Burton, or, The sieges a romance |
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THE SIEGE OF NEW-YORK. |
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 | Burton, or, The sieges |  |
BOOK II.
THE SIEGE OF NEW-YORK.
1. CHAPTER I.
THE SPY.
The second volume of this romance opens at that
period of the revolutionary war when the British
army, favoured by the toryism of its inhabitants,
had taken undisputed possession of Staten Island,
and were contemplating a descent upon Long Island
preparatory to an investment of New-York.
Around this fated city, like the eastern hunters, who
enclose their game in a vast circle, which they
contract until they secure it, the British general
had been gradually, but surely, concentrating his
forces for a final and decisive blow.
On Staten Island, a mile or two inland, the Earl
of Percy had taken up his headquarters; but, so
far from being idle while waiting the preparations
of Lord Howe for landing his forces to attack
Brooklyn, he kept up a vigilant system of espionage
on the beleaguered city, and was diligent in
of the army under Washington, then in possession
of the whole of York Island.
Several days had elapsed without any intelligence
from the city, the increased vigilance of the
American general having rendered communication,
at first sufficiently easy, now both difficult and
dangerous. Some tory spies, despatched by Lord
Percy to gain what knowledge they could of the
intentions of the Americans, either had been arrested,
or returned reporting their inability to hold
any communication with the royalists in the town.
He therefore saw the necessity of adopting other
means, which should enable him not only to obtain
accurate intelligence from the headquarters of the
American general, but preserve uninterrupted communication
with York Island.
It was near sunset on a lovely evening in August,
about seven months after the defeat and death of
Montgomery, that the Earl of Percy was slowly
promenading the gallery of a villa which a colonial
royalist had resigned to him for his headquarters,
his thoughts busily occupied in devising some meth
od of obtaining regular and accurate intelligence of
the enemy's movements. It at length occurred to
him that he should be able to open an uninterrupted
and sure correspondence with the city, and be advised
of the plans of Washington as soon as they
should transpire, through the instrumentality of an
individual then an inmate of the mansion.
No sooner had this idea flashed upon his mind
than, hastily turning in his walk, he entered a library
which, by long Venetian windows, opened
upon the piazza, and ordered a servant in livery,
who was in waiting, “to say to Major Ney that he
desired an interview with him.” He then seated
himself before a table and commenced writing.
The appearance of the nobleman in this attitude
was striking and dignified. He was in the prime
of life, and the clear, falcon glance of his eye, and
his haughty, though not unbecoming port, evinced
both the soldier and hereditary noble. His whole
bearing betrayed the man of high birth, conscious
that his brow was encircled not only with laurels
won by his own hand, but with those of a long line
of princely and warlike ancestors. He wore his
own hair, powdered after the fashion of the period,
and, excepting his sword and military hat, which lay
beside him on the table, he was dressed in full
uniform.
As Major Ney entered the library, he waited to
affix his signature to a letter he had just completed;
then looking up with a courteous smile of recognition
and welcome, he said, in a voice trained, by
long intercourse with all classes of men, to tones
remarkably bland and winning, as if he sought to
impress rather by the sound of his voice than by
the words he uttered,
“You are welcome, my dear Ney. Do me the
honour to be seated, or, rather, as there is a rich sunset,
and a pleasant breeze is blowing in from sea, I
will take your arm and promenade the piazza while
I communicate with you a few moments on a subject
of infinite importance to the present campaign.”
Thus speaking, he condescendingly passed his
arm through that of Major Ney, and led him from
the library to the gallery. The two gentlemen
were soon engaged in animated colloquy. Leaving
them to pursue their conversation, we will, in
the mean while, introduce the reader to another
part of the villa, and to an individual therein, whose
fate is involved in the result of their interview.
In a boudoir looking upon a lawn on the north
side of the dwelling, and a little while before sunset,
to the reader, sat a young lady, who, save an attendant,
was its only occupant. She reclined by a
window that opened like a door upon the terrace.
Into it peeped innumerable gay flowers, which filled
the apartment with their fragrance. Her eye had
wandered westward over green fields, and rivers,
and bays, spread out beneath a roseate sky, the tints
of which enriched the scene with the effect of a
painter's pencil. Wearily had she traced the flashing
waters of the Hudson till they were lost in the
far off pass of the Highlands. Even the green and
cottage-sprinkled shores of Long Island failed, for
more than an instant, to arrest her eye. With a
listless air she gazed on the ships of war composing
the fleet of Great Britain, riding at anchor in
the Narrows, which were alive with boats passing
and repassing between the shipping and the opposing
shores, while the illimitable sea spread its world
of waters beyond. Even the picturesque appearance
of a tented field lying almost at her feet, its
white pavilions relieved against the green plain or
half-concealed by the foliage of the encircling
woods, drew from her lips only an exclamation of
impatience. Turning her eyes away from all else,
she fixed them lingeringly on the distant city, which
sat, like Tyre, upon the waters, its towers proudly
lifted from their bosom, and its outlines mellowed
by the twilight, which, like a blush, suffused the
hazy atmosphere.
After gazing a few moments in this direction,
she sighed, and, suddenly turning to her attendant,
said, in the tone of a spoiled beauty,
“I am tired to death, Marie, at being mewed up
here, without seeing a soul except Lord Percy,
who is too grave to smile, and thinks too much of
his own dignity to notice me; my graver pa, or
One might as well become a nun at once. I wish
I had been a soldier, or anything rather than a
poor, dependant woman, with a stern father for a
chaperone. Look you, Marie,” she added, with an
air of mystery, and in a cautious tone of voice, “I'll
tell you a secret!”
“Of all ting in de world, a secret be what me
loves to hear,” replied Marie, rubbing her hands,
and dropping a tambour-frame on which she had
been indolently employing her fingers, at the same
time opening her black eyes to their full periphery.
“And, above all things, what you love to tell.
But listen.”
Before we also give ear to the lady's secret, we
will, after the most approved manner of novelists,
describe the personal appearance of one who is to
perform no inferior part in the remaining scenes of
this romance. Her moral picture, like that of Eugenie,
we shall leave gradually to develop itself
in the course of events.
She had been for the last half hour listlessly reclining
on an ottoman, which was standing half on
the lawn, half in the window; but, when she addressed
her maid, she slightly raised herself and
assumed a more animated attitude, at the same
time lifting one finger in an impressive manner,
in order to draw her attention to what she was
about to relate. The easy and graceful attitude
she had unconsciously assumed; the curious and
eager features of the listening slave; the gorgeous
and oriental aspect of the apartment; the window
half hidden in leaves and flowers; the smooth lawn;
the encircling bay and its green islands; the distant
city and blue mountain line of the northern horizon,
presented altogether the most strikingly beautiful
of all objects — earth in her loveliest robes,
woman.
The lady was very young, her youthful brow
bearing the impress of not more than fifteen summers,
but summers every touch of which had been
laid with the finger of beauty. Her silken, unbraided
hair, which was dark as the raven's plumage,
was from time to time lifted by the evening wind
from her brow. It was long and wavy, and flowed
with the luxuriant freedom of a child's about her
neck, the Parian whiteness of which was chastened
by a tinge of the Italian clime, yet so lightly added
that it arrested the eye only by the peculiar delicacy
and softness it lent—a rich shadow, mellowing
and subduing the radiant lustre of the blonde, and
spreading the warm glow of life over the exquisite
whiteness of the marble De Medici.
Her cheeks were tinged with the same olive
shade, enriched by mingling with the carnation
that, with every movement, mantled them. Her
forehead, on which the hair was parted evenly,
was full and intellectual. Her brow bespoke enthusiasm,
pride, and passion, and a haughty spirit
sat in the midst of its severe and feminine beauty.
Her eyes were large and black, and seemed floating
in a lake of languor. Their expression was at one
moment melancholy, at another lively; flashing into
fire, and then melting with indescribable softness,
while joyous tears seemed to tremble behind their
long lashes. Her mouth was delicately formed,
but her beautiful thin upper lip wore a slight curl
of sarcasm, which heightened its lofty beauty while
it warned the impassioned gazer to beware of the
arrows of wit that a fortress so armed might discharge
on the unmailed besieger. The severe and
classical beauty of her nose; the finely-moulded
chin, and the faultless contour of her face; the polished
from her robe, have seldom found being save in the
imagination of a Canova or a Thorwaldson.
Yet, with all this exquisite perfection of form and
feature, the maiden was one for whom knights
might break lances and heads, whom all men
would admire, but none dare to love. Her beauty
was like that of a fallen and still beautiful angel
rather than one of earth's lovely and loving ones.
There was a strange fascination dwelling in the
deep fountains of her dark eyes, every motion of
which was eloquent; a fearful beauty in the expression
of her curling lip, while her whole manner
and aspect betrayed a wildness of spirit and
an impatience of passion in strange contrast with
her feminine loveliness.
Her voice, as she addressed her attendant, was liquid
and full, rather like the more sweet, yet not less
martial notes of the clarion than the soft, womanly
tones of the flute. She was a West Indian by
birth, and the daughter of a beautiful creole, whom
her father, Major Ney, married seventeen years before,
while on the West Indian station. As her
mother, with whom she had lived on a plantation
in Jamaica in creolian luxury, and who had spoiled
her by indulgence, died a few months before Major
Ney was ordered to America on the breaking out
of the revolution, he had brought his child with
him, with the intention of taking her to England
on the termination of the war. During her sojourn
at his headquarters, Lord Percy had been
struck by the vigour and maturity of mind she displayed;
her keen wit and unusual intelligence;
nor had he been altogether unmoved by the extraordinary
beauty of her person. As we shall
hereafter see, he determined to profit by her talents.
Marie, her faithful attendant, who had accompanied
her from Jamaica, was a tall, slender, graceful
mulatto. Her figure possessed that undulating
outline, and that flexibility and elastic movement
of the limbs peculiar to her race, and which resembles
the facile and harmonious animal action
of the leopard. Her eyes were full-orbed, lustrous,
and black as the sloe, dilating and sparkling
with brilliancy when animated, but at other times
half hidden beneath drooping lids that fell languidly
over them. Her teeth were white, and contrasted
finely with the golden brown of her skin.
Her hair, which was glossy and wavy like the
fleece of the Angola, was tastefully braided, and
wound in a sort of imitation of the tower of Babel
on the summit of her neat, round head, the smooth
surface of which defied the phrenologist.
Having given some space to the description of our
heroine, and farther intruded on the gentle reader's
patience by honouring Marie with a passing
notice—for confidential maids and valets are subheroes
and heroines—we will only remark, in passing,
that neither caps, stiff high stays, nor hoops, disfigured
either the lady or her attendant. The former
was enrobed in a robe de chambre, couleur de
rose, with her faultless feet thrust into high-heeled
shoes of pink satin. A half-embroidered frill, with
the needle sticking in it, lay on the floor beside the
ottoman, on which were thrown one or two French
romances. Marie was arrayed in a bright yellow
spencer and brighter green petticoat, with her
pretty feet—for she had very pretty feet—encased
in clocked cotton hose, and thrust into a pair of
shoes of some red stuff, and with heels full two
inches high, which materially aided her position as
she leaned forward to listen to the expected secret.
“My secret is this, girl,” said her mistress. “I
another day at anybody's will. So I have determined
to give pa the slip and go over to town.
Such a milk-and-water set of officers as Percy has
in his camp, eyes of woman never gazed on.”
“Go to de town, Missis Isabel!” exclaimed her
maid, in undisguised astonishment; “who, for
Heaben's mercie, will you go for see dere?”
“Gallant cavaliers and handsome! Shows,
balls, and theatres! Life, and gayety, and, perchance,
beauty, where I may battle with a rival!
Of what use is beauty here, where it meets no
competitors? Like the soldier's sword, what worth
if not to triumph over others, and make slaves of
men?”
“'Tis a fac, missis. You is too purty,” said
Marie, with simplicity; “dere's dat mischief boy
midshipman, dey calls de young prince Willie, who
came up from de ship and dine here yesterday. I
heard him sa' you was purty 'nough an' proud
'nough to be England's queen.”
“Those were his words, girl?”
“Exact to a syllabus, missis.”
“Prince William, was it?” she said, thoughtfully;
then added, with a sparkling eye and lofty
look, rising and traversing the room, “but he is
but a boy, after all; and, were he not, dare I aspire
so high? Ay, there is no human pinnacle, however
high, that Isabel Ney dare not strive for! I
will keep my eye on this kingly scion. He already
nibbles at the bait; he shall yet take the hook, or
I have no skill at angling. If I cannot win a
throne as a king's bride, I will win a Cæsar as
Cleopatra did!”
She had no sooner given utterance to these
words than her brow and bosom were suffused
with a deep crimson, and, hiding her face in her
with shame and confusion, like one before
whose moral sense the dark and mysterious secrets
of his bosom are unexpectedly laid bare, and whom
the appalling vision strikes suddenly dumb.
“God knows,” she said, after a moment's silence,
without removing her hands, “that I meant not what
my tongue uttered.”
This tribute paid to her maidenly feelings, which,
recoiling from the rude shock they had received, had
asserted for a moment their supremacy over a virgin
bosom which neither crime nor temptation to
crime had yet polluted, Isabel Ney now for the
first time discovered whither her daring ambition
and strong passions, if unrestrained, would lead her.
While she trembled at this self-knowledge, and instantly
atoned for her bold words with a blush of
maidenly shame, yet she could not disguise from
her own conscience that she experienced a secret
and half-formed pleasure in the contemplation of
the prospect of ambition and power which the bold
idea unfolded; and she felt that, although her judgment
condemned what her tongue had spoken, yet
in her heart she secretly approved of it. This train
of reflection passed rapidly through her mind; and
instead of putting up a prayer—the resource and
shelter of youth and innocence suddenly assailed by
temptation—to be delivered from the evil passions
of human nature, and without forming internal resolutions
to guide her head and heart wisely, and
curb an ambition aiming to such a fatal end as her
thoughts and words had suggested, she said, with
a reckless and indifferent air, as if she had recovered
from the first shock her virgin delicacy had
received, and was determined to abide her destiny,
“If it do come to that at last, why, then, 'twere
no such evil thing, provided the reward be so princely.
boor's wife, as I'm like to be for all Percy's staff.
Yes, I will aim high. What matters it, in the end,
whether I am legitimately trained with jess and
perch, or fly a free falcon, so I pounce upon my
game, and that the eagle?”
Her figure, which was tall and majestic for one
so young, yet, nevertheless, exquisitely feminine,
seemed to expand with the energy of her ambitious
spirit, and her curved lip vibrated tremulously for a
moment after she had ceased, while her strange,
wild beauty was enhanced by the animation of her
eye and the glowing hue of her cheek. The next
moment she threw herself on a sofa, and, with her
natural manner, assumed with a readiness and ease
which evinced the control of a no ordinary mind over
passions and emotions so intense, was about to address
Marie, who, in silent wonder, had beheld a
burst of feeling, to the operations of which she was
no stranger; for her mistress had long shown all the
fire of the West Indian in her temperament: but on
this occasion it exhibited itself under phases entirely
new. A footstep without the door, accompanied
by the metallic ringing of spur and sword, changed
her intended remark to an exclamation:
“Hush! there is my father!”
A single rap, followed almost immediately by the
opening of the door, preceded the entrance of Major
Ney.
This officer's presence was commanding, and his
air that of an English gentleman and soldier. His
naturally florid Saxon complexion was browned by
Indian suns and exposure to the hardships of the
camp; his blue eye, which was of that peculiar
triangular shape sometimes found in men of determined
courage, expressed coolness, deliberation,
and resolution; his mouth, the only feature that
remarkably flexible, with a thin upper lip, which
curved with an expression of hauteur, while it was
closely pressed by the under, as if firmness predominated
in his character. The change in his
daughter's countenance on his entrance showed
that she held him in some degree of awe. The
mild expression of his countenance, and the paternal
smile with which he greeted her as he took a
seat beside her, exhibited the proud father, while
the grave and dogmatic tone in which he addressed
her in the more serious parts of the conversation
that followed, betrayed with equal force the stern
and authoritative guardian. His face was now full
of a certain intelligence, which aroused the curiosity
of his daughter, and it was by no means decreased
by the serious manner with which he ordered
Marie to leave the apartment.
“Bel, my daughter!” he said, turning to her as
the slave closed the door, and kissing her forehead
affectionately, “you know I have always indulged
you in your most wayward wishes, and, since your
mother's death, have striven even to anticipate
them.”
“I know it, sir,” she replied, as he paused as if
expecting her to speak, “and I trust you have not
found me ungrateful!”
“No, my Bel, I have not. You have always
been a good girl, though a little wilful, hey!”
he said, playfully patting her cheek; “and I feel
that you will yet repay me for my parental anxiety
on your account.”
“I trust so, father,” she replied, struck by an
unusual seriousness and embarrassment in his
manner. “But why this anxiety, sir? Have you
found any recent cause for anticipating ingratitude?
I may have been wild and eccentric, and
none the less. If there is anything I can do to
prove more sincerely my filial gratitude, you have
only to speak.”
“I know it, Bel! I believe it!” he said, hastily;
and then, at once overcoming his embarrassment,
he took her hand, and continued, in an impressive
manner, “I have often heard you say,
and reproved you for it, that you wished Heaven
had made you a man, that you might then have
served your king and country—”
“But, sir,” interrupted the daughter, alarmed at
this ominous calling up of her sins, “it was merely
in—”
“Tush, hear me, child!” continued the parent.
“The opportunity you have so often desired is now
at hand. Your wish can be accomplished.”
“My wish be accomplished!” she exclaimed, in
undisguised astonishment, while her eyes danced
with laughter to which she dared not give audible
expression; “solve me that, if it please you, kind
sir.”
“Nay, I meant not, wench, that you should
turn cavalier in good earnest,” replied Major Ney,
slightly smiling, although somewhat mortified at
the construction his auditor saw fit to put upon his
words; “but that you can, if you will, serve his
majesty's cause better than e'er a hirsute visage in
the camp.”
“Then Heaven save the mark! I said but now
there was not a cavalier in camp fit for a lady's
glance to rest upon.”
“Truce with such folly! Isabel, I know the
strength of your character, your sterling good sense,
your tact and penetration, which, in many cases,
stands one in better stead than experience. I know
your devotion to your country, and feel I can place
caution, observation, resolution, and all the
art and tact of which your sex are possessed, is required
in a remarkable degree; and I not only have
this confidence in you, but have pledged my honour
that you will be all I have said and all a father can
wish. Have I read you rightly, Isabel,” he added,
seriously, “and is my word worthily pledged?”
“Worthily, sir,” she replied, promptly, and confidently
returning the earnest pressure of his hand.
“But am I, who bring such good fortune to our
arms as you hint, to be led blindfolded, like Dame
Fortune herself?”
“No, Isabel! Only promise me that you will
faithfully perform what is required, and you shall
at once be enlightened.”
“I promise you, sir; for I know your love for
me, and, also, your family pride, will secure me
against that which, as a maiden and Major Ney's
daughter, I should have no part in.”
“Thank you, my child,” he said, embracing her;
“you are my own brave Bel. Now come with me
to the library, where you will receive your instructions
from my Lord Percy.”
Isabel Ney, in surprise, followed her father to
the presence of the earl. The native pride and independence
of her character disposed her at first
to refuse to become party, if not principal, in an unknown
scheme; but, wearied of the monotonous
life she led in the secluded villa, this undertaking
which was proposed to her held forth change of
place and circumstances at least. Of what nature
these might be she was indifferent, so that she escaped
from her present state of ennui. She therefore
determined, like a dutiful daughter and loyal
subject, to acquiesce in her father's and Lord Percy's
views, and leave the event to produce for herself
the nobleman rose to receive them.
“My dear Miss Ney,” he said, advancing on tiptoe
as the door opened, and courteously bending
till his lips gently touched the finger of the fair
hand he pressed, “I am delighted to see you! The
sun did wisely,” he added, paying her one of those
extravagant compliments of the days of Charles the
Second, and which were not yet wholly antiquated,
“the sun did wisely, as you entered, to hide his
head behind the Jersey hills. It was the only way
he could escape a total eclipse.”
“Truly, my lord, the star of your wit sparkles
brightly to shine in the presence of so dazzling a
sun. I fear me your poor sun will have to follow
its prototype,” she rejoined, gracefully courtesying
as if about to withdraw.
“You are facetious, Miss Ney!” said the earl,
with imperturbable affability; “this scintillation of
your wit has so dimmed my unlucky star, that, I
fear me, 'twill shine no more to-night, at least in
such a presence,” he added, with a courtly bow.
“You do wisely, my lord, if your lamp glimmers
thus faintly, to be chary of your oil.”
“Nay, a truce, fair Isabel! We gentlemen, major,
only get our wits hacked like a handsaw whenever
we essay to sharpen them against the finer-tempered
blades of the ladies. Spare me, Miss
Ney! I have solicited,” he added, changing his
lively tone, and assuming at once a serious, yet
courteous air, “the honour of an interview with you
in relation to a service of importance and of great
delicacy. You, doubtless, have intimated as much,
major, to Miss Ney?” he said, fixing his eye inquiringly
upon the face of the officer.
“I have, my lord; and she has signified her willingness
to be useful to her country.”
“I thought so. I envy you the possession of so
lovely and patriotic a child. Now, Miss Ney, I
will instruct you briefly in the nature of the enterprise
to which it is my desire, and that, also, of
your parent, that you should devote yourself. Do
not change colour; there is to be no great personal
sacrifice demanded on your part, unless it be absence
from your father. From my knowledge of
your character, and from your father's confidence in
you, Miss Ney, I intrust this mission to you, and
will now inform you of the nature and importance
of the sacrifice I require. Ten days have elapsed
since we have received any important advice from
York Island. It is, therefore, not only my wish to
obtain present information of the enemy's motions,
but to have some one in the city who can, from time
to time, by letter or otherwise, report to me the
movements of the colonial army. After much reflection,
I have concluded, my dear Miss Ney, to
intrust you with this duty.”
His lordship ceased and gazed fixedly into the
face of the maiden, as if watching the effect of his
communication while he waited her reply.
“Does your lordship mean,” she asked, with
playful irony, “that I shall look down upon the
enemy, and watch their motions in my character
as a sun? or would you be graciously pleased to
lessen my conspicuity, and make me a star, and
set me keeping pale watch over the heads of the
rebels by night? I don't see how else I am to do
you the service you hint at.”
“Neither as star nor sun, my fair Isabel, though
you shine as both, but as a habitant of earth. I
propose that you address a letter to General Putnam
at New-York, whose wife and daughter are
with him, and say that you desire his protection for
a time, or until you can get to your father.”
“To my father! How mean you, my lord?”
“I should have been more explict. I send a
flag of truce to-night by Lieutenant-colonel Patterson.
I wish you to write by him, dating your
letter at Elizabethtown, where General Putnam
knows you were but a short time since, while he
is still ignorant that you are now here. To-morrow
a reply will be received from the general, and,
if favourable, I will send you in a boat to meet his
messenger at `the Kills.' While in the family of the
colonial general, omit no opportunity, my dear Miss
Ney, of informing yourself of everything that may
be of importance for me to know, and neglect no
opportunity of transmitting intelligence. I cannot
give you minute instructions. You must be guided
in a great measure by circumstances. But do not
forget that everything will depend on your good
sense, secrecy, and observation. In these I place
the most undoubting confidence.”
“My lord,” she replied, her eye kindling with
pride, “I accept the trust you repose in me, and
will faithfully do my duty as a loyal Englishwoman.”
“You are a noble girl, and would honour a commission
better than one half of his majesty's officers.
Prepare your letter to-night, Miss Ney, and tomorrow
we will be governed as the reply of the
American general, Putnam, shall make it necessary.”
This singular interview here closed, and the earl,
saluting her on the cheek, courteously took leave
of the lady several steps beyond the door of his
apartment; for at such a length—it becomes us, as
a chronicler of olden times, to record—did the gentlemen
of that day carry their forms of politeness.
But chivalry, alas! which is simply devotion to the
ladies, has gradually retrograded since the last crusade,
and men, we fear, are fast returning to the
Gothic rudeness of the dark ages.
2. CHAPTER II.
THE BONNET BLEU.
About nine o'clock on the evening following
the events recorded in the last chapter, a youth,
wrapped in a military cloak, and wearing the bonnet
bleu, issued from a steep and narrow street in
the eastern quarter of the city of New-York into
an open square intersected by old Queen-street.
He paused in the shadow of a brick dwelling on
the corner, as if fatigued by ascending the hill, and
as if desirous, at the same time, of withdrawing
himself from the observation of the few chance
passengers while he stopped to reconnoitre the
space before him.
It was a small triangular area on the summit of
the hill, from which several streets led to different
quarters of the town. It was surrounded by dwellings
of the better sort, and, altogether, displayed a
certain air of aristocracy. The most conspicuous
of these dwellings was a large quadrangular edifice
three stories in height, facing the south, and occupying
the whole northern side of the area, and
built in that firm, massive style characteristic of
the architecture of that period when men did not
expect the world to end with their generation. A
strong battlement ran around the roof, from the
summit of which, in a clear day, was an extensive
prospect of the environs for many a league. The
main entrance to this dwelling was hospitably capacious,
and adorned with columns and carved
friezes, which elaborate style was also visible in
lawn, garnished with a few trees, plants, and
rose-bushes, was enclosed by a strong fence of
complicated construction, with a gate in the centre
flanked by tall pillars. Each of these, at the beginning
of the war, had been crowned with a symbolic
piece of carved work representing Britannia;
but, after hostilities commenced, they were demolished,
no doubt by some pious whig. The dwelling
wore a cheerful aspect; lights were gleaming
from many windows, and dissipating, in some degree,
the gloom of the square, which otherwise was
but dimly lighted by the faint glimmer of the stars;
and occasionally a voice of merriment reached the
ear of the youthful stranger, which he echoed by
a low sigh as he folded his cloak closer about his
person, and shrank farther back within the dark
shadows of the corner. Save the occasional footfall
of a citizen hastening to his home; the heavy
tramp of a party of soldiers at the extremity of one
of the diverging streets, on their way from post to
post to relieve guard; and the slow tread of a solitary
sentinel pacing before the gate of the dwelling
we have described, there was neither sight nor sound
of human being; for, in that primitive era—aside
from the annoyances to which peaceful citizens
were subject who chanced to be abroad after nightfall
in a beleaguered and garrisoned town—people
were content to go to bed and get up with the sun.
After reconnoitring the square with timid caution,
the youth stepped briskly forth from his
concealment; and, with a bold step, crossed the
open space and advanced directly towards the gate
of the edifice. The sentinel stopped in his walk
as he observed his approach, and challenged him.
His brief, stern tones seemed to startle the stranger,
for he recoiled, and appeared to hesitate whether to
for an instant; and, regaining his previous confident
demeanour, he approached the guard, and said, in
the tone of a youth of some seventeen years, and
with a slight foreign accent,
“Soldier, I would speak with Major Burton, if,
as I think, here are the headquarters of General
Washington.”
This is headquarters, sir,” said the sentinel,
in a respectful tone, “and I believe Major Burton
is within, Holton,” he added, to a sentinel whom
the stranger had not before observed, who was
standing in the door of the mansion, “say to the
general that a stranger desires admittance.”
“Oh no, no! not the general,” interposed the
youth, earnestly; “I wish not to see your chief, but
his aid, Major Burton.”
“See, then, if Major Burton be in, Holton.”
While he was speaking the door of the mansion
opened, and an officer made his appearance in full
uniform, accompanied by a gentleman without his
hat in a military undress, who seemed to be taking
leave of him at the door.
“Then we are to have the honour of your excellency's
presence at Brooklyn at eight in the morning?”
said the officer who was leaving.
“At eight, General Livingston,” replied the individual
addressed; “I wish to inspect your works
in person as they progress. We must defend
Long Island at all hazards; for, if we give General
Howe possession at Brooklyn, we resign him the
key of New-York.” The officer, who, as Major
Livingston, is already known to the reader, then took
his leave; and, hastily passing the sentinel, crossed
the square and disappeared through a close street
at the left leading to the East River.
“A stranger to speak with Major Burton!” repeated
his excellency, in reply to a communication from
the guard at the door; “invite him in, and inform
that officer.”
“Pass, sir,” said the sentinel, standing aside for
the youth to enter.
He hesitated, and remained standing in the same
attitude, without making any reply, when the gentleman
stepped forth, and, approaching the gate,
said, in a manly and placid voice,
“If your business is with Major Burton, sir, and
of importance, walk in, and he shall be made acquainted
with your presence here.”
“Oh no, sir, 'tis of no importance; but, if I could
see him, I should rather not go in.”
This was said in a tone of extreme embarrassment,
as if the speaker was greatly agitated, while
the voice, which at first was bold and boyish, became
soft, and the words were tremulously uttered,
like the broken notes of a glassichord rudely swept
with the fingers.
The gentleman surveyed the speaker, who shrank
away from his glance, fixedly for a moment by the
glare of light from one of the windows; but his
face, concealed by the fold of his cloak and the
drooping front of his bonnet, defeated his curiosity,
which was at once excited by the voice and manner
of the stranger. At length, as if influenced by
a sudden resolution, he approached him and said,
in a tone calculated to sooth and restore confidence,
while it carried with it the weight of a command,
“I fear, my young sir, that we shall be compelled
to hold you under gentle arrest as one arousing
our suspicion; nay, my child,” he continued, with
paternal kindness, as he surveyed his agitated form,
“I will send for him you wish to see; I half guess
your secret already.” Partly leading, partly persuading
him into the library on the left side of the
hall, and, closing the door, led him to a sofa, upon
which he immediately sank in excessive agitation.
“My child,” he said, in a voice of dignified tenderness,
“do not charge me with intrusive or uncalled-for
curiosity for so rudely pressing upon your
privacy. But the honour of my military family is
dear to me, and the individual you have called to
see is a member of it. The mystery of your conduct
leads me to suspect there is something wrong,
for virtue and honour neither require concealment
nor fear exposure. I have penetrated your disguise,
for your voice is all too gentle to sustain you in the
character you have assumed. Throw aside this
unsexly disguise, my child, and resume the habits
of your sex, and with openness and candour give
me your confidence. If you have suffered wrong,
as I greatly fear, you shall be righted; but if, as I
hope, good faith and honour have not been broken
by those you have trusted, you will then find in me
a friend and adviser.”
“Oh neither, neither, sir,” said the youth, covering
his features with his fingers, through which the
tears trickled freely, while his whole frame heaved
with emotion
“Then allow me to remove this unworthy headdress,”
he said, with a voice of the deepest sympathy,
at the same time gently uncovering his head,
around which fell a cloud of golden tresses, shielding
it like a veil. For an instant he gazed on the
bright abundance of wavy hair, and then, parting it
from her brow, as if he were soothing a grieved
child, he removed, one after another, the scarce
resisting fingers which strove to hide the blushing
face, and gazed with admiration upon the features
mingled sunshine and showers.
The officer beheld with surprise, mingled with
commiseration, the face of the beautiful creature
who now stood confessed in all her feminine loveliness,
and became deeply interested in her fate.
Affectionately holding her hand within his own, he
questioned her respecting the nature of her engagements
with his aid, her name, and the place of her
birth, but her only replies were tears and blushes,
which chased one another across her cheek like rosy
clouds. The original suspicions hinted at on his
first addressing her were confirmed by her silence
and mysterious bearing, and with a clouded brow
and stern aspect he crossed the room, rang the bell,
and ordered a servant to inform Major Burton that
a stranger was in the library who desired an interview
with him.
The appearance of the gentleman who had taken
such a deep interest in the fate of the stranger was
in the highest degree dignified and commanding.
He was tall of stature, and, although his person was
large-framed, it was symmetrical, and remarkable
for the harmonious case of its motions and its lofty
carriage. His step was firm and resolute, and his
air soldierly. His address was that of an accomplished
gentleman, in which politeness was dictated
rather by the heart than by fashion or policy. His
countenance was remarkable for its power of expressing
strong emotions; and majesty dwelt upon
his expansive brow, as if nature had placed there
her seal of greatness. His eyes were full, calm,
and impressive when in repose, but when he was
excited they emitted flashes of light. The Roman
strength of his nose, the bland and quiet expression
of his habitually-closed mouth and resolute compression
of the firm lips, the massive chin and angular
and noble expanse of forehead, presented striking
combinations of features that could belong to no
common man. He appeared to be about forty-five
years of age, although the powdered wig which he
wore after the fashion of the period, and the lines
of thought and wisdom traced on his countenance,
gave him the appearance of being several years
older. He was without sidearms; and his dress,
which was plain, aside from its semi-military character,
exhibited no insignia of rank. Yet the maiden,
as she gazed on him and made the observations
we have recorded, was convinced that she was
in the presence of Washington.
After sending the message to his aid, he seated
himself by a table in silence and in an attitude of
deep thought, while his companion, seemingly forgotten,
remained timidly gazing, as if she would
there read her fate, upon his noble features, rendered
still more striking by a strong beam of light
from a suspended chandelier falling upon the more
prominent parts, and casting the remainder into
deep shadow.
At the sound of an approaching footstep without
the door, he turned and said to the disguised female,
“Replace your bonnet.” She obeyed mechanically,
when the door was thrown open by a servant, and a
young officer in full uniform, and with spurs, as if
he had just been on horseback, entered the room.
He gracefully approached his commanding officer,
mingling in his manner the usual forms due to the
military rank of the individual he addressed with
the gentlemanly ease of an equal in society. The
commander-in-chief rose and received him with
that dignified courtesy which never deserted him,
while the severe expression of his eye promised no
pleasing termination to an interview so inauspiciously
begun.
“Major Burton,” he said, in a grave tone and
with some sternness, “you doubtless will admit that
the honour of my military family is infinitely dear
to me?”
“It should be so, your excellency,” replied the
young officer, fixing his eyes upon him in surprise
at his words, and then casting them to the opposite
side of the room, his attention being drawn thither
by the unaccountable emotion of a third person,
whom he now for the first time discovered.
“And you are prepared to acknowledge that I
must feel a deep interest in the honour of all the
officers under my command, and will not deny my
right to inquire into the moral as well as military
character of the few who compose my staff, and
reside with me beneath the same roof?”
“I am not prepared, your excellency, either to
deny or admit the right you would claim,” replied
the officer, with some pertinacity; “but, if you
will honour me so far as to state any particular instance
which calls for the application of this system
of morals to your staff, or any under your command,
I shall then be better able to give you my
opinion.”
“I will do so, and explicitly, Major Burton,” said
the chief, with emotions of mingled displeasure and
reproof; “I am not ignorant, sir, of your vanity,
from causes which should tinge the cheek of an honourable
man with shame, nor of the testimonials
you have displayed to your brother officers, in my
presence, of the weakness of the sex which, by
every tie as a man and as a gentleman, you are
bound to protect, but which it is your boast to degrade.
This morning, sir—nay, your hand need not
seek your weapon! Hear me! In that very hall
I overheard you shamefully boast to a group of officers
of an instance of successful passion, wherein
It would appear, sir, that, like the Indian
who preserves the scalps of his foes, you delight
to cherish trophies of your victories, where defeat
would be honour, though it could not lessen your
infamy.”
“You presume, General Washington,” replied
the young officer, trembling with passion, “upon
your rank to insult me. From this moment I resign
my commission, and then you shall meet me
where your rank shall not protect your tongue. But
I beg leave to ask your excellency,” he added, in a
tone of inconceivable sarcasm, “from which of your
trusty spies you have heard of some recent, and,
as it appears, aggravated liason, that you call me
to so severe an account?”
“Approach that trembling child, who has sought
you out even in the headquarters of your commanding
officer, which at least should be sacred from the
atmosphere of licentiousness, and let your own conscience,
sir, answer the question.”
The young aiddecamp approached the disguised
female, who had listened with fearful excitement
to this accusation. She threw aside her disguise,
and, with a bound and a wild cry of joy, sprang
into his arms.
“Eugenie!” he cried, pressing her to his heart,
the angry cloud on his brow giving place to an expression
of pleasure; “what grateful gale has wafted
you hither?”
The maiden clung to the neck upon which she
had flung herself, but spoke not. He raised her, and
found that she had fainted. The general, moved by
the scene, pulled the bell, and ordered two of the
maids to be sent to him, when, by his direction,
the insensible girl was removed to the apartments
of his lady, and the two gentlemen were left alone.
by the events that had occurred, when the
elder officer, in a voice of stern displeasure, said,
“Major Burton, here is another trophy of your
victories. If your heart was steeled against so
much innocence and beauty, her affection, at least,
should have pleaded eloquently in her behalf. Thus
to blast the fairest piece of God's workmanship, to
desecrate so fair a temple, is worthy the genius
only of a demon. Leave me, sir! from this hour
we are strangers.”
“Ay, and mortal foes!” replied Burton, striking
his sword till it rang again; and, with a flashing eye
and a haughty step, he left the apartment.
With a single word he might have cleared his
own honour from the dark stain which, in the opinion
of his superior officer, tarnished it; but resentment
at being so boldly charged with crimes which,
though not amenable to the laws, were unworthy of
a gentleman and a man of honour, deterred him from
offering any defence or explanation. This silence,
however, could be traced to another cause, peculiar
to the seducer of female innocence: the secret pleasure
he experienced in being thought the beloved
possessor of so much confiding loveliness, even
when the opinion was coupled with dishonour to
himself. It was a kind of gratification too exquisitely
enjoyed by him to be willingly resigned; and,
therefore, rather than renounce a triumph so nearly
allied to his vanity, he willingly permitted his own
reputation to suffer, on the present occasion, at least,
innocently, and the fair fame of the lovely girl, who
had abandoned for him all but honour, to be blighted,
if not for ever blasted.
Hastily passing through the hall, he ordered his
horse, and, mounting at the gate, turned a corner
to the right and spurred up Queen-street into Broadway;
before a large brick mansion imbowered in trees and
wearing an antiquated air of respectability. It stood
a little back from the street, with which it was connected
by an avenue of trees. A negro servant was
holding two or three horses at the gate; throwing
his bridle to him, he inquired if President Hancock
had yet left town on his return to Congress. On
receiving a reply that he would not leave till morning,
he hastily ascended the stone steps to the door,
and was admitted into a lighted hall.
“Give this card,” he said to a footman, “and say
the bearer desires to see President Hancock in
private.”
The servant entered a room to the left, from
which, as the door opened, several voices were
heard in lively conversation, and in a few moments
a gentleman came forth, richly dressed and with
his hair highly powdered, which he covered by a
cocked hat as he came out into the hall, as if to protect
his head against the evening air.
“Ha, Major Burton, my young soldier, how do
you do?” he exclaimed, in a hearty, cordial tone and
manner; “'tis some time since I have seen you.
Upon my soul, I can almost believe it is my old
friend, your father, I am speaking to; you are his
genuine scion. But come in, come in; there's Sullivan,
Putnam, and a host of `goodlie companie.”'
“No, sir,” replied the young officer, returning
his warm salutation, “I beg leave to decline your
invitation. I have called on you, as an old friend
of my father, to ask your advice before taking an
important step.” Offering his arm, he then led
him forth into the avenue, and stopped beneath a
tree which overshadowed it.
“You shall receive all the benefit my advice
can bestow. But why this secrecy, this clouded
brow, this solemn air?”
“I have been grossly insulted this evening by
the commander-in-chief, and, knowing that you arrived
this morning from Philadelphia, I have hastened
hither to consult with you, as my father's
friend and the president of Congress, respecting
my withdrawal from the service.”
“Leave the service, my young sir, for a hasty
word or so? That will never do, Major Burton;
your services are too valuable to be lightly dispensed
with.”
“But, your excellency, I cannot longer remain
in the family of General Washington; and his language
to me has been so personal, that I wish to
meet him on ground where grades of rank shall offer
no obstacle to an honourable satisfaction.”
“That is to say, Major Burton,” observed the
governor, gravely shaking his head, “that you wish
to meet the commander-in-chief in single combat.”
“That is my wish, your excellency,” he replied,
decidedly. “If the high rank of an officer does not
restrain him from inflicting injury, it ought not to
protect him from the resentment of the wronged.”
“True, my dear Major Burton; but it will never
do for you to send a challenge to your superior
officer. He will, in the first place, pay no regard
to it, and it will do you infinite harm. I will not
inquire into the nature of the injury you have received,
but I think there must have been a mutual
misunderstanding. General Washington, you are
aware, has a good deal of the lion's irritability as
well as his courage, and your own blood is not
over cool.”
“Does your excellency mean to say the commander-in-chief,
like the king, can do no wrong?”
“Not so, my gentle Hotspur, but that you had
best pass it by. But do not think of retiring from
a profession you are so well calculated to adorn,
words of your superior officer.”
“I regret, your excellency,” said Burton, with
energy, “that I cannot comply with your advice.
I will not return to the headquarters of the commander-in-chief.”
“But, my dear Burton, you should subdue this
sensitive and fiery spirit which kindles so readily.
'Twill one day bring evil upon your head and
blood upon your hand. But, I beg your pardon, I
meant neither to advise nor reprove. As your prejudice
is only against an individual, and not the
service, I think I have a plan to retain you still.
How would you like the staff of General Putnam?
If the appointment would please you, I will speak
to Putnam this moment, and you can at once remove
to his quarters.”
The young soldier hesitated a moment, and then
said, “Willingly, your excellency.”
“Then excuse my absence, and I will inform
him of your wishes.”
He entered the house, and soon returned, accompanied
by a gentleman in the uniform of an
officer of high rank.
“My dear Burton,” said the president, “I have
preferred bringing Putnam to you, as the thing is
better settled in a quiet way here than before a
room full. I have told him that you are dissatisfied
with your present station in the commander-in-chief's
military family, and that you would like a
similar appointment in his own.”
“Major Burton,” said the officer, in a frank and
manly way, in which good-nature predominated,
“I feel honoured by your choice, and cheerfully
comply with your own and the president's wish.
I shall be happy to have you breakfast with the
ladies and myself in the morning. I shall,” he
of different metal, in one day. The daughter of a
Major Ney, now with Percy on Staten Island,
sent me a letter this morning, dated Elizabethtown,
saying she was anxious to reach her father, and
desiring my assistance and protection until she
could do so. So I have sent for her, and she has,
no doubt, arrived by this time. I am told she's a
beauty, and a little devil in her way. So, Major
Burton, I give you fair warning.”
Here Major Burton took a cordial leave of the
two gentlemen, who re-entered the house to rejoin
the party they had left, while with rapid steps he
traversed the avenue, mounted his horse, galloped
to the quarters he had left, and precipitately
sought his room. Securing the door, he cast
himself upon his bed in a fever of excitement
caused by the events of the evening. His brain
whirled, and his thoughts, like the rapid changes
of a kaleidoscope, took a thousand shapes and retained
none. At length he became calmer, and
was enabled to reflect deliberately on the incidents
of the night. His resentment at the dictatorial position
assumed by his commanding officer finally
gave place to his wonder at the mysterious appearance
of Eugenie; and, as he recalled the scene, he
could hardly convince himself that it was not all a
dream.
When he last beheld her she was leaning from
the prison window of the chateau, waving her fair
hand till it was no longer visible. Amid the stirring
scenes through which he had since passed, her
image had gradually faded from his heart, or had
been replaced by others, to hold there an equally
ephemeral existence. Not more than seven months
had expired, and yet Eugenie was forgotten, or only
remembered with that kind of feeling with which
might have gained an unlawful advantage which,
from some compunctious visitings, they permitted
to pass unimproved and now regret. That he sincerely
loved Eugenie at that time does not admit
of question. It was, perhaps, to the depth and
sincerity of his love—conquering and excluding
passion, which, in a case where the heart was less
engaged, would have reigned paramount—to which
alone the guileless novice owed her preservation
from the imminent danger to which her attachment
then exposed her.
The commonly repeated adage, that man can love
but once and love truly, will only be true when
Cupid bears but one shaft in his quiver. The
youthful heart has not been inappropriately compared
to soft wax, on which impressions are easily
made and as easily effaced. The daily experience
of life shows us that men, and women too, can love
many times, and love well and heartily. There is
not a schoolboy but has loved in turn every pretty
schoolmate who would deign to look kindly upon
him with her laughing eyes; and there are few instances
where a man marries the maiden who stole
his heart in his teens. There is no passion to which
the youthful heart is so susceptible, and which it
so readily receives, and none so evanescent when
the object is removed, as love. This is not so true
of the female as of the male sex. Love in the
heart of woman may be likened to that mysterious
principle in the vine, causing it to stretch forth
and curve its tendrils, and which gives it a tendency
to cling around the neighbouring trunks and limbs
for support, at the same time relieving them by its
graceful beauty. 'Tis thus woman, guided by love,
clings to man. He, like the unbending oak, towers
proudly in his own strength, and needs not this principle
of support.
For a few days the lover had cherished the image
of Eugenie with religious devotion. But gradually
it faded away, or was obliterated by a fresh impression.
It was not so, however, with the lovely
novice. Love, once admitted into her heart, she
gave herself up to that delightful abandonment of
the senses it produces. Her thoughts became intoxicated
with delight, while her soul seemed to be
suddenly endowed with new being; and she experienced
the most ecstatic enjoyment in the contemplation
of one, the knowledge of whom had unfolded
to her a new element of happiness. Day
after day she feasted on the luxurious banquet love
had spread before her senses, till her passion, resembling
fire in its purity and strength, partook
also of its intensity, gradually began to consume
the rose in her cheek and dim the liquid brilliancy
of her eye.
At length Governor Carleton, who continued to
extend a parental regard towards her, in order to
restore her health and spirits, permitted her to visit
Saratoga, even at that early period celebrated for
its springs, in company with a Canadian family,
which had obtained the necessary passports, and
were going to try the effect of the waters. Eugenie
embraced this proposal, for it would bring her
nearer her lover, from whom she had not even
heard since his escape; so ungrateful are ardent
lovers when they once forget the object of their
passion.
After a few weeks spent at the springs, the Canadian
party proceeded to New-York previous to
their embarcation for Charleston, where they intended
to spend the winter. They had arrived in
a Hudson river packet on the morning of the day
we have again introduced Eugenie to the reader.
The impatient maiden, on making inquiries
and learning that her recreant lover was in the
city and had been for some weeks an aiddecamp
to the commander-in-chief, waited impatiently until
nightfall, and then, with more of romantic passion
and womanly devotion than, perhaps, maidens countenance
at the present day, sallied forth in disguise
to seek him. Although a stranger in the town, this
was no very difficult enterprise, as New-York at
that period was not so large as Providence in
Rhode Island at the present day; and the headquarters
of the commander-in-chief were too conspicuous
not to be readily found, even in a place
of much greater extend and by a less anxious seeker.
3. CHAPTER III.
THE VICTIM.
Major Burton revolved in his mind the events
of the evening, and his resentment against his commanding
officer gradually gave place to reflections
upon the sudden appearance of Eugenie. His vanity
whispered that she had sought him from the intensity
of her love; and, flattered by this testimonial
of her continued attachment, his feelings towards
her once more rushed back into their former channel;
but, like a stream that, for a time, has been
obstructed, and then suddenly breaks away, they
carried along with them a mass of impurity which
they had in the mean while accumulated. We have
observed that his later reminiscences of Eugenie
were tinged with a regret that he should have permitted
a prize so lovely to escape his possession;
strength, he contemplated it, not with the
chastened and sacred feelings which alone the dignity
of her vestal purity challenged, but with the
impassioned and voluptuous imagination of the sensualist.
The person of Major Burton at this time was
manly and handsome. Some months had elapsed
since his campaign in Canada, and the boyish and
almost feminine beauty which then characterized
his features had become changed by exposure in
the camp, and by the dignified and manly duties
of the soldier always in the field. His form was
symmetrical and elegant, his attitude erect, and his
bearing strikingly military. His slight stature was
atoned for by a lofty carriage and an air of courtly
ease, which marked the polished gentleman and
haughty soldier. His face and features were now
more severely cast, and his complexion had become
browned by exposure till it had assumed the dark
olive of Italy.
The most remarkable feature he possessed was
his black eye. It was of the most piercing brilliancy,
the burning glance of which few men could
steadily encounter. In the presence of beautiful
females his address was winning, his deportment
graceful, his air self-possessed, and, in conversation,
his voice and manner inconceivably fascinating.
With a proud contempt for woman, his transcendent
genius, his towering talents, his powers of
mind and conversation, were cultivated and brought
into play only to make himself pleasing to them.
But it was the lion crouching to the earth that he
may concentrate all his strength for a final and fatal
spring upon his prey. Few women whom he
singled out for his victims listened to the fascinating
eloquence of his lips, and met, tremblingly but
of the gazelle's, possessed the fearful power of the
basilisk's, without falling, like the charmed bird,
into the folds of the destroyer.
When, therefore, under the influence of a new
and grosser passion, Burton had resolved to desecrate
the altar that had before known his devotion,
and began to contemplate with pleasure the fall of
a temple, the beauty of which had formerly fixed
his admiration, his fertile brain immediately conceived
a plan for accomplishing his object.
Ignorant of the female heart, though he had made
it his study, but, unhappily, deriving his knowledge
of it from false and corrupt sources, he believed
that the shower of gold would yet find a Danae;
that a Leda would still protect the fugitive swan;
and that Amphitryon in disguise would still find
his cousin Alcmena in many a hall and bower.
The possibility of defeat he did not anticipate; he
imagined indeed, that Eugenie had only to be wooed
to be won. Her lively spirits he interpreted wantonness;
her warm and devoted love, passion.
Rising from the couch on which, half an hour
before, he had flung himself, booted and spurred as
he entered from his ride, he crossed the chamber,
and, opening a door that led into an inner bedroom,
called to some one within. Then enveloping himself
in his cloak and foraging-cap, hanging near,
he waited as if expecting some one to come from
the adjoining room. After the delay of a few seconds,
a youth in a half-military, half-menial livery,
which might indicate him to be either a private
or a footman, or both, made his appearance. On
seeing his master in his cap and cloak, he, without
speaking, and as if acquainted with his habits, went
back, and shortly returned equally disguised and
in readiness to attend him.
Placing a finger on his lips and beckoning him to
follow, Burton led the way silently and cautiously to
the hall, removing his cloak and showing his face as
he passed by the sentinels. Entering Queen, now
Pearl-street, he traversed it at a rapid and steady
pace, his attendant walking just so far behind
that he could converse with him in his ordinary
tones, or give him his orders without turning his
head. The night was still and clear, the air was
mild, and the countless host of stars, with a single
planet hanging like a lamp in their midst, kept their
silent watch over the earth. It was within an hour
of midnight, and, save guards at the corners of the
squares, whose stern challenges and brief replies
broke strangely on the stillness of the night, and
the two whose echoing footsteps we are following
in their devious way, there was no living being
abroad, and it demanded a strong effort of the imagination
for these to realize that an army reposed
around them. On gaining the Broadway, now one
of the most magnificent avenues in the world, but
then, except for a half or three quarters of a mile
up from the Battery, a spacious road bordered
with fields, or adorned with pleasant country-seats
or humbler farmhouses, they turned to the north.
In this direction they walked rapidly onward, now
passing under lofty elms which shaded a substantial
building set back from the road, now traversing
a gravelled sidewalk nearly overgrown with grass,
now crossing a pool of water on a bridge of planks,
and now stooping to avoid the branches of fruit-trees
that overhung the fences, and at noonday
shaded the footpath beneath. They at length
came to the head of a narrow lane, which turned
to the left towards the Hudson, bordered by hedges,
clumps of fruit and forest trees; crossing the road,
they entered it, and, after a walk of some minutes,
its branches across the lane, and shaded a neat
white cottage, half hidden in shrubbery, fronting the
river, which glided past within a short distance,
the ripple of its waters mingling with the sighing
of the wind through the branches of the tree.
Here Burton spoke for the first time, save to reply
to the challenges of sentinels, since he left his
room. “I have brought you with me, Zacharie, so
that you may know the place should I wish to send
you here.”
“Ay, more love messages, I'll warrant me. I'm
puzzled to tell if thou art better soldier or better
lover. By the cross, between the two I shall be
well taught,” replied Zacharie, who was just as
saucy, just as short, fat, and freckled, and, altogether,
as unchanged as if but seven hours, and
not seven months, had passed over his shaggy head
since we took leave of him in Quebec. His relative
condition was, however, altered; and, from a
roving, independent lad, who had no particular service
so that he was on the side of mischief, he was
transformed into a faithful and confidential attendant
of his former patron, serving him as his valet in
peace, a sort of orderly-sergeant in war, and, finally,
as a most efficient Mercury in love.
“Remain here,” continued his master; “keep
your eye on those two frigates below; and if anything
moves, either on the land or water, inform me.”
“That will I,” replied the young Mercury, throwing
back the visor of his petasus, and drawing his
herpe, while his other hand rested on the butt of a
pistol concealed in his breast; “and if I see a
Johnny redcoat skulking along the beach, I'll pink
him with my dudgeon, and swear roundly after that
I took him for a lobster.”
Burton opened a wicket and entered a narrow
by flower-beds, which approached the cottage by
circuitous and artificial windings. He traversed it
with a firm yet noiseless step, and advanced through
its imbowered labyrinths close to the foot of the
portico. The dwelling consisted of two circular
wings, and a light portico projecting from the main
body, supported by four slender columns. A short
flight of steps descended from it into the parterre
or garden. There was an air of rural elegance
and seclusion that was gratifying both to the eye
and the imagination. Casting a brief and familiar
glance around him, for the clear lustre of the stars
made every object visible to his eyes, now accustomed
to the darkness, he ascended the steps, and
gave a peculiar knock, which he thrice repeated.
After a few moments delay the door was softly
opened, and, with a slight exclamation of pleasure,
the white arms of a female encircled him.
“How could you stay away so long, my dear
Burton?” said a sweet voice as the door closed.
“Ten thousand fears have alarmed me for your
safety in these hourly dangers. My head has nightly
sought a sleepless pillow. Alas! how is it that
you are the constant subject of my hopes and fears?
But, now that you have come again,” she added,
embracing him affectionately, while he coldly and
indifferently returned it, “I am relieved and very
happy; and if you will only fix your eyes tenderly
on your dear Caroline, and say you still love her,
my troubled spirit will be soothed, for nothing but
your loved presence and the sound of your voice
can tranquillize me.”
As she spoke they entered the room from the windows
of which the light had streamed upon the foliage
without. It was a small parlour, furnished simply
but richly, with the additional and, at that period,
velvet. The curtains were of crimson damask, relieved
by a veil of muslin, with a deep embroidered
border half drawn over them. A marble table stood
near one of the windows, which was thrown up,
though guarded by Venetian blinds, and a pleasant
air cooled the room, for the night was warm, and,
but for the light wind which came off the water,
would have been close and sultry. A single shade-lamp
burned on this table, and beneath it lay open,
as if just deserted, a small volume, which Burton,
carelessly casting his eyes upon the title as he
passed the table to seat himself by the window, observed
was a French translation of a new German
story called “The Sorrows of Werter.”
Caroline, who had continued to cling around his
neck, sat by his side and looked up into his face
with a sad fond gaze, parting his hair from his brow
like a child who has displeased a beloved parent,
and seeks, by endearments, to draw his attention
and win a smile of affection.
He received these marks of tenderness with a
moody brow, and an occasional motion of impatience
on his features, while his eyes wandered irresolutely
from her own soft glance, and he frequently
bit his lip, as if disturbed by some emotion to which
he wished, but could not command the resolution,
to give utterance.
“My dear Burton, why this cold silence and
stern brow? Have I given sorrow to one whose
happiness I would die to promote? Tell me, dearest,
if your love is undiminished,” she added,
while the tears gushed to her eyes, “and Caroline
shall no more weary you with her presence.”
“Caroline,” he said, abruptly, “you are a fond
and foolish girl. You well know,” he added, in a
softened manner, tenderly taking her hand, “that I
your own.”
“Oh! I know it, Burton; God knows I never
doubted it! Alas! if I had, I could not have lived.
But forgive me, dear Edward; you have, of late,
come to see me less often than you were wont; and
your stay is short, and your brow is gloomy, and
you look as if you thought I loved you not. Oh!
I dare not tell my own heart how much I love you.”
“You are my own sweet Caroline,” he said, gazing
on her childlike, tearful face with a playful
smile, and kissing her brow; but his eye was arrested
by the unusual paleness of her face, where
suffering and anxiety dwelt in fearful contrast with
its delicate beauty. His colour rose, and a painful
sensation seemed to shoot across his brow, for, with
an indistinct exclamation, he suddenly pressed his
temples with his hand and turned from her.
The appearance of this young creature was strikingly
interesting. She was in a white evening
robe, open before and gathered at the waist by
a silken sash drawn tightly round her form, displaying
a figure of sylphlike grace. Her person
was very slight, and of small but exquisitely symmetrical
proportions. Her brown hair was parted
evenly on her forehead, and gathered beneath a
muslin cap, which, bordered by a narrow ruffle,
met beneath her chin. Her face, relieved by the
ruff, appeared perfectly oval, and, perhaps, additionally
lovely. Her features were small and delicate,
and her eyes of a mild blue. But her present loveliness
only exhibited the traces of her former beauty.
Her eyes were unnaturally large and sunken;
her face, save a hectic spot on either cheek, was
transparently pale; and her beautiful lips were of
a strangely brilliant red. Her diminutive hands
were thin and attenuated, and the blue veins
traced with the pencil's nice touch. She
seemed in the last stage of illness; like one on
whose damask cheek grief and wrong, like the
worm in the bud, had preyed until life fluttered on
the threshold of death.
“My dearest Caroline,” he said, again turning towards
her, but without resolution to lift his eyes to
this wreck of loveliness, “you did not tell me,” and
his voice was touchingly sweet and affecting, “that
you were ill, at least that you were worse. Why
did you not send to me? My duties have been so
multiplied of late that I could not call and see
you so frequently as my heart would have bid me.
Good God!” he added, raising his eyes to her face,
and struck with the change, “have three short weeks
made such havoc? Tell me, my dear Carol, are
you very ill?” he inquired, folding her slight form
in his arms, while the silent tears, which freely
flowed on hearing words of kindness from beloved
lips that had so long forgotten to utter them, dropped
from her eyes upon his cheek as he pressed her
face to his own.
“Ill!” she said, smiling while reclining on his
shoulder, “ill, and Burton holding me thus to his
heart, and his words so very kind! Oh no, no.
Speak to me always as you did but now; love me
as you now love me, and I shall never know either
illness or a heavy heart more! Bless you, dear
Edward. I feel that you are my own again.”
He gazed upon her an instant, deeply affected
by her language; then kissing the tears from her
cheeks, while his eyes, wearing the troubled expression
of a heart ill at ease, still lingered with
solicitude over her fading features, he said, tenderly,
“You must take better care of yourself, my frail
flower; even this gentle wind,” he added, dropping
all too roughly. If you love me, Carol, take good
care of your health;” then, with a smile, tapping
her forehead with his finger, he playfully added,
“Perhaps, if you try and get well, I may comply
with the wish which you so foolishly keep, as you
say, close to your heart.”
“Will you, oh, will you, dearest Burton?” she
exclaimed, with a glad cry and inconceivable energy,
drawing back from his arms, clasping her
hands together, and looking fixedly and earnestly
in his face with a countenance of intense delight,
so artless, so childlike, as to be unspeakably affecting.
“Oh, say that once more, and God will bless
you.”
As she continued to gaze upon him, her eyes
grew wild and sparkled with unearthly brilliancy,
her lips firmly pressed together, and then, with a
piercing shriek, she fell in convulsions upon the
floor.
Alarmed by the energy of her attitude and language,
and encountering the wild gaze of her eyes,
he was about to take her hand and reply as she
would have him, when, overcome by an excess of
joy, her full heart strained the delicate casket containing
it beyond its strength. He now raised her
from the floor, placed her on the ottoman, and with
words of kindness, promises, and entreaties, kneeled
over her until the paroxysms gave way to a flood
of tears, which at once relieved her bursting heart,
to which hope and joy, long banished thence, had
returned all too rudely.
“My sweet Caroline, calm your emotion,” he
said, mildly, after she had recovered some degree
of composure, and leaned her head trustingly on
his arm; “your delicate frame can ill bear a repetition
of such excitement. You should not permit
mere ceremony which can render you no happier,
and will make me love you no better than I now
do. You know how obstinate I am,” he continued,
with a smile, as if pleasant looks could take the
sting from bitter words; “I believe, if I were compelled
to protect, I should no longer love you.
The married world would live all the happier did
they not love by compulsion. I have hitherto forbidden
you to speak to me on this subject, because
I saw it affected your spirits, and made you unhappy.
Must you, dearest Caroline,” he added,
sportively, “tie my poor body to you by a rope
of priestly words?”
Caroline, who had looked into his face and dwelt
on every word as it fell from his lips, as if her existence
depended upon it, turned her eyes mildly,
imploringly, and yet resignedly to seek his own, and
said, faintly and solemnly,
“Edward, I cannot feel as you would have me.
I have sinned, deeply sinned; nay, dearest Edward,
do not frown so darkly. I alone am guilty, and shall
soon be summoned to a fearful, fearful account.”
“No, no, my sweet pet,” he said, assuming a
cheerfulness which he was far from feeling, for her
few and simple words had sunk deep into his soul;
“you are nervous to-night, and broken rest has filled
your little head with a thousand vagaries. Let me
place this cushion for you, and I will read you asleep
from this German story of Werter.”
At the mention of this name she started up, and
cried, “Oh no! oh no! not that! I have been reading
it till my blood boiled and my heart was rent
with suffering. Horrible,” she continued, pressing
her hand over her eyes, “horrible is the punishment
of the guilty who sin as we have sinned.”
With a hasty exclamation of impatience, Burton
his arm from beneath her head, arose and
walked the room for some time in silence, his face
overcast with the gloomy shadows of his dark and
uneasy meditations. The distressed Caroline hid
her face and wept.
The dying request of Captain Germaine to Major
Burton, when he fell before the walls of Quebec,
alas! was too faithfully complied with. After delivering
his message, he became a frequent visiter
at the cottage, and in a few short weeks Caroline became
his victim. Her mother, weighed down with
grief at her husband's loss, did not survive to learn
what would have wounded deeper than death; and
the little cottage, adorned by the wealth and taste
of Burton, became the abode of the unhappy Caroline.
It would be useless to go back and narrate
the growth of their passion after their first meeting;
the fascinating attentions of the one, the artless and
confiding devotion of the other. Alas! it would only
add another to the countless histories of man's ingratitude
and woman's crushed affections; of art
pitted against artlessness; of guilt against innocence,
and of deformity plotting to mar the fair proportions
of beauty.
A crisis had now arrived when reflection was to
take the place of passion. The long-deferred hopes
with which, from time to time, he amused her, when
she pressed him upon a subject which now, all too
late, began to agitate her bosom, at length made her
heart sick. Her entreaties ultimately became so
importunate, although urged with mildness and submission,
that they drew from him, in a moment of
passion, a fearful menace, which silenced and appalled
her. But the hopes and wishes to which she
could not give utterance fed upon her heart; she
was rapidly wasting from life, the victim of broken
which should have proved her highest and
holiest claims to protection.
“Caroline,” he at length said, stopping and resuming
his place by her side, with gentle violence
removing her hands from her face, and speaking
in a conciliating tone, “I did not think you had
this foolish whim so much at heart. 'Tis but a
word and a grace, after all; and, if it will make you
happier, and bring back the bloom to your cheek,
and the merry laugh to your lips, as in times gone
by, why, then, I will grant your desire. Now
hush! still that little heart, which flutters beneath
your robe as if it would burst its prison! Be calm,
and let not so light a cause move you. You shall
certainly be my wedded wife if there can be found
priest to say `Amen' to it! So now be happy, my
trembling bird.”
When he began to speak she looked eagerly up
into his face, seized his hand, and gasped for breath;
when he ceased, a smile dwelt upon her mouth,
and she said softly, closing her eyes and folding
her hands peacefully over her breast, “I am so
happy, so very happy, Edward!”
He gazed upon the lovely creature as she reclined
like breathing marble before him, and his features
convulsively worked, as if agitated by some
intense emotion, while pity and remorse dwelt by
turns upon them.
“You will not deceive me, Edward!” she said,
lifting her eyes and gazing into his own, in the
manner of one expressing confidence rather than
seeking assurance, while a peaceful smile played
about her lips.
“Deceive you, Caroline? Have I ever deceived
you?” The rich colour mantled her cheek and
brow, the smile faded mournfully away, and, closing
her eyes, she made no reply.
“My dear Caroline,” he said, after a moment's
embarrassing silence, “you are too much alone
here with only your two slaves; and, now that
your health is so delicate, you will need cheerful
society. I have thought of a companion who will
please you. She is a young Canadian who escaped
from a convent somewhere in the neighbourhood
of Quebec, and is now at General Washington's.
I will invite her to remain with you until
you are better.”
“Edward?” she said, impressively, looking into
his face with a steady and inquiring gaze, which
seemed to read his inmost thoughts.
“Caroline,” he solemnly answered, interpreting
her looks, “so help me Heaven, no!” appealing,
as he spoke, both with eyes and hands for the truth
of his words.
“Then send her to me, for I am indeed lonely
when you are away. Why cannot we be together
as when first you loved me? Then evening after
evening you were ever by my side, and thought the
stars numbered hours for minutes, so sweetly and
swiftly they glided by. Those were happy days,
alas! too, too happy! Nay, Edward, you will not
leave me?”
“I must, Caroline. 'Tis past midnight, and I
have duties far from hence ere the morning, which,
as a soldier, I may not neglect. I will summon
your servants, and leave you to repose.”
“To-morrow, then!” she said, impressively, as
she returned his embrace.
“To-morrow, Caroline!” he repeated, evasively;
closing the door as he spoke, he left the cottage.
Caroline listened to his departing footsteps till
they were no longer heard; then falling upon her
knees, with a face the expression of which was
humbled by sorrow and penitence, she prayed calmly
in every petition Edward's name was breathed, and
oftentimes, forgetful of herself, she pleaded only for
one who was the author of her shame and sorrow,
and whom she was ready to shield from the consequences
of his errors by the interposition of her
own person.
4. CHAPTER IV.
THE RIDE.
When Eugenie was borne by the two female
slaves from the library of General Washington, she
was conveyed into the family sitting-room. Mrs.
Washington, with an exclamation of surprise at so
singular an intrusion, received, with mingled wonder
and sympathy, her lifeless form into her arms, and,
aided by her astonished maids, soon restored her
to animation. On opening her eyes and beholding
strangers gazing upon her, she faintly closed them
again, and, with a slight shudder, whispered the
name of Burton.
Struck with her youth and remarkable beauty,
Mrs. Washington affectionately strove to sooth her.
The tender and maternal tones of her voice at
length inspired the invalid with confidence; and,
raising her eyes gratefully to her face, she smiled
and warmly pressed her hand in silence. Although
anxious to receive an explanation of so extraordinary
an incident, the lady, with instinctive delicacy, forbore
questioning the servants, who, however, were
equally ignorant, or to seek a solution of the mystery
her eyes turned frequently and expectantly
towards the door, as if she looked for the entrance
of her husband, and, consequently, the gratification
of her curiosity.
When the door closed on Major Burton, who,
with a flashing eye and angry brow, had departed
so abruptly, General Washington entered the sitting-room,
every trace of the scene in which he
had borne a part having disappeared from his majestic
brow. With his face softened by benevolence
and compassion, he approached the sofa on which
Eugenie reclined, passive and with her nerves unstrung,
on the sustaining arm of his lady, who sat
beside her with maternal solicitude beaming in her
matronly and beautiful countenance.
“My dear general,” she said, as her husband approached,
“what lovely vision is this? Do make
me wise, for I have most perseveringly conquered
my woman's nature, though I had not much longer
claimed the victory had you not appeared as you
did. Who is this gentle creature?”
Sending the servants away, he in a few words
informed her of the events which had transpired.
After much kind entreaty, they at length learned
from the lips of Eugenie herself the whole of her
ingenuous tale—from the orphan state in which her
infancy was exposed to her seclusion in the convent
and romantic escape, with the story of her
love, and, ultimately, her arrival in New-York.
The naïve and artless manner with which, while
seated beside them, she told her tale, carried with
it conviction of its truth to their minds and hearts.
“I have then done Major Burton injustice by
my suspicions,” replied the general; “I will seek
an interview and atone for it. He should have told
me this.”
“And would you have believed him?” inquired
Mrs. Washington.
“Most certainly. However faithless Burton
may be with the sex you so eminently adorn, Mary,
in his intercourse with men I believe him the soul
of honour.”
“What a singular structure of society,” said Mrs.
Washington, musingly; “that honour, like a medallion,
should have a reversed face for our poor sex!
But, my dear George, what shall be done with our
sweet nun?” she added, smiling, and playfully kissing
the embarrassed Eugenie; who, after concluding
her tale, with her face trustingly hidden in the
mantle of her kind friend, and with a throbbing
heart and bewildered senses at the strange situation
in which she was placed, sat silently awaiting
her destiny without the power either to think or act
for herself.
“Give the one to whom she is so devoted the
right to protect her.”
“What, Burton? Never, George!”
“And why not, my Mary? It is an affair of the
heart; though Burton may not be worthy of so fair
a gem, 'twill be the only way to secure her happiness;
for you know your devoted sex will love, even
if they love unworthily. And it may be the means
of saving my young aiddecamp from wrecking his
bark in the very harbour of life. There is nothing
like matrimony to cool youthful blood.”
“Upon my word, general, you are in a very complimentary
mood to-night. My dear Eugenie, you
see what these husbands think of us. The general
would use you as they say they do the tame elephants
in the East, and make you a trap to catch
this wild Burton and sober him down. Now what
do you answer, my sweet nun?”
“My dear, kind madam, I have no will of my
own. I have been imprudent, and will cast myself
forget him!” she added, with timid earnestness.
“That he loves you not, dearest Eugenie, is evident,
not only from his silence, but from his habits
since his return from Quebec. Try and forget
him, my love; but, if you cannot, I will see that
you are made happy your own way.”
After a long and interesting conference, it was
decided that Eugenie should be removed on the
succeeding afternoon to a friend's villa about a
league from the town, on the shore of Kip's Bay,
a small inlet of York Island formed by the encroachment
of the East River, there to remain until
the Canadian party should be ready to set sail
for Charleston, when, provided that, in the interim,
Major Burton made no honourable overtures, it was
decided she should leave the city with them, and
think of him no more. All this Eugenie assented
to; and, although she promised to forget Burton if
he proved unworthy of her, she nevertheless felt
she should remember him so long as she lived.
It was further decided that her Canadian friends
the same night should be informed of the intentions
of their protegée, for whom they felt no kindred interest.
By daybreak the ensuing morning Burton was
on horseback. Giving at the gate strict charge
to Zacharie to remain, and inform him, on his return,
of whatever might transpire during his absence,
he rode off, and visited several of the military
posts in the execution of the last orders to be
delivered to him as aiddecamp of General Washington,
and then galloped to the quarters of General
Putnam. The residence of this officer was a large
square edifice of brick, two stories in height, at the
corner of Broadway and the Battery, its windows
looking out upon lawns and trees, the bay with its
Island and New-Jersey stretching away to the south
and east. The morning was cloudless, and the
heat of the summer sun was lessened by a breeze
from the bay. Detachments of soldiers, the sun
glancing on helmet and steel, were parading, with
drum and fife, and banners waving, on the green
between the mansion and the water; horsemen
were riding at full speed over the field, and the occasional
note of a bugle swelled clearly on the air.
The British fleet lay at anchor far down the Narrows,
and the harbour was dotted with barges and
light boats coursing in every direction. But none
of these attracted the attention of the young officer
as he dashed up, his horse foaming with his
morning duties, to the front of the edifice which
was for the present to become his quarters. Objects
more brilliant and enticing drew his eye and
demanded his homage. Before the door was an
equestrian party, consisting of two or three ladies
in hat and plumes, mounted on small, graceful ponies;
a young officer, with his foot in the stirrup, in
the act of striding a spirited charger, richly caparisoned
with military saddle and housings; and the
figure of General Putnam himself, seated on his
warhorse, the whole cavalcade just ready to move
up Broadway, in which direction the young ladies
had already began to canter their horses.
“Good-morning, Major Burton,” said the general,
in a cheerful and welcome tone of voice, as our
hero reined up; “you have joined us just in time.
We have ladies under escort, you see, and comely
lasses they are; so you'll be just in your element.”
“I am honoured, general, by such an opportunity
of—”
“There is no honour about it; we are to have a
gallop as far as Bloomingdale, where I have some
volunteered to be my escort. So we will press you
at once. Take charge of Miss—but I had best
make you acquainted with the lady. Miss Ney, I
have the honour of presenting to your acquaintance
and tender mercies my young friend and aiddecamp
Major Burton. My daughters you already know.
Now, major, be careful you are not converted to
toryism on the ride. I have seen the time,” he
archly added, “when a pair of black eyes—but,
never mind; let us forward.”
The young officer's eyes, as he rode up, had
been instantly arrested and fixed by the graceful
figure and haughty beauty of the fair equestrian;
and as he was thus unceremoniously presented to
her, he bent profoundly in his saddle, until his
plume mingled with the mane of his courser, and
then, elevating his person, he was about to address
her, when the report of a piece of artillery on the
green caused her fiery horse to rear and plunge fearfully.
She firmly kept her saddle, but, not having
sufficient strength to manage him, he would
have bounded away had not Burton, who was in the
act of assuming his cavalier's station at her side,
compelled his horse, with the quickness of lightning,
to clear the space between them. Seizing her rein,
he held it securely in his grasp, while, at the same
time, he threw his arm around the young lady to assist
her in retaining her seat.
“Gallantly done, my good cavalier, and prettily,”
exclaimed General Putnam, who, though already
in advance, had beheld the act as he turned
round at the firing; “did I not say you were in
your proper element? Well, it would be long before
a pretty girl would get into danger if I were
beside her. Oh, you are a lucky dog, Burton.
Take care of your heart, Miss Ney; he will lay
worthy prelude, this passage of arms at first sight!
Ha! ha! ha!”
The cavalcade now moved up Broadway at a
round pace, General Putnam and his eldest daughter
taking the lead, followed by Major Burton and
Isabel Ney, the younger maidens being escorted by
the artillery officer before mentioned, while an orderly
sergeant, two or three mounted privates, and
a negro servant brought up the rear. They proceeded
along the avenue, exchanging salutations
with occasional passengers on the sidewalk, or
with ladies drawn to the windows by the tramping
of horses. Their ride, for the first half mile, was
lined with the stately residences of the wealthy
and great, each standing by itself, within its enclosure
of lawn or parterre. After they had passed
the angle where the Boston road turned off to the
right, the dwellings became less frequent and substantial.
Instead of imposing brick edifices bearing
the index of wealth and fashion, they saw around
them houses of an humbler description, such as linger
about the skirts of large towns, the abodes of
the poor and labouring classes, each dwelling, what
with pigs and children of equal cleanliness, broken
panes and slatternly females, appearing like a farmhouse
in dishabille.
Leaving this suburban quarter, they came into the
open country, and cantered forward with that exhilaration
of spirits which the fresh morning air and
the sight of green fields is calculated to bestow.
Isabel Ney was in the highest vein of spirits. Her
wit and humour, and bewildering beauty, speedily
captivated her companion. As now they traversed
an open common, now threaded a dense forest, and
now wound along the bank of the river through dell
and dingle, the susceptible Burton abandoned himself
quite forgot that Eugenie de Lisle or Caroline Germaine
ever had existence. Isabel Ney alone occupied
his eyes, his thoughts, his imagination.
Isabel, who had arrived in a continental barge
from “the Kills” the evening previous, ostensibly
from Elizabethtown, but, as the reader is aware,
really from Staten Island, had heard General Putnam,
at the breakfast table, speak of a gallant
young officer who was that day to be attached to
his staff and received into his family, and the lively
description given of him had excited her curiosity.
When the handsome horseman was presented
to her as the expected stranger, she was immediately
struck with his fascinating address and fine Castilian
style of face, lighted up with an eye, the brilliancy
of which she thought had never been surpassed;
and from the moment he seized and restrained
her terrified horse, and so gracefully, yet naturally
encircled her waist, although she blushingly
expressed gratitude for his services, she felt a
deeper sentiment than could spring from this emotion.
With this prepossession in his favour and
his own meteor-like passions, an acquaintance approaching
a confidential nature was soon established
between them.
They had insensibly fallen behind the party as
they advanced into the country, at one time drawn
aside by an eminence which promised a prospect of
the distant city to the south and of the surrounding
country, or at another galloping away to explore
a romantic glen, or, perhaps, linger for a few moments
on some green, rock-girted peninsula, to gaze
upon the Hudson and the ships-of-war lying far
below; so that, when within little more than a
mile of the rural village of Bloomingdale, the cavalcade
had ridden quite out of sight.
They now came to a retired peninsula, nearly
encircled by inlets of the river, and which left
only a narrow grassy path to connect it with the
mainland. Scarcely an acre in area, it formed
a romantic amphitheatre of smooth sward; two
noble oaks stood in the centre, and it was bordered
by a fringe of willows and water-oaks. It was a
spot in which Scottish superstition would have believed
fairies to hold their nightly gatherings. Secluded
from the road, it had only an opening to the
north by a natural vista through the foliage. As
this lovely spot burst upon their sight, they simultaneously
reined up their horses, then spurred to
the tempting, hedge-bordered isthmus, which invited
them to penetrate its recesses. They gazed
around for a few moments in silence, and interchanged
glances betraying that mutual pleasure experienced
by cultivated minds when surveying nature
in her lovelier aspects.
At length the eyes of Isabel rested on the summit
of a distant cliff on the opposite side of the
river, crowned with a fortress. After gazing upon
it steadily for a moment, she turned carelessly to
her companion, and said, pointing with her riding-whip,
“Canst tell me, Major Burton, as every tree and
rock, every hill and hollow on this lovely island
seem known to you, what fortress frowns on yonder
eminence?”
“Fort Lee, Miss Ney. One of the lions that
guard the pass to the Highlands.”
“Ah! I have heard of it. A stronghold of you
rebels, hey?” she said, archly. “But where, pray,
is the other lion?”
“That fortification thrown up on this side the
river, some four miles above us, and directly opposite
Fort Lee.”
“I see it now, crowning a wooded eminence.
You call it Fort Washington, I believe, after your
leader. They are, I doubt not, two noble warders,
well armed and fitted for their duty. I judge,
Major Burton,” she playfully observed, and bowing
gracefully to her cavalier, “that, from the specimen
I have already seen of rebel gentlemen, yonder
rock-guarded fortress has officers better suited to a
lady's taste than the dull automatons of Percy's staff.
What gallant rebel chief may command there?”
“A brave and excellent soldier, Colonel Morgan;
but one who cares less for beauty's eyes than ball
and steel; a bold soldier, but, perchance, rather a
rude lover.”
“Say you so? Then will I have nothing to say to
him,” she said, with lively determination. “Canst
not give me a more tempting portrait of your brother-officers?
No doubt, among so large a garrison, there
are some gallants worthy a lady's glance. How
many soldiers,” she added, carelessly, and as if without
aim, “may its garrison number?”
“About two thousand. But dost think of laying
siege to it, Miss Ney, that you number the forces
so closely?” he said, smiling.
“Heighhe! I cannot say,” she replied, with the
air of a vain beauty; “I have taken such a fancy to
rebels this morning,” added she, glancing towards
him with eyes in which he thought irony and passion
were mingled, “that I think I shall lay siege
to some of their hearts. But I dare say these
stubborn rebel hearts it would be harder to make
capitulate than even their frowning fortress.”
“Not so, I think, Miss Ney,” he said, tenderly;
and then, with something of the soldier's enthusiasm,
replied, “the lines and outworks of yonder
fort are drawn quite across the island; the ground,
you see, is naturally strong; the fortifications admirable;
resist heavy artillery (however its officers' hearts
may be defended),” he added, meeting the brilliant
artillery of eyes that played with effect into
his own heart as he spoke, “it is, nevertheless,
in condition to resist any attempt to carry it by
storm. The garrison consists of the best American
troops in the army, and in the commanding
officer the greatest confidence is placed.”
“Truly,” rejoined the young lady, in a lively
tone, after having listened to his words thoughtfully
and with a marked attention, that would not have
escaped the observation of Burton had not his
senses been banqueting in the glance of her eye
and blinded by her captivating beauty; “if you
rebels have hearts as strongly fortified as your
forts, I may as well save my credit, and neither
lay them siege nor assay them by storm. I'll warrant
me Fort Lee hath both her walls and hearts
less defended.”
“There are there gallant officers whose hearts
would soon yield to force so irresistible as that
Miss Ney would bring against them.”
He spoke with a devotion and fervour in his tone
that did not escape her; and although, as a woman,
she was flattered by the silent, yet eloquent homage
of his eyes and manner, she nevertheless resolved,
with that strength of mind which could control
every emotion, and even bridle a passion so subtle
as love, and make it the slave of her will, to profit
by her power, and, while she controlled him as her
admirer, if not her lover, also to make use of him
as the instrument of her dangerous mission. Time
will unfold the success of her policy. Edward Burton,
she was yet to learn, was no ordinary lover.
“You have, no doubt, been at Fort Lee, which appears
as if nature had intended it for the guard to the
here?” she quietly asked, appearing at the same
time as if her whole attention was engaged in soothing
her spirited pony by patting him on the mane.
“I have frequently visited it. It is equally strong
with Fort Washington; but, the two fortresses being
dependant on each other, its evacuation would,
no doubt, follow the capitulation of the former.
Neither of them alone could command the river.”
“Nor both together, I should think,” said the
maiden, bending her brows, and directing a steady
and observing glance towards them. “They are
too high and far from the river to guard its pass. I
could as easily,” she added, with animation, her
natural spirit breaking out, “sail between them in
a good and well-appointed frigate, as I can canter
between the hedges that border the avenue we just
came through, and with as little danger.”
The young soldier watched her flashing eye and
almost stern aspect as, with the mien of a youthful
Minerva, she spoke on warlike themes so foreign
to her youth and sex. With a kindling eye he
gazed upon her, bewildered between wonder at the
strange and fierce energy of her spirit, admiration
of her lofty beauty, and the devotion of an ardent
lover.
“Are all of England's maidens so skilled in the
science of war, and wear they all such bold hearts
as are oftener hidden beneath steel corslet than a
silken spencer?” he said, with playful irony.
“England is a warlike land,” she replied, heedless
of his tone of raillery; “her sons are brave and soldierly,
and it becomes not her daughters to be indifferent
to themes which fill a father's, a brother's, or
a lover's bosom. The casque and corslet can become
woman's brow as well as man's, if history
tell us truly.”
“Fair lady,” said the cavalier, bending low, “wilt
take horse and armour, and join our banners in the
field? Myself and a score of lances, at least, will
serve under your banner.”
“Fit knights, I would swear!” she answered,
piqued at his raillery, and curling her beautiful lip
with derision, “and but too well honoured by being
led to the charge by a woman.”
“Your sex, fair lady,” he continued, in the same
vein, “has led knights and caused battles without
number, from the days of the Egyptian sorceress
until now. Verily, 'twere no such strange thing for
those who pit armies in the field to take the lead in
the mischief they have set on foot.”
“Bravely spoken and courteously, most gallant
rebel,” she replied, laughing. “Is such the incense
you colonial gentlemen are wont to offer to our sex?
But hark you, rebellious sir; all that you have told
me about yonder frowning lines will not tempt me
to lay siege to either heart or wall connected with
them. Canst not, fair and valorous sir, point me
out a worthy mark for my artillery? I am strangely
belligerant this morning, with breathing this rebel air
and keeping rebel company, and feel as if I could
take off a score of rebel heads without mercy.”
As she spoke her features were animated with the
conscious power of beauty; and while she thus discoursed,
with a freedom that appeared to despise
the little arts of her sex, whom, in love, Nature has
taught by art to conceal art, her voice and manner
exerted an irresistible charm upon Burton. Suddenly
yielding to her fascinating influence, he leaped
from his horse, and dropped gracefully on one knee
before her.
“Lady,” he said, laying his hand on his heart,
and speaking in a low and earnest tone, that seemed
as if either subdued by the power of love or artfully
respectful air of a lover who trembles between hope
and fear, “behold at your feet both the heart and
head of a rebel knight, who yields himself a slave
to your beauty, rescue or no rescue!” and low he
bent his head as if awaiting his sentence.
“Rise, Sir Knight,” she said, gayly, while the
heightened colour of her cheek and the trembling
emotion of her lip, as she spoke, betrayed a depth
of feeling which she in vain sought to disguise beneath
the lightness of her words and manner; “I
herewith figuratively strike off thy head,” playfully
laying her riding-switch upon his shoulders, “or
dub thee my dutiful knight, as it may best please
thee. Thy heart I will not despoil thee of.”
“Lady,” he continued, still kneeling, with his
eyes pleadingly uplifted to hers, and full of the devotion
of love, “thou hast cruelly spared my life
if thou wilt not grant me that which alone can
make life endurable.”
“Name, then, thy wish, sir,” she replied, after
some hesitation, turning away her eyes from his
eloquent glance, in which all his heart beamed, even
under the mask of mockery, while maidenly expectation
flitted across her face in deepening blushes—
for at such a moment the woman could not be altogether
subdued.
“In gratitude for the life thou hast bestowed, fair
lady, deign to accept the heart which was also offered
with it.”
“Nay, Sir Knight, if thou canst not live without
thy head, how canst thou live without thy heart?
Solve me that mystery,” she rejoined, with something
of her natural humour and spirit.
“With all humility,” he replied, bowing to the
stirrup, till his lips nearly touched the slipper that
your generous nature to supply its place.”
“Of a truth, fair sir, 'tis a modest trust. You
rebels must think English maidens carry a brace of
hearts beneath their spencers, to supply some wandering
cavalier's lacking.”
“Not so, lady,” pursued the kneeling lover; “but
we are taught to believe England's maidens are too
generous to take a poor cavalier's heart away and
leave him none in return.”
“Whose heart, then, will suit thee, Sir Suppliant?
I trust thou couldst not think I'd give thee a
sound loyal one in exchange for a rebel's. Admit
treason into my bosom, and adorn thee with a heart
as loyal as ever throbbed in Briton's breast! In
sooth, thou art as modest in thy individual 'quests as
thy greedy Congress in her wholesale demands.
Thou art a true rebel, as thy modesty would testify.”
She spoke these words in a tone of affected seriousness,
but so inimitably assumed that the lover
gazed upon her for an instant in doubt and hesitation
before he was convinced, by an almost imperceptible
smile playing in her eye and round her
mouth, that she felt not as she spoke. All at once
changing his manner and attitude, in which there
was more of sincerity than affectation, he seized her
hand, and, pressing it warmly to his lips ere she
could withdraw it, said,
“I will no longer disguise my feelings, nor
debase their sacred nature by this gay badinage.
Nay, curl not that queenly lip, and look not upon
me with a coldness which my heart tells me you
do not feel.”
“Which your vanity tells you, rather, you should
say, bold wooer,” she replied, smiling; “but, if you
will be so pressing, and it suits your humour to fall
poor maiden like me can do,” she continued, with a
submissive air, which, however, her arch looks contradicted,
“is meekly to submit. So there is my
hand, and, if you will, my heart in it, in token of
submission to my fate; but not rescue or no rescue,
mark you, sir, for, if the humour take me, I fly
a free bird again.”
“Not if these arms can hold you, lady,” he exclaimed,
with passionate ardour.
“What, sir! you take a free license with your
speech! But mount, and let us follow my guardian,
who would be apt to cage me if he knew how wildly
we flew when beyond his call. Hark you, sir,”
she said, shaking her riding-whip at him as they
cantered over the grassy causeway that divided the
peninsula from the road, “be discreet, and let not
your eyes betray what has passed;” then adding seriously,
“'twill bring suspicion on you as an American
officer if 'tis whispered that you are in too
close confidence with the daughter of Major Ney.
We will be friends as inmates of the same family,
but, on thy knightly spurs, beware! no more!”
As they entered the village of Bloomingdale they
met their party on its return to town.
“'Tis well we have no Gretna Green on the
island,” said General Putnam, laughing, and addressing
them as they rode up, “or I should now
accost you as Brother Benedict, Major Burton.
Ha! Well, I have not so widely shot my random
shaft,” he continued, in a lively strain, as he observed
the colour mount to the brows of the young
officer, and marked the studiously averted head of
the young lady. “Well, there is nothing like the
country, with its snug hiding-places among the
green trees, for lovers. Ha! ha! ha! What say
you, major?”
“I will not presume to dissent from your opinion,
general, my experience in this matter having been
more limited than your own.”
“Upon my soul, a modest reply! You are disposed
to make me a perfect pastoral! I am not
worthy to be the string to tie your bouquet in such
matters; and I will wager my best charger, that, if
Hymen has not been busy, Dan Cupid has not
been idle. But 'tis as natural for folks to love as
to hate at first sight, I suppose. But something
equally dangerous has been at work. You are by
this time either a brace of tories or a brace of
whigs. Ho! Miss Ney, you need not look so archly
with that demure countenance. You have not
been idle. I believe you have come here expressly
to convert my young officers to rank toryism.
If so, and it is proved on you, I shall hold you in
close bondage. Dost hear that, miss?”
“Truly do I,” replied the maiden; “and wonder
not, if you tremble at a poor maiden, that your rebel
officers are so ready to yield to British arms.”
“If all British arms were like thine,” replied the
general, gallantly, but dryly, putting a construction
on her words which she could not foresee that they
were susceptible of receiving, “there would not be
officer or soldier in camp by sunset.”
Isabel blushed, half angrily, and, without replying,
whipped her horse into a canter, while Burton,
having encountered a glance of sly intelligence from
the humorous general, galloped on and was soon at
her side. The party regained the city without accident
or adventure. Major Burton assisted Isabel to
alight before the mansion of General Putnam. As
she touched the ground he pressed her hand. The
slight pressure was returned with a smile strongly
partaking of the newly-awakened feelings in her
heart, and she glided past him into the house. He
hand a note that had been left for him during his absence.
Hastily breaking the seal, he glanced at its
contents with a smile, then, remounting his horse,
galloped away in the direction of the headquarters
in Queen-street.
5. CHAPTER V.
THE BOUQUET.
Zacharie, with his natural sagacity, had faithfully
followed the parting instructions of his master
when he rode away in the morning. Through the
servants and other means with which his instinctive
tact provided him, he had ascertained that Eugenie
(whom he had not yet seen, and only knew as
a young lady who had called to see his master, and
been intercepted by General Washington, who had
placed her, for the time, under a sort of arrest) was
to be removed that afternoon to the country, but to
what place he could not obtain any accurate information.
He hastened, however, to the quarters
of General Putnam to communicate the knowledge
he had gained, and, on learning Major Burton's absence,
obtained a piece of paper from a neighbouring
guardhouse, and drew upon it with some skill
—for the art of writing formed not a part of Zacharie's
education—the figure of a monk, with a misshapen
Z beneath it, and above it that of a horse,
or what was, no doubt, intended for it, with his legs
extended at full speed. Having executed this hieroglyphic
note, he folded, sealed, and, without directing,
Burton on his return.
Comprehending the meaning of the note rather
from his own wishes than by the aid of any free-masonry
existing between him and its perpetrator,
Burton put spurs to his horse, and rode at a rate
which even the far-stretched limbs of Zacharie's
pencilled steed had no pretensions towards illustrating.
He had nearly gained the square in which the
headquarters were situated, and was riding past the
outlet of a steep and narrow alley leading from the
water to Queen-street, when, hearing a shrill and
peculiar whistle, he looked round and beheld Zacharie
a few paces down the alley beckoning to him.
He turned his horse and rode towards him. The
close or alley was retired, and seldom used as a
thoroughfare, Beekman-street, in its immediate vicinity,
being the chief avenue communicating with
the East River in that part of the town.
“Well, Zacharie,” said Burton, laughing, “I
received your mysterious note, and advise you
henceforth to adopt as your coat of arms a monk
salient, with a horse rampant, surmounted with the
letter Z for your crest. I will take a hint from
your style of notes; 'twill serve me both in war
and love.”
“'Twill be the more like its writer, then; but I
have news for you. Your game will soon be beyond
bowshot.”
“How mean you?”
“She is still in the general's family, but will have
left this afternoon for the country by water; but
which way, as blue water is as plenty as blue sky
about here, it must take thy wisdom to tell.”
“Take water, and this afternoon,” said Burton,
surprised; he then added, thoughtfully, “this must
robbed of my ladylove by a man because he happens
to be my superior officer. By Heaven, I will
beard the lion in his den, and at his hand demand
her.”
“Look ye, sir,” said Zacharie, grasping his rein,
and by a movement of his hand, rather of sleight
than of strength, almost throwing his horse back
upon his haunches, as the rider buried his spurs in
his sides and prepared to obey the hasty impulse of
his passions; “I think I know a better plan than
that. 'Tis this!” here he dropped his voice to a
low key for a few sentences; “I will keep close
and watch their departure, and, after marking the
course they take, hasten and let thee know.”
“How is this to aid me?”
“Give me orders to have a boat well manned in
readiness at Whitehall, so we can pursue them if
they cross to the islands. If they go up the river,
we can take horse and follow. So we have them,
let them take land or water.”
“A scheme worthy the wit that begat it,” said
Burton, with a smile, and shaking his head disapprovingly.
“If Washington is sending her from
my presence, he will probably place her under a
strong escort, and thus defeat my purpose and render
your plan abortive. Canst not make your wit,
ready enough for your own mischief, now serve me
better than this?”
“You can at any time call out a detachment of
soldiers for scouting. Demand of General Putnam
ten men to accompany you on an excursion for any
purpose you choose to invent, and have them ready
by four o'clock to ride or row, and leave the rest
to me.”
“I thought you had some devil lurking in your
eye, sir. Would you have me to attack an escort
of my own army?”
“Ay! Wouldst thou not attack thy own army's
general shouldst thou encounter him bearing off
thy ladylove? By the holy pope, if it comes to
fighting, then say 'twas mutiny, treason, a mistake,
anything. Or leave it to me; I will make
out a lie that shall outface truth.”
The officer mused a moment, and then said
quickly, as he turned away,
“'Tis the only alternative. I shall be ready at
my quarters to hear news from you at four. But
take care you breathe not my name in your transactions,
and see, too, that you do everything both secretly
and surely.”
Here Burton put spurs to his horse and rode
back to his quarters, the image of Eugenie giving
way at every stroke of his horse's feet on the pavement,
and that of Isabel gradually taking its place,
until, as he dismounted before the mansion of General
Putman, and hastened to seek her presence, it
had entire possession both of his heart and head.
A liveried and powdered footman informed him
that the ladies were in the cupola, where General
Putnam was watching the manœuvres of the British
fleet, which appeared to be getting under weigh.
He ascended to this place, and was received with a
hearty welcome by the general, and a pleased yet
embarrassed manner by Miss Ney, who, with the
general, were the only occupants of the cupola.
“The enemy are manœuvring mysteriously be
low there, major,” said General Putnam, surveying
through a telescope the British fleet. “Howe has
some scheme in his head which he thinks will
overreach the Yankees. Look, major, what do
you think of yonder movements? Can those frigates
be ranging up along the shore for the purpose
of covering the landing of their troops on Long Island?”
“They are evidently contemplating a landing,”
said the young officer, after a moment's observation.
“Pray Heaven it may be so! If they don't soon
give us a little fighting, they will find no enemy to
keep their blood in circulation.”
“How so, general?” inquired Isabel; “do you
think of running away?”
“Not exactly, if we can help it. The soldiers'
time of enlistment is up in December, when the
army will dissolve like icicles in a sunny forenoon.
Confound this short enlistment! We no sooner get
men used to the sound of cannon and the burning
of gunpowder, and begin to feel confidence in their
officers, and they in them, than, presto! they all
vanish like the thin air, leaving, as William Shakspeare
says, `not a wreck behind.”'
“How large an army is there now in the city,
general?” she inquired, in the tone in which she
would have asked the name of a flower.
“Some six thousand men, besides our regiments
in Brooklyn. What do you see, Major Burton?
You look as if you spied something of moment.”
“A single frigate standing boldly towards the
city.”
“'Tis the Roebuck. Keep this post, and report
from time to time your observations. I will ride to
headquarters, and make known this movement.”
The time passed in the cupola after the departure
of General Putnam was faithfully and pretty
equally devoted by Burton to the operations of war
and love. The progress he made in the latter, however,
was the most gratifying; and when, at the
termination of an hour, General Putnam rejoined
them, he had been told, not only by the eyes, but
also by the lips of the haughty Isabel, that she
loved him. It was, therefore, with the heightened
glow of victory in love, as well as the flush of military
that the commander-in-chief had appointed
General Putnam to the command at Brooklyn,
whither he was immediately to proceed, with six
additional regiments.
“Now, Burton,” he said, with noble ardour, “we
will try what mettle our troops are of. Howe is
actually disembarking his men under cover of his
guns, for a spy came in and confirmed our suspicions
while I was with Washington. He is to
march his forces against Brooklyn, which, if taken,
will give him command of New-York; and then,
Miss Ney,” he added, archly, “we shall most certainly
have to run away.”
“I hope you will not carry me with you, general?”
“Assuredly. I shall hold you as my prisoner.”
“But what if I refuse to become your prisoner?
You will not lock me up, I hope.”
“I fear I must,” he replied, with assumed gravity.
“What think you? The commander-in-chief,
on being informed of the character of my fair
guest, frowned with some displeasure; and, at first,
said you must be sent with a flag of truce to Staten
or Long Island to your father. But, them, I
having told him what a tinder-box you were, he
said very seriously that no doubt you might be
well calculated for a spy, and perhaps was one,
and that I must keep a sharp eye upon you, and,
moreover, not allow you to come within speaking
distance of my gallant aiddecamp, whom he advises
me to keep in close duty at Brooklyn, no
doubt to prevent his being brought over to toryism
by a pair of black eyes and ruby lips.”
“Your general is a rare cavalier, and has my
thanks for his flattering opinion of me,” she said,
scornfully curling her lips, and assuming an appearance
in this courtly vein?”
“Only that you possibly might be detained as
hostage for your father's good behaviour.”
“Now will I assert my woman's spirit,” she
said, rising and speaking with great energy, “and
meet compulsion with obstinacy. I will be neither
prisoner nor hostage. With faith in the honour of a
gentleman and an officer, I placed myself beneath
this roof as his guest. And if the word of a gentleman
and a soldier is to be pledged thus lightly, then
are ye a base rebel crew, unfit to stand in that august
Senate to which ye aspire, and for which ye are
now in arms. I appeal to the faint spark of honour
yet in American bosoms, and there is my
glove,” she added, with ineffable scorn, flinging her
glove at the feet of the gentlemen, “in testimony
of my appeal, though, God knows, there is not gentle
blood enough in the land to lift it!”
Burton sprang to take it up, when General Putnam,
at whose feet it fell, gracefully raised it,
pressed it to his lips, and fixed it like a bouquet to
the buttonhole of his vest; then taking her hand,
he said, with mingled sympathy and good-nature,
“My dear Miss Ney, you judge too harshly of
American soldiers. So long as you are beneath
my roof, which shall be as long as it is your pleasure
to remain, you are my honoured guest. When
the commander-in-chief proposed to retain you as
a hostage,” he added, smiling, “my sword flew
half out of its sheath, and I swore a round oath that
it should not be.”
The emotion of the maiden, although it was at
first, perhaps, partly assumed, but, from the quickness
and violence of her feelings, had become real,
was soothed by the sincere and tender address
of the general; and with glistening eyes she returned
the same moment to meet the riveted gaze of her
admirer, she gave way to an uncontrollable burst of
merriment.
He had stood, while she was speaking, lost in
wonder and surprise, and, with something of the
philosopher and the lover in his countenance,
deeply studying the character of the strange creature
whose moral features, like the changes of the
northern lights, were constantly presenting new
and more startling appearances. Bewildered in
the maze of speculation which these contrarieties
of disposition presented to his study, he forgot
for the moment his usual presence of mind; and,
when she turned towards him, his eyes were fixed
upon her with the look of one in whose hands a
dove has suddenly assumed the ferocity of a bird
of prey, and which he knows not whether to replace
in his bosom or shrink away from with fear.
The merry laughter of the maiden instantly restored
good feeling, and seemed at once to place
them all three, lately in such a belligerant attitude,
on a more confidential footing than before. The
attention of the general now was once more drawn
to the bay.
“See! that vessel of war, which I think is the
Roebuck, has hove to nearly abreast of Gowan's
Cove, but lies beyond gunshot of Red Hook, or I
should think she was about to open a cannonade
upon it. How many thousand men can Howe lend
them, Miss Ney?”
“Who is the spy now, general?” said the lady,
laughing. “I shall order you under arrest if you
put any more questions of that nature to me.”
“I dare say you could tell the number of stitches
in a stocking better than the number of men in a
regiment. Burton,” he added, “we must embark
I see a flag of truce approaching. Good-by.”
“Eight, perhaps, will be early enough for me to
join you?” asked Burton, carelessly.
“Oh, yes, if you have other business. The
boats will not be ready before dark.”
“Then at eight I shall assist at the embarcation;
for if General Washington is to keep me at
such close duty in Brooklyn, I shall need some
hours to attend to my interests in New-York.”
“No doubt,” said the general, dryly, glancing at
Isabel as they descended the steps of the cupola.
On gaining the hall, they met the officer bearing
the flag of truce, who had come to negotiate for
the exchange of a tory officer then prisoner with
the Americans.
During the conversation in relation to this subject,
Miss Ney, as if it had no interest for her, desired
Burton to aid her in making a bouquet, saying
that she wished to send it to her father. Approaching
the windows of the drawing-room, which were
filled with vases of flowers, with his assistance,
though not without unaccountably and waywardly
rejecting many he offered, and making her selections
with much care, she soon made up a garland
of peculiar form and arrangement of colours. Returning
into the hall, she presented it to the British
officer with much grace and a glance of meaning,
which was intelligibly returned by him, inquired
after her father's health, and desired him to present
him with it in token of her affection.
Neither the manner, voice, nor glance were lost on
the vigilant lover, and for the first time it occurred
to him that the suspicions of General Washington
might not be unfounded; and he was strengthened
in this opinion when he hastily ran over in his
mind the character of Isabel, than whom none fitter
sex. He was aware that she had obtained some
important information, but did not know how much
she had gained in the short period of her stay. Isabel,
indeed, had commenced her system of spying
even upon the officer commanding the boats that
came to convey her from “the Kills” to the city;
and by every means in her power, guided by her
remarkable tact and presence of mind, and aided
by numerous unguarded opportunities, she had in
one night and subsequent forenoon obtained almost
all the information which the Earl of Percy would
have deemed necessary.
Familiar with the language of flowers, and observing
the glances of intelligence interchanged between
her and the bearer of the flag of truce, and
the suspicion of her true character having consequently
flashed on his mind, Burton closely observed
the bouquet which the officer held in his
hand, studied the arrangement of its flowers, and
detected at once their artifice. Although he could
not, without exciting suspicion by the closeness of
his observations, interpret their story, he determined
at once to render the plan abortive. He therefore
carelessly approached the window, pulled a `forget-me-not,'
and, returning to Isabel, said gracefully,
“You have forgotten, Miss Ney, to send to your
father a `forget-me-not;' shall I have the honour of
adding it to your nosegay?”
“Oh, no, no!” she said, with quickness, thrown
off her guard, and at once confirming his suspicions.
He had, however, already solicited and obtained
the bouquet from the officer, who could not, without
rudeness, decline resigning it to him; and,
while inserting the flower, he destroyed, unperceived,
their artificial and intelligible arrangement.
In returning it to him again, he encountered the
suspicion. Her equanimity, however, was soon
restored by the fascinating attentions of Burton,
who, after the officer left the room, entirely removed
her suspicions of his knowledge of her secret;
and, as usually is the case after a cloud
raised by a lover darkens a lady's brow, there succeeded
a more brilliant sunshine of smiles than
before.
Although now amply convinced that Isabel was
a spy, he resolved to conceal his suspicions from
her, and remove her at once not only from the scene
of the operations of the army, but, at the same time,
accomplish a purpose of his own. Having, therefore,
assured himself of, and strengthened his power
over, her heart by those insinuating attentions, and
that language of love no one knew better how
to use or adapt to the weaknesses of those around
whose hearts he wished to throw the charms of
passion, he took leave of her; then seeking General
Putnam, who was in the act of mounting his horse
at the door, he at once communicated to him his
suspicions, or, rather, his conviction of the dangerous
character of his guest.
“Strange that Washington should always have
so much more sagacity than other men,” said the
general, who was convinced by the statement made
by his aid. “So long as God preserves him to
lead our armies,” he continued, as if reverting to
other instances of his wisdom, “our cause will
prosper. But what must be done? I have taken
up her gauntlet,” he added, gallantly pointing to the
gage still adorning his breast, “and, with her high
English blood, she will consign us all to ignominy.
Our gallantry and hospitality are at stake, sir.”
“Obtain an order from the commander-in-chief
for her removal to New-Jersey or Kingsbridge until
command the escort and return before you embark.
She will be unable then to communicate with the
British army, and can, therefore, do us no mischief.”
General Putnam looked inquiringly into the face
of his young aiddecamp as he pressed, somewhat
warmly, this plan, and then, with a significant
smile, said, as he got into the saddle,
“I would make oath, Burton, thou art serving
thyself more in this matter than thy country. But
I think it best to take this step you propose. Spare
me in the affair,” he added, laughing, and riding
off, “or she will hack off my spurs as a craven
knight.”
At the expiration of an hour, Burton, who in the
interval had been making preparations for marching
with the escort, which was about to serve a double
purpose, received, through General Putnam, an order
from the commander-in-chief, confirmed by the
president of the Congress, who had not yet left the
city, directing Miss Ney to be conveyed, as a suspicious
and dangerous person, to Kingsbridge, and
there to be strictly watched. Accompanying the
order was a letter addressed to General Mifflin
there commanding, and private instructions from
General Putnam to Burton to take command of the
expedition, which should consist of not more than
six dragoons. Burton undertook the delicate mission
of acquainting Miss Ney with the official order.
He found her on the housetop, surveying
with longing eyes the fleet of her native England.
“I can liken you only to an imprisoned bird, fair
Isabel, looking from the bars of its cage towards
its native woods,” he said, smiling, as he entered
the latticed tower; “but, poor bird! I fear me,”
continued he, with affected commiseration, “the
cruelty of the rebels will shut you up yet closer.”
“How mean you, Burton?” she inquired, laying
aside the telescope, and placing her hand confidingly,
yet with an earnest manner, on his arm;
“there is a mystery in your face which betokens
either good or ill to me, but which I am too unskilled
to read.”
“Here, my Isabel, are lines less mysterious,”
he replied, placing in her hand the order from the
commander-in-chief; then, taking his seat beside
her, while his arm carelessly, and as if unconsciously,
glided round her waist, he watched the
expression of her countenance as, with kindling
eyes, a changing cheek, and scornful lip, she perused
the order.
“Upon the honour of an Englishwoman,” she
said, coolly returning the paper, “this chief of yours
hath little to do to meddle thus with the affairs of a
helpless girl. Truly, your cause must be a noble
one, sir, that its leader can resort to such means to
uphold it. Well, Burton,” she continued, turning
towards him and bitterly smiling, while her eyes
glistened with tears, which the penetrating lover
attributed to their true cause, excitement rather
than innocence, “I yield me your prisoner. But,”
she added, quickly, blushing at an exhibition of
feeling she sought not to suppress, “I trust I
shall not lose you, Burton. I know not how it
is that you have so soon obtained such control
over me! Until I saw you, I never beheld a
man I did not absolutely hate. I know not why,
unless from that perverse nature which is in me,
and makes me differ from every one of my sex.
This morning has shown me,” she continued, with
more softness, and yielding to the slight embrace
in which he held her, “that I am as free to love as
to hate. Now that I fear I am to be separated
from you, perhaps for ever, I will frankly and sincerely
frank—that, if the feelings I entertain for you are
suggested by love, I love you, Burton.”
“So haughty, and confess so much?”
“It is my proud spirit that makes me openly
confess what maidens generally strive to conceal,
albeit love speaks out in every look and motion
as plainly and visibly as a lamp shines out at night.
I am too proud to leave you in doubt for one moment
as to my sentiments. I could not endure
that you should speculate upon my feelings. And,
my dear Burton,” she said, returning his embrace,
“my heart tells me that my love is not unrequited.
Will you not come and cheer my solitude at Kingsbridge?”
“Does the wanderer in a gloomy night wish to
behold the sun?”
“Nay, Burton, use not such expressions. I like
honest, straightforward language. I cannot believe
there is much depth of feeling or of sincerity
in coined compliments.”
“Then every hour I pass not in the field shall
be spent at your feet.”
“Well, that is better. But say that I may see
you at least twice a week, and I shall be resigned
to this unjust and tyrannical order.”
“My beautiful Isabel, for by that endearing
name I must call you, I will see you once a day so
long as you honour Kingsbridge with your presence.
But tell me, Isabel,” he inquired, looking
steadily into her eyes, while a smile of peculiar intelligence
played round his mouth, “is this order
so very unjust?”
“You certainly cannot suspect me, Burton?”
she exclaimed, between surprise and alarm.
“Oh no!” he said, laughing; “but a fair countryman
college, taught me the language of flowers.”
He fixed his dark eyes, as he concluded, full
upon her, with a conscious gaze which she could
not withstand. Encountering his steady look for a
moment, she dropped her eyelids, and, as the scene
in the hall occurred to her, she said reprovingly,
yet forgivingly,
“Can it be, Burton, that I am indebted to you
for this order?”
“Not to my duty as a soldier, Isabel,” he replied,
casting himself at her feet, “but to my deep and
devoted passion as a lover. I detected your correspondence
with the flag of truce, and, as you perceived,
rendered it abortive. Alarmed for your
safety if you should be detected by others in communication
with the enemy, I immediately obtained
from General Washington this order for your removal,
not so much to a place of security, my dear
Isabel, as to a bower of love. Here I could see
you only in the presence of others; there I can see
you daily unobserved. It was to secure to myself
the uninterrupted happiness of your society, rather
than to prevent mischief to our cause, that I sought
this removal. It is my act, and not the chief's. I
alone am guilty; and if love deep and sincere can
plead my cause and procure my pardon, then should
I not now plead in vain.”
The face of the maiden, as he confessed his participation
in this act, became dark and fearfully
passionate, as if she could have struck a dagger
into his bosom. Her eyes gleamed with that fierce
and almost demoniacal light which characterized
the strength of her feelings, giving to her countenance
a fearful beauty; more fearful still from its
exquisite loveliness. But, as he proceeded, the
sterner character of her face changed; and while
into them, a new spirit, such as is wont to beam in
woman's eyes when love pleads to her heart, animated
hers, and with a smile that marked his entire
restoration to favour, she extended her hand. He
seized and pressed it to his lips, then enclosed her
person in his arms.
She blushingly released herself from his embrace
just as the round face of Zacharie made its
appearance in the door. With a countenance in
which arch roguery, sly humour, and mischievous
intelligence were oddly mingled, he beckoned his
master to him with a jerk of his chin.
“I have found out which way the scent lies. A
place called Kip's Cove or bay is where—” here, as
he happened to encounter the dark eye of the lady,
sundry winks supplied the remainder of the sentence,
which, however, ended with, “Four o'clock
precisely—Coenties-slip.”
“Then go and wait my coming.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” said Zacharie, casting a sidelong
glance at the lady as he was disappearing; “if this
master of mine wouldn't make a capital friar, cassock
on or cassock off. He is always confessing
some black eye or other. Well! every man to his
tastes. I like the chink of a dollar, and he likes the
blink of a bright eye, and so we are both suited.”
Thus soliloquizing, he found his way, by a sort
of instinct, to the apartments of the servants, where,
with one eye cocked towards the hall door to watch
his master's approach, and the other squinting at
the maids, black and white, he awaited the appearance
of Burton, entertaining the company in the
meanwhile with many a jibe and joke.
6. CHAPTER VI.
THE DEPARTURES.
As the bell in a neighbouring spire tolled the hour
of two on the afternoon of the day on which the
events related in the last chapter transpired, a small
troop, consisting of six dragoons, trotted across the
lawn in front of the quarters of General Putnam,
and, drawing up at the corner of the street, sat immoveable
in their saddles, as if awaiting the orders
of some one within the mansion. A little way before
them a footman held two horses, one caparisoned
for a lady, the other a noble warhorse in
military harness. In a few moments afterward,
mounted on a nag with a shaggy and uncombed
mane, long whisking tail, short legs, and round
plump body, did Zacharie, arrayed in a sort of uniform,
also gallop round from the stables, and by
dint of beating with his fists and thumping with
his unarmed heels, compel his fierce little horse to
range up along the flank of the dragoons.
“Lo, are ye here, my masters?” he cried, in a
shrill voice and confident tone, when at length
he had brought his horse to stand at an oblique
angle with the grave studs of the troopers, it being
the only mode of proximity he could compel him
to assume; “I thought you'd be so busy stowing
provender 'neath your belt, Simon,” he continued,
addressing one of the troopers, in good corporeal
condition for a soldier in garrison, who seemed to
command the party, “that you'd give your knaves
a plea for loitering when work's to do.”
“So, then! work's to do, ha! younker?” said the
stout soldier, with some alertness; “'twere time the
rust were taken off our blades. They've been idle
full long.”
“Marry have they, stout Simon. You've been
feeding and fatting here till you are now like so
much live pork, fit only to be killed.”
“Art at your jokes, younker,” said the trooper,
laughing with good-humour. “If't come to that,
I'll use the flat o' my broadsword on your back;
its what'll only match that sharp tongue o' thine.”
“The saints a mercy, Simon,” replied the lad, in
affected terror; “if thou makest such arguments
to thy rib's ribs when her tongue plays nimbly in
thine ears, thou hast no need of other work to keep
they blade from rusting. Marry! if all our troopers
had wives like thine, 'twould keep them in practice.
Six so experienced would put a score of the enemy
to flight.”
“Out upon thee, jackanapes! didst ever know a
woman without a tongue?”
“By the pope! have I not. 'Tis as useful to
her as the broadsword to a bold trooper. My
grandam hath a tongue will start fair with a guineakeet
and win the field. 'Twas the song used to
wake me o' mornings, season my porridge, and
sing me to sleep o' nights.”
“Then hast thou come honestly by thy tongue,
boy; but hist! here comes thy master,” he added,
as Burton came to the door, and, after glancing at
the escort, returned into the hall.
“Thou liest, Simon! he is no master of mine.
We are sworn friends. We did each other a good
turn in the northern wars, and so we stick to each
other from sympathy.”
“Thou wearest his livery, and art ever at his
heels.”
“There again thou liest! Look ye! Dost not
know the Congress livery from a master's? Wear
I not the same blue jacket with the yellow braid—
the same lawloop on my shoulders, and the same
spurred boot; ay, am I not mounted all the same
as thou art? Thou art an ignorant ass not to
know thine own comrade! and, look ye,” he added,
unsheathing his hanger, “carry I not arms as well
as thou? Thy wife's finger-nails have blinded thee,
stout Simon.”
“Thou art bravely apparelled, comrade,” said the
trooper, laughing, and glancing down upon the boy,
“and gallantly mounted withal. I ask thy pardon
that I did not observe thee minutely. When next
I come in thy company,” he added, looking at him
through the focus formed by his closed hand, “I'll
bring a microscope lest thou shouldst escape my
vision. But I could swear thou wast not thus
decked out when thou camest to the barracks an
hour ago to call us out.”
“And for once in thy day thou wouldst make oath
to the truth. Dost think a man can be but one
thing, because thou thyself art fit only to straddle
a horse's back, deal blows with thy broadsword,
and move at the word of command, for all the
world like a huge wooden chessman? My wit is
put to better use. I can be private secretary at
home, soldier in the field, companion in the walk,
and in a thousand ways make myself of use, and
turn a shilling into my pocket.”
“A sort of chameleon of the times,” said one of
the other troopers, dryly, with a shrewd physiognomy,
a tall, gaunt frame, and the nose of Bardolph.
“Thou art an overgrown camel, carrying more
liquor in thy belly than brains in thy scull,” retorted
Zacharie to him.
“There thou hast it, Mack, close home,” cried another,
laughing; and then turning, he said, “Zacharie,
thou dost mean that thou art now a robber,
now a saint; serving God or the devil, as suits thy
present convenience.”
“It hath never yet suited thy convenience, Joe
Carbine, to be but the one, and that a devil-server.
When thou art a saint, Mack's nose will turn pale
with wonder. But hush up thy garrulous jaws;
here comes thy master, if not mine,” he quickly
added, as General Putnam came to the door, lightly
sustaining on his arm the elegant figure of Isabel
Ney. Burton soon followed them, and, ordering
the troop to ride forward, mounted his horse while
General Putnam assisted Isabel into her saddle.
“I have, then, your full pardon for my inhospitality,
my dear Miss Ney?” he said, taking leave of her.
“You have, sir,” she answered, with a smile;
and then added, glancing archly at her glove, which
still adorned the breast of the gallant officer, “in
token of which I recall my gage.”
“Not so, Miss Ney,” he replied, courteously;
“that smile shall be sufficient token. This graceful
gauntlet I beg leave to retain as a memento of the
fair combatant who so bravely flung it into the lists.”
“You had best present it to your chief,” she
said, in a laughing tone, in which a slight vein of
sarcasm was just perceptible, “in memorial of his
arrest of the challenger.”
She then extended her hand to her late host, who
with formal courtesy pressed his lips to the taper
fingers, and cantered away. Burton, after giving
some orders to Zacharie, waved an adieu to the
general in reply to some half-heard pleasantry in
relation to black eyes and toryism; and, galloping
after Isabel, the party was soon out of sight.
Zacharie, who had been left behind, followed
spurs to his nag, he dashed down a narrow alley
which led in the direction of Queen-street. After
a break-neck ride up hill and down hill, for this section
of the city was at that time uneven, he arrived
at the entrance of the square, on the northern side of
which stood the quarters of General Washington,
and turned abruptly into the lane where he had
formerly held a brief interview with Burton. Dismounting,
he fastened his horse to a tree that
stood at the corner of the lane, and placing himself
behind it so that he could, without observation, command
the whole front of the mansion, he continued
to gaze steadily towards the edifice, occasionally
uttering an exclamation of impatience. He had
waited, however, but a quarter of an hour, when a
heavily-built coach, drawn by a pair of large bay
horses and driven by a black coachman, rumbled
through the gate which led to the stables, and, passing
round the house, drew up before it. A black
footman descended from behind and opened the carriage
door as General Washington and his lady, accompanied
by two ladies and a young officer, came
forth from the house. Zacharie beheld the last
three get into the coach, the general and his lady
take leave of them and re-enter the house, and the
carriage turn down a road to the east leading to
Crown Point, now called Coenties-slip.
When the top of the carriage had disappeared
behind the intervening hill, Zacharie remounted
his pony, and, making a detour so as to elude the
observation of the inmates at headquarters, came
into the road behind the coach about half a mile
beyond. He followed slowly at a distance, along
a dusty road running within a few rods of the East
River, and bordered by magnificent elms and oaks
into a grassy lane a few yards in extent, which
terminated at the water's edge, where the youthful
spy saw the arms and waving feathers of a party
of American soldiers. Leaving his horse by a
fence, he crossed a narrow enclosure, and, undiscovered,
gained a clump of bushes in an angle of the
hedge close to the party. Insinuating his flexible
form among the limbs and foliage, he at length
stood within a few feet of them, and within the
hearing of their voices.
Four soldiers, with muskets and fixed bayonets,
were seated in a boat with an awning over the
stern, and, their arms lying beside them, had taken
oars in their hands. The coachman sat upon his
box, his glistening eyes rolling about in wonder,
which was the more lively as he dared not express
it by any other organ; and the footman stood with
his hand upon the door of the coach from which the
ladies and young officer had just descended. One
of the ladies, who possessed a tall and fine person,
and whom Zacharie recognised as a Mrs. Stuyvesant,
who had been two or three days on a visit at
General Washington's, was supporting to the boat
the other female, who was of a slighter figure and
closely veiled, and appeared to be deeply agitated.
“Are you all ready, Holton?” asked the officer.
“Ay, ay, sir, for the last hour; 'tis now full late
to go and return by dark.”
“'Tis only to Kip's Bay. We can run down
in half an hour.”
When the party was seated the young officer
removed his cloak, exposing by the act a sword
and brace of pistols, and placed it upon the seat for
the comfort of his fair passengers, particularly the
youngest, who received the largest share, and around
whom he folded it with tender assiduity, as if the
limbs. He then commanded the amphibious guard
to give way to their oars.
Handling them something as they would grasp
a musket to charge bayonet, and dropping them
into the water in such a fashion as to besprinkle
the party with a shower of salt water, and feathering
them, or, as sailors term it, “catching crabs” at
every alternate stroke, as if they sought to inflict
further ablution, the soldiers pulled out from the
land, and rowed along parallel with it until they
turned the first point. Then hoisting a sail, they
held their course northwardly, still hugging the
shore, until they disappeared from the eyes of
Zacharie behind a projecting ledge.
“Now, by my two patrons, Love and War,” he
said, making his way out of the bushes, not without
divers scratches and punctures from the thorns and
branches, “if our six troopers, with myself to match
that younker, leaving the Frère Edward to take care
o' the petticoats, do not make these longlegged soldiers
yield their charge, and on their marrow-bones
cry peccavi, as Father Duc says, before we've done
with them, then will I forfeit my manhood. Come,
thou shaggy imp,” he added, as he regained his steed,
“put thy four legs in motion if thou lovest mischief
like thy master. Dost thou not know thou wast
given me by the frère, because thou art so near akin
to me? Now paddle thy ducklegs, and make the
road smoke behind us.”
Thus speaking, Zacharie stuck his spurs into the
flanks of his nag, who, after flinging his heels into
the air and making a demivolte across the road by
way of reply, scrambled forward, snorting and tossing
his head: in a little while he left the main road,
and, entering a bridle-path, pursued his way rapidly
across wide fields to the northwest. A short time
miles from its southern junction with Broadway,
and, following the wellbeaten road, rode forward
without slackening his pace, occasionally catching
glimpses of the distant sailboat, which slowly kept
its way along close to the land.
He had ridden about half an hour, when, descrying
from a hill the approach of a company of infantry,
he cautiously turned to the right into a
wood to conceal himself until they passed by. On
gaining this shelter, and canterning round an abrupt
ridge covered with trees, he came suddenly
upon a small detachment of soldiers, seated around
their open knapsacks eating their evening meal.
Before he could retreat his bridle was seized by
the one nearest, and his business demanded in no
hospitable tone.
“I'm a trooper in the York dragoons, and despatched
to meet my detachment, who are now on
their way back from Kingsbridge.”
“A pretty cock and bull story,” cried the soldier
who had arrested him; “you a trooper!” added he,
with a laugh of derision; “I could put you and
your horse in my knapsack, with ten day's provender,
and not feel you.”
“Ay,” said another, holding up the breastbone
of a chicken which he had just denuded, “I could
make a better dragoon of this, set it astride my
finger.”
“A fine route you've taken to Kingsbridge, my
hop-o'-my-thumb,” growled a third, taking a canteen
from his mouth, and drying his lips with his sleeve;
“does Kingsbridge lie across East River that you
take this course, coming down upon us peaceable
soldiers as if the devil kicked you on end?”
“He's a foreigner! hear his base accent!” continued
a fourth.
“He's a Hessian,” roared a fifth; “twig his
Dutch build.”
“If he dodges,” cried a sixth, aiming a well-picked
bone at Zacharie's head, “he's a tory, and
shall be hung up on the highest tree.”
Zacharie dodged as the missile hummed past his
left ear, which it narrowly missed. A shout of laughter,
and the cries of a “tory, a tory—hang him—
noose him up,” resounded from the whole party.
Zacharie had turned from one to the other of
his antagonists as they severally spoke, with a fierce
look that only increased the merriment which a
good subject, as they thought, and a full stomach
gave rise to. But at this last insult he drew a
pistol from his belt, where he carried a brace, his
saddle not being furnished with holsters, and, suddenly
striking his foot into the face of the soldier
who held his rein, at the same time crying out,
“There is a bone for you,” he aimed and fired at
the man who had tested his politics by flinging
the bone at his head; then, quicker than thought,
turning his horse, he galloped round the ridge by
the way he had approached. Before, however, he
could get out of the reach of their muskets, two
or three shots, fired by some of the soldiers who
had seized their arms, whizzed by him, one of the
balls passing through his cap. Instead of entering
the road, lest he should encounter the infantry which
were yet some distance off, he rode along the skirts
of the wood, and, being mounted, soon distanced
all his pursuers, who were on foot, and who, after
firing a few more ineffectual shots, gave up the
pursuit. One of their number, however, had got
possession of a horse, probably the fruit of a forage;
for the continental troops were often as dangerous
enemies to private property, either of whig
or tory, in the neighbourhood of their encampment,
with a sword in his hand, with which he would one
moment point energetically towards the object of
pursuit, and the next belabour his steed, came on,
shouting and extravagantly gesticulating, swearing
huge oaths, and loudly calling on the fugitive to
stop. Zacharie only laughed, mocked his mode of
riding, and, turning round, fired his remaining pistol
at him in defiance.
The chase continued for half a mile, when
Zacharie, finding that he was the best mounted,
and seeing that his pursuer bore no firearms,
slackened his pace; then, throwing the reins on
his horse's neck, he proceeded, with great coolness,
to reload his pistol. Having accomplished
this, he looked back upon his antagonist, and, after
measuring him steadily for a moment, turned short
to the right, leaped a narrow brook, and, favoured
by the impetus of his pursuer, was the next moment
in his rear.
“Now yield thee, base villain!” he cried, stopping
his horse, and levelling his pistol at the soldier
as he reined up, on finding himself, by this skilful
manœuvre, the pursued instead of the pursuer.
“That will I, and gladly, Zacharie; for such
thou art, or else it be thy ghost. By my beard!
thou hast given me a sweat for't, lad.”
“And who art thou, that swearest by thy beard,
and callest me Zacharie, as if thou wert my pot
companion? By the pope! I should know that
face o' thine, though the varlet that I think it belongs
to were better at the tail of a plough than
where men use sharp steel and burn gunpowder.”
“Who, then, dost take me for, good Zacharie?”
“If I saw that foxy face 'neath a bonnet blue,
and a capote over thy short carcass, and that carcass
in the Vale of Chaudiere, I should call thee
part of valour called discretion, that thou, in thy
soldier's casque and with steel in thy hand, canst
not be him I mean.” As he spoke a sly expression
of humour, as if he now recognised the soldier,
twinkled in his gray eyes.
“By my beard! I wish I were 'neath hood and
capote, and once more safe in my cot; I am that
same Jacques, good Zacharie, whom thou knowest.
Turn away that pistolet from my body, and let me
grasp the hand o' thee. 'Tis a long time since
I've grasped a countryman's hand.”
“Then here's a welcome to thee, Jacques,” said
the lad, replacing his pistol in his holsters, and riding
to the side of his old acquaintance, who grasped
both of his hands and shook them with good-will.
“Gad's me,” he said, his voice thick with delight,
“but 'tis a lucky hour this! I doan't know whether
to cry or laugh;” and, making a noise something
between both, he again heartily shook his countryman's
hand. “Lawk! who'd ha' thought of seeing
you here! though they did tell me you were
gone to the wars.”
“Who, in the name of Beelzebub, rather, would
have thought of finding the ploughman Jacques,
who had not the heart to kill a mouse, armed to the
teeth, mounted on a fierce charger, pursuing an
armed trooper, and ready to do battle to the death?”
“Noa, Zacharie, I know'd thee when thou didst
ride so scamprageously in among us, and would
ha' spoke to thee, but could not get time to put in
my word with all the speaking; and so, when you
kicked up the scrimmage, and was off as quick as
you came, I jumps on this horse, which belonged to
nobody in particular, but is a sort of a camp follower,
and gave chase. Noa, not I! I didn't think
o' making battle.”
“I'll be sworn you didn't, Jacques,” said the boy,
laughing; “thou hast too much discretion left, I
will answer for't, to risk thy life on the chances of
a humming bullet or the prick of a sword.”
“Thanks to the holy saints, that have I, valiant
Zacharie! an' if I were once well out o' this fighting
work, and home again, if I'm caught ayont the
sound o' the old convent bell again, may the old
one flay me.”
“Then 'tis not thine own valiancy that hath impelled
thee to the wars, Jacques?”
“By my beard, no! It got abroad, after the
army went through the valley, that I guided a
monk, who proved to be no monk, but a spy, Zacharie,”
Jacques added, in a low tone, as if revealing
an important item of intelligence; “and they told
me I would be hung for't. Think of that, Zacharie!
for a man to have his weasand twisted round
like a barndoor fowl's;” he here mechanically
sought the threatened precincts. “Hugh! 'tis
awful to think on. Well, I began to tremble in my
shoes; but there was nobody I feared so much as
Luc Giles. Two nights after Arnold went past, I
was in neighbour Bourné's cowpen—canst guess
what I was there for, Zach?” he asked, with a
grave look, that was intended for a sly one.
“How in the devil should I tell? Go on, and
be less familiar with your nicknames.”
“Well, Master Zacharie, an it please you, I was
helping Netty Bourné milk the kine—coz, see thou,
Netty and I have a—thou knowst—a little sort of
a secret together—a—the priest—thou knowst—”
“Keep the priest to his cell, and you to your
tale,” said Zacharie, impatiently.
“Well, I heard Luc Giles going by with a score
more, and I heard him say he was for the wars,
but that he would hang me up first; and I found
and Netty let me hide in the stall, and covered me
over with hay, and there I laid all night.”
“By the pope! then wert thou, like an ass as
thou art, in thy proper place. If it had been the
spy-monk in thy case, he would not have let a maiden
tuck him up in the hay, and leave him there to
go to her lone pillow. But what can we expect of
an ass but that he will bray? Go on, for time presses.
What became of thee the next morning?”
“Netty came and pulled the hay from off o' me
in the morning, and, with a sweet voice, bid me get
up, for my enemy had fled; and when I crawled
out and shook myself, who dost think I saw standing
there beside her?”
“'Tis more than I can tell, unless one of the cows
waiting for thee to milk her.”
“By my beard! the first thing I put eyes on
was big Luc Giles, looking fiercely at me from over
her shoulder with his great black eyes; and, giving
one yell, I fell down on my face as if I were a dead
man.”
“Ha! ha! then Netty had really no better lodging
for thee than a stall!”
“By my beard! it may be so. She looked very
pleasant, methought, when she awoke me. Well,
Luc Giles told me, in a terrible voice, while Netty
laughed, no doubt, to give me courage, that I had
done treason, and deserved to be hung; but that,
if I would follow him to the wars, my life should
be spared.”
“So thou hadst choice of dying by ball or rope?”
“By my beard! did I, and, like a brave soldier,
I chose the ball. So I joined the troop and marched
to Quebec.”
“Wert there when the assault was made, most
brave Jacques?”
“That was I, and did the enemy much damage.”
“By thy beard! an I believed thee, if I would
not damage thy brainpan for thee! Tell me truly,
where wast thou during the siege?”
“I hid myself in a stout house to 'scape the
balls that flew somewhat thickly.”
“I will answer for that. Where is Luc Giles?”
“That was the blessing of that day, good Master
Zacharie. He was killed.”
“Dost know how?”
“'Twas said a young, ill-famed devil, with a
forked tail and cloven hoof, rose out of the ground
and whisked him up into the air, and then pitched
him down head foremost among the rocks in the
thick o' the fight.”
“Thou liest there,” said the lad, striking him in
the face. “'Twas I myself who tumbled him
down the ramparts to save my officer's life.”
“If I were not afeard o' them pistolets o' thine,”
said Jacques, hastily, “I would strike thee back
this blow; but one o' them might kill me, whereas
thy fist only hurts a little, it being small.”
“Thou art a philosopher, Jacques, and I am
sorry for the blow. But how camest thou here.”
“When I knew big Luc Giles was dead—oh,
'twas an awful sight to see 'um piled up so thick!—
I went, after a while, with great General Carleton
to Ticonderoga, and then, to 'scape a fight the next
day, went with another comrade over to the colony
troop. We then marched down to York, where
we've been most two weeks.”
“Your company is stationed near by, no doubt.
What is the detachment I came upon doing?”
“We belong to the troops quartered at Harlem,
and are on our way down to town to escort up some
ammunition; but, oh Marie! I wish I could get
rid o' these wars!”
“Desert, desert!”
“Then I should be hanged if caught.”
“But thou'lt be shot if thou stayest.”
“I know it. But, if I must die, why, then, I'll die
like a valiant soldier,” answered Jacques, stoutly.
“Bravely said, Jacques. So thou dost fight
from cowardice, like a thousand others. By the
pope! if every soldier's valiancy were sifted,
'twould be found to be four parts out o' five of
sheer cowardice. The better coward the better
soldier, so you give him no chance to run away.
Believe me, Jacques, thou art in a fair way of promotion.”
“The saints grant it may be in the ranks, and
not by the neck. But how camest thou here, and
whither ride you so bravely?”
“How I came hither is none of thy business;
but, if thou wilt have tale for tale, wait my leisure.
I am going on brave matters; if thou choosest,
come with me, and I will show thee the man who
caused thee to turn soldier against thy nature.”
“Art thou on the right side, Zacharie?”
“That am I.”
“'Twill be no deserting, then, to go with thee,
Master Zacharie?”
“By the pope! no. But forward, and we'll discuss
that point.”
The two Canadians rode forward at good speed—
Jacques, delighted to fall in with a fellow-countryman,
and one whom he had before seen, giving way
to an emotion which all men who have visited distant
countries have at times experienced; Zacharie,
pleased at finding one over whom he could exercise
an influence congenial with his domineering spirit,
secretly determining to seduce him from his corps,
and attach him in some sort to his person.
7. CHAPTER VII.
THE RESCUE.
The declining sun was flinging his beams aslant
hill and forest, and gilding many a distant sail on
the river and Sound, when the two Canadians descended
a slight eminence overlooking an inlet
of the East River called Kip's Bay, a few miles
above New-York. Their way wound along a bridle-path,
which conducted them through a natural
grove of some extent, and across a narrow tract of
pasture-land, when they came to the remains of
an old forest that extended quite to the beach, at
this spot overhung by a high precipitous bank and
one or two isolated rocks of great size.
Near one of these rocks was a platform or wharf
for small boats, one end of which rested upon the
beach, from which a winding and romantic path led
to a tasteful villa situated on a wooded eminence
not far from the shore. It was behind this rock,
and concealed from the landing-place, that Zacharie
and his companion at length stopped. After
surveying the place with great attention, climbing
to the top of the rock and looking off into the river,
the former descended, saying,
“All is right. Now, if they can only get here
before the boat, which is a good half mile below,
then we have them, Jacques. Come with me on
yonder hill, and await my return, and move foot nor
finger more than if thou wert a part of this rock.
If, by-and-by, you see any fighting going on, look
thou, deal blows on the right side.”
Thus conveying his commands, Zacharie put
hill. Riding forward for a quarter of an hour
through a thick wood, he came all at once upon a
party of dragoons, one of the number leading a
horse caparisoned for a female equestrian, spurring
at the top of their speed towards him. Drawing
to one side of the path to avoid collision, he muttered,
half aloud,
“There he comes, at a rate that only a battle or
a lady would send him.”
As the foremost passed him he whistled shrilly,
when Burton, for it was him, reined up, glanced towards
him, then was instantly at his side, and demanding
his intelligence.
This was conveyed in a few words. Bidding
Zacharie then to keep by his bridle, he commanded
the troop to ride forward.
“Said you the boat was but a mile off ten minutes
since?”
“Ay, sir; we'll be there in time. Is the other
prisoner safe?”
“If your curiosity had a pocket, it would soon be
filled in reward for thy services. I did not bargain
with you for double pay.”
“Nor I with thee for double service.”
“Well, then, prime minister of mine, if 'twill
please you to learn so much, know that the lady
whom I have escorted is safe beneath the roof of
General Mifflin, at Kingsbridge, there to abide as a
guest, under some restrictions, until General Washington
shall make further disposition of her.”
“A brave lady! Dost think they'll hang her?”
“The graces forbid, at least for the present.”
“I think I'd like thee to marry her.”
“What put that into your wise head?”
“From the cut of her eye, I think she would be
thy match.”
“A charitable wish, truly; but what dost think
of her?”
“I think, if possible, she has more of the devil in
her than thyself. But yonder comes our prize.”
At this moment they came in view of the East
River; and, lifting his eyes, Burton beheld a little
boat, its single white sail relieved against the dark
water on which it was suspended, standing slowly
and steadily towards the little flotilla on the beach.
He halted the troop, and, placing a pocket telescope
to his eye, closely surveyed the approaching
party for a few moments. Then closing it, he
turned to his men and briefly addressed them:
“In yonder boat are two ladies, one of whom it
is my intention to seize and place under temporary
arrest. There are four soldiers and a young officer
forming their escort; these I leave you to do with,
but, on your lives, shed no blood! Holton, secure
your horses here, then conduct four of your men
along the woods, and draw them up behind that
rock which commands the ascent from the water
to yonder villa. Permit the ladies and officer to
pass by you unmolested; then surprise the guard as
they are securing the boat, disarm them, and throw
their muskets into the water. You and your comrade,
Mack, may accompany me. Forward!”
“You will find a comrade of mine behind the
rock a little cracked in the topworks,” said Zacharie;
“see that you harm him not.”
Holton and his men, under the protection of the
trees and irregularities of the descent, gained their
appointed station, where they found Jacques, who
sat his horse immoveable and without speaking,
evidently in the extremity of bodily terror, to find
himself so suddenly surrounded by so many fierce-looking
warriors. Placing their hands on their pistols,
the party anxiously awaited the approach of
the boat.
“Is't another petticoat spy, Holton?” asked one,
whom Zacharie had formerly designated as Joe
Carbine.
“That I can't tell; though 'tis like to be. These
women-folks are sharpsighted enough to be spies,
if that's all.”
“They look like American soldiers in the boat,
and I could swear to the uniform of the officer. I
don't like fighting against my own countrymen.”
“There's no fighting, boy; only disarming some
half dozen of the enemy,” replied another.
“They may be in disguise,” said Holton. “All
we have to do is to obey orders. If there's any
mistake, the blame goes to shoulders that can bear
it as well as their epaulettes.”
With this conclusive argument of men under
authority, the dragoons were satisfied; and in
breathless silence, and with clear consciences, they
awaited the approach of the barge.
Burton and his two troopers, accompanied by
Zacharie, who led the spare horse, continued, without
dismounting, to the right, and rode along the
inland inclination of the hill towards a hollow at
the summit of the pass, equally hidden from the
villa and the shore.
Here they dismounted. Burton now ordered
Zacharie to hold the horses in readiness to mount
suddenly; and bidding one of the dragoons to present
a pistol to the officer's breast when he should
gain the head of the pass, and make him prisoner,
and directing the other to prevent, without violence,
the lady from giving alarm, he cautiously approached
the verge of the hill and looked down into the
quiet cove.
The boat was now within a few yards of the
shore. Twilight had already rendered objects indistinct,
yet he could see the young officer's marked
recognised to be Eugenie, and a pang of jealousy
shot through his breast.
The party disembarked, and the officer, giving
all his assistance to the younger lady, preceded by
the matron, ascended the path towards the house.
The soldiers forming the escort, after securing the
boat, were preparing to resume their muskets and
follow, when they were surrounded and disarmed
before they had time to offer the least resistance;
and, to prevent escape, a dragoon stood by each
with a cocked pistol levelled at his breast.
This attack was so skilfully and silently executed,
that the officer a moment afterward gained the
summit of the pass without having been aware of
it. The elderly lady was a little in advance; and, as
the pair approached the ambuscade, Burton could
hear their voices in conversation.
“Say that you will permit me, Mademoiselle de
Lisle, to call on you; at least, say that my presence
will not be intrusive,” said the officer, tenderly.
“I have nothing to say, sir,” she replied, in her
low and peculiarly sweet tones; “I know not whether
I am a prisoner, or am still to have my own will?”
“Will you bid me despair, Eugenie?”
“I can bid you do nothing. Do not distress me
in this hour of my unhappiness. Nothing but the
most undeniable proof of his faithlessness should
ever induce me to forget him, or replace his image
by another.”
“Bless you, dearest Eugenie, for those words,”
exclaimed Burton, stepping boldly from his concealment,
and gracefully advancing towards her.
Eugenie shrieked with mingled terror and delight.
The officer drew his sword, which was struck
from his grasp by the ready weapon of Burton, and
at the same instant was seized by the dragoons.
neck, from the ground, the lover placed her in the
saddle, and whispered a word or two of hope and
encouragement, mingled with promises and protestations,
in her ear; then mounting his own horse,
and commanding his dragoons to release their prisoners,
he took the reins of Eugenie's pony and rode
swiftly along the ridge of the hill.
“Leave your prisoners and to horse,” he shouted,
as he came in sight of the men on the beach.
The dragoons obeyed, and, rapidly ascending the
hill, were soon in the saddle. Elated by their success,
the whole party moved forward at a round
trot through the wood, and, gaining the main road,
galloped rapidly towards the city. They passed
several parties of sentinels and outposts of both foot
and horse; but, answering every challenge correctly,
they gained the northern suburb of the city about
eight o'clock without interruption.
During the ride Eugenie had not spoken, and only
acknowledged the words of love breathed into her
ear by returning the pressure of his hand. When
they had got within a mile of the city, they halted
at the head of a crossroad leading into Broadway.
Here Burton dismissed his troop to their quarters,
and, when the last faint echo of their footsteps had
died away, he galloped up the crossroad, followed
by Zacharie, at the top of his speed. Gaining
Broadway, he rode a few rods southwardly, and
then suddenly turned aside into the secluded and
rural lane leading to the cottage from which he
had departed the preceding night. They had ridden
but half way through it when he, in a low
voice, commanded Zacharie to go forward alone
and inform the inmate of the cottage that her female
companion would shortly be with her, and
then to wait his arrival at the gate. Zacharie dashed
at the gate, he entered, and meeting Caroline
in one of the avenues of the front yard, he
delivered his message; then retracing his steps,
and seating himself sideways upon his pony beneath
the elm, he began to whistle a lively tune, to
which he kicked his heels against his pony's sides
by way of accompaniment.
“My dearest Eugenie,” said Burton, passing his
arm around her waist, and gently drawing her to
his embrace, “forgive me if I have offended you by
this rescue. I could not give you up without one
effort to recover you; without hearing from your
own lips my doom. I have taken you from the
protection of the friends Washington has assigned
to you, to plead my own cause at your feet. It is
the cause of sincere love—of deep, pure, and uncontrollable
passion. But why need I tell you this?
Your heart can say, better than any language my
tongue can utter, how dearly I love you. Tell me,
Eugenie, that you do not hate me.”
“Hate you, Edward! God and the sweet Mary
know I cannot hate you! But if you are as you
have been represented to me, I fear—I tremble
when I think how much I love you!”
“Best and loveliest of creatures! Then you do
not detest me! These people have not poisoned
my dear Eugenie's mind. You still love and believe
me true? If you desire it, I will here solemnly
appeal to Heaven in attestation of my sincerity.”
“No, no, Edward; I should no sooner believe
you; I know that you are the same; but—oh, there
are many things weighing heavily on my heart.
Hold, Edward,” she said, suddenly reining in her
horse, which, during this conversation, had been
walking on slowly, “I cannot sacrifice my maidenly
delicacy even to my love. Whither are you
protection? Hold, sir! I will go no farther,”
she cried, with energy, as he attempted,
though gently, to urge her horse forward.
“Alas, Eugenie!” he said, in a tone of bitter
reproach, “do you so soon believe that I would
betray you? By your past confidence! by our
long-plighted love! by our vows registered in
heaven! believe me, and trust to my honour.”
“I do, I do! But tell me whither I am led? I
am in a maze—in a mystery. I have been led by
the will of others the last two days as if I were a
mere child or incapable of reflection, which may,
indeed, be true, for what but madness could have
driven me to take the rash step I have done?
Why did I not before view it in the light I now
do? Edward, if you love me, restore me, before
you leave your saddle, either to the protection of
General Washington or my Canadian friends.”
“Eugenie,” he said, in tones of sadness, “I will
do as you bid me if you will still urge your wish
when you learn the home that I have chosen for
you. Listen to me patiently for a moment, and I
will then be guided by your decision. After the
attack on Quebec, an American officer, mortally
wounded in the fight, called me to his side, and
with his dying breath bequeathed his widowed wife
and only daughter to my sympathy and protection.
The mother is recently deceased. The daughter,
I fear, will soon follow her. She needs a companion
in her lonely hours. I have told her that I
would seek one for her. When I left General
Washington's last night, I called and spoke to her
of you. I promised to bring you to see her today,
though I did not anticipate the events that
have since occurred. She was delighted at the
prospect, and her pale features lighted up with
love her, Eugenie, and I know that she will love
you; for none can see and not love you! Will you
be her solace? the angel of her pillow? Will you
become her companion, and soften the pangs of the
departing spirit? or will you turn a deaf ear to the
eloquent pleadings of suffering, and bid me tell her
that she must die unblessed by the presence and
sympathy of one of her own sex?”
“Edward, Edward! forgive me! How could
I be so ungenerous as to suspect you for a moment
of a dishonourable action? But it was the language
of my friends.”
“Friends, Eugenie? Those whom you knew
but yesterday, and who are my enemies! Will
you give me up for these? I cannot, nay, I will
not believe it.”
“No, I will not, Edward. I am convinced of
my error. Let us ride forward. I am ready to
follow whither you will, to atone for my unjust
suspicions. You will forgive me, won't you?”
“A thousand times, my dear Eugenie!” he exclaimed,
embracing her; “whatever words of thine
may give offence, are at the same time atoned for
by the sweet accents of the voice that utters them.
This embrace shall atone for all, and bind our love
the stronger.”
In a few moments they arrived at the gate and
alighted. Burton, leaving the horses with Zacharie,
passed through the cottage gate with Eugenie
leaning tremblingly on his arm, and in silence proceeded
to the house, which lay in the same quiet
repose as on the previous night, with its single light
twinkling through the blinds. Eugenie was charmed
with the air of everything; and, pressing his arm,
she whispered,
“How happy could I be here with you, Edward!”
“That happiness shall be yours, dear Eugenie,”
he replied, as they gained the portico; “I will go
in, if you will permit me to leave you a moment,
and inform Miss Germaine of your presence, lest,
in her delicate health, she should be surprised by
your sudden entrance.”
Leaving Eugenie on the portico agitated by mingled
emotions, Burton entered without knocking,
and, going unannounced into the parlour, the door
of which was half open, the next moment he held
Caroline in his arms.
“My dear Caroline,” he said, playfully placing
his hand on her lips to check her exclamation of
joy, “you look better to-night. I have come to
apprize you of the arrival of your young companion.
You have only to see her to love her.”
“You are very kind, Edward, and kind yourself
to visit me once more. Is she near? Can I
go and meet her?”
“I left her on the portico to announce her presence,
lest your nerves should receive a shock from
the sudden appearance of a stranger. You will
meet her with sisterly affection?”
“Oh, Edward, how can guilt embrace innocence?
Oh, do not frown upon me! I will not breathe it
in her pure ears. I have too much need of sympathy
not to love those who will befriend me.
Bid her come in. But,” she added, falteringly, as
if she feared to ask, scarcely, the while, sustaining
her drooping form on her tottering limbs, “is she
quite alone? is no one with her?”
“No one, Caroline,” he said, with a surprised
air of inquiry; “whom do you expect?”
“Oh, nobody; not any one,” she said, clasping
you have so soon forgotten!”
“Caroline, for God's sake calm yourself,” he
cried, vexed and alarmed, flying to support her to
a sofa; “I said not that I would bring the clergyman
to-night.”
“Go, Edward; leave me,” she said, faintly;
“my heart is broken!” and she threw herself with
an utter abandonment of manner upon the sofa.
Chagrined at this incident, he turned from her,
muttering within his closed lips, “Some demon
seems to have plotted to ruin me! Ha! a happy
thought! This scene,” he added, crossing the
room to the door, “if well managed, is all in my
favour. I shall escape a double eclaircissement,
which I have trembled to think on. 'Twere better
Eugenie should see her thus; 'twill clinch my purpose
firmer. Eugenie,” he said, in tones attuned to
the ear of love, going to the portico, “the lady is
more indisposed than I imagined. Your presence
is providential. Come in and see if you would
have done well to have turned from such a scene!”
While he was speaking he conducted Eugenie
through the hall into the parlour. Caroline, whom
he expected to find nearly insensible on the sofa,
to his surprise, advanced towards them with graceful
dignity, and with a smile which her tearful eye
and heaving bosom told was called up with an extraordinary
mental effort.
“My dear Miss de Lisle,” she said, affectionately
taking her hand, while she seemed struck
with her beauty, “I know, in part, your romantic
sory. You are welcome! but 'tis but a poor reception
an invalid may give the young and lovely.
I have long wished for a friend and companion, but
such as you are I never hoped for. I already feel
that I shall love you.”
Eugenie, surprised at her fragile loveliness, and
affected by her sad voice and manner, not only took
the hand Caroline extended towards her, but, with
the ingenuousness of her artless character, threw
her arms about her neck, and, kissing her, assured
her of her love and sympathy. The sensitive Caroline,
touched by this exhibition of kindness and
sympathy from one of her own sex, from whose society
she had so long been estranged, gave way to
a paroxysm of tears in her arms. At length she
became calmer, and Eugenie supporting her to a
sofa, sat by her, and clasped her hand in hers, and
for a moment the two lovely girls gazed on each
other's features as if prompted by a mutual impulse
to peruse the lineaments of one another's faces.
This tacit correspondence drew their hearts closer,
and in a few minutes both—Eugenie all gayety
and humour, and anxious to divert the mind of the
interesting invalid; Caroline happy, grateful, and
confiding—were deeply engaged in conversation;
for two young creatures so long estranged from intercourse
with persons of their sex, age, or tastes,
thus meeting together under such circumstances,
had much to say, a thousand concealed thoughts
to express, and innumerable ideas to interchange,
before they could connect the broken chain of social
intercourse so long severed.
The dark and guilty being, the controller of the
destinies of the lovely victim whom his arts had so
successfully placed in his power, with folded arms
and anxious brow, paced the room in silence. Occasionally
he glanced towards the sofa, but his
thoughts were buried in schemes of conquest, alas!
such conquests as degrade humanity. Unmoved
by the gentle sufferings of Caroline, whose only
crime was her misplaced love, who was dying without
a murmur at the feet of her destroyer, petitioning
ready even to plead his innocence at the bar of final
justice; unmoved by the innocence, the beauty, the
youth, or the unprotected state of Eugenie (all
which should plead to the heart of the deliberate
seducer, but all which are only incentives to urge
him to his purpose), as, unconscious of the snare
closing around her, she sought, in the benevolence
of her unsuspecting nature, to cheer the drooping
spirits of the invalid, who every moment wound
closer around her heart's affections.
We have, in the foregoing paragraph, struck a
vein for the moralist. But it is not the purpose of
the romancer to load his pages with the reflections
which naturally arise in contemplating the moral
actions of his characters, but rather to leave them
to be deduced by the contemplative reader. It is
his province only to relate events as they transpire,
and not to speculate upon them: to prepare food
for the mind, but not to lay down rules for the regulation
of the mental appetite: to direct all events
to one great moral end, but not to point out, as they
occur, the component parts which go to make up
the aggregate.
The situation in which he had now placed himself
gave Burton, with all his tact and presence of
mind, no little uneasiness. Guided by the strength
of his passion, which turned a deaf ear to reason,
he called in the aid of reflection only when too
late to extricate him from his embarrassments.
“If,” thought he, as he paced the little parlour
that he had made the theatre of so extraordinary
a scene as that before his eyes, “if Caroline
should, in a moment of weakness and confidence,
betray to Eugenie her attitude in relation to myself—if
Eugenie should speak of her love and our
pledged affection—in either case I am ruined.
only because it happens to be based on another!
I have a double game to play now, that calls for all
my skill. Do I fear the world's censure? No.
I would show the world these angelic creatures
as a court beauty sports her diamonds, and enjoy
the envy of men. He who would openly censure
me for deceiving the fair innocents, would, in his
heart, curse my good fortune, and wish himself the
lucky cavalier. Publicity I court. It makes me,
among men, the envied possessor of untold loveliness,
which I feel I do not half possess when hiding
it, miserlike, from the public gaze. Among
women, too, it gives me the greater power, for
with the dear creatures 'tis `to him that hath it
shall be given.' The surest way of success with
them is to approach their shrines with our brows
adorned with laurels of conquest. What I alone
fear is, that exposure at this time will kill the one
and frighten the other away, and then I am fooled
for my pains. Am I yet sure of success? Eugenie
shows spirit. I may be foiled. Well, there's
matrimony! I feel some compunctions at taking
advantage of my dear Eugenie, whom, if I ever
have truly loved, I love. But I cannot resist temptation.
Fortune, if she loves innocence, should
not leave it in my path. I cannot marry every
beauty who pleases my eye; I had best turn
pacha at once. Here I have three, all equally
claimants to my affections; a charming triad!
By my honour! I could not tell which to choose
in the noose of matrimony, although poor Caroline
has the best claims; but the very strength
and nature of her claim makes it all the weaker.
I have broken the vessel, it is true, but it does not,
therefore, follow that I should content myself with
the pieces. Caroline, in losing her own self-respect,
mistress shall never become my wife. Isabel Ney
will never do! I should need with her the philosophy
of a Socrates. If either, it shall be Eugenie;
and, if I cannot possess her without, she shall be
mine in vinculo matrimonii. Isabel Ney I will
leave to fortune and to circumstances, and at present
think only of Eugenie, blooming in all her virgin
loveliness. Aid me, Cupid, and I will build a
temple to thee! You appear much better, Miss
Germaine,” he said, suddenly stopping in his walk
and approaching her with an air of respectful sympathy;
“I trust the lively society of Miss de Lisle
will renovate your spirits, and in a few days you
will look more like the rose than the lily, of which
you are now the emblem.”
Caroline looked up to him with a melancholy
smile, but made no reply, while Eugenie said gayly,
“I will answer for it that you will not know her
in a week's time. See what a fine glow is now in
her cheek!”
Caroline sighed deeply, and Burton turned away
his head, but instantly replied, in a lively tone, as if
he sought to conceal his passion for Eugenie from
Caroline, and, at the same time, prevent the latter
from being hurt by coldness,
“I leave her in your charge, fair novice. It is
now after eight o'clock, and I have duties which
will demand my presence before nine. I bid you
both good-night, and will see you as early to-morrow
as I can leave the field.”
Without further ceremony he hastily left the
room and house. While he received his horse
from Zacharie, the latter said, in a low tone,
“There has been a horseman skulking about
here ever since you went through the gate.”
“Did you recognise him or learn his business?”
“No; he looked like an officer, and rode in sight
to yonder tree three times. I would have followed
him if I could have left the horses. The last time
I saw him, which was not three minutes ago, I
hailed him and cocked my pistol, when he put
spurs and vanished up the lane.”
“Then we will give chase. I find that I am
watched.”
Drawing a pistol from his holsters, followed by
Zacharie, he rapidly rode off in the direction taken
by the fugitive. They had nearly reached the
outlet in Broadway, when a horseman suddenly
emerged from the roadside, galloped along ahead
of them, turned into Broadway, and disappeared
round the corner. Following him at the top of his
speed, leaving Zacharie far behind urging onward
his less fleet steed, Burton saw the form of the
horseman just disappearing around the corner of
the cross street which led into the Boston road.
Desirous of ascertaining who had acted the spy
upon his movements, he spurred forward at a fearful
risk of life and limb, and, turning the corner,
came full upon the stranger, who had wheeled his
horse and was standing facing him, firm and still,
directly in the middle of the narrow lane. Unable
to check the speed of his horse, Burton had time
to guide him so as to avoid the full shock which
the fugitive horseman seemed to have prepared for
him by the position he had assumed. The horses,
however, came together with great violence; and
Burton, discharging his pistol at random as he encountered
the spy, received at the same moment a
pass through his belt and clothes, which was only
turned aside from his body by the interposition of
his sword-hilt; while the guard of the well-directed
hurled him bodily to the ground.
When Zacharie came up, he found his master
with difficulty remounting his horse, but his antagonist
was nowhere to be seen. Burton rode slowly
to his quarters, wondering at the strange event
which had just transpired, and fatiguing his mind in
conjectures as to the identity of the stranger who
had not only been a spy upon him, but had also
decidedly manifested a hostile purpose: nor could
he quite defend his own fiery pursuit of one who
had not crossed his path, and at whom he had
discharged his pistol without certain provocation.
This was done, however, rather on the impulse of
surprise at finding the fugitive drawn up to receive
him in so singular a manner than from any deliberate
intention.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE DISCOVERY.
When the departing footsteps of Burton, as he
traversed the avenue to the gate, no longer fell on
her ears, a shade of melancholy passed over Caroline's
features; tears, which she in vain sought
to suppress, silently filled her eyes; and, sighing
deeply, she leaned her head on her hand, and was
for some time lost in thought. Eugenie, after
striving unsuccessfully to make her more cheerful,
gently took her arm and led her to the portico, to
allure her from her desponding meditations by the
beauty of the night. The foliage was gently stirred
by the light south wind, and the stars sprinkled
leaned on the arm of her lovely companion.
“Dear Caroline, if I may call you by so endearing
a term on so brief a friendship,” said Eugenie,
“give not away to this melancholy of spirits. I
have come here to cheer you, and I am resolved
to restore you to health,” she playfully added.
“'Tis wrong to pine so, and let the rose fade in
your cheek, and the lustre of your eyes be dimmed.
You will lose all your charms, and then how will
you get a lover? These lovers, like moths flitting
about a lamp, will hover round none but a bright
eye.”
Caroline shuddered, and clung nervously to her
arm, but made no reply.
“Nay, sweet Caroline,” she continued, kissing
her, “I meant not to touch so sensitive a chord; I
see, by that sigh, thou knowst what 'tis to love,”
and Eugenie herself sighed unconsciously, and was
for a moment silent.
“And does not that sigh, my gentle Eugenie,
tell a tale of love?” said Caroline, lifting her eyes
to her face, and striving to read its lineaments in
the faint starlight. “Come, Eugenie, tell me the
story of your young heart's adventures; 'twill serve
to beguile the time, and, perhaps, dissipate this
weary load of sadness which oppresses me. Walk
with me through this shady avenue, the dark
depths of which tempt to seclusion and invite to
tales of love. There is a little arbour beyond
where I love to sit when alone, and look out upon
the placid river, meditate upon the evening skies,
and fancy all bright heaven beyond them; or pass
the weary hours in reading some favourite volume.
Come with me, Eugenie, and I will listen well,
for your silence tells me you have a sweet story to
sooth my spirits with.”
“I cannot, dear Caroline, refuse to make you
happy; but my tale will be one of a silly passion,
which I dare not speak of to myself. Urge me not.”
“Then give me the history of your escape from
a Canadian convent, and which I have only partly
heard. There is a romance in all associated with
a nun that delights my imagination. If you will
not make me a confidant of your heart's secrets,
then give me the story of your adventures. I think
I could listen to it, told in your sweet accents, my
Eugenie, until the stars faded into morning.”
Caroline, while she spoke, drew her companion
to the steps of the portico, and together they descended
into the secluded walk, overhung with the
laurel, althea, and arborvitæ, that, meeting above,
formed a natural cloister, through which, during
the day, the sun fell upon the gravelled floor beneath
in a thousand flecks of golden light. Now
it was darkly shaded and silent, save that a single
bird, disturbed by their intruding footsteps, fluttered
higher among the branches, in the thick security
of which it had made his hiding-place for the night.
They slowly and in silence walked along the avenue,
impressed with the deep repose of a place
where heavenly contemplation seemed to have taken
up her abode.
“Poor bird, no harm shall come nigh you,” said
Caroline, as another inhabitant of those leafy
abodes flew twittering away among the shrubbery.
“Happy things! How often have I wished of
late that I had the wings of a bird, that I might
fly away and be at rest. But, Eugenie, I shall infuse
my own melancholy into your spirits if I talk
thus. Here is my little bower!” she added, as
they arrived at the termination of the avenue near
the water, the rippling flow of which they could distinctly
hear, and stood before the entrance of a summerhouse
“I wish it were moonlight, Eugenie,” she added,
with some liveliness of manner, “that you might
see what a lovely spot I have chosen for my hermitage.
When the full moon pierces the interstices
of the lattice and foliage, you would think the
floor strewn with silvery spangles. The light then
comes down like the scattered brilliancy of a thousand
stars; into so many gems does the thickly-woven
foliage break its disk! Why are you so
silent, Eugenie?”
“I was thinking, Caroline, what a happy effect
the exchange of the close room for this lovely garden,
the pleasant air and sweet seclusion, has upon
your spirits. Your voice is richly toned with returning
health and happiness. I cannot recognise
the plaintive invalid of a few moments since with
the animated being now before me. I would I
knew the secret of such a cure!”
“Alas, Eugenie! 'tis all illusion,” said Caroline,
in a melancholy tone. “I have passed many
pleasant hours in this bower; it is many days since
I have been here, and the sight of it revives the
past, for me no longer to return! Alas, it should
not have affected me thus, for bitter, bitter indeed
are the associations connected with it. Its memory
is full of mingled sweet and bitterness. But I
may not pour my griefs into your bosom. Oh, no.
It would kill me to see your eyes turned upon me
in coldness and scorn. My heart has its own
griefs locked up from every eye but that of Heaven.
There it may safely pour forth its misery!
But forgive me, Eugenie. I will no more sadden
your gentle and sympathizing bosom, which heaves
as if it shared the full burden of my woes.”
“My dear Caroline,” said Eugenie, embracing
her, “willingly would I share them. Unburden
half the load to pour your sorrows into another's
ear.”
“Tempt me not!” she cried, with energy, releasing
herself from her embrace; “oh, tempt me not!
Thy scorn—his withering eye! Oh God!—no,
no, never! I will hold it closely in my bosom until
my heart burst with the pressure of its weight.
Eugenie, my dear, my finely-strung nerves are delicate,
and will not bear much; the lightest breath
will ring harsh tones from their tremulous chords.”
“Dear Caroline, sooth your agitation. If you
will listen, I will tell you a tale of love; I will refuse
you nothing, only calm your feelings. Sit
here by my side, and I will relate how a silly nun
let a cavalier run away with her, and how, when
he went to the wars, she was foolish enough to run
after him. Sit by me, and, while I speak, you can
watch the river flowing past so deep and stilly, with
the stars reflected in its bosom like another heaven.”
“No, no! not there, not there!” she exclaimed,
suddenly sinking into the opposite seat; and then
added, faintly, “he sat' there when last we met here!
No, Eugenie, no,” she said, with assumed playfulness,
“you must yield to my wilfulness. I am
given to strange humours of late. I will lean on
your shoulder thus while you are speaking, and
gaze on your dark eyes if this poor light will let
me. I love dark eyes, Eugenie. They tell of
happy hearts and a sunny life. Blue eyes seem
to me like the heavens; at times beautiful and
clear, and the emblem of celestial peace, but oftener
darkened and varied by clouds and tempests,
smiling and weeping by turns.”
“Your eyes are emblems alone of April skies,
my dear Caroline.”
“Indeed they have been of late, Eugenie. But
rain. Now tell me your tale; I shall listen with a
child's wonder.”
“Shall it be of love or escape?”
“'Twill be of both if you are the heroine, I think.”
Eugenie laughed, and then sighed, and then began
her story. She assumed at first a lively and
humorous strain, which, coloured by her feelings
as they were strengthened by the associations her
narrative called up, insensibly became more natural,
and, finally, energetic.
“There was, then, Caroline, once upon a time, a
certain orphan nun, who, nevertheless, did not like
to be a nun. She scandalized the graver sisters
by her profane and worldly desires, made false
stitches in her embroidery, broke her tambour-frame
regularly thrice a day, and invented tales to
vex the confessor.”
“And, pray, what was the name of this pretty
specimen of mischief?”
“Her name concerns not the tale,” said the
maiden, demurely. “At length it chanced a cavalier
came to the convent disguised as a priest, and,
imposing on the reverend father, took the confessional
chair.”
“No doubt this cavalier knew there was one of
the penitents who `would not be a nun,' that he
adopted this stratagem.”
“Not so. He was escaping in disguise, being
in an enemy's country, and sought the convent's
hospitality. It was by mere accident she met him.
When,” continued Eugenie, more seriously, “the
nun went to confess, she told him in her confession
how she pined for the free world; and so, when
he had heard her story, he all at once came out of
the confessional and kneeled before her, a handsome
youth, most beautiful to behold.”
“And I dare say the nun screamed, and then
threw herself into his arms, and they both ran off
together.”
“That same day,” continued Eugenie, smiling,
“the nun, trusting all to the honour of the youthful
cavalier, left the convent with him in disguise.”
“Poor silly nun,” said Caroline, sighing; “I hope
she rued not this trust!”
“The saints forefend!” replied Eugenie; “the
youth was as honourable as he was comely and
bold.”
“'Twere a lovely sight, this bold youth and fair
maiden! Whither went they?”
“'Tis a long story. They rode all night, and
the next day reached Quebec. She was received
into the governor's castle, and afterward freed her
cavalier from prison, into which the governor, who
was his country's enemy, had thrown him.”
“How freed she him, this bold maiden?”
“By deceiving the guard, and becoming, for an
hour, prisoner in his stead.”
“Ha! I think the cavalier who would purchase
his liberty at such a price were worthy to live his life
out within a prison's walls. I dare say she loved
him after this, nevertheless; for it is hard to keep
anger against one we've loved,” she said, sadly.
“Censure not the youth, fair Caroline,” said Eugenie,
with animation; “he knew no meanness.
I made him fly! I made his obedience the test of
his love!”
“Thou! I half guessed thou wert the nun.”
“Thou hast guessed rightly, Caroline. Censure
him not, for you will blame one who is your
friend.”
“Nay, I know you are my best, my dearest
friend,” she said, embracing her, misapplying a
term which Eugenie meant for another; “forgive
your—for such I must now call him—what became
of your lover?”
“He went far away to the wars, for he was a
soldier, and was absent many months.”
“And did not my Eugenie hear from him all the
while? and what became of the sweet nun in his
absence?”
“He sent no tidings of his safety; and she, after
waiting with great patience, accompanied some
friends who were journeying in the neighbourhood
of his army, if perchance she might hear of or even
see him.”
“Then thou wert much in love, Eugenie! That
is a genuine sigh. Proceed; I honour you for your
true love; but you were led by it into great danger,
should you find your lover and he not prove
true.”
“I did find him, Caroline. I met him in the presence
of his chief, who looked with suspicion on my
love, and would have misconstrued, to my shame,
my devotion to Edward.”
“Eugenie!” almost shrieked Caroline, grasping
her arm. “Oh God! But no, no, it could not be!
I will not injure him by a half-formed thought of
suspicion. Go on! mind me not! It was a sudden
pang; I am better now go—go—go on, Eugenie.”
“I fainted for joy on recognising him, and, when
I recovered, he was gone, and I was in the presence
of strangers.”
“And then,” said Caroline, with assumed gayety,
“you no doubt fainted again, like a proper heroine.”
“No, I did not. I was kept prisoner as if I were
a mere child or a criminal, while much was said to
me to turn the current of my affections.”
“And you were not false, Eugenie?”
“No. Though much was told me false of him,
of which, if the ninth part were true, I would tear
his image from my heart, if it took life with it, and
trample it thus beneath my feet,” she said, energetically
stamping upon the ground. “But I did not
believe them, and only loved him the better that I
found him beset with enemies.”
“You would not have been a woman if you had
done otherwise. How escaped you?”
“The next day I was conveyed under escort to
a villa not far off, there to wait, as the chief said,
to see if my lover proved worthy of me; if not, he
wished to bestow my hand, as if chance had given
him the right to do so, on a youth of his household.”
“What, another lover?”
“No, no, Caroline. He was of a noble presence
and courteous, but I cared not for him.
Nevertheless, he was very kind, and defended him
I loved; and for one word he spoke in defence of
him whom all conspired to injure, I could have
loved him.”
“So fickle, Eugenie? This chief, then, would
not have had much ado to bestow your hand where
he wished if your lover had been out of the way
or you had proved him false?”
“If I thought you serious, Caroline, I should be
hurt. Yet this youth were worthy a highborn
maiden's love; but I think not of him, unless I
win him to give him to you, Caroline.”
“No, Eugenie! Proceed. Where was your
lover, pray, when this rival was in the way?”
“After we landed, for we went in a boat to the
villa, our guard was set upon by an ambuscade,
and the next moment I was in the arms of the
leader.”
“Who was—”
“Edward.”
“Edward! It is very strange! And all this
happened in the far Canadas? I doubt not 'tis a
land of romance. You are a lovely heroine, Eugenie.
But proceed.”
“It was not in the Canadas; but I will tell you
by-and-by. It was twilight. I was lifted to a saddle,
and while my protector, with his guard, were
kept passive, Edward seized the reins of my horse,
and, spurring his own, urged the animals forward.
We were soon joined by the whole troop, and galloped
along the road and through the forests with
the noise of thunder, the spurs, chains, and armour
ringing bravely. Both pleased and terrified,
I still enjoyed my situation, and, catching the spirit
of the occasion, almost wished I had been a soldier.”
“I verily believed there was an ambitious and
restless spirit beneath those soft downcast eyes of
thine. Didst have a chance of proving thy courage,
my cavalier?” said Caroline, with increased
gayety and with playful irony. “I dare say, if
your lover had not obeyed you at that time, you
would have challenged him to single combat.
Well, my military nun, what happened next? I
would Burton were here to listen to your tale. He
could take lessons in valour from it. What adventure
next?”
“After half an hour's riding the guards were
dismissed, and I was left alone with Edward and
his servant. We then rode forward, and at length,
on his turning from the highway, I demanded of
him a knowledge of his intentions, saying that, as
an honourable maiden, I should not ride the country
with any cavalier by night, love him never so
much.”
“And I dare say,” said Caroline, her spirits in a
fine flow, “you threatened him with present chastisement
if he declined replying to your very proper
question.”
“Not so; he told me he was to lead me where I
could perform a deed of charity; and so affectingly
appealed to my heart, that I could not refuse him.”
“'Twas to go with him to church, this deed of
charity, I am well assured, Eugenie. And so you
went?”
“No, I did not,” replied Eugenie, in the same
tone of raillery. “It was to be the companion of a
young female friend, an invalid, whom he was
bound to protect, from friendship for her father,
who fell in the northern wars.”
“And this invalid!” said Caroline, her suspicions
reawakened, gasping for breath, and pressing
Eugenie's arm until she cried out with pain.
“My dear Caroline! restrain your feelings!
What has moved you?” exclaimed Eugenie, in terror.
“The invalid! who? her name? speak—for—
oh God! I fear, I fear—speak!”
Eugenie in vain strove to sooth her.
“Will you not answer?” she cried, rising up and
grasping her shoulders with a firm hold; “was it
not me, Caroline Germaine?”
“It was, Caroline; but be calm—”
“And was not thy lover's name Edward?”
“Indeed, Caroline, release me! You torture
me! I cannot endure this grasp!”
“Answer, Eugenie de Lisle, if it were thy last
word! Was it not Edward?”
“Yes, Caroline.”
“Edward Burton!” she whispered, through her
closed lips, with increased energy.
“Yes.”
A convulsive shudder passed over her frame,
uttering a piercing shriek, fell lifeless to the ground.
Eugenie echoed the thrilling cry; and, after attempting
in vain to raise her, flew with the speed
of a fawn along the avenues, and, rushing into the
dwelling, called on the servants for aid. She had
scarcely disappeared in the windings of the walk
when a man made his way through the hedge beside
the arbour, and hastily entered it. With an
exclamation of sympathy he lifted Caroline from
the ground, and, without hesitation, traversed the
avenue along which, as he leaped the hedge, he had
seen Eugenie flying. At the foot of the portico
he met her, accompanied by the terrified servants
bearing lights. On seeing the stranger she started
back, and suppressed a cry that rose to her lips;
then advancing towards him, she exclaimed, in a
tone of joyful surprise,
“Colonel Arden! thank God! Bear her into
the house. Is she—is she? oh, I dare not know
the truth!”
“My dear Miss de Lisle,” said the stranger, “be
not distressed. She has only fainted. Preserve
your presence of mind; it is all called for now.”
While he was speaking he bore Caroline into
the parlour, and, by Eugenie's direction, gently
placed his lovely burden upon the sofa. Then,
leaving her to the more experienced care of Eugenie
and the servants, he walked into the hall, which
was lighted by a lamp in a glass globe suspended
from the ceiling. The light fell upon his fine intellectual
forehead as he paced to and fro beneath
it. His eyes were cast into deep shadow, which,
however, did not conceal their fierce glow; his
lip was compressed with determination, and indignation
gave a stern expression to his fine features.
As he walked, his step rang as if the whole
his breast. His reflections were evidently of a
dark and violent character. One moment he would
strike the hilt of his sword vehemently, and half
draw it from the scabbard; then, as if changing
a sudden purpose, he thrust it back again with a
loud clang. Now he would suddenly pause in
his walk, and listen to catch some token of returning
life to the frame of the gentle girl; or, tapping
softly at the door, learn from the lips of Eugenie
herself, who, pale and distressed, answered his light
summons, the state of her patient. At last Eugenie
came into the hall, and informed him, as he
hastened to meet her, that she slept.
“Pray Heaven,” he said, solemnly, “that it may
be the sleep of eternity.”
“The holy saints forbid!” replied Eugenie, with
surprise.
“Why,” he said, “need we wish the unfortunate
to live, when life is purchased with tears?
Why recall the wretched and broken-hearted from
the threshold of the grave, that opens its welcome
bosom to receive the weary body to its embrace?
Why call back to sin and sorrow the spirit
which is spreading its wings for its heavenward
flight?”
There is but one step from mutual sympathy,
excited by a cause that appeals to the sensibilities,
to confidence. The low-toned communion of the
sick-chamber, where a youth and maiden chance
to be the watchers, goes farther to awaken love in
their hearts than a tête-à-tête in a leafy bower, or
a walk beneath the pale moon. The heart is at
this time softened by sympathy with suffering; the
feelings are then gentle; benevolence is active;
and kind words and tenderness characterize the
intercourse of the speakers. This gentle tone of
human nature with present suffering, insensibly
takes a warmer character, and love in the guise of
our best feelings steals insensibly into the heart.
There is no better prescription to make a youth
and a maiden love one another than to enlist them
in the same act of charity; no contiguity so dangerous,
if that policy which governs those matches
that are not made in heaven would have them, in
reference to each other, strangers to this passion.
After a few moments' conversation in relation to
Caroline, in those low tones which are as equally
the accents of love as of sympathy, confidence
seemed insensibly, and at once, to be established
between the two, and they conversed together like
proved friends. Their voices were attuned to the
atmosphere of suffering; but Arden's had the full
pathos of love; low, deep, and touching; which,
if it at all startled her, Eugenie easily referred to
the remote cause, the invalid. Her heart was
opened by the distress of Caroline. Its most generous
impulses were uppermost; while gratitude
for the sympathy of Arden, and the relief she
experienced by his presence, rendered her heart,
as it would that of any woman so situated, peculiarly
susceptible of impression. This, however,
Arden sought to make only by look and accent,
with the most persevering, but, at the same time,
the most delicate approaches; determining to press
his suit at the moment she should become convinced
of the faithlessness of her first lover, for
then the heart yields most readily to the introduction
of a second passion; for it is sympathy, to
which love is akin, it then seeks. Having overheard
the conversation between her and Caroline,
he had the advantage of knowing that she did not
regard him with indifference; and he flattered himself
from her heart, his own happiness would be secured.
He therefore determined, both from a
principle of justice and personal interest, which
almost always mingles with our best acts, to expose,
with as little abruptness as possible, his dark
designs, and especially to show her that Caroline
had been his victim.
A slight movement in the room as he came
to this conclusion called Eugenie from the hall;
and turning from the door, he with a thoughtful
brow paced up and down the saloon, thinking how
he should introduce the painful subject with the
most delicacy.
9. CHAPTER IX.
THE RIVALS.
Arden at length drew near the door, and called
to Eugenie, who seemed to have forgotten his
presence by the length of her absence. She came
with a book in her hand, as if she had been reading
by the pillow of her patient, while he, with all a
lover's ardour, believed her to be thinking only of
himself, and impatient to return to him. He was,
however, not easily moved by her apparent indifference;
but, in his own heart, commended that
sense of maidenly reserve her conduct had exhibited.
“Does your patient sleep?” he softly inquired,
his voice aimed unconsciously to her heart, his
words to her ear.
“Sweetly. She passed from that fearful paroxysm
without a word into a deep sleep. She
breathes unequally; but 'tis sleep, and I hope the
most favourable result on awakening. But tell me,
sir, how you came to appear so opportunely, as if
you had fallen from the skies?”
“I followed you to this house, after the dragoons
were pleased to restore me to liberty, for the
purpose of reclaiming my stolen charge; was near
when this young lady shrieked, and entered the arbour
just after your left it.”
“How fortunate! Alone, I should not have
known what to do in such an emergency.”
“I feel happy that Miss de Lisle can, under any
circumstances, feel that my presence is agreeable,”
he said, tenderly.
“Major Arden, I have before forbidden such language,”
she said, firmly, and with dignity; “the
betrothed maiden should be as sacred as she who
claims the protection due to a bride.”
“Forgive me, Eugenie,” he said, quickly; and
then, in an altered and grave tone, he continued,
“Can you indeed be ignorant of the true cause of
this lady's illness?”
She started at the marked emphasis of his voice
and manner, and looked at him inquiringly for a
moment, while her face changed alternately from
the deepest crimson to the deadliest paleness, and
her whole frame became agitated by some sudden
and violent emotion. Then, with a wild eye and
a blanched cheek, she laid her hand upon his arm,
and would have spoken, but her voice failed her.
Words could not have been more expressive than
her looks. Her face betrayed a full consciousness
of the dreadful import of his question. Yet she
was far from knowing the extent of her lover's
faithlessness. Her heart only told her that Caroline
agitated her bosom. But the dregs of the bitter
cup prepared for her she had yet to drink.
“Tell me, Major Arden, for the sake of Heaven!
tell me if my dreadful suspicions are true!”
“Forgive my abruptness; but my duty to myself
as a gentleman, to you as a deceived and suffering
women, compels me to divulge the truth, Miss de
Lisle. Burton is a villain, and—”
“Speak on! I can bear all! Tell me the
worst!” she demanded, with a kindling eye and
compressed lip.
“Your own purity of heart and ignorance of evil
alone prevented you from knowing, half an hour
since, that the name you pronounced in the arbour,
and which I overheard, is the key to Caroline Germaine's
suffering.”
“Merciful God! how blind I am! I see, I
know it all,” she whispered hoarsely to herself;
then added impetuously, “there is more to tell!
I see it in your troubled eyes! Keep nothing
back.”
“It is necessary, my dear Miss de Lisle, that
you should know the worst. Caroline Germaine
is the victim of foul wrong.”
The indignant countenance with which the proud
and insulted maiden heard this disclosure changed,
as he spoke the last word, to an expression of agony
mingled with deep shame. Her brow and bosom
were suffused with a flush of crimson, which
suddenly disappeared again, leaving her face as
colourless as Parian marble, while her young bosom
heaved as if it would burst the bodice that
confined it. Arden repented his sudden disclosure,
and, fearing she was about to fall, extended his arm
to support her, when she waved him back.
“No, no,” she exclaimed, with a stern eye and
indignation will bear me up in this hour.”
She pressed her hand upon her forehead as if
she would recall the past, while, in the energy of her
feelings, the blood sprung to her lip, which she had
pierced in the intensity of her agony.
“Colonel Arden,” she suddenly exclaimed, unclasping
her hands, “prove this false, and Heaven
will reward you.”
“Alas! it is too, too true,” he answered, with a
melancholy firmness. “It has long been known
to the world.”
After a moment's silent agony, she suddenly
changed her energetic manner, and laid her hand
entreatingly upon his shoulder, while her eyes were
full with the eloquence that pleads to the feelings:
“Oh, tell me that this is not so! Tell me you
have been over hasty in your words! Say you
doubt! Oh, give me one ray of hope!” and her
eyes dwelt on his as if they would read in them
something to assure her that her lover was not so
false; that she herself was not so deeply degraded.
But, alas! there was nothing to assure her;
nothing to arrest the judgment that had gone
forth against the idol of her soul. He tenderly
took her hand, and the moisture of manly sensibility
bedewed his eyes as they rested on the face of
the sweet sufferer. She continued for a moment
longer to watch his countenance, as if still some
faint gleam of hope might linger there; and then, in
the desolation and abandonment of her heart, the
insulted but high-spirited maiden burst into tears,
dropped her head upon the shoulder of the noble
youth, and wept like a very child. This act was
not the impulse of the heart, but the prompting of
nature; the tendril, torn by the rude blast from
its stalk, clinging around the nearest trunk for support.
for sympathy and support to the nobler being
man, the natural protector of her weakness.
This tribute to her insulted feelings was but momentary.
Her heart was relieved of its pressure
by a few passionate showers of tears; and raising
her head, and meeting the tender, gratified glance
of his eyes, she blushed and shrank from him, although
with manly delicacy he had refrained from
wounding her sensibilities at such a moment by offering
to support her drooping form in his arms.
She felt his delicacy, and acknowledged it by a
look of gratitude, that amply rewarded his self-denial.
This forbearance, when she subsequently
reflected how she had abandoned herself in the
grief of the moment, and how he had respected the
sacredness of her injured feelings, went far to give
him a firmer hold upon her heart.
“Colonel Arden,” she said, frankly extending her
hand, “I know you speak the truth. I thank you
for your bitter words. You have saved me from a
fearful delusion; alas! scattered to the winds my
heart's treasures. Poor Caroline! I can now
read his dark purposes by the light you have given
me, and to which my silly heart would have blinded
my eyes, perhaps, till too late. Arden,” she said,
suddenly, “I must leave this house immediately.
Will you protect me to my friends?”
“Cheerfully. The doors of Mrs. Washington's
mansion are ever open to you.”
“Thank the Virgin! there is, indeed, a home
for me! Dear lady! Why did I not believe her?
But Caroline, poor, dear, injured Caroline! She
is dying of a broken heart. Alas, I have killed
her. Indeed, it were enough to kill her. If pride
and scorn did not come to my relief, I should soon
not—I cannot believe her criminal.”
“Nor is she. She is the innocent victim of deliberate
guilt. But—”
“We must not desert her; no, never. She has
doubly need of my presence.”
“Excellent girl, who cannot forget the sufferings
of others in your own. Caroline shall also be removed.”
“Alas, I fear 'twill be only to her grave. Ha!
I hear the sound of horses' feet! If it should be
him! Colonel Arden, fly! your life is not safe.”
As she spoke the rapid fall of a horse's hoofs
was heard along the lane bordering the garden,
and the next moment ceased at the gate, which
opened so quickly afterward that the rider must
have thrown himself from his horse in his haste,
and left him loose. A quick, determined tread
traversed the avenue and approached the portico,
on the threshold of which, in the hall door, stood
Arden, calmly awaiting the appearance of the hurrying
intruder.
“It is he!” whispered Eugenie, with a strange,
determined calmness in the tones of her voice.
“I anticipated this,” said Arden, placing his hand
habitually on his sword.
“For God's sake be not rash! Let your own
coolness counteract his fire. But my presence
should at least check him.”
While she spake the form of Burton issued from
the walk, and the next moment he stood before them
on the topmost step of the portico, his dark eye
flashing fire and his lip trembling with emotion.
He checked the fierce words that rose to his lips
as he beheld Eugenie standing pale and unmoved in
the hall; and, as a placid scene succeeds, at the will
of the scene-shifter, the frowning tempest, so the
was followed by a bland and courteous smile, the
more striking from its contrast with the dark expression
that had preceded it; and in his most
courteous manner, although his voice was marked
by a slight shade of irony, he said,
“Colonel Arden, I wish you a good-evening.
We have met before to-night, I believe.”
“We have, sir,” replied Arden, sternly, “and will
meet again. You are a villain, sir.”
“Ha! That to me?” cried Burton, striking his
sword-hilt and half unsheathing his weapon. “The
presence of woman, which you have sought, alone
protects you. But there will be a time—”
“None better than the present to prove your
baseness,” said Colonel Arden, in a determined
tone. “Dare you confess your dark purpose, sir,
in enticing this artless creature?” he continued,
glancing at Eugenie, who gazed fixedly upon the
features of Burton with a face in which love struggled
with indignation. “Dare you confess, sir?”
“Colonel Arden, you presume too much,” said
Burton, with the steady voice of settled hate, “nor
shall I permit you to catechise me.”
“I have one more question to put to you, sir. Is
Caroline Germaine, who, six months ago, was the
loveliest of maidens, and whose wrong rumour hath
blown abroad—I ask you, sir, is she your wedded
wife?”
“Colonel Arden,” cried Burton, who stood chafing
like a chained tiger on the portico, “the presence
of a legion of angels should not prevent me
from chastising you on the spot. So, sir, draw
and defend yourself! and, if it please you,” he added,
with a smile that caused Eugenie to shudder,
at the same time unsheathing his sword, “there
stands the reward of the victor. Strike for Eugenie
and beauty.”
“Hold, insulter,” cried Eugenie, extending her
arm between their crossed blades; “degraded as
you have made its owner, pollute not that name!
The charm is broken. You are unmasked, and I
behold him whom I believed an angel of light a
dark, polluted demon!”
“Eugenie!”
“Address me not. I know all. From this moment
I am nothing to thee nor thou to me! I have
been long dreaming on a precipice, and Heaven
has awakened me just as I am ready to fall.”
“Eugenie! I could not have believed this,” he
said, in astonishment, but in a voice of tender reproach
that, had her proof of his guilt been less
palpable, would have touched her heart; “is this
the love you have borne for me?”
“Love? Yes, I did love you, Edward,” she said,
in a changed voice; “but,” she added, firmly, “I
love you no longer. I should hate,” she continued,
with scorn, “did I not pity you.”
She turned from him as she spoke with a withering
curl on her beautiful lip; but it was to hide
tears that stole into her eyes in this struggle between
her heart and head.
“I am, I find, somewhat indebted to you, Colonel
Arden,” said Burton, with concentrated anger,
but speaking slowly and calmly. “If you think
my discarded mistress worth fighting for, I will resume
my interrupted pastime with you, and so
wipe out the score.”
As he spoke he set upon Arden with great fury,
who, skilfully parrying his fierce attacks, acted
only on the defensive. Eugenie did not hear Burton's
offensive allusion, a noise in the adjoining
room drawing her at the moment to the door of
the parlour; but, before she could ascertain the
back again.
The rapid motion of their swords, as they glanced
in the light, for the moment bewildered her eyes,
unused to such fierce scenes; but, guided by the
impulse that instinctively impels us to attempt to
prevent the effusion of blood in a hasty broil, she
prepared to rush forward, that, by the interposition
of her own person, she might stay their weapons.
A large Indian shawl which Caroline had
thrown aside caught her eye at the instant, and,
seizing it, she threw it, ere the third pass, upon
their crossed blades. In the act she approached
so near Burton that, prompted by some sudden impulse,
he seized her firmly around the waist. Disengaging
his sword at the same time, he said exultingly
to Arden, whose weapon was still entangled
in the shawl,
“Now fight for her if thou wilt have her!”
Eugenie neither shrieked nor struggled, but with
that presence of mind which had hitherto so successfully
aided her, she no sooner felt his arm
around her, and saw his sword brandished to defend
her person, than she drew from her bosom the
stiletto he had formerly given her, and said, in a
low, fearfully distinct voice, that alone reached his
ear,
“Release me, or you die by my hand.”
He instinctively obeyed. The door of the parlour
at this instant opened, and Caroline advanced
steadily and directly towards him. Her face was
haggard and pale; whiter than the snowy robe she
wore. She seemed rather a dweller of the tombs
than an habitant of earth; a pale spectre, which
even death had not robbed of its youthful loveliness.
All were struck dumb at her sudden appearance
and the unearthly solemnity of her countenance.
Burton, who leaned over his sword and gazed at
her in silent horror, without the power to avert his
eyes from an object he shuddered to look upon.
Fixing on him a cold, steadfast look, she said, in
sepulchral tones,
“Edward Burton, my cup is filled. My heart
is broken.”
The solemn earnestness of her manner affected
them all. Arden looked on her with deep sympathy,
and then cast a glance of resentment at him
who had destroyed so fair a fabric of humanity.
Eugenie was deeply affected. Burton alone stood
unmoved, except by surprise and impatience. He
was about to speak, when she arrested his words.
“Edward, hush! I would no more hear that
voice either in kindness or in anger. May Heaven
forgive, even as I forgive you.”
She then came close to him, and looked in his
face for a moment like one about to take a long
leave of a dear object, her face softening as she
gazed. “Yes, yes,” she said, “they are there! the
same lineaments which are graven on the tablet
of my heart, never, never to be effaced. God in
Heaven bless you, Edward! I cannot curse you!”
Then clasping her hands together and raising her
eyes heavenward, she gently sunk down upon her
knees as if in silent prayer. Eugenie, who had
continued by her side, passed her arm around her
and received her head upon her bosom. The spirit
of the injured sufferer, released without a sigh, took
its flight to that region where there is neither sorrow
nor wrong, and where justice is meted by Him
who sees not as man sees; and who, with unerring
discrimination and wisdom, shall judge between the
tempter and the tempted.
For a few moments the group stood in the portico
its individual members: Eugenie supporting the
lifeless body, herself nearly as lifeless; Arden,
with his arms folded and his eye glancing from the
face of the dead victim to the face of the guilty seducer,
his chest heaving with hardly suppressed
emotion. He himself stood leaning on his sword,
gazing upon her with a cool, steady eye and unmoved
lip; his emotion, if he felt any, effectually
disguised from the closest scrutiny. He appeared
rather to be thoughtfully contemplating a specimen
of statuary that had unexpectedly fallen across his
path, than gazing upon the wreck of a beautiful temple
which he himself had despoiled and afterward
destroyed. For a moment, even at that solemn
time, his eye wandered over the form of Eugenie,
and for an instant lingered to mark the heaving
swell of her bosom as she kneeled on the floor over
her insensible burden. Eugenie seemed instinctively
to have felt his libertine glance, for, hastily arranging
her kerchief, which had fallen aside in her
agitation, she laid the head of the corpse upon the
ground; then all at once, with a heightened colour
and a flashing eye, and with the bearing of a young
Pythoness, she addressed him in terms of fierce eloquence,
inspired by mingled emotions of scorn,
contempt, and anger—words faintly expressing the
character and intensity of her feelings.
“Man with the face of an angel and the heart
of a demon! this is your act. Has God given you
power that you should use it to this end? Can
you gaze calmly on this wreck of loveliness?
Does not the silent appeal of death move you?
Has thy conscience no voice? Do you not tremble
at the awful charge the departed spirit of the
murdered Caroline—I repeat it, murdered!—is
at this moment laying at the feet of Divine Justice?
will confront you in judgment, innocence arraigned
against guilt, the victim against the destroyer?
Cold, dark, guilty being! too low for revenge, too
high for pity, you only merit the contempt of all
honourable minds. Leave this spot, which death
has made sacred! Continue to abuse the exalted
gifts that Heaven has bestowed upon you, but
remember! fearful, both in this life and the future,
will be the retribution. Back, sir,” she cried, as he
advanced as if to entreat her; “approach me, and I
will avenge this dear murdered girl, and send your
guilty spirit to the bar where justice awaits her
victim. Human laws punish not thy crime! 'tis
too great! they cannot reach it. 'Tis alone reserved
for the bar of Heaven. Think not thou
wilt escape its judgment.”
If Caroline had expired in the presence of Burton
alone, he would, perhaps, unseen, have shown
human sympathy for her untimely fate, hastened, if
not wholly produced, by his own criminal passions.
But in the presence of a rival and a victim who
had escaped his toils, his pride came to his aid, and
he affected an indifference which, in reality, he did
not feel. Like all unreal emotions, the cold, unmoved
face that he called to his assistance was
exaggerated. His heart was wrung with remorse
and sorrow, while his features wore an expression
of easy indifference, slightly mingled with contempt,
as if he felt himself, in a manner, the victim
of a got-up scene. The language of the deceased
had affected him so far only as his sympathy was
called into action. Although he felt some degree
of resentment when she at first approached and
addressed him, he was deeply moved when, in her
calm, gentle accents, she lifted her eyes heavenward
and sought the Divine blessing upon him.
simple words; and the agonies of death seemed to
have wrung his own frame as Caroline's sweet
spirit passed away, and left her with a peaceful
smile on her mouth, like an infant just fallen to
sleep. The arrow rankled in his heart; but he set
his features to an expression far removed from that
which they naturally would have assumed, the more
effectually to prevent any outward sign of his inward
emotion from being exposed to his high-spirited
victim or haughty rival; preferring in his proud
heart to appear unfeeling and inhuman, rather than
excite the pity of those whose contempt he felt he
merited. Men will ever choose the hatred rather
than the pity of their fellow-beings.
But the depth of his emotion could not entirely
subdue the outbreakings of that passion which
formed a prominent and a fatal point in his character
when an object was present to excite it, and
it was with visible confusion that he saw Eugenie,
glowing with resentment, immediately rise up and
confront him. His embarassment was, however,
but momentary, and he listened with a cool smile
as she addressed him, though every word she uttered
sunk to his heart. When she ceased he said,
with cutting severity in his sarcastic tones,
“Verily, if I had been Lucifer himself, I could
not have been more highly honoured. 'Tis a pity,
lady, such sweet lips and such a rich-toned voice
should discourse of aught beside love—thy bright
eyes enforcing each argument.”
Eugenie looked on him for a moment in undisguised
wonder and scorn, and then tremblingly
kneeled by the dead body, upon whose face her hot
tears trickled fast. She was roused, however, by
Arden, who advanced upon Burton as he was speaking,
and said, while his voice trembled with emotion,
“Man or demon, whichever thou art, avaunt!”
“And leave thee this pretty orator to beguile thy
leisure hours,” replied Burton, with the most provoking
calmness.
The indignant Arden, unable to restrain his feelings,
replied by striking him a violent blow in the
breast with his sword-hilt. Burton staggered back,
but, recovering himself, attacked his antagonist so
madly, that the cooler Arden, who was prepared to
receive him, had all the advantage, and, after two
or three passes, he disarmed him, sending his sword
flying to the extremity of the hall, at the same time
presenting the point of his own at his breast. Eugenie
sprung forward and arrested his arm. Burton
took up his weapon, and, gnashing his teeth with
rage, said, as he descended the steps of the portico,
“When next we meet we part not thus.” He
hastily traversed the avenue, and in a few moments
his horse's footsteps were heard swiftly moving
along the outer hedge of the garden.
Arden and Eugenie remained in the same attitude
in which he had left them until the sounds
had quite died away, when the latter, releasing her
grasp of his sword, pressed her hand to her temples,
and, with a melancholy cry of anguish, would
have fallen, had he not caught her, across the body
of the now happy Caroline, who in this world had
expiated, alas, how severely! the punishment that
followed her error. Poor Eugenie! the fate of Caroline
was, indeed, enviable when compared with
hers. The excitement of her mind subsided with
the absence of its cause. Carried forward with the
rapid transition of events, and shocked by the tragic
end of Caroline, she had not yet time to reflect on
her own state, and realize how deeply all these
things affected her individual happiness. With the
departure of Burton, the proud spirit which had
and, like the contemplation of his death-hour to the
condemned, her close connexion with the developments
she had been a witness to, and the horrible
reality of all that had passed and its relation
to herself, rushed upon her thoughts, and she sunk
under the weight of affliction that pressed upon
her young heart. She did not faint. But she was
struck with mute and dreadful grief, the more
fearful that it could find no relief in tears. She
leaned upon the sustaining arm of Arden in the full
and lively consciousness of all her suffering; her
eyes were hard, and the fountain of tears seemed to
have been dried up; her lips refused utterance, although
trembling to articulate; her bosom heaved
short and quick; her breathing was difficult and
audible, and her whole frame seemed alive and
expressive of intense mental agony. Arden was
alarmed.
“Miss de Lisle,” he said, looking into her face,
which was eloquent with anguish, “speak to me!
Do not feel it so deeply! Merciful Heaven! her
reason has fled! Speak, Eugenie! Oh God, what
suffering! Weep, let me see you shed one tear,
Eugenie! If you love—no, no, I meant not so; but
try and relieve your heart with tears. You will
die! oh God, you will die!” cried the distressed
Arden, as he supported her in his arms and gazed
into her eyes, which wore that suffering expression
that we often see in the eyes of children who are
afflicted with some severe physical pain which
equally terrifies and distresses them. The cup
was, indeed, full to the brim. Every moment he
expected the delicate vessel would break, when her
heart suddenly overflowed, and tears, happy, merciful
tears, came to her relief.
We will not linger over a scene so distressing.
yielding herself to his protection, was, ere
half an hour elapsed, in the maternal arms of Mrs.
Washington, who poured the balm of sympathy
over her wounded spirit, and bound up her broken
heart.
Like legitimate storytellers, we should here account
for the timely appearance of Arden and the
very untimely reappearance of Burton at the cottage.
Arden, surprised at the audacity of the attack
upon his person, and prevented by his own arrest
from taking any measures for the safety of his
charge, had beheld Eugenie borne off in dismay.
When, however, after the leader of the party had
ridden out of sight with her, he was released by the
dragoons, he commanded two of the soldiers, who
now came up sufficiently crestfallen, to guard the
remaining lady safely to her villa, while he ordered
the others to search the stables for a horse.
“Ha! whom have we here?” he suddenly exclaimed,
as Jacques's head and shoulders hove in
sight on the verge of the hill. This valiant warrior
had remained trembling behind the rock during the
scene we have described; but, after the departure
of the dragoons, he rode from his concealment and
followed the dragoons up the steep ascent. The
soldiers, turning at the exclamation, and seeing a
horseman so near them, were about to fly, supposing
themselves again set upon by the enemy,
when Arden, who saw that he was alone, and manifested
no very belligerant attitude, restrained them,
and, advancing to the rider, demanded his business.
“By my beard! comrades, I have sought your
protection from the Philistines, for I see ye are
good men and true.”
“Give up your sword,” demanded Arden.
Jacques complied, and said,
“Thou art an officer, worshipful! but not I.
Though I wear a sword by my thigh, I am naught
but a poor private.”
“Dismount,” said Arden, impatiently. “Soldiers,
hold him under arrest, but harm him not.”
Then taking a hasty leave of the lady, in whose
breast indignation rather than fear was predominant,
and ordering the soldiers to recover their
muskets from the water, and remain at the villa
until his return, he mounted the horse which
Jacques had surrendered, and galloped to the top of
the hill; he then spurred forward to the road, on
which, afar off, he could faintly discern, through
the gathering darkness, what appeared to be a
squadron of horse. To make sure that he pursued
the right road, he dismounted, and, carefully examining
the ground, discovered by the marks that
horses had passed that way towards the town. He
remounted and rode forward, and soon approached
near enough to distinguish the party who had attacked
him riding at full speed, with Eugenie in
their midst. At length the troop halted at the
head of a lane. Arden drew aside to elude observation,
and saw the whole party except three
proceed towards town; these, one of whom was
Eugenie, he beheld, shortly after, turn down the
lane and ride rapidly towards Broadway.
“I will outwit this arch-intriguer,” he exclaimed,
as he saw this manœuvre, “and protect Eugenie
from the snare laid for her with my life!”
He rode after them, lingering so far behind as to
keep them in sight, and at length turned into the
lane, which, overshadowed by trees, enabled him
to advance nearer to them unperceived. When
Burton sent Zacharie forward to the cottage, and
Eugenie, reining up, questioned him in relation to
her destination, Arden resolved to rescue her then.
Alighting, he secured his horse to the hedge, and,
of their conversation to enable him to judge of the
intentions of Burton, and to be assured of the artless
confidence of Eugenie. His first impulse was
to rush upon Burton, and win her from his grasp at
the sword's point. After deliberating a moment,
however, he determined to adopt another course.
He therefore returned to his horse, and followed, as
they rode forward, until they alighted at the gate
of the cottage. He then approached closer, and
would have dismounted and pursued his investigations
further, but was defeated in his object by the
presence of Zacharie, and his purpose was to avoid
discovery. He hovered around the house and determined
to enter after the departure of Burton; but,
at length, for fear of being encountered, and thereby
defeating his object, he rode slowly towards the
head of the lane, when the sound of horses' feet led
him to quicken his pace. The result is already
known.
When Arden dismounted at the gate the voices
in the arbour arrested his ear. He listened to the
playful story told by Eugenie until the shriek of
the ill-starred Caroline called him to her aid. It
was Burton's suspicions of the true character of the
spy he had pursued that induced him to return a second
time to the cottage.
10. CHAPTER X.
THE BATTLE.
On the memorable morning of the twenty-seventh
of August, 1776, the citizens of New-York
were aroused from their slumbers by a heavy cannonading
sounds convinced them that the attack, which the
American army had been, for the last two days,
busily making preparations to meet, had at length
commenced. A thousand prayers from a thousand
patriot hearts ascended to heaven with every report
of the artillery, while mothers and maidens
sought their closets to pray for those most dear to
them. The Battery, the wharves, the roofs of the
houses, and the spires of churches were thronged
with spectators; their bosoms agitated by various
emotions, as the hopes of the Tory or the fears of
the Whig prevailed.
The army at Brooklyn, which had been re-enforced
by the six regiments under General Putnam,
who now assumed the command there, heard the
first distant discharge of cannon, as they lay on their
arms, with an interest still more intense. General
Putnam, who, by the greatest exertions, had got
the army in a situation to receive and repel an attack,
was riding along the lines, encouraging the
soldiers, by the most animated exhortations, to preserve
coolness and courage. The cannonading
continued to increase, and, as the day dawned, became
spirited, occasionally mingled with the roll of
musketry, and the dull, heavy report of a mortar;
while the colonial army, drawn up in line, stood
anxiously awaiting the approach of the enemy.
The British army had landed, the morning of
the twenty-second, on the southwest coast of Long
Island, about two leagues below the town. Resting
their centre at Flatbush, they stretched their
right wing towards Flatland, and extended their
left to the shore on which they had disembarked.
The centre at Flatbush, by this position, was but
little above a league distant from the American
lines at Brooklyn, while the wings were five or six
miles.
Such was the position of the British army the
evening of the twenty-sixth, separated from the enemy
only by a long range of thickly-wooded hills,
through which were two or three passes, strongly
guarded by detachments of American troops. During
the night both wings of the British army simultaneously
advanced. The right wing and van,
under General Clinton, seized a pass about three
miles east of the village of Bedford, and at daybreak
crossed the heights, surprising and capturing
the guard posted there; then, entering the level
country on the opposite side, they immediately advanced
to turn the flank of the American left.
General Grant, with the left wing of the British
army, advanced along the coast with ten pieces of
artillery; and, to draw the attention of the Americans
from their left, and to cause them to direct their
whole force to this point, he moved slowly, skirmishing
as he advanced. As, nevertheless, he continued
to gain ground, General Putnam sent strong detachments,
which he constantly re-enforced, to check his
advance. At length he directed General Stirling to
lead two of the regiments along the road from the
Narrows, by which Grant was approaching. It
was nearly dawn when Lord Stirling gained the
heights over which the road passed. There he
was joined by the previous re-enforcements sent
by Putnam, which, slowly and in good order, were
retreating before the British column, which was
in sight. He immediately prepared to defend the
heights, when the British opened the spirited cannonade,
the thunder of which had started the citizens
of the beleaguered city from their beds.
Satisfied with defending the heights, Stirling
made no attempt to advance on the enemy below.
General Grant, on his part, had no intention of trying
to drive him from his position until he should
plan of attack that had been intrusted to General
Clinton. The two columns, therefore, kept up a
distant cannonading, with occasionally a sharp skirmish
between advanced parties of infantry, which
continued for several hours without any material
advantage. In addition to this, and the more effectually
to bewilder the Americans and draw their
attention to this quarter, the British fleet amused
itself by keeping up a noisy and incessant cannonade
upon the battery at Red Hook.
While both wings of the invading army were
moving forward—one, in silence, to a real, the other,
with the roar of artillery and roll of musketry, to a
feigned attack—their centre, composed of Hessians
under General de Heister, continued to stand its
original ground at Flatbush, which it was ordered to
maintain until Clinton's ruse had been successfully
executed. To divert the attention of the Americans
from the right wing, De Heister kept up a warm
cannonade against General Sullivan, who, with a
considerable force, had thrown himself between
him and the American army for the purpose of
defending a pass in the highlands which was directly
in front of the British centre. By this ruse
de guerre the attention of the American general
was drawn wholly to the British left and centre,
while their main column, the right wing, consisting
of the largest part of the army, was advancing
in silence and secrecy against the American left.
Every step of Clinton's progress, after he had
seized the eastern pass and crossed the heights,
not only brought him nearer the lines at Brooklyn,
but in the rear of the generals, Sullivan and Stirling,
who were on the heights defending their respective
passes against Grant and De Heister. No military
stratagem during the revolutionary contest was
this.
At length, some time after sunrise, an aiddecamp
came spurring up, and informed General de Heister
that Clinton had reached Bedford and gained
the rear of Sullivan's left. On receiving this information
he advanced to attack this officer's position.
Sullivan's forces awaited the attack with
firmness, when a firing in their rear from Clinton's
column, which at this instant turned their left flank,
threw them into confusion. In vain Sullivan tried
to rally them. Without waiting to receive the
charge of De Heister and his Hessians, they turned
their backs and fled in the greatest confusion and
completely routed, each man seeking to gain the
security of the camp at Brooklyn with reference
only to his individual safety. The centre advanced
to an easy victory, and hastened to form a junction
with its right wing. The Americans, driven before
it, found themselves hemmed in between two armies,
and, seeking to cut their way back to their
camp in detachments, were slain in great numbers.
General Stirling, hearing from his position the
firing towards Brooklyn, saw at once the deception
that had been practised; and, aware of the critical
situation of the army, he made a precipitate retreat.
Lord Cornwallis, however, had thrown himself in
his rear, and occupied the only avenue by which
he could withdraw his troops. Without hesitation,
he gallantly attacked and nearly dislodged him from
his position; but, overpowered by superior numbers,
he at length surrendered, with the remnant of
his brave regiment, prisoners of war.
Having anticipated events a little in the last paragraph,
to open a clearer road to our story, we now
revert to the movements of the column under General
Clinton which so unexpectedly and fatally to
and with which the thread of our romance is more
closely woven.
The left wing of the Americans was drawn up
along the northern face of the heights, and was in
part covered by a thick wood which extended to
their summits. About eight o'clock in the morning,
near the edge of this wood, on slightly rising
ground in front of the lines, was gathered a group
of mounted officers, distinguished among whom
was General Putnam, who was momently receiving
reports or sending orders to different parts of the
field. The cannonading from the British centre
and left was incessant, and nearly the whole effective
force of the American army had been fruitlessly
despatched against these two bodies, which,
as we have seen, were believed to be the only attacking
columns, and also to comprise the whole
force of the British army.
“How goes it with Sullivan, Ogden?” inquired
General Putnam of a young officer who, at the moment
we introduce the reader to the group, rode up,
covered with mud and foam.
“Warmly enough. The Hessians play their
artillery to lively music.”
“Have they left their position?”
“Not a foot. Sullivan holds the pass, and De
Heister contents himself with exchanging six-pounders
with him at a distance. I know not
what to make of it.”
“'Tis an odd game John Bull is playing throughout,”
replied the general. “Welcome, Major Burton!”
he cried to that officer, who at that instant
dashed into the midst of the party, with his horse
reeking, his sword drawn and bloody, and his
whole appearance that of one from the midst of
the fight. “You have seen the enemy! How
Needs he further re-enforcements?”
“He still holds the pass, and will, no doubt, maintain
it with what men he has. The British have
made several feints, but have not yet tried to force
his position.”
“Clinton is at some deep game,” said General
Putnam, with a thoughtful brow.
“Neither Clinton, Percy, nor Cornwallis are
with either of the divisions,” continued Burton.
“I approached that opposed to Lord Stirling near
enough to distinguish the staff with my glass. I
met Livingston on the field, who reconnoitred the
column at Flatbush, and reports the same. The
British are not playing their artillery all the morning
for their own amusement. It is Clinton's intention
to surprise us, if he can, by seizing some
unguarded pass through the highlands, and so turn
our flank. This firing is only to divert us till he
succeeds.”
“But all the passes are well guarded, Major
Burton; and we should instantly be apprized of
any such attempts by our outposts.”
“They may have surprised these, and so prevent
your receiving any information. Moreover,
there are no horse among the detachments, and the
enemy would be here as soon as they.”
“It may be so. Spur forward, Major Burton,
and collect what news you can.”
The aiddecamp buried his spurs to the rowel-head,
and disappeared on the road towards Bedford.
He entered the path which led along the heights,
and rode forward until he came within sight of the
village; suddenly he heard discharges of musketry,
the shouts of combatants, and the report of artillery.
He involuntarily reined up, but the next moment
rode forward to an eminence by the roadside, and
in an interminable line along the Jamaica road.
Its vanguard had already surprised the detachment
in the village, completely routing them after receiving
their irregular fire.
A glance satisfied him that it would be in vain
to attempt to rally the dispersed troops, which had
reached the hill and were flying past him along the
road to regain the camp at Brooklyn; and, turning
his horse's head, he rode back at full speed to
convey the intelligence to General Putnam.
He had hardly regained the road when he was
involved in the confused melée of the retreating
detachment, which its officers were vainly endeavouring
to rally. But discipline had given place to
fear; and, throwing down their muskets, with their
faces set towards Brooklyn, the panic-struck warriors
fled, looking neither to the right hand nor to
the left; so that the first intimation the American
army were likely to receive of the approach of
the enemy was by their outposts tumbling in head-long
upon their lines.
“Gentlemen,” cried Burton to the leaders, as
they came to a gorge in the road defended by high
banks, “make a stand here if in your power. Give
the enemy a momentary check.”
With the exertions of two or three of the officers,
and the animating voice of Burton, they rallied.
But, as the plumes and bayonets of the enemy appeared
over the top of the hill, they broke, and
again fled with precipitation on the main body.
In despair, Burton put spurs to his horse and galloped
forward. Half way from the lines he met
General Putnam, who, advancing thus far in his
anxiety to gain intelligence, found himself at once
in the midst of his flying soldiers.
“For God's sake, Major Burton, speak! Have
they possession of the pass?”
“A column some thousands strong have surprised
Bedford, are now entering the pass, and in
thirty minutes will turn our flank!”
“We are lost.”
“There is no hope, certainly, for the left wing,
sir.”
“Nor for the whole army. Not a man will
stand in the ranks to meet the desperate charge.
See,” he said, as they came in sight of the American
army, “the lines already begin to waver, panic-struck
by the wild rush of their comrades towards
them.”
“The army must retreat.”
“There is no alternative.”
After a moment's discussion of their perilous situation,
and ascertaining more accurately the overwhelming
force coming upon them, General Putnam
ordered a retreat. To retire in the face of an
excited and conquering foe, before a blow has been
struck by the fugitives to rouse their blood, is almost
always fatal. Alarmed by the firing on their
flank and by the flying soldiers, the Americans, although
they began to retreat in good order, soon
broke into regiments, and then into companies, and,
retiring in disorder and haste, endeavoured to regain
the works in their rear. General Putnam,
nevertheless, by his presence of mind, saved a great
portion of the ill-fated wing.
“Burton,” he said to his aiddecamp, who had
just reined up by his side after conveying an order
to a colonel of a regiment in great peril, whom he
assisted in successfully extricating his command,
“there are two or three companies of infantry by
yonder copse; their colonel is down, with half a
dozen of his officers, and I fear they will give way
place yourself at their head.”
The party in question was defending itself with
gallantry against a superior force. The quick eye
of the young soldier saw that they were hemmed in
on three sides by a marsh thickly set with bushes,
which prevented farther retreat; and that, unless
they could cut their way by a bold charge through
the ranks of their foes, they must either surrender
prisoners of war or be cut to pieces. Skirting the
copse, and gathering, as he spurred along, half a
score of stragglers, who rallied under his orders, he
came unobserved upon the flank of the enemy, here
but two or three deep, and through an opening in
the hedge charged them vigorously. At this sudden
attack from an unlooked-for quarter they gave
way. Following up his success, he leaped into the
area, and, wheeling round, placed himself at the
head of the division he had come to aid.
“Now, my brave fellows!” he shouted to the
soldiers, who still presented a firm front, “I will
save you or share your fate. Follow me!”
Firing his pistols in the faces of the enemy,
he waved his sword and rode upon their bristling
bayonets. The Americans, inspired by the presence
and example of their new leader, made a sudden
and desperate charge. The opposing phalanx
swayed to and fro before it, but settled again after
the first shock, and stood as firm as an iron wall.
“Retreat, and try them again!” shouted Burton,
wheeling and placing himself at their head.
Thrice was the command repeated, and as many
times was it obeyed. Before the third desperate
charge the solid ranks of the English gave way, and
the determined band of Americans gained the open
hillside; and, although hard pressed by their foes,
order, and safely retired within the intrenchments.
Burton, however, after they had gained the open
field, left them to effect their retreat alone. He
had turned to rejoin General Putnam, when Zacharie,
whom he had not seen since daybreak, mounted
on the horse of some dismounted English officer,
made his appearance, galloping down a steep
descent at the imminent peril of his neck, and
shouting at the top of his lungs,
“For the love of the Virgin and all the saints!
help the general; he is hard pressed.”
“Where?”
“This way.”
Guiding his horse over the ground strewn with
the dead and the dying, Zacharie crossed a low
wooded ridge closely followed by Burton, who, on
gaining the summit, beheld General Putnam on
foot, his horse slain, gallantly defending himself
against two grenadiers and a mounted Hessian officer,
while two dragoons lay dead at his feet.
“To the rescue, Major Burton,” he shouted,
dealing a well-directed blow upon the head of a
grenadier with the butt end of a carbine, and striking
him to the ground, at the same time parrying
a pass of the Hessian's sword.
“To the rescue,” shouted Zacharie, as he came
in sight; and, descending the hillside at a furious
rate, he drove his horse full against the remaining
grenadier as he was about to revenge his comrade
by a tremendous stroke of his broadsword on the
uncovered head of the general, and bore him bodily
to the ground. The next instant he was upon
his throat.
“Yield thee, Goliath, or say thy paternoster
and be dirked.”
“I yield,” cried the disabled soldier.
Burton at the same instant crossed blades with
the Hessian, who was pressing hard upon his antagonist,
now greatly exhausted by the unequal combat.
He had exchanged but two or three passes
with the fiery foeman, when two British officers,
galloping over the field, seeing the contest, turned
and rode up at full speed. General Putnam, who
had sprung upon Zacharie's horse as Burton relieved
him from his furious assailant, now prepared
to receive the new-comers.
They came up as Burton sent the Hessian's
blade whistling over his head, and buried his sword
in his body.
“Lie there, base hireling!” he said, wheeling his
horse to meet one of his fresh foes, each of them
having singled out an antagonist, who now came
up. Instantly their weapons clashed, and also at
the moment after did those of Putnam and his assailant,
the four combatants seeming, as the sun
glanced upon the bright, flashing steel, to be wielding
swords of flame.
He who had selected Burton was a noble-looking
young soldier, with a falcon eye, and firm but
beautiful lip. He sat his spirited animal with ease
and grace, and rode like an experienced horseman.
His skill as a rider was, however, surpassed by his
mastery of the sword; and as he encountered Burton,
who was no ways his inferior in either accomplishment,
it would seem that two swordsmen were
never engaged in hostile combat more equally
matched or more skilled in the use of their weapons.
They had fought for several minutes without
either gaining the advantage, when Sir Henry
Clinton and staff, followed by a squadron of horse,
came spurring over the adjacent hill, and were
separated from the body and galloped towards the
combatants. When he came within hailing distance,
he shouted,
“General Clinton desires that Major Andre will
join him without delay.”
“We will meet another time, fair sir,” said the
young officer, receiving his antagonist's sword on
the guard of his own.
“May it be as friends rather than enemies, sir,”
answered Burton, chivalrously dropping the point
of his weapon and reining back.
“Amen!” was the reply; and the gallant young
Englishman, waving the sword so lately aimed at
his life in a parting salute to his foe, cantered over
the field to join the staff of his general.
Meanwhile General Putnam and his antagonist,
though less equally matched, fought with equal
energy. At length, already wearied with his previous
encounters, the former was nearly ready to
give way, when Zacharie lifted a four-pound shot
from the ground and cast it with all his force against
the breast of the English officer. His sword dropped
from his hand, and he only saved himself from
falling by grasping his horse's mane; then burying
his spurs into his flanks, he had sufficient strength
to guide him over the battle-field in the direction of
his party, towards which the animal carried him at
the top of his speed.
“Thou wouldst make a good piece of artillery,
lad,” said Putnam, with a smile, “only mount thee
upon wheels. Thy hand has done me good service.”
“Thank the British. 'Twas one of his own marbles
I snapped at him.”
“Well, major,” said Putnam, as Burton came
up, “we are masters of the lists. I did only gallop
to the opposite hill to reconnoitre, leaving my
set upon. I would rather wrestle with a score of
wolves than one such Hessian as you have just
quieted. Your presence was well timed. See!
Yonder squadron of horse is at some mischief;
oblige me by following them, and report what you
may discover.”
He then galloped back to regain his staff, while
Burton, followed by the victorious Zacharie, rode
off after the troop which the British officers had
joined. It had just entered the forest at the foot
of the heights, and its last file was trotting out of
sight when he started. He dashed forward over
a pathway strewn with dead bodies, firearms, cannon
balls, and dismounted artillery, and in a few
minutes gained the wood. He then drew rein to
advance more cautiously for fear of surprise, but
was proceeding, nevertheless, at a good pace along
the forest track, when, as he was about to ford a
brook that gurgled across his path, he descried two
men a few yards higher up the stream. One was
a private, the other a single horseman, dismounted
and watering his horse. His head was uncovered,
and he was wiping the perspiration from his brow,
while the chest and limbs of the animal were spotted
with foam.
A single glance was sufficient: it was Arden!
Burton threw himself from his horse, leaving the
rein in Zacharie's hand, and advanced upon him.
Midway between them the rivulet made a circular
sweep, leaving a small level space between its
banks and an overhanging rock. Two or three
large trees grew on the spot, interlocking their
branches above, and the sward was short and
verdant. It was such a place as two knights of
the duello would select to tilt in mortal combat.
Arden discovered Burton at the same instant that
only was visible on his lips. He advanced when
he saw him dismount, and they met on the spot described
with haughty tread and flashing eyes.
“Colonel Arden, I have sought you,” fiercely
cried Burton, drawing his sword.
“And you have found me, Major Burton,” quietly
replied Arden, also unsheathing his blade.
The next moment steel rung against steel, and
the two rivals warmly engaged. One was cool and
quiet, and stood only on the defensive; the other
was fiery, and vengeful, and exerted all his skill to
disarm or transfix his antagonist. Every thrust of
his sword was aimed at Arden's bosom; ruse, feint,
and sleight, and every known trick of fence were
in vain employed as instruments of his revenge.
Every fatally-directed pass was turned aside by
science equal to that which directed it; and ruse
and stratagem were met by a ready hand and a cool
head.
Zacharie in the mean while had secured the
horses to a sapling, and came up to be a spectator
or aider, as the case might be, of the combat.
The companion or follower of Arden, however, continued
to remain in the back ground. The sharp
eye of Zacharie detected him cautiously peeping
over the horse's back and gazing at the combatants.
“Now will I have a by-play of my own,” said
he, crossing the area and advancing towards him;
“like master like man. Come, sir,” he cried, as
he came up, “suppose we take a bout together,
just to keep our hands in; 'twill take the rust off
our blades, and stir up the blood.”
“Nay, most valiant Zacharie, my blade is quite
bright, and what pint or two of blood I have left
from these bloody wars needeth not stirring,” said
the voice of Jacques Cloots, his round face appearing
moon newly risen.
“Art thou there, man of wax? I thought thy
soul had been frightened out o' thy bones at Kip's
Bay by the dragoons I quartered on thee.”
“By my beard, Zach—” stoutly commenced
Jacques.
“Zach me no Zach!” cried Zacharie, sharply.
“No, valiant Zacharie, I will not. Not I! Art
not my old comrade and countryman? Not I, by
my beard!”
“Tell thy tale, then. Where hast thou been?”
“I was taken prisoner, most valiant! by thy
dragoons, after giving and receiving divers grievous
wounds on hip and thigh, and was despoiled
of my steed. When they found I was a true man
and not one o' the enemy, they let me go.”
“How found your ass-ship the way here to-day?”
“I then went back to my company to keep from
being shot for deserting; and when they came over
the water to do battle, I came too. I was drinking
here when you great warrior fighting there bid me
hold his horse.”
“And where is thy company?”
“By my beard! I am the only one left alive,”
replied Jacques, swaggering.
“Because thou art the only one who ran away.
Now, as thou art in thyself, by thine own tale, a
whole company, thou wilt not fear a single man.
So, draw!”
“Oh, no, valiant—”
“Draw.”
“Oh, no—”
“Draw.”
“Oh!”
“Then take a pummelling. 'Twill be glory
enough for me to have whipped a whole company.”
Thus speaking, Zacharie set upon Arden's esquire
with his fists, and left him bruised “hip and
thigh,” and groaning with the multitude and vastness
of his wounds.
While this by-play was going on, the contest between
Arden and Burton continued with vigour,
characterized still by the coolness of the one and the
warmth of the other. At length, by a sudden and
skilful pass, by which he laid himself open to his
antagonist's point, Arden struck his sword and sent
it whirling through the air. For an instant he continued
to hold his arm in the attitude in which the
movement had thrown it, and followed it with his
eye. That unguarded moment was nearly fatal to
him. Burton closed with him, caught his uplifted
arm, and wrenched his sword from his grasp; then
shortening it by the blade till he could make use of
it like a dagger, he drove it with violence against
his breast. The blow was turned aside by Arden,
and the steel passed through the fleshy part of his
arm; again it was raised, and descended like lightning;
it was a second time averted from the seat
of life, but sunk deep into his shoulder. As the
warm blood stained Burton's hand, he relinquished
his hostile embrace. The clattering of hoofs and
ringing of sabres being now heard in a distant part
of the forest, he took up his sword, hastily remounted
his horse, and, followed by Zacharie,
spurred off in the direction he was originally pursuing
when he fell in with his rival.
He had but a few moments disappeared when
General Putnam and several officers came up at
the head of a regiment moving at double quick
time, on their way to the heights to support Sullivan
in his retreat.
“Ha!” he exclaimed, seeing Arden leaning
against a tree; “Colonel Arden wounded?”
“Slightly,” he replied.
“You have been hard set upon. Some Hessian,
I dare say! You must be looked after. Carmichael,
do see if he is badly hurt.”
The surgeon examined and dressed his wounds,
and pronounced them not dangerous if the patient
were prudent. He was then assisted to his horse,
and conducted under a small escort to the intrenchments.
As General Putnam now skirted the heights with
the small force he had been able to keep together in
the general panic, a party of officers, among whom
he distinguished General Washington, rode towards
him from East River, the whole cavalcade at the top
of their speed. They drew up as they met the division.
“A total rout, Putnam?” inquired Washington,
with anxiety.
“Total, sir; and not less than a thousand killed
in the retreat. Yonder goes, except this, the last
regiment, or what remains of it, into camp. If you
choose not capture, sir, ride no farther in this direction,”
he added, as Washington, who crossed over
from New-York as the fight became warmer, prepared
to move forward.
“Unfortunate day!” exclaimed he, with anguish,
looking upon the destruction of his best troops in
the plain below, without the power to aid them.
“Putnam, we must do all we can to save the remnant
of the army. The enemy will no doubt follow
up his success by storming the intrenchments. Oh
God, what slaughter at the foot of yonder hill!”
“Cannot something be done by a bold stroke
with the troops from the city?” inquired General
Putnam, with animation.
“And leave New-York defenceless, a prize to
the British fleet, which hovers in the bay like a
hawk over its victim.”
“There are yet a few regiments of fresh troops
within the lines,” said an officer who rode by
Washington's side; “they possibly may retrieve
the day.”
“True, Livingston. But I dare not draw out
a single company remaining in the intrenchments
to aid our broken division: if they also should be
defeated, the whole camp would be lost and the
army totally destroyed. With every soldier both
in New-York and the lines at Brooklyn, I should
still be inferior in numbers to the enemy; and the
whole country might be staked in thus endeavouring
to regain a lost battle. Painful!” he added,
turning his eyes away from several retreating detachments
of the broken army; some at bay, fighting
desperately with the enemy's infantry; others
flying, pursued and cut down by the British and
Hessian horse. “Dreadful to behold such carnage,
without the power to aid the brave fellows
who fight so well. Putnam, help Sullivan, if possible.
I will to the intrenchments, and make an
effort to preserve the camp and those who escape
the slaughter.”
Washington, leaving General Putnam to ride
after his regiment, galloped down the hill, followed
by his staff, and pursued his way over the ground
towards the lines.
“We must ride for it, sir,” said Livingston, as
they turned an angle of the wood. “See, the whole
British army is down upon us.”
“And threaten to storm the works. They show
a bold front. Our time is brief! Ride!”
The British, who at first had charged tumultuously
and in parties, formed as they approached
the American intrenchments, and, as General Livingston
spoke, appeared marching in close order
over the field, but at a quick pace and with loud
works. Pressing forward as they descried this
movement, Washington and his party a few minutes
afterward entered the lines.
The British general, however, unwilling to hazard
too much, and, perhaps, satisfied with the success
of the day, seeing that the Americans were
secure within their defences, and being ignorant
of the strength of the works and number of the
garrison, restrained the ardour of his troops, and
pitched his camp in front of their intrenchments.
11. CHAPTER XI.
THE COUNCIL.
The setting sun flung his red beams over the
battle-field, tinging the atmosphere with a sanguine
hue, as if Nature sympathized with the scenes that
had just been enacted there, and glanced also upon
the plume and armour of an English horseman,
who was riding slowly over the ground towards the
British camp. The green fields and the pleasant
woods were strewn with the dead and the dying;
and the rivulets, which had meandered musically
in the morning through glens and over rocky beds,
were choked with dead bodies and turned from their
natural channels, their bloody waves staining their
banks with a crimson hue. Death in its most horrible
forms lay before the horseman's eyes for many
a mile. Beneath a perpendicular rock, against
which, facing his foes, it appeared, he had bravely
locks begrimed with gore from a deep cut in his
aged temples. He wore the dress of a yeoman of
the soil; of one who had thrown down the sickle to
grasp the sword in defence of his home. On either
side of him lay two youths, also dead, their bodies
pierced with many a ghastly wound. They bore
the old man's likeness upon their features, and had
died, no doubt, in defending the life of him who
gave them their own. Beside them lay a gory
heap of slain Hessians, the last and uppermost of
the pile, with his hand on the breast of the old man,
whose sword and that of one of his sons were both
buried in his body. The three seemed to have died
in one and the selfsame struggle. Farther on, beside
a brook that ran with blood, lay a soldier on his
face touching the red water with his lips; he had
crawled there, as it appeared from the bloody track
behind him in the grass, to quench his burning
thirst; but the water was turned to blood, and so he
died. At the foot of a spreading oak, beneath whose
widely-flung branches a thousand soldiers might,
at noonday, stand in the shade, were strewn half a
score of combatants. They were lying in every
shape of death around the trunk, as if it had been
an altar which the devotees of liberty had defended
with their blood. Against the tree leaned one
pale, and with an expression of anguish on his face;
one hand was pressed against his side, from which
the blood slowly oozed, and his eyes from time to
time rolled upward, and his parched lips moved as
if in unwonted prayer. Half way to the summit
of a little mound overgrown with fern sat a youth,
bareheaded, upon the dank ground, holding in his
arms the head of an old man who was already a
corpse; but he nevertheless still continued to bathe
his brows and lips from his helmet with water,
stream running past at the foot of the hill.
On the verge of the field where the fight had
been thickest, their bodies upright against a hedge,
and eying each other with glazed eyeballs, stood,
face to face, stark and stiff, two dead men, each
with his bayonet buried in his fellow's bosom. Beside
them sat a horse on his haunches, with a sword
quivering in his breast, both his hind legs broken
by a cannon-ball. In vain, with terrible groans, he
strove to raise himself to his feet, and with his
teeth to draw the weapon from his chest. His
forefeet rested upon the corpse of his rider, whose
breast he had broken in with his hoofs as he
pawed the earth in the fierceness of his rage and
pain. Suddenly a bugle wound high and clear in
a distant part of the field: the noble animal replied
with a loud neigh; sprung with supernatural
energy upon his feet; stood an instant, then reeled,
tottered, and fell back dead.
Farther on, directly in the path of the horseman,
a youth lay upon his side. His face was as calm
as if he slept beneath his own peaceful roof-tree,
which, perchance, he had but recently left, followed
by a mother's prayers, and, perhaps, a maiden's
tears. A rifle ball had entered his temples, and,
the wound bleeding inwardly, had left but a slight
orifice. His hair fell in natural waves over his
forehead, which calmly rested in his hand. His
marble cheek only told that he slept the sleep that
never knows a waking. From his hand had fallen
a fowling-piece, which was lying beside him, discharged;
his companion in many a rural hunt, and
aimed only at forest game, it did not avail him in
the field of human contest. The hand that had
clasped it was placed in his bosom over a miniature,
worn, by a chain of silken brown hair, about
contemplate the scene, and then rode on.
“Alas!” he said, sighing, “alas, poor maiden!
This day has filled thy young heart with grief!
Thou wilt see him for whom thou watchest no
more! Relentless war! The soldier's steel pierces
doubly! It strikes not only through his foeman's
bosom, but pierces the heart of wife, mother,
and mistress with the same fatal blow. If we
numbered the fallen in battle not alone by counting
broken heads or gashed limbs, but also by numbering
the broken and crushed hearts of those who,
in secret and silent suffering, fall with the slain, our
catalogue would swell! Oh, war, war! When
will an evil that assimilates earth to hell have an
end?”
“When the kings and princes of the earth shall
learn to fear the King of kings! When justice and
the love of the truth shall live in the hearts of those
who sit in high places! When men's hearts are
turned from the vanities of this world to seek after
the realities of the next! When, at the second
coming, He shall come who came first! Then
shall the sword be turned into a ploughshare, and
the spear into a pruning hook! Then shall all nations
know the Lord, that he ruleth in the armies
of heaven and over the inhabitants of the earth!
Then shall the lion lie down with the lamb, and
the child play with the adder! Then shall men forget
war, and the rumours of war shall cease; the
nations shall delight themselves in the abundance
of peace, and each man sit under his own vine and
fig-tree, with none to molest or make them afraid!
Then will the devil be bound in chains, and Israel
conquer for evermore. Verily, thou art answered,
son of Belial!”
The horseman turned at this unexpected reply
on a stone a few feet distant, a middle-aged
man, with a sallow complexion, and lank, straight
black hair, which came over his forehead nearly to
his eyebrows, and was cut perfectly square above
them. His face was long, sharp, and thin; his
cheeks hollow and cadaverous, with angular bones.
His brows were black and shaggy, and a pair of
wild, lambent gray eyes glowed beneath them with
the expression of incipient insanity. His garments,
which were of a faded black colour and much worn,
were shaped after the fashion of the followers of
Penn. He leaned on a musket, and appeared, by
a red silk handkerchief tied around his knee, to
have been wounded. The horseman gazed upon
him with curiosity as he spoke in a wild, enthusiastic
manner, with a sharp nasal voice, and with a
volubility of tongue that betrayed familiarity with
extemporaneous speaking.
When he had concluded his address, he folded
his hands upon his musket, and, shutting his eyes,
began, in the same nasal strain, to chant, with a
prolonged accent upon every other syllable, a hymn
to the tune of Old Hundred, of which the horseman
could only remember the following words of
the last two stanzas:
All on the cheek-bones, and the teeth
Of wicked men have broke.
“I with my groaning weary am,
And I also all the night my bed
Have causéd for to swim; and I
With tears my couch have wateréd.”
“My good sir,” said the horseman, smiling, “methinks
your own bones have been broken instead of
your enemies', and that you rather have been watering
the ground with your blood than your tears.”
“Thou art a Gentile! a son of Ishmael and a
lost child of Mammon! an enemy of the Lord and
his saints, and an oppressor thereof! Wherefore
comest thou here with thy proud trappings, which
are the livery of the devil, to mock me? Thy
voice is yet warm with shouting to the battle
against my brethren! Thy sword is reeking with
the blood of the slain! Thou hast now conquered!
But we have the sword of the Lord and of Gideon,
and the day shall come when ye will be driven
from the land like locusts! Ride, ride!” he added,
sternly, “and leave me to the devotions thou
hast interrupted.”
“Thy devotions are likely to be again disturbed,”
said the horseman, as a party appeared numbering
the slain, carrying off the wounded, and securing
what prisoners they might fall in with.
At this moment three or four of the party, seeing
the horseman, rode up, and the foremost, passing
him with a respectful military salutation, approached
the wounded rebel with his pistol levelled.
“Surrender, prisoner!”
“Verily, I will not surrender to thee, Philistine!”
said the man, without moving; “if thou wilt have
my weapon, get thee down and take it.”
The soldier, with a suppressed oath, sprung from
his horse to seize his musket, when, springing suddenly
upon him as he was releasing his foot from
the stirrup, the man struck him to the ground with
a single blow of his fist; then, drawing the sabre
of the fallen dragoon, he waved it above his
head, shouting, “The sword of the Lord and of
Gideon!”
Before the mounted officer could interfere, one
of the comrades of the dragoon levelled his pistol
and fired. The sabre fell from his grasp, and, rolling
the Lord and of Gid—” and breathed
out his life.
The horseman paused a moment and gazed
thoughtfully upon the body.
“When will a war end,” he mused, reflectingly,
“that draws the patriarch from his fireside, the
ploughman from his field, the youth from his betrothed,
and the enthusiast from his humble pulpit,
to share its dangers? Never will a people be conquered
who, actuated by the same feeling, rise as
one man, and expose their breasts as a bulwark to
their liberties! From their wonderful Congress and
their remarkable leader down to the lowest hind,
these Americans seem to be actuated by one sentiment.
It must be a long and fruitless struggle to
subdue such a people! We have gained a victory
to-day, indeed; but defeat will only rally men, engaged
in such a cause as these are, in greater numbers.
For every dead patriot that lies on this
dearly-purchased field, ten men will rise up to
avenge his death. A rebel army is like the fabled
hydra; new heads spring multiplied from the bleeding
trunk. Well, Chester,” he said to an orderly
sergeant who rode up as he passed the outposts of
the British camp, “you look as if you bore a message.”
“I do, my lord, and was now on my way to your
quarters. 'Tis from General Howe.”
“I am riding to meet him. Continue on to his
tent. I follow.”
They galloped forward and entered the camp,
which was not yet quite settled into military order.
At one place they passed a party of wounded soldiers
sitting on the ground, and a surgeon inspecting
their wounds, which were bound up hastily, but
firmly and skilfully, by two of his assistants. On
before a half-spread tent that some of their comrades
were pitching; while far beyond were regiments
or smaller detachments similarly occupied,
and all presenting a busy, bustling scene. Farther
on, a line was drawn up, and an officer was preparing
the report of the missing in the day's fight;
the fortunate soldiers—themselves unharmed, and
perhaps, on that account, the more gay—careless,
cheerful, and unconcerned. Those among them
who in the morning stood far removed from each other
by intervening comrades, and now found themselves
shoulder to shoulder as they assembled at this
roll-call, made even their contiguity a matter of jesting;
happy in their own escape, they were forgetful
of their fellows who but a little while before had
separated them. Companies that now heard themselves
commanded by a strange voice obeyed mechanically,
nor seemed to mark the absence of their
usual leader. The officer made these observations
as he slowly rode through the camp; at length he
came upon a more open space to the right, and in
front of the lines of the Americans, who were silently
lying on their arms within their defences, and a
livelier scene presented itself. A tall pavilion was
spread in an area surrounded by many smaller tents,
and above it waved in the evening wind, and flashing
in the setting sun, the red tri-crossed flag of Great
Britain. Around this tent were gathered several
British officers; some in pairs, conversing as they
walked backward and forward before the pavilion;
others, in small groups, both on horseback and on
foot, talking earnestly, and pointing towards the intrenchments
of the enemy or the distant city, the
spires of which, flaming in the sun, could be distinctly
seen from this point of observation; and one
or two were sitting beside a third, who reclined
wounds. Around the tent and outside the
groups of officers were posted sentinels, who paced
their silent round with the formal indifference of automatons.
Nearer the tent, and within the groups
of officers, was a second chain of sentinels, two of
which, with fixed bayonets, stood before the door to
guard the entrance. In the door also stood an officer
with a drawn sword, as if stationed there in the
discharge of his duty. Everything indicated that
the pavilion was the headquarters of the conqueror,
who had pitched his tent in the face of the enemy
on the field he had won.
The horseman rode forward and dismounted at
the first station in front, where several richly-caparisoned
horses, held by privates, stood in readiness
for their riders to mount at a moment's warning.
Here leaving his horse, he walked through the
group of officers, who stood aside with marks of
deep respect as he approached; while two or three
others, whose rank and friendship allowed them
the liberty, addressed him familiarly, and congratulated
him on the success of the day. After exchanging
a few words with them in relation to some
individual exploits on the field, and shaking his
head at a guess ventured by one of the young officers,
that the Americans might make a sally and
attack them in their camp during the night, he entered
the tent of the British general. The pavilion,
though conspicuous in the tented field, was only
so from its size and peculiarly beautiful shape;
otherwise it was plain as those of the common
soldiers. A straw carpet or Indian mat was laid
upon the ground; and several camp-stools, covered
with the rich carpeting of Brussels, a portable mahogany
table, above which, suspended from the
massive bronzed lamp, and a narrow cott bed, with
a military cloak thrown over it, constituted the sole
furniture of the warrior's abode. A bass-drum
standing near the entrance, one or two bugles, and
several swords and articles of uniform lying about
on the ground or thrown upon the seats, relieved
the air of nakedness it would otherwise have worn,
and added to its warlike character.
Around the table, at their wine, sat four gentlemen,
three of whom were evidently of high military
rank in the British army; the fourth wore the uniform
of an American major-general. They were
conversing in an animated manner as the stranger
entered.
“Good even, my Lord of Cornwallis,” said one
of the gentlemen, a tall, noble-looking soldier, who
sat at the head of the table, rising to meet his guest
with an open, frank countenance, and an air of a
man of high rank; “I rejoice with you on the success
of his majesty's arms this day.”
“A great victory, Sir Henry, but dearly purchased
with the lives of many of our bravest officers,
and some four or five hundred men.”
“No, no, my lord, not dearly purchased with all
our lives. Freely would I sacrifice mine to end
this war, and bring back these erring colonists to
their allegiance. I beg your pardon, General Sullivan,”
he said, turning with courtesy to the American
officer, “but you must train your ears to hear
plain language in a royal camp. My lord,” he
continued, “I have the honour of making known
to you our brave enemy, for such is the fortune
of war, and distinguished prisoner, Major-general
Sullivan.”
The American bowed with cold and distant politeness;
the English earl with a cordial and friendly
far as politeness would extend, sought to lessen his
embarrassment. With one of the other gentlemen
he shook hands, at the same time addressing him
familiarly as Percy; to the fourth, who appeared
to be a foreigner, he slightly and haughtily bent
his head, a salutation that was returned with equal
hauteur; and then, seating himself between Sir
Henry Clinton and the American general, the conversation,
which had been interrupted, by his entrance,
was continued:
“So, general,” said Lord Percy to General Clinton,
“you do not attempt to force the lines in the
morning?”
“By no means. I am not adviser of the actual
strength of the enemy, and am unwilling to commit
anything to hazard.”
“It ish kreat victoories, vat ve gain by our swort
dis day,” said the foreign-looking officer, whose
breast was covered with insignia of military rank,
prefacing his remark with a tremendous oath, “ant
it were petter, lords and gentlemans, to holt on vat
ve have cot; von pird in de push, as you English
proverb say, wort two in de hant.”
General Sullivan stared at the speaker, and a
smile of contempt curled his lip as he glanced from
him to the British general. Clinton understood
him, and whispered in his ear,
“You don't admire my Hessian ally. But in
him you see how ignorance of a language undignifies,
as it were, and lays a man of education, sense,
and talent open to contempt and ridicule. I cannot
hear De Heister speak English without laughing
and losing my respect for him; but, when I
hear him converse in his own tongue, I am forced
to respect his eloquence and admire his genius.
He is as noble in German as he is low in English.
that I do not well understand. We wear foreign
languages like foreign garments, awkwardly and
ridiculously.”
General Sullivan assented with a nod to the truth
of this remark.
“I do not quite agree with you, General de
Heister,” said the Earl of Percy in the blandest
tones, and with the smile which usually prefaced
his remarks, “if it is your intention to be satisfied
with beating about the bush—to carry out your
very happy figure—and not enter to catch the bird.
It is my opinion,” he continued, turning, with his
usual formal dignity, to General Clinton, “that we
should make an attempt at daybreak to force the
enemy's lines. Men that could fly—I intend no
offence to your feelings, General Sullivan,” he said,
bowing apologetically, “as they fled this day, can
have little stomach to withstand a well-directed
charge from their victors. What says my Lord of
Cornwallis?”
“As I am a late participator in your councils,
gentlemen,” replied this nobleman, “I will listen
further to the expression of your several opinions
before I decide. Will General Clinton oblige me
by informing me of the course he has decided to
pursue?”
“It is to encamp here until to-morrow night, and
refresh the army, and then break ground in form.
General Howe has been riding over the field, and
reports that, within six hundred yards of a redoubt
on our left, we can work with ease and be defended
by the shipping. We shall press them so closely,
that, with the sea behind, their only alternative
will be to surrender prisoners of war.”
“I coincide with you,” said Cornwallis, after a
moment's reflection. “It will not only save bloodshed,
which even a successful attack might not do.
Howe is of the same mind, you say?”
“He is, and should now be with us. He left
shortly after the fate of the day was decided to
communicate with his brother Lord Howe, who
had returned on board his frigate. They will, no
doubt, soon be here to aid our councils. Percy,
you are silent,” he added; “shall we not be honoured
with the weight of your influence?”
“I resign my opinion, being in the minority,” he
said, bowing to them; “but,” he continued, pleasantly,
“if the rebels escape our hands thorough our
delay, I shall be sure, like the good wife in the tale,
to remind you that I told you so.”
“The responsibility rests with me, and I cheerfully
assume it,” said Clinton. “There is no danger,
judging from their play to-day, that they will
outgeneral us. I have never been more astonished
than at the carelessness shown by the enemy.
They left their passes open as if they had invited
us to enter. The genius of your chief, General
Sullivan, appears to have deserted him on this occasion.”
“A judicial blindness,” said Percy, dryly.
“Not so,” said Sullivan, his eyes kindling with
animation; “it was no fault of Washington. In
my presence he charged General Putnam, who
took the command at Brooklyn, in the most earnest
manner, to be in constant readiness for an attack,
and to guard most strictly the passes through the
heights. His orders were explicit, and so often enforced
respecting the defence of these outposts,
that he evidently regarded them as of the last degree
of importance, and seemed to foresee the consequences
of their being left without a sufficient
guard.”
“Then Putnam's laurels are somewhat tarnished,”
said Lord Percy.
“Nor was it Putnam's fault, my lord,” said Sullivan,
turning to him. “If any are tarnished, they
are my own, for I commanded the troops without
the lines, although during the action I was joined
by Putnam. Detachments of troops occupied by
my direction all the highland passes, and should
have interrupted the advance of your column.”
“Our patrols, it is true, encountered a small
body of troops before daybreak in the eastern pass;
but, after discharging their firearms, they threw
them down and surrendered, and we entered the
gorge without interruption. No doubt one or two
must have escaped in the darkness, and I am sur
prised you had no intimation of our approach till
we came upon you.”
“It is alone owing to our entire destitution of
horse. Our army did not contain a single corps of
cavalry. Had we been in possession of a few hundred
lighthorse to act as videttes, stationing them
at each of the passes, your approach would have
been communicated to us in time to have prevented
this movement from being so fatal to our army.”
“But, Sir Generale,” said De Heister, “dere
vas no use for de horse ven de van vas drawn off
vrom Vlatbush to Vlatland last nicht. Den you no
see de column move—ah! de horse no see in de
dark more petter nor von rebel.”
“Videttes, General de Heister, seem to me to
have been equally necessary then,” said Lord
Cornwallis; “foot are of no use half a mile in
front of lines. Videttes are the antenna of an encamped
army; they are as useful, and are of better
service to a general than the hundred eyes of
Argus would be.”
“It is entirely to the want of videttes that the
said General Sullivan; “and to no other causes can
be ascribed our ignorance of your movements.”
“Dere be no use of de vidette now for your
army, Generale Sullivane,” said De Heister, ironically;
“dey can see us plain if dey poke de top
of der head above de parapete.”
“Horse neither will be useful, nor will they have
room for action in the lines, I allow,” replied Sullivan;
“so you will be met on more equal terms.”
“How think you, general,” asked Percy, twirling
like a top a wineglass on the board as he spoke,
“the news of this battle will affect Congress?
Such a defeat, with your forces besieged on a
small peninsula without resources, must bring this
body to our own terms, if only to save its army
from certain destruction.”
“The events of this day, doubtless, will give a
gloomy aspect to our affairs, both in Congress and
Parliament; but, after the first shock is over, they
will have a tendency to bind the colonies more
firmly together. The safety of our army is a light
weight thrown into the scale, my lord, against a
nation's freedom. New armies will rise from the
ashes of the old, and, like the young phœnix, in renewed
strength and vigour.”
“Here be generale my Lord Howe,” said De
Heister, tossing off a glass of wine, and going to
the door of the tent as a trampling of horses' feet
was heard without.
The next moment voices were heard at the
door, and a stout, handsome man, in the prime of
life, with sun-browned cheeks and a cheerful and
benevolent countenance, wearing the uniform of a
British admiral, accompanied by a taller and sterner
man in the dress of an English general officer,
entered with some haste.
“Ah, De Heister,” he said, “I am told your German
blood was up to-day: no doubt you wore out
two good Toledos. Cornwallis, your most obedient!
Why, you look as grave as if you were a
prisoner and not a conqueror. My Lord of Percy,
you've got something worth smiling at to-day!
Clinton, I see you are at your Te Deum. Well,
my old chaplain says wine maketh the heart glad.
Ha!” he added, his countenance suddenly changing
to one of deep respect and sympathy as his eye
fell on the American general, “have I the pleasure
of seeing General Sullivan?”
“You do, my lord,” said the American; “our
present meeting is not like our former one.”
“It is not, sir; but such is the fortune of war,”
answered Lord Howe, seating himself at the table.
His companion, after bowing with dignity and in
silence to the gentlemen present, took a seat a little
to one side, as if from habit or natural reserve he
shunned communion with his fellow-men, and chose
rather to be an observer than a sharer of their pursuits.
Yet his voice was equal with the noblest in
that council by his rank as the brother of Lord
Howe, and his opinions entitled to high consideration
from the extent of his military talents.
“Gentlemen,” said Sullivan, rising, “permit me
to leave you to your councils, to the freedom of
which my presence, I fear, will be a bar.”
“Remain, if you please, General Sullivan,” said
General Howe, taking his hand as he passed him;
“we have an important trust in prospect for you,”
he added, with gravity; “our discussions need not
now be kept secret, even from our enemies.”
“From which,” said the American, smiling, and
resuming his chair, “I must infer that we are too
feeble to take any measures to oppose the accomplishment
of your decisions.”
“It is dat very truth, mine Generale Sullivane!
dere is too much ob defeat total for de rebel to be
wort noting more. You be altogedder vat ve say
in de Fransh, hors de combat. Is it not so, my
lor?”
“You have made it out very clearly, De Heister,”
said Lord Howe, in reply. “Gentlemen, I
beg leave to solicit your opinions in relation to the
use we are to make of this victory. My brother,
the general here, and myself, you are aware, have
full power to compromise this unhappy misunderstanding
between Great Britain and her colonies.
It was to obtain this authority I was detained two
months in London; unfortunately, too long; for
the Congress of the states had declared their independence
when, at length, I reached here. This
was sincerely to be regretted, as, before this decisive
step had been taken, our differences could
have been accommodated on terms mutually advantageous
to both.”
“Were those terms taxation with representation,
my lord?” asked General Sullivan.
“Not exactly; but the conditions of pacification
would no doubt have been acceptable to the belligerant
parties.”
“Never, my lord,” replied Sullivan, firmly; “for
taxation and representation cannot, on the principles
of the British constitution, whose privileges we
claim, be separated.”
“We will waive, if you please, this point of discussion,
General Sullivan,” said Lord Howe. “Although
your Congress has assumed the attitude and
dignity of a political body, I cannot treat with them
in this character, and thereby virtually acknowledge
their claim to be so considered. I am desirous,
however, of having an interview with two or
three of its prominer members, whom I shall look
mutual public interests. If I can obtain the consent
of some of these gentlemen to a conference, especially
of Franklin, I will meet them in a private
capacity wheresoever they shall appoint.”
“It is our duty, gentlemen,” quietly observed
General Howe, “to avail ourselves of the impression
the defeat of their army will make in the Colonial
Congress, and to open a negotiation in conformity
with our power as the king's commissioners;
although, as his lordship has just observed, we
are not empowered to recognise them as a constitutional
assembly. Can you, gentlemen, perceive
reasons why this step should not be taken?”
“It meets with my cordial approbation,” said
Clinton.
“And my own,” replied Lord Percy; “but I fear
your interview, gentlemen, will bring forth little
fruit.”
“My lord,” said Sullivan, as Cornwallis, Clinton,
and De Heister severally gave this proposition their
approval, “there is one objection, and, I think, an
insuperable one, to this plan. Your lordship is
aware that the Congress represents several free and
independent governments, uniting only for mutual
protection against a common danger, and cannot,
therefore, with more propriety than the British parliament,
send a deputation of its members to confer
with commissioners of a hostile country in their
private characters. Could it, however, do so, a
restoration of the connexion between the colonies
and Great Britain, without representation, is impracticable.
Even your eloquence, my lord, would
fail to subdue, in this case, its rebellious obstinacy,”
he added, bowing with a smile.
“I will, nevertheless, attempt to bring about a
negotiation after some fashion,” replied Lord Howe,
while the freshness of defeat intimidates and startles
it; and, as General Howe has intimated to you,
we offer you your parole, General Sullivan, and
beg that you will convey a verbal message from us
to your Congress, and inform it, either by addressing
individual members or its assembled body, of
our wishes.”
“Your lordship honours me by this confidence
and high trust,” replied Sullivan; “I am equally
desirous with yourself to have this unnatural dispute
amicably and speedily terminated. I accept
my parole, and will bear your message to Congress,
and will exert all my influence, as a true lover of
my country, towards bringing about an honourable
adjustment of our unhappy differences. But I fear
you must be very liberal to get Americans to waive
their independence, my lord.”
“Then you think, General Sullivan,” asked Sir
Henry Clinton, “that, unless we grant the colonists
equal rights with native-born Englishmen, that
Congress is immoveable in its determination to
maintain its independence, which it has so rashly
declared?”
“I do, sir. Nevertheless, I shall faithfully represent
to them the wishes of his majesty's commissioners.”
“Then, General Sullivan,” said Lord Howe, rising,
and speaking with much animation, “you will
be pleased to state to this Congress what you have
in part already heard; that General Howe and myself,
three months since, obtained, through the benevolence
and goodness of King George the Third,
full powers to compromise the dispute which has
brought on hostilities between the mother country
and her American colonies; and that they were
such as would have been for the mutual advantage
which unfortunately attended the obtaining of these
powers detained me in England two months, and
prevented my arrival here before the promulgation
of its declaration of independence: nor, indeed,
as you are aware, General Sullivan, was I deterred,
by this open act of Congress, from exercising the
powers of pacification with which I was intrusted.
The result you know.”
“Your lordship alludes to your circular letter
dated off the coast of Massachusetts!” said Sullivan,
with a slight, scornful movement of his upper
lip.
“Yes, sir,” said, somewhat sharply, General
Howe, who had observed this expression; “and, if
it had been obeyed, it would have restored to his
majesty his rightful colonies, put a period to a disgraceful
war, and saved the blood that has this day
been so freely spilled.”
“You are right, sir,” replied Sullivan; “it is a
disgraceful war, and one that will for ever tarnish
the escutcheon of Great Britain.”
General Howe was about to reply, but bit his
lip and remained silent.
“There you have it, William,” said Lord Howe,
laughing; “you should know it is our business to
fight our foes, not talk to them, especially when fortune
has made them our prisoners. Nay,” he continued,
turning to Sullivan, “it was the wish of his
majesty that a compact should have been settled at
this time, when no decisive blow had been struck,
and neither party could allege being compelled to
enter into such agreement. Say to the Congress,
if you please, whether individually or collectively,
that, on account of the unfortunate attitude they
have now assumed, our negotiations must wear
somewhat of a different face; but, if they are disposed
as yet asked may and ought to be granted to
them.”
“Will what they have already petitioned for be
granted, my lord?” inquired the American general.
“Tell them that if, in our private conference
(provided they see fit to grant one to the commissioners
his majesty has been graciously pleased to
appoint), we find there exists any probable appearance
of effecting an accommodation, their authority
as a political body may be afterward acknowledged.”
“But should there be no ground of accommodation,
or, at least, such as will meet your views, my
lord?”
“Then,” replied General Howe, sternly, “the
compact will be incomplete, and there would be
an end to further negotiation.”
“Except, my lor and generales, py de cannon
mout and de point of de swort,” said De Heister,
with a fierceness to which his repeated draughts
of wine had not a little contributed. “Onse vader!
Neuve Amsterdam is de city of de Deutsche. Tell
Mynheer Congrish we men of de Hesse will take
it back at de point of de bagonet. 'Tis our own
city, Neuve Amsterdam!”
“Then you are fighting for your own domain,
De Heister?” said Lord Howe. “If you and your
bearded Hessians take New-York, as reward for
your share in the conquest you will no doubt be
chosen burgomaster. By St. George! I will swear
you would keep a good wine-cellar.”
“Himmel!” shouted De Heister, in a rage; “does
dat mean for one tamn insult, mi lor? De Heister
von name from de classiker, mi lor! tree undred
year ol', mi lor! I von burgomaster? Sapperment!
ve vill settle dis pretty quarrel wid de swort.
he said, turning to the American officer, and
laying his hand with drunken solemnity upon his
heart, while, excepting a fierce glow in his eyes,
his face was as unmoved as if he had asked for a
pinch of snuff.
“My dear De Heister,” said Clinton, soothingly,
laying his hand upon his arm, “General Sullivan
is to leave camp immediately. I myself will
see that you have the satisfaction of a gentleman in
the morning.”
“By St. George! De Heister,” observed Lord
Howe, with a smile, as if amused at the serious
and hostile countenance of the Hessian general,
“I will then give you, if your anger abate not before
dawn, what shall suffice the honour of all your
ancestors, from Von Brom de Heister, the first of
the name, down to your own valiant self, in whom
doth centre all their honour. So, general, let us
take wine together in token of our friendly consideration
for each other.”
The Hessian smoothed his mustache and pledged
his antagonist amicably, in anticipation of the
morning's hostile meeting; and, as he replaced his
glass upon the table, his face wore an air of inward
satisfaction.
General Sullivan now took leave of the council,
and was accompanied without the tent by Lord
Howe and General Clinton. As he mounted a
horse to accompany his escort to the American
lines, he said,
“You don't think of giving this Hessian a meeting,
even if your rank would permit it?”
“No, no! he is now on his high German horse;
he'll forget it in the morning, and be as courteous
as a well-bred bear.”
Lord Howe again enforced his instructions:
this, at the late quarters of Lord Percy on Staten
Island, and inform me of the result of your interview
with Congress?”
“I will do so, my lord; but I think, if Congress
confers with you at all, it will do it only by delegating
a committee of its body to wait on you in an
official capacity. But nous verrons!”
He bade them adieu as he spoke, and rode forward
to join his escort.
For the answer of the American Congress we
refer the reader to history, our tale following General
Sullivan no farther in his mission. Clinton
gazed after him a moment as he disappeared in the
darkness, and said,
“A noble gentleman! 'tis a pity he should defend
such a cause.”
“The devil's in it! since this rebellion broke out,
extraordinary men have sprung up among the rebels
to meet the exigences of the times, as if it were a
second crop of warriors from the teeth of—of—
deuse take it! this salt water rusts one's classics,
Clinton.” Thus speaking, Admiral Howe re-entered
the tent.
The council broke up after a free discussion of
the plan of attack upon New-York. It was decided
that a part of the fleet should sail round Lond
Island, coasting the southern shore and entering the
Sound by doubling Montauk Point, approach New-York
through Hell Gate, the entrance to East River
being protected by the batteries of New-York,
Governor's Island, and Red Hook; that, on the
arrival of their fleet through the Sound, instead of
making a direct attack on New-York, they should
land at Kingsbridge, and take up a position across
the island of New-York, cut off all communication
with the mainland, and, blockading General Washington
on their own terms.
“You speak, admiral,” said Cornwallis, as Lord
Howe detailed his plan, “as if Putnam and his
army were already in our hands.”
“He will be, with every man in his garrison, before
ten days. He cannot escape us. I am so sanguine
of our success, that I should be willing to
anticipate it, and write to England that we had
taken the whole army prisoners of war.”
Lord and General Howe and the Earl of Corn
wallis now mounted their horses, accompanied by
De Heister. The Hessian was formally polite to
his antagonist, and equally remarkable for his blunt
address to the others; for men are never so punctilious
in their bearing towards each other as when
they are on the eve of blowing out one another's
brains.
Taking leave of Clinton and Percy at the door
of the pavilion, the party rode away to their respective
quarters—Cornwallis to his tent on the
heights; De Heister to seek a pillow in the midst
of his bearded followers; and the noble brothers,
accompanied by a small party of officers, who joined
them without the line of posts, to go on board the
admiral's frigate, which, with the majority of the
British fleet, lay at anchor nearly a league below
the field of battle.
12. CHAPTER XII.
THE CONSPIRACY.
After the clattering hoofs of the departing cavalcade
had died away, the silence of the pavilion
was only disturbed by the measured footfall of the
sentinel, a distant challenge of a patrol, or the more
distant and confused sounds of the enemy at work
strengthening their defences against the morrow's
anticipated assault. Sir Henry Clinton and the
Earl of Percy reseated themselves by the table.
The former commenced penning despatches: the
latter sat opposite to him, sometimes absently sipping
from a glass of wine before him, or, placing it
down and still holding it in his grasp, gazing fixedly
and admiringly upon the noble features of the British
general as his face was bent to his task, the lamp
shining upon them, and relieving, by strong lights
and shadows, every lineament of his marked and
intellectual countenance. At length, when he had
completed, folded, and had risen to melt the wax
by the light above his head preparatory to sealing
his letters, Percy said, with a meaning smile,
“Sir Henry, I have pleasant news.”
“Ha! indeed, my lord?” said Clinton, placing
the wax upon the letter and deliberately impressing
the seal.
“No less than a surety of the success of our
former plan, for the failure of which Carnet was
strung up.”
“I'll have nothing to do with it, my lord. I like
not any concernment with such underhand plotting,
fair warfare. If you choose to persevere in your
scheme, I have no objection, although I wash my
hands officially or personally of the whole affair.
To say truth, I don't think it, as my Lord Howe
would say, all fair and above board.”
“And yet you will profit by the result. But I
have no delicate compunctions of this sort; all is
fair in war. To be sure, it would be more chivalrous
to take our enemy in the field in open fight
than by stratagem.”
“Such a plan as you propose is deemed right
and proper by all nations; but, in my opinion, it
is unworthy of Englishmen. It is on a par with
the base principle that influences some barbarous
nations to cut off their prisoners' right hands to prevent
them from bearing arms against them.”
“Well, general,” replied the Earl of Percy, smiling,
“I am not quite so scrupulous as you profess
to be. I hope, if I present you to-morrow the right
hand of this rebellion—the head and front of this
offence—you will receive the distinguished guest
into your tent and give him a good welcome,” he
added, rising and enveloping himself in his cloak.
“If the presence of this guest would terminate
the war, he should be cheerfully welcomed. What
guarantee have you of success?” inquired Clinton,
with some interest.
“Your curiosity is awakened, but I will be charitable
to your prejudices, Clinton, and not implicate
your conscience by making you a confidant in so
dangerous a matter. Good-evening, sir.”
“Good-night, my lord,” said Clinton, resuming
his writing with undisturbed equanimity. Lord
Percy, after leaving the tent, passed the guards
unchallenged. Having gained the outer circle of
sentinels, he stopped near a tree within bowshot
anxiously around as if expecting some one; but,
after making the circuit of the tree twice without
meeting any object, he stopped and gazed thoughtfully
upon the long lines of tents stretching duskily
away on either side till lost in the distance. The
camp had settled into a deep and noiseless repose.
“How profound this rest!” he mused. “Ten
thousand men are sleeping heavily around me!
The whitened ground is heaving with mailed sleepers;
men who a few hours since were shouting
the battle-cry, and bathing their arms in the blood
of their fellow-creatures! They peacefully sleep,
oblivious of the past, unanxious for the future.
Thousands, who now sleep in their blood along the
hillside and skirts of yonder forest, last night laid
down and slept as now sleep these, who to-morrow
night, perchance, will sleep, like them, in a bed of
gore.”
“Mi lor!” said a voice at his side.
“Ha, Pascalet! are you there? I have waited
for you. Where is Major Ney?”
“Le Mazhore Ney, mi lor, 'est occupé in de
dressin ov deux slash in de skin. Mais c'est nothin
much!”
“Wounded, Pascalet?”
“Eh, un leetle. Une affaire no grande. He
hav' un heart ver' brave; tres fort, wit de glorie he
make contre de ennemee.”
“I must, then, visit him in his tent. Lead on.”
“Oui, mi lor,” replied the man, turning to the
right, and gliding rather than walking to the rear
of the pavilion, and through a lane formed by two
rows of tents. Every few rods they were intercepted
by two sentinels, who crossed their arms
before them, demanding not only the password,
but also to see the faces of the strangers. After
northern direction, they crossed a small brook rippling
over its pebbly bed on its way to discharge
its tributary waters into Gowan's Cove, and, after
answering the challenges of the sentinels stationed
on either bank, they entered an open field bordered
on the east by tall trees, and surrounded on every
side except on the south by marshes: here it was
connected by a low ridge with the elevated ground
they had just left behind, and on which was encamped
the centre of the British army.
“Ici, mi lor, be de first detachment of de—de—
what you call no de lef?—ah, de wing right,” said
the guide, as they skirted a spur of the main encampment.
“Ah, dere de maison,” added he, after
they had advanced a few paces farther, pointing to
a low, dusky farmhouse nearly hidden in the dark
shadows of the wood to the east, and surrounded
by tents, some of which were pitched close to its
threshold.
They made their way through these tents, which
were placed with less regularity than those about
the headquarters, as if they had been planted hastily
and late; and some soldiers they saw still engaged
fastening the pins of one or two, as, challenged
at every turn, they thridded the intricacies.
Passing a sentinel at the door of the farmhouse,
Pascalet spoke in a low tone to a soldier standing
in the hall, who, without replying, walked to its
extremity and knocked at a side door.
“Pascalet, wait my orders,” said Percy, as he
obeyed the summons to enter.
“Oui, mi lor,” he replied, with a gleaming smile,
which seemed to be confined wholly to his black,
bloodthirsty eye, mechanically, at the same time,
placing his hand into his breast as if grasping a
concealed weapon.
The room into which Percy was admitted was
a small bedchamber in a wing of a house in which
several British officers had taken up quarters for
the night. A single bed, with a military cloak
thrown over it for a coverlid; a semicircular table
standing beneath a small looking-glass, with a white
dimity cloth upon it; two flag-bottom chairs, with
high oaken backs; a picture of a curly-headed little
girl, in a pink frock, kneeling on the grass, holding
a vessel, out of which a pet lamb was quietly drinking,
an old gnarled oak forming the back-ground;
a framed sampler, with the alphabet displayed in
every hue of the rainbow, in every variety of size
and form; an oilcloth-covered combcase on one side
of the little glass, symmetrically in keeping with a
pin and needle cushion on the other; and, finally,
two strips of carpeting, economically made of
patches and shreds of variously-coloured broadcloth,
one lying by the bedside, the other before
the tall, half-moon toilet table, constituted, in part,
the ornaments and furniture of the little chamber.
On the mantelpiece was a New Testament, much
schoolworn, a volume of Isaac Watts's Psalms and
Hymns, and a well-thumbed copy of the Book of
Martyrs. A volume of the “Rise and Progress of
Religion in the Soul” innocently flanked a little
glass case of French gaud, containing a tawdry
waxen image of the Virgin Mary, holding in her
arms an infant arrayed in pink and roses; a prized
ornament of the little bedroom, doubtless, not a deity
for the worship of its former occupant. In addition
to the furniture just mentioned, there was a little
workstand in one corner, white muslin curtains to
the humble windows, and a flower-vase containing
a daisy upon the shining red hearth before a flaunting
paper fireboard; all of which showed that it
was the rustic boudoir of some humble maiden,
for a time, of her quiet home. The floor was as
white as the driven snow; the walls were whitewashed,
and even the rafters which stretched across
the low ceiling were free from the webs of the busy
spider, whose labours are but little respected by
the broom of the diligent, brushing, and bustling
housewife.
“Good-evening, my lord,” said Major Ney, rising
from the bed on which he had been lying in his uniform
as Lord Percy entered; “you come to narrow
quarters.”
“Neat and homely,” said his lordship, whose
quick eye had taken in at a glance all the details
we have taken so much space to relate. “You
have been a sad and unwelcome intruder here, sir.
Where's the pretty coquette who each morning reflected
her rosy and sunbrowned cheeks in this mirror?
No outrage has been committed, I trust, by the
soldiers? This war is bitter enough, of necessity.”
“None, my lord. The tenant is a loyalist. His
family are in quiet possession of the opposite wing.”
“Didst not find a pretty lass curling her locks in
paper at that half-moon of a table, major? Tut!
but you are a father, with a tight, pretty lass of your
own; what cares an old widower for bright een and
sunny hair? Hast heard of our spy of late, the fair
Isabel?” he asked, throwing himself into one of the
highback chairs, but immediately vacating it as if
he would choose a more comfortable seat, and placing
himself on the foot of the bed. “No, major,
don't rise. That villain of mine, Pascalet, tells me
you are hurt—but not badly, I hope.”
“A slight wound in the temples, received singularly
enough from a four-pounder thrown from
hand by a young gallows-bird. I shall be in my
saddle in a day or two.”
“I am glad it is no worse. You have heard
nothing from your daughter since she was spirited
away to Kingsbridge?”
“Indirectly, that she is still there and well.”
“'Tis a pity Washington's sagacity should have
marred our plan, which seemed to tend to so fair
an issue. But we have laid a deeper train now,
and I think 'twill hardly fail us.”
“Have you heard from our friends in the city?”
inquired Major Ney.
“Not for two days, when Bellamy sent word that
all was nearly ripe, and that by six this evening
we should hear again, when and where to meet
them with our boats; but, if no tidings came from
them, to believe their messenger intercepted, and
endeavour to send one to them who could be sure
of returning safely; further, he stated that a single
boat would find no difficulty, with proper caution, in
effecting a landing near Crown Point after nightfall.”
“'Tis now eight, my lord. You should have
seen Bellamy's messenger ere this. Whom did he
send on the first message?”
“Impatient at their delay and the long interval
of news, I despatched the Frenchman's valet, Pascalet,
who has taken a fancy to attach himself to my
person. “He returned to me with their message.”
“Who is this Pascalet?”
“A very villain, if nature ever made the pattern
of one. A compound of craft, impish shrewdness,
malice, and meanness. His eye gleams with the
serpent's cunning, while he wears the look of idiocy.
He would stoop to lick my shoe if I bade
him, but would rise to strike his dagger in my
breast in atonement for the servility and in revenge
for the insult. He has no human soul, but
is only, for the moment, magnetized into humanity
by contact with his fellow-creatures.”
“You describe a dangerous man, my lord!”
“True; but I fear him not. I do not have him
much about my person; he still serves his own
master, and only myself since the desertion of my
valet. His master, by-the-by, is his very prototype,
with the same dark spirit refined and made
more dangerous by education. They seem to have
been in each other's society so long, that, if one was
originally the greater devil, they have now become
like bodies of unequal temperature placed in juxtaposition,
equally diabolical. Like master like man,
in very truth.”
“Your lordship is aware that this is an enterprise
in which intelligence as well as craft is necessary.
The information of the valet I would not rely on, nor
trust him too far. Suppose you send the chevalier,
as he styles himself, on his parole, and promise him
his liberty if he successfully fulfils the object of his
mission. His politics, at least, are on our side.”
“Parole?”
“Is he not now on parole, my lord, within the
bounds of the camp? He is doubtless a bad man,
but he holds those lofty sentiments of military honour,
in a case where his word is pledged, which so
peculiarly characterizes the enthusiastic, incoherent
Frenchman of the day. As a soldier, he will
give and keep his word; as a man, I would not trust
him a tether's length.”
“You may be right. He seems too like one of
those men such stirring times as these create, who
are ever ready to plunge into excitement and adventure,
`tojours pres' their motto. I believe you are in
the right, Ney. It strikes me he is the very man
to serve our purpose; and then, if it fails, we can
make him the scapegoat. Our friends ashore, in
that case, will be glad to have a neck between them
and a rebel gallows. Call him, Ney. We'll have
bring him glibly over to our purpose.”
Pascalet was summoned, and sent to a group of
tents in the rear of the house; after a short absence
he returned, and ushered a dark foreigner into the
little room where Percy and Ney, leisurely discussing
the events of the day and the prospects of the
morrow, were awaiting his appearance.
“Messieurs,” he said, bowing low, and almost
cringingly, and speaking in tolerable English, “your
servant! Ah, mi Lord Percy! pardon me! I am
your very humble servant.”
“Chevalier,” said Percy, rising and approaching
the bowing foreigner with one of his blandest
smiles, “you do us great honour. Pray be seated.
Pascalet, you need not leave the room—thrust in
your whole body! We have occupation for some
of your leisure hours.”
“Oui, mi lor. I vill stan', mi lor, here by de door
de l'appartement,” he said, shutting the door hesitatingly,
with the timid air of one who felt himself in
the presence of a lion, and felt that he was closing
the only avenue of escape; yet he could not conceal
from Lord Percy that all this humility was
the artful guise of confidence and impudence.
Pascalet approached the presence of his superiors
ke a whipped dog who is called back to further
discipline of the lash by his master's voice; among
his equals or inferiors he was as ready with bark
and teeth as the same cur snarling among its fellows
or tyrannizing over whelps of lower degree.
He could be likened only to a snake that goes
crawling among men, ready to strike its fangs into
their heels. He was about thirty years of age, low
in stature, with broad, square shoulders, but his
figure was as straight as an arrow: he was slight
but muscular, and as active as a cat. He wore a
French cassimere, yellow hose, and paste shoe-buckles.
His neck, which was encircled several
times by a soiled yellow silk kerchief, was long and
scraggy, and surmounted by a triangular-shaped
head, covered by a mass of black hair, thick and
rough like a bear's fur. His forehead was low,
narrow, and projecting, but entirely concealed by his
hair, which overhung the penthouse formed by
his bristly eyebrows. His eyes were sunken and
bloodshotten, with little restless pupils, the lustrous
gleam of which resembled a rattlesnake's; their
general expression was that of wily cunning and active
suspicion. His thin face was sallow, and half
hidden in enormous black whiskers, and disfigured
with scars. His hands were remarkably small,
yellow, and thin, with a nervous, assassin-like look,
and seemed to be almost as expressive of the restless
character of the man as his countenance. His
passions seemed to be impulsive in their nature,
but deliberative in their operations. He was quick
to decide, cool to act. During the conference, he
stood with his hand on the latch of the door; his
head sunk on his breast, but his eyes taking note of
everything that passed around him. Altogether,
he was one of those men who, at the first glance,
strike the beholder with revolting and painful emotions,
which they can neither account for nor express.
The master of this man, the soi-disant chevalier,
was a tall, exceedingly spare-built figure, upward
of six feet high, erect and military; dressed in a
long surtout of coarse French cloth, in shape somewhat
similar to the Canadian capote, but differing
from that garment in its length by reaching nearly
to the ankles of the wearer; and at the waist, instead
of being girdled by a sash, a broad military
boots, so essential to the costume of an officer, he
wore high-heeled shoes adorned by a pair of costly
buckles; his belt was without a sword, and the
chains to which it had been appended were hooked
together in a loop. Under his arm he carried a
richly-laced chapeau, and, judging alone from his
dress, the observer might have set him down either
for an officer or a civilian. His face was oval, colourless,
and wholly divested of whiskers or beard;
his forehead was high and bald; his brows abrupt
and prominent; his eyes were of a light hazel colour,
and wore an unpleasing, sinister expression,
and never directly encountered those of others;
his nostril was thin and transparent, and expanding
at every emotion, as we have seen those of a
mettled courser; his under lip had a sensual fulness,
and the upper, which was finely chiselled,
wore a short, malignant curl; his look was wary
and alert; and while he observed everything and
studied others closely, he was, apparently, the most
indifferent and unobserving. His face presented a
singular combination of ferocity and mildness,
frankness and suspicion, candour and craft, pride
and humility, manly strength and feminine softness.
Over all the exterior man there shone a lustre of
courtly polish.
He entered the room bowing and smiling; took
the chair offered him by Lord Percy, and, at first,
accommodated himself to its uncomfortable shape
with habitual politeness; but, finding his attitude
left him lower than the others, he rose again, and,
with an apology that he had been sitting all the
evening, took his station behind it leaning upon its
back.
“Chevalier,” said the earl, “I have taken the
liberty of sending to invite you to join our discussions.”
The chevalier bowed, looked inquiringly and suspiciously
from one gentleman to the other, and then
said,
“I am honoured, mi lord. The Earl of Percie
has but to speak to be obeyed.”
“When our frigate captured you in an enemy's
ship, you were, if I remember, bound to Quebec?”
“Mi lord is very correct.”
“You have frequently desired to be exchanged,
that you might accomplish your original intention;
at least, I am so informed by your valet, Pascalet.”
“It is true, mi lord. Mais, mon Dieu!” he added,
quickly, “I am no subject for exchange. I am
no enemy to King George, but a loyal Canadian
sujet.”
“You have not proved it, chevalier, and we must
treat you as a prisoner, although we sincerely regret
to do so,” said the benign earl, with affability.
“But I desire to propose to you a means of at once
obtaining your freedom. There is a plan ripe for
the abduction of a rebel officer of high rank. The
conspirators are now assembled in a certain house
in New-York. I wish to communicate with them.
We have seen fit to extend your parole, which, like
a Frenchman and a man of honour, you have so long
kept sacred, on condition that, with Pascalet as your
guide, you will see these gentlemen, and, as soon as
possible, return and report their proceedings; this
faithfully done, chevalier, your liberty is in your
own hands. You hear the terms?” continued Lord
Percy, after a moment's pause.
The chevalier eyed the two gentlemen, and even
glanced to mark the expression of Pascalet's face,
like one who always looks in men's countenances
for a construction that shall contradict or convey
an opposite meaning to their words, as if he regarded
these as riddles which crafty penetration
his taking their words in their obvious meaning, he
said with complacency, but carefully guarding his
countenance,
“Mi lord, I accept the mission with pleasure.”
“You have, then, your parole, chevalier! Pascalet
will be your guide, for he has been to the city
before. Take this seal as your authority, and bring
me, by letters or verbally, the condition of affairs.
Pascalet's wit will find a way of crossing the water.
He hung to the rudder of one of the enemy's barges,
Ney, two nights since, and was safely towed across.
A wet jacket is not, however, a part of the conditions,
chevalier.”
Scrutinizing their features once more, as if he
would find something in their faces that had not
escaped their lips, he bowed courteously, received
a sword handed him by Major Ney, and, after some
further instructions from Lord Percy, left the room,
followed by Pascalet.
“There go a precious pair of villains, my lord.”
“And they, or the greater one of them, is like to
stay; farewell to that sword, Ney.”
“'Twere well gone if 'twould keep him away.”
“I wonder at Lord Howe's whim at keeping him
so long a prisoner. But we must hear from our
friends, and English blood has been shed too freely
to-day to risk more of it in this enterprise. But,
my lord, you go not forth to-night?”
“I have matters to talk over with Clinton, and
must leave.”
“Do we force the lines in the morning?”
`No; but we shall break ground in form tomorrow
night.”
“Thank Heaven, by that time I shall be fit for
the saddle. So, then, my lord, if you will not share
my quarters, good-night.”
“Good-night, and may your dreams be of the
fair rustic—pshaw! I forget thou art a pater-familias.
When this chevalier returns, send word to
my tent.”
Thus speaking, Lord Percy wrapped his cloak
around him, and, with his drawn sword concealed
beneath it, left the farmhouse, and, without interruption,
gained the quarters of Sir Henry Clinton.
The chevalier and his companion pursued their
way silently but rapidly across the field, the latter
taking the lead as guide, and, after a walk of half
a mile, they entered a wood bordering on a brook
that emptied into Whaaleboght Bay. Descending
the steep bank by clinging to bushes, they turned
short to the left, following the course of the stream
before mentioned, now scrambling along it by a
rough track strewn with stones, now crossing and
then recrossing it when their path was shut in by
approaching banks, and now leaping from rock to
rock. They at length arrived at the outlet of the
creck, and beheld the little bay of Whaaleboght
stretching before them; the campfires of the Americans
were on their left; and, far distant, the lights
of the city flung their spiral, wavy lines over the
water. Even to this retired spot the fight had penetrated;
and several bodies of Americans, who had
fled to the shore to take boats, lay dead on the beach
where they had struggled in vain for their lives.
Not finding any boat, the two proceeded higher
up the beach until they came to a point of land
where the East River was narrower than below,
and from which, favoured by the tide, they could
cross obliquely to the city. After looking about
for some time, Pascalet found a small wherry concealed
beneath a clump of willows in a narrow inlet
worn in the sand by a torrent.
“Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed, as, in taking hold of
a heavy groan; “c'est le diable!” but the next instant,
as if comprehending the cause of the noise,
he thrust one hand through the foliage and grasped
a man by the breast; with the other he drew his
stiletto, brandished it in the air, and, with “sacr-r-r-e!”
rolling from his tongue, was about to
bury it in his body, when the chevalier caught his
arm.
“Hold, Pascalet! You've killed rebels enough
to-day. If he is the owner of the boat, we'll make
him row us across. There is time enough to kill
him when we've done with him.”
“For the sake of the blessed Mary!” cried the
man, in provincial French, at the same time struggling
to free himself from the muscular grasp upon
his chest, “spare my life; I am a true man—oh
misericorde! Mercy, mercy!”
“By the holy church! we've a bon comrade
here,” said Pascalet, in French, dropping his arm
and releasing his hold, “and a howling one too.
Stir out of that, and let us see who thou art that
hast a life worth so much yelling for! Out!
Crawl, or I will make thee tune thy pipes to some
purpose!”
“Patient, good friend,” said the man, in Canadian
French; “put up that dangerous whinger, an it
please thee. It might do mischief of itself. No,
no! force me not! I will come out. I am coming!
Thank the saints! ye are friends and true
men. Bless me, how sweet er words sound; 'tis
long since I've heard such sweet words! Prithee,
friend and countryman, be not over hasty! Seest
thou not I'm coming?”
At length, after very manifest reluctance, he
placed his feet on the ground, trembling and talking
the dangers with which he felt himself surrounded.
He had no sooner shown himself, than,
dropping on his knees, he began to plead piteously
for his life.
“Hist, thou liver-loon!” said Pascalet; “if'twere
not for thy Canadian tongue, I would whisk off
thy head as I would a garlic top! Whist! or thy
speech shall not longer keep thy head. Who art
thou, villain? Tell me thy name and country, and
why thou art here?”
“A poor peasant of Chaudiere, whom the devil
has driven out to the wars, who never did harm to
living soul, so save me, mercy! 'Twas to save
the lives of many, who would else have been slain
by me had I continued in battle, that I hid my valour
aneath this boat! No, I am no ill-hearted man,
friend! I would not harm a hair o' thy head if I
were to get the strampado for not doing it. By my
beard would I not!”
“Thou art the most valiant coward and most
cowardly braggart these ears ever listened to.
Sacre! I know not if thou art the more knave or
fool. But wert never christened? Thy name,
villain?”
“Jacques Cloots, courageous sir.”
“Cloots? Jacques Cloots? and from Chaudiere,
sayst thou?”
“Even so, your valiancy; and now a rebel—that
is, if thou beest un; if not, I am one o' the enemy,
as it suits your valour's humour.”
“Mon Dieu!” cried Pascalet; “art thou that
Jacques Cloots whom I have ducked for pastime
in the Chaudiere; tied by the thumb to a tree in
June, sticking thy nose with honey; made thee
swallow tadpoles and swear them oysters; fed thee
my pleasure? By the head of St. Peter, Sir Chevalier!
I have caught a Tartar.”
During this address, Jacques, who, after his discomfiture,
had chanced to find and occupy the hiding-place
from which he was so ceremoniously
dragged forth, groaned in agony. At each enumeration
of Pascalet's exploits and his own martyrdoms
he would mutter something between an exorcism
and a prayerful ejaculation; when he ended, he
clasped his hands and emitted a deep groan, like
one who had resigned himself to some dreadful
destiny that was in waiting for him.
“Speak, clown! art thou not that veritable
Jacques Cloots who, with the soul of a mouse,
would make thy fellows believe thou wert a lion;
while thou couldst not bear to see me, in mere
sport, tear a live frog's hind-legs off?”
“I—I am. Art thou Pascalet—Pascalet le Diable?”
“Pascalet le Diable? Dost wish to taste my
steel? I am Pascalet Layet, peasant.”
“By my beard!” cried Jacques, briskly, “I
thought thou wert hung.”
“There you have it!” said the chevalier.
“Fiend take thy thoughts!” exclaimed Pascalet,
grasping his weapon; then, relinquishing the hilt,
he laughingly said, “I hear it was so reported.
Which side boasts your sword's exploits in this
warfare? Speak; art thou a rebel?”
“No, good Pascalet, not I. I am a true man.”
“We must not delay here, Pascalet,” said the
chevalier; “if he is thy countryman, press him for
our service. He can wield an oar as well as a
musket.”
“A musket? I'll warrant he never put finger to
one in his life,” said Pascalet, as he proceeded to
peasant?”
“I have pointed my gun many a time at the enemy,”
replied Jacques, stoutly; “but, somehow,
I couldn't have the heart, when I knew 'twas loaded
with a bullet, to fire it right against men's broad
breasts. I haven't loaded with bullets since I like
to ha' fired and killed a red-coated soldier once.
'Tis cruel wicked to kill folks; and I thinks it be
just full as wicked to kill a good many in a heap,
like to-day, as to slay one at a time; but the great
uns don't think so, and they knows best.”
Thus speaking, he put his shoulder to the boat,
and, with the aid of Pascalet, floated it.
“There's philosophy for you, Pascalet. Your
friend is not so green as you think,” said the chevalier,
stepping into the boat.
“A mere suckling! Balaam's ass speaking by
dint of beating. Take that oar, peasant, and see
if thou hast the wit to pull it. A greater miracle
than thy presence here has not been in Rome. Thy
dam should not have weaned thee till thou hadst cut
thy wisdom-teeth. Now—dip deep! Look not
round if thy oar happen to knock a fish on the head,
or thou wilt suddenly feel thy bones sorer than thy
conscience will be at the deed.”
Jacques mechanically seated himself on the
thwarts, and pulled at the after-oar by Pascalet's
order. Pascalet placed himself behind him and
pulled the bow-oar, which he brought with violence
against his back at every “feather” caught by
the sweep of the inexperienced rower, like one with
whom cruelty was habitual, and who was gratified
at having an old victim once more in his grasp.
The headland they left was directly opposite
Crown Point, now called Corlear's Hook, then halt
a league above the town. A few scattered houses,
at that period: now it is in the centre of the city,
which has grown more than a league beyond it,
dense with houses, thronged with population, and
its shores lined with wharves and shipping.
The water was perfectly smooth, reflecting the
minutest stars in its clear mirror as the boat glided
out from the land and held its way to the opposite
shore, with many a curse from the cruel Pascalet,
and many a groan from the patient, enduring
Jacques, against whose back his old tormentor kept
up a regular system of annoyance—the pastime of
a spirit that, like his own, found delight only in inflicting
pain.
The river was deserted. No vessels rode at anchor
in the stream or lay by the shore. Commerce
had folded her wings at the approach of war, or,
spreading them, had taken her flight to other seas.
Their boat seemed to be the only inhabitant of
the waters. At length the shores of Long Island
became more indistinct, and the trees and an occasional
dwelling on the side towards which they
were steering stood out from the obscurity, till at
length the dark outline of the edifices of the city
could be traced against the sky. They shot close
into the land where the trees overhung the water.
After looking cautiously around, they landed, and,
securing their boat to a projecting root, covered it
with branches. The chevalier now questioned
Pascalet respecting the course he intended to pursue,
and then bade him lead on.
Without ascending the bank to avoid some detachments
of the enemy stationed not far from the
river, they traversed the beach until they came to
the place from which Arden had embarked to escort
Eugenie to Kip's Bay.
Pascalet skulked along the shore with the confident
localities. When he came in sight of the platform
before mentioned and the boats moored around it, he
suddenly stopped, discovering that it was occupied
by a sentinel. After delaying a moment to reconnoitre,
making a gesture of caution, he crept forward
on his knees, bringing a tree in a line between
his course and the soldier; then, carefully watching
his opportunity, as the man turned in his walk he
put off his shoes, bounded forward with the lightness
of a cat, and sprung upon the platform. The
next instant he was on the man's back, with his
fingers firmly grasping his throat. The soldier, in
surprise and agony, dropped his musket into the
water, and, after a brief struggle, fell to the platform;
but the noise of his fall was skilfully broken
by the cool and cautious assassin, who drew his
knife as he fell and buried it in his heart: he then
pitched the body over into the water. This was
all done in a moment of time.
“That was a needless blow, Pascalet,” coolly
said the chevalier, who now came up; “ 'twould
have been enough to take his arms.”
“Ay, and so let him loose to set a party of dragoons
upon our heels. What's one man's blood,
more or less, in the count of to-day's sport?”
“Hast thee, in verity, slain the soldier I but now
saw walking so bravely here?” inquired Jacques,
trembling and breathing with difficulty from terror.
“In verity have I,” answered Pascalet, wiping
his blade upon the skirt of his frock; “and I will
send thee to keep him company unless thou keep
thy tongue and curiosity to thyself. Am I to account
to thee for every fool's blood I chance to
spill? Follow, and, if thou art wise, shut thy jaws
and use thy feet!”
Pascalet again took the lead and passed up the
Arden and Eugenie; and, turning to the left into
the road leading to the city, the party proceeded
at a swift pace towards the place of meeting chosen
by the conspirators.
13. CHAPTER XIII.
THE MISER.
In a quarter of the town to which the reader
already has been introduced, and at the outlet of
the steep street opening into the square which the
Arden Eugenie crossed to gain the mansion of
General Washington, stood, at the period of our tale,
an ancient brick dwelling, with sunken foundations,
and a steep tiled roof projecting far over the sidewalk.
It looked on the square, and had the air of
having been, in earlier days, a mansion of the better
sort, although now displaying broken sashes, shattered
hinges and shutters, and dilapidated steps
leading to the only door in front, which seemed to
be nailed up and never used.
The side bordering on the steep lane which, with
a short descent and a longer ascent, led to Broadway,
was a plain dead wall, tarnished and crumbled
with time, perforated in the midst by one small
square window, set with four glass panes of the
kind called “bull's eyes,” admitting light, but impervious
to vision. At the termination of this wall
of the house, and about thirty feet down the alley,
was a low, narrow door cut in the angle, apparently
done after the house was built, and sunken beneath
strong, of thick oak, and had once been painted red.
About nine o'clock on the evening of the battle
of Brooklyn, and just before we took leave of the
chevalier and his party on their way to their rendezvous,
a man in a military chapeau, and wrapped
in an ample Spanish cloak, rather worn for disguise
than for comfort, suddenly turned from the square
into this lane. Glancing hastily up, and seeing a
faint light shining through the little window of the
house we have just described, he quickened his
pace down the steep sidewalk, and, approaching the
little wicket, knocked deliberately four times, and,
after a brief pause, repeated two additional strokes
in quick succession. In a few moments a shuffling
footstep was heard within, a light glimmered
through the keyhole and shone over the top of the
door, which was on a level with the applicant's
eyes, and a croaking voice asked his business at
that hour of the night.
“Unbar, Father Gerret! Dost not know, old
skinflint, how much IV. and II. make?”
The noise of a falling bar was followed by that
of the clattering of a key, applied with trembling
hands to the lock, and the creaking of the bolt; the
door slowly turned on its hinges, and an old man
appeared with a haggard face, sharp features, and
sunken eyes, in whose countenance fear and suspicion
were mingled. He bore a piece of tallow
candle, placed in a gourd, in his hands, which also
grasped a bunch of keys, securely attached to his
skinny wrist by a leather thong. He appeared
about fifty years of age, to which care and imaginary
want had added full ten more. His garments
were composed of elements widely differing from
each other in texture and hue. His breeches represented
every variety of bombasin that ever was
and his broad-flapped coat, which buttoned so
closely to his chin as to leave his property in under
teguments a matter of doubt, as if determined
not to be outdone by the nether garment, vied in
the variety of its shape, in the texture and colour
of its component parts, with the party-coloured display
of the smallclothes: the coat, being the more
honourable garment, was, however, a patchwork
of broadcloth, with an economical intermixture of
cassimere. His shoes, plainly, were never made for
his feet, but doubtless the fruit of some forage in
the suburbs; one was too large, and the other as
much too small, having to be worn down at the heel,
which protruded some two inches behind. His
stockings were a labyrinth of darns, defying anal
ysis for the detection of their original hue. His
head was covered with a coarse brown wig; it was
worn awry, and long had been oblivious of powder.
Altogether, in wig and breeches, stockings and
shoes, miser was written as plainly upon the external
man of Joseph Gerret, or Dom. Joseph Gerret,
as he was called from the circumstance of his having
taught Latin in his earlier days, as if each article
of apparel stood forth in an individual letter
to form the word. His face wore an anxious air,
and his glassy gray eyes were at all times restless.
“Enter, enter quick, that I may shut to the
door,” he said, in a querulous voice; “this opening
o' doors o' nights is awful. I shall be robbed—
murdered in my bed! For tenpence more than
you give me for the sue of my lumber-room, will
I not have thee here another night.”
“Peace, old man, and light me up,” said the
stranger, sternly. “Are they all here?”
“God be praised, they are. Heaven ha' mercy!
I shall yet be robbed among ye!”
The old man led the way through a passage so
narrow as not to admit two to walk abreast; at
the extremity was a winding, dilapidated stairway.
This they ascended with some difficulty from the
obstruction of empty boxes, bags of feathers, and
broken furniture, which Joseph seemed to have
placed there to break the necks of robbers who
might venture to ascend to his stronghold. The
stranger moved on, however, in silence, while Joseph
muttered to himself,
“Must let um out soon! But how do I know
what I may let out with um? They haven't got
hold of my keys; they're safe, thank the good angels!
I was at my chest not five minutes gone;
that's safe. Pecunia, sacra pecunia! Mind that
hole in the floor, sir! Don't strike your head and
knock down that basket; it holds my mushrooms
for ketchup. I glean um in the fields; twelve
pence a bottle! That's not the door, sir; oh Lord,
sir, no! Nobody opens that door, not I even!”
cried the old man, in the extremity of alarm, as, on
gaining the head of the stairs, and entering a large
square room, with several doors opening into it, the
stranger advanced to open one of them. “This,
this door; this is your room; not that door; no,
no! I haven't been in that room for a year. This
is the door. Don't you see the lights through the
chinks? Two lights, sir; think of that; two lights
when one will do! money wasted, gone to air!”
The stranger opened the door, and, entering,
closed it after him, while Dom. Joseph, with a grin
of exultation, muttered,
“He don't suspect, he don't suspect! Oh, merciful
Father, if he had opened that door!”
His voice sunk at the thought, and, shuffling to
the interdicted door, he applied, with agitated fingers,
one of the keys hanging to his wrist to the
he glided into the room, closed the door after
him, barred, and locked it. Drawing a wretched
cott from one side of the apartment, he exposed a
large square oaken chest, the front edge of its lid
and a large space about the keyhole having a
smooth, oily look, as if much handled. Crouching
down before it, he applied a key, which was as
bright as silver from constant use, to the wellworn
wards, and with an eager hand turned the bolt. It
moved easily and noiselessly, as if it had never
known that rest which rust invades. He raised
the cover, and his eyes glistened as they rested
on its bottom paved with small piles of gold and
silver.
“Bless the mercies!” he said, scarcely above his
breath, “ 'tis here, three, four, five, seven—yes,
twelve piles of Spanish gold.” Then passing his
attenuated finger nicely over the level surface of
upright roleaus, and feeling no cavity, he continued,
“All is here! None gone! No false keys yet.
Kind Heaven keep me from them! Wretched
man that I am, if I should be robbed! Heaven
save us!—what was that? a stitch breaking in
my coat! 'Twill cost thread and wax to mend it!
Lord, everything goes to wreck and ruin! It is so
expensive to live, and then it costs so much to
bury one when dead. So much for digging the
grave; so much for shroud and candles; so much
for hearse and sexton; so much for coffin! Lord,
Lord, dreadful! I could not stand it! I'll—I'll
have it in my will to be sunk in the North River.
Coffin and shroud? Never! I could not rest in
my grave with such a load of extravagance on my
conscience. Let me see; I'll count over my money,
and see how much 'twill all come to with the
sevenpence ha'penny I put to it to-day that I got
left in the lumber-room last night. I will then clip;
'tis three months since I have clipped, and times
are getting harder. I'll begin with the gold. One,
two, three guineas; four—that is something light;
five—that's heavier; six,” balancing it on his finger,
“good—'twill bear to lose full two grains and a
half; seven—even weight, 'twill lose half a grain.”
In this manner, with his whole soul absorbed in
his occupation, his eyes twinkling with pleasure at
a weightier coin than ordinary, and changing their
gleeful to a sad expression on balancing a lighter
one on his finger, he pursued his eager task. The
room fronted on the square, but its two windows
were not only closely barred, but nailed, the light
entering by day through two circular holes three
inches in diameter cut in the top of the shutters.
These apertures, which a cat could not pass through,
were also secured by strong wires woven across
them. The walls had once been hung with paper,
but they were now nearly divested of it; a strip
here and there, too firmly adhering to the plaster
to yield to age, bedimmed with smoke and grease,
showed the original blue rose of cabbage dimensions
which had constituted its pattern.
Besides the cott, which was scantily supplied
with miserable bedding, a chair without a back,
and with a leathern bottom, the polish of which indicated
it to be the usual seat of the inmate of the
room, there were ranged along the mantelpiece a
cracked teapot; an earthen cup and saucer; a
wooden bowl, with the remnant of soup in it still,
and a pewter spoon; a pipe, which seemed never
used; and a pair of horn spectacles, with one glass
wanting. On the hearth was a broken washbowl,
where also stood a gridiron, with its ribs jammed
together, as if screwed up with the rheumatism; a
an iron pot in good preservation. A three-cornered
hat, foxy and greasy, and a staff which had belonged
to some man of fashion, divested of its gold head,
a piece of smooth horn supplying its place, stood
in the corner as if for ready use.
In a remote corner of the room stood a jeweller's
workbench. Upon it were a pair of thin copper
scales, and half a dozen instruments of the trade,
which had the appearance of being frequently used.
By the wall were piled a score of old and half-worn
boots, shoes, and slippers of all sizes, not
only of men and boys, but of females, mingled with
old spurs, bitts, knives, straps of leather, stirrups,
chapeaus, and swordbelts; and stowed in a box
near by were a score of coats, waistcoats, breeches,
cloaks, and linen, as heterogeneous an assemblage
as if a boarding-house had been drained of all the
refuse and pledges of defunct boarders, and Dom.
Joseph had fallen heir to them. These, doubtless,
were his stock in trade, the mint and mine of his
fortune. At the head of his cott was suspended a
huge old blunderbuss, charged to the muzzle, the
formidable defender of the miser's premises.
He at length completed his nightly orisons before
the gold and silver idols of his worship; and, taking
a pile of dollars and a lesser one of sovereigns,
which he had gradually accumulated beside him as
he threw down coin after coin that would bear the
loss of a ninth part of a grain without the loss being
detected, he said, “Twenty-one sovereigns and
a half; seventy-three dollars and three quarters.
Very well! These have come in to me this three
months past,” he added, rising, carefully locking
his chest, and replacing his cott over it. Going to
the little workbench, he seated himself, and, placing
the money before him, he continued,
“Twenty-one sovereigns! Very well! This
chap looks as if he would bleed a little! Pay a
small tax, hey? A sovereign is no rebel! he! he!
he! that is facetious! he! he!”
If one could imagine Maelzel's automaton trumpeter
to break into a giggle at his own music, then
he might have some conception of the automaton-like
merriment of Dom. Joseph Gerret at his own
facetiousness. It was a laugh or an inward chuckle
in which no part of the outward man shared
except his tongue. The muscles of his face were
innocent of any participation therein.
“A brave coin, this! 'twill bear full three
grains,” he said, balancing it on his finger; “three
at the very least; no less;” then, taking up a pair
of clippers, he placed the sovereign in a vice, and
began to nibble with his clippers a little off the elevated
rim; to clip, with a different tool, a period
from the inscription; to cut a tail from a capital G,
and points from the raised part of the figure, the
clippings and dust falling, as he worked, into a
buckskin tray accurately fitted to the pillar of the
vice. After every half dozen clips he placed the
coin in the copper scales and carefully weighed it,
and then proceeded in his work. As the skilful
physician from time to time coolly tries the pulse
of a victim of the Inquisition to see how much
more he is capable of enduring, so did Domine
Joseph Gerret apply his little square, punctured
grain and pennyweights to test the constitution of
the victims which, in the course of things, chanced
to pass through his hands. In process of time, half
the currency of the York colony, probably, paid
“tithes of mint” to this “snapper-up of unconsidered
trifles.”
Suddenly a knocking at the outer door disturbed
him in the midst of his employment; the clipped
professionally to term them, the whipped and un
whipped lads being pretty equally divided. His
lower jaw dropped; his eyes rolled at the ominous
sounds; tremblingly he gathered up his coin in one
hand, and, taking his deerskin tray in the other, he
hastened to his chest, and placed the money in with
careful haste. Then springing a lid on one side of
the interior, he drew forth a bladder nearly filled
with silver dust; into this, with the tip of his bony
finger, he brushed his silver clippings; taking also
a second bladder of smaller dimensions, and, to appearance,
equally heavy, he carefully added to it
the golden fruits of his night's industry. Hurriedly
closing and locking the chest, he seized his candle,
now low in the socket, and, unbarring his door, went
out, turning the key carefully behind him; and, as
the knock was repeated a third time still louder, he
prepared to descend the steps, when a door on the
opposite side opened, and the man who had last entered
came forth with a naked sword and demanded
the cause of the noise.
“God in heaven knows—not I,” said Joseph;
“is't the IV. and II.?”
“Dotard! 'tis none of our party; they knock
again. Go and demand their business. I will follow
you.”
The miser tremblingly obeyed.
“Who is it? who's there at this time? No honest
folks would be hammering at a lone house at
this hour,” cried the terrified domine.
“Sacré!” said the voice of Pascalet; “I am
le diable! Open votre porte—I say o-pen!”
“Mercy! 'tis robbers and murderers! oh! oh!”
“Hush, old man! 'tis he I wish. Is it Pascalet?”
he inquired, in French.
“Oui, monsieur,” was the reply, in a more respectful
from mi lor.”
“'Tis well! Open, Joseph. Unlock—unlock,
I say, or I must do your duty for you!”
The old man obeyed, and Pascalet stood before
them.
“In, in, and close the door! In: I know thee
now,” said Dom. Joseph, hurriedly.
Pascalet, however, stood in the threshold, and
said to the stranger,
“The messenger is here, and bears a token.”
As he spoke the chevalier, who stood in the
street, where the form of Jacques, to the increased
terror of the miser, was also visible, advanced, and,
presenting the ring, was instantly admitted, while
the door was closed on Pascalet and Jacques, the
lock turning upon them with an emphasis that
seemed to express in a marked degree the pleasurable
sensations of Joseph at leaving them on the
outside.
14. CHAPTER XIV.
THE PATIENT.
Eugenie had been received by Mrs. Washington,
after the death of the unfortunate Caroline, with
benevolent sympathy. She took her to her arms
rather like a recovered daughter than a stranger
whose strongest claims to her kindness were only
her gentle beauty and misfortunes. In return, she
made her the confidant of her young heart's affections,
and expressed her determination to forget one
morning, which was the day preceding the disastrous
battle we have briefly sketched, she took leave
of Arden, who, by the indulgence of Mrs. Washington,
was allowed to see her for this purpose, and
whose noble character she had taken opportunity
to paint to Eugenie in attractive colours. With
her affections so rudely torn from the heart around
which they had so fondly entwined themselves
for many months, Eugenie yearned for sympathy.
The heart of Mrs. Washington was indeed a refuge.
But the kind tones of Arden, his softened
looks and devoted manner, struck a deeper chord
in her bosom than any female sympathy could awaken;
and it was with much tenderness and sorrow
that she parted, perhaps for ever, from one who had
already awakened an interest in her heart. When,
after lingering long with her hand clasped in his, he
suddenly pressed it with a hurried farewell and left
the apartment, Eugenie hastened to her room and
gave way to a shower of tears.
During the day she became calmer, and able to
reflect upon her false lover's conduct with suitable
resentment; while, turning from time to time from
the unpleasing picture, she loved to dwell upon the
noble person, respectful tenderness, and tried virtues
of Arden. As she compared them, her admiration
of the latter increased with her contempt for
the former; till at length, when she had whispered
to herself, “Does Arden love me?” and her heart
had answered in the affirmative, she had nearly
banished the image of the unworthy Burton from
her mind, if not torn it from her heart; and Arden,
if she had not placed his own there instead, became
at least the theme of her thoughts, the sole
subject of her hopes, fears, and anxieties.
It may appear like temerity in the romancer to
in so brief a space. It seems, indeed, pretty
generally admitted, that heroes and heroines can
love but once. Nevertheless, there have been exceptions;
and, as we have Nature for our model in
this instance, we must be guided by the facts with
which she has furnished us. It would, no doubt,
have been very fine for Eugenie to have stabbed
herself with her dagger, like a true heroine of romance,
when she became convinced of her lover's
perjury; and it would, doubtless, have been a very
pretty dénouement. But, considerate reader! there
existed one or two obstacles to this. The first and
foremost was, that we are drawing Eugenie from
life, and, the truth is, she did not come to the tragic
end aforesaid. The second, and, perhaps, equally
forcible, is, that we should give you only a volume
and a half of matter, whereas we are bound to our
publishers to produce two respectable duodecimos,
of neither less than two hundred and sixteen pages
each nor more than two hundred and eighty-eight.
Having promised so much, our tale will proceed,
we trust, without further interruption or digression.
That night, before Eugenie sought her pillow,
the name of Arden was mingled with her prayers.
When, towards the dawn, the roar of cannon roused
her, with a thousand others, from sleep, she sprung
to a casement which overlooked the intervening
roofs. Distant flashes, which for an instant, like
heat lightning, illuminated the gloom to the southeast,
followed, after the lapse of a few seconds, by
the dull sound of cannon, assured her the battle had
already begun; and then she felt how deep an interest
she took in the fate of Arden. Kneeling at
the open window and shuddering at every report,
she clasped her hands and gazed upward in silent
but eloquent prayer, forgetting, in the energy of the
crucifix and rosary, and looking directly to the
source of life for aid in her lover's extremity. But
she prayed not alone for Arden. Without breathing
his name, after a moment's trembling hesitation,
she sought mercy for him who, from time to time,
like the returning recollection of an unpleasant
dream, intruded upon her thoughts, and made to
bleed afresh the heart he had wounded.
Although her earlier affections were crushed,
they were not wholly destroyed. Eugenie's affections,
notwithstanding their growing interest in Arden,
would still, perhaps, have turned into their former
channel if Burton could at once have been
proved innocent of all of which she knew him to be
guilty. In that case she would have thrown herself
upon his bosom with the undiminished strength
of her first love.
Her lips moved as she prayed, but they could not
articulate his name. “Oh, have mercy on him,
and shield him from the storm of battle! Let him
not die in his guilt! Oh, protect, protect him!”
The entrance of Mrs. Washington at this moment
alarmed her, and, blushing, she hid her face in her
bosom.
“Be not ashamed, my dear Eugenie!” she said,
affectionately; “the prayers of youth and innocence
will aid our cause. I feel for you. We have both
deep interest in this battle. Heaven protect our
country, and let not the breasts of her sons be in
vain exposed to the fury of war! Come with me,
dear child! You shrink at every flash and report,
as if the cannon were aimed at your own breast!
Alas, they may reach both our hearts through those
that are dear to us! But I am a sad comforter.
Come with me to my room; 'tis remoter from
the sound, and your nerves will not be tried so
sorely.”
Eugenie accompanied her maternal friend in silence.
With the alarmed household they were for
hours listening and trembling at every report, and
flying, at the slightest sound heard in the street, to
learn tidings from the field. The day dawned, and
with it came louder and more confused the sounds
of battle; and hour after hour, occasionally relieved
by reports from the field, was passed in anxiety
and increasing terror. Towards noon the report
came that the Americans had been defeated with
great slaughter, and the remnant of the army driven
within their intrenchments at Brooklyn; but there
came no tidings of the killed and wounded of rank.
At length an officer, with an arm in a sling, advancing
from the river, was seen by a party of ladies,
who, having husbands, brothers, or lovers on the
field, had flown to the headquarters of the commander-in-chief
for tidings, and were now standing
in the door of the mansion. Some of them hastened
to meet him, and others uttered exclamations of
mingled hope and fear, without the power to move.
Mrs. Washington awaited the approach of the messenger
with a colourless cheek, but with firmness.
General Washington, early in the morning, finding
that the enemy had concentrated all his forces
on Long Island, and evinced no immediate intention
of landing at New-York, as the battle grew warm,
had left his post in the city and crossed the river
to the field. It was with no little anxiety, therefore,
however she might conceal her emotion, that
she watched the approach of one who was about
to remove or confirm her worst apprehensions.
Eugenie, unable to encounter the moment that
should also confirm her worst fears, fled into the
library, and, throwing herself into a chair, buried
her face in her hands. In a few moments Mrs
Washington entered, and approaching her, said,
“Eugenie, my love, the general is well; but,
alas! the battle has been disastrous. We must
not despair, however, but endeavour to bear nobly
up under these reverses.”
“Madam, my dear madam,” said Eugenie, grasping
her hand and suddenly addressing her with energy,
“if you have aught to say, speak out. I see
there is sympathy for me mingled with your regret
for the fortune of your country's arms. Tell
me, is he—”
“Slightly wounded, my dear Eugenie. Nay,
do not turn pale! He rode into camp afterward
unsupported. You shall be his nurse, and I dare
prophecy he will yet thank his wound.”
Eugenie received these tidings with a suppressed
cry, and then, clasping her hands, looked heavenward
with a grateful countenance. Her mind,
by long anxiety prepared for the worst, was able
to bear the tidings of a lesser danger with greater
equanimity than she would have shown if she had
looked only on the sunny side of the picture.
The concluding words of Mrs. Washington brought
the colour, long a stranger to them, to her cheeks;
and blushingly returning the kiss placed upon her
forehead by her affectionate friend, she suppressed
tears of mingled joy and sorrow, which came unbidden
to her eyes, and with some degree of calmness
asked,
“Where is he now?”
“On his way in a boat, with some other officers,
crossing the East River. You will assist me, Eugenie,
to prepare the room for the invalid's reception,
and you must be his nurse. I am told nuns
are the best nurses in the world. I think he will
soon recover under your tender hands, Eugenie.”
Eugenie blushed and smiled, but made no reply.
“See” she continued, “that you do not inflict a
deeper wound than the English swords! Forgive
me, Eugenie, this is no time for raillery! but you
must keep up your flow of spirits. Arden will need
all your sympathy. The general, who is unhurt,
has sent word that he is to send two or three other
officers here also; so, with nursing and other duties,
Eugenie, we shall have little time to think of
our own griefs.”
About an hour after this conversation Arden
awoke from a sleep into which he had fallen in the
boat after his wound was dressed, and, to his surprise,
found himself in a neat chamber, the windows,
tables, bed, and furniture of which were furnished
with delicate chints and snowy muslin, and
all wearing that air of comfort and repose peculiarly
grateful to the feelings of an invalid. The room
had been partially darkened, but the rays of the
setting sun pierced the interstices of the blinds,
and diffused throughout the chamber a subdued but
cheerful light. A second glance around assured
him that he was in his own apartment, but suddenly
converted from a bachelor's dormitory to a comfortable
sickroom. Everything had such an air of
quiet, that he was about to yield his senses to the
pleasing influence, and sink once more to sleep,
when, through a half-closed door at the foot of the
bed opening into the hall, he spied the tip of one
of the prettiest feet in the world protruding just
far enough to intercept the range of his vision.
His heart bounded with the force of a trip-hammer,
and it would seem that the owner of the tiny foot
had heard it, for it instantly disappeared; it was,
however, the next moment substituted by a fair
hand laid negligently upon the balusters, the fingers
holding an open book, as if the reader was occupied
in thinking. The appearance of the hand
the lover; and, at the risk of destroying the vision,
he was about to speak, when a deep sigh from the
hall was echoed involuntarily from his own heart,
and the sounds which were trembling on his lips
escaped with it, in the tremulous, scarcely-audible
word “Eugenie!”
The hand disappeared. Now aware of his imprudence,
he closed his eyes and feigned sleep as Eugenie
herself, with a hesitating step and crimson
cheek, appeared at the door, and first looking in, as
if to be satisfied that he was asleep, softly approached
the bedside and gazed on him for a moment with
sympathy and tenderness. A smile gradually mantled
the lip of the conscious lover; and slowly opening
his eyes, he fixed them, beaming with love,
gratitude, and admiration, upon the face of the surprised
maiden. Her temples were suffused with a
deep blush of pleased embarrassment; and half retreating,
half lingering, she placed her finger on
her lip to impress silence upon him, saying, with
an arch smile,
“Hush, Colonel Arden; the doctor has left express
orders that you do not speak.”
“Eugenie!”
“Not a word.”
“Kind Eugenie!”
“Not—”
“Cruel Eugenie!”
“Then I shall send the doctor to you.”
“Oh, no, not for the world! Stay here, and I
am dumb.”
“On that condition I will remain,” she replied,
playfully. The next moment, with a face of anxiety,
she asked,
“Is your wound better, Arden? Are you in any
pain?”
“Here, very great!” he replied, laying his hand
upon his heart, with a look of mingled seriousness
and gayety.
“I will, then, call Mrs. Washington,” said she,
warningly, and with an arch smile; “she bade me
call her if my patient woke up in pain.”
“No! oh no! by no means,” he said, attempting
to take her hand; but Eugenie perversely flew
out of the room, and soon returned with her benevolent
friend.
The swoon into which Arden had fallen after his
wounds were dressed continued, as we have shown,
until after he was conveyed to his chamber. His
wound, however, was not deep, although attended
with great loss of blood. When he awoke from
the sleep into which he had passed, he felt free
from pain and in good spirits, which were not in any
way diminished by the presence of his nurse; yet
he was still very weak. He nevertheless, after a
spirited and playful altercation with his kind nurses,
in which he was supported by General Washington,
who then entered the room, having just arrived
from Brooklyn, where he had remained to secure
the safety of the army, was at length permitted
to remove into the drawing-room, and substitute a
sofa for his bed.
About eight o'clock the same evening he was
lying by the open window, towards which the sofa
had been wheeled at his request, that he might,
half shrouded by the drapery, enjoy the pleasant
summer breeze. The night was clear, and the air
soft and grateful to the senses of the fevered invalid.
The surgeon had just left, assuring him of a
speedy recovery with care and attention, saying, as
he took his leave, glancing at Eugenie, who entered
with a cooling drink,
“You are in good hands, but beware of bright
colonel, worse than bullets! Bah! all tongue and
eye, tongue and eye! these women are a walking
battery! do immense execution, colonel; mischief,
great mischief! kill and cure, kill and cure! Better
in a day or two; take care of yourself; good-by,
good-by!” and so the man of instruments and
lint bustled from the room.
Eugenie, taking a seat by him in the window, relieved
a slave of the gorgeous feather fan which,
for the last hour, she had been waving to and fro
over the head of the invalid, and involuntarily assumed
her duties.
We have said that the softened intercourse of
young watchers in a sickroom insensibly leads to
love. But when a youth and a maiden are thrown
into each other's presence, the one an invalid, the
other a nurse, an interchange of hearts must inevitably
be the result. The soft hand laid upon the
temple; gentle fingers stealing among the hair
about the forehead; the soft voice attuned to pity,
which is akin to love; the tender assiduity; the
dependant state; the thousand open doors for kindness
and affectionate words; all are feathers to
love's shaft, each one contributing to direct more
fatally the barbed arrow. The hour passed by Eugenie
near the couch of Arden did the work of
years of ordinary intercourse towards the progress
of their loves. The slave had fallen to sleep on
the carpet, the house was silent, and, save an occasional
horseman passing across the square, or riding
up to the door and leaving a note with the
sentinel, ordering him, in brief tones, to give it to
General Washington, all was still. Insensibly their
hands had stolen into each other's, and they had
abandoned their hearts to the full tide of feeling
with which they were filled. They had neither
understood the state of one another's affections, and
were happy in a love which, although it needed no
words to express its existence, was, perhaps, the
more genuine.
It is seldom that love, which operates like an
instinct in young hearts, seeks assurance of its mutual
presence from language. Innumerable marriages
are formed, the candidates for which have
never known, otherwise than by intuition, that their
affections were reciprocal, by whom the word love
has neither been sought for nor spoken. The
eye, and not the tongue, is herein the medium of
expression. The eyes of Eugenie and Arden casually
met as her hand was putting aside the hair
from his pale temples, which her fan had blown
over them; and by that mysterious communication,
whose power is acknowledged, but the operations
of which are incomprehensible, their souls mingled,
united, and became one. Silently he drew her to
his heart as she bent over him, and, touching his
lips to her forehead, sealed there their unspoken
loves.
Eugenie rose blushingly, and, looking from the
window to hide her confusion, her attention was attracted
by a confused noise of voices at the extremity
of the square; the next moment a party of men,
dimly seen through the darkness, advanced with the
heavy, measured tramp of soldiers. As they continued
to approach, she could discern that they were
a party of soldiers. Arden raised himself upon his
elbow to look out, and then said faintly, as if the
effort had been beyond his strength, sinking back
on his pillow,
“Merely the relief guard; but a somewhat noisy
one, it would appear.”
As they came closer to the headquarters their
the gate, only one voice could be heard, lifted
alternately in the tones of complaint and threat.
“Injure me not, men, I am your fellow-soldier!
Oh, I'm no spy. Don't hang me—don't—oh, oh!
By my beard! I'll tell the great general. Help,
oh help! I am a true Canadian.” Then, in Canadian
French, he continued, “A habitan of Chaudiere,
and a true man; and, by my beard! I'll fight
him that denies it! Oh, good, brave, valiant warriors!
draw not the cord so tight. I tell you I'm a
true man.”
“Arden, what can they mean to do with the poor
fellow?” asked Eugenie, as she heard his exclamations.
But, when the patois of her native land fell
on her ears, an interest in his fate was at once
awakened in her breast, and suddenly addressing
Arden, she said, with warmth,
“Oh, Colonel Arden, let him not be injured! He
is from my own country! He can be no spy. Do
permit me, before the guard is relieved, to see him
and ask him a few questions! 'Tis so grateful to
hear, even from a poor peasant like this, one's native
language. You can then ascertain if he is really
a spy, and prevent injustice from being done
him, should he be innocent, by these rude men into
whose hands he has fallen, with their passions, too,
so exasperated by the evil fortunes of the day.”
While she was speaking they advanced to relieve
the guard at the door, when Arden spoke:
“Sergeant, bring that man in and let me question
him.”
The soldier obeyed, and the next moment came
into the drawing-room conducting, securely guarded
between two soldiers, that unfortunate warrior
Jacques Cloots. Arden glanced at his face, and,
studying its expression a while, said, with a smile,
“Sergeant, you may take off your guard, but
leave a soldier at the door. I will answer for the
appearance of your formidable prisoner.”
The soldiers, save one who kept guard without
the hall, departed, and, rejoining their comrades in
the square, the whole party, with a heavy tramp,
disappeared around the corner of the street.
15. CHAPTER XV.
THE ROBBER.
The simplest and most direct style of narrative
is doubtless the most pleasing. It is legitimately,
however, only adapted to those romances in
which the hero is never lost sight of, and when,
therefore, there is no necessity of returning to bring
forward incidents that have been delayed to advance
other portions of the story. As this novel is not
dependant for its interest solely upon one train
of events following another in regular order of
progression, but upon several parts which go to
make up one whole, we are occasionally under the
necessity of deviating from the directness of narrative,
to return and take up the threads which we
have but temporarily dropped, but which are necessary
for the farther progress and completeness
of our woof of fiction.
We therefore return to Pascalet and Jacques,
and explain the cause of the appearance of the latter
as a prisoner. When the creaking lock was
turned on them by the eager and delighted fingers
of Domine Joseph Gerret as he admitted the
moments together without speaking. At length
Pascalet, leaning carelessly against the wall, began
to question Jacques of his native valley and of his
adventures.
“Now, mort de ma vie!” he suddenly exclaimed
in French, after Jacques had given an account of
his career as a soldier, “if thou dost not deserve
to die for being a rebel, and then swearing by thy
foul beard that thou wert a true man!”
“Have patience, most worthy friend and countryman
Pascalet! I made not oath that I was no
rebel; but, look ye! only that I be a true man,
like thyself.”
“Ciel! if thou hadst sworn thou wert a true
goose thou wouldst have hit it. But hark ye, Sir
Rebel, thy life shall be spared, and thou mayst
yet go home and spend thy old age in tending
ducks and chickens; but thou shalt earn thy carcass!”
“That will I, by my beard! if it be to march
into a cannon's mouth at the point o' baggonet.”
“Out upon the boaster! Thou durst not look into
a pitcher's mouth, lest thou shouldst pitch in and
drown thyself. Hark ye,” he added, coming close
and whispering in his ear; “thou hast helped me
rob birds' nests and unearth foxes ere now?”
“Yes, birds' nests; but, by my beard! only
birds' nests, good Pascalet.”
“True. Mort de ma vie! true; a foxcub would
have scared the life out o' thee! Say, thou hast
helped me rob?”
“Thou didst pound me to do't, valiant Pascalet,
or I wouldn't ha' done't,” said Jacques, in a deprecating
tone.
“Wouldst thou not?” he cried, fiercely; “thou
shalt now rob with me, or thou'lt not get off with a
pounding. Wilt do't?”
“Mort dum ma vee! will I,” said Jacques, with
desperate courage. “Mort dum ma vee! 'tis a
brave oath, by my beard! braver than Luc Giles
could swear by.”
“Luc Giles? Sacre! I had forgotten my old
comrade Luc. Where is he, peasant?”
“Dead, by this hand!” answered Jacques,
stoutly.
“Dead by thy hand?” he said, fiercely grasping
the breast of the trembling braggadocio.
“No, good Pascalet, I slew him not. He fell
in battle, but not by my hand.”
“Fool that I am, I might have known it,” he
said, thrusting him from him. Then going up to
him and suddenly taking him by the ear, he said,
“Didst mark that old man just now?”
“Ay, did I, worthy Pascalet.”
“And the keys at his wrist?”
“The keys I marked not, valiant Pascalet.”
“No matter. Those keys will unlock a mint of
gold. The old man's a miser, and he has heaps
of the coin, Jacques. I am inclined to transfer a
portion of his wealth into my pocket. Thou shalt
aid me. Hear'st thou?”
“I hear, your valiancy. But,” added Jacques,
hesitatingly, as Pascalet set his ear at liberty, “thou
wilt not harm the poor man?”
“What is that to thee? Do as I bid thee. Stand
thou here by the door, and, if any one approaches,
clap thy hands twice to give me warning. I shall
hear thee. When I come back, take what I give
thee, and follow me without a word. Dost hear?”
“Verily do I, brave countryman! But how art
thou first to enter? 'Tis locked as tight as old porter
Nicholas ever locked bolt at St. Claude; and
methinks I did hear something like a bar.”
“Dost think I have seen the world to no purpose?”
a steel instrument of curious construction, with
many grooves and slides. “I saw the shape of the
door-key,” he continued, taking from his pocket a
bag of loose wards, from which, after several trials,
he selected a set and fitted them firmly to the key.
“Now see how I'll get in! There is no bar. I
heard him remove it, but am sure he did not replace
it, unless 'twas done softer than a fly could
tread.”
He then applied the key to the door; it entered
the lock; but, after several attempts to turn it, he
drew it out with an oath and fitted a second ward.
Again applying it, the bolt yielded with a creaking
sound as he slowly turned the key, and, to the surprise
of Jacques, the door swung open. Pascalet
then, after holding his finger up warningly to
Jacques, and ordering him to guard the door and
secure his retreat, glided in. With the stealthy
pace of a cat he moved along the passage, feeling
his way by the walls until he came to the foot of
the stairs. On his former mission he had been
admitted even into the room of the conspirators,
and was familiar, therefore, with the details of the
passage: with this advantage, he was enabled to
mount the stairs with celerity and without noise.
The light from the room in which the conspirators
were assembled found its way through many a gap
between the upright boards of the partition and beneath
the door; a faint glimmer also was emitted
from the keyhole of the door in which Domine Joseph
was industriously at work clipping the superfluous
metal from the currency.
Pascalet paused a moment to ascertain accurately
his position in relation to the different rooms; and
then stealing softly to the miser's door, he placed
his eye to the keyhole, but could see only the naked
made by the miser, who was at work at his bench,
and occasionally the faint ring of the precious metal.
Grasping the hilt of his dagger, while his eye
gleamed with a murderous light, he drew it half
way out of his bosom to bring it more readily within
reach of his hand. Then measuring the size of
the keyhole with his eye, he searched in his bag,
muttering,
“Ciel! I didn't see his key, and must guess at
the ward! But n'importe. Trust to thy name-sake,
Le Diable, as thou hast often done before,
Pascalet! By the holy twelve! it works,” he added,
within his teeth, when, on inserting the well-oiled
ward, the bolt gave way without noise to the
steady pressure. The door partially opened as the
bolt left its bed, and through the crevice Pascalet
saw the old man at his bench intently occupied in
his labour, with his piles of gold and silver glittering
before him. He looked down and clinched his
dagger; then, glancing again at the miser, seemed
to hesitate whether he should become both assassin
and robber. The helpless appearance of his victim
seemed to plead even to him for lenity. Replacing
his stiletto, which he had taken from his
bosom, he drew up his sleeves, and opened and contracted
his fingers, as a leopard does its claws
when about to spring upon its prey; then applying
his foot lightly against the door, it flew wide
open—in two bounds, that gave back no sound as
his unshod feet touched the floor, he was at the old
man's side, with his fingers clasped around his
throat.
His eyes started from their sockets; his lips
vainly essayed to articulate; a sovereign which he
had just taken up fell to the floor; the clippers
dropped from his hand; pain and terror were horribly
Pascalet held him thus; then, gradually relaxing
his grasp before life should escape, he held
him by the throat with one hand, while, suspending
his knife over him with the other, he threatened him
with instant death if he moved or spoke. Joseph
clasped his hands and silently pleaded for mercy.
Pascalet knew not the meaning of the word. Leading
him, exhausted by terror and suffering, to his
cott, he caused him to lie down upon his face. “I'll
bury my dagger in thy withered carcass,” he whispered
in his Franco-English—but, for the sake of
energy, we give the purer English—in his ear, “if
thou stir hand or foot. Tell me where thou hast
hidden thy gold, or thou diest.”
“Gold? Oh, I'm not worth a ha'pence in the
world!”
“Thou liest! and, speak above thy breath again,
and thou shalt taste my knife! 'Twas of my mercy
thou didst not feel its edge e'en now instead of
the gripe of my fingers. Whose gold is this, if
not thine?”
“Oh, the colony's, the colony's—sent to me to
be weighed,” he cried, rolling his eyes in despair
towards the pile.
“The colony's? Then I'll be debtor to the state
the full sum, and not burden my conscience by robbing
a poor wretch,” he said, advancing to the bench
heaped with coins. “Ha, mort de vie!” he exclaimed,
as he detected the tray of clippings; “is
this the way thou servest the state's money? I'll
drag thee before the governor, and have thee hung
higher than ever Haman was.”
“Mercy, good youth,” said Joseph, his eye
brightening; “'tis not the state's! I meant it in
jest. And, since thou sayst it will go against thy
conscience to rob a poor wretch, 'tis mine own!”
“Ciel! thou art, then, no poor wretch if thou
ownest all this gold; so my conscience will be clear
on this score.”
“But 'twill make me a poor wretch if thou rob
me!”
“Then, when thou art made a poor wretch, I
will not rob thee. So conscience hath it both
ways.”
Domine Joseph groaned in bitterness of spirit.
Pascalet, unheeding him, proceeded, still keeping
an eye on his victim, who seemed to be paralyzed
as if under the gaze of a basilisk, to convey the
dollars and sovereigns to his pocket, without being
nice in selecting the clipped from the unclipped.
“Now, old Nicodemus,” he said, “I'll leave thee
thy clippings for thy pains. But thou hast more
than this coin, I'll warrant me.”
“As true as there's a Heaven above and a judgment-day
to come! I have not another penny. I
am impoverished, and must beg my bread about
the streets. Oh, mercy, good youth! mercy! Do
not rob an old wretch; think on thy conscience!”
“Have I not argued that point with thee? so,
hush, and give me thy keys,” he added, approaching
the cott, where the old man had lain trembling
and groaning, with his eyes directed towards the
robber, as sovereign after sovereign disappeared in
the capacious repositories in the habiliments of Pascalet.
“Untie that thong, or my knife shall do it
for thee.”
“'Tis but the key to the outer door. Oh, mercy!
oh!”
Pascalet pressed his hand roughly upon his
mouth, and with his dagger cut the string. Having
possession of the keys, he began to examine
the room. After making an unsuccessful search,
he suddenly advanced upon the miser, and said,
his ear,
“Tell me where lies thy money, or thou diest!”
and the point of the dagger pressed painfully
against the skin of his victim.
Domine Joseph, as if terrified into compliance,
pointed to the chimney, crying, in the accents of
despair, “There! there!”
Pascalet seized the light to explore it, and the
old man's face lighted up with something like a
smile at the temporary delay he had gained. He
closely searched the fireplace, turning up every
loose brick, and even looking up the chimney, but
in vain. “Old man,” he said, advancing to him
fiercely, “thou hast deceived me!” He raised
his arm to strike the dagger into his back, when
Joseph, in the extremity of unfeigned alarm, cried
out,
“Mercy! mercy! I'll tell thee!”
“Where?”
“Be-beneath my—my cott.”
Pascalet bent down, and, seeing the box, his
eyes sparkled with pleasure. Finding that it was
secured to a bolt, he made the old man, lest he
should assail him while at work, lie on his face
upon the floor. Dom. Joseph stretched himself
upon the boards as if he were lying down to die,
trembling and tortured with the prospect of losing
his wealth, yet his eyes anxiously and with curiosity
watching every movement of the robber as he
displaced the cott, kneeled, fitted the key to the
lock, and raised the lid. Then did the heart of Joseph
Gerret grow faint within him; but, as he
heard the silver ring in the sacrilegious hands of
Pascalet, who surveyed his treasure with delight
and wonder, he cast his eyes desperately upon the
blunderbuss which hung at the head of his bed.
and his glittering dagger, and, shutting his
eyes despairingly, groaned aloud.
Pascalet, after surveying for a moment the glittering
heaps he had discovered, proceeded to transfer
them to his own person. He filled his pockets,
and then, stripping from his neck his yellow handkerchief,
commenced filling it with Spanish dollars.
He at length became so absorbed in this delightful
occupation, that he forgot Domine Joseph, his own
situation, and, indeed, everything but the piles of
money before him. Not so Domine Joseph. As
his alarm subsided his alertness and presence of
mind increased, and he began to mediate, even at
the risk of his own life, defending his property.
He therefore saw with no little pleasure that the
attention of the robber was wholly fixed upon his
treasure, and that, in the eagerness of transferring
it, he had not only forgotten to watch him, but had
laid down his dagger by his side. He desperately
resolved to gain possession of the weapon. Therefore,
to ascertain what prospect he had of succeeding,
he made a slight noise with his shoe upon the
floor. The robber did not notice it. He then
moved his whole person, but Pascalet only heard
the sound of his gold and silver. A third and somewhat
noisier movement attracted no attention; and
the old man, imboldened by these successes, muttered
something like a prayer, and his face became
rigid with desperate determination as he drew himself
along the floor towards the bed, which stood between
him and the robber. Inch by inch he worked
himself along under the cott until he came within
reach of the dagger. He stretched forth his arm
and seized it in his long, bony fingers with the resolute
grasp which the terrible urgency of the occasion
gave him, and then, with equal coolness, drew
stand upright. He now grasped the dagger more
firmly, rose to his feet, and, leaning over the bed,
raised it in the air.
“Mort de vie!” said Pascalet to himself, “I
shall ride in my gilded coach.”
The next instant the dagger was buried to the
hilt in his back. He fell as he was transferring
the last gold coin to his handkerchief, glared wildly
at the old man, clinching his fingers as if he would
grasp him, and then, with a curse trembling on his
lips, he died.
Jacques, to whom we now return, after remaining
a few minutes at the door, deeply pondered on
the events in which he had been involved, and his
reflections took the following philosophical cast.
“I begin to think I'm a great ass, as I have often
been told that I am. Why can't I get the knack
of this roaring and blustering, this swearing and
loud talking, this cutting of throats and killing with
bullets, like some of my comrades, and, more especially,
this Pascalet le Diable? I am ever at
the beck and nod of some one. Here was Luc
Giles: his parts didn't lie in his tongue, for, by my
beard! and by mort de ma vie! as sweareth this
Pascalet, I have sworn as stoutly as Luc, betimes,
and yet I could never make woman, cat, or chicken
heed me. Then here's this little jackanapes,
Zacharie! He blusters, and has a way o' speaking
quick and short, and makes one mind him
whether he will or no; and yet he's the lesser by
fifty pounds, and ought to obey me; but, somehow,
I can't get the knack o' making people mind.
They are always sure to turn upon me and make
me do their own bidding. When it comes in my
throat to speak valiantly, quick, short, and sharp,
there it sticks, and I can't make a single word be
o' this Zacharie, who should come but this Pascalet
le Diable to kick me about as he did when I was
a boy. Do this, he says, and do that, says he, and
I can never do enough for his bidding. Now here
he's gone into this honest man's house to rob, and
perhaps to murder, and bids me wait. Now is the
time to take myself off; but, then, I fear his dirk if
he catch me. But, then, I fear his dirk if I stay;
and if he rob and murder, and make me carry his
spoil, I shall have my neck stretched for certain.
I may yet as it is. From what I can learn, there's
a great conspiracy hatching here 'gainst the government.
I'd best inform, and go place myself
under proper protection; but, then, if I'm ever
caught! I should fear to get into the hands of
that black-looking master of Pascalet, though he
did save my life; but that was to row the boat.
Oh, mercie! if I only knew what to do! If I go I
shall be killed; if I stay I shall be killed. Blessed
Marie and St. Claude! deliver me from evil.”
At this moment a party of soldiers coming up
the street relieved him from further care about
himself by taking him under their charge. Inspired
by one of the incipient fits of valour which
from time to time possessed him, he at first manfully
struggled, but at last was bound; and, we regret
to record, roughly treated for this display of
valour.
“Whether I fight or don't fight, 'tis all the
same,” he sighed; “I'm always the football.”
Then, overhearing some of the soldiers talk freely
of hemp for spies, fear of his life gave him eloquence
to plead for it, and in the full exercise of
this laudable act he was brought, as we have, in a
former chapter, seen, to the quarters of Washington,
and subsequently into the presence of Eugenie.
16. CHAPTER XVI.
THE CONSPIRATORS.
When, at the request of Arden, the soldiers had
left the room, not, however, without taking precautions
to guard against the escape of their prisoner,
Jacques gazed around the elegant apartment with
mingled wonder and surprise, twirling his bonnet
between his fingers, now looking at the ceiling,
now at the carpeted floor, and then, again, curiously
staring at those in whose presence he stood.
“Well, my good fellow,” said Arden, “if your
curiosity is quite satisfied, and you think you would
recognise the room and our faces when you meet
with either again, oblige me by giving an account
of yourself. You look not very formidable. How
is it that they made such a noise of their capture?
You appear very harmless and simple.”
“As simple a body, your valiancy,” replied
Jacques, looking at Eugenie and giving her an oblique
bow, “as ever burned powder.”
“I will safely answer for it; but how came you
in the hands of the guard? It might have gone hard
if this lady had not pleaded for you. Canst tell a
straight story?”
“That can I, you valiancy's worship; and sorry
am I to see your valour wounded! These wars are
bloodthirsty things.”
“You speak truly,” said Eugenie, in the Canadian
tongue; “tell me if you be indeed a Canadian
of Chaudiere, as I heard you say but now?”
When Jacques heard the accents of his native
while a broad grin overspread his features.
After she had ceased, he continued to stare as if
struck dumb with pleasurable emotions.
“Speak,” she said, laughing, “if you have not
lost your tongue. 'Twas loud enough ten minutes
since.”
“May the blessed Virgin bless your valian—no,
your ladyship, and your ladyship's sweet lips! By
my beard! be'st thou from my country?”
“Tell me your country, and I can tell thee better.”
Here Jacques proceeded, with considerable elevation
of spirits, to relate his adventures, commencing
from the time of his becoming guide to the
monk, the allusion to whom at once awakened an
interest in his narrative in Eugenie's bosom. She
therefore listened with attention till he related the
outlines of his campaign, his escape in that day's
battle, and his impressment in the service of Pascalet,
and their visit to the rendezvous of the conspirators.
When he began to speak of a probable attempt
against the state, Eugenie became more attentive.
Jacques spoke in his Canadian patois, which was
not altogether intelligible to Arden, who had insensibly
closed his eyes, and fallen into a revery between
sleeping and waking.
She now questioned him closely in relation to
his late companions and their probable object, but
she could only elicit further that there was some
thing dropped by Pascalet about General Washington.
This intelligence alarmed her; and she
believed her benefactor, if not one far more dear to
her, to be in danger from this secret meeting. She
therefore determined, urged by the native strength
and energy of her character, which at times changed
her from the tender, confiding girl, to the self-possessed
their machinations. Ascertaining minutely from
him the position of the rendezvous, she ordered
Jacques to remain, and, if Arden awoke, to say that
she would soon return. Enveloping her person in
Arden's cloak, and taking one of his pistols, she
placed his foraging-cap upon her head, and warning
Jacques to keep secrecy, she left the room.
Bidding the guard placed over Jacques, as she
passed him in the hall, to follow her, he mechanically
complied, as if obeying the order of a superior
officer. She passed the sentinel with a firm step,
crossed the square, and, turning the corner, discovered
the little window, with its faint glimmering
light, which Jacques had learned from Pascalet
was the conspirators' room, and had described to
her; then, observing the position of the door, she
was satisfied of its identity with his description.
“Soldier,” she said, stopping at the door and
disguising her voice, “remain here! On the least
alarm, hasten to me.”
With a bold heart she determined to enter and
see if she could learn or overhear anything to confirm
her apprehensions. Strengthened in her purpose
by her hopes and fears, she softly opened the
door. With a trembling but onward step, she carefully
felt her way along the wall till her foot touched
the lower step of the flight of stairs. She carefully
ascended, and, gaining the loft or entry above,
was directed by the light streaming from the ill-arranged
partition of the room in which the conspirators
were assembled. Dom. Joseph's door was
closed by the cott which Pascalet had drawn against
it in getting at the chest. But her observations
from the street showed her that the room opposite
the miser's contained the little window. Gliding
with a step, light as the fawn's upon the grass, past
could distinctly hear the faint voice of Dom. Joseph,
and the ringing of silver in the hands of Pascalet,
at which she closer wrapped her cloak about
her form, and grasped her pistol with a firmer hold),
she crossed the room and stood before the door of
the chamber. Cautiously she bent her ear to listen
to deliberations which she believed threatened
the peace of the government, if not the safety of
an individual who was its right arm in the field,
and to whom she herself was bound by every tie
of gratitude. She heard voices within as of men
in earnest conversation, but could neither distinctly
hear nor see. Apprehensive of being discovered
before she could convince herself of the truth of
her suspicions, she softly moved along to the extremity
of the partition where a ray of light
streamed through a crevice, and, to her surprise
and delight, obtained, by placing her eye close to
the aperture, which extended from the ceiling to
the floor, a full view of the interior of the room.
Gaining confidence as she found that she could
remain unobserved by those within, who were
closely engaged in debate, she took a survey of the
apartment. The floor was composed of rough
plank; the walls of exposed rafters and boards; and
the ceiling was brown with age, festooned with cobwebs,
and garnished with bundles of herbs, dried
mushrooms, and strings of onions. The windows,
of which there were two fronting on the square,
were closely secured; and the little four-paned aperture
to the right, the light of which was visible
without, was covered with a network of wire. The
apartment was destitute of furniture save a rough
pine table, and two benches equally rude, placed
on each side of it, crossed at one extremity by a
piece of board that served as a seat.
These details were rapidly embraced, and the
eyes of Eugenie now rested upon the inmates of
the apartment with anxious alarm. On the transverse
board which formed the seat at the end of the
table, and directly opposite to her, sat a stout, dark-looking
man, with a broad brow, firm mouth, and
stern countenance; his hair was highly powdered,
brushed back from his forehead, and gathered in a
queue behind. He was busily writing by the light
of two meager tallow candles, placed in tarnished
tin stands before him, the only lights in the gloomy
apartment. Two gentlemen, one in the ordinary
costume of a wealthy citizen, the other in the undress
uniform of the British army, sat on his right
in low conversation. Opposite to these sat the
chevalier, playing with Percy's signet-ring, and
with his face turned towards the individual who
was writing, although his eyes constantly travelled
from face to face with suspicious glances. Beside
the chevalier, and nearly hiding his person from the
observation of Eugenie, was seated an elderly man
with a ferocious countenance, deeply marked by
lines of passion, but with the manners of a man of
rank and one used to good society, dressed in blue
broadcloth, and wearing a long queue tied with a
broad black riband. Eugenie remembered to have
seen him that day in the square before the headquarters
in conversation with General Washington.
He seemed now attentively listening to the conversation
of the two opposite. All of them, except
the gentleman at the head of the table, wore their
hats and cloaks; all carried side arms, and several
pistols lay upon the table. Eugenie gazed upon
the scene with intense interest, her most extravagant
suspicions confirmed by this aspect of the
meeting.
“Colonel,” said the elderly gentleman, waving
in reference to something said by him, “I
beg your pardon, sir! but Washington himself
told me, not four hours since, that he should be at
headquarters at half past ten to-night, and would
there receive any communications from his friends,
in relation,” added the speaker, with a sinister
smile, “to the affairs of government. It is better
that we visit him as the deputation from the citizens
in relation to the preservation of property in
the threatened capture. I have prepared him for
this, and he will receive us as such: then our purpose
will be easily effected.”
The individual addressed was a slender, gentlemanly
man, about forty years of age, with a clear
hazel eye and high forehead, made still higher by
the prevalent fashion of wearing the hair brushed
back from the temples; his dress was scrupulously
neat and rich; his forefinger displayed a brilliant
of great size and beauty; and the belt of his
sword, protruding from his cloak, glittered with
costly settings. Altogether, he was a military
bean Brummel.
“Your plan, my dear major,” he said, in a slow,
lengthened, affected tone, as if he felt that he was
dignifying language by condescending to adopt it
in expressing his ideas, “has certain objections,
although, no doubt, it is concocted with the admirable
penetration for which you are so remarkable.
As I was but even now observing to my friend
and present neighbour, Mr. Walheim, when you
honoured us with your observations, it is my opinion
we had best make a sally upon our expected
captive as he passes through the area or square
from the river-side unto his headquarters. He is
never attended except by an orderly. One of his
aiddecamps is wounded, and the other, that modern
of some misunderstanding.”
“Since the exposure and defeat of our last plan,
colonel,” replied the old gentleman, tartly, “he has
always been attended by several officers or a few
soldiers. He never goes out alone, sir.”
“A pretty brush with some of these rebels in
the street were a pleasant adventure. We shall
have the more honour in taking our game at bay.
I like not this surrounding a man's house like a
bailiff, and entering it like a thief. By the sword
of Hercules! 'tis not cavalierly, nor to be thought
of by gentlemen.”
“We plain citizens,” replied the gentleman who
sat beside him, with some asperity, “had rather
sell swords and pistols than use them, colonel. It
is now ten o'clock, and quite too late to follow your
suggestion if we could. We must act at once and
unanimously, or our plan, which has been postponed
now to the fourth night, will be abortive.
To-night or never! The only plan is to seize him
in his house. There are but two guards stationed
at the door, and two or three wounded officers
lodged there. As a deputation come to consult on
civil affairs, two of our number will be admitted;
the remaining two, with the four British soldiers
concealed in the adjoining garden, can master the
guard, and secure to us free egrees with our prisoner.
The governor is, I believe, with me?” he
concluded, casting his eyes, with a look between
assurance and inquiry, on the gentleman at the head
of the table, who at that moment laid aside his pen,
and looked around as if he was about to ask the
nature of their conversation.
“In what, Mr. Walheim?” he asked, drawing
up with an assumption of dignity and with a formal
look; “in what is the governor with Mr. Walheim,
pray?”
“In seizing General Washington in his own
house at half past ten to-night.”
“Certainly, Mr. Walheim! certainly, gentlemen!
I supposed this to be perfectly understood. Major
Breadhelt and you are, I think, to gain an interview
with General Washington. You, colonel, and myself,
are, at the same time, to disarm the guard, and
conduct our captive to the boat, which for four
nights we have kept in waiting. Instead of rowing
with him to Staten Island as we at first intended,
we shall cross to Brooklyn in Waallaboght Bay,
where Percy, so says this Canadian gentleman,
will be in waiting with a suitable guard. If you
are guided by me, sirs, our plan cannot miscarry
like the last. It was disunion alone that defeated
that. Unanimity, gentlemen, is the soul of all great
enterprises, and what greater than the one in view,
which is to crush this rebellion in its bud?”
“Who, your excellency,” drawled the colonel,
“is to notify the Earl of Percy of the proper time
and place for his co-operation? We learn from
this Gallic gentleman that he received not our messenger.”
“For that reason, as you must have learned already
from him, Colonel Howard,” replied the
governor, “Percy has sent him to us to learn our
proceedings. Thanks to my vigilance, all is now
ripe! I have written to my Lord Percy. This
French or Canadian gentleman will take leave of
us in the square; and while we proceed to the execution
of our great enterprise, he will take boat
to Long Island and bear my letter to Percy. I
will read it to you, gentlemen, and see if, as I doubt
not, it meets with your cordial approval.”
Here the governor rose up, and, after clearing his
throat, began, in a declamatory, but slow and pompous
tone, to read what he had written:
“We FOUR to you TWO, greeting. These, by
the bearer of the signet ring, will inform you that
we will place in your possession the American
lion, which we are now sure of capturing, at two
o'clock this night, it being now ten or thereabout.
Your l—dship, with Major N., will meet us at that
hour on the shore in Waallaboght Bay, where the
stream debouches into the aforesaid bay. You will
know the spot by a large umbrageous tree overhanging
the point of junction. Expecting soon to
have the honour of meeting my friends again in my
old gubernatorial mansion, I am your l—d—p's
humble servant.
Signed T.
Also signed T. W. B. H.
“This is sufficiently plain, and, at the same time,
cautious enough, I opine, gentlemen,” he said, in
a tone of exultation. “'Tis almost `veni, vidi,
vici!' Ha, gentlemen? I will beg your indulgence
while I prepare one or two more in a similar
style, to be forwarded express to our friends and
coadjutors in Albany so soon as we have secured
our prize. By that time we will be ready to proceed
on our enterprise. I see you are examining
your arms, Mr. Breadhelt,” said the gentleman, resuming
his seat and pen. “I trust we shall not
have need for more than their silent eloquence.
We must not use them.”
“But if he resist?” asked the chevalier, quietly.
“Not even then,” said the governor, in a decided
tone.
“Let me join you, messieurs,” said the chev
alier.
“Humph! Chevalier, I will detain you while I
write and seal another note to Sir Henry Clinton,
which I beg you will request Lord Percy to forward
at liberty, monsieur, I shall be very happy to have
you present at my first gubernatorial levee. Our
possession of Washington's person will soon reinstate
us all in our usurped rights. Ha, gentlemen?”
“Your excellency is very obliging. I shall be
forced to proceed to-morrow to Quebec, whither I
am called by circumstances communicated to me
by letter while I was in France, materially affecting
my patrimony.”
His manner was gracious as he spoke, but his
eyes grew dark and scowling as if from the thoughts
associated with what he had uttered.
The governor was about to reply, when a slight
noise near the partition drew an exclamation from
the chevalier, whose ready hand grasped a pistol
that lay before him.
“Messieurs, we are observed,” he said, half rising.
“'Tis the old domine stumbling in the dark,”
said the governor, arresting his hand; “he watches
us as if we were plotting robbery.”
The chevalier laid down the pistol. The other
conspirators, who had not been moved by a noise
easily referrible to the movements of the occupant
of the house, impatient of their stay, continued to
converse to while away the time till the moment of
action arrived, while the governor became again
busy over his writing.
Eugenie, with extraordinary self-possession, listened
and impressed upon her memory the conversation
she overheard, although trembling at each
new development of the plans of the conspiracy.
Every line of the governor's letter she engraved
on her mind, and mentally ran over the characters
forming the signature, which she suspected was
treasured these up in her memory with a fixedness
and facility which were the natural result of the extraordinary
circumstances in which she was placed
—awakening all the energy of her character, and
calling into exercise faculties that she knew not,
until the moment of trial, that she possessed. She
was about to retrace her steps, and had gathered
her cloak about her for the purpose, when, as he
heard her move, the voice of the chevalier, whose
person had been wholly screened from her sight
by the interposition of the elderly gentleman by his
side, arrested her steps as if she had suddenly been
converted into a statue; and trembling, she knew
not why, she leaned against the partition for support.
Alarmed for her safety, she at once recovered
herself, wondering at her strange sensations
at the mere sound of a voice; it was, however, a
key to painful emotions which she could neither
trace to their source nor account for. After vainly
endeavouring to connect the voice with some link
in memory's chain, she lightly crossed the floor to
the stairs. At this moment a heavy fall, and a
low, glad cry, as if of exultation, from the miser's
room, startled her, and, quickening her pace, she
soon gained the street-door. With a lighter heart
she rejoined the soldier, and bade him remain and
follow the first person who should come forth from
the house, and, if possible, singly or with assistance,
arrest and convey him prisoner to Washington's
headquarters.
“You came out o' the general's house, and you
speak like an officer, but a some'at young un,” said
the soldier, respectfully, but as if he should like to
know who commanded him; “if I only knowed
your authority, or who gives orders—”
“Silence, sir, and obey!” interrupted Eugenie,
square, and in a few moments stood in the presence
of Washington.
He was seated in the library in full uniform,
which was marked with the traces of recent severe
duty in the field, his arm leaning upon a table
covered with despatches, messages from Congress,
maps of fortifications, gazettes, and piles of open
letters. His military hat lay beside him, and an
open letter was in his hand, which supported his
head, as he sat in an attitude of deep and, as it
seemed, of painful thought. At the abrupt entrance
of Eugenie, disguised in hat and cloak, he
looked up; but with that dignity which never deserted
him, and without giving any signs of being
taken by surprise, he permitted the intruder to approach
close to the table and communicate his purpose.
She saw by his looks that he did not recognise
her. Recollecting her disguise, she threw
aside her cap and mantle, showing him her face
covered with the most beautiful confusion.
“What, Eugenie,” said the chief, sternly, “more
masquerading?”
“Forgive me, my noble benefactor!” she said,
at once recovering her self-possession; “I know
you will do so when you know all.”
Then, with remarkable precision and directness,
she detailed to him what she had discovered.
“Brave, heroic girl,” said Washington, with a
smile that repaid her for all her dangers, “you
know not how you have served my country. Half
past ten, did you say?” he asked, with coolness
and with an air of decision, as if conscious of successfully
defeating the machinations of his enemies.
Eugenie made no reply. He turned towards her,
and discovered that she had nearly fainted.
“Her noble spirit,” he said, tenderly and with
now the strained chords are broken. Eugenie, my
noble Eugenie, try and recover your energies.”
She burst into tears, but instantly brushed them
away.
“'Tis but a momentary weakness. I'm better
now,” she said, smiling, and gratefully returning,
with her eyes, his sympathy; “but my heart was
so full of joy that I was enabled to tell you all! Oh,
lose not a moment, sir. Would it not be best to
try and seize the messenger with the letter if it be
not yet too late?”
“It will, my heroine,” he said, smiling and taking
up his sword and cap; “you are a true soldier's
daughter. I shall give the deputation a different
reception from what the hypocritical Walheim and
our tory ex-governor anticipate. Return, Eugenie,
to Mrs. Washington's room, or,” he added, playfully,
“to your patient in the drawing-room; but
not a word of this conspiracy! You and I must
share all the honours of defeating it.”
Eugenie left the room, while General Washington
hastily wrote a line on a slip of paper.
“Sentinel,” he said, going into the hall, “take
this to the quarters of your captain at the barracks
in Beekman-street. Make no delay.”
After the soldier had hastily departed with the
order, Washington threw on a cloak, and, taking
his sword under his arm, crossed the square and
approached the soldier left by Eugenie at the corner
of the street.
“Has your man come forth, soldier?” he inquired.
The bearing of his general could not be mistaken
by the man; and, although his face was purposely
hidden in the folds of his mantle, he replied,
paying the military salute at the same time, “He
I am under orders.” At this instant a man appeared
at the door, who, after saying “Adieu, Monsieur
Governeur!” to one who bore a light, but was not
visible to those without, sallied forth.
“Pascalet! Pascalet!” he called, as the door
closed upon him, and rapidly advancing up the
street.
“Ha, Pascalet! you are here?” he said, softly,
as he reached the corner. “Mon Dieu! no!” he
exclaimed, starting back and laying his hand upon
his sword as he discovered the figures of two strangers.
The powerful arm of Washington was at
the same instant upon his arm, and the bayonet of
the soldier against his breast.
“Surrender, sir!” said his captor, in a deep, stern
voice; “I hold you my prisoner.”
Unable to offer any resistance to an assault so
unexpected and so well enforced, he changed his
manner, and said politely,
“There is some mistake, monsieur!”
He however gave up his sword, and was conducted
by Washington to his quarters and into his
library. After closing the door and placing a guard
over him, he demanded his papers.
The chevalier drew forth his pocketbook and
presented it, saying,
“It contains only the title-deeds to my estate.”
The general hastily ran over its contents, and
was about to throw it down, when his eye was arrested
by a superscription. Eagerly taking out the
paper, he opened it, and glanced hastily and eagerly
over it; then, fixing his eyes sternly for a moment
upon the chevalier, whose own sunk beneath
their steady gaze, he, with a smile of gratification,
replaced it in the pocketbook and locked the whole
in a drawer of his secretary.
“They are the titles of my property, monsieur,”
said the chevalier, with earnestness.
“We will examine into your titles by-and-by.
Deliver me now, if you please, the letter you bear
to Lord Percy from Governor Tryon.”
“Sacre! how knew you that secret?”
“I know your whole conspiracy. The letter,
sir!”
The chevalier, with a shrug, took from his breast
the packet and gave it to him in silence. The general
tore open the envelope, and while he was reading
the full confirmation of Eugenie's statement,
the prisoner, after gazing at him for a moment,
turned to his guard and said in a whisper,
“Who is this gentleman?”
“Who, but General Washington!” bluntly answered
the soldier.
“Ma foi! c'est le diable!” he ejaculated, lifting
his eyebrows in surprise and curiosity, and drawing
the corners of his mouth down in despair.
“I am sorry, sir,” replied Washington, folding
the letter, and placing it on the table before him,
“to place you under arrest as a conspirator against
the state.”
While he spoke the sentinel, accompanied by an
officer, entered the room.
“Captain Carter, you are in time. Are your
men at the gate?”
“They are, general,” said the captain, a tall
young man, with a frank and resolute countenance,
the manners of a student, and the eye of a soldier.
“Your ready compliance with my orders shall
be remembered. Take six of your men and let
them lie upon their arms within the yard. I have
certain information that, in ten minutes from hence,
my sentinels will be assaulted, and an attempt made
upon you to defeat their object. Permit them to
secure the guard, who has his instructions, and
then surprise and take them prisoners. Do it, if
possible, without bloodshed. If, in the mean while,
two persons desire admittance, allow them to pass
in unmolested and without suspecting your presence.
There is a plan to take me prisoner in my
own house, but I have had timely news of it. Send
the remaining six men into my library.” These
orders were given with coolness and decision.
The young captain bowed, and, with a sparkling
eye, left the room to execute his orders.
In a few seconds a file of soldiers marched into
the library, followed by Jacques, whom Washington
ordered to be set at liberty. They were placed
against the wall, behind the open door, with fixed
bayonets, and, by the arrangement of the lights,
were thrown into deep shadow. The chevalier,
with his guard, also stood aloof in the dark part of
the room.
Washington, with the letter to Lord Percy open
in his hand, seated himself by the table in the full
light of the lamp, and composedly awaited the entrance
of the conspirators. In a few moments
footsteps were heard without, and the sentinel at the
door repeated, in a tone of more than usual confidence,
“Pass.”
A low knock at the door was answered by the
clear, calm voice of Washington.
“Come in.”
The door opened, and the two conspirators entered
and advanced towards him. He rose from
his chair, surveyed them with his usual dignified
composure as they approached, and said,
“You are welcome, gentlemen. I have been for
some time expecting this honour.”
“And we, George Washington,” said Breadhelt,
in a loud, stern tone, levelling a pistol at his breast,
“have been long anticipating this triumph. Your
guards are already disarmed, and you are our prisoner.”
“We will leave that for these gentlemen to decide,”
said General Washington, with a smile of
triumph, as he turned aside the sliding shade from
the lamp and pointed behind them.
They turned and gazed upon each other in despair.
At a look from Washington the captain of
the file advanced and received their arms, which
they resigned in silence.
“I congratulate your excellency upon being the
favourite of the fickle goddess,” said the colonel,
as he tendered his sword. Then looking at his
friend, who stood folding his arms gloomily on his
breast, he continued, “We must bear this with
philosophy, my dear Breadhelt. Bah! there stands
our friend the chevalier. By the foot of Hercules!”
he said, as a struggle was heard without; “let us
not be discomfited; we are like to have company,
which will proportionably lessen our misery.”
As he spoke a soldier entered, and said,
“They are secured, your excellency.”
“Bid Captain Carter conduct the two leaders in,
and closely guard the soldiers.”
“Ha, Walheim,” said the colonel, “you are welcome.
Misery loveth good company. You see
we are circumvented, and quite hors du combat.”
“Where is the governor?” demanded Washington,
quickly, of the captain.
“One escaped, sir, but I have sent two soldiers
after him. I think they will yet take him.”
“Deceive not thyself, worthy youth,” said Howard;
of them. He hath learned it in this rebel war.”
“There hath been treason,” said Walheim, as
he entered guarded, and saw the situation of his
friends; “it never could have been discovered without
some vile treachery.” Breadhelt scowled, and
Howard deliberately said,
“Citizen Walheim, I have no sword, or I would
chastise thee for thy tongue's impertinence.”
“Gentlemen,” said Washington, sternly, “there
has been sufficient treason manifested by you all,
of which there is sufficient proof in the act in which
you have been taken. I presume you know something
of this, Colonel Howard?” he asked, displaying
the open letter taken from the chevalier. Here
are four initials which, I think, may fit names known
to you.”
Howard looked down, and seemed to be admiring
the mounting of his empty scabbard.
“'Tis no proof, sir!” Walheim said quickly;
“no names! nothing in a court of justice. A jury
could do nothing with it! no overt act, sir.”
“Sir,” said Arden, who had entered the room
and seated himself by the table during this scene,
“your confidants were taken with their pistols
levelled at the breast of General Washington.”
The citizen stared, and, growing pale, clinched
his hands in utter hopelessness. The exhibition of
the letter, however, had a different effect upon the
silent and moody Breadhelt. He started from the
sullen attitude he had fallen into when he found
himself so unexpectedly ensnared: seizing the letter,
and looking a moment at its contents, he said
earnestly,
“General Washington, how came you by this?”
“There is the bearer, sir,” said the general, directing
his eyes towards the extremity of the room,
apparently unconcerned attitude against the window.
Breadhelt turned and fixed his eyes steadily upon
the chevalier, and his countenance gradually lighted
up with a glow of satisfaction. Suddenly seizing
his own pistol from the hands of Captain Carter,
he levelled it at the chevalier, shouting,
“Die, traitor!”
The ball entered the chevalier's breast, and,
clasping his hands over his heart, he fell upon the
floor.
“Murderer, what have you done?” exclaimed
Washington. “This foreigner did not betray you;
he was my prisoner as well as yourself. Carter,
see that these traitors, who deal so lightly in blood,
are safely secured in the common prison to await
their trial.”
“Shall I bind them, general?”
“Ay,” he said, with indignation, “with chains, if
you will. I make you responsible for their safety.
Morton, ride for the surgeon.”
The conspirators were each guarded between
two soldiers, and led from the scene of their signal
defeat. At the gate they were joined by the
other prisoners, and marched to the prison a short
distance north from the head of Beekman-street.
Washington's resentment against the agent in this
plot was now turned into compassion for the victim
of revenge. The last of the soldiers left the
room as Mrs. Washington and Eugenie, alarmed
by the report of the pistol, rushed in. The former
tenderly embraced her husband, who had advanced
to assist the two soldiers that remained, in raising
the wounded man, while Eugenie instinctively
sought Arden and would have flown also into his
hand, she said,
“Thank God, it is not you!”
“That poor gentleman,” said Arden, returning
the pressure; “one of the conspirators shot him on
suspicion of treachery.”
The soldiers now placed the wounded man on a
sofa, and endeavoured to stanch the blood.
“'Tis to no purpose. I am mortally wounded,”
he said.
“Do not hold me, Arden,” cried Eugenie, with
energy. “That voice I know! let me see him!”
She broke from Arden, who would have prevented
her from beholding a scene of suffering so
unfitted for the eyes of one so young and sensitive;
and yielding to a strange and sudden emotion, she
rushed forward and gazed fixedly on the changing
features of the expiring chevalier. Her brow gradually
became rigid, and her eyes lighted up with
increasing intelligence. At length, clasping her
hands together, she faintly murmured,
“'Tis my uncle.”
“Who? what do I hear?” cried the dying man,
raising himself on his elbow and gazing wildly in
her face. “Eugenie? 'Tis Eugenie! Oh God,
forgive me! Niece,” he continued, extending his
hand, “I have wronged thee, and was on my way
to wrong thee still further, even to the taking of
thy life. But justice at last has got her victim.
Have I your forgiveness?”
“Yes, yes! all—all,” she gasped, yet shrinking
from his outstretched hand.
“God bless you! I am dying. May the saints
intercede for me. The deeds—are—are,” his eyes
turned towards the secretary, and his head fell over
upon his shoulder.
A moment after, and the chevalier ceased to
anxieties of this world; and the future, with its
great secret, to which we all look forward with
mingled curiosity and dread, was unfolded to his
dark spirit, the destiny of which, either for bliss or
wo, was now unalterably and for ever fixed.
17. CHAPTER XVII.
THE REVENGE.
After remaining on the ground the whole of
the day succeeding the disastrous battle of Brooklyn,
the English general the second night prepared
to attack the works. Washington was advised of
this; and, aware of his inability to resist an assault,
he resolved to attempt to draw off his troops to the
city.
They were, as we have seen, closely blockaded
in their intrenchments; the only passage open that
offered to them the least prospect of escape being in
their rear across the East River, at that point nearly
half a mile wide, to York Island. This avenue,
however, was commanded by the guns of the British
fleet anchored not far below. The whole army
was considered by the English as already in their
power, and the American Congress gave it up as
irrevocably lost.
Notwithstanding its apparent impracticability,
Washington determined to make the attempt to
effect a retreat, and, upon its success or failure, to
stake his reputation and the fate of his troops, if not,
also, the safety of his country. The conception and
of his military genius. On the night preceding
the anticipated assault, he drew off his whole
army, numbering nine thousand men, in such silence
and secrecy, that the first intimation General
Howe, who commanded the besieging force,
received of their escape was by the alarm conveyed
by his outposts when, in the morning, they
saw the rear guard of the retreating army half way
across the East River and beyond the reach of their
fire. He therefore prepared immediately to attack
New-York, and Washington to evacuate the city
and retire to the northern part of the island.
Having taken up this historical link to our chain
of fiction, we will now return to our hero, whom,
for the sake of bringing our heroine and Arden
more prominently before the reader, we have purposely
neglected. After leaving his wounded rival,
he executed the order given him by General Putnam,
and through the remainder of the day distinguished
himself by his fearless courage and military
talents. In the retreat from Long Island he
was eminently conspicuous by his activity, coolness,
and presence of mind; displaying at that trying
time the experience of a veteran soldier guided
by the well-directed energy of no common mind.
Would that the romancer were called to unfold
alone his military career! to hold up only the bright
side of the shield! But this is the enviable province
of the historian. The novelist must follow
his characters from the senate and the field; enter
with them into the cabinet and into the hall; and
be beside them in their most sacred retirements.
It is his province to lay open the heart, unfold its
secrets, and let all men read, as in a printed volume,
what is written thereon. Invisibility and
ubiquity are his attributes, and the magic wand
mysteries. The bright, the beautiful, and the
grand are but spirits of his will and pleasure. At
his bidding the earth lays open her gloomy caverns
and crystal palaces to his eye; the mountains
clothe themselves with purple and roseate clouds,
or bellow with thunder; the lakes, the rivers, the
trees become animate and spiritual. The visible
universe is not so vast that his wonderful power
will not embrace it and bend it to his pleasure.
But here is not the limit of his power. He can
create! He waves his wand, and creatures, beautiful
or hideous, glorious or base, appear. He
speaks, and they are animated. To their number
there is no limit. They are the ministers of his
will and the instruments of his vast power, which
is as unbounded as the firmament, as unfathomable
as the sea.
When the American army were safely landed in
New-York after their extraordinary escape, Burton
hastened to Kingsbridge, where Isabel Ney had
been retained, not to say imprisoned, since he escorted
her there a few days before.
The quarters of General Mifflin were in a villa
formerly occupied by a tory gentleman, then in
arms under General Howe. It was in the midst
of a lawn adorned by noble oaks, and sloping on
one side to the Hudson River, on the other to an
inlet or stream called Spuyten Duyvel Creek, over
which was thrown a light wooden bridge, nearly
hidden in the foliage of overhanging willows and
elms. The dwelling was two stories high, surrounded
by a piazza, with spacious barns and outhouses,
and, altogether, wore an aristocratical air.
Time had soiled its original snowy white, and given
to it a sober hue, which added to its venerable and
baronial aspect. A cupola surmounted the roof,
and Bloomingdale; the needlelike spire of Trinity
Church in the distant city; Hell Gate and its
shores; Long Island; the North and East Rivers;
the picturesque bay and its green islands; the beautiful
Jersey shores, and the gigantic wall of the
Palisadoes—the vanguard of the Hudson Highlands—crowned
with its bristling fortress. It was
the first of October, and autumn had flung its gorgeous
drapery over the forests, which seemed to
shine with their own golden light.
The room occupied by Isabel was in the southwest
corner of the mansion, in the second story,
with Venetian windows opening out of it upon the
piazza. She was not kept a close prisoner, but
suffered to walk the grounds during the day, and,
accompanied by General Mifflin, ride a mile or
two along the river's banks. From this officer and
his family she received those attentions and that
sympathy which her circumstances demanded;
and, altogether, her seclusion, aside from its compulsory
character, was not disagreeable.
Burton's first impulse, after he was temporarily
released from the duties of the soldier, was to hasten
to throw himself at the feet of the fair captive.
She received him with undisguised pleasure. The
privacy of the family of General Mifflin and the
seclusion of the spot were favourable to the devotees
of Cupid. The good-natured general was easy
and unsuspicious, and permitted them to ride and
walk together, trusting to the honour and patriotism
of Burton for the security of his prisoner.
We will briefly pass over the growth and maturity
of a passion, the only tendency of which
could alone be the ruin of the trusting one: the
enemy were in possession of New-York, and the
American army had taken its position near Kingsbridge,
only to blockade the English by land in the city
which they had captured, but also to check their
farther progress into the country. The headquarters
of the American general were therefore removed
to this part of the island, and now were not
far from Kingsbridge. Burton consequently became
a more frequent visiter to the villa. We
would gladly withhold our pen from recording it!
in a few short weeks the proud and haughty Isabel
Ney became the victim of the fascinating libertine
Edward Burton.
In the mean while Arden recovered from his
wound and was again in the saddle. But in his
duties as a soldier he forgot not those of a lover.
Inmate of the same mansion with Eugenie, he had
a thousand opportunities of bringing that love to
maturity which he had hailed with delight in the
germe. Day after day beheld their growing affection.
Their hearts at length became indissolubly
united. She adored him without impiety; he
worshipped her without forgetting that she was
mortal. Their love was such as would bear the
test of time and trial—that virtuous union of souls
which earth and Heaven unite to render permanent
and happy.
Six weeks had elapsed after the evacuation of
New-York, when one morning Isabel Ney, no longer
the pure but haughty creature we first beheld her,
yet equally as proud and still more beautiful, was
leaning over the balustrade of her prison, watching
the majestic movement of an English frigate
that was making demonstrations as if it were about
to pass Forts Lee and Washington, which guarded
the entrance to the Highlands. Her thoughts were
wandering, but all were tinged with the dark cloud
that had passed over her spirit and tarnished the
the beautiful should fall! Where virtue exists not
in the mind, nor purity in the heart, it seems pride
alone should be woman's plate of proof.
She was to meet Burton that evening; and her
thoughts, how far soever they would stray, constantly
turned back to him.
The sentinel below was pacing backward and
forward before the door; the distant roll of drums,
and occasionally the warlike note of a bugle from
the far-distant camp, and, at long intervals, the dull
sound of cannon fired as signals from the fleet, anchored
two leagues below, fell upon her ear, but
as if she heard not. Her bosom heaved painfully,
and her eye was fixed on vacancy. A horseman,
who galloped along the avenue without attracting
her attention, drew up almost beneath her
before she noticed him.
She started with surprise and confusion, but
looked down with eager curiosity, and recognised
in the visiter Major Dearborn, whom she had once
seen for a moment at the quarters of Putnam.
“Good-morning, general,” he said, in reply to a
voice from the door as he reined up. “I see you
hold your spyglass, and have been watching the
motions of yonder frigate. Do you think she will
have the temerity to attempt to run the gauntlet?”
“She is only coquetting,” replied General Mifflin,
in a gay tone of voice. “There! she has already
tacked ship. John Bull is too wise to put
his head into a lion's mouth. Dismount, major.”
“I have some official business with you which
will take but a moment, but it must be in private,”
he said, glancing up at the balcony; and then, dismounting,
he disappeared within the house.
In a few minutes he came out and threw himself
on his horse.
“By-the-by, general,” he said, as he was about
to ride off, “do you honour Colonel—I beg his
pardon, these promotions confuse one—General
Arden with your presence this evening?”
“Presence? Where?”
“Have you not heard that he is about to be united
in the bonds of Hymen to-night with the lovely
Canadian who has lately fallen heir to a French
title and estate?”
“I thought Colonel Burton was to carry off that
prize.”
“Burton!” repeated Dearborn, with a laugh;
“the earl has drawn so many lefthanded prizes of
this sort that he ought to resign this to his rival.”
“Earl?”
“So much for rusticating here out of the world,
general. It is a soubriquet the staff confer upon
him in honour of his prototype, Rochester; a nomme
d'amour. By-the-by, you have heard that Arden's
wounds were received in a snug little duello
with Colonel Burton, as a sort of by-play or episode
in the grand battle; and all for this pretty
runaway nun!”
“Yes. But did Colonel Burton really run away
with her?” asked General Mifflin, with homely simplicity.
“That did he. The whole affair was sufficiently
romantic. What is more, after he left Canada,
she followed him out of pure love, and Arden saved
her from one of those plots he sometimes lays for
the young and lovely of the sex. Faith! Burton
should have been a pacha with three tails; not one
less.”
“Is it true that he betrayed Captain Germaine's
daughter?”
“Most true,” replied the officer, with warmth;
“and true, also, that he intended to replace her by
good sword had not protected her.”
“I shall keep an eye on him when he next comes
here. It's well there is no game here for him except
this English miss, who has got spirit enough
to take care of herself.”
“The very women that soonest fall. Better
keep an eye on them both, general,” he said, as he
rode off.
“Keep an eye on them?” he repeated, musingly;
“I fear 'twill be shutting the stable-door after the
horse is stolen. If there's mischief in the wind
it's over before this. This Colonel Burton has not
been here for nothing, it seems. Too late! too
late!” he added, as he entered the house.
“Not too late for revenge!” said Isabel, slowly
articulating each syllable through her compressed
lips.
Not a word of the foregoing conversation had
escaped her ear.
“Burton, then, has wooed and won Isabel Ney,”
she said, with flashing eyes, “as another instrument
of his pleasures. Then leaving my feet—yes,
my arms!—to throw himself into those of another!
If my love be a guilty one, I will have no rival in it!”
She entered her chamber and paced the room for
an hour with a swelling heart and burning brain.
At length the rigidity of her brow relaxed; her
flashing eye assumed a steadier expression, yet
parted with none of its indignant light; her closed
lips, save a slight curl of the upper one, resumed
their wonted expression; yet there was no colour
in her cheek, and her bosom rose and fell as if her
heart were pressing outward with its unnatural fulness.
Fearful, wonderful was the settled calmness
of her look and manner! But it was the quiet of
the volcano the moment before it bursts into flame.
A noise of horsemen without drew her to the
balcony. A British officer, the same noble-looking
cavalier who had tilted with Burton, at the instant
drew up on the plateau beneath, bearing a flag of
truce. He was courteously received by General
Mifflin and invited into the house. From a few
words that escaped him as he entered the hall, Isabel
learned that his mission was to treat for her
release. All at once, as if she had come to some
sudden resolution, she re-entered her room, seated
herself at her escritoir, and hurriedly, yet with a
steady hand, wrote with her pencil upon a slip of
paper the following words:
“At eight to-night send a boat with four men
to the grove of maples two hundred yards below
the bridge. An American officer of rank shall be
there placed in your power. Hide your men on
the shore beneath the overhanging rock. When
you hear the signal, `seize your prisoner,' obey it.
Bring no firearms, lest you alarm the guard. Be
secret and punctual.
Isabel Ney.”
She returned to the balcony and awaited the officer's
reappearance. In a short time the door opened
and he came forth.
“The proposition shall be made known to the
commander-in-chief, sir,” said General Mifflin,
“and I have no doubt of his compliance with it.”
“To-morrow, then, I will return for your answer.”
“Have you just landed from yonder frigate, Major
Andre?”
“I have, sir.”
“I thought she was trying to dodge up the river;
but was only manœuvring, I see, to land you.”
The gentlemen courteously exchanged parting
closed. As he was passing beneath the balcony
Isabel waved her handkerchief, which startled the
horse and caused his rider to look up. She placed
her finger on her lip, displayed the paper, and, hastily
folding it in her handkerchief, dropped it. He
caught it, smiled, bowed, and galloped out of sight.
A few minutes before nine o'clock the same
evening, Burton and Isabel stood together on the
bridge, beneath an elm which grew on the banks,
and cast a deep shadow over the spot; Zacharie,
holding a horse and mounted on another, was on
the roadside at a little distance. The night was
the loveliest of the mellow American autumn; the
stream rippled past musically, loudly complaining
as it encountered the piers of the bridge which
entered its placid breast; the air was motionless;
the woods moved with a pleasant sound; the stars
were out; and the moon, high in the east, threw
vast masses of light and shade over the scene.
Burton leaned upon the railing as if in thought;
Isabel hung on his arm seemingly in all the confidence
and artlessness of innocence and affection.
A guilty pair! The one cold and indifferent with
possession, yet feigning the semblance of love;
the other breathing the language of affection in
his ear, while her heart was filled with the bitterness
of hate, and her insulted spirit burning with
the triumph of anticipated revenge.
“My dear Burton, I fear you love me less; you
do not bear that look of devotion you once did. I
have madly loved you, and my affection should
meet a kinder return than this cold manner.”
Isabel spoke with sincerity and with feeling.
“I am not changed, Isabel,” he replied, rousing
himself with an effort and passing his arm around
her; “it is only your idle fancy that leads you to
share my heart and fill my thoughts.”
“'Tis false!” was the reply that came to her lips,
but she suppressed it. At this instant the faint dip
of an oar caught her vigilant ear, and she fondly said,
“Let us walk farther. The night invites to
ramble.”
Leaning upon his arm, she turned down a path
leading by the side of the water, and shortly after
they entered a grove through which the road pleasantly
wound. Not far from the entrance of the
wood was a large rock, with aged trees growing
upon it; its base was washed by the waves. Towards
it she carelessly led, as if she guided him
not, the moody and silent Burton.
“Edward,” she said, with energy and feeling,
as if continuing a conversation, “I do not blame
you. You have broken no vow. I asked not, you
promised not, marriage. All I sought, all I cared
for, was your love. Happy in that, I looked not
beyond it. But,” she added, with a sudden change
of voice and manner, her tones sinking into a low,
distinct, energetic whisper, “Edward Burton, you
have been false to me!”
“False?”
“Do you know Caroline Germaine?” she fiercely
demanded.
“Ha!”
“Eugenie de Lisle?”
“Isabel!”
“You are a villain, sir!” she cried, in a voice of
settled yet fearful passion. “I hate you. Love
has fled from my bosom, guilty though it might
have been. Hatred—revenge has taken its place.”
“Good God, Isabel, be calm.”
“Calm? Ha, ha, ha!”
“You are in error.”
“For what pastime, pray, did you cross blades
with Colonel Arden?” she asked, with lofty scorn.
“Isabel!”
“Silence.”
“Forgive—”
“Never.”
“The flawed chain that bound me to you is well
broken, then,” he said, carelessly. “'Tis a kindness
for which I stand in your debt.”
“The debt shall now be cancelled,” she exclaimed
triumphantly; and then, in an elevated tone, she
cried, “Seize your prisoner.”
Instantly four soldiers, headed by an officer, appeared
from behind the rock and advanced with
drawn swords upon him.
Although taken by surprise, Burton's coolness
and presence of mind did not forsake him. He
threw off Isabel's hand, which she had forcibly laid
on his wrist, and sprung back, at the same time
drawing a pistol from his breast and firing upon
the leader. Then unsheathing his sword, he prepared
to receive his foes. The ball from his pistol
missed the officer and wounded one of the soldiers.
Enraged at the fall of their comrade, they
furiously advanced upon him. He retreated till he
gained a large tree, when, placing his back against
it, he waited to receive their assault.
“On your lives, wound him not,” said the officer,
who, from his uniform, was a captain of marines.
Burton received them with spirit, and met their
efforts to disarm him with skill and success. At
length he severely wounded one of his assailants,
when the others, forgetting their officer's injunction,
vigorously pressed him with the determination to
cut him down, and gave him, though not without
receiving, several severe wounds. He was nearly
exhausted, and was about to tender his sword to
her, when Zacharie's voice was heard in the entrance
of the wood,
“Hold out! There is rescue at hand. Hasten,
you lubbers. Will you see an American officer
hacked up?”
While he was speaking he came down the path
at full speed, holding in each hand one of his master's
pistols, which he had taken from the holsters,
and followed close at his heels by half a score of
soldiers with fixed bayonets.
“Leave your game, and to the boat,” cried the
officer, as they came in sight.
The men precipitately retreated to a barge concealed
behind the rock, not, however, without receiving
the contents of one of Zacharie's pistols.
The other was wrested from his hand by Isabel.
“You shall not escape, Burton. My revenge is
not yet complete,” she fiercely cried, levelling the
pistol at his breast. “Perish thy false heart!”
Zacharie caught her arm as she fired, and the
ball passed through Burton's shoulder. He instantly
fell.
“My revenge is complete. I can now forgive
myself for my folly in loving you. Adieu. In after
years we shall meet again.”
The next instant she sprang into the boat as it
was putting off from the shore, and was swiftly
carried by the rapid current into the dark shadows
of the trees out of sight.
The soldiers had presented their muskets and
were about to fire, when Burton faintly said,
“Hold! There is a female in the boat. Let
them escape. I have deserved this.”
He muttered a few words of self-accusation, and
then sunk into insensibility.
A few moments after Burton and Isabel had left
quarters of the commander-in-chief, which were
situated on a rising ground about a quarter of a
mile distant. When Zacharie heard the report of
the pistol fired by Burton, and the loud, quick voices
of the assailants, he suspected that he had been
attacked; and, governed by the first impulse of his
active mind, he rode after the guard and gave the
alarm, though not certain that it might not be a
false one. As he advanced before the soldiers he
heard the clashing of the combatants' swords, and,
hastening forward, effected the timely diversion in
Burton's favour.
He now raised the form of his master and stanched
the blood. The soldiers, hastily forming a litter
of boughs, placed him upon it and bore him towards
the headquarters, to leave him under the charge of
the surgeon.
Slowly they wound their way through the dark
woods; the moonlight, struggling through the foliage,
glancing at intervals over the pale features of
the wounded man. As they approached the mansion
occupied by the military family of the American
general, lights from the windows, which were
brightly illuminated as if a festival were within,
shone through the forest and guided them to the
place of their destination.
At length they passed a soldier on guard, and,
reaching the lawn before the house, came full upon
the gay scene. Advancing towards the portico,
the soldiers rested their burden before the open
windows, while Zacharie hastened to give information
of the condition of his master. The scene
that met the eyes of these men was exceedingly
brilliant. The long windows, which reached to the
ground, were thrown open, for the night was warm,
and displayed the interior lighted up with great
flowing white robes, glanced before their eyes. It
was a reunion of beauty and valour. All was dazzling
bright, and gayety and happiness. How great
the contrast between this scene and the rude litter!
its insensible burden and rough bearers!
All at once, through a door at which stood
Jacques and the servants looking in upon the
scene, a dignified clergyman, in the robes of the
Church of England, entered the room. He was
attended by several officers of high rank, distinguished
among whom stood General Washington.
At their entrance a young officer, in the rich uniform
of one of high rank, came forth from the
crowd, which gradually formed into a circle. His
handsome features were chastened by a quiet smile
of inward happiness. He led by the hand a female
of dazzling beauty, with downcast eyes and
a conscious, delicate blush upon her cheeks, like
the reflection of a roseleaf upon a lily. He gazed
upon her with pride as she stood tremblingly beside
him. They were Arden and Eugenie.
The clergyman opened his book. General
Washington advanced and placed the hand of the
maiden in that of her lover. The service was
read; a ring was placed on the finger of the maiden,
and she became a bride. A murmur of pleasure
ran through the assembly. A short prayer was offered
up by the holy man, when the buzz of delight
again filled the room.
Many were the beautiful lips that pressed the
cheek of the happy bride, but none so beautiful
as hers; and many were the brave soldiers who
grasped the hand of the bridegroom and wished
him happiness, but none of so gallant a presence.
When the clergyman entered the room, Burton
revived and looked around. The glare of light attracted
upon his elbow, and gazed with burning eyeballs
on the whole ceremony; beheld the proud
and happy look of Arden; the subdued, virgin joy
of Eugenie.
His hand instinctively sought his sword; the
blood spouted from his lip as he pierced it in the
madness of his impotent rage; and making an effort
to rise to his feet when he saw Arden place
the ring on Eugenie's finger, he fell back again insensible,
with his hands clinched and a curse dying
upon his tongue.
The subsequent destinies of Isabel Ney and the
remaining characters of our romance, as well as
that of our hero, are familiar matters of history;
but possibly may afford materials for another story,
to be laid a quarter of a century later. Father
Bonaventure, Porter Homfroy, and our monkly
brethren in the valley of the Chaudiere, lived to a
good old age, died, and were buried. Sister Agnes
died a maid. Zacharie eventually listed in the
wars; and after a restless and adventurous career,
in which he gained great reputation as a soldier, became
conspicuous in a famous conspiracy against
the state. As for Jacques, though he contrived, by
a sort of fatality, to figure in all the subsequent
great battles of the war, he was deterred by his
praiseworthy philanthropy from arriving at that distinction
which, to believe his own words, he had
earned by numerous sanguinary conflicts in season
and out of season, and by countless wounds
and bruises both on “hip and thigh.”
| Burton, or, The sieges | |