University of Virginia Library

35. CHAPTER XXXV.
AN EVENING IN BOSTON.

The blustering van of Winter's advancing
forces pressed hard upon the rear of retreating
Autumn, whose yellow plumes and banners had
already disappeared from the frost-crusted plains
of New-England, and were waving in more southern
climes. The pioneers of the frigid tyrant
had stripped the fields of herbage, wasted the
meadows, and covered every stream with a
crystalline bridge. It was a boisterous evening
in the month of November, and the streets of
Boston were covered with rain and sleet, when a
happy little party, around Orville's parlour fire,
were suddenly thrown into consternation by the
heart-appalling cry of murder! almost immediately
under the window. Orville and Morse flew
into the street, and at their approach three ruffians
took to their heels, and effected their escape,
leaving their bleeding victim prostrate in
the gutter.

“He lives!” exclaimed Morse, raising the
poor wretch's head upon his knee, while he felt
the blood gushing on his hand; “Heaven grant
that his scull be not fractured.”

“I hope not,” returned Orville, as he assisted
in lifting him from the ground; “a surgeon must
be instantly called.”

Lights were now brought, but scarcely any
symptoms of life were discernable in the object
of their care, whom they now discovered to be a
sailor, whose sun-burnt countenance was “marked
with many an honest scar.” He was immediately
conveyed into the house, and laid on a sofa,
while Morse departed for a surgeon, and Ellen
assisted Amelia in washing the clotted blood from
his temples, and cutting the “gory locks” from
a wound on the side of his head. In a short time
he recovered so far as to swallow a cordial, and
express his gratitude for the kind attention of his
fair nurses; he complained of an excruciating
pain in the left hip, which he feared had been dislocated
in the fall, as he felt it impossible to
move.

The surgeon now entered with Morse, and having
examined the patient, found a severe contusion
on his hip, which was much swelled and inflamed;
but neither fracture nor dislocation had
been produced. The wounds were then properly
dressed, the necessary medicines administered,
and the grateful tar conveyed to a chamber
hastily prepared for his reception, where a faithful
domestic was directed to watch by him during
the night.

Having thus assisted in performing the sacred
rites of humanity, Amelia and Morse were preparing
to depart, when a rattling peal from the
knocker arrested their attention, and in the next
moment George Washington Willoughby was
locked in his sister's arms.

It was some time before the mutual rapture of
this unexpected meeting could be articulated in
words, or expressed in any other way than by
tears and unfinished exclamations. A more tranquil
joy, however, succeeded, and their reciprocal
inquiries were made and answered in a more
intelligible manner. At length the whole party
became composed, and took seats around the social
hearth. Refreshments were introduced, and
Ellen resuming a tone of gaiety peculiar to herself,
exclaimed—

“But tell us, my hero George, to what miracle
do we owe the happiness of this meeting; and
who is the adventurous knight that has again unriveted
your fetters, and restored you to the arms
of friendship, liberty, and love?”

“I have returned on parole, my gay cousin,
and am doomed to renounce the service of Mars
until a British ensign can be found on this side
the lines, to break the spell of honor which binds
me. Did my sister receive a letter from Queenston?”

“I did,” answered Amelia, “and we were all
extremely happy that its contents furnished no
grounds to support the rumor of your having
been wounded in that unfortunate affair.”

“Knowing that your affectionate fears would
aggravate a mere scratch to something more serious
and alarming, I forebore to mention it, and
was soon able to walk, when we were all conducted
to Quebec as prisoners of war. Before
I left Queenston, I recovered the trinket mentioned
in my letter as having been stolen by an
Indian, and it is to the generous interference of
a British officer that I am indebted for its restoration.
At Quebec, the brave Scott obtained his

parole, as did several others, among whom I was
one. We embarked in a cartel, and without any
accident arrived in this port a few hours since.
I have only been landed long enough to drop a
“how d'ye” at my uncle's, and flew immediately
hither. And now, tell me something of my father.
Who has heard from him?”

“I have this day received a long letter from
him,” answered Morse, “which you shall read
in due time.”

“And Amelia has also received a long letter
from her wild correspondent,” added Ellen, with
an arch smile; “but it contains no mysterious
postscript, and consequently you can possess no
curiosity to see it.”

George turned an eager beseeching look on his
sister, and exclaimed—“Tell me, Amelia, how
fares my—my father?”

“Our friends at and near Mulberry-Grove, are
all well,” replied his sister; “male and female—
old and young. Let that content you until to-morrow.
In the mean time, permit me to introduce
to your acquaintance a relation whom you
have never seen.” So saying, she rose, and led
her brother to a recess where stood a cradle, in
which a beautiful infant was sleeping. “There,”
she continued, “lies your little cousin, George
Cushing Orville, who has this day completed two
months of life's little pilgrimage.”

George took the infant in his arms, raised
its soft cheek to his lips, and after caressing it for
a few minutes, returned it to the cradle; then
casting an inquiring look at his sister, said—
“Perhaps there is also another little stranger who
may be still more nearly related to me.”

“Short-sighted simpleton!” cried Ellen; but
before he could ask an explanation, a servant
burst into the room, with a countenance in which
terror and alarm were strongly depicted, and
begged that one of the gentlemen would hasten
up stairs, and endeavour to quiet the wounded
sailor, who was raving like a madman. Orville
and Morse immediately ascended to the chamber,
and without pausing to make any inquiries, our
hero darted after them.

“Shall we follow?” said Amelia, advancing
to the door.

“Not for the world,” answered Ellen; “who
could answer for the consequences of such a
scene on the delicate nerves of one who is—“as
women wish to be who love their lords?” If feminine
assistance is necessary, I will go by myself.”

When the three gentlemen entered the sick
man's chamber, they found their patient sitting
up in bed, with clenched fists, and eyes rolling
in wild frenzy, swearing to annihilate a host of
enemies, whom he imagined were ready to assail
him. Fortunately he did not mistake his real
friends. “Come on, shipmates!” he exclaimed,
as they approached the bed; “I've wing'd the
lieutenant. Cut down that lubber! Follow up
the blow!—down with 'em!—Never submit to a
tyrannical press-gang!—They give way!—press
on!—Victory!—huzza!” On finishing this
strange rhapsody, (which was very thickly interlarded
with coarse oaths and other technical phraseology)
he made a desperate effort to leap out of
bed, but was caught by our hero, and sank exhausted
in his arms. His whole frame glowed,
and his burning hands and face seemed ready to
burst with the fever that raged in his veins.

Being again laid on his pillow, he was quiet
for some minutes, and in that interval George
was made acquainted with the adventure which
had introduced the poor sufferer under this hospitable
roof.

Scarcely was the brief recital finished, when
its subject again started; but his eyes now continued
closed, and without rising from his pillow,
or using any extravagant gestures, he pursued
another theme, in broken sentences, and in a
much lower tone:

“Hist! Now is the time—the darkness—he's
not an owl—he can't see the mainmast—hist!—
one at a time—chicken-hearted lubber! the
sharks are on board—shiver my timbers if I back
out!—Now for it—Ah! ah! comfortable—comfortable.”

He was again silent, and every muscle seemed
to labor in some arduous exercise. Great drops
of sweat started from every pore, and he began
to breathe more easy; his full high-bounding
pulse began gradually to subside, and in less than
an hour he awoke with no delirium, and quite free
from fever.

Having received a draught of some cooling
medicine from the hand of Orville, he again expressed
his thanks for such kindness to a stranger,
and regretted that he had become so troublesome.
Orville entreated him to give himself no
uneasiness on that score; and perceiving that he
was disposed to sleep, recommended him to the
particular care of the attendant, and descended
to the parlour, where the happy party separated
for the night.

In the course of the following day the sailor
found himself so much better, that he was able

to sit up and converse freely; when, at the request
of his humane host, he related all that he
knew respecting the fracas which had reduced
him to the perilous situation from which he had
been so providentially extricated.

He had just been paid off and discharged from
a merchant ship that had lately arrived from
France, and was proceeding to his lodgings,
when he observed that he was closely followed
by two or three suspicious-looking fellows, armed
with heavy sticks. Being unconscious of having
deserved an enemy, he naturally concluded,
that if he was the object of their pursuit, it must
be for the purpose of robbing him of his hard-earned
money. He turned several corners, and
they still continued to dog him, until he concluded
to make a stand and demand the cause of this
singular pursuit. Instead of answering his inquiry,
they seized him by the throat, and endeavoured
to stop his mouth with a handkerchief.
By a desperate struggle, however, he disengaged
himself from their grasp; and finding escape impossible,
cried out murder. He could recollect
no more, until he found himself on the sofa, attended
by the ladies. Both the pockets of his
jacket were turned inside out; but fortunately he
had secured his money in a morocco purse, which
was concealed in the facing of his vest; and the
timely interference of Orville and Morse had prevented
a further search.

In the mean time, our hero had been devouring
the contents of his sister's letter from Catharine,
in which she had ingenuously confessed to
Amelia the present state of her affections, with
an artless little history of the rise and progress
of a passion which she esteemed the happiness of

her life. The catastrophe at Richmond was not
forgotten; the meeting in the meadow was delicately
painted; and their subsequent engagements,
and parting interview, accurately described.
What a treat for a lover!

“Did I not know you so well, my brother,”
said Amelia, as she gave him the letter, “did I
not believe your bosom to be the seat of the
purest honor, I would not expose you to the intoxicating
influence of this cordial. Prove yourself
worthy of so sacred a trust.”

The concluding paragraph of this letter I have
been permitted to transcribe, and is in the following
words:

“But O, my dear friend! after confiding so
much to the sanctity of your breast, how will you
believe me, when I assure you that poor Catharine
is still unhappy? Think me not childish or
capricious—but how can I feel happy when the
hazardous profession which this angelic being
has chosen may, in one fatal moment, blast my
little paradise of hope, and render all the world
to me a dreary desert of misery? How soon may
that manly form lie bleeding on the cold ground,
and those lovely limbs be mangled by trampling
horses, or hewed to pieces by the still more merciless
savages. A bullet or a sword may pierce
that generous heart which throbs with the noblest
ardor for his country, and the purest affection for
his friends. This is the only reflection that can
ever shake my implicit trust in the providence of
Heaven. I fear, Amelia—indeed I fear, that such
a trial of my strength would find me sadly deficient.
Pray for me, that I may never encounter
it. Foolish, selfish girl! to forget that I am addressing
the sister of such a brother! Let us then

mingle our prayers to avert an event, the effects
of which would be so fatally extensive.”

“To be worthy of such affection,” said
George, as he returned the letter to Amelia,
“shall be the study of my life; and never can I
be sufficiently grateful to my sister for her generous
confidence. Did the dear writer of that
epistle know the happiness that has been thus
clandestinely imparted to her absent friend, she
would surely overlook the means, and excuse the
agent.”

“I would not willingly put her friendship to
the test,” answered Amelia; “so enjoy your happiness,
but forget the medium through which you
received it.”

The light-hearted George now endeavored to
collect his thoughts for a perusal of his father's
letter to Morse, which the reader will find recorded
at large in the next chapter.