 | CHAPTER I. The forsaken |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
Which she bestows on ev'ry morsel that
Her lips receive, was scornfully denied.
O! woman, thou art lavish in thy gifts
To those who cannot prize them; but to those
Who estimate their worth a thousand fold,
Thou art a very niggard.
—The Sultan.
The American prisoners were confined in the
Walnut street jail, and, as if in mockery, even the
very building in which the declaration of independence
was proclaimed, was also converted into a prison
house. Joy was again in the camp of the invader,
and `grim-visaged war had smoothed his wrinkled
front, and capered nimbly in a lady's chamber.'
Corwin, who was among the prisoners, suffered
much from his wound and neglect. He was looked
upon as a maniac, and too frequently we find that the
loss of reason is attended by the loss of sympathy in
the bosoms of others. As soon as man ceases to
maintain an equality with his fellow man, he has little
to hope for from his compassion. So it was with Corwin.
and frequently did he exclaim, in the language of the
weeping prophet, `Our inheritance is turned to strangers,
our houses to aliens. We are orphans and fatherless,
our mothers are as widows.'
In consequence of his apparent imbecility of mind,
after a few days imprisonment he was permitted to go
at large. His mental disorder had increased during
his brief confinement, but on returning to his usual
course of life, there was a gradual improvement in the
health of both body and mind. He had sighed for action,
and being restrained in his movements, his imagination
preyed upon itself. There was no outward
object to relieve it from one isolated thought, that remained
immovable, and burnt like a living coal. The
morbid mind, when excited, finds relief from a corresponding
motion in the body, but as this was denied
him, there was every prospect of poor Corwin soon
becoming a fit subject for a receptacle of maniacs.
Timely release saved him from a fate the most appalling
to those stricken as he had been.
Mauns Talman was confined in the State House,
with others captured at Germantown. He had too
long experienced privation, to feel acutely this reverse
of fortune, and as he never permitted more than one
idea at a time to enter his mind, he was not much annoyed
by unpleasant reflections. Your single minded
man is a happy fellow. The thought with which honest
Mauns now laboured, was of a nature to call all
his powers into action. It was simply this. He was
in prison, and the question occurred, how was he to
get out again? It was a puzzling question, but it
pleased our philosophical Swede so much, that he studied
night and day to give a satisfactory answer; and
what may not man accomplish when he concentrates
his whole power upon a single point?
The prisoners were at times permitted to walk in
the public square in which the building stood, and
fed there as swine by their captors. Victuals was
thrown down on the earth before them, and as famine
compelled them to partake of it, their coarse meal was
imbittered by the unmanly jeers and jests of those who
had them in charge. While we recoil at the instances
of barbarity recorded in the history of the earlier ages
of the world, let us turn to the record of modern times,
and philanthropy, instead of boasting of her triumph,
should decorate her brows with a cypress wreath.
The sun was declining rapidly in the west, and many
of the prisoners were in the yard contemplating the
beauties of a fine autumn evening. Among the number
was sergeant Talman, but he was apparently too much
engaged with his one idea to remark the splendor of
the setting sun, or attend to the mournful dirge of the
wind as it passed over the faded beauties of nature.
He resembled Sterne's starling, and their constant cry
was much the same—“I cannot get out,” said the
bird; “How the devil shall I get out?” said the sergeant.
In the midst of his reflections several soldiers entered
the yard, bearing food for the evening meal.
They approached where the group was standing, and
emptied their baskets on the bare earth. A scramble
ensued among the prisoners, which was considered
highly comical by those who kept guard over them.
Many a coarse joke was passed, and no matter how
pointless, it passed currently, and elicited shouts of
laughter, for those who are disposed to boisterous
mirth care not upon what garbage they feed. When
wit failed, practical jests were called in requisition,
such as casting a piece of food at a distance, and tripping
the poor fellow who hastened to secure it. Of
all created beings, man is the only one that laughs;
and it appears to be his constant study to excite this
peculiar faculty. He treats life as a jest, and death as
the same. With or without a cause, his laugh he must
a noisy world it would be, for the welkin would incessantly
ring with scoffs at the scoffer. But happily for
man, he has the laugh altogether on his own side.
Mauns stood at a short distance from the group, and
made no attempt to secure any of the food. Indeed,
he appeared unconscious of what was going forward.
“What is the matter with that maypole, that he has
no appetite for his supper?” said Gordon, who was
among the crowd. His head was bandaged, and his
cheeks were paler than usual.
“He laid in abundantly yesterday,” replied one of
the guards, “and you see he has a store-chest large
enough to contain provisions for a week.”
“He is of the kine breed, I suppose, and is chewing
the cud.”
“It must be the cud of reflection, then,” replied the
other, “and I have never seen the man who grew fat
upon that food.”
This sally was accompanied by a roar of approbation.
Mauns raised his head at the shout, without
being aware that he was the subject of it, and the humourist
approached him, elated with his sally, which
he repeated.
“How is it, friend, are you chewing the cud of reflection?”
“Anan!” ejaculated Mauns, and the question was
again repeated.
“No,” replied the sergeant, gravely; “I am chewing
a quid of tobacco.”
Both cheeks were distended with the staple of Virginia,
and his grinders were actively engaged. Another
roar of laughter followed the reply, but as Mauns saw
nothing to laugh at, he stared in vacant astonishment
at their merriment.
Miriam now crossed the square, and approached the
spot where Talman was standing.
“A fair prisoner, this,” said Gordon, “and better
are watching.”
“I should like the post,” replied another, “and
would be willing to lose an eye if she escaped my
vigilance. Which way, my pretty lass?”
“Can you inform me, gentleman,” replied Miriam,
“whether there is among the prisoners, an officer by
the name of Jurian Hartfield?”
“I thought as much,” muttered Gordon, who overheard
the question.
“What kind of an officer is he, my pretty girl?” demanded
the soldier.
“A lieutenant, I believe, sir.”
“That is no guide, for they all seem to be either
lieutenants or captains, and it requires sharp eyes to
discover a staff officer from a private, for they are all
ragged alike.”
“And brave alike too, sir,” replied Miriam.
“Well said, my little rebel. But what sort of a
looking man is this you are in search of—old or
young?”
“He is young, sir.”
“That I might have sworn to. Go on with your
description.”
“He is light of frame, sir, with curly black hair, and
a countenance dark and serious.”
“And handsome, too?”
“Some have pronounced him handsome,” replied
Miriam, her eyes cast down.
“And you do not find fault with their opinion?”
“I see no reason why I should.”
“A lover, on my life!”
“O! no, sir, not a lover,” replied Miriam, and her
pale cheeks coloured. “He is but a friend—nothing
more than a friend.”
“A happy dog in having such friends,” replied the
soldier, smiling.
“Can you direct me to him?”
“There is no one here answering to your description,”
replied the soldier.
“Then I must seek farther,” said Miriam, and was
about to depart.
“Before I permit you to go, I must have the pass
word,” said Gordon, approaching her.
“The pass word, Mr. Jones, I know it not,” replied
Miriam, trembling as she spoke.
“Then you must remain my prisoner, or suffer me
to whisper it in your ear,” he replied, taking hold of
her familiarly.
“Your prisoner! I do not understand you.”
“I will soon make myself understood,” continued
Gordon. “I never met with one so ignorant at your
age. You have a tempting eye, faith, and a pair of
lips that would make a saint turn sinner.”
“This rudeness to an unprotected female!”
“Call you it rudeness? I shall be as polite as it is
in the nature of man to be, I promise you.” He attempted
to kiss her, and a struggle ensued. The soldiers
looked on, and smiled at the contest.
“Are you ruffians—will you patiently witness such
an outrage!”
“Where's the use of being so coy with me, Miriam?”
The soldiers, so far from interfering, only laughed.
Truly may we say, in the words of the author of the
Merry Beggars; `Are not all things, any thing, every
thing, to be laughed at? And if nothing were to be
seen, felt, heard, or understood, we would laugh at it
too!'
“Save me from this ruffian, if you have the feelings
of men,” cried the affrighted Miriam.
Sergeant Talman, who had been long contemplating
the huge clock built by the side of the State House,
was roused by her appeal, and now for the first time
noticed the struggle. He recognised Miriam, and
leisurely stalking to the spot, for the sergeant moved
assailant from the trembling girl, and the next instant
planted a fist, resembling a sledge hammer, between
his eyebrows. Gordon fell, and a cry arose among the
soldiery—“Knock the damned rebel down;” “Pin
him to the earth.”
Half a dozen bayonets were immediately presented
towards the sergeant, and Miriam clung to him to protect
him from his danger. Oaths and epithets were
dealt out liberally, and the prisoners crowded around
to protect Mauns. All was confusion; the only one
who appeared perfectly calm, was the phlegmatic sergeant
himself.
“Make way with your bayonets—down with the
rebels!” exclaimed several voices at the same time.
They pressed upon the crowd, in the centre of which
stood the sergeant, his tall lank figure towering above
the rest, and Miriam still clinging to him. Three or
four officers passed through the avenue of the State
House, and entered the square during the excitement.
“Down with him—stab him in her arms,” continued
the infuriated guards.
“What is the meaning of this confusion?” demanded
one of the officers. He was youthful, graceful in
his person, and possessed of a handsome and manly
countenance.
“A rebel has dared to strike one of the guards.”
“And a dozen of you have espoused his quarrel,”
replied the officer. “Bravely done! Was he not able
to take his own part, that you are all up in arms?”
“You would not have us stand by, major, and see a
comrade trampled on?” muttered one of the guards.
“No,” replied Andre, for it was he, “nor would I
have you stand by and see an enemy trampled on.
What is the cause of this disturbance?”
“He but took a harmless liberty with that young
woman, sir, and the prisoner interfered,” replied the
soldier.
“To protect a female from insult; was it not so?”
“Why, sir, I must say, the young woman did not
seem altogether willing,” muttered the soldier.
“Then you have reason to blush at having taken
part against her protector, and the ruffian may rejoice
at escaping with a punishment so light.” He moved
towards the sergeant, and the crowd gave way. “I
admire your spirit,” he continued, addressing Talman,
“and no prisoner shall receive insult or injury in my
presence for asserting the feelings that become a man.
You have done well.”
“I thank you, major,” replied Mauns, “but master
Jones does not appear to think so.” The refugee, who
was known to Mauns only by his fictitious name, got
up and stood by sullenly and silent. “Now, as he is
not satisfied, I am ready to box him for a shilling, if
you will only stand by and see fair play.” Andre
smiled at the proposition.
“That's reverting to first principles,” exclaimed
M`Druid, who had entered with the officers, “and is
a much prettier way of settling trifling disputes than
any of your modern improvements. It's the way we
have in my own native isle.”
Andre turned to Gordon, and said—
“I am astonished that this disturbance should have
originated in one who has so much reason to cultivate
a good understanding with his countrymen.”
“I am not to blame, sir,” replied Gordon. “The
liberty I took was perhaps warranted by my intimacy
with the young woman.”
The clock struck six, and Mauns counted every
stroke on the bell, during which his attention was again
riveted upon the huge structure.
“It is time that the prisoners retire,” said major
Andre to the sergeant of the guard. “Conduct them
to the place of locking up.”
This command was followed by a few strokes on a
the square to the centre building. They entered the
avenue of the State House, and the doors were closed
after them. Mauns Talman, as he slowly retired, endeavoured
to comfort and encourage the still agitated
Miriam, and at the same time he cast a lingering look
at the clock, whose mechanism he had been so intently
studying ever since he entered the yard. Gordon approached
Miriam, and attempted to soothe her feelings.
“Away, your sight is hateful to me.”
“Dear Miriam, I did not mean to offend you,” he
replied. “The intimacy between us should rather
create confidence than fear, then why is it that you are
always thus agitated when I am in your presence?”
“Leave me; you are as the glossy serpent to my
sight.”
“Miriam, have I deserved this!”—
“No more—no more!”
“Hear me but speak.”
“My heaviest curse would be removed, were I never
to hear that voice again.”
“Well would it be for thee, perverse girl, if there
were no heavier curse upon thee than passes my lips.”
His countenanee indicated that he meant more than
his words conveyed.
“What greater curse is there on earth than the presence
of one we hate?” demanded the agitated girl, in
a voice scarcely articulate.
“Sometimes the presence of one we love,” replied
Gordon, in a cold tone, while a malicious smile curled
his lips. “Even such have proved a greater curse, to
such as thee, than the worst enemy.”
“To such as me!”
“Your secret's known,” replied Gordon, in a tone
that fell like a bolt of ice upon the heart of Miriam.
“O, heavens!” she sighed, and hiding her face in
her hands, her whole frame trembled.
“Your secret's known, but confide in me, and your
sobbed aloud, and Gordon continued—“You have
fallen into the hands of a villain, and have therefore
reason to distrust all mankind, but dear Miriam, look
upon me with kinder feelings, and it shall be the study
of my life to heal the heart that has been so wantonly
wounded.”
“Leave me—leave me—I would be alone.”
“I cannot leave you, friendless as you are, and deserted
by the world. My heart sicknes to think what
your fate may be without a protector.”
“I look for none on earth.”
“Exposed to the scoffs of all, and broken down in
spirit, you must sink before the obstacles you have to
encounter. A friend offers to comfort and protect, and
yet you turn from him with as much horror as if he had
pulled down this ruin upon you. Is this justice, either
to me or to yourself! Think more kindly of me, Miriam,
and all may yet be well.”
“Is there no one to save me from this man!” exclaimed
the heart-broken girl, and burst into an agony
of tears. The officers, who, during the foregoing, had
stood conversing at a short distance, were attracted
by her voice, and approached. Miriam recognised
M`Druid, having seen him at Mr. Morton's house, on
the night of the capture of Jurian, and she hastened to
him. “Yes, you are kind,” she cried, “you, you will
save me.”
“Be comforted, poor trembler,” replied M`Druid.
“No harm shall come near you. What is it you
fear?”
“That man—take me away from that man.” She
shuddered, as she pointed towards Gordon with averted
eyes, and M`Druid desired him to withdraw. He
obeyed, and sullenly ascended the steps of the building,
where he remained, looking at the group.
“Whither shall I conduct you?” demanded M`Druid
of Miriam.
“I came in search of one to whom you can best direct
me, but I know not whether it is proper that we
should meet again.”
“Who is it you would see?”
“Lieutenant Hartfield.” She blushed, and held
down her head as his name passed her lips. “He is
in prison—no friends near him, and possibly I may
serve him. It is a sad thing to be in prison, without
friends.”
“If you desire it, I will conduct you to him,” replied
M`Druid.
“I know not whether I ought—and yet I have not
the fortitude to say, I will not see him.”
“Lean on my arm; it is but to cross the square,
and your search will be at an end.”
“I accept your kindness—you are unlike most
men.”
“Not much, my darling; but my heart and hand
are always at the service of a weeping woman.”
They walked towards the prison, and the officers
followed, while Gordon from the steps stood gazing
after them. As they crossed the square, Andre demanded
of one of the officers—
“Delancey, how long is it since you left the barracks
in the north?”
“Scarcely an hour,” replied Delancey.
“Are the yagers prepared for the attack on Red
Bank to-morrow?”
“All will be in readiness at the hour appointed for
crossing the river.”
“Does Donop appear sanguine of success?”
“When did he ever appear otherwise? He is a
rough soldier, and partakes more of the boor than the
gentleman.”
“It cannot be denied, that he is better adapted to a
darker age than the present, and his followers would
have made themselves conspicuous among the Vandals
or the Cimbri.”
“It is proper that they are chosen for this attack,
for as the rascals wo'n't fight without pay, they should
be compelled to earn their wages.”
“They are in the right,” replied Andre, smiling,
“and have classical authority for becoming mercenaries.
Even the gods Neptune and Apollo trounced
Laomedon for cheating them of their hire.”
They crossed the square, and when they came in
front of the prison, an officer of rank was ascending
the steps; they bowed to him, and he entered the jail.
M`Druid followed him, with Miriam trembling by his
side, and having succeeded in getting her past the
guard, he made her wishes known to one of the attendants,
and returned to his companions, when they
pursued their way down the street.
Gordon was still standing on the steps of the State
House, ruminating on the result of his interview with
Miriam. He felt that her dislike to him was inveterate,
and that there was not the remotest probability of her
sentiments undergoing a change. This conviction created
a corresponding feeling in his own mind, and eradicated
the slight degree of tenderness that he had
entertained for her, though the personal charms of the
poor girl still maintained their influence. His hatred
for Jurian was also inflamed by the knowledge of the
impossibility of weaning her affections from him.
The crowd in the yard had now disappeared, save
here and there a few straggling soldiers, who were
released from duty for the night. Alice Grey entered,
and approached the door where Gordon was
standing. She walked as one who had been stricken
by sorrow, with her tall form bent, and her head hanging
down. She was dressed in a long gray cloak, and
her face was concealed by the hood. As she drew
nigh to the spot where Gordon stood, sullenly, leaning
against one of the pillars of the door, she paused, and
throwing the hood from her face, accosted him—
“Am I too late to see one of the prisoners?”
“The doors are closed for the night, and no one
may pass the guard at this hour.”
“I feared as much. Can you tell me how he is?
Is his wound better? This is a sad place for an invalid
to be confined in.”
“Who do you mean, good mother?
“Who should I mean, but Corwin—that much
wronged and wretched man?”
“He is no longer here.”
“Not here! Where is he, then?”
“That I know not. Major Andre, on visiting the
prisoners this morning, perceiving the condition of his
mind, out of compassion, procured an order for his release,
and he is now at large.”
“God reward him!” ejaculated Alice. “Compassion
towards the afflicted will smoothe his way to
heaven.”
“Very likely,” replied Paul.
“If you know nothing further of Corwin, there is
another, of whom you can give me some tidings. I
have heard of her being at 'squire Morton's, but she is
no longer there. Where have you placed your victim?
Where is my lost child, Miriam?”
“No victim of mine, mother Alice; she is as innocent
as the lamb unborn for me.”
“Have you not betrayed her? Broken her heart
and mine, and yet pronounce her innocent!”
“Is it in nature to betray the being that we love? I
know not how this slander has reached your ear, but
in defiance of calumny I pronounce myself guiltless of
the charge; but there is another, you little dream of,
who will not be able to vindicate himself as easily.”
“Another! what other?” demanded Alice, in a faltering
voice.
“Jurian Hartfield.”
“That boy, who has been as dear to me as a son,
and yet I knew not why my heart yearned towards
Impossible! It cannot be!”
“The adder is sometimes concealed beneath a
flower,” replied Gordon, his stern features relaxing
into something like a smile. “Virtue is but a mask,
that even villains may assume upon occasion, to
betray.”
“You wrong him; it cannot be!”
“I will swear it is as true as holy writ, and call upon
Miriam herself to attest to the truth of what I assert.”
“So confident! Gracious heavens! if I have been
deceived in that boy, I will abjure my species—there
is nothing like virtue in the world!”
“There is a great deal like virtue, mother Alice,
but very little of the thing itself; but as times go, the
counterfeit passes currently for sterling coin.”
“What proof have you of the truth of what you
assert?”
“She was here but a few minutes ago in search of
him, and even now is within the walls of that prison,
where he is confined. I saw her ascend the steps as
you entered the yard.”
“My poor misguided child! Could we but meet
again, I might reclaim her from her error, and save
her from the fearful destiny that awaits her!”
“None stray so widely, mother,” replied Gordon,
gravely, “but that the right path is still open before
them.”
“Few return, who have strayed as she has,” replied
Alice; “still will I hope she may be awakened
to a sense of her error, and that her afterlife will cancel
the remembrance of her present shame.”
“Is that in the nature of man?”
“I know not what I say! My own experience
should have taught me that shame is a never-dying
fire, upon which fresh fuel is daily cast, and when it
has burnt down to the very embers, it rekindles among
the ashes of the dead. It is a merciless world we live
first stone at the sinner.”
“A merciless world, and a blind one too, good mother,”
replied Gordon, “or you would not have attempted
the life of your sincerest friend.”
“I did you wrong, and I repent of it,” replied the
humbled Alice, “but I was born to err.”
“To return good for evil,” continued Gordon, “is
a line of conduct that is attended with its own reward,
and I wish to adopt it towards you. Miriam is fallen,
and yet I cannot cease to love her devotedly. So far
from it, her affliction has increased my tenderness, and
in order to alleviate it, I am willing that her shame
should fall on me.”
“How fall on you?”
“Let her become my wife. The knowledge of the
author of her wrong rests in our own bosoms, and the
shaft of slander will not be thrown at the wife of the
humble Jones. Thus will she be saved from an appalling
fate, and one who loves her be rendered
happy.”
“But her affections are devoted to another.”
“And that other has betrayed her. A sense of duty
will teach her to forget one so unworthy, and when
this fatal infatuation is broken, gratitude will induce
her to yield her heart to him who stepped in between
her and ruin.”
“I will think of it,” replied Alice, in a low voice.
“Do so, and remember I live but for Miriam.”
He descended from the steps, and they walked
slowly and in silence across the square, towards the
prison, together. Gordon was one of those who entertain
the ideas of Solomon and David with regard to
matrimony.
| CHAPTER I. The forsaken | |