University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

—Old Play.

—Congreve.

—Aaron Hill.

—The Siege.

Time, with his scythe and hourglass,
strode steadily onward, and
soon bro't about the eventful night,
which had been set apart for the
consummation of the rite indissoluble
between Ernest Clifton and
Kate Clarendon. Throughout the
week intervening, since we last beheld
the lovers, every preparation
had been made for solemnizing the
nuptials of two beings whose souls
beat in unison. Invitations had
been sent to nearly all the young
people of Columbia; and at an early
hour on the evening in question,
they might have been seen in pairs,
riding gaily up to the door of the
bride. Ichabod Longtree, arrayed
in his best, busied himself in welcoming
them to the wedding of his
pet, and taking charge of their
horses, which he led around the
house and secured to the trees in
the rear. Kate and her mother had
robed themselves in garments of
white, being relics of those days
when they were rolling in luxury.
What added additional joy to both,
the health and spirits of Mrs. Clarendon,
since the announcement to
her that Ernest Clifton was soon to
become her son-in-law, had revived
to a wonderful degree, and she now
appeared before her guests with
something of the look and manner
of former days. The excitement of
the occasion had tinged her cheek
with a flush resembling health, and
added additional luster to her eyes,
which now beamed with animation
and joy. Kate, as might be supposed,
looked paler—more sad and
thoughtful—but, at the same time,
none the less lovely. She received
the greetings of her friends with an
air of grace and cordiality, and
sometimes, though but seldom,
smiled, at their frequent sallies of
wit. To her it seemed a grave,
rather than light occasion, and one
little suited, on her part, to hilarity.
However much she might have
jested on the matter once, she now
felt in all its force the responsibility
of the step she was about to take.
She was about to give her hand, for
good or ill, to one she loved, and
that for life. She was about to
bid adieu to the romantic visions
of girlhood, and enter upon the responsible
realities of a wife and
womanhood. She was, in short,

about to give herself away, to become
another's, to be bound to him
by solemn ties, that could not be
broken without offense against the
laws of God and man. It was a
great and grave undertaking—a
new epoch in her life—and though
she wavered not, flinched not, yet
she trembled and felt sad at the
thought.

Among the invited guests, came
two of the former suitors of Kate—
Danvers and Danbury—each accompanied
by a lass, who now had
the honor of holding a place in his
heart, which was once partially occupied
by our fair heroine. They
met her frankly, and cordially, with
no show of pique or resentment,
and as friends who took a deep interest
in her welfare.

“I once flattered myself,” said
Danvers to Kate, smiling pleasantly,
“that I should be a prominent
actor at the wedding of Kate Clarendon,
instead of a spectator; but
matters have turned out otherwise.”

“And none the worse for you,”
returned Kate, inclining her head
to the maiden who now held the
arm and heart of her former suitor.

“We will hope all has been for
the best,” was the reply of Danvers,
looking fondly toward her
whose arm he held.

“We lost the race, and should
fain be content,” put in Danbury,
with a smile, coming up at the moment,
with a pretty maiden also
hanging on his arm.

“And in losing you won,” returned
Kate, pointedly, punning upon
the word, and pointing to his fair
companion.

“Why as to winning,” rejoined
Danbury, laughing, “that will depend
much upon a certain monosyllable
from Emma here.”

“Fie! Orville,” said Emma, blush
ing, and dragging him away, in the
utmost good humor.

An hour from the setting in of
night, saw all the guests assembled
at the cottage, with the exception
of the groom and clergyman, who
were momentarily expected. As
was customary at that day, each of
the young men had brought with
him his rifle, more from the force of
habit and precaution, than from
any supposed use he would have
for it. It was also, as a matter of
form, thought advisable to station a
sentinel without, that, in case anything
unusual should happen, alarm
might be given. This last precaution
would doubtless have been
neglected, but for the report abroad,
that a small body of Indians had
been seen, not long since, within a
few miles of the village. In conse-of
this rumor, some of the more
timid had repaired to the block-house;
but the majority of the citizens
of Columbia thought lightly
of the news, and turned not aside
from their usual routine of business.

The guests had now all taken
their seats upon rude benches,
ranged around the walls of the cabin,
which had been prepared expressly
for the occasion by the gardener.
A rough chandelier, constructed
of wood, in feeble imitation
of some of a more solid material
in the older settlements, and
which also owed its existence to
the genius and labor of Ichabod,
was suspended from the ceiling by
a small iron chain, near the center
of the apartment, and supported
several candles, whose combined
gleams served to render every object
distinct to the eye and display
the youthful and healthy
looking faces of the surrounding
party, the expressions of which
had grown very grave, preparatory

to the coming solemn ceremony.
Beneath this chandelier
stood a table, on which were a Bible,
a hymn-book, a vase of flowers,
and two brass candlesticks supporting
tapers. Beside the table
was a stool, to be occupied by the
clergyman on his arrival, and during
the service he was expected to
perform. Flowers, too, of all hues,
had been liberally scattered over
the white and sanded floor, whose
fragrance was not the less sweet
and abundant, from being crushed,
occasionally, beneath the passing
foot of some bright-eyed maiden or
her gay gallant. Boquets and festoons
decorated the walls, and added
a rosy and beautiful back-ground
to the picture.

At weddings of this period, a
supper and dance generally succeeded;
but on the present occasion,
the declining health of her
mother, together with the late loss
of her father, had been a sufficient
reason to induce Kate to dispense
with the latter. The supper, however,
had not been omitted. It was
already laid on tables in the adjoining
apartment, and was, like
almost everything else about the
premises, under the careful supervision
of Ichabod Longtree—who,
in addition to the qualities of gardener
and hostler, could, when occasion
required, fulfill the duties of
chief cook and butler.

All was ready, and waited only
the coming of the groom and the
clergyman, to begin the solemn and
sacred rite. A deep and profound
silence reigned in the apartment,
where the wedding guests were
seated, in stern repose, like so many
wax figures.

As the first sensation to the
touch of fire and ice is the same—
so, as a general thing, the feelings
immediately preceding a wedding
and a funeral are strangely alike.
There steals over the spectator, on
both occasions, a secret awe, an
unaccountable solemnity, that he
finds impossible to shake off. Such
was the feeling pervading the assemblage
on the occasion here described.
From a lively and even
gay conversation, the voices of the
different speakers had gradually
died away to whispers, and finally
had ceased altogether. As minute
after minute rolled by, and no
sounds were heard indicating the
approach of the expected parties,
the guests began to look at each
other inquiringly, with faces expressive
of surprise at the delay;
and then low whispers stole around
the circle, of strange conjectures,
giving a more gloomy turn to the
whole affair.

As for Kate, her features had become
as white, and almost as rigid,
as marble; and as she sat in
full light, robed in her wedding garments,
clasping the thin, transparent
hand of her mother, and gazing
at vacancy, one could easily
have fancied her a beautiful conception,
chiseled from the cold, inanimate
stone. The flush mentioned
as surmounting the features of
Mrs. Clarendon, had rather suddenly
given place to a pallor almost
frightful; and her now deeply sunked
eyes roved around the apartment,
nervously, over the whispering
group, as if in quest of some
object not there.

“It is strange they do not come!”
she said, at last, in a grave voice.

“Hark!” exclaimed Kate, in reply,
starting to her feet, and bending
forward in a listening attitude.
“My ears deceive me, or I hear the
tramp of horses' feet;” and as she
concluded, she sprang to the door,
followed by most of the others.

It was a calm, beautiful night,

and every thing without seemed
wrapped in sweet repose. The
moon, already at her full, large and
bright, was just struggling over the
eastern hill, and pouring her gray
light down into the forest of the
plain, and giving every object a
twilight indistinctness. Wherever
her rays fell upon the Miami and
Ohio, their waters shone like burnished
silver. Along the base of the
eastern ridge, mentioned previously,
lay a deep shadow, gradually
disappearing as the moon rose on
high; while across the plain, Bald-Hill
could be distinctly seen, looming
up in the broad light not unlike
some beacon of warning. A
few white scuds were sailing overhead,
and a mist, gradually ascending
here and there, defined the
course of the rivers, and gave indication
of a foggy night.

As Kate and her companions
turned their faces toward the west
and listened, the tramp of horses
became more audible, until at last
the shadowy outline of two figures
could be seen gliding among the
trees, and nearing the spectators
at a fast amble. As they drew
close upon the cottage, Kate Clarendon
was observed to tremble
quite violently. She had recognised
in them two important characters—her
affianced lover, and the
venerable pastor that was to bind
her to him by ties the most strong
and holy; and the thought of this
all important, irrevocable step, was
sufficient to unstring her nerves,
and produce the effect described.
She did not wait to greet either of
the new comers, but turned abruptly
and entered the dwelling, at the
moment when Ernest Clifton and
the divine rode up to the door.

“I fear I have kept you waiting,
friends,” said the former, as he dismounted,
and gave his horse in
charge of Ichabod; “but my venerable
companion here, met with a
slight accident on the way, which
detained me not a little.”

“What happened?” asked half-a-dozen
voices at once.

“He was thrown from his horse
and his horse thrown down, by a
rope being stretched across his
path, and nearly stunned by the
fall,” answered Clifton.

“Foul! foul!” cried several voices,
angrily.

“I am poor,” said Clifton, “but
I would give fifty dollars to know
the author of this piece of villiany,
if only to chastise him for the insult
offered me and my friends.”

“Never mind, my youthful
friend,” said the divine, in a mild,
soothing tone of voice; “the accident
was only trifling, I feel quite
well again, and so let us trouble
ourselves no more about the matter.
If another wrong me, I never
retaliate, save in supplicating for
him at the throne of mercy. 'Tis
a sweet and satisfactory revenge,
and fulfills the command of Scripture,
which says, `Forgive thine
enemies, and pray for them that
despitefully use you.' Let us in,
my young friends, and return
thanks to God that the affair turned
out no worse.”

There was a sweetness, earnestness
and dignity, in the voice and
manner of the speaker, that was
not without its effect upon his youthful
hearers, not one of whom ventured
a reply, but turned, entered
the cottage, and silently resumed
their places. As the venerable pastor
took his seat at the table before
described, a deep silence reigned
around. Every lip was motionless—every
eye was fixed upon him.

“Is all ready?” he asked, in a
low, tremulous, solemn voice, speaking
to Clifton, who had taken his

place on the right of the trembling
Kate. Clifton whispered to Mrs.
Clarendon, then to Kate, and nodded
in the affirmative.

“Then let us pray,” said the pious
pastor; and forthwith he knelt
upon the ground, and poured forth
the dictates of his heart, in a strain
of eloquence seldom surpassed.
He prayed for the beings before
him, who were about to become
one flesh, by the sacred rite of marriage,
that they might always live
happily together in this world, and
meet in holy unison to part nevermore
in the world to come. He
prayed for the only parent of the
bride, whom it had pleased God to
afflict with disease and pain, that
she might be spared many years
yet, to bless and comfort those who
would otherwise mourn her with
tears of anguish. He prayed for
the youth of both sexes here present,
that they might so conduct
themselves as to be ornaments to
the age in which they lived, and
that the generations, which, in the
order of events would soon follow
them, might be strict imitators of
their noble examples. He prayed
for those absent—enemies as well
as friends—and, lastly, that God
would prosper and preserve, spotless
and pure, the liberties of the
great Commonwealth, to gain which
had cost the blood of thousands.

As he ended, he rose from his
knees, and, opening the Bible on
the stand before him, selected and
read a passage applicable to the
occasion. He then bade Ernest
and Kate stand upon their feet, and
commenced the solemn ceremony,
amid a breathless silence. Every
eye was fixed upon the youthful
pair—upon the pale, sweet features
of Kate, as she stood downcast and
trembling—upon the noble, commanding
form and face of Ernest,
as he stood erect in his close-fitting
uniform, the perfect picture of
youthful pride. Every head was
inclined forward, to catch the slightest
tones of the speaker. Never
did a pair look more noble and
lovely; never was an occasion more
solemn; never was a silence, whenever
the speaker paused, more deep.
Not a breath, even, could be heard,
and the fall of a pin would have
been audible. All felt a strange
sensation of awe and fear, as if
some calamity were about to befall
them, yet none could give a reason
for it. Even the venerable pastor
himself seemed to be uncommonly
affected; for once or twice he paused
and glanced around the apartment,
as if expecting to behold some unwelcome
object.

Already had he asked the necessary
questions, received the affirmative
answers, and raising his eyes
above, as if appealing to Heaven,
the solemn words, “I pronounce
you man and wife,” were almost
trembling on his lips, when, suddenly,
the sharp report of a rifle
without, succeeded immediately by
a shout, a groan, and then by the
most horrible yells imaginable,
caused every face to blanch with
terror. The next moment there
arose the alarming cry of “Indians!
Indians!” accompanied with appalling
shricks and the utmost confusion.
Maidens threw their frail
arms around their lovers for protection,
and the latter strove to disengage
themselves and rush to
their rifles, which, unfortunately,
had been left in the adjoining cabin.
In the midst of this alarming
state of affairs, Clifton drew his
sword, sprang upon the table, and
shouted, “Order! Silence!” just as
some half-a-dozen hideous looking
savages burst into the apartment,
uttering terrific yells of fury.

Kate, surprised to bewilderment,
had thrown her arms around her
mother, who, completely overcome
by the excitement, had sunk to the
floor in a state of insensibility.

For a moment the foremost savage,
who appeared to be chief of
the party, looked hurriedly around
him, as if in search of some victim,
when his eyes falling upon
Kate, he shouted, in English,
“She's here,” and sprang at once
to her side.

Clifton saw the movement, and
in his haste to punish the bold intruder,
and save her he loved, he
made an attempt to leap forward,
when the table tilted, upset, and
he was thrown heavily to the
ground. Before he could recover
his feet, the hellish work of the
savage was completed. Tearing
Kate rudely from the embrace of
her mother, he drew his knife and
plunged it into the heart of the latter;
then raising the former in his
arms, he rushed to the door, with
a laugh so fiendish it made the
blood of all who heard it curdle,
and, bounding into the open air,
darted into a neighboring thicket
with his prize.

As the captor of Kate sprang
through the door, Clifton regained
his feet, in time to see her disappear.
With a cry of vengeance
and dispair, he leaped forward to
her rescue, when a blow on the
head, from one of the Indians, intercepted
his progress, and laid him
senseless on the ground.

Meantime, the onset of the savages
had been terrific. With horrible
yells, tomahawk in hand, they
rushed upon the unarmed whites,
and dealt their blows on every side
Two young men were tomahawked
immediately, and their scalps torn
reeking from their bleeding heads.
Two others had been severely
wounded, and two females made
prisoners, when Ichabod, who on
the first alarm had escaped into
the adjoining cabin, returned with
his arms loaded with rifles. With
a presence of mind and dexterity
worthy a hero, he managed to distribute
some five or six of these
weapons among his friends, ere the
Indians became aware of what was
taking place. In fact, the first intimation
they had of the matter,
was from the discharge of one
which the gardener had reserved
for himself, whereby a powerful
savage, who was darting forward
to seize upon a terrified female, was
shot through the body. With a
yell of rage and pain, he bounded
up from the ground and fell back a
corpse. This astonished the dusky
warriors pressing on his rear, and
they paused in their work of carnage.
Perceiving at a glance that
several of the whites had suddenly
become armed, and were preparing
to deal death among them, they
gave vent to yells of fury and alarm,
and simultaneously rushed out of
the cottage, bearing their dead
comrade with them, but leaving
their prisoners behind. With yells
little less frightful than their own,
those of the whites who were armed,
now sallied forth to give chase.
As they reached the door, they saw
the savages already dodging
among the trees, and speeding forward
with a velocity that destroyed
all hope of overtaking them.
Besides, should they pursue, it was
more than probable they would be
drawn into an ambuscade and all
cut off; and acting with more wisdom
and caution than is usual on
such occasions, they discharged
their pieces at random after the
foe, and retreating into the house,
instantly closed and bolted the
door.