Chapter XXVI
THE SERGEANT AND HIS COMRADE PROJECT AN EXPEDITION WHICH FURNISHES THE ENSIGN AN OPPORTUNITY OF ENJOYING THE PICTURESQUE.
As soon as David Ramsay had departed with the maiden for Musgrove's mill, Robinson ordered his own and Christopher Shaw's horse to be saddled, and another to be made ready for St. Jermyn. His next care was to determine upon a secure place of retreat--reflecting that the news of the capture of the ensign must soon reach the British posts, and that the country would be industriously explored with a view to his rescue. A spot known to the woodsmen of this region by the name of the Devil's Ladder, which was situated in the defile of a mountain brook that emptied into the Ennoree, occurred to Christopher Shaw as the most secret fastness within their reach. This spot lay some twenty miles westward of Ramsay's, accessible by roads but little known, and surrounded by a district which grew more wild and rugged the nearer it approached the defile.
Here it was supposed the party might arrive by daylight the next morning, and remain for a few days at small risk of discovery; and thither, accordingly, it was resolved they should repair.
This being settled, Horse Shoe now procured a supply of provisions from Mistress Ramsay, and then proceeded to arm himself with the sword and pistols of the ensign, whilst Christopher suspended across his body the sword of Goliath, as the sergeant called the brand he had snatched up at Blackstock's, and also took possession of one of the captured muskets.
"If it don't go against your conscience, Mistress Ramsay," said Horse Shoe, when the preparations for the journey were completed, "I would take it as a favor, in case any interlopers mought happen to pop in upon you, if you would just drop a hint that you have hearn that Sumpter's people had been seen about these parts. It would have an amazing good bearing on the Tories. Besides making them wary how they strayed about the woods it would be sure to put the bloodhounds on a wrong scent, if they should chance to be sarching for the young ensign. I know you women are a little ticklish about a fib, but then it's an honest trick of the war sometimes. And, to make you easy about it, it will be no more than the truth to say you did hear it--for, you obsarve, I tell you so now."
"But," replied the scrupulous matron, "if they should ask me who told me, what should I answer?"
"Why," said the sergeant, hesitating, "just out with it--tell 'em you heard it from one Horse Shoe Robinson; that'll not make the news the worse in point of credit. And be sure, good woman, above all things, to remind David, when he gets back to night, that the rank and file, in our prison yonder, are not to be turned loose before three o'clock in the morning."
This last caution was repeated to Andy, who still performed the duty of a sentinel at the door of the out-house. All things being now arranged for their departure, Ensign St. Jermyn was brought from the chamber where he had been confined, and was invited to join the sergeant and Christopher at supper before they set out. This meal was ably and rapidly discussed by the stout yeomen, and scarcely less honored by the prisoner, whom the toils and privations of the day had brought to enjoyment of a good appetite.
With many cheering and kind expressions of encouragement from the sergeant, the young officer prepared to comply with the demands of his captors, and was soon in readiness to attend them. Robinson lifted him into his saddle with a grasp as light as if he was dealing with a boy, and then bound him by a surcingle to the horse's back, whilst he offered a good-humored apology for the rigor of this treatment.
"It is not the most comfortable way of riding, Mr. Ensign," he said, with a chuckle; "but fast bind, fast find, is a'most an excellent good rule for a traveller in the dark. I hope you don't think I take any pleasure in oncommoding you, but it is my intention to lead your horse by the rein to-night, and this friend of mine will keep in the rear. So, by way of a caution, I would just signify to you that if you should think of playing a prank you will certainly bring some trouble upon your head--as one or another of us would in that case be obliged to fire. It is nothing more than military punctilium to give you a friendly warning of this."
"You might dispense with this severity, I should think," replied the prisoner, "upon my pledge of honor that I will make no effort to escape."
"I can take no pledge in the dark," returned Horse Shoe; "daylight mought make a difference. If we should happen to fall in with any of your gangs I'm thinking a pledge wouldn't come to much more than a cobweb when I should ax you to gallop out of the way of your own people. Flesh is weak, as the preacher says, and, to my mind, it's a little the weaker when the arm is strong or the foot swift. Temptation is at the bottom of all backsliding. No, no, Mr. Ensign, you may get away, if you can; we'll take care of you whilst we're able--that's a simple understanding."
Without further speech the party proceeded on their journey. They travelled as rapidly as was consistent with the ease of the prisoner and the nature of the ground over which they had to move. For the first eight or ten miles, their route lay across a country with but few impediments, except such as arose from the unseasonable hour of the ride. After this they found the toil and hazard of travel continually increasing. They had been retreating from the settled country towards a rough wilderness, which was penetrated only by an obscure road, so little beaten as to be scarcely discernible in the faint starlight, and which it required all Christopher's skill in woodcraft to follow. Our travellers, consequently, often lost their way, and were obliged to get down from their horses and grope about to ascertain the path. The stars had shone all night through a cloudless firmament, but the deep shade of the forest thickened around the wanderers, and it was frequently with difficulty, even, that they could discern each other's figures.
They reached at length the small stream upon whose banks, some miles above, was situated the place to which their steps were directed; and they were thus rendered more sure of their road, as they had only to follow the ascending course of the brook. The delays and impediments of the journey had nearly outrun the night, and whilst our travellers were yet some two or three miles from their destination, the first traces of morning began to appear in the east. The increasing light disclosed to them the nature of the scenery around. A limpid rivulet tumbled over a rocky channel, girt with a profusion of brush and briar, amongst which were scattered a thousand wild-flowers, that, renovated by the dew, threw forth a delicious perfume. A succession of abrupt hills, covered with the varied foliage of a rich forest growth, bounded the brook on either side. Occasional rocks jutted above the heads of the travellers as they wound along the paths, worn by the wild cattle in the bottom of the dell.
Both Robinson and Shaw had dismounted when they entered this defile, and whilst the former led the horse of the prisoner his companion preceded him to explore the doubtful traces of the road, which frequently became so obscure as to render it necessary to seek a passage in the bed of the stream. During all this progress Horse Shoe's good nature and light-heartedness were unabated. He conversed with the prisoner in the same terms of friendly familiarity that he did with Shaw, and neglected no attention that might in any degree relieve the irksomeness of St. Jermyn's necessary thraldom.
That peculiar conformation of country which had given rise to the name of the place to which they were conducting the prisoner, was now to be discerned at some little distance ahead. It presented a series of bold crags of granite intermixed with slate, in which rock piled upon rock presented a succession of shelves, each beetling over its base, and thus furnishing a shelter against the weather. Some of these were situated near the bank of the stream, projecting over the water, whilst others towered at different heights, in such a manner as to bear a resemblance to a flight of huge steps cut in the slope of the mountain, and by this likeness, doubtless, suggesting the imaginative name by which the spot was known to the few hunters to whom it was familiar. The cavern-like structure of these ledges abundantly supplied the means of concealment to both men and horses, from the casual notice of such persons as accident might have brought into this sequestered defile.
When the party arrived at the foot of the Devil's Ladder, it was with great satisfaction to all that they now made a halt. A short time was spent in selecting a spot, amongst the impending cliffs, of such a character as might afford the advantage of shelter, as well as the means of ready look-out and escape in case of discovery or pursuit. The place chosen was about half way up the hill, where the ridge of a promontory enabled the occupants to see some distance up and down the valley; whilst the crag itself contained within its recesses a chamber sufficiently large for the purpose to which it was to be applied. A natural platform, near this point, allowed sufficient space for the horses, which might be conducted there by a sideling path up the slope; at the same time, the means of retreat were furnished by the nature of the ground towards the top of the hill.
To this place of security the ensign was ordered by his guard, and, being released from his bonds, he dismounted and threw himself at length upon the mossy surface of the rock, where he lay wearied in body and dejected in mind. The horses were taken in charge by Shaw; provisions were produced, and all arrangements of caution and comfort were made for passing the next two or three days in this wild sojourn.
Here, for the present, we must leave our adventurers, to tell of other matters that are proper to be made known to the reader of this history.
In due time David Ramsay returned from Musgrove's. Precisely at three o'clock in the morning, the soldiers were released according to the terms of the parole; and my reader will, no doubt, be pleased to hear that Andy, being discharged from duty, went to bed as drowsy as e'er a man of mould after a feat of glory, and slept with a sleep altogether worthy of his heroic achievement.
The next day passed by, at Ramsay's dwelling, with a varied and fearful interest to his family. They had received intelligence, before night, of the event of Butler's trial, and had reason to rejoice that Mary Musgrove had so played her part in the delivery of the letter. They were apprised also of the reward that had been offered for the discovery of the bearer of this letter, and were informed that detachments of horse were out to scour the country in quest of the ensign. These tidings filled them with apprehension. It occurred to Ramsay that if, perchance, the released prisoners should fall in with any of the parties of the loyalists, they would of course relate their story, and thus bring down the full rancor of the Tory wrath upon his household: this would also lead with more certainty to the pursuit of Horse Shoe. There was still good reason to hope that the liberated men might not so soon be able to give the alarm; inasmuch as they were more likely to shape their course towards Fort Ninety-Six than to repair to Innis's camp, where they might be forced to do duty, as much against their inclinations as against their parole. They might even, from a natural aversion to labor, prefer loitering about the country rather than put themselves voluntarily in the way of military operations.
"Come what will of it," said Ramsay, summing up the chances for and against him; "I will be ready for the worst. Many better men have given all they had to the cause of independence, and I will not flinch from giving my share. They may burn and break down; but, thank God, I have a country--aye, and a heart and an arm to stand by it!"
On the same evening, towards sundown, a horseman drew up his rein at Ramsay's door. He was young--in the prime of early manhood, his dress was that of a rustic, his equipment showed him to be a traveller--a weary one, from the plight of his horse, and, like most travellers of the time, well armed. He did not stand to summon any one to the door, but put his hand upon the latch with eager haste, and entered with the familiarity of one acquainted with the place. Mistress Ramsay was seated at her spinning-wheel, anxiously brooding over the tales of the day. Her husband reclined in his chair, silently and thoughtfully smoking his pipe. They both sprang up at once, as the visitor crossed the threshold, and with fervent joy greeted their son John Ramsay. The household was clamorous with the affectionate salutations of the parents, of the brothers and sisters, and of the domestics. John was the eldest of Ramsay's children, and had just reached his paternal roof after an absence of some months, during which he had been in service with Sumpter. The gathering in of the members of a family around the domestic board, in times of peril and distress, is one of the luxuries of the heart that in peace we cannot know. The arrival of John Ramsay at the present moment was a source of the liveliest happiness to his parents. They needed a cheerful as well as a resolute comforter. John had, only twenty-four hours previous, left Sumpter near Rocky Mount--immediately after the battle with the British convoy was won. He was sent with despatches to Colonel Williams, a Whig partisan of note, who was now supposed to be in the neighborhood of the Saluda. These had some reference to the military movements of the parties; and John Ramsay was permitted by Sumpter to make a short halt at his father's house.
In the first hour after his arrival, he had given to the family the history of his homeward ride. He had discovered that hostile forces--of which, until his journey was nearly finished, he heard nothing--were encamped in the neighborhood; that a court-martial had been sitting for the trial of an American officer, as a spy, and had condemned him to be shot. He had been apprised, moreover, that small parties were out, riding into every corner of the country. He himself had nearly been surprised by one of these, as he endeavored to make his way to the house of Allen Musgrove, where he had proposed to himself a visit, even before he came to his father's, but, fearing something wrong, he had fled from them, and baffled their pursuit, although they had chased him more than a mile; he had, in consequence, been deprived of the opportunity of visiting the miller.
"Although it is four months since we have seen you, John," said the dame, with a tone of affectionate chiding, "yet, you would turn aside to get under Allen Musgrove's roof, before you thought of the arms of your mother."
John's sun-burnt cheek blushed crimson red as he replied, "It was but a step out of the way, mother, and I should not have stayed long. Mr. Musgrove and his folks are safe and well, I hope, and Christopher?"
"Tut, boy! speak it out, and don't blush about it," interrupted the father briskly: "she is a good girl, and you needn't be ashamed to name her, as you ought to have done, first and before all the rest. Mary is well, John, and has just proved herself to be the best girl in the country."
This little passage of mirth between the parents and their son, led to a full narrative by David Ramsay of the events which had occurred in the last two or three days, concluding with the capture of the ensign, and the retreat of Horse Shoe and Christopher Shaw to the Devil's Ladder. The communication wrought a grave and thoughtful mood on the young soldier. It presented a crisis to him for immediate action. He was wearied with a long ride, but it seemed to him to be no time for rest.
"Father," he said, after turning over in his thoughts the intelligence he had just received, "it was a brave and beautiful thing for so young a lad as Andy to do; and the taking of the ensign has served a useful purpose, but it brings this house and family into danger. And I fear for poor Mary. Christopher Shaw must get back to the mill, and quickly too. His absence will bring his uncle's family into trouble. I will take Christopher's place, and go to Horse Shoe's assistance this night. We may take the prisoner with us to Williams."
"To-night!" said the mother anxiously, "you would not leave us to-night, John?"
"Aye, to-night, wife," answered David Ramsay, "the boy is right, there is no time to spare."
"Have mercy upon us," exclaimed the dame; "to ride so far to-night, after so heavy a journey, John!--you have not strength."
"Dear mother," said John, "think that you are all in danger and that Mary, who has behaved so well, might be suspected, and brought to harm. I must hurry forward to Colonel Williams, and this road by the Devil's Ladder is far out of my way. No, I am not so much fatigued, mother, as you suppose. I will rest for a few hours, and then try the woods. Daybreak, I warrant, shall not find me far from Horse Shoe."
John Ramsay was not above six-and-twenty. He was endued with a stout and manly frame, well adapted to hard service; and this was associated with a bold and intelligent countenance, which, notwithstanding the dint of wind and weather, was handsome. He had for a year or two past been actively engaged in the war, and his manners had, in consequence, acquired that maturity and decision which are generally found in those whose habits of life render them familiar with perils. On the present occasion he regarded the necessity of co-operation with Robinson as so urgent, that no other thought crossed his mind but that which belonged to the care of putting himself in condition to make his services effectual.
With this view he now directed his horse to be carefully tended; then, having taken a hearty meal, he retired to rest, desiring that he might be waked up at midnight, when he proposed to follow the path of Horse Shoe and his comrade.
XXVII. A RETREAT AFTER THE MANNER OF XENOPHON
The next morning, a little after sunrise, as Robinson was holding the watch on the outer ledge of the rock, in a position that enabled him to survey the approaches to the spot through the valley, as well as to keep his eye upon the ensign and Christopher Shaw, who were both asleep under cover of the crag, he was startled by a distant noise of something breaking through the bushes on the margin of the brook. At first it struck him that this was caused by deer stalking up the stream; but he soon afterwards descried the head and shoulders of a man, whose motions showed him to be struggling through the thicket towards the base of the hill. This person at length reached a space of open ground, where he halted and looked anxiously around him, thus revealing his figure, as he sat on horseback, to the observation of the sergeant, who, in the meantime, had taken advantage of a low pine tree and a jutting angle of a rock to screen himself from the eager eye of the traveller--at least until he should be satisfied as to the other's character and purpose.
A loud and cheerful halloo, several times repeated by the stranger, seemed to indicate his quest of a lost companion; and this gradually drew the sergeant, with a weary motion, from his hiding-place, until assuring himself that the comer was alone, he stept out to the edge of the shelf of rock, and presenting his musket, peremptorily gave the common challenge of "Who goes there?"
"A friend to Horse Robinson," was the reply of the visitor, in whom my reader recognises John Ramsay.
Before further question might be asked and answered, John had dismounted from his horse and clambered to the platform, where he greeted the sergeant and the hastily-awakened Christopher Shaw, with a hearty shake of the hand; and then proceeded to communicate the pressing objects of his visit, and to relate all that he had learned of the recent events during his short stay at his father's house.
In the consultation that followed these disclosures, Ramsay earnestly urged his comrades to make instant preparation to quit their present retirement, and to attempt the enterprise of conducting the prisoner to Williams, who was supposed to be advancing into the neighborhood of a well known block-house, or frontier fortification, on the Saluda, about forty miles from their present position.
The message with which Ramsay was charged from Sumpter to Williams, made it necessary that he should endeavor to reach that officer as soon as possible; and the sergeant, rejoicing in the thought of being so near a strong body of allies who might render the most essential aid to the great object of his expedition, readily concurred in the propriety of the young trooper's proposal. This enterprise was also recommended by the necessity of taking some immediate steps to preserve the custody of the ensign, whose capture had already been so serviceable to the cause of Arthur Butler. In accordance, moreover, with John Ramsay's anxious entreaty, Christopher Shaw, it was determined, should hasten back to the mill at the earliest moment.
A speedy departure was, therefore, resolved on, and accordingly all things were made ready, in the course of an hour, to commence the march. At the appointed time the ensign was directed to descend into the valley, where he was once more bound to his horse. The conferences between the sergeant and his two comrades had been held out of the hearing of the prisoner; but it was now thought advisable to make him acquainted with the late proceedings that had transpired with regard to Butler, and especially with the respite that had been given to that officer by Innis. This communication was accompanied by an intimation that he would best consult his own comfort and safety by a patient submission to the restrictions that were put upon him: inasmuch as his captors had no disposition to vex him with any other precautions than were necessary for his safe detention during the present season of peril to Butler.
With this admonition the party began their journey. The first two or three hours were occupied in returning, by the route of the valley, to the Ennoree. When they reached the river they found themselves relieved from the toils of the narrow and rugged path by which they had threaded the wild mountain dell, and introduced into an undulating country covered with forest, and intersected by an occasional but unfrequented road leading from one settlement to another. Here Christopher Shaw was to take leave of his companions, his path lying along the bank of the Ennoree, whilst the route to be pursued by the others crossed the river and extended thence southwards to the Saluda. The young miller turned his horse's head homewards, with some reluctance at parting with his friends in a moment of such interest, and bore with him many messages of comfort and courage to those whom he was about to rejoin--and more particularly from the sergeant to Butler, in case Christopher should have the good fortune to be able to deliver them. At the same time, Horse Shoe and John Ramsay, with the prisoner, forded the Ennoree, and plunged into the deep forest that lay upon its further bank.
For several hours they travelled with the greatest circumspection, avoiding the frequented roads and the chance of meeting such wayfarers as might be abroad on their route. It was a time of great anxiety and suspense, but the habitual indifference of military life gave an air of unconcern to the conduct of the soldiers, and scarcely affected, in any visible degree, the cheerfulness of their demeanor.
They reached, at length, the confines of a cultivated country--a region which was known to be inhabited by several Tory families. To avoid the risk of exposure to persons who might be unfriendly to their purpose, they thought it prudent to delay entering upon this open district until after sunset, that they might continue their journey through the night. The difficulty of ascertaining their road in the dark, and the danger of seeking information from the few families whose habitations occurred to their view, necessarily rendered their progress slow. The time was, therefore, passed in weary silence and persevering labor, in the anxious contemplation of the probability of encountering some of the enemy's scouts.
At the break of day they stopped to refresh themselves; and the contents of Horse Shoe's wallet, unhappily reduced to a slender supply of provisions, were distributed amongst the party. During this halt, John Ramsay commanded the ensign to exchange his dress with him; and our faithful ally was converted, by this traffic, for the nonce, into a spruce, well-looking, and gay young officer of the enemy's line.
The most hazardous portion of their journey now lay before them. They were within a few miles of the Saluda, from whence, at its nearest point, it was some six or seven more down the stream to the Block-house--the appointed rendezvous, where it was yet a matter of uncertainty whether Williams had arrived. The space between the travellers and the river was a fertile and comparatively thickly-peopled region, of which the inhabitants were almost entirely in the Tory interest. The broad daylight having overtaken them on the confines of this tract, exposed them to the greatest risk of being questioned. They had nothing left but to make a bold effort to attain the river by the shortest path; and thence to pursue the bank towards the rendezvous.
"Courage, John," said Horse Shoe, smiling at the new garb of his comrade; "you may show your pretty feathers to-day to them that are fond of looking at them. And you, my young clodpole, ride like an honest Whig, or I mought find occasion to do a discomfortable thing, by putting a bullet through and through you. Excuse the liberty, sir, for these are ticklish times; but I shall ondoubtedly be as good as my word."
Our adventurers soon resumed their journey. They had come within a mile of the Saluda without interruption, and began to exchange congratulations that the worst was passed, when they found themselves descending a sharp hill which jutted down upon an extensive piece of pasture ground. One boundary of this was watered by a brook, along whose margin a fringe of willows, intermixed with wild shrubbery of various kinds, formed a screen some ten or fifteen feet in height. As soon as this range of meadow was observed, our cautious soldiers halted upon the brow of the hill to reconnoitre; and perceiving nothing to excite their apprehension, they ventured down, upon the track of an ill-defined road, which took a direction immediately over the broadest portion of the field.
They had scarcely crossed the brook at the bottom of the hill, before they heard the remote voices of men in conversation, and the tones of a careless laugh. On looking towards the upper section of the stream, they were aware of a squad of loyalist cavalry, who came riding, in the shade of the willows, directly towards the spot where the travellers had entered upon the meadow. The party consisted of seven or eight men, who were, at this instant, not more than one hundred paces distant.
"They are upon us, sergeant!" exclaimed John Ramsay. "Make sure of the prisoner: retreat as rapidly as you can. Leave me to myself. Make for the Block-house--I will meet you there."
With these hasty intimations, he pricked his courser up to full speed, and shaped his flight directly across the open field, in full view of the enemy.
Horse Shoe, at the same moment, drew a pistol, cocked it, and throwing the rein of St. Jermyn's horse into the hands of the rider, he cried out:--
"Back across the branch and into the woods! Push for it, or you are a dead man! On, on!" he added, as he rode at high speed immediately beside the ensign; "a stumble, or a whisper above your breath, and you get the bullet. Fly--your life is in your horse's heels!"
The resolute tone of the sergeant had its effect upon his prisoner, who yielded a ready obedience to the pressing orders, and bounded into the thicket with as much alacrity as if flying from an enemy.
Meanwhile, the troopers, struck with the earnest haste of one whose dress bespoke a British officer, speeding across the field, did not doubt that they had afforded this timely opportunity for the escape of a prisoner from the hands of the Whigs.
"Wheel up, lads," shouted the leader of the squad, "it is the ensign! Wheel up and form a platoon to cut off the pursuit. We have him safe out of their clutches!"
Impressed with the conviction that a considerable force of Whig cavalry were at hand, the troopers directed all their efforts to cover what they believed Ensign St. Jermyn's retreat, and were now seen formed into a platoon, and moving towards the middle of the plain, in such a manner as to place themselves between the fugitive and his supposed pursuers. Here they delayed a few minutes, as if expecting an attack; until finding that the object of their solicitude had safely crossed the field and plunged into the distant woods, they rode away at a rapid pace in the same direction. When they reached the further extremity of the open ground, they halted for an instant, turned their eyes back towards the spot of their first discovery, and, finding that no attempt was made to follow, gave a hearty huzza, and rode onward in search of their prize.
The stratagem had completely succeeded: Ramsay had escaped, and Horse Shoe had withdrawn his prisoner into the neighboring wood upon the hill, where he was able to observe the whole scene. After a brief interval, the sergeant resumed his journey, and, with all necessary circumspection, bent his steps towards the river, where he arrived without molestation, and thence he continued his march in the direction of the rendezvous.
John Ramsay did not stop until he had crossed the Saluda and advanced a considerable distance on the opposite bank, where, to his great joy, he was encountered by a look-out party of Williams's regiment. Our fugitive had some difficulty in making himself known to his friends, and escaping the salutation which an enemy was likely to obtain at their hands; but when he surrendered to them, and made them acquainted with the cause of his disguise, the party instantly turned about with him, and proceeded in quest of the sergeant and his prisoner.
It was not long before they fell in with the small detachment of Connelly's troopers,--as the late masters of the meadow turned out to be--who were leisurely returning from their recent exploit. These, finding themselves in the presence of superior numbers, turned to flight. Not far behind them Ramsay and his new companions encountered Horse Shoe; and the whole party proceeded without delay to Williams's camp.
Colonel Williams had reached the Block-house on the preceding evening with a force of two hundred cavalry. Clarke and Shelby happened, at this juncture, to be with him; and these three gallant partisans were now anxiously employed in arranging measures for that organized resistance to the Tory Dominion which fills so striking a chapter in the history of the Southern war, and which it had been the special object of Butler's mission to promote. Horse Shoe was enabled to communicate to Williams and his confederates the general purpose of this mission, and the disasters which had befallen Butler in his attempt to reach those with whom he was to co-operate. This intelligence created a lively interest in behalf of the captive, and it was instantly determined to make some strenuous effort for his deliverance. Whilst these matters were brought into consultation by the leaders, Horse Shoe and John Ramsay mingled amongst the soldiers, in the enjoyment of that fellowship which forms the most agreeable feature in the associations of the camp.
Chapter XXVIII
BUTLER'S DIFFICULTIES INCREASE.--INNIS FINDS OCCASION TO THINK OF THE ADAGE--"THERE'S MANY A SLIP BETWIXT THE CUP AND THE LIP."
When Arthur Butler was conducted back to his place of confinement, after his trial, orders were given that no one should be allowed to approach him, except the officer to whom was intrusted his safe custody. The intercourse of this person with him was short; and concerned only with the scant accommodation which his condition required. He was, therefore, deprived of all chance of becoming acquainted with the extraordinary events that had led to his present respite from death. In the interrogations that had, during the first moments of excitement, been put to him, in regard to the letter, he was not told its import; from what quarter it had come; nor how it affected his fate. He only knew, by the result, that it had suspended the purpose of his immediate execution; and he saw that it had produced great agitation at head-quarters. He found, moreover, that this, or some other cause, had engendered a degree of exasperation against him, that showed itself in the retrenchment of his comforts, and in the augmented rigor of his confinement.
Agitated with a thousand doubts, his mind was too busy to permit him to close his eyes during the night that followed; and in this wakeful suspense he could sometimes hear, amongst the occasional ramblers who passed under his window, an allusion, in their conversation, to a victory gained over the royal troops. Coupling this with the name of Sumpter, which was now and then uttered with some adjective of disparagement, he conjectured that Horse Shoe had probably fallen in with that partisan, and was, peradventure, leading him to this vicinity. But this conclusion was combated by the fact that there seemed to be no alarm in the camp, nor any preparations on foot either for instant battle or retreat. Then the letter--that was a mystery altogether impenetrable. There was only one point upon which his mind could rest with satisfaction: of that he was sure--Horse Shoe was certainly at the bottom of the scheme, and was active in his behalf.
The whole of the next day passed over in the same state of uncertainty. It was observed by Butler, with some stress upon the circumstance, that Captain St. Jermyn, who had heretofore evinced a disposition to make himself busy in his behalf, had absented himself ever since the trial; and he thus felt himself cut off from the slightest exhibition of sympathy on the part of a single individual in the multitude of fellow beings near him. Indeed, there were various indications of a general personal ill-will against him. The house, in which he was confined, was so constructed that he could frequently hear such expressions, in the conferences of those who inhabited the rooms below stairs, as were uttered above the lower key of conversation, and these boded him no good. Once, during the day, Colonel Innis visited him. This officer's countenance was severe, and indicated anger. His purpose was to extort something from the prisoner in reference to his supposed knowledge of the course of operations of Sumpter, from whose camp Innis did not doubt this letter regarding St. Jermyn had come. He spoke in a short, quick, and peremptory tone:
"It may be well for you," he said, "that your friends do not too rashly brave my authority. Let me advise you to warn them that others may fall into our hands; and that if the ensign be not delivered up, there may be a dreadful retaliation."
"I know not, sir, of what or whom you speak," replied Butler; "and it is due to my honor to say, that I will not be induced, for the sake of saving my life, to interfere with any operations which the soldiers of Congress may have undertaken in the cause of the country. In this sentiment I admonish Colonel Innis that I desire to be put in possession of no facts from him that may be communicated under such an expectation. And having made this determination known to you, I will add to it that, from the same motives, I will answer no questions you can propose to me. You may spare yourself, therefore, the useless labor of this visit. My life is in your hands, and I have already experienced with what justice and clemency you will use your power when you dare."
"A more humble tone," said Innis, with a bitter smile, "I think would better suit your circumstances." And with this remark the commandant haughtily walked out of the apartment.
The next morning, whilst Butler was taking his breakfast, which had been brought to him by one of the soldiers of the guard, he heard a loud cheering from the troops that at that hour were on parade in the plain. This was followed by the discharge of a feu de joie from the whole line, and a flourish of drums and trumpets.
"What is that?" he inquired eagerly of the soldier, who, forgetful, in the excitement of the moment, of the order to restrain his intercourse with the prisoner, answered--
"They have just got the news from Camden: two days ago Cornwallis defeated Gates, and cut his army to pieces. The troops are rejoicing for the victory, and have just had the despatches read."
Butler heaved a deep sigh, as he said, "Then all is lost, and liberty is but a name! I feared it; God knows, I feared it."
The soldier was recalled to his duty by the sentinel at the door, and Butler was again left alone.
This was a day of crowding events. The tidings of the battle of Camden, gained on the sixteenth, and which had early this morning reached Innis, threw a spirit of the highest exultation into the camp. The event was considered decisive of the fate of the rebel power; and the most extravagant anticipations were indulged by the loyalists, in regard to the complete subjugation of the Whigs of the southern provinces. The work of confiscation was to be carried out to the most bitter extreme, and the adherents of the royal government were to grow rich upon the spoils of victory. The soldiers of Innis were permitted to give way to uncontrolled revelry; and, from the first promulgation of the news, this became a day devoted to rejoicings. Innis himself looked upon the victory at Camden with more satisfaction, as it gave him reason to believe that the sentence pronounced against Butler might be executed, without fear of vengeance threatened against the Ensign St. Jermyn. He was, however, exceedingly anxious to see this young officer released from the hands of the enemy; and had determined to respect the threat as long as there was any doubt that it might be performed. The personal consideration of Captain St. Jermyn, his station as an officer of importance, and, above all, the great influence of his family, in the esteem of the royal leaders, made it an object of deep concern to Innis to save the ensign, by the most scrupulous regard to his present difficulties. His power to do so seemed to be much increased by the late victory.
In the afternoon of the same day, further rumors were brought to Innis's camp, importing that Sumpter had been attacked on that morning upon the Catawba, by Tarleton, and completely routed. The prisoners and baggage, taken on the fifteenth, had been regained, and Sumpter was flying with the scattered remnant of his troops towards North Carolina. At the same time an order was brought to Innis to break up his camp and move northwards. This only added to the shouts and rejoicings of the troops, and drove them into deeper excesses. The war, they thought, was coming rapidly to an end, and they already anticipated this conclusion, by throwing off the irksomeness of military restraint. The officers were gathered into gossiping and convivial circles; and laughed, in unrestrained feelings of triumph, at the posture of affairs. The private soldiers, on their part, imitated their leaders, and formed themselves into knots and groups, where they caroused over their cups, danced, and sang. All was frolic and merriment.
In the midst of this festivity, a portion of Connelly's troopers, who had now been absent forty-eight hours, arrived, and made an immediate report to Innis. The purport of this was, that they had found Ensign St. Jermyn in the possession of a detachment of Whig cavalry near the Saluda: as soon as they descried him, which they did, some three hundred paces distant, knowing him by his scarlet uniform, they prepared to attack this party of Whigs; but the ensign perceiving his friends at hand, had already, by a brave effort, disentangled himself from his keepers, and taken off into the open field. The scouts, therefore, instead of attacking the Whigs, directed all their attention to secure the ensign's retreat, by holding themselves ready to check the pursuit: their manoeuvre had been successful, and the prisoner was free.
"And is now with you in the camp, my brave fellows?" said Innis, with great exultation.
"Not yet," replied the sergeant of the squad. "He is upon the road, and will, no doubt, soon be here. We have not seen him since his escape. Whilst we hung back, with a view to favor his retreat, we fell in with a party that we took to be the escort that had made him prisoner; and as they outnumbered us, we thought it prudent to decline a skirmish with them. So we filed off and made our way back to head quarters. The ensign must have been a good mile ahead of us, and as the road is hard to find, he may have lost his way. But this is certain, we saw him clear of the Whigs, with his horse's head turned towards this camp."
"Thank you, good friends," said Innis; "you have performed your duty handsomely. Go to your comrades; they have news for you, and an extra allowance to-day. Faith, Ker, this is a day for settling old accounts," he continued, as he turned and addressed an officer by his side. "Gates beaten, Sumpter beaten, and Ensign St. Jermyn delivered from captivity! That looks well! And now I have another account, which shall be settled on the nail. Stirring times, Captain St. Jermyn. I congratulate you, my friend, on your brother's safety, and mean to signalize the event as it deserves. Major Frazer, bring out your prisoner, and let him die the death punctually at sundown--at sundown, to the minute, major. We must get that job off our hands. To-morrow, my friends, we shall move towards Catawba, and thence to Hanging Rock. Meantime, we must sweep up our rubbish. So, major, look to your duty! It might as well have been done at first," he added, speaking to himself, as he walked away from the group of officers to look after other affairs.
The execution of Butler was now regarded as a mere matter of business, and to be despatched as one item of duty amongst the thousand others that were to be looked after in the hurry of breaking up the post. The interest of the trial had faded away by the lapse of time, and in the more predominating excitements which the absorbing character of the late events had afforded. The preparations for this ceremony were, therefore, attended with no display, and scarcely seemed to arouse inquiry amongst the soldiers of the camp. It was treated in all respects as a subordinate point of police. Ten files were detailed; one drum and fife put in requisition; and this party, attended by Frazer, and two or three officers who happened to be near at the moment, marched with a careless step to head-quarters.
The first announcement of this sudden resolve was made to the prisoner by a subaltern; who, without prelude or apology, or the least effort to mitigate the harshness of the order he bore, walked abruptly into the chamber and delivered the message of his superior.
"It is a sudden proceeding," said Butler, calmly; "but your pleasure must be obeyed."
"You have had two days to think of it," replied the officer; "it is not often so much time is allowed. Ensign St. Jermyn, sir, is safe, and that is all we waited for. We march to-morrow, and therefore have no time to lose. You are waited for below."
Butler stood a moment with his hand pressed upon his brow, and then muttered,
"It is even so; our unhappy country is lost, and the reign of blood is but begun. I would ask the poor favor of a moment's delay, and the privilege of pen, ink, and paper, whilst I write but a line to a friend."
"Impossible, sir," said the man. "Time is precious, and our orders are positive."
"This is like the rest," answered Butler; "I submit." Then buttoning his coat across his breast, he left the room with a firm and composed step.
When he reached the door the first person who met his eye was Captain St. Jermyn. There was an expression of formal gravity in the manner of this officer, as he accosted the prisoner, and lamented the rigor of the fate that awaited him. And it was somewhat with a cold and polite civility that he communicated his readiness to attend to any request which Butler, in his last moments, might wish to have performed.
Butler thanked him for his solicitude, and then said, "I asked permission to write to a friend; that has been denied. I feel reluctant to expose myself to another refusal. You have taken a slight interest in my sufferings, and I will, therefore, confide to you a simple wish, which it will not cost my persecutors much to gratify. It is that I may be taken to my grave, dressed as you see me now. I would not have my person stripped or plundered."
"If you have valuables about you, sir, trust them to my keeping; I promise you they shall be faithfully delivered according to your wish."
"What money there is about my person," replied Butler, "may be given to the soldiers who are compelled to execute this harsh and unjust sentence on my person; but I have a trinket," he said, drawing from his bosom a miniature, which was suspended by a ribbon, "it is the gift of one,"--here, for the first time, a tear started into Butler's eye, and his power of utterance failed him.
"I understand, sir," said St. Jermyn, eagerly reaching out his hand to take the picture, "I will seek the lady, at whatever hazard"--
"No," answered the unfortunate officer, "it must be buried with me. It has dwelt here," he added with emotion, as he placed his hand upon his heart, "and here it must sleep in death."
"On the honor of a soldier," said St. Jermyn, "I promise you its rest shall not be violated."
"You will attend me?"
"I will."
"Lead on," said the prisoner, stepping to the place assigned him in the ranks. "I seek no further delay."
"March down the river, half a mile below the camp," said Innis, who now came up, as the escort had begun its progress towards the place of execution. And the soldiers moved slowly, with the customary funeral observances, in a direction that led across the whole extent of the plain.
When this little detachment had disappeared on the further side of the field, a sudden commotion arose at head-quarters by the hasty arrival of a mounted patrol--
"We are followed!" cried the leading horseman, in great perturbation. "They will be here in an instant! We have been pressed by them for the last two miles."
"Of whom do you speak?" inquired Innis, eagerly.
"The enemy! the enemy!" vociferated several voices.
At the same moment a cloud of dust was seen rising above the trees, in the direction of the road leading up the Ennoree.
"To arms--to arms!" ejaculated the commander. "Gentlemen, spring to your horses, and sound the alarm through the camp--we are set upon by Sumpter--it can be no other. Curry, take a few dragoons--follow the prisoner--mount him behind one of your men, and retreat with him instantly to Blackstock's!"
Having given these hasty orders, Innis, with the several officers who happened to be at hand, ran to their horses, mounted, and pushed forward to the camp. They had scarcely left their quarters before two dragoons, in advance of a party of twenty or thirty men, rushed up to the door.
"Sarch the house!" shouted the leading soldier. "Three or four of you dismount and sarch the house! Make sure of Major Butler, if he is there! The rest of you forward with me!"
The delay before head-quarters scarcely occupied a moment, and in the meantime the number of the assailants was increased by the squadrons that poured in from the rear. These were led by a young officer of great activity and courage, who, seeing the disordered condition of the royalists, waved his sword in the air as he beckoned his men to follow him in a charge upon the camp.
The advanced party, with the two dragoons, were already on the field charging the first body that they found assembled; and, close behind them, followed Colonel Williams--the officer of whom I have spoken--with a large division of cavalry. At the same moment that Williams entered upon the plain from this quarter, a second and third corps, led respectively by Shelby and Clarke, were seen galloping upon the two flanks of the encampment.
The plain was now occupied by about two hundred Whig cavalry. The royalists, taken by surprise, over their cups it may be said, and in the midst of a riotous festival, were everywhere thrown into the wildest confusion. Such of them as succeeded in gaining their arms, took post behind the trees, and kept up an irregular fire upon the assailants. Colonel Innis had succeeded in getting together about a hundred men at a remote corner of his camp, and had now formed them into a solid column to resist the attack of the cavalry, whilst from this body he poured forth a few desultory volleys of musketry, hoping to gain time to collect the scattered forces that were in various points endeavoring to find their proper station. Horse Shoe Robinson and John Ramsay--the two foremost in the advance--were to be discovered pushing through the sundered groups of the enemy with a restless and desperate valor that nothing could withstand.
"Cut them down," cried Horse Shoe, "without marcy! remember the Waxhaws!" And he accompanied his exhortation with the most vehement and decisive action, striking down, with a huge sabre, all who opposed his way.
Meantime, Colonel Williams and his comrades charged the column formed by Innis, and, in a few moments, succeeded in riding through the array and compelling them to a total rout. Robinson and Ramsay, side by side, mingled in this charge, and were seen in the thickest of the fight. Innis, finding all efforts to maintain his ground ineffectual, turned his horse towards Musgrove's mill, and fled as fast as spur and sword could urge the animal forward. The sergeant, however, had marked him for his prize, and following as fleetly as the trusty Captain Peter was able to carry him, soon came up with the fugitive officer, and, with one broad sweep of his sword, dislodged him from his saddle and left him bleeding on the ground. Turning again towards the field, his quick eye discerned the unwieldy bulk of Hugh Habershaw. The gross captain had, in the hurry of the assault, been unable to reach his horse; and, in the first moments of danger, had taken refuge in one of the little sheds which had been constructed for the accommodation of the soldiers. As the battle waxed hot in the neighborhood of his retreat, he had crept forth from his den and was making the best of his way to an adjoining cornfield. He was bare-headed, and his bald crown, as the slanting rays of the evening sun fell upon it, glistened like a gilded globe. The well known figure no sooner occurred to the sergeant's view than he rode off in pursuit. The cornfield was bounded by a fence, and the burly braggart had just succeeded in reaching it when his enemy overtook him.
"Have mercy, good Mr. Horse Shoe, have mercy on a defenceless man!" screamed the runaway, in a voice discordant with terror, as he stopped at the fence, which he was unable to mount, and looked back upon his pursuer. "Remember the good-will I showed you when you was a prisoner! Quarter, quarter--for God's sake, quarter!"
"You get no quarter from me, you cursed blood-lapper!" exclaimed Horse Shoe, excited to a rage that seldom visited his breast; "think of Grindall's Ford!" and at the same instant he struck a heavy downward blow, with such sheer descent, that it clove the skull of the perfidious freebooter clean through to the spine. "I have sworn your death," said the sergeant, "even if I catch you asleep in your bed, and right fairly have you earned it."
The body fell into a bed of mire, which had been the resort of the neighboring swine; and, leaving it in this foul plight, Horse Shoe hastened back to rejoin his comrades.
The battle now ended in the complete route of the enemy. Williams's first care, after the day was won, was to collect his men and to secure his prisoners. Many of the Tories had escaped; many were killed and wounded; but of Butler no tidings could be gained; he had disappeared from the field before the fight began, and all the information that the prisoners could give was that orders had been sent to remove him from the neighborhood. Colonel Innis was badly wounded, and in no condition to speak with his conquerors; he was sent, with several other disabled officers, to head-quarters. Captain St. Jermyn had fled, with most of those who had mounted their horses before the arrival of Williams.
The day was already at its close, and order was taken to spend the night upon the field. Guards were posted, and every precaution adopted to avoid a surprise in turn from the enemy, who, it was feared, might soon rally a strong party and assail the conquerors.
The disturbed condition of the country, and the almost unanimous sentiment of the people against the Whigs, now strengthened by the late victories, prevented Williams from improving his present advantage, or even from bearing off his prisoners. Robinson and Ramsay volunteered to head a party to scour the country in quest of Butler, but the commanding officer could give no encouragement to the enterprise; it was, in his judgment, a hopeless endeavor, when the forces of the enemy were everywhere so strong. His determination, therefore, was to retreat, as soon as his men were in condition, back to his fastnesses. His few killed were buried; the wounded, of which there were not more than fifteen or twenty were taken care of, and the jaded troops were dismissed to seek refreshment amongst the abundant stores captured from the enemy. Ensign St. Jermyn was still a prisoner; and, for the sake of adding to Butler's security, Williams selected two or three other officers that had fallen into his hands to accompany him in his retreat. These arrangements all being made, the colonel and his officers retired to repose. The next morning at daylight there were no traces of the Whigs to be seen upon the plain. It was abandoned to the loyalist prisoners and their wounded comrades.
Chapter XXIX
WILLIAMS TAKES A FANCY TO FOREST LIFE.--HORSE SHOE AND JOHN RAMSAY CONTINUE ACTIVE IN THE SERVICE OF BUTLER.--MARY MUSGROVE BECOMES A VALUABLE AUXILIARY.
Williams had commenced his retreat before the dawn, as much with a view to accomplish a large portion of his journey before the heat of the day, as to protect himself against the probable pursuit of the rallied forces of the enemy. His destination was towards the mountains on the north-western frontier. The overthrow of Gates had left a large force of Tory militia at the disposal of Cornwallis, who, it was conjectured, would use them to break up every remnant of opposition in this region. It was therefore a matter of great importance to Williams, to conduct his little force into some place of security against the attacks of the royalists.
Colonel Elijah Clarke had, ever since the fall of Charleston, been employed in keeping together the few scattered Whig families in that part of Carolina lying contiguous to the Savannah, with a view to an organized plan of resistance against the British authorities; and he had so far accomplished his purpose as to have procured some three or four hundred men, who had agreed to hold themselves in readiness to strike a blow whenever the occasion offered. These men were to be mustered at any moment by a preconcerted signal; and, in the meantime, they were instructed, by confining themselves to their dwellings, or pursuing their ordinary occupations, to keep as much as possible out of the way of the dominant authorities.
Clarke resided in Georgia, whence he had fled as soon as the royalist leader, Brown, had taken possession of Augusta; and we have already seen that a letter from Colonel Pinckney, at Charleston, which Horse Shoe Robinson had been intrusted to deliver, had summoned Arthur Butler to this frontier to aid in Clarke's enterprise.
Colonel Isaac Shelby, a resident of Washington county in Virginia, until the settlement of the southern line of the State had left him in the district at present known as Sullivan county in Tennessee, had been an efficient auxiliary in Clarke's scheme, and was now ready to summon a respectable number of followers for the support of the war on the mountain border. He and Clarke had accidentally arrived at Williams's camp a day or two before the attack upon Innis, with a view to a consultation as to the general interests of the meditated campaign; and they had only tarried to take a part in the engagement from a natural concern for the fate of their intended comrade, Butler. Having no further motive for remaining with Williams, they were both intent upon returning to their respective duties, and, accordingly, during the retreat of the following day, they took their leave.
The vigilance with which these partisans were watched by their enemies, almost forbade the present hope of successful combination. From a consciousness of the hazard of attempting to concentrate their forces at this juncture, they had determined still to pursue their separate schemes of annoyance, until a more favorable moment for joint action should arise; and, in the interval, to hide themselves as much as possible in the forest. It was consequently in the hope of preserving his independence at least, if not of aiding Clarke, that Williams now moved with so much despatch to the mountains.
His course lay towards the head waters of the Fair Forest river, in the present region of Spartanburg. This district was inhabited only by a few hunters, and some scattered Indians of an inoffensive character; it abounded in game, and promised to afford an easy subsistence to men whose habits were simple, and who were accustomed to rely upon the chase for support. The second day brought our hardy soldiers into the sojourn they sought. It was a wilderness broken by mountains, and intersected by streams of surpassing transparency; whilst its elevated position and southern latitude conferred upon it a climate that was then, as well as now, remarked for its delicious temperature in summer, and its exemption from the rigors of winter.
The spot at which Williams rested was a sequestered valley deep hidden in the original woods, and watered by the Fair Forest, whose stream, so near its fountain, scarcely exceeded the dimensions of a little brook. Here he determined to form a camp, to which in times of emergency he might safely retreat. With a view to render it easy of access as a rendezvous, he caused landmarks to be made, by cutting notches on the trees--or blazing them, in the woodman's phrase--in several directions, leading towards the principal highways that penetrated the country. The retreat thus established is familiar to the history of the war, under the name of the Fair Forest camp.
These arrangements being completed in the course of the first day after his arrival, Williams now applied himself to the adoption of measures for the safety of Arthur Butler. Amongst the spoils that had fallen into his hands, after the victory over Innis, was the document containing the proceedings of the court-martial. The perusal of this paper, together with the comments afforded by Robinson, convinced him of the malignity of the persecution which had aimed at the life of the prisoner. It occurred to him, therefore, to submit the whole proceeding to Lord Cornwallis, to whom, he was persuaded, it either had been misrepresented, or, most probably, was entirely unknown. He did not doubt that an appeal to the honorable feelings of that officer, with a full disclosure of the facts, would instantly be followed by an order that should put Butler under the protection of the rules of war, and insure him all the rights that belong to a mere prisoner taken in arms in a lawful quarrel. A spirited remonstrance was accordingly prepared to this effect. It detailed the circumstances of Butler's case, which was accompanied with a copy of the proceedings of the court, and it concluded with a demand that such measures should be adopted by the head of the army, as comported with the rights of humanity and the laws of war; "a course," the writer suggested, "that he did not hesitate to believe his lordship would feel belonged both to the honor and duty of his station." This paper was consigned to the care of an officer, who was directed to proceed with it, under a flag of truce, to the head-quarters of the British commander.
Soon after this, Robinson apprised Williams that Ramsay and himself had determined to venture back towards the Ennoree, to learn something of the state of affairs in that quarter, and to apply themselves more immediately to the service of Butler. In aid of this design, the sergeant obtained a letter from Williams, the purport of which was to inform the commandant of any post of the loyalists whom it might concern, that an application had been made on Butler's behalf to Cornwallis, and that the severest retaliation would be exercised upon the prisoners in Williams's custody, for any violence that might be offered the American officer. Putting this letter in his pocket, our man of "mickle might," attended by his good and faithful ally, John Ramsay, took his leave of "The Fair Forest" towards noon of the fourth day after the battle near Musgrove's mill.
The second morning after their departure, the two companions had reached the Ennoree, not far from the habitation of David Ramsay. It was fair summer weather, and nature was as gay as in that piping time before the blast of war had blown across her fields. All things, in the course of a few days, seemed to have undergone a sudden change. The country presented no signs of strife: no bands of armed men molested the highways. An occasional husbandman was seen at his plough: the deer sprang up from the brushwood and fled into the forest, as if inviting again the pastime of the chase; and even when the two soldiers encountered a chance wayfarer upon the road, each party passed the other unquestioned--there was all the seeming quiet of a pacified country. The truth was, the war had rolled northwards--and all behind it had submitted since the disastrous fight at Camden. The lusty and hot-brained portions of the population were away with the army; and the non-combatants only, or those wearied with arms, were all that were to be seen in this region.
Horse Shoe, after riding a long time in silence, as these images of tranquillity occupied his thoughts, made a simple remark that spoke a volume of truth in a few homely words.
"This is an onnatural sort of stillness, John. Men may call this peace, but I call it fear. If there is a poor wretch of a Whig in this district, it's as good as his life is worth to own himself. How far off mought we be from your father's?"
The young trooper heaved a deep sigh "I knew you were thinking of my poor father when you spoke your thoughts, Horse Shoe. This is a heavy day for him. But he could bear it: he's a man who thinks little of hardships. There are the helpless women, Galbraith Robinson," he continued, as he shook his head with an expression of sorrow that almost broke into tears. "Getting near home one thinks of them first. My good and kind mother--God knows how she would bear any heavy accident. I am always afraid to ask questions in these times about the family, for fear of hearing something bad. And there's little Mary Musgrove over at the mill"--
"You have good reason to be proud of that girl, John Ramsay," interrupted Robinson. "So speak out, man, and none of your stammering. Hoot!--she told me she was your sweetheart! You hav'n't half the tongue of that wench. Why, sir, if I was a lovable man, haw, haw!--which I'm not--I'll be cursed if I wouldn't spark that little fusee myself."
"This fence," said Ramsay, unheeding the sergeant's banter, "belongs to our farm, and perhaps we had better let down the rails and approach the house across the field: if the Tories should be there we might find the road dangerous. This gives us a chance of retreat."
"That's both scrupulous and wise, John," replied the sergeant. "So down with the pannel: we will steal upon the good folks, if they are at home, and take them by surprise. But mind you, my lad, see that your pistols are primed; we mought onawares get into a wasp's nest."
The fence was lowered, and the horsemen cautiously entered the field. After passing a narrow dell and rising to the crest of the opposite hill, they obtained a position but a short distance in the rear of the homestead. From this point a melancholy prospect broke upon their sight. The dwelling-house had disappeared, and in its place was a heap only of smouldering ashes. A few of the upright frame-posts, scorched black, and a stone chimney with its ample fire-place, were all that remained of what, but a few days before, was the happy abode of the family of a brave and worthy man.
"My God! my thoughts were running upon this! I feared their spite would break at last upon my father's head," cried John Ramsay, as he put spurs to his horse and galloped up to the ruins. "The savages have done their worst. But my father and mother where are they?" he exclaimed, as the tears rolled down his cheeks.
"Take heart, my brave boy!" said Robinson, in the kindliest tones. "There's a reckoning to come for all these villanies--and it will go hard with many a Tory yet before this account is settled."
"I will carry a hot hand into the first house that covers a Tory head," replied the young trooper, passionately; "this burning shall be paid with ten like it."
"All in good time, John," said Robinson coolly. "As for the burning, it is no great matter; a few good neighbors would soon set that to rights, by building your father a better house than the one he has lost. Besides, Congress will not forget a true friend when the war is well fought out. But it does go against my grain, John Ramsay, to see a parcel of cowardly runaways spitting their malice against women and children. The barn, likewise, I see is gone," continued the sergeant, looking towards another pile of the ruins a short distance off. "The villains! when there's foul work to be done, they don't go at it like apprentices. No matter--I have made one observation: the darkest hour is just before the day, and that's a comfortable old saying."
By degrees John Ramsay fell into a calmer temper, and now began to cast about as to the course fit to be pursued in their present emergency. About a quarter of a mile distant, two or three negro cabins were visible, and he could descry a few children near the doors. With an eager haste, therefore, he and the sergeant shaped their course across the field to this spot. When they arrived within fifty paces of the nearest hovel, the door was set ajar, and a rifle, thrust through the aperture, was aimed at the visitors.
"Stand for your lives!" shouted the well known voice of David Ramsay. In the next instant the door was thrown wide open, the weapon cast aside, and the father rushed forward as he exclaimed, "Gracious God, my boy and Horse Shoe Robinson! Welcome, lads; a hundred times more welcome than when I had better shelter to give you! But the good friends of King George, you see, have been so kind as to give me a call. It is easy to tell when they take it in their head to visit a Whig."
"My mother!" exclaimed John Ramsay.
"In and see her, boy--she wants comfort from you. But, thank God! she bears this blow better than I thought she could."
Before this speech was uttered John had disappeared.
"And how came this mishap to fall upon you, David?" inquired Horse Shoe.
"I suppose some of your prisoners," replied Ramsay, "must have informed upon Andy and me: for in the retreat of Innis's runaways, a party came through my farm. They stayed only long enough to ransack the house, and to steal whatever was worth taking; and then to set fire to the dwelling and all the out-buildings. Both Andy and myself, by good luck, perhaps, were absent, or they would have made us prisoners: so they turned my wife and children out of doors to shift for themselves, and scampered off as fast as if Williams was still at their heels. All that was left for us was to crowd into this cabin, where, considering all things, we are not so badly off. But things are taking an ill turn for the country, Horse Shoe. We are beaten on all sides."
"Not so bad, David, as to be past righting yet," replied the sergeant. "What have they done with Major Butler?"
"He was carried, as I learned, up to Blackstock's, the evening of the fight; and yesterday it was reported that a party has taken him back to Musgrove's. I believe he is now kept close prisoner in Allen's house. Christopher Shaw was here two days since, and told us that orders had come to occupy the millers dwelling-house for that purpose."
Horse Shoe had now entered the cabin with David Ramsay, and in the course of the hour that followed, during which the family had prepared refreshment for the travellers, the sergeant had fully canvassed all the particulars necessary to be known for his future guidance. It was determined that he and John should remain in their present concealment until night, and then endeavor to reach the mill under cover of the darkness, and open some means of communication with the family of the miller.
The rest of the day was spent in anxious thought. The situation of the adventurers was one of great personal peril, as they were now immediately within the circle of operations of the enemy and likely to be observed and challenged the first moment they ventured upon the road.
The hour of dusk had scarcely arrived before they were again mounted on horseback. They proceeded cautiously upon the road that led through the wood, until it intersected the highway; and, having attained this point, John Ramsay, who was well acquainted with every avenue through the country, now led the way, by a private and scarcely discernible path, into the adjacent forest, and thence, by a tedious and prolonged route, directed his companion to the banks of the Ennoree. This course of travel took them immediately to the plain on which Innis had been encamped--the late field of battle. All here was still and desolate. The sheds and other vestiges of the recent bivouac were yet visible, but not even the farm-house that had constituted Innis's head-quarters was reoccupied by its original inhabitants. The bat whirred over the plain, and the owl hooted from the neighboring trees. The air still bore the scent of dead bodies which had either been left exposed, or so meagrely covered with earth as to taint the breeze with noisome exhalations.
"There is a great difference, John," said Horse Shoe, who seldom let an occasion to moralize after his own fashion slip by, "there's a great difference between a hot field and a stale one. Your hot field makes a soldier, for there's a sort of a stir in it that sets the blood to running merrily through a man, and that's what I call pleasure. But when everything is festering like the inside of a hospital--or what's next door to it, a grave-yard--it is mighty apt to turn a dragoon's stomach and make a preacher of him. This here dew falls to-night like frost, and chills me to the heart, which it wouldn't do if it didn't freshen up the smell of dead men. And there's the hogs, busy as so many sextons among Innis's Tories: you may hear them grunt over their suppers. Well, there is one man among them that I'll make bold to say these swine hav'n't got the stomach to touch--that's Hugh Habershaw: he sleeps in the mud in yonder fence-corner."
"If you had done nothing else in the fight, Horse Shoe, but cleave that fellow's skull," said Ramsay, "the ride we took would have been well paid for--it was worth the trouble."
"And the rapscallionly fellow to think," added Horse Shoe, "that I was a going to save him from the devil's clutches, when I had a broadsword in my hand, and his bald, greasy pate in reach. His brain had nothing in it but deceit and lies, and all sorts of cruel thoughts, enough to poison the air when I let them out. I have made an observation, John, all my life on them foul-mouthed, swilling braggers--that when there's so much cunning and blood-thirstiness, there's no room for a thimbleful of courage: their heart's in their belly, which is as much as to signify that the man's a most beastly coward. But now, it is my opinion that we had best choose a spot along upon the river here, and leave our horses. I think we can manoeuvre better on foot: the miller's house is short of two miles, and we mought be noticed if we were to go nearer on horseback."
This proposal was adopted, and the two friends, when they had ridden a short distance below the battle ground, halted in a thicket, where they fastened their horses, and proceeded towards the mill on foot. After following the course of the stream for near half an hour, they perceived, at a distance, a light glimmering through the window of Allen Musgrove's dwelling. This induced a second pause in their march, when Ramsay suggested the propriety of his advancing alone to reconnoitre the house, and attempting to gain some speech with the inmates. He accordingly left the sergeant to amuse himself with his own thoughts.
Horse Shoe took his seat beneath a sycamore, where he waited a long time in anxious expectation of the return of his comrade. Growing uneasy, at last, at John's delay, he arose, and stole cautiously forward until he reached the mill, where he posted himself in a position from which he was able to see and hear what was going on at the miller's house. The porch was occupied by three or four persons, whose conversation, as it came to the sergeant's ear, proved them to be strangers to the family; and a ray of light from a taper within, after a while, made this more manifest, by revealing the scarlet uniform of the enemy. Horse Shoe was thus confirmed in the truth of the report that Butler had been brought to this place under a military escort. With this conviction he returned to the sycamore, where he again sat down to wait for the coming of his companion.
It was after ten o'clock, and the sergeant was casting over in his thoughts the long absence of John, when his attention was aroused by the sound of footsteps, and the next instant John Ramsay and Mary Musgrove stood beside him.
"What kept you till this time of night?" was the sergeant's accost.
"Softly, man, I have news for you," replied Ramsay. "Here is Mary herself."
"And so she is, indeed!" exclaimed the sergeant, at the same time shaking her hand, "this is my petticoat-sodger; how goes it with you, girl?"
"I have only a moment to spare," replied the maiden cheerfully, "and it is the greatest of good luck that I thought of coming out; for John gave me a signal, which I was stupid enough not to understand at first. But, after a while, I thought it could be no one but John Ramsay; and that, partly, because I expected he would be coming into the neighborhood ever since I heard of his being at his father's, after the ensign was made a prisoner."
"I went," said John Ramsay, "to the further side of the house, where I set to whistling an old-fashioned tune that Mary was acquainted with--walking away all the time in an opposite direction--as if there was nothing meant--"
"And I knew the tune, Mr. Horse Shoe," interrupted Mary, eagerly, "it was Maggie Lauder. John practised that trick once before to show me how to find my way to him. Upon that, I made an excuse to leave the room, and slipped out through the garden--and then I followed the whistling, as folks say they follow a jack-o'-lantern."
"And so, by a countermarch," continued the young dragoon, "we came round the meadow and through the woods, here."
"Now that you've got here at last," said Horse Shoe, "tell me the news."
"Major Butler is in the house," said Mary and John, both speaking at once. "He was brought there yesterday from Blackstock's," continued the maiden. "Orders came from somebody that he was to be kept at our house, until they had fixed upon what was to be done with him. Colonel Innis was too ill to think of such matters, and has been carried out of the neighborhood--and it is thought he will die."
"How many men are there to guard the prisoner?" asked the sergeant.
"There are more than twenty, with a lieutenant from Ninety-Six, who has the charge of them."
"And how does the major bear his troubles?"
"He seems to be heavy at heart," replied the maiden. "But that may be because he is away from his friends. Though my father, who is a good judge of such things, says he suffers tribulation like a Christian. He asked me privately, if I had heard anything of you, Mr. Robinson: and when I told him what folks said about your being with the people that beat Colonel Innis, he smiled, and said if any man could get him free, it was Horse Shoe Robinson."
"Do they allow you to see him often?" inquired the sergeant.
"I have seen him only two or three times since he came to the house," answered the maiden. "But the officer that has charge of him is not contrary or ill-natured, and makes no objection to my carrying him his meals--though I am obliged to pretend to know less about Major Butler than I do, for fear they might be jealous of my talking to him."
"You can give him a letter?"
"I think I can contrive it," replied the maiden.
"Then give him this, my good girl," said Robinson, taking Williams's letter from his pocket and putting it in Mary's hand. "It is a piece of writing he can use whenever he is much pressed. It may save him from harm. Now, I want you to do something more. You must find a chance just to whisper in his ear that Horse Shoe Robinson and John Ramsay are in the neighborhood. Tell him, likewise, that Colonel Williams has sent a messenger to Lord Cornwallis to lay his case before that officer, and to get some order for his better treatment. That the doings of that rascally court-martial have been sent by the messenger, hoping that Lord Cornwallis, if he is a brave and a Christian man--as they say he is--will stop this onmerciful persecution of the major--which has no cause for it under heaven. Will you remember all this?"
"I'll try, sir," responded Mary; "and besides I will tell it to my father, who has more chance of speaking to Major Butler than I have."
"Now," said Horse Shoe, "we will be here again to-morrow night, a little earlier than this; you must meet us here. And say to the major, if he has any message for us, he may send it by you. But be cautious, Mary, how you are seen talking with the prisoner. If they suspect you it will spoil all."
"Trust to me," said the girl; "I warrant I have learned by this time how to behave myself amongst these red-coats."
"There, John," continued Horse Shoe, "I have said all I want to say, and as you, I have no doubt, have got a good deal to tell the girl, it is but fair that you should have your chance. So, do you walk back with her as far as the mill, and I'll wait here for you. But don't forget yourself by overstaying your furlough."
"I must get home as fast as possible," said Mary; "they will be looking for me."
"Away, John Ramsay--away," added Horse Shoe; "and have your eyes about you, man."
With this command John Ramsay and the miller's daughter hastily withdrew, and were soon out of the sergeant's hearing.
After an interval, which doubtless seemed short to the gallant dragoon, he returned to his comrade, and the two set out rapidly in quest of their horses; and once more having got into their saddles, they retraced their steps at a brisk speed to Ramsay's cabin.
Chapter XXX
All distant and faint were the sounds of the battle; With the breezes they rise, with the breezes they fail, Till the shout and the groan and the conflict's dread rattle, And the chase's wild clamor come loading the gale.
THE MAID OF TORO.
In the confusion that ensued upon the defeat of Innis, James Curry succeeded in conducting Butler from the field. His orders were to retreat with the prisoner to Blackstock's; and he had accordingly set out with about a dozen troopers, by a private path that led towards a quarter secure from the molestation of the enemy, when the attack commenced. Butler was mounted behind one of the men, and in this uneasy condition was borne along the circuitous by-way that had been chosen, without a moment's respite from the severe motion of the horse, nearly at high speed, until, having accomplished three miles of the retreat, the party arrived at the main road that extended between Innis's camp and Blackstock's. Here Curry, conceiving himself to be out of danger of pursuit, halted his men, with a purpose to remain until he could learn something of the combat. Butler was in a state of the most exciting bewilderment as to the cause of this sudden change in his affairs. No explanation was given to him by his conductors; and although, from the first, he was aware that an extraordinary emergency had arisen from some assault upon Innis's position, no one dropped a word in his hearing to give him the slightest clue to the nature of the attack. The troopers about him preserved a morose and ill-natured silence, and even manifested towards him a harsh and resentful demeanor. He heard the firing, but what troops were engaged, by whom led, or with what chances of success, were subjects of the most painfully interesting doubt. He could only conjecture that this was a surprise accomplished by the Whigs, and that the assailants must have come in sufficient force to justify the boldness of the enterprise. That Horse Shoe was connected with this irruption he felt fully assured; and from this circumstance he gathered the consolatory and cheerful prognostic of a better issue out of his afflictions than, in his late condition, seemed even remotely possible. This hope grew brighter as the din of battle brought the tidings of the day to his ear. The first few scattered shots that told of the confusion in which the combat was begun, were, after an interval, succeeded by regular volleys of musketry that indicated an orderly and marshalled resistance. Platoon after platoon fired in succession--signifying, to the practised hearing of the soldier, that infantry was receiving the attacks of cavalry, and that as yet the first had not faltered. Then the firing grew more slack, and random shots were discharged from various quarters--but amidst these were heard no embodied volleys. It was the casual and nearly overpowered resistance of flying men.
At this juncture there was a dark frown on the brow of Curry, as he looked at his comrades, and said, in a low and muttered tone, "That helter-skelter shot grates cursedly on the ear. There's ill-luck in the sound of it."
Presently a few stragglers appeared at a turn of the road, some quarter of a mile in the direction of the battle, urging their horses forward at the top of their speed. These were followed by groups both of infantry and cavalry, pressing onwards in the utmost disorder--those on horseback thrusting their way through the throng of foot-soldiers, seemingly regardless of life or limb; the wounded with their wounds bleeding afresh, or hastily bandaged with such appliances as were at hand. All hurried along amidst the oaths, remonstrances, and unheeded orders of the officers, who were endeavoring to resume their commands. It was the flight of men beset by a panic, and fearful of pursuit; and the clouds of dust raised by the press and hurry of this career almost obscured the setting sun.
During the first moments of uncertainty, Curry, no less anxiously than Butler, remained stationary by the road-side, reading the distant signs of the progress of the fight; but now, when the disastrous issue was no longer doubtful, he commanded his cavalcade to move forward, and from that moment prosecuted his journey with unabated speed until he arrived at Blackstock's.
Butler was unceremoniously marched to his former place of confinement in the barn, where a rigorous guard was set over his person. In the confusion and insubordination that prevailed amongst the crowd, that, during the night, was continually increasing in the little hamlet, the common rites of humanity towards the prisoner were forgotten, and he was left to pass the weary hours till morning, on a shock of hay, without food or other refreshment than a simple draught of water. From the unreserved murmurs of those who frequented the place, and the querulous upbraidings of the soldiery against each other, Butler was enabled to glean the principal incidents of the day. The supposed death of Innis reached him through this channel, and, what was scarcely a subject of less personal interest to him, the certain end of Hugh Habershaw. It was with a silent satisfaction at the moral or poetical justice--as it has been called--of the event, that he heard the comrades of the late self-conceited captain describe his death in terms of coarse and unpitying ribaldry--a retribution due to the memory of a cruel and cowardly braggart.
When the morning was fully abroad, the disarranged and broken remnants of the Tory camp began gradually to be reduced to a state of discipline. The day was spent in this occupation. Orders were every moment arriving from the higher officers of the late camp, or from the nearest British posts. Videttes bore the tidings of the different military operations from the neighborhood of the enemy. The fragments of companies were marshalled into squads and subdivisions; and, successively, one party after another was seen to leave the hamlet, and take a direction of march that led towards the main British army, or to the garrisons of the lower districts.
Towards the close of the day one detachment only was left; and Butler was given to understand that this was intrusted with his especial keeping. It was composed of a few regular soldiers of the garrison of Ninety-Six, and a small number of the country militia,--making, in all, about twenty men, commanded by Lieutenant Macdonald, of the regular army.
Butler remained in his present state of seclusion four or five days, during which he experienced much mitigation of the rigors of his captivity. Macdonald was a careful and considerate soldier, and demeaned himself towards his prisoner with such kindness as the nature of his trust allowed. He removed him into a comfortable apartment in the dwelling-house, and supplied him with the conveniences his situation required; he even made him occasional visits, which were attended with more than the mere observances of courtesy and respect, and expressed a sympathy in his sufferings.
These unexpected tones of comfort, from a quarter in which Butler had hitherto heard nothing but fierce hatred and harsh rebuke, fell gratefully upon his ear, and gave a brighter color to his hopes for the future. But he could not help observing, that no hint was dropped by Macdonald which might furnish him the slightest ground of surmise as to the vicissitudes that yet awaited him. The reported fall of Innis seemed to afford a natural foundation for the belief, that the malice of his enemies might hereafter be less active,--as he attributed much of the persecution he had suffered to the secret machinations of that individual. He no longer saw around his person those agents who first pursued him with such bitter hostility. He seemed to have fallen into entirely new combinations, and had reason to augur, from all he saw, that their purposes against him were less wicked. And first, above all other topics of consolation and comfort, was the conviction that a brave and efficient party of friends were in the field, intent upon his liberation. Still, his situation was one in which it required all his manhood to sustain himself. A young soldier of an ardent temper, and zealously bent upon active and perilous service, can ill brook the tedious, dull delays of captivity, even in its mildest form: but if this thraldom befal in a period of universal agitation, when "great events are on the gale," of which the captive is only a witness to the pervading interest they excite, without being permitted to know their import; if moreover, as in the case of Butler, an impenetrable veil of mystery hang over the purpose of his captivity, behind which the few short glimpses afforded him, open upon his view nothing but death in its most frightful forms; and if to these are added, by far the bitterest of its qualities, the anxieties, cares, and pains of a devoted, plighted lover, separated from the heart that loves him, we may well conjecture that the most gallant spirit may find in it, even amidst occasional gleams of sunshine, that sinking of hope which the philosophic king of Israel has described as making "the heart sick,"--that chafing of the soul that, like the encaged eaglet, wearies and tears its wing against the bars of its prison. Even so fared it with Arthur Butler, who now found himself growing more and more into the shadow of a melancholy temper.
It was soon ascertained that Williams had abandoned the field he had won, and had retreated beyond the reach of immediate pursuit. And as the post at Musgrove's mill afforded many advantages, in reference to the means of communicating with the garrisons of the middle section of the province, and was more secure against the hazard of molestation from such parties of Whigs as might still be out-lying, an order was sent to Macdonald to remove with his prisoner to the habitation of the miller, and there to detain him until some final step should be taken in his case.
In pursuance of this requisition, Butler was conducted, after the interval of the few days we have mentioned, to Allen Musgrove's. The old man received his guest with that submission to the domination of the military masters of the province, which he had prescribed to himself throughout the contest,--secretly rejoicing that the selection made of his house for this purpose, might put it in his power to alleviate the sufferings of a soldier, towards whose cause he felt a decided though unavowed attachment. This selection furnished evidence to the miller, that nothing had transpired to arouse the distrust of the British authorities in the loyalty of any part of his family,--and to Butler, it inferred the consolatory fact, that the zealous devotion of Mary Musgrove to his service had as yet passed without notice; whilst to the maiden herself, it was proof that her agency in the delivery of the letter, which she had so adroitly put within the reach of the officers of the court, had not even excited a suspicion against her.
The best room in the house was allotted to the prisoner; and the most sedulous attention on the part of the family, so far as it could be administered without inducing mistrust, was employed in supplying him with whatever was needful to his condition. On the part of the commanding officer, the usual precautions known to military experience for the safe keeping of a prisoner were adopted. The privates of the guard occupied the barn, whilst Macdonald and one or two subordinate officers took up their quarters in the dwelling-house: sentinels were posted at the several avenues leading to the habitation, and a sergeant had the especial care of the prisoner, who, under this supervision, was occasionally allowed the range of the garden. The usual forms of a camp police were observed with scrupulous exactness;--and the morning and the nightly drum, the parade, the changing of sentries, the ringing of ramrods in the empty barrels of the muskets, and the glitter of weapons, were strangely and curiously associated with the rural and unwarlike features of the scenery around.
XXXI. BUTLER FINDS A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE IN HIS DISTRESS
Allen Musgrove had heard enough of Butler's history from his daughter and from Galbraith Robinson, to feel a warm interest in that officer's safety; and now his personal acquaintance with the prisoner still further corroborated his first prepossessions. The old man took the earliest opportunity to indicate to Butler the concern he felt in his welfare. From the moderate and kindly tone of his own character, he was enabled to do this without drawing upon himself the distrust of the officer of the guard. His expressions of sympathy were regarded, by Macdonald, as the natural sentiments of a religious mind imbued with an habitual compassion for the sufferings of a fellow creature, and of one who strove to discharge the duties of a peace-maker. His visits were looked upon as those of a spiritual counsellor, whose peculiar right it was to administer consolation to the afflicted, in whatever condition; he was therefore permitted freely to commune with the prisoner, and, as it sometimes happened, alone with him in his chamber.
This privilege was now particularly useful; for Mary having, on the morning after her midnight interview with John Ramsay and Robinson, communicated to her father the incidents of that meeting, and put in his possession the letter which the sergeant had given her, and having also repeated her message to him accurately as she had received it, Musgrove took occasion, during the following day, to deliver the letter to Butler, and to make known to him all that he had heard from his daughter. This disclosure produced the most cheering effect upon Butler's spirits. It, for the first time since the commencement of his sufferings, opened to his mind a distinct view of his chance of eventual liberation. The expectation of having his case represented to Cornwallis inspired him with a strong confidence that justice would be done to him, and the covert malice of his enemies be disarmed. In this hope, it occurred to him to take some instant measures to satisfy the British commander-in-chief of the groundless character of the principal accusation brought against him by the court-martial,--that which related to the pretended design to deliver up Philip Lindsay to the wrath of the Republican government. For this purpose he resolved to make an appeal to Lindsay himself, by letter, and frankly to call upon him to put at rest this most unjust and wicked accusation. He knew that however strong Lindsay's antipathy to him might be, the high sense of honor which distinguished the father of Mildred might be confidently and successfully invoked to furnish such a statement as should entirely satisfy his accusers of the gross injustice of the charge. "I will write to him," he said, "and throw myself upon his protection. I will require of him to detail the whole history of my intercourse with his family, and to say how improbable even he must deem it, that I could be so base as to plot against his peace. And I will appeal to Mildred to fortify her father's statement, to show that this wicked accusation rests upon a story which it is impossible could be true."
Whilst Butler's thoughts were still occupied with this resolve, Mary Musgrove entered his apartment, bearing in her hands a napkin and plate which she had come to spread for his dinner, and as the maiden employed herself in arranging a small table in the middle of the room, she cast a few distrustful glances towards the sentinel who paced to and fro opposite the door, and then, seizing on a moment when the soldier had disappeared from view, she whispered to Butler--
"You have seen my father, sir?"
Butler nodded his head.
"He has told you all?"
Butler again signified a silent assent.
The tramp of the sentinel showed that he was again approaching the door; and when Mary turned her eyes in that direction, she beheld the watchful soldier halting in such a position as to enable him both to see and hear what was passing in the room. Without showing the least perturbation, or even appearing to notice the guard, she said in a gay and careless voice,--"My father and Lieutenant Macdonald,--who is a good gentleman--think it belongs to Christian people to do all the good we can for them that providence has put under us; and so, sir, I have been to gather you some blackberries, which I thought, may be, you would like, sir."
The sentinel walked away, and Mary smiled as she saw her little stratagem succeed.
"Bring me some paper," said Butler cautiously. "You are a considerate girl," he continued, in a louder voice, "and I thank you for this good will." Then finding that the sentinel did not immediately return, he whispered--"I wish to write to Robinson--you shall take the letter and read it to him."
"I will do my best," replied the maiden; and again the sentinel interrupted the conference.
Mary, having arranged the table, left the room. In a few moments she returned, bringing with her the family Bible.
"If you would like to read, sir," she said, "here is a book that a body may look at a long time without getting tired of it. We have only got this, and the Pilgrim's Progress, and the hymn-book, in the house; but my father says this is worth all the others that ever were printed, put together; and especially, sir, when one's in distress, and away from their friends."
An expression of pleasure played across Butler's features as he took the heavy volume from the girl.
"A thousand thanks to you, my pretty maiden," he replied. "I doubt not I shall grow both wiser and better under your tutoring. This kindness almost reconciles me to my fate."
"John is doing all he can for you, and he is a good helper to Mr. Robinson," said Mary, in the same cautious whisper that she had first spoken in, as she retreated from the room. Butler opened the book, and found a sheet of paper folded away amongst the leaves; then closing it, he threw it upon his bed.
In due course of time, Mary Musgrove returned with a few dishes of food which she set out upon the table, and, in one of the successive visits which were employed in furnishing the repast, she took from beneath her apron a small ink-horn and pen, which she placed, unobserved by the sentinel, in Butler's hand. Having done this, she retired, leaving the prisoner to despatch his meal alone.
After dinner, Butler threw himself upon his bed, where he lay with the Bible opened out before him, with his back turned towards the door; and, whilst Mary Musgrove was engaged in removing the furniture of the table, he found means to write a few lines to Philip Lindsay. He took the same opportunity to pen a short letter to Mildred; and then to set down some directions for Horse Shoe Robinson, the purport of which was that the sergeant should take the two letters and depart, with all despatch, for the Dove Cote, and to put both into the hands of Mildred, with a request that she would procure him the necessary reply from her father. Horse Shoe was also directed to explain to Mildred such particulars of Butler's history as were necessary to be made known for the accomplishment of the object of the mission.
When these papers were finished they were folded up into a small compass, and in the course of the evening put into Mary's hands, with a request that she would herself read the instructions intended for the sergeant, and apprise him of their contents when she delivered the papers to him.
So far all had succeeded well, and Butler found additional reason to dispel the gloom that hung upon his spirits, in the prospect that was now opened to him of enlisting strong and authoritative friends in the scheme of his liberation.
XXXII. MARY MUSGROVE'S PERPLEXITIES
As a mariner who watches the heavens from the deck, and notes the first uprising of the small cloud, "no bigger than a man's hand," that to his practised eye shows the sign of tempest; and anon, as the speck quickly changes into a lurid mass, whence volume after volume of dun vapor is driven in curled billows forward, covering the broad welkin with a gloomy pall, he looks more frequently and more intently upwards, anxious to lay his vessel safe, and assure himself of his proper course to steer: so--not with the same doubt of safety, but with the same restless inspection of the heavens--did Mary watch the slow approach of night. First, she looked wistfully at the declining sun, and observed with pleasure the night-hawk begin to soar: then, through the long twilight, she noted the thickening darkness, and saw the bat take wing, and heard the frog croaking from his pool. And as the stars, one by one, broke forth upon the night, it gladdened her to think the hour of her mission was approaching, for she was troubled in her spirit and anxious to acquit herself of her charitable office; and perhaps, too, it may be told of her, without prejudice to her modest, maidenly emotions, a spur was given to her wishes by the hope of meeting John Ramsay.
For an hour after supper she paced the porch, and still looked out upon the stars, to mark the slow waxing of the night; and, now and then she walked forth as far as the mill, and lingered by the bank of the river, and again returned to ask the sentinel the hour.
"You seem disturbed, Mary," said Macdonald, playfully. "Now, I'll venture to say I can guess your thoughts: this star-gazing is a great tell-tale. You were just now thinking that, as the tug of the war is over, some lad who has borne a musket lately, will be very naturally tripping this way to-night, instead of going home to see his mother. Come--isn't that a good guess?"
"Do you know him, sir?" asked Mary, with composure.
"Aye, to be sure I do: a good, brave fellow, who eats well, drinks well, and fights well."
"All men do that now," replied the maiden, "but I am sure you are wrong, sir, if you think any such considers it worth his while to come here."
"He must come quickly, or we cannot let him in without a countersign," said the officer: "sergeant, order the tattoo to beat, it is nine o'clock. Mary, stay, I must cross-question you a little about this same gallant."
"Indeed, sir, I did but jest, and so I thought you did. My father says it is not proper I should loiter to talk with the men; good night, sir: it is our time for prayers." And with these words the young girl withdrew into the house.
In some half hour afterwards Mary escaped by another door and, taking a circuitous path through the garden, she passed behind the sentinel and sped towards the mill, intent upon keeping her appointment with the friends of Butler. As soon as she reached the river bank, she quickened her pace, and hurried with a nimble step towards the distant thicket.
"What ho! who goes there?" shouted the voice of a man from the neighborhood of the mill: "who flies so fast?"
"Faith, Tom, it must be a ghost," said a second voice, loud enough to be heard by the damsel, who now increased the speed with which she fled towards the cover.
In an instant two of the soldiers of the guard rushed upon the track of the frightened girl.
"Spare me, good sir--for pity's sake, spare me!" exclaimed the maiden, suddenly turning round upon her pursuers.
"Where away so fast?" said one of the men. "This is a strange time of night for girls to be flying into the woods. What matter have you in hand that brings you here--and what is your name?"
"I am the daughter of Allen Musgrove," replied Mary indignantly.
"Is it so?" said the first speaker; "then it is the Miller's own daughter, and we ask your pardon. We only saw you flying along the bank of the river, and not knowing what it was, why we thought it right to follow. But as it is all explained now, we will see you back to the house."
"I can find my way without help," replied the maiden.
"Now, that's not good-natured for so kind a girl as the miller's daughter ought to be," said the second soldier.
"I will see if my father can protect me," said Mary, hastening back towards the house so rapidly as almost to run. "I will know if Lieutenant Macdonald will allow me to be insulted."
With a hurried step she entered upon the porch, and, without stopping to parley with those who occupied this part of the dwelling, retired to her chamber and threw herself into a chair, where she sat for some time panting with affright. As she gradually recovered her strength, she began to turn her thoughts upon her recent discomfiture; and it was with a deep sense of chagrin and disappointment, that she reflected upon her not being able successfully to renew her enterprise on the same night. The hour of meeting had arrived; the officers of the guard were still frequenting the porch; her conduct had already excited notice, and if she wished to be in a condition to render future service, her most obvious duty was to postpone any further attempt to deliver the papers until another time. On the other hand, she had reason to fear that John Ramsay would be hovering near to ascertain the cause of her failure to meet him, and might rashly resort to the same mode of conveying a signal which he had successfully practised heretofore. This would infallibly, she believed, provoke an investigation that might entirely frustrate all their views. "But then John is a good soldier," she said, in the way of self-consolation, "and will know that the enemy is awake; because if it was not so, he would be sure I would keep my word. And if he only takes that notion into his head, he is too careful to run the chance of spoiling all by coming here."
Still, with some little mistrust as to John's soldiership when it crossed the path of his love, which naturally, she reflected, makes a man rash, she thought it best to provide against accident, by throwing herself into the company of the officers who loitered about the door in idle discourse with her father. She accordingly left her room, and, with an anxious and troubled heart, went out and seated herself quietly on the steps of the porch, where she remained for some time a silent but inattentive listener to the conversation of those around her.
As a part of that system of things by which it is contrived that the current of true love shall never run smooth, I have ever found that when it was peculiarly fitting that some grandam, uncle, cousin, father, or guest, should retire early to bed, in order that some scheme of interest to young lovers might be successfully achieved; precisely on such nights is the perversity of fate most conspicuous, in inclining the minds of such grandam, uncle, cousin, and so forth, to sit up much longer than they are wont; thus showing that the grooves and dovetails of things in this world are not nicely fitted to the occasions of those who deal in the tender passion. And so it befel for poor Mary Musgrove this night.
The hour was now fast verging upon eleven, and she anxiously noted every sentence that was spoken, hoping it was to be the last; and then she trembled to think that John, regardless of the danger, might be lurking near, and indiscreetly expose himself. And still the talkers discoursed as if they meant to sit up all night. It was a delicious, cool hour, after a sultry day, and there was luxury in the breeze; but as the minutes were counted over by the maiden, in their slow passage, her fears increased. At length, far off, as if it were a mile away, the clear notes of one whistling an old tune were heard. Mary involuntarily started from her seat, and moved along the little pathway towards the gate, her heart beating against her bosom as if it would have "overbourne its continents." The signal notes freshened upon the air, and the tune came forth blithely and boldly, showing that the wayfarer was trudging, with a light heart, down the main road towards the mill. The party in the porch, however, were too much engrossed in their colloquy to notice the incident. The whistling came still nearer, until, at last, it seemed to be scarce a gunshot from the house. Beyond this point it did not advance; but here indicated that the person from whom it proceeded had halted. If Mary's cheek could have been brought to the light, it would have shown how the blood had deserted it from very fear: her whole frame shook with this emotion. To exhibit her unconcern, which, in truth, was most sadly affected, she mingled amongst the company in the porch, and leant against the door-post. Still the whistling continued, with no symptom of retreat, and Mary impatiently walked towards the further end of the house. "John Ramsay makes a fool of himself," she muttered peevishly. "Hasn't he the sense to see I cannot get out? What keeps the simple man dallying shilly-shally at the fence, as if he actually wanted them to take him? I don't believe in the mighty sense and wisdom of these men! If John had half an eye he would see that I couldn't get away to-night."
As the maiden grew fretful, her fears had less mastery over her; and now, taking heart of grace, she returned to the porch.
"Sergeant," said Macdonald, calling to one of his men, "take two files and patrole the road until you ascertain who that fellow is who makes himself so merry to-night. I thought it some fool," he continued, addressing himself to Allen Musgrove, "who, as the poet says, 'whistled as he went for want of thought,' but he seems to have a hankering after these premises that is not exactly to my mind. Perhaps, after all, Mary," he added privately in the maiden's ear; "it is the lad I was telling you of; and as he is a bashful youth, we will bring him in by force. You know, he can't help that; and old dad here can never blame you if I should make the fellow come to see you against your will. Sergeant, treat the man civilly, you understand."
"It is not worth your while to be sending after Adam Gordon," said Mary, with some slight confusion in her accent; "he is only half-witted; and almost the only thing he does for a living, is to come down of nights here to the mill-dam, to bob for eels. If it wasn't for that, his mother would go many a day without a meal."
"No matter, we will bring Adam in," replied the lieutenant, "and if he is good at his sport, why we will go and join him."
"He is shy of company," said Mary, still faltering in her speech, "and will not come amongst strangers."
Partly from a spirit of resignation, partly to avoid further exposure of her feelings, and in part too, perhaps, from some slight feeling of remorse, such as is natural to a virtuous and youthful mind at being obliged to practise a deceit however lawful (as I contend it was in this case), the maiden withdrew into the parlor, where, unseen by any, she offered up a short and earnest prayer for direction and forgiveness.
Meantime the patrole had set out, and, after the lapse of a short time, returned, when the officer reported that before his arrival, the person they had gone in quest of had left the place, and, in the darkness of the night, they had no clue to follow him. This was scarcely announced before the same whistle was heard, at the same remote point where it had first attracted Mary's notice.
"It is as our young mistress has said," muttered Macdonald, "some bumpkin, too shy to be caught, and not worth the catching. We have sat it out to-night long enough, friend Musgrove, so let's to bed."
In a few moments the party betook themselves to their several places of rest.
As Mary prepared herself for her couch, the anxious events of the night busied her thoughts, and the image of John Ramsay was summoned up alternately to be reproved and applauded. "If he is foolhardy," she said, as she laid her head on the pillow, "no one will say he isn't wise besides. And if he will be thrusting his head into danger, he knows right well how to get it out again. So God bless him, for a proper man as he is!" And thus, in a better temper with her lover, the maiden fell asleep.
In order to avert all suspicion of disloyalty from the miller's family, Christopher Shaw had offered his services to Macdonald, to do duty as one of the detachment, during the period of Butler's detention in the house. The offer had been accepted, and Christopher was appointed to serve in the character of a quarter-master, or purveyor for the little garrison,--a post, whose duties did not materially interfere with his daily occupation at the mill.
Mary was in the habit of communicating to Christopher all her secrets, and of enlisting his aid in her plans whenever it was necessary. And now, soon after the morning broke, the maiden arose and went to the mill, where she communicated to Christopher all the perplexities of the preceding night.
"The thing must be managed to-day," said the young man, after he had heard the whole story. "I have provisions to collect from the neighborhood; and what is to hinder you, Mary, from riding out with me,--if it should only be to buy some eggs?--and then, what is to hinder us from popping in upon David Ramsay, and there fixing the whole matter?"
"Will not the lieutenant be sending some of his own men with you?" inquired the maid.
"He doesn't suspect us," answered Christopher, as cautiously as if the walls of his mill had ears. "At any rate we can try it, you know, and if the thing should take a wrong turn, you can only stay at home; and we may, at the worst, make another venture at night."
"I have the letter in my bosom," said Mary, "and will be ready immediately after breakfast."
When the appointed time arrived, things went as favorably as Mary could have wished. Her good spirits had returned; and she plied her household duties with a happy cheerfulness in her looks that completely disarmed all suspicion. She received the banter of Macdonald, as to the cause of her restlessness on the preceding night, with perfect good nature; and when Christopher announced to the commanding officer his purpose of going out upon a purveying ride, and invited his cousin to accompany him, she accepted the proposal with such a tone of laughing pleasure, as put it on the footing of a pastime.
The horses were brought to the door, and the maiden and her escort rode cheerily forth. They were not long in accomplishing the five or six miles that brought them to David Ramsay's cabin. I need not tell the affectionate concern with which Mary Musgrove met her lover, John Ramsay; nor how she upbraided him as a silly fellow, for tramping and trudging about the mill, and whistling his signals, when he ought to have known, by her not coming to meet him, that there was good reason for it. Nor is it important to detail the circumstances of Horse Shoe's and John's fruitless expedition, and their disappointment at not seeing Mary; and how shrewdly, last night, Robinson guessed the true cause of it; and how entirely he agreed with the maiden, beforehand, in thinking John a venturesome, harebrained fool, to put himself in danger, when he might have been certain it would have ended as it did, in a run from "the rascally red coats," as John had to run to get out of the clutches of the patrole. My story requires that I should pass these things by, and go to the business in hand.
Horse Shoe and Ramsay had grown exceedingly impatient, both because they were in hourly danger of being surprised by casual parties of the enemy, and because the time for useful action was fast gliding away. They had used every precaution to keep their visit to David Ramsay's a profound secret to the neighborhood; and had, with that object, lain perdue in one of the small cabins, from which they might watch the approach of visitors, and, if need required, secure an immediate retreat. During the day, they seldom left their concealment, confining all their out-door operations to the night.
A consultation was held in David Ramsay's cabin,--the letters were produced and delivered to Horse Shoe, and the instructions intended for him by Butler were carefully read. It was resolved that Horse Shoe should set out for the Dove Cote without delay, taking the route through the mountain country of North Carolina, as that least likely to be interrupted by the British troops. John Ramsay, for the present, was to return to the Fair Forest camp, to inform Williams of the state of affairs; and he was hereafter to act as occasion might suggest. Christopher Shaw and Mary were to attend upon Butler, and communicate whatever might transpire of interest to David Ramsay, who promised to find means of intercourse with Williams or Sumpter, as circumstances should allow.
These matters being arranged, Mary and Christopher Shaw took their leaves of Ramsay's family, and went about the ostensible object of their expedition.
Horse Shoe's plan of travel during the first and most perilous stages of his journey towards Virginia, was to avail himself of the darkness of the night; and he accordingly resolved to set out as soon as this day should draw to a close. His immediate cares were, therefore, directed to making all the necessary preparations for his departure. Captain Peter was carefully tended, and supplied with a double allowance of provender; provisions were stowed away, both for himself and his trusty beast: his pistols were put in order: his rifle cleaned out, and a supply of ammunition provided; and, finally, the letters were sewed up in a leather pouch, and buckled around his body by a strap, inside of his clothes. It was no inconsiderable item in the sergeant's preparation for his expedition, to sit down and eat a meal, which, from the quantity bestowed, and the vigor with which the assault upon it was made, might have betokened a full week's starvation.
The day waned, and the night came a welcome visitor to the sergeant; and, at that hour which old chroniclers designate as "inter canem et lupum," Captain Peter was brought to the door, ready dight for travel. Ramsay's family stood around,--and whilst Andy, with boyish affection, held Horse Shoe's rifle in his hand, the sergeant feelingly spoke the words of parting to his friends;--then, with a jaunty air of careless mirth, springing into his saddle, and receiving his trusty weapon from the young comrade of his late gallant adventure, he rode forth with as stout a heart as ever went with knight of chivalry to the field of romantic renown.
Chapter XXXIII
A GLANCE AT THE DOVE COTE.--THE COMPANIONSHIP OF BROTHER AND SISTER.
Our story once more brings us back to the Dove Cote. During the first week that followed her interview with Arthur Butler under the Fawn's Tower, Mildred was calm and thoughtful, and even melancholy: her usual custom of exercise was foregone, and her time was passed chiefly in her chamber. By degrees, however, her firm and resolute temper predominated over the sadness of her fortunes, and she began to resume that cheerfulness which circumstances can never long subdue in a strong and disciplined mind. She had grown more than ever watchful of the public events, and sought, with an intense avidity, to obtain information in regard to the state of things in the south. She now felt herself closely allied to the cause in which Arthur Butler had embarked, and therefore, caught up the floating rumors of the day, in what regarded the progress of the American arms in the southern expedition, with the interest of one who had a large stake depending on the issue.
She had received several letters from Butler, which detailed the progress of his journey from the Dove Cote to Gates's camp, and from thence to Horse Shoe's cottage. They were all written in the confident and even jocular tone of a light-hearted soldier who sought to amuse his mistress; and they narrated such matters of personal history as were of a character to still her fears for his safety. Their effect upon Mildred was to warm up her enthusiasm, as well as to brighten her anticipations of the future, and thus to increase the returning elasticity of her spirits. Up to this period, therefore, she grew every day more buoyant and playful in her temper, and brought herself to entertain a more sanguine reckoning of the eventual determination of affairs. She was now frequently on horseback, attended by her brother, with whom she scarcely ever failed to make a visit to the good Mistress Dimock, where she either found a letter from Butler, or heard some of the thousand tidings which report was for ever busy in propagating or exaggerating in regard to the movements of the army.
"I'll warrant you, Arthur is a man for the pen as well as for the spur and broadsword, my pretty lady," was one of the landlady's comments, as she handed to Mildred the eighth or ninth epistle that had fallen into her hands since Butler's departure; "there scarcely comes trotting by a soiled traveller with his head set northwards, but it is--'Good woman, is this Mistress Dimock's?' and when I say, 'aye,' then 'here's a letter, madam, for you, that comes from the army:' and so, there's Arthur's own hand-writing to a great pacquet, 'for Mistress Dimock of the Rockfish inn, of Amherst,' and not even, after all, one poor line for me, but just a cover, and the inside for Miss Mildred Lindsay of the Dove Cote. Ha, ha! we old bodies are only stalking-horses in this world. But God bless him!--he is a fine and noble gentleman." And Mildred would take the pacquet and impatiently break the seal; and as she perused the close-written contents the color waxed and waned upon her cheek, and her eye would one instant sparkle with mirth, and in the next grow dim with a tear. And when she had finished reading, she would secretly press the paper to her lips, and then bestow it away in her bosom, evincing the earnest fondness of a devoted and enthusiastic nature.
Mildred and Henry were inseparable; and, in proportion as his sister's zeal and attachment to the cause of independence became more active, did Henry's inclination to become a partisan grow apace. Hers was a character to kindle the spirit of brave adventure. There was in it a quiet and unostentatious but unvarying current of resolution, that shrank before no perils. Her feelings, acute and earnest, had given all their warmth to her principles; and what she once believed her duty commanded, was pursued with the devout self-dedication of a religious obligation. To this temper, which, by some secret of its constitution, has a spell to sway the minds of mankind, there was added the grace of an exquisitely feminine address. The union of these two attributes rendered Mildred Lindsay an object of conspicuous interest in such a time as that of the revolutionary struggle. Her youth, her ready genius, her knowledge and her habits of reflection, much in advance of her years, enhanced the impression her character was adapted to produce, and brought upon her, even in her secluded position, a considerable share of public observation. It was not wonderful that a mind so organized and accomplished should have acquired an unlimited dominion over the frank, open-hearted, and brave temper of her brother, now just stepping beyond the confines of mere boyhood. Her influence over Henry was paramount and unbounded: her affections were his, her faith was his, her enthusiasm stole into and spread over his whole temper.
With these means of influence she had sedulously applied herself to infuse into Henry's mind her own sentiment in regard to the war; and this purpose had led her to interest herself in subjects and pursuits, which, in general, are very foreign from her sex. Her desire to enlist his feelings in aid of Butler, and her conviction that a time was at hand when Henry might be useful, gave rise to an eager solicitude to see him well prepared for the emergencies of the day, by that necessary mode of education which, during the period of the revolution, was common amongst the young gentlemen of the country. He was a most willing and ready pupil; and she delighted to encourage him in his inclination for military studies, however fanciful some of his conceptions in regard to them might be. She, therefore, saw, with great satisfaction, the assiduous though boyish devotion with which he set himself to gain a knowledge of matters relating to the duties of a soldier. However little this may fall within the scope of female perception in ordinary times, it will not appear so much removed from the capabilities or even the habits of the sex, when we reflect that in the convulsions of this great national struggle, when every resource of the country was drained for service, the events of the day were contemplated with no less interest by the women than by the men. The fervor with which the American women participated in the cares and sacrifices of the revolutionary war, has challenged the frequent notice and warmest praises of its chroniclers. Mildred but reflected, in this instance, the hues of the society around the Dove Cote, which consisted of many families, scattered along the country side, composed of persons of elevated character, easy circumstances, and of the staunchest Whig politics, with whom she held an uninterrupted and familiar intercourse.
Another consideration may serve to explain the somewhat masculine character of Mildred's pursuits. Her most intimate companion, at all times, and frequently for weeks together her only one, was her brother. These two had grown up together in all the confidence of childhood; and this confidence continued still unabated. Their pursuits, sports, exercises, thoughts, and habits were alike, with less of the discrimination usual between the sexes, than is to be found between individuals in larger associations. They approximated each other in temper and disposition; and Henry might, in this regard, be said to be, without disparagement to his manly qualities, a girlish boy; and Mildred, on the other hand, with as little derogation, to be a boyish girl. This home-bred freedom of nurture produced, in its development, some grotesque results, which my reader has, doubtless, heretofore observed with a smile; and it will, likewise, serve to explain some of the peculiar forms of intercourse which may hereafter be noticed between the brother and sister.
The news of the battle of Camden had not yet reached the neighborhood of the Dove Cote; but the time drew nigh when all the country stood on tiptoe, anxious to receive tidings of that interesting event. A week had elapsed without bringing letters from Butler; and Mildred was growing uneasy at this interval of silence. There was a struggle in her mind; an unpleasant foreboding that she was almost ashamed to acknowledge, and yet which she could not subdue. The country was full of reports of the hostile operations, and a thousand surmises were entertained, which varied according to the more sanguine or desponding tempers of the persons who made them. Mildred was taught by Butler to expect defeat, yet still she hoped for victory; but the personal fate of her lover stole upon her conjectures, and she could not keep down the misgiving which affection generally exaggerates, and always renders painful. In this state of doubt, it was observable that her manners occasionally rose to a higher tone of playfulness than was natural to her; and by turns they sank to a moody silence, showing that the equipoise of the mind was disturbed, and that the scales did not hang true: it was the struggle of mental resolution with a coward heart--a heart intimidated by its affections.
Such was the state of things when, in the latter fortnight of August, the morning ushered in a day of unsurpassed beauty. The air was elastic; the cool breeze played upon the shrubbery, and stole the perfume of a thousand flowers. The birds sang with unwonted vivacity from the neighboring trees; and the sun lighted up the mountains with a golden splendor, the fast drifting clouds flinging their shadows upon the forest that clothed the hills around, and the eagle and the buzzard sailing in the highest heavens, or eddying around the beetling cliffs with a glad flight, as if rejoicing in the luxuries of the cool summer morning. Breakfast was scarcely over before Henry was seen upon the terrace, arrayed in his hunting dress. His bugle was daintily suspended by a green cord across his shoulders; it was a neat and glittering instrument, whose garniture was bedizened with the coxcombry of silken tassels, and was displayed as ostentatiously as if worn by the hero of a melodrame.
Like St. Swithin in the ballad, he had "footed thrice the wold," when he put the bugle to his mouth and "blew a recheate both loud and long."
"How now, good master Puff," said Mildred, coming up playfully to her brother, "what means this uproar? Pray you, have mercy on one's ears."
Henry turned towards his sister, without taking the bugle from his lips, and continued the blast for a full minute; then, ceasing only from want of breath, he said, with a comic earnestness--
"I'm practising my signals, sister; I can give you 'to Horse,' and 'Reveillee,' and 'Roast Beef,' like a trained trumpeter."
"Truly you are a proper man, master," replied Mildred. "But it is hardly a time," she continued, half muttering to herself, "for you and me, Henry, to wear light hearts in our bosoms."
"Why, sister," said Henry, with some astonishment in his looks, "this seems to me to be the very time to practise my signals. We are at the very tug of the war, and every man that has a sword, or bugle either, should be up and doing."
"How come on your studies, brother?" interrupted Mildred, without heeding Henry's interpretation of his duty.
"Oh, rarely! I know most of the speeches of Coriolanus all by heart:--
"'Like an eagle in a dove cote, I Fluttered your voices in Corioli: Alone I did it.--Boy!'"
he spouted, quoting from the play, and accompanying his recitation with some extravagant gestures.
"This is easy work, Henry," said Mildred laughing, "there is too much of the holiday play in that. I thought you were studying some graver things, instead of these bragging heroics. You pretended to be very earnest, but a short time ago, to make a soldier of yourself."
"Well, and don't you call this soldiership? Suppose I were to pounce down upon Cornwallis--his lordship, as that fellow Tyrrel calls him--just in that same fashion. I warrant they would say there was some soldiership in it! But, sister, haven't I been studying the attack and defence of fortified places, I wonder? And what call you that? Look now, here is a regular hexagon," continued Henry, making lines upon the gravel walk with a stick, "here is the bastion,--these lines are the flank,--the face,--the gorge: here is the curtain. Now, my first parallel is around here, six hundred paces from the counterscarp. But I could have taken Charleston myself in half the time that poking fellow, Clinton, did it, if I had been there, and one of his side, which--thank my stars--I am not."
"You are entirely out of my depth, brother," interrupted Mildred.
"I know I am. How should women be expected to understand these matters? Go to your knitting, sister: you can't teach me."
"Have you studied the Military Catechism, Henry? that, you know, Baron Steuben requires of all the young officers."
"Most," replied Henry. "Not quite through it. I hate this getting prose by heart. Shakspeare is more to my mind than Baron Steuben. But I will tell you what I like, sister: I like the management of the horse. I can passage, and lunge, and change feet, and throw upon the haunches, with e'er a man in Amherst or Albemarle either, may be."
"You told me you had practised firing from your saddle."
"To be sure I did: and look here," replied the cadet, taking off his cap and showing a hole in the cloth. "Do you see that, Mildred? I flung the cap into the air, and put a ball through it before it fell--at a gallop."
"Well done, master; you come on bravely!"
"And another thing I have to tell you, which, perhaps, Mildred, you will laugh to hear:--I have taken to a rough way of sleeping. I want to harden myself; so, I fling a blanket on the floor and stretch out on it--and sleep like--"
"Like what, good brother; you are posed for a comparison."
"Like the sleeping beauty, sister."
"Ha! ha! that's a most incongruous and impertinent simile!"
"Well, like a Trojan, or a woodman, or a dragoon, or like Stephen Foster, and that is as far as sleeping can go. I have a notion of trying it in the woods one of these nights--if I can get Stephen to go along."
"Why not try it alone?"
"Why it's a sort of an awkward thing to be entirely by one's self in the woods, the livelong night--it is lonesome, you know, sister; and, to tell the truth, I almost suspect I am a little afraid of ghosts."
"Indeed! and you a man! That's a strange fear for a young Coriolanus. Suppose you should get into the wars, and should happen to be posted as a sentinel at some remote spot--far from your comrades; on picket, I think you call it? (Henry nodded) on a dark night, would you desert your duty for fear of a goblin!"
"I would die first, Mildred. I would stick it out, if I made an earthquake by trembling in my shoes."
Mildred laughed.
"And then if a ghost should rise up out of the ground," she continued, with a mock solemnity of manner.
"I would whistle some tune," interrupted Henry. "That's an excellent way to keep down fear."
"Shame on you, to talk of fear, brother."
"Only of ghosts, sister, not of men."
"You must cure yourself of this childish apprehension, master."
"And how shall I do so, Mildred? I have heard people say that the bravest men have been alarmed by spirits."
"You must accustom yourself to midnight hours and dark places, all alone. Our poor mother taught you this fear."
"I should think of her, Mildred, until my heart would burst, and my cheek grew pale as ashes," said Henry, with an earnest and solemn emphasis.
"Her spirit, could it rise, would love you, brother; it would never seek to do you harm," replied Mildred thoughtfully.
"Sister," said Henry, "you came here in sport, but you have made me very sad."
Mildred walked off a few paces and remained gazing steadfastly over the parapet. When she looked back she saw Henry approaching her.
"You stoop, brother, in your gait," she said, "that's a slovenly habit."
"It comes, sister, of my climbing these mountains so much. We mountaineers naturally get a stoop on the hill-sides. But if you think," continued Henry, reverting to the subject which had just been broken off, "it would make me bolder to watch of nights, I should not care to try it."
"I would have you," said Mildred, "walk your rounds, like a patrole, through the woods from twelve until two, every night for a week."
"Agreed, sister--rain or shine."
"And then I shall think you completely cured of this unsoldier-like infirmity, when you are able to march as far as the church, and serve one tour of duty in the grave-yard."
"By myself?" inquired Henry, with concern.
"You wouldn't have me go with you, brother?"
"I should feel very brave if you did, Mildred; for you are as brave as a general. But if Stephen Foster will keep in the neighborhood--near enough to hear my 'All's well'--I think I could stand it out."
"You must go alone," said Mildred, cheerfully, "before I shall think you fit to be promoted."
"If you say I must, sister Mildred, why, then I must: and there's an end of it. But your discipline is forty times more severe than the German Baron's at Richmond. Father looks pale this morning," continued Henry, as he turned his eyes towards the porch, where Mr. Lindsay was now seen walking forward and back, with his arms folded across his breast. "Something perpetually troubles him, Mildred. I wish that devil, Tyrrel, had been buried before he ever found his way to the Dove Cote! See he comes this way."
Both Mildred and Henry ran to meet Lindsay, and encountered him before he had advanced a dozen paces over the lawn.
"Such a day, father!" said Mildred, as she affectionately took his hand. "It is a luxury to breathe this air."
"God has given us a beautiful heaven, my children, and a rich and bountiful earth. He has filled them both with blessings. Man only mars them with his cursed passions," said Lindsay, with a sober accent.
"You have heard bad news, father?" said Henry, inquiringly; "what has happened?"
Mildred grew suddenly pale.
"We shall hear glorious news, boy, before many days," replied Lindsay; "as yet, all is uncertain. Henry, away to your sports, or to your studies. Mildred, I have something for your ear, and so, my child, walk with me a while."
Henry took his leave, looking back anxiously at his sister, whose countenance expressed painful alarm. Mildred accompanied her father slowly and silently to the small veranda that shaded the door of the gable next the terrace.
XXXIV. MILDRED PUT TO A SEVERE TRIAL:--HER FIRMNESS
"My mind troubles me," said Lindsay: "Mildred, hear me--and mark what I say. Our fortunes are coming to a period of deep interest: it is therefore no time to deal in evasive speeches, or to dally with coy and girlish feelings. I wish, my daughter, to be understood."
"Father, have I offended you?" inquired Mildred, struck with the painful and almost repulsive earnestness of Lindsay's manner.
"Arthur Butler has been at the Dove Cote," he said, sternly, "and you have concealed it from me. That was not like my child."
"Father!" exclaimed Mildred, bursting into tears.
"Nay--these tears shall not move me from my resolution. As a parent I had a right, Mildred, to expect obedience from you; but you saw him in the very despite of my commands: here, on the confines of the Dove Cote, you saw him."
"I did--I did."
"And you were silent, and kept your secret from your father's bosom."
"You forbade me to speak of him," replied Mildred, in a low and sobbing voice, "and banished me from your presence when I but brought his name upon my lips."
"He is a villain, daughter; a base wretch that would murder my peace, and steal my treasure from my heart."
Mildred covered her eyes with her hands, and trembled in silent agony.
"I have received letters," continued Lindsay, "that disclose to me a vile plot against my life. This same Butler--this furious and fanatic rebel--has been lurking in the neighborhood of my house, to watch my family motions, to pry into the character of my guests, to possess himself of my sacred confidences, to note the incoming and the out-going of my most attached friends, and thereupon to build an accusation of treason before this unholy and most accursed power that has usurped dominion in the land. I am to be denounced to these malignant masters, and to suffer such penalties as their passions may adjudge. And all this through the agency of a man who is cherished and applauded by my own daughter!"
"My dear father, who has thus abused your mind, and led your thoughts into a current so foreign from that calm judgment with which you have been accustomed to look upon the things of life?"
"Can you deny, Mildred, that this Butler followed Tyrrel to the Dove Cote; lay concealed here, close at hand; sought by discourse through some of his coadjutors with Tyrrel's servant, to learn the object of Tyrrel's visit; and offered gross outrage to the man when he failed to persuade him to betray his master? Can you deny this? Can you deny that he fled precipitately from his hiding-place when he could no longer conceal his purpose?--and, knowing these things, can you doubt he is a villain?"
"He is no villain, father," said Mildred, indignantly. "These are the wretched forgeries of that unworthy man who has won your confidence--a man who is no less an enemy to your happiness than he is a selfish contriver against mine. The story is not true: it is one of Tyrrel's basest falsehoods."
"And Butler was not here; you would persuade me so, Mildred?"
"He was in the neighborhood for a single night; he journeyed southwards in the course of his duty," answered Mildred, mildly.
"And had no confederates with him?"
"He was attended by a guide--only one--and hurried onwards without delay."
"And you met him on that single night--by accident, I suppose?"
"Do you doubt my truth, father?"
"Mildred, Mildred! you will break my heart. Why was he here at all--why did you meet him?"
"He came, father--" said Mildred, struggling to speak through a sudden burst of tears.
"Silence! I will hear no apology!" exclaimed Lindsay. Then relenting in an instant, he took his daughter's hand, as he said: "My child, thou art innocent in thy nature, and knowest not the evil imaginings of this world. He wickedly lied, if he told you that he came casually hither, or that his stay was circumscribed to one short night. I have proofs, full and satisfactory, that, for several days, he lay concealed in this vicinity; and, moreover, that his scheme was frustrated only by an unexpected discovery, made through the indiscretion of a drunken bully, who came linked with him in his foul embassy. It was a shameless lie, invented to impose upon your credulity, if he gave you room to believe otherwise."
"Arthur Butler scorns a falsehood, father, with the deepest scorn that belongs to a noble mind, and would resent the charge with the spirit of a valiant and virtuous man. If Mr. Tyrrel has such accusations to make, it would be fitter they should be made face to face with the man he would slander, than in my father's ear. But it is the nature of the serpent to sting in the grass, not openly to encounter his victim."
"The first duty of a trusty friend is to give warning of the approach of an enemy--and that has Tyrrel done. For this act of service does he deserve your rebuke? Could you expect aught else of an honorable gentleman? Shame on you, daughter!"
"Father, I know the tale to be wickedly, atrociously false. Arthur Butler is not your enemy. Sooner would he lay down his life than even indulge a thought of harm to you. His coming hither was not unknown to me--his delay, but one brief night; business of great moment called him hastily towards the army of the south."
"You speak like a girl, Mildred. I have, against this tale, the avowal of a loyal and brave soldier. Aye, and let me tell you--favorably as you may deem of this false and traitorous rebel--his wily arts have been foiled, and quick vengeance is now upon his path--his doom is fixed."
"For heaven's sake, father, dear father, tell me what this means. Have you heard of Arthur?" cried Mildred, in the most impassioned accents of distress, at the same time throwing her head upon Lindsay's breast. "Oh, God! have you heard aught of harm to him?"
"Girl! foolish, mad, self-willed girl!" exclaimed Lindsay, disengaging himself from his daughter, and rising from his seat and angrily striding a few paces upon the terrace. "Dare you show this contumacy to me! No, I did not mean that--have you the heart, Mildred, to indulge these passionate fervors for the man I hate more than I can hate any other living thing! He, a wretch, upon whose head I invoke nightly curses! A loathsome, abhorred image to my mind! Hear me, Mildred, and hear me, though your heart break while I utter it--May the felon's death whelm him and his name in eternal disgrace!--may his present captivity be beset with all the horrors of friendlessness, unpitied--"
"His captivity, father! And has he then fallen into the hands of the enemy? Quick! tell me all!--I shall die--my life is wrapped up in his!" ejaculated Mildred, in agony, as she sprang towards her father and seized his arm, and then sank at his feet.
"For God's sake, my child!" said Lindsay, becoming alarmed at the violence of the paroxysm he had excited, and now lifting his daughter from the ground. "Mildred!--speak, girl! This emotion will drive me mad. Oh, fate, fate!--how unerringly dost thou fulfil the sad predictions of my spirit! How darkly does the curse hang upon my household! Mildred, dear daughter, pardon my rash speech. I would not harm thee, child--no, not for worlds!"
"Father, you have cruelly tortured my soul," said Mildred, reviving from the half lifeless state into which she had fallen, and which for some moments had denied her speech. "Tell me all; on my knees, father, I implore you."
"It was a hasty word, daughter," replied Lindsay, ill concealing the perturbation of his feelings; "I meant not what I said."
"Nay, dear father," said Mildred, "I am prepared to hear the worst; you spoke of Arthur's captivity."
"It was only a rumor," replied Lindsay, struck with apprehension at his daughter's earnestness, and now seeking to allay the feeling his hint had aroused in her mind; "it may be exaggerated by Tyrrel, whose letter, hastily written, mentions the fact, that Butler had been made a prisoner by some bands of Tories, amongst whom he had rashly ventured. The clemency of his king may yet win him back to his allegiance. A salutary confinement, at least, will deprive him of the power of mischief. His lands will be confiscated--and the close of the war, now fast approaching, will find him a houseless adventurer, baffled in his treason, and unpitied by all good men. This should persuade you, Mildred, to renounce your unnatural attachment, and to think no more of one whose cause heaven has never sanctioned, and whose condition in life should forbid all pretension to your regard--one, above all, repulsive even to loathing to the thoughts of your father."
"I loved him, father, in his happiest and brightest day," said Mildred, firmly; "I cannot desert him in his adversity. Oh, speak to me no more! Let me go to my chamber; I am ill and cannot bear this torrent of your displeasure."
"I will not detain you, Mildred. In sorrow and suffering, but still with a father's affection as warmly shining on you as when, in earliest infancy, I fondled thee upon my knee, I part with thee now. One kiss, girl. There, let that make peace between us. For your sake and my own, I pledge my word never to distress you with this subject again. Destiny must have its way, and I must bide the inevitable doom."
With a heavy heart and an exhausted frame, Mildred slowly and tearfully withdrew.
Lindsay remained some time fixed upon the spot where his daughter had left him. He was like a man stupefied and astounded by a blow. His conference had ended in a manner that he had not prepared himself to expect. The imputed treachery of Butler, derived from Tyrrel's letters, had not struck alarm into the heart of Mildred, as he had supposed it could not fail to do. The wicked fabrication had only recoiled upon the inventor; and Mildred, with the resolute, confident, and unfaltering attachment of her nature, clung with a nobler devotion to her lover. To Lindsay, in whose mind no distrust of the honesty of Tyrrel could find shelter; whose prejudices and peculiar temperament came in aid of the gross and disgraceful imputation which the letters inferred, the constancy and generous fervor of his daughter towards the cause of Butler seemed to be a mad and fatal infatuation.
Ever since his first interview with Mildred on the subject of her attachment, his mind had been morbidly engrossed with the reflections to which it had given rise. There was such a steadiness of purpose apparent in her behavior, such an unchangeable resolve avowed, as seemed to him, in the circumstances of her condition, to defy and stand apart from the ordinary and natural impulses by which human conduct is regulated. He grew daily more abstracted and moody in his contemplations; and as study and thought gave a still graver complexion to his feelings, his mind fled back upon his presentiments; and that intense, scholar-like superstition, which I have heretofore described as one of the tendencies of his nature, began more actively to conjure up its phantasmagoria before his mental vision. A predominating trait of this superstition was an increasing conviction that, in Mildred's connexion with Arthur Butler, there was associated some signal doom to himself, that was to affect the fortunes of his race. It was a vague, misty, obscure consciousness of impending fate, the loss of reason or the loss of life that was to ensue upon that alliance if it should ever take place.
It was such a presentiment that now, in the solitary path of Lindsay's life, began to be magnified into a ripening certainty of ill. The needle of his mind trembled upon its pivot, and began to decline towards a fearful point; that point was--frenzy. His studies favored this apprehension--they led him into the world of visions. The circumstances of his position favored it. He was perplexed by the intrigues of politicians, against whom he had no defence in temper nor worldly skill: he was deluded by false views of events: he was embarrassed and dissatisfied with himself: above all, he was wrought upon, bewildered, and glamoured (to use a most expressive Scotch phrase) by the remembrance of a sickly dream.
Thus hunted and badgered by circumstances, he fled with avidity to the disclosures made in Tyrrel's letters, to try, as a last effort, their effect upon Mildred, hoping that the tale there told might divert her from a purpose which now fed all his melancholy.
The reader has just seen how the experiment had failed.
Lindsay retired to his study, and, through the remainder of the day, sought refuge from his meditations in the converse of his books. These mute companions, for once, failed to bring him their customary balm. His feelings had been turned, by the events of the morning, into a current that bore them impetuously along towards a dark and troubled ocean of thought; and when the shades of evening had fallen around him, he was seen pacing the terrace with a slow and measured step.
"It is plain, she passionately loves Butler," he said, "in despite of all the visible influences around her. Her education, habits, affections, duty--all set in an opposing tide against this passion, and yet does it master them all. That I should be bound to mine enemy by a chain, whose strongest link is forged by my own daughter. She--Mildred!--No, no--that link was not forged by her: it hath not its shape from human workmanship. Oh, that like those inspired enthusiasts who, in times of old,--yea, and in a later day--have been able to open the Book of Destiny, and to read the passages of man's future life, I might get one glimpse of that forbidden page!--To what a charitable use might I apply the knowledge. Wise men have studied the journeyings of the stars, and have--as they deemed--discovered the secret spell by which yon shining orbs sway and compel the animal existences of this earth; even as the moon governs the flow of the ocean, or the fever of the human brain. Who shall say what is the invisible tissue--what the innumerable cords--that tie this planet and all its material natures to the millions of worlds with which it is affined? What is that mysterious thing which men call attraction, that steadies these spheres in their tangled pathways through the great void?--that urges their swift and fearful career into the track of their voyage, without the deviation of the breadth of a single hair--rolling on the same from eternity to eternity? How awfully does the thought annihilate our feeble and presumptuous philosophy! Is it, then, to excite the scorn of the wise, if we assert that some kindred power may shape out and direct the wanderings of man?--that an unseen hand may lay the threads by which this tottering creature is to travel through the labyrinth of this world; aye, and after it is done, to point out to him his course along the dark and chill valley, which the dead walk through companionless and silent? Have not men heard strange whispers in the breeze--the voice of warning? Have they not felt the fanning of the wing that bore the secret messenger through the air? Have they not seen some floating fold of the robe as it passed by? O God!--have they not seen the dead arise? What are these but the communings, the points of contact, between the earthy and spiritual worlds--the essences or intelligences that sometimes flit across the confine of our gross sphere, and speak to the children of clay? And wherefore do they speak, but that the initiated may regard the sign, and walk in safety? Or, perchance, some mischief-hatching fiend,--for such, too, are permitted to be busy to mar the good that God has made--may speak in malice to allure us from our better purpose. Aye, as aptly this, as the other. Miserable child of doubt, how art thou beset! Let the vain pedant prate of his philosophy, let the soldier boast his valor, the learned scholar his scepticism, and the worldling laugh his scorn, yet do they each and all yield homage to this belief. There comes a time of honest self-confession, of secret meditation to all, and then the boding spirit rises to his proper mastery: then does instinct smother argument: then do the darkness of the midnight hour, the howling wind, the rush of the torrent, the lonesomeness of the forest and the field, shake the strong nerves; and the feeble, pigmy man, trembles at his own imaginings."
In such a strain did Lindsay nurse his doubting superstition; and by these degrees was it that his mind soothed itself down into a calmer tone of resignation. In proportion as this fanciful and distempered philosophy inclined his reflection towards the belief of preternatural influences, it suggested excuses for Mildred's seeming contumacy, and inculcated a more indulgent sentiment of forbearance in his future intercourse with her.
Towards the confirmation of this temper an ordinary incident, which, at any other time, would have passed without comment, now contributed. A storm had arisen: the day, towards its close, had grown sultry, and had engendered one of those sudden gusts which belong to the summer in this region. It came, without premonition, in a violent tornado, that rushed through the air with the roar of a great cataract. Lindsay had scarcely time to retreat to the cover of the porch, before the heavy-charged cloud poured forth its fury in floods of rain. The incessant lightnings glittered on the descending drops, and illuminated the distant landscape with more than the brilliancy of day. The most remote peaks of the mountain were sheeted with the glare; and the torrents that leaped down the nearer hill-sides sparkled with a dazzling radiance. Peal after peal of abrupt and crashing thunder roared through the heavens, and echoed with terrific reverberations along the valleys. Lindsay gazed upon this scene, from his secure cover, with mute interest, inwardly aroused and delighted with the grand and sublime conflict of the elements, in a spot of such wild and compatible magnificence: the solemn and awful emotions excited by these phenomena were exaggerated by the peculiar mood of his mind, and now absorbed all his attention. After a brief interval, the rain ceased to fall as suddenly as it had begun; the thunder was silent, and only a few distant flashes of wide-spread light broke fitfully above the horizon. The stars soon again shone forth through a transparent and placid heaven, and the moon sailed in beauty along a cloudless sea. The frog chirped again from the trees, and the far-off owl hooted in the wood, resuming his melancholy song, that had been so briefly intermitted. The foaming river below, swollen by the recent rain, flung upwards a more lively gush from its rocky bed: the cock was heard to crow, as if a new day had burst upon his harem; and the house-dogs barked in sport as they gambolled over the wet grass.
Lindsay looked forth and spoke.
"How beautiful is the change! But a moment since, and the angry elements were convulsed with the shock of war; and now, how calm! My ancient oaks have weathered the gale, and not a branch has been torn from their hoary limbs: not the most delicate of Mildred's flowers; not the tenderest shrub has been scathed by the threatening fires of heaven! The Dove Cote and its inmates have seen the storm sweep by without a vestige of harm. Kind heaven, grant that this may be a portent of our fortune; and that, when this tempest of human passion has been spent, the Dove Cote and its inhabitants may come forth as tranquil, as safe, as happy, as now--more--yes, more happy than now! Our ways are in thy hands; and I would teach myself to submit to thy providence with patient hope. So, let it be! I am resigned."
As Lindsay still occupied his position in the porch, Stephen Foster appeared before him dripping with the rain of the late storm.
"A letter, sir," said Stephen. "I have just rode from the post-office, and was almost oversot in the gust: it catched me upon the road; and it was as much as I could do to cross the river. It is a mighty fretful piece of water after one of these here dashes."
Lindsay took the packet.
"Get your supper, good Stephen," he said. "Order lights for me in the library! Thank you--thank you!"
When Lindsay opened the letter, he found it to contain tidings of the victory at Camden, written by Tyrrel. After he had perused the contents, it was with a triumphant smile that he exclaimed, "And it is come so soon! Thank God, the omen has proved true! a calmer and a brighter hour at last opens upon us."
He left the study to communicate the news to his children, and spent the next hour with Mildred and Henry in the parlor. His feelings had risen to a happier key; and it was with some approach to cheerfulness, but little answered in the looks or feelings of his children, that he retired to his chamber at a late hour, where sleep soon came, with its sweet oblivion, to repair his exhausted spirits, and to restore him to the quiet of an easy mind.
Chapter XXXV
MILDRED IN GRIEF.--SHE IS NEAR MAKING A DISCLOSURE.--A VISITOR ARRIVES AT THE DOVE COTE.
"Then in that hour remorse he felt, And his heart told him he had dealt Unkindly with his child."--Rogers.
On the following day Mildred confined herself to her chamber. She had passed a sleepless night, and the morning found her a pale, anxious, and distressed watcher of the slow approach of light. Her thoughts were busy with the fate of Butler. This topic overwhelmed all other cares, and struck deep and unmitigated anguish into her mind. The hints that had been so indiscreetly dropped by her father, more than if the whole tale had been told, had worked upon her imagination, and conjured up to her apprehension the certain destruction of her lover. In her interview with Lindsay, her emotions had been controlled by the extreme difficulty of her situation. The fear of rousing in her father that deep and solemn tone of passion, which had now become the infirmity of his mind, and almost threatened to "deprive his sovereignty of reason," and of which she was painfully aware, had subdued the strength of her own feelings--so far, at least, as to inculcate a more seeming moderation than, in other circumstances, she could have exhibited. It was the struggle between filial affection and duty on the one side, and an ardent, though tremblingly acknowledged, attachment on the other. The course that she had previously determined to pursue, in reference to the many earnest and assiduous efforts of Lindsay to persuade her from her love, was steadily to persevere in the open acknowledgment of her plighted vow, and endeavor to win her father's favor by a calm and gentle expostulation; or to seek, in a respectful silence, the means of averting the occasion of that gusty and moody outbreak of temper, which the peculiar exacerbation of his mind was apt to make frequent. She would have resorted to this silence in the late communion with Lindsay, if he had not, with an unusual bitterness, denounced Arthur Butler as the author of a hateful crime; a crime which she knew had been foully insinuated against him by a man of whose subtle wickedness she was persuaded, and whom, of all others, she most heartily execrated. She was, therefore, led indignantly, though temperately, to repel the slander by which her father's hatred had been artfully envenomed. But when, in the fierce fervor of his displeasure, Lindsay had announced to her the danger that had befallen Butler, the disclosure opened to her mind a world of misery. The late silence of her lover had already alarmed her fears, and this announcement suggested the worst of the many anxious conjectures which her brooding spirit had imagined as the cause of that absence of tidings. Her emotions upon this disclosure were those of a bursting heart that dared not trust itself with words; and when her father, seeing the unlooked-for mischief he had done, sought to temper his speech, and retract some of the harshness of his communication, by an explanation, the only effect was, for the moment, to take off the edge of her keenest grief. But when she left his presence, and recovered herself sufficiently to recall all that had passed, the dreadful thought of disaster to Butler, came back upon her imagination with all the horrors which a fond heart could summon around it. A weary hour was spent in sobs and tears; and it was only by the blandishments of her brother Henry's kind and earnest sympathy, when the youth found her in the parlor thus whelmed in sorrow, and by his manly and cheering reckoning of the many chances of safety that attend the footsteps of a prudent and a brave man, that she began to regain that resolute equanimity that was a natural and even predominating attribute of her character.
When Lindsay came into the parlor with the tidings of the victory at Camden, such was the state in which he found her; and whilst he announced to her that event which had given him so much joy, he was not unheedful of the pang he had previously inflicted, and now endeavored to make amends by throwing in some apparently casual, though intentional, reference to the condition of Butler, who, he doubted not, would now be disposed of on easy terms. "Perhaps," he continued, "as the war was drawing to a close, and the royal clemency had been singularly considerate of the mistaken men who had taken arms against their king, he would in a little while be discharged on his parole." This reluctant and forced crumb of comfort fell before one who had but little appetite to take it, and Mildred received it only in cold silence. Henry, however, made better use of the event, and by that assiduity which, in true and gentle friendships, never wearies, and never misses its aim, when that aim is to revive a sinking hope, succeeded in lifting both his father and sister into a kindlier climate of feeling. But solitude and her pillow ravelled all this work of charity. Fancy, that stirring tormentor of acute minds, summoned up all its phantoms to Mildred's waking fears, and the night was passed by her as by one who could not be comforted. In the morning she was ill, and therefore, as I have said, remained in her chamber.
Lindsay, ever solicitous for the happiness of his children, and keenly sensitive to whatever gave them pain, now that the turbid violence of his passion had subsided into a clearer and calmer medium, applied himself by every art which parental fondness could supply, to mitigate the suffering of his daughter. Like a man who, in a reckless and ungoverned moment, having done an injury which his heart revolts at, and having leisure to contemplate the wrong he has inflicted, hastens to administer comfort with an alacrity which even outruns the suggestions of ordinary affection, so did he now betake himself to Mildred's chamber, and, with sentiments of mixed alarm and contrition, seek her forgiveness for what he acknowledged a rash and unbecoming assault upon her feelings.
His soothing did not reach the disease. They could give her no assurance of Butler's safety; and on that point alone all her anguish turned. "My dear, dear father," she said, with a feeble and dejected voice, "how do you wrong me, by supposing I could harbor a sentiment that might cause me to doubt the love I bear you! I know and revere the purity of your nature, and need no assurance from you that your affection itself has kindled up this warmth of temper. But you have opened a fountain of bitterness upon my feelings," she added, sobbing vehemently, "in what you have divulged relating to a man you loathe, and one, dear father--take it from me now, as the expression of a sacred duty--one that I must ever love. Call it fate--call it infatuation; say that it does not befit my womanly reserve to avow it--but if misfortune and death have fallen upon the head of Arthur Butler, there is that bond between us, that I must die. Oh, father--"
As Mildred pronounced these words she had gradually raised herself into a sitting posture in her bed, and, at the conclusion, fell back exhausted upon her pillow. The enthusiasm, the violence and the intensity of her emotions had overborne her strength, and for some moments she lay incapable of speech.
"Mildred, Mildred! daughter!" exclaimed Lindsay, in alarm, "I forgive you, my child. Great heaven, if this should be too much for her sensitive nature, and she should die before my eyes! Dear Mildred," he said in a softer accent, as he kissed her pale forehead, "but look up, and never, never more will I oppose your wish."
"Father," she uttered, in a scarce audible whisper.
"Thank God, she revives! Forbear to speak, my love; that is enough. Do not exhaust your strength by another effort."
"Father!" she repeated in a firmer accent.
"There, there, my child," continued Lindsay, fanning the air before her face with his hand.
"Father," again uttered Mildred, "tell me of Arthur."
"He is safe, my love--and thou shalt yet be happy. Daughter--no more; compose yourself--nor attempt again to speak." And saying these words, Lindsay stole out of the chamber and summoned one of the domestics to administer a cordial to the exhausted patient; and then gave orders that she should be left to recruit her strength by sleep.
Mildred by degrees revived. Jaded by mental affliction, she had sunk into repose; and when another morning arrived, the lustre had returned to her eye, and her recovery was already well advanced. She did not yet venture from her chamber, but she was able to leave her bed and take the fresh air at her window.
Whilst she sat in the loose robe of an invalid, towards noon, looking out upon the green forest and smiling fields around her, with Henry close by her side, seeking to soothe and amuse her mind, they were enabled to descry a horseman, attended by a single servant, making his way up the hill from the ford, by the road that led directly to the door.
"As I live, sister," ejaculated Henry, "there is Tyrrel, covered with dust, and his horse all but worn down by travel."
"Heaven forbid that it should be Tyrrel indeed!" said Mildred, growing paler, and trembling as she spoke. "Oh, what ill fortune brings him hither?"
"I'll be bound," replied Henry, "that he comes with a whole budget of lies and foul thoughts. He has a knavish look, sister, and has been hatching mischief with every step of his horse. I, for one, will not see him; unless I can't help it. And you, sister, have an excuse to keep your room: so, he is like to have cold comfort here, with his rascally news of victory. We shall hear enough of Camden now. By-the-by, sister, I should like much to see our account of that business. I would bet it gives another face to the matter. These Tories do so bespatter his lordship with praises, and tell such improbable things about their victories! I will not see Tyrrel, that's flat."
"Nay, brother, not so fast. You must see him, for my sake. He has something to tell of Arthur. Persuade my father to ask him: tell him, if need be, that I requested this. And, Henry, if he says that Arthur is safe and well, if he has heard anything of him, knows anything of him, fly to and tell me it all. And, remember, brother," she said earnestly, "tell me all--whether it be good or bad."
"This is a new view of the case," said Henry. "Mildred, you are a wise woman, and think more ahead than I do. I did not reflect that this fellow might know something of Major Butler, though I am pretty sure he kept as clear of the major as a clean pair of heels would allow him. And, moreover, I take upon me to say, that he will bring as little good news of our Arthur in this direction, as he ever did of a good act in his life. But I will spy him out, sister, and report like a--like a--forty-two pounder, or the dispatch of a general who has won a fight. So, adieu, sister."
By the time that Henry had reached the porch, Tyrrel was already there. He had dismounted, and his weary steed stood panting on the grave walk, while the servant stripped him of his baggage.
"Well met, good master Henry!" said Tyrrel approaching, and offering the youth his hand, "I am somewhat of a soiled traveller, you see. Is your father at home? And your sister, how is she?"
"My father is at home," replied Henry, dropping the proffered hand of the visitor, almost as soon as it had touched his own. "I will send him to you, sir."
"But you have not asked me the news, Henry," said Tyrrel, "and, seeing that I have come from the very theatre of war, I could tell you something good."
"I have heard my father speak of your good news," answered Henry, carelessly, "I do not serve under the same colors with you, sir."
And the youth left the porch to announce the arrival of the traveller to Lindsay.
"There spoke the rebel Mildred," muttered Tyrrel, as Henry left his presence.
In an instant, Lindsay hastened from the library and received his guest with a warm welcome.
The first cares of his reception, and some necessary order relating to his comfort, being despatched, Tyrrel began to disburden himself of his stock of particulars relating to the great and important movements of the opposing armies in the south. He had left Cornwallis a few days after the battle, and had travelled with post haste to Virginia, on a leave of absence. He described minutely the state of things consequent upon the recent victory; and it was with a tone of triumphant exultation that he frequently appealed to his predictions as to the course of events, when last at the Dove Cote. The conversation soon became too confidential for the presence even of Henry, who sat greedily devouring every word that fell from the lips of the narrator, and the further interview was transferred to the library.
Henry hastened back to Mildred.
"The fellow is so full of politics, sister," said the eager scout, "that he has not dropped one solitary word about Butler. He talks of the province being brought back to a sense of its duty, and public sentiment putting an end to this unnatural war forsooth! And his majesty reaping fresh laurels on the fields of Virginia! Let his majesty put in his sickle here--he shall reap as fine a crop of briers to bind round his brow, as ever grew in a fence-corner! But Butler! Oh, no, he has nothing to say of Butler. He is a cunning man, sister, and keeps out of the major's way, take my word for that."
"Brother, get you again to my father, and say to him that I desire to know what tidings Mr. Tyrrel brings us. Say it in his ear privately, Henry."
The young emissary again took his leave, and, without apology, entered the library.
Mildred, in the meantime, restless and impatient, applied herself to the duties of the toilet, and, with the assistance of her maid, was soon in a condition to leave her chamber. She had, almost unwittingly, and in obedience to her engrossing wish to know something of Butler, made these preparations to appear in the parlor, without thinking of her repugnance to meet Tyrrel. And now, when she was on the point of going forth, her resolve changed, and she moved through the chamber like a perturbed spirit, anxiously waiting the return of Henry. She walked to the window, whence, looking out towards the terrace she perceived that her father and his guest had strolled out upon the lawn, where they were moving forward at a slow pace, whilst their gesticulations showed that they were engaged in an earnest conference.
Henry's footsteps at the same moment were heard traversing the long passage, and Mildred, no longer able to restrain her eagerness, hastily left her room and met her brother, with whom she returned to the parlor.
"My news, upon the whole, is good," said Henry, as he put his arm round Mildred's waist. "When I entered the library, and took a seat by my father, he suddenly broke up some long talk that was going on, in which he looked very grave, and, as if he knew what I came for--he is an excellent, kind father, sister, for all his moping and sad humors, and loves both you and me."
"He does, Henry, and we must never forget it."
"I would fight for him to the very death, Mildred. So, seeing that I looked as if you had sent me to him, he turned, in a kind of careless way, and asked Tyrrel if he had heard anything lately of Butler."
"Well--brother."
"'I scarce thought to mention it, answered Tyrrel, 'but the man'--think of that way of speaking of Major Butler--'the man had the temerity to push himself amongst the loyal troops, and was made a prisoner; he was suspected to be a spy, and there was, as I have understood, an idea of trying him by court-martial for it, and for other misdemeanors, of which I wrote you some particulars. I believe indeed, he was tried, and would, perhaps, have been shot.'"
"Oh, heaven! brother, can this be true?" exclaimed Mildred, as the color deserted her cheek.
"I give you exactly Tyrrel's words," replied Henry, "but the court were attacked, said he, by some bands of Whigs who stole a march upon them."
"And Arthur escaped? Kind heaven, I thank thee!" almost screamed Mildred, as she clasped her hands together.
"So Tyrrel thinks," continued Henry. "At all events they did not shoot him, like a pack of cowardly knaves as they were. And as some Tory prisoners were taken and dragged away by our good friend General Sumpter, who was the man, Tyrrel says, that set upon them, it is considered good policy--these were his words, sister--to spare the unnecessary effusion of blood on both sides. And then my father asked Tyrrel if Cornwallis knew of these doings, and he answered, not--that it was the indiscreet act of some mountain boys, who were in the habit of burning and slaying, against the wish of his Lordship: that the regular officers disapprove of harsh measures, and that peace now reigns all through the province."
"When they make a desert of the land, they call it peace," said Mildred thoughtfully, quoting a translation of the beautiful passage of Tacitus. "This war is a dreadful trade."
"For us, sister, who stay at home," replied Henry. "But God is good to us, and will favor the right, and will protect the brave men who draw their swords to maintain it."
"From treachery, ambuscade, and privy murder--I thank you, brother, for that word. Heaven shield us, and those we love! But these are fearful times."
XXXVI. CIRCUMSTANCES FAVOR TYRREL's INFLUENCE OVER LINDSAY
The discourse between Lindsay and Tyrrel was one of deep moment. Tyrrel had taken advantage of the pervading fervor which the late successes of the British arms had diffused amongst the adherents of the royal cause, in behalf of what was deemed their certain triumph, to urge forward his own views. This was the occasion of his present unexpected visit at the Dove Cote. His immediate aim was to plunge Lindsay into the contest, by forcing him to take some step that should so commit him, in the opinion of the republican government, as to leave him no chance of retreat, nor the means longer to enjoy the privileges of his late neutrality. He, unhappily, found Lindsay in a mood to favor this intrigue. The increasing anxieties of that gentleman's mind, his domestic griefs, his peculiar temperament, and the warmth of his political animosities, all stimulated him to the thought of some active participation in the struggle. Tyrrel had sufficient penetration to perceive that such was likely to be the current of Lindsay's feelings, and he had by frequent letters administered to this result.
There were several opulent families in the lower sections of the state, who still clung to the cause of the King, and who had been patiently awaiting the course of events, for the time when they might more boldly avow themselves. With the heads of these families Tyrrel had been in active correspondence, and it was now his design which under the sanction of the British leaders, he had already nearly matured, to bring these individuals together into a secret council, that they might act in concert, and strengthen themselves by mutual alliance. Immediately after the battle of Camden, it is known that Cornwallis had laid his plans for the invasion of North Carolina, by intrigues of the same kind: it was only extending the system a little in advance to apply it to Virginia. Arrangements had been made for this meeting of malcontents to be held at the house of a Mr. Stanhope, on one of the lower sections of the James river--a gentleman of good repute, with whom Lindsay had long been in the relations of close friendship.
"The moments are precious, and you are waited for," said Tyrrel, in the course of his conference with Lindsay; "we must strike whilst the iron is hot. Separated as our good friends are from each other, you are now in the power, and at the mercy--which is a significant phrase--of the unruly government of Congress. Your motions, therefore, should be prompt. There are seasons, in the history of every trouble, when the virtue of deliberation mainly lies in its rapidity and the boldness of its resolve. I beseech you, sir, to regard this as such a season, and to take the course which the honor of our sovereign demands, without further pause to think of consequences."
"When you were here a month ago," replied Lindsay, "I had my scruples. But things have strangely altered in that short interval. Your standard floats more bravely over the path of invasion than I had deemed it possible. You charged me then with being a laggard, and, you may remember, even impeached my loyalty."
"I did you a grievous wrong, my dear friend; and did I not know your generous nature pardoned, as soon as it was uttered, my rash and intemperate speech, it would have cost me many a pang of remorse. Even in this, good sir," said Tyrrel, smiling and laying his hand upon Lindsay's shoulder; "even in this, you see how necessary is it that we should have a wise and considerate councillor to moderate the ungoverned zeal of us younger men."
"My mind is made up," replied Lindsay. "I will attend the meeting."
"And Mildred will be removed forthwith to Charleston?" eagerly interrupted Tyrrel.
"Ah, sir, not one word of that. If I attend this meeting, it must be in secret. Nor do I yet commit myself to its resolves. I shall be a listener only. I would learn what my compatriots think, reserving to myself the right to act. Even yet, I would purchase peace with many a sacrifice. I abjure all violent measures of offence."
"I am content," answered Tyrrel, "that you should hold yourself unpledged to any measures which your gravest and severest judgment does not approve. Though I little doubt that, from all quarters, you will hear such tidings as shall convince you that the road, both of safety and honor, leads onward in this glorious enterprise. 'Tis from this nettle danger, that we pluck the flower 'safety.' Conscious of this, I would have Mildred and her brother cared for."
"Mildred can never be yours," said Lindsay musing. "There is the thought that makes me pause. I believed, and so do you, that the favor this Butler had found with her was the capricious and changeful fancy of a girl. It is the devoted passion of a woman: it has grown to be her faith, her honor, her religion."
"Butler is a fool--a doomed madman," replied Tyrrel with earnestness. "He came here with the hellish purpose to betray you; and he was silly enough to think he could do so, and still win your daughter. She should be told of this."
"She has been told of it, and she believes it not."
"Was my avouch given to her for the truth of the fact."
"It was. And, to speak plainly to you, it has only made your name hateful to her ear."
"Then shall she have proof of it, which she cannot doubt. She shall have it in the recorded judgment of a court-martial, which has condemned him as a traitor and a spy; she shall have it in the doom of his death, and the sequestration of his estate," exclaimed Tyrrel with a bitter malignity, "proud girl!"
"Remember yourself, sir!" interrupted Lindsay, sternly. "This is not the language nor the tone fit for a father's ear, when the subject of it is his own daughter."
Tyrrel was instantly recalled to his self-possession; and with that humility which he could always assume when his own interest required it, spoke in a voice of sudden contrition.
"Why, what a fool am I to let my temper thus sway me! Humbly, most humbly, dear sir, do I entreat your forgiveness. I love your daughter, and revere the earnest enthusiasm of her nature; and, therefore, have been galled beyond my proper show of duty, to learn that she could discredit my word."
"I enjoin it upon you," said Lindsay, "that in your intercourse with my family here, you drop no word calculated to alarm my daughter for the safety of this Butler. It is a topic which distracts her, and must be avoided."
"For the present," replied Tyrrel, "as I have before told you, I think he is safe. The forfeiture of his estate is not a secret. But to business, my friend. When shall we set out?"
"To-morrow," answered Lindsay. "We must travel cautiously, and amongst our friends."
"This disguise has served me so far," said Tyrrel. "I may the better trust to it when in your company."
Mildred and Henry remained in the parlor, and were there when Lindsay and his guest, having terminated their secret conference, returned to the house.
"Your cheek denies your customary boast of good health, Miss Lindsay," said Tyrrel, respectfully approaching the lady, and with an air that seemed to indicate his expectation of a cold reception. "It grieves me to learn that, at a time when all good men are rejoicing in the prospect of peace, you should not be in a condition to share the common pleasure."
"I think there is small occasion for rejoicing in any quarter," replied Mildred, calmly.
"Miss Lindsay would, perhaps, be interested to hear," said Tyrrel, not discomfited by the evident aversion of the lady, "that I have, within a few days past, left the head-quarters of the British army, where I was enabled to glean some particulars of a friend of hers, Major Butler, of the Continental service."
Mildred colored, as she said in a faint voice, "He is my friend."
"He has been unfortunate," continued Tyrrel, "having fallen into the hands of some of our skirmishers. But I believe I may assure Miss Lindsay that he is both safe and well. He enjoys the reputation of being a brave gentleman. I may be permitted to say, that had his destiny brought him under other colors, I should have been proud to be better known to him."
"Major Butler chooses his own colors," said Henry, interposing. "I don't think destiny had much to do with it. He took his side because they wanted men to help out a brave war."
Lindsay frowned, and strode once or twice across the apartment, during which an embarrassing silence prevailed.
"You are the same cockerel you always were, Henry," said Tyrrel, with undaunted playfulness; "always warm for the fight. But it is a Christian duty, you know, to be peace-makers in such times as these. We may trust, Miss Lindsay, that some conciliatory spirit shall arise to quell the quarrelsome humors of the people, and bring all things back to tranquillity. For myself, I devoutly wish it."
"The day for such a spirit does not seem to be at hand," said Mildred, quietly rising to withdraw.
"You are not well, my daughter," interposed Lindsay. "Mildred is but recently from a sick bed," he continued, addressing Tyrrel, in the way of apology for her marked coldness of demeanor.
"I am not well, father," replied Mildred, "I must be permitted to leave you;" and she now retired.
When Henry soon afterwards joined her, he found her agitated and excited.
"Better known to Arthur Butler!" she exclaimed, dwelling on the speech of Tyrrel. "He is better known already than he dreams of. Think, brother, of the cool hypocrisy of this bold schemer--this secret disturber of the quiet of our house--that he should dare boast to me of Arthur's bravery."
"And to talk about his colors too!" said Henry. "Did you mark, sister, how I set him down--in spite of my father's presence? And did you see how his brow blanched when I spoke my mind to him? He will find me too hot a cockerel, as he calls me, to venture upon our colors again. I hold no terms with him, sister, more than yourself."
"You will excuse me to my father, Henry, I will not go in to dinner to-day."
"I wondered," replied Henry, "that you met him at all, sister; but he took us unawares. And, truly, I don't think it would be safe to bring you near him again. So I advise you, keep your room. As for me--tut! I am not afraid to meet him. I warrant he gets his own upon occasion!"
"I entreat you, Henry," said Mildred, "to guard your temper. It would give our father pain to hear a rash speech from you. It would answer no good end."
"I will be as circumspect, Mildred, as the state of the war requires," answered Henry. "Fight when it is necessary, and be silent when we can't strike."
Henry now left his sister and went to his usual occupations.
Mildred, in accordance with the purpose expressed to her brother did not appear at the dinner table; and the day was passed, by Lindsay and Tyrrel, in close communion over the topics connected with the object of the enterprise in which they were about to embark. Tyrrel had seen enough to convince him that he might, at least for the present, abandon all effort to win Mildred's good opinion; and his whole thoughts were now bent to bring Lindsay into such an attitude of hostility to the republican authorities as would inevitably lead to his removal from the state, and perhaps compel him to retire to England. Either of these events would operate to the advantage of the aspiring and selfish policy by which Tyrrel hoped to accomplish his object.
In the course of the evening Lindsay held a short interview with his children, in which he made known to them that affairs of importance were about to call him away, for a fortnight perhaps, from the Dove Cote. It was in vain that Mildred endeavored to turn him from his purpose, which, though undivulged to her, she conjectured to be, from its association with Tyrrel, some sinister political move, of which her father was to be the dupe.
In accordance with Lindsay's intimation, he and Tyrrel set out, at an early hour of the following day, on their journey towards the low country.
XXXVII. A DOMESTIC SCENE AT THE DOVE COTE
On the third morning following Lindsay's and Tyrrel's departure, the season being now about the commencement of September, Henry was seen, after an unusually early breakfast, to come forth upon the grass-plot, in front of the house, bearing in his hand a short rifle,--his customary accompaniment of the bugle being slung across his shoulders. For some moments he was occupied in examining his weapon; then leaning it against a tree that stood upon the lawn, he put the bugle to his mouth and sounded a long and clear signal-note. The first effects of this spell were to bring up Bell, Blanche, and Hylas, the three flap-eared hounds, who came frisking over the grass with many antics that might be said to resemble the bows and curtsies of the human species, and which were accompanied by the houndish salutation of deep-mouthed howls that the horn never fails to wake up in these animals.
Soon after these, came striding up the hill the long gaunt form of Stephen Foster, who, mounting the stone wall on the lower side, with one bound sprang over the thickset-hedge that begirt the terrace. He was now arrayed in a yellow hunting shirt that reached to the middle of his thigh, and which was decorated with an abundance of red fringe that bound the cape, elbows, wrists, and extremity of the skirt, and a wool hat encircled with a broad red band, in one side of which was set the national ornament of the buck-tail. Around his waist was buckled a broad buckskin belt; he was armed besides with a rifle a little short of six feet in length.
Stephen Foster was one of that idle craft, who, having no particular occupation, was from this circumstance, by a contradiction in terms, usually called a man of all work. He belonged to that class of beings who are only to be found in a society where the ordinary menial employments are discharged by slaves; and was the tenant of a few acres of land, appertaining to the domain of the Dove Cote, where he professed to make his living by husbandry. But by far the greater proportion of his revenues was derived from divers miscellaneous services,--such as driving a team of four lean horses, of which he was proprietor; hauling wood for fuel; assisting in the harvest fields; somtimes working in the garden; and, when required, riding errands--which he preferred to all other business. But labor was not Stephen's forte: it was constitutionally a part of his system to postpone matters of work for pleasure; and, if there was anything for which he was particularly famous, it was in avoiding all appearances of punctuality to irksome engagements. If he can be said to have had a calling at all, it was that of a hunter, a species of employment that possessed a wonderful charm for his fancy, and which was excellently adapted both to his physical and moral qualities. He, therefore, gave much of his time to the concerns of vert and venison; and his skill with the rifle was such that he could make sure of putting a ball through the brain of a wild pigeon as far as he was able to draw a sight. He was skilled in the habits of all the forest animals common to this part of Virginia, and accurately drew the line of distinction between vermin and game. He hunted wolves, bears, panthers (painters, in his own pronunciation), racoons, foxes, opossums, and squirrels; and trapped otter, beaver, and muskrats; moreover, he was an expert jigger and bobber of eels, and well knew the trouting streams. For these pursuits he was endowed with a patient nature that could endure a whole day and night in the woods without eating or sleeping; my authority says nothing of his forbearance in the third primary want of humanity. He was a man of fine thews and sinews, stout and brave; and withal of a generous, frank, and invariable good nature. The war had furnished occasion for such talents as be possessed; and Stephen was now meditating a bold severance from his wife and children, who had heretofore exerted such a dominion over his affections, that he had not the heart to leave them. But the present difficulties of the nation had made such a cogent appeal to his patriotism, that he had resolved to take one campaign in the field, and thus give scope to his natural love of adventure. It was now his peculiar glory, and one that wrought with a potent influence upon his self-love, that he held the post of lieutenant to the company of Amherst Rangers, a volunteer corps that had lately been organized with a view to the state of affairs in the south.
This worthy, when he had no expedition in hand, was generally to be found lounging about the mansion of the Dove Cote, in expectation of some call from Henry, between whom and himself there existed a mutual and somewhat exorbitant affection.
On his present appearance there was a broad, complacent grin on Stephen's features as he accosted the young bugleman with the interrogatory--
"What's in the wind now, Mister Henry? Arter another buck, I reckon? And an elegant morning it is for a drive! May be, the wind's just a little too fresh, 'cepting you was able to steal on the lower side of the game, and then the scent would come down like a rose. Thar's a great advantage in being down the wind, because the animal can't hear you breaking through the bushes, for the wind makes naturally such a twittering of the leaves that it deceives him, you see."
"I fancy I know a good hunting day, Lieutenant Foster," said Henry, putting his arms akimbo, "as well as you. Who told you I was going after a buck? Why, man, if that had been my drift I should have started you two hours ago. But we have other business in hand, Stephen. There is such dreadful news in the country! We shall march soon, take my word for it. I am resolved to go, Stephen, as soon as ever the Rangers set out, let my father say what he will. It is time men should take their sides--that's my opinion."
"Mister Henry, I wouldn't advise you," said Stephen, with a wise shake of the head. "Your father would grieve himself to death if you were to leave him."
"Don't believe the half of that, lieutenant. There would be a flurry for a little while, and, after that, father would see that the thing couldn't be helped, and so he would have to be satisfied. I'll steal away--that's flat."
"Well, take notice, Mister Henry," said Stephen, chuckling, "I give you my warning against it. But if you do go along with me I'll take as much care of you as if you were my own son."
"I know sister Mildred thinks," replied Henry, "it wouldn't be very wrong in me to go; and so I'll leave her to make my peace at home. Besides, I am going on her account, just to try and hear something of Major Butler."
"If that's her opinion," returned Stephen, "thar isn't much wrong about it. She is the head contriver and main privy-councillor," added Stephen, laughing, as he used these slang words, with which he was in the habit of garnishing his conversation, "of all matters that are done here in this house."
"These are your new regimentals, Stephen," said Henry, looking at Foster's dress; "you shine like a flecker on a sunny day. It will please sister to the life to see you so spruce; she's a prodigious disciplinarian, and doesn't like to see us rebels (here he put his hand to his mouth and pronounced this word with a mock circumspection), worse dressed than the rascally red-coats. When do the Rangers march, Stephen?"
"We are waiting for orders every day. We parade, you know, Mister Henry, this morning."
"You must plead off to-day," said Henry; "I called you up to tell you that sister and I were going to ride, and I wanted you to go with us. At any rate, if you must go to the troop, you can leave us on the road. You don't meet till twelve, and both sister and I want to talk to you. She commanded me to tell you this. I believe she wishes you to take a letter for her. Poor Mildred doesn't know that I am going with you; so, as to that, you needn't let on. Go, Stephen, have our horses ready as soon as you can get them. Quick, good Stephen; sister and I will wait for you on the lawn."
The lieutenant of the Rangers, having received his orders, hurried away to attend to their execution.
Mildred was already apparelled for her ride, and came at this moment from the house along the gravel walk. Her cheek, lately pale, had now begun to show the ruddy hue of health. Her full, dark-blue eye, although habitually expressive of a thoughtful temperament, frequently sparkled with the sudden flashes of a playful spirit, and oftener with the fire of an ardent resolution. Her features, marked by a well-defined outline, bore a strong resemblance to her brother's, and, when animated by the quick-speeding emotions of her mind, presented a countenance unusually gifted with the graces of external beauty. The impression which her physiognomy conveyed, was that of an impassioned and enthusiastic nature, and of a feminine courage that was sufficient for any emergency. A clear skin gave brilliancy to her complexion; and, although habits of exposure to the air had slightly impaired its lustre, the few traces which this exposure left, rather communicated the agreeable idea of a wholesome and vigorous constitution. The tones of her voice were soft and gentle, and full of harmony; and, when stimulated by her feelings, rich, deep, and commanding. Her figure, of what might be deemed a medium height in females, was neat and agile, well proportioned, and combining the flexible ease proper to her sex, with a degree of steadiness and strength that might be denominated masculine. Her movement was graceful, distinguished by a ready hand and free step; and it was impossible to look upon her most familiar bearing, without being struck by the indication which it gave of a self-possessed, fearless, and careering temper, allied to a mind raised above the multitude by a consciousness of intellectual force.
As Mildred advanced along the shaded walk, she was followed by a fantastical little attendant, whom, in the toyish freak of a solitary and luxurious life, she had trained to fill the station of a lady's page. This was a diminutive negro boy, not above ten years of age, of a delicate figure, and now gaudily bedecked in a vest of scarlet cloth, a pair of loose white linen trowsers drawn at the ancle, and red slippers. A ruffle fell over his neck, and full white sleeves were fastened with silken cords at his wrists. A scarlet velvet cap gave a finish to the apparel of this gorgeous little elf; and the dress, grotesque as it was, was not badly set off by the saucy, familiar port of the conceited menial. Whether he had been destined from his birth to this pampered station,--or, accidentally, like many of the eastern monarchs, raised to the purple,--he bore the romantic name of Endymion, and was fully as much at the call of his patroness, and as fond of sleep, as him of Mount Latmos. His business seemed to be at the present moment to acquit himself of the responsible duty of holding an ivory-mounted riding-whip in readiness for the service of his mistress.
When Mildred had crossed the lawn and arrived at the spot where Henry now stood, she was saluted by her brother, with--
"Stand, my gentle sister, you and your monkey! Ah, Mildred, you are not what you used to be; you have grown much too grave of late. Bear up, dear sister: for, after all, what is it! Why we have been beaten, and we must fight it over again, that's all. And as to the major, your partiality magnifies his dangers. Hasn't he an arm?--yes; and hasn't he a leg?--which, in war, I hold to be just as useful sometimes."
"There is a dreadful uncertainty, brother," replied Mildred. "I dream of the worst."
"A fig for your dreams, sister Mildred! They have been all sorts of ways, and that you know. Now, I have a waking dream, and that is, that before you are twenty-four hours older you will hear of Major Butler."
"Would to heaven your dream may prove true!" replied Mildred. "But, Henry, you love me, and affection is an arrant cheat in its prophecies."
"Tush then, sister! don't talk of it. For when we know nothing, it does no good to get to fancying. These are the times to act; and perhaps I'll surprise you yet."
"With what, good brother?"
"Order arms," replied Henry, evading his sister's inquiry, and at the same time assuming a military erectness, and bringing his rifle briskly to the ground--"with the beauty of my drill, sister. It even surprises myself. You shall see me march." And here he sportively shouldered his rifle and stepped with a measured pace across the green, and then back again; whilst the saucy Endymion, presuming on his privilege, with mimic gestures, followed immediately in Henry's rear, taking large strides to keep his ground. When Henry perceived the apish minion thus upon his track he burst out into a laugh.
"You huge giant-killer, do you mock me?" he exclaimed. "Sister, I will smother your body-guard in the crown of my cap, if he isn't taught better manners."
"Henry, I cannot share your light heart with you," said Mildred sorrowfully, "mine is heavy."
"And mine is yours, sister, light or heavy; in sunshine or in storm, summer and winter, dear Mildred, it is always yours. It was a trick of mine to amuse you. And if I do not seem to feel, sister, as you do, it is because I mean to act. We men have no time for low spirits."
"Stephen Foster is here at the door with our horses, brother. Boy, give me the whip--now, away. The gay feathers of this bird," said Mildred, as the little black retired, "do not become a follower of mine."
The new aspect of affairs, since the defeat of Camden, had pressed grievously upon Mildred's spirits. The country was full of disheartening rumors, and every day added particulars that were of a nature to increase the distress. The bloody fate of the brave De Kalb, and the soldiers that fell by his side; the triumph with which Cornwallis had begun his preparations for further conquests; the destitution and disarray of the American army, now flying before its enemy; the tales of unsparing sequestration with which, in Carolina, the lands of those who still bore arms in the cause of independence, were visited; the military executions of prisoners charged with the violation of a constructive allegiance, in the conquered districts; the harsh measures which were adopted to break the heart of the rebellion, that still lingered behind the march of the victorious army; and, above all, the boastful confidence with which Cornwallis, by his proclamations, sought to open the way for his invasion of North Carolina and Virginia, by attempting to rally the liege subjects of the king under his standard: all these events came on the wings of rumor, and had lighted up a flame through the whole country. To Mildred, they all imported an ill omen as regarded the fate of Arthur Butler. Now and then, a straggling soldier of Gates's broken force arrived at the Dove Cote, where he was received with an eager hospitality, and closely questioned as to the events in which he had participated. But of Butler, not even the remotest tidings were obtained. For the present, the uncertainty of his fortune filled Mildred's thoughts with the most anxious and unhappy misgivings; and this frame of mind over-mastered all other feelings. The late visit of Tyrrel to the Dove Cote, and the abrupt departure of her father with this individual, on an unavowed expedition, were not calculated to allay her fears; and she felt herself pressed on all sides with the presages of coming misfortune. In these difficulties she did not lose her fortitude; but, like a mariner benighted in a dangerous strait, she counted over the anxious moments of her voyage, expecting, at each succeeding instant, to hear the dreadful stranding of her bark upon the unseen rock, though bravely prepared for the worst.
Chapter XXXVIII
AN ARRIVAL AT THE DOVE COTE. MILDRED RESOLVES ON A PERILOUS ADVENTURE.
It was in the state of painful expectation described in the last chapter, that Mildred now rode out, daily, upon the highways, in the feeble hope of hearing something of importance from the casual wayfarers who, in the present excited condition of the country, were thronging the roads. On the morning to which our narrative refers, she had charged Henry to procure the attendance of Stephen Foster, to whom, as it was known that he was about to accompany his troop towards the scene of hostilities, she was anxious to intrust a letter for Butler, as well as to communicate to him some instructions relating to it.
Stephen was, accordingly, now in attendance. A sleek, full-blooded roan, of an active, deer-like figure, and showing by his mettlesome antics the high training of a pampered favorite, stood in the care of the groom at the door; and Mildred, aided by her brother, sprang into her saddle with the ease and confidence of one familiarized to the exploit. When mounted, she appeared to great advantage. She was an expert rider, and managed her horse with a dexterous grace. The very position of command and authority which her saddle gave her, seemed to raise her spirits into a happier elevation.
"Follow me, Mister Stephen," she said, "I have service for you. And it will not be out of the fashion of the time that a lady should be 'squired by an armed soldier. We take the road down the river. Have a care, brother, how you bound off at the start--the hill is steep, and a horse's foot is not over sure when pressed too rapidly on the descent."
The cavalcade descended the hill, crossed the ford, and then took a direction down the stream, by the road that led beneath the Fawn's Tower. Mildred sighed as she gazed around her, and saw the spot of her last meeting with Butler. The little skiff by which her lover had glided across the water, now lay upon a dry bed of rock, in the same position, perhaps, where a month ago he had left it. The summer drought had reduced the stream, and deprived the light boat (whose tackle kept it prisoner to the root of the sycamore) of the element on which it had floated. This spectacle suggested to Mildred's thoughts a melancholy image. "Even thus," she muttered to herself, "have I been left by him. He has gone to obey the calls of honor and duty, and I, fettered to my native woods, have seen the stream of happiness roll by, one while swollen to a torrent, and again dried up by the fervid heat of war, until, like this sun-withered bark, I have been left upon the shore, without one drop of that clear current on which alone I hoped to live. Come hither, Stephen," she said, as she slackened the rein of her horse: and the obedient attendant was immediately at her side.
"You set out southwards, with your comrades of the troop, in a few days?"
"Orders may come to-morrow," replied Foster.
"It is no holiday game that you are going to play," continued the lady.
"When Congress cut out this here war for us, Miss Mildred," answered the hunter, "they didn't count upon settling of it without making some tall fellows the shorter. And it is my opinion that it is a p'int of conscience that every man should take his spell of the work."
"You go to it with a good heart," said Mildred. "We women can only pray for you, lieutenant."
"I shall pull trigger with a steadier hand, ma'am, when I think that your father's daughter is praying for me."
"Stephen," continued Mildred, "you may chance to see some one whose duty may lead him further south than, perhaps, you may be required to travel: I will give you a letter to a friend of mine, who, I fear, is in distress. If such traveller be trusty and willing to do me a service, as perhaps he may for your sake, I must beg you to put the letter in his charge, and tell him to seek out Major Butler, and contrive to have it delivered to him."
"If it concerns you, Miss Mildred, I will take upon myself to hunt Major Butler, or I will make as sure of the letter reaching him as I may have a chance."
"Many thanks, Stephen. There is a purse containing some few pieces of gold for you. Do not spare the use of it to perform my wish."
Stephen looked bashfully at the lady as she held the proffered purse in her hand.
"Take it, Mr. Foster. It is money to be employed in my service, and it may stand you in good stead when better friends are absent."
The hunter uttered an awkward laugh. "If you would allow me to take the smallest piece of money, it would more than hire a man express."
"Take it all, Stephen, it is but a trifle. They call this the sinew of war," said Mildred, smiling.
"It's an utter, moral, and resolute impossibility," answered Foster, "for me to take all that money. Bless your soul, Miss Mildred, my pocket arn't used to such company."
"Pshaw, Steve," ejaculated Henry, "you are the greenest soldier in these hills, to be playing boy about this money. Take it, man, and none of your nonsense; precious little gold you'll see before you get back!"
"Well, I'll not be ticklish about it," said Foster. "Empty the bag, Miss Mildred, into my hand."
"I mean that you shall have the purse with it," added Mildred.
"No, no; that's too valuable a piece of fine silk net-work for me."
"There again, Lieutenant Foster," said Henry; "if you were not my own superior officer, I would say you were a fool."
"Give it to me," replied Stephen, laughing, "I have heard of cheating money out of a man's pocket, but I never saw it cheated into it before."
"You shall have the letter to-morrow, Stephen," said Mildred, "and as you value your poor friend, who worked that purse with her own hands, do not fail to make an effort to learn something of Major Butler, and to have my letter delivered to him. He was made a prisoner somewhere on his way to Georgia, and I have heard escaped; but, perhaps, that's not true. You may find some one who can tell you more about him. Inquire of all you meet: and, Stephen, in my name, beg your comrades to aid you. Remember," added Mildred, with a smile, "this is a lady's secret. I am sure you will keep it."
"Most sacrilegiously and with all possible punctuation!" replied the woodsman. "And you shall hear of the Major, Miss Mildred, dead or alive."
"Oh heaven!" exclaimed Mildred aloud; and then recollecting herself, she breathed in a whisper, "that word vibrated a note of fear. Your zeal shall have my warmest gratitude, Stephen."
By this time the party had reached the second ford, where the road recrossed the river, in the neighborhood of Mrs. Dimock's, and in a few moments they were at the door of the little inn.
A brief halt, and a few words with the good hostess, furnished Mildred neither with a letter nor with any information of moment from the quarter, where at this time the thoughts of nearly the whole of the American people were turned.
"Woful days, Miss Mildred," said the landlady, shaking her head, and wearing a face of lugubrious length, "woful indeed! nothing but hurry-skurry, and bragging and swearing. What with Gates's runaways, that--shame upon them!--come whipping post haste along the road; and messengers, dragoons, and drill sergeants, all out of breath, out of money, and out of everything but appetites; which, mercy on me! never fail in the worst of times: and what with musterings of volunteers, and drumming and fifing of it, up hill and down dale, it is as much as one can do to keep one's wits. Heaven help us, my dear! I don't know what we shall come to. But poor Arthur," she continued, in a mournful and lower key, "not a word from him. It looks awfully: I could almost sit down and weep. Nevertheless, Miss Mildred, my child, be of good cheer, God will keep his foot from the path that leads to the snares; we must all trust in His goodness."
"Alas, alas!" breathed Mildred, in an accent of sorrow. "Brother, ride forward. If a good word reaches you, Mistress Dimock, send it to me, even if it be at midnight."
Mildred pursued her ride, and Henry, seeing how much she was dejected, applied himself, with the kindest assiduity, to bring back comfort and cheerfulness to her mind. He sought to amuse her with such fragments of the gossip of the country-side as were likely to interest her patriotism; and he contrived to recall to her recollection passages in the life of Butler, which related to the perils he had heretofore encountered, and from which he had extricated himself by his address and soldiership; and Henry told these in such a way as to infer from them arguments of comfort that suited the present state of his sister's feelings. As was usual in most of the young cadet's discourses, he glided into that half-boastful and half-waggish vein in which he delighted to refer to his own pursuits and aspirations after military glory.
"A man naturally, sister," he said, erecting himself in his stirrups, and assuming the stiff carriage of a conceited young adjutant on parade, "a man naturally feels proud on horseback. It is what I call glorification, to have a noble beast under you, that you can turn and wind and check and set forward as you please, as if his limbs were your own. You feel stronger; and, in this world, I do believe a strong man is always proud. Now, I should think that a woman would feel even more so than a man; because, being weak by nature, she must grow happier to think how much muscle she can put in motion by only pulling a rein."
"There is some philosophy in that, Henry," replied Mildred.
"So there is, sister; and I tell you more, that when a person has this sort of glorification, as they call it, they always get more contented with themselves. And that's the reason, as far as I am a judge, that you always feel in better spirits when you are on horseback; and, especially, if it should be in front of a troop. Hallo, Stephen!" ejaculated Henry, taken by surprise, in the midst of his discourse, by the sight of a flock of wild turkeys that ran across the road, some hundred paces ahead. "Did you see that? Halt, man--here's game for us." And, in an instant, he sprang from his horse, which he fastened to one of the neighboring trees, and ran off with his rifle in his hand, in pursuit of the flock.
Stephen, whose instincts were those of a keen sportsman, when game was before him, did the same thing; and in a few moments Mildred found herself left entirely alone in the road, half disposed to chide and half to smile at the eager and ungallant desertion of her attendants, who were now in quick but cautious pursuit of the brood of turkeys. The speed with which these birds are accustomed to run through the woods, allured their pursuers to some distance into the depths of the forest; and Mildred patiently awaited the return of her companions on the ground where they had left her.
After five or ten minutes had elapsed, it was with a sensation of some little concern that she descried, upon the road, a stranger mounted on horseback, and coming at a brisk trot to the spot where she had halted. The appearance of the individual was that of one of the irregular soldiers who had accompanied Gates's array; his dress was rustic, and his weapon, according to the almost universal fashion of the country troops, the long rifle. The condition of his sturdy steed showed long and fatiguing service; whilst the bold and manly person of the rider left little room to suppose that he was to be classed amongst the many who had fled in panic from the field of action. As soon as the stranger became aware of the presence of the lady, he slackened his speed and approached with a respectful salutation.
"If I mought be so bold, ma'am, how far mought it be to a river they call the Rockfish?"
"It is scarce two miles away, sir," replied Mildred.
"And there, if I don't disremember," said the traveller, "is a house kept by the widow Dimock; the Blue Ball, I think?"
"There is, sir."
"And no forks in the road betwixt this and the widow's?"
"It is a plain road," replied Mildred.
"And about two miles beyont--is squire Lindsay's, at a place they call the Dove Cote?"
"Does your business take you there?" asked Mildred, with interest; "are you from the army?--whence come you?"
"Beg pardon, ma'am," replied the stranger, smiling, "but I am an old sodger, and rather warry about answering questions that consarn myself. I suppose it is likely I mought see Mr. Lindsay?"
"Pray, sir, tell me what brings you here, and who you are? I have special reasons for presuming so far upon your kindness. I myself live at the Dove Cote, and"--
"Then, mayhap, you mought have hearn of one Major Arthur Butler?"
"Oh yes, sir,--if you have any news of him, speak it to me quickly," exclaimed Mildred, with much agitation.
"By that sparkling of your eye, ma'am, it is no fool's guess that you are the identical particular lady that I have rode nigh on to five hundred miles to see. You have hearn the Major tell of Horse Shoe Robinson?"
"And Arthur Butler."
"He is well, madam, and in good heart, excepting some trifling drawbacks that don't come to much account."
"Thank God, thank God, for this news!"
"I have brought two letters, Miss Lindsay, from the Major, for you; they will tell you, I believe, mainly, that the Major is in the hands of the Philistians," said Horse Shoe, rummaging through the plaits of his dress, and getting loose the belt and leathern pouch from which, by the help of his jack-knife, he extricated the missives; "but they leave the story to be told pretty much by me. The long and the short of it is, that the Major is a prisoner, and wants some assistance from you: but there is no danger of any harm being done him."
Mildred eagerly tore open the letters and read them; then heaving a sigh, she said, "He is closely watched, and galled with misfortune. He refers to you, Mr. Robinson, and I must beg you to tell me all."
Horse Shoe, with a cheerful and occasionally even with a laughing manner, adopted to reassure the lady and quell her fears, recounted all such particulars of Butler's adventures as were necessary to enable her to comprehend the nature of his present mission to the Dove Cote.
Before this narrative was brought to a close, Henry and Foster had returned, bringing with them a large turkey which Henry had shot, and which the young sportsman was exhibiting with ostentatious triumph.
"Huzza, here's a new turn of good luck! Horse Shoe Robinson, the brave sergeant," shouted Henry, as soon as he observed the stout figure of our old friend. "Is Major Butler here too?" he demanded, as he shook the sergeant's hand, "or have you come alone? Now, sister, you ought to be a happy woman. You bring us good news, Mr. Horse Shoe, I know you do."
"The news is better than it mought have been if the Tories had had their way," replied Horse Shoe. "But a sodger's life has both shade and sunshine in it; and the Major is now a little in the shade."
"Brother, mount quickly," said Mildred, "we have business before us. Mr. Robinson, ride beside me; I have much to say to you."
Stephen Foster, after saluting the sergeant, and reminding Mildred of his engagement to meet his troop, took his leave of the party.
The rest repaired, with as much expedition as they were able to employ, to the Dove Cote, Horse Shoe detailing to the brother and sister, as they went along, a great many particulars of the late history of Butler.
When they reached the house, orders were given for the accommodation of the sergeant; and the most sedulous attention was shown to everything that regarded his comfort. Frequent conferences were held between Mildred and Henry, and the trusty emissary. The letters were reperused, and all the circumstances that belonged to Butler's means of liberation were anxiously discussed.
"How unlucky is it," said Mildred, "that my father should be absent at such a moment as this! Arthur's appeal to him would convince him how wicked was Tyrrel's charge against his honor. And yet, in my father's late mood, the appeal might have been ineffectual: he might have refused. Sergeant, we are in great difficulties, and I know not what to do. A letter, you say, has been written to Lord Cornwallis?"
"Yes, ma'am, and by a man who sharpened his pen with his sword."
"You heard nothing of the answer of his Lordship?"
"There was not time to hear."
"Cornwallis will be prejudiced by those around him, and he will refuse," said Mildred, with an air of deep solicitude.
"Not if he be the man I take him to be, young lady," replied Horse Shoe. "The world says he is above doing a cowardly thing; and it isn't natural for one brave man to wish harm against another, except in open war."
"Did you hear of one Tyrrel, in the British camp? But how could you?--that was an assumed name."
"You mean the gentleman who was here when the major stopped at Mrs. Dimock's?" said Robinson: "that was the name the landlady spoke about--if I remember myself. I did not hear of him, ma'am, in my travels; but his servant, James Curry, I met oftener, I undertake to say, than the fellow wished. He was consarned in ambushing Major Butler and me at Grindall's Ford. It was our opinion he was hired."
"There," exclaimed Mildred, "that confirms what I guessed of Tyrrel's villany. I will go to Cornwallis myself: I will expose the whole matter to his lordship. Henry, my dear brother, it is a rash venture, but I will essay it. You must accompany and protect me."
"That's a sudden thought, sister, and you may count on my hearty good will to help it along. It is a brave thought of yours, besides," said Henry, pondering over it--"and everybody will praise you for it."
Robinson listened to this resolve with an incredulous ear.
"You wouldn't venture, young madam, to trust yourself amongst such rough and unchristian people, as you would have to go among before you could see Cornwallis? in danger of being taken up by outposts and pickets, or arrested by patroles, or dragged about by dragoons and fellows that have more savagery in them than wolves. Oh no, ma'am, you don't know what you would have to put up with; that's onpossible. Mr. Henry, here, and me, can take a letter."
"I may not trust to letters, I must go myself. You will protect me, Mr. Robinson? my brother and I will form some good excuse that shall take us through safely."
"Sartainly, ma'am, I will stand by you through all chances, if you go," replied the sergeant. "But there's not many women, with their eyes open, would set out on such a march."
"It will be easily achieved," said Mildred: "it is an honest and virtuous cause that takes me away, and I will attempt it with a valiant spirit. It cannot but come to good. My father's name will give me free passage through the enemy's lines. And you shall pass as my attendant."
"If you have a heart stout enough, ma'am, for such hard fare, I believe I mought undertake for your safe passage," answered Horse Shoe, "and it sartainly would do the major great good to hear that you was stirring in this matter."
"Sergeant, recruit yourself as long as you think necessary," said Mildred; "but if you can be ready to set out to-morrow, I should like to go then, and at an early hour."
"Don't stand upon my fatigue, young lady: I never saw the time when I wan't ready to march at the shortest warning. With your leave, I will go look after my horse, Captain Peter, I call him, ma'am. A little chance of a roll, and the privilege of a good green pasture, soon puts him in marching trim."
The sergeant now left the room.
"Sister," said Henry, "you never thought a better thought, and you never contrived a better act, than just taking this matter in hand yourself, under mine and Horse Shoe's protection. Because Horse Shoe is as brave a man as you ever fell in with, and as for me, I'll back the sergeant. We can finish the thing in two or three weeks, and then, when I see you safe home, I'll go and join the Rangers."
"It is a perilous and uncertain journey, brother, but it is my duty. I would rather fall beneath the calamities of war than longer endure my present feelings. Provide yourself, brother, with all things requisite for our journey, and give old Isaac, the gardener, notice that he must go with us. We shall set out to-morrow. I will write a letter to my father to-night explaining my purpose. And one thing, Henry; you will be careful to say nothing to any one of the route we shall travel."
"I'll take my carbine, sister," said Henry, "I can sling it with a strap. And I was thinking I had better have a broadsword."
"Leave that behind," replied Mildred, as a smile rose on her features.
"The bugle I will certainly take," added Henry; "because it might be useful in case we got separated; and I will teach you to understand my signals. Isaac shall carry horse-pistols on his saddle, and the sergeant shall have a great wallet of provisions. You see I understand campaigning, Mildred. And now," added the eager young soldier, as he left the apartment, "hurra for the volunteers of the Dove Cote!"