CHAPTER XXVII
Have you no countermand for Claudio yet, But he must die to-morrow? _--Measure for Measure._
A few hours were passed by the prisoner, after his sentence wasreceived, in the bosom of his family. Mr. Wharton wept in hopelessdespondency over the untimely fate of his son; and Frances, afterrecovering from her insensibility, experienced an anguish of feeling towhich the bitterness of death itself would have been comparativelylight. Miss Peyton alone retained a vestige of hope, or presence of mindto suggest what might be proper to be done under their circumstances.The comparative composure of the good aunt arose in no degree from anywant of interest in the welfare of her nephew, but it was founded in akind of instinctive dependence on the character of Washington. He was anative of the same colony with herself; and although his early militaryservices, and her frequent visits to the family of her sister, andsubsequent establishment at its head, had prevented their ever meeting,still she was familiar with his domestic virtues, and well knew that therigid inflexibility for which his public acts were distinguished formedno part of his reputation in private life. He was known in Virginia as aconsistent but just and lenient master; and she felt a kind of pride inassociating in her mind her countryman with the man who led the armies,and in a great measure controlled the destinies, of America. She knewthat Henry was innocent of the crime for which he was condemned tosuffer, and, with that kind of simple faith that is ever to be found inthe most ingenuous characters, could not conceive of those constructionsand interpretations of law that inflicted punishment without the actualexistence of crime. But even her confiding hopes were doomed to meetwith a speedy termination. Towards noon, a regiment of militia, thatwere quartered on the banks of the river, moved to the ground in frontof the house that held our heroine and her family, and deliberatelypitched their tents, with the avowed intention of remaining until thefollowing morning, to give solemnity and effect to the execution of aBritish spy.
Dunwoodie had performed all that was required of him by his orders, andwas at liberty to retrace his steps to his expectant squadron, which wasimpatiently waiting his return to be led against a detachment of theenemy that was known to be slowly moving up the banks of the river, inorder to cover a party of foragers in its rear. He was accompanied by asmall party of Lawton's troop, under the expectation that theirtestimony might be required to convict the prisoner; and Mason, thelieutenant, was in command. But the confession of Captain Wharton hadremoved the necessity of examining any witnesses on behalf of thepeople. [Footnote: In America justice is administered in the name of"the good people," etc., etc., the sovereignty residing with them.] Themajor, from an unwillingness to encounter the distress of Henry'sfriends, and a dread of trusting himself within its influence, hadspent the time we have mentioned in walking by himself, in keen anxiety,at a short distance from the dwelling. Like Miss Peyton, he had somereliance on the mercy of Washington, although moments of terrific doubtand despondency were continually crossing his mind. To him the rules ofservice were familiar, and he was more accustomed to consider hisgeneral in the capacity of a ruler, than as exhibiting thecharacteristics of the individual. A dreadful instance had too recentlyoccurred, which fully proved that Washington was above the weakness ofsparing another in mercy to himself. While pacing, with hurried steps,through the orchard, laboring under these constantly recurring doubts,enlivened by transient rays of hope, Mason approached, accouteredcompletely for the saddle.
"Thinking you might have forgotten the news brought this morning frombelow, sir, I have taken the liberty to order the detachment underarms," said the lieutenant, very coolly, cutting down with his sheathedsaber the mullein tops that grew within his reach.
"What news?" cried the major, starting.
"Only that John Bull is out in Westchester, with a train of wagons,which, if he fills, will compel us to retire through these cursed hills,in search of provender. These greedy Englishmen are so shut up on YorkIsland, that when they do venture out, they seldom leave straw enough tofurnish the bed of a Yankee heiress."
"Where did the express leave them, did you say? The intelligence hasentirely escaped my memory."
"On the heights above Sing Sing," returned the lieutenant, with nolittle amazement. "The road below looks like a hay market, and all theswine are sighing forth their lamentations, as the corn passes themtowards King's Bridge. George Singleton's orderly, who brought up thetidings, says that our horses were holding consultation if they shouldnot go down without their riders, and eat another meal, for it isquestionable with them whether they can get a full stomach again. Ifthey are suffered to get back with their plunder, we shall not be ableto find a piece of pork at Christmas fat enough to fry itself."
"Peace, with all this nonsense of Singleton's orderly, Mr. Mason," criedDunwoodie, impatiently; "let him learn to wait the orders of hissuperiors."
"I beg pardon in his name, Major Dunwoodie," said the subaltern; "but,like myself, he was in error. We both thought it was the order ofGeneral Heath, to attack and molest the enemy whenever he ventured outof his nest."
"Recollect yourself, Lieutenant Mason," said the major, "or I may haveto teach you that your orders pass through me."
"I know it, Major Dunwoodie--I know it; and I am sorry that your memoryis so bad as to forget that I never have yet hesitated to obey them."
"Forgive me, Mason," cried Dunwoodie, taking both his hands. "I do knowyou for a brave and obedient soldier; forget my humor. But thisbusiness--had you ever a friend?"
"Nay, nay," interrupted the lieutenant, "forgive me and my honest zeal.I knew of the orders, and was fearful that censure might fall on myofficer. But remain, and let a man breathe a syllable against the corps,and every sword will start from the scabbard of itself; besides, theyare still moving up, and it is a long road from Croton to King's Bridge.Happen what may, I see plainly that we shall be on their heels beforethey are housed again."
"Oh! that the courier was returned from headquarters!" exclaimedDunwoodie. "This suspense is insupportable."
"You have your wish," cried Mason. "Here he is at the moment, and ridinglike the bearer of good news. God send it may be so; for I can't saythat I particularly like myself to see a brave young fellow dancingupon nothing."
Dunwoodie heard but very little of this feeling declaration; for, erehalf of it was uttered, he had leaped the fence and stood before themessenger.
"What news?" cried the major, the moment that the soldier stopped hishorse.
"Good!" exclaimed the man; and feeling no hesitation to intrust anofficer so well known as Major Dunwoodie, he placed the paper in hishands, as he added, "but you can read it, sir, for yourself."
Dunwoodie paused not to read; but flew, with the elastic spring of joy,to the chamber of the prisoner. The sentinel knew him, and he wassuffered to pass without question.
"Oh! Peyton," cried Frances, as he entered the apartment, "you look likea messenger from heaven! Bring you tidings of mercy?"
"Here, Frances--here, Henry--here, dear cousin Jeanette," cried theyouth, as with trembling hands he broke the seal; "here is the letteritself, directed to the captain of the guard. But listen--"
All did listen with intense anxiety; and the pang of blasted hope wasadded to their misery, as they saw the glow of delight which had beamedon the countenance of the major give place to a look of horror. Thepaper contained the sentence of the court, and underneath was writtenthese simple words,--
"Approved--GEO. WASHINGTON."
"He's lost, he's lost!" cried Frances, sinking into the arms of heraunt.
"My son! my son!" sobbed the father, "there is mercy in heaven, if thereis none on earth. May Washington never want that mercy he thus denies tomy innocent child!"
"Washington!" echoed Dunwoodie, gazing around him in vacant horror."Yes, 'tis the act of Washington himself; these are his characters; hisvery name is here, to sanction the dreadful deed."
"Cruel, cruel Washington!" cried Miss Peyton. "How has
familiarity withblood changed his nature!"
"Blame him not," said Dunwoodie; "it is the general, and not the man;my life on it, he feels the blow he is compelled to inflict."
"I have been deceived in him," cried Frances. "He is not the savior ofhis country; but a cold and merciless tyrant. Oh! Peyton, Peyton! howhave you misled me in his character!"
"Peace, dear Frances; peace, for God's sake; use not such language. Heis but the guardian of the law."
"You speak the truth, Major Dunwoodie," said Henry, recovering from theshock of having his last ray of hope extinguished, and advancing fromhis seat by the side of his father. "I, who am to suffer, blame him not.Every indulgence has been granted me that I can ask. On the verge of thegrave I cannot continue unjust. At such a moment, with so recent aninstance of danger to your cause from treason, I wonder not atWashington's unbending justice. Nothing now remains but to prepare forthat fate which so speedily awaits me. To you, Major Dunwoodie, I makemy first request."
"Name it," said the major, giving utterance with difficulty.
Henry turned, and pointing to the group of weeping mourners near him, hecontinued,--
"Be a son to this aged man; help his weakness, and defend him from anyusage to which the stigma thrown upon me may subject him. He has notmany friends amongst the rulers of this country; let your powerful namebe found among them."
"It shall."
"And this helpless innocent," continued Henry, pointing to where Sarahsat, unconscious of what was passing, "I had hoped for an opportunity torevenge her wrongs;" a flush of excitement passed over his features;"but such thoughts are evil--I feel them to be wrong. Under your care,Peyton, she will find sympathy and refuge."
"She shall," whispered Dunwoodie.
"This good aunt has claims upon you already; of her I will not speak;but here," taking the hand of Frances, and dwelling upon her countenancewith an expression of fraternal affection, "here is the choicest gift ofall. Take her to your bosom, and cherish her as you would cultivateinnocence and virtue."
The major could not repress the eagerness with which he extended hishand to receive the precious boon; but Frances, shrinking from histouch, hid her face in the bosom of her aunt.
"No, no, no!" she murmured. "None can ever be anything to me who aid inmy brother's destruction."
Henry continued gazing at her in tender pity for several moments, beforehe again resumed a discourse that all felt was most peculiarly his own.
"I have been mistaken, then. I did think, Peyton, that your worth, yournoble devotion to a cause that you have been taught to revere, that yourkindness to our father when in imprisonment, your friendship for me,--inshort, that your character was understood and valued by my sister."
"It is--it is," whispered Frances, burying her face still deeper in thebosom of her aunt.
"I believe, dear Henry," said Dunwoodie, "this is a subject that hadbetter not be dwelt upon now."
"You forget," returned the prisoner, with a faint smile, "how much Ihave to do, and how little time is left to do it in."
"I apprehend," continued the major, with a face of fire, "that MissWharton has imbibed some opinions of me that would make a compliancewith your request irksome to her--opinions that it is now too lateto alter."
"No, no, no," cried Frances, quickly, "you are exonerated, Peyton--withher dying breath she removed my doubts."
"Generous Isabella!" murmured Dunwoodie; "but, still, Henry, spare yoursister now; nay, spare even me."
"I speak in pity to myself," returned the brother, gently removingFrances from the arms of her aunt. "What a time is this to leave twosuch lovely females without a protector! Their abode is destroyed, andmisery will speedily deprive them of their last male friend," looking athis father; "can I die in peace with the knowledge of the danger towhich they will be exposed?"
"You forget me," said Miss Peyton, shrinking at the idea of celebratingnuptials at such a moment.
"No, my dear aunt, I forget you not, nor shall I, until I cease toremember; but you forget the times and the danger. The good woman wholives in this house has already dispatched a messenger for a man of God,to smooth my passage to another world. Frances, if you would wish me todie in peace, to feel a security that will allow me to turn my wholethoughts to heaven, you will let this clergyman unite you to Dunwoodie."
Frances shook her head, but remained silent.
"I ask for no joy--no demonstration of a felicity that you will not,cannot feel, for months to come; but obtain a right to his powerfulname--give him an undisputed title to protect you--"
Again the maid made an impressive gesture of denial.
"For the sake of that unconscious sufferer"--pointing to Sarah, "foryour sake--for my sake--my sister--"
"Peace, Henry, or you will break my heart," cried the agitated girl."Not for worlds would I at such a moment engage in the solemn vows thatyou wish. It would render me miserable for life."
"You love him not," said Henry, reproachfully. "I cease to importune youto do what is against your inclinations."
Frances raised one hand to conceal her countenance, as she extended theother towards Dunwoodie, and said earnestly,--
"Now you are unjust to me--before, you were unjust to yourself."
"Promise me, then," said Wharton, musing awhile in silence, "that assoon as the recollection of my fate is softened, you will give my friendthat hand for life, and I am satisfied."
"I do promise," said Frances, withdrawing the hand that Dunwoodiedelicately relinquished, without even presuming to press it to his lips.
"Well, then, my good aunt," continued Henry, "will you leave me for ashort time alone with my friend? I have a few melancholy commissionswith which to intrust him, and would spare you and my sister the pain ofhearing them."
"There is yet time to see Washington again," said Miss Peyton, movingtowards the door; and then, speaking with extreme dignity, shecontinued, "I will go myself; surely he must listen to a woman from hisown colony!--and we are in some degree connected with his family."
"Why not apply to Mr. Harper?" said Frances, recollecting the partingwords of their guest for the first time.
"Harper!" echoed Dunwoodie, turning towards her with the swiftness oflightning; "what of him? Do you know him?"
"It is in vain," said Henry, drawing him aside; "Frances clings to hopewith the fondness of a sister. Retire, my love, and leave me withmy friend."
But Frances read an expression in the eye of Dunwoodie that chained herto the spot. After struggling to command her feelings, she continued,--
"He stayed with us for two days--he was with us when Henry wasarrested."
"And--and--did you know him?"
"Nay," continued Frances, catching her breath as she witnessed theintense interest of her lover, "we knew him not; he came to us in thenight, a stranger, and remained with us during the severe storm; but heseemed to take an interest in Henry, and promised him his friendship,"
"What!" exclaimed the youth in astonishment. "Did he know your brother?"
"Certainly; it was at his request that Henry threw aside his disguise."
"But," said Dunwoodie, turning pale with suspense, "he knew him not asan officer of the royal army?"
"Indeed he did," cried Miss Peyton; "and he cautioned us against thisvery danger."
Dunwoodie caught up the fatal paper, that still lay where it had fallenfrom his own hands, and studied its characters intently. Somethingseemed to bewilder his brain. He passed his hand over his forehead,while each eye was fixed on him in dreadful suspense--all feeling afraidto admit those hopes anew that had been so sadly destroyed.
"What said he? What promised he?" at length Dunwoodie asked, withfeverish impatience.
"He bid Henry apply to him when in danger, and promised to requite theson for the hospitality of the father."
"Said he this, knowing him to be a British officer?"
"Most certainly; and with a view to this very danger."
"Then," cried the youth aloud, an
d yielding to his rapture, "then youare safe--then will I save him; yes, Harper will never forget his word."
"But has he the power to?" said Frances. "Can he move the stubbornpurpose of Washington?"
"Can he? If he cannot," shouted the youth, "if he cannot, who can?Greene, and Heath, and young Hamilton are nothing compared to thisHarper. But," rushing to his mistress, and pressing her handsconvulsively, "repeat to me--you say you have his promise?"
"Surely, surely, Peyton; his solemn, deliberate promise, knowing all thecircumstances."
"Rest easy," cried Dunwoodie, holding her to his bosom for a moment,"rest easy, for Henry is safe."
He waited not to explain, but darting from the room, he left the familyin amazement. They continued in silent wonder until they heard the feetof his charger, as he dashed from the door with the speed of an arrow.
A long time was spent after this abrupt departure of the youth, by theanxious friends he had left, in discussing the probability of hissuccess. The confidence of his manner had, however, communicated to hisauditors something of his own spirit. Each felt that the prospects ofHenry were again brightening, and with their reviving hopes theyexperienced a renewal of spirits, which in all but Henry himselfamounted to pleasure; with him, indeed, his state was too awful to admitof trifling, and for a few hours he was condemned to feel how much moreintolerable was suspense than even the certainty of calamity. Not sowith Frances. She, with all the reliance of affection, reposed insecurity on the assurance of Dunwoodie, without harassing herself withdoubts that she possessed not the means of satisfying; but believing herlover able to accomplish everything that man could do, and retaining avivid recollection of the manner and benevolent appearance of Harper,she abandoned herself to all the felicity of renovated hope.
The joy of Miss Peyton was more sobered, and she took frequent occasionsto reprove her niece for the exuberance of her spirits, before there wasa certainty that their expectations were to be realized. But the slightsmile that hovered around the lips of the virgin contradicted the verysobriety of feeling that she inculcated.
"Why, dearest aunt," said Frances, playfully, in reply to one of herfrequent reprimands, "would you have me repress the pleasure that I feelat Henry's deliverance, when you yourself have so often declared it tobe impossible that such men as ruled in our country could sacrifice aninnocent man?"
"Nay, I did believe it impossible, my child, and yet think so; but stillthere is a discretion to be shown in joy as well as in sorrow."
Frances recollected the declaration of Isabella, and turned an eyefilled with tears of gratitude on her excellent aunt, as she replied,--
"True; but there are feelings that will not yield to reason. Ah! hereare those monsters, who have come to witness the death of a fellowcreature, moving around yon field, as if life was, to them, nothing buta military show."
"It is but little more to the hireling soldier," said Henry, endeavoringto forget his uneasiness.
"You gaze, my love, as if you thought a military show of someimportance," said Miss Peyton, observing her niece to be looking fromthe window with a fixed and abstracted attention. But Francesanswered not.
From the window where she stood, the pass that they had traveled throughthe Highlands was easily to be seen; and the mountain which held on itssummit the mysterious hut was directly before her. Its side was ruggedand barren; huge and apparently impassable barriers of rocks presentingthemselves through the stunted oaks, which, stripped of their foliage,were scattered over its surface. The base of the hill was not half amile from the house, and the object which attracted the notice ofFrances was the figure of a man emerging from behind a rock ofremarkable formation, and as suddenly disappearing. The maneuver wasseveral times repeated, as if it were the intention of the fugitive (forsuch by his air he seemed to be) to reconnoiter the proceedings of thesoldiery, and assure himself of the position of things on the plain.Notwithstanding the distance, Frances instantly imbibed the opinion thatit was Birch. Perhaps this impression was partly owing to the air andfigure of the man, but in a great measure to the idea that presenteditself on formerly beholding the object at the summit of the mountain.That they were the same figure she was confident, although this wantedthe appearance which, in the other, she had taken for the pack of thepeddler. Harvey had so connected himself with the mysterious deportmentof Harper, within her imagination, that under circumstances of lessagitation than those in which she had labored since her arrival, shewould have kept her suspicions to herself. Frances, therefore, satruminating on this second appearance in silence, and endeavoring totrace what possible connection this extraordinary man could have withthe fortunes of her own family. He had certainly saved Sarah in somedegree, from the blow that had partially alighted on her, and in noinstance had he proved himself to be hostile to their interests.
After gazing for a long time at the point where she had last seen thefigure, in the vain expectation of its reappearance, she turned to herfriends in the apartment. Miss Peyton was sitting by Sarah, who gavesome slight additional signs of observing what passed, but who stillcontinued insensible either to joy or grief.
"I suppose, by this time, my love, that you are well acquainted with themaneuvers of a regiment," said Miss Peyton. "It is no bad quality in asoldier's wife, at all events."
"I am not a wife yet," said Frances, coloring to the eyes; "and we havelittle reason to wish for another wedding in our family."
"Frances!" exclaimed her brother, starting from his seat, and pacing thefloor in violent agitation. "Touch not the chord again, I entreat you.While my fate is uncertain, I would wish to be at peace with all men."
"Then let the uncertainty cease," cried Frances, springing to the door,"for here comes Peyton with the joyful intelligence of your release."
The words were hardly uttered, before the door opened, and the majorentered. In his air there was the appearance of neither success nordefeat, but there was a marked display of vexation. He took the handthat Frances, in the fullness of her heart, extended towards him, butinstantly relinquishing it, threw himself into a chair, inevident fatigue.
"You have failed," said Wharton, with a bound of his heart, but anappearance of composure.
"Have you seen Harper?" cried Frances, turning pale.
"I have not. I crossed the river in one boat as he must have been comingto this side, in another. I returned without delay, and traced him forseveral miles into the Highlands, by the western pass, but there Iunaccountably lost him. I have returned here to relieve your uneasiness,but see him I will this night, and bring a respite for Henry."
"But saw you Washington?" asked Miss Peyton.
Dunwoodie gazed at her a moment in abstracted musing, and the questionwas repeated. He answered gravely, and with some reserve,--
"The commander in chief had left his quarters."
"But, Peyton," cried Frances, in returning terror, "if they should notsee each other, it will be too late. Harper alone will not besufficient."
Her lover turned his eyes slowly on her anxious countenance, anddwelling a moment on her features, said, still musing,--
"You say that he promised to assist Henry."
"Certainly, of his own accord and in requital for the hospitality he hadreceived."
Dunwoodie shook his head, and began to look grave.
"I like not that word hospitality--it has an empty sound; there must besomething more reasonable to tie Harper. I dread some mistake; repeat tome all that passed."
Frances, in a hurried and earnest voice, complied with his request. Sherelated particularly the manner of his arrival at the Locusts, thereception that he received, and the events that passed as minutely asher memory could supply her with the means. As she alluded to theconversation that occurred between her father and his guest, the majorsmiled but remained silent. She then gave a detail of Henry's arrival,and the events of the following day. She dwelt upon the part whereHarper had desired her brother to throw aside his disguise, andrecounted, with wonderful accuracy, his rem
arks upon the hazard of thestep that the youth had taken. She even remembered a remarkableexpression of his to her brother, "that he was safer from Harper'sknowledge of his person, than he would be without it." Francesmentioned, with the warmth of youthful admiration, the benevolentcharacter of his deportment to herself, and gave a minute relation ofhis adieus to the whole family.
Dunwoodie at first listened with grave attention; evident satisfactionfollowed as she proceeded. When she spoke of herself in connection withtheir guest, he smiled with pleasure, and as she concluded, heexclaimed, with delight,--
"We are safe!--we are safe!"
But he was interrupted, as will be seen in the following chapter.