CHAPTER LV.
THE WHIGS CONTINUE THEIR MARCH.--MILDRED IS LEFT BEHIND.
The army of mountaineers halted at Gilbert-town only until a videttefrom Williams brought tidings of Ferguson's late movements. Thesereached Campbell early in the day succeeding his arrival at the village,and apprised him that Williams followed on the footsteps of the Britishpartisan, and would expect to unite his force with that of the alliedvolunteers at the Cowpens--(a field not yet distinguished instory)--whither he expected to arrive on the following day. Campbelldetermined, in consequence, to hasten to this quarter.
The present position of Mildred, notwithstanding the kind sympathy withwhich every one regarded her, was one that wrought severely upon herfeelings. She had heretofore encountered the hardships of her journey,and borne herself through the trials, so unaccustomed to her sex, with aspirit that had quailed before no obstacle. But now, finding herself inthe train of an army just moving forth to meet its enemy, with all thevicissitudes and peril of battle in prospect, it was with a sinking ofthe heart she had not hitherto known, that she felt herself called uponto choose between the alternative of accompanying them in their march,or being left behind. To adopt the first resolve, she was painfullyconscious would bring her to witness scenes, and perhaps endureprivations, the very thought of which made her shudder; whilst, toremain at a distance from the theatre of events in which she was sodeeply concerned, was a thought that suggested many anxious fears, notless intolerable than the untried sufferings of the campaign. She had,thus far, braved all dangers for the sake of being near to Butler; andnow to hesitate or stay her step, when she had almost reached the veryspot of his captivity, and when the fortunes of war might soon throw herinto his actual presence, seemed to her like abandoning her duty at themost critical moment of trial. She was aware that he was in the camp ofthe enemy; that this enemy was likely to be overtaken and brought tocombat; and it was with a magnified terror that she summoned up to herimagination the possible mischances which might befal Arthur Butler inthe infliction of some summary act of vengeance provoked by theexasperation of conflict. "I have tempted the dangers of flood and stormfor him--of forest and field--noon-day battle and midnight assault," shesaid, with an earnestness that showed she had shaken all doubts from hermind; "I have taken my vow of devotion to his safety--to be performedwith such fidelity as befits the sacred bond between us. I will notblench now, in the last struggle, though perils thicken around me. I'mprepared for the worst."
Allen Musgrove, Robinson, and Henry combated this resolve with jointexpostulation, urging upon Mildred the propriety of her tarrying in thevillage, at least until the active operations of the army wereterminated--an event that might be expected in a few days. But it wasnot until Campbell himself remonstrated with her against theindiscretion of her purpose, and promised to afford her the means ofrepairing to the scene of action at any moment she might think herpresence there useful, that she relinquished her determination toaccompany the army on its present expedition. It was, in consequence,ultimately arranged that she should remain in the quarters provided forher in Gilbert-town, attended by the miller and his daughter, whilst afew soldiers were to be detailed as a guard for her person. With thistrain of attendants, she was to be left at liberty to draw as near tothe centre of events as her considerate and faithful counsellor, AllenMusgrove, might deem safe.
Another source of uneasiness to her arose out of the separation whichshe was about to endure from the sergeant and her brother Henry. HorseShoe, swayed by an irresistible and affectionate longing to be presentat the expected passage of arms, which might so materially affect thefortunes of his captive fellow-soldier, Butler, had represented toMildred the value of the services he might be able to render; and asthe friendly solicitude of the miller and his daughter left nothingwithin their power to be supplied, towards the comfort and protectionof the lady, she did not refuse her consent to this temporarydesertion--although it naturally awakened some painful sense ofbereavement, at a moment when her excited feelings most required theconsolation of friends.
Henry, captivated with the prospect of military adventure, and magnifiedin his own esteem by the importance which Stephen Foster and the Rangersplayfully assigned to his position in the ranks, had so far lost sightof the special duty he had assumed, as his sister's companion, that henow resolutely rebelled against all attempts to persuade him to remainin the village; and Mildred, at last, upon the pledge of the sergeant tokeep the cadet under his own eye, reluctantly yielded to a demand whichshe found it almost impossible to resist.
These matters being settled, it was not long before Mildred and MaryMusgrove, seated at the window of the house which had been selected astheir present abode, saw the long array of the army glide by at a briskpace, and watched the careless and laughing faces of the soldiers, asthey filed off through the only street in the village, and took the highroad leading south.
The troops had been gone for several hours, and Allen Musgrove and thefew soldiers who had been left behind, had scattered themselves over thevillage, to get rid of the tedium of idleness in the gossip of the scantpopulation which the place afforded. Mildred had retired to a chamber,and Mary loitered from place to place like one disturbed with care. Allthe party felt that deep sense of loneliness which is so acutelyperceptible to those who suddenly change a life of toil and incident forone of rest, while events of busy interest are in expectation.
"They are gone, ma'am," said Mary, as she now crept into Mildred'spresence, after having travelled over nearly the whole village, in thestate of disquietude I have described; "they are gone at least twentymiles, I should think, by this time; and I never would have believedthat I could have cared so much about people I never saw before. But weare so lonesome, ma'am. And young Mister Henry Lindsay, I should say,must be getting tired by this time of day. As for the matter of that,people may get tireder by standing still than by going on."
"How far do they march to-day?" inquired Mildred; "have you heard yourfather say, Mary?"
"I heard him and the troopers who are here allow," replied the maiden,"that Colonel Campbell wouldn't reach Colonel Williams before to-morrowafternoon. They said it was good fifty miles' travel. They look likebrave men--them that marched this morning, ma'am; for they went out withgood heart. The Lord send that through Him they may be the means ofdeliverance to Major Butler!"
At the mention of this name, Mildred covered her face with her hands,and the tears trickled through her fingers. "The Lord send it!" sherepeated, after a moment's pause. "May He, in his mercy, come to ouraid!" Then uncovering her face, and dropping on her knees beside herchair, she whispered a prayer for the success of those who had latelymarched forth against the enemy.
When she arose from this posture, she went to the window, and therestood gazing out upon the quiet and unfrequented street, running over inher mind the perils to which her brother as well as Butler might beexposed, and summoning to her imagination the thousand subjects ofsolicitude, which her present state of painful expectation might besupposed to create or recall.
"We will set forth early to-morrow," she said, addressing herself to hercompanion, "so tell your father, Mary. We will follow the brave friendswho have left us: I cannot be content to linger behind them. I willsleep in the lowliest hovel, or in the common shelter of the woods, andshare all the dangers of the march, rather than linger here in thisdreadful state of doubt and silence. Tell your father to make hispreparations for our departure to-morrow: tell him I cannot abideanother day in this place."
"I should think we might creep near them, ma'am," replied Mary, "nearenough to see and hear what was going on--which is always a greatsatisfaction, and not get ourselves into trouble neither. I am sure myfather would be very careful of us, and keep us out of harm's way, comewhat would. And it is distressing to be so far off, when you don't knowwhat's going to turn up. I will seek my father--who I believe is overyonder with the troopers at the shop, talking to the blacksmith--I willgo there and try to coax him to do your biddi
ng. I know the trooperswant it more than we do, and they'll say a word to help it along."
"Say I desire to have it so, Mary. I can take no refusal. Here I willnot stay longer."
Mary left the apartment, and as she descended the steps, she fell into arumination which arrested her progress full five minutes, during whichshe remained mute upon the stair-case. "No wonder the poor dear ladywishes to go!" was the ejaculation which came at last sorrowfully fromher heart, with a long sigh, and at the same time tears began to flow:"no wonder she wants to be near Major Butler, who loves her past thetelling of it. If John Ramsay was there," she added, sobbing, "I wouldhave followed him--followed him--yes, if I died for it."
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