheek and quivering lip of
Isabella removed her resentment in a moment.

“It is true! My conjecture is true! Speak to me, Miss Wharton; I
conjure you, in mercy to my feelings, to tell me—do you love
Dunwoodie?” There was a plaintive earnestness in the voice of Miss
Singleton that disarmed Frances of all resentment, and the only answer
she could make was to hide her burning face between her hands, as she
sank back in a chair to conceal her confusion.

Isabella paced the floor in silence for several minutes, until she had
succeeded in conquering the violence of her feelings, when she
approached the place where Frances yet sat, endeavoring to exclude the
eyes of her companion from reading the shame expressed in her
countenance, and, taking the hand of the other, she spoke with an
evident effort at composure.

“Pardon me, Miss Wharton, if my ungovernable feelings have led me into
impropriety; the powerful motive—the cruel reason”—she hesitated.
Frances now raised her face, and their eyes once more met; they fell in
each other’s arms, and laid their burning cheeks together. The embrace
was long—was ardent and sincere—but neither spoke; and on separating,
Frances retired to her own room without further explanation.

While this extraordinary scene was acting in the room of Miss
Singleton, matters of great importance were agitated in the
drawing-room. The disposition of the fragments of such a dinner as the
one we have recorded was a task that required no little exertion and
calculation. Notwithstanding several of the small game had nestled in
the pocket of Captain Lawton’s man, and even the assistant of Dr.
Sitgreaves had calculated the uncertainty of his remaining long in such
good quarters, still there was more left unconsumed than the prudent
Miss Peyton knew how to dispose of to advantage. Caesar and his
mistress had, therefore, a long and confidential communication on this
important business; and the consequence was, that Colonel Wellmere was
left to the hospitality of Sarah Wharton. All the ordinary topics of
conversation were exhausted, when the colonel, with a little of the
uneasiness that is in some degree inseparable from conscious error,
touched lightly on the transactions of the preceding day.

“We little thought, Miss Wharton, when I first saw this Mr. Dunwoodie
in your house in Queen Street, that he was to be the renowned warrior
he has proved himself,” said Wellmere, endeavoring to smile away his
chagrin.

“Renowned, when we consider the enemy he overcame,” said Sarah, with
consideration for her companion’s feelings. “’Twas unfortunate, indeed,
in every respect, that you met with the accident, or doubtless the
royal arms would have triumphed in their usual manner.”

“And yet the pleasure of such society as this accident has introduced
me to, would more than repay the pain of a mortified spirit and wounded
body,” added the colonel, in a manner of peculiar softness.

“I hope the latter is but trifling,” said Sarah, stooping to hide her
blushes under the pretext of biting a thread from the work on her knee.

“Trifling, indeed, compared to the former,” returned the colonel, in
the same manner. “Ah! Miss Wharton, it is in such moments that we feel
the full value of friendship and sympathy.”

Those who have never tried it cannot easily imagine what a rapid
progress a warm-hearted female can make in love, in the short space of
half an hour, particularly where there is a predisposition to the
distemper. Sarah found the conversation, when it began to touch on
friendship and sympathy, too interesting to venture her voice with a
reply. She, however, turned her eyes on the colonel, and saw him gazing
at her fine face with an admiration that was quite as manifest, and
much more soothing, than any words could make it.

Their tête-à-tête was uninterrupted for an hour; and although nothing
that would be called decided, by an experienced matron, was said by the
gentleman, he uttered a thousand things that delighted his companion,
who retired to her rest with a lighter heart than she had felt since
the arrest of her brother by the Americans.




CHAPTER XVI.


And let me the canakin clink, clink,
And let me the canakin clink.
A soldier’s a man;
A life’s but a span;
Why, then, let a soldier drink.


—_Othello_.


The position held by the corps of dragoons, we have already said, was a
favorite place of halting with their commander. A cluster of some half
dozen small and dilapidated buildings formed what, from the
circumstance of two roads intersecting each other at right angles, was
called the village of the Four Corners. As usual, one of the most
imposing of these edifices had been termed, in the language of the day,
“a house of entertainment for man and beast.” On a rough board
suspended from the gallows-looking post that had supported the ancient
sign, was, however, written in red chalk, “Elizabeth Flanagan, her
hotel,” an ebullition of the wit of some of the idle wags of the corps.
The matron, whose name had thus been exalted to an office of such
unexpected dignity, ordinarily discharged the duties of a female
sutler, washerwoman, and, to use the language of Katy Haynes, petticoat
doctor to the troops. She was the widow of a soldier who had been
killed in the service, and who, like herself, was a native of a distant
island, and had early tried his fortune in the colonies of North
America. She constantly migrated with the troops; and it was seldom
that they became stationary for two days at a time but the little cart
of the bustling woman was seen driving into the encampment loaded with
such articles as she conceived would make her presence most welcome.
With a celerity that seemed almost supernatural, Betty took up her
ground and commenced her occupation. Sometimes the cart itself was her
shop; at others the soldiers made her a rude shelter of such materials
as offered; but on the present occasion she had seized on a vacant
building, and, by dint of stuffing the dirty breeches and half-dried
linen of the troopers into the broken windows, to exclude the cold,
which had now become severe, she formed what she herself had pronounced
to be “most illigant lodgings.” The men were quartered in the adjacent
barns, and the officers collected in the “Hotel Flanagan,” as they
facetiously called headquarters. Betty was well known to every trooper
in the corps, could call each by his Christian or nickname, as best
suited her fancy; and, although absolutely intolerable to all whom
habit had not made familiar with her virtues, was a general favorite
with these partisan warriors. Her faults were, a trifling love of
liquor, excessive filthiness, and a total disregard of all the
decencies of language; her virtues, an unbounded love for her adopted
country, perfect honesty when dealing on certain known principles with
the soldiery, and great good nature. Added to these, Betty had the
merit of being the inventor of that beverage which is so well known, at
the present hour, to all the patriots who make a winter’s march between
the commercial and political capitals of this great state, and which is
distinguished by the name of “cocktail.” Elizabeth Flanagan was
peculiarly well qualified, by education and circumstances, to perfect
this improvement in liquors, having been literally brought up on its
principal ingredient, and having acquired from her Virginian customers
the use of mint, from its flavor in a julep to its height of renown in
the article in question. Such, then, was the mistress of the mansion,
who, reckless of the cold northern blasts, showed her blooming face
from the door of the building to welcome the arrival of her favorite,
Captain Lawton, and his companion, her master in matters of surgery.

“Ah! by my hopes of promotion, my gentle Elizabeth, but you are
welcome!” cried the trooper, as he threw himself from his saddle. “This
villainous fresh-water gas from the Canadas has been whistling among my
bones till they ache with the cold, but the sight of your fiery
countenance is as cheery as a Christmas fire.”

“Now sure, Captain Jack, ye’s always full of your complimentaries,”
replied the sutler, taking the bridle of her customer. “But hurry in
for the life of you, darling; the fences hereabouts are not so strong
as in the Highlands, and there’s that within will warm both sowl and
body.”

“So you have been laying the rails under contribution, I see. Well,
that may do for the body,” said the captain coolly; “but I have had a
pull at a bottle of cut glass with a silver stand, and I doubt my
relish for your whisky for a month to come.”

“If it’s silver or goold that ye’re thinking of, it’s but little I
have, though I’ve a trifling bit of the continental,” said Betty, with
a look of humor; “but there’s that within that’s fit to be put in
vissils of di’monds.”

“What can she mean, Archibald?” asked Lawton. “The animal looks as if
it meant more than it says!”

“’Tis probably a wandering of the reasoning powers, created by the
frequency of intoxicating drafts,” observed the surgeon, as he
deliberately threw his left leg over the pommel of the saddle, and slid
down on the right side of his horse.

“Faith, my dear jewel of a doctor, but it was this side I was expicting
you; the whole corps come down on this side but yeerself,” said Betty,
winking at the trooper; “but I’ve been feeding the wounded, in yeer
absence, with the fat of the land.”

“Barbarous stupidity!” cried the panic-stricken physician, “to feed men
laboring under the excitement of fever with powerful nutriment. Woman,
woman, you are enough to defeat the skill of Hippocrates!”

“Pooh!” said Betty, with infinite composure, “what a botheration ye
make about a little whisky; there was but a gallon betwixt a good dozen
of them, and I gave it to the boys to make them sleep asy; sure, jist
as slumbering drops.”

Lawton and his companion now entered the building, and the first
objects which met their eyes explained the hidden meaning of Betty’s
comfortable declaration. A long table, made of boards torn from the
side of an outbuilding, was stretched through the middle of the largest
apartment, or the barroom, and on it was a very scanty display of
crockery ware. The steams of cookery arose from an adjoining kitchen,
but the principal attraction was in a demijohn of fair proportions,
which had been ostentatiously placed on high by Betty as the object
most worthy of notice. Lawton soon learned that it was teeming with the
real amber-colored juice of the grape, and had been sent from the
Locusts, as an offering to Major Dunwoodie, from his friend Captain
Wharton of the royal army.

“And a royal gift it is,” said the grinning subaltern, who made the
explanation. “The major gives us an entertainment in honor of our
victory, and you see the principal expense is borne as it should be, by
the enemy. Zounds! I am thinking that after we have primed with such
stuff, we could charge through Sir Henry’s headquarters, and carry off
the knight himself.”

The captain of dragoons was in no manner displeased at the prospect of
terminating so pleasantly a day that had been so agreeably commenced.
He was soon surrounded by his comrades, who made many eager inquiries
concerning his adventures, while the surgeon proceeded, with certain
quakings of the heart, to examine into the state of his wounded.
Enormous fires were snapping in the chimneys of the house, superseding
the necessity of candles, by the bright light which was thrown from the
blazing piles. The group within were all young men and tried soldiers;
in number they were rather more than a dozen, and their manners and
conversation were a strange mixture of the bluntness of the partisan
with the manners of gentlemen. Their dresses were neat, though plain;
and a never-failing topic amongst them was the performance and quality
of their horses. Some were endeavoring to sleep on the benches which
lined the walls, some were walking the apartments, and others were
seated in earnest discussion on subjects connected with the business of
their lives. Occasionally, as the door of the kitchen opened, the
hissing sounds of the frying pans and the inviting savor of the food
created a stagnation in all other employments; even the sleepers, at
such moments, would open their eyes, and raise their heads, to
reconnoiter the state of the preparations. All this time Dunwoodie sat
by himself, gazing at the fire, and lost in reflections which none of
his officers presumed to disturb. He had made earnest inquiries of
Sitgreaves after the condition of Singleton, during which a profound
and respectful silence was maintained in the room; but as soon as he
had ended, and resumed his seat, the usual ease and freedom prevailed.

The arrangement of the table was a matter of but little concern to Mrs.
Flanagan; and Caesar would have been sadly scandalized at witnessing
the informality with which various dishes, each bearing a wonderful
resemblance to the others, were placed before so many gentlemen of
consideration. In taking their places at the board, the strictest
attention was paid to precedency; for, notwithstanding the freedom of
manners which prevailed in the corps, the points of military etiquette
were at all times observed, with something approaching to religious
veneration. Most of the guests had been fasting too long to be in any
degree fastidious in their appetites; but the case was different with
Captain Lawton; he felt an unaccountable loathing at the exhibition of
Betty’s food, and could not refrain from making a few passing comments
on the condition of the knives, and the clouded aspect of the plates.
The good nature and the personal affection of Betty for the offender,
restrained her, for some time, from answering his innuendoes, until
Lawton, having ventured to admit a piece of the black meat into his
mouth, inquired, with the affectation of a spoiled child,—

“What kind of animal might this have been when living, Mrs. Flanagan?”

“Sure, captain, and wasn’t it the ould cow?” replied the sutler, with a
warmth that proceeded partly from dissatisfaction at the complaints of
her favorite, and partly from grief at the loss of the deceased.

“What!” roared the trooper, stopping short as he was about to swallow
his morsel, “ancient Jenny!”

“The devil!” cried another, dropping his knife and fork, “she who made
the campaign of the Jerseys with us?”

“The very same,” replied the mistress of the hotel, with a piteous
aspect of woe; “a gentle baste, and one that could and did live on less
than air, at need. Sure, gentlemen, ’tis awful to have to eat sitch an
ould friend.”

“And has she sunk to this?” said Lawton, pointing with his knife, to
the remnants on the table.

“Nay, captain,” said Betty, with spirit, “I sould two of her quarters
to some of your troop; but divil the word did I tell the boys what an
ould frind it was they had bought, for fear it might damage their
appetites.”

“Fury!” cried the trooper, with affected anger, “I shall have my
fellows as limber as supple-jacks on such fare; afraid of an Englishman
as a Virginian negro is of his driver.”

“Well,” said Lieutenant Mason, dropping his knife and fork in a kind of
despair, “my jaws have more sympathy than many men’s hearts. They
absolutely decline making any impression on the relics of their old
acquaintance.”

“Try a drop of the gift,” said Betty, soothingly, pouring a large
allowance of the wine into a bowl, and drinking it off as taster to the
corps. “Faith, ’tis but a wishy-washy sort of stuff after all!”

The ice once broken, however, a clear glass of wine was handed to
Dunwoodie, who, bowing to his companions, drank the liquor in the midst
of a profound silence. For a few glasses there was much formality
observed, and sundry patriotic toasts and sentiments were duly noticed
by the company. The liquor, however, performed its wonted office; and
before the second sentinel at the door had been relieved, all
recollection of the dinner and their cares was lost in the present
festivity. Dr. Sitgreaves did not return in season to partake of Jenny,
but he was in time to receive his fair proportion of Captain Wharton’s
present.

“A song, a song from Captain Lawton!” cried two or three of the party
in a breath, on observing the failure of some of the points of
good-fellowship in the trooper. “Silence, for the song of Captain
Lawton.”

“Gentlemen,” returned Lawton, his dark eyes swimming with the bumpers
he had finished, though his head was as impenetrable as a post; “I am
not much of a nightingale, but, under the favor of your good wishes, I
consent to comply with the demand.”

“Now, Jack,” said Sitgreaves, nodding on his seat, “remember the air I
taught you, and—stop, I have a copy of the words in my pocket.”

“Forbear, forbear, good doctor,” said the trooper, filling his glass
with great deliberation; “I never could wheel round those hard names.
Gentlemen, I will give you a humble attempt of my own.”

“Silence, for Captain Lawton’s song!” roared five or six at once; when
the trooper proceeded, in a fine, full tone, to sing the following
words to a well-known bacchanalian air, several of his comrades helping
him through the chorus with a fervor that shook the crazy edifice they
were in:—

Now push the mug, my jolly boys,
    And live, while live we can;
To-morrow’s sun may end your joys,
    For brief’s the hour of man.
And he who bravely meets the foe
His lease of life can never know.
        Old mother Flanagan
        Come and fill the can again!
        For you can fill, and we can swill,
        Good Betty Flanagan.

If love of life pervades your breast,
    Or love of ease your frame,
Quit honor’s path for peaceful rest,
    And bear a coward’s name;
For soon and late, we danger know,
And fearless on the saddle go.
        Old mother, etc.

When foreign foes invade the land,
    And wives and sweethearts call,
In freedom’s cause we’ll bravely stand
    Or will as bravely fall;
In this fair home the fates have given
We’ll live as lords, or live in heaven.
        Old mother, etc.


At each appeal made to herself, by the united voices of the choir,
Betty invariably advanced and complied literally with the request
contained in the chorus, to the infinite delight of the singers, and
with no small participation in the satisfaction on her account. The
hostess was provided with a beverage more suited to the high seasoning
to which she had accustomed her palate, than the tasteless present of
Captain Wharton; by which means Betty had managed, with tolerable
facility, to keep even pace with the exhilaraton of her guests. The
applause received by Captain Lawton was general, with the exception of
the surgeon, who rose from the bench during the first chorus, and paced
the floor, in a flow of classical indignation. The bravos and
bravissimos drowned all other noises for a short time; but as they
gradually ceased, the doctor turned to the musician, and exclaimed with
heat,—

“Captain Lawton, I marvel that a gentleman, and a gallant officer, can
find no other subject for his muse, in these times of trial, than in
such beastly invocations to that notorious follower of the camp, the
filthy Elizabeth Flanagan. Methinks the goddess of Liberty could
furnish a more noble inspiration, and the sufferings of your country a
more befitting theme.”

“Heyday!” shouted the hostess, advancing towards him in a threatening
attitude; “and who is it that calls me filthy? Master Squirt! Master
Popgun—”

“Peace!” said Dunwoodie, in a voice that was exerted but a little more
than common, but which was succeeded by the stillness of death. “Woman,
leave the room. Dr. Sitgreaves, I call you to your seat, to wait the
order of the revels.”

“Proceed, proceed,” said the surgeon, drawing himself up in an attitude
of dignified composure. “I trust, Major Dunwoodie, I am not
unacquainted with the rules of decorum, nor ignorant of the by-laws of
good-fellowship.” Betty made a hasty but somewhat devious retreat to
her own dominions, being unaccustomed to dispute the orders of the
commanding officer.

“Major Dunwoodie will honor us with a sentimental song,” said Lawton,
bowing to his leader, with the collected manner he so well knew how to
assume.

The major hesitated a moment, and then sang, with fine execution, the
following words:—

Some love the heats of southern suns,
Where’s life’s warm current maddening runs,
    In one quick circling stream;
But dearer far’s the mellow light
Which trembling shines, reflected bright
    In Luna’s milder beam.

Some love the tulip’s gaudier dyes,
Where deepening blue with yellow vies,
    And gorgeous beauty glows;
But happier he, whose bridal wreath,
By love entwined, is found to breathe
    The sweetness of the rose.


The voice of Dunwoodie never lost its authority with his inferiors; and
the applause which followed his song, though by no means so riotous as
that which succeeded the effort of the captain, was much more
flattering.

“If, sir,” said the doctor, after joining in the plaudits of his
companions, “you would but learn to unite classical allusions with your
delicate imagination you would become a pretty amateur poet.”

“He who criticizes ought to be able to perform,” said Dunwoodie with a
smile. “I call on Dr. Sitgreaves for a specimen of the style he
admires.”

“Dr. Sitgreaves’ song! Dr. Sitgreaves’ song!” echoed all at the table
with delight; “a classical ode from Dr. Sitgreaves!”

The surgeon made a complacent bow, took the remnant of his glass, and
gave a few preliminary hems, that served hugely to delight three or
four young cornets at the foot of the table. He then commenced singing,
in a cracked voice, and to anything but a tune, the following ditty:—

Hast thou ever felt love’s dart, dearest,
    Or breathed his trembling sigh—
Thought him, afar, was ever nearest,
    Before that sparkling eye?
Then hast thou known what ’tis to feel
The pain that Galen could not heal.


“Hurrah!” shouted Lawton. “Archibald eclipses the Muses themselves; his
words flow like the sylvan stream by moonlight, and his melody is a
crossbreed of the nightingale and the owl.”

“Captain Lawton,” cried the exasperated operator, “it is one thing to
despise the lights of classical learning, and another to be despised
for your own ignorance!”

A loud summons at the door of the building created a dead halt in the
uproar, and the dragoons instinctively caught up their arms, to be
prepared for the worst. The door was opened, and the Skinners entered,
dragging in the peddler, bending beneath the load of his pack.

“Which is Captain Lawton?” said the leader of the gang, gazing around
him in some little astonishment.

“He waits your pleasure,” said the trooper dryly.

“Then here I deliver to your hands a condemned traitor. This is Harvey
Birch, the peddler spy.”

Lawton started as he looked his old acquaintance in the face, and,
turning to the Skinner with a lowering look, he asked,—

“And who are you, sir, that speak so freely of your neighbors? But,”
bowing to Dunwoodie, “your pardon, sir; here is the commanding officer;
to him you will please address yourself.”

“No,” said the man, sullenly, “it is to you I deliver the peddler, and
from you I claim my reward.”

“Are you Harvey Birch?” said Dunwoodie, advancing with an air of
authority that instantly drove the Skinner to a corner of the room.

“I am,” said Birch, proudly.

“And a traitor to your country,” continued the major, with sternness.
“Do you know that I should be justified in ordering your execution this
night?”

“’Tis not the will of God to call a soul so hastily to His presence,”
said the peddler with solemnity.

“You speak truth,” said Dunwoodie; “and a few brief hours shall be
added to your life. But as your offense is most odious to a soldier, so
it will be sure to meet with the soldier’s vengeance. You die
to-morrow.”

“’Tis as God wills.”

“I have spent many a good hour to entrap the villain,” said the
Skinner, advancing a little from his corner, “and I hope you will give
me a certificate that will entitle us to the reward; ’twas promised to
be paid in gold.”

“Major Dunwoodie,” said the officer of the day, entering the room, “the
patrols report a house to be burned near yesterday’s battle ground.”

“’Twas the hut of the peddler,” muttered the leader of the gang. “We
have not left him a shingle for shelter; I should have burned it months
ago, but I wanted his shed for a trap to catch the sly fox in.”

“You seem a most ingenious patriot,” said Lawton. “Major Dunwoodie, I
second the request of this worthy gentleman, and crave the office of
bestowing the reward on him and his fellows.”

“Take it; and you, miserable man, prepare for that fate which will
surely befall you before the setting of to-morrow’s sun.”

“Life offers but little to tempt me with,” said Harvey, slowly raising
his eyes, and gazing wildly at the strange faces in the apartment.

“Come, worthy children of America!” said Lawton, “follow, and receive
your reward.”

The gang eagerly accepted the invitation, and followed the captain
towards the quarters assigned to his troop. Dunwoodie paused a moment,
from reluctance to triumph over a fallen foe, before he proceeded.

“You have already been tried, Harvey Birch; and the truth has proved
you to be an enemy too dangerous to the liberties of America to be
suffered to live.”

“The truth!” echoed the peddler, starting, and raising himself in a
manner that disregarded the weight of his pack.

“Aye! the truth; you are charged with loitering near the continental
army, to gain intelligence of its movements, and, by communicating them
to the enemy, to enable him to frustrate the intentions of Washington.”

“Will Washington say so, think you?”

“Doubtless he would; even the justice of Washington condemns you.”

“No, no, no,” cried the peddler, in a voice and with a manner that
startled Dunwoodie. “Washington can see beyond the hollow views of
pretended patriots. Has he not risked his all on the cast of a die? If
a gallows is ready for me, was there not one for him also? No, no, no,
no—Washington would never say, ‘Lead him to a gallows.’”

“Have you anything, wretched man, to urge to the commander in chief why
you should not die?” said the major, recovering from the surprise
created by the manner of the other.

Birch trembled, for violent emotions were contending in his bosom. His
face assumed the ghastly paleness of death, and his hand drew a box of
tin from the folds of his shirt; he opened it, showing by the act that
it contained a small piece of paper. On this document his eye was for
an instant fixed—he had already held it towards Dunwoodie, when
suddenly withdrawing his hand he exclaimed,—

“No—it dies with me. I know the conditions of my service, and will not
purchase life with their forfeiture—it dies with me.”

“Deliver that paper, and you may possibly find favor,” cried Dunwoodie,
expecting a discovery of importance to the cause.

“It dies with me,” repeated Birch, a flush passing over his pallid
features, and lighting them with extraordinary brilliancy.

“Seize the traitor!” cried the major, “and wrest the secret from his
hands.”

The order was immediately obeyed; but the movements of the peddler were
too quick; in an instant he swallowed the paper. The officers paused in
astonishment; but the surgeon cried eagerly,—

“Hold him, while I administer an emetic.”

“Forbear!” said Dunwoodie, beckoning him back with his hand. “If his
crime is great, so will his punishment be heavy.”

“Lead on,” cried the peddler, dropping his pack from his shoulders, and
advancing towards the door with a manner of incomprehensible dignity.

“Whither?” asked Dunwoodie, in amazement.

“To the gallows.”

“No,” said the major, recoiling in horror at his own justice. “My duty
requires that I order you to be executed, but surely not so hastily;
take until nine to-morrow to prepare for the awful change.”

Dunwoodie whispered his orders in the ear of a subaltern, and motioned
to the peddler to withdraw. The interruption caused by this scene
prevented further enjoyment around the table, and the officers
dispersed to their several places of rest. In a short time the only
noise to be heard was the heavy tread of the sentinel, as he paced the
frozen ground in front of the Hotel Flanagan.




CHAPTER XVII.


There are, whose changing lineaments
Express each guileless passion of the breast;
Where Love, and Hope, and tender-hearted Pity
Are seen reflected, as from a mirror’s face;
But cold experience can veil these hues
With looks, invented shrewdly to encompass
The cunning purposes of base deceit.


—Duo.


The officer to whose keeping Dunwoodie had committed the peddler
transferred his charge to the custody of the regular sergeant of the
guard. The gift of Captain Wharton had not been lost on the youthful
lieutenant; and a certain dancing motion that had taken possession of
objects before his eyes, gave him warning of the necessity of
recruiting nature by sleep. After admonishing the noncommissioned
guardian of Harvey to omit no watchfulness in securing the prisoner,
the youth wrapped himself in his cloak, and, stretched on a bench
before a fire, soon found the repose he needed. A rude shed extended
the whole length of the rear of the building, and from off one of its
ends had been partitioned a small apartment, that was intended as a
repository for many of the lesser implements of husbandry. The lawless
times had, however, occasioned its being stripped of everything of
value; and the searching eyes of Betty Flanagan selected this spot, on
her arrival, as the storehouse for her movables and a sanctuary for her
person. The spare arms and baggage of the corps had also been deposited
here; and the united treasures were placed under the eye of the
sentinel who paraded the shed as a guardian of the rear of the
headquarters. A second soldier, who was stationed near the house to
protect the horses of the officers, could command a view of the outside
of the apartment; and, as it was without window or outlet of any kind,
excepting its door, the considerate sergeant thought this the most
befitting place in which to deposit his prisoner until the moment of
his execution. Several inducements urged Sergeant Hollister to this
determination, among which was the absence of the washerwoman, who lay
before the kitchen fire, dreaming that the corps was attacking a party
of the enemy, and mistaking the noise that proceeded from her own nose
for the bugles of the Virginians sounding the charge. Another was the
peculiar opinions that the veteran entertained of life and death, and
by which he was distinguished in the corps as a man of most exemplary
piety and holiness of life. The sergeant was more than fifty years of
age, and for half that period he had borne arms. The constant
recurrence of sudden deaths before his eyes had produced an effect on
him differing greatly from that which was the usual moral consequence
of such scenes; and he had become not only the most steady, but the
most trustworthy soldier in his troop. Captain Lawton had rewarded his
fidelity by making him its orderly.

Followed by Birch, the sergeant proceeded in silence to the door of the
intended prison, and, throwing it open with one hand, he held a lantern
with the other to light the peddler to his prison. Seating himself on a
cask, that contained some of Betty’s favorite beverage, the sergeant
motioned to Birch to occupy another, in the same manner. The lantern
was placed on the floor, when the dragoon, after looking his prisoner
steadily in the face, observed,—

“You look as if you would meet death like a man; and I have brought you
to a spot where you can tranquilly arrange your thoughts, and be quiet
and undisturbed.”

“’Tis a fearful place to prepare for the last change in,” said Harvey,
gazing around his little prison with a vacant eye.

“Why, for the matter of that,” returned the veteran, “it can reckon but
little in the great account, where a man parades his thoughts for the
last review, so that he finds them fit to pass the muster of another
world. I have a small book here, which I make it a point to read a
little in, whenever we are about to engage, and I find it a great
strengthener in time of need.” While speaking, he took a Bible from his
pocket, and offered it to the peddler. Birch received the volume with
habitual reverence; but there was an abstracted air about him, and a
wandering of the eye, that induced his companion to think that alarm
was getting the mastery of the peddler’s feelings; accordingly, he
proceeded in what he conceived to be the offices of consolation.

“If anything lies heavy on your mind, now is the best time to get rid
of it—if you have done any wrong to anyone, I promise you, on the word
of an honest dragoon, to lend you a helping hand to see them righted.”

“There are few who have not done so,” said the peddler, turning his
vacant gaze once more on his companion.

“True—’tis natural to sin; but it sometimes happens that a man does
what at other times he may be sorry for. One would not wish to die with
any very heavy sin on his conscience, after all.”

Harvey had by this time thoroughly examined the place in which he was
to pass the night, and saw no means of escape. But as hope is ever the
last feeling to desert the human breast, the peddler gave the dragoon
more of his attention, fixing on his sunburned features such searching
looks, that Sergeant Hollister lowered his eyes before the wild
expression which he met in the gaze of his prisoner.

“I have been taught to lay the burden of my sins at the feet of my
Savior,” replied the peddler.

“Why, yes—all that is well enough,” returned the other. “But justice
should be done while there is opportunity. There have been stirring
times in this country since the war began, and many have been deprived
of their rightful goods I oftentimes find it hard to reconcile even my
lawful plunder to a tender conscience.”

“These hands,” said the peddler, stretching forth his meager, bony
fingers, “have spent years in toil, but not a moment in pilfering.”

“It is well that it is so,” said the honest-hearted soldier, “and, no
doubt, you now feel it a great consolation. There are three great sins,
that, if a man can keep his conscience clear of, why, by the mercy of
God, he may hope to pass muster with the saints in heaven: they are
stealing, murdering, and desertion.”

“Thank God!” said Birch, with fervor, “I have never yet taken the life
of a fellow creature.”

“As to killing a man in lawful battle, that is no more than doing one’s
duty. If the cause is wrong, the sin of such a deed, you know, falls on
the nation, and a man receives his punishment here with the rest of the
people; but murdering in cold blood stands next to desertion as a crime
in the eye of God.”

“I never was a soldier, therefore never could desert,” said the
peddler, resting his face on his hand in a melancholy attitude.

“Why, desertion consists of more than quitting your colors, though that
is certainly the worst kind; a man may desert his country in the hour
of need.”

Birch buried his face in both his hands, and his whole frame shook; the
sergeant regarded him closely, but good feelings soon got the better of
his antipathies, and he continued more mildly,—

“But still that is a sin which I think may be forgiven, if sincerely
repented of; and it matters but little when or how a man dies, so that
he dies like a Christian and a man. I recommend you to say your
prayers, and then to get some rest, in order that you may do both.
There is no hope of your being pardoned; for Colonel Singleton has sent
down the most positive orders to take your life whenever we met you.
No, no—nothing can save you.”

“You say the truth,” cried Birch. “It is now too late—I have destroyed
my only safeguard. But _he_ will do my memory justice at least.”

“What safeguard?” asked the sergeant, with awakened curiosity.

“’Tis nothing,” replied the peddler, recovering his natural manner, and
lowering his face to avoid the earnest looks of his companion.

“And who is he?”

“No one,” added Harvey, anxious to say no more.

“Nothing and no one can avail but little now,” said the sergeant,
rising to go. “Lay yourself on the blanket of Mrs. Flanagan, and get a
little sleep; I will call you betimes in the morning; and from the
bottom of my soul I wish I could be of some service to you, for I
dislike greatly to see a man hung up like a dog.”

“Then _you_ might save me from this ignominious death,” said Birch,
springing to his feet, and catching the dragoon by the arm. “And, oh!
what will I not give you in reward!”

“In what manner?” asked the sergeant, looking at him in surprise.

“See,” said the peddler, producing several guineas from his person;
“these are nothing to what I will give you, if you will assist me to
escape.”

“Were you the man whose picture is on the gold, I would not listen to
such a crime,” said the trooper, throwing the money on the floor with
contempt. “Go—go, poor wretch, and make your peace with God; for it is
He only that can be of service to you now.”

The sergeant took up the lantern, and, with some indignation in his
manner, he left the peddler to sorrowful meditations on his approaching
fate. Birch sank, in momentary despair, on the pallet of Betty, while
his guardian proceeded to give the necessary instructions to the
sentinels for his safe-keeping.

Hollister concluded his injunctions to the man in the shed, by saying,
“Your life will depend on his not escaping. Let none enter or quit the
room till morning.”

“But,” said the trooper, “my orders are, to let the washerwoman pass in
and out, as she pleases.”

“Well, let her then; but be careful that this wily peddler does not get
out in the folds of her petticoats.” He then continued his walk, giving
similar orders to each of the sentinels near the spot.

For some time after the departure of the sergeant, silence prevailed
within the solitary prison of the peddler, until the dragoon at his
door heard his loud breathings, which soon rose into the regular
cadence of one in a deep sleep. The man continued walking his post,
musing on an indifference to life which could allow nature its
customary rest, even on the threshold of the grave. Harvey Birch had,
however, been a name too long held in detestation by every man in the
corps, to suffer any feelings of commiseration to mingle with these
reflections of the sentinel; for, notwithstanding the consideration and
kindness manifested by the sergeant, there probably was not another man
of his rank in the whole party who would have discovered equal
benevolence to the prisoner, or who would not have imitated the veteran
in rejecting the bribe, although probably from a less worthy motive.
There was something of disappointed vengeance in the feelings of the
man who watched the door of the room on finding his prisoner enjoying a
sleep of which he himself was deprived, and at his exhibiting such
obvious indifference to the utmost penalty that military rigor could
inflict on all his treason to the cause of liberty and America. More
than once he felt prompted to disturb the repose of the peddler by
taunts and revilings; but the discipline he was under, and a secret
sense of shame at the brutality of the act, held him in subjection.

His meditations were, however, soon interrupted by the appearance of
the washerwoman, who came staggering through the door that communicated
with the kitchen, muttering execrations against the servants of the
officers, who, by their waggery, had disturbed her slumbers before the
fire. The sentinel understood enough of her maledictions to comprehend
the case; but all his efforts to enter into conversation with the
enraged woman were useless, and he suffered her to enter her room
without explaining that it contained another inmate. The noise of her
huge frame falling on the bed was succeeded by a silence that was soon
interrupted by the renewed respiration of the peddler, and within a few
minutes Harvey continued to breathe aloud, as if no interruption had
occurred. The relief arrived at this moment.

The sentinel, who felt nettled at the contempt of the peddler, after
communicating his orders, while he was retiring, exclaimed to his
successor,—

“You may keep yourself warm by dancing, John; the peddler spy has tuned
his fiddle, you hear, and it will not be long before Betty will strike
up, in her turn.”

The joke was followed by a general laugh from the party, who marched on
in performance of their duty. At this instant the door of the prison
was opened, and Betty reappeared, staggering back again toward her
former quarters.

“Stop,” said the sentinel, catching her by her clothes; “are you sure
the spy is not in your pocket?”

“Can’t you hear the rascal snoring in my room, you dirty blackguard?”
sputtered Betty, her whole frame shaking with rage. “And is it so ye
would sarve a dacent famale, that a man must be put to sleep in the
room wid her, ye rapscallion?”

“Pooh! Do you mind a fellow who’s to be hanged in the morning? You see
he sleeps already; to-morrow he’ll take a longer nap.”

“Hands off, ye villain,” cried the washerwoman, relinquishing a small
bottle that the trooper had succeeded in wresting from her. “But I’ll
go to Captain Jack, and know if it’s orders to put a hang-gallows spy
in my room; aye, even in my widowed bed, you tief!”

“Silence, old Jezebel!” said the fellow with a laugh, taking the bottle
from his mouth to breathe, “or you will wake the gentleman. Would you
disturb a man in his last sleep?”

“I’ll awake Captain Jack, you reprobate villain, and bring him here to
see me righted; he will punish ye all, for imposing on a dacent widowed
body, you marauder!”

With these words, which only extorted a laugh from the sentinel, Betty
staggered round the end of the building, and made the best of her way
towards the quarters of her favorite, Captain John Lawton, in search of
redress. Neither the officer nor the woman, however, appeared during
the night, and nothing further occurred to disturb the repose of the
peddler, who, to the astonishment of the different sentinels, continued
by his breathing to manifest how little the gallows could affect his
slumbers.




CHAPTER XVIII.


A Daniel come to judgment; yea, a Daniel!
O wise young judge, how I do honor thee!


—_Merchant of Venice._


The Skinners followed Captain Lawton with alacrity, towards the
quarters occupied by the troop of that gentleman. The captain of
dragoons had on all occasions manifested so much zeal for the cause in
which he was engaged, was so regardless of personal danger when opposed
to the enemy, and his stature and stern countenance contributed so much
to render him terrific, that these qualities had, in some measure,
procured him a reputation distinct from the corps in which he served.
His intrepidity was mistaken for ferocity; and his hasty zeal, for the
natural love of cruelty. On the other hand, a few acts of clemency, or,
more properly speaking, of discriminating justice, had, with one
portion of the community, acquired for Dunwoodie the character of undue
forbearance. It is seldom that either popular condemnation or popular
applause falls, exactly in the quantities earned, where it is merited.

While in the presence of the major the leader of the gang had felt
himself under that restraint which vice must ever experience in the
company of acknowledged virtue; but having left the house, he at once
conceived that he was under the protection of a congenial spirit. There
was a gravity in the manner of Lawton that deceived most of those who
did not know him intimately; and it was a common saying in his troop,
that “when the captain laughed, he was sure to punish.” Drawing near
his conductor, therefore, the leader commenced a confidential dialogue.

“’Tis always well for a man to know his friends from his enemies,” said
the half-licensed freebooter.

To this prefatory observation the captain made no other reply than a
sound which the other interpreted into assent.

“I suppose Major Dunwoodie has the good opinion of Washington?”
continued the Skinner, in a tone that rather expressed a doubt than
asked a question.

“There are some who think so.”

“Many of the friends of Congress in this county,” the man proceeded,
“wish the horse was led by some other officer. For my part, if I could
only be covered by a troop now and then, I could do many an important
piece of service to the cause, to which this capture of the peddler
would be a trifle.”

“Indeed! such as what?”

“For the matter of that, it could be made as profitable to the officer
as it would be to us who did it,” said the Skinner, with a look of the
most significant meaning.

“But how?” asked Lawton, a little impatiently, and quickening his step
to get out of the hearing of the rest of the party.

“Why, near the royal lines, even under the very guns of the heights,
might be good picking if we had a force to guard us from De Lancey’s[8]
men, and to cover our retreat from being cut off by the way of King’s
Bridge.”

“I thought the Refugees took all that game to themselves.”

“They do a little at it; but they are obliged to be sparing among their
own people. I have been down twice, under an agreement with them: the
first time they acted with honor; but the second they came upon us and
drove us off, and took the plunder to themselves.”

“That was a very dishonorable act, indeed; I wonder that an honorable
man will associate with such rascals.”

“It is necessary to have an understanding with some of them, or we
might be taken; but a man without honor is worse than a brute. Do you
think Major Dunwoodie is to be trusted?”

“You mean on honorable principles?”

“Certainly; you know Arnold was thought well of until the royal major
was taken.”

“Why, I do not believe Dunwoodie would sell his command as Arnold
wished to do; neither do I think him exactly trustworthy in a delicate
business like this of yours.”

“That’s just my notion,” rejoined the Skinner, with a self-approving
manner that showed how much he was satisfied with his own estimate of
character.

By this time they had arrived at a better sort of farmhouse, the very
extensive outbuildings of which were in tolerable repair, for the
times. The barns were occupied by the men of the troop, while the
horses were arranged under the long sheds which protected the yard from
the cold north wind. The latter were quietly eating, with saddles on
their backs and bridles thrown on their necks, ready to be bitted and
mounted at the shortest warning. Lawton excused himself for a moment,
and entered his quarters. He soon returned, holding in his hand one of
the common, stable lanterns, and led the way towards a large orchard
that surrounded the buildings on three sides. The gang followed the
trooper in silence, believing his object to be facility of
communicating further on this interesting topic, without the danger of
being overheard.

Approaching the captain, the Skinner renewed the discourse, with a view
of establishing further confidence, and of giving his companion a more
favorable opinion of his own intellects.

“Do you think the colonies will finally get the better of the king?” he
inquired, with a little of the importance of a politician.

“Get the better!” echoed the captain with impetuosity. Then checking
himself, he continued, “No doubt they will. If the French will give us
arms and money, we will drive out the royal troops in six months.”

“Well, so I hope we shall soon; and then we shall have a free
government, and we, who fight for it, will get our reward.”

“Oh!” cried Lawton, “your claims will be indisputable; while all these
vile Tories who live at home peaceably, to take care of their farms,
will be held in the contempt they merit. You have no farm, I suppose?”

“Not yet—but it will go hard if I do not find one before the peace is
made.”

“Right; study your own interests, and you study the interests of your
country; press the point of your own services, and rail at the Tories,
and I’ll bet my spurs against a rusty nail that you get to be a county
clerk at least.”

“Don’t you think Paulding’s[9] party were fools in not letting the
royal adjutant general escape?” said the man, thrown off his guard by
the freedom of the captain’s manner.

“Fools!” cried Lawton, with a bitter laugh. “Aye, fools indeed; King
George would have paid them better, for he is richer. He would have
made them gentlemen for their losses. But, thank God! there is a
pervading spirit in the people that seems miraculous. Men who have
nothing, act as if the wealth of the Indies depended on their fidelity;
all are not villains like yourself, or we should have been slaves to
England years ago.”

“How!” exclaimed the Skinner, starting back, and dropping his musket to
the level of the other’s breast; “am I betrayed, and are you my enemy?”

“Miscreant!” shouted Lawton, his saber ringing in its steel scabbard,
as he struck the musket of the fellow from his hands, “offer but again
to point your gun at me, and I’ll cleave you to the middle.”

“And you will not pay us, then, Captain Lawton?” said the Skinner,
trembling in every joint, for just then he saw a party of mounted
dragoons silently encircling the whole party.

“Oh! pay you—yes, you shall have the full measure of your reward. There
is the money that Colonel Singleton sent down for the captors of the
spy,” throwing a bag of guineas with disdain at the other’s feet. “But
ground your arms, you rascals, and see that the money is truly told.”

The intimidated band did as they were ordered; and while they were
eagerly employed in this pleasing avocation, a few of Lawton’s men
privately knocked the flints out of their muskets.

“Well,” cried the impatient captain, “is it right? Have you the
promised reward?”

“There is just the money,” said the leader; “and we will now go to our
homes, with your permission.”

“Hold! so much to redeem our promise—now for justice; we pay you for
taking a spy, but we punish you for burning, robbing, and murdering.
Seize them, my lads, and give each of them the law of Moses—forty save
one.”

This command was given to no unwilling listeners; and in the twinkling
of an eye the Skinners were stripped and fastened, by the halters of
the party, to as many of the apple trees as were necessary to furnish
one to each of the gang. Swords were quickly drawn, and fifty branches
were cut from the trees, like magic; from these were selected a few of
the most supple of the twigs, and a willing dragoon was soon found to
wield each of the weapons. Captain Lawton gave the word, humanely
cautioning his men not to exceed the discipline prescribed by the
Mosaic law, and the uproar of Babel commenced in the orchard. The cries
of the leader were easily to be distinguished above those of his men; a
circumstance which might be accounted for, by Captain Lawton’s
reminding his corrector that he had to deal with an officer, and he
should remember and pay him unusual honor. The flagellation was
executed with great neatness and dispatch, and it was distinguished by
no irregularity, excepting that none of the disciplinarians began to
count until they had tried their whips by a dozen or more blows, by the
way, as they said themselves, of finding out the proper places to
strike. As soon as this summary operation was satisfactorily completed,
Lawton directed his men to leave the Skinners to replace their own
clothes, and to mount their horses; for they were a party who had been
detached for the purpose of patrolling lower down in the county.

“You see, my friend,” said the captain to the leader of the Skinners,
after he had prepared himself to depart, “I can cover you to some
purpose, when necessary. If we meet often, you will be covered with
scars, which, if not very honorable, will at least be merited.”

The fellow made no reply. He was busy with his musket, and hastening
his comrades to march; when, everything being ready, they proceeded
sullenly towards some rocks at no great distance, which were overhung
by a deep wood. The moon was just rising, and the group of dragoons
could easily be distinguished where they had been left. Suddenly
turning, the whole gang leveled their pieces and drew the triggers. The
action was noticed, and the snapping of the locks was heard by the
soldiers, who returned their futile attempt with a laugh of derision,
the captain crying aloud,—

“Ah! rascals, I knew you, and have taken away your flints.”

“You should have taken away that in my pouch, too,” shouted the leader,
firing his gun in the next instant. The bullet grazed the ear of
Lawton, who laughed as he shook his head, saying, “A miss was as good
as a mile.” One of the dragoons had seen the preparations of the
Skinner—who had been left alone by the rest of his gang, as soon as
they had made their abortive attempt at revenge—and was in the act of
plunging his spurs into his horse as the fellow fired. The distance to
the rocks was but small, yet the speed of the horse compelled the
leader to abandon both money and musket, to effect his escape. The
soldier returned with his prizes, and offered them to the acceptance of
his captain; but Lawton rejected them, telling the man to retain them
himself, until the rascal appeared in person to claim his property. It
would have been a business of no small difficulty for any tribunal then
existing in the new states to have enforced a restitution of the money;
for it was shortly after most equitably distributed, by the hands of
Sergeant Hollister, among a troop of horse. The patrol departed, and
the captain slowly returned to his quarters, with an intention of
retiring to rest. A figure moving rapidly among the trees, in the
direction of the wood whither the Skinners had retired, caught his eye,
and, wheeling on his heel, the cautious partisan approached it, and, to
his astonishment, saw the washerwoman at that hour of the night, and in
such a place.

“What, Betty! Walking in your sleep, or dreaming while awake?” cried
the trooper. “Are you not afraid of meeting with the ghost of ancient
Jenny in this her favorite pasture?”

“Ah, sure, Captain Jack,” returned the sutler in her native accent, and
reeling in a manner that made it difficult for her to raise her head,
“it’s not Jenny, or her ghost, that I’m saaking, but some yarbs for the
wounded. And it’s the vartue of the rising moon, as it jist touches
them, that I want. They grow under yon rocks, and I must hasten, or the
charm will lose its power.”

“Fool, you are fitter for your pallet than for wandering among those
rocks; a fall from one of them would break your bones; besides, the
Skinners have fled to those heights, and should you fall in with them,
they would revenge on you a sound flogging they have just received from
me. Better return, old woman, and finish your nap; we march in the
morning.”

Betty disregarded his advice, and continued her devious route to the
hillside. For an instant, as Lawton mentioned the Skinners, she had
paused, but immediately resuming her course, she was soon out of sight,
among the trees.

As the captain entered his quarters, the sentinel at the door inquired
if he had met Mrs. Flanagan, and added that she had passed there,
filling the air with threats against her tormentors at the “Hotel,” and
inquiring for the captain in search of redress. Lawton heard the man in
astonishment—appeared struck with a new idea—walked several yards
towards the orchard, and returned again; for several minutes he paced
rapidly to and fro before the door of the house, and then hastily
entering it, he threw himself on a bed in his clothes, and was soon in
a profound sleep.

In the meantime, the gang of marauders had successfully gained the
summit of the rocks, and, scattering in every direction, they buried
themselves in the depths of the wood. Finding, however, there was no
pursuit, which indeed would have been impracticable for horse, the
leader ventured to call his band together with a whistle, and in a
short time he succeeded in collecting his discomfited party, at a point
where they had but little to apprehend from any enemy.

“Well,” said one of the fellows, while a fire was lighting to protect
them against the air, which was becoming severely cold, “there is an
end to our business in Westchester. The Virginia horse will make the
county too hot to hold us.”

“I’ll have his blood,” muttered the leader, “if I die for it the next
instant.”

“Oh, you are very valiant here, in the wood,” cried the other, with a
savage laugh. “Why did you, who boast so much of your aim, miss your
man, at thirty yards?”

“’Twas the horseman that disturbed me, or I would have ended this
Captain Lawton on the spot; besides, the cold had set me a-shivering,
and I had no longer a steady hand.”

“Say it was fear, and you will tell no lie,” said his comrade with a
sneer. “For my part, I think I shall never be cold again; my back burns
as if a thousand gridirons were laid on it.”

“And you would tamely submit to such usage, and kiss the rod that beat
you?”

“As for kissing the rod, it would be no easy matter. Mine was broken
into so small pieces, on my own shoulders, that it would be difficult
to find one big enough to kiss; but I would rather submit to lose half
my skin, than to lose the whole of it, with my ears in the bargain. And
such will be our fates, if we tempt this mad Virginian again. God
willing, I would at any time give him enough of my hide to make a pair
of jack boots, to get out of his hands with the remainder. If you had
known when you were well off, you would have stuck to Major Dunwoodie,
who don’t know half so much of our evil doings.”

“Silence, you talking fool!” shouted the enraged leader; “your prating
is sufficient to drive a man mad. Is it not enough to be robbed and
beaten, but we must be tormented with your folly? Help to get out the
provisions, if any is left in the wallet, and try and stop your mouth
with food.”

This injunction was obeyed, and the whole party, amidst sundry groans
and contortions, excited by the disordered state of their backs, made
their arrangements for a scanty meal. A large fire of dry wood was
burning in the cleft of a rock, and at length they began to recover
from the confusion of their flight, and to collect their scattered
senses. Their hunger being appeased, and many of their garments thrown
aside for the better opportunity of dressing their wounds, the gang
began to plot measures of revenge. An hour was spent in this manner,
and various expedients were proposed; but as they all depended on
personal prowess for their success, and were attended by great danger,
they were of course rejected. There was no possibility of approaching
the troops by surprise, their vigilance being ever on the watch; and
the hope of meeting Captain Lawton away from his men, was equally
forlorn, for the trooper was constantly engaged in his duty, and his
movements were so rapid, that any opportunity of meeting with him, at
all, must depend greatly on accident. Besides, it was by no means
certain that such an interview would result happily for themselves. The
cunning of the trooper was notorious; and rough and broken as was
Westchester, the fearless partisan was known to take desperate leaps,
and stone walls were but slight impediments to the charges of the
Southern horse. Gradually, the conversation took another direction,
until the gang determined on a plan which should both revenge
themselves, and at the same time offer some additional stimulus to
their exertions. The whole business was accurately discussed, the time
fixed, and the manner adopted; in short, nothing was wanting to the
previous arrangement for this deed of villainy, when they were aroused
by a voice calling aloud,—

“This way, Captain Jack—here are the rascals ’ating by a fire—this way,
and murder the t’ieves where they sit—quick, l’ave your horses and
shoot your pistols!”

This terrific summons was enough to disturb all the philosophy of the
gang. Springing on their feet, they rushed deeper into the wood, and
having already agreed upon a place of rendezvous previously to their
intended expedition, they dispersed towards the four quarters of the
heavens. Certain sounds and different voices were heard calling on each
other, but as the marauders were well trained to speed of foot, they
were soon lost in the distance.

It was not long before Betty Flanagan emerged from the darkness, and
very coolly took possession of what the Skinners had left behind them;
namely, food and divers articles of dress. The washerwoman deliberately
seated herself, and made a meal with great apparent satisfaction. For
an hour, she sat with her head upon her hand, in deep musing; then she
gathered together such articles of the clothes, as seemed to suit her
fancy, and retired into the wood, leaving the fire to throw its
glimmering light on the adjacent rocks, until its last brand died away,
and the place was abandoned to solitude and darkness.

 [8] The partisan corps called Cowboys in the parlance of the country,
 was commanded by Colonel De Lancey. This gentleman, for such he was by
 birth and education, rendered himself very odious to the Americans by
 his fancied cruelty, though there is no evidence of his being guilty
 of any acts unusual in this species of warfare. Colonel De Lancey
 belonged to a family of the highest consequence in the American
 colonies, his uncle having died in the administration of the
 government of that of New York. He should not be confounded with other
 gentlemen of his name and family, many of whom served in the royal
 army. His cousin, Colonel Oliver De Lancey, was, at the time of our
 tale, adjutant general of the British forces in America, having
 succeeded to the unfortunate André. The Cowboys were sometimes called
 Refugees, in consequence of their having taken refuge under the
 protection of the crown.


 [9] The author must have intended some allusion to an individual,
 which is too local to be understood by the general reader. André, as
 is well known, was arrested by three countrymen, who were on the
 lookout for predatory parties of the enemy; the principal man of this
 party was named Paulding. The disinterested manner in which they
 refused the offers of their captive is matter of history.




CHAPTER XIX.


No longer then perplex the breast—
When thoughts torment, the first are best;
’Tis mad to go, ’tis death to stay!
Away, to Orra, haste away.


—Lapland Love Song.


While his comrades were sleeping, in perfect forgetfulness of their
hardships and dangers, the slumbers of Dunwoodie were broken and
unquiet. After spending a night of restlessness, he arose, unrefreshed,
from the rude bed where he had thrown himself in his clothes, and,
without awaking any of the group around him, he wandered into the open
air in search of relief. The soft rays of the moon were just passing
away in the more distinct light of the morning; the wind had fallen,
and the rising mists gave the promise of another of those autumnal
days, which, in this unstable climate, succeed a tempest with the rapid
transitions of magic. The hour had not yet arrived when he intended
moving from his present position; and, willing to allow his warriors
all the refreshment that circumstances would permit, he strolled
towards the scene of the Skinners’ punishment, musing upon the
embarrassments of his situation, and uncertain how he should reconcile
his sense of duty with his love. Although Dunwoodie himself placed the
most implicit reliance on the captain’s purity of intention, he was by
no means assured that a board of officers would be equally credulous;
and, independently of all feelings of private regard, he felt certain
that with the execution of Henry would be destroyed all hopes of a
union with his sister. He had dispatched an officer, the preceding
evening, to Colonel Singleton, who was in command of the advance posts,
reporting the capture of the British captain, and, after giving his own
opinion of his innocence, requesting orders as to the manner in which
he was to dispose of his prisoner. These orders might be expected every
hour, and his uneasiness increased, in proportion as the moment
approached when his friend might be removed from his protection. In
this disturbed state of mind, the major wandered through the orchard,
and was stopped in his walk by arriving at the base of those rocks
which had protected the Skinners in their flight, before he was
conscious whither his steps had carried him. He was about to turn, and
retrace his path to his quarters, when he was startled by a voice,
bidding him,—

“Stand or die!”

Dunwoodie turned in amazement, and beheld the figure of a man placed at
a little distance above him on a shelving rock, with a musket leveled
at himself. The light was not yet sufficiently powerful to reach the
recesses of that gloomy spot, and a second look was necessary before he
discovered, to his astonishment, that the peddler stood before him.
Comprehending, in an instant, the danger of his situation, and
disdaining to implore mercy or to retreat, had the latter been
possible, the youth cried firmly,—

“If I am to be murdered, fire! I will never become your prisoner.”

“No, Major Dunwoodie,” said Birch, lowering his musket, “it is neither
my intention to capture nor to slay.”

“What then would you have, mysterious being?” said Dunwoodie, hardly
able to persuade himself that the form he saw was not a creature of the
imagination.

“Your good opinion,” answered the peddler, with emotion. “I would wish
all good men to judge me with lenity.”

“To you it must be indifferent what may be the judgment of men; for you
seem to be beyond the reach of their sentence.”

“God spares the lives of His servants to His own time,” said the
peddler, solemnly. “A few hours ago I was your prisoner, and threatened
with the gallows; now you are mine; but, Major Dunwoodie, you are free.
There are men abroad who would treat you less kindly. Of what service
would that sword be to you against my weapon and a steady hand? Take
the advice of one who has never harmed you, and who never will. Do not
trust yourself in the skirts of any wood, unless in company and
mounted.”

“And have you comrades, who have assisted you to escape, and who are
less generous than yourself?”

“No—no, I am alone truly—none know me but my God and _him._”

“And who?” asked the major, with an interest he could not control.

“None,” continued the peddler, recovering his composure. “But such is
not your case, Major Dunwoodie; you are young and happy; there are
those that are dear to you, and such are not far away—danger is near
them you love most—danger within and without—double your watchfulness—
strengthen your patrols—and be silent. With your opinion of me, should
I tell you more, you would suspect an ambush. But remember and guard
them you love best.”

The peddler discharged the musket in the air, and threw it at the feet
of his astonished auditor. When surprise and the smoke allowed
Dunwoodie to look again on the rock where he had stood, the spot was
vacant.

The youth was aroused from the stupor, which had been created by this
strange scene, by the trampling of horses, and the sound of the bugles.
A patrol was drawn to the spot by the report of the musket, and the
alarm had been given to the corps. Without entering into any
explanation with his men, the major returned quickly to his quarters,
where he found the whole squadron under arms, in battle array,
impatiently awaiting the appearance of their leader. The officer whose
duty it was to superintend such matters, had directed a party to lower
the sign of the Hotel Flanagan, and the post was already arranged for
the execution of the spy. On hearing from the major that the musket was
discharged by himself, and was probably one of those dropped by the
Skinners (for by this time Dunwoodie had learned the punishment
inflicted by Lawton, but chose to conceal his own interview with
Birch), his officers suggested the propriety of executing their
prisoner before they marched. Unable to believe that all he had seen
was not a dream, Dunwoodie, followed by many of his officers, and
preceded by Sergeant Hollister, went to the place which was supposed to
contain the peddler.

“Well, sir,” said the major to the sentinel who guarded the door, “I
trust you have your prisoner in safety.”

“He is yet asleep,” replied the man, “and he makes such a noise, I
could hardly hear the bugles sound the alarm.”

“Open the door and bring him forth.”

The order was obeyed; but to the utter amazement of the honest veteran
who entered the prison, he found the room in no little disorder—the
coat of the peddler where his body ought to have been, and part of the
wardrobe of Betty scattered in disorder on the floor. The washerwoman
herself occupied the pallet, in profound mental oblivion, clad as when
last seen, excepting a little black bonnet, which she so constantly
wore, that it was commonly thought she made it perform the double duty
of both day and night cap. The noise of their entrance, and the
exclamations of their party, awoke the woman.

“Is it the breakfast that’s wanting?” said Betty, rubbing her eyes.
“Faith, ye look as if ye would ate myself—but patience, a little,
darlings, and ye’ll see sich a fry as never was.”

“Fry!” echoed the sergeant, forgetful of his religious philosophy, and
the presence of his officers. “We’ll have you roasted, Jezebel!—you’ve
helped that damned peddler to escape.”

“Jezebel back ag’in in your own teeth, and damned piddler too, Mr.
Sargeant!” cried Betty, who was easily roused. “What have I to do with
piddlers, or escapes? I might have been a piddler’s lady, and wore my
silks, if I’d had Sawny M’Twill, instead of tagging at the heels of a
parcel of dragooning rapscallions, who don’t know how to trate a lone
body with dacency.”

“The fellow has left my Bible,” said the veteran, taking he book from
the floor. “Instead of spending his time in reading it to prepare for
his end like a good Christian, he has been busy in laboring to escape.”

“And who would stay and be hanged like a dog?” cried Betty, beginning
to comprehend the case. “’Tisn’t everyone that’s born to meet with sich
an ind—like yourself, Mr. Hollister.”

“Silence!” said Dunwoodie. “This must be inquired into closely,
gentlemen; there is no outlet but the door, and there he could not
pass, unless the sentinel connived at his escape, or was asleep at his
post. Call up the guard.”

As these men were not paraded, curiosity had already drawn them to the
place, and they one and all, with the exception of him before
mentioned, denied that any person had passed out. The individual in
question acknowledged that Betty had gone by him, but pleaded his
orders in justification.

“You lie, you t’ief—you lie!” shouted Betty, who had impatiently
listened to his exculpation. “Would ye slanderize a lone woman, by
saying she walks a camp at midnight? Here have I been slaping the long
night, swaatly as the sucking babe.”

“Here, sir,” said the sergeant, turning respectfully to Dunwoodie, “is
something written in my Bible that was not in it before; for having no
family to record, I would not suffer any scribbling in the sacred
book.”

One of the officers read aloud: “_These certify, that if suffered to
get free, it is by God’s help alone, to whose divine aid I humbly
riccommind myself. I’m forced to take the woman’s clothes, but in her
pocket is a ricompinse. Witness my hand—Harvey Birch._”

“What!” roared Betty, “has the t’ief robbed a lone woman of her all!
Hang him—catch him and hang him, major; if there’s law or justice in
the land.”

“Examine your pocket,” said one of the youngsters, who was enjoying the
scene, careless of the consequences.

“Ah! faith,” cried the washerwoman, producing a guinea, “but he is a
jewel of a piddler! Long life and a brisk trade to him, say I; he is
wilcome to the duds—and if he is ever hanged, many a bigger rogue will
go free.”

Dunwoodie turned to leave the apartment, and he saw Captain Lawton
standing with folded arms, contemplating the scene with profound
silence. His manner, so different from his usual impetuosity and zeal,
struck his commander as singular. Their eyes met, and they walked
together for a few minutes in close conversation, when Dunwoodie
returned, and dismissed the guard to their place of rendezvous.
Sergeant Hollister, however, continued along with Betty, who, having
found none of her vestments disturbed but such as the guinea more than
paid for, was in high good humor. The washerwoman had for a long time
looked on the veteran with the eyes of affection; and she had
determined within herself to remove certain delicate objections which
had long embarrassed her peculiar situation, as respected the corps, by
making the sergeant the successor of her late husband. For some time
past the trooper had seemed to flatter this preference; and Betty,
conceiving that her violence might have mortified her suitor, was
determined to make him all the amends in her power. Besides, rough and
uncouth as she was, the washerwoman had still enough of her sex to know
that the moments of reconciliation were the moments of power. She
therefore poured out a glass of her morning beverage, and handed it to
her companion as a peace offering.

“A few warm words between fri’nds are a trifle, ye must be knowing,
sargeant,” said the washerwoman. “It was Michael Flanagan that I ever
calumn’ated the most when I was loving him the best.”

“Michael was a good soldier and a brave man,” said the trooper,
finishing the glass. “Our troop was covering the flank of his regiment
when he fell, and I rode over his body myself during the day. Poor
fellow! he lay on his back, and looked as composed as if he had died a
natural death after a year’s consumption.”

“Oh! Michael was a great consumer, and be sartin; two such as us make
dreadful inroads in the stock, sargeant. But ye’re a sober, discrate
man, Mister Hollister, and would be a helpmate indeed.”

“Why, Mrs. Flanagan, I’ve tarried to speak on a subject that lies heavy
at my heart, and I will now open my mind, if you’ve leisure to listen.”

“Is it listen?” cried the impatient woman; “and I’d listen to you,
sargeant, if the officers never ate another mouthful. But take a second
drop, dear; ’twill encourage you to spake freely.”

“I am already bold enough in so good a cause,” returned the veteran,
rejecting her bounty. “Betty, do you think it was really the peddler
spy that I placed in this room the last night?”

“And who should it be else, darling?”

“The evil one.”

“What, the divil?”

“Aye, even Beelzebub, disguised as the peddler; and them fellows we
thought to be Skinners were his imps.”

“Well sure, sargeant dear, ye’re but little out this time, anyway; for
if the divil’s imps go at large in the county Westchester, sure it is
the Skinners, themselves.”

“Mrs. Flanagan, I mean in their incarnate spirits; the evil one knew
there was no one we would arrest sooner than the peddler Birch, and he
took on his appearance to gain admission to your room.”

“And what should the divil be wanting of me?” cried Betty, tartly. “And
isn’t there divils enough in the corps already, without one’s coming
from the bottomless pit to frighten a lone body?”

“’Twas in mercy to you, Betty, that he was permitted to come. You see
he vanished through the door in your form, which is a symbol of your
fate, unless you mend your life. Oh! I noticed how he trembled when I
gave him the good book. Would any Christian, think you, my dear Betty,
write in a Bible in this way; unless it might be the matter of births
and deaths, and such lawful chronicles?”

The washerwoman was pleased with the softness of her lover’s manner,
but dreadfully scandalized at his insinuation. She, however, preserved
her temper, and with the quickness of her own country’s people,
rejoined, “And would the divil have paid for the clothes, think
ye?—aye, and overpaid.”

“Doubtless the money is base,” said the sergeant, a little staggered at
such an evidence of honesty in one of whom, as to generals, he thought
so meanly. “He tempted me with his glittering coin, but the Lord gave
me strength to resist.”

“The goold looks well; but I’ll change it, anyway, with Captain Jack,
the day. He is niver a bit afeard of any divil of them all!”

“Betty, Betty,” said her companion, “do not speak so disreverently of
the evil spirit; he is ever at hand, and will owe you a grudge, for
your language.”

“Pooh! if he has any bowels at all, he won’t mind a fillip or two from
a poor lone woman; I’m sure no other Christian would.”

“But the dark one has no bowels, except to devour the children of men,”
said the sergeant, looking around him in horror; “and it’s best to make
friends everywhere, for there is no telling what may happen till it
comes. But, Betty, no man could have got out of this place, and passed
all the sentinels, without being known. Take awful warning from the
visit therefore—”

Here the dialogue was interrupted by a peremptory summons to the sutler
to prepare the morning’s repast, and they were obliged to separate; the
woman secretly hoping that the interest the sergeant manifested was
more earthly than he imagined; and the man, bent on saving a soul from
the fangs of the dark spirit that was prowling through their camp in
quest of victims.

During the breakfast several expresses arrived, one of which brought
intelligence of the actual force and destination of the enemy’s
expedition that was out on the Hudson; and another, orders to send
Captain Wharton to the first post above, under the escort of a body of
dragoons. These last instructions, or rather commands, for they
admitted of no departure from their letter, completed the sum of
Dunwoodie’s uneasiness. The despair and misery of Frances were
constantly before his eyes, and fifty times he was tempted to throw
himself on his horse and gallop to the Locusts; but an uncontrollable
feeling prevented. In obedience to the commands of his superior, an
officer, with a small party, was sent to the cottage to conduct Henry
Wharton to the place directed; and the gentleman who was intrusted with
the execution of the order was charged with a letter from Dunwoodie to
his friend, containing the most cheering assurances of his safety, as
well as the strongest pledges of his own unceasing exertions in his
favor. Lawton was left with part of his own troop, in charge of the few
wounded; and as soon as the men were refreshed, the encampment broke
up, the main body marching towards the Hudson. Dunwoodie repeated his
injunctions to Captain Lawton again and again—dwelt on every word that
had fallen from the peddler, and canvassed, in every possible manner
that his ingenuity could devise, the probable meaning of his mysterious
warnings, until no excuse remained for delaying his own departure.
Suddenly recollecting, however, that no directions had been given for
the disposal of Colonel Wellmere, instead of following the rear of the
column, the major yielded to his desires, and turned down the road
which led to the Locusts. The horse of Dunwoodie was fleet as the wind,
and scarcely a minute seemed to have passed before he gained sight,
from an eminence, of the lonely vale, and as he was plunging into the
bottom lands that formed its surface, he caught a glimpse of Henry
Wharton and his escort, at a distance, defiling through a pass which
led to the posts above. This sight added to the speed of the anxious
youth, who now turned the angle of the hill that opened to the valley,
and came suddenly on the object of his search. Frances had followed the
party which guarded her brother, at a distance; and as they vanished
from her sight, she felt deserted by all that she most prized in this
world. The unaccountable absence of Dunwoodie, with the shock of
parting from Henry under such circumstances, had entirely subdued her
fortitude, and she had sunk on a stone by the roadside, sobbing as if
her heart would break. Dunwoodie sprang from his charger, threw the
reins over the neck of the animal, and in a moment he was by the side
of the weeping girl.

“Frances—my own Frances!” he exclaimed, “why this distress? Let not the
situation of your brother create any alarm. As soon as the duty I am
now on is completed, I will hasten to the feet of Washington, and beg
his release. The Father of his Country will never deny such a boon to
one of his favorite pupils.”

“Major Dunwoodie, for your interest in behalf of my poor brother, I
thank you,” said the trembling girl, drying her eyes, and rising with
dignity; “but such language addressed to me, surely, is improper.”

“Improper! are you not mine—by the consent of your father—your
aunt—your brother—nay, by your own consent, my sweet Frances?”

“I wish not, Major Dunwoodie, to interfere with the prior claims that
any other lady may have to your affections,” said Frances, struggling
to speak with firmness.

“None other, I swear by Heaven, none other has any claim on me!” cried
Dunwoodie, with fervor. “You alone are mistress of my inmost soul.”

“You have practiced so much, and so successfully, Major Dunwoodie, that
it is no wonder you excel in deceiving the credulity of my sex,”
returned Frances, attempting a smile, which the tremulousness of her
muscles smothered at birth.

“Am I a villain, Miss Wharton, that you receive me with such language?
When have I ever deceived you, Frances? Who has practiced in this
manner on your purity of heart?”

“Why has not Major Dunwoodie honored the dwelling of his intended
father with his presence lately? Did he forget it contained one friend
on a bed of sickness, and another in deep distress? Has it escaped his
memory that it held his intended wife? Or is he fearful of meeting more
than one that can lay a claim to that title? Oh, Peyton—Peyton, how
have I been deceived in you! With the foolish credulity of my youth, I
thought you all that was brave, noble, generous, and loyal.”

“Frances, I see how you have deceived yourself,” cried Dunwoodie, his
face in a glow of fire. “You do me injustice; I swear by all that is
most dear to me, that you do me injustice.”

“Swear not, Major Dunwoodie,” interrupted Frances, her fine countenance
lighting with the luster of womanly pride. “The time is gone by for me
to credit oaths.”

“Miss Wharton, would you have me a coxcomb—make me contemptible in my
own eyes, by boasting with the hope of raising myself in your
estimation?”

“Flatter not yourself that the task is so easy, sir,” returned Frances,
moving towards the cottage. “We converse together in private for the
last time; but—possibly—my father would welcome my mother’s kinsman.”

“No, Miss Wharton, I cannot enter his dwelling now; I should act in a
manner unworthy of myself. You drive me from you, Frances, in despair.
I am going on desperate service, and may not live to return. Should
fortune prove severe, at least do my memory justice; remember that the
last breathings of my soul will be for your happiness.” So saying, he
had already placed his foot in the stirrup, but his youthful mistress,
turning on him an eye that pierced his soul, arrested the action.

“Peyton—Major Dunwoodie,” she said, “can you ever forget the sacred
cause in which you are enlisted? Duty both to your God and to your
country forbids your doing anything rashly. The latter has need of your
services; besides”—but her voice became choked, and she was unable to
proceed.

“Besides what?” echoed the youth, springing to her side, and offering
to take her hand in his own. Frances having, however, recovered
herself, coldly repulsed him, and continued her walk homeward.

“Is this our parting!” cried Dunwoodie, in agony. “Am I a wretch, that
you treat me so cruelly? You have never loved me, and wish to conceal
your own fickleness by accusations that you will not explain.”

Frances stopped short in her walk, and turned on him a look of so much
purity and feeling, that, heart-stricken, Dunwoodie would have knelt at
her feet for pardon; but motioning him for silence, she once more
spoke:—

“Hear me, Major Dunwoodie, for the last time: it is a bitter knowledge
when we first discover our own inferiority; but it is a truth that I
have lately learned. Against you I bring no charges—make no
accusations; no, not willingly in my thoughts. Were my claims to your
heart just, I am not worthy of you. It is not a feeble, timid girl,
like me, that could make you happy. No, Peyton, you are formed for
great and glorious actions, deeds of daring and renown, and should be
united to a soul like your own; one that can rise above the weakness of
her sex. I should be a weight to drag you to the dust; but with a
different spirit in your companion, you might soar to the very pinnacle
of earthly glory. To such a one, therefore, I resign you freely, if not
cheerfully; and pray, oh, how fervently do I pray! that with such a one
you may be happy.”

“Lovely enthusiast!” cried Dunwoodie, “you know not yourself, nor me.
It is a woman, mild, gentle, and dependent as yourself, that my very
nature loves; deceive not yourself with visionary ideas of generosity,
which will only make me miserable.”

“Farewell, Major Dunwoodie,” said the agitated girl, pausing for a
moment to gasp for breath; “forget that you ever knew me—remember the
claims of your bleeding country; and be happy.”

“Happy!” repeated the youthful soldier, bitterly, as he saw her light
form gliding through the gate of the lawn, and disappearing behind its
shrubbery, “Yes, I am happy, indeed!”

Throwing himself into the saddle, he plunged his spurs into his horse,
and soon overtook his squadron, which was marching slowly over the
hilly roads of the county, to gain the banks of the Hudson.

But painful as were the feelings of Dunwoodie at this unexpected
termination of the interview with his mistress, they were but light
compared with those which were experienced by the fond girl herself.
Frances had, with the keen eye of jealous love, easily detected the
attachment of Isabella Singleton to Dunwoodie. Delicate and retiring
herself, it never could present itself to her mind that this love had
been unsought. Ardent in her own affections, and artless in their
exhibition, she had early caught the eye of the young soldier; but it
required all the manly frankness of Dunwoodie to court her favor, and
the most pointed devotion to obtain his conquest. This done, his power
was durable, entire, and engrossing. But the unusual occurrences of the
few preceding days, the altered mien of her lover during those events,
his unwonted indifference to herself, and chiefly the romantic idolatry
of Isabella, had aroused new sensations in her bosom. With a dread of
her lover’s integrity had been awakened the never-failing concomitant
of the purest affection, a distrust of her own merits. In the moment of
enthusiasm, the task of resigning her lover to another, who might be
more worthy of him, seemed easy; but it is in vain that the imagination
attempts to deceive the heart. Dunwoodie had no sooner disappeared,
than our heroine felt all the misery of her situation; and if the youth
found some relief in the cares of his command, Frances was less
fortunate in the performance of a duty imposed on her by filial piety.
The removal of his son had nearly destroyed the little energy of Mr.
Wharton, who required all the tenderness of his remaining children to
convince him that he was able to perform the ordinary functions of
life.




CHAPTER XX.


Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces,
Though ne’er so black, say they have angels’ faces,
That man who hath a tongue I say is no man,
If with that tongue he cannot win a woman.


—_Two Gentlemen of Verona_.


In making the arrangements by which Captain Lawton had been left, with
Sergeant Hollister and twelve men, as a guard over the wounded, and
heavy baggage of the corps, Dunwoodie had consulted not only the
information which had been conveyed in the letter of Colonel Singleton,
but the bruises of his comrade’s body. In vain Lawton declared himself
fit for any duty that man could perform, or plainly intimated that his
men would never follow Tom Mason to a charge with the alacrity and
confidence with which they followed himself; his commander was firm,
and the reluctant captain was compelled to comply with as good a grace
as he could assume. Before parting, Dunwoodie repeated his caution to
keep a watchful eye on the inmates of the cottage; and especially
enjoined him, if any movements of a particularly suspicious nature were
seen in the neighborhood, to break up from his present quarters, and to
move down with his party, and take possession of the domains of Mr.
Wharton. A vague suspicion of danger to the family had been awakened in
the breast of the major, by the language of the peddler, although he
was unable to refer it to any particular source, or to understand why
it was to be apprehended.

For some time after the departure of the troops, the captain was
walking before the door of the “Hotel,” inwardly cursing his fate, that
condemned him to an inglorious idleness, at a moment when a meeting
with the enemy might be expected, and replying to the occasional
queries of Betty, who, from the interior of the building, ever and anon
demanded, in a high tone of voice, an explanation of various passages
in the peddler’s escape, which as yet she could not comprehend. At this
instant he was joined by the surgeon, who had hitherto been engaged
among his patients in a distant building, and was profoundly ignorant
of everything that had occurred, even to the departure of the troops.

“Where are all the sentinels, John?” he inquired, as he gazed around
with a look of curiosity, “and why are you here alone?”

“Off—all off, with Dunwoodie, to the river. You and I are left here to
take care of a few sick men and some women.”

“I am glad, however,” said the surgeon, “that Major Dunwoodie had
consideration enough not to move the wounded. Here, you Mrs. Elizabeth
Flanagan, hasten with some food, that I may appease my appetite. I have
a dead body to dissect and am in haste.”

“And here, you Mister Doctor Archibald Sitgreaves,” echoed Betty,
showing her blooming countenance from a broken window of the kitchen,
“you are ever a-coming too late; here is nothing to ate but the skin of
Jenny, and the body ye’re mentioning.”

“Woman!” said the surgeon, in anger, “do you take me for a cannibal,
that you address your filthy discourse to me, in this manner? I bid you
hasten with such food as may be proper to be received into the stomach
fasting.”

“And I’m sure it’s for a popgun that I should be taking you sooner than
for a cannon ball,” said Betty, winking at the captain; “and I tell ye
that it’s fasting you must be, unless ye’ll let me cook ye a steak from
the skin of Jenny. The boys have ate me up intirely.”

Lawton now interfered to preserve the peace, and assured the surgeon
that he had already dispatched the proper persons in quest of food for
the party. A little mollified with this explanation, the operator soon
forgot his hunger, and declared his intention of proceeding to business
at once.

“And where is your subject?” asked Lawton.

“The peddler,” said the other, glancing a look at the signpost. “I made
Hollister put a stage so high that the neck would not be dislocated by
the fall, and I intend making as handsome a skeleton of him as there is
in the states of North America; the fellow has good points, and his
bones are well knit. I will make a perfect beauty of him. I have long
been wanting something of this sort to send as a present to my old aunt
in Virginia, who was so kind to me when a boy.”

“The devil!” cried Lawton. “Would you send the old woman a dead man’s
bones?”

“Why not?” said the surgeon. “What nobler object is there in nature
than the figure of a man—and the skeleton may be called his elementary
parts. But what has been done with the body?”

“Off too.”

“Off! And who has dared to interfere with my perquisites?”

“Sure, jist the divil,” said Betty; “and who’ll be taking yeerself away
some of these times too, without asking yeer lave.”

“Silence, you witch!” said Lawton, with difficulty suppressing a laugh.
“Is this the manner in which to address an officer?”

“Who called me the filthy Elizabeth Flanagan?” cried the washerwoman,
snapping her fingers contemptuously. “I can remimber a frind for a year
and don’t forgit an inimy for a month.”

But the friendship or enmity of Mrs. Flanagan was alike indifferent to
the surgeon, who could think of nothing but his loss; and Lawton was
obliged to explain to his friend the apparent manner in which it had
happened.

“And a lucky escape it was for ye, my jewel of a doctor,” cried Betty,
as the captain concluded. “Sargeant Hollister, who saw him face to
face, as it might be, says it’s Beelzeboob, and no piddler, unless it
may be in a small matter of lies and thefts, and sich wickedness. Now a
pretty figure ye would have been in cutting up Beelzeboob, if the major
had hanged him. I don’t think it’s very ’asy he would have been under
yeer knife.”

Thus doubly disappointed in his meal and his business, Sitgreaves
suddenly declared his intention of visiting the Locusts, and inquiring
into the state of Captain Singleton. Lawton was ready for the
excursion; and mounting, they were soon on the road, though the surgeon
was obliged to submit to a few more jokes from the washerwoman, before
he could get out of hearing. For some time the two rode in silence,
when Lawton, perceiving that his companion’s temper was somewhat
ruffled by his disappointments and Betty’s attack, made an effort to
restore the tranquillity of his feelings.

“That was a charming song, Archibald, that you commenced last evening,
when we were interrupted by the party that brought in the peddler,” he
said. “The allusion to Galen was much to the purpose.”

“I knew you would like it, Jack, when you had got the fumes of the wine
out of your head. Poetry is a respectable art, though it wants the
precision of the exact sciences, and the natural beneficence of the
physical. Considered in reference to the wants of life, I should define
poetry as an emollient, rather than as a succulent.”

“And yet your ode was full of the meat of wit.”

“Ode is by no means a proper term for the composition; I should term it
a classical ballad.”

“Very probably,” said the trooper. “Hearing only one verse, it was
difficult to class the composition.”

The surgeon involuntarily hemmed, and began to clear his throat,
although scarcely conscious himself to what the preparation tended. But
the captain, rolling his dark eyes towards his companion, and observing
him to be sitting with great uneasiness on his horse, continued,—

“The air is still, and the road solitary—why not give the remainder? It
is never too late to repair a loss.”

“My dear John, if I thought it would correct the errors you have
imbibed, from habit and indulgence, nothing could give me more
pleasure.”

“We are fast approaching some rocks on our left; the echo will double
my satisfaction.”

Thus encouraged, and somewhat impelled by the opinion that he both sang
and wrote with taste, the surgeon set about complying with the request
in sober earnest. Some little time was lost in clearing his throat, and
getting the proper pitch of his voice; but no sooner were these two
points achieved, than Lawton had the secret delight of hearing his
friend commence—

“‘Hast thou ever’”—


“Hush!” interrupted the trooper. “What rustling noise is that among the
rocks?”

“It must have been the rushing of the melody. A powerful voice is like
the breathing of the winds.

“‘Hast thou ever’”—


“Listen!” said Lawton, stopping his horse. He had not done speaking,
when a stone fell at his feet, and rolled harmlessly across the path.

“A friendly shot, that,” cried the trooper. “Neither the weapon, nor
its force, implies much ill will.”

“Blows from stones seldom produce more than contusions,” said the
operator, bending his gaze in every direction in vain, in quest of the
hand from which the missile had been hurled. “It must be meteoric;
there is no living being in sight, except ourselves.”

“It would be easy to hide a regiment behind those rocks,” returned the
trooper, dismounting, and taking the stone in his hand. “Oh! here is
the explanation along with the mystery.” So saying, he tore a piece of
paper that had been ingeniously fastened to the small fragment of rock
which had thus singularly fallen before him; and opening it, the
captain read the following words, written in no very legible hand: “_A
musket bullet will go farther than a stone, and things more dangerous
than yarbs for wounded men lie hid in the rocks of Westchester. The
horse may be good, but can he mount a precipice?_”

“Thou sayest the truth, strange man,” said Lawton. “Courage and
activity would avail but little against assassination and these rugged
passes.” Remounting his horse, he cried aloud, “Thanks, unknown friend;
your caution will be remembered.”

A meager hand was extended for an instant over a rock, in the air, and
afterwards nothing further was seen, or heard, in that quarter, by the
soldiers.

“Quite an extraordinary interruption,” said the astonished Sitgreaves,
“and a letter of very mysterious meaning.”

“Oh! ’tis nothing but the wit of some bumpkin, who thinks to frighten
two of the Virginians by an artifice of this kind,” said the trooper,
placing the billet in his pocket. “But let me tell you, Mr. Archibald
Sitgreaves, you were wanting to dissect, just now, a damned honest
fellow.”

“It was the peddler—one of the most notorious spies in the enemy’s
service; and I must say that I think it would be an honor to such a man
to be devoted to the uses of science.”

“He may be a spy—he must be one,” said Lawton, musing; “but he has a
heart above enmity, and a soul that would honor a soldier.”

The surgeon turned a vacant eye on his companion as he uttered this
soliloquy, while the penetrating looks of the trooper had already
discovered another pile of rocks, which, jutting forward, nearly
obstructed the highway that wound directly around its base.

“What the steed cannot mount, the foot of man can overcome,” exclaimed
the wary partisan. Throwing himself again from his saddle, and leaping
a wall of stone, he began to ascend the hill at a pace which would soon
have given him a bird’s-eye view of the rocks in question, together
with all their crevices. This movement was no sooner made, than Lawton
caught a glimpse of the figure of a man stealing rapidly from his
approach, and disappearing on the opposite side of the precipice.

“Spur, Sitgreaves—spur,” shouted the trooper, dashing over every
impediment in pursuit, “and murder the villain as he flies.”

The former part of the request was promptly complied with, and a few
moments brought the surgeon in full view of a man armed with a musket,
who was crossing the road, and evidently seeking the protection of the
thick wood on its opposite side.

“Stop, my friend—stop until Captain Lawton comes up, if you please,”
cried the surgeon, observing him to flee with a rapidity that baffled
his horsemanship. But as if the invitation contained new terrors, the
footman redoubled his efforts, nor paused even to breathe, until he had
reached his goal, when, turning on his heel, he discharged his musket
towards the surgeon, and was out of sight in an instant. To gain the
highway, and throw himself into his saddle, detained Lawton but a
moment, and he rode to the side of his comrade just as the figure
disappeared.

“Which way has he fled?” cried the trooper.

“John,” said the surgeon, “am I not a noncombatant?”

“Whither has the rascal fled?” cried Lawton, impatiently.

“Where you cannot follow—into that wood. But I repeat, John, am I not a
noncombatant?”

The disappointed trooper, perceiving that his enemy had escaped him,
now turned his eyes, which were flashing with anger, upon his comrade,
and gradually his muscles lost their rigid compression, his brow
relaxed, and his look changed from its fierce expression, to the covert
laughter which so often distinguished his countenance. The surgeon sat
in dignified composure on his horse; his thin body erect, and his head
elevated with the indignation of one conscious of having been unjustly
treated.

“Why did you suffer the villain to escape?” demanded the captain. “Once
within reach of my saber, and I would have given you a subject for the
dissecting table.”

“’Twas impossible to prevent it,” said the surgeon, pointing to the
bars, before which he had stopped his horse. “The rogue threw himself
on the other side of this fence, and left me where you see; nor would
the man in the least attend to my remonstrances, or to an intimation
that you wished to hold discourse with him.”

“He was truly a discourteous rascal; but why did you not leap the
fence, and compel him to a halt? You see but three of the bars are up,
and Betty Flanagan could clear them on her cow.”

The surgeon, for the first time, withdrew his eyes from the place where
the fugitive had disappeared, and turned his look on his comrade. His
head, however, was not permitted to lower itself in the least, as he
replied,—

“I humbly conceive, Captain Lawton, that neither Mrs. Elizabeth
Flanagan, nor her cow, is an example to be emulated by Doctor Archibald
Sitgreaves. It would be but a sorry compliment to science, to say that
a doctor of medicine had fractured both his legs by injudiciously
striking them against a pair of barposts.” While speaking, the surgeon
raised the limbs in question to a nearly horizontal position, an
attitude which really appeared to bid defiance to anything like a
passage for himself through the defile; but the trooper, disregarding
this ocular proof of the impossibility of the movement, cried hastily,—

“Here was nothing to stop you, man; I could leap a platoon through,
boot and thigh, without pricking with a single spur. Pshaw! I have
often charged upon the bayonets of infantry, over greater difficulties
than this.”

“You will please to remember, Captain John Lawton, that I am not the
riding master of the regiment—nor a drill sergeant—nor a crazy cornet;
no, sir—and I speak it with a due respect for the commission of the
Continental Congress—nor an inconsiderate captain, who regards his own
life as little as that of his enemies. I am only, sir, a poor humble
man of letters, a mere doctor of medicine, an unworthy graduate of
Edinburgh, and a surgeon of dragoons; nothing more, I do assure you,
Captain John Lawton.” So saying, he turned his horse’s head towards the
cottage, and recommenced his ride.

“Aye, you speak the truth,” muttered the dragoon. “Had I but the
meanest rider of my troop with me, I should have taken the scoundrel,
and given at least one victim to the laws. But, Archibald, no man can
ride well who straddles in this manner like the Colossus of Rhodes. You
should depend less on your stirrup, and keep your seat by the power of
the knee.”

“With proper deference to your experience, Captain Lawton,” returned
the surgeon, “I conceive myself to be no incompetent judge of muscular
action, whether in the knee, or in any other part of the human frame.
And although but humbly educated, I am not now to learn that the wider
the base, the more firm is the superstructure.”

“Would you fill a highway, in this manner, with one pair of legs, when
half a dozen might pass together in comfort, stretching them abroad
like the scythes of the ancient chariot wheels?”

The allusion to the practice of the ancients somewhat softened the
indignation of the surgeon, and he replied, with rather less hauteur,—

“You should speak with reverence of the usages of those who have gone
before us, and who, however ignorant they were in matters of science,
and particularly that of surgery, yet furnished many brilliant hints to
our own improvements. Now, sir, I have no doubt that Galen has operated
on wounds occasioned by these very scythes that you mention, although
we can find no evidence of the fact in contemporary writers. Ah! they
must have given dreadful injuries, and, I doubt not, caused great
uneasiness to the medical gentlemen of that day.”

“Occasionally a body must have been left in two pieces, to puzzle the
ingenuity of those gentry to unite. Yet, venerable and learned as they
were, I doubt not they did it.”

“What! unite two parts of the human body, that have been severed by an
edged instrument, to any of the purposes of animal life?”

“That have been rent asunder by a scythe, and are united to do military
duty,” said Lawton.

“’Tis impossible—quite impossible,” cried the surgeon. “It is in vain,
Captain Lawton, that human ingenuity endeavors to baffle the efforts of
nature. Think, my dear sir; in this case you separate all the
arteries—injure all of the intestines—sever all of the nerves and
sinews, and, what is of more consequence, you—”

“You have said enough, Dr. Sitgreaves, to convince a member of a rival
school. Nothing shall ever tempt me willingly to submit to be divided
in this irretrievable manner.”

“Certes, there is little pleasure in a wound which, from its nature, is
incurable.”

“I should think so,” said Lawton, dryly.

“What do you think is the greatest pleasure in life?” asked the
operator suddenly.

“That must greatly depend on taste.”

“Not at all,” cried the surgeon; “it is in witnessing, or rather
feeling, the ravages of disease repaired by the lights of science
cooperating with nature. I once broke my little finger intentionally,
in order that I might reduce the fracture and watch the cure: it was
only on a small scale, you know, dear John; still the thrilling
sensation excited by the knitting of the bone, aided by the
contemplation of the art of man thus acting in unison with nature,
exceeded any other enjoyment that I have ever experienced. Now, had it
been one of the more important members, such as the leg, or arm, how
much greater must the pleasure have been!”

“Or the neck,” said the trooper; but their desultory discourse was
interrupted by their arrival at the cottage of Mr. Wharton. No one
appearing to usher them into an apartment, the captain proceeded to the
door of the parlor, where he knew visitors were commonly received. On
opening it, he paused for a moment, in admiration at the scene within.
The person of Colonel Wellmere first met his eye, bending towards the
figure of the blushing Sarah, with an earnestness of manner that
prevented the noise of Lawton’s entrance from being heard by either of
the parties. Certain significant signs which were embraced at a glance
by the prying gaze of the trooper, at once made him a master of their
secret; and he was about to retire as silently as he had advanced, when
his companion, pushing himself through the passage, abruptly entered
the room. Advancing instantly to the chair of Wellmere, the surgeon
instinctively laid hold of his arm, and exclaimed,—

“Bless me!—a quick and irregular pulse—flushed cheek and fiery
eye—strong febrile symptoms, and such as must be attended to.” While
speaking, the doctor, who was much addicted to practicing in a summary
way,—a weakness of most medical men in military practice,—had already
produced his lancet, and was making certain other indications of his
intentions to proceed at once to business. But Colonel Wellmere,
recovering from the confusion of the surprise, arose from his seat
haughtily, and said,—

“Sir, it is the warmth of the room that lends me the color, and I am
already too much indebted to your skill to give you any further
trouble. Miss Wharton knows that I am quite well, and I do assure you
that I never felt better or happier in my life.”

There was a peculiar emphasis on the latter part of this speech, that,
however it might gratify the feelings of Sarah, brought the color to
her cheeks again; and Sitgreaves, as his eye followed the direction of
those of his patient, did not fail to observe it.

“Your arm, if you please, madam,” said the surgeon, advancing with a
bow. “Anxiety and watching have done their work on your delicate frame,
and there are symptoms about you that must not be neglected.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said Sarah, recovering herself with womanly pride;
“the heat is oppressive, and I will retire and acquaint Miss Peyton
with your presence.”

There was but little difficulty in practicing on the abstracted
simplicity of the surgeon; but it was necessary for Sarah to raise her
eyes to return the salutation of Lawton, as he bowed his head nearly to
a level with the hand that held open the door for her passage. One look
was sufficient; she was able to control her steps sufficiently to
retire with dignity; but no sooner was she relieved from the presence
of all observers, than she fell into a chair and abandoned herself to a
feeling of mingled shame and pleasure.

A little nettled at the contumacious deportment of the British colonel,
Sitgreaves, after once more tendering services that were again
rejected, withdrew to the chamber of young Singleton, whither Lawton
had already preceded him.




CHAPTER XXI.


Oh! Henry, when thou deign’st to sue,
Can I thy suit withstand?
When thou, loved youth, hast won my heart,
Can I refuse my hand?


—_Hermit of Warkevorth._


The graduate of Edinburgh found his patient rapidly improving in
health, and entirely free from fever. His sister, with a cheek that
was, if possible, paler than on her arrival, watched around his couch
with tender care; and the ladies of the cottage had not, in the midst
of their sorrows and varied emotions, forgotten to discharge the duties
of hospitality. Frances felt herself impelled towards their
disconsolate guest, with an interest for which she could not account,
and with a force that she could not control. She had unconsciously
connected the fates of Dunwoodie and Isabella in her imagination, and
she felt, with the romantic ardor of a generous mind, that she was
serving her former lover most by exhibiting kindness to her he loved
best. Isabella received her attentions with gratitude, but neither of
them indulged in any allusions to the latent source of their
uneasiness. The observation of Miss Peyton seldom penetrated beyond
things that were visible, and to her the situation of Henry Wharton
seemed to furnish an awful excuse for the fading cheeks and tearful
eyes of her niece. If Sarah manifested less of care than her sister,
still the unpracticed aunt was not at a loss to comprehend the reason.
Love is a holy feeling with the virtuous of the female sex, and it
hallows all that come within its influence. Although Miss Peyton
mourned with sincerity over the danger which threatened her nephew, she
well knew that an active campaign was not favorable to love, and the
moments that were thus accidentally granted were not to be thrown away.

Several days now passed without any interruption of the usual
avocations of the inhabitants of the cottage, or the party at the Four
Corners. The former were supporting their fortitude with the certainty
of Henry’s innocence, and a strong reliance on Dunwoodie’s exertions in
his behalf, and the latter waiting with impatience the intelligence,
that was hourly expected, of a conflict, and their orders to depart.
Captain Lawton, however, waited for both these events in vain. Letters
from the major announced that the enemy, finding that the party which
was to coöperate with them had been defeated, and was withdrawn, had
retired also behind the works of Fort Washington, where they continued
inactive, threatening constantly to strike a blow in revenge for their
disgrace. The trooper was enjoined to vigilance, and the letter
concluded with a compliment to his honor, zeal, and undoubted bravery.

“Extremely flattering, Major Dunwoodie,” muttered the dragoon, as he
threw down this epistle, and stalked across the floor to quiet his
impatience. “A proper guard have you selected for this service: let me
see—I have to watch over the interests of a crazy, irresolute old man,
who does not know whether he belongs to us or to the enemy; four women,
three of whom are well enough in themselves, but who are not immensely
flattered by my society; and the fourth, who, good as she is, is on the
wrong side of forty; some two or three blacks; a talkative housekeeper,
that does nothing but chatter about gold and despisables, and signs and
omens; and poor George Singleton. Well, a comrade in suffering has a
claim on a man,—so I’ll make the best of it.”

As he concluded this soliloquy, the trooper took a seat and began to
whistle, to convince himself how little he cared about the matter,
when, by throwing his booted leg carelessly round, he upset the canteen
that held his whole stock of brandy. The accident was soon repaired,
but in replacing the wooden vessel, he observed a billet lying on the
bench, on which the liquor had been placed. It was soon opened, and he
read: _“The moon will not rise till after midnight—a fit time for deeds
of darkness.”_ There was no mistaking the hand; it was clearly the same
that had given him the timely warning against assassination, and the
trooper continued, for a long time, musing on the nature of these two
notices, and the motives that could induce the peddler to favor an
implacable enemy in the manner that he had latterly done. That he was a
spy of the enemy, Lawton knew; for the fact of his conveying
intelligence to the English commander in chief, of a party of Americans
that were exposed to the enemy was proved most clearly against him on
the trial for his life. The consequences of his treason had been
avoided, it is true, by a lucky order from Washington, which withdrew
the regiment a short time before the British appeared to cut it off,
but still the crime was the same. “Perhaps,” thought the partisan, “he
wishes to make a friend of me against the event of another capture;
but, at all events, he spared my life on one occasion, and saved it on
another. I will endeavor to be as generous as himself, and pray that my
duty may never interfere with my feelings.”

Whether the danger, intimated in the present note, threatened the
cottage or his own party, the captain was uncertain; but he inclined to
the latter opinion, and determined to beware how he rode abroad in the
dark. To a man in a peaceable country, and in times of quiet and order,
the indifference with which the partisan regarded the impending danger
would be inconceivable. His reflections on the subject were more
directed towards devising means to entrap his enemies, than to escape
their machinations. But the arrival of the surgeon, who had been to pay
his daily visit to the Locusts, interrupted his meditations. Sitgreaves
brought an invitation from the mistress of the mansion to Captain
Lawton, desiring that the cottage might be honored with his presence at
an early hour on that evening.

“Ha!” cried the trooper; “then they have received a letter also.”

“I think nothing more probable,” said the surgeon. “There is a chaplain
at the cottage from the royal army, who has come out to exchange the
British wounded, and who has an order from Colonel Singleton for their
delivery. But a more mad project than to remove them now was never
adopted.”

“A priest, say you!—is he a hard drinker—a real camp-idler—a fellow to
breed a famine in a regiment? Or does he seem a man who is earnest in
his trade?”

“A very respectable and orderly gentleman, and not unreasonably given
to intemperance, judging from the outward symptoms,” returned the
surgeon; “and a man who really says grace in a very regular and
appropriate manner.”

“And does he stay the night?”

“Certainly, he waits for his cartel; but hasten, John, we have but
little time to waste. I will just step up and bleed two or three of the
Englishmen who are to move in the morning, in order to anticipate
inflammation, and be with you immediately.”

The gala suit of Captain Lawton was easily adjusted to his huge frame,
and his companion being ready, they once more took their route towards
the cottage. Roanoke had been as much benefited by a few days’ rest as
his master; and Lawton ardently wished, as he curbed his gallant steed,
on passing the well-remembered rocks, that his treacherous enemy stood
before him, mounted and armed as himself. But no enemy, nor any
disturbance whatever, interfered with their progress, and they reached
the Locusts just as the sun was throwing his setting rays on the
valley, and tingeing the tops of the leafless trees with gold. It never
required more than a single look to acquaint the trooper with the
particulars of every scene that was not uncommonly veiled, and the
first survey that he took on entering the house told him more than the
observations of a day had put into the possession of Doctor Sitgreaves.
Miss Peyton accosted him with a smiling welcome, that exceeded the
bounds of ordinary courtesy and which evidently flowed more from
feelings that were connected with the heart, than from manner. Frances
glided about, tearful and agitated, while Mr. Wharton stood ready to
receive them, decked in a suit of velvet that would have been
conspicuous in the gayest drawing-room. Colonel Wellmere was in the
uniform of an officer of the household troops of his prince, and
Isabella Singleton sat in the parlor, clad in the habiliments of joy,
but with a countenance that belied her appearance; while her brother by
her side looked, with a cheek of flitting color, and an eye of intense
interest, like anything but an invalid. As it was the third day that he
had left his room, Dr. Sitgreaves, who began to stare about him in
stupid wonder, forgot to reprove his patient for imprudence. Into this
scene Captain Lawton moved with all the composure and gravity of a man
whose nerves were not easily discomposed by novelties. His compliments
were received as graciously as they were offered, and after exchanging
a few words with the different individuals present, he approached the
surgeon, who had withdrawn, in a kind of confused astonishment, to
rally his senses.

“John,” whispered the surgeon, with awakened curiosity, “what means
this festival?”

“That your wig and my black head would look the better for a little of
Betty Flanagan’s flour; but it is too late now, and we must fight the
battle armed as you see.”

“Observe, here comes the army chaplain in his full robes, as a Doctor
Divinitatis; what can it mean?”

“An exchange,” said the trooper. “The wounded of Cupid are to meet and
settle their accounts with the god, in the way of plighting faith to
suffer from his archery no more.”

The surgeon laid a finger on the side of his nose, and he began to
comprehend the case.

“Is it not a crying shame, that a sunshine hero, and an enemy, should
thus be suffered to steal away one of the fairest plants that grow in
our soil,” muttered Lawton; “a flower fit to be placed in the bosom of
any man!”

“If he be not more accommodating as a husband than as a patient, John,
I fear me that the lady will lead a troubled life.”

“Let her,” said the trooper, indignantly; “she has chosen from her
country’s enemies, and may she meet with a foreigner’s virtues in her
choice.”

Further conversation was interrupted by Miss Peyton, who, advancing,
acquainted them that they had been invited to grace the nuptials of her
eldest niece and Colonel Wellmere. The gentlemen bowed; and the good
aunt, with an inherent love of propriety, went on to add, that the
acquaintance was of an old date, and the attachment by no means a
sudden thing. To this Lawton merely bowed still more ceremoniously; but
the surgeon, who loved to hold converse with the virgin, replied,—

“That the human mind was differently constituted in different
individuals. In some, impressions are vivid and transitory; in others,
more deep and lasting: indeed, there are some philosophers who pretend
to trace a connection between the physical and mental powers of the
animal; but, for my part, madam, I believe that the one is much
influenced by habit and association, and the other subject altogether
to the peculiar laws of matter.”

Miss Peyton, in her turn, bowed her silent assent to this remark, and
retired with dignity, to usher the intended bride into the presence of
the company. The hour had arrived when American custom has decreed that
the vows of wedlock must be exchanged; and Sarah, blushing with a
variety of emotions, followed her aunt to the drawing-room. Wellmere
sprang to receive the hand that, with an averted face, she extended
towards him, and, for the first time, the English colonel appeared
fully conscious of the important part that he was to act in the
approaching ceremony. Hitherto his air had been abstracted, and his
manner uneasy; but everything, excepting the certainty of his bliss,
seemed to vanish at the blaze of loveliness that now burst on his
sight. All arose from their seats, and the reverend gentleman had
already opened the sacred volume, when the absence of Frances was
noticed! Miss Peyton withdrew in search of her youngest niece, whom she
found in her own apartment, and in tears.

“Come, my love, the ceremony waits but for us,” said the aunt,
affectionately entwining her arm in that of her niece. “Endeavor to
compose yourself, that proper honor may be done to the choice of your
sister.”

“Is he—can he be, worthy of her?”

“Can he be otherwise?” returned Miss Peyton. “Is he not a gentleman?—a
gallant soldier, though an unfortunate one? and certainly, my love, one
who appears every way qualified to make any woman happy.”

Frances had given vent to her feelings, and, with an effort, she
collected sufficient resolution to venture to join the party below. But
to relieve the embarrassment of this delay, the clergyman had put
sundry questions to the bridegroom; one of which was by no means
answered to his satisfaction. Wellmere was compelled to acknowledge
that he was unprovided with a ring; and to perform the marriage
ceremony without one, the divine pronounced to be canonically
impossible. His appeal to Mr. Wharton, for the propriety of this
decision, was answered affirmatively, as it would have been negatively,
had the question been put in a manner to lead to such a result. The
owner of the Locusts had lost the little energy he possessed, by the
blow recently received through his son, and his assent to the objection
of the clergyman was as easily obtained as had been his consent to the
premature proposals of Wellmere. In this stage of the dilemma, Miss
Peyton and Frances appeared. The surgeon of dragoons approached the
former, and as he handed her to a chair, observed,—

“It appears, madam, that untoward circumstances have prevented Colonel
Wellmere from providing all of the decorations that custom, antiquity,
and the canons of the church have prescribed, as indispensable to enter
into the honorable state of wedlock.”

Miss Peyton glanced her quiet eye at the uneasy bridegroom, and
perceiving him to be adorned with what she thought sufficient splendor,
allowing for the time and the suddenness of the occasion, she turned
her look on the speaker, as if to demand an explanation.

The surgeon understood her wishes, and proceeded at once to gratify
them.

“There is,” he observed, “an opinion prevalent, that the heart lies on
the left side of the body, and that the connection between the members
of that side and what may be called the seat of life is more intimate
than that which exists with their opposites. But this is an error which
grows out of an ignorance of the organic arrangement of the human
frame. In obedience to this opinion, the fourth finger of the left hand
is thought to contain a virtue that belongs to no other branch of that
digitated member; and it is ordinarily encircled, during the
solemnization of wedlock, with a cincture or ring, as if to chain that
affection to the marriage state, which is best secured by the graces of
the female character.” While speaking, the operator laid his hand
expressively on his heart, and he bowed nearly to the floor when he had
concluded.

“I know not, sir, that I rightly understand your meaning,” said Miss
Peyton, whose want of comprehension was sufficiently excusable.

“A ring, madam—a ring is wanting for the ceremony.”

The instant that the surgeon spoke explicitly, the awkwardness of the
situation was understood. She glanced her eyes at her nieces, and in
the younger she read a secret exultation that somewhat displeased her;
but the countenance of Sarah was suffused with a shame that the
considerate aunt well understood. Not for the world would she violate
any of the observances of female etiquette. It suggested itself to all
the females, at the same moment, that the wedding ring of the late
mother and sister was reposing peacefully amid the rest of her jewelry
in a secret receptacle, that had been provided at an early day, to
secure the valuables against the predatory inroads of the marauders who
roamed through the county. Into this hidden vault, the plate, and
whatever was most prized, made a nightly retreat, and there the ring in
question had long lain, forgotten until at this moment. But it was the
business of the bridegroom, from time immemorial, to furnish this
indispensable to wedlock, and on no account would Miss Peyton do
anything that transcended the usual reserve of the sex on this solemn
occasion; certainly not until sufficient expiation for the offense had
been made, by a due portion of trouble and disquiet. This material
fact, therefore, was not disclosed by either; the aunt consulting
female propriety; the bride yielding to shame; and Frances rejoicing
that an embarrassment, proceeding from almost any cause, should delay
her sister’s vow. It was reserved for Doctor Sitgreaves to interrupt
the awkward silence.

“If, madam, a plain ring, that once belonged to a sister of my own—” He
paused and hemmed—“If, madam, a ring of that description might be
admitted to this honor, I have one that could be easily produced from
my quarters at the Corners, and I doubt not it would fit the finger for
which it is desired. There is a strong resemblance between—hem—between
my late sister and Miss Wharton in stature and anatomical figure; and,
in all eligible subjects, the proportions are apt to be observed
throughout the whole animal economy.”

A glance of Miss Peyton’s eye recalled Colonel Wellmere to a sense of
his duty, and springing from his chair, he assured the surgeon that in
no way could he confer a greater obligation on himself than by sending
for that very ring. The operator bowed a little haughtily, and withdrew
to fulfill his promise, by dispatching a messenger on the errand. The
aunt suffered him to retire; but unwillingness to admit a stranger into
the privacy of their domestic arrangements induced her to follow and
tender the services of Caesar, instead of those of Sitgreaves’ man, who
had volunteered for this duty. Katy Haynes was accordingly directed to
summon the black to the vacant parlor, and thither Miss Peyton and the
surgeon repaired, to give their several instructions.

The consent to this sudden union of Sarah and Wellmere, and especially
at a time when the life of a member of the family was in such imminent
jeopardy, was given from a conviction that the unsettled state of the
country would probably prevent another opportunity to the lovers of
meeting, and a secret dread on the part of Mr. Wharton, that the death
of his son might, by hastening his own, leave his remaining children
without a protector. But notwithstanding Miss Peyton had complied with
her brother’s wish to profit by the accidental visit of a divine, she
had not thought it necessary to blazon the intended nuptials of her
niece to the neighborhood, had even time been allowed; she thought,
therefore, that she was now communicating a profound secret to the
negro, and her housekeeper.

“Caesar,” she commenced, with a smile, “you are now to learn that your
young mistress, Miss Sarah, is to be united to Colonel Wellmere this
evening.”

“I t’ink I see him afore,” said Caesar, chuckling. “Old black man can
tell when a young lady make up he mind.”

“Really, Caesar, I find I have never given you credit for half the
observation that you deserve; but as you already know on what emergency
your services are required, listen to the directions of this gentleman,
and observe them.”

The black turned in quiet submission to the surgeon, who commenced as
follows:—

“Caesar, your mistress has already acquainted you with the important
event about to be solemnized within this habitation; but a cincture or
ring is wanting to encircle the finger of the bride; a custom derived
from the ancients, and which has been continued in the marriage forms
of several branches of the Christian church, and which is even, by a
species of typical wedlock, used in the installation of prelates, as
you doubtless understand.”

“P’r’aps Massa Doctor will say him over ag’in,” interrupted the old
negro, whose memory began to fail him, just as the other made so
confident an allusion to his powers of comprehension. “I t’ink I get
him by heart dis time.”

“It is impossible to gather honey from a rock, Caesar, and therefore I
will abridge the little I have to say. Ride to the Four Corners, and
present this note to Sergeant Hollister, or to Mrs. Elizabeth Flanagan,
either of whom will furnish the necessary pledge of connubial
affection; and return forthwith.”

The letter which the surgeon put into the hands of his messenger, as he
ceased, was conceived in the following terms:—

“If the fever has left Kinder, give him nourishment. Take three ounces
more of blood from Watson. Have a search made that the woman Flanagan
has left none of her jugs of alcohol in the hospital. Renew the
dressings of Johnson, and dismiss Smith to duty. Send the ring, which
is pendent from the chain of the watch, that I left with you to time
the doses, by the bearer.


“ARCHIBALD SITGREAVES, M. D.”,
_“Surgeon of Dragoons.”_


“Caesar,” said Katy, when she was alone with the black, “put the ring,
when you get it, in your left pocket, for that is nearest your heart;
and by no means endeavor to try it on your finger, for it is unlucky.”

“Try um on he finger?” interrupted the negro, stretching forth his bony
knuckles. “T’ink a Miss Sally’s ring go on old Caesar finger?”

“’Tis not consequential whether it goes on or not,” said the
housekeeper; “but it is an evil omen to place a marriage ring on the
finger of another after wedlock, and of course it may be dangerous
before.”

“I tell you, Katy, I neber t’ink to put um on a finger.”

“Go, then, Caesar, and do not forget the left pocket; be careful to
take off your hat as you pass the graveyard, and be expeditious; for
nothing, I am certain, can be more trying to the patience, than thus to
be waiting for the ceremony, when a body has fully made up her mind to
marry.”

With this injunction Caesar quitted the house, and he was soon firmly
fixed in the saddle. From his youth, the black, like all of his race,
had been a hard rider; but, bending under the weight of sixty winters,
his African blood had lost some of its native heat. The night was dark,
and the wind whistled through the vale with the dreariness of November.
When Caesar reached the graveyard, he uncovered his grizzled head with
superstitious awe, and threw around him many a fearful glance, in
momentary expectation of seeing something superhuman. There was
sufficient light to discern a being of earthly mold stealing from among
the graves, apparently with a design to enter the highway. It is in
vain that philosophy and reason contend with early impressions, and
poor Caesar was even without the support of either of these frail
allies. He was, however, well mounted on a coach horse of Mr. Wharton’s
and, clinging to the back of the animal with instinctive skill, he
abandoned the rein to the beast. Hillocks, woods, rocks, fences, and
houses flew by him with the rapidity of lightning, and the black had
just begun to think whither and on what business he was riding in this
headlong manner, when he reached the place where the roads met, and the
“Hotel Flanagan” stood before him in its dilapidated simplicity. The
sight of a cheerful fire first told the negro that he had reached the
habitation of man, and with it came all his dread of the bloody
Virginians; his duty must, however, be done, and, dismounting, he
fastened the foaming animal to a fence, and approached the window with
cautious steps, to reconnoiter.

Before a blazing fire sat Sergeant Hollister and Betty Flanagan,
enjoying themselves over a liberal potation.

“I tell ye, sargeant dear,” said Betty, removing the mug from her
mouth, “’tis no r’asonable to think it was more than the piddler
himself; sure now, where was the smell of sulphur, and the wings, and
the tail, and the cloven foot? Besides, sargeant, it’s no dacent to
tell a lone famale that she had Beelzeboob for a bedfellow.”

“It matters but little, Mrs. Flanagan, provided you escape his talons
and fangs hereafter,” returned the veteran, following the remark by a
heavy draft.

Caesar heard enough to convince him that little danger from this pair
was to be apprehended. His teeth already began to chatter, and the cold
without and the comfort within stimulated him greatly to enter. He made
his approaches with proper caution, and knocked with extreme humility.
The appearance of Hollister with a drawn sword, roughly demanding who
was without, contributed in no degree to the restoration of his
faculties; but fear itself lent him power to explain his errand.

“Advance,” said the sergeant, throwing a look of close scrutiny on the
black, as he brought him to the light; “advance, and deliver your
dispatches. Have you the countersign?”

“I don’t t’ink he know what dat be,” said the black, shaking in his
shoes, “dough massa dat sent me gib me many t’ings to carry, dat he
little understand.”

“Who ordered you on this duty, did you say?”

“Well, it war he doctor, heself, so he come up on a gallop, as he
always do on a doctor’s errand.”

“’Twas Doctor Sitgreaves; he never knows the countersign himself. Now,
blackey, had it been Captain Lawton he would not have sent you here,
close to a sentinel, without the countersign; for you might get a
pistol bullet through your head, and that would be cruel to you; for
although you be black, I am none of them who thinks niggers have no
souls.”

“Sure a nagur has as much sowl as a white,” said Betty. “Come hither,
ould man, and warm that shivering carcass of yeers by the blaze of this
fire. I’m sure a Guinea nagur loves hate as much as a soldier loves his
drop.”

Caesar obeyed in silence, and a mulatto boy who was sleeping on a bench
in the room, was bidden to convey the note of the surgeon to the
building where the wounded were quartered.

“Here,” said the washerwoman, tendering to Caesar a taste of the
article that most delighted herself, “try a drop, smooty, ’twill warm
the black sowl within your crazy body, and be giving you spirits as you
are going homeward.”

“I tell you, Elizabeth,” said the sergeant, “that the souls of niggers
are the same as our own; how often have I heard the good Mr. Whitefield
say that there was no distinction of color in heaven. Therefore it is
reasonable to believe that the soul of this here black is as white as
my own, or even Major Dunwoodie’s.”

“Be sure he be,” cried Caesar, a little tartly, whose courage had
revived by tasting the drop of Mrs. Flanagan.

“It’s a good sowl that the major is, anyway,” returned the washerwoman;
“and a kind sowl—aye, and a brave sowl too; and ye’ll say all that
yeerself, sargeant, I’m thinking.”

“For the matter of that,” returned the veteran, “there is One above
even Washington, to judge of souls; but this I will say, that Major
Dunwoodie is a gentleman who never says, Go, boys—but always says,
Come, boys; and if a poor fellow is in want of a spur or a martingale,
and the leather-whack is gone, there is never wanting the real silver
to make up the loss, and that from his own pocket too.”

“Why, then, are you here idle when all that he holds most dear are in
danger?” cried a voice with startling abruptness. “Mount, mount, and
follow your captain; arm and mount, and that instantly, or you will be
too late!”

This unexpected interruption produced an instantaneous confusion
amongst the tipplers. Caesar fled instinctively into the fireplace,
where he maintained his position in defiance of a heat that would have
roasted a white man. Sergeant Hollister turned promptly on his heel,
and seizing big saber, the steel was glittering by the firelight, in
the twinkling of an eye; but perceiving the intruder to be the peddler,
who stood near the open door that led to the lean-to in the rear, he
began to fall back towards the position of the black, with a military
intuition that taught him to concentrate his forces. Betty alone stood
her ground, by the side of the temporary table. Replenishing the mug
with a large addition of the article known to the soldiery by the name
of “choke-dog,” she held it towards the peddler. The eyes of the
washerwoman had for some time been swimming with love and liquor, and
turning them good-naturedly on Birch, she cried,—

“Faith, but ye’re wilcome, Mister Piddler, or Mister Birch, or Mister
Beelzeboob, or what’s yeer name. Ye’re an honest divil anyway, and I’m
hoping that you found the pitticoats convanient. Come forward, dear,
and fale the fire; Sergeant Hollister won’t be hurting you, for the
fear of an ill turn you may be doing him hereafter—will ye, sargeant
dear?”

“Depart, ungodly man!” cried the veteran, edging still nearer to
Caesar, but lifting his legs alternately as they scorched with the
heat. “Depart in peace! There is none here for thy service, and you
seek the woman in vain. There is a tender mercy that will save her from
thy talons.” The sergeant ceased to utter aloud, but the motion of his
lips continued, and a few scattering words of prayer were alone
audible.

The brain of the washerwoman was in such a state of confusion that she
did not clearly comprehend the meaning of her suitor, but a new idea
struck her imagination, and she broke forth,—

“If it’s me the man saaks, where’s the matter, pray? Am I not a widowed
body, and my own property? And you talk of tinderness, sargeant, but
it’s little I see of it, anyway. Who knows but Mr. Beelzeboob here is
free to speak his mind? I’m sure it is willing to hear I am.”

“Woman,” said the peddler, “be silent; and you, foolish man, mount—arm
and mount, and fly to the rescue of your officer, if you are worthy of
the cause in which you serve, and would not disgrace the coat you
wear.” The peddler vanished from the sight of the bewildered trio, with
a rapidity that left them uncertain whither he had fled.

On hearing the voice of an old friend, Caesar emerged from his corner,
and fearlessly advanced to the spot where Betty had resolutely
maintained her ground, though in a state of utter mental confusion.

“I wish Harvey stop,” said the black. “If he ride down a road, I should
like he company; I don’t t’ink Johnny Birch hurt he own son.”

“Poor, ignorant wretch!” exclaimed the veteran, recovering his voice
with a long-drawn breath; “think you that figure was made of flesh and
blood?”

“Harvey ain’t fleshy,” replied the black, “but he berry clebber man.”

“Pooh! sargeant dear,” exclaimed the washerwoman, “talk r’ason for
once, and mind what the knowing one tells ye; call out the boys and
ride a bit after Captain Jack; remimber, darling, that he told ye, the
day, to be in readiness to mount at a moment’s warning.”

“Aye, but not at a summons from the foul fiend. Let Captain Lawton, or
Lieutenant Mason, or Cornet Skipwith, say the word, and who is quicker
in the saddle than I?”

“Well, sargeant, how often is it that ye’ve boasted to myself that the
corps wasn’t a bit afeard to face the divil?”

“No more are we, in battle array, and by daylight; but it’s foolhardy
and irreverent to tempt Satan, and on such a night as this. Listen how
the wind whistles through the trees; and hark! there is the howling of
evil spirits abroad.”

“I see him,” said Caesar, opening his eyes to a width that might have
embraced more than an ideal form.

“Where?” interrupted the sergeant, instinctively laying his hand on the
hilt of his saber.

“No, no,” said the black, “I see a Johnny Birch come out of he
grave—Johnny walk afore he buried.”

“Ah! then he must have led an evil life indeed,” said Hollister. “The
blessed in spirit lie quiet until the general muster, but wickedness
disturbs the soul in this life as well as in that which is to come.”

“And what is to come of Captain Jack?” cried Betty, angrily. “Is it
yeer orders that ye won’t mind, nor a warning given? I’ll jist git my
cart, and ride down and tell him that ye’re afeard of a dead man and
Beelzeboob; and it isn’t succor he may be expicting from ye. I wonder
who’ll be the orderly of the troop the morrow, then?—his name won’t be
Hollister, anyway.”

“Nay, Betty, nay,” said the sergeant, laying his hand familiarly on her
shoulder; “if there must be riding to-night, let it be by him whose
duty it is to call out the men and set an example. The Lord have mercy,
and send us enemies of flesh and blood!”

Another glass confirmed the veteran in a resolution that was only
excited by a dread of his captain’s displeasure, and he proceeded to
summon the dozen men who had been left under his command. The boy
arriving with the ring, Caesar placed it carefully in the pocket of his
waistcoat next his heart, and, mounting, shut his eyes, seized his
charger by the mane, and continued in a state of comparative
insensibility, until the animal stopped at the door of the warm stable
whence he had started.

The movements of the dragoons, being timed to the order of a march,
were much slower, for they were made with a watchfulness that was
intended to guard against surprise from the evil one himself.




CHAPTER XXII.


Be not your tongue thy own shame’s orator,
Look sweet, speak fair, become disloyalty,
Apparel vice like virtue’s harbinger.


—_Comedy of Errors._


The situation of the party in Mr. Wharton’s dwelling was sufficiently
awkward, during the hour of Caesar’s absence; for such was the
astonishing rapidity displayed by his courser, that the four miles of
road was gone over, and the events we have recorded had occurred,
somewhat within that period of time. Of course, the gentlemen strove to
make the irksome moments fly as swiftly as possible; but premeditated
happiness is certainly of the least joyous kind. The bride and
bridegroom are immemorially privileged to be dull, and but few of their
friends seemed disposed, on the present occasion, to dishonor their
example. The English colonel exhibited a proper portion of uneasiness
at this unexpected interruption of his felicity, and he sat with a
varying countenance by the side of Sarah, who seemed to be profiting by
the delay to gather fortitude for the solemn ceremony. In the midst of
this embarrassing silence, Doctor Sitgreaves addressed himself to Miss
Peyton, by whose side he had contrived to procure a chair. “Marriage,
madam, is pronounced to be honorable in the sight of God and man; and
it may be said to be reduced, in the present age, to the laws of nature
and reason. The ancients, in sanctioning polygamy, lost sight of the
provisions of nature, and condemned thousands to misery; but with the
increase of science have grown the wise ordinances of society, which
ordain that man should be the husband of but one woman.”

Wellmere glanced a fierce expression of disgust at the surgeon, that
indicated his sense of the tediousness of the other’s remarks; while
Miss Peyton, with a slight hesitation, as if fearful of touching on
forbidden subjects, replied,—

“I had thought, sir, that we were indebted to the Christian religion
for our morals on this subject.”

“True, madam, it is somewhere provided in the prescriptions of the
apostles, that the sexes should henceforth be on an equality in this
particular. But in what degree could polygamy affect holiness of life?
It was probably a wise arrangement of Paul, who was much of a scholar,
and probably had frequent conferences, on this important subject, with
Luke, whom we all know to have been bred to the practice of medicine—”

There is no telling how far the discursive fancy of Sitgreaves might
have led him, on this subject, had he not been interrupted. But Lawton,
who had been a close though silent observer of all that passed,
profited by the hint to ask abruptly,—

“Pray, Colonel Wellmere, in what manner is bigamy punished in England?”

The bridegroom started, and his lip blanched. Recovering himself,
however, on the instant, he answered with a suavity that became so
happy a man,—

“Death!—as such an offense merits,” he said.

“Death and dissection,” continued the operator. “It is seldom that law
loses sight of eventual utility in a malefactor. Bigamy, in a man, is a
heinous offense!”

“More so than celibacy?” asked Lawton.

“More so,” returned the surgeon, with undisturbed simplicity. “One who
remains in a single state may devote his life to science and the
extension of knowledge, if not of his species; but the wretch who
profits by the constitutional tendency of the female sex to credulity
and tenderness, incurs the wickedness of a positive sin, heightened by
the baseness of deception.”

“Really, sir, the ladies are infinitely obliged to you, for attributing
folly to them as part of their nature.”

“Captain Lawton, in man the animal is more nobly formed than in woman.
The nerves are endowed with less sensibility; the whole frame is less
pliable and yielding; is it therefore surprising, that a tendency to
rely on the faith of her partner is more natural to woman than to the
other sex?”

Wellmere, as if unable to listen with any degree of patience to so
ill-timed a dialogue, sprang from his seat and paced the floor in
disorder. Pitying his situation, the reverend gentleman, who was
patiently awaiting the return of Caesar, changed the discourse, and a
few minutes brought the black himself. The billet was handed to Dr.
Sitgreaves; for Miss Peyton had expressly enjoined Caesar not to
implicate her, in any manner, in the errand on which he was dispatched.
The note contained a summary statement of the several subjects of the
surgeon’s directions, and referred him to the black for the ring. The
latter was instantly demanded, and promptly delivered. A transient look
of melancholy clouded the brow of the surgeon, as he stood a moment,
and gazed silently on the bauble; nor did he remember the place, or the
occasion, while he mournfully soliloquized as follows:—

“Poor Anna! gay as innocence and youth could make thee was thy heart,
when this cincture was formed to grace thy nuptials; but ere the hour
had come, God had taken thee to Himself. Years have passed, my sister,
but never have I forgotten the companion of my infancy!” He advanced to
Sarah, and, unconscious of observation, placing the ring on her finger,
continued, “She for whom it was intended has long been in her grave,
and the youth who bestowed the gift soon followed her sainted spirit;
take it, madam, and God grant that it may be an instrument in making
you as happy as you deserve!”

Sarah felt a chill at her heart, as this burst of feeling escaped the
surgeon; but Wellmere offering his hand, she was led before the divine,
and the ceremony began. The first words of this imposing office
produced a dead stillness in the apartment; and the minister of God
proceeded to the solemn exhortation, and witnessed the plighted troth
of the parties, when the investiture was to follow. The ring had been
left, from inadvertency and the agitation of the moment, on the finger
where Sitgreaves had placed it; the slight interruption occasioned by
the circumstance was over, and the clergyman was about to proceed, when
a figure gliding into the midst of the party, at once put a stop to the
ceremony. It was the peddler. His look was bitter and ironical, while a
finger, raised towards the divine, seemed to forbid the ceremony to go
any further.

“Can Colonel Wellmere waste the precious moments here, when his wife
has crossed the ocean to meet him? The nights are long, and the moon
bright; a few hours will take him to the city.”

Aghast at the suddenness of this extraordinary address, Wellmere for a
moment lost the command of his faculties. To Sarah, the countenance of
Birch, expressive as it was, produced no terror; but the instant she
recovered from the surprise of his interruption, she turned her anxious
gaze on the features of the man to whom she had just pledged her troth.
They afforded the most terrible confirmation of all that the peddler
affirmed; the room whirled round, and she fell lifeless into the arms
of her aunt. There is an instinctive delicacy in woman, that seems to
conquer all other emotions; and the insensible bride was immediately
conveyed from sight, leaving the room to the sole possession of the
other sex.

The confusion enabled the peddler to retreat with a rapidity that would
have baffled pursuit, had any been attempted, and Wellmere stood with
every eye fixed on him, in ominous silence.

“’Tis false—’tis false as hell!” he cried, striking his forehead. “I
have ever denied her claim; nor will the laws of my country compel me
to acknowledge it.”

“But what will conscience and the laws of God do?” asked Lawton.

“’Tis well, sir,” said Wellmere, haughtily, and retreating towards the
door, “my situation protects you now; but a time may come—”

He had reached the entry, when a slight tap on his shoulder caused him
to turn his head; it was Captain Lawton, who, with a smile of peculiar
meaning, beckoned him to follow. The state of Wellmere’s mind was such,
that he would gladly have gone anywhere to avoid the gaze of horror and
detestation that glared from every eye he met. They reached the stables
before the trooper spoke, when he cried aloud,—

“Bring out Roanoke!”

His man appeared with the steed caparisoned for its master. Lawton,
coolly throwing the bridle on the neck of the animal, took his pistols
from the holsters, and continued, “Here are weapons that have seen good
service before to-day—aye, and in honorable hands, sir. These were the
pistols of my father, Colonel Wellmere; he used them with credit in the
wars with France, and gave them to me to fight the battles of my
country with. In what better way can I serve her than in exterminating
a wretch who would have blasted one of her fairest daughters?”

“This injurious treatment shall meet with its reward,” cried the other,
seizing the offered weapon. “The blood lie on the head of him who
sought it!”

“Amen! but hold a moment, sir. You are now free, and the passports of
Washington are in your pocket; I give you the fire; if I fall, there is
a steed that will outstrip pursuit; and I would advise you to retreat
without much delay, for even Archibald Sitgreaves would fight in such a
cause—nor will the guard above be very apt to give quarter.”

“Are you ready?” asked Wellmere, gnashing his teeth with rage.

“Stand forward, Tom, with the lights; fire!”

Wellmere fired, and the bullion flew from the epaulet of the trooper.

“Now the turn is mine,” said Lawton, deliberately leveling his pistol.

“And mine!” shouted a voice, as the weapon was struck from his hand.
“By all the devils in hell, ’tis the mad Virginian!—fall on, my boys,
and take him; this is a prize not hoped for!”

Unarmed, and surprised as he was, Lawton’s presence of mind did not
desert him; he felt that he was in the hands of those from whom he was
to expect no mercy; and, as four of the Skinners fell upon him at once,
he used his gigantic strength to the utmost. Three of the band grasped
him by the neck and arms, with an intent to clog his efforts, and
pinion him with ropes. The first of these he threw from him, with a
violence that sent him against the building, where he lay stunned with
the blow. But the fourth seized his legs; and, unable to contend with
such odds, the trooper came to the earth, bringing with him all of his
assailants. The struggle on the ground was short but terrific; curses
and the most dreadful imprecations were uttered by the Skinners, who in
vain called on more of their band, who were gazing on the combat in
nerveless horror, to assist. A difficulty of breathing, from one of the
combatants, was heard, accompanied by the stifled moanings of a
strangled man; and directly one of the group arose on his feet, shaking
himself free from the wild grasp of the others. Both Wellmere and the
servant of Lawton had fled: the former to the stables, and the latter
to give the alarm, leaving all in darkness. The figure that stood erect
sprang into the saddle of the unheeded charger; sparks of fire, issuing
from the armed feet of the horse, gave a momentary light by which the
captain was seen dashing like the wind towards the highway.

“By hell, he’s off!” cried the leader, hoarse with rage and exhaustion.
“Fire!—bring him down—fire, or you’ll be too late.”

The order was obeyed, and one moment of suspense followed, in the vain
hope of hearing the huge frame of Lawton tumbling from his steed.

“He would not fall if you had killed him,” muttered one. “I’ve known
these Virginians sit their horses with two or three balls through them;
aye, even after they were dead.”

A freshening of the wind wafted the tread of a horse down the valley,
which, by its speed, gave assurance of a rider governing its motion.

“These trained horses always stop when the rider falls,” observed one
of the gang.

“Then,” cried the leader, striking his musket on the ground in a rage,
“the fellow is safe!—to your business at once. A short half hour will
bring down that canting sergeant and the guard upon us. ’Twill be lucky
if the guns don’t turn them out. Quick, to your posts, and fire the
house in the chambers; smoking ruins are good to cover evil deeds.”

“What is to be done with this lump of earth?” cried another, pushing
the body that yet lay insensible, where it had been hurled by the arm
of Lawton; “a little rubbing would bring him to.”

“Let him lie,” said the leader, fiercely. “Had he been half a man, that
dragooning rascal would have been in my power; enter the house, I say,
and fire the chambers. We can’t go amiss here; there is plate and money
enough to make you all gentlemen—and revenge too.”

The idea of silver in any way was not to be resisted; and, leaving
their companion, who began to show faint signs of life, they rushed
tumultuously towards the dwelling. Wellmere availed himself of the
opportunity, and, stealing from the stable with his own charger, he was
able to gain the highway unnoticed. For an instant he hesitated,
whether to ride towards the point where he knew the guard was
stationed, and endeavor to rescue the family, or, profiting by his
liberty and the exchange that had been effected by the divine, to seek
the royal army. Shame, and a consciousness of guilt, determined him to
take the latter course, and he rode towards New York, stung with the
reflection of his own baseness, and harassed with the apprehension of
meeting with an enraged woman, that he had married during his late
visit to England, but whose claims, as soon as his passion was sated,
he had resolved never willingly to admit. In the tumult and agitation
of the moment, the retreat of Lawton and Wellmere was but little
noticed; the condition of Mr. Wharton demanding the care and
consolation of both the surgeon and the divine. The report of the
firearms at first roused the family to the sense of a new danger, and
but a moment elapsed before the leader, and one more of the gang,
entered the room.

“Surrender! you servants of King George,” shouted the leader,
presenting his musket to the breast of Sitgreaves, “or I will let a
little tory blood from your veins.”

“Gently—gently, my friend,” said the surgeon. “You are doubtless more
expert in inflicting wounds than in healing them; the weapon that you
hold so indiscreetly is extremely dangerous to animal life.”

“Yield, or take its contents.”

“Why and wherefore should I yield?—I am a noncombatant. The articles of
capitulation must be arranged with Captain John Lawton; though
yielding, I believe, is not a subject on which you will find him
particularly complying.”

The fellow had by this time taken such a survey of the group, as
convinced him that little danger was to be apprehended from resistance,
and, eager to seize his share of the plunder, he dropped his musket,
and was soon busy with the assistance of his men, in arranging divers
articles of plate in bags. The cottage now presented a singular
spectacle. The ladies were gathered around Sarah, who yet continued
insensible, in one of the rooms that had escaped the notice of the
marauders. Mr. Wharton sat in a state of perfect imbecility, listening
to, but not profiting by, the meaning words of comfort that fell from
the lips of the clergyman. Singleton was lying on a sofa, shaking with
debility, and inattentive to surrounding objects; while the surgeon was
administering restoratives, and looking at the dressings, with a
coolness that mocked the tumult. Caesar and the attendant of Captain
Singleton, had retreated to the wood in the rear of the cottage, and
Katy Haynes was flying about the building, busily employed in forming a
bundle of valuables, from which, with the most scrupulous honesty, she
rejected every article that was not really and truly her own.

But to return to the party at the Four Corners. When the veteran had
got his men mounted and under arms, a restless desire to participate in
the glory and dangers of the expedition came over the washerwoman.
Whether she was impelled to the undertaking by a dread of remaining
alone, or a wish to hasten in person to the relief of her favorite, we
will not venture to assert but, as Hollister was giving the orders to
wheel and march, the voice of Betty was heard, exclaiming,—

“Stop a bit, sargeant dear, till two of the boys get out the cart, and
I’ll jist ride wid ye; ’tis like there’ll be wounded, and it will be
mighty convanient to bring them home in.”

Although inwardly much pleased with any cause of delay to a service
that he so little relished, Hollister affected some displeasure at the
detention.

“Nothing but a cannon ball can take one of my lads from his charger,”
he said; “and it’s not very likely that we shall have as fair fighting
as cannon and musketry, in a business of the evil one’s inventing; so,
Elizabeth, you may go if you will, but the cart will not be wanting.”

“Now, sargeant dear, you lie, anyway,” said Betty, who was somewhat
unduly governed by her potations. “And wasn’t Captain Singleton shot
off his horse but tin days gone by? Aye, and Captain Jack himself too;
and didn’t he lie on the ground, face uppermost and back downwards,
looking grim? And didn’t the boys t’ink him dead, and turn and l’ave
the rig’lars the day?”

“You lie back again,” cried the sergeant, fiercely; “and so does anyone
who says that we didn’t gain the day.”

“For a bit or so—only I mane for a bit or so,” said the washerwoman;
“but Major Dunwoodie turned you, and so you licked the rig’lars. But
the captain it was that fell, and I’m thinking that there’s no better
rider going; so, sargeant, it’s the cart will be convanient. Here, two
of you, jist hitch the mare to the tills, and it’s no whisky that ye’ll
be wanting the morrow; and put the piece of Jenny’s hide under the pad;
the baste is never the better for the rough ways of the county
Westchester.” The consent of the sergeant being obtained, the equipage
of Mrs. Flanagan was soon in readiness to receive its burden.

“As it is quite uncertain whether we shall be attacked in front, or in
rear,” said Hollister, “five of you shall march in advance, and the
remainder shall cover our retreat towards the barrack, should we be
pressed. ’Tis an awful moment to a man of little learning, Elizabeth,
to command in such a service; for my part, I wish devoutly that one of
the officers were here; but my trust is in the Lord.”

“Pooh! man, away wid ye,” said the washerwoman, who had got herself
comfortably seated. “The divil a bit of an inimy is there near. March
on, hurry-skurry, and let the mare trot, or it’s but little that
Captain Jack will thank ye for the help.”

“Although unlearned in matters of communicating with spirits, or laying
the dead, Mrs. Flanagan,” said the veteran, “I have not served through
the old war, and five years in this, not to know how to guard the
baggage. Doesn’t Washington always cover the baggage? I am not to be
told my duty by a camp follower. Fall in as you are ordered, and dress,
men.”

“Well, march, anyway,” cried the impatient washerwoman. “The black is
there already, and it’s tardy the captain will think ye.”

“Are you sure that it was really a black man that brought the order?”
said the sergeant, dropping in between the platoons, where he could
converse with Betty, and be at hand, to lead on an emergency, either on
an advance or on a retreat.

“Nay—and I’m sure of nothing, dear. But why don’t the boys prick their
horses and jog a trot? The mare is mighty un’asy, and it’s no warm in
this cursed valley, riding as much like a funeral party as old rags is
to continental.”[10] “Fairly and softly, aye, and prudently, Mrs.
Flanagan; it’s not rashness that makes the good officer. If we have to
encounter a spirit, it’s more than likely he’ll make his attack by
surprise; horses are not very powerful in the dark, and I have a
character to lose, good woman.”

“Caractur! and isn’t it caractur and life too that Captain Jack has to
lose!”

“Halt!” cried the sergeant. “What is that lurking near the foot of the
rock, on the left?”

“Sure, it’s nothing, unless it be a matter of Captain Jack’s sowl
that’s come to haunt ye, for not being brisker on the march.”

“Betty, your levity makes you an unfit comrade for such an expedition.
Advance, one of you, and reconnoiter the spot; draw swords!—rear rank,
close to the front!”

“Pshaw!” shouted Betty, “is it a big fool or a big coward that ye are?
Jist wheel from the road, boys, and I’ll shove the mare down upon it in
the twinkling of an eye—and it’s no ghost that I fear.”

By this time one of the men had returned, and declared there was
nothing to prevent their advancing, and the party continued their
march, but with great deliberation and caution.

“Courage and prudence are the jewels of a soldier, Mrs. Flanagan,” said
the sergeant; “without the one, the other may be said to be good for
nothing.”

“Prudence without courage: is it _that_ you mane?—and it’s so that I’m
thinking myself, sargeant. This baste pulls tight on the reins, any
way.”

“Be patient, good woman; hark! what is that?” said Hollister, pricking
up his ears at the report of Wellmere’s pistol. “I’ll swear that was a
human pistol, and one from our regiment. Rear rank, close to the
front!—Mrs. Flanagan, I must leave you.” So saying, having recovered
all his faculties, by hearing a sound that he understood, he placed
himself at the head of his men with an air of military pride, that the
darkness prevented the washerwoman from beholding. A volley of musketry
now rattled in the night wind, and the sergeant exclaimed,—

“March!—quick time!”

The next instant the trampling of a horse was heard coming up the road,
at a rate that announced a matter of life or death; and Hollister again
halted his party, riding a short distance in front himself, to meet the
rider.

“Stand!—who goes there?” shouted Hollister.

“Ha! Hollister, is it you?” cried Lawton, “ever ready and at your post;
but where is the guard?”

“At hand, sir, and ready to follow you through thick and thin,” said
the veteran, relieved at once from responsibility, and as eager as a
boy to be led against his enemy.

“’Tis well!” said the trooper, riding up to his men; then, speaking a
few words of encouragement, he led them down the valley at a rate but
little less rapid than his approach. The miserable horse of the sutler
was soon distanced, and Betty, thus thrown out in the chase, turned to
the side of the road, and observed,—

“There—it’s no difficult to tell that Captain Jack is wid ’em, anyway;
and away they go like so many nagur boys to a husking-frolic; well,
I’ll jist hitch the mare to this bit of a fence, and walk down and see
the sport afoot—it’s no r’asonable to expose the baste to be hurted.”

Led on by Lawton, the men followed, destitute alike of fear and
reflection. Whether it was a party of the refugees, or a detachment
from the royal army, that they were to assail, they were profoundly
ignorant; but they knew that the officer in advance was distinguished
for courage and personal prowess; and these are virtues that are sure
to captivate the thoughtless soldiery. On arriving near the gates of
the Locusts, the trooper halted his party, and made his arrangements
for the assault. Dismounting, he ordered eight of his men to follow his
example, and turning to Hollister, said,—

“Stand you here, and guard the horses; if anything attempt to pass,
stop it, or cut it down, and—”

The flames at this moment burst through the dormer windows and cedar
roof of the cottage, and a bright light glared on the darkness of the
night. “On!” shouted the trooper “on!—give quarter when you have done
justice!”

There was a startling fierceness in the voice of the trooper that
reached to the heart, even amid the horrors of the cottage. The leader
of the Skinners dropped his plunder, and, for a moment, he stood in
nerveless dread; then rushing to a window, he threw up the sash; at
this instant Lawton entered, saber in hand, into the apartment.

“Die, miscreant!” cried the trooper, cleaving a marauder to the jaw;
but the leader sprang into the lawn, and escaped his vengeance. The
shrieks of the females restored Lawton to his presence of mind, and the
earnest entreaty of the divine induced him to attend to the safety of
the family. One more of the gang fell in with the dragoons, and met his
death; but the remainder had taken the alarm in season. Occupied with
Sarah, neither Miss Singleton, nor the ladies of the house, had
discovered the entrance of the Skinners, though the flames were raging
around them with a fury that threatened the building with rapid
destruction. The shrieks of Katy and the terrified consort of Caesar,
together with the noise and uproar in the adjacent apartment, first
roused Miss Peyton and Isabella to a sense of their danger.

“Merciful Providence!” exclaimed the alarmed aunt; “there is a dreadful
confusion in the house, and there will be blood shed in consequence of
this affair.”

“There are none to fight,” returned Isabella, with a face paler than
that of the other. “Dr. Sitgreaves is very peaceable in his
disposition, and surely Captain Lawton would not forget himself so
far.”

“The Southern temper is quick and fiery,” continued Miss Peyton; “and
your brother, feeble and weak as he is, has looked the whole afternoon
flushed and angry.”

“Good heaven!” cried Isabella, with difficulty supporting herself on
the couch of Sarah; “he is gentle as the lamb by nature, though the
lion is not his equal when roused.”

“We must interfere: our presence will quell the tumult, and possibly
save the life of a fellow creature.”

Miss Peyton, excited to attempt what she conceived a duty worthy of her
sex and nature, advanced with the dignity of injured female feeling, to
the door, followed by Isabella. The apartment to which Sarah had been
conveyed was in one of the wings of the building, and it communicated
with the principal hall of the cottage by a long and dark passage. This
was now light, and across its termination several figures were seen
rushing with an impetuosity that prevented an examination of their
employment.

“Let us advance,” said Miss Peyton, with a firmness her face belied;
“they must respect our sex.”

“They shall,” cried Isabella, taking the lead in the enterprise.
Frances was left alone with her sister. A few minutes were passed in
silence, when a loud crash, in the upper apartments, was succeeded by a
bright light that glared through the open door, and made objects as
distinct to the eye as if they were placed under a noonday sun. Sarah
raised herself on her bed, and staring wildly around, pressed both her
hands on her forehead, endeavoring to recollect herself.

“This, then, is heaven—and you are one of its bright spirits. Oh! how
glorious is its radiance! I had thought the happiness I have lately
experienced was too much for earth. But we shall meet again; yes—yes—we
shall meet again.”

“Sarah! Sarah!” cried Frances, in terror; “my sister—my only sister—Oh!
do not smile so horridly; know me, or you will break my heart.”

“Hush,” said Sarah raising her hand for silence; “you may disturb his
rest—surely, he will follow me to the grave. Think you there can be two
wives in the grave? No—no—no; one—one—one—only one.”

Frances dropped her head into the lap of her sister, and wept in agony.

“Do you shed tears, sweet angel?” continued Sarah, soothingly. “Then
heaven is not exempt from grief. But where is Henry? He was executed,
and he must be here too; perhaps they will come together. Oh! how
joyful will be the meeting!”

Frances sprang on her feet, and paced the apartment. The eye of Sarah
followed her in childish admiration of her beauty.

“You look like my sister; but all good and lovely spirits are alike.
Tell me, were you ever married? Did you ever let a stranger steal your
affections from father, and brother, and sister? If not, poor wretch, I
pity you, although you may be in heaven.”

“Sarah—peace, peace—I implore you to be silent,” shrieked Frances,
rushing to her bed, “or you will kill me at your feet.”

Another dreadful crash shook the building to its center. It was the
falling of the roof, and the flames threw their light abroad, so as to
make objects visible around the cottage, through the windows of the
room. Frances flew to one of them, and saw the confused group that was
collected on the lawn. Among them were her aunt and Isabella, pointing
with distraction to the fiery edifice, and apparently urging the
dragoons to enter it. For the first time she comprehended their danger;
and uttering a wild shriek, she flew through the passage without
consideration, or object.

A dense and suffocating column of smoke opposed her progress. She
paused to breathe, when a man caught her in his arms, and bore her, in
a state of insensibility, through the falling embers and darkness, to
the open air. The instant that Frances recovered her recollection, she
perceived that she owed her life Lo Lawton, and throwing herself on her
knees, she cried,—

“Sarah! Sarah! Sarah! save my sister, and may the blessing of God await
you!”

Her strength failed, and she sank on the grass, in insensibility. The
trooper pointed to her figure, motioned to Katy for assistance, and
advanced once more to the building. The fire had already communicated
to the woodwork of the piazzas and windows, and the whole exterior of
the cottage was covered with smoke. The only entrance was through these
dangers, and even the hardy and impetuous Lawton paused to consider. It
was for a moment only, when he dashed into the heat and darkness,
where, missing the entrance, he wandered for a minute, and precipitated
himself back, again, upon the lawn. Drawing a single breath of pure
air, he renewed the effort, and was again unsuccessful. On a third
trial, he met a man staggering under the load of a human body. It was
neither the place, nor was there time, to question, or to make
distinctions; seizing both in his arms, with gigantic strength, he bore
them through the smoke. He soon perceived, to his astonishment, that it
was the surgeon, and the body of one of the Skinners, that he had
saved.

“Archibald!” he exclaimed, “why, in the name of justice, did you bring
this miscreant to light again? His deeds are rank to heaven!”

The surgeon, who had been in imminent peril, was too much bewildered to
reply instantly, but wiping the moisture from his forehead, and
clearing his lungs from the vapor he had inhaled, he said piteously,—

“Ah! it is all over! Had I been in time to have stopped the effusion
from the jugular, he might have been saved; but the heat was conducive
to hemorrhage; life is extinct indeed. Well, are there any more
wounded?”

His question was put to the air, for Frances had been removed to the
opposite side of the building, where her friends were collected, and
Lawton had once more disappeared in the smoke.

By this time the flames had dispersed much of the suffocating vapor, so
that the trooper was able to find the door, and in its very entrance he
was met by a man supporting the insensible Sarah. There was but barely
time to reach the lawn again, before the fire broke through the
windows, and wrapped the whole building in a sheet of flame.

“God be praised!” ejaculated the preserver of Sarah. “It would have
been a dreadful death to die.”

The trooper turned from gazing at the edifice, to the speaker, and to
his astonishment, instead of one of his own men, he beheld the peddler.

“Ha! the spy,” he exclaimed; “by heavens, you cross me like a specter.”

“Captain Lawton,” said Birch, leaning in momentary exhaustion against
the fence, to which they had retired from the heat, “I am again in your
power, for I can neither flee, nor resist.”

“The cause of America is dear to me as life,” said the trooper, “but
she cannot require her children to forget gratitude and honor. Fly,
unhappy man, while yet you are unseen, or it will exceed my power to
save you.”

“May God prosper you, and make you victorious over your enemies,” said
Birch, grasping the hand of the dragoon with an iron strength that his
meager figure did not indicate.

“Hold!” said Lawton. “But a word—are you what you seem?—can you—are
you—”

“A royal spy,” interrupted Birch, averting his face, and endeavoring to
release his hand.

“Then go, miserable wretch,” said the trooper, relinquishing his grasp.
“Either avarice or delusion has led a noble heart astray!”

The bright light from the flames reached a great distance around the
ruins, but the words were hardly past the lips of Lawton, before the
gaunt form of the peddler had glided over the visible space, and
plunged into the darkness beyond.

The eye of Lawton rested for a moment on the spot where he had last
seen this inexplicable man, and then turning to the yet insensible
Sarah, he lifted her in his arms, and bore her, like a sleeping infant,
to the care of her friends.

 [10] The paper money issued by congress was familiarly called
 continental money. This term “continental” was applied to the army,
 the congress, the ships of war, and in short, to almost everything of
 interest which belonged to the new government. It would seem to have
 been invented as the opposite of the insular position of the mother
 country.




CHAPTER XXIII.


And now her charms are fading fast,
Her spirits now no more are gay:
Alas! that beauty cannot last!
That flowers so sweet so soon decay!
How sad appears
The vale of years,
How changed from youth’s too flattering scene!
Where are her fond admirers gone?
Alas! and shall there then be none
On whom her soul may lean?


—_Cynthia’s Grave_.


The walls of the cottage were all that was left of the building; and
these, blackened by smoke, and stripped of their piazzas and ornaments,
were but dreary memorials of the content and security that had so
lately reigned within. The roof, together with the rest of the
woodwork, had tumbled into the cellars, and a pale and flitting light,
ascending from their embers, shone faintly through the windows. The
early flight of the Skinners left the dragoons at liberty to exert
themselves in saving much of the furniture, which lay scattered in
heaps on the lawn, giving the finishing touch of desolation to the
scene. Whenever a stronger ray of light than common shot upwards, the
composed figures of Sergeant Hollister and his associates, sitting on
their horses in rigid discipline, were to be seen in the background of
the picture, together with the beast of Mrs. Flanagan, which, having
slipped its bridle, was quietly grazing by the highway. Betty herself
had advanced to the spot where the sergeant was posted, and, with an
incredible degree of composure, witnessed the whole of the events as
they occurred. More than once she suggested to her companion, that, as
the fighting seemed to be over, the proper time for plunder had
arrived, but the veteran acquainted her with his orders, and remained
inflexible and immovable; until the washerwoman, observing Lawton come
round the wing of the building with Sarah, ventured amongst the
warriors. The captain, after placing Sarah on a sofa that had been
hurled from the building by two of his men, retired, that the ladies
might succeed him in his care. Miss Peyton and her niece flew, with a
rapture that was blessed with a momentary forgetfulness of all but her
preservation, to receive Sarah from the trooper; but the vacant eye and
flushed cheek restored them instantly to their recollection.

“Sarah, my child, my beloved niece,” said the former, folding the
unconscious bride in her arms, “you are saved, and may the blessing of
God await him who has been the instrument.”

“See,” said Sarah, gently pushing her aunt aside, and pointing to the
glimmering ruins, “the windows are illuminated in honor of my arrival.
They always receive a bride thus—he told me they would do no less.
Listen, and you will hear the bells.”

“Here is no bride, no rejoicing, nothing but woe!” cried Frances, in a
manner but little less frantic than that of her sister. “Oh! may heaven
restore you to us—to yourself!”

“Peace, foolish young woman,” said Sarah, with a smile of affected
pity; “all cannot be happy at the same moment; perhaps you have no
brother, or husband, to console you. You look beautiful, and you will
yet find one; but,” she continued, dropping her voice to a whisper,
“see that he has no other wife—’tis dreadful to think what might
happen, should he be twice married.”

“The shock has destroyed her mind,” cried Miss Peyton; “my child, my
beauteous Sarah is a maniac!”

“No, no, no,” cried Frances, “it is fever; she is lightheaded—she must
recover—she shall recover.”

The aunt caught joyfully at the hope conveyed in this suggestion, and
dispatched Katy to request the immediate aid and advice of Dr.
Sitgreaves. The surgeon was found inquiring among the men for
professional employment, and inquisitively examining every bruise and
scratch that he could induce the sturdy warriors to acknowledge they
had received. A summons, of the sort conveyed by Katy, was instantly
obeyed, and not a minute elapsed before he was by the side of Miss
Peyton.

“This is a melancholy termination to so joyful a commencement of the
night, madam,” he observed, in a soothing manner. “But war must bring
its attendant miseries; though doubtless it often supports the cause of
liberty, and improves the knowledge of surgical science.”

Miss Peyton could make no reply, but pointed to her niece.

“’Tis fever,” answered Frances; “see how glassy is her eye, and look at
her cheek, how flushed.”

The surgeon stood for a moment, deeply studying the outward symptoms of
his patient, and then he silently took her hand in his own. It was
seldom that the hard and abstracted features of Sitgreaves discovered
any violent emotion; all his passions seemed schooled, and his
countenance did not often betray what, indeed, his heart frequently
felt. In the present instance, however, the eager gaze of the aunt and
sister quickly detected his emotions. After laying his fingers for a
minute on the beautiful arm, which, bared to the elbow and glittering
with jewels, Sarah suffered him to retain, he dropped it, and dashing a
hand over his eyes, turned sorrowfully away.

“Here is no fever to excite—’tis a case, my dear madam, for time and
care only; these, with the blessing of God, may effect a cure.”

“And where is the wretch who has caused this ruin?” exclaimed
Singleton, rejecting the support of his man, and making an effort to
rise from the chair to which he had been driven by debility. “It is in
vain that we overcome our enemies, if, conquered, they can inflict such
wounds as this.”

“Dost think, foolish boy,” said Lawton, with a bitter smile, “that
hearts can feel in a colony? What is America but a satellite of
England—to move as she moves, follow where she wists, and shine, that
the mother country may become more splendid by her radiance? Surely you
forget that it is honor enough for a colonist to receive ruin from the
hand of a child of Britain.”

“I forget not that I wear a sword,” said Singleton, falling back
exhausted; “but was there no willing arm ready to avenge that lovely
sufferer—to appease the wrongs of this hoary father?”

“Neither arms nor hearts are wanting, sir, in such a cause,” said the
trooper, fiercely; “but chance oftentimes helps the wicked. By heavens,
I’d give Roanoke himself, for a clear field with the miscreant!”

“Nay! captain dear, no be parting with the horse, anyway,” said Betty.
“It is no trifle that can be had by jist asking of the right person, if
ye’re in need of silver; and the baste is sure of foot, and jumps like
a squirrel.”

“Woman, fifty horses, aye, the best that were ever reared on the banks
of the Potomac, would be but a paltry price, for one blow at a
villain.”

“Come,” said the surgeon, “the night air can do no service to George,
or these ladies, and it is incumbent on us to remove them where they
can find surgical attendance and refreshment. Here is nothing but
smoking ruins and the miasma of the swamps.”

To this rational proposition no objection could be raised, and the
necessary orders were issued by Lawton to remove the whole party to the
Four Corners.

America furnished but few and very indifferent carriage-makers at the
period of which we write, and every vehicle, that in the least aspired
to that dignity, was the manufacture of a London mechanic. When Mr.
Wharton left the city, he was one of the very few who maintained the
state of a carriage; and, at the time Miss Peyton and his daughters
joined him in his retirement, they had been conveyed to the cottage in
the heavy chariot that had once so imposingly rolled through the
windings of Queen Street, or emerged, with somber dignity, into the
more spacious drive of Broadway. This vehicle stood, undisturbed, where
it had been placed on its arrival, and the age of the horses alone had
protected the favorites of Caesar from sequestration by the contending
forces in their neighborhood. With a heavy heart, the black, assisted
by a few of the dragoons, proceeded to prepare it for the reception of
the ladies. It was a cumbrous vehicle, whose faded linings and
tarnished hammer-cloth, together with its panels of changing color,
denoted the want of that art which had once given it luster and beauty.
The “lion couchant” of the Wharton arms was reposing on the reviving
splendor of a blazonry that told the armorial bearings of a prince of
the church; and the miter, that began to shine through its American
mask, was a symbol of the rank of its original owner. The chaise which
conveyed Miss Singleton was also safe, for the stable and outbuildings
had entirely escaped the flames; it certainly had been no part of the
plan of the marauders to leave so well-appointed a stud behind them,
but the suddenness of the attack by Lawton, not only disconcerted their
arrangements on this point, but on many others also. A guard was left
on the ground, under the command of Hollister, who, having discovered
that his enemy was of mortal mold, took his position with admirable
coolness and no little skill, to guard against surprise. He drew off
his small party to such a distance from the ruins, that it was
effectually concealed in the darkness, while at the same time the light
continued sufficiently power ful to discover anyone who might approach
the lawn with an intent to plunder.

Satisfied with this judicious arrangement, Captain Lawton made his
dispositions for the march. Miss Peyton, her two nieces, and Isabella
were placed in the chariot, while the cart of Mrs. Flanagan, amply
supplied with blankets and a bed, was honored with the person of
Captain Singleton. Dr. Sitgreaves took charge of the chaise and Mr.
Wharton. What became of the rest of the family during that eventful
night is unknown, for Caesar alone, of the domestics, was to be found,
if we except the housekeeper. Having disposed of the whole party in
this manner, Lawton gave the word to march. He remained himself, for a
few minutes, alone on the lawn, secreting various pieces of plate and
other valuables, that he was fearful might tempt the cupidity of his
own men; when, perceiving nothing more that he conceived likely to
overcome their honesty, he threw himself into the saddle with the
soldierly intention of bringing up the rear.

“Stop, stop,” cried a female voice. “Will you leave me alone to be
murdered? The spoon is melted, I believe, and I’ll have compensation,
if there’s law or justice in this unhappy land.”

Lawton turned an eye in the direction of the sound, and perceived a
female emerging from the ruins, loaded with a bundle that vied in size
with the renowned pack of the peddler.

“Whom have we here,” said the trooper, “rising like a phoenix from the
flames? Oh! by the soul of Hippocrates, but it is the identical
she-doctor, of famous needle reputation. Well, good woman, what means
this outcry?”

“Outcry!” echoed Katy, panting for breath. “Is it not disparagement
enough to lose a silver spoon, but I must be left alone in this
lonesome place, to be robbed, and perhaps murdered? Harvey would not
serve me so; when I lived with Harvey, I was always treated with
respect at least, if he was a little close with his secrets, and
wasteful of his money.”

“Then, madam, you once formed part of the household of Mr. Harvey
Birch?”

“You may say I was the whole of his household,” returned the other;
“there was nobody but I, and he, and the old gentleman. You didn’t know
the old gentleman, perhaps?”

“That happiness was denied me. How long did you live in the family of
Mr. Birch?”

“I disremember the precise time, but it must have been hard on upon
nine years; and what better am I for it all?”

“Sure enough; I can see but little benefit that you have derived from
the association, truly. But is there not something unusual in the
movements and character of this Mr. Birch?”

“Unusual is an easy word for such unaccountables!” replied Katy,
lowering her voice and looking around her. “He was a wonderful
disregardful man, and minded a guinea no more than I do a kernel of
corn. But help me to some way of joining Miss Jinitt, and I will tell
you prodigies of what Harvey has done, first and last.”

“You will!” exclaimed the trooper, musing. “Here, give me leave to feel
your arm above the elbow. There—you are not deficient in bone, let the
blood be as it may.” So saying, he gave the spinster a sudden whirl,
that effectually confused all her faculties, until she found herself
safely, if not comfortably, seated on the crupper of Lawton’s steed.

“Now, madam, you have the consolation of knowing that you are as well
mounted as Washington. The nag is sure of foot, and will leap like a
panther.”

“Let me get down,” cried Katy, struggling to release herself from his
iron grasp, and yet afraid of falling. “This is no way to put a woman
on a horse; besides, I can’t ride without a pillion.”

“Softly, good madam,” said Lawton; “for although Roanoke never falls
before, he sometimes rises behind. He is far from being accustomed to a
pair of heels beating upon his flanks like a drum major on a field day;
a single touch of the spur will serve him for a fortnight, and it is by
no means wise to be kicking in this manner, for he is a horse that but
little likes to be outdone.”

“Let me down, I say,” screamed Katy; “I shall fall and be killed.
Besides, I have nothing to hold on with; my arms are full of
valuables.”

“True,” returned the trooper, observing that he had brought bundle and
all from the ground. “I perceive that you belong to the baggage guard;
but my sword belt will encircle your little waist, as well as my own.”

Katy was too much pleased with this compliment to make any resistance,
while he buckled her close to his own herculean frame, and, driving a
spur into his charger, they flew from the lawn with a rapidity that
defied further denial. After proceeding for some time, at a rate that a
good deal discomposed the spinster, they overtook the cart of the
washerwoman driving slowly over the stones, with a proper consideration
for the wounds of Captain Singleton. The occurrences of that eventful
night had produced an excitement in the young soldier, that was
followed by the ordinary lassitude of reaction and he lay carefully
enveloped in blankets, and supported by his man, but little able to
converse, though deeply brooding over the past. The dialogue between
Lawton and his companion ceased with the commencement of their motions,
but a footpace being more favorable to speech, the trooper began anew:

“Then, you have been an inmate in the same house with Harvey Birch?”

“For more than nine years,” said Katy, drawing her breath, and
rejoicing greatly that their speed was abated.

The deep tones of the trooper’s voice were no sooner conveyed to the
ears of the washerwoman, than, turning her head, where she sat
directing the movements of the mare, she put into the discourse at the
first pause.

“Belike, then, good woman, ye’re knowing whether or no he’s akin to
Beelzeboob,” said Betty. “It’s Sargeant Hollister who’s saying the
same, and no fool is the sargeant, anyway.”

“It’s a scandalous disparagement” cried Katy, vehemently, “no kinder
soul than Harvey carries a pack; and for a gownd or a tidy apron, he
will never take a king’s farthing from a friend. Beelzebub, indeed! For
what would he read the Bible, if he had dealings with the evil spirit?”

“He’s an honest divil, anyway; as I was saying before, the guinea was
pure. But then the sargeant thinks him amiss, and it’s no want of
l’arning that Mister Hollister has.”

“He’s a fool!” said Katy tartly. “Harvey might be a man of substance,
were he not so disregardful. How often have I told him, that if he did
nothing but peddle, and would put his gains to use, and get married, so
that things at home could be kept within doors, and leave off his
dealings with the rig’lars, and all incumberments, that he would soon
become an excellent liver. Sergeant Hollister would be glad to hold a
candle to him, indeed!”

“Pooh!” said Betty, in her philosophical way; “ye’re no thinking that
Mister Hollister is an officer, and stands next the cornet, in the
troop. But this piddler gave warning of the brush the night, and it’s
no sure that Captain Jack would have got the day, but for the
reënforcement.”

“How say you, Betty,” cried the trooper, bending forward on his saddle,
“had you notice of our danger from Birch?”

“The very same, darling; and it’s hurry I was till the boys was in
motion; not but I knew ye’re enough for the Cowboys any time. But wid
the divil on your side, I was sure of the day. I’m only wondering
there’s so little plunder, in a business of Beelzeboob’s contriving.”

“I’m obliged to you for the rescue, and equally indebted to the
motive.”

“Is it the plunder? But little did I t’ink of it till I saw the
movables on the ground, some burnt, and some broke, and other some as
good as new. It would be convanient to have one feather bed in the
corps, anyway.”

“By heavens, ’twas timely succor! Had not Roanoke been swifter than
their bullets, I must have fallen. The animal is worth his weight in
gold.”

“It’s continental, you mane, darling. Goold weighs heavy, and is no
plenty in the states. If the nagur hadn’t been staying and frighting
the sargeant with his copper-colored looks, and a matter of blarney
’bout ghosts, we should have been in time to have killed all the dogs,
and taken the rest prisoners.”

“It is very well as it is, Betty,” said Lawton. “A day will yet come, I
trust, when these miscreants shall be rewarded, if not in judgments
upon their persons, at least in the opinions of their fellow citizens.
The time must arrive when America will distinguish between a patriot
and a robber.”

“Speak low,” said Katy; “there’s some who think much of themselves,
that have doings with the Skinners.”

“It’s more they are thinking of themselves, then, than other people
thinks of them,” cried Betty. “A t’ief’s a t’ief, anyway; whether he
stales for King George or for Congress.”

“I know’d that evil would soon happen,” said Katy. “The sun set
to-night behind a black cloud, and the house dog whined, although I
gave him his supper with my own hands; besides, it’s not a week sin’ I
dreamed the dream about the thousand lighted candles, and the cakes
burnt in the oven.”

“Well,” said Betty, “it’s but little I drame, anyway. Jist keep an ’asy
conscience and a plenty of the stuff in ye, and ye’ll sleep like an
infant. The last drame I had was when the boys put the thistle tops in
the blankets, and then I was thinking that Captain Jack’s man was
currying me down, for the matter of Roanoke, but it’s no trifle I mind
either in skin or stomach.”

“I’m sure,” said Katy, with a stiff erectness that drew Lawton back in
his saddle, “no man shall ever dare to lay hands on bed of mine; it’s
undecent and despisable conduct.”

“Pooh! pooh!” cried Betty; “if you tag after a troop of horse, a small
bit of a joke must be borne. What would become of the states and
liberty, if the boys had never a clane shirt, or a drop to comfort
them? Ask Captain Jack, there, if they’d fight, Mrs. Beelzeboob, and
they no clane linen to keep the victory in.”

“I’m a single woman, and my name is Haynes,” said Katy, “and I’d thank
you to use no disparaging terms when speaking to me.”

“You must tolerate a little license in the tongue of Mrs. Flanagan,
madam,” said the trooper. “The drop she speaks of is often of an
extraordinary size, and then she has acquired the freedom of a
soldier’s manner.”

“Pooh! captain, darling,” cried Betty, “why do you bother the woman?
Talk like yeerself, dear, and it’s no fool of a tongue that ye’ve got
in yeer own head. But jist here-away that sargeant made a halt,
thinking there might be more divils than one stirring, the night. The
clouds are as black as Arnold’s heart, and deuce the star is there
twinkling among them. Well, the mare is used to a march after
nightfall, and is smelling out the road like a pointer slut.”

“It wants but little to the rising moon,” observed the trooper. He
called a dragoon, who was riding in advance, issued a few orders and
cautions relative to the comfort and safety of Singleton, and speaking
a consoling word to his friend himself, gave Roanoke the spur, and
dashed by the car, at a rate that again put to flight all the
philosophy of Katharine Haynes.

“Good luck to ye, for a free rider and a bold!” shouted the
washerwoman, as he passed. “If ye’re meeting Mister Beelzeboob, jist
back the baste up to him, and show him his consort that ye’ve got on
the crupper. I’m thinking it’s no long he’d tarry to chat. Well, well,
it’s his life that we saved, he was saying so himself—though the
plunder is nothing to signify.”

The cries of Betty Flanagan were too familiar to the ears of Captain
Lawton to elicit a reply. Notwithstanding the unusual burden that
Roanoke sustained, he got over the ground with great rapidity, and the
distance between the cart of Mrs. Flanagan and the chariot of Miss
Peyton was passed in a manner that, however it answered the intentions
of the trooper, in no degree contributed to the comfort of his
companion. The meeting occurred but a short distance from the quarters
of Lawton, and at the same instant the moon broke from a mass of
clouds, and threw its light on objects.

Compared with the simple elegance and substantial comfort of the
Locusts, the “Hotel Flanagan” presented but a dreary spectacle. In the
place of carpeted floors and curtained windows, were the yawning cracks
of a rudely-constructed dwelling, and boards and paper were ingeniously
applied to supply the place of the green glass in more than half the
lights. The care of Lawton had anticipated every improvement that their
situation would allow, and blazing fires were made before the party
arrived. The dragoons, who had been charged with this duty, had
conveyed a few necessary articles of furniture, and Miss Peyton and her
companions, on alighting, found something like habitable apartments
prepared for their reception. The mind of Sarah had continued to wander
during the ride, and, with the ingenuity of the insane, she
accommodated every circumstance to the feelings that were uppermost in
her own bosom.

“It is impossible to minister to a mind that has sustained such a
blow,” said Lawton to Isabella Singleton. “Time and God’s mercy can
alone cure it, but something more may be done towards the bodily
comfort of all. You are a soldier’s daughter, and used to scenes like
this; help me to exclude some of the cold air from these windows.”

Miss Singleton acceded to his request, and while Lawton was
endeavoring, from without, to remedy the defect of broken panes,
Isabella was arranging a substitute for a curtain within.

“I hear the cart,” said the trooper, in reply to one of her
interrogatories. “Betty is tender-hearted in the main; believe me, poor
George will not only be safe, but comfortable.”

“God bless her, for her care, and bless you all,” said Isabella,
fervently. “Dr. Sitgreaves has gone down the road to meet him, I know.
What is that glittering in the moon?”

Directly opposite the window where they stood, were the outbuildings of
the farm, and the quick eye of Lawton caught at a glance the object to
which she alluded.

“’Tis the glare of firearms,” said the trooper, springing from the
window towards his charger, which yet remained caparisoned at the door.
His movement was quick as thought, but a flash of fire was followed by
the whistling of a bullet, before he had proceeded a step. A loud
shriek burst from the dwelling, and the captain sprang into his saddle;
the whole was the business of but a moment.

“Mount—mount, and follow!” shouted the trooper; and before his
astonished men could understand the cause of alarm, Roanoke had carried
him in safety over the fence which lay between him and his foe. The
chase was for life or death, but the distance to the rocks was again
too short, and the disappointed trooper saw his intended victim vanish
in their clefts, where he could not follow.

“By the life of Washington,” muttered Lawton, as he sheathed his saber,
“I would have made two halves of him, had he not been so nimble on the
foot—but a time will come!” So saying, he returned to his quarters,
with the indifference of a man who knew his life was at any moment to
be offered a sacrifice to his country. An extraordinary tumult in the
house induced him to quicken his speed, and on arriving at the door,
the panic-stricken Katy informed him that the bullet aimed at his own
life had taken effect in the bosom of Miss Singleton.




CHAPTER XXIV.


Hushed were his Gertrude’s lips; but still their bland
And beautiful expression seemed to melt
With love that could not die! and still his hand
She presses to the heart no more that felt.


—_Gertrude of Wyoming_.


The brief arrangements of the dragoons had prepared two apartments for
the reception of the ladies, the one being intended as a sleeping room,
and situated within the other. Into the latter Isabella was immediately
conveyed, at her own request, and placed on a rude bed by the side of
the unconscious Sarah. When Miss Peyton and Frances flew to her
assistance, they found her with a smile on her pallid lip, and a
composure in her countenance, that induced them to think her uninjured.

“God be praised!” exclaimed the trembling aunt. “The report of
firearms, and your fall, had led me into error. Surely, surely, there
was enough horror before; but this has been spared us.”

Isabella pressed her hand upon her bosom, still smiling, but with a
ghastliness that curdled the blood of Frances.

“Is George far distant?” she asked. “Let him know—hasten him, that I
may see my brother once again.”

“It is as I apprehended!” shrieked Miss Peyton. “But you smile—surely
you are not hurt!”

“Quite well—quite happy,” murmured Isabella; “here is a remedy for
every pain.”

Sarah arose from the reclining posture she had taken, and gazed wildly
at her companion. She stretched forth her own hand, and raised that of
Isabella from her bosom. It was dyed in blood.

“See,” said Sarah, “but will it not wash away love? Marry, young woman,
and then no one can expel him from your heart, unless,”—she added,
whispering, and bending over the other,—“you find another there before
you; then die, and go to heaven—there are no wives in heaven.”

The lovely maniac hid her face under the clothes, and continued silent
during the remainder of the night. At this moment Lawton entered.
Inured as he was to danger in all its forms, and accustomed to the
horrors of a partisan war, the trooper could not behold the ruin before
him unmoved. He bent over the fragile form of Isabella, and his gloomy
eye betrayed the workings of his soul.

“Isabella,” he at length uttered, “I know you to possess a courage
beyond the strength of women.”

“Speak,” she said, earnestly; “if you have anything to say, speak
fearlessly.”

The trooper averted his face as he replied, “None ever receive a ball
there, and survive.”

“I have no dread of death, Lawton,” returned Isabella. “I thank you for
not doubting me; I felt it from the first.”

“These are not scenes for a form like yours,” added the trooper. “’Tis
enough that Britain calls our youth to the field; but when such
loveliness becomes the victim of war, I sicken of my trade.”

“Hear me, Captain Lawton,” said Isabella, raising herself with
difficulty, but rejecting aid. “From early womanhood to the present
hour have I been an inmate of camps and garrisons. I have lived to
cheer the leisure of an aged father, and think you I would change those
days of danger and privation for any ease? No! I have the consolation
of knowing, in my dying moments, that what woman could do in such a
cause, I have done.”

“Who could prove a recreant, and witness such a spirit! Hundreds of
warriors have I witnessed in their blood, but never a firmer soul among
them all.”

“’Tis the soul only,” said Isabella. “My sex and strength have denied
me the dearest of privileges. But to you, Captain Lawton, nature has
been more bountiful; you have an arm and a heart to devote to the
cause; and I know they are in arm and a heart that will prove true to
the last. And George—and—” she paused, her lip quivered, and her eye
sank to the floor.

“And Dunwoodie!” added the trooper. “Would you speak of Dunwoodie?”

“Name him not,” said Isabella, sinking back, and concealing her face in
her garments. “Leave me, Lawton—prepare poor George for this unexpected
blow.”

The trooper continued for a little while gazing, in melancholy
interest, at the convulsive shudderings of her frame, which the scanty
covering could not conceal, and withdrew to meet his comrade. The
interview between Singleton and his sister was painful, and, for a
moment, Isabella yielded to a burst of tenderness; but, as if aware
that her hours were numbered, she was the first to rouse herself to
exertion. At her earnest request, the room was left to herself, the
captain, and Frances. The repeated applications of the surgeon, to be
permitted to use professional aid, were steadily rejected, and, at
length, he was obliged unwillingly to retire.

“Raise me,” said the dying young woman, “and let me look on a face that
I love, once more.” Frances silently complied, and Isabella turned her
eyes in sisterly affection upon George. “It matters but little, my
brother—a few hours must close the scene.”

“Live, Isabella, my sister, my only sister!” cried the youth, with a
burst of sorrow that he could not control. “My father! my poor father—”

“There is the sting of death; but he is a soldier and a Christian. Miss
Wharton, I would speak of what interests you, while yet I have strength
for the task.”

“Nay,” said Frances, tenderly, “compose yourself; let no desire to
oblige me endanger a life that is precious to—to—so many.” The words
were nearly stifled by her emotions, for the other had touched a chord
that thrilled to her heart.

“Poor, sensitive girl!” said Isabella, regarding her with tender
interest; “but the world is still before you, and why should I disturb
the little happiness it may afford! Dream on, lovely innocent! and may
God keep the evil day of knowledge far distant!”

“Oh, there is even now little left for me to enjoy,” said Frances,
burying her face in the clothes. “I am heartstricken in all that I most
loved.”

“No!” interrupted Isabella; “you have one inducement to wish for life,
that pleads strongly in a woman’s breast. It is a delusion that nothing
but death can destroy—” Exhaustion compelled her to pause, and her
auditors continued in breathless suspense, until, recovering her
strength, she laid her hand on that of Frances, and continued more
mildly, “Miss Wharton, if there breathes a spirit congenial to
Dunwoodie’s, and worthy of his love, it is your own.”

A flush of fire passed over the face of the listener, and she raised
her eyes, flashing with an ungovernable look of delight, to the
countenance of Isabella; but the ruin she beheld recalled better
feelings, and again her head dropped upon the covering of the bed.
Isabella watched her emotion with a look that partook both of pity and
admiration.

“Such have been the feelings that I have escaped,” she continued. “Yes,
Miss Wharton, Dunwoodie is wholly yours.”

“Be just to yourself, my sister,” exclaimed the youth; “let no romantic
generosity cause you to forget your own character.”

She heard him, and fixed a gaze of tender interest on his face, but
slowly shook her head as she replied,—

“It is not romance, but truth, that bids me speak. Oh! how much have I
lived within an hour! Miss Wharton, I was born under a burning sun, and
my feelings seem to have imbibed its warmth; I have existed for passion
only.”

“Say not so—say not so, I implore you,” cried the agitated brother.
“Think how devoted has been your love to our aged father; how
disinterested, how tender, your affection to me!”

“Yes,” said Isabella, a smile of mild pleasure beaming on her
countenance, “that, at least, is a reflection which may be taken to the
grave.”

Neither Frances nor her brother interrupted her meditations, which
continued for several minutes; when, suddenly recollecting herself, she
continued,—

“I remain selfish even to the last; with me, Miss Wharton, America and
her liberties were my earliest passion, and—” Again she paused, and
Frances thought it was the struggle of death that followed; but
reviving, she proceeded, “Why should I hesitate, on the brink of the
grave! Dunwoodie was my next and my last. But,” burying her face in her
hands, “it was a love that was unsought.”

“Isabella!” exclaimed her brother, springing from the bed, and pacing
the floor in disorder.

“See how dependent we become under the dominion of worldly pride; it is
painful to George to learn that one he loves had not feelings superior
to her nature and education.”

“Say no more,” whispered Frances; “you distress us both—say no more, I
entreat you.”

“In justice to Dunwoodie I must speak; and for the same reason, my
brother, you must listen. By no act or word has Dunwoodie ever induced
me to believe he wished me more than a friend; nay, latterly, I have
had the burning shame of thinking that he avoided my presence.”

“Would he dare?” said Singleton, fiercely.

“Peace, my brother, and listen,” continued Isabella, rousing herself
with an effort that was final. “Here is the innocent, the justifiable
cause. We are both motherless; but that aunt—that mild, plain-hearted,
observing aunt, has given you the victory. Oh! how much she loses, who
loses a female guardian to her youth. I have exhibited those feelings
which you have been taught to repress. After this, can I wish to live?”

“Isabella! my poor Isabella! you wander in your mind.”

“But one word more—for I feel that blood, which ever flowed too
swiftly, rushing where nature never intended it to go. Woman must be
sought to be prized; her life is one of concealed emotions; blessed are
they whose early impressions make the task free from hypocrisy, for
such only can be happy with men like—like Dunwoodie.” Her voice failed,
and she sank back on her pillow in silence. The cry of Singleton
brought the rest of the party to her bedside; but death was already
upon her countenance; her remaining strength just sufficed to reach the
hand of George, and pressing it to her bosom for a moment, she
relinquished her grasp, and, with a slight convulsion, expired.

Frances Wharton had thought that fate had done its worst, in
endangering the life of her brother, and destroying the reason of her
sister; but the relief conveyed by the dying declaration of Isabella
taught her that another sorrow had aided in loading her heart with
grief. She saw the whole truth at a glance; nor was the manly delicacy
of Dunwoodie lost upon her—everything tended to raise him in her
estimation; and, for mourning that duty and pride had induced her to
strive to think less of him, she was compelled to substitute regret
that her own act had driven him from her in sorrow, if not in
desperation. It is not in the nature of youth, however, to despair; and
Frances now knew a secret joy that gave a new spring to her existence.

The sun broke forth, on the morning that succeeded this night of
desolation, in unclouded luster, and seemed to mock the petty sorrows
of those who received his rays. Lawton had early ordered his steed, and
was ready to mount as the first burst of light broke over the hills.
His orders were already given, and the trooper threw his leg across the
saddle, in silence; and, casting a glance of fierce chagrin at the
narrow space that had favored the flight of the Skinner, he gave
Roanoke the rein, and moved slowly towards the valley.

The stillness of death pervaded the road, nor was there a single
vestige of the scenes of the night, to tarnish the loveliness of a
glorious morn. Struck with the contrast between man and nature, the
fearless trooper rode by each pass of danger, regardless of what might
happen; nor did he rouse himself from his musing, until the noble
charger, snuffing the morning air, greeted the steeds of the guard
under Sergeant Hollister.

Here, indeed, was to be seen sad evidence of the midnight fray, but the
trooper glanced his eye over it with the coolness of one accustomed to
such sights. Without wasting the moments in useless regrets, he
proceeded, at once, to business.

“Have you seen anything?” he demanded of the orderly.

“Nothing, sir, that we dared to charge upon,” returned Hollister; “but
we mounted once, at the report of distant firearms.”

“’Tis well,” said Lawton, gloomily. “Ah! Hollister, I would give the
animal I ride, to have had your single arm between the wretch who drew
that trigger and these useless rocks, which overhang every bit of
ground, as if they grudged pasture to a single hoof.”

“Under the light of day, and charging man to man, I am as good as
another; but I can’t say that I’m overfond of fighting with those that
neither steel nor lead can bring down.”

“What silly crotchet is uppermost, now, in that mystified brain of
thine, Deacon Hollister?”

“I like not the dark object that has been maneuvering in the skirt of
the wood since the first dawn of day; and twice, during the night, it
was seen marching across the firelight, no doubt with evil intent.”

“Is it yon ball of black, at the foot of the rock maple, that you mean?
In truth it moves.”

“But without mortal motion,” said the sergeant, regarding it with awful
reverence. “It glides along, but no feet have been seen by any who
watch here.”

“Had it wings,” cried Lawton, “it is mine; stand fast, until I join.”
The words were hardly uttered before Roanoke was flying across the
plain, and apparently verifying the boast of his master.

“Those cursed rocks!” ejaculated the trooper, as he saw the object of
his pursuit approaching the hillside; but, either from want of practice
or from terror, it passed the obvious shelter they offered, and fled
into the open plain.

“I have you, man or devil!” shouted Lawton, whirling his saber from its
scabbard. “Halt, and take quarter!”

His proposition was apparently acceded to; for, at the sound of his
powerful voice, the figure sank upon the ground, exhibiting a shapeless
ball of black, without life or motion.

“What have we here?” cried Lawton, drawing up by its side. “A gala suit
of the good maiden, Jeanette Peyton, wandering around its birthplace,
or searching in vain for its discomfited mistress?” He leaned forward
in his stirrups, and placing the point of his sword under the silken
garment, by throwing aside the covering, discovered part of the form of
the reverend gentleman who had fled from the Locusts, the evening
before, in his robes of office.

“In truth, Hollister had some ground for his alarm; an army chaplain
is, at any time, a terror to a troop of horse.”

The clergyman had collected enough of his disturbed faculties, to
discover that it was a face he knew, and somewhat disconcerted at the
terror he had manifested, and the indecent attitude in which he had
been found, he endeavored to rise and offer some explanation. Lawton
received his apologies good-humoredly, if not with much faith in their
truth; and, after a short communication upon the state of the valley,
the trooper courteously alighted, and they proceeded towards the guard.

“I am so little acquainted, sir, with the rebel uniform, that I really
was unable to distinguish, whether those men, whom you say are your
own, did or did not belong to the gang of marauders.”

“Apology, sir, is unnecessary,” replied the trooper, curling his lip.
“It is not your task, as a minister of God, to take note of the facings
of a coat. The standard under which you serve is acknowledged by us
all.”

“I serve under the standard of his gracious Majesty, George III,”
returned the priest, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. “But really
the idea of being scalped has a strong tendency to unman a
new-beginner, like myself.”

“Scalped!” echoed Lawton, stopping short in his walk. Then recollecting
himself, he added, with composure, “If it is to Dunwoodie’s squadron of
Virginia light dragoons that you allude, it may be well to inform you
that they generally take a bit of the skull with the skin.”

“Oh! I can have no apprehensions of gentlemen of your appearance,” said
the divine, with a smirk. “It is the natives that I apprehend.”

“Natives! I have the honor to be one, I assure you, sir.”

“Nay, I beg that I may be understood—I mean the Indians; they who do
nothing but rob, and murder, and destroy.”

“And scalp!”

“Yes, sir, and scalp too,” continued the clergyman, eying his companion
a little suspiciously; “the copper-colored, savage Indians.”

“And did you expect to meet those nose-jeweled gentry in the neutral
ground?”

“Certainly; we understand in England that the interior swarms with
them.”

“And call you this the interior of America?” cried Lawton, again
halting, and staring the other in the face, with a surprise too
naturally expressed to be counterfeited.

“Surely, sir, I conceive myself to be in the interior.”

“Attend,” said Lawton, pointing towards the east. “See you not that
broad sheet of water which the eye cannot compass? Thither lies the
England you deem worthy to hold dominion over half the world. See you
the land of your nativity?”

“’Tis impossible to behold objects at a distance of three thousand
miles!” exclaimed the wondering priest, a little suspicious of his
companion’s sanity.

“No! what a pity it is that the powers of man are not equal to his
ambition. Now turn your eyes westward; observe that vast expanse of
water which rolls between the shores of America and China.”

“I see nothing but land,” said the trembling priest; “there is no water
to be seen.”

“’Tis impossible to behold objects at a distance of three thousand
miles!” repeated Lawton, pursuing his walk. “If you apprehend the
savages, seek them in the ranks of your prince. Rum and gold have
preserved their loyalty.”

“Nothing is more probable than my being deceived,” said the man of
peace, casting furtive glances at the colossal stature and whiskered
front of his companion; “but the rumors we have at home, and the
uncertainty of meeting with such an enemy as yourself, induced me to
fly at your approach.”

“’Twas not judiciously determined,” said the trooper, “as Roanoke has
the heels of you greatly; and flying from Scylla, you were liable to
encounter Charybdis. Those woods and rocks cover the very enemies you
dread.”

“The savages!” exclaimed the divine, instinctively placing the trooper
in the rear.

“More than savages; men who, under the guise of patriotism, prowl
through the community, with a thirst for plunder that is unsatiable,
and a love of cruelty that mocks the ingenuity of the Indian—fellows
whose mouths are filled with liberty and equality, and whose hearts are
overflowing with cupidity and gall—gentlemen that are yclep’d the
Skinners.”

“I have heard them mentioned in our army,” said the frightened divine,
“and had thought them to be the aborigines.”

“You did the savages injustice.”

They now approached the spot occupied by Hollister, who witnessed with
surprise the character of the prisoner made by his captain. Lawton gave
his orders, and the men immediately commenced securing and removing
such articles of furniture as were thought worthy of the trouble; and
the captain, with his reverend associate, who was mounted on a mettled
horse, returned to the quarters of the troop.

It was the wish of Singleton that the remains of his sister should be
conveyed to the post commanded by his father, and preparations were
early made to this effect. The wounded British were placed under the
control of the chaplain; and towards the middle of the day Lawton saw
all the arrangements so far completed, as to render it probable that in
a few hours he would be left with his small party, in undisturbed
possession of the Corners.

While leaning in the doorway, gazing in moody silence at the ground
which had been the scene of the last night’s chase, his ear caught the
sound of a horse, and the next moment a dragoon of his own troop
appeared dashing up the road, as if on business of the last importance.
The steed was foaming, and the rider had the appearance of having done
a day’s service. Without speaking, he placed a letter in the hand of
Lawton, and led his charger to the stable. The trooper knew the hand of
the major, and ran his eye over the following:—

“I rejoice it is the order of Washington, that the family of the
Locusts are to be removed above the Highlands. They are to be admitted
to the society of Captain Wharton, who waits only for their testimony
to be tried. You will communicate this order, and with proper delicacy
I do not doubt. The English are moving up the river; and the moment you
see the Whartons in safety, break up and join your troop. There will be
good service to be done when we meet, as Sir Henry is reported to have
sent out a real soldier in command. Reports must be made to the
commandant at Peekskill, for Colonel Singleton is withdrawn to
headquarters, to preside over the inquiry upon poor Wharton. Fresh
orders have been sent to hang the peddler if we can take him, but they
are not from the commander in chief. Detail a small guard with the
ladies, and get into the saddle as soon as possible.”


Yours sincerely,
“PEYTON DUNWOODIE.”


This communication entirely changed the whole arrangement. There was no
longer any motive for removing the body of Isabella, since her father
was no longer with his command, and Singleton reluctantly acquiesced in
an immediate interment. A retired and lovely spot was selected, near
the foot of the adjacent rocks, and such rude preparations were made as
the time and the situation of the country permitted. A few of the
neighboring inhabitants collected from curiosity and interest, and Miss
Peyton and Frances wept in sincerity over her grave. The solemn offices
of the church were performed by the minister, who had so lately stood
forth to officiate in another and very different duty; and Lawton bent
his head, and passed his hand across his brow, while the words that
accompanied the first clod were uttered.

A new stimulus was given to the Whartons by the intelligence conveyed
in the letter of Dunwoodie; and Caesar, with his horses, was once more
put in requisition. The relics of the property were intrusted to a
neighbor, in whom they had confidence; and, accompanied by the
unconscious Sarah, and attended by four dragoons and all of the
American wounded, Mr. Wharton’s party took their departure. They were
speedily followed by the English chaplain, with his countrymen, who
were conveyed to the waterside, where a vessel was in waiting to
receive them. Lawton joyfully witnessed these movements; and as soon as
the latter were out of sight, he ordered his own bugle to sound.
Everything was instantly in motion. The mare of Mrs. Flanagan was again
fastened to the cart; Dr. Sitgreaves exhibited his shapeless form once
more on horseback; and the trooper appeared in the saddle, rejoicing in
his emancipation.

The word to march was given; and Lawton, throwing a look of sullen
ferocity at the place of the Skinner’s concealment, and another of
melancholy regret towards the grave of Isabella, led the way,
accompanied by the surgeon in a brown study; while Sergeant Hollister
and Betty brought up the rear, leaving a fresh southerly wind to
whistle through the open doors and broken windows of the “Hotel
Flanagan,” where the laugh of hilarity, the joke of the hardy partisan,
and the lamentations of the sorrowing, had so lately echoed.




CHAPTER XXV.


No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array,
But winter, lingering, chills the lap of May;
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain’s breast,
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest.


—GOLDSMITH.


The roads of Westchester are, at this hour, below the improvements of
the country. Their condition at the time of the tale has already been
alluded to in these pages; and the reader will, therefore, easily
imagine the task assumed by Caesar, when he undertook to guide the
translated chariot of the English prelate through their windings, into
one of the less frequented passes of the Highlands of the Hudson.

While Caesar and his steeds were contending with these difficulties,
the inmates of the carriage were too much engrossed with their own
cares to attend to those who served them. The mind of Sarah had ceased
to wander so wildly as at first; but at every advance that she made
towards reason, she seemed to retire a step from animation; from being
excited and flighty, she was gradually becoming moody and melancholy.
There were moments, indeed, when her anxious companions thought that
they could discern marks of recollection; but the expression of
exquisite woe that accompanied these transient gleams of reason, forced
them to the dreadful alternative of wishing that she might forever be
spared the agony of thought. The day’s march was performed chiefly in
silence, and the party found shelter for the night in different
farmhouses.

The following morning the cavalcade dispersed. The wounded diverged
towards the river, with the intention of taking water at Peekskill, in
order to be transported to the hospitals of the American army above.
The litter of Singleton was conveyed to a part of the Highlands where
his father held his quarters, and where it was intended that the youth
should complete his cure; the carriage of Mr. Wharton, accompanied by a
wagon conveying the housekeeper and what baggage had been saved, and
could be transported, resumed its route towards the place where Henry
Wharton was held in duress, and where he only waited their arrival to
be put on trial for his life.

The country which lies between the waters of the Hudson and Long Island
Sound, is, for the first forty miles from their junction, a succession
of hills and dales. The land bordering on the latter then becomes less
abrupt, and gradually assumes a milder appearance, until it finally
melts into the lovely plains and meadows of the Connecticut. But as you
approach the Hudson, the rugged aspect increases, until you at length
meet with the formidable barrier of the Highlands. Here the neutral
ground ceased. The royal army held the two points of land that
commanded the southern entrance of the river into the mountains; but
all the remaining passes were guarded by the Americans.

We have already stated that the pickets of the continental army were
sometimes pushed low into the country, and that the hamlet of the White
Plains was occasionally maintained by parties of its troops. At other
times, the advanced guards were withdrawn to the northern extremity of
the country, and, as has been shown, the intermediate country was
abandoned to the ravages of the miscreants who plundered between both
armies, serving neither.

The road taken by our party was not the one that communicates between
the two principal cities of the states, but was a retired and
unfrequented pass, that to this hour is but little known, and which,
entering the hills near the eastern boundary, emerges into the plain
above, many miles from the Hudson.

It would have been impossible for the tired steeds of Mr. Wharton to
drag the heavy chariot up the lengthened and steep ascents which now
lay before them; and a pair of country horses were procured, with but
little regard to their owner’s wishes, by the two dragoons who still
continued to accompany the party. With their assistance, Caesar was
enabled to advance, by slow and toilsome steps, into the bosom of the
hills. Willing to relieve her own melancholy by breathing a fresher
air, and also to lessen the weight, Frances alighted as they reached
the foot of the mountain. She found that Katy had made similar
preparations, with the like intention of walking to the summit. It was
near the setting of the sun, and, from the top of the mountain, their
guard had declared that the end of their journey might be discerned.
Frances moved forward with the elastic step of youth; and, followed by
the housekeeper at a little distance, she soon lost sight of the
sluggish carriage, that was slowly toiling up the hill, occasionally
halting to allow the cattle to breathe.

“Oh, Miss Fanny, what dreadful times these be!” said Katy, when they
paused for breath themselves. “I know’d that calamity was about to
befall, ever sin’ the streak of blood was seen in the clouds.”

“There has been blood upon earth, Katy, though but little is ever seen
in the clouds.”

“Not blood in the clouds!” echoed the housekeeper. “Yes, that there
has, often, and comets with fiery, smoking tails. Didn’t people see
armed men in the heavens, the year the war began? And, the night before
the battle of the Plains, wasn’t there thunder, like the cannon
themselves? Ah! Miss Fanny, I’m fearful that no good can follow
rebellion against the Lord’s anointed!”

“These events are certainly dreadful,” returned Frances, “and enough to
sicken the stoutest heart. But what can be done, Katy? Gallant and
independent men are unwilling to submit to oppression; and I am fearful
that such scenes are but too common in war.”

“If I could but see anything to fight about,” said Katy, renewing her
walk as the young lady proceeded, “I shouldn’t mind it so much. ’Twas
said the king wanted all the tea for his own family, at one time; and
then again, that he meant the colonies should pay over to him all their
earnings. Now this is matter enough to fight about—for I’m sure that no
one, however he may be lord or king, has a right to the hard earnings
of another. Then it was all contradicted, and some said Washington
wanted to be king himself; so that, between the two, one doesn’t know
which to believe.”

“Believe neither—for neither is true. I do not pretend to understand,
myself, all the merits of this war, Katy; but to me it seems unnatural,
that a country like this should be ruled by another so distant as
England.”

“So I have heard Harvey say to his father, that is dead and in his
grave,” returned Katy, approaching nearer to the young lady, and
lowering her voice. “Many is the good time that I’ve listened to them
talking, when all the neighborhood was asleep; and such conversations,
Miss Fanny, that you can have no idea on! Well, to say the truth,
Harvey was a mystified body, and he was like the winds in the good
book; no one could tell whence he came, or whither he went.”

Frances glanced her eye at her companion with an apparent desire to
hear more.

“There are rumors abroad relative to the character of Harvey,” she
said, “that I should be sorry were true.”

“’Tis a disparagement, every word on’t,” cried Katy, vehemently.
“Harvey had no more dealings with Beelzebub than you or I had. I’m sure
if Harvey had sold himself, he would take care to be better paid;
though, to speak the truth, he was always a wasteful and disregardful
man.”

“Nay, nay,” returned the smiling Frances, “I have no such injurious
suspicion of him; but has he not sold himself to an earthly prince—one
too much attached to the interests of his native island to be always
just to this country?”

“To the king’s majesty!” replied Katy. “Why, Miss Fanny, your own
brother that’s in jail serves King George.”

“True,” said Frances, “but not in secret—openly, manfully, and
bravely.”

“’Tis said he is a spy, and why ain’t one spy as bad as another?”

“’Tis untrue; no act of deception is worthy of my brother; nor of any
would he be guilty, for so base a purpose as gain or promotion.”

“Well, I’m sure,” said Katy, a little appalled at the manner of the
young lady, “if a body does the work, he should be paid for it. Harvey
is by no means partic’lar about getting his lawful dues; and I dar’st
to say, if the truth was forthcoming, King George owes him money this
very minute.”

“Then you acknowledge his connection with the British army,” said
Frances. “I confess there have been moments when I have thought
differently.”

“Lord, Miss Fanny, Harvey is a man that no calculation can be made on.
Though I lived in his house for a long concourse of years, I have never
known whether he belonged above or below[11]. The time that Burg’yne
was taken he came home, and there was great doings between him and the
old gentleman, but for my life I couldn’t tell if ’twas joy or grief.
Then, here, the other day, when the great British general—I’m sure I
have been so flurried with losses and troubles, that I forget his
name—”

“André,” said Frances.

“Yes, Ondree; when he was hanged, acrost the Tappan, the old gentleman
was near hand to going crazy about it, and didn’t sleep for night nor
day, till Harvey got back; and then his money was mostly golden
guineas; but the Skinners took it all, and now he is a beggar, or,
what’s the same thing, despisable for poverty and want.”

To this speech Frances made no reply, but continued her walk up the
hill, deeply engaged in her own reflections. The allusion to André had
recalled her thoughts to the situation of her own brother.

They soon reached the highest point in their toilsome progress to the
summit, and Frances seated herself on a rock to rest and to admire.
Immediately at her feet lay a deep dell, but little altered by
cultivation, and dark with the gloom of a November sunset. Another hill
rose opposite to the place where she sat, at no great distance, along
whose rugged sides nothing was to be seen but shapeless rocks, and oaks
whose stunted growth showed a meager soil.

To be seen in their perfection, the Highlands must be passed
immediately after the fall of the leaf. The scene is then the finest,
for neither the scanty foliage which the summer lends the trees, nor
the snows of winter, are present to conceal the minutest objects from
the eye. Chilling solitude is the characteristic of the scenery; nor is
the mind at liberty, as in March, to look forward to a renewed
vegetation that is soon to check, without improving, the view.

The day had been cloudy and cool, and thin fleecy clouds hung around
the horizon, often promising to disperse, but as frequently
disappointing Frances in the hope of catching a parting beam from the
setting sun. At length a solitary gleam struck on the base of the
mountain on which she was gazing, and moved gracefully up its side,
until reaching the summit, it stood for a minute, forming a crown of
glory to the somber pile. So strong were the rays, that what was before
indistinct now clearly opened to the view. With a feeling of awe at
being thus unexpectedly admitted, as it were, into the secrets of that
desert place, Frances gazed intently, until, among the scattered trees
and fantastic rocks, something like a rude structure was seen. It was
low, and so obscured by the color of its materials, that but for its
roof, and the glittering of a window, it must have escaped her notice.
While yet lost in the astonishment created by discovering a habitation
in such a spot, on moving her eyes she perceived another object that
increased her wonder. It apparently was a human figure, but of singular
mold and unusual deformity. It stood on the edge of a rock, a little
above the hut, and it was no difficult task for our heroine to fancy it
was gazing at the vehicles that were ascending the side of the mountain
beneath her. The distance, however, was too great to distinguish with
precision. After looking at it a moment in breathless wonder, Frances
had just come to the conclusion that it was ideal, and that what she
saw was a part of the rock itself, when the object moved swiftly from
its position, and glided into the hut, at once removing every doubt as
to the nature of either. Whether it was owing to the recent
conversation that she had been holding with Katy, or to some fancied
resemblance that she discerned, Frances thought, as the figure vanished
from her view, that it bore a marked likeness to Birch, moving under
the weight of his pack. She continued to gaze towards the mysterious
residence, when the gleam of light passed away, and at the same instant
the tones of a bugle rang through the glens and hollows, and were
reechoed in every direction. Springing on her feet, the alarmed girl
heard the trampling of horses, and directly a party in the well-known
uniform of the Virginians came sweeping round the point of a rock near
her, and drew up at a short distance. Again the bugle sounded a lively
strain, and before the agitated Frances had time to rally her thoughts,
Dunwoodie dashed by the party of dragoons, threw himself from his
charger, and advanced to her side.

His manner was earnest and interested, but in a slight degree
constrained. In a few words he explained that he had been ordered up,
with a party of Lawton’s men, in the absence of the captain himself, to
attend the trial of Henry, which was fixed for the morrow; and that,
anxious for their safety in the rude passes of the mountain, he had
ridden a mile or two in quest of the travelers. Frances explained, with
trembling voice, the reason of her being in advance, and taught him
momentarily to expect the arrival of her father. The constraint of his
manner had, however, unwillingly on her part, communicated itself to
her own deportment, and the approach of the chariot was a relief to
both. The major handed her in, spoke a few words of encouragement to
Mr. Wharton and Miss Peyton, and, again mounting, led the way towards
the plains of Fishkill, which broke on their sight, on turning the
rock, with the effect of enchantment. A short half hour brought them to
the door of the farmhouse which the care of Dunwoodie had already
prepared for their reception, and where Captain Wharton was anxiously
expecting their arrival.

 [11] The American party was called the party belonging ‘above,’ and
 the British that of ‘below.’ The terms had reference to the course of
 the Hudson.




CHAPTER XXVI.


These limbs are strengthened with a soldier’s toil,
Nor has this cheek been ever blanched with fear—
But this sad tale of thine enervates all
Within me that I once could boast as man;
Chill trembling agues seize upon my frame,
And tears of childish sorrow pour, apace,
Through scarred channels that were marked by wounds.


—_Duo._


The friends of Henry Wharton had placed so much reliance on his
innocence, that they were unable to see the full danger of his
situation. As the moment of trial, however, approached, the uneasiness
of the youth himself increased; and after spending most of the night
with his afflicted family, he awoke, on the following morning, from a
short and disturbed slumber, to a clearer sense of his condition, and a
survey of the means that were to extricate him from it with life. The
rank of André, and the importance of the measures he was plotting,
together with the powerful intercessions that had been made in his
behalf, occasioned his execution to be stamped with greater notoriety
than the ordinary events of the war. But spies were frequently
arrested; and the instances that occurred of summary punishment for
this crime were numerous. These were facts that were well known to both
Dunwoodie and the prisoner; and to their experienced judgments the
preparations for the trial were indeed alarming. Notwithstanding their
apprehensions, they succeeded so far in concealing them, that neither
Miss Peyton nor Frances was aware of their extent. A strong guard was
stationed in the outbuilding of the farmhouse where the prisoner was
quartered, and several sentinels watched the avenues that approached
the dwelling. Another was constantly near the room of the British
officer. A court was already detailed to examine into the
circumstances; and upon their decision the fate of Henry rested.

The moment at length arrived, and the different actors in the
approaching investigation assembled. Frances experienced a feeling like
suffocation, as, after taking her seat in the midst of her family, her
eyes wandered over the group who were thus collected. The judges, three
in number, sat by themselves, clad in the vestments of their
profession, and maintained a gravity worthy of the occasion, and
becoming in their rank. In the center was a man of advanced years, and
whose whole exterior bore the stamp of early and long-tried military
habits. This was the president of the court; and Frances, after taking
a hasty and unsatisfactory view of his associates, turned to his
benevolent countenance as to the harbinger of mercy to her brother.
There was a melting and subdued expression in the features of the
veteran, that, contrasted with the rigid decency and composure of the
others, could not fail to attract her notice. His attire was strictly
in conformity to the prescribed rules of the service to which he
belonged; but while his air was erect and military, his fingers trifled
with a kind of convulsive and unconscious motion, with a bit of crape
that entwined the hilt of the sword on which his body partly reclined,
and which, like himself, seemed a relic of older times. There were the
workings of an unquiet soul within; but his military front blended awe
with the pity that its exhibition excited. His associates were officers
selected from the eastern troops, who held the fortresses of West Point
and the adjacent passes; they were men who had attained the meridian of
life, and the eye sought in vain the expression of any passion or
emotion on which it might seize as an indication of human infirmity. In
their demeanor there was a mild, but a grave, intellectual reserve. If
there was no ferocity nor harshness to chill, neither was there
compassion nor interest to attract. They were men who had long acted
under the dominion of a prudent reason, and whose feelings seemed
trained to a perfect submission to their judgments.

Before these arbiters of his fate Henry Wharton was ushered under the
custody of armed men. A profound and awful silence succeeded his
entrance, and the blood of Frances chilled as she noted the grave
character of the whole proceedings. There was but little of pomp in the
preparations, to impress her imagination; but the reserved,
businesslike air of the whole scene made it seem, indeed, as if the
destinies of life awaited the result. Two of the judges sat in grave
reserve, fixing their inquiring eyes on the object of their
investigation; but the president continued gazing around with uneasy,
convulsive motions of the muscles of the face, that indicated a
restlessness foreign to his years and duty. It was Colonel Singleton,
who, but the day before, had learned the fate of Isabella, but who
stood forth in the discharge of a duty that his country required at his
hands. The silence, and the expectation in every eye, at length struck
him, and making an effort to collect himself, he spoke, in the tones of
one used to authority.

“Bring forth the prisoner,” he said, with a wave of the hand.

The sentinels dropped the points of their bayonets towards the judges,
and Henry Wharton advanced, with a firm step, into the center of the
apartment. All was now anxiety and eager curiosity. Frances turned for
a moment in grateful emotion, as the deep and perturbed breathing of
Dunwoodie reached her ears; but her brother again concentrated all her
interest in one feeling of intense care. In the background were
arranged the inmates of the family who owned the dwelling, and behind
them, again, was a row of shining faces of ebony, glistening with
pleased wonder. Amongst these was the faded luster of Caesar Thompson’s
countenance.

“You are said,” continued the president, “to be Henry Wharton, a
captain in his Britannic Majesty’s 60th regiment of foot.”

“I am.”

“I like your candor, sir; it partakes of the honorable feelings of a
soldier, and cannot fail to impress your judges favorably.”

“It would be prudent,” said one of his companions, “to advise the
prisoner that he is bound to answer no more than he deems necessary;
although we are a court of martial law, yet, in this respect, we own
the principles of all free governments.”

A nod of approbation from the silent member was bestowed on this
remark, and the president proceeded with caution, referring to the
minutes he held in his hand.

“It is an accusation against you, that, being an officer of the enemy,
you passed the pickets of the American army at the White Plains, in
disguise, on the 29th of October last, whereby you are suspected of
views hostile to the interests of America, and have subjected yourself
to the punishment of a spy.”

The mild but steady tones of the speaker, as he slowly repeated the
substance of this charge, were full of authority. The accusation was so
plain, the facts so limited, the proof so obvious, and the penalty so
well established, that escape seemed impossible. But Henry replied,
with earnest grace,—

“That I passed your pickets in disguise, is true; but—”

“Peace!” interrupted the president. “The usages of war are stern enough
in themselves; you need not aid them to your own condemnation.”

“The prisoner can retract that declaration, if he please,” remarked
another judge. “His confession, if taken, goes fully to prove the
charge.”

“I retract nothing that is true,” said Henry proudly.

The two nameless judges heard him in silent composure, yet there was no
exultation mingled with their gravity. The president now appeared,
however, to take new interest in the scene.

“Your sentiment is noble, sir,” he said. “I only regret that a youthful
soldier should so far be misled by loyalty as to lend himself to the
purposes of deceit.”

“Deceit!” echoed Wharton. “I thought it prudent to guard against
capture from my enemies.”

“A soldier, Captain Wharton, should never meet his enemy but openly,
and with arms in his hands. I have served two kings of England, as I
now serve my native land; but never did I approach a foe, unless under
the light of the sun, and with honest notice that an enemy was nigh.”

“You are at liberty to explain what your motives were in entering the
ground held by our army in disguise,” said the other judge, with a
slight movement of the muscles of his mouth.

“I am the son of this aged man before you,” continued Henry. “It was to
visit him that I encountered the danger. Besides, the country below is
seldom held by your troops, and its very name implies a right to either
party to move at pleasure over its territory.”

“Its name, as a neutral ground, is unauthorized by law; it is an
appellation that originates with the condition of the country. But
wherever an army goes, it carries its rights along, and the first is
the ability to protect itself.”

“I am no casuist, sir,” returned the youth; “but I feel that my father
is entitled to my affection, and I would encounter greater risks to
prove it to him in his old age.”

“A very commendable spirit,” cried the veteran. “Come, gentlemen, this
business brightens. I confess, at first, it was very bad, but no man
can censure him for desiring to see his parents.”

“And have you proof that such only was your intention?”

“Yes—here,” said Henry, admitting a ray of hope. “Here is proof—my
father, my sister, Major Dunwoodie, all know it.”

“Then, indeed,” returned his immovable judge, “we may be able to save
you. It would be well, sir, to examine further into this business.”

“Certainly,” said the president, with alacrity. “Let the elder Mr.
Wharton approach and take the oath.”

The father made an effort at composure, and, advancing with a feeble
step, he complied with the necessary forms of the court.

“You are the father of the prisoner?” said Colonel Singleton, in a
subdued voice, after pausing a moment in respect for the agitation of
the witness.

“He is my only son.”

“And what do you know of his visit to your house, on the 29th day of
October last?”

“He came, as he told you, to see me and his sisters.”

“Was he in disguise?” asked the other judge.

“He did not wear the uniform of the 60th.”

“To see his sisters, too!” said the president with great emotion. “Have
you daughters, sir?”

“I have two—both are in this house.”

“Had he a wig?” interrupted the officer.

“There was some such thing I do believe, upon his head.”

“And how long had you been separated?” asked the president.

“One year and two months.”

“Did he wear a loose greatcoat of coarse materials?” inquired the
officer, referring to the paper that contained the charges.

“There was an overcoat.”

“And you think that it was to see you, only, that he came out?”

“Me, and my daughters.”

“A boy of spirit,” whispered the president to his silent comrade. “I
see but little harm in such a freak; ’twas imprudent, but then it was
kind.”

“Do you know that your son was intrusted with no commission from Sir
Henry Clinton, and that the visit to you was not merely a cloak to
other designs?”

“How can I know it?” said Mr. Wharton, in alarm. “Would Sir Henry
intrust me with such a business?”

“Know you anything of this pass?” exhibiting the paper that Dunwoodie
had retained when Wharton was taken.

“Nothing—upon my honor, nothing,” cried the father, shrinking from the
paper as from contagion.

“On your oath?”

“Nothing.”

“Have you other testimony? This does not avail you, Captain Wharton.
You have been taken in a situation where your life is forfeited; the
labor of proving your innocence rests with yourself. Take time to
reflect, and be cool.”

There was a frightful calmness in the manner of this judge that
appalled the prisoner. In the sympathy of Colonel Singleton, he could
easily lose sight of his danger; but the obdurate and collected air of
the others was ominous of his fate. He continued silent, casting
imploring glances towards his friend. Dunwoodie understood the appeal,
and offered himself as a witness. He was sworn, and desired to relate
what he knew. His statement did not materially alter the case, and
Dunwoodie felt that it could not. To him personally but little was
known, and that little rather militated against the safety of Henry
than otherwise. His account was listened to in silence, and the
significant shake of the head that was made by the silent member spoke
too plainly what effect it had produced.

“Still you think that the prisoner had no other object than what he has
avowed?” said the president, when he had ended.

“None other, I will pledge my life,” cried the major, with fervor.

“Will you swear it?” asked the immovable judge.

“How can I? God alone can tell the heart; but I have known this
gentleman from a boy; deceit never formed part of his character. He is
above it.”

“You say that he escaped, and was retaken in open arms?” said the
president.

“He was; nay, he received a wound in the combat. You see he yet moves
his arm with difficulty. Would he, think you, sir, have trusted himself
where he could fall again into our hands, unless conscious of
innocence?”

“Would André have deserted a field of battle, Major Dunwoodie, had he
encountered such an event, near Tarrytown?” asked his deliberate
examiner. “Is it not natural to youth to seek glory?”

“Do you call this glory?” exclaimed the major: “an ignominious death
and a tarnished name.”

“Major Dunwoodie,” returned the other, still with inveterate gravity,
“you have acted nobly; your duty has been arduous and severe, but it
has been faithfully and honorably discharged; ours must not be less
so.”

During the examination, the most intense interest prevailed among the
hearers. With that kind of feeling which could not separate the
principle from the cause, most of the auditors thought that if
Dunwoodie failed to move the hearts of Henry’s judges, no other
possessed the power. Caesar thrust his misshapen form forward and his
features, so expressive of the concern he felt, and so different from
the vacant curiosity pictured in the countenance of the other blacks,
caught the attention of the silent judge. For the first time he spoke:—

“Let that black be brought forward.”

It was too late to retreat, and Caesar found himself confronted with a
row of rebel officers, before he knew what was uppermost in his
thoughts. The others yielded the examination to the one who suggested
it, and using all due deliberation, he proceeded accordingly.

“You know the prisoner?”

“I t’ink he ought,” returned the black, in a manner as sententious as
that of his examiner.

“Did he give you the wig when he threw it aside?”

“I don’t want ’em,” grumbled Caesar; “got a berry good hair heself.”

“Were you employed in carrying any letters or messages of any kind
while
Captain Wharton was in your master’s house?”

“I do what a tell me,” returned the black.

“But what did they tell you to do?”

“Sometime a one ting—sometime anoder.”

“Enough,” said Colonel Singleton, with dignity. “You have the noble
acknowledgment of a gentleman, what more can you obtain from this
slave?—Captain Wharton, you perceive the unfortunate impression against
you. Have you other testimony to adduce?”

To Henry there now remained but little hope; his confidence in his
security was fast ebbing, but with an indefinite expectation of
assistance from the loveliness of his sister, he fixed an earnest gaze
on the pallid features of Frances. She arose, and with a tottering step
moved towards the judges; the paleness of her cheek continued but for a
moment, and gave place to a flush of fire, and with a light but firm
tread, she stood before them. Raising her hand to her polished
forehead, Frances threw aside her exuberant locks, and displayed a
picture of beauty and innocence to their view that might have moved
even sterner natures. The president shrouded his eyes for a moment, as
if the wild eye and speaking countenance recalled the image of another.
The movement was transient, and recovering himself, with an earnestness
that betrayed his secret wishes,—

“To you, then, your brother previously communicated his intention of
paying your family a secret visit?”

“No!—no!” said Frances, pressing her hand on her brain, as if to
collect her thoughts; “he told me nothing—we knew not of the visit
until he arrived; but can it be necessary to explain to gallant men,
that a child would incur hazard to meet his only parent, and that in
times like these, and in a situation like ours?”

“But was this the first time? Did he never even talk of doing so
before?” inquired the colonel, leaning towards her with paternal
interest.

“Certainly—certainly,” cried Frances, catching the expression of his
own benevolent countenance. “This is but the fourth of his visits.”

“I knew it!” exclaimed the veteran, rubbing his hands with delight. “An
adventurous, warm-hearted son—I warrant me, gentlemen, a fiery soldier
in the field! In what disguises did he come?”

“In none, for none were then necessary; the royal troops covered the
country, and gave him safe passage.”

“And was this the first of his visits out of the uniform of his
regiment?” asked the colonel, in a suppressed voice, avoiding the
penetrating looks of his companions.

“Oh! the very first,” exclaimed the eager girl. “His first offense, I
do assure you, if offense it be.”

“But you wrote him—you urged the visit; surely, young lady, you wished
to see your brother?” added the impatient colonel.

“That we wished it, and prayed for it,—oh, how fervently we prayed for
it!—is true; but to have held communion with the royal army would have
endangered our father, and we dared not.”

“Did he leave the house until taken, or had he intercourse with any out
of your own dwelling?”

“With none—no one, excepting our neighbor, the peddler Birch.”

“With whom!” exclaimed the colonel, turning pale, and shrinking as from
the sting of an adder.

Dunwoodie groaned aloud, and striking his head with his hand, cried in
piercing tones, “He is lost!” and rushed from the apartment.

“But Harvey Birch,” repeated Frances, gazing wildly at the door through
which her lover had disappeared.

“Harvey Birch!” echoed all the judges. The two immovable members of the
court exchanged looks, and threw an inquisitive glance at the prisoner.

“To you, gentlemen, it can be no new intelligence to hear that Harvey
Birch is suspected of favoring the royal cause,” said Henry, again
advancing before the judges; “for he has already been condemned by your
tribunals to the fate that I now see awaits myself. I will therefore
explain, that it was by his assistance I procured the disguise, and
passed your pickets; but to my dying moments, and with my dying breath,
I will avow, that my intentions were as pure as the innocent being
before you.”

“Captain Wharton,” said the president, solemnly, “the enemies of
American liberty have made mighty and subtle efforts to overthrow our
power. A more dangerous man, for his means and education, is not ranked
among our foes than this peddler of Westchester. He is a spy—artful,
delusive, and penetrating, beyond the abilities of any of his class.
Sir Henry could not do better than to associate him with the officer in
his next attempt. He would have saved André. Indeed, young man, this is
a connection that may prove fatal to you!”

The honest indignation that beamed on the countenance of the aged
warrior was met by a look of perfect conviction on the part of his
comrades.

“I have ruined him!” cried Frances, clasping her hands in terror. “Do
you desert us? then he is lost, indeed!”

“Forbear! lovely innocent, forbear!” said the colonel, with strong
emotion; “you injure none, but distress us all.”

“Is it then such a crime to possess natural affection?” said Frances
wildly. “Would Washington—the noble, upright, impartial Washington,
judge so harshly? Delay, till Washington can hear his tale.”

“It is impossible,” said the president, covering his eyes, as if to
hide her beauty from his view.

“Impossible! oh! but for a week suspend your judgment. On my knees I
entreat you, as you will expect mercy yourself, when no human power can
avail you, give him but a day.”

“It is impossible,” repeated the colonel, in a voice that was nearly
choked. “Our orders are peremptory, and too long delay has been given
already.”

He turned from the kneeling suppliant, but could not, or would not,
extricate that hand that she grasped with frenzied fervor.

“Remand your prisoner,” said one of the judges to the officer who had
the charge of Henry. “Colonel Singleton, shall we withdraw?”

“Singleton! Singleton!” echoed Frances. “Then you are a father, and
know how to pity a father’s woes; you cannot, will not, wound a heart
that is now nearly crushed. Hear me, Colonel Singleton; as God will
listen to your dying prayers, hear me, and spare my brother!”

“Remove her,” said the colonel, gently endeavoring to extricate his
hand; but none appeared disposed to obey. Frances eagerly strove to
read the expression of his averted face, and resisted all his efforts
to retire.

“Colonel Singleton! how lately was your own son in suffering and in
danger! Under the roof of my father he was cherished-under my father’s
roof he found shelter and protection. Oh! suppose that son the pride of
your age, the solace and protection of your infant children, and then
pronounce my brother guilty, if you dare!”

“What right has Heath to make an executioner of me!” exclaimed the
veteran fiercely, rising with a face flushed like fire, and every vein
and artery swollen with suppressed emotion. “But I forget myself; come,
gentlemen, let us mount, our painful duty must be done.”

“Mount not! go not!” shrieked Frances. “Can you tear a son from his
parent—a brother from his sister, so coldly? Is this the cause I have
so ardently loved? Are these the men that I have been taught to
reverence? But you relent, you do hear me, you will pity and forgive.”

“Lead on, gentlemen,” said the colonel, motioning towards the door, and
erecting himself into an air of military grandeur, in the vain hope of
quieting his feelings.

“Lead not on, but hear me,” cried Frances, grasping his hand
convulsively. “Colonel Singleton, you are a father!—pity—mercy—mercy
for the son! mercy for the daughter! Yes—you had a daughter. On this
bosom she poured out her last breath; these hands closed her eyes;
these very hands, that are now clasped in prayer, did those offices for
her that you condemn my poor, poor brother, to require.”

One mighty emotion the veteran struggled with, and quelled; but with a
groan that shook his whole frame. He even looked around in conscious
pride at his victory; but a second burst of feeling conquered. His
head, white with the frost of seventy winters, sank upon the shoulder
of the frantic suppliant. The sword that had been his companion in so
many fields of blood dropped from his nerveless hand, and as he cried,
“May God bless you for the deed!” he wept aloud.

Long and violent was the indulgence that Colonel Singleton yielded to
his feelings. On recovering, he gave the senseless Frances into the
arms of her aunt, and, turning with an air of fortitude to his
comrades, he said,—

“Still, gentlemen, we have our duty as officers to discharge; our
feelings as men may be indulged hereafter. What is your pleasure with
the prisoner?”

One of the judges placed in his hand a written sentence, that he had
prepared while the colonel was engaged with Frances, and declared it to
be the opinion of himself and his companion.

It briefly stated that Henry Wharton had been detected in passing the
lines of the American army as a spy, and in disguise. That thereby,
according to the laws of war, he was liable to suffer death, and that
this court adjudged him to the penalty; recommending him to be executed
by hanging, before nine o’clock on the following morning.

It was not usual to inflict capital punishments, even on the enemy,
without referring the case to the commander in chief, for his
approbation; or, in his absence, to the officer commanding for the time
being. But, as Washington held his headquarters at New Windsor, on the
western bank of the Hudson, there was sufficient time to receive his
answer.

“This is short notice,” said the veteran, holding the pen in his hand,
in a suspense that had no object; “not a day to fit one so young for
heaven?”

“The royal officers gave Hale[12] but an hour,” returned his comrade;
“we have granted the usual time. But Washington has the power to extend
it, or to pardon.”

“Then to Washington will I go,” cried the colonel, returning the paper
with his signature; “and if the services of an old man like me, or that
brave boy of mine, entitle me to his ear, I will yet save the youth.”

So saying, he departed, full of his generous intentions in favor of
Henry Wharton.

The sentence of the court was communicated, with proper tenderness, to
the prisoner; and after giving a few necessary instructions to the
officer in command, and dispatching a courier to headquarters with
their report, the remaining judges mounted, and rode to their own
quarters, with the same unmoved exterior, but with the consciousness of
the same dispassionate integrity, that they had maintained throughout
the trial.

 [12] An American officer of this name was detected within the British
 lines, in disguise, in search of military information. He was tried
 and executed, as stated in the text, as soon as the preparations could
 be made. It is said that he was reproached under the gallows with
 dishonoring the rank he held by his fate. ‘What a death for an officer
 to die!’ said one of his captors. ‘Gentlemen, any death is honorable
 when a man dies in a cause like that of America,’ was his answer.
 André was executed amid the tears of his enemies; Hale died unpitied
 and with reproaches in his ears; and yet one was the victim of
 ambition, and the other of devotion to his country. Posterity will do
 justice between them.




CHAPTER XXVII.


Have you no countermand for Claudio yet,
But he must die to-morrow?


_—Measure for Measure._


A few hours were passed by the prisoner, after his sentence was
received, in the bosom of his family. Mr. Wharton wept in hopeless
despondency over the untimely fate of his son; and Frances, after
recovering from her insensibility, experienced an anguish of feeling to
which the bitterness of death itself would have been comparatively
light. Miss Peyton alone retained a vestige of hope, or presence of
mind to suggest what might be proper to be done under their
circumstances. The comparative composure of the good aunt arose in no
degree from any want of interest in the welfare of her nephew, but it
was founded in a kind of instinctive dependence on the character of
Washington. He was a native of the same colony with herself; and
although his early military services, and her frequent visits to the
family of her sister, and subsequent establishment at its head, had
prevented their ever meeting, still she was familiar with his domestic
virtues, and well knew that the rigid inflexibility for which his
public acts were distinguished formed no part of his reputation in
private life. He was known in Virginia as a consistent but just and
lenient master; and she felt a kind of pride in associating in her mind
her countryman with the man who led the armies, and in a great measure
controlled the destinies, of America. She knew that Henry was innocent
of the crime for which he was condemned to suffer, and, with that kind
of simple faith that is ever to be found in the most ingenuous
characters, could not conceive of those constructions and
interpretations of law that inflicted punishment without the actual
existence of crime. But even her confiding hopes were doomed to meet
with a speedy termination. Towards noon, a regiment of militia, that
were quartered on the banks of the river, moved to the ground in front
of the house that held our heroine and her family, and deliberately
pitched their tents, with the avowed intention of remaining until the
following morning, to give solemnity and effect to the execution of a
British spy.

Dunwoodie had performed all that was required of him by his orders, and
was at liberty to retrace his steps to his expectant squadron, which
was impatiently waiting his return to be led against a detachment of
the enemy that was known to be slowly moving up the banks of the river,
in order to cover a party of foragers in its rear. He was accompanied
by a small party of Lawton’s troop, under the expectation that their
testimony might be required to convict the prisoner; and Mason, the
lieutenant, was in command. But the confession of Captain Wharton had
removed the necessity of examining any witnesses on behalf of the
people.[13] The major, from an unwillingness to encounter the distress
of Henry’s friends, and a dread of trusting himself within its
influence, had spent the time we have mentioned in walking by himself,
in keen anxiety, at a short distance from the dwelling. Like Miss
Peyton, he had some reliance on the mercy of Washington, although
moments of terrific doubt and despondency were continually crossing his
mind. To him the rules of service were familiar, and he was more
accustomed to consider his general in the capacity of a ruler, than as
exhibiting the characteristics of the individual. A dreadful instance
had too recently occurred, which fully proved that Washington was above
the weakness of sparing another in mercy to himself. While pacing, with
hurried steps, through the orchard, laboring under these constantly
recurring doubts, enlivened by transient rays of hope, Mason
approached, accoutered completely for the saddle.

“Thinking you might have forgotten the news brought this morning from
below, sir, I have taken the liberty to order the detachment under
arms,” said the lieutenant, very coolly, cutting down with his sheathed
saber the mullein tops that grew within his reach.

“What news?” cried the major, starting.

“Only that John Bull is out in Westchester, with a train of wagons,
which, if he fills, will compel us to retire through these cursed
hills, in search of provender. These greedy Englishmen are so shut up
on York Island, that when they do venture out, they seldom leave straw
enough to furnish the bed of a Yankee heiress.”

“Where did the express leave them, did you say? The intelligence has
entirely escaped my memory.”

“On the heights above Sing Sing,” returned the lieutenant, with no
little amazement. “The road below looks like a hay market, and all the
swine are sighing forth their lamentations, as the corn passes them
towards King’s Bridge. George Singleton’s orderly, who brought up the
tidings, says that our horses were holding consultation if they should
not go down without their riders, and eat another meal, for it is
questionable with them whether they can get a full stomach again. If
they are suffered to get back with their plunder, we shall not be able
to find a piece of pork at Christmas fat enough to fry itself.”

“Peace, with all this nonsense of Singleton’s orderly, Mr. Mason,”
cried Dunwoodie, impatiently; “let him learn to wait the orders of his
superiors.”

“I beg pardon in his name, Major Dunwoodie,” said the subaltern; “but,
like myself, he was in error. We both thought it was the order of
General Heath, to attack and molest the enemy whenever he ventured out
of his nest.”

“Recollect yourself, Lieutenant Mason,” said the major, “or I may have
to teach you that your orders pass through me.”

“I know it, Major Dunwoodie—I know it; and I am sorry that your memory
is so bad as to forget that I never have yet hesitated to obey them.”

“Forgive me, Mason,” cried Dunwoodie, taking both his hands. “I do know
you for a brave and obedient soldier; forget my humor. But this
business—had you ever a friend?”

“Nay, nay,” interrupted the lieutenant, “forgive me and my honest zeal.
I knew of the orders, and was fearful that censure might fall on my
officer. But remain, and let a man breathe a syllable against the
corps, and every sword will start from the scabbard of itself; besides,
they are still moving up, and it is a long road from Croton to King’s
Bridge. Happen what may, I see plainly that we shall be on their heels
before they are housed again.”

“Oh! that the courier was returned from headquarters!” exclaimed
Dunwoodie. “This suspense is insupportable.”

“You have your wish,” cried Mason. “Here he is at the moment, and
riding like the bearer of good news. God send it may be so; for I can’t
say that I particularly like myself to see a brave young fellow dancing
upon nothing.”

Dunwoodie heard but very little of this feeling declaration; for, ere
half of it was uttered, he had leaped the fence and stood before the
messenger.

“What news?” cried the major, the moment that the soldier stopped his
horse.

“Good!” exclaimed the man; and feeling no hesitation to intrust an
officer so well known as Major Dunwoodie, he placed the paper in his
hands, as he added, “but you can read it, sir, for yourself.”

Dunwoodie paused not to read; but flew, with the elastic spring of joy,
to the chamber of the prisoner. The sentinel knew him, and he was
suffered to pass without question.

“Oh! Peyton,” cried Frances, as he entered the apartment, “you look
like a messenger from heaven! Bring you tidings of mercy?”

“Here, Frances—here, Henry—here, dear cousin Jeanette,” cried the
youth, as with trembling hands he broke the seal; “here is the letter
itself, directed to the captain of the guard. But listen—”

All did listen with intense anxiety; and the pang of blasted hope was
added to their misery, as they saw the glow of delight which had beamed
on the countenance of the major give place to a look of horror. The
paper contained the sentence of the court, and underneath was written
these simple words,—

“Approved—GEO. WASHINGTON.”

“He’s lost, he’s lost!” cried Frances, sinking into the arms of her
aunt.

“My son! my son!” sobbed the father, “there is mercy in heaven, if
there is none on earth. May Washington never want that mercy he thus
denies to my innocent child!”

“Washington!” echoed Dunwoodie, gazing around him in vacant horror.
“Yes, ’tis the act of Washington himself; these are his characters; his
very name is here, to sanction the dreadful deed.”

“Cruel, cruel Washington!” cried Miss Peyton. “How has familiarity with
blood changed his nature!”

“Blame him not,” said Dunwoodie; “it is the general, and not the man;
my life on it, he feels the blow he is compelled to inflict.”

“I have been deceived in him,” cried Frances. “He is not the savior of
his country; but a cold and merciless tyrant. Oh! Peyton, Peyton! how
have you misled me in his character!”

“Peace, dear Frances; peace, for God’s sake; use not such language. He
is but the guardian of the law.”

“You speak the truth, Major Dunwoodie,” said Henry, recovering from the
shock of having his last ray of hope extinguished, and advancing from
his seat by the side of his father. “I, who am to suffer, blame him
not. Every indulgence has been granted me that I can ask. On the verge
of the grave I cannot continue unjust. At such a moment, with so recent
an instance of danger to your cause from treason, I wonder not at
Washington’s unbending justice. Nothing now remains but to prepare for
that fate which so speedily awaits me. To you, Major Dunwoodie, I make
my first request.”

“Name it,” said the major, giving utterance with difficulty.

Henry turned, and pointing to the group of weeping mourners near him,
he continued,—

“Be a son to this aged man; help his weakness, and defend him from any
usage to which the stigma thrown upon me may subject him. He has not
many friends amongst the rulers of this country; let your powerful name
be found among them.”

“It shall.”

“And this helpless innocent,” continued Henry, pointing to where Sarah
sat, unconscious of what was passing, “I had hoped for an opportunity
to revenge her wrongs;” a flush of excitement passed over his features;
“but such thoughts are evil—I feel them to be wrong. Under your care,
Peyton, she will find sympathy and refuge.”

“She shall,” whispered Dunwoodie.

“This good aunt has claims upon you already; of her I will not speak;
but here,” taking the hand of Frances, and dwelling upon her
countenance with an expression of fraternal affection, “here is the
choicest gift of all. Take her to your bosom, and cherish her as you
would cultivate innocence and virtue.”

The major could not repress the eagerness with which he extended his
hand to receive the precious boon; but Frances, shrinking from his
touch, hid her face in the bosom of her aunt.

“No, no, no!” she murmured. “None can ever be anything to me who aid in
my brother’s destruction.”

Henry continued gazing at her in tender pity for several moments,
before he again resumed a discourse that all felt was most peculiarly
his own.

“I have been mistaken, then. I did think, Peyton, that your worth, your
noble devotion to a cause that you have been taught to revere, that
your kindness to our father when in imprisonment, your friendship for
me,—in short, that your character was understood and valued by my
sister.”

“It is—it is,” whispered Frances, burying her face still deeper in the
bosom of her aunt.

“I believe, dear Henry,” said Dunwoodie, “this is a subject that had
better not be dwelt upon now.”

“You forget,” returned the prisoner, with a faint smile, “how much I
have to do, and how little time is left to do it in.”

“I apprehend,” continued the major, with a face of fire, “that Miss
Wharton has imbibed some opinions of me that would make a compliance
with your request irksome to her—opinions that it is now too late to
alter.”

“No, no, no,” cried Frances, quickly, “you are exonerated, Peyton—with
her dying breath she removed my doubts.”

“Generous Isabella!” murmured Dunwoodie; “but, still, Henry, spare your
sister now; nay, spare even me.”

“I speak in pity to myself,” returned the brother, gently removing
Frances from the arms of her aunt. “What a time is this to leave two
such lovely females without a protector! Their abode is destroyed, and
misery will speedily deprive them of their last male friend,” looking
at his father; “can I die in peace with the knowledge of the danger to
which they will be exposed?”

“You forget me,” said Miss Peyton, shrinking at the idea of celebrating
nuptials at such a moment.

“No, my dear aunt, I forget you not, nor shall I, until I cease to
remember; but you forget the times and the danger. The good woman who
lives in this house has already dispatched a messenger for a man of
God, to smooth my passage to another world. Frances, if you would wish
me to die in peace, to feel a security that will allow me to turn my
whole thoughts to heaven, you will let this clergyman unite you to
Dunwoodie.”

Frances shook her head, but remained silent.

“I ask for no joy—no demonstration of a felicity that you will not,
cannot feel, for months to come; but obtain a right to his powerful
name—give him an undisputed title to protect you—”

Again the maid made an impressive gesture of denial.

“For the sake of that unconscious sufferer”—pointing to Sarah, “for
your sake—for my sake—my sister—”

“Peace, Henry, or you will break my heart,” cried the agitated girl.
“Not for worlds would I at such a moment engage in the solemn vows that
you wish. It would render me miserable for life.”

“You love him not,” said Henry, reproachfully. “I cease to importune
you to do what is against your inclinations.”

Frances raised one hand to conceal her countenance, as she extended the
other towards Dunwoodie, and said earnestly,—

“Now you are unjust to me—before, you were unjust to yourself.”

“Promise me, then,” said Wharton, musing awhile in silence, “that as
soon as the recollection of my fate is softened, you will give my
friend that hand for life, and I am satisfied.”

“I do promise,” said Frances, withdrawing the hand that Dunwoodie
delicately relinquished, without even presuming to press it to his
lips.

“Well, then, my good aunt,” continued Henry, “will you leave me for a
short time alone with my friend? I have a few melancholy commissions
with which to intrust him, and would spare you and my sister the pain
of hearing them.”

“There is yet time to see Washington again,” said Miss Peyton, moving
towards the door; and then, speaking with extreme dignity, she
continued, “I will go myself; surely he must listen to a woman from his
own colony!—and we are in some degree connected with his family.”

“Why not apply to Mr. Harper?” said Frances, recollecting the parting
words of their guest for the first time.

“Harper!” echoed Dunwoodie, turning towards her with the swiftness of
lightning; “what of him? Do you know him?”

“It is in vain,” said Henry, drawing him aside; “Frances clings to hope
with the fondness of a sister. Retire, my love, and leave me with my
friend.”

But Frances read an expression in the eye of Dunwoodie that chained her
to the spot. After struggling to command her feelings, she continued,—

“He stayed with us for two days—he was with us when Henry was
arrested.”

“And—and—did you know him?”

“Nay,” continued Frances, catching her breath as she witnessed the
intense interest of her lover, “we knew him not; he came to us in the
night, a stranger, and remained with us during the severe storm; but he
seemed to take an interest in Henry, and promised him his friendship,”

“What!” exclaimed the youth in astonishment. “Did he know your
brother?”

“Certainly; it was at his request that Henry threw aside his disguise.”

“But,” said Dunwoodie, turning pale with suspense, “he knew him not as
an officer of the royal army?”

“Indeed he did,” cried Miss Peyton; “and he cautioned us against this
very danger.”

Dunwoodie caught up the fatal paper, that still lay where it had fallen
from his own hands, and studied its characters intently. Something
seemed to bewilder his brain. He passed his hand over his forehead,
while each eye was fixed on him in dreadful suspense—all feeling afraid
to admit those hopes anew that had been so sadly destroyed.

“What said he? What promised he?” at length Dunwoodie asked, with
feverish impatience.

“He bid Henry apply to him when in danger, and promised to requite the
son for the hospitality of the father.”

“Said he this, knowing him to be a British officer?”

“Most certainly; and with a view to this very danger.”

“Then,” cried the youth aloud, and yielding to his rapture, “then you
are safe—then will I save him; yes, Harper will never forget his word.”

“But has he the power to?” said Frances. “Can he move the stubborn
purpose of Washington?”

“Can he? If he cannot,” shouted the youth, “if he cannot, who can?
Greene, and Heath, and young Hamilton are nothing compared to this
Harper. But,” rushing to his mistress, and pressing her hands
convulsively, “repeat to me—you say you have his promise?”

“Surely, surely, Peyton; his solemn, deliberate promise, knowing all
the circumstances.”

“Rest easy,” cried Dunwoodie, holding her to his bosom for a moment,
“rest easy, for Henry is safe.”

He waited not to explain, but darting from the room, he left the family
in amazement. They continued in silent wonder until they heard the feet
of his charger, as he dashed from the door with the speed of an arrow.

A long time was spent after this abrupt departure of the youth, by the
anxious friends he had left, in discussing the probability of his
success. The confidence of his manner had, however, communicated to his
auditors something of his own spirit. Each felt that the prospects of
Henry were again brightening, and with their reviving hopes they
experienced a renewal of spirits, which in all but Henry himself
amounted to pleasure; with him, indeed, his state was too awful to
admit of trifling, and for a few hours he was condemned to feel how
much more intolerable was suspense than even the certainty of calamity.
Not so with Frances. She, with all the reliance of affection, reposed
in security on the assurance of Dunwoodie, without harassing herself
with doubts that she possessed not the means of satisfying; but
believing her lover able to accomplish everything that man could do,
and retaining a vivid recollection of the manner and benevolent
appearance of Harper, she abandoned herself to all the felicity of
renovated hope.

The joy of Miss Peyton was more sobered, and she took frequent
occasions to reprove her niece for the exuberance of her spirits,
before there was a certainty that their expectations were to be
realized. But the slight smile that hovered around the lips of the
virgin contradicted the very sobriety of feeling that she inculcated.

“Why, dearest aunt,” said Frances, playfully, in reply to one of her
frequent reprimands, “would you have me repress the pleasure that I
feel at Henry’s deliverance, when you yourself have so often declared
it to be impossible that such men as ruled in our country could
sacrifice an innocent man?”

“Nay, I did believe it impossible, my child, and yet think so; but
still there is a discretion to be shown in joy as well as in sorrow.”

Frances recollected the declaration of Isabella, and turned an eye
filled with tears of gratitude on her excellent aunt, as she replied,—

“True; but there are feelings that will not yield to reason. Ah! here
are those monsters, who have come to witness the death of a fellow
creature, moving around yon field, as if life was, to them, nothing but
a military show.”

“It is but little more to the hireling soldier,” said Henry,
endeavoring to forget his uneasiness.

“You gaze, my love, as if you thought a military show of some
importance,” said Miss Peyton, observing her niece to be looking from
the window with a fixed and abstracted attention. But Frances answered
not.

From the window where she stood, the pass that they had traveled
through the Highlands was easily to be seen; and the mountain which
held on its summit the mysterious hut was directly before her. Its side
was rugged and barren; huge and apparently impassable barriers of rocks
presenting themselves through the stunted oaks, which, stripped of
their foliage, were scattered over its surface. The base of the hill
was not half a mile from the house, and the object which attracted the
notice of Frances was the figure of a man emerging from behind a rock
of remarkable formation, and as suddenly disappearing. The maneuver was
several times repeated, as if it were the intention of the fugitive
(for such by his air he seemed to be) to reconnoiter the proceedings of
the soldiery, and assure himself of the position of things on the
plain. Notwithstanding the distance, Frances instantly imbibed the
opinion that it was Birch. Perhaps this impression was partly owing to
the air and figure of the man, but in a great measure to the idea that
presented itself on formerly beholding the object at the summit of the
mountain. That they were the same figure she was confident, although
this wanted the appearance which, in the other, she had taken for the
pack of the peddler. Harvey had so connected himself with the
mysterious deportment of Harper, within her imagination, that under
circumstances of less agitation than those in which she had labored
since her arrival, she would have kept her suspicions to herself.
Frances, therefore, sat ruminating on this second appearance in
silence, and endeavoring to trace what possible connection this
extraordinary man could have with the fortunes of her own family. He
had certainly saved Sarah in some degree, from the blow that had
partially alighted on her, and in no instance had he proved himself to
be hostile to their interests.

After gazing for a long time at the point where she had last seen the
figure, in the vain expectation of its reappearance, she turned to her
friends in the apartment. Miss Peyton was sitting by Sarah, who gave
some slight additional signs of observing what passed, but who still
continued insensible either to joy or grief.

“I suppose, by this time, my love, that you are well acquainted with
the maneuvers of a regiment,” said Miss Peyton. “It is no bad quality
in a soldier’s wife, at all events.”

“I am not a wife yet,” said Frances, coloring to the eyes; “and we have
little reason to wish for another wedding in our family.”

“Frances!” exclaimed her brother, starting from his seat, and pacing
the floor in violent agitation. “Touch not the chord again, I entreat
you. While my fate is uncertain, I would wish to be at peace with all
men.”

“Then let the uncertainty cease,” cried Frances, springing to the door,
“for here comes Peyton with the joyful intelligence of your release.”

The words were hardly uttered, before the door opened, and the major
entered. In his air there was the appearance of neither success nor
defeat, but there was a marked display of vexation. He took the hand
that Frances, in the fullness of her heart, extended towards him, but
instantly relinquishing it, threw himself into a chair, in evident
fatigue.

“You have failed,” said Wharton, with a bound of his heart, but an
appearance of composure.

“Have you seen Harper?” cried Frances, turning pale.

“I have not. I crossed the river in one boat as he must have been
coming to this side, in another. I returned without delay, and traced
him for several miles into the Highlands, by the western pass, but
there I unaccountably lost him. I have returned here to relieve your
uneasiness, but see him I will this night, and bring a respite for
Henry.”

“But saw you Washington?” asked Miss Peyton.

Dunwoodie gazed at her a moment in abstracted musing, and the question
was repeated. He answered gravely, and with some reserve,—

“The commander in chief had left his quarters.”

“But, Peyton,” cried Frances, in returning terror, “if they should not
see each other, it will be too late. Harper alone will not be
sufficient.”

Her lover turned his eyes slowly on her anxious countenance, and
dwelling a moment on her features, said, still musing,—

“You say that he promised to assist Henry.”

“Certainly, of his own accord and in requital for the hospitality he
had received.”

Dunwoodie shook his head, and began to look grave.

“I like not that word hospitality—it has an empty sound; there must be
something more reasonable to tie Harper. I dread some mistake; repeat
to me all that passed.”

Frances, in a hurried and earnest voice, complied with his request. She
related particularly the manner of his arrival at the Locusts, the
reception that he received, and the events that passed as minutely as
her memory could supply her with the means. As she alluded to the
conversation that occurred between her father and his guest, the major
smiled but remained silent. She then gave a detail of Henry’s arrival,
and the events of the following day. She dwelt upon the part where
Harper had desired her brother to throw aside his disguise, and
recounted, with wonderful accuracy, his remarks upon the hazard of the
step that the youth had taken. She even remembered a remarkable
expression of his to her brother, “that he was safer from Harper’s
knowledge of his person, than he would be without it.” Frances
mentioned, with the warmth of youthful admiration, the benevolent
character of his deportment to herself, and gave a minute relation of
his adieus to the whole family.

Dunwoodie at first listened with grave attention; evident satisfaction
followed as she proceeded. When she spoke of herself in connection with
their guest, he smiled with pleasure, and as she concluded, he
exclaimed, with delight,—

“We are safe!—we are safe!”

But he was interrupted, as will be seen in the following chapter.

 [13] In America justice is administered in the name of “the good
 people,” etc., etc., the sovereignty residing with them.




CHAPTER XXVIII.


The owlet loves the gloom of night,
The lark salutes the day,
The timid dove will coo at hand—
But falcons soar away.


—_Song in Duo_.


In a country settled, like these states, by a people who fled their
native land and much-loved firesides, victims of consciences and
religious zeal, none of the decencies and solemnities of a Christian
death are dispensed with, when circumstances will admit of their
exercise. The good woman of the house was a strict adherent to the
forms of the church to which she belonged; and having herself been
awakened to a sense of her depravity, by the ministry of the divine who
harangued the people of the adjoining parish, she thought it was from
his exhortations only that salvation could be meted out to the
short-lived hopes of Henry Wharton. Not that the kind-hearted matron
was so ignorant of the doctrines of the religion which she professed,
as to depend, theoretically, on mortal aid for protection; but she had,
to use her own phrase, “sat so long under the preaching of good Mr.——,”
that she had unconsciously imbibed a practical reliance on his
assistance, for that which her faith should have taught her could come
from the Deity alone. With her, the consideration of death was at all
times awful, and the instant that the sentence of the prisoner was
promulgated, she dispatched Caesar, mounted on one of her husband’s
best horses, in quest of her clerical monitor. This step had been taken
without consulting either Henry or his friends; and it was only when
the services of Caesar were required on some domestic emergency, that
she explained the nature of his absence. The youth heard her, at first,
with an unconquerable reluctance to admit of such a spiritual guide;
but as our view of the things of this life becomes less vivid, our
prejudices and habits cease to retain their influence; and a civil bow
of thanks was finally given, in requital for the considerate care of
the well-meaning woman.

The black returned early from his expedition, and, as well as could be
gathered from his somewhat incoherent narrative, a minister of God
might be expected to arrive in the course of the day. The interruption
that we mentioned in our preceding chapter was occasioned by the
entrance of the landlady. At the intercession of Dunwoodie, orders had
been given to the sentinel who guarded the door of Henry’s room, that
the members of the prisoner’s family should, at all times, have free
access to his apartment. Caesar was included in this arrangement, as a
matter of convenience, by the officer in command; but strict inquiry
and examination was made into the errand of every other applicant for
admission. The major had, however, included himself among the relatives
of the British officer; and one pledge, that no rescue should be
attempted, was given in his name, for them all. A short conversation
was passing between the woman of the house and the corporal of the
guard, before the door that the sentinel had already opened in
anticipation of the decision of his noncommissioned commandant.

“Would you refuse the consolations of religion to a fellow creature
about to suffer death?” said the matron, with earnest zeal. “Would you
plunge a soul into the fiery furnace, and a minister at hand to point
out the straight and narrow path?”

“I’ll tell you what, good woman,” returned the corporal, gently pushing
her away; “I’ve no notion of my back being a highway for any man to
walk to heaven upon. A pretty figure I should make at the pickets, for
disobeying orders. Just step down and ask Lieutenant Mason, and you may
bring in a whole congregation. We have not taken the guard from the
foot soldiers, but an hour, and I shouldn’t like to have it said that
we know less than the militia.”

“Admit the woman,” said Dunwoodie, sternly, observing, for the first
time, that one of his own corps was on post.

The corporal raised his hand to his cap, and fell back in silence; the
soldier stood to his arms, and the matron entered.

“Here is a reverend gentleman below, come to soothe the parting soul,
in the place of our own divine, who is engaged with an appointment that
could not be put aside; ’tis to bury old Mr.——”

“Show him in at once,” said Henry, with feverish impatience.

“But will the sentinel let him pass? I would not wish a friend of
Mr.—to be rudely stopped on the threshold, and he a stranger.”

All eyes were now turned on Dunwoodie, who, looking at his watch, spoke
a few words with Henry, in an undertone, and hastened from the
apartment, followed by Frances. The subject of their conversation was a
wish expressed by the prisoner for a clergyman of his own persuasion,
and a promise from the major, that one should be sent from Fishkill
town, through which he was about to pass, on his way to the ferry to
intercept the expected return of Harper. Mason soon made his bow at the
door, and willingly complied with the wishes of the landlady; and the
divine was invited to make his appearance accordingly.

The person who was ushered into the apartment, preceded by Caesar, and
followed by the matron, was a man beyond the middle age, or who might
rather be said to approach the downhill of life. In stature he was
above the size of ordinary men, though his excessive leanness might
contribute in deceiving as to his height; his countenance was sharp and
unbending, and every muscle seemed set in rigid compression. No joy or
relaxation appeared ever to have dwelt on features that frowned
habitually, as if in detestation of the vices of mankind. The brows
were beetling, dark, and forbidding, giving the promise of eyes of no
less repelling expression; but the organs were concealed beneath a pair
of enormous green goggles, through which they glared around with a
fierceness that denounced the coming day of wrath. All was fanaticism,
uncharitableness, and denunciation. Long, lank hair, a mixture of gray
and black, fell down his neck, and in some degree obscured the sides of
his face, and, parting on his forehead, fell in either direction in
straight and formal screens. On the top of this ungraceful exhibition
was laid impending forward, so as to overhang in some measure the whole
fabric, a large hat of three equal cocks. His coat was of a rusty
black, and his breeches and stockings were of the same color; his shoes
without luster, and half-concealed beneath huge plated buckles. He
stalked into the room, and giving a stiff nod with his head, took the
chair offered him by the black, in dignified silence. For several
minutes no one broke this ominous pause in the conversation; Henry
feeling a repugnance to his guest, that he was vainly endeavoring to
conquer, and the stranger himself drawing forth occasional sighs and
groans, that threatened a dissolution of the unequal connection between
his sublimated soul and its ungainly tenement. During this, deathlike
preparation, Mr. Wharton, with a feeling nearly allied to that of his
son, led Sarah from the apartment. His retreat was noticed by the
divine, in a kind of scornful disdain, who began to hum the air of a
popular psalm tune, giving it the full richness of the twang that
distinguishes the Eastern[14] psalmody.

“Caesar,” said Miss Peyton, “hand the gentleman some refreshment; he
must need it after his ride.”

“My strength is not in the things of this life,” said the divine,
speaking in a hollow, sepulchral voice. “Thrice have I this day held
forth in my Master’s service, and fainted not; still it is prudent to
help this frail tenement of clay, for, surely, ‘the laborer is worthy
of his hire.’”

Opening a pair of enormous jaws, he took a good measure of the
proffered brandy, and suffered it to glide downwards, with that sort of
facility with which man is prone to sin.

“I apprehend, then, sir, that fatigue will disable you from performing
the duties which kindness has induced you to attempt.”

“Woman!” exclaimed the stranger, with energy, “when was I ever known to
shrink from a duty? But ‘judge not lest ye be judged,’ and fancy not
that it is given to mortal eyes to fathom the intentions of the Deity.”

“Nay,” returned the maiden, meekly, and slightly disgusted with his
jargon, “I pretend not to judge of either events, or the intentions of
my fellow creatures, much less of those of Omnipotence.”

“’Tis well, woman,—’tis well,” cried the minister, moving his head with
supercilious disdain; “humility becometh thy sex and lost condition;
thy weakness driveth thee on headlong like ‘unto the bosom of
destruction.’”

Surprised at this extraordinary deportment, but yielding to that habit
which urges us to speak reverently on sacred subjects, even when
perhaps we had better continue silent, Miss Peyton replied,—

“There is a Power above, that can and will sustain us all in
well-doing, if we seek its support in humility and truth.”

The stranger turned a lowering look at the speaker, and then composing
himself into an air of self-abasement, he continued in the same
repelling tones,—

“It is not everyone that crieth out for mercy, that will be heard. The
ways of Providence are not to be judged by men—‘Many are called, but
few chosen.’ It is easier to talk of humility than to feel it. Are you
so humble, vile worm, as to wish to glorify God by your own damnation?
If not, away with you for a publican and a Pharisee!”

Such gross fanaticism was uncommon in America, and Miss Peyton began to
imbibe the impression that her guest was deranged; but remembering that
he had been sent by a well-known divine, and one of reputation, she
discarded the idea, and, with some forbearance, observed,—

“I may deceive myself, in believing that mercy is proffered to all, but
it is so soothing a doctrine, that I would not willingly be
undeceived.”

“Mercy is only for the elect,” cried the stranger, with an
unaccountable energy; “and you are in the ‘valley of the shadow of
death.’ Are you not a follower of idle ceremonies, which belong to the
vain church that our tyrants would gladly establish here, along with
their stamp acts and tea laws? Answer me that, woman; and remember,
that Heaven hears your answer; are you not of that idolatrous
communion?”

“I worship at the altars of my fathers,” said Miss Peyton, motioning to
Henry for silence; “but bow to no other idol than my own infirmities.”

“Yes, yes, I know ye, self-righteous and papal as ye are—followers of
forms, and listeners to bookish preaching; think you, woman, that holy
Paul had notes in his hand to propound the Word to the believers?”

“My presence disturbs you,” said Miss Peyton, rising. “I will leave you
with my nephew, and offer those prayers in private that I did wish to
mingle with his.”

So saying, she withdrew, followed by the landlady, who was not a little
shocked, and somewhat surprised, by the intemperate zeal of her new
acquaintance; for, although the good woman believed that Miss Peyton
and her whole church were on the highroad to destruction, she was by no
means accustomed to hear such offensive and open avowals of their fate.

Henry had with difficulty repressed the indignation excited by this
unprovoked attack on his meek and unresisting aunt; but as the door
closed on her retiring figure, he gave way to his feelings.

“I must confess, sir,” he exclaimed with heat, “that in receiving a
minister of God, I thought I was admitting a Christian; and one who, by
feeling his own weaknesses, knew how to pity the frailties of others.
You have wounded the meek spirit of an excellent woman, and I
acknowledge but little inclination to mingle in prayer with so
intolerant a spirit.”

The minister stood erect, with grave composure, following with his
eyes, in a kind of scornful pity, the retiring females, and suffered
the expostulation of the youth to be given, as if unworthy of his
notice. A third voice, however, spoke,—

“Such a denunciation would have driven many women into fits; but it has
answered the purpose well enough, as it is.”

“Who’s that?” cried the prisoner, in amazement, gazing around the room
in quest of the speaker.

“It is I, Captain Wharton,” said Harvey Birch, removing the spectacles,
and exhibiting his piercing eyes, shining under a pair of false
eyebrows.

“Good heavens—Harvey!”

“Silence!” said the peddler, solemnly. “’Tis a name not to be
mentioned, and least of all here, within the heart of the American
army.” Birch paused and gazed around him for a moment, with an emotion
exceeding the base passion of fear, and then continued in a gloomy
tone, “There are a thousand halters in that very name, and little hope
would there be left me of another escape, should I be again taken. This
is a fearful venture that I am making; but I could not sleep in quiet,
and know that an innocent man was about to die the death of a dog, when
I might save him.”

“No,” said Henry, with a glow of generous feeling on his cheek, “if the
risk to yourself be so heavy, retire as you came, and leave me to my
fate. Dunwoodie is making, even now, powerful exertions in my behalf;
and if he meets with Mr. Harper in the course of the night, my
liberation is certain.”

“Harper!” echoed the peddler, remaining with his hands raised, in the
act of replacing the spectacles. “What do you know of Harper? And why
do you think he will do you service?”

“I have his promise; you remember our recent meeting in my father’s
dwelling, and he then gave an unasked promise to assist me.”

“Yes—but do you know him? That is—why do you think he has the power?
Or what reason have you for believing he will remember his word?”

“If there ever was the stamp of truth, or simple, honest benevolence,
in the countenance of man, it shone in his,” said Henry. “Besides,
Dunwoodie has powerful friends in the rebel army, and it would be
better that I take the chance where I am, than thus to expose you to
certain death, if detected.”

“Captain Wharton,” said Birch, looking guardedly around and speaking
with impressive seriousness of manner, “if I fail you, all fail you. No
Harper nor Dunwoodie can save your life; unless you get out with me,
and that within the hour, you die to-morrow on the gallows of a
murderer. Yes, such are their laws; the man who fights, and kills, and
plunders, is honored; but he who serves his country as a spy, no matter
how faithfully, no matter how honestly, lives to be reviled, or dies
like the vilest criminal!”

“You forget, Mr. Birch,” said the youth, a little indignantly, “that I
am not a treacherous, lurking spy, who deceives to betray; but innocent
of the charge imputed to me.”

The blood rushed over the pale, meager features of the peddler, until
his face was one glow of fire; but it passed quickly away, as he
replied,—

“I have told you truth. Caesar met me, as he was going on his errand
this morning, and with him I have laid the plan which, if executed as I
wish, will save you—otherwise you are lost; and I again tell you, that
no other power on earth, not even Washington, can save you.”

“I submit,” said the prisoner, yielding to his earnest manner, and
goaded by the fears that were thus awakened anew.

The peddler beckoned him to be silent, and walking to the door, opened
it, with the stiff, formal air with which he had entered the apartment.

“Friend, let no one enter,” he said to the sentinel. “We are about to
go to prayer, and would wish to be alone.”

“I don’t know that any will wish to interrupt you,” returned the
soldier, with a waggish leer of his eye; “but, should they be so
disposed, I have no power to stop them, if they be of the prisoner’s
friends. I have my orders, and must mind them, whether the Englishman
goes to heaven, or not.”

“Audacious sinner!” said the pretended priest, “have you not the fear
of God before your eyes? I tell you, as you will dread punishment at
the last day, to let none of the idolatrous communion enter, to mingle
in the prayers of the righteous.”

“Whew-ew-ew—what a noble commander you’d make for Sergeant Hollister!
You’d preach him dumb in a roll call. Harkee, I’ll thank you not to
make such a noise when you hold forth, as to drown our bugles, or you
may get a poor fellow a short horn at his grog, for not turning out to
the evening parade. If you want to be alone, have you no knife to stick
over the door latch, that you must have a troop of horse to guard your
meetinghouse?”

The peddler took the hint, and closed the door immediately, using the
precaution suggested by the dragoon.

“You overact your part,” said young Wharton, in constant apprehension
of discovery; “your zeal is too intemperate.”

“For a foot soldier and them Eastern militia, it might be,” said
Harvey, turning a bag upside down, that Caesar now handed him; “but
these dragoons are fellows that you must brag down. A faint heart,
Captain Wharton, would do but little here; but come, here is a black
shroud for your good-looking countenance,” taking, at the same time, a
parchment mask, and fitting it to the face of Henry. “The master and
the man must change places for a season.”

“I don’t t’ink he look a bit like me,” said Caesar, with disgust, as he
surveyed his young master with his new complexion.

“Stop a minute, Caesar,” said the peddler, with the lurking drollery
that at times formed part of his manner, “till we get on the wool.”

“He worse than ebber now,” cried the discontented African. “A t’ink
colored man like a sheep! I nebber see sich a lip, Harvey; he most as
big as a sausage!”

Great pains had been taken in forming the different articles used in
the disguise of Captain Wharton, and when arranged, under the skillful
superintendence of the peddler, they formed together a transformation
that would easily escape detection, from any but an extraordinary
observer.

The mask was stuffed and shaped in such a manner as to preserve the
peculiarities, as well as the color, of the African visage; and the wig
was so artfully formed of black and white wool, as to imitate the
pepper-and-salt color of Caesar’s own head, and to exact plaudits from
the black himself, who thought it an excellent counterfeit in
everything but quality.

“There is but one man in the American army who could detect you,
Captain Wharton,” said the peddler, surveying his work with
satisfaction, “and he is just now out of our way.”

“And who is he?”

“The man who made you prisoner. He would see your white skin through a
plank. But strip, both of you; your clothes must be exchanged from head
to foot.”

Caesar, who had received minute instructions from the peddler in their
morning interview, immediately commenced throwing aside his coarse
garments, which the youth took up and prepared to invest himself with;
unable, however, to repress a few signs of loathing.

In the manner of the peddler there was an odd mixture of care and
humor; the former was the result of a perfect knowledge of their
danger, and the means necessary to be used in avoiding it; and the
latter proceeded from the unavoidably ludicrous circumstances before
him, acting on an indifference which sprang from habit, and long
familiarity with such scenes as the present.

“Here, captain,” he said, taking up some loose wool, and beginning to
stuff the stockings of Caesar, which were already on the leg of the
prisoner; “some judgment is necessary in shaping this limb. You will
have to display it on horseback; and the Southern dragoons are so used
to the brittle-shins, that should they notice your well-turned calf,
they’d know at once it never belonged to a black.”

“Golly!” said Caesar, with a chuckle, that exhibited a mouth open from
ear to ear, “Massa Harry breeches fit.”

“Anything but your leg,” said the peddler, coolly pursuing the toilet
of Henry. “Slip on the coat, captain, over all. Upon my word, you’d
pass well at a pinkster frolic; and here, Caesar, place this powdered
wig over your curls, and be careful and look out of the window,
whenever the door is open, and on no account speak, or you will betray
all.”

“I s’pose Harvey t’ink a colored man ain’t got a tongue like oder
folk,” grumbled the black, as he took the station assigned to him.

Everything now was arranged for action, and the peddler very
deliberately went over the whole of his injunctions to the two actors
in the scene. The captain he conjured to dispense with his erect
military carriage, and for a season to adopt the humble paces of his
father’s negro; and Caesar he enjoined to silence and disguise, so long
as he could possibly maintain them. Thus prepared, he opened the door,
and called aloud to the sentinel, who had retired to the farthest end
of the passage, in order to avoid receiving any of that spiritual
comfort, which he felt was the sole property of another.

“Let the woman of the house be called,” said Harvey, in the solemn key
of his assumed character; “and let her come alone. The prisoner is in a
happy train of meditation, and must not be led from his devotions.”

Caesar sank his face between his hands; and when the soldier looked
into the apartment, he thought he saw his charge in deep abstraction.
Casting a glance of huge contempt at the divine, he called aloud for
the good woman of the house. She hastened at the summons, with earnest
zeal, entertaining a secret hope that she was to be admitted to the
gossip of a death-bed repentance.

“Sister,” said the minister, in the authoritative tones of a master,
“have you in the house `The Christian Criminal’s last Moments, or
Thoughts on Eternity, for them who die a violent Death’?”

“I never heard of the book!” said the matron in astonishment.

“’Tis not unlikely; there are many books you have never heard of: it is
impossible for this poor penitent to pass in peace, without the
consolations of that volume. One hour’s reading in it is worth an age
of man’s preaching.”

“Bless me, what a treasure to possess! When was it put out?”

“It was first put out at Geneva in the Greek language, and then
translated at Boston. It is a book, woman, that should be in the hands
of every Christian, especially such as die upon the gallows. Have a
horse prepared instantly for this black, who shall accompany me to my
brother—, and I will send down the volume yet in season. Brother,
compose thy mind; you are now in the narrow path to glory.”

Caesar wriggled a little in his chair, but he had sufficient
recollection to conceal his face with hands that were, in their turn,
concealed by gloves. The landlady departed, to comply with this very
reasonable request, and the group of conspirators were again left to
themselves.

“This is well,” said the peddler; “but the difficult task is to deceive
the officer who commands the guard—he is lieutenant to Lawton, and has
learned some of the captain’s own cunning in these things. Remember,
Captain Wharton,” continued he with an air of pride, “that now is the
moment when everything depends on our coolness.”

“My fate can be made but little worse than it is at present, my worthy
fellow,” said Henry; “but for your sake I will do all that in me lies.”

“And wherein can I be more forlorn and persecuted than I now am?” asked
the peddler, with that wild incoherence which often crossed his manner.
“But I have promised _one_ to save you, and to him I have never yet
broken my word.”

“And who is he?” said Henry, with awakened interest.

“No one.”

The man soon returned, and announced that the horses were at the door.
Harvey gave the captain a glance, and led the way down the stairs,
first desiring the woman to leave the prisoner to himself, in order
that he might digest the wholesome mental food that he had so lately
received.

A rumor of the odd character of the priest had spread from the sentinel
at the door to his comrades; so that when Harvey and Wharton reached
the open space before the building, they found a dozen idle dragoons
loitering about with the waggish intention of quizzing the fanatic, and
employed in affected admiration of the steeds.

“A fine horse!” said the leader in this plan of mischief; “but a little
low in flesh. I suppose from hard labor in your calling.”

“My calling may be laborsome to both myself and this faithful beast,
but then a day of settling is at hand, that will reward me for all my
outgoings and incomings,” said Birch, putting his foot in the stirrup,
and preparing to mount.

“You work for pay, then, as we fight for’t?” cried another of the
party.

“Even so—is not the laborer worthy of his hire?”

“Come, suppose you give us a little preaching; we have a leisure moment
just now, and there’s no telling how much good you might do a set of
reprobates like us, in a few words. Here, mount this horseblock, and
take your text where you please.”

The men now gathered in eager delight around the peddler, who, glancing
his eye expressively towards the captain, who had been suffered to
mount, replied,—

“Doubtless, for such is my duty. But, Caesar, you can ride up the road
and deliver the note—the unhappy prisoner will be wanting the book, for
his hours are numbered.”

“Aye, aye, go along, Caesar, and get the book,” shouted half a dozen
voices, all crowding eagerly around the ideal priest, in anticipation
of a frolic.

The peddler inwardly dreaded, that, in their unceremonious handling of
himself and garments, his hat and wig might be displaced, when
detection would be certain; he was therefore fain to comply with their
request. Ascending the horseblock, after hemming once or twice, and
casting several glances at the captain, who continued immovable, he
commenced as follows:—

“I shall call your attention, my brethren, to that portion of Scripture
which you will find in the second book of Samuel, and which is written
in the following words:—‘_And the king lamented over Abner, and said.
Died Abner as a fool dieth? Thy hands were not bound, nor thy feet put
into fetters: as a man falleth before wicked men, so fellest thou. And
all the people wept again over him_.’ Caesar, ride forward, I say, and
obtain the book as directed; thy master is groaning in spirit even now
for the want of it.”

“An excellent text!” cried the dragoons. “Go on—go on—let the snowball
stay; he wants to be edified as well as another.”

“What are you at there, scoundrels?” cried Lieutenant Mason, as he came
in sight from a walk he had taken to sneer at the evening parade of the
regiment of militia. “Away with every man of you to your quarters, and
let me find that each horse is cleaned and littered, when I come
round.” The sound of the officer’s voice operated like a charm, and no
priest could desire a more silent congregation, although he might
possibly have wished for one that was more numerous. Mason had not done
speaking, when it was reduced to the image of Caesar only. The peddler
took that opportunity to mount, but he had to preserve the gravity of
his movements, for the remark of the troopers upon the condition of
their beasts was but too just, and a dozen dragoon horses stood saddled
and bridled at hand, ready to receive their riders at a moment’s
warning.

“Well, have you bitted the poor fellow within,” said Mason, “that he
can take his last ride under the curb of divinity, old gentleman?”

“There is evil in thy conversation, profane man,” cried the priest,
raising his hands and casting his eyes upwards in holy horror; “so I
will depart from thee unhurt, as Daniel was liberated from the lions’
den.”

“Off with you, for a hypocritical, psalm-singing, canting rogue in
disguise,” said Mason scornfully. “By the life of Washington! it
worries an honest fellow to see such voracious beasts of prey ravaging
a country for which he sheds his blood. If I had you on a Virginia
plantation for a quarter of an hour, I’d teach you to worm the tobacco
with the turkeys.”

“I leave you, and shake the dust off my shoes, that no remnant of this
wicked hole may tarnish the vestments of the godly.”

“Start, or I will shake the dust from your jacket, designing knave! A
fellow to be preaching to my men! There’s Hollister put the devil in
them by his exhorting; the rascals were getting too conscientious to
strike a blow that would raze the skin. But hold! Whither do you
travel, Master Blackey, in such godly company?”

“He goes,” said the minister, hastily speaking for his companion, “to
return with a book of much condolence and virtue to the sinful youth
above, whose soul will speedily become white, even as his outwards are
black and unseemly. Would you deprive a dying man of the consolation of
religion?”

“No, no, poor fellow, his fate is bad enough; a famous good breakfast
his prim body of an aunt gave us. But harkee, Mr. Revelation, if the
youth must die _secundum arlem_, let it be under a gentleman’s
directions, and my advice is, that you never trust that skeleton of
yours among us again, or I will take the skin off and leave you naked.”

“Out upon thee for a reviler and scoffer of goodness!” said Birch,
moving slowly, and with a due observance of clerical dignity, down the
road, followed by the imaginary Caesar. “But I leave thee, and that
behind me that will prove thy condemnation, and take from thee a hearty
and joyful deliverance.”

“Damn him,” muttered the trooper. “The fellow rides like a stake, and
his legs stick out like the cocks of his hat. I wish I had him below
these hills, where the law is not over-particular, I’d——”

“Corporal of the guard!—corporal of the guard!” shouted the sentinel in
the passage to the chambers, “corporal of the guard!—corporal of the
guard!”

The subaltern flew up the narrow stairway that led to the room of the
prisoner, and demanded the meaning of the outcry.

The soldier was standing at the open door of the apartment, looking in
with a suspicious eye on the supposed British officer. On observing his
lieutenant, he fell back with habitual respect, and replied, with an
air of puzzled thought,—

“I don’t know, sir; but just now the prisoner looked queer. Ever since
the preacher has left him, he don’t look as he used to do—but,” gazing
intently over the shoulder of his officer, “it must be him, too! There
is the same powdered head, and the darn in the coat, where he was hit
the day we had the last brush with the enemy.”

“And then all this noise is occasioned by your doubting whether that
poor gentleman is your prisoner, or not, is it, sirrah? Who the devil
do you think it can be, else?”

“I don’t know who else it can be,” returned the fellow, sullenly; “but
he has grown thicker and shorter, if it is he; and see for yourself,
sir, he shakes all over, like a man in an ague.”

This was but too true. Caesar was an alarmed auditor of this short
conversation, and, from congratulating himself upon the dexterous
escape of his young master, his thoughts were very naturally beginning
to dwell upon the probable consequences to his own person. The pause
that succeeded the last remark of the sentinel, in no degree
contributed to the restoration of his faculties. Lieutenant Mason was
busied in examining with his own eyes the suspected person of the
black, and Caesar was aware of the fact, by stealing a look through a
passage under one of his arms, that he had left expressly for the
purpose of reconnoitering. Captain Lawton would have discovered the
fraud immediately, but Mason was by no means so quick-sighted as his
commander. He therefore turned rather contemptuously to the soldier,
and, speaking in an undertone, observed,

“That anabaptist, methodistical, quaker, psalm-singing rascal has
frightened the boy, with his farrago about flames and brimstone. I’ll
step in and cheer him with a little rational conversation.”

“I have heard of fear making a man white,” said the soldier, drawing
back, and staring as if his eyes would start from their sockets, “but
it has changed the royal captain to a black!”

The truth was, that Caesar, unable to hear what Mason uttered in a low
voice, and having every fear aroused in him by what had already passed,
incautiously removed the wig a little from one of his ears, in order to
hear the better, without in the least remembering that its color might
prove fatal to his disguise. The sentinel had kept his eyes fastened on
his prisoner, and noticed the action. The attention of Mason was
instantly drawn to the same object; and, forgetting all delicacy for a
brother officer in distress, or, in short, forgetting everything but
the censure that might alight on his corps, the lieutenant sprang
forward and seized the terrified African by the throat; for no sooner
had Caesar heard his color named, than he knew his discovery was
certain; and at the first sound of Mason’s heavy boot on the floor, he
arose from his seat, and retreated precipitately to a corner of the
room.

“Who are you?” cried Mason, dashing the head of the old man against the
angle of the wall at each interrogatory. “Who the devil are you, and
where is the Englishman? Speak, thou thundercloud! Answer me, you
jackdaw, or I’ll hang you on the gallows of the spy!”

Caesar continued firm. Neither the threats nor the blows could extract
any reply, until the lieutenant, by a very natural transition in the
attack, sent his heavy boot forward in a direction that brought it in
direct contact with the most sensitive part of the negro—his shin. The
most obdurate heart could not have exacted further patience, and Caesar
instantly gave in. The first words he spoke were—

“Golly! massa, you t’ink I got no feelin’?”

“By heavens!” shouted the lieutenant, “it is the negro himself!
Scoundrel! where is your master, and who was the priest?” While
speaking, he made a movement as if about to renew the attack; but
Caesar cried aloud for mercy, promising to tell all that he knew.

“Who was the priest?” repeated the dragoon, drawing back his formidable
leg, and holding it in threatening suspense. “Harvey, Harvey!” cried
Caesar, dancing from one leg to the other, as he thought each member in
turn might be assailed.

“Harvey who, you black villain?” cried the impatient lieutenant, as he
executed a full measure of vengeance by letting his leg fly.

“Birch!” shrieked Caesar, falling on his knees, the tears rolling in
large drops over his shining face.

“Harvey Birch!” echoed the trooper, hurling the black from him, and
rushing from the room. “To arms! to arms! Fifty guineas for the life of
the peddler spy—give no quarter to either. Mount, mount! to arms! to
horse!”

During the uproar occasioned by the assembling of the dragoons, who all
rushed tumultuously to their horses, Caesar rose from the floor, where
he had been thrown by Mason, and began to examine into his injuries.
Happily for himself, he had alighted on his head, and consequently
sustained no material damage.

 [14] By “Eastern” is meant the states of New England, which, being
 originally settled by Puritans, still retain many distinct shades of
 character.




CHAPTER XXIX.


Away went Gilpin, neck or nought,
Away went hat and wig;
He little dreamt, when he set out,
Of running such a rig.


—COWPER.


The road which it was necessary for the peddler and the English captain
to travel, in order to reach the shelter of the hills, lay, for a half
mile, in full view from the door of the building that had so recently
been the prison of the latter; running for the whole distance over the
rich plain, that spreads to the very foot of the mountains, which here
rise in a nearly perpendicular ascent from their bases; it then turned
short to the right, and was obliged to follow the windings of nature,
as it won its way into the bosom of the Highlands.

To preserve the supposed difference in their stations, Harvey rode a
short distance ahead of his companion, and maintained the sober,
dignified pace, that was suited to his assumed character. On their
right, the regiment of foot, that we have already mentioned, lay, in
tents; and the sentinels who guarded their encampment were to be seen
moving with measured tread under the hills themselves.

The first impulse of Henry was, certainly, to urge the beast he rode to
his greatest speed at once, and by a coup de main not only accomplish
his escape, but relieve himself from the torturing suspense of his
situation. But the forward movement that the youth made for this
purpose was instantly checked by the peddler.

“Hold up!” he cried, dexterously reining his own horse across the path
of the other. “Would you ruin us both? Fall into the place of a black,
following his master. Did you not see their blooded chargers, all
saddled and bridled, standing in the sun before the house? How long do
you think that miserable Dutch horse you are on would hold his speed,
if pursued by the Virginians? Every foot that we can gain, without
giving the alarm, counts a day in our lives. Ride steadily after me,
and on no account look back. They are as subtle as foxes, aye, and as
ravenous for blood as wolves!”

Henry reluctantly restrained his impatience, and followed the direction
of the peddler. His imagination, however, continually alarmed him with
the fancied sounds of pursuit, though Birch, who occasionally looked
back under the pretense of addressing his companion, assured him that
all continued quiet and peaceful.

“But,” said Henry, “it will not be possible for Caesar to remain long
undiscovered. Had we not better put our horses to the gallop, and by
the time they can reflect on the cause of our flight, we can reach the
corner of the woods?”

“Ah! you little know them, Captain Wharton,” returned the peddler.
“There is a sergeant at this moment looking after us, as if he thought
all was not right; the keen-eyed fellow watches me like a tiger lying
in wait for his leap. When I stood on the horseblock, he half suspected
that something was wrong. Nay, check your beast—we must let the animals
walk a little, for he is laying his hand on the pommel of his saddle.
If he mounts, we are gone. The foot-soldiers could reach us with their
muskets.”

“What does he now?” asked Henry, reining his horse to a walk, but at
the same time pressing his heels into the animal’s sides, to be in
readiness for a spring.

“He turns from his charger, and looks the other way, now trot on
gently—not so fast—not so fast. Observe the sentinel in the field, a
little ahead of us—he eyes us keenly.”

“Never mind the footman,” said Henry, impatiently, “he can do nothing
but shoot us—whereas these dragoons may make me a captive again.
Surely, Harvey, there are horse moving down the road behind us. Do you
see nothing particular?”

“Humph!” ejaculated the peddler. “There is something particular,
indeed, to be seen behind the thicket on our left. Turn your head a
little, and you may see and profit by it too.”

Henry eagerly seized this permission to look aside, and the blood
curdled to his heart as he observed that they were passing a gallows,
which unquestionably had been erected for his own execution. He turned
his face from the sight, in undisguised horror.

“There is a warning to be prudent,” said the peddler, in the
sententious manner that he often adopted.

“It is a terrific sight, indeed!” cried Henry, for a moment veiling his
eyes with his hand, as if to drive a vision from before him.

The peddler moved his body partly around, and spoke with energetic but
gloomy bitterness, “And yet, Captain Wharton, you see it where the
setting sun shines full upon you; the air you breathe is clear, and
fresh from the hills before you. Every step that you take leaves that
hated gallows behind; and every dark hollow, and every shapeless rock
in the mountains, offers you a hiding place from the vengeance of your
enemies. But I have seen the gibbet raised, when no place of refuge
offered. Twice have I been buried in dungeons, where, fettered and in
chains, I have passed nights in torture, looking forward to the
morning’s dawn that was to light me to a death of infamy. The sweat has
started from limbs that seemed already drained of their moisture; and
if I ventured to the hole that admitted air through grates of iron to
look out upon the smiles of nature, which God has bestowed for the
meanest of His creatures, the gibbet has glared before my eyes, like an
evil conscience harrowing the soul of a dying man. Four times have I
been in their power, besides this last; but—twice—did I think my hour
had come. It is hard to die at the best, Captain Wharton; but to spend
your last moments alone and unpitied, to know that none near you so
much as think of the fate that is to you the closing of all that is
earthly; to think that, in a few hours, you are to be led from the
gloom, which, as you dwell on what follows, becomes dear to you, to the
face of day, and there to meet all eyes fixed upon you, as if you were
a wild beast; and to lose sight of everything amidst the jeers and
scoffs of your fellow creatures—that, Captain Wharton, that indeed is
to die!”

Henry listened in amazement, as his companion uttered this speech with
a vehemence altogether new to him; both seemed to have forgotten their
danger and their disguises.

“What! were you ever so near death as that?”

“Have I not been the hunted beast of these hills for three years past?”
resumed Harvey; “and once they even led me to the foot of the gallows
itself, and I escaped only by an alarm from the royal troops. Had they
been a quarter of an hour later, I must have died. There was I placed
in the midst of unfeeling men, and gaping women and children, as a
monster to be cursed. When I would pray to God, my ears were insulted
with the history of my crimes; and when, in all that multitude, I
looked around for a single face that showed me any pity, I could find
none—no, not even one; all cursed me as a wretch who would sell his
country for gold. The sun was brighter to my eyes than common—but it
was the last time I should see it. The fields were gay and pleasant,
and everything seemed as if this world was a kind of heaven. Oh, how
sweet life was to me at that moment! ’Twas a dreadful hour, Captain
Wharton, and such as you have never known. You have friends to feel for
you, but I had none but a father to mourn my loss, when he might hear
of it; but there was no pity, no consolation near, to soothe my
anguish. Everything seemed to have deserted me. I even thought that HE
had forgotten that I lived.”

“What! did you feel that God Himself had forgotten you, Harvey?”

“God never forsakes His servants,” returned Birch, with reverence, and
exhibiting naturally a devotion that hitherto he had only assumed.

“And whom did you mean by HE?”

The peddler raised himself in his saddle to the stiff and upright
posture that was suited to his outward appearance. The look of fire,
that for a short time glowed on his countenance, disappeared in the
solemn lines of unbending self-abasement, and, speaking as if
addressing a negro, he replied,—

“In heaven there is no distinction of color, my brother, therefore you
have a precious charge within you, that you must hereafter render an
account of;” dropping his voice—“this is the last sentinel near the
road; look not back, as you value your life.”

Henry remembered his situation, and instantly assumed the humble
demeanor of his adopted character. The unaccountable energy of the
peddler’s manner was soon forgotten in the sense of his own immediate
danger; and with the recollection of his critical situation, returned
all the uneasiness that he had momentarily forgotten.

“What see you, Harvey?” he cried, observing the peddler to gaze towards
the building they had left, with ominous interest. “What see you at the
house?”

“That which bodes no good to us,” returned the pretended priest. “Throw
aside the mask and wig; you will need all your senses without much
delay; throw them in the road. There are none before us that I dread,
but there are those behind who will give us a fearful race!”

“Nay, then,” cried the captain, casting the implements of his disguise
into the highway, “let us improve our time to the utmost. We want a
full quarter to the turn; why not push for it, at once?”

“Be cool; they are in alarm, but they will not mount without an
officer, unless they see us fly—now he comes, he moves to the stables;
trots briskly; a dozen are in their saddles, but the officer stops to
tighten his girths; they hope to steal a march upon us; he is mounted;
now ride, Captain Wharton, for your life, and keep at my heels. If you
quit me, you will be lost!”

A second request was unnecessary. The instant that Harvey put his horse
to his speed Captain Wharton was at his heels, urging the miserable
animal he rode to the utmost. Birch had selected his own beast; and
although vastly inferior to the high-fed and blooded chargers of the
dragoons, still it was much superior to the little pony that had been
thought good enough to carry Caesar Thompson on an errand. A very few
jumps convinced the captain that his companion was fast leaving him,
and a fearful glance thrown behind informed the fugitive that his
enemies were as speedily approaching. With that abandonment that makes
misery doubly grievous, when it is to be supported alone, Henry cried
aloud to the peddler not to desert him. Harvey instantly drew up, and
suffered his companion to run alongside of his own horse. The cocked
hat and wig of the peddler fell from his head the moment that his steed
began to move briskly, and this development of their disguise, as it
might be termed, was witnessed by the dragoons, who announced their
observation by a boisterous shout, that seemed to be uttered in the
very ears of the fugitives; so loud was the cry, and so short the
distance between them.

“Had we not better leave our horses,” said Henry, “and make for the
hills across the fields, on our left? The fence will stop our
pursuers.”

“That way lies the gallows,” returned the peddler. “These fellows go
three feet to our two, and would mind the fences no more than we do
these ruts; but it is a short quarter to the turn, and there are two
roads behind the wood. They may stand to choose until they can take the
track, and we shall gain a little upon them there.”

“But this miserable horse is blown already,” cried Henry, urging his
beast with the end of his bridle, at the same time that Harvey aided
his efforts by applying the lash of a heavy riding whip he carried. “He
will never stand it for half a mile farther.”

“A quarter will do; a quarter will do,” said the peddler, “a single
quarter will save us, if you follow my directions.”

Somewhat cheered by the cool and confident manner of his companion,
Henry continued silently urging his horse forward. A few moments
brought them to the desired turn, and as they doubled round a point of
low underbrush, the fugitives caught a glimpse of their pursuers
scattered along the highway. Mason and the sergeant, being better
mounted than the rest of the party, were much nearer to their heels
than even the peddler thought could be possible.

At the foot of the hills, and for some distance up the dark valley that
wound among the mountains, a thick underwood of saplings had been
suffered to shoot up, where the heavier growth was felled for the sake
of the fuel. At the sight of this cover, Henry again urged the peddler
to dismount, and to plunge into the woods; but his request was promptly
refused. The two roads, before mentioned, met at very sharp angles at a
short distance from the turn, and both were circuitous, so that but
little of either could be seen at a time. The peddler took the one
which led to the left, but held it only a moment, for, on reaching a
partial opening in the thicket, he darted across into the right-hand
path and led the way up a steep ascent, which lay directly before them.
This maneuver saved them. On reaching the fork, the dragoons followed
the track and passed the spot where the fugitives had crossed to the
other road, before they missed the marks of the footsteps. Their loud
cries were heard by Henry and the peddler, as their wearied and
breathless animals toiled up the hill, ordering their comrades in the
rear to ride in the right direction. The captain again proposed to
leave their horses and dash into the thicket.

“Not yet, not yet,” said Birch, in a low voice. “The road falls from
the top of this hill as steep as it rises; first let us gain the top.”
While speaking, they reached the desired summit, and both threw
themselves from their horses, Henry plunging into the thick underwood,
which covered the side of the mountain for some distance above them.
Harvey stopped to give each of their beasts a few severe blows of his
whip, that drove them headlong down the path on the other side of the
eminence, and then followed his example.

The peddler entered the thicket with a little caution, and avoided, as
much as possible, rustling or breaking the branches in his way. There
was but time only to shelter his person from view when a dragoon led up
the ascent, and on reaching the height, he cried aloud,—

“I saw one of their horses turning the hill this minute.”

“Drive on, spur forward, my lads,” shouted Mason; “give the Englishman
quarter, but cut down the peddler, and make an end of him.”

Henry felt his companion grip his arm hard, as he listened in a great
tremor to this cry, which was followed by the passage of a dozen
horsemen, with a vigor and speed that showed too plainly how little
security their overtired steeds could have afforded them.

“Now,” said the peddler, rising from the cover to reconnoiter, and
standing for a moment in suspense, “all that we gain is clear gain;
for, as we go up, they go down. Let us be stirring.”

“But will they not follow us, and surround this mountain?” said Henry,
rising, and imitating the labored but rapid progress of his companion.
“Remember, they have foot as well as horse, and, at any rate, we shall
starve in the hills.”

“Fear nothing, Captain Wharton,” returned the peddler, with confidence;
“this is not the mountain that I would be on, but necessity has made me
a dexterous pilot among these hills. I will lead you where no man will
dare to follow. See, the sun is already setting behind the tops of the
western mountains, and it will be two hours to the rising of the moon.
Who, think you, will follow us far, on a November night, among these
rocks and precipices?”

“Listen!” exclaimed Henry; “the dragoons are shouting to each other;
they miss us already.”

“Come to the point of this rock, and you may see them,” said Harvey,
composedly setting himself down to rest. “Nay, they can see us—observe,
they are pointing up with their fingers. There! one has fired his
pistol, but the distance is too great even for a musket.”

“They will pursue us,” cried the impatient Henry, “let us be moving.”

“They will not think of such a thing,” returned the peddler, picking
the checkerberries that grew on the thin soil where he sat, and very
deliberately chewing them, leaves and all, to refresh his mouth. “What
progress could they make here, in their heavy boots and spurs, and long
swords? No, no—they may go back and turn out the foot, but the horse
pass through these defiles, when they can keep the saddle, with fear
and trembling. Come, follow me, Captain Wharton; we have a troublesome
march before us, but I will bring you where none will think of
venturing this night.”

So saying, they both arose, and were soon hid from view amongst the
rocks and caverns of the mountain.

The conjecture of the peddler was true. Mason and his men dashed down
the hill, in pursuit, as they supposed, of their victims, but, on
reaching the bottom lands, they found only the deserted horses of the
fugitives. Some little time was spent in examining the woods near them,
and in endeavoring to take the trail on such ground as might enable the
horse to pursue, when one of the party descried the peddler and Henry
seated on the rock already mentioned.

“He’s off,” muttered Mason, eying Harvey, with fury; “he’s off, and we
are disgraced. By heavens, Washington will not trust us with the
keeping of a suspected Tory, if we let the rascal trifle in this manner
with the corps; and there sits the Englishman, too, looking down upon
us with a smile of benevolence! I fancy that I can see it. Well, well,
my lad, you are comfortably seated, I will confess, and that is
something better than dancing upon nothing; but you are not to the west
of the Harlem River yet, and I’ll try your wind before you tell Sir
Henry what you have seen.”

“Shall I fire and frighten the peddler?” asked one of the men, drawing
his pistol from the holster.

“Aye, startle the birds from their perch—let us see how they can use
the wing.” The man fired the pistol, and Mason continued—“’Fore George,
I believe the scoundrels laugh at us. But homeward, or we shall have
them rolling stones upon our heads, and the royal gazettes teeming with
an account of a rebel regiment routed by two loyalists. They have told
bigger lies than that, before now.”

The dragoons moved sullenly after their officer, who rode towards their
quarters, musing on the course it behooved him to pursue in the present
dilemma. It was twilight when Mason’s party reached the dwelling,
before the door of which were collected a great number of the officers
and men, busily employed in giving and listening to the most
exaggerated accounts of the escape of the spy. The mortified dragoons
gave their ungrateful tidings with the sullen air of disappointed men;
and most of the officers gathered round Mason, to consult of the steps
that ought to be taken. Miss Peyton and Frances were breathless and
unobserved listeners to all that passed between them, from the window
of the chamber immediately above their heads.

“Something must be done, and that speedily,” observed the commanding
officer of the regiment, which lay encamped before the house. “This
English officer is doubtless an instrument in the great blow aimed at
us by the enemy lately; besides, our honor is involved in his escape.”

“Let us beat the woods!” cried several at once. “By morning we shall
have them both again.”

“Softly, softly, gentlemen,” returned the colonel. “No man can travel
these hills after dark, unless used to the passes. Nothing but horse
can do service in this business, and I presume Lieutenant Mason
hesitates to move without the orders of his major.”

“I certainly dare not,” replied the subaltern, gravely shaking his
head, “unless you will take the responsibility of an order; but Major
Dunwoodie will be back again in two hours, and we can carry the tidings
through the hills before daylight; so that by spreading patrols across,
from one river to the other, and offering a reward to the country
people, their escape will yet be impossible, unless they can join the
party that is said to be out on the Hudson.”

“A very plausible plan,” cried the colonel, “and one that must succeed;
but let a messenger be dispatched to Dunwoodie, or he may continue at
the ferry until it proves too late; though doubtless the runaways will
lie in the mountains to-night.”

To this suggestion Mason acquiesced, and a courier was sent to the
major with the important intelligence of the escape of Henry, and an
intimation of the necessity of his presence to conduct the pursuit.
After this arrangement, the officers separated.

When Miss Peyton and her niece first learned the escape of Captain
Wharton, it was with difficulty they could credit their senses. They
both relied so implicitly on the success of Dunwoodie’s exertions, that
they thought the act, on the part of their relative, extremely
imprudent; but it was now too late to mend it. While listening to the
conversation of the officers, both were struck with the increased
danger of Henry’s situation, if recaptured, and they trembled to think
of the great exertions that would be made to accomplish this object.
Miss Peyton consoled herself, and endeavored to cheer her niece, with
the probability that the fugitives would pursue their course with
unremitting diligence, so that they might reach the neutral ground
before the horse would carry down the tidings of their flight. The
absence of Dunwoodie seemed to her all-important, and the artless lady
was anxiously devising some project that might detain her kinsman, and
thus give her nephew the longest possible time. But very different were
the reflections of Frances. She could no longer doubt that the figure
she had seen on the hill was Birch, and she felt certain that, instead
of flying to the friendly forces below, her brother would be taken to
the mysterious hut to pass the night.

Frances and her aunt held a long and animated discussion by themselves,
when the good spinster reluctantly yielded to the representation of her
niece, and folding her in her arms, she kissed her cold cheek, and,
fervently blessing her, allowed her to depart on an errand of fraternal
love.




CHAPTER XXX.


And here, forlorn and lost, I tread,
With fainting steps, and slow;
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem length’ning as I go.


—GOLDSMITH.


The night had set in dark and chilling, as Frances Wharton, with a
beating heart but light step, moved through the little garden that lay
behind the farmhouse which had been her brother’s prison, and took her
way to the foot of the mountain, where she had seen the figure of him
she supposed to be the peddler. It was still early, but the darkness
and the dreary nature of a November evening would, at any other moment,
or with less inducement to exertion, have driven her back in terror to
the circle she had left. Without pausing to reflect, however, she flew
over the ground with a rapidity that seemed to bid defiance to all
impediments, nor stopped even to breathe, until she had gone half the
distance to the rock that she had marked as the spot where Birch made
his appearance on that very morning.

The good treatment of their women is the surest evidence that a people
can give of their civilization; and there is no nation which has more
to boast of, in this respect, than the Americans. Frances felt but
little apprehension from the orderly and quiet troops who were taking
their evening’s repast on the side of the highway, opposite to the
field through which she was flying. They were her countrymen, and she
knew that her sex would be respected by the Eastern militia, who
composed this body; but in the volatile and reckless character of the
Southern horse she had less confidence. Outrages of any description
were seldom committed by the really American soldiery; but she
recoiled, with exquisite delicacy, from even the appearance of
humiliation. When, therefore, she heard the footsteps of a horse moving
slowly up the road, she shrank, timidly, into a little thicket of wood
which grew around the spring that bubbled from the side of a hillock
near her. The vidette, for such it proved to be, passed her without
noticing her form, which was so enveloped as to be as little
conspicuous as possible, humming a low air to himself, and probably
thinking of some other fair that he had left on the banks of the
Potomac.

Frances listened anxiously to the retreating footsteps of his horse,
and, as they died upon her ear, she ventured from her place of secrecy,
and advanced a short distance into the field, where, startled at the
gloom, and appalled with the dreariness of the prospect, she paused to
reflect on what she had undertaken. Throwing back the hood of her
cardinal, she sought the support of a tree, and gazed towards the
summit of the mountain that was to be the goal of her enterprise. It
rose from the plain like a huge pyramid, giving nothing to the eye but
its outlines. The pinnacle could be faintly discerned in front of a
lighter background of clouds, between which a few glimmering stars
occasionally twinkled in momentary brightness, and then gradually
became obscured by the passing vapor that was moving before the wind,
at a vast distance below the clouds themselves. Should she return,
Henry and the peddler would most probably pass the night in fancied
security upon that very hill towards which she was straining her eyes,
in the vain hope of observing some light that might encourage her to
proceed. The deliberate, and what to her seemed cold-blooded, project
of the officer for the recapture of the fugitives, still rang in her
ears, and stimulated her to go on; but the solitude into which she must
venture, the time, the actual danger of the ascent, and the uncertainty
of her finding the hut, or what was still more disheartening, the
chance that it might be occupied by unknown tenants, and those of the
worst description—urged her to retreat.

The increasing darkness was each moment rendering objects less and less
distinct, and the clouds were gathering more gloomily in the rear of
the hill, until its form could no longer be discerned. Frances threw
back her rich curls with both hands on her temples, in order to possess
her senses in their utmost keenness; but the towering hill was entirely
lost to the eye. At length she discovered a faint and twinkling blaze
in the direction in which she thought the building stood, that, by its
reviving and receding luster, might be taken for the glimmering of a
fire. But the delusion vanished, as the horizon again cleared, and the
star of evening shone forth from a cloud, after struggling hard, as if
for existence. She now saw the mountain to the left of the place where
the planet was shining, and suddenly a streak of mellow light burst
upon the fantastic oaks that were thinly scattered over its summit, and
gradually moved down its side, until the whole pile became distinct
under the rays of the rising moon. Although it would have been
physically impossible for our heroine to advance without the aid of the
friendly light, which now gleamed on the long line of level land before
her, yet she was not encouraged to proceed. If she could see the goal
of her wishes, she could also perceive the difficulties that must
attend her reaching it.

While deliberating in distressing incertitude, now shrinking with the
timidity of her sex and years from the enterprise, and now resolving to
rescue her brother at every hazard, Frances turned her looks towards
the east, in earnest gaze at the clouds which constantly threatened to
involve her again in comparative darkness. Had an adder stung her, she
could not have sprung with greater celerity than she recoiled from the
object against which she was leaning, and which she for the first time
noticed. The two upright posts, with a crossbeam on their tops, and a
rude platform beneath, told but too plainly the nature of the
structure; even the cord was suspended from an iron staple, and was
swinging to and fro, in the night air. Frances hesitated no longer, but
rather flew than ran across the meadow, and was soon at the base of the
rock, where she hoped to find something like a path to the summit of
the mountain. Here she was compelled to pause for breath, and she
improved the leisure by surveying the ground about her. The ascent was
quite abrupt, but she soon found a sheep path that wound among the
shelving rocks and through the trees, so as to render her labor much
less tiresome than it otherwise would have been. Throwing a fearful
glance behind, the determined girl commenced her journey upwards.
Young, active, and impelled by her generous motive, she moved up the
hill with elastic steps, and very soon emerged from the cover of the
woods, into an open space of more level ground, that had evidently been
cleared of its timber, for the purpose of cultivation. But either the
war or the sterility of the soil had compelled the adventurer to
abandon the advantages that he had obtained over the wilderness, and
already the bushes and briers were springing up afresh, as if the plow
had never traced furrows through the mold which nourished them. Frances
felt her spirits invigorated by these faint vestiges of the labor of
man, and she walked up the gentle acclivity with renewed hopes of
success. The path now diverged in so many different directions, that
she soon saw it would be useless to follow their windings, and
abandoning it, at the first turn, she labored forward towards what she
thought was the nearest point of the summit. The cleared ground was
soon past, and woods and rocks, clinging to the precipitous sides of
the mountain, again opposed themselves to her progress. Occasionally,
the path was to be seen running along the verge of the clearing, and
then striking off into the scattering patches of grass and herbage, but
in no instance could she trace it upward. Tufts of wool, hanging to the
briers, sufficiently denoted the origin of these tracks, and Frances
rightly conjectured that whoever descended the mountain, would avail
himself of their existence, to lighten the labor. Seating herself on a
stone, the wearied girl again paused to rest and to reflect; the clouds
were rising before the moon, and the whole scene at her feet lay
pictured in softest colors.

The white tents of the militia were stretched in regular lines
immediately beneath her. The light was shining in the window of her
aunt, who, Frances easily fancied, was watching the mountain, racked
with all the anxiety she might be supposed to feel for her niece.
Lanterns were playing about in the stable yard, where she knew the
horses of the dragoons were kept, and believing them to be preparing
for their night march, she again sprang upon her feet, and renewed her
toil.

Our heroine had to ascend more than a quarter of a mile farther,
although she had already conquered two thirds of the height of the
mountain. But she was now without a path or any guide to direct her in
her course. Fortunately, the hill was conical, like most of the
mountains in that range, and, by advancing upwards, she was certain of
at length reaching the desired hut, which hung, as it were, on the very
pinnacle. Nearly an hour did she struggle with the numerous
difficulties that she was obliged to overcome, when, having been
repeatedly exhausted with her efforts, and, in several instances, in
great danger from falls, she succeeded in gaining the small piece of
tableland on the summit.

Faint with her exertions, which had been unusually severe for so slight
a frame, she sank on a rock, to recover her strength and fortitude for
the approaching interview. A few moments sufficed for this purpose,
when she proceeded in quest of the hut. All of the neighboring hills
were distinctly visible by the aid of the moon, and Frances was able,
where she stood, to trace the route of the highway, from the plains
into the mountains. By following this line with her eyes, she soon
discovered the point whence she had seen the mysterious dwelling, and
directly opposite to that point she well knew the hut must stand.

The chilling air sighed through the leafless branches of the gnarled
and crooked oaks, as with a step so light as hardly to rustle the dry
leaves on which she trod, Frances moved forward to that part of the
hill where she expected to find this secluded habitation; but nothing
could she discern that in the least resembled a dwelling of any sort.
In vain she examined every recess of the rocks, or inquisitively
explored every part of the summit that she thought could hold the
tenement of the peddler. No hut, nor any vestige of a human being could
she trace. The idea of her solitude struck on the terrified mind of the
affrighted girl, and approaching to the edge of a shelving rock, she
bent forward to gaze on the signs of life in the vale, when a ray of
keen light dazzled her eyes, and a warm ray diffused itself over her
whole frame. Recovering from her surprise, Frances looked on the ledge
beneath her, and at once perceived that she stood directly over the
object of her search. A hole through its roof afforded a passage to the
smoke, which, as it blew aside, showed her a clear and cheerful fire
crackling and snapping on a rude hearth of stone. The approach to the
front of the hut was by a winding path around the point of the rock on
which she stood, and by this, she advanced to its door.

Three sides of this singular edifice, if such it could be called, were
composed of logs laid alternately on each other, to a little more than
the height of a man; and the fourth was formed by the rock against
which it leaned. The roof was made of the bark of trees, laid in long
strips from the rock to its eaves; the fissures between the logs had
been stuffed with clay, which in many places had fallen out, and dried
leaves were made use of as a substitute, to keep out the wind. A single
window of four panes of glass was in front, but a board carefully
closed it, in such a manner as to emit no light from the fire within.
After pausing some time to view this singularly constructed hiding
place, for such Frances well knew it to be, she applied her eye to a
crevice to examine the inside. There was no lamp or candle, but the
blazing fire of dry wood made the interior of the hut light enough to
read by. In one corner lay a bed of straw, with a pair of blankets
thrown carelessly over it, as if left where they had last been used.
Against the walls and rock were suspended, from pegs forced into the
crevices, various garments, and such as were apparently fitted for all
ages and conditions, and for either sex. British and American uniforms
hung peaceably by the side of each other; and on the peg that supported
a gown of striped calico, such as was the usual country wear, was also
depending a well-powdered wig: in short, the attire was numerous and as
various as if a whole parish were to be equipped from this one
wardrobe.

In the angle against the rock, and opposite to the fire which was
burning in the other corner, was an open cupboard, that held a plate or
two, a mug, and the remains of some broken meat. Before the fire was a
table, with one of its legs fractured, and made of rough boards; these,
with a single stool, composed the furniture, if we except a few
articles of cooking. A book, that by its size and shape, appeared to be
a Bible, was lying on the table, unopened. But it was the occupant of
the hut in whom Frances was chiefly interested. This was a man, sitting
on the stool, with his head leaning on his hand, in such a manner as to
conceal his features, and deeply occupied in examining some open
papers. On the table lay a pair of curiously and richly mounted
horseman’s pistols, and the handle of a sheathed rapier, of exquisite
workmanship, protruded from between the legs of the gentleman, one of
whose hands carelessly rested on its guard. The tall stature of this
unexpected tenant of the hut, and his form, much more athletic than
that of either Harvey or her brother, told Frances, without the aid of
his dress, that it was neither of those she sought. A close surtout was
buttoned high in the throat of the stranger, and parting at his knees,
showed breeches of buff, with military boots and spurs. His hair was
dressed so as to expose the whole face; and, after the fashion of that
day, it was profusely powdered. A round hat was laid on the stones that
formed a paved floor to the hut, as if to make room for a large map,
which, among the other papers, occupied the table.

This was an unexpected event to our adventurer. She had been so
confident that the figure twice seen was the peddler, that on learning
his agency in her brother’s escape, she did not in the least doubt of
finding them both in the place, which, she now discovered, was occupied
by another and a stranger. She stood, earnestly looking through the
crevice, hesitating whether to retire, or to wait with the expectation
of yet meeting Henry, as the stranger moved his hand from before his
eyes, and raised his face, apparently in deep musing, when Frances
instantly recognized the benevolent and strongly marked, but composed
features of Harper.

All that Dunwoodie had said of his power and disposition, all that he
had himself promised her brother, and all the confidence that had been
created by his dignified and paternal manner, rushed across the mind of
Frances, who threw open the door of the hut, and falling at his feet,
clasped his knees with her arms, as she cried,—

“Save him—save him—save my brother; remember your promise, and save
him!”

Harper had risen as the door opened, and there was a slight movement of
one hand towards his pistols; but it was cool and instantly checked. He
raised the hood of the cardinal, which had fallen over her features,
and exclaimed, with some uneasiness,—

“Miss Wharton! But you cannot be alone?”

“There is none here but my God and you; and by His sacred name, I
conjure you to remember your promise, and save my brother!”

Harper gently raised her from her knees, and placed her on the stool,
begging her at the same time to be composed, and to acquaint him with
the nature of her errand. This Frances instantly did, ingenuously
admitting him to a knowledge of all her views in visiting that lone
spot at such an hour, and by herself.

It was at all times difficult to probe the thoughts of one who held his
passions in such disciplined subjection as Harper, but still there was
a lighting of his thoughtful eye, and a slight unbending of his
muscles, as the hurried and anxious girl proceeded in her narrative.
His interest, as she dwelt upon the manner of Henry’s escape, and the
flight to the woods, was deep and manifest, and he listened to the
remainder of her tale with a marked expression of benevolent
indulgence. Her apprehensions, that her brother might still be too late
through the mountains, seemed to have much weight with him, for, as she
concluded, he walked a turn or two across the hut, in silent musing.

Frances hesitated, and unconsciously played with the handle of one of
the pistols, and the paleness that her fears had spread over her fine
features began to give place to a rich tint, as, after a short pause,
she added,—

“We can depend much on the friendship of Major Dunwoodie, but his sense
of honor is so pure, that—that—notwithstanding his—his—feelings—his
desire to serve us—he will conceive it to be his duty to apprehend my
brother again. Besides, he thinks there will be no danger in so doing,
as he relies greatly on your interference.”

“On mine,” said Harper, raising his eyes in surprise.

“Yes, on yours. When we told him of your kind language, he at once
assured us all that you had the power, and, if you had promised, would
have the inclination, to procure Henry’s pardon.”

“Said he more?” asked Harper, who appeared slightly uneasy.

“Nothing but reiterated assurances of Henry’s safety; even now he is in
quest of you.”

“Miss Wharton, that I bear no mean part, in the unhappy struggle
between England and America, it might now be useless to deny. You owe
your brother’s escape, this night, to my knowledge of his innocence,
and the remembrance of my word. Major Dunwoodie is mistaken when he
says that I might openly have procured his pardon. I now, indeed, can
control his fate, and I pledge to you a word which has some influence
with Washington, that means shall be taken to prevent his recapture.
But from you, also, I exact a promise, that this interview, and all
that has passed between us, remain confined to your own bosom, until
you have my permission to speak upon the subject.”

Frances gave the desired assurance, and he continued,—

“The peddler and your brother will soon be here, but I must not be seen
by the royal officer, or the life of Birch might be the forfeiture.”

“Never!” cried Frances, ardently. “Henry could never be so base as to
betray the man who saved him.”

“It is no childish game that we are now playing, Miss Wharton. Men’s
lives and fortunes hang upon slender threads, and nothing must be left
to accident that can be guarded against. Did Sir Henry Clinton know
that the peddler had communion with me, and under such circumstances,
the life of the miserable man would be taken instantly; therefore, as
you value human blood, or remember the rescue of your brother, be
prudent, and be silent. Communicate what you know to them both, and
urge them to instant departure. If they can reach the last pickets of
our army before morning, it shall be my care that there are none to
intercept them. There is better work for Major Dunwoodie than to be
exposing the life of his friend.”

While Harper was speaking, he carefully rolled up the map he had been
studying, and placed it, together with sundry papers that were also
open, into his pocket. He was still occupied in this manner, when the
voice of the peddler, talking in unusually loud tones, was heard
directly over their heads.

“Stand farther this way, Captain Wharton, and you can see the tents in
the moonshine. But let them mount and ride; I have a nest here, that
will hold us both, and we will go in at our leisure.”

“And where is this nest? I confess that I have eaten but little the
last two days, and I crave some of the cheer you mention.”

“Hem!” said the peddler, exerting his voice still more. “Hem—this fog
has given me a cold; but move slow—and be careful not to slip, or you
may land on the bayonet of the sentinel on the flats; ’tis a steep hill
to rise, but one can go down it with ease.”

Harper pressed his finger on his lip, to remind Frances of her promise,
and, taking his pistols and hat, so that no vestige of his visit
remained, he retired deliberately to a far corner of the hut, where,
lifting several articles of dress, he entered a recess in the rock,
and, letting them fall again, was hid from view. Frances noticed, by
the strong firelight, as he entered, that it was a natural cavity, and
contained nothing but a few more articles of domestic use.

The surprise of Henry and the peddler, on entering and finding Frances
in possession of the hut, may be easily imagined. Without waiting for
explanations or questions, the warm-hearted girl flew into the arms of
her brother, and gave a vent to her emotions in tears. But the peddler
seemed struck with very different feelings. His first look was at the
fire, which had been recently supplied with fuel; he then drew open a
small drawer of the table, and looked a little alarmed at finding it
empty.

“Are you alone, Miss Fanny?” he asked, in a quick voice. “You did not
come here alone?”

“As you see me, Mr. Birch,” said Frances, raising herself from her
brother’s arms, and turning an expressive glance towards the secret
cavern, that the quick eye of the peddler instantly understood.

“But why and wherefore are you here?” exclaimed her astonished brother;
“and how knew you of this place at all?”

Frances entered at once into a brief detail of what had occurred at the
house since their departure, and the motives which induced her to seek
them.

“But,” said Birch, “why follow us here, when we were left on the
opposite hill?”

Frances related the glimpse that she had caught of the hut and peddler,
in her passage through the Highlands, as well as her view of him on
that day, and her immediate conjecture that the fugitives would seek
the shelter of this habitation for the night. Birch examined her
features as, with open ingenuousness, she related the simple incidents
that had made her mistress of his secret; and, as she ended, he sprang
upon his feet, and, striking the window with the stick in his hand,
demolished it at a blow.

“’Tis but little luxury or comfort that I know,” he said, “but even
that little cannot be enjoyed in safety! Miss Wharton,” he added,
advancing before Frances, and speaking with the bitter melancholy that
was common to him, “I am hunted through these hills like a beast of the
forest; but whenever, tired with my toils, I can reach this spot, poor
and dreary as it is, I can spend my solitary nights in safety. Will you
aid to make the life of a wretch still more miserable?”

“Never!” cried Frances, with fervor; “your secret is safe with me.”

“Major Dunwoodie”—said the peddler, slowly, turning an eye upon her
that read her soul.

Frances lowered her head upon her bosom, for a moment, in shame; then,
elevating her fine and glowing face, she added, with enthusiasm,—

“Never, never, Harvey, as God may hear my prayers!”

The peddler seemed satisfied; for he drew back, and, watching his
opportunity, unseen by Henry, slipped behind the screen, and entered
the cavern.

Frances and her brother, who thought his companion had passed through
the door, continued conversing on the latter’s situation for several
minutes, when the former urged the necessity of expedition on his part,
in order to precede Dunwoodie, from whose sense of duty they knew they
had no escape. The captain took out his pocketbook, and wrote a few
lines with his pencil; then folding the paper, he handed it to his
sister.

“Frances,” he said, “you have this night proved yourself to be an
incomparable woman. As you love me, give that unopened to Dunwoodie,
and remember that two hours may save my life.”

“I will—I will; but why delay? Why not fly, and improve these precious
moments?”

“Your sister says well, Captain Wharton,” exclaimed Harvey, who had
reentered unseen; “we must go at once. Here is food to eat, as we
travel.”

“But who is to see this fair creature in safety?” cried the captain. “I
can never desert my sister in such a place as this.”

“Leave me! leave me!” said Frances. “I can descend as I came up. Do not
doubt me; you know not my courage nor my strength.”

“I have not known you, dear girl, it is true; but now, as I learn your
value, can I quit you here? Never, never!”

“Captain Wharton,” said Birch, throwing open the door, “you can trifle
with your own lives, if you have many to spare; I have but one, and
must nurse it. Do I go alone, or not?”

“Go, go, dear Henry,” said Frances, embracing him; “go; remember our
father; remember Sarah.” She waited not for his answer, but gently
forced him through the door, and closed it with her own hands.

For a short time there was a warm debate between Henry and the peddler;
but the latter finally prevailed, and the breathless girl heard the
successive plunges, as they went down the sides of the mountain at a
rapid rate.

Immediately after the noise of their departure had ceased, Harper
reappeared. He took the arm of Frances in silence, and led her from the
hut. The way seemed familiar to him; for, ascending to the ledge above
them, he led his companion across the tableland tenderly, pointing out
the little difficulties in their route, and cautioning her against
injury.

Frances felt, as she walked by the side of this extraordinary man, that
she was supported by one of no common stamp. The firmness of his step,
and the composure of his manner, seemed to indicate a mind settled and
resolved. By taking a route over the back of the hill, they descended
with great expedition, and but little danger. The distance it had taken
Frances an hour to conquer, was passed by Harper and his companion in
ten minutes, and they entered the open space already mentioned. He
struck into one of the sheep paths, and, crossing the clearing with
rapid steps, they came suddenly upon a horse, caparisoned for a rider
of no mean rank. The noble beast snorted and pawed the earth, as his
master approached and replaced the pistols in the holsters.

Harper then turned, and, taking the hand of Frances, spoke as follows:—

“You have this night saved your brother, Miss Wharton. It would not be
proper for me to explain why there are limits to my ability to serve
him; but if you can detain the horse for two hours, he is assuredly
safe. After what you have already done, I can believe you equal to any
duty. God has denied to me children, young lady; but if it had been His
blessed will that my marriage should not have been childless, such a
treasure as yourself would I have asked from His mercy. But you are my
child: all who dwell in this broad land are my children, and my care;
and take the blessing of one who hopes yet to meet you in happier
days.”

As he spoke, with a solemnity that touched Frances to the heart, he
laid his hand impressively upon her head. The guileless girl turned her
face towards him, and the hood again falling back, exposed her lovely
features to the moonbeams. A tear was glistening on either cheek, and
her mild blue eyes were gazing upon him in reverence. Harper bent and
pressed a paternal kiss upon her forehead, and continued: “Any of these
sheep paths will take you to the plain; but here we must part—I have
much to do and far to ride; forget me in all but your prayers.”

He then mounted his horse, and lifting his hat, rode towards the back
of the mountain, descending at the same time, and was soon hid by the
trees. Frances sprang forward with a lightened heart, and taking the
first path that led downwards, in a few minutes she reached the plain
in safety. While busied in stealing through the meadows towards the
house, the noise of horse approaching startled her, and she felt how
much more was to be apprehended from man, in some situations, than from
solitude. Hiding her form in the angle of a fence near the road, she
remained quiet for a moment, and watched their passage. A small party
of dragoons, whose dress was different from the Virginians, passed at a
brisk trot. They were followed by a gentleman, enveloped in a large
cloak, whom she at once knew to be Harper. Behind him rode a black in
livery, and two youths in uniform brought up the rear. Instead of
taking the road that led by the encampment, they turned short to the
left and entered the hills.

Wondering who this unknown but powerful friend of her brother could be,
Frances glided across the fields, and using due precautions in
approaching the dwelling, regained her residence undiscovered and in
safety.




CHAPTER XXXI.


Hence, bashful cunning!
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence;
I am your wife, if you will marry me.


—_Tempest_.


On joining Miss Peyton, Frances learned that Dunwoodie was not yet
returned; although, with a view to relieve Henry from the importunities
of the supposed fanatic, he had desired a very respectable divine of
their own church to ride up from the river and offer his services. This
gentleman was already arrived, and had been passing the half hour he
had been there, in a sensible and well-bred conversation with the
spinster, that in no degree touched upon their domestic affairs.

To the eager inquiries of Miss Peyton, relative to her success in her
romantic excursion, Frances could say no more than that she was bound
to be silent, and to recommend the same precaution to the good maiden
also. There was a smile playing around the beautiful mouth of Frances,
while she uttered this injunction, which satisfied her aunt that all
was as it should be. She was urging her niece to take some refreshment
after her fatiguing expedition, when the noise of a horseman riding to
the door, announced the return of the major. He had been found by the
courier who was dispatched by Mason, impatiently waiting the return of
Harper to the ferry, and immediately flew to the place where his friend
had been confined, tormented by a thousand conflicting fears. The heart
of Frances bounded as she listened to his approaching footsteps. It
wanted yet an hour to the termination of the shortest period that the
peddler had fixed as the time necessary to effect his escape. Even
Harper, powerful and well-disposed as he acknowledged himself to be,
had laid great stress upon the importance of detaining the Virginians
during that hour. She, however, had not time to rally her thoughts,
before Dunwoodie entered one door, as Miss Peyton, with the readiness
of female instinct, retired through another.

The countenance of Peyton was flushed, and an air of vexation and
disappointment pervaded his manner.

“’Twas imprudent, Frances; nay, it was unkind,” he cried, throwing
himself in a chair, “to fly at the very moment that I had assured him
of safety! I can almost persuade myself that you delight in creating
points of difference in our feelings and duties.”

“In our duties there may very possibly be a difference,” returned his
mistress, approaching, and leaning her slender form against the wall;
“but not in our feelings, Peyton. You must certainly rejoice in the
escape of Henry!”

“There was no danger impending. He had the promise of Harper; and it is
a word never to be doubted. O Frances! Frances! had you known the man,
you would never have distrusted his assurance; nor would you have again
reduced me to this distressing alternative.”

“What alternative?” asked Frances, pitying his emotions deeply, but
eagerly seizing upon every circumstance to prolong the interview.

“What alternative! Am I not compelled to spend this night in the saddle
to recapture your brother, when I had thought to lay my head on its
pillow, with the happy consciousness of having contributed to his
release? You make me seem your enemy; I, who would cheerfully shed the
last drop of blood in your service. I repeat, Frances, it was rash; it
was unkind; it was a sad, sad mistake.”

She bent towards him and timidly took one of his hands, while with the
other she gently removed the curls from his burning brow.

“Why go at all, dear Peyton?” she asked. “You have done much for your
country, and she cannot exact such a sacrifice as this at your hand.”

“Frances! Miss Wharton!” exclaimed the youth, springing on his feet,
and pacing the floor with a cheek that burned through its brown
covering, and an eye that sparkled with wounded integrity. “It is not
my country, but my honor, that requires the sacrifice. Has he not fled
from a guard of my own corps? But for this, I might have been spared
the blow! But if the eyes of the Virginians are blinded to deception
and artifice, their horses are swift of foot, and their sabers keen. We
shall see, before to-morrow’s sun, who will presume to hint that the
beauty of the sister furnished a mask to conceal the brother! Yes, yes,
I should like, even now,” he continued, laughing bitterly, “to hear the
villain who would dare to surmise that such treachery existed!”

“Peyton, dear Peyton,” said Frances, recoiling from his angry eye, “you
curdle my blood—would you kill my brother?”

“Would I not die for him!” exclaimed Dunwoodie, as he turned to her
more mildly. “You know I would; but I am distracted with the cruel
surmise to which this step of Henry’s subjects me. What will Washington
think of me, should he learn that I ever became your husband?”

“If that alone impels you to act so harshly towards my brother,”
returned Frances, with a slight tremor in her voice, “let it never
happen for him to learn.”

“And this is consolation, Frances!”

“Nay, dear Dunwoodie, I meant nothing harsh or unkind; but are you not
making us both of more consequence with Washington than the truth will
justify?”

“I trust that my name is not entirely unknown to the commander in
chief,” said the major, a little proudly; “nor are you as obscure as
your modesty would make you. I believe you, Frances, when you say that
you pity me, and it must be my task to continue worthy of such
feelings. But I waste the precious moments; we must go through the
hills to-night, that we may be refreshed in time for the duty of
to-morrow. Mason is already waiting my orders to mount. Frances, I
leave you with a heavy heart; pity me, but feel no concern for your
brother; he must again become a prisoner, but every hair of his head is
sacred.”

“Stop! Dunwoodie, I conjure you,” cried Frances, gasping for breath, as
she noticed that the hand of the clock still wanted many minutes to the
desired hour. “Before you go on your errand of fastidious duty, read
this note that Henry has left for you, and which, doubtless, he thought
he was writing to the friend of his youth.”

“Frances, I excuse your feelings; but the time will come when you will
do me justice.”

“That time is now,” she answered, extending her hand, unable any longer
to feign a displeasure that she did not feel.

“Where got you this note?” exclaimed the youth, glancing his eyes over
its contents. “Poor Henry, you are indeed my friend! If anyone wishes
me happiness, it is you!”

“He does, he does,” cried Frances, eagerly; “he wishes you every
happiness; believe what he tells you; every word is true.”

“I do believe him, lovely girl, and he refers me to you for its
confirmation. Would that I could trust equally to your affections!”

“You may, Peyton,” said Frances, looking up with innocent confidence
towards her lover.

“Then read for yourself, and verify your words,” interrupted Dunwoodie,
holding the note towards her.

Frances received it in astonishment, and read the following:

_“Life is too precious to be trusted to uncertainties. I leave you,
Peyton, unknown to all but Caesar, and I recommend him to your mercy.
But there is a care that weighs me to the earth. Look at my aged and
infirm parent. He will be reproached for the supposed crime of his son.
Look at those helpless sisters that I leave behind me without a
protector. Prove to me that you love us all. Let the clergyman whom you
will bring with you, unite you this night to Frances, and become at
once, brother, son, and husband.”_

The paper fell from the hands of Frances, and she endeavored to raise
her eyes to the face of Dunwoodie, but they sank abashed to the floor.

“Am I worthy of this confidence? Will you send me out this night, to
meet my own brother? or will it be the officer of Congress in quest of
the officer of Britain?”

“And would you do less of your duty because I am your wife, Major
Dunwoodie? In what degree would it better the condition of Henry?”

“Henry, I repeat, is safe. The word of Harper is his guarantee; but I
will show the world a bridegroom,” continued the youth, perhaps
deceiving himself a little, “who is equal to the duty of arresting the
brother of his bride.”

“And will the world comprehend this refinement?” said Frances, with a
musing air, that lighted a thousand hopes in the bosom of her lover. In
fact, the temptation was mighty. Indeed, there seemed no other way to
detain Dunwoodie until the fatal hour had elapsed. The words of Harper
himself, who had so lately told her that openly he could do but little
for Henry, and that everything depended upon gaining time, were deeply
engraved upon her memory. Perhaps there was also a fleeting thought of
the possibility of an eternal separation from her lover, should he
proceed and bring back her brother to punishment. It is difficult at
all times to analyze human emotions, and they pass through the
sensitive heart of a woman with the rapidity and nearly with the
vividness of lightning.

“Why do you hesitate, dear Frances?” cried Dunwoodie, who was studying
her varying countenance. “A few minutes might give me a husband’s claim
to protect you.”

Frances grew giddy. She turned an anxious eye to the clock, and the
hand seemed to linger over its face, as if with intent to torture her.

“Speak, Frances,” murmured Dunwoodie; “may I summon my good kinswoman?
Determine, for time presses.”

She endeavored to reply, but could only whisper something that was
inaudible, but which her lover, with the privilege of immemorial
custom, construed into assent. He turned and flew to the door, when his
mistress recovered her voice:—

“Stop, Peyton! I cannot enter into such a solemn engagement with a
fraud upon my conscience. I have seen Henry since his escape, and time
is all-important to him. Here is my hand; if, with this knowledge of
the consequences of delay, you will not reject it, it is freely yours.”

“Reject it!” cried the delighted youth. “I take it as the richest gift
of heaven. There is time enough for us all. Two hours will take me
through the hills; and by noon to-morrow I will return with
Washington’s pardon for your brother, and Henry will help to enliven
our nuptials.”

“Then meet me here, in ten minutes,” said Frances, greatly relieved by
unburdening her mind, and filled with the hope of securing Henry’s
safety, “and I will return and take those vows which will bind me to
you forever.”

Dunwoodie paused only to press her once to his bosom, and flew to
communicate his wishes to the priest.

Miss Peyton received the avowal of her niece with infinite
astonishment, and a little displeasure. It was violating all the order
and decorum of a wedding to get it up so hastily, and with so little
ceremony. But Frances, with modest firmness, declared that her
resolution was taken; she had long possessed the consent of her
friends, and their nuptials, for months, had only waited her pleasure.
She had now promised Dunwoodie; and it was her wish to comply; more she
dare not say without committing herself, by entering into explanations
that might endanger Birch, or Harper, or both. Unused to contention,
and really much attached to her kinsman, the feeble objections of Miss
Peyton gave way to the firmness of her niece. Mr. Wharton was too
completely a convert to the doctrine of passive obedience and
nonresistance, to withstand any solicitation from an officer of
Dunwoodie’s influence in the rebel armies; and the maid returned to the
apartment, accompanied by her father and aunt, at the expiration of the
time that she had fixed. Dunwoodie and the clergyman were already
there. Frances, silently, and without the affectation of reserve,
placed in his hand the wedding ring of her own mother, and after some
little time spent in arranging Mr. Wharton and herself, Miss Peyton
suffered the ceremony to proceed.

The clock stood directly before the eyes of Frances, and she turned
many an anxious glance at the dial; but the solemn language of the
priest soon caught her attention, and her mind became intent upon the
vows she was uttering. The ceremony was quickly over, and as the
clergyman closed the words of benediction, the clock told the hour of
nine. This was the time that Harper had deemed so important, and
Frances felt as if a mighty load was at once removed from her heart.

Dunwoodie folded her in his arms, saluted the mild aunt again and
again, and shook Mr. Wharton and the divine repeatedly by the hands. In
the midst of the felicitation, a tap was heard at the door. It was
opened, and Mason appeared.

“We are in the saddle,” said the lieutenant, “and, with your
permission, I will lead on; as you are so well mounted, you can
overtake us at your leisure.”

“Yes, yes, my good fellow; march,” cried Dunwoodie, gladly seizing an
excuse to linger. “I will reach you at the first halt.”

The subaltern retired to execute these orders; he was followed by Mr.
Wharton and the divine.

“Now, Peyton,” said Frances, “it is indeed a brother that you seek; I
am sure I need not caution you in his behalf, should you unfortunately
find him.”

“Say fortunately,” cried the youth, “for I am determined he shall yet
dance at my wedding. Would that I could win him to our cause. It is the
cause of his country; and I could fight with more pleasure, Frances,
with your brother by my side.”

“Oh! mention it not! You awaken terrible reflections.”

“I will not mention it,” returned her husband; “but I must now leave
you. But the sooner I go, Frances, the sooner I shall return.”

The noise of a horseman was heard approaching the house, and Dunwoodie
was yet taking leave of his bride and her aunt, when an officer was
shown into the room by his own man.

The gentleman wore the dress of an aid-de-camp, and the major at once
knew him to be one of the military family of Washington.

“Major Dunwoodie,” he said, after bowing to the ladies, “the commander
in chief has directed me to give you these orders.”

He executed his mission, and, pleading duty, took his leave
immediately.

“Here, indeed!” cried the major, “is an unexpected turn in the whole
affair; but I understand it: Harper has got my letter, and already we
feel his influence.”

“Have you news affecting Henry?” cried Frances, springing to his side.

“Listen, and you shall judge.”

“SIR,—Upon the receipt of this, you will concentrate your squadron, so
as to be in front of a covering party which the enemy has sent up in
front of his foragers, by ten o’clock to-morrow, on the heights of
Croton, where you will find a body of foot to support you. The escape
of the English spy has been reported to me, but his arrest is
unimportant, compared with the duty I now assign you. You will,
therefore, recall your men, if any are in pursuit, and endeavor to
defeat the enemy forthwith.”


Your obedient servant,
GEO. WASHINGTON.


“Thank God!” cried Dunwoodie, “my hands are washed of Henry’s
recapture;
I can now move to my duty with honor.”

“And with prudence, too, dear Peyton,” said Frances, with a face as
pale as death. “Remember, Dunwoodie, you leave behind you new claims on
your life.”

The youth dwelt on her lovely but pallid features with rapture; and, as
he folded her to his heart, exclaimed,—

“For your sake, I will, lovely innocent!” Frances sobbed a moment on
his bosom, and he tore himself from her presence.

Miss Peyton retired with her niece, to whom she conceived it necessary,
before they separated for the night, to give an admonitory lecture on
the subject of matrimonial duty. Her instruction was modestly received,
if not properly digested. We regret that history has not handed down to
us this precious dissertation; but the result of all our investigation
has been to learn that it partook largely of those peculiarities which
are said to tincture the rules prescribed to govern bachelors’
children. We shall now leave the ladies of the Wharton family, and
return to Captain Wharton and Harvey Birch.




CHAPTER XXXII.


Allow him not a parting word;
Short be the shrift, and sure the cord!


—_Rokeby_.


The peddler and his companion soon reached the valley, and after
pausing to listen, and hearing no sounds which announced that pursuers
were abroad, they entered the highway. Acquainted with every step that
led through the mountains, and possessed of sinews inured to toil,
Birch led the way, with the lengthened strides that were peculiar to
the man and his profession; his pack alone was wanting to finish the
appearance of his ordinary business air. At times, when they approached
one of those little posts held by the American troops, with which the
Highlands abounded, he would take a circuit to avoid the sentinels, and
plunge fearlessly into a thicket, or ascend a rugged hill, that to the
eye seemed impassable. But the peddler was familiar with every turn in
their difficult route, knew where the ravines might be penetrated, or
where the streams were fordable. In one or two instances, Henry thought
that their further progress was absolutely at an end, but the
ingenuity, or knowledge, of his guide, conquered every difficulty.
After walking at a great rate for three hours, they suddenly diverged
from the road, which inclined to the east, and held their course
directly across the hills, in a due south direction. This movement was
made, the peddler informed his companion, in order to avoid the parties
who constantly patrolled in the southern entrance of the Highlands, as
well as to shorten the distance, by traveling in a straight line. After
reaching the summit of a hill, Harvey seated himself by the side of a
little run, and opening a wallet, that he had slung where his pack was
commonly suspended, he invited his comrade to partake of the coarse
fare it contained. Henry had kept pace with the peddler, more by the
excitement natural to his situation, than by the equality of his
physical powers. The idea of a halt was unpleasant, so long as there
existed a possibility of the horse getting below him in time to
intercept their retreat through the neutral ground. He therefore stated
his apprehensions to his companion, and urged a wish to proceed.

“Follow my example, Captain Wharton,” said the peddler, commencing his
frugal meal. “If the horse have started, it will be more than man can
do to head them; and if they have not, work is cut out for them, that
will drive all thoughts of you and me from their brains.”

“You said yourself, that two hours’ detention was all-important to us,
and if we loiter here, of what use will be the advantage that we may
have already obtained?”

“The time is past, and Major Dunwoodie thinks little of following two
men, when hundreds are waiting for him on the banks of the river.”

“Listen!” interrupted Henry, “there are horse at this moment passing
the foot of the hill. I hear them even laughing and talking to each
other. Hist! there is the voice of Dunwoodie himself; he calls to his
comrade in a manner that shows but little uneasiness. One would think
that the situation of his friend would lower his spirits; surely
Frances could not have given him the letter.”

On hearing the first exclamation of the captain, Birch arose from his
seat, and approached cautiously to the brow of the hill, taking care to
keep his body in the shadow of the rocks, so as to be unseen at any
distance, and earnestly reconnoitered the group of passing horsemen. He
continued listening, until their quick footsteps were no longer
audible, and then quietly returned to his seat, and with incomparable
coolness resumed his meal.

“You have a long walk, and a tiresome one, before you, Captain Wharton;
you had better do as I do—you were eager for food at the hut above
Fishkill, but traveling seems to have worn down your appetite.”

“I thought myself safe, then, but the information of my sister fills me
with uneasiness, and I cannot eat.”

“You have less reason to be troubled now than at any time since the
night before you were taken, when you refused my advice, and an offer
to see you in safety,” returned the peddler. “Major Dunwoodie is not a
man to laugh and be gay when his friend is in difficulty. Come, then,
and eat, for no horse will be in our way, if we can hold our legs for
four hours longer, and the sun keeps behind the hills as long as
common.”

There was a composure in the peddler’s manner that encouraged his
companion; and having once determined to submit to Harvey’s government,
he suffered himself to be persuaded into a tolerable supper, if
quantity be considered without any reference to the quality. After
completing their repast, the peddler resumed his journey.

Henry followed in blind submission to his will. For two hours more they
struggled with the difficult and dangerous passes of the Highlands,
without road, or any other guide than the moon, which was traveling the
heavens, now wading through flying clouds, and now shining brightly. At
length they arrived at a point where the mountains sank into rough and
unequal hillocks, and passed at once from the barren sterility of the
precipices, to the imperfect culture of the neutral ground.

The peddler now became more guarded in the manner in which they
proceeded, and took divers precautions to prevent meeting any moving
parts of the Americans. With the stationary posts he was too familiar
to render it probable he might fall upon any of them unawares. He wound
among the hills and vales, now keeping the highways and now avoiding
them, with a precision that seemed instinctive. There was nothing
elastic in his tread, but he glided over the ground with enormous
strides, and a body bent forward, without appearing to use exertion, or
know weariness.

The moon had set, and a faint streak of light was beginning to show
itself in the east. Captain Wharton ventured to express a sense of
fatigue, and to inquire if they were not yet arrived at a part of the
country where it might be safe to apply at some of the farmhouses for
admission.

“See here,” said the peddler, pointing to a hill, at a short distance
in the rear, “do you not see a man walking on the point of that rock?
Turn, so as to bring the daylight in the range—now, see, he moves, and
seems to be looking earnestly at something to the eastward. That is a
royal sentinel; two hundred of the rig’lar troops lay on that hill, no
doubt sleeping on their arms.”

“Then,” cried Henry, “let us join them, and our danger is ended.”

“Softly, softly, Captain Wharton,” said the peddler, dryly, “you’ve
once been in the midst of three hundred of them, but there was a man
who could take you out; see you not yon dark body, on the side of the
opposite hill, just above the cornstalks? There are the—the rebels
(since that is the word for us loyal subjects), waiting only for day,
to see who will be master of the ground.”

“Nay, then,” exclaimed the fiery youth, “I will join the troops of my
prince, and share their fortune, be it good or be it bad.”

“You forget that you fight with a halter round your neck; no, no—I have
promised one whom I must not disappoint, to carry you safe in; and
unless you forget what I have already done, and what I have risked for
you, Captain Wharton, you will turn and follow me to Harlem.”

To this appeal the youth felt unwillingly obliged to submit; and they
continued their course towards the city. It was not long before they
gained the banks of the Hudson. After searching for a short time under
the shore, the peddler discovered a skiff, that appeared to be an old
acquaintance; and entering it with his companion he landed him on the
south side of the Croton. Here Birch declared they were in safety; for
the royal troops held the continentals at bay, and the former were out
in too great strength for the light parties of the latter to trust
themselves below that river, on the immediate banks of the Hudson.

Throughout the whole of this arduous flight, the peddler had manifested
a coolness and presence of mind that nothing appeared to disturb. All
his faculties seemed to be of more than usual perfection, and the
infirmities of nature to have no dominion over him. Henry had followed
him like a child in leading strings, and he now reaped his reward, as
he felt a bound of pleasure at his heart, on hearing that he was
relieved from apprehension, and permitted to banish every doubt of
security.

A steep and laborious ascent brought them from the level of the
tidewaters to the high lands that form, in this part of the river, the
eastern banks of the Hudson. Retiring a little from the highway, under
the shelter of a thicket of cedars, the peddler threw his form on a
flat rock, and announced to his companion that the hour for rest and
refreshment was at length arrived. The day was now opened, and objects
could be seen in the distance, with distinctness. Beneath them lay the
Hudson, stretching to the south in a straight line, as far as the eye
could reach. To the north, the broken fragments of the Highlands threw
upwards their lofty heads, above masses of fog that hung over the
water, and by which the course of the river could be traced into the
bosom of hills whose conical summits were grouping togather, one behind
another, in that disorder which might be supposed to have succeeded
their gigantic, but fruitless, efforts to stop the progress of the
flood. Emerging from these confused piles, the river, as if rejoicing
at its release from the struggle, expanded into a wide bay, which was
ornamented by a few fertile and low points that jutted humbly into its
broad basin. On the opposite, or western shore, the rocks of Jersey
were gathered into an array that has obtained for them the name of the
“Palisades,” elevating themselves for many hundred feet, as if to
protect the rich country in their rear from the inroads of the
conqueror; but, disdaining such an enemy, the river swept proudly by
their feet, and held its undeviating way to the ocean. A ray of the
rising sun darted upon the slight cloud that hung over the placid
river, and at once the whole scene was in motion, changing and assuming
new forms, and exhibiting fresh objects in each successive moment. At
the daily rising of this great curtain of nature, at the present time,
scores of white sails and sluggish vessels are seen thickening on the
water, with that air of life which denotes the neighborhood to the
metropolis of a great and flourishing empire; but to Henry and the
peddler it displayed only the square yards and lofty masts of a vessel
of war, riding a few miles below them. Before the fog had begun to
move, the tall spars were seen above it, and from one of them a long
pennant was feebly borne abroad in the current of night air, that still
quivered along the river; but as the smoke arose, the black hull, the
crowded and complicated mass of rigging, and the heavy yards and booms,
spreading their arms afar, were successively brought into view.

“There, Captain Wharton,” said the peddler, “there is a safe resting
place for you; America has no arm that can reach you, if you gain the
deck of that ship. She is sent up to cover the foragers, and support
the troops; the rig’lar officers are fond of the sound of cannon from
their shipping.”

Without condescending to reply to the sarcasm conveyed in this speech,
or perhaps not noticing it, Henry joyfully acquiesced in the proposal,
and it was accordingly arranged between them, that, as soon as they
were refreshed, he should endeavor to get on board the vessel.

While busily occupied in the very indispensable operation of breaking
their fast, our adventurers were startled with the sound of distant
firearms. At first a few scattering shots were fired, which were
succeeded by a long and animated roll of musketry, and then quick and
heavy volleys followed each other.

“Your prophecy is made good,” cried the English officer, springing upon
his feet. “Our troops and the rebels are at it! I would give six
months’ pay to see the charge.”

“Umph!” returned his companion, without ceasing his meal, “they do very
well to look at from a distance; I can’t say but the company of this
bacon, cold as it is, is more to my taste, just now, than a hot fire
from the continentals.”

“The discharges are heavy for so small a force; but the fire seems
irregular.”

“The scattering guns are from the Connecticut militia,” said Harvey,
raising his head to listen; “they rattle it off finely, and are no
fools at a mark. The volleys are the rig’lars, who, you know, fire by
word—as long as they can.”

“I like not the warmth of what you call a scattering fire,” exclaimed
the captain, moving about with uneasiness; “it is more like the roll of
a drum than skirmishers’ shooting.”

“No, no; I said not skrimmagers,” returned the other, raising himself
upon a knee, and ceasing to eat; “so long as they stand, they are too
good for the best troops in the royal army. Each man does his work as
if fighting by the job; and then, they think while they fight, and
don’t send bullets to the clouds, that were meant to kill men on
earth.”

“You talk and look, sir, as if you wished them success,” said Henry,
sternly.

“I wish success to the good cause only, Captain Wharton. I thought you
knew me too well, to be uncertain which party I favored.”

“Oh! you are reputed loyal, Mr. Birch. But the volleys have ceased!”

Both now listened intently for a little while, during which the
irregular reports became less brisk, and suddenly heavy and repeated
volleys followed.

“They’ve been at the bayonet,” said the peddler; “the rig’lars have
tried the bayonet, and the rebels are driven.”

“Aye, Mr. Birch, the bayonet is the thing for the British soldier,
after all. They delight in the bayonet!”

“Well, to my notion,” said the peddler, “there’s but little delight to
be taken in any such fearful weapon. I dare say the militia are of my
mind, for half of them don’t carry the ugly things. Lord! Lord!
captain, I wish you’d go with me once into the rebel camp, and hear
what lies the men will tell about Bunker Hill and Burg’yne; you’d think
they loved the bayonet as much as they do their dinners.”

There was a chuckle, and an air of affected innocency about his
companion, that rather annoyed Henry, and he did not deign to reply.

The firing now became desultory, occasionally intermingled with heavy
volleys. Both of the fugitives were standing, listening with much
anxiety, when a man, armed with a musket, was seen stealing towards
them, under the shelter of the cedar bushes, that partially covered the
hill. Henry first observed this suspicious-looking stranger, and
instantly pointed him out to his companion. Birch started, and
certainly made an indication of sudden flight; but recollecting
himself, he stood, in sullen silence, until the stranger was within a
few yards of them.

“’Tis friends,” said the fellow, clubbing his gun, but apparently
afraid to venture nearer.

“You had better retire,” said Birch; “here are rig’lars at hand. We are
not near Dunwoodie’s horse now, and you will not find me an easy prize
to-day.”

“Damn Major Dunwoodie and his horse!” cried the leader of the Skinners
(for it was he); “God bless King George! and a speedy end to the
rebellion, say I. If you would show me the safe way in to the refugees,
Mr. Birch, I’ll pay you well, and ever after stand your friend, in the
bargain.”

“The road is as open to you as to me,” said Birch, turning from him in
ill-concealed disgust. “If you want to find the refugees, you know well
where they lay.”

“Aye, but I’m a little doubtful of going in upon them by myself; now,
you are well known to them all, and it will be no detriment to you just
to let me go in with you.”

Henry here interfered, and after holding a short dialogue with the
fellow, he entered into a compact with him, that, on condition of
surrendering his arms, he might join the party. The man complied
instantly, and Birch received his gun with eagerness; nor did he lay it
upon his shoulder to renew their march, before he had carefully
examined the priming, and ascertained, to his satisfaction, that it
contained a good, dry, ball cartridge.

As soon as this engagement was completed, they commenced their journey
anew. By following the bank of the river, Birch led the way free from
observation, until they reached the point opposite to the frigate,
when, by making a signal, a boat was induced to approach. Some time was
spent, and much precaution used, before the seamen would trust
themselves ashore; but Henry having finally succeeded in making the
officer who commanded the party credit his assertions, he was able to
rejoin his companions in arms in safety. Before taking leave of Birch,
the captain handed him his purse, which was tolerably well supplied for
the times; the peddler received it, and, watching an opportunity, he
conveyed it, unnoticed by the Skinner, to a part of his dress that was
ingeniously contrived to hold such treasures.

The boat pulled from the shore, and Birch turned on his heel, drawing
his breath, like one relieved, and shot up the hills with the strides
for which he was famous. The Skinner followed, and each party pursued
the common course, casting frequent and suspicious glances at the
other, and both maintaining a most impenetrable silence.

Wagons were moving along the river road, and occasional parties of
horse were seen escorting the fruits of the inroad towards the city. As
the peddler had views of his own, he rather avoided falling in with any
of these patrols, than sought their protection. But, after traveling a
few miles on the immediate banks of the river, during which,
notwithstanding the repeated efforts of the Skinner to establish
something like sociability, he maintained a most determined silence,
keeping a firm hold of the gun, and always maintaining a jealous
watchfulness of his associate, the peddler suddenly struck into the
highway, with an intention of crossing the hills towards Harlem. At the
moment he gained the path, a body of horse came over a little eminence,
and was upon him before he perceived them. It was too late to retreat,
and after taking a view of the materials that composed this party,
Birch rejoiced in the rencounter, as a probable means of relieving him
from his unwelcome companion. There were some eighteen or twenty men,
mounted and equipped as dragoons, though neither their appearance nor
manners denoted much discipline. At their head rode a heavy,
middle-aged man, whose features expressed as much of animal courage,
and as little of reason, as could be desired for such an occupation. He
wore the dress of an officer, but there was none of that neatness in
his attire, nor grace in his movements, that was usually found about
the gentlemen who bore the royal commission. His limbs were firm, and
not pliable, and he sat his horse with strength and confidence, but his
bridle hand would have been ridiculed by the meanest rider amongst the
Virginians. As he expected, this leader instantly hailed the peddler,
in a voice by no means more conciliating than his appearance.

“Hey! my gentlemen, which way so fast?” he cried, “Has Washington sent
you down as spies?”

“I am an innocent peddler,” returned Harvey meekly, “and am going
below, to lay in a fresh stock of goods.”

“And how do you expect to get below, my innocent peddler? Do you think
we hold the forts at King’s Bridge to cover such peddling rascals as
you, in your goings in and comings out?”

“I believe I hold a pass that will carry me through,” said the peddler,
handing him a paper, with an air of indifference.

The officer, for such he was, read it, and cast a look of surprise and
curiosity at Harvey, when he had done.

Then turning to one or two of his men, who had officiously stopped the
way, he cried,—

“Why do you detain the man? Give way, and let him pass in peace. But
whom have we here? Your name is not mentioned in the pass!”

“No, sir,” said the Skinner, lifting his hat with humility. “I have
been a poor, deluded man, who has been serving in the rebel army; but,
thank God, I’ve lived to see the error of my ways, and am now come to
make reparation, by enlisting under the Lord’s anointed.”

“Umph! a deserter—a Skinner, I’ll swear, wanting to turn Cowboy! In the
last brush I had with the scoundrels, I could hardly tell my own men
from the enemy. We are not over well supplied with coats, and as for
countenances, the rascals change sides so often, that you may as well
count their faces for nothing; but trudge on, we will contrive to make
use of you, sooner or later.”

Ungracious as was this reception, if you could judge of the Skinner’s
feelings from his manner, it nevertheless delighted him. He moved with
alacrity towards the city, and really was so happy to escape the brutal
looks and frightful manner of his interrogator, as to lose sight of all
other considerations. But the man who performed the functions of
orderly in the irregular troop, rode up to the side of his commander,
and commenced a close and apparently a confidential discourse with his
principal. They spoke in whispers, and cast frequent and searching
glances at the Skinner, until the fellow began to think himself an
object of more than common attention. His satisfaction at this
distinction was somewhat heightened, at observing a smile on the face
of the captain, which, although it might be thought grim, certainly
denoted satisfaction. This pantomime occupied the time they were
passing a hollow, and concluded as they rose another hill. Here the
captain and his sergeant both dismounted, and ordered the party to
halt. The two partisans each took a pistol from his holster, a movement
that excited no suspicion or alarm, as it was a precaution always
observed, and beckoned to the peddler and the Skinner to follow. A
short walk brought them to a spot where the hill overhung the river,
the ground falling nearly perpendicularly to the shore. On the brow of
the eminence stood a deserted and dilapidated barn. Many boards of its
covering were torn from their places, and its wide doors were lying,
the one in front of the building, and the other halfway down the
precipice, whither the wind had cast it. Entering this desolate spot,
the refugee officer very coolly took from his pocket a short pipe,
which, from long use, had acquired not only the hue but the gloss of
ebony, a tobacco box, and a small roll of leather, that contained
steel, flint, and tinder. With this apparatus, he soon furnished his
mouth with a companion that habit had long rendered necessary to
reflection. So soon as a large column of smoke arose from this
arrangement, the captain significantly held forth a hand towards his
assistant. A small cord was produced from the pocket of the sergeant,
and handed to the other. The refugee threw out vast puffs of smoke,
until nearly all of his head was obscured, and looked around the
building with an inquisitive eye. At length he removed the pipe, and
inhaling a draft of pure air, returned it to its domicile, and
proceeded at once to business. A heavy piece of timber lay across the
girths of the barn, but a little way from the southern door, which
opened directly upon a full view of the river, as it stretched far away
towards the bay of New York. Over this beam the refugee threw one end
of the rope, and, regaining it, joined the two parts in his hand. A
small and weak barrel, that wanted a head, the staves of which were
loose, and at one end standing apart, was left on the floor, probably
as useless. The sergeant, in obedience to a look from his officer,
placed it beneath the beam. All of these arrangements were made with
composure, and they now seemed completed to the officer’s perfect
satisfaction.

“Come,” he said coolly to the Skinner, who, admiring the preparations,
had stood a silent spectator of their progress. He obeyed; and it was
not until he found his neckcloth removed, and hat thrown aside, that he
took the alarm. But he had so often resorted to a similar expedient to
extort information, or plunder, that he by no means felt the terror an
unpracticed man would have suffered, at these ominous movements. The
rope was adjusted to his neck with the same coolness that formed the
characteristic of the whole movement, and a fragment of board being
laid upon the barrel, he was ordered to mount.

“But it may fall,” said the Skinner, for the first time beginning to
tremble. “I will tell you anything—even how to surprise our party at
the Pond, without all this trouble, and it is commanded by my own
brother.”

“I want no information,” returned his executioner (for such he now
seemed really to be), throwing the rope repeatedly over the beam, first
drawing it tight so as to annoy the Skinner a little, and then casting
the end from him, beyond the reach of anyone.

“This is joking too far,” cried the Skinner, in a tone of remonstrance,
and raising himself on his toes, with the vain hope of releasing
himself from the cord, by slipping his head through the noose. But the
caution and experience of the refugee officer had guarded against this
escape.

“What have you done with the horse you stole from me, rascal?” muttered
the officer of the Cowboys, throwing out columns of smoke while he
waited for a reply.

“He broke down in the chase,” replied the Skinner quickly; “but I can
tell you where one is to be found that is worth him and his sire.”

“Liar! I will help myself when I am in need; you had better call upon
God for aid, as your hour is short.” On concluding this consoling
advice, he struck the barrel a violent blow with his heavy foot, and
the slender staves flew in every direction, leaving the Skinner
whirling in the air. As his hands were unconfined, he threw them
upwards, and held himself suspended by main strength.

“Come, captain,” he said, coaxingly, a little huskiness creeping into
his voice, and his knees beginning to shake with tremor, “end the joke;
’tis enough to make a laugh, and my arms begin to tire—I can’t hold on
much longer.”

“Harkee, Mr. Peddler,” said the refugee, in a voice that would not be
denied, “I want not your company. Through that door lies your
road—march! offer to touch that dog, and you’ll swing in his place,
though twenty Sir Henrys wanted your services.” So saying, he retired
to the road with the sergeant, as the peddler precipitately retreated
down the bank.

Birch went no farther than a bush that opportunely offered itself as a
screen to his person, while he yielded to an unconquerable desire to
witness the termination of this extraordinary scene.

Left alone, the Skinner began to throw fearful glances around, to espy
the hiding places of his tormentors. For the first time the horrid idea
seemed to shoot through his brain that something serious was intended
by the Cowboy. He called entreatingly to be released, and made rapid
and incoherent promises of important information, mingled with affected
pleasantry at their conceit, which he would hardly admit to himself
could mean anything so dreadful as it seemed. But as he heard the tread
of the horses moving on their course, and in vain looked around for
human aid, violent trembling seized his limbs, and his eyes began to
start from his head with terror. He made a desperate effort to reach
the beam; but, too much exhausted with his previous exertions, he
caught the rope in his teeth, in a vain effort to sever the cord, and
fell to the whole length of his arms. Here his cries were turned into
shrieks.

“Help! cut the rope! captain!—Birch! good peddler! Down with the
Congress!—sergeant! for God’s sake, help! Hurrah for the king!—O God!
O God!—mercy, mercy—mercy!”

As his voice became suppressed, one of his hands endeavored to make its
way between the rope and his neck, and partially succeeded; but the
other fell quivering by his side. A convulsive shuddering passed over
his whole frame, and he hung a hideous corpse.

Birch continued gazing on this scene with a kind of infatuation. At its
close he placed his hands to his ears, and rushed towards the highway.
Still the cries for mercy rang through his brain, and it was many weeks
before his memory ceased to dwell on the horrid event. The Cowboys rode
steadily on their route, as if nothing had occurred; and the body was
left swinging in the wind, until chance directed the wandering
footsteps of some lonely straggler to the place.




CHAPTER XXXIII.


Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days;
None knew thee but to love thee,
None named thee but to praise.


—HALLECK.


While the scenes and events that we have recorded were occurring,
Captain Lawton led his small party, by slow and wary marches, from the
Four Corners to the front of a body of the enemy; where he so
successfully maneuvered, for a short time, as completely to elude all
their efforts to entrap him, and yet so disguised his own force as to
excite the constant apprehension of an attack from the Americans. This
forbearing policy, on the side of the partisan, was owing to positive
orders received from his commander. When Dunwoodie left his detachment,
the enemy were known to be slowly advancing, and he directed Lawton to
hover around them, until his own return, and the arrival of a body of
foot, might enable him to intercept their retreat.

The trooper discharged his duty to the letter but with no little of the
impatience that made part of his character when restrained from the
attack.

During these movements, Betty Flanagan guided her little cart with
indefatigable zeal among the rocks of Westchester, now discussing with
the sergeant the nature of evil spirits, and now combating with the
surgeon sundry points of practice that were hourly arising between
them. But the moment arrived that was to decide the temporary mastery
of the field. A detachment of the eastern militia moved out from their
fastnesses, and approached the enemy.

The junction between Lawton and his auxiliaries was made at midnight,
and an immediate consultation was held between him and the leader of
the foot soldiers. After listening to the statements of the partisan,
who rather despised the prowess of his enemy, the commandant of the
party determined to attack the British, the moment daylight enabled him
to reconnoiter their position, without waiting for the aid of Dunwoodie
and his horse. So soon as this decision was made, Lawton retired from
the building where the consultation was held, and rejoined his own
small command.

The few troopers who were with the captain had fastened their horses in
a spot adjacent to a haystack, and laid their own frames under its
shelter, to catch a few hours’ sleep. But Dr. Sitgreaves, Sergeant
Hollister, and Betty Flanagan were congregated at a short distance by
themselves, having spread a few blankets upon the dry surface of a
rock. Lawton threw his huge frame by the side of the surgeon, and
folding his cloak about him, leaned his head upon one hand, and
appeared deeply engaged in contemplating the moon as it waded through
the heavens. The sergeant was sitting upright, in respectful deference
to the surgeon, and the washerwoman was now raising her head, in order
to vindicate some of her favorite maxims, and now composing it to
sleep.

“So, sergeant,” continued Sitgreaves, following up a previous position,
“if you cut upwards, the blow, by losing the additional momentum of
your weight, will be less destructive, and at the same time effect the
true purpose of war, that of disabling your enemy.”

“Pooh! pooh! sergeant dear,” said the washerwoman, raising her head
from the blanket, “where’s the harm of taking a life, jist in the way
of battle? Is it the rig’lars who’ll show favor, and they fighting? Ask
Captain Jack there, if the country could get free, and the boys no
strike their might. I wouldn’t have them disparage the whisky so much.”

“It is not to be expected that an ignorant female like yourself, Mrs.
Flanagan,” returned the surgeon, with a calmness that only rendered his
contempt more stinging to Betty, “can comprehend the distinctions of
surgical science; neither are you accomplished in the sword exercise;
so that dissertations upon the judicious use of that weapon could avail
you nothing either in theory or in practice.”

“It’s hut little I care, anyway, for such botherment; but fighting is
no play, and a body shouldn’t be particular how they strike, or who
they hit, so it’s the inimy.”

“Are we likely to have a warm day, Captain Lawton?”

“’Tis more than probable,” replied the trooper; “these militia seldom
fail of making a bloody field, either by their cowardice or their
ignorance, and the real soldier is made to suffer for their bad
conduct.”

“Are you ill, John?” said the surgeon, passing his hand along the arm
of the captain, until it instinctively settled on his pulse; but the
steady, even beat announced neither bodily nor mental malady.

“Sick at heart, Archibald, at the folly of our rulers, in believing
that battles are to be fought and victories won, by fellows who handle
a musket as they would a flail; lads who wink when they pull a trigger,
and form a line like a hoop pole. The dependence we place on these men
spills the best blood of the country.”

The surgeon listened with amazement. It was not the matter, but the
manner that surprised him. The trooper had uniformly exhibited, on the
eve of battle, an animation, and an eagerness to engage, that was
directly at variance with the admirable coolness of his manner at other
times. But now there was a despondency in the tones of his voice, and a
listlessness in his air, that was entirely different. The operator
hesitated a moment, to reflect in what manner he could render this
change of service in furthering his favorite system, and then
continued,—

“It would be wise, John, to advise the colonel to keep at long shot; a
spent ball will disable—”

“No!” exclaimed the trooper, impatiently, “let the rascals singe their
whiskers at the muzzles of the British muskets, if they can be driven
there. But, enough of them. Archibald, do you deem that moon to be a
world like this, containing creatures like ourselves?”

“Nothing more probable, dear John; we know its size and, reasoning from
analogy, may easily conjecture its use. Whether or not its inhabitants
have attained to that perfection in the sciences which we have
acquired, must depend greatly on the state of its society, and in some
measure upon its physical influences.”

“I care nothing about their learning, Archibald; but ’tis a wonderful
power that can create such worlds, and control them in their
wanderings. I know not why, but there is a feeling of melancholy
excited within me as I gaze on that body of light, shaded as it is by
your fancied sea and land. It seems to be the resting place of departed
spirits!”

“Take a drop, darling,” said Betty, raising her head once more, and
proffering her own bottle. “’Tis the night damp that chills the
blood—and then the talk with the cursed militia is no good for a fiery
temper. Take a drop, darling, and ye’ll sleep till the morning. I fed
Roanoke myself, for I thought ye might need hard riding the morrow.”

“’Tis a glorious heaven to look upon,” continued the trooper, in the
same tone, disregarding the offer of Betty, “and ’tis a thousand pities
that such worms as men should let their vile passions deface such
goodly work.”

“You speak the truth, dear John; there is room for all to live and
enjoy themselves in peace, if each could be satisfied with his own.
Still, war has its advantages; it particularly promotes the knowledge
of surgery; and—”

“There is a star,” continued Lawton, still bent on his own ideas,
“struggling to glitter through a few driving clouds; perhaps that too
is a world, and contains its creatures endowed with reason like
ourselves. Think you that they know of war and bloodshed?”

“If I might be so bold,” said Sergeant Hollister, mechanically raising
his hand to his cap, “’tis mentioned in the good book, that the Lord
made the sun to stand still while Joshua was charging the enemy, in
order, sir, as I suppose, that they might have daylight to turn their
flank, or perhaps make a feint in the rear, or some such maneuver. Now,
if the Lord would lend them a hand, fighting cannot be sinful. I have
often been nonplused, though, to find that they used them chariots
instead of heavy dragoons, who are, in all comparison, better to break
a line of infantry, and who, for the matter of that, could turn such
wheel carriages, and getting into the rear, play the very devil with
them, horse and all.”

“It is because you do not understand the construction of those ancient
vehicles, Sergeant Hollister, that you judge of them so erroneously,”
said the surgeon. “They were armed with sharp weapons that protruded
from their wheels, and which broke up the columns of foot, like
dismembered particles of matter. I doubt not, if similar instruments
were affixed to the cart of Mrs. Flanagan, that great confusion might
be carried into the ranks of the enemy thereby, this very day.”

“It’s but little that the mare would go, and the rig’lars firing at
her,” grumbled Betty, from under her blanket. “When we got the plunder,
the time we drove them through the Jarseys it was, I had to back the
baste up to the dead; for the divil the foot would she move, fornent
the firing, wid her eyes open. Roanoke and Captain Jack are good enough
for the redcoats, letting alone myself and the mare.”

A long roll of the drums, from the hill occupied by the British,
announced that they were on the alert; and a corresponding signal was
immediately heard from the Americans. The bugle of the Virginians
struck up its martial tones; and in a few moments both the hills, the
one held by the royal troops and the other by their enemies, were alive
with armed men. Day had begun to dawn, and preparations were making by
both parties, to give and to receive the attack. In numbers the
Americans had greatly the advantage; but in discipline and equipment
the superiority was entirely with their enemies. The arrangements for
the battle were brief, and by the time the sun rose the militia moved
forward.

The ground did not admit of the movements of horse; and the only duty
that could be assigned to the dragoons was to watch the moment of
victory, and endeavor to improve the success to the utmost. Lawton soon
got his warriors into the saddle; and leaving them to the charge of
Hollister, he rode himself along the line of foot, who, in varied
dresses, and imperfectly armed, were formed in a shape that in some
degree resembled a martial array. A scornful smile lowered about the
lip of the trooper as he guided Roanoke with a skillful hand through
the windings of their ranks; and when the word was given to march, he
turned the flank of the regiment, and followed close in the rear. The
Americans had to descend into a little hollow, and rise a hill on its
opposite side, to approach the enemy.

The descent was made with tolerable steadiness, until near the foot of
the hill, when the royal troops advanced in a beautiful line, with
their flanks protected by the formation of the ground. The appearance
of the British drew a fire from the militia, which was given with good
effect, and for a moment staggered the regulars. But they were rallied
by their officers, and threw in volley after volley with great
steadiness. For a short time the fire was warm and destructive, until
the English advanced with the bayonet. This assault the militia had not
sufficient discipline to withstand. Their line wavered, then paused,
and finally broke into companies and fragments of companies, keeping up
at the same time a scattering and desultory fire.

Lawton witnessed these operations in silence, nor did he open his mouth
until the field was covered with parties of the flying Americans. Then,
indeed, he seemed stung with the disgrace thus heaped upon the arms of
his country. Spurring Roanoke along the side of the hill, he called to
the fugitives in all the strength of his powerful voice. He pointed to
the enemy, and assured his countrymen that they had mistaken the way.
There was such a mixture of indifference and irony in his exhortations
that a few paused in surprise—more joined them, until, roused by the
example of the trooper, and stimulated by their own spirit, they
demanded to be led against their foe once more.

“Come on, then, my brave friends!” shouted the trooper, turning his
horse’s head towards the British line, one flank of which was very near
him; “come on, and hold your fire until it will scorch their eyebrows.”

The men sprang forward, and followed his example, neither giving nor
receiving a fire until they had come within a very short distance of
the enemy. An English sergeant, who had been concealed by a rock,
enraged with the audacity of the officer who thus dared their arms,
stepped from behind his cover, and leveled his musket.

“Fire and you die!” cried Lawton, spurring his charger, which leaped
forward at the instant. The action and the tone of his voice shook the
nerves of the Englishman, who drew his trigger with an uncertain aim.
Roanoke sprang with all his feet from the earth, and, plunging, fell
headlong and lifeless at the feet of his destroyer. Lawton kept his
feet, standing face to face with his enemy. The latter presented his
bayonet, and made a desperate thrust at the trooper’s heart. The steel
of their weapons emitted sparks of fire, and the bayonet flew fifty
feet in the air. At the next moment its owner lay a quivering corpse.

“Come on!” shouted the trooper, as a body of English appeared on the
rock, and threw in a close fire. “Come on!” he repeated, and brandished
his saber fiercely. Then his gigantic form fell backward, like a
majestic pine yielding to the ax; but still, as he slowly fell, he
continued to wield his saber, and once more the deep tones of his voice
were heard uttering, “Come on!”

The advancing Americans paused aghast, and, turning, they abandoned the
field to the royal troops.

It was neither the intention nor the policy of the English commander to
pursue his success, for he well knew that strong parties of the
Americans would soon arrive; accordingly he only tarried to collect his
wounded, and forming in a square, he commenced his retreat towards the
shipping. Within twenty minutes of the fall of Lawton, the ground was
deserted by both English and Americans. When the inhabitants of the
country were called upon to enter the field, they were necessarily
attended by such surgical advisers as were furnished by the low state
of the profession in the interior at that day. Dr. Sitgreaves
entertained quite as profound a contempt for the medical attendants of
the militia as the captain did of the troops themselves. He wandered,
therefore, around the field, casting many a glance of disapprobation at
the slight operations that came under his eye; but when, among the
flying troops, he found that his comrade and friend was nowhere to be
seen, he hastened back to the spot at which Hollister was posted, to
inquire if the trooper had returned. Of course, the answer was in the
negative. Filled with a thousand uneasy conjectures, the surgeon,
without regarding, or indeed without at all reflecting upon any dangers
that might lie in his way, strode over the ground at an enormous rate,
to the point where he knew the final struggle had been. Once before,
the surgeon had rescued his friend from death in a similar situation;
and he felt a secret joy in his own conscious skill, as he perceived
Betty Flanagan seated on the ground, holding in her lap the head of a
man whose size and dress he knew could belong only to the trooper. As
he approached the spot, the surgeon became alarmed at the aspect of the
washerwoman. Her little black bonnet was thrown aside, and her hair,
which was already streaked with gray, hung around her face in disorder.

“John! dear John!” said the doctor, tenderly, as he bent and laid his
hand upon the senseless wrist of the trooper, from which it recoiled
with an intuitive knowledge of his fate. “John! where are you hurt?—can
I help you?”

“Ye talk to the senseless clay,” said Betty, rocking her body, and
unconsciously playing with the raven ringlets of the trooper’s hair;
“it’s no more will he hear, and it’s but little will he mind yeer
probes and yeer med’cines. Och hone,” och hone!—and where will be the
liberty now? or who will there be to fight the battle, or gain the
day?”

“John!” repeated the surgeon, still unwilling to believe the evidence
of his unerring senses. “Dear John, speak to me; say what you will,
that you do but speak. Oh, God! he is dead; would that I had died with
him!”

“There is but little use in living and fighting now,” said Betty. “Both
him and the baste! see, there is the poor cratur, and here is the
master! I fed the horse with my own hands, the day; and the last male
that _he_ ate was of my own cooking. Och hone! och hone!—that Captain
Jack should live to be killed by the rig’lars!”

“John! my dear John!” said the surgeon, with convulsive sobs, “thy hour
has come, and many a more prudent man survives thee; but none better,
nor braver. O John, thou wert to me a kind friend, and very dear; it is
unphilosophical to grieve; but for thee I must weep, in bitterness of
heart.”

The doctor buried his face in his hands, and for several minutes sat
yielding to an ungovernable burst of sorrow; while the washerwoman gave
vent to her grief in words, moving her body in a kind of writhing, and
playing with different parts of her favorite’s dress with her fingers.

“And who’ll there be to encourage the boys now?” she said. “O Captain
Jack! ye was the sowl of the troop, and it was but little we knowed of
the danger, and ye fighting. Och! he was no maly-mouthed, that
quarreled wid a widowed woman for the matter of a burn in the mate, or
the want of a breakfast. Taste a drop, darling, and it may be, ’twill
revive ye. Och! and he’ll niver taste ag’in; here’s the doctor, honey,
him ye used to blarney wid, waping as if the poor sowl would die for
ye. Och! he’s gone, he’s gone; and the liberty is gone with him.”

A thundering sound of horses’ feet came rolling along the road which
led near the place where Lawton lay, and directly the whole body of
Virginians appeared, with Dunwoodie at their head. The news of the
captain’s fate had reached him, for the instant that he saw the body he
halted the squadron, and, dismounting, approached the spot. The
countenance of Lawton was not in the least distorted, but the angry
frown which had lowered over his brow during the battle was fixed even
in death. His frame was composed, and stretched as in sleep. Dunwoodie
took hold of his hand, and gazed a moment in silence; his own dark eye
kindled, and the paleness which had overspread his features was
succeeded by a spot of deep red in either cheek.

“With his own sword will I avenge him!” he cried, endeavoring to take
the weapon from the hand of Lawton; but the grasp resisted his utmost
strength. “It shall be buried with him. Sitgreaves, take care of our
friend, while I revenge his death.”

The major hastened back to his charger, and led the way in pursuit of
the enemy.

While Dunwoodie had been thus engaged, the body of Lawton lay in open
view of the whole squadron. He was a universal favorite, and the sight
inflamed the men to the utmost: neither officers nor soldiers possessed
that coolness which is necessary to insure success in military
operations; they spurred after their enemies, burning for vengeance.

The English were formed in a hollow square, which contained their
wounded, who were far from numerous, and were marching steadily across
a very uneven country as the dragoons approached. The horse charged in
column, and were led by Dunwoodie, who, burning with revenge, thought
to ride through their ranks, and scatter them at a blow. But the enemy
knew their own strength too well, and, standing firm, they received the
charge on the points of their bayonets. The horses of the Virginians
recoiled, and the rear rank of the foot throwing in a close fire, the
major, with a few men, fell. The English continued their retreat the
moment they were extricated from their assailants; and Dunwoodie, who
was severely, but not dangerously wounded, recalled his men from
further attempts, which must be fruitless.

A sad duty remained to be fulfilled. The dragoons retired slowly
through the hills, conveying their wounded commander, and the body of
Lawton. The latter they interred under the ramparts of one of the
Highland forts, and the former they consigned to the tender care of his
afflicted bride.

Many weeks were gone before the major was restored to sufficient
strength to be removed. During those weeks, how often did he bless the
moment that gave him a right to the services of his beautiful nurse!
She hung around his couch with fond attention, administered with her
own hands every prescription of the indefatigable Sitgreaves, and grew
each hour in the affections and esteem of her husband. An order from
Washington soon sent the troops into winter quarters, and permission
was given to Dunwoodie to repair to his own plantation, with the rank
of lieutenant colonel, in order to complete the restoration of his
health. Captain Singleton made one of the party; and the whole family
retired from the active scenes of the war, to the ease and plenty of
the major’s own estate. Before leaving Fishkill, however, letters were
conveyed to them, through an unknown hand, acquainting them with
Henry’s safety and good health; and also that Colonel Wellmere had left
the continent for his native island, lowered in the estimation of every
honest man in the royal army.

It was a happy winter for Dunwoodie, and smiles once more began to play
around the lovely mouth of Frances.




CHAPTER XXXIV.


’Midst furs, and silks, and jewels’ sheen,
He stood, in simple Lincoln green,
The center of the glittering ring;
And Snowdon’s knight is Scotland’s king!


—_Lady of the Lake_.


The commencement of the following year was passed, on the part of the
Americans, in making great preparations, in conjunction with their
allies, to bring the war to a close. In the South, Greene and Rawdon
made a bloody campaign, that was highly honorable to the troops of the
latter, but which, by terminating entirely to the advantage of the
former, proved him to be the better general of the two.

New York was the point that was threatened by the allied armies; and
Washington, by exciting a constant apprehension for the safety of that
city, prevented such reënforcements from being sent to Cornwallis as
would have enabled him to improve his success.

At length, as autumn approached, every indication was given that the
final moment had arrived.

The French forces drew near to the royal lines, passing through the
neutral ground, and threatened an attack in the direction of King’s
Bridge, while large bodies of Americans were acting in concert. By
hovering around the British posts, and drawing nigh in the Jerseys,
they seemed to threaten the royal forces from that quarter also. The
preparations partook of the nature of both a siege and a storm. But Sir
Henry Clinton, in the possession of intercepted letters from
Washington, rested within his lines, and cautiously disregarded the
solicitations of Cornwallis for succor.

It was at the close of a stormy day in the month of September, that a
large assemblage of officers was collected near the door of a building
that was situated in the heart of the Americans troops, who held the
Jerseys. The age, the dress, and the dignity of deportment of most of
these warriors, indicated them to be of high rank; but to one in
particular was paid a deference and obedience that announced him to be
of the highest. His dress was plain, but it bore the usual military
distinctions of command. He was mounted on a noble animal, of a deep
bay; and a group of young men, in gayer attire, evidently awaited his
pleasure and did his bidding. Many a hat was lifted as its owner
addressed this officer; and when he spoke, a profound attention,
exceeding the respect of mere professional etiquette, was exhibited on
every countenance. At length the general raised his own hat, and bowed
gravely to all around him. The salute was returned, and the party
dispersed, leaving the officer without a single attendant, except his
body servants and one aid-de-camp. Dismounting, he stepped back a few
paces, and for a moment viewed the condition of his horse with the eye
of one who well understood the animal, and then, casting a brief but
expressive glance at his aid, he retired into the building, followed by
that gentleman.

On entering an apartment that was apparently fitted for his reception,
he took a seat, and continued for a long time in a thoughtful attitude,
like one in the habit of communing much with himself. During this
silence, the aid-de-camp stood in expectation of his orders. At length
the general raised his eyes, and spoke in those low, placid tones that
seemed natural to him.

“Has the man whom I wished to see arrived, sir?”

“He waits the pleasure of your excellency.”

“I will receive him here, and alone, if you please.”

The aid bowed and withdrew. In a few minutes the door again opened, and
a figure, gliding into the apartment, stood modestly at a distance from
the general, without speaking. His entrance was unheard by the officer,
who sat gazing at the fire, still absorbed in his own meditations.
Several minutes passed, when he spoke to himself in an undertone,—

“To-morrow we must raise the curtain, and expose our plans. May Heaven
prosper them!”

A slight movement made by the stranger caught his ear, and he turned
his head, and saw that he was not alone. He pointed silently to the
fire, toward which the figure advanced, although the multitude of his
garments, which seemed more calculated for disguise than comfort,
rendered its warmth unnecessary. A second mild and courteous gesture
motioned to a vacant chair, but the stranger refused it with a modest
acknowledgment. Another pause followed, and continued for some time. At
length the officer arose, and opening a desk that was laid upon the
table near which he sat, took from it a small, but apparently heavy
bag.

“Harvey Birch,” he said, turning to the stranger, “the time has arrived
when our connection must cease; henceforth and forever we must be
strangers.”

The peddler dropped the folds of the greatcoat that concealed his
features, and gazed for a moment earnestly at the face of the speaker;
then dropping his head upon his bosom, he said, meekly,—

“If it be your excellency’s pleasure.”

“It is necessary. Since I have filled the station which I now hold, it
has become my duty to know many men, who, like yourself, have been my
instruments in procuring intelligence. You have I trusted more than
all; I early saw in you a regard to truth and principle, that, I am
pleased to say, has never deceived me—you alone know my secret agents
in the city, and on your fidelity depend, not only their fortunes, but
their lives.”

He paused, as if to reflect in order that full justice might be done to
the peddler, and then continued,—

“I believe you are one of the very few that I have employed who have
acted faithfully to our cause; and, while you have passed as a spy of
the enemy, have never given intelligence that you were not permitted to
divulge. To me, and to me only of all the world, you seem to have acted
with a strong attachment to the liberties of America.”

During this address, Harvey gradually raised his head from his bosom,
until it reached the highest point of elevation; a faint tinge gathered
in his cheeks, and, as the officer concluded, it was diffused over his
whole countenance in a deep glow, while he stood proudly swelling with
his emotions, but with eyes that sought the feet of the speaker.

“It is now my duty to pay you for these services; hitherto you have
postponed receiving your reward, and the debt has become a heavy one—I
wish not to undervalue your dangers; here are a hundred doubloons;
remember the poverty of our country, and attribute to it the smallness
of your pay.”

The peddler raised his eyes to the countenance of the speaker; but, as
the other held forth the money, he moved back, as if refusing the bag.

“It is not much for your services and risks, I acknowledge,” continued
the general, “but it is all that I have to offer; hereafter, it may be
in my power to increase it.”

“Does your excellency think that I have exposed my life, and blasted my
character, for money?”

“If not for money, what then?”

“What has brought your excellency into the field? For what do you daily
and hourly expose your precious life to battle and the halter? What is
there about me to mourn, when such men as you risk their all for our
country? No, no, no—not a dollar of your gold will I touch; poor
America has need of it all!”

The bag dropped from the hand of the officer, and fell at the feet of
the peddler, where it lay neglected during the remainder of the
interview. The officer looked steadily at the face of his companion,
and continued,—

“There are many motives which might govern me, that to you are unknown.
Our situations are different; I am known as the leader of armies—but
you must descend into the grave with the reputation of a foe to your
native land. Remember that the veil which conceals your true character
cannot be raised in years—perhaps never.”

Birch again lowered his face, but there was no yielding of the soul in
the movement.

“You will soon be old; the prime of your days is already past; what
have you to subsist on?”

“These!” said the peddler, stretching forth his hands, that were
already embrowned with toil.

“But those may fail you; take enough to secure a support to your age.
Remember your risks and cares. I have told you that the characters of
men who are much esteemed in life depend on your secrecy; what pledge
can I give them of your fidelity?”

“Tell them,” said Birch, advancing and unconsciously resting one foot
on the bag, “tell them that I would not take the gold!”

The composed features of the officer relaxed into a smile of
benevolence, and he grasped the hand of the peddler firmly.

“Now, indeed, I know you; and although the same reasons which have
hitherto compelled me to expose your valuable life will still exist,
and prevent my openly asserting your character, in private I can always
be your friend; fail not to apply to me when in want or suffering, and
so long as God giveth to me, so long will I freely share with a man who
feels so nobly and acts so well. If sickness or want should ever assail
you and peace once more smile upon our efforts, seek the gate of him
whom you have so often met as Harper, and he will not blush to
acknowledge you.”

“It is little that I need in this life,” said Harvey; “so long as God
gives me health and honest industry, I can never want in this country;
but to know that your excellency is my friend is a blessing that I
prize more than all the gold of England’s treasury.”

The officer stood for a few moments in the attitude of intense thought.
He then drew to him the desk, and wrote a few lines on a piece of
paper, and gave it to the peddler.

“That Providence destines this country to some great and glorious fate
I must believe, while I witness the patriotism that pervades the bosoms
of her lowest citizens,” he said. “It must be dreadful to a mind like
yours to descend into the grave, branded as a foe to liberty; but you
already know the lives that would be sacrificed, should your real
character be revealed. It is impossible to do you justice now, but I
fearlessly intrust you with this certificate; should we never meet
again, it may be serviceable to your children.”

“Children!” exclaimed the peddler, “can I give to a family the infamy
of my name?”

The officer gazed at the strong emotion he exhibited with pain, and he
made a slight movement towards the gold; but it was arrested by the
expression of his companion’s face. Harvey saw the intention, and shook
his head, as he continued more mildly,—

“It is, indeed, a treasure that your excellency gives me: it is safe,
too. There are men living who could say that my life was nothing to me,
compared to your secrets. The paper that I told you was lost I
swallowed when taken last by the Virginians. It was the only time I
ever deceived your excellency, and it shall be the last; yes, this is,
indeed, a treasure to me; perhaps,” he continued, with a melancholy
smile, “it may be known after my death who was my friend; but if it
should not, there are none to grieve for me.”

“Remember,” said the officer, with strong emotion, “that in me you will
always have a secret friend; but openly I cannot know you.”

“I know it, I know it,” said Birch; “I knew it when I took the service.
’Tis probably the last time that I shall ever see your excellency. May
God pour down His choicest blessings on your head!” He paused, and
moved towards the door. The officer followed him with eyes that
expressed deep interest. Once more the peddler turned, and seemed to
gaze on the placid, but commanding features of the general with regret
and reverence, and, bowing low, he withdrew.

The armies of America and France were led by their illustrious
commander against the enemy under Cornwallis, and terminated a campaign
in triumph that had commenced in difficulties. Great Britain soon after
became disgusted with the war; and the States’ independence was
acknowledged.

As years rolled by, it became a subject of pride among the different
actors in the war, and their descendants, to boast of their efforts in
the cause which had confessedly heaped so many blessings upon their
country; but the name of Harvey Birch died away among the multitude of
agents who were thought to have labored in secret against the rights of
their countrymen. His image, however, was often present to the mind of
the powerful chief, who alone knew his true character; and several
times did he cause secret inquiries to be made into the other’s fate,
one of which only resulted in any success. By this he learned that a
peddler of a different name, but similar appearance, was toiling
through the new settlements that were springing up in every direction,
and that he was struggling with the advance of years and apparent
poverty. Death prevented further inquiries on the part of the officer,
and a long period passed before he was again heard of.




CHAPTER XXXV.


Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The village tyrant of his fields withstood—
Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest;
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country’s blood.


—GRAY.


It was thirty-three years after the interview which we have just
related that an American army was once more arrayed against the troops
of England; but the scene was transferred from Hudson’s banks to those
of the Niagara.

The body of Washington had long lain moldering in the tomb; but as time
was fast obliterating the slight impressions of political enmity or
personal envy, his name was hourly receiving new luster, and his worth
and integrity each moment became more visible, not only to his
countrymen, but to the world. He was already the acknowledged hero of
an age of reason and truth; and many a young heart, amongst those who
formed the pride of our army in 1814, was glowing with the recollection
of the one great name of America, and inwardly beating with the
sanguine expectation of emulating, in some degree, its renown. In no
one were these virtuous hopes more vivid than in the bosom of a young
officer who stood on the table rock, contemplating the great cataract,
on the evening of the 25th of July of that bloody year. The person of
this youth was tall and finely molded, indicating a just proportion
between strength and activity; his deep black eyes were of a searching
and dazzling brightness. At times, as they gazed upon the flood of
waters that rushed tumultuously at his feet, there was a stern and
daring look that flashed from them, which denoted the ardor of an
enthusiast. But this proud expression was softened by the lines of a
mouth around which there played a suppressed archness, that partook of
feminine beauty. His hair shone in the setting sun like ringlets of
gold, as the air from the falls gently moved the rich curls from a
forehead whose whiteness showed that exposure and heat alone had given
their darker hue to a face glowing with health. There was another
officer standing by the side of this favored youth; and both seemed, by
the interest they betrayed, to be gazing, for the first time, at the
wonder of the western world. A profound silence was observed by each,
until the companion of the officer that we have described suddenly
started, and pointing eagerly with his sword into the abyss beneath,
exclaimed,—

“See! Wharton, there is a man crossing in the very eddies of the
cataract, and in a skiff no bigger than an eggshell.”

“He has a knapsack—it is probably a soldier,” returned the other. “Let
us meet him at the ladder, Mason, and learn his tidings.”

Some time was expended in reaching the spot where the adventurer was
intercepted. Contrary to the expectations of the young soldiers, he
proved to be a man far advanced in life, and evidently no follower of
the camp. His years might be seventy, and they were indicated more by
the thin hairs of silver that lay scattered over his wrinkled brow,
than by any apparent failure of his system. His frame was meager and
bent; but it was the attitude of habit, for his sinews were strung with
the toil of half a century. His dress was mean, and manifested the
economy of its owner, by the number and nature of its repairs. On his
back was a scantily furnished pack, that had led to the mistake in his
profession. A few words of salutation, and, on the part of the young
men, of surprise, that one so aged should venture so near the
whirlpools of the cataract, were exchanged; when the old man inquired,
with a voice that began to manifest the tremor of age, the news from
the contending armies.

“We whipped the redcoats here the other day, among the grass on the
Chippewa plains,” said the one who was called Mason; “since when, we
have been playing hide and go seek with the ships: but we are now
marching back from where we started, shaking our heads, and as surly as
the devil.”

“Perhaps you have a son among the soldiers,” said his companion, with a
milder demeanor, and an air of kindness; “if so, tell me his name and
regiment, and I will take you to him.”

The old man shook his head, and, passing his hand over his silver
locks, with an air of meek resignation, he answered,—

“No; I am alone in the world!”

“You should have added, Captain Dunwoodie,” cried his careless comrade,
“if you could find either; for nearly half our army has marched down
the road, and may be, by this time, under the walls of Fort George, for
anything that we know to the contrary.”

The old man stopped suddenly, and looked earnestly from one of his
companions to the other; the action being observed by the soldiers,
they paused also.

“Did I hear right?” the stranger uttered, raising his hand to screen
his eyes from the rays of the setting sun. “What did he call you?” “My
name is Wharton Dunwoodie,” replied the youth, smiling. The stranger
motioned silently for him to remove his hat, which the youth did
accordingly, and his fair hair blew aside like curls of silk, and
opened the whole of his ingenuous countenance to the inspection of the
other. “’Tis like our native land!” exclaimed the old man with
vehemence, “improving with time; God has blessed both.” “Why do you
stare thus, Lieutenant Mason?” cried Captain Dunwoodie, laughing a
little. “You show more astonishment than when you saw the falls.” “Oh,
the falls!—they are a thing to be looked at on a moonshiny night, by
your Aunt Sarah and that gay old bachelor, Colonel Singleton; but a
fellow like myself never shows surprise, unless it may be at such a
touch as this.” The extraordinary vehemence of the stranger’s manner
had passed away as suddenly as it was exhibited, but he listened to
this speech with deep interest, while Dunwoodie replied, a little
gravely,—“Come, come, Tom, no jokes about my good aunt, I beg; she is
kindness itself, and I have heard it whispered that her youth was not
altogether happy.” “Why, as to rumor,” said Mason, “there goes one in
Accomac, that Colonel Singleton offers himself to her regularly every
Valentine’s day; and there are some who add that your old great-aunt
helps his suit.” “Aunt Jeanette!” said Dunwoodie, laughing. “Dear, good
soul, she thinks but little of marriage in any shape, I believe, since
the death of Dr. Sitgreaves. There were some whispers of a courtship
between them formerly, but it ended in nothing but civilities, and I
suspect that the whole story arises from the intimacy of Colonel
Singleton and my father. You know they were comrades in the horse, as
indeed was your own father.”

“I know all that, of course; but you must not tell me that the
particular, prim bachelor goes so often to General Dunwoodie’s
plantation merely for the sake of talking old soldier with your father.
The last time I was there, that yellow, sharp-nosed housekeeper of your
mother’s took me into the pantry, and said that the colonel was no
despisable match, as she called it, and how the sale of his plantation
in Georgia had brought him—oh, Lord! I don’t know how much.”

“Quite likely,” returned the captain, “Katy Haynes is no bad
calculator.”

They had stopped during this conversation, in uncertainty whether their
new companion was to be left or not.

The old man listened to each word as it was uttered, with the most
intense interest; but, towards the conclusion of the dialogue, the
earnest attention of his countenance changed to a kind of inward smile.
He shook his head, and, passing his hands over his forehead, seemed to
be thinking of other times. Mason paid but little attention to the
expression of his features, and continued,—

“To me, she is selfishness embodied!”

“Her selfishness does but little harm,” returned Dunwoodie. “One of her
greatest difficulties is her aversion to the blacks. She says that she
never saw but one she liked.”

“And who was he?”

“His name was Caesar; he was a house servant of my late grandfather
Wharton. You don’t remember him, I believe; he died the same year with
his master, while we were children. Katy yearly sings his requiem, and,
upon my word, I believe he deserved it. I have heard something of his
helping my English uncle, as we call General Wharton, in some
difficulty that occurred in the old war. My mother always speaks of him
with great affection. Both Caesar and Katy came to Virginia with my
mother when she married. My mother was—”

“An angel!” interrupted the old man, in a voice that startled the young
soldiers by its abruptness and energy.

“Did you know her?” cried the son, with a glow of pleasure on his
cheek.

The reply of the stranger was interrupted by sudden and heavy
explosions of artillery, which were immediately followed by continued
volleys of small arms, and in a few minutes the air was filled with the
tumult of a warm and well-contested battle.

The two soldiers hastened with precipitation towards the camp,
accompanied by their new acquaintance. The excitement and anxiety
created by the approaching fight prevented a continuance of the
conversation, and the three held their way to the army, making
occasional conjectures on the cause of the fire, and the probability of
a general engagement. During their short and hurried walk, Captain
Dunwoodie, however, threw several friendly glances at the old man, who
moved over the ground with astonishing energy for his years, for the
heart of the youth was warmed by an eulogium on a mother that he
adored. In a short time they joined the regiment to which the officers
belonged, when the captain, squeezing the stranger’s hand, earnestly
begged that he would make inquiries after him on the following morning,
and that he might see him in his own tent. Here they separated.

Everything in the American camp announced an approaching struggle. At a
distance of a few miles, the sound of cannon and musketry was heard
above the roar of the cataract. The troops were soon in motion, and a
movement made to support the division of the army which was already
engaged. Night had set in before the reserve and irregulars reached the
foot of Lundy’s Lane, a road that diverged from the river and crossed a
conical eminence, at no great distance from the Niagara highway. The
summit of this hill was crowned with the cannon of the British, and in
the flat beneath was the remnant of Scott’s gallant brigade, which for
a long time had held an unequal contest with distinguished bravery. A
new line was interposed, and one column of the Americans directed to
charge up the hill, parallel to the road. This column took the English
in flank, and, bayoneting their artillerists, gained possession of the
cannon. They were immediately joined by their comrades, and the enemy
was swept from the hill. But large reenforcements were joining the
English general momentarily, and their troops were too brave to rest
easy under the defeat. Repeated and bloody charges were made to recover
the guns, but in all they were repulsed with slaughter. During the last
of these struggles, the ardor of the youthful captain whom we have
mentioned urged him to lead his men some distance in advance, to
scatter a daring party of the enemy. He succeeded, but in returning to
the line missed his lieutenant from the station that he ought to have
occupied. Soon after this repulse, which was the last, orders were
given to the shattered troops to return to the camp. The British were
nowhere to be seen, and preparations were made to take in such of the
wounded as could be moved. At this moment Wharton Dunwoodie, impelled
by affection for his friend, seized a lighted fusee, and taking two of
his men went himself in quest of his body, where he was supposed to
have fallen. Mason was found on the side of the hill, seated with great
composure, but unable to walk from a fractured leg. Dunwoodie saw and
flew to the side of his comrade, saying,—

“Ah! dear Tom, I knew I should find you the nearest man to the enemy.”

“Softly, softly; handle me tenderly,” replied the lieutenant. “No,
there is a brave fellow still nearer than myself, and who he can be I
know not. He rushed out of our smoke, near my platoon, to make a
prisoner or some such thing, but, poor fellow, he never came back;
there he lies just over the hillock. I have spoken to him several
times, but I fancy he is past answering.”

Dunwoodie went to the spot, and to his astonishment beheld the aged
stranger.

“It is the old man who knew my mother!” cried the youth. “For her sake
he shall have honorable burial; lift him, and let him be carried in;
his bones shall rest on native soil.”

The men approached to obey. He was lying on his back, with his face
exposed to the glaring light of the fusee; his eyes were closed, as if
in slumber; his lips, sunken with years, were slightly moved from their
natural position, but it seemed more like a smile than a convulsion
which had caused the change. A soldier’s musket lay near him; his hands
were pressed upon his breast, and one of them contained a substance
that glittered like silver. Dunwoodie stooped, and removing the limbs,
perceived the place where the bullet had found a passage to his heart.
The subject of his last care was a tin box, through which the fatal
lead had gone; and the dying moments of the old man must have passed in
drawing it from his bosom. Dunwoodie opened it, and found a paper in
which, to his astonishment, he read the following:—

“Circumstances of political importance, which involve the lives and
fortunes of many, have hitherto kept secret what this paper now
reveals. Harvey Birch has for years been a faithful and unrequited
servant of his country. Though man does not, may God reward him for his
conduct!”


GEO. WASHINGTON.


It was the SPY OF THE NEUTRAL GROUND, who died as he had lived, devoted
to his country, and a martyr to her liberties.




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