No longer then perplex the breast--
When thoughts torment, the first are best;
'Tis mad to go, 'tis death to stay!
Away, to Orra, haste away.
--Lapland Love Song.
While his comrades were sleeping, in perfect forgetfulness of their
hardships and dangers, the slumbers of Dunwoodie were broken and
unquiet. After spending a night of restlessness, he arose, unrefreshed,
from the rude bed where he had thrown himself in his clothes, and,
without awaking any of the group around him, he wandered into the open
air in search of relief. The soft rays of the moon were just passing
away in the more distinct light of the morning; the wind had fallen, and
the rising mists gave the promise of another of those autumnal days,
which, in this unstable climate, succeed a tempest with the rapid
transitions of magic. The hour had not yet arrived when he intended
moving from his present position; and, willing to allow his warriors all
the refreshment that circumstances would permit, he strolled towards the
scene of the Skinners' punishment, musing upon the embarrassments of his
situation, and uncertain how he should reconcile his sense of duty with
his love. Although Dunwoodie himself placed the most implicit reliance
on the captain's purity of intention, he was by no means assured that a
board of officers would be equally credulous; and, independently of all
feelings of private regard, he felt certain that with the execution of
Henry would be destroyed all hopes of a union with his sister. He had
dispatched an officer, the preceding evening, to Colonel Singleton, who
was in command of the advance posts, reporting the capture of the
British captain, and, after giving his own opinion of his innocence,
requesting orders as to the manner in which he was to dispose of his
prisoner. These orders might be expected every hour, and his uneasiness
increased, in proportion as the moment approached when his friend might
be removed from his protection. In this disturbed state of mind, the
major wandered through the orchard, and was stopped in his walk by
arriving at the base of those rocks which had protected the Skinners in
their flight, before he was conscious whither his steps had carried him.
He was about to turn, and retrace his path to his quarters, when he was
startled by a voice, bidding him,--
"Stand or die!"
Dunwoodie turned in amazement, and beheld the figure of a man placed at
a little distance above him on a shelving rock, with a musket leveled at
himself. The light was not yet sufficiently powerful to reach the
recesses of that gloomy spot, and a second look was necessary before he
discovered, to his astonishment, that the peddler stood before him.
Comprehending, in an instant, the danger of his situation, and
disdaining to implore mercy or to retreat, had the latter been possible,
the youth cried firmly,--
"If I am to be murdered, fire! I will never become your prisoner."
"No, Major Dunwoodie," said Birch, lowering his musket, "it is neither
my intention to capture nor to slay."
"What then would you have, mysterious being?" said Dunwoodie, hardly
able to persuade himself that the form he saw was not a creature of the
imagination.
"Your good opinion," answered the peddler, with emotion. "I would wish
all good men to judge me with lenity."
"To you it must be indifferent what may be the judgment of men; for you
seem to be beyond the reach of their sentence."
"God spares the lives of His servants to His own time," said the
peddler, solemnly. "A few hours ago I was your prisoner, and threatened
with the gallows; now you are mine; but, Major Dunwoodie, you are free.
There are men abroad who would treat you less kindly. Of what service
would that sword be to you against my weapon and a steady hand? Take
the advice of one who has never harmed you, and who never will. Do not
trust yourself in the skirts of any wood, unless in company
and mounted."
"And have you comrades, who have assisted you to escape, and who are
less generous than yourself?"
"No--no, I am alone truly--none know me but my God and _him._"
"And who?" asked the major, with an interest he could not control.
"None," continued the peddler, recovering his composure. "But such is
not your case, Major Dunwoodie; you are young and happy; there are those
that are dear to you, and such are not far away--danger is near them you
love most--danger within and without--double your watchfulness--
strengthen your patrols--and be silent. With your opinion of me, should
I tell you more, you would suspect an ambush. But remember and guard
them you love best."
The peddler discharged the musket in the air, and threw it at the feet
of his astonished auditor. When surprise and the smoke allowed Dunwoodie
to look again on the rock where he had stood, the spot was vacant.
The youth was aroused from the stupor, which had been created by this
strange scene, by the trampling of horses, and the sound of the bugles.
A patrol was drawn to the spot by the report of the musket, and the
alarm had been given to the corps. Without entering into any explanation
with his men, the major returned quickly to his quarters, where he found
the whole squadron under arms, in battle array, impatiently awaiting the
appearance of their leader. The officer whose duty it was to superintend
such matters, had directed a party to lower the sign of the Hotel
Flanagan, and the post was already arranged for the execution of the
spy. On hearing from the major that the musket was discharged by
himself, and was probably one of those dropped by the Skinners (for by
this time Dunwoodie had learned the punishment inflicted by Lawton, but
chose to conceal his own interview with Birch), his officers suggested
the propriety of executing their prisoner before they marched. Unable to
believe that all he had seen was not a dream, Dunwoodie, followed by
many of his officers, and preceded by Sergeant Hollister, went to the
place which was supposed to contain the peddler.
"Well, sir," said the major to the sentinel who guarded the door, "I
trust you have your prisoner in safety."
"He is yet asleep," replied the man, "and he makes such a noise, I could
hardly hear the bugles sound the alarm."
"Open the door and bring him forth."
The order was obeyed; but to the utter amazement of the honest veteran
who entered the prison, he found the room in no little disorder--the
coat of the peddler where his body ought to have been, and part of the
wardrobe of Betty scattered in disorder on the floor. The washerwoman
herself occupied the pallet, in profound mental oblivion, clad as when
last seen, excepting a little black bonnet, which she so constantly
wore, that it was commonly thought she made it perform the double duty
of both day and night cap. The noise of their entrance, and the
exclamations of their party, awoke the woman.
"Is it the breakfast that's wanting?" said Betty, rubbing her eyes.
"Faith, ye look as if ye would ate myself--but patience, a little,
darlings, and ye'll see sich a fry as never was."
"Fry!" echoed the sergeant, forgetful of his religious philosophy, and
the presence of his officers. "We'll have you roasted, Jezebel!--you've
helped that damned peddler to escape."
"Jezebel back ag'in in your own teeth, and damned piddler too, Mr.
Sargeant!" cried Betty, who was easily roused. "What have I to do with
piddlers, or escapes? I might have been a piddler's lady, and wore my
silks, if I'd had Sawny M'Twill, instead of tagging at the heels of a
parcel of dragooning rapscallions, who don't know how to trate a lone
body with dacency."
"The fellow has left my Bible," said the veteran, taking he book from
the floor. "Instead of spending his time in reading it to prepare for
his end like a good Christian, he has been busy in laboring to escape."
"And who would stay and be hanged like a dog?" cried Betty, beginning to
comprehend the case. "'Tisn't everyone that's born to meet with sich an
ind--like yourself, Mr. Hollister."
"Silence!" said Dunwoodie. "This must be inquired into closely,
gentlemen; there is no outlet but the door, and there he could not pass,
unless the sentinel connived at his escape, or was asleep at his post.
Call up the guard."
As these men were not paraded, curiosity had already drawn them to the
place, and they one and all, with the exception of him before mentioned,
denied that any person had passed out. The individual in question
acknowledged that Betty had gone by him, but pleaded his orders in
justification.
"You lie, you t'ief--you lie!" shouted Betty, who had impatiently
listened to his exculpation. "Would ye slanderize a lone woman, by
saying she walks a camp at midnight? Here have I been slaping the long
night, swaatly as the sucking babe."
"Here, sir," said the sergeant, turning respectfully to Dunwoodie, "is
something written in my Bible that was not in it before; for having no
family to record, I would not suffer any scribbling in the sacred book."
One of the officers read aloud: "_These certify, that if suffered to get
free, it is by God's help alone, to whose divine aid I humbly riccommind
myself. I'm forced to take the woman's clothes, but in her pocket is a
ricompinse. Witness my hand--Harvey Birch._"
"What!" roared Betty, "has the t'ief robbed a lone woman of her all!
Hang him--catch him and hang him, major; if there's law or justice in
the land."
"Examine your pocket," said one of the youngsters, who was enjoying the
scene, careless of the consequences.
"Ah! faith," cried the washerwoman, producing a guinea, "but he is a
jewel of a piddler! Long life and a brisk trade to him, say I; he is
wilcome to the duds--and if he is ever hanged, many a bigger rogue
will go free."
Dunwoodie turned to leave the apartment, and he saw Captain Lawton
standing with folded arms, contemplating the scene with profound
silence. His manner, so different from his usual impetuosity and zeal,
struck his commander as singular. Their eyes met, and they walked
together for a few minutes in close conversation, when Dunwoodie
returned, and dismissed the guard to their place of rendezvous. Sergeant
Hollister, however, continued along with Betty, who, having found none
of her vestments disturbed but such as the guinea more than paid for,
was in high good humor. The washerwoman had for a long time looked on
the veteran with the eyes of affection; and she had determined within
herself to remove certain delicate objections which had long embarrassed
her peculiar situation, as respected the corps, by making the sergeant
the successor of her late husband. For some time past the trooper had
seemed to flatter this preference; and Betty, conceiving that her
violence might have mortified her suitor, was determined to make him all
the amends in her power. Besides, rough and uncouth as she was, the
washerwoman had still enough of her sex to know that the moments of
reconciliation were the moments of power. She therefore poured out a
glass of her morning beverage, and handed it to her companion as a
peace offering.
"A few warm words between fri'nds are a trifle, ye must be knowing,
sargeant," said the washerwoman. "It was Michael Flanagan that I ever
calumn'ated the most when I was loving him the best."
"Michael was a good soldier and a brave man," said the trooper,
finishing the glass. "Our troop was covering the flank of his regiment
when he fell, and I rode over his body myself during the day. Poor
fellow! he lay on his back, and looked as composed as if he had died a
natural death after a year's consumption."
"Oh! Michael was a great consumer, and be sartin; two such as us make
dreadful inroads in the stock, sargeant. But ye're a sober, discrate
man, Mister Hollister, and would be a helpmate indeed."
"Why, Mrs. Flanagan, I've tarried to speak on a subject that lies heavy
at my heart, and I will now open my mind, if you've leisure to listen."
"Is it listen?" cried the impatient woman; "and I'd listen to you,
sargeant, if the officers never ate another mouthful. But take a second
drop, dear; 'twill encourage you to spake freely."
"I am already bold enough in so good a cause," returned the veteran,
rejecting her bounty. "Betty, do you think it was really the peddler spy
that I placed in this room the last night?"
"And who should it be else, darling?"
"The evil one."
"What, the divil?"
"Aye, even Beelzebub, disguised as the peddler; and them fellows we
thought to be Skinners were his imps."
"Well sure, sargeant dear, ye're but little out this time, anyway; for
if the divil's imps go at large in the county Westchester, sure it is
the Skinners, themselves."
"Mrs. Flanagan, I mean in their incarnate spirits; the evil one knew
there was no one we would arrest sooner than the peddler Birch, and he
took on his appearance to gain admission to your room."
"And what should the divil be wanting of me?" cried Betty, tartly. "And
isn't there divils enough in the corps already, without one's coming
from the bottomless pit to frighten a lone body?"
"'Twas in mercy to you, Betty, that he was permitted to come. You see he
vanished through the door in your form, which is a symbol of your fate,
unless you mend your life. Oh! I noticed how he trembled when I gave him
the good book. Would any Christian, think you, my dear Betty, write in a
Bible in this way; unless it might be the matter of births and deaths,
and such lawful chronicles?"
The washerwoman was pleased with the softness of her lover's manner, but
dreadfully scandalized at his insinuation. She, however, preserved her
temper, and with the quickness of her own country's people, rejoined,
"And would the divil have paid for the clothes, think ye?--aye, and
overpaid."
"Doubtless the money is base," said the sergeant, a little staggered at
such an evidence of honesty in one of whom, as to generals, he thought
so meanly. "He tempted me with his glittering coin, but the Lord gave me
strength to resist."
"The goold looks well; but I'll change it, anyway, with Captain Jack,
the day. He is niver a bit afeard of any divil of them all!"
"Betty, Betty," said her companion, "do not speak so disreverently of
the evil spirit; he is ever at hand, and will owe you a grudge, for your
language."
"Pooh! if he has any bowels at all, he won't mind a fillip or two from a
poor lone woman; I'm sure no other Christian would."
"But the dark one has no bowels, except to devour the children of men,"
said the sergeant, looking around him in horror; "and it's best to make
friends everywhere, for there is no telling what may happen till it
comes. But, Betty, no man could have got out of this place, and passed
all the sentinels, without being known. Take awful warning from the
visit therefore--"
Here the dialogue was interrupted by a peremptory summons to the sutler
to prepare the morning's repast, and they were obliged to separate; the
woman secretly hoping that the interest the sergeant manifested was more
earthly than he imagined; and the man, bent on saving a soul from the
fangs of the dark spirit that was prowling through their camp in quest
of victims.
During the breakfast several expresses arrived, one of which brought
intelligence of the actual force and destination of the enemy's
expedition that was out on the Hudson; and another, orders to send
Captain Wharton to the first post above, under the escort of a body of
dragoons. These last instructions, or rather commands, for they admitted
of no departure from their letter, completed the sum of Dunwoodie's
uneasiness. The despair and misery of Frances were constantly before his
eyes, and fifty times he was tempted to throw himself on his horse and
gallop to the Locusts; but an uncontrollable feeling prevented. In
obedience to the commands of his superior, an officer, with a small
party, was sent to the cottage to conduct Henry Wharton to the place
directed; and the gentleman who was intrusted with the execution of the
order was charged with a letter from Dunwoodie to his friend, containing
the most cheering assurances of his safety, as well as the strongest
pledges of his own unceasing exertions in his favor. Lawton was left
with part of his own troop, in charge of the few wounded; and as soon as
the men were refreshed, the encampment broke up, the main body marching
towards the Hudson. Dunwoodie repeated his injunctions to Captain Lawton
again and again--dwelt on every word that had fallen from the peddler,
and canvassed, in every possible manner that his ingenuity could devise,
the probable meaning of his mysterious warnings, until no excuse
remained for delaying his own departure. Suddenly recollecting, however,
that no directions had been given for the disposal of Colonel Wellmere,
instead of following the rear of the column, the major yielded to his
desires, and turned down the road which led to the Locusts. The horse of
Dunwoodie was fleet as the wind, and scarcely a minute seemed to have
passed before he gained sight, from an eminence, of the lonely vale, and
as he was plunging into the bottom lands that formed its surface, he
caught a glimpse of Henry Wharton and his escort, at a distance,
defiling through a pass which led to the posts above. This sight added
to the speed of the anxious youth, who now turned the angle of the hill
that opened to the valley, and came suddenly on the object of his
search. Frances had followed the party which guarded her brother, at a
distance; and as they vanished from her sight, she felt deserted by all
that she most prized in this world. The unaccountable absence of
Dunwoodie, with the shock of parting from Henry under such
circumstances, had entirely subdued her fortitude, and she had sunk on a
stone by the roadside, sobbing as if her heart would break. Dunwoodie
sprang from his charger, threw the reins over the neck of the animal,
and in a moment he was by the side of the weeping girl.
"Frances--my own Frances!" he exclaimed, "why this distress? Let not the
situation of your brother create any alarm. As soon as the duty I am now
on is completed, I will hasten to the feet of Washington, and beg his
release. The Father of his Country will never deny such a boon to one of
his favorite pupils."
"Major Dunwoodie, for your interest in behalf of my poor brother, I
thank you," said the trembling girl, drying her eyes, and rising with
dignity; "but such language addressed to me, surely, is improper."
"Improper! are you not mine--by the consent of your father--your
aunt--your brother--nay, by your own consent, my sweet Frances?"
"I wish not, Major Dunwoodie, to interfere with the prior claims that
any other lady may have to your affections," said Frances, struggling to
speak with firmness.
"None other, I swear by Heaven, none other has any claim on me!" cried
Dunwoodie, with fervor. "You alone are mistress of my inmost soul."
"You have practiced so much, and so successfully, Major Dunwoodie, that
it is no wonder you excel in deceiving the credulity of my sex,"
returned Frances, attempting a smile, which the tremulousness of her
muscles smothered at birth.
"Am I a villain, Miss Wharton, that you receive me with such language?
When have I ever deceived you, Frances? Who has practiced in this manner
on your purity of heart?"
"Why has not Major Dunwoodie honored the dwelling of his intended father
with his presence lately? Did he forget it contained one friend on a bed
of sickness, and another in deep distress? Has it escaped his memory
that it held his intended wife? Or is he fearful of meeting more than
one that can lay a claim to that title? Oh, Peyton--Peyton, how have I
been deceived in you! With the foolish credulity of my youth, I thought
you all that was brave, noble, generous, and loyal."
"Frances, I see how you have deceived yourself," cried Dunwoodie, his
face in a glow of fire. "You do me injustice; I swear by all that is
most dear to me, that you do me injustice."
"Swear not, Major Dunwoodie," interrupted Frances, her fine countenance
lighting with the luster of womanly pride. "The time is gone by for me
to credit oaths."
"Miss Wharton, would you have me a coxcomb--make me contemptible in my
own eyes, by boasting with the hope of raising myself in your
estimation?"
"Flatter not yourself that the task is so easy, sir," returned Frances,
moving towards the cottage. "We converse together in private for the
last time; but--possibly--my father would welcome my mother's kinsman."
"No, Miss Wharton, I cannot enter his dwelling now; I should act in a
manner unworthy of myself. You drive me from you, Frances, in despair. I
am going on desperate service, and may not live to return. Should
fortune prove severe, at least do my memory justice; remember that the
last breathings of my soul will be for your happiness." So saying, he
had already placed his foot in the stirrup, but his youthful mistress,
turning on him an eye that pierced his soul, arrested the action.
"Peyton--Major Dunwoodie," she said, "can you ever forget the sacred
cause in which you are enlisted? Duty both to your God and to your
country forbids your doing anything rashly. The latter has need of your
services; besides"--but her voice became choked, and she was unable
to proceed.
"Besides what?" echoed the youth, springing to her side, and offering to
take her hand in his own. Frances having, however, recovered herself,
coldly repulsed him, and continued her walk homeward.
"Is this our parting!" cried Dunwoodie, in agony. "Am I a wretch, that
you treat me so cruelly? You have never loved me, and wish to conceal
your own fickleness by accusations that you will not explain."
Frances stopped short in her walk, and turned on him a look of so much
purity and feeling, that, heart-stricken, Dunwoodie would have knelt at
her feet for pardon; but motioning him for silence, she once
more spoke:--
"Hear me, Major Dunwoodie, for the last time: it is a bitter knowledge
when we first discover our own inferiority; but it is a truth that I
have lately learned. Against you I bring no charges--make no
accusations; no, not willingly in my thoughts. Were my claims to your
heart just, I am not worthy of you. It is not a feeble, timid girl, like
me, that could make you happy. No, Peyton, you are formed for great and
glorious actions, deeds of daring and renown, and should be united to a
soul like your own; one that can rise above the weakness of her sex. I
should be a weight to drag you to the dust; but with a different spirit
in your companion, you might soar to the very pinnacle of earthly glory.
To such a one, therefore, I resign you freely, if not cheerfully; and
pray, oh, how fervently do I pray! that with such a one you may
be happy."
"Lovely enthusiast!" cried Dunwoodie, "you know not yourself, nor me. It
is a woman, mild, gentle, and dependent as yourself, that my very
nature loves; deceive not yourself with visionary ideas of generosity,
which will only make me miserable."
"Farewell, Major Dunwoodie," said the agitated girl, pausing for a
moment to gasp for breath; "forget that you ever knew me--remember the
claims of your bleeding country; and be happy."
"Happy!" repeated the youthful soldier, bitterly, as he saw her light
form gliding through the gate of the lawn, and disappearing behind its
shrubbery, "Yes, I am happy, indeed!"
Throwing himself into the saddle, he plunged his spurs into his horse,
and soon overtook his squadron, which was marching slowly over the hilly
roads of the county, to gain the banks of the Hudson.
But painful as were the feelings of Dunwoodie at this unexpected
termination of the interview with his mistress, they were but light
compared with those which were experienced by the fond girl herself.
Frances had, with the keen eye of jealous love, easily detected the
attachment of Isabella Singleton to Dunwoodie. Delicate and retiring
herself, it never could present itself to her mind that this love had
been unsought. Ardent in her own affections, and artless in their
exhibition, she had early caught the eye of the young soldier; but it
required all the manly frankness of Dunwoodie to court her favor, and
the most pointed devotion to obtain his conquest. This done, his power
was durable, entire, and engrossing. But the unusual occurrences of the
few preceding days, the altered mien of her lover during those events,
his unwonted indifference to herself, and chiefly the romantic idolatry
of Isabella, had aroused new sensations in her bosom. With a dread of
her lover's integrity had been awakened the never-failing concomitant of
the purest affection, a distrust of her own merits. In the moment of
enthusiasm, the task of resigning her lover to another, who might be
more worthy of him, seemed easy; but it is in vain that the imagination
attempts to deceive the heart. Dunwoodie had no sooner disappeared, than
our heroine felt all the misery of her situation; and if the youth found
some relief in the cares of his command, Frances was less fortunate in
the performance of a duty imposed on her by filial piety. The removal of
his son had nearly destroyed the little energy of Mr. Wharton, who
required all the tenderness of his remaining children to convince him
that he was able to perform the ordinary functions of life.