University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

It was after midnight, and the inmates of the woodman's cabin
had been some hours at rest, when Mary Musgrove's sleep was disturbed
by strange and unwonted alarms. She was dreaming of
Arthur Butler, and a crowd of pleasant visions flitted about her
pillow, when, suddenly, clouds darkened the world of her dream,
and images of bloodshed caused her to shudder. Horrid shapes
appeared to her, marching with stealthy pace through her apartment,
and a low and smothered footfall seemed to strike her ear
like the ticking of a death-watch. The fright awakened her, but
when she came to herself all was still. Her chamber was at the
opposite end of the cabin from that where Butler and Robinson
slept, and it was separated from the room occupied by Lynch only
by a thin partition of boards. The starlight through her window
fell upon the floor, just touching, as it passed, the chair over which
Mary had hung her clothes, and lighting with a doubtful and
spectral light the prominent points of the pile of garments, in such
manner as to give it the semblance of some unearthly thing. Mary
Musgrove had the superstition common to rustic education, and,
as her dream had already filled her mind with apprehensions, she
now trembled when her eye fell upon what seemed to her a visitant
from another world. For some moments she experienced that
most painful of all sufferings, the agony of young and credulous
minds when wrought upon by their horror of spectres in the night.
Gradually, however, the truth came to her aid, and she saw the
dreaded ghost disrobed of his terrors, and changed into a familiar
and harmless reality. But this night-fear was scarcely dissipated
before she again heard, what in her sleep had conjured up the
train of disagreeable images, the noise of footsteps in the adjoining
room. In another instant she recognised the sound of voices conversing
in a half whisper.

“Michael,” said the first voice; “Damn it, man, will you never
awake? Rouse yourself; it is time to be stirring.”

“Wat!” exclaimed the second voice, with a loud yawn, whilst
at the same moment the creaking of the bedstead and a sullen
sound upon the floor showed that the speaker had risen from his
couch. “Is it you? I have hardly gone to bed, before you are
here to rouse me up. What o'clock is it?”

“It is nearly one,” replied Wat Adair. “And let me tell you,
you have no time to lose. Hugh Habershaw is good ten miles off,
and you must be back by day-light.”

“You might have given me another hour, I think, if it was only
to consider over the right way of setting about this thing. Always
look before you leap, that's common sense.”

“You were always a heavy-headed devil,” said Adair; “and
take as much spurring as a spavined horse. What have you to
do with considering? Isn't all fixed? Jog, man, jog. You have
a beautiful starlight: and I had the crop-ear put up in the
stable last night, that no time might be lost; so up, and saddle,
and away!”

“Well, you needn't be so d—d busy; don't you see that I am
getting ready?”

“Quiet, Mike; you talk too loud. Take your shoes in your
hand, you can put them on when you get into the porch.”

“There, give me my coat, Wat; and I think I should have no
objection to a drop before I set out. It's raw riding of a morning.
Now tell me exactly what I am to say to Hugh Habershaw.”

“Tell him,” replied Wat, “that we have got Horse Shoe Robinson
and Major Butler of the Continental army, as snug as a pair of
foxes in a bag, and that I will let them run exactly at seven;
and—”

“Not to interrupt you, Wat,” said the other, “let me ask you a
question before you go on. Suppose this shouldn't be the man?
Are you sure of it? It would be a d—d unchristian job to give
over any other human being to such a set of bloodhounds as Hugh
Habershaw and his gang.”

“Shaw, Mike; you are a fool! Who, in the name of all the
imps, could it be, but Major Butler! Weren't we expecting him
along with Horse Shoe, and just at this time?”

“It looks likely enough,” replied Lynch. “So go on.”

“Tell Hugh to be ready at the Dogwood Spring, at the latest,
by eight o'clock. I'll give him a game to play that will supple his
joints for him. And mind me Mike, warn the greasy captain to
have his whole squad with him; for Horse Shoe Robinson, you
know, is not to be handled by boys; it will be a bull-fight, or I'm
mistaken.”

“The major seems to have a wicked eye too, Wat,” said Lynch.
“I shouldn't like much to be in his way, if he was angry; these
copperheads are always in a coil ready to strike. But, Wat, how
if they don't ride by the Dogwood Spring?”

“Leave that to me; I'll contrive to go as far as the forks of the
road with them. And then, if they don't take the right hand fork,
why, you may say it's for the want of my not knowing how to tell
a lie.”

“Now, Wat Adair, I don't like to spoil sport, but, may be, you
have never thought whether it would be worth while just to take
t'other side, and tell Horse Shoe the whole business. Couldn't we,
don't you think, get as much money, and just as honestly, by
hoisting colors with Major Butler?”

“But I have thought of that, and it won't do, for two reasons.
First, these Continentals are on the down-hill, and money is as
scarce with them as honesty with the red-coats: and, second, the
Tories have got so much the upper hand in the whole country,
that I should have my house burnt down and my children thrown
into the blaze of it, in less than three days, if I was to let these
fellows slip through my fingers.”

“Well, I never knew,” said Mike Lynch, “any piece of villany
that hadn't some good reasons to stand by it, and that's what
makes it agreeable to my conscience to take a hand.”

“Why, you off-scouring,” replied Wat, “it is enough to make
Old Scratch laugh, to hear you talk about conscience! There ain't
no such a thing going in these days. So be off; I'll look for you
at daylight.”

“I'll ride, Wat, as if the devil was on my crupper; so good
bye!”

The cessation of the voices, the distant tramp of Lynch when he
had left the cabin, and the cautious retreat of Wat Adair to his

chamber, told to Mary that the affair was settled, and the plan of
treachery in full career towards its consummation.

The dialogue that had just passed in the hearing of the maiden,
disclosed a plot that deeply agitated and distressed her. What
did it become her to do, was the first question that presented itself
to her reflection, as soon as she was sufficiently self-possessed to
turn her thoughts upon herself. Was it in her power to avert
the impending disaster which threatened the lives, perhaps, of those
who had sought the hospitality of her kinsman? Perplexed, dismayed,
and uncertain how to act, she had recourse to an expedient
natural to her education, and such as would appear most obvious
to a feeble and guileless female: it was to the simple and faith-inspired
expedient of prayer. And now, in artless but sincere language,
having first risen up in her bed, and bent her body across
her pillow, in the attitude of supplication, she fervently implored
the support of Heaven in her present strait, and besought wisdom
and strength to conceive and to do that which was needful for
the security of the individuals whose peace was threatened by this
conspiracy.

“I will arise,” she said, as she finished her short and earnest
prayer, “with the first light of the dawn, and wait the coming of
the strangers from their chamber, and I will then be the first to
tell them of the snare that is prepared for them.” With this
resolve she endeavored to compose herself to rest, but sleep fled her
eyelids, and her anxious thoughts dwelt upon and even magnified
the threatened perils. It might be too late, she reflected, to wait
for the dawn of day; Adair might be before her at the door of the
guests, and his constant presence might take from her all hope of
being able to communicate the important secret to them: it was
undoubtedly her surest course to take advantage of the stillness of
the night, whilst the household were wrapt in sleep, and apprise
the strangers of their danger. But then, how was she to make her
way to their apartment, and arouse them, at this hour, from their
slumbers? To what suspicions might the attempt expose her, even
from Arthur Butler himself? And, more particularly, what would
John Ramsay think of it, if the story should be afterwards told to
her disadvantage?

This last was an interrogatory which Mary Musgrove was often

found putting to herself, in winding up a self-communion. On
the present occasion this appeal to the opinion of John Ramsay
had the opposite effect from that which might have been expected
from it. It suggested new lights to her mind, and turned her
thoughts into another current, and brought that resolution to her
aid which her prayer was intended to invoke. What would John
Ramsay think—he, the friend of liberty, and of Washington, the
compatriot of Butler and Robinson, now toiling with them in the
same cause! What would he think, if she, his own Mary (and the
maiden rested a moment on this phrase), did not do everything in
her power to save these soldiers of independence from the blow
which treachery was now aiming at them? “John would have
good right to be angry with me,” she breathed out in a voice that
even startled herself, “if I did not give them full warning of what
I have heard. This I am sure of, he will believe my story whatever
others may say.”

Innocence and purity of mind are both sword and shield in this
world, and no less inspire confidence to defy the malice and
uncharitableness of enemies than they strengthen the arm to do
what is right. Mary, therefore, resolved to forego all maidenly
scruples and bravely to perform her duty, come what might; and
having settled upon this conclusion she impatiently awaited the
moment when she might venture forth upon her office of humanity.
In this situation it was not long before she heard the distant footfall
of a horse's gallop along the road, indicating to her the departure
of Michael Lynch upon his traitorous embassy.

The time seemed to be propitious, so Mary arose and dressed
herself. Then tripping stealthily to the door that opened upon the
porch, she undid the bolt. A loud and prolonged creak, from the
wooden hinges, caused her to shake from head to foot. She
listened for a moment, and, finding that no one stirred, stepped
forth with the timid and faltering step which would no less have
marked the intent of the burglar, than, as now it did, the frightened
motion of a guardian spirit bent upon an errand of good. Midway
along the porch she had to pass the window of Adair's apartment:
first, the low growl, and then the sudden bark of the watch-dog
saluted her ear, and made her blood run cold. The maiden's hand,
however, soothed him into silence; but the noise had attracted the

notice of Wat Adair, who grumbled out a short curse from within,
which was distinclty audible to Mary. She hastily fled to the
further end of the porch, and there stood cowering close against
the wall, almost as mute and motionless as a statue, scarce daring
to breathe, and poised, as in the act to run, with her weight resting
on one foot, the other raised from the floor. In this position she
remained during a long interval of fear, until, at length, convinced
that all was quiet, she again ventured forward. The window of the
travellers' chamber looked out from the gable end of the dwelling,
and she was now immediately before it. One of the beds of the
room, she knew, was placed beside this window, and was occupied
by either Butler or Robinson. Tremblingly and mistrustfully, she
gave a feeble tap with her hand against the sash. There was no
answer: the sleep within was the sleep of tired men, and was not
to be broken by the light play of a maiden's fingers. She now
picked up a pebble from the ground, and with it again essayed to
wake the sleepers. This, too, was unsuccessful. In utter hopelessness
of accomplishing her purpose by other means, she ventured
upon raising the sash; and having done so, she thrust her head
partially into the room as she held up the window-frame with one
hand, crying out with an almost choked voice.

“Mr. Butler! Mr. Butler! For mercy, awake!”

There was no other response but the deep breathings of the
sleep-subdued inmates.

“Oh! what shall I do?” she exclaimed, as her heart beat with a
violent motion. “I might as well call to the dead. Mr. Galbraith
Robinson! Ah me, I cannot rouse them without alarming the
whole house! Major Butler,” she continued, laying a particular
stress upon this designation of his rank, “Oh, good sir,
awake!”

“What do you want?” muttered Butler in a smothered and
sleep-stifled voice, as he turned himself heavily on his pillow, like
one moved by a dream.

“Oh, heaven, sir, make no noise! I am ashamed to tell you
who I am,” said the terrified girl, “but I come for your good—I
have something to tell you.”

“Away, away!” cried Butler, speaking in his sleep, “I will not
be disturbed: I do not fear you. Begone!”

“Oh, sir, hear me,” entreated the maiden, “the people in this
house know you, and they are contriving evil against you.”

“It makes no difference,” muttered the only half-awakened
soldier. “I will ride where it suits me, if the Tories were as thick
as the leaves of the trees.”

“There are people gathering to do you harm to-morrow,” continued
Mary, not suspecting the unconsciousness of the person to
whom she addressed herself, “and I only come with a word of
warning to you. Do not ride by the Dogwood Spring to-morrow,
nor take the right hand road at the first forks: there are wicked
men upon that road. Have your eye,” she whispered, “upon my
uncle Walter. Ride fast and far, before you stop; and pray, sir, as
you think fairly of me—Mary Musgrove, sir,—the daughter
of Allen Musgrove, the miller—oh, do not tell my name.
If you knew John Ramsay, sir, I am certain you would believe
me.”

The watch-dog had growled once or twice during the period
while Mary spoke, and at this moment the door of the principal
room of the cabin was heard to move slightly ajar, and the voice
of Adair, in a whisper, reached the girl's ear.

“Hist, Michael! In the devil's name what brought you back?
Why do you loiter, when time is so precious?”

A long, heavy, and inarticulate exclamation, such as belongs to
disturbed sleep, escaped from Butler.

“Father of heaven, I shall let the window fall with fright!”
inwardly ejaculated Mary, as she still occupied her uneasy station.
“Hush, it is the voice of my uncle.”

There was a painful pause.

A heavy rush of wind agitated the trees, and sweeping along the
porch caused some horse-gear that was suspended against the wall
to vibrate with a rustling noise: the sound pierced Mary's ear like
the accents of a ghost, and her strength had well nigh failed her
from faint-heartedness.

“I thought it was Michael,” said Adair, speaking to some one
within, “but it is only the rattling of harness and the dreaming of
Drummer. These dogs have a trick of whining and growling in
their sleep according to a way of their own. They say a dog sometimes
sees a spirit at night. But man or devil it's all one to old

Drummer! Sleep quiet, you superfluous, and have done with
your snoring!”

With these words, the door was again closed, and Mary, for the
moment, was released from suffering.

“Remember,” she uttered in the most fear-stricken tone, as she
lowered the sash. “Be sure to take the left hand road at the first
fork!”

“In God's name, what is it? Where are you?” was the
exclamation heard by Mary as the window was closing. She did
not halt for further parley or explanation, but now hastily stole
back, like a frightened bird towards its thicket. Panting and
breathless, she regained her chamber, and with the utmost expedition
betook herself again to bed, where, gratified by the consciousness
of having done a good action, and fully trusting that her
caution would not be disregarded, she gradually dismissed her
anxiety, and, before the hour of dawning, had fallen into a gentle
though not altogether unperturbed slumber.