51. CHAPTER LI.
MILDRED TURNS HER STEPS HOMEWARDS.
I HAVE seen a generous and brave boy defied to some enterprise of
terror,—such as, peradventure, to clamber in the dark night, alone,
up many a winding bout of stair-case to the garret,—and he has
undertaken the achievement, although sore afraid of goblins, and
gone forth upon his adventure with a lusty step and with a bold
tardiness, whistling or singing on his way—his eyes and ears all the
time fearfully open to all household sights and sounds, now magnified
out of their natural proportions; and when he had reached
the furthest term of his travel, I have known him to turn quickly
about and come down three steps at a leap, feeling all the way
as if some spectre tracked his flight and hung upon his rear. Calling
up such a venture to my mind, I am enabled, by comparison
with the speed and anxiety of the boy, to show my reader with
what emotions Mildred, her mission being done, now turned herself
upon her homeward route. The excitement occasioned by her
knowledge of the critical circumstances of Butler, and the pain she
had suffered in the belief that upon the courageous performance
of her duty depended even his life, had nerved her resolution to
the perilous and hardy exploit in which we have seen her. But
now, when matters had taken such a suddenly auspicious turn, and
she was assured of her lover's safety, not even the abrupt joy which
poured in upon her heart was sufficient to stifle her sense of
uneasiness at her present exposed condition, and she eagerly prepared
to betake herself back to the Dove Cote.
The scenes around her had wrought upon her nerves; and,
although she was singularly fortunate in the courtesy which she
had experienced from all into whose hands she had fallen, yet the
rude licentiousness of the camp, and the revolting acts of barbarity
which were ever present to her observation, appalled and distressed
her. Besides, she now saw the fixed purpose with which Cornwallis
was preparing to march forward in his course of invasion,
and thought with alarm upon the probable event of soon having
the theatre of war transferred to the neighborhood of her native
woods.
Robinson's advice seconded her own alacrity. It was to hasten,
with all despatch, in advance of the invading army; and as this
body was now about taking up its line of march, no time was to be
lost. Accordingly, but a brief delay took place after Cornwallis
and his suite had departed from head-quarters, before our party set
forward, accompanied by the small guard of cavalry that had been
ordered to attend them. The troops were just wheeling into
column on the ground where they had been lately reviewed, when
Mildred and her attendants galloped past, and took the high road
leading to the town of Charlotte, in North Carolina, towards which
it was understood the invaders were about to direct their journey.
In less than an hour afterwards they had left behind them the line
of baggage wagons and the small military parties of the vanguard,
and found themselves rapidly hastening towards a district occupied
by the friends of independence.
The sergeant had now occasion for his utmost circumspection.
In pursuing the destined route of the invasion, he had reason to
expect an early encounter with some of the many corps of observation,
which the opposite party were certain to put upon the duty
of reporting the approach of their enemy. And so it fell out; for,
towards the middle of the day, whilst the travellers were quietly
plying their journey through the forest, the discharge of a pistol
announced the presence of a hostile body of men; and almost
instantly afterwards a small handful of Whig cavalry were seen
hovering upon the road, at the distance of some three or four hundred
paces in front. Robinson no sooner recognised this squad
than he took the lady's handkerchief and hoisted it on a rod, as a flag
of truce, and, at the same moment, directed the escort to retreat,
apprising them that their presence was no longer necessary, as he
had now an opportunity to deliver his charge into the hands of
friends. The British horsemen, accordingly, took their leave; and,
in the next moment, Horse Shoe surrendered to a patrole, who
announced themselves to be a part of the command of Colonel
Davie, of the North Carolina militia—a gallant partisan, then well
known to fame, and whose after exploits fill up no inconsiderable
page of American history.
It does not enter into the purpose of my story to detain my
reader with a minute account of Mildred's homeward journey; but
having now transferred her to the protection of a friendly banner,
it will suffice to say that she arrived the same evening at Charlotte,
where she spent the night in the midst of the active, warlike
preparations which were in progress to receive Cornwallis.
It was towards sunset on the following day, when, wearied with
the toil of a long and rapid journey, our travellers arrived in front
of a retired farm-house, on the road leading through the upper districts
of North Carolina. The cultivation around this dwelling
showed both good husbandry and a good soil, and there was an
appearance of comfort and repose which was an unusual sight in
a country so much alarmed and ravaged by war, as that over
which the wayfarers had lately journeyed. The house stood some
short distance apart from the road, and in the porch was seated an
elderly man of a respectable appearance, to whom a young girl
was, at this moment, administering a draught of water from a
small, hooped, wooden vessel which she held in her hand.
“I am parched with thirst,” said Mildred, “pray get me some
of that water.”
“The place looks so well, ma'am,” replied the sergeant, “that I
think we could not do better than make a stop here for the night.
Good day, neighbor! What is the name of the river I see across
you field, and where mought we be, just at this time?”
“It is the Yadkin,” answered the man, “and this county, I
believe, is Iredell—though I speak only by guess, for I am but a
stranger in these parts.”
“The lady would be obligated,” said Horse Shoe, “for a drop
of that water; and, if it was agreeable, she mought likewise be
pleased to put up here for the night.”
“The people of the house are kind and worthy,” replied the old
man, “and not likely to refuse a favor. Mary, take a cup to the lady.”
The girl obeyed; and, coming up to the party with the vessel in
her hand, she suddenly started as her eye fell upon Horse Shoe,
and her pale and wan countenance was seen bathed in tears.
“Mr. Robinson!' she exclaimed, with a faltering voice; “you
don't know me?—me, Mary Musgrove. Father, it is our friend,
Horse Shoe Robinson!” Then placing the vessel upon the ground,
she ran to the sergeant's side, as he sat upon his horse, and leaning
her head against his saddle, she wept bitterly, sobbing out:
“It is me, Mary Musgrove. John—our John—that you loved—
he is dead—he is dead!”
In an instant Allen Musgrove was at the gate, where he greeted
the sergeant with the affection of an old friend.
This recognition of the miller and his daughter at once confirmed
the sergeant in his determination to end his day's journey
at this spot. In a few moments Mildred and her companions were
introduced into the farm-house, where they were heartily welcomed
by the indwellers, consisting of a sturdy, cheerful tiller of the soil,
and a motherly dame, whose brood of children around her showed
her to be the mistress of the family.
The scene that ensued after the party were seated in the house
was, for some time, painfully affecting. Poor Mary, overcome by
the associations called up to her mind at the sight of the sergeant,
took a seat near him, and silently gazed in his face, visibly laboring
under a strong desire to express her feelings in words, but at
the same time stricken mute by the intensity of her emotions.
After a long suspense, which was broken only by her sobs, she
was enabled to utter a few disjointed sentences, in which she
recalled to the sergeant the friendship that had existed between
him and John Ramsay; and there was something peculiarly touching
in the melancholy tone with which, in accordance with the
habits inculcated by her religious education, and most probably in
the words of her father's frequent admonitions, she attributed the
calamity that had befallen her to the kindly chastisement of heaven,
to endure which she devoutly, and with a sigh that showed the
bitterness of her suffering, prayed for patience and submission.
Allen Musgrove, at this juncture, interposed with some topics of
consolation suitable to the complexion of the maiden's mind, and
soon succeeded in drying up her tears, and restoring her, at least, to
the possession of a tranquil and apparently a resigned spirit.
When this was done, he gave a narrative of the events relating
to the escape of Butler and his subsequent recapture at the funeral
of John Ramsay, to which, it may be imagined, Mildred and
Henry listened with the most absorbed attention.
This tale of the recapture of Butler, so unexpected, and communicated
at a moment when Mildred's heart beat high with the joyful
hopes of speedily seeing her lover again in safety, now struck
upon her ear with the alarm that seizes upon a voyager who, fearing
no hidden reef or unknown shoal, hears the keel of his ship in
mid ocean crash against a solid rock. It seemed at once to break
down the illusion which she had cherished with such fond affection.
For the remainder of the evening the intercourse of the
party was anxious and thoughtful, and betrayed the unhappy
impression which the intelligence just communicated had made
upon the feelings of Mildred and her brother. Musgrove, after the
travellers had been refreshed by food, and invigorated by the kind
and hearty hospitality of the good man under whose roof they
were sheltered, proceeded to give the sergeant a history of what
had lately befallen in the neighborhood of the Ennoree. Some
days after the escape of Butler, the miller's own family had drawn
upon themselves the odium of the ruling authority. His mill and
his habitation had been reduced to ashes by a party of Tories who
had made an incursion into this district, with no other view than
to wreak their vengeance against suspected persons. In the same
inroad, the family of David Ramsay had once more been assailed,
and all that was spared from the first conflagration was destroyed in
the second. Many other houses through this region had met the
same fate. The expedition had been conducted by Wemyss, who,
it is said, carried in his pocket a list of dwellings to which the
torch was to be applied, and who, on accomplishing each item of
his diabolical mission—so still runs the tradition—would note the
consummated work by striking out the memorandum from his
tablets.
In this general ravage, the desolated families fled like hunted
game through the woods, and betook themselves with a disordered
haste to the more friendly provinces northward. Musgrove had
sent his wife and younger children, almost immediately after the
assault upon him, to the care of a relative in Virginia, whither
they had been conducted some days previous to the date of his
present meeting with Horse Shoe by Christopher Shaw; whilst he
and Mary had remained behind, for a short space, to render assistance
to the family of Ramsay, to whom they felt themselves affined
almost as closely as if the expected alliance by marriage had taken
place. When this duty was discharged, and Ramsay's family were
provided with a place of refuge, Musgrove had set forward with his
daughter to rejoin his wife and children in their new asylum. It
was upon this journey that they had now been accidentally over-taken
by our travellers.
The disclosure of the motives of Mildred's expedition to Mary
and her father, as may be supposed, warmed up their feelings to a
most affectionate sympathy in her troubles. They had often heard
of Butler's attachment to a lady in Virginia, and were aware of
her name, from the incidents that had occurred at the trial of Butler,
and from the nature of Horse Shoe's mission to Virginia.
Mary had nursed in her mind a fanciful and zealous interest in
behalf of the lady who was supposed to have engrossed Butler's
affections, from the earnest devotion which she had witnessed in
his demeanor, first at Adair's, and often afterwards during his captivity.
The effect of this preconceived favor now showed itself in
her behavior to Mildred; and, in the gentle play which it gave to
her kindly sentiments, a most happy change was wrought in her
present feelings. She at once warmly and fervently attached herself
to Mildred, and won her way into our lady's esteem by the
most amiable assiduities. In these offices of love, the poignancy of
her own grief began to give way to the natural sweetness of her
temper, and they were observed, in the same degree, to enliven
Mildred's feelings. Mary hung fondly about her new acquaintance,
proffered her most minute attentions of comfort, spoke often of the
generous qualities of Butler, and breathed many a sincere prayer
for future happiness to him and those he loved.
As Mildred pondered over the new aspect which the tidings of
this evening had given to her condition, her inclination and duty
both prompted her to the resolve to make an effort to join Butler,
instead of returning to the Dove Cote. She was apprised by Musgrove
that the prisoner had been conducted to Ferguson, who, she
was told, was at this time stationed in the neighborhood of Gilbert-town,
not a hundred miles from her present position. She
had ventured far in his services, and she could not, now that she
had so nearly approached him, consent to abandon the effort of
reaching the spot of his captivity. She thought with alarm over
the dangers that might await him in consequence of his previous
escape, and this alarm was increased by her remembrance of the
tone of bitter resentment with which Cornwallis, in a moment of
unguarded feeling, had referred to the event in her late conference
with that officer. Above all, it was her duty—such was her view
of the matter—and whatever might befal, he was the lord of her
heart, and all dangers and difficulties, now as heretofore, should be
east aside in her determination to administer to his safety or comfort.
Her decision was made, and she so announced it to her companions.
Neither the sergeant nor Henry made the opposition to this
resolve that might have been expected. To Horse Shoe it was a
matter of indifference upon what service he might be ordered; his
thoughts ran in no other current than to obey the order, and make
the most thrifty and careful provision for its safe execution. To
Henry that was always a pleasant suggestion which was calculated
to bring him more into the field of adventure. Allen Musgrove,
on this occasion, added an opinion which rather favored the enterprise.
“It was not much out of the way,” he said, “to go as far as
Burk Court House, where, at least, the lady was likely to learn
something of the plans of Ferguson, and she might either wait
there, or take such direction afterwards as her friends should
advise.”
Mary begged that whatever route Mildred thought proper to
pursue, she might be allowed to accompany her; and this request
was so much to the liking of Mildred, that she earnestly implored
the miller's consent to the plan. With some reluctance Musgrove
acquiesced; and, feeling thus doubly interested in the fortunes of
the party, he finally determined himself to attend them in their
present enterprise.
These matters being settled, the wearied travellers parted for the
night, happy, at least, in having found the weight of their personal
afflictions relieved by the cheerfulness with which the burden was
divided.
