CHAPTER VIII
With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide; And many a childing mother then, And new-born infant, died; But things like these, you know, must be At every famous victory. --SOUTHEY.
The last sounds of the combat died on the ears of the anxious listenersin the cottage, and were succeeded by the stillness of suspense. Franceshad continued by herself, striving to exclude the uproar, and vainlyendeavoring to summon resolution to meet the dreaded result. The groundwhere the charge on the foot had taken place was but a short mile fromthe Locusts, and, in the intervals of the musketry, the cries of thesoldiers had even reached the ears of its inhabitants. After witnessingthe escape of his son, Mr. Wharton had joined his sister and eldestdaughter in their retreat, and the three continued fearfully waiting fornews from the field. Unable longer to remain under the painfuluncertainty of her situation, Frances soon added herself to the uneasygroup, and Caesar was directed to examine into the state of thingswithout, and report on whose banners victory had alighted. The fathernow briefly related to his astonished children the circumstance andmanner of their brother's escape. They were yet in the freshness oftheir surprise, when the door opened, and Captain Wharton, attended by acouple of the guides, and followed by the black, stood before them.
"Henry--my son, my son," cried the agitated parent, stretching out hisarms, yet unable to rise from his seat; "what is it I see; are you againa captive, and in danger of your life?"
"The better fortune of these rebels has prevailed," said the youth,endeavoring to force a cheerful smile, and taking a hand of each of hisdistressed sisters. "I strove nobly for my liberty; but the perversespirit of rebellion has even lighted on their horses. The steed Imounted carried me, greatly against my will, I acknowledge, into thevery center of Dunwoodie's men."
"And you were again captured," continued the father, casting a fearfulglance on the armed attendants who had entered the room.
"That, sir, you may safely say; this Mr. Lawton, who sees so far, had mein custody again immediately."
"Why you no hold 'em in, Massa Henry?" cried Caesar, pettishly.
"That," said Wharton, smiling, "was a thing easier said than done, Mr.Caesar, especially as these gentlemen" (glancing his eyes at the guides)"had seen proper to deprive me of the use of my better arm."
"Wounded!" exclaimed both sisters in a breath.
"A mere scratch, but disabling me at a most critical moment," continuedthe brother, kindly, and stretching out the injured limb to manifest thetruth of his declaration. Caesar threw a look of bitter animosity on theirregular warriors who were thought to have had an agency in the deed,and left the room. A few more words sufficed to explain all that CaptainWharton knew relative to the fortune of the day. The result he thoughtyet doubtful, for when he left the ground, the Virginians were retiringfrom the field of battle.
"They had treed the squirrel," said one of the sentinels abruptly, "anddidn't quit the ground without leaving a good hound for the chase whenhe comes down."
"Aye," added his comrade dryly, "I'm thinking Captain Lawton will countthe noses of what are left before they see their whaleboats."
Frances had stood supporting herself, by the back of a chair, duringthis dialogue, catching, in breathless anxiety, every syllable as it wasuttered; her color changed rapidly; her limbs shook under her; until,with desperate resolution, she inquired,--
"Is any officer hurt on--the--on either side?"
"Yes," answered the man, cavalierly, "these Southern youths are so fullof mettle, that it's seldom we fight but one or two gets knocked over;one of the wounded, who came up before the troops, told me that CaptainSingleton was killed, and Major Dunwoodie--"
Frances heard no more, but fell lifeless in the chair behind her. Theattention of her friends soon revived her when the captain, turning tothe man, said fearfully,--
"Surely Major Dunwoodie is unhurt?"
"Never fear him," added the guide, disregarding the agitation of thefamily. "They say a man who is born to be hanged will never be drowned;if a bullet could kill the major, he would have been dead long ago. Iwas going to say, that the major is in a sad taking because of thecaptain's being killed; but had I known how much store the lady set byhim, I wouldn't have been so plain-spoken."
Frances now rose quickly from her seat, with cheeks glowing withconfusion, and, leaning on her aunt, was about to retire, when Dunwoodiehimself appeared. The first emotion of the agitated girl was unalloyedhappiness; in the next instant she shrank back appalled from the unusualexpression that reigned in his countenance. The sternness of battle yetsat on his brow; his eye was fixed and severe. The smile of affectionthat used to lighten his dark features on meeting his mistress, wassupplanted by the lowering look of care; his whole soul seemed to beabsorbed in one engrossing emotion, and he proceeded at once tohis object.
"Mr. Wharton," he earnestly began, "in times like these, we need notstand on idle ceremony: one of my officers, I am afraid, is hurtmortally; and, presuming on your hospitality, I have brought him toyour door."
"I am happy, sir, that you have done so," said Mr. Wharton, at onceperceiving the importance of conciliating the American troops. "Thenecessitous are always welcome, and doubly so, in being the friend ofMajor Dunwoodie."
"Sir, I thank you for myself, and in behalf of him who is unable torender you his thanks," returned the other, hastily. "If you please, wewill have him conducted where the surgeon may see and report upon hiscase without delay." To this there could be no objection; and Francesfelt a chill at her heart, as her lover withdrew, without casting asolitary look on herself.
There is a devotedness in female love that admits of no rivalry. All thetenderness of the heart, all the powers of the imagination, are enlistedin behalf of the tyrant passion; and where all is given, much is lookedfor in return. Frances had spent hours of anguish, of torture, onaccount of Dunwoodie, and he now met her without a smile, and left herwithout a greeting. The ardor of her feelings was unabated, but theelasticity of her hopes was weakened. As the supporters of the nearlylifeless body of Dunwoodie's friend passed her, in their way to theapartment prepared for his reception, she caught a view of thisseeming rival.
His pale and ghastly countenance, sunken eye, and difficult breathing,gave her a glimpse of death in its most fearful form. Dunwoodie was byhis side and held his hand, giving frequent and stern injunctions to themen to proceed with care, and, in short, manifesting all the solicitudethat the most tender friendship could, on such an occasion, inspire.Frances moved lightly before them, and, with an averted face, she heldopen the door for their passage to the bed; it was only as the majortouched her garments, on entering the room, that she ventured to raiseher mild blue eyes to his face. But the glance was unreturned, andFrances unconsciously sighed as she sought the solitude of her ownapartment.
Captain Wharton voluntarily gave a pledge to his keepers not to attemptagain escaping, and then proceeded to execute those duties on behalf ofhis father, which were thought necessary in a host. On entering thepassage for that purpose, he met the operator who had so dexterouslydressed his arm, advancing to the room of the wounded officer.
"Ah!" cried the disciple of Aesculapius, "I see you are doing well; butstop; have you a pin? No! here, I have one; you must keep the cold airfrom your hurt, or some of the youngsters will be at work at you yet."
"God forbid," muttered the captain, in an undertone, attentivelyadjusting the bandages, when Dunwoodie appeared at the door, impatientlycrying aloud,--
"Hasten, Sitgreaves, hasten; or George Singleton will die from loss ofblood."
"What! Singleton! God forbid! Bless me--is it George--poor littleGeorge?" exclaimed the surgeon, as he quickened his pace with evidentconcern, and hastened to the side of the bed. "He is alive, though, andwhile there is life there is hope. This is the first serious case I havehad to-day, where the patient was not already dead. Captain Lawtonteaches his men to strike
with so little discretion--poor George--blessme, it is a musket bullet."
The youthful sufferer turned his eyes on the man of science, and with afaint smile endeavored to stretch forth his hand. There was an appeal inthe look and action that touched the heart of the operator. The surgeonremoved his spectacles to wipe an unusual moisture from his eyes, andproceeded carefully to the discharge of his duty. While the previousarrangements were, however, making, he gave vent in some measure to hisfeelings, by saying,--
"When it is only a bullet, I have always some hopes; there is a chancethat it hits nothing vital. But, bless me, Captain Lawton's men cut soat random--generally sever the jugular or the carotid artery, or let outthe brains, and all are so difficult to remedy--the patient mostly dyingbefore one can get at him. I never had success but once in replacing aman's brains, although I have tried three this very day. It is easy totell where Lawton's troops charge in a battle, they cut so at random."
The group around the bed of Captain Singleton were too much accustomedto the manner of their surgeon to regard or to reply to his soliloquy;but they quietly awaited the moment when he was to commence hisexamination. This now took place, and Dunwoodie stood looking theoperator in the face, with an expression that seemed to read his soul.The patient shrank from the application of the probe, and a smile stoleover the features of the surgeon, as he muttered,--
"There has been nothing before it in that quarter." He now appliedhimself in earnest to his work, took off his spectacles, and threw asidehis wig. All this time Dunwoodie stood in feverish silence, holding oneof the hands of the sufferer in both his own, watching the countenanceof Doctor Sitgreaves. At length Singleton gave a slight groan, and thesurgeon rose with alacrity, and said aloud,--
"Ah! there is some pleasure in following a bullet; it may be said tomeander through the human body, injuring nothing vital; but as forCaptain Lawton's men--"
"Speak," interrupted Dunwoodie; "is there hope?--can you find the ball?"
"It's no difficult matter to find that which one has in his hand, MajorDunwoodie," replied the surgeon, coolly, preparing his dressings. "Ittook what that literal fellow, Captain Lawton, calls a circumbendibus,a route never taken by the swords of his men, notwithstanding themultiplied pains I have been at to teach him how to cut scientifically.Now, I saw a horse this day with his head half severed from his body."
"That," said Dunwoodie, as the blood rushed to his cheeks again, and hisdark eyes sparkled with the rays of hope, "was some of my handiwork; Ikilled that horse myself."
"You!" exclaimed the surgeon, dropping his dressings in surprise, "you!But you knew it was a horse!"
"I had such suspicions, I own," said the major, smiling, and holding abeverage to the lips of his friend.
"Such blows alighting on the human frame are fatal," continued thedoctor, pursuing his business. "They set at naught the benefits whichflow from the lights of science; they are useless in a battle, fordisabling your foe is all that is required. I have sat, Major Dunwoodie,many a cold hour, while Captain Lawton has been engaged, and after allmy expectation, not a single case worth recording has occurred--allscratches or death wounds. Ah! the saber is a sad weapon in unskillfulhands! Yes, Major Dunwoodie, many are the hours I have thrown away inendeavoring to impress this truth on Captain John Lawton."
The impatient major pointed silently to his friend, and the surgeonquickened his movements.
"Ah! poor George, it is a narrow chance; but"--he was interrupted by amessenger requiring the presence of the commanding officer in the field.Dunwoodie pressed the hand of his friend, and beckoned the doctor tofollow him, as he withdrew.
"What think you?" he whispered, on reaching the passage. "Will he live?"
"He will."
"Thank God!" cried the youth, hastening below.
Dunwoodie for a moment joined the family, who were now collecting in theordinary parlor. His face was no longer wanting in smiles, and hissalutations, though hasty, were cordial. He took no notice of the escapeand capture of Henry Wharton, but seemed to think the young man hadcontinued where he had left him before the encounter. On the ground theyhad not met. The English officer withdrew in haughty silence to awindow, leaving the major uninterrupted to make his communications.
The excitement produced by the events of the day in the youthfulfeelings of the sisters, had been succeeded by a languor that kept themboth silent, and Dunwoodie held his discourse with Miss Peyton.
"Is there any hope, my cousin, that your friend can survive his wound?"said the lady, advancing towards her kinsman, with a smile ofbenevolent regard.
"Everything, my dear madam, everything," answered the soldiercheerfully. "Sitgreaves says he will live, and he has neverdeceived me."
"Your pleasure is not much greater than my own at this intelligence. Oneso dear to Major Dunwoodie cannot fail to excite an interest in thebosom of his friends."
"Say one so deservedly dear, madam," returned the major, with warmth."He is the beneficent spirit of the corps, equally beloved by us all; somild, so equal, so just, so generous, with the meekness of a lamb andthe fondness of a dove--it is only in the hour of battle that Singletonis a lion."
"You speak of him as if he were your mistress, Major Dunwoodie,"observed the smiling spinster, glancing her eye at her niece, who satpale and listening, in a corner of the room.
"I love him as one," cried the excited youth. "But he requires care andnursing; all now depends on the attention he receives."
"Trust me, sir, he will want for nothing under this roof."
"Pardon me, dear madam; you are all that is benevolent, but Singletonrequires a care which many men would feel to be irksome. It is atmoments like these, and in sufferings like this, that the soldier mostfinds the want of female tenderness." As he spoke, he turned his eyes onFrances with an expression that again thrilled to the heart of hismistress; she rose from her seat with burning cheeks, and said,--
"All the attention that can with propriety be given to a stranger, willbe cheerfully bestowed on your friend."
"Ah!" cried the major, shaking his head, "that cold word propriety willkill him; he must be fostered, cherished, soothed."
"These are offices for a sister or a wife."
"A sister!" repeated the soldier, the blood rushing to his own facetumultuously; "a sister! He has a sister; and one that might be herewith to-morrow's sun." He paused, mused in silence, glanced his eyesuneasily at Frances, and muttered in an undertone, "Singleton requiresit, and it must be done."
The ladies had watched his varying countenance in some surprise, andMiss Peyton now observed that,--
"If there were a sister of Captain Singleton near them, her presencewould be gladly requested both by herself and nieces."
"It must be, madam; it cannot well be otherwise," replied Dunwoodie,with a hesitation that but ill agreed with his former declarations. "Sheshall be sent for express this very night." And then, as if willing tochange the subject, he approached Captain Wharton, and continued,mildly,--
"Henry Wharton, to me honor is dearer than life; but in your hands Iknow it can safely be confided. Remain here unwatched until we leave thecounty, which will not be for some days."
The distance in the manner of the English officer vanished, and takingthe offered hand of the other, he replied with warmth, "Your generousconfidence, Peyton, will not be abused, even though the gibbet on whichyour Washington hung Andre be ready for my own execution."
"Henry, Henry Wharton," said Dunwoodie reproachfully, "you little knowthe man who leads our armies, or you would have spared him thatreproach; but duty calls me without. I leave you where I could wish tostay myself, and where you cannot be wholly unhappy."
In passing Frances, she received another of those smiling looks ofaffection she so much prized, and for a season the impression made byhis appearance after the battle was forgotten.
Among the veterans that had been impelled by the times to abandon thequiet of age for the service of their country, was Colonel Singleton. Hewas a
native of Georgia, and had been for the earlier years of his lifea soldier by profession. When the struggle for liberty commenced, heoffered his services to his country, and from respect to his characterthey had been accepted. His years and health had, however, prevented hisdischarging the active duties of the field, and he had been kept incommand of different posts of trust, where his country might receive thebenefits of his vigilance and fidelity without inconvenience to himself.For the last year he had been intrusted with the passes into theHighlands, and was now quartered, with his daughter, but a short day'smarch above the valley where Dunwoodie had met the enemy. His only otherchild was the wounded officer we have mentioned. Thither, then, themajor prepared to dispatch a messenger with the unhappy news of thecaptain's situation, and charged with such an invitation from the ladiesas he did not doubt would speedily bring the sister to the couch ofher brother.
This duty performed, though with an unwillingness that only could makehis former anxiety more perplexing, Dunwoodie proceeded to the fieldwhere his troops had halted. The remnant of the English were already tobe seen, over the tops of the trees, marching along the heights towardstheir boats, in compact order and with great watchfulness. Thedetachment of the dragoons under Lawton were a short distance on theirflank, eagerly awaiting a favorable moment to strike a blow. In thismanner both parties were soon lost to view.
A short distance above the Locusts was a small hamlet where severalroads intersected each other, and from which, consequently, access tothe surrounding country was easy. It was a favorite halting place of thehorse, and frequently held by the light parties of the American armyduring their excursions below. Dunwoodie had been the first to discoverits advantages, and as it was necessary for him to remain in the countyuntil further orders from above, it cannot be supposed he overlookedthem now. To this place the troops were directed to retire, carryingwith them their wounded; parties were already employed in the sad dutyof interring the dead. In making these arrangements, a new object ofembarrassment presented itself to our young soldier. In moving throughthe field, he was struck with the appearance of Colonel Wellmere, seatedby himself, brooding over his misfortunes, uninterrupted by anything butthe passing civilities of the American officers. His anxiety on behalfof Singleton had hitherto banished the recollection of his captive fromthe mind of Dunwoodie, and he now approached him with apologies for hisneglect. The Englishman received his courtesies with coolness, andcomplained of being injured by what he affected to think was theaccidental stumbling of his horse. Dunwoodie, who had seen one of hisown men ride him down, and that with very little ceremony, slightlysmiled, as he offered him surgical assistance. This could only beprocured at the cottage, and thither they both proceeded.
"Colonel Wellmere!" cried young Wharton in astonishment as they entered,"has the fortune of war been thus cruel to you also? But you are welcometo the house of my father, although I could wish the introduction tohave taken place under more happy circumstances."
Mr. Wharton received this new guest with the guarded caution thatdistinguished his manner, and Dunwoodie left the room to seek thebedside of his friend. Everything here looked propitious, and heacquainted the surgeon that another patient waited his skill in the roombelow. The sound of the word was enough to set the doctor in motion, andseizing his implements of office, he went in quest of this newapplicant. At the door of the parlor he was met by the ladies, who wereretiring. Miss Peyton detained him for a moment, to inquire into thewelfare of Captain Singleton. Frances smiled with something of naturalarchness of manner, as she contemplated the grotesque appearance of thebald-headed practitioner; but Sarah was too much agitated, with thesurprise of the unexpected interview with the British colonel, toobserve him. It has already been intimated that Colonel Wellmere was anold acquaintance of the family. Sarah had been so long absent from thecity, that she had in some measure been banished from the remembrance ofthe gentleman; but the recollections of Sarah were more vivid. There isa period in the life of every woman when she may be said to bepredisposed to love; it is at the happy age when infancy is lost inopening maturity--when the guileless heart beats with thoseanticipations of life which the truth can never realize--and when theimagination forms images of perfection that are copied after its ownunsullied visions. At this happy age Sarah left the city, and she hadbrought with her a picture of futurity, faintly impressed, it is true,but which gained durability from her solitude, and in which Wellmere hadbeen placed in the foreground. The surprise of the meeting had in somemeasure overpowered her, and after receiving the salutations of thecolonel, she had risen, in compliance with a signal from her observantaunt, to withdraw.
"Then, sir," observed Miss Peyton, after listening to the surgeon'saccount of his young patient, "we may be flattered with the expectationthat he will recover."
"'Tis certain, madam," returned the doctor, endeavoring, out of respectto the ladies, to replace his wig; "'tis certain, with care andgood nursing."
"In those he shall not be wanting," said the spinster, mildly."Everything we have he can command, and Major Dunwoodie has dispatchedan express for his sister."
"His sister!" echoed the practitioner, with a meaning look. "If themajor has sent for her, she will come."
"Her brother's danger would induce her, one would imagine."
"No doubt, madam," continued the doctor, laconically, bowing low, andgiving room to the ladies to pass. The words and the manner were notlost on the younger sister, in whose presence the name of Dunwoodie wasnever mentioned unheeded.
"Sir," cried Dr. Sitgreaves, on entering the parlor, addressing himselfto the only coat of scarlet in the room, "I am advised you are in wantof my aid. God send 'tis not Captain Lawton with whom you came incontact, in which case I may be too late."
"There must be some mistake, sir," said Wellmere, haughtily. "It was asurgeon that Major Dunwoodie was to send me, and not an old woman."
"'Tis Dr. Sitgreaves," said Henry Wharton, quickly, though withdifficulty suppressing a laugh. "The multitude of his engagements,to-day, has prevented his usual attention to his attire."
"Your pardon, sir," added Wellmere, very ungraciously proceeding to layaside his coat, and exhibit what he called a wounded arm.
"If, sir," said the surgeon dryly, "the degrees of Edinburgh--walkingyour London hospitals--amputating some hundreds of limbs--operating onthe human frame in every shape that is warranted by the lights ofscience, a clear conscience, and the commission of the ContinentalCongress, can make a surgeon, I am one."
"Your pardon, sir," repeated the colonel stiffly. "Captain Wharton hasaccounted for my error."
"For which I thank Captain Wharton," said the surgeon, proceeding coollyto arrange his amputating instruments, with a formality that made thecolonel's blood run cold. "Where are you hurt, sir? What! is it thenthis scratch in your shoulder? In what manner might you have receivedthis wound, sir?"
"From the sword of a rebel dragoon," said the colonel, with emphasis.
"Never. Even the gentle George Singleton would not have breathed on youso harmlessly." He took a piece of sticking plaster from his pocket, andapplied it to the part. "There, sir; that will answer your purpose, andI am certain it is all that is required of me."
"What do you take to be my purpose, then, sir?"
"To report yourself wounded in your dispatches," replied the doctor,with great steadiness; "and you may say that an old woman dressed yourhurts--for if one did not, one easily might!"
"Very extraordinary language," muttered the Englishman.
Here Captain Wharton interfered; and, by explaining the mistake ofColonel Wellmere to proceed from his irritated mind and pain of body, hein part succeeded in mollifying the insulted practitioner, who consentedto look further into the hurts of the other. They were chiefly bruisesfrom his fall, to which Sitgreaves made some hasty applications,and withdrew.
The horse, having taken their required refreshment, prepared to fallback to their intended position, and it became incumbent on Dunwoodie toarrange the disposal
of his prisoners. Sitgreaves he determined to leavein the cottage of Mr. Wharton, in attendance on Captain Singleton.Henry came to him with a request that Colonel Wellmere might also beleft behind, under his parole, until the troops marched higher into thecountry. To this the major cheerfully assented; and as all the rest ofthe prisoners were of the vulgar herd, they were speedily collected,and, under the care of a strong guard, ordered to the interior. Thedragoons soon after marched; and the guides, separating in smallparties, accompanied by patrols from the horse, spread themselves acrossthe country, in such a manner as to make a chain of sentinels from thewaters of the Sound to those of the Hudson. [Footnote: The scene of thistale is between these two waters, which are but a few miles fromeach other.]
Dunwoodie had lingered in front of the cottage, after he paid hisparting compliments, with an unwillingness to return, that he thoughtproceeded from his solicitude for his wounded friends. The heart whichhas not become callous, soon sickens with the glory that has beenpurchased with a waste of human life. Peyton Dunwoodie, left to himself,and no longer excited by the visions which youthful ardor had keptbefore him throughout the day, began to feel there were other ties thanthose which bound the soldier within the rigid rules of honor. He didnot waver in his duty, yet he felt how strong was the temptation. Hisblood had ceased to flow with the impulse created by the battle. Thestern expression of his eye gradually gave place to a look of softness;and his reflections on the victory brought with them no satisfactionthat compensated for the sacrifices by which it had been purchased.While turning his last lingering gaze on the Locusts, he remembered onlythat it contained all that he most valued. The friend of his youth was aprisoner, under circumstances that endangered both life and honor. Thegentle companion of his toils, who could throw around the rudeenjoyments of a soldier the graceful mildness of peace, lay a bleedingvictim to his success. The image of the maid who had held, during theday, a disputed sovereignty in his bosom, again rose to his view with aloveliness that banished her rival, glory, from his mind.
The last lagging trooper of the corps had already disappeared behind thenorthern hill, and the major unwillingly turned his horse in the samedirection. Frances, impelled by a restless inquietude, now timidlyventured on the piazza of the cottage. The day had been mild and clear,and the sun was shining brightly in a cloudless sky. The tumult, whichso lately disturbed the valley, was succeeded by the stillness of death,and the fair scene before her looked as if it had never been marred bythe passions of men. One solitary cloud, the collected smoke of thecontest, hung over the field; and this was gradually dispersing, leavingno vestige of the conflict above the peaceful graves of its victims. Allthe conflicting feelings, all the tumultuous circumstances of theeventful day, appeared like the deceptions of a troubled vision. Francesturned, and caught a glimpse of the retreating figure of him who hadbeen so conspicuous an actor in the scene, and the illusion vanished.She recognized her lover, and, with the truth, came other recollectionsthat drove her to the room, with a heart as sad as that which Dunwoodiehimself bore from the valley.