University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

Just as we were rising from our dinner, on Tuesday,
a letter was put into Copely's hand, saying that we
should not be wanted for a week; that our furloughs
were all extended for ten days; and beseeching us not
to lose the occasion, by hurrying away from all that
was dear to us—perhaps forever. It was not in the
hand writing of Archibald; but there was an authority
within, signed by Washington himself, upon which,
was an endorsement—that we knew. That was by
Archibald. `Love to all the family,' it said. `Be with
us any time before ten days. Pulaski's legion are off;
and we are ordered for the south.'

Judge of our emotion—we had set, mournfully, all
the day long beside each other, like people, who can
count the moments of their happiness. Our hearts were
full, and our eyes reeled in their lustre, as we arose,
and struck hands, and embraced all around.

Let us hurry over these ten days. They were the
happiest of my whole life; days of deep feeling, quiet
love; and confidence, so holy and pure; tenderness,
so still and hushed, that, when I recur to the memory
of them now, in my forlornness and abandonment, my
heart feels warm again; and, if I shut my, eyes, I can
feel the wet lips of Clara upon my forehead, trembling
there; and, my arm encircling her—O, Clara!
peace to thy shadow, love. Thou art very dear to me.

At last, the morning came; not the tenth morning—
but the eighth; for, happy as we were, husbands as we
were, we had not forgotten the duty of a soldier; and
our horses were already pawing the green turf under
the open windows; and snorting, gallantly, to the
wind.

Imagine that you see us; three stout men and true,
nay, four; two, of a very lofty stature; and two. Arnold
and Copely, not tall, but moving with an air of irresistible
authority; old Mr. Sampson recovering a little,
and leaning on his crutches at the open door, that
looked into the yard, his white hair blowing about his
keen eyes and red face—like a thin vapour about a
bed of coals; my dear mother and Mrs. Arnauld; and
three brides, with Nick, full of heart and glee, teasing,
first one, and then, the other—all huddled together, half
sobbing, and half smiling, the lofty Clara, in the
middle of them, like a queen among her maidens, looking
out upon her husband, as he prepared to vault into
the saddle, the roguish eyes of Ellen beautifully dashed
with a timidity, that keeps them continually upon the
earth, while her parted lips appear constantly opening
for a sally, that she can find no voice to utter; Mary,
the soft, gentle, patient Mary, with her quiet eyes
roving continually after the form of Rodman, while
the colour flashes over her transparent forehead, every
time that she meets his. It was a picture full of beauty
and meaning.

`But where is Lucia?' said I—`I promised to see
her this morning.'

`She is waiting for you,' said her mother—`really I
forgot it.' So, I hurried off, and found the dear girl,
sitting at the window, with a large shawl wrapped
round her.

`You will see Archibald,' said she, `give him that
lock of hair. He will prize it. You need have no
fear that he will not. I know his heart. He knows
mine, now. Watch over him, my brother; you are my
brother now, I feel it. Take the blessing of your sister
—her last, it may be, dear John.'

`A sister!'—O, I could have fallen on my knees, and
wept in her lap; the name of a sister was so sweet to
me; so new and pleasant.

`Comfort your brother. You know not, you never
can know, what a blow has fallen upon him. Tell him,
however, that I shall do as I promised; love him, forever;
respect him, forever—weep, forever and ever,
that we may not be nearer to one another than we now
are.'

`But why not?' dear Lucia, `why not?' I cried,
catching her hand—heaven and earth! how her face
altered.

`Because,' said she—`I love Archibald—love him,
O, man! with what truth and sublimity—yes, the sublimity
of devotion! for that reason we can never meet.'

I looked at her. Her eyes were strangely bright;
but, her voice, broken as it was, had meaning in it—
and reason. Was she disordered? I knew not. I only
knew that she was unintelligible. We parted; embraced—parted—with
our tears upon each others
cheeks; Clara too—dear, dear Clara! thy tears are
there yet.

We parted. Enough. We were soon in camp.

`Brother!' said Archibald, throwing himself into
my arms, with a sob that shook his whole frame,
almost to dislocation—`Brother!'

I understood him, but too well. I looked at him;
and pressed him to my bosom. Poor Archibald. It
was too late. I had seen many fearful changes in my
day—many! many in his countenance, that had terrified
me; but, none that resembled this that I now
saw. He was wan as if he had risen from the bed of
death, his temples sunken, his lips blue; and his eyes
beautifully bright and thoughtful.

`Your hair is very wet, brother'—said I, as he
leaned against my face.

`I believe so,' he answered, mildly—`of late it has
been so, night and day.' `But'—(looking me wistfully
in the face)—`you are happy—all are happy, all!'

`Not all,' said I—putting the lock of hair into his
hand.

`What is this, brother?' said he, opening it with a
hand that appeared to move of its own will. `Hair!
whose hair. Brother! in what spirit was it given?
not in mockery I hope—I trust—I believe.'

`No—no, Archibald; but after she recovered.'

`No matter for that, pass over that. I know all
about her recovery. I thought her dead.'

I repeated her message.

`God forever bless her for it!' he said, the tears
starting out under his compressed eye lids. `O, brother
—let me lean on you. I am very laint. There is not
such a woman upon this earth—so lofty—so—'

`Then why abandon her, Archibald?'

`Why? look at me.'

I did, and was terrified: his eyes shot fire; and were
blood shot, with the convulsion that my words had
called up.

`I—I'—(his voice grew fainter—gentler—he put
his hands upon his heart.) `Brother—I love her; she
is a noble creature. Let that testimony comfort her.
She has done most nobly. I venerate her; love her—
the hand of death is upon me.'

I would have rebuked him, for what he said; but I
could not. I had not the heart to contradict him. It
was too true. The hand of death was upon him.

`Ah, Copely!'—(He entered abruptly.)

`Archibald,' said the untractable man, as he put out
his hands to him—`do not curse me—do not—I cannot
bear it.'

`Say no more, my excellent friend,' said Archibald.

`I understand you. You are a good shot—see here,'
(raising the flap of his coat, and showing where the
ball had gone through.) `You would certainly have
brought me from the saddle, had you been upon your
own horse. Not another word about it. I know it all
—and forgive you; nay, do not even blame you—except
for missing your mark.'

`Your voice is very much altered,' said Copely—
`and you are wasted, wonderfully, since we parted, I—
but no, I will not ask. There is my hand—if I can
do any thing for you, say so. If not—there is only one
way—hear it. Where is Pulaski?'

`Gone south—'

`And we are to follow, are we not?'

`We, of the horse, are detailed; and, perhaps—you
can exchange, as you are so fond of fighting.'

`I beg your pardon Oadley. I am not fond of fighting;
no man likes it, less; but, just now, I begin
have some qualms.'

`Vapours,' said Archibald, with a sickly smile—
`you are newly married.'

`And,' said Copely—`I do not much care to expose
that little witch to widowhood—nor to a troop of bayonets'—

`What mean you? your wife does not go withyou?'

`No, not in person—but in spirit, I believe—poor
little puppet! She has become quite rational of late,
and I should be sorry to part with her.'

`Hourra! for the major!' cried Jasper, galloping
up to us—`hourra for the legion.! we are off, at
daylight.'

`I am glad of it,' said Archibald, fervently; and we
immediately separated, each to arrange his arms, shake
hands with a few brave fellows, and receiving their congratulations.

`We must put you in the front rank,' said La Fayette
—`you three bridegrooms would carry all before you.
It was a rash affair, I think; but, you will fight the
better for it—if that be possible.'

We were soon upon the march, in a cloud of dust;
and never rested or halted, a single hour beyond what
our cattle required, until we encountered Pulaski himself;
and were paraded in front of General Lincoln's
tent, before Savannah, in Georgia.

The Count D'Estaings had just arrived, with a
formidable fleet; and the British, on the station, had

fled, like birds before the fowler; leaving three of
their ships in his power.

His army, about three thousand strong, were just
arranging themselves at Beaulieu; and, on the fifteenth
of September, we were brought up, at full gallop
by the unconquerable Pole. Lincoln was behind;
and endeavoring, with all his power, to effect a junction
preparatory to an attack upon General Prevost, the
enemy's Commander in Savannah.

Till the twenty-third, we were in a state of continual
preparation; Pulaski dashing, hither and thither,
night and day, with his men; and exercising them,
forever, in the broadsword; and Archibald, with the
same death struck countenance, mingling impatiently
in all the storm of preparation, as if to drown the suffering
within him. Still, the moment of the town's reduction
appeared distant, very distant—yet, without an
hour's intermission, for several days and nights, there
was one uninterrupted roll of thunder, from the cannon
of the enemy and ourselves—nearly two hundred pieces
in all. And often, while Archibald and I were treading
the rounds, in the deep midnight, we would be covered
all at once, with sand; or, made to reel with the wind
of an exploding bumb or passing cannot ball; till, at
last, it was really wonderful how unaffectedly careless
we became. The whole sky was in a blaze, at times;
and, many an hour, have I seen the smoke from the
enemy's south western battery, rushing all white, upon
the wind, like that of ten thousand furnaces, with a
perpetual gushing of brilliant flame through it; and
heard the tremendous noise of the cannon below; and
the heavy, dull, earthquake sound, of a bomb, high in
the blue air, lumbering through the sky—and passing,
star after star, like a rebellious planet—struck from its
orbit.

`We are to storm the works,' cried Archibald, rushing
into my arms, one morning. `And Pulaski swears
that he will ride into them, on horseback, if we will
follow him.'

`Follow him!' said I, `that will I—but when?'

`Tomorrow—immediately,' he replied. The French
admiral is afraid of his ships—the hurricane season is
at hand—the British swarming from their station in
the West-Indies. In short, we are to carry the works
to-morrow—sword in hand. Ha!—you turn pale, brother—this
comes of getting married!'

`It does,' said I—`it does. But I shall do my duty.
Poor Clara!'——

`Forgive me, brother,' said he, grasping my hand.
`I would fain find some consolation for my own barrenness.
How young I am! a mere boy; yet, how
long, how painfully long and weary hath been my life!
O, brother, brother! I have outlived all hope—all—
even the wish to live. The stern, dull, heavy wretchedness
of life, that weighs and bears upon us, like a
cearment of lead—I—I—no, brother, I cannot talk
about it. All that I know, all that I can know, is—that,
while I do live, I will try to do rightly, but I care not
how soon—no, no!—I may be wanted no more on earth.
This very night brother—sinful as I am---I could lie
down to sleep quietly, and happy, if I knew that I
should never wake again. Shame on these tears. I
am ashamed of them; yet, I cannot help them. I must
weep—for my heart is young, brother, very young,
and it is awful for a young heart like mine—to be so
loaded down—to the very earth. I—yea—weep with
me; unmanly as it is, I cannot help it. I meant to
live, and I hoped to die, without one murmur of complaint.
But I cannot. It is not in human nature, to
shut our eyes upon all the beautiful things of this world
—with that deadly indifference to them all, which I
feel, without a mortal terrour and sickness, that will
have way, in tears. I do not wish to live; I do not
fear to die. Young as I am, I am weary of life. The
sun is hateful to me. The happiness of others, of them
that I must love, hath ceased to make my heart warm;
and why should I live? I tremble at these symptoms;
the more, because the time has been, when it was my
comfort, and my religion, to believe that, if I could see

others happy, others, that I loved, I could not but be
happy myself. I was mistaken. I have a colder heart;
a worse one; a more selfish disposition than I ever
believed; the happiness and suffering of others have
no longer any influence upon me. I am angry and
peevish with their sorrow; and wrath with their childish
happiness. I cannot dwell upon it.—Alas, brother
—I rejoice that the battle is near. I hope that it
will be my last---my very last—yet—God's will be
done!'

Never shall I forget the tone, in which those words
were pronounced; never, the look of patient, unrepining
fortitude, with which they were accompanied. It
was the eighth of October, about eleven at night—and
such a night! so hushed and brilliant with the innumerable
swarming of fire flies: an awful stillness all
about the camp, partly of preparation, (for we had resolved
to storm the works by daylight,) and partly of
terrour; for we had already been broken in upon by
two or three spirited sorties. There was a something
in the air too, as we lay along upon the fresh grass;
and felt it moving through our hair, that made us feel
mournfully. Archibald's pale forehead was upturned
to the starlight, and his wet eyes shining, as I never
saw them shine before; my bosom torn upon, for the
heat had been intolerable, and I would fain have slept,
till the trumpet called us to the assault. A strange
drowsiness was upon me—within me—as if soft lips
were whispering about my naked heart.

`Brother,' said Archibald, after a long silence, putting
his hand upon mine, and leaning his elbow on the
turf. `I am ashamed of myself. Even now, alone as
we are, with none to see me, I cannot bear the upbraiding
of my own heart. I have been wonderfully
weak. Thank you for that pressure. It reassures
me. I look about me again, with new feeling. There!
that cannon, the first that we have heard for an hour;
even that has a pleasant sound to me.'

The ball passed directly over our heads.

`We had better move further down the bank,' said
he, changing his position; `another ball, from the same
elevation, make strike lower.'

I followed him, with a mournful, strange, yet pleasant
feeling about me; one that I would not have given
up, for much that the world calls happiness. His
thought was in the right train. The sublimity of the
hour—the growing darkness: for the heavy fog began
to roll in, like the ocean, before a sea breeze—and the
wind rose—

`It is very awful,' said he, in a low, thoughtful
voice, `to sit up at an hour like this, and contemplate
the great heaven, all of such solid blue, passing away
over our heads, so tranquilly! so beautifully! and to
have our hearts jarred, in their worship, by the roll of
cannon, or the sudden bursting of a bomb.'

A second ball struck the works a little at our right,
dismounted a piece of large ordnance, shattered the
carriage into fifty pieces, and tore several human creatures,
limb from limb. A loud shrieking followed, for
full a minute. Gracious God! how fearful it is! `brother,'
said Archibald, `when the blood is cool—the air
so still, and the stars so patiently looking down upon
us, to hear the blood rattling at our feet; and know
that the very sound which has passed over our
heads, harmlessly, has carried an immortal creature,
maimed and broken into the presence of his God.'

`Let us remove further off,' said I, `we can be of no
use. I see by the lights there, that they are bearing
three or four bodies off.'

Another shot passed over us; and, instantly the
lights were extinguished—a crash followed—a loud,
terrifick outcry rang, through and through, our heads;
and we saw the whole cavalcade tumbled together—
the living, the dead, and the wounded.

`The same gun,' said Archibald, `a little more, or
a little less powder, has done all this terrible work.
They that came, with unthankful hearts, to bear away
their dead comrades, have fallen with them! Awful—
the bearers and the body—the living and the dead,
have fallen before us! Hush! they are in motion.'

He was right. Our army had already put itself forward;
and we could hear the tread of their feet, like
the noise of a great ocean breaking, wave after wave,
afar off, upon an interminable solid beach.

In the mean time, it had grown very dark; and,
through the deep fog that blew in our faces and assembled
about us, the shadows of men appeared of unearthly
stature.

`Here they are!' cried a voice that we knew; and,
the next moment, down leaped a pair of giants, as they
appeared, and ran to us.

`Archibald—dear Archibald!' cried Arthur, `now
for it! to horse! to horse! Pulaski's calling for you.'

`Away! away!' cried Copely, embracing him;
`away! my brave fellow, and if we never meet again,
why God, forever, bless the survivors.'

`Amen!' we responded, `amen! amen!'

`And the dead too,' said Archibald. `God be merciful
to them too.'

`Amen! amen! amen!' echoed several voices;
where, we had not time to enquire, for, Archibald's
horse stood stamping the platform at a little distance.

`Brother!' said he, taking leave of me, last, `farewell!
I shall do my duty—do you, yours.'

I saw no more of him; but Arthur was conspicuous
to the last.

We moved on, in the darkness, through a sunken,
deep hollow, which permitted us to approach very near
to the enemy's lines, without being perceived. It was
near day light, and uncommonly cold for the season;
probably owing to the heavy fog, and the exhalation
from an extensive morass, on the very verge of which,
we were marching.

We had depended much on surprising the enemy, and
had good reason to believe that the quarter, upon
which we moved, was the weakest; but, in both calculations,
we were mistaken, for a deserter had betrayed
our design; and a tremendous cannonade opened upon
us, the very moment that the head of our column showed
itself. The sky shook over our heads; and the

horses stumbled at every step, as if the earth itself were
unsteadied by the roar. But the column kept on, under
Sullivan and D'Estaing, turning neither to the right
nor left, and broke through their entrenchments, in a
cloud of smoke and fire; at the point of the bayonet—
charging their artillerymen at their pieces, and bayonetting
them, in all directions, without firing a shot.

`Hourra!' cried the Americans, `hourra! the day is
our own!'

Up went two or three flags, in a blaze of light;
dripping with blood, and tore with the thunder of battle.

But the day was not our own! The enemy rallied
on the left, and came down upon our brave fellows,
like a hurricane. The flags shook—and hundreds of
human creatures that battled under them, French and
Americans, and English, leaped, headlong, into the
ditch.

`Now for it! my boys! now for it!' shouted Pulaski.

`Hourra for Pulaski! hourra! hourra!' answered his
legion, and followed him, one after the other, into the
entrenchments during the pause of terrour that followed
the cry, like a battalion of devils. Pulaski was the
first man. How he got in, heaven only knows; but I
tried three times, before I could follow him; and, for
five minutes, it appears to me, that he and not more than
a dozen men of his troop were sustaining the whole battle
within the line. At length, in came the whole troop,
man and horse—Pulaski's sword flashing before them,
like a pillar of fire.

He was too conspicuous; his great white horse was
a target, and the bullets fell upon him like a storm of
hail.

I saw him, when he fell. He was standing up in the
stirrups, and I saw a tall fellow reeling before him;
when, all at once, his great white stallion snorted, as
if his heart had broke, leaped, all clear, of a hundred
bayonets, at once! and Pulaski fell back in the saddle,
still holding on by his knees, while the saddle-cloth

trailed in blood, and his charger broke forward, trampling
down every thing that opposed him, till he came
to an empty enclosure, where we were endeavouring
to rally about him. There his horse staggered; sat
upon his haunches, (like the animal that you may have
seen in the picture of St. Paul's Conversion, when
God pours down a beam of glory upon him,) quaking
—planted, and ready to drop dead—the blood gushing
out of his nostrils—and—I saw no more. We
were all in a heap together, I was bayonetted, I know
not in how many places—and all that I do know, is,
that I cried out, to a man for quarter, in the desperation
of my heart, as my sword broke at the hilt, and my
horse stumbled into a platoon of bayonets; but the
wretch heeded not my cry.

I was unwilling to die so. I thought of Clara; it
was my last thought—and, the next moment, I felt the
blood rushing out of his throat into my bosom.

`When I came to my senses, there was a cold mass
of coagulated deformity, shapeless and horrible, pressing
against my face. I shuddered, and tried to release
myself; but, I could not. My hands were stiffened
about it. God of heaven! it was a human face!—
O—my heart discharged all its blood, at the thought!
I shut my eyes, and groaned aloud, in loathing and
terrour—but I could not release my fingers from the
throat, they were so cramped and rigid with convulsion.
No! though a broken sword was in my side,
and my clothes were stiff with my own gore. I could
not. They were rigid as iron.

At last, however, just when I was shutting my eyes,
I did hope, for the last time, some blessed human creature,
tore away my hands from the detestable shape,
and dragged me away, over the shattered limbs, dead
bodies, and struggling horses, as if to throw me into
a ditch. I groaned; for I could do no more: and he
stopped—deliberately took up a gun, with a bayonet,
near me, and put it to my heart. I felt the point—
I felt it! the inhuman devil! He was cooly searching
for my heart! I came, instantly, to my senses. I

grasped the bayonet with my hands; and held it, despite
of all his struggles, till in our tumbling and
turning, it came off. I was desperate. The noise of
strife had gone by—the fog was clearing off. The sun
shone about me; and I saw, far and near, the enemy
riding about, and collecting the dead and wounded.
I expected to die, and was willing to die; but, my
heart rose terribly at the thought of being murdered
in cold blood. The wretch left me, for a moment, evidently
for the purpose of finding some safer weapon;
and I, determined not to be sacrificed, collected all
my strength, griped the bayonet, and lay waiting for
him.

He came—and, standing about three feet from me,
made a deliberate cut at my face, with a sabre. I was
able to parry it—and, could I have reached him, would
have let out his heart's blood, before human help could
have aided him—but, he was too far from me; and,
exasperated to madness, by his cold blooded, merciless
depravity, I hurled the bayonet at him. Thank God,
it struck him in the face, and he fell! Yet, when he
fell, and I saw the point where it had passed through
his neck, and heard his horrible yelling, I was fain to
stop my ears, and cover my eyes, or I should have gone
distracted.

After this, I can remember little more than, that I
was in the hospital of the enemy, and treated with
great care and attention—made a friend of an able
surgeon, who was thunderstruck at the situation of my
wounded leg:—inflamed now, to an excessive degree—
and, in short, that I was obliged to lose my leg.

In the mean time, however, I had the happiness to
hear that Archibald had escaped miraculously, after
exposing himself with unprecedented hardihood. For
a moment I had seen him—it was after we had entered
the entrenchments, engaged, on foot, with an officer
of the enemy. I felt no fear for him, then, for I saw
that they fought with swords.

Arthur had received two or three sabre gashes;
and Copely had one of his fingers shot away. But the

whole army, particularly the French, were loud in his
praise. Every man of his command, had been driven
into the ditch—and, with the exception of ten, or a
dozen, all were killed or wounded.

A speedy arrangement was made for our exchange
—and, the moment that my friend, the humane and
benevolent Waters, the British surgeon, under whose
care it was my good fortune to fall, would permit it, I
was put on the way for my home. It was a long time,
and I was cruelly wasted and disfigured, when Archibald
and I met. Yet, he was unaltered—the same
deadly paleness; the same settled, calm, awful insensibility.

`Return,' said he, `be a comfort to our mother—
bless your wife—and bear my love and reverence—do
you mark me? my reverence, to Lucia. Tell her not to
forget me. We shall meet again, here, or hereafter.
Copely, and Arthur, and I must remain. Copely, to
atone for his early misconduct: Arthur, in expiation
of his vow—for he promised never to marry, till America
was free, and broke it—shame on him! and I—
merely because I cannot live, in a quiet, peaceable element.'

Our parting was sorrowful; and—so we all thought
I am sure, a final one. My situation was exceedingly
critical; and I was helpless, beyond all that you can
imagine, from having seen some evidence of my
strength, after it had begun to decline. Time was, my
children, when no mortal man could have stood before
me. I am no boaster. Arthur Rodman was a tall
stout fellow, and passed for a strong man; yet I could
pull Arthur Rodman to the earth with one hand. Yet,
after the loss of my leg, and the wasting of the fever
that followed it, I was scarcely able to lift a spoon to
my mouth; and, but for Clara—heaven bless the dear
woman! but for her I had never lived through it, I am
sure. My children, you can never know her value.
From the time that you can recollect her, she was feeble
and dim. You should have seen her, about the bed
of her husband; sick and dying. You should have

hope.—I look back upon my past life, with a
strange, melancholy wonder---much that I have done,
appears to have been done by some other Archibald
Oadley; and not by me. So young; so tender hearted,
as I was---a boy, but the other day, and now dying,
with grey hairs in my head, (it is a fact, brother)---of
old age---premature old age, and a shattered frame;
substance and being, body and spirit shaken to the
dust. For one thing only, do I reproach myself—
nay, for two—two, above all others---the blood of
Clinton, is one---my stubbornness to Lucia, is another.
But for them, I could sleep quietly; and, mayhap, die
very quietly---but they haunt me, with a continually
encreasing darkness and threatening.—I cannot sleep
now, at all. I walk all the day long, to and fro, in the
camp, when we are encamped; and ride, all the day
long, when not encamped---but, without knowing or
caring, where I am, or what I have done. I walk in
my sleep, too---that distresses me. I know not what
may happen---the sentinels are trusty, and I am ashamed
to communicate the truth. You would not believe
me, I suppose, should I tell you, what is very true---
that, after the battle, yesterday, I fell asleep upon my
horse, while my men were returning from the pursuit;
and might very easily have been taken prisoner. At
times, there is a lethargy, pleasanter than sleep---a
drowsiness, like that of sorrow and love---as if I were
sleeping upon the bosom of some dear one, that besets
me---and my heart overflows and—but no,
—shame on these emotions. I have written to Lucia.
Bid her bear up---bid her be comforted. We
shall soon meet again---again! where our hearts may
beat renewedly, forever and ever; purified and blessed.'

`Purified!' echoed the sweet martyr, faintly dropping
her arm, over the bed; and falling upon her face
—`purified!—I—' a long and continued shuddering
followed, in which the bed, itself, vibrated, and
the whole room trembled.

`But the other,' said Clara, wiping her eyes and
reaching me Copely's letter.

It was very brief, and to the following effect; but,
just as I opened it, in came the two brides; one, flushed
with a beautiful confusion, the other laughing and
crying, all in a breath; and rallying Mary, with a significance
that I dared not understand; till the sweet
girl burst into tears—partly of shame, partly of sorrow;
and Ellen threw herself upon her neck, crying, `hush!
hush, love—forgive me. I was cruel—childish—indelicate
and—hush—all in good time. We shall
be a houseful, nevertheless, (in a low voice) by the
time that he comes.'

She did not mean that I should hear this; but it
touched Clara, who coloured, and withdrew her hand
from the pillow, against which I was leaning, to give a
reproof to Ellen, that nobody should understand but
the women folks.

Copely's note. `Rodman would have written you;
but, he has just finished a letter to his wife; and he
cannot manage the pen for another line. The broad
sword has cramped his hand. He deputises me to give
his love to you all; and to say to you, Oadley—and to
our's and your's—heaven have mercy on all of them,
and particularly, on mine and reform her—if it be not
too late.'

`He be hanged!' cried Ellen, pettishly.

`Prepare yourself—be a man. Your brother encountered
and slew two officers, with his own hand, yesterday
—and took, with Jasper, of whom more by and by,
and five more of the troop, twelve of the enemy prisoners;
and then went to sleep in the saddle. Be a man,
I say, again. Your brother cannot live long. His
hours are numbered.

`Gracious God!' cried Ellen, `if Chester Copely
be trifling now, I shall hate him forever.'

`O, I hope that he is!' said Mary, in a voice like a
lone instrument, breathing to the wind.

`His hours are numbered. A consultation has been
held, since my last, for we are unwilling to lose him—
but, there is no hope. Am I abrupt? I fear so. But
—you are a man—your brother is a man. He has no

wife—no children—no beloved one—no, I am wrong,
he has an angel to leave behind him.'

`Not long,' said Clara, kissing her sister's forehead
—`no, no, not long, I am sure.'

`Would that you could see him! (said the letter.)
He never looked so well in his life. His temples are
transparent. Every movement of his heart is visible
in his eyes.' We all turned to Lucia, at these words;
it was a description of her appearance. `Poor fellow!
he has just left me, treading firmly the road that leads
to the chambers of death. Why delay it? why conceal
it? It fell upon me, like a thunderclap. It might
fall upon you so. We have done our best to prepare
you; at least, I have, for, while there was any hope,
he kept his situation a secret. But my course has
been different. I have told you the worst. You must
not blame me, however, that my last letter was not
alarming. When that was written, I began to have
hope—I have none, now.'

`The last! O! we are illy prepared yet,' said Clara.
`Would that it had arrived before this. Such
blows are terrible—I—'

`Jasper is dead—dead, poor fellow. I saw him fall;
but Archibald has just given me a particular account
of the transaction, with an air of pleasantry, that made
me scold him.

`I saw him,' said he, when the bullet struck his
heart; he was at full speed. Yet he kept on, for a
whole minute, and went completely through two divisions
of the broadsword, as I am a living man, before
he fell: the saddle turned, and the horse broke away
from under him—the saddle-cloth shot to ribbons, and
dripping with blood. I found the poor fellow, cut all
to pieces; his helmet shaved away; his uniform shot to
tatters—and the blood gushing out at his shoulders.
He died desperately. `But I expected it,' said Archibald,
`for, in his jocular way, I heard him, the morning
before the attack, while newly arranging a part of the
troop, in consequence of sickness and continual battle,
I heard him order all the ladies in the front rank.'

`The ladies!' said Ellen—`what the deuse does the
fellow mean?'

`The mares,' I replied. `Jasper always called them
the ladies of the troop—most of them were blooded.'

`But why put them in the front rank?'

`For many reasons.' I said, smiling at the question,
so innocently asked, and wishing, from my soul, that
I had not read the passage aloud; for Copely was
full of such jokes, `the fire and quickness of females,
are proverbial; the competition that would be produced;
the gallantry that it would provoke—the—'

`Read on,' said Ellen, impatiently—dropping her
eyes; `read on; what does the creature say next?'

`Nothing—except that I am to stand—here, read it
yourself—godfather to—'

`I won't!' she cried, jumping up, in a pet, and running
out of the room.

`Why, what possesses the poor woman?' said Mary,
her sweet, innocent lips parting so quietly.

Clara smiled; and handed her the letter—which sent
her out of the room, just as fast.

`Pray, what is the meaning of all this nonsense?'
said Lucia, with that calm, beautiful propriety, which
grew upon her every hour, till her death. `I cannot
pretend to misunderstand it. The feelings of the man
—the father! are natura: and why? Sister Clara, I
am ashamed of you; yes dear, of you. Young as I am,
I have that within me, that cannot play tricks, even
where they are looked for. I do not like Copely's levity.
The thought should solemnize him; the peril of
his wife—so delicate and frail, as her tenement is, that
should make him speak seriously. But perhaps he
would give it, the least insupportable air that he could;
and affect a pleasantry, while his heart is breaking, to
amuse others. Nay, sister—am I not right? What is
there to redden at? What to be ashamed of? I know
not what a mother's feelings are, it is true. I know
not what it is, to feel the stirring of life within me; a
life that is to make me altogether my husband's, here
and hereafter: but I do know this, that I should neither

toil at concealment, nor deplay, in such a situation,
where it was not a reproach. Still less would I affect
such tremours; or, if they were not affected, would I
indulge them before my husband, or before any body
that had eyes.'

`Lucia!' said Clara, blushing all over; `you astonish
me. I shall be offended, if this conversation continue.'

`Shame on you, then—shame on you! the woman,
in your situation, whose nerves will not permit such a
conversation; whose temper will not permit it, had
better die barren. I am serious. This is no sudden
thought. I know what I say. I have meditated upon
it. I love delicacy, I trust that, whatever be my
faults, I have not that of indelicacy at my door; but I
detest prudery and affectation. You are already a
mother, Clara—and must think and act like one. Your
own health, and that of your babe demand it.'

`By heavens, Lucia, you are a noble creature,' said
I, kissing her; `I am glad of this conversation. It
will be the better for poor Clara. Hitherto, the theme
has been a forbidden one between us two; yes,—between
the father and mother! at a moment so critical
too, when she is most in want of all sympathy and encouragement.
No Clara; give me your hand—there,
thank you! I love you unspeakably, as you know. I
love modesty. I revere this delicate timidity; this
bashful sensibility; but, it has gone too far—to an extent,
dear, unworthy of one so thoughtful and firm as
you. Your sweet sister has said wisely. These agitations
and tremours may have a worse tendency than we
dream of. Let us learn to think of the event without
stammering; to be prepared for it. One kiss! there—
there! Now go to Lucia, and let me see you kiss her.'

Clara did, while the tears danced in her full eyelids,
and thanked her.

Our arms entwined altogether, in one dear, thrilling
embrace; and the tears of the two sisters fell upon my
face, like a warm, summer shower, in a pleasant wind
—just at the shutting in of day light.

Woman!—the companion of our bed side—from our
cradle to our grave!—our ministering angel!—our
nurse!—our consolation, in all sorrow and trial —from
the first beating of life within us—to the last, the very
last, upon the bed of death—thou art the sweet fountain,
and nourishment of all our holiest being—and of
all our most immortal nature and quality!