Some time was expended in reaching the spot where the adventurer was intercepted. Contrary to the expectations of the young soldiers, he proved to be a man far advanced in life, and evidently no follower of the camp. His years might be seventy, and they were indicated more by the thin hairs of silver that lay scattered over his wrinkled brow, than by any apparent failure of his system. His frame was meager and bent; but it was the attitude of habit, for his sinews were strung with the toil of half a century. His dress was mean, and manifested the economy of its owner, by the number and nature of its repairs. On his back was a scantily furnished pack, that had led to the mistake in his profession. A few words of salutation, and, on the part of the young men, of surprise, that one so aged should venture so near the whirlpools of the cataract, were exchanged; when the old man inquired, with a voice that began to manifest the tremor of age, the news from the contending armies.
“We whipped the redcoats here the other day, among the grass on the Chippewa plains,” said the one who was called Mason; “since when, we have been playing hide and go seek with the ships: but we are now marching back from where we started, shaking our heads, and as surly as the devil.”
“Perhaps you have a son among the soldiers,” said his companion, with a milder demeanor, and an air of kindness; “if so, tell me his name and regiment, and I will take you to him.”
The old man shook his head, and, passing his hand over his silver locks, with an air of meek resignation, he answered,—
“No; I am alone in the world!”
“You should have added, Captain Dunwoodie,” cried his careless comrade, “if you could find either; for nearly half our army has marched down the road, and may be, by this time, under the walls of Fort George, for anything that we know to the contrary.”
The old man stopped suddenly, and looked earnestly from one of his companions to the other; the action being observed by the soldiers, they paused also.
“Did I hear right?” the stranger uttered, raising his hand to screen his eyes from the rays of the setting sun. “What did he call you?” “My name is Wharton Dunwoodie,” replied the youth, smiling. The stranger motioned silently for him to remove his hat, which the youth did accordingly, and his fair hair blew aside like curls of silk, and opened the whole of his ingenuous countenance to the inspection of the other. “’Tis like our native land!” exclaimed the old man with vehemence, “improving with time; God has blessed both.” “Why do you stare thus, Lieutenant Mason?” cried Captain Dunwoodie, laughing a little. “You show more astonishment than when you saw the falls.” “Oh, the falls!—they are a thing to be looked at on a moonshiny night, by your Aunt Sarah and that gay old bachelor, Colonel Singleton; but a fellow like myself never shows surprise, unless it may be at such a touch as this.” The extraordinary vehemence of the stranger’s manner had passed away as suddenly as it was exhibited, but he listened to this speech with deep interest, while Dunwoodie replied, a little gravely,—“Come, come, Tom, no jokes about my good aunt, I beg; she is kindness itself, and I have heard it whispered that her youth was not altogether happy.” “Why, as to rumor,” said Mason, “there goes one in Accomac, that Colonel Singleton offers himself to her regularly every Valentine’s day; and there are some who add that your old great-aunt helps his suit.” “Aunt Jeanette!” said Dunwoodie, laughing. “Dear, good soul, she thinks but little of marriage in any shape, I believe, since the death of Dr. Sitgreaves. There were some whispers of a courtship between them formerly, but it ended in nothing but civilities, and I suspect that the whole story arises from the intimacy of Colonel Singleton and my father. You know they were comrades in the horse, as indeed was your own father.”
“I know all that, of course; but you must not tell me that the particular, prim bachelor goes so often to General Dunwoodie’s plantation merely for the sake of talking old soldier with your father. The last time I was there, that yellow, sharp-nosed housekeeper of your mother’s took me into the pantry, and said that the colonel was no despisable match, as she called it, and how the sale of his plantation in Georgia had brought him—oh, Lord! I don’t know how much.”
“Quite likely,” returned the captain, “Katy Haynes is no bad calculator.”