University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
THE SOI-DISANT MULLATTO.

“Who are who?” demanded Milford, starting
up suddenly, and grasping one of his pistols;
for the thought occurred to him, that he
might possibly have been betrayed by the
very servant who, as he believed, had given
the timely warning during his concealment in
Arnold's shrubbery.

“Fear nothing but loud speech,” was the
answer. “I am a friend to you and your
cause;” and there was a rustling of the
bushes near, as if the speaker were advancing.

“Stand, on your life! I am armed and
desperate,” was the warning rejoinder of the
Captain, spoken in a low, firm, manly tone.
“Ere you approach me, you must answer my
question—Who are you?”

“One you have seen before. I am called
Henry Pierpot.”

“Ha! it is then as I suspected,” returned
the Captain, partly soliloquizing, partly speaking
to the other. “Are you alone?”

“My dumb brother, Munee, is with me.”

“Any one else?”

“No, Captain Milford, and you wrong me
by your suspicions. Think you, if I were
base enough to betray you, I should have
waited till now, and be the first to approach
you? Is it not more reasonable to suppose I
should have done it at the time when my voice
warned you of danger?”

“You are right, lad, and I have done you
gross injustice,” returned Milford. “But
then, he added, as Rosalie, accompanied by
the mute, advanced to where he stood (for the
reader is of course aware that Henry Pierpot
and Rosalie Du Pont are one and the same
person, with a difference only in costume, and
a change in complexion, effected by dyeing).
“ut the, Master Henry, how are you to
suppose I suspected you of being the one who
gave us the warning? for you seem to speak
as one assured of the fact.”

“Because, Captain Milford, I. overheard a
portion of your conversation with your friends,
concerning myself.”

“Ha! lad—were you listening then?” exclaimed
the Captain, in a tone of surprise.

“I will he frank, and own I was.”

“Good Heavens! perhaps then we have
had other listeners also!”

“I think not. I feared you might have, and
therefore I came, that, if necessary, I might
give you a second warning.”

“How came you to be so considerate? and
in the second place, why did you expect to
find us here?”

“I merely carried out the wishes of Ma'm'selle
Du Pont. She knew, it seems, that you
and your friends would meet here to night, at
a certain hour, to hold a sort of council-of-war,
regarding your perilous undertaking; and it
seems only necessary to add, that I was present
then, overheard all that was said, and
therefore knew that if you failed and escaped,
this was to be the rendezvous for re uniting.”

“Then you followed us?”

“I did, but at a distance, for I knew your
point of destination, and therefore it was not
necessary to keep close on your heels.”

“But how came you to be aware of our
danger?”

“By accident. As soon as I thought you
were settled in your respective positions, I

commenced strolling about in the vicinity—
for two reasons—to keep myself warm, and,
should I chance to learn of any danger, to be
able, peradventure, to put you on your guard.
Well, fortune favored me. I chanced to hear
the tread of soldiers, and finding they were
approaching the place where we stood—that
is, Munee and I—we concealed ourselves
near, and waited for them to come up. They
halted within a few feet of us, and their leader
gave them some directions in a tone too low
for me to overhear what was said. They were
evidently on a secret expedition, and I became
suspicious that they had, by some means,
been made acquainted with your designs, and
were on their way to surprise and arrest you.
And my suspicions changed to a certainty,
when I found they shaped their course directly
to the spot where you were concealed,
and walked with stealthy steps, that made
little or no noise. By walking a short circuit,
Munee and I succeeded in getting in advance
of them, unperceived and unsuspected, and
you know the rest.”

“You have done nobly, lad—nobly, boy!”
returned the Captain, warmly; “and rest assured,
you shall have your reward.”

“The happiness of Rosalie Du Pont is all
the reward I seek,” rejoined the soi disant
Henry, “and that can only be secured by the
safety and happiness of Captain Milford.”

“Henry,” said Milford, a vague suspicion
flashing across his mind, “are you not other
than you seem?”

“That is a singular question, Captain Milford,”
answered our heroine, not a little
startled, lest he had divined her secret, and
anxious to gain time, to ponder upon her reply.
“I believe all persons are different than
they seem, for it is very seldom the outer and
inner man exactly correspond.”

“I perceive you evade my question,” rejoined
Milford. “In other words, are you a
mullatto servant?”

“I am not a white one, sir.”

“If you are one of any kind, then have you
been educated far above your station.”

“I have had a good education, Captain Milford,
I do not deny; and neither am I a servant
by compulsion, or necessity. Munee and
I were both born free, and we both have
property enough of our own to render us independent
of labor; but it is a pleasure for us
to serve Miss Rosalie and her friends.”

“She is fortunate in having two such faithful
attendants. But I understand only one of
you remains with her!”

“Only one of us is with her constantly—I
have been out of town.”

“So I understood: when did you return?”

“I have been in the city two days.”

“And how long do you expect to remain
here now?”

“I can not say; all depends on circumstances;
it is possible I may leave to-morrow
night.”

“And where, and with whom do you reside,
when out of town?”

“I beg your pardon, Captain Milford—but
that is a question I must decline answering.”

“Right, my lad—only answer what you see
proper, for I have no right to pry into your
secrets. But, if you will permit me, I will
make some further inquiries, touching different
matters.”

“Certainly, Captain—ask any question you
please, so you grant me the same privilege in
answering.”

“Well, then, how long have you known Rosalie
Du Pont?”

“Since she was a child.”

“You know her history then?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Were you also born in France?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“How long have you been in this country?”

“As long as herself, Captain.”

“And how long may that be?”

“I decline answering.”

“Did you and Munee come to this country
together?”

“We did, Captain.”

“Are the parents of Rosalie living?”

“I decline answering any thing pertaining
to her parentage or history, Captain.”

“Well, I will change the subject. You
have not forgotten our first meeting, I suppose?”

“I shall never forget it, Captain.”

“Time has proved you right in your suspicion
of there being treason in high places;

for the very man for whose honor and integrity
I then vouched, has since turned traitor.”

“I am aware of it, Captain, and that your
object here is to seize and take him where
justice will be done him. But speaking of that,
reminds me of a part of my errand hither.
From what I overheard, I suppose your arrangements
for to-morrow night are the same
as those of to-night?”

“The same.”

“And where can you be found meantime,
should I have occasion to deliver you a message?”

“I can not say. To-night I shall remain in
the woods, for I care not to go back into the
city again.”

“I think your plan a wise one—but I fear
you will suffer from cold.”

“No; I have laid out many a night, in the
dead of winter; you forget, lad, I am a soldier,
inured to hardship and privation; besides, I
shall not attempt to sleep to-night, and the
mere loss of rest will be nothing.”

“But is there no plan by which a message
can reach you if necessary?”

“Yes; have it committed to paper, and
placed at the foot of this very tree, under a
small stone.”

“Then, ere to-morrow night, you will probably
receive a message from my mistress.”

“And if I do, it will not be the first from
her that has reached me in a similar manner.
In the course of our correspondence, we have
both had occasion to make post-offices of the
very stones.”

“I am aware of that, Captain, having more
than once been post-boy myself. But it is
late; and having done my errand, I must now
bid you good night. If one as humble as myself
might suggest a parting caution, it would
be that, when you meet your friends here
again, you do not converse in a tone above a
whisper. You spoke low and guardedly to-night;
but notwithstanding, you are aware I
overheard you; and in so perilous an undertaking
as yours, you can not be too careful of
your secret.”

“Be assured, Henry, we shall not be so
imprudent again. Tell Rosalie I shall expect
to hear from her to-morrow, and that she
must not allow her spirits to be depressed by
our failure. The party of soldiers that alarmed
us to-night, were not searching for us, and
knew nothing of us or of our designs—therefore
I feel confident we shall not be interrupted
at the second trial. Say to her that
she is ever in my thoughts, and first and last
in my prayers. Good night.”

“Good night,” returned Rosalie; and she
and Munee forthwith departed, leaving the
Captain again alone, little aware he had been
conversing with the very being whose happiness
he prized above his own, and to save
whose life he would have shed his heart's blood.

Milford again seated himself at the foot of the
tree, and became lost in reverie. It was nigh
upon half an hour ere his meditations were
disturbed by the return of Josh, accompanied
by Dame Hagold.

“We have failed, mother,” said the Captain,
addressing the latter.

“So I've heerd from Josh, here. O, wasn't
it provoking to be disappointed in this way,
jest when you had that villain, Arnold, right
in your grasp, as one may say?”

“It was very vexatious, I will not deny.”

“If I had a rope round Mr. Corporal Jones'
neck, and had one eend in my hand, O,
wouldn't I larn him a bit of a lesson he wouldn't
forgit in a hurry! the mean, low-lived varlet,
to go sneaking about in that way,” returned
the dame, indignantly.

“Did you know any thing of the failure till
Josh found you, mother?” inquired the Captain.

“No, not exactly. I thought something was
the matter, and I was afeared it was woss; for
a party of soldiers came clean down to the
bank of the river, and arter prowling about
awhile, went away agin. I was in the skiff,
right behind the heap of bushes where you
told me to stay, Captain, till I heerd the signal;
but though they came right close up,
within a few feet of me, they couldn't see me,
and I didn't calculate it was best to tell'em
as how I was there. Arter they was gone,
I concluded I'd wait till I heerd something
from some o' ye—or at least I thought I'd stay
two hours—for I knowed if you wasn't all
catched, you'd send me some message afore
then.”

“What did you do with the boat?”

“It's on the river, jest opposite here, Capting,”
replied Josh. “We thought it 'ud be
safer to row up stream, than to ventur' on
land—leastwise I heerd a sentry down near
where we was, and I got a leetle scart, for
fear we might kinder git in his way somehow,
and so into difficulty.”

“Well, I think you acted wisely; but before
morning the boat must be left in the very
place where we found it—that is, if we can succeed
in getting the skiff back in which George
Nugent crossed the river.”

“Do you calculate on gitting that back to-night,
Capting?”

“Yes, if possible: will you accompany me,
Josh?”

“To the death, Capting. I'm bound to
stick to yeou as long as the putty'll hold good;
and I guess that'll be till one or t'other on us
gits rid of breathing—that is, if yeou say so,
and haint no objections, Capting.”

“You won't git much chance to sleep to-night,
Captain, if you're going over for that
boat,” put in the dame.

“I shall not sleep to-night, mother. But
that reminds me of yourself; where will you
take up your quarters? for I do not think it
prudent for any of us to return to your late
abode, as, in all probability, the old house will
be watch.”

“Well, well, as for me, it don't much matter,”
sighed the other. “If I was dead, and
in my grave, I feel I should be better off than
I am now,” she added, gloomily.

“Nay, Mother Hagold, do not despond,” returned
the Captain, in a tone of sympathy.
“We should not give way to despair, whatever
may be our afflictions; but remember
that the one God rules ever, and that whether
prosperity or adversity attend us, he orders
that which to him seemeth best.”

“Well, well, I don't know, I don't know,”
sighed the other; “if my afflictions is for the
best, then great good ought to come on 'em—
for they're heavy, Captain Milford—they're
beavy. Oh! sir, you don't know what it is to
have a criminal son, and Heaven grant you
never may! I could see every friend I've got
in the world, sir, put under the ground, if they
only died honorably, and never make no complaint;
but this trouble—this—” and overcome
by her feelings, the afflicted mother sobbed
aloud. “But come,” she said, rousing
herself, after a few moments of almost heart-broken
anguish—“ come, Captain, I won't be
hindering you no longer. Never mind me,
but go on with your business. I'll try and
meet ye all here to-morrow night, if that's
what you want; and for to-night, I'll find some
place to sleep. Yes, I'll go back to the house
where you first seen me, and stay there. So,
good night, Captain.”

“Our regulations for to-morrow night are
the same as those of to-night,” rejoined Milford;
“so if you think proper to join us, you
will doubtless find some of us here.”

“Well, well, count on me, if I can be of any
service to ye. So, good night, and may
Heaven prosper ye!”

“Good night,” returned the Captain, and
the dame departed. “Now then, Josh,” he
continued, “let us set off at once.”

In a few minutes our friends reached the
boat, and entering it, they took the oars,
which were still muffled, and pulled steadily
across the stream. The skiff which George
Nugent had used last, was found without difficulty,
and with this in tow they rowed back.
Taking the larger boat down to the place
where it had been found a few hours previously,
they fastened it by a rope to a tree,
and then rowed up stream to the very rock
whence we saw George depart the day before.

“Here,” said the Captain, in a low tone,
“I think we shall be safe. Lie down flat
along the bottom, Josh—I will do the same—
and then we will draw ourselves under this
rock.”

“Thunder and lightning, Capting!” exclaimed
Josh, when all was fixed as they intended
to pass the night: “I've slept in woss
places than this, an all-fired sight.”

“It is better than going into the city, at all
events,” replied Milford, “and I doubt not
we can get a few hours sleep after all.”

And our friends did sleep. The arrangement
for the night proved more comfortable
than the Captain had anticipated; and though
the air was cold, and the wind blew chill and

damp from the east; and though, ere morning,
it set in to rain; yet our friends were so sheltered,
that they remained perfectly dry, and
felt none of the raw gusts that moaned through
the woods and swept over their heads. Their
bed was none of the softest, it is true, and
they had no covering but the habiliments they
wore; but notwithstanding all this, they slept,
and so soundly, that the cares and anxieties
of the time were forgotten.