And here, forlorn and lost, I tread,
With fainting steps, and slow;
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem length'ning as I go.
--GOLDSMITH.
The night had set in dark and chilling, as Frances Wharton, with a
beating heart but light step, moved through the little garden that lay
behind the farmhouse which had been her brother's prison, and took her
way to the foot of the mountain, where she had seen the figure of him
she supposed to be the peddler. It was still early, but the darkness and
the dreary nature of a November evening would, at any other moment, or
with less inducement to exertion, have driven her back in terror to the
circle she had left. Without pausing to reflect, however, she flew over
the ground with a rapidity that seemed to bid defiance to all
impediments, nor stopped even to breathe, until she had gone half the
distance to the rock that she had marked as the spot where Birch made
his appearance on that very morning.
The good treatment of their women is the surest evidence that a people
can give of their civilization; and there is no nation which has more to
boast of, in this respect, than the Americans. Frances felt but little
apprehension from the orderly and quiet troops who were taking their
evening's repast on the side of the highway, opposite to the field
through which she was flying. They were her countrymen, and she knew
that her sex would be respected by the Eastern militia, who composed
this body; but in the volatile and reckless character of the Southern
horse she had less confidence. Outrages of any description were seldom
committed by the really American soldiery; but she recoiled, with
exquisite delicacy, from even the appearance of humiliation. When,
therefore, she heard the footsteps of a horse moving slowly up the road,
she shrank, timidly, into a little thicket of wood which grew around
the spring that bubbled from the side of a hillock near her. The
vidette, for such it proved to be, passed her without noticing her form,
which was so enveloped as to be as little conspicuous as possible,
humming a low air to himself, and probably thinking of some other fair
that he had left on the banks of the Potomac.
Frances listened anxiously to the retreating footsteps of his horse,
and, as they died upon her ear, she ventured from her place of secrecy,
and advanced a short distance into the field, where, startled at the
gloom, and appalled with the dreariness of the prospect, she paused to
reflect on what she had undertaken. Throwing back the hood of her
cardinal, she sought the support of a tree, and gazed towards the summit
of the mountain that was to be the goal of her enterprise. It rose from
the plain like a huge pyramid, giving nothing to the eye but its
outlines. The pinnacle could be faintly discerned in front of a lighter
background of clouds, between which a few glimmering stars occasionally
twinkled in momentary brightness, and then gradually became obscured by
the passing vapor that was moving before the wind, at a vast distance
below the clouds themselves. Should she return, Henry and the peddler
would most probably pass the night in fancied security upon that very
hill towards which she was straining her eyes, in the vain hope of
observing some light that might encourage her to proceed. The
deliberate, and what to her seemed cold-blooded, project of the officer
for the recapture of the fugitives, still rang in her ears, and
stimulated her to go on; but the solitude into which she must venture,
the time, the actual danger of the ascent, and the uncertainty of her
finding the hut, or what was still more disheartening, the chance that
it might be occupied by unknown tenants, and those of the worst
description--urged her to retreat.
The increasing darkness was each moment rendering objects less and less
distinct, and the clouds were gathering more gloomily in the rear of the
hill, until its form could no longer be discerned. Frances threw back
her rich curls with both hands on her temples, in order to possess her
senses in their utmost keenness; but the towering hill was entirely lost
to the eye. At length she discovered a faint and twinkling blaze in the
direction in which she thought the building stood, that, by its reviving
and receding luster, might be taken for the glimmering of a fire. But
the delusion vanished, as the horizon again cleared, and the star of
evening shone forth from a cloud, after struggling hard, as if for
existence. She now saw the mountain to the left of the place where the
planet was shining, and suddenly a streak of mellow light burst upon the
fantastic oaks that were thinly scattered over its summit, and gradually
moved down its side, until the whole pile became distinct under the rays
of the rising moon. Although it would have been physically impossible
for our heroine to advance without the aid of the friendly light, which
now gleamed on the long line of level land before her, yet she was not
encouraged to proceed. If she could see the goal of her wishes, she
could also perceive the difficulties that must attend her reaching it.
While deliberating in distressing incertitude, now shrinking with the
timidity of her sex and years from the enterprise, and now resolving to
rescue her brother at every hazard, Frances turned her looks towards the
east, in earnest gaze at the clouds which constantly threatened to
involve her again in comparative darkness. Had an adder stung her, she
could not have sprung with greater celerity than she recoiled from the
object against which she was leaning, and which she for the first time
noticed. The two upright posts, with a crossbeam on their tops, and a
rude platform beneath, told but too plainly the nature of the structure;
even the cord was suspended from an iron staple, and was swinging to and
fro, in the night air. Frances hesitated no longer, but rather flew than
ran across the meadow, and was soon at the base of the rock, where she
hoped to find something like a path to the summit of the mountain. Here
she was compelled to pause for breath, and she improved the leisure by
surveying the ground about her. The ascent was quite abrupt, but she
soon found a sheep path that wound among the shelving rocks and through
the trees, so as to render her labor much less tiresome than it
otherwise would have been. Throwing a fearful glance behind, the
determined girl commenced her journey upwards. Young, active, and
impelled by her generous motive, she moved up the hill with elastic
steps, and very soon emerged from the cover of the woods, into an open
space of more level ground, that had evidently been cleared of its
timber, for the purpose of cultivation. But either the war or the
sterility of the soil had compelled the adventurer to abandon the
advantages that he had obtained over the wilderness, and already the
bushes and briers were springing up afresh, as if the plow had never
traced furrows through the mold which nourished them. Frances felt her
spirits invigorated by these faint vestiges of the labor of man, and she
walked up the gentle acclivity with renewed hopes of success. The path
now diverged in so many different directions, that she soon saw it would
be useless to follow their windings, and abandoning it, at the first
turn, she labored forward towards what she thought was the nearest point
of the summit. The cleared ground was soon past, and woods and rocks,
clinging to the precipitous sides of the mountain, again opposed
themselves to her progress. Occasionally, the path was to be seen
running along the verge of the clearing, and then striking off into the
scattering patches of grass and herbage, but in no instance could she
trace it upward. Tufts of wool, hanging to the briers, sufficiently
denoted the origin of these tracks, and Frances rightly conjectured that
whoever descended the mountain, would avail himself of their existence,
to lighten the labor. Seating herself on a stone, the wearied girl again
paused to rest and to reflect; the clouds were rising before the moon,
and the whole scene at her feet lay pictured in softest colors.
The white tents of the militia were stretched in regular lines
immediately beneath her. The light was shining in the window of her
aunt, who, Frances easily fancied, was watching the mountain, racked
with all the anxiety she might be supposed to feel for her niece.
Lanterns were playing about in the stable yard, where she knew the
horses of the dragoons were kept, and believing them to be preparing for
their night march, she again sprang upon her feet, and renewed her toil.
Our heroine had to ascend more than a quarter of a mile farther,
although she had already conquered two thirds of the height of the
mountain. But she was now without a path or any guide to direct her in
her course. Fortunately, the hill was conical, like most of the
mountains in that range, and, by advancing upwards, she was certain of
at length reaching the desired hut, which hung, as it were, on the very
pinnacle. Nearly an hour did she struggle with the numerous difficulties
that she was obliged to overcome, when, having been repeatedly exhausted
with her efforts, and, in several instances, in great danger from falls,
she succeeded in gaining the small piece of tableland on the summit.
Faint with her exertions, which had been unusually severe for so slight
a frame, she sank on a rock, to recover her strength and fortitude for
the approaching interview. A few moments sufficed for this purpose, when
she proceeded in quest of the hut. All of the neighboring hills were
distinctly visible by the aid of the moon, and Frances was able, where
she stood, to trace the route of the highway, from the plains into the
mountains. By following this line with her eyes, she soon discovered the
point whence she had seen the mysterious dwelling, and directly opposite
to that point she well knew the hut must stand.
The chilling air sighed through the leafless branches of the gnarled and
crooked oaks, as with a step so light as hardly to rustle the dry leaves
on which she trod, Frances moved forward to that part of the hill where
she expected to find this secluded habitation; but nothing could she
discern that in the least resembled a dwelling of any sort. In vain she
examined every recess of the rocks, or inquisitively explored every part
of the summit that she thought could hold the tenement of the peddler.
No hut, nor any vestige of a human being could she trace. The idea of
her solitude struck on the terrified mind of the affrighted girl, and
approaching to the edge of a shelving rock, she bent forward to gaze on
the signs of life in the vale, when a ray of keen light dazzled her
eyes, and a warm ray diffused itself over her whole frame. Recovering
from her surprise, Frances looked on the ledge beneath her, and at once
perceived that she stood directly over the object of her search. A hole
through its roof afforded a passage to the smoke, which, as it blew
aside, showed her a clear and cheerful fire crackling and snapping on a
rude hearth of stone. The approach to the front of the hut was by a
winding path around the point of the rock on which she stood, and by
this, she advanced to its door.
Three sides of this singular edifice, if such it could be called, were
composed of logs laid alternately on each other, to a little more than
the height of a man; and the fourth was formed by the rock against which
it leaned. The roof was made of the bark of trees, laid in long strips
from the rock to its eaves; the fissures between the logs had been
stuffed with clay, which in many places had fallen out, and dried leaves
were made use of as a substitute, to keep out the wind. A single window
of four panes of glass was in front, but a board carefully closed it, in
such a manner as to emit no light from the fire within. After pausing
some time to view this singularly constructed hiding place, for such
Frances well knew it to be, she applied her eye to a crevice to examine
the inside. There was no lamp or candle, but the blazing fire of dry
wood made the interior of the hut light enough to read by. In one corner
lay a bed of straw, with a pair of blankets thrown carelessly over it,
as if left where they had last been used. Against the walls and rock
were suspended, from pegs forced into the crevices, various garments,
and such as were apparently fitted for all ages and conditions, and for
either sex. British and American uniforms hung peaceably by the side of
each other; and on the peg that supported a gown of striped calico, such
as was the usual country wear, was also depending a well-powdered wig:
in short, the attire was numerous and as various as if a whole parish
were to be equipped from this one wardrobe.
In the angle against the rock, and opposite to the fire which was
burning in the other corner, was an open cupboard, that held a plate or
two, a mug, and the remains of some broken meat. Before the fire was a
table, with one of its legs fractured, and made of rough boards; these,
with a single stool, composed the furniture, if we except a few articles
of cooking. A book, that by its size and shape, appeared to be a Bible,
was lying on the table, unopened. But it was the occupant of the hut in
whom Frances was chiefly interested. This was a man, sitting on the
stool, with his head leaning on his hand, in such a manner as to conceal
his features, and deeply occupied in examining some open papers. On the
table lay a pair of curiously and richly mounted horseman's pistols, and
the handle of a sheathed rapier, of exquisite workmanship, protruded
from between the legs of the gentleman, one of whose hands carelessly
rested on its guard. The tall stature of this unexpected tenant of the
hut, and his form, much more athletic than that of either Harvey or her
brother, told Frances, without the aid of his dress, that it was neither
of those she sought. A close surtout was buttoned high in the throat of
the stranger, and parting at his knees, showed breeches of buff, with
military boots and spurs. His hair was dressed so as to expose the whole
face; and, after the fashion of that day, it was profusely powdered. A
round hat was laid on the stones that formed a paved floor to the hut,
as if to make room for a large map, which, among the other papers,
occupied the table.
This was an unexpected event to our adventurer. She had been so
confident that the figure twice seen was the peddler, that on learning
his agency in her brother's escape, she did not in the least doubt of
finding them both in the place, which, she now discovered, was occupied
by another and a stranger. She stood, earnestly looking through the
crevice, hesitating whether to retire, or to wait with the expectation
of yet meeting Henry, as the stranger moved his hand from before his
eyes, and raised his face, apparently in deep musing, when Frances
instantly recognized the benevolent and strongly marked, but composed
features of Harper.
All that Dunwoodie had said of his power and disposition, all that he
had himself promised her brother, and all the confidence that had been
created by his dignified and paternal manner, rushed across the mind of
Frances, who threw open the door of the hut, and falling at his feet,
clasped his knees with her arms, as she cried,--
"Save him--save him--save my brother; remember your promise, and save
him!"
Harper had risen as the door opened, and there was a slight movement of
one hand towards his pistols; but it was cool and instantly checked. He
raised the hood of the cardinal, which had fallen over her features, and
exclaimed, with some uneasiness,--
"Miss Wharton! But you cannot be alone?"
"There is none here but my God and you; and by His sacred name, I
conjure you to remember your promise, and save my brother!"
Harper gently raised her from her knees, and placed her on the stool,
begging her at the same time to be composed, and to acquaint him with
the nature of her errand. This Frances instantly did, ingenuously
admitting him to a knowledge of all her views in visiting that lone spot
at such an hour, and by herself.
It was at all times difficult to probe the thoughts of one who held his
passions in such disciplined subjection as Harper, but still there was a
lighting of his thoughtful eye, and a slight unbending of his muscles,
as the hurried and anxious girl proceeded in her narrative. His
interest, as she dwelt upon the manner of Henry's escape, and the flight
to the woods, was deep and manifest, and he listened to the remainder of
her tale with a marked expression of benevolent indulgence. Her
apprehensions, that her brother might still be too late through the
mountains, seemed to have much weight with him, for, as she concluded,
he walked a turn or two across the hut, in silent musing.
Frances hesitated, and unconsciously played with the handle of one of
the pistols, and the paleness that her fears had spread over her fine
features began to give place to a rich tint, as, after a short pause,
she added,--
"We can depend much on the friendship of Major Dunwoodie, but his sense
of honor is so pure, that--that--notwithstanding his--his--feelings--his
desire to serve us--he will conceive it to be his duty to apprehend my
brother again. Besides, he thinks there will be no danger in so doing,
as he relies greatly on your interference."
"On mine," said Harper, raising his eyes in surprise.
"Yes, on yours. When we told him of your kind language, he at once
assured us all that you had the power, and, if you had promised, would
have the inclination, to procure Henry's pardon."
"Said he more?" asked Harper, who appeared slightly uneasy.
"Nothing but reiterated assurances of Henry's safety; even now he is in
quest of you."
"Miss Wharton, that I bear no mean part, in the unhappy struggle between
England and America, it might now be useless to deny. You owe your
brother's escape, this night, to my knowledge of his innocence, and the
remembrance of my word. Major Dunwoodie is mistaken when he says that I
might openly have procured his pardon. I now, indeed, can control his
fate, and I pledge to you a word which has some influence with
Washington, that means shall be taken to prevent his recapture. But
from you, also, I exact a promise, that this interview, and all that has
passed between us, remain confined to your own bosom, until you have my
permission to speak upon the subject."
Frances gave the desired assurance, and he continued,--
"The peddler and your brother will soon be here, but I must not be seen
by the royal officer, or the life of Birch might be the forfeiture."
"Never!" cried Frances, ardently. "Henry could never be so base as to
betray the man who saved him."
"It is no childish game that we are now playing, Miss Wharton. Men's
lives and fortunes hang upon slender threads, and nothing must be left
to accident that can be guarded against. Did Sir Henry Clinton know that
the peddler had communion with me, and under such circumstances, the
life of the miserable man would be taken instantly; therefore, as you
value human blood, or remember the rescue of your brother, be prudent,
and be silent. Communicate what you know to them both, and urge them to
instant departure. If they can reach the last pickets of our army before
morning, it shall be my care that there are none to intercept them.
There is better work for Major Dunwoodie than to be exposing the life of
his friend."
While Harper was speaking, he carefully rolled up the map he had been
studying, and placed it, together with sundry papers that were also
open, into his pocket. He was still occupied in this manner, when the
voice of the peddler, talking in unusually loud tones, was heard
directly over their heads.
"Stand farther this way, Captain Wharton, and you can see the tents in
the moonshine. But let them mount and ride; I have a nest here, that
will hold us both, and we will go in at our leisure."
"And where is this nest? I confess that I have eaten but little the last
two days, and I crave some of the cheer you mention."
"Hem!" said the peddler, exerting his voice still more. "Hem--this fog
has given me a cold; but move slow--and be careful not to slip, or you
may land on the bayonet of the sentinel on the flats; 'tis a steep hill
to rise, but one can go down it with ease."
Harper pressed his finger on his lip, to remind Frances of her promise,
and, taking his pistols and hat, so that no vestige of his visit
remained, he retired deliberately to a far corner of the hut, where,
lifting several articles of dress, he entered a recess in the rock, and,
letting them fall again, was hid from view. Frances noticed, by the
strong firelight, as he entered, that it was a natural cavity, and
contained nothing but a few more articles of domestic use.
The surprise of Henry and the peddler, on entering and finding Frances
in possession of the hut, may be easily imagined. Without waiting for
explanations or questions, the warm-hearted girl flew into the arms of
her brother, and gave a vent to her emotions in tears. But the peddler
seemed struck with very different feelings. His first look was at the
fire, which had been recently supplied with fuel; he then drew open a
small drawer of the table, and looked a little alarmed at finding
it empty.
"Are you alone, Miss Fanny?" he asked, in a quick voice. "You did not
come here alone?"
"As you see me, Mr. Birch," said Frances, raising herself from her
brother's arms, and turning an expressive glance towards the secret
cavern, that the quick eye of the peddler instantly understood.
"But why and wherefore are you here?" exclaimed her astonished brother;
"and how knew you of this place at all?"
Frances entered at once into a brief detail of what had occurred at the
house since their departure, and the motives which induced her to
seek them.
"But," said Birch, "why follow us here, when we were left on the
opposite hill?"
Frances related the glimpse that she had caught of the hut and peddler,
in her passage through the Highlands, as well as her view of him on that
day, and her immediate conjecture that the fugitives would seek the
shelter of this habitation for the night. Birch examined her features
as, with open ingenuousness, she related the simple incidents that had
made her mistress of his secret; and, as she ended, he sprang upon his
feet, and, striking the window with the stick in his hand, demolished it
at a blow.
"'Tis but little luxury or comfort that I know," he said, "but even that
little cannot be enjoyed in safety! Miss Wharton," he added, advancing
before Frances, and speaking with the bitter melancholy that was common
to him, "I am hunted through these hills like a beast of the forest; but
whenever, tired with my toils, I can reach this spot, poor and dreary as
it is, I can spend my solitary nights in safety. Will you aid to make
the life of a wretch still more miserable?"
"Never!" cried Frances, with fervor; "your secret is safe with me."
"Major Dunwoodie"--said the peddler, slowly, turning an eye upon her
that read her soul.
Frances lowered her head upon her bosom, for a moment, in shame; then,
elevating her fine and glowing face, she added, with enthusiasm,--
"Never, never, Harvey, as God may hear my prayers!"
The peddler seemed satisfied; for he drew back, and, watching his
opportunity, unseen by Henry, slipped behind the screen, and entered
the cavern.
Frances and her brother, who thought his companion had passed through
the door, continued conversing on the latter's situation for several
minutes, when the former urged the necessity of expedition on his part,
in order to precede Dunwoodie, from whose sense of duty they knew they
had no escape. The captain took out his pocketbook, and wrote a few
lines with his pencil; then folding the paper, he handed it to
his sister.
"Frances," he said, "you have this night proved yourself to be an
incomparable woman. As you love me, give that unopened to Dunwoodie, and
remember that two hours may save my life."
"I will--I will; but why delay? Why not fly, and improve these precious
moments?"
"Your sister says well, Captain Wharton," exclaimed Harvey, who had
reentered unseen; "we must go at once. Here is food to eat, as
we travel."
"But who is to see this fair creature in safety?" cried the captain. "I
can never desert my sister in such a place as this."
"Leave me! leave me!" said Frances. "I can descend as I came up. Do not
doubt me; you know not my courage nor my strength."
"I have not known you, dear girl, it is true; but now, as I learn your
value, can I quit you here? Never, never!"
"Captain Wharton," said Birch, throwing open the door, "you can trifle
with your own lives, if you have many to spare; I have but one, and must
nurse it. Do I go alone, or not?"
"Go, go, dear Henry," said Frances, embracing him; "go; remember our
father; remember Sarah." She waited not for his answer, but gently
forced him through the door, and closed it with her own hands.
For a short time there was a warm debate between Henry and the peddler;
but the latter finally prevailed, and the breathless girl heard the
successive plunges, as they went down the sides of the mountain at a
rapid rate.
Immediately after the noise of their departure had ceased, Harper
reappeared. He took the arm of Frances in silence, and led her from the
hut. The way seemed familiar to him; for, ascending to the ledge above
them, he led his companion across the tableland tenderly, pointing out
the little difficulties in their route, and cautioning her
against injury.
Frances felt, as she walked by the side of this extraordinary man, that
she was supported by one of no common stamp. The firmness of his step,
and the composure of his manner, seemed to indicate a mind settled and
resolved. By taking a route over the back of the hill, they descended
with great expedition, and but little danger. The distance it had taken
Frances an hour to conquer, was passed by Harper and his companion in
ten minutes, and they entered the open space already mentioned. He
struck into one of the sheep paths, and, crossing the clearing with
rapid steps, they came suddenly upon a horse, caparisoned for a rider of
no mean rank. The noble beast snorted and pawed the earth, as his master
approached and replaced the pistols in the holsters.
Harper then turned, and, taking the hand of Frances, spoke as follows:--
"You have this night saved your brother, Miss Wharton. It would not be
proper for me to explain why there are limits to my ability to serve
him; but if you can detain the horse for two hours, he is assuredly
safe. After what you have already done, I can believe you equal to any
duty. God has denied to me children, young lady; but if it had been His
blessed will that my marriage should not have been childless, such a
treasure as yourself would I have asked from His mercy. But you are my
child: all who dwell in this broad land are my children, and my care;
and take the blessing of one who hopes yet to meet you in happier days."
As he spoke, with a solemnity that touched Frances to the heart, he laid
his hand impressively upon her head. The guileless girl turned her face
towards him, and the hood again falling back, exposed her lovely
features to the moonbeams. A tear was glistening on either cheek, and
her mild blue eyes were gazing upon him in reverence. Harper bent and
pressed a paternal kiss upon her forehead, and continued: "Any of these
sheep paths will take you to the plain; but here we must part--I have
much to do and far to ride; forget me in all but your prayers."
He then mounted his horse, and lifting his hat, rode towards the back
of the mountain, descending at the same time, and was soon hid by the
trees. Frances sprang forward with a lightened heart, and taking the
first path that led downwards, in a few minutes she reached the plain in
safety. While busied in stealing through the meadows towards the house,
the noise of horse approaching startled her, and she felt how much more
was to be apprehended from man, in some situations, than from solitude.
Hiding her form in the angle of a fence near the road, she remained
quiet for a moment, and watched their passage. A small party of
dragoons, whose dress was different from the Virginians, passed at a
brisk trot. They were followed by a gentleman, enveloped in a large
cloak, whom she at once knew to be Harper. Behind him rode a black in
livery, and two youths in uniform brought up the rear. Instead of taking
the road that led by the encampment, they turned short to the left and
entered the hills.
Wondering who this unknown but powerful friend of her brother could be,
Frances glided across the fields, and using due precautions in
approaching the dwelling, regained her residence undiscovered and
in safety.