55. CHAPTER LV.
THE WHIGS CONTINUE THEIR MARCH.—MILDRED IS LEFT BEHIND.
The army of mountaineers halted at Gilbert-town only until a
vidette from Williams brought tidings of Ferguson's late movements.
These reached Campbell early in the day succeeding his
arrival at the village, and apprised him that Williams followed on
the footsteps of the British partisan, and would expect to unite his
force with that of the allied volunteers at the Cowpens—(a field not
yet distinguished in story)—whither he expected to arrive on the
following day. Campbell determined, in consequence, to hasten to
this quarter.
The present position of Mildred, notwithstanding the kind sympathy
with which every one regarded her, was one that wrought
severely upon her feelings. She had heretofore encountered the
hardships of her journey, and borne herself through the trials, so
unaccustomed to her sex, with a spirit that had quailed before no
obstacle. But now, finding herself in the train of an army just
moving forth to meet its enemy, with all the vicissitudes and peril
of battle in prospect, it was with a sinking of the heart she had not
hitherto known, that she felt herself called upon to choose between
the alternative of accompanying them in their march, or being left
behind. To adopt the first resolve, she was painfully conscious
would bring her to witness scenes, and perhaps endure privations,
the very thought of which made her shudder; whilst, to remain at
a distance from the theatre of events in which she was so deeply concerned,
was a thought that suggested many anxious fears, not less
intolerable than the untried sufferings of the campaign. She had,
thus far, braved all dangers for the sake of being near to Butler;
and now to hesitate or stay her step, when she had almost reached
the very spot of his captivity, and when the fortunes of war might
soon throw her into his actual presence, seemed to her like abandoning
her duty at the most critical moment of trial. She was
aware that he was in the camp of the enemy; that this enemy was
likely to be overtaken and brought to combat; and it was with a
magnified terror that she summoned up to her imagination the
possible mischances which might befal Arthur Butler in the infliction
of some summary act of vengeance provoked by the exasperation
of conflict. “I have tempted the dangers of flood and storm
for him—of forest and field—noon-day battle and midnight assault,”
she said, with an earnestness that showed she had shaken all doubts
from her mind; “I have taken my vow of devotion to his safety—
to be performed with such fidelity as befits the sacred bond between
us. I will not blench now, in the last struggle, though perils
thicken around me. I'm prepared for the worst.”
Allen Musgrove, Robinson, and Henry combated this resolve
with joint expostulation, urging upon Mildred the propriety of her
tarrying in the village, at least until the active operations of the
army were terminated—an event that might be expected in a few
days. But it was not until Campbell himself remonstrated with
her against the indiscretion of her purpose, and promised to afford
her the means of repairing to the scene of action at any moment
she might think her presence there useful, that she relinquished
her determination to accompany the army on its present expedition.
It was, in consequence, ultimately arranged that she should remain
in the quarters provided for her in Gilbert-town, attended by the
miller and his daughter, whilst a few soldiers were to be detailed
as a guard for her person. With this train of attendants, she was
to be left at liberty to draw as near to the centre of events as her
considerate and faithful counsellor, Allen Musgrove, might deem
safe.
Another source of uneasiness to her arose out of the separation
which she was about to endure from the sergeant and her brother
Henry. Horse Shoe, swayed by an irresistible and affectionate
longing to be present at the expected passage of arms, which might
so materially affect the fortunes of his captive fellow-soldier, Butler,
had represented to Mildred the value of the services he might be
able to render; and as the friendly solicitude of the miller and his
daughter left nothing within their power to be supplied, towards
the comfort and protection of the lady, she did not refuse her consent
to this temporary desertion—although it naturally awakened
some painful sense of bereavement, at a moment when her excited
feelings most required the consolation of friends.
Henry, captivated with the prospect of military adventure, and
magnified in his own esteem by the importance which Stephen
Foster and the Rangers playfully assigned to his position in the
ranks, had so far lost sight of the special duty he had assumed, as
his sister's companion, that he now resolutely rebelled against all
attempts to persuade him to remain in the village; and Mildred,
at last, upon the pledge of the sergeant to keep the cadet under
his own eye, reluctantly yielded to a demand which she found it
almost impossible to resist.
These matters being settled, it was not long before Mildred and
Mary Musgrove, seated at the window of the house which had
been selected as their present abode, saw the long array of the
army glide by at a brisk pace, and watched the careless and
laughing faces of the soldiers, as they filed off through the
only street in the village, and took the high road leading south.
The troops had been gone for several hours, and Allen Musgrove
and the few soldiers who had been left behind, had scattered
themselves over the village, to get rid of the tedium of idleness in
the gossip of the scant population which the place afforded.
Mildred had retired to a chamber, and Mary loitered from place to
place like one disturbed with care. All the party felt that deep
sense of loneliness which is so acutely perceptible to those who
suddenly change a life of toil and incident for one of rest, while
events of busy interest are in expectation.
“They are gone, ma'am,” said Mary, as she now crept into
Mildred's presence, after having travelled over nearly the whole village,
in the state of disquietude I have described; “they are gone at
least twenty miles, I should think, by this time; and I never would
have believed that I could have cared so much about people I
never saw before. But we are so lonesome, ma'am. And young
Mister Henry Lindsay, I should say, must be getting tired by this
time of day. As for the matter of that, people may get tireder by
standing still than by going on.”
“How far do they march to day?” inquired Mildred; “have you
heard your father say, Mary?”
“I heard him and the troopers who are here allow,” replied the
maiden, “that Colonel Campbell wouldn't reach Colonel Williams
before to-morrow afternoon. They said it was good fifty miles'
travel. They look like brave men—them that marched this morning,
ma'am; for they went out with good heart. The Lord send
that through Him they may be the means of deliverance to
Major Butler!”
At the mention of this name, Mildred covered her face with her
hands, and the tears trickled through her fingers. “The Lord
send it!” she repeated, after a moment's pause. “May He, in his
mercy, come to our aid!” Then uncovering her face, and dropping
on her knees beside her chair, she whispered a prayer for the
success of those who had lately marched forth against the
enemy.
When she arose from this posture, she went to the window, and
there stood gazing out upon the quiet and unfrequented street,
running over in her mind the perils to which her brother as well
as Butler might be exposed, and summoning to her imagination
the thousand subjects of solicitude, which her present state of
painful expectation might be supposed to create or recall.
“We will set forth early to-morrow,” she said, addressing herself
to her companion, “so tell your father, Mary. We will follow
the brave friends who have left us: I cannot be content to linger
behind them. I will sleep in the lowliest hovel, or in the common
shelter of the woods, and share all the dangers of the march,
rather than linger here in this dreadful state of doubt and silence.
Tell your father to make his preparations for our departure to-morrow:
tell him I cannot abide another day in this place.”
“I should think we might creep near them, ma'am,” replied
Mary, “near enough to see and hear what was going on—which
is always a great satisfaction, and not get ourselves into trouble
neither. I am sure my father would be very careful of us, and
keep us out of harm's way, come what would. And it is distressing
to be so far off, when you don't know what's going to turn up.
I will seek my father—who I believe is over yonder with the
troopers at the shop, talking to the blacksmith—I will go there
and try to coax him to do your bidding. I know the troopers
want it more than we do, and they'll say a word to help it along.”
“Say I desire to have it so, Mary. I can take no refusal. Here
I will not stay longer.”
Mary left the apartment, and as she descended the steps, she
fell into a rumination which arrested her progress full five minutes,
during which she remained mute upon the stair-case. “No
wonder the poor dear lady wishes to go!” was the ejaculation
which came at last sorrowfully from her heart, with a long sigh,
and at the same time tears began to flow: “no wonder she wants
to be near Major Butler, who loves her past the telling of it. If
John Ramsay was there,” she added, sobbing, “I would have
followed him—followed him—yes, if I died for it.”
