Horse-Shoe Robinson: A Tale of the Tory Ascendency

by John Pendleton Kennedy

  CHAPTER XLVI.

  A RUSTIC FUNERAL.

  How glumly sounds yon dirgy song; Night ravens flap the wing.--_Burger's Leonora._

  By eleven o'clock at night, Butler and the party from Ramsay's arrivedat the woodman's cabin. Winter and his comrades had been busy in makingpreparations for the funeral. The body had been laid out upon a table, asheet thrown over it, and a pine torch blazed from the chimney wallclose by, and flung its broad, red glare over the apartment. An elderlyfemale, the wife of the woodman, and two or three children, sat quietlyin the room. The small detachment of troopers loitered around thecorpse, walking with stealthy pace across the floor, and now and thenadjusting such matters of detail in the arrangements for the intermentas required their attention. A rude coffin, hastily constructed of suchmaterials as were at hand, was deposited near the table. A solemnsilence prevailed, which no less consisted with the gloom of theoccasion than with the late hour of the night.

  When the newly arrived party had dismounted and entered the apartment, ashort salutation, in suppressed tones, was exchanged, and withoutfurther delay, the whole company set themselves to the melancholy dutythat was before them. David Ramsay approached the body, and, turning thesheet down from the face, stood gazing on the features of his son. Therewas a settled frown upon his brow that contrasted signally with thecomposed and tranquil lineaments of the deceased. The father and sonpresented a strange and remarkable type of life and death--thecountenance of the mourner stamped by the agitation of keen, livingemotion, and the object mourned bearing the impress of a serene, placid,and passionless repose:--the one a vivid picture of misery, the other aquiet image of happy sleep. David Ramsay bent his looks upon the bodyfor some minutes, without an endeavor to speak, and at last retreatedtowards the door, striking his hand upon his forehead as he breathed outthe ejaculation, "My son, my son, how willingly would I change placeswith you this night!"

  Allen Musgrove was less agitated by the spectacle, and whilst hesurveyed the features of the deceased, his lips were moved with theutterance of a short and almost inaudible prayer. Then turning toDrummond, he inquired: "Has the grave been thought of? Who has attendedto the preparations?"

  "It has been thought of," replied the woodman; "I sent two of my peopleoff to dig it before I went with Major Butler to see David. We have agrave-yard across in the woods, nigh a mile from this, and I thought itbest that John Ramsay should be buried there."

  "It was kindly thought on by you, Gabriel," replied Musgrove. "You haveyour father and others of your family in that spot. David Ramsay willthank you for it."

  "I do, heartily," said Ramsay, "and will remember it, Gabriel, atanother time."

  "Let the body be lifted into the coffin," said Musgrove.

  The order was promptly executed by Harry Winter and the other troopers.In a few minutes afterwards, the rough boards which had been provided toclose up the box or coffin, were laid in their appropriate places, andWinter had just begun to hammer the nails into them, when from theoutside of the cabin was heard a wild and piercing scream, that fell sosuddenly upon the ears of those within as to cause the trooper to dropthe hammer from his hand. In one moment more, Mary Musgrove rushed intothe room and fell prostrate upon the floor. She was instantly followedby Andrew.

  "God of heaven!" exclaimed Butler, "here is misery upon misery. Thispoor girl's brain is crazed by her misfortune. This is worst of all!"

  "Mary, Mary, my child!" ejaculated Musgrove, as he raised his daughterinto his arms. "What madness has come upon you, that you should havewandered here to-night!"

  "How has this happened, Andrew?" said David Ramsay, all speaking in thesame breath.

  "When Mary heard," replied Andrew, in answer to his father's question,"that you had all come to Gabriel Drummond's to bury my brother, shecouldn't rest content; and she prayed so pitifully to come after you,and see him before they put him in the ground, that I thought it rightto tell her that I would come with her. And if I hadn't, she would havecome by herself; for she had got upon her horse before any of us wereaware."

  "I couldn't stay at home, father," said Mary, reviving and speaking in afirm voice. "I should have died with a broken heart. I couldn't let youcome to put him in the earth without following after you. Where is he? Iheard them nailing the coffin; it must be broken open for me to seehim!"

  These words, uttered with a bitter vehemence, were followed by a quickmovement towards the coffin, which was yet unclosed; and the maiden,with more composure than her previous gestures seemed to render itpossible for her to acquire, paused before the body with a look ofintense sorrow, as the tears fell fast from her eyes.

  "It is true--it is too true--he is dead! Oh, John, John!" she exclaimed,as she stooped down and kissed the cold lips, "I did not dream of thiswhen we parted last night near the willows. You did not look as you donow, when I found you asleep under the rock, and when you promised me,John, that you would be careful and keep yourself from danger, if it wasonly to please me. We were doing our best for you then, MajorButler--and here is what it has come to. No longer than last night hemade me the promise. Oh me, oh me! how wretched--how miserable I am!"

  "Daughter, dear," said Allen Musgrove, "rise up and behave like a bravegirl as, you know, I have often told you you were. We are born toafflictions, and young as you are, you cannot hope to be free from thecommon lot. You do yourself harm by this ungoverned grief. There's agood and a kind girl--sit yourself down and calm your feelings."

  Musgrove took his daughter by the hand, and gently conducted her to aseat, where he continued to address her in soothing language, secretlyafraid that the agony of her feelings might work some serious misfortuneupon her senses.

  "You are not angry with me, father, for following you to-night?" saidMary, for a moment moderating the wildness of her sorrow.

  "No, child, no. I cannot be angry with you; but I fear this longnight-ride may do you harm."

  "I can but die, father; and I would not step aside from that."

  "Recollect yourself, Mary; your Bible does not teach you to wish fordeath. It is sinful to rebel under the chastisements of God. Daughter, Ihave taught you in your day of prosperity, the lessons that were to bepractised in your time of suffering and trial. Do not now turn me and myprecepts to shame."

  "Oh, father, forgive me. It is so hard to lose the best, the dearest!"Here Mary again gave way to emotions which could only relieve themselvesin profuse tears.

  In the meantime the body was removed to the outside of the cabin, andthe coffin was speedily shut up and deposited upon a light wagon-frame,to which two lean horses were already harnessed, and which waited toconvey its burden to the grave-yard.

  "All is ready," said Winter, stepping quietly into the house, andspeaking in a low tone to Musgrove. "We are waiting only for you."

  "Father," said Mary, who, on hearing this communication, had sprung toher feet, "I must go with you."

  "My child!"

  "I came all this way through the dark woods on purpose, father--and itis my right to go with him to his grave. Pray, dear father, do notforbid me. We belonged to each other, and he would be glad to think Iwas the last that left him--the very last."

  "The poor child takes on so," said the wife of Drummond, now for thefirst time interposing in the scene; "and it seems natural, Mr.Musgrove, that you shouldn't hinder her. I will go along, and maybe itwill be a comfort to her, to have some woman-kind beside her. I willtake her hand."

  "You shall go, Mary," said her father; "but on the condition that yougovern your feelings, and behave with the moderation of a Christianwoman. Take courage, my child, and show your nurture."

  "I will, father--I will; the worst is past, and I can walk quietly toJohn's grave," replied Mary, as the tears again flowed fast, and hervoice was stifled with her sobs.

  "It is a heavy trouble for such a young creature to bear," said MistressDrummond, as she stood beside the maiden, waiting for this burst ofgrief to subside; "but this world is full of such sorrows."


  Musgrove now quitted the apartment. He was followed by his daughter andthe rest of the inmates, all of whom repaired to the front of the cabin,where they awaited the removal of the body.

  A bundle of pine faggots had been provided, and each one of the partywas supplied from them with a lighted torch. Some little delay occurredwhilst Harry Winter was concluding his arrangements for the funeral.

  "Take your weapons along, boys," said the trooper to his comrades, in awhisper. "John Ramsay shall have the honors of war--and mark, you are tobring up the rear--let the women walk next the wagon. Gabriel Drummond,bring your rifle along--we shall give a volley over the grave."

  The woodman stepped into the cabin and returned with his fire lock. Allthings being ready, the wagon, under the guidance of a negro who walkedat the horses' heads, now moved forward. The whole party formed aprocession in couples--the woodman's wife and Mary being first in thetrain, the children succeeding them, and the rest following in regularorder.

  It was an hour after midnight. The road, scarcely discernible, woundthrough a thick forest, and the procession moved with a slow and heavystep towards its destination. The torches lit up the darkness of thewood with a strong flame, that penetrated the mass of sombre foliage tothe extent of some fifty paces around, and glared with a wild andromantic effect upon the rude coffin, the homely vehicle on which it wasborne, and upon the sorrowing faces of the train that followed it. Theseclusion of the region, the unwonted hour, and the strange mixture ofdomestic and military mourning, half rustic and half warlike, thatentered into the composition of the group; and, above all, themanifestations of sincere and intense grief that were seen in everymember of the train, communicated to the incident a singularlyimaginative and unusual character. No words were spoken, except the feworders of the march announced by Harry Winter in a whisper; and the earrecognised, with a painful precision, the unceasing sobs of MaryMusgrove, and the deep groan that seemed, unawares, to escape now andthen from some of the males of the party. The dull tramp of feet, andthe rusty creak of the wagon-wheels, or the crackling of brushwoodbeneath them, and the monotonous clank of the chains employed in thegearing of the horses, all broke upon the stillness of the night with amore abrupt and observed distinctness, from the peculiar tone of feelingwhich pervaded those who were engaged in the sad offices of the scene.

  In the space of half an hour, the train had emerged from the wood upon asmall tract of open ground, that seemed to have been formerly clearedfrom the forest for the purpose of cultivation. Whatever tillage mighthave once existed there was now abandoned, and the space was overgrownwith brambles, through which the blind road still struggled by a trackthat even in daylight it would have been difficult to pursue. Towardsthe centre of this opening grew a cluster of low cherry and peach trees,around whose roots a plentiful stock of wild scions had shot up in theabsence of culture. Close in the shade of this cluster, a ragged andhalf-decayed paling formed a square inclosure of some ten or twelvepaces broad, and a few rude posts set up within, indicated the spot tobe the rustic grave-yard. Here two negroes were seen resting over anewly-dug grave.

  The wagon halted within some short distance of the paling, and thecoffin was now committed to the shoulders of the troopers. Followingthese, the whole train of mourners entered the burial-place.

  My reader will readily imagine with what fresh fervor the grief of poorMary broke forth, whilst standing on the verge of the pit in which wereto be entombed the remains of one so dear to her. The solemn interval orpause which intervened between the arrival of the corpse at this spot,and its being lowered into the ground, was one that was not signalizedonly by the loud sorrow of her who here bore the part of chief mourner;but all, even to the negroes who stood musing over their spades, gavevent to feelings which, at such a moment, it neither belongs tohumanity, nor becomes it, to resist.

  The funeral service was performed by Allen Musgrove. The character ofthe miller, both physical and moral, impressed his present employmentwith singular efficacy. Though his frame bore the traces of age, it wasstill robust and muscular; and his bearing, erect and steadfast, denotedfirmness of mind. His head, partially bald, was now uncovered; and hisloose, whitened locks played in the breeze. The torches were raisedabove the group; and as they flared in the wind and flung their heavyvolumes of smoke into the air, they threw also a blaze of light upon thevenerable figure of the miller, as he poured forth an impassionedsupplication to the Deity; which, according to the habit of thinking ofthat period, and conformably also to the tenets of the religious sect towhich the speaker belonged, might be said to have expressed, in an equaldegree, resignation to the will of Heaven and defiance of the power ofman. Though the office at the grave was thus prolonged, it did not seemto be unexpected or wearisome to the auditory, who remained withunabated interest until they had chanted a hymn, which was given out bythe miller, and sung in successive couplets. The religious observancesof the place seemed to have taken a profitable hold upon the hearts ofthe mourners; and before the hymn was concluded, even the voice of MaryMusgrove rose with a clear cadence upon the air, and showed that theinspirations of piety had already supplanted some of the more violentparoxysms of grief.

  This exercise of devotion being finished, the greater part of thecompany began their retreat to the woodman's cabin. Winter and hiscomrades remained to perform the useless and idle ceremony ofdischarging their pistols over the grave, and when this was accomplishedthey hurried forward to overtake the party in advance.

  They had scarcely rejoined their companions, before the horses of thewagon were seized by an unknown hand; and the glare of the torchespresented to the view of the company some fifteen or twenty files ofBritish troopers.

  "Stand, I charge you all, in the name of the king!" called out anauthoritative voice from the contiguous thicket; and before anotherword could be uttered, the funeral train found themselves surrounded byenemies.

  "Hands off!" exclaimed Butler, as a soldier had seized him by the coat.A pistol shot was heard, and Butler was seen plunging into the wood,followed by Winter and one or two others.

  The fugitives were pursued by numbers of the hostile party, and in a fewmoments were dragged back to the lights.

  "Who are you, sir?" demanded an officer, who now rode up to Butler,"that you dare to disobey a command in the name of the king? Friend orfoe, you must submit to be questioned."

  "We have been engaged," said Allen Musgrove, "in the peaceful andChristian duty of burying the dead. What right have you to interruptus?"

  "You take a strange hour for such a work," replied the officer, "and, bythe volley fired over the grave, I doubt whether your service be sopeaceful as you pretend, old man. What is he that you have laid beneaththe turf to-night?"

  "A soldier," replied Butler, "worthy of all the rites that belong to thesepulture of a brave man."

  "And you are a comrade, I suppose?"

  "I do not deny it."

  "What colors do you serve?"

  "Who is he that asks?"

  "Captain McAlpine of the new levies," replied the officer. "Now, sir,your name and character? you must be convinced of my right to know it."

  "I have no motive for concealment," said Butler, "since I am already inyour power. Myself and four comrades are strictly your prisoners; therest of this party are inhabitants of the neighboring country, having noconnexion with the war, but led hither by a simple wish to perform anoffice of humanity to a deceased friend. In surrendering myself andthose under my command, I bespeak for the others an immunity from allvexatious detention. I am an officer of the Continental service: Butleris my name, my rank, a major of infantry."

  After a few words more of explanation, the party were directed by theBritish officer to continue their march to Drummond's cabin, whither,in a brief space, they arrived under the escort of their captors.

  A wakeful night was passed under the woodman's roof; and when morningcame the circumstances of the recapture of Butler were more fullydisclosed. The detachment under Captain McAlpine were on
their way tojoin Ferguson, who was now posted in the upper district; and beingattracted by the sound of voices engaged in chanting the psalm at thefuneral of John Ramsay, and still more by the discharge of the volleyover the grave, they had directed their march to the spot, which theyhad no difficulty in reaching by the help of the torches borne by themourners.

  The detachment consisted of a company of horse numbering some fifty men,who had no scruple in seizing upon Butler and his companions asprisoners of war. It was some relief to Butler when he ascertained thathis present captors were ignorant of his previous history, and wereunconnected with those who had formerly held him in custody. He was alsogratified with the assurance that no design was entertained to molestany others of the party, except those whom Butler himself indicated asbelligerents.

  Captain McAlpine halted with his men at the woodman's cabin, until aftersunrise. During this interval, Butler was enabled to prepare himself forthe journey he was about to commence, and to take an affectionate leaveof Musgrove and his daughter, David Ramsay, and the woodman's family.

  Allen Musgrove and Mary, and their friend Ramsay, deemed it prudent toretreat with the first permission given them by the British officer;and, not long afterwards, Butler and his comrades found themselves inthe escort of the Tory cavalry, bound for Ferguson's camp.

  Thus, once more, was Butler doomed to feel the vexations of captivity.