University of Virginia Library

4. CHAP. IV.

My father was alive—thank heaven! my father was
alive!—my poor mother too—O, my children, would
that you could understand me, without the use of language—!

`This comes,' said my father, sternly, to Archibald,
who stood before him, holding Arthur by the hand—
`of your disobedience. Had you returned last night—
as you promised—'

`How many were they?' said Archibald—`twenty
when they broke in'—said my father—baring his
brawny arm to the shoulder—it was gashed to the bone
in a dozen or more places—`twenty!—but they left us
with less than half able to sit their horses—two
more of you—and we would have made mince-meat of
the rascals—d—n them.—'

I looked at him, awestruck at the preternatural expression
of his wrath—and wondered at the melancholy,
dreadful aspect of my mother—

`Mary—Mary—said Archibald—gasping for breath;
did she come—was she there—ah!'

My father put him aside—my mother shook from
head to foot, and Arthur dropped Archibald's hand,
and stood—Oh! how altered, since the las night—
immoveable as a dead man.

Archibald was the first to speak—`she is dead then,
I—I hope,' said he.

`Aye—dead—dead, in her innocence—blessed one!'
said my father, as if his heart were breaking. `Then
thank God! thank God!' said Archibald—while Arthur

locked his hands, and lifted them, devoutly, to the skies;
and my mother, as if touched by some horrid thought all
at once—threw herself into my father's arms, and buried
her face in his bosom—he repulsed her, and shuddered—and
then, as if wondering at himself, embraced
her, for a whole minute, in silence—and then led her
away—while she covered her face with her hands—and
moved like a woman, that God hath more than widowed—her
very attitude was that of desperation and
horrour.—

Archibald took out his watch, with a calmness that
awed me—bent the sword upon which he leant, so that
the hilt almost touched the floor---exchanged a look,
the import of which I did not suspect, till his absence
had began to alarm us---with Arthur---and stepped out
of the room.

We were at Mr. Arnauld's---I had forgotten to tell
you how it was brought about---but there it was---and
there was the wounded officer too---the handsomest fellow
that I ever saw in my life---lying in the same
apartment.

`My excellent neighbour,' said Mr. Arnauld, entering,
booted and spurred---followed by his beautiful wife,---
`there is my hand---this outrage is not to be borne---
henceforward, I am an American---heart, blood and
pulse---there is the royal protection! (tearing a paper in
pieces, and throwing it into the fire, indignantly, as
he spoke)---there let it be!---no peace with the tyrants---
no quarter! I have been a friend of the royal cause---
a friend of Sir Henry Clinton---and that paper,
signed by himself, and Sir William Howe---whose gallant
brother died in my arms, when I was a fellow
soldier with him, years and years ago---that paper contained
the royal word, the plighted honour of these
scoundrel commissioners, that, not only my household
should be spared from pillage, but yours---nay, do not
frown, my friend---I knew your sturdy and inflexible
nature too well, to attempt compounding with it---I hope
that you will forgive me---your name does not appear—
but no matter—there lies the protection, it was a trap,

a mere trap to lull us into security—the Hessians
cannot read it---and henceforward'—locking his hands,
`I will depend upon no other but that of God, and my
own right arm--I---' (his eye fell upon Arthur, whom he
had not seen before.)

He faltered—and I was not a little startled at the
manner of Arthur, who stood, looking at him awhile,
with his arms folded, lips compressed, and an appalling
fixedness of eye; and then left the room.

Mr. Arnauld, took the hand of his wife—`Louisa,'
said he, `make my peace with that young man'—he
has saved the life of your husband—I will not say how
—but his life, and something, dearer to him than his
life, Arthur Rodman, spared to him—saved to him.'

`How, Robert?' said Mrs. Arnauld.

`I cannot well bear to relate it,' said her husband—
`but you know my temper—I—enough, for the present,
that he saved me from a crime—the young and
innocent, from death—and, when deeply, unalterably
wronged, and I was helpless at his feet, shook me from
him, to the dust.'

His wife, understood him, but too well; and her eyes
ran over, as she turned away her face.

`Arnauld!' said my father, in a terrible voice, `are
you the man?'

`I am'—was the reply, as he stood fearlessly before
him.

`God forgive you!' said my father, `poor Mary!'

`Mary!' said Mrs. Arnauld, glancing at her husband—`not
Mary Austin?—what mean you?'—`Oadley,'
said Arnauld, going up to him, with a look of
deep terrour, `I dread to hear your reply—you are not
a man to be lightly disturbed—what has happened to
the poor innocent?'

There was a silence of half a minute; during which,
we all stood, looking at each other.

`She is dead,' said my father.

`Dead!—God forbid—how!—how in Heaven's
name?—tell me—tell me, Oadley!'

`She had discovered, before you saw her, last night,

that you were a married man—she had determined to
meet you once more; upbraid you for your perfidy,
and throw herself at the feet of Arthur Rodman—poor
Arthur. That led to the encounter between you—
that brought her to my house, last night—that—'

Arnauld staggered away from us, as my father continued,
and his wife sunk into a chair, and buried
her face in her hands.

`Last night, Sir—she—she was destroyed.'

`May they be accursed, forever and ever! may the
hottest lightnings of Heaven—the—'

`Rash man!'—cried my father, sternly, `how
dare you kneel down, before your own wife, and call
the lightnings of God upon men---soldiers---untrained
and undisciplined ruffians, who would but have done,
what you meditated---you, Arnauld---a father and a
husband---you! who should have been the first, having
daughters of your own, to spill your blood, for the
protection of sorrow, and innocence, and helplessness
---you!---the destruction of the loveliest creature, that
was ever infatuated with a villain.'

Arnauld, arose; and but for me, would have struck
my father.

`That, in my own house!' cried he, black in the
face with passion, and frothing at the mouth.

`Aye! in your own house, or any where---strike
me if you will!---broken hearted, as I am---my habitation
given to the flames---my wife---(I thought that
he would never finish the sentence)—my own wife,
the mother of my boys---the only companion of my
heart and soul, Arnauld---for I have been faithful to
her, and she to me; and we were hoping to have gone
down to our graves, at last, in our old age, untouched
by shame or dishonour—I—I— Aye! any where
—turn us, if you will, naked and homeless, upon the
cold world—shut your door against us, and see us
perish, as the wild beast should not perish, if her
young were with her—and still. I will repeat to you,
that—let it ring in your ears, at the day of judgment;
that Mary Austin died!—and, blessed be God, that she

did die!—more innocent, even in the locked arms of a
storming madman, than—'

`Tell me—tell me!—you know what I would say,
Oadley—tell me but that—that, Oadley, and I will
lay down my life at your bidding—forgive you—and—'

The tears gushed out of his eyes, and he sobbed like
a child, and stood with locked hand, waiting the reply.

`Yes, Arnauld,' said my father, I do understand
you—there is a feeling of humanity about you, yet.
Repent and be forgiven!—repent, and there is my
hand: Forever and ever, will I stand by you, and
your's—Mary Austin, died unprofaned.'

Arnauld fell upon his knees, buried his face in the
lap of his wife; shook all over, as with an ague;
pressed her hands, again and again, to his forehead,
and lips, and eyes, while her tears fell like rain upon
his face, through her dishevelled hair. O, it was a
sight for angels to dwell upon, with beating hearts,
and trembling lips. There was not a dry eye, among
us—the wounded stranger, himself, who seemed hardly
enough alive, to lift his noble face from the pillow,
lay there, with his eyes shut, and the tears trickling,
slowly, through their lashes.

`Let this never be mentioned,' said my father, in a
milder tone, turning to me; with a look of such solemnity,
that I felt it as a dying injunction.

Our attention was called off, by a distant shouting;
and soon after, a troop of horsemen came by the window,
in full gallop. Some of them, I recognized, immediately,
for the men that were to assemble at twelve
---It was near two, I found, and then, for the first
time, the cause of my brother's disappearance flashed
into my mind. My blood curdled—I knew his rash
spirit, and ran out to meet them. All my fears were
realized—he had met them—led them in person, after
the marauders, and, finally succeeded, in capturing a
party of the very rascals, that had burnt down our
house, the night before.

My father knew them immediately, and after
embracing Archibald, who was so weak, from one or

two flesh wounds, and his natural delicacy, that he
could hardly sit on his horse, began to move his arms,
as if he were about to take a terrible vengeance upon
some one.

`Are here all?—all?' said he impatiently; the
blood gushing from his nostrils.

`All that we met,' said one of the party, `except
the tallest, and one or two others, that we left upon the
ground.'

`And the scoundrel that Archibald shot, said a
second, because he happened to have a handkerchief
about his neck, that he thought was his mother's.'

`Had he a red collar?' said my father, catching
him by both arms—a red collar?—red?---red as blood?
---hey?'

`Yes, Sir,' was the reply, `Archibald's got the
handkerchief now.'

Archibald pulled it out of his bosom—it was wet
through and through, soaking in crimson—he turned
away, sick as death from it; it dropped from his
fingers—and he shuddered.

`That handkerchief! yes—yes, my brave boy—yes!
that was thy mother's—God bless thee for it!—God forever
bless thee!—thou little knowest what thou hast
done. Was it you—Archibald—was it you! did you
shoot him dead—dead, Archibald?”

My brother shook his head—looked at his red fingers—and
staggered to the wall.

`O thou!' cried my father, locking his old hands,
`thou the avenger of blood!--thou the judge of all the
earth..... blessed be thy name, that the son hath been
permitted to deal out thy retribution upon the man
that—O, my child!—my child! ask of me what
thou wilt!—lo, I am ready to do thy bidding.”

Archibald arose—fell upon his neck—and uttered
some low sounds.

`Yes my boy—my brave boy!—whenever you
please---and I will go with you—lead you, with my own
hands, into the presence of Washington—buckle a sword

upon my own thigh, and stand by you, as your soldier
and follower, to the last drop of my blood!'

Archibald could support it no longer---he fainted
away upon the spot.

`But where is Arthur!—look to him, John---the
must not be left alone'---said my father.

`Hearty as a buck,' said one of the horsemen---`dang
it! how he cut and slashed among 'em.'

`Did'nt he strike home?' cried a second catching his
hand.

`Home!' cried a stout yankee, who had just come
among us---`home? yes! that he did! the first blow set
that fellow's skull-cap a spinning, like a pewter plate--
and the next, brought him from his horse.'

`Fleshed to the hilt!' cried another, of a younger,
and better educated class. Would there had been more
of them!'

`But is he safe?' said my father---`Not a hair of his
head is hurt,' said the speaker---`he and Archy were
the first that came up with the chaps, taking their fire,
foolishly enough, as he said, himself, afterward, all
along, from right to left, as they passed:---and they
were clattering away, at a devil of a rate, before we
could get up---your d---d blood horses, farmer Oadley,
are too many guns for us.'

`In attack?' said his companion---chucking him
under the ribs---`well enough in retreat, hey?'

`Bob'---said one of the others---`did you see them
get a single blow at Rodman;'

`No---d-n'd a one dared to strike at him, after they
saw his face!'

`No wonder they were frightened!'—said the other
—`my bits chattered, when he passed us, at the heels of
that devilish mare of Oadley's;—he looked like a dead
man, broke loose in day light---and breaking his neck
to get back again.'

`He was in a fair way to get back again, dead or
alive, when I saw him last,' said the little fellow—`but
let us look him up.'

`Aye, do my brave lads,' said my father, `do, and

by tomorrow's sun I will be with you, and we'll raise
a regiment of such fellows, and see if that won't fix
'em.'

The motion of a hand, from the bed where lay the
wounded man, turned our attention.

I went to him,—he was very faint—`let them do
nothing rashly,' said he---`wait a few days—we shall
know by that time whether I am to live or die. If I live,
I'll carry you in myself—in style my lads—in style!—
if not—why—ah, that was an ugly cut, faith—I'll
tell you how to do it, for yourself—Don't go yet—Washington
won't hear a word of you—he is tired and sick
of your volunteering—your rabble gentry—coming and
going when they please—there's the damned Connecticut
light horsemen--they have just gone home, in a
body—the scampering rascals!—because he put them
on duty at night—pretty fellows!—I may thank them,
and their lubberly Colonel—whew!—for this cursed
job—I went to pick up my videttes—and—damn it, one
half of 'em were your sabbath-day troopers from Connecticut—
gentlemen! gentlemen! every one of them.
Got tired, and went home—they be damned!'

I could hardly keep from laughing, at the drollery of
his eyes, and tone—the strange mixture of levity and
seriousness about this stranger—he was certainly the
handsomest man that I ever saw—tall—well made—
square shouldered—full chest—and trod, after he was
well enough to walk, with such an air of authority,
that I felt like a boy in his presence.

But while I was listening to him—my father gave me
a sign, and left the room. I followed him, and he led
the way to a vacant lot, in the rear of the house. His
manner was solemn, beyond all that I had ever seen.

`Hearken to me!' said he,--`do not interrupt me,
my son. I have determined to go into the army. This
night's work was a judgment upon me. I shall return
no more to my home—it is dishonoured. I shall build
no other—none!—I could not well bear to sit round
the hearth of another. I shall leave your mother here
—she is prepared for it all. Go in, and comfort her—

the poor widowed creature—the broken hearted,
desolate woman! Before I sleep, I shall buckle a
sword upon my thigh—one that has been fleshed already,
to the hilt—to the hilt, Jonathan—And never will I
let go of it, till my heart is shattered—my Country
free—my wife avenged. That done, it matters little
what may become of me--I can come to her then—the
aged mourner--and lay my gray head down in her lap
—and die.'

`Father!' said I, catching at his hand, `speak to me
—what has happened?'

`Silence,' said he, `silence!—forget it—harmless
yourself, for the sacrifice. Ask no questions. Go and
comfort your mother.'

`But, Mary—may I ask what became of her?'

`She is dead,' he replied.

`I know that, father—but how?'

`How!—would you—unnatural boy—would you—
(he appeared to be choking)—I—I—'

`But what time did they come, father; and how
came Arthur there?'

`Sit down, and listen to me.' There was a large
tree, uptorn, near us, and I obeyed—the roots were
before us, shooting about, and loaded with such a
quantity of soil, that nothing less than an earthquake,
one would have thought, had been able to disturb it.
I observed, that my father's eyes were fixed upon it,
and as he sat down, his lips moved.

`Even so!' said he, inwardly—`even so—even so!
—uptorn and prostrate in its old age!—it's head
in the dust... struck with barrenness... even so!
—the whirlwind, and the fire—they will have way;
and the sword too!—that shall have way!—the
widowed one, and the orphan—the broken hearted,
and the dying—the avenger of blood, hath his hand
upon the hilt—wo to them!—wo to them!—the grey
hair of the dishonoured matron—the tears of the
mother—the wailing, and shriek of the virgin—they
are in the wind—in the wind!—O, Lord God of Israel!—the
prayer of an afflicted people—Lo! the old

men are taking the field, and the aged, and abused
women are buckling their harness, with lamentation
and shame, upon their old fathers, and husbands!'

His voice died away, thrilling my blood like an imprecation.
I could see it working along in the wind,
like a cloud of pestilence. I was awestruck—the tremendous
repose of his countenance—the slow heaving
of his broad chest—and the idea of a man, already approaching
the age of sixty, about to abandon every thing
on earth, even to his wife,—and go out against the enemies
of America—all united to solemnize and confound
my feelings.—

A silence of some minutes followed, after which, he
proceeded to relate what had happened, charging me at
the same time, with a look that I shall never forget, not
to speak of the subject to my mother, nor to any body
else, not even to Arthur.

`About ten last night, or perhaps eleven, for we had
not been in bed long, I heared Arthur's voice at the door
and arose to let him in—there was a large fire burning
in the room, and I observed that he was so agitated,
that he could hardly speak. As he passed me, he put
something behind the door,—I went to see what it was,
while he continued walking, to and fro, in the room,
like a distracted man—`it was a sword.'

`Ah,' said I, recollecting his errand—`how did you
succeed? How many recruits?'

He did not appear to understand me. I repeated the
question, but he seemed to have forgotten all that had
passed.

`Who came home with you?' said I. He stopped
short—passed his hand over his forehead—`I do not
know, uncle,' said he, `upon my word, what you have
been saying—pray repeat it.'

`I heard your voice, long before you knocked,' said
I—`in earnest conversation with somebody.'

He coloured.—

`At first, I thought that people were whispering near
me—there were two voices, certainly—and then your
aunt, who had been listening too, observed that it was

the voice of people at a distance—coming up the wood,
`Soon after this you knocked. You look disturbed.'

`I am,' said he. `There is danger abroad. I came
to apprise you of it. I saw two or three horsemen in
the wood, about an hour since, with one stationed at a
distance, as if waiting for a reinforcement.'—

`Some foraging party, I suppose'—

`No, I should think not—they are not well enough
covered for that--Ha!'

We saw a bright flame arise then, all of a sudden,
in the direction of Mr. Ulster's—and the sparks rushed
up, into the very sky it seemed, like a whirlwind of
fire.

`Let us bar the windows, and door,' said Arthur—
`and be prepared for the worst,—it is the Hessians.'

`Yes,' I replied,--`and the boys, will be at hand soon
—I expect them every moment.'

He shook his head--`we cannot depend upon them,'
said he. `They have business elsewhere.'

We went about securing, as well as we could, the
windows and doors--and preparing our two men servants--placing
the women in the cellar—my wife,
Mary, and the three girls--and then sat down, to
await the result.

`What is the matter with Mary!' said I, `I thought
her a girl of more heart. How pale she is! she is
safer here than at home--and yet, I should be sorry to
have any ill befall her, under my roof. How is this,
Rodman?--you are strangely affected,' said I, seeing
him turn away his face--`look at me. What has happened
to you?'

`By heaven,' he answered, `I can bear it no longer
—dear, dear Mary!—uncle, you know, how long I
have loved her—how truly—and, how her affectionate
heart used to doat upon me—and—'

`Used to, Arthur—there is no change, I hope.'

`No change!' said he, `when Mary Austin goes
out of her bed, at night, to meet a man, in a lone wood
—away from mortal help—a married man!'—

I caught him by the arm—`Arthur Rodman—are
you mad?' said I,—`who has put this notion into your
head? It is a wretched, pitiful falsehood.'

`I saw it, uncle—I saw it—thank God, in time—I
heard her voice—I knew it—for I was riding ten miles
out of my way, just to hear Mary Austin's voice, once
more, before I went into battle; though, it were only
to say, as she used to, `heaven bless you, Arthur!—
good night, Arthur!' I was in high spirits—my blood,
bounded through my arteries—I had just left a troop of
young fellows; stout of heart, and true of hand; and
was happy—O, how happy! I heard a shriek—loud—
piercingly loud—it was a shriek, that could not be
mistaken. I happened to be armed, and I galloped in
a direct line, through the wood—by heaven, I thought
that I never should get to it, in this world; but, at
last, I did. There she was, yet struggling with the
villain, and, nearly overcome. I struck him to the
earth, and she fainted; but just as I was about driving
my sword through his accursed body—she—O that
women will forgive such things—things that shame men
to think of—she threw herself before me, clasped my
knees, and stayed the uplifted weapon.'

`I knew not what lulled me—whether it was the
broad moonlight; her utter helplessness; her abashed
eyes; and pale, speechless lips, or what; but, the
sword dropped from my hand, and the villain walked
off.'

`She still clung to me, not, I am sure, in tenderness
to me, but lest I should pursue him.'

`Who was he?' said I, to Arthur.

`I shall never utter his name, uncle,' said he; `I
have promised that, and, the secret shall die with me.'

`But, how came you here?' said I, to Mary.

She hid her face, and burst into tears. `Because,'
said she, at length—`but O, let us leave this place—
Arthur---let us go away—home, home—if you will not
abandon me!' I was unable to reply—and she told
me, what must have been true, that she had met him,
with the most innocent intention—that she had no

idea of the distance, to which he had beguiled her, or
the lateness of the hour—that she had consented to this,
as a farewell meeting—that she loved him—but, that
she had found he was a married man; and, she could
not bear to break his heart, as he had told her a thousand
times, it would, if she left him, till she had reasoned
awhile, with him. In short, uncle—the poor
creature, in the simplicity, and purity, and nakedness
of her own heart, had thrown herself, entirely into his
power; and, nothing saved her, but my happening to
hear that she would visit you to day; and, by coming
at the hour that I did---for—'

`Here there was a sound, as if a body of horsemen
were silently, surrounding the house,' said my father—
`a few minutes after, there was a loud knocking. I
looked out, and was accosted in a language, that I
could not understand—they were Hessians, I supposed;
and my blood ran cold, for they appeared to be numerous;
and their merciless nature was well known
to us—they were of the beleaguering rabble, that
formed the outposts, of the enemy, in their stupid ignorance
of our nature—taught to believe, that we are
savages; and, that if they were taken alive, they would
be roasted, and eaten.'

I could discover, from their gestures, that they
were determined to force an entrance—and, one of
them, a large, handsome man, levelled his pistol, two
or three times, at my head—and at last, irritated by
the delay, fired; but, the ball went wide of its mark.
The next moment, he fell—Arthur had put a bullet
through him. This was the signal for a general
assault. Some dismounted—some ran to the barn; the
leader, forbidding them to set fire to it, yet, lest the
neighbourhood should be alarmed—or, such, at least,
I took to be the meaning; for, one or two, who had
lighted matches in their hands, trampled them out.
They began to fire into the windows, with their pistols,
but with so little effect, man after man, falling
from their saddles, that they all dismounted, at last,
and made an attempt upon the door. Every moment,

I expected it to give way—the house rocked to its
foundation; but, we were ready to receive them, with
one heavy blunderbuss, three muskets, full of balls,
and half a dozen cutlasses---when Mary rushed in,
her hair all in disorder, shrieking, that she had seen
a face, at the back window; and, that they were
forcing their way, through the wood cellar, into the
part, where the women were.

`Go back this moment,' said I, `to the cellar—if
they break in, utter no cry, and make no noise.' I had
previously ordered all the fire to be extinguished.

`Farewell Arthur—dear Arthur,' cried the distracted
girl—throwing her arms round his neck.—

`O leave me, leave me, Mary,' he cried, `not till
you forgive me—never, never!”—

`The noise at the door redoubled—I was indignant
at the folly of the girl. Begone!' said I.—

Her head dropped upon his shoulder—pale as death;
but I saw him press his lips to her forehead, and heard
him whisper something—at which she recovered—carried
his hand to her lips—and left the room, with a firm,
noble step, saying, `do your duty uncle—do your duty
Arthur—we will do ours.'

The words had scarcely passed her lips when I heard
a tremendous crash, the door gave way, and Arthur
cried—dash out the lights!—

The order was instantly obeyed, and, for five minutes,
there was an awful and bloody struggle among us. To
this I attribute our safety—for they were afraid to deal
a blow at last, and were receiving ours, continually—
many of them died by the hands of each other, and by
the light of every pistol flash, a man was seen to fall
before Arthur or myself. I had no notion that a sword
was a weapon of such power, in the hand of an inexperienced
farmer—but I can assure you, my son, that
every man, struck by me, was disabled.

In the middle of this combat, we heard a stifled
shriek—and immediately after, we found the floor giving
way under our feet—it fell—the smoke and flames
roared like a furnace through the roof:—the shrieks

continued—the cries of the women were heard on every
side—a guard stood over us—but we cut our way
through—and the first object that caught my view was
the dead body of a man, cut from the head down, just
falling with a woman in his arms—It was Mary!—her
heart had broke—she was nearly suffocated in the
smoke, but, obedient to her resolve, had determined to
perish there, rather than bring her destroyer upon her,
or alarm us.—But they had found her, and one was
bearing her off when the sword of Arthur cleft his head
open.

There were other cries—`show no mercy,' said I—
none!—hew them in pieces, men and women too!—and
he followed me—every thing gave way before us—one
of the women was suffocated, we have reason to believe,
with poor Mary—one we saved—together with---O!
there was one ruffian, with a red collar, whom I had
pursued for ten minutes over burning rafters, through a
whirl wind of fire, and clouds of smoke and darkness---
but could never reach him---but---a bullet did---Archibald
dealt a blow for his mother,—I—I—your
mother had fled---and I found her utterly powerless and
insensible—I—'

`I can tell you no more---something alarmed the sentinel---for
after firing his pistol, which was unheeded by
the troop, he rode in with a loud outcry, and the whole
band were in their saddles directly.—Let us return.'

He arose abruptly as he ended this, and walked before
me, into the house---talking all the way to himself,
as if unconscious of my presence.