The Virginians

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  CHAPTER XIII. Profitless Quest

  At every step which Harry Warrington took towards Pennsylvania, thereports of the British disaster were magnified and confirmed. Those twofamous regiments which had fought in the Scottish and Continental wars,had fled from an enemy almost unseen, and their boasted discipline andvalour had not enabled them to face a band of savages and a few Frenchinfantry. The unfortunate commander of the expedition had shown theutmost bravery and resolution. Four times his horse had been shot underhim. Twice he had been wounded, and the last time of the mortal hurtwhich ended his life three days after the battle. More than one ofHarry's informants described the action to the poor lad,--the passage ofthe river, the long line of advance through the wilderness, the firingin front, the vain struggle of the men to advance, and the artilleryto clear the way of the enemy; then the ambushed fire from behind everybush and tree, and the murderous fusillade, by which at least half ofthe expeditionary force had been shot down. But not all the General'ssuite were killed, Harry heard. One of his aides-de-camp, a Virginiangentleman, was ill of fever and exhaustion at Dunbar's camp.

  One of them--but which? To the camp Harry hurried, and reached it atlength. It was George Washington Harry found stretched in a tentthere, and not his brother. A sharper pain than that of the fever Mr.Washington declared he felt, when he saw Harry Warrington, and couldgive him no news of George.

  Mr. Washington did not dare to tell Harry all. For three days afterthe fight his duty had been to be near the General. On the fatal 9th ofJuly, he had seen George go to the front with orders from the chief,to whose side he never returned. After Braddock himself died, theaide-de-camp had found means to retrace his course to the field. Thecorpses which remained there were stripped and horribly mutilated.One body he buried which he thought to be George Warrington's. Hisown illness was increased, perhaps occasioned, by the anguish which heunderwent in his search for the unhappy young volunteer.

  "Ah, George! If you had loved him you would have found him dead oralive," Harry cried out. Nothing would satisfy him but that he, too,should go to the ground and examine it. With money he procured a guideor two. He forded the river at the place where the army had passedover: he went from one end to the other of the dreadful field. It wasno longer haunted by Indians now. The birds of prey were feeding onthe mangled festering carcases. Save in his own grandfather, lying verycalm, with a sweet smile on his lip, Harry had never yet seen the faceof Death. The horrible spectacle of mutilation caused him to turn awaywith shudder and loathing. What news could the vacant woods, or thosefestering corpses lying under the trees, give the lad of his lostbrother? He was for going, unarmed and with a white flag, to the Frenchfort, whither, after their victory, the enemy had returned; but hisguides refused to advance with him. The French might possibly respectthem, but the Indians would not. "Keep your hair for your lady mother,my young gentleman," said the guide. "'Tis enough that she loses one sonin this campaign."

  When Harry returned to the English encampment at Dunbar's, it was histurn to be down with the fever. Delirium set in upon him, and he laysome time in the tent and on the bed from which his friend had justrisen convalescent. For some days he did not know who watched him; andpoor Dempster, who had tended him in more than one of these maladies,thought the widow must lose both her children; but the fever was sofar subdued that the boy was enabled to rally somewhat, and get tohorseback. Mr. Washington and Dempster both escorted him home. It waswith a heavy heart, no doubt, that all three beheld once more the gatesof Castlewood.

  A servant in advance had been sent to announce their coming. First cameMrs. Mountain and her little daughter, welcoming Harry with manytears and embraces, but she scarce gave a nod of recognition to Mr.Washington; and the little girl caused the young officer to start, andturn deadly pale, by coming up to him with her hands behind her, andasking, "Why have you not brought George back too?" Harry did not hear.The sobs and caresses of his good friend and nurse luckily kept him fromlistening to little Fanny.

  Dempster was graciously received by the two ladies. "Whatever could bedone, we know you would do, Mr. Dempster," says Mrs. Mountain, givinghim her hand. "Make a curtsey to Mr. Dempster, Fanny, and remember,child, to be grateful to all who have been friendly to our benefactors.Will it please you to take any refreshment before you ride, ColonelWashington?"

  Mr. Washington had had a sufficient ride already, and counted ascertainly upon the hospitality of Castlewood, as he would upon theshelter of his own house.

  "The time to feed my horse, and a glass of water for myself, and I willtrouble Castlewood hospitality no further," Mr. Washington said.

  "Sure, George, you have your room here, and my mother is above-stairsgetting it ready!" cries Harry. "That poor horse of yours stumbled withyou, and can't go farther this evening."

  "Hush! Your mother won't see him, child," whispered Mrs. Mountain.

  "Not see George? Why, he is like a son of the house," cries Harry.

  "She had best not see him. I don't meddle any more in family matters,child: but when the Colonel's servant rode in, and said you were coming,Madam Esmond left this room, my dear, where she was sitting readingDrelincourt, and said she felt she could not see Mr. Washington. Willyou go to her?" Harry took his friend's arm, and excusing himself to theColonel, to whom he said he would return in a few minutes, he left theparlour in which they had assembled, and went to the upper rooms, whereMadam Esmond was.

  He was hastening across the corridor, and, with an averted head, passingby one especial door, which he did not like to look at, for it was thatof his brother's room; but as he came to it, Madam Esmond issued fromit, and folded him to her heart, and led him in. A settee was by thebed, and a book of psalms lay on the coverlet. All the rest of the roomwas exactly as George had left it.

  "My poor child! How thin thou art grown--how haggard you look! Nevermind. A mother's care will make thee well again. 'Twas nobly done to goand brave sickness and danger in search of your brother. Had others beenas faithful, he might be here now. Never mind, my Harry; our hero willcome back to us,--I know he is not dead. One so good, and so brave,and so gentle, and so clever as he was, I know is not lost to usaltogether." (Perhaps Harry thought within himself that his mother hadnot always been accustomed so to speak of her eldest son.) "Dry up thytears, my dear! He will come back to us, I know he will come." And whenHarry pressed her to give a reason for her belief, she said she had seenher father two nights running in a dream, and he had told her that herboy was a prisoner among the Indians.

  Madam Esmond's grief had not prostrated her as Harry's had when firstit fell upon him; it had rather stirred and animated her: her eyes wereeager, her countenance angry and revengeful. The lad wondered almost atthe condition in which he found his mother.

  But when he besought her to go downstairs, and give a hand of welcometo George Washington, who had accompanied him, the lady's excitementpainfully increased. She said she should shudder at touching his hand.She declared Mr. Washington had taken her son from her, she could notsleep under the same roof with him.

  "He gave me his bed when I was ill, mother; and if our George is alive,how has George Washington a hand in his death? Ah! please God it be onlyas you say," cried Harry, in bewilderment.

  "If your brother returns, as return he will, it will not be through Mr.Washington's help," said Madam Esmond. "He neither defended George onthe field, nor would he bring him out of it."

  "But he tended me most kindly in my fever," interposed Harry. "He wasyet ill when he gave up his bed to me, and was thinking only of hisfriend, when any other man would have thought only of himself."

  "A friend! A pretty friend!" sneers the lady. "Of all his Excellency'saides-de-camp, my gentleman is the only one who comes back unwounded.The brave and noble fall, but he, to be sure, is unhurt. I confidemy boy to him, the pride of my life, whom he will defend with his,forsooth! And he leaves my George in the forest, and brings me backhimself! Oh, a pretty welcome I must give him!"

  "No gentleman," crie
d Harry, warmly, "was ever refused shelter under mygrandfather's roof."

  "Oh no--no gentleman!" exclaims the little widow; "let us go down, ifyou like, son, and pay our respects to this one. Will you please to giveme your arm?" And taking an arm which was very little able to give hersupport, she walked down the broad stairs, and into the apartment wherethe Colonel sate.

  She made him a ceremonious curtsey, and extended one of the littlehands, which she allowed for a moment to rest in his. "I wish that ourmeeting had been happier, Colonel Washington," she said.

  "You do not grieve more than I do that it is otherwise, madam," said theColonel.

  "I might have wished that the meeting had been spared, that I might nothave kept you from friends whom you are naturally anxious to see,--thatmy boy's indisposition had not detained you. Home and his good nurseMountain, and his mother and our good Doctor Dempster, will soon restorehim. 'Twas scarce necessary, Colonel, that you, who have so many affairson your hands, military and domestic, should turn doctor too."

  "Harry was ill and weak, and I thought it was my duty to ride by him,"faltered the Colonel.

  "You yourself, sir, have gone through the fatigues and dangers of thecampaign in the most wonderful manner," said the widow, curtseyingagain, and looking at him with her impenetrable black eyes.

  "I wish to Heaven, madam, some one else had come back in my place!"

  "Nay, sir, you have ties which must render your life more than evervaluable and dear to you, and duties to which, I know, you must beanxious to betake yourself. In our present deplorable state of doubt anddistress, Castlewood can be a welcome place to no stranger, much lessto you, and so I know, sir, you will be for leaving us ere long. And youwill pardon me if the state of my own spirits obliges me for the mostpart to keep my chamber. But my friends here will bear you company aslong as you favour us, whilst I nurse my poor Harry upstairs. Mountain,you will have the cedar-room on the ground-floor ready for Mr.Washington, and anything in the house is at his command. Farewell, sir.Will you be pleased to present my compliments to your mother, who willbe thankful to have her son safe and sound out of the war,--as alsoto my young friend Martha Custis, to whom and to whose children Iwish every happiness. Come, my son!" and with these words, and anotherfreezing curtsey, the pale little woman retreated, looking steadily atthe Colonel, who stood dumb on the floor.

  Strong as Madam Esmond's belief appeared to be respecting her son'ssafety, the house of Castlewood naturally remained sad and gloomy.She might forbid mourning for herself and family; but her heart wasin black, whatever face the resolute little lady persisted in wearingbefore the world. To look for her son, was hoping against hope. Noauthentic account of his death had indeed arrived, and no one appearedwho had seen him fall; but hundreds more had been so stricken on thatfatal day, with no eyes to behold their last pangs, save those of thelurking enemy and the comrades dying by their side. A fortnight afterthe defeat, when Harry was absent on his quest, George's servant,Sady, reappeared wounded and maimed at Castlewood. But he could giveno coherent account of the battle, only of his flight from the centre,where he was with the baggage. He had no news of his master since themorning of the action. For many days Sady lurked in the negro quartersaway from the sight of Madam Esmond, whose anger he did not dare toface. That lady's few neighbours spoke of her as labouring under adelusion. So strong was it, that there were times when Harry and theother members of the little Castlewood family were almost brought toshare in it. It seemed nothing strange to her, that her father out ofanother world should promise her her son's life. In this world or thenext, that family sure must be of consequence, she thought. Nothinghad ever yet happened to her sons, no accident, no fever, no importantillness, but she had a prevision of it. She could enumerate half a dozeninstances, which, indeed, her household was obliged more or less toconfirm, how, when anything had happened to the boys at ever so great adistance, she had known of their mishap and its consequences. No, Georgewas not dead; George was a prisoner among the Indians; George would comeback and rule over Castlewood; as sure, as sure as his Majesty wouldsend a great force from home to recover the tarnished glory of theBritish arms, and to drive the French out of the Americas.

  As for Mr. Washington, she would never with her own goodwill behold himagain. He had promised to protect George with his life. Why was her songone and the Colonel alive? How dared he to face her after that promise,and appear before a mother without her son? She trusted she knew herduty. She bore illwill to no one: but as an Esmond, she had a sense ofhonour, and Mr. Washington had forfeited hers in letting her son out ofhis sight. He had to obey superior orders (some one perhaps objected)?Psha! a promise was a promise. He had promised to guard George's lifewith his own, and where was her boy? And was not the Colonel (a prettyColonel, indeed!) sound and safe? Do not tell me that his coat and hathad shots through them! (This was her answer to another humble plea inMr. Washington's behalf.) Can't I go into the study this instant andfire two shots with my papa's pistols through this paduasoy skirt,--andshould I be killed? She laughed at the notion of death resulting fromany such operation; nor was her laugh very pleasant to hear. The satireof people who have little natural humour is seldom good sport forbystanders. I think dull men's faceticae are mostly cruel.

  So, if Harry wanted to meet his friend, he had to do so in secret, atcourt-houses, taverns, or various places of resort; or in their littletowns, where the provincial gentry assembled. No man of spirit, shevowed, could meet Mr. Washington after his base desertion of her family.She was exceedingly excited when she heard that the Colonel and her sonabsolutely had met. What a heart must Harry have to give his hand to onewhom she considered as little better than George's murderer! For shameto say so! For shame upon you, ungrateful boy, forgetting the dearest,noblest, most perfect of brothers, for that tall, gawky, fox-huntingColonel, with his horrid oaths! How can he be George's murderer, whenI say my boy is not dead? He is not dead, because my instinct neverdeceived me: because, as sure as I see his picture now before me,--only'tis not near so noble or so good as he used to look,--so surely twonights running did my papa appear to me in my dreams. You doubt aboutthat, very likely? 'Tis because you never loved anybody sufficiently, mypoor Harry; else you might have leave to see them in dreams, as has beenvouchsafed to some."

  "I think I loved George, mother," cried Harry. "I have often prayed thatI might dream about him, and I don't."

  "How you can talk, sir, of loving George, and then--go and meet your Mr.Washington at horse-races, I can't understand! Can you, Mountain?"

  "We can't understand many things in our neighbours' characters. I canunderstand that our boy is unhappy, and that he does not get strength,and that he is doing no good here, in Castlewood, or moping at thetaverns and court-houses with horse-coupers and idle company," grumbledMountain in reply to her patroness; and, in truth, the dependant wasright.

  There was not only grief in the Castlewood House, but there wasdisunion. "I cannot tell how it came," said Harry, as he brought thestory to an end, which we have narrated in the last two numbers,and which he confided to his new-found English relative, Madame deBernstein; "but since that fatal day of July, last year, and my returnhome, my mother never has been the same woman. She seemed to love noneof us as she used. She was for ever praising George, and yet she didnot seem as if she liked him much when he was with us. She hath plunged,more deeply than ever, into her books of devotion, out of which sheonly manages to extract grief and sadness, as I think. Such a gloom hasfallen over our wretched Virginian house of Castlewood, that we allgrew ill, and pale as ghosts, who inhabited it. Mountain told me, madam,that, for nights, my mother would not close her eyes. I have had her atmy bedside, looking so ghastly, that I have started from my own sleep,fancying a ghost before me. By one means or other she has wroughtherself into a state of excitement which if not delirium, is akin toit. I was again and again struck down by the fever, and all the Jesuits'bark in America could not cure me. We have a tobacco-house and some landabout the new town of Richmond
, in our province, and went thither, asWilliamsburg is no wholesomer than our own place; and there I mended alittle, but still did not get quite well, and the physicians stronglycounselled a sea-voyage. My mother, at one time, had thoughts of comingwith me, but--" (and here the lad blushed and hung his head down)"--we did not agree very well, though I know we loved each other veryheartily, and 'twas determined that I should see the world for myself.So I took passage in our ship from the James River, and was landed atBristol. And 'twas only on the 9th of July, this year, at sea, as hadbeen agreed between me and Madam Esmond, that I put mourning on for mydear brother."

  So that little Mistress of the Virginian Castlewood, for whom, I amsure, we have all the greatest respect, had the knack of rendering thepeople round about her uncomfortable; quarrelled with those she lovedbest, and exercised over them her wayward jealousies and imperioushumours, until they were not sorry to leave her. Here was money enough,friends enough, a good position, and the respect of the world; a housestored with all manner of plenty, and good things, and poor HarryWarrington was glad to leave them all behind him. Happy! Who ishappy? What good in a stalled ox for dinner every day, and no contenttherewith? Is it best to be loved and plagued by those you love, or tohave an easy, comfortable indifference at home; to follow your fancies,live there unmolested, and die without causing any painful regrets ortears?

  To be sure, when her boy was gone, Madam Esmond forgot all these littletiffs and differences. To hear her speak of both her children, you wouldfancy they were perfect characters, and had never caused her a moment'sworry or annoyance. These gone, Madam fell naturally upon Mrs. Mountainand her little daughter, and worried and annoyed them. But womenbear with hard words more easily than men, are more ready to forgiveinjuries, or, perhaps, to dissemble anger. Let us trust that MadamEsmond's dependants found their life tolerable, that they gave herladyship sometimes as good as they got, that if they quarrelled in themorning they were reconciled at night, and sate down to a tolerablyfriendly game at cards and an amicable dish of tea.

  But, without the boys, the great house of Castlewood was dreary to thewidow. She left an overseer there to manage her estates, and only paidthe place an occasional visit. She enlarged and beautified her housein the pretty little city of Richmond, which began to grow daily inimportance. She had company there, and card-assemblies, and preachers inplenty; and set up her little throne there, to which the gentlefolks ofthe province were welcome to come and bow. All her domestic negroes,who loved society as negroes will do, were delighted to exchange thesolitude of Castlewood for the gay and merry little town; where, fora time, and while we pursue Harry Warrington's progress in Europe, weleave the good lady.