With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide;
And many a childing mother then,
And new-born infant, died;
But things like these, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
--SOUTHEY.
The last sounds of the combat died on the ears of the anxious listeners
in the cottage, and were succeeded by the stillness of suspense. Frances
had continued by herself, striving to exclude the uproar, and vainly
endeavoring to summon resolution to meet the dreaded result. The ground
where the charge on the foot had taken place was but a short mile from
the Locusts, and, in the intervals of the musketry, the cries of the
soldiers had even reached the ears of its inhabitants. After witnessing
the escape of his son, Mr. Wharton had joined his sister and eldest
daughter in their retreat, and the three continued fearfully waiting for
news from the field. Unable longer to remain under the painful
uncertainty of her situation, Frances soon added herself to the uneasy
group, and Caesar was directed to examine into the state of things
without, and report on whose banners victory had alighted. The father
now briefly related to his astonished children the circumstance and
manner of their brother's escape. They were yet in the freshness of
their surprise, when the door opened, and Captain Wharton, attended by a
couple of the guides, and followed by the black, stood before them.
"Henry--my son, my son," cried the agitated parent, stretching out his
arms, yet unable to rise from his seat; "what is it I see; are you again
a captive, and in danger of your life?"
"The better fortune of these rebels has prevailed," said the youth,
endeavoring to force a cheerful smile, and taking a hand of each of his
distressed sisters. "I strove nobly for my liberty; but the perverse
spirit of rebellion has even lighted on their horses. The steed I
mounted carried me, greatly against my will, I acknowledge, into the
very center of Dunwoodie's men."
"And you were again captured," continued the father, casting a fearful
glance on the armed attendants who had entered the room.
"That, sir, you may safely say; this Mr. Lawton, who sees so far, had me
in custody again immediately."
"Why you no hold 'em in, Massa Henry?" cried Caesar, pettishly.
"That," said Wharton, smiling, "was a thing easier said than done, Mr.
Caesar, especially as these gentlemen" (glancing his eyes at the guides)
"had seen proper to deprive me of the use of my better arm."
"Wounded!" exclaimed both sisters in a breath.
"A mere scratch, but disabling me at a most critical moment," continued
the brother, kindly, and stretching out the injured limb to manifest the
truth of his declaration. Caesar threw a look of bitter animosity on the
irregular warriors who were thought to have had an agency in the deed,
and left the room. A few more words sufficed to explain all that Captain
Wharton knew relative to the fortune of the day. The result he thought
yet doubtful, for when he left the ground, the Virginians were retiring
from the field of battle.
"They had treed the squirrel," said one of the sentinels abruptly, "and
didn't quit the ground without leaving a good hound for the chase when
he comes down."
"Aye," added his comrade dryly, "I'm thinking Captain Lawton will count
the noses of what are left before they see their whaleboats."
Frances had stood supporting herself, by the back of a chair, during
this dialogue, catching, in breathless anxiety, every syllable as it was
uttered; her color changed rapidly; her limbs shook under her; until,
with desperate resolution, she inquired,--
"Is any officer hurt on--the--on either side?"
"Yes," answered the man, cavalierly, "these Southern youths are so full
of mettle, that it's seldom we fight but one or two gets knocked over;
one of the wounded, who came up before the troops, told me that Captain
Singleton was killed, and Major Dunwoodie--"
Frances heard no more, but fell lifeless in the chair behind her. The
attention of her friends soon revived her when the captain, turning to
the man, said fearfully,--
"Surely Major Dunwoodie is unhurt?"
"Never fear him," added the guide, disregarding the agitation of the
family. "They say a man who is born to be hanged will never be drowned;
if a bullet could kill the major, he would have been dead long ago. I
was going to say, that the major is in a sad taking because of the
captain's being killed; but had I known how much store the lady set by
him, I wouldn't have been so plain-spoken."
Frances now rose quickly from her seat, with cheeks glowing with
confusion, and, leaning on her aunt, was about to retire, when Dunwoodie
himself appeared. The first emotion of the agitated girl was unalloyed
happiness; in the next instant she shrank back appalled from the unusual
expression that reigned in his countenance. The sternness of battle yet
sat on his brow; his eye was fixed and severe. The smile of affection
that used to lighten his dark features on meeting his mistress, was
supplanted by the lowering look of care; his whole soul seemed to be
absorbed in one engrossing emotion, and he proceeded at once to
his object.
"Mr. Wharton," he earnestly began, "in times like these, we need not
stand on idle ceremony: one of my officers, I am afraid, is hurt
mortally; and, presuming on your hospitality, I have brought him to
your door."
"I am happy, sir, that you have done so," said Mr. Wharton, at once
perceiving the importance of conciliating the American troops. "The
necessitous are always welcome, and doubly so, in being the friend of
Major Dunwoodie."
"Sir, I thank you for myself, and in behalf of him who is unable to
render you his thanks," returned the other, hastily. "If you please, we
will have him conducted where the surgeon may see and report upon his
case without delay." To this there could be no objection; and Frances
felt a chill at her heart, as her lover withdrew, without casting a
solitary look on herself.
There is a devotedness in female love that admits of no rivalry. All the
tenderness of the heart, all the powers of the imagination, are enlisted
in behalf of the tyrant passion; and where all is given, much is looked
for in return. Frances had spent hours of anguish, of torture, on
account of Dunwoodie, and he now met her without a smile, and left her
without a greeting. The ardor of her feelings was unabated, but the
elasticity of her hopes was weakened. As the supporters of the nearly
lifeless body of Dunwoodie's friend passed her, in their way to the
apartment prepared for his reception, she caught a view of this
seeming rival.
His pale and ghastly countenance, sunken eye, and difficult breathing,
gave her a glimpse of death in its most fearful form. Dunwoodie was by
his side and held his hand, giving frequent and stern injunctions to the
men to proceed with care, and, in short, manifesting all the solicitude
that the most tender friendship could, on such an occasion, inspire.
Frances moved lightly before them, and, with an averted face, she held
open the door for their passage to the bed; it was only as the major
touched her garments, on entering the room, that she ventured to raise
her mild blue eyes to his face. But the glance was unreturned, and
Frances unconsciously sighed as she sought the solitude of her own
apartment.
Captain Wharton voluntarily gave a pledge to his keepers not to attempt
again escaping, and then proceeded to execute those duties on behalf of
his father, which were thought necessary in a host. On entering the
passage for that purpose, he met the operator who had so dexterously
dressed his arm, advancing to the room of the wounded officer.
"Ah!" cried the disciple of Aesculapius, "I see you are doing well; but
stop; have you a pin? No! here, I have one; you must keep the cold air
from your hurt, or some of the youngsters will be at work at you yet."
"God forbid," muttered the captain, in an undertone, attentively
adjusting the bandages, when Dunwoodie appeared at the door, impatiently
crying aloud,--
"Hasten, Sitgreaves, hasten; or George Singleton will die from loss of
blood."
"What! Singleton! God forbid! Bless me--is it George--poor little
George?" exclaimed the surgeon, as he quickened his pace with evident
concern, and hastened to the side of the bed. "He is alive, though, and
while there is life there is hope. This is the first serious case I have
had to-day, where the patient was not already dead. Captain Lawton
teaches his men to strike with so little discretion--poor George--bless
me, it is a musket bullet."
The youthful sufferer turned his eyes on the man of science, and with a
faint smile endeavored to stretch forth his hand. There was an appeal in
the look and action that touched the heart of the operator. The surgeon
removed his spectacles to wipe an unusual moisture from his eyes, and
proceeded carefully to the discharge of his duty. While the previous
arrangements were, however, making, he gave vent in some measure to his
feelings, by saying,--
"When it is only a bullet, I have always some hopes; there is a chance
that it hits nothing vital. But, bless me, Captain Lawton's men cut so
at random--generally sever the jugular or the carotid artery, or let out
the brains, and all are so difficult to remedy--the patient mostly dying
before one can get at him. I never had success but once in replacing a
man's brains, although I have tried three this very day. It is easy to
tell where Lawton's troops charge in a battle, they cut so at random."
The group around the bed of Captain Singleton were too much accustomed
to the manner of their surgeon to regard or to reply to his soliloquy;
but they quietly awaited the moment when he was to commence his
examination. This now took place, and Dunwoodie stood looking the
operator in the face, with an expression that seemed to read his soul.
The patient shrank from the application of the probe, and a smile stole
over the features of the surgeon, as he muttered,--
"There has been nothing before it in that quarter." He now applied
himself in earnest to his work, took off his spectacles, and threw aside
his wig. All this time Dunwoodie stood in feverish silence, holding one
of the hands of the sufferer in both his own, watching the countenance
of Doctor Sitgreaves. At length Singleton gave a slight groan, and the
surgeon rose with alacrity, and said aloud,--
"Ah! there is some pleasure in following a bullet; it may be said to
meander through the human body, injuring nothing vital; but as for
Captain Lawton's men--"
"Speak," interrupted Dunwoodie; "is there hope?--can you find the ball?"
"It's no difficult matter to find that which one has in his hand, Major
Dunwoodie," replied the surgeon, coolly, preparing his dressings. "It
took what that literal fellow, Captain Lawton, calls a circumbendibus,
a route never taken by the swords of his men, notwithstanding the
multiplied pains I have been at to teach him how to cut scientifically.
Now, I saw a horse this day with his head half severed from his body."
"That," said Dunwoodie, as the blood rushed to his cheeks again, and his
dark eyes sparkled with the rays of hope, "was some of my handiwork; I
killed that horse myself."
"You!" exclaimed the surgeon, dropping his dressings in surprise, "you!
But you knew it was a horse!"
"I had such suspicions, I own," said the major, smiling, and holding a
beverage to the lips of his friend.
"Such blows alighting on the human frame are fatal," continued the
doctor, pursuing his business. "They set at naught the benefits which
flow from the lights of science; they are useless in a battle, for
disabling your foe is all that is required. I have sat, Major Dunwoodie,
many a cold hour, while Captain Lawton has been engaged, and after all
my expectation, not a single case worth recording has occurred--all
scratches or death wounds. Ah! the saber is a sad weapon in unskillful
hands! Yes, Major Dunwoodie, many are the hours I have thrown away in
endeavoring to impress this truth on Captain John Lawton."
The impatient major pointed silently to his friend, and the surgeon
quickened his movements.
"Ah! poor George, it is a narrow chance; but"--he was interrupted by a
messenger requiring the presence of the commanding officer in the field.
Dunwoodie pressed the hand of his friend, and beckoned the doctor to
follow him, as he withdrew.
"What think you?" he whispered, on reaching the passage. "Will he live?"
"He will."
"Thank God!" cried the youth, hastening below.
Dunwoodie for a moment joined the family, who were now collecting in the
ordinary parlor. His face was no longer wanting in smiles, and his
salutations, though hasty, were cordial. He took no notice of the escape
and capture of Henry Wharton, but seemed to think the young man had
continued where he had left him before the encounter. On the ground they
had not met. The English officer withdrew in haughty silence to a
window, leaving the major uninterrupted to make his communications.
The excitement produced by the events of the day in the youthful
feelings of the sisters, had been succeeded by a languor that kept them
both silent, and Dunwoodie held his discourse with Miss Peyton.
"Is there any hope, my cousin, that your friend can survive his wound?"
said the lady, advancing towards her kinsman, with a smile of
benevolent regard.
"Everything, my dear madam, everything," answered the soldier
cheerfully. "Sitgreaves says he will live, and he has never
deceived me."
"Your pleasure is not much greater than my own at this intelligence. One
so dear to Major Dunwoodie cannot fail to excite an interest in the
bosom of his friends."
"Say one so deservedly dear, madam," returned the major, with warmth.
"He is the beneficent spirit of the corps, equally beloved by us all; so
mild, so equal, so just, so generous, with the meekness of a lamb and
the fondness of a dove--it is only in the hour of battle that Singleton
is a lion."
"You speak of him as if he were your mistress, Major Dunwoodie,"
observed the smiling spinster, glancing her eye at her niece, who sat
pale and listening, in a corner of the room.
"I love him as one," cried the excited youth. "But he requires care and
nursing; all now depends on the attention he receives."
"Trust me, sir, he will want for nothing under this roof."
"Pardon me, dear madam; you are all that is benevolent, but Singleton
requires a care which many men would feel to be irksome. It is at
moments like these, and in sufferings like this, that the soldier most
finds the want of female tenderness." As he spoke, he turned his eyes on
Frances with an expression that again thrilled to the heart of his
mistress; she rose from her seat with burning cheeks, and said,--
"All the attention that can with propriety be given to a stranger, will
be cheerfully bestowed on your friend."
"Ah!" cried the major, shaking his head, "that cold word propriety will
kill him; he must be fostered, cherished, soothed."
"These are offices for a sister or a wife."
"A sister!" repeated the soldier, the blood rushing to his own face
tumultuously; "a sister! He has a sister; and one that might be here
with to-morrow's sun." He paused, mused in silence, glanced his eyes
uneasily at Frances, and muttered in an undertone, "Singleton requires
it, and it must be done."
The ladies had watched his varying countenance in some surprise, and
Miss Peyton now observed that,--
"If there were a sister of Captain Singleton near them, her presence
would be gladly requested both by herself and nieces."
"It must be, madam; it cannot well be otherwise," replied Dunwoodie,
with a hesitation that but ill agreed with his former declarations. "She
shall be sent for express this very night." And then, as if willing to
change the subject, he approached Captain Wharton, and continued,
mildly,--
"Henry Wharton, to me honor is dearer than life; but in your hands I
know it can safely be confided. Remain here unwatched until we leave the
county, which will not be for some days."
The distance in the manner of the English officer vanished, and taking
the offered hand of the other, he replied with warmth, "Your generous
confidence, Peyton, will not be abused, even though the gibbet on which
your Washington hung Andre be ready for my own execution."
"Henry, Henry Wharton," said Dunwoodie reproachfully, "you little know
the man who leads our armies, or you would have spared him that
reproach; but duty calls me without. I leave you where I could wish to
stay myself, and where you cannot be wholly unhappy."
In passing Frances, she received another of those smiling looks of
affection she so much prized, and for a season the impression made by
his appearance after the battle was forgotten.
Among the veterans that had been impelled by the times to abandon the
quiet of age for the service of their country, was Colonel Singleton. He
was a native of Georgia, and had been for the earlier years of his life
a soldier by profession. When the struggle for liberty commenced, he
offered his services to his country, and from respect to his character
they had been accepted. His years and health had, however, prevented his
discharging the active duties of the field, and he had been kept in
command of different posts of trust, where his country might receive the
benefits of his vigilance and fidelity without inconvenience to himself.
For the last year he had been intrusted with the passes into the
Highlands, and was now quartered, with his daughter, but a short day's
march above the valley where Dunwoodie had met the enemy. His only other
child was the wounded officer we have mentioned. Thither, then, the
major prepared to dispatch a messenger with the unhappy news of the
captain's situation, and charged with such an invitation from the ladies
as he did not doubt would speedily bring the sister to the couch of
her brother.
This duty performed, though with an unwillingness that only could make
his former anxiety more perplexing, Dunwoodie proceeded to the field
where his troops had halted. The remnant of the English were already to
be seen, over the tops of the trees, marching along the heights towards
their boats, in compact order and with great watchfulness. The
detachment of the dragoons under Lawton were a short distance on their
flank, eagerly awaiting a favorable moment to strike a blow. In this
manner both parties were soon lost to view.
A short distance above the Locusts was a small hamlet where several
roads intersected each other, and from which, consequently, access to
the surrounding country was easy. It was a favorite halting place of the
horse, and frequently held by the light parties of the American army
during their excursions below. Dunwoodie had been the first to discover
its advantages, and as it was necessary for him to remain in the county
until further orders from above, it cannot be supposed he overlooked
them now. To this place the troops were directed to retire, carrying
with them their wounded; parties were already employed in the sad duty
of interring the dead. In making these arrangements, a new object of
embarrassment presented itself to our young soldier. In moving through
the field, he was struck with the appearance of Colonel Wellmere, seated
by himself, brooding over his misfortunes, uninterrupted by anything but
the passing civilities of the American officers. His anxiety on behalf
of Singleton had hitherto banished the recollection of his captive from
the mind of Dunwoodie, and he now approached him with apologies for his
neglect. The Englishman received his courtesies with coolness, and
complained of being injured by what he affected to think was the
accidental stumbling of his horse. Dunwoodie, who had seen one of his
own men ride him down, and that with very little ceremony, slightly
smiled, as he offered him surgical assistance. This could only be
procured at the cottage, and thither they both proceeded.
"Colonel Wellmere!" cried young Wharton in astonishment as they entered,
"has the fortune of war been thus cruel to you also? But you are welcome
to the house of my father, although I could wish the introduction to
have taken place under more happy circumstances."
Mr. Wharton received this new guest with the guarded caution that
distinguished his manner, and Dunwoodie left the room to seek the
bedside of his friend. Everything here looked propitious, and he
acquainted the surgeon that another patient waited his skill in the room
below. The sound of the word was enough to set the doctor in motion, and
seizing his implements of office, he went in quest of this new
applicant. At the door of the parlor he was met by the ladies, who were
retiring. Miss Peyton detained him for a moment, to inquire into the
welfare of Captain Singleton. Frances smiled with something of natural
archness of manner, as she contemplated the grotesque appearance of the
bald-headed practitioner; but Sarah was too much agitated, with the
surprise of the unexpected interview with the British colonel, to
observe him. It has already been intimated that Colonel Wellmere was an
old acquaintance of the family. Sarah had been so long absent from the
city, that she had in some measure been banished from the remembrance of
the gentleman; but the recollections of Sarah were more vivid. There is
a period in the life of every woman when she may be said to be
predisposed to love; it is at the happy age when infancy is lost in
opening maturity--when the guileless heart beats with those
anticipations of life which the truth can never realize--and when the
imagination forms images of perfection that are copied after its own
unsullied visions. At this happy age Sarah left the city, and she had
brought with her a picture of futurity, faintly impressed, it is true,
but which gained durability from her solitude, and in which Wellmere had
been placed in the foreground. The surprise of the meeting had in some
measure overpowered her, and after receiving the salutations of the
colonel, she had risen, in compliance with a signal from her observant
aunt, to withdraw.
"Then, sir," observed Miss Peyton, after listening to the surgeon's
account of his young patient, "we may be flattered with the expectation
that he will recover."
"'Tis certain, madam," returned the doctor, endeavoring, out of respect
to the ladies, to replace his wig; "'tis certain, with care and
good nursing."
"In those he shall not be wanting," said the spinster, mildly.
"Everything we have he can command, and Major Dunwoodie has dispatched
an express for his sister."
"His sister!" echoed the practitioner, with a meaning look. "If the
major has sent for her, she will come."
"Her brother's danger would induce her, one would imagine."
"No doubt, madam," continued the doctor, laconically, bowing low, and
giving room to the ladies to pass. The words and the manner were not
lost on the younger sister, in whose presence the name of Dunwoodie was
never mentioned unheeded.
"Sir," cried Dr. Sitgreaves, on entering the parlor, addressing himself
to the only coat of scarlet in the room, "I am advised you are in want
of my aid. God send 'tis not Captain Lawton with whom you came in
contact, in which case I may be too late."
"There must be some mistake, sir," said Wellmere, haughtily. "It was a
surgeon that Major Dunwoodie was to send me, and not an old woman."
"'Tis Dr. Sitgreaves," said Henry Wharton, quickly, though with
difficulty suppressing a laugh. "The multitude of his engagements,
to-day, has prevented his usual attention to his attire."
"Your pardon, sir," added Wellmere, very ungraciously proceeding to lay
aside his coat, and exhibit what he called a wounded arm.
"If, sir," said the surgeon dryly, "the degrees of Edinburgh--walking
your London hospitals--amputating some hundreds of limbs--operating on
the human frame in every shape that is warranted by the lights of
science, a clear conscience, and the commission of the Continental
Congress, can make a surgeon, I am one."
"Your pardon, sir," repeated the colonel stiffly. "Captain Wharton has
accounted for my error."
"For which I thank Captain Wharton," said the surgeon, proceeding coolly
to arrange his amputating instruments, with a formality that made the
colonel's blood run cold. "Where are you hurt, sir? What! is it then
this scratch in your shoulder? In what manner might you have received
this wound, sir?"
"From the sword of a rebel dragoon," said the colonel, with emphasis.
"Never. Even the gentle George Singleton would not have breathed on you
so harmlessly." He took a piece of sticking plaster from his pocket, and
applied it to the part. "There, sir; that will answer your purpose, and
I am certain it is all that is required of me."
"What do you take to be my purpose, then, sir?"
"To report yourself wounded in your dispatches," replied the doctor,
with great steadiness; "and you may say that an old woman dressed your
hurts--for if one did not, one easily might!"
"Very extraordinary language," muttered the Englishman.
Here Captain Wharton interfered; and, by explaining the mistake of
Colonel Wellmere to proceed from his irritated mind and pain of body, he
in part succeeded in mollifying the insulted practitioner, who consented
to look further into the hurts of the other. They were chiefly bruises
from his fall, to which Sitgreaves made some hasty applications,
and withdrew.
The horse, having taken their required refreshment, prepared to fall
back to their intended position, and it became incumbent on Dunwoodie to
arrange the disposal of his prisoners. Sitgreaves he determined to leave
in the cottage of Mr. Wharton, in attendance on Captain Singleton.
Henry came to him with a request that Colonel Wellmere might also be
left behind, under his parole, until the troops marched higher into the
country. To this the major cheerfully assented; and as all the rest of
the prisoners were of the vulgar herd, they were speedily collected,
and, under the care of a strong guard, ordered to the interior. The
dragoons soon after marched; and the guides, separating in small
parties, accompanied by patrols from the horse, spread themselves across
the country, in such a manner as to make a chain of sentinels from the
waters of the Sound to those of the Hudson. [Footnote: The scene of this
tale is between these two waters, which are but a few miles from
each other.]
Dunwoodie had lingered in front of the cottage, after he paid his
parting compliments, with an unwillingness to return, that he thought
proceeded from his solicitude for his wounded friends. The heart which
has not become callous, soon sickens with the glory that has been
purchased with a waste of human life. Peyton Dunwoodie, left to himself,
and no longer excited by the visions which youthful ardor had kept
before him throughout the day, began to feel there were other ties than
those which bound the soldier within the rigid rules of honor. He did
not waver in his duty, yet he felt how strong was the temptation. His
blood had ceased to flow with the impulse created by the battle. The
stern expression of his eye gradually gave place to a look of softness;
and his reflections on the victory brought with them no satisfaction
that compensated for the sacrifices by which it had been purchased.
While turning his last lingering gaze on the Locusts, he remembered only
that it contained all that he most valued. The friend of his youth was a
prisoner, under circumstances that endangered both life and honor. The
gentle companion of his toils, who could throw around the rude
enjoyments of a soldier the graceful mildness of peace, lay a bleeding
victim to his success. The image of the maid who had held, during the
day, a disputed sovereignty in his bosom, again rose to his view with a
loveliness that banished her rival, glory, from his mind.
The last lagging trooper of the corps had already disappeared behind the
northern hill, and the major unwillingly turned his horse in the same
direction. Frances, impelled by a restless inquietude, now timidly
ventured on the piazza of the cottage. The day had been mild and clear,
and the sun was shining brightly in a cloudless sky. The tumult, which
so lately disturbed the valley, was succeeded by the stillness of death,
and the fair scene before her looked as if it had never been marred by
the passions of men. One solitary cloud, the collected smoke of the
contest, hung over the field; and this was gradually dispersing, leaving
no vestige of the conflict above the peaceful graves of its victims. All
the conflicting feelings, all the tumultuous circumstances of the
eventful day, appeared like the deceptions of a troubled vision. Frances
turned, and caught a glimpse of the retreating figure of him who had
been so conspicuous an actor in the scene, and the illusion vanished.
She recognized her lover, and, with the truth, came other recollections
that drove her to the room, with a heart as sad as that which Dunwoodie
himself bore from the valley.