University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

Harley.

Who has made any progress on the journey
of life, and mingled, in any degree, with society,
without experiencing the truth of the above
sentiments? What has produced to human
hearts more intense pangs than ingratitude? To
be injured by those on whom we have conferred
no favour, on whom we have fixed no esteem,
and lavished no bounty, occasions but
little surprise, and inspires but little dissatisfaction
with human nature. We can still, after
such an injury, look upon the world and upon
mankind, in their natural colours, compounded
of the various and ever-changing shades of good
and evil, and remain satisfied with ourselves.
Hope blends with fortitude, and enables us to
bear present ills in anticipation of future good.
But when we have detected the lurking animosities

of a favourite, or received an insidious
blow from one whom we have trusted, aided,
or esteemed, grief for disappointed hopes and
lost affections, mortification at being duped by
hypocrisy, and horror at witnessing such a
manifestation of the perfidy of man, contribute
much more than the amount of the injury received,
to inspire us with gloomy views of our
nature and condition, and render us discontented
with existence.

How intensely, on this occasion, did the astonished
people of Wyoming experience such
feelings! The greater number of the individuals
who were detected in this foul conspiracy
against their lives and properties, had been the
welcome partakers of their bounty, many of
them the confidants of their secrets, and some
of them bound to their affections by the closest
ties of relationship or marriage. When the
prisoners were conducted through several of the
villages on their way to the fort at Wyoming,
how grievously did many a confiding heart
shudder to reflect how it had been betrayed,
and to perceive that its destruction had been
contrived by those on whom its confidence had
been placed without restraint, and its kindness
lavished without limits.

Perhaps there was no circumstance connected
with these agitating scenes more remarkable

than the forbearance of the inhabitants of Wyoming
towards their captured betrayers. The
bare idea that such a treacherous and murderous
combination had been projected, was enough to
inflame the blood of its intended victims, and
to arouse them to a degree of indignation which,
had it arisen and overwhelmed their prisoners
in immediate destruction, would have been
neither so wonderful nor censurable as many
ebullitions of popular fury which history has
recorded, nor half so flagitious and detestable
as the foul conspiracy it would have avenged.
But no excess of this kind was committed.
The generous inhabitants of the district were
more grieved than irritated at the example of
treachery and barbarous depravity they now
witnessed. Alarm and sorrow, rather than
indignation and rage, filled their hearts and actuated
their feelings. To their governor, Zebulon
Butler, who, though the relative of their
arch enemy, was a tried and faithful friend to
their cause, and to five of the most intelligent
of their known patriots, whom they selected to
form his council, they committed the management
of their affairs at this critical juncture.
Mr. Norwood, Mr. Austin, Dr. Watson,
Colonel Dennison, and the judge of their court,
whose name was Harvey, formed this council;
and a more judicious selection could not have
been made. In the honesty and prudence of
these men, the inhabitants placed implicit reliance.
Nor did they place it wrongfully.—
Whatever zeal, vigilance and correct judgment
could effect for the safety of the district, was accomplished.
But their resources were small in
comparison to those of their enemies, who were
in league with the powerful tribe of the Mohawks,
and supplied with all the materials of
war, by the British General.

The aspect of the affairs of the settlement
was indeed extremely menacing. The inhabitants
had, it is true, detected and frustrated a
fearful plot, which, had it with matured force
burst upon them by surprise, would have found
them almost totally unprepared for resistance,
and would inevitably have effected their destruction.
But although this imminent danger
had been escaped, safety was far from being
secured. The clouds of a tremendous and savage
war were gathering around them. They
saw them with the apprehension of rational beings,
who could estimate probabilities and appreciate
consequences. But they trusted in
Providence, and did not sit down indolently to
await the bursting of the storm in the apathy of
despair. They assumed the fortitude of men
conscious of a good cause, and they made every
preparation for defence that judgment could

suggest or circumstances would permit. All
among them, fit to bear arms, were enrolled,
and instructed to be in readiness to act on the
first alarm. Despatches were also forwarded
to Washington, informing him of the threatening
aspect of their affairs, and their defenceless
condition; and requesting military aid as soon as
he could possibly send it. The Wyoming volunteers
were also implored by many private
letters, to return to the protection of their
friends and their homes.

It was little more than a week after the
dispersion of the conspirators in the Hemlock
Glade, as mentioned in the preceding chapter,
that an incident happened which greatly increased
the consternation of the Whigs, and
excited them to stronger feelings of resentment
than any thing that had yet occurred.—Mr.
Norwood had returned home on the evening of
a warm day in June, from a meeting of his fellow
counsellors at the governor's house, when
learning that his daughter had gone into the
orchard which skirted the stream of the Sharon,
in order to enjoy the coolness of the evening air,
he hastened to join her. He found her seated
near the bank of the stream on a favourite spot,
where she had often sat with Henry Austin.
She had been reading, probably for the twentieth
time, a letter lately received from Henry.

This letter described to her the joyous entry of
the troops under Washington into Philadelphia,
which had been evacuated by the British force
now under the command of sir Henry Clinton.
The glowing style of triumphant patriotism,
and the ardent expressions of undiminished
love, which pervaded this communication from
the chosen of her heart, warmed her feelings
and engrossed her attention so entirely, that the
alarming aspect of the affairs of her own neighbourhood
were for a time forgotten; her whole
faculties were employed in the contemplation
of her absent lover. His numerous virtues,
his patriotism, his courage, and the unchanging
and unchangeable nature of his love for her—
the toils he had undergone—the privations he
had endured, and the dangers he had encountered
in the performance of his duty of his
country—all stood imaged in her mind as personifications
of the highest excellence that
could dignify the character and conduct of man.
And he had been rewarded for these virtues and
privations. He had seen his country's chief and
her gallant army, in triumph enter her capital,
which had just been abandoned by a retiring
enemy.—He had himself formed part of the glorious
procession. And now he was in the
midst of a populous and fascinating metropolis.
—Her thoughts instantly flowed in another
current. Would he be able to resist the fascinations
of gayety, beauty and splendor which the
new scenes he should now witness would present
to him? Amidst the many accomplished females
to whom he would now become introduced,
would there be none sufficiently attractive to
make an impression on his heart? She wished
to get rid of the unwelcome suggestion. To
harbour it was painful, and might be unjust—
nay, when she reflected on the vows and the
virtues of Henry, she felt assured that it was
unjust.—“No,” thought she, “no allurements
will lead him from the path of fidelity. The
temptations that shall assail him may be great;
but his virtue is great—his love is sincere, and
he will triumph over them all.”

She was indulging this train of thought when
her father approached her.

“My daughter,” said he, “the messenger to
general Washington has been despatched. Your
letter to Henry has gone with him. I fervently
pray that at least our own brave volunteers, who
serve under him, may return to our aid, before
the savages and tories shall have time to combine
their forces and attack us.”

“The distance is great and the road difficult;”
she observed, “but when they hear of
our danger, affection will give wings to their

speed, and I trust in Heaven, that they will
reach us in time to secure our safety.”

“Their force is but small,” said Mr. Norwood,
“but their military skill would be of
immense value. We have requested general
Washington for more extensive aid, which, I
trust, he will be able to spare us, since the invading
enemy has been, at length, compelled to
make a retrogade motion, and to retreat, as we
have just heard, across the Jerseys, towards
New York, followed by the whole patriotic
army.”

“But, father,” said she, “this removes our
friends farther from our assistance. Heaven only
knows at what distance they may be, when
our messenger reaches them. Our situation is,
indeed, perilous. Our prospects are forlorn.”

“Do not be alarmed, my Agnes!” returned
her father. “Our messenger is well acquainted
with the country, and he has been ordered
to take the direct course into Jersey, and find
the head-quarters of Washington by the shortest
road. But lest he should fail, two other
messengers will be despatched to-morrow.
Nor are we in such immediate danger, nor so
totally destitute of strength, as to justify despondency.
Our men have all assumed arms—
they seem brave and resolute, and will nobly
resist any attack that the traitors and their savage

allies may make upon us. And one or two
of our forts are strong—”

“Traitors and their savage allies!” exclaimed
a large man in a mask, who, followed
by two savages, rushed upon them from the
midst of some bushes on the bank of the rivulet,
where they had been concealed. The savages
seized Mr. Norwood, tied his hands behind
him, and hurried him off. The man in the
mask caught Agnes, whom, without binding,
he attempted also to carry away. She screamed
and struggled, but he succeeded in removing
her out of the orchard. She ceased her cries,
and assuming a tone of entreaty, begged for a
few moments' respite. She was taunted with
the exclamation—

“Traitors and their savage allies! These
were harsh terms. You and your father, fair
maid, shall soon know how far they are applicable.”
He however slackened his pace with
the view of treating her more mildly, as he
added in a conciliatory tone—“you at least
have nothing to fear. Unless too obstinate, your
father and you shall be both well treated. I
love you and wish to separate you from a rebellious
people destined to destruction. Behold
me, and believe my words!”

He withdrew his mask and presented the
countenance of Butler. An instinctive alarm

seized her, and she again screamed aloud. At
that instant a man on horseback gallopped towards
them, the wood being sufficiently open
to admit his approach. Butler drew forth a
pistol. Agnes with great presence of mind,
watched his motions, and, at the moment he
fired, she shook his arm so forcibly, that the accuracy
of his aim was destroyed, and he missed
the advancing horseman. He uttered a profane
exclamation of disappointment, and, perceiving
the horseman to be in the act of presenting
a pistol, he fled, and was soon concealed
amidst the woods.

“My father—my father is carried off by the
savages!” cried Agnes, as Dr. Watson, for he
was the horseman, alighted in order to raise
and support her, for her alarm having overpowered
her, she had sunk upon the ground.

The main road was but a short distance from
the scene of this incident. The Doctor had
been riding past when he heard her cries. He
hastened to her assistance. He was armed as
has been stated. Since the times became dangerous
he had never ventured from home with
out being so. When Butler missed him and
fled, he prudently reserved his fire that he
might the more effectually protect Agues from
any other assailant until she could be conveyed
to a place of safety. This he soon accomplished,

and hastened to raise a party to go in pursuit
of the captors of Mr. Norwood.

It will be readily supposed that so violent an
outrage on the person of a clergyman so much
esteemed as Mr. Norwood, would produce
strong sensations of both sorrow and resentment
in the minds of his people. Several hundred
were speedily in active chase of the savages.
But the latter, whom Butler soon overtook,
knew the lurking places of the woods too well
to be easily captured. For several days they
were briskly pursued. But they finally escaped,
and arrived safe, with their worn-out prisoner,
after a perilous and toilsome journey, at the
chief village of the Mohawks, where the tories
had formed an encampment.

Oh! Agnes, unhappy daughter of an unfortunate
father, to what desolation of heart wert
thou now subjected! What horrors did thy bereaved
and fearful spirit imagine to be the
doom of thy beloved and only parent! The
vengeful bitterness and capricious cruelty of
the savage nature were well known to thee—
and was thy father now destined to endure
them! Was his aged and venerable frame to
run the cruel gauntlet, and sustain the scorn
and the blows of Mohawk ferocity? Or does
thy terrified imagination behold the blazing
faggots, and the stake to which he is bound, in

order to be consumed, amidst the shouting
vengeance of exulting fiends in the shape of
men? Is he doomed to that most cruel of all
deaths to which savage vengeance is accustomed
to devote its victims? Art thou, in thy misery
of mind, capable of enduring the terrible
thought? Or hast thou consolation? Does hope
whisper any solace to thy heart? Dost thou
listen to the suggestions of comfort? Dost thou
not rather repel them as fallacious, and beg thy
comforters to depart—to leave thee to silence—
to sorrow—to hopelessness—to despair! No;
—although thy grief is intense—almost too
great for thy tender frame to endure, thou art
a Christian, and wilt not harbour thoughts of
despair. Thy spirit is too strongly imbued
with the pious principles which thy father
taught thee, to question the designs of Heaven
in inflicting calamities, or to murmur at the
rod of chastisement although it pierces thee to
the heart. There is a Rock of comfort to which
he, for whom thou grievest, taught thee to look
for support under every affliction. And thou
rememberest his instructions—thou lookest to
the God of Christians for support in thy bereavement—for
solace in thy sorrow, and for
deliverance from thy affliction! Hence thou
wilt not listen to the suggestions of despair.
Thou art sick, and sorrowful, and wretched—
thou canst not help suffering, but thou sufferest
with piety—with meekness and resignation.

The unrepining but intense grief of Agnes,
although it could not overcome the strength of
her mind, overpowered that of her body.
Sickness seized upon her. A strong fever ran
through her veins, and prostrated her strength.
The solicitude with which Dr. Watson attended
to a patient so beloved may be readily imagined.
His sister, her faithful friend, now
became her anxious and diligent nurse. She
made her abode with her, and her assiduous
cares and judicious counsels contributed much
both to mitigate her fever and to shorten its
duration. Her recovery, however, was chiefly
owing to intelligence contained in the following
letter, which she received about a week after
the capture of her father, from the author of
the outrage.

“This letter is written by a man you hate;
yet you will receive it with satisfaction. With
satisfaction do I write it, because it will give
pleasure to the woman I love—the only woman
I ever loved. It pleases me also to think
that the characters I now trace will be perused
by you—will be gazed upon by those eyes
which have struck the fire of love into my
soul.—But I hasten to communicate the circumstance
which is the object of my writing,

and which alone will make my letter acceptable.—Your
father lives—he is well treated—
and, for your sake, until I hear from you, I
shall secure to him a continuance of good treatment.

“Believe me this will not be an easy task.
What I have already done for him, has encountered
much opposition. The half Indian
Brandt,—he who escaped from the attack upon
you, which afforded me the first occasion of beholding
your loveliness, and of rendering you
some service,—has not forgotten that he was
once a prisoner in your village. He is inveterately
hostile to all your people. He will go
any length, he will submit to any hardship, he
will expose himself to any danger, he will commit
any crime to be revenged on the feeblest
and most innocent among you. I had to sooth
and conciliate him, and make even humiliating
concessions to him, ere I could obtain his forgiveness
for the part I acted in your rescue.
His knowledge of the breach between your
people and me, and an assurance that we are
now irreconcilable enemies, tended to mollify
him; my influence among the royalists whom
he views as necessary instruments of his revenge,
procured for me his respect, and, in
some measure, his confidence; and my proposal

to join him in the late attempt to carry you off,
has attached him entirely to my interests.

“It was you I wanted, my love, and not
your father. But when, from our lurking
place, we discovered him to be with you, the
Indians proposed to seize both, and I made no
objection. I was rather pleased with the circumstance.
My passion for you is vehement.
I know your aversion to me. Your father being
in my hands, might afford me the power of
working on your mind, so as to gain your consent
to become mine. I now lament the circumstance
of your father being present. I have
no ill-will towards him. I wish no harm to
befall him. His being with you occasioned the
failure of my great object to secure you. It
drew the attention of the Indians from you. I
thought my own strength sufficient to bear you
off. It would have been so, had I not been desirous
to effect my purpose with as little harshness
as possible. I refrained from stifling your
cries by force. I even indulged you by relaxing
my speed when we left the orchard, for I
wished to show you that you would be treated
tenderly. That relaxation ruined the whole
project. You renewed your cries. Your friend
approached. I knew not how many might be
following him. I cursed my ill-starred fate,

and to avoid instant destruction, abandoned
you.

“I have gained something, however, by the
enterprise. Your father is my prisoner. I see
my advantage in this, and I am determined to
profit by it. Let the irresistible nature of my
love for you excuse my design. Your father
must be my instrument to gain, or if the expression
must be used, to extort, your consent
to my wishes. I have already stated that I
have protected him from injury. I have claimed
him from the savages as my own prisoner.
I have preserved him from the torments of
their cruel customs. I have saved him from
the humiliation and blows of the gauntlet, and
from the fiery horrors of the stake. Do I not
merit recompense for this? Will you not be
grateful? Will you not attribute my exertions—
for to do these things required exertions—to
the ardour of my love? I would restore him to
liberty, but my power over you would be then
lost. No; I must have you. My conceptions
of happiness are so entirely wrought up with
the idea of possessing you, that I swear to
you, I shall stop short of no effort that circumstances
may put in my power, to obtain that
great good for which I so passionately long. I
disdain every other luxury—I disdain mirth
and exhilaration—nay, I disdain reputation and

power—I would disdain life itself but for the
hope that it may last till you have blest me with
your charms.

“Hear now my purpose. Your father's fate
is in my hands. It is in yours. Your conduct
to me shall regulate mine to him. Let me
know your resolves, and let me know them
soon. The aspect of the times will admit of no
delay. I enclose a safe-conduct for any messenger
you may send me. Should you decide
on coming here to see your father, and to be
mine, it will be prudent to communicate your
design to me privately, lest the people among
whom you live, should prevent its accomplishment.
Your messenger will hear of me at the
wigwam of Aranooko. If he comes not soon,
I shall not expect him at all. Fierce and prompt
measures shall then be adopted, and remember
who is in my power. Oh! drive me not, thou
most fascinating of thy sex, to the adoption of
measures that may sink thee into affliction, that
humanity may deplore, that I myself may view
with horror! If thou refusest to make me happy,
most solemnly do I swear to make thousands
miserable. Arouse not my energies to
do mischief, or terribly, on all whom thou dost
love, will I revenge thy hatred of me.

John Butler.”

What a diversity of feelings did this letter
excite in the bosom of Agnes? With what contending
emotions did it agitate her whole frame?
Her immediate sorrow was relieved. Her father
was alive—was safe. How earnestly did
she rejoice—how ardently did she thank Heaven!
But how long should he be safe? That
depended upon her determination. Cruel consideration!
She could not, she dared not comply
with the terms on which her father would
be spared. Her love was given, her faith was
sworn, her hand was RETROTHED—to another.
She could not be Butler's without being faithless
and perjured. To save her father she would
cheerfully die; but could she wrong her soul?
Could she become a bold offender against Heaven
and subject herself to perdition?—No, no
—her father himself would shudder at the
thought. She must reject the dreadful alternative,
be the consequence what it would. To
Mary Watson she showed the letter, and explained
her perplexities, and from her she requested
counsel.

“Heaven be praised,” she said, “my father
is alive; and he has not been tortured. But
how shall I save him from the perils with
which he is threatened. Oh! my friend, thy
judgment is clear—counsel me what I shall
do!”

“Thy situation is, indeed, perplexing,” said
Miss Watson, “what counsel to give it is difficult
to determine. Concession to the demands
of this wicked man cannot be thought of. To
refuse him entirely might be to seal thy father's
fate. To defer making any reply to his letter
might gain time for the occurrence of some favourable
event. But that is uncertain; and he
threatens harshness in case of delay. To deceive
him by a feigned and conditional compliance,
would be the safest course; but would it
be proper? Would it be justifiable? These are
questions which require a clearer judgment than
mine, to resolve.”

“Alas!” said Agnes, “in what a situation
am I placed, when the least unhappy alternative
for me to adopt is deception!”

“But it is deception to prevent cruelty and
crime,” observed Miss Watson, “and deception
too that will injure no one. Does this not
argue something in its favour?”

“I would fain reconcile my conscience to its
adoption in this instance, ”said Agnes, “but
I cannot. The motive for the imposition may
be laudable. But still it would be imposition.
It would be promising to do that which I am
resolved not to do—Oh, Mary Watson, would
you advise me to be guilty of falsehood?”

“I am, indeed, bewildered on the subject,”

replied Miss Watson. “Anxiously do I wish
for the adoption of some means to preserve your
father,—and I can see no other than your consenting
to deceive the wicked man into whose
power he has fallen. Yet, I acknowledge, the
idea of your committing a deliberate falsehood,
is a painful one. It would be truly desirable
to avoid it. Perhaps my brother may be able
to suggest some means of extricating you out
of this difficulty.”

“I should like to consult him,” said Agnes.
“His wisdom may point out the correct course
for me to steer. On his friendship for aid in
my present distress, I implicitly rely, and I feel
that I do not rely in vain.”

A message was despatched for Dr. Watson,
and he was soon in the presence of Agnes.
When he heard her statement, “Thank Providence,”
said he,—“they have not murdered
your father! While there is life there is hope.
Butler must, if possible, be kept in uncertainty
respecting your determination. Peremptorily
to reject his terms might be fatal to your father.
You must write soothingly—but let me reflect
—before you write, I will consult a friend
whose counsel and whose aid, if any man's can,
will serve us on this occasion. He is at present
in our village.”

He withdrew, and returned in about a quarter

of an hour, with the Hermit of the woods.

“My daughter,” said the Hermit, “I respect
your scruples. Whether they be, in this instance,
overstrained or not, I would have you
for ever to cherish them. They are valuable
proofs of upright feelings—precious marks of
a pure mind. Yet, commendable as this rigid
adherence to literal veracity, under all circumstances,
is, in our course through life, we may
often find the exercise of contrivance and stratagem
requisite for self-preservation; and to use
artifice against the deceitful must be sometimes
allowable. It is but meeting them with their
own weapons. To use it against such a dark
and depraved dissembler as Butler, and, as in
the present case, for the purpose of preserving
the life of a virtuous man, can hardly be considered
wrong. But since you have scruples on
the subject, you do well to hearken to them.
They proceed from correct principles; and so
long as they regulate your conduct, you will
not be likely to go astray.—If you will commit
to me the management of this affair, I will endeavour
to effect the preservation of your father,
without obliging you to offend against your
conscience. You are betrothed to another.
You cannot promise yourself to Butler, without
speaking a wilful untruth. Yet on such a
promise the safety of your father seems to depend.

Fear not, my child;—adhere to the
strict principles of integrity which are the
foundation of your virtuous scruples. The consciousness
of doing so will be an unfailing solace
in every trial. I will exert myself in
behalf of your father. Will you trust to my
efforts?”

“You have spoken comfort to my heart,”
she replied. “Not only will I trust you, but
my thanks and my prayers shall attend your
generous efforts. Save my father, and the justice
of Heaven will reward you: it will be a
deed beyond the power of man to reward!”

The Hermit departed; and Agnes full of confidence
in the success of his exertions, soon
threw off the despondency which had weighed
so heavily upon her, and bloomed once more
in renewed health and recovered spirits.