“Captain Woodburn!” exclaimed the clear, animated voice of one coming out of the door of the honored tavern before described, in the village of Manchester, as the person thus addressed, who had just arrived with those escorting the prisoners, was describing the capture to a crowd gathered round him in the yard—“Captain Woodburn, your most obedient! I am glad my patience in waiting for your arrival is rewarded by the good news which Powell, our landlord here, has just told us you bring. But come, sir, a word in your ear, if you please.”
Woodburn turned and confronted the bright and smiling countenance of Ira Allen, who was beckoning him from the crowd.
“Certainly, Mr. Allen; but why honor me with that appellation?” responded the former, stepping aside with the ardent young secretary.
“Because I have the warrant for so doing in my pocket—a captain's commission for you, my dear sir, if you will believe me.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, we have done something in the council at last worth talking about—voted to raise a regiment of Rangers forthwith, and appointed all the commissioned officers, Samuel Herrick heading the list as colonel.”
“A gallant fellow, who will honor the post. But how about the means of paying and supporting such a force? You lately held taxing the people, without their consent, too bold a measure, I thought.”
“We did, but have nevertheless adopted a bolder one.”
“What is it?”
“Decreed the confiscation of the estates of the tories, appointed the necessary officers to execute the decree, and despatched messengers to them with commissions, instructions, and with orders to put the machine immediately into motion. By to-morrow nigh many of those on our black list will—”
“Your black list?”
“Yes, already mostly made out for operations. But what is there to startle you in that?”
“Nothing; and yet I cannot forbear asking if that list includes one in whose family you may guess I feel some interest.”
“I fear so, and regret that the proofs are so strong as to require it.”
“Could not action in that case be deferred? An angel is pleading with him to remain neutral.”
“If she were a whig angel, Woodburn, I know not——”
“She is, she is—firmly, devotedly.”
“Indeed! Well, for your sake, Woodburn, I am glad of it. And as the political hue of petticoats has already been permitted to have an influence, in some instances of the kind, in making up the list, it may have in this case. But the old man's enmity to our cause is so notorious, that I fear his estate must go, though the daughter, if she prove true, will not be forgotten on the question of a future restoration of her share of the property. But I am neglecting my chief business with you. We have fixed your present destination for the other side of the mountain, where among your old acquaintances, it was thought, you could raise a company most expeditiously.”
“But where is the money to come from to pay my recruits: Even in case these estates are sold, who among us, these times, has money to purchase them?”
“The answer to that question involves a secret which is known to but a few of us, and which must not be further revealed. Suffice it that there is yet among us abundance of money, besides the British gold that is beginning to be scattered along our border to meet our present requirements. You will be supplied in season.”
“I am content, and ready to depart.”
“How soon can you start?”
“This hour, if necessary.”
“Retire, then, and obtain a few hours' sleep; but be off before day. Here are your commission and instructions, by which you will see that your subalterns are to be of your own appointing. Good-night, and God speed you on your way. Remember that we expect much of you, and that I stand voucher for your good conduct. And remember, also, my dear fellow,” added the speaker, in a low, confidential tone, “that the interests of your fair friend could not be in better keeping.”
“You have laid me under deep obligations to you, Mr. Allen for all this,” began Woodburn, with grateful emotion.
“Yes, to do well; but not a word of thanks will I hear. So off with you to your rest. Begone, sir!” said Allen, pushing the other away, with that winning smile and kindly playful manner, with which he ever so wonderfully contrived to gain the hearts and control the actions of all whom he wished to make friends.
CHAPTER IV.
With all its subtle art;
And gold and rank are not the things
To satisfy the heart.”
The day following the occurrences noted in the preceding chapter was an eventful one to the Haviland family, developing circumstances calculated to hasten the crisis to which the conflicting feelings and conduct of the father and daughter had been for some time silently tending, and to give a new turn to their respective destinies.
It was late in the afternoon. No event had thus far during the day occurred to mar the usual tranquillity of the family; and Haviland, yet uninformed of the untoward affair which befell his party the last evening at Manchester, and little dreaming of the bold and decisive measures adopted by the Council of Safety, was seated at a table in his usual sitting-room, examining, with a satisfied and triumphant air, a map of New York, on which he was tracing out the intended route of the British army in its hitherto victorious way from the St. Lawrence to Albany. At length he began to muse aloud, partly to himself, apparently, and partly to his daughter, who, with a pensive brow, was seated at an open window in the same room, quietly engaged with her needle-work.
“As soon as General Burgoyne can clear the road of the trees and other obstructions, with which the rebels, in their impotent spite, have filled it, so that he can move on to the Hudson, how that grand army will sweep away the feeble and undisciplined bands that may venture to oppose its victorious march! And when a junction of the British armies is formed at Albany, what can this infatuated people think of doing then? With the north completely cut off from the south, as will then be the case, what can these two sections, which together can hardly raise a respectable force, do, when thus divided and prevented from all concert and cooperation? Ay, what will they do then? Come, Sabrey,” he added, turning with an exulting air to his daughter, “perhaps you, who appear to have so high an opinion of rebel prowess—perhaps you can answer the question?”
“I may be better prepared to answer the question, perhaps when I see the junction you anticipate really effected. Burgoyne has not reached Albany yet,” replied the other, with playful significance.
“Be sure not; but what is to prevent him? What force can the rebels oppose that he will not scatter like chaff before the wind? None! I tell you, girl, their doom is sealed!”
“It might be, if they would consent to let you fight their battles for them, father. But the battle which they are preparing to give Burgoyne they will choose to fight themselves, I imagine. A few Bunker Hill lessons, on his way, might materially alter the general's prospects.”
“Bunker Hill? Pooh! Why, we routed them even there behind their breastworks. Besides, we never had so fine an army as this in the field before. I only wish I was as sure of some good commission in Burgoyne's army, as I am that he will march triumphantly through to Albany, and thus bring this unnatural war to a close.”
“Would you think of going into that army, father, should you receive such an appointment?” asked the daughter, in a tone of surprise and expostulation.
“Why, I should be proud to be there, Sabrey, in an army that contains so much of the first talents and chivalry of England.”
At this stage of the conversation, a man rode up to the door, and, dismounting and entering the house, handed to Mr. Haviland, after inquiring his name, a gorgeously-sealed packet.
Haviland, after examining the seal a moment, bowed low to the stranger, and inquiringly observed,—
“From General Burgoyne, I believe?”
The messenger, nodding in the affirmative, and saying he was directed to wait for an answer, the former broke open the missive, and found in it, by singular coincidence, an answer to the prayer he had a few moments before indirectly uttered a commission, or appointment in the commissary department of the British army. After perusing the paper a second time, he turned, and, with a consequential air, handed it to his daughter, whose countenance instantly fell AS she glanced over the suspected contents.
“You cannot seriously think of accepting this appointment father,” she said, with a look of concern; “you cannot think of leaving your quiet and comfortable home, and engaging, at your age, in the fatigues and dangers of the camp?”
“Why not, Sabrey?” replied the other, reprovingly. “From my knowledge of the country, I can be of great use in procuring the supplies which the army will need, as the general doubtless foresaw; and I consider it my duty to the king to lend my feeble aid when called. The post is not, it is true, a very high one; but it is honorable and lucrative, and I shall accept it.”
'If this is Miss Sabrey Haviland, I have a letter for her also,' here interposed the messenger, rising and presenting the letter in question.
Sabrey broke open the proffered letter, which proved to be from her friend Miss McRea, and ran thus:—
“You remember your promise, Sabrey, to visit me the first opportunity. That opportunity now occurs. Captain Jones and other friends have presented your father's name at head-quarters for promotion; and he has now, I am informed, received an appointment. If he accepts, as I am sure he will, I hope you will accompany him, and remain with me. I have just received one of those letters so precious to me: he says the army will probably move on to Fort Edward next week, the obstructions in the road being mostly removed; so that, by the time you arrive, I shall probably be enabled to introduce you to the beautiful and accomplished ladies of whom he has so much to say,—such as the Countess of Reidesel, Lady Harriet Ackland, and others, who accompany their husbands in the campaign. But you will perhaps say that he is interested in praising these ladies for the love and heroism which prompt them to brave such fatigues and dangers for the sake of their lords, since he is warmly urging me to consent to an immediate union, that I may follow their example. He says, in his last letter,—and I think truly,—that I cannot long remain where I am, in a section which he evidently anticipates, will soon become a frightful scene of strife and bloodshed; and that I must therefore go away with my friends, and leave him, perhaps forever, or put myself under his protection in the army. And he seems hurt that I hesitate in a choice of the alternatives. On the other hand, my connections and friends here think it would be little short of madness in me to yield to my lover's proposal. The people about here are greatly alarmed at the expected approach of the British army, which is known to be accompanied by a large body of Indians, Many are already removing and nearly all preparing to go The crisis hastens, and yet I am undecided. Prudence points one way, love the other. What shall I do? O Sabrey what shall I do? Should you come on with your father, I think I should feel a confidence in going with you to the British encampment. Come then, my friend, come quickly, for I feel as if I could not go on without friends, and especially a female friend, to accompany me; while, at the same time, I feel as if some irresistible destiny would compel me to the attempt. And yet why would I hesitate to take any step which he advises? Why refuse to share with him any dangers which he may encounter? And why should my anticipations of the future, which have never, till recently, during my happy intimacy with Mr. Joes, been so bright and blissful, be clouded now? I know not; I know not why it should be so; but lately my bosom has become disturbed by strange misgivings, and my mind perplexed by dark and undefined apprehensions. I must not, however, indulge them; and your presence, I know, would entirely dissipate them. I repeat, therefore, come, and that quickly. Adieu.
JANE McREA.”
The messenger in waiting, having been invited into another room to partake of some refreshment, and the father and daughter being thus left again by themselves, the latter now handed the other for his perusal the affectionate but too truly boding letter of her fated friend.
“And what answer do you intend to return to this kind and pressing invitation of your friend, Sabrey?” asked Haviland, after attentively reading the epistle.
“That I do not think it advisable to accept it, at this time, father,” answered the girl.
“Why not advisable?” asked the other, in a censorious tone. “I see nothing to object to in the step, going, as you will, under the protection of a father; while it will introduce you to a circle which few American girls can ever reach.”
“I feel quite willing to forego the honor of such an introduction,” coolly returned the daughter. “And were it otherwise, the very letter that brings me the invitations unfolds enough to deter me from the undertaking.”
“You wholly mistake your friend's meaning,” responded the former. “Her apprehensions are merely the natural effect of maiden timidity. I think, as her lover seems to do, that the safest place for her is with the British army. So I think it will be for you; for I know not what punishment will be inflicted on these settlements for their rebellious and treasonable conduct And it is my wish to separate myself and family from them, before the day of reckoning arrives. I shall, therefore, expect you to attend me.”
As the daughter was about to reply a domestic came in and announced the arrival of Colonel Peters; and the latter, the next moment, with a dark and sullen brow, unceremoniously entered the apartment. He did not, however, deign immediately to unfold the cause of his evident ill-humor, but contented himself with listening to the news, which the elated Haviland was prompt to impart in relation to his own promotion, the invitation received by his daughter to accompany him to the army or its vicinity, and his thus far rejected advice to her to accede to the proposal. The cold countenance of Peters brightened with selfish delight at the recital; for in the old gentleman's appointment, his determination to accept it, and his intention of taking his daughter with him, if she could be so persuaded, the former saw the triumph of his machinations to involve the family inextricably in the royal cause. But that triumph would not be complete, unless the daughter, whose predilections for Woodburn and the American cause were more than suspected, could be kept within the scope of loyal influence. He therefore secretly resolved that, if her father left the settlement to join the army, she should not be left behind, but should be induced or compelled to accompany him. He consequently was not slow to add his advice and entreaties to those of the father. This he did for a while with some show of respect and kindness; but finding her still immovable, he at length became irritated, and assumed a tone of dictation so inconsistent with the natural delicacy of a lover, that she declined any further conversation with him on the subject.
“Where will you go, perverse and blinded girl?” now interposed the father, reproachfully. “You would not stay here alone and unprotected, would you?”
“I should not hesitate to do so on account of any molestation which American troops would offer me,” replied Sabrey, with a significant emphasis on the word American. “And should others approach, I would go to my connections on the other side of the mountains.”
“Miss Haviland may have her private reasons for wishing to remain in this section of the country,” said Peters, with an ill-suppressed sneer, turning to the father.
“Will you please explain your meaning, sir?” demanded the girl with spirit.
“I mean,” replied Peters, “that she who would hold clandestine meetings with one whom her father has seen fit to eject from his house, might see the advantage of remaining where her interviews could be enjoyed without molestation.”
“Sabrey Haviland, is that true?” asked the old gentleman with a gathering frown.
“She will hardly deny, I think,” said Peters, “that the fellow was here soon after I left last night. At all events, he was seen to leave the premises in pursuit of me. By whom he was informed of the direction I took, I know not; but I know he overtook me, beset me like a ruffian, and shot my horse by a ball intended for the rider.”
“Is all that true, I repeat?” again fiercely demanded Haviland of his daughter, in a burst of rage.
But without deigning one word of reply either to the insulting insinuations of Peters, or the angry and ill-timed demand of her father, Sabrey, with cheeks glowing with offended delicacy and just indignation, rose from her seat, and was about to leave the apartment, when her step was arrested by the altered voice of her father, who, quickly becoming sensible of the harshness of his conduct from its visible effects, now spoke to her in a softened and more expostulatory tone.
“Surely, Sabrey, you are not going to deny my right, as a parent, to question you, or at least ask you for an explanation respecting charges which have the appearance of involving your character?”
“I might not,” said she, coolly, but respectfully; “and indeed, I should not, at another time, have refused to answer your question so far as I could, however harshly it was put to me; but I must still decline to do so in this presence!” she added, glancing towards the abashed Peters, with an air of scorn to which her usually serene and benignant countenance never before, perhaps, gave expression.
“Perhaps, Miss Haviland,” said Peters, stung by the remark and manner of the other, and now rallying for the revenge to which such minds are prone to resort—“perhaps Miss Haviland, on a little more reflection, may be willing to acknowledge that I, also, am not wholly without a right to ask for an explanation in an affair which she seems to admit requires one.”
“I am not aware, sir,” promptly responded the maiden, so much aroused by the cool arrogance of the other, as to forget her determination to hold no more conversation with him—“I am not aware, sir, of having admitted any necessity of an explanation And had I done so, I should be very far from acknowledging your right to require it of me.”
“It is possible,” rejoined the former in the same strain—“it is possible Miss Haviland may be willing to qualify her last remark a little, when she is reminded of the existence of a certain marriage contract, to which she voluntarily became a party.”
“I need no prompting to make me mindful of that evidence of my youthful indiscretion, sir,” responded Miss Haviland; “nor should I be likely to forget the particular provisions of an instrument, the thought of which has cost me, as my entreaties to be released from it should have apprised you, so many painful regrets. But, while mindful of all this, I have yet to be informed of the provision which, till the contract is consummated, gives you any control over my actions, or right to require me to account for or explain them.”
“If the instrument, which I have somewhere about me, I believe,” replied the other, with his usual cold indifference, as he took the document from his pocket, and began, with a businesslike air, to glance over the contents—“if the instrument does not express, or rather if it is not admitted to presuppose and give me, any of the rights I have named till it is consummated, then it is time that I should insist on its consummation, which, as few others would have done, I have so long forborne to urge.”
“I perfectly agree with Colonel Peters,” interposed Mr. Haviland, catching at the last suggestion in his growing alarm for the success of his favorite scheme, which the unexpected state of feeling here displayed taught him might be endangered, if not speedily consummated. “I perfectly agree with him, that this business has already been sufficiently delayed; and I think, as the family is now about to break up, that the final ceremony had better be performed before we go, or, at the farthest, when we reach the army, where, as Sabrey would perhaps prefer, it might take place at the same time as that of her friend, who is similarly situated.”
“You forget,” said the maiden, now freshly aroused at this combined attempt to make her forego her last remaining privilege in the abhorrent negotiation—“you both forget that the very instrument, by which you claim to dispose of my hand, expressly leaves to me, and to me only, the right and privilege of deciding upon the time for that ceremony, by which you would now, it seems, so summarily consummate your unmanly scheme. And thank Heaven!” she continued, turning to the nonplused suitor with an air of decision and fearlessness which the excitement of insulted feeling could only have given her—“thank Heaven, I had the forethought to insist on a privilege now so precious to me; for let me assure you, sir, that distant will be the day when I shall fix on a time for consummating a contract, wrung from girlish inexperience, to gratify selfish ambition or mistaken views in the first place, and now claimed to hold me like a sold article of merchandise, for the use and control of one whose feelings, principles, and whole character are every way uncongenial with my own.”
“What!—how!” exclaimed the irritated and evidently astonished Haviland, who, in his obtuseness, even now, could not perceive what objection his daughter could have to a match esteemed by him so advantageous. “What can this mean? Why, the girl must be demented! You to decide on the time! Why, reasonable time is all that was meant by that, if it is not so expressed!”
“That is all; nothing more,” eagerly chimed in Peters.
“If a part of the instrument is to be construed differently from what is expressed, and as you choose, why not other parts, and as I choose?” calmly asked the unmoved girl. “If so, then its power to bind me shall cease with this hour.”
“What folly!” again exclaimed the old gentleman, balked and chafing worse than before. “Why, don't the infatuated girl know that, to say nothing about losing prospects which no other young lady in the country would reject—that by marrying any other man, she will forfeit her birthright in my estate, and make herself, as she will deserve to be, a beggar?”
“I have no thought of marrying any other man while in my present embarrassing position,” quickly retorted the former, with an offended air. “But should I wish to do so, I should hardly be deterred from it by either of the considerations you have just named, I think. And, indeed, if the mercenary and ambitious motives, which you would have actuate me, were alone to be my guide in such a step, I could see but little temptation for the sacrifice in the honors and wealth which are so much to depend on a triumph that, for all your boasts, I believe will never be accomplished; while the failure, if the same justice is meted out to you which you seem to be meditating for others, will leave you with a branded name, and no estate here to give or withhold.”
“Silence! audacious girl,” exclaimed the baffled loyalist, unable longer to endure the calm but scorching rebuke involved in the reply of his daughter. “I will listen to no more of your railings. This comes of being allowed to mingle with an ignorant, rebellious populace. But that evil shall, at least, be remedied. You will attend me to the army, where, I trust, your eyes may soon be opened to your folly.”
“You may perhaps compel me to go, sir,” responded the still unawed maiden; “but if you do so, let me warn you against all hope of thereby rendering my feelings less repugnant to the scheme we have been discussing, or of changing my views of the cause in which you are about to embark; for I will now openly declare, what I have often before left you to infer, that I have no sympathies for those who come to oppress and enslave my country; nor will I ever aid or sanction their ignoble purposes—not even to the withholding any intelligence I may gain of their movements, which may avert disaster or peril from our struggling people.”
“Hurrah for the tory's daughter!” now burst on the ears of the astonished group, from a band of armed men standing immediately beneath the open but thickly vine-clad windows without, whither, it seemed, they had approached unperceived, and thus become unintentional listeners to the last part of the foregoing dialogue, which they were still hesitating to break in upon, when their admiration of the heroic girl's declarations led to the irrepressible burst of applause just mentioned—“Hurrah for the tory's daughter! She shall be remembered for that!”
The party within instantly rose to their feet at so strange and unexpected a salutation. Peters, aware, from the experience of the last night, that his capture was sought, was the first, as might be expected, to take the alarm. With a hasty step towards the window, and an equally hasty glance through the screening foliage at the new-comers, he hurriedly retreated through a door leading to the rear of the house. Haviland, scarcely less alarmed, though having no conception of the main object of the visit, advanced, with evident perturbation, to the front door, when he was met at the threshold by the secretary of the Council of Safety, who, bowing politely, proceeded to apologize for the noisy outbreak of his attendants, which, contrary to his wishes, he said, had been made to announce his arrival.
“Attendants, sir?” exclaimed Haviland, casting a flurried glance at the file of soldiers in the yard—“attendants—armed men led up here to my door? Who are they? What is then business, and yours, sir? This affair needs explanation, sir.”
“Well, sir, if so, I am here to give it,” composedly replied Allen. “But, as you appear somewhat agitated, let us walk in and talk over the matter calmly.”
Mechanically complying with the suggestion, Haviland turned and led the way into the room, where his daughter still stood, mutely awaiting the development; when the secretary, after bowing with marked respect to Miss Haviland, with whom, it appeared, he was slightly acquainted, resumed,—
“The Council of Safety, sir, having determined on defending the state to the last extremity, in the present crisis, have perceived, with deep regret, that there are those in our midst who hesitate not either to take up arms against their countrymen, or, what is no better, secretly to aid the enemy, and harbor and conceal in their houses hostile emissaries, trying to seduce our people. And not perceiving the policy or justice of longer permitting their cause thus to be endangered, the council have decided on a measure for promptly remedying the evil—a measure which they had less hesitation in adopting, as they believed, from the repeated threats of the loyalists, they would only be anticipating their opponents by inflicting penalties, that, in case of the conquest of this country, will be visited on themselves. They have passed a solemn decree, sir, to confiscate, for the public use, all the estates of both of the classes of loyalists I have named, among one of which, at least, they have abundant proof, I regret to say, to warrant them in classing Esquire Haviland. And they direct me to permit him to take one of the horses, lately his own, and depart, with the least possible delay, for the British camp, where, they think, he more properly belongs.”
The arrogant loyalist, who had hitherto looked upon the Council of Safety with utter contempt for either their powers or their efficiency, was now perfectly thunderstruck at the announcement of so bold and unexpected a measure; and, for some moments, his mouth seemed wholly sealed against any remonstrance to a step which, not for public good, but for his own aggrandizement, he was conscious of intending to recommend to the British government in relation to the estates of the leading rebels, and especially those of the treasonable body by whom, as had just been so truthfully told him, his selfish designs had now been anticipated. Soon rallying, however, he wrathfully muttered,—
“They dare not do it; their audacity will not carry them to that length. But if they do,” he continued, with louder and more menacing tones—“if they do attempt to carry out their plundering purposes, I will bring down upon them, within eight and forty hours, a British force that will give them enough to do to take care of themselves and their own property, without meddling with that of others.”
“That is what we supposed you would be glad to do, in any case,” quietly responded Allen. “It but swells the proof against you, and goes to confirm the justice of the decree.”
“O, do not say any more, father,” interposed Miss Haviland, with much feeling. “Do not, I beg of you, further and more inextricably involve yourself. You know how gladly I would have saved you from this; how often warned you of the consequences of persisting in your course. Perhaps it is not too late to retract, even now. Who knows but the council, who have done this but from a sense of duty to their country, and with no ill will against you personally, may yet be induced, if you will send in a pledge of neutrality, to reverse their sentence as regards you, and still leave you in possession of your property and a quiet home? I myself, feeble girl as I am, would go before them to intercede for you; and perhaps this gentleman would assist me,” she added, with an appealing glance to Allen.
“Most gladly,” replied the latter, touched at the magnanimity of the girl, in her distress—“most gladly, and with great hope of success.”
“Do you hear that, father?” said the other, eagerly; “do you hear what I feel—I know—may yet be done for you? Then do not reject my petition, but retract, and give up your intention of joining these invaders of your country.”
“No,” replied the old gentleman, after a moment of apparent wavering—“no, never! Let the plunderers take possession of my estate here for the short time they will be enabled to hold it, if they will. To-morrow morning I start for the British camp.”
“It is as I feared,” observed Allen, turning to the daughter; “but your efforts to rescue your father, Miss Haviland, and the noble stand you have taken on this occasion and before, are, let me assure you, appreciated by myself, and will not fail to be so by those of more controlling influence. And although this property will, in a few days, be sold by those duly appointed, and now here to guard and dispose of it, yet the government, which has the power to confiscate, will have the power to restore; and I have no fears that your own interests will eventually be made to suffer by a measure which may now appear as harsh to you as it appeared necessary to the upright and patriotic men who felt themselves constrained to adopt it. In this you may trust, I think, as regards the future. As for the present, I am only empowered to offer you an asylum in some friendly family of the neighborhood, with ample means of support, or, if you prefer, a safe conveyance, with a female attendant, should you desire it, to any family in a more distant part of the state.”
“My daughter will probably go with me, sir,” said Haviland, resentfully.
“No, father,” said the girl, firmly; “that army is no proper place for a young lady and especially one of my views. I shall for the present, go into the family of our neighbor Risdon; but in a few days, I will gratefully accept of Mr. Allen's offer of a conveyance, and, as I proposed to you a short time ago, go to my connections on the other side of the mountains.”
“Your wishes will be attended to in this or any other respect as soon as you shall please to signify them, Miss Haviland,” said the secretary, as, bowing a respectful adieu, he now departed with part of his armed attendants, for other and similar visits which remained to be accomplished that night among the unsuspecting tories of that vicinity.
Within an hour or two after the departure of Allen, or as soon as the growing darkness would enable a skulker to approach unseen, a man, who was of the latter description evidently, might have been discovered slowly and cautiously making a circuit round the house, but at so respectable distance from it as to escape the observation of the guard now stationed at three or four commanding points about the premises. When he had reached a point nearly opposite to the back door, he ventured up to the border of the intervening garden, and gave a low, significant whistle. After a momentary silence, a slight rustling was heard in a thick patch of corn occupying a portion of the garden, and Peters, who, it will be recollected, passed out in this direction, and who, perceiving his retreat cut off by men already posted in the fields, had here lain concealed till now, cautiously emerged from his covert, and came forward to the spot where the other stood awaiting his approach.
“Well, Redding,” said Peters, in a low voice, as he came up “when I asked you this morning to come here to Haviland's to-night to see me, before I went to the army, I didn't exactly expect you would have to call me out of a corn patch to receive my orders. But how came you to know or suspect I was here? You have not ventured in there, I take it?” he added, leading the way into the field, which the guard had now left.
“No,” replied the other; “I caught a glimpse of the fellows in the yard as I came in sight, and, mistrusting what was to pay from what I had just heard of their movements this forenoon in Manchester, and other towns thereabouts I struck off across the pasture, where I luckily encountered the old squire, who walked out there, after the leader of the gang had left, and who told me of your concealment, and all.”
“Yes, he came to the back door, here, the first chance he could get, to see if I had escaped, when, contriving to apprise him where I was, I had got a moment's talk with him just before. But what have you heard about their movements in other places to-day?”
“Why, I met Asa Rose going post-haste to warn our friends in this direction to be on their guard. He says they have seized on the estates of all the Rose family, and every other leading loyalist, as far as they could hear, in all that section; and, in several instances, put the owners themselves under guard. What do you say to all that, colonel?”
“Glad of it. Though an act of lawlessness and audacity which I did not once dream of their attempting, and which, even now, they will not dare to carry out, should they have time to do so before their brief career is arrested, yet I am glad the rebel fools have done it; for, between you and me, Redding, I have had my doubts whether the British government, which is ever too merciful, would take their estates from them, when we come to subdue them, as you know we have talked; but now vengeance will be swift and certain. Their estates will all be seized and given to the deserving.”
“Ay, that's it!” exclaimed the perfidious minion, with a chuckle of satisfaction; “it will give us our revenge, and at the same time supply us with the needful. I have a good many scores to settle with the people about here; and I know of the farm of a certain rebel that I shall ask for my share, as I think I justly may, seeing how active I've been this summer.
“Yes, yes,” replied Peters, rather impatiently; “but there must be no more wavering and turning with you. What you ask you must earn, remember.”
“You see if I don't! only name what you would have me do, colonel!” eagerly responded the other.
“Well, I will now,” said the former, coming to a halt. “Yes, as we are, by this time, fairly out of reach and hearing of these foiled rebels, who have so kindly yielded me a pass through this side of their watch, thinking, doubtless, that I could not have been in the house when they surrounded it, but should be there this evening—yes, I will give you my orders now, which will embrace a fresh item or two above what I intended before some of the occurrences of this afternoon. Well, in the first place, you are to proceed to Castleton, and join the northern company there collected and ready for operations at the Remington rendezvous, You will then become the guide and assistant of the leader of that force, which is to move on to some secret and safe place, to be selected by you (as you know the localities, and the leader don't) in the woods near the Twenty Mile Encampment, where, acting is the advanced corps of our planned expedition to the Connecticut by that route, they will remain concealed as much as possible, till further orders, watching all movements of the rebels, and drawing in every trusty loyalist that can be approached. And mark me, Redding, while there, or elsewhere, remember, that accursed Woodburn is a doomed man, and is to be taken, if found, and kept for my disposal. And I have another order, which must be left still more to your especial management. Haviland's daughter, with whom you know, I suppose, how I am situated, has got some dangerous notions into her head, and, refusing to hear to her father, who wishes her to go with him to the army, has determined to go to her relatives, over the mountain, in a carriage the rebels have promised to provide her. She will be along that road, probably, soon after you get to your rendezvous. She must be stopped, and conducted, with good treatment, mind you, back, through some secret route, to the British camp, where her father, though he knows nothing of my plan, will be glad to receive and keep her. And now I will be off to my horse, which I luckily left at the house of a friend, on the cross road, about a mile to the west of us.”
“Will you go far on your journey to-night?”
“About seven miles, to the house of another friend, where I am to be joined by the squire in the morning, and, with him, proceed directly to the army.”
“How soon are we to hear from you?”
“Within ten days, or sooner. I shall, with all possible despatch, organize and prepare the force designed for the purpose; when I shall sweep on through Arlington and Manchester, and, after teaching them a few lessons in that quarter, proceed at once to join you. There! you now know all; go, and remember that secrecy and vengeance are the watchwords.”
“Ay, ay; I am your man for all that, colonel,” responded the heartless tool, as the two now separated to depart on their different destinations.
CHAPTER V.
But joy! Columbia's friends are trampling through the shade!”
One of the earliest and most noted of the houses of public entertainment in Vermont was that of Captain John Coffin, situated in the north part of Cavendish, on the old military road, cut out in the French wars, by the energetic General Amherst, with a regiment of New Hampshire Boys, and extending from Number Four, as Charleston on the Connecticut was then called, to the fortresses on Lake Champlain. This tavern, at the time of the revolution, being on the very outskirts of the settlements on the east side of the Green Mountains, was long the general resort of the soldier and the common wayfarer for rest and refreshment, before and after passing over the long and dreary route of mountain wilderness lying between the eastern and western settlements of the state. And to the soldier, especially, it was a favorite haven; the more so, doubtless, from the congenial character of its frank, fearless, patriotic, but blunt and unpolished landlord, whose substantial cheer and hearty welcome, money or no money usually caused him to be looked upon as a friend, as well as a good entertainer. To this then widely-known establishment we will now repair, to note the occurrences next to be related in the progress of our story.
On a dark and cloudy afternoon, about ten days after the events related in the last chapter, a company of five persons were assembled in the rudely finished bar-room of the inn just described. Of these, three were strangers, or pretended strangers, to the house and each other; having dropped in at different intervals during the afternoon. Of the two others, one was the landlord, whose burly frame, rough, open features, and fear-nought countenance need have left none in doubt of either the physical or moral traits which experience proved he possessed. The other, a somewhat tall, thin, gaunt man, of a weather-beaten visage, and a sort of sly, scrutinizing look, was an old acquaintance of the reader. As of old, his large powder-horn and ball-pouch were slung under his left arm, and his long, heavy rifle, standing by his side, was resting on the sill of the open window beneath which he had seated himself, so as to enable him to note what might be passing without as well as within. The manner in which the latter and the landlord occasionally exchanged glances, implied a previous and familiar acquaintance, the usual manifestations of which seemed to be repressed by the presence of the three guests first named, who were evidently objects of the secret suspicion of the former. But all this, for some time, might have passed unheeded by any but close observers; for few remarks, and those of the briefest and most common-place kind, were offered; and an inclination for silence and reserve was manifest among the company.
A circumstance at length occurred, however, which quickly awakened the landlord from his apparent apathy, and brought some of the leading characteristics of the man at once into view. A very large and powerfully-made black dog, which belonged to the house, had just marched into the room, and laid down to sleep in the middle of the floor; when one of the strangers, whom we have noticed, in returning from the bar, where he had been for a drink of water, trod on the animal's tail, either through accident or design—probably the latter;—at least the landlord seemed to suspect so; for his countenance instantly flashed with indignation, and, turning abruptly to the aggressor, he said,—
“What was that done for, sir?”
“Done for?” replied the other, indifferently. “Why, it was done because the dog was in my way. If he don't want his tail trod on, he must keep out from under foot; that's all.”
“Well, sir,” rejoined the former, in no gentle tones, “I don't know who you are; but whether whig or tory, gentle or simple, I shall just take the liberty to tell you, that if I was sure you did that intentionally, I would pull your ears for you; for, if any living being has a good right to remain undisturbed, and do as he likes in this house, it is that dog. Roarer, come here, my old friend,” he added, turning to fondle the creature, that now, dropping the menacing attitude he had assumed towards the aggressing stranger, came up and thrust his huge snout into his master's lap. “Yes, old fellow, while I live, you shall never want a friend to avenge your wrongs, though I have to fight a regiment to do it! And aint I right in that, Dunning?” he still further remarked, turning to the hunter.
“Der yes, if needful,” replied the latter; “but the ditter dog. I'm thinking, would ask no favors, if you would give him leave to der do his own work on meddlers.
“O, that wouldn't do, you know, Tom,” rejoined the former, “for, if I but said the word, Roarer would tear him in shoestrings, as quick as you could say Jack Roberson! No I'll settle the hash myself. And I am now ready to hear the fellow's explanation,” he added, again turning sternly to the aggressor.
But the last-named questionable personage, not relishing the course matters were taking, now, in a subdued and altered tone promptly disclaimed any intention of touching the dog, and expressed his regret at what had happened.
“O, that's enough,” said Coffin, instantly cooling off. “All right now, Roarer. You may lie down again, sir,” he continued, waving away the dog, that had faced round, and still stood suspiciously eyeing the offender. “Yes, that's enough; we'll call the matter settled. But by way of explaining to you, who are strangers, what I have said about that dog's claims to my friendship and protection, I must tell you a story, which will show you how much the noble creature is deserving at my hands.
“Six years ago, the seventh day of last March, as I was returning from the settlements on Otter Creek, a distance of from twenty to thirty miles, through the then entire wilderness, with the snow nearly five feet deep on a level, and the weather so cold and stormy, that I was compelled to travel with great-coat on, as well as snow-shoes, I undertook to cross one of the ponds in Plymouth on the ice, which I supposed perfectly sound and safe for any thing that could be got on to it. But for some reason or other, there seemed to have been one place, concealed from view by the snow, so thin and spongy, that the moment I stepped upon it, I went down some feet below the surface into the water, while the snow and broken ice at once closed over me. And although I succeeded in forcing my way up through the slush, and getting my head above water, yet I soon found it, hampered as I was with snow-shoes and great-coat, impossible to get out. As sure as I tried to raise myself by the treacherous support at the sides, so sure was it to give way, and precipitate me back into the water. But still I struggled on, till chilled to the vitals, so benumbed that I could scarcely move a limb, and growing weaker and weaker at every effort, I could do no more; and I saw myself gradually sinking for the last time. O heavens! who can describe my sensations—who conceive the thousand thoughts that flashed through my mind at that horrible moment! But just as I was on the point of giving up in despair, I caught a glimpse of my dog (that had taken a circuit wide from me after some game) coming on to the pond. I raised one faint shout—it was all I could do,—and, though nearly a half mile off, he heard it, and came on, with monstrous bounds, to the spot. In a moment he was there; and, after giving me one look,—I can never forget that look,—he slid down to the very verge of the hole to try to assist me. With a struggle, I made out to raise one hand out of the water within his reach. He seized the cuff of my coat, and, drawing back with the seeming strength of a draught-horse, he, with one pull, brought me half out of the water. With a desperate effort on my part, and another on his, the next instant I was lying helpless, but safe, on the ice, while the dog fairly howled aloud for joy! I said safe; for as hopeless as some might have viewed my situation, even then, wet, benumbed, nearly dead with cold and exhaustion, and many miles from any human help or habitation, as I was, yet rallying every energy I had left me, and rolling, kicking, and pawing, to put my blood in motion, and regain the use of my limbs, I soon got on to my feet; when, seizing my gun, that I had hurled aside as I went down, I made for a dry tree in sight, fired into a spot of spunk I luckily found on one side of it, kindled a fire, warmed and dried myself, set forward again, and reached home that night; but with feelings towards that dog, sir, that I can never know towards any other created being—not even, in some respects, towards my wife and children. Yes, sir; I will not only fight, but, if need be, die for him.”
While the captain was relating his oft-told but truthful adventure with his justly-prized dog, the quick eye of Dunning caught, through the window, a glimpse of a recognized form, approaching in the road from the east; and slipping out unnoticed from the room, he beckoned the approaching personage round the corner of the house, and when safely out of the hearing and observation of those in the bar-room, he turned to the other, and said,—
“Der devil's in the wind, Captain Harry!”
“How so? Have you discovered the suspected rendezvous?”
“Der yes; and more too.”
“Indeed! where is it?”
“Ditter deep in the thickets, on the west side of the pond nearest the great road over the mountains.”
“Ah, ha! but their numbers? any more, probably, than the small club we supposed?”
“Der double, and then the ditter double of that, if it don't make more than twenty.”
“You surprise me, Dunning. Are you sure?”
“Sure as that I am der talking to Captain Woodburn.”
“Impossible! It must be some secret meeting of the disaffected in this quarter.”
“Der not that, but a regularly armed force, and, with the ditter exception of two or three about-home tories, may be, all strange faces, including a sprinkling of red skins, brought along with them for ditter decency's sake, I suppose.”
“But how could such a force get so far into the interior undetected? How dare they venture on so hazardous a movement? and what can be their designs in so doing?”
“Der here is something that ditter tells a rather loud story about that; at least, as to the matter of intentions,” said the hunter, by way of reply, taking a crumpled paper from his cap and handing it to the other.
Woodburn took the paper, and eagerly ran over its contents; which to his astonishment he found to be a copy of an order from General Burgoyne to Colonel Peters, detailing the plan of an expedition, to be conducted by the latter, with one hundred loyalists and a company of Indians, by way of the head waters of Otter Creek, across the mountains to Connecticut River, where this force was to be joined by the loyal troops from Rhode Island, and directing him “to scour the country, levy contributions, take hostages, make prisoners of all civil and military officers acting under Congress, collect horses, and, after proceeding down the river as far as Brattleborough, return to the great road to Albany.” [Footnote: The document here quoted was brought to General Stark on his advance through Vermont; and there can be but little doubt of its genuineness; as it afterwards came out, in the trial of Burgoyne in the British Parliament, that such an expedition was actually started, but subsequently changed for that of Bennington. How considerable a portion of the whole intended force penetrated into the interior is not ascertained. But we have the authority of the oldest inhabitants for asserting, that a portion of this force did cross over the mountains, and some of them even reached Springfield; when, owing to the unexpected movements they found going on among the people, and the rumored advance of Stark, all, who were not taken, speedily decamped.]
“How did this get into your hands, Dunning?” demanded the surprised and excited officer, as soon as he had mastered the contents.
“Der well, having crept along near the edge of the pond within ten or twelve rods of their camp, I was lying in the bushes for discoveries; when ditter one of 'em—their leader, I suppose—came down to the pond, for observation, likely; and, while peering up and down the shore, a gust of wind blew his hat off into the water. But though he regained his ditter hit and disappeared, I soon saw a piece of white paper blowing along in the water towards me. After a while, it reached the sort of point where I was, and lodging against a bush, I secured it, and found it this same thing. What do you think of it, captain?”
“Why, it unfolds a plan too bold for credence.”
“Not too bold for my ditter credence, captain.”
“Then you think it no feint?”
“Der no, sir, but a regular bred expedition, which they mean to push as soon as more force arrives. I have been ditter watching things a little since I got at this wrinkle. They have spies out in every direction. 'Tis not an hour since I espied a fellow peering from the corner of the woods up yonder, who, I think, must be that treacherous ditter devil, David Redding, and there are three now in the bar-room of the same kidney.”
“Ah! well, all this may be. Such an expedition may have been set afoot at the instigation of such fellows as Spencer, who, having left the Council of Safety before any thing was done, and while its distracted counsels seemed to preclude all prospect that any thing would be done for the defence of the state. Ay, that is it; and little dreaming of what has since transpired, Peters, who is probably behind, with the main force, has sent forward this as a sort of pioneer corps, who, coming over a route now mostly deserted by our people, have penetrated here nearly to the Twenty Mile Encampment, without once suspecting what is going on through the rest of the state. But that is a secret, which, thanks to the prompt patriotism shown by our young men in enlisting, we shall now soon be able to teach them; for my company is already nearly full; and, if you have notified the recruits you enlisted. Sergeant Dunning, they will all be here for mustering by to-morrow night.”
“All done, as in der duty bound, captain; and six of my men said they would be here this evening.”
“Indeed! there will be almost enough of us, if your six recruits all get in, to make a pounce upon this nest of vipers to-night Let's see; six—you, myself, and Captain Coffin, and——”
“And der Bart, if he comes; ditter don't you expect him along here to-night?”
“I do. Miss Haviland, according to the letter of Mr. Allen, who wrote some days ago, to apprise me of her coming, would have started, I calculate, this morning; and Bart, whom I immediately despatched to act as her guard on the way, will of course come with her. They will probably arrive before long, now—unless——” and the speaker suddenly paused at the new and startling thought that now seemed to occur to him.
“Unless,” said Dunning, guessing the thoughts of the other and taking up the supposition—“unless beset by some of this crew, who are ordered to take prisoners and hostages. But der stay; didn't I catch the glimmer of a distant horseman then?” he continued, pointing along the partially wooded road to the west. “There! that was a clearer view; and, by the ditter darting kind of gait of the horse, I should think it might be Lightfoot, and the short rider the critter we've been talking about.”
The hunter's eye had not misled him; for in a few minutes the horseman emerged from the forest into open view, and confirmed the conjecture that had just been made respecting his identity. As he neared the house, perceiving Woodburn and Dunning beckoning to him from behind the buildings, he threw himself from his saddle, leaped over the fence, and approached them.
“The news, sir? What is it? Speak!” eagerly exclaimed Woodburn, as Bart, with a downcast and troubled look, drew near.
“Bad as need to be, consarn it!” replied the latter, with an air of mingled vexation and self-reproach. “But I couldn't help it.”
“Help what? What has happened? Where is the lady?” rapidly asked the alarmed and impatient lover.
“Taken prisoner by the tories, as I guessed 'em. She and Vine Howard, that come with her, and the boy that drove 'em.”
“How? when? where?”
“Why, as we were coming down this side the mountain, and when nearly to the bottom, five or six fellows, with guns, rushed out of the bush, seized the horse, pulled out the women, and hurried them off with two of their number into the woods towards the pond; while the rest made a push to take me, who was riding just behind. But firing a pistol in their faces, and giving Lightfoot my stiffest sign, we dashed through or over them, and escaped, with their bullets whistling after us, one after another, till we were out of reach.”
“These ladies shall be rescued before I sleep, or I will perish in the attempt,” said Woodburn, with stern emphasis. “Let us arm and set forward immediately with the best force we can raise.”
“There is a thing or two to be ditter done first, it strikes me,” observed Dunning, with his usual coolness; “that is, if we don't want enemies both before and behind us, on the way.”
“What is that, Dunning?”
“Secure those three chaps in the bar-room, or they'll be ditter sure either to be on our heels, or get there before us to raise the alarm of our coming.”
“Are they armed, think you?”
“With ditter knives only, I'm thinking—their guns may have been left in the point of woods yonder, in charge of the spy I named, who, now I ditter think on't, ought to be taken about the same time, for fear of some secret signal being given.”
The suggestions of Dunning, who, as the reader will already have inferred, had been made a sergeant in Woodburn's company of Rangers, were at once approved by his superior, who accordingly, as the first step, despatched him and Bart to the woods, where the man conjectured to be in charge of the arms of his comrades was supposed to be concealed. After waiting till the two others might have had time to gain the woods in question, Woodburn left his stand, and, passing round to the front of the house, boldly marched into the bar-room, where the three suspected personages still sat listening to the stories with which the landlord, who suspected what was in progress, seemed intent on amusing them. They, however, now seemed suddenly to lose all interest in the recital going on, and, after exchanging uneasy and significant glances, simultaneously rose to depart.
“You are my prisoners, gentlemen,” said Woodburn, stepping before them and presenting a cocked pistol.
For a moment, the surprised tories stood mute in alarm and doubt, alternately glancing from their armed opponent to the landlord, and from the latter to the door and windows, as if weighing the chances and means of escape. But, the next instant, two of them suddenly turned, and drawing and flourishing their knives behind them, sprang for the open windows, with the intention of leaping through them.
“At 'em, Roarer!” exclaimed Coffin, seizing one escaping tory by the leg, and hurling him back with stunning effect upon the floor.
The dog was but little behind his master in drawing back, by a grip in his clothes, the other to the floor, where he was glad to lie without offering further resistance to the grim and growling conqueror standing over him. The third, in the mean while, not daring to stir lest a worse fate should befall him, standing as he was directly before the muzzle of Woodburn's pistol, and seeing the situation of his comrades, immediately submitted; when all, giving up their concealed arms, now quietly yielded themselves as prisoners.
In a few minutes after the surrender of the tories, their guns were brought in by Dunning and Bart, who found them at the suspected place, though the traitor, Redding, whom they identified, had just taken the alarm, and was seen retreating over a distant knoll as they came up to the spot.
The prisoners being left in charge of the landlord's oldest boy, who was armed for the purpose, and the dog Roarer, the rest of the company now retired to another part of the house, to devise measures for the rescue of the fair captives, for which a preliminary step only had as yet been taken. Having at length fixed on the plan of operations which they believed most promising of auspicious results, they immediately commenced their hasty preparations for the bold adventure. And Dunning's six recruits luckily arriving in season, the whole company, now consisting of ten resolute woodsmen, and led on by a man fully resolved to succeed or perish, set forward, a little after sunset, for the scene of action, which was several miles distant from the tavern. According to the plan that had been adopted, two men were to proceed to the eastern shore of the pond, take a log canoe, and, under cover of the darkness, row silently over to some point beyond, but near the tory encampment; and, after making what discoveries they could respecting the situation of the captives, lie in ambush and await the operations of the rest of the company, who were to proceed round by the road, enter the woods, and gain a post on the other side of the encampment, and, by a feigned attack, draw off the tories, and thus afford the former a favorable moment to rush from their concealment and release the captives. And if they found this impracticable, they were then to shout aloud the watchword, To the rescue! when both parties of the assailants were to make an earnest and desperate onset on the foe. Dunning and Bart, from their known sagacity and skill as woodsmen and coolness and intrepidity in action, were the two men selected to undertake the more difficult and hazardous part first mentioned.
After a rapid and silent march of about an hour, the company reached the vicinity of the pond, just as the last suffusions of an obscured twilight disappeared in the west, and halted a few minutes, that the different parts of the plan might be repeated and clearly understood by all before separating.
“Remember the arrangement, boys,” said Woodburn, addressing Dunning and Bart, in a voice which betrayed the intense solicitude he felt in the event at issue. “Recollect the first and main object is to release and get off the ladies, and if this can be done within the hour we will give you for the purpose, as it possibly may be, before we make any demonstrations in front, so much the better; if not, proceed in the manner agreed on. And may Heaven favor the innocent, whose cause, remember, is mostly in your hands.”
With this the company separated, and each party proceeded to their different destinations. We will follow the two intrusted with the most difficult part of the enterprise.