[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

The ladies of the Wharton family had gathered
around a window, deeply interested in the scene
we have related.

Sarah viewed the approach of her countrymen
with a smile of contemptuous indifference for the
persons and appearance of men, whom she thought
arrayed in the unholy cause of rebellion. Miss
Peyton looked on the gallant show with an exulting
pride which arose in the reflection, that the
warriors before her were the chosen troops of her
native colony, while Frances gazed with an intensity
of interest that absorbed all other considerations.

The two parties had not yet joined, before her
quickly glancing eyes distinguished one horseman
in particular from those around him. Even
the steed of this youthful soldier seemed to be
conscious that he sustained the weight of no common
man—his hoofs but lightly touched the earth,
and his airy tread was the curbed motion of a
blooded charger.

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

The dragoon sat gracefully in his saddle, with
a firmness and ease that showed him master of
both himself and horse—his figure united the just
proportions of strength and activity, being tall,
round, and muscular. It was to this officer Lawton
made his report, and side by side they rode
into the field opposite to the cottage.

The heart of the maiden beat with a pulsation
nearly stifling, as he paused for a moment and
took a survey of the building with an eye whose
dark and sparkling glance could be seen in the
distance between them—her colour changed, and
for an instant, as she saw the youth throw himself
from his saddle, Frances was compelled to seek
relief to her trembling limbs in a chair.

The officer gave a few hasty orders to his second
in command, walked rapidly into the lawn, and
approached the cottage.—Fanny rose from her
seat, and vanished from the apartment.—The dragoon
ascended the steps of the piazza, and had
barely time to touch the outer door when it opened
to his admission.

The youth of Frances, when she left the city,
had prevented her sacrificing, in conformity to
the customs of that day, all her native beauties on
the altar of fashion. Her hair, which was of a
golden richness of colour, was left untortured to
fall in the natural ringlets of her infancy, and
shaded a face which was glowing with the united
charms of health, youth, and artlessness—her eyes
spake volumes, but her tongue was silent—her
hands were interlocked before her, and aided by
her taper form, bending forward in an attitude of
expectation, gave a loveliness and interest to her
appearance that for a moment chained her lover
in silence to the spot.

Frances silently led the way into the vacant
parlour opposite to the one in which the family

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

were assembled, and turning to the soldier frankly,
placing both her hands in his own, exclaimed—

“Ah! Dunwoodie! how happy, on many accounts,
I am to see you; I have brought you in here to prepare
you to meet an unexpected friend in the opposite
room.”

“To whatever cause it may be owing,” cried
the youth, pressing her hands to his lips, “I am
happy too in being able to see you alone.—Frances,
the probation you have decreed to my love is
cruel—war and distance may shortly separate us
forever.”

“We must submit to the necessity which governs
us,” said the maid, losing the glow of excitement
in a more melancholy feeling. “But it
is not love speeches I would hear now: I have
other and more important matter for your attention.”

“What can be of more importance than to
make you mine by a tie that may be indissoluble!
Frances, you are cold to me—me—from whose
mind days of service and nights of alarm have never
been able to banish your image.”

“Dear Dunwoodie,” said Frances, softening
nearly to tears, and again extending her hand to
him, as the richness of her colour gradually returned,
“you know my sentiments—this war once
ended, and you may take that hand for ever—but
I never can consent to tie myself to you by any
closer union than already exists, so long as you
are arrayed in arms against my only brother—
even now that brother is awaiting your decision
to restore him to liberty, or conduct him to a
probable death.”

“Your brother!” cried Dunwoodie, starting
and turning pale; “your brother! explain yourself—
what dreadful meaning is concealed in your
words?”

“Has not Captain Lawton told you of the

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

arrest of Henry, as a spy, by himself this very morning?”
continued Frances, in a voice barely audible,
and fixing on her lover a look of the deepest
and most anxious interest.

“He told me of arresting a captain of the 60th
in disguise, but without mentioning where or
whom,” replied the major in a similar tone, and
dropping his head between his hands, he endeavoured
to conceal his feelings from his companion.

“Dunwoodie! Dunwoodie!” exclaimed Frances,
losing all her former confidence in the most
fearful apprehensions, “what means this agitation?”
as the Major slowly raised his face, in
which was pictured the most expressive concern,
she continued, “surely—surely—you will not betray
your friend—my brother—your bother—to
an ignominious death.”

“Frances!” exclaimed the young man in agony,
“what can I do—what can I do?”

“Do!” repeated the maid, gazing at him wildly;
“would Major Dunwoodie yield his friend to
his enemies—the brother of his betrothed wife?”

“Oh! speak not so unkindly to me—dearest
Miss Wharton—my own Frances. I would this
moment die for you—for Henry—but cannot
forget my duty—cannot forfeit my honor—you
yourself would be the first to despise me if I did.”

“Peyton Dunwoodie!” said Frances solemnly,
and with a face of ashy paleness, “you have told
me—you have sworn, that you loved me.”

“I do—I do”—interrupted the soldier with fervor;
but the maid, motioning with her hand for
silence, continued, in a voice that trembled with
her emotions,

“Do you think I can throw myself in the arms
of a man whose hands are stained with the blood
of my only brother?”

“Frances!” exclaimed the major in agony.

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

“you wring my very heart;” then pausing for a
moment to struggle with his feelings, he endeavoured
to force a smile, as he added, “but, after
all, we may be torturing ourselves with unnecessary
fears, and Henry, when I know the circumstances,
may be nothing more than a prisoner of war; in
which case I can liberate him on parole.”

There is no more delusive passion than hope;
and it seems to be the happy privilege of youth to
cull all the pleasures which can be gathered from
its indulgence. It is when we are most worthy of
confidence ourselves, that we are least apt to distrust,
and what we think ought to be, we are fond
to think will.

The half-formed expectations of the young soldier
were communicated to the desponding sister
more by the eye than the voice, and she rose
quickly from her chair with a returning crimson to
her cheeks, as she cried—

“Oh! there can be no just grounds to doubt it:
I knew—I knew—Dunwoodie, you would never
desert us in the hour of our greatest need.” The
violence of her feelings conquered, and the agitated
girl burst into a flood of tears.

The office of consoling those we love is one of the
dearest prerogatives of affection; and Major Dunwoodie,
although but little encouraged by his own
momentary suggestion of relief, could not undeceive
the lovely woman who leaned on his shoulder,
as he wiped the traces of her agitated feelings
from her face, with a trembling, but reviving confidence
in the safety of her brother and the protection
of her lover.

Frances having sufficiently recovered her recollection
to command herself, now eagerly led
the way into the opposite room, to communicate
to her family the pleasing intelligence which she
already conceived as certain.

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

Dunwoodie followed her reluctantly, and with
dreadful forebodings of the result: but a few moments
brought him into the presence of his relatives,
and he summoned all his resolution to meet
the approaching trial with firmness.

The salutations of the young men were cordial
and sincere, and on the part of Henry Wharton
as collected as if nothing had occurred to disturb
his self-possession.

The abhorrence of being, in any manner, auxiliary
to the arrest of his friend, the danger to the
life of Captain Wharton, and the heart-breaking
declarations of Frances had, however, created an
uneasiness in the bosom of Major Dunwoodie,
which all his efforts could not conceal. His reception
by the rest of the family was kind and sincere,
both from old regard, and a remembrance of
former obligations, heightened by the anticipations
they could not fail to read in the expressive eyes
of the blushing maid by his side. After exchanging
greetings with every member of the family,
Major Dunwoodie beckoned to the sentinel, whom
the wary prudence of Captain Lawton had left in
charge of the prisoner, to leave the room. Turning
to Captain Wharton, with an air of fixed resolution,
he inquired mildly—

“Tell me, Henry, the circumstances of this disguise,
in which Captain Lawton reports you to
have been found, and remember—remember—
Captain Wharton—your answers are entirely
voluntary.”

“The disguise was used by me, Major Dunwoodie,”
replied the English officer, gravely, “to
enable me to visit my friends, without incurring
the danger of becoming a prisoner of war.”

“But you did not wear it until you saw the
troop of Lawton approaching?” inquired the Major
quickly.

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

“Oh! no,” interrupted Frances, eagerly, forgetting
all the circumstances in her anxiety for her
brother; “Sarah and myself placed them on him
when the dragoons appeared—it was our awkwardness
that led to his discovery.”

The countenance of Dunwoodie brightened, as,
turning his eyes in fond admiration on the lovely
speaker, he heard her explanation, and he added—

“Probably some articles of your own, which
were at hand, and were used on the spur of the
moment.”

“No,” said Wharton, with dignity, “the clothes
were worn by me from the city—they were procured
for the purpose to which they were applied,
and I intended to use them in disguising me
in my return this very day.”

The appalled Frances shrunk back from between
her brother and lover, where her ardent
feelings had carried her, as the whole truth
glanced over her mind, and sunk into a seat,
gazing wildly on the young men who stood before
her.

“But the picquets—the party at the plains”—
added Dunwoodie, turning pale.

“I passed them too in disguise,” continued
Wharton, proudly; “I made use of this pass for
which I paid; and, as it bears the name of Washington,
I presume is forged.”

Dunwoodie caught the paper from his hand
eagerly, and stood gazing on the signature for
some time in silence, during which the soldier
gradually prevailed over the man; when he turned
to the prisoner, with a searching look, as he
asked—

“Captain Wharton, whence did you procure
this paper?”

“That is a question, I conceive, Major

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

Dunwoodie has no right to ask,” said the other, distantly.

“Your pardon, sir,” returned the American
officer; “my feelings may have led me into an impropriety.”

Mr. Wharton, who had been a deeply interested
auditor to the conversation, now so far conquered
his feelings as to say, “Surely, Major Dunwoodie,
the paper cannot be material—such artifices are
used daily in war.”

“This name is no counterfeit,” said the dragoon,
studying the characters, and speaking in a
low voice; “is treason yet among us undiscovered?—
The confidence of Washington has been
abused, for the fictitious name is in a different
hand from the pass. Captain Wharton, my duty
will not suffer me to grant you a parole: you must
accompany me to the Highlands.”

“I did not expect otherwise, Major Dunwoodie,”
said the prisoner haughtily, moving towards
his father, and speaking to him in a low
tone.

Dunwoodie turned slowly towards the sisters,
when the figure of Frances once more arrested his
gaze; she had risen from her seat, and stood again
with her hands clasped before him in an attitude
of intense interest: feeling himself unable to contend
longer with his feelings, he made a hurried
excuse for a temporary absence, and left the
room. Frances followed him, and, obedient to
the direction of her eye, the soldier re-entered
the apartment in which had been their first interview.

“Major Dunwoodie,” said Frances, in a voice
barely audible, as she beckoned to him to be seated;
her cheek, which had been of a chilling whiteness,
was flushed with a suffusion that crimsoned
her whole countenance; she struggled with

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

herself for a moment, and continued, “I have already
acknowledged to you my esteem—even now, when
you most painfully distress me, I wish not to conceal
it. Believe me, Henry is innocent of every
thing but imprudence. Our country can sustain
no wrong;” again she paused, and almost gasped
for breath; her colour changed rapidly from red
to white, until the blood rushed into her face,
covering her features with the brighest vermilion;
and she added hastily, in an under tone, “I have
promised, Dunwoodie, when peace is restored to
our country, to become your wife—give to my
brother his liberty on parole, and I will this day
go with you to the altar, follow you to the camp—
and, in becoming a soldier's bride, learn to endure
a soldier's privations.”

Dunwoodie seized the hand which the blushing
maid had in her ardour extended towards him, and
pressed it for a moment to his bosom; then rising
from his seat, paced the room in excessive agitation,
as he exclaimed—

“Frances—say no more—I conjure you, unless
you wish to break my heart.”

“You then reject my offered hand?” said the
maid, with an air of offended delicacy, rising
with dignity, though her pale cheek and quivering
lip plainly showed the conflicting passions within.

“Reject it!” cried her lover with enthusiasm;
“have I not sought it with entreaties—with tears?
Has it not been the goal of all my earthly wishes?
But to take it under such conditions would be to
dishonour us both. Yet hope for better things.
Henry must be acquitted—perhaps not tried. No
intercession of mine will be wanting, you must
well know; and believe me, Frances, I am not
without favour with Washington.”

“That very paper, that abuse of his confidence,
to which you alluded, will steel him to my brother's

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

sufferings. If threats or entreaties could move his
stern sense of justice, would André have suffered?”
said the maid despairingly, as she flew from the
room to conceal the violence of her emotions.

Dunwoodie remained for a minute nearly stupified,
with the distress of his mistress and the pain
of his own feelings; and then followed, with a view
to vindicate himself and relieve her apprehensions.
On entering the hall that divided the two parlours,
he was met by a small ragged boy, who looked
one moment at his dress; and placing a piece of
paper in his hands in silence, immediately vanished
through the outer door of the building. The
bewildered state of his mind, and the suddenness
of the occurrence, gave the Major barely time to
observe the messenger to be a country lad, meanly
attired, and that he held in his hand one of
those toys which are to be bought in cities, and
which he now apparently contemplated with the
conscious pleasure of having fairly purchased, by
the performance of the service required. The
soldier turned his eyes to the subject of the
note. It was written on a piece of torn and soiled
paper, and in a hand barely legible; but, after some
little labour, he was able to make out as follows:—

“The rig'lars are at hand, horse and foot.”

Dunwoodie started; and forgetting every thing
in the duties of a soldier, precipitately left the
house. While walking rapidly towards the troops,
he noticed on a distant hill a vidette riding
with speed; several pistols were fired in quick
succession, and the next instant the trumpets
of the corps, rung in his ears with the enlivening
strain of “to arms.” By the time he had
reached the ground occupied by his squadron, the
Major saw that every man was in active motion.
Lawton was already in his saddle, eyeing the opposite
extremity of the valley with the eagerness

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

of expectation, and crying to the musicians, in
tones but little lower than their own—

“Sound away my lads, and let these Englishmen
know the Virginia horse are between them
and the end of their journey.”

The videttes and patroles now came pouring in,
each making in succession his hasty report to the
commanding officer, who gave his orders cooly,
and with a promptitude that made obedience certain.
Once only, as he wheeled his horse to ride
over the ground in front, did Dunwoodie trust himself
with a look at the cottage, and his heart beat
with an unusual rapidity as he saw a female figure
standing, with clasped hands, at a window of the
room in which he had met Frances. The distance
was too great to distinguish her features through
the intervening object; but the soldier could not
doubt that it was his mistress. The paleness of his
cheek and the languor of his eye endured but for
a moment longer. As he rode towards the intended
battle-ground, a flush of ardour began to show
itself on his sun-burnt features; and his dragoons,
who studied the face of their leader, as the best
index to their own fate, saw again the wonted
flashing of the eyes, and cheerful animation,
which they had so often witnessed on the eve of
battle. By the additions of the videttes and parties
that had been out, and which now had all
joined, the whole number of the horse was increased
to near two hundred. There was also a
small body of mounted men, whose ordinary duties
were those of guides, but who, in cases of
emergency, were embodied and did duty as foot
soldiers: these were dismounted, and proceeded,
by the order of Dunwoodie, to level the few
fences which might interfere with the intended
movements of the cavalry. The neglect of husbandry,
which had been occasioned by the war,

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

left this a comparatively easy task. Those long
lines of heavy and durable walls, which now sweep
through every part of the county, forty years ago
were unknown. The slight and tottering fences
of stone were then used more to clear the land
for the purposes of cultivation, than as permanent
barriers in the divisions of estates, and required
the constant attention of the husbandman,
to preserve them against the fury of the tempests
and the frosts of winter. Some few of them had
been built with more care immediately around the
dwelling of Mr. Wharton; but those which had intersected
the vale below were now generally a
pile of ruins, over which the horses of the Virginians
would bound with the fleetness of the wind.
Occasionally a short line yet preserved its erect
appearance, but as none of these crossed the
ground on which Dunwoodie intended to act, there
remained only the slighter fences of rails to be
thrown down. Their duty was hastily, but effectually,
performed; and the guides withdrew to the
post assigned to them for the approaching fight.

Major Dunwoodie had received from his scouts
all the intelligence concerning his foe, which was
necessary to enable him to make his arrangements.
The bottom of the valley was an even plain, that
fell with a slight inclination from the foot of the
hills on either side, to the level of a natural meadow
that wound through the country on the banks
of a small stream, by whose waters it was often
inundated and fertilized. This brook was easily
forded in any part of its course; and the only impediment
it offered to the movements of the horse,
was in a place where it changed its bed from the
western to the eastern side of the valley, and
where its banks were more steep and difficult of
access than common; here the highway crossed it

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

by a rough wooden bridge, as it did again at the
distance of half a mile above the Locusts.

The hills on the eastern side of the valley were
abrupt, and frequently obtruded themselves in
rocky prominencies into its bosom, lessening the
width to half its usual dimensions. One of these
projections was but a short distance in the rear of
the squadron of dragoons, and Dunwoodie directed
Captain Lawton to withdraw, with two troops,
behind its cover. The officer obeyed with a kind
of surly reluctance, that was, however, somewhat
lessened by the anticipations of the effect his sudden
appearance would make on his enemy. Dunwoodie
knew his man, and had selected the Captain
to lead this service, both because he feared
his precipitation in the field, and knew, when
needed, his support would never fail to appear.
It was only in front of the enemy that Captain
Lawton was hasty; at all other times his discernment
and self-possession were consummately preserved;
but he sometimes forgot them in his eagerness
to engage. On the left of the ground on which
Dunwoodie intended to meet his foe, was a close
wood, which skirted that side of the valley for
the distance of a mile. Into this, then, the guides
retired, and took their station near its edge, in
such a manner as would enable them to maintain
a scattering, but effectual fire, on the advancing
column of the enemy.

It cannot be supposed that all these preparations
were made unheeded by the inmates of the
cottage: on the contrary, every feeling which can
agitate the human breast, in witnessing such a
scene, was actively alive. Mr. Wharton alone
saw no hopes to himself in the termination of the
conflict. If the British should prevail, his son
would be liberated; but what would then be his
own fate! He had hitherto preserved his neutral

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

character in the midst of trying circumstances.
The fact of his having a son in the royal, or, as it
was called, the regular army, had very nearly
brought his estates to the hammer. Nothing had
obviated this result, but the powerful interest of
the relation, who held a high political rank in the
state, and his own vigilant prudence. In his heart,
he was a devoted loyalist; and when the blushing
Frances had communicated to him the wishes of
her lover, on their return from the American camp
the preceding spring, the consent he had given,
for her future union with a rebel, was as much extracted
by the increasing necessity which existed
for his obtaining republican support, than by any
considerations for the happiness of his child.
Should his son now be rescued, he would, in the
public mind, be united with him as a plotter against
the freedom of the states; and should he remain a
captive, and undergo the impending trial, the consequences
might be still more dreadful. Much as
he loved his wealth, Mr. Wharton loved his children
better; and he sat gazing on the movements
without, with a listless vacancy in his countenance,
that denoted his imbecility of character.

Far different were the feelings of his son. Captain
Wharton had been left in the keeping of two
dragoons; one of whom marched to and fro the piazza
with a measured tread, and the other had been
directed to continue in the same apartment with his
prisoner. The young man had witnessed all the
movements of Dunwoodie with admiration, for the
ability he had displayed, and some fearful anticipations
of the consequences to his friends. He particularly
disliked the ambush of the detachment under
Lawton, who could be distinctly seen from the
windows of the cottage, cooling his impatience, by
pacing on foot the ground in front of his men.
Henry Wharton threw several hasty and inquiring

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

glances around, to see if no means of liberation
would offer, but invariably found the eyes of his
sentinel fixed on him with the watchfulness of an
Argus. He longed, with the ardour of youth, to
join in the glorious fray, but was compelled to remain
a dissatisfied spectator of a scene in which
he would so cheerfully have been an actor. Miss
Peyton and Sarah continued gazing on the preparations
with varied emotions, in which concern for
the fate of the captain formed the most prominent
feeling, until the moment the shedding of blood
seemed approaching, when, with the timidity of
their sex, they sought the retirement of an inner
room. Not so Frances—she had returned to the
apartment where she had left Dunwoodie, and,
from one of its windows, been a deeply interested
spectator of all his movements. The wheelings
of the troops, the deadly preparations, had all been
unnoticed; the maid saw her lover only, and with
mingled emotions of admiration and dread that
nearly chilled her. At one moment the blood
rushed to her heart, as she saw the young warrior
riding gracefully, and with admirable skill, through
his ranks, evidently giving life and courage to all
whom he addressed; and the next, it curdled with
the thought, that the very gallantry she so much
valued, might soon prove the means of placing
the grave between her and the object of her regard.
Frances gazed until she could gaze no
longer.

In a field on the left of the cottage, and at a
short distance in the rear of the troops, were
a small group, whose occupations seemed to differ
from all around them. They were in number
only three, being two men and a mulatto boy. The
principal personage of this party was a man, whose
leanness made his really tall stature appear excessive—
he wore spectacles—was unarmed, had

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

dismounted, and seemed to be dividing his attention
between a segar, a book, and the incidents of
the field before him. To this party Frances determined
to convey a note, directed to Dunwoodie.
She wrote hastily, with a pencil, “Come to me,
Peyton, if it be but for a moment;” and Cæsar
emerged from the cellar kitchen, taking the precaution
to go by the rear of the building, to avoid
the sentinel on the piazza, who had very cavalierly
ordered all the family to remain housed. The
black delivered the note to the gentleman, with a
request it might be forwarded to Major Dunwoodie.
It was the surgeon of the horse to whom
Cæsar addressed himself; and the teeth of the
African chattered, as he saw displayed upon the
ground, the several instruments which were in
preparation for the anticipated operations. The
doctor himself seemed to view the arrangement
with great satisfaction, as he deliberately raised
his eyes from his book to order the boy to convey
the note to his commanding officer, and then dropping
them on the page continued his occupation.
Cæsar was slowly retiring, as the third personage,
who by his dress might be an inferior assistant of
the surgical department, coolly inquired “if he
would have a leg taken off.” This question seemed
to remind the black of the existence of those
limbs, for he made such use of them as to
reach the piazza at the same instant that Major
Dunwoodie rode up at half speed. The brawny
sentinel squared himself, and poised his sword with
military precision, as he stood on his post while
his officer passed; but no sooner had the door
closed, than, turning to the negro, he said, with
great deliberation—

“Harkee, blacky, if you quit the house again
without my knowledge, I will shave off one of
those ebony ears with this razor.”

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

Thus assailed in another member, Cæsar hastily
retreated into his kitchen, muttering something,
in which the words “Skinner, and rebel rascal,”
formed a principal part of his speech.

“Major Dunwoodie,” said Frances to her lover
as he entered, “I may have done you injustice—
if I have appeared harsh”—

The emotions of the agitated girl prevailed, and
she burst into tears.

“Frances,” cried the soldier with warmth,
“you are never harsh—never unjust—but when
you doubt my love.”

Ah! Dunwoodie,” added the now sobbing
maid, “you are about to risk your life in battle—
remember that there is one heart whose happiness
is built on your safety—brave I know you are—be
prudent”—

“For your sake?” inquired the delighted youth.

“For my sake,” replied Frances, in a voice
barely audible, and dropping on his bosom.

Dunwoodie folded her to his heart, and was
about to speak, as a trumpet sounded in the
southern end of the vale. Imprinting one long
kiss of affection on her unresisting lips, the soldier
tore himself from his mistress, and hastened to the
scene of strife.

Frances threw herself on a sofa, buried her head
under its cushion, and, with her shawl drawn over
her face, to exclude as much of sound as possible,
continued there until the shouts of the combatants,
the rattling of the fire arms, and the thundering
tread of the horses had ceased.

Previous section

Next section