University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
THE WHIP-HANDLE.

In consequence of George's application to the
War Department, he had received orders to report
himself to the commanding officer at Fort
Meigs, on or before the twenty-fifth day of June,
and there join the Northwestern army in its march
to Detroit; and, having sufficient time, he determined
to take Mulberry-Grove in his route. He
took leave of his Norfolk friends, at a convivial
party, on the twentieth day of May, and repaired
to Washington, where he tarried until the fourth
of June, when he commenced his journey for the
shores of Lake Erie.

On the evening of that day, a rumor obtained
currency, that the war bill had passed the house
of representatives, in secret session, by a large
majority. This rumor excited considerable sensation
in Washington, and private expresses were
hurrying off in various directions. One of these
messengers stopped to change horses in Fredericktown,
above forty miles from the seat of government,
at the same inn where our hero was
waiting supper, who instantly recognised the
rider, having seen him frequently in Washington,
and knew him to be an Englishman.

As George intended to proceed nine miles further
before he took lodgings for the night, he invited
the stranger to bear him company, if he
was travelling the same road; but the manner in

which this invitation was declined, excited a
suspicion in the mind of George that he was conveying
to Canada some important information
connected with the proceedings of Congress. In
answer to George's inquiries, he acknowledged
that he was travelling to Buffalo, but refused to
communicate the object of his precipitate journey.

Supper was now ready, and George invited
the messenger to partake with him. He accepted
a few hasty mouthfuls, and a bumper of wine;
then seizing his whip, he mounted his horse, and
galloped away.

He had been gone but a few minutes, when our
hero accidentally discovered that a strange riding
whip occupied the spot on the table where he had
laid his own, and naturally concluded that the
messenger, in his haste, had inadvertently made
the exchange. But George had no reason to lament
the incident; for while he was amusing himself
with cutting circles in the air, a silver tip,
with which it was mounted, became unscrewed in
his hand, disclosing a cavity in the handle, which
contained a small roll of paper. He drew it
forth, and found it to be a letter addressed to his
excellency Isaac Brock, esq. governor of Upper
Canada. Considering this document as a lawful
prize captured from the enemy, George scrupled
not to deposit it in his pocket-book. He then
screwed on the tip, mounted his horse, and proceeded
to Middleton, where he tarried until morning.

The landlord of the inn being a magistrate,
and a gentleman of respectable standing among
his fellow citizens, George related to him the
foregoing particulars, and requested his advice as
to the manner in which the intercepted letter
ought to be disposed of.

“The present critical situation of the country,”
replied the magistrate, “and the suspicious
mode adopted for the conveyance of this letter,
will, I think, justify us in examining its contents.
If no grounds for detaining it should then appear,
I will forward it to Buffalo by mail.”

As our hero could advance no reasonable objection
to this proposition, the seal was broken,
and the following is a copy of the contents:

“His Excellency Isaac Brock.”

After some consultation on the subject, it was
agreed that the magistrate, (who was to visit the
seat of government in a few days) should take
charge of this singular document, and deposit it
in the War Office, for the inspection of the curious,
where the writing might be recognised, and
the traitorous author detected.

Our hero, having first taken a copy of it, committed
the original to the care of his landlord,
and proceeded on his journey.

His impatience to reach Mulberry-Grove allowed
him no time to enjoy the beauties of the
country through which he passed. He dined at

Hager's Town, and slept at Messersburg, in
Franklin county, Pennsylvania. The next day
at noon he crossed the Juniata, a branch of the
Susquehanna, running through a barren and mountainous
country, and took lodgings at Bedford,
sixteen miles beyond. On the fifth day of his
journey, which was Monday, the eighth of June,
he arrived at Pittsburg; reached Meadville on
Wednesday, and entered Erie on Thursday evening.
Here he exchanged his jaded steed for a
fresh one; and after taking some refreshment,
again pushed forward. For several miles the
road was a beautiful turnpike, the evening cloudless,
and the air freighted with sweets. At half
past nine o'clock, the rising moon began to tip the
landscapes with silver, and the joyous hum of a
thousand little beings greeted her appearance.
George now began to recognise sounds which
had once been familiar to his ear. The scream
of the owl, and the complaint of the whip-poorwill,
were welcomed as the tones of friendship,
for they reminded him of “times past,” and
scenes most dear to his recollection. A pleasing
train of images, led on by Memory, and decorated
by Fancy with unreal attractions, passed in review
before him. The queen of the groupe was
Catharine. His own blood mounted, while that
of his smoking steed dyed the rowel of his spurs.
The impatience of his soul chided the dull motion
of matter—he wished for the velocity of
thought.

At ten o'clock the next morning he crossed the
Ashtabula, and took breakfast at a farm-house on
the river bank. Here both horse and rider enjoyed
a few hours of needful rest, and towards evening
resumed their journey with invigorated spirits,

The road now lay along the sandy margin of lake
Erie; a natural turnpike, on which our hero's
horse evinced the liveliest gratitude for the repose
which his master had granted him. A little before
midnight, they turned off through a clearing
to a plantation, where George concluded to remain
until morning. Though roused from their
rest at this unseasonable hour, the farmer and his
wife received the weary traveller with great
cheerfulness, and entertained him with the best
their house afforded. It was some time before
he could convince them that he had been their
guest before—they could trace no resemblance
between the elegant soldier and the farmer's
boy, although they recollected that the family of
major Willoughby had stopped there for refreshment
two years before.

Early on Saturday morning he resumed his
journey, and entered the village of Cleveland in
the evening, about an hour after Sandford and his
friend had arrived, who had travelled from Pittsburg
by the way of Beaver, Canton, and Springfield,
a much shorter route than that which George
had taken. In less than an hour our hero embraced
his father.

On the following morning he was detained until
a late hour in exchanging salutations with several
of his old friends, who had heard of his arrival,
and hastened to pay him their respects. At
length, however, he stole out, and after dropping
a tear of affection on the graves of his aunt and
tutor, flew to the habitation of Catharine. The
house was deserted, for Susan had taken that opportunity
to visit a female friend in the neighborhood.
He found his harp, however, and amused
himself with playing, until he discovered Catharine
approaching across the meadow.