University of Virginia Library

41. CHAPTER LXI.

On his departure from Lynchburg, Schwartz had
been provided with a suit of clothes half military, to
prevent the notice which his rude mountain attire
would have attracted. The day was half spent before
he was on the road, and the sergeant and his
party were already far in advance of him.

Colonel Trevor had been desirous, for obvious
reasons, that his letter and prisoner should reach
Washington as soon as possible, and had ordered
the party to proceed with all practicable despatch.
But, as they might be somewhat retarded by the
necessary care of their prisoner, he had directed that
the letter should be sent on, as we have seen, by a
single soldier, who had reached Washington on the
second night. But the sergeant was not far behind,
and had used such diligence that he crossed the
bridge the next morning at an early hour, just as
poor Schwartz came in sight.

He recognized the party by the peculiar dress of
Douglas, with which he was so familiar; but it was

too late. He followed, however, disconcerted by his
failure, but not desponding. At the farther end of
the bridge he was struck with the countenance and
manner of a fine looking young man, of genteel but
plain appearance, who stood gazing earnestly after
the prisoner and his guard.

Observing Schwartz, he asked eagerly who the
prisoner was, and was told it was Captain Douglas.

“Good God!” exclaimed he, in a tone of deep
concern; “is it possible? But thank God! it is no
worse.”

“Did you think it was any body you knew?”
asked the quick-witted Schwartz.

“Yes,” replied the other. “I was almost sure it
was a friend of my own.”

“And what was your friend's name, stranger? if
I may be so bold.”

“You are bold enough,” said the youth. “I am
not in the habit of answering questions, unless I
know who asks them, and why.”

“I don't mean no harm, young man,” replied
Schwartz; “and if you tell me your friend's name
and your own too, may be you won't be sorry for it.”

The stranger looked hard at Schwartz, and in his
serious, earnest, and sagacious countenance saw
enough to make him curious to know what this
meant. He therefore replied, that his friend was
Lieutenant Trevor, late of the United States Dragoons.

“Then I have a notion,” replied Schwartz, “that
your name is Whiting.”

“My name is Whiting,” replied the other, in great
surprise; “but how should you know it?”

“I have heard the Captain talk about you many
a time.”

“The Captain! What Captain?”

“Him,” replied Schwartz, pointing toward the
distant party.

“Him! And how was he to know any thing
about me?”

“Just because he is the very man you thought he
was.”

“Douglas!” exclaimed Whiting. “Trevor!
Douglas Trevor! Good God, what an ass I have
been! O Trevor, my friend! how earnestly have I
wished to know where to find you! Had I been
with you, this might have been prevented.”

“May be it is best as it is,” said Schwartz.
“The Captain did not want for friends where he
was. May be one friend here will do him more good
than a hundred any where else. That is what I am
here for now.”

“You are a friend to Trevor, then,” replied Whiting;
“perhaps one of his followers.”

“You may say that,” said Schwartz. “Any
how, I'm his friend.”

“Then come with me to my lodgings. You can
tell me every thing, and we will see what is to be

done. Trevor has friends enough here. Thank
God! I saw him. But for that we might not have
found out who he was till it was too late.”

Whiting now showed Schwartz where to bestow
his horse, and afterwards conducted him to his lodgings.
These were in an obscure suburb, humble,
plain, and poorly fitted up. Appearances showed
that the occupant spent most of his time with the
pen, although many of the relics of his former military
equipments were to be seen about the room.
But the dust on his cap, which hung against the
wall, and the mould on the belt and scabbard of his
sword, showed that these had been long unused.
In truth, the escape of Douglas and his uncle had
been fatal to him as a soldier. He had been dismissed
the army; and now, as it seemed, earned a
poor livelihood by doing for small wages the manual
labor of those offices, the salaries of which are
received by men who do nothing at all.

During their long walk through the streets of that
city “so magnificent in distances,” as Monsieur
Serrurier said of it, and while a hasty breakfast was
preparing for Schwartz, he gave Whiting the particulars
of the late battle at Jones's Ford; of Douglas's
capture, and of his brother's death, and the surrender
of the camp. As soon as he had seen his guest
provided for, the young man left him alone. Going
out, he proceeded to the first stand of coaches,
and stepping into one was driven to the Minister's.

Here he alighted, showed a ticket to the porter,
entered, threaded several passages, descended a dark
stair, and, going into a small room in the basement,
touched the spring of a bell. No answering sound
was heard; but, in half an hour the Minister appeared.

“I am glad to see you,” said he. “Have you
heard that your friend Trevor is in the power of his
enemies, and is expected here to-day?”

“I had not heard it,” said Whiting; “but I have
seen him. He is here.”

“Indeed! That is well. We have the more
time.”

“Where will he be lodged, and under what custody?”

“In the state prison. I am instructed to select
his guards from among those who are strangers to
his person, and well-affected to the Government.”

“That will be no easy task, as it seems that all
the troops of that description have been marched
into Virginia, and that, except raw recruits, there
are none here that it was thought safe to trust on
that service.”

“That is true,” said the Minister; “and therefore
I must select those same raw recruits. Think
you there are many here who could be relied on to
peril every thing on behalf of your friend?”

“No doubt of it. I was long enough in the army
after his disgrace to know that his whole regiment

were indignant at it. A hundred can be found ready
to wipe it out with the blood of the President, or
their own.”

“It is well. He will be taken to the palace this
night, under the cloud of darkness. Have all things
in readiness, and watch for his return. You will
know what to do. Did you know those who had
him in custody?”

“I knew the sergeant, and he knew me.”

“All right. You then must be charged with the
disappearance of Douglas; you must therefore make
your escape with him. I shall, of course, see you
no more. We have no time for compliment; but
you will have my best wishes; and the time may
come when you may have it in your power to do me
justice. My country is to me, Mr. Whiting, what
yours is to you. When New England was permitted
to join in what you will call the plunder of the South, I
was not very scrupulous about the means of securing
her share. But nearly all that was worth having is
irretrievably lost. What remains can only be retained
by means which will but make it an instrument
of power in the hands of this man, and so
enable him to perpetuate his reign according to the
forms of the constitution. Take that away, and
leave the matter altogether to the votes of the
northern States, and I shall not long have to play
second to him. In order to preserve his power, he
would be compelled to break up the system of monopoly

contrived for the exclusive benefit of his
favorite Empire State; or perhaps to concur with
me in severing a Union, the benefits of which are
now lost, by the escape of our common prey, and
of which we bear all the inconveniences. Of course,
I do not pretend that the place to which the favor
of my countrymen may advance me in either event,
has no charms for me. But you will see that I am
actuated by no low and sordid ambition. I am
desirous you should see it in this light. It is not
my fortune to command the services of many whose
esteem is eminently desirable. I am, therefore, the
more ambitious of yours. Should I succeed, my
acts will vindicate my motives. Should I fail, (and
if Virginia disenthrals herself I shall not fail,) you
will do me this justice. What news have you of
the movements of B—?”

“He is about to take up arms, with the probability
of assembling a force which, with the concurrence
of the corps of Douglas, will secure his object.”

“But is not the band of Douglas dispersed?”

“By no means; but much increased. They have
still their mountain leaders, and a young man from
the South Carolina military school, who seems well
qualified to act, for the time, as the locum tenens of
the Chief.”

“Then farewell, sir,” said the Minister. “You
carry with you my good wishes for yourself and
your cause, and I pray you to commend them to
Mr. B—.”

About the time that these gentlemen thus separated,
the President was informed that a gentleman
and lady craved the favor of a private audience.
He directed that they should be shown into the
room, the privacy of which we have so often violated,
and soon after he entered it.

A lady, whose figure and dress denoted youth,
was seated on the sofa. She was in deep mourning,
and a black veil completely hid her face. By her
side sat a gentleman far advanced in life, and of a
most venerable aspect. His fair complexion had
blanched by time into the cold dead whiteness of
age. The color had, in like manner, faded from his
pale blue eye; and the quivering of his livid lip,
and the trembling of his eyelids, betokened deep
and anxious distress. His dress also was of black,
mournfully contrasting with the almost unearthly
whiteness of his face.

At the entrance of the President both rose; and
the trembling and agitated old gentleman might be
seen to give way for a moment, as if about to throw
himself on his knees before “the dreaded prince
whose will was fate.” But he recovered himself,
and with an air of suppliant dignity, stood as erect
as the weakness and infirmity of age permitted. The
President approached him with a look of perplexity
and doubt; and, gazing earnestly at him, said: “I
beg to know, sir, who it is. Bless me! Mr. Trevor,
is it possible that I see you here, at this moment?”

“I am here, sir,” replied the old gentleman, “a
broken-hearted, bereaved father, lamenting the loss
of one son, and suppliant for the life of another; and
this is my niece, who is come to join her prayers to
mine, on behalf of her betrothed husband.”

There was enough in these words to add to the
maiden confusion of poor Delia, but not enough to
prevent her from lifting a timid glance, in which
there was as much of entreaty as her proud spirit
could descend to. She met the eye of the President,
as with an air of quick and eager surprise he turned
towards her; and in his eye she read a meaning,
which, in the moment, blasted her hopes and confirmed
her in all her detestation of the cold, selfish,
and crafty politician, whom she now beheld for the
first time. She saw, instantly, that she was the
object of some subtle purpose; and felt, that by
putting herself in his power, she had but prepared
for her husband a deeper distress than all the severities
of the law could inflict. But she quailed not
at the thought. Her proud and bold spirit came in
aid of her weakness; her pale cheek burnt with an
indignant glow, and the tears were dissipated from
her eyes in the bright and almost fierce glance that
flashed from them. Even through her veil too much
of this appeared to escape the notice of the President.

He instantly turned away; and, with an air and
tone of the most candied courtesy, addressed Mr.

Trevor: “You speak in riddles, my dear sir,” said
he; “I beg you to explain.”

“My task is more painful than I had anticipated,”
said the poor old man. “Have I, then, to be the
herald of my poor Owen's death, and of the yet more
disastrous fate of my other noble boy?”

“Col. Trevor dead, sir!” exclaimed the President.
“Impossible! I have just received a letter
from him, written on the 12th.”

“That day was the last of his life,” said the
afflicted father. “He fell next morning. I received
the news yesterday by the railroad; and by travelling
all night by the same conveyance, I am here to
entreat that the axe may not glean what the sword
has left me. My poor boy Douglas, I am told, is in
your power, and perhaps here.”

“I had heard of this; but I assure you your son
is not here. I will not deny that I expect him; and
regret that it is under circumstances which will not
allow me the pleasure of extending to him the same
courtesy I shall be happy to render to you. Compose
yourself, my dear sir; let me beg you and your
niece to retire to rooms which are always ready to
receive you where I am master; and let me send for
your baggage.”

Delia, who thought there was something of hesitancy
in her uncle's mind, instantly exclaimed: “No,
my uncle! No, my father! The palace of a tyrant
is a prison. There is no mercy here. No hope for

my noble husband. Save yourself. Return home
while you may, and leave me here to share his fate.
Our friends may rescue us. They WILL avenge us.
But in that cold eye there is no relenting.”

“You are harsh, lady,” said the President; “I
will not add, unjust. I will prove that, by permitting
your instant departure, without even enquiring where
you lodge.”

He now bowed them out, and immediately summoning
a servant, said: “Take the number of that coach,
and let the driver attend me this evening.” Then,
as the servant left the room, he went on: “Why,
this is better and better. I think I have holds enough
now on Baker to bind him to his task, however his
heart may yearn after his beggarly estate in Virginia.
It seems, forsooth, that after all that has passed, his
son yet has a hankering after this girl; the only
woman, as he says, that he ever truly loved. It may
be but spite against his favored rival; or it may be,
in truth, that every thing that bears the shape of man
is susceptible of love, or what passes for it. Be it
so. He may be gratified; but his father shall fulfil
conditions.”

In the evening of the same day the following letter
was put into the hands of the President:

Caution.”

“Why, here is proof as well as accusation,” said
the President. “Here is treason. How else is it
known that Trevor was to be brought here to-night?
I will improve this hint. A rescue is to be attempted!
Is that it? Then the guard will be attacked
on their return without the prisoner. Wo to the
traitor if it prove so!”

I have been interrupted in my narrative. I have
hesitated whether to give this fragment to the public,
until I have leisure to complete my history. On
farther reflection, I have determined to do so. Let
it go forth as the first Bulletin of that gallant contest,
in which Virginia achieved her independence;
lifted the soiled banner of her sovereignty from the
dust, and once more vindicated her proud motto,
which graces my title page,—SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS!
Amen. So mote it be.