CHAPTER VII. THE RESCUE.
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The declining sun was flinging his beams aslant
hill and forest, and gilding many a distant sail on
the river and Sound, when the two Canadians descended
a slight eminence overlooking an inlet
of the East River called Kip's Bay, a few miles
above New-York. Their way wound along a bridle-path,
which conducted them through a natural
grove of some extent, and across a narrow tract of
pasture-land, when they came to the remains of
an old forest that extended quite to the beach, at
this spot overhung by a high precipitous bank and
one or two isolated rocks of great size.
Near one of these rocks was a platform or wharf
for small boats, one end of which rested upon the
beach, from which a winding and romantic path led
to a tasteful villa situated on a wooded eminence
not far from the shore. It was behind this rock,
and concealed from the landing-place, that Zacharie
and his companion at length stopped. After
surveying the place with great attention, climbing
to the top of the rock and looking off into the river,
the former descended, saying,
“All is right. Now, if they can only get here
before the boat, which is a good half mile below,
then we have them, Jacques. Come with me on
yonder hill, and await my return, and move foot nor
finger more than if thou wert a part of this rock.
If, by-and-by, you see any fighting going on, look
thou, deal blows on the right side.”
Thus conveying his commands, Zacharie put
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spurs to his horse and soon disappeared over the
hill. Riding forward for a quarter of an hour
through a thick wood, he came all at once upon a
party of dragoons, one of the number leading a
horse caparisoned for a female equestrian, spurring
at the top of their speed towards him. Drawing
to one side of the path to avoid collision, he muttered,
half aloud,
“There he comes, at a rate that only a battle or
a lady would send him.”
As the foremost passed him he whistled shrilly,
when Burton, for it was him, reined up, glanced towards
him, then was instantly at his side, and demanding
his intelligence.
This was conveyed in a few words. Bidding
Zacharie then to keep by his bridle, he commanded
the troop to ride forward.
“Said you the boat was but a mile off ten minutes
since?”
“Ay, sir; we'll be there in time. Is the other
prisoner safe?”
“If your curiosity had a pocket, it would soon be
filled in reward for thy services. I did not bargain
with you for double pay.”
“Nor I with thee for double service.”
“Well, then, prime minister of mine, if 'twill
please you to learn so much, know that the lady
whom I have escorted is safe beneath the roof of
General Mifflin, at Kingsbridge, there to abide as a
guest, under some restrictions, until General Washington
shall make further disposition of her.”
“A brave lady! Dost think they'll hang her?”
“The graces forbid, at least for the present.”
“I think I'd like thee to marry her.”
“What put that into your wise head?”
“From the cut of her eye, I think she would be
thy match.”
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“A charitable wish, truly; but what dost think
of her?”
“I think, if possible, she has more of the devil in
her than thyself. But yonder comes our prize.”
At this moment they came in view of the East
River; and, lifting his eyes, Burton beheld a little
boat, its single white sail relieved against the dark
water on which it was suspended, standing slowly
and steadily towards the little flotilla on the beach.
He halted the troop, and, placing a pocket telescope
to his eye, closely surveyed the approaching
party for a few moments. Then closing it, he
turned to his men and briefly addressed them:
“In yonder boat are two ladies, one of whom it
is my intention to seize and place under temporary
arrest. There are four soldiers and a young officer
forming their escort; these I leave you to do with,
but, on your lives, shed no blood! Holton, secure
your horses here, then conduct four of your men
along the woods, and draw them up behind that
rock which commands the ascent from the water
to yonder villa. Permit the ladies and officer to
pass by you unmolested; then surprise the guard as
they are securing the boat, disarm them, and throw
their muskets into the water. You and your comrade,
Mack, may accompany me. Forward!”
“You will find a comrade of mine behind the
rock a little cracked in the topworks,” said Zacharie;
“see that you harm him not.”
Holton and his men, under the protection of the
trees and irregularities of the descent, gained their
appointed station, where they found Jacques, who
sat his horse immoveable and without speaking,
evidently in the extremity of bodily terror, to find
himself so suddenly surrounded by so many fierce-looking
warriors. Placing their hands on their pistols,
the party anxiously awaited the approach of
the boat.
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“Is't another petticoat spy, Holton?” asked one,
whom Zacharie had formerly designated as Joe
Carbine.
“That I can't tell; though 'tis like to be. These
women-folks are sharpsighted enough to be spies,
if that's all.”
“They look like American soldiers in the boat,
and I could swear to the uniform of the officer. I
don't like fighting against my own countrymen.”
“There's no fighting, boy; only disarming some
half dozen of the enemy,” replied another.
“They may be in disguise,” said Holton. “All
we have to do is to obey orders. If there's any
mistake, the blame goes to shoulders that can bear
it as well as their epaulettes.”
With this conclusive argument of men under
authority, the dragoons were satisfied; and in
breathless silence, and with clear consciences, they
awaited the approach of the barge.
Burton and his two troopers, accompanied by
Zacharie, who led the spare horse, continued, without
dismounting, to the right, and rode along the
inland inclination of the hill towards a hollow at
the summit of the pass, equally hidden from the
villa and the shore.
Here they dismounted. Burton now ordered
Zacharie to hold the horses in readiness to mount
suddenly; and bidding one of the dragoons to present
a pistol to the officer's breast when he should
gain the head of the pass, and make him prisoner,
and directing the other to prevent, without violence,
the lady from giving alarm, he cautiously approached
the verge of the hill and looked down into the
quiet cove.
The boat was now within a few yards of the
shore. Twilight had already rendered objects indistinct,
yet he could see the young officer's marked
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attentions to the younger female, whom he at once
recognised to be Eugenie, and a pang of jealousy
shot through his breast.
The party disembarked, and the officer, giving
all his assistance to the younger lady, preceded by
the matron, ascended the path towards the house.
The soldiers forming the escort, after securing the
boat, were preparing to resume their muskets and
follow, when they were surrounded and disarmed
before they had time to offer the least resistance;
and, to prevent escape, a dragoon stood by each
with a cocked pistol levelled at his breast.
This attack was so skilfully and silently executed,
that the officer a moment afterward gained the
summit of the pass without having been aware of
it. The elderly lady was a little in advance; and, as
the pair approached the ambuscade, Burton could
hear their voices in conversation.
“Say that you will permit me, Mademoiselle de
Lisle, to call on you; at least, say that my presence
will not be intrusive,” said the officer, tenderly.
“I have nothing to say, sir,” she replied, in her
low and peculiarly sweet tones; “I know not whether
I am a prisoner, or am still to have my own will?”
“Will you bid me despair, Eugenie?”
“I can bid you do nothing. Do not distress me
in this hour of my unhappiness. Nothing but the
most undeniable proof of his faithlessness should
ever induce me to forget him, or replace his image
by another.”
“Bless you, dearest Eugenie, for those words,”
exclaimed Burton, stepping boldly from his concealment,
and gracefully advancing towards her.
Eugenie shrieked with mingled terror and delight.
The officer drew his sword, which was struck
from his grasp by the ready weapon of Burton, and
at the same instant was seized by the dragoons.
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Lifting Eugenie, unresisting and half-clinging to his
neck, from the ground, the lover placed her in the
saddle, and whispered a word or two of hope and
encouragement, mingled with promises and protestations,
in her ear; then mounting his own horse,
and commanding his dragoons to release their prisoners,
he took the reins of Eugenie's pony and rode
swiftly along the ridge of the hill.
“Leave your prisoners and to horse,” he shouted,
as he came in sight of the men on the beach.
The dragoons obeyed, and, rapidly ascending the
hill, were soon in the saddle. Elated by their success,
the whole party moved forward at a round
trot through the wood, and, gaining the main road,
galloped rapidly towards the city. They passed
several parties of sentinels and outposts of both foot
and horse; but, answering every challenge correctly,
they gained the northern suburb of the city about
eight o'clock without interruption.
During the ride Eugenie had not spoken, and only
acknowledged the words of love breathed into her
ear by returning the pressure of his hand. When
they had got within a mile of the city, they halted
at the head of a crossroad leading into Broadway.
Here Burton dismissed his troop to their quarters,
and, when the last faint echo of their footsteps had
died away, he galloped up the crossroad, followed
by Zacharie, at the top of his speed. Gaining
Broadway, he rode a few rods southwardly, and
then suddenly turned aside into the secluded and
rural lane leading to the cottage from which he
had departed the preceding night. They had ridden
but half way through it when he, in a low
voice, commanded Zacharie to go forward alone
and inform the inmate of the cottage that her female
companion would shortly be with her, and
then to wait his arrival at the gate. Zacharie
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dashed on rapidly ahead, and soon disappeared. Dismounting
at the gate, he entered, and meeting Caroline
in one of the avenues of the front yard, he
delivered his message; then retracing his steps,
and seating himself sideways upon his pony beneath
the elm, he began to whistle a lively tune, to
which he kicked his heels against his pony's sides
by way of accompaniment.
“My dearest Eugenie,” said Burton, passing his
arm around her waist, and gently drawing her to
his embrace, “forgive me if I have offended you by
this rescue. I could not give you up without one
effort to recover you; without hearing from your
own lips my doom. I have taken you from the
protection of the friends Washington has assigned
to you, to plead my own cause at your feet. It is
the cause of sincere love—of deep, pure, and uncontrollable
passion. But why need I tell you this?
Your heart can say, better than any language my
tongue can utter, how dearly I love you. Tell me,
Eugenie, that you do not hate me.”
“Hate you, Edward! God and the sweet Mary
know I cannot hate you! But if you are as you
have been represented to me, I fear—I tremble
when I think how much I love you!”
“Best and loveliest of creatures! Then you do
not detest me! These people have not poisoned
my dear Eugenie's mind. You still love and believe
me true? If you desire it, I will here solemnly
appeal to Heaven in attestation of my sincerity.”
“No, no, Edward; I should no sooner believe
you; I know that you are the same; but—oh, there
are many things weighing heavily on my heart.
Hold, Edward,” she said, suddenly reining in her
horse, which, during this conversation, had been
walking on slowly, “I cannot sacrifice my maidenly
delicacy even to my love. Whither are you
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leading me? Why have you taken me from honourable
protection? Hold, sir! I will go no farther,”
she cried, with energy, as he attempted,
though gently, to urge her horse forward.
“Alas, Eugenie!” he said, in a tone of bitter
reproach, “do you so soon believe that I would
betray you? By your past confidence! by our
long-plighted love! by our vows registered in
heaven! believe me, and trust to my honour.”
“I do, I do! But tell me whither I am led? I
am in a maze—in a mystery. I have been led by
the will of others the last two days as if I were a
mere child or incapable of reflection, which may,
indeed, be true, for what but madness could have
driven me to take the rash step I have done?
Why did I not before view it in the light I now
do? Edward, if you love me, restore me, before
you leave your saddle, either to the protection of
General Washington or my Canadian friends.”
“Eugenie,” he said, in tones of sadness, “I will
do as you bid me if you will still urge your wish
when you learn the home that I have chosen for
you. Listen to me patiently for a moment, and I
will then be guided by your decision. After the
attack on Quebec, an American officer, mortally
wounded in the fight, called me to his side, and
with his dying breath bequeathed his widowed wife
and only daughter to my sympathy and protection.
The mother is recently deceased. The daughter,
I fear, will soon follow her. She needs a companion
in her lonely hours. I have told her that I
would seek one for her. When I left General
Washington's last night, I called and spoke to her
of you. I promised to bring you to see her today,
though I did not anticipate the events that
have since occurred. She was delighted at the
prospect, and her pale features lighted up with
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happy smiles. She now sighs for you. You will
love her, Eugenie, and I know that she will love
you; for none can see and not love you! Will you
be her solace? the angel of her pillow? Will you
become her companion, and soften the pangs of the
departing spirit? or will you turn a deaf ear to the
eloquent pleadings of suffering, and bid me tell her
that she must die unblessed by the presence and
sympathy of one of her own sex?”
“Edward, Edward! forgive me! How could
I be so ungenerous as to suspect you for a moment
of a dishonourable action? But it was the language
of my friends.”
“Friends, Eugenie? Those whom you knew
but yesterday, and who are my enemies! Will
you give me up for these? I cannot, nay, I will
not believe it.”
“No, I will not, Edward. I am convinced of
my error. Let us ride forward. I am ready to
follow whither you will, to atone for my unjust
suspicions. You will forgive me, won't you?”
“A thousand times, my dear Eugenie!” he exclaimed,
embracing her; “whatever words of thine
may give offence, are at the same time atoned for
by the sweet accents of the voice that utters them.
This embrace shall atone for all, and bind our love
the stronger.”
In a few moments they arrived at the gate and
alighted. Burton, leaving the horses with Zacharie,
passed through the cottage gate with Eugenie
leaning tremblingly on his arm, and in silence proceeded
to the house, which lay in the same quiet
repose as on the previous night, with its single light
twinkling through the blinds. Eugenie was charmed
with the air of everything; and, pressing his arm,
she whispered,
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“How happy could I be here with you, Edward!”
“That happiness shall be yours, dear Eugenie,”
he replied, as they gained the portico; “I will go
in, if you will permit me to leave you a moment,
and inform Miss Germaine of your presence, lest,
in her delicate health, she should be surprised by
your sudden entrance.”
Leaving Eugenie on the portico agitated by mingled
emotions, Burton entered without knocking,
and, going unannounced into the parlour, the door
of which was half open, the next moment he held
Caroline in his arms.
“My dear Caroline,” he said, playfully placing
his hand on her lips to check her exclamation of
joy, “you look better to-night. I have come to
apprize you of the arrival of your young companion.
You have only to see her to love her.”
“You are very kind, Edward, and kind yourself
to visit me once more. Is she near? Can I
go and meet her?”
“I left her on the portico to announce her presence,
lest your nerves should receive a shock from
the sudden appearance of a stranger. You will
meet her with sisterly affection?”
“Oh, Edward, how can guilt embrace innocence?
Oh, do not frown upon me! I will not breathe it
in her pure ears. I have too much need of sympathy
not to love those who will befriend me.
Bid her come in. But,” she added, falteringly, as
if she feared to ask, scarcely, the while, sustaining
her drooping form on her tottering limbs, “is she
quite alone? is no one with her?”
“No one, Caroline,” he said, with a surprised
air of inquiry; “whom do you expect?”
“Oh, nobody; not any one,” she said, clasping
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her hands to her temples. “Oh, not any one, if
you have so soon forgotten!”
“Caroline, for God's sake calm yourself,” he
cried, vexed and alarmed, flying to support her to
a sofa; “I said not that I would bring the clergyman
to-night.”
“Go, Edward; leave me,” she said, faintly;
“my heart is broken!” and she threw herself with
an utter abandonment of manner upon the sofa.
Chagrined at this incident, he turned from her,
muttering within his closed lips, “Some demon
seems to have plotted to ruin me! Ha! a happy
thought! This scene,” he added, crossing the
room to the door, “if well managed, is all in my
favour. I shall escape a double eclaircissement,
which I have trembled to think on. 'Twere better
Eugenie should see her thus; 'twill clinch my purpose
firmer. Eugenie,” he said, in tones attuned to
the ear of love, going to the portico, “the lady is
more indisposed than I imagined. Your presence
is providential. Come in and see if you would
have done well to have turned from such a scene!”
While he was speaking he conducted Eugenie
through the hall into the parlour. Caroline, whom
he expected to find nearly insensible on the sofa,
to his surprise, advanced towards them with graceful
dignity, and with a smile which her tearful eye
and heaving bosom told was called up with an extraordinary
mental effort.
“My dear Miss de Lisle,” she said, affectionately
taking her hand, while she seemed struck
with her beauty, “I know, in part, your romantic
sory. You are welcome! but 'tis but a poor reception
an invalid may give the young and lovely.
I have long wished for a friend and companion, but
such as you are I never hoped for. I already feel
that I shall love you.”
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Eugenie, surprised at her fragile loveliness, and
affected by her sad voice and manner, not only took
the hand Caroline extended towards her, but, with
the ingenuousness of her artless character, threw
her arms about her neck, and, kissing her, assured
her of her love and sympathy. The sensitive Caroline,
touched by this exhibition of kindness and
sympathy from one of her own sex, from whose society
she had so long been estranged, gave way to
a paroxysm of tears in her arms. At length she
became calmer, and Eugenie supporting her to a
sofa, sat by her, and clasped her hand in hers, and
for a moment the two lovely girls gazed on each
other's features as if prompted by a mutual impulse
to peruse the lineaments of one another's faces.
This tacit correspondence drew their hearts closer,
and in a few minutes both—Eugenie all gayety
and humour, and anxious to divert the mind of the
interesting invalid; Caroline happy, grateful, and
confiding—were deeply engaged in conversation;
for two young creatures so long estranged from intercourse
with persons of their sex, age, or tastes,
thus meeting together under such circumstances,
had much to say, a thousand concealed thoughts
to express, and innumerable ideas to interchange,
before they could connect the broken chain of social
intercourse so long severed.
The dark and guilty being, the controller of the
destinies of the lovely victim whom his arts had so
successfully placed in his power, with folded arms
and anxious brow, paced the room in silence. Occasionally
he glanced towards the sofa, but his
thoughts were buried in schemes of conquest, alas!
such conquests as degrade humanity. Unmoved
by the gentle sufferings of Caroline, whose only
crime was her misplaced love, who was dying without
a murmur at the feet of her destroyer,
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petitioning Heaven to bless him with her dying breath, and
ready even to plead his innocence at the bar of final
justice; unmoved by the innocence, the beauty, the
youth, or the unprotected state of Eugenie (all
which should plead to the heart of the deliberate
seducer, but all which are only incentives to urge
him to his purpose), as, unconscious of the snare
closing around her, she sought, in the benevolence
of her unsuspecting nature, to cheer the drooping
spirits of the invalid, who every moment wound
closer around her heart's affections.
We have, in the foregoing paragraph, struck a
vein for the moralist. But it is not the purpose of
the romancer to load his pages with the reflections
which naturally arise in contemplating the moral
actions of his characters, but rather to leave them
to be deduced by the contemplative reader. It is
his province only to relate events as they transpire,
and not to speculate upon them: to prepare food
for the mind, but not to lay down rules for the regulation
of the mental appetite: to direct all events
to one great moral end, but not to point out, as they
occur, the component parts which go to make up
the aggregate.
The situation in which he had now placed himself
gave Burton, with all his tact and presence of
mind, no little uneasiness. Guided by the strength
of his passion, which turned a deaf ear to reason,
he called in the aid of reflection only when too
late to extricate him from his embarrassments.
“If,” thought he, as he paced the little parlour
that he had made the theatre of so extraordinary
a scene as that before his eyes, “if Caroline
should, in a moment of weakness and confidence,
betray to Eugenie her attitude in relation to myself—
if Eugenie should speak of her love and our
pledged affection—in either case I am ruined.
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Ruined? Pshaw! an intrigue ruin a man of honour,
only because it happens to be based on another!
I have a double game to play now, that calls for all
my skill. Do I fear the world's censure? No.
I would show the world these angelic creatures
as a court beauty sports her diamonds, and enjoy
the envy of men. He who would openly censure
me for deceiving the fair innocents, would, in his
heart, curse my good fortune, and wish himself the
lucky cavalier. Publicity I court. It makes me,
among men, the envied possessor of untold loveliness,
which I feel I do not half possess when hiding
it, miserlike, from the public gaze. Among
women, too, it gives me the greater power, for
with the dear creatures 'tis `to him that hath it
shall be given.' The surest way of success with
them is to approach their shrines with our brows
adorned with laurels of conquest. What I alone
fear is, that exposure at this time will kill the one
and frighten the other away, and then I am fooled
for my pains. Am I yet sure of success? Eugenie
shows spirit. I may be foiled. Well, there's
matrimony! I feel some compunctions at taking
advantage of my dear Eugenie, whom, if I ever
have truly loved, I love. But I cannot resist temptation.
Fortune, if she loves innocence, should
not leave it in my path. I cannot marry every
beauty who pleases my eye; I had best turn
pacha at once. Here I have three, all equally
claimants to my affections; a charming triad!
By my honour! I could not tell which to choose
in the noose of matrimony, although poor Caroline
has the best claims; but the very strength
and nature of her claim makes it all the weaker.
I have broken the vessel, it is true, but it does not,
therefore, follow that I should content myself with
the pieces. Caroline, in losing her own self-respect,
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has forfeited mine. No! she who would be my
mistress shall never become my wife. Isabel Ney
will never do! I should need with her the philosophy
of a Socrates. If either, it shall be Eugenie;
and, if I cannot possess her without, she shall be
mine in vinculo matrimonii. Isabel Ney I will
leave to fortune and to circumstances, and at present
think only of Eugenie, blooming in all her virgin
loveliness. Aid me, Cupid, and I will build a
temple to thee! You appear much better, Miss
Germaine,” he said, suddenly stopping in his walk
and approaching her with an air of respectful sympathy;
“I trust the lively society of Miss de Lisle
will renovate your spirits, and in a few days you
will look more like the rose than the lily, of which
you are now the emblem.”
Caroline looked up to him with a melancholy
smile, but made no reply, while Eugenie said gayly,
“I will answer for it that you will not know her
in a week's time. See what a fine glow is now in
her cheek!”
Caroline sighed deeply, and Burton turned away
his head, but instantly replied, in a lively tone, as if
he sought to conceal his passion for Eugenie from
Caroline, and, at the same time, prevent the latter
from being hurt by coldness,
“I leave her in your charge, fair novice. It is
now after eight o'clock, and I have duties which
will demand my presence before nine. I bid you
both good-night, and will see you as early to-morrow
as I can leave the field.”
Without further ceremony he hastily left the
room and house. While he received his horse
from Zacharie, the latter said, in a low tone,
“There has been a horseman skulking about
here ever since you went through the gate.”
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“Did you recognise him or learn his business?”
“No; he looked like an officer, and rode in sight
to yonder tree three times. I would have followed
him if I could have left the horses. The last time
I saw him, which was not three minutes ago, I
hailed him and cocked my pistol, when he put
spurs and vanished up the lane.”
“Then we will give chase. I find that I am
watched.”
Drawing a pistol from his holsters, followed by
Zacharie, he rapidly rode off in the direction taken
by the fugitive. They had nearly reached the
outlet in Broadway, when a horseman suddenly
emerged from the roadside, galloped along ahead
of them, turned into Broadway, and disappeared
round the corner. Following him at the top of his
speed, leaving Zacharie far behind urging onward
his less fleet steed, Burton saw the form of the
horseman just disappearing around the corner of
the cross street which led into the Boston road.
Desirous of ascertaining who had acted the spy
upon his movements, he spurred forward at a fearful
risk of life and limb, and, turning the corner,
came full upon the stranger, who had wheeled his
horse and was standing facing him, firm and still,
directly in the middle of the narrow lane. Unable
to check the speed of his horse, Burton had time
to guide him so as to avoid the full shock which
the fugitive horseman seemed to have prepared for
him by the position he had assumed. The horses,
however, came together with great violence; and
Burton, discharging his pistol at random as he encountered
the spy, received at the same moment a
pass through his belt and clothes, which was only
turned aside from his body by the interposition of
his sword-hilt; while the guard of the
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well-directed steel, striking him in the breast with its full force,
hurled him bodily to the ground.
When Zacharie came up, he found his master
with difficulty remounting his horse, but his antagonist
was nowhere to be seen. Burton rode slowly
to his quarters, wondering at the strange event
which had just transpired, and fatiguing his mind in
conjectures as to the identity of the stranger who
had not only been a spy upon him, but had also
decidedly manifested a hostile purpose: nor could
he quite defend his own fiery pursuit of one who
had not crossed his path, and at whom he had
discharged his pistol without certain provocation.
This was done, however, rather on the impulse of
surprise at finding the fugitive drawn up to receive
him in so singular a manner than from any deliberate
intention.
Ingraham, J. H. (Joseph Holt), 1809-1860 [1838], Burton, or, The sieges. Volume 2 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf157v2].
