University of Virginia Library

45. CHAPTER XLV.

Great agitation prevailed at Macdonald's post, when the morning
disclosed the escape of Butler. The lieutenant was conscious that,
this mischance had exposed him to the risk of heavy censure, and,
as was natural to a man who could not entirely acquit himself of
some neglect in the performance of his duty, his first measures
were taken in a spirit of peevish and angry severity. Small parties
were sent out to explore the neighborhood, with a view to gain
intelligence of the direction taken by the fugitive, with orders
to bring him in dead or alive. The sentinels who were on duty
during the night were arrested, and subjected to a rigid examination
on the events of their watch; the several members of Musgrove's
family were also interrogated as to matters touching their
own connexion with the prisoner. Nothing, however, was gathered
from these investigations that was calculated to cast a suspicion of
connivance in Butler's liberation, upon any individual either of the
garrison or of the family. It was only apparent that the prisoner
had availed himself of the remissness of the guard and the darkness
of the night, to make a bold descent from the window; and
had succeeded by one of those lucky accidents which sometimes
baffle the most cautious foresight. The nature of the attempt did
not necessarily suppose the aid of an accomplice, and a faint hope
was, therefore, entertained that Butler would be found still lurking
in the vicinity of the post.

In the course of a few hours, the first parties that had been dispatched
in the morning, returned. They could give no account of
the prisoner; nor was there any light thrown upon the escape,
until about the dinner hour, when a portion of the detachment which
had intercepted Butler and his comrades in the morning, arrived at
the mill, under the conduct of the soldier whose suspicions had led
to the pursuit and skirmish which we have already described. The
report of these men left Macdonald no room to doubt the identity

of Butler with the person described. A further examination, at
the suggestion of the soldier, showed that Wall-Eye, the wagon-horse,
was missing; and it now became certain that Butler had
been aided by a party of the enemy with whom he must have been
in correspondence. The conclusion was, that with his means of
flight there could be little doubt of his being, long before the present
period of the day, out of the reach of successful pursuit.
The scheme was laid to the account of Horse Shoe Robinson,
whose name and adventures were already famous in this district;
and it was conjectured that Sumpter was secretly posted in some
neighboring fastness to give his assistance to the enterprise.

With these reflections, Macdonald felt himself obliged to submit
to the exigencies of the case; a point of philosophy which he did
not practise without a very visible chagrin and mortification. His
men were called together, and after a short, fretful lecture on their
neglect, and an injunction to a more soldier-like vigilance in future,
which savored of the caution of locking the stable after the steed
was stolen, they were dismissed.

About an hour before sun-down, Allen Musgrove and Mary,
availing themselves of the confusion and relaxed discipline of the
post, occasioned by the events of the morning, set out on horseback
for David Ramsay's dwelling, whither they were led by a natural
anxiety to learn something of the movements of the fugitives.

“It's a pleasure and a happiness, Allen Musgrove,” said Mistress
Ramsay, as the miller and his daughter sat down in the cabin, “to
see you and Mary over here with us at any time, but it is specially
so now when we have good news to tell. John and his friend are
safe out of reach of Macdonald's men, and—God be praised!—I
hope out of the way of all other harms. We have had soldiers
dodging in and out through the day, but not one of them has
made any guess what's gone with the major; and as for John,
they don't seem to suspect him to be on the country-side. It's all
Horse Shoe Robinson with them. They say that none but he could
have helped to get the major away, and that General Sumpter
was the instigator. Well, I'm sure they were welcome to that
opinion, for it set them all to looking over towards Broad river,
which is as good a direction as we could wish them to travel.”

“The less you seem to know about it, with any of these inquiring

parties, the better, Mistress Ramsay,” said Allen Musgrove, “and I
would advise you, even here amongst ourselves, to speak lower.
David, what do you hear this evening?”

“Nothing concerning our runaways since they left us at daylight
this morning,” replied Ramsay. “I should guess them to be somewhere
near upon Fair Forest by this time. You know Williams is
outlying upon the upper branches of the river? It is more like
hunted deer, Allen, than Christian men, that our poor fellows take
to the woods now. God knows what will come of it!”

“He knows and has appointed it,” said Musgrove, gravely, “and
will in His own good time and with such instruments as shall faithfully
work His purpose, give the victory to them that have the
right. Man, woman, and child may perish, and house and home
may be burnt over our heads, and the blood of brave men may
make the dust of the road red; yes, and the pastures rich as if
new laid with manure; but the will of God shall be done and His
providence be accomplished. The cause of the just shall prevail
against the unjust.”

“There were no soldiers,” inquired Mary, addressing David
Ramsay, “that you have heard of, who followed towards Fair
Forest? I should be sorry if John was to be troubled with persons
going after him; because,”—the maiden hesitated an instant,—
“because it's unpleasant and disagreeable to be obliged to be
riding off the road, through bushes and briers, to keep out of the
way.”

“If they were not greatly an overmatch, girl,” interrupted
Ramsay, “John wouldn't give himself much trouble upon that
account.”

“Oh, Mr. Ramsay,” said Mary earnestly, “I was thinking of that.
It's hard to say what John would call an overmatch: men are so
headstrong and venturesome.”

“That's God's own truth, Mary,” interposed Mrs. Ramsay; “and
what I have always been telling David and John both. But they
never heed me, no more than if I was talking to the child in
that cradle.”

“I've told John as much myself,” said Mary, blushing.

“And he would not heed you either,” interrupted her father.
“A soldier would have a holiday life of it, if he followed the advice

of his mother or his sweetheart. Daughter, amongst friends here,
you needn't blush; we know more of the secrets betwixt you and
the trooper lad than you count upon. John's a clever boy, Mistress
Ramsay, and I think you have reason to brag of him somewhat;
and as there's particular good-will between him and my Mary, I'll
not stand in the way when the war is over, if God spares us all,
and Mary and the lad keep in the same mind; I'll not stand in the
way of a new settlement in the neighborhood. Mary is a good
daughter, well nurtured, and—I don't care to say it to her face—
will make a thriving wife.”

The mother smiled as she replied, “I don't pretend to know the
young people's secrets, but I know this, you don't think better of
Mary than John does—nor than me neither, perhaps.”

The conversation was interrupted by a knocking at the door,
and, in a moment afterwards, Arthur Butler and the woodman
entered the apartment.

“Major Butler, as I am a living woman!” exclaimed Mrs.
Ramsay.

“Our good friend himself!” ejaculated Musgrove, with surprise.
“What has turned you back? And Gabriel Drummond here
too! What has happened?”

“Where is my son John?” demanded Ramsay. “Are you followed?”

Butler walked up to Mrs. Ramsay, and, as a tear started to his
eye, took her by the hand, and stood for a moment unable to speak.

“Oh, heaven have mercy on me!” screamed Mary Musgrove, as
she threw herself upon a bed, “something dreadful has happened.”

“For God's sake, speak what you have to tell!” said David
Ramsay, instantly turning pale.

“John Ramsay is hurt,” faintly articulated the mother, and
Mary, rising from the bed, stood beside Butler with a countenance
on which was seated the most agonizing attention. Andy, the
hero of the exploit we have heretofore related, also pressed into the
presence of the same group, and a death-like silence pervaded the
whole party.

Butler, with an ineffectual effort to recover himself, turned to
Drummond, making a sign to him to tell the object of their melancholy
errand, and then flung himself into a chair.

“John Ramsay is dead,” said the woodman, in a mournful
tone. “Your son, mistress Ramsay, was shot in a fray with the
bloody, villanous Tories. The heartiest curses upon them!”

“Killed, dear madam,” said Butler, scarce able to articulate,
“killed in my defence. Would to God the blow had fallen upon
my own head!”

“Oh, no, no, no!” exclaimed the matron, as a flood of tears
rolled down her cheeks, and she endeavored to wipe them away
with her apron. “It isn't true. It can't be true. My poor, dear,
brave boy!”

At the same instant Mary Musgrove fell insensible into the arms
of her father, where it was some moments before she gave signs of
animation. At length, being laid upon the bed, a deep groan
escaped her, which was followed by the most piteous wailing.

The scene wrought upon the younger members of the family,
who, as well as the domestics, were heard pouring forth deep and
loud lamentations, accompanied with reiterated announcements of
the death of the soldier.

When this first burst of the general grief was over, David
Ramsay arose from his seat and walked across the room to a
window, where he stood endeavoring to compose and master his
feelings. At length, facing Butler, he said in a low and tranquil
tone,

“John Ramsay, my son, killed, killed in a skirmish? God is
my witness, I expected it! It was his failing to follow his enemy
with too hot a hand; and I am to blame, perhaps, that I never
checked him in that temper. But he died like a man and a
soldier, Major Butler,” he added, firmly.

“He died in my arms,” replied Butler, “as bravely as ever
soldier closed his life, his last thoughts were fixed upon his parents,
and—

“Dead!” interrupted Ramsay, as if communing with himself,
and regardless of Butler's words—“Dead! He fell doing his duty
to his country, that's a consolation. A man cannot die better. If
it please God, I hope my end may be like his. Andrew, my boy,
come here. You are now my oldest living son,” he said, taking
the lad's hand and looking him full in the face, as he spoke with a

bitter compression of his lips; “I am willing, much as I love you,
that the country should have you.”

“No, David, David,” interrupted the mother, rousing herself
from her silent grief, “we have given enough; no other child of
mine shall venture in the war. John! John! John! my dear boy,
my brave son! How good and kind he was to us all! And how
glad he was to get home to see us; and how much we made of
him!”

“Silence, wife,” said David Ramsay, “this is no time to hold
back from our duty. Andrew, listen to me: remember your
brother has met his death fighting against these monsters, who
hate the very earth that nurses liberty. You are young, boy, but
you can handle a musket; we will not forget your brother's death.”

“Nor the burning of a good house over your head, and a full
barn, father; nor the frights they have given my poor mother.”

“Nor the thousands of brave men,” added the father, “who
have poured out their blood to give us a land and laws of our own.
My boy, we will remember these, for vengeance.”

“Not for vengeance,” said Allen Musgrove, “for justice, David.
Your enemy should be remembered only to prevent him from
doing mischief. The Lord will give him sword and buckler, spear
and shield, who stands up for the true cause: and when it pleases
Him to require the sacrifice of life from the faithful servant who
fights the battle, he grants patience and courage to meet the trial.
Your son was not the man, David, to turn his face away from the
work that was before him; may God receive him and comfort his
distressed family! He was an honest and brave son, David
Ramsay.”

“A braver soldier never buckled on broadsword, Allen Musgrove,”
replied the father. “Yes, I looked for this; ever since my
dwelling was levelled to the ground by these firebrands, I looked
for it. John's passion was up then, and I knew the thoughts that
ran through his mind. Ever since that day his feelings have been
most bitter; and he has flung himself amongst the Tories, making
as little account of them as the mower when he puts his scythe
into the grass of the meadows.”

“God forgive him, David!” said Musgrove, “and strengthen

you and the boy's good mother in this sharp hour of trial. They
who draw the sword in passion may stand in fear of the judgment
of the sword: it is a fearful thing for sinful man to shed blood for
any end but that of lawful war, and at the bidding of his country.
God alone is the avenger.”

Mary had again raised herself from the bed, and at this moment
gave vent to her feelings in a loud and bitter lamentation. “John
Ramsay is dead, is dead!” she exclaimed. “I cannot believe it.
He that was so true and so warm-hearted, and that everybody
loved! They could not kill him! Oh, I begged him to keep his
foot from danger, and he promised me, for my sake, to be careful.
I loved him, father; I never told you so much before, but I am not
ashamed to tell it now before everybody; I loved him better than
all the world. And we had promised each other. It is so hard
to lose them that we love!” she continued, sobbing violently.
“He was so brave and so good, and he was so handsome, Mrs.
Ramsay, and so dutiful to you and his father, coming home to see
you whenever the war would let him. And he walked, and rode, and
ran, and fought for his friends, and them that he cared for. He
was so thoughtful for your comfort too,” she added, as she threw
herself on her knees and rested her head in the lap of the mother,
and there paused through a long interval, during which nothing
was heard but her own moans mingled with the sighs of the party,
“we were to be married after this war was at an end, and thought
we should live so happily: but they have murdered him! Oh
they have murdered him,” and with her hair thrown in disorder
over her face, she again gave vent to a flood of tears.

“Mary, daughter! Shame on you, girl!” said her father. “Do
you forget, in the hour of your affliction, that you have a friend
who is able to comfort? There is one who can heal up your sorrows
and speak peace to your troubled spirit, if you be not too
proud to ask it. I have taught you, daughter, in all time of tribulation
to look to Him for patience and for strength to bear adversity.
Why do you neglect this refuge now?”

“Our Father,” said the maiden, fervently clasping her hands and
lifting up her eyes, now dim with weeping, as she appealed to God
in prayer, “who art in heaven—teach us all to say thy will be done.
Take—take—my dear John—Oh my heart will burst and I shall

die!” she uttered, almost overwhelmed with her emotions, as she
again buried her face in Mistress Ramsay's lap—“I cannot
speak!”

A silence of inexpressible agony prevailed for some moments.
This was at length interrupted by the uprising of the full, clear,
and firm voice of Allen Musgrove, who now broke forth from the
opposite side of a room where he had kneeled before a chair, in an
earnest and impressive supplication to the Deity, urged with all
that eloquence which naturally flows from deeply-excited feeling.
From the solemnity of the occasion, as well as from the habitually
religious temper of the family assembled in the little cabin, the
words of the prayer fell upon the hearts of those present with a
singularly welcome effect, and, for the moment, brought tranquillity
to their feelings.

When the prayer was ended, the grief of the mourners rolled
back in its former flood, and burst from Mary Musgrove in the
most heart-rending bitterness. Paroxysm followed paroxysm with
fearful violence, and these outbreaks were responded to by the
mother with scarcely less intensity. All attempts at consolation, on
the part of the men, were unavailing; and it was apparent that
nothing remained but to let the tide of anguish take its own
course.

It was now some time after night-fall, when Butler and Drummond
beckoned Allen Musgrove to leave the room. They retired
into the open air in front of the house, where they were immediately
joined by David Ramsay. Here Butler communicated to
them the necessity of making immediate arrangements for their
return to the woodman's cottage, and for the burial of the deceased
trooper. His advice was adopted, and it was resolved that Musgrove
and Ramsay should accompany the other two to the spot.
Before the consultation was closed, Andy had come into the group,
and he was now directed, with all haste, to throw a saddle upon
his father's horse.

“You, Andrew, my son,” said David Ramsay, “will stay at home
and comfort your poor mother, and Mary. Speak to them, boy,
and persuade them to give up their useless lamentations. It is the
will of God, and we ought not to murmur at it.”

“The burning, father,” replied the boy, with a sorrowful earnestness,

“and the fighting, and the frights we have had, was all nothing
to this. I never felt before how terrible the war was.”

Andy had now gone to equip the horse, and the men returned
to the inside of the cabin, where they sat in profound silence. Butler,
at length, rose from the door-sill where he had taken his seat,
and crossing the room, took a position by the bed on which Mary
Musgrove had thrown herself, and where she now lay uttering faint
and half-smothered moans.

“I have a remembrance for you,” he said, stooping down and
speaking scarce above a whisper in the maiden's ear; “I promised
to deliver it into your hand. God knows with what pain I perform
my office! John enjoined upon me to give you this,” he
continued, as he presented to her the little copy of the Testament,
“and to say to you that his last thoughts were given to you and
his mother. He loved you, Mary, better than he loved any living
creature in this world.”

“He did, he did,” sobbed forth the girl; “and I loved him far
above family, friends, kinsfolk and all—I wish I were dead by
his side.”

“Take the book,” said Butler, hardly able to articulate. “God
for ever bless you,” he added, after a pause of weeping, “and bring
you comfort! I have promised John Ramsay, that neither you,
nor any of his family, shall ever want the service of a friend, while I
have life or means to render it. Before Heaven, that pledge shall
be redeemed! Farewell, farewell! God bless you!”

As Butler uttered these words he grasped the maiden's hand and
pressed it fervently to his lips; then turning to the mother, he
addressed some phrase of comfort to her, and hastily left the room.
Scarcely a sound was heard from any one, except the low sobbing
of the exhausted weepers, and the almost convulsive kisses which
Mary imprinted upon the little book that Butler had put into her
hand.

Musgrove, Ramsay, and the woodman, retired from the apartment
at the same moment; and the horses being ready at the
door, the retreating beat of the hoofs upon the turf gave notice to
the in-dwellers that the four men had set forward on their journey.