For Love of Country: A Story of Land and Sea in the Days of the Revolution

by Cyrus Townsend Brady

  CHAPTER XLI

  _Into the Haven, at last_

  Two weary horsemen on tired horses were slowly riding up the river roadjust where it entered the Wilton plantation. One was young, a mere boyin years; but a certain habit of command, with the responsibilityaccompanying, had given him a more manly appearance than his agewarranted. The other, to a casual glance, seemed much older than hiscompanion, though closer inspection would show that he was still ayoung man, and that those marks upon his face which the carelesspasser-by would consider the attributes of age had been traced by thefingers of grief and trouble. The bronzed and weather-beaten faces ofboth riders bespoke an open-air life, and suggested those who go downupon the great deep in ships, a suggestion further borne out by thefaded, worn naval uniforms they wore. In spite of the joy ofspringtime which was all about them, both were silent and both weresad; but the sadness of the boy, as was natural, was less deep, lessintense, than that of the man. He was too young to realize thegreatness of the loss he had sustained in the death of his father andsister; and were it not for the constant reminder afforded him by thepresence of his gloomy companion, he would probably, with the carelesselasticity of youth, have been more successful in throwing off his ownsorrow. The man had not lost a father or a sister, but some one dearerstill. He looked thin and ill, and under the permanent bronze of hiscountenance the ravages wrought by fever, wounds, and long illness wereplainly perceptible; there were gray hairs in his thick neatly tiedlocks, too, that had no rightful place there in one of his age. Theyounger and stronger assisted and watched over his older companion withthe tenderest care and attention.

  They rode slowly up the pleasant road under the great trees, from timeto time engaging in a desultory conversation. Philip endeavored tocheer his companion by talking lightly of boyhood days, as each turn ofthe road brought familiar places in the old estate in view. Here heand Katharine and Hilary had been wont to play; there was a favoritespot, a pleasant haunt here, this had been the scene of some amusingadventure. These well-meant reminiscences nearly drove Seymour mad,but he would not stop them. Finally, they came to the place where theroad divided, one branch pursuing its course along the river-bank pastthe boat-house toward the Talbot place, the other turning inland fromthe river and winding about till it surmounted the high bluff andreached the door of the Hall. There Philip drew rein.

  "This is the way to the Hall, you know, Captain Seymour," he said,pointing to the right. Seymour hesitated a moment, and said finally,--

  "Yes, I know; the boat-house lies over there, does it not, beyond theturn? I think I will let you go up to the house alone, Philip, and Iwill go down to the boat-house myself. I will ride back presently."

  "Well, then, I will go with you," said Philip. "I really think you aretoo weak, you know, especially after our long ride to-day, to go alone."

  "No, Philip," said Seymour, gently, "I wish to be alone for a fewmoments."

  The boy hesitated.

  "Oh, very well," he said, beginning to understand, "I will sit downhere on this tree by the road and wait for you. I 'll tie my horse,and you can leave yours here also, if you wish. There is nothing atthe Hall, God knows, to make me hurry up there now, since father andKatharine are gone," he continued with a sigh. "Go on, sir, I'll wait.You won't mind my waiting?"

  "No, certainly not, if you wish it I shall be back in a few minutesanyway. I just want to see the--the--ah--boathouse, you know."

  "Yes, certainly, I understand, of course," replied Philip, bluntly, butcarefully looking away, and then dismounting from his tired horse andassisting Seymour to do the same from his.

  "Poor old fellow!" he murmured, as he saw the man walk haltingly andpainfully up the road and disappear around the little bend.

  Left to himself Seymour stumbled alone along the familiar road overwhich a few short months before he had often travelled light-heartedlyby the side of Katharine. As he pressed on, he noticed a man leave theboat-house and climb slowly up the hill. Desirous of escaping thenotice of the stranger, who, he supposed, might be the factor or agentof the plantation, he waited in the shadow of the trees until the mandisappeared over the brow of the hill, and then he staggered on. Ashort time after, he stood on the landward end of the little pier, andthen his heart stood still for a second, and then leaped madly in hisbreast, as he seemed to hear a subtle voice, like an echo of the past,which whispered his name, "Seymour! Seymour!" Stepping toward themiddle of the pier so that he could see the interior of the boat-housethrough the inner door, his eyes fell upon the figure of a womanstanding in the other doorway looking out over the water, stretchingout her hands. The sun had set by this time, and the gray dusk of theevening was stealing over the river. He could not see distinctly, butthere was light enough to show him a familiar scarlet cloak at herfeet, and although her back was turned to him, he recognized thegraceful outlines of her slender figure. It was Katharine, or a dream!But could the dead return again? Had the sea given up her dead indeed?

  He could not believe the evidence of his bewildered senses. It mightbe an hallucination, the baseless fabric of a vision, some imageconjured from the deep recesses of his loving heart by his enfeebleddisordered imagination, and yet he surely had heard a living voice,"Seymour--John--Oh, my love!" Stifling the beating of his heart,holding his breath even, stepping softly, lest he should affright theairy vision, he staggered to the door and stood gazing; then hewhispered one word,--

  "Katharine!"

  It was only a whisper she heard, but it reached the very centre of herbeing.

  "Katharine," he said softly again, with so much passionate entreaty inhis wistful voice, that under its compelling influence she slowlyturned and looked toward the other door from whence the sound had come.Then as she saw him, lifting one hand to her head while the otherunconsciously sought her heart, she shrank back against the wall, andstared at him in voiceless terror. He dropped unsteadily to his knee,as if to worship at a shrine.

  "Oh, do not go away," he whispered. "I know it is only a dream ofmine--so many times have I seen you, ever since the night the frigatestruck and I sent you to your death on that rocky pass, in that beatingsea. Ay, in the long hours of the fever--but you did not shrink awayfrom me then, you listened to me say I love you, and you answered." Hestretched out his hand toward her in tender appeal. She bent forwardtoward him. He rose to his feet, half in terror.

  "Kate," he said uncertainly, "is it indeed you? Are you alive again?"

  She was nearer now. One glad cry broke from her lips; he was in herarms again, and she was clasped to his heart!--a real woman and nodream, no vision. What the wind could only faintly shadow forth uponher cheek, sprang into life under the touch of his fevered lips, andcolor flooded them like a wave. Laughing, crying, sobbing, she clungto him, kissed him with little incoherent murmurs, gazed at him, weptover him, kissed him again. All the troubles of the intervening daysof sadness and privation faded away from her like a disused chrysalis,and she sparkled with life and love like a butterfly new born.

  He that was dead was alive again, he had come back, and he was here!As for him, in fearful surprise, he held her to his breast once more,still unbelieving. She noticed then an empty sleeve, and raised ittenderly to her lips.

  "I lost it after an action with the British ship Yarmouth,--it was onlya flesh wound at first,--we were long in reaching Charleston; the armhad to be amputated. It was a fearful action."

  "I know it," she interrupted; "I was there."

  "You, Katharine! Ah, that woman on the ship! I was not deceived then,and yet I could not believe it."

  "Yes, 'twas I. I gloried in your bravery, until I saw you lying, as Ithought, dead on the deck. Oh, John, the horror of that moment! ThenI called you, and you did not answer. Then I wanted to die, too, butnow I am alive again, and so happy--but for this;" she lifted the emptysleeve to her lips. "How you must have suffered, my poor darling," shewent on, her eyes filling with tears, her heart yearning over him."And how ill y
ou look, and I keep you standing here,--how thoughtless!Come to the bench here and sit down. Lean on me."

  "Nay, but, Kate, you too have suffered. See!" He lifted her arm, theloose sleeve fell back. "Oh, how thin it is, and how smooth and roundand plump it was when I kissed it last," he said, as he raised ittenderly again to his lips.

  "It is nothing, John. I shall be all right now that you are here. Youpoor shattered lover, how you must have suffered!" she went on, with asob in her voice.

  "Oh, Katharine, this," looking down at his empty sleeve, "was nothingto what I suffered before, when I thought I had killed you!"

  "When you thought you had killed me!" she said in surprise. They weresitting close together now, and she had his hand in both her own."How--when, was that?"

  And then he told her rapidly about the loss of the Radnor, and the ideawhich her note had given that she was on board of it.

  "And you led that ship down to destruction, believing I was on her!How could you do it, John?" she said reproachfully.

  "It was my duty, darling Kate," he said desperately.

  "And did you love your duty more than me?"

  "Love it? I hated it! But I had to do it, dearest," he went onpleadingly. "Honor--you told me so yourself, here, in this very spot;I remember your words; do you not recall them?--'If I stood in thepathway of liberty for a single instant I should despise the man whowould not sweep me aside without a moment's hesitation.' Don't youknow you said that, Katharine?"

  "Did I say it? Ah, but that was before I loved you so, and you sweptme aside,--well, I love you still, and, John, I honor you for it too;but I could not do it. You see, I am only a woman."

  "Kate, don't say 'only a woman' that way; what else would I have you,pray? But tell me of yourself."

  Briefly she recited the events that had occurred to her, dwelling muchupon Desborough's courage and devotion to her in the first days of hercaptivity, the death of Johnson, the burning of Norfolk, the death ofBentley. He interrupted her there, and would fain hear every detail ofthe sad scene over again, thanking her and blessing her for what shehad done.

  "It was nothing," she said simply; "I loved to do it; he was yourfriend. It seemed to bring me closer to you." Then she told him ofthe foundering of the ship, of the frightful voyage in the boat, andrang the changes upon Desborough's name, his cheerfulness, hisunfailing zeal and energy, until Seymour's heart filled with jealouspain.

  "Kate," he said at last, "as I came up the road I saw a man leave theboat-house and climb the hill; who was it?"

  "It was Lord Desborough, John."

  Seymour was human, and filled with human feeling. He drew away fromher.

  "What was he doing here?" he said coldly. She smiled at him merrily.

  "Bidding me good-by. He was made prisoner, of course, by the firstsoldier we came across after we landed, and has been spending the daysof his captivity with us. He was exchanged to-day, and leavesto-night."

  "Katharine, he was in love with you!" he said, with what seemed to himmarvellous perspicacity.

  "Yes, John," she answered, still smiling.

  "Was he making love to you here?"

  "Yes."

  "And you? You praise this man, you like him, you--"

  "I think him the bravest man, the truest gentleman in the world--exceptthis one," she said, laying her hand upon his shoulder and her headupon his breast. "No, no; he pleaded in vain. I only pitied him; Iloved you. Do not be jealous, foolish boy. No one should have me. Iam yours alone."

  "But if I had not come back, Kate,--how then?"

  "It would have made no difference. I told him so."

  Neither of them in their mutual absorption had noticed that a horse hadstopped in the road opposite the boat-house, and a horseman had walkedto the door and had halted at the sight which met his eyes. Desboroughrecognized Seymour at once, and he had unwittingly heard the end of theconversation. He was the second. The man was back again. It wastrue. The gallant gentleman stood still a moment, making no sound,then turned back and mounted his horse, and rode madly away withdespair in his heart.

  "Oh, Katharine," Seymour said at last, "do you know that I am a poorman now? Lame! See, I can no longer walk straight." He stood up."Poor surgery after the battle did that."

  "The more reason that in the future you should not go alone," she saidsoftly, standing by his side.

  "And with but one arm," he continued.

  "No, three," she said again, "for here are two."

  "Besides, my trading ships have been captured by the enemy, my privatefortune has been spent for the cause. I am a poor man in every sense."

  "Nay, John, you are a rich man," she said gayly.

  "Oh, yes, rich in your love, Katharine."

  "Yes, that of course, if that be riches, and richer in honor too; butthat's not all."

  "What else pray, dearest?"

  "Did you know that Madam Talbot had died?" she answered, with apparentirrelevance.

  "No, but I am not surprised at it. After her son's death I expectedit, poor lady. He loved you too, Kate. We fought about you once," hesaid; and then he told her briefly of Talbot's end, his burial, theinterview he had with Talbot's mother, and the letter.

  "I have seen that letter since I returned," she said. "It is atFairview Hall now awaiting you, awaiting its master like the otherthings there,--and here. Shall we live there, think you, John?"

  "Awaiting me! Its master! Live there! What mean you, Kate?" he criedin surprise.

  "Yes, yes, it is all yours," she replied, laughing at his astonishment."A codicil to her will, written and signed the day before she died, theday after you saw her, left it all to you. It was to have been herson's and then mine; and when she believed us dead, as she had norelatives in this land she left it to you, 'As,' I quote her own words,'a true and noble gentleman who honors any cause, however mistaken, towhich he may give his allegiance.' I quote them, but they are my ownwords as well. You are a rich man, John, and the two estates will cometogether as father and Madam Talbot had hoped, after all."

  "I am glad, Kate, for your sake."

  "It is nothing. I should have taken you, if you had nothing at all."

  A young man ran down the little pier and into the house at this moment."Kate," he cried, "where are you? It is so dark here I can hardlysee-- Ah, there you are!" he ran forward and kissed her boisterously."You 'll have to forgive me, I could not wait any longer, CaptainSeymour. Father rode down the hill after Lord Desborough galloped byme, and met me there, waiting. Oh, I was so glad to know you werealive again! We felt like a pair of murderers, did n't we, CaptainSeymour? Father told me you were here, Kate, and then we waited untilnow, to give you a little time, and then I could n't stand it anylonger, I had to see you. Father's coming too, but I ran ahead."

  "Why, Philip," cried Kate, as soon as he gave her an opportunity,kissing him again and laughing light-heartedly as she has not done fordays, "how you have grown! You are quite a man now."

  "It is entirely due to Philip, Katharine, that I am here," saidSeymour. "He commanded the little brig which ran down to the Yarmouthat the risk of destruction, and picked me up. Disobeyed orders too,the young rogue. He brought me into Charleston, nursed me like awoman, and then brought me here. I should have died without him."

  "Oh, Philip," said the delighted girl, kissing the proud and happyyoungster with more warmth than he had ever known before, "promise mealways to disobey your orders. How can I thank you!"

  "Very bad advice that. Promise nothing of the kind, Philip; but whatare you thanking him for, Kate?" said the cheery voice of the colonelas he came in the door.

  "Thanking him for Seymour, father."

  "Ah, my boy," said the colonel, grasping his hand, "you don't know howglad I am to see you. It is like one returning from the dead. But itis late and cold and quite dark. Supper is ready, let us go up to theHall. I shall see the Naval Commissioners in a few days, Seymour, andget you another and a better shi
p. The country is full of your action;they 've struck a medal for you and voted you prize money and thanks,and all that. I make no doubt I can get you the best ship there is onthe ways, or planned. 'T was a most heroic action--"

  "Not now, father," said Katharine, jealously, throwing her arm abouther lover. "He shall not, cannot, go now; he must have rest for a longtime, and he must have me! We are to be married as soon as he is well,and the country must wait. Is it not so, John?"

  "What's that?" said the colonel, pretending great surprise.

  "Sir," answered Seymour, nervously, "I have something to say toyou,--something I must say. Will you give me the privilege of a fewmoments' conversation with you?"

  "Seymour," said the colonel, smiling, "you asked me that once before,did you not?"

  "Yes, sir, I believe so."

  "And I answered you--how?"

  "Why, you said, if my memory serves me, that you--"

  "Exactly, that I would see you after supper, and so I will. Come,children, let us go in; this time I warrant you there will be nointerruptions."

  The father and son turned considerately and walked away, leaving thetwo lovers to follow.

  "You won't leave me, John, will you, now that you have just come back?"

  "No, Kate, not now; I am good for nothing until I get strong."

  "Good for me, though; but when you do get strong?"

  "Then, if my country needs me, dearest, I shall have to go. But I fearthere will be no more ships of ours to get to sea, the blockade isgetting more strict every day. I can be a soldier, though. No, Kate,do not beg me. My duty to my country constrains me."

  "Don't talk about it now, then, John. At least I shall have you for along time; it will be long before you are well again."

  "Yes, I fear so," he said with a sigh.

  "Why do you sigh, dearest?"

  "Because I want to stay with you, and I ought to welcome anyopportunity to enter active service. Think what old Bentley would say."

  "Old Bentley did not love you," she replied quickly, with a jealouspang.

  "Ah, did he not!" said Seymour, softly.

  There was a long pause.

  "Well," said Katharine at last, "I suppose nothing will move you ifyour duty calls you, but I warn you if you get killed again, I shalldie. I could not stand it another time," she cried piteously.

  "Well, dearest, I shall try to live for you. Now we must go to theHall."

  But, to anticipate, fate would be kinder toward Katharine in the futurethan she had been in the past and it was many a day before her lover,her husband rather, was able to get to sea; and, as if they hadsuffered enough, he went through the rest of the war on land and seascatheless, and was one of those who stood beside the great commanderbefore the trenches of Yorktown, when the British soldiers laid downtheir arms. But this was all of the future, and now they turnedquietly and somewhat sadly to follow the others.

  This time it was Katharine who helped Seymour up the hill. Slowly,hand in hand, they walked across the lawn, up the steps of the porch,and toward the door of the Hall. The night had fallen, and the housewas filled with a soft light from the wax candles. They paused amoment on the threshhold; Katharine resolutely mastered her fears andresolved to be happy in the present, then, heedless of all who mightsee, she kissed him.

  "Home at last, John," she said, beaming upon him. And there, with thedark behind, and the light before, we may say good-by to them.