University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

Throughout the conflict, a close and deeply interested
observer, Janet Berkeley had never once departed
from her post of watch. She had felt all the sickness—the
dreadful sickness—of suspense. She suffered
all the terrors of one anxious in the last degree about
the result of the battle, yet perfectly conscious of its
thousand uncertainties. The wild and various cries of
the warriors,—now of triumph and now of defeat, or
physical agony,—went chillingly to her heart; yet, the
sentinel of love, jealous of her watch, and solicitous of
the safety of that over which it was held, she kept her
place, in spite of all the solicitations of Rose and of her
equally apprehensive father. She did not seem conscious
of her own danger while she continued to think
of that of Mellichampe; and, so long as the battle lasted,
could she think of any thing else? She did not.

We have seen the patriotic resolution with which she
devoted the family mansion to destruction. She had
beheld the application of the torch,—she had seen the
arrow winged with flame smiting the sacred roof which
had sheltered so many generations, and with that glorious
spirit which so elevated the maidens of Carolina during
the long struggle of the revolution—making them rather
objects of national than of social contemplation,—she

had felt a triumphant glow of self-gratulation that it had
been with her to contribute to a cause doubly sacred, as
it involved the life of her country not less than that of her
lover. With hands clasped and tearful eyes, she had
prayed as fervently for the conflagration of the dwelling
as, at another time and other more favourable auspices,
she would have prayed and laboured for its preservation
and safety.

With an intensity of feeling not surpassed by that of
any one of the brave men commingling in the strife, she
had beheld the progress of the flame. How her heart
beat when, more remote from the smoky cloud which
hung all around the dwelling, she had seen, sooner than
the partisans, the impetuous rush—mounted all, and
with blazing weapons—of Barsfield and his party! But
when she heard the clash of sabres in front of the dwelling,
and in the narrow avenue which led to it,—when
she listened to the sounds of that conflict which she
could no longer see,—it was then that her spirit sickened
most. Imagination—the feverish fancy—grew active
and impatient. Crowding fears came gathering about
her heart, which grew cold under their influence. Her
head swam dizzily, until at length, in utter exhaustion,
she sank from the seat at the window, and strove feebly,
on bended knees, by the side of the trembling Rose,
once more to pray. But she could not: the words refused
to come to her lips; the thoughts of her mind
were too wild, too foreign, and not to be coerced; they
were in the field of battle—striving in its strife—in
the cruel strife of man with man. How could she bring
her mind, thus employed, and at such a moment, with
all its horrid and unholy associations of crime and terror,
even for the purposes of supplication, into the presence
of her God? She dared not.

She started from her knees as she heard the tread of
hurrying feet around the dwelling. She reached the
window in time to see that four of the partisans were

employed in bearing one in their arms, who seemed
dead or fatally wounded. They laid him down under
the shelter of some trees behind the house, and the
moment after she saw them hurrying back to the avenue.
She tried to call to them,—she sought to know who was
the wounded man; but the words died away in inarticulate
sounds. She could not speak; and, in an instant,
they were out of sight. Her agony became insupportable.
Who was the victim? Her fears—her imagination,
answered. She watched her time, during the
momentary inattention of her father, and, without declaring
her intention to Rose, she stole out of the apartment.
She hurried from the house unseen. She
reached the tree under which the dead body had been
laid. It was covered with a cloak, which was stained
with blood, apparently still flowing from the bosom of
the wounded man. She dared not lift the garment.
Her hand was extended, but trembled feebly above it.
But she heard approaching voices, and was nerved for
the occasion. She hastily threw the cloak from the
face, and once more she breathed freely: the features
were unknown—happily unknown. There was none to
feel the loss while bending over him; and she rejoiced,
with a sad pleasure, that the loss was not hers.

She hurried back with a new life to the apartment,
and had scarcely reached it when she heard the sound
of a trumpet borne upon the winds from a direction
opposite, and beyond, that in which the combatants had
been engaged. A new enemy was at hand. The shrill
and inspiriting notes approached rapidly, swelling more
and more loudly until the avenue was gained, and then
there was a pause—a dreadful silence—among those
who had lately been so fearfully at strife. In a few
moments after, and she saw Major Singleton rush
towards her, followed by several of his men. She heard
his orders distinctly, and they brought a new terror to
her soul.

“Forward, John Davis, with a dozen rifles, and bring
off Mellichampe: that bugle is Tarleton's, and the whole
of the mounted men of the legion are upon him. Give
the advance a close fire, and that will relieve him; then
fall back behind those bays—reload, and renew your
fire. That done, take to the branch, and stand prepared
to mount. Away!”

They obeyed him promptly, stole up behind the copse,
and received the advance of Tarleton with a fire as of
one man. We have seen the result: the enemy leaped
the ditch, broke through the copse, and found no foe.
But the purposed relief of Mellichampe came too late to
bring off the brave youth for whose succour it had been
intended. The personal effort of Witherspoon had failed
also. That faithful attendant had barely crossed the ditch
when the riflemen came forward. Having no rifle, he
could not contribute to their strength; and, with a word,
pointing out to them a proper cover, he hurried forwards
with all despatch to the place of rendezvous. But,
though he strove to avoid being seen by any of the
household while passing, as he was compelled to do, the
little cottage in which the Berkeley family were collected,
he could not escape the quick, apprehensive eye of
Janet. She saw him approaching,—she saw that he
was seeking safety in flight,—and, what was of more
appalling concern to her, knowing his attachment to
Mellichampe, she saw that he fled alone. How quick,
how far darting, is the eye of apprehension! She could
read the expression of his countenance as he approached,
even as a book. She saw the question answered
in his face which her lips had yet not asked.
How slowly did he approach: she rose,—her hand was
lifted and waved to him; but, when he looked towards
her, he increased his speed. She cried aloud to him in
her desperation:—

“Come to me, John Witherspoon—come to me, if
you have pity—but for one moment!”

Did he hear her? He did not answer; but, as if he
guessed her meaning from her action, he flung up his
arms in air, as if to say, “Despair, despair!—all's
lost!”—for so her heart interpreted his action—and in
another instant he was out of sight. The riflemen followed
soon behind him, stealing from cover to cover in
the neighbouring foliage, and had scarcely been hidden
from her gaze before the fierce troopers of Tarleton
came bounding after them. Vainly did her eyes strain
in the examination of the forms of those who fled: she
saw not the one of all,—he whom alone she sought for;
and the fear of his fate grew into absolute certainty
when the blue uniforms of the terrible legion came out
on every hand before her. She saw them hurrying fast
and far after the flying partisans, and every blast of the
trumpet, as it died away in the distance, brought a new
pang into her mind, until the agony became insupportable.
She determined to suffer no longer under the
gnawing suspense which clamoured at her heart.

“I will know the worst: I cannot bear this agony,
and live!”

Thus murmuring, she started from her place by the
window, and turned to the feeble Rose, who still lay
upon the floor at her feet, in a degree of mental and
physical prostration full as great, even now, as at the
first moment in which the battle joined.

“Rose—dear Rose, will you go with me?”

“Where—go where, Janet? You frighten me!”

“There is no danger now. Go with me, Rose—
dear cousin—let me not go alone.”

“But tell me where, dearest Janet? Where would
you go?—and you look so strange and wild,—put up
your hair, Janet.”

“No—no—no matter. It is no time. I must go,—
I must seek him, Rose, and I would not go alone.
Come with me, dearest—my sister—come with me.
Believe me, there can be no danger,—only to the avenue.”

“What, where they've been fighting, and in all that
horrid blood?” cried the other, in a voice that was a
shriek.

“Even there—where there is blood,—where—oh,
God, be with me!—where there must be death. I go
to seek for it, Rose, though I would not find it if I
could,” solemnly, and with clasped and uplifted hands,
responded the devoted maiden.

“Never—never,” cried the other.

“Rose—dear Rose, will you let me go alone? I
beg you, Rose—on my knees—there is no danger
now.”

“There is danger, Janet, and they will murder us. I
heard them crying and shouting only a minute ago; and,
there—there is that dreadful trumpet now, whose sounds
go like a sword-stab to my heart. I cannot, Janet—I
dare not: there is danger.”

“None: on my life, Rose, there is no danger now.
Our people have retreated, and the dragoons have all
gone off in pursuit. They are now a great way off, and
we can get back to the house long before they return.
Do not fear, Rose, but go with me, only for a little
while.”

“I cannot, I will not go among the dead bodies.
You would not have me go there, Janet,—you surely
will not go yourself?”

“Ay, there, Rose—even there, among the dying and
the dead, if it must be so. I may serve the one,—I
have no cause to fear the other. It may be—it must
be—dreadful to look upon, but my heart holds it to be a
duty that I should go there now, and, if not a duty, it is
a desire that I cannot control. I must go, Rose, and
I would not go alone.”

“I will not; forgive me, Janet, but I should go
mad to see the blood and the dead bodies. I cannot go.”

“God be with me!—I must go alone:” and, as she
replied thus, giving her solemn determination, her eyes

were uplifted in a holy appeal to the Almighty Being,
whose presence, in the absence of all others, she had
invoked for her adventure.

“Hold me not, Rose—I am resolved. I must go,
though I go alone. Yet, I should not, Rose, if you
would but reflect. There are no noises now—there are
no alarms: the troops have gone—there is no sort of
danger.”

She looked appealingly to her companion while she
spoke, but her eye met no answering sympathies in that
of Rose Duncan. The terrors of the latter were unabated.
There was a vital difference of character between
the two. The elastic spirit of the more lively
maiden was one merely of the physical and external
world. She was the summer-bird—a thing of glitter
and of sunshine. She could not live in the stormy
weather—she could not bide the turbulence of strife.
It was at such a time that the spirit of Janet Berkeley
came forth in strength, if not in buoyance; even as the
eagle, who takes that season to soar forth from his
mountain dwelling, when the black masses of the tempest
growl and gather most gloomily around it.

“You will not, Rose?”

“No,—do not ask me, Janet.”

The firm and determined maiden, without another
word, simply raised her finger, and pointed to the adjoining
apartment, where her father was. The uplifted
finger then pressed her lips for a moment, and in the
next she was gone from sight. Rose did not believe
that she would go forth after her refusal to accompany
her, and she now earnestly called her back. But she
was already out of hearing: she had gone forth to the
field of blood and battle; and, strong in love, and fearless
in absorbing and concentrative affections, she had
gone alone.