“Peace, my brother, and listen,” continued Isabella, rousing herself with an effort that was final; “here is the innocent, the justifiable cause. We are both motherless—but that aunt—that mild, plain hearted, observing aunt, has given you the victory. Oh! how much she loses, who loses a female guardian to her youth. I have exhibited those feelings which you have been taught to repress. After this, can I wish to live!”
“Isabella! my poor Isabella! you wander in your mind.”
“But one word more—for I feel that blood which ever flowed too swiftly, rushing where nature never intended it to go. Woman must be sought, to be prized—her life is one of concealed emotions; blessed are they whose early impressions make the task free from hypocrisy, for such only can be happy with men like—like—Dunwoodie;” her voice failed and she sunk back on her pillow in silence. The cry of Singleton brought the rest of the party to her bed side, but death was already upon her countenance; her remaining strength just sufficed to reach the hand of George, and pressing it to her bosom for a moment, she relinquished her grasp, and, with a slight convulsion, expired.
Frances Wharton had thought that fate had done its worst, in endangering the life of her brother, and destroying the reason of her sister, but the relief conveyed by the dying declaration of Isabella, taught her that another sorrow had aided in loading her heart with grief. She saw the whole truth at a glance; nor was the manly delicacy of Dunwoodie lost upon her—every thing tended to raise him in her estimation; and for mourning that duty and pride had induced her to strive to think less of him, she was compelled to substitute regret that her own act had driven him from her in sorrow, if not in desperation. It is not in the nature of youth, however, to despair, and Frances knew a secret joy in the midst of their distress, that gave a new spring to her existence.
The sun broke forth, on the morning that succeeded this night of desolation, in unclouded lustre, and seemed to mock the petty sorrows of those who received his rays. Lawton had early ordered his steed, and was ready to mount as the first burst of light broke over the hills. His orders were already given, and the trooper threw his leg across the saddle, in silence; and, casting a glance of fierce chagrin at the narrow space that had favoured the flight of the Skinner, he gave Roanoke the rein and moved slowly towards the valley.
The stillness of death pervaded the road, nor was there a single vestige of the scenes of the night, to tarnish the loveliness of a glorious morn. Struck with the contrast between man and nature, the fearless trooper rode by each pass of danger, regardless of what might happen, nor did he rouse himself from his musing, until the noble charger, snuffing the morning air, greeted the steeds of the guard under Sergeant Hollister.
Here, indeed, was to be seen sad evidence of the midnight fray, but the trooper glanced his eye over it, with the coolness of one accustomed to such sights. Without wasting the moments in useless regrets, he proceeded, at once, to business—
“Have you seen any thing?” he demanded of the orderly.
“Nothing, sir, that we dared to charge upon,” returned Hollister; “but we mounted once, at the report of distant fire arms.”
“’Tis well,” said Lawton, gloomily. “Ah! Hollister, I would give the animal I ride, to have had your single arm between the wretch who drew that trigger and these useless rocks, which overhang every bit of ground, as if they grudged pasture to a single hoof.”
“Under the light of day, and charging man to man, I am as good as another; but I can’t say that I’m over-fond of fighting with those that neither steel nor lead can bring down.”
“What silly crotchet is uppermost, now, in that mystified brain of thine, Deacon Hollister?”
“I like not the dark object that has been manoeuvring in the skirt of the wood, since the first dawn of day; and twice, during the night, it was seen marching across the fire-light—no doubt with evil intent.”
“Is it yon ball of black, at the foot of the rock-maple, that you mean? In truth it moves.”
“But without mortal motion,” said the sergeant, regarding it with awful reverence; “it glides along, but no feet have been seen by any who watch here.”
“Had it wings,” cried Lawton, “it is mine; stand fast, until I join.” The words were hardly uttered, before Roanoke was flying across the plain, and apparently verifying the boast of his master.
“Those cursed rocks!” ejaculated the trooper, as he saw the object of his pursuit approaching the hill-side; but, either from want of practice, or from terror, it passed the obvious shelter they offered, and fled into the open plain.
“I have you, man or devil!” shouted Lawton, whirling his sabre from his scabbard. “Halt, and take quarter.”
His proposition was apparently acceded to, for at the sound of his powerful voice, the figure sunk upon the ground, exhibiting a shapeless ball of black, without life or motion.
“What have we here?” cried Lawton, drawing up by its side; “a gala suit of the good maiden, Jeanette Peyton, wandering around its birth-place, or searching in vain for its discomfited mistress?” He leaned forward in his stirrups, and placing the point of his sword under the silken garment, by throwing aside the covering, discovered part of the form of the reverend gentleman, who had fled from the “Locusts,” the evening before, in his robes of office.
“In truth, Hollister had some ground for his alarm; an army chaplain is at any time a terror to a troop of horse.”
The clergyman had collected enough of his disturbed faculties, to discover that it was a face he knew, and somewhat disconcerted at the terror he had manifested, and the indecent attitude in which he had been found, he endeavoured to rise and offer some explanation. Lawton received his apologies good humouredly, if not with much faith in their truth; and, after a short communication upon the state of the valley, the trooper courteously alighted, and they proceeded towards the guard.
“I am so little acquainted, sir, with the rebel uniform, that I really was unable to distinguish whether those men, whom you say are your own, did or did not belong to the gang of marauders.”
“Apology, sir, is unnecessary,” replied the trooper, curling his lip; “it is not your task, as a minister of God, to take note of the facings of a coat. The standard under which you serve is acknowledged by us all.”
“I serve under the standard of his gracious majesty, George III.” returned the priest, wiping the cold sweat from his brow; “but really the idea of being scalped, has a strong tendency to unman a new beginner, like myself.”
“Scalped!” echoed Lawton, stopping short in his walk; then recollecting himself, he added with composure—“if it is to Dunwoodie’s squadron of Virginian light dragoons that you allude, it may be well to inform you, that they generally take a bit of the skull with the skin.”
“Oh! I can have no apprehensions of gentlemen of your appearance,” said the divine with a smirk; “it is the natives that I apprehend.”
“Natives! I have the honour to be one, I do assure you, sir.”
“Nay, I beg that I may be understood—I mean the Indians—they who do nothing but rob, and murder, and destroy.”
“And scalp!”
“Yes, sir, and scalp too,” continued the clergyman, eyeing his companion a little suspiciously; “the copper-coloured, savage Indians.”
“And did you expect to meet those nose-jewelled gentry, in the neutral ground?”
“Certainly; we understand in England, that the interior swarms with them.”
“And call you this the interior of America?” cried Lawton, again halting, and staring the other in the face, with a surprise too naturally expressed to be counterfeited.
“Surely, sir, I conceive myself to be in the interior.”
“Attend,” said Lawton, pointing towards the east; “see you not that broad sheet of water which the eye cannot compass? thither lies the England you deem worthy to hold dominion over half the world. See you th
e land of your nativity?”
“’Tis impossible to behold objects at a distance of three thousand miles!” exclaimed the wondering priest, a little suspicious of his companion’s sanity.
“No! what a pity it is that the powers of man are not equal to his ambition. Now turn your eyes westward; observe that vast expanse of water which rolls between the shores of America and China.”
“I see nothing but land,” said the trembling priest; “there is no water to be seen.”
“’Tis impossible to behold objects at a distance of three thousand miles!” repeated Lawton pursuing his walk; “if you apprehend the savages, seek them in the ranks of your prince. Rum and gold have preserved their loyalty.”
“Nothing is more probable than my being deceived,” said the man of peace, casting furtive glances at the colossal stature and whiskered front of his companion; “but the rumours we have at home, and the uncertainty of meeting with such an enemy as yourself, induced me to fly, at your approach.”
“’Twas not judiciously determined,” said the trooper, “as Roanoke has the heels of you greatly; and flying from Scylla, you were liable to encounter Charybdis. Those woods and rocks cover the very enemies you dread.”
“The savages!” exclaimed the divine, instinctively placing the trooper in the rear.
“More than savages; men, who under the guise of patriotism, prowl through the community, with a thirst for plunder that is unsatiable, and a love of cruelty, that mocks the ingenuity of the Indian. Fellows, whose mouths are filled with liberty and equality, and whose hearts are overflowing with cupidity and gall—gentlemen that are y’clep’d the Skinners.”
“I have heard them mentioned in our army,” said the frightened divine, “and had thought them to be the Aborigines.”
“You did the savages injustice.”
They now approached the spot occupied by Hollister, who witnessed, with surprise, the character of the prisoner made by his captain. Lawton gave his orders, and the men immediately commenced securing and removing such articles of furniture as were thought worthy of the trouble; and the captain, with his reverend associate, who was mounted on a mettled horse, returned to the quarters of the troop.
It was the wish of Singleton, that the remains of his sister should be conveyed to the post commanded by his father, and preparations were early made to this effect. The wounded British were placed under the control of the chaplain, and towards the middle of the day, Lawton saw all the arrangements so far completed, as to render it probable, that in a few hours, he would be left with his small party in undisturbed possession of the Corners.
While leaning in the door-way, gazing in moody silence at the ground which had been the scene of the last night’s chase, his ear caught the sound of a horse, and the next moment a dragoon of his own troop appeared dashing up the road, as if on business of the last importance. The steed was foaming, and the rider had the appearance of having done a hard 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 that 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 is reported to have sent out a real soldier in command. Reports must be made to the commandant at Peekskill, for Col. Singleton is withdrawn to head-quarters to preside over the inquiry upon poor Wharton. Fresh orders have been sent to hang the pedlar 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 entirely changed the whole arrangement. There was no longer any motive for removing the body of Isabella, since her father was no longer, with his command, and Singleton reluctantly acquiesced in an immediate interment. A retired and lovely spot was selected, near the foot of the adjacent rocks, and such rude preparations were made, as the time and the situation of the country permitted. A few of the neighbouring inhabitants collected from curiosity and interest, and Miss Peyton and Frances wept in sincerity over her grave. The solemn offices of the church were performed by the minister who had so lately stood forth to officiate in another and very different duty; and Lawton bent his head, and passed his hand across his brow, while the words that accompanied the first clod were uttered.
A new stimulus was given to the Whartons, by the intelligence conveyed in the letter of Dunwoodie, and Caesar, with his horses, was once more put in requisition. The relics of the property were entrusted to a neighbour, in whom they had confidence, and accompanied by the unconscious Sarah, and attended by four dragoons, and all of the American wounded, Mr. Wharton’s party took their departure. They were speedily followed by the English chaplain, with his countrymen, who were conveyed to the water side, where a vessel was in waiting to receive them. Lawton joyfully witnessed these movements, and as soon as the latter were out of sight, he ordered his own bugle to sound. Every thing was instantly in motion. The mare of Mrs. Flanagan was again fastened to the cart;—Dr. Sitgreaves exhibited his shapeless form once more on horseback, and the trooper appeared in the saddle, rejoicing in his emancipation.
The word to march was given; when Lawton, throwing a look of sullen ferocity at the place of the Skinners’ concealment, and another of melancholy regret towards the grave of Isabella, led the way, accompanied by the surgeon, in a brown study; while Sergeant Hollister and Betty brought up the rear, leaving a fresh southerly wind to whistle through the open doors and broken windows of the “Hotel Flanagan,” where the laugh of hilarity, the joke of the hardy partisan, and the lamentations of the sorrowing, had so lately echoed.
Chapter XXV
“No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array,
But winter, lingering, chills the lap of May;
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain’s breast,
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest.”
Goldsmith.
* * *
THE ROADS of West-Chester are, at this hour, below the improvements of the country. Their condition at the time of the tale, has already been alluded to, in these pages, and the reader will, therefore, easily imagine the task assumed by Caesar, when he undertook to guide the translated chariot of the English prelate, through their windings, into one of the less frequented passes of the highlands of the Hudson.
While Caesar and his steeds were contending with these difficulties, the inmates of the carriage were too much engrossed with their own cares to attend to those who served them. The mind of Sarah had ceased to wander so wildly as at first; but at every advance that she made towards reason she seemed to retire a step from animation—from being excited and flighty, she was gradually becoming moody and melancholy. There were moments indeed when her anxious companions thought that they could discern marks of recollection; but the expression of exquisite woe that accompanied these transient gleams of reason, forced them to the dreadful alternative of wishing that she might forever be spared the agony of thought. 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 dispersed. The wounded diverged towards the river, with the intention of taking water at Peeks-kill, in order to be transported to the hospitals of the American army above. The litter of Singleton was conveyed to a part of the highlands where his father held his quarters, and where it was intended that the youth should complete his cure—the carriage of Mr. Wharton, accompanied by a wago
n conveying the housekeeper and what baggage had been saved and could be transported, resumed its route towards the place where Henry Wharton was held in duresse, and where he only waited their arrival, to be put on trial for his life.
The country which lies between the waters of the Hudson and Long-Island Sound, is, for the first forty miles from their junction, a succession of hills and dales. The land bordering on the latter then becomes less abrupt, and gradually assumes a milder appearance, until it finally melts into the lovely plains and meadows of the Connecticut. But as you approach the Hudson the rugged aspect increases, until you at length meet with the formidable barrier of the Highlands. Here the Neutral Ground ceased. The royal army held the two points of land that commanded the Southern entrance of the river into the mountains; but all of the remaining passes were guarded by the Americans.
We have already stated that the picquets of the Continental army were sometimes pushed low into the county, and that the hamlet of the White Plains was occasionally maintained by parties of its troops. At other times, the advanced guards were withdrawn to the Northern extremity of the county, and as has been shown, the intermediate country was abandoned to the ravages of the miscreants who plundered between both armies, serving neither.
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 were procured, with but little regard to their owner’s wishes, by the two dragoons who still continued to accompany the party. With their assistance, Caesar was enabled to advance by slow and toilsome steps into the bosom of the hills. Willing to relieve her own melancholy by breathing a fresher air, and also to lessen the weight, Frances alighted, as they reached the foot of a mountain. She found that Katy had made similar preparations, with the like intention of walking to the summit. It was near the setting of the sun, and, from the top of the mountain, their guard had declared, that the end of their journey might be discerned. Frances moved forward with the elastic step of youth, and followed by the housekeeper at a little distance, she soon lost sight of the sluggish carriage, that was slowly toiling up the hill, occasionally halting to allow the cattle to breathe.
The Spy & Lionel Lincoln Page 36
