University of Virginia Library

53. CHAPTER LIII.

We left Mildred securely lodged with her new and kind-hearted
friends, under the hospitable roof of the farmer, hard by the
Yadkin. The reader has, doubtless, found reason in the course of
this narrative to marvel much that a lady so delicately nurtured
should, with so stout a spirit and with such singular devotion,
have tempted so many dangers, and exposed herself to such
unwonted hardships, for the sake of the man she loved. Perhaps,
I might be able to clear up this matter, by referring to the extraordinary
conjuncture of circumstances that surrounded her. It
was no secret that she fervently, and with her whole heart,—yea
even with a fanatical worship,—loved the man she sought. Her
affection had been nursed in solitude, and, like a central fire,
glowed with a fervid heat, unobserved at first, silent and steady:
and by degrees her enthusiasm spread its coloring over the passion,
and raised it into a fanciful but solemn self-dedication. This
warmth of feeling might still have been witnessed only within her
family precinct, had it not been that, at a most critical moment,
when her father's absence from the Dove Cote left her without other
resource than her own unaided counsel, she was made acquainted
that her lover's life was in imminent peril, and that a word from
her might perhaps avert his doom. We have seen with what
anxious alacrity she set forth in that emergency upon her pilgrimage
of duty; and how, as she became familiar with hardship and
danger, her constancy and resolution still took a higher tone,
growing more vigorous even with the impediments that lay across
her path. This may seem strange to our peace-bred dames,—and
little congruous with that feminine reserve and shrinkingness which
we are wont to praise: but war, distress, and disaster work miracles
in the female bosom, and render that virtuous and seemly, which

ease and safety might repel. Nature is a wise and cunning charmer,
and, in affliction, makes that forwardness not unlovely, which
in tranquil and happy times she would visit with her censure. If
these considerations do not suffice to explain the present movements
of my heroine, I must beg my reader to have patience to the end,
when, peradventure, he will find a still better reason.

When morning came, Mildred was up with the first blush of
light. Her thoughts had dwelt with a busy restlessness upon the
late intelligence, and she had slept only in short and disturbed
intervals. She was impatient to be again upon the road.

Accordingly, as soon as the preparations for their journey could
be made, our party, now increased by the addition of Musgrove
and his daughter, set forward on their travel towards Burk Court
House.

This journey was protracted through several days. The disturbed
state of the country, produced by the active hostilities which were
now renewed, made it prudent for our wayfarers frequently to halt
amongst the friendly inhabitants of the region through which
they travelled, in order to obtain information, or wait for the
passage of troops whose presence might have caused embarrassment.

The considerate kindness of Allen Musgrove, and the unwearied
attentions of Mary, who, softened by her own griefs, evinced a more
touching sympathy for the sufferings of Mildred, every day increased
the friendship which their present companionship had engendered,
and greatly beguiled the road of its tediousness and discomfort.

The journey, however, was not without its difficulties, nor altogether
destitute of occurrences of interest to this history. The
upper districts of North Carolina present to the eye a very beautiful
country, diversified by mountain and valley, and gifted in
general with a rich soil. Considerable portions of this region were
consequently occupied and put into cultivation at an early period
of the history of the province; and, at the era of the revolution,
were noted as the most desirable positions for the support of the
southern armies. This circumstance had drawn the war to that
quarter, and had induced a frequent struggle to retain a footing
there, by each party who came into possession of it. Such a state

of things had now, as we have before remarked, embarrassed the
progress of our friends, and had even compelled them to diverge
largely from the direct route of their journey.

It happened, a few days after leaving the Yadkin, that the hour
of sunset found our little troop pursuing a road through the deep
and gloomy forest, which, for several miles past, had been unrelieved
by any appearance of human habitation. Neither Horse
Shoe nor Allen Musgrove possessed any acquaintance with the
region, beyond the knowledge that they were upon what was
called the upper or mountain road that extended from Virginia
entirely through this section of North Carolina; and that they
could not be much more than fifteen or twenty miles north of Burk
Court House. Where they should rest during the night that was
now at hand, was a matter that depended entirely upon chance;
and stimulated by the hope of encountering some woodland cabin,
they persevered in riding forward, even when the fading twilight
had so obscured their path as to make it a matter of some circumspection
to pick their way. Thus the night stole upon them
almost unawares.

There is nothing so melancholy as the deep and lonely forest at
night; and why it should be so I will not stop to inquire, but
that melancholy, it seems to me, is enhanced by the chilliness of
the autumnal evening. The imagination peoples the impenetrable
depths of the wood with spectres, which the gibbering and shrill
reptiles that inhabit these recesses seem to invest with a voice;
the earth beneath the feet, carpeted with “the raven down of darkness,”
has an indefinite surface that causes the traveller to think of
pitfalls and sudden banks, and fearful quagmires; and the grey
light of the glow-worm, or the cold gleam of the rotten timber,
shine up through the gloom, like some witch-taper from a haunted
ground. Then, high above the head, the sombre forms of the
trees nod in the night-wind, and the stars,—ineffectual to guide us
on our way—are seen only in short and rapid glimpses through
the foliage; all these things affect the mind with sadness, but
the chattering of the teeth and the cold creep of the blood, rendered
sluggish by a frosty atmosphere, make it still more sad.

Mildred and Mary Musgrove experienced a full share of these
imaginings, as they now rode in the dark, side by side; and, peradventure,

an occasional expression of impatience might have been
heard, in whispers, between them. By degrees this feeling extended
to Henry, and, in due course of time, seemed also to have reached
the sergeant and the miller; for these two, as if suddenly struck
with the necessity of making some provision for the night, now
came to a halt, with a view to inquire into the comfort of the
weaker members of the troop, and to deliberate on what was best
to be done. To make a fire, erect a tent, and resort to the contents
of their havresacks for supper, were the only expedients
which their situation afforded; and as these arrangements were but
the customary incidents of travel, in the times to which we refer,
they were now resolved upon with but little sense of inconvenience
or hardship. It was proper, however, that the party should encamp
in some position where they might have water, and, with that
object, they continued to move forward until they should find
themselves in the neighborhood of a running stream—an event
that, from the nature of the country, was soon likely to occur.

“There can be no moon to-night,” said the sergeant, as they
rode along in quest of their lodging-place, “yet yonder light
would look as if she was rising. No, it can't be, for it is westward,
as I judge, Allen.”

“It is westward,” replied Musgrove, looking towards a faint light
which brought the profile of the tree-tops into relief against the
horizon. “There must be fire in the woods.”

The party rode on, all eyes being directed to the phenomenon
pointed out by Horse Shoe. The light grew broader, and flung a
lurid beam towards the zenith; and, as the travellers still came
nearer, the radiance increased, and illuminated the summit of a
hill, which, it was now apparent, lay between them and the light.

“We must rest here for a while,” said the sergeant, reining up
his horse in a dark and narrow ravine; “the fire is just across this
hill in front. It would be wise to reconnoitre a little; there may
be travellers camping on the t'other side, or troops for aught we
know; or it may be an old fire left by the last persons who passed.
You, Allen Musgrove, stay here with the women, and I will ride
forward to look into the matter.”

Henry accompanied the sergeant, and they both galloped up the
bill. When they came to the top, a rich and strange prospect

broke upon their sight. Some three or four hundred yards in
advance, at the foot of the long slope of the hill, a huge volume
of flame was discovered enveloping the entire trunk of a tall pine,
and blazing forth with sudden flashes amongst the withered foliage.
The radiance cast around from this gigantic torch penetrated the
neighboring forest, and lit up the trees with a lustre more dazzling
than that of day; whilst the strong shades brought into such
immediate proximity with the sharp, red light, as it glanced upon
every upright stem or trunk, gave a new and grotesque outline to
the familiar objects of the wood. The glare fell upon the sward
of the forest, and towards the rear upon a sheet of water, which
showed the conflagration to have been kindled on the bank of
some river. Not less conspicuous than the local features of the
scene were the figures of a considerable party of soldiers passing
to and fro in idle disarray through the region of the light, and a
short distance from them a number of horses attached to the
branches of the neighboring trees. Horse Shoe and his young
companion stood gazing for some moments upon the spectacle, the
sergeant in silent conjecture and perplexed thoughtfulness as to the
character of the persons below, Henry intent only upon the novel
and picturesque beauty of the view.

The light shone directly up the road, and fell upon the persons
of our two friends, a circumstance to which the sergeant seemed
to give no heed, until Henry pointed out to him a horseman,
from the direction of the fire, who was now advancing towards
them.

“Sergeant, turn back into the shade,” cried Henry; “that man
is coming after us.”

“Keep your ground,” replied Horse Shoe; “he has no ill-will
to us. He wears the dress of an honest man and a good
soldier.”

“Who goes there?” called out the horseman, as he now came
within speaking distance. “Stand and tell me who you are!”

“Friends to the hunting-shirt and buck-tail,” replied Robinson.

“I am glad to hear you say so,” rejoined the scout, as he
advanced still nearer. “Where from, and in what direction do
you travel?”

“That should be William Scoresby's voice, of the Amherst

Rangers,” shouted Henry, with animation; “as I live, it is the
very man!”

“Who have we here!” returned the horseman. “Henry Lindsay!
our deputy corporal! Why, man, where did you spring
from?” he added, in a tone of joyful surprise, as he offered Henry
his hand.

“Ho, sister Mildred—Mr. Musgrove!” exclaimed Henry, calling
out at the top of his voice to his friends, who were waiting
behind for intelligence. “Come up—come up! Here's good
luck!”

And with a continued vociferation, he galloped back until he
met his sister, and conducted her to the top of the hill, whence, following
the guidance of William Scoresby, the party descended to
the bivouac of the Amherst Rangers.

Henry eagerly sought out Stephen Foster, and, having brought
him into the presence of Mildred, received from him a narrative of
the course of events which had led to this fortunate meeting.

The Rangers had marched from Virginia a few days after Mildred
had left the Dove Cote. They had fallen in with Gates's
shattered army at Hillsborough, where, after tarrying almost a fortnight,
they were furnished an opportunity to take some active
share in the operations of the day by the enterprise of Shelby
against Ferguson, the knowledge of which had reached them at
Gates's headquarters, whither a messenger from Shelby had come
to ask for aid. The Rangers had accordingly volunteered for this
service, and, with the permission of the general, were now on their
way towards Burk Court House, there hoping to receive intelligence
that would enable them to join the allies.

They had for some miles been marching along the same road
taken by our travellers, not more than two hours ahead of them;
and having reached the Catawba near sundown, had determined
to encamp there for the night. The soldiers, unaccustomed to
exact discipline, had, in sport, set fire to a tall pine which some
accident of the storm had killed, and produced the conflagration
that had lighted Horse Shoe and his charge to the scene of the
present meeting.

It may be imagined that this incident afforded great satisfaction
to Mildred and her party, who were thus brought into connexion

with a numerous body of friends, with whom they determined
henceforth to pursue their journey. The first good result of this
encounter was immediately experienced in the comfortable though
rude accommodation which the prompt and united efforts of the
Rangers supplied to Mildred and her friend, Mary Musgrove, in
enabling them to pass a night of sound and healthful sleep.

On the following day, the Rangers and their new companions
arrived at Burk Court House. They were here made acquainted
with the fact that the mountain troops were at this time moving
towards Gilbert-town. They accordingly, after a night's rest,
resumed their march, and by a toilsome journey through a rugged
mountain district, succeeded on the third evening in reaching the
little village which had but a short time since been the head-quarters
of Ferguson and the spot of Arthur Butler's captivity.

They were now in advance of Campbell and his mountaineers;
and, in waiting for these troops, they were afforded leisure to
recruit themselves from the effects of their late fatigues. Good
quarters were obtained for Mildred and her companions. She
required repose, and profited by the present opportunity to enjoy
it.

The village at this moment was full of troops. Brandon and
Lacy, with their followers, whom we have referred to in the last
chapter, were already there, in daily expectation of the arrival of
the confederates; and amongst these men, Sergeant Robinson and
his companion, the miller, found the means of relieving the
tediousness of delay, to say nothing of Henry, who had now
become so decidedly martial in his inclinations, that the camp was
to him a scene of never-fading interest.

In two days Campbell's army entered the village, after a march
of which we have already given a sketch to our reader. It was a
duty of early concern, on the part of Allen Musgrove and the sergeant,
to apprise him of the presence of Mildred and her brother,
and to communicate to him the singular purpose of her mission.
The effect of this was a visit by Campbell, Shelby, and Williams,
to the lady on the evening of their arrival. The two latter of these
officers had already been personally active in the behalf of Arthur
Butler, and all felt the liveliest interest in his fortunes. The singular
relation in which Mildred seemed to stand to the captive officer,

and the extraordinary zeal which her present mission betrayed
in his cause, drew forth a warm sympathy from the generous soldiers
around her, and there was even a tincture of the romance of
chivalry in the fervor with which, on the present visit, they pledged
themselves to her service. With the delicacy that always belongs
to honorable and brave hearts, they refrained from inquiry into the
special inducements which could so earnestly enlist the lady in the
service of their fellow-soldier, and sedulously strove to raise her
spirits into a cheerful and happy tone by the hopes they were able
to inspire.