THE SPY; A TALE OF THE NEUTRAL GROUND. “Breathes there a man with soul
so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land,--” BY
THE AUTHOR OF “PRECAUTION.” IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. NEW-YORK: WILEY &
HALSTED, S, WALL-STREET. Wm. Grattan, Printer. 1821. Southern District of
New-York, ss., BE IT REMEMBERED, That on the seventh day of September in the
fortysixth year of the Independence of the United States of America, WILEY
& HALSTED, of the said District, have deposited in this Office, the title
of a Book, the right whereof they claim as proprietors in the words following,
to wit: “Breathes there a man with
soul so dead,
Who never to himself
bath said,
This is my own, my
native land.--”
by the author of “Precantion.”
In two volumes.
Although we are natives
of different countries, I feel that I can safely offer to your notice a work,
which has been chiefly written with a view to induce love to my own. Attachment
to the land of our nativity, is a sentiment so intimately blended with our best
feelings, that should I have discovered any weakness in the exhibition of this
national partiality, I feel confident, that you, at least, will not judge me
harshly; for your liberality to this country is untainted with any irreverence
for the institutions of your own. If I find reasons, in your candor, to believe
you will do justice to my merited eulogiums, I can equally hope for your
lenity, where habit has blinded me to defects.
We have spent many
pleasant hours together, and I hope, while perusing these pages, you may
experience some portion of that satisfaction, which has, I trust, hitherto
attended our association. With the best wishes for your welfare,
There are several
reasons why an American, who writes a novel, should choose his own country for
the scene of his story--and there are more against it. To begin with
the--pros--the ground is untrodden, and will have all the charms of novelty; as
yet but one pen of any celebrity has been employed among us in this kind of
writing; and as the author is dead, and beyond the hopes and fears of literary
rewards and punishments, his countrymen are beginning to discover his
merit--but we forget, the latter part of the sentence should have been among
the--contras. The very singularity of the circumstance, gives the book some
small chance of being noticed abroad, and our literature is much like our
wine--vastly benefited by travelling. Then, the patriotic ardor of the country,
will insure a sale to the most humble attempts to give notoriety to any thing
national, as we have the strongest assurances our publisher’s account of profit
and loss will speedily show. Heaven forbid, that this don’t prove to be like
the book itself--a fiction. And lastly, an Author may be fairly supposed to be
better able to delineate character, and to describe scenes, where he is
familiar with both, than in countries where he has been nothing more than a
traveller. Now for the contras--we will begin by removing all the reasons in
favour of the step. As there has been but one writer of this description
hitherto, a new candidate for literary honours of this kind, would be compared
with that one, and unfortunately he is not the rival that every man would
select. Then, although the English critics not only desire, but invite works
that will give an account of American manners, we are sadly afraid they mean
nothing but Indian manners; we are apprehensive that the same palate which can
relish the cave scene in Edgar Huntly, because it contains an American, a
savage, a wild cat, and a tomahawk, in a conjunction that never did, nor ever
will occur--will revolt at descriptions here, that portray love as any thing
but a brutal passion--patriotism as more than money-making--or men and women
without wool. We write this with all due deference to our much esteemed
acquaintance, Mr. Cæsar Thompson, a character we presume to be well known to
the few who read this introduction; for nobody looks at a preface until they
are at a loss to discover from the book itself, what it is the author means.
Then touching the reason, which is built on the hope of support from patriotic
pride, we are almost ashamed to say, that the foreign opinion of our love of
country, is nearer the truth than we affected to believe in the foregoing
sentence. As for the last reason in favour of an American scene, we are fearful
that others are as familiar with their homes as we are ourselves, and that
consequently the very familiarity will breed contempt; besides, if we make any
mistakes every body will know it. Now we conceive the moon to be the most
elegible spot in which to lay the scene of a fashionable modern novel, for then
there would be but very few who could dispute the accuracy of the delineations;
and could we but have obtained the names of some conspicuous places in that
planet, we think we should have ventured on the experiment. It is true, that
when we suggested the thing to the original of our friend Cæsar, he obstinately
refused to sit any longer if his picture was to be transported to any such
heathenish place. We combatted the opinions of the black with a good deal of
pertinacity, until we discovered the old fellow suspected the moon to be
somewhere near Guinea, and that his opinion of the luminary was something like
European notions of our States--that it was not a fit residence for a
gentleman. But there is still another class of critics, whose smiles we most
covet, and whose frowns we most expect to encounter--we mean our own fair.
There are those who are hardy enough to say that women love novelty; and a
proper respect to our own reputation for discernment, compels us to abstain
from controverting this opinion. The truth is, that a woman is a bundle of
sensibilities, and these are qualities which exist chiefly in the fancy.
Certain moated castles, draw-bridges, and kind a of classic nature, are much
required by these imaginative beings. The artificial distinctions of life also
have their peculiar charms with the softer sex, and there are many of them who
think the greatest recommendation a man can have to their notice, is the
ability to raise themselves in the scale of genteel preferment; very many are
the French valets, Dutch barbers, and English tailors, who have received their
patents of nobility from the credulity of the American fair; and occasionally
we see a few of them, whirling in the vortex left by the transit of one of
these aristocratical meteors, across the plane of our confederation. In honest
truth, we believe, that one novel with a lord in it, is worth two without a
lord, even for the nobler sex--meaning us men. Charity forbids our insinuating
that any of our patriots respond to the longings of the other sex, with an
equal desire to bask in the sunshine of royal favour; and least of all, may we
venture to insinuate, that the longing generally exists in a ratio exactly
proportioned to the violence with which they lavish their abuse on the
institutions of their forefathers.--There is ever a reaction in human feelings,
and it was only when he found them unattainable, that Æsop makes the fox call
the grapes sour!
We would not be
understood as throwing the gauntlet to our fair countrywomen, by whose opinions
it is that we expect to stand or fall; we only mean to say, that if we have got
no lords and castles in the book, it is because there are none in the country.
We heard there was a noble within fifty miles of us, and went that distance to
see him, intending to make our hero look as much like him as possible; when we
brought home his description, the little gipsey, who set for Fanny, declared she
would’nt have him if he were a king. Then we travelled a hundred miles to see a
renowned castle to the east, but, to our surprise, found it had so many broken
windows, was such an out-door kind of a place, that we should be wanting in
Christian bowels to place any family in it during the cold months: in short, we
were compelled to let the yellow haired girl choose her own suitor, and lodge
the Whartons in a comfortable, substaintial, and unpretending cottage. We
repeat we mean nothing disrespectful to the fair--we love them next to
ourselves--our book--our money--and a few other articles. We know them to be
good-natured, good-hearted--ay, and good-looking hussies enough: and heartily
wish, for the sake of one of them, we were a lord, and had a castle in the
bargain.
We do not absolutely
aver, that the whole of our tale is true; but we honestly believe that a good
portion of it is; and we are very certain, that every passion recorded in the
volumes before the reader, has and does exist; and let us tell them that is
more than they can find in every book they read. We will go farther, and say
that they have existed within the county of West-Chester, in the State of
New-York, and United States of America, from which fair portion of the globe we
send our compliments to all who read our pages--and love to those who buy them.
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 traveller was seen pursuing his way through
one of the numerous little valleys of West-Chester. 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 traveller 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 age and
purposes required. Nothing, however, offered, but the small and inconvenient
tenements of the lower order of inhabitants, with whom, in that immediate
neighbourhood, he did not think it either safe or politic to trust himself.
The county of
West-Chester, after the British had obtained possession of the island of
New-York, 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 always 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 traveller, the mistress of the farm
house 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 mid-way in the
length of the county, and was sufficiently near to either army 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, with no inconsiderable addition for the temporary
use of his property.
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 traveller 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 very
humble exterior, without quitting his saddle. A female of middle age, with an
outward bearing but little more prepossessing than her dwelling, appeared to
answer to his 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,
sufficient had been seen to cause the horse-man to endeavour, 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, was interrupted, in a tone of reviving confidence, and an air of
pert volubility, as she replied, in a sharp key--
“I can’t say I like to
give lodgings to a stranger in these ticklish times; 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 further up the road, is a house, where you can get
entertainment, and that all for nothing-- I am sure ’twill be much convenienter
to them, and more agreeabler 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 unsteady courses, and settle
in life.--But Harvey Birch will have his own way, and die a vagabond after all.”
The horseman did not
wait to hear more than the advice to pursue his course up the road; but had
slowly turned his horse towards the bars, and was gathering the folds of an
ample cloak around him, preparatory to again facing the storm, when something
in the speech of the female suddenly arrested the movement.
“Is this, then, the
dwelling of Harvey Birch?” he inquired, in an apparently involuntary manner-- checking
himself, as he was about to utter more.
“Why, one can hardly
say it is his dwelling,” replied the other, drawing a breath somewhat between a
sigh and a groan; “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--no, not I;”--and she closed
the door abruptly on the horseman, who gladly extended his ride a half mile
further, to obtain lodgings, which promised both more comfort and greater
security.
Sufficient light yet
remained to enable the traveller to distinguish the improvements which had been
made in the cultivation, and 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 either extremity. A piazza, extending along the front,
with neatly turned pillars, together with the good order and preservation of
its fences and out buildings, gave it an air altogether superior to the common
farm houses of the country. After leading his horse behind an angle of the
wall, where he was in some degree protected from the wind and rain, the
traveller threw his valisse 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 traveller was shown
into an extremely neat parlour, where a fire had been lighted, to cheer the
dulness of an easterly storm, and an October evening. After giving the valisse
into the keeping of his civil attendant, and politely repeating his request to
the old gentleman who rose to receive him, and paying his compliments to the
three ladies who were seated at 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 party within, 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, quiet, thoughtful, and rather melancholy; the
mouth and lower part of his face 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 decidedly that of a gentleman, that as he finished laying aside
the garments, the ladies rose from their seats, and, together with the master
of the house, received anew, and returned, the complimentary greetings which
were again offered.
The host was by several
years the senior of the traveller, and by his manner, dress, and every thing
around him, showed he had seen much of life and the best society. The ladies
were--a maiden of forty, and two younger ones, who did not seem 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 affability in her deportment, that added a charm
many more juvenile faces do not possess. The sisters--for such the resemblance
between the younger maidens denoted them to be--were in all the pride of youth;
and the roses, so eminently the property of the West-Chester fair, glowed with
their richest colours on their cheeks, and lighted their deep blue eyes with
that lustre which gives so much pleasure to the beholder, and indicates so much
innocence and happiness in themselves. There was much of that feminine delicacy
in the appearance of the three, which, in a great degree, 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 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, with a formal bow--
“To who’s health am I
to have the honor of drinking?”
The traveller had also
seated himself, and sat, unconsciously gazing on the fire, when Mr. Wharton
spoke; turning his eyes slowly on his host, with a look of close observation,
he replied, bowing in his turn, while a faint tinge gathered on his pale
features--
“Mr. Harper.”
“Mr. Harper,” resumed
the other, with the formal precision of the day, “I have the honor to drink
your health, and hope you will sustain no injury from the rain to which you
have been exposed.”
Mr. Harper bowed in
silence to the compliment, and soon resumed the meditations from which he
appeared to have been interrupted.
The young ladies had
again taken their seats beside the work-stand, while their aunt, Miss Jeanette
Peyton, had withdrawn, 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, in the same polite, but formal manner, whether
smoke was disagreeable to his companion; to which he received as polite a
negative, and immediately resumed the pipe he had laid aside at the entrance of
the traveller.
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 of
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,” rejoined the other,
with his usual gravity.
“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 any communications with the city, however
innocent in themselves, 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 of the article, and
applied it to his tongue, in a manner perfectly natural, but one that filled
his companion with instant alarm. Without, however, observing that the quality
was of the most approved kind, the traveller 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 movements
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 pretence
of receiving a coal from his youngest daughter.
“None have reached the
public yet, I believe,” replied the traveller, crossing his leg with steady
composure.
“Is it thought any
important steps are about to be taken?” continued Mr. Wharton, still occupied
with his daughter, yet unconsciously suspending his employment, in expectation
of a reply.
“Is it intimated any
are in agitation?” inquired the other, evasively, and, in a slight degree,
adopting the affected indifference of Mr. Wharton’s manner.
“Oh! nothing in
particular,” said the host, hastily--“but it is natural to expect something,
you know, sir, from so powerful a force as the one under Rochambeau.”
Harper made an
assenting inclination with his head, but no other reply to this remark; while
Mr. Wharton resumed the subject, by saying--
“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; and then coloring
to the eyes at her own boldness, she employed herself in tumbling over the
contents of her work-basket, silently hoping her remark would be unnoticed.
The traveller 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 inquired of the younger sister, with much courtesy of manner--
“May I venture to ask,
what inference you 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, 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 naturally infantile
innocency of expression, as she concluded, in a voice, that shared in the
covert humour of the speaker.
“On what particular
points of prowess do you differ?” continued Harper, meeting her look of
animation with an open smile of almost paternal softness.
“Why, Sarah thinks the
British are never beaten; but I do not put so much faith in their invincibility.”--
The traveller listened
to her with that pleased indulgence, with which virtuous age loves to
contemplate the ardour 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
endeavoured to pierce the disguise of his guest’s political feelings; but,
while there was nothing forbidding in his countenance, there was nothing
communicative-- it was strikingly reserved; and the master of the house rose,
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 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 traveller, 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 alternate quickness,
from his guest to the door of the room, seemed to be expecting something to
proceed from this second interruption, which was 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 intruder 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 removed
dishes were replaced by the orders of Miss Peyton, and the weather-beaten
intruder invited to partake of the remains of the repast from which the party
had just risen. Throwing aside a rough great coat, he very composedly took the
offered chair, and gravely 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 Harpur, 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 new comer 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.”--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, 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 movements of the other; but appearing satisfied with his scrutiny,
he turned to Sarah Wharton, who sat next him, and remarked, with much suavity--
“You doubtless find
your present abode solitary, after being accustomed to the gaieties 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 maid, 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 lovely
smiles of intelligence, “but, not at the expence 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
loves the British, so sides with neither.”
“Yes,” said Mr.
Wharton, in a little alarm, eyeing 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
misfortune to myself.”
“I take it, you have
little reason to apprehend much from the Yankees in that way,” cried the guest
at the table, abruptly, as he coolly helped 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, 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 traveller withdrew. The knife and fork fell
from the hands of the unwelcome intruder, as the door closed on the retreating
figure of Harper;--he rose 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, 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, which had made him appear fifty years of age, disappeared.
“My father!--my dear
father”--cried the now 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 both his
sisters sunk on his shoulders, dissolved in tears.
The faithful old black,
who had been reared from infancy in the house of his present master, and who,
as if in mockery of his degraded state, had been complimented with the name of
Cæsar, 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 kiss, and leaving on it a tear, Cæsar withdrew. The body did
not re-enter the room; and the black himself, after some time, returned, as the
young British captain exclaimed--
“But, who is this Mr.
Harper?--is he likely to betray me?”
“No--no--no--Massa
Harry,” cried the African, shaking his head confidently, “I been to see-- Massa
Harper on his knees--pray to God--no gentleman who pray to God, tell of good
son, come to see old father--Skinner do that--no christian.”
This poor opinion of
the Skinners was not confined to Mr.--Cæsar Thompson, as he called himself--but
Cæsar 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 neighbourhood 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 power, which 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 relieving their fellow citizens from
any little excess of temporal prosperity, they might be thought to enjoy, under
the pretence of patriotism, and the love of liberty.
Occasionally, the aid
of military authority was not wanting, in enforcing these salutary
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 unfrequently, 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. This corps--we presume, from their known affection to that useful
animal--had received the significant appellation of “Cow-Boys.”
Cæsar 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 Cow-Boys, therefore, did not receive their proper portion of the
severity of the black’s remark, when he said, no Christian--nothing but a “Skinner,”
could betray a pious child, while honoring his father with a visit, full of
peril, and the danger of captivity.
The rose of England bloom’d
on Gertrude’s cheek--
What though these
shades had seen her birth, her sire
A Briton’s Independence
taught to seek
Far Western worlds; and
there his household fire
The light of social
love did long inspire,
And many a huleyon day
he liv’d to see
Unbroken, but by one
misfortune dire,
When fate had reft his
mutual heart--but she
Was gone--and Gertrude
climb’d a widow’d 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 his situation, had settled permanently in
the country. He married, and the sole issue of his connexion 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 very ample estate.
It was much the fashion
of that day, to place the youth, of certain families, in the army or 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 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, had interfered with his wishes.
A twelvemonth had been
spent by the young man, in weighing the advantages of the different description
of troops, among which he was to serve, 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 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 re-inforcements 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 re-union
of her family, before the revolution burst forth, in a continued blaze, from
Georgia to Maine. 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 sunk under the blow.
There was no part of
the continent where the manners of England, and its aristocratic 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 measure, with the English manners;
but still the latter prevailed. This was increased by the frequent
inter-marriages of the officers of the mother country, with the wealthier and
more powerful families of the vicinity, until, at the commencement of
hostilities, their united influence had very nearly thrown the colony into the
scales, 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 and republican form of government.
The city of New-York,
and the adjacent territory, were alone exempted from the rule of the new
commonwealth; and 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 consequence, adopted such measures, as best accorded with their
different characters and situations. Many bore arms in support of the ancient
laws; and, by their bravery and exertion, endeavoured to secure what they
deemed the rights of their prince, and their own estates from confiscation.
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 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 theatre 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 unpardo able offence in the existing state of things, and instantly
determined to remove the difficulty by retiring to the country. He possessed a
convenient residence in the county of West-Chester, 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
eclat--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 her opinions
were entitled to profound 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 to him of a wife he had adored, but in obedience to a constitutional
prudence that pleadly loudly in behalf of his wordly 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, in
common with those, of every other family, 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, forbid any
apprehension of the latter danger to the young ladies; but it was impossible
for all the admiration, bestowed on the fine figure and lovely face of Sarah
Wharton, to 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 humour Whether it was, 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 vapourings
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 sceptical on the subject of her countrymen’s inefficiency.
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 some little resentment.
It was on a hot sultry
day, the three were sitting in the parlour of Mr. Wharton’s house, the Coloned
and Sarah, seated on a sofa, engaged in one of their combats of the eyes, aided
by no little flow of small talk, and Frances, 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 gaiety.”
Frances shook back the
abundance of her golden hair, and raised from the work her eyes, dancing with
the ardor of her national feeling, and laughing, with a kind of concealed
humour, as she asked--
“Is it then so certain,
that General Burgoyne will be permitted to reach the city?”
“Permitted!” echoed the
Colonel, in affected surprise; “who is there to prevent it, if he wishes it
himself, my pretty Miss Fanny?”
Frances was at
precisely 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
rather too familiar to be relished; and she dropped her eyes on her work again,
with cheeks that glowed with crimson, as she continued very gravely--
“General Stark took the
Germans into custody --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 humour, 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, endeavouring to laugh away the anger
he felt; “what you are pleased to insinuate as a chase at Lexington, was
nothing more than a judicious retreat--a--kind of--”
“Running--fight,”
interrupted the good-humoured girl, laying 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, and, by his smiling countenance, evidently a pleased
listener to the foregoing 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 yet
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, he 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, Miss Wharton, if you are the grand-daughter of an Englishman,
you are, also, the grand-daughter of a Peyton.”
“Oh!” returned the
laughing girl, “it would be difficult to forget that, with the constant
lectures on genealogy before me, with which aunt Jeanette favours me--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, and 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 elegant and 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’s,” 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, showing 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 Freneh 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 had elapsed after this scene
occurred, and the army of Burgoyne laid down their arms. Mr. Wharton, beginning
to think the result of the contest to be doubtful, resolved to conciliate his
countrymen, and gratify himself, by taking 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
had made any movements, Capt. Wharton had, of course, accompanied it; and once
or twice, under the protection of strong parties, acting in the neighbourhood
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 an unknown and rather suspicious guest was the inmate of a house,
that seldom contained any others than its regular inhabitants.
“But, do you think he
suspects me?” asked the captain, with anxiety, after pausing to listen to Cæsar’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 picquets were out at 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 received by yourself, not a year ago, for
sending me a supply of fruit for the winter.”
“That proceeded from
the misrepresentations of my kind neighbours,” 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 mouth.”--
“We!” repeated the son,
in amazement, “did they take my sisters also?--Fanny, you wrote me nothing of
this.”
“I believe,” said
Frances, colouring highly, “I mentioned the kind treatment 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 bonny sister?” cried the Captain, gaily;--“Did Peyton strive to make
you hate your king, more than he does himself?”
“Peyton Dunwoodie hates
no one,” said Frances, quickly; and, 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 shrewd 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
superintendance.
’Twas when the fields
were swept of autumn’s store,
And growling winds the
finding follage tore,
Behind the Lowmon hill,
the short-liv’d light,
Descending slowly,
usher’d in the night;
When from the noisy
town, with mournful look,
His lonely way a meagre
pedlar took.
Wilson
A storm below the
highlands of the Hudson, if 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 forbad 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 upon 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 other communications passed between
him and the stranger, after the first salutations of the morning had been paid
to him by Harper, in common with the rest of the family. Frances had, indeed,
thought there was something like a smile passing over the features of the
traveller, 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
peculiar grace, one of the little civilities of the table; and the heart of the
maiden, 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, Cæsar 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, but profoundly respectful.
“What is this Cæsar?”
inquired Mr. Wharton, turning the bundle over in examination of its envelope,
and eyeing it rather suspiciously.
“The ’baccy, sir;
Harvey Birch, he got home, and 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
bought 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 its impenetrable reserve.
To Sarah Wharton, this
intelligence gave unexpected pleasur; rising from her seat, with impatience,
she bid the black shew Birch into the apartment; when, suddenly recollecting
herself, she turned to the traveller with an apologizing look, and added, “if
Mr. Harper will excuse the presence of a pedlar.”
The indulgent
benevolence expressed in the countenance of the stranger, as he bowed in 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 panneled work; and the rich damask
curtains, that had ornamented the parlour in Queen-street, 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
pedlar 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 supposed
to be 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
fortunes 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 valc, and, purchasing the humble
dwelling at which Harper had made his unsuccessful application, continued
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
of consideration in the neighbourhood, 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 Birch’s.
Necessity is a hard master-- 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 skill, she had not lived in the family but five years when she
triumphantly declared, that she had heard, or rather over heard, sufficient 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
seemed comparatively easy. From the private conversations of the parent and
child, she learnt 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 threatning 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 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 had
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
fire-place 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 hearth-stones, 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 pedlar, who seized on the golden opportunity
which the interruption to 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 were not long, though frequent; and his escapes from
the guardians of the law comparatively easy, 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 neighbourhood 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 seemed to interfere with the
pursuits of this indefatigable trader; and, with a view to dispose of certain
articles which could only find purchasers in the very wealthiest families of
the county, he had now braved the fury of the tempest, for 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, Cæsar reappeared, ushering into
the apartment the subject of the foregoing digression. In person, the pedlar
was a man of 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 feathers. His eyes were gray--sunken, restless, and, for the
flitting moments that they dwelt on the countenances of those with whom he conversed,
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 remarks, that were 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 apparent 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 pedlar 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 varied articles it contained. The
tables, chairs, and floor, were soon covered with silks, crapes, gloves,
muslins, and all the stock of an itinerant trader. Cæsar was employed to hold
open the mouth of the pack, as its hordes were discharged, and occasionally
aided his young lady, by directing her admiration to some articles of finery,
which, from their deeper contrast in colours, 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 pedlar, burying his body in the pack, brought forth a
quantity of lace of exquisite fineness, and, holding it up to view, 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 colour that shamed the damask, which enviously concealed her figure.
The aunt quitted her
employment; and Birch soon disposed of a large portion of this 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 into the state of the clouds, while the
pedlar, finding a reply was expected, answered slowly--
“There is some talk
below about Tarleton having defeated General Sumpter, on the Tyger river.”
Captain Wharton now
involuntarily thrust his head between the opening of the curtains into the
room; and Frances, in turning her ear, in breathless silence, noticed the quiet
eyes of Harper looking at the pedlar, over the book he was affecting to read,
with an expression that denoted him a listener of no ordinary interest.
“Indeed!” cried the
exulting Sarah, “Sumpter--Sumpter--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 pedlar
hesitated; his eye glanced towards Harper, who was yet gazing on him in 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, returned to his goods, and replied in a more lively tone--
“He lives somewhere
among the negroes to the south.”
“No more negur than be
yourself, Mister Birch,” interrupted Cæsar tartly, and dropping the covering of
the goods in high displeasure.
“Hush, Cæsar--hush--never
mind it now,” said Sarah Wharton soothingly, waiting with impatience to hear
further.
“A black man as good as
white, Miss Sally,” continued the offended African, “so long he behave himself.”
“And frequently much
better,” rejoined his mistress; “but, Harvey, who is this Mr. Sumpter?”
A slight indication of
humour shewed itself on the face of the pedlar, as he continued--“As I was
saying, he lives among the coloured people in the south,”--Cæsar resumed his
occupation--“and has lately had a skirmish with this Colonel Tarleton.”--
“Who defeated him of
course,” cried Sarah, with confidence.
“So say the troops at
Morrisania,” returned the other laconically.
“But what do you say?”
Mr. Wharton ventured to inquire, yet speaking involuntarily 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 any
further purchases.
“They say, however, at
the Plains,” the pedlar continued, after first throwing his eyes again round
the room, and letting them rest for an instant on Harper, “that Sumpter and one
or two more were all that were hurt, and that the rig’lers 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
pedlar 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 eye 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 the pedlar had never before witnessed--
“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 Sumpter?” said Mr. Wharton, affecting to
be employed in mending the cup, broken by the eagerness of his sister-in-law.
“I believe they think
so at Morrisania,” said Birch drily.
“Have you any other
news, friend?” asked Captain Wharton, venturing to thrust his face without the
curtains again.
“Have you heard that
Major André has been hung?” inquired the pedlar with emphasis, in reply.
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 five weeks ago.”
“Does his execution
make much noise?” asked the father, striving to make the broken china unite.
“People will talk, you
know, Squire,” returned the pedlar, exhibiting his goods respectfully to the
young ladies.
“Is there any
probability of movements below, my friend, that will make travelling dangerous?”
asked Harper, looking steadily at the other, in expectation of his reply.
Some bunches of ribbons
fell from the hand 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,”
said the pedlar, giving his attention to his trade again.
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. The maid 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 colour
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.”
Cæsar had now selected
a piece of calico, in which the colours of yellow and red were contrasted on a
white ground; and after admiring it for several minutes, laid it down with a
sigh, as he exclaimed, “very pretty calico!”
“That,” said Sarah; “yes,
that would make a proper gown for your wife, Cæsar.”
“Yes, Miss Sally,”
cried the delighted black, “make old Dinah heart leap for joy--so very genteel.”
“Yes,” added the pedlar
quaintly, “that would make Dinah look like a rainbow.”
Cæsar eyed his young
mistress eagerly, until, laying it down with a smile, she inquired the price of
Harvey.
“Why, much as I light
of chaps,” said the pedlar.
“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 Cæsar, dropping the opening of the pack
again.
“We will say three
then,” added the pedlar, “if you like that better.”
“Be sure, like’em
better”--said Cæsar smiling good humouredly, re-opening the pack--“Miss Sally
like a three 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
pedlar, who conscientiously added a ribbon of corresponding brilliancy with the
calico, and Cæsar 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 pedlar, who had begun to collect his scattered goods, at what time he had
left the city.
“At early twilight,”
was the answer.
“So lately!” cried the
other in surprise; and then correcting his manner, by assuming a more guarded
air, he continued--“Could you pass the picquets 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 archly on the pedlar.
“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
he had expended so much labour in endeavouring to mend; when, observing the
pedlar 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 pedlar, raising himself erect, and giving the other a look,
before which the eyes of Mr. Wharton sunk in instant confusion.
“All are enemies who
disturb our peace,” said Miss Peyton, observing her brother 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 Cæsar made his appearance,
attended by his delighted spouse.
The race of blacks of
which Cæsar 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, or 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 Cæsar had acquired from age a colouring of gray, that
added greatly to the venerable cast of his appearance. Long and uninterrupted
applications of the comb had straightened the close curls of his forehead, until
they stood erect in a stiff and formal precision, that gave at least two inches
to his stature. The shining black of his youth had lost its glistening hue, and
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--his nostrils being abundantly capacious, without thrusting
themselves in the way of their neighbours. His mouth capacious to a fault, that
was only tolerated on account of the double row of pearls it contained. In
person Cæsar was short, and we would say square, had not all the angles and
curves of his figure bid defiance to any thing like mathematical symmetry. His
arms were long and muscular, and terminated by two bony hands, that exhibited
on one side, a colouring of blackish gray, and on the other a faded pink. It
was in his legs that nature had indulged in her most capricious humours. There
was an abundance of the material, but it had been 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, Cæsar had no cause of complaint, unless, indeed, it might
be that the leg was placed so near the centre, 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 Cæsar Thompson was
in the right place, and, we doubt not, of very just dimensions.
Accompanied by his
ancient companion, Cæsar 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
took the hard and wrinkled hand of her nurse into her own; and, 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 Cæsar followed the
pedlar and his wife 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 old father--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 sometime after the distance had made his words indistinct.
Harper had dropped his
book, and 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 expression which
characterizes all the best feelings of the human heart.
“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 moulded in such
just degrees,
His giant-strength
seems lightsome case,
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 several minutes after the pedlar withdrew. 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 he 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 inward satisfaction at her
possessing so large a portion of the trader’s lace-- Sarah was busily occupied
in arranging her purchases, and Frances was kindly assisting her in the
occupation, disregarding her own neglected bargains for the moment, 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 sunk
into her seat colourless 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 stupified; 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 under the roof of
my father. Yet I am at a loss to conceive in what manner you 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 mantle-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 canvass
than in masquerade--you must be a close observer, sir!”
“Necessity has made me
one,” said Harper mildly, 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.”
Foran instant Harper
paused in silent admiration of the lovely pleader, and then, folding her hands
on his breast, 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 to
his apartment.
The whole party were
deeply impressed with the ingenuous and solemn manner of the traveller, 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 younger 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
gaily, “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 rumour 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-humour 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, endeavouring 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,” cried Frances, with a laugh.
“Nay, Frances,”
returned her sister, “Colonel Wellmere was never a favorite with you--he is too
loyal to his King to be agreeable to your taste.”
Frances took the hand
of her sister, as she said-- “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 endeavoured to extricate herself from the grasp of her
laughing brother.
“It surprizes me,”
continued the Captain, “that Peyton, when he procured the release of my father,
did not endeavour to detain my sister in the rebel camp.”
“That might have
endangered his own liberty,” said the maid, smiling archly, and 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,” returned the other good-humouredly.
“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 some one else, if
you wish to learn such matters.”
“Ah!” returned the
maid, looking playfully at her aunt, “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.”
“Nonsence--my
dear--nonsense,” said the aunt, endeavouring to suppress a smile; “it is very
silly to believe all you hear.”
“Nonsense! do you call
it,” cried the captain gaily; “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,” returned the lady; “and to break in upon your folly, I
must take you to see my new home-made manufactures in contrast with the finery
of Birch.”
The young people rose
to follow their aunt, in perfect good humour with each other and the world. On
ascending the stairs to the place of deposit for Miss Peyton’s articles of
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 that we make, as we advance in life, that none of us are 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, it is
that 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
sprung, in its younger members, from the delights of the most confiding
affection, and the exchange of the most disinterested endearments.
Harper appeared only at
the dinner table, and retired with the cloth, under the pretence of some
engagements 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 to
his leave of absence, and the danger of a discovery.
All dread of
consequences, however, were 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 united with her brother and sister in pleading warmly in
favor of the sincerity expressed in the outward appearance of the traveller.
“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 Andre 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 in torrents 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,”--the paleness of the maid gradually gave place to the colour 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,” she continued with a smile, “are proverbially ungovernable.”--
“And you might add
cruel, from my conduct,” 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 doubt the impropriety 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 use 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 there is
something like it, indeed, child,” replied Miss Peyton with a smile, “in his
last letter to me.”
“Yes, 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 colour, and rising, under the
pretence of avoiding the heat of the fire.
Nothing occurred of any
moment during the rest of the day; but in the evening Cæsar reported that he
had overheard voices in the room of Harper, conversing in a low tone. The
apartment occupied by the traveller was the wing at the extremity of the
building, opposite to the parlor in which the family ordinarily assembled; and
it seems, that Cæsar 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
Cæsar 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 incredible
fury: in that direction all was 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, the maid, with delight pictured
in her face, saw a glorious ray of sunshine lighting on the opposite wood. The
foliage glittered with the chequered beauties of the October leaf--reflecting
back from the moistened boughs the richest lustre 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 and vapory clouds were still rushing towards the
east with amazing velocity; while in the west the sun had broken forth in all
his majesty, and shed his parting radiance on the scene below, aided by the
fullest richness of a clear atmosphere and 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
him, alone heard the voice--turning in amazement from the view to the speaker,
she saw him standing bare headed, erect, and with his eyes 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 pale
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 pedlar. 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 now approached the
piazza, with a gait peculiarly his own--the quick, lengthened pace of a vender
of goods.
“Fine evening,” said
the pedlar, 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 pedlar turned his body from the view of
most of the family; but Frances noticed his glistening eyes and quivering lips,
and, for the second time, Harvey rose in the estimation of the maid.
The valley in which was
the residence of Mr. Wharton ran in a direction from North-west to South-east,
and the house stood 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 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 succeed a tempest, while the light air from the South-west 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 pedlar. 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.
The juices of the tobacco soon disfigured the floor of Miss Peyton--he moved
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.”
Those ten whale boats
would not move so fast,” answered Birch drily, “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 pedlar with great 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 under tone-- “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
pedlar 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 Cæsar appeared
leading the noble beast which was to bear the weight of the traveller. The
pedlar officiously assisted to tighten the girths, and fasten the blue cloak
and valisse to the mail straps.
Every preparation 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
maid felt her cheeks glow and 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 learnt 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 pedlar 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 eye of the pedlar
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 pedlar, fixing a last and lingering look on
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 pedlar gave each piece in
succession a ring on the stepping-stone to the piazza, before he consigned it
to the safe keeping of a huge deer-skin 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 pedlar rose from his
seat on the floor of the piazza, and approached 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 pedlar, 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
in a low tone, “jesting on such a subject is cruel.”
“I rather guess,”
continued the pedlar 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 pedlar drily.
Both the sisters now
turned to the captain in alarm, and the elder observed--
“You had better take
the advice of Harvey-- rest assured, brother, 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, require you to listen to him now.”
“I brought myself out,
and can take myself in,” said the captain positively; “our bargain went no
farther than to procure my disguise, and let me know when the coast was clear,
and in the latter particular you were mistaken, Mr. Birch.”
“I was,” said the
pedlar with some interest, “and the greater is the reason why you should get
back to night--the pass I gave you will serve you but once.”
“Cannot you forge
another?”
The pale cheek of the
trader showed an unusual colour, but he continued silent, with his eyes fixed
to the ground, until the young man added with great positiveness--“here I stay
this night, come what will.”
“Captain Wharton,” said
the pedlar with great deliberation and marked emphasis, “beware a tall
Virginian, with huge whiskers--he is below you yo my knowledge; the devil can’t
deceive him; I never could but once myself.”
“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; “Cæsar! pen, ink, and paper, while I write a
discharge for my trusty attendant, Harvey Birch, pedlar, &c. &c.”
The implements for
writing were produced, and the captain, with great gaiety, wrote the desired
acknowledgment in language of his own; which the pedlar took, and, carefully
depositing it by the side of the images 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 despatched Cæsar to desire another
interview with Harvey. The black soon returned with the unwelcome intelligence
that it was now too late. Katy had told him Harvey must be miles on his road to
the northward, having left home at early candle light, with his pack. Nothing
now remained to the captain but patience, until the morning afforded 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,” said the captain, smiling significantly.
“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 villany.”
“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 her sister
exultingly, “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 to his king.”
“Then,” said the
father, “you cannot be safe while in his power--for no love will withstand the
temptation of money when offered to avarice.”
“Surely, sir,” cried
the youth, recovering his gaiety, “there must be one love that can resist any
thing--is there not Fanny?”
“Here is your candle,”
said the distressed maiden: “you keep your father up beyond his usual hour.”
Through Solway sands,
through Taross most,
Blindfold, he knew the
paths to cross;
By wily turns, by
desperate bounds,
Had bafiled 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 fearful
anticipation of some interruption to their ordinary quiet. This uneasiness kept
the sisters from enjoying their usual repose, and they rose from their bed on
the following morning, unrefreshed, and almost without closing 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
fall of the leaf; and which, by their frequency, class the American autumn with
the most delightful seasons in other countries. We have no spring---vegetation
here 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 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 consequent happiness.
The family were early
in assembling around their breakfast table; and Miss Peyton, with a little of
that minute precision which creeps into the habits of single life, had
pleasantly insisted 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 Cow-Boys.”
“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 favourite sister, and tapping her
cheek; “did you see banners in the clouds, and mistake Miss Peyton’s Æolian
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 Cæsar, 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, exclaimed, as he
stood gazing from one of the windows--
“Run--massa
Harry--run--if love old Cæsar, run--here come the rebel horse,” added the
black, with a face that approached to something like the hues of a white man.
“Run!” repeated the
British officer, gathering himself up in an air of military pride; “no, Mr. Cæsar,
running is not my trade”--while speaking, he walked deliberately to the window,
where the family were already collected in the greatest consternation.
At a distance of more
than a mile, about fifty dragoons were to be seen, winding down one of the
lateral entrances to 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 round 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 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 advanced 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 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 Cæsar, in expectation of some apprehended
danger.
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, approached the outer door of the building, which was slowly and
reluctantly opened for his admission by Cæsar. The heavy tread of the trooper,
as he followed the black to the door of the parlor, rung 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 all feeling.
A man whose colossal
stature manifested the possession of vast strength, entered the room, and
removing his cap, 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, unstained with the 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 not 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;” answered the agitated parent, unable to look his interrogator in the
face.
“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.”
“Me!” exclaimed the
captain in surprise; “I have no cold in my head.”
“I fancied it then,
from seeing you had covered such handsome auburn locks with that ugly old wig,”
rejoined the stranger; “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 found 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, he proceeded, turning to the
father--
“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, sir--I had forgotten;
but he is gone; and if there be any thing 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. On gaining the
lawn they noticed the dragoon in earnest, and apparently pleased conversation
with his two subalterns. In a few moments orders were given to some of the
troop, 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 the scene, was
shortly terminated; for the heavy tread of the dragoon soon announced his
second approach. He bowed again politely as he re-entered the room, and walking
up to Captain Wharton, said, with comic gravity--
“Now, sir, my principal
business 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 sir,” returned the dragoon; “I prefer your
auburn 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 that
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 his cheek free from blemish.
“Upon my word, sir, 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 he 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 new comer 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 conscious pride
that disdained further concealment, and cried, 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 picquets 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 Peeks-kill, and near the Highlands, or
surely I would not have ventured.”
“All this may be very
true,” said Lawton musing; “but the affair of André has made us on the alert.
When treason reaches to the grade of general officers, Captain Wharton, it
behoves the friends of liberty to be vigilant.”
Henry bowed to this
remark in distant silence, and 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, answered mildly--
“I am not the commander
of the party, madam; Major Dunwoodie will decide what must be done with your
brother; and, at all events, he will receive nothing but kind and gentle
treatment.
“Dunwoodie!” exclaimed
Frances, with a face in which the roses contended with the paleness of
apprehension for the mastery; “thank God! then Henry is safe.”
Lawton regarded her
with a mingled expression of pity and admiration, then shaking his head,
doubtingly, continued--
“I hope so; and with
your permission we will leave the matter for his decision.”
The colour 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
immoveably 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,” he
continued, contracting his lips, and looking droll, as he turned to Mr.
Wharton, “some private reasons may exist to make a visit particularly
unpleasant.”
“I shall always be
happy to see Major Dunwoodie,” said the father hastily, overhearing the
soliloquy of the trooper.
“Oh! doubtless, sir,”
said the other dryly; “he is a general favorite--may I presume on it so far as
to ask leave to dismount and refresh my men, who compose 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 the necessity of the
case, and gave such orders as would facilitate the wishes of Captain Lawton.
The officers were
politely invited to take their morning’s repast at the family breakfast table,
and having first 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 partizan. The patroles were seen on the distant
hills, taking their protecting circuit around their comrades, who were
enjoying, in the midst of dangers, a security that can only spring from the
indifference of habit, and the watchfulness of discipline.
The addition to the
party at Mr. Wharton’s table was in number only three--and these were all of
them men who, under the rough exterior of actual and arduous service, concealed
the manners of the highest class of society. 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 modesty to do proper honours to the hospitality of Mr. Wharton.
At length, Captain
Lawton suspended for a moment his violent attacks on the buck-wheat cakes, to
inquire of the master of the house, if there was not a pedlar of the name of
Birch who lived in the valley at times?
“At times only, I
believe, sir,” replied Mr. Wharton quickly; “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 neighbour; he must be quite domestic, sir--and to the ladies it must
be somewhat inconvenient--I doubt not but 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 around the room.
The two subalterns
smiled on each other significantly, 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 to say--
“I had a wish to break
this Mr. Birch of his unsocial habits, and gave him a call this morning-- 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 guard-room,” said
the trooper drily.
“What is the offence of
poor Birch?” asked Miss Peyton, handing the dragoon a fourth dish of coffee.
“Poor!” cried the
captain; “if he is poor-- John Bull must pay him ill.”
“Yes, indeed,” said one
of the subalterns, “king George 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 neighbour 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 a very
pretty ornament, suspended from one of those locusts before his own door,”
added the lieutenant coolly.
“Never mind,” continued
the captain emphatically, “I will have him yet before I’m a major.”
As the language of
these officers appeared to flow from the strength of their feelings, 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 harrassed by the American officers. His escapes from their hands, not
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 pedlar, 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 head quarters 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 to the American camp, he
despatched Captain Lawton in pursuit of the suspected pedlar.
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 farm house for the purposes of refreshment, and the
prisoner been 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 pedlar were 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 pedlar had been secured, was also open.
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 this exploit of his prisoner, yet
mechanically pursuing the business before him, until after sufficient time had
past 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, where similarity of language, appearance and
customs, rendered prudence doubly necessary, was omitted by this 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
in his charger, and in a moment was by the side of his commander.
The ground in front of
the cottage was again occupied by the horse; and the same precautions observed
as before, the newly arrived troops hastened to participate in the cheer
prepared for their comrades.
“Prepare thy soul,
young Azim! thou hast brav’d
The bands of Greece,
still mighty though enslav’d;
Hast fac’d her phalanx,
arm’d with all its fame,
Her Macedonian pikes
and globes of flame;
All this hast fronted,
with firm heart and brow,
But a more perilous
trial waits thee now--
Woman’s bright eyes,” *
* * *
* * * * “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 gathered around a window, deeply interested in the scene we
have related.
Sarah viewed the
approach of her countrymen with a smile of contemptuous indifference for the
persons and 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 an intensity of interest that
absorbed all other considerations.
The two parties had not
yet joined, before her quickly glancing eyes distinguished one horseman in
particular from those around him. 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
gracefully in his saddle, with a firmness and ease that showed him master of
both himself and horse--his figure united the just proportions of strength and
activity, being tall, round, and muscular. It was to this officer Lawton made
his report, and side by side they rode into the field opposite to the cottage.
The heart of the maiden
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 in the distance between them--her colour changed, and for an instant, as
she saw the youth throw himself from his saddle, Frances was compelled to seek
relief to 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.--Fanny 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 colour, was left untortured to fall in the
natural ringlets of her infancy, and shaded a face which was glowing with the
united charms of health, youth, and artlessness--her eyes spake 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 interest to her appearance that for a moment chained her lover in silence
to the spot.
Frances silently led
the way into the vacant parlour 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 am happy too
in being able to see you alone.--Frances, the probation you have decreed to my
love is cruel--war and distance may shortly separate us forever.”
“We must submit to the
necessity which governs us,” said the maid, losing the glow of excitement in a
more melancholy feeling. “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 may 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.”
“Dear Dunwoodie,” said
Frances, softening nearly to tears, and again extending her hand to him, as the
richness of her colour gradually returned, “you know my sentiments--this war
once ended, and you may take that hand for ever--but I never can 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 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, as a spy, by himself this very morning?”
continued Frances, in a voice barely audible, and fixing on her lover a look of
the deepest and most anxious interest.
“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 endeavoured 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 bother--to an ignominious death.”
“Frances!” exclaimed
the young man in agony, “what can I do--what can I do?”
“Do!” repeated the
maid, 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 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 loved me.”
“I do--I do”--interrupted
the soldier with fervor; but the maid, motioning with her hand for silence,
continued, in a voice that trembled with her emotions,
“Do you think I can
throw myself in the arms of a man whose hands are stained with the blood of my
only brother?”
“Frances!” exclaimed
the major in agony. “you wring my very heart;” then pausing for a moment to
struggle with his feelings, he endeavoured 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 which can be gathered from its indulgence. It is when we
are most worthy of confidence ourselves, that we are least apt to distrust, and
what we think ought to be, we are fond to think will.
The half-formed
expectations of the young soldier were communicated to the desponding sister
more by the eye than the voice, and she rose quickly from her chair with a
returning crimson to her cheeks, as she cried--
“Oh! there can be no
just grounds to doubt it: I knew--I knew--Dunwoodie, you would never desert us
in the hour of our greatest need.” The violence of her feelings conquered, and
the agitated girl burst into 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 woman who leaned on his shoulder, as he
wiped the traces of her agitated feelings 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 into the
opposite room, to communicate to her family the pleasing intelligence which she
already conceived as certain.
Dunwoodie followed her
reluctantly, and with dreadful 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 approaching trial with firmness.
The salutations of the
young men were cordial and sincere, 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 maid 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, with an air of fixed resolution, 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?” inquired the Major quickly.
“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--it
was our awkwardness that led to his discovery.”
The countenance of
Dunwoodie brightened, as, turning his eyes in fond admiration on the lovely
speaker, he heard her explanation, and he added--
“Probably some articles
of your own, 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
disguising me in my return this very day.”
The appalled Frances
shrunk back from between her brother and lover, where her ardent feelings had
carried her, as the whole truth glanced over her mind, and sunk into a seat,
gazing wildly on the young men who stood before her.
“But the picquets--the
party at the plains”-- added Dunwoodie, turning pale.
“I passed them too in
disguise,” continued Wharton, proudly; “I made use of this pass for which I
paid; and, as it bears the name of Washington, I presume 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?”
“That is a question, I
conceive, Major Dunwoodie has no right to ask,” said the other, distantly.
“Your pardon, sir,”
returned the American officer; “my feelings may have led me into an
impropriety.”
Mr. Wharton, who had
been a deeply interested auditor to the conversation, 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,” said the prisoner haughtily, moving towards his
father, and speaking to him in a low tone.
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 intense interest: 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 re-entered 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 every thing but imprudence. Our country can sustain no wrong;”
again she paused, and almost gasped for breath; her colour 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 under tone, “I have promised,
Dunwoodie, when peace is 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 maid had in her ardour extended towards him, and
pressed it for a moment to his bosom; then rising from his seat, paced the room
in excessive agitation, as he exclaimed--
“Frances--say no
more--I conjure you, unless you wish to break my heart.”
“You then reject my
offered hand?” said the maid, with an air of offended delicacy, rising with
dignity, though her pale cheek and quivering lip plainly showed the conflicting
passions within.
“Reject it!” cried her
lover with enthusiasm; “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 dishonour us both. Yet hope for better things. Henry
must be acquitted--perhaps not tried. No intercession of mine will be wanting,
you must well know; and believe me, Frances, I am not without favour with
Washington.”
“That very paper, that
abuse of his confidence, to which you alluded, will steel him to my brother’s
sufferings. If threats or entreaties could move his stern sense of justice,
would André have suffered?” said the maid despairingly, as she flew from the
room to conceal the violence of her emotions.
Dunwoodie remained for
a minute nearly stupified, with the distress of his mistress and the pain of
his own feelings; and then followed, with a view to vindicate himself and
relieve her apprehensions. On entering the hall that divided the two parlours,
he was met by a small ragged boy, who looked one moment at his dress; and
placing a piece of paper in his hands in silence, 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 labour, he was able to make out as
follows:--
“The rig’lars are at
hand, horse and foot.”
Dunwoodie started; and
forgetting every thing in the duties of a soldier, 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, rung 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 his saddle, eyeing 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 the Virginia horse are between them and the end
of their journey.”
The videttes and
patroles now came pouring in, each making in succession his hasty report to the
commanding officer, who gave his orders cooly, 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 an 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 through the intervening object; 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 ardour began to show itself on his sun-burnt
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
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 near two hundred.
There was also a small body of mounted 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 a comparatively easy task. Those long lines of heavy and durable walls,
which now sweep through every part of the county, 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 in the divisions of
estates, 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 these 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 prominencies into its bosom, lessening the width to half its 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 his enemy. Dunwoodie knew his man, and
had selected the Captain to lead 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, for her future union with a rebel, was as
much extracted by the increasing necessity which existed for his obtaining
republican support, than 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 denoted his imbecility of character.
Far different were the
feelings of his son. Captain Wharton had been left in the keeping of two
dragoons; one of whom marched to and fro 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, for the ability he had displayed, and some fearful anticipations of
the consequences to his 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
ardour 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 the shedding of blood seemed approaching,
when, with the timidity of their sex, they sought the retirement of an inner
room. Not so Frances--she had returned to the apartment where she had left
Dunwoodie, and, from one of its windows, been a deeply interested spectator of
all his movements. The wheelings of the troops, the deadly preparations, had
all been unnoticed; the maid 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 gracefully, and with admirable
skill, through his ranks, evidently 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 soon prove the means of placing the grave between her
and the object of her regard. Frances gazed until she could gaze no longer.
In a field on the left
of the cottage, and at a short distance in the rear of the troops, were a small
group, whose occupations seemed to differ from 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 segar, a book, and the incidents of the field
before him. To this party Frances determined to convey a note, directed to
Dunwoodie. She wrote hastily, with a pencil, “Come to me, Peyton, if it be but
for a moment;” and Cæsar 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 it might be forwarded to Major
Dunwoodie. It was the surgeon of the horse to whom Cæsar 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 on the page continued
his occupation. Cæsar 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, with great deliberation--
“Harkee, blacky, if you
quit the house again without my knowledge, I will shave off one of those ebony
ears with this razor.”
Thus assailed in
another member, Cæsar hastily retreated into his kitchen, muttering something,
in which the words “Skinner, and rebel rascal,” formed a principal part of his
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 now sobbing maid, “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 fire arms, and the thundering
tread of the horses had ceased.
In peace, there’s
nothing so becomes a man,
As modest stillness,
and humility:
But when the blast of
war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action
of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews,
summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature
with hard favour’d rage:--
I see you stand, like
greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the
start. The game’s afoot;
Follow your spirit. And
upon this charge
Cry--
Shakspeare
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 all united to deter the English officers from employing a heavy
force in cavalry, in their 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 exigencies 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 soldier was made
to lay aside the musquet and bayonet, and taught to wield the sabre and
carabine. One particular body of the subsidiary troops were included in this
arrangement, 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 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 countries that were swept of every thing like
military supplies, the light troops of their enemies had the range of the whole
of the interior before them.
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 horse
were well mounted, well fed, and consequently very effective. Perhaps the world
could not furnish more brave, enterprising, and resistless corps of light
cavalry than were a few in the continental service at the time of which we
write.
Dunwoodie’s men had often
tried their prowess against the enemy, and now sat panting to be led once more
against foes that 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 leather 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 to the cottage of Harvey Birch, the enem halted and drew up his men
in line, and was 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 which we have already mentioned.
Major Dunwoodie was not
less distinguished for 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
Cow-boys; 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 the cover, with their leader in advance, waving his sabre 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 a German tyrant that the shock fell. Disciplined to the
most exact obedience, these illfated 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 it was behind its column that 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 Harlaem. Many was the sufferer, in his cattle,
furniture, and person, that was created by this route; for the dispersion of a
troop of Cow-boys 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 parlour. 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 Major 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, Cæsar and his spouse, their granddaughter,
a jetty 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 had been descendants 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. Cæsar, after
first using the precaution to place himself under the cover of an angle of 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 entered into the spirit of the
chase with all the ardour of a tried blood-hound--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 Cæsar for a moment with ineffable disdain, the dragoon said with
great coolness--
“You seem very careful
of that beautiful person of yours, Mr. Blueskin.”
“I guess a bullet hurt
a coloured man as quick as a white,” muttered the black surlily, casting a
glance at his rampart with much self-satisfaction.
“I’m thinking it’s all
guess with you, snowball--suppose I make the experiment;” as he spoke, he
deliberately drew a pistol from his belt and levelled it at the black. Cæsar’s
teeth chattered at the appearance of the dragoon, although he believed nothing
serious was intended; and it was at this moment that the column of Dunwoodie
began to retire, and the royal cavalry commenced their charge.
“There, Mister
Light-horseman,” said Cæsar eagerly, as he 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 don’t like to fight a rig’lars.”
“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 Cow-boys like wild
geese who’ve lost their leader.”
Cæsar had supposed the
party under Lawton to have sought the shelter of the hill from similar motives
to what 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 route of the royal horse.
The sentinel had
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 parlour.
“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 Cow-boys, and a spent bullet broke a pane of glass within a few
feet of Cæsar--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 parlour.
The small lawn in front
of the Locusts was hid from the view of the road by a close line of shrubbery,
and the horses of the dragoons had been left linked together under its shelter
to await the movements of their masters.
At this moment two Cow-boys,
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 had 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 horse-flesh. 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 Cæsar
into the parlour 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
endeavoured 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.--Cæsar 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 his enemy, was, however,
impossible, and on trial he found the main entrance barred.
His comrade now called
loudly upon his aid, and forgetful of every thing else, the discomfited trooper
rushed to his assistance. One horse was instantly liberated, but the other was
already fastened to the saddle of a Cow-boy, and the four retired behind the
building, cutting furiously at each other with their sabres, and making the air
resound with the violence of their imprecations. Cæsar threw the outer door
open, and pointing to the horse, who was quietly biting the faded herbage of
the lawn, 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, Cæsar, salute the girls,” 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, and disappear behind a projection, which soon hid him from
view.
The delighted Cæsar
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 myself--salute a young lady--I guess a Miss Fanny would’nt let
old coloured man kiss her pretty red cheek.”
When the fortune of the
day was decided, and the time arrived for the burial of the dead, two Cow-boys
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 captor were examining, through a pocket
glass, the column of infantry that still held its position on the bank of the
stream, as 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 the pleasure of 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 pedlar, 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 wood road, which led to the highway
that intersected the valley, turned down its direction, was soon opposite to
his friends, and the next minute 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 blue 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 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 their 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 pretence of
a similar offence,” said the captain, briefly explaining to the group of
listeners the manner of his capture, the grounds for his personal
apprehensions, and the method of his escape. By the time he had concluded his
narration, the fugitive Germans had 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,
and 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 where
Major Dunwoodie commands,” returned young Wharton, with a slight glow on his
face; “his character is above the impeachment of such an offence; 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 route
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 body
guards of your king.”
“And I must be allowed
to say, Colonel Wellmere, that if the body guards 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, sir, 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,” said the Colonel with affected irony; “and does the most potent
congress of these rebellious colonies intrust their soldiers to the leading of
such a warrior?”
“Ask the commander of
your Hessian horse, whether he thinks Major Dunwoodie worthy of the confidence,”
said Henry Wharton keenly, feeling indignant at the trifling of the other, when
applied to such a man as his friend, and at a moment so unseasonable.
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 vaporings 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 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 then let our actions speak.”
“Now again I know my
young friend,” said Wellmere soothingly; “but if you have any thing 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 with 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 display on the plain beyond, or else we
shall not be able to entice these valiant yankies 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 too give
him an opportunity of harrassing them farther, 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 blue
coat among those scarlet gentry,” again applying his glass to his eye, “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 the best men in my troop.”
He had not done
speaking when the survivor of these heroes joined, bringing with him his own
and the horses of the Cow-boys; 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 orders to recal the
guides was countermanded, and he now joined his second in command, watching as
eagerly as the impetuous Lawton 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 return his friend to bondage--all other
considerations were lost in the goadings of his 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 mouse trap, and with his eyes wide open.”
“Surely,” said
Dunwoodie eagerly, “he will not display 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, displayed with an accuracy that would have done them honour 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 rung in the ears of Cæsar, as he stood at the open window of the
cottage The black had 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 manœuvres of horse, and the
attack of the Virginians was irresistible. It was aimed chiefly at the flank
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 was on
the left of his line, and 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 raising 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 had been outflanked by the Americans, who had doubled in their rear, and
had thus made the route 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 had 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 this 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 favours with no gentle hands on that part of the royal foot who
were thus left in a great measure at their mercy. Dunwoodie noticing the
remnant of the Hessians, who had again ventured on the plain, led on in pursuit,
and easily overtaking their light and half-fed horses, soon destroyed the
remainder of their detachment.
In the meanwhile, great
numbers of the English, taking advantage of the smoke and confusion on the
battle ground, were enabled to get in the rear of their countrymen, who still
preserved their order in a line parallel to the wood, but who had been obliged
to hold their 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 its trees. This was not yet done, 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 re-entered the field at this critical
instant--he saw his troops in disorder--at his feet lay weltering in his blood
George Singleton, a youth endeared to him by numberless virtues, and Lawton was
unhorsed and stretched senseless on the plain. The eye of the youthful warrior
flashed with unwonted fires. Riding between his squadron and the enemy, in a
voice that reached to the hearts of his dragoons, he recalled them to their
duty. His presence and words acted like magic. The clamour 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; what 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 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
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 segar--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 his before
mentioned segar. 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
and bloody vestments, was an assistant in his duty.
“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 this slight hurt
of mine.”
“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, I can assure you.
“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,” replied the surgeon
coolly, “the pleasure of the thing might easily tempt a novice.”
“The devil!” cried the
horror-struck captain, “can there be any pleasure in mutilating a fellow
creature?”
“Sir,” said the surgeon
with great 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 appliplications 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 charges about one third of their foot, but the remainder had been 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 seize every opportunity to harrass them before they re-embarked.
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 efforts on the foe unless a favourable 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 their retreat to their boats.
“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.”
The last sounds of the
combat died on the ears of the anxious listeners in the cottage, and was
succeeded by the stillness of suspense. Frances had continued by herself,
striving to exclude the uproar, and vainly endeavouring 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 voices of the soldiery 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 news from the field. Unable longer to remain under the painful
uncertainty of her situation, Frances soon added herself to the uneasy group,
and Cæsar 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, endeavouring 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 centre 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 didn’t hold ’em
in, Massa Harry?” cried Cæsar, advancing eagerly, and disregarding the anxious
looks and pallid cheeks of the female listeners.
“That,” said Wharton,
smiling, “was a thing easier said than done, Mr. Cæsar, 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, catching a view of the bandages.
“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. Cæsar
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 tree’d 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.”
“Ay,” added his comrade
drily, “I’m thinking Captain Lawton will count the noses of what are left
before they see their whale-boats.”
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 colour 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 back 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 hung 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 sat by him, I would’nt 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 maid, when she saw him, was unalloyed happiness; in the next instant she
shrunk back appalled from the unusual expression that reigned in his
countenance. The sternness of battle yet sat on his brow--his eye was fixed,
penetrating 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 with 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 to his
son, 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 then 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 behalf of Dunwoodie, and he now met her without a
smile, and left her without a greeting. The ardor of feeling in the maid 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
in her interest with her lover. 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, manifested all the
solicitude that the most tender friendship could, on such an occasion, inspire.
The maid moved lightly before them, and, with an averted face, 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 Esculapius, “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 under tone, and 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 emotion, 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 endeavoured to
stretch forth his hand. There was an appeal in the look and action that touched
the heart of the operator, with a force that was irresistible. 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 let out the brains, and both are so difficult to remedy-- the
patient mostly dying before one can get at them--I never had success but once
in replacing a man’s brains, although I tried three this very day. It is easy
to tell where Lawton’s troop 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 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 shrunk 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 in a voice hardly articulate; “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, and 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 revived, “was some of my own handy-work; I killed that horse
myself.”
You!” exclaimed the
surgeon, dropping his dressings in surprise, “you! but then you knew it was a
horse.”
“I had such suspicions,
I own,” said the Major smiling, holding a beverage to the lips of his friend.
“Such blows alighting
on the human frame are fatal,” continued the doctor, pursuing his business, “and
set at nought all 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 sabre is a sad weapon in
unskilful hands. Now, Major Dunwoodie, many are the hours I have thrown away in
endeavouring to impress this on Captain Lawton.”
The impatient major
pointed silently to his friend, and the surgeon quickened his movements as he
continued--
“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;” said the
surgeon laconically, turning on his heel.
“Thank God!” cried the
youth, hastening below.
Dunwoodie for a moment
joined the family, who were now collected in the ordinary parlour. His face was
no longer wanting in smiles, and his salutations, though hasty, were cordial.
He took no notice of the escape and recapture 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 uninterruptedly 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 it was with Miss Peyton
that Dunwoodie held his discourse.
“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.
“Every thing--my dear
madam--every thing,” answered the soldier cheerfully. “Sitgreaves says he will
live, and he has never yet 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,” said
Miss Peyton with dignity, “he will want for nothing under this roof.”
“Pardon me, dear madam,”
cried the youth hastily; “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 his, 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 the maiden-- 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,” said the maid, with still increasing colour.
“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 eye uneasily at Frances, and muttered in an under tone--“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
honour 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 to come.”
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, the
maid received another of those smiling looks of affection she so much prized,
and for a season she forgot the impression made by his appearance after the
battle.
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 entrusted 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 his enemy. His only other child was the wounded officer
we have mentioned. Thither then the major prepared to despatch 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 ardent
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 again halted.
The remnant of the English were already to be seen, over the tops of the trees,
marching on 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 favourable moment to strike a blow. In this
manner both parties were soon lost to the view.
A short distance above
the Locusts was a small village where several roads intersected each other, and
from which, consequently, access was easy to the surrounding country. It was a
favourite 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 to and fro the field, he was struck with
the appearance of Colonel Wellmere seated by himself, brooding over his
misfortunes uninterrupted by any 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 doubtless 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. Every thing 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 for his notice. At the door of the parlour he was met by the ladies
who were retiring. Miss Peyton detained him for a moment to inquire into the
welfare of Captain Singleton, before she suffered him to proceed. Frances
smiled with something of her 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 notice his attire. 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 the joyous 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---it was at this age that 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 fore-ground. 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 expectations that he will recover.”
“’Tis certain, madam,”
returned the doctor, endeavouring, 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. “Every thing we have he can command, and
Major Dunwoodie has despatched an express for his sister.”
“His sister,” echoed
the practitioner with a look of particular meaning; “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 parlour, 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, but very ungraciously, proceeding to lay aside his coat and exhibit,
what he called, a wounded arm.
“If, sir,” said the
surgeon drily, “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, then am I 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 the shoulder? In what manner
might you have received this wound, sir?”
“From the sword of a
rebel dragoon,” said the colonel, with emphasis.
“Never,” exclaimed the
surgeon as positively. “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,” said the colonel fiercely.
“To report yourself
wounded in your despatches,” 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 his
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 patroles
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 the Hudson.
Dunwoodie himself had
lingered in front of the cottage, after he paid his parting compliments for the
time, with an unwillingness to return, that he thought proceeded from
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 ardour 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, as if no
vestige of its origin was worthy to hover above the peaceful graves of its
victims. All the conflicting feelings--all the tumultuous circumstances of the
eventful day, for a moment, appeared to the maid like the deceptions of a
troubled vision. She turned and caught a glimpse of the retreating figure, who
had been so conspicuous an actor in the scene, and the illusion vanished.
Frances recognised her lover, and with the truth, came other recollections that
drove her to her room, with a heart as sad as that which Dunwoodie himself bore
from the valley.
A moment gaz’d adown
the dale,
A moment snuff’d the
tainted gale,
A moment listen’d to
the cry,
That thicken’d as the
chase drew nigh,
Then as the headmost
foe appear’d
With one brave bound
the copse he clear’d,
And, stretching forward
free and far,
Sought the wild heaths
of Wam-Var.
Walter Scott
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 to Colonel Wellmere in command, 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 had been their convoy from the
city, and 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
further molestation. The dragoons lingered on the shore until the last moment,
and then 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 re-appearance at the southern extremity. The march of the troops was slow,
and their line extended for the benefit of ease in their progress. In the front
rode the captain, side by side with his senior subaltern, apparently engaged
together 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 honour to
the corps,” replied the lieutenant with great warmth; “those blue eyes might
easily win a man to gentler employments than this trade of ours. In sober
truth, I can easily imagine that such a maid 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
peperage 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 to you a little longer, maugre the cat’s lives.”
“I have much reason to
be obliged to the cap,” said Mason drily, “that or the skull must have had a
comfortable 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 humouredly; “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 fervently; “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 my 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 drily.
“Ah!” said the other
more mildly, “our fall drove them to the right about.”
“It was either your
fall, or apprehensions of their own,” returned the waggish subaltern gravely, “until
the major rallied us, we were in admirable disorder.”
“Dunwoodie!” exclaimed
the astonished Lawton, “why the major was on the crupper of the Dutchman.”
“Ay! but he managed to
get off the crupper of the Dutchman,” continued Mason coolly. “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!” cried the
captain with vexation, “what a sight I missed.”
“You slept through it
all,” said Mason laconically.
“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 younder 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 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,” returned the sententious subaltern.
“Well, Tom, your
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, still eyeing 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 speedy
termination to the race.
Birch had 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 his height he had seen all the events of the day as they had
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, notwithstanding, determined to persevere. By crouching and moving
quickly along the surface of the ground, he hoped yet to escape unnoticed.
Captain Lawton had been too much engrossed with the foregoing conversation to
suffer his eyes to indulge in their usual wandering; and the pedlar, perceiving
by the voices that the enemy he most feared had passed him, yielded to his
impatience and stood erect in order to make greater progress. The moment his
body rose above the shadow of the ground, it was seen, and the chace commenced.
For a single instant Birch remained helpless, with his blood curdling in his
veins at the imminence of his danger, and his legs refusing their natural and
so necessary office. But it was for a moment only. Casting his pack where he
stood, and instinctively tightening the belt he wore, the pedlar 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 the 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 pedlar had thrown himself on the ground as they came near him, and
was in this manner 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 an opposite
direction to the march of the dragoons.
The confusion of the
chace had been heard by the whole of the men, though none had distinctly
understood the order of the hasty Lawton but those that followed. The remainder
were lost in doubt as to what was required of them; and the aforesaid cornet
was making eager inquiries of the trooper near him, 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 Captain Lawton rang through the valley, shouting in a
manner that told the truth at once to his men.
“Harvey Birch, take
him, dead or alive.”
Fifty pistols lighted
the scene instantly, and the bullets whistled in every direction around the
head of the devoted pedlar. A feeling of despair seized his heart as he
exclaimed bitterly--
“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; he feared, that if
taken, his life would not be honoured 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, and only escaped that fate by stratagem. These
considerations, with the approaching footsteps of his pursuers, roused him to
new exertions; and 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 exausted 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
against the approach of any foe. The heart of the pedlar now beat high with the
confidence of his revived hopes, when the voice of Captain Lawton again rung in
his ears, shouting to his men to give him room. The order was promptly obeyed,
and the fearless trooper came at the wall at the top of his horse’s speed,
plunged the rowels in his charger, and flew over the obstacle like lightning,
and in safety. The triumphant hurrahs of the men, and the thundering tread of
the horse, now too plainly assured the pedlar of the emergency of his danger.
He was nearly exhausted, and his fate no longer seemed doubtful.
“Stop, or die,” said
the trooper in the suppressed tones of inveterate determination.
Harvey stole a fearful
glance over his shoulder, and saw within a bound of him the man he most
dreaded. By the light of the stars he saw the uplifted arm and threatening
sabre. Fear, exhaustion, and despair, seized on his heart, and the intended
victim suddenly fell at the feet of the dragoon. The horse of Lawton struck the
prostrate pedlar, and both steed and rider came together violently to the
earth.
As quick as thought
Birch was on his feet again, and with the sword of the discomfited dragoon in
his hand. Vengeance seems but too natural to human passions. There are but few
who have not felt the seductive pleasure of making our injuries recoil on their
supposed authors; and yet there are some who know how much sweeter it is to
return good for evil. All the wrongs of the pedlar 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; and the pedlar 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
re-entered the highway, and biting off the end of a segar 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 bone-setter 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,” said Mason in
reply.
“Then there I halt for
the night, Tom,” returned the other quickly, “these rude times must abridge
ceremony; besides you may remember the old gentleman professed a great regard
for the corps. Oh! I can never think of passing so good a friend without
calling.”
“And I will lead the
troop to the four corners,” said the lieutenant, “if we all halt there, we
shall breed a famine in the land.”
“A condition I never
desire to be placed in,” added Lawton. “The idea of that graceful spinster’s
buck-wheat cakes is highly comfortable in the perspective.”
“Oh! you won’t die if
you can think of eating,” cried 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 pedlar 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 the house in cold blood-- let but a spark approach
it, and the hand that carries it will never light another.”
“Zounds!” exclaimed 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 benefit of being thrown
from a horse, when they arrived opposite to the gate which was 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, proceeded
slowly to the door of the cottage.
Colonel Wellmere had
already sought a retreat for his mortified feelings 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
connexion in Virginia, and who even thought it impossible that he had not seen
the lady herself. The amiable spinster smiled as she inwardly felt it
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 nothing but the noxious vapours of the low lands that made
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 fire-arms,” said
the precise surgeon very coolly, and 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 sabre.”
“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 dreadfully alarmed.
“I find no fault with
his want of friendship,” returned the doctor, “the man is well enough if he
would learn to cut scientifically, and give me some chance with the wounded;
all trades, madam, ought to be allowed to live--but what becomes 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 front 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 avert any danger, proceeded in person to answer to 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
bone-setter, is it you?” returned the other good-humouredly, “you are here very
fortunately to inspect my carcass, but do lay aside that rascally saw.”
A few words from Mason
explained to the surgeon 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 in a state of preparation, and the doctor was
giving certain portentous orders, the captain was invited to rest himself in
parlour. 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 as he 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 accomodation in the
room above stairs.
“What, eating!” cried
the astonished physician, “Captain Lawton, do you wish to die?”
“I have no particular
wish that way,” said the trooper rising, and bowing a polite good night to the
ladies, “and, therefore, have been providing the materials necessary to
preserve life within me.”
The surgeon muttered
his dissatisfaction as he followed Mason and his 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 every thing 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 what was a small but very comfortable room, Dr. 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 lay
that rascally saw aside, the sight of it makes my blood cold.”
“Captain Lawton,”
rejoined the surgeon, “I think, for a man who has so often exposed life and
limb, you are unaccountably afraid of what is a very useful instrument.”
“Heaven keep me from
its use,” said the trooper with a shrug.
“Surely you would not
despise the lights of science, nor refuse surgical aid because this saw might
be necessary?” asked the incorrigible operator.
“I would.”
“You would!”
“Yes, you never shall
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 broke?”
“No.”
“Any of my bones?”
“No.”
“Tom, I’ll thank you
for that pitcher.” As he ended his draught, 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
was very sceptical 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 of
worldly prosperity. It was a favourite maxim with him, that the last thing
death assailed was the eyes, and next to the last, the jaws. This he
interpreted into 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, to give some of
his care to the guest in the best bed-room. Mason finding, by the breathing of
the captain, that his own good night would be unheard, hastened to pay his
respects to the ladies--mounted, and followed the troop at the top of his horse’s
speed.
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 ashea, 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 scattering dwellings were to be seen
in different parts of his domains, but they were fast falling to decay, and
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 labour of his hand, to obtain
overflowing garuers, 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 willingly adopted the guarded practice of the
day, and limited his attention to such articles as were soon to be consumed
within his own walls, or could be easily secreted from the prying looks 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 stood between the places where the cavalry had met and the charge
had been made on the party of Wellmere.
To Katy Haynes, it had
been a day fruitful in incidents to furnish an inexhaustible theme to her after
life. 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 never lost sight of the moment when she herself was to be espoused
to Harvey Birch. She did not wish to fetter the bonds of Hymen with any other
clogs than those with which nature had already so amply provided them. Katy
could always see enough to embitter the marriage bed, without calling in the
aid of political contention; and yet, at times, the prying spinster had her
doubts, of which side she should be, to escape this dreaded evil. There was so
much of practised deception in the conduct of the pedlar, that the housekeeper
frequently arrested her own words when most wishing to manifest her sympathies.
His lengthened absences from home, had commenced immediately after the hostile
armies had made their appearance in the county; previously to that event, his
returns had been regular and frequent.
The battle of the
Plains had taught the cautious Washington the advantages possessed by his
enemy, 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 bid defiance to the attacks of the Royal
Army, and Sir William Howe fell back to the enjoyments of his barren conquests,
a deserted city and the adjacent islands. Never afterwards did the opposing
armies make the trial for success within the limits of West-Chester; 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 the excesses, that the
preceding darkness had served to conceal. Most of the movements of the pedlar
through the county, were made at the hours which others allotted to repose. The
evening sun would frequently leave him at one extremity of the district, 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, who
thought his only purpose was the accumulation of gold. He would be often seen
near the Highlands with a body bending under the weight it carried--and again
near the Harlaem river, travelling, 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 Harlaem, and the northern end of Manhattan Island was bristled with
the bayonets of the English sentinels, yet the pedlar glided among them
unnoticed and uninjured. His approach 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. The stories reached the ears of the
officers, and, as we have related, in two instances the trader fell into the
hands of the Americans. The first time he 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 approach the characters
of men so well esteemed, and the opinion gained ground among the common
soldiery, that the pedlar 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 events, concluded that the evil spirit
did not pay in gold-- Nor, continues 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, until after the receipt of supplies from
France; and even then, although the scrutinizing eyes of Katy never let any
opportunity of examining into the deer-skin 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.
The house of Harvey had
been watched at different times by the Americans, with a view to his arrest,
but never with success; the reputed spy possessed 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
pedlar was unseen--the detachment was withdrawn, and the next night Birch
re-entered 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 professed patriots--its confiscation and purchase would not
reward them for their trouble. Age and sorrow were now about to spare him from
further molestation, for the lamp of life had begun to be drained of its oil.
The separation of the father and son had been painful, but in obedience to what
both thought a duty. The old man had kept his situation a secret from the
neighbourhood, in order that he might have the company of his child in his last
moments. The confusion of the past day, and his increasing dread that Harvey
might be too late, helped to hasten the event he would fain arrest for yet a
little while. As night set in, his illness increased to such a degree that the
dismayed housekeeper had sent a truant boy, who had been shut up with them for
the day rather than trust himself in the presence of the combatants, to the
Locusts, in quest of a living soul to cheer her desolate situation. Cæsar was
the only one who could be spared, and, loaded with eatables and cordials by the
kind-hearted Miss Peyton, the black had been despatched on this duty. The dying
man was past the use of such articles, and his chief anxiety seemed to centre
in a meeting with his absent child.
The noise of the chase
had been heard by the group in the house, but its cause not understood; and as
both the black and Katy were apprised of the detachment of American horse being
below them, with its discontinuance all apprehension from this disturbance
ceased. 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 by taking a view of the pageant. The old man had closed
his eyes, and his attendants supposed him to be asleep. The house contained two
large rooms, and as many small ones. One of the former served for kitchen and
parlor--in the other lay the father of Birch: of the latter, one was the
sanctuary of the vestal, and the other contained the provisions for
subsistence. A huge chimney of stone rose in the centre of the building,
serving, of itself, for a partition between the larger rooms, and fire-places
of corresponding dimensions were in each apartment. A bright fire was burning
in that of the common room, and within the very jambs of its monstrous jaws sat
Cæsar and Katy at the time of which we speak. The African was impressing his
caution on the maiden to suppress an idle curiosity that might prove dangerous.
“Best neber tempt a
Satan,” said Cæsar, rolling up his eyes significantly, till the whites
glistened by the glare of the fire--“I like to lose an ear-- only for carrying
a little bit of a letter--But I wish Harvey get back.”
“It is very
disregardful in him to be away at such times,” said Katy imposingly. “Suppose
now his father wanted to make his last will in the testament, who is there to
do such a thing for him. Harvey is a very wasteful and a very disregardful man.”
“Perhaps he make him
before,” said the black inquiringly.
“It would not be a
wonderment if he had,” returned the housekeeper eagerly; “he is whole days
looking into the Bible.”
“Then he read a good
book,” said the black solemnly. “Miss Fanny read him to Dinah berry often.”
“Yes,” continued the
inquisitive spinster; “but he would not be forever studying it, if it didn’t
hold something more as common.”
She rose from her seat,
and stealing softly to a chest of drawers in the room where lay the sick, took
from it a large Bible, heavily bound, and secured with strong clasps of brass,
with which she returned to the expecting African. The volume was opened, and
she proceeded instantly to the inquiry. Katy was far from an expert scholar,
and to Cæsar the characters were absolute strangers. For some time the
housekeeper was occupied with finding out the word Matthew, which she at last
saw in large Roman letters crowning one of the pages, and instantly announced
her discovery to the attentive Cæsar.
“Berry well, now look
him all through:” said the black, peeping over the damsel’s shoulder, as he
held a long, lank, candle of yellow tallow in his hand, in such a manners as to
throw its feeble light on the volume.
“Yes, but I must begin
with the book,” replied the other, turning the leaves carefully back, until,
moving two at once, she lighted upon a page covered with the labours of a pen. “Here,”
said the housekeeper with impatience, and shaking with the eagerness of
expectation, “here is the very words themselves; now I would give the world to
know who he has left them big silver shoe buckles to.”
“Read him,” said Cæsar
laconically.
“And the black walnut
drawers, for Harvey could never want them.”
“Why no want ’em as
well as his father?’ asked the black drily.”
“And the six silver
table spoons; for Harvey always uses the iron.”
“I guess he say,”
continued the African, pointing significantly to the writing, and listening
eagerly, as the other thus opened the store of the elder Birch’s wealth.
Thus repeatedly
advised, and impelled by her own curiosity, Katy commenced her task; anxious to
come to the part which most interested herself, she dipped at once into the
centre of the subject.
“Chester Birch, born
September 1st, 1755;” read the spinster with great deliberation.
“Well,” cried the
impatient Cæsar, “what he give him?”
“Abigail Birch, born
July 12th, 1757; continued the housekeeper in the same tone.
“I guess he give her
the spoons,” observed the black hastily.
“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 book,
and Cæsar, for a moment, shook with fear--neither possessed sufficient
resolution to go and see what was the condition of the sufferer, but his heavy
breathings continued as usual--Katy dared not, however, reopen the Bible, and
carefully securing its clasps, it was laid on the table in silence. Cæsar took
his chair again, and, after looking timidly round the room, remarked--
“I thought he ’bout to
go.”
“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,” returned Katy, glancing her eyes around the
room, and speaking in an under voice, “for they say an unquiet life makes an
uneasy grave.”
“Johnny Birch a berry
good man,” said the black quite positively.
“Ah! Cæsar,” said the
housekeeper in the same voice, “he is good only who does good-- can you tell
me, Cæsar, why honestly gotten gold should be hidden in the bowels of the
earth?”
“If he know where he
be, why don’t he dig him up?” asked the black promptly.
“There may be reasons
not comprehendible to you,” said Katy, moving her chair so that her clothes
covered the charmed stone, underneath which lay the secret treasures of the
pedlar-- unable to refrain speaking of what she would have been very unwilling
to reveal; “but a rough outside often holds a smooth inside.” Cæsar stared
around the building unable to fathom the hidden meaning of the damsel, when his
roving eye 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 pedlar himself standing within the door of the
room.
“Is he alive?” asked Birch
tremulously, and seemingly afraid to receive an answer to his own question.
“Surely,” said the
maiden, rising hastily, and officiously offering her chair to the pedlar, “he
must live till day or the tide is down.”
Disregarding all but
her assurance, the pedlar stole gently to the room of his dying parent. The tie
which bound this father and son together was one of no ordinary kind. In the
wide world they were all to each other. Had Katy but have read a few lines
farther in the record, she would have seen the sad tale of their misfortunes.
At one blow competence and kindred had been swept from before them, and from
that day to the present hour, persecution and distress had followed their
wandering steps. Approaching the bed side, Harvey leaned his body forward, and
said, in a voice nearly choked by his feelings--
“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 in still greater force from the
contrast. The pedlar gave a restorative he had brought with him to the parched
lips of the sick man, and for a few minutes new vigor seemed to be imparted to
his frame. He spoke, but slowly and with difficulty. Curiosity kept Katy
silent; awe had the same effect on Cæsar; 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 chastiseth 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 lone 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 pedlar hastened to learn the cause, followed by Katy and the
black. The first glance of his eye on the figure in the door-way told the
trader but too well both 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 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, were
guilty of every grade of offence, 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 callous indifference of brutal insensibility.
They were all 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 Cæsar
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 pedlar.
“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 driveller
company--where is your pack?”
“I will tell you nothing
unless you let me go to my father,” said the pedlar resolutely.
His persecutor raised
his arm with a malicious sneer, and was about to execute his threat, when one
of his companions checked him, and cried--
“What would you do? 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 despatched in quest of the booty: he soon returned,
throwing the bundle on the floor, swearing it was as light as feathers.
“Ay,” 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 sullenly.
“Give us your gold,”
exclaimed the other furiously, pricking the pedlar 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 imploringly--
“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, as he said coolly--
“Ay, but it shall be to
your father in heaven.”
“Monster!” exclaimed
Birch, “have you no feeling, no faith, no honesty?”
“Why, to hear him, one
would think there was not a rope around his neck already,” said the other
malignantly. There is no necessity of 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 pedlar, 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; 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 for a slippery rascal to trust you out of
sight--your gold--your gold.”
“You have it,” said the
pedlar, writhing with the agony of his situation.
“Ay, 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 pedlar eagerly--“remove the stone.”
“He raves--he raves,”
said Katy, instinctively moving her position to another stone than the one on
which she had been standing; in a moment it was torn from its bed, and nothing
but earth was seen under it.
“He raves; you have
driven him from his right mind,” continued the trembling spinster; “would any
man in his senses think of keeping gold under a hearth-stone?”
“Peace, babbling fool,”
cried Harvey--“lift the corner stone, and you will find what will make you
rich, and me a beggar.”
“And then you will be
despiseable,” said the housekeeper bitterly. “A pedlar without goods and
without money--is sure to be despiseable.”
“There will be enough
left to pay for his halter,” cried the skinner, as he opened upon a store of
English guineas. These were quickly transferred to a bag, notwithstanding the
declarations of the spinster, that her dues were unsatisfied, and that of right
ten of the guineas should be her property.
Delighted with a prize
that greatly exceeded their expectations, the band prepared to depart,
intending to take the pedlar with them in order to give him up to some of the
American troops above, and claim the reward offered for his apprehension. Every
thing was ready, and they were about to lift Birch in their arms, as he refused
to move an inch; when a figure entered the room, that appalled the
group--around his body was thrown the sheet of the bed from which he had risen,
and his fixed eye and haggard face gave him the appearance of a being from
another world. Even Katy and Cæsar thought it was the spirit of the elder
Birch, and they both fled the house, followed by the alarmed skinners.
The excitement which
had given the sick man strength soon vanished, and the pedlar, lifting him in
his arms, re-conveyed 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 his parting breath, received the dying benediction
of his parent. A life of privation, of care, and of wrongs, embittered most of
the future hours of the pedlar. But under no sufferings--in no misfortune--the
subject of poverty and biting 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 for his well-being; and it
brought assurance to his soul of having discharged faithfully and truly the
sacred offices of filial love.
The retreat of Cæsar
and the spinster had been too precipitate to admit of much calculation; yet had
the former instinctively separated himself from the skinners. After fleeing a
short distance, they paused from fatigue, and the maiden commenced in a solemn
voice--
“Oh! Cæsar, ’twas
dreadful to walk before he had been laid in his grave; but it must have been
the money that disturbed him; they say Captain Kidd walks where he buried gold
in the old war.”
“I nebber tink Johnny
Birch had such 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, and all for nothing,”
continued Katy, disregarding the other’s remark; “Harvey will be nothing but a
despiseable, poverty-stricken wretch. I wonder who he thinks would marry him
now.”
“Maybe a spooke take
away Harvey too,” observed Cæsar, 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 Cæsar, they
both determined to venture back, and ascertain this important fact, and, if
possible, learn what had been the fate of the pedlar. 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, to see if it was not the abandoned gold. But,
although the suddenness of the alarm, and the cry of Cæsar, had impelled the
freebooters to so hasty a retreat, they grasped the hoard with an instinctive
hold that death itself would not have loosened. Perceiving every thing to be
quiet within, Katy at length mustered resolution enough to enter the dwelling,
where she found the pedlar 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 Cæsar continued till his dying day to astonish the sable inmates
of the kitchen, with learned dissertations on spookes, and how direful was the
appearance of Johnny Birch.
The danger to himself
compelled the pedlar 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. Cæsar 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 laid over it with great decency, 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 on your coward hearts?” cried the dissatisfied leader, drawing his
breath heavily.
“The same question
might be asked 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,” continued the leader bitterly.
“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 Cow-boys, 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 does come,
won’t a bullet silence a dragoon from the south as well as from old England?”
“Ay, but I don’t choose
a hornet’s nest around my ears; you raise 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 pedlar will stay to
see the old devil buried, and though we mustn’t touch him at the funeral, he’ll
wait to look after the moveables, 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.
O woe! O woeful,
woeful, woeful day!
Most Inmentable day!
most woeful 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 woeful day! O woeful
day!
Shakspeare
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 sufferer, not only from
succour, but frequently through a dread of future depredations, from the
commiseration of their neighbours also. The cares of their 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 that he never departed from, 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, where 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 to his repose 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 feel 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, and dispersed the columns of fog
which had enveloped the low land.
Miss Peyton was looking
from a window in the direction of the tenement of the pedlar, and was
expressing a kind anxiety after the welfare of the sick it was supposed to
contain, 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--
“What, Katy, is he
gone?”
“No, ma’m,” replied the
disturbed damsel with great bitterness, “he is not yet gone, but he may go as
soon as he pleases now, for the mischief is all 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 what he has on are none of the best, I
can tell you.”
“How!” exclaimed the
astonished spinster, “could any one 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’m, 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 was in the deer-skin purse. But Harvey is little
better now than a beggar, and don’t you think a beggar very despiseable, Miss
Peyton?”
“Poverty is to be
pitied and not despised,” said the lady in reply, still unable to comprehend
the extent of the misfortune that had befallen her neighbours during the night.
“But how is the old man; and does this loss you speak of affect him much?”
The countenance of Katy
changed instantly, 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 his disorder. Glancing her eye over the figure of this new
acquaintance, Katy, after 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 repay 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 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
maiden, 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 confisticated,” 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 surgeon drew up in
proud disdain, 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 her 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 every thing but his profession. At first, indignation at
the irony of his comrade kept him silent; but suddenly changing his purpose, he
answered the maiden, with a 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 despiseable, or what’s
the same thing, a pedlar 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, busying herself in
preparations for the morning’s repast.
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--
“Then you think it was
age and debility that removed the old gentleman at last?”
“And these troublesome
times,” returned the spinster promptly; “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 gravely; “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 secundum
artem,” said the trooper, drily.
To this observation the
physician did not deign to make any reply, but deeming it necessary, in order
to support his 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 made his last will in the testament.”
The surgeon disregarded
the smile of the ladies, and pursued his inquiries, by saying--
“It is doubtless wise
to be ever 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 despiseable to think any more nor that.”
There was a mutual
ignorance of each other’s meaning, between the surgeon of horse and the
loquacious maiden, but it made very little interruption in their
communications--both took a good deal for granted, and Sitgreaves pursued his
questions by asking--
“And how did you treat
him?”
“Why kindly, you may be
certain,” said Katy with spirit, and rather tartly.
“The doctor means
medically, madam,” said Captain Lawton, with a face that would have honoured
the funeral of the deceased.
“I doctor’d him mostly
with yarbs,” said the housekeeper smiling her consciousness 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, without
having one to wait on his father,” 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,
without moving a muscle.
“Oh!” cried the maiden,
again correcting herself, with a smile, “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 to where the spinster 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 its meaning, she knew it was a
compliment, and as such was highly pleased with the surgeon’s observation; 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 bitch 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 counsellors, the experience of a discreet matron is frequently of
great efficacy in checking the progress of disease in the human system; 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 bed-ridden
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 despiseable himself to have a house.”
“Indeed, I can easily
comprehend the mortification you must have felt in having one so selfwilled to
deal with,” returned the surgeon, glancing his eye 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 despiseable, 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 eye from resting on the grave countenance maintained by the
trooper. Katy listened with the most profound attention, and 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 eager delight at meeting with a man of learning,
who could support her in her favorite 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 increase themselves,” said the
doctor, gravely. “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 with a
slight smile, 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 wilfully rejecting the lights of science not to believe it causes both
the flux and reflux.”
As reflux was a
disorder the spinster was not acquainted with, she thought it prudent to be
silent for a time; yet burning with curiosity to know the meaning of certain
portentous lights that the other so often alluded to, 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
opportutunity 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--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.”
“Ay,” cried the
delighted trooper, “to mend the pedlar’s breeches.”
Katy drew up in evident
displeasure at this allusion to such familiarity between herself and the nether
garments of the trader, but prompt to vindicate her character for more lofty
acquirements, 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 with which to garnish her narrative. The
substance of which 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 woollen, 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 pedlar had altered the whole of this
admirable arrangement, and the consequences were expressed by Katy, as she
concluded her narrative, by saying--
“’Twas no wonder the
boy died of a lock-jaw.”
Dr. Sitgreaves looked
out of the window in admiration of the brilliant morning--strove all he could
to avoid the basilisk eyes of his comrade, but in vain. He was impelled by a
feeling that he could not conquer, to look Captain Lawton in the face. The
trooper had arranged every muscle of his countenance in perfect accordance with
due 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 pedlar, with all the interest
of her excellent feelings: she listened patiently while Katy recounted more
particularly the circumstances of the past night as they 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 house-keeper, after a pause of a moment 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 for
this world, both soul and body; or what’s the same thing, they have made him a
despiseable 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 homebody.
The mild mistress of
the Locusts suffered the exuberance of the housekeeper’s animation 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 Miss 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 pedlar had not farther use for her services. After a few
preliminary conditions on the part of the wary housekeeper, she concluded the
arrangement; and making a few more piteous lamentations on the weight of her
own losses, the stupidity of Harvey, and united with some curiosity to know the
future fate of the pedlar, Katy withdrew to make certain preparations for the
approaching funeral, which was to take place that day.
During the interview
between the maidens, 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 manly resolution, that his almost
feminine softness of manner and appearance, had failed to bring him into
disrepute even among a band of partizan 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 favourite with Dr. Sitgreaves. The rough usage this corps
often received in their daring attacks, had brought each of its officers in
succession under the temporary keeping of its surgeon. To Captain Singleton the
man of science had decreed the palm on such occasions, and Captain Lawton he
had fairly black-balled. He frequently declared, with unconquerable simplicity
and earnestness of manner, to his assembled comrades, 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
was 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 surprized 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, the captain cried carelessly--
“Come, 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 his
first glance towards his comrade, he saw with surprize 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 any thing at my hands?”
“Look for yourself, my
dear Sit.” said the trooper mildly; “here seem to be most of the colours of the
rainbow on this shoulder of mine.”
“Indeed 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.”
“Oh! 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,”
replied the doctor with a smile, “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 exultingly, 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 probably,”
returned the other complacently.
“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,”
replied the dejected surgeon; “but a dose of oil would carry off the humours
famously.”
To this the captain
made no reply, but gritted 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
hung.”
“I thought your
business was to cure, and not to slay,” said the trooper drily.
“Ay! but he has caused
us such heavy losses by his information, that I sometimes feel a very
unchristian 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, and 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.”
“Yes, I agree with you
as a whole; but as matter is infinitely divisible, so no case exists without an
exception. Lawton, don’t you--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 his 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.
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 rous’d, can tower
to the height of heaven,
And light those shining
windows of the face
With much of heaven’s
own radiance.
Due
The number and
character of her guests had greatly added to the cares of Miss Jeannette
Peyton. The morning had 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 any thing 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 him a
well man within a fortnight.
During all this time
Colonel Wellmere had not made 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,
endeavouring 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 he advanced promptly and laid his fingers on the pulse of the
youth, beckoning him to be silent, while he filled the vacuum in the discourse,
by saying--
“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 he was disposed to visit his interior in person; “your
tongue is well, and your pulse begins to lower again. Ah! the bleeding did you
good. Phlebotomy is a sovereign specific for southern constitutions. But that
mad-cap Lawton obstinately 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 colour 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 avails 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, but a few minutes before you entered.”
“If any one 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,”
replied the wounded man with a faint smile, “there was no interference made,
nor any intended; see,” exhibiting the bandages, “every thing 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 every thing was as he had left it, very deliberately
resumed his seat and replaced his wig, as he inquired, with a brevity that
would have honoured 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
Jeannette Peyton--a lady of fine accomplishments, with--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 colour to her
cheeks, as glows in the faces of her more youthful nieces.”
“Nieces!” said the
invalid; “has she nieces then? Oh, 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,” said the
surgeon drily.
“Kind, considerate
Dunwoodie,” murmured the exhausted youth, sinking again on his pillow; where
the commands of his attendant compelled him to continue in silence.
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 retiring delicacy 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 well furnished table.
At the time of which we
write we were a divided people, and Sarah thought it was no more than her right
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 graceful and lofty stature of Peyton Dunwoodie, his commanding brow,
his speaking eye, and his clear and comprehensive diction; but his skin was
fair, his cheeks coloured, and his teeth no less white than those which shone
in the fascinating smile of the young Virginian. Sarah had moved round 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 archly,
but averted her face to do so, while Sarah moved haughtily, and with the
stately grace of an offended Juno, from the apartment. Her own room, however,
afforded her but little to relieve her thoughts, 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. Sarah ventured lightly into the apartment, and busied
herself for a few minutes in arranging the tables, and nourishment provided for
the patient, hardly conscious of what she was doing, and possibly dreaming that
it was done for another. The natural bloom of her cheek was heightened by the
insinuation of the surgeon, and the lustre of her eye was by no means
diminished from the same cause. The sound of the approaching footsteps of
Sitgreaves had hastened her retreat through another door, and down a private
stair-way to the side of her sister. Together they sought the fresh air on the
piazza to the cottage, and they pursued their walk arm in arm, holding the
following dialogue--
“There is something
disagreeable about this surgeon, Dunwoodie has honoured us with,” said Sarah, “that
causes me to wish him away, most heartily.”
Frances fixed her
laughing eyes on her sister, who, meeting their playful glance as they turned
in their walk, blushed yet deeper than before as she added hastily; “but I
forget he is one of this renowned corps of Virginians, and as such must be spoken
reverently of.”
“As respectfully as you
please, my dear sister,” returned Frances mildly; “there is but little danger
of your 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 an
hospital.”
“We ought to be
grateful,” replied the younger in a low voice, “that none of the patients it
contains are dearer to us.”
“Your brother is one,”
said Sarah laconically.
“True, true,”
interrupted Frances hastily, and 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 feel his wound as nothing.”
“You now have the
fruits of rebellion brought home to you,” said Sarah, moving across the piazza
with something more than her ordinary stateliness; “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 eye was
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 the other. 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. Frances lost
her brilliancy of colour as the vehicle gradually drew nigher, and when she was
enabled to see a female form in it by the side of a liveried black who held the
reins, her limbs shook with an agitation that compelled her to lean on Sarah
for support. In a few minutes the travellers approached the gate, and it was
thrown open by a dragoon who had followed the carriage, and who had been the
messenger despatched 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 reading the countenance of the visitor. She was young, of a light and
fragile form, yet of exquisite proportions; but it was in her eye that her
greatest charm existed; it was large, full, black, piercing, and at times a
little wild. Her hair was luxuriant, and without the powder it was then the
fashion to wear, but shone in its own, glossy, raven, blackness. A few of its
locks had fallen on her cheek, giving its chilling whiteness by the contrast
yet a more deadly character. Dr. Sitgreaves supported her from the chaise, and
when she gained the floor of the piazza, she turned her expressive eye on the
face of the practitioner in silence; but it spoke all that she wished to say--
“Your brother is out of
danger, and wishes to see you, Miss Singleton,” said the surgeon in reply to
her look.
For an instant the lady
clasped her hands with energy, rolled her dark eyes to heaven, while a slight
flush, like the last reflected tinge of the setting sun, beamed on her
features, and she gave vent to her feelings in 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 in 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 maiden, until Frances thought her tears exceeded the
emotion natural to the occasion. The sobs of Miss Singleton for a time were
violent and uncontroulable, 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, made a hasty apology for the excess of her
emotion, and desired to be conducted to the room of her brother.
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, and 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 intreaties, had accompanied her to the sick
chamber, sat gazing on a countenance that possessed such wonderful variability,
as if impelled by a charm that was beyond her control. The youth had thrown an
earnest look at Frances as soon as his sister had raised herself from his arms,
and perhaps it was the first glance at the lovely lineaments of the maiden,
where the gazer turned his eyes from the view in disappointment; pausing a
moment, during which the wandering eyes of Singleton were bent on the open door
of the room, he said, as he took the hand of his sister affectionately--
“And where is
Dunwoodie, Isabella? he 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 instantly; her eye roved round the apartment with a
character of wildness in it that repelled the anxious maiden, who studied her
movements with intensity of interest, as forcibly as the moment before it had
attracted her; while the sister answered with a trembling emotion--
“Dunwoodie! is he then
not here? with me he has not been: I thought to have met him by the side of my
brother’s bed.”
“He has duties that
require his presence elsewhere; yes, these English are said to be out by the
way of the Hudson, and give the light troops but little rest,” said the brother
musing; “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 like an
aspen.”
Isabella made no reply,
but stretched forth 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, smiling faintly, 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 a short two miles from this spot.” The latter part of the
sentence was hardly audible, and spoken more in the manner of a soliloquy than
as if intended for the ears of her companions.
“On the march,
Isabella?” eagerly inquired her brother.
“No, dismounted, and
seemingly at rest,” was the reply, in the same abstracted manner as before.
The wondering brother
turned his gaze on the countenance of his sister, who sat with her full, black
eye bent on the carpet in unconscious absence, but found no explanation. His
look was changed to the face of Frances, who, startling with the earnestness of
his expression, arose, and hastily inquired if he would have any assistance.
“If, madam, 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 anxious
interest she could not control, 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 the ease of a gentleman, blended with the frankness of a soldier, and
answered--
“His man has been here
twice to inquire how we fared in the Lazaretto.”
“And why not himself?”
said the other quickly.
“Ah! that is a question
the major can answer best himself,” returned the dragoon drily; “but you know
the red coats 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 a dreadfully shambling gait this morning,”
said the trooper with a shrug; “besides there is another reason I could
mention, if it were not that Miss Wharton would never forgive me.”
“Speak, I beg, sir,
without dread of my displeasure,” said Frances, withdrawing her eyes from the
countenance of Miss Singleton, and returning the good-humoured smile of the
trooper with the natural archness of her own lovely face.
“The odours 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 Jeannette is
exerting herself to do credit to my father’s hospitality,” said the laughing
maid, “and I am a truant from her labours, as I shall be a stranger to her
favour unless I proffer my assistance.”
After making a proper
apology to the stranger, 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 her lovely figure moved with infantile grace
through the door of his apartment, and as she vanished from his view,
observed--
“Such an aunt and niece
are seldom to be met with, Jack; this seems a fairy, but the aunt is angelic.”
“Ah! George, you are
doing well, I see,” said the trooper; “your enthusiasm 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,”
said the dragoon drily; “but as to love, you know that is a matter of taste. I
think a few years younger, with deference to the sex,” bowing to Miss
Singleton, “would accord better with my fancy.”
“She must be under
twenty,” said the other quickly.
“Oh, doubtless, about
nineteen,” said Lawton with extreme gravity; “yet she looks a trifle older.”
“You have mistaken an
elder sister for the aunt,” said Isabella, laying her fair hand on the mouth of
the invalid, “but you must be silent; your feelings are beginning to affect
your frame.”
The entrance of Doctor
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 somerset. 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 prepare to rejoin the troop at the four corners, so soon as the
captain had shared in the bounty of the approaching banquet.
In the mean time, Henry
Wharton had entered the apartment of Wellmere, and by his sympathetic feelings
on account of a defeat in which they had been alike unfortunate, succeeded
greatly in restoring the colonel to his own good graces; he was consequently
enabled to rise and prepare to meet a rival of whom he had spoken so lightly,
and as the result had proved, with so little reason. Wharton knew this
misfortune, as it was termed by both, was owing to the other’s rashness; but he
forbore to speak of any thing except the unfortunate accident which had
deprived the English of their leader, and their consequent defeat.
“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.”
“Ay! and that in double
quick time,” cried the colonel with very considerable animation, making the
other leg follow its companion; “then it was necessary to route 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 that 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 his clothes
within reach of the colonel.
“Ay! why that, you
know, is the same thing,” returned Wellmere, dressing himself; “to assume such
an attitude as to intimidate your enemy is the chief art of war.”
“Doubtless,” said the
captain, entering himself a little into the proud feelings of a soldier; “then
you may remember in one charge 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 completely on the yankies;” in saying which he
completed his toilette, and was prepared to make his appearance, fully restored
to his own good opinion, and fairly persuaded that his capture was owing to
casualties absolutely without the control of man.
The knowledge that
Colonel Wellmere was to be a partaker in the feast in no degree diminished the
preparations which were already making for that important event; and Sarah,
after receiving the compliments of the gentleman, and making, with blushing
cheeks, many kind inquiries after the state of his wounds, proceeded in person
to lend her aid in embellishing what would now be of additional interest.
I will stand to and feed, Although
my last: no matter, since I feel
The best is
past:--Brother, my Lord the Duke
Stand to, and do as
we--”
Tempest
The savour of
preparation, which had been noticed by Captain Lawton, began to increase vastly
within the walls of the Cottage--Certain sweet smelling odours, that rose from
the subterraneous territories of Cæsar, gave to the trooper the most pleasing
assurance, 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 vapour, charged with the spices of the east,
could exhale on its passage to the clouds, without first giving its incense, by
way of tribute, to his nose. Lawton, however, by no means indulged himself in
this comfortable arrangement without first making such preparations, to do meet
honour to the feast, as his scanty wardrobe would allow. The uniform of his
corps was always a passport to the proudest 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 marked with the
blackness of a crow, now shone with the spotless whiteness of the dove; and his
hand, that so well became, by its bony and gigantic frame, the sabre it wielded
so indiscreetly, peered from beneath a ruffle with something like maiden
delicacy. The improvements of the dragoon went no farther, excepting that his boots
shone with more than holiday splendor, and his spurs glittered in the rays of
the sun like worthy offspring of the hills of Potosi.
Cæsar moved through the
apartments with a face charged with an importance, vastly exceeding that which
had accompanied him in his melancholy task of the morning. The black had early
returned from the message on which he had been despatched by the pedlar, 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 by 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 through. By ingeniously using, however, such moments as might be fairly
thought his own, Cæsar communicated so many of the heads of his tale, as served
to open the eyes of his visitor to a width that justly entitled them to the
significant appellative of saucer. Indeed, to such a state of amazement had the
gusto for the marvellous conducted the sable worthies, that 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 Jin’nett,”
said Cæsar 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 for the present, though the black promised himself, and actually
put in execution his intention of having many a good gossip on the solemn
subject hereafter.
The ghost thus happily
laid, the department of Miss Peyton throve with additional success, and by the
time the afternoon’s sun had travelled a two hours journey from the meridian,
the formal procession from the kitchen to the parlour commenced under the
auspices of Cæsar, 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 flavour;--being a present
from the spinster’s wealthy 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 mouth or the Accomac bacon.
Third in the line was
to be seen the valet of Colonel Wellmere, who carried in either hand chickens
fricassied, and oyster pattys.
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 deposite
his freight on the floor until, by removing the glasses, he could see his way
through the piles of reserved china and plate-warmers in safety.
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 demolishing so lately, 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 the 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. Cæsar no sooner deposited his
bird, which but the week before had been flying amongst the highlands of Duchess,
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 parlour followed in the same order. By this admirable
arrangement, whole flocks of pigeons, certain bevys of quails, shoals of
flat-fish, bass, and sundry wood-cock, found their way into the presence of the
company above stairs.
A third attack brought
suitable quantities of potatoes, onions, beets, cold-slaw, rice, and all the
other minutiæ of a goodly dinner; and for a time this completed the
preparations.
The board now fairly
groaned with American profusion, and Cæsar, glancing his eye over the show with
a most approving conscience, after moving 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 martial array we have just recorded took place, all the ladies had
disappeared, much in the same unaccountable manner that swallows flee the
approach of winter. But the spring-time 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-covered 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 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 tasteful group on the summit of her fine
forehead.
The colour 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
starched arrangement, and gave a look of feminine softness to the features.
Her dress was a rich,
heavy silk of violet colour, cut low around the bust, with a stomacher of the
same materials, 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 hoop displayed the beauty of the fabric to advantage, and aided in
giving majesty to the figure.
The tall stature of the
spinster 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
pearl 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 spinster would have looked into atoms 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 blush
colour. Twenty years did not, however, require the skreen that was prudent in
forty, and nothing but an envious border of exquisite lace hid, in some
measure, what the satin left exposed to the view. The upper part of the bust
and 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 pearl, to
correspond with which were rings of the same jewel 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 in the neck, and a bouquet of
artificial flowers was also placed, like a coronet, over her commanding brow.
Miss Singleton had
yielded her brother to the advice of Dr. Sitgreaves, who had succeeded in
getting his patient in a deep sleep after quieting certain feverish symptoms
that followed the agitation of the interview related. The sister was persuaded
by the observant mistress of the mansion to make one of the party, and 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 and brilliant eye 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 the barriers which custom had so long
drawn around the comforts of the fair sex; and the maid had so far ventured in
imitation, as to trust her beauty to the height which nature had given her.
This was but little, but that little was a master-piece. 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,
the maid appeared in the drawing room, clothed in a vestment 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 colour 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.
Dr. Sitgreaves was a
mineralogist among his other qualities, and during the day he ventured a remark
on the beauty of the stone; and for a long time the simple operator was at a
loss to conjecture what there was in the observation to call the blood so
tumultuously to the face of the maiden. His surprise might haply have continued
to the hour of his death, had not Lawton kindly intimated that it was
indignation at his overlooking the object on which the bauble reposed. The
gloves of kid which concealed the hands and part of the arm, leaving enough of
the latter in sight, however, to proclaim its fair proportions, indicated that
there was no one present to tempt the flattering, and perhaps unconscious
display, of womanly power.
Once, and once only, as
they moved towards the repast prepared with so much judgment and skill by Cæsar,
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,
and loaded with enormous buttons, advanced formally to Miss Singleton, and
bending his powdered head to near the level of the hand he extended, received
her’s in return.
Dr. Sitgreaves offered
the same homage to Miss Peyton, and met with equal favor; the lady first
pausing, with stately grace, to draw on her gloves.
Colonel Wellmere was
honoured with a smile from Sarah while performing a similar duty; and Frances
gave the ends of her taper fingers to Captain Lawton with a manner, that said
so much to the corps, and so little to the man.
Much time, and some
trouble was expended before the whole party were, to the great joy of Cæsar,
comfortably arranged around the table with proper attention to all points of
etiquette and precedence. The black well knew the viands were getting cold, and
felt his honour concerned in the event.
For the first ten
minutes all but the captain of dragoons found themselves in a situation much to
their liking; but he felt himself a little soured at the multiplicity of the
questions and offers of the host, which were meant to be conducive to his
enjoyments, but which in truth had an exactly contrary effect. The captain
could not eat and answer in a breath, and the demands for the latter somewhat
interfered with the execution of the former.
Next came the drinking
with the ladies; but as the wine was excellent, and the glasses of very ample
size, the trooper bore this interruption with consummate good nature. Nay, so
fearful was he of giving offence, and 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.
His long abstemiousness
from any thing like generous wine might plead the excuse of Captain Lawton,
especially when exposed to so strong a temptation as was 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 liquors which were made
from a grape that grew on the south side of the island of Madeira, and found
its way into the colonies of North America by the way of the West Indies,
sojourning awhile in the Western Archipelago, by way of trying the virtues of
the climate. A large supply of this cordial had been drawn from his store-house
in the city, and some of it now sparkled in a bottle before the captain,
blushing luxuriantly in the rays of the sun, which were passing obliquely
through it.
If the meat and
vegetables had made their entrance with perfect order and propriety, their
exeunt was effected with far less. The point was to clear the board something
after the fabled tale of the harpies, and by dint of scrabbling, tossing,
breaking, and spilling, the overflowing remnants of the repast vanished from
the room. And now another series of processions commenced, by virtue of which a
goodly display of pasty 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 honoured
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, coloured, and grew pale again, seemingly endeavouring 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 strived in vain
to think of another, Isabella said faintly--
“Major Dunwoodie.”
The health was drank
cheerfully by all but Colonel Wellmere, who wet his lips, and drew figures on
the table with some of the liquor he had spilt; and Frances thought deeply on
the manner of doing, what in itself would have excited no suspicions.
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: he was free to converse or to fight; to him
it mattered nought. 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, and is no rebel; promoted I hope he
may be, both because he deserves it, and 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 great emphasis.
“Miss Peyton, will you
favor us with a toast?” cried the master of the house, anxious to stop a
dialogue in which he might be called on for an opinion.
The spinster bowed her
head with infinite dignity as she named “General Montrose;” and her nephew
smiled as he noticed the long absent bloom stealing lightly over her fine
features.
“There is no term more
doubtful than that word misfortune,” said the surgeon, regardless of the nice
manœuvres 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 abruptly, and
laying in a stock to supply the deficiency.
“We will pledge you a
sentiment in it, sir, as it seems to suit your taste,” said Mr. Wharton, still
uncertain what would be the termination of all these misfortunes.
Filling to the brim,
Lawton said, looking hard at the English colonel--“a clear field and no favor.”
“I drink your toast,
Captain Lawton,” said the surgeon gravely; “inasmuch as courtesy requires no
less at my hands; but I wish never to see your troop nearer to an enemy than
long pistol-shot.”
“Let me tell you, Mr.
Archibald Sitgreaves,” said the dragoon hastily, “that’s a damned unneighbourly
wish.”
The ladies bridled, and
Miss Peyton made a motion to withdraw, which was instantly obeyed by her fair
bevy of juniors.
The suddenness of the
movement somewhat appalled the trooper, and he stammered out an apology to
Frances, who stood next him, which the laughing maid received very
good-naturedly out of regard to the coat he wore, although she knew it would
afford matter of triumph to her sister for a month to come.
“’Tis unneighbourly to
wish a man at such a distance from his friends,” said the captain
good-humouredly, in a manner that spoke his willingness to atone; it was,
however, too late, and the ladies retired with much dignity amidst the bows and
compliments of all but the chop-fallen dragoon. The discomfiture produced an
utter stagnation in the thoughts of the trooper; and Mr. Wharton, making a
profusion of apologies to his guests, arose and left the room, followed by his
son, and together both quitted the house. The retreat of the ladies was the
signal for the appearance of the surgeon’s segar box, which, having comfortably
established it in a corner of his mouth in a certain knowing way, caused not
the slighest interruption to the following discourse--
“If any thing can
sweeten captivity and wounds, it must be the happiness of suffering in the
society of the ladies who have left us,” said the colonel gallantly, feeling
something of the kind due to the hospitality he experienced, and, perhaps,
also, moved by a softer sentiment.
The doctor cast a
glance of silent observation on the black scarf around the neck of the
Englishman, and knocking the ashes from his segar with his little finger, in
the manner of an adept, replied--
“Sympathy and kindness
have, doubtless, their genial influence on the human system. The connexion 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, which was
fast regaining its complacency--taking two or three hasty puffs in huge
disdain, he essayed to finish the sentence--“yes, in such cases, the knowledge
that flows from the --the lights.”
“You were saying, sir,”
said Colonel Wellmere, sipping his wine.
“Yes, sir,” said the
operator, turning his back abruptly on Lawton; “I was saying that a bread
poultice would not set a broken arm.”
“More is the pity,”
cried the trooper, venturing again to trust the sound of his own voice.
“Now, Colonel Wellmere,
to you, as a man of education,” said the surgeon with great earnestness, “I can
with safety appeal.” The Colonel bowed complacently. “You must have noticed 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 prove fatal to the art of the
most experienced practitioner; now, sir, to you I triumphantly appeal, 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, nettled at the unfortunate
conjunction of terms in the doctor’s question.
“Is the cause of
liberty advanced a step by such injudicious harshness in the field?” continued
the surgeon, disregarding the other’s equivocation, and 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,” said the colonel promptly.
“Not liberty,” said the
appalled operator in astonishment; “Good God, for what then are we contending?”
“Slavery, sir; yes,
even slavery,” cried the Englishman with confidence in his infallibility --“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 around him a little wildly at hearing such sweeping
charges against a cause he had so long thought to be holy.
“Ay, sir, your
consistency. Your congress of sages have published a manifesto, wherein they
set forth the equality of political rights.”
“’Tis true, sir, and it
is done most ably.”
“I say nothing of its
ability; but if true, why not set your slaves at liberty?” cried Wellmere, in a
tone that plainly showed he had transferred the triumph to his own standard.
Every American feels
humbled at the necessity of vindicating his country from the inconsistency and
injustice of this practice; his emotions are much like those of a 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 a voice in the councils by which we are governed. We think it a
hardship to be ruled by a people who live at a distance of three thousand miles
from us, 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 of contempt; “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
drinking to Lawton, who enjoyed the good sense of his comrade as much as he
disliked what he called “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 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, sir,” cried the colonel proudly.
“No, sir,” continued
the surgeon confidently, feeling that he was 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. 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 will 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
exceeding his comprehension, the Englishman retired to the apartment where the
ladies had assembled, and seated by the side of Sarah and her aunt, found a
more pleasing employment in relating the events of fashionable life in the
metropolis, and recalling the thousand little anecdotes of their former
association. Miss Peyton was a pleased listener, as she dispensed the bounties
of the tea-table with precise grace, and Sarah frequently bowed her blushing
countenance to the needle work in her lap, as her face glowed at the flattering
remarks of her companion.
The dialogue we have
related established a perfect truce again 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 movement was arrested at the gate by an
appearance, which we will relate in the succeeding chapter.
I see no more those
white locks thinly spread,
Round the bald polish of
that honoured 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 remains of the dead but a short time in
the sight of the mourners; and the necessity of providing for his own safety
compelled the pedlar 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 neighbours
were hastily collected, and the ordinary rites of sepulture were paid to the
deceased; it was the approach of this humble procession that arrested the
movements of the trooper and his comrade. Four of the men supported the body on
a rude bier; and four others walked in advance, ready to relieve their friends
occasionally from their burden. The pedlar 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 pedlar 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 from his head, and continued uncovered
until Mr. Wharton and his son had moved by him, when, accompanied by the
surgeon, he rode leisurely in the rear, maintaining an inflexible silence. Cæsar
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 horseman; the
first feeling was owing to the colour of his skin; and the latter circumstance,
to certain emotions of dread that prevailed in the bosom of the black, whenever
Captain Lawton prevented his organs of vision, from resting on more agreeable
objects. Cæsar 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 the black had 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 enclosure 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 graced its walls, that spoke 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 moulder with becoming dignity. 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 his
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 with great deliberation,
as they separated from their line of march: “now 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 some countries it is
consumed on the funeral pile, and then, 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 very
agreeable,” said the trooper, disregarding the harangue of the other, and
following the group they had left with his eyes; “which do you most admire?”
“The last as practised
by ourselves,” said the operator promptly; “for the other three are destructive
to the opportunities for dissection; but 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 to meet on entering the army.”
“To what may these
pleasures amount in a year, numerically?” said the captain drily, and
withdrawing his gaze from the grave-yard.
“Within a dozen, upon
my honour,” said the surgeon piteously; “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 dreadfully
wasteful, and as greedy as vultures.”
“A dozen!” echoed the
trooper in surprise, “why I furnish you more than 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 any thing with your patients, you disfigure them wofully;
believe me, John, when I tell you as a friend--merely as a friend, that your
system is all wrong; for 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 round the foot of the hill that shut the valley from their
sight, continued with a kind of suppressed sigh--
“A body might get a
natural death from that grave-yard to night, if there was but time and
opportunity; the patient must be the father of the lady we saw this morning.”
“The bitch-doctor; she
with the sky-blue complexion,” said the trooper, with a shrewd 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 rhyme with every word in her song, is the renowned pedlar-spy.”
“What!” cried the
astonished surgeon; “he who unhorsed you.”
“No man ever unhorsed
me, Doctor Sitgreaves,” said the dragoon with abundant gravity; “I fell by a
mischance of Roanoke; we kissed the earth together.”
“A warm embrace from
the love spots it left on your cuticle,” returned the surgeon with some of the
other’s archness; “but ’tis a thousand pities that you cannot find where the
tattling rascal lies hid.”
“He followed his father’s
body,” said the trooper composedly.
What! and you let him
pass,” cried the surgeon with extraordinary animation, checking his horse
instantly; “let us return immediately and take him, to-morrow you have him
hung, Jack, and damn him, I’ll dissect him.”
“Softly, softly, my
dear Archibald,” said the trooper soothingly; “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
dissatisfation at any postponement of his vengeance, but 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 a nature, that
they cannot weep unless it be in proper company, and the spinster was a good
deal addicted to all congregational virtues; after turning her head round the
small assemblage, the housekeeper found the eyes of the few females who were
present fixed on her in solemn expectation, and the effect was instantaneous;
the maiden really wept, and gained no inconsiderable sympathy and reputation
for a tender heart from the spectators. The muscles of the pedlar’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 as his 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, with a faded vegetation that was adapted to the
fortunes of the deceased, covered the little hillock with the last office of
seemliness. The task ended, the neighbours, who had each officiously tendered
his services in performing this duty, paused, and lifting their hats, stood
looking toward the mourner, who now felt himself to be really alone in the
world: removing his hat also, the pedlar hesitated a moment to gather energy,
and spoke--
“My friends and
neighbours, I thank you for assisting me to bury my dead out of my sight.”
A solemn pause
succeeded the brief and customary conclusion, 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 pedlar and Katy were followed into the
building by one man, however, who was well known to the surrounding country by
the significant term of “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 pedlar went to the
door, and taking a cautious glance round 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, every thing done according to law.”
The stranger 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 sadly 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 pedlar, whether the deceased had
left a will, and 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
by saying somewhat abruptly--
“When you marry,
Harvey, you may miss them spoons.”
“I never shall marry,” said
the pedlar laconically.
“Well if you don’t,
there’s no occasion to be short. I’m sure no one asked you. I should like to
know, though, of what use so many spoons can be to a single man: for my part, I
think it’s a duty for every man who is so 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 labours of their own hands in the shape of divers pillow
cases, blankets, and sheets, with, where fortune was unusually kind, a half
dozen of silver spoons. The spinster herself had obtained all the other
necessaries to completing her store, by her own industry and prudence, and it
can easily be imagined saw the articles, she had long counted her own, vanish
in the enormous pack with a very natural 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 a size something like the ordinary burden of the
pedlar.
“I’m rather timoursome
about this conveyance,” said the purchaser, having at length concluded his
task.”
“Why so?” said Harvey
quickly.
“I’m afeard it won’t
stand good in law; I know that two of the neighbours leave home to-morrow
morning, to have the place entered for confistication, and if I should go now
and give forty pounds and lose it all, ’twould be a dead pull back to me.”
“They can only take my
right,” said the pedlar, coolly; “pay me two hundred dollars, and the house is
your’s; you are a well known whig, and you at least they won’t trouble;” as
Harvey spoke, there was a strange mixture of bitterness with the care he
expressed concerning the sale of his property.
“Say one hundred, and
it is a bargain,” returned the man, with something that he meant for a
good-natured smile.
“A bargain!” echoed the
pedlar in surprise, “I thought the bargain already made.”
“Nothing is a bargain,”
said the purchaser with a gratulating chuckle, “until papers are delivered, and
the money paid in hand.”
“You have the paper,”
returned the pedlar quickly.
“Aye, and will keep it,
if you will excuse the money,” replied the speculator with a sneer; “come, say
one hundred and fifty, and I won’t be hard; here--here is just the money.”
The pedlar 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 afterward.”
“Take it, Harvey,” said
Katy, who felt it impossible to resist a tender like the one before her, all in
English guineas: her voice roused the pedlar, and a new idea seemed to strike
him.
“I agree to the price,”
he said, and turning to the spinster, 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
have suffered myself to have been 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 pedlar was busied
in arranging things for his departure, and took no notice of this insinuation,
while the spinster returned again to the attack. She had lived so many years in
expectation of a different result 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 as
the pedlar.
“Have you another house
to go to?” inquired Katy, with unusual pathos in her manner.
“Providence will
provide me with a home,” said Harvey, with a perceptible tremor in his voice.
“Yes,” said the
housekeeper quickly; “but maybe ’twill not be to your liking.”
“The poor must not be
difficult,” returned the pedlar gravely.
“I’m sure I’m every
thing 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.”
“The valley is lovely,”
said the pedlar 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 dropt 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, instinctively shoving her chair nearer to the place where the pedlar sat;
“not so, Harvey, you must know me at least; my face cannot be strange to you
certainly.”
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 defence.”
“That I will--that I
would!” said Katy eagerly, “I will defend you, Harvey, to the last drop--let me
hear them that dare revile you! you say true, Harvey, I am partial and just to
you--what if you do like the king, I have often heard say he was at the bottom
a good man; but there’s no religion in the old country; for every body allows
the ministers are desperate bad.”
The pedlar paced the
floor in evident distress of mind; his eye had a look of wildness that Katy had
never witnessed before, and his step was measured with a dignity that appalled
the maiden.
“While he lived,” cried
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
insult 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,”
Katy ventured to say imploringly, when the pedlar added, as a smile stole over
his haggard features--
“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.
But the ebullition of
feeling in the pedlar was over; it had been excited by the events of the past
day, and a vivid perception of his sufferings; it was not long that passion
maintained an ascendancy over the reason of the trader, and perceiving that the
night had already thrown an obscurity around the objects without doors, he
hastily threw his pack over his shoulders, and taking Katy kindly by the hand,
made his parting speech--
“It is painful to part
with even you, good woman, but the hour has come, and I must go: what is left
in the house is freely yours; to me it could be of no use, and it may serve to
make you more comfortable--farewell--we meet hereafter.”
“Yes, in the regions of
darkness,” cried a voice that caused the pedlar to sink on the chest he had
risen from, in despair.
“What! another pack,
Mr. Birch, and so well stuffed so soon.”
“Have you not yet done
evil enough?” cried the pedlar, regaining his firmness, and springing on his
feet with energy; “is it not enough to harrass 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.”
“Ay! and a fair price
it is my gentleman: fifty guineas--nearly the weight of that scare-crow carcass
of your’s 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
your’s.”
“One hour,” said the
skinner, showing his teeth, and looking with a longing eye at the money.
“Yes, but one
hour--here, take the money.”
“Hold!” cried Harvey, “put
no faith in the miscreants.”
“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
pedlar proudly; “take me to Major Dunwoodie; he, at least, may be kind,
although he may be just.”
“I can do better than
by marching so far in such disgraceful company,” replied the other very coolly;
“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 around 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,” said the skinner with a malignant laugh; “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 pedlar 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 repme, 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 accident, the fellow sprung on his feet, and exclaimed--
“The curse of heaven
light on the log; the night is too dark for us to move in; throw that brand of
fire in you pile of tow, to lighten up the scene.”
“Hold!” roared the
horror-struck speculator, “you’ll fire the house.”
“And see the farther,”
said the other, hurling the fire 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 pedlar?”
“’Twould be wise to
move more from the light, if you mean to entertain us with abuse, or we may see
too well to let a bullet miss you,” 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
pedlar was the huge chimney we have already mentioned.
Trifles, light as air, Are to
the jealous, confirmations strong
As proofs from holy
writ.
Moor of Venice
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
which engaged the attention of her father and brother, that was in unison with
the feelings of the maid. As she gazed around, she saw the trees bending to the
force of the whirlwinds, that swept through the valley with an impetuosity that
shook even the buildings of lesser importance; 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
patroling 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 around them in tighter folds.
The maid witnessed the
disappearance of the wooden tenement of the deceased, as it was slowly lowered
from the light of day, and the sight still added to the chilling dreariness of
the view. Captain Singleton was sleeping under the careful watchfulness 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 expressive countenance. The chilling white of her complexion was strongly
contrasted with the brilliant glances of 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 recognised 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 emotious were too powerful to permit her to
speak, and she drew back to a chair, whence 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 maid who witnessed 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 bursts 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 with an undisputed sway. The fury of the wind, as it
whistled around 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 any
thing the maid had ever heard, and she stood, endeavouring to stifle the sounds
of her own gentle breathing, until the song following was concluded:
Cold blow the blasts o’er
the tops of the mountain,
And bare is the oak on the hill, Slowly
the vapours 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 pour’d
its weight on my nation,
And long have her brave stood the shock; Long has our chieftain ennobled his station,
A bulwark on liberty’s rock-- Unlicens’d
ambition relaxes its toil,
Yet blighted affection
represses my smile.
Abroad the wild fury of
winter is low’ring,
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 face of the pallid maiden. A glow of fire
lighted the countenances 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 herself, 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?” continued Isabella, in a voice that
startled her companion. 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,” replied Frances, in still greater confusion at the vehemence of
Isabella.
“And he is to be your
husband,” cried the stranger impetuously.
Frances felt her pride
awakened by this direct attack upon the delicacy of 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 hiding her burning face between her hands,
as she sunk 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,
endeavouring to exclude the eyes of her companion from reading the shame expressed
in her countenance, and taking the hand of the maid, 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 the
eyes of the maids 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
farther 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 Capt. 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 spinster knew
how to dispose of to advantage. Cæsar 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 Queenstreet,
that he was to be the renowned warrior he has proved himself,” said Wellmere,
endeavouring to smile contemptuously.
“Renowned, when we
consider the enemy he overcame,” said Sarah with consideration for her
companion’s feelings. “’I’ was most unfortunate indeed in every respect that
you met with the accident, or doubtless the arms of our Prince 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, to
the former,” returned the colonel in the same manner. “Ah! Miss Wharton, it is
in such moments 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 tete-a-tete 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 for the moment, who retired to her rest with a
lighter heart than she had felt since the arrest of her brother by the
Americans.
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.
Iago
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 wit from 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, bitch-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, that 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 their 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 in the broken windows, to exclude the cold
which had now become severe, she formed what she herself had pronounced to be “most
iligant lodgings.” The men were quartered in the adjacent barns, and the
officers collected in the “Hotel Flanagan,” which they facetiously called
headquarters. Betty was well known to every trooper in the corps, could call
each by his christian or nick-name, 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 partizan warriors. Her faults were,
a trifling love of liquor, excessive filthiness, and a total disregard to 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 “cock-tail.”
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 Virginia customers the use
of mint, from its flavour 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 villanous 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 cheering as a christmas fire.”
“Now, sure, Captain
Jack, you are 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 don’t think I could relish your whiskey for a month to come.”
“If it’s silver or
goold that your thinking of, it’s but little I have, though I’ve a trifling bit
of the continental,” said Betty with a look of much meaning,” but there’s that
within that’s fit to be put in vessels of di’monds.”
“What can she mean,
Archibald?” asked Lawton quickly: “the animal looks as if she meant more than
she says.”
“ ’Tis probably a
wandering of the reasoning powers, created by the frequency of intoxicating
draughts,” observed the surgeon coolly, as he deliberately threw his left leg
over the pommel of his 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 expecting you; the whole corps come
down on this side but yourself,” said Betty, winking at the trooper; “but I’ve
been feeding the wounded, in your absence, with the fat of the land.”
“Barbarous stupidity!”
cried the panic-stricken physician, “to feed men labouring under the excitement
of fever with powerful nutriment; woman, woman, you are enough to defeat the
skill of Hippocrates himself.”
“Pooh!” said Betty with
infinite composure, “what a botheration you make about a little whiskey; there
was but a gallon betwixt a good two dozen of them, and I gave it to the boys to
make them sleep easy; 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 out-building, was stretched through the middle
of the largest apartment or bar-room, and on it was a very scanty display of
crockery ware. The steams of cooking arose from an adjoining kitchen, but the
principal attraction was in a demi-john of fair proportions, which had been
ostentatiously placed on high by Betty as the object most worthy of notice.
Lawton soon learnt that it was teeming with the real amber-coloured 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 honour 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 head quarters 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 crackling 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 partizan with the polish 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 endeavouring 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 savour 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 reconnoitre the state of the
preparations. All this time Dunwoodie sat by himself gazing at the fire, and
lost in reflections that none of his officers presumed to disturb; he had made
earnest inquiries of Sitgreaves on his entrance 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 Cæsar 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 colourings of the plates. The good nature and personal affection of
Betty for the offender, restrained her for some time from answering to his
innuendos, until Lawton, with a yawn, ventured to admit a piece of the black
meat before him into his mouth, where, either from sated appetite, or qualities
inherent in the food, much time was spent in vain efforts at mastication, when
he cried with some spleen--
“What kind of animal
might this have been when living, Mrs. Flanagan?”
“Sure, captain, and was’nt
it the ould cow,” replied the suttler with an emotion, that proceeded partly
from dissatisfaction at the complaints of her favourite, and partly from grief
at the loss of the deceased.
“What!” roared the
trooper, stopping short as he was happily 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 most piteous aspect of woe; “sure
gentlemen ’tis awful to have to eat sitch an ould frind.”
“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 Virginia 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 most 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 their door had been relieved, all
recollection of the dinner and their cares were lost in the present festivity.
Dr. Sitgreaves had not returned in season to partake of Jenny, but had come 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 bumper he had finished, though his head
was as impenetrable as a post, “I am not much of a nightingale, but under the
favour 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 an 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 fervour 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, &c. 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, &c. 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 perhaps with no small
participation in the satisfaction on her own account. The hostess was provided
with a beverage more suited to the high seasoning she had accustomed her palate
to, than the tasteless present of Captain Wharton; by which means Betty had
managed, with tolerable facility, to keep even pace with the exhileration 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 fine glow of classical indignation. The bravos and bravissimo’s
drowned all other noises for a short time, but as they gradually ceased, the
doctor turned to the musician, and exclaimed, with manifest heat--
“Captain Lawton, I
marvel that a gentlemen, 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 upon him in a most threatening attitude, “and who is it that
calls me filthy? Master squirt Master pop-gun--”
“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
honour us with a sentimental song,” said Lawton, bowing to his leader, with the
politeness of a gentleman, and the collected manner he so well knew how to
assume.
The Major hesitated a
moment, and then sung, with fine execution, the following words:
Some love the heats of
southern suns,
Where life’s warm
current mad’ning runs,
In one quick circling stream; But
dearer far’s the mellow light,
Which trembling shines,
reflected bright
In Luna’s milder beams. Some
love the tulip’s gandier dyes,
Where deep’ning blue
with yellow vies,
And gorgeous beauty glows; But
happier he, whose bridal wreathe,
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. Sitgreave’s
song--Dr. Sitgreaves song,” echoed all at the table with delight: “a classical
ode from Dr. Sitgreaves.
The surgeon made a
complacent bow of acquiescence, 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 any
thing 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 in a burst of applause, “Archibald eclipses the muses themselves; his
words flow like the sylvan stream by moonlight, and his melody is a cross breed
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 any intruders. The door
was opened, and the skinners entered, dragging in the pedlar, bending under 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 drily, and with infinite composure.
“Then here I deliver to
your hands a condemned traitor--this is Harvey Birch, the pedlar-spy.”
Lawton started as he
looked his old acquaintance in the face, and turning to the skinner with a
lowering look, continued--
“And who are you, sir,
that speak so freely of your neighbours?” bowing to Dunwoodie, “but your
pardon, sir; here is the commanding officer, to him you will please to address
yourself.”
“No, said the man
sullenly, “it is to you I deliver the pedlar, 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 send a soul so hastily to his presence,” said the pediar with solemnity.
“You speak truth,” said
Dunwoodie; “and a few brief hours shall be added to your life; but as your
offence is most odious to a soldier, so it will be sure to meet with the
soldier’s vengeance: you die tomorrow.”
“’Tis as God wills,”
returned Harvey without moving a muscle.
“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 patroles report a hourse to be
burnt, near yesterday’s battle ground.”
“’Twas the hut of the
pedlar,” muttered the leader of the gang; “we have not left him a shingle for
shelter; I should have burnt 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 with extreme gravity; “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;” cried the
major, “and you, miserable man, prepare for that fate which will surely await
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 this invitation, and followed the captain towards the quarters
assigned to his troop. Dunwoodie paused a moment, from reluctance to triumph
over a fallen foe, and proceeded with great solemnity--
“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
pedlar starting, and raising himself proudly, in a manner that regarded the
weight of his pack as nothing.
“Ay, the truth--you
were charged with loitering near the continental army, to gain intelligence of
its movements, and by communicating it to the enemy, to enable him to frustrate
the intentions of Washington.”
“Will Washington say
so, think you?” said Birch with a ghastly smile.
“Doubtless he would--even
the justice of Washington condemns you.”
“No--no--no,” cried the
pedlar, 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 the die?--if a gallows is ready for me, was there not one for him
also? no--no--no, Washington would never say, ‘lead him to a gallows.”’
“Have you any thing,
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 with the
violence of the emotions that 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, and its contents was a small piece of paper--his eye
was for an instant fixed on it--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 yet find favour,” said Dunwoodie eagerly; 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 hastily, “and wrest the secret from his hands.”
The order was
immediately obeyed; but the movements of the pedlar were too quick for them; in
an instant he swallowed it. The officers paused in astonishment, at the
readiness and energy of the spy; 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
pedlar, 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 you are to undergo.”
Dunwoodie whispered his
orders in the ear of a subaltern, and motioned to the pedlar 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 over
the frozen ground, in front of the Hotel Flanagan.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.