The Skinners followed Captain Lawton with alacrity towards the quarters occupied by the troop of that gentleman. They soon arrived at a better sort of farm-house, the very extensive out-buildings of which were in tolerable repair, for the times. Lawton excused himself for a moment, and entered his quarters. He soon returned, holding in his hand one of the common stable-lanterns, and led the way towards a large orchard that surrounded the buildings on three sides. The gang followed the trooper in silence. Approaching the captain, the Skinner said, “Do you think the colonies will finally get the better of the king?”
“Get the better!” echoed the captain, with impetuosity; then checking himself, he continued, “no doubt they will. If the French[84]will give us arms and money, we can drive out the royal troops in six months.”
“Well, so I hope we shall soon; and then we shall havea free government, and we, who fight for it, will get our reward.”
“Oh!” cried Lawton, “your claims are indisputable; while all these vile Tories[85]who live at home peaceably, to take care of their farms, will be held in the contempt they merit. You have no farm, I suppose?”
“Not yet; but it will go hard if I do not find one before the peace is made.”
“Right; study your own interests, and you study the interests of your country; press the point of your own services and rail at the Tories, and I’ll bet my spurs against a rusty nail that you get to be a county clerk at least. Men who have nothing, act as if the wealth of the Indies depended on their fidelity; all are not villains like yourself, or we should have been slaves to England years ago.”
“How!” shouted the Skinner, starting back, and dropping his musket to the level of the other’s breast; “am I betrayed, and are you my enemy?”
“Miscreant!” shouted Lawton, his sabre ringing in its steel scabbard as he struck the musket of the fellow from his hands; “offer but again to point your gun at me, and I’ll cleave you to the middle.”
“And you will not pay us, then, Captain Lawton?” said the Skinner, trembling in every joint, for just then he saw a party of mounted dragoons silently encircling his whole party.
“Oh! pay you—yes, you shall have the full measure of your reward. There is the money that Colonel Singleton sent down for the captor of the spy,” throwing a bag of guineas with disdain at the other’s feet. “But ground your arms, you rascals, and see that the money is truly told.”[86]
The intimidated band did as they were ordered, and while they were eagerly employed in this pleasing avocation, a few of Lawton’s men privately knocked the flints out of their muskets.
“Well,” cried the impatient captain, “is it right—have you the promised reward?”
“There is just the money,” said the leader, “and we will now go to our homes, with your permission.”
“Hold! so much to redeem our promise—now for justice; we pay you for taking the spy, but we punish you for burning, robbing, and murdering. Seize them, my lads, and give each of them the law of Moses—forty save one.”
This command was given to no unwilling listeners, and in the twinkling of an eye the Skinners were stripped and fastened by the halters of the party to as many of the apple trees as were necessary to furnish one to each of the gang. Swords were quickly drawn, and fifty branches were cut from the trees like magic; from these were selected a few of the most supple of the twigs, and a willing dragoon was soon found to wield each of the weapons.
Captain Lawton gave the word, humanely cautioning his men not to exceed the discipline prescribed by the Mosaic law, and the uproar of Babel commenced in the orchard. The flagellation[87]was executed with great neatness and despatch, and it was distinguished by no irregularity, excepting that none of the disciplinarians began to count until he had tried his whip by a dozen or more blows, by the way, as they said themselves, of finding out the proper place to strike. As soon as this summary operation was satisfactorily completed, Lawton directed his men to leave the Skinners to replace their own clothes and to mount their horses, for they were a party who had been detached for the purpose of patrolling lower down in the county.
“You see, my friend,” said the captain to the leader of the Skinners, after he had prepared himself to depart, “I can cover you to some purpose when necessary. If we meet often, you will be covered with scars, which, if not honorable, will at least be merited.”
The fellow made no reply. He was busy with his musket, and hastening his comrades to march; when, everything being ready, they proceeded sullenly towards some rocks at no great distance, which were overhung by a deep wood. The moon was just rising, and a troop of dragoons could easily be distinguished where they had been left. Suddenly turning, the whole gang levelled their pieces and drew their triggers. The action was noticed, and the snapping of the locks was heard by the soldiers, who returned their futile attempt with a laugh of derision, the captain crying aloud:
“Ah! rascals, I knew you, and have taken away your flints.”
“You should have taken away that in my pouch, too,” shouted the leader, firing his gun in the next instant. The bullet grazed the ear of Lawton, who laughed as he shook his head, saying: “A miss is as good as a mile.” One of the dragoons had seen the preparations of the Skinner—who had been left alone by the rest of the gang as soon as they had made their abortive[88]attempt at revenge—and was in the act of plunging his spurs into his horse as the fellow fired. The distance to the rocks was but small, yet the speed of the horse compelled the leader to abandon both money and musket to effect his escape. The soldier returned with his prizes, and offered them to the acceptance of his captain; but Lawton rejected them, telling the man to retain them himself until the rascal appeared in person to claim his property.
The patrol departed, and the captain slowly returned to his quarters with an intention of retiring to rest. A figure moving rapidly among the trees in the direction of the wood whither the Skinners had retired caught his eye, and, wheeling on his heel, the cautious partisan approached it, and, to his astonishment, saw the washerwoman at that hour of the night, and in such a place.
As the captain entered his quarters the sentinel at the doorinquired if he had met Mrs. Flanagan, and added that she had passed there filling the air with threats against her tormentors at the “Hotel?” and inquiring for the captain in search of redress. Lawton heard the man in astonishment, appeared struck with a new idea—walked several yards towards the orchard, and returned again; for several minutes he paced rapidly to and fro before the door of the house, and hastily entering it, he threw himself on a bed in his clothes and was soon in a profound sleep.
While his comrades were sleeping in perfect forgetfulness of their hardships and dangers, the slumbers of Dunwoodie were broken and unquiet. After spending a night of restlessness he arose, unrefreshed, from the rude bed where he had thrown himself in his clothes, and without awaking any of the group around him he wandered into the open air in search of relief. In this disturbed state of mind the major wandered through the orchard, and was stopped in his walk by arriving at the base of those rocks which had protected the Skinners in their flight, before he was conscious whither his steps had carried him. He was about to turn and retrace his path to his quarters, when he was startled by a voice, bidding him—
“Stand or die!”
Dunwoodie turned in amazement, and beheld the figure of a man placed at a distance above him on a shelving rock with a musket levelled at himself. The light was not sufficiently powerful to reach the recesses of that gloomy spot, and a second look was necessary before he discovered, to his astonishment, that the peddler stood before him. Comprehending in an instant the danger of his situation, and disdaining toimplore mercy or retreat, had the latter been possible, the youth cried firmly:
“If I am to be murdered, fire! I will never become your prisoner.”
“No, Major Dunwoodie,” said Birch, lowering his musket, “it is neither my intention to capture nor to slay.”
“What then would you have, mysterious being?” said Dunwoodie, hardly able to persuade himself that the form he saw was not a creature of the imagination.
“Your good opinion,” answered the peddler, with emotion; “I would wish all good men to judge me with lenity.[89]Major Dunwoodie, danger is near them you love most—danger within and without—double your watchfulness—strengthen your patrols—and be silent. With your opinion of me, should I tell you more, you would suspect an ambush. But remember and guard them you love best.”
The peddler discharged his musket in the air, and threw it at the feet of his astonished auditor. When surprise and the smoke allowed Dunwoodie to look again on the rock where he had stood, the spot was vacant.
The youth was aroused from the stupor which had been created by this strange scene, by the trampling of horses, and the sound of bugles. A patrol was drawn to the spot by the report of the musket, and the alarm had been given to the corps. Without entering into any explanation with his men, the major returned quickly to his quarters, followed by many of his officers, and preceded by Sergeant Hollister, went to the place which was supposed to contain the peddler.
“Well, sir,” said the major to the sentinel who guarded the door, “I trust you have your prisoner in safety.”
“He is yet asleep,” replied the man, “and he makes such a noise, I could hardly hear the bugles sound the alarm.”
“Open the door and bring him forth.”
The order was obeyed; but, to the utter amazement of thehonest veteran who entered the prison, he found the room in no little disorder—the coat of the peddler where his body ought to have been, and part of the wardrobe of Betty scattered in disorder on the floor. The washerwoman herself occupied the pallet, in profound mental oblivion, clad as when last seen, excepting a little black bonnet, which she so constantly wore that it was commonly thought she made it perform the double duty of both day and night cap. The noise of their entrance, and the exclamations of the party, awoke the woman.
Dunwoodie turned to leave the apartment, and he saw Captain Lawton standing with folded arms, contemplating the scene with profound silence. Their eyes met, and they walked together for a few minutes in close conversation, when Dunwoodie returned and dismissed the guard to their place of rendezvous.[90]
Dr. Sitgreaves, who had been carousing at the “Hotel Flanagan,” suddenly declared his intention of visiting the Locusts, and inquiring into the state of the wounded. Lawton was ready for the excursion; and mounting, they were soon on the road, though the surgeon was obliged to submit to a few jokes from the washerwoman before he could get out of hearing.
“Listen!” said Lawton, stopping his horse. He had not done speaking, when a stone fell at his feet and rolled harmlessly across the path.
“A friendly shot, that,” cried the trooper; “neither the weapon, nor its force, implies much ill-will. Oh! here is the explanation along with the mystery.” So saying, he tore a piece of paper that had been ingeniously fastened to the small fragment of rock which had thus singularly fallen before him; and opening it, the captain read the following words, written in no very legible hand:
“A musket ball will go farther than a stone, and things more dangerous than yarbs for wounded men lie hid in therocks of Winchester. The horse may be good, but can he mount a precipice?”
“Thou sayest the truth, strange man,” said Lawton, “courage and activity would avail but little against assassination[91]and these rugged passes.” Remounting his horse, he cried aloud, “Thanks, unknown friend; your caution will be remembered.”
A meagre hand was extended for an instant over a rock, in the air, and afterwards nothing further was seen or heard in that quarter, by the soldiers.
The penetrating looks of the trooper had already discovered another pile of rocks, which, jutting forward, nearly obstructed the highway that wound directly around the base.
“What the steed cannot mount, the foot of man can overcome,” exclaimed the wary partisan. Throwing himself again from the saddle, and leaping a wall of stone, he began to ascend the hill at a pace which would soon have given him a bird’s-eye view of the rocks in question, together with all their crevices. This movement was no sooner made than Lawton caught a glimpse of the figure of a man stealing rapidly from his approach and disappearing on the opposite side of the precipice.
“Spur, Sitgreaves—spur!” shouted the trooper, dashing over every impediment in pursuit, “and murder the villain as he flies.”
The former part of the request was promptly complied with; and a few moments brought the surgeon in full view of a man armed with a musket, who was crossing the road, and evidently seeking the protection of the thick wood on its opposite side.
“Stop, my friend—stop until Captain Lawton comes up, if you please,” cried the surgeon, observing him to flee with a rapidity that baffled his horsemanship. But, as if the invitation contained new terrors, the footman redoubled his efforts, nor paused even to breathe until he had reached his goal,when, turning on his heel, he discharged his musket towards the surgeon, and was out of sight in an instant. To gain the highway and throw himself in the saddle, detained Lawton but a moment, and he rode to the side of his comrade just as the figure disappeared.
“Which way has he fled?” cried the trooper.
“John,” said the surgeon, “am I not a non-combatant?”[92]
“Whither has the rascal fled?” cried Lawton, impatiently.
“Where you cannot follow—into the wood. But I repeat, John, am I not a non-combatant?”
The disappointed trooper, perceiving that his enemy had escaped him, now turned his eyes, which were flashing with anger, upon his comrade, and gradually his muscles lost their rigid compression, his brow relaxed, and his look changed from its fierce expression to the covert laughter which so often distinguished his countenance. The surgeon sat in dignified composure on his horse, his thin body erect and his head elevated with the indignation of one conscious of having been unjustly treated.
Their desultory discourse was soon interrupted by their arrival at the cottage of Mr. Wharton. No one appearing to usher them into an apartment, the captain proceeded to the door of the parlor, where he knew visitors were commonly received. On opening it, he paused for a moment, in admiration of the scene within. The person of Colonel Wellmere first met his eye, bending towards the figure of the blushing Sarah with an earnestness of manner that prevented the noise of Lawton’s entrance from being heard by either party. Certain significant signs, which were embraced at a glance by the trooper, at once made him a master of their secret, and he and the surgeon retired as silently as they had advanced.
They were met by Miss Peyton, who acquainted them of the approaching marriage of her eldest niece and Colonel Wellmere, and invited them to be present. The gentlemen bowed; and the good aunt, with an inherent love of propriety, went on to add that the acquaintance was of an old date, and the attachment by no means a sudden thing; that the consent to this sudden union of Sarah and Wellmere, and especially at a time when the life of a member of the family was in imminent jeopardy,[93]was given from a conviction that the unsettled state of the country would probably prevent another opportunity to the lovers of meeting, and a secret dread on the part of Mr. Wharton that the death of his son might, by hastening his own, leave his remaining children without a protector.
Miss Peyton now led them to the room where Lawton had left Sarah and Colonel Wellmere, and awaited the nuptials.
Wellmere, offering Sarah his hand, led her before the divine, and the ceremony began. The first words of this imposing office produced a dead stillness in the apartment; and the minister of God was about to proceed when a figure, gliding into the midst of the party, at once put a stop to the ceremony. It was the peddler. His look was bitter and ironical,[94]while a finger raised towards the divine seemed to forbid the ceremony to go any further.
“Can Colonel Wellmere waste the precious moments here, when his wife has crossed the ocean to meet him? The nights are long, and the moon bright; a few hours will take him to the city.”
Aghast at the suddenness of his extraordinary address, Wellmere for a moment lost the command of his faculties. ToSarah, the countenance of Birch, expressive as it was, produced no terror; but the instant she recovered from the surprise of his interruption, she turned her anxious gaze on the features of the man to whom she had pledged her troth. They afforded the most terrible confirmation of all that the peddler affirmed; the room whirled round, and she fell lifeless into the arms of her aunt.
The confusion enabled the peddler to retreat with a rapidity that would baffle pursuit, had any been attempted, and Wellmere stood with every eye fixed on him, in ominous silence.
“’Tis false—’tis false as hell!” he cried, striking his forehead. “I have ever denied her claim; nor will the laws of my country compel me to acknowledge it.”
“But what will conscience and the laws of God do?” asked Lawton.
“’Tis well, sir,” said Wellmere, haughtily, and retreating towards the door, “my situation protects you now; but a time may come—”
He had reached the entry, when a slight tap on his shoulder caused him to turn his head; it was Captain Lawton, who, with a smile of peculiar meaning, beckoned him to follow. They reached the stables before the trooper spoke, when he cried aloud:
“Bring out Roanoke!”
His man appeared with the steed caparisoned[95]for its master. Lawton, coolly throwing the bridle on the neck of the animal, took his pistols from the holsters, and continued, “Here are weapons that have seen good service before to-day—aye, and in honorable hands, sir. In what better way can I serve my country than in exterminating a wretch who would blast one of her fairest daughters?”
“This injurious treatment shall meet its reward,” cried the other, seizing the offered weapon; “the blood lie on the head of him who sought it!”
“Amen! but hold a moment, sir. You are now free, and the passports of Washington are in your pocket; I give you the fire; if I fall, there is a steed that will outstrip pursuit, and I advise you to retreat without delay.”
“Are you ready?” asked Wellmere, gnashing his teeth with rage.
“Stand forward, Tom, with the lights; fire!” Wellmere fired, and the bullion flew from the epaulette of the trooper.
“Now the turn is mine,” said Lawton, deliberately leveling his pistol.
“And mine!” shouted a voice as the weapon was struck from his hand. “’Tis the mad Virginian!—fall on, my boys, and take him; this is a prize not hoped for!”
Unarmed, and surprised as he was, Lawton’s presence of mind did not desert him; he felt that he was in the hands of those from whom he was to expect no mercy; and, as four of the Skinners fell upon him at once, he used his gigantic strength to the utmost.
The struggle was short but terrific; curses and the most dreadful imprecations were uttered by the Skinners, who in vain called on more of the band, who were gazing on the combat in nerveless horror, to assist. A difficulty of breathing, from one of the combatants, was heard, accompanied by the stifled moanings of a strangled man; and directly one of the group arose from his feet, shaking himself free from the wild grasp of the others. Both Wellmere and the servant of Lawton had fled—the former to the stables, and the latter to give the alarm, leaving all in darkness.
The figure that stood erect sprang into the saddle of the unheeded charger; sparks of fire, issuing from the armed feet of the horse, gave a momentary light by which the captain was seen dashing like the wind towards the highway.
“He’s off!” cried the leader, hoarse with rage and exhaustion; “fire!—bring him down—fire, or you’ll be too late!”
“He would not fall if you had killed him,” muttered one;“I’ve known these Virginians sit their horses with two or three balls through them; aye, even after they were dead.”
“A short half hour will bring down that canting sergeant and the guard upon us,” cried the leader. “’Twill be lucky if the guns don’t turn them out. Quick, to your posts, and fire the house in the chambers; smoking ruins are good to cover evil deeds.”
Wellmere availed himself of the opportunity, and stealing from the stable with his own charger, he was able to gain the highway unnoticed. For an instant he hesitated whether to ride towards the point where he knew the guard was stationed and endeavor to rescue the family, or, profiting by his liberty, to seek the royal army. Shame, and a consciousness of guilt, determined him to take the latter course, and he rode towards New York.
The report of the fire-arms first roused the family to the sense of a new danger, and but a moment elapsed before the leader and one more of the gang entered the room.
But to return to the party at the Four Corners. The veteran got his men mounted, when firing was heard.
“Hark! What is that?” said Hollister, pricking up his ears. “I’ll swear that was a human pistol, and one from our regiment. Rear rank, close to the front!” A volley of musketry now rattled in the night wind, and the sergeant exclaimed:
“March!—Quick time!”
The next instant the trampling of a horse was heard coming up the road at a rate that announced a matter of life or death.
“Stand! Who goes there?” shouted Hollister.
“Ha! Hollister, is that you?” cried Lawton; “ever ready and at your post; but where is the guard?”
“At hand, sir, and ready to follow you through thick and thin.”
“’Tis well!” said the trooper, riding up to his men; then, speaking a few words of encouragement, he led them down the valley at a rate but little less rapid than his approach.
On arriving near the gates of the Locusts, the trooper halted his party and made his arrangements for the assault. Dismounting, he ordered eight men to follow his example, and, turning to Hollister, said:
“Stand you here and guard the horses; if any attempt to pass, stop it, or cut it down, and—” The flames at this moment burst through the dormer-windows[96]and cedar roof of the cottage, and a bright light glared on the darkness of the night. “On!” shouted the trooper, “on! Give quarter when justice is done!”
There was a startling fierceness in the voice of the trooper that reached to the heart, even amid the horrors of the cottage. The leader dropped his plunder and for a moment he stood in nerveless dread; then, rushing to the window, he threw up the sash. At this instant Lawton entered, sabre in hand, into the apartment.
“Die, miscreant!” cried the trooper, cleaving a marauder to the jaw; but the leader sprang into the lawn and escaped his vengeance.
The shrieks of the females restored Lawton to his presence of mind, and the earnest entreaty of the divine induced him to attend to the safety of the family. One more of the gang fell in with the dragoons and met his death, but the remainder had taken the alarm in season.
A loud crash in the upper apartments was succeeded by a bright light that glared through the open door, and made objects as distinct as day. Another dreadful crash shook thebuilding to its centre. It was the falling of the roof, and the flames threw their light abroad so as to make objects visible around the cottage through the windows of the room. Frances, who was with Sarah, flew to one of them and saw the confused group that was collected on the lawn. Among them was her aunt, pointing with distraction to the fiery edifice, and apparently urging the dragoon to enter it. For the first time she comprehended their danger, and, uttering a wild shriek, she flew through the passage without consideration or object.
A dense and suffocating smoke opposed her progress. She paused to breathe, when a man caught her in his arms and bore her, in a state of insensibility, through the falling embers and darkness to the open air. The instant that Frances recovered her recollection she perceived that she owed her life to Lawton, and, throwing herself on her knees, she cried:
“Sarah! Sarah! Sarah! Save my sister, and may the blessing of God await you!”
Her strength failed, and she sank on the grass in insensibility.
By this time the flames had dispersed much of the suffocating vapor, so that the trooper was able to find the door, and in its very entrance he was met by a man supporting the insensible form of Sarah. There was but barely time to reach the lawn again before the fire broke through the windows and wrapped the whole building in a sheet of flame.
“God be praised!” ejaculated[97]the preserver of Sarah; “it would have been a dreadful death to die.”
The trooper turned from gazing at the edifice to the speaker, and, to his astonishment, he beheld the peddler.
“Captain Lawton,” said Birch, leaning in momentary exhaustion against the fence to which they had retired from the heat, “I am again in your power, for I can neither flee nor resist.”
“The cause of America is as dear to me as life,” said thetrooper; “but she cannot require her children to forget gratitude and honor. Fly, unhappy man, while yet you are unseen, or it will exceed my power to save you.”
“May God prosper you, and make you victorious over your enemies!” said Birch, grasping the hand of the dragoon with iron strength that his meagre figure did not indicate.
“Hold!” said Lawton; “but a word—are you what you seem?—can you—are you?——”
“A royal spy,” interrupted Birch, averting his face, and endeavoring to release his hand.
“Then go, miserable wretch,” said the trooper, relinquishing his grasp; “either avarice or delusion has led a noble heart astray!”
The bright light from the flames reached a great distance around the ruins, but the words were hardly past the lips of Lawton, before the gaunt form of the peddler had glided over the visible space, and had plunged into the darkness beyond.
The walls of the cottage were all that was left of the building; and these, blackened by smoke, and stripped of their piazzas and ornaments, were but dreary memorials of the content and security that had so lately reigned within. The roof, together with the rest of the wood-work, had tumbled into the cellars, and pale and flitting light, ascending from their embers, shone faintly through the windows. The early flight of the Skinners left the dragoons at liberty to exert themselves in saving much of the furniture which lay scattered in heaps on the lawn, giving the finishing touch of desolation to the scene.
“Come,” said the surgeon, “the night air can do no service to these ladies, and it is incumbent on us to remove them where they can find surgical attendance and refreshment.”
To this rational proposition no objection could be raised, and the necessary orders were issued by Lawton to remove the whole party to the Four Corners.
The brief arrangements of the dragoons had prepared twoapartments for the reception of the ladies, the one being intended as a sleeping-room, and situated within the other.
While leaning in the doorway, Lawton’s ear caught the sound of a horse, and the next instant a dragoon of his own troop appeared dashing up the road, as if on business of vast importance. The steed was foaming, and the rider had the appearance of having done a day’s service. Without speaking, he placed a letter in the hand of Lawton, and led his charger to the stable. The trooper knew the hand of the major, and ran his eye over the following:
“I rejoice it is the order of Washington, that the family of the Locusts are to be removed above the Highlands. They are to be admitted to the society of Captain Wharton, who waits only for their testimony to be tried. You will communicate this order, and with proper delicacy I do not doubt. The English are moving up the river; and the moment you see the Whartons in safety, break up and join your troop. There will be good service to be done when we meet, as Sir Henry[98]is reported to have sent out a real soldier in command. Reports must be made to the commandant at Peekskill, for Colonel Singleton is withdrawn to headquarters, to preside over the inquiry upon poor Wharton. Fresh orders have been sent to hang the peddler if we can take him, but they are not from the commander-in-chief. Detail a small guard with the ladies, and get into the saddle as soon as possible.“Yours sincerely,“Peyton Dunwoodie.”
“I rejoice it is the order of Washington, that the family of the Locusts are to be removed above the Highlands. They are to be admitted to the society of Captain Wharton, who waits only for their testimony to be tried. You will communicate this order, and with proper delicacy I do not doubt. The English are moving up the river; and the moment you see the Whartons in safety, break up and join your troop. There will be good service to be done when we meet, as Sir Henry[98]is reported to have sent out a real soldier in command. Reports must be made to the commandant at Peekskill, for Colonel Singleton is withdrawn to headquarters, to preside over the inquiry upon poor Wharton. Fresh orders have been sent to hang the peddler if we can take him, but they are not from the commander-in-chief. Detail a small guard with the ladies, and get into the saddle as soon as possible.
“Yours sincerely,“Peyton Dunwoodie.”
This communication changed the whole arrangement. A new stimulus was given to the Whartons by the intelligence conveyed in the letter of Dunwoodie; and Cæsar, with his horses, was once more put in requisition.
The word to march was given; and Lawton, throwing a look of sullen ferocity at the place of the Skinners’ concealment,led the way, accompanied by the surgeon in a brown study; while Sergeant Hollister and Betty brought up the rear. The day’s march was performed chiefly in silence, and the party found shelter for the night in different farm-houses.
The following morning the cavalcade[99]dispersed. The wounded diverged towards the river, with the intention of taking water at Peekskill, in order to be transported to the hospital of the American army above.
The road taken by our party was not the one that communicates between the two principal cities of the State, but was a retired and unfrequented pass, that to this hour is but little known, and which, entering the hills near the eastern boundary, emerges into the plain above, many miles from the Hudson.
It would have been impossible for the tired steeds of Mr. Wharton to drag the heavy chariot up the lengthened and steep ascents which now lay before them; and a pair of country horses was procured, with but little regard to their owner’s wishes, by the two dragoons, who still continued to accompany the party. With their assistance, Cæsar was enabled to advance, by slow and toilsome steps, into the bosom of the hills.
The day had been cloudy and cool, and thin fleecy clouds hung around the horizon, often promising to disperse, but as frequently disappointing Frances in the hope of catching a parting beam from the setting sun. At length a solitary gleam struck the base of the mountain on which she was gazing, and moved gracefully up its side, until, reaching the summit, it stood for a minute, forming a crown of glory to the sombre pile. With a feeling of awe at being thus unexpectedly admitted, as itwere, into the secrets of that desert place, Frances gazed intently, until, among the scattered trees and fantastic rocks, something like a rude structure was seen. It was low, and so obscured by the color of its materials, that but for its roof, and the glittering of a window, it must have escaped her notice. While yet lost in the astonishment created by discovering a habitation in such a spot, on moving her eyes she perceived another object that increased her wonder. It apparently was a human figure, but of singular mould and unusual deformity. It stood on the edge of a rock, a little above the hut, and it was no difficult task for our heroine to fancy it was gazing at the vehicles that were ascending the side of the mountain beneath her. The distance, however, was too great for her to distinguish with precision. She continued to gaze at the mysterious residence, when the tones of a bugle rang through the glens and hollows, and were reëchoed in every direction, and directly a party in the well-known uniform of the Virginians came sweeping round the point of a rock, and drew up at a short distance.
Dunwoodie dashed by the party of dragoons, threw himself from his charger, and advanced to her side. His manner was earnest and interested. In a few words he explained that he had been ordered up, with a party of Lawton’s men, in the absence of the captain himself, to attend the trial of Henry, which was fixed for the morrow, and that, anxious for their safety in the rude passes of the mountain, he had ridden a mile or two in quest of the travellers. A short half-hour brought them to the door of the farm-house which the care of Dunwoodie had already prepared for their reception, and where Captain Wharton was anxiously expecting their arrival.
The friends of Henry Wharton had placed so much reliance on his innocence, that they were unable to see the full danger of his situation. The moment at length arrived, and the different actors in the approaching investigation assembled. The judges, three in number, sat by themselves, clad in thevestments of their profession, and maintaining a gravity worthy of the occasion and becoming their rank. In the centre was a man of advanced years, and whose whole exterior bore the stamp of early and long-tried military habits. This was the president of the court; and Frances, after taking a hasty and unsatisfactory view of his associates, turned to his benevolent countenance as to the harbinger[100]of mercy to her brother. There was a melting and subdued expression in the features of the veteran, that, contrasted with the rigid decency and composure of the others, could not fail to attract her notice. His associates were selected from the Eastern troops, who held the fortresses of West Point[101]and the adjacent passes; they were men who had attained the meridian[102]of life, and the eye sought in vain the expression of any passion or emotion on which it might seize as an indication of human infirmity. In their demeanor there was a mild, but a grave, intellectual reserve.
Before these arbiters of his fate Henry Wharton was ushered under the custody of armed men. A profound and awful silence succeeded his entrance, and the blood of Frances chilled as she noted the grave character of the whole proceedings. Two of the judges sat in grave reserve, fixing their eyes on the object of their investigation; but the president continued gazing round with uneasy, convulsive motions of the muscles of the face, that indicated a restlessness foreign to his years and duty. The silence, and the expectation in every eye, at length struck him, and making an effort to collect himself, he spoke, in the tone of one used to authority.
“Bring forth the prisoner,” he said, with a wave of the hand.
Frances turned for a moment, in grateful emotion, as the deep and perturbed breathings of Dunwoodie reached her ears; but her brother again concentrated all her interest in one feeling of intense care. In the background were arranged the inmates of the family who owned the dwelling, and behindthem, again, was a row of shining faces of ebony, glistening with pleased wonder. Among these was the faded lustre of Cæsar Thompson’s countenance.
“You are said,” continued the president, “to be Henry Wharton, a captain in his Britannic Majesty’s Sixtieth regiment of foot.”
“I am.”
“It is an accusation against you, that, being an officer of the enemy, you passed the pickets of the American army at the White Plains, in disguise, on the 29th of October last, whereby you are suspected of views hostile to the interests of America, and have subjected yourself to the punishment of a spy.”
The mild but steady tones of the speaker, as he slowly repeated the substance of this charge, were full of authority. The accusation was so plain, the facts so limited, the proof so obvious, and the penalty so well established, that escape seemed impossible. But Henry replied with earnest grace:
“That I passed your pickets in disguise is true; but——”
“Peace!” interrupted the president; “the usages of war are stern enough in themselves; you need not aid them in your own condemnation.”
“The prisoner can retract that declaration, if he please,” remarked another judge. “His confession, if taken, goes fully to prove the charge.”
“I retract nothing that is true,” said Henry, proudly.
“You are at liberty to explain what your motives were in entering the ground held by our army, in disguise,” said the other judge, with a slight movement of the muscles of his face.
“I am the son of this aged man before you,” continued Henry. “It was to visit him that I encountered the danger. Besides, the country below is seldom held by your troops, and its very name implies a right to either party to move at pleasure over its territory.”
“Its name as neutral ground is unauthorized by law; it isan appellation[103]that originates with the condition of the country. But wherever an army goes, it carries its rights along, and the first is the ability to protect itself.”
“I am no casuist,[104]sir,” returned the youth; “but I feel that my father is entitled to my affection, and I would encounter greater risks to prove it to him in his old age.”
“A very commendable spirit,” cried the veteran. “Come, gentlemen, this business brightens. I confess, at first it was very bad, but no man can censure him for desiring to see his parent.”
“And have you proof that such only was your intention?”
“Yes—here,” said Henry, admitting a ray of hope; “here is proof—my father, my sister, Major Dunwoodie, all know it.”
“Then, indeed,” returned the immovable judge, “we may be able to save you. It would be well, sir, to examine further into this business.”
“Certainly,” said the president, with alacrity. “Let the elder Mr. Wharton approach and take the oath.”
The father made an effort at composure, and, advancing with a feeble step, he complied with the necessary forms of the court.
“You are the father of the prisoner?” said Colonel Singleton, in a subdued voice.
“He is my only son.”
“And what do you know of his visit to your house on the twenty-ninth day of October last?”
“He came, as he told you, to see me and his sisters.”
“Was he in disguise?” asked the other judge.
“He did not wear the uniform of the Sixtieth.”
“To see his sisters, too!” said the president, with great emotion. “Have you daughters, sir?”
“I have two. Both are in this house.”
“Had he a wig?” interrupted the officer.
“There was some such thing, I do believe, upon his head.”
“And how long had you been separated?” asked the president.
“One year and two months.”
“Did he wear a loose great-coat of coarse materials?” inquired the officer, referring to a paper that contained the charges.
“There was an overcoat.”
“And you think it was to see you only that he came out?”
“Me and my daughters.”
“A boy of spirit,” whispered the president to his silent comrade. “I see but little harm in such a freak; ’twas imprudent, but then it was kind.”
“Do you know that your son was intrusted with no commission from Sir Henry Clinton, and that his visit to you was not merely a cloak to other designs?”
“How can I know it?” said Mr. Wharton, in alarm. “Would Sir Henry trust me with such business?”
“Know you anything of this pass?” exhibiting the paper that Dunwoodie had retained when Wharton was taken.
“Nothing—upon my honor, nothing,” cried the father, shrinking from the paper as from contagion.[105]
“On your oath?”
“Nothing.”
“Have you other testimony? This does not avail you, Captain Wharton. You have been taken in a situation where your life is forfeited. The labor of proving your innocence rests with yourself. Take time to reflect, and be cool.”
There was a frightful calmness in the manner of this judge that appalled the prisoner. In the sympathy of Colonel Singleton, he could easily lose sight of his danger; but the obdurate and collected air of the others was ominous of his fate. He continued silent, casting imploring glances towards his friends.
Dunwoodie understood the appeal, and offered himself as awitness. He was sworn, and desired to relate what he knew. His statement did not materially alter the case, and Dunwoodie felt that it could not. To him personally but little was known, and that little rather militated against the safety of Henry than otherwise. His account was listened to in silence, and the significant shake of the head that was made by the silent member too plainly told what effect it had made.
“Still you think that the prisoner had no other object than what he has avowed?” said the president, when he had ended.
“None other, I will pledge my life,” cried the major.
“Will you swear it?” asked the immovable judge.
“How can I? God alone can see the heart. But I have known this gentleman from a boy; deceit never formed part of his character. He is above it.”
“You say that he escaped and was taken in open arms?” said the president.
“He was; nay, he received a wound in the combat.”
To Henry there now remained but little hope; his confidence in his security was fast ebbing, but with an indefinite expectation of assistance from the loveliness of his sister he fixed an earnest gaze on the pallid features of Frances. She arose, and, with a tottering step, moved towards the judges; the paleness of her cheek continued but for a moment, and gave place to a flush of fire, and with a light but firm tread she stood before them.
“To you, then, your brother previously communicated his intention of paying your family a secret visit?”
“No, no!” said Frances, pressing her hand to her head, as if to collect her thoughts; “he told me nothing—we knew not of the visit until he arrived. But can it be necessary to explain to gallant men that a child would incur hazard to meet his only parent, and that in times like these, and in a situation like ours?”
“But was this the first time? Did he never even talk of doing so before?” inquired the colonel, leaning towards her with paternal interest.
“Certainly, certainly,” cried Frances, catching the expression of his own benevolent countenance. “This is but the fourth of his visits.”
“I knew it!” exclaimed the veteran, rubbing his hands with delight; “an adventurous, warm-hearted son—I warrant me, gentlemen—a fiery soldier in the field! In what disguises did he come?”
“In none, for none were then necessary; the royal troops covered the country and gave him safe passage.”
“And was this the first of his visits out of the uniform of his regiment?” asked the colonel, in a suppressed voice, avoiding the penetrating looks of his companions.
“Oh, the very first!” exclaimed the eager girl; “his first offence, I do assure you, if offence it be.”
“But you wrote him—you urged the visit; surely, young lady, you wished to see your brother?” added the impatient colonel.
“That we wished for it, and prayed for it—oh, how fervently we prayed for it!—is true; but to have communion with the royal army would have endangered our father, and we dared not.”
“Did he leave the house until taken, or had he intercourse with any out of your own dwelling?”
“With no one excepting our neighbor, the peddler Birch.”
“With whom?” exclaimed the colonel, turning pale, and shrinking as from the sting of an adder.
Dunwoodie groaned aloud, and, striking his head with his hand, cried out in piercing tones, “He is lost!” and rushed from the apartment.
“But Harvey Birch,” repeated Frances, gazing wildly at the door through which her lover had disappeared.
“Harvey Birch!” echoed all the judges. The two immovablemembers of the court exchanged looks, and threw an inquisitive glance at the prisoner.
“To you, gentlemen, it can be no new intelligence to hear that Harvey Birch is suspected of favoring the royal cause,” said Henry, again advancing before the judges, “for he has already been condemned by your tribunals to the fate that I see now awaits myself. I will therefore explain that it was by his assistance I procured the disguise and passed your pickets; but to my dying moments and with my dying breath I will avow that my intentions were as pure as the innocent beings before you.”
“Captain Wharton,” said the president, solemnly, “the enemies of American liberty have made mighty and subtle efforts to overthrow our power. A more dangerous man, for his means and education, is not ranked among our foes than this peddler of Westchester. He is a spy—artful, delusive, and penetrating beyond the abilities of his class. Indeed, young man, this is a connection that may prove fatal to you.”
The honest indignation that beamed on the countenance of the aged warrior was met by a look of perfect conviction on the part of his comrades.
“I have ruined him!” cried Frances, clasping her hands in terror.
“Gentlemen, what is your pleasure?” asked the president.
One of the judges placed in his hand a written sentence, and declared it to be the opinion of himself and his companion.
It briefly stated that Henry Wharton had been detected in passing the lines of the American army as a spy, and in disguise.
That thereby, according to the laws of war, he was liable to suffer death, and that this court adjudge him to the penalty, recommending him to be executed, by hanging, before nine o’clock on the following morning.
“This is short notice,” said the veteran, holding the pen inhis hand, in a suspense that had no object; “not a day to fit one so young for heaven.”
“The royal officers gave Hale[106]but an hour,” returned his comrade; “we have granted the usual time. But Washington has the power to extend it, or to pardon.”
“Then to Washington will I go,” cried the colonel, returning the paper with his signature; “and if the services of an old man like me, or that brave boy of mine, entitle me to his ear, I will yet save the youth.”
So saying, he departed, full of the generous intentions in favor of Henry Wharton.
The sentence of the court was communicated with proper tenderness to the prisoner, and after giving a few necessary instructions to the officer in command, and despatching a courier to headquarters with their report, the remaining judges mounted and rode to their own quarters.
A few hours were passed by the prisoner, after his sentence was received, in the bosom of his family.
Dunwoodie, from an unwillingness to encounter the distress of Henry’s friends, and a dread of trusting himself within its influence, had spent the time walking by himself, in keen anxiety, at a short distance from the dwelling. To him the rules of service were familiar, and he was more accustomed to consider his general in the capacity of a ruler than as exhibiting the characteristics of the individual.
While pacing with hurried step through the orchard, laboring under these constantly recurring doubts, Dunwoodie saw the courier approaching; leaping the fence, he stood before the trooper.
“What news?” cried the major, the moment the soldier stopped his horse.
“Good!” exclaimed the man; and feeling no hesitation to trust an officer so well known as Major Dunwoodie, he placed the paper in his hands, as he added: “But you can read it, sir, for yourself.”
Dunwoodie paused not to read, but flew, with the elastic spring of joy, to the chamber of the prisoner. The sentinel knew him, and he was suffered to pass without question.
“O Peyton,” cried Frances, as he entered the apartments, “you look like a messenger from heaven. Bring you tidings of mercy?”
“Here, Frances—here, Henry—here, dear cousin Jeanette,” cried the youth, as with trembling hands he broke the seal; “here is the letter itself, directed to the captain of the guard. But listen!”
All did listen with intense anxiety; and the pang of blasted hope was added to their misery, as they saw the glow of delight which had beamed on the countenance of the major give place to a look of horror. The paper contained the sentence of the court, and underneath was written these simple words:
“Approved—Geo. Washington.”
“He’s lost, he’s lost!” cried Frances, sinking into the arms of her aunt.
“My son, my son!” sobbed the father, “there is mercy in heaven, if there is none on earth. May Washington never want that mercy he thus denies to my innocent child!”
“There is yet time to see Washington again,” said Miss Peyton, moving towards the door; and then, speaking with extreme dignity, she continued: “I will go myself; surely he must listen to a woman from his own colony; and we are in some degree connected with his family.”
“Why not apply to Mr. Harper?” said Frances, recollecting the parting words of their guest for the first time.
“Harper!” echoed Dunwoodie, turning towards her with the swiftness of lightning; “what of him? Do you know him?”
“It is in vain,” said Henry, drawing him aside; “Frances clings to hope with the fondness of a sister. Retire, my love, and leave me with my friend.”
But Frances read an expression in the eye of Dunwoodie that chained her to the spot. After struggling to command her feelings, she continued:
“He stayed with us for a few days; he was with us when Henry was arrested.”
“And—and—did you know him?”
“Nay,” continued Frances, catching her breath as she witnessed the intense interest of her lover, “we knew him not; he came to us in the night, a stranger, and remained with us during the severe storm; but he seemed to take an interest in Henry, and promised him his friendship.”
“What!” exclaimed the youth, in astonishment; “did he know your brother?”
“Certainly; it was at his request that Henry threw aside his disguise.”
“But,” said Dunwoodie, turning pale with suspense, “he knew him not as an officer of the royal army?”
“Indeed he did,” cried Miss Peyton; “and he cautioned us against this very danger.”
Dunwoodie caught up the fatal paper, that lay where it had fallen from his own hands, and studied its characters intently. Something seemed to bewilder his brain. He passed his hand over his forehead, while each eye was fixed on him in dreadful suspense—all feeling afraid to admit those hopes anew that had been so sadly destroyed.
“What said he? what promised he?” at length Dunwoodie asked, with feverish impatience.
“He bid Henry apply to him when in danger, and promised to requite the son for the hospitality of the father.”
“Said he this, knowing him to be a British officer?”
“Most certainly; and with a view to this very danger.”
“Then,” cried the youth aloud, and yielding to his rapture, “then you are safe—then I will save him; yes, Harper will never forget his word.”
“But has he the power to?” said Frances. “Can he move the stubborn purpose of Washington?”
“Can he! If he cannot,” shouted the youth, “if he cannot, who can? Greene,[107]and Heath,[108]and the young Hamilton[109]are nothing compared to this Harper. But,” rushing to his mistress, and pressing her hands convulsively, “repeat to me—you say you have his promise?”
“Surely, surely, Peyton; his solemn, deliberate promise, knowing all the circumstances.”
“Rest easy,” cried Dunwoodie, holding her to his bosom for a moment, “rest easy, for Henry is safe.”
He waited not to explain, but darting from the room, he left the family in amazement. They continued in silent wonder until they heard the feet of his charger as he dashed from the door with the speed of an arrow.
A long time was spent after this abrupt departure of the youth, by the anxious friends he had left, in discussing the probability of his success. The confidence of his manner had, however, communicated to his auditors something of his own spirit. Each felt the prospects of Henry were again brightening, and with their reviving hopes they experienced a renewal of spirits, which in all but Henry himself amounted to pleasure. Frances reposed in security on the assurance of Dunwoodie; believing her lover able to accomplish everything that man could do and retaining a vivid recollection of the manner and benevolent appearance of Harper, she abandoned herself to all the felicity of renovated hope.
From the window where she stood, the pass that they hadtravelled through the Highlands was easily to be seen; and the mountain which held on its summit the mysterious hut was directly before her. Its sides were rugged and barren; huge and apparently impassable barriers of rocks presenting themselves through the stunted oaks, which, stripped of their foliage, were scattered over its surface. The base of the hill was not half a mile from the house, and the object which attracted the notice of Frances was the figure of a man emerging from behind a rock of remarkable formation, and as suddenly disappearing. The manœuvre was several times repeated, as if it were the intention of the fugitive (for such by his air he seemed to be) to reconnoitre the proceedings of the soldiery, and assure himself of the position of things on the plain. Notwithstanding the distance, Frances instantly imbibed the opinion that it was Birch, who had so connected himself with the mysterious deportment of Harper, within her imagination, that under circumstances of less agitation than those in which she had labored since her arrival, she would have kept her suspicions to herself. After gazing for a long time at the point where she had last seen the figure, in the vain expectation of its reappearance, she turned to her friends in the apartment.
Dunwoodie soon made his appearance, but his air was that of neither success nor defeat, but of vexation. He took the hand of Frances, in the fulness of her heart extended towards him, but instantly relinquishing it, threw himself into a chair, in evident fatigue.
“You have failed,” said Wharton, with a bound of his heart, but an appearance of composure.
“Have you seen Harper?” cried Frances, turning pale.
“I have not; I crossed the river in one boat as he must have been coming to this side in another. I returned without delay to relieve your uneasiness. I will this night see him and bring a respite for Henry.”
“But you saw Washington?” asked Miss Peyton.
“The commander-in-chief had left his quarters.”
“But, Peyton,” cried Frances, in returning terror, “if they should not see each other, it will be too late. Harper alone will not be sufficient.”
“You say that he promised to assist Henry?”
“Certainly, of his own accord, and in requital for the hospitality he had received.”
“I like not that word ‘hospitality’—it has an empty sound; there must be something more reasonable to tie Harper. I dread some mistake: repeat to me all that passed.”
Frances, in a hurried and earnest voice, complied with his request. She related particularly the manner of his arrival at the Locusts, the reception that he received, and the events that passed, as minutely as her memory could supply her with the means.
As she alluded to the conversation that occurred between her father and his guest, the major smiled but remained silent. She then gave a detail of Henry’s arrival, and the events of the following day. She dwelt upon the part where Harper desired her brother to throw aside his disguise, and recounted, with wonderful accuracy, his remarks upon the hazard of the step that the youth had taken. She even remembered a remarkable expression of his to her brother, “that he was safer from Harper’s knowledge of his person, than he would be without it.” Frances mentioned, with the warmth of youthful admiration, the benevolent character of his deportment to herself, and gave a minute relation of his adieus to the whole family.
Dunwoodie at first listened with grave attention; evident satisfaction followed as she proceeded. When she spoke of herself in connection with her guest, he smiled with pleasure, and as she concluded, he exclaimed with delight:
“We are safe!—we are safe!”