CHAPTER XI.
“Have you no countermand for Claudio yet,
But he must die to-morrow?”
Measure for Measure.
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A few hours were passed by the condemned prisoner,
after his sentence was received, in the bosom
of his family. Mr. Wharton wept in hopeless
despondency over the untimely fate of his son,
and Frances, after recovering from her insensibility,
experienced an anguish of feeling to which the
bitterness of death itself would have been comparatively
light. Miss Peyton alone retained a vestige
of hope, or presence of mind to suggest whamight
be proper to be done under their circumt
stances. The comparative composure of the good
spinster in no degree arose from any want of interest
in the welfare of her nephew, but was founded
in a kind of instinctive dependence on the character
of Washington. He was a native of the
same colony with herself, and although his early
military services, and her frequent visits to the family
of her sister, and subsequent establishment at
its head, had prevented their ever meeting, still
she was familiar with his domestic virtues, and
well knew that the rigid inflexibility for which his
public acts were distinguished, formed no part of
his reputation in private life. He was known in
Virginia as a consistent but just and lenient master,
and the maiden felt a kind of pride in associating
in her mind, her countryman with the man who
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led the armies, and in a great measure, controlled
the destinies of America. She knew that Henry
was innocent of the crime for which he was condemned
to suffer, and with that kind of simple
faith, that is ever to be found in the most ingenuous
and innocent characters, could not conceive
of those constructions and interpretations of law,
that inflicted punishment without the actual existence
of crime. But even her confiding hopes
were doomed to meet with a speedy termination.
Towards noon, a regiment that was quartered on
the banks of the river, moved up to the ground in
front of the house that held our heroine and her
family, and deliberately pitched their
temts with
the avowed intention of remaining until the following
morning, to give solemnity and impression
to the execution of a British spy.
Dunwoodie had performed all that was required
of him by his orders, and was at liberty to retrace
his steps to his expecting troops, who were impatiently
awaiting his return to be led against a detachment
of the enemy, that was known to be slowly
moving up the banks of the river, to cover a party
of foragers in their rear. He was accompanied
by a small party of Lawton's troop, under the expectation
of their testimony being required to convict
the prisoner, and Mason, the lieutenant, was
in command. But the confession of Capt. Wharton
had removed the necessity of examining any
witnesses on behalf of the people. The Major,
from an unwillingness to encounter the distress of
Henry's friends, and a dread of trusting himself
within its influence, had spent the time we have
mentioned, in walking by himself, in keen anxiety,
at a short distance from the dwelling. Like Miss
Peyton, he had some reliance on the mercy of
Washington, although moments of terrific doubt
ned despondency were continually crossing his
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mind. To him the rules of service were familiar,
and he was more accustomed to consider his general
in the capacity of a ruler, than as exhibiting the
characteristics of the individual. A dreadful instance
had too recently occurred, which fully
proved that Washington was above the weakness
of sparing another in mercy to himself. While
pacing with hurried steps through the orchard, labouring
under these constantly recurring doubts,
enlivened by transient rays of hope, Mason approached
him, accoutred completely for the saddle.
“Thinking you might have forgotten the news
brought this morning from below, sir, I have taken
the liberty to order the detachment under arms,”
said the Lieutenant, very coolly, cutting down the
mullen tops with his sheathed sabre that grew
within his reach.
“What news?” cried the Major, starting.
“Only that John Bull is out in West-Chester.
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 York island, that when they do
venture out, they seldom leave straw enough to
furnish the bed of a yankee heiress.”
“Where did the express leave them, did you
say? The intelligence has entirely escaped my
memory.”
“On the heights above Sing-Sing,” returned the
Lieutenant, with no little amazement. “The road
below looks like a hay-market, and all the swine
are sighing forth their lamentations, as the corn
passes them towards Kingsbridge. George Singleton's
orderly, who brought up the tidings,
says that our horses were holding consultation if
they should not go down without their riders,
and eat another meal, for it is questionable with
them whether they can get a full stomach again.
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If they are suffered to get back with their plunder,
we shall not be able to find a piece of pork, at
Christmas, fat enough to fry itself.”
“Peace, with all this nonsense of Singleton's
orderly, Mr. Mason,” cried Dunwoodie, impatiently;
“let him learn to wait the orders of his superiors.”
“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 of General
Heath, to attack and molest the enemy whenever
he ventured out of his nest.”
“Recollect yourself, Lieutenant Mason,” said
the Major, fiercely, “or I may have to teach you
that your orders pass through me.”
“I know it, Major Dunwoodie—I know it,” said
Mason, with a look of reproach; “and I am sorry
that your memory is so bad, as to forget that I
I never have yet hesitated to obey them.”
“Forgive me, Mason,” cried Dunwoodie, taking
both his hands, “I do know you for a brave and
obedient soldier; forget my humour. But this business—
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 my
officer. But remain, and let a man breathe a
syllable against the corps, and every sword will
start from the scabbard of itself—besides they are
still moving up, and it is a long road from Croton
to Kingsbridge. Happen what may, I see plainly
that we shall be on their heels, before they are
housed again.”
“Oh! that the courier was returned from headquarters,”
exclaimed Dunwoodie. “This suspense
is insupportable.”
“You have your wish,” cried Mason; “here
he is coming at the moment, and riding like the
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bearer of good news—God send it may be so; for
I can't say that I particularly like, myself, to see
a brave young fellow dancing upon nothing.”
Dunwoodie heard but very little of this feeling
declaration; for, ere half of it was uttered,
he had leaped the fence and stood before the messenger
“What news have you?” cried the Major, the
moment that the soldier stopped his horse.
“Good!” exclaimed the man; and feeling no
hesitation to entrust an officer so well known as
Major Dunwoodie, he placed the paper in his
hands, as he added, “But you can read it, sir, for
yourself.”
Dunwoodie paused not to read; but flew, with
the elastic spring of youth and joy, to the chamber
of the prisoner. The sentinel knew him, and
he was suffered to pass without question.
“Oh! Peyton,” cried Frances as he entered the
apartment; “you look like a messenger from
heaven: bring you tidings of mercy?”
“Here, Frances—here, Henry—here, dear
cousin Jeannette,” cried the youth, as with trembling
hands he broke the seal; “here is the letter
itself, directed to the captain of the guard. But
listen”—
All did listen, with intense anxiety; and the
pang of blasted hope was added to their misery,
as they saw the glow of delight which had beamed
on the countenance of the Major on his entrance,
give place to a look of astonishment and terror.
The paper contained the sentence of the court,
and underneath was written these simple words—
“Approved—George Washington.”
“He's lost—he's lost!” cried Frances, in the
piercing tones of despair, sinking into the arms
of her aunt.
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“My son—My son!” sobbed the father, “there
is mercy in heaven, if there is none on earth.—
May Washington never want that mercy he thus
denies to my innocent child.”
“Washington!” echoed Dunwoodie, gazing
around him in vacant horror. “Yes, 'tis the act
of Washington himself; there are his characters—
his very name is here to sanction the dreadful
deed.”
“Cruel, cruel Washington!” cried Miss Peyton;
“how has familiarity with blood 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 saviour of his country; but a cold
and merciless tyrant. Oh! Peyton, Peyton! how
have you misled me in his character!”
“Peace, dear Frances; peace, for God's sake;
use not such language,” cried her lover. “He is
but the guardian of the law.”
“You speak the truth, Major Dunwoodie,” said
Henry, recovering from the shock of having his
last ray of hope extinguished, and advancing from
his 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
the grave, I cannot continue unjust. At such a
moment, with so recent an instance of danger to
your cause from treason, I wonder not at Washington's
unbending justice. Nothing now remains,
but for me to prepare for that fate which so speedily
awaits me. To you Major Dunwoodie, I make
my first request.”
“Name it,” said the Major, giving utterance
with difficulty.
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Henry turned and pointed impressively at the
groupe of weeping mourners near him, as he continued—
“Be a son to this aged man—help his weakness,
and defend him from any usage to which the stigma
thrown upon me may subject him. He has not
many friends amongst the rulers of this country;
let your powerful name be found among them.”
“It shall,” said Dunwoodie, fervently pressing
the hand of his friend.
“And this helpless innocent,” continued Henry,
pointing to where Sarah sat, in unconscious
melancholy. “I had hoped for an opportunity to
revenge her wrongs,” a momentary flush of excitement
passed over his pallid features; “but
such thoughts are evil—I feel them to bewrong.
Under your care, Peyton, she will find sympathy
and refuge.”
“She will,” whispered Dunwoodie, unable to
speak aloud.
“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 countenance
with an expression of fraternal affection—
“Here is the choicest gift of all. Take her to your
bosom, and cherish her as you would cultivate innocence
and virtue.”
The Major could not repress the eagerness with
which he extended his hand to receive the precious
boon, but Frances shrinking from his touch,
hid her face in the bosom of her aunt, as she murmured—
“No, no, no—none can ever be any thing to
me, who aid in my brother's destruction.”
Henry continued gazing at her in tender pity
for several moments, before he again resumed a
discourse that all felt was most peculiarly his own.
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“I have been mistaken then. I did think, Peyton,
that your worth, your noble devotion to a
cause that you have been taught to revere, that
your kindness to our father when in imprisonment,
your friendship to me, in short, that your character
was understood and valued by my sister.”
“It is—it is,” whispered Frances, burying her
face still deeper in the bosom of her aunt.
“I believe, dear Henry,” said Dunwoodie,
“this is a subject that had better not be dwelt upon
now.”
“You forget,” returned the prisoner, with a
faint smile, “how much I have to do, and how
little time is left to do it in.”
“I apprehend,” continued the Major, with a
face of fire, “that Miss Wharton has imbibed some
opinions of me, that would make a compliance
with your request irksome to her—opinions that it
is now too late to alter.”
“No, no, no,” cried Frances, quickly; “you
are exonerated, Peyton—with her dying breath
she removed my doubts.”
“Generous Isabella!” murmured Dunwoodie,
with a glow of momentary rapture; “but still,
Henry, spare your sister now; nay, spare even
me.”
“I cannot spare myself,” returned the brother
gently removing Frances from the arms of her
aunt. “What a time is this to leave two such
lovely females without a protector!—Their abode
is destroyed, and misery will speedily deprive
them of their last male friend,” looking at his
father; “can I die in peace, with the knowledge of
the danger to which they will be exposed?”
“You forget me,” said Miss Peyton, shrinking
herself at the idea of celebrating nuptials at such
a moment.'
“No, my dear aunt, I forget you not, nor
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shall I, until I cease to remember; but you forget
the times and the danger.—The good woman who
lives in this house has already despatched a messenger
for a man of God, to smooth my passage to
another world;—Frances, if you would wish me
to die in peace—to feel a security that will allow
me to turn my whole thoughts 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 powerful name—
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, “for your 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 that
you wish.—It would render me miserable for life.”
“You love him not,” said Henry reproachfully.”
I cease to importune you to do what is
against your inclinations.”
Frances raised one hand to conceal the countenance
that was overspread with crimson, as she
extended the other 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 so soon as the recollection
of my fate is softened, you will give my friend
that hand for life, and I am satisfied.”
“I do promise,” said Frances, withdrawing the
hand that Dunwoodie delicately relinquished
without even pressing it to his lips.
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“Well then, my good aunt,” continued Henry,
“will you leave me for a short time alone with my
friend. I have a few melancholy commissions
with which to intrust him, and would spare you
and my sister the pain of hearing them.”
“There is yet time to see Washington again,”
said Miss Peyton, moving towards the door; and
then speaking with extreme dignity, she continued—
“I will go myself; surely he must listen to a
woman from his own colony?—and we are in some
degree connected with his family.”
“Why not apply to Mr. Harper?” said Frances,
recollecting the parting words of their guest
for the first time.
“Harper!” echoed Dunwoodie, turning towards
her with the swiftness of lightning; “what
of him? do you know him?
“It is in vain,” said Henry drawing him aside;
“Frances clings to hope with the fondness of a
sister—retire, my love, and leave me with my
friend.”
But Frances read an expression in the eye of
Dunwoodie that chained her to the spot. After
struggling to command her feelings, she continued—
“He staid with us for two days—he was with
us when Henry was arrested.”
“And—and—did you know him?”
“Nay,” continued Frances, catching her breath
as she witnessed the intense interest of her lover,
“we knew him not—he came to us in the night a
stranger, and remained with us during the severe
storm; but he seemed 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.”
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“But—” said Dunwoodie, turning pale with
suspense, “he knew him not as an officer of the
royal army.”
“Indeed he did,” cried Miss Peyton; “and
cautioned against this very danger.”
Dunwoodie caught up the fatal paper, that still
lay where it had fallen from his own hands. and
studied its characters intently. Something seemed
to bewilder his brain.—He passed his hand over
his forehead, while each eye was fixed on him in
dreadful suspense—all feeling afraid to admit
those hopes anew, that had once been so sadly
destroyed.
“What said he?—what promised he?”—at
length Dunwoodie asked with feverish impatience.
“He bid Henry apply to him when in danger,
and promised to requite to the son 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, and yielding
to his rapture, “then you are safe—then will I
save him—yes, Harper will never forget his
word.”
“But has he the power?” said Frances; “Can
he move the stubborn purpose of Washington?”
“Can he! if he cannot—” shouted the youth
in uncontrollable emotion, “if he cannot, who
can?—Greene, and Heath, and young Hamilton
are as nothing, compared to this Harper.—But,”
rushing to his mistress, and pressing her hands
convulsively, “repeat to me—you say you have
his promise?”
“Surely—surely—Peyton;—his solemn, deliberate
promise, knowing all of the circumstances.”
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“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 family in amazement. They
continued in silent wonder, until they heard the
feet of 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 the anxious friends he had
left, in discussing the probability of his success.
The confidence of his manner had, however, communicated
to his auditors something of its own
spirit. Each felt that the prospects of Henry were
again brightening, and, with their reviving hopes,
they experienced a renewal of spirits, which in all
but Henry himself amounted to pleasure; with
him, indeed, his state was too awful to admit of
trifling, and for a few hours he was condemned
to feel how much more intolerable was suspense,
than even the certainty of calamity. Not so with
Frances. She, with all the reliance of affection,
reposed in security on the assurance of Dunwoodie,
without harassing herself with doubts, that
she possessed not the means of satisfying; but
believing her lover able to accomplish every
thing that man could do, and retaining a vivid recollection
of the manner and benevolent appearance
of Harper, the maid abandoned herself to
all the felicity of renovated hope.
The joy of Miss Peyton was more sobered,
and she took frequent occasions to reprove her
niece for the exuberance of her spirits, before
there was a certainty that their expectations were
to be realized. But the slight smile that hovered
around the lips of the spinster contradicted the
very sobriety of feeling that she inculcated.
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“Why, dearest aunt,” said Frances playfully,
in reply to one of her frequent reprimands, “would
you have me repress the pleasure that I feel at
Henry's deliverance, when you yourself have so
often declared it to be impossible, that such men
as ruled in our country could sacrifice an innocent
man.”
“Nay, I did believe it impossible, my child,
and yet think so; but still there is a discretion to
be shown in joy as well as in sorrow.”
Frances recollected the declarations of Isabella,
and turned an eye filled with tears of gratitude
on her excellent aunt as she replied—
“True; but there are feelings that will not
yield to reason.—Ah! there are those monsters,
who have come to witness the death of a fellow
creature, moving around yon field, as if this life
was to them but a military show.”
“It is but little more to the hireling soldier,”
said Henry, endeavouring to forget his uneasiness.
“You gaze, my love, as if you thought a military
show of some importance,” said Miss Peyton,
observing her niece to be looking from the
window with a fixed and abstracted attention.—
But Frances answered not.
From the window where she stood the pass
that they had travelled through the highlands was
easily to be seen; and the mountain which held on
its summit the mysterious hut was directly before
her. Its side was rugged and barren; huge and
apparently impassable barriers of rocks presenting
themselves through the stunted oaks, which, stripped
of their foliage, were scattered over its surface.
The base of the hill was not half a mile
from the house, and the object which attracted
the notice of Frances, was the figure of a man
emerging from behind a rock of remarkable
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formation, and as suddenly disappearing. This manœuvre
was several times repeated, as if it were the
intention of the fugitive, (for such by his air he
seemed to be,) to reconnoitre the proceedings of
the soldiery, and assure himself of the position of
things on the plain. Notwithstanding the distance,
Frances instantly imbibed the opinion that it was
Birch. Perhaps this impression was partly owing
to the air and figure of the man, and in some measure
to the idea that presented itself on formerly
beholding the object at the summit of the mountain.—
That they were the same figure she was
confident, although this wanted the appearance,
which in the other she had taken for the pack of
the pedlar. Harvey had so connected himself with
the mysterious deportment of Harper within her
imagination, that under circumstances of less agitation
than those in which she had laboured since
her arrival, she would have kept her suspicions to
herself. Frances, therefore, sat ruminating on this
second appearance in silence, and endeavouring
to trace in her thoughts, what possible connexion
this extraordinary man could have with the fortunes
of her own family. He had certainly saved
Sarah, in some degree, from the blow that had
partially alighted on her, and in no instance had
he proved himself to be hostile to their interests.
After gazing for a long time at the point
where she had last seen the figure, in the vain
expectation of its re-appearance, she turned to
her friends in the apartment. Miss Peyton was
sitting by Sarah, who gave some slight additional
signs of noticing what passed, but who still continued
insensible to either joy or grief.
“I suppose by this time, my love, that you are
well acquainted with the manœuvres of a regiment,”
said the spinster, smiling at her nephew.
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“It is no bad quality in a soldier's wife, at all
events.”
“I am not a wife yet,” said Frances, colouring
to the eyes; “and we have no reason to wish for
another wedding in our family.”
“Frances!” exclaimed her brother, starting
from his seat, and pacing the floor in violent agitation,
“touch not that chord again, I entreat you.
While my fate is yet so 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 Major entered. In his air there
was neither the appearance of success nor defeat,
but there was a marked display of vexation. He took
the hand that Frances in the fulness of her heart
extended towards him, but instantly relinquishing
it, threw himself into a chair, in evident fatigue.
“You have failed,” said Wharton, with a bound
of his heart, but an appearance 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 coming to this side in another.
I returned without delay, and traced him for several
miles into the Highlands by the western pass,
but there I unaccountably 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 question was repeated. He
answered gravely, and with some reserve—
“The commander in chief had left his quarters.”
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“But, Peyton,” cried Frances, in returning terror,
“if they should not see each other, it will be
too late. Harper alone will not be sufficient.”
Her lover turned his eyes slowly on her anxious
countenance, and dwelling 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 that he had received.”
Dunwoodie shook his head, and began to look
extremely grave.
“I like not that word hospitality—it has an
empty sound—there must be something more reasonable
to tie Harper. I dread some mistake—
repeat to me all that passed.”
Frances, in a hurried and earnest voice, complied
with his request. She related particularly
the manner of his arrival at the Locusts, the reception
that he received, and the events that passed,
as minutely as her memory would supply her
with the means. As she alluded to the conversation
that occurred between her father and his
guest, the Major smiled, but remained silent. She
then gave a detail of Henry's arrival, and the
events of the following day. She dwelt upon the
part where Harper had desired her brother to
throw aside his disguise, and recounted with wonderful
accuracy his remarks upon the hazard of
the step that the youth had taken. She even remembered
his remarkable expression to her brother,
“that he was safer from Harper's knowledge
of his person than he would be without it.” Frances
mentioned, with the warmth of her youthful
admiration, the benevolent character of his deportment
to herself, and gave a minute relation of
his adieus to the whole family.
Dunwoodie at first listened with grave attention—
then evident satisfaction followed as she
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proceeded. When she spoke of herself in connexion
with their guest, he smiled with pleasure, and as
she concluded, he exclaimed, with perfect delight—
“We are safe—we are safe.”
But he was interrupted, as we will show in the
following chapter.
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Cooper, James Fenimore, 1789-1851 [1821], The spy, volume 2 (Wiley & Halsted, New York) [word count] [eaf052v2].
