Kate Aylesford: A Story of the Refugees

“Why have they dared to march
So many miles upon her peaceful bosom;
Frighting her pale-faced villages with war.” —Shakespeare.

“Front to front,
Bring thou this fiend of Scotland, and myself;
Within my sword’s length set him.” —Shakespeare.

We must now return to Major Gordon and his companion, whom we left, long ago, proceeding to the Forks.

The Forks, as its name imported, was situated at the head of navigation, at the junction of two small branches of the river, on whose shores the events we have been narrating occurred. It was a settlement comprising about twenty-five houses, whose inhabitants were exclusively engaged in the trade, which the unloading of prizes at this point had created. Springing up in an incredibly short time, its prosperity was as evanescent as things of rapid growth often are; and long since every vestige of it has departed, except a solitary domicile, and a few grand old buttonwoods.

At the time of which we write, however, the Forks was in the full career of success. The western shore of the narrow but deep river in front, was lined for a considerable distance with vessels, which either had discharged valuable cargoes, or were about to do so. Many a fat merchantman, which had been originally laden with goods for the markets of Jamaica, was there contributing unwillingly to the wealth of the American patriots; and many a proud West Indiaman, which had been freighted at Kingston with sugar, rum, or molasses for London, was now unloading at the Forks for the benefit of Philadelphia. The place, in fact, was the head-quarters for the spoils, ravaged by American privateers from his Majesty’s mercantile marine.

As such it presented a scene of comparative liveliness. Teamsters were there, swearing at their horses, drinking in the tavern, or wrangling about their load; brokers were there, in behalf of the merchants of the capital, bartering for desirable goods; and sailors, watermen, laborers, and occasionally a small farmer or two were there also; while a few soldiers, constituting the small command of Major Gordon, lounged about and completed the diversity of the scene.

Scarcely had Major Gordon arrived at the Forks with his companion, when he was called aside, and informed that an express rider had just reached the place and was anxiously inquiring for him. It was added that the man, though he refused to divulge his errand, was evidently from Washington’s head-quarters.

“Send him in,” said the Major, leading the way to his bed-chamber, the only private apartment he could command. And turning to Uncle Lawrence, he asked the latter to excuse him for a few minutes.

The express rider was soon ushered into the presence of the young officer.

“His excellency, the commander-in-chief,” said the emissary, “has received news that the British are about fitting out an expedition against the lower settlements on this river, with the intention to burn the prizes collected below, and perhaps even to penetrate up to this point. So much I was told to carry by word of mouth, in case any accident happened to my despatches. But I was to preserve them, if possible, and hand them to you.” With these words he drew out a packet, which he delivered to Major Gordon.

The official document confirmed what the messenger had stated, but went much more into detail. It informed our hero that General Washington had ascertained, from reliable informants in New York, that the British commander-in-chief, enraged at the serious damage done by the privateers harboring in the river, had resolved to despatch the Vesta man-of-war, with a sufficient number of auxiliary vessels and a force of nearly a thousand men, to break up the American settlements, capture the armed ships, and burn or bring off the prizes. “In a word,” concluded the despatch, “it is the royal General’s intention to devastate the whole region. No hope is left for the inhabitants but in rallying promptly to resist the aggressors. Had the enemy been able to surprise the district, as he confidently expected, his bloody designs would incontestably have been carried out. But the commander-in-chief is in hopes that the timely warning he sends, will allow the inhabitants to make such preparations for defence, as will frustrate the plans of the invaders. He advises that all private armed vessels be conveyed immediately to a place of security; that defences be thrown up at the points most likely to become the objects of attack; and that those persons who are well affected to the Congress be summoned, from the surrounding neighborhoods, to defend the soil from aggression. He will despatch a body of dragoons, under the Count Pulaski, as soon as possible, to assist the militia; meantime, Major Gordon is instructed to hasten at once to the Neck, which is one of the spots certain to be assailed first, and remain in command there until relieved by the Count.”

Major Gordon, having hastily perused this missive, turned to the express rider.

“Are you too tired to go on with the news?” he said. “if not, you are the most suitable person.”

“I’m all ready,” answered the messenger. “I sort of thought you’d wish to send me forrard, and so I took a bite while waiting for you, not knowing,” and he touched his cap, and smiled, “when I’d get another.”

“You are a veteran already in one thing,” answered Major Gordon, gayly, “even though young in years. Mount then, at once, and make the best speed you can to the Neck. Once there, despatch messengers across the country and along shore to rouse the people. Let the rendezvous be at the Neck. I will march, with all the forces I can collect, within an hour or two; but as my progress will necessarily be slow, as compared with yours, I trust to find, by the time I arrive, a goodly number of armed citizens assembled to meet me.”

Having dismissed the express rider with these words, Major Gordon called Uncle Lawrence aside, and communicated the intelligence he had received. He concluded by saying, “So it will be impossible for me, as you see, to give you any assistance at present in tracking the refugees. The object of their return here, however, is now apparent. They all keep up communications with the royal forces, and having heard of this expedition, have swarmed here to plunder at will if the enemy should succeed. Under these circumstances, the shortest way to drive the vermin from the region, is to strike at the royal forces; for if we defeat them, the refugees can afterwards be easily mastered in detail. Even, however, if my judgment continued in favor of your proposal, my orders would forbid my entering on any such enterprise at this juncture.”

Uncle Lawrence answered promptly,

“You are right. My old blood warms, too, at the news of this expedition. What! the tories coming to attack us, in our own river, and to burn down our very houses. God helping me,” he said, glancing reverently upwards, and then striking his gun emphatically, “I’ll march myself against the invaders. You’ll take, me, Major, I spose?”

“Gladly,” replied our hero, seizing the old man’s hand, and shaking it warmly. “It is what I would have desired, above all things else; but could not have presumed to ask, considering your years. Your example will be worth fifty good men to me. When such as you march, who can hold back?”

“Strike while the iron’s hot, then,” pithily said Uncle Lawrence. “Call for volunteers right off, Major. There’s a dozen idle fellows here that might go as well as not; and will, maybe, if you tell the news straight out, and say, too, that every man’s wanted.”

Taking the old man’s hint, the Major stepped out in front of the house, just as everybody was crowding, full of curiosity, to see the express rider depart; and having waited till the messenger dashed off, he proceeded to impart the contents of the despatch, after which, in a short, but stirring speech, he called for volunteers.

No sooner had he finished than Uncle Lawrence, who had stood leaning on his gun, as if idly listening, stepped forward, and taking off his cap, remained a moment gazing at the crowd in silence, the wind waving his long, thin, silvery locks.

The action drew every eye upon him. All saw that he had something to say, and waited for it respectfully.

“Neighbors,” he said, looking around with simple dignity, “here stands the first volunteer.”

At this unexpected declaration—unexpected, however, only because of the veteran’s age, for otherwise it was in keeping with his whole life—the audience, after a pause of silent admiration, broke forth into an enthusiastic cheer.

The old man’s eyes brightened. “And now,” he continued, “who’ll go with me to fight for our homes, our wives, our darters, and our babies? Liberty or death!” And he waved his cap around his head. “Huzza!”

“I’ll go—and I—and I,” cried almost every voice, as the speakers rushing forward, grasped first his hand and then that of Major Gordon; for the effect of his appeal was electric. “Liberty or death! Liberty or death!” And the welkin rung with the reiterated shout.

“That’s what I expected,” said the Major, when silence had been procured again. “That’s what I expected—after such an example—from such brave fellows and such good friends to their country. The right way, my lads, when an enemy is about, is to march boldly to meet him, and not wait to be smoked out like a fox in his hole. One more huzza for liberty or death,” he continued, leading off the shout; “and now every man arm himself, taking plenty of powder and ball; and be ready to set out within an hour. We must reach the Neck by nightfall, or earlier, if we can.”

The crowd dispersed at this, though not till they had given nine cheers, three for Uncle Lawrence, three for Major Gordon, and three for General Washington.

In little more than an hour, nearly the whole available male population of the Forks had rendezvoused in front of Major Gordon’s lodgings; and boats having been provided, as affording the speediest method of reaching the Neck, they pushed off, with a round of huzzas to cheer the hearts of their wives and sweethearts left behind.

Uncle Lawrence had not even returned home to acquaint his family with his intentions. He had, however, despatched a lad to perform this duty, for which he had not time himself. The youngster passed directly in front of the mansion at Sweetwater, in the execution of this task; but as the inhabitants were regarded as being tories at heart, he forbore to communicate his news.

Meantime, Major Gordon, and his veteran companion, little imagined the peril that threatened Miss Aylesford. The idea of so daring an outrage as the abduction of Kate would never have suggested itself to them under any circumstances; but in fact, they were both so engrossed by the news of the threatened invasion, that they thought of nothing but repulsing it. It was long after the Forks had faded in the distance, before even Major Gordon, hero as he was, remembered our heroine; and though, after this, her image often recurred to him, it was with no suspicion that she was less secure from harm than the queen on her throne.

As they descended the river, the Americans stopped at the various farmhouses on the shore, to give notice of the British expedition. At the principal settlement, Major Gordon landed in person, and directed that sentinels should be posted to watch ascending and descending boats.

“There are more or less disaffected persons above,” he said, “who may seek to join the enemy or carry information to him, so that it is important that a strict watch be kept and every boat stopped. This is so necessary that we shall leave a few men with you till your neighbors can rally. If more than a dozen come in, however, send on the balance to the Neck, where every musket will be wanted.”

“The sky
Is overcast, and musters muttering thunder.” —Byron.

“I heard the wrack,
As earth and sky would mingle.” —Milton.

The Neck was a tongue of land, which, jutting out into the tide, and surrounded on two sides by salt marshes, formed the last piece of solid ground as the voyager descended the river. As the crow flies, this point was but a few miles from the bay. But the navigator, after leaving the Neck, practically had to conquer many a weary league before he reached the Atlantic, the stream winding, in sinuous turns, in and out among the low meadows, before it finally attained its destination.

On this bit of fast land a few scattering houses had been built, the principal one being about a hundred yards from the water’s edge. Cornfields extended for some distance inland, where they were met by dense woods, which stretched on both sides, wherever there was solid ground, as far as the eye could see. A few fine old chestnut trees, growing in a clump near the extreme end of the point, made the spot a land-mark, visible for miles up and down the stream.

The neck of land formed, on its upper side, a little bay, in which were now disposed about thirty dismantled merchant vessels. Bales of goods were piled upon the shore, as if just unloaded; while others were being hurried into the neighboring store-houses. At least five hundred men were already collected, when Major Gordon reached the rendezvous. They were all busy, for those who were not engaged in securing the cargos of the prizes, were occupied in throwing up a rude earthen breastwork for the defence of the place.

Among the first to welcome our hero was the old waterman, Mullen, whom the reader will recollect as having been with him, when Kate was rescued from the wreck. Charley Newell was also there, but came forward more coyly, and blushed like any girl when the Major complimented him for his conduct on that occasion.

From these old comrades our hero learned that the express rider had preceded him several hours; that intelligence had already reached the settlements on both sides of the river; and that the privateers had made good their escape. Nothing, as yet, had been seen of the British. Meantime, the whole country was rising, and Mullen predicted that, before four and twenty hours, a thousand men would rendezvous at the Neck.

“There’s no danger of surprise?” said Major Gordon, interrogatively.

“We know the cut of every sail on the river,” said Mullen, “and can tell a strange one miles off. There isn’t a child even, hereabouts, who can’t say whether a craft is ours or not, a’most as soon as he can pint out a gray-back or a millet. The river makes a wide sweep, as maybe you may remember, just below here, so that what’s but a mile right across the mash hereaway, is a matter of three miles as the water runs. You can see a sail an hour or more before she can reach the Neck.”

Satisfied on this point, and having posted sentinels at every proper point, so as to provide against being surprised in the darkness, Major Gordon dismissed his command to their quarters soon after nightfall; and directly hundreds of men, fatigued by a hurried march, or a day of severe labor in storing goods, were fast asleep, bivouacking around him. Slumber was not, however, for his eyes. Though he scarcely expected an attack before the following day, even if then, the anxiety natural to his position kept him awake. He paced slowly up and down, hour after hour, under the shadows of the chestnut trees, now listening to the sentry’s cry of “all’s well,” and now to the low plash of the tide as it swept past the point. Or he stood, with folded arms, cooling his heated brow in the night air, or gazing dreamily over the vast and silent expanse of salt meadows between him and the ocean, as they were vaguely seen in the starlight. Occasionally he went the rounds personally. At other times, he leaned against one of the old chestnuts, and gave himself up to reflection, Kate dividing his thoughts nearly equally with the responsibilities of his command.

The morning dawned, close and misty. The fog hung low and thick over the marshes, or lay packed, like aerial fleeces, upon the stream. Now and then a faint breeze would wave it gently, as when a light curtain is stirred by the wind; and here and there it eddied and undulated, apparently without cause. The atmosphere was warm, almost stifling.

“An enemy might steal on us now, like a thief in the night,” was Uncle Lawrence’s morning salutation to Major Gordon. “The fog’s so thick it looks as if one might cut it with a knife.”

“It’s a’most as bad as the fogs off Newfoundland,” put in Mullen, coming up, “where the Marblehead fishermen have a saying they can make steps in ‘em, as if they were rock. Ha! ha!”

“When I was at Newport,” remarked Major Gordon, joining in the humor of the moment, “in the beginning of the war—and Newport’s famous for its fogs, you know—they told me the girls used to hang their heads out of the windows, whenever there was a fog, to bleach their complexions; and certainly the ladies there look almost like wax-work.” And thus speaking, he laughingly passed on.

“Like wax-work!” said Mullen, contemptuously. “Give me an honest tan on the face. A woman ain’t good for much that can’t dig potatoes, or maybe hold a plough a bit, while her husband’s out a fishin’. In these parts, at any rate, a man don’t want a wife that he has to keep in a glass case.”

“Every one to his taste,” interposed Uncle Lawrence. “Now there’s Miss Aylesford would stand but a poor chance digging potatoes with them white little hands of hern, yet she’s a brave gal for all that, as you know, Mr. Mullen.”

“Ay, ay, that do I. Lord A’mighty, how beautiful she looked, when she ran for’ard on that ere wreck to cast off the cable. What a pictur she’d a made. There’s nothing in my old woman’s family Bible as fine.”

As the day wore on, the fog lifted, and Major Gordon’s anxiety was relieved by discovering no signs of the foe. Aware of his as yet insufficient means of defence, he wished to postpone the struggle as long as possible. For though he had several hundred men under his command, and though the number was hourly being augmented, they were wholly undisciplined, and the breastwork, which might have aided him materially, was still unfinished.

Meantime, he urged forward the construction of the fortification, often personally assisting the laborers. He hoped, by another day, to have the defences finished, in which case he thought he could make good his post, even if Pulaski should fail to come up. Nevertheless, he was not over-sanguine. For the thousand disciplined soldiers, marines, and sailors, whom the British were despatching against him, were not to be despised by a brave and prudent commander. Two-thirds of his men had never seen fire; and though their patriotism was unquestionable, no leader, he well knew, could count certainly on such troops.

When, at last, noon arrived, and the fortifications were pronounced half-finished, and when, having swept the river below with his glass, no enemy was seen, Major Gordon went to his meal with something like relief.

Clouds had been hovering all day, however, around the horizon, portending rain; and more than once low growls of thunder had come up faintly from the distance. While the men were at dinner, the threatening vapors culminated, and a storm, as sudden as it was violent, broke upon the little camp. The Major was seated at his meal, in the “best parlor” of the principal dwelling, when his attention was aroused by the unexpected darkness that fell across the room. Almost immediately there came a rush of wind, which dashed the sand against the window-pane like showers of fine shot, while the enormous chestnuts were heard swaying and moaning as if twisted and tortured almost beyond their powers of endurance. Rushing to the casement he saw the air filled with a ghastly dust, through which the light looked lurid, as if the Judgment Day had come. The young saplings were bending like reeds; while some cattle, which had been driven into the camp to be slaughtered, had broken loose, and now ran wildly about, tearing up the loose soil and bellowing in affright: and overhead, the birds, scared from their noontide shelter, flew hither and thither blindly.

All at once a dead silence fell upon the scene. The wind ceased as if by the command of some fell magician. This quiet was, however, even more awful than the preceding turmoil. It was, indeed, as if all things had come to their last gasp, and earth wanted but the word to dissolve forever. Suddenly this ominous stillness was broken by a terrific clap of thunder bursting almost overhead. Simultaneously a vivid streak of lightning, that filled the whole room with dazzling light, and blinded Major Gordon for a moment, shot to the ground just in front of the garden fence; the earth opened, ploughed up for yards on either side by the red bolt, and then, while a dense smoke rose, or seemed to the dizzy eyesight to rise from the spot, the house apparently rocked to its foundations, and the firmament shook, while peal on peal reverberated into the distance, as if thousands of artillery wagons were jolting at full gallop down the pavement of heaven.

Involuntarily Major Gordon sprang back from the window, while the servant girl, who had been waiting on him, ran screaming from the room, crying that the end of the world had come. Then a rushing sound was heard, and a burst of rain followed, as if the windows of the sky had been opened, the rain dancing on the road in huge drops, and hissing as though it fell on a furnace. Hail was soon mixed with the descending water, which now poured down in sheeted cataracts, and with the roar of an avalanche. The icy particles, as big as hazel-nuts, rattled on the roof like buckshot, cracked the frail glass of the window-panes, and heaped themselves up in the ruts, like pebbles left by a mountain torrent. The trees once more bent in the driving gale, and the rain, swept almost horizontally along, smoked over the fast land and vanished in clouds of gray mist across the distant marshes.

For more than an hour, the rain continued to fall. The fury of the tempest, however, began to subside long before that period had elapsed. At last Major Gordon ventured out. The storm had crossed the country diagonally, and was now moving towards the Atlantic, its gloomy mass extending along the eastern horizon and far up towards the zenith, black as a funeral hearse and procession. No sable pall could have descended more wall-like, over the salt marshes and river below the Neck, than did the ebon clouds of the tempest. Continually, down this inky curtain, crinkled the zig-zag lightning, its white-heat blaze irradiating all around for an instant, and then leaving it seemingly duskier than before. Wherever the storm came down, in this way, on the river, a murky glare fringed its lower edge, diffusing a ghostly reflection on the troubled waves in front of it. Every few minutes the thunder boomed from out of this black ominous mass, sounding fainter as the storm receded, however, until at last it subsided into a low, sullen growl, as when a baffled lion retires reluctantly into the night before the hunters.

Suddenly, around the nearest bend of the river, a fleet of boats was seen advancing towards the Neck. The rowers were evidently men-of-wars men; while intermingled among them were the red coats of British soldiers and the caps of British marines. The whole number of the boats was not less than thirty, and Major Gordon, at a hasty glance, estimated the entire force of the assailants at nearly a thousand.

The enemy had approached undetected, under cover of the tempest, and in consequence of having no sails; and was now within a quarter of a mile. Not a minute was to be lost in preparing for defence. Our hero, therefore, hurriedly ordered the alarm to be sounded, and began to marshal his men, eager to do the best he could to avert the consequences of this surprise.

“White as a white sail on a dusky sea,
When half the horizon’s clouded and half free,
Fluttering between the dim wave and the sky,
Is hope’s last gleam in man’s extremity.” —Byron.

“Hope, for a time,
Suns the young floweret in its gladsome light,
And it looks flourishing—a little while—
Til passed.” —Miss London.

It will be remembered that we left Kate a few chapters back, about to be embarked on the river.

Clouds had been hovering, all the latter part of the morning, around the horizon; and about noon these had collected into the thunder-storm, which we have seen pass over Chestnut Neck. Kate and her captors, however, escaped the tempest, it being almost an hour in advance of them.

With rapid strokes the refugees urged their boat along, as if desirous to gain their destination, whatever it was, before nightfall. For nearly an hour they continued to advance in this way, between shores still overgrown with forest, with here and there a small clearing peeping out on the river. At last, on turning a sudden bend in the stream, they came in sight of a considerable settlement. A small field piece was mounted near the bank; and quite a number of armed men lounged about; while a couple of sentinels marched to and fro behind the cannon. On a flag-staff, in front of one of the houses, floated the stars and stripes of the confederated states.

Kate had noticed, that, as this settlement opened to view, the refugees had kept away, as close as possible to the other side of the river: but scarcely had they rounded the point and came fairly in view of the sentinels, when a hail sounded across the water.

To pass this armed party was almost impossible, for the boat had still a considerable distance to go before it would be in front of the dwellings: and even if it should safely reach and pass that point, it would be within range of their muskets for a long distance below, to say nothing of the field piece. The heart of our heroine beat high with hope. Here, when she least expected it, was succor. For she resolved, the instant the boat came to, to declare herself and claim protection, even if Arrison had his pistol at her heart.

The refugees appeared as disconcerted as she was overjoyed. They looked at each other and at their leader in dismay; but continued pulling lustily, still hugging the opposite shore. They were not allowed to go far, however, unchecked; for the sentinels, finding their summons disregarded, fired at the boat; and the ball of one of them passing close to Arrison, he suddenly ordered a halt.

“This is the devil’s own work,” he said, savagely. “Keep still, Miss, or I’ll put my knife into you,” he added, as Kate seized the opportunity to waive her handkerchief; and he snatched the handkerchief from her. “They are getting ready to fire their field-piece. We shall never be able to pass them. Who’d have thought that the rebel knaves would have rallied so quickly.”

“We’d better turn back,” said one of the men, who seemed the leading person after Arrison. “It’s been slack water for some time, and the tide will begin to run up directly; it’s making up, in fact, already, along shore. Before we could get by, with no wind and a head tide, they’d smash our boat to pieces with their cursed gun.”

“Back let it be then,” said Arrison, after a minute’s angry reflection. “We’ll lose the bounty, lads; but,” he continued, as if by a sudden thought, “we’ll have the prize; and gad! I’ll find a way to make that pay you better than if we had gone on.”

A burst of brutal merriment from the man was the answer to this sally, which, though partly enigmatical to Kate, had yet sufficient meaning to her to terrify her beyond description. For the words seemed to imply that the return of the ruffians would involve her in a more dreadful peril than even that which she had escaped.

The sentinels had remained quiet, watching the boat during this pause, because evidently expecting obedience to their summons. But when the refugees turned her head up the stream, and began vigorously propelling her in that direction, there was a general stir on shore, and several persons, hastily running to the bank, fired their muskets at the retreating boat. The balls came whistling by, and one even struck the gunwale not far from Kate. Simultaneously the field piece was trained after the fugitives, while a man ran to the nearest house as if for fire to discharge it.

“Pull, pull for your lives, my boys,” shouted Arrison, leaning forward and assisting the man who pulled the stroke oar. “If we once get round the point again, we are safe.”

Kate saw, from the velocity with which they moved, that this object would soon be gained. She feared also that the patriots had not seen her, and would probably not pursue the boat. With the quick decision and boldness of her character she rose suddenly from her seat, and screamed for help, making gestures of appeal to those on shore.

But, almost instantaneously, Arrison, who had seen her rise, struck her a violent blow, which felled her nearly senseless into the sternsheets. Here she lay, comparatively helpless for a while, stifling the moan which pain extracted from her.

Meantime, however, her scream had been heard on shore. The firing of the field piece was stopped. But, in its place, a boat, which lay near the bank, was instantly manned by several of the men, and a pursuit begun. The refugees had, indeed, a considerable start; but so energetically did the patriots row, that, before the former had got half a mile beyond the bend, the latter were seen rounding it gallantly in full chase.

The struggle soon became one of thrilling interest. The refugees had the lightest boat, but were fatigued with their day’s toil, and with their exertions at the oars in descending the river; while the patriots were entirely fresh. In a short while, consequently, it became apparent that the former were losing ground.

Arrison, at this, broke into a torrent of oaths, and urged his crew afresh.

“Pull, pull,” he cried; “do you want to taste cold hemp, you rascals?”

The stimulus of these words produced a perceptible influence on the speed of the boat. The refugees, stripped to their shirts, and with their chests and arms bared, toiled at the oars till the big drops of perspiration gathered like beads upon them. The stout ashen blades, with which they propelled their craft, bent until they seemed about to snap in two. The boat itself fairly leaped along, the water surging under her bows, or whirling in roaring eddies from the rudder.

“We hold our own now,” cried Arrison, swaying to the strokes of the oarsmen. “Pull, pull, and we’ll gain on them. There, we made something at the short bend. No,” he added, suddenly, his inflamed face reddening still more, “they cut across after us. Pull, pull, I say,” he shouted, “or we are taken.”

As he spoke, he glanced over his shoulder continually and in perceptible anxiety. The men knew that the chase was for life and death; and rallying all their strength, they struggled on.

Meantime the exertions of the other crew were not a whit behind those of the refugees. Their helmsman could be seen stimulating them by pointing to Kate; and continually one or more of them glanced over his shoulder to see how the chase went on. The water flashed and glittered in the fading sunlight, as it fell showered from the blades of their oars; while the cataract of foam that rolled under the bows of their craft, proved with what velocity they were driving her along.

“Give way, stronger and longer,” shouted Arrison, looking over his shoulders for the thirtieth time during the last half hour, “they gain again on us. Give way, or we are lost.”

They had just crossed from one side to another of the river, in order to take the shortest cut up the next reach, and Arrison had confidently expected to see their pursuers follow in his track. But the patriots, by selecting a somewhat different course, had apparently secured more of the current, for they were now rapidly coming up, lessening the distance between the two boats astonishingly.

The refugees, like hounds incited by a fresh blast of the hunter’s horn, sprang anew to their task; and for awhile their boat perceptibly increased her swiftness. But the pursuers, observing how much they had gained by their helmsman’s dexterity, cheered lustily, and stretched to their strong blades, like thorough-breds coming down the last quarter. Gaining steadily now at every stroke, they rapidly approached, huzza following huzza, in the confidence of approaching victory.

Much of this advantage was evidently owing to their helmsman, who, by still continuing his adroit manoeuvres, constantly cut off more or less of the distance, or availed himself of more powerful currents of the tide. He plainly knew the river even better than Arrison.

The countenance of the refugees had been darkening with sullen despair for some time, when at last Arrison’s lieutenant broke the silence, by addressing their leader.

“They gain on us, captain,” he said.

“Yes,” was Arrison’s curt reply.

“That fellow knows how to steer.”

“Yes! curse him.”

Nothing could exceed the intense bitterness with which this was pronounced.

“Couldn’t you manage to put a ball through him?” continued the lieutenant.

Arrison half started from his seat as if he had himself been shot.

“By the Lord,” he cried, a gleam of savage delight breaking over his face, “it’s the very thing. Why didn’t I think of it?”

He seized a loaded musket as he spoke, turned, took rapid but sure aim, and fired.

It was all done so quickly, that Kate, who had sprung up as soon as she comprehended the plan, in order to knock down the refugee’s gun, had not time to effect her purpose, before the report sounded heavily on the evening air.

“He’s hit,” cried Arrison, with a hurrah, not seeming to notice Kate, and leaving his lieutenant, who pulled the stroke oar, to drag her down again. “See, they stop.”

As he spoke, the crew of the pursuing boat ceased rowing, and the two nearest rushed aft, for the coxswain had fallen across the seat, as if dead. When they lifted him up he had every appearance of being lifeless.

For the first time, on that agitating day, Kate burst into tears. The hopes of rescue, but a moment before, had amounted almost to a certainty; but now it would be impossible, she knew, for the pursuers to overtake the refugees.

The patriots apparently had come to the same conclusion, for one of them suddenly took up a musket, as if their only hope was in disabling the refugees in turn; but just as he was about to fire, a companion knocked the gun down, pointing vehemently, as if at Kate.

“Oh! if they would but disregard me and fire,” she cried to herself.

But her agonized exclamation was in vain. After a few moments, apparently employed in eager consultation, the patriots turned the head of their boat down stream, and reluctantly gave up the chase.

All this time the refugees had been rapidly increasing the distance between them and their pursuers. But at this sight, they burst into a huzza.

“Now you can take it more easily, lads,” cried Arrison. “These fellows have had pepper enough for their supper.”

The men laughed at his coarse wit, and relaxing their exertions, rowed slowly up the river, wiping the perspiration from their heated brows; and in the general hilarity, Kate’s daring attempt at interference was either pardoned or forgotten.

Faint from physical exhaustion, from the blow she had received, and from the utter destruction of her lately awakened hopes, Kate lay, or rather reclined in the sternsheets, where she had been thrust down by the lieutenant. More than once, in her despair, she was tempted to throw herself overboard and seek refuge in death. Perhaps Arrison suspected her of such a purpose, for he kept his eye almost constantly on her, so that, even if she had made the attempt, he would have been able instantly to frustrate it.

The night now began to fall. Yet, for nearly an hour, the refugees continued to urge forward their boat. At last, landing on the southern bank of the river, they rudely bade Kate arise. Resistance was in vain. While Arrison proceeded to cut off the superfluous part of her riding-skirt, so that she might walk, one of the gang took her by either arm. In this way they led, or rather dragged her, over rough wood-paths, and by circuitous ways, deep into the forest.

After a journey that appeared to her to extend to hours, they reached a house, surrounded on all sides by swamps. A savage bloodhound came forth baying to welcome them, eyeing Kate curiously, and by no means in a friendly spirit.

“Down, sir, down,” said Arrison, addressing the dog: and entering the house he said to his prisoner, “we have but two rooms here. You will occupy that,” and he pointed to an inner one.

With these words, he pushed her unceremoniously in.

“Beyond the infinite and boundless reach
Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death,
Art thou damned.” —Shakespeare.

“I’ll lay a scene of blood,
Shall make this dwelling horrible to nature.” — Otway.

Our heroine was so completely prostrated by physical fatigue and mental excitement, that she sank into the first chair which presented itself, when the door closed; and covering her face with her hands, remained in a sort of stupor, till she was aroused by some person endeavoring to effect an entrance. Starting to her feet, she was only in time to see Arrison enter, bearing some food, which having deposited he was about to address her, when voices were heard calling him from without, on which he abruptly departed.

Those few minutes of rest had, however, partially refreshed Kate, and, alive now to her unprotected situation, she looked about her to see if there was any prospect of escape, and failing in this, if she could preserve her apartment from intrusion. Though she had eaten nothing since breakfast, the instinct of safety predominated over that of hunger, and therefore she left the coarse, and by no means tempting food, untasted for the present.

Her chamber was comparatively small, quite one half of it being taken up by the bed, which, to her surprise, was neatly arranged, as if female hands had been occupied about it. Opposite its foot, and where the light from the solitary window fell strongest, stood a dressing-table, made of common pine, but cushioned on top, and covered with spotless dimity, another proof that some person of her own sex, and one not without germs of refinement at least, occupied the apartment generally. This discovery cheered Kate’s spirits wonderfully. Her naturally sanguine character whispered to her that, with a woman by, she could not be foully wronged.

But this bright coloring to her thoughts was not destined to be of long duration. An examination of the room satisfied her that escape was impossible. There were no outlets but the window and the door, and while the former was secured without, the latter led, as we have seen, into the common apartment. There was but one consolatory feature, which was that the door opened inwards, so that by barricading it, ingress would be effectually prevented, except with considerable difficulty.

The refugees, meantime, appeared to be preparing for a debauch. They had called for something to eat, as soon as they arrived, and Kate now thought that she heard a woman’s step, moving about as if preparing a meal. She listened in vain, however, to detect a female voice amid the increasing din of jokes, laughter, snatches of coarse songs, and noisy conversation. The uproar, however, served her purpose, since in consequence of it, she was enabled to move the bedstead unheard, and barricade the door with that comparatively heavy article of furniture. After this, reflecting that she would need all her strength, she forced herself to partake of some of the food which had been brought by Arrison.

The clink of glasses, and the increasing boisterousness of the mirth, showed that the refugees, in the contiguous apartment, had now finished their meal and were beginning their debauch in earnest. It was impossible for Kate, in such close vicinity to the revellers, not to hear much that was said. Her attention was soon arrested by her own name being mentioned in connexion with that of her cousin: and listening with awakened curiosity, she gradually made out that she had been betrayed into the hands of her captors by Aylesford himself. She had not dreamed that such baseness and perfidy could exist in the world. With ashen lips she asked herself, “if this was the conduct of her own relative, who was a gentleman by birth and education, what had she to expect from a ruffian like Arrison?”

Breathless with interest she listened to what should come next. At last, after much had passed, but little of which, however, she could distinguish, in the uproar, though that little confirmed the connexion of Aylesford with the murderers, the conversation took a new turn, and now consisted principally of boasts of their exploits, on the part of the ruffians, alternated with jests at each other’s courage. The narratives of their several butcheries, though loathsome to Kate as a woman, were yet terribly fascinating to her as a prisoner in the unrestrained power of such villains. On their own showing her captors had nothing of human mercy left in their hearts. The gratification of all unbridled passions was the acknowledged object of their lives; and they appeared to have been collected together from all parts of the state, lured to this comparatively remote quarter, by the prospect of increased booty under the leadership of Arrison.

“You should have seen how Steve Ball prayed and begged for his life,” said one, with a mocking laugh, alluding to one of his exploits, “when we hung him at Bergen Point. He wouldn’t believe we were in earnest for a good while; for he had brought provisions to sell under a promise of a safe return, but when the time was up, and he saw the tree and cord, he bellowed like a bull. If we’d only give him an hour, he cried, or a half, or a quarter. Ha! ha! ‘twas better than a play. But we told him we’d no time to lose, and that if he wanted a parson, one of us was ready to serve him in that line. When we turned him off, I put a pistol into his hand, telling him it should never be said we sent him into the other world without arms.”

There was a roar of general laughter, at the end of which Arrison said, “why didn’t you tell him, that when he met the devil, he might cry to Old Nick to stand and deliver.”

“Be Jabers,” cried another, whose brogue betrayed his birth-place, “you’d have seen the rare sport, if you’d been with me, and some other of the boys, when we picked Major Dennis’ feathers for him, down here jist, by Manasquan river. The Major wasn’t at home, the more’s the pity, for we’d have strung him up in no time, and done the job nately too; but the old woman was, and though one cried out to let the rebel go, the rest of us determined that she should hang, bad cess to her. And we took her own dirty old bed cord, and tied her up by the neck to a cedar; och! you should have seen dancing there, as merry as at a fair!”

“But I’ve heard she got off after all,” interposed the lieutenant. “You were so busy filling your pockets you forgot her; the rope slipped, and she made off to the swamp with only a fright.”

“It’s the true word you say,” answered the narrator, not a whit abashed. “But now we’ll have the fun of hanging her agin, which couldn’t have been if she hadn’t got off.”

Another burst of laughter followed this. Then one of the company said,

“What’s become of Jack Stetson? as jolly a blade as ever lived. I thought, captain, I’d meet him here, sure. He went over to Maurice river with you, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” answered Arrison, “but he was in that affair with Riggins. If I’d been there it would have ended differently.”

“With Riggins? I haven’t heard of it.”

“Why, Jack and a lot of others, without my knowledge, made up their minds to attack a shallop belonging to a whig named Riggins. Now I’d have let Riggins alone, if he had let’ me alone in turn, for he’s as big as an ox and as strong. But Jack thought he’d frighten the whigs by making a bold dash, so he attempts to board the shallop, as she was going down the river. Gad! though all of Riggins’ men jumped overboard, or skulked into the cabin, except one man, the old pine-knot stood to it; fired twice, and then clubbing his gun, knocked our lads in the head as fast as they attempted to board. He settled poor Jack with one blow. They say too that he thinks more of having smashed his gun than of cracking so many skulls. Some of these days I’d like to draw a sight on him.”

“Well, if Jack is gone,” was the answer, “and here’s to him, I’m glad to say that Parson Caldwell, the canting scoundrel, went to the devil before him.” And he proceeded, amid shouts of approving laughter, to recapitulate a tragedy, with which the whole country was ringing, of which the Rev. James Caldwell, one of the best patriots, purest clergymen, and most upright men of his day, was the victim.

“He was always preachin’ agin the King, and agin us in particular,” said another. “He act’lly used his meetin’ house for a hospital. He oughter ha’ been shot when his wife was.”

“Gad,” said Arrison, his eye gleaming with tiger-like ferocity, “I’d liked to have been the fellow that finished her. She was as bad as him, if not worse. She was praying, wasn’t she?” he added, laughing sardonically. “Praying with her young whelp, Smith, when she was shot by one of your fellows through a window.”

“Yes,” replied the outlaw appealed to, “and arterwards we threw her body into the road, where it lay all day in the sun, before we’d allow ‘em to take it away. If a few more were sarved in the same fashion, it would be better for all of us, as well as for the King.”

“They ought to have their throats cut, the whole spawn of them, women and children too,” said another savagely, striking the table with his clenched fist. “There’ll never be peace till there is.”

“Nor booty for us,” cried another, with a laugh.

With a shudder of horror, Kate reflected that the men who applauded these atrocities, had her now in their power; and that to their natural ferocity the stimulus of intoxication was rapidly being added. Involuntarily she began to grope about the room, hoping to find a knife, or other weapon of defence. “But you haven’t told us,” said the lieutenant, after awhile, addressing Arrison, “what you’re going to do, to make up the plunder we were to get by taking this gal down the river. Will you put her to ransom?”

“Better than that,” was the answer. “I intend to marry her.”

“Marry her? But where’s the parson?”

“I’m parson enough.”

“Whew! that will be playing, high, low, Jack and the game. But you ought to double the pay,” he continued, “if we help you to such an heiress.”

“And such a devilish fine bit of woman flesh,” put in another. “What an ankle she has! If the captain hadn’t began the affair, I’d say we ought to toss up for her; and maybe we ought as it is.”

“Hold your tongue,” said Arrison, with a frown that knit his forbidding brows into dark, red knots. “She’s mine, and there’s an end of it. But I’ll come down handsomely, lads” he added, seeing signs of discontent. “I was a fool ever to think of carrying her off for Aylesford. In my country, many’s the rich heiress that’s married in this way by gentlemen; and gad! as I too was born a gentleman, I mean to do the same.”

“The captain’s a broth of a boy,” interrupted the Milesian. “I’ll help to do the thing nately, and play praist if he says it.”

“You’ll find her a restive filly, though,” laughed the lieutenant, brutally, “if she is often like she was in the boat.”

“I know a way to tame her,” was Arrison’s reply. “I’m used to breaking in her sex; and have bitted and spurred worse fillies than she is. She’ll be glad enough to marry me, before I’ve done with her.” And he burst into a roar of drunken derision, in which his hearers joined.

The reader can but faintly imagine the feelings of our heroine as she listened to this conversation. More than once she started to her feet in wild alarm, as the uproar occasionally deepened, thinking for the moment, that the imbruted wretch was about to force his way into her chamber.

“Oh, God!” she cried, clasping her hands and raising her eyes above, “is there no help?”

“It was a dread, yet spirit-stirring sight!
The billows foamed beneath a thousand oars.” —Scott.

“Though few the numbers—there’s the strife,
That neither spares, nor speaks for life.” —Byron.

The British advanced in the most gallant manner to the attack of Major Gordon’s position, each boat keeping its place as carefully in the line as soldiers on parade. In a few minutes the fleet turned the point of the river, and came dashing up to the landing, the water rolling under the bows and the oars keeping steady time. The sunshine, which now began to stream from the west, glanced from the muskets; was reflected from the bright buttons of the soldiers; and flashed back from the millions of drops showered from the ashen blades, till the river seemed alive with diamonds, sparkling as they fell.

Major Gordon, by this time, had arranged his men behind the half-finished breastwork, which, being within a short distance of the river, was intended to command the landing.

“Look to your priming carefully,” were his last words. “Let nobody fire till I give the word; then every other man. When I give command again, let those who have reserved, fire. Everything depends on steadiness. Remember Bunker Hill.”

He had scarcely finished passing along the line, repeating these orders, when the boats dashed up to the landing, their crews giving three cheers; and immediately the British, numbering several hundred, began to marshal themselves on dry ground, as coolly as if Major Gordon and his little force were a thousand miles away. Our hero saw that not a moment was to be lost. Springing upon the rampart, where he could be seen by all, he waved his sword and gave the command to fire.

Instantaneously a volley of musketry rattled on the air; a stream of fire ran down the line; and the rampart was covered with light blue smoke, which the breeze wafted slowly away. Other muskets followed in irregular succession, when the firing ceased.

At first the enemy had staggered: but the stern voice of the British commander, crying, “close up, close up,” they moved steadily forward, with fixed bayonets, giving a gallant cheer. This was the moment for which Major Gordon had reserved his second fire. He knew that if the enemy reached the rampart, there would be but little prospect of a successful defence.

Again, therefore, leaping up on the breastwork, he waived his sword and shouted to fire.

But no volley, as he had expected, answered his command. Only a few dropping shots were heard. His men, in the ardor common to raw troops, had been unable to retain their fire before, and being flurried by the novelty of their position had scarcely taken aim at all. Fifty good muskets, in fact, would have done more execution than the hundreds which had been discharged ineffectually, leaving scarcely a score serviceable now.

The British discovered immediately the advantage which they possessed. Their leader, springing in front, raised his blade, and pointing to the Americans, called on his men, in words distinctly heard behind the breastwork, to “drive the rebels to the woods.”

At the same instant a heavy launch, which, armed with a swivel, had pulled around on the flank of the fortification, began to open a galling fire on the defenders.

“Stand to your post,” shouted Major Gordon, observing that some of his men began to waver under this unexpected assault. “Load and fire as quick as you can. Beat them back with the butts of your muskets. Liberty or death!”

The stirring cry; the gallantry with which our hero exposed himself; and the firmness which a few exhibited, headed by Uncle Lawrence and Mullen, stayed the rout for awhile. The men hurriedly loaded and fired, each one for himself. But in the excitement of their novel position in presence of an enemy for the first time, they generally wasted their powder; and in fact it was no uncommon thing for many a gun to be discharged before the ball had been placed in it, while a few actually fired off their ramrods.

Major Gordon saw all this with feelings it is impossible to describe. As long, however, as there was the remotest prospect of success, he omitted no effort to repulse the foe. He rushed to and fro along the line, encouraging, ordering, and appealing; now snatching a musket from a hesitating defender and discharging it himself; and now heading a hand to hand struggle, at an opening in the defences, where the British were endeavoring to enter.

It was here that the crisis of the conflict took place. In less time than we have taken to describe it, the enemy had reached the foot of the ramparts, when the cry became general that all was over, and most of the militiamen sought safety in flight. Up to this point they had fought courageously, even if with comparative inefficiency, but when they saw the glittering bayonets, levelled in a serried line directly under them, they recoiled in dismay. Not once in a hundred times, indeed, can raw troops stand a bayonet charge. It is scarcely an imputation on those undisciplined defenders of the Neck, that, finding themselves without this weapon, they abandoned the breastwork, leaving the position to its fate.

Not such, however, was the conduct of Major Gordon and the few heroic followers, who, either attached to him personally or gifted with more than ordinary courage, rallied to the defence of the spot we have described. Here, for the space of nearly thirty feet, the ramparts were unfinished: and assailants and defenders consequently met on equal terms. At the near approach of the enemy, the Major had flown to this spot, aware of its weakness: and hither also had followed Uncle Lawrence, Mullen, Charley Newell, and about a score of others, equally indomitable in courage.

“Never give up the gate,” cried Major Gordon, manfully opposing himself to the glittering line of bayonets. “Stand fast about me. Liberty or death!”

“Liberty or death!” shouted Uncle Lawrence, swinging in the air his heavy musket, which he had taken by the muzzle, and placing himself at the side of our hero.

“Liberty or death!” echoed the brave Mullen, holding his loaded piece ready, with his finger on the trigger, and only waiting for a suitable foe to fire.

“Liberty or death!” repeated Charley Newell, as he pressed forward to the side of the latter; and “Liberty or death!” cried every man of that devoted band, rushing to this new Thermopylae.

It was a sight that might well make the bravest pause, that little company of heroes, thus declaring their readiness to make a rampart with their bodies. Foremost of all stood Major Gordon, conspicuous in his blue and buff uniform. His brow was knit; his eyes flashed; his mouth was rigid with indomitable resolution. The next most striking figure was that of Uncle Lawrence, who, having lost his hat in the melee, now stood with his bare locks streaming in the wind; while his eye blazed with all the fire of youth, and the usual wintry russet of his cheek was flushed to vivid crimson.

At the aspect of this little band, the serried line of bayonets came to a halt, and for a moment the two parties stood breathlessly regarding each other. The British, up to this crisis, confident of an easy victory, recoiled at the expression in the faces and attitudes of the patriots before them, as a party of hunters may be supposed to start back, when, having followed the lion’s cubs to their den, they suddenly hear the growl of the parent lioness, and discover her eyes gleaming at them from the entrance.

It was only for a moment, however, that they hesitated. An officer, who was but a few paces distant, rushed to the spot, exclaiming that the Americans were in full flight everywhere else, and that it needed only a bold push to carry the works.

“Forward, forward,” he cried, throwing himself into the very brunt of the conflict. “Come on, the day’s our own.”

But, at that instant, and before Major Gordon could measure swords with him, Mullen discharged his gun, and the chivalric officer tumbled headlong at the very feet of our hero. His example, however, had not been lost upon his men; and the sight of his fallen body stimulated them to madness. With a wild, angry cry, they dashed forwards, bearing everything before them for an instant.

“Break in on their line,” shouted Uncle Lawrence, as with a blow of his tremendous gun, he struck down the bayonet of the soldier opposed to him. “Liberty or death!” And with the words, he grasped his opponent in mortal struggle.

“Close in, close in,” cried Major Gordon, availing himself of the disorder caused by Uncle Lawrence’s blow, to grapple with a soldier likewise. “Liberty or death!”

In an instant all was confusion. Nearly everywhere the patriots succeeded in breaking the steel rampart before them, and in engaging hand to hand with the enemy, though it was often at the cost of the lives of those who attempted it. Foe soon became intermixed with friend. The cries of “Liberty or death” were mingled with those of “God save the King.” The shouts of the living rose to heaven simultaneously with the groans of the wounded and the expiring gasp of the dying. Such was the fury of the fight, that the combatants disappeared on either side like grass before the scythe. Yet Uncle Lawrence and our hero still remained unhurt, as if bearing charmed lives, and still led the terrible strife. Each had long since overcome his first antagonist, and was striking right and left in aid of others of the defenders unequally matched or overpowered by numbers. Wherever the former rushed, with his uplifted musket, it seemed as if a new Artimesius, with his flail, had come; for his opponents went down before him like oxen in the slaughterer’s stall. His voice was faint with shouting the war-cry of his little band, “Liberty or death!” but his arms appeared as nervous as ever, and his blows fell with crushing rapidity and force.

But the defenders were now reduced to a dozen men, and what could that number effect against hundreds? Already the British had cleared the works everywhere else, and now assailing Major Gordon and his party, in flank, rear and front at once, soon left no hope of retreat, if retreat had been even now the aim of our hero. But such was not his purpose. Unappalled by the overpowering odds, he continued battling stoutly, with Uncle Lawrence at his side, until a bayonet thrust pinned him to the earth, and the assailants rushed in over his body.

“Alas! poor country,
Almost afraid to know thyself.” —Shakespeare.

“But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.” —Southey.

The British, being thus masters of the field, proceeded to their work of destruction. Their wounded had first to be removed indeed, and their dead buried; but as there were few of the former and still fewer of the latter—the chief defence having been by Major Gordon’s band—little time was occupied in this duty.

The sun was still an hour high, therefore, when the first torch was applied to the store-houses and dwellings. Very soon the whole number were in flames, with all their valuable contents. The combustible character of the edifices, for they were built altogether of wood, and the inflammable materials collected within the warehouses, rendered the heat rapidly so intense that the troops were compelled to withdraw to some distance, where they stood for a while watching the scene of ruin, giving an occasional hurrah whenever a roof fell in. No other persons were in sight, except a few women who watched, afar off, from the edge of the wood, the destruction of their humble houses, and the total loss of their scanty, but hard-earned household goods.

There had been comparatively little breeze when the first torch was applied; but before long the wind was roaring around the burning edifices, in almost a gale. Swiftly the various store-houses succumbed to the conflagration. One, which had been overlooked when the others were fired, and to which no torch had been applied, resisted for some time the contagion, standing up black and weather-beaten in the centre of the burning circle, like some dark rock at sea amid the angry surges. The shingled roof could be seen smoking for a long while, though without any sign of fire within; but at last it flashed all at once into flames, as when a train is touched; and, quick as thought, the whole was in a blaze. Directly after, forked tongues of fire shot out from under the eaves, and though they were gone in a moment, they reappeared almost instantaneously. Next, the fire showed itself at the windows, and then between the clap-boards; until finally it burst out from the doorway, and curling upwards, covered the whole edifice to the very top.

The conflagration had now swept over nearly the entire settlement, sparing only a few dwellings, which either stood too far off to be reached by the fire, or were too inconsiderable to call down the vengeance of the invaders. Thick masses of pitchy-black smoke rose in puffs, and collecting overhead, afforded a canopy, impervious to the sunshine, against which the lurid reflection from below shone with a dull red glare. The leaves of the chestnuts, close by, were blackened and shrivelled up by the heat; and at one time it seemed as if the old trees would actually burst into a blaze. The spectacle had an almost human interest added to it, by a few tamed pigeons, who, having been harbored in the loft of the last store-house, were now seen flying wildly to and fro, refusing to leave the vicinity of their old home, circling around and around, crossing and re-crossing, until they dropped one by one into the conflagration. It was pitiful, amid the cheers of the British and the deep roar of the flames, to hear occasionally the flapping of their wings as they ventured near to a spectator, only however to fly immediately from their human enemy back to their burning homes.

To increase the terror of the scene, the dismantled ships, which had been fired soon after the warehouses, speedily began to irradiate the river. The flames mastered the vessels even more rapidly than they had the buildings. The fire, once fairly started, shot up the masts, till it soared above the round-top, licking up whatever bits of rigging had been left, and rising, like the pointed spire of a Gothic cathedral, needle-like into the sky. A thousand tongues of fire, hissing and flashing, came and went; and then, darting into light, again hissed and flashed once more for a moment or two, in as many different points; after which an unbroken sheet of flame wrapped the entire vessels above the bulwarks from sight. Continually bits of fire, whirling off from one ship, alighted on another; while millions of sparks rose in showers and floated to leeward, in startling relief against the deep sable canopy, which now covered the sky above both sea and land. Up the river, at a cable’s length from the burning fleet, the smoke had settled down upon the stream like a fog, obscuring the sun, and rendering the outlines of sky and water undistinguishable. Occasionally fragments of wood, swept away by the tide, were seen drifting into the gloom, like meteors of unknown and terrible aspect floating through the darkness of space.

By nightfall most of the warehouses were reduced to heaps of smouldering ruins, glowing all over with fiery chinks as lava when it is half cooled. Every few moments, however, one of these heaps would belch upward a huge column of bituminous-looking smoke, after which flames would leap out at the spot and the conflagration renew itself there for a while. The air was heavy, almost choking, and impregnated with a pungent, stifling odour indescribable.

The hulls of the vessels, however, continued to burn brightly, though the masts and rigging, where such had been left standing, had long since disappeared in charred fragments that strewed the decks or dropped sullenly into the stream. The wind, no longer nourished by the powerful conflagration, which compels currents of air to its centre as into the mouth of a furnace, had now almost entirely died away. What little was left, drew up the stream; and in that direction, as we have seen, the smoke lay packed close on the water, and reaching across the river, excluded from sight both shores towards the west. But the northern bank, opposite the Neck, was still dimly visible through the twilight; while, down the river, the prospect was comparatively clear. It had a strange and weird effect to see the stars, that shone so clear and lustrous on the eastern horizon, grow dim and ghostly through the smoke overhead, and then gradually vanish in the west, devoured by the pitchy darkness that lay in wait there like a second chaos.

The British, though they had accomplished their purpose, showed no disposition however to retire. The few Americans, who hovered in the neighboring woods, and stole occasionally to the edge of the fields to make observations, noticed that picquets were posted as if it was the intention to remain for the night. The two or three houses, which had been spared in the otherwise general conflagration, were hastily prepared for the accommodation of the principal royal officers; the cattle which had been brought in for the use of the Americans, and had become part of the spoils of victory, were slaughtered for the conquerors; and a succession of camp fires, lighted to cook the food of the soldiers, soon twinkled, like a continuous chain of beacons, along the whole extent of the British line. As the evening wore on, sounds of merriment rose from the encampment, and floated dimly to the woods where the ejected women and children cowered in darkness and terror. Snatches of lewd songs; ballads coarsely ridiculing the Americans; oaths of blasphemous exultation over their fallen foes; shouts of drunken laughter; boasts of how many rebels had been killed that day; all these, and other noises as horrible, were wafted to the ears of the weeping mothers, who clasped their houseless babes as they crouched on the cold earth. Or the ribald songs and rejoicings were heard, with half smothered oaths, by the fathers who were forced to look on all this, yet were impotent to redress it.

Towards midnight, however, the reveling in the British bivouac ceased. The camp-fires died down; the songs were hushed; the merriment gave way to sleep; and the low hum, which by day always attends any large body of men, was distinguishable no longer. The royal force lay in profound repose. The conflagration had exhausted itself long before, even among the shipping, only a few skeleton-like hulls burning redly, here and there, through the now ashen-gray smoke. A deep silence brooded over the scene, broken only by the breeze soughing gently through the trees, the tide lapping against the shore as it came lazily in, or the wail of a solitary whip-poor-will, which, slowly sailing in the obscure distance, seemed to be the spirit of some slaughtered patriot come back to bewail his ravaged life, the dishonor to his country’s flag, and the fresh perils which the morrow would probably bring forth.

But, notwithstanding this stillness, it was evident that the British slept on their arms, and that, at the slightest intimation of an attack, they would be up in a moment and ready for the foe. The dark forms of the sentries could be seen constantly going the rounds, and the warning cry of “all’s well” periodically passed around the bivouac.