While these events had been transacting, the British expedition, which burned the Neck, having found itself thwarted in the further measures it proposed, had returned to New York. Count Pulaski, though arriving too late to prevent the destruction of the prizes, succeeded in intimidating the enemy, who abandoned the field, being able to pluck no more laurels except the surprising of a picket, about thirty in number, whom they slaughtered in cold blood. In retiring, the man-of-war which accompanied the expedition grounded in the inlet, when the British, finding they could not get her off, set fire to her, lest she should fall into the hands of the Americans. It was amid the derisive cheers of the patriots, and the echoes of her guns, which went off as they became heated, that the royal troops finally stood out to sea, and took their way, crest-fallen, towards Sandy Hook. They had, indeed, burned a few store-houses, given some thirty dismantled prizes to the torch, and ravaged one or two inconsiderable patriot settlements; but they had failed of the great object of their undertaking, the seizure of the privateers, and had lost the most valuable ship of their flotilla. Taught by the result of this enterprise, they never again vexed the neighborhood, though it continued to be a thorn in their side to the very last month of the war.
This is the proper place to mention that one of the refugees who had escaped into the swamp, was captured the day subsequent to his flight, on his coming forth to seek some food; and that, it being proved that he had committed many atrocities, which brought him within the pale of the law, he was condemned to be hung. The sentence was executed at the Forks, and to this day, as a superstitious tradition goes, his ghost haunts the spot where he expiated his crimes.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
THE AYLESFORD MANSION
Hark! through the dim woods sighing,
With a moan;
Faintly the winds are crying,
Summer’s gone. —Mrs. Norton.
Farewell! I will omit no opportunity
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. —Shakespeare.
When the leaves had fallen, the November rains set in, and the winds begun to rave and sob, alternately, around the mansion at Sweetwater, the family departed for Philadelphia.
The old church, amid its now verdureless grove of oaks, seemed, as they drove past, to look sadly on their departure; while the stream in its rear audibly lamented, and the ancient cedars sighed mournfully in the wind. Kate gazed at the dear objects, and then turned, just as the carriage was about to enter the forest, for a last glance down the pond, in the direction of the house. At that instant the sun, which had been obscured by the leaden-colored clouds, suddenly burst forth, kindling the whole landscape into life: the white mansion flashed out; the ruffled lake sparkled like silver; and a glory was flung over the whole western heaven, where the clouds lay piled like peaks and ridges in a mountain region.
When the travellers reached the cross-road, which led towards Uncle Lawrence’s farm, the old man was there waiting for them. He stood leaning on his gun, silently enjoying the beauty of the autumn-tinted sky, and inhaling the soft air, as one quaffs delicious wine. So profound was his abstraction, that he did not hear the approaching vehicle, until it was close at hand.
“Good morning, Uncle Lawrence,” said Kate, merrily. “Confess now that we have taken you by surprise; and surrender a prisoner at discretion. In other words, jump in and go to town; for we have a spare seat.”
The veteran smiled kindly.