A MELANCHOLY INCIDENT.
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory.—Scott.
Brief time was taken by the fugitives for refreshment at David Ramsay's dwelling. Here Butler put on the disguise which Christopher Shaw had provided for him. Then arming himself with a pair of pistols which John had appropriated to his use, the trooper himself using a similar precaution, our two adventurers resumed their journey. Their first object was to gain a point, some seven or eight miles distant, in the direction of the Fair Forest, where John Ramsay had concealed a few troopers that had been furnished him by Williams, to give their aid, if necessary, in securing Butler's escape.
From this point they were to proceed, with all possible despatch, to Williams's camp. However hazardous the experiment of attempting to traverse the country in open daylight, it was deemed still more dangerous to tarry any length of time so near the scene of their late adventure. Butler and his comrade, therefore, pushed forward with as much expedition as possible, resolved to outrun the fresh pursuit which they had reason to apprehend upon the discovery which the morning must produce at the miller's habitation.
Soon after sunrise the rain ceased to fall, the clouds dispersed, and a fresh and brilliant morning broke forth upon the heavens. The success of their late exploit had raised the spirits of the wanderers. A sense of intense delight animated Butler's feelings: a consciousness of liberty once more enjoyed, after hopes deferred and almost despairing captivity, seemed to regenerate him and make him acquainted with emotions he had never felt before. His heart was full of gratitude to his new friend Ramsay, and the expression of it was warm and sincere. Nature had never appeared so lovely to him as now: the whispers of the forest and the murmur of the clear brook fell on his enfranchised ear like the sweetest music: there was melody for him even in the screams of the jay and the harsh notes of the crow: and once when his companion had halted in sight of a buck that bounded through the wood before him, Butler, apprehensive that John was about to discharge a bullet after the forest-rover, found himself involuntarily pleading the cause of the noble animal: "Do not draw your pistol on him, Ramsay, I pray you. Let him run; it is liberty—liberty, good comrade—and that is sacred."
Before eight o'clock they had reached the rendezvous. Here they found three troopers who, although armed, were habited in the plain dress of the country, which enabled them to claim the denomination either of Whig or Tory militia, as their occasions might demand. These men had lain perdue, for some days, in the depth of the forest, impatiently awaiting for intelligence from Ramsay.
"Well, Harry Winter," said John, laughing, "what say you now? I have brought you the miller's boy at last. Have I not made my word good?"
"Truth, John," replied the trooper, "there is more stuff in you than we counted on. Macdonald must be a silly crow to let the fox steal his cheese from him so easily."
"You would have come nearer the mark, Harry, if you had called him a sleepy lout, for whilst he was nodding I took his cake off the griddle. It was fair filching by night, as the Major will tell you. But come, lads, here is no time for dallying, we mustn't have the grass growing to our horses' heels, when we have a whole pack of King George's hounds on our trail. So move, boys!" and saying these words, John led the party forward at a rapid gallop.
They had not gone far before they found themselves upon a road which led through a piece of thin wood that covered a small tract of marshy ground, the nature of which brought the party into a more compact body as they approached the narrowest point of the defile. At a short distance beyond this impediment the track became broader, where it ascended a hill thickly covered with an undergrowth of bushes.
Our friends had scarcely arrived in the narrow pass before they perceived on the hill in front of them, a company of some ten or fifteen horse, rapidly advancing towards them. In a moment all conversation was checked, and Harry Winter turning to his companions, had barely time to remark,
"I answer all questions: be silent, and if asked, swear to the truth of every word I say—steady: these fellows are Tories."
As he ceased speaking, the foremost of the strangers had already come up to them.
"Where from, and whither do you go?" asked Harry Winter, with a stern accent.
"From below Ninety-Six, and on our road to Fort Granby," replied a clownish voice.
"Peace, you knave!" interrupted one who appeared to be the leader of the party, and whose carriage and demeanor announced him to be an officer; "by what authority do you undertake to answer a challenge on the highway? Back, to your place, sir."
The rebuked rustic hung his head, as he reined his horse back into the crowd that now thronged the road.
"As we are of the larger party," said the same person, addressing himself to Winter, "we have the right to the word. Who are you and whence come you?"
"We belong to Floyd's new draft," replied Winter with great coolness, "and left Winnsborough yesterday morning."
"And where bound?"
"To Augusta, on business with Brown."
"Ah ha!" exclaimed the officer, "Brown is pinched by the rebels. It is well you have thought of him. What have you to say to him? Do you bear despatches?"
"Your pardon, sir—that's a secret."
"You need not be afraid, good fellow, we are friends."
"I can hardly tell you the exact business," replied Winter. "You will meet Floyd himself with a hundred men, before you ride five miles. I believe we are going to reinforce the garrison."
"You will be very welcome," said the Tory officer, "Brown will give you a hearty reception, but devilish slim fare; he is surrounded with hornets."
"So much the better," replied Winter, "we have a knack at taking the sting out of the hornets, now-a-days. Good morning, sir. Report us, if you please, to Colonel Floyd, when you come across him, and tell him the hour of the day when you met us."
During this short parley the two parties had become united into a common throng, completely filling up the road; and the proximity into which they were severally brought, gave rise to various inquiries after news amongst the subordinates on either side. In this press, Butler was startled to observe the eyes of an individual scanning him with a somewhat pointed scrutiny, and it was with an emotion that had well nigh betrayed him, that he recognised in this person one of Macdonald's soldiers. It was the man whom the lieutenant had despatched, a few days previous, with an errand to the post at Ninety-Six, and who was now returning with this detachment of militia. The soldier was evidently at fault, for in a moment afterwards Butler could perceive, from his expression of face, that whatever might have been his first suspicion, it was quieted by another glance. The disguise was so far effectual. But another cause of alarm arose, that for an instant brought Butler into greater jeopardy. The horse on which the messenger was mounted, was the yoke-fellow of the lean Wall-Eye, and the two beasts had been long accustomed to work side by side in the same wagon. Their mutual recognition, at this critical moment, became distressingly conspicuous. Their noses were brought in contact, and they began to whinny and paw the ground in that intelligible manner which constitutes one of the forms of expression by which this portion of the brute creation acknowledge their attachments. The presence of mind of John Ramsay saved the explosion which must soon have followed. He spurred his horse between the two noisy and restless animals, and immediately addressed a conversation to the soldier, which for the moment turned his thoughts into another channel.
By this time the conference had terminated, and the two leaders respectively directing their men to move forward, the defile was passed and each party extricated from the other. But no sooner was the separation completed than Butler's brutish steed, Wall-Eye, began to neigh with the most clamorous vociferation, whilst a response was heard in the same tones as pertinaciously reiterated from the retreating companion on the other side of the defile.
"We were in great danger from yonder Tories," said Ramsay, addressing Butler, "did you see that one of these fellows rode the mate of the beast you are on? Who could he be?"
"It was one of Macdonald's men," replied Butler, "I knew the fellow the moment we met; but, thank Heaven, this humble dress concealed me."
"Faster, Major!" cried John, "these cursed horses are calling after each other now. Pray, push forward until we get out of hearing. How unlucky that Christopher Shaw should have given you one of the wagon cattle!"
"Look back, lads!" exclaimed Winter with great earnestness, "there is something wrong, these fellows are returning. Whip and spur, or we are overtaken!"
Macdonald's soldier, it seems, having his attention drawn to the singular motions of his horse, had become suddenly confirmed in the suspicion which at the late meeting for a moment rested upon his mind, as to the identity of Butler; and having communicated his thought to the commanding officer, the whole party of the Tory militia had wheeled about to demand a further investigation: they were now some hundred paces in the rear of the fugitives, and were pressing forward at high speed, the officer in the front calling out at the same time,
"Hold!—Rein up and return! We have questions to ask. Halt, or we shall fire!"
"To it, boys!" cried Harry Winter. "Your safety is in your legs!"
And the party pricked onward as fast as they could urge their cavalry along the road. The chase continued for some half hour or more; the little escort of Butler leaving the road and plunging into the recesses of the forest. An occasional pistol-shot was fired during this retreat, but without effect on either side. The tangled character of the ground over which they passed, greatly retarded the pursuit, and before the half hour was spent none but a few of the boldest horsemen of the assailants were found persevering in the chase. Seeing their number diminished, and finding also that the horses of his own comrades were beginning to flag, John Ramsay assumed the command, and directed his party to turn about and offer battle to the pursuers. The immediate effect of this movement was to bring the assailants to a halt, which was no sooner witnessed by John, than he shouted, "Charge, lads, charge and the day is ours! Hack and hew, good fellows: down with the bloodhounds!"
This animated exhortation was followed up by a prompt onset, in which the brave trooper led the way; and such was the impetuosity of the assault that the enemy, although consisting of twice the number of those who attacked them, were forced to give ground. A sharp skirmish ensued, during which several pistol-shots were discharged on both sides, and some encounters, hand to hand, were sustained with a sturdy resolution; but, at last, our friends succeeded in turning their opponents to flight. The combat had been maintained in that pell-mell form of attack and defence, which defied compact or organized resistance; and the individuals of each party had been scattered over the wood for a considerable distance, so that when the late pursuers were compelled to retreat, each man urged his horse in such a direction as was most favorable to his escape. By degrees, Butler's few companions began to reassemble at that part of the wood where they had made their first stand.
"There is nothing like striking the first blow at the right time," said Harry Winter, as, with his hat in his hand to allow the air to cool his brow, he rode up to Butler, and halted to gain breath. "Give me a hot charge on a slow enemy, and I don't care much about two to one of odds. Thank God that business is cleanly done, and here we are all safe I hope. Where is John Ramsay?" he inquired, looking around him, and observing that their comrade was not amongst the number assembled.
"I saw him close at the heels of the runaways," said one of the men. "John has a trick of seeing a scrimmage to the end; and it is an even bet that he is now upon the trail like a fresh hound. The last I noticed of him was at the crupper of a couple of the rascals that, I'll engage, before now he has set his mark upon."
"Then we must to his assistance!" exclaimed Butler, eagerly; and without waiting for further consultation he set off at full speed, in the supposed direction of John Ramsay's pursuit. The rest followed. They had ridden some distance without being able to perceive any traces of their missing companion. Butler called aloud upon Ramsay, but there was no answer; and, for some moments, there was an anxious suspense as the party halted to listen for the sound of the footsteps of the trooper's approach. At length, a horse was seen far off in the wood, bounding over the turf at a wild and frightened pace; the saddle was empty, and the bridle-rein hung about his feet. On seeing his companions, the excited steed set up a frequent neigh, and, with head and tail erect, coursed immediately up to the group of horsemen. Here he came to a sudden halt, snorting with the terror of his late alarm. There were drops of blood upon the saddle.
"Gracious Heaven!" cried Butler, "some evil has befallen Ramsay. Scatter and search the wood."
It was with confused and melancholy earnestness that they all now continued the quest. After a painful suspense, one of the men was heard to shout to the rest that their lost comrade was found. The summons soon brought the party together. Ramsay, pale and faint, was stretched upon the grass of the forest, his bosom streaming forth a current of blood. In an instant Butler was seen stooping over him.
"Oh, this is a heavy ransom, for my deliverance!" he said with the deepest anguish, as he raised the trooper's head and laid it on his lap, whilst the blood flowed from the wound. "Speak, dear friend, speak! Great God, I fear this blow is mortal! Some water, if it can be found—look for it, Winter; he has fainted from loss of blood."
Whilst Harry Winter went in search of the necessary refreshment, Butler tore his cravat from his neck and applied it to staunch the wound. The administration of a slight draught of water, after a short interval, sufficiently revived the disabled soldier to enable him to speak. He turned his sickly and almost quenched eye to Butler, as he said:
"I was foolish to follow so far. I have it here—here," he added in a feeble voice, as he put his hand upon his breast, "and it has done my work. I fought for you, major, because I was proud to fight for a friend; and because"—here his voice failed him, as for a moment he closed his eyes and faintly uttered—"it is all over—I am dying."
"Nay, good John," said Butler, whilst the tears ran down his cheeks; "it is not so bad as that—you are weak from bleeding—you will be better presently. Oh God! oh God!" he muttered to himself, "I would not have had this to save my own life, much less as the price of my liberty!"
"I fought for you," said the wounded man, again reviving, "because Mary wished it. This will kill Mary," he added after a pause. "She warned me not to be rash, but I could not help it. Be kind to her, Major Butler, and take care of her. Tell her I did not fear to die; but for her sake, and for the sake of my poor mother. Go to my parents; let them know I thought of them in my last thoughts."
"John! John!" exclaimed Butler, unable to give further utterance to his feelings.
The dying trooper lay for some moments silent, and his comrades stood around him in mute grief, and hung their heads to conceal their emotions from each other.
"In my pocket," said Ramsay, "is a Testament. Mary gave it to me for a keepsake. Take it out."
Butler drew forth the small volume.
"What shall I do with it?" he asked, in a mournful whisper.
"Give it to Mary, back from me. And this plait of her hair upon my wrist, major, take it and wear it on your own; it will remind you of my Mary—you will guard her from harm."
"Before God, John Ramsay," said Butler with solemn fervor, "I promise you, that, while I live, she shall not want. Your parents, too, shall be my special care."
"Then I shall die with easier heart. Thanks, thanks—friends, farewell!" feebly ejaculated the stricken soldier, whose eye, already glazed with the pangs of death, now glanced upon the attending group, and after a brief but painful interval closed in darkness.
John Ramsay spake no more, and his short breathing showed that life was fast ebbing in its channel. The audible sobs of Butler, for some moments, were alone heard in the circle, as he sat supporting the head and grasping the hand of his brave comrade. The struggle was at last over, and the gallant spirit of the generous soldier had fled. Butler took from the wrist the bracelet of Mary's hair, which was now stained with the blood of its late owner, and with an earnest vow to redeem his promise, drew it over his own hand.
The scene that followed this melancholy adventure was one of solemn interest. The proximity of the enemy, although defeated, rendered a delay at this spot, in the present circumstances of Butler, exceedingly hazardous; yet he could not entertain the thought of continuing his journey until he had communicated to David Ramsay the distressing tidings of his son's death. The last request of John seemed also to impose this task upon him as a sacred obligation, due to the friendship which had terminated in so disastrous an end. Butler's resolution, therefore, was soon taken. He determined immediately, at all hazards, to make his way back to Ramsay's cottage, and to endeavor to console the afflicted parents under their severe bereavement. Disdaining, in his present state of feeling, the disguise that seemed to make him almost a stranger to himself, he threw aside the miller's dress and again appeared in his true character, resolved manfully to meet what he now believed to be the almost certain result—a recapture with all its probable consequences. Some of his party, who were acquainted with the localities of their present position, suggested to him that a Whig family of the name of Drummond resided at no great distance from the scene of the late encounter, and that, by bearing the body to this place, they might secure for it a decent burial. The remains of the trooper were accordingly laid upon a rude litter, and his mourning comrades slowly and sorrowfully wended their way through the forest to the designated habitation. Here they arrived about noon, having traversed a space of more than two miles to gain this asylum.
Drummond was a woodman, and occupied a rude cabin, with a small clearing around it, in the depths of the wilderness, so remote from the highway as to promise as much security from the quest of the enemy, as might be expected from any portion of the region in which he lived. He received his guests with kindness; and as he was himself acquainted with the family of the deceased, he exhibited a lively sympathy with the mourners around the body.
When Butler now made known his purpose to set out immediately for the habitation of David Ramsay, Winter asked permission to accompany him, but the woodman interposed, and recommended that he alone should be permitted to perform that errand, leaving the others to remain with the corpse until his return.
"It is, before all others, my duty," said Butler; "and come what may, I will perform it."
"Then we will go together," added the proprietor of the cabin. "It will be wise to wait until the day is a little more spent, and return in the darkness of the night. David Ramsay will come back with us. He would like to see his son before we put him in the ground."
"That shall be as you please, friend," said Butler. "I will be under your guidance."
An hour or two before sundown, Butler and his new companion left the cabin, and took their route across the woods towards Ramsay's dwelling, leaving the dead body in charge of the woodman's family and the three soldiers. The distance they had to travel did not exceed eight miles. The repulse of the Tory party in the skirmish of the morning seemed to have induced a belief, on the part of the enemy, that the fugitives had made a successful retreat which was now beyond pursuit, and there were, in consequence, no parties on the road to molest the travellers. Under these circumstances, it was still daylight when they came in view of David Ramsay's homestead.
CHAPTER XLV.
Great agitation prevailed at Macdonald's post, when the morning disclosed the escape of Butler. The lieutenant was conscious that this mischance had exposed him to the risk of heavy censure, and as was natural to a man who could not entirely acquit himself of some neglect in the performance of his duty, his first measures were taken in a spirit of peevish and angry severity. Small parties were sent out to explore the neighborhood, with a view to gain intelligence of the direction taken by the fugitive, with orders to bring him in dead or alive. The sentinels who were on duty during the night were arrested, and subjected to a rigid examination on the events of their watch; the several members of Musgrove's family were also interrogated as to matters touching their own connexion with the prisoner. Nothing, however, was gathered from these investigations that was calculated to cast a suspicion of connivance in Butler's liberation, upon any individual either of the garrison or of the family. It was only apparent that the prisoner had availed himself of the remissness of the guard and the darkness of the night, to make a bold descent from the window; and had succeeded by one of those lucky accidents which sometimes baffle the most cautious foresight. The nature of the attempt did not necessarily suppose the aid of an accomplice, and a faint hope was, therefore, entertained that Butler would be found still lurking in the vicinity of the post.
In the course of a few hours, the first parties that had been dispatched in the morning, returned. They could give no account of the prisoner; nor was there any light thrown upon the escape until about the dinner hour, when a portion of the detachment which had intercepted Butler and his comrades in the morning, arrived at the mill, under the conduct of the soldier whose suspicions had led to the pursuit and skirmish which we have already described. The report of these men left Macdonald no room to doubt the identity of Butler with the person described. A further examination, at the suggestion of the soldier, showed that Wall-Eye, the wagon-horse, was missing; and it now became certain that Butler had been aided by a party of the enemy with whom he must have been in correspondence. The conclusion was, that with his means of flight there could be little doubt of his being, long before the present period of the day, out of the reach of successful pursuit. The scheme was laid to the account of Horse Shoe Robinson, whose name and adventures were already famous in this district; and it was conjectured that Sumpter was secretly posted in some neighboring fastness to give his assistance to the enterprise.
With these reflections, Macdonald felt himself obliged to submit to the exigencies of the case; a point of philosophy which he did not practise without a very visible chagrin and mortification. His men were called together, and after a short, fretful lecture on their neglect, and an injunction to a more soldier-like vigilance in future, which savored of the caution of locking the stable after the steed was stolen, they were dismissed.
About an hour before sundown, Allen Musgrove and Mary, availing themselves of the confusion and relaxed discipline of the post, occasioned by the events of the morning, set out on horseback for David Ramsay's dwelling, whither they were led by a natural anxiety to learn something of the movements of the fugitives.
"It's a pleasure and a happiness, Allen Musgrove," said Mistress Ramsay, as the miller and his daughter sat down in the cabin, "to see you and Mary over here with us at any time, but it is specially so now when we have good news to tell. John and his friend are safe out of reach of Macdonald's men, and—God be praised!—I hope out of the way of all other harms. We have had soldiers dodging in and out through the day, but not one of them has made any guess what's gone with the major; and as for John, they don't seem to suspect him to be on the country-side. It's all Horse Shoe Robinson with them. They say that none but he could have helped to get the major away, and that General Sumpter was the instigator. Well, I'm sure they were welcome to that opinion, for it set them all to looking over towards Broad river, which is as good a direction as we could wish them to travel."
"The less you seem to know about it, with any of these inquiring parties, the better, Mistress Ramsay," said Allen Musgrove, "and I would advise you, even here amongst ourselves, to speak lower, David, what do you hear this evening?"
"Nothing concerning our runaways since they left us at daylight this morning," replied Ramsay. "I should guess them to be somewhere near upon Fair Forest by this time. You know Williams is out-lying upon the upper branches of the river? It is more like hunted deer, Allen, than Christian men, that our poor fellows take to the woods now. God knows what will come of it!"
"He knows and has appointed it," said Musgrove, gravely, "and will in His own good time and with such instruments as shall faithfully work His purpose, give the victory to them that have the right. Man, woman, and child may perish, and house and home may be burnt over our heads, and the blood of brave men may make the dust of the road red; yes, and the pastures rich as if new laid with manure; but the will of God shall be done and His providence be accomplished. The cause of the just shall prevail against the unjust."
"There were no soldiers," inquired Mary, addressing David Ramsay, "that you have heard of, who followed towards Fair Forest? I should be sorry if John was to be troubled with persons going after him; because,"—the maiden hesitated an instant,—"because it's unpleasant and disagreeable to be obliged to be riding off the road, through bushes and briers, to keep out of the way."
"If they were not greatly an overmatch, girl," interrupted Ramsay, "John wouldn't give himself much trouble upon that account."
"Oh, Mr. Ramsay," said Mary earnestly, "I was thinking of that. It's hard to say what John would call an overmatch: men are so headstrong and venturesome."
"That's God's own truth, Mary," interposed Mrs. Ramsay; "and what I have always been telling David and John both. But they never heed me, no more than if I was talking to the child in that cradle."
"I've told John as much myself," said Mary, blushing.
"And he would not heed you either," interrupted her father, "A soldier would have a holiday life of it, if he followed the advice of his mother or his sweetheart. Daughter, amongst friends here, you needn't blush; we know more of the secrets betwixt you and the trooper lad than you count upon. John's a clever boy, Mistress Ramsay, and I think you have reason to brag of him somewhat; and as there's particular good-will between him and my Mary, I'll not stand in the way when the war is over, if God spares us all, and Mary and the lad keep in the same mind; I'll not stand in the way of a new settlement in the neighborhood. Mary is a good daughter, well nurtured, and—I don't care to say it to her face—will make a thriving wife."
The mother smiled as she replied, "I don't pretend to know the young people's secrets, but I know this, you don't think better of Mary than John does—nor than me neither, perhaps."
The conversation was interrupted by a knocking at the door, and, in a moment afterwards, Arthur Butler and the woodman entered the apartment.
"Major Butler, as I am a living woman!" exclaimed Mrs. Ramsay.
"Our good friend himself!" ejaculated Musgrove, with surprise. "What has turned you back? And Gabriel Drummond here too! What has happened?"
"Where is my son John?" demanded Ramsay. "Are you followed?"
Butler walked up to Mrs. Ramsay, and, as a tear started to his eye, took her by the hand, and stood for a moment unable to speak.
"Oh, heaven have mercy on me!" screamed Mary Musgrove, as she threw herself upon a bed, "something dreadful has happened."
"For God's sake, speak what you have to tell!" said David Ramsay, instantly turning pale.
"John Ramsay is hurt," faintly articulated the mother, and Mary, rising from the bed, stood beside Butler with a countenance on which was seated the most agonizing attention. Andy, the hero of the exploit we have heretofore related, also pressed into the presence of the same group, and a death-like silence pervaded the whole party.
Butler, with an ineffectual effort to recover himself, turned to Drummond, making a sign to him to tell the object of their melancholy errand, and then flung himself into a chair.
"John Ramsay is dead," said the woodman, in a mournful tone. "Your son, mistress Ramsay, was shot in a fray with the bloody, villanous Tories. The heartiest curses upon them!"
"Killed, dear madam," said Butler, scarce able to articulate, "killed in my defence. Would to God the blow had fallen upon my own head!"
"Oh, no, no, no!" exclaimed the matron, as a flood of tears rolled down her cheeks, and she endeavored to wipe them away with her apron. "It isn't true. It can't be true. My poor, dear, brave boy!"
At the same instant Mary Musgrove fell insensible into the arms of her father, where it was some moments before she gave signs of animation. At length, being laid upon the bed, a deep groan escaped her, which was followed by the most piteous wailing.
The scene wrought upon the younger members of the family, who, as well as the domestics, were heard pouring forth deep and loud lamentations, accompanied with reiterated announcements of the death of the soldier.
When this first burst of the general grief was over, David Ramsay arose from his seat and walked across the room to a window, where he stood endeavoring to compose and master his feelings. At length, facing Butler, he said in a low and tranquil tone,
"John Ramsay, my son, killed, killed in a skirmish? God is my witness, I expected it! It was his failing to follow his enemy with too hot a hand; and I am to blame, perhaps, that I never checked him in that temper. But he died like a man and a soldier, Major Butler," he added, firmly.
"He died in my arms," replied Butler, "as bravely as ever soldier closed his life, his last thoughts were fixed upon his parents, and—"
"Dead!" interrupted Ramsay, as if communing with himself, and regardless of Butler's words—"Dead! He fell doing his duty to his country, that's a consolation. A man cannot die better. If it please God, I hope my end may be like his. Andrew, my boy, come here. You are now my oldest living son," he said, taking the lad's hand and looking him full in the face, as he spoke with a bitter compression of his lips; "I am willing, much as I love you, that the country should have you."
"No, David, David," interrupted the mother, rousing herself from her silent grief, "we have given enough; no other child of mine shall venture in the war. John! John! John! my dear boy, my brave son! How good and kind he was to us all! And how glad he was to get home to see us; and how much we made of him!"
"Silence, wife," said David Ramsay, "this is no time to hold back from our duty. Andrew, listen to me: remember your brother has met his death fighting against these monsters, who hate the very earth that nurses liberty. You are young, boy, but you can handle a musket; we will not forget your brother's death."
"Nor the burning of a good house over your head, and a full barn, father; nor the frights they have given my poor mother."
"Nor the thousands of brave men," added the father, "who have poured out their blood to give us a land and laws of our own. My boy, we will remember these, for vengeance."
"Not for vengeance," said Allen Musgrove, "for justice, David. Your enemy should be remembered only to prevent him from doing mischief. The Lord will give him sword and buckler, spear and shield, who stands up for the true cause: and when it pleases Him to require the sacrifice of life from the faithful servant who fights the battle, he grants patience and courage to meet the trial. Your son was not the man, David, to turn his face away from the work that was before him; may God receive him and comfort his distressed family! He was an honest and brave son, David Ramsay."
"A braver soldier never buckled on broadsword, Allen Musgrove," replied the father. "Yes, I looked for this; ever since my dwelling was levelled to the ground by these firebrands, I looked for it. John's passion was up then, and I knew the thoughts that ran through his mind. Ever since that day his feelings have been most bitter; and he has flung himself amongst the Tories, making as little account of them as the mower when he puts his scythe into the grass of the meadows."
"God forgive him, David!" said Musgrove, "and strengthen you and the boy's good mother in this sharp hour of trial. They who draw the sword in passion may stand in fear of the judgment of the sword: it is a fearful thing for sinful man to shed blood for any end but that of lawful war, and at the bidding of his country. God alone is the avenger."
Mary had again raised herself from the bed, and at this moment gave vent to her feelings in a loud and bitter lamentation "John Ramsay is dead, is dead!" she exclaimed. "I cannot believe it. He that was so true and so warm-hearted, and that everybody loved! They could not kill him! Oh, I begged him to keep his foot from danger, and he promised me, for my sake, to be careful. I loved him, father; I never told you so much before, but I am not ashamed to tell it now before everybody; I loved him better than all the world. And we had promised each other. It is so hard to lose them that we love!" she continued, sobbing violently. "He was so brave and so good, and he was so handsome, Mrs. Ramsay, and so dutiful to you and his father, coming home to see you whenever the war would let him. And he walked, and rode, and ran, and fought for his friends, and them that he cared for. He was so thoughtful for your comfort too," she added, as she threw herself on her knees and rested her head in the lap of the mother, and there paused through a long interval, during which nothing was heard but her own moans mingled with the sighs of the party, "we were to be married after this war was at an end, and thought we should live so happily: but they have murdered him! Oh they have murdered him," and with her hair thrown in disorder over her face, she again gave vent to a flood of tears.
"Mary, daughter! Shame on you, girl!" said her father. "Do you forget, in the hour of your affliction, that you have a friend who is able to comfort? There is one who can heal up your sorrows and speak peace to your troubled spirit, if you be not too proud to ask it. I have taught you, daughter, in all time of tribulation to look to Him for patience and for strength to bear adversity. Why do you neglect this refuge now?"
"Our Father," said the maiden, fervently clasping her hands and lifting up her eyes, now dim with weeping, as she appealed to God in prayer, "who art in heaven—teach us all to say thy will be done. Take—take—my dear John—Oh my heart will burst and I shall die!" she uttered, almost overwhelmed with her emotions, as she again buried her face in Mistress Ramsay's lap—"I cannot speak!"
A silence of inexpressible agony prevailed for some moments. This was at length interrupted by the uprising of the full, clear, and firm voice of Allen Musgrove, who now broke forth from the opposite side of a room where he had kneeled before a chair, in an earnest and impressive supplication to the Deity, urged with all that eloquence which naturally flows from deeply-excited feeling. From the solemnity of the occasion, as well as from the habitually religious temper of the family assembled in the little cabin, the words of the prayer fell upon the hearts of those present with a singularly welcome effect, and, for the moment, brought tranquillity to their feelings.
When the prayer was ended, the grief of the mourners rolled back in its former flood, and burst from Mary Musgrove in the most heart-rending bitterness. Paroxysm followed paroxysm with fearful violence, and these outbreaks were responded to by the mother with scarcely less intensity. All attempts at consolation, on the part of the men, were unavailing; and it was apparent that nothing remained but to let the tide of anguish take its own course.
It was now some time after night-fall, when Butler and Drummond beckoned Allen Musgrove to leave the room. They retired into the open air in front of the house, where they were immediately joined by David Ramsay. Here Butler communicated to them the necessity of making immediate arrangements for their return to the woodman's cottage, and for the burial of the deceased trooper. His advice was adopted, and it was resolved that Musgrove and Ramsay should accompany the other two to the spot. Before the consultation was closed, Andy had come into the group, and he was now directed, with all haste, to throw a saddle upon his father's horse.
"You, Andrew, my son," said David Ramsay, "will stay at home and comfort your poor mother, and Mary. Speak to them, boy, and persuade them to give up their useless lamentations. It is the will of God, and we ought not to murmur at it."
"The burning, father," replied the boy, with a sorrowful earnestness, "and the fighting, and the frights we have had, was all nothing to this. I never felt before how terrible the war was."
Andy had now gone to equip the horse, and the men returned to the inside of the cabin, where they sat in profound silence. Butler, at length, rose from the door-sill where he had taken his seat, and crossing the room, took a position by the bed on which Mary Musgrove had thrown herself, and where she now lay uttering faint and half-smothered moans.
"I have a remembrance for you," he said, stooping down and speaking scarce above a whisper in the maiden's ear; "I promised to deliver it into your hand. God knows with what pain I perform my office! John enjoined upon me to give you this," he continued, as he presented to her the little copy of the Testament, "and to say to you that his last thoughts were given to you and his mother. He loved you, Mary, better than he loved any living creature in this world."
"He did, he did," sobbed forth the girl; "and I loved him far above family, friends, kinsfolk and all—I wish I were dead by his side."
"Take the book," said Butler, hardly able to articulate. "God for ever bless you," he added, after a pause of weeping, "and bring you comfort! I have promised John Ramsay, that neither you, nor any of his family, shall ever want the service of a friend, while I have life or means to render it. Before Heaven, that pledge shall be redeemed! Farewell, farewell! God bless you!"
As Butler uttered these words he grasped the maiden's hand and pressed it fervently to his lips; then turning to the mother, he addressed some phrase of comfort to her, and hastily left the room. Scarcely a sound was heard from any one, except the low sobbing of the exhausted weepers, and the almost convulsive kisses which Mary imprinted upon the little book that Butler had put into her hand.
Musgrove, Ramsay, and the woodman, retired from the apartment at the same moment; and the horses being ready at the door, the retreating beat of the hoofs upon the turf gave notice to the in-dwellers that the four men had set forward on their journey.