University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
THE RENDEZVOUS OF THE SPIES.

It was perhaps a quarter of an hour after
the peculiar events just recorded, that a solitary
individual glided into a thicket, on the
outskirts of a word, about a mile distant from
the scene of the foregoing chapter. He had
evidently been running very fast; for his respiration
was quick and heavy, and, from his
manner of sinking down upon the ground,
one would have judged he was very much fatigued.

This individual had not been many minutes
concealed in the thicket, when some one was
heard approaching on the run. He listened
attentively; but ascertaining, beyond all
doubt, he heard only the foot-fall of a single
person, he remained quiet. The new-comer
came up panting, plunged into the thicket,
paused, and drew a long breadth, with a half
whistle.

“Wal,” he said, in a low voice, speaking
to himself, “this ere's a darn putty piece of
business, any how it can be fixed—it is, I
swow to Guinea. Jest at the very moment
when every thing was working so slick, them
are soldiery scamps must come right up and
spile all. Darn 'em! if I'd only had that are
feller, that spoke to the Gineral, by the throat,
how I would a chocked him! Gosh-all-thunder!
he'd seen stars all over his face, as
thick as tick on an old sheep's back.”

“Where are the rest of our friends?” inquired
a clear, sonorous voice, not two feet
distant from where the first speaker stood, and
which proceeded from the lips of the first-comer.

“Thunder and lightning!” exclaimed Josh
Snipe (for of course the reader has recognized
his voice while speaking); “if I didn't think I
was here all by myself, I'll jest gin ye leave
to comb my head with a rake, and pull one o'
my double-teeth with a pitch-fork—I will, by
Jemima! Wal, who be you, any how?—that
are noise sounds like Mister Carlini's—or
Signor, as some call him.”

“And thine much too loud, unless thou desirest
giving out pursuers an inkling of our
rendezvous,” retu ned the other. “Thou
hast rightly guessed, friend—I am Carlini;
but we must speak lower, or keep silence.”

“How long you been here?” inquired Josh,
in a tone scarcely above a whisper.

“Perhaps five minutes—perhaps less.”

“Wal, I'd like to know, now, who it was
that told you the soldiers was coming; for the
voice sounded like a woman's, or a boy's, and
different from any that I know abeout being
concerned in our plan.”

“The voice was from one that I little expected
to find there at that time,” answered
Carlini; “but I can not be more explicit at
present. I will only say, there were two
youths, apparently, who glided away with me
in the darkness, and separated from me at
the first turning, they taking the left and I the
right.”

“Hark!” said Josh, “there's somebody else
coming, I guess.”

There was a sound of feet approaching, certainly;
but when Josh spoke, it was so faint
as to be almost inaudible. The advancing
party seemed to be nearing our friends with
quick, light steps, and, judging by the sound,
there was more than one; but how many, or
who they might prove to be, the darkness of
the night, which enveloped them as in a pall,
rendered it impossible to say. That they were
the Captain and Sergeant, Carlini thought it
probable, and he ventured to give an imitation
of the owl. An answer, in the same manner,
satisfied him that he was correct in his

surmise; and almost immediately after, the
new-comers gained the thicket.

“Who is here?” inquired a low voice,
which our concealed friends instantly recognized
as that of Captain Milford.

Carlini answered by giving his own name,
and that of his compamon.

“We have been most unfortunate, friends,”
pursued Milford, “in having been interrupted
at a moment so important to our enterprise.”

“It seems as if the traitor is destined to escape
punishment,” returned the astrologer.

“Confound that Corporal Jones!” rejoined
Milford, angrily. “But for him, we should
this very moment, doubtless, be bearing off
our prize. Champe and I were just preparing
ourselves to spring upon him, when we
heard the signal of Josh, and, what really surprised
us, another voice, that sounded not unfamiliar
to my ear, bidding us make haste to
escape. Do you know the friend that so unexpectedly
warned us of danger, Signor Carlini.”

“I think I have heard the voice before,”
was the reply.

“Are you not at liberty to tell his name?”

“I would rather not at present.”

“Ah, then it was some one employed by
yourself, without our knowledge.”

“No, I was taken as much by surprise as
you were, gentlemen.”

“Indeed! this is strange!” said Milford
somewhat startled.

“It proves our secret is known to others,”
said Champe.

“That is true,” returned Milford, musingly;
“and the fact is not a pleasant one
Who can the person be?”

“There were two,” said Carlini.

“Two! I heard but one voice.”

“The other did not speak. Both fled with
me along the alley, till they came to the street
which crosses it, when they turned up toward
Broadway, and I down toward the river. I
had but a faint glimpse of their figures, it was
so dark; but to all appearance, they were
half grown youths.”

“Ha! a thought strikes me!” returned Milford:
“were they mullatoes, Signor Carlini?”

“They might have been full-blooded ne
groes, for all that I could see to the contrary,
Captain.”

“Ay, ay, sir; but I am not questioning what
you saw of them to-night, but what you know
of them from previous seeing.”

“Well, I will answer to the best of my belief,
Captain, by saying, I doubt not the faces
of both were a few shades darker than the
faces of any here.”

“I have it, then! I have it!” returned
Milford, somewhat excited.

“Well, out with the secret, then,” said
Champe.

“Why, they are Rosalie Du Pont's servants,
without a doubt. I thought I had heard that
voice before, and now I remember where and
when. The lad that spoke is the same that
came out to Burnside's, on the evening of that
day you escorted me to White Plains, Ser.
geant.”

“Ah, yes, I recollect hearing you mention
it: he brought some intelligence for Washington,
I think you said?”

“Yes, concerning Clinton's intentions, Anderson,
and so forth. But stay! I have overlooked
one very important matter,” pursued
the Captain, in a tone of perplexity. “It could
not have been that lad, after all, for the simple
reason that he is not at present in the city.”

“He may have returned,” suggested
Champe.

“If he had, I think Rosalie would have
mentioned it to me, in the course of our conversation
to-day—or rather, I should say, yesterday—for
I believe it is now passed midnight.”

“It is more likely, after what happened to
Miss Du Pont, that she would not think so
trivial a matter, as the arrival of a mullatto
lad, worth mentioning, even if the occurrence
entered her mind at all, which is more unlikely
still, said Champe.

“Well, my friend, you may be right,” replied
Milford; “and the more I think upon
the matter, the more convinced am I that you
are. At all events, we will rest the subject
on this plausible belief, unless friend Carlini,
who I am inclined to think knows, states the
contrary.”

“That I shall not, of a surety, Captain,” returned

the astrologer; “for if you think the
messenger you saw and conversed with in the
country, and the person who gave us that
timely warning to-night, are one and the
same, I will only add, that I am of the same
opinion.”

“Well, so that our secret is in safe bands,”
rejoined Champe, “I care little whether the
person that warned us in white or black, male
or female. So, come, gentlemen, since we
have all been fortunate enough to escape unharmed,
let us consult on future measures,
without delay. I must return to my quarters
to-night; and it is already so late that I fear
suspicion may be excited, that my absence
has not been solely for the promotion of the
interest of his Majesty. We have failed, on
the very point of success: can any thing more
be done?”

“Surely, you would not abandon our
scheme thus readily?” queried Milford, in a
tone of surprise.

“I merely asked a question, my hotspur
Captain, but expressed no intention, I believe,
of being a double deserter and paltroon.”

“Pardon me, Champe, if I have hurt your
feelings! but your voice expressed so much
of despondency—”

“Enough, my friend, enough!” interrupted
the Sergeant. “Doubtless my voice did sound
desponding, for it seems to me I have a presentiment
of coming evil. But to the point.
Since you take exceptions to my former question,
I will now ask what you think best to be
done, situated as we are?”

“Try it again to-morrow night,” answered
Milford; “and if we again fail, without being
overthrown, try it again the next night;
and so on, till we conquer or lose all.”

“I am with you,” said Champe, firmly, “to
the very death—that is to say, if I can manage
to get away from my corps without being
suspected; but go on with the good cause,
at all events, whether I am present in person
or not. I would willingly have sacrificed my
right hand to have prevented that interruption
to-night—but regrets are useless, and amount
to nothing but loss of time. May we not hope
to hear from Lee, ere the time arrives for a
new trial, Captain?”

“Yes, if George has got safely through, I
think we may count on an answer by to-morrow
night, at the farthest.”

“And Lee himself—will he not be here
also, think you?”

“Doubtless, for such was my request.”

“Then perhaps our failure was for the best,
after all.”

“We must try and console ourselves with
that idea, at all events.”

“But where is Dame Hagold, Captain? I
fear we have overlooked her.”

“True—she is doubtless with the boat,
awaiting our arrival.”

“I hope she has not been discovered,” said
Champe, uneasily.

“No fear of that, I think, gentlemen,” responded
Carlini, “for she is both shrewd and
prudent. Nevertheless, I think it important
she be informed of our failure immediately,
lest something occur to get her into trouble.”

“Yes, some one must go to her at once,”
rejoined Champe. “Will you undertake the
mission, Josh?”

“Wal, yes, Sargent and gentlemen, I guess
as how I will; for I don't think as how I can
be of much sarvice here; and stretching my
legs a leetle bit more, I guess won't hurt 'em
none.”

“Well, Josh, be very careful,” said the
Captain, “for we have good reason to be on
the qui vive, after what has occurred to-night.
When you get where you can speak to her,
without danger of being overheard, tell her
that we were interrupted to-night, while on
the eve of success, by the very Corporal Jones
that visited her house during the day. Doubtless
the fellow who is in pursuit of her son, after
learning, as he did, that she is his mother,
set a spy on her house; and that spy, having
seen some one of us lurking about the premises,
so informed the Corporal, which led to the
unfortunate result we all so much deplore.
From his answer to Arnold, I know he did
not suspect us, nor our object, and this is
something we should be thankful for. It will,
moreover, be cheering news to her, to learn
her son is not yet detected; for however guilty
he may be, he is still her son, and she a feeling
mother, who deserves a better fortune.

On this account, I can rejoice in the escape
of the youth. Tell her she had better not return
to the old house again, for fear of some
accident that may ruin our scheme. If no
one is seen to enter or leave it, during the remainder
of the night and to-morrow, I doubt
not the watch will be withdrawn, and that we
shall, in consequence, be able to succeed in
our enterprise to-morrow night.”

“But if she goes not back to her late quarters,
where will she go, so that you will know
where to find her?” inquired the Sergeant.

“That is true—I did not think of it before,”
returned Milford; “I am glad you reminded
me of it, Sergeant. Well, gentlemen, I leave
it to you, to say what you think best to be
done under the circumstances.”

“I think it best to see the woman before
we separate,” replied Carlini.

“You must of needs dispense with my company
ere then,” said Champe; “for it is all
important I hasten back to my quarters, Even
as it is, I shall have to rack my inventive
powers for a plausible excuse, and I much fear
I shall not be allowed to be with you again to-morrow
night—though, if it be possible to steal
away, I shall risk the consequences. I had
much trouble in getting off to-night; and my
commanding officer granted me leave of absence,
with what seemed a kind of suspicious
reluctance.”

“Well, Champe,” replied Milford, “considering
your circumstances, I think it best
that you return at once. I have only to add,
that if we make another trial, we shall adhere
to the same arrangements that we adopted for
to-night, and that you will find us here, if you
seek us, at the same hour.”

“And if you are not here at the same
hour?” queried the Sergeant.

“Then you may be assured there is an important
failure somewhere,” answered Milford.

“Well, this being settled, I will leave you,”
rejoined Champe. “But I must shake hands
before we part; for somehow, as I said before,
I have a presentiment we shall not meet again
soon, if ever;” and the voice of the noble fellow
quivered, in spite of an apparent effort to
appear firm and composed.

“Nay, my dear friend,” said Milford, tak
ing the hand of the other, while his own voice
expressed strong emotion, “do not despond in
this manner—you make me sad.”

“Well, well,” rejoined the Sergeant, “we
will say no more about it. They may be foolish,
fanciful prognostics that are flitting through
my brain—I will hope they are. At all events,
I will strive to keep a stout heart, and do my
duty, as becomes a man and a true son of liberty.
But should any thing happen to prevent
our meeting again, and should you be
fortunate enough to escape to our friends, you
will think of poor Champe sometimes, Captain
Milford? for you at least know, whatever
may be appearances, that my heart is in the
right place.”

“Should we not meet again, my dear Sergeant,”
responded the other, in a tone now
rendered tremulous with feelings, “rest assured,
that Captain Milford will mourn the
loss of one of his dearest friends; and should
you fall ignobly, Champe, and I escape, rest
assured, it shall be my living endeavor to have
justice done your memory, to clear your honest
name of all dishonor, all reproach.”

“It is all I would ask,” rejoined the Sergeant,
in a tone that expressed great relief
from an oppressive weight that rested on his
mind; “and now, let what will happen, I will
bear my fate with a stout heart. Adieu!
Milford—adieu!” and the pressure of his
hard hand spoke the feelings of his heart more
eloquently than words. He next grasped the
hand of Carlini. “Farewell!” he said—“farewell!
We are all brothers in the great cause,
and I part from you as from one in whom the
same paternal blood courses. Good-by, Josh,”
he proceeded, taking his hand last. “Notwithstanding
our first singular meeting, I regard
you as a true friend, and feel I have
reason to bless the hour when first we met—
and this, for me, is saying much. Good-by;
be vigilant, be faithful, be true, and you will
have your reward. Farewell all!” and he
rushed from the thicket, as if overpowered by
his feelings.

For some moments after the Sergeant's departure,
not a word was spoken; and then
Milford said, with a sigh,

“Ah me! I fear this presentiment of our

friend has too good a foundation, and bodes
evil. His parting words are ominous; and
though not much given to superstitious fancies,
I believe that the mind is not unfrequently
oppressed with coming events, which
at the time lie hidden from all mortal eyes bebind
the veil of the great future.”

“Man is a curious piece of mechanism,”
replied Carlini, “and is compounded of more
mysteries than the wisest philosophers have
yet dreamed of. Every year adds something
to our knowledge of this wonderful machine
—but it is still reserved for the great hereafter
to reveal all.”

“And yet you, Signor, seem to possess this
knowledge in greater perfection than any I
have ever known, or heard of,” said the Captain.

“There are some things I know, Captain
Milford, that are not known to mankind generally;
I may say, the very fewest number
are yet possessed of the secret I hold; yet do
not talk to me of perfection; for so far am I
removed from it, that the very knowledge I
possess, seems only to serve as a mirror of the
Almighty, wherein I behold nothing but my
own ignorance. Nay, my friend, as the infant,
who does not know one letter of the alphabet
from another, is to the most learned of
earth's scholars, so am I in regard to possessing
even the first rudiments of God's mysteries,
as manifested in the living, walking machine
called man. Ay, sir, I will go further,
and say, that I believe the day will yet come,
when the lisping child shall be taught trebble
what I now know; and yet the wisest men of
that age shall be hardly on the threshold of
the mighty, wonderful, unexplored structure
of human being. No, Captain Milford, eternity—eternity—that
great, boundless, unknown,
incomprehensible region, to which we are all
hastening—can alone solve the mysteries of
the Almighty, as displayed in one poor, weak,
erring worm of the dust like ourselves; and
even then, peradventure, it will take ages to
do this, and this be only one of our many
studies. How few, how very few, comprehend,
in its widest significance, the potent words,
`Know thyself!' When man does know himself,
depend upon it, he will be as wise as the
angels. But this is not a time and place to
philosophise; let us return, therefore, to business!”

“One question first,” said Milford, whofelt
a deep interest in the remarks of the others;
“do you believe the mind has power over the
body?”

“Yes, I believe any thing I can demonstrate;
and what is more simple than this? The will
is of course an attribute of the mind; and by
a simple use of the will, we put the body in
any position we please, consonant with its
strcuture.”

“And what is that power you exercise so
wonderfully over others?”

“Merely the will, exercised in an unusual,
and more powerful manner.”

“Ah! I can not understand it,” returned
Milford.

“No, my friend, nor can I; for it is one of
the mysteries not yet revealed to mortal—
perhaps never will be—though I doubt not
we shall know all in a future state.”

“Then the good will surely be blest in
dying.”

“Even, so is my faith.”

“One question more, and I will drop the
subject—for, as you say, this is not a fit time
and place for philosophising. Do you really
think the mind has power to prognasticate
evil? In other words, do you believe in presentiment?”

“I do.”

“Then poor Champe's parting words may
be the last he will ever utter in our presence,”
sighed the Captain.

“God only knows,” replied Carlini, solemnly.
“I hope not—but, like you, I have
my fears.”

“Well, let us to business, and trust the result
to Providence. Come, Josh—away!
away!—be speedy, and conduct Dame Hagold
hither, that every thing may he ar anged
for the night and the morrow. Do not lag by
the way, and mind you unite caution with
haste.”

“I'll do it, Capting,” replied Josh; and he
quitted the thicket. “I wish the Sargent
hadn't said what he did,” he muttered—“for
I hain't felt so much like having a regular

blubber sence dad licked me for letting Joe
Davis git the upper hand o' me in the last
tussle we had together.”

For some five minutes after the departure
of Josh, Milford and Carlini held a low, secret
consultation, which we do not deem necessary
to report. At the conclusion of this, the latter
said,

“Well, on the whole, Captain, I think I
will take your advice, and return home. If I
hear nothing from you meantime, I shall endeavor
to be here, punctual to the minute, to-morrow
night. Aurevoir, Captain.”

“Good night,” returned Milford; and as
soon as he found himself alone, he advanced
to a neighboring tree, and seated himself on
the ground, placing his back against the trunk.

He had scarcely settled himself into this
position, when he was both surprised and
startled, at hearing his name pronounced in a
low, musical tone, that he fancied was not unknown
to him.