University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

The night had set in dark and chilling, as Frances
Wharton, with a beating heart but light steps,
moved through the little garden that laid behind
the farm-house 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 that she
supposed to be the pedlar. It was still early, but
the darkness and 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 that 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 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
the maid 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 shrunk, timidly, into a little
thicket of wood, which grew neglected 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, in the
pride of her beauty, on the banks of the Potomac.

Frances listened anxiously to his retreating footsteps,
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, the maid 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 enterprize. 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 back
ground of clouds, between which a few glimmering
stars occasionally twinkled in momentary
brightness, and then gradually became obscured
by the passing vapour, that was moving before the
wind, at a vast distance below the clouds themselves.
Should she return, Henry and the pedlar

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 coldblooded,
project of the officers, for the re-capture
of the fugitives, still rung 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—all 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 the profusion of 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
lustre, might be taken for the glimmering of a
fire. But the delusion vanished as the horizon
again cleared, and the star of the evening shone
forth from a cloud, after struggling hard as if for
existence, in all its unrivalled brilliancy. The
maid now saw the mountain to the left of where
the planet was shining through an opening in the
hills, 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 stood proudly erect 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 in softened brightness
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, the maid 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, Frances 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 cross beam 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 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 around. 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 labour much less tiresome than it otherwise
would have been. Throwing a fearful glance
behind, the maid commenced her journey upwards.
Young, active, and impelled by the generous wish
of saving her brother, 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 briars were springing up afresh, as if
the plough had never traced its furrow through
the mould which nourished them.

Frances felt her spirits invigorated by even these
faint vestiges of the labour of man, and walked
up the gentle acclivity with renewed hopes of success.
The path now diverged into so many different
directions, that she soon saw it would be useless
to follow their windings, and abandoning it, at the
first turn, she laboured forward towards what she
thought was the nearest point to the summit: the
cleared ground was soon past, and woods and rocks,
clinging to the precipitous sides of the mountain,
again presented 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 briars, 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 labour. Seating herself on a stone,
the maid again paused to rest and to reflect;—the
clouds were rising before the moon, as if repelled
by her brightness, and the whole scene at her feet
lay pictured in the softest colours.

The white tents of the militia were stretched
in regular lines immediately beneath her. The
light was shining in the window of her aunt, whom
Frances easily fancied was standing 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.

It was more than a quarter of a mile farther
that our heroine had to ascend, 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 the maid 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 table-land on the summit.

Faint with her exertions, which had been unusually
severe for her slender frame, she sunk on a
rock, to recover her strength and fortitude for the
approaching interview with her brother. A few
moments sufficed for this purpose, when she proceeded
in quest of the hut. All of the neighbouring
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
over 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 into every recess
of the rocks, or inquisitively explored every part
of the summit that she thought could hold the
tenement of the pedlar. No hut, nor any vestige
of a human being, could she trace. The idea of
her solitude struck on the terrified mind of the
maid, 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 air 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
sometime to view this singularly constructed
hiding-place, for such Frances knew it must be,
she applied her eye to a crevice to explore the

scene within. There was no lamp nor 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 by the occupant. 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 cup-board, 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
for cooking. A book that by its shape and
size 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 before him. 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 whom 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, 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 other
papers, occupied the table.

This was an unexpected event to the maid.—
She had been so confident that the figure she had
twice seen was the pedlar, 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's form. She stood earnestly looking
through the crevice, hesitating whether to retire,
or to wait under the expectation of yet meeting
with 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, as
Frances entered. 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 he resigned, begging her
at the same time to be composed, and to acquaint
him with all that she knew. This Frances instantly
did, with a hurried voice, ingenuously admitting
him to a knowledge of her own views in
wisiting that lone spot at that 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 maid 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 honour is so
pure, that—that—notwithstanding his—his—feelings—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, glancing a
quick and searching eye towards the maiden.”

“Nothing but reiterated assurances of Henry's
safety—even now he is in quest of you.”

“Miss Wharton,” said Harper, advancing with
calm but impressive dignity, “that I bear no mean
part in the unhappy struggle between England and
America, it might be now 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 can controul 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, remains confined to your own bosom,
until you have my permission to speak upon the
subject.”

Frances gave the desired assurance, and he continued—

“The pedlar 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 Heary Clinton know that the pedlar held communien
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 picquets of our army
before morning's dawn, 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 pedlar, talking in unusually
loud tones, was heard directly over their
heads.

“Stand further 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?” cried Henry, with a
voice of exultation; “I confess that I have eaten
but little the last two days, and I crave some of
the cheer that you mentioned.”

“Hem”—said the pedlar, 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 baggonet of the sentinel on the
flats—'tis a steep hill to rise, but one can go
down it with all ease.”

Harper pressed his finger on his lip, to remind
Frances of her promised silence, and taking his

pistols and hat, so that no vestige of his visit remained,
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 fire-light, as he entered, that it was a natural
cavity, and contained nothing but a few more
articles for domestic use.

The surprise of Henry and the pedlar, 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 pedlar 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 pedlar 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?”

The maid related the glimpse that she had caught
of the hut and the pedlar, 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 of luxury or comfort that I
know,” he said, “but even that little cannot be
enjoyed in safety.—Miss Wharton,” he added, advancing
before Fanny, and speaking with that 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 fervour; “your
secret is safe with me.”

“Major Dunwoodie—” said the pedlar slowly,
turning an eye upon her that red her soul.

Frances sunk her head upon her bosom for a
moment in shame, then elevating her face glowing
with fire, added with enthusiasm—

“Never, never—Harvey, as God may hear my
prayers.”

The pedlar seemed satisfied; for he drew back,
and watching his opportunity, unseen by Henry,
slipped behind the skreen, 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 maid repeatedly 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 pocket book 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 of time 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 re-entered 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?—no—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 pedlar; but the latter finally
prevailed, and the maid heard the successive
plunges, as they went down the side of the mountain
at a rapid rate, and they were soon out of
hearing.

Soon after the noise of their departure had
ceased Harper re-appeared. He took the arm
of Frances in silence, and led her from the hut.
The way seemed familiar to him as, ascending to

the ledge above them, he led the maid across the
table land, tenderly pointing out the little difficulties
in their route, and cautioning her against injury.

Frances felt as she walked by the side of his majestic
person, that she was supported by a man of
no common stamp. The firmness of his step and
the composure of his manner, seemed to indicate
a mind that was 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 strides, 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 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 maid turned her face towards

him, and the hood again falling back, exposed
her lovely features to the fulness of the
moon-beams. 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 threw himself into his saddle, and lifting
his hat with studied politeness, 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
reached the plain in safety. While busied in
stealing privately 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, and were followed by
a gentleman, enveloped in a large cloak, who
she at once knew to be Harper. Behind him
rode a black in livery, and two youths in uniforms
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, the maid glided
across the fields, and using due precautions in approaching
the dwelling, regained her residence
undiscovered and in safety.