And let conquerors boast
Their fields of fame--he who in virtue arms
A young warm spirit against beauty's charms,
Who feels her brightness, yet defies her thrall,
Is the best, bravest conqueror of them all.
--MOORE.
The ladies of the Wharton family had collected about a window, deeply
interested in the scene we have related.
Sarah viewed the approach of her countrymen with a smile of contemptuous
indifference; for she even undervalued the personal appearance of men
whom she thought arrayed in the unholy cause of rebellion. Miss Peyton
looked on the gallant show with an exulting pride, which arose in the
reflection that the warriors before her were the chosen troops of her
native colony; while Frances gazed with a singleness of interest that
absorbed all other considerations.
The two parties had not yet joined, before her quick eye distinguished
one horseman in particular from those around him. To her it appeared
that even the steed of this youthful soldier seemed to be conscious that
he sustained the weight of no common man: his hoofs but lightly touched
the earth, and his airy tread was the curbed motion of a
blooded charger.
The dragoon sat in the saddle, with a firmness and ease that showed him
master of himself and horse,--his figure uniting the just proportions of
strength and activity, being tall, round, and muscular. To this officer
Lawton made his report, and, side by side, they rode into the field
opposite to the cottage.
The heart of Frances beat with a pulsation nearly stifling, as he paused
for a moment, and took a survey of the building, with an eye whose dark
and sparkling glance could be seen, notwithstanding the distance. Her
color changed, and for an instant, as she saw the youth throw himself
from the saddle, she was compelled to seek relief for her trembling
limbs in a chair.
The officer gave a few hasty orders to his second in command, walked
rapidly into the lawn, and approached the cottage. Frances rose from her
seat, and vanished from the apartment. The dragoon ascended the steps of
the piazza, and had barely time to touch the outer door, when it opened
to his admission.
The youth of Frances, when she left the city, had prevented her
sacrificing, in conformity to the customs of that day, all her native
beauties on the altar of fashion. Her hair, which was of a golden
richness of color, was left, untortured, to fall in the natural ringlets
of infancy, and it shaded a face which was glowing with the united
charms of health, youth, and artlessness; her eyes spoke volumes, but
her tongue was silent; her hands were interlocked before her, and, aided
by her taper form, bending forward in an attitude of expectation, gave a
loveliness and an interest to her appearance, that for a moment chained
her lover in silence to the spot.
Frances silently led the way into a vacant parlor, opposite to the one
in which the family were assembled, and turning to the soldier frankly,
placing both her hands in his own, exclaimed,--
"Ah, Dunwoodie! how happy, on many accounts, I am to see you! I have
brought you in here, to prepare you to meet an unexpected friend in the
opposite room."
"To whatever cause it may be owing," cried the youth, pressing her hands
to his lips, "I, too, am happy in being able to see you alone. Frances,
the probation you have decreed is cruel; war and distance may separate
us forever."
"We must submit to the necessity which governs us. But it is not love
speeches I would hear now; I have other and more important matter for
your attention."
"What can be of more importance than to make you mine by a tie that will
be indissoluble! Frances, you are cold to me--me--from whose mind, days
of service and nights of alarm have never been able to banish your image
for a single moment."
"Dear Dunwoodie," said Frances, softening nearly to tears, and again
extending her hand to him, as the richness of her color gradually
returned, "you know my sentiments--this war once ended, and you may
take that hand forever--but I can never consent to tie myself to you by
any closer union than already exists, so long as you are arrayed in arms
against my only brother. Even now, that brother is awaiting your
decision to restore him to liberty, or to conduct him to a
probable death."
"Your brother!" cried Dunwoodie, starting and turning pale; "your
brother! explain yourself--what dreadful meaning is concealed in
your words?"
"Has not Captain Lawton told you of the arrest of Henry by himself this
very morning?" continued Frances, in a voice barely audible, and fixing
on her lover a look of the deepest concern.
"He told me of arresting a captain of the 60th in disguise, but without
mentioning where or whom," replied the major in a similar tone; and
dropping his head between his hands, he endeavored to conceal his
feelings from his companion.
"Dunwoodie! Dunwoodie!" exclaimed Frances, losing all her former
confidence in the most fearful apprehensions, "what means this
agitation?" As the major slowly raised his face, in which was pictured
the most expressive concern, she continued, "Surely, surely, you will
not betray your friend--my brother--your brother--to an
ignominious death."
"Frances!" exclaimed the young man in agony, "what can I do?"
"Do!" she repeated, gazing at him wildly. "Would Major Dunwoodie yield
his friend to his enemies--the brother of his betrothed wife?"
"Oh, speak not so unkindly to me, dearest Miss Wharton--my own
Frances. I would this moment die for you--for Henry--but I cannot forget
my duty--cannot forfeit my honor; you yourself would be the first to
despise me if I did."
"Peyton Dunwoodie!" said Frances, solemnly, and with a face of ashy
paleness, "you have told me--you have sworn, that you love me----"
"I do," interrupted the soldier, with fervor; but motioning for silence
she continued, in a voice that trembled with her fears,--
"Do you think I can throw myself into the arms of a man whose hands are
stained with the blood of my only brother!"
"Frances, you wring my very heart!" Then pausing, to struggle with his
feelings, he endeavored to force a smile, as he added, "But, after all,
we may be torturing ourselves with unnecessary fears, and Henry, when I
know the circumstances, may be nothing more than a prisoner of war; in
which case, I can liberate him on parole."
There is no more delusive passion than hope; and it seems to be the
happy privilege of youth to cull all the pleasures that can be gathered
from its indulgence. It is when we are most worthy of confidence
ourselves, that we are least apt to distrust others; and what we think
ought to be, we are prone to think will be.
The half-formed expectations of the young soldier were communicated to
the desponding sister, more by the eye than the voice, and the blood
rushed again to her cheek, as she cried,--
"Oh, there can be no just grounds to doubt it. I know--I
knew--Dunwoodie, you would never desert us in the hour of our greatest
need!" The violence of her feelings prevailed, and the agitated girl
found relief in a flood of tears.
The office of consoling those we love is one of the dearest prerogatives
of affection; and Major Dunwoodie, although but little encouraged by his
own momentary suggestion of relief, could not undeceive the lovely girl,
who leaned on his shoulder, as he wiped the traces of her feeling from
her face, with a trembling, but reviving confidence in the safety of her
brother, and the protection of her lover.
Frances, having sufficiently recovered her recollection to command
herself, now eagerly led the way to the opposite room, to communicate to
her family the pleasing intelligence which she already conceived
so certain,
Dunwoodie followed her reluctantly, and with forebodings of the result;
but a few moments brought him into the presence of his relatives, and he
summoned all his resolution to meet the trial with firmness.
The salutations of the young men were cordial and frank, and, on the
part of Henry Wharton, as collected as if nothing had occurred to
disturb his self-possession.
The abhorrence of being, in any manner, auxiliary to the arrest of his
friend; the danger to the life of Captain Wharton; and the
heart-breaking declarations of Frances, had, however, created an
uneasiness in the bosom of Major Dunwoodie, which all his efforts could
not conceal. His reception by the rest of the family was kind and
sincere, both from old regard, and a remembrance of former obligations,
heightened by the anticipations they could not fail to read in the
expressive eyes of the blushing girl by his side. After exchanging
greetings with every member of the family, Major Dunwoodie beckoned to
the sentinel, whom the wary prudence of Captain Lawton had left in
charge of the prisoner, to leave the room. Turning to Captain Wharton,
he inquired mildly,--
"Tell me, Henry, the circumstances of this disguise, in which Captain
Lawton reports you to have been found, and remember--remember--Captain
Wharton--your answers are entirely voluntary."
"The disguise was used by me, Major Dunwoodie," replied the English
officer, gravely, "to enable me to visit my friends, without incurring
the danger of becoming a prisoner of war."
"But you did not wear it, until you saw the troop of Lawton
approaching?"
"Oh! no," interrupted Frances, eagerly, forgetting all the circumstances
in her anxiety for her brother. "Sarah and myself placed them on him
when the dragoons appeared; and it was our awkwardness that has led to
the discovery."
The countenance of Dunwoodie brightened, as turning his eyes in fondness
on the speaker, he listened to her explanation.
"Probably some articles of your own," he continued, "which were at hand,
and were used on the spur of the moment."
"No," said Wharton, with dignity, "the clothes were worn by me from the
city; they were procured for the purpose to which they were applied, and
I intended to use them in my return this very day."
The appalled Frances shrank back from between her brother and lover,
where her ardent feelings had carried her, as the whole truth glanced
over her mind, and she sank into a seat, gazing wildly on the young men.
"But the pickets--the party at the Plains?" added Dunwoodie, turning
pale.
"I passed them, too, in disguise. I made use of this pass, for which I
paid; and, as it bears the name of Washington, I presume it is forged."
Dunwoodie caught the paper from his hand, eagerly, and stood gazing on
the signature for some time in silence, during which the soldier
gradually prevailed over the man; when he turned to the prisoner, with a
searching look, as he asked,--
"Captain Wharton, whence did you procure this paper?"
"This is a question, I conceive, Major Dunwoodie has no right to ask."
"Your pardon, sir; my feelings may have led me into an impropriety."
Mr. Wharton, who had been a deeply interested auditor, now so far
conquered his feelings as to say, "Surely, Major Dunwoodie, the paper
cannot be material; such artifices are used daily in war."
"This name is no counterfeit," said the dragoon, studying the
characters, and speaking in a low voice; "is treason yet among us
undiscovered? The confidence of Washington has been abused, for the
fictitious name is in a different hand from the pass. Captain Wharton,
my duty will not suffer me to grant you a parole; you must accompany me
to the Highlands."
"I did not expect otherwise, Major Dunwoodie."
Dunwoodie turned slowly towards the sisters, when the figure of Frances
once more arrested his gaze. She had risen from her seat, and stood
again with her hands clasped before him in an attitude of petition;
feeling himself unable to contend longer with his feelings, he made a
hurried excuse for a temporary absence, and left the room. Frances
followed him, and, obedient to the direction of her eye, the soldier
reentered the apartment in which had been their first interview.
"Major Dunwoodie," said Frances, in a voice barely audible, as she
beckoned to him to be seated; her cheek, which had been of a chilling
whiteness, was flushed with a suffusion that crimsoned her whole
countenance. She struggled with herself for a moment, and continued, "I
have already acknowledged to you my esteem; even now, when you most
painfully distress me, I wish not to conceal it. Believe me, Henry is
innocent of everything but imprudence. Our country can sustain no
wrong." Again she paused, and almost gasped for breath; her color
changed rapidly from red to white, until the blood rushed into her face,
covering her features with the brightest vermilion; and she added
hastily, in an undertone, "I have promised, Dunwoodie, when peace shall
be restored to our country, to become your wife. Give to my brother his
liberty on parole, and I will this day go with you to the altar, follow
you to the camp, and, in becoming a soldier's bride, learn to endure a
soldier's privations."
Dunwoodie seized the hand which the blushing girl, in her ardor, had
extended towards him, and pressed it for a moment to his bosom; then
rising from his seat, he paced the room in excessive agitation.
"Frances, say no more, I conjure you, unless you wish to break my
heart."
"You then reject my offered hand?" she said, rising with dignity, though
her pale cheek and quivering lip plainly showed the conflicting
passions within.
"Reject it! Have I not sought it with entreaties--with tears? Has it not
been the goal of all my earthly wishes? But to take it under such
conditions would be to dishonor both. We will hope for better things.
Henry must be acquitted; perhaps not tried. No intercession of mine
shall be wanting, you must well know; and believe me, Frances, I am not
without favor with Washington."
"That very paper, that abuse of his confidence, to which you alluded,
will steel him to my brother's case. If threats or entreaties could move
his stern sense of justice, would Andre have suffered?" As Frances
uttered these words she fled from the room in despair.
Dunwoodie remained for a minute nearly stupefied; and then he followed
with a view to vindicate himself, and to relieve her apprehensions. On
entering the hall that divided the two parlors, he was met by a small
ragged boy, who looked one moment at his dress, and placing a piece of
paper in his hands, immediately vanished through the outer door of the
building. The bewildered state of his mind, and the suddenness of the
occurrence, gave the major barely time to observe the messenger to be a
country lad, meanly attired, and that he held in his hand one of those
toys which are to be bought in cities, and which he now apparently
contemplated with the conscious pleasure of having fairly purchased, by
the performance of the service required. The soldier turned his eyes to
the subject of the note. It was written on a piece of torn and soiled
paper, and in a hand barely legible, but after some little labor, he was
able to make out as follows--
"The rig'lars are at hand, horse and foot." [Footnote: There died a few
years since, in Bedford, Westchester, a yeoman named Elisha H--- This
person was employed by Washington as one of his most confidential spies.
By the conditions of their bargain, H--- was never to be required to
deal with third parties, since his risks were too imminent. He was
allowed to enter also into the service of Sir Henry Clinton, and so much
confidence had Washington in his love of country and discretion, that he
was often intrusted with the minor military movements, in order that he
might enhance his value with the English general, by communicating them.
In this manner H--- had continued to serve for a long period, when
chance brought him into the city (then held by the British) at a moment
when an expedition was about to quit it, to go against a small post
established at Bedford, his native village, where the Americans had a
depot of provisions. H--- easily ascertained the force and destination
of the detachment ordered on this service, but he was at a loss in what
manner to communicate his information to the officer in command at
Bedford, without betraying his own true character to a third person.
There was not time to reach Washington, and under the circumstances, he
finally resolved to hazard a short note to the American commandant,
stating the danger, and naming the time when the attack might be
expected. To this note he even ventured to affix his own initials, E H,
though he had disguised the hand, under a belief that, as he knew
himself to be suspected by his countrymen, it might serve to give more
weight to his warning. His family being at Bedford, the note was
transmitted with facility and arrived in good season, H--- himself
remaining in New York. The American commandant did what every sensible
officer, in a similar case, would have done. He sent a courier with the
note to Washington, demanding orders, while he prepared his little party
to make the best defense in his power. The headquarters of the American
army were, at that time, in the Highlands. Fortunately, the express met
Washington, on a tour of observation, near their entrance. The note was
given to him, and he read it in the saddle, adding, in pencil, "Believe
all that E H tells you. George Washington" He returned it to the
courier, with an injunction to ride for life or death. The courier
reached Bedford after the British had made their attack. The commandant
read the reply, and put it in his pocket. The Americans were defeated,
and their leader killed. The note of H---, with the line written on it
by Washington, was found on his person. The following day H--- was
summoned to the presence of Sir Henry Clinton. After the latter had put
several general questions, he suddenly gave the note to the spy, and
asked if he knew the handwriting, and demanded who the E H was "It is
Elijah Hadden, the spy you hanged yesterday at Powles Hook." The
readiness of this answer, connected with the fact that a spy having the
same initials had been executed the day before, and the coolness of
H----, saved him. Sir Henry Clinton allowed him to quit his presence,
and he never saw him afterwards.]
Dunwoodie started; and, forgetting everything but the duties of a
soldier, he precipitately left the house. While walking rapidly towards
the troops, he noticed on a distant hill a vidette riding with speed.
Several pistols were fired in quick succession; and the next instant the
trumpets of the corps rang in his ears with the enlivening strain of "To
arms!" By the time he had reached the ground occupied by his squadron,
the major saw that every man was in active motion. Lawton was already in
the saddle, eying the opposite extremity of the valley with the
eagerness of expectation, and crying to the musicians, in tones but
little lower than their own,--
"Sound away, my lads, and let these Englishmen know that the Virginia
horse are between them and the end of their journey."
The videttes and patrols now came pouring in, each making in succession
his hasty report to the commanding officer, who gave his orders coolly,
and with a promptitude that made obedience certain. Once only, as he
wheeled his horse to ride over the ground in front, did Dunwoodie trust
himself with a look at the cottage, and his heart beat with unusual
rapidity as he saw a female figure standing, with clasped hands, at a
window of the room in which he had met Frances. The distance was too
great to distinguish her features, but the soldier could not doubt that
it was his mistress. The paleness of his cheek and the languor of his
eye endured but for a moment longer. As he rode towards the intended
battle ground, a flush of ardor began to show itself on his sunburnt
features; and his dragoons, who studied the face of their leader, as the
best index to their own fate, saw again the wonted flashing of the eyes,
and the cheerful animation, which they had so often witnessed on the eve
of battle. By the additions of the videttes and parties that had been
out, and which now had all joined, the whole number of the horse was
increased to nearly two hundred. There was also a small body of men,
whose ordinary duties were those of guides, but who, in cases of
emergency, were embodied and did duty as foot soldiers; these were
dismounted, and proceeded, by the order of Dunwoodie, to level the few
fences which might interfere with the intended movements of the cavalry.
The neglect of husbandry, which had been occasioned by the war, left
this task comparatively easy. Those long lines of heavy and durable
walls, which now sweep through every part of the country, forty years
ago were unknown. The slight and tottering fences of stone were then
used more to clear the land for the purposes of cultivation than as
permanent barriers, and required the constant attention of the
husbandman, to preserve them against the fury of the tempests and the
frosts of winter. Some few of them had been built with more care
immediately around the dwelling of Mr. Wharton; but those which had
intersected the vale below were now generally a pile of ruins, over
which the horses of the Virginians would bound with the fleetness of the
wind. Occasionally a short line yet preserved its erect appearance; but
as none of those crossed the ground on which Dunwoodie intended to act,
there remained only the slighter fences of rails to be thrown down.
Their duty was hastily but effectually performed; and the guides
withdrew to the post assigned to them for the approaching fight.
Major Dunwoodie had received from his scouts all the intelligence
concerning his foe, which was necessary to enable him to make his
arrangements. The bottom of the valley was an even plain, that fell with
a slight inclination from the foot of the hills on either side, to the
level of a natural meadow that wound through the country on the banks of
a small stream, by whose waters it was often inundated and fertilized.
This brook was easily forded in any part of its course; and the only
impediment it offered to the movements of the horse, was in a place
where it changed its bed from the western to the eastern side of the
valley, and where its banks were more steep and difficult of access than
common. Here the highway crossed it by a rough wooden bridge, as it did
again at the distance of half a mile above the Locusts.
The hills on the eastern side of the valley were abrupt, and frequently
obtruded themselves in rocky prominences into its bosom, lessening the
width to half the usual dimensions. One of these projections was but a
short distance in the rear of the squadron of dragoons, and Dunwoodie
directed Captain Lawton to withdraw, with two troops, behind its cover.
The officer obeyed with a kind of surly reluctance, that was, however,
somewhat lessened by the anticipations of the effect his sudden
appearance would make on the enemy. Dunwoodie knew his man, and had
selected the captain for this service, both because he feared his
precipitation in the field, and knew, when needed, his support would
never fail to appear. It was only in front of the enemy that Captain
Lawton was hasty; at all other times his discernment and self-possession
were consummately preserved; but he sometimes forgot them in his
eagerness to engage. On the left of the ground on which Dunwoodie
intended to meet his foe, was a close wood, which skirted that side of
the valley for the distance of a mile. Into this, then, the guides
retired, and took their station near its edge, in such a manner as would
enable them to maintain a scattering, but effectual fire, on the
advancing column of the enemy.
It cannot be supposed that all these preparations were made unheeded by
the inmates of the cottage; on the contrary, every feeling which can
agitate the human breast, in witnessing such a scene, was actively
alive. Mr. Wharton alone saw no hopes to himself in the termination of
the conflict. If the British should prevail, his son would be liberated;
but what would then be his own fate! He had hitherto preserved his
neutral character in the midst of trying circumstances. The fact of his
having a son in the royal, or, as it was called, the regular army, had
very nearly brought his estates to the hammer. Nothing had obviated this
result, but the powerful interest of the relation who held a high
political rank in the state, and his own vigilant prudence. In his
heart, he was a devoted loyalist; and when the blushing Frances had
communicated to him the wishes of her lover, on their return from the
American camp the preceding spring, the consent he had given, to her
future union with a rebel, was as much extracted by the increasing
necessity which existed for his obtaining republican support, as by any
considerations for the happiness of his child. Should his son now be
rescued, he would, in the public mind, be united with him as a plotter
against the freedom of the States; and should he remain a captive and
undergo the impending trial, the consequences might be still more
dreadful. Much as he loved his wealth, Mr. Wharton loved his children
better; and he sat gazing on the movements without, with a listless
vacancy in his countenance, that fully denoted his imbecility of
character. Far different were the feelings of the son. Captain Wharton
had been left in the keeping of two dragoons, one of whom marched to and
fro on the piazza with a measured tread, and the other had been directed
to continue in the same apartment with his prisoner. The young man had
witnessed all the movements of Dunwoodie with admiration mingled with
fearful anticipations of the consequences to friends. He particularly
disliked the ambush of the detachment under Lawton, who could be
distinctly seen from the windows of the cottage, cooling his impatience,
by pacing on foot the ground in front of his men. Henry Wharton threw
several hasty and inquiring glances around, to see if no means of
liberation would offer, but invariably found the eyes of his sentinel
fixed on him with the watchfulness of an Argus. He longed, with the
ardor of youth, to join in the glorious fray, but was compelled to
remain a dissatisfied spectator of a scene in which he would so
cheerfully have been an actor. Miss Peyton and Sarah continued gazing
on the preparations with varied emotions, in which concern for the fate
of the captain formed the most prominent feeling, until the moment of
shedding of blood seemed approaching, when, with the timidity of their
sex, they sought the retirement of an inner room. Not so Frances; she
returned to the apartment where she had left Dunwoodie, and, from one of
its windows, had been a deeply interested spectator of all his
movements. The wheelings of the troops, the deadly preparations, had all
been unnoticed; she saw her lover only, and with mingled emotions of
admiration and dread that nearly chilled her. At one moment the blood
rushed to her heart, as she saw the young warrior riding through his
ranks, giving life and courage to all whom he addressed; and the next,
it curdled with the thought that the very gallantry she so much valued
might prove the means of placing the grave between her and the object of
her regard. Frances gazed until she could look no longer.
In a field on the left of the cottage, and at a short distance in the
rear of the troops, was a small group, whose occupation seemed to differ
from that of all around them. They were in number only three, being two
men and a mulatto boy. The principal personage of this party was a man,
whose leanness made his really tall stature appear excessive. He wore
spectacles--was unarmed, had dismounted, and seemed to be dividing his
attention between a cigar, a book, and the incidents of the field before
him. To this party Frances determined to send a note, directed to
Dunwoodie. She wrote hastily, with a pencil, "Come to me, Peyton, if it
be but for a moment"; and Caesar emerged from the cellar kitchen, taking
the precaution to go by the rear of the building, to avoid the sentinel
on the piazza, who had very cavalierly ordered all the family to remain
housed. The black delivered the note to the gentleman, with a request
that it might be forwarded to Major Dunwoodie. It was the surgeon of the
horse to whom Caesar addressed himself; and the teeth of the African
chattered, as he saw displayed upon the ground the several instruments
which were in preparation for the anticipated operations. The doctor
himself seemed to view the arrangement with great satisfaction, as he
deliberately raised his eyes from his book to order the boy to convey
the note to his commanding officer, and then dropping them quietly on
the page he continued his occupation. Caesar was slowly retiring, as the
third personage, who by his dress might be an inferior assistant of the
surgical department, coolly inquired "if he would have a leg taken off?"
This question seemed to remind the black of the existence of those
limbs, for he made such use of them as to reach the piazza at the same
instant that Major Dunwoodie rode up, at half speed. The brawny sentinel
squared himself, and poised his sword with military precision as he
stood on his post, while his officer passed; but no sooner had the door
closed, than, turning to the negro, he said, sharply,--
"Harkee, blackee, if you quit the house again without my knowledge, I
shall turn barber, and shave off one of those ebony ears with
this razor."
Thus assailed in another member, Caesar hastily retreated into his
kitchen, muttering something, in which the words "Skinner," and "rebel
rascal," formed a principal part of speech.
"Major Dunwoodie," said Frances to her lover as he entered, "I may have
done you injustice; if I have appeared harsh--"
The emotions of the agitated girl prevailed, and she burst into tears.
"Frances," cried the soldier with warmth, "you are never harsh, never
unjust, but when you doubt my love."
"Ah! Dunwoodie," added the sobbing girl, "you are about to risk your
life in battle; remember that there is one heart whose happiness is
built on your safety; brave I know you are: be prudent--"
"For your sake?" inquired the delighted youth.
"For my sake," replied Frances, in a voice barely audible, and dropping
on his bosom.
Dunwoodie folded her to his heart, and was about to speak, as a trumpet
sounded in the southern end of the vale. Imprinting one long kiss of
affection on her unresisting lips, the soldier tore himself from his
mistress, and hastened to the scene of strife.
Frances threw herself on a sofa, buried her head under its cushion, and
with her shawl drawn over her face, to exclude as much of sound as
possible, continued there until the shouts of the combatants, the
rattling of the firearms, and the thundering tread of the horses
had ceased.