University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

Sefton.

In the year 1776, the tempest of civil war
gathered fearfully over this continent, and
frowned with peculiar wrath on the region of
New England. The cause of American liberty
had aroused that section of the country to arms,
even before the sister colonies had determined
on a union of strength to expel foreign dictation
and secure independence. But on a question
so important, one involving so many conflicting
opinions, feelings, and interests as that
which then agitated the country, it could not
be expected that there would be unanimity of
sentiment and action. Many opposed, even
by force of arms, the cause of their country,
and the names of Whig and Tory became the
distinguishing appellations of parties that were
more fiercely arrayed against each other, than
the factions so called had ever been in Great
Britain. The tories of New England had exerted
themselves very early in the struggle.
But they constituted, although a bold, a very
small minority in that patriotic section, and

were soon subdued. Among the most troublesome
and dangerous of the bands into which
they formed themselves, was one commanded
by an enterprising and daring youth of Connecticut,
named Butler. His father had held a
lucrative and honourable office under the British
government, and had been one of the first
to assemble all who were attached to the old
regime, and raise the standard of Toryism.
His excessive zeal rendered him imprudent,
and in a rash attack upon a party of the patriots
he was taken prisoner, tried for treason, and
executed. His son, John, already mentioned,
assumed the command of his party, and vowed
revenge upon the Whigs for the destruction of
his father. He was well qualified to be the
leader of a desperate gang. Intrepid and fearless,
but wily and sagacious, he was equally
capable of contriving stratagems and of performing
exploits. Unscrupulous, unprincipled,
and fruitful in expedients, with wonderful celerity
he could retrieve the most disastrous
mischances; and often when his enemies supposed
that his power of doing mischief was
annihilated, he would suddenly come upon
them with renewed force and fury, and make
them feel that his arm was as strong, and his
heart as relentless as ever. His personal qualities,
as well as those of his mind, fitted him
well to be a leader of desperate men engaged
in a marauding warfare against the recognised
authorities of the land. At once agile and
athletic, and of vigorous health, he was capable
of enduring any fatigue, and sustaining every
privation to which the adventurous and dangerous
courses he pursued so frequently exposed
him. He had also an air of dignity and
loftiness in his appearance, which contributed
much to secure him the complete ascendency
he possessed over his followers.

Many and terrible were the slaughters, the
burnings, and the desolations committed by
Butler and his guerilla band on the fairest portions
of Connecticut. His name soon became
so terrible, that rewards were offered for his
apprehension, and the militia of the country
made every effort to effect his destruction. He
was at length taken, carried to New Haven,
and condemned to the same fate his father had
borne, a fate which he had so cruelly avenged,
and so amply deserved. But he died not.
Love saved him. Oh! what is so faithful!
what is so energetic! what is so precious to
man as woman's love! Isabella Austin loved
the traitor, although she approved not the treason,
for her father's family were Whigs. She
deceived his gaoler—she procured admission to
the convict; and the same stratagem which

afterwards saved the life of the celebrated La
Vallette, now saved that of John Butler.

Uriah Austin, the father of his deliverer,
and his family, with some other families in
the neighbourhood, were then preparing to fly
from the war-scourged plains of New England,
in search of repose and safety in the valley of
Wyoming. By the entreaties of his daughter,
and influenced by his own feelings of compassion,
Mr. Austin was prevailed upon to grant
shelter and protection to the fugitive whose
principles and conduct he reprobated, but who
now threw his life into his hands and assumed
the mask of penitence, professing his desire to
accompany his protectors to the country of
Wyoming, where some of his relatives were
already settled, and where he solemnly pledged
himself to lead a life of peace. The good
hearted Mr. Austin consented, and even promised,
in the event of his continued amendment
for a length of time sufficient to prove its
sincerity, to consent to his union with his
daughter.

It was early in the month of May, 1776, on
a day beautiful and serene as the unclouded sun
in spring ever illuminated, that a company of
travellers, with their wives and children, numbering
altogether about fifty persons, were seen
pursuing their way slowly along the right bank

of the Susquehanna in the direction of the village
of Wyoming. They were accompanied
by a numerous drove of cattle, and about a dozen
teams, to which were attached large wagons
laden with all the requisites of household comfort.
Interspersed among these, at irregular
distances, a number of smaller vehicles, chiefly
gigs and dearborns, bore along the females and
the children, the aged and the infirm of the
party. In advance of these, two active young
men, armed, as if for the chace, with rifles and
hunting knives, pursued their way on foot at
a much brisker rate than the rest of the company.
These, aided by a couple of pointers,
were on the look-out for game, as the wild
deer and the wild pigeons were then abundant
in the woods. Of the latter they had made
considerable prey, when, considering that they
were now some miles separated from their
friends, they sat down on a bank that overlooked
the river, at a turning of the road, to
await their approach.

The impressive stillness of undisturbed nature
was around them. The river lay in a
smooth and glittering sheet, like an immense
mirror, beneath them, while a sombre forest
stretched far beyond it, whose tall tops seemed
to touch the heavens at the verge of the
horizon. Behind them at a very short distance,

an oak-bearing mountain, one of those
that separated the surrounding country into so
many fruitful and pleasant valleys, raised its
lofty summit to the skies, as if it would penetrate
the secrets of the elements above.

“How solemn is the deep tranquillity of the
magnificent scene now before us!” said Henry
Austin to his companion, John Butler, the
fugitive from justice, with whom the reader is
already acquainted. Henry was the only son
of Uriah Austin who had afforded Butler his
protection, and the only brother of Isabella, who
had saved the life of that offender. He was at
this time little more than twenty years of age;
warm, open, and generous in his disposition,
and so zealous in the cause for which his country
was then struggling, that he panted to enrol
himself amongst her defenders; and but
for the commands of his father, whom he never
yet had ventured to disobey, he would, ere
this, have arrayed himself in their ranks.

Although Butler, in his heart, disliked the
patriotism of this brave youth, he was aware
of the imprudence of, at this time, expressing
his feelings; and, with profound dissimulation,
he continued to affect penitence for his former
conduct. In reply to Henry's remark, he said,
“this tranquillity forms a striking but pleasing
contrast to the scenes of tumult, strife, and

blood, in which I was so lately engaged; but
which, thanks to your generous-hearted sister,
I now, from my very soul, abhor.”

“What is past cannot be recalled,” replied
Henry. “It is useless to grieve for it. When
penitence is sincere, it ought to procure the
forgiveness of error. But let us not allude to
the past when its memory is unpleasant. Let
it sink into forgetfulness; and let the future
engage our attention. Our country is, at this
moment, engaged in a tremendous struggle
against a powerful foe.—Oh! that I could fly
to her assistance.”

“Your enthusiasm is natural to your youth,”
said Butler, with an internal sneer. “But, my
dear Henry, you cannot be every where; and
you are now where your duty requires you,
comforting your parents in their old age, and
assisting them to find a place of safety from the
terrors of the times.”

“I should, indeed,” replied Henry, “be
unwilling to desert my friends in their present
circumstances. But the very repose of this
mighty solitude that surrounds us, recalls to
my mind, by the force of contrast, the agitations,
the dangers and the sufferings that now
shake our native land to its centre, and overwhelm
thousands of her sons and daughters in
irretrievable ruin. When I think of this, I

cannot but sigh, that I am prevented from hastening
to her aid; and, if she conquers, to share
in her glory, or if she falls, to partake of her
calamities.”

“Your patriotism is sublime!” said Butler,
with an irony of tone which Henry's inexperience
of hypocrisy prevented him from observing.
“The profound silence of the present
scene is, indeed, strongly distinguished from
the sounding of the trumpet, the echoing of
the bugle, or the roaring of the cannon, and all
the other clamours of brazen-throated war, which
now roll their alarums along our sea-board,
from Boston to Savannah. But should we not
bless Providence, that those we love best are
so far removed from those clamours, and that
we are present to defend them from whatever
dangers may assail them?—for even here danger
may come.—Yes, Henry, tranquil as things
now are amidst this remote solitude, your martial
ardour may yet be needed even here. The
savage prowler, whose amity is so uncertain,
is in the vicinity.”

At this moment their attention was drawn
to a tall man of rather elderly appearance,
clothed in a wild mixture of savage and civilized
apparel, hurrying down the mountain behind
them. He soon approached, and addressed
them with hasty utterance—

“White men—Christians—if ye have any
of the compassionate feelings which Christians
are said to possess, haste with me to rescue
from the cruelty of the savages, two young
females of your own nation, who have fallen
into their hands!”

“Lead on,” cried Henry, “we will follow;”
and Butler echoed the reply. The hill
was soon ascended; and about twenty minutes'
rapid race along its summit, brought them to a
steep and dangerous declivity, down a narrow
and scarcely traceable path of which their
aged conductor plunged with unhesitating alacrity,
and they as fearlessly followed. At
length, on coming to a tall and precipitous rock,
the base of which reached to the bottom of the
hill, their guide halted.

“Let us now proceed more cautiously,”
said he. Then in a stooping posture, so as to
be concealed by the brushwood, he preceded
them slowly and in silence for a short distance.
The brushwood then terminated, and afforded
them a clear view into a small glade in the
valley beneath them.

“My part is now done. What remains is
yours,” said the old man, and he disappeared.

Our adventurers beheld two white females
seated on a log; and three savages, two of
whom were employed at a large fire, apparently

preparing food, while the third seemed
to act as sentinel over the females. A
short consultation soon determined the measures
they should adopt. They cautiously descended
a little lower among the brushwood,
till they approached near enough to take a sure
aim, when, both firing at the same moment,
two of the Indians fell dead. The third seized
a musket; but the assailants being sheltered by
a large tree, were secure from his fire, until
they had time to re-load. But before that had
taken place, another Indian, who had been
straggling a short distance from the group, appeared
upon the scene, armed also with a musket.
Instead of firing, however, the two savages
hastened from the glade to take shelter
behind the adjoining trees, which they reached
in safety.

Austin and Butler were now, for a space,
perplexed how to proceed. But the latter, being
experienced in every mode of bush-fighting,
soon determined on his measures. Instructing
his companion to remain stationary, with his
rifle displayed so as to deceive the Indians, he
cautiously approached them in a circuitous
direction, concealed by the woods, until he
gained a sure aim at one of them, whom he shot
through the heart. The other, with a loud
yell, darted from his station, exposing himself,

in his flight, to the view of Austin, who fired,
but missed him. The savage, now that both
his antagonists had discharged their pieces,
rushed, with desparation, towards Austin, who,
in a few moments, found himself in contact
with his furious enemy, whom, with one blow
of his rifle, he felled to the earth. On account
of the tree which protected him, the Indian
had found no opportunity of firing at him until
he received the blow which disabled him
from firing with effect. The gun was discharged
in the scuffle, but its contents lodged
harmlessly in the side of the hill. In an instant,
however, the savage was again on his
feet. He was a powerful and active man, and
Austin would have had a dangerous and difficult
struggle to undergo, had not his antagonist
perceived the approach of Butler. One leap
carried him almost to the bottom of the hill,
where he plunged amidst the thickest of the
woods, and disappeared.

The attention of the victors was now directed
to the females, who had fled, with terror,
into the woods, at the commencement of the
combat. But the extreme thickness of the
undergrowth rendered it impossible for them
to proceed far. They, however, secreted themselves,
and anxiously awaited the issue of the

contest. Finding that their deliverers were
victorious, they re-appeared to express their
gratitude and throw themselves on their protection.

But who can imagine the sensations of Henry
Austin, when he beheld so lovely a being as
Agnes Norwood, kneeling to return thanks to
Heaven for her deliverance, in effecting which
he had the happiness of being so instrumental.
Her amiable companion, Mary Watson, who
knelt beside her; his own companion and colleague
in the victory, Butler; the slain Indians;
the whole scene of woods and mountains, earth
and the heavens, that surrounded him, all—all
were forgotten, or rather extinguished in the
absorbing sensation of that enrapturing gaze
with which he beheld her. And she, when
her grateful outpourings to Heaven were finished,
and rising to salute him, for the first time
noticed his ardent gaze, and surveyed his generous
countenance—she, too, felt as if there was
none but him in the world.—From that moment,
indeed, they became all the world to
each other. On that spot, and in that moment,
love exerted his supremacy over two youthful
hearts as pure, as fervent, and as faithful as
ever beat in human bosoms. It is true, they
were entire strangers; they knew nothing of

each other; and yet they felt as if they, for the
first time, beheld beauty and perfection, of
whose existence they had been long aware,
but which had never before been presented to
them in a vision so full of truth, blessedness,
and love.