University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

It was only after the establishment of their independence,
that the American people seemed to
consider themselves as any thing more than sojourners
in the land of their nativity. Before
that æra, their inventions, their wealth, and their
glory centred in the isle of Britain, as unerringly
as the needle pointed to the pole. Forty years
of self-government has done for them, what a
century and a half of dependence was unable to
achieve.

The uneven surface of West-Chester was, at
the period of which we write, intersected with
roads in every direction, it is true; but they were
of a character with the people and the times.
None of those straight, tasteless paths which,
with premeditated convenience, running directly
from one point of the country to the other,
abound in our newly settled territory, were to be
found under the ancient regime; unless in extraordinary
instances where a river curbed their vagaries
on one side, and a mountain on the other.
Instead of these direct and shortened passages,
with the few exceptions we have mentioned, the
highways uniformly discovered that classical taste

which is only cherished under the institutions
that partake of the poetry of life—the two,
forming no unapt illustration of the different institutions
to which we have alluded. On one
side is the result of accident and circumstances,
embellished with the graces of art, so as to render
pleasing what is not always convenient; and
on the other, a straight-forward reason, that tends
directly to the object, leaving the moral of applicability
to atone for what it may want in beauty
and interest.

Whatever evidence of a parallel between the
roads and the governments our ingenuity may
devise, Cæsar Thompson found in the former nothing
but transitory pleasures and repeated dangers.
So long as one of those lovely valleys
which abound in the interior of the county lay
before him, all was security and ease. Following
the meanderings of the stream that invariably
wound through the bottom, the path lingered to
the last moment among the rich meadows and
pleasant pastures; or, running off at a right angle.
shot up the gentle ascent to the foot of the
hill that bounded the vale, and, sweeping by the
door of some retired dwelling, again sought the
rivulet and the meadow, until every beauty was
exhausted, and no spot, however secluded, had
escaped the prying curiosity of the genius of the
highway; then, as if eager to visit another place
of sylvan beauty, the road ran boldly to the base
of a barrier that would frighten a spirit less adventurous,
and, regardless of danger and difficulties,
kept its undeviating way until the summit
was gained, when, rioting for a moment in victory,
it as daringly plunged into the opposite vale, and
resumed its meandering and its sloth. In getting
over a highway of such varied characteristics,
Cæsar necessarily experienced a diversity of

emotions. The cumbersome chariot that he directed
moved at an even pace over the level
ground, and, perched on the elevated box, the
black felt no little of the dignity of his situation;
but the moment of ascension was one of intense
anxiety, and the descent—one of terror. As
soon as the foot of a hill was discerned. Cæsar,
with a reasoning derived from the Dutch settlers
of the colony, commenced applying the
whip to his venerable steeds, and accompanying
the blows with a significant cry, their ambition
was roused to the undertaking. The space between
them and the point of struggle was flown
over with a velocity that shook the crazy vehicle,
and excessively annoyed its occupants; but the
manœuvre sufficed to obtain an impetus that carried
the steeds up the ascent one third of the way
with glory. By this time their wind was gone—
their strength enfeebled—and the heaviest difficulties
remained to be overcome. Then, indeed,
it was often a matter of doubt which were to
prevail in the dispute—the chariot or the horses.
But the lash and the cries of the black stimulated
the steeds to unwonted efforts, and happily they
prevailed in each of these well contested points.
Short breathing-time was allowed on gaining what
in truth might be termed the “debateable land,”
before a descent, more dangerous, if less difficult
than the ascent, was to be encountered. At
these moments Cæsar would twine the reins
round his body, in a manner of remarkable ingenuity,
and lead them over his head in such a way,
as to make that noble member sustain the labour
of curbing his horses—with either hand grasping
a side of his dangerous perch, and with a countenance
showing a double row of ivory, and eyes
glistening like diamonds set in ebony, he abandoned
every thing to the government of the ancient
proverb of “the devil take the hindmost.”
The vehicle, with the zeal of a new made convert,
would thrust the horses to the conclusion of
the argument, with a rapidity that was utterly
discomfiting to the philosophy of the African.
But practice makes perfect; and by the time that
evening had begun to warn the travellers of the
necessity of a halt, Cæsar was so much accustomed
to these critical flights, that he encountered
them with incredible fortitude. We should
not have ventured thus to describe the unprecedented
achievements of Mr. Wharton's coach-horses
on this memorable occasion, did not
numberless instances still exist of those dangerous
pinnacles—to which we fearlessly refer as vouching
for our veracity—a circumstance the more
fortunate for us, when we consider, that in almost
every instance inviting passes are open, where
alterations might long since have been made, that
would have entirely deprived us of this indisputable
testimony.

While Cæsar and his steeds were thus contending
with the difficulties we have recorded, the
inmates of the carriage were too much engrossed
with their own cares to attend to those who served
them. The mind of Sarah had ceased to wander
so wildly as at first; but at every advance that
she made towards reason she seemed to retire a
step from animation—from being excited and
flighty, she was gradually becoming moody and
melancholy. There were moments indeed when
her anxious companions thought, with extacy,
that they could discern marks of recollection;
but the expression of exquisite woe that accompanied
these transient gleams of reason, forced
them to the dreadful alternative of wishing, at
times, that she might forever be spared the agony
of thought. The day's march was performed

chiefly in silence, and the party found shelter for
the night in different farm-houses.

The following morning the cavalcade dispersed.
The wounded diverged towards the river, with the
intention of taking water at Peeks-kill, and thus
be transported to the hospitals of the American
army above—the litter of Singleton was conveyed
to a part of the highlands where his father held
his quarters, and where it was intended that the
youth should complete his cure—the carriage of
Mr. Wharton, accompanied by a wagon, conveying
the housekeeper and what baggage had
been saved and could be transported, resumed
its route towards the place where Henry Wharton
was held in duresse, and where he only waited
their arrival to be put upon trial for his life.

The country which lies between the waters of
the Hudson and Long-Island Sound, is, for the
the first forty miles from their junction, a succession
of hills and dales. The land bordering on
the latter then becomes less abrupt, and gradually
assumes a milder appearance, until it finally
melts into the lovely plains and meadows of the
Connecticut. But as you approach the Hudson
the rugged aspect increases, until you at length
meet with the formidable barrier of the Highlands.
It was here the Neutral Ground ceased.
The royal army held the two points of land that
commanded the Southern entrance of the river
into the the mountains; but all of the remaining
passes were guarded by the Americans.

We have already stated that the picquets of
the Continental army were sometimes pushed
low into the country, and that the hamlet of the
White Plains was occasionally maintained by parties
of troops. At other times, their advanced
guards were withdrawn to the Northern extremity
of the county, and the intermediate country

abandoned entirely to the ravages of the miscreants
who plundered between both armies,
serving neither.

The road taken by our party was not the one
that communicates between the two principal
cities of the state, but was a retired and unfrequented
pass, that to this hour is but little known,
and which, entering the hills near the eastern
boundary, emerges into the plain above, many
miles from the Hudson.

It would have been impossible for the tired
steeds of Mr. Wharton to drag the heavy chariot
up the lengthened and steep ascents which now
lay before them, and a pair of country horses were
procured, with but little regard to their owner's
wishes, by the two dragoons who still continued
to accompany the party. With their assistance,
Cæsar was enabled to advance by slow and toilsome
steps into the bosom of the hills. Willing
to relieve her own melancholy by breathing a
fresher air, and also to lessen the weight, Frances
alighted, as they reached the foot of a mountain
and found that Katy had made similar preparations,
with the like intention of walking to the
summit. It was near the setting of the sun, and
from the top of the mountain their guard had declared,
that the desired end of their journey
might be discerned. The maid moved forward
with the elastic step of youth, and followed by
the housekeeper at a little distance, they soon
lost sight of the sluggish carriage, that was slowly
toiling up the hill, occasionally halting to allow
the animals that drew it to breathe.

“Oh, Miss Fanny, what dreadful times these
be,” said Katy, when they paused for breath
themselves; “but I know'd that calamity was
about to befall, ever sin the streak of blood was
seen in the clouds.”

“There has been blood upon earth, Katy,”
returned the shuddering Frances, “though but
little I imagine is ever seen in the clouds.”

“Not blood in the clouds!” echoed the housekeeper;
“yes, that there has, often—and comets
with fiery smoking tails—Didn't people see armed
men in the heavens the year the war begun? and
the night before the battle of the Plains, wasn't
there thunder just like the cannon themselves?—
Ah! Miss Fanny, I'm fearful that no good can
follow rebellion against the Lord's anointed.”

“These events are certainly dreadful,” returned
the maid, “and enough to sicken the
stoutest heart—But what can be done, Katy?—
Gallant and independent men are unwilling to
submit to oppression; and I am fearful that such
scenes are but too common in war.”

“If I could but see any thing to fight about,” said
Katy, renewing her walk as the young lady proceeded,
“I shouldn't mind it so much—'twas said
the king wanted all the tea for his own family, at
one time; and then agin, that he meant the colonies
should pay over to him all their arnins.—
Now this is matter enough to fight about—for I'm
sure that no one, howsomever he may be a lord
or a king, has a right to the hard arnins of another.—Then
it was all contradicted, and some
said Washington wanted to be king himself, so
that between the two one doesn't know which to
believe.”

“Believe neither—for neither are true. I do
not pretend to understand, myself, all the merits
of this war, Katy,” said Frances pausing, and
blushing with the consciousness of whence it was
that she had derived her opinions; “but to me it
seems unnatural, that a country like this should be
ruled by another so distant as England.”

“So I have heard Harvey say to his father that

is dead and in his grave,” returned Katy, approaching
nearer to the young lady, and lowering
her voice.—“Many is the good time that I've
listened to them talking, when all the neighbours
were asleep; and sich conversations, Miss Fanny,
that you can have no idee on.—Well, to say the
truth, Harvey was a mystified body, and he was
like the winds in the good book—no one could tell
whence he came or whither he went.”

Frances glanced her eye at her companion with
an interest altogether new to her, and with an apparent
desire to hear more, observed—

“There are rumours abroad relative to the character
of Harvey, that I should be sorry were
true.”

“'Tis a disparagement every word on't,” cried
Katy, vehemently; “Harvey had no more dealings
with Belzebub than you nor I had. I'm sure
if Harvey had sold himself, he would take care
to be better paid; though, to speak the truth, he
was always a wasteful and disregardful man.”

“Nay, nay,” returned the smiling Frances—
“I have no such injurious suspicion of him; but
has he not sold himself to an earthly prince, one
good and amiable I allow, but too much attached
to the interests of his native island to be always
just to this country?”

“To the king's majesty!” replied Katy. “Why,
Miss Fanny, your own brother that is in gaol,
serves king George.”

“True,” said Frances, “but not in secret—
openly, manfully, and bravely.”

“'Tis said he is a spy, and why a'n't one spy as
bad as another.”

“'Tis false,” exclaimed Frances, her eyes lighting
with extraordinary animation, and the colour
rushing to her face, until even her fine forehead
glowed with fire; “no act of deception is worthy

of my brother, nor of any would he be guilty, for
so base a purpose as gain or promotion.”

“Well, I'm sure,” said Katy, a little appalled at
the manner of the young lady, “if a body does the
work, he should be pain for it. Harvey is by no
means partic'lar about getting his lawful dues, and
I dar'st to say, if the truth was forthcoming, king
George owes him money this very minute.”

“Then you acknowledge his connexion with the
British army,” said Frances; “I confess there
have been moments when I have thought differently.”

“Lord, Miss Fanny, Harvey is a man that no
calculation can be made on. Though I lived in his
house for a long concourse of years, I have never
known whether he belonged above or below. The
time that Burg'yne was taken, he came home, and
there was great doings between him and the old
gentleman, but for the life I couldn't tell if'twas
joy or grief. Then, here, the other day, when the
great British general—I'm sure I have been so
flurried with losses and troubles, that I forget his
name—”

“André,” said Frances, in a melancholy tone.

“Yes, Ondree; when he was hung acrost the
Tappaan, the old gentleman was near hand to
going crazy about it. and didn't sleep for night
nor day till Harvey got back; and then his money
was mostly golden guineas; but the skinners took
it all, and now he is a beggar, or what's the same
thing, dispiscable for poverty and want.

To this speech Frances made no reply, but continued
her walk up the hill, deeply engaged in her
own reflections. The allusions to André had
recalled her thoughts to the situation of her own
brother. Hope is a powerful stimulus to enjoyment
and though arising from a single cause, seldom
fails to mingle with every emotion of the heart.

The dying declarations of Isabella had left an impression
on the mind of Frances that influenced
her whole deportment. She looked forward with
confidence to the restoration of Sarah's intellect,
and even now, as she mused on the condition of
Henry, there was a secret presentiment of his acquittal
that pervaded her thoughts, which sprang
from the buoyancy of youth, but for which she
would have been at a loss to account.

They now reached the highest point in their
toilsome progress to the summit, and Frances
seated herself on a rock to rest and to admire,
Immediately at her feet lay a deep dell, but little
altered by cultivation, and dark with the gloom of
a November sun-set. Another hill rose opposite
to where she sat, at no great distance, along whose
rugged sides nothing was to be seen but shapeless
rocks, and oaks whose stinted growth proved the
absence of soil.

To be seen in their perfection, the Highlands
must be passed immediately after the fall of the
leaf. The picture is then in its chastest keeping,
for neither the scanty foliage which the summer
lends the trees, nor the snows of winter, are present
to conceal the minutest objects from the eye.
Chilling solitude is the characteristic of the scenery,
nor is the mind at liberty, as in March, to look
forward to a renewed vegetation that is soon to
check, without improving the view.

The day had been cloudy and cool, and thin
fleecy clouds hung around the horizon, often promising
to disperse, but as frequently disappointing
the maid of a parting beam from the setting
sun. At length a solitary gleam of light struck
on the base of the mountain on which she was
gazing, and moved gracefully up its side, until
reaching the summit, it stood for a minute, forming
a crown of glory to the sombre pile beneath.

So strong were the rays, that what was
before indistinct, now clearly opened to the
view. With a feeling of awe at being thus unexpectedly
admitted, as it were, into the secrets
of that desart place, the maid gazed intently,
until among the scattered trees and fantastic rocks,
something like a rude structure was seen. It
was low, and so obscured by the colour of its materials,
that but for its roof, and the glittering
of a window, must have escaped her notice.—
While yet lost in the astonishment created by discovering
a habitation for man in such a spot, Frances,
on moving her eyes, perceived another object
that increased her wonder. It apparently was a
human figure, but of singular mould and unusual
deformity. It stood on the edge of a rock, but a little
above the hut, and it was no difficult task for our
heroine to fancy it was gazing at the vehicles that
were ascending the side of the mountain beneath
her. The distance, however, was too great for
her to distinguish with precision. After looking
at it a moment in breathless wonder, Frances
had just come to the conclusion that it was ideal,
and that what she saw was part of the rock itself,
when the object moved swiftly from its position,
and glided into the hut, at once removing any doubts
as to the nature of either. Whether it was owing
to the recent conversation that she had been
holding with Katy, or some fancied resemblance
that she discerned, Frances thought, as the figure
vanished from her view, that it bore a marked
likeness to Birch, moving under the weight of his
pack. She continued to gaze in breathless silence
towards the mysterious residence, when the
gleam of light passed away, and at the same
instant the tones of a bugle rang through the glens
and hollows, and were re-echoed in every direction.
Springing on her feet in alarm, the maid
heard the trampling of horses, and directly a party,
in the well known uniform of the Virginians, came
sweeping around a point of rock near her, and
drew up at a short distance from where she stood.
Again the bugle sounded a lively strain, and before
the agitated girl had time to rally her thoughts,
Dunwoodie dashed by the party of dragoons, threw
himself from his charger, and advanced to the side
of his mistress.

His manner was earnest and interested, but in a
slight degree constrained. In a few words he explained
to Frances, that he had been ordered up,
with a party of Lawton's men, in the absence of the
captain himself, to attend the trial of Henry, which
was fixed for the morrow, and that anxious for their
safety in the rude passes of the mountain, he had ridden
a mile or two in quest of the travellers. Frances
explained, with blushing cheeks and trembling
voice, the reason of her being in advance, and
taught him to expect the arrival of her father momentarily.
The constraint of his manner had,
however, unwillingly on her part, communicated
itself to her own deportment, and the approach of
the chariot was a relief to both. The major
handed her in, spoke a few words of encouragement
to Mr. Wharton and Miss Peyton, and again
mounting, led the way towards the plains of Fishkill,
which broke on their sight on turning the
rock, with the effect of enchantment. A short half
hour brought them to the door of the farm-house,
where the care of Dunwoodie had already prepared
for their reception, and where Captain
Wharton was anxiously expecting their arrival.