CHAPTER XII. Gilfillan and Sybrandt set out on a long journey.
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Gilfillan, in the mean time, had an interview with
the governor, who informed him that a packet had
just arrived from England with despatches apprizing
him war had been declared between that country
and France, and directing him to make immediate
preparations to defend the frontier against the inroads
of the French and Indians.
“It is necessary to notify the commanding officer
at Ticonderoga with the least possible delay, and
that the bearer of the message be acquainted with
my views on the subject. I have selected you for
that purpose. When can you be ready, colonel?”
“To-morrow morning, at eight o'clock.”
“That won't do; you must be ready to-day; a
vessel is waiting for you.”
“Impossible, sir,” exclaimed Gilfillan, abruptly,
remembering his engagement with Sybrandt.
“How? impossible! why, what can prevent you?
you are a single man, and a soldier should be ready
at a moment's warning.”
“But, your excellency, I have an engagement
which I cannot violate.”
“With a lady?”
“No, a gentleman.”
“Well, I will make vour excuses; so be ready in
three hours”
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“Impossible,” cried Gilfillan again.
His excellency looked offended.
“Colonel Gilfillan,” said he, “I cannot conceive
any engagement possible which can excuse a soldier
from the performance of his duty to his country.”
“An affair of honour, sir?”
“No, not even an affair of honour, colonel. Your
first duty is to your country; she has bought your
services by bestowing honours on your, and you
have no right to throw away a life which belongs to
her. To whom are you pledged?”
“To Mr. Westbrook, sir.”
“Whew!” ejaculated his excellency; “I understand
the business now. But you shall place your
honour in my hands, and I pledge you mine to make
such explanations as shall save you harmless. Go,
and be ready.”
Gilfillan still lingered. “Colonel Gilfillan,” said
the governor, firmly, “either obey my orders or deliver
me your sword. My business is pressing;
yours may be deferred to another day; and I again
pledge myself that your honour shall suffer no stain.”
Gilfillan reflected a moment, and coldly replied,
“I will be ready in one hour.”
“Go, then, and make what preparations you can,
and be here within that time. I will finish your despatches.”
Gilfillan returned to his lodgings, and the first
thing he did was to send the following note.
TO SYBRANDT WESTBROOK, ESQ.
Sir,
You will soon hear that war is declared
between the cock and the lion; and this is to inform
you that his excellency ordered me with
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despatches to the frontier. I must depart in an hour;
consequently the settlement of our little private
affair must lie over for the present. But there is a
time for all things, and we must wait with patience.
When you can wait no longer, you will find me,
probably, somewhere about Lake George or Ticonderoga.
You know the motto of my family is
“Ready, ay ready.” Adieu for the present.
B. F. M. Gilfillan.
His next step was to stride away to the mansion
of Mr. Aubineau, for the purpose of bidding farewell
to Catalina, whom he surprised in a deep revery,
waiting the return of Sybrandt.
“Colonel Gilfillan,” said she, haughtily, and in
displeasure at being thus interrupted, “I neither
wished nor expected this visit.”
“Do not be angry, madam; I come to bid you
a long farewell. The calumet is buried, the tomahawk
is dug up, and the two old bruisers are going
to have another set-to.”
“Explain yourself, colonel.”
“War, bloody war, madam. I set out in one
hour for the frontier, and heaven only knows whether
you will see poor Gilfillan again. Give him
some hope; something to live upon when he is
starving in the wilderness; some little remembrance
to cheer him if he lives, or to hug to his heart
when dying.”
“I cannot hear such language, Colonel Gilfillan.
Listen to me seriously, for I am going to speak
seriously. I have been vain, silly, and unreflecting
in suffering, as I have done, your attentions, flighty
and half-jest as they seemed. I never thought you
in earnest.”
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“Not in earnest! heavenly powers! have not
my eyes, my tongue, my actions, my heart, a thousand
times proved the sincerity of my passion. I
loved you the first minute I saw you, and I shall
love you the last moment I see the light of day.”
“I am sorry for it.”
“Sorry for it! sorry that a warm-hearted and,
I will add, a generous, honourable soldier casts his
heart at your feet, lives in your smiles, and holds
his life at a pin's fee, when he dreams he can lay
it down in your service? Upon my soul, madam,
I can't for the soul of me see any cause for sorrow
in that.”
“I would not be the cause of misery to any
human being.”
“Ah! that's just what I love to hear you say.
Then you will—you will be the cause of happiness
to your poor servant?”
“I cannot in the way you wish.”
“No! and why not, jewel of the world?”
“I cannot return your affections.”
“Faith, madam, and that is the last thing I wish.
I don't want you to return my affections, only just
to give me your own in exchange.”
“My affections are not in my power.”
“You puzzle me, angel of obscurity. Upon my
soul, if we haven't power over our affections, I don't
know what else we can command. I should as
soon doubt my power to command a corporal's
guard as my own heart.”
“In one word, Colonel Gilfillan, I am engaged to
another.”
“O, that's only your hand.”
“My heart went with it, sir.”
“Yes, but you took it back again?”
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“No, sir, I gave it to Mr. Westbrook, and for
ever.”
“The man with the snuff-coloured breeches!—
J—s, what is this world coming to?” thought Colonel
Gilfillan. Then, overpowered by the genuine
ardour of a brave and enterprising Milesian, he
poured forth a flood of passionate eloquence. He
besought her to love him, to marry him, to run away
with him, to pity him, and, finally, to kill him on
the spot. He fell on his knees, and there remained
in spite of all her entreaties and commands. She
was offended—what woman would not have been?
She pitied him—what woman would not have
done so? He seized her hands, and kissed them
from right to left in a transport of impetuosity,
and was gradually working himself up into a forgetfulness
of all created things, except himself
and his mistress, when he was awakened by the
apparition of a man in a snuff-coloured suit just
within side the door. He started on his feet chock
full of blood, murder, and love.
“I beg pardon,” exclaimed the snuff-coloured
apparition. “I beg pardon for my accidental intrusion.
Don't let me interrupt you, colonel,” and
straightway it disappeared.
Catalina started on her feet. “Leave me, sir,”
cried she, with angry vehemence. “Leave me this
very instant, sir. You have destroyed my happiness
for ever;” and she burst into a passion of
tears.
The generous soul of Gilfillan was moved with
this appearance of strong agony. “If,” thought
he, “she really loves this snuff-coloured man, I am
the last person to disturb a mutual affection. Faith,
I see it's all over with me; and now for the
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tomahawk and scalping knife. By my soul, I feel just
now as if I could drink the blood of a Christian; as
to your copper-coloured Pagans, by the glory of my
ancestors, I'll pepper them.”
At the conclusion of these wise reflections, he advanced
towards Catalina, who retired with evident
symptoms of fear and aversion.
“Miss Vancour,” said Gilfillan, with solemnity,
“do you really love this snuff-coloured gentleman?”
“I do—I have reason to love him; he twice saved
my life.”
“Then upon my soul, madam, I am sorry for what
I have done, and ask your pardon.”
He was proceeding to repeat the petition on his
knees, when Catalina exclaimed with precipitation,
“O! for Heaven's sake, no more of that!”
“Well then, madam, be assured that all that man
can do to undo the harm I have done I will do—and
so farewell—may you be ten thousand times happier
than I should have been had you preferred me, and
that's altogether impossible.” So saying, he bowed
with proud humility, leaving Catalina in that state
of misery which combines the agony of the heart
with the feeling of self-condemnation. “Had not
my vanity tempted me to encourage this man,”
thought she, “I should have been spared the mortification
of this present moment, the wretchedness I
see in the future. The fault is all my own—would
that the punishment might be so too; but I have
wounded two generous, noble hearts.”
On the departure of Gilfillan, Sybrandt in a state
of desperation forced himself into the presence of
our heroine, with a magnanimous resolution of relinquishing
his claims, and declaring her free to marry
whom she pleased. She received him with deep
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humility, from whence all the pride of woman was
banished. She attempted a faltering explanation.
“Sybrandt”—said she—“Sybrandt—I—I have
something to say to you—I—”
“It is unnecessary; I know it all,” replied he,
proudly interrupting her. “Farewell, Catalina—you
are free!”
A few hours after he was on his way to Albany.
Gilfillan's note had apprized him of the necessary
postponement of their meeting, and he hoped to
overtake him at Albany, and there frankly relinquish
all claim to Catalina. It was a hard struggle
between revenge and a nobler feeling. Colonel Gilfillan,
however, kept the start of him, and some time
elapsed before they met again. Sybrandt returned
home and buried his secret in his own bosom. When
questioned by Colonel or Madam Vancour on the
subject of Catalina, he answered sometimes with
embarrassment, sometimes with negligence. They
suspected something disagreeable had occurred, yet
could not tell what. But public events soon
occurred which occupied the almost exclusive attention
of Colonel Vancour and his family. Rumours
of wars, of burnings and massacres on the frontier,
coming nearer and nearer every day, brought the sense
of danger home to the very bosoms of the people of
Albany and of the flats. Rural quiet was banished
from the firesides of the peaceful Dutchmen; rural
occupations ceased in the fruitful fields, and Ceres and
Cupid, and all their train of harvests, flowers, fruits,
sighs, smiles, hopes, wishes, promises, and deceits,
gave place to gloomy anticipations of blood and
massacre. Even little Ariel lost his vivacity at times,
and no longer talked of ringing the pigs' noses. He
took down his rusty musket, and polished it as bright
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as silver. He employed himself in running bullets
and other warlike preparations, and even meditated
joining the army at Ticonderoga. “Damn it, Sybrandt,”
would he say, “suppose you and I make a
campaign, hey?”
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Paulding, James Kirke, 1778-1860 [1831], The Dutchman's fireside, volume 2 (J. & J. Harper, New York) [word count] [eaf308v2].
