University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

The letter of Miss Falconer contained an allusion
to an approaching festival, which she characterized
as a `4th of July jollification.' This day
was already rendered sacred in the affections of
Americans; and the prospect of a speedy and
successful close to the battle of independence had
disposed them, throughout the whole confederacy,
to signalize its recurrence with all the pomp and
glory of observance. The spirit had awakened
even in the precincts of Hawk-Hollow; and the
villagers, taking advantage of the patriotic offers
of Captain Loring, had made extensive preparations
to celebrate it among the solitudes of that
lovely valley. They assembled in public meeting,
appointed committees of arrangement, purveyors,
marshals, and masters of ceremonies; and that
the occasion might not pass without a due share
of national glorification, they selected an orator,
who, it was universally supposed by all his friends,
would electrify the souls of his auditory by a display
of impassioned and heaven-inspired eloquence.
It happened, however, that the appointment
of Mr. Jingleum to this honour had disgusted
the adherents of another candidate; and the consequence
was, that, in the end, there were two
different celebrations, held at different places, one
in the village itself, which being more convenient

to the mass of citizens, was much more numerously
attended than the rival jubilee in the Hollow. Indeed,
the spirit of faction running very high, there
were found so many arguments against holding
the convocation at the latter place, that the current
of public opinion soon set decidedly against
it, and it promised to be quite a failure. It was
indeed but thinly attended; although circumstances
arose to give it an eclat entirely wanting at the
other.

The gentlemen of the committee, finding how
matters were going, redoubled their exertions, and
by adding preparations for a fêle champêlre to
those for the more public object, succeeded in
awakening an interest on the side of the female
portion of the community; so that, as the day
drew nigh, they began to hold up their heads and
boast aloud, that, go the day as it might, the beauty
of the country would be found displayed only in
the valley. The scene of festivity determined upon
was the little promontory at the mouth of Hawk-Hollow
Run, and the river-bank at its base, where
were such green plots as might have enticed
fairies, as well as mortal women, into the joys of
the dance. A small piece of ordnance was dragged
upon the promontory; the venerable habitation
of the fishing-hawks was tumbled about their
ears, and the tall and naked trunk that supported
it, converted into a gigantic flag-staff, from which
the striped banner was seen waving as early as
the afternoon of the 3d. A scaffold some five or
six feet in height was also erected around the
trunk, and a tribune, or orator's desk, with seats
behind it, constructed thereon; the whole forming
a rostrum suitable to the occasion, which the good
taste of the supervisors caused to be canopied and
adorned with branches of laurel, that were also
wreathed around the tree almost to its top. The

whole of the day preceding the celebration was
occupied with these and other preparations, in
most of which the painter contributed his personal
assistance with great zeal. He had consented, after
first flatly refusing the honour, tendered him at the
instance of his friend the poet, to accept the appointment
of reader of the Declaration, with the
pronouncing of which sacred instrument the exercises
of such a celebration are always begun; and
although, on many occasions, when his auxiliaries
were all as busily occupied as himself, he betrayed
a strong disposition to desert, and betake himself
to the distant mansion, there was no one, when all
were assembled together under its roof, sharing
the hospitality of the Captain and the smiles of his
daughter, who exhibited a more disinterested
anxiety to hurry all back again to their duties.

The evening came, and the preparations having
been completed, the bustling Committee-men
mounted their horses, and retreated to the village,
leaving Gilbert's Folly to solitude; for not even
Herman returned to it that evening. But an unexpected
guest made her appearance, an hour
after night-fall. As Catherine sat musing on the
porch, perhaps moralizing, as she watched the
spark of the fire-fly, now struggling in the moist
grass, now fitting among the oak-boughs, and
traced the resemblance it seemed to figure forth
to the life of man,—a tissue of linked light and
darkness,—a bolder beam flashed along the park,
the roll of wheels was heard on the gravelled
avenue, and before she had time to wonder or surmise,
a carriage stopped at the door, and in a
moment she was clasped in the arms of Miss Falconer.

“Brava for my dear self!” cried the lady; “my
generalship is complete—I take even my friend
by surprise! Wo therefore to my enemies! for this

is a part of my practice. Eureka! Eureka, Kate!
as the old philosopher said, when he discovered
what the little fishes knew before him: I have discovered
the enemy, and to-morrow I will take
him! Never trust me if Congress do not order me
a vote of thanks for my doughty services.—
Where's your father?”

“Sleeping in his arm-chair,” replied Catherine,
confounded by the vivacity of her friend's expressions;
“tired with entertaining so many people,
and being so much on foot; and I believe he would
have gone to bed, except for Mr.—that is to say,
Monsieur Red-Jacket.”

“Hang Monsieur Red-Jacket!” cried Harriet,
quickly: “If he is here, get rid of him,—I've a
thousand things to tell you.—Not here, then? but
coming? Shut up the house, and fasten the doors—
no admission to any superfluities to-night. And
pa's sleepy, too? Pack him off to bed, dear Kate;
tell him 'tis ten o'clock; or wait till we get the carriage
away, and all quiet, and don't let him know
of my arrival; we'll surprise him in the morning.
I tell you, you unconscionable girl, I have such a
secret to relate!—a secret so big and mighty, that
I have been more than half dead with keeping it
already!”

Ardent as were the lady's desires to escape the
welcome of the return for that night, she was
doomed to a disappointment. The bustle of arrival
broke the Captain's slumbers, and he rushed
into the porch, after a host of domestics bearing
lights, expressing his rapture that `his dear Harry'
had arrived at such a lucky time; “For,” said he,
“we've laid in two hundred and fifty charges for
the six-pounder, and we'll have such a roaring
racket as has never been heard this ten years; and
there's Tom Terry, the trumpeter,—was regularly
brought up in the troop school, and blasts a charge

to make your blood boil! and there's the drums
and fifes! and there's my boy Haman to read the
Declaration! and, by the lord, now I think of it,
there's the Battle of Brandywine and Tom Loring
dying! There never was such likenesses painted
by mortal man.”

The Captain yawned fearfully while he spoke;
but his enthusiasm was fast dispelling his drowsiness.
Miss Falconer groaned in spirit; but woman's
wit came to her assistance. She imitated
his example, opened her lovely mouth, with an
expressiveness his own could not resist, exclaimed,
“Oh, how tired I am!” and concluded by vowing
she could not keep her eyes open, but must retire
to rest forthwith. In this manner, she succeeded
in escaping to Catherine's chamber, whence she
immediately expelled both Phœbe and her mother,
charging the latter, as the Captain had also signified
his disposition to retire, to lock up the house,
and admit no visiters to disturb her or her companion.

As soon as these instructions were given, she
turned to Catherine, and cried, with extraordinary
eagerness,

“The man with the red hat! that fellow that
helped the painter out of the brook,—what has
become of him?”

“I know not,” replied Catherine, surprised at
the question.

“What! has he never been seen in Hawk-Hollow
again?”

“Really, I know not—I have never heard: I
suppose not.”

“Oh, you poor owls! blind birds that you are!”
exclaimed Harriet, laughing, yet preserving an
earnest air: “I believe, if Beelzebub himself came
riding into the valley, nobody would suspect him
to be a bad Christian, provided he kept his tail in

his coat-pocket. As for the cloven hoof, he might
wear that naked; no one would think of looking
at it. And Gilbert, the Hawk of the Hollow? have
you heard of him no more?”

“Oh, there is some idle rumour among the people,
but I think it foolish. But, Harriet, you got
my letter, with the advice I gave you? You must
know, I had that from a sensible person I was
obliged to take into the secret”—

“Good Heaven!” cried Harriet, in alarm, “you
have not told any one? Catherine, how could you?
This may ruin all.”

“I do not know what it is to ruin, Hal; but it
will not ruin by betrayal of the secret. Mr.
Hunter is”—

“Mr. Hunter!” exclaimed Harriet, in as much
wonder as dismay. “What! Red-Jacket? a stranger,
a vagabond dauber, to be made the repository
of such confidence! Really, Kate, you will drive
me mad. How could you be so insane?”

“These are severe rebukes, Harriet,” said Miss
Loring, “and perhaps, in my case, they are just
and well deserved; but you will not be so harsh
with Mr. Hunter, when you know him better. He
is a gentleman, Harriet,—in every particular, a
high-minded, honourable man. On his good will
and friendly co-operation, I knew I could rely; he
was shrewd, sensible, and had seen one individual
you inquired after; I had no other person to look
to for advice. I acted with my best discretion,
Harriet, and for your sake.”

“Well, don't pout now,” cried Miss Falconer,
throwing her arms round her neck. “Soldiers—
that is, generals,—as Harry vows, are ever pestilent
scolds; and you must lay my shrewishness to
the door of military impulses. The thing can't be
helped; I don't blame you; if Red-Jacket be really
a sensible fellow, why there is no harm done; and,

as I said before, I'll patronise him; and if the
matter be not blown already, in good truth, he
will not have time left him to do mischief. But
now for my story—and know, Catherine, in the
first place, you are surrounded by cut-throat
tories,—by skulking refugees,—by the Hawks of
Hawk-Hollow!”

“Sure, Harriet, you are raving!” cried the Captain's
daughter, in affright.

“It is as true as that the stars are shining above
us,” said Miss Falconer, her eyes flashing with a
soldier-like fire; “and to-morrow, when you look
only for mirth and merry-making, you will perhaps
see—ay, Kate, see them fight their last battle. It
is well you had me to watch over you, you poor
cowardly mouse; or you might have been scalped
and murdered, a week before your wedding-day.
But all's safe, Kate; so leave trembling, and put
yourself under my protection. To think we had
that blood-stained demon so near to us, when we
were talking about him! Nay, to think we had
him in the house here, and my brother and myself
standing hard by! Truly, Kate, had I known
him, and could have laid my hand on a pistol, I
should have fired it at the audacious monster—
though I have no doubt, I should have hit some
one else. That vagabond, malignant-mouthed villain
with the red hat—who would have dreamed
that blood-coloured covering was on the head of
Oran Gilbert?”

“Impossible, Harriet! Remember, that he was
in the house here nearly an hour,—that Green, the
Indian trader; and at that very moment, the party
was chasing the true murderer beyond the river.”

“Nonsense!” cried Miss Falconer,—“nonsense
and ignorance together. Listen to my story, and
talk no more of impossibilities.”

She then proceeded to relate, that, having recovered

from the shock and confusion of mind produced
by the sudden intelligence of her father's
mishap, she began at once to gather all the information
she could in relation to the outrage, and
rack her ingenuity to penetrate the mysteries that
attended and followed it. The information communicated
by Lieutenant Brooks in relation to the
fugitive of the white horse, though it added to the
perplexities of others, threw a gleam of light upon
her active imagination. It has been mentioned
that this young officer, while in full pursuit of
Nehemiah, had lighted upon a certain pedler who
had, but a few hours or moments before, exchanged
horses with the parson,—a piece of traffic
which the trader was then bitterly lamenting; for
though he confessed he had received a reasonable
`boot,' or consideration, he declared he was never
more cheated in his life, the horse being knocked
up and almost wholly worthless, as any one, he
said, might see; he had been thrown off his guard
by the holy character of Nehemiah; “for who,”
said he, “would think of being cheated by a parson?”
He was very desirous, so great was his
rage at the imposition, to guide the party himself
after the cheat; but his horse being incapable of
keeping up with the others, they were fain to receive
his instructions, and leave him behind.

Two suspicions instantly entered Miss Falconer's
brain; first, that in the indignant pedler, the
pursuers had found and suffered to escape, the
very rogue they were seeking; or, (and the second
conjecture seemed to her the more rational,) that
they had lighted on some agent he had despatched
across the river for the purpose of misleading the
avengers, he himself assuming a new disguise, and
boldly remaining in the Hollow, until the hue and
cry were over. She could give no particular reasons
for turning her suspicions upon the Indian

trader, save that his fierce countenance and savage
bearing had made a strong impression on her
imagination; and as she did not for a moment
dream that the assassin could be any other than
Oran Gilbert, she was as ready to discover his
identity in the person of Green as in that of Nehemiah.
In all this there was evidently, as Catherine
in fact perceived, a degree of confusion and hallucination
in Miss Falconer's mind. The idea had
seized upon her, and it was impossible to shake her
faith in the conception. It was in vain that Catherine
urged the impossibility of merging the gigantic
bulk of Nehemiah in the more moderate proportions
of the trader. Her mind was made up; on
that persuasion she had governed all her actions;
and the result satisfied her that she was right, as
the events of the morrow would show to the whole
world.

She went on to relate, that, having communicated
her suspicions to Lieutenant Brooks, as well
as her belief that the bold outlaw would soon gather
about him all the disaffected of the country, and
strike some unexpected blow, that he instantly declared
his readiness to sift the matter to the bottom,
and at once devised a scheme that had
already satisfied himself and his superiors of the
justice of her monitions. A certain private of his
own company, a man of bad character, but of the
most crafty and daring spirit, had been selected as
a fitting instrument; and, after a singular course
of duplicity, which she related at length, had not
only discovered that a band of refugees was already
formed in those deserted solitudes, but had intruded
himself among them. He had managed to
communicate with his officers through her; he had
discovered that the band, which was scattered in
squads through the country, was actually commanded
by Oran Gilbert; and though he had never

yet set eyes on this redoubtable chief, he had heard
and communicated enough to prove that he and
John Green the trader were one and the same
person. He had discovered, also, that one object
of the rising was to be the rescue of young Asgill,
the British guardsman, then under peril of suffering,
by the mere law of retaliation, for the execution
of Captain Huddy, mentioned in a previous
chapter; after which was accomplished, (and until
then no danger was to be apprehended,) he did not
doubt they would begin to burn and murder, according
to the usual system of tory tactics. One
effort had been already made by the desperate
partisan, single-handed, to rescue the young prisoner,
while riding out on parole; and this was
only defeated by Asgill's firm refusal to dishonour
the pledge he had given his enemies. It was designed
therefore to carry him away by force,
which might easily have been done, so much license
being allowed him in riding out for exercise,
had not the communications of Parker (for such
was the bold agent's name,) put the keepers on
their guard. By the same hands, she had been
informed of one haunt of the outlaws, at which
Parker was himself posted, and where he pledged
his soul to yield up the tory captain on the day of
the approaching festival, provided the instructions
he gave should be implicitly followed by his officers.

She then drew, from among divers other mystic-looking
documents, a scrap of dirty and crumpled
paper, which she declared, with a laugh, was the
last epistle she had received from her new and
highly esteemed correspondent, which was as extraordinary
in style of writing as in appearance,
being obviously the production of a rude and illiterate
soldier, making unusual efforts at composition
on account of the dignity of the correspondence

and the character of the correspondent. It
began by styling Miss Falconer `Honourable madam
to command,' and ended, after a postscript,
in which he showed a discreet regard for his own
safety, by cautioning the lady to `let all the boys
on duty remember the two rabbit-tails he was to
wear in his hat,'—`as a sign for to be known by,
and not shot at by accident; for, these vagabond
refugees being uncommon crusty cut-throats, there
was no use in being banged at on both sides,'—
and by `hoping, as before, that her honourable
madam was well, and begging her pardon for
singing a soldier's song,—

and was dated on the `29th June, if I reckon right,
in the year of our Lord, Anno Domini, 1782.'

It was stated in this precious epistle, that the
different squads were to meet on the 4th July, at a
general rendezvous within seven miles of Elsie
Bell's tavern; but for what purpose he could not
divine; they were, however, to meet their captain
there. The place he could not describe; but as
he was ordered, with six others, to take post in it
two or three days before the 4th, he promised, on
the night of the 3d, to deposite a letter containing
a full description of the place, together with his final
instructions, at a certain spot near the park-gate,
which he described with a soldier's precision.
There was much other matter in the scrawl,
which Catherine only read so far as to satisfy
herself that this bold traitor had laid a scheme for
surrounding the whole lurking party; and Harriet
assured her, that his advice had been followed to a
letter, that, at that very hour, a strong force was
marching thitherward from the army, and would

be, by sunrise, perhaps earlier, in command of all
the escapes from Hawk-Hollow.

“Besides this,” she cried with triumph, “you
will see some visiters among the feasters you have
not dreamed of,—Harry himself, Mr. Brooks, and
Captain Caliver, at least,—to receive the instructions
of the last letter. That, Kate, we will seek
at the dawn of day: see how methodically my
martial swain discourses of the place of deposit:

“ `It's a spot you can't miss,—but to be certain,
you should start from the middle of the gate,
facing right towards the house,—march nineteen
steps, then halt, face to the left, dress, and fetch
five steps and a half more, which fetches you to a
bush that has a sweet smell, with long leaves,
notched like a saw,' ”—

“My bush of sweet fern, as I live!” cried Catherine,
in whom the revealments of her friend had
produced an agitation bordering on terror.

“Do you know it, then? Good luck to my
trusty Parker, knave though he be. I have promised
him a hundred guineas for his services;
and, o' my word, I'll make papa double them.
Can't you lead me to the bush to-night? But no—
he may not yet have sought it out, and the sight
of persons stirring in the park might frighten him
away. Come, Kate, out with the light; we must
sleep fast, and be up early: I will rouse you at the
first gray streak of the dawning, I warrant me;
for I shall be dreaming of the matter all night.
Oh, that letter! that letter! if a maiden adoring
looks for the billets of her swain with more anxious
impatience than I do for honest Parker's greasy
hieroglyphics, sure am I, I should myself soon die
of expectation, so soon as I got me a wooer. Oh,

lack-a-day, Kate, kiss me, and good night; for I
think we have talked evening into midnight.”

Anxious as was the lady's desire to fall instantly
asleep, she was doomed to a disappointment.
Scarce had she murmured out the last good night
in the arms of her friend, when a sudden strain of
music woke in the outer air, mingling the jangling
of strings with the hum of a thousand nocturnal
insects, flitting among the trees. Surprised, nay,
almost startled at the sound of a guitar (for such
her practised ear instantly knew the instrument to
be,) in a region so remote and unsentimental, she
raised her head from the pillow, and had soon the
satisfaction of hearing an agreeable voice, manly
yet capable of much tenderness of expression, added
to the instrument.

“Oho, Kate,” said she, “do you hear that? Now
suppose my mad confederates should have stolen
a march upon me, and, in their zeal, made the
dawn of the 4th out of the midnight of the 3d?
They say, Mr. Brooks sings well and plays—but,
foh! I never heard that voice before—I was dreaming.
Listen!”

She held her peace, and hearkening with no
little curiosity, was able to distinguish (a window
of the chamber having been left open to admit the
balmy night-air,) the words of the following little
serenade.

“Mighty well!” exclaimed Miss Falconer, so
soon as the roundelay was finished. “That is one
of Jingleum's madrigals, I dare be sworn; for
there's the `ship' and the `steed' in it; and I never
yet saw or heard of one of his compositions that
had not a touch of salt water and the saddle.
And so the dear ape has got to singing, has he?
and he mourns the merry marriage-bell, the goose-cap!
Really, I had no idea the youth had so good
a voice.”

“You are mistaken,” said Catherine, who, Miss
Falconer almost suspected, was asleep, for she did
not lift her head from the pillow, and rather muttered

out the words than spoke,—“it is the young
gentleman,—Mr. Hunter.”

“Hah, indeed!” cried Harriet, quickly: “And
he has got to chains and chapel-bells, too? But,
pho, I forgot you told me about his singing. This
serenading, though, is somewhat presumptuous.
Well now, good youth, get you gone, and let us to
our slumbers. I'll rouse you, Kate, I warrant me.—
Why, good heaven, what is the matter? Crying
again, Catherine! Sure, if I spoke roughly to you,
Kate, I did not mean to offend you; and you must
remember, it was on my father's account I became
so suspicious, and averse to strange advisers and
confidants.”

She did not doubt that Catherine was brooding
over her former hasty and reproachful expressions;
and she knew her too well to be surprised,
when the maiden replied to her apology only by
flinging her arms round her neck, and sobbing on
her bosom. Before she could attempt to soothe
her, the serenader again struck his instrument, and
began chanting a melody of extreme sadness, but
to words of such mystical purport, that they instantly
engaged her whole attention, in an eager
desire to penetrate their meaning.

But here the artist abruptly ceased singing; his

voice and the sound of the instrument were as
suddenly hushed as if annihilation had on the instant
rapt him into the world of spirits. Miss
Falconer sprang from bed, and ran to the window,
hoping to discover the cause of so extraordinary
an interruption, but without any success. A sable
cloud, gradually stealing up from the west, and
at intervals glimmering with faint flashes of lightning,
had invested the heavens, and all was darkness,
especially under the lime-trees near the
window, from which the music proceeded. She
thought, at first, that she heard the murmuring of
voices, as if the singer had been arrested in his
task by the coming of a second individual; but
they were low, and so mingled with the rustling of
leaves, that she doubted if her ears had not deceived
her. She peered through the curtains and
the vines that encircled the window, into the darkness,
without being able to detect any thing like a
moving figure; and she listened with as little effect
for the sound of voices or foot-steps. Whatever
had brought the serenade to so abrupt a close, it
was certain that it was over, and that the singer
had departed.

“Perhaps,” she said, as she again threw herself
into the couch, “the tender youth is afraid of the
rain; and in truth, there was a drop fell upon my
hand. So much for spoiling a lady's rest, good
Red Jacket! I hope he may get a ducking before
he reaches the hovel. This is rather an odd sort
of a man for a painter. Good night, Kate—now
we will sleep in comfort and quiet.”