University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

It was thirty-three years after the interview,
which we have just related, that an American
army was once more arrayed against the
country of their ancestors; but the scene was
transferred from the banks of the Hudson to those
of the Niagara.

The body of Washington had long lain mouldering
in the tomb; but as time was fast obliterating
the slight impressions of political enmity or personal
envy, his name was hourly receiving new
lustre, and his worth and integrity each moment
became more visible, not only to his countrymen,
but to the world. He was already the acknowledged
hero of an age of reason and truth; and
many a young heart, amongst those who formed
the pride of our army in 1814, was glowing with
the recollection of the one great name of America,
and inwardly beating with the sanguine expectation
of emulating, in some degree, its renown.
In no one were these virtuous hopes more
vivid, than in the bosom of a young officer, who
stood on the table-rock, contemplating the great
cataract, on the evening of the 25th of July, of
that bloody year. The person of this youth was

tall and finely moulded, indicating a just proportion
between strength and activity; his eyes of a
deep black, were of a searching and dazzling
brightness. At times, as they gazed upon the
flood of waters that rushed tumultuously at his
feet, there was a stern and daring look that flashed
from them, which denoted the ardor of an
enthusiast. But this proud expression was softened
by the lines of a mouth, around which there
played a suppressed archness, that partook of feminine
beauty. His hair shone in the setting sun
like ringlets of gold, as the air from the falls
gently moved the rich curls from a forehead, whose
whiteness showed that exposure and heat alone
had given their darker hue, to a face glowing with
health. There was another officer standing by
the side of this favoured youth, and both seemed,
by the interest that they betrayed, to be gazing
for the first time at this wonder of the western
world. A profound silence was observed by each
of the soldiers, until the companion of the officer
that we have described, suddenly started, and
pointing eagerly with his sword into the abyss beneath,
exclaimed—

“See! Wharton: there is a man crossing in
the very eddies of the cataract, and in a skiff no
bigger than an egg-shell.”

“He has a knapsack, and is probably a soldier,”
returned the other. “Let us meet him at
the ladder, Mason, and learn his tidings.”

Some time was expended in reaching the spot
where the adventurer was intercepted. Contrary
to the expectations of the young soldiers, he proved
to be a man far advanced in life, and evidently
no follower of the camp. His years might be seventy,
and were indicated more by the thin hairs
of silver that lay scattered over his wrinkled brow,
than by any apparent failure of his system. His

frame was meagre and bent; but it was the attitude
of habit, for his sinews were strung with the
toil of half a century. His dress was mean, and
manifested the economy of its owner, by the number
and nature of its repairs. On his back was a
scantily furnished pack, that had led to the mistake
in his profession. A few words of salutation,
and on the part of the young men of surprise,
that one so aged should venture so near the whirlpools
of the cataract, were exchanged; when the
old man inquired, with a voice that began to
manifest the tremor of age, the news from the
contending armies.

“We whipt the red-coats here, the other day,
among the grass on the Chippewa plains,” said
the one who was called Mason; “since when, old
daddy, we have been playing hide-and-go-peep
with the ships—but we are now marching back
from where we started, shaking our heads, and as
surly as the devil.”

“Perhaps you have a son among the soldiers,”
said his companion with a more polished demeanor,
and an air of kindness; “if so, tell me his
name and regiment, and I will take you to him.”

The old man shook his head. and, passing his
hand over his silver locks, with an air of meek
resignation cast his eyes for a moment to heaven
and answered—

“No—I am alone in the world!”

“You should have added, Captain Dunwoodie,”
cried his careless comrade, “if you could find
either; for nearly half of our army have marched
down the road, and may be, by this time, under the
walls of fort George, for any thing that we know
to the contrary.”

The old man stopped suddenly, and looked
earnestly from one of his companions to the other;

the action being noticed by the soldiers, they
paused also.

“Did I hear right,” at length the stranger uttered,
raising his hand to skreen his eyes from the
rays of the setting sun; “what did he call you?”

“My name is Wharton Dunwoodie,” replied the
youth, smiling.

The stranger motioned silently for him to remove
his hat, which the youth did accordingly,
and his fair hair blew aside like curls of silk, and
opened the whole of his ingenuous countenance to
the inspection of the other.

“'Tis like our native land,” exclaimed the old
man, with a vehemence that astonished his companions,
“improving with time—God has blessed
both.”

“Why do you stare thus, Lieutenant Mason,”
cried Captain Dunwoodie, laughing and blushing
a little; “you show more astonishment than when
you saw the falls.”

“Oh! the falls—they are a thing to be looked
at on a moonshiny night, by your aunt Sarah and
that gay old bachelor, Colonel Singleton; but a
fellow like myself never shows surprise, unless it
may be at such a touch as this.”

The extraordinary vehemence of the stranger's
manner had passed away, as suddenly as it was exhibited,
but he listened to this speech apparently
with deep interest, while Dunwoodie replied a
little gravely—

“Come, come, Tom—no jokes about my good
aunt, I beg—she is kind and attentive to me, and
I have heard it whispered that her youth was not
altogether happy.”

“Why as to rumour,” said Mason, “there goes
one in Accomac, that Colonel Singleton offers
himself to her regularly every Valentine's day;

and there are some who add, that your old great-aunt
helps his suit.”

“Aunt Jeanette!” said Dunwoodie, laughing,
“dear good soul, she thinks but little of marriage
in any shape, I believe, since the death of Dr.
Sitgreaves. There was some whispers of a courtship
between them formerly, but it ended in nothing
but civilities, and I suspect that the whole story
arises from the intimacy of Colonel Singleton and
my father. You know they were comrades in the
horse, as was your own father.”

“I know all that, of course; but you must not
tell me that the particular, prim, bachelor goes so
often to General Dunwoodie's plantation, merely
for the sake of talking old soldier with your father.
The last time I was there, that yellow, sharp nosed,
kind of a housekeeper of your mother's, took me
into the pantry, and said that the Colonel was no
dispiseable match, as she called it, and how the
sale of his plantation in Georgia had brought him—
Oh! Lord, I don't know how much.”

“Quite likely,” returned the Captain; “Katy
Haynes is a famous calculator.

They had stopped during this conversation in a
kind of uncertainty, whether their new companion
was to be left or not.

The old man listened to each word as it was uttered,
with the most intense interest, but towards
the conclusion of the dialogue, the earnest attention
of his countenance changed to a kind of inward
smile. He shook his head, and passing his
hand over his forehead, seemed to be thinking of
other times. Mason paid but little attention to
the expression of his features, and continued—

“Yes—she is all that; for herself too, I believe,
sometimes.”

“Her selfishness does but little harm,” returned
Dunwoodie, smiling, as if in recollection of past

scenes. “One of her greatest difficulties is her
aversion to the blacks. She says that she never
saw but one that she liked.”

“And who was he?”

“His name was Cæsar; he was a house servant
of my late grand father, Wharton. You don't remember
him, I believe; he died the same year
with his master, while we were children. Katy
yearly sings his requiem, and upon my word,
I believe he deserved it. I have heard something
of his helping my English uncle, as we call General
Wharton, in some difficulty that occurred in the
old war. My mother always speaks of him with
great affection. Both Cæsar and Katy came to
Virginia with my mother when she married.—
My mother was—”

“An angel!” interrupted the old man, in a
voice that startled the young soldiers by its abruptness
and energy.

“Did you know her?” cried the son, with a
bright glow of pleasure on his cheek.

The reply of the stranger was interrupted by
sudden and heavy explosions of artillery, which
were immediately followed by continued volleys
of small arms, and in a few minutes the air was filled
with the tumult of a warm and well contested
battle.

The two soldiers hastened with precipitation
towards their camp, accompanied by their new
acquaintance. The excitement and anxiety created
by the approaching fight, prevented a continuance
of the conversation, and the three held
their way to the army, making occasional conjectures
on the cause of the fire and the probability of
a general engagement. During their short and
hurried walk, Captain Dunwoodie, however, threw
several friendly glances at the old man, who
moved over the ground with astonishing energy

for his years, for the heart of the youth was warmed
by the eulogium on a mother that he adored.—
In a short time, they joined the regiment to which
the youth belonged, when the Captain squeezing
the stranger's hand, earnestly begged that he
would make inquiries after him on the following
morning, and that he might see him in his own
tent. Here they separated.

Every thing in the American camp gave indications
of an approaching struggle. At a distance
of a few miles the sound of cannon and musketry,
was heard above even the roar of the cataract.
The troops were soon in motion, and a movement
made to support that division of the army that was
already engaged. Night had set in before the reserve
and irregulars reached the foot of Lundy's
lane, a road that diverged from the river and crossed
a conical eminence, at no great distance from
the Niagara highway. The summit of this hill
was crowned with the cannon of the British, and
in the flat beneath were the remnant of Scott's
gallant brigade, which had for a long time held an
unequal contest, with distinguished bravery. A
new line was interposed, and one column of the
Americans directed to charge up the hill, parallel
to the road. This column took the English in
flank, and, bayonetting their artillerists, gained
possession of the cannon. They were immediately
joined by their comrades and the enemy was
swept from the hill. But large reinforcements
were joining the English general momentarily,
and their troops were too brave to rest easy under
the defeat. Repeated and bloody charges
were made to recover the guns, but in all they
were repulsed with slaughter. During the last
of these struggles, the ardor of the youthful captain
whom we have mentioned, urged him to lead
his men some distance in advance, to scatter a daring

party of the enemy—he succeeded, but in
returning to the line missed his lieutenant from
the station that he ought to have occupied. Soon
after this repulse, which was the last, orders were
given to the shattered troops to return to the
camp. The British were no where to be seen,
and preparations were made to take in such of
the wounded as could be moved. At this moment
Wharton Dunwoodie, impelled by affection for
his friend, seized a lighted fuse, and taking two
of his men, went himself in quest of his body,
where he was supposed to have fallen. Mason
was found on the side of the hill, seated with
great composure, but unable to walk from a fractured
leg. Dunwoodie saw and flew to the side
of his comrade, exclaiming—

“Ah! dear Tom, I knew I should find you the
nearest man to the enemy.”

“Softly—softly—handle me tenderly,” replied
the Lieutenant; “no, there is a brave fellow
still nearer than myself, and who he can be I
know not. He rushed out of our smoke near my
platoon, to make a prisoner or some such thing,
but, poor fellow, he never came back; there he
lies just over the hillock. I have spoken to him
several times, but I fancy he is past answering.”

Dunwoodie went to the spot, and to his astonishment
beheld the aged stranger.

“It is the old man who knew my mother!” cried
the youth; “for her sake he shall have honourable
burial—life him, and let him be be carried in;
his bones shall rest on native soil.”

The men approached to obey. He was lying
on his back, with his face exposed to the glaring
light of the fuse; his eyes were closed, as if in
slumber;—his lips, sunken with years, were slightly
moved from their natural position, but it seemed
more like a smile than a convulsion, which

caused the change. A soldier's musket lay near
him, where it had fallen from his grasp; his hands
were both pressed upon his breast, and one of
them contained a substance that glittered like silver.
Dunwoodie stooped, and removing the limbs,
perceived the place where the bullet had found a
passage to his heart. The subject of his last care
was a tin box, through which the fatal lead had
gone; and the dying moments of the old man must
have passed in drawing it from his bosom. Dunwoodie
opened it, and found a paper, in which, to
his astonishment, he read the following:

“Circumstances of political importance, which
involve the lives and fortunes of many, have hitherto
kept secret what this paper now reveals.
Harvey Birch has for years been a faithful and unrequited
servant of his country. Though man does
not, may God reward him for his conduct.

“George Washington.”

It was the SPY OF THE NEUTRAL GROUND, who
had died as he lived, devoted to his country, and
a martyr to her liberties.