CHAPTER XIV.THE HAPPY CONSUMMATION.
WhenErnshaw returned from the pursuit of Preston and the tory, he found several of the men standing over John Vale, anxiously feeling his breast to see if the breath of life was still left within him. His heart very faintly fluttered, though he lay in a state of utter unconsciousness.
That night Mrs. Vale found beneath her roof, once again, her children; Catherine safe, John dangerously, though not necessarily mortally wounded. For a time his life was held by a feeble thread; but, through a strong constitution and good care, he slowly regained his health and strength.
How in the Carolinas a partisan warfare was waged; how Marion and Sumpter and many other brave-hearted commanders made themselves a terror to the British and tories, how the spirit of freedom could never be quenched, but continued to be made manifest in the midst of the most trying circumstances and the most perilous positions—all this is well-known to the student of American history. For the year following the events just described, Nat Ernshaw’s brigade did noble service in its country’s cause. Sometimes by themselves, again in conjunction with other patriot bands, they swooped down upon a tory gathering, or cut off a detachment of British soldiers. Now here, now there, they but seldom remained long in one place; but Cedar Swamp was ever a rendezvousto which they retired. Here they would take up their quarters at intervals of some weeks, and lie perfectly quiet until intelligence reached them of some occasion where a blow could be struck; then from this spot, like lightning from a thunder cloud, the fires of freedom flashed forth.
Through all the hand-to-hand conflicts, Wild Nat passed safely. A sword stroke on the brow had left a scar, but the wound was not dangerous, for his own blade had carried death to his enemy, and thus paralyzed his well-aimed blow. John Vale, too, was fortunate. While more than one brave comrade fell beside him, he remained untouched. His first wound was his last. As being the best fitted to devise and carry out the campaign, the men placed most implicit confidence in these two. That confidence was never abused.
From the time when Catherine Vale re-entered the walls of her mother’s house, that house was never disturbed. Though houses might blaze around them, and the homesteads of others be desolated, yet was the dwelling of Mrs. Vale unmolested.
At length came an event which filled every true American’s heart with joy. The dark pall which had so long been stretched over the State was lifted. On the 19th of October, 1781, Lord Cornwallis with seven thousand men, surrendered to the American army under General Washington. No event in the history of any nation was ever hailed with more grateful joy than was this. Though the British were still masters of Charleston and Savannah, yet it had the effect of doing away with the necessity of partisan warfare; and marauding bands of tories, and pillaging troops of soldiers were no longer to be met wandering through the States.
The tories, seeing that the war must soon end—and end in the success of the colonies—ceased to rant of the divine right of kings, and began to consider that perhaps it would be best to keep their fingers from off the property of their whig neighbors. They therefore became a source of no further anxiety to the patriots.
Though willing to meet together at any time for the defense of their country, the men of Nat Ernshaw’s brigade disbanded, each one returning to his home.
Winter passed and summer came again. The war was virtually at an end, and though the city was still retained by the British, yet no blood had been shed for some time.
It was a moonlight evening in July, and a pleasant breeze swept softly through the branches of the old pear-tree which stood near the dwelling of Mrs. Vale.
On a seat under the tree sat Nat Ernshaw and Catherine Vale; at their feet an old friend, the dog Lion, who appeared to regard the two with a look of grave curiosity. Sitting under the tree there, with the pale light of the moon shining down upon them, the three made a picture. Nat Ernshaw, with his fine, manly countenance, weather-beaten and marked with a single scar upon his brow, and that more than half-hidden by his hair; Catherine Vale, with her fair face, golden hair, and loving eyes; Lion, huge as he was, looking pleasant as he gazed up into the face of his mistress.
Tenderly taking the hand of his companion, Ernshaw, after a momentary silence, said:
“There is something, Kate, of which I have long wished to speak, but the distracted state of the country prevented my doing so. For years—almost from the hour of our first acquaintance—no true man could say that his head sat firmly upon his shoulders. Life has been, at the most, held on slender tenure, and hearthstones have been desecrated on short notice. Now it is, I think, otherwise. The struggle for freedom is all but ended; independence is placed within our grasp, and with an assurance which I could not otherwise feel, I can speak my feelings and wishes. I love you, Kate. Not with a fierce passion, but with a hopeful, manly, lasting love. We have known each other long and, I think, well. Such as I am you see me. I profess not to be free from faults, nor to be wholly made up of virtues. From the fullness of an unchecked spirit I have done things which to others might seem wrong; but they were sins of the head, not of the heart. I can offer you a hand, a home, and aheart. Knowing me as you do, having tried my affection as you have, will you be mine?”
For some moments Catherine did not reply, but sat gazing on the ground. Though she had often done so before, she wished again to analyze her heart, and scrutinize closely,calmly, the feelings which she felt she entertained for Nathaniel.
Under this very tree, two years ago, had Reginald Preston pleaded his love. What an issue that profession brought forth! She recalled her abduction—her solitary confinement—the horrid threats of the British captain—Ernshaw’s daring—his striking down of the wretch, and his rescue of her—the dying declaration of Turner; all these incidents came up again before her, and though they touched her heart with a sense of sadness, how they all pleaded for the man at her side!
“I have been thinking,” she at length calmly said, “as I have, I acknowledge, thought before, of you and your claim upon me. We have known each other long, and have reason to believe that we know each other truly. I have looked into my heart, and find that it fully and entirely responds to your own in its hopes, wishes, love, and confidence. I say then, in all the truth of my own soul, that I love you as a woman should love the man she would claim as her husband, and that, as far as my consent goes, my hand and heart are yours. I will be your wife, Nathaniel.”
Catherine’s manner was deliberate, unimpassioned; but her whole being stood looking from her eyes, and her sweet face lit up like a morning in June. Ernshaw’s strong nature had met its entire response.
When the patriot captain that night took his leave, he printed, for the first time, upon the lips of Catherine the holy kiss of plighted troth.
The next evening Nat Ernshaw came to the cottage, and told his love to Mrs. Vale in a straight-forward, manly way. Catherine had told her all, during the day, and received her parent’s blessing upon her love. For Nathaniel she now entertained a real, undisguised affection, and answered his petition for the hand of Catherine in a cordial consent.
“Take her, Nathaniel; she is a precious treasure. Keep her sacredly,” was all she could say.
Mrs. Vale’s house is all astir. Lights flash all over it, and glad sounds issue from within. That night will see both son and daughter of the respected widow enter into the bonds of wedlock; a double wedding is to occur at the house.
To describe the ceremony, to tell how the brides were dressed, and who were the bridemaids—to recapitulate all the songs that were sung, all the speeches that were made, all the toasts that were drunk, would quite exceed the limits of this little story. Let it suffice to aver that two handsomer couples had never been united since Carolina became a State, and that a happier evening was never known, even to that mythic person, the “oldest inhabitant.”
About a week after the wedding, John Vale’s mother received a letter, the contents of which rather surprised her. The communication read as follows:
“Respected Madam:—As relict of the late John Vale, son of Charles Vale, M. P., recently deceased, we would beg leave to inform you that the heir or heirs of the said John Vale are entitled to a fortune of twenty-seven thousand, three hundred and odd pounds, sterling. Although there is little danger of any one disputing your right, yet it will be necessary to have a competent person to look after your interests. May we hope that your patronage will go to our firm. We will write further in a few days.Yours, respectfully,“Thompson, Smith & Co.,perSmith.”
“Respected Madam:—As relict of the late John Vale, son of Charles Vale, M. P., recently deceased, we would beg leave to inform you that the heir or heirs of the said John Vale are entitled to a fortune of twenty-seven thousand, three hundred and odd pounds, sterling. Although there is little danger of any one disputing your right, yet it will be necessary to have a competent person to look after your interests. May we hope that your patronage will go to our firm. We will write further in a few days.
Yours, respectfully,“Thompson, Smith & Co.,perSmith.”
Though Messrs. Thompson, Smith & Co., were sharp to ferret out business, they were also faithful when that business demanded a severe discharge of duty. Through their exertions, the fortune of the “recently deceased Charles Vale” was secured to its rightful owners.
Justice will not be defeated. Though Reginald put his shoulder to the wheel of fate, and strove to push it backward, yet for all his boldness and sagacity he was crushed. That for which he toiled, and made himself a villain, the gold of his relative, passed into worthier hands, and his very name became synonym of whatever was bad.
For years, annually did Nat Ernshaw gather around him, in a grand reunion, the former members of the brigade; and to these reunions always came Simon Hunt. No longer Simon the blacksmith. A self-educated man, he was at once true citizen, an upright man, a clear-headed adviser. The States, just escaped from the despotism of foreign and reckless rulers, needed just such men to assist in their counsels. Wasit any wonder then, that at one of their reunions Nat Ernshaw introduced the once plain blacksmith as “the Hon. Simon Hunt?”
Under the green turf of Carolina now rest the brave men who once composed Wild Nat’s brigade. Truer hearts never beat, more patriotic bosoms never swelled with the inspiration of liberty. Long in the memories of descendants shall they live, these veritable heroes of the Revolution. Over their graves let us give them our benedictions, and with Percival say:—
Here rest the great and good. Here they reposeAfter their generous toil. A sacred band,They take their sleep together, while the yearComes with its early flowers to deck their graves,And gathers them again, as Winter frowns.Theirs is no vulgar sepulcher,—green sodsAre all their monument, and yet it tellsA nobler history than pillared piles,Or the eternal pyramids. They needNo statue nor inscription to revealTheir greatness. It is round them; and the joyWith which their children tread the hallowed groundThat holds their venerated bones, the peaceThat smiles on all they fought for, and the wealthThat clothes the land they rescued,—these, though mute,As feeling ever is when deepest,—theseAre monuments more lasting than the fanesReared to the kings and demigods of old.Touch not the ancient elms, that bend their shadeOver their lowly graves; beneath their boughsThere is a solemn darkness, even at noon,Suited to such as visit at the shrineOf serious liberty. No factious voiceCalled them unto the field of generous fame,But the pure consecrated love of home.No deeper feeling sways us, when it wakesIn all its greatness. It has told itselfTo the astonished gaze of awestruck kings,At Marathon, at Bannockburn, and here,Where first our patriots sent the invader back,Broken and cowed. Let these green elms be allTo tell us where they fought and where they lieTheir feelings were all nature, and they need,No art to make them known. They live in us,While we are like them, simple, hardy, bold,Worshiping nothing but our own pure hearts,And the one universal Lord. They needNo column pointing to the heaven they sought,To tell us of their home. The heart itself,Left to its own free purpose, hastens there,And there alone reposes. Let these elmsBend their protecting shadow o’er their graves,And build with their green roof the only fane,Where we may gather on the hallowed dayThat rose to them in blood, and set in glory.Here let us meet, and while our motionless lipsGive not a sound, and all around is muteIn the deep sabbath of a heart too fullFor words or tears, here let us strew the sodWith the first flowers of spring, and make to themAn offering of the plenty Nature gives,And they have rendered ours—perpetually.
Here rest the great and good. Here they reposeAfter their generous toil. A sacred band,They take their sleep together, while the yearComes with its early flowers to deck their graves,And gathers them again, as Winter frowns.Theirs is no vulgar sepulcher,—green sodsAre all their monument, and yet it tellsA nobler history than pillared piles,Or the eternal pyramids. They needNo statue nor inscription to revealTheir greatness. It is round them; and the joyWith which their children tread the hallowed groundThat holds their venerated bones, the peaceThat smiles on all they fought for, and the wealthThat clothes the land they rescued,—these, though mute,As feeling ever is when deepest,—theseAre monuments more lasting than the fanesReared to the kings and demigods of old.Touch not the ancient elms, that bend their shadeOver their lowly graves; beneath their boughsThere is a solemn darkness, even at noon,Suited to such as visit at the shrineOf serious liberty. No factious voiceCalled them unto the field of generous fame,But the pure consecrated love of home.No deeper feeling sways us, when it wakesIn all its greatness. It has told itselfTo the astonished gaze of awestruck kings,At Marathon, at Bannockburn, and here,Where first our patriots sent the invader back,Broken and cowed. Let these green elms be allTo tell us where they fought and where they lieTheir feelings were all nature, and they need,No art to make them known. They live in us,While we are like them, simple, hardy, bold,Worshiping nothing but our own pure hearts,And the one universal Lord. They needNo column pointing to the heaven they sought,To tell us of their home. The heart itself,Left to its own free purpose, hastens there,And there alone reposes. Let these elmsBend their protecting shadow o’er their graves,And build with their green roof the only fane,Where we may gather on the hallowed dayThat rose to them in blood, and set in glory.Here let us meet, and while our motionless lipsGive not a sound, and all around is muteIn the deep sabbath of a heart too fullFor words or tears, here let us strew the sodWith the first flowers of spring, and make to themAn offering of the plenty Nature gives,And they have rendered ours—perpetually.
Here rest the great and good. Here they reposeAfter their generous toil. A sacred band,They take their sleep together, while the yearComes with its early flowers to deck their graves,And gathers them again, as Winter frowns.Theirs is no vulgar sepulcher,—green sodsAre all their monument, and yet it tellsA nobler history than pillared piles,Or the eternal pyramids. They needNo statue nor inscription to revealTheir greatness. It is round them; and the joyWith which their children tread the hallowed groundThat holds their venerated bones, the peaceThat smiles on all they fought for, and the wealthThat clothes the land they rescued,—these, though mute,As feeling ever is when deepest,—theseAre monuments more lasting than the fanesReared to the kings and demigods of old.
Here rest the great and good. Here they repose
After their generous toil. A sacred band,
They take their sleep together, while the year
Comes with its early flowers to deck their graves,
And gathers them again, as Winter frowns.
Theirs is no vulgar sepulcher,—green sods
Are all their monument, and yet it tells
A nobler history than pillared piles,
Or the eternal pyramids. They need
No statue nor inscription to reveal
Their greatness. It is round them; and the joy
With which their children tread the hallowed ground
That holds their venerated bones, the peace
That smiles on all they fought for, and the wealth
That clothes the land they rescued,—these, though mute,
As feeling ever is when deepest,—these
Are monuments more lasting than the fanes
Reared to the kings and demigods of old.
Touch not the ancient elms, that bend their shadeOver their lowly graves; beneath their boughsThere is a solemn darkness, even at noon,Suited to such as visit at the shrineOf serious liberty. No factious voiceCalled them unto the field of generous fame,But the pure consecrated love of home.No deeper feeling sways us, when it wakesIn all its greatness. It has told itselfTo the astonished gaze of awestruck kings,At Marathon, at Bannockburn, and here,Where first our patriots sent the invader back,Broken and cowed. Let these green elms be allTo tell us where they fought and where they lieTheir feelings were all nature, and they need,No art to make them known. They live in us,While we are like them, simple, hardy, bold,Worshiping nothing but our own pure hearts,And the one universal Lord. They needNo column pointing to the heaven they sought,To tell us of their home. The heart itself,Left to its own free purpose, hastens there,And there alone reposes. Let these elmsBend their protecting shadow o’er their graves,And build with their green roof the only fane,Where we may gather on the hallowed dayThat rose to them in blood, and set in glory.Here let us meet, and while our motionless lipsGive not a sound, and all around is muteIn the deep sabbath of a heart too fullFor words or tears, here let us strew the sodWith the first flowers of spring, and make to themAn offering of the plenty Nature gives,And they have rendered ours—perpetually.
Touch not the ancient elms, that bend their shade
Over their lowly graves; beneath their boughs
There is a solemn darkness, even at noon,
Suited to such as visit at the shrine
Of serious liberty. No factious voice
Called them unto the field of generous fame,
But the pure consecrated love of home.
No deeper feeling sways us, when it wakes
In all its greatness. It has told itself
To the astonished gaze of awestruck kings,
At Marathon, at Bannockburn, and here,
Where first our patriots sent the invader back,
Broken and cowed. Let these green elms be all
To tell us where they fought and where they lie
Their feelings were all nature, and they need,
No art to make them known. They live in us,
While we are like them, simple, hardy, bold,
Worshiping nothing but our own pure hearts,
And the one universal Lord. They need
No column pointing to the heaven they sought,
To tell us of their home. The heart itself,
Left to its own free purpose, hastens there,
And there alone reposes. Let these elms
Bend their protecting shadow o’er their graves,
And build with their green roof the only fane,
Where we may gather on the hallowed day
That rose to them in blood, and set in glory.
Here let us meet, and while our motionless lips
Give not a sound, and all around is mute
In the deep sabbath of a heart too full
For words or tears, here let us strew the sod
With the first flowers of spring, and make to them
An offering of the plenty Nature gives,
And they have rendered ours—perpetually.
A MARVEL OF BEAUTY!A New Series by the New Art!THE ILLUMINATED DIMEPOCKET NOVELS!Comprising the best works only of the most popular living writers in the field of American Romance. Each issue a complete novel, with illuminated cover, rivaling in effect the popular chromo,And yet Sold at the Standard Price—Ten Cents!Incomparably the most beautiful and attractive series of books, and the most delightful reading, ever presented to the popular reading public.Distancing all rivalry, equally in the beauty of the books and their intrinsic excellence as romances, this new series will quickly take the lead in public favor, and be regarded as the Paragon Novels!NOW READY, AND IN PRESS.No. 1—Hawkeye Harry, the Young Trapper Ranger. By Oll Coomes.No. 13—The French Spy; or, The Fall of Montreal. By W. J. Hamilton.No. 2—Dead Shot; or, The White Vulture. A Romance of the Yellowstone. By Albert W. Aiken.No. 14—Long Shot; or, The Dwarf Guide. By Capt. Comstock.No. 3—The Boy Miners; or, The Enchanted Island. A Tale of the Mohave Country. By Edward S. Ellis.No. 15—The Gunmaker of the Border; or, The Hunted Maiden. By James L. Bowen.No. 4—Blue Dick; or, The Yellow Chief’s Vengeance. A Romance of the Rocky Mountains. By Capt. Mayne Reid.No. 16—Red Hand; or, The Channel Scourge. By A. G. Piper.No. 5—Nat Wolfe; or, The Gold-Hunters. A Romance of Pike’s Peak and New York. By Mrs. M. V. Victor.No. 17—Ben, the Trapper; or, The Mountain Demon. By Maj. Lewis W. Carson.No. 6—The White Tracker; or, The Panther of the Plains. By the author of “The Boy Miners.”No. 18—Wild Raven, the Ranger; or, The Missing Guide. By Oll Coomes.No. 7—The Outlaw’s Wife; or, The Valley Ranche. A Tale of California Life. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.No. 19—The Specter Chief; or, The Indian’s Revenge. By Seelin Robins.No. 8—The Tall Trapper; or, The Flower of the Blackfeet. By Albert W. Aiken.No. 20—The B’ar-Killer; or, The Long Trail. By Capt. Comstock.No. 9—Lightning Jo, the Terror of the Santa Fe Trail. By Capt. J. F. C. Adams.No. 21—Wild Nat; or, The Cedar Swamp Brigade. By Wm. R. Eyster.No. 10—The Island Pirate. A Tale of the Mississippi. By Captain Mayne Reid.No. 22—Indian Jo, the Guide; or, The White Spirit of the Hills. By Lewis W. Carson.No. 11—The Boy Ranger; or, The Heiress of the Golden Horn. By Oll Coomes.No. 23—Old Kent, the Ranger; or, The Fugitives of the Border. By Edward S. Ellis.No. 12—Bess, the Trapper. A Tale of the Far South-west. By the author of “Boy Miners,” “White Tracker,” etc.No. 24—The One-Eyed Trapper; or, The Maid of the Cliff. By Capt. Comstock.☞Beadle’s Dime Pocket Novelsare for sale by all newsdealers; or will be sent, post-paid, to any address, on receipt of price,TEN CENTS EACH, byBEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers,98 William Street, New York.
A MARVEL OF BEAUTY!
A New Series by the New Art!
THE ILLUMINATED DIME
POCKET NOVELS!
Comprising the best works only of the most popular living writers in the field of American Romance. Each issue a complete novel, with illuminated cover, rivaling in effect the popular chromo,
And yet Sold at the Standard Price—Ten Cents!
Incomparably the most beautiful and attractive series of books, and the most delightful reading, ever presented to the popular reading public.
Distancing all rivalry, equally in the beauty of the books and their intrinsic excellence as romances, this new series will quickly take the lead in public favor, and be regarded as the Paragon Novels!
NOW READY, AND IN PRESS.
☞Beadle’s Dime Pocket Novelsare for sale by all newsdealers; or will be sent, post-paid, to any address, on receipt of price,TEN CENTS EACH, by
BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers,98 William Street, New York.