MILDRED TURNS HER STEPS HOMEWARDS.
I have seen a generous and brave boy defied to some enterprise of terror,—such as, peradventure, to clamber in the dark night, alone, up many a winding bout of stair-case to the garret,—and he has undertaken the achievement, although sore afraid of goblins, and gone forth upon his adventure with a lusty step and with a bold tardiness, whistling or singing on his way—his eyes and ears all the time fearfully open to all household sights and sounds, now magnified out of their natural proportions; and when he had reached the furthest term of his travel, I have known him to turn quickly about and come down three steps at a leap, feeling all the way as if some spectre tracked his flight and hung upon his rear. Calling up such a venture to my mind, I am enabled, by comparison with the speed and anxiety of the boy, to show my reader with what emotions Mildred, her mission being done, now turned herself upon her homeward route. The excitement occasioned by her knowledge of the critical circumstances of Butler, and the pain she had suffered in the belief that upon the courageous performance of her duty depended even his life, had nerved her resolution to the perilous and hardy exploit in which we have seen her. But now, when matters had taken such a suddenly auspicious turn, and she was assured of her lover's safety, not even the abrupt joy which poured in upon her heart was sufficient to stifle her sense of uneasiness at her present exposed condition, and she eagerly prepared to betake herself back to the Dove Cote.
The scenes around her had wrought upon her nerves; and, although she was singularly fortunate in the courtesy which she had experienced from all into whose hands she had fallen, yet the rude licentiousness of the camp, and the revolting acts of barbarity which were ever present to her observation, appalled and distressed her. Besides, she now saw the fixed purpose with which Cornwallis was preparing to march forward in his course of invasion, and thought with alarm upon the probable event of soon having the theatre of war transferred to the neighborhood of her native woods.
Robinson's advice seconded her own alacrity. It was to hasten, with all despatch, in advance of the invading army; and as this body was now about taking up its line of march, no time was to be lost. Accordingly, but a brief delay took place after Cornwallis and his suite had departed from head-quarters, before our party set forward, accompanied by the small guard of cavalry that had been ordered to attend them. The troops were just wheeling into column on the ground where they had been lately reviewed, when Mildred and her attendants galloped past, and took the high road leading to the town of Charlotte, in North Carolina, towards which it was understood the invaders were about to direct their journey. In less than an hour afterwards they had left behind them the line of baggage wagons and the small military parties of the vanguard, and found themselves rapidly hastening towards a district occupied by the friends of independence.
The sergeant had now occasion for his utmost circumspection. In pursuing the destined route of the invasion, he had reason to expect an early encounter with some of the many corps of observation, which the opposite party were certain to put upon the duty of reporting the approach of their enemy. And so it fell out; for, towards the middle of the day, whilst the travellers were quietly plying their journey through the forest, the discharge of a pistol announced the presence of a hostile body of men; and almost instantly afterwards a small handful of Whig cavalry were seen hovering upon the road, at the distance of some three or four hundred paces in front. Robinson no sooner recognised this squad than he took the lady's handkerchief and hoisted it on a rod, as a flag of truce, and, at the same moment, directed the escort to retreat, apprising them that their presence was no longer necessary, as he had now an opportunity to deliver his charge into the hands of friends. The British horsemen, accordingly, took their leave; and, in the next moment, Horse Shoe surrendered to a patrole, who announced themselves to be a part of the command of Colonel Davie, of the North Carolina militia—a gallant partisan, then well known to fame, and whose after exploits fill up no inconsiderable page of American history.
It does not enter into the purpose of my story to detain my reader with a minute account of Mildred's homeward journey; but having now transferred her to the protection of a friendly banner, it will suffice to say that she arrived the same evening at Charlotte, where she spent the night in the midst of the active, warlike preparations which were in progress to receive Cornwallis.
It was towards sunset on the following day, when, wearied with the toil of a long and rapid journey, our travellers arrived in front of a retired farm-house, on the road leading through the upper districts of North Carolina. The cultivation around this dwelling showed both good husbandry and a good soil, and there was an appearance of comfort and repose which was an unusual sight in a country so much alarmed and ravaged by war, as that over which the wayfarers had lately journeyed. The house stood some short distance apart from the road, and in the porch was seated an elderly man of a respectable appearance, to whom a young girl was, at this moment, administering a draught of water from a small, hooped, wooden vessel which she held in her hand.
"I am parched with thirst," said Mildred, "pray get me some of that water."
"The place looks so well, ma'am," replied the sergeant, "that I think we could not do better than make a stop here for the night. Good day, neighbor! What is the name of the river I see across yon field, and where mought we be, just at this time?"
"It is the Yadkin," answered the man, "and this county, I believe, is Iredell—though I speak only by guess, for I am but a stranger in these parts."
"The lady would be obligated," said Horse Shoe, "for a drop of that water; and, if it was agreeable, she mought likewise be pleased to put up here for the night."
"The people of the house are kind and worthy," replied the old man, "and not likely to refuse a favor. Mary, take a cup to the lady."
The girl obeyed; and, coming up to the party with the vessel in her hand, she suddenly started as her eye fell upon Horse Shoe, and her pale and wan countenance was seen bathed in tears.
"Mr. Robinson!" she exclaimed, with a faltering voice; "you don't know me?—me, Mary Musgrove. Father, it is our friend, Horse Shoe Robinson!" Then placing the vessel upon the ground, she ran to the sergeant's side, as he sat upon his horse, and leaning her head against his saddle, she wept bitterly, sobbing out: "It is me, Mary Musgrove. John—our John—that you loved—he is dead—he is dead!"
In an instant Allen Musgrove was at the gate, where he greeted the sergeant with the affection of an old friend.
This recognition of the miller and his daughter at once confirmed the sergeant in his determination to end his day's journey at this spot. In a few moments Mildred and her companions were introduced into the farm-house, where they were heartily welcomed by the in-dwellers, consisting of a sturdy, cheerful tiller of the soil, and a motherly dame, whose brood of children around her showed her to be the mistress of the family.
The scene that ensued after the party were seated in the house was, for some time, painfully affecting. Poor Mary, overcome by the associations called up to her mind at the sight of the sergeant, took a seat near him, and silently gazed in his face, visibly laboring under a strong desire to express her feelings in words, but at the same time stricken mute by the intensity of her emotions.
After a long suspense, which was broken only by her sobs, she was enabled to utter a few disjointed sentences, in which she recalled to the sergeant the friendship that had existed between him and John Ramsay; and there was something peculiarly touching in the melancholy tone with which, in accordance with the habits inculcated by her religious education, and most probably in the words of her father's frequent admonitions, she attributed the calamity that had befallen her to the kindly chastisement of heaven, to endure which she devoutly, and with a sigh that showed the bitterness of her suffering, prayed for patience and submission. Allen Musgrove, at this juncture, interposed with some topics of consolation suitable to the complexion of the maiden's mind, and soon succeeded in drying up her tears, and restoring her, at least, to the possession of a tranquil and apparently a resigned spirit.
When this was done, he gave a narrative of the events relating to the escape of Butler and his subsequent recapture at the funeral of John Ramsay, to which, it may be imagined, Mildred and Henry listened with the most absorbed attention.
This tale of the recapture of Butler, so unexpected, and communicated at a moment when Mildred's heart beat high with the joyful hopes of speedily seeing her lover again in safety, now struck upon her ear with the alarm that seizes upon a voyager who, fearing no hidden reef or unknown shoal, hears the keel of his ship in mid ocean crash against a solid rock. It seemed at once to break down the illusion which she had cherished with such fond affection. For the remainder of the evening the intercourse of the party was anxious and thoughtful, and betrayed the unhappy impression which the intelligence just communicated had made upon the feelings of Mildred and her brother. Musgrove, after the travellers had been refreshed by food, and invigorated by the kind and hearty hospitality of the good man under whose roof they were sheltered, proceeded to give the sergeant a history of what had lately befallen in the neighborhood of the Ennoree. Some days after the escape of Butler, the miller's own family had drawn upon themselves the odium of the ruling authority. His mill and his habitation had been reduced to ashes by a party of Tories who had made an incursion into this district, with no other view than to wreak their vengeance against suspected persons. In the same inroad, the family of David Ramsay had once more been assailed, and all that was spared from the first conflagration was destroyed in the second. Many other houses through this region had met the same fate. The expedition had been conducted by Wemyss, who, it is said, carried in his pocket a list of dwellings to which the torch was to be applied, and who, on accomplishing each item of his diabolical mission—so still runs the tradition—would note the consummated work by striking out the memorandum from his tablets.
In this general ravage, the desolated families fled like hunted game through the woods, and betook themselves with a disordered haste to the more friendly provinces northward. Musgrove had sent his wife and younger children, almost immediately after the assault upon him, to the care of a relative in Virginia, whither they had been conducted some days previous to the date of his present meeting with Horse Shoe by Christopher Shaw; whilst he and Mary had remained behind, for a short space, to render assistance to the family of Ramsay, to whom they felt themselves affined almost as closely as if the expected alliance by marriage had taken place. When this duty was discharged, and Ramsay's family were provided with a place of refuge, Musgrove had set forward with his daughter to rejoin his wife and children in their new asylum. It was upon this journey that they had now been accidentally overtaken by our travellers.
The disclosure of the motives of Mildred's expedition to Mary and her father, as may be supposed, warmed up their feelings to a most affectionate sympathy in her troubles. They had often heard of Butler's attachment to a lady in Virginia, and were aware of her name, from the incidents that had occurred at the trial of Butler, and from the nature of Horse Shoe's mission to Virginia. Mary had nursed in her mind a fanciful and zealous interest in behalf of the lady who was supposed to have engrossed Butler's affections, from the earnest devotion which she had witnessed in his demeanor, first at Adair's, and often afterwards during his captivity. The effect of this preconceived favor now showed itself in her behavior to Mildred; and, in the gentle play which it gave to her kindly sentiments, a most happy change was wrought in her present feelings. She at once warmly and fervently attached herself to Mildred, and won her way into our lady's esteem by the most amiable assiduities. In these offices of love, the poignancy of her own grief began to give way to the natural sweetness of her temper, and they were observed, in the same degree, to enliven Mildred's feelings. Mary hung fondly about her new acquaintance, proffered her most minute attentions of comfort, spoke often of the generous qualities of Butler, and breathed many a sincere prayer for future happiness to him and those he loved.
As Mildred pondered over the new aspect which the tidings of this evening had given to her condition, her inclination and duty both prompted her to the resolve to make an effort to join Butler, instead of returning to the Dove Cote. She was apprised by Musgrove that the prisoner had been conducted to Ferguson, who, she was told, was at this time stationed in the neighborhood of Gilbert-town, not a hundred miles from her present position. She had ventured far in his services, and she could not, now that she had so nearly approached him, consent to abandon the effort of reaching the spot of his captivity. She thought with alarm over the dangers that might await him in consequence of his previous escape, and this alarm was increased by her remembrance of the tone of bitter resentment with which Cornwallis, in a moment of unguarded feeling, had referred to the event in her late conference with that officer. Above all, it was her duty—such was her view of the matter—and whatever might befal, he was the lord of her heart, and all dangers and difficulties, now as heretofore, should be cast aside in her determination to administer to his safety or comfort. Her decision was made, and she so announced it to her companions.
Neither the sergeant nor Henry made the opposition to this resolve that might have been expected. To Horse Shoe it was a matter of indifference upon what service he might be ordered; his thoughts ran in no other current than to obey the order, and make the most thrifty and careful provision for its safe execution. To Henry that was always a pleasant suggestion which was calculated to bring him more into the field of adventure. Allen Musgrove, on this occasion, added an opinion which rather favored the enterprise.
"It was not much out of the way," he said, "to go as far as Burk Court House, where, at least, the lady was likely to learn something of the plans of Ferguson, and she might either wait there, or take such direction afterwards as her friends should advise."
Mary begged that whatever route Mildred thought proper to pursue, she might be allowed to accompany her; and this request was so much to the liking of Mildred, that she earnestly implored the miller's consent to the plan. With some reluctance Musgrove acquiesced; and, feeling thus doubly interested in the fortunes of the party, he finally determined himself to attend them in their present enterprise.
These matters being settled, the wearied travellers parted for the night, happy, at least, in having found the weight of their personal afflictions relieved by the cheerfulness with which the burden was divided.