Cooper, James Fenimore, 1789-1851 [1843], Wyandotte, or, The hutted knoll, volume 1 (Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf073v1].
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CHAPTER I.
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“An acorn fell from an old oak tree,
And lay on the frosty ground—
`O, what shall the fate of the acorn be?'
Was whispered all around
By low-toned voices chiming sweet,
Like a floweret's bell when swung—
And grasshopper steeds were gathering fleet,
And the beetle's hoofs up-rung.”
Mrs. Seba Smith.
There is a wide-spread error on the subject of American
scenery. From the size of the lakes, the length and breadth
of the rivers, the vast solitudes of the forests, and the seemingly
boundless expanse of the prairies, the world has
come to attach to it an idea of grandeur; a word that is in
nearly every case, misapplied. The scenery of that portion
of the American continent which has fallen to the share of
the Anglo-Saxon race, very seldom rises to a scale that
merits this term; when it does, it is more owing to the
accessories, as in the case of the interminable woods, than
to the natural face of the country. To him who is accustomed
to the terrific sublimity of the Alps, the softened and
yet wild grandeur of the Italian lakes, or to the noble
witchery of the shores of the Mediterranean, this country
is apt to seem tame, and uninteresting as a whole; though
it certainly has exceptions that carry charms of this nature
to the verge of loveliness.
Of the latter character is the face of most of that region
which lies in the angle formed by the junction of the Mohawk
with the Hudson, extending as far south, or even
farther, than the line of Pennsylvania, and west to the verge
of that vast rolling plain which composes Western New
York. This is a region of more than ten thousand square
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miles of surface, embracing to-day, ten counties at least,
and supporting a rural population of near half a million of
souls, excluding the river towns.
All who have seen this district of country, and who are
familiar with the elements of charming, rather than grand
scenery it possesses, are agreed in extolling its capabilities,
and, in some instances, its realities. The want of high
finish is common to everything of this sort in America; and,
perhaps we may add, that the absence of picturesqueness,
as connected with the works of man, is a general defect;
still, this particular region, and all others resembling it—for
they abound on the wide surface of the twenty-six states—
has beauties of its own, that it would be difficult to meet
with in any of the older portions of the earth.
They who have done us the honour to read our previous
works, will at once understand that the district to which we
allude, is that of which we have taken more than one occasion
to write; and we return to it now, less with a desire
to celebrate its charms, than to exhibit them in a somewhat
novel, and yet perfectly historical aspect. Our own earlier
labours will have told the reader, that all of this extended
district of country, with the exception of belts of settlements
along the two great rivers named, was a wilderness, anterior
to the American revolution. There was a minor class of
exceptions to this general rule, however, to which it will
be proper to advert, lest, by conceiving us too literally, the
reader may think he can convict us of a contradiction. In
order to be fully understood, the explanations shall be given
at a little length.
While it is true, then, that the mountainous region, which
now contains the counties of Schoharie, Otsego, Chenango,
Broome, Delaware, &c., was a wilderness in 1775, the
colonial governors had begun to make grants of its lands,
some twenty years earlier. The patent of the estate on
which we are writing lies before us; and it bears the date
of 1769, with an Indian grant annexed, that is a year or
two older. This may be taken as a mean date for the portion
of country alluded to; some of the deeds being older,
and others still more recent. These grants of land were
originally made, subject to quit-rents to the crown; and
usually on the payment of heavy fees to the colonial officers,
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after going through the somewhat supererogatory duty of
“extinguishing the Indian title,” as it was called. The
latter were pretty effectually “extinguished” in that day,
as well as in our own; and it would be a matter of curious
research to ascertain the precise nature of the purchase-money
given to the aborigines. In the case of the patent
before us, the Indian right was “extinguished” by means
of a few rifles, blankets, kettles, and beads; though the
grant covers a nominal hundred thousand, and a real
hundred and ten or twenty thousand acres of land.
The abuse of the grants, as land became more valuable,
induced a law, restricting the number of acres patented to
any one person, at any one time, to a thousand. Our monarchical
predecessors had the same facilities, and it may
be added, the same propensities, to rendering a law a dead
letter, as belongs to our republican selves. The patent on
our table, being for a nominal hundred thousand acres, contains
the names of one hundred different grantees, while
three several parchment documents at its side, each signed
by thirty-three of these very persons, vest the legal estate
in the first named, for whose sole benefit the whole concession
was made; the dates of the last instruments succeeding,
by one or two days, that of the royal patent itself.
Such is the history of most of the original titles to the
many estates that dotted the region we have described,
prior to the revolution. Money and favouritism, however,
were not always the motives of these large concessions.
Occasionally, services presented their claims; and many
instances occur in which old officers of the army, in particular,
received a species of reward, by a patent for land,
the fees being duly paid, and the Indian title righteously
“extinguished.” These grants to ancient soldiers were
seldom large, except in the cases of officers of rank; three
or four thousand well-selected acres, being a sufficient boon
to the younger sons of Scottish lairds, or English squires,
who had been accustomed to look upon a single farm as an
estate.
As most of the soldiers mentioned were used to forest
life, from having been long stationed at frontier posts, and
had thus become familiarized with its privations, and hardened
against its dangers, it was no unusual thing for them
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to sell out, or go on half-pay, when the wants of a family
began to urge their claims, and to retire to their “patents,”
as the land itself, as well as the instrument by which it was
granted, was invariably termed, with a view of establishing
themselves permanently as landlords.
These grants from the crown, in the portions of the
colony of New York that lie west of the river counties,
were generally, if not invariably, simple concessions of the
fee, subject to quit-rents to the king, and reservations of
mines of the precious metals, without any of the privileges
of feudal seignory, as existed in the older manors on the
Hudson, on the islands, and on the Sound. Why this distinction
was made, it exceeds our power to say; but, that
the fact was so, as a rule, we have it in proof, by means of
a great number of the original patents, themselves, that
have been transmitted to us from various sources. Still,
the habits of “home” entailed the name, even where the
thing was not to be found. Titular manors exist, in a few
instances, to this day, where no manorial rights were ever
granted; and manor-houses were common appellations for
the residences of the landlords of large estates, that were
held in fee, without any exclusive privileges, and subject to
the reservation named. Some of these manorial residences
were of so primitive an appearance, as to induce the belief
that the names were bestowed in pleasantry; the dwellings
themselves being of logs, with the bark still on them, and
the other fixtures to correspond. Notwithstanding all these
drawbacks, early impressions and rooted habits could easily
transfer terms to such an abode; and there was always a
saddened enjoyment among these exiles, when they could
liken their forest names and usages to those they had left
in the distant scenes of their childhood.
The effect of the different causes we have here given was
to dot the region described, though at long intervals, with
spots of a semi-civilized appearance, in the midst of the
vast—nay, almost boundless—expanse of forest. Some of
these early settlements had made considerable advances
towards finish and comfort, ere the war of '76 drove their
occupants to seek protection against the inroads of the
savages; and long after the influx of immigration which
succeeded the peace, the fruits, the meadows, and the tilled
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fields of these oases in the desert, rendered them conspicuous
amidst the blackened stumps, piled logs, and smooty fallows
of an active and bustling settlement. At even a much later
day, they were to be distinguished by the smoother surfaces
of their fields, the greater growth and more bountiful yield
of their orchards, and by the general appearance of a more
finished civilization, and of greater age. Here and there,
a hamlet had sprung up; and isolated places, like Cherry
Valley and Wyoming, were found, that have since become
known to the general history of the country.
Our present tale now leads us to the description of one
of those early, personal, or family settlements, that had
grown up, in what was then a very remote part of the territory
in question, under the care and supervision of an
ancient officer of the name of Willoughby. Captain Willoughby,
after serving many years, had married an American
wife, and continuing his services until a son and
daughter were born, he sold his commission, procured a
grant of land, and determined to retire to his new possessions,
in order to pass the close of his life in the tranquil
pursuits of agriculture, and in the bosom of his family. An
adopted child was also added to his cares. Being an
educated as well as a provident man, Captain Willoughby
had set about the execution of this scheme with deliberation,
prudence, and intelligence. On the frontiers, or lines, as it
is the custom to term the American boundaries, he had
become acquainted with a Tuscarora, known by the English
sobriquet of “Saucy Nick.” This fellow, a sort of half-outcast
from his own people, had early attached himself to
the whites, had acquired their language, and owing to a
singular mixture of good and bad qualities, blended with
great native shrewdness, he had wormed himself into he
confidence of several commanders of small garrisons, among
whom was our captain. No sooner was the mind of the
latter made up, concerning his future course, than he sent
for Nick, who was then in the fort; when the following
conversation took place:
“Nick,” commenced the captain, passing his hand over
his brow, as was his wont when in a reflecting mood;
“Nick, I have an important movement in view, in which
you can be of some service to me.”
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The Tuscarora, fastening his dark basilisk-like eyes on the
soldier, gazed a moment, as if to read his soul; then he
jerked a thumb backward, over his own shoulder, and said,
with a grave smile—
“Nick understand. Want six, two, scalp off Frenchman's
head; wife and child; out yonder, over dere, up in
Canada. Nick do him—what you give?”
“No, you red rascal, I want nothing of the sort — it is
peace now, (this conversation took place in 1764), and you
know I never bought a scalp, in time of war. Let me hear
no more of this.”
“What you want, den?” asked Nick, like one who was
a good deal puzzled.
“I want land—good land—little, but good. I am about
to get a grant—a patent—”
“Yes,” interrupted Nick, nodding; “I know him—paper
to take away Indian's hunting-ground.”
“Why, I have no wish to do that — I am willing to pay
the red men reasonably for their right, first.”
“Buy Nick's land, den—better dan any oder.”
“Your land, knave!—You own no land—belong to no
tribe—have no rights to sell.”
“What for ask Nick help, den?”
“What for? — Why because you know a good deal,
though you own literally nothing. That's what for.”
“Buy Nick know, den. Better dan he great fader know,
down at York.”
“That is just what I do wish to purchase. I will pay
you well, Nick, if you will start to-morrow, with your rifle
and a pocket-compass, off here towards the head-waters of
the Susquehannah and Delaware, where the streams run
rapidly, and where there are no fevers, and bring me an
account of three or four thousand acres of rich bottom-land,
in such a way as a surveyor can find it, and I can get a
patent for it. What say you, Nick; will you go?”
“He not wanted. Nick sell 'e captain, his own land;
here in 'e fort.”
“Knave, do you not know me well enough not to trifle,
when I am serious?”
“Nick ser'ous too—Moravian priest no ser'ouser more
dan Nick at dis moment. Got land to sell.”
Captain Willoughby had found occasion to punish the
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Tuscarora, in the course of his services; and as the parties
understood each other perfectly well, the former saw the
improbability of the latter's daring to trifle with him.
“Where is this land of yours, Nick,” he inquired, after
studying the Indian's countenance for a moment. “Where
does it lie, what is it like, how much is there of it, and how
came you to own it?”
“Ask him just so, ag'in,” said Nick, taking up four
twigs, to note down the question, seriatim.
The captain repeated his inquiries, the Tuscarora laying
down a stick at each separate interrogatory.
“Where he be?” answered Nick, taking up a twig, as a
memorandum. “He out dere—where he want him—where
he say.—One day's march from Susquehanna.”
“Well; proceed.”
“What he like?—Like land, to be sure. T'ink he like
water! Got some water—no too much—got some land—
got no tree — got some tree. Got good sugar-bush — got
place for wheat and corn.”
“Proceed.”
“How much of him?” continued Nick, taking up another
twig; “much as he want—want little, got him—want more,
got him. Want none at all, got none at all—got what he
want.”
“Go on.”
“To be sure. How came to own him?—How a pale
face come to own America? Discover him—ha!—Well,
Nick discover land down yonder, up dere, over here.”
“Nick, what the devil do you mean by all this?”
“No mean devil, at all — mean land — good land.
Discover him — know where he is — catch beaver dere,
three, two year. All Nick say, true as word of honour;
much more too.”
“Do you mean it is an old beaver-dam destroyed?” asked
the captain, pricking up his ears; for he was too familiar
with the woods, not to understand the value of such a thing.
“No destroy—stand up yet—good as ever.—Nick dere,
last season.”
“Why, then, do you tell of it? Are not the beaver of
more value to you, than any price you may receive for the
land?”
“Cotch him all, four, two year ago — rest run away.
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No find beaver to stay long, when Indian once know, two
time, where to set he trap. Beaver cunninger 'an pale
face—cunning as bear.”
“I begin to comprehend you, Nick. How large do you
suppose this pond to be?”
“He 'm not as big as Lake Ontario. S'pose him smaller;
what den? Big enough for farm.”
“Does it cover one or two hundred acres, think you?—
Is it as large as the clearing around the fort?”
“Big as two, six, four of him. Take forty skin, dere,
one season. Little lake; all 'e tree gone.”
“And the land around it—is it mountainous and rough,
or will it be good for corn?”
“All sugar-bush—what you want better? S'pose you
want corn; plant him. S'pose you want sugar; make
him.”
Captain Willoughby was struck with this description, and
he returned to the subject, again and again. At length,
after extracting all the information he could get from Nick,
he struck a bargain with the fellow. A surveyor was
engaged, and he started for the place, under the guidance
of the Tuscarora. The result showed that Nick had not
exaggerated. The pond was found, as he had described it
to be, covering at least four hundred acres of low bottom-land;
while near three thousand acres of higher river-flat,
covered with beach and maple, spread around it for a considerable
distance. The adjacent mountains too, were arable,
though bold, and promised, in time, to become a fertile
and manageable district. Calculating his distances with
judgment, the surveyor laid out his metes and bounds in
such a manner as to include the pond, all the low-land, and
about three thousand acres of hill, or mountain, making the
materials for a very pretty little “patent” of somewhat
more than six thousand acres of capital land. He then collected
a few chiefs of the nearest tribe, dealt out his rum,
tobacco, blankets, wampum, and gunpowder, got twelve
Indians to make their marks on a bit of deer-skin, and
returned to his employer with a map, a field-book, and a
deed, by which the Indian title was “extinguished.” The
surveyor received his compensation, and set off on a similar
excursion, for a different employer, and in another direction.
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the spring. Mrs. Willoughby, and the children, were left
with their friends, in Albany; while the captain and his
party pioneered their way to the patent, in the best manner
they could. This party consisted of Nick, who went in the
capacity of hunter, an office of a good deal of dignity, and
of the last importance, to a set of adventurers on an expedition
of this nature. Then there were eight axe-men, a
house-carpenter, a mason, and a mill-wright. These, with
Captain Willoughby, and an invalid sergeant, of the name
of Joyce, composed the party.
Our adventurers made most of their journey by water.
After finding their way to the head of the Canaideraga, mistaking
it for the Otsego, they felled trees, hollowed them
into canoes, embarked, and, aided by a yoke of oxen that
were driven along the shore, they wormed their way,
through the Oaks, into the Susquehanna, descending that
river until they reached the Unadilla, which stream they
ascended until they came to the small river, known in the
parlance of the country, by the erroneous name of a creek,
that ran through the captain's new estate. The labour of
this ascent was exceedingly severe; but the whole journey
was completed by the end of April, and while the streams
were high. Snow still lay in the woods; but the sap had
started, and the season was beginning to show its promise.
The first measure adopted by our adventurers was to
“hut.” In the very centre of the pond, which, it will be
remembered, covered four hundred acres, was an island of
some five or six acres in extent. It was a rocky knoll, that
rose forty feet above the surface of the water, and was still
crowned with noble pines, a species of tree that had escaped
the ravages of the beaver. In the pond, itself, a few
“stubs” alone remained, the water having killed the trees,
which had fallen and decayed. This circumstance showed
that the stream had long before been dammed; successions
of families of beavers having probably occupied the place,
and renewed the works, for centuries, at intervals of generations.
The dam in existence, however, was not very old;
the animals having fled from their great enemy, man, rather
than from any other foe.
To the island Captain Willoughby transferred all his
stores, and here he built his hut. This was opposed to the
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notions of his axe-men, who, rightly enough, fancied the
mainland would be more convenient; but the captain and
the sergeant, after a council of war, decided that the position
on the knoll would be the most military, and might be
defended the longest, against man or beast. Another station
was taken up, however, on the nearest shore, where such
of the men were permitted to “hut,” as preferred the
location.
These preliminaries observed, the captain meditated a
bold stroke against the wilderness, by draining the pond,
and coming at once into the possession of a noble farm,
cleared of trees and stumps, as it might be by a coup de
main. This would be compressing the results of ordinary
years of toil, into those of a single season, and everybody
was agreed as to the expediency of the course, provided it
were feasible.
The feasibility was soon ascertained. The stream which
ran through the valley, was far from swift, until it reached
a pass where the hills approached each other in low promontories;
there the land fell rapidly away to what might
be termed a lower terrace. Across this gorge, or defile, a
distance of about five hundred feet, the dam had been
thrown, a good deal aided by the position of some rocks
that here rose to the surface, and through which the little
river found its passage. The part which might be termed
the key-stone of the dam, was only twenty yards wide, and
immediately below it, the rocks fell away rapidly, quite
sixty feet, carrying down the waste water in a sort of fall.
Here the mill-wright announced his determination to commence
operations at once, putting in a protest against
destroying the works of the beavers. A pond of four
hundred acres being too great a luxury for the region, the
man was overruled, and the labour commenced.
The first blow was struck against the dam about nine
o'clock, on the 2d day of May, 1765, and, by evening, the
little sylvan-looking lake, which had lain embedded in the
forest, glittering in the morning sun, unruffled by a breath
of air, had entirely disappeared! In its place, there remained
an open expanse of wet mud, thickly covered with
pools and the remains of beaver-houses, with a small river
winding its way slowly through the slime. The change to
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the eye was melancholy indeed; though the prospect was
cheering to the agriculturist. No sooner did the water
obtain a little passage, than it began to clear the way for
itself, gushing out in a torrent, through the pass already
mentioned.
The following morning, Captain Willoughby almost
mourned over the works of his hands. The scene was so
very different from that it had presented when the flats
were covered with water, that it was impossible not to feel
the change. For quite a month, it had an influence on the
whole party. Nick, in particular, denounced it, as unwise
and uncalled for, though he had made his price out of the
very circumstance in prospective; and even Sergeant Joyce
was compelled to admit that the knoll, an island no longer,
had lost quite half its security as a military position. The
next month, however, brought other changes. Half the
pools had vanished by drainings and evaporation; the mud
had begun to crack, and, in some places to pulverize; while
the upper margin of the old pond had become sufficiently
firm to permit the oxen to walk over it, without miring.
Fences of trees, brush, and even rails, enclosed, on this
portion of the flats, quite fifty acres of land; and Indian
corn, oats, pumpkins, peas, potatoes, flax, and several other
sorts of seed, were already in the ground. The spring
proved dry, and the sun of the forty-third degree of latitude
was doing its work, with great power and beneficence.
What was of nearly equal importance, the age of the pond
had prevented any recent accumulation of vegetable matter,
and consequently spared those who laboured around the
spot, the impurities of atmosphere usually consequent on
its decay. Grass-seed, too, had been liberally scattered on
favourable places, and things began to assume the appearance
of what is termed “living.”
August presented a still different picture. A saw-mill was
up, and had been at work for some time. Piles of green
boards began to make their appearance, and the plane of
the carpenter was already in motion. Captain Willoughby
was rich, in a small way; in other words, he possessed a
few thousand pounds besides his land, and had yet to receive
the price of his commission. A portion of these means
were employed judiciously to advance his establishment;
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and, satisfied that there would be no scarcity of fodder for
the ensuing winter, a man had been sent into the settlements
for another yoke of cattle, and a couple of cows.
Farming utensils were manufactured on the spot, and sleds
began to take the place of carts; the latter exceeding the
skill of any of the workmen present.
October offered its products as a reward for all this toil.
The yield was enormous, and of excellent quality. Of
Indian corn, the captain gathered several hundred bushels,
besides stacks of stalks and tops. His turnips, too, were
superabundant in quantity, and of a delicacy and flavour
entirely unknown to the precincts of old lands. The potatoes
had not done so well; to own the truth, they were a
little watery, though there were enough of them to winter
every hoof he had, of themselves. Then the peas and
garden truck were both good and plenty; and a few pigs
having been procured, there was the certainty of enjoying
a plenty of that important article, pork, during the coming
winter.
Late in the autumn, the captain rejoined his family in
Albany, quitting the field for winter quarters. He left sergeant
Joyce, in garrison, supported by Nick, a miller, the
mason, carpenter, and three of the axe-men. Their duty
was to prepare materials for the approaching season, to
take care of the stock, to put in winter crops, to make a few
bridges, clear out a road or two, haul wood to keep themselves
from freezing, to build a log barn and some sheds,
and otherwise to advance the interests of the settlement.
They were also to commence a house for the patentee.
As his children were at school, captain Willoughby determined
not to take his family immediately to the Hutted
Knoll, as the place soon came to be called, from the circumstance
of the original bivouack. This name was conferred
by sergeant Joyce, who had a taste in that way, and
as it got to be confirmed by the condescension of the proprietor
and his family, we have chosen it to designate our
present labours. From time to time, a messenger arrived
with news from the place; and twice, in the course of the
winter, the same individual went back with supplies, and
encouraging messages to the different persons left in the
clearing. As spring approached, however, the captain
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began to make his preparations for the coming campaign, in
which he was to be accompanied by his wife; Mrs. Willoughby,
a mild, affectionate, true-hearted New York woman,
having decided not to let her husband pass another
summer in that solitude without feeling the cheering influence
of her presence.
In March, before the snow began to melt, several sleigh-loads
of different necessaries were sent up the valley of the
Mohawk, to a point opposite the head of the Otsego, where
a thriving village called Fortplain now stands. Thence
men were employed in transporting the articles, partly by
means of “jumpers” improviséd for the occasion, and partly
on pack-horses, to the lake, which was found this time, instead
of its neighbour the Canaderaiga. This necessary
and laborious service occupied six weeks, the captain having
been up as far as the lake once himself; returning to Albany,
however, ere the snow was gone.
CHAPTER II.
All things are new—the buds, the leaves,
That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest,
And even the nest beneath the eaves—
There are no birds in last year's nest.
Longfellow.
“I have good news for you, Wilhelmina,” cried the
captain, coming into the parlour where his wife used to sit
and knit or sew quite half the day, and speaking with a
bright face, and in a cheerful voice—“Here is a letter from
my excellent old colonel; and Bob's affair is all settled and
agreed on. He is to leave school next week, and to put on
His Majesty's livery the week after.”
Mrs. Willoughby smiled, and yet two or three tears followed
each other down her cheeks, even while she smiled.
The first was produced by pleasure at hearing that her son
had got an ensigncy in the 60th, or Royal Americans; and
the last was a tribute paid to nature; a mother's fears at
consigning an only boy to the profession of arms.
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“I am rejoiced, Willoughby,” she said, “because you
rejoice, and I know that Robert will be delighted at possessing
the king's commission; but, he is very young to be sent
into the dangers of battle and the camp!”
“I was younger, when I actually went into battle, for
then it was war; now, we have a peace that promises to be
endless, and Bob will have abundance of time to cultivate a
beard before he smells gunpowder. As for myself” — he
added in a half-regretful manner, for old habits and opinions
would occasionally cross his mind — “as for myself, the
cultivation of turnips must be my future occupation. Well,
the bit of parchment is sold, Bob has got his in its place,
while the difference in price is in my pocket, and no more
need be said — and here come our dear girls, Wilhelmina,
to prevent any regrets. The father of two such daughters
ought, at least, to be happy.”
At this instant, Beulah and Maud Willoughby, (for so
the adopted child was called as well as the real), entered
the room, having taken the lodgings of their parents, in a
morning walk, on which they were regularly sent by the
mistress of the boarding-school, in which they were receiving
what was then thought to be a first-rate American female
education. And much reason had their fond parents to be
proud of them! Beulah, the eldest, was just eleven, while
her sister was eighteen months younger. The first had a
staid, and yet a cheerful look; but her cheeks were blooming,
her eyes bright, and her smile sweet. Maud, the adopted
one, however, had already the sunny countenance of an
angel, with quite as much of the appearance of health as
her sister; her face had more finesse, her looks more intelligence,
her playfulness more feeling, her smile more tenderness,
at times; at others, more meaning. It is scarcely
necessary to say that both had that delicacy of outline
which seems almost inseparable from the female form in
this country. What was, perhaps, more usual in that day
among persons of their class than it is in our own, each
spoke her own language with an even graceful utterance,
and a faultless accuracy of pronunciation, equally removed
from effort and provincialisms. As the Dutch was in very
common use then, at Albany, and most females of Dutch
origin had a slight touch of their mother tongue in their
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enunciation of English, this purity of dialect in the two girls
was to be ascribed to the fact that their father was an Englishman
by birth; their mother an American of purely
English origin, though named after a Dutch god-mother;
and the head of the school in which they had now beer
three years, was a native of London, and a lady by habite
and education.
“Now, Maud,” cried the captain, after he had kissed the
forehead, eyes and cheeks of his smiling little favourite—
“Now, Maud, I will set you to guess what good news I
have for you and Beulah.”
“You and mother do n't mean to go to that bad Beaver
Manor this summer, as some call the ugly pond?” answered
the child, quick as lightning.
“That is kind of you, my darling; more kind than prudent;
but you are not right.”
“Try Beulah, now,” interrupted the mother, who, while
she too doted on her youngest child, had an increasing
respect for the greater solidity and better judgment of her
sister: “let us hear Beulah's guess.”
“It is something about my brother, I know by mother's
eyes,” answered the eldest girl, looking inquiringly into
Mrs. Willoughby's face.
“Oh! yes,” cried Maud, beginning to jump about the
room, until she ended her saltations in her father's arms—
“Bob has got his commission!—I know it all well enough,
now—I would not thank you to tell me—I know it all now—
dear Bob, how he will laugh! and how happy I am!”
“Is it so, mother?” asked Beulah, anxiously, and without
even a smile.
“Maud is right; Bob is an ensign—or, will be one, in a
day or two. You do not seem pleased, my child?”
“I wish Robert were not a soldier, mother. Now he will
be always away, and we shall never see him; then he may
be obliged to fight, and who knows how unhappy it may
make him?”
Beulah thought more of her brother than she did of herself;
and, sooth to say, her mother had many of the child's
misgivings. With Maud it was altogether different: she
saw only the bright side of the picture; Bob gay and brilliant,
his face covered with smiles, his appearance admired,
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himself, and of course his sisters, happy. Captain Willoughby
sympathized altogether with his pet. Accustomed
to arms, he rejoiced that a career in which he had partially
failed — this he did not conceal from himself or his wife —
that this same career had opened, as he trusted, with better
auspices on his only son. He covered Maud with kisses,
and then rushed from the house, finding his heart too full
to run the risk of being unmanned in the presence of females.
A week later, availing themselves of one of the last falls
of snow of the season, captain Willoughby and his wife left
Albany for the Knoll. The leave-taking was tender, and
to the parents bitter; though after all, it was known that
little more than a hundred miles would separate them from
their beloved daughters. Fifty of these miles, however,
were absolutely wilderness; and to achieve them, quite a
hundred of tangled forest, or of difficult navigation, were
to be passed. The communications would be at considerable
intervals, and difficult. Still they might be held, and
the anxious mother left many injunctions with Mrs. Waring,
the head of the school, in relation to the health of her daughters,
and the manner in which she was to be sent for, in the
event of any serious illness.
Mrs. Willoughby had often overcome, as she fancied, the
difficulties of a wilderness, in the company of her husband.
It is the fashion highly to extol Napoleon's passage of the
Alps, simply in reference to its physical obstacles. There
never was a brigade moved twenty-four hours into the American
wilds, that had not greater embarrassments of this
nature to overcome, unless in those cases in which favourable
river navigation has offered its facilities. Still, time
and necessity had made a sort of military ways to all the
more important frontier points occupied by the British garrisons,
and the experience of Mrs. Willoughby had not
hitherto been of the severe character of that she was now
compelled to undergo.
The first fifty miles were passed over in a sleigh, in a
few hours, and with little or no personal fatigue. This
brought the travellers to a Dutch inn on the Mohawk, where
the captain had often made his halts, and whither he had,
from time to time, sent his advanced parties in the course
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of the winter and spring. Here a jumper was found prepared
to receive Mrs. Willoughby; and the horse being led
by the captain himself, a passage through the forest was
effected as far as the head of the Otsego. The distance being
about twelve miles, it required two days for its performance.
As the settlements extended south from the Mohawk
a few miles, the first night was passed in a log cabin, on
the extreme verge of civilization, if civilization it could be
called, and the remaining eight miles were got over in the
course of the succeeding day. This was more than would
probably have been achieved in the virgin forest, and under
the circumstances, had not so many of the captain's people
passed over the same ground, going and returning, thereby
learning how to avoid the greatest difficulties of the route,
and here and there constructing a rude bridge. They had
also blazed the trees, shortening the road by pointing out
its true direction.
At the head of the Otsego, our adventurers were fairly in
the wilderness. Huts had been built to receive the travellers,
and here the whole party assembled, in readiness to
make a fresh start in company. It consisted of more than
a dozen persons, in all; the black domestics of the family
being present, as well as several mechanics whom Captain
Willoughby had employed to carry on his improvements.
The men sent in advance had not been idle, any more than
those left at the Hutted Knoll. They had built three or
four skiffs, one small batteau, and a couple of canoes.
These were all in the water, in waiting for the disappearance
of the ice; which was now reduced to a mass of stalactites
in form, greenish and sombre in hue, as they floated in a body,
but clear and bright when separated and exposed to the sun.
The south winds began to prevail, and the shore was glittering
with the fast-melting piles of the frozen fluid, though
it would have been vain yet to attempt a passage through it.
The Otsego is a sheet that we have taken more than one
occasion to describe, and the picture it then presented,
amidst its frame of mountains, will readily be imagined by
most of our readers. In 1765, no sign of a settlement was
visible on its shores; few of the grants of land in that
vicinity extending back so far. Still the spot began to be
known; and hunters had been in the habit of frequenting
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its bosom and its shores, for the last twenty years or more.
Not a vestige of their presence, however, was to be seen
from the huts of the captain; but Mrs. Willoughby assured
her husband, as she stood leaning on his arm, the morning
after her arrival, that never before had she gazed on so
eloquent, and yet so pleasing a picture of solitude as that
which lay spread before her eyes.
“There is something encouraging and soothing in this
bland south wind, too,” she added, “which seems to promise
that we shall meet with a beneficent nature, in the
spot to which we are going. The south airs of spring, to
me are always filled with promise.”
“And justly, love; for they are the harbingers of a
renewed vegetation. If the wind increase, as I think it
may, we shall see this chilling sheet of ice succeeded by the
more cheerful view of water. It is in this way, that all
these lakes open their bosoms in April.”
Captain Willoughby did not know it, while speaking, but,
at that moment, quite two miles of the lower, or southern
end of the lake, was clear, and the opening giving a sweep
to the breeze, the latter was already driving the sheets of
ice before it, towards the head, at a rate of quite a mile in
the hour. Just then, an Irishman, named Michael O'Hearn,
who had recently arrived in America, and whom the captain
had hired as a servant of all work, came rushing up to
his master, and opened his teeming thoughts, with an
earnestness of manner, and a confusion of rhetoric, that
were equally characteristic of the man and of a portion of
his nation.
“Is it journeying south, or to the other end of this bit of
wather, or ice, that yer honour is thinking of?” he cried.
“Well, and there'll be room for us all, and to spare; for
divil a bir-r-d will be left in that quarter by night, or forenent
twelve o'clock either, calculating by the clock, if one
had such a thing; as a body might say.”
As this was said not only vehemently, but with an accent
that defies imitation with the pen, Mrs. Willoughby was
quite at a loss to get a clue to the idea; but, her husband,
more accustomed to men of Mike's class, was sufficiently
lucky to comprehend what he was at.
“You mean the pigeons, Mike, I suppose,” the captain
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answered, good-humouredly. “There are certainly a
goodly number of them; and I dare say our hunters will
bring us in some, for dinner. It is a certain sign that the
winter is gone, when birds and beasts follow their instincts,
in this manner. Where are you from, Mike?”
“County Leitrim, yer honour,” answered the other,
touching his cap.
“Ay, that one may guess,” said the captain, smiling;
“but where last?”
“From looking at the bir-r-ds, sir!—Och! It's a sight
that will do madam good, and contains a sartainty there'll
be room enough made for us, where all these cr'atures came
from. I'm thinking, yer honour, if we don't ate them,
they'll be wanting to ate us. What a power of them, counting
big and little; though they're all of a size, just as much
as if they had flown through a hole made on purpose to
kape them down to a convanient bigness, in body and
feathers.”
“Such a flight of pigeons in Ireland, would make a sensation,
Mike,” observed the captain, willing to amuse his
wife, by drawing out the County Leitrim-man, a little.
“It would make a dinner, yer honour, for every mother's
son of 'em, counting the gur-r-rls, in the bargain! Such a
power of bir-r-ds, would knock down 'praties, in a wonderful
degree, and make even butthermilk chape and plenthiful.
Will it be always such abundance with us, down at the
Huts, yer honour? or is this sight only a delusion to fill us
with hopes that's never to be satisfied?”
“Pigeons are seldom wanting in this country, Mike, in
the spring and autumn; though we have both birds and
beasts, in plenty, that are preferable for food.”
“Will it be plentthier than this?—Well, it's enough to
destroy human appetite, the sight of 'em! I'd give the
half joe I lost among them blackguards in Albany, at their
Pauss, as they calls it, jist to let my sister's childer have
their supper out of one of these flocks, such as they are,
betther or no betther. Och! its pleasant to think of them
childer having their will, for once, on such a power of
wild, savage bir-r-ds!”
Captain Willoughby smiled at this proof of naiveté in his
new domestic, and then led his wife back to the hut; it
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[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
being time to make some fresh dispositions for the approaching
movement. By noon, it became apparent to those who
were waiting such an event, that the lake was opening;
and, about the same time, one of the hunters came in from
a neighbouring mountain, and reported that he had seen
clear water, as near their position as three or four miles.
By this time it was blowing fresh, and the wind, having a
clear rake, drove up the honeycomb-looking sheet before it,
as the scraper accumulates snow. When the sun set, the
whole north shore was white with piles of glittering icicles;
while the bosom of the Otsego, no longer disturbed by the
wind, resembled a placid mirror.
Early on the following morning, the whole party embarked.
There was no wind, and men were placed at the
paddles and the oars. Care was taken, on quitting the
huts, to close their doors and shutters; for they were to be
taverns to cover the heads of many a traveller, in the frequent
journeys that were likely to be made, between the
Knoll and the settlements. These stations, then, were of
the last importance, and a frontier-man always had the same
regard for them, that the mountaineer of the Alps has for
his “refuge.”
The passage down the Otsego was the easiest and most
agreeable portion of the whole journey. The day was
pleasant, and the oarsmen vigorous, if not very skilful, rendering
the movement rapid, and sufficiently direct. But
one drawback occurred to the prosperity of the voyage.
Among the labourers hired by the captain, was a Connecticut
man, of the name of Joel Strides, between whom and the
County Leitrim-man, there had early commenced a warfare
of tricks and petty annoyances; a warfare that was perfectly
defensive on the part of O'Hearn, who did little more,
in the way of retort, than comment on the long, lank, shapeless
figure, and meagre countenance of his enemy. Joel
had not been seen to smile, since he engaged with the captain;
though three times had he laughed outright, and each
time at the occurrence of some mishap to Michael O'Hearn,
the fruit of one of his own schemes of annoyance.
On the present occasion, Joel, who had the distribution
of such duty, placed Mike in a skiff, by himself, flattering
the poor fellow with the credit he would achieve, by rowing
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a boat to the foot of the lake, without assistance. He might
as well have asked Mike to walk to the outlet on the surface
of the water! This arrangement proceeded from an innate
love of mischief in Joel, who had much of the quiet waggery,
blended with many of the bad qualities of the men of his
peculiar class. A narrow and conceited selfishness lay at
the root of the larger portion of this man's faults. As a
physical being, he was a perfect labour-saving machine,
himself; bringing all the resources of a naturally quick and
acute mind to bear on this one end, never doing anything
that required a particle more than the exertion and strength
that were absolutely necessary to effect his object. He
rowed the skiff in which the captain and his wife had embarked,
with his own hands; and, previously to starting,
he had selected the best sculls from the other boats, had
fitted his twhart with the closest attention to his own ease,
and had placed a stretcher for his feet, with an intelligence
and knowledge of mechanics, that would have done credit
to a Whitehall waterman. This much proceeded from the
predominating principle of his nature, which was, always to
have an eye on the interests of Joel Strides; though the
effect happened, in this instance, to be beneficial to those he
served.
Michael O'Hearn, on the contrary, thought only of the
end; and this so intensely, not to so say vehemently, as
generally to overlook the means. Frank, generous, selfdevoted,
and withal accustomed to get most things wrong-end-foremost,
he usually threw away twice the same labour,
in effecting a given purpose, that was expended by the
Yankee; doing the thing worse, too, besides losing twice
the time. He never paused to think of this, however.
The masther's boat was to be rowed to the other end of the
lake, and, though he had never rowed a boat an inch in his
life, he was ready and willing to undertake the job. “If a
certain quantity of work will not do it,” thought Mike, “I'll
try as much ag'in; and the divil is in it, if that won't sarve
the purpose of that little bit of a job.”
Under such circumstances the party started. Most of
the skiffs and canoes went off half an hour before Mrs.
Willoughby was ready, and Joel managed to keep Mike for
the last, under the pretence of wishing his aid in loading his
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[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
own boat, with the bed and bedding from the hut. All was
ready, at length, and taking his seat, with a sort of quiet
deliberation, Joel said, in his drawling way, “You'll follow
us, Mike, and you can't be a thousand miles out of the way.”
Then he pulled from the shore with a quiet, steady stroke
of the sculls, that sent the skiff ahead with great rapidity,
though with much ease to himself.
Michael O'Hearn stood looking at the retiring skiff, in
silent admiration, for two or three minutes. He was quite
alone; for all the other boats were already two or three
miles on their way, and distance already prevented him
from seeing the mischief that was lurking in Joel's hypocritical
eyes.
“Follow yees!” soliloquized Mike—“The divil burn ye,
for a guessing yankee as ye ar'—how am I to follow with
such legs as the likes of these? If it was n't for the masther
and the missus, ra'al jontlemen and ladies they be, I'd turn
my back on ye, in the desert, and let ye find that Beaver
estate, in yer own disagreeable company. Ha! — well, I
must thry, and if the boat wont go, it'll be no fault of the
man that has a good disposition to make it.”
Mike now took his seat on a board that lay across the
gunwale of the skiff at a most inconvenient height, placed
two sculls in the water, one of which was six inches longer
than the other, made a desperate effort, and got his craft
fairly afloat. Now, Michael O'Hearn was not left-handed,
and, as usually happens with such men, the inequality between
the two limbs was quite marked. By a sinister accident,
too, it happened that the longest oar got into the
strongest hand, and there it would have staid to the end of
time, before Mike would think of changing it, on that account.
Joel, alone, sat with his face towards the head of
the lake, and he alone could see the dilemma in which the
county Leitrim-man was placed. Neither the captain nor
his wife thought of looking behind, and the yankee had all
the fun to himself. As for Mike, he succeeded in getting a
few rods from the land, when the strong arm and the longer
lever asserting their superiority, the skiff began to incline
to the westward. So intense, however, was the poor fellow's
zeal, that he did not discover the change in his course
until he had so far turned as to give him a glimpse of his
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[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
retiring master; then he inferred that all was right, and
pulled more leisurely. The result was, that in about ten
minutes, Mike was stopped by the land, the boat touching
the north shore again, two or three rods from the very point
whence it had started. The honest fellow got up, looked
around him, scratched his head, gazed wistfully after the
fast-receding boat of his master, and broke out in another
soliloquy.
“Bad luck to them that made ye, ye one-sided thing!”
he said, shaking his head reproachfully at the skiff: “there's
liberty for ye to do as ye ought, and ye 'll not be doing it,
just out of contrairiness. Why the divil can't ye do like
the other skiffs, and go where ye 're wanted, on the road towards
thim beavers? Och, ye 'll be sorry for this, when
ye 're left behind, out of sight!”
Then it flashed on Mike's mind that possibly some article
had been left in the hut, and the skiff had come back to
look after it; so, up he ran to the captain's deserted lodge,
entered it, was lost to view for a minute, then came in sight
again, scratching his head, and renewing his muttering—
“No,” he said, “divil a thing can I see, and it must be
pure contrairiness! Perhaps the baste will behave betther
next time, so I'll thry it ag'in, and give it an occasion.
Barring obstinacy, 't is as good-lookin' a skiff as the best of
them.”
Mike was as good as his word, and gave the skiff as fair
an opportunity of behaving itself as was ever offered to a
boat. Seven times did he quit the shore, and as often return
to it, gradually working his way towards the western shore,
and slightly down the lake. In this manner, Mike at length
got himself so far on the side of the lake, as to present a
barrier of land to the evil disposition of his skiff to incline
to the westward. It could go no longer in that direction,
at least.
“Divil burn ye,” the honest fellow cried, the perspiration
rolling down his face; “I think ye 'll be satisfied without
walking out into the forest, where I wish ye war' with all
my heart, amang the threes that made ye! Now, I'll see
if yer contrairy enough to run up a hill.”
Mike next essayed to pull along the shore, in the hope
that the sight of the land, and of the overhanging pines and
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hemlocks, would cure the boat's propensity to turn in that
direction. It is not necessary to say that his expectations
were disappointed, and he finally was reduced to getting out
into the water, cool as was the weather, and of wading along
the shore, dragging the boat after him. All this Joel saw
before he passed out of sight, but no movement of his muscles
let the captain into the secret of the poor Irishman's
strait.
In the meanwhile, the rest of the flotilla, or brigade of
boats, as the captain termed them, went prosperously on
their way, going from one end of the lake to the other, in
the course of three hours. As one of the party had been
over the route several times already, there was no hesitation
on the subject of the point to which the boats were to proceed.
They all touched the shore near the stone that is now
called the “Otsego Rock,” beneath a steep wooded bank,
and quite near to the place where the Susquehannah glanced
out of the lake, in a swift current, beneath a high-arched
tracery of branches that were not yet clothed with leaves.
Here the question was put as to what had become of
Mike. His skiff was nowhere visible, and the captain felt
the necessity of having him looked for, before he proceeded
any further. After a short consultation, a boat manned by
two negroes, father and son, named Pliny the elder, and
Pliny the younger, or, in common parlance, “old Plin”
and “young Plin,” was sent back along the west-shore to
hunt him up. Of course, a hut was immediately prepared
for the reception of Mrs. Willoughby, upon the plain that
stretches across the valley, at this point. This was on the
site of the present village of Cooperstown, but just twenty
years anterior to the commencement of the pretty little shire
town that now exists on the spot.
It was night ere the two Plinies appeared towing Mike,
as their great namesakes of antiquity might have brought
in a Carthaginian galley, in triumph. The county Leitrim-man
had made his way with excessive toil about a league
ere he was met, and glad enough was he to see his succour
approach. In that day, the strong antipathy which now
exists between the black and the emigrant Irishman was
unknown, the competition for household service commencing
more than half a century later. Still, as the negro loved
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fun constitutionally, and Pliny the younger was somewhat
of a wag, Mike did not entirely escape, scot-free.
“Why you drag 'im like ox, Irish Mike?” cried the
younger negro—“why you no row 'im like other folk?”
“Ah—you're as bad as the rest of 'em,” growled Mike.
“They tould me Ameriky was a mighty warm country,
and war-r-m I find it, sure enough, though the wather isn't
as warm as good whiskey. Come, ye black divils, and see
if ye can coax this contrairy cr'athure to do as a person
wants.”
The negroes soon had Mike in tow, and then they went
down the lake merrily, laughing and cracking their jokes,
at the Irishman's expense, after the fashion of their race.
It was fortunate for the Leitrim-man that he was accustomed
to ditching, though it may be questioned if the pores of
his body closed again that day, so very effectually had they
been opened. When he rejoined his master, not a syllable
was said of the mishap, Joel having the prudence to keep
his own secret, and even joining Mike in denouncing the
bad qualities of the boat. We will only add here, that a
little calculation entered into this trick, Joel perceiving that
Mike was a favourite, and wishing to bring him into discredit.
Early the next morning, the captain sent the negroes and
Mike down the Susquehannah a mile, to clear away some
flood-wood, of which one of the hunters had brought in a
report the preceding day. Two hours later, the boats left
the shore, and began to float downward with the current,
following the direction of a stream that has obtained its
name from its sinuosities.
In a few minutes the boats reached the flood-wood, where,
to Joel's great amusement, Mike and the negroes, the latter
having little more calculation than the former, had commenced
their operations on the upper side of the raft, piling
the logs on one another, with a view to make a passage
through the centre. Of course, there was a halt, the females
landing. Captain Willoughby now cast an eye round him
in hesitation, when a knowing look from Joel caught his
attention.
“This does not seem to be right,” he said—“cannot we
better it a little?”
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[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
“It's right wrong, captain,” answered Joel, laughing like
one who enjoyed other people's ignorance. “A sensible
crittur' would begin the work on such a job, at the lower
side of the raft.”
“Take the direction, and order things to suit yourself.”
This was just what Joel liked. Head-work before all
other work for him, and he set about the duty authoritatively
and with promptitude. After rating the negroes
roundly for their stupidity, and laying it on Mike without
much delicacy of thought or diction, over the shoulders of
the two blacks, he mustered his forces, and began to clear
the channel with intelligence and readiness.
Going to the lower side of the jammed flood-wood, he
soon succeeded in loosening one or two trees, which floated
away, making room for others to follow. By these means
a passage was effected in half an hour, Joel having the prudence
to set no more timber in motion than was necessary
to his purpose, lest it might choke the stream below. In
this manner the party got through, and, the river being high
at that season, by night the travellers were half-way to the
mouth of the Unadilla. The next evening they encamped
at the junction of the two streams, making their preparations
to ascend the latter the following morning.
The toil of the ascent, however, did not commence, until
the boats entered what was called the creek, or the small
tributary of the Unadilla, on which the beavers had erected
their works, and which ran through the “Manor.” Here,
indeed, the progress was slow and laborious, the rapidity
of the current and the shallowness of the water rendering
every foot gained a work of exertion and pain. Perseverance
and skill, notwithstanding, prevailed; all the boats
reaching the foot of the rapids, or straggling falls, on which
the captain had built his mills, about an hour before the sun
disappeared. Here, of course, the boats were left, a rude
road having been cut, by means of which the freights were
transported on a sledge the remainder of the distance.
Throughout the whole of this trying day, Joel had not only
worked head-work, but he had actually exerted himself
with his body. As for Mike, never before had he made
such desperate efforts. He felt all the disgrace of his adventure
on the lake, and was disposed to wipe it out by his
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[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
exploits on the rivers. Thus Mike was ever loyal to his
employer. He had sold his flesh and blood for money, and
a man of his conscience was inclined to give a fair penny's-worth.
The tractable manner in which the boat had floated
down the river, it is true, caused him some surprise, as was
shown in his remark to the younger Pliny, on landing.
“This is a curious boat, afther all,” said Pat. “One
time it's all contrariness, and then ag'in it's as obliging as
one's own mother. It followed the day all's one like a
puppy dog, while yon on the big wather there was no more
dhriving it than a hog. Och! it's a faimale boat, by its
whims!”
CHAPTER III.
“He sleeps forgetful of his once bright flame;
He has no feeling of the glory gone;
He has no eye to catch the mounting flame
That once in transport drew him on;
He lies in dull oblivious dreams, nor cares
Who the wreathed laurel bears.”
Percival.
The appearance of a place in which the remainder of
one's life is to be past is always noted with interest on a
first visit. Thus it was that Mrs. Willoughby had been
observant and silent from the moment the captain informed
her that they had passed the line of his estate, and were
approaching the spot where they were to dwell. The stream
was so small, and the girding of the forest so close, that
there was little range for the sight; but the anxious wife
and mother could perceive that the hills drew together, at
this point, the valley narrowing essentially, that rocks began
to appear in the bed of the river, and that the growth of the
timber indicated fertility and a generous soil.
When the boat stopped, the little stream came brawling
down a ragged declivity, and a mill, one so arranged as to
grind and saw, both in a very small way, however, gave
the first signs of civilization she had beheld since quitting
the last hut near the Mohawk. After issuing a few orders,
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the captain drew his wife's arm through his own, and hurried
up the ascent, with an eagerness that was almost
boyish, to show her what had been done towards the improvement
of the “Knoll.” There is a pleasure in diving
into a virgin forest and commencing the labours of civilization,
that has no exact parallel in any other human occupation.
That of building, or of laying out grounds, has
certainly some resemblance to it, but it is a resemblance so
faint and distant as scarcely to liken the enjoyment each
produces. The former approaches nearer to the feeling of
creating, and is far more pregnant with anticipations and
hopes, though its first effects are seldom agreeable, and are
sometimes nearly hideous. Our captain, however, had
escaped most of these last consequences, by possessing the
advantage of having a clearing, without going through the
usual processes of chopping and burning; the first of which
leaves the earth dotted, for many years, with unsightly
stumps, while the rains and snows do not wash out the hues
of the last for several seasons.
An exclamation betrayed the pleasure with which Mrs.
Willoughby got her first glimpse of the drained pond. It
was when she had clambered to the point of the rocks,
where the stream began to tumble downward into the valley
below. A year had done a vast deal for the place. The
few stumps and stubs which had disfigured the basin when
it was first laid bare, had all been drawn by oxen, and
burned. This left the entire surface of the four hundred
acres smooth and fit for the plough. The soil was the deposit
of centuries, and the inclination, from the woods to
the stream, was scarcely perceptible to the eye. In fact, it
was barely sufficient to drain the drippings of the winter's
snows. The form of the area was a little irregular; just
enough so to be picturesque; while the inequalities were
surprisingly few and trifling. In a word, nature had formed
just such a spot as delights the husbandman's heart, and
placed it beneath a sun which, while its fierceness is relieved
by winters of frost and snow, had a power to bring out all
its latent resources.
Trees had been felled around the whole area, with the
open spaces filled by branches, in a way to form what is
termed a brush fence. This is not a sightly object, and the
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captain had ordered the line to be drawn within the woods,
so that the visible boundaries of the open land were the
virgin forest itself. His men had protested against this, a
fence, however unseemly, being in their view an indispensable
accessory to civilization. But the captain's authority,
if not his better taste, prevailed; and the boundary of felled
trees and brush was completely concealed in the back-ground
of woods. As yet, there was no necessity for cross-fences,
the whole open space lying in a single field. One
hundred acres were in winter wheat. As this grain had
been got in the previous autumn, it was now standing on
the finest and driest of the soil, giving an air of rich fertility
to the whole basin. Grass-seed had been sown along both
banks of the stream, and its waters were quietly flowing
between two wide belts of fresh verdure, the young plants
having already started in that sheltered receptacle of the
sun's rays. Other portions of the flat showed signs of improvement,
the plough having actually been at work for
quite a fortnight.
All this was far more than even the captain had expected,
and much more than his wife had dared to hope. Mrs.
Willoughby had been accustomed to witness the slow progress
of a new settlement; but never before had she seen
what might be done on a beaver-dam. To her all appeared
like magic, and her first question would have been to ask
her husband to explain what had been done with the trees
and stumps, had not her future residence caught her eye.
Captain Willoughby had left his orders concerning the
house, previously to quitting the Knoll; and he was now
well pleased to perceive that they had been attended to. As
this spot will prove the scene of many of the incidents we
are bound to relate, it may be proper, here, to describe it, at
some length.
The hillock that rose out of the pond, in the form of a
rocky little island, was one of those capricious formations
that are often met with on the surface of the earth. It stood
about thirty rods from the northern side of the area, very
nearly central as to its eastern and western boundaries, and
presented a slope inclining towards the south. Its greatest
height was at its northern end, where it rose out of the rich
alluvion of the soil, literally a rock of some forty feet in
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perpendicular height, having a summit of about an acre of
level land, and falling off on its three sides; to the east and
west precipitously; to the south quite gently and with regularity.
It was this accidental formation which had induced
the captain to select the spot as the site of his residence;
for dwelling so far from any post, and in a place so difficult
of access, something like military defences were merely
precautions of ordinary prudence. While the pond remained,
the islet was susceptible of being made very strong against
any of the usual assaults of Indian warfare; and, now that
the basin was drained, it had great advantages for the same
purpose. The perpendicular rock to the north, even over-hung
the plain. It was almost inaccessible; while the
formation on the other sides, offered singular facilities, both
for a dwelling and for security. All this the captain, who
was so familiar with the finesse of Indian stratagem, had
resolved to improve in the following manner:
In the first place, he directed the men to build a massive
wall of stone, for a hundred and fifty feet in length, and six
feet in height. This stretched in front of the perpendicular
rock, with receding walls to its verge. The latter were
about two hundred feet in length, each. This was enclosing
an area of two hundred, by one hundred and fifty feet,
within a blind wall of masonry. Through this wall there
was only a single passage; a gate-way, in the centre of its
southern face. The materials had all been found on the
hill itself, which was well covered with heavy stones.
Within this wall, which was substantially laid, by a Scotch
mason, one accustomed to the craft, the men had erected a
building of massive, squared, pine timber, well secured by
cross partitions. This building followed the wall in its
whole extent, was just fifteen feet in elevation, without the
roof, and was composed, in part, by the wall itself; the
latter forming nearly one-half its height, on the exterior.
The breadth of this edifice was only twenty feet, clear of
the stones and wood-work; leaving a court within of about
one hundred by one hundred and seventy-five feet in extent.
The roof extended over the gateway even; so that the space
within was completely covered, the gates being closed. This
much had been done during the preceding fall and winter;
the edifice presenting an appearance of rude completeness
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[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
on the exterior. Still it had a sombre and goal-like air;
there being nothing resembling a window visible; no aperture,
indeed, on either of its outer faces, but the open gate-way,
of which the massive leaves were finished, and placed
against the adjacent walls, but which were not yet hung.
It is scarcely necessary to say, this house resembled barracks,
more than an ordinary dwelling. Mrs. Willoughby
stood gazing at it, half in doubt whether to admire or to
condemn, when a voice, within a few yards, suddenly drew
her attention in another direction.
“How you like him?” asked Nick, who was seated on a
stone, at the margin of the stream, washing his feet, after a
long day's hunt. “No t'ink him better dan beaver skin?
Cap'in know all 'bout him; now he give Nick some more
last quit-rent?”
“Last, indeed, it will be, then, Nick; for I have already
paid you twice for your rights.”
“Discovery wort' great deal, cap'in—see what great man
he make pale-face.”
“Ay, but your discovery, Nick, is not of that sort.”
“What sort, den?” demanded Nick, with the rapidity of
lightning. “Give him back 'e beaver, if you no like he
discovery. Grad to see 'em back, ag'in; skin higher price
dan ever.”
“Nick, you 're a cormorant, if there ever was one in this
world! Here—there is a dollar for you; the quit-rent is
paid for this year, at least. It ought to be for the last
time.”
“Let him go for all summer, cap'in. Yes, Nick wonderful
commerant! no such eye he got, among Oneida!”
Here the Tuscarora left the side of the stream, and came
up on the rock, shaking hands, good-humouredly, with Mrs.
Willoughby, who rather liked the knave; though she knew
him to possess most of the vices of his class.
“He very han'som beaver-dam,” said Nick, sweeping his
hand gracefully over the view; “bye 'nd bye, he'll bring
potatoe, and corn, and cider—all 'e squaw want. Cap'in
got good fort, too. Old soldier love fort; like to live in
him.”
“The day may come, Nick, when that fort may serve us
all a good turn, out here in the wilderness,” Mrs. Willoughby
-- 041 --
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observed, in a somewhat melancholy tone; for her tender
thoughts naturally turned towards her youthful and innocent
daughters.
The Indian gazed at the house, with that fierce intentness
which sometimes glared, in a manner that had got to be, in its
ordinary aspects, dull and besotted. There was a startling
intelligence in his eye, at such moments; the feelings of
youth and earlier habit, once more asserting their power.
Twenty years before, Nick had been foremost on the war-path;
and what was scarcely less honourable, among the
wisest around the council-fire. He was born a chief, and
had made himself an outcast from his tribe, more by the
excess of ungovernable passions, than from any act of base
meanness.
“Cap'in tell Nick, now, what he mean by building such
house, out here, among ole beaver bones?” he said, sideling
up nearer to his employer, and gazing with some curiosity
into his face.
“What do I mean, Nick?—Why I mean to have a place
of safety to put the heads of my wife and children in, at
need. The road to Canada is not so long, but a red-skin
can make one pair of moccasins go over it. Then, the
Oneidas and Mohawks are not all children of heaven.”
“No pale-face rogue, go about, I s'pose?” said Nick, sarcastically.
“Yes, there are men of that class, who are none the
worse for being locked out of one's house, at times. But,
what do you think of the hut?—You know I call the place
the `Hut,' the Hutted Knoll.”
“He hole plenty of beaver, if you cotch him!—But no
water left, and he all go away. Why you make him stone,
first; den you make him wood, a'ter; eh? Plenty rock;
plenty tree.”
“Why, the stone wall can neither be cut away, nor set
fire to, Nick; that 's the reason. I took as much stone as
was necessary, and then used wood, which is more easily
worked, and which is also drier.”
“Good—Nick t'ought just dat. How you get him water
if Injen come?”
“There 's the stream, that winds round the foot of the
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[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
hill, Nick, as you see; and then there is a delicious spring,
within one hundred yards of the very gate.”
“Which side of him?” asked Nick, with his startling
rapidity.
“Why, here, to the left of the gate, and a little to the
right of the large stone—”
“No—no,” interrupted the Indian, “no left—no right—
which side—inside gate; outside gate?”
“Oh! — the spring is outside the gate, certainly; but
means might be found to make a covered way to it; and
then the stream winds round directly underneath the rocks,
behind the house, and water could be raised from that, by
means of a rope. Our rifles would count for something,
too, in drawing water, as well as in drawing blood.”
“Good.—Rifle got long arm. He talk so, Ingin mind
him. When you t'ink red-skin come ag'in your fort, cap'in,
now you got him done?”
“A long time first, I hope, Nick. We are at peace with
France, again; and I see no prospect of any new quarrel,
very soon. So long as the French and English are at
peace, the red men will not dare to touch either.”
“Dat true as missionary! What a soldier do, cap'in,
if so much peace? Warrior love a war-path.”
“I wish it were not so, Nick. But my hatchet is buried,
I hope, for ever.”
“Nick hope cap'in know where to find him, if he want
to? Very bad to put anyt'ing where he forget; partic'larly
tomahawk. Sometime quarrel come, like rain, when you
don't tink.”
“Yes, that also cannot be denied. Yet, I fear the next
quarrel will be among ourselves, Nick.—The government
at home, and the people of the colonies, are getting to have
bad blood between them.”
“Dat very queer! Why pale-face mo'der and pale-face
darter no love one anoder, like red-skin?”
“Really, Nick, you are somewhat interrogating this
evening; but, my squaw must be a little desirous of seeing
the inside of her house, as well as its outside, and I must
refer you to that honest fellow, yonder, for an answer. His
name is Mike; I hope he and you will always be good
friends.”
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[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
So saying, the captain nodded in a friendly manner, and
led Mrs. Willoughby towards the hut, taking a foot-path
that was already trodden firm, and which followed the
sinuosities of the stream, to which it served as a sort of a
dyke. Nick took the captain at his word, and turning
about he met the county Leitrim-man, with an air of great
blandness, thrusting out a hand, in the pale-face fashion, as
a sign of amity, saying, at the same time—
“How do, Mike?—Sago—Sago—grad you come—good
fellow to drink Santa Cruz, wid Nick.”
“How do, Mike!” exclaimed the other, looking at the
Tuscarora with astonishment, for this was positively the first
red man the Irishman had ever seen. “How do Mike!
Ould Nick be ye?—well—ye look pretty much as I expected
to see you—pray, how did ye come to know my
name?”
“Nick know him—know every t'ing. Grad to see you,
Mike—hope we live together like good friend, down yonder,
up here, over dere.”
“Ye do, do ye! Divil burn me, now, if I want any sich
company. Ould Nick's yer name, is it?”
“Old Nick — young Nick — saucy Nick; all one, all
to'ther. Make no odd what you call; I come.”
“Och, yer a handy one! Divil trust ye, but ye 'll come
when you arn't wanted, or yer not of yer father's own
family. D 'ye live hereabouts, masther Ould Nick?”
“Live here—out yonder—in he hut, in he wood—where
he want. Make no difference to Nick.”
Michael now drew back a pace or two, keeping his eyes
fastened on the other intently, for he actually expected to
see some prodigious and sudden change in his appearance.
When he thought he had got a good position for manly defence
or rapid retreat, as either might become necessary,
the county Leitrim-man put on a bolder front and resumed
the discourse.
“If it's so indifferent to ye where ye dwell,” asked
Mike, “why can't you keep at home, and let a body carry
these cloaks and bundles of the missuses, out yonder to the
house wither she's gone?”
“Nick help carry 'em. Carry t'ing for dat squaw hundred
time.”
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[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
“That what! D'ye mane Madam Willoughby by yer
blackguard name?”
“Yes; cap'in wife—cap'in squaw, mean him. Carry
bundle, basket, hundred time for him.”
“The Lord preserve me, now, from sich atrocity and
impudence!” laying down the cloaks and bundles, and
facing the Indian, with an appearance of great indignation—
“Did a body ever hear sich a liar! Why, Misther Ould
Nick, Madam Willoughby would n't let the likes of ye
touch the ind of her garments. You would n't get the
liberty to walk in the same path with her, much less to
carry her bundles. I'll answer for it, ye 're a great liar,
now, ould Nick, in the bottom of your heart.”
“Nick great liar,” answered the Indian, good-naturedly;
for he so well knew this was his common reputation, that
he saw no use in denying it. “What of dat? Lie good
sometime.”
“That's another! Oh, ye animal; I've a great mind to
set upon ye at once, and see what an honest man can do
wid ye, in fair fight! If I only knew what ye 'd got about
yer toes, now, under them fine-looking things ye wear for
shoes, once, I 'd taich ye to talk of the missus, in this
style.”
“Speak as well as he know how. Nick never been to
school. Call 'e squaw, good squaw. What want more?”
“Get out! If ye come a foot nearer, I'll be at ye, like
a dog upon a bull, though ye gore me. What brought ye
into this paiceful sittlement, where nothing but virtue and
honesty have taken up their abode?”
What more Mike might have said is not known, as Nick
caught a sign from the captain, and went loping across the
flat, at his customary gait, leaving the Irishman standing
on the defensive, and, to own the truth, not sorry to be rid
of him. Unfortunately for the immediate enlightenment of
Mike's mind, Joel overheard the dialogue, and comprehending
its meaning, with his native readiness, he joined
his companion in a mood but little disposed to clear up th
error.
“Did ye see that crathure?” asked Mike, with emphasis.
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[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
“Sartain—he is often seen here, at the Hut. He may be
said to live here, half his time.”
“A pritty hut, then, ye must have of it! Why do ye
tolerate the vagabond? He's not fit for Christian society.”
“Oh! he's good company, sometimes, Mike. When
you know him better, you'll like him better. Come; up
with the bundles, and let us follow. The captain is looking
after us, as you see.”
“Well may he look, to see us in sich company!—Will
he har-r-m the missus?”
“Not he. I tell you, you'll like him yourself when you
come to know him.”
“If I do, burn me! Why, he says himself, that he's
Ould Nick, and I'm sure I never fancied the crathure but
it was in just some such for-r-m. Och! he's ill-looking
enough, for twenty Ould Nicks.”
Lest the reader get an exaggerated notion of Michael's
credulity, it may be well to say that Nick had painted a
few days before, in a fit of caprice, and that one-half of his
face was black, and the other a deep red, while each of his
eyes was surrounded with a circle of white, all of which
had got to be a little confused in consequence of a night or
two of orgies, succeeded by mornings in which the toilet
had been altogether neglected. His dress, too, a blanket
with tawdry red and yellow trimmings, with ornamented
leggings and moccasins to correspond, had all aided in
maintaining the accidental mystification. Mike followed
his companion, growling out his discontent, and watching
the form of the Indian, as the latter still went loping over
the flat, having passed the captain, with a message to the
barns.
“I'll warrant ye, now, the captain wouldn't tolerate
such a crathure, but he's sent him off to the woods, as ye
may see, like a divil, as he is! To think of such a thing's
spakeing to the missus! Will I fight him?—That will I,
rather than he'll say an uncivil word to the likes of her!
He's claws they tell me, though he kapes them so well covered
in his fine brogues; divil burn me, but I'd grapple
him by the toes.”
Joel now saw how deep was Michael's delusion, and
knowing it must soon be over, he determined to make a
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[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
merit of necessity, by letting his friend into the truth, thereby
creating a confidence that would open the way to a
hundred future mischievous scenes.
“Claws!” he repeated, with an air of surprise—“And
why do you think an Injin has claws, Mike?”
“An Injin! D'ye call that miscoloured crathure an Injin,
Joel. Isn't it one of yer yankee divils?”
“Out upon you, for an Irish ninny. Do you think the
captain would board a devil! The fellow's a Tuscarora,
and is as well known here as the owner of the Hut himself.
It's Saucy Nick.”
“Yes, saucy Ould Nick—I had it from his very mout',
and even the divil would hardly be such a blackguard as to
lie about his own name. Och! he's a roarer, sure enough;
and then for the tusks you mintion, I didn't see 'em, with
my eyes; but the crathure has a mouth that might hould a
basket-full.”
Joel now perceived that he must go more seriously to
work to undeceive his companion. Mike honestly believed
he had met an American devil, and it required no little argumentation
to persuade him of the contrary. We shall
leave Joel employed in this difficult task, in which he finally
succeeded, and follow the captain and his wife to the hut.
The lord and lady of the manor examined everything
around their future residence, with curious eyes. Jamie
Allen, the Scotch mason mentioned, was standing in front
of the house, to hear what might be said of his wall, while
two or three other mechanics betrayed some such agitation
as the tyro in literature manifests, ere he learns what the
critics have said of his first work. The exterior gave great
satisfaction to the captain. The wall was not only solid
and secure, but it was really handsome. This was in some
measure owing to the quality of the stones, but quite as
much to Jamie's dexterity in using them. The wall and
chimneys, of the latter of which there were no less than
six, were all laid in lime, too; it having been found necessary
to burn some of the material to plaster the interior.
Then the gates were massive, being framed in oak, filled
in with four-inch plank, and might have resisted a very
formidable assault. Their strong iron hinges were all
in their places, but the heavy job of hanging had been
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[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
deferred to a leisure moment, when all the strength of the
manor might be collected for that purpose. There they
stood, inclining against the wall, one on each side of the
gate-way, like indolent sentinels on post, who felt too secure
from attack to raise their eyes.
The different mechanics crowded round the captain, each
eager to show his own portion of what had been done. The
winter had not been wasted, but, proper materials being in
abundance, and on the spot, captain Willoughby had every
reason to be satisfied with what he got for his money.
Completely shut out from the rest of the world, the men had
worked cheerfully and with little interruption; for their labours
composed their recreation. Mrs. Willoughby found the
part of the building her family was to occupy, with the usual
offices, done and furnished. This comprised all the front
on the eastern side of the gate-way, and most of the wing,
in the same half, extending back to the cliff. It is true, the
finish was plain; but everything was comfortable. The
ceilings were only ten feet high certainly, but it was thought
prodigious in the colony in that day; and then the plastering
of Jamie was by no means as unexceptionable as his
stone-work; still every room had its two coats, and white-wash
gave them a clean and healthful aspect. The end of
the wing that came next the cliff was a laundry, and a pump
was fitted, by means of which water was raised from the
rivulet. Next came the kitchen, a spacious and comfortable
room of thirty by twenty feet; an upper-servant's apartment
succeeded; after which were the bed-rooms of the family,
a large parlour, and a library, or office, for the captain. As
the entire range, on this particular side of the house, extended
near or quite two hundred and fifty feet, there was no
want of space or accommodation.
The opposite, or western half of the edifice, was devoted
to more homely uses. It contained an eating-room and
divers sleeping-rooms for the domestics and labourers, besides
store-rooms, garners, and omnium gatherums of all
sorts. The vast ranges of garrets, too, answered for various
purposes of household and farming economy. All the windows,
and sundry doors, opened into the court, while the
whole of the exterior wall, both wooden and stone, presented
a perfect blank, in the way of outlets. It was the captain's
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[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
intention, however, to cut divers loops through the logs, at
some convenient moment, so that men stationed in the garrets
might command the different faces of the structure with
their musketry. But, like the gates, these means of defence
were laid aside for a more favourable opportunity.
Our excellent matron was delighted with her domestic
arrangements. They much surpassed any of the various
barracks in which she had dwelt, and a smile of happiness
beamed on her handsome face, as she followed her husband
from room to room, listening to his explanations. When
they entered their private apartments, and these were furnished
and ready to receive them, respect caused the rest
to leave them by themselves, and once more they found that
they were alone.
“Well, Wilhelmina,” asked the gratified husband—gratified,
because he saw pleasure beaming in the mild countenance
and serene blue eyes of one of the best wives living—
“Well, Wilhelmina,” he asked, “can you give up Albany,
and all the comforts of your friends' dwellings, to be satisfied
in a home like this? It is not probable I shall ever
build again, whatever Bob may do, when he comes after
me. This structure, then, part house, part barrack, part
fort, as it is, must be our residence for the remainder of our
days. We are hutted for life.”
“It is all-sufficient, Willoughby. It has space, comfort,
warmth, coolness and security. What more can a wife and
a mother ask, when she is surrounded by those she most
loves? Only attend to the security, Hugh. Remember how
far we are removed from any succour, and how sudden and
fierce the Indians are in their attacks. Twice have we,
ourselves, been near being destroyed by surprises, from
which accident, or God's providence, protected us, rather
than our own vigilance. If this could happen in garrisons,
and with king's troops around us, how much more easily
might it happen here, with only common labourers to watch
what is going on!”
“You exaggerate the danger, wife. There are no Indians,
in this part of the country, who would dare to molest a settlement
like ours. We count thirteen able-bodied men in
all, besides seven women, and could use seventeen or eighteen
muskets and rifles on an emergency. No tribe would
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[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
dare commence hostilities, in a time of general peace, and
so near the settlements too; and, as to stragglers, who
might indeed murder to rob, we are so strong, ourselves,
that we may sleep in peace, so far as they are concerned.”
“One never knows that, dearest Hugh. A marauding
party of half-a-dozen might prove too much for many times
their own number, when unprepared. I do hope you will
have the gates hung, at least; should the girls come here,
in the autumn, I could not sleep without hanging the gates.”
“Fear nothing, love,” said the captain, kissing his wife,
with manly tenderness. “As for Beulah and Maud, let them
come when they please; we shall always have a welcome
for them, and no place can be safer than under their father's
eyes.”
“I care not so much for myself, Hugh, but do not let the
gates be forgotten until the girls come.”
“Everything shall be done as you desire, wife of mine,
though it will be a hard job to get two such confounded
heavy loads of wood on their hinges. We must take some
day when everybody is at home, and everybody willing to
work. Saturday next, I intend to have a review; and, once
a month, the year round, there will be a muster, when all
the arms are to be cleaned and loaded, and orders given
how to act in case of an alarm. An old soldier would be
disgraced to allow himself to be run down by mere vagabonds.
My pride is concerned, and you may sleep in
peace.”
“Yes, do, dearest Hugh.”—Then the matron proceeded
through the rooms, expressing her satisfaction at the care
which had been had for her comfort, in her own rooms in
particular.
Sooth to say, the interior of the Hut presented that odd
contrast between civilization and rude expedients, which so
frequently occurs on an American frontier, where persons
educated in refinement often find themselves brought in close
collision with savage life. Carpets, in America, and in the
year of our Lord 1765, were not quite as much a matter of
course in domestic economy, as they are to-day. Still they
were to be found, though it was rare, indeed, that they covered
more than the centre of the room. One of these great
essentials, without which no place can appear comfortable
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in a cold climate, was spread on the floor of Mrs. Willoughby's
parlour—a room that served for both eating and as a
sala, the Knight's Hall of the Hut, measuring twenty by
twenty-four feet—though in fact this carpet concealed exactly
two-thirds of the white clean plank. Then the chairs were
massive and even rich, while one might see his face in the
dark mahogany of the tables. There were cellarets—the
captain being a connoisseur in wines—bureaus, secretaries,
beaufets, and other similar articles, that had been collected
in the course of twenty years' housekeeping, and scattered
at different posts, were collected, and brought hither by
means of sledges, and the facilities of the water-courses.
Fashion had little to do with furniture, in that simple age,
when the son did not hesitate to wear even the clothes of
the father, years and years after the tailor had taken leave
of them. Massive old furniture, in particular, lasted for
generations, and our matron now saw many articles that
had belonged to her grandfather assembled beneath the first
roof that she could ever strictly call her own.
Mrs. Willoughby took a survey of the offices last. Here
she found, already established, the two Plinies, with Mari',
the sister of the elder Pliny, Bess, the wife of the younger,
and Mony—alias Desdemona—a collateral of the race, by
ties and affinities that garter-king-at-arms could not have
traced genealogically; since he would have been puzzled
to say whether the woman was the cousin, or aunt, or step-daughter
of Mari', or all three. All the women were hard
at work, Bess singing in a voice that reached the adjoining
forest. Mari'—this name was pronounced with a strong
emphasis on the last syllable, or like Maria, without the
final vowel—Mari' was the head of the kitchen, even Pliny
the elder standing in salutary dread of her authority; and
her orders to her brother and nephew were pouring forth,
in an English that was divided into three categories; the
Anglo-Saxon, the Low Dutch, and the Guinea dialect; a
medley that rendered her discourse a droll assemblage of
the vulgar and the classical.
“Here, niggers,” she cried, “why you don't jump about
like Paus dance? Ebbery t'ing want a hand, and some
want a foot. Plate to wash, crockery to open, water to
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b'ile, dem knife to clean, and not'ing missed. Lord, here's
a madam, and 'e whole kitchen in a diffusion.”
“Well, Mari',” exclaimed the captain, good-naturedly,
“here you are, scolding away as if you had been in the
place these six months, and knew all its faults and weaknesses.”
“Can't help a scold, master, in sich a time as dis —
come away from dem plates, you Great Smash, and let a
proper hand take hold on 'em.”
Here we ought to say, that captain Willoughby had christened
Bess by the sobriquet of Great Smash, on account of
her size, which fell little short of two hundred, estimated in
pounds, and a certain facility she possessed in destroying
crockery, while 'Mony went by the milder appellation of
“Little Smash;” not that bowls or plates fared any better
in her hands, but because she weighed only one hundred
and eighty.
“Dis is what I tell 'em, master,” continued Mari', in a remonstrating,
argumentative sort of a tone, with dogmatism
and respect singularly mingled in her manner — “Dis,
massa, just what I tell 'em all. I tell 'em, says I, this is
Hunter Knoll, and not Allbonny—here no store—no place
to buy t'ing if you break 'em; no good woman who know
ebbery t'ing, to tell you where to find t'ing, if you lose him.
If dere was only good woman, dat somet'ing; but no fortun'-teller
out here in de bushes—no, no—when a silber spoon
go, here, he go for good and all—Goody, massy”—staring
at something in the court—“what he call dat, sa?”
“That—oh! that is only an Indian hunter I keep about
me, to bring us game—you'll never have an empty spit,
Mari', as long as he is with us. Fear nothing; he will not
harm you. His name is Nick.”
“De Ole Nick, massa?”
“No, only Saucy Nick. The fellow is a little slovenly
to-day in his appearance, and you see he has brought already
several partridges, besides a rabbit. We shall have venison,
in the season.”
Here all the negroes, after staring at Nick, quite a minute,
set up a loud shout, laughing as if the Tuscarora had
been created for their special amusement. Although the
captain was somewhat of a martinet in his domestic
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discipline, it had ever altogether exceeded his authority, or his
art, to prevent these bursts of merriment; and he led his
wife away from the din, leaving Mari', Great Smash, and
Little Smash, with the two Plinies, in ecstasies at their own
uproar. Burst succeeded burst, until the Indian walked
away, in offended dignity.
Such was the commencement of the domestication of the
Willoughbys at the Hutted Knoll. The plan of our tale
does not require us to follow them minutely for the few
succeeding years, though some further explanation may be
necessary to show why this settlement varied a little from
the ordinary course.
That very season, or, in the summer of 1765, Mrs. Willoughby
inherited some real estate in Albany, by the death
of an uncle, as well as a few thousand pounds currency, in
ready money. This addition to his fortune made the captain
exceedingly comfortable; or, for that day, rich; and it
left him to act his pleasure as related to his lands. Situated
as these last were, so remote from other settlements as to
render highways, for some time, hopeless, he saw no use in
endeavouring to anticipate the natural order of things. It
would only create embarrassment to raise produce that
could not be sent to market; and he well knew that a population
of any amount could not exist, in quiet, without the
usual attendants of buying and selling. Then it suited his
own taste to be the commander-in-chief of an isolated establishment
like this; and he was content to live in abundance,
on his flats, feeding his people, his cattle, and even his hogs
to satiety, and having wherewithal to send away the occasional
adventurer, who entered his clearing, contented and
happy.
Thus it was that he neither sold nor leased. No person
dwelt on his land who was not a direct dependant, or hireling,
and all that the earth yielded he could call his own.
Nothing was sent abroad for sale but cattle. Every year,
a small drove of fat beeves and milch cows found their way
through the forest to Albany, and the proceeds returned in
the shape of foreign supplies. The rents, and the interests
on bonds, were left to accumulate, or were applied to aid
Robert in obtaining a new step in the army. Lands began
to be granted nearer and nearer to his own, and here and
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there some old officer like himself, or a solitary farmer, began
to cut away the wilderness; but none in his immediate
vicinity.
Still the captain did not live altogether as a hermit. He
visited Edmeston of Mount Edmeston, a neighbour less
than fifty miles distant; was occasionally seen at Johnson
Hall, with Sir William; or at the bachelor establishment
of Sir John, on the Mohawk; and once or twice he so far
overcame his indolence, as to consent to serve as a member
for a new county, that was called Tryon, after a ruling
governor.
CHAPTER IV.
Hail! sober evening! Thee the harass'd brain
And aching heart with fond orisons greet;
The respite thou of toil; the balm of pain;
To thoughtful mind the hour for musing meet;
'Tis then the sage from forth his lone retreat,
The rolling universe around espies;
'Tis then the bard may hold communion sweet
With lovely shapes unkenned by grosser eyes,
And quick perception comes of finer mysteries.
Sands.
In the preceding chapter we closed the minuter narrative
with a scene at the Hut, in the spring of 1765. We must
now advance the time just ten years, opening, anew, in the
month of May, 1775. This, it is scarcely necessary to tell
the reader, is bringing him at once up to the earliest days
of the revolution. The contest which preceded that great
event had in fact occurred in the intervening time, and we
are now about to plunge into the current of some of the
minor incidents of the struggle itself.
Ten years are a century in the history of a perfectly new
settlement. The changes they produce are even surprising,
though in ordinary cases they do not suffice to erase the
signs of a recent origin. The forest is opened, and the light
of day admitted, it is true; but its remains are still to be
seen in multitudes of unsightly stumps, dead standing trees,
and ill-looking stubs. These vestiges of the savage state
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usually remain a quarter of a century; in certain regions
they are to be found for even more than twice that period.
All this, however, had captain Willoughby escaped, in consequence
of limiting his clearing, in a great measure, to that
which had been made by the beavers, and from which time
and natural decay had, long before his arrival, removed
every ungainly object. It is true, here and there a few acres
had been cleared on the firmer ground, at the margin of the
flats, where barns and farm buildings had been built, and
orchards planted; but, in order to preserve the harmony of
his view, the captain had caused all the stumps to be pulled
and burnt, giving to these places the same air of agricultural
finish as characterized the fields on the lower land.
To this sylvan scene, at a moment which preceded the
setting of the sun by a little more than an hour, and in the
first week of the genial month of May, we must now bring
the reader in fancy. The season had been early, and the
Beaver Manor, or the part of it which was cultivated, lying
low and sheltered, vegetation had advanced considerably
beyond the point that is usual, at that date, in the elevated
region of which we have been writing. The meadows were
green with matted grasses, the wheat and rye resembled
rich velvets, and the ploughed fields had the fresh and mellowed
appearance of good husbandry and a rich soil. The
shrubbery, of which the captain's English taste had introduced
quantities, was already in leaf, and even portions of
the forest began to veil their sombre mysteries with the delicate
foliage of an American spring.
The site of the ancient pond was a miracle of rustic
beauty. Everything like inequality or imperfection had
disappeared, the whole presenting a broad and picturesquely
shaped basin, with outlines fashioned principally by nature,
an artist that rarely fails in effect. The flat was divided
into fields by low post-and-rail fences, the captain making
it a law to banish all unruly animals from his estate. The
barns and out-buildings were neatly made and judiciously
placed, and the three or four roads, or lanes, that led to
them, crossed the low-land in such graceful curves, as
greatly to increase the beauty of the landscape. Here and
there a log cabin was visible, nearly buried in the forest,
with a few necessary and neat appliances around it; the
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homes of labourers who had long dwelt in them, and who
seemed content to pass their lives in the same place. As
most of these men had married and become fathers, the
whole colony, including children, notwithstanding the captain's
policy not to settle, had grown to considerably more
than a hundred souls, of whom three-and-twenty were able-bodied
men. Among the latter were the millers; but, their
mills were buried in the ravine where they had been first
placed, quite out of sight from the picture above, concealing
all the unavoidable and ungainly-looking objects of a saw-mill
yard.
As a matter of course, the object of the greatest interest,
as it was the most conspicuous, was the Hutted Knoll, as
the house was now altogether called, and the objects it contained.
Thither, then, we will now direct our attention, and
describe things as they appeared ten years after they were
first presented to the reader.
The same agricultural finish as prevailed on the flats
pervaded every object on the Knoll, though some labour had
been expended to produce it. Everything like a visible
rock, the face of the cliff on the northern end excepted, had
disappeared, the stones having been blasted, and either
worked into walls for foundations, or walls for fence. The
entire base of the Knoll, always excepting the little precipice
at the rivulet, was encircled by one of the latter, erected
under the superintendence of Jamie Allen, who still remained
at the Hut, a bachelor, and as he said himself, a happy
man. The southern face of the Knoll was converted into
lawn, there being quite two acres intersected with walks,
and well garnished with shrubbery. What was unusual in
America, at that day, the captain, owing to his English
education, had avoided straight lines, and formal paths;
giving to the little spot the improvement on nature which is
a consequence of embellishing her works without destroying
them. On each side of this lawn was an orchard, thrifty
and young, and which were already beginning to show signs
of putting forth their blossoms.
About the Hut itself, the appearance of change was not
so manifest. Captain Willoughby had caused it to be constructed
originally, as he intended to preserve it, and it
formed no part of his plan to cover it with tawdry colours.
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There it stood, brown above, and grey beneath, as wood or
stone was the material, with a widely projecting roof. It
had no piazzas, or stoups, and was still without external
windows, one range excepted. The loops had been cut, but
it was more for the benefit of lighting the garrets, than for
any other reason, all of them being glazed, and serving the
end for which they had been pierced. The gates remained
precisely in the situation in which they were, when last
presented to the eye of the reader! There they stood, each
leaning against the wall on its own side of the gate-way,
the hinges beginning to rust, by time and exposure. Ten
years had not produced a day of sufficient leisure in which
to hang them: though Mrs. Willoughby frequently spoke of
the necessity of doing so, in the course of the first summer.
Even she had got to be so familiarized to her situation, and
so accustomed to seeing the leaves where they stood, that
she now regarded them as a couple of sleeping lions in stone,
or as characteristic ornaments, rather than as substantial
defences to the entrance of the dwelling.
The interior of the Hut, however, had undergone many
alterations. The western half had been completed, and
handsome rooms had been fitted up for guests and inmates
of the family, in the portion of the edifice occupied by the
latter. Additional comforts had been introduced, and, the
garners, cribs and lodgings of the labourers having been
transferred to the skirts of the forest, the house was more
strictly and exclusively the abode of a respectable and well-regulated
family. In the rear, too, a wing had been thrown
along the verge of the cliff, completely enclosing the court.
This wing, which overhung the rivulet, and had, not only a
most picturesque site, but a most picturesque and lovely
view, now contained the library, parlour and music-room,
together with other apartments devoted to the uses of the
ladies, during the day; the old portions of the house that
had once been similarly occupied being now converted into
sleeping apartments. The new wing was constructed entirely
of massive squared logs, so as to render it bullet-proof,
there being no necessity for a stone foundation, standing, as
it did, on the verge of a cliff some forty feet in height. This
was the part of the edifice which had external windows,
the elevation removing it from the danger of inroads, or
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hostile shot, while the air and view were both grateful and
desirable. Some extra attention had been paid to the appearance
of the meadows on this side of the Knoll, and the
captain had studiously kept their skirts, as far as the eye
could see from the windows, in virgin forest; placing the
barns, cabins, and other detached buildings, so far south as
to be removed from view. Beulah Willoughby, a gentle,
tranquil creature, had a profound admiration of the beauties
of nature; and to her, her parents had yielded the control
of everything that was considered accessary to the mere
charms of the eye; her taste had directed most of that
which had not been effected by the noble luxuriance of nature.
Wild roses were already putting forth their leaves in
various fissures of the rocks, where earth had been placed
for their support, and the margin of the little stream, that
actually washed the base of the cliff, winding off in a
charming sweep through the meadows, a rivulet of less than
twenty feet in width, was garnished with willows and alder.
Quitting this sylvan spot, we will return to the little shrubadorned
area in front of the Hut. This spot the captain
called his glacis, while his daughters termed it the lawn.
The hour, it will be remembered, was shortly before sunset,
and thither nearly all the family had repaired to breathe the
freshness of the pure air, and bathe in the genial warmth of
a season, which is ever so grateful to those who have recently
escaped from the rigour of a stern winter. Rude,
and sufficiently picturesque garden-seats, were scattered
about, and on one of these were seated the captain and his
wife; he, with his hair sprinkled with grey, a hale, athletic,
healthy man of sixty, and she a fresh-looking, mild-featured,
and still handsome matron of forty-eight. In front, stood a
venerable-looking personage, of small stature, dressed in
rusty black, of the cut that denoted the attire of a clergyman,
before it was considered aristocratic to wear the outward
symbols of belonging to the church of God. This was
the Rev. Jedidiah Woods, a native of New England, who
had long served as a chaplain in the same regiment with the
captain, and who, being a bachelor, on retired pay, had
dwelt with his old messmate for the last eight years, in the
double capacity of one who exercised the healing art as well
for the soul as for the body. To his other offices, he added
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that of an instructor, in various branches of knowledge, to
the young people. The chaplain, for so he was called by
everybody in and around the Hut, was, at the moment of
which we are writing, busy in expounding to his friends
certain nice distinctions that existed, or which he fancied to
exist, between a tom-cod and a chub, the former of which
fish he very erroneously conceived he held in his hand at
that moment; the Rev. Mr. Woods being a much better
angler than naturalist. To his dissertation Mrs. Willoughby
listened with great good-nature, endeavouring all the while
to feel interested; while her husband kept uttering his “by
all means,” “yes,” “certainly,” “you're quite right, Woods,”
his gaze, at the same time, fastened on Joel Strides, and
Pliny the elder, who were unharnessing their teams, on the
flats beneath, having just finished a “land,” and deeming it
too late to commence another.
Beulah, her pretty face shaded by a large sun-bonnet,
was superintending the labours of Jamie Allen, who, finding
nothing just then to do as a mason, was acting in the capacity
of gardener; his hat was thrown upon the grass, with his
white locks bare, and he was delving about some shrubs,
with the intention of giving them the benefit of a fresh
dressing of manure. Maud, however, without a hat of any
sort, her long, luxuriant, silken, golden tresses covering her
shoulders, and occasionally veiling her warm, rich cheek,
was exercising with a battledore, keeping Little Smash, now
increased in size to quite fourteen stone, rather actively employed
as an assistant, whenever the exuberance of her own
spirits caused her to throw the plaything beyond her reach.
In one of the orchards, near by, two men were employed
trimming the trees. To these the captain next turned all
his attention, just as he had encouraged the chaplain to persevere,
by exclaiming, “out of all question, my dear sir”—
though he was absolutely ignorant that the other had just
advanced a downright scientific heresy. At this critical
moment a cry from Little Smash, that almost equalled a
downfall of crockery in its clamour, drew every eye in her
direction.
“What is the matter, Desdemona?” asked the chaplain,
a little tartly, by no means pleased at having his natural
history startled by sounds so inapplicable to the subject.
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“How often have I told you that the Lord views with displeasure
anything so violent and improper as your out-cries?”
“Can't help him, dominie—nebber can help him, when
he take me sudden. See, masser, dere come Ole Nick!”
There was Nick, sure enough. For the first time, in
more than two years, the Tuscarora was seen approaching
the house, on the long, loping trot that he affected when he
wished to seem busy, or honestly earning his money. He
was advancing by the only road that was ever travelled by
the stranger as he approached the Hut; or, he came up the
valley. As the woman spoke, he had just made his appearance
over the rocks, in the direction of the mills. At that
distance, quite half a mile, he would not have been recognised,
but for this gait, which was too familiar to all at the
Knoll, however, to be mistaken.
“That is Nick, sure enough!” exclaimed the captain.
“The fellow comes at the pace of a runner; or, as if he
were the bearer of some important news!”
“The tricks of Saucy Nick are too well known to deceive
any here,” observed Mrs. Willoughby, who, surrounded by
her husband and children, always felt so happy as to deprecate
every appearance of danger.
“These savages will keep that pace for hours at a time,”
observed the chaplain; “a circumstance that has induced
some naturalists to fancy a difference in the species, if not
in the genus.”
“Is he chub or tom-cod, Woods?” asked the captain,
throwing back on the other all he recollected of the previous
discourse.
“Nay,” observed Mrs. Willoughby, anxiously, “I do
think he may have some intelligence! It is now more than
a twelvemonth since we have seen Nick.”
“It is more than twice twelvemonth, my dear; I have
not seen the fellow's face since I denied him the keg of rum
for his `discovery' of another beaver pond. He has tried to
sell me a new pond every season since the purchase of
this.”
“Do you think he took serious offence, Hugh, at that
refusal? If so, would it not be better to give him what he
asks?”
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“I have thought little about it, and care less, my dear.
Nick and I know each other pretty well. It is an acquaintance
of thirty years' standing, and one that has endured
trials by flood and field, and even by the horse-whip. No
less than three times have I been obliged to make these
salutary applications to Nick's back, with my own hands;
though it is, now, more than ten years since a blow has
passed between us.”
“Does a savage ever forgive a blow?” asked the chaplain,
with a grave air, and a look of surprise.
“I fancy a savage is quite as apt to forgive it, as a civilized
man, Woods. To you, who have served so long in
His Majesty's army, a blow, in the way of punishment, can
be no great novelty.”
“Certainly not, as respects the soldiers; but I did not
know Indians were ever flogged.”
“That is because you never happened to be present at
the ceremony—but, this is Nick, sure enough; and by his
trot I begin to think the fellow has some message, or news.”
“How old is the man, captain? Does an Indian never
break down?”
“Nick must be fairly fifty, now. I have known him more
than half that period, and he was an experienced, and, to
own the truth, a brave and skilful warrior, when we first
met. I rate him fifty, every day of it.”
By this time the new-comer was so near, that the conversation
ceased, all standing gazing at him, as he drew near,
and Maud gathering up her hair, with maiden bashfulness,
though certainly Nick was no stranger. As for Little
Smash, she waddled off to proclaim the news to the younger
Pliny, Mari', and Great Smash, all of whom were still in
the kitchen of the Hut, flourishing, sleek and glistening.
Soon after, Nick arrived. He came up the Knoll on his
loping trot, never stopping until he was within five or six
yards of the captain, when he suddenly halted, folded his
arms, and stood in a composed attitude, lest he should betray
a womanish desire to tell his story. He did not even
pant, but appeared as composed and unmoved, as if he had
walked the half-mile he had been seen to pass over on a
trot.
“Sago — Sago,” cried the captain, heartily — “you are
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welcome back, Nick; I am glad to see you still so active.”
“Sago”—answered the guttural voice of the Indian, who
quietly nodded his head.
“What will you have to refresh you, after such a journey,
Nick—our trees give us good cider, now.”
“Santa Cruz better,”—rejoined the sententious Tuscarora.
“Santa Cruz is certainly stronger,” answered the captain
laughing, “and, in that sense, you may find it better. You
shall have a glass, as soon as we go to the house. What
news do you bring, that you come in so fast?”
“Glass won't do. Nick bring news worth jug. Squaw
give two jug for Nick's news. Is it barg'in?”
“I!” cried Mrs. Willoughby—“what concern can I have
with your news. My daughters are both with me, and
Heaven be praised! both are well. What can I care for
your news, Nick?”
“Got no pap-poose but gal? T'ink you got boy—officer—
great chief—up here, down yonder—over dere.”
“Robert!—Major Willoughby! What can you have to
tell me of my son?”
“Tell all about him, for one jug. Jug out yonder; Nick's
story out here. One good as t'other.”
“You shall have all you ask, Nick.”—These were not
temperance days, when conscience took so firm a stand
between the bottle and the lips.—“You shall have all you
ask, Nick, provided you can really give me good accounts
of my noble boy. Speak, then; what have you to say?”
“Say you see him in ten, five minute. Sent Nick before
to keep moder from too much cry.”
An exclamation from Maud followed; then the ardent
girl was seen rushing down the lawn, her hat thrown aside,
and her bright fair hair again flowing in ringlets on her
shoulders. She flew rather than ran, in the direction of the
mill, where the figure of Robert Willoughby was seen rushing
forward to meet her. Suddenly the girl stopped, threw
herself on a log, and hid her face. In a few minutes she
was locked in her brother's arms. Neither Mrs. Willoughby
nor Beulah imitated this impetuous movement on the part
of Maud; but the captain, chaplain, and even Jamie Allen,
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hastened down the road to meet and welcome the young
major. Ten minutes later, Bob Willoughby was folded to
his mother's heart; then came Beulah's turn; after which,
the news having flown through the household, the young
man had to receive the greetings of Mari', both the Smashes,
the younger Pliny, and all the dogs. A tumultuous quarter
of an hour brought all round, again, to its proper place, and
restored something like order to the Knoll. Still an excitement
prevailed the rest of the day, for the sudden arrival
of a guest always produced a sensation in that retired settlement;
much more likely, then, was the unexpected appearance
of the only son and heir to create one. As everybody
bustled and was in motion, the whole family was in
the parlour, and major Willoughby was receiving the grateful
refreshment of a delicious cup of tea, before the sun set.
The chaplain would have retired out of delicacy, but to this
the captain would not listen; he would have everything
proceed as if the son were a customary guest, though it
might have been seen by the manner in which his mother's
affectionate eye was fastened on his handsome face, as well
as that in which his sister Beulah, in particular, hung about
him, under the pretence of supplying his wants, that the
young man was anything but an every-day inmate.
“How the lad has grown!” said the captain, tears of
pride starting into his eyes, in spite of a very manful resolution
to appear composed and soldier-like.
“I was about to remark that myself, captain,” observed
the chaplain. “I do think Mr. Robert has got to his full
six feet—every inch as tall as you are yourself, my good
sir.”
“That is he, Woods—and taller in one sense. He is a
major, already, at twenty-seven; it is a step I was not able
to reach at near twice the age.”
“That is owing, my dear sir,” answered the son quickly,
and with a slight tremor in his voice, “to your not having
as kind a father as has fallen to my share—or at least one
not as well provided with the means of purchasing.”
“Say none at all, Bob, and you can wound no feeling,
while you will tell the truth. My father died a lieutenant-colonel
when I was a school-boy; I owed my ensigncy to
my uncle Sir Hugh, the father of the present Sir Harry
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Willoughby; after that I owed each step to hard and long
service. Your mother's legacies have helped you along, at
a faster rate, though I do trust there has been some merit
to aid in the preferment.”
“Speaking of Sir Harry Willoughby, sir, reminds me of
one part of my errand to the Hut,” said the major, glancing
his eye towards his father, as if to prepare him for some
unexpected intelligence.
“What of my cousin?” demanded the captain, calmly.
“We have not met in thirty years, and are the next thing
to strangers to each other. Has he made that silly match
of which I heard something when last in York? Has he
disinherited his daughter as he threatened? Use no reserve
here; our friend Woods is one of the family.”
“Sir Harry Willoughby is not married, sir, but dead.”
“Dead!” repeated the captain, setting down his cup, like
one who received a sudden shock. “I hope not without
having been reconciled to his daughter, and providing for
her large family?”
“He died in her arms, and escaped the consequences of
his silly intention to marry his own housekeeper. With
one material exception, he has left Mrs. Bowater his whole
fortune.”
The captain sat thoughtful, for some time; every one else
being silent and attentive. But the mother's feelings prompted
her to inquire as to the nature of the exception.
“Why, mother, contrary to all my expectations, and I
may say wishes, he has left me twenty-five thousand pounds
in the fives. I only hold the money as my father's trustee.”
“You do no such thing, Master Bob, I can tell you!” said
the captain, with emphasis.
The son looked at the father, a moment, as if to see whether
he was understood, and then he proceeded—
“I presume you remember, sir,” said the major, “that
you are the heir to the title?”
“I have not forgot that, major Willoughby; but what is
an empty baronetcy to a happy husband and father like
me, here in the wilds of America? Were I still in the army,
and a colonel, the thing might be of use; as I am, I would
rather have a tolerable road from this place to the Mohawk,
than the duchy of Norfolk, without the estate.”
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“Estate there is none, certainly,” returned the major, in
a tone of a little disappointment, “except the twenty-five
thousand pounds; unless you include that which you possess
where you are; not insignificant, by the way, sir.”
“It will do well enough for old Hugh Willoughby, late a
captain in His Majesty's 23d Regiment of Foot, but not so
well for Sir Hugh. No, no, Bob. Let the baronetcy sleep
awhile; it has been used quite enough for the last hundred
years or more. Out of this circle, there are probably not
ten persons in America, who know that I have any claims
to it.”
The major coloured, and he played with the spoon of his
empty cup, stealing a glance or two around, before he answered.
“I beg your pardon, Sir Hugh—my dear father, I mean—
but—to own the truth, never anticipating such a decision
on your part, I have spoken of the thing to a good many
friends—I dare say, if the truth were known, I've called you
the baronet, or Sir Hugh, to others, at least a dozen times.”
“Well, should it be so, the thing will be forgotten. A
parson can be unfrocked, Woods, and a baronet can be un-baroneted,
I suppose.”
“But, Sir William”—so everybody called the well-known
Sir William Johnson, in the colony of New York—“But,
Sir William found it useful, Willoughby, and so, I dare say,
will his son and successor, Sir John,” observed the attentive
wife and anxious mother; “and if you are not now in the
army, Bob is. It will be a good thing for our son one day,
and ought not to be lost.”
“Ah, I see how it is, Beulah; your mother has no notion
to lose the right of being called Lady Willoughby.”
“I am sure my mother, sir, wishes to be called nothing
that does not become your wife; if you remain Mr. Hugh
Willoughby, she will remain Mrs. Hugh Willoughby. But,
papa, it might be useful to Bob.”
Beulah was a great favourite with the captain, Maud being
only his darling; he listened always to whatever the
former said, therefore, with indulgence and respect. He
often told the chaplain that his daughter Beulah had the true
feelings of her sex, possessing a sort of instinct for whatever
was right and becoming, in woman.
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“Well, Bob may have the baronetcy, then,” he said,
smiling. “Major Sir Robert Willoughby will not sound
amiss in a despatch.”
“But, Bob cannot have it, father,” exclaimed Maud —
“No one can have it but you; and it's a pity it should be
lost.”
“Let him wait, then, until I am out of the way; when he
may claim his own.”
“Can that be done?” inquired the mother, to whom nothing
was without interest that affected her children. “How
is it, Mr. Woods?—may a title be dropped, and then picked
up again?—how is this, Robert?”
“I believe it may, my dear mother—it will always exist,
so long as there is an heir, and my father's disrelish for it
will not be binding on me.”
“Oh! in that case, then, all will come right in the end—
though, as your father does not want it, I wish you could
have it, now.”
This was said with the most satisfied air in the world, as
if the speaker had no possible interest in the matter herself,
and it closed the conversation, for that time. It was not
easy to keep up an interest in anything that related to the
family, where Mrs. Willoughby was concerned, in which
heart did not predominate. A baronetcy was a considerable
dignity in the colony of New York in the year of our Lord,
1775, and it gave its possessor far more importance than it
would have done in England. In the whole colony there
was but one, though a good many were to be found further
south; and he was known as “Sir John,” as, in England,
Lord Rockingham, or, in America, at a later day, La Fayette,
was known as “The Marquis.” Under such circumstances,
then, it would have been no trifling sacrifice to an ordinary
woman to forego the pleasure of being called “my lady.'
But the sacrifice cost our matron no pain, no regrets, no
thought even. The same attachments which made her
happy, away from the world, in the wilderness where she
dwelt, supplanted all other feelings, and left her no room,
or leisure, to think of such vanities. When the discourse
changed, it was understood that “Sir Hugh” was not to be
“Sir Hugh,” and that “Sir Robert” must bide his time.
“Where did you fall in with the Tuscarora, Bob?”
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suddenly asked the captain, as much to bring up another subject,
as through curiosity. “The fellow had been so long
away, I began to think we should never see him again.”
“He tells me, sir, he has been on a war path, somewhere
out among the western savages. It seems these Indians
fight among themselves, from time to time, and Nick has
been trying to keep his hand in. I found him down at
Canajoharie, and took him for a guide, though he had the
honesty to own he was on the point of coming over here,
had I not engaged him.”
“I'll answer for it he didn't tell you that, until you had
paid him for the job.”
“Why, to own the truth, he did not, sir. He pretended
something about owing money in the village, and got his
pay in advance. I learned his intentions only when we
were within a few miles of the Hut.”
“I'm glad to find, Bob, that you give the place its proper
name. How gloriously Sir Hugh Willoughby, Bart., of
The Hut, Tryon county, New York, would sound, Woods!—
Did Nick boast of the scalps he has taken from the Carthaginians?”
“He lays claim to three, I believe, though I have seen
none of his trophies.”
“The Roman hero!—Yet, I have known Nick rather a
dangerous warrior. He was out against us, in some of my
earliest service, and our acquaintance was made by my
saving his life from the bayonet of one of my own grenadiers.
I thought the fellow remembered the act for some
years; but, in the end, I believe I flogged all the gratitude
out of him. His motives, now, are concentrated in the little
island of Santa Cruz.”
“Here he is, father,” said Maud, stretching her light,
flexible form out of a window. “Mike and the Indian are
seated at the lower spring, with a jug between them, and
appear to be in a deep conversation.”
“Ay, I remember on their first acquaintance, that Mike
mistook Saucy Nick, for Old Nick. The Indian was indignant
for a while, at being mistaken for the Evil Spirit,
but the worthies soon found a bond of union between them,
and, before six months, he and the Irishman became sworn
friends. It is said whenever two human beings love a
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common principle, that it never fails to make them firm
allies.”
“And what was the principle, in this case, captain Willoughby?”
inquired the chaplain, with curiosity.
“Santa Cruz. Mike renounced whiskey altogether, after
he came to America, and took to rum. As for Nick, he
was never so vulgar as to find pleasure in the former
liquor.”
The whole party had gathered to the windows, while the
discourse was proceeding, and looking out, each individual
saw Mike and his friend, in the situation described by Maud.
The two amateurs—connoisseurs would not be misapplied,
either—had seated themselves at the brink of a spring of
delicious water, and removing the corn-cob that Pliny the
younger had felt it to be classical to affix to the nozzle of a
quart jug, had, some time before, commenced the delightful
recreation of sounding the depth, not of the spring, but of
the vessel. As respects the former, Mike, who was a wag
in his way, had taken a hint from a practice said to be common
in Ireland, called “potatoe and point,” which means
to eat the potatoe and point at the butter; declaring that
“rum and p'int” was every bit as entertaining as a “p'int
of rum.” On this principle, then, with a broad grin on a
face that opened from ear to ear whenever he laughed, the
county Leitrim-man would gravely point his finger at the
water, in a sort of mock-homage, and follow up the movement
with such a suck at the nozzle, as, aided by the efforts
of Nick, soon analyzed the upper half of the liquor that had
entered by that very passage. All this time, conversation
did not flag, and, as the parties grew warm, confidence increased,
though reason sensibly diminished. As a part of
this discourse will have some bearing on what is to follow,
it may be in place to relate it, here.
“Yer'e a jewel, ye be, ould Nick, or young Nick!” cried
Mike, in an ecstasy of friendship, just after he had completed his first half-pint. “Yer'e as wilcome at the Huts,
as if ye owned thim, and I love ye as I did my own brother,
before I left the county Leitrim—paice to his sowl!”
“He dead?” asked Nick, sententiously; for he had lived
enough among the pale-faces to have some notions of their
theory about the soul.
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“That's more than I know—but, living or dead, the man
must have a sowl, ye understand, Nicholas. A human
crathure widout a sowl, is what I call a heretick; and none
of the O'Hearns ever came to that.”
Nick was tolerably drunk, but by no means so far gone,
that he had not manners enough to make a grave, and somewhat
dignified gesture; which was as much as to say he was
familiar with the subject.
“All go ole fashion here?” he asked, avoiding every appearance
of curiosity, however.
“That does it—that it does, Nicholas. All goes ould
enough. The captain begins to get ould; and the missus is
oulder than she used to be; and Joel's wife looks a hundred,
though she isn't t'irty; and Joel, himself, the spalpeen—he
looks—” a gulp at the jug stopped the communication.
“Dirty, too?” added the sententious Tuscarora, who did
not comprehend more than half his friend said.
“Ay, dir-r-ty—he's always that. He's a dirthy fellow,
that thinks his yankee charactur is above all other things.”
Nick's countenance became illuminated with an expression
nowise akin to that produced by rum, and he fastened
on his companion one of his fiery gazes, which occasionally
seemed to penetrate to the centre of the object looked at.
“Why pale-face hate one anoder? Why Irishman don't
love yankee?”
“Och! love the crathure, is it? You'd betther ask me to
love a to'd” — for so Michael would pronounce the word
`toad.' “What is there to love about him, but skin and
bone! I'd as soon love a skiliten. Yes—an immortal skiliten.”
Nick made another gesture, and then he endeavoured to
reflect, like one who had a grave business in contemplation.
The Santa Cruz confused his brain, but the Indian never
entirely lost his presence of mind; or never, at least, so
long as he could either see or walk.
“Don't like him”—rejoined Nick. “Like anybody?”
“To be sure I does—I like the capt'in—och, he's a jontleman—
and I likes the missus; she's a laddy—and I likes
Miss Beuly, who's a swate young woman—and then there's
Miss Maud, who's the delight of my eyes. Fegs, but isn't
she a crathure to relish!”
Mike spoke like a good honest fellow, as he was at the
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bottom, with all his heart and soul. The Indian did not
seem pleased, but he made no answer.
“You've been in the wars then, Nick?” asked the Irishman,
after a short pause.
“Yes—Nick been chief ag'in—take scalps.”
“Ach! That's a mighty ugly thrade! If you'd tell 'em
that in Ireland, they'd not think it a possibility.”
“No like fight in Ireland, hah?”
“I'll not say that—no, I'll not say that; for many's the
jollification at which the fighting is the chafe amusement.
But we likes thumping on the head—not skinning it.”
“That your fashion—my fashion take scalp. You thump;
I skin—which best?”
“Augh! skinnin' is a dreadthful operation; but shillaleh-work
comes nately and nat'rally. How many of these said
scalps, now, may ye have picked up, Nick, in yer last
journey?”
“T'ree—all man and woman—no pappoose. One big
enough make two; so call him four.”
“Oh! Divil burn ye, Nick; but there's a spice of your
namesake in ye, afther all. T'ree human crathures skinned,
and you not satisfied, and so ye'll chait a bit to make 'em
four! D'ye never think, now, of yer latther ind? D'ye
never confess?”
“T'ink every day of dat. Hope to find more, before last
day come. Plenty scalp here; ha, Mike?”
This was said a little incautiously, perhaps, but it was
said under a strong native impulse. The Irishman, however,
was never very logical or clear-headed; and three gills of
rum had, by no means, helped to purify his brain. He
heard the word “plenty,” knew he was well fed and warmly
clad, and just now, that Santa Cruz so much abounded, the
term seemed peculiarly applicable.
“It's a plinthiful place it is, is this very manor. There's
all sorts of things in it that's wanted. There's food and
raiment, and cattle, and grain, and porkers, and praiching—
yes, divil burn it, Nick, but there's what goes for praiching,
though it's no more like what we calls praiching than yer'e
like Miss Maud in comeliness, and ye'll own, yourself, Nick,
yer'e no beauty.”
“Got handsome hair,” said Nick, surlily—“How she
look widout scalp?”
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“The likes of her, is it! Who ever saw one of her beauthy
without the finest hair that ever was! What do you get for
your scalps?—are they of any use when you find 'em?”
“Bring plenty bye'm bye. Whole country glad to see
him before long—den beavers get pond ag'in.”
“How's that—how's that, Indian? Baiver get pounded?
There's no pound, hereabouts, and baivers is not an animal
to be shut up like a hog!”
Nick perceived that his friend was past argumentation,
and as he himself was approaching the state when the
drunkard receives delight from he knows not what, it is
unnecessary to relate any more of the dialogue. The jug
was finished, each man very honestly drinking his pint, and
as naturally submitting to its consequences; and this so
much the more because the two were so engrossed with the
rum that both forgot to pay that attention to the spring that
might have been expected from its proximity.
CHAPTER V.
The soul, my lord, is fashioned—like the lyre.
Strike one chord suddenly, and others vibrate.
Your name abruptly mentioned, casual words
Of comment on your deeds, praise from your uncle,
News from the armies, talk of your return,
A word let fall touching your youthful passion,
Suffused her cheek, call'd to her drooping eye
A momentary lustre, made her pulse
Leap headlong, and her bosom palpitate.
Hillhouse.
The approach of night, at sea and in a wilderness, has
always something more solemn in it, than on land in the
centre of civilization. As the curtain is drawn before his
eyes, the solitude of the mariner is increased, while even his
sleepless vigilance seems, in a measure, baffled, by the
manner in which he is cut off from the signs of the hour.
Thus, too, in the forest, or in an isolated clearing, the mysteries
of the woods are deepened, and danger is robbed of
its forethought and customary guards. That evening, Major
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Willoughby stood at a window with an arm round the slender
waist of Beulah, Maud standing a little aloof; and, as the
twilight retired, leaving the shadows of evening to thicken
on the forest that lay within a few hundred feet of that side
of the Hut, and casting a gloom over the whole of the quiet
solitude, he felt the force of the feeling just mentioned, in a
degree he had never before experienced.
“This is a very retired abode, my sisters,” he said,
thoughtfully. “Do my father and mother never speak of
bringing you out more into the world?”
“They take us to New York every winter, now father is
in the Assembly,” quietly answered Beulah. “We expected
to meet you there, last season, and were greatly disappointed
that you did not come.”
“My regiment was sent to the eastward, as you know,
and having just received my new rank of major, it would
not do to be absent at the moment. Do you ever see any
one here, besides those who belong to the manor?”
“Oh! yes”—exclaimed Maud eagerly—then she paused,
as if sorry she had said anything; continuing, after a little
pause, in a much more moderated vein—“I mean occasionally.
No doubt the place is very retired.”
“Of what characters are your visiters?—hunters, trappers,
settlers—savages or travellers?”
Maud did not answer; but, Beulah, after waiting a moment
for her sister to reply, took that office on herself.
“Some of all,” she said, “though few certainly of the
latter class. The hunters are often here; one or two a
month, in the mild season; settlers rarely, as you may suppose,
since my father will not sell, and there are not many
about, I believe; the Indians come more frequently, though
I think we have seen less of them, during Nick's absence,
than while he was more with us. Still we have as many as
a hundred in a year, perhaps, counting the women. They
come in parties, you know, and five or six of these will
make that number. As for travellers, they are rare; being
generally surveyors, land-hunters, or perhaps a proprietor
who is looking up his estate. We had two of the last in the
fall, before we went below.”
“That is singular; and yet one might well look for an
estate in a wilderness like this. Who were your proprietors?”
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“An elderly man, and a young one. The first was a sort
of partner of the late Sir William's, I believe, who has a
grant somewhere near us, for which he was searching. His
name was Fonda. The other was one of the Beekmans,
who has lately succeeded his father in a property of considerable
extent, somewhere at no great distance from us, and
came to take a look at it. They say he has quite a hundred
thousand acres, in one body.”
“And did he find his land? Tracts of thousands and tens
of thousands, are sometimes not to be discovered.”
“We saw him twice, going and returning, and he was
successful. The last time, he was detained by a snow-storm,
and staid with us some days — so long, indeed, that he
remained, and accompanied us out, when we went below.
We saw much of him, too, last winter, in town.”
“Maud, you wrote me nothing of all this! Are visiters
of this sort so very common that you do not speak of them
in your letters?”
“Did I not?—Beulah will scarce pardon me for that.
She thinks Mr. Evert Beekman more worthy of a place in
a letter, than I do, perhaps.”
“I think him a very respectable and sensible young
man,” answered Beulah quietly, though there was a deeper
tint on her cheek than common, which it was too dark to
see. “I am not certain, however, he need fill much space
in the letters of either of your sisters.”
“Well, this is something gleaned!” said the major, laughing—
“and now, Beulah, if you will only let out a secret of
the same sort about Maud, I shall be au fait of all the
family mysteries.”
“All!” repeated Maud, quickly—“would there be nothing
to tell of a certain major Willoughby, brother of
mine?”
“Not a syllable. I am as heart-whole as a sound oak,
and hope to remain so. At all events, all I love is in this
house. To tell you the truth, girls, these are not times for
a soldier to think of anything but his duty. The quarrel is
getting to be serious between the mother country and her
colonies.”
“Not so serious, brother,” observed Beulah, earnestly,
“as to amount to that. Evert Beekman thinks there will
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be trouble, but he does not appear to fancy it will go as far
as very serious violence.”
“Evert Beekman!—most of that family are loyal, I believe;
how is it with this Evert?”
“I dare say, you would call him a rebel,” answered Maud,
laughing, for now Beulah chose to be silent, leaving her
sister to explain. “He is not fiery; but he calls himself
an American, with emphasis; and that is saying a good
deal, when it means he is not an Englishman. Pray what
do you call yourself, Bob?”
“I!—Certainly an American in one sense, but an Englishman
in another. An American, as my father was a
Cumberland-man, and an Englishman as a subject, and as
connected with the empire.”
“As St. Paul was a Roman. Heigho!—Well, I fear I
have but one character—or, if I have two, they are an
American, and a New York girl. Did I dress in scarlet,
as you do, I might feel English too, possibly.”
“This is making a triffing misunderstanding too serious,”
observed Beulah. “Nothing can come of all the big words
that have been used, than more big words. I know that is
Evert Beekman's opinion.”
“I hope you may prove a true prophet,” answered the
major, once more buried in thought. “This place does
seem to be fearfully retired for a family like ours. I hope
my father may be persuaded to pass more of his time in
New York. Does he ever speak on the subject, girls, or
appear to have any uneasiness?”
“Uneasiness about what? The place is health itself;
all sorts of fevers, and agues, and those things being quite
unknown. Mamma says the toothache, even, cannot be found
in this healthful spot.”
“That is lucky—and, yet, I wish captain Willoughby—
Sir Hugh Willoughby could be induced to live more in
New York. Girls of your time of life, ought to be in the
way of seeing the world, too.”
“In other words, of seeing admirers, major Bob,” said
Maud, laughing, and bending forward to steal a glance in
her brother's face. “Good night. Sir Hugh wishes us to
send you into his library when we can spare you, and my
lady has sent us a hint that it is ten o'clock, at which hour
it is usual for sober people to retire.”
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The major kissed both sisters with warm affection—
Beulah fancied with a sobered tenderness, and Maud thought
kindly—and then they retired to join their mother, while he
went to seek his father.
The captain was smoking in the library, as a room of
all-head-work was called, in company with the chaplain.
The practice of using tobacco in this form, had grown to be
so strong in both of these old inmates of garrisons, that they
usually passed an hour, in the recreation, before they went
to bed. Nor shall we mislead the reader with any notions
of fine-flavoured Havana segars; pipes, with Virginia cut,
being the materials employed in the indulgence. A little
excellent Cogniac and water, in which however the spring
was not as much neglected, as in the orgies related in the
previous chapter, moistened their lips, from time to time,
giving a certain zest and comfort to their enjoyments. Just
as the door opened to admit the major, he was the subject
of discourse, the proud parent and the partial friend finding
almost an equal gratification in discussing his fine, manly
appearance, good qualities, and future hopes. His presence
was untimely, then, in one sense; though he was welcome,
and, indeed, expected. The captain pushed a chair to his
son, and invited him to take a seat near the table, which
held a spare pipe or two, a box of tobacco, a decanter of
excellent brandy, a pitcher of pure water, all pleasant companions
to the elderly gentlemen, then in possession.
“I suppose you are too much of a maccaroni, Bob, to
smoke,” observed the smiling father. “I detested a pipe at
your time of life; or may say, I was afraid of it; the only
smoke that was in fashion among our scarlet coats being
the smoke of gunpowder. Well, how comes on Gage, and
your neighbours the Yankees?”
“Why, sir,” answered the major, looking behind him, to
make sure that the door was shut—“Why, sir, to own the
truth, my visit, here, just at this moment, is connected with
the present state of that quarrel.”
Both the captain and the chaplain drew the pipes from
their mouths, holding them suspended in surprise and attention.
“The deuce it is!” exclaimed the former. “I thought I
owed this unexpected pleasure to your affectionate desire to
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let me know I had inherited the empty honours of a baronetey!”
“That was one motive, sir, but the least. I beg you to
remember the awkwardness of my position, as a king's
officer, in the midst of enemies.”
“The devil! I say, parson, this exceeds heresy and
schism! Do you call lodging in your father's house, major
Willoughby, being in the midst of enemies? This is rebellion
against nature, and is worse than rebellion against the
king.”
“My dear father, no one feels more secure with you,
than I do; or, even, with Mr. Woods, here. But, there are
others besides you two, in this part of the world, and your
very settlement may not be safe a week longer; probably
would not be, if my presence in it were known.”
Both the listeners, now, fairly laid down their pipes, and
the smoke began gradually to dissipate, as it might have
been rising from a field of battle. One looked at the other,
in wonder, and, then, both looked at the major, in curiosity.
“What is the meaning of all this, my son?” asked the
captain, gravely. “Has anything new occurred to complicate
the old causes of quarrel?”
“Blood has, at length, been drawn, sir; open rebellion
has commenced!”
“This is a serious matter, indeed, if it be really so. But
do you not exaggerate the consequences of some fresh indiscretion
of the soldiery, in firing on the people? Remember,
in the other affair, even the colonial authorities justified
the officers.”
“This is a very different matter, sir. Blood has not been
drawn in a riot, but in a battle.”
“Battle! You amaze me, sir! That is indeed a serious
matter, and may lead to most serious consequences!”
“The Lord preserve us from evil times,” ejaculated the
chaplain, “and lead us, poor, dependent creatures that we
are, into the paths of peace and quietness! Without his
grace, we are the blind leading the blind.”
“Do you mean, major Willoughby, that armed and disciplined
bodies have met in actual conflict?”
“Perhaps not literally so, my dear father; but the minute-men
of Massachusetts, and His Majesty's forces, have met
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and fought. This I know, full well; for my own regiment
was in the field, and, I hope it is unnecessary to add, that
its second officer was not absent.”
“Of course these minute-men—rabble would be the better
word—could not stand before you?” said the captain, compressing
his lips, under a strong impulse of military pride.
Major Willoughby coloured, and, to own the truth, at that
moment he wished the Rev. Mr. Woods, if not literally at
the devil, at least safe and sound in another room; anywhere,
so it were out of ear-shot of the answer.
“Why, sir,” he said, hesitating, not to say stammering,
notwithstanding a prodigious effort to seem philosophical
and calm—“To own the truth, these minute-fellows are not
quite as contemptible as we soldiers would be apt to think.
It was a stone-wall affair, and dodging work; and, so, you
know, sir, drilled troops wouldn't have the usual chance.
They pressed us pretty warmly on the retreat.”
“Retreat! Major Willoughby!”
“I called it retreat, sure enough; but it was only a march
in, again, after having done the business on which we went
out. I shall admit, I say, sir, that we were hard pressed,
until reinforced.”
“Reinforced, my dear Bob! Your regiment, our regiment
could not need a reinforcement against all the Yankees
in New England.”
The major could not abstain from laughing, a little, at
this exhibition of his father's esprit de corps; but native
frankness, and love of truth, compelled him to admit the
contrary.
“It did, sir, notwithstanding,” he answered; “and, not
to mince the matter, it needed it confoundedly. Some of
our officers who have seen the hardest service of the last
war, declare, that taking the march, and the popping work,
and the distance, altogether, it was the warmest day they
remember. Our loss, too, was by no means insignificant,
as I hope you will believe, when you know the troops engaged.
We report something like three hundred casualties.”
The captain did not answer for quite a minute. All this
time he sat thoughtful, and even pale; for his mind was
teeming with the pregnant consequences of such an
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outbreak. Then he desired his son to give a succinct, but
connected history of the whole affair. The major complied,
beginning his narrative with an account of the general state
of the country, and concluding it, by giving, as far as it was
possible for one whose professional pride and political feelings
were too deeply involved to be entirely impartial, a
reasonably just account of the particular occurrence already
mentioned.
The events that led to, and the hot skirmish which it is the
practice of the country to call the Battle of Lexington, and
the incidents of the day itself, are too familiar to the ordinary
reader, to require repetition here. The major explained
all the military points very clearly, did full justice to the
perseverance and daring of the provincials, as he called his
enemies—for, an American himself, he would not term them
Americans—and threw in as many explanatory remarks as
he could think of, by way of vindicating the “march in,
again.” This he did, too, quite as much out of filial piety,
as out of self-love; for, to own the truth, the captain's mortification,
as a soldier, was so very evident as to give his son
sensible pain.
“The effect of all this,” continued the major, when his
narrative of the military movements was ended, “has been
to raise a tremendous feeling, throughout the country, and
God knows what is to follow.”
“And this you have come hither to tell me, Robert,” said
the father, kindly. “It is well done, and as I would have
expected from you. We might have passed the summer,
here, and not have heard a whisper of so important an
event.”
“Soon after the affair—or, as soon as we got some notion
of its effect on the provinces, general Gage sent me, privately,
with despatches to governor Tryon. He, governor
Tryon, was aware of your position; and, as I had also to
communicate the death of Sir Harry Willoughby, he directed
me to come up the river, privately, have an interview with
Sir John, if possible, and then push on, under a feigned
name, and communicate with you. He thinks, now Sir
William is dead, that with your estate, and new rank, and
local influence, you might be very serviceable in sustaining
the royal cause; for, it is not to be concealed that this affair
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is likely to take the character of an open and wide-spread
revolt against the authority of the crown.”
“General Tryon does me too much honour,” answered
the captain, coldly. “My estate is a small body of wild
land; my influence extends little beyond this beaver meadow,
and is confined to my own household, and some fifteen
or twenty labourers; and as for the new rank of which you
speak, it is not likely the colonists will care much for that,
if they disregard the rights of the king. Still, you have
acted like a son in running the risk you do, Bob; and I pray
God you may get back to your regiment, in safety.”
“This is a cordial to my hopes, sir; for nothing would
pain me more than to believe you think it my duty, because
I was born in the colonies, to throw up my commission, and
take side with the rebels.”
“I do not conceive that to be your duty, any more than
I conceive it to be mine to take sides against them, because
I happened to be born in England. It is a weak view of
moral obligations, that confines them merely to the accidents
of birth, and birth-place. Such a subsequent state of things
may have grown up, as to change all our duties, and it is
necessary that we discharge them as they are; not as they
may have been, hitherto, or may be, hereafter. Those who
clamour so much about mere birth-place, usually have no
very clear sense of their higher obligations. Over our birth
we can have no control; while we are rigidly responsible
for the fulfilment of obligations voluntarily contracted.”
“Do you reason thus, captain?” asked the chaplain, with
strong interest—“Now, I confess, I feel, in this matter, not
only very much like a native American, but very much
like a native Yankee, in the bargain. You know I was born
in the Bay, and—the major must excuse me—but, it ill-becomes
my cloth to deceive—I hope the major will pardon
me—I—I do hope—”
“Speak out, Mr. Woods,” said Robert Willoughby,
smiling—“You have nothing to fear from your old friend
the major.”
“So I thought—so I thought—well, then, I was glad—
yes, really rejoiced at heart, to hear that my countrymen,
down-east, there, had made the king's troops scamper.”
“I am not aware that I used any such terms, sir, in
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connection with the manner in which we marched in, after the
duty we went out on was performed,” returned the young
soldier, a little stiffly. “I suppose it is natural for one
Yankee to sympathize with another; but, my father, Mr.
Woods, is an Old England, and not a New-England-man;
and he may be excused if he feel more for the servants of
the crown.”
“Certainly, my dear major—certainly, my dear Mr. Robert—
my old pupil, and, I hope, my friend—all this is true
enough, and very natural. I allow captain Willoughby to
wish the best for the king's troops, while I wish the best for
my own countrymen.”
“This is natural, on both sides, out of all question, though
it by no means follows that it is right. `Our country, right
or wrong,' is a high-sounding maxim, but it is scarcely the
honest man's maxim. Our country, after all, cannot have
nearer claims upon us, than our parents for instance; and
who can claim a moral right to sustain even his own father,
in error, injustice, or crime? No, no—I hate your pithy
sayings; they commonly mean nothing that is substantially
good, at bottom.”
“But one's country, in a time of actual war, sir!” said
the major, in a tone of as much remonstrance as habit would
allow him to use to his own father.
“Quite true, Bob; but the difficulty here, is to know
which is one's country. It is a family quarrel, at the best,
and it will hardly do to talk about foreigners, at all. It is the
same as if I should treat Maud unkindly, or harshly, because
she is the child of only a friend, and not my own
natural daughter. As God is my judge, Woods, I am unconscious
of not loving Maud Meredith, at this moment, as
tenderly as I love Beulah Willoughby. There was a period,
in her childhood, when the playful little witch had most of
my heart, I am afraid, if the truth were known. It is use,
and duty, then, and not mere birth, that ought to tie our
hearts.”
The major thought it might very well be that one child
should be loved more than another, though he did not understand
how there could be a divided allegiance. The
chaplain looked at the subject with views still more narrowed,
and he took up the cudgels of argument in sober earnest,
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conceiving this to be as good an opportunity as another, for
disposing of the matter.
“I am all for birth, and blood, and natural ties,” he said,
“always excepting the peculiar claims of Miss Maud, whose
case is sui generis, and not to be confounded with any
other case. A man can have but one country, any more
than he can have but one nature; and, as he is forced to
be true to that nature, so ought he morally to be true to
that country. The captain says, that it is difficult to determine
which is one's country, in a civil war; but I cannot
admit the argument. If Massachusetts and England get to
blows, Massachusetts is my country; if Suffolk and Worcester
counties get into a quarrel, my duty calls me to
Worcester, where I was born; and so I should carry out
the principle from country to country, county to county,
town to town, parish to parish; or, even household to household.”
“This is an extraordinary view of one's duty, indeed,
my dear Mr. Woods,” cried the major, with a good deal of
animation; “and if one-half the household quarrelled with
the other, you would take sides with that in which you
happened to find yourself, at the moment.”
“It is an extraordinary view of one's duty, for a parson;”
observed the captain. “Let us reason backward a little,
and ascertain where we shall come out. You put the head
of the household out of the question. Has he no claims?
Is a father to be altogether overlooked in the struggle between
the children? Are his laws to be broken—his rights
invaded—or his person to be maltreated, perhaps, and his
curse disregarded, because a set of unruly children get by
the ears, on points connected with their own selfishness?”
“I give up the household,” cried the chaplain, “for the
bible settles that; and what the bible disposes of, is beyond
dispute—`Honour thy father and thy mother, that thy days
may be long in the land which the Lord thy God giveth
thee'—are terrible words, and must not be disobeyed. But
the decalogue has not another syllable which touches the
question. `Thou shalt not kill,' means murder only; common,
vulgar murder—and `thou shalt not steal,' `thou shalt
not commit adultery,' &c., don't bear on civil war, as I see.
`Remember the Sabbath to keep it holy'—`Thou shalt not
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covet the ox nor the ass'—`Thou shalt not take the name
of the Lord thy God in vain'—none of these, not one of
them, bears, at all, on this question.”
“What do you think of the words of the Saviour, where
he tells us to `render unto Cæsar the things which are
Cæsar's?' Has Cæsar no rights here? Can Massachusetts
and my Lord North settle their quarrels in such a manner
as to put Cæsar altogether out of view?”
The chaplain looked down a moment, pondered a little,
and then he came up to the attack, again, with renewed
ardour.
“Cæsar is out of the question here. If His Majesty will
come and take sides with us, we shall be ready to honour
and obey him; but if he choose to remain alienated from us,
it is his act, not ours.”
“This is a new mode of settling allegiance! If Cæsar
will do as we wish, he shall still be Cæsar; but, if he refuse
to do as we wish, then down with Cæsar. I am an old
soldier, Woods, and while I feel that this question has two
sides to it, my disposition to reverence and honour the king
is still strong.”
The major appeared delighted, and, finding matters going
on so favourably, he pleaded fatigue and withdrew, feeling
satisfied that, if his father fairly got into a warm discussion,
taking the loyal side of the question, he would do more to
confirm himself in the desired views, than could be effected
by any other means. By this time, the disputants were so
warm as scarcely to notice the disappearance of the young
man, the argument proceeding.
The subject is too hackneyed, and, indeed, possesses too
little interest, to induce us to give more than an outline of
what passed. The captain and the chaplain belonged to
that class of friends, which may be termed argumentative.
Their constant discussions were a strong link in the chain
of esteem; for they had a tendency to enliven their solitude,
and to give a zest to lives that, without them, would have
been exceedingly monotonous. Their ordinary subjects
were theology and war; the chaplain having some practical
knowledge of the last, and the captain a lively disposition
to the first. In these discussions, the clergyman was good-natured,
and the soldier polite; circumstances that tended
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to render them far more agreeable to the listeners than they
might otherwise have proved.
On the present occasion, the chaplain rang the changes
diligently, on the natural feelings, while his friend spoke
most of the higher duties. The ad captandum part of the
argument, oddly enough, fell to the share of the minister of
the church; while the intellectual, discriminating, and really
logical portion of the subject, was handled by one trained
in garrisons and camps, with a truth, both of ethics and
reason, that would have done credit to a drilled casuist.
The war of words continued till past midnight, both disputants
soon getting back to their pipes, carrying on the
conflict amid a smoke that did no dishonour to such a well-contested
field. Leaving the captain and his friend thus
intently engaged, we will take one or two glimpses into
different parts of the house, before we cause all our characters
to retire for the night.
About the time the battle in the library was at its height,
Mrs. Willoughby was alone in her room, having disposed
of all the cares, and most of the duties of the day. The
mother's heart was filled with a calm delight that it would
have been difficult for herself to describe. All she held most
dear on earth, her husband, her kind-hearted, faithful, long-loved
husband; her noble son, the pride and joy of her
heart; Beulah, her own natural-born daughter, the mild,
tractable, sincere, true-hearted child that so much resembled
herself; and Maud, the adopted, one rendered dear by solicitude
and tenderness, and now so fondly beloved on her
own account, were all with her, beneath her own roof,
almost within the circle of her arms. The Hutted Knoll
was no longer a solitude; the manor was not a wilderness
to her; for where her heart was, there truly was her treasure,
also. After passing a few minutes in silent, but de-lightful
thought, this excellent, guileless woman knelt and
poured out her soul in thanksgivings to the Being, who had
surrounded her lot with so many blessings. Alas! little did
she suspect the extent, duration, and direful nature of the
evils which, at that very moment, were pending over her
native country, or the pains that her own affectionate heart
was to endure! The major had not suffered a whisper of
the real nature of his errand to escape him, except to his
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father and the chaplain; and we will now follow him to his
apartment, and pass a minute, tête-à-tête, with the young
soldier, ere he too lays his head on his pillow.
A couple of neat rooms were prepared and furnished, that
were held sacred to the uses of the heir. They were known
to the whole household, black and white, as the “young
captain's quarters;” and even Maud called them, in her
laughing off-handedness, “Bob's Sanctum.” Here, then,
the major found everything as he left it on his last visit, a
twelvemonth before; and some few things that were strangers
to him, in the bargain. In that day, toilets covered
with muslin, more or less worked and ornamented, were a
regular appliance of every bed-room, of a better-class house,
throughout America. The more modern “Duchesses,”
“Psychés,” “dressing-tables,” &c. &c., of our own extravagant
and benefit-of-the-act-taking generation, were then
unknown; a moderately-sized glass, surrounded by curved,
gilded ornaments, hanging against the wall, above the said
muslin-covered table, quite as a matter of law, if not of domestic
faith.
As soon as the major had set down his candle, he looked
about him, as one recognises old friends, pleased at renewing
his acquaintance with so many dear and cherished objects.
The very playthings of his childhood were there;
and, even a beautiful and long-used hoop, was embellished
with ribbons, by some hand unknown to himself. “Can
this be my mother?” thought the young man, approaching
to examine the well-remembered hoop, which he had never
found so honoured before; “can my kind, tender-hearted
mother, who never will forget that I am no longer a child,
can she have really done this? I must laugh at her, to-morrow,
about it, even while I kiss and bless her.” Then
he turned to the toilet, where stood a basket, filled with
different articles, which, at once, he understood were offerings
to himself. Never had he visited the Hut without finding
such a basket in his room at night. It was a tender
proof how truly and well he was remembered, in his absence.
“Ah!” thought the major, as he opened a bundle of knit
lamb's-wool stockings, “here is my dear mother again, with
her thoughts about damp feet, and the exposure of service.
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And a dozen shirts, too, with `Beulah' pinned on one of
them—how the deuce does the dear girl suppose I am to
carry away such a stock of linen, without even a horse to
ease me of a bundle? My kit would be like that of the commander-in-chief,
were I to take away all that these dear
relatives design for me. What's this?—a purse! a handsome
silken purse, too, with Beulah's name on it. Has
Maud nothing, here? Why has Maud forgotten me! Ruffles,
handkerchiefs, garters—yes, here is a pair of my good mother's
own knitting, but nothing of Maud's—Ha! what have
we here? As I live, a beautiful silken scarf—netted in a
way to make a whole regiment envious. Can this have
been bought, or has it been the work of a twelvemonth?
No name on it, either. Would my father have done this?
Perhaps it is one of his old scarfs—if so, it is an old new
one, for I do not think it has ever been worn. I must inquire
into this, in the morning—I wonder there is nothing
of Maud's!”
As the major laid aside his presents, he kissed the scarf,
and then—I regret to say without saying his prayers—the
young man went to bed.
The scene must now be transferred to the room where
the sisters—in affection, if not in blood—were about to seek
their pillows also. Maud, ever the quickest and most prompt
in her movements, was already in her night-clothes; and,
wrapping a shawl about herself, was seated waiting for
Beulah to finish her nightly orisons. It was not long before
the latter rose from her knees, and then our heroine spoke.
“The major must have examined the basket by this time,”
she cried, her cheek rivalling the tint of a riband it leaned
against, on the back of the chair. “I heard his heavy
tramp—tramp—tramp—as he went to his room—how differently
these men walk from us girls, Beulah!”
“They do, indeed; and Bob has got to be so large and
heavy, now, that he quite frightens me, sometimes. Do you
not think he grows wonderfully like papa?”
“I do not see it. He wears his own hair, and it's a pity
he should ever cut it off, it's so handsome and curling. Then
he is taller, but lighter—has more colour—is so much
younger—and everyway so different, I wonder you think
so. I do not think him in the least like father.”
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“Well, that is odd, Maud. Both mother and myself were
struck with the resemblance, this evening, and we were both
delighted to see it. Papa is quite handsome, and so I think
is Bob. Mother says he is not quite as handsome as father
was, at his age, but so like him, it is surprising!”
“Men may be handsome and not alike. Father is certainly
one of the handsomest elderly men of my acquaintance—
and the major is so-so-ish—but, I wonder you can
think a man of seven-and-twenty so very like one of sixty-odd.
Bob tells me he can play the flute quite readily now,
Beulah.”
“I dare say; he does everything he undertakes uncommonly
well. Mr. Woods said, a few days since, he had
never met with a boy who was quicker at his mathematics.”
“Oh! All Mr. Wood's geese are swans. I dare say there
have been other boys who were quite as clever. I do not
believe in non-pareils, Beulah.”
“You surprise me, Maud—you, whom I always supposed
such a friend of Bob's! He thinks everything you do, too,
so perfect! Now, this very evening, he was looking at the
sketch you have made of the Knoll, and he protested he did
not know a regular artist in England, even, that would have
done it better.”
Maud stole a glance at her sister, while the latter was
speaking, from under her cap, and her cheeks now fairly
put the riband to shame; but her smile was still saucy and
wilful.
“Oh! nonsense,” she said—“Bob's no judge of drawings—
He scarce knows a tree from a horse!”
“I'm surprised to hear you say so, Maud,” said the
generous-minded and affectionate Beulah, who could see no
imperfection in Bob; “and that of your brother. When
he taught you to draw, you thought him well skilled as an
artist.”
“Did I? — I dare say I'm a capricious creature — but,
somehow, I don't regard Bob, just as I used to. He has
been away from us so much, of late, you know—and the
army makes men so formidable—and, they are not like us,
you know — and, altogether, I think Bob excessively
changed.”
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“Well, I'm glad mamma don't hear this, Maud. She
looks upon her son, now he is a major, and twenty-seven,
just as she used to look upon him, when he was in petticoats—
nay, I think she considers us all exactly as so many
little children.”
“She is a dear, good mother, I know,” said Maud, with
emphasis, tears starting to her eyes, involuntarily, almost
impetuously—“whatever she says, does, wishes, hopes, or
thinks, is right.”
“Oh! I knew you would come to, as soon as there was a
question about mother! Well, for my part, I have no such
horror of men, as not to feel just as much tenderness for
father or brother, as I feel for mamma, herself.”
“Not for Bob, Beulah. Tenderness for Bob! Why, my
dear sister, that is feeling tenderness for a Major of Foot,
a very different thing from feeling it for one's mother. As
for papa—dear me, he is glorious, and I do so love him!”
“You ought to, Maud; for you were, and I am not certain
that you are not, at this moment, his darling.”
It was odd that this was said without the least thought,
on the part of the speaker, that Maud was not her natural
sister—that, in fact, she was not in the least degree related
to her by blood. But so closely and judiciously had captain
and Mrs. Willoughby managed the affair of their adopted
child, that neither they themselves, Beulah, nor the inmates
of the family or household, ever thought of her, but as of a
real daughter of her nominal parents. As for Beulah, her
feelings were so simple and sincere, that they were even
beyond the ordinary considerations of delicacy, and she took
precisely the same liberties with her titular, as she would
have done with a natural sister. Maud alone, of all in the
Hut, remembered her birth, and submitted to some of its
most obvious consequences. As respects the captain, the
idea never crossed her mind, that she was adopted by him;
as respects her mother, she filled to her, in every sense, that
sacred character; Beulah, too, was a sister, in thought and
deed; but, Bob, he had so changed, had been so many years
separated from her; had once actually called her Miss
Meredith — somehow, she knew not how herself—it was
fully six years since she had begun to remember that he
was not her brother.
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“As for my father,” said Maud, rising with emotion, and
speaking with startling emphasis—“I will not say I love
him—I worship him!”
“Ah! I know that well enough, Maud; and to say the
truth, you are a couple of idolators, between you. Mamma
says this, sometimes; though she owns she is not jealous.
But it would pain her excessively to hear that you do not
feel towards Bob, just as we all feel.”
“But, ought I?—Beulah, I cannot!”
“Ought you!—Why not, Maud? Are you in your senses,
child?”
“But — you know — I'm sure — you ought to remember—”
“What?” demanded Beulah, really frightened at the
other's excessive agitation.
“That I am not his real—true—born sister!”
This was the first time in their lives, either had ever
alluded to the fact, in the other's presence. Beulah turned
pale; she trembled all over, as if in an ague; then she
luckily burst into tears, else she might have fainted.
“Beulah — my sister — my own sister!” cried Maud,
throwing herself into the arms of the distressed girl.
“Ah! Maud, you are, you shall for ever be, my only,
only sister.”
CHAPTER VI.
O! It is great for our country to die, where ranks are contending;
Bright is the wreath of our fame; Glory awaits us for aye—
Glory, that never is dim, shining on with light never ending—
Glory, that never shall fade, never, O! never away.
Percival.
Notwithstanding the startling intelligence that had so
unexpectedly reached it, and the warm polemical conflict
that had been carried on within its walls, the night passed
peacefully over the roof of the Hutted Knoll. At the return
of dawn, the two Plinys, both the Smashes, and all the
menials were again afoot; and, ere long, Mike, Saucy Nick,
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Joel, and the rest were seen astir, in the open fields, or in
the margin of the woods. Cattle were fed, cows milked,
fires lighted, and everything pursued its course, in the order
of May. The three wenches, as female negroes were then
termed, ex officio, in America, opened their throats, as was
usual at that hour, and were heard singing at their labours,
in a way nearly to deaden the morning carols of the tenants
of the forest. Mari', in particular, would have drowned the
roar of Niagara. The captain used to call her his clarion.
In due time, the superiors of the household made their
appearance. Mrs. Willoughby was the first out of her room,
as was ever the case when there was anything to be done.
On the present occasion, the “fatted calf” was to be killed,
not in honour of the return of a prodigal son, however, but
in behalf of one who was the pride of her eyes, and the joy
of her heart. The breakfast that she ordered was just the
sort of breakfast, that one must visit America to witness.
France can set forth a very scientific dejeuner à la fourchette,
and England has laboured and ponderous imitations;
but, for the spontaneous, superabundant, unsophisticated,
natural, all-sufficing and all-subduing morning's meal, take
America, in a better-class house, in the country, and you
reach the ne plus ultra, in that sort of thing. Tea, coffee,
and chocolate, of which the first and last were excellent,
and the second respectable; ham, fish, eggs, toast, cakes,
rolls, marmalades, &c. &c. &c., were thrown together in
noble confusion; frequently occasioning the guest, as Mr.
Woods naively confessed, an utter confusion of mind, as
to which he was to attack, when all were inviting and
each would be welcome.
Leaving Mrs. Willoughby in deep consultation with Mari',
on the subject of this feast, we will next look after the two
sweet girls whom we so abruptly deserted in the last chapter.
When Maud's glowing cheeks were first visible that
morning, signs of tears might have been discovered on them,
as the traces of the dew are found on the leaf of the rose;
but they completely vanished under the duties of the toilet,
and she came forth from her chamber, bright and cloudless
as the glorious May-morning, which had returned to cheer
the solitude of the manor. Beulah followed, tranquil, bland,
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and mild as the day itself, the living image of the purity of
soul, and deep affections, of her honest nature.
The sisters went into the breakfast-room, where they had
little lady-like offices of their own to discharge, too, in honour
of the guest; each employing herself in decorating the
table, and in seeing that it wanted nothing in the proprieties.
As their pleasing tasks were fulfilled, the discourse
did not flag between them. Nothing, however, had been
said, that made the smallest allusion to the conversation of
the past night. Neither felt any wish to revive that subject;
and, as for Maud, bitterly did she regret ever having broached
it. At times, her cheeks burned with blushes, as she
recalled her words; and yet she scarce knew the reason
why. The feeling of Beulah was different. She wondered
her sister could ever think she was a Meredith, and not a
Willoughby. At times she feared some unfortunate over-sight
of her own, some careless allusion, or indiscreet act,
might have served to remind Maud of the circumstances of
her real birth. Yet there was nothing in the last likely to
awaken unpleasant reflections, apart from the circumstance
that she was not truly a child of the family into which she
had been transplanted. The Merediths were, at least, as
honourable a family as the Willoughbys, in the ordinary
worldly view of the matter; nor was Maud, by any means,
a dependant, in the way of money. Five thousand pounds,
in the English funds, had been settled on her, by the marriage
articles of her parents; and twenty years of careful
husbandry, during which every shilling had been scrupulously
devoted to accumulation, had quite doubled the original
amount. So far from being penniless, therefore, Maud's
fortune was often alluded to by the captain, in a jocular
way, as if purposely to remind her that she had the means
of independence, and duties connected with it. It is true,
Maud, herself, had no suspicion that she had been educated
altogether by her “father,” and that her own money had
not been used for this purpose. To own the truth, she
thought little about it; knew little about it, beyond the fact,
that she had a fortune of her own, into the possession of
which she must step, when she attained her majority. How
she came by it, even, was a question she never asked;
though there were moments when tender regrets and
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affectionate melancholy would come over her heart, as she
thought of her natural parents, and of their early deaths.
Still, Maud implicitly reposed on the captain and Mrs.
Willoughby, as on a father and mother; and it was not
owing to them, or anything connected with their love, treatment,
words, or thoughts, that she was reminded that they
were not so in very fact, as well as in tenderness.
“Bob will think you made these plum sweetmeats, Beulah,”
said Maud, with a saucy smile, as she placed a glass
plate on the table—“He never thinks I can make anything
of this sort; and, as he is so fond of plums, he will be certain
to taste them; then you will come in for the praise!”
“You appear to think, that praise he must. Perhaps he
may not fancy them good.”
“If I thought so, I would take them away this instant,”
cried Maud, standing in the attitude of one in doubt. “Bob
does not think much of such things in girls, for he says
ladies need not be cooks; and yet when one does make a
thing of this sort, one would certainly like to have it well
made.”
“Set your heart at ease, Maud; the plums are delicious—
much the best we ever had, and we are rather famous for
them, you know. I'll answer for it, Bob will pronounce
them the best he has ever tasted.”
“And if he shouldn't, why should I care—that is, not
very much—about it. You know they are the first I ever
made, and one may be permitted to fail on a first effort.
Besides, a man may go to England, and see fine sights, and
live in great houses, and all that, and not understand when
he has good plum sweetmeats before him, and when bad. I
dare say there are many colonels in the army, who are
ignorant on this point.”
Beulah laughed, and admitted the truth of the remark;
though, in her secret mind, she had almost persuaded herself
that Bob knew everything.
“Do you not think our brother improved in appearance,
Maud,” she asked, after a short pause. “The visit to England
has done him that service, at least.”
“I don't see it, Beulah—I see no change. To me, Bob
is just the same to-day, that he has ever been; that is, ever
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since he grew to be a man—with boys, of course, it is different.
Ever since he was made a captain, I mean.”
As major Willoughby had reached that rank the day he
was one-and-twenty, the reader can understand the precise
date when Maud began to take her present views of his appearance
and character.
“I am surprised to hear you say so, Maud! Papa says
he is better `set up,' as he calls it, by his English drill, and
that he looks altogether more like a soldier than he did.”
“Bob has always had a martial look!” cried Maud,
quickly—“He got that in garrison, when a boy.”
“If so, I hope he may never lose it!” said the subject of
the remark, himself, who had entered the room unperceived,
and overheard this speech. “Being a soldier, one would
wish to look like what he is, my little critic.”
The kiss that followed, and that given to Beulah, were
no more than the usual morning salutations of a brother to
his sisters, slight touches of rosy cheeks; and yet Maud
blushed; for, as she said to herself, she had been taken by
surprise.
“They say listeners never hear good of themselves,” answered
Maud, with a vivacity that betokened confusion.
“Had you come a minute sooner, master Bob, it might have
been an advantage.”
“Oh! Beulah's remarks I do not fear; so long as I get
off unscathed from yours, Miss Maud, I shall think myself
a lucky fellow. But what has brought me and my training
into discussion, this morning?”
“It is natural for sisters to speak about their brother after
so long—”
“Tell him nothing about it, Beulah,” interrupted Maud.
“Let him listen, and eaves-drop, and find out as he may,
if he would learn our secrets. There, major Willoughby, I
hope that is a promise of a breakfast, which will satisfy even
your military appetite!”
“It looks well, indeed, Maud—and there, I perceive, are
some of Beulah's excellent plums, of which I am so fond—
I know they were made especially for me, and I must kiss
you, sister, for this proof of remembrance.”
Beulah, to whose simple mind it seemed injustice to appropriate
credit that belonged to another, was about to tell
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the truth; but an imploring gesture from her sister induced
her to smile, and receive the salute in silence.
“Has any one seen captain Willoughby and parson
Woods this morning?” inquired the major. “I left them
desperately engaged in discussion, and I really feel some
apprehension as to the remains left on the field of battle.”
“Here they both come,” cried Maud, glad to find the discourse
taking so complete a change; “and there is mamma,
followed by Pliny, to tell Beulah to take her station at the
coffee, while I go to the chocolate, leaving the tea to the
only hand that can make it so that my father will drink it.”
The parties mentioned entered the room, in the order
named; the usual salutations followed, and all took their
seats at table. Captain Willoughby was silent and thoughtful
at first, leaving his son to rattle on, in a way that betokened
care, in his view of the matter, quite as much as it
betokened light-heartedness in those of his mother and sisters.
The chaplain was rather more communicative than
his friend; but he, too, seemed restless, and desirous of
arriving at some point that was not likely to come uppermost,
in such a family party. At length, the impulses of
Mr. Woods got the better of his discretion, even, and he
could conceal his thoughts no longer.
“Captain Willoughby,” he said, in a sort of apologetic,
and yet simple and natural manner, “I have done little
since we parted, seven hours since, but think of the matter
under discussion.”
“If you have, my dear Woods, there has been a strong
sympathy between us; I have scarcely slept. I may say I
have thought of nothing else, myself, and am glad you have
broached the subject, again.”
“I was about to say, my worthy sir, that reflection, and
my pillow, and your sound and admirable arguments, have
produced an entire change in my sentiments. I think, now,
altogether with you.”
“The devil you do, Woods!” cried the captain, looking
up from his bit of dry toast, in astonishment. “Why, my
dear fellow—this is odd—excessively odd, if the truth must
be said.—To own the real state of the case, chaplain, you
have won me over, and I was just about to make proper
acknowledgments of your victory!”
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It need scarcely be added that the rest of the company
were not a little amazed at these cross-concessions, while
Maud was exceedingly amused. As for Mrs. Willoughby,
nothing laughable ever occurred in connection with her
husband; and then she would as soon think of assailing the
church itself, as to ridicule one of its ministers. Beulah
could see nothing but what was right in her father, at least;
and, as for the major, he felt too much concerned at this
unexpected admission of his father's, to perceive anything
but the error.
“Have you not overlooked the injunction of scripture,
my excellent friend?” rejoined the chaplain. “Have you
left to the rights of Cæsar, all their weight and authority?
`The king's name is a tower of strength.' ”
“Have not you, Woods, forgotten the superior claims of
reason and right, over those of accident and birth—that
man is to be considered as a reasoning being, to be governed
by principles and ever-varying facts, and not a
mere animal left to the control of an instinct that perishes
with its usefulness?”
“What can they mean, mother?” whispered Maud, scarce
able to repress the laughter that came so easily to one with
a keen sense of the ludicrous.
“They have been arguing about the right of parliament
to tax the colonies, I believe, my dear, and over-persuaded
each other, that's all. It is odd, Robert, that Mr. Woods
should convert your father.”
“No, my dearest mother, it is something even more serious
than that.” By this time, the disputants, who sat
opposite each other, were fairly launched into the discussion,
again, and heeded nothing that passed—“No, dearest
mother, it is far worse than even that. Pliny, tell my man
to brush the hunting-jacket—and, see he has his breakfast,
in good style—he is a grumbling rascal, and will give the
house a bad character, else—you need not come back, until
we ring for you—yes, mother, yes dearest girls, this is a
far more serious matter than you suppose, though it ought
not to be mentioned idly, among the people. God knows
how they may take it—and bad news flies swift enough, of
itself.”
“Merciful Providence!” exclaimed Mrs. Willoughby—
“What can you mean, my son?”
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“I mean, mother, that civil war has actually commenced
in the colonies, and that the people of your blood and race
are, in open arms, against the people of my father's native
country—in a word, against me.”
“How can that be, Robert? Who would dare to strike a
blow against the king?”
“When men get excited, and their passions are once inflamed,
they will do much, my mother, that they might not
dream of, else.”
“This must be a mistake! Some evil-disposed person
has told you this, Robert, knowing your attachment to the
crown.”
“I wish it were so, dear madam; but my own eyes have
seen—I may say my own flesh has felt, the contrary.”
The major then related what had happened, letting his
auditors into the secret of the true state of the country. It
is scarcely necessary to allude to the degree of consternation
and pain, with which he was heard, or to the grief which
succeeded.
“You spoke of yourself, dear Bob,” said Maud, naturally,
and with strong feeling—“You were not hurt, in this cruel,
cruel battle.”
“I ought not to have mentioned it, although I did certainly
receive a smart contusion—nothing more, I assure
you—here in the shoulder, and it now scarcely inconveniences
me.”
By this time all were listening, curiosity and interest
having silenced even the disputants, especially as this was
the first they had heard of the major's casualty. Then
neither felt the zeal which had warmed him in the previous
contest, but was better disposed to turn aside from its pursuit.
“I hope it did not send you to the rear, Bob?” anxiously
inquired the father.
“I was in the rear, sir, when I got the hurt,” answered
the major, laughing. “The rear is the post of honour, on a
retreat, you know, my dear father; and I believe our march
scarce deserves another name.”
“That is hard, too, on king's troops! What sort of
fellows had you to oppose, my son?”
“A rather intrusive set, sir. Their object was to persuade
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us to go into Boston, as fast as possible; and, it was a little
difficult, at times, not to listen to their arguments. If my
Lord Percy had not come out, with a strong party, and two
pieces of artillery, we might not have stood it much longer!
Our men were fagged like hunted deer, and the day proved
oppressively hot.”
“Artillery, too!” exclaimed the captain, his military
pride reviving a little, to unsettle his last convictions of
duty. “Did you open your columns, and charge your
enemies, in line?”
“It would have been charging air. No sooner did we
halt, than our foes dispersed; or, no sooner did we renew
the march, than every line of wall, along our route, became
a line of hostile muskets. I trust you will do us justice,
sir—you know the regiments, and can scarce think they
misbehaved.”
“British troops seldom do that; although I have known it
happen. No men, however, are usually more steady, and
then these provincials are formidable as skirmishers. In
that character, I know them, too. What has been the effect
of all this on the country, Bob?—You told us something of
it last night; complete the history.”
“The provinces are in a tumult. As for New England,
a flame of fire could scarce be more devastating; though I
think this colony is less excited. Still, here, men are arming
in thousands.”
“Dear me—dear me”—ejaculated the peacefully-inclined
chaplain—“that human beings can thus be inclined to self-destruction!”
“Is Tryon active?—What do the royal authorities, all
this time?”
“Of course they neglect nothing feasible; but, they must
principally rely on the loyalty and influence of the gentry,
until succour can arrive from Europe. If that fail them,
their difficulties will be much increased.”
Captain Willoughby understood his son; he glanced towards
his unconscious wife, as if to see how far she felt
with him.
“Our own families are divided, of course, much as they
have been in the previous discussions,” he added. “The
De Lanceys, Van Cortlandts, Philipses, Bayards, and most
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of that town connection, with a large portion of the Long
Island families, I should think, are with the crown; while
the Livingstons, Morrises, Schuylers, Rensselaers, and their
friends, go with the colony. Is not this the manner in which
they are divided?”
“With some limitations, sir. All the De Lanceys, with
most of their strong connections and influence, are with us—
with the king, I mean—while all the Livingstons and Morrises
are against us. The other families are divided—as
with the Cortlandts, Schuylers, and Rensselaers. It is fortunate
for the Patroon, that he is a boy.”
“Why so, Bob?” asked the captain, looking inquiringly
up, at his son.
“Simply, sir, that his great estate may not be confiscated.
So many of his near connections are against us, that he
could hardly escape the contamination; and the consequences
would be inevitable.”
“Do you consider that so certain, sir? As there are two
sides to the question, may there not be two results to the
war?”
“I think not, sir. England is no power to be defied by
colonies insignificant as these.”
“This is well enough for a king's officer, major Willoughby;
but all large bodies of men are formidable when
they are right, and nations—these colonies are a nation, in
extent and number—are not so easily put down, when the
spirit of liberty is up and doing among them.”
The major listened to his father with pain and wonder.
The captain spoke earnestly, and there was a flush about
his fine countenance, that gave it sternness and authority.
Unused to debate with his father, especially when the latter
was in such a mood, the son remained silent, though his
mother, who was thoroughly loyal in her heart—meaning
loyal as applied to a sovereign—and who had the utmost
confidence in her husband's tenderness and consideration
for herself, was not so scrupulous.
“Why, Willoughby,” she cried, “you really incline to
rebellion! I, even I, who was born in the colonies, think
them very wrong to resist their anointed king, and sovereign
prince.”
“Ah, Wilhelmina,” answered the captain, more mildly,
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“you have a true colonist's admiration of home. But I was
old enough, when I left England, to appreciate what I saw
and knew, and cannot feel all this provincial admiration.”
“But surely, my dear captain, England is a very great
country,” interrupted the chaplain—“a prodigious country;
one that can claim all our respect and love. Look at the
church, now, the purified continuation of the ancient visible
authority of Christ on earth! It is the consideration of this
church that has subdued my natural love of birth-place, and
altered my sentiments.”
“All very true, and all very well, in your mouth, chaplain;
yet even the visible church may err. This doctrine
of divine right would have kept the Stuarts on the throne,
and it is not even English doctrine; much less, then, need
it be American. I am no Cromwellian, no republican, that
wishes to oppose the throne, in order to destroy it. A good
king is a good thing, and a prodigious blessing to a country;
still, a people needs look to its political privileges if it wish
to preserve them. You and I will discuss this matter another
time, parson. There will be plenty of opportunities,”
he added, rising, and smiling good-humouredly; “I must,
now, call my people together, and let them know this news.
It is not fair to conceal a civil war.”
“My dear sir!” exclaimed the major, in concern—“are
you not wrong?—precipitate, I mean—Is it not better to
preserve the secret, to give yourself time for reflection—to
a wait events?—I can discover no necessity for this haste.
Should you see things differently, hereafter, an incautious
word uttered at this moment might bring much motive for
regret.”
“I have thought of all this, Bob, during the night—for
hardly did I close my eyes—and you cannot change my
purpose. It is honest to let my people know how matters
stand; and, so far from being hazardous, as you seem to
think, I consider it wise. God knows what time will bring
forth; but, in every, or any event, fair-dealing can scarcely
injure him who practises it. I have already sent directions
to have the whole settlement collected on the lawn, at the
ringing of the bell, and I expect every moment we shall
hear the summons.”
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Against this decision there was no appeal. Mild and indulgent
as the captain habitually was, his authority was not
to be disputed, when he chose to exercise it. Some doubts
arose, and the father participated in them, for a moment, as
to what might be the effect on the major's fortunes; for,
should a very patriotic spirit arise among the men, two-thirds
of whom were native Americans, and what was more,
from the eastern colonies, he might be detained; or, at least,
betrayed on his return, and delivered into the hands of the
revolted authorities. This was a very serious consideration,
and it detained the captain in the house, some time after the
people were assembled, debating the chances, in the bosom
of his own family.
“We exaggerate the danger,” the captain, at length, exclaimed.
“Most of these men have been with me for years,
and I know not one among them who I think would wish to
injure me, or even you, my son, in this way. There is far
more danger in attempting to deceive them, than in making
them confidants. I will go out and tell the truth; then we
shall, at least, have the security of self-approbation. If
you escape the danger of being sold by Nick, my son, I
think you have little to fear from any other.”
“By Nick!” repeated half-a-dozen voices, in surprise—
“Surely, father—surely, Willoughby—surely, my dear captain,
you cannot suspect as old and tried a follower, as the
Tuscarora!”
“Ay, he is an old follower, certainly, and he has been
punished often enough, if he has not been tried. I have
never suffered my distrust of that fellow to go to sleep—it is
unsafe, with an Indian, unless you have a strong hold on
his gratitude.”
“But, Willoughby, he it was who found this manor for
us,” rejoined the wife. “Without him, we should never
have been the owners of this lovely place, this beaver-dam,
and all else that we so much enjoy.”
“True, my dear; and without good golden guineas, we
should not have had Nick.”
“But, sir, I pay as liberally as he can wish,” observed
the major. “If bribes will buy him, mine are as good as
another's.”
“We shall see—under actual circumstances, I think we
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shall be, in every respect, safer, by keeping nothing back,
than by telling all to the people.”
The captain now put on his hat, and issued through the
undefended gate-way, followed by every individual of his
family. As the summons had been general, when the
Willoughbys and the chaplain appeared on the lawn, every
living soul of that isolated settlement, even to infants in the
arms, was collected there. The captain commanded the
profound respect of all his dependants, though a few among
them did not love him. The fault was not his, however,
but was inherent rather in the untoward characters of the
disaffected themselves. His habits of authority were unsuited
to their habits of a presuming equality, perhaps; and
it is impossible for the comparatively powerful and affluent
to escape the envy and repinings of men, who, unable to
draw the real distinctions that separate the gentleman from
the low-minded and grovelling, impute their advantages to
accidents and money. But, even the few who permitted this
malign and corrupting tendency to influence their feelings,
could not deny that their master was just and benevolent,
though he did not always exhibit this justice and benevolence
precisely in the way best calculated to soothe their
own craving self-love, and exaggerated notions of assumed
natural claims. In a word, captain Willoughby, in the eyes
of a few unquiet and bloated imaginations among his people,
was obnoxious to the imputation of pride; and this because
he saw and felt the consequences of education, habits, manners,
opinions and sentiments that were hidden from those
who not only had no perception of their existence, but who
had no knowledge whatever of the qualities that brought
them into being. Pope's familiar line of “what can we
reason but from what we know?” is peculiarly applicable
to persons of this class; who are ever for dragging all things
down to standards created by their own ignorance; and
who, slaves of the basest and meanest passions, reason as
if they were possessors of all the knowledge, sensibilities
and refinements of their own country and times. Of this
class of men, comes the ordinary demagogue, a wretch
equally incapable of setting an example of any of the higher
qualities, in his own person or practice, and of appreciating
it when exhibited by others. Such men abound under all
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systems where human liberty is highly privileged, being the
moral fungi of freedom, as the rankest weeds are known to
be the troublesome and baneful productions of the richest
soils.
It was no unusual thing for the people of the Hutted Knoll
to be collected, in the manner we have described. We are
writing of a period, that the present enlightened generation
is apt to confound with the darker ages of American knowledge,
in much that relates to social usages at least, though
it escaped the long-buried wisdom of the Mormon bible, and
Miller's interpretations of the prophecies. In that day, men
were not so silly as to attempt to appear always wise; but
some of the fêtes and festivals of our Anglo-Saxon ancestors
were still tolerated among us; the all-absorbing and all
swallowing jubilee of “Independence-day” not having yet
overshadowed everything else in the shape of a holiday.
Now, captain Willoughby had brought with him to the
colonies the love of festivals that is so much more prevalent
in the old world than in the new; and it was by no means
an uncommon thing for him to call his people together, to
make merry on a birth-day, or the anniversary of some
battle in which he had been one of the victors. When he
appeared on the lawn, on the present occasion, therefore, it
was expected he was about to meet them with some such
announcement.
The inhabitants of the manor, or the estate of the Hutted
Knoll, might be divided into three great physical, and we
might add moral categories, or races, viz: the Anglo-Saxon,
the Dutch, both high and low, and the African. The first
was the most numerous, including the families of the millers,
most of the mechanics, and that of Joel Strides, the landoverseer;
the second was composed chiefly of labourers;
and the last were exclusively household servants, with the
exception of one of the Plinys, who was a ploughman,
though permitted to live with his kinsfolk in the Hut.
These divisions, Maud, in one of her merry humours, had
nick-named the three tribes; while her father, to make the
enumeration complete, had classed the serjeant, Mike, and
Jamie Allen, as supernumeraries.
The three tribes, and the three supernumeraries, then,
were all collected on the lawn, as the captain and his family
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approached. By a sort of secret instinct, too, they had
divided themselves into knots, the Dutch keeping a little
aloof from the Yankees; and the blacks, almost as a matter
of religion, standing a short distance in the rear, as became
people of their colour, and slaves. Mike and Jamie, however,
had got a sort of neutral position, between the two
great divisions of the whites, as if equally indifferent to their
dissensions or antipathies. In this manner all parties stood,
impatiently awaiting an announcement that had been so
long delayed. The captain advanced to the front, and removing
his hat, a ceremony he always observed on similar
occasions, and which had the effect to make his listeners
imitate his own courtesy, he addressed the crowd.
“When people live together, in a wilderness like this,”
commenced the captain, “there ought to be no secrets between
them, my friends, in matters that touch the common
interests. We are like men on a remote island; a sort of
colony of our own; and we must act fairly and frankly by
each other. In this spirit, then, I am now about to lay before
you, all that I know myself, concerning an affair of the
last importance to the colonies, and to the empire.” Here
Joel pricked up his ears, and cast a knowing glance at `the
miller,' a countryman and early neighbour of his own, who
had charge of the grinding for the settlement, and who went
by that appellation `par excellence!' “You all know,”
continued the captain, “that there have been serious difficulties
between the colonies and parliament, now, for more
than ten years; difficulties that have been, once or twice,
partially settled, but which have as often broken out, in some
new shape, as soon as an old quarrel was adjusted.”
Here the captain paused a moment; and Joel, who was
the usual spokesman of `the people,' took an occasion to
put a question.
“The captain means, I s'pose,” he said, in a sly, half-honest,
half-jesuitical manner, “the right of parliament to
tax us Americans, without our own consent, or our having
any members in their legyslatoore?”
“I mean what you say. The tax on tea, the shutting the
port of Boston, and other steps, have brought larger bodies
of the king's troops among us, than have been usual. Boston,
as you probably know, has had a strong garrison, now, for
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some months. About six weeks since, the commander-in-chief
sent a detachment out as far as Concord, in New
Hampshire, to destroy certain stores. This detachment had
a meeting with the minute-men, and blood was drawn. A
running fight ensued, in which several hundreds have been
killed and wounded; and I think I know both sides sufficiently
well, to predict that a long and bloody civil war is
begun. These are facts you should know, and accordingly
I tell them to you.”
This simple, but explicit, account was received very differently,
by the different listeners. Joel Strides leaned forward,
with intense interest, so as not to lose a syllable.
Most of the New Englanders, or Yankees, paid great attention,
and exchanged meaning glances with each other, when
the captain had got through. As for Mike, he grasped a
shillelah that he habitually carried, when not at work, looking
round, as if waiting for orders from the captain, on
whom to begin. Jamie was thoughtful and grave, and, once
or twice, as the captain proceeded, he scratched his head in
doubt. The Dutch seemed curious, but bewildered, gaping
at each other like men who might make up their minds, if
you would give them time, but who certainly had not yet.
As for the blacks, their eyes began to open like saucers,
when they heard of the quarrel; when it got to the blows,
their mouths were all grinning with the delight of a thing
so exciting. At the mention of the number of the dead,
however, something like awe passed over them, and changed
their countenances to dismay. Nick alone was indifferent.
By the cold apathy of his manner, the captain saw at once
that the battle of Lexington had not been a secret to the
Tuscarora, when he commenced his own account. As the
captain always encouraged a proper familiarity in his de-pendants,
he now told them he was ready to answer any
questions they might think expedient to put to him, in gratification
of their natural curiosity.
“I s'pose this news comes by the major?” asked Joel.
“You may well suppose that, Strides. My son is here,
and we have no other means of getting it.”
“Will yer honour be wishful that we shoulther our fire-arms,
and go out and fight one of them sides, or t'other?”
demanded Mike.
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“I wish nothing of the sort, O'Hearn. It will be time
enough for us to take a decided part, when we get better
ideas of what is really going on.”
“Does'nt the captain, then, think matters have got far
enough towards a head, for the Americans to make up their
minds conclusively, as it might be?” put in Joel, in his very
worst manner.
“I think it will be wiser for us all to remain where we
are, and as we are. Civil war is a serious matter, Strides,
and no man should rush blindly into its dangers and difficulties.”
Joel looked at the miller, and the miller looked at Joel.
Neither said anything, however, at the time. Jamie Allen
had been out in the `forty-five,' when thirty years younger
than he was that day; and though he had his predilections
and antipathies, circumstances had taught him prudence.
“Will the pairliament, think ye, no be bidding the soldiery
to wark their will on the puir unairmed folk, up and
down the country, and they not provided with the means to
resist them?”
“Och, Jamie!” interrupted Mike, who did not appear to
deem it necessary to treat this matter with even decent respect—
“where will be yer valour and stomach, to ask sich
a question as that! A man is always reathy, when he has
his ar-r-ms and legs free to act accorthing to natur'. What
would a rigiment of throops do ag'in the likes of sich a place
as this? I'm sure it's tin years I've been in it, and I've
niver been able to find my way out of it. Set a souldier to
rowing on the lake forenent the rising sun, with orders to
get to the other ind, and a pretty job he'd make of marching
on that same! I knows it, for I've thried it, and it is
not a new beginner that will make much of sich oars;
barring he knows nothin' about them.”
This was not very intelligible to anybody but Joel, and he
had ceased to laugh at Mike's voyage, now, some six or
seven years; divers other disasters, all having their origin
in a similar confusion of ideas, having, in the interval, supplanted
that calamity, as it might be, seriatim. Still it was
an indication that Mike might be set down as a belligerent,
who was disposed to follow his leader into the battle, without
troubling him with many questions concerning the merits
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of the quarrel. Nevertheless, the county Leitrim-man acknowledged
particular principles, all of which had a certain
influence on his conduct, whenever he could get at them, to
render them available. First and foremost, he cordially
disliked a Yankee; and he hated an Englishman, both as an
oppressor and a heretic; yet he loved his master and all that
belonged to him. These were contradictory feelings, certainly;
but Mike was all contradiction, both in theory and
in practice.
The Anglo-Saxon tribe now professed a willingness to
retire, promising to think of the matter, a course against
which Mike loudly protested, declaring he never knew any
good come of thinking, when matters had got as far as
blows. Jamie, too, went off scratching his head, and he
was seen to make many pauses, that day, between the
shovels-full of earth he, from time to time, threw around
his plants, as if pondering on what he had heard. As for
the Dutch, their hour had not come. No one expected them
to decide the day they first heard of argument.
The negroes got together, and began to dwell on the
marvels of a battle in which so many christians had been
put to death. Little Smash placed the slain at a few thousands;
but Great Smash, as better became her loftier appellation
and higher spirit, affirmed that the captain had stated
hundreds of thousands; a loss, with less than which, as
she contended, no great battle could possibly be fought.
When the captain was housed, Serjeant Joyce demanded
an audience; the object of which was simply to ask for
orders, without the least reference to principles.
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CHAPTER VII.
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We are all here!
Father, mother,
Sister, brother,
All who hold each other dear.
Each chair is fill'd—we're all at home;
To-night let no cold stranger come:
It is not often thus around
Our old familiar hearth we're found:
Bless, then, the meeting and the spot;
For once be every care forgot;
Let gentle Peace assert her power,
And kind Affection rule the hour;
We're all—all here.
Sprague.
Although most of the people retired to their dwellings,
or their labours, as soon as the captain dismissed them, a
few remained to receive his farther orders. Among these
last were Joel, the carpenter, and the blacksmith. These
men now joined the chief of the settlement and his son, who
had lingered near the gateway, in conversation concerning
the alterations that the present state of things might render
necessary, in and about the Hut.
“Joel,” observed the captain, when the three men were
near enough to hear his orders, “this great change in the
times will render some changes in our means of defence
prudent, if not necessary.”
“Does the captain s'pose the people of the colony will
attack us?” asked the wily overseer, with emphasis.
“Perhaps not the people of the colony, Mr. Strides, for
we have not yet declared ourselves their enemies; but there
are other foes, who are more to be apprehended than the
people of the colony.”
“I should think the king's troops not likely to trouble
themselves to ventur' here—the road might prove easier to
come than to return. Besides, our plunder would scarce
pay for such a march.”
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“Perhaps not — but there never has yet been a war in
these colonies that some of the savage tribes were not engaged
in it, before the whites had fairly got themselves into
line.”
“Do you really think, sir, there can be much serious
danger of that!” exclaimed the major, in surprise.
“Beyond a question, my son. The scalping-knife will
be at work in six months, if it be not busy already, should
one-half of your reports and rumours turn out to be true.
Such is American history.”
“I rather think, sir, your apprehensions for my mother
and sisters may mislead you. I do not believe the American
authorities will ever allow themselves to be driven into
a measure so perfectly horrible and unjustifiable; and were
the English ministry sufficiently cruel, or unprincipled, to
adopt the policy, the honest indignation of so humane a
people would be certain to drive them from power.”
As the major ceased speaking, he turned and caught the
expression of Joel's countenance, and was struck with the
look of intense interest with which the overseer watched his
own warm and sincere manner.
“Humanity is a very pretty stalking-horse for political
orations, Bob,” quietly returned the father; “but it will
scarcely count for much with an old campaigner. God
send you may come out of this war with the same ingenuous
and natural feelings as you go into it.”
“The major will scarce dread the savages, should he be
on the side of his nat'ral friends!” remarked Joel; “and if
what he says about the humanity of the king's advisers be
true, he will be safe from them.”
“The major will be on the side to which duty calls him,
Mr. Strides, if it may be agreeable to your views of the
matter,” answered the young man, with a little more hauteur
than the occasion required.
The father felt uneasy, and he regretted that his son had
been so indiscreet; though he saw no remedy but by drawing
the attention of the men to the matter before them.
“Neither the real wishes of the people of America, nor of
the people of England, will avail much, in carrying on this
war,” he said. “Its conduct will fall into the hands of
those who will look more to the ends than to the means;
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and success will be found a sufficient apology for any wrong.
This has been the history of all the wars of my time, and it
is likely to prove the history of this. I fear it will make
little difference to us on which side we may be in feeling;
there will be savages to guard against in either case. This
gate must be hung, one of the first things, Joel; and I have
serious thoughts of placing palisades around the Knoll.
The Hut, well palisaded, would make a work that could not
be easily carried, without artillery.”
Joel seemed struck with the idea, though it did not appear
that it was favourably. He stood studying the house and
the massive gates for a minute or two, ere he delivered his
sentiments on the subject. When he did speak, it was a
good deal more in doubt, than in approbation.
“It's all very true, captain,” he said; the house would
seem to be a good deal more safe like, if the gates were up;
but, a body don't know; sometimes gates be a security, and
sometimes they isn't. It all depends on which side the
danger comes. Still, as these are made, and finished all to
hanging, it's 'most a pity, too, they shouldn't be used, if a
body could find time.”
“The time must be found, and the gates be hung,” interrupted
the captain, too much accustomed to Joel's doubting,
'sort-o'-concluding manner, to be always patient under the
infliction. “Not only the gates, but the palisades must be
got out, holes dug, and the circumvallation completed.”
“It must be as the captain says, of course, he being
master here. But time's precious in May. There's half
our plantin' to be done yet, and some of the ground hasn't
got the last ploughin'. Harvest won't come without seedtime;
for no man, let him be great, or let him be small —
and it does seem to me a sort o' wastin' of the Lord's
blessin's, to be hangin' gates, and diggin' holes for that —
the thing the captain mentioned — when there's no visible
danger in sight to recommend the measure to prudence, as
it might be.”
“That may be your opinion, Mr. Strides, but it is not
mine. I intend to guard against a visible danger that is out
of sight, and I will thank you to have these gates hung, this
very day.”
“This very day!—The captain's a mind to be musical
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about the matter! Every hand in the settlement couldn't
get them gates in their places in less than a week.”
“It appears to me, Strides, you are `playing on the music,'
as you call it, yourself, now?”
“No, indeed, captain; them gates will have to be hung
on the mechanic principle; and it will take at least two or
three days for the carpenter and blacksmith to get up the
works that's to do it. Then the hanging, itself, I should
think would stand us in hand a day for each side. As for
the circumvalley, what between the cuttin', and haulin', and
diggin', and settin', that would occupy all hands until after
first hoein'. That is, hoein' would come afore the plantin'.”
“It does not appear to me, Bob, such a heavy job as Joel
represents! The gates are heavy, certainly, and may take
us a day or two; but, as for stockading—I've seen barracks
stockaded in, in a week, if I remember right. You know
something of this—what is your opinion?”
“That this house can be stockaded in, in the time you
mention; and, as I have a strong reluctance to leave the
family before it is in security, with your permission I will
remain and superinted the work.”
The offer was gladly accepted, on more accounts than
one; and the captain, accustomed to be obeyed when he
was in earnest, issued his orders forthwith, to let the work
proceed. Joel, however, was excused, in order that he
might finish the planting he had commenced, and which a
very few hands could complete within the required time.
As no ditch was necessary, the work was of a very simple
nature, and the major set about his portion of it without even
re-entering the house.
The first thing was to draw a line for a trench some six
or seven feet deep, that was to encircle the whole building,
at a distance of about thirty yards from the house. This
line ran, on each side of the Hut, on the very verge of the
declivities, rendering the flanks far more secure than the
front, where it crossed the lawn on a gently inclining surface.
In one hour the major had traced this line, with accuracy;
and he had six or eight men at work with spades,
digging the trench. A gang of hands was sent into the
woods, with orders to cut the requisite quantity of young
chestnuts; and, by noon, a load of the material actually
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appeared on the ground. Still, nothing was done to the
gates.
To own the truth, the captain was now delighted. The
scene reminded him of some in his military life, and he
bustled about, giving his orders, with a good deal of the fire
of youth renewed, taking care, however, in no manner to
interfere with the plans of his son. Mike buried himself
like a mole, and had actually advanced several feet, before
either of the Yankees had got even a fair footing on the
bottom of his part of the trench. As for Jamie Allen, he
went to work with deliberation; but it was not long before
his naked gray hairs were seen on a level with the surface
of the ground. The digging was not hard, though a little
stony, and the work proceeded with spirit and success. All
that day, and the next, and the next, and the next, the Knoll
appeared alive, earth being cast upward, teams moving,
carpenters sawing, and labourers toiling. Many of the men
protested that their work was useless, unnecessary, unlawful
even; but no one dared hesitate under the eyes of the
major, when his father had once issued a serious command.
In the mean time, Joel's planting was finished, though he
made many long pauses while at work on the flats, to look
up and gaze at the scene of activity and bustle that was
presented at the Knoll. On the fourth day, towards evening,
he was obliged to join the general “bee,” with the few
hands he had retained with himself.
By this time, the trench was dug, most of the timber was
prepared, and the business of setting up the stockade was
commenced. Each young tree was cut to the length of
twenty feet, and pointed at one end. Mortices, to receive
cross-pieces, were cut at proper distances, and holes were
bored to admit the pins. This was all the preparation, and
the timbers were set in the trench, pointed ends uppermost.
When a sufficient number were thus arranged, a few inches
from each other, the cross-pieces were pinned on, bringing
the whole into a single connected frame, or bent. The bent
was then raised to a perpendicular, and secured, by pounding
the earth around the lower ends of the timbers. The
latter process required care and judgment, and it was entrusted
to the especial supervision of the deliberate Jamie;
the major having discovered that the Yankees, in general,
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were too impatient to get on, and to make a show. Serjeant
Joyce was particularly useful in dressing the rows of timber,
and in giving the whole arrangement a military air.
“Guid wark is far better than quick wark,” observed the
cool-headed Scotchman, as he moved about among the men,
“and it's no the fuss and bustle of acteevity that is to give
the captain pleasure. The thing that is well done, is done
with the least noise and confusion. Set the stockades mair
pairpendic'lar, my men.”
“Ay—dress them, too, my lads”—added the venerable
ex-serjeant.
“This is queer plantin', Jamie,” put in Joel, “and queerer
grain will come of it. Do you think these young chestnuts
will ever grow, ag'in, that you put them out in rows, like so
much corn?”
“Now it's no for the growth we does it, Joel, but to presairve
the human growth we have. To keep the savage
bairbers o' the wilderness fra' clippin' our polls before the
shearin' time o' natur' has gathered us a' in for the hairvest
of etairnity. They that no like the safety we're makin' for
them, can gang their way to 'ither places, where they'll find
no forts, or stockades to trouble their een.”
“I'm not critical at all, Jamie, though to my notion a
much better use for your timber plantation would be to turn
it into sheds for cattle, in the winter months. I can see some
good in that, but none in this.”
“Bad luck to ye, then, Misther Sthroddle,” cried Mike,
from the bottom of the trench, where he was using a pounding
instrument with the zeal of a paviour—“Bad luck to the
likes of ye, say I, Misther Strides. If ye've no relish for a
fortification, in a time of war, ye've only to shoulther yer
knapsack, and go out into the open counthry, where ye'll
have all to yer own satisfaction. Is it forthify the house,
will we? That we will, and not a hair of the missuss's
head, nor of the young ladies' heads, nor of the masther's
head, though he's mighty bald as it is, but not a hair of all
their heads shall be harmed, while Jamie, and Mike, and
the bould ould serjeant, here, can have their way. I wish
I had the trench full of yer savages, and a gineral funeral
we'd make of the vagabonds! Och! They're the divil's
imps, I hear from all sides, and no love do I owe them.”
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“And yet you're the bosom friend of Nick, who's anything
but what I call a specimen of his people.”
“Is it Nick ye 're afther? Well, Nick's half-civilized
accorthin' to yer Yankee manners, and he's no spicimen,
at all. Let him hear you call him by sich a name, if ye
want throuble.”
Joel walked away muttering, leaving the labourers in
doubt whether he relished least the work he was now obliged
to unite in furthering, or Mike's hit at his own peculiar people.
Still the work proceeded, and in one week from the
day it was commenced, the stockade was complete, its gate
excepted. The entrance through the palisades was directly
in front of that to the house, and both passages still remained
open, one set of gates not being completed, and the other
not yet being hung.
It was on a Saturday evening when the last palisade was
placed firmly in the ground, and all the signs of the recent
labour were removed, in order to restore as much of the
former beauty of the Knoll as possible. It had been a busy
week; so much so, indeed, as to prevent the major from
holding any of that confidential intercourse with his mother
and sisters, in which it had been his habit to indulge in former
visits. The fatigues of the days sent everybody to their
pillows early; and the snatches of discourse which passed,
had been affectionate and pleasant, rather than communicative.
Now that the principal job was so near being finished,
however, and the rubbish was cleared away, the captain
summoned the family to the lawn again, to enjoy a delicious
evening near the close of the winning month of May. The
season was early, and the weather more bland, than was
usual, even in that sheltered and genial valley. For the
first time that year, Mrs. Willoughby consented to order the
tea-equipage to be carried to a permanent table that had been
placed under the shade of a fine elm, in readiness for any
fête champêtre of this simple character.
“Come, Wilhelmina, give us a cup of your fragrant
hyson, of which we have luckily abundance, tax or no tax.
I should lose caste, were it known how much American
treason we have gulped down, in this way; but, a little tea,
up here in the forest, can do no man's conscience any great
violence, in the long run. I suppose, major Willoughby,
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His Majesty's forces do not disdain tea, in these stirring
times.”
“Far from it, sir; we deem it so loyal to drink it, that it
is said the port and sherry of the different messes, at Boston,
are getting to be much neglected. I am an admirer of tea,
for itself, however, caring little about its collateral qualities.
Farrel”—“turning to his man, who was aiding Pliny the
elder, in arranging the table—“when you are through here,
bring out the basket you will find on the toilet, in my
room.”
“True, Bob,” observed the mother, smiling—“that basket
has scarce been treated with civility. Not a syllable of
thanks have I heard, for all the fine things it contains.”
“My mind has been occupied with care for your safety,
dear mother, and that must be my excuse. Now, however,
there is an appearance of security which gives one a breathing-time,
and my gratitude receives a sudden impulse. As
for you, Maud, I regret to be compelled to say that you
stand convicted of laziness; not a single thing do I owe to
your labours, or recollection of me.”
“Is that possible!” exclaimed the captain, who was pouring
water into the tea-pot. “Maud is the last person I should
suspect of neglect of this nature; I do assure you, Bob, no
one listens to news of your promotions and movements with
more interest than Maud.”
Maud, herself, made no answer. She bent her head aside,
in a secret consciousness that her sister might alone detect,
and form her own conclusions concerning the colour that
she felt warming her cheeks. But, Maud's own sensitive
feelings attributed more to Beulah than the sincere and simple-minded
girl deserved. So completely was she accustomed
to regard Robert and Maud as brother and sister, that even
all which had passed produced no effect in unsettling her
opinions, or in giving her thoughts a new direction. Just
at this moment Farrel came back, and placed the basket on
the bench, at the side of his master.
“Now, my dearest mother, and you, girls” — the major
had begun to drop the use of the word `sisters' when addressing
both the young ladies—“Now, my dearest mother,
and you, girls, I am about to give each her due. In the first
place, I confess my own unworthiness, and acknowledge,
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that I do not deserve one-half the kind attention I have received
in these various presents, after which we will descend
to particulars.”
The major, then, exposed every article contained in the
basket, finding the words “mother” and “Beulah” pinned
on each, but nowhere any indication that his younger sister
had even borne him in mind. His father looked surprised
at this, not to say a little grave; and he waited, with evident
curiosity, for the gifts of Maud, as one thing after another
came up, without any signs of her having recollected the
absentee.
“This is odd, truly,” observed the father, seriously; “I
hope, Bob, you have done nothing to deserve this? I should
be sorry to have my little girl affronted!”
“I assure you, sir, that I am altogether ignorant of any
act, and I can solemnly protest against any intention, to give
offence. If guilty, I now pray Maud to pardon me.”
“You have done nothing, Bob — said nothing, Bob —
thought nothing to offend me,” cried Maud, eagerly.
“Why, then, have you forgotten him, darling, when your
mother and sister have done so much in the way of recollection?”
asked the captain.
“Forced gifts, my dear father, are no gifts. I do not like
to be compelled to make presents.”
This was uttered in a way to induce the major to throw
all the articles back into the basket, as if he wished to get
rid of the subject, without further comment. Owing to this
precipitation, the scarf was not seen. Fortunately for Maud,
who was ready to burst into tears, the service of the tea
prevented any farther allusion to the matter.
“You have told me, major,” observed captain Willoughby,
“that your old regiment has a new colonel; but you
have forgotten to mention his name. I hope it is my old
messmate, Tom Wallingford, who wrote me he had some
such hopes last year.”
“General Wallingford has got a light-dragoon regiment—
general Meredith has my old corps; he is now in this country,
at the head of one of Gage's brigades.”
It is a strong proof of the manner in which Maud—Maud
Willoughby, as she was ever termed—had become identified
with the family of the Hutted Knoll, that, with two
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exceptions, not a person present thought of her, when the name
of this general Meredith was mentioned; though, in truth,
he was the uncle of her late father. The exceptions were
the major and herself. The former now never heard the
name without thinking of his beautiful little playfellow, and
nominal sister; while Maud, of late, had become curious
and even anxious on the subject of her natural relatives.
Still, a feeling akin to awe, a sentiment that appeared as if
it would be doing violence to a most solemn duty, prevented
her from making any allusion to her change of thought, in
the presence of those whom, during childhood, she had
viewed only as her nearest relatives, and who still continued
so to regard her. She would have given the world to ask
Bob a few questions concerning the kinsman he had mentioned,
but could not think of doing so before her mother,
whatever she might be induced to attempt with the young
man, when by himself.
Nick next came strolling along, gazing at the stockade,
and drawing near the table with an indifference to persons
and things that characterized his habits. When close to the
party he stopped, keeping his eye on the recent works.
“You see, Nick, I am about to turn soldier again, in my
old days,” observed the captain. “It is now many years
since you and I have met within a line of palisades. How
do you like our work?”
“What you make him for, cap'in?”
“So as to be secure against any red-skins who may happen
to long for our scalps.”
“Why want your scalp? Hatchet hasn't been dug up,
a-tween us—bury him so deep can't find him in ten, two,
six year.”
“Ay, it has long been buried, it is true; but you red
gentlemen have a trick of digging it up, with great readiness,
when there is any occasion for it. I suppose you
know, Nick, that there are troubles in the colonies?”
“Tell Nick all about him,”—answered the Indian, evasively—
“No read—no hear—don't talk much—talk most
wid Irisher—can't understand what he want—say t'ing one
way, den say him, anoder.”
“Mike is not very lucid of a certainty,” rejoined the captain,
laughing, all the party joining in the merriment—“but
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he is a sterling good fellow, and is always to be found, in a
time of need.”
“Poor rifle—nebber hit—shoot one way, look t'other?”
“He is no great shot, I will admit; but he is a famous
fellow with a shillaleh. Has he given you any of the
news?”
“All he say, news—much news ten time, as one time.
Cap'in lend Nick a quarter dollar, yesterday.”
“I did lend you a quarter, certainly, Nick; and I supposed
it had gone to the miller for rum, before this. What
am I to understand by your holding it out in this manner?—
that you mean to repay me!”
“Sartain—good quarter—just like him cap'in lent Nick.
Like as one pea. Nick man of honour; keep his word.”
“This does look more like it than common, Nick. The
money was to be returned to-day, but I did not expect to see
it, so many previous contracts of that nature having been
vacated, as the lawyers call it.”
“Tuscarora chief alway gentleman. What he say, he do.
Good quarter dollar, dat, cap'in?”
“It is unexceptionable, old acquaintance; I'll not disdain
receiving it, as it may serve for a future loan.”
“No need bye'm-by—take him, now—cap'in, lend Nick
dollar; pay him to-morrow.”
The captain protested against the sequitur that the Indian
evidently wished to establish; declining, though in a good-natured
manner, to lend the larger sum. Nick was disappointed,
and walked sullenly away, moving nearer to the
stockade, with the air of an offended man.
“That is an extraordinary fellow, sir!” observed the
major—“I really wonder you tolerate him so much about
the Hut. It might be a good idea to banish him, now that
the war has broken out.”
“Which would be a thing more easily said than done.
A drop of water might as readily be banished from that
stream, as an Indian from any part of the forest he may
choose to visit. You brought him here yourself, Bob, and
should not blame us for tolerating his presence.”
“I brought him, sir, because I found he recognised me
even in this dress, and it was wise to make a friend of him.
Then I wanted a guide, and I was well assured he knew
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the way, if any man did. He is a surly scoundrel, however,
and appears to have changed his character, since I
was a boy.”
“If there be any change, Bob, it is in yourself. Nick has
been Nick these thirty years, or as long as I have known
him. Rascal he is, or his tribe would not have cast him
out. Indian justice is stern, but it is natural justice. No
man is ever put to the ban among the red men, until they
are satisfied he is not fit to enjoy savage rights. In garrison,
we always looked upon Nick as a clever knave, and
treated him accordingly. When one is on his guard against
such a fellow, he can do little harm, and this Tuscarora has
a salutary dread of me, which keeps him in tolerable order,
during his visits to the Hut. The principal mischief he does
here, is to get Mike and Jamie deeper in the Santa Cruz
than I could wish; but the miller has his orders to sell no
more rum.”
“I hardly think you do Nick justice, Willoughby,” observed
the right-judging and gentle wife. “He has some
good qualities; but you soldiers always apply martial-law
to the weaknesses of your fellow-creatures.”
“And you tender-hearted women, my dear Wilhelmina,
think everybody as good as yourselves.”
“Remember, Hugh, when your son, there, had the canker-rash,
how actively and readily the Tuscarora went into
the forest to look for the gold-thread that even the doctors
admitted cured him. It was difficult to find, Robert; but
Nick remembered a spot where he had seen it, fifty miles
off; and, without a request even, from us, he travelled that
distance to procure it.”
“Yes, this is true”—returned the captain, thoughtfully—
“though I question if the cure was owing to the gold-thread,
as you call it, Wilhelmina. Every man has some good
quality or other; and, I much fear, some bad ones also.—
But, here is the fellow coming back, and I do not like to let
him think himself of sufficient consequence to be the subject
of our remarks.”
“Very true, sir—it adds excessively to the trouble of such
fellows, to let them fancy themselves of importance.”
Nick, now, came slowly back, after having examined the
recent changes to his satisfaction. He stood a moment in
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silence, near the table, and then, assuming an air of more
dignity than common, he addressed the captain.
“Nick ole chief,” he said. “Been at Council Fire, often
as cap'in. Can't tell, all he know; want to hear about
new war.”
“Why, Nick, it is a family quarrel, this time. The French
have nothing to do with it.”
“Yengeese fight Yengeese—um?”
“I am afraid it will so turn out. Do not the Tuscaroras
sometimes dig up the hatchet against the Tuscaroras?”
“Tuscarora man kill Tuscarora man—good—he quarrel,
and kill he enemy. But Tuscarora warrior nebber take
scalp of Tuscarora squaw and pappoose! What you t'ink
he do dat for? Red man no hog, to eat pork.”
“It must be admitted, Nick, you are a very literal logician—
`dog won't eat dog,' is our English saying. Still the
Yankee will fight the Yengeese, it would seem. In a word,
the Great Father, in England, has raised the hatchet against
his American children.”
“How you like him, cap'in—um? Which go on straight
path, which go on crooked? How you like him?”
“I like it little, Nick, and wish with all my heart the
quarrel had not taken place.”
“Mean to put on regimentals—hah! Mean to be cap'in,
ag'in? Follow drum and fife, like ole time?”
“I rather think not, old comrade. After sixty, one likes
peace better than war; and I intend to stay at home.”
“What for, den, build fort? Why you put fence round
a house, like pound for sheep?”
“Because I intend to stay there. The stockade will be
good to keep off any, or every enemy who may take it into
their heads to come against us. You have known me defend
a worse position than this.”
“He got no gate,” muttered Nick—“What he good for,
widout gate? Yengeese, Yankees, red man, French man,
walk in just as he please. No good to leave such squaw
wid a door wide open.”
“Thank you, Nick,” cried Mrs. Willoughby. “I knew
you were my friend, and have not forgotten the gold-thread.”
“He very good,” answered the Indian, with an important
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look. “Pappoose get well like not'ing. He a'most die, today;
to-morrow he run about and play. Nick do him,
too; cure him wid gold-thread.”
“Oh! you are, or were quite a physician at one time,
Nick. I remember when you had the smallpox, yourself.”
The Indian turned, with the quickness of lightning, to
Mrs. Willoughby, whom he startled with his energy, as he
demanded—
“You remember dat, Mrs. cap'in! Who gib him—who
cure him—um?”
“Upon my word, Nick, you almost frighten me. I fear
I gave you the disease, but it was for your own good it was
done. You were inoculated by myself, when the soldiers
were dying around us, because they had never had that
care taken of them. All I inoculated lived; yourself among
the number.”
The startling expression passed away from the fierce
countenance of the savage, leaving in its place another so
kind and amicable as to prove he not only was aware of the
benefit he had received, but that he was deeply grateful for
it. He drew near to Mrs. Willoughby, took her still white
and soft hand in his own sinewy and dark fingers, then
dropped the blanket that he had thrown carelessly across
his body, from a shoulder, and laid it on a mark left by the
disease, by way of pointing to her good work. He smiled,
as this was done.
“Ole mark,” he said, nodding his head—“sign we good
friend—he nebber go away while Nick live.”
This touched the captain's heart, and he tossed a dollar
towards the Indian, who suffered it, however, to lie at his
feet unnoticed. Turning to the stockade, he pointed significantly
at the open gate-ways.
“Great danger go t'rough little 'ole,” he said, sententiously,
walking away as he concluded. “Why you leave
big 'ole open?”
“We must get those gates hung next week,” said the
captain, positively; “and yet it is almost absurd to apprehend
anything serious in this remote settlement, and that at
so early a period in the war.”
Nothing further passed on the lawn worthy to be recorded.
The sun set, and the family withdrew into the house,
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as usual, to trust to the overseeing, care of Divine Providence,
throughout a night passed in a wilderness. By
common consent, the discourse turned upon things noway
connected with the civil war, or its expected results, until
the party was about to separate for the night, when the
major found himself alone with his sisters, in his own little
parlour, dressing-room, or study, whatever the room adjoining
his chamber could properly be called.
“You will not leave us soon, Robert,” said Beulah, taking
her brother's hand, with confiding affection, “I hardly
think my father young and active enough, or rather alarmed
enough, to live in times like these!”
“He is a soldier, Beulah, and a good one; so good that
his son can teach him nothing. I wish I could say that he
is as good a subject: I fear he leans to the side of the colonies.”
“Heaven be praised!” exclaimed Beulah — “Oh! that
his son would incline in the same direction.”
“Nay, Beulah,” rejoined Maud, reproachfully; “you
speak without reflection. Mamma bitterly regrets that papa
sees things in the light he does. She thinks the parliament
right, and the colonies wrong.”
“What a thing is a civil war!” ejaculated the major—
“Here is husband divided against wife—son against father—
brother against sister. I could almost wish I were dead,
ere I had lived to see this!”
“Nay, Robert, it is not so bad as that, either,” added
Maud. “My mother will never oppose my father's will or
judgment. Good wives, you know, never do that. She will
only pray that he may decide right, and in a way that his
children will never have cause to regret. As for me, I count
for nothing, of course.”
“And Beulah, Maud; is she nothing, too? Here will
Beulah be praying for her brother's defeat, throughout this
war. It has been some presentiment of this difference of
opinion that has probably induced you to forget me, while
Beulah and my mother were passing so many hours to fill
that basket.”
“Perhaps you do Maud injustice, Robert,” said Beulah,
smiling. “I think I can say none loves you better than
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our dear sister—or no one has thought of you more, in your
absence.”
“Why, then, does the basket contain no proof of this
remembrance—not even a chain of hair—a purse, or a ring—
nothing, in short, to show that I have not been forgotten,
when away.”
“Even if this be so,” said Maud, with spirit, “in what
am I worse than yourself. What proof is there that you
have remembered us?”
“This,” answered the major, laying before his sisters two
small packages, each marked with the name of its proper
owner. “My mother has her's, too, and my father has not
been forgotten.”
Beulah's exclamations proved how much she was gratified
with her presents; principally trinkets and jewelry, suited
to her years and station. First kissing the major, she declared
her mother must see what she had received, before
she retired for the night, and hurried from the room. That
Maud was not less pleased, was apparent by her glowing
cheeks and tearful eyes; though, for a wonder, she was far
more restrained in the expression of her feelings. After
examining the different articles, with pleasure, for a minute
or two, she went, with a quick impetuous movement, to the
basket, tumbled all its contents on the table, until she reached
the scarf, which she tossed towards the major, saying,
with a faint laugh—
“There, unbeliever—heathen—is that nothing? Was
that made in a minute, think you?”
“This!” cried the major, opening the beautiful, glossy
fabric in surprise. “Is not this one of my father's old
sashes, to which I have fallen heir, in the order of nature?”
Maud dropped her trinkets, and seizing two corners of the
sash, she opened it, in a way to exhibit its freshness and
beauty.
“Is this old, or worn?” she asked, reproachfully. “Your
father never even saw it, Bob. It has not yet been around
the waist of man.”
“It is not possible!—This would be the work of months—
is so beautiful—you cannot have purchased it.”
Maud appeared distressed at his doubts. Opening the
folds still wider, she raised the centre of the silk to the light,
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and pointed to certain letters that had been wrought into the
fabric, so ingeniously as to escape ordinary observation, and
yet so plainly as to be distinctly legible when the attention
was once drawn to them. The major took the sash into his
own hands altogether, held it opened before the candles, and
read the words “Maud Meredith” aloud. Dropping the
sash, he turned to seek the face of the donor, but she had
fled the room. He followed her footsteps and entered the
library, just as she was about to escape from it, by a different
door.
“I am offended at your incredulity,” said Maud, making
an effort to laugh away the scene, “and will not remain to
hear lame excuses. Your new regiment can have no nature
in it, or brothers would not treat sisters thus.”
“Maud Meredith is not my sister,” he said, earnestly,
“though Maud Willoughby may be. Why is the name
Meredith?”
“As a retort to one of your own allusions—did you not
call me Miss Meredith, one day, when I last saw you in
Albany?”
“Ay, but that was in jest, my dearest Maud. It was not
a deliberate thing, like the name on that sash.”
“Oh! jokes may be premeditated as well as murder;
and many a one is murdered, you know. Mine is a prolonged
jest.”
“Tell me, does my mother—does Beulah know who made
this sash?”
“How else could it have been made, Bob? Do you think
I went into the woods, and worked by myself, like some
romantic damsel who had an unmeaning secret to keep
against the curious eyes of persecuting friends!”
“I know not what I thought—scarce know what I think
now. But, my mother; does she know of this name?”
Maud blushed to the eyes; but the habit and the love of
truth were so strong in her, that she shook her head in the
negative.
“Nor Beulah?—She, I am certain, would not have permitted
`Meredith' to appear where `Willoughby' should have
been.”
“Nor Beulah, either, major Willoughby,” pronouncing
the name with an affectation of reverence. “The honour
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of the Willoughbys is thus preserved from every taint, and
all the blame must fall on poor Maud Meredith.”
“You dislike the name of Willoughby, then, and intend
to drop it, in future—I have remarked that you sign yourself
only `Maud,' in your last letters—never before, however,
did I suspect the reason.”
“Who wishes to live for ever an impostor? It is not my
legal name, and I shall soon be called on to perform legal
acts. Remember, Mr. Robert Willoughby, I am twenty;
when it comes to pounds, shillings, and pence, I must not
forge. A little habit is necessary to teach me the use of
my own bonâ fide signature.”
“But ours—the name is not hateful to you—you do not
throw it aside, seriously, for ever!”
“Yours! What, the honoured name of my dear, dearest
father—of my mother—of Beulah—of yourself, Bob!”
Maud did not remain to terminate her speech. Bursting
into tears, she vanished.
CHAPTER VIII.
The village tower—'tis joy to me!—I cry, the Lord is here!
The village bells! They fill the soul with ecstasy sincere.
And thus, I sing, the light hath shined to lands in darkness hurled;
Their sound is now in all the earth, their words throughout the
world.
Coxe.
Another night past in peace within the settlement of
the Hutted Knoll. The following morning was the Sabbath,
and it came forth, balmy, genial, and mild; worthy of the
great festival of the Christian world. On the subject of religion,
captain Willoughby was a little of a martinet; understanding
by liberty of conscience, the right of improving by
the instruction of those ministers who belonged to the church
of England. Several of his labourers had left him because
he refused to allow of any other ministrations on his estate;
his doctrine being that every man had a right to do as he
pleased in such matters; and as he did not choose to allow
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of schism, within the sphere of his owh influence, if others
desired to be schismatics they were at liberty to go elsewhere,
in order to indulge their tastes. Joel Strides and
Jamie Allen were both disaffected to this sort of orthodoxy,
and they had frequent private discussions on its propriety;
the former in his usual wily and jesuitical mode of sneering
and insinuating, and the latter respectfully as related to his
master, but earnestly as it concerned his conscience. Others,
too, were dissentients, but with less repining; though occasionally
they would stay away from Mr. Wood's services.
Mike, alone, took an open and manly stand in the matter,
and he a little out-Heroded Herod; or, in other words, he
exceeded the captain himself in strictness of construction.
On the very morning we have just described, he was present
at a discussion between the Yankee overseer and the Scotch
mason, in which these two dissenters, the first a congregationalist,
and the last a seceder, were complaining of the
hardships of a ten years' abstinence, during which no spiritual
provender had been fed out to them from a proper source.
The Irishman broke out upon the complainants in a way
that will at once let the reader into the secret of the county
Leitrim-man's principles, if he has any desire to know
them.
“Bad luck to all sorts of religion but the right one!” cried
Mike, in a most tolerant spirit. “Who d'ye think will be
wishful of hearing mass and pr'aching that comes from any
of your heretick parsons? Ye're as dape in the mire yerselves,
as Mr. Woods is in the woods, and no one to lade
ye out of either, but an evil spirit that would rather see all
mankind br'iling in agony, than dancing at a fair.”
“Go to your confessional, Mike,” returned Joel, with a
sneer—“It's a month, or more, sin' you seen it, and the
priest will think you have forgotten him, and go away
offended.”
“Och! It's such a praist, as the likes of yees has no
nade of throubling! Yer conscience is aisy, Misther Straddle,
so that yer belly is filled, and yer wages is paid. Bad luck
to sich religion!”
The allusion of Joel related to a practice of Michael's that
is deserving of notice. It seems that the poor fellow, excluded
by his insulated position from any communication
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with a priest of his own church, was in the habit of resorting
to a particular rock in the forest, where he would kneel
and acknowledge his sins, very much as he would have
done had the rock been a confessional containing one
authorized to grant him absolution. Accident revealed the
secret, and from that time Michael's devotion was a standing
jest among the dissenters of the valley. The county Leitrim-man
was certainly a little too much addicted to Santa Cruz,
and he was accused of always visiting his romantic chapel
after a debauch. Of course, he was but little pleased with
Joel's remark on the present occasion; and being, like a
modern newspaper, somewhat more vituperative than logical,
he broke out as related.
“Jamie,” continued Joel, too much accustomed to Mike's
violence to heed it, “it does seem to me a hardship to be
obliged to frequent a church of which a man's conscience
can't approve. Mr. Woods, though a native colonist, is an
Old England parson, and he has so many popish ways about
him, that I am under considerable concern of mind”—concern,
of itself, was not sufficiently emphatic for one of Joel's
sensitive feelings—“I am under considerable concern of
mind about the children. They sit under no other preaching;
and, though Lyddy and I do all we can to gainsay the
sermons, as soon as meetin' is out, some of it will stick.
You may worry the best Christian into idolatry and unbelief,
by parseverance and falsehood. Now that things look
so serious, too, in the colonies, we ought to be most careful.”
Jamie did not clearly understand the application of the
present state of the colonies, nor had he quite made up his
mind, touching the merits of the quarrel between parliament
and the Americans. As between the Stuarts and the House
of Hanover, he was for the former, and that mainly because
he thought them Scotch, and it was surely a good thing for
a Scotchman to govern England; but, as between the Old
countries and the New, he was rather inclined to think the
rights of the first ought to predominate; there being something
opposed to natural order, agreeably to his notions, in
permitting the reverse of this doctrine to prevail. As for
presbyterianism, however, even in the mitigated form of
New England church government, he deemed it to be so
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much better than episcopacy, that he would have taken up
arms, old as he was, for the party that it could be made to
appear was fighting to uphold the last. We have no wish
to mislead the reader. Neither of the persons mentioned,
Mike included, actually knew anything of the points in dispute
between the different sects, or churches, mentioned;
but only fancied themselves in possession of the doctrines,
traditions, and authorities connected with the subject. These
fancies, however, served to keep alive a discussion that soon
had many listeners; and never before, since his first ministration
in the valley, did Mr. Woods meet as disaffected a
congregation, as on this day.
The church of the Hutted Knoll, or, as the clergyman
more modestly termed it, the chapel, stood in the centre of
the meadows, on a very low swell of their surface, where a
bit of solid dry ground had been discovered, fit for such a
purpose. The principal object had been to make it central;
though some attention had been paid also to the picturesque.
It was well shaded with young elms, just then opening into
leaf; and about a dozen graves, principally of very young
children, were memorials of the mortality of the settlement.
The building was of stone, the work of Jamie Allen's own
hands, but small, square, with a pointed roof, and totally
without tower, or belfry. The interior was of unpainted
cherry, and through a want of skill in the mechanics, had
a cold and raw look, little suited to the objects of the structure.
Still, the small altar, the desk and the pulpit, and the
large, square, curtained pew of the captain, the only one the
house contained, were all well ornamented with hangings,
or cloth, and gave the place somewhat of an air of clerical
comfort and propriety. The rest of the congregation sat on
benches, with kneeling-boards before them. The walls were
plastered, and, a proof that parsimony had no connection
with the simple character of the building, and a thing almost
as unusual in America at that period as it is to-day in parts
of Italy, the chapel was entirely finished.
It has been said that the morning of the particular Sabbath
at which we have now arrived, was mild and balmy.
The sun of the forty-third degree of latitude poured out its
genial rays upon the valley, gilding the tender leaves of the
surrounding forest with such touches of light as are best
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known to the painters of Italy. The fineness of the weather
brought nearly all the working people of the settlement to
the chapel quite an hour before the ringing of its little bell,
enabling the men to compare opinions afresh, on the subject
of the political troubles of the times, and the women to
gossip about their children.
On all such occasions, Joel was a principal spokesman,
nature having created him for a demagogue, in a small way;
an office for which education had in no degree unfitted him.
As had been usual with him, of late, he turned the discourse
on the importance of having correct information of what
was going on, in the inhabited parts of the country, and of
the expediency of sending some trustworthy person on such
an errand. He had frequently intimated his own readiness
to go, if his neighbours wished it.
“We're all in the dark here,” he remarked, “and might
stay so to the end of time, without some one to be relied on,
to tell us the news. Major Willoughby is a fine man”—
Joel meant morally, not physically—“but he's a king's
officer, and nat'rally feels inclined to make the best of things
for the rig'lars. The captain, too, was once a soldier, himself,
and his feelin's turn, as it might be, unav'idably, to the
side he has been most used to. We are like people on a
desart island, out here in the wilderness—and if ships won't
arrive to tell us how matters come on, we must send one
out to l'arn it for us. I'm the last man at the Dam”—so
the oi polloi called the valley—“to say anything hard of
either the captain or his son; but one is English born, and
the other is English bred; and each will make a difference
in a man's feelin's.”
To this proposition the miller, in particular, assented;
and, for the twentieth time, he made some suggestion about
the propriety of Joel's going himself, in order to ascertain
how the land lay.
“You can be back by hoeing,” he added, “and have
plenty of time to go as far as Boston, should you wish to.”
Now, while the great events were in progress, which led
to the subversion of British power in America, an undercurrent
of feeling, if not of incidents, was running in this
valley, which threatened to wash away the foundations of
the captain's authority. Joel and the miller, if not
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downright conspirators, had hopes, calculations, and even projects
of their own, that never would have originated with men of
the same class, in another state of society; or, it might
almost be said, in another part of the world. The sagacity
of the overseer had long enabled him to foresee that the
issue of the present troubles would be insurrection; and a
sort of instinct which some men possess for the strongest
side, had pointed out to him the importance of being a patriot.
The captain, he little doubted, would take part with
the crown, and then no one knew what might be the consequences.
It is not probable that Joel's instinct for the
strongest side predicted the precise confiscations that subsequently
ensued, some of which had all the grasping lawlessness
of a gross abuse of power; but he could easily foresee
that if the owner of the estate should be driven off, the property
and its proceeds, probably for a series of years, would
be very apt to fall under his own control and management.
Many a patriot has been made by anticipations less brilliant
than these; and as Joel and the miller talked the matter
over between them, they had calculated all the possible
emolument of fattening beeves, and packing pork for hostile
armies, or isolated frontier posts, with a strong gusto for
the occupation. Should open war but fairly commence, and
could the captain only be induced to abandon the Knoll, and
take refuge within a British camp, everything might be made
to go smoothly, until settling day should follow a peace. At
that moment, non est inventus would be a sufficient answer
to a demand for any balance.
“They tell me,” said Joel, in an aside to the miller, “that
law is as good as done with in the Bay colony, already; and
you know if the law has run out there, it will quickly come
to an end, here. York never had much character for law.”
“That's true, Joel; then you know the captain himself
is the only magistrate hereabout; and, when he is away,
we shall have to be governed by a committee of safety, or
something of that natur'.”
“A committee of safety will be the thing!”
“What is a committee of safety, Joel?” demanded the
miller, who had made far less progress in the arts of the
demagogue than his friend, and who, in fact, had much less
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native fitness for the vocation; “I have heer'n tell of them
regulations, but do not rightly understand 'em, a'ter all.”
“You know what a committee is?” asked Joel, glancing
inquiringly at his friend.
“I s'pose I do—it means men's takin' on themselves the
trouble and care of public business.”
“That's it—now a committee of safety means a few of
us, for instance, having the charge of the affairs of this
settlement, in order to see that no harm shall come to anything,
especially to the people.”
“It would be a good thing to have one, here. The carpenter,
and you, and I might be members, Joel.”
“We'll talk about it, another time. The corn is just
planted, you know; and it has got to be hoed twice, and
topped, before it can be gathered. Let us wait and see how
things come on at Boston.”
While this incipient plot was thus slowly coming to a
head, and the congregation was gradually collecting at the
chapel, a very different scene was enacting in the Hut.
Breakfast was no sooner through, than Mrs. Willoughby
retired to her own sitting-room, whither her son was shortly
summoned to join her. Expecting some of the inquiries
which maternal affection might prompt, the major proceeded
to the place named with alacrity; but, on entering the room,
to his great surprise he found Maud with his mother. The
latter seemed grave and concerned, while the former was
not entirely free from alarm. The young man glanced inquiringly
at the young lady, and he fancied he saw tears
struggling to break out of her eyes.
“Come hither, Robert”—said Mrs. Willoughby, pointing
to a chair at her side—with a gravity that struck her son as
unusual—“I have brought you here to listen to one of the
old-fashioned lectures, of which you got so many when a
boy.”
“Your advice, my dear mother—or even your reproofs—
would be listened to with far more reverence and respect,
now, than I fear they were then,” returned the major, seating
himself by the side of Mrs. Willoughby, and taking one
of her hands, affectionately, in both his own. “It is only
in after-life that we learn to appreciate the tenderness and
care of such a parent as you have been; though what I
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have done lately, to bring me in danger of the guard-house,
I cannot imagine. Surely you cannot blame me for adhering
to the crown, at a moment like this!”
“I shall not interfere with your conscience in this matter,
Robert; and my own feelings, American as I am by birth
and family, rather incline me to think as you think. I have
wished to see you, my son, on a different business.”
“Do not keep me in suspense, mother; I feel like a prisoner
who is waiting to hear his charges read. What have
I done?”
“Nay, it is rather for you to tell me what you have done.
You cannot have forgotten, Robert, how very anxious I have
been to awaken and keep alive family affection, among my
children; how very important both your father and I have
always deemed it; and how strongly we have endeavoured
to impress this importance on all your minds. The tie of
family, and the love it ought to produce, is one of the sweetest
of all our earthly duties. Perhaps we old people see its value
more than you young; but, to us, the weakening of it seems
like a disaster only a little less to be deplored than death.”
“Dearest—dearest mother! What can you—what do
you mean?—What can I—what can Maud have to do with
this?”
“Do not your consciences tell you, both? Has there not
been some misunderstanding—perhaps a quarrel—certainly
a coldness between you? A mother has a quick and a jealous
eye; and I have seen, for some time, that there is not
the old confidence, the free natural manner, in either of
you, that there used to be, and which always gave your
father and me so much genuine happiness. Speak, then,
and let me make peace between you.”
Robert Willoughby would not have looked at Maud, at
that moment, to have been given a regiment; as for Maud,
herself, she was utterly incapable of raising her eyes from
the floor. The former coloured to the temples, a proof of
consciousness, his mother fancied; while the latter's face
resembled ivory, as much as flesh and blood.
“If you think, Robert,” continued Mrs. Willoughby,
“that Maud has forgotten you, or shown pique for any little
former misunderstanding, during your last absence, you do
her injustice. No one has done as much for you, in the
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way of memorial; that beautiful sash being all her own
work, and made of materials purchased with her own pocketmoney.
Maud loves you truly, too; for, whatever may be
the airs she gives herself, while you are together, when
absent, no one seems to care more for your wishes and
happiness, than that very wilful and capricious girl.”
“Mother!—mother!” murmured Maud, burying her face
in both her hands.
Mrs. Willoughby was woman in all her feelings, habits
and nature. No one would have been more keenly alive
to the peculiar sensibilities of her sex, under ordinary circumstances,
than herself; but she was now acting and
thinking altogether in her character of a mother; and so
long and intimately had she regarded the two beings before
her, in that common and sacred light, that it would have
been like the dawn of a new existence for her, just then, to
look upon them as not really akin to each other.
“I shall not, nor can I treat either of you as a child,”
she continued, “and must therefore appeal only to your
own good sense, to make a peace. I know it can be nothing
serious; but, it is painful to me to see even an affected coldness
among my children. Think, Maud, that we are on the
point of a war, and how bitterly you would regret it, should
any accident befall your brother, and your memory not be
able to recall the time passed among us, in his last visit, with
entire satisfaction.”
The mother's voice trembled; but tears no longer struggled
about the eyelids of Maud. Her face was pale as
death, and it seemed as if every ordinary fountain of sorrow
were dried up.
“Dear Bob, this is too much!” she said eagerly, though
in husky tones. “Here is my hand—nay, here are both.
Mother must not think this cruel charge is—can be true.”
The major arose, approached his sister, and impressed a
kiss on her cold cheek. Mrs. Willoughby smiled at these
tokens of amity, and the conversation continued in a less
earnest manner.
“This is right, my children,” said the single-hearted
Mrs. Willoughby, whose sensitive maternal love saw nothing
but the dreaded consequences of weakened domestic
affections; “and I shall be all the happier for having
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witnessed it. Young soldiers, Maud, who are sent early from
their homes, have too many inducements to forget them and
those they contain; and we women are so dependent on the
love of our male friends, that it is wisdom in us to keep
alive all the earlier ties as long and as much as possible.”
“I am sure, dearest mother,” murmured Maud, though
in a voice that was scarcely audible, “I shall be the last to
wish to weaken this family tie. No one can feel a warmer—
a more proper—a more sisterly affection for Robert, than I
do—he was always so kind to me when a child—and so
ready to assist me—and so manly—and so everything that
he ought to be — it is surprising you should have fancied
there was any coldness between us!”
Major Willoughby even bent forward to listen, so intense
was his curiosity to hear what Maud said; a circumstance
which, had she seen it, would probably have closed her lips.
But her eyes were riveted on the floor, her cheeks were
bloodless, and her voice so low, that nothing but the breathless
stillness he observed, would have allowed the young
man to hear it, where he sat.
“You forget, mother”—rejoined the major, satisfied that
the last murmur had died on his ears—“that Maud will
probably be transplanted into another family, one of these
days, where we, who know her so well, and have reason to
love her so much, can only foresee that she will form new,
and even stronger ties than any that accident may have
formed for her here.”
“Never—never”—exclaimed Maud, fervently—“I can
never love any as well as I love those who are in this
house.”
The relief she wanted stopped her voice, and, bursting
into tears, she threw herself into Mrs. Willoughby's arms,
and sobbed like a child. The mother now motioned to her
son to quit the room, while she remained herself to soothe
the weeping girl, as she so often had done before, when
overcome by her infantile, or youthful griefs. Throughout
this interview, habit and single-heartedness so exercised
their influence, that the excellent matron did not, in the most
remote manner, recollect that her son and Maud were not
natural relatives. Accustomed herself to see the latter every
day, and to think of her, as she had from the moment when
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she was placed in her arms, an infant of a few weeks old,
the effect that separation might produce on others, never
presented itself to her mind. Major Willoughby, a boy of
eight when Maud was received in the family, had known
from the first her precise position; and it was perhaps morally
impossible that he should not recall the circumstance in
their subsequent intercourse; more especially as school,
college, and the army, had given him so much leisure to
reflect on such things, apart from the influence of family
habits; while it was to be expected that a consequence of his
own peculiar mode of thinking on this subject, would be to
produce something like a sympathetic sentiment in the bosom
of Maud. Until within the last few years, however, she had
been so much of a child herself, and had been treated so
much like a child by the young soldier, that it was only
through a change in him, that was perceptible only to herself,
and which occurred when he first met her grown into
womanhood, that she alone admitted any feelings that were
not strictly to be referred to sisterly regard. All this, nevertheless,
was a profound mystery to every member of the
family, but the two who were its subjects; no other thoughts
than the simplest and most obvious, ever suggesting themselves
to the minds of the others.
In half an hour, Mrs. Willoughby had quieted all Maud's
present troubles, and the whole family left the house to repair
to the chapel. Michael, though he had no great reverence
for Mr. Wood's ministrations, had constituted himself sexton,
an office which had devolved on him in consequence of his
skill with the spade. Once initiated into one branch of this
duty, he had insisted on performing all the others; and it
was sometimes a curious spectacle to see the honest fellow,
busy about the interior of the building, during service, literally
stopping one of his ears with a thumb, with a view,
while he acquitted himself of what he conceived to be temporal
obligations, to exclude as much heresy as possible.
One of his rules was to refuse to commence tolling the bell,
until he saw Mrs. Willoughby and her daughter, within a
reasonable distance of the place of worship; a rule that had
brought about more than one lively discussion between himself
and the leveling-minded, if not heavenly-minded Joel
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Strides. On the present occasion, this simple process did
not pass altogether without a dispute.
“Come, Mike; it's half-past ten; the people have been
waiting about the meetin' 'us, some time; you should open
the doors, and toll the bell. People can't wait, for ever,
for anybody; not even for your church.”
“Then let 'em just go home, ag'in, and come when
they 're called. Because, the ould women, and the young
women, and the childer, and the likes o' them, wishes to
scandalize their fellow cr'atures, Christians I will not call
'em, let 'em mate in the mill, or the school-house, and not
come forenent a church on sich a business as that. Is it
toll the bell, will I, afore the Missus is in sight?—No—not
for a whole gineration of ye, Joel; and every one o' them,
too, a much likelier man than ye bees yerself.”
“Religion is no respecter of persons”—returned the philosophical
Joel. “Them that likes masters and mistresses
may have them, for all me; but it riles me to meet with
meanness.”
“It does!” cried Mike, looking up at his companion, with
a very startling expression of wonder. “If that be true, ye
must be in a mighty throubled state, most of the live-long
day, ye must!”
“I tell you, Michael O'Hearn, religion is no respecter of
persons. The Lord cares jist as much for me, as he does
for captain Willoughby, or his wife, or his son, or his darters,
or anything that is his.”
“Divil burn me, now, Joel, if I believe that!” again cried
Mike, in his dogmatic manner. “Then that understands
knows the difference between mankind, and I'm sure it can
be no great sacret to the Lord, when it is so well known to
a poor fellow like myself. There's a plenthy of fellowcr'atures
that has a mighty good notion of their own excellence,
but when it comes to r'ason and thruth, it's no very
great figure ye all make, in proving what ye say. This
chapel is the master's, if chapel the heretical box can be
called, and yonder bell was bought wid his money; and the
rope is his; and the hands that mane to pull it, is his; and
so there's little use in talking ag'in rocks, and ag'in minds
that's made up even harder than rocks, and to spare.”
This settled the matter. The bell was not tolled until
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Mrs. Willoughby, and her daughters, had got fairly through
the still unprotected gateway of the stockade, although the
recent discussion of political questions had so far substituted
discontent for subordination in the settlement, that more
than half of those who were of New England descent, had
openly expressed their dissatisfaction at the delay. Mike,
however, was as unmoved as the little chapel itself, refusing
to open the door until the proper moment had arrived, according
to his own notion of the fitness of things. He then
proceeded to the elm, against which the little bell was hung,
and commenced tolling it with as much seriousness as if the
conveyer of sounds had been duly consecrated.
When the family from the Hut entered the chapel, all the
rest of the congregation were in their customary seats. This
arrival, however, added materially to the audience, Great
Smash and Little Smash, the two Plinys, and some five or
six coloured children, between the ages of six and twelve,
following in the train of their master. For the blacks, a
small gallery had been built, where they could sit apart, a
proscribed, if not a persecuted race. Little did the Plinys
or the Smashes, notwithstanding, think of this. Habit had
rendered their situation more than tolerable, for it had
created notions and usages that would have rendered them
uncomfortable, in closer contact with the whites. In that
day, the two colours never the together, by any accident;
the eastern castes being scarcely more rigid in the observance
of their rules, than the people of America were on this
great point. The men who would toil together, joke together,
and pass their days in familiar intercourse, would not
sit down at the same board. There seemed to be a sort of
contamination, according to the opinions of one of these
castes, in breaking bread with the other. This prejudice often
gave rise to singular scenes, more especially in the households
of those who habitually laboured in company with
their slaves. In such families, it not unfrequently happened
that a black led the councils of the farm. He might be seen
seated by the fire, uttering his opinions dogmatically, reasoning
warmly against his own master, and dealing out his
wisdom ex cathedra, even while he waited, with patient
humility, when he might approach, and satisfy his hunger,
after all of the other colour had quitted the table.
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Mr. Woods was not fortunate in the selection of his subject,
on the occasion of which we are writing. There had
been so much personal activity, and so much political discussion
during the past week, as to prevent him from writing
a new sermon, and of course he was compelled to fall back
on the other end of the barrel. The recent arguments inclined
him to maintain his own opinions, and he chose a
discourse that he had delivered to the garrison of which he
had last been chaplain. To this choice he had been enticed
by the text, which was, “Render unto Cæsar the things
that are Cæsar's,” a mandate that would be far more palatable
to an audience composed of royal troops, than to one
which had become a good deal disaffected by the arts and
arguments of Joel Strides and the miller. Still, as the sermon
contained a proper amount of theological truisms, and
had a sufficiency of general orthodoxy to cover a portion
of its political bearing, it gave far more dissatisfaction to a
few of the knowing, than to the multitude. To own the
truth, the worthy priest was so much addicted to continuing
his regimental and garrison course of religious instruction,
that his ordinary listeners would scarcely observe this tendency
to loyalty; though it was far different with those who
were eagerly looking for causes of suspicion and denunciation,
in the higher quarters.
“Well,” said Joel, as he and the miller, followed by their
respective families, proceeded towards the mill, where the
household of the Strides' were to pass the remainder of the
day, “well, this is a bold sermon for a minister to preach
in times like these! I kind o' guess, if Mr. Woods was down
in the Bay, `render unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsars,'
wouldn't be doctrine to be so quietly received by every congregation.
What's your notion about that, Miss Strides?”
Miss Strides thought exactly as her husband thought,
and the miller and his wife were not long in chiming in
with her, accordingly. The sermon furnished material for
conversation throughout the remainder of the day, at the
mill, and divers conclusions were drawn from it, that were
ominous to the preacher's future comfort and security.
Nor did the well-meaning parson entirely escape comment
in the higher quarters.
“I wish, Woods, you had made choice of some other
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subject,” observed the captain, as he and his friend walked
the lawn together, in waiting for a summons to dinner,
“In times like these, one cannot be too careful of the political
notions he throws out; and to own the truth to you, I
am more than half inclined to think that Cæsar is exercising
quite as much authority, in these colonies, as justly falls to
his share.”
“Why, my dear captain, you have heard this very sermon
three or four times already, and you have more than
once mentioned it with commendation!”
“Ay, but that was in garrison, where one is obliged to
teach subordination. I remember the sermon quite well,
and a very good one it was, twenty years since, when you
first preached it; but—”
“I apprehend, captain Willoughby, that `tempora mutantur,
et, nos mutamus in illis.' That the mandates and
maxims of the Saviour are far beyond the mutations and
erring passions of mortality. His sayings are intended for
all times.”
“Certainly, as respects their general principles and governing
truths. But no text is to be interpreted without
some reference to circumstances. All I mean is, that the
preaching which might be very suitable to a battalion of
His Majesty's Fortieth might be very unsuitable for the
labourers of the Hutted Knoll; more especially so soon
after what I find is called the Battle of Lexington.”
The summons to dinner cut short the discourse, and probably
prevented a long, warm, but friendly argument.
That afternoon and evening, captain Willoughby and his
son had a private and confidential discourse. The former
advised the major to rejoin his regiment without delay,
unless he were prepared to throw up his commission and
take sides with the colonists, altogether. To this the young
soldier would not listen, returning to the charge, in the hope
of rekindling the dormant flame of his father's loyalty.
The reader is not to suppose that captain Willoughby's
own mind was absolutely made up to fly into open rebellion.
Far from it. He had his doubts and misgivings on the
subjects of both principles and prudence, but he inclined
strongly to the equity of the demands of the Americans.
Independance, or separation, if thought of at all in 1775,
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entered into the projects of but very few; the warmest wish
of the most ardent of the whigs of the colonies being directed
toward compromise, and a distinct recognition of their political
franchises. The events that followed so thickly were
merely the consequences of causes which, once set in motion,
soon attained an impetus that defied ordinary human
control. It was doubtless one of the leading incidents of
the great and mysterious scheme of Divine Providence for
the government of the future destinies of man, that political
separation should commence, in this hemisphere, at that
particular juncture, to be carried out, ere the end of a century,
to its final and natural conclusion.
But the present interview was less to debate the merits
of any disputed question, than to consult on the means of
future intercourse, and to determine on what was best to be
done at the present moment. After discussing the matter,
pro and con, it was decided that the major should quit the
Knoll the next day, and return to Boston, avoiding Albany
and those points of the country in which he would be most
exposed to detection. So many persons were joining the
American forces that were collecting about the besieged
town, that his journeying on the proper road would excite
no suspicion; and once in the American camp, nothing
would be easier than to find his way into the peninsula. All
this young Willoughby felt no difficulty in being able to
accomplish, provided he could get into the settlements without
being followed by information of his real character.
The period of spies, and of the severe exercise of martial-law,
was not yet reached; and all that was apprehended
was detention. Of the last, however, there was great danger;
positive certainly, indeed, in the event of discovery;
and major Willoughby had gleaned enough during his visit,
to feel some apprehensions of being betrayed. He regretted
having brought his servant with him; for the man was a
European, and by his dulness and speech might easily get
them both into difficulties. So serious, indeed, was this last
danger deemed by the father, that he insisted on Robert's
starting without the man, leaving the last to follow, on the
first suitable occasion.
As soon as this point was settled, there arose the question
of the proper guide. Although he distrusted the Tuscarora,
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captain Willoughby, after much reflection, came to the
opinion that it would be safer to make an ally of him, than
to give him an opportunity of being employed by the other
side. Nick was sent for, and questioned. He promised to
take the major to the Hudson, at a point between Lunenburg
and Kinderhook, where he would be likely to cross the river
without awakening suspicion; his own reward to depend on
his coming back to the Hutted Knoll with a letter from the
major, authorizing the father to pay him for his services.
This plan, it was conceived, would keep Nick true to his
faith, for the time being, at least.
Many other points were discussed between the father and
son, the latter promising if anything of importance occurred,
to find the means of communicating it to his friends at the
Knoll, while Farrel was to follow his master, at the end of
six weeks or two months, with letters from the family.
Many of the captain's old army-friends were now in situations
of authority and command, and he sent to them messages
of prudence, and admonitions to be moderate in their
views, which subsequent events proved were little regarded.
To general Gage he even wrote, using the precaution not to
sign the letter, though its sentiments were so much in favour
of the colonies, that had it been intercepted, it is most probable
the Americans would have forwarded the missive to
its direction.
These matters arranged, the father and son parted for the
night, some time after the house-clock had struck the hour
of twelve.
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CHAPTER IX.
[figure description] Page 139.[end figure description]
Though old in cunning, as in years,
He is so small, that like a child
In face and form, the god appears,
And sportive like a boy, and wild;
Lightly he moves from place to place,
In none at rest, in none content;
Delighted some new toy to chase—
On childish purpose ever bent.
Beware! to childhood's spirits gay
Is added more than childhood's power;
And you perchance may rue the hour
That saw you join his seeming play.
Griffin.
The intention of the major to quit the Knoll that day,
was announced to the family at breakfast, on the following
morning. His mother and Beulah heard this intelligence,
with a natural and affectionate concern, that they had no
scruples in avowing; but Maud seemed to have so schooled
her feelings, that the grief she really felt was under a prudent
control. To her, it appeared as if her secret were
constantly on the point of exposure, and she believed that
would cause her instant death. To survive its shame was
impossible in her eyes, and all the energies of her nature
were aroused, with the determination of burying her weakness
in her own bosom. She had been so near revealing it
to Beulah, that even now she trembled as she thought of the
precipice over which she had been impending, strengthening
her resolution by the recollection of the danger she had
run.
As a matter of necessary caution, the intended movements
of the young man were kept a profound secret from all in
the settlement. Nick had disappeared in the course of the
night, carrying with him the major's pack, having repaired
to a designated point on the stream, where he was to be
joined by his fellow-traveller at an hour named. There
were several forest-paths which led to the larger settlements.
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That usually travelled was in the direction of old Fort Stanwix,
first proceeding north, and then taking a south-eastern
direction, along the shores of the Mohawk. This was the
route by which the major had come. Another struck the
Otsego, and joined the Mohawk at the point more than once
mentioned in our opening chapters. As these were the two
ordinary paths—if paths they could be called, where few or
no traces of footsteps were visible—it was more than probable
any plan to arrest the traveller would be laid in reference
to their courses. The major had consequently
resolved to avoid them both, and to strike boldly into the
mountains, until he should reach the Susquehanna, cross
that stream on its flood-wood, and finding one of its tributaries
that flowed in from the eastward, by following its banks
to the high land, which divides the waters of the Mohawk
from this latter river, place himself on a route that would
obliquely traverse the water-courses, which, in this quarter
of the country, have all a general north or south direction.
Avoiding Schenectady and Albany, he might incline towards
the old establishments of the descendants of the emigrants
from the Palatinate, on the Schoharie, and reach the
Hudson at a point deemed safe for his purposes, through
some of the passes of the mountains in their vicinity. He
was to travel in the character of a land-owner who had
been visiting his patent, and his father supplied him with a
map and an old field-book, which would serve to corroborate
his assumed character, in the event of suspicion, or arrest.
Not much danger was apprehended, however, the quarrel
being yet too recent to admit of the organization and distrust
that subsequently produced so much vigilance and activity.
“You will contrive to let us hear of your safe arrival in
Boston, Bob,” observed the father, as he sat stirring his tea,
in a thoughtful way—“I hope to God the matter will go no
farther, and that our apprehensions, after all, have given
this dark appearance to what has already happened.”
“Ah, my dear father; you little know the state of the
country, through which I have so lately travelled!” answered
the major, shaking his head. “An alarm of fire,
in an American town, would scarce create more movement,
and not so much excitement. The colonies are alive, particularly
those of New England, and a civil war is
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inevitable; though I trust the power of England will render it
short.”
“Then, Robert, do not trust yourself among the people
of New England”—cried the anxious mother. “Go rather
to New York, where we have so many friends, and so much
influence. It will be far easier to reach New York than to
reach Boston.”
“That may be true, mother, but it will scarcely be as
creditable. My regiment is in Boston, and its enemies are
before Boston; an old soldier like captain Willoughby will
tell you that the major is a very necessary officer to a corps.
No—no—my best course is to fall into the current of adventurers
who are pushing towards Boston, and appear like
one of their number, until I can get an opportunity of stealing
away from them, and join my own people.”
“Have a care, Bob, that you do not commit a military
crime. Perhaps these provincial officers may take it into
their heads to treat you as a spy, should you fall into their
hands!”
“Little fear of that, sir; at present it is a sort of colonial
scramble for what they fancy liberty. That they will fight,
in their zeal, I know; for I have seen it; but matters have
not at all gone as far as you appear to apprehend. I question
if they would even stop Gage, himself, from going through
their camp, were he outside, and did he express a desire to
return.”
“And yet you tell me, arms and ammunition are seized
all over the land; that several old half-pay officers of the
king have been arrested, and put under a sort of parole!”
“Such things were talked of, certainly, though I question
if they have yet been done. Luckily for yourself, under
your present opinions at least, you are not on half-pay,
even.”
“It is fortunate, Bob, though you mention it with a smile.
With my present feelings, I should indeed be sorry to be on
half-pay, or quarter-pay, were there such a thing. I now
feel myself my own master, at liberty to follow the dictates
of my conscience, and the suggestions of my judgment.”
“Well, sir, you are a little fortunate, it must be acknowledged.
I cannot see how any man can be at liberty to
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throw off the allegiance he owes his natural sovereign.
What think you, Maud?”
This was said half in bitterness, half in jest, though the
appeal at its close was uttered in a serious manner, and a
little anxiously. Maud hesitated, as if to muster her thoughts,
ere she replied.
“My feelings are against rebellion,” she said, at length;
“though I fear my reason tells me there is no such thing
as a natural sovereign. If the parliament had not given us
the present family, a century since, by what rule of nature
would it be our princes, Bob?”
“Ah! these are some of the flights of your rich imagination,
my dear—Maud; it is parliament that has made them
our princes, and parliament, at least, is our legal, constitutional
master.”
“That is just the point in dispute. Parliament may be
the rightful governors of England, but are they the rightful
governors of America?”
“Enough,” said the captain, rising from table — “We
will not discuss such a question, just as we are about to separate.
Go, my son; a duty that is to be performed, cannot
be done too soon. Your fowling-piece and ammunition are
ready for you, and I shall take care to circulate the report
that you have gone to pass an hour in the woods, in search
of pigeons. God bless you, Bob; however we may differ
in this matter — you are my son — my only son — my dear
and well-beloved boy — God for ever bless you!”
A profound stillness succeeded this burst of nature, and
then the young man took his leave of his mother and the
girls. Mrs. Willoughby kissed her child. She did not even
weep, until she was in her room; then, indeed, she went to
her knees, her tears, and her prayers. Beulah, all heart
and truth as she was, wept freely on her brother's neck;
but Maud, though pale and trembling, received his kiss
without returning it; though she could not help saying with
a meaning that the young man had in his mind all that day,
ay, and for many succeeding days—“be careful of yourself,
and run into no unnecessary dangers; God bless you,
dear, dear Bob.”
Maud alone followed the movements of the gentlemen
with her eyes. The peculiar construction of the Hut
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prevented external view from the south windows; but there was
a loop in a small painting-room of the garret that was especially
under her charge. Thither, then, she flew, to ease
her nearly bursting heart with tears, and to watch the retiring
footsteps of Robert. She saw him, accompanied by
his father and the chaplain, stroll leisurely down the lawn,
conversing and affecting an indifferent manner, with a wish
to conceal his intent to depart. The glass of the loop was
open, to admit the air, and Maud strained her sense of hearing,
in the desire to catch, if possible, another tone of his
voice. In this she was unsuccessful; though he stopped
and gazed back at the Hut, as if to take a parting look.
Her father and Mr. Woods did not turn, and Maud thrust
her hand through the opening and waved her handkerchief.
“He will think it Beulah or I,” she thought, “and it may
prove a consolation to him to know how much we love him.”
The major saw the signal, and returned it. His father unexpectedly
turned, and caught a glimpse of the retiring
hand, as it was disappearing within the loop. “That is
our precious Maud,” he said, without other thought than of
her sisterly affection. “It is her painting-room; Beulah's
is on the other side of the gate-way; but the window does
not seem to be open.”
The major started, kissed his hand fervently, five or six
times, and then he walked on. As if to change the conversation,
he said hastily, and with a little want of connection
with what had just passed—
“Yes, sir, that gate, sure enough—have it hung, at once,
I do entreat of you. I shall not be easy until I hear that
both the gates are hung—that in the stockade, and that in
the house, itself.”
“It was my intention to commence to-day,” returned the
father, “but your departure has prevented it. I will wait a
day or two, to let your mother and sisters tranquillize their
minds a little, before we besiege them with the noise and
clamour of the workmen.”
“Better besiege them with that, my dear sir, than leave
them exposed to an Indian, or even a rebel attack.”
The major then went on to give some of his more modern
military notions, touching the art of defence. As one of the
old school, he believed his father a miracle of skill; but
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what young man, who had enjoyed the advantages of ten
or fifteen years of the most recent training in any branch
of knowledge, ever believed the educations of those who
went before him beyond the attacks of criticism. The captain
listened patiently, and with an old man's tolerance for
inexperience, glad to have any diversion to unhappy
thoughts.
All this time Maud watched their movements from the
loop, with eyes streaming with tears. She saw Robert pause,
and look back, again and again; and, once more, she thrust
out the handkerchief. It was plain, however, he did not see
it; for he turned and proceeded, without any answering
signal.
“He never can know whether it was Beulah or I,”
thought Maud; “yet, he may fancy we are both here.”
On the rocks, that overhung the mills, the gentlemen
paused, and conversed for quite a quarter of an hour. The
distance prevented Maud from discerning their countenances;
but she could perceive the thoughtful, and as she fancied
melancholy, attitude of the major, as, leaning on his fowling-piece,
his face was turned towards the Knoll, and his eyes
were really riveted on the loop. At the end of the time
mentioned, the young soldier shook hands hastily and covertly
with his companions, hurried towards the path, and
descended out of sight, following the course of the stream.
Maud saw him no more, though her father and Mr. Woods
stood on the rocks quite half an hour longer, catching occasional
glimpses of his form, as it came out of the shadows
of the forest, into the open space of the little river; and, indeed,
until the major was within a short distance of the
spot where he was to meet the Indian. Then they heard
the reports of both barrels of his fowling-piece, fired in quick
succession, the signals that he had joined his guide. This
welcome news received, the two gentlemen returned slowly
towards the house.
Such was the commencement of a day, which, while it
brought forth nothing alarming to the family of the Hutted
Knoll, was still pregnant with important consequences.
Major Willoughby disappeared from the sight of his father
about ten in the morning; and before twelve, the settlement
was alive with the rumours of a fresh arrival. Joel knew
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not whether to rejoice or to despair, as he saw a party of
eight or ten armed men rising above the rock, and holding
their course across the flats towards the house. He entertained
no doubt of its being a party sent by the provincial
authorities to arrest the captain, and he foresaw the probability
of another's being put into the lucrative station of
receiver of the estate, during the struggle which was in
perspective. It is surprising how many, and sometimes how
pure patriots are produced by just such hopes as those of
Joel's. At this day, there is scarce an instance of a confiscated
estate, during the American revolution, connected
with which racy traditions are not to be found, that tell of
treachery very similar to this contemplated by the overseer;
in some instances of treachery effected by means of kinsmen
and false friends.
Joel had actually got on his Sunday coat, and was making
his way towards the Knoll, in order to be present, at least,
at the anticipated scene, when, to his amazement, and somewhat
to his disappointment, he saw the captain and chaplain
moving down the lawn, in a manner to show that these unexpected
arrivals brought not unwelcome guests. This
caused him to pause; and when he perceived that the only
two among the strangers who had the air of gentlemen,
were met with cordial shakes of the hand, he turned back
towards his own tenement, a half-dissatisfied, and yet half-contented
man.
The visit which the captain had come out to receive, instead
of producing any uneasiness in his family, was, in
truth, highly agreeable, and very opportune. It was Evert
Beekman, with an old friend, attended by a party of chain-bearers,
hunters, &c., on his way from the “Patent” he
owned in the neighbourhood — that is to say, within fifty
miles—and halting at the Hutted Knoll, under the courteous
pretence of paying his respects to the family, but, in reality,
to bring the suit he had now been making to Beulah for
quite a twelvemonth, to a successful termination.
The attachment between Evert Beekman and Beulah
Willoughby was of a character so simple, so sincere, and
so natural, as scarce to furnish materials for a brief episode.
The young man had not made his addresses without leave
obtained from the parents; he had been acceptable to the
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daughter from the commencement of their acquaintance;
and she had only asked time to reflect, ere she gave her
answer, when he proposed, a day or two before the family
left New York.
To own the truth, Beulah was a little surprised that her
suitor had delayed his appearance till near the close of May,
when she had expected to see him at the beginning of the
month. A letter, however, was out of the question, since
there was no mode of transmitting it, unless the messenger
were sent expressly; and the young man had now come in
person, to make his own apologies.
Beulah received Evert Beekman naturally, and without
the least exaggeration of manner, though a quiet happiness
beamed in her handsome face, that said as much as lover
could reasonably desire. Her parents welcomed him cordially,
and the suitor must have been dull indeed, not to
anticipate all he hoped. Nor was it long before every
doubt was removed. The truthful, conscientious Beulah,
had well consulted her heart; and, while she blushed at her
own temerity, she owned her attachment to her admirer.
The very day of his arrival they became formally betrothed.
As our tale, however, has but a secondary connection with
this little episode, we shall not dwell on it more than is necessary
to the principal object. It was a busy morning,
altogether; and, though there were many tears, there were
also many smiles. By the time it was usual, at that bland
season, for the family to assemble on the lawn, everything,
even to the day, was settled between Beulah and her lover,
and there was a little leisure to think of other things. It
was while the younger Pliny and one of the Smashes were
preparing the tea, that the following conversation was held,
being introduced by Mr. Woods, in the way of digressing
from feelings in which he was not quite as much interested
as some of the rest of the party.
“Do you bring us anything new from Boston?” demanded
the chaplain. “I have been dying to ask the question
these two hours—ever since dinner, in fact; but, somehow,
Mr. Beekman, I have not been able to edge in an inquiry.”
This was said good-naturedly, but quite innocently; eliciting
smiles, blushes, and meaning glances in return. Evert
Beekman, however, looked grave before he made his reply.
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“To own the truth, Mr. Woods,” he said, “things are
getting to be very serious. Boston is surrounded by thousands
of our people; and we hope, not only to keep the
king's forces in the Peninsula, but, in the end, to drive them
out of the colony.”
“This is a bold measure, Mr. Beekman!—a very bold
step to take against Cæsar!”
“Woods preached about the rights of Cæsar, no later than
yesterday, you ought to know, Beekman,” put in the laughing
captain; “and I am afraid he will be publicly praying
for the success of the British arms, before long.”
“I did pray for the Royal Family,” said the chaplain,
with spirit, “and hope I shall ever continue to do so.”
“My dear fellow, I do not object to that. Pray for all
conditions of men, enemies and friends alike; and, particularly,
pray for our princes; but pray also to turn the hearts
of their advisers.”
Beekman seemed uneasy. He belonged to a decidedly
whig family, and was himself, at the very moment, spoken
of as the colonel of one of the regiments about to be raised
in the colony of New York. He held that rank in the
militia, as it was; and no one doubted his disposition to resist
the British forces, at the proper moment. He had even
stolen away from what he conceived to be very imperative
duties, to secure the woman of his heart before he went into
the field. His answer, in accordance, partook essentially
of the bias of his mind.
“I do not know, sir, that it is quite wise to pray so very
willingly for the Royal Family,” he said. “We may wish
them worldly happiness, and spiritual consolation, as part of
the human race; but political and specific prayers, in times
like these, are to be used with caution. Men attach more
than the common religious notion, just now, to prayers for
the king, which some interpret into direct petitions against
the United Colonies.”
“Well,” rejoined the captain, “I cannot agree to this,
myself. If there were a prayer to confound parliament and
its counsels, I should be very apt to join in it cordially; but
I am not yet ready to throw aside king, queen, princes and
princesses, all in a lump, on account of a few taxes, and a
little tea.”
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“I am sorry to hear this from you, sir,” answered Evert.
“When your opinions were canvassed lately at Albany, I
gave a sort of pledge that you were certainly more with us
than against us.”
“Well then, I think, Beekman, you drew me in my true
outlines. In the main, I think the colonies right, though I
am still willing to pray for the king.”
“I am one of those, captain Willoughby, who look forward
to the most serious times. The feeling throughout the
colonies is tremendous, and the disposition on the part of
the royal officers is to meet the crisis with force.”
“You have a brother a captain of foot in one of the regiments
of the crown, colonel Beekman—what are his views
in this serious state of affairs?”
“He has already thrown up his commission — refusing
even to sell out, a privilege that was afforded him. His
name is now before congress for a majority in one of the
new regiments that are to be raised.”
The captain looked grave; Mrs. Willoughby anxious;
Beulah interested; and Maud thoughtful.
“This has a serious aspect, truly,” observed the first.
“When men abandon all their early hopes, to assume new
duties, there must be a deep and engrossing cause. I had
not thought it like to come to this!”
“We have had hopes major Willoughby might do the
same; I know that a regiment is at his disposal, if he be
disposed to join us. No one would be more gladly received.
We are to have Gates, Montgomery, Lee, and many other
old officers, from regular corps, on our side.”
“Will colonel Lee be put at the head of the American
forces?”
“I think not, sir. He has a high reputation, and a good
deal of experience, but he is a humourist; and what is something,
though you will pardon it, he is not an American
born.”
“It is quite right to consult such considerations, Beekman;
were I in congress, they would influence me, Englishman
as I am, and in many things must always remain.”
“I am glad to hear you say that, Willoughby,” exclaimed
the chaplain—“right down rejoiced to hear you say so! A
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man is bound to stand by his birth-place, through thick and
thin.”
“How do you, then, reconcile your opinions, in this
matter, to your birth-place, Woods?” asked the laughing
captain.
To own the truth, the chaplain was a little confused. He
had entered into the controversy with so much zeal, of late,
as to have imbibed the feelings of a thorough partisan; and,
as is usual with such philosophers, was beginning to over-look
everything that made against his opinions, and to
exaggerate everything that sustained them.
“How?”—he cried, with zeal, if not with consistency —
“Why, well enough. I am an Englishman too, in the
general view of the case, though born in Massachusetts. Of
English descent, and an English subject.”
“Umph!—Then Beekman, here, who is of Dutch descent,
is not bound by the same principles as we are ourselves?”
“Not by the same feelings, possibly; but, surely, by
the same principles. Colonel Beekman is an Englishman
by construction, and you are by birth. Yes, I'm what may
be called a constructive Englishman.”
Even Mrs. Willoughby and Beulah laughed at this, though
not a smile had crossed Maud's face, since her eye had lost
Robert Willoughby from view. The captain's ideas seemed
to take a new direction, and he was silent some little time
before he spoke.
“Under the circumstances in which we are now placed,
as respects each other, Mr. Beekman,” he said, “it is proper
that there should be no concealments on grave points.
Had you arrived an hour or two earlier, you would have
met a face well known to you, in that of my son, major
Willoughby.”
“Major Willoughby, my dear sir!” exclaimed Beekman,
with a start of unpleasant surprise; “I had supposed him
with the royal army, in Boston. You say he has left the
Knoll—I sincerely hope not for Albany.”
“No—I wished him to go in that direction, at first, and
to see you, in particular; but his representations of the state
of the country induced me to change my mind; he travels
by a private way, avoiding all the towns of note, or size.”
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“In that he has done well, sir. Near to me as a brother
of Beulah's must always seem, I should be sorry to see Bob,
just at this moment. If there be no hope of getting him to
join us, the farther we are separated the better.”
This was said gravely, and it caused all who heard it
fully to appreciate the serious character of a quarrel that
threatened to arm brother against brother. As if by common
consent, the discourse changed, all appearing anxious,
at a moment otherwise so happy, to obliterate impressions
so unpleasant from their thoughts.
The captain, his wife, Beulah and the colonel, had several
long and private communications in the course of the evening.
Maud was not sorry to be left to herself, and the
chaplain devoted his time to the entertainment of the friend
of Beekman, who was in truth a surveyor, brought along
partly to preserve appearances, and partly for service. The
chain-bearers, hunters, &c., had been distributed in the
different cabins of the settlement, immediately on the arrival
of the party.
That night, when the sisters retired, Maud perceived that
Beulah had something to communicate, out of the common
way. Still, she did not know whether it would be proper
for her to make any inquiries, and things were permitted to
take their natural course. At length Beulah, in her gentle
way, remarked—
“It is a fearful thing, Maud, for a woman to take upon
herself the new duties, obligations and ties of a wife.”
“She should not do it, Beulah, unless she feels a love for
the man of her choice, that will sustain her in them. You,
who have real parents living, ought to feel this fully, as I
doubt not you do.”
“Real parents! Maud, you frighten me! Are not my
parents yours?—Is not all our love common?”
“I am ashamed of myself, Beulah. Dearer and better
parents than mine, no girl ever had. I am ashamed of my
words, and beg you will forget them.”
“That I shall be very ready to do. It was a great consolation
to think that should I be compelled to quit home,
as compelled I must be in the end, I should leave with my
father and mother a child as dutiful, and one that loves
them as sincerely as yourself, Maud.”
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“You have thought right, Beulah. I do love them to my
heart's core! Then you are right in another sense; for I
shall never marry. My mind is made up to that.”
“Well, dear, many are happy that never marry—many
women are happier than those that do. Evert has a kind,
manly, affectionate heart, and I know will do all he can to
prevent my regretting home; but we can never have more
than one mother, Maud!”
Maud did not answer, though she looked surprised that
Beulah should say this to her.
“Evert has reasoned and talked so much to my father
and mother,” continued the fiancée, blushing, “that they
have thought we had better be married at once. Do you
know, Maud, that it has been settled this evening, that the
ceremony is to take place to-morrow!”
“This is sudden, indeed, Beulah! Why have they determined
on so unexpected a thing?”
“It is all owing to the state of the country. I know not
how he has done it — but Evert has persuaded my father,
that the sooner I am his wife, the more secure we shall all
be, here at the Knoll.”
“I hope you love Evert Beekman, dearest, dearest Beulah?”
“What a question, Maud! Do you suppose I could stand
up before a minister of God, and plight my faith to a man
I did not love?—Why have you seemed to doubt it?”
“I do not doubt it — I am very foolish, for I know you
are conscientious as the saints in heaven—and yet, Beulah,
I think I could scarce be so tranquil about one I loved.”
The gentle Beulah smiled, but she no longer felt uneasiness.
She understood the impulses and sentiments of her
own pure but tranquil nature too well, to distrust herself;
and she could easily imagine that Maud would not be as
composed under similar circumstances.
“Perhaps it is well, sister of mine,” she answered laughing,
though blushing, “that you are so resolved to remain
single; for one hardly knows where to find a suitor sufficiently
devoted and ethereal for your taste. No one pleased
you last winter, though the least encouragement would have
brought a dozen to your feet; and here there is no one you
can possibly have, unless it be dear, good, old Mr. Woods.”
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Maud compressed her lips, and really looked stern, so
determined was she to command herself; then she answered
somewhat in her sister's vein—
“It is very true,” she said, “there is no hero for me to
accept, unless it be dear Mr. Woods; and he, poor man, has
had one wife that cured him of any desire to possess another,
they say.”
“Mr. Woods! I never knew that he was married. Who
can have told you this, Maud?”
“I got it from Robert”—answered the other, hesitating a
little. “He was talking one day of such things.”
“What things, dear?”
“Why—of getting married—I believe it was about marrying
relatives—or connections—or, some such thing; for
Mr. Woods married a cousin-german, it would seem—and
so he told me all about it. Bob was old enough to know
his wife, when she died. Poor man, she led him a hard
life—he must be far from the Knoll, by this time, Beulah!”
“Mr. Woods!—I left him with papa, a few minutes since,
talking over the ceremony for to-morrow!”
“I meant Bob—”
Here the sisters caught each other's eyes, and both blushed,
consciousness presenting to them, at the same instant,
the images that were uppermost in their respective minds.
But, no more was said. They continued their employments
in silence, and soon each was kneeling in prayer.
The following day, Evert Beekman and Beulah Willoughby
were married. The ceremony took place, immediately
after breakfast, in the little chapel; no one being present
but the relatives, and Michael O'Hearn, who quieted his
conscience for not worshipping with the rest of the people,
by acting as their sexton. The honest county Leitrim-man
was let into the secret—as a great secret, however—at early
dawn; and he had the place swept and in order in good
season, appearing in his Sunday attire to do honour to the
occasion, as he thought became him.
A mother as tender as Mrs. Willoughby, could not resign
the first claim on her child, without indulging her tears.
Maud wept, too; but it was as much in sympathy for Beulah's
happiness, as from any other cause. The marriage,
in other respects, was simple, and without any ostentatious
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manifestations of feeling. It was, in truth, one of those
rational and wise connections, which promise to wear well,
there being a perfect fitness, in station, wealth, connections,
years, manners and habits, between the parties. Violence
was done to nothing, in bringing this discreet and well-principled
couple together. Evert was as worthy of Beulah,
as she was worthy of him. There was confidence in the
future, on every side; and not a doubt, or a misgiving of
any sort, mingled with the regrets, if regrets they could be
called, that were, in some measure, inseparable from the
solemn ceremony.
The marriage was completed, the affectionate father had
held the weeping but smiling bride on his bosom, the tender
mother had folded her to her heart, Maud had pressed her
in her arms in a fervent embrace, and the chaplain had
claimed his kiss, when the well-meaning sexton approached.
“Is it the likes of yees I wish well to!” said Mike—“Ye
may well say that; and to yer husband, and childer, and
all that will go before, and all that have come afther ye! I
know'd ye, when ye was mighty little, and that was years
agone; and niver have I seen a cross look on yer pretthy
face. I've app'inted to myself, many's the time, a consait
to tell ye all this, by wor-r-d of mouth; but the likes of
yees, and of the Missus, and of Miss Maud there—och!
isn't she a swate one! and many's the pity, there's no sich
tall, handsome jontleman to take her, in the bargain, bad
luck to him for staying away; and so God bless ye, all,
praist in the bargain, though he's no praist at all; and
there's my good wishes said and done.”
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CHAPTER X.
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Ho! Princes of Jacob! the strength and the stay
Of the daughters of Zion;—now up, and away;
Lo, the hunters have struck her, and bleeding alone
Like a pard in the desert she maketh her moan;
Up with war-horse and banner, with spear and with sword,
On the spoiler go down in the might of the Lord!
Lunt.
The succeeding fortnight, or three weeks, brought no
material changes, beyond those connected with the progress
of the season. Vegetation was out in its richest luxuriance,
the rows of corn and potatoes, freshly hoed, were ornamenting
the flats, the wheat and other grains were throwing up
their heads, and the meadows were beginning to exchange
their flowers for the seed. As for the forest, it had now
veiled its mysteries beneath broad curtains of a green so
bright and lively, that one can only meet it, beneath a generous
sun, tempered by genial rains, and a mountain air.
The chain-bearers, and other companions of Beekman,
quitted the valley the day after the wedding, leaving no one
of their party behind but its principal.
The absence of the major was not noted by Joel and
his set, in the excitement of receiving so many guests, and
in the movement of the wedding. But, as soon as the fact
was ascertained, the overseer and miller made the pretence
of a `slack-time' in their work, and obtained permission to
go to the Mohawk, on private concerns of their own. Such
journeys were sufficiently common to obviate suspicion;
and, the leave had, the two conspirators started off, in company,
the morning of the second day, or forty-eight hours
after the major and Nick had disappeared. As the latter
was known to have come in by the Fort Stanwix route, it
was naturally enough supposed that he had returned by the
same; and Joel determined to head him on the Mohawk, at
some point near Schenectady, where he might make a merit
of his own patriotism, by betraying the son of his master.
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The reader is not to suppose Joel intended to do all this
openly; so far from it, his plan was to keep himself in the
back-ground, while he attracted attention to the supposed
toryism of the captain, and illustrated his own attachment
to the colonies.
It is scarcely necessary to say that this plan failed, in
consequence of the new path taken by Nick. At the very
moment when Joel and the miller were lounging about a
Dutch inn, some fifteen or twenty miles above Schenectady,
in waiting for the travellers to descent the valley of the
Mohawk, Robert Willoughby and his guide were actually
crossing the Hudson, in momentary security at least. After
remaining at his post until satisfied his intended prey had
escaped him, Joel, with his friend, returned to the settlement.
Still, the opportunity had been improved, to make
himself better acquainted with the real state of the country;
to open communications with certain patriots of a moral
calibre about equal to his own, but of greater influence; to
throw out divers injurious hints, and secret insinuations concerning
the captain; and to speculate on the propriety of
leaving so important a person to work his will, at a time so
critical. But the pear was not yet ripe, and all that could
now be done was to clear the way a little for something important
in future.
In the meantime, Evert Beekman having secured his
gentle and true-hearted wife, began, though with a heavy
heart, to bethink him of his great political duties. It was
well understood that he was to have a regiment of the new
levies, and Beulah had schooled her affectionate heart to a
degree that permitted her to part with him, in such a cause,
with seeming resignation. It was, sooth to say, a curious
spectacle, to see how these two sisters bent all their thoughts
and wishes, in matters of a public nature, to favour the engrossing
sentiments of their sex and natures; Maud being
strongly disposed to sustain the royal cause, and the bride
to support that in which her husband had enlisted, heart
and hand.
As for captain Willoughby, he said little on the subject
of politics; but the marriage of Beulah had a powerful influence
in confirming his mind in the direction it had taken
after the memorable argument with the chaplain. Colonel
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Beekman was a man of strong good sense, though without
the least brilliancy; and his arguments were all so clear
and practical, as to carry with them far more weight than
was usual in the violent partisan discussions of the period.
Beulah fancied him a Solon in sagacity, and a Bacon in
wisdom. Her father, without proceeding quite as far as this,
was well pleased with his cool discriminating judgment, and
much disposed to defer to his opinions. The chaplain was
left out of the discussions as incorrigible.
The middle of June was passed, at the time colonel Beekman
began to think of tearing himself from his wife, in
order to return into the active scenes of preparation he had
quitted, to make this visit. As usual, the family frequented
the lawn, at the close of the day, the circumstance of most
of the windows of the Hut looking on the court, rendering
this resort to the open air more agreeable than might otherwise
have been the case. Evert was undecided whether to
go the following morning, or to remain a day longer, when
the lawn was thus occupied, on the evening of the 25th of
the month, Mrs. Willoughby making the tea, as usual, her
daughters sitting near her, sewing, and the gentlemen at
hand, discussing the virtues of different sorts of seed-corn.
“There is a stranger!” suddenly exclaimed the chaplain,
looking towards the rocks near the mill, the point at which
all arrivals in the valley were first seen from the Hut. “He
comes, too, like a man in haste, whatever may be his errand.”
“God be praised,” returned the captain rising; “it is
Nick, on his usual trot, and this is about the time he should
be back, the bearer of good news. A week earlier might
have augured better; but this will do. The fellow moves
over the ground as if he really had something to communicate!”
Mrs. Willoughby and her daughters suspended their avocations,
and the gentlemen stood, in silent expectation,
watching the long, loping strides of the Tuscarora, as he
came rapidly across the plain. In a few minutes the Indian
came upon the lawn, perfectly in wind, moving with deliberation
and gravity, as he drew nearer to the party. Captain
Willoughby, knowing his man, waited quite another
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minute, after the red-man was leaning against an apple-tree,
before he questioned him.
“Welcome back, Nick,” he then said. “Where did you
leave my son?”
“He tell dere,” answered the Indian, presenting a note,
which the captain read.
“This is all right, Nick; and it shows you have been a
true man. Your wages shall be paid to-night. But, this
letter has been written on the eastern bank of the Hudson,
and is quite three weeks old—why have we not seen you,
sooner?”
“Can't see, when he don't come.”
“That is plain enough; but why have you not come back
sooner? That is my question.”
“Want to look at country—went to shore of Great Salt
Lake.”
“Oh!—Curiosity, then, has been at the bottom of your
absence?”
“Nick warrior—no squaw—got no cur'osity.”
“No, no—I beg your pardon, Nick; I did not mean to
accuse you of so womanish a feeling. Far from it; I know
you are a man. Tell us, however, how far, and whither
you went?”
“Bos'on,” answered Nick, sententiously.
“Boston! That has been a journey, indeed. Surely my
son did not allow you to travel in his company through
Massachusetts?”
“Nick go alone. Two path; one for major; one for
Tuscarora. Nick got dere first.”
“That I can believe, if you were in earnest. Were you
not questioned by the way?”
“Yes. Tell 'em I'm Stockbridge—pale-face know no
better. T'ink he fox; more like wood-chuck.”
“Thank you, Nick, for the compliment. Had my son
reached Boston before you came away?”
“Here he be”—answered the Indian, producing another
missive, from the folds of his calico shirt.
The captain received the note which he read with extreme
gravity, and some surprise.
“This is in Bob's hand-writing,” he said, “and is dated
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`Boston, June 18th, 1775;' but it is without signature, and
is not only Bob, but Bob Short.”
“Read, dear Willoughby,” exclaimed the anxious mother.
“News from him, concerns us all.”
“News, Wilhelmina!—They may call this news in Boston,
but one is very little the better for it at the Hutted Knoll.
However, such as it is, there is no reason for keeping it a
secret, while there is one reason, at least, why it should be
known. This is all. `My dearest sir—Thank God I am
unharmed; but we have had much to make us reflect; you
know what duty requires—my best and endless love to my
mother, and Beulah—and dear, laughing, capricious, pretty
Maud. Nick was present, and can tell you all. I do not
think he will “extenuate, or aught set down in malice.”'
And this without direction, or signature; with nothing, in
fact, but place and date. What say you to all this, Nick?”
“He very good—major dere; he know. Nick dere—hot
time—a t'ousand scalp—coat red as blood.”
“There has been another battle!” exclaimed the captain;
“that is too plain to admit of dispute. Speak out at once,
Nick—which gained the day; the British or the Americans?”
“Hard to tell—one fight, t'other fight. Red-coat take de
ground; Yankee kill. If Yankee could take scalp of all he
kill, he whip. But, poor warriors at takin' scalp. No know
how.”
“Upon my word, Woods, there does seem to be something
in all this! It can hardly be possible that the Americans
would dare to attack Boston, defended as it is, by a
strong army of British regulars.”
“That would they not,” cried the chaplain, with emphasis.
“This has been only another skirmish.”
“What you call skirmge?” asked Nick, pointedly. “It
skirmge to take t'ousand scalp, ha?”
“Tell us what has happened, Tuscarora?” said the captain,
motioning his friend to be silent.
“Soon tell—soon done. Yankee on hill; reg'lar in canoe.
Hundred, t'ousand, fifty canoe—full of red-coat. Great
chief, dere!—ten—six—two—all go togeder. Come ashore—
parade, pale-face manner — march — booh — booh -- dem
cannon; pop, pop—dem gun. Wah! how he run”
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“Run! — who ran, Nick? — Though I suppose it must
have been the poor Americans, of course.”
“Red-coat run,” answered the Indian, quietly.
This reply produced a general sensation, even the ladies
starting, and gazing at each other.
“Red-coat run”—repeated the captain, slowly. “Go on
with your history, Nick—where was this battle fought?”
“T'other Bos'on—over river—go in canoe to fight, like
Injin from Canada.”
“That must have been in Charlestown, Woods—you may
remember Boston is on one peninsula, and Charlestown on
another. Still, I do not recollect that the Americans were
in the latter, Beekman—you told me nothing of that?”
“They were not so near the royal forces, certainly, when
I left Albany, sir,” returned the colonel. “A few direct
questions to the Indian, however, would bring out the whole
truth.”
“We must proceed more methodically. How many
Yankees were in this fight, Nick?—Calculate as we used
to, in the French war.”
“Reach from here to mill—t'ree, two deep, cap'in. All
farmer; no sodger. Carry gun, but no carry baggonet;
no carry knapsack. No wear red-coat. Look like town-meetin';
fight like devils.”
“A line as long as from this to the mill, three deep, would
contain about two thousand men, Beekman. Is that what
you wish to say, Nick?”
“That about him—pretty near—just so.”
“Well, then, there were about two thousand Yankees on
this hill—how many king's troops crossed in the canoes, to
go against them?”
“Two time — one time, so many; t'other time, half so
many. Nick close by; count him.”
“That would make three thousand in all! By George,
this does look like work. Did they all go together, Nick?”
“No; one time go first; fight, run away. Den two time
go, fight good deal—run away, too. Den try harder—set
fire to wigwam—go up hill; Yankee run away.”
“This is plain enough, and quite graphical. Wigwam on
fire? Charlestown is not burnt, Nick?”
“Dat he — Look like old Council Fire, gone out. Big
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canoe fire—booh—booh—Nick nebber see such war before—
wah! Dead man plenty as leaves on tree; blood run
like creek!”
“Were you in this battle, Nick? How came you to learn
so much about it?”
“Don't want to be in it — better out — no scalp taken.
Red-man not'in' to do, dere. How know about him?—See
him — dat all. Got eye; why no see him, behind stone
wall. Good see, behind stone wall.”
“Were you across the water yourself, or did you remain
in Boston, and see from a distance?”
“Across in canoe — tell red-coat, general send letter by
Nick—major say, he my friend—let Nick go.”
“My son was in this bloody battle, then!” said Mrs.
Willoughby. “He writes, Hugh, that he is safe?”
“He does, dearest Wilhelmina; and Bob knows us too
well, to attempt deception, in such a matter.”
“Did you see the major in the field, Nick — after you
crossed the water, I mean?”
“See him, all. Six—two—seven t'ousand. Close by;
why not see major stand up like pine—no dodge he head,
dere. Kill all round him—no hurt him! Fool to stay dere—
tell him so; but he no come away. Save he scalp, too.”
“And how many slain do you suppose there might have
been left on the ground—or, did you not remain to see?”
“Did see—stay to get gun—knapsack—oder good t'ing—
plenty about; pick him up, fast as want him.” Here Nick
coolly opened a small bundle, and exhibited an epaulette,
several rings, a watch, five or six pairs of silver buckles,
and divers other articles of plunder, of which he had managed
to strip the dead. “All good t'ing—plenty as stone—
have him widout askin'.”
“So I see, Master Nick—and is this the plunder of Englishmen,
or of Americans?”
“Red-coat nearest—got most t'ing, too. Go farder, fare
worse; as pale-face say.”
“Quite satisfactory. Were there more red-coats left on
the ground, or more Americans?”
“Red-coat so,” said Nick, holding up four fingers —
“Yankee, so;” holding up one. Take big grave to hold
red-coat. Small grave won't hold Yankee. Hear what he
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count; most red-coat. More than t'ousand warrior! British
groan, like squaw dat lose her hunter.”
Such was Saucy Nick's description of the celebrated,
and, in some particulars, unrivalled combat of Bunker Hill,
of which he had actually been an eye-witness, on the ground,
though using the precaution to keep his body well covered.
He did not think it necessary to state the fact that he had
given the coup-de-grace, himself, to the owner of the epaulette,
nor did he deem it essential to furnish all the particulars
of his mode of obtaining so many buckles. In other
respects, his account was fair enough, “nothing extenuating,
or setting down aught in malice.” The auditors had listened
with intense feeling; and Maud, when the allusion was made
to Robert Willoughby, buried her pallid face in her hands,
and wept. As for Beulah, time and again, she glanced
anxiously at her husband, and bethought her of the danger
to which he might so soon be exposed.
The receipt of this important intelligence confirmed Beekman
in the intention to depart. The very next morning he
tore himself away from Beulah, and proceeded to Albany.
The appointment of Washington, and a long list of other
officers, soon succeeded, including his own as a colonel;
and the war may be said to have commenced systematically.
Its distant din occasionally reached the Hutted Knoll; but
the summer passed away, bringing with it no event to affect
the tranquillity of that settlement. Even Joel's schemes were
thwarted for a time, and he was fain to continue to wear the
mask, and to gather that harvest for another, which he had
hoped to reap for his own benefit.
Beulah had all a young wife's fears for her husband; but,
as month succeeded month, and one affair followed another,
without bringing him harm, she began to submit to the
anxieties inseparable from her situation, with less of self-torment,
and more of reason. Her mother and Maud were
invaluable friends to her, in this novel and trying situation,
though each had her own engrossing cares on account of
Robert Willoughby. As no other great battle, however
occurred in the course of the year '75, Beekman remained
in safety with the troops that invested Boston, and the major
with the army within it. Neither was much exposed, and
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glad enough were these gentle affectionate hearts, when they
learned that the sea separated the combatants.
This did not occur, however, until another winter was
passed. In November, the family left the Hut, as had been
its practice of late years, and went out into the more inhabited
districts to pass the winter. This time it came only to
Albany, where colonel Beekman joined it, passing a few
happy weeks with his well-beloved Beulah. The ancient
town mentioned was not gay at a moment like that; but it
had many young officers in it, on the American side of the
question, who were willing enough to make themselves acceptable
to Maud. The captain was not sorry to see several
of these youths manifesting assiduity about her he had so
long been accustomed to consider as his youngest daughter;
for, by this time, his opinions had taken so strong a bias in
favour of the rights of the colonies, that Beekman himself
scarce rejoiced more whenever he heard of any little success
alighting on the American arms.
“It will all come right in the end,” the worthy captain
used to assure his friend the chaplain. “They will open
their eyes at home, ere long, and the injustice of taxing the
colonies will be admitted. Then all will come round again;
the king will be as much beloved as ever, and England and
America will be all the better friends for having a mutual
respect. I know my countrymen well; they mean right,
and will do right, as soon as their stomachs are a little
lowered, and they come to look at the truth, coolly. I'll
answer for it, the Battle of Bunker's Hill made us”—the
captain had spoken in this way, now, for some months—
“made us a thousand advocates, where we had one before.
This is the nature of John Bull; give him reason to respect
you, and he will soon do you justice; but give him reason
to feel otherwise, and he becomes a careless, if not a hard
master.”
Such were the opinions captain Willoughby entertained
of his native land; a land he had not seen in thirty years,
and one in which he had so recently inherited unexpected
honours, without awakening a desire to return and enjoy
them. His opinions were right in part, certainly; for they
depended on a law of nature, while it is not improbable they
were wrong in all that was connected with the notions of
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any peculiarly manly quality, in any particular part of
christendom. No maxim is truer than that which teaches
us “like causes produce like effects;” and as human beings
are governed by very similar laws all over the face of this
round world of ours, nothing is more certain than the similarity
of their propensities.
Maud had no smiles, beyond those extracted by her naturally
sweet disposition, and a very prevalent desire to oblige,
for any of the young soldiers, or young civilians, who
crowded about her chair, during the Albany winter mentioned.
Two or three of colonel Beekman's military friends,
in particular, would very gladly have become connected
with an officer so much respected, through means so exceedingly
agreeable; but no encouragement emboldened
either to go beyond the attention and assiduities of a marked
politeness.
“I know not how it is,” observed Mrs. Willoughby, one
day, in a tête-à-tête with her husband; “Maud seems to
take less pleasure than is usual with girls of her years, in the
attentions of your sex. That her heart is affectionate —
warm—even tender, I am very certain; and yet no sign of
preference, partiality, or weakness, in favour of any of these
fine young men, of whom we see so many, can I discover
in the child. They all seem alike to her!”
“Her time will come, as it happened to her mother before
her,” answered the captain. “Whooping-cough and measles
are not more certain to befall children, than love to befall a
young woman. You were all made for it, my dear Willy,
and no fear but the girl will catch the disease, one of these
days; and that, too, without any inoculation.”
“I am sure, I have no wish to separate from my child”—
so Mrs. Willoughby always spoke of, and so she always
felt towards Maud—“I am sure, I have no wish to separate
from my child; but as we cannot always remain, it is perhaps
better this one should marry, like the other. There is
young Verplanck much devoted to her; he is everyway a
suitable match; and then he is in Evert's own regiment.”
“Ay, he would do; though to my fancy Luke Herring is
the far better match.”
“That is because he is richer and more powerful, Hugh—
you men cannot think of a daughter's establishment,
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without immediately dragging in houses and lands, as part of
the ceremony.”
“By George, wife of mine, houses and lands in moderation,
are very good sweeteners of matrimony!”
“And yet, Hugh, I have been very happy as a wife, nor
have you been very miserable as a husband, without any
excess of riches to sweeten the state!” answered Mrs. Willoughby,
reproachfully. “Had you been a full general, I
could not have loved you more than I have done as a mere
captain.”
“All very true, Wilhelmina, dearest,” returned the husband,
kissing the faithful partner of his bosom with strong
affection—“very true, my dear girl; for girl you are and
ever will be in my eyes; but you are one in a million, and
I humbly trust there are not ten hundred and one, in every
thousand, just like myself. For my part, I wish dear, saucy,
capricious little Maud, no worse luck in a husband, than
Luke Herring.”
“She will never be his wife; I know her, and my own
sex, too well to think it. You are wrong, however, Willoughby,
in applying such terms to the child. Maud is not
in the least capricious, especially in her affections. See with
what truth and faithfulness of sisterly attachment she clings
to Bob. I do declare I am often ashamed to feel that even
his own mother has less solicitude about him than this dear
girl.”
“Pooh, Willy; don't be afflicted with the idea that you
don't make yourself sufficiently miserable about the boy.
Bob will do well enough, and will very likely come out of
this affair a lieutenant-colonel. I may live yet to see him a
general officer; certainly, if I live to be as old as my grandfather,
Sir Thomas. As for Maud, she finds Beulah uneasy
about Beekman; and having no husband herself, or any
lover that she cares a straw about, why she just falls upon
Bob as a pis aller. I'll warrant you she cares no more for
him than any of the rest of us—than myself, for instance;
though as an old soldier, I don't scream every time I fancy
a gun fired over yonder at Boston.”
“I wish it were well over. It is so unnatural for Evert
and Robert to be on opposite sides.”
“Yes, it is out of the common way, I admit; and yet
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'twill all come round, in the long run. This Mr. Washington
is a clever fellow, and seems to play his cards with spirit
and judgment. He was with us, in that awkward affair of
Braddock's; and between you and me, Willhelmina, he covered
the regulars, or we should all have laid our bones on
that accursed field. I wrote you at the time, what I thought
of him, and now you see it is all coming to pass.”
It was one of the captain's foibles to believe himself a
political prophet; and, as he had really both written and
spoken highly of Washington, at the time mentioned, it had
no small influence on his opinions to find himself acting on
the same side with this admired favourite. Prophecies often
produce their own fulfilment, in cases of much greater gravity
than this; and it is not surprising that our captain
found himself strengthened in his notions by the circumstance.
The winter passed away without any of Maud's suitors
making a visible impression on her heart. In March,
the English evacuated Boston, Robert Willoughby sailing
with his regiment for Halifax, and thence with the expedition
against Charleston, under Sir Henry Clinton. The
next month, the family returned to the Knoll, where it was
thought wiser, and even safer to be, at a moment so critical,
than even in a more frequented place. The war proceeded,
and, to the captain's great regret, without any very visible
approaches towards the reconciliation he had so confidently
anticipated. This rather checked his warmth in favour of
the colonial cause; for, an Englishman by birth, he was
much opposed at bottom to anything like a dissolution of
the tie that connected America with the mother country; a
political event that now began seriously to be talked of
among the initiated.
Desirous of thinking as little as possible of disagreeable
things, the worthy owner of the valley busied himself with
his crops, his mills, and his improvements. He had intended
to commence leasing his wild lands about this time, and to
begin a more extended settlement, with an eye to futurity;
but the state of the country forbade the execution of the
project, and he was fain to limit his efforts by their former
boundaries. The geographical position of the valley put it
beyond any of the ordinary exactions of military service;
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and, as there was a little doubt thrown around its owner's
opinions, partly in consequence of his son's present and his
own previous connection with the royal army, and partly
on account of Joel's secret machinations, the authorities
were well content to let the settlement alone, provided it
would take care of itself. Notwithstanding the prominent
patriotism of Joel Strides and the miller, they were well
satisfied, themselves, with this state of things; preferring
peace and quietness to the more stirring scenes of war.
Their schemes, moreover, had met with somewhat of a
check, in the feeling of the population of the valley, which,
on an occasion calculated to put their attachment to its
owner to the proof, had rather shown that they remembered
his justice, liberality, and upright conduct, more than exactly
comported with their longings. This manifestation of respect
was shown at an election for a representative in a
local convention, in which every individual at the Hutted
Knoll, who had a voice at all, the two conspirators excepted,
had given it in favour of the captain. So decided was this
expression of feeling, indeed, that it compelled Joel and the
miller to chime in with the cry of the hour, and to vote
contrary to their own wishes.
One, dwelling at the Hutted Knoll, in the summer of 1776,
could never have imagined that he was a resident of a country
convulsed by a revolution, and disfigured by war. There,
everything seemed peaceful and calm, the woods sighing
with the airs of their sublime solitude, the genial sun shedding
its heats on a grateful and generous soil, vegetation
ripening and yielding with all the abundance of a bountiful
nature, as in the more tranquil days of peace and hope.
“There is something frightful in the calm of this valley,
Beulah!” exclaimed Maud one Sunday, as she and her sister
looked out of the library window amid the breathing stillness
of the forest, listening to the melancholy sound of the bell
that summoned them to prayers. “There is a frightful
calm over this place, at an hour when we know that strife
and bloodshed are so active in the country. Oh! that the
hateful congress had never thought of making this war!”
“Evert writes me all is well, Maud; that the times will
lead to good; the people are right; and America will now
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be a nation—in time, he thinks, a great, and a very great
nation.”
“Ah! It is this ambition of greatness that hurries them
all on! Why can they not be satisfied with being respectable
subjects of so great a country as England, that they
must destroy each other for this phantom of liberty? Will
it make them wiser, or happier, or better than they are?”
Thus reasoned Maud, under the influence of one engrossing
sentiment. As our tale proceeds, we shall have occasion
to show, perhaps, how far was that submission to events
which she inculcated, from the impulses of her true character.
Beulah answered midly, but it was more as a young American
wife:
“I know Evert thinks it all right, Maud; and you will
own he is neither fiery nor impetuous. If his cool judgment
approve of what has been done, we may well suppose that
it has not been done in too much haste, or needlessly.”
“Think, Beulah,” rejoined Maud, with an ashen cheek,
and in trembling tones, “that Evert and Robert may, at
this very moment, be engaged in strife against each other.
The last messenger who came in, brought us the miserable
tidings that Sir William Howe was landing a large army
near New York, and that the Americans were preparing to
meet it. We are certain that Bob is with his regiment; and
his regiment we know is in the army. How can we think
of this liberty, at a moment so critical?”
Beulah did not reply; for in spite of her quiet nature, and
implicit confidence in her husband, she could not escape a
woman's solicitude. The colonel had promised to write at
every good occasion, and that which he promised was usually
performed. She thought, and thought rightly, that a very
few days would bring them intelligence of importance;
though it came in a shape she had little anticipated, and by
a messenger she had then no desire to see.
In the meantime, the season and its labours advanced.
August was over, and September with its fruits had succeeded,
promising to bring the year round without any new
or extraordinary incidents to change the fortunes of the inmates
of the Hutted Knoll. Beulah had now been married
more than a twelvemonth, and was already a mother; and
of course all that time had elapsed since the son quitted his
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father's house. Nick, too, had disappeared shortly after
his return from Boston; and throughout this eventful summer,
his dark, red countenance had not been seen in the
valley.
CHAPTER XI.
And now 'tis still! no sound to wake
The primal forest's awful shade;
And breathless lies the covert brake,
Where many an ambushed form is laid:
I see the red-man's gleaming eye,
Yet all so hushed the gloom profound,
That summer birds flit heedlessly,
And mocking nature smiles around.
Lunt.
The eventful summer of 1776 had been genial and generous
in the valley of the Hutted Knoll. With a desire to drive
away obtrusive thoughts, the captain had been much in his
fields, and he was bethinking himself of making a large contribution
to the good cause, in the way of fatted porkers, of
which he had an unusual number, that he thought might
yet be driven through the forest to Fort Stanwix, before the
season closed. In the way of intelligence from the seat of
war, nothing had reached the family but a letter from the
major, which he had managed to get sent, and in which he
wrote with necessary caution. He merely mentioned the
arrival of Sir William Howe's forces, and the state of his
own health. There was a short postscript, in the following
words, the letter having been directed to his father:—“Tell
dearest Maud,” he said, “that charming women have ceased
to charm me; glory occupying so much of my day-dreams,
like an ignis fatuus, I fear; and that as for love, all my
affections are centred in the dear objects at the Hutted Knoll.
If I had met with a single woman I admired half as much
as I do her pretty self, I should have been married long
since.” This was written in answer to some thoughtless
rattle that the captain had volunteered to put in his last
letter, as coming from Maud, who had sensitively shrunk
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from sending a message when asked; and it was read by
father, mother, and Beulah, as the badinage of a brother to
a sister, without awaking a second thought in either. Not
so with Maud, herself, however. When her seniors had
done with this letter, she carried it to her own room, reading
and re-reading it a dozen times; nor could she muster resolution
to return it; but, finding at length that the epistle was
forgotten, she succeeded in retaining it without awakening
attention to what she had done. This letter now became
her constant companion, and a hundred times did the sweet
girl trace its characters, in the privacy of her chamber, or
in that of her now solitary walks in the woods.
As yet, the war had produced none of those scenes of
ruthless frontier violence, that had distinguished all the previous
conflicts of America. The enemy was on the coast,
and thither the efforts of the combatants had been principally
directed. It is true, an attempt on Canada had been made,
but it failed for want of means; neither party being in a
condition to effect much, as yet, in that quarter. The captain
had commented on this peculiarity of the present struggle;
all those which had preceded it having, as a matter of
course, taken the direction of the frontiers between the hostile
provinces.
“There is no use, Woods, in bothering ourselves about
these things, after all,” observed captain Willoughby, one
day, when the subject of hanging the long-neglected gates
came up between them. “It's a heavy job, and the crops
will suffer if we take off the hands this week. We are as
safe, here, as we should be in Hyde Park; and safer too;
for there house-breakers and foot-pads abound; whereas,
your preaching has left nothing but very vulgar and every-day
sinners at the Knoll.”
The chaplain had little to say against this reasoning; for,
to own the truth, he saw no particular cause for apprehension.
Impunity had produced the feeling of security, until
these gates had got to be rather a subject of amusement,
than of any serious discussion. The preceding year, when
the stockade was erected, Joel had managed to throw so
many obstacles in the way of hanging the gates, that the
duty was not performed throughout the whole of the present
summer, the subject having been mentioned but once or
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twice, and then only to be postponed to a more fitting occasion.
As yet no one in the valley knew of the great event which
had taken place in July. A rumour of a design to declare
the provinces independent had reached the Hut in
May; but the major's letter was silent on this important
event, and positive information had arrived by no other
channel; otherwise, the captain would have regarded the
struggle as much more serious than he had ever done before;
and he might have set about raising these all-important
gates in earnest. As it was, however, there they stood;
each pair leaning against its proper wall or stockade, though
those of the latter were so light as to have required but
eight or ten men to set them on their hinges, in a couple of
hours at most.
Captain Willoughby still confined his agricultural schemes
to the site of the old Beaver Pond. The area of that was
perfectly beautiful, every unsightly object having been removed,
while the fences and the tillage were faultlessly neat
and regular. Care had been taken, too, to render the few
small fields around the cabins which skirted this lovely rural
scene, worthy of their vicinage. The stumps had all been
dug, the surfaces levelled, and the orchards and gardens
were in keeping with the charms that nature had so bountifully
scattered about the place.
While, however, all in the shape of tillage was confined
to this one spot, the cattle ranged the forest for miles. Not
only was the valley, but the adjacent mountain-sides were
covered with intersecting paths, beaten by the herds, in the
course of years. These paths led to many a glen, or lookout,
where Beulah and Maud had long been in the habit of
pursuing their rambles, during the sultry heats of summer.
Though so beautiful to the eye, the flats were not agreeable
for walks; and it was but natural for the lovers of the picturesque
to seek the eminences, where they could overlook
the vast surfaces of leaves that were spread before them; or
to bury themselves in ravines and glens, within which the
rays of the sun scarce penetrated. The paths mentioned
led near, or to, a hundred of these places, all within a mile
or two of the Hut. As a matter of course, then, they were
not neglected.
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Beulah had now been a mother several months. Her
little Evert was born at the Knoll, and he occupied most of
those gentle and affectionate thoughts which were not engrossed
by his absent father. Her marriage, of itself, had
made some changes in her intercourse with Maud; but the
birth of the child had brought about still more. The care
of this little being formed Beulah's great delight; and Mrs.
Willoughby had all that peculiar interest in her descendant,
which marks a grandmother's irresponsible love. These
two passed half their time in the nursery, a room fitted between
their respective chambers; leaving Maud more alone
than it was her wont to be, and of course to brood over her
thoughts and feelings. These periods of solitude our heroine
was much accustomed to pass in the forest. Use had so far
emboldened her, that apprehension never shortened her
walks, or lessened their pleasure. Of danger, from any
ordinary source, there was literally next to none, man never
having been known to approach the valley, unless by the
regular path; while the beasts of prey had been so actively
hunted, as rarely to be seen in that quarter of the country.
The panther excepted, no wild quadruped was to be in the
least feared in summer; and, of the first, none had ever
been met with by Nick, or any of the numerous woodsmen
who had now frequented the adjacent hills for two lustrums.
About three hours before the setting of the sun, on the
evening of the 23d of September, 1776, Maud Willoughby
was pursuing her way, quite alone, along one of the paths
beaten by the cattle, at some little distance from a rocky
eminence, where there was a look-out, on which Mike, by
her father's orders, had made a rude seat. It was on the
side of the clearing most remote from all the cabins; though,
once on the elevation, she could command a view of the
whole of the little panorama around the site of the ancient
pond. In that day, ladies wore the well-known gipsey hat,
a style that was peculiarly suited to the face of our heroine.
Exercise had given her cheeks a rich glow; and though a
shade of sadness, or at least of reflection, was now habitually
thrown athwart her sweet countenance, this bloom added an
unusual lustre to her eyes, and a brilliancy to her beauty,
that the proudest belle of any drawing-room might have
been glad to possess. Although living so retired her dress
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always became her rank; being simple, but of the character
that denotes refinement, and the habits and tastes of a
gentlewoman. In this particular, Maud had ever been observant
of what was due to herself; and, more than all, had
she attended to her present appearance since a chance expression
of Robert Willoughby's had betrayed how much
he prized the quality in her.
Looking thus, and in a melancholy frame of mind, Maud
reached the rock, and took her place on its simple seat,
throwing aside her hat, to catch a little of the cooling air on
her burning cheeks. She turned to look at the lovely view
again, with a pleasure that never tired. The rays of the
sun were streaming athwart the verdant meadows and rich
corn, lengthening the shadows, and mellowing everything,
as if expressly to please the eye of one like her who now
gazed upon the scene. Most of the people of the settlement
were in the open air, the men closing their day's works in
the fields, and the women and children busied beneath
shades, with their wheels and needles; the whole presenting
such a picture of peaceful, rural life, as a poet might delight
to describe, or an artist to delineate with his pencil.
“The landscape smiles
Calm in the sun; and silent are the hills
And valleys, and the blue serene of air.”
The Vanished Lark.
“It is very beautiful!” thought Maud. “Why cannot
men be content with such scenes of loveliness and nature
as this, and love each other, and be at peace, as God's laws
command? Then we might all be living happily together,
here, without trembling lest news of some sad misfortune
should reach us, from hour to hour. Beulah and Evert
would not be separated; but both could remain with their
child—and my dear, dear father and mother would be so
happy to have us all around them, in security—and, then,
Bob, too—perhaps Bob might bring a wife from the town,
with him, that I could love as I do Beulah”—It was one of
Maud's day-dreams to love the wife of Bob, and make him
happy by contributing to the happiness of those he most
prized—“No; I could never love her as I do Beulah; but
I should make her very dear to me, as I ought to, since she
would be Bob's wife.”
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The expression of Maud's face, towards the close of this
mental soliloquy, was of singular sadness; and yet it was
the very picture of sincerity and truth. It was some such
look as the windows of the mind assume, when the feelings
struggle against nature and hope, for resignation and submission
to duty.
At this instant, a cry arose from the valley! It was one
of those spontaneous, involuntary outbreakings of alarm,
that no art can imitate, no pen describe; but which conveys
to the listener's ear, terror in the very sound. At the next
instant, the men from the mill were seen rushing up to the
summit of the cliff that impended over their dwellings, followed
by their wives dragging children after them, making
frantic gestures, indicative of alarm. The first impulse of
Maud was to fly; but a moment's reflection told her it was
much too late for that. To remain and witness what followed
would be safer, and more wise. Her dress was dark,
and she would not be likely to be observed at the distance
at which she was placed; having behind her, too, a back-ground
of gloomy rock. Then the scene was too exciting to
admit of much hesitation or delay in coming to a decision;
a fearful species of maddened curiosity mingling with her
alarm. Under such circumstances, it is not surprising that
Maud continued gazing on what she saw, with eyes that
seemed to devour the objects before them.
The first cry from the valley was followed by the appearance
of the fugitives from the mill. These took the way
towards the Hut, calling on the nearest labourers by name,
to seek safety in flight. The words could not be distinguished
at the rock, though indistinct sounds might; but
the gestures could not be mistaken. In half a minute, the
plain was alive with fugitives; some rushing to their cabins
for their children, and all taking the direction of the stockade,
as soon as the last were found. In five minutes the
roads and lanes near the Knoll were crowded with men,
women and children, hastening forward to its protection,
while a few of the former had already rushed through the
gate-ways, as Maud correctly fancied, in quest of their arms.
Captain Willoughby was riding among his labourers when
this fearful interruption to a tranquillity so placid first broke
upon his ear. Accustomed to alarms, he galloped forward
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to meet the fugitives from the mill, issuing orders as he
passed to several of the men nearest the house. With the
miller, who thought little of anything but safety at that instant,
he conversed a moment, and then pushed boldly on
towards the verge of the cliffs. Maud trembled as she saw
her father in a situation which she thought must be so exposed;
but his cool manner of riding about proved that he
saw no enemy very near. At length he waved his hat to
some object, or person in the glen beneath; and she even
thought she heard his shout. At the next moment, he turned
his horse, and was seen scouring along the road towards the
Hut. The lawn was covered with the fugitives as the captain
reached it, while a few armed men were already coming out
of the court-yard. Gesticulating as if giving orders, the
captain dashed through them all, without drawing the rein,
and disappeared in the court. A minute later, he re-issued,
bearing his arms, followed by his wife and Beulah, the latter
pressing little Evert to her bosom.
Something like order now began to appear among the
men. Counting all ages and both colours, the valley, at
this particular moment, could muster thirty-three males
capable of bearing arms. To these might be added some
ten or fifteen women who had occasionally brought down a
deer, and who might be thought more or less dangerous,
stationed at a loop, with a rifle or a musket. Captain Willoughby
had taken some pains to drill the former, who could
go through some of the simpler light-infantry evolutions.
Among them he had appointed sundry corporals, while Joel
Strides had been named a serjeant. Joyce, now an aged
and war-worn veteran, did the duty of adjutant. Twenty
men were soon drawn up in array, in front of the open gate-way
on the lawn, under the immediate orders of Joyce; and
the last woman and child, that had been seen approaching
the place of refuge, had passed within the stockade. At this
instant captain Willoughby called a party of the stragglers
around him, and set about hanging the gates of the outer
passage, or that which led through the palisades.
Maud would now have left the rock, but, at that moment,
a dark body of Indians poured up over the cliffs, crowning
it with a menacing cloud of at least fifty armed warriors.
The rivulet lay between her and the Hut, and the nearest
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bridge that crossed it would have brought her within reach
of danger. Then it would require at least half an hour to
reach that bridge by the circuitous path she would be compelled
to take, and there was little hope of getting over it
before the strangers should have advanced. It was better
to remain where she could behold what was passing, and to
be governed by events, than to rush blindly into unseen
risks.
The party that crowned the cliffs near the mills, showed
no impatience to advance. It was evidently busy in reconnoitring,
and in receiving accessions to its numbers. The
latter soon increased to some seventy or eighty warriors.
After waiting several minutes in inaction, a musket, or rifle,
was fired towards the Hut, as if to try the effect of a summons
and the range of a bullet. At this hint the men on the lawn
retired within the stockade, stacked their arms, and joined
the party that was endeavouring to get the gates in their
places. From the circumstance that her father directed all
the women and children to retire within the court, Maud
supposed that the bullet might have fallen somewhere near
them. It was quite evident, however, that no one was injured.
The gates intended for the stockade, being open like the
rest of that work, were materially lighter than those constructed
for the house itself. The difficulty was in handling
them with the accuracy required to ehter the hinges, of
which there were three pairs. This difficulty existed on
account of their great height. Of physical force, enough
could be applied to toss them over the stockade itself, if
necessary; but finesse was needed, rather than force, to
effect the principal object, and that under difficult circumstances.
It is scarcely possible that the proximity of so
fierce an enemy as a body of savages in their war-paint,
for such the men at the mill had discovered was the guise
of their assailants, would in any measure favour the coolness
and tact of the labourers. Poor Maud lost the sense of her
own danger, in the nervous desire to see the long-forgotten
gates hung; and she rose once or twice, in feverish excitement,
as she saw that the leaf which was raised fell in or
out, missing its fastenings. Still the men persevered, one
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or two sentinels being placed to watch the Indians, and give
timely notice of their approach, should they advance.
Maud now kneeled, with her face bowed to the seat, and
uttered a short but most fervent prayer, in behalf of the dear
beings that the Hut contained. This calmed her spirits a
little, and she rose once more to watch the course of events.
The body of men had left the gate at which they had just
been toiling, and were crowding around its fellow. One
leaf was hung! As an assurance of this, she soon after saw
her father swing it backward and forward on its hinges, to
cause it to settle into its place. This was an immense relief,
though she had heard too many tales of Indian warfare, to
think there was any imminent danger of an attack by open
day, in the very face of the garrison. The cool manner in
which her father proceeded, satisfied her that he felt the
same security, for the moment; his great object being, in
truth, to make suitable provision against the hours of darkness.
Although Maud had been educated as a lady, and possessed
the delicacy and refinement of her class, she had unavoidably
caught some of the fire and resolution of a frontier life.
To her, the forest, for instance, possessed no fancied dangers;
but when there was real ground for alarm, she estimated
its causes intelligently, and with calmness. So it was, also,
in the present crisis. She remembered all she had been
taught, or had heard, and quick of apprehension, her information
was justly applied to the estimate of present circumstances.
The men at the Hut soon had the second leaf of the gate
ready to be raised. At this instant, an Indian advanced
across the flat alone, bearing a branch of a tree in his hand,
and moving swiftly. This was a flag of truce, desiring to
communicate with the pale-faces. Captain Willoughby met
the messenger alone, at the foot of the lawn, and there a
conference took place that lasted several minutes. Maud
could only conjecture its objects, though she thought her
father's attitude commanding, and his gestures stern. The
red-man, as usual, was quiet and dignified. This much our
heroine saw, or fancied she saw; but beyond this, of course,
all was vague conjecture. Just as the two were about to
part, and had even made courteous signs of their intention, a
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shout arose from the workmen, which ascended, though
faintly, as high as the rock. Captain Willoughby turned,
and then Maud saw his arm extended towards the stockade.
The second leaf of the gate was in its place, swinging to
and fro, in a sort of exulting demonstration of its uses!
The savage moved away, more slowly than he had advanced,
occasionally stopping to reconnoitre the Knoll and its defences.
Captain Willoughby now returned to his people, and he
was some time busied in examining the gates, and giving
directions about its fastenings. Utterly forgetful of her own
situation, Maud shed tears of joy, as she saw that this great
object was successfully effected. The stockade was an immense
security to the people of the Hut. Although it certainly
might be scaled, such an enterprise would require
great caution, courage, and address; and it could hardly
be effected, at all, by day-light. At night, even, it would
allow the sentinels time to give the alarm, and with a vigilant
look-out, might be the means of repelling an enemy.
There was also another consideration connected with this
stockade. An enemy would not be fond of trusting himself
inside of it, unless reasonably certain of carrying the citadel
altogether; inasmuch as it might serve as a prison to place
him in the hands of the garrison. To recross it under a
fire from the loops, would be an exploit so hazardous that
few Indians would think of undertaking it. All this Maud
knew from her father's conversations, and she saw how
much had been obtained in raising the gates. Then the
stockade, once properly closed, afforded great security to
those moving about within it; the timbers would be apt to
stop a bullet, and were a perfect defence against a rush;
leaving time to the women and children to get into the court,
even allowing that the assailants succeeded in scaling the
palisades.
Maud thought rapidly and well, in the strait in which she
was placed. She understood most of the movements, on
both sides, and she also saw the importance of her remaining
where she could note all that passed, if she intended to
make an attempt at reaching the Hut, after dark. This
necessity determined her to continue at the rock, so long as
light remained. She wondered she was not missed, but
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rightly attributed the circumstance to the suddenness of the
alarm, and the crowd of other thoughts which would naturally
press upon the minds of her friends, at such a fearful
moment. “I will stay where I am,” thought Maud, a little
proudly, “and prove, if I am not really the daughter of
Hugh Willoughby, that I am not altogether unworthy of
his love and care! I can even pass the night in the forest,
at this warm season, without suffering.”
Just as these thoughts crossed her mind, in a sort of mental
soliloquy, a stone rolled from a path above her, and fell
over the rock on which the seat was placed. A footstep was
then heard, and the girl's heart beat quick with apprehension.
Still she conceived it safest to remain perfectly quiet.
She scarce breathed in her anxiety to be motionless. Then
it occurred to her, that some one beside herself might be
out from the Hut, and that a friend was near. Mike had
been in the woods that very afternoon, she knew; for she
had seen him; and the true-hearted fellow would indeed be
a treasure to her, at that awful moment. This idea, which
rose almost to certainty as soon as it occurred, induced her
to spring forward, when the appearance of a man, whom
she did not recognise, dressed in a hunting-shirt, and otherwise
attired for the woods, carrying a short rifle in the
hollow of his arm, caused her to stop, in motionless terror.
At first, her presence was not observed; but, no sooner did the
stranger catch a glimpse of her person, than he stopped,
raised his hands in surprise, laid his rifle against a tree, and
sprang forward; the girl closing her eyes, and sinking on
the seat, with bowed head, expecting the blow of the deadly
tomahawk.
“Maud—dearest, dearest Maud—do you not know me!”
exclaimed one, leaning over the pallid girl, while he passed
an arm round her slender waist, with an affection so delicate
and reserved, that, at another time, it might have attracted
attention. “Look up, dear girl, and show that at least you
fear not me!”
“Bob,” said the half-senseless Maud. “Whence come
you?—Why do you come at this fearful instant!—Would
to God your visit had been better timed!”
“Terror makes you say this, my poor Maud! Of all the
family, I had hoped for the warmest welcome from you.
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We think alike about this war—then you are not so much
terrified at the idea of my being found here, but can hear
reason. Why do you say this, then, my dearest Maud?”
By this time Maud had so far recovered as to be able to
look up into the major's face, with an expression in which
alarm was blended with unutterable tenderness. Still she
did not throw her arms around him, as a sister would clasp
a beloved brother; but, rather, as he pressed her gently to
his bosom, repelled the embrace by a slight resistance.
Extricating herself, however, she turned and pointed towards
the valley.
“Why do I say this? See for yourself—the savages have
at length come, and the whole dreadful picture is before
you.”
Young Willoughby's military eye took in the scene at a
glance. The Indians were still at the cliff, and the people
of the settlement were straining at the heavier gates of the
Hut, having already got one of them into a position where
it wanted only the proper application of a steady force to be
hung. He saw his father actively employed in giving directions;
and a few pertinent questions drew all the other circumstances
from Maud. The enemy had now been in the
valley more than an hour, and the movements of the two
parties were soon related.
“Are you alone, dearest Maud? are you shut out by this
sudden inroad?” demanded the major, with concern and
surprise.
“So it would seem. I can see no other—though I did
think Michael might be somewhere near me, in the woods,
here; I at first mistook your footsteps for his.”
“That is a mistake”—returned Willoughby, levelling a
small pocket spy-glass at the Hut—“Mike is tugging at
that gate, upholding a part of it, like a corner-stone. I see
most of the faces I know there, and my dear father is as
active, and yet as cool, as if at the head of a regiment.”
“Then I am alone—it is perhaps better that as many as
possible should be in the house to defend it.”
“Not alone, my sweet Maud, so long as I am with you.
Do you still think my visit so ill-timed?”
“Perhaps not, after all. Heaven knows what I should
have done, by myself, when it became dark!”
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“But are we safe on this seat?—May we not be seen by
the Indians, since we so plainly see them?”
“I think not. I have often remarked that when Evert
and Beulah have been here, their figures could not be perceived
from the lawn; owing, I fancy, to the dark back-ground
of rock. My dress is not light, and you are in
green; which is the colour of the leaves, and not easily to
be distinguished. No other spot gives so good a view of
what takes place in the valley. We must risk a little exposure,
or act in the dark.”
“You are a soldier's daughter, Maud”—This was as true
of major Meredith as of captain Willoughby, and might
therefore be freely said by even Bob—“You are a soldier's
daughter, and nature has clearly intended you to be a soldier's
wife. This is a coup-d'-æil not to be despised.”
“I shall never be a wife at all”—murmured Maud, scarce
knowing what she said; “I may not live to be a soldier's
daughter, even, much longer. But, why are you here?—
surely, surely you can have no connection with those savages!—
I have heard of such horrors; but you would not
accompany them, even though it were to protect the Hut.”
“I'll not answer for that, Maud. One would do a great
deal to preserve his paternal dwelling from pillage, and his
father's grey hairs from violence. But I came alone; that
party and its objects being utterly strangers to me.”
“And why do you come at all, Bob?” inquired the anxious
girl, looking up into his face with open affection — “The
situation of the country is now such, as to make your visits
very hazardous.”
“Who could know the regular major in this hunting-shirt,
and forest garb? I have not an article about my person
to betray me, even were I before a court. No fear for
me then, Maud; unless it be from these demons in human
shape, the savages. Even they do not seem to be very
fiercely inclined, as they appear at this moment more disposed
to eat, than to attack the Hut. Look for yourself;
those fellows are certainly preparing to take their food; the
group that is just now coming over the cliffs, is dragging a
deer after it.”
Maud took the glass, though with an unsteady hand, and
she looked a moment at the savages. The manner in which
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the instrument brought these wild beings nearer to her eye,
caused her to shudder, and she was soon satisfied.
“That deer was killed this morning by the miller,” she
said; “they have doubtless found it in or near his cabin.
We will be thankful, however, for this breathing-time — it
may enable my dear father to get up the other gate. Look,
Robert, and see what progress they make?”
“One side is just hung, and much joy does it produce
among them! Persevere, my noble old father, and you will
soon be safe against your enemies. What a calm and steady
air he has, amid it all! Ah! Maud, Hugh Willoughby ought,
at this moment, to be at the head of a brigade, helping to
suppress this accursed and unnatural rebellion. Nay, more;
he may be there, if he will only listen to reason and duty.”
“And this is then your errand here, Bob?” asked his
fair companion, gazing earnestly at the major.
“It is, Maud—and I hope you, whose feelings I know to
be right, can encourage me to hope.”
“I fear not. It is now too late. Beulah's marriage with
Evert has strengthened his opinions—and then—”
“What, dearest Maud? You pause as if that `then' had
a meaning you hesitated to express.”
Maud coloured; after which she smiled faintly, and proceeded:
“We should speak reverently of a father — and such a
father, too. But does it not seem probable to you, Bob, that
the many discussions he has with Mr. Woods may have a
tendency to confirm each in his notions?”
Robert Willoughby would have answered in the affirmative,
had not a sudden movement at the Hut prevented.
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CHAPTER XII.
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From Flodden ridge
The Scots beheld the English host
Leave Barmore wood, their evening post,
And heedful watched them as they crossed
The Till by Twisal Bridge.
Scott.
It was just at this instant that most of the women of the
settlement rushed from the court, and spread themselves
within the stockade, Mrs. Willoughby and Beulah being
foremost in the movement. The captain left the gate, too,
and even the men, who were just about to raise the last
leaf, suspended their toil. It was quite apparent some new
cause for uneasiness or alarm had suddenly awoke among
them. Still the stack of arms remained untouched, nor was
there any new demonstration among the Indians. The
major watched everything, with intense attention, through
the glass.
“What is it, dear Bob?” demanded the anxious Maud.
“I see my dearest mother—she seems alarmed.”
“Was it known to her that you were about to quit the
house, when you came out on this walk?”
“I rather think not. She and Beulah were in the nursery
with little Evert, and my father was in the fields. I came
out without speaking to any person, nor did I meet any before
entering the forest.”
“Then you are now first missed. Yes, that is it — and
no wonder, Maud, it creates alarm. Merciful God! How
must they all feel, at a moment like this!”
“Fire your rifle, Bob—that will draw their eyes in this
direction, and I will wave my handkerchief—perhaps that
might be seen. Beulah has received such signals from me,
before.”
“It would never do. No, we must remain concealed,
watching their movements, in order to be able to aid them
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at the proper time. It is painful to endure this suspense,
beyond a doubt; but the pain must be borne in order to
ensure the safety of one who is so very, very precious to
us all.”
Notwithstanding the fearful situation in which she was
placed, Maud felt soothed by these words. The language
of affection, as coming from Robert Willoughby, was very
dear to her at all times, and never more than at a moment
when it appeared that even her life was suspended, as it
might be, by a hair.
“It is as you say,” she answered gently, giving him her
hand with much of her ancient frankness of manner; “we
should be betrayed, and of course lost—but what means the
movement at the Hut?”
There was indeed a movement within the stockade.
Maud's absence was now clearly ascertained, and it is needless
to describe the commotion the circumstance produced.
No one thought any longer of the half of the gate that still
remained to be hung, but every supposable part of the house
and enclosure had been examined in quest of her who was
missing. Our heroine's last remark, however, was produced
by certain indications of an intention to make a descent
from one of the external windows of the common
parlour, a room it will be remembered that stood on the
little cliff, above the rivulet that wound beneath its base.
This cliff was about forty feet high, and though it offered a
formidable obstacle to any attempt to scale it, there was no
great difficulty in an active man's descending, aided by a
rope. The spot, too, was completely concealed from the
view of the party which still remained on the rock, near the
mill, at a distance of quite half a mile from the gates of the
stockade. This fact greatly facilitated the little sortie, since,
once in the bed of the rivulet, which was fringed with bushes,
it would be very practicable, by following its windings, to
gain the forest unseen. The major levelled his glass at the
windows, and immediately saw the truth of all that has here
been mentioned.
“They are preparing to send a party out,” he said, “and
doubtless in quest of you, Maud. The thing is very feasible,
provided the savages remain much longer in their present
position. It is matter of surprise to me, that the last have
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not sent a force in the rear of the Hut, where the windows
are at least exposed to fire, and the forest is so close as to
afford a cover to the assailants. In front there is literally
none, but a few low fences, which is the reason I presume
that they keep so much aloof.”
“It is not probable they know the valley. With the exception
of Nick, but few Indians have ever visited us, and
that rarely. Those we have seen have all been of the most
peaceable and friendly tribes; not a true warrior, as my
father says, ever having been found among them. Nick is
the only one of them all that can thus be termed.”
“Is it possible that fellow has led this party? I have never
more than half confided in him, and yet he is too old a friend
of the family, I should think, to be guilty of such an act of
baseness.”
“My father thinks him a knave, but I question if he has
an opinion of him as bad as that. Besides, he knows the
valley, and would have led the Indians round into the rear
of the house, if it be a place so much more favourable for
the attack, as you suppose. These wretches have come by
the common paths, all of which first strike the river, as you
know, below the mills.”
“That is true. I lost my way, a few miles from this, the
path being very blind on the eastern route, which I travelled
as having gone it last with Nick, and thinking it the safest.
Fortunately I recognised the crest of this mountain above
us, by its shape, or I might never have found my way; although
the streams, when struck, are certain guides to the
woodsman. As soon as I hit the cow-paths, I knew they
would lead me to the barns and sheds. See! a man is
actually descending from a window!”
“Oh! Bob, I hope it is not my father! He is too old—it
is risking too much to let him quit the house.”
“I will tell you better when he reaches the ground. Unless
mistaken—ay—it is the Irishman, O'Hearn.”
“Honest Mike! He is always foremost in everything,
though he so little knows how anything but digging ought
to be done. Is there not another following him—or am I
deceived?”
“There is—he has just reached the ground, too. This
might be spared, did they know how well you are guarded,
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Maud. By one who would die cheerfully to prevent harm
from reaching you!”
“They little dream of that, Bob,” answered Maud, in a
low tone. “Not a human being in that valley fancies you
nearer to him than the royal armies are, at this moment.
But they do not send a third—I am glad they weaken their
own force no further.”
“It is certainly best they should not. The men had their
rifles slung when they descended, and they are now getting
them ready for service. It is Joel Strides who is with
Mike.”
“I am sorry for it. That is a man I little like, Bob, and
I should be sorry he knew of your being here.”
This was said quickly, and with a degree of feeling that
surprised the major, who questioned Maud earnestly as to
her meaning and its reasons. The latter told him she scarce
knew herself; that she disliked the man's manner, had long
thought his principles bad, and that Mike in his extraordinary
way had said certain things to her, to awaken distrust.
“Mike speaks in hieroglyphics,” said the major, laughing,
in spite of the serious situation in which he and his companion
were placed, “and one must never be too sure of his
meaning. Joel has now been many years with my father,
and he seems to enjoy his confidence.”
“He makes himself useful, and is very guarded in what
he says at the Hut. Still—I wish him not to know of your
being here.”
“It will not be easy to prevent it, Maud. I should have
come boldly into the valley, but for this accidental meeting
with you, trusting that my father has no one about him so
base as to betray his son.”
“Trust not Joel Strides. I'll answer for Mike with my
life; but sorry indeed should I be that Joel Strides knew of
your being among us. It were better, perhaps, that most
of the workmen should not be in the secret. See—the two
men are quitting the foot of the rocks.”
This was true, and Robert Willoughby watched their
movements with the glass. As had been expected, they
first descended into the bed of the rivulet, wading along its
shore, under the cover of the bushes, until they soon became
concealed even from the view of one placed on a height as
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elevated as that occupied by Robert and Maud. It was
sufficiently apparent, however, that their intention was to
reach the forest in this manner, when they would probably
commence their search for the missing young lady. Nor
was it long before Robert and Maud plainly saw the two
adventurers quit the bed of the stream and bury themselves
in the forest. The question now seriously arose as to the
best course for the major and his companion to pursue.
Under ordinary circumstances, it would have been wisest,
perhaps, to descend at once and meet the messengers, who
might soon be found at some of the usual haunts of the girl;
but against this the latter so earnestly protested, and that in
a manner so soothing to the young man's feelings, that he
scarce knew how to oppose her wishes. She implored him
not to confide in Joel Strides too hastily, at least. It might
be time enough, when there was no alternative; until the
true character of the party then in the valley was known,
it would be premature. Nothing was easier than to conceal
himself until it was dark, when he might approach the Hut,
and be admitted without his presence being known to any
but those on whom the family could certainly rely. The
major urged the impossibility of his quitting Maud, until
she was joined by the two men sent in quest of her, and
then it would be too late, as he must be seen. Although he
might escape immediate recognition in his present dress, the
presence of a stranger would excite suspicions, and compel
an explanation. To this Maud replied in the following
manner: Her customary places of resort, when in the
woods, were well known; more especially to Michael, who
was frequently employed in their vicinity. These were a
little water-fall, that was situated a hundred rods up the
rivulet, to which a path had been made expressly, and where
an arbour, seat, and little table had been arranged, for the
purposes of working, reading, or taking refreshments. To
this spot the men would unquestionably proceed first. Then,
there was a deep ravine, some distance farther, that was
often visited for its savage beauty, and whither she more
frequently went, perhaps, than to any other place. Thither
Michael would be certain to lead his companion. These
two places visited, they might infallibly expect to see the
men at the rock, where the two were then seated, as the
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last spot in which Maud might naturally be expected to be
found. It would require an hour to visit the two places first
named, and to examine the surrounding woods; and by that
time, not only would the sun be set, but the twilight would
be disappearing. Until that moment, then, the major might
remain at her side, and on the sound of the approaching
footsteps of the messengers, he had only to retire behind a
projection of the rocks, and afterwards follow towards the
Knoll, at a safe distance.
This plan was too plausible to be rejected; and giving
Robert an hour of uninterrupted discourse with his companion,
it struck him as having more advantages than any
other mentioned. The party near the mills, too, remaining
perfectly quiet, there was less occasion for any change of
their own, than might otherwise have been the case. So
far, indeed, from appearing to entertain any hostile intention,
not a cabin had been injured, if approached, and the
smoke of the conflagration which had been expected to rise
from the mills and the habitations in the glen, did not make
its appearance. If any such ruthless acts as applying the
brand and assaulting the people were in contemplation, they
were at least delayed until night should veil them in a fitting
darkness.
It is always a great relief to the mind, in moments of trial,
to have decided on a course of future action. So the major
and Maud now found; for, taking his seat by her side, he
began to converse with his companion more connectedly,
and with greater calmness than either had yet been able to
achieve. Many questions were asked, and answers given,
concerning the state of the family, that of his father and
mother, and dear Beulah and her infant, the latter being as
yet quite a stranger to the young soldier.
“Is he like his rebel of a father?” asked the royal officer,
smiling, but as his companion fancied, painfully; “or has
he more of the look of the Willoughbys. Beekman is a
good-looking Dutchman; yet, I would rather have the boy
resemble the good old English stock, after all.”
“The sweet little fellow resembles both father and mother;
though the first the most, to Beulah's great delight.
Papa says he is true `Holland's come of,' as they call it,
though neither mamma nor I will allow of any such thing.
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Colonel Beekman is a very worthy man, Bob, and a most
affectionate and attentive, husband. Beulah, but for this
war, could not be happier.”
“Then I forgive him one-half of his treason—for the remainder
let him take his luck. Now I am an uncle, my
heart begins to melt a little towards the rebel. And you,
Maud, how do the honours of an aunt sit upon your feelings?
But women are all heart, and would love a rat.”
Maud smiled, but she answered not. Though Beulah's
child were almost as dear to her as one of her own could
have been, she remembered that she was not its aunt, in
fact; and, though she knew not why, in that company, and
even at that grave moment, the obtrusive thought summoned
a bright flush to her cheeks. The major probably did
not notice this change of countenance, since, after a short
pause, he continued the conversation naturally.
“The child is called Evert, is it not, aunt Maud?” he
asked, laying an emphasis on `aunt.'
Maud wished this word had not been used; and yet Robert
Willoughby, could the truth have been known, had
adverted to it with an association in his own mind, that
would have distressed her, just then, still more. Aunt Maud
was the name that others, however, were most fond of adopting,
since the birth of the child; and remembering this, our
heroine smiled.
“That is what Beulah has called me, these six months,”
she said—“or ever since Evert was born. I became an
aunt the day he became a nephew; and dear, good Beulah
has not once called me sister since, I think.”
“These little creatures introduce new ties into families,”
answered the major, thoughtfully. “They take the places
of the generations before them, and edge us out of our hold
on the affections, as in the end they supplant us in our
stations in life. If Beulah love me only as an uncle, however,
she may look to it. I'll be supplanted by no Dutchman's
child that was ever born!”
“You, Bob!” cried Maud, starting. “You are its real
uncle; Beulah must ever remember you, and love you, as
her own brother!”
Maud's voice became suddenly hushed, like one who feared
she had said too much. The major gazed at her intently,
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but he spoke not; nor did his companion see his look, her
own eyes being cast meekly and tremblingly on the earth at
her feet. A considerable pause succeeded, and then the
conversation reverted to what was going on in the valley.
The sun was now set, and the shadows of evening began
to render objects a little indistinct beneath them. Still it
was apparent that much anxiety prevailed in and about the
Hut, doubtless on account of our heroine's absence. So
great was it, indeed, as entirely to supersede the hanging
of the remaining leaf of the gate, which stood in the gap
where it belonged, stayed by pieces of timber, but unhung.
The major thought some disposition had been made, however,
by which the inmates might pass and repass by the
half that was suspended, making a tolerable defence, when
all was closed.
“Hist!” whispered Maud, whose faculties were quickened
by the danger of her companion; “I hear the voice of Michael,
and they approach. No sense of danger can repress
poor O'Hearn's eloquence; his ideas seeming to flow from
his tongue very much as they rise to his thoughts, chance
directing which shall appear first.”
“It is true, dear girl; and as you seem so strongly to
wish it, I will withdraw. Depend on my keeping near you,
and on my presence, should it be required.”
“You will not forget to come beneath the windows, Bob,”
said Maud, anxiously, but in great haste; for the footsteps
of the men drew rapidly near; “at the very spot where the
others descended.”
The major bent forward and kissed a cheek that was
chilled with apprehension, but which the act caused to burn
like fire; then he disappeared behind the projection of rock
he had himself pointed out. As for Maud, she sate in seeming
composure, awaiting the approach of those who drew
near.
“The divil bur-r-n me, and all the Injins in Ameriky
along wid me,” said Mike, scrambling up the ascent by a
short cut, “but I think we'll find the young Missus, here,
or I don't think we'll be finding her the night. It's a
cursed counthry to live in, Misther Strides, where a young
lady of the loveliness and pithiful beauty of Miss Maud can
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be lost in the woods, as it might be a sheep or a stray baste
that was for tasting the neighbour's pastures.”
“You speak too loud, Mike, and you speak foolishness
into the bargain,” returned the wary Joel.
“Is it I, you mane! Och! don't think ye're goin' to set
me a rowin' a boat once more, ag'in my inclinations and
edication, as ye did in ould times. I've rung ye into yer
ma'tin', and out of yer m'atin', too, twenty times too often
to be catched in that same trap twice. It's Miss Maud I
wants, and Miss Maud I'll find, or — Lord bless her
swate face and morals, and her charackter, and all belonging
to her!—isn't that, now, a prathy composure for the
likes of her, and the savages at the mill, and the Missus in
tears, and the masther mighty un'asy, and all of us bothered!
See how she sits on that bit of a sate that I puts there
for her wid my own hands, as a laddy should, looking jist
what she is, the quane of the woods, and the delight of our
eyes!”
Maud was too much accustomed to the rhapsodies of the
county Leitrim-man to think much of this commencement;
but resolute to act her part with discretion, she rose to meet
him, speaking with great apparent self-possession.
“Is it possible you are in quest of me?” she said—“why
has this happened?—I usually return about this hour.”
“Hoors is it! Don't talk of hoors, beauthiful young laddy,
when a single quarther may be too late,” answered Mike,
dogmatically. “It's your own mother that's not happy at
yer being in the woods the night, and yer ould father that
has moore un'asiness than he'll confess; long life to the
church in which confession is held to be right, and dacent,
and accorthing to the gospel of St. Luke, and the whole
calender in the bargain. Ye'll not be frightened, Miss
Maud, but take what I've to tell ye jist as if ye didn't bel'ave
a wo-r-r-d of it; but, divil bur-r-n me, if there arn't Injins
enough on the rocks, forenent the mill, to scalp a whole
province, and a county along wid it, if ye'll give 'em time
and knives enough.”
“I understand you, Michael, but am not in the least
alarmed,” answered Maud, with an air of great steadiness;
such, indeed, as would have delighted the captain. “Something
of what has been passing below have I seen; but, by
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being calm and reasonable, we shall escape the danger.
Tell me only, that all is safe in the Hut—that my dear mother
and sister are well.”
“Is it the Missus? Och, she's as valiant as a peacock,
only strick down and overcome about your own self! As
for Miss Beuly, where's the likes of her to be found, unless
it's on this same bit of a rock? And it's agraable to see
the captain, looking for all the wor-r-ld like a commander-in-chaif
of six or eight rijiments, ordering one this-a-way,
and another that-a-way—By St. Patrick, young laddy, I
only hopes them vagabonds will come on as soon as yourself
is inside the sticks, jist to give the ould jontleman a
better occasion to play souldier on 'em. Should they happen
to climb over the sticks, I've got the prattiest bit of a shillaleh
ready that mortal eyes iver adorned! 'Twould break
a head and niver a hat harmed — a thousand's the pities
them chaps wears no hats. Howsever, we'll see.”
“Thank you, Mike, for the courage you show, and the
interest you take in all our welfares—Is it not too soon to
venture down upon the flats, Joel? I must trust to you as a
guide.”
“I think Miss Maud would do full as well if she did.
Mike must be told, too, not to talk so much, and above all,
not to speak so loud. He may be heard, sometimes, a dozen
rods.”
“Tould!” exclaimed the county Leitrim-man, in heat —
“And isn't tould I've been twenty times already, by your
own smooth conversation? Where's the occasion to tell a
thing over and over ag'in, when a man is not wanting in
ears. It's the likes of you that loves to convarse.”
“Well, Mike, for my sake, you will be silent, I hope,”
said Maud. “Remember, I am not fitted for a battle, and
the first thing is to get safely into the house. The sooner
we are down the hill, perhaps, the better it may be. Lead
the way, then, Joel, and I will follow. Michael will go next
to you, in readiness for any enemy, and I will bring up the
rear. It will be better for all to keep a dead silence, until it
be necessary to speak.”
This arrangement was made, and the party proceeded,
Maud remaining a little behind, in order that the major
might catch glimpses of her person, in the sombre light of
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the hour and the forest, and not miss the road. A few
minutes brought them all upon the level land, where, Joel,
instead of entering the open fields, inclined more into the
woods, always keeping one of the many paths. His object
was to cross the rivulet under cover, a suitable place offering
a short distance from the point where the stream glided
out of the forest. Towards this spot Joel quietly held his
way, occasionally stopping to listen if any movement of importance
had occurred on the flats. As for Maud, her eyes
were frequently cast behind her, for she was fearful Robert
Willoughby might miss the path, having so little acquaintance
with the thousand sinuosities he encountered. She
caught glimpses of his person, however, in the distance, and
saw that he was on the right track. Her chief concern,
therefore, soon became an anxiety that he should not be
seen by her companions. As they kept a little in advance,
and the underbrush was somewhat thick, she had strong
hopes that this evil would be avoided.
The path being very circuitous, it took some time to reach
the spot Joel sought. Here he, Mike, and Maud, crossed
the rivulet on a tree that had been felled expressly to answer
the purposes of a rustic foot-bridge; a common expedient
of the American forest. As our heroine had often performed
this exploit when alone, she required no assistance, and she
felt as if half the danger of her critical situation had vanished,
when she found herself on the same side of the stream
as the Hut. Joel, nothing suspecting, and keeping all his
faculties on the sounds and sights that might occur in front,
led the way diligently, and soon reached the verge of the
woods. Here he paused for his companions to join him.
Twilight had, by this time, nearly disappeared. Still,
enough remained to enable Maud to perceive that many
were watching for her, either at the windows above the
cliff, or through different parts of the stockades. The distance
was so small, that it might have been possible, by raising
the voice, even to converse; but this would be an experiment
too hazardous, as some hostile scouts, at that hour,
might very well be fearfully near.
“I see nothing, Miss Maud,” observed Joel, after taking a
good look around him. “By keeping the path that follows
the edge of the brook, though it is so crooked, we shall be
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certain of good walking, and shall be half hid by the bushes.
It's best to walk quick, and to be silent.”
Maud bade him go on, waiting herself behind a tree, to
let the two men precede her a short distance. This was
done, and the major stole up to her side unseen. A few
words of explanation passed, when the young lady ran after
her guides, leaving Robert Willoughby seated on a log. It
was a breathless moment to Maud, that in which she was
passing this bit of open land. But the distance was so short,
that it was soon gotten over; and the three found themselves
beneath the cliff. Here they passed the spring, and following
a path which led from it, turned the edge of the rocks,
and ascended to the foot of the stockades. It remained to
turn these also, in order to reach the so recently suspended
gates. As Maud passed swiftly along, almost brushing the
timbers with her dress, she saw, in the dim light, fifty faces
looking at her, and thrust between the timbers; but she
paused not, spoke not — scarcely breathed. A profound
stillness reigned on the Knoll; but when Joel arrived at the
gate, it was instantly opened, and he glided in. Not so
with Mike, who stopped and waited until she he had been
in quest of entered before him, and was in safety.
Maud found herself in her mother's arms, the instant the
gate was passed. Mrs. Willoughby had been at the angle
of the cliff, had followed her child, in her swift progress
round the stockade, and was ready to receive her, the moment
she entered. Beulah came next, and then the captain
embraced, kissed, wept over, and scolded his little favourite.
“No reproaches now, Hugh”—said the more considerate
wife, and gentle woman—“Maud has done no more than
has long been her custom, and no one could have foreseen
what has happened.”
“Mother—father”—said Maud, almost gasping for breath—
“let us bless God for my safety, and for the safety of all
that are dear to us—thank you, dear Mr. Woods—there is
a kiss, to thank you—now let us go into the house; I have
much to tell you—come dear sir—come dearest mother, do
not lose a moment; let us all go to the library.”
As this was the room in which the family devotions were
usually held, the auditors fancied the excited girl wished to
return her thanks in that mode, one not unfrequent in that
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regulated family, and all followed her, who dared, with
tender sympathy in her feelings, and profoundly grateful
for her safety. As soon as in the room, Maud carefully
shut the door, and went from one to another, in order to
ascertain who were present. Finding none but her father,
mother, sister, and the chaplain, she instantly related all
that had passed, and pointed out the spot where the major
was, at that moment, waiting for the signal to approach. It
is unnecessary to dwell on the astonishment and delight,
mingled with concern, that this intelligence produced.
Maud then rapidly recounted her plan, and implored her
father to see it executed. The captain had none of her apprehensions
on the subject of his people's fidelity, but he
yielded to the girl's earnest entreaties. Mrs. Willoughby
was so agitated with all the unlooked-for events of the day,
that she joined her daughter in the request, and Maud was
told to proceed with the affair, in her own way.
A lamp was brought, and placed by Maud in a pantry
that was lighted by a single, long, narrow, external window,
at the angle of the building next the offices, and the door
was closed on it. This lamp was the signal for the major to
approach, and with beating hearts the females bent forward
from the windows, secure of not being seen in the night,
which had now fairly closed on the valley, to listen to his
approaching footsteps beneath. They did not wait long ere
he was not only heard, but dimly seen, though totally out
of the line of sight from all in the Hut, with the exception
of those above his head. Captain Willoughby had prepared
a rope, one end of which was dropped, and fastened by the
major, himself, around his body. A jerk let those above
know when he was ready.
“What shall we do next?” asked the captain, in a sort
of despair. “Woods and I can never drag that tall, heavy
fellow up such a distance. He is six feet, and weighs a
hundred and eighty, if he weighs a pound.”
“Peace,” half-whispered Maud, from a window. “All
will be right in a moment.” Then drawing in her body,
the pale but earnest girl begged her father to have patience.
“I have thought of all. Mike and the blacks may be trusted
with our lives—I will call them.”
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This was done, and the county Leitrim-man and the two
Plinys were soon in the room.
“O'Hearn,” said Maud, inquiringly—“I think you are
my friend?”
“Am I my own!—Is it yees, is the question? Well, jist
wish for a tooth, and ye may take all in my head for the
asking. Och, I'd be a baste, else! I'd ate the remainder
of my days wid not'ing but a spoon to obleege ye.”
“As for you, Pliny, and your son here, you have known
us from children. Not a word must pass the lips of either,
as to what you see—now pull, but with great care, lest the
rope break.”
The men did as ordered, raising their load from the ground,
a foot or two at a time. In this manner the burthen approached,
yard after yard, until it was evidently drawing near the
window.
“It's the captain hoisting up the big baste of a hog, for
provisioning the hoose, ag'in a saige,” whispered Mike to
the negroes, who grinned as they tugged; “and when the
cr'atur squails, see to it, that ye do not squail yerselves.”
At that moment the head and shoulders of a man appeared
at the window. Mike let go the rope, seized a chair, and
was about to knock the intruder on the head; but the captain
arrested the blow.
“It's one of the vagabond Injins that has undermined the
hog, and come up in its stead,” roared Mike.”
“It's my son”—answered the captain, mildly—“see that
you are silent, and secret.”
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CHAPTER XIII.
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And glory long has made the sages smile;
'Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, wind—
Depending more upon the historian's style
Than on the name a person leaves behind.
Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle;
The present century was growing blind
To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks,
Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe.
Byron.
Major Willoughby's feet were scarcely on the library
floor, when he was clasped in his mother's arms. From
these he soon passed into Beulah's; nor did his father hesitate
about giving him an embrace nearly as warm. As for
Maud, she stood by, weeping in sympathy and in silence.
“And you, too, old man,” said Robert Willoughby, dashing
the tears from his eyes, and turning to the elder black,
holding out a hand—“this is not the first time, by many,
old Pliny, that you have had me between heaven and earth.
Your son was my old play-fellow, and we must shake hands
also. As for O'Hearn, steel is not truer, and we are friends
for life.”
The negroes were delighted to see their young master;
for, in that day, the slaves exulted in the honour, appearance,
importance and dignity of their owners, far more than
their liberated descendants do now in their own. The major
had been their friend when a boy; and he was, at present,
their pride and glory. In their view of the matter, the English
army did not contain his equal in looks, courage, military
skill, or experience; and it was treason per se to fight
against a cause that he upheld. The captain had laughingly
related to his wife a conversation to this effect he had not
long before overheard between the two Plinys.
“Well, Miss Beuly do a pretty well”—observed the elder;
“but, den he all 'e better, if he no get 'Merican 'mission.
What you call raal colonel, eh? Have 'e paper from 'e king
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like Masser Bob, and wear a rigimental like a head of a
turkey cock, so! Dat bein' an up and down officer.”
“P'rhaps Miss Beuly bring a colonel round, and take off
a blue coat, and put on a scarlet,” answered the younger.
“Nebber!—nebber see dat, Plin, in a rebbleushun. Dis
got to be a rebbleushun; and when dat begin in 'arnest, gib
up all idee of 'mendment. Rebbleushuns look all one way—
nebber see two side, any more dan coloured man see two
side in a red-skin.”
As we have not been able to trace the thought to antiquity,
this expression may have been the original of the celebrated
axiom of Napoleon, which tells us that “revolutions never
go backwards.” At all events, such was the notion of
Pliny Willoughby, Sen., as the namesake of the great Roman
styled himself; and it was greatly admired by Pliny
Willoughby, Jun., to say nothing of the opinions of Big
Smash and Little Smash, both of whom were listeners to
the discourse.
“Well, I wish a colonel Beekman”—To this name the
fellow gave the true Doric sound of Bakeman—“I wish a
colonel Beekman only corprul in king's troops, for Miss
Beuly's sake. Better be sarjun dere, dan briggerdeer-ginral
in 'Merikan company; dat I know.”
“What a briggerdeer mean, Plin?” inquired Little Smash,
with interest. “Who he keep company wid, and what he
do? Tell a body, do—so many officer in 'e army, one nebber
know all he name.”
“'Mericans can't hab 'em. Too poor for dat. Briggerdeer
great gentleum, and wear a red coat. Ole time, see
'em in hundreds, come to visit Masser, and Missus, and play
wid Masser Bob. Oh! no rebbleushun in dem days; but
ebbery body know he own business, and do it, too.”
This will serve to show the political sentiments of the
Plinys, and may also indicate the bias that the Smashes
were likely to imbibe in such company. As a matter of
course, the major was gladly welcomed by these devoted
admirers; and when Maud again whispered to them the necessity
of secresy, each shut his mouth, no trifling operation
in itself, as if it were to be henceforth hermetically sealed.
The assistants were now dismissed, and the major was
left alone with his family. Again and again Mrs. Willoughby
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embraced her son; nor had her new ties at all lessened
Beulah's interest in her brother. Even the captain kissed
his boy anew, while Mr. Woods shook hands once more
with his old pupil, and blessed him. Maud alone was passive
in this scene of feeling and joy.
“Now, Bob, let us to business,” said the captain, as soon
as tranquillity was a little restored. “You have not made
this difficult and perilous journey without an object; and,
as we are somewhat critically situated ourselves, the sooner
we know what it is, the less will be the danger of its not
producing its proper effect.”
“Heaven send, dear sir, that it fail not in its effect, indeed,”
answered the son. “But is not this movement in
the valley pressing, and have I not come opportunely to
take a part in the defence of the house?”
“That will be seen a few hours later, perhaps. Everything
is quiet now, and will probably so remain until near
morning; or Indian tactics have undergone a change. The
fellows have lighted camp-fires on their rocks, and seem
disposed to rest for the present, at least. Nor do I know
that they are bent on war at all. We have no Indians near
us, who would be likely to dig up the hatchet; and these
fellows profess peace, by a messenger they have sent me.”
“Are they not in their war-paint, sir? I remember to
have seen warriors, when a boy, and my glass has given
these men the appearance of being on what they call `a
war-path.”'
“Some of them are certainly in that guise, though he
who came to the Knoll was not. He pretended that they
were a party travelling towards the Hudson in order to learn
the true causes of the difficulties between their Great English
and their Great American Fathers. He asked for meal and
meat to feed his young men with. This was the whole purport
of his errand.”
“And your answer, sir; is it peace, or war, between
you?”
“Peace in professions, but I much fear war in reality.
Still one cannot know. An old frontier garrison-man, like
myself, is not apt to put much reliance on Indian faith. We
are now, God be praised! all within the stockade; and
having plenty of arms and ammunition, are not likely to be
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easily stormed. A siege is out of the question; we are too
well provisioned to dread that.”
“But you leave the mills, the growing grain, the barns,
even the cabins of your workmen, altogether at the mercy
of these wretches.”
“That cannot well be avoided, unless we go out and
drive them off, in open battle. For the last, they are too
strong, to say nothing of the odds of risking fathers of families
against mere vagabonds, as I suspect these savages to
be. I have told them to help themselves to meal, or grain,
of which they will find plenty in the mill. Pork can be got
in the houses, and they have made way with a deer already,
that I had expected the pleasure of dissecting myself. The
cattle roam the woods at this season, and are tolerably safe;
but they can burn the barns and other buildings, should
they see fit. In this respect, we are at their mercy. If
they ask for rum, or cider, that may bring matters to a
head; for, refusing may exasperate them, and granting
either, in any quantity, will certainly cause them all to get
intoxicated.”
“Why would not that be good policy, Willoughby?” exclaimed
the chaplain. “If fairly disguised once, our people
might steal out upon them, and take away all their arms.
Drunken men sleep very profoundly.”
“It would be a canonical mode of warfare, perhaps,
Woods,” returned the chaplain, smiling, “but not exactly
a military. I think it safer that they should continue sober;
for, as yet, they manifest no great intentions of hostility.
But of this we can speak hereafter. Why are you here,
my son, and in this guise?”
“The motive may as well be told now, as at another
time,” answered the major, giving his mother and sisters
chairs, while the others imitated their example in being
seated. “Sir William Howe has permitted me to come out
to see you—I might almost say ordered me out; for matters
have now reached a pass when we think every loyal gentleman
in America must feel disposed to take sides with the
crown.”
A general movement among his auditors told the major
the extent of the interest they felt in what was expected to
follow. He paused an instant to survey the dark-looking
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group that was clustering around him; for no lights were in
the room on account of the open windows, and he spoke in
a low voice from motives of prudence; then he proceeded:
“I should infer from the little that passed between Maud
and myself,” he said, “that you are ignorant of the two
most important events that have yet occurred in this unhappy
conflict?”
“We learn little here,” answered the father. “I have
heard that my Lord Howe and his brother Sir William have
been named commissioners by His Majesty to heal all the
differences. I knew them both, when young men, and their
elder brother before them. Black Dick, as we used to call
the admiral, is a discreet, well-meaning man; though I fear
both of them owe their appointments more to their affinity
to the sovereign than to the qualities that might best fit them
to deal with the Americans.”
“Little is known of the affinity of which you speak,[1] and
less said in the army,” returned the major, “but I fear there
is no hope of the object of the commission's being effected.
The American congress has declared the colonies altogether
independent of England; and so far as this country is concerned,
the war is carried on as between nation and nation.
All allegiance, even in name, is openly cast aside.”
“You astonish me, Bob! I did not think it could ever
come to this!”
“I thought your native attachments would hardly endure
as strong a measure as this has got to be,” answered the
major, not a little satisfied with the strength of feeling manifested
by his father. “Yet has this been done, sir, and done
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in a way that it will not be easy to recall. Those who now
resist us, resist for the sake of throwing off all connection
with England.”
“Has France any agency in this, Bob?—I own it startles
me, and has a French look.”
“It has driven many of the most respectable of our enemies
into our arms, sir. We have never considered you a
direct enemy, though unhappily inclining too much against
us; `but this will determine Sir Hugh,' said the commander-in-chief
in our closing interview—I suppose you know, my
dear father, that all your old friends, knowing what has
happened, insist on calling you Sir Hugh. I assure you, I
never open my lips on the subject; and yet Lord Howe
drank to the health of Sir Hugh Willoughby, openly at his
own table, the last time I had the honour to dine with
him.”
“Then the next time he favours you with an invitation,
Bob, be kind enough to thank him. I want no empty baronetcy,
nor do I ever think of returning to England to live.
Were all I had on earth drummed together, it would barely
make out a respectable competency for a private gentleman
in that extravagant state of society; and what is a mere
name to one in such circumstances? I wish it were transferable,
my dear boy, in the old Scotch mode, and you should
be Sir Bob before you slept.”
“But, Willoughby, it may be useful to Robert, and why
should he not have the title, since neither you nor I care for
it?” asked the considerate mother.
“So he may, my dear; though he must wait for an event
that I fancy you are not very impatient to witness — my
death. When I am gone, let him be Sir Robert, in welcome.
But, Bob—for plain, honest Bob must you remain till then,
unless indeed you earn your spurs in this unhappy war —
have you any military tidings for us? We have heard nothing
since the arrival of the fleet on the coast.”
“We are in New York, after routing Washington on
Long Island. The rebels” — the major spoke a little more
confidently than had been his wont — “The rebels have
retreated into the high country, near the borders of Connecticut,
where they have inveterate nests of the disaffected in
their rear.”
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“And has all this been done without bloodshed? Washington
had stuff in him, in the old French business.”
“His stuff is not doubted, sir; but his men make miserable
work of it. Really I am sometimes ashamed of having
been born in the country. These Yankees fight like wrangling
women, rather than soldiers.”
“How 's this!—You spoke honestly of the affair at Lexington,
and wrote us a frank account of the murderous work
at Bunker Hill. Have their natures changed with the change
of season?”
“To own the truth, sir, they did wonders on the Hill, and
not badly in the other affair; but all their spirit seems gone.
I am quite ashamed of them. Perhaps this declaration of
independence, as it is called, has damped their ardour.”
“No, my son — the change, if change there is, depends
on a general and natural law. Nothing but discipline and
long training can carry men with credit through a campaign,
in the open field. Fathers, and husbands, and brothers and
lovers, make formidable enemies, in sight of their own
chimney-tops; but the most flogging regiments, we used to
say, were the best fighting regiments for a long pull. But,
have a care, Bob; you are now of a rank that may well get
you a separate command, and do not despise your enemy.
I know these Yankees well—you are one, yourself, though
only half-blooded; but I know them well, and have often
seen them tried. They are very apt to be badly commanded,
heaven cursing them for their sins, in this form more than
any other—but get them fairly at work, and the guards will
have as much as they can wish, to get along with. Woods
will swear to that.”
“Objecting to the mode of corroboration, my dear sir, I
can support its substance. Inclined as I am to uphold Cæsar,
and to do honour to the Lord's anointed, I will not deny my
countrymen's courage; though I think, Willoughby, now I
recall old times, it was rather the fashion of our officers to
treat it somewhat disrespectfully.”
“It was, indeed,” answered the captain, thoughtfully —
“and a silly thing it was. They mistook the nature of a
mild and pacific people, totally without the glitter and habits
of military life, for a timid people; and I have often heard
the new hands in the colonies speak of their inhabitants
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with contempt on this very head. Braddock had that failing
to a great degree; and yet this very major Washington
saved his army from annihilation, when it came to truly
desperate work. Mark the words of a much older soldier
than yourself, Bob; you may have more of the bravery of
apparel, and present a more military aspect; may even gain
advantages over them by means of higher discipline, better
arms, and more accurate combinations; but, when you meet
them fairly, depend on it you will meet dangerous foes, and
men capable of being sooner drilled into good soldiers than
any nation I have met with. Their great curse is, and
probably will be, in selecting too many of their officers from
classes not embued with proper military pride, and altogether
without the collaterals of a good military education.”
To all this the major had nothing very material to object,
and remembering that the silent but thoughtful Beulah had
a husband in what he called the rebel ranks, he changed the
subject. Arrangements were now made for the comfort and
privacy of the unlooked-for guest. Adjoining the library, a
room with no direct communication with the court by means
of either door or window, was a small and retired apartment
containing a cot-bed, to which the captain was accustomed
to retire in the cases of indisposition, when Mrs. Willoughby
wished to have either of her daughters with herself, on their
account, or on her own. This room was now given to the
major, and in it he would be perfectly free from every sort
of intrusion. He might eat in the library, if necessary;
though, all the windows of that wing of the house opening
outward, there was little danger of being seen by any but
the regular domestics of the family, all of whom were to be
let into the secret of his presence, and all of whom were
rightly judged to be perfectly trustworthy.
As the evening promised to be dark, it was determined
among the gentlemen that the major should disguise himself
still more than he was already, and venture outside of
the building, in company with his father, and the chaplain,
as soon as the people, who were now crowded into the
vacant rooms in the empty part of the house, had taken
possession of their respective quarters for the night. In the
meantime a hearty supper was provided for the traveller in
the library, the bullet-proof window-shutters of which room,
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and indeed of all the others on that side of the building,
having first been closed, in order that lights might be used,
without drawing a shot from the adjoining forest.
“We are very safe, here,” observed the captain, as his
son appeased his hunger, with the keen relish of a traveller.
“Even Woods might stand a siege in a house built and
stockaded like this. Every window has solid bullet-proof
shutters, with fastenings not easily broken; and the logs of
the buildings might almost defy round-shot. The gates are
all up, one leaf excepted, and that leaf stands nearly in its
place, well propped and supported. In the morning it shall
be hung like the others. Then the stockade is complete,
and has not a speck of decay about it yet. We shall keep
a guard of twelve men up the whole night, with three sentinels
outside of the buildings; and all of us will sleep in our
clothes, and on our arms. My plan, should an assault be
made, is to draw in the sentinels, as soon as they have discharged
their pieces, to close the gate, and man the loops.
The last are all open, and spare arms are distributed at
them. I had a walk made within the ridge of the roofs this
spring, by which men can run round the whole Hut, in the
event of an attempt to set fire to the shingles, or fire over
the ridge at an enemy at the stockades. It is a great improvement,
Bob; and, as it is well railed, will make a capital
station in a warm conflict, before the enemy make their way
within the stockade.”
“We must endeavour not to let them get there, sir,” answered
the major—“but, as soon as your people are housed,
I shall have an opportunity to reconnoitre. Open work is
most to the taste of us regulars.”
“Not against an Indian enemy. You will be glad of such
a fortress as this, boy, before the question of independence,
or no independence, shall be finally settled. Did not Washington
entrench in the town?”
“Not much on that side of the water, sir; though he was
reasonably well in the ground on Long Island. There he
had many thousands of men, and works of some extent.”
“And how did he get off the island?” demanded the captain,
turning round to look his son in the face. “The arm
of the sea is quite half-a-mile in width, at that point—how
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did he cross it in the face of a victorious army?—or did he
only save himself, while you captured his troops?”
The major coloured a little, and then he looked at Beulah
and smiled good-naturedly.
“I am so surrounded by rebels here,” he said, “that it is
not easy to answer all your questions, sir. Beat him we did,
beyond a question, and that with a heavy loss to his army—
and out of New York we have driven him, beyond a question—
but — I will not increase Beulah's conceit by stating
any more!”
“If you can tell me anything kind of Evert, Bob, you
will act like a brother in so doing,” said the gentle wife.
“Ay, Beekman did well too, they said. I heard some
of our officers extolling a charge he made; and to own the
truth, I was not sorry to be able to say he was my sister's
husband, since a fierce rebel she would marry. All our
news of him is to his credit; and now I shall get a kiss for
my pains.”
The major was not mistaken. With a swelling heart, but
smiling countenance, his sister threw herself into his arms,
when she kissed and was kissed until the tears streamed
down her cheeks.
“It was of Washington I intended to speak, sir,” resumed
the major, dashing a tear or two from his own eyes, as
Beulah resumed her chair. “His retreat from the island is
spoken of as masterly, and has gained him great credit. He
conducted it in person, and did not lose a man. I heard Sir
William mention it as masterly.”
“Then by heaven, America will prevail in this contest!”
exclaimed the captain, striking his fist upon the table, with a
suddenness and force that caused all in the room to start.
“If she has a general who can effect such a movement skilfully,
the reign of England is over, here. Why, Woods,
Xenophon never did a better thing! The retreat of the ten
thousand was boy's play to getting across that water. Resides,
your victory could have been no great matter, Bob,
or it would never have been done.”
“Our victory was respectable, sir, while I acknowledge
that the retreat was great. No one among us denies it, and
Washington is always named with respect in the army.”
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In a minute more, Big Smash came in, under the pretence
of removing the dishes, but in reality to see Master Bob, and
to be noticed by him. She was a woman of sixty, the mother
of Little Smash, herself a respectable matron of forty;
and both had been born in the household of Mrs. Willoughby's
father, and had rather more attachment for any one of
her children than for all of their own, though each had been
reasonably prolific. The sobriquets had passed into general
use, and the real names of Bess and Mari' were nearly
obsolete. Still, the major thought it polite to use the latter
on the present occasion.
“Upon my word, Mrs. Bess,” he said, shaking the old
woman cordially by the hand, though he instinctively shrunk
back from the sight of a pair of lips that were quite ultra,
in the way of pouting, which used often to salute him twenty
years before—“Upon my word, Mrs. Bess, you improve
in beauty, everytime I see you. Old age and you seem to
be total strangers to each other. How do you manage to
remain so comely and so young?”
“God send 'e fus', Masser Bob, heabben be praise, and a
good conscience do 'e las'. I do wish you could make ole
Plin hear dat! He nebber t'ink any good look, now-a-day,
in a ole wench.”
“Pliny is half blind. But that is the way with most husbands,
Smash; they become blind to the charms of their
spouses, after a few years of matrimony.”
“Nebber get marry, Masser Bob, if dat be 'e way.”
Then Great Smash gave such a laugh, and such a swing
of her unwieldy body, that one might well have apprehended
her downfall. But, no such thing. She maintained the
equilibrium; for, renowned as she had been all her life at
producing havoc among plates, and cups, and bowls, she
was never known to be thrown off her own centre of gravity.
Another hearty shake of the hand followed, and the
major quitted the table. As was usual on all great and joyous
occasions in the family, when the emotions reached the
kitchen, that evening was remarkable for a “smash,” in
which half the crockery that had just been brought from the
table, fell an unresisting sacrifice. This produced a hot
discussion between “The Big” and “The Little,” as to the
offender, which resulted, as so often happens in these
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inquiries into the accidents of domestic life, in the conclusion
that “nobody” was alone to blame.
“How 'e t'ink he can come back, and not a plate crack!”
exclaimed Little Smash, in a vindicatory tone, she being the
real delinquent—“Get in 'e winder, too! Lor! dat enough
to break all 'e dish in 'e house, and in 'e mill, too! I do wish
ebbery plate we got was an Injin—den you see fun! Can
nebber like Injin; 'em so red, and so sabbage!”
“Nebber talk of Injin, now,” answered the indignant mother—
“better talk of plate. Dis make forty t'ousand dish
you break, Mari', sin' you war' a young woman. S'pose
you t'ink Masser made of plate, dat you break 'em up so!
Dat what ole Plin say—de nigger! He say all men made
of clay, and plate made of clay, too—well, bot' clay, and
bot' break. All on us wessels, and all on us break to pieces
some day, and den dey'll t'row us away, too.”
A general laugh succeeded this touch of morality, Great
Smash being a little addicted to ethical remarks of this nature;
after which the war was renewed on the subject of
the broken crockery. Nor did it soon cease; wrangling,
laughing, singing, toiling, a light-heartedness that knew no
serious cares, and affection, making up the sum of the every-day
existence of these semi-civilized beings. The presence
of the party in the valley, however, afforded the subject of
an episode; for a negro has quite as much of the de haut
en bas in his manner of viewing the aborigines, as the whites
have in their speculations on his own race. Mingled with
this contempt, notwithstanding, was a very active dread,
neither of the Plinys, nor of their amiable consorts, in the
least relishing the idea of being shorn of the wool, with
shears as penetrating as the scalping-knife. After a good
deal of discussion on this subject, the kitchen arrived at the
conclusion that the visit of the major was ordered by Providence,
since it was out of all the rules of probability and
practice to have a few half-clad savages get the better of
“Masser Bob,” who was born a soldier, and had so recently
been fighting for the king.
On the latter subject, we ought to have stated that the
captain's kitchen was ultra-loyal. The rude, but simple
beings it contained, had a reverence for rank and power
that even a “rebbelushun” could not disturb, and which
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closely associated, in their minds, royal authority with divine
power. Next to their own master, they considered George
III. as the greatest man of the age; and there was no disposition
in them to rob him of his rights or his honours.
“You seem thoughtful, Woods,” said the captain, while
his son had retired to his own room, in order to assume a
disguise less likely to attract attention in the garrison than
a hunting-shirt. “Is it this unexpected visit of Bob's that
furnishes food for reflection?”
“Not so much his visit, my dear Willoughby, as the
news he brings us. God knows what will befall the church,
should this rebellion make serious head. The country is in
a dreadful way, already, on the subject of religion; but it
will be far worse if these `canters' get the upper hand of
the government.”
The captain was silent and thoughtful for a moment; then
he laughingly replied—
“Fear nothing for the church, chaplain. It is of God,
and will outlast a hundred political revolutions.”
“I don't know that, Willoughby—I don't know that”—The
chaplain did not exactly mean what he said—“'Twouldn't
surprise me if we had `taking up collections,' `sitting under
preaching,' `providentially happening,' `exercised in
mind,' and `our Zion,' finding their way into dictionaries.”
“Quite likely, Woods”—returned the captain, smiling—
“Liberty is known to produce great changes in things;
why not in language?”
“Liberty, indeed! Yes; `liberty in prayer' is another of
their phrases. Well, captain Willoughby, if this rebellion
should succeed, we may give up all hopes for the church.
What sort of government shall we have, do you imagine,
sir?”
“Republican, of course,” answered the captain, again
becoming thoughtful, as his mind reverted to the important
results that were really dependent on the present state of
things. “Republican—it can be no other. These colonies
have always had a strong bias in that direction, and they
want the elements necessary to a monarchy. New York
has a landed gentry, it is true; and so has Maryland, and
Virginia, and the Carolinas; but they are not strong enough
to set up a political aristocracy, or to prop a throne; and
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then this gentry will probably be much weakened by the
struggle. Half the principal families are known to be with
the crown, as it is; and new men will force them out of
place, in a revolution. No, Woods, if this revolution prosper,
the monarchy is done in America, for at least a century.”
“And the prayers for the king and royal family—what
will become of them?”
“I should think they must cease, also. I question if a
people will continue long to pray for authorities that they
refuse to obey.”
“I shall stick to the rubrics as long as I have a tongue
in my head. I trust, Willoughby, you will not stop these
prayers, in your settlement?”
“It is the last mode in which I should choose to show
hostility. Still, you must allow it is a little too much to ask
a congregation to pray that the king shall overcome his
enemies, when they are among those very enemies? The
question presents a dilemma.”
“And, yet, I have never failed to read that prayer, as
well as all the rest. You have not objected, hitherto.”
“I have not, for I have considered the war as being waged
with parliament and the ministers, whereas it is now clearly
with the king. This paper is certainly a plain and forcible
document.”
“And what is that paper? Not the Westminster Confession
of Faith, or the Saybrook Platform, I hope; one of
which will certainly supersede the Thirty-nine Articles in
all our churches, if this rebellion prosper.”
“It is the manifesto issued by congress, to justify their
declaration of independence. Bob has brought it with him,
as a proof how far matters have been carried; but, really,
it seems to be a creditable document, and is eloquently reasoned.”
“I see how it is, Willoughby—I see how it is. We shall
find you a rebel general yet; and I expect to live to hear
you talk about `our Zion' and `providential accidents.”'
“Neither, Woods. For the first, I am too old; and, for
the last, I have too much taste, I trust. Whether I shall
always pray for the king is another matter. But, here is
the major, ready for his sortie. Upon my word, his masquerade
is so complete, I hardly know him myself.”
eaf073v1.n1[1] The mother of the three Lords Howe, so well known in American
history, viz: George, killed before Ticonderoga, in the war of '56;
Richard, the celebrated admiral, and the hero of the 1st June; and
Sir William, for several years commander-in-chief in this country,
and the 5th and last viscount; was a Mademoiselle Kilmansegge,
who was supposed to be a natural daughter of George I. This would
make these three officers and George II. first-cousins; and George III.
their great-nephew à la mode de Bretagne. Walpole, and various other
English writers, speak openly, not only of the connection, but of the
family resemblance. Indeed, most of the gossiping writers of that
age seem to allow that Lord Howe was a grandson of the first English
sovereign of the House of Brunswick.
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CHAPTER XIV.
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He could not rest, he could not stay
Within his tent to wait for day;
But walked him forth along the sand,
Where thousand sleepers strewed the strand.
Siege of Corinth.
It was now so late that most of the men of the Hut, and
all the women and children, were housed for the night, provided
no alarm occurred. There was consequently little
risk in the major's venturing forth, disguised as he was,
should care be taken not to approach a light. The great
number of the latter, streaming through the windows of the
western wing of the building, showed how many were now
collected within the walls, and gave an unusual appearance
of life and animation to the place. Still, the court was clear,
the men seeking their pallets, in readiness for their coming
watches, while the women were occupied with those great
concerns of female life, the care of children.
The captain, major, and chaplain, each carrying a rifle,
and the two former pistols, moved rapidly across the court,
and passed the gate. The moveable leaf of the latter was
left unbarred, it being the orders of the captain to the sentinels
without, on the approach of an enemy, to retire within
the court, and then to secure the fastenings.
The night was star-light, and it was cool, as is common
to this region of country. There being neither lamp nor
candle on the exterior of the house, even the loops being
darkened, there was little danger in moving about within
the stockades. The sentinels were directed to take their
posts so near the palisades as to command views of the open
lawn without, a precaution that would effectually prevent
the usual stealthy approach of an enemy without discovery.
As the alarm had been very decided, these irregula guardians
of the house were all at their posts, and exceedingly
watchful, a circumstance that enabled the captain to avoid
them, and thus further remove the danger of his son's being
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recognised. He accordingly held himself aloof from the
men, keeping within the shadows of the sides of the Hut.
As a matter of course, the first object to which our two
soldiers directed their eyes, was the rock above the mill.
The Indians had lighted fires, and were now apparently
bivouacked at no great distance from them, having brought
boards from below with that especial object. Why they
chose to remain in this precise position, and why they neglected
the better accommodations afforded by some fifteen
or twenty log-cabins, that skirted the western side of the
valley in particular, were subjects of conjecture. That they
were near the fires the board shanties proved, and that they
were to the last degree careless of the proximity of the people
of the place, would seem also to be apparent in the fact
that they had not posted, so far as could be ascertained,
even a solitary sentinel.
“This is altogether surprising for Indian tactics,” observed
the captain, in a low voice; for everything that was uttered
that night without the building was said in very guarded
tones. “I have never before known the savages to cover
themselves in that manner; nor is it usual with them to light
fires to point out the positions they occupy, as these fellows
seem to have done.”
“Is it not all seeming, sir?” returned the major. “To
me that camp, if camp it can be called, has an air of being
deserted.”
“There is a look about it of premeditated preparation,
that one ought always to distrust in war.”
“Is it not unmilitary, sir, for two soldiers like ourselves
to remain in doubt on such a point? My professional pride
revolts at such a state of things; and, with your leave, I
will go outside, and set the matter at rest by reconnoitring.”
“Professional pride is a good thing, Bob, rightly understood
and rightly practised. But the highest point of honour
with the really good soldier is to do that for which he was
precisely intended. Some men fancy armies were got together
just to maintain certain exaggerated notions of military
honour; whereas, military honour is nothing but a moral
expedient to aid in effecting the objects for which they are
really raised. I have known men so blinded as to assert
that a soldier is bound to maintain his honour at the expense
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of the law; and this in face of the fact that, in a free country,
a soldier is in truth nothing but one of the props of the
law, in the last resort. So with us; we are here to defend
this house, and those it contains; and our military honour
is far more concerned in doing that effectually, and by right
means, than in running the risk of not doing it at all, in
order to satisfy an abstract and untenable notion of a false
code. Let us do what is right, my son, and feel no concern
that our honour suffer.”
Captain Willoughby said this, because he fancied it a
fault in his son's character, sometimes to confound the end
with the means, in appreciating the ethics of his profession.
This is not an uncommon error among those who bear
arms, instances not being wanting in which bodies of men
that are the mere creatures of authority, have not hesitated
to trample the power that brought them into existence under
foot, rather than submit to mortify the feelings of a purely
conventional and exaggerated pride. The major was rebuked
rather than convinced, it not being the natural vocation of
youth to perceive the justice of all the admonitions of age.
“But, if one can be made auxiliary to the other, sir,” the
son remarked, “then you will allow that professional esprit,
and professional prudence, may very well march hand in
hand.”
“Of that there can be no doubt, though I think it far
wiser and more soldier-like, even, to use all proper precautions
to guard this house, under our actual circumstances,
than to risk anything material in order to satisfy our doubts
concerning the state of that camp.”
“But the cabins, and all the property that lies exposed to
fire and other accidents, including the mills? Is it not worth
your while to let me make a little excursion, in order to
ascertain the state of things, as connected with them?”
“Perhaps it would, Bob” — returned the father, after a
little reflection. “It would be a great point gained, to send
a man to look after the buildings, and the horses. The poor
beasts may be suffering for water; and, as you say, the first
thing will be to ascertain where our wild visiters really are,
and what they are actually bent on. Woods, go with us to
the gate, and let us out. I rely on your saying nothing of
our absence, except to explain to the two nearest sentinels
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who we are, and to be on the look-out for us, against the
moment we may return.”
“Will it not be very hazardous to be moving in front of
the stockade, in the dark? Some of our own people may
fire upon you.”
“You will tell them to be cautious, and we shall use great
circumspection in our turn. I had better give you a signal
by which we shall be known.”
This was done, and the party moved from under the
shadows of the Hut, down to the gate. Here the two soldiers
halted for several minutes, taking a deliberate and as thorough
a survey of the scene without, as the darkness permitted.
Then the chaplain opened the gate, and they issued
forth, moving with great caution down the lawn, towards
the flats. As a matter of course, captain Willoughby was
perfectly familiar with all the lanes, ditches, bridges and
fields of his beautiful possessions. The alluvial soil that
lay spread around him was principally the result of ages of
deposit while the place was covered with water; but, as the
overflowing of the water had been produced by a regular
dam, the latter once removed, the meadows were free from
the excessive moisture which generally saturates drained
lands. Still, there were two or three large open ditches, to
collect the water that came down the adjacent mountains,
or bubbled up from springs near the margin of the woods.
Across these ditches the roads led, by bridges, and the
whole valley was laid out, in this manner, equally with a
view to convenience and rural beauty. A knowledge of all
the windings was of great use, on the present occasion,
even on the advance; while, on the retreat, it might clearly
be the means of preserving the lives, or liberties, of the two
adventurers.
The captain did not proceed by the principal road which
led from the Hut to the mills, the great thoroughfare of the
valley, since it might be watched, in order to prevent a
hostile sortie against the camp; but he inclined to the right,
or to the westward, in order to visit the cabins and barns
in that quarter. It struck him his invaders might have
quietly taken possession of the houses, or even have stolen
his horses and decamped. In this direction, then, he and
his son proceeded, using the greatest caution in their
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movements, and occasionally stopping to examine the waning
fires at the rock, or to throw a glance behind them at the
stockade. Everything remained in the quiet which renders
a forest settlement so solemn and imposing, after the daily
movements of man have ceased. The deepest and most
breathless attention could not catch an unaccustomed sound.
Even the bark of a dog was not heard, all those useful animals
having followed their masters into the Hut, as if conscious
that their principal care now lay in that direction.
Each of the sentinels had one of these animals near him,
crouched under the stockade, in the expectation of their
giving the alarm, should any strange footstep approach.
In this manner most of the distance between the Knoll and
the forest was crossed, when the major suddenly laid a hand
on his father's arm.
“Here is something stirring on our left,” whispered the
former—“It seems, too, to be crouching under the fence.”
“You have lost your familiarity with our rural life, Bob,”
answered the father, with a little more confidence of tone,
but still guardedly, “or this fragrant breath would tell you
we are almost on a cow. It is old Whiteback; I know her
by her horns. Feel; she is here in the lane with us, and
within reach of your hand. A gentler animal is not in the
settlement. But, stop—pass your hand on her udder—she
will not stir—how is it, full or not?”
“If I can judge, sir, it is nothing remarkable in the way
of size.”
“I understand this better. By Jupiter, boy, that cow has
been milked! It is certain none of our people have left the
house to do it, since the alarm was first given. This is
ominous of neighbours.”
The major made no reply, but he felt to ascertain if his
arms were in a state for immediate service. After a moment's
further pause the captain proceeded, moving with
increased caution. Not a word was now uttered, for they
were getting within the shadows of the orchard, and indeed
of the forest, where objects could not well be distinguished
at the distance of a very few yards. A cabin was soon
reached, and it was found empty; the fire reduced to a few
embers, and quite safe. This was the residence of the man
who had the care of the horses, the stables standing directly
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behind it. Captain Willoughby was a thoughtful and humane
man, and it struck him the animals might now be turned
into a field that joined the barn-yard, where there was not
only rich pasture, but plenty of sweet running water. This
he determined to do at once, the only danger being from
the unbridled movements of cattle that must be impatient
from unusual privation, and a prolonged restraint.
The major opened the gate of the field, and stationed himself
in a way to turn the animals in the desired direction,
while his father went into the stable to set them free. The
first horse came out with great deliberation, being an old
animal well cooled with toil at the plough, and the major
had merely to swing his arm, to turn him into the field. Not
so with the next, however. This was little better than a colt,
a creature in training for his master's saddle; and no sooner
was it released than it plunged into the yard, then bounded
into the field, around which it galloped, until it found the
water. The others imitated this bad example; the clatter
of hoofs, though beaten on a rich turf, soon resounding in
the stillness of the night, until it might be heard across the
valley. The captain then rejoined his son.
“This is a good deed somewhat clumsily done, Bob,”
observed the father, as he picked up his rifle and prepared
to proceed. “An Indian ear, however, will not fail to distinguish
between the tramping of horses and a charge of
foot.”
“Faith, sir, the noise may serve us a good turn yet. Let
us take another look at the fires, and see if this tramping
has set any one in motion near them. We can get a glimpse
a little further ahead.”
The look was taken, but nothing was seen. While standing
perfectly motionless, beneath the shadows of an apple-tree,
however, a sound was heard quite near them, which
resembled that of a guarded footstep. Both gentlemen drew
up, like sportsmen expecting the birds to rise, in waiting for
the sound to approach. It did draw nearer, and presently
a human form was seen moving slowly forward in the path,
approaching the tree, as if to get within its cover. It was
allowed to draw nearer and nearer, until captain Willoughby
laid his hand, from behind the trunk, on the stranger's
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shoulder, demanding sternly, but in a low voice, “who are
you?”
The start, the exclamation, and the tremor that succeeded,
all denoted the extent of this man's surprise. It was some
little time, even, before he could recover from his alarm,
and then he let himself be known by his answer.
“Massy!” exclaimed Joel Strides, who ordinarily gave
this doric sound to the word `mercy'—“Massy, captain, is
it you! I should as soon thought of seeing a ghost! What
in natur' has brought you out of the stockade, sir?”
“I think that is a question I might better ask you, Mr.
Strides. My orders were to keep the gate close, and for no
one to quit the court-yard even, until sent on post, or called
by an alarm.”
“True, sir—quite true—true as gospel. But let us moderate
a little, captain, and speak lower; for the Lord only
knows who 's in our neighbourhood. Who 's that with you,
sir?—Not the Rev. Mr. Woods, is it?”
“No matter who is with me. He has the authority of my
commands for being here, whoever he may be, while you
are here in opposition to them. You know me well enough,
Joel, to understand nothing but the simple truth will satisfy
me.”
“Lord, sir, I am one of them that never wish to tell you
anything but truth. The captain has known me now long
enough to understand my natur', I should think; so no more
need be said about that.”
“Well, sir—give me the reason—and see that it is given
to me without reserve.”
“Yes, sir; the captain shall have it. He knows we
scrambled out of our houses this afternoon a little onthinkingly,
Injin alarms being skeary matters. It was an awful
hurrying time! Well, the captain understands, too, we don't
work for him without receiving our wages; and I have been
aying up a little, every year, until I 've scraped together a
few hundred dollars, in good half-joes; and I bethought me
the money might be in danger, should the savages begin to
plunder; and I 've just came out to look a'ter the money.”
“If this be true, as I hope and can easily believe to be
the case, you must have the money about you, Joel, to
prove it.”
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The man stretched forth his arm, and let the captain feel
a handkerchief, in which, sure enough, there was a goodly
quantity of coin. This gave him credit for truth, and removed
all suspicion of his present excursion being made
with any sinister intention. The man was questioned as
to his mode of passing the stockade, when he confessed he
had fairly clambered over it, an exploit of no great difficulty
from the inside. As the captain had known Joel too long to
be ignorant of his love of money, and the offence was very
pardonable in itself, he readily forgave the breach of orders.
This was the only man in the valley who did not trust his
little hoard in the iron chest at the Hut; even the miller
reposing that much confidence in the proprietor of the estate;
but Joel was too conscious of dishonest intentions himself
to put any unnecessary faith in others.
All this time, the major kept so far aloof as not to be recognised,
though Joel, once or twice, betrayed symptoms of
a desire to ascertain who he was. Maud had awakened
suspicions that now became active, in both father and son,
when circumstances so unexpectedly and inconveniently
threw the man in their way. It was consequently the wish
of the former to get rid of his overseer as soon as possible.
Previously to doing this, however, he saw fit to interrogate
him a little further.
“Have you seen anything of the Indians since you left
the stockade, Strides?” demanded the captain. “We can
perceive no other traces of their presence than yonder fires,
though we think that some of them must have passed this
way, for Whiteback's udder is empty.”
“To own the truth, captain, I haven't. I some think
that they 've left the valley; though the Lord only can tell
when they 'll be back ag'in. Such critturs be beyond calcilation!
They outdo arthmetic, nohow. As for the cow, I
milked her myself; for being the crittur the captain has
given to Phœbe for her little dairy, I thought it might hurt
her not to be attended to. The pail stands yonder, under
the fence, and the women and children in the Hut may be
glad enough to see it in the morning.”
This was very characteristic of Joel Strides. He did not
hesitate about disobeying orders, or even to risk his life, in
order to secure his money; but, determined to come out, he
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had the forethought and care to bring a pail, in order to
supply the wants of those who were now crowded within
the stockade, and who were too much accustomed to this
particular sort of food, not to suffer from its absence. If we
add, that, in the midst of all this prudent attention to the
wants of his companions, Joel had an eye to his personal
popularity and what are called “ulterior events,” and that
he selected his own cow for the precise reason given, the
reader has certain distinctive traits of the man before him.
“This being the case,” returned the captain, a good deal
relieved at finding that the savages had not been the agents
in this milking affair, since it left the probability of their
remaining stationary—“This being the case, Joel, you had
better find the pail, and go in. As soon as day dawns, however,
I recommend that all the cows be called up to the
stockade and milked generally. They are feeding in the
lanes, just now, and will come readily, if properly invited.
Go, then, but say nothing of having met me, and—”
“Who else did the captain say?” inquired Joel, curiously,
observing that the other paused.
“Say nothing of having met us at all, I tell you. It is
very important that my movements should be secret.”
The two gentlemen now moved on, intending to pass in
front of the cabins which lined this part of the valley, by a
lane which would bring them out at the general highway
which led from the Knoll to the mill. The captain marched
in front, while his son brought up the rear, at a distance of
two or three paces. Each walked slowly and with caution,
carrying his rifle in the hollow of his arm, in perfect readiness
for service. In this manner both had proceeded a few
yards, when Robert Willoughby felt his elbow touched, and
saw Joel's face, within eighteen inches of his own, as the
fellow peered under his hat. It was an action so sudden
and unexpected, that the major saw, at once, nothing but
perfect coolness could avert his discovery.
“Is 't you, Dan'el”—so was the miller named. “What
in natur' has brought the old man on this tramp, with the
valley filled with Injins?” whispered Joel, prolonging the
speech in order to get a better view of a face and form that
still baffled his conjectures. “Let 's know all about it.”
“You 'll get me into trouble,” answered the major, shaking
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off his unwelcome neighbour, moving a step further from
him, and speaking also in a whisper. “The captain's bent
on a scout, and you know he'll not bear contradiction. Off
with you, then, and don't forget the milk.”
As the major moved away, and seemed determined to
baffle him, Joel had no choice between complying and exposing
his disobedience of orders to the captain. He disliked
doing the last, for his cue was to seem respectful and attached,
and he was fain to submit. Never before, however,
did Joel Strides suffer a man to slip through his fingers with
so much reluctance. He saw that the captain's companion
was not the miller, while the disguise was too complete to
enable him to distinguish the person or face. In that day,
the different classes of society were strongly distinguished
from each other, by their ordinary attire; and, accustomed
to see major Willoughby only in the dress that belonged to
his station, he would not be likely to recognise him in his
present guise, had he even known of or suspected his visit.
As it was, he was completely at fault; satisfied it was not
his friend Daniel, while unable to say who it was.
In this doubting state of mind, Joel actually forgot the savages,
and the risks he might run from their proximity.
He walked, as it might be mechanically, to the place where
he had left the pail, and then proceeded slowly towards the
Knoll, pondering at every step on what he had just seen.
He and the miller had secret communications with certain
active agents of the revolutionists, that put them in possession
of facts, notwithstanding their isolated position, with
which even their employer was totally unacquainted. It is
true, these agents were of that low caste that never fail to
attach themselves to all great political enterprises, with a
sole view to their own benefit; still, as they were active,
cunning and bold, and had the sagacity to make themselves
useful, they passed in the throng of patriots created by the
times, and were enabled to impart to men of similar spirits
much available information.
It was through means like these, that Joel knew of the
all-important measure of the declaration of independence,
while it still remained a secret to captain Willoughby. The
hope of confiscations was now active in the bosoms of all this
set, and many of them had even selected the portions of
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property that they intended should be the reward of their
own love of freedom and patriotism. It has been said that
the English ministry precipitated the American revolution,
with a view to share, among their favourites, the estates
that it was thought it would bring within the gift of the
crown, a motive so heinous as almost to defy credulity, and
which may certainly admit of rational doubts. On the other
hand, however, it is certain that individuals, who will go
down to posterity in company with the many justly illustrious
names that the events of 1776 have committed to
history, were actuated by the most selfish inducements,
and, in divers instances, enriched themselves with the wrecks
of estates that formerly belonged to their kinsmen or friends.
Joel Strides was of too low a class to get his name enrolled
very high on the list of heroes, nor was he at all ambitious
of any such distinction; but he was not so low that he could
not and did not aspire to become the owner of the property
of the Hutted Knoll. In an ordinary state of society, so
high a flight would seem irrational in so low an aspirant;
but Joel came of a people who seldom measure their pretensions
by their merits, and who imagine that to boldly aspire,
more especially in the way of money, is the first great step
to success. The much talked of and little understood doctrine
of political equality has this error to answer for, in
thousands of cases; for nothing can be more hopeless, in
the nature of things, than to convince a man of the necessity
of possessing qualities of whose existence he has not even a
faint perception, ere he may justly pretend to be put on a
level with the high-minded, the just, the educated, and the
good. Joel, therefore, saw no other reason than the law,
against his becoming the great landlord, as well as captain
Willoughby; and could the law be so moulded as to answer
his purposes, he had discreetly resolved to care for no other
considerations. The thought of the consequences to Mrs.
Willoughby and her daughters gave him no concern whatever;
they had already possessed the advantages of their
situation so long, as to give Phœbe and the miller's wife a
sort of moral claim to succeed them. In a word, Joel, in
his yearnings after wealth, had only faintly shadowed forth
the modern favourite doctrine of “rotation in office.”
The appearance of a stranger in company with captain
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Willoughby could not fail, therefore, to give rise to many
conjectures in the mind of a man whose daily and hourly
thoughts were running on these important changes. “Who
can it be,” thought Joel, as he crawled along the lane, bearing
the milk, and lifting one leg after the other, as if lead
were fastened to his feet. “Dan'el it is not—nor is it any
one that I can consait on, about the Hut. The captain is
mightily strengthened by this marriage of his da'ter with
colonel Beekman, that's sartain. The colonel stands wonderful
well with our folks, and he'll not let all this first-rate
land, with such capital betterments, go out of the family
without an iffort, I conclude — but then I calcilate on his
being killed — there must be a disperate lot on 'em shot,
afore the war's over, and he is as likely to be among 'em as
another. Dan'el thinks the colonel has the look of a short-lived
man. Waal; to-morrow will bring about a knowledge
of the name of the captain's companion, and then a body
may calcilate with greater sartainty!”
This is but an outline of what passed through Joel's mind
as he moved onward. It will serve, however, to let the
reader into the secret of his thoughts, as well as into their
ordinary train, and is essentially connected with some of
the succeeding events of our legend. As the overseer approached
the stockade, his ideas were so abstracted that he
forgot the risk he ran; but walking carelessly towards the
palisades, the dogs barked, and then he was saluted by a
shot. This effectually aroused Joel, who called out in his
natural voice, and probably saved his life by so doing. The
report of the rifle, however, produced an alarm, and by the
time the astounded overseer had staggered up to the gate,
the men were pouring out from the court, armed, and expecting
an assault. In the midst of this scene of confusion,
the chaplain admitted Joel, as much astonished as the man
himself, at the whole of the unexpected occurrence.
It is unnecessary to say that many questions were asked.
Joel got rid of them, by simply stating that he had gone out
to milk a cow, by the captain's private orders, and that he
had forgotten to arrange any signal, by which his return
might be known. He ventured to name his employer, because
he knew he was not there to contradict him; and Mr.
Woods, being anxious to ascertain if his two friends had
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been seen, sent the men back to their lairs, without delay,
detaining the overseer at the gate for a minute's private
discourse. As the miller obeyed, with the rest, he asked
for the pail with an eye to his own children's comfort; but,
on receiving it, he found it empty! The bullet had passed
through it, and the contents had escaped.
“Did you see any thing, or person, Strides?” demanded
the chaplain, as soon as the two were alone.
“Lord, Mr. Woods, I met the captain!—The sight on him
came over me a'most as cruelly as the shot from the rifle;
for I no more expected it than I do to see you rise up to
heaven, in your clothes, like Elijah of old. Sure enough,
there was the captain, himself, and—and—”
Here Joel sneezed, repeating the word “and” several
times, in hopes the chaplain would supply the name he so
much wished to hear.
“But you saw no savages?—I know the captain is out,
and you will be careful not to mention it, lest it get to Mrs.
Willoughby's ears, and make her uneasy. You saw nothing
of the savages?”
“Not a bit—the critturs lie cluss enough, if they haven't
actually tramped. Who did you say was with the captain,
Mr. Woods?”
“I said nothing about it—I merely asked after the Indians,
who, as you say, do keep themselves very close.
Well, Joel, go to your wife, who must be getting anxious
about you, and be prudent.”
Thus dismissed, the overseer did not dare to hesitate; but
he entered the court, still pondering on the late meeting.
As for the two adventurers, they pursued their march in
silence. As a matter of course, they heard the report of
the rifle, and caught some faint sounds from the alarm that
succeeded; but, readily comprehending the cause, they produced
no uneasiness; the stillness which succeeded soon
satisfying them that all was right. By this time they were
within a hundred yards of the flickering fires. The major
had kept a strict watch on the shanties at the report of the
rifle; but not a living thing was seen moving in their vicinity.
This induced him to think the place deserted, and he
whispered as much to his father.
“With any other enemy than an Indian,” answered the
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latter, “you might be right enough, Bob; but with these
rascals one is never certain. We must advance with a good
deal of their own caution.”
This was done, and the gentlemen approached the fires
in the most guarded manner, keeping the shantees between
them and the light. By this time, however, the flames were
nearly out, and there was no great difficulty in looking into
the nearest shantee, without much exposure. It was deserted,
as proved to be the case with all the others, on further
examination. Major Willoughby now moved about on
the rock with greater confidence; for, naturally brave, and
accustomed to use his faculties with self-command in moments
of trial, he drew the just distinctions between real
danger and unnecessary alarm; the truest of all tests of
courage.
The captain, feeling a husband's and a father's responsibility,
was a little more guarded; but success soon gave
him more confidence, and the spot was thoroughly explored.
The two then descended to the mills, which, together with
the adjacent cabins, they entered also, and found uninjured
and empty. After this, several other suspected points were
looked at, until the captain came to the conclusion that the
party had retired, for the night at least, if not entirely.
Making a circuit, however, he and his son visited the chapel,
and one or two dwellings on that side of the valley, when
they bent their steps towards the Knoll.
As the gentlemen approached the stockade, the captain
gave a loud hem, and clapped his hands. At the signal the
gate flew open, and they found themselves in company with
their friend the chaplain once more. A few words of explanation
told all they had to say, and then the three passed
into the court, and separated; each taking the direction towards
his own room. The major, fatigued with the toils of
a long march, was soon in a soldier's sleep; but it was
hours before his more thoughtful, and still uneasy father,
could obtain the rest which nature so much requires.
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CHAPTER XV.
[figure description] Page 224.[end figure description]
—“I could teach you,
How to choose right, but then I am forsworn;
So will I never be; so may you miss me;
But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin
That I had been forsworn.”—
Portia.
Captain Willoughby knew that the hour which preceded
the return of light, was that in which the soldier had
the most to apprehend, when in the field. This is the moment
when it is usual to attempt surprises; and it was, in
particular, the Indian's hour of blood. Orders had been
left, accordingly, to call him at four o'clock, and to see that
all the men of the Hut were afoot, and armed also. Notwithstanding
the deserted appearance of the valley, this experienced
frontier warrior distrusted the signs of the times;
and he looked forward to the probability of an assault, a
little before the return of day, with a degree of concern he
would have been sorry to communicate to his wife and
daughters.
Every emergency had been foreseen, and such a disposition
made of the forces, as enabled the major to be useful,
in the event of an attack, without exposing himself unnecessarily
to the danger of being discovered. He was to have
charge of the defence of the rear of the Hut, or that part of
the buildings where the windows opened outwards; and
Michael and the two Plinys were assigned him as assistants.
Nor was the ward altogether a useless one. Though the
cliff afforded a material safeguard to this portion of the defences,
it might be scaled; and, it will be remembered, there
was no stockade at all, on this, the northern end of the
house.
When the men assembled in the court, therefore, about
an hour before the dawn, Robert Willoughby collected his
small force in the dining-room, the outer apartment of the
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suite, where he examined their arms by lamp-light, inspected
their accoutrements, and directed them to remain until
he issued fresh orders. His father, aided by serjeant Joyce,
did the same in the court; issuing out, through the gate of
the buildings, with his whole force, as soon as this duty was
performed. The call being general, the women and children
were all up also; many of the former repairing to the loops,
while the least resolute, or the less experienced of their
number, administered to the wants of the young, or busied
themselves with the concerns of the household. In a word,
the Hut, at that early hour, resembled a hive in activity,
though the different pursuits had not much affinity to the
collection of honey.
It is not to be supposed that Mrs. Willoughby and her
daughters still courted their pillows on an occasion like this.
They rose with the others, the grandmother and Beulah bestowing
their first care on the little Evert, as if his life and
safety were the considerations uppermost in their thoughts.
This seemed so natural, that Maud wondered she too could
not feel all this absorbing interest in the child, a being so
totally dependent on the affection of its friends and relatives
to provide for its wants and hazards, in an emergency like
the present.
“We will see to the child, Maud,” observed her mother,
ten or fifteen minutes after all were up and dressed. “Do
you go to your brother, who will be solitary, alone in his
citadel. He may wish, too, to send some message to his
father. Go, then, dear girl, and help to keep up poor Bob's
spirits.”
What a service for Maud! Still, she went, without hesitation
or delay; for the habits of her whole infancy were
not to be totally overcome by the natural and more engrossing
sentiments of her later years. She could not feel precisely
the reserve and self-distrust with one she had so long
regarded as a brother, as might have been the case with
a stranger youth in whom she had begun to feel the interest
she entertained for Robert Willoughby. But, Maud did not
hesitate about complying. An order from her mother to
her was law; and she had no shame, no reserves on the
subject of contributing to Bob's comfort or happiness.
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Her presence was a great relief to the young man himself,
whom she found in the library. His assistants were
posted without, as sentinels to keep off intruders, a disposition
that left him quite alone, anxious and uneasy. The
only intercourse he could have with his father was by
means of messages; and the part of the building he occupied
was absolutely without any communication with the
court, except by a single door near the offices, at which he
had stationed O'Hearn.
“This is kind, and like yourself, dearest Maud,” exclaimed
the young man, taking the hand of his visiter, and pressing
it in both his own, though he strangely neglected to kiss
her cheek, as he certainly would have done had it been
Beulah—“This is kind and like yourself; now I shall learn
something of the state of the family. How is my mother?”
It might have been native coyness, or even coquetry, that
unconsciously to herself influenced Maud's answer. She
knew not why—and yet she felt prompted to let it be understood
she had not come of her own impulses.
“Mother is well, and not at all alarmed,” she said. “She
and Beulah are busy with little Evert, who crows and kicks
his heels about as if he despised danger as becomes a soldier's
son, and has much amused even me; though I am
accused of insensibility to his perfections. Believing you
might be solitary, or might wish to communicate with some
of us, my mother desired me to come and inquire into your
wants.”
“Was such a bidding required, Maud! How long has
an order been necessary to bring you to console me?”
“That is a calculation I have never entered into, Bob,”
answered Maud, slightly blushing, and openly smiling, and
that in a way, too, to take all the sting out of her words —
“as young ladies can have more suitable occupations, one
might think. You will admit I guided you faithfully and
skilfully into the Hut last evening, and such a service should
suffice for the present. But, my mother tells me we have
proper causes of complaint against you, for having so thoughtlessly
left the place of safety into which you were brought,
and for going strolling about the valley, after we had retired,
in a very heedless and boyish manner!”
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“I went with my father; surely I could not have been in
better company.”
“At his suggestion, or at your own, Bob?” asked Maud,
shaking her head.
“To own the truth, it was, in some degree, at my own.
It seemed so very unmilitary for two old soldiers to allow
themselves to be shut up in ignorance of what their enemies
were at, that I could not resist the desire to make a little
sortie. You must feel, dear Maud, that our motive was your
safety—the safety, I mean, of my mother, and Beulah, and
all of you together—and you ought to be the last to blame
us.”
The tint on Maud's cheek deepened as Robert Willoughby
laid so heavy an emphasis on “your safety;” but she could
not smile on an act that risked so much more than was
prudent.
“This is well enough as to motive,” she said, after a
pause; “but frightfully ill-judged, I should think, as to the
risks. You do not remember the importance our dear father
is to us all—to my mother—to Beulah—even to me, Bob.”
“Even to you, Maud!—And why not as much to you as
to any of us?”
Maud could speak to Beulah of her want of natural affinity
to the family; but, it far exceeded her self-command to
make a direct allusion to it to Robert Willoughby. Still, it
was now rarely absent from her mind; the love she bore the
captain and his wife, and Beulah, and little Evert, coming
to her heart through a more insidious and possibly tenderer
tie, than that of purely filial or sisterly affection. It was,
indeed, this every-day regard, strangely deepened and enlivened
by that collateral feeling we so freely bestow on them
who are bound by natural ties to those who have the strongest
holds on our hearts, and which causes us to see with their
eyes, and to feel with their affections. Accordingly, no reply
was made to the question; or, rather, it was answered by
putting another.
“Did you see anything, after all, to compensate for so
much risk?” asked Maud, but not until a pause had betrayed
her embarrassment.
“We ascertained that the savages had deserted their fires,
and had not entered any of the cabins. Whether this were
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done to mislead us, or to make a retreat as sudden and unexpected
as their inroad, we are altogether in the dark. My
father apprehends treachery, however; while, I confess, to
me it seems probable that the arrival and the departure may
be altogether matters of accident. The Indians are in motion
certainly, for it is known that our agents are busy
among them; but, it is by no means so clear that our
Indians would molest captain Willoughby — Sir Hugh
Willoughby, as my father is altogether called, at head-quarters.”
“Have not the Americans savages on their side, to do us
this ill office?”
“I think not. It is the interest of the rebels to keep the
savages out of the struggle; they have so much at risk, that
this species of warfare can scarcely be to their liking.”
“And ought it to be to the liking of the king's generals,
or ministers either, Bob!”
“Perhaps not, Maud. I do not defend it; but I have seen
enough of politics and war, to know that results are looked
to, far more than principles. Honour, and chivalry, and
humanity, and virtue, and right, are freely used in terms;
but seldom do they produce much influence on facts. Victory
is the end aimed at, and the means are made to vary
with the object.”
“And where is all we have read together? — Yes, together,
Bob? for I owe you a great deal for having directed
my studies—where is all we have read about the glory and
truth of the English name and cause?”
“Very much, I fear, Maud, where the glory and truth
of the American name and cause will be, as soon as this
new nation shall fairly burst the shell, and hatch its public
morality. There are men among us who believe in this
public honesty, but I do not.”
“You are then engaged in a bad cause, major Willoughby,
and the sooner you abandon it, the better.”
“I would in a minute, if I knew where to find a better.
Rely on it, dearest Maud, all causes are alike, in this particular;
though one side may employ instruments, as in the
case of the savages, that the other side finds it its interest to
decry. Men, as individuals, may be, and sometimes are,
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reasonably upright—but, bodies of men, I much fear, never.
The latter escape responsibility by dividing it.”
“Still, a good cause may elevate even bodies of men,”
said Maud, thoughtfully.
“For a time, perhaps; but not in emergencies. You and
I think it a good cause, my good and frowning Maud, to defend
the rights of our sovereign lord the king. Beulah I
have given up to the enemy; but on you I have implicitly
relied.”
“Beulah follows her heart, perhaps, as they say it is
natural to women to do. As for myself, I am left free to
follow my own opinion of my duties.”
“And they lead you to espouse the cause of the king,
Maud!”
“They will be very apt to be influenced by the notions
of a certain captain Willoughby, and Wilhelmina, his wife,
who have guided me aright on so many occasions, that I
shall not easily distrust their opinions on this.”
The major disliked this answer; and yet, when he came
to reflect on it, as reflect he did a good deal in the course
of the day, he was dissatisfied with himself at being so unreasonable
as to expect a girl of twenty-one not to think
with her parents, real or presumed, in most matters. At
the moment, however, he did not wish further to press the
point.
“I am glad to learn, Bob,” resumed Maud, looking more
cheerful and smiling, “that you met with no one in your
rash sortie—for rash I shall call it, even though sanctioned
by my father.”
“I am wrong in saying that. We did meet with one man,
and that was no less a person than your bug-bear, Joel
Strides — as innocent, though as meddling an overseer as
one could wish to employ.”
“Robert Willoughby, what mean you! Does this man
know of your presence at the Knoll?”
“I should hope not — think not.” Here the major explained
all that is known to the reader on this head, when
he continued — “The fellow's curiosity brought his face
within a few inches of mine; yet I do not believe he recognised
me. This disguise is pretty thorough; and what
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between his ignorance, the darkness and the dress, I must
believe he was foiled.”
“Heaven be praised!” exclaimed Maud, breathing more
freely. “I have long distrusted that man, though he seems
to possess the confidence of every one else. Neither my
father nor my mother will see him, as I see him; yet to me
his design to injure you is so clear—so obvious!—I wonder,
often wonder, that others cannot view it as I do. Even
Beulah is blind!”
“And what do you see so clearly, Maud? I have consented
to keep myself incog. in submission to your earnest
request; and yet, to own the truth, I can discover no particular
reason why Strides is to be distrusted more than any
one else in the valley—than Mike, for instance.”
“Mike! I would answer for his truth with my life. He
will never betray you, Bob.”
“But why is Joel so much the object of your distrust?—
and why am I the particular subject of your apprehensions?”
Maud felt the tell-tale blood flowing again to her cheeks;
since, to give a simple and clear reason for her distrust, exceeded
her power. It was nothing but the keen interest
which she took in Robert Willoughby's safety that had betrayed
to her the truth; and, as usually happens, when
anxiety leads the way in discoveries of this sort, logical and
plausible inferences are not always at command. Still,
Maud not only thought herself right, but, in the main, she
was right; and this she felt so strongly as to be enabled to
induce others to act on her impressions.
“Why I believe in Strides' sinister views is more than I
may be able to explain to you, in words, Bob,” she replied,
after a moment's thought; “still, I do believe in them as
firmly as I believe in my existence. His looks, his questions,
his journeys, and an occasional remark, have all aided in
influencing the belief; nevertheless, no one proof may be
perfectly clear and satisfactory. Why you should be the
subject of his plans, however, is simple enough, since you
are the only one among us he can seriously injure. By
betraying you, he might gain some great advantage to himself.”
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“To whom can he betray me, dear? My father is the
only person here, in any authority, and of him I have no
cause to be afraid.”
“Yet, you were so far alarmed when last here, as to
change your route back to Boston. If there were cause for
apprehension then, the same reason may now exist.”
“That was when many strangers were in the valley, and
we knew not exactly where we stood. I have submitted to
your wishes, however, Maud, and shall lie perdu, until
there is a serious alarm; then it is understood I am to be
permitted to show myself. In a moment of emergency my
unexpected appearance among the men might have a dramatic
effect, and, of itself, give us a victory. But tell me
of my prospects — am I likely to succeed with my father?
Will he be brought over to the royal cause?”
“I think not. All common inducements are lost on him.
His baronetcy, for instance, he will never assume; that,
therefore, cannot entice him. Then his feelings are with
his adopted country, which he thinks right, and which he
is much disposed to maintain; more particularly since Beulah's
marriage, and our late intercourse with all that set.
My mother's family, too, has much influence with him.
They, you know, are all whigs.”
“Don't prostitute the name, Maud. Whig does not mean
rebel; these misguided men are neither more nor less than
rebels. I had thought this declaration of independence
would have brought my father at once to our side.”
“I can see it has disturbed him, as did the Battle of
Bunker's Hill. But he will reflect a few days, and decide
now, as he did then, in favour of the Americans. He has
English partialities, Bob, as is natural to one born in that
country; but, on this point, his mind is very strongly American.”
“The accursed Knoll has done this! Had he lived in
society, as he ought to have done, among his equals and
the educated, we should now see him at the head—Maud, I
know I can confide in you.”
Maud was pleased at this expression of confidence, and
she looked up in the major's face, her full blue eyes expressing
no small portion of the heartfelt satisfaction she experienced.
Still, she said nothing.
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“You may well imagine,” the major continued, “that I
have not made this journey entirely without an object — I
mean some object more important, even, than to see you
all. The commander-in-chief is empowered to raise several
regiments in this country, and it is thought useful to put
men of influence in the colonies at their head. Old Noll
de Lancey, for instance, so well known to us all, is to have
a brigade; and I have a letter in my pocket offering to Sir
Hugh Willoughby one of his regiments. One of the Allens
of Pennsylvania, who was actually serving against us, has
thrown up his commission from congress, since this wicked
declaration, and has consented to take a battalion from the
king. What think you of all this? Will it not have weight
with my father?”
“It may cause him to reflect, Bob; but it will not induce
him to change his mind. It may suit Mr. Oliver de Lancey
to be a general, for he has been a soldier his whole life; but
my father has retired, and given up all thoughts of service.
He tells us he never liked it, and has been happier here at
the Knoll, than when he got his first commission. Mr.
Allen's change of opinion may be well enough, he will say,
but I have no need of change; I am here, with my wife and
daughters, and have them to care for, in these troubled
times. What think you he said, Bob, in one of his conversations
with us, on this very subject?”
“I am sure I cannot imagine—though I rather fear it was
some wretched political stuff of the day.”
“So far from this, it was good natural feeling that belongs,
or ought to belong to all days, and all ages,” answered
Maud, her voice trembling a little as she proceeded.
`There is my son,' he said; `one soldier is enough in a
family like this. He keeps all our hearts anxious, and may
cause them all to mourn.”'
Major Willoughby was mute for quite a minute, looking
rebuked and thoughtful.
“I fear I do cause my parents concern,” he at length answered;
“and why should I endeavour to increase that of
my excellent mother, by persuading her husband to return
to the profession? If this were ordinary service, I could not
think of it. I do not know that I ought to think of it, as
it is!”
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“Do not, dear Robert. We are all — that is, mother is
often miserable on your account; and why would you increase
her sorrows? Remember that to tremble for one life
is sufficient for a woman.”
“My mother is miserable on my account!” answered the
young man, who was thinking of anything but his father,
at that instant. “Does Beulah never express concern for
me? or have her new ties completely driven her brother
from her recollection? I know she can scarce wish me success;
but she might still feel some uneasiness for an only
brother. We are but two—”
Maud started, as if some frightful object glared before her
eyes; then she sat in breathless silence, resolute to hear what
would come next. But Robert Willoughby meant to pursue
that idea no farther. He had so accustomed himself—had
endeavoured even so to accustom himself to think of Beulah
as his only sister, that the words escaped him unconsciously.
They were no sooner uttered, however, than the recollection
of their possible effect on Maud crossed his mind. Profoundly
ignorant of the true nature of her feelings towards himself,
he had ever shrunk from a direct avowal of his own sentiments,
lest he might shock her; as a sister's ear would
naturally be wounded by a declaration of attachment from
a brother; and there were bitter moments when he fancied
delicacy and honour would oblige him to carry his secret
with him to the grave. Two minutes of frank communication
might have dissipated all these scruples for ever; but,
how to obtain those minutes, or how to enter on the subject
at all, were obstacles that often appeared insurmountable to
the young man. As for Maud, she but imperfectly understood
her own heart — true, she had conscious glimpses of
its real state; but, it was through those sudden and ungovernable
impulses that were so strangely mingled with her
affections. It was years, indeed, since she had ceased to
think of Robert Willoughby as a brother, and had begun to
view him with different eyes; still, she struggled with her
feelings, as against a weakness. The captain and his wife
were her parents; Beulah her dearly, dearly beloved sister;
little Evert her nephew; and even the collaterals, in and
about Albany, came in for a due share of her regard; while
Bob, though called Bob as before; though treated with a
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large portion of the confidence that was natural to the
intimacy of her childhood; though loved with a tenderness
he would have given even his high-prized commission to
know, was no longer thought of as a brother. Often did
Maud find herself thinking, if never saying, “Beulah may
do that, for Beulah is his sister; but it would be wrong in me.
I may write to him, talk freely and even confidentially with
him, and be affectionate to him; all this is right, and I should
be the most ungrateful creature on earth to act differently;
but I cannot sit on his knee as Beulah sometimes does; I
cannot throw my arms around his neck when I kiss him,
as Beulah does; I cannot pat his cheek, as Beulah does,
when he says anything to laugh at; nor can I pry into his
secrets, as Beulah does, or affects to do, to tease him. I
should be more reserved with one who has not a drop of
my blood in his veins—no, not a single drop.” In this way,
indeed, Maud was rather fond of disclaiming any consanguinity
with the family of Willoughby, even while she
honoured and loved its two heards, as parents. The long
pause that succeeded the major's broken sentence was only
interrupted by himself.
“It is vexatious to be shut up here, in the dark, Maud,”
he said, “when every minute may bring an attack. This
side of the house might be defended by you and Beulah,
aided and enlightened by the arm and counsels of that
young `son of liberty,' little Evert; whereas the stockade
in front may really need the presence of men who have
some knowledge of the noble art. I wish there were a lookout
to the front, that one might at least see the danger as it
approached.”
“If your presence is not indispensable here, I can lead
you to my painting-room, where there is a loop directly opposite
to the gate. That half of the garrets has no one
in it.”
The major accepted the proposal with joy, and forthwith
he proceeded to issue a few necessary orders to his subordinates,
before he followed Maud. When all was ready, the
latter led the way, carrying a small silver lamp that she
had brought with her on entering the library. The reader
already understands that the Hut was built around a court;
the portion of the building in the rear, or on the cliff, alone
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having windows that opened outward. This was as true of
the roofs as of the perpendicular parts of the structure, the
only exceptions being in the loops that had been cut in the
half-story, beneath the eaves. Of course, the garrets were
very extensive. They were occupied in part, however, by
small rooms, with dormer-windows, the latter of which
opened on the court, with the exception of those above the
cliff. It was on the roofs of these windows that captain
Willoughby had laid his platform, or walk, with a view to
extinguish fires, or to defend the place. There were many
rooms also that were lighted only by the loops, and which,
of course, were on the outer side of the buildings. In addition
to these arrangements, the garret portions of the Hut
were divided into two great parts, like the lower floor, without
any doors of communication. Thus, below, the apartments
commenced at the gate-way, and extended along one-half
the front; the whole of the east wing, and the whole
of the rear, occupying five-eighths of the entire structure.
This part contained all the rooms occupied by the family
and the offices. The corresponding three-eighths, or the
remaining half of the front, and the whole of the west wing,
were given to visiters, and were now in possession of the
people of the valley; as were all the rooms and garrets
above them. On the other hand, captain Willoughby, with
a view to keep his family to itself, had excluded every one,
but the usual inmates, from his own portion of the house,
garret-rooms included.
Some of the garret-rooms, particularly those over the
library, drawing-room, and parlour, were convenient and
well-furnished little apartments, enjoying dormer-windows
that opened on the meadows and forest, and possessing a
very tolerable elevation, for rooms of that particular construction.
Here Mr. Woods lodged and had his study. The
access was by a convenient flight of steps, placed in the
vestibule that communicated with the court. A private and
narrower flight also ascended from the offices.
Maud now led the way up the principal stairs, Mike being
on post at the outer door to keep off impertinent eyes, followed
by Robert Willoughby. Unlike most American houses,
the Hut had few passages on its principal floor; the rooms
communicating en suite, as a better arrangement where the
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buildings were so long, and yet so narrow. Above, however,
one side was left in open garret; sometimes in front
and sometimes in the rear, as the light came from the court,
or from without. Into this garret, then, Maud conducted
the major, passing a line of humble rooms on her right,
which belonged to the families of the Plinys and the Smashes,
with their connections, until she reached the front range of
the buildings. Here the order was changed along the half
of the structure reserved to the use of the family; the rooms
being on the outer side lighted merely by the loops, while
opposite to them was an open garret with windows that
overlooked the court.
Passing into the garret just mentioned, Maud soon reached
the door of the little room she sought. It was an apartment
she had selected for painting, on account of the light from
the loop, which in the morning was particularly favourable,
though somewhat low. As she usually sat on a little stool,
however, this difficulty was in some measure obviated; and,
at all events, the place was made to answer her purposes.
She kept the key herself, and the room, since Beulah's marriage
in particular, was her sanctum; no one entering it
unless conducted by its mistress. Occasionally, Little Smash
was admitted with a broom; though Maud, for reasons known
to herself, often preferred sweeping the small carpet that covered
the centre of the floor, with her own fair hands, in
preference to suffering another to intrude.
The major was aware that Maud had used this room for
the last seven years. It was here he had seen her handkerchief
waving at the loop, when he last departed; and hundreds
of times since had he thought of this act of watchful
affection, with doubts that led equally to pain or pleasure,
as images of merely sisterly care, or of a tenderer feeling,
obtruded themselves. These loops were four feet long, cut
in the usual bevelling manner, through the massive timbers;
were glazed, and had thick, bullet-proof, inside shutters,
that in this room were divided in equal parts, in order to give
Maud the proper use of the light she wanted. All these shutters
were now closed by command of the captain, in order to
conceal the lights that would be flickering through the different
garrets; and so far had caution become a habit, that
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Maud seldom exposed her person at night, near the loop,
with the shutter open.
On the present occasion, she left the light without, and
threw open the upper-half of her heavy shutter, remarking
as she did so, that the day was just beginning to dawn.
“In a few minutes it will be light,” she added; “then we
shall be able to see who is and who is not in the valley.
Look—you can perceive my father near the gate, at this
moment.”
“I do, to my shame, Maud. He should not be there,
while I am cooped up here, behind timbers that are almost
shot-proof.”
“It will be time for you to go to the front, as you soldiers
call it, when there is an enemy to face. You cannot
think there is any danger of an attack upon the Hut this
morning.”
“Certainly not. It is now too late. If intended at all, it
would have been made before that streak of light appeared
in the east.”
“Then close the shutter, and I will bring in the lamp,
and show you some of my sketches. We artists are thirsting
always for praise; and I know you have a taste, Bob,
that one might dread.”
“This is kind of you, dear Maud,” answered the major,
closing the shutter; “for they tell me you are niggardly of
bestowing such favours. I hear you have got to likenesses—
little Evert's, in particular.”
END OF VOL. I.
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