University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

While his comrades where sleeping, in perfect
forgetfulness of their hardships and dangers, the
slumbers of Dunwoodie were broken and unquiet.
After spending a night of restlessness, he arose
unrefreshed from the rude bed where he had
thrown himself in his clothes, and without awaking
any of the group around him, wandered into the
open air in search of relief. The soft rays of the
moon were just passing away in the more distinct
light of the morning; the wind had fallen, and the
rising mists gave the promise of another of those
autumnal days, which, in this unstable climate,
succeed a tempest with the rapid transition of
magic. The hour had not arrived when he intended
moving from his present position; and
willing to allow his warriors all the refreshment
that circumstances would permit, he strolled towards
the scene of the Skinners' punishment, musing
upon the embarrassments of his situation,
and uncertain how he should reconcile his sense
of manly delicacy to his love.—Added to this dilemma,
was the dangerous situation of Henry
Wharton. Although Dunwoodie himself placed
the most implicit reliance on the captain's purity

of intention, he was by no means assured that a
board of officers would be equally credulous, and
independent of all feelings of private regard, he
felt certain that with the execution of Henry
would be destroyed all hopes of an union with his
sister. He had despatched an officer the preceding
evening to Col. Singleton, who was in command
in the advanced posts, reporting the capture
of the British Captain, and, after giving his own
opinion of his innocence, requesting orders as to
the manner in which he was to dispose of his prisoner.
These orders might now be expected
every hour, and his uneasiness increased, in proportion
as the moment approached when his friend
might be removed from his protection. In this
disturbed state of mind the Major wandered
through the orchard, and was stopped in his walk
by arriving at the base of those rocks which had
protected the Skinners in their flight, before he
was conscious whither his steps had carried him.
He was about to turn, and retrace his path to
his quarters, when he was startled with a voice
bidding him to—

“Stand or die.”

Dunwoodie turned in amazement, and beheld
the figure of a man placed at a little distance
above him on a shelving rock, with a musket in
his hands that was levelled at himself. The light
was not yet sufficiently powerful to reach the recesses
of that gloomy spot, and a second look was
necessary before he discovered, to his astonishment,
that it was the pedlar who stood before him.
Comprehending in an instant the danger of his
situation, and disdaining to implore mercy or to
retreat, had the latter been possible, the youth
cried firmly—

“If I am to be murdered, fire; for I will never
become your prisoner.”

“No, Major Dunwoodie,” said Birch, lowering
his musket, “it is neither my intention to capture
nor to slay.”

“What then would you have, mysterious being,”
said Dunwoodie, hardly able to persuade
himself that the form he saw was not a creature of
the imagination.

“Your good opinion,” answered the pedlar with
emotion; “I would wish all good men to judge
me with lenity.”

“To you it must be indifferent what may be the
judgement of men on your actions,” said the Major,
gazing around him in continued surprise;
“for you seem to be beyond the reach of their
sentence.”

“God spares the lives of his servants to his own
time,” said the pedlar solemnly: “ 'Tis but a
few hours and I was your prisoner, and threatened
with the gallows; now you are mine; but, Major
Dunwoodie, you are free. There are those
abroad who would treat you less kindly. Of what
service would that sword be to you against my
weapon and a steady hand? Take the advice of
one who has never harmed you, and who never
will. Do not trust yourself in the skirts of any
wood, unless in company and mounted.”

“And have you comrades who have assisted you
to escape,” said Dunwoodie, “and who are less
generous than yourself?”

“No—no”—cried Harvey, clasping his hands
wildly, and speaking with bitter melancholy, “I
am alone truly—none know me but my God and
Him.”

“And who?” asked the Major, with an interest
he could not control.

“None,” continued the pedlar, recovering his
composure. “But such is not your case, Major
Dunwoodie; you are young and happy; there are

those that are dear to you, and such are not far
away—danger is near them you love most—danger
within and without;—double your watchfulness—strengthen
your patroles—and be silent—
with your opinion of me, should I tell you more
you would suspect an ambush. But remember
and guard those you love best.”

The pedlar discharged the musket in the air,
and threw it at the feet of his astonished auditor;
and when the surprise and smoke suffered Dunwoodie
to look again on the rock where he had
stood, the spot was vacant.

The youth was aroused from the stupor which
had been created by this strange scene, by the
trampling of horses and the sound of the bugles.
A patrole was drawn to the spot by the report of
the musket, and the alarm had been given to the
corps. Without entering into any explanation
with his men, the Major returned quickly to his
quarters, where he found the whole squadron under
arms, in battle array, impatiently awaiting the
appearance of their leader. The officer, whose
duty it was to superintend such matters, had directed
a party to lower the sign of the Hotel
Flannagan, and the post was already arranged for
the execution of the Spy. On hearing from the
major that the musket was discharged by himself,
and was probably another dropped by the Skinners,
(for by this time Dunwoodie had learnt the punishment
inflicted by Lawton, but chose to conceal
his interview with Birch,) his officers suggested
the propriety of executing their prisoner
before they marched. Unable to believe all he
had seen was not a dream, Dunwoodie, followed
by many of his officers, and preceded by Sergeant
Hollister, went to the place which was supposed
to contain this mysterious pedlar.

“Well, sir,” said the major, sternly, to the sentinel

who guarded the door, “I suppose you have
your prisoner in safety.”

“He is yet asleep,” replied the man, “and
makes such a noise I could hardly hear the bugles
sound the alarm.”

“Open the door and bring him forth,” said
Dunwoodie to the sergeant.

The order was obeyed, so far as circumstances
would allow; but, to the utter amazement of the
honest veteran, he found the room in no little
disorder—the coat of the pedlar was where his
body ought to have been, and part of the wardrobe
of Betty was scattered in disorder on the
floor. The washerwoman herself occupied the
pallet in a profound mental oblivion, in all her
clothes excepting the little black bonnet, which
she so constantly wore, that it was commonly
thought she made it perform the double duty of
both day and night cap. The noise of their entrance,
and the exclamations of the party, awoke
the woman, and rising, she exclaimed hastily—

“Is it the breakfast that's wanting? Well, faith,
you look as if you would ate myself—but patience
a little, darlings, and you'll see sich a fry as never
was.”

Fry!” echoed the sergeant, forgetful of his religious
philosophy and the presence of his officers,
“we'll have you roasted, you jade—you've
helped that damn'd pedlar to escape.”

“Jade, back again in your teeth, and damn'd
pedlar too, Mister Sargeant,” cried Betty, who
was easily roused; “what have I to do with pedlar's
or escapes. I might have been a pedlar's
lady and worn my silks, if I'd had Sawny M`Twill,
instead of tagging at the heels of a parcel of dragooning
rapscallions, who don't know how to trate
a lone body with dacency.”

“The fellow has left my bible,” said the veteran,

taking the book from the floor; “in place of
spending his time in reading it to prepare for his
end, like a good Christian, he has been busy in
labouring to escape.”

“And who would stay and be hung like a dog,”
cried Betty, beginning to comprehend the case;
“ 'Tis'nt every one that's born to meet with sich
an ind—like yourself, Mister Hollister.”

“Silence!” said Dunwoodie, “this must be
inquired into closely, gentlemen; there is no outlet
but the door, and there he could not pass, unless
the sentinel connived at his escape or was
asleep on his post—call up all the guard?”

As these men were not paraded, curiosity had
already drawn them to the place, and they all
denied that any person had passed out, excepting
one, and he acknowledged that Betty had gone
by him, but pleaded his orders in justification.

“You lie, you thief—you lie!” shouted Betty,
who had impatiently listened to his exculpation;
“would you slanderize a lone woman, by saying
she walks a camp at midnight?—Here have I been
sleeping the long night as sweetly as the sucking
babe.”

“Here, sir,” said the sergeant, turning respectfully
to Dunwoodie, “is something written in my
bible that was not in it before; for having no family
to record, I would never suffer any scribbling
in the sacred book.”

One of the officers read aloud—“These certify,
that if suffered to get free, it is by God's help
alone, to whose divine aid I humbly recommend
myself. I'm forced to take the woman's clothes,
but in her pocket is a recompense. Witness my
hand—Harvey Birch.”

“What!” roared Betty, in consternation, “has
the thief robbed a lone woman of her all—hang

him—catch him and hang him, major, if there's
law or justice in the land.”

“Examine your pocket,” said one of the youngsters,
who was enjoying the scene, careless of the
cause or its consequences.

“Ah! faith,” cried the washerwoman, producing
a guinea; “but he is a jewel of a pedlar—
long life and a brisk trade to him say I—he is
welcome to the duds—and if he is ever hung, many
a bigger rogue will go free.”

Dunwoodie turned to leave the apartment, and
saw Captain Lawton standing with folded arms,
contemplating the scene in profound silence.
His manner, so different from his usual impetuosity
and zeal, struck his commander as singular
—their eyes met, and they walked together for a
few minutes in close conversation, when Dunwoodie
returned and dismissed the guard to their
place of rendezvous. Sergeant Hollister, however,
continued alone with Betty, who having
found none of her vestments disturbed but such as
the guinea more than paid for, was in high good-humour
for the interview. The washerwoman had
for a long time looked on the veteran with the
eyes of affection, and had secretly determined
within herself to remove the dangers from a lone
woman, by making the sergeant the successor of
her late husband. For some time the trooper had
seemed to flatter her preference, and Betty conceiving
that her violence had mortified the feelings
of her lover, was determined to make him
all the amends in her power. Besides, rough
and uncouth as she was, the washerwoman had
still enough of her sex to know that the moments
of reconciliation were the moments of her power.
She, therefore, poured out a glass of her morning
beverage, and handed it to her companion as she
observed—

“A few warm words between friends are a trifle,
you must be knowing, sargeant. It was Michael
Flannagan that I ever calumnated the most
when I was loving him the best.”

“Michael was a good soldier and a brave man,”
said the warrior, finishing the glass; “our troop
was covering the flank of his regiment when he
fell, and I rode over his body myself more than
once during the day—poor fellow, he lay on his
back, and looked as composed as if he had died a
natural death after a year's consumption.”

“Oh! Michael was a great consumer, and be
sartain,” said the disconsolate widow; “two like
us make dreadful inroads in the stock, sargeant.
But you're a sober, discrate man, Mister Hollister,
and would be a help-mate indeed.”

“Why, Mrs. Flannagan,” said the veteran with
great solemnity, “I've tarried to speak on a subject
that lies heavy at my heart, and will now
open my mind, if you've leisure to listen.”

“Is it listen?” cried the impatient woman;
“and I'd listen to you, sargeant, if the officers never
ate another mouthful—but take another drop,
dear—and it will incourage you to spake freely.”

“I am already bold enough in so good a cause,”
returned the veteran, rejecting her bounty; “but,
Betty, do you think it was really the Pedlar-Spy
that I placed in this room the last night?”

“And who should it be else, darling?”

“The evil-one.”

“What, the divil?”

“Ay, even Belzebub, disguised as the pedlar,
and those fellows we thought to be Skinners were
his imps,” said the sergeant, with a most portentous
gravity in his countenance.

“Well sure, sargeant, dear,” said Betty, “you
are but little out this time, any way—for if the

divil's imps go at large in the county West-Chester,
sure it is the Skinners themselves.”

“No, but Mrs. Flannagan,” interrupted her companion,
“I mean in their incarnate spirits—the
evil one knew that there was no one we would
arrest sooner than the pedlar, Birch, and took on
his appearance to gain admission to your room.”

“And what should the divil be wanting of me,”
cried Betty, tartly, “and isn't there divils enough
in the corps already, without one's coming from
the bottomless pit to frighten a lone body.”

“ 'Twas, 'twas in mercy to you, Betty, that he
came. You see he vanish'd through the door in
your form, which is a symbol of your fate, unless
you mend your life. Oh! I noticed how he trembled
when I gave him the good book. Would any
christian, think you, my dear Betty, write in a bible
in this way; unless it might be the matter of births
and deaths, and such like chronicles?”

The washerwoman was pleased with the softness
of her lover's manner, but dreadfully scandalized
at his insinuation: she, however, preserved
her temper, and, with the quickness of her own
country's people, rejoined—

“And would the divil have paid for the clothes,
think ye. Aye! and overpaid.”

“Doubtless, the money is base,” said the sergeant,
a little staggered at such an evidence of honesty
in one he thought so meanly of. “He tempted
me with his glittering coin, but the Lord gave
me strength to resist.”

“The goold looks well,” said the washerwoman,
“But I'll change it, any way, with Captain Jack,
the day—he is nivir a bit afeard of any divil of
them all.”

“Betty, Betty,” said her companion, “do not
speak so disreverently of the evil spirit, he is ever

at hand, and will owe you a grudge for your language.”

“Pooh! if he has any bowels at all, he won't
mind a fillip or two from a poor lone woman,” returned
the washerwoman. “I'm sure no other
christian would.”

“But the dark one has no bowels, except to
devour the children of men,” said the sergeant,
looking around him in horror, “and it's best to
make friends every where; for there is no telling
what may happen 'till it comes. But, Betty, no
man could have got out of this place, and passed
all the sentinels, without being known—take awful
warning from the visit, therefore.”

Here the dialogue was interrupted by a summons
to the suttler to prepare her mornings repast,
and they were obliged to separate, the woman
secretly hoping that the interest the sergeant
manifested for her was more earthly than he imagined,
and the man, bent on saving a soul from the
fangs of the dark spirit, that was prowling through
their camp, in quest of victims.

During the breakfast, several expresses arrived,
one of which brought intelligence of the actual
force and destination of the enemy's expedition
that was out on the Hudson, and another, orders
to send Captain Wharton to the first post above,
under the escort of a body of dragoons. These
last instructions, or rather commands, for they admitted
of no departure from their letter, completed
the sum of Dunwoodie's uneasiness. The despair
and misery of Frances, were constantly before his
eyes, and fifty times he was tempted to throw himself
on his horse, and gallop to the Locusts, but an
uncontrollable feeling of delicacy prevented him.
In obedience to the commands of his superior, an
officer, with a small party, was sent to the cottage
to conduct Henry Wharton to the place directed,

and the gentleman who was entrusted with the
execution of the order, was charged with a letter
from Dunwoodie to his friend, containing the most
cheering assurances of his safety, as well as the
strongest pledges of his own unceasing exertions
in his favour. Lawton was left in charge of the
few wounded, with part of his own troop, and as soon
as the men were refreshed, the encampment broke
up, and the main body marched towards the Hudson.
Dunwoodie repeated, again and again, his
injunctions to Captain Lawton—dwelt upon every
word that had fallen from the pedlar, and canvassed
in every possible manner that his ingenuity
could devise, the probable meaning of his mysterious
warnings, until no excuse remained for delaying
his own departure a moment longer. Suddenly
recollecting, however, that no directions had
been given for the disposal of Colonel Wellmere,
instead of following the rear of his column, the
major yielded to his passions, and turned down the
road which led to the Locusts, attended by hls
own man. The horse of Dunwoodie was fleet as
the wind, and scarcely a minute seem'd to have
passed before he gained a sight, from an eminence,
of the loney vale, and as he was plunging into the
bottom lands that formed its surface, he caught a
glimpse of Henry Wharton, and his escort, defiling
at a distance through a pass which led to the posts
above. This sight added to the speed of the anxious
youth, who now turned the angle of the hill
that opened to the valley, and came suddenly on
the object of his search. Frances had followed
the party which guarded her brother at a distance,
and as they vanished from her sight she felt as if
deserted by all that she most prized in this world.
The unaccountable absence of Dunwoodie, with
the shock of parting from Henry under such circumstances,
had entirely subdued her fortitude,
and she had sunk on a stone by the road-side and
wept as if her heart would break. Dunwoodie
sprung from his charger, bidding his man to lead
him up the road, and in a moment was by the
side of the weeping girl.

“Frances—my own Frances!” he exclaimed,
“why this distress—let not the situation of your
brother create any alarm. As soon as the duty
I am now on is completed, I will hasten to the
feet of Washington, and beg his release. The
Father of his Country will never deny such a boon
to one of his favourite pupils.”

“Major Dunwoodie, for your interest on behalf
of my poor brother, I thank you,” said the
maid hastily, drying her eyes, and rising with dignity.
“But such language addressed to me, surely
is improper.”

“How! improper!” echoed her lover in amazement,
“are you not mine—by the consent of
your father—your aunt—your brother—nay, by
your own consent, my sweet Frances.”

“I wish not, Major Dunwoodie, to interfere
with the prior claims that any other lady may
have to your affections,” said Frances, motioning
to return.

“None other, I swear, by Heaven, none other
but yourself has any claim on me,” cried Dunwoodie
with fervour; “you alone are mistress of
my inmost soul.”

“You have practised so much, and so successfully,
Major Dunwoodie, that it is no wonder you
excel in deceiving the credulity of my sex,” said
the maiden bitterly, attempting a smile which the
tremulousness of her muscles smothered in its
birth.

“Am I a villain, Miss Wharton, that you receive
me with such language—when have I ever

deceived you, Frances—who has practised in this
manner on your purity of heart?”

“Why has not Major Dunwoodie honoured the
dwelling of his intended father with his presence
lately? Did he forget it contained one friend on a
bed of sickness, and another in deep distress? Has it
escaped his memory that it held his intended wife?
Or is he fearful of meeting more than one that
can lay a claim to that title? Oh, Peyton—Peyton,
how have I been deceived in you—with the
foolish credulity of my youth, I thought you all
that was brave, noble, generous, and loyal.”

“Frances, I see how it is that you have deceived
yourself,” cried Dunwoodie, his face in a
glow of fire; “you do me injustice, I swear by
all that is most dear to me, that you do me injustice.”

“Swear not, Major Dunwoodie,” interrupted
the maiden, her fine countenance lighting up with
all the lustre of womanly pride; “the time is gone
by for me to credit oaths.”

“Miss Wharton, would you have me a coxcomb,”
said her lover, “make me contemptible
in my own eyes, to boast of what may raise
me in your estimation?”

“Flatter not yourself that the task is so easy,
sir,” returned Frances, moving towards the cottage;
“we converse together, in private, for the
last time;—but my father would gladly welcome
my mother's kinsman.”

“No, Miss Wharton, I cannot enter his dwelling
now: I should conduct in a manner unworthy
of myself. You drive me from you, Frances,
in despair. I am going on desperate service, and
may not live to return. Should fortune prove
severe to me, at least do my memory justice;
remember that the last breathing of my soul, will
be for your happiness.” So saying he had already

placed his foot in the stirrup, but his mistress
turning on him a face that was pallid with
emotion, and an eye that pierced his soul with
its thrilling expression, arrested the action, and
he paused.

“Peyton—Major Dunwoodie,” she said, “can
you ever forget the sacred cause in which you
are enlisted? Your duty both to your God and to
your country, forbid your doing any thing rashly.
The latter has need of your services; besides”—
but her voice became choked, and she was unable
to proceed.

“Besides what?” echoed the youth, springing
to her side, and offering to take her hand in his
own. Frances having, however, recovered herself,
coldly repulsed him, and continued her walk
homeward.

“Miss Wharton, is this our parting!” cried
Dunwoodie, in agony; “am I a wretch, that you
treat me so cruelly? You have never loved me,
and wish to conceal your own fickleness by accusations
against me that you will not explain.”

Frances stopped short in her walk, and turned
on her lover a look of so much purity and feeling,
that, heart-stricken, Dunwoodie would have knelt
at her feet for pardon; but motioning him for
silence, she once more spoke—

“Hear me, Major Dunwoodie, for the last time;
it is a bitter knowledge when we first discover our
own inferiority; but it is a truth that I have lately
learnt. Against you I bring no charges—make no
accusations—no: not willingly in my thoughts.
Were my claims to your heart just, I am not
worthy of you. It is not a feeble, timid girl like
me, that could make you happy. No, Peyton,
you are formed for great and glorious actions,
deeds of daring and renown, and should be united
to a soul like your own: one that can rise above

the weakness of her sex. I should be a weight to
drag you to the dust; but with a different spirit in
your companion, you might soar to the very pinnacle
of earthly glory. To such an one, therefore,
I resign you freely, if not cheerfully; and pray,
oh! how fervently, that with such an one you may
be happy.”

“Lovely enthusiast,” cried Dunwoodie, “you
know not yourself nor me. It is a woman, mild,
gentle, and dependant as yourself that my very
nature loves—deceive not yourself with visionary
ideas of generosity, which will only make me miserable.”

“Farewell, Major Dunwoodie,” said the maid,
pausing for a moment to gasp for breath; “forget
that you ever knew me—remember the claims of
your bleeding country and be happy.”

“Happy!” repeated the youthful soldier bitterly,
as he saw her light form gliding through the
gate of the lawn, and disappearing behind its shrubbery;
“Oh! yes, I am now happy indeed.”

Throwing himself into the saddle, he plunged his
spurs into his horse and soon overtook his squadron,
which was marching slowly over the hilly
roads of the county to gain the banks of the Hudson.

But painful as were the feelings of Dunwoodie
at this unexpected termination to the interview
with his mistress, they were but light compared
to those which were experienced by the
maiden herself. Frances had, with the keen eye of
jealous love, easily detected the attachment of Isabella
Singleton to Dunwoodie. Delicate and retiring
herself as the fairest visions of romance had ever
portrayed her sex, it never could present itself to
the mind of Frances, that this love had been unsought.
Ardent in her own affections, and artless
in their exhibition, she had early caught the eye

of the youthful soldier; but it required all the
manly frankness of Dunwoodie to court her favour,
and the most pointed devotion to obtain
his conquest. This once done—his power was
durable, entire, and engrossing. But the unusual
occurrences of the few preceding days, the altered
mien of her lover during those events, his unwonted
indifference to herself, and chiefly the romantic
idolatry of Isabella, had aroused new sensations
in her bosom. With a dread of her lover's
integrity had been awakened the never-failing
concomitant of the purest affection—a distrust of
her own merits. In the moment of enthusiasm,
the task of resigning her lover to another, who
might be more worthy of him, seemed easy—but it
is in vain that the imagination attempts to deceive
the heart. Dunwoodie had no sooner disappeared,
than our heroine felt all the misery of her
situation; and if the youth found some relief in
the cares of his command from his anxiety of mind,
Frances was less fortunate in the performance of
a duty imposed on her by filial piety.—The removal
of his son had nearly destroyed the little
energy of Mr. Wharton, who required all the tenderness
of his remaining children to convince him
that he was able to perform the ordinary functions
of life.