University of Virginia Library

32. CHAPTER XXXII.

As a mariner who watches the heavens from the deck, and notes
the first uprising of the small cloud, “no bigger than a man's hand,”
that to his practised eye shows the sign of tempest; and anon,
as the speck quickly changes into a lurid mass, whence volume
after volume of dun vapor is driven in curled billows forward,
covering the broad welkin with a gloomy pall, he looks more frequently
and more intently upwards, anxious to lay his vessel safe,
and assure himself of his proper course to steer: so—not with the
same doubt of safety, but with the same restless inspection of the
heavens—did Mary watch the slow approach of night. First, she
looked wistfully at the declining sun, and observed with pleasure
the night-hawk begin to soar: then, through the long twilight, she
noted the thickening darkness, and saw the bat take wing, and
heard the frog croaking from his pool. And as the stars, one by
one, broke forth upon the night, it gladdened her to think the hour
of her mission was approaching, for she was troubled in her spirit
and anxious to acquit herself of her charitable office; and perhaps,
too, it may be told of her, without prejudice to her modest, maidenly
emotions, a spur was given to her wishes by the hope of meeting
John Ramsay.

For an hour after supper she paced the porch, and still looked
out upon the stars, to mark the slow waxing of the night; and,
now and then she walked forth as far as the mill, and lingered by
the bank of the river, and again returned to ask the sentinel the
hour.

“You seem disturbed, Mary,” said Macdonald, playfully. “Now,
I'll venture to say I can guess your thoughts: this star-gazing is a
great tell-tale. You were just now thinking that, as the tug of the
war is over, some lad who has borne a musket lately, will be very

naturally tripping this way to-night, instead of going home to see
his mother. Come—isn't that a good guess?”

“Do you know him, sir?” asked Mary, with composure.

“Aye, to be sure I do: a good, brave fellow, who eats well,
drinks well, and fights well.”

“All men do that now,” replied the maiden; “but I am sure
you are wrong, sir, if you think any such considers it worth his
while to come here.”

“He must come quickly, or we cannot let him in without a
countersign,” said the officer: “sergeant, order the tattoo to beat,
it is nine o'clock. Mary, stay, I must cross-question you a little
about this same gallant.”

“Indeed, sir, I did but jest, and so I thought you did. My
father says it is not proper I should loiter to talk with the men;
good night, sir: it is our time for prayers.” And with these words
the young girl withdrew into the house.

In some half hour afterwards Mary escaped by another door
and, taking a circuitous path through the garden, she passed behind
the sentinel and sped towards the mill, intent upon keeping her
appointment with the friends of Butler. As soon as she reached
the river bank, she quickened her pace, and hurried with a nimble
step towards the distant thicket.

“What ho! who goes there?” shouted the voice of a man from
the neighborhood of the mill: “who flies so fast?”

“Faith, Tom, it must be a ghost,” said a second voice, loud
enough to be heard by the damsel, who now increased the speed
with which she fled towards the cover.

In an instant two of the soldiers of the guard rushed upon the
track of the frightened girl.

“Spare me, good sir—for pity's sake, spare me!” exclaimed the
maiden, suddenly turning round upon her pursuers.

“Where away so fast?” said one of the men. “This is a strange
time of night for girls to be flying into the woods. What matter
have you in hand that brings you here—and what is your name?”

“I am the daughter of Allen Musgrove,” replied Mary indignantly.

“Is it so?” said the first speaker; “then it is the Miller's own
daughter, and we ask your pardon. We only saw you flying along

the bank of the river, and not knowing what it was, why we
thought it right to follow. But as it is all explained now, we will
see you back to the house.”

“I can find my way without help,” replied the maiden.

“Now, that's not good-natured for so kind a girl as the miller's
daughter ought to be,” said the second soldier.

“I will see if my father can protect me,” said Mary, hastening
back towards the house so rapidly as almost to run. “I will know
if Lieutenant Macdonald will allow me to be insulted.”

With a hurried step she entered upon the porch, and without stopping
to parley with those who occupied this part of the dwelling,
retired to her chamber and threw herself into a chair, where she sat
for some time panting with affright. As she gradually recovered
her strength, she began to turn her thoughts upon her recent discomfiture;
and it was with a deep sense of chagrin and disappointment,
that she reflected upon her not being able successfully to
renew her enterprise on the same night. The hour of meeting had
arrived; the officers of the guard were still frequenting the porch;
her conduct had already excited notice, and if she wished to be in
a condition to render future service, her most obvious duty was to
postpone any further attempt to deliver the papers until another
time. On the other hand, she had reason to fear that John Ramsay
would be hovering near to ascertain the cause of her failure to
meet him, and might rashly resort to the same mode of conveying
a signal which he had successfully practised heretofore. This
would infallibly, she believed, provoke an investigation that might
entirely frustrate all their views. “But then John is a good soldier,”
she said, in the way of self-consolation, “and will know that the
enemy is awake; because if it was not so, he would be sure I
would keep my word. And if he only takes that notion into his
head, he is too careful to run the chance of spoiling all by coming
here.”

Still, with some little mistrust as to John's soldiership when it
crossed the path of his love, which naturally, she reflected, makes
a man rash, she thought it best to provide against accident, by
throwing herself into the company of the officers who loitered
about the door in idle discourse with her father. She accordingly
left her room, and, with an anxious and troubled heart, went out

and seated herself quietly on the steps of the porch, where she
remained for some time a silent but inattentive listener to the conversation
of those around her.

As a part of that system of things by which it is contrived that
the current of true love shall never run smooth, I have ever found
that when it was peculiarly fitting that some grandam, uncle, cousin,
father, or guest, should retire early to bed, in order that some
scheme of interest to young lovers might be successfully achieved;
precisely on such nights is the perversity of fate most conspicuous,
in inclining the minds of such grandam, uncle, cousin, and so
forth, to sit up much longer than they are wont; thus showing
that the grooves and dovetails of things in this world are not
nicely fitted to the occasions of those who deal in the tender passion.
And so it befel for poor Mary Musgrove this night.

The hour was now fast verging upon eleven, and she anxiously
noted every sentence that was spoken, hoping it was to be the
last; and then she trembled to think that John, regardless of the
danger, might be lurking near, and indiscreetly expose himself.
And still the talkers discoursed as if they meant to sit up all night.
It was a delicious, cool hour, after a sultry day, and there was
luxury in the breeze; but as the minutes were counted over by
the maiden, in their slow passage, her fears increased. At length,
far off, as if it were a mile away, the clear notes of one whistling
an old tune were heard. Mary involuntarily started from her
seat, and moved along the little pathway towards the gate, her
heart beating against her bosom as if it would have “overbourne
its continents.” The signal notes freshened upon the air, and the
tune came forth blithely and boldly, showing that the wayfarer
was trudging, with a light heart, down the main road towards the
mill. The party in the porch, however, were too much engrossed
in their colloquy to notice the incident. The whistling came still
nearer, until, at last, it seemed to be scarce a gunshot from the
house. Beyond this point it did not advance; but here indicated
that the person from whom it proceeded had halted. If Mary's
cheek could have been brought to the light, it would have shown
how the blood had deserted it from very fear: her whole frame
shook with this emotion. To exhibit her unconcern, which, in truth,

was most sadly affected, she mingled amongst the company in the
porch, and leant against the door-post. Still the whistling continued,
with no symptom of retreat, and Mary impatiently walked
towards the further end of the house. “John Ramsay makes a
fool of himself,” she muttered peevishly. “Hasn't he the sense to
see I cannot get out? What keeps the simple man dallying
shilly-shally at the fence, as if he actually wanted them to take
him? I don't believe in the mighty sense and wisdom of these
men! If John had half an eye he would see that I couldn't get
away to-night.”

As the maiden grew fretful, her fears had less mastery over
her; and now, taking heart of grace, she returned to the porch.

“Sergeant,” said Macdonald, calling to one of his men, “take
two files and patrole the road until you ascertain who that fellow
is who makes himself so merry to-night. I thought it some fool,”
he continued, addressing himself to Allen Musgrove, “who, as
the poet says, `whistled as he went for want of thought,' but he
seems to have a hankering after these premises that is not exactly
to my mind. Perhaps, after all, Mary,” he added privately in the
maiden's ear; “it is the lad I was telling you of; and as he is a
bashful youth, we will bring him in by force. You know, he can't
help that; and old dad here can never blame you if I should
make the fellow come to see you against your will. Sergeant, treat
the man civilly, you understand.”

“It is not worth your while to be sending after Adam Gordon,”
said Mary, with some slight confusion in her accent; “he is only
half-witted; and almost the only thing he does for a living, is to
come down of nights here to the mill-dam, to bob for eels. If it
wasn't for that, his mother would go many a day without a meal.”

“No matter, we will bring Adam in,” replied the lieutenant,
“and if he is good at his sport, why we will go and join him.”

“He is shy of company,” said Mary, still faltering in her speech,
“and will not come amongst strangers.”

Partly from a spirit of resignation, partly to avoid further exposure
of her feelings, and in part too, perhaps, from some slight
feeling of remorse, such as is natural to a virtuous and youthful
mind at being obliged to practise a deceit however lawful (as I

contend it was in this case), the maiden withdrew into the parlor,
where, unseen by any, she offered up a short and earnest prayer for
direction and forgiveness.

Meantime the patrole had set out, and, after the lapse of a short
time, returned, when the officer reported that before his arrival, the
person they had gone in quest of had left the place, and, in the
darkness of the night, they had no clue to follow him. This was
scarcely announced before the same whistle was heard, at the
same remote point where it had first attracted Mary's notice.

“It is as our young mistress has said,” muttered Macdonald,
“some bumpkin, too shy to be caught, and not worth the catching.
We have sat it out to-night long enough, friend Musgrove, so let's
to bed.”

In a few moments the party betook themselves to their several
places of rest.

As Mary prepared herself for her couch, the anxious events of
the night busied her thoughts, and the image of John Ramsay was
summoned up alternately to be reproved and applauded. “If he
is foolhardy,” she said, as she laid her head on the pillow, “no one
will say he isn't wise besides. And if he will be thrusting his head
into danger, he knows right well how to get it out again. So God
bless him, for a proper man as he is!” And thus, in a better temper
with her lover, the maiden fell asleep.

In order to avert all suspicion of disloyalty from the miller's family,
Christopher Shaw had offered his services to Macdonald, to
do duty as one of the detachment, during the period of Butler's
detention in the house. The offer had been accepted, and Christopher
was appointed to serve in the character of a quarter master,
or purveyor for the little garrison,—a post, whose duties did not
materially interfere with his daily occupation at the mill.

Mary was in the habit of communicating to Christopher all her
secrets, and of enlisting his aid in her plans whenever it was necessary.
And now, soon after the morning broke, the maiden arose
and went to the mill, where she communicated to Christopher all
the perplexities of the preceding night.

“The thing must be managed to-day,” said the young man, after
he had heard the whole story. “I have provisions to collect from
the neighborhood; and what is to hinder you, Mary, from riding

out with me,—if it should only be to buy some eggs?—and then,
what is to hinder us from popping in upon David Ramsay, and
there fixing the whole matter?”

“Will not the lieutenant be sending some of his own men with
you?” inquired the maid.

“He doesn't suspect us,” answered Christopher, as cautiously as
if the walls of his mill had ears. “At any rate we can try it, you
know, and if the thing should take a wrong turn, you can only stay
at home; and we may, at the worst, make another venture at night.”

“I have the letter in my bosom,” said Mary, “and will be ready
immediately after breakfast.”

When the appointed time arrived, things went as favorably as
Mary could have wished. Her good spirits had returned; and she
plied her household duties with a happy cheerfulness in her looks
that completely disarmed all suspicion. She received the banter
of Macdonald, as to the cause of her restlessness on the preceding
night, with perfect good nature; and when Christopher announced
to the commanding officer his purpose of going out upon a purveying
ride, and invited his cousin to accompany him, she accepted
the proposal with such a tone of laughing pleasure, as put it on the
footing of a pastime.

The horses were brought to the door, and the maiden and her
escort rode cheerily forth. They were not long in accomplishing
the five or six miles that brought them to David Ramsay's cabin. I
need not tell the affectionate concern with which Mary Musgrove met
her lover, John Ramsay; nor how she upbraided him as a silly
fellow, for tramping and trudging about the mill, and whistling his
signals, when he ought to have known, by her not coming to meet
him, that there was good reason for it. Nor is it important to detail
the circumstances of Horse Shoe's and John's fruitless expedition,
and their disappointment at not seeing Mary; and how
shrewdly, last night, Robinson guessed the true cause of it; and
how entirely he agreed with the maiden, beforehand, in thinking
John a venturesome, harebrained fool, to put himself in danger,
when he might have been certain it would have ended as it did, in
a run from “the rascally red coats,” as John had to run, to get out
of the clutches of the patrole. My story requires that I should
pass these things by, and go to the business in hand.

Horse Shoe and Ramsay had grown exceedingly impatient, both
because they were in hourly danger of being surprised by casual
parties of the enemy, and because the time for useful action was
fast gliding away. They had used every precaution to keep their
visit to David Ramsay's a profound secret to the neighborhood;
and had, with that object, lain perdue in one of the small cabins,
from which they might watch the approach of visitors, and, if need
required, secure an immediate retreat. During the day, they seldom
left their concealment, confining all their out-door operations
to the night.

A consultation was held in David Ramsay's cabin,—the letters
were produced and delivered to Horse Shoe, and the instructions
intended for him by Butler were carefully read. It was resolved
that Horse Shoe should set out for the Dove Cote without delay,
taking the route through the mountain country of North Carolina,
as that least likely to be interrupted by the British troops. John
Ramsay, for the present, was to return to the Fair Forest camp, to
inform Williams of the state of affairs; and he was hereafter to
act as occasion might suggest. Christopher Shaw and Mary were
to attend upon Butler, and communicate whatever might transpire
of interest to David Ramsay, who promised to find means of
intercourse with Williams or Sumpter, as circumstances should
allow.

These matters being arranged, Mary and Christopher Shaw took
their leaves of Ramsay's family, and went about the ostensible object
of their expedition.

Horse Shoe's plan of travel during the first and most perilous
stages of his journey towards Virginia, was to avail himself of the
darkness of the night; and he accordingly resolved to set out as
soon as this day should draw to a close. His immediate cares
were, therefore, directed to making all the necessary preparations
for his departure. Captain Peter was carefully tended, and supplied
with a double allowance of provender; provisions were stowed
away, both for himself and his trusty beast: his pistols were put
in order: his rifle cleaned out, and a supply of ammunition provided;
and, finally, the letters were sewed up in a leather pouch, and
buckled around his body by a strap, inside of his clothes. It was
no inconsiderable item in the sergeant's preparation for his expedition,

to sit down and eat a meal, which, from the quantity bestowed,
and the vigor with which the assault upon it was made, might
have betokened a full week's starvation.

The day waned, and the night came a welcome visitor to the sergeant;
and, at that hour which old chroniclers designate as “inter
canem et lupum,” Captain Peter was brought to the door, ready
dight for travel. Ramsay's family stood around,—and whilst
Andy, with boyish affection, held Horse Shoe's rifle in his hand,
the sergeant feelingly spoke the words of parting to his friends;—
then, with a jaunty air of careless mirth, springing into his saddle,
and receiving his trusty weapon from the young comrade of his
late gallant adventure, he rode forth with as stout a heart as ever
went with knight of chivalry to the field of romantic renown.