 | CHAPTER I.
THE CHASE. The story of Kennett |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
THE CHASE.
At noon, on the first Saturday of March, 1796, there
was an unusual stir at the old Barton farm-house, just
across the creek to the eastward, as you leave Kennett
Square by the Philadelphia stage-road. Any gathering of
the people at Barton's was a most rare occurrence; yet, on
that day and at that hour, whoever stood upon the porch of
the corner house, in the village, could see horsemen approaching
by all the four roads which there met. Some
five or six had already dismounted at the Unicorn Tavern,
and were refreshing themselves with stout glasses of “Old
Rye,” while their horses, tethered side by side to the pegs
in the long hitching-bar, pawed and stamped impatiently.
An eye familiar with the ways of the neighborhood might
have surmised the nature of the occasion which called so
many together, from the appearance and equipment of
these horses. They were not heavy animals, with the
marks of plough-collars on their broad shoulders, or the
hair worn off their rumps by huge breech-straps; but light
and clean-limbed, one or two of them showing signs of
good blood, and all more carefully groomed than usual.
Evidently, there was no “vendue” at the Barton farm-house;
neither a funeral, nor a wedding, since male guests
seemed to have been exclusively bidden. To be sure,
Miss Betsy Lavender had been observed to issue from Dr.
into the path beyond the blacksmith's, which led down
through the wood and over the creek to Barton's; but
then, Miss Lavender was known to be handy at all times,
and capable of doing all things, from laying out a corpse to
spicing a wedding-cake. Often self-invited, but always
welcome, very few social or domestic events could occur in
four townships (East Marlborough, Kennett, Pennsbury,
and New-Garden) without her presence; while her knowledge
of farms, families, and genealogies extended up to
Fallowfield on one side, and over to Birmingham on the
other.
It was, therefore, a matter of course, whatever the present
occasion might be, that Miss Lavender put on her
broad gray beaver hat, and brown stuff cloak, and took the
way to Barton's. The distance could easily be walked in
five minutes, and the day was remarkably pleasant for the
season. A fortnight of warm, clear weather had extracted
the last fang of frost, and there was already green grass in
the damp hollows. Bluebirds picked the last year's berries
from the cedar-trees; buds were bursting on the swamp-willows;
the alders were hung with tassels, and a powdery
crimson bloom began to dust the bare twigs of the maple-trees.
All these signs of an early spring Miss Lavender
noted as she picked her way down the wooded bank. Once,
indeed, she stopped, wet her forefinger with her tongue, and
held it pointed in the air. There was very little breeze, but
this natural weathercock revealed from what direction it
came.
“Southwest!” she said, nodding her head — “Lucky!”
Having crossed the creek on a flat log, secured with
stakes at either end, a few more paces brought her to the
warm, gentle knoll, upon which stood the farm-house.
Here, the wood ceased, and the creek, sweeping around to
the eastward, embraced a quarter of a mile of rich bottom-land,
before entering the rocky dell below. It was a pleasant
earliest settlers had been quick to perceive its advantages.
A hundred years had already elapsed since the masons had
run up those walls of rusty hornblende rock, and it was
even said that the leaden window-sashes, with their diamond-shaped
panes of greenish glass, had been brought
over from England, in the days of William Penn. In fact,
the ancient aspect of the place — the tall, massive chimney
at the gable, the heavy, projecting eaves, and the holly-bush
in a warm nook beside the front porch, had, nineteen years
before, so forcibly reminded one of Howe's soldiers of his
father's homestead in mid-England, that he was numbered
among the missing after the Brandywine battle, and presently
turned up as a hired hand on the Barton farm, where
he still lived, year in and year out.
An open, grassy space, a hundred yards in breadth, intervened
between the house and the barn, which was built
against the slope of the knoll, so that the bridge to the
threshing-floor was nearly level, and the stables below were
sheltered from the north winds, and open to the winter sun.
On the other side of the lane leading from the high-road
stood a wagon-house and corn-crib — the latter empty, yet
evidently, in spite of its emptiness, the principal source of
attraction to the visitors. A score of men and boys peeped
between the upright laths, and a dozen dogs howled and
sprang around the smooth corner-posts upon which the
structure rested. At the door stood old Giles, the military
straggler already mentioned — now a grizzly, weather-beaten
man of fifty — with a jolly grin on his face, and a
short leather whip in his hand.
“Want to see him, Miss Betsy?” he asked, touching his
mink-skin cap, as Miss Lavender crawled through the nearest
panel of the lofty picket fence.
“See him?” she repeated. “Don't care if I do, afore
goin' into th' house.”
“Come up, then; out o' the way, Cato! Fan, take that,
in the leash, as had ought to be done, I 'd have less trouble.
They 're mortal eager, and no wonder. There! — a'n't
he a sly-lookin' divel? If I 'd a hoss, Miss Betsy, I 'd foller
with the best of 'em, and maybe you would n't have
the brush?”
“Have the brush. Go along, Giles! He 's an old one,
and knows how to take care of it. Do keep off the dreadful
dogs, and let me git down!” cried Miss Lavender,
gathering her narrow petticoats about her legs, and surveying
the struggling animals before her with some dismay.
Giles's whip only reached the nearest, and the excited
pack rushed forward again after every repulse; but at this
juncture a tall, smartly-dressed man came across the lane,
kicked the hounds out of the way, and extended a helping
hand to the lady.
“Ho, Mr. Alfred!” said she; “Much obliged. Miss
Ann 's havin' her hands full, I reckon?”
Without waiting for an answer, she slipped into the yard
and along the front of the house, to the kitchen entrance,
at the eastern end. There we will leave her, and return to
the group of gentlemen.
Any one could see at a glance that Mr. Alfred Barton
was the most important person present. His character of
host gave him, of course, the right to control the order of
the coming chase; but his size and swaggering air of
strength, his new style of hat, the gloss of his blue coat,
the cut of his buckskin breeches, and above all, the splendor
of his tasselled top-boots, distinguished him from his
more homely apparelled guests. His features were large
and heavy: the full, wide lips betrayed a fondness for indulgence,
and the small, uneasy eyes a capacity for concealing
this and any other quality which needed concealment.
They were hard and cold, generally more than half
hidden under thick lids, and avoided, rather than sought,
the glance of the man to whom he spoke. His hair, a
break, into bushy whiskers of the same color, and was cut
shorter at the back of the head than was then customary.
Something coarse and vulgar in his nature exhaled, like a
powerful odor, through the assumed shell of a gentleman,
which he tried to wear, and rendered the assumption
useless.
A few guests, who had come from a distance, had just
finished their dinner in the farm-house. Owing to causes
which will hereafter be explained, they exhibited less than
the usual plethoric satisfaction after the hospitality of the
country, and were the first to welcome the appearance of
a square black bottle, which went the rounds, with the observation:
“Whet up for a start!”
Mr. Barton drew a heavy silver watch from his fob, and
carefully holding it so that the handful of glittering seals
could be seen by everybody, appeared to meditate.
“Five minutes to one,” he said at last. “No use in
waiting much longer; 't is n't good to keep the hounds
fretting. Any signs of anybody else?”
The others, in response, turned towards the lane and
highway. Some, with keen eyes, fancied they could detect
a horseman through the wood. Presently Giles, from his
perch at the door of the corn-crib, cried out:
“There 's somebody a-comin' up the meadow. I don't
know the hoss; rides like Gilbert Potter. Gilbert it is,
blast me! new-mounted.”
“Another plough-horse!” suggested Mr. Joel Ferris, a
young Pennsbury buck, who, having recently come into a
legacy of four thousand pounds, wished it to be forgotten
that he had never ridden any but plough-horses until within
the year.
The others laughed, some contemptuously, glancing at
their own well-equipped animals the while, some constrainedly,
for they knew the approaching guest, and felt a slight
compunction in seeming to side with Mr. Ferris. Barton
his brows together.
Pressing the handle of his riding-whip against his chin,
he stared vacantly up the lane, muttering “We must wait,
I suppose.”
His lids were lifted in wonder the next moment; he
seized Ferris by the arm, and exclaimed: —
“Whom have we here?”
All eyes turned in the same direction, descried a dashing
horseman in the lane.
“Upon my soul I don't know,” said Ferris. “Anybody
expected from the Fagg's Manor way?”
“Not of my inviting,” Barton answered.
The other guests professed their entire ignorance of the
stranger, who, having by this time passed the bars, rode
directly up to the group. He was a short, broad - shouldered
man of nearly forty, with a red, freckled face, keen,
snapping gray eyes, and a close, wide mouth. Thick, jet-black
whiskers, eyebrows and pig-tail made the glance of
those eyes, the gleam of his teeth, and the color of his
skin where it was not reddened by the wind, quite dazzling.
This violent and singular contrast gave his plain,
common features an air of distinction. Although his mulberry
coat was somewhat faded, it had a jaunty cut, and if
his breeches were worn and stained, the short, muscular
thighs and strong knees they covered, told of a practised
horseman.
He rode a large bay gelding, poorly groomed, and apparently
not remarkable for blood, but with no marks of
harness on his rough coat.
“Good - day to you, gentlemen!” said the stranger,
familiarly knocking the handle of his whip against his
cocked hat. “Squire Barton, how do you do?”
“How do you do, sir?” responded Mr. Barton, instantly
flattered by the title, to which he had no legitimate right.
“I believe,” he added, “you have the advantage of me.”
A broad smile, or rather grin, spread over the stranger's
face. His teeth flashed, and his eyes shot forth a bright,
malicious ray. He hesitated a moment, ran rapidly over
the faces of the others without perceptibly moving his
head, and noting the general curiosity, said, at last: —
“I hardly expected to find an acquaintance in this neighborhood,
but a chase makes quick fellowship. I happened
to hear of it at the Anvil Tavern, — am on my way to the
Rising Sun; so, you see, if the hunt goes down Tuffkenamon,
as is likely, it 's so much of a lift on the way.”
“All right, — glad to have you join us. What did you
say your name was?” inquired Mr. Barton.
“I did n't say what; it 's Fortune, — a fortune left to
me by my father, ha! ha! Don't care if I do” —
With the latter words, Fortune (as we must now call
him) leaned down from his saddle, took the black bottle
from the unresisting hands of Mr. Ferris, inverted it
against his lips, and drank so long and luxuriously as to
bring water into the mouths of the spectators. Then,
wiping his mouth with the back of his freckled hand, he
winked and nodded his head approvingly to Mr. Barton.
Meanwhile the other horseman had arrived from the
meadow, after dismounting and letting down the bars, over
which his horse stepped slowly and cautiously, — a circumstance
which led some of the younger guests to exchange
quiet, amused glances. Gilbert Potter, however, received
a hearty greeting from all, including the host, though the
latter, by an increased shyness in meeting his gaze, manifested
some secret constraint.
“I was afraid I should have been too late,” said Gilbert;
“the old break in the hedge is stopped at last, so I came
over the hill above, without thinking on the swampy bit,
this side.”
“Breaking your horse in to rough riding, eh?” said Mr.
Ferris, touching a neighbor with his elbow.
Gilbert smiled good-humoredly, but said nothing, and a
little laugh went around the circle.
Mr. Fortune seemed to understand the matter in a flash.
He looked at the brown, shaggy-maned animal, standing
behind its owner, with its head down, and said, in a low,
sharp tone: “I see — where did you get him?”
Gilbert returned the speaker's gaze a moment before
he answered. “From a drover,” he then said.
“By the Lord!” ejaculated Mr. Barton, who had again
conspicuously displayed his watch, “it 's over half-past one.
Look out for the hounds, — we must start, if we mean to
do any riding this day!”
The owners of the hounds picked out their several animals
and dragged them aside, in which operation they
were uproariously assisted by the boys. The chase in
Kennett, it must be confessed, was but a very faint shadow
of the old English pastime. It had been kept up, in the
neighborhood, from the force of habit in the Colonial
times, and under the depression which the strong Quaker
element among the people exercised upon all sports and
recreations. The breed of hounds, not being restricted to
close communion, had considerably degenerated, and few,
even of the richer farmers, could afford to keep thoroughbred
hunters for this exclusive object. Consequently all the
features of the pastime had become rude and imperfect,
and, although very respectable gentlemen still gave it their
countenance, there was a growing suspicion that it was a
questionable, if not demoralizing diversion. It would be
more agreeable if we could invest the present occasion with
a little more pomp and dignity; but we must describe the
event precisely as it occurred.
The first to greet Gilbert were his old friends, Joe and
Jake Fairthorn. These boys loudly lamented that their
father had denied them the loan of his old gray mare,
Bonnie; they could ride double on a gallop, they said;
and would n't Gilbert take them along, one before and one
behind him? But he laughed and shook his head.
“Well, we 've got Watch, anyhow,” said Joe, who thereupon
latter seized the big family bull-dog by the collar. Gilbert
foreboded mischief, and kept his eye upon the
pair.
A scuffle was heard in the corn-crib, into which Giles
had descended. The boys shuddered and chuckled in a
state of delicious fear, which changed into a loud shout of
triumph, as the soldier again made his appearance at the
door, with the fox in his arms, and a fearless hand around
its muzzle.
“By George! what a fine brush!” exclaimed Mr.
Ferris.
A sneer, quickly disguised in a grin, ran over Fortune's
face. The hounds howled and tugged; Giles stepped
rapidly across the open space where the knoll sloped
down to the meadow. It was a moment of intense expectation.
Just then, Joe and Jake Fairthorn let go their hold on
the bull-dog's collar; but Gilbert Potter caught the animal
at the second bound. The boys darted behind the corn-crib,
scared less by Gilbert's brandished whip than by the
wrath and astonishment in Mr. Barton's face.
“Cast him off, Giles!” the latter cried.
The fox, placed upon the ground, shot down the slope
and through the fence into the meadow. Pausing then,
as if first to assure himself of his liberty, he took a quick,
keen survey of the ground before him, and then started off
towards the left.
“He 's making for the rocks!” cried Mr. Ferris; to
which the stranger, who was now watching the animal with
sharp interest, abruptly answered, “Hold your tongue!”
Within a hundred yards the fox turned to the right, and
now, having apparently made up his mind to the course,
struck away in a steady but not hurried trot. In a minute
he had reached the outlying trees of the timber along the
creek.
“He 's a cool one, he is!” remarked Giles, admiringly.
By this time he was hidden by the barn from the sight
of the hounds, and they were let loose. While they darted
about in eager quest of the scent, the hunters mounted in
haste. Presently an old dog gave tongue like a trumpet,
the pack closed, and the horsemen followed. The boys kept
pace with them over the meadow, Joe and Jake taking the
lead, until the creek abruptly stopped their race, when
they sat down upon the bank and cried bitterly, as the last
of the hunters disappeared through the thickets on the
further side.
It was not long before a high picket-fence confronted
the riders. Mr. Ferris, with a look of dismay, dismounted.
Fortune, Barton, and Gilbert Potter each threw off a
heavy “rider,” and leaped their horses over the rails.
The others followed through the gaps thus made, and all
swept across the field at full speed, guided by the ringing
cry of the hounds.
When they reached the Wilmington road, the cry swerved
again to the left, and most of the hunters, with Barton at
their head, took the highway in order to reach the cross-road
to New-Garden more conveniently. Gilbert and
Fortune alone sprang into the opposite field, and kept a
straight southwestern course for the other branch of Redley
Creek. The field was divided by a stout thorn-hedge
from the one beyond it, and the two horsemen, careering
neck and neck, glanced at each other curiously as they
approached this barrier. Their respective animals were
transformed; the unkempt manes were curried by the
wind, as they flew; their sleepy eyes were full of fire, and
the splendid muscles, aroused to complete action, marked
their hides with lines of beauty. There was no wavering
in either; side by side they hung in flight above the hedge,
and side by side struck the clean turf beyond.
Then Fortune turned his head, nodded approvingly to
Gilbert, and muttered to himself: “He 's a gallant fellow,
shrill, wicked laugh the next moment.
Before they reached the creek, the cry of the hounds
ceased. They halted a moment on the bank, irresolute.
“He must have gone down towards the snuff-mill,” said
Gilbert, and was about to change his course.
“Stop,” said the stranger; “if he has, we 've lost him any
way. Hark! hurrah!”
A deep bay rang from the westward, through the forest.
Gilbert shouted: “The lime-quarry!” and dashed across
the stream. A lane was soon reached, and as the valley
opened, they saw the whole pack heading around the yellow
mounds of earth which marked the locality of the
quarry. At the same instant some one shouted in the rear,
and they saw Mr. Alfred Barton, thundering after, and apparently
bent on diminishing the distance between them.
A glance was sufficient to show that the fox had not
taken refuge in the quarry, but was making a straight
course up the centre of the valley. Here it was not so
easy to follow. The fertile floor of Tuffkenamon, stripped
of woods, was crossed by lines of compact hedge, and,
moreover, the huntsmen were not free to tear and trample
the springing wheat of the thrifty Quaker farmers. Nevertheless,
one familiar with the ground could take advantage
of a gap here and there, choose the connecting pasture-fields,
and favor his course with a bit of road, when
the chase swerved towards either side of the valley. Gilbert
Potter soon took the lead, closely followed by Fortune.
Mr. Barton was perhaps better mounted than either,
but both horse and rider were heavier, and lost in the
moist fields, while they gained rapidly where the turf was
firm.
After a mile and a half of rather toilsome riding, all
three were nearly abreast. The old tavern of the Hammer
and Trowel was visible, at the foot of the northern
hill; the hounds, in front, bayed in a straight line towards
its appearance. Neither gentleman spoke, for each was
silently tasking his wits how to accomplish the passage
most rapidly. The horses began to sink into the oozy
soil; only a very practised eye could tell where the surface
was firmest, and even this knowledge was but slight
advantage.
Nimbly as a cat Gilbert sprang from the saddle, still
holding the pummel in his right hand, touched his horse's
flank with the whip, and bounded from one tussock to
another. The sagacious animal seemed to understand and
assist his manœuvre. Hardly had he gained firm ground
than he was in his seat again, while Mr. Barton was still
plunging in the middle of the bog.
By the time he had reached the road, Gilbert shrewdly
guessed where the chase would terminate. The idlers on
the tavern-porch cheered him as he swept around the
corner; the level highway rang to the galloping hoofs of
his steed, and in fifteen minutes he had passed the long
and lofty oak woods of Avondale. At the same moment,
fox and hounds broke into full view, sweeping up the
meadow on his left. The animal made a last desperate
effort to gain a lair among the bushes and loose stones on
the northern hill; but the hunter was there before him,
the hounds were within reach, and one faltering moment
decided his fate.
Gilbert sprang down among the frantic dogs, and saved
the brush from the rapid dismemberment which had already
befallen its owner. Even then, he could only assure
its possession by sticking it into his hat and remounting
his horse. When he looked around, no one was in
sight, but the noise of hoofs was heard crashing through
the wood.
Mr. Ferris, with some dozen others, either anxious to
spare their horses or too timid to take the hedges in the
valley, had kept the cross-road to New-Garden, whence a
Avondale Woods. They soon emerged, shouting and yelling,
upon the meadow.
The chase was up; and Gilbert Potter, on his “plough-horse,”
was the only huntsman in at the death.
| CHAPTER I.
THE CHASE. The story of Kennett | |