The spy a tale of the neutral ground |
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| 8. | CHAPTER VIII. |
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 | CHAPTER VIII. The spy |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
And beautiful expression seem'd to melt
With love that could not die! and still his hand
She presses to the heart no more that felt.
Gertrude of Wyoming.
The brief arrangement of the dragoons had prepared
two apartments for the reception of the ladies,
the one being intended as a sleeping room
and situated within the other. Into the latter,
Isabella was immediately conveyed at her own
request, and placed on a rude bed by the side of
the unconscious Sarah. When Miss Peyton and
Frances flew to her assistance, they found her
with a smile on her pallid lips, and a composure
in her countenance, that induced them to think
her uninjured.
“God be praised,” exclaimed the trembling
spinster; “the report of fire-arms, and your fall,
had led me into an error. Surely, surely, there
was enough of horror before, but this has been
spared us.”
Isabella pressed her hands upon her bosom, still
smiling, but with a ghastliness that curdled the
blood of Frances, and said—
“Is George far distant? let him know—hasten
him, that I may see my brother once again.”
“It is as I apprehended!” shrieked Miss Peyton;
“but you smile—surely you are unhurt.”
“Quite well—quite happy,” murmured Isabella;
“here is a remedy for every pain.”
Sarah arose from the reclining posture she had
taken, and gazed wildly at her companion. She
stretched forth her own hand, and raised that of
Isabella from her bosom, where she had continued
to hold it, and exhibited it stained with blood.
“See,” said Sarah, there is blood, but it will
wash away love! Marry, young woman, and then
no one can expel him from your heart, unless,”
she added, whispering and bending over the other,
“you find another there before you—then die and
go to heaven—there are no wives in heaven.”
The lovely maniac hid her face under the
clothes, and continued silent during the remainder
of the night. It was at this moment that Lawton
entered. Inured as he was to danger in all its
forms, and accustomed to the horrors of a partisan
war, the trooper could not behold the ruin before
him unmoved. He bent over the fragile form of
Isabella, and the gloomy lowering of his eye betrayed
the extraordinary workings of his soul.
“Isabella,” he at length ultered, “I know you
to possess a courage beyond the strength of woman.”
“Speak,” she said earnestly, “if you have any
thing to say, speak fearlessly.”
The trooper averted his face as he replied—
“none ever receive a ball there and survive.”
“I have no dread of death, Lawton,” returned
Isabella—“I thank you for not doubting me; I
felt it from the first.”
“These are not scenes for a form like yours,”
added the trooper; “ 'tis enough that Britain calls
our youth to the field, but when such loveliness
becomes the victim of war, I sicken at my trade.
“Hear me, capt. Lawton,” said Isabella, raisin
herself with difficulty, but rejecting aid; “from
an inmate of camps and garrisons. It was to
cheer the leisure of a father and brother, and
think you I would change those days of danger
and privation for all the luxurious ease of England's
palace?” The paleness of her cheek gave
place to a flush of ardor as she continued—“No!
I have the consolation of knowing in my dying
moments, that what woman could do in such a
cause, I have done.”
“Who could prove a recreant and witness such
a spirit!” exclaimed the trooper; unconsciously
grasping the hilt of his sabre. “Hundreds of
warriors have I witnessed in their blood, but never
a firmer soul among them all.”
“Ah! 'tis the soul only,” said Isabella; “my
sex and strength have forbidden me the dearest of
privileges.—But to you, Captain Lawton, nature
has been bountiful: yours are an arm and a heart
to make the proudest of Britain's soldiers quail;
and I know that they are an arm and a heart that
will prove true to the last.”—
“So long as liberty calls, and Washington
points the way,” returned the trooper, in the low
tone of determination, and smiling proudly.
“I know it—I know it—and George—and—”
she paused, her lip quivered, and her eye sunk to
the floor.
“And Dunwoodie!” echoed the trooper;
“would to God he was here to witness and admire.”
“Name him not,” said Isabella, sinking back
upon the bed, and concealing her face in her
garments; “leave me, Lawton, and prepare
poor George for this unexpected blow.”
The trooper continued for a little while gazing
in melancholy interest at the convulsive shudderings
of her frame, which the scanty covering
comrade. The interview between Singleton and
his sister was painful, and for a moment Isabella
yielded to a burst of tenderness; but, as if aware
that her hours were numbered, she was the first
to rouse herself to exertion. At her earnest request
the room was left to herself, the captain,
and Frances. The repeated applications of the
surgeon to be permitted to use professional aid
were steadily rejected, and, at length, he was
obliged unwillingly to retire. The rapid approach
of death gave to the countenance of Isabella a
look of more than usual wildness, her large and
dark eyes being strongly contrasted to the ashy
paleness of her cheeks. Still Frances, as she
leaned over her in sorrow, thought that the expression
was changed. Much of the loftiness
that formed so marked a characteristic of her
beauty, had been succeeded by an appearance of
humility, and it was not difficult to fancy, that
with the world itself there was vanishing her
worldly pride.
“Raise me,” she said, “and let me look on a
face that I love, once more.” Frances silently
complied, and Isabella turned her eyes in sisterly
affection upon George—“It matters but little,
my brother—a few hours must close the scene.”
“Live Isabella, my sister, my only sister,”
cried the youth with a burst of sorrow that he
could not control; “my father! my poor father—”
“Ah! there is the sting of death,” said Isabella
shuddering; “but he is a soldier and a christian—Miss
Wharton I would speak of what interests
you, while yet I have strength for the task.”
“Nay,” said Frances tenderly, “compose
yourself—let no desire to oblige me endanger a
life that is precious to—to—so many.” The
words were nearly stifled by the emotions of the
her inmost heart.
“Poor sensitive girl,” said Isabella, regarding
her with tender interest; “but the world is still
before you, and why should I disturb the little
happiness it may yet afford!—dream on lovely innocent!
and may God keep the evil day of knowledge
far distant.”
“Oh, there is even now little left for me to
enjoy,” said Frances, burying her face in the
clothes; “I am heart-stricken in all that I most
loved.”
“No!” interrupted Isabella; “You have one
inducement to wish for life that pleads strongly in
a woman's breast. It is a delusion that nothing
but death can destroy—” Exhaustion compelled
her to pause, and her auditors continued in breathless
suspense until, recovering her strength, she
laid her hand on that of Frances, and continued
more mildly—“ Miss Wharton, if there breathes
a spirit congenial to Dunwoodie's, and worthy of
his love, it is your own.”
A flush of fire passed over the face of the listener,
and she raised her eyes flashing with an
ungovernable look of delight to the countenance
of Isabella; but the ruin she beheld recalled her
better feelings, and again her head dropped upon
the covering of the bed. Isabella watched her
emotions with a smile that partook both of pity
and admiration.
“Such have been the feelings that I have escaped,”
she continued; “yes, Miss Wharton,
Dunwoodie is wholly yours.”
“Be just to yourself, my sister,” exclaimed
the youth; “let no romantic generosity cause you
to forget your own character.”
She heard him, and fixed a gaze of tender interest
she replied—
“It is not romance, but truth that bids me
speak. Oh! how much have I lived within an
hour! Miss Wharton, I was born under the burning
sun of Georgia, and my feelings seem to have
imbibed its warmth—I have existed for passion
only.”
“Say not so—say not so, I implore you,” cried
the agitated brother; “think how devoted has been
your love to our aged father—how disinterested,
how tender your affection for me.”
“Yes,” said Isabella, a smile of mild pleasure
beaming on her countenance; “that is a reflection
which may be taken to the very grave.”
Neither Frances, nor her brother, interrupted
her meditations, which continued for several minutes;
when, suddenly recollecting herself, she
continued—
“I remain selfish even to the last; with me,
Miss Wharton, America and her liberties was my
earliest passion, and—” again she paused, and
Frances thought it was the struggle of death that
followed; but reviving, she proceeded with a flush
on her face that exceeded the bloom of health,
“Why should I hesitate on the brink of the grave!
Dunwoodie was my next and my last. But,” burying
her face in her hands, “it was a love that
was unsought.”
“Isabella!” exclaimed her brother, springing
from the bed, and pacing the floor in disorder.
“See how dependent we become under the dominion
of worldly pride,” said the dying maiden;
“it is painful to George to learn that one he loves,
had not feelings superior to her nature and education.”
“Say no more,” whispered Frances; “you distress
us both—say no more, I entreat you.”
“In justice to Dunwoodie I must speak; and
for the same reason, my brother, you must listen.
In no act or work has Dunwoodie ever induced
me to believe, he wished me more than a friend—
nay—latterly, I have had the burning shame of
thinking that he avoided my presence.”
“Would he dare!” said Singleton fiercely.
“Peace, my brother, and listen,” continued
Isabella, rousing with an effort that was final;
“here is the innocent, the justifiable cause. We
are both motherless—but that aunt—that mild,
plain hearted, observing aunt, has given you the
victory. Oh! how much she loses, who loses a
female guardian to her youth. I have exhibited
those feelings which you have been taught to repress.
After this, can I wish to live!”
“Isabella! my poor Isabella! you wander in
your mind.”
“But one word more—for I feel that blood
which ever flowed too swift, rushing where nature
never intended it to go. Woman must be sought,
to be prized—her life is one of concealed emotions;
blessed are they whose early impressions
make the task free from hypocrisy, for such only
can be happy with men like—like—Dunwoodie;”
her voice failed and she sunk back on her pillow
in silence. The cry of Singleton brought
the rest of the party to her bed side, but death
was already upon her countenance; her remaining
strength just sufficed to reach the hand of
George, and pressing it to her bosom for a moment,
she relinquished her grasp, and, with a slight
convulsion, expired.
Frances Wharton had thought that fate had
done its worst, in endangering the life of her brother,
and destroying the reason of her sister, but
the relief that was conveyed by the dying declaration
of Isabella, taught her that another sorrow
saw the whole truth at a glance; nor was the
manly delicacy of Dunwoodie's forbearance lost
upon her—every thing tended to raise him in her
estimation; and for mourning that duty and pride
had induced her to strive to think less of him,
she was compelled to substitute regret that her
own act had driven him from her in sorrow, if not
in desperation. It is not the nature of youth,
however, to despair, and Frances knew a secret
joy in the midst of their distress, that gave a new
spring to her existence.
The sun broke forth, on the morning that succeeded
this night of desolation, in unclouded lustre,
and seemed to mock the petty sorrows of
those who received his rays. Lawton had early
ordered his steed, and was ready to mount as the
first burst of golden light broke over the hills.
His orders were already given, and the trooper
threw his leg across the saddle in silence; and,
casting a glance of fierce chagrin at the narrow
space that had favoured the flight of the Skinner,
he gave Roanoke the rein and moved slowly towards
the valley.
The stillness of death pervaded the road, nor
was there a single vestige of the scenes of the
night to tarnish the loveliness of a glorious morn.
Struck with the contrast between man and nature,
the fearless trooper rode by each pass of danger,
regardless of what might happen, nor roused himself
from his musings, until the noble charger,
proudly snuffing the morning air, greeted his companions,
as they stood patiently by the sides of
their masters, who composed the guard under sergeant
Hollister.
Here, indeed, was sad evidence to be seen of
the midnight fray, but the trooper glanced his eye
over it with the coolness of a veteran, and checked
cautious orderly, and slightly returning his salute,
inquired---
“Have you seen any thing?”
“Nothing, sir, that we dare charge upon,” returned
Hollister, with a little solemnity; but we
mounted once at the report of distant fire arms.”
“ 'Tis well,” said Lawton, gloomily. “Ah!
Hollister, I would give the animal I ride, to have
had your single arm between the wretch who drew
that triger and these useless rocks, which overhang
every bit of ground, as if they grudged pasture to
a single hoof.”
The dragoons exchanged looks of surprise, and
wondered what could have occurred to tempt
their leader to offer such a bribe.
“Under the light of day, and charging man to
man, 'tis but little I fear,” said the sergeant, with
proud resolution; “but I can't say that I'm overfond
of fighting with them that neither steel nor
lead can bring down.”
“What mean you, silly fellow?” cried Lawton,
frowning in disdain; “none live who can withstand
either.”
“If there was life, it would be easy to take it,”
returned the other; “but blows and powder cannot
injure him that has already been in the grave.
I like not the dark object that has been hovering
in the skirt of the wood, since the first dawn of
day; and twice during the night the same was
seen moving across the fire-light—no doubt with
evil intent.”
“Ha!” said the trooper, “is it yon ball of black
at the foot of the rock-maple, that you mean?
By heaven! it moves.”
“Yes, and without mortal motion,” said the
sergeant, regarding it with awful reverence; “it
who watch here.”
“Had it wings,” cried Lawton, “it is mine;
stand fast, until I join.” The words were hardly
uttered, before Roanoke was flying across the
plain, and apparently verifying the boast of his
master.
“Those cursed rocks!” ejaculated the trooper,
as he saw the object of his pursuit approaching
the hill-side; but either from want of practice, or
from terror, it passed the obvious shelter they offered,
and fled into the open plain.
“I have you, man or devil!” shouted Lawton,
whirling his sabre from its scabbard. “Halt, and
take quarter.”
His proposition was apparently acceded to, for
at the sound of his powerful voice, the figure sunk
upon the ground, exhibiting a shapeless ball of
black, without life or motion.
“What have we here?” cried Lawton, drawing
up by its side; “a gala suit of the good maiden,
Jeanette Peyton, wandering around its birth-place,
or searching in vain for its discomfited mistress?”
He leaned forward in his stirrups, and placing the
point of his sword under the silken garment, by
throwing aside the covering, discovered part of the
form of the reverend gentleman, who had fled from
the Locusts the evening before, in his robes of office.
“Ah! in truth, Hollister had some ground for
his alarm; an army chaplain is at any time a terror
to a troop of horse.”
The clergyman had collected enough of his disturbed
faculties, to discover that it was a face he
knew, and somewhat disconcerted at the terror he
had manifested, he endeavoured to rise and offer
some explanation. Lawton received his apologies
good humouredly, if not with much faith in their
state of the valley, the trooper courteously alighted,
and they proceeded towards the guard.
“I am so little acquainted, sir, with the rebel
uniform, that I really was unable to distinguish
whether those men, whom you say are your own,
did or did not belong to the gang of marauders.”
“Apology, sir, is unnecessary,” replied the
trooper, curling his lip; “it is not your task, as
a minister of God, to take note of the facings of
a coat. The standard under which you serve is
acknowledged by us all.”
“I serve under the standard of his gracious majesty,
George III.” returned the priest, wiping the
cold sweat from his brow; but really the idea of
being scalped, has a strong tendency to unman a
new beginner like myself.”
“Scalped!” echoed Lawton, a little fiercely,
and stopping short in his walk; then recollecting
himself, he added with infinite composure—“if it
is to Dunwoodie's squadron of Virginian light dragoons
that you allude, it may be well to inform
you, that they generally take a bit of the skull
with the skin.”
“Oh! I can have no apprehensions of gentlemen
of your appearance,” said the divine with a
smirk; “it is the natives that I apprehend.”
“Natives! I have that honour, I do assure you,
sir.”
“Nay, sir, I beg that I may be understood—I
mean the Indians—they who do nothing but rob,
and murder, and destroy.”
“And scalp!”
“Yes, sir, and scalp too,” continued the clergyman,
eyeing his companion a little suspiciously;
“the copper-coloured, savage Indians.”
“And did you expect to meet those nose-jewelled
gentry in the neutral ground?”
“Certainly,” returned the chaplain, confidently;
“we understand in England that the interior
swarms with them.”
“And call you this the interior of America?”
cried Lawton, again halting, and staring the other
in the face, with a surprise too naturally expressed
to be counterfeited.
“Surely, sir, I conceive myself to be in the interior.”
“Attend,” said Lawton, pointing towards the
east; “see you not that broad sheet of water which
the eye cannot compass in its range? thither lies
the England you deem worthy to hold dominion
over half the world. See you the land of your
nativity?”
“ 'Tis impossible to behold objects at a distance
of three thousand miles!” exclaimed the wondering
priest, a little suspicious of his companion's
sanity.
“No! what a pity it is that the powers of man
are not equal to his ambition. Now turn your
eyes westward; observe that vast expanse of water
which rolls between the shores of America and
China.”
“I see nothing but land,” said the trembling
priest; “there is no water to be seen.”
“ 'Tis impossible to behold objects at a distance
of three thousand miles!” repeated Lawton gravely,
and pursuing in his walk; “if it be the savages
that you apprehend, seek them in the ranks of
your prince. Rum and gold have preserved their
loyalty.”
“Nothing is more probable than my being deceived,”
said the man of peace, casting furtive
glances at the colossal stature and whiskered front
of his companion; “but the rumours we have at
home, and the uncertainty of meeting with such
an enemy as yourself, induced me to fly at your
approach.”
“ 'Twas not judiciously determined,” said the
trooper, “as Roanoke has the heels of you greatly;
and flying from Scylla, you were liable to encounter
Charybidis. Those woods and rocks cover
the very enemies you dread.”
“The savages!” exclaimed the divine, instinctively
placing the trooper in the rear.
“Ay! more than savages,” cried Lawton, his
dark brow contracting to a look of fierceness that
was far from quieting the apprehensions of the
other. “Men, who under the guise of patriotism,
prowl through the community, with a thirst for
plunder that is unsatiable, and a love of cruelty
that mocks the Indian ferocity. Fellows, whose
mouths are filled with liberty and equality, and
whose hearts are overflowing with cupidity and
gall—gentlemen that are y'clep'd the Skinners.”
“I have heard them mentioned in our army,”
said the frightened divine, “and had thought them
to be the Aborigines.”
“You did the savages injustice,” returned the
trooper, in his naturally dry manner.
They now approached the spot occupied by
Hollister, who witnessed with surprise the character
of the prisoner made by his captain. Lawton
gave his orders promptly, and the men immediately
commenced securing and removing such articles
of furniture as were thought worthy of the
trouble; and the captain, with his reverend associate,
who was admirably mounted on a mettled
horse, returned to the quarters of the troop.
It was the wish of Singleton, that the remains
of his sister should be conveyed to the post commanded
by his father, and preparations were early
made to this effect, as well as a messenger despatched
with the melancholy tidings of her death.
The wounded British were placed under the controul
of the chaplain, and towards the middle of the
so far completed, as to render it probable, that in
a few hours, he would be left with his small party
in undisturbed possession of the corners.”
While leaning in the door-way, gazing in moody
silence at the ground on which had been the last
night's chase, his ear caught the sound of a horse
at speed, and the next moment a dragoon of his
own troop appeared dashing up the road, as if on
business of the last importance. His steed was
foaming, and the rider had the appearance of
having done a hard day's service. Without speaking,
he placed a letter in the hand of Lawton, and
led his charger to the stable. The trooper knew
the hand of his major, and ran his eye over the
following:
“I rejoice it is the order of Washington, that
the family at the Locusts are to be removed above
the Highlands. They are to be admitted to the
society of Captain Wharton, who waits only for
their testimony to be tried. You will communicate
this order, and with proper delicacy I do not
doubt. The English are moving up the river, and
the moment that you see the Whartons in safety,
break up and join your troop. There will be good
service to be done when we meet, as Sir Henry
is reported to have sent out a real soldier in command.
Reports must be made to the commandant
at Peekskill, as Col. Singleton is withdrawn to
head-quarters to preside over the inquiry upon
poor Wharton. Fresh orders have been sent to
hang the pedlar if we can take him, but they
are not from the commander in chief.—Detail a
small guard with the ladies, and get into the saddle
as soon as possible.
Your's, sincerely,
Peyton Dunwoodie.”
This communication entirely changed the whole
arrangement. There could be no motive to convey
the body of Isabella to a post where her father
was not, and Singleton reluctantly acquiesced in
her immediate interment. A retired and lovely
spot was selected, near the foot of the adjacent
rocks, and such rude preparations were made as
their time and the situation of the country permitted.
A few of the neighbouring inhabitants
collected from curiosity and interest, and Miss
Peyton and Frances wept in sincerity over her
grave. The solemn offices of the church were
performed by the minister of God, who had so
lately stood forth to officiate in another and very
different duty; and Lawton bent down his head,
as he leaned upon his sabre, and passed his hand
across his brow, while the words were pronouncing
that forever shut such fervent feeling and
loveliness, from the sight of man.
A new stimulus was given to the Whartons by
the intelligence conveyed in the letter of Dunwoodie,
and Cæsar, with his horses, was once more
put in requisition. The relics of the property
were entrusted to a neighbour, in whom they had
confidence, and accompanied by the unconscious
Sarah, and attended by four dragoons, and all of
the American wounded, Mr. Wharton's party took
their departure. They were speedily followed by
the English chaplain, with his countrymen, who
were conveyed to the water side, where a vessel
was in waiting to receive them. Lawton joyfully
witnessed these movements, and as soon as the
latter were out of sight, he ordered his own bugle
to be sounded. Every thing was instantly in motion.
The mare of Mrs. Flanagan was again fastened
to the cart;—Dr. Sitgreaves exhibited his
shapeless form once more on horseback, and the
emancipation.
The word to march was given; and Lawton,
throwing a look of sullen ferocity at the place of the
Skinners' concealment, and another of melancholy
regret towards the grave of Isabella, led the way,
accompanied by the surgeon, in a brown study;
while sergeant Hollister and Betty brought up the
rear, leaving a fresh southerly wind to whistle
through the open doors and broken windows of
the “Hotel Flanagan,” where the laugh of hilarity
and the joke of the hardy partisans, had so lately
echoed in triumph.
| CHAPTER VIII. The spy | |