1(1)r

Saratoga;

A
Tale of the Revolution

In Two Volumes.

“I know that we have all an innate love of our country, and that the greatest
men have been sensible to its attractions; but I know also that it is only
little minds which cannot shake off these fetters.”
Petrarch.

Vol. I.

Boston:
Published by Cummings, Hilliard & Co.
Printed by Hilliard and Metcalf.
18241824.

1(1)v 1(2)r

Saratoga.

Chapter I.

“To win What, being won, is in its lofty self Imperishable beauty, garlands youth With honour passing the white hairs of age, Glory, the life of life.” Milman.

Among the many brave and gallant men, who, in the
memorable year 17591759, gathered unfading laurels on
the Plains of Abraham, and shared the dangers and the
glories of the immortal Wolfe, there were few, who
more proudly distinguished themselves than Captain
Courtland
, then a young and inexperienced man, just
entering on the busy stage of life. But, young and inexperienced
as he was, there were older and abler
officers who viewed with admiration his undaunted
valour, and beheld with pleasure the enthusiasm with
which he unsheathed his virgin sword to fight the battles
of his king. Captain Courtland was the descendant of
an ancient family which for centuries had given to its
country brave defenders in time of war, and statesmen
able to counsel in seasons of extremity, or in the hour of
peace and national prosperity. Possessed of an ample
fortune, and enjoying in the society of a beautiful and
accomplished woman, to whom he was but just united,
the pleasures of domestic life; yet with all the eager
delight of a youthful soldier, he received an order to
join his regiment, then destined to America, and, animated
by the prospect of future glory, he quitted the
endearments of home and the charms of polished society
to embark on a tempestuous ocean in search of a foreign,
almost a savage shore, stimulated by the enthusiasm
of an enterprising spirit, and burning to follow to
victory those great and brave men, who were about to 1(2)v 4
carry the terror of their arms into the French Provinces
of the new world. The vessel in which Captain Courtland’s
regiment was embarked sailed for Louisburg, and,
joining the fleet under convoy of Admirals Saunders and
Holmes, landed, towards the last of 1759-06June 1759, on the
Isle of Orleans, a few leagues below the city of Quebec.
The progress of their operations, history has faithfully
recorded. Captain Courtland distinguished himself in
such a manner as to gain the favour of his illustrious
general, and on the memorable 1759-09-13thirteenth of September
he led on his soldiers with a dauntless and intrepid valor,
that hastened the issue of that victorious day, and drew
from the lips of his beloved commander, the last expression
of his kindness and approbation. But even in
the hour of personal and national triumph, the manly
cheek of Courtland was bathed in tears, and throughout
the army of the victors the voice of joy and congratulation
was lost in the deep and heart-breathed anguish
of mourning and lametation;—for the beaming eye
which cheered them in the hour of danger, which
brightened at their triumphs, and softened with pity at
their sufferings, was quenched in death; and that bold
arm which pointed to victory, was nerveless and unstrung.
Silent as the tomb which now shrouds the form of the
hero, was all that remained of the brave, the gallant, the
lamented Wolfe; and melancholy seemed the triumph,
so dearly purchased. It was not till the autumn of the
succeeding year that the soldiers of France were completely
subdued by the arms of Britain, when the places
within the government of Canada were surrendered to
his Britannic Majesty, whose victorious troops took possession
of the conquered country. The regiment of
Captain Courtland with some others was then ordered
home; and, flushed with conquest, the remnant of these
gallant troops sailed, in the spring of 17611761, from the
St. Lawrence, on their return to England.

Previously to his departure, Captain Courtland visited
the English Provinces. Of an ardent temperament, a
lover of freedom, and an admirer of nature in all her
varied forms, he had marked with feelings of unmixed 1(3)r 5
pleasure the bold and sturdy spirit, which characterized
the inhabitants of these provinces, and gazed with deep
emotion upon the grand and sublime scenery peculiar
to America. He passed some weeks with a friend in
Philadelphia, and had daily opportunities, in the excursions
which they made, of enjoying the less magnificent,
but equally beautiful scenery which adorns the neighbourhood
of this far-famed city. His letters to his wife
were filled with praises of the country and the people;
the one so diversified and grand; the other so lofty,
bold, and independent; as if the majesty of their rivers
and mountains, and the solemn grandeur of their forests,
had infused a spirit of elevation and freedom into the
inhabitants of this new and untamed world. The
friends of Captain Courtland saw with pleasure his predilection
for their adopted country, and exerted all their
eloquence to induce him to make is his also. He was
indeed strongly inclined to accede to their wishes; but
before he could form any decision on the subject, his
regiment was ordered home, and he left America uncertain
if he should ever see it more. He reached England
in safety, and, amid the sweets of domestic life, the visionary
dreams which had amused him in America faded
from his mind, or served occasionally for the basis of
those airy castles, which he and Mrs. Courtland loved
to raise. The active duties of his profession, however,
soon called him again from the tranquil enjoyments of
home, and continued almost unremittingly to engage
him, during the two succeeding years, when the ratification
of the definitive treaty of peace at Paris, in 17631763,
terminated the long and sanguinary war, and permitted
Captain, now Major Courtland to return again to the
bosom of his family. But the continued absence of her
husband, and the loss of two lovely children, had broken
the health and spirits of Mrs. Courtland; and the
Major held with alarm the gradual decay of her constitution,
and the deep dejection of a mind, once all
activity and life. The physicians recommended change
of scene and climate; and the recollection of America, its
pure and bracing air, its beautiful and varied landscapes, 1* 1(3)v 6
which had awakened such deep emotion in his heart,
resolved him, if Mrs. Courtland would consent, instantly
to commence the voyage, and try what effect this
change of residence might produce upon her declining
health. He found no difficulty in obtaining her assent,
and his sanguine temper led him to hope every thing
from the influence of scenes so new and interesting, on
a susceptible and cultivated mind. Mrs. Courtland,
with an only brother, was left an orphan in early infancy,
and she had few ties to bind her to her native
land. Love of country, of fortune, of society, were all
lost in the absorbing passion which centered in her
husband. His heart was her home, his wishes hers,
and where he was happiest she would be so also; whether
amid the splendours and refinements of British luxury,
or in the solitudes of the American forests. The preparations
necessary for her departure seemed to awaken
her from the despondency, which sorrow and indisposition
had occasioned, and she thought and spoke of it
with a degree of interest and animation; which she had
not discovered for several months before. Early in
the spring of 17641764 Major Courtland, having obtained a
year’s leave of absence, embarked for America with
his wife and only surviving child, a beautiful little girl,
of two years old. Their voyage was prosperous, and
it produced the most beneficial effects upon the debilitated
frame of Mrs. Courtland; while the cordial welcome
with which she was greeted in a land of strangers, by
those who knew and loved her husband, banished the
slight sadness, which, on her first arrival, hung upon
her spirits. They landed in New York, but shortly
proceeded to Philadelphia, where Major Courtland had
a larger circle of acquaintance. Not choosing a city
residence, he took a house beautifully situated, on the
banks of the Schuylkill, some miles distant from the
city. It belonged to a friend of his, now in England,
and with whom, in this spot, he had passed many delightful
days during his former visit to America. It
was built in the English style, and, though simple, with
a degree of elegance seldom seen at that period in 1(4)r 7
America, except in the dwellings of the very wealthy, or
of those who wished to enjoy the luxuries, and retain
some appearance of the rank which they had possessed
in their native land. It consisted but of one story;
yet it was a spacious building; and the piazza, which
surrounded it, and the large hall in the centre, which
opened from a lawn in front, to a tastefully arranged
garden behind, gave it an air of beauty and lightness,
peculiarly pleasing and attractive. Extensive wings, on
each side, included all the apartments which were necessary
or convenient for family use or enjoyment; the
lawn sloped gradually to the river, whose lucid waters
were seen glancing, at intervals, through the foliage of
the majestic trees that stood thickly around the dwelling,
and gave to it a sequestered and solitary air, which in the
eyes of Major Courtland constitued its greatest charm.
Amidst the shades of this lovely retreat Mrs. Courtland’s
health gradually improved, and the soothing tenderness
of her husband, with the artless endearments of her
child, restored to her wounded mind the cheerfulness
and elasticity of which affliction had deprived it. The
society also, which they gathered around them, though
less numerous, was not less refined and intellectual than
that which they had been accustomed to enjoy in England.
Their present enjoyments were so rational and
calm, their future prospects so cloudless and delightful,
that they both looked forward with repugnance to the
time, when they must quit their present quiet residence
and share again in the pleasures, the pursuits, and the
follies of the world.

But this period was never to arrive. Three short
and happy months had scarcely passed away, when the
somewhat renovated health of Mrs. Courtland seemed
again declining. The excessive heat of the summer
months powerfully affected her feeble frame, and she
drooped like a delicate flower beneath its withering
influence. Again the anxious fears of her husband were
awakened, and he would instantly have borne her to a
colder region, in search of that health, which she was
never more to find. But rendered languid by disease, 1(4)v 8
she implored him not to remove her from her present
residence; and on being assured by her physicians, that
all experiments would prove unavailing, he relinquished
his hopeless project, and with despair at his heart forced
himself to wear a look of cheerfulness, that he might,
if possible, sustain the spirits of his wife. With a fortitude,
which Heaven alone could have imparted, he
remained firm at “the dreadful post of observation,”
which he was called to fill; soothing with unwearied
tenderness the irritations and the sufferings of disease,
and administering, with his own hand, to the wants of
his beloved patient. Mrs. Courtland survived just six
months after her arrival in America; she had suffered
much, but the inflictions of Providence hade been sanctified
to her; they had weaned her affections from earth,
and with cheerful confidence committing her husband
and infant child to the care and protection of Heaven,
she awaited in humble faith and hope, the moment of
her final release. Disappointed in his fondest hopes,
by the death of the earliest and dearest object of his affections,
Major Courtland, for a time, refused all sympathy
and consolation. He shut himself in his apartment, and
holding his little girl in his arms yielded to the utmost
violence of sorrow; but, when the first paroxysm of
grief had passed away, he acquired more self-command,
and forcibly withdrew his thoughts from dwelling constantly
on the dead, to recollect the duties which he
owed the living. He thought, at first, of returning directly
to England; but, attached to the manners and
scenes of America, he felt a painful reluctance at the
idea of quitting it. A new tie also bound him to the
land; it contained the ashes of his lamented wife; and
when his child should learn to speak and think of her
mother, it would afford him a melancholy pleasure to
lead her to the spot where reposed her mortal remains;
to tell her of the virtues which adorned her character,
and teach her to imitate them, and to love and venerate
her memory. England, too, had lost, for him, its most
attractive charm. He loved it, as his country; he
honoured its laws, its institutions, and its government; 1(5)r 9
but she, who gave to every scene a charm, he could
never more behold there; and the home of his fathers,
the haunts of his youth, the friends he had loved,
would unceasingly awaken painful remembrances of her,
who slept in a distant land, and over whose forsaken
grave he could not even enjoy the luxury of weeping.
These thoughts long continued to occupy and agitate
him; and he was still in a state of uncertainty and suspense,
when he received a letter from the friend, who
was the proprietor of the estate on which he now resided.
He informed Major Courtland that, in consequence
of an unexpected change in his prospects, he
found himself under the necessity of remaining in England,
and wishing, of course, to dispose of his estate in
America, he made him the first offer of it, upon the
most reasonable terms. The overture was too tempting
to be rejected, and Major Courtland, delighted to
possess a place, which his wife had loved, and which
had been the scene of her last hours, without hesitation
paid the stipulated price, and renounced, for the present
at least, all intention of quitting America. He now
viewed, with increased interest, the beautiful domains
around him, and began to embellish and improve them.
He became daily more averse to the idea of returning
to England, and at last adopted the resolution of resigning
his commission, and remaining in America till
Catherine should reach the age, when it would be
proper for her to enjoy the society and pleasures of
the world. This design, once formed, was immediately
executed: he sent home his resignation, and
turned his whole attention to the pursuits and enjoyments
of rural life, and to the engaging task of educating
his child.

Mrs. Courtland had brought with her to America a
female, whom she considered rather in the light of a
humble friend, than in that of a mere domestic, and who,
having lived with her for several years previous to her
marriage, had imbibed for her a strong attachment.
This woman belonged to a respectable family, and had
received an education far superior to what, in her class 1(5)v 10
of life, is usually thought necessary; and to her especial
care Mrs. Courtland affectionately consigned her
little girl. Martha, touched by the confidence which
this request evinced, solemnly promised never to forsake
the child of her benefactress, while it was in her
power to be in any way serviceable to her, and to devote
herself entirely, during her helpless childhood, to her
comfort and enjoyment. Martha’s love for the little
Catherine rendered the performance of her promise an
easy and a pleasurable task. It indeed bordered on
idolatry; so that Major Courtland felt no concern lest
she should be neglected, but feared rather, that her
kind-hearted attendant would err on the side of indulgence.
To prevent this danger, he kept a watchful
eye over their young charge, who, already cconscious of
her power, often maintained it with a degree of spirit
and obstinacy that surprised her father, and warned him of
many difficulties to be encountered in the formation of
a mind, which, notwithstanding all its faults, gave early
promise of uncommon loveliness. Yet he found it painful
to reprove even the failings of an object so beloved:
her innocent endearments soothed his widowed heart,
and often, while, with melancholy fondness, he traced
the features of her mother in her infant countenance,
he breathed a silent prayer to heaven to spare this last
sweet bud of hope, that remained upon his desolated
tree.

As years passed on, time, with his obliterating hand,
softened the painful regrets of Major Courtland, while
the opening charms of Catherine filled his heart with
paternal pleasure, and bound him again with a strong
but gentle tie to earth. He did not indeed cease to
mourn over the memory of her, who had been so early
taken from him; but the poignancy of his regret had
softened into a feeling of tender sadness, and there
were no hours to him so sweet, as those passed with
his daughter on her grave, which he watered with his
tears. Catherine wept because he did; and listened
with a heart full of emotion to his praises of the mother,
whom it was her misfortune never to have known. 1(6)r 11
Major Courtland had caused the remains of his lady to
be removed to a sequestered spot in his garden, beneath
the drooping branches of some willows that stood
grouped together beside a small stream of clear water.
A simple obelisk of white marble marked the place of
her repose, and around it in the hand of affection had
planted the earliest and most fragrant flowers. It was
here that Catherine received the first lessons of virtue,
which impressed her youthful mind; and thus the associations,
connected with this spot, were of the most
pure and sacred nature. The soft murmur of the
stream, the fragrance of the flowers, the gentle sighing
of the wind through the graceful branches of the willows,
all conspired to hallow the pleasing awe attached
to it; and often the father and the daughter fancied
that the spirit of her, whose remains moudlered beneath
the flowery turf, hovered around them in this
favorite resort. Interested in the cultivation of his
estate, and in the education of his daughter, Major
Courtland
found time pass rapidly away; he wished
for no higher pleasures than those which he derived
from her affection, from the conctemplation of nature,
from the charms of literature, and from the society of
the few friends, with whom he occasionally associated.
Yet he was an ardent lover of his king and country;
and happy as he found himself in his present abode, he
anticipated the day, when he should return to the land
of his fathers, and present his lovely daughter, blooming
with youth and beauty, to the gay and admiring
circle, in which she was born to move. She was
growing up, adorned with every personal charm, and
gifted with a mind of uncommon strength and beauty;
her doting father watched, with trembling solicitude,
the rapid expansion of her intellectual powers, and
saw, with inexpressible pleasure, the graces and loveliness
of the mother revived in the youthful person of
his daughter.

But from the contemplation and enjoyment of an object
so dear, Major Courtland was aroused by the
murmur of national discontent, which began now to 1(6)v 12
spread among all ranks, deepening and strengthening
as it spread, till the voice of complaint was that of the
people; and the country, at large, became ripe for a
revolt. A stern and devoted loyalist, he could not
listen to these murmurs without the strongest indignation.
What the colonists termed arbitrary accts, impositions,
and grievances, on the part of the mother country,
he, influenced by the partiality of national feeling,
deemed to be just and lawful requisitions; and the
love of liberty, by which they professed to be actuated,
he stigmatized as the stirrings of aspiring ambition,
which prompted them to shake off the mild restraints
of British law and justice. But he was too prudent to
express opinions so repugnant to the spirit of the people,
and he remained a silent, though not an indifferent,
spectator of the progress of events. It was no matter
of wonder, when so many preserved a strict neutrality,
that he should do so too; and though suspicion was
awake on all sides, and many individuals were pointed
out and denounced as loyalists and tories, yet Major
Courtland
, seldom seen in the populous haunts of men,
and occupied in the most simple and harmless pursuits,
escaped all obloquy, and became alternately the unwilling
confidant of both parties. Popular discontent continued
to increase with an alarming rapidity: every
day aggravated the evils, of which the colonists complained,
and strengthened the determination of Great
Britain
to subdue the rebellious spirit, which manifested
itself: but the resistance of America increased in
proportion to the impositions of her government, till, at
length, the provinces, ripe for revolt, with an unanimous
impulse, flew to arms, and commenced that desperate
conflict, which for seven long years deluged in
blood the fairest portions of the land, and terminated in
the triumph of freedom, and the establishment of all
the rights and priveleges most dear to civilized man.
Major Courtland was solicited by individuals of each
party to engage in the contest, but his political and
national attachments forbade his aiding the American
cause; neither could he resolve to combat against a 2(1)r 13
land, which had afforded him a pleasant habitation, for
so many years, and which was endeared to him by a
thousand fond and tender recollections. Catherine felt
and thought far differently from her father; but the deep
attachment which he ever expressed for the land of his
birth, prevented her from giving utterance to the secret
sentiments of her heart. Though as yet scarcely past
the age of childhood, her mind was mature beyond her
years, and her ardent feelings led her early to imbibe a
strong affection for the land of her adoption; it was
the only one which she had ever known, and it was
endeared to her by all the sweet recollections of infancy,
and by all the enjoyments and hopes of youth. No
country, she fondly thought, could be more lovely, no
people more virtuous, or more nobly independent; and
the very spirit which roused them to arms was one
which met an answering impulse in her bosom. With
the most anxious interest she watched the progress of
the strife, till her passions and her hopes were enlisted
in the cause of the colonists, in whose triumphs she
exulted, and in whose sufferings and defeats she deeply
but silently sympathized; for, as yet, she dared not
risk her father’s displeasure by expressing, in his presence,
her joy or her regret. How would he reprove
her, who ever spoke of the colonists as factious and
ambitious, and deprecated their proceedings as altogether
unjustifiable and rebellious! Major Courtland,
however, was frequently compelled to hear their praises
from the lips of an old servant, to whom, in consideration
of his age and long services, he allowed more
liberty of speech than he would have been inclined to
grant an ordinary domestic. During the campaign of
17591759 in Canada, Hugh had been his constant and faithful
attendant, and had then, from the bravery and hospitality
of the Americans, imbibed for them that partiality,
which, during his long residence in the country
since that period, had ripened into a deep and permanent
attachment. His eulogiums on their valor heightened
the enthusiasm with which Catherine regarded
them, and his oft repeated accounts of their constancy 2 2(1)v 14
and sufferings were heard by her with emotion, and
fanned the flame of patriotism which burned so brightly
in her heart. Catherine often wished for a companion
of her own sex and age, and her wishes were, at last,
gratified by the arrival of a cousin, who, having accompanied
her father from England, came to reside
with her, during his continuance in America. Col.
Dunbar
was the only brother of Mrs. Courtland, and,
at the commencement of the war, he had accompanied
the army of General Howe to America. His lady and
daughter sailed with him from England; but the former,
then in delicate health, died during the voyage, and,
after the evacuation of Boston by the British troops,
the Colonel sent his motherless girl to remain under
the protection of her uncle while he followed the uncertain
fortunes of war.

Amelia Dunbar was two years older than her cousin;
and, though gifted with far less beauty, she possessed a
pleasing person and a sweet and interesting countenance.
But their characters were more dissimilar than
their persons; Amelia was timid and pensive, kind but
not ardent in her feelings, and never by any event
transported to enthusiasm. Catherine had a mixture
of gaiety and tenderness of spirit, and of softness in her
composition, which was truly captivating. She was
governed by feeling, and the excitement of the moment
often carried her beyond the verge of prudence. Warm
in her attachments she thought no service too great to
be performed for those she loved, and was ready, at
any moment, to sacrifice her wishes to the inclination
of her friends. Her lofty feelings rendered her a passionate
admirer of brave and heroic actions, and her
affection for her adopted country was strengthened and
increased by the noble contempt of suffering and death,
displayed by its daring soldiery; and, above all, by the
great and magnanimous chief who led forth its armies,
and who, animated by the purest patriotism, devoted
himself to its cause, without one selfish aspiration after
emolument or fame. She soon found, with regret,
though not with surprise, that her feelings would meet 2(2)r 15
with no sympathy in the heart of her cousin, who was
as firm a loyalist as Major Courtland was himself, or
as he could have wished his daughter to be; and
who viewed, with all the anger that her gentle nature
was susceptible of cherishing, the persevering struggles
of the rebels against the laws and authority of their
rightful soveriegn. Catherine, of course, resolved not
to alienate the affections of her cousin, or wound her
national attachment, by an avowal of her obnoxious
sentiments; but her ungaurded heart yielded to every
impulse of enthusiasm, and she was too deeply interested
in the public cevents of the day, always to remember,
that there were those before whom the expression of
her feelings would be considered both criminal and unnatural.
Circumstances and conversations were perpetually
occurring, which made her forget all caution,
and unveiled both to her cousin and her father the
opinions and attachments which she cherished. Pennsylvania,
and particularly the neighbourhood of Philadelphia,
had now become the principal seat of the war;
and the Americans, pursued beyond the Delaware, remained
shut up in the capital, while the troops of the
king surrounded them, and maintained quiet possession
of the adjacent country. Catherine’s bouyant hopes
were saddened by the gloomy reports, which constantly
reached them, of the reduced numbers of the American
army, the desperate state of their affairs, and the
sufferings to which they were in consequence exposed.
The triumph of the royal cause was spoken of as certain,
and the British officers, who were in the habit of
visiting at Major Courtland’s, seemed confident of a
speedy peace, and convinced of the inability of the
colonists to maintain a longer resistance.

2(2)v 16

Chapter II.

“We must rise in wrath, But wear it as a mourner’s robe of grief, Not as a garb of joy: must boldly strike, But like the Roman, with reverted face, In sorrow to be so enforced.” Milman.

As the regiment of Colonel Dunbar was, at this period,
stationed in the vicinity of Major Courtland’s
residence, Amelia had frequent opportunities of seeing
her father. He was often the guest of his brother-in-
law, and though he seldom came alone, both himself
and his companions in arms were ever cordially welcomed
and hospitably entertained. Catherine would
have highly enjoyed the society of these well-bred and
intelligent men, had she not been compelled so often,
to listen to the expression of sentiments repugnant to
her feelings, and which she feared might increase the
abhorrence with which her father already regarded the
struggles of the colonists, and urge him again to unsheath
his sword in the service of his king. Colonel
Dunbar
was a high spirited and brave soldier; he hated
whatever savored of republicanism, and was a zealous
defender of royalty and its prerogatives. Secretly
suspecting Catherine’s attachment for what he termed
the cause of rebellion, he took every opportunity indirectly
to reprove her, and was unsparing in the harshness
of his censures on the ungrateful colonists. Catherine,
however, firm in her principles and attachments,
chose rather to endure the severity which she
incurred, than disavow the opinions which she had
adopted from a conviction of their justness; though,
from regard to her father’s feelings, as well as to avoid
continual dispute, she remained silent, except when
some very unjust assertion, or provoking ridicule, threw
her off her guard, and led her, with all the fervor of
unstudied eloquence, to vindicate the people whom she
loved. But she soon grew weary of the Colonel’s unceasing 2(3)r 17
sarcasms. His visits, though usually short, were
dreaded by her; and when she heard him express his
intention of passing the approaching Christmas with
them, she looked forward to the day, which had hitherto
been one of rational enjoyment, as to a season of
trial and vexation.

Major Courtland, who loved to keep the festival with
true old English hospitality, requested his brother to
extend the invitation to as many as he pleased; and
accordingly Colonel Dunbar arrived, in the morning,
bringing with him several officers of his regiment. The
day passed cheerfully on: all seemed disposed to forget
the public events of the period, and Catherine,
agreeably disappointed that political topics formed no
part of the conversation, was all gaiety and animation;
while Amelia, happy in the presence of her father,
contributed, with more than her usual spirit, to the enjoyment
of the circle. But, during the hour of dinner,
Catherine observed that her uncle, a convivial man,
and rather given to excesses, quaffed frequent libations,
and circulated the bottle with a freedom that shortly
excited the spirits of the gentlemen, and gradually introduced
the subject which she had so much dreaded,
and sought, by every means in her power, to avert.
Amelia became silent; for she well knew her father’s
irritability, and was aware of the offence, which the
zealous expression of his sentiments would give to the
feelings of her cousin. But Catherine seemed resolved
not to hear what was passing at the lower end of the
table; for she turned to Captain Talbot, who sat next
her, and began earnestly to converse with him on the
merit of some French plays which he had sent her a
few days before. The young man more than half suspected
her secret predilection for the land, against
which he was in arms, and compreheneded the cause
which induced her to engage him, at this moment, on a
literary topic; but he was deeply touched by her
charms, and he would almost as soon have forfeited
his commission as have wounded the feelings which
seemed to him so natural and so excusable. He therefore2* 2(3)v 18
entered with animation on the subject which she
had proposed, and Catherine herself soon became so
interested in the discussion, as to forget the motive
which had prompted her to commence it, and even to
remain unobservant of the warm language of her uncle,
and of the pointed sarcasms which he intended for her
ear; but, remarking her inattention, he resolved to
arouse her from it, and pushing the decanter towards
her he said, in an elevated voice,

“Miss Cathaerine, you do not drink your cousin’s
toast.”
“Pardon me, sir, but I did not hear it,” she
replied, slightly colouring; and turning, as she spoke,
from Captain Talbot, who, absorbed by her, had been
likewise inattentive to it. “The gallant General Howe!”
said Colonel Dunbar, raising his glass to his lips, and
fixing on her a keen and searching glance; but she
cordially drank to the welfare of a man, whom all parties
reverenced and admired, though when her uncle
requested from her a favor similar to that which Amelia
had conferred, she blushed and was for a moment
silent; but soon recovering herself, she gave, “The
land we love.”

“That, Miss Courtland, is rather an ambiguous sentiment,”
said the Colonel with severity; “and were there
a dozen rebels present, it would suit them just as well
as if they had hearts as loyal as either yours or mine.”

He smiled sarcastically, as he concluded; and Captain
Talbot
, highly displeased, was on the point of replying
with as much asperity as he dared discover towards
his superior officer, when Catherine, justly offended
by the pointed rudeness of her uncle’s words
and manner, prevented him by saying with an emphasis
which heightened the glow upon her cheek,

“And because a rebel drinks to the land he loves,
may we not do so also, uncle? Does party feeling indeed
run so high, that two nations, using the same language,
can no longer express themselves in similar
phrases, without being suspected of harbouring a sinister
meaning?”

Colonel Dunbar looked chagrined, but he replied 2(4)r 19
with a forced and rather ungracious smile, “Excuse
me, Catherine; you cannot suppose I suspect you of
harboring any disloyal or sinister meaning, but in
these treacherous and uncertain times, you will allow it
is best to be explicit in word as well as deed.”

“Certainly, uncle; though suspicion may extend
too far, and has sometimes converted tried friends into
inveterate foes,”
she replied smiling.

“But a celebrated writer has cautioned us,” said
Colonel Dunbar, “‘to live always with a friend as if he
were one day to become an enemy’
.”

“It is a detestable maxim,” answered Catherine indignantly,
“and he who is capable of carrying it into
practice, ought never to enjoy the pleasures of virtuous
friendship.”

“Well, well, Catherine,” said Colonel Dunbar, “I
confess I have sometimes thought you rather inclined
to whigism, but in future I will believe your heart as
loyal as my own, and that all your good wishes are enlisted
on the right side.”

“At least, my dear uncle,” she said with a smile,
which Captain Talbot thought resistless, “believe this,
that I can never wish ill to the land of my birth, however
tender may be my attachment to that which only
I have known, and which has nurtured me with so much
kindness from my infancy.”

“I have taught Catherine to love America,” said
Major Courtland, “though I never wished her to prefer
it to her mother country, nor can I yet believe that
she is so perverted as to do so. But let us now reconcile
all differences by a toast in which I am sure both
loyalist and republican would cordially pledge us.”
He
filled his glass, and gave, “A speedy peace on honorable
terms;”
which was drunk with great good humor; and
soon after the ladies retired. Captain Talbot shortly
followed them, and as Amelia quitted the apartment
on some errand soon after he entered, he improved the
opportunity, afforded by her absence, to renew the subject
which had been discussed at the dinner table.
“Let us speak no more of it,” said Catherine; “I cannot 2(4)v 20
conceal, nor will I deny, the predilection which I
feel for this country. I do not owe to it my birth, but
it was here that I received my earliest impressions, and,
amid this lovely scenery, they have deepened into sentiments
which time cannot efface. Among this people,
whom my uncle denounces, my father has chosen his
abode, and to their kindness he is indebted for attentions
which can never be repaid, and which I am
sure his noble nature never will forget. All that I
love is centered here; even the ashes of my mother,”

she continued with emotion, “repose in the bosom of
this soil and render sacred the land of my adoption. Is
it then strange that I should cling to it with affection,
and shudder at those denunciations, which I daily hear
pronounced against it? No, I am a daughter of America,
and I tremble for the moment which seems fast
approaching, when her lofty spirit shall be made to bend
beneath the iron yoke of tyranny and oppression. Forgive
me, Captain Talbot,”
she added, suddenly checking
herself, “I forget that I am speaking to a loyalist,
who may judge harshly of this frank avowal; I remember
only that I address a brave soldier, and an honorable
man, who, though his own sentiments may be at variance
with those which I have unguardedly expressed, will
be too generous to censure feelings, which have originated
in the peculiar circumstances of my situation.”

Captain Talbot gazed with admiration upon the
glowing countenance of Catherine, varying with emotion,
while she spoke with a rapidity and eloquence
that forbade his interrupting her. Bowing profoundly
at the gratifying compliment with which she concluded,
he replied,

“I am far from wishing to censure sentiments, Miss
Courtland
, which I cannot but honor as the virtuous
emotions of a good and susceptible heart. They are
such as must be peculiarly lively in all who, at this
trying period, call themselves children of America; and
though myself in arms against her, I do not the less
admire her spirit, or respect the talents of her chiefs.
But I am enlisted in the service of a monarch, whom I 2(5)r 21
love, and the profession, which I have embraced forbids
my shrinking, in the hour of danger, from the duties it
enjoins. The present situation of affairs induces us
to think the contest is about to be decided; but whether
America conquers or submits, we know she will do
either nobly. At all events, the country which Miss
Courtland
loves, will always be to me an object of
respect.”

The entrance of Amelia terminated the conversation;
and, the other gentlemen coming from the dining-room
soon after, it was not resumed. The evening passed away
in a variety of amusements peculiar to the season, and
at a late hour Colonel Dunbar and his companions
took leave of their friends and returned to the camp.

Early on the following morning Major Courtland was
awakened by the sound of distant cannonading, which
shortly became so loud and incessant, as to disturb the
remainder of the family. Major Courtland apprehended
an engagement must have taken place between the
contending armies; though, considering the situation of
the Americans, this seemed almost an incredible supposition,
unless the British had crossed the Delaware
and surprised them in their encampments. At all events,
something of the kind must have occasioned the firing,
and the idea of Colonel Dunbar’s danger filled them
all with anxiety. Amelia in particular refused to be
comforted, and, unable to control her grief, she shut
herself up in her apartment to wait the return of Hugh
who had been sent off to gather tidings of the cause of
the alarm. Major Courtland also, uneasy at home,
mounted his horse, and rode out to meet his messenger;
but he did not return; and it was late in the afternoon,
when Hugh was seen riding up the avenue alone. Amelia
had returned to the parlour, and Catherine was
seeking to sooth her apprehensions, when Hugh, wet
by the mingled sleet and rain which had fallen during
the day, and bespattered with mud, abruptly presented
himself before them. “All is well, ladies,” he said
panting for breath; “and, Miss Amelia, the Colonel is
safe, and has had no fighting to day.”

2(5)v 22

“Thank God!” exclaimed both the cousins at the
same moment, while Amelia, suddenly relieved from
her anxiety, which had become intolerably keen, sunk
almost fainting on her seat. Catherine hastened to
support her; and when she had revived, Hugh proceeded
to give them farther intelligence. “I found,
ma’am,”
he said in answer to Catherine’s inquiries,
“that the country people knew nothing of what had
happened; and so, thinking his Honor would be displeased
if I came home without doing the errand on which
he sent me, I rode towards his Honor the Colonel’s head
quarters, and was thinking what if the sentinel forbid
my passing, how I should act, when I met Peterson,
riding post haste to bring the tidings here. Last night,
ma’am, the Americans marched from their encampment,
and this morning by daylight fell upon the Hessian
outposts at Trenton; carried them, gained a complete
victory, and captivated three whole German regiments!”

A secret pleasure lighted up Hugh’s rough features
as he delivered this intelligence, and sparkled with less
disguise on the eager and surprised countenance of Catherine;
though it seemed to her so strange,—so almost
impossible, that she could not refrain from expressing
a doubt of its correctness.

“But, ma’am,” returned Hugh with earnestness, “the
Colonel sent Peterson with the news; and he would
not have done so, had it not been true; besides, he
told me that the troops had been under arms all day;
but that some runaways had just brought word that the
Americans had gone back with their captives; so it
was probable they would have no fighting to day. The
German barbarians!”
he added with strong indignation, “they will get more mercy than they deserve.”

An ejaculation of pleasure involuntarily escaped from
Catherine, as she ruminated upon this wonderful intelligence;
when Amelia suddenly raised her head from
her cousin’s shoulder, on which, till now, it had rested;
and said, in a reproachful tone, and with a glance of
displeasure.

2(6)r 23

“Do you then triumph in the misfortunes of your
country, Catherine?”

“It is in its success that I know triumph,” she replied.
“You forget, Amelia, that I call America my country;
and, were it not so, as a friend to humanity, I
rejoice in the capture of these mercenary Germans,
who without any love for liberty and justice, without
any knowledge even of the cause in which they are
employed, come to outrage the inhabitants of a country,
which has afforded an asylum to so many of their ancestors.”

“Ah, Miss Amelia, they are more bloodthirsty than
wolves,”
said Hugh. “Peterson told me, to day, of a
German soldier who went into the house of a poor old
woman, and”
――

“Pray, do not tell me any of their cruelties, I entreat
you, Hugh,”
interrupted Amelia; “I do not doubt them;
war is a bloody trade, and must harden the softest
heart.”

“Ah, in truth, Miss Amelia,” returned Hugh, zealous
to defend the honor of the profession, “many a warm
heart, and many a tender one too, beats under a soldier’s
doublet. They are brave who fight for their country;
but they who fight only for money can have but few
kindly feelings left.”

“You are right, Hugh,” said Catherine; “he who
fights for his country, his home, and his religion, and
he only, is the brave and noble soldier. But did you
not see my father? and why has he not returned?”

“I met him, Miss Catherine, just as I was parting with
Peterson, and he sent me on to bring you the tidings,
while he stopped to ask a few more questions. But,
ma’am, my master is coming up the avenue, at this
moment.”

He moved towards the door, as he spoke; and
Catherine, after dismissing him, went out upon the
piazza to meet her father. She, however, received only
a confirmation of what Hugh had already told her,
without the addition of any farther particulars, which,
in fact, were as yet but imperfectly known to any but 2(6)v 24
the actors in this unexpected event. The Major seemed
not disposed to converse upon it; he was evidently
chagrined, and retired soon after dinner to his own
apartment; which Catherine heard him traverse with
agitated steps, till long past midnight.

The truth was, that he began to feel the inactive life
which he led, becoming daily more irksome. Fond of
his country and his profession, he could not see the
prosperity of the one, or the honor of the other, threatened,
without feeling himself called upon to lend what
aid was in his power to their support. He detested,
what he called the ingratitude of America; and he felt
every tie which bound him to her, weakened by the resistance
she was making to the authority of a superior
and, as he thought, a just and righteous power. His
national pride, also, was humbled by the triumph of her
arms. Though she had conquered only the soldiers of
Germany, they were in the service of England, and
should have proved themselves invincible. At such a
moment too, it was peculiarly aggravating, when the
contest seemed about to terminate in favour of the English,
who, assured of victory, despised the feeble army of
America, and reposed in security within their encampments.

The victory of Trenton, however, was but the commencement
of a succession of victories, which reversed
the good fortune of the British arms, drove them from
their strong encampments, and obliged them to give up
an offensive war, and think only of defending themselves
from the frequent attacks of their resolute foe. It was
the more galling to their pride to receive their constant
defeats from a shattered army reduced almost to extremity;
while they were both powerful and well disciplined.

In the mean time the spring opened; and still Major
Courtland
remained undecided, whether or not to engage
in active service. He was often solicited to do so, and
by those, for whom he had the highest reverence and
respect. General Burgoyne, whose friendship he had
enjoyed in England, had several times written, urging 3(1)r 25
him to join in aiding the cause of his country; and
since his appointment to the command of the Northern
Army he had repeated his invitation, informing him,
that he was authorized to bestow on him the same rank,
as that which he had formerly held, or even a higher
one if that would be any additional inducement to him.
But it was not honor which Major Courtland coveted;
the days of romantic enthusiasm were past with him,
and a sincere wish to serve his country was the only
motive that induced him again to engage in the arduous
duties of his profession. His anxious affection for
Catherine was all that now caused him to hesitate;
but even that at length yielded to what he considered
the obligations of duty, and, before he informed her
of his intention, he wrote to accept the appointment in
General Burgoyne’s army, which was soon to commence
its operations. He felt an extreme reluctance
to speak with Catherine upon the decisive step which
he had taken; but time pressed; there was not a moment
to be lost; his presence was even now required
in the army; and anxious, before his departure to make
some arrangements for the safety and comfort of his
family, he one morning entered the apartment where
Catherine was sitting alone at work, and communicated
his projects with as much gentleness as possible.

But with all his precaution, he was shocked to observe
the emotion which she betrayed, on receiving his
intelligence. Her work fell from her hands, and with
a countenance, on which grief and anxiety were strongly
painted, she looked fixedly at him, without uttering
a word. Major Courtland was sensible of his daughter’s
attachment to America; but he knew not its extent;
neither was he aware of the intense interest, with which
she watched the progress of the strife; nor that she
had espoused the cause of the republicans, alike from
principle and affection. When, therefore, he proceeded
to state the nature of his feelings, and the motives
which, after long deliberation, had induced him to take
up arms, he was surprised at the vehemence, with 3 3(1)v 26
which she answered him, and which seemed far greater
than even the occasion warranted.

“My father, my dear father,” she exclaimed, with
extreme emotion, “I entreat you to pause a moment
before you arm against a land which ought to be so
dear; which has been so long our happy dwelling-
place; whose inhabitants are not to us like strangers,
but amongst whom we have lived and interchanged the
courtesies and endearing acts of sympathy and kindness.”

“Catherine, I have reflected many moments, and
hesitated long before making this my final decision,”
said the Major; “but my country has a claim which
cannot be denied, and I feel that I have too long delayed
to grasp my sword at her defence.”

“Better, my dear father, far better,” she exclaimed,
“to let the sword, once so bravely wielded, rust forever
in its scabbard, than draw it forth in this unrighteous
cause, and plunge it into the bleeding bosom of a country,
which claims from us, who have so long lived upon
her soil, the affection and the gratitude of children.”

“I love America,” said Major Courtland, “but I
heartily detest her cause; and never shall my arm be
raised to aid those daring rebels, who openly defy
their king, and have dared to raise against him their
standard of revolt.”

“I do not ask you to aid them, father,” answered
Catherine; “only preserve the neutrality which you
have so long maintained; continue to enjoy with me
our quiet retreat, and let us, at distance, only view the
progress of the strife. Enough that your youth was
spent in the service of your country; let the evening
of life, my dear father, be devoted to gentler duties.
Remember that filial affection has a claim, which, if
dissolved, will leave your daughter friendless and desolate
indeed.”

Major Courtland was touched by her pathetic pleading,
but his honor was pledged, and he would not suffer
his resolution to be shaken. Rallying his self-command,
and assuming a cheerful air, he said, after a momentary
pause,

3(2)r 27

“You are a soldier’s daughter, Catherine, and would
you have your father shrink in the hour of peril from
the performance of his duty. Rather seek to support
and encourage him, than, by your repinings, render
still more painful the trials incident to his profession.
Such was your lamented mother’s conduct, who never,
in the most agonizing moments of separation, betrayed
a feeling unworthy a soldier’s wife, but cherished her
husband’s honor as her own, and endured, with smiling
patience, the anxieties to which she was continually
subjected.”

Catherine felt the full force of this reproof, gentle as
it was, and rendered touching by the allusion to her
mother. Her eyes filled with tears; but, brushing
them hastily away, she said,

“Danger and death are terrible, when connected in
our minds with an object whom we love; but indeed,
my dearest father, if I know my own heart, the apprehension
of these evils agitate it less than the dread of
that crime which I fear you will commit, if you resolve
to espouse the cause of England, and assist her to triumph
over this bleeding and struggling land. It is like
stabbing the mother who nurtured us; like betraying
the friend to whom we are indebted for benefits,
which have prolonged, and given sweetness to existence.”

“My dear girl,” returned Major Courtland, “I am
grieved, but not surprised, at the strength of your attachment
to this country. You can remember no other,
and I have myself taught you to regard it with affection.
But we view things differently; so very differently,
that I fear our sentiments on this subject can never be
reconciled. Of this, however, rest assured, that I am
not ungrateful to this land, nor heedless of her welfare.
But she has brought upon herself the chastisements
under which she now suffers, and I consider it the duty
of every friend to good order, and particularly of every
true loyalist, to lend his aid in quelling her rebellious
and aspiring spirit.”

3(2)v 28

“Let those, who have never shared her bounties,
turn their weapons against her,”
said Catherine. “It
cannot be required of you, father, to repay evil for the
kindness you have received.”

“I have indeed received many kindnesses,” returned
Major Courtland; “but notwithstanding all that I owe
to this country, there is another, Catherine, to which I
am under still deeper obligations: one to which I am
indebted for birth, fortune, character, all that I possess,
all that I am. And would you have me remain deaf to
her call, calmly enjoying the ease of domestic quiet, or
traitorously aiding the cause of those who ungratefully
spurn her authority, and absurdly claim an independence
which they never can support?”

“My dear father,” said Catherine, “pardon what I
know you will term my obstinacy; but, till convinced
that I am wrong, I must persist in the opinion, that
whatever obligations you may fancy yourself under to
the land of your nativity, you are bound by no tie of
honor or of duty to assist her in a war of tyranny and oppression.”

“You are incorrigible, Catherine,” said the Major,
smiling; “but we cannot hope to agree in principle,
till we differ less widely in terms. We will discuss the
subject no longer, at present: I will leave you to reflect
upon it, and I trust your good sense and native rectitude
of mind will convince you that I am not so deeply in
the wrong as you appear to imagine me.”

He kissed her tenderly, as he concluded, and when
he had quitted the room, Catherine, no longer able to
restrain her feelings, burst into a flood of tears. All
the happiness of her past life seemed at an end, and she
looked forward into the gloomy and uncertain future,
with a shuddering sensation of terror and dismay.

Major Courtland, however, had taken his resolution,
and he remained inflexible. With all possible despatch
he busied himself in preparations for his departure, and
consulted with his daughter and niece (the latter of
whom, by the removal of her father to a considerable
distance, was not left entirely to his care) on the situation 3(3)r 29
which, during his absence, it would be most eligible
for them to occupy. To leave them in his own
house, surrounded by an army flushed with victory, and
swelled with numbers of undisciplined and lawless militia,
was impossible; and, after long consideration, he
adopted a plan, which struck him as the safest and best
that could be devised.

The quakers of that period were, in general, strenuous
supporters of the royal cause: though, living in the
midst of the republicans, they affected a strict neutrality,
and forbore openly to violate their principles by taking
up arms, yet, by secret means, they aided the British,
and counteracted the Americans as much as they could,
consistently with their own safety. To one of this sect,
whom Major Courtland had long known and frequently
befriended, he resolved to commit the care of Catherine
and her cousin, assured that they would find with
him a safe and peaceable asylum, though it might be
destitute of many of the pleasures and luxuries which
they had been accustomed to enjoy. Another motive,
which induced Major Courtland to make choice of the
quaker’s protection, in preference to that of any one
else, was, that he resided in Albany, at which place it
was supposed the victorious armies of Howe and Burgoyne
were destined to meet and rejoice together in the
success of their arms

Unwilling to leave his house and lands exposed to
desolation and pillage, and aware also of the danger of
confiscation, to which, as the property of an avowed
loyalist, they would certainly be liable, Major Courtland
made a pretended sale of them to a friend, who, though
he rather inclined towards the Americans, had ever
preserved a strict neutrality, and who gladly exchanged
his residence in the city for so quiet and sheltered a
retreat.

Having made these necessary arrangements, and left
all his domestics, excepting Hugh and Martha, to the
direction and service of the temporary occupant, Major
Courtland
, with Catherine and his niece, bade adieu
for the present to the banks of the Schuylkill; and, 3* 3(3)v 30
having obtained permission to repair to Albany, they
proceeded with all possible expedition towards the
place of their destination. They reached it without
incident and in safety, and after seeing his charge
comfortably situated beneath the hospitable roof of the
quaker, Richard Hope, Major Courtland bade them
farewell, and hastened to join the army of General
Burgoyne
, then encamped on the banks of the river
Boquet
.

Chapter III.

I will not do’t;

Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth,

And, by my body’s action, teach my mind

A most inherent baseness.

Shakspeare.

The family of Mr., or as he was usually called,
Richard Hope, consisted of himself, his wife, and two
domestics; a stout Dutch girl, whose broad, thick-set
form indicated uncommon strength, though it did not
promise all that agility which she really possessed; and
a boy, who served in the several capacities of butler,
groom, and waiter.

Mr. Hope was a pacific, precise, good-hearted man,
and, being under obligations of some weight to Major
Courtland
, thought he could never be sufficiently kind
and assiduous towards those members of his family
whom the Major had placed under his protection. Independent
of any personal obligation, however, Richard
Hope
, to do him justice, would, from native benevolence
of feeling, and the influence of religious principle,
have exercised all the rites of kindness and hospitality
towards his new inmates. He was an ardent loyalist,
and he entered more warmly into the interests of the
cause, and expressed his sentiments oftentimes with
more asperity than became the mild and peaceful character
of the tenets which he professed. Catherine 3(4)r 31
sedulously avoided any discussion of the subject.
Since her father had openly espoused the royal cause,
she felt unwilling to express opinions which might appear
like censures upon his conduct, and she listened in
silence to the Quaker’s eulogiums and denunciations, or
answered only by playful ridicule directed against his
zeal, which he bore with unmoved complacency. In
truth his invincible good humor seemed proof against
all attacks, and, “let good or ill betide,” his temper
retained the same unruffled serenity, and his features
the same placid smile, as if nothing unusual had occurred.
Even his harshest invectives were uttered with a
quiet look, and in a monotonous tone, which contrasted
ludicrously with the tenor of his words, and, in fact,
destroyed one half of their effect. But he deemed it
unbecoming a follower of William Penn, as he said, to
let every idle wind ruffle his serenity, and this opinion,
strictly adhered to, had made him a complete machine.

Mrs. Hope’s equanimity was not quite so uniform,
as he husband’s; for, though she made him her example,
and believed him as near perfection, as it was possible
for mortal to attain, yet she found it difficult,
amidst the multiplicity of domestic cares and anxieties,
always to preserve the placid and quiet look, peculiar
to her sect. It was through Major Courtland’s influence
with the father of Mrs. Hope, that he had been
induced to consent to her marriage with a quaker, for
whose love, she had forsaken the faith in which she had
been educated, and embraced the tenets of her lover;
and to these tenets she had ever since adhered, with
the most scrupulous fidelity, as if fearful that the purity
of her motives might be questioned, should she deviate
in the slightest degree from the line of conduct, which
her new profession enjoined.

The habitation of this inoffensive couple was situated
about a mile from the city, on the bank of the Hudson.
Though a gothic Dutch building, it was both
pleasant and convenient. It was surrounded by
shrubbery, and the small but tastefully arranged garden,
gay with flowers and shaded with fruit trees, which 3(4)v 32
overarched the walks, was the frequent and favourite
resort of Catherine and her cousin. On the terraced
roof of a pretty summer-house, at the bottom of the
garden, whence the prospect was seen spreading itself
out in all the luxuriance and sublimity of nature, they
passed many delightful hours. They had brought with
them a selection of books, and Mr. Hope furnished them
with such as he was able to procure. Indeed he exerted
himself greatly to contribute to their happiness;
frequently accompanying them in little excursions round
the country, and in short sails upon the Hudson, which
rolled its “world of waters” so near the garden wall,
that the crews of the vessels and small boats which
glided past, could easily be distinguished from the
summer house. Catherine and Amelia loved to watch
them in the bright and balmy evenings, which are so
common in America during the summer months; their
tall masts and white shrouds partially silvered by the
moon beams, the water sparkling and rippling beneath
their keels, while the deep-toned voices of the sailors,
and the shrill whistle of the boatswain were the only
sounds that broke upon the profound stillness of the night.

Amelia was solicitous about her father, from whom
she seldom heard and never very directly or particularly;
but she was naturally of an easy and contented disposition;
and since her residence in America, she had been
so accustomed to his absence, and had so often seen him
return from the most desperate battles in safety, that
she sought to stifle every anxious thought, and indulged
the hope that she should soon welcome him again, safe
and unhurt, from all the perils to which he had been exposed.
Thus lulling her apprehensions, she appeared
cheerful and even happy; often speaking of her father,
and looking forward, with hope, to the period, when
she should again see him.

Catherine observed with surprise her cousin’s freedom
from all inquietude; but she was too considerate
to insinuate a word which might awaken it. Her own
anxiety was very great; but, unwilling to disturb the
serenity which Amelia was enjoying, and which she 3(5)r 33
thought might be soon and fatally interrupted, she studiously
repressed her feelings, and, supported by the
native strength and bouyancy of her mind, she appeared
always animated and cheerful, though in secret she had
many fears and painful anticipations to distress her.

By means of the loyalists and their emisaries, she received
through Mr. Hope frequent tidings from her father,
who, animated by the cause in which he was engaged,
and happy to be again actively employed in the duties
of his profession, wrote to Catherine in the gayest manner
possible, recounted the victories their arms were
gaining in the north, and intimated that, before a long
time had elapsed, the royal armies of Canada and New
York
would dine together in Albany. As Catherine
finished reading the letter which so confidently announced
the probability of this event, she could not
suppress a deep sigh, which burst almost involuntarily
from her bosom. Mr. Hope, who sat reading in the
room, was startled by it, and raising his eyes from the
book, he regarded her attentively some moments. She
sat against an open window, her head resting on her
hand, while the crimson twilight which had succeeded
a glorious sunset threw its soft reflection upon her face
and figure. Her eyes were fixed upon the western
sky, but there was sadness in their expression, and the
glowing animation of her countenance was softened into
a deep and touching melancholy. “Alas! that so
much loveliness must fade so soon,”
thought the good
quaker, as, yielding to the impulse of admiration, he
earnestly regarded the beautiful girl before him. Another
sigh from Catherine still heavier than the first
disturbed his contemplation, and, hastily laying down
his book, he rose from his chair and approached her.
“Art thou ill or unhappy, Catherine,” he said, “that
thou givest vent to sighs so deep and frequent?”

Catherine started at this unexpected address, but instantly
replied, “I am not ill, I thank you, my kind
friend, but”
—and she glanced upon the still open pages
of the letter. “I fear for my father’s safety, and can I
be at ease?”

3(5)v 34

“Thy father has been in many battles,” said the
quaker, “and He who giveth victory hath not yet suffered
him to fall.”

“I know it well,” said Catherine, “and I do no distrust
his goodness, but yet”
――

“But yet,” said Mr. Hope, interrupting her, “thou
dost wish that thou couldst take the guidance of affairs
into thine own hands, and hasten the issue according to
thy own desires, dost thou not?”

“I trust I am not so vain and impious as that,”, said
Catherine, “but I do wish, Mr. Hope, that my father
had never taken part in this unhappy quarrel.”

Mr. Hope gazed at her a moment, as if doubting
whether he had understood her right, then exclaimed
with unwonted vehemence,

“Catherine Courtland, dost thou know what thou art
saying? Thou knowest that thy liberties are threatened,
that thy country’s glory and thy sovereign’s honor are
at stake, and dost thou wish that thy father had remained
to behold the waves of the Schuylkill crimsoned with
the blood of thy countrymen, and to see them driven
from its banks by a host of rebels and of traitors?”

“I wish,” said Catherine, calmly, “that the peaceful
sentiments of William Penn would influence mankind
to throw aside the implements of death, and cease from
desolating the fair inheritance which God has given
them, by deeds of murder and ferocity.”

“Thou speakest with a wisdom far above thy years,”
said the quaker, conscience-struck by this allusion to the
venerated Penn, and aware that, if it was a crime to take
up arms, he had sinned most grievously in will, though
he had not dared to do so in deed. “God hasten that
happy period,”
he added after a brief pause, and in a
tone of solemnity, “when wars and fightings shall cease
in the earth, and every man shall sit under his own vine
and fig tree, without any to molest and make him afraid.”

“Yet thou must acknowledge, Catherine, that were it
lawful ever to resist evil, it would be so now.”

“It would indeed,” she answered, “and may God
prosper the just cause.”

3(6)r 35

“Amen!” ejaculated the quaker, and quietly resumed
his book; while Catherine, smiling at his want of penetration,
folded her letter, and rose to quit the room.

Wrapped in melancholy reflections, she walked slowly
into the garden and resorted to her favourite station,
upon the flat roof of the summer-house. The day had
been unusually sultry, and the gorgeous hues, which
at sunset had colored the western sky, were rapidly
changing into dark, and threatening clouds, which were
every instant rent by vivid flashes of lightning, followed
by heavy peals of thunders. The wind swept, in
fitful gusts, over the surface of the Hudson, whose dark
waves, crested with foam, broke in quick succession
against the shore; every billow rising higher than the
last, and lashing the banks with accumulated fury. The
ancient forests which for ages had battled with the
elements bowed their tall heads to the earth and spread
forth their broad arms as if bidding defiance to the
tempest, and warding off the fire of heaven, which
threatened every moment to sear the brightness of their
verdure, and uproot them from the soil where they had
so long flourished, drinking in the light and dew of
heaven and stretching forth their branches with the
vigor and majesty of beauty.

A scene of so much sublimity could not be viewed
with indifference by the enthusiastic and high-minded
Catherine. The subject of her bitter and anxious
meditation was forgotten, and with a feeling of rapturous
exaltation, which few have felt and none can
describe, she watched the progress of the tempest.
Reckless of all personal danger and inconvenience, she
leaned, lost in admiration, over the terrace; the spray
of the angry billows moistened her face, but she regarded
nothing, save the grandeur of the spectacle, which
nature, wrapped in clouds, and agitated by the stormy
winds of heaven, presented her. As she looked upon
the frightful agitation of the waters, illuminated by the
lurid flashes which incessantly played upon their surface,
she suddenly perceived a small canoe struggling
with the waves, now lost between their dreadful gulfs, 3(6)v 36
and then riding triumphantly upon their foaming summits.
What a situation for a human being! Death
seemed inevitable, and Catherine shuddered, as with
intense interest she watched the progress of the frail
bark, amid the perils which surrounded it.

At length, it gained a point opposite the summer-
house, and seemed nearing the shore. As it approached
the land, she perceived, by the vivid light which streamed
from the heavens, that it was occupied by a solitary
individual, who, as he guided its course, chanted in a
clear and steady voice, which betrayed no symptoms
of fear, a song, of which Catherine was able only to
distinguish an occasional word of line. The chants
were short, after the Indian manner, with pauses between;
but the distinct and sonorous tone, in which
they were uttered, enabled her without much difficulty
at length to catch the following words.

“Bound swiftly over the waters! Speed on thy
course, my light canoe! The waves are dark, and the
winds arise in their futy! No longer I behold the blue
heavens! Clouds darken the skies, and the stars are
quenched in darkness!”

These words, sung in a strain of wild, but not unpleasing
melody, were several times repeated; others too
were added, which the noise of the tempest rendered
unintelligible, if indeed they were pronounced in English:
to Catherine, they seemed to be in a different and
unknown language. In the mean time, the canoe rapidly
approached the shore dancing like a fairy skiff over
the furious billows, till it touched the strand and was
safely moored beneath a group of trees, which overhung
the water. The song then ceased, and the voyager,
leaping from his frail vessel, began to ascend the
somewhat precipitous and wooded bank of the river.
Catherine watched him intently, though he was frequently
lost from her view in the intervals of darkness which
succeeded the vivid glare of the lightning. At length
he suddenly disappeared among the trees; but she still
looked earnestly forth, hoping to catch another view of
his person.

4(1)r 37

The fury of the tempest was abating, and Catherine
watched in the expectation of seeing the stranger unmoor
his boat and proceed upon his voyage, when suddenly
the same wild and plaintive chant, which she had
heard upon the waters, arose from beneath the very
wall of the summer-house. She bent eagerly over the
terrace and beheld the object of her curiosity reclining
at the foot of an oak which the lightnings of some preceding
tempest had blasted. A bright flash played
upon his person, as she gazed, and revealed to her astonished
eyes the dusky complexion and savage attire
of an Indian. He reclined upon the ground with his
head resting against the massy trunk of the oak, apparently
watching the lightnings as they played among the
clouds. His bow and quiver of arrows were lying beside
him, and a cloak formed of feathers was parted at
the breast, so as to display a profusion of beads and
silver ornaments, with which the Indian tribes are fond
of decorating their persons. An instinctive horror froze
the blood of Catherine, at sight of this savage being.
She had heard so much of the atrocious cruelties, committed
by these daring natives of the forest, that she
could not behold one of them, without fear and aversion.
Several of their tribes, she well knew, were in league
with her countrymen; but what barbarous excesses
had they not committed! Urged on by a love of
plunder and a thirst for human blood, they had, in
many instances, turned their weapons against their allies,
and basely betrayed the cause, which they had sworn
to serve. The recent murder of the lovely and unfortunate
Miss McRea, by two of these savages, had filled
every breast with pity and consternation. The frightful
deed was now present to the mind of Catherine,
with all its aggravated circumstances, and, while she
looked upon the Indian, she shuddered, as if she actually
beheld the perpretrator of the cruel act before her.
Struck with the loneliness of her situation, and her temerity
in remaining so long exposed to the danger of
discovery, she turned with the intention of effecting an
instant retreat, when she heard the voice of Mr. Hope 4 4(1)v 38
in conversation with a stranger advancing along the
walk, and she sat down to wait till they passed.
Aware that the garden gate was locked, she of course
imagined the entrance of the Indian to be impracticable,
and she felt no other uneasiness than that arising from
her vicinity to so savage a being. But she was vexed
when Mr. Hope and his companion, instead of passing
into another walk, entererd the summer-house; and unwilling
to interrupt what seemed to be an earnest conference,
she submitted to the necessity of remaining
where she was, till they had quitted the building.

The storm had passed away without rain, and the
moon struggled at intervals through the broken clouds
whose huge black masses seemed to impede her progress,
and still shrouded the heavens in partial darkness.
Catherine dared not to bend over the terrace to take
another view of the Indian, whose song was hushed into
silence, but she could easily perceive his canoe floating
as far as the rope by which it was moored would
permit, and then dashed upon the shore with violence
by the returning wave.

From the contemplation of this object she was aroused
by the import of some words which reached her from
below. They related to a subject which had been previously
discussed in her presence, and she of course felt
herself guilty of no breach of honor, in choosing rather
to remain an invisible auditor, than to intrude upon a conference
which seemed so interesting to the speakers.
She judged it improbable that the Indian would be able
to comprehend what was said, even supposing it possible
for him to hear through a wall of several feet in
thickness, and while the agitated waters still roared with
a tremendous noise; and therefore, deeming it unnecessary
to apprize Mr. Hope of his vicinity, she remained
stationary, while the following conversation passed
in the apartment below.

“But Jacob,” said Mr. Hope in a persuasive tone,
“thou knowest how much depends on the safe delivery
of this packet, and yet, for the sake of more of the mammon
of this world, thou wilt desert the cause of thy 4(2)r 39
country, and refuse to bear to her brave defenders tidings
of the evils which are threatening to fall upon them.”

“And who has informed thee,” answered his companion,
of the evils, of which thou speakest? Art
thou entrusted with the secret designs of the rebels,
that thou knowest so much of their affairs?”

“What avails it thee to know in what manner I have
gained my intelligence?”
answered Mr. Hope; “I have
not time to tell thee, and if I had, it matters not, since
I do affirm it to be true. I have learned from the most
unquestionable authority, that Benjamin Lincoln, a commander
in the service of the rebels, is meditating an
attack upon the outposts, between the northern extremity
of Lake George, and the fortress of Ticonderoga;
and if he proves successful, he will not only gain
the command of the lake, but also cut off all means
of communication between the royal army and Canada.
This, as thou well knowest, is a circumstance of so
much importance, that I would go myself, were it possible,
even without the hope of reward, rather than not
have it known to those whom it so nearly concerns.”

“Then, Richard Hope,” answered the other Quaker,
for such his speech bespoke hom to be, “thou must
even go thyself, or find some other emissary to do thy
errand. We are men of peace, and it becometh not us
to meddle with these dealers in human blood. He
that taketh the sword shall perish by the sword; and
this may be our miserable end, if we depart from our
profession, and hold communion with these sons of
Belial.”

“But is it not to prevent the flowing forth of human
blood, that I send thee with this despatch?”
asked Mr.
Hope
. “If the rumour of this projected enterprise is
known, the plans of the rebels will be of course defeated,
and thus the lives of many will be saved, who
would else fall victims to the surprise of an unexpected
attack.”

“Thou sayest true in that,” answered the other, after
a pause of several minutes; “but what, if I consent to
do thy errand, is to be my recompense for time and 4(2)v 40
labour spent in traversing mountains, forests, and marshes,
which no human foot, save that of the lurking spy,
or wild Indian, has ever dared to tread? Thou knowest
that my portion of worldly wealth is small, and Heaven
has given me children and a wife to feed and clothe.”

“Five pounds sterling from my own purse;” said Mr.
Hope
, “in addition to the sum already offered thee,
shall be thine, if thou will promise faithfully to execute
the trust committed to thy care, and will hasten back
with all the speed which thou canst make.”

“Give me then the packet,” said the Quaker; “tomorrow
before day break I shall depart; and in four
days, if God speed me on my way, thou wilt see me
again before thee to claim the promised reward.”

“And thou shalt have it, if thou hast faithfully fulfiled
thy commission,”
said Mr. Hope; “but thou must
go forth to-night, Jacob; time and tide wait for no man,
as thou well knowest; and when affairs of life and death
are depending, it is not fit that thou shouldst wait for
them. But come first with me; I have those beneath
my roof, who, it may be, will wish to charge thee with
a token of affection to one who is dear to them, in the
camp, whither thou art going; and Susannah Hope will
furnish thee with such wholesome viands, as shall be
necessary to sustain thee, during thy toilsome journey.”

During this dialogue, the clouds had nearly all rolled
away towards the east, and the moon was now shining
bright in the clam blue heavens. The Indian’s canoe
remained moored beneath the trees, and Catherine,
surprised that he had not resumed his voyage, bent
cautiously over the terrace to ascertain if he were still
beneath the wall. But she started hastily back when
she beheld him standing close to the garden wall, one
hand resting upon it and his head bent forward, as if
intently listening to the conversation of the Quakers.
She quickly descended the stairs to inform them of their
singular auditor; but before Mr. Hope, who with his
companion was on the point of quitting the summer-house,
could express his surprise at her unexpected appearance,
the Indian, with the agility peculiar to his race, 4(3)r 41
had leaped over the garden wall, and now stood in savage
majesty before the amazed Quakers.

His cloak formed of the plumage of the most beautiful
birds, curiously sewed together, after the manner of
the Indians, exhibited a gay variety of colours, as it
glanced in the bright moonlight, and, falling gracefully
from his shoulders, revealed a form of unrivalled symmetry,
whose exquisite proportions might well have served
a sculptor for the model of an Apollo. His countenance
was noble and dignified, and as he fixed his piercing
eyes upon the group who stood motionless before him,
awe and admiration filled the mind of Catherine, and
banished every vestige of that fear and abhorrence,
with which she had regarded him, during the violence
of the tempest.

“Who art thou, friend?” at length asked Mr. Hope,
recovering from the surprise which had at first enchained
his faculties. “Who art thou, and why dost thou
intrude upon the privacy of our retirement?”

“Who am I, dost thou ask?” exclaimed the Indian
in pure English, and breaking at once into the forcible
and figurative language peculiar to his race. “Who
am I! Seest thou yon blasted oak, stripped of his honors,
and seared by the lightnings of heaven? Such am
I; seared and blasted; stripped of my verdure and my
blossoms, and left a useless trunk in the midst of the
green and thriving stocks around me. Why, dost thou
ask, come I hither? I come to warn thee, Richard Hope,
thee, a man of peace, to beware how thou treatest with
those who love war, and trade in human blood. Thou
hast nothing to do with these things; give me thy
papers, and bid thy messenger depart to his home.”

“Friend, thou dost make a demand which I cannot
grant,”
answered Mr. Hope; “my papers are important,
and what assurance have I that thou wilt deliver them
in safety to him for whom they are designed?”

“Thou hast none,” returned the Indian, “but since
I know the tidings thou wouldst send, thinkest thou thy
messenger can travel in safety where my red brethren
may lie in ambush to entrap him?”

4* 4(3)v 42

Jacob shrunk back with a look of horror at this menacing
intimation, secretly resolving that no promise of
reward, however great, should induce him to risk his
life in the adventure. Mr. Hope, without observing the
alarmed gesture of his intended emissary, said to the
Indian,

“Then thou dost not join thy brethren in aiding the
English, but clingest to the cause of America?”

“I am an American,” answered the Indian in a tone
of proud and energetic feeling, which thrilled through
the heart of Catherine; “I love peace,” he continued,
“and I wished to obey the fathers of this nation, who
commanded our tribes to remain quiet and take no part
in the quarrel of their white brothers. But my red
brethren were angry, because I would not follow them
to battle, and they came in wrath to my cabin. All
perished, all that I loved! The mother and five brave
sons! But the murderers did not escape. They were
smitten by a strong arm; they fell to the earth like
trees of the forest before the tempests of heaven! And
he who avenged the wrongs of Ohmeina shall never be
betrayed. Give me then thy papers, for thou canst not
send them in safety to the English camp.”

“Thou canst not wrest them from me,” answered
Mr. Hope, resolved not to yield them to the savage;
“and since thou already knowest their contents, why
dost thou request me to deliver them up?”

“I would take them to prevent thy messenger from
going,”
answered the Indian; “yet send him if thou
wilt; I know every pass of the mountains, every resting
place of the forests, the course of all the streams;
and dost thou think he can escape the ambush which
I shall spread for him? Yes, send him, Richard
Hope
,”
he repeated in a stern and menacing tone, “but I
bid thee beware of what shall follow; my eye shall
watch thee, and the red man of the forest shall bear
thee where thou canst not again betray thy countrymen.”

“Give him the papers,” exclaimed the trembling
Jacob; “I will not be thy messenger, friend Richard, 4(4)r 43
and thou wilt bring the blood of the innocent upon thy
head, if thou persistest in thy mad design. Again I tell
thee, leave these men of strife to reap the fruits of their
folly; we have no portion with them, and why should
we depart from the precepts of our faith to do them
service?”

“Verily, Jacob, thou speakest with power and with
effect,”
said Mr. Hope, intimidated by the menaces of
the Indian, and stung with a consciousness, that he was
taking an active part in concerns which his religion
taught him to abhor.

“I cannot,” he said, addressing the Indian, “give
thee these papers, because they are not mine, but entrusted
to me by another; but I will return them to him,
from whom they were received, and endeavor to prevent
their being sent, by declaring the perils which
await the messenger, on condition that thou wilt not
attempt the violence which thou hast threatened against
me.”

“See then that thou dost keep thy word,” said the
Indian, “and no evil shall befall thee; but if thou breakest
it, beware the vengeance of Ohmeina!”

So saying, he gathered his cloak around him and
bounded lightly over the garden wall. Catherine, who
had been deeply interested in this singular interview;
and, impressed by the bold and noble bearing, the forcible
language, and authoritative manner of the Indian,
ran to the top of the summer-house to observe his farther
motions. He had already reached the brink of the
river; the canoe was loosed from its moorings; the
voyager sprang lightly into it, and pushing it from the
shore, it bounded gaily over the moonlight waters.
Catherine, absorbed by reflection, watched its course
till the frail bark had diminished to a speck, that soon
became imperceptible in the distance. She then returned
to the house, whither the Quakers had gone immediately
after the departure of the Indian. She found
Mrs. Hope and Amelia listening to the recital of the
evening’s adventure, and while they congratulated themselves,
that they had not been witnesses of the singular 4(4)v 44
scene, she expressed the pleasure which it had afforded
her, and dwelt with so much enthusiasm on the grace
and dignity of the Indian’s manner and appearance,
that Amelia inquired, with surprise and displeasure, how
it was possible she could have felt one emotion of delight
in the presence of so savage a being.

On the following morning Mr. Hope, agreeably to
his promise, returned the papers to Mr. Forrester, the
gentleman from whom he had received them, and with
whom he had concerted the plan of forwarding them
to the British commander. He wrote a statement of
the occurrence which had induced him to aboandon the
enterprise, and represented the danger which attended
the undertaking to be so great, that it would of course
deter any one from attempting it. He did not hesitate
to declare that he could take no farther interest in it;
for in truth he had been completely roused, by the
mixture of menace and reproach conveyed in the words
of the Indian, to reflect with remorse upon the part he
was acting; a part so inconsistent with the principles of
his faith, so adverse to the precepts, which from infancy,
he had been taught to reverence and obey. We will
not say that fear had no agency in the somewhat sudden
but wise resolutions of Mr. Hope, though we will
do him the justice to declare, that reflection and principle
aided and confirmed the impressions which this
passion was first instrumental in producing.

Mr. Forrester was one of those characters so common
during the revolution, who, from the motives of convenience,
policy, or cowardice, professed neutrality, but
secretly lent all possible aid to the royalists. He was
an Irishman by birth, but had been long enough in
America to have imbibed strong prejudices against
the people, and they became daily more bitter and
implacable by finding himself an object of suspicion
and dislike. Some reports, disadvantageous to his
character, had followed him to the country, and increased
the aversion, which his haughty and arrogant manners
had already excited. Vindictive and unprincipled,
he sought, like Haman of old, to revenge his private 4(5)r 45
hatred upon the nation at large, and though he had been
heard to speak with asperity of his own countrymen,
he exerted himself to gain for them all the important
intelligence, which might aid their cause and hasten the
downfall of the “rebels”.

Having easily penetrated the sentiments of the unsuspicious
Mr. Hope, he had, by his plausible manners,
obtained his confidence, and now sought to make him a
useful instrument in designs, which his own cowardice
prevented his adventuring in alone. He wished to keep
behind the curtain, that, in case suspicion should awake,
it might be attached to one more active than himself;
and, though much chagrined by the return of the papers,
and irritated by what he termed the childish fright,
which had induced Mr. Hope to relinquish them, yet
he had found him too useful an agent, to run the risk of
openly expressing his displeasure, and he resolved to
seek the Quaker and persuade him by gentle words to
retract the declaration which he had made.

With this design he left the city, on the evening after
the return of the papers, and walked towards the habitation
of the Quaker. The outer door was open, and
entering without ceremony, he found Mr. Hope alone
in the parlour and so busily engaged in reading William
Penn’s
Maxims and Reflections relating to the Conduct
of Human Life,
that he seemed unconscious of
the fast gathering darkness which was usurping the
place of the brilliant twilight that had so long enabled
him to read without difficulty. He laid aside the book
when Mr. Forrester entered, who advanced and saluted
him with an air of frankness and cordiality which he could
assume at pleasure. As soon as the usual salutations
were exchanged, and a few preliminary observations
ended, Mr. Forrester, with apparent gentleness and real
caution, introduced the subject of his visit. Drawing
forth the packet, he said, “Since I received these papers
from you, Mr. Hope, I have lost no time in endeavoring
to find some one who would be willing for a
suitable reward to undertake the office of conveying
them to the place of their destination; but there is not 4(5)v 46
a man that I can find, who has patriotism enough to
run the smallest risk for the welfare of his country; and
I again come to entreat, that you will advise and assist
me in an affair of so much importance.”

“Thou knowest, friend Forrester,” said Mr. Hope,
“that I have done all that I could, and more than I
ought, to assist thee in this matter; and since I have
told thee that I could take no farther part in it, of what
avail is it again to apply to me?”

“Mr. Hope,” returned Forrester, “I do not wish to
give you offence, and I thank you for your good intentions;
but you must excuse me if I say, you have as
yet afforded me no assistance at all. You received the
papers with a promise to send them, but terrified by
the savage threats of a powerless Indian, you returned
them with a declaration that you could afford me no
farther aid.”

“Because,” answered Mr. Hope, “I regarded the
threats of the Indian, as the interposition of Heaven, to
prevent me from sharing in transactions which are
stained with blood, and which, according to the precepts
of my faith, I ought to view only with pity and
abhorrence, and to refrain from taking any part or lot
therein.”

“Superstitious dotard!” muttered Mr. Forrester in
an under tone, and scarcely able to suppress his rising
passion; but recollecting the impolicy of indulging it,
he said in a soothing voice, “The contents of the packet,
it is true, were not exactly overtures of peace; but
they were designed to warn an unsuspicious garrison
of a meditated assault, and prevent a waste of human
life, by giving them time to prepare for defence.”

“Thou art mistaken, friend,” said Mr. Hope; “if the
attack is unsuspected, the fortress will be more likely to
surrender, and this will be the means of sparaing many
lives, which, in case of a vigorous defence, must certainly
be lost.”

“And will you,” asked Mr. Forrester, striving in
vain to conceal his vexation, “will you sit down contented
with such cowardly and fallacious reasoning, and 4(6)r 47
not make a single effort to aid a cause, which you have
declared to be so dear to you? Already these insolent
rebels triumph over the soldiers of their sovereign, and
predict the moment of their separation from the land
which ought to be an object of their eternal love and
veneration. They exult in the defeat of the gallant
Baum and Breyman at Bennington, and in the retreat
of St. Leger before the walls of Fort Stanwix. With
arrogant presumption, they even venture to prophecy
the total discomfiture of Burgoyne’s experienced army,
and yet you calmly hear the insolent boasting of these
upstart people, at your very doors, without breathing a
wish for the triumph of the just and righteous cause.”

“Thou art mistaken, friend,” repeated Mr. Hope in
a quiet tone, which evinced that he was wholly unmoved
by the rapid and emphatic gesticulation of his irritable
companion; “thou art mistaken; I have interested
myself, but too actively, in the great struggle now passing
before us. I have departed too far from the faith
which I profess; I have forgotten that he who said,
‘they that take the sword, shall perish by the sword,’
said also, ‘blessed are the peace-makers, for they shall
be called the children of God;’
and while I have been
careful not literally to grasp this weapon of the evil one,
neither have I been guided by the promise, so dear and
encouraging to all, who in sincerity embrace the principles
of our sect. I have deeply erred, and I confess
with shame, that often, when I might have instilled the
balm of peace and brotherly affection into the irritated
minds of partizans and patriots, I have, contrary to the
doctrines I venerate, and to the examples I revere,
sought to increase the flame of dissension and triumphed
in the success of my endeavors. May God forgive
me! and bestow upon me a double portion of his grace
and spirit, to enable me, henceforth, to withstand the
temptations and devices of Satan!”

Mr. Forrester smiled with contemptuous scorn at the
fervent ejaculation of the conscience-struck Quaker, and
unable any longer to repress his anger, it burst forth in
a strain of passionate invective.

4(6)v 48

“Curse upon thy canting sect,” he said, “who ever
make their pretended sanctity a veil for treachery and
cowardice! But hear me, Richard Hope; you cannot
impose upon my experience with a tale of your conviction
and repentance, however plausible and well invented;
I have known you too long, and seen you too often
engaged in affairs which you now affect to regard with
horror, to believe in the sincerity of your conscientious
scruples. No, either you have received a bribe from
the rebels, or this devil of an Indian has frightened you
into a cloke of sanctimony, which I swear to strip off,
though the ghost of William Penn himself were to come
from the tomb and forbid me.”

Mr. Hope shuddered with horror at this sacrilegious
mention of the sainted Penn; but unawed by the furious
demeanor of Mr. Forrester, he retained an unmoved
countenance, and answered in the calm and slow tone,
in which he was accustomed to speak, “May God pardon
thy intemperate wrath, and enable me to preserve
unmoved, my resolution! Friend Forrester, thou must
seek some other agent to assist thee; I cannot lend
thee any farther aid. I have unveiled to thee my inmost
heart, trusting thou wouldst respect the scruples
of a tender conscience; but since thou dost only ridicule
and insult them, thou mayest vainly hope, by thy
angry looks and menacing gestures, to fright me from
the course which I know and feel to be right. But
even if thou couldst, I have it not in my power to forward
the despatches. Jacob Weston has declined the
task, and I know of none to whom I could apply.
Friend Forrester, we must leave the direction and issue
of affairs to Heaven. Feeble and impotent mortals, as
we are, how can we aid the designs of the Almighty,
or turn the course of events according to our own wishes?”

“Cease thy idle babbling, and give thy counsel when
it is desired,”
thundered the incensed Forrester, “I
will hear no more of it. I tell thee I detest these vile
Americans, and would give one half that I possess to
see them humbled by the arms of Britain. With their 5(1)r 49
prying and suspicious eyes they scrutinize my actions,
as if they thought me in very truth, an agent of the
devil. They have dared to doubt my honor, and even
whispered that I left my country in disgrace! And
shall I not seek to revenge these insults so galling to
my feelings, so degrading to my character? By Heaven,
I will travel myself with these despatches, sooner than
risk the success of an enterprise which may yield a fresh
theme of exultation for their vain and boasting tongues.”

“It is personal pique, then, which has induced thee
to wish for the triumph of thy country,”
said the Quaker;
“verily I did believe thee to be inspired by the
purest patriotism, and while I listened to thee, I caught
a portion of thy ardor. Thou hast deceived me in this;
and how do I know but thou art the dishonest man,
which the Americans declare thee, and hast fled from
thy country, to avoid the justice of its laws?”

Mr. Forrester in the heat of passion had unawares
betrayed himself, but it was too late to recede, and resolving
to brave the suspicions, which he had so incautiously
awakened, he approached close to the open
window against which Mr. Hope was seated, and said
with a look and in an accent of defiance,

“How dare you attempt to blacken, by such insinuations,
a character, of which you know no evil? My
wrath is implacable, when once awakened, and this
affront shall not go unavenged, unless you will instantly
engage to lend me your aid in forwarding these papers
to General Burgoyne.”

“I tell thee, for the last time, that I cannot, and will
not aid thee;”
said Mr. Hope, in a firm and decided
tone, which evinced the strength of his resolution

“And I,” said a voice from without the windows, “I
tell thee, that he shall not aid thee.”

At the same moment the packet which he held was
snatched from Mr. Forrester, by a hand suddenly extended
and as suddenly withdrawn. A slight motion of
the foliage was perceived, and immediately after an indistinct
figure sprang from the thick covert of bushes
and darted rapidly past the window.

5
5(1)v 50

Mr. Forrester, recovering from his surprise, leaped
through the open casement and followed the sound of
the flying footsteps down a dark alley, at the termination
of which he again caught a glimpse of the figure, as it
emerged from the deep shadows of the trees. He called
aloud, but it passed forward without reply till it gained
the garden wall, when with inconceivable quickness
it sprung over and disappeared from view

Mr. Forrester stood for a moment lost in astonishment;
but curiosity and a desire to recover his papers
impelled him forward, and advancing hastily to the wall,
with some difficulty he climbed high enough to observe
what passed on the other side. The beams of the
moon fell unobstructed upon the object of his pursuit,
and enabled him at once to identify the person and attire
of the Indian, whose menaces had so intimidated
Mr. Hope, and whose appearance the Quaker had
minutely described to him. He raised his voice and
demanded the packet, when the Indian turned full towards
him, and waved his hand in token that he should
not follow him, at the same time unclosing his cloak and
with a significant gesture pointing to the papers, which
he had deposited in his bosom. He then moved rapidly
towards his canoe, and though Mr. Forrester continued
alternately to threaten and entreat, he passed on
without regarding him, and leaping into his little bark
paddled from the shore and shortly disappeared in the
distance.

Vexed and mortified, Mr. Forrester quitted his
uncomfortable station on the wall, and muttering curses
on Mr. Hope, the rebels, and the Indian, he bent his
steps towards the house. Mr. Hope met him near the
bottom of the garden; his suspicions of the person,
who had so unceremoniously possessed himself of the
papers, already glanced upon the Indian, and they
were confirmed by the intelligence of Mr. Forrester.
But it was vain to think of recovering the despatches;
they were irretrievably gone. Who could trace the
steps of these sons of the forest, or detect the wiles
which they spread, with so much art, for those, whom
it was their design to entrap?

5(2)r 51

Though Mr. Forrester had ridiculed the terrors of
Mr. Hope, he was himself alarmed, and considered his
personal safety endangered; as those, to whom the
Indian would probably deliver the papers, would doubtless
deem it of importance to secure an individual,
whose active zeal in the cause of the enemy might be
productive of the most fatal consequences to themselves.
He therefore took the resolution of quitting Albany. He
had long been ready for an instant removal, in case of
exigency, and he now believed the moment had arrived,
when it was necessary for him to depart.

Mr. Hope, to whom he communicated his intention,
did not attempt to dissuade him from it. Indeed he
judged it incompatible with his safety to remain any
longer in the city, where he would be exposed to the
constant scrutiny of this vigilant Indian, who walked in
darkness, and whom they knew not how to avoid. He
therefore, as a friend, and in sincere good will, advised
him to go without delay; and Mr. Forrester, always
eager to avoid danger, and reluctant, for reasons of his
own, to be the subject of severe investigation, received
the Quaker’ counsel as it was intended, and determined
immediately to depart. He apologized for the
harshness of his language, during the conversation of that
evening, by pleading the excessive chagrin and perplexity,
which the affair had occasioned him; and, having received
the forgiveneness of his pacific friend, and an assurance
of his continued good will, he bade him a kind adieu,
and mounting a fleet horse, left the city, and before
morning dawned was far from it; though whither he
directed his course was known to no one beside himself.

5(2)v 52

Chapter IV.

“Man, fell man, Envious of bliss he scorns, ’mid haunts of peace, Spots fair and blissful, the rare stars of earth, Plays ever his foul game of war and death, Ruthless, then vaunts himself Creation’s pride, Supreme o’er all alone in deeds of blood.” Milman.

While the events recorded in the last chapter were
passing in the family of Richard Hope, the progress of
the royal army under General Burgoyne was marked
by a series of uninterrrupted victories. Composed of
veteran troops, led by experienced and accomplished
officers, and furnished with a formidable train of artillery,
and all the necessary and dreadful accompaniments of
war, it proceeded on its course conquering and to conquer;
while, to increase the terrors of its frightful array,
a host of ferocious Indians, in their savage attire, thirsting
for blood, and uttering the tremendous war cries of
their tribes, followed its progress.

The Americans retreated before a power which, with
their inadequate means, it would have been temerity to
oppose; and the fortress of Ticonderoga, which two
years before, their valor had wrested from the British,
again returned to the hands of the conquerers. But
the bravery, with which the little flotilla of the Americans
engaged the superior force of the enemy, and the
vigorous resistance which they made, at Hubberton and
at Fort Anne, are evidences sufficiently convincing, to
the candid and unprejudiced mind, that imperious necessity,
and not cowardice, compelled them to yield
this strong hold of the North, and decline a contest
which must inevitably have destroyed their comparatively
feeble force.

The royal army, elated with the success of this first
enterprise, began to think itself invincible. Both officers
and soldiers regarded with contempt an enemy so 5(3)r 53
inferior in numbers and in discipline. They considered
their toils as already ended, and imagined that they had
only to march forward and take possession of the places
which would doubtless be quickly evacuated at their
approach. They considered themselves in possession
of the grand keys of North America, in having obtained
the command of Ticonderoga and the lakes, and, animated
by the prospects which seemed opening before
them, they retained, in the midst of toil and many difficulties,
a spirit of undaunted cheerfulness and gaiety;
apparently regarding as trifles the serious obstacles,
which embarrassed their march through a country interseccted
with mountains and broken by creeks and
deep morasses. Besides these natural impediments,
the Americans in their retreat had felled enormous trees
across the path, demolished bridges, and thrown every
possible obstruction in their way: but still the British
troops persevered with confidence, and on their approach
to Fort Edward, on the Hudson, the point to which
their wishes had long tended, it was precipitately abandoned,
and they entered in triumph the deserted fortress.

General Schuyler, with his army, and the remnant
of the troops who had fled from Ticonderoga, and by a
circuitous passage through the woods, joined him in
extreme wretchedness at this place, retired to Saratoga,
then to Stillwater, and even as far south as the mouth
of the Mohawk, where, unshaken by the disasters which
had befallen them, they prepared, with astonishing constancy
and vigor, to form an encampment which should
present a complete barrier to the farther progress of the
enemy.

But the royal army had new and formidable difficulculties
to encounter, which forbade its pressing forward
in that splendid career, which had heretofore attracted
the regard of every eye. They had precipitately penetrated
into the heart of a strange country, ill provided
with stores of any kind, which they were now obliged
to transport from Fort George, a distance of sixteen
miles, over an exceedingly difficult country. Many 5* 5(3)v 54
impediments attended the undertaking; they were in
want of cattle to aid their endeavors, and repeated
heavy rains had rendered the bad roads well nigh impassable.
The excitement, which continued success
had occasioned, subsided, and the sanguine spirits of
the troops were saddened by the difficulties which
awaited them, and the toil and danger which they were
daily obliged to encounter. But when, after fifteen
days of constant and unremitting exertion, there was
found to be not more than four days provision in store,
their prospects were gloomy indeed, and the situation
of their affairs embarrassing in the extreme.

Other events more mortifying, and equally vexatious,
occurred at this time. The defeat of the expedition to
Bennington, which was a large deposit of stores, which
they hoped to seize, and the failure of Colonel St. Leger’s
attack upon Fort Stanwix, by which all General
Burgoyne’s
hopes of uniting his forces with those of St.
Leger’s
were destroyed, rendered the situation and
prospects of the royal army truly deplorable.

To retreat, even were it practicable, was at once to
abandon the object of the expedition, to incur the imputation
of cowardice, and to provoke the sarcasms of a
thousand evil tongues.

General Burgoyne had supplanted his valiant and
virtuous predecessor in the command of this enterprise,
and his pride was concerned in remaining firm at the
post, which he had assumed with such confident hopes
of victory. At his first outset, he had declared, “this
army must not retreat,”
and as his present position was
no longer tenable, he considered his only alternative to
be an immediate engagement with the American force,
now under the command of General Gates.

Confident of success, he endeavoured to revive the
drooping spirits of his troops, and in the prospect of a
battle they were inspired with new life, and forgot the
hardships and privations they were forced to endure.
They felt a contempt for the enemy that had retreated
so rapidly before them, and who, they believed, could fight 5(4)r 55
only beneath the covert of hedges and entrenchments,
but would shrink from a fair combat in the open field.

General Burgoyne felt the importance of forcing his
way to Albany, the central point, at which the victorious
armies were to assemble, and from the reports
which reached him, of the increasing strength of the
enemy, he judged that no time was to be lost in hazarding
an engagement. He therefore moved from Fort
Edward
, and, marching along the Hudson, encamped
nearly opposite to Saratoga, where he still continued
his exertions in bringing forward stores and provisions
from Fort George.

Among the officers, there were frequent conversations
on the present situation of affairs. Some censured
the General, and boded the most fatal calamities which
were to befall the army, while others, more sanguine,
prophesied a brilliant termination to the campaign, and
the consequent reduction of the rebels to obedience and
good behaviour. Among the latter, there were none
more confident than Major Courtland. From the period
of his engaging in active service, he had felt as if
transported back to the days of early manhood, and
about to commence a new career of glory. With all
the ardor and intrepidity which had distinguished his
youth, he espoused the cause of his country, and confidently
predicted the complete triumph of her arms.
The victories, which had markred the commencement
of the campaign, elated him to almost boyish rapture;
nor did he at all despond at their difficulties and defeats,
which had since attended their progress.

Even his affection for his daughter, who had been so
long the sole object of his hopes and wishes, seemed
lost in the overwhelming passion for military glory,
which inflamed him. In the letters which he addressed
her, there was less of the tenderness of a father, than
the impatient spirit of a warrior, who longs for the moment
of combat, and dwells with delighted accuracy, on
the dreadful paraphernalia, of death which surround
him.

5(4)v 56

Catherine shuddered at the tenor of these letters, but
she implored Heaven to preserve her father’s life, and
drew comfort from the belief, that the excitement of
his feelings was transient, and would subside with the
occasion which had awakened it. With the most pathetic
earnestness, she entreated him to guard his safety
for her sake; and, touched by the ardor of her filial affection,
he sometimes heaved a momentary sigh at the
remembrance of those peaceful pleasures which he had
voluntarily resigned, for the strife of battle and the
noisy confusion of a camp.

But the present dangerous crisis allowed him no
time for the indulgence of these softening thoughts.

General Burgoyne, having, by the most indefatigable
exertions, obtained a supply of about thirty days’ provision
and other necessary stores, resolved to cross the
Hudson, and encamp on the plain and heights of Saratoga;
a measure which was warmly opposed by many
of his officers, and as strenuously supported by others,
among whom was Major Courtland, who panted for an
engagement with the republicans.

General Burgoyne, however, asked no counsel, and
seemed indifferent to the disapprobation, which was
visible among some of his officers. His only chance of
safety depended on his being able to force a passage to
Albany, and the season was already so far advanced, as
to admit of no delay. He accordingly crossed the
Hudson, on a bridge of boats, and, advancing along
the river, halted within four miles of the enemy, who were
returning northward, in the hope of encountering him,
and were at this time encamped in considerable force,
about three miles above Stillwater.

On the morning of the 1777-09-19nineteenth of September, the
British resumed their line of march, and prepared for
immediate action. Some accidental skirmishes between
the advanced parties of the two armies, preceded a
general engagement, which was sustained on both sides
with unexampled valor, and continued with unabated
fury, till night terminated the dreadful contest. The
Americans then retired to their encampment, while the 5(5)r 57
British remained upon the field of battle, fortifying their
camp, and preparing for another engagement.

Though victory had not declared for either army, she
certainly inclined in favor of the Americans, since their
loss scarcely amounted to half the number of the enemy’s,
and might be easily supplied; while that of the
British had weakened their force, and in their present
situation could not be repaired. They, however, declared
the combat to have terminated in their favor,
since they retained possession of the battle ground, and
persisted in affirming, that had not the approach of
night occasioned a cessation of arms, a positive victory
would doubtless have been won by them. Major
Courtland
strenuously supported this belief. He could
not brook the idea that an army so equipped, so disciplined,
and so brave, should encounter the shame of a
defeat, and with that high sense of honor and national
pride, which so strinkingly characterizes the English, he
wished for death rather than disgrace. His enthusiastic
loyalty, and the contempt with which he seemed to regard
every species of danger, called forth the admiration
of his brother officers, and attached to him many
young and daring spirits, who burned to signalize themselves
in arms, and loved to animate their zeal, by listening
to the ardent expressions of so experienced and
brave a soldier. He shunned no duty, however toilsome
or hazardous, and the present state of affairs called
for all the activity and vigilance of officers and men.

Increasing difficulties and perplexities continued to
harass the British commander. The desertion of the
Canadians and Indians, in large numbers, weakened his
strength, and lessened his confidence in those that remained.
The provisions of the men were reduced,
from necessity, to half their usual allowance; the stock
of forage was nearly exhausted, and the cattle were fast
perishing for want of sustenance. To add to his distress,
no intelligence had been received from Sir Henry
Clinton
, from whose co-operation he had expected much
assistance; and while the army of General Gates was
swelled by troops of deserters from his own, and thousands 5(5)v 58
were flocking from all quarters to join its standard,
he could do nothing to augment his strength, nor
make a movement which would afford him relief, or in
the least brighten the desperate situation in which he
had incautiously involved himself. He could only keep
a strict watch over his enemy’s motions, and use every
means to fortify his own camp, and guard it from sudden
attack. In the midst of his anxieties, he sought, by
the firmness and fortitude of his conduct, to animate
his soldiers with hope, while at the same time, by
the cheerfulness with which he shared their toils and
privations, he increased their attachment, and encouraged
them to support with constancy the dangers and
hardships which they were compelled to endure.

As they were encamped within cannon shot of the
enemy, they were harassed by continual alarms. They
were closely watched, and it not unfrequently happened,
that their pickets were attacked by parties of the
Americans. In this situation, constant vigilance was
requisite. But, surrounded as they were by perils,
General Burgoyne was induced to remain stationary
for the present, in consequence of intelligence received
from Sir Henry Clinton, urging him to hold out till the
1777-10-12twelfth of the following month, when, by making a diversion
in his favour on the North river, he would oblige
General Gates to divide his army, and render it easy
for him to prevail over the reduced force of the enemy.
The dread of famine presented the only obstacle to
this design, and the difficulty of foraging rendered
it almost madness in them to think of holding out for
so long a time. Yet so much depended on their doing
so, that the General strenuously exhorted his troops to
patience and forbearance, in the hope of future victory.
Sometimes he ventured to send out small foraging parties,
though strong detachments were necessary to cover
these expeditions, and even then they could not be
made without encountering the most imminent risk; so
watchful were the Americans to cut off all means of
succour or support from their enemy.

Some soldiers one day brought a report of a small farmhouse, 5(6)r 59
in the woods, a few miles distant, near which they
had observed cattle feeding, and pigs and poultry clustered
around the door. A prize of so much value was not to
be despised, when every accidental supply, however
small, was an object of importance to them. A detachment
was accordingly ordered to issue forth that night,
for the purpose of transporting the treasures of the
farm-house to the camp.

Major Courtland learned with pleasure, that he was
the officer destined to command this nocturnal expedition;
and, always eager for active service, he busied
himself in preparations for the adventure. All things
being in complete readiness, he went with two other
officers to examine the redoubts, which had been thrown
up for the protection of the hospital, and on which the
men were still laboring.

As they stood viewing the works, a rifle-shot from a
concealed party of the enemy, struck a soldier and killed
him on the spot.

“The devil take these Americans! They pop us off
like ninepins,”
exclaimed Captain O’Carroll, one of
the officers who had accompanied Major Courtland to
the redoubt.

“And with more indifference than we should roll a
bowl”
, returned Major Courtland, with something like
indignation in his accent, as he moved toward the unfortunate
man, whom his comrades were raising from
the ground.

“Is he dead?” inquired Colonel Percy, the other
officer, with concern.

“There’s not a breath left in his body, sir,” replied
one of the soldiers, a tear glistening on his weatherbeaten
cheek as he gazed on the lifeless face of his
comrade; “and a braver fellow,” he added, “never
drew a trigger for his king.”

“Never, Donald! I will bear witness to that truth,”
said Colonel Percy; “but let him have a soldier’s burial,
and that is all that any of us can expect in a time
like this.”

“Heaven bless your Honor!” answered Donald; 5(6)v 60
“but curse these rebels, who shoot better men than
themselves,”
he muttered, as he assisted his comrades
to bear off the body of the dead soldier.

“A hearty malediction, and given with free good
will;”
exclaimed Captain O’Carroll, laughing.

“Yes, and if maledictions could defeat an army, we
should have been victors before this,”
said Colonel
Percy
, gravely.

“You intend that for me, colonel,” said O’Carroll;
“but though I curse them occasionally, I am never
quite so much in earnest as honest Donald was just
now; for, in truth, they are such brave fellows that I
cannot help honoring them from my very soul, rebels
and traitors as they are. But there goes the fellow,”

he suddenly exclaimed, who shot down Stedman just
now, and there goes another, and another; by heaven
there must be a party of them posted among those
pines. Give me a rifle and let us have a shot at them.”

“They are some of Morgan’s riflemen,” said Major
Courtland
, looking earnestly after them, as they appeared
and disappeared among the thick trees which covered
the little eminence, while the white frocks by which
they were distinguished, rendered them at once conspicuous
to the eye of the attentive observer. Twenty
rifles were instantly discharged at the place, but apparantly
without success, and the fire was immediately returned
with as little effect; when the whole party filed
off to the left, and hastily retreated from view.

“Curse the dastards,” exclaimed Captain O’Carroll,
the blood rushing to his face, as he threw down the rifle
which had served him so badly; “would to Heaven I
could exterminate them!”

Major Courtland and Colonel Percy burst into a
laugh.

“I think, O’Carroll,” said the former, “you curse
the rebels with as good a grace as honest Donald himself;
you forget that you admire their bravery too much
to wish them any worse harm than a defeat.”

“And so I did just now,” answered O’Carroll, coloring
and laughing; “but it was so provoking to see 6(1)r 61
them file off to a man in the midst of such a volley;
and the very fellows too, against whom I bear the most
malice. During the last engagement, as you well know,
they were posted behind every tree to single out and
shoot the most distinguished officers, and Captain McIntosh
shot a villain down who was in the very act of
levelling his piece at General Burgoyne himself.”

“War is terrible enough without this dreadful aggravation
of its horrors,”
said Colonel Percy, “and a practice
so cruel and unjustifiable must excite the indignation
of every honorable and humane mind.”

“They probably act upon the principle,” said Major
Courtland
, smiling, “of destroying the leaders, in order
to hasten the issue of the contest, and prevent a
waste of human life.”

“Absurd!” returned O’Carroll, “the principle thus
acted upon is worthy only of cowards. In fact, Major
Courtland
, the circumstance admits of no palliation.”

“I am far from wishing to palliate it, Captain O’Carroll,”
returned the major; “for no one, I assure you,
can regard it with greater abhorrence than myself.”

“It is nothing better than deliberate assassination,”
said Colonel Percy; “but I am so charitable towards
the Americans, as willingly to believe that the orders,
if any were given, proceeded from some ferocious partizan,
whose illiberal prejudices led him to consider the
life of his foe, as of no more value than that of the wild
deer which bounds through his forests. From some
one like the fiery and implacable Arnold, perhaps, of
whom we have heard so much, and whose passions, as
we are told, continually transport him beyond the limits
of honor and of justice. But if is half past four,”
he
said, looking at his watch; “and as we are to dine with
General Reidesel, Major Courtland, it is time for us
to be gone.”

“And it is time for me too, to think of dinner,” said
Captain O’Carroll, “if I would be in season for the
expedition to-night.”

“Why, we do not leave the camp till midnight,” said 6 6(1)v 62
the major, “so there is no need of haste in this important
ceremony.”

“So much the better;” returned the captain, “we
know not what perils we have to encounter, and it is
well to fortify one’s self with an additional bottle or
two.”

Major Courtland smiled, and cautioning his young
friend to partake sparingly of the exhilarating juice of
the grape, as the adventures of the night might render
it of importance, that they should both retain perfect
possession of their faculties, he bade him good morning,
and walked from the redoubt with Colonel Percy.

At the appointed hour, the party of foragers, with
Major Courtland and Captain O’Carroll at their head,
issued in silence from the camp. The night was cloudless,
and myriads of stars were shining brightly in the
clear blue sky. Guided by a provincial soldier, one of
those who had givevn information of the house, they
proceeded cautiously along the verge of the forest, occasionally
halting to listen for sounds of danger, and then
resuming their swift and noisely progress. After proceeding
without accident for nearly a mile, their guide
struck into a road on the right, which led through a
narrow defile, bordered on each side by craggy rocks,
and terminating in a dense forest, where the matted
boughs shut out the sight of the star-light heavens, and
rendered the advance of the party slower and more difficult
than it had yet been.

Captain O’Carroll’s patience was sorely tried; he
saw no termination to their march, and began to fear
that the soldier had led them wrong. “These American
forests,”
he said, advancing to the side of Major
Courtland
, “are worse than the hills of the Highlands
where I have so often shot grouse with my uncle; even
the bogs of my own dear Ireland cannot boast so charming
a variety of bush and briar as are here at every
step fastening to one’s person, or threatening with their
sharp points to exterminate one’s eyes.”

“Hush!” said Major Courtland, “or we may be assailed
by worse enemies than bushes and briars, and
start more formidable game than Highland grouse.”

6(2)r 63

Captain O’Carroll laughed and fell back to his place.
After proceeding a short distance farther, the party
came to a open space in the forest where the trees had
been felled, though their huge blackened stumps remained,
giving the place the appearance of a vast cemetery,
thickly covered with grave-stones. As they advanced,
this melancholy resemblance was exchanged
for marks of superior cultivation. Fields of Indian
corn, ripe for the sickle and bristling with ears, promised
to recompense the tedious march of the night. A flock
of sheep were clustered together in the corner of a
small enclosure, and, near a cottage built of logs, some
cattle were browsing on the faded herbage. All around
wore the aspect of plenty, and evinced that the owners,
to use the homely phrase of the country, “were
well to do in the world.”

As Major Courtland took a hasty view of the premises,
he was surprised to observe at that unusual hour, a
strong gleam of light issue from the window of the cottage,
and, fearing that their expedition might by some
means have become known to the vigilant enemy, he
halted to consult with Captain O’Carroll, whether it were
best to advance, or for fear of the worst, to secure a
safe retreat. But the soldier who acted as their guide,
having assured him that the light proceeded from a huge
wood fire, which, in a country where fuel was so abundant,
it was often the custom to keep burning through
the night, as soon as the cool season commenced, he
again advanced towards the house.

It was not the wish of the British commander to
strip from the laborious farmer his little all, without
ample remuneration. Commissioned to purchase, not
to rob, Major Courtland rode to the door of the cottage
and knocked loudly to awaken its inmates. A
slight noise was heard within, but no one appeared;
and reining his horse up before the narrow window, he
observed by the red glare which illuminated the interior
of the dwelling, the figure of an Indian, just vanishing
through a small door opposite. No other living
being was visible; and, surprised at the mysterious 6(2)v 64
silence which pervaded a habitation, where he had been
told a large family resided, he turned to question
the provincial soldier. But he was not to be found;
yet no one had seen him depart, and if he had gone,
he must have stolen off unperceived, at the moment
when the attention of his comrades was fixed upon the
farm-house.

Major Courtland and Captain O’Carroll looked fixedly
upon each other; the same idea rushed upon the
mind of both, but the impatient Captain was the first
who spoke.

“There is treason, you may rest assured,” he said,
and the sooner we retreat the better, if indeed it is not
already too late.”

“And if it is, we will die like brave men,” returned
the Major, “but let us at least attempt it.”

He had scarcely ceased speaking, and was about to
give the order for a rapid retreat, when the tremendous
war-whoop of the Indian resounded through the forest,
awaking the silent echoes and bringing with it associations
of horror, which chilled the blood of the brave little
band, who, uncertain from what direction they were to
be assailed, drew up by command of their leader in order
of battle, and nerved their hearts to meet the barbarous
foe, whom the frightful yell of the savage had
led them to expect.

But they were deceived. Major Courtland was in
the act of issuing some necessary directions, when a
body of republican troops emerged from a thicket in
rear of the house, and, led on by a spirited officer, commenced
a furious attack upon the British. Perceiving
at once, that the enemy exceeded him in number, Major
Courtland
, to avoid the shame of a surrender, and
prevent the sacrifice of his men in so unequal a contest,
resolved to attempt an immediate retreat. Could he
gain the narrow defile at the entrance of the forest and
despatch a courier to the camp with intelligence of their
situation, all might yet be well. He therefore began
his retreat; and, fighting as he retired, had the satisfaction
to enter the defile with the loss of only two men. 6(3)r 65
Here Major Courtland sent off his emissary for succours,
and as the moon had arisen, so as to enable them to
distinguish friend from foe, the combat raged with increased
fury, and with more deadly effect. Major
Courtland
and Captain O’Carroll animated their men by
their example, and cheered them by words of encouragement
and approbation; but as many of their number
already strewed the earth, and still the expected succours
did not arrive, it seemed impossible that they
could much longer sustain the unequal conflict. To
complete their distress, a ball winged with unerring aim,
at length penetrated the breast of Major Courtland and
he fell bleeding from his horse.

The courage and efforts of the soldiers seemed at
once paralyzed by this sight. In vain Captain O’Carroll
sought to rally and lead them on to a fresh charge;
grief and despair appeared to subdue them, and though
they still offered resistance, it was slight and ineffectual.

No sooner had Major Courtland fallen, than an Indian
who had followed the Americans, and the same
who had raised the war-whoop, approached the spot
where he was lying, and perceiving that life was not yet
extinct, lifted his tomahawk to strike, when the leader of
the party observing his design, called out in a commanding
tone, “Forbear, Ohmeina! spare the vanquished
and respect the brave!”
The Major’s horse feeling his
rein slacken, had carried his master to the verge of the
enemy’s line before he fell; and the American officer,
now approaching the spot where he lay, was directing
the Indian to raise and bear him from the scene of strife,
when a shout of joy burst from the despairing remnant
of Major Courtland’s troops, and a reinforcement of
British rushed through the narrow defile to succour their
exhausted comrades

The Americans seemed undaunted by the arrival of
fresh forces to the enemy. They formed their lines
with coolness and precision, and prepared anew for the
charge.

A soldier, who had beheld with grief the capture of
his wounded Major, seized this moment of surprise and 6* 6(3)v 66
confusion to rush forward and drag him within the defile,
where he placed him under the care of a disabled
comrade, and without being missed or observed regained
his station before the attack commenced.

A sanguinary conflict now ensued, sustained on both
sides with such unparalleled vigor and obstinacy, that it
is impossible to say which would have gained the victory.
But happily for the preservation of life, the
heavens became obscured by clouds, and the total darkness
which ensued forced the combatants to terminate
the bloody strife.

The Americans then drew off their forces, probably
not judging it advisable to remain till morning so near
the main body of the British army, and left the royal
party unmolested to retire to their encampment.

Chapter V.

“A moment since, And all was peace. Those simple, lovely cells, And cultivated gardens, seemed the abode Of rural happiness. Now the green turf, Where spring was strewing her pure blossoms, reeks With living crimson.” Traits of the Aborigines of America.

Major Courtland recovered his senses shortly after
his removal to the camp, and on opening his eyes, the
first objects which they encountered, were Captain
O’Carroll
and his faithful Hugh watching beside him.
The joy of the attached servant broke forth in rapturous
exclamations, when he witnessed the arrival of
his master from his long and deathlike swoon. Captain
O’Carroll
expressed his pleasure with equal warmth
and sincerity; and, after thanking him for his kindness
and attention, Major Courtland requested him to give
him some information respecting the issue of the engagement.

6(4)r 67

“The men were struck with dismay when they saw
you fall,”
said O’Carroll, instantly complying with the
Major’s request; “they fired at random and would in
defiance of my exertions have forced me to surrender,
had not a reinforcement arrived just in time to save me
from disgrace. Warm work ensued; and, with all our
valor and fresh forces besides, those fighting rebels
would have beat us hollow, had not the complaisant
heavens, sympathizing, no doubt, in our distress, seen
fit to veil themselves in clouds, and so saved us the
shame of skulking like hounds to our camp; or what
would have been far worse, of following to the enemy’s,
at the heels of that black looking fellow who led the
rebels on, and stood fire and sword like a bomb-proof
house. And do you know, Major,”
he continued, “that
you came near losing your scalp, by the means of that
tawny representative of Satan, who set up such an infernal
howl at the log castle yonder? But just as he
was about to strike, this same leader, Grame, or Grahame,
I think some one called him, reproved the savage
in a tone, that caused him quickly to desist from his
bloody design. I wish,”
he added, “General Burgoyne
would win over this rebel officer, and keep him to frighten
our savage allies into submission; otherwise I fear
we shall be starved out of our quarters here, and beaten
out of our bravery in the next engagement to boot.”

“A truce to your ridiculous fears, O’Carroll;” exclaimed
the Major, impatient at this suggestion. And
desirous to change the subject, he asked, “Has the rascal
who betrayed us been discovered yet, and if not,
are any steps to be taken for the purpose?”

“The general,” replied O’Carroll, “has offered rewards
for his apprehension; all condemn the traitorous
villain, and wish him brought to punishment, but you
are aware, that in the present crisis every mind is filled
with concerns, which serve to render this affair a matter
of secondary interest.”

“I do not consider it so,” returned Major Courtland,
“and think the fellow ought to be made an example of,
to the whole camp.”

6(4)v 68

“And so does every one,” said the Captain; “but
what can be done? Watched as we are by eyes more
vigilant than were the hundred glaring orbs of old
Argus himself, our most active efforts would be fruitless.
I will vouch for it, that before this, he is safely lodged
in snug quarters, where he finds better living and jollier
hearts than he met with here.”

“But not stouter ones,” exclaimed the Major;
though your’s, O’Carroll, seems strongly inclining towards
the milk and honey of the American camp.”

The color mounted to O’Carroll’s face. “None but
a superior officer would have dared to suggest such a
suspicion,”
he said; “and Major Courtland,” he added
in a tone of wounded feeling, “is the last man, from
whom I should have expected an imputation, alike unjust
to my sentiments, and degrading to my character
as a British officer.”

“Pshaw, O’Carroll!” said the Major, “your Irish
blood is too inflammable by half; you know me too well
to take so seriously what was said and meant jocosely:
and I, my dear fellow,”
he continued, affectionately
grasping his hand, “have seen too many instances of
your bravery and self-denying loyalty, to harbor a single
doubt of your constancy, even amidst severer trials
than those which now beset us.”

Captain O’Carroll warmly returned the pressure of
the Major’s hand, while the indignant flush which had
overspread his handsome and ingenuous features, was
succeeded by one of shame for the earnestness, with
which he had resented his playful raillery.

“You are undeservedly kind, sir,” he said; “but it
shall be my study to merit this flattering expression of
your good opinion, and to your indulgence I will trust,
to pardon the boyish impetuosity which prompted me
so hastily to resent a harmless jest!”

“It would be absurd to take exceptions at the impetuosity
of an Irishman,”
said Major Courtland, gaily;
“your countrymen, O’Carroll, are all made up of combustibles;
touch the match, or drop even an accidental 6(5)r 69
spark, the train is lighted, and off you go with a
terrible explosion.”

“You are not far from right, Major,” said O’Carroll,
laughing; “and if ever we arrive at the end of this
tiresome war, I intend to locate myself in the Scotch
Highlands, and temper my Irish warmth with some of
the icy particles, which float in the clear atmosphere of
those frosty regions. But I see you are fatigued,
Major; so I will leave you to the care of Hugh for the
present, and go out to gather something that will amuse
you, when I return.”

A few days of rest and careful nursing served to
restore Major Courtland nearly to his usual health.
The wound which he had received was neither deep
nor dangerous, though the violence of his fall and a
considerable loss of blood had rendered him, for sometime,
insensible, and occasioned a degree of weakness
which closely confined him for an umber of days. Captain
O’Carroll
who had imbibed for Major Courtland
an ardent attachment, and indeed his sanguine temperament
rendered him incapable of feeling any other,
shared with Hugh the pleasure of attending him; and,
except when professional duty required his presence
elsewhere, he was always beside the invalid, reading to
amuse him, or cheering the languor of illness with the
sportive sallies of his inexhaustible gaiety.

As the Major was one evening sitting and musing
alone, on the occurrences of the past, and the probable
events of the future, Captain O’Carroll entered with
an air somewhat less gay than usual.

“What tidings have you, O’Carroll?” asked the Major,
earnestly regarding him; “has any thing disastrous
occurred in the camp? or has another score of our
savage allies deserted us? Something I am sure has
disturbed you.”

“That would not disturb me,” returned O’Carroll.
“The barbarous wretches!” he continued with energy;
“would to Heaven the army were cleansed from every
stain of them; for, on my honor, I believe a curse has
lighted on us for employing such ferocious beings.”

6(5)v 70

“But you are unusually warm on the subject,” said
Major Courtland; “have they committed any outrages
to call forth this sudden burst of indignation?”

“Nothing new,” said O’Carroll; “but I am excited
by a conversation I have just had with Lieutenant
Campbell
, concerning the horrid murder of Miss McRea,
who was shortly to have been married to young Jones.”

“What! soon after we left Fort Edward? I recollect
it,”
said Major Courtland, shuddering as he recalled
the horrid circumstances, and associated the
image of his own beautiful and innocent child, with that
of the unfortunate Jane McRea.

“Yes;” returned O’Carroll with feeling; “amidst
the solitude and desolation of a wilderness, this lovely
girl was bound, by two ferocious savages, to a tree, and
cruelly scalped and murdered. Without a hand to aid,
or a voice to sooth her, she fell a victim to the wanton
fury of monsters, human only in outward form.”

“Let us dwell no longer on this melancholy subject,”
said Major Courtland, as he remarked the flushed cheek
and saddened countenance of his gay young friend.
“It has a depressing effect,” he added, “and I feel that
I want excitement of a more cheerful nature; your absence
to day has left me too much time for reflection,
and I have dwelt more on the endearments of home,
than a soldier, whose views cannot extend with certainty
beyond the present hour, has any right to do. And
now what have you to relate that can afford me entertainment!”

“It is rumored,” replied O’Carroll, shaking off his
unwonted melancholy and speaking with cheerfulness;
“It is rumoured in the camp that General Burgoyne
has received a letter in cyphers from Sir Henry Clinton,
informing him of his intention to attack some fortresses,
which the rebels have in the Highlands, I think;
is there not such a place?”

“Yes, on the North river,” returned Major Courtland,
“between Albany and New York; and these fortresses
are designed to guard the passage up to Albany.”

6(6)r 71

“Aye, but Sir Henry will soon tumble them about
the ears of the rebellious garrison, or I am greatly mistaken,”
said O’Carroll.

“And what great good will result from their demolition?”
inquired the Major, somewhat impatiently.
“Our situation is becoming every day more desperate;
our numbers are diminishing, our provisions shrinking,
our cattle dying, while the enemy, directly in front of
us, impede our progress, and threaten to cut us in pieces
if we stir.”

“But this unexpected attack upon the important fortresses
on the North river,”
said O’Carroll, “may do us
essential service, by inducing General Gates to weaken
his army, in order to send them succours.”

“No, he is too cautious for that,” said the Major;
“Gates is a consummate General, and will let these
forts with all their garrisons be blown up, rather than
permit us to recover the least advantage here. But has
the General returned any answer to Clinton?”

“I am told by Colonel Percy,” said O’Carroll, “who
in some way learns all the secrets of the cabinet, that
two officers have volunteered to go in disguise to Sir
Henry
, with any despatch which the General may wish
to send; and that in consequence of this offer, he has
resolved to send them with an exact account of our
situation to Sir Henry, and press him to prosecute his
design.”

“And how long are we to remain cooped up in this
encampment?”
asked Major Courtland.

“Till Sir Henry has battered down all the forts, and
quelled all the rebels between this and New York, I
suppose,”
said O’Carroll; “for I believe the General
is in no haste to come to an engagement till he is succoured
by the southern army.”

“And how are they to succour us?” demanded the
Major, in an impatient tone, “hemmed in as we are by
a powerful army, whose numbers and strength are constantly
increasing!”

Captain O’Carroll shook his head with a smile, and,
Colonel Percy at that moment entering, he referred the 6(6)v 72
Major to him, again asserting that he was in all the secrets
of the cabinet.

“I only know,” said Colonel Percy, “that two officers
have gone off in different directions with despatches for
Sir Henry Clinton.”

“And may I ask what was the nature of those despatches?”
said Major Courtland.

“To inform Sir Henry, as I have understood,” said
the colonel, “of the present situation of the army, to
urge him to attack the American forts, in the hope of
diverting part of the force under General Gates, and to
say that he would retain the position we now occupy
till the 1777-10-12twelfth of October, in the anticipation of more
favorable events.”

“The 1777-10-12twelfth of October, and it is now only 1777-10-01the
first
!”
exclaimed Major Courtland. “Impossible, utterly
impossible! Colonel Percy. The men cannot
live without food, and we have not provisions to last a
week.”

“And what is worse yet,” said Colonel Percy, “all
means of communication with Canada are in danger of
being destroyed, and our hope of retreat, should we at
last be constrained to attempt one, entirely cut off.”

“How so?” inquired the Major, hastily.

“Intelligence has just reached the camp,” replied
Colonel Percy, “of an attempt making by the Americans
to recover the fortress of Ticonderoga. They
have already surprised the outposts, taken mounts Hope
and Defiance, besides a great number of batteaux and
an armed sloop. They are now making vigorous attacks
upon the works, and should they surrender, Heaven
only knows what fatal influence the event may have
upon the issue of this campaign.”

“Fatal indeed,” responded Major Courtland, “and
at best our affairs are nearly desperate. If we are defeated
in the next engagement, we are inevitably lost.
Yet what does it signify, when all are active around us,
that we continue idle in our encampment, vainly waiting
for aid, which will probably never reach us? Our
soldiers are not yet weakened by famine, though Heaven 7(1)r 73
knows it is fast approaching; they are impatient for action,
and why are they not led forth to meet the enemy,
before he has become so powerful as to crush us at a
single blow?”

“It is indeed the only chance which can save us,”
said Captain O’Carroll, “and the sooner we engage the
rebels the better. As to waiting for the movements of
General Clinton, it is a vain thing, unless, like the ancient
Israelites, we expect to be fed with manna; for,
if I may judge from the anatomies of fowls, which
graced our table to-day, Colonel, there is not much of
the fat of the land to be found in our camp.”

“You seem to have a gread dread of famine, O’Carroll,”
said the Colonel, laughing; “but you know it is
only to make a nocturnal sally upon some of the log
houses in the neighbourhood, to get a supply at once.”

“With all my heart,” answered the Captain “so
there are no Indians in the case.”

“But, O’Carroll,” said Major Courtland, “these
savages that you dread so much, are less invincible than
the brave fellow who led on the Americans, and fought
so like a lion at their head that he seemed almost as
terrible as Mars himself.”

“There is a pleasure in measuring swords with such
a noble foe,”
said the Captain, “far above what is felt
in the conquest of hosts of meaner rivals. Amid all
the fury of the fight, I could not but remark his lofty
bearing, his intrepid bravery, the air of calm self-possession
with which he directed the movements of his
men, and the resolute courage with which he met and
returned our most furious onsets. Even the graceful
ease with which he reined in his noble war-horse did
not escape my observation, in despite of the obscurity
and confusion of the scene, nor the tone of proud and
awful authority which checked the murderous design of
the Indian, when in the very act of raising his tomahawk
to strike the defenceless head of Major Courtland.”

“I wish I knew the name of this hero, whom you
have exalted into a demi-god,”
said the major, smiling; 7 7(1)v 74
“if he were a damsel in disguise, you would not have
burst forth into a more passionate eulogium.”

“I only know that his name is Grahame,” said
O’Carroll, “and that he is as gallant in the field as the
bravest knight that ever won the prize at a tournament.”

“He possesses humanity and generosity at least,” said
Major Courtland; “and, if the fortune of war should
ever throw him in my power, I shall strive to convince
him that national animosities cannot chill the warm
and grateful feelings of an Englishman’s heart.”

“I believe,” said Colonel Percy, “I may claim the
honor of an acquaintance with this brave man; if he
bears a colonel’s commission in the rebel army it is the
same; and I can truly say he is as much of the accomplished
gentleman as of the gallant soldier. He is an
honor to his profession, and I have only to regret that
the sword, which he wields so bravely, is not employed
in a more just and righteous cause.”

“And where did you chance to become personally acquainted
with this valiant champion of liberty?”
inquired
Major Courtland.

“I had the honor, as you perhaps know,” returned
the Colonel, “to serve under General Sir Guy Carlton,
at the time of the attack upon Quebec by the Americans,
two years ago. The failure of their daring enterprise
threw many of the assailants into our hands, and
Colonel, then Captain Grahame, who was severely
wounded, among the rest. His name I found spread
terror among our troops, and revived the drooping courage
of his own. During the assault upon the works,
he had performed prodigies of valor. He was one of
the first who daringly leaped upon the barricade at the
Saut des Matelots, and made prisoner the captain of
the guard with most of his men. Darkness, and ignorance
of the situation of the town, alone prevented the
procedure of the Americans; but when daylight returned,
they rallied their gallant little band, amounting
to no more than two hundred men, and for three hours
combatted the whole force of our garrison, when unable 7(2)r 75
any longer to sustain a conflict so unequal, they
surrendered themselves prisoners of war; but not before
Captain Grahame, bleeding and covered with
wounds, had fallen lifeless to the ground.”

“What gallantry!” exclaimed O’Carroll, excited by
the relation of the Colonel. “You compel me, Colonel
Percy
, to admire a people whom from my very soul
I wish to detest; and had I lived among them, and
known them as Major Courtland has done, I am not
certain that I should have continued as loyal as he is.”

“If you are inclined to espouse their cause, O’Carroll,
it is not too late now,”
said the Major, smiling;
“but first let us hear the Colonel’s account of this young
officer, who has so bewitched your Irish fancy.”

“He remained with us,” resumed Colonel Percy,
“till an exchange of prisoners took place, during which
time I had frequent opportunities of enjoying his society.
I found him manly, intelligent, liberal in sentiment,
possessing a cultivated mind, and highly captivating and
polished manners. He was the idol of the soldiery,
and a favourite with all his brother officers, although
there was a slight expression of sternness in his countenance,
and a degree of hauteur in his manners, which
oftener repels than conciliates affection. And yet I know
not how, but so it was, that all hearts were attracted towards
him, and all minds delighted in his society. A
certain secret but resistless fascination seemed to surround
him, which drew every one within its influence.”

“And have you never met him since that time,” inquired
O’Carroll. “Never,” answered Colonel Percy,
“till the engagement of the 1777-09-19nineteenth, brought us
again within view of each other. But his corps occupying
a station farther to the right than mine, saved us
the pain of being directly opposed in this deadly encounter.
I think I could not have deliberately aimed
at the life of a man, whom I so much admire, and with
whom I have lived on terms of the most famliliar intimacy.”

“But had you been with us,” said O’Carroll, “on
the night when that howling Cerberus of an Indian 7(2)v 76
brought down a whole detachment of the rebels upon
us, friendship, kindness, and good will, would have
yielded to the desperation and excitement of the combat.”

“The darkness and confusion,” said the Colonel,
“would probably have prevented my recognizing in
my opponent the person of an old friend. But had it
not been so, I should have remembered the claims of
my country, and performed my duty, though the foe
whom I encountered had been my dearest friend. But
your account of the Indian, Captain O’Carroll, recalls
to my recollection an incident, which was related to
me, during our stay at Fort Edward, and which, as it
tends still farther to develope the character of this interesting
officer, it will afford me pleasure to relate.”

“A chief of the Mohawk nation had located himself
on the banks of the Hudson, a few miles from Fort
Edward
, and collected around him a small settlement
composed of six or eight families, whom he was attempting
to teach some of the arts of civilization. You
smile, Captain O’Carroll, but it was even so; and more
incredible still, this Indian had received a good education
at a school established by a missionary in one of
the colonies, New Hampshire, I believe, for the express
purpose of enlightening these savage hordes.”

“And of course,” said O’Carroll, “they were then
returned to their native forests to teach knowledge to
the panthers and jackalls. As a quicker and surer
method I would advise to adopt these less ferocious
animals for pupils, and when their education was complete,
send them forth to civilize their savage neighbors.
But a truce to trifling; though I confess, Colonel, the
idea of a civilized Indian is an anomaly far beyond my
comprehension.”

“Anomalous as it may appear to you, Captain O’Carroll,”
said the Major, “the information which Colonel
Percy
has given you respecting the school is strictly
true. And more than this, it has been attended with
so much success, that about eight years since it received
a charter of incorporation for a university, and is 7(3)r 77
now under the especial patronage and protection of the
Earl of Dartmouth.”

O’Carroll was mute with astonishment, and Colonel
Percy
, smiling at the mixture of surprise and incredulity
which appeared upon his features, proceeded in
his narration.

“This Mohawk chief, who was called Ohmeina, had
imbibed a strong attachment for the Americans, during
the period of his residence among them. Grateful for
their kindness, and for the instructions which they had
given him, he refused to join in the league which his
tribe made with us, against his benefactors, and by entreaties
and remonstrances induced his little colony to
preserve the neutrality which had been recommended
to them by the Americans. Shortly after his return
from the populous abodes of men, he took a wife of his
own nation, resumed his former savage costume, and
with it many habits of his early life; partly from
a wish to avoid the jealousy of his neighbours, and partly
from that attachment to the impressions of youth,
which is peculiarly strong in the savage tribes, and
which all the advantages and comforts of civilization
had not been able to eradicate from the heart of this
Mohawk chief. But nothing could induce him to engage
in hostilities; neither the threats and intreaties of
his brethren, nor the alluring bribes of our people were
of the least avail. True to his determination, he
steadily resisted both, and daily instilled into the minds
of his children and his colony, a reverence and love
for that people, who had instructed him concerning the
Great Being who formed them, and had taught him so
many good and wonderful things from their books of
knowledge.
The officers of the American army, then occupying
Fort Edward, often visited this little settlement, but
of all who went none was more joyously welcomed then
Colonel Grahame. He delighted to pass whole hours
in conversing with the chief, whose forcible and highly
figurative language had acquired elegance and propriety
by cultivation, without having lost any of its native 7* 7(3)v 78
strength and originality. He contemplated with pleasure
the happiness of Ohmeina’s domestic life, and almost
envied the sweet tranquillity in which his days
glided peacefully away. Five active boys, his pride
and delight, were growing up around him, and their
mother possessed a degree of beauty and feminine softness,
not often found among the red daughters of the
forest.
One exceedingly dark evening, the gloom of which
was rendered more awful by vivid flashes of lightning,
which seemed to wrap the heavens in a flame, as Colonel
Grahame
was returning, from a short expedition, to
the fort, at the head of a small detachment of soldiers,
he observed a bright light flashing at intervals, above
the tall forest trees which surrounded the infant settlement
of the pacific Indians. At first he thought the
lightning might have struck some tree and set it on fire,
but soon apprehending some more serious evil, he ordered
his men to halt, and riding a few paces in advance,
he plainly distinguished the cries of children, the shrieks
of women, and the terrific war-whoop of the savages,
mingling with the sullen blast, which swept through the
forests. Followed by his men, he plunged into the
narrow foot-path which led to the Indian village. As
he approached it, the sounds of terror and distress became
more distinct, and Grahame, filled with apprehension
for the fate of the unfortunate Indians, urged
on his panting steed, till the whole frightful scene burst
upon him and all his suspicions were at once confirmed.
Every wigwam was in flames, and the dead and the
dying lay bleeding on the ground around the burning
walls of their late happy homes. A few half-naked
females ran shrieking to the forest for safety, while in
the midst of this scene of disolation, the chief, Ohmeina,
with the wretched remnant of his people, were contending
with a band of savages greatly exceeding them in
number. Colonel Grahame was filled with horror at
the frightful aspect of the assailants. Their faces stained
with paint, their unearthly yells, their stern ferocity,
as they brandished their tomahawks, bathed with the
blood of the innocent, and glittering in the lurid glare 7(4)r 79
of the flames, which their demoniac rage had enkindled,
produced a sight revolting to the feelings of
humanity, and which roused to indignation every geerous
impulse of his heart. The shrieks of the miserable
victims, and the discordant cries of their fiendlike
murderers, had prevented them from perceiving the
approach of the American party, till a bright flash of
lightning revealed them, just emerging from the dark
precincts of the forest. The next moment they advanced
into the area, where every object was visible in the
light of the blazing wigwams, and were greeted by a
shout of joy from the chief and his adherents. A volley
of musketry instantly rattled among the enemy, and
killed several of their number; but, contrary to their
usual custom, instead of flying at the sight of fire-arms,
they rushed with more determined fury to the combat.
Having expended all their cartridges with effect,
the soldiers of Colonel Grahame rushed, with the point
of the bayonet, upon the obstinate savages. One, more
malignant even than his fellows, who had been grappling
with Ohmeina, seeing the Colonel approach, quitted his
prey, but aimed, at the same moment, a successful blow
at a boy of ten years old, who stood beside the chief,
and felled him to the ground. The desolated Ohmeina
cast a glance of anguish on his son, as he lay bleeding at
his feet, and then, with an air of determined vengeance,
turned upon his murderer. But Colonel Grahame had
already avenged the wrongs of his Indian friend. The
savage fell before his invincible assailant, and those of
his followers who did not share his fate, precipitately
quitted the scene of action, and fled, pursued by the
Americans to the shelter of their forests. Of all this
happy little colony, two only, beside the chief, remained;
their dwellings were consumed, their fields laid
waste, and their wives and children murdered in cold
blood before their eyes. Ohmeina’s wife and sons had
been the first victims of this inhuman massacre. The
eldest only had escaped, and followed his father with all
the intrepidity of manhood, to avenge the death of his
mother and brothers.
7(4)v 80 The cause of this unprovoked attack Ohmeina supposed
to originate in the anger of a neighbouring chief,
who with his tribe had joined the British, and, having
been urgent with Ohmeina to do the same, had, upon
his refusal, sworn to punish his obstinacy, ascribing it
to his superior knowledge, which raised him, in his
own estimation, above his brethren, and made him wish
to keep them in subjection, for which purpose doubtless,
he had formed a league with the Americans.
Two of Colonel Grahame’s soldiers only had been
killed in the conflict, and some of the others now assisted
the Indians to form a litter of the branches of
trees, on which they placed the boy, who was still alive,
and returned with him to the fort, followed by the Indians.
Ohmeina walked, in stern and gloomy silence,
by the side of his son; and during the melancholy
march not a word was spoken by any of the party; so
sad was the impression which the dreadful events of the
night had made upon every mind.
The grief of the chief was deep but silent; Colonel
Grahame
sought to alleviate it by the expression of his
sympathy, and to press upon the heart of the unfortunate
man, those mild and soothing precepts of christianity, in
which he had been instructed, and which had so greatly
tended to soften and humanize his savage nature. But
nothing touched him so sensibly as the young officer’s
kindness to his wounded boy. He placed him on his
own couch and watched with tender solicitude by his
side; but he did not long survive his wounds, and when
he died, the grateful Indian devoted his life to his benefactor,
and clings to him, it is said, with such enthusiastic
attachment, that danger, and even death in their most
frightful forms, have no terrors for him, when engaged
in his service.”

“It was he then,” said Major Courtland, who, as
well as Captain O’Carroll, had listened with deep interest
to this narration, “who gave the alarm at the log
hut in the forest?”

“Yes, undoubtedly,” returned the Colonel; “and I
wonder the recollection of this affair did not occur to 7(5)r 81
me, when Captain O’Carroll first mentioned the Indian.
Wherever Ohmeina is seen, one may be sure, as I am
informed, that Colonel Grahame is not very remote.”

“Your narrative,” said O’Carroll, “certainly bears
an honorable testimony to the bravery and humanity of
Colonel Grahame; yet I assure you, Colonel, I feel no
greater fondness for the society of these scalping savages
than I did before, and am rather inclined to believe
from the uncivilized howl, with which this same Ohmeina
greeted us the other night, that he has relapsed
into his original barbarity, since the descent of his savage
brethren upon his colony.”

“You are incorrigible, O’Carroll,” said the Colonel
laughing; “once adopt a belief, and it possesses you
forever. But we must away, to see what movements
the enemy are making,”
he said, starting up and looking
at his watch. Captain O’Carroll obeyed the summons
of his superior officer, and, bidding Major Courtland
good night, they went out together.

Chapter IVVI.

“To gallant Gates, in war serenely brave, The tide of fortune turns its refluent wave; Forced by his arm, the bold invaders yield The prize and glory of the well fought field; Bleeding and lost the captured Ackland lies, While leaden slumbers seal his Frazer’s eyes; Frazer! whose deeds unfading glory claim, Endeared by virtue, and adorned by fame.” Mrs. Morton.

The difficulties and distresses of the British army had
been daily increasing, since the engagement of the 1777-09-19nineteenth,
till the peril of its situation at last became
alarmingly great. The expected intelligence, on which
so much depended, did not arrive from Sir Henry
Clinton
; and though General Burgoyne had agreed to 7(5)v 82
wait till the 1777-10-12twelfth, and nearly a week of the appointed
time was yet to elapse, he found his present position no
longer tenable, and he came to the resolution of giving
battle to the enemy in the desperate hope of forcing a
passage to Albany, or, in case of the worst, of dislodging
him, and securing a safe and convenient retreat.

On the morning of the 1777-10-07seventh of October, therefore,
the whole army was ordered under arms. Every countenance
was animated with the expectation of an immediate
engagement, and every heart palpitated with
the hope, and some with the assurance of victory. A
few there were who felt too keenly the hopelessness of
their condition to look for aught but honorable death,
and, in the expectation of meeting it, they went forth
with the firm and undaunted cheerfulness of loyal and
brave men, conscious that their own honor, and that of
the sovereign whom they loved and served, was deeply
involved in the conduct of the day.

Major Courtland, though scarcely recovered from his
recent wounds, was deaf to the solicitations of his friends,
who entreated that he would spare himself the danger
and fatigue, to which his reduced strength was not
adequate; and when he absolutely refused their request,
they urged him at least to remain with the guard of the
camp, and not expose himself to the heat and confusion
of a close and immediate action. But he was equally
unyielding on this point, and prepared, with all the
eagerness of a young soldier, for the expected attack.

And bravely in that desperate action, did he maintain
the courage and the honor of a British officer. Animated
by the example of their leaders, the men, with
dauntless hearts, urged on the dreadful work of death;
they stood unmoved the deadly fire of the enemy, nor
shrunk from the encounter, when the conflict became
more fierce and sanguinary.

Around Major Courtland, whose corps occupied the
left wing of the army, it thickened with terrible rapidity.
In the ardor of the fight, he pressed forward to pursue
an advantage, which he imagined he was gaining over
a corps of the enemy against which his own was particularly 7(6)r 83
opposed; quite unconscious of the danger, to
which he exposed himself, till he was suddenly reminded
of it by a ball, which, though intended for him pierced
the breast of his horse and killed him instantly. A
soldier more daring than his comrades, immediately
advanced with his bayonet fixed towards the Major,
while he was striving to disentangle himself from his
fallen steed; when, perceiving the peril of his situation,
with admirable presence of mind, he snatched a pistol
from the holster and shot his assailant through the heart.
But before he could effect his retreat, for he had incautiously
advanced several paces before his men, the
rifle of a soldier took surer aim and he fell; rather stunned
by the blow, than injured by the wound, however,
for happily the ball was spent before it struck him.
But the momentary insensibility came near proving
fatal to him; for an Indian, to whom no particular
place seemed assigned, but who was hovering around
and dealing death wherever he could, no sooner perceived
the Major’s situation, than he rushed forward,
and dragging him nearer to the American lines, was on
the point of letting his uplifted tomahawk descend upon
the head of the defenceless officer, when a commanding
voice in a tone of authority suspended his design.

“Ohmeina! the person of a vanquished foe is sacred;
we wage no savage warfare here, and, as you value my
friendship, let my commands in the future be obeyed.”

The Indian dropped his weapon, and crossing his
hands upon his breast, stood motionless with a look of
profound humility.

“Secure your prisoner, but harm not one hair of his
head,”
resumed the young officer, who had spoken, and
perceiving, as he bent from his horse to look at Major
Courtland
, that he had recovered from his momentary
insensibility, he said in a tone of politeness and humanity.
“The fortunes of war make you my prisoner,
Sir, but I hope you have received no serious injury.”

“One far more galling, Sir,” returned the Major, in
a tone which expressed the depth of his chagrin and
mortification, “than the tomahawk of that savage, from 7(6)v 84
which you have twice saved me, could have inflicted.
If I mistake not, I address the gallant Colonel Grahame,
and it is not necessary to remind him that life without
honor is not worth preserving.”

The American officer was in the act of replying,
when Captain O’Carroll, perceiving the situation of his
Major, pressed resolutely forward, and before the sudden
and impetuous charge of his corps that of Colonel
Grahame
instantly gave way. Major Courtland seized
the moment of confusion to recover his place, and it
was fortunate that he did so, for just at this crisis the
Americans were strongly reinforced, and the action
was renewed with increased fury.

Overpowered by numbers, the whole left wing of the
British army at last gave way, and the spirited exertions
of the officers were scarcely able to preserve it from
utter ruin. They, however, effected the retreat in tolerable
order, but not without great loss both of men and
cannon. The horses were most of them destroyed, and
many of the bravest officers of the army here met their
death. Captain O’Carroll was severely wounded, and
Major Courtland received the contents of a musket in his
breast, while defending the works, which the enemy
attacked after they had driven the British from the
field.

When Major Courtland was conveyed to the hospital,
it was already crowded with the wounded and the dying.
The apartment in which he was placed, contained a
number of officers, who, like himself, had been deposited
there in haste of the moment. Several ladies
also, the wives of officers, with their children and domestics,
were forced to remain in this wretched shelter,
surrounded by objects of distress and terror. But with
the characteristic heroism of their soft and all-enduring
sex, they seemed to have shaken off the shrinking
delicacy and timidity peculiar to them; and with looks
of pitying gentleness, they hung over the wounded
officers that were filling the apartment, and administered
to them what cordials and comforts their melancholy
situation could command.

8(1)r 85

In the centre of the room, on a camp bed, lay the
gallant General Frazer, mortally wounded. Beside him
stood the lady of General Reidesel, holding a cup to
his parched lips, which he wanted the power to taste,
though his dying eyes, raised to her face, eloquently
expressed the grateful emotions of his heart. Once he
feebly grasped her hand and said in a faint voice,

“May Heaven bless you for your kindness, Madam, and
restore your husband to you safe from the perils of battle.”
Then after a brief pause he added with a convulsive
sigh, “Oh, fatal ambition, these are thy bitter fruits!
Alas! my poor wife! hundreds like thee will this day
render desolate!”

The lady’s tears flowed fast, and she sought to hide
her overpowering emotion by carressing the children
who were clinging around her. As she stooped forward,
her eyes encountered the ghastly figure of Major Courtland,
whom the soldiers had laid upon a mattress spread
upon the floor. “Alas! our sad number is fast increasing,”
she said, as she approached his side, and bent to
look upon his features. His melancholy eyes met her’s,
and a faint flush crossed his pale cheek, as he said, in
a voice whose feeble tones expressed deep and bitter
feelings,

“Ah, madam, these wounds are nothing compared
to those, this day inflicted upon my country. We are
beaten,”
he added, “vanquished, disgraced;—driven
to our tents by the undisciplined militia of a rebel army.”

He turned his face from her, as he finished speaking,
and covered it with his hands, to conceal the sense of
degradation which appeared on every feature, and which,
as he truely said, was more painful to his lofty spirit,
than all the bodily anguish caused by his wounds.

A deep groan from General Frazer drew the baroness
again to his bedside, and when the Major next looked
up, he saw the delicate figure and lovely countenance
of Lady Harriet Ackland, bending over him with a look
of sorrow and anxiety. The pity which appeared in
her eyes was not more sincere than that, which the
sight of her instantly awakened in Major Courtland’s 8 8(1)v 86
heart. He knew that her husband, who commanded
the Grenadiers, was desperately wounded, though he
was yet ignorant of his being a prisoner. But conscious
of the evil tidings which awaited this charming
woman, whose heroic tenderness had made her an object
of respect and interest to the whole army, he felt
for her the most lively compassion; and when her soft
voice fell upon his ear, inquiring if she could do any
thing to relieve his distress, he regarded her with a look
so full of fatherly pity and affection, that she instantly
became alarmed, and exclaimed in a voice of terror,

“Oh, I am sure by that look you must know something
of my husband. I entrreat you, Major Courtland,
to tell me if he is yet alive, that I may go to him; if
not”
――

She suddenly stopped as if overwhelmed by the anguish
of so dreadful an idea, and covered her face with
her hands, while the tears, which she sought to conceal,
trickled fast through her slender fingers.

“Comfort yourself, Lady Harriet,” said Major Courtland,
deeply touched by her distress; “your husband
is alive, but situated as we were in different parts of
the army, I can give you no certain information respecting
him. But is it not probable, if he were very badly
wounded, that he would have been brought here, before
this?”

“Yes, I think—I hope he would,” she said in a doubting
accent. The question, however, seemed in some
degree to compose her, and she added in a tone of
humble and sweet resignation,

“I am ungrateful to distrust the goodness of God,
who has preserved him through so many dangers, and
so often returned him from the midst of perils, in safety
to my arms.”

The surgeon at this moment approached to dress
the Major’s wounds, and Lady Harriet retired while he
performed the duties of his office. She withdrew to the
extremity of the small apartment, for there was no other
spot more remote, where these delicate and high-bred
females could retire, for privacy and refreshment. The 8(2)r 87
servants had arranged some temporary curtains to screen
them a little from observation, and there Lady Harriet
Ackland
, the Baroness Reidesel, and several other
ladies, wrapt in bitter meditations, which the scenes they
had witnessed were too fruitful in suggesting, passed the
long and melancholy hours of this dreadful night.

Major Courtland had received several wounds, but
only one which bore an unfavourable appearance. This
was in the breast, and from the strictness of the surgeon’s
injunctions, an apprehension of considerable danger
was inferred, not only by the attendants, but by the
Major himself. When the ball was extracted, and the
operation of dressing over, he was removed to another
apartment of the small house, which formed the centre
of the hospital, and was already filled with wounded
officers.

Among the rest was Captain O’Carroll, whose excessive
fatigue, together with a powerful anodyne, had conspired
to throw him into a profound sleep, which he
enjoyed undisturbed, through the whole night, in spite
of his wounds, and of the noise which was necessarily
produced in the house by the continual passing and
repassing of the surgeons and attendants. Major Courtland
was not so easily lulled to rest; the anguish of
his wound, the mortification of defeat, and the desperate
state of the army, produced a train of sad reflections,
which kept him waking nearly all night. The next
day was one of feverish agitation; his wound was exceedingly
inflamed, and the worst fears of the faithful
Hugh, who kept a vigilant station beside his master, were
awakened. Towards evening, however, Major Courtland
greatly revived, and made many inquiries respecting
the movements in the camp, the death of General
Frazer
, and the situation of the ladies. Hugh, delighted
to hear again the sound of his master’s voice, entered
into a minute detail of all he knew, and was in the
midst of his narration, when an attendant entered with
a request from Lady Harriet Ackland, that she might
be permitted to speak with Major Courtland.

8(2)v 88

She was instantly admitted, and Major Courtland, as
he answered her kind inquiries after his health, remarked
with concern the paleness of her interesting countenance,
and the agitation of her voice and manner.
When these inquiries were ended, she said abruptly,

“Major Courtland, as the friend of my absent husband,
I come to consult you on a step which I design
to take. Major Ackland is wounded and a prisoner, and
I wish to go to him, if General Burgoyne will grant me
permission.”

“Go to him!” repeated Major Courtland, gazing
with surprise on the soft and gentle creature, who had
dared to adopt so bold a resolution. “Lady Harriet,
you know not what you propose; your husband, if a
prisoner, is probably in the very heart of the enemy’s
camp, and would you go to him there?”

“Would I?” she replied with emotion; “I would
go to him in the very heart of the most savage wilderness,
though I knew it to be inhabited by wild beasts,
and Indians wilder and fiercer even than the monsters
of the desert, so I could be with him and alleviate his
distress.”

Major Courtland gazed on her a moment in silent
admiration, then, unable to suppress his feelings, exclaimed,

“How does the heroic constancy and fortitude of
weak, dependant woman put to shame the lordly boasting
of our proud and self-confident sex!”

“Woman will dare and endure every thing for the
husband she loves,”
returned lLady Harriet, with a faint
smile. “But I come to ask your opinion, Major Courtland,
of this step. You have lived long among the
Americans, and are familiar with their character and
habits. To us they have been represented as savage,
brutal, and unfeeling. Even if they are such, I must
venture among them; but, for his sake and my own, I
would gladly hear of them a different character.”

“I can assure your ladyship,” returned Major Courtland,
“that you have nothing to fear from the incivility
or inhumanity of the Americans. I know them well, 8(3)r 89
and greatly as I deprecate their unnatural rebellion, I
cannot in justice withhold from them the character
they deserve. They are brave, honorable, and generous;
and I doubt not will do all in their power to render
your situation one of ease and comfort.”

“God bless you for this comforting assurance,” she
replied; “and with General Burgoyne’s permission, I
will instantly depart. Farewell, Major Courtland; I
should go with a lighter heart, were I not compelled to
leave so many of the brave defenders of my country
stretched on beds of pain. But may God restore you
all, and grant that we may soon meet under happier
auspices.”

Major Courtland sighed, as he affectionately pressed
her hand, and after a brief pause replied,

“Farewell, madam, may the blessing of heaven rest
upon you, and guide you in safety to your husband.
Bear him my best wishes, and may your future union
be as lasting, as it has been virtuous and happy.”

She gently withdrew her hand, and, with a heart too
full for utterance, glided silently away, while Major
Courtland
, with a feeling like parental tenderness, watched
her retreating form till the closing door shut it from
his view. Her beauty and heroic tenderness recalled
to his mind the image of his own lovely girl, and the
soothing remembrances which her idea awakened, shed
a placid calmness, unfelt for many hours, over his harassed
and agitated spirits. Dwelling with a father’s
fondness on the endearments of the past, he sunk
gradually into a gentle slumber, which continued unbroken
for an hour or two, when he was awakened by
voices from below and sounds of confusion from all
parts of the house.

He looked around him with surprise; two officers
who had occupied the same apartment though not dangerously
wounded, were dressing themselves with the
assistance of their servants, whose looks expressed
haste and anxiety. Hugh with a surgeon was standing
by the bedside of Captain O’Carroll, who, half raised
upon his elbow, was listening with an air of impatience 8* 8(3)v 90
to the earnest words of the latter, which seemed by
their emphasis to be those of entreaty and persuasion.
Hearing his master move, the watchful Hugh went directly
to his bedside.

“Are the enemy upon us,” asked Major Courtland,
“or what occasions the disturbance which I see and
hear around me?”

“They are not upon us yet, please your Honor,”
answered Hugh, “but we hear they are coming, and
the General has ordered a retreat. But these Americans,
sir, never do things by halves, and I think, go as
far as we will, we shall hardly escape them.”

“A retreat!” ejaculated Major Courtland. “Good
heaven! what torrents of blood must flow before the
shame of this campaign can be washed away. And
why,”
he added, glancing towards O’Carroll, who was
still in earnest conversation with the surgeon, “why is
not Captain O’Carroll preparing to follow with the
rest?”

“The surgeon is urging him to do so,” returned
Hugh, “but he says, though his life were at stake, he
would not leave your Honor to fall alone into the power
of the enemy.”

“Generous young man!” exclaimed the Major,
touched by this affecting proof of the warm-hearted
O’Carroll’s attachment. “But go to him, Hugh; tell
him from me, to fly; say to him, I am sure of kind
treatment from the Americans, and that it matters little
whether I draw my last breath among them, or in the
midst of my vanquished countrymen.”

“Ah, sir, you will not die,” exclaimed Hugh, alarmed
by this suggestion; “indeed, sir, I cannot speak to
the young Captain of such a thing, and I entreat your
Honor not to send me with the message.”

“Well, at least, tell Dr. Rennie I wish to speak with
him,”
said Major Courtland. Hugh obeyed, and the
surgeon immediately followed him to the bedside of
the Major.

“Cannot you prevail on O’Carroll, Doctor, to follow
the retreat of the troops!”

8(4)r 91

“No, he persists in remaining, though I have assured
him he may be removed without danger,”
answered
the surgeon. “But he declares, if Major Courtland
must be left, he will not desert him, and as I candidly
tell him, the fatigue of a removal, in your present situation,
would probably cost you your life, he resolutely
resists every entreaty to quit the hospital.”

“I cannot but be deeply gratified by this proof of
Captain O’Carroll’s attachment,”
said Major Courtland;
“but I value his friendship too highly to accept this
sacrifice of his personal safety. I am attended by my
faithful servant, and I have no doubt of meeting many
friends in the American army. Oblige me then, Dr.
Rennie
, by informing him it is my earnest request that
he will prepare, without longer delay, for his departure.
The army will soon commence its march, and when
too late, we shall both regret his unnecessary capture.”

“I will renew my entreaties, though I fear they will
prove unavailing,”
replied the surgeon; and he again
returned to the Captain, who occupied a mattress in the
most remote corner of the apartment.

At that instant Colonel Percy entered, and said
quickly to O’Carroll’s servant, “Haste, haste, Ronald;
assist your master to rise; you have not a moment to
lose, if you would be off with the troops.”
He passed
on, without waiting for an answer, to the bedside of
Major Courtland.

“We are under marching orders, Major,” said the
Colonel, as he returned the pressure of his friend’s
hand. “The enemy are bearing down upon our right,
and the General has judged it expedient to order an
immediate retreat. Our hospital must of course be
abandoned; but many of the wounded officers have
prepared to join us in such conveyences as could be
procured. I come to hasten you, for you must not
be left. A cart, in which some clean straw has been
placed is already occupied by three wounded officers,
but there is yet sufficient room for yourself and Captain
O’Carroll
. So let me beg of you to rise, for really
there is no time to be lost.”

8(4)v 92

“My surgeon tells me a removal would probably
prove fatal to me,”
returned the Major, calmly; “and
though it would be only hastening a period which may,
perhaps, soon arrive, I doubt, Colonel Percy, if I have
a right to do any thing, which may, in the least, precipitate
that event.”

“Indeed, Major Courtland,” said the Colonel, looking
at him with surprise, “I think you yield too quickly
to despondency; our unfortunate situation has depressed
your spirits, and induced you to dwell on
gloomy and improbable events. It is not two hours
since your surgeon informed me he considered you in
a way to do well.”

“My own feelings are a surer index to truth, than
even the auguries of my surgeon,”
returned the Major.
“But, setting aside the danger which a removal might
occasion, I am an old soldier, Colonel Percy, who
never yet turned my back upon the enemy, and I care
not now to have it said that I fled from an army of
rebels, powerful and victorious though they are. Let
them come, we are vanquished by Heaven, rather than
by them.”

“You disapprove our retreat then, said the Colonel,
‘and regard it as an act of cowardice and fear!’”

“I am far from pronouncing so severe a judgment,”
said Major Courtland; “your situation is peculiar and
desperate; and though an individual may yield his life,
rather than his honor, a General is bound to consult the
safety of his troops, even at the expense of private
happiness and public fame.”

“No censure, I think, can be attached to General
Burgoyne
,”
returned Colonel Percy; “he has undoubtedly
been shackled by the commands of the ministry,
who laid down a plan of the campaign, without any
knowledge of the country where it was to be executed.
Consequently we are reduced to this sad and mortifying
dilemma. But I must leave you, since you compel
me to do so; time presses, and I can delay no longer.”

8(5)r 93

“Go first to Captain O’Carroll, and impose upon
him your commands, as a superior officer, to follow the
retreat,”
said Major Courtland.

Colonel Percy did as he was desired, and the Captain
seeing him approach, raised himself to receive him.

“I entreat you to hasten,” said the Colonel; “the
army will move in less than an hour, and you are
aware that we can wait for no one.”

“Are there positive orders issued,” asked O’Carroll,
“for all those officers to follow the army, who are able
to do so?”

“Orders to that effect are deemed superfluous,” said
the Colonel, “as it is presumed all who are able will
voluntarily accompany us.”

“Does Major Courtland go?” inquired O’Carroll.

“He cannot be moved without endangering his life,”
said the Colonel; “and though you appear reluctant
to depart, Captain O’Carroll, I cannot consent to your
remaining, provide you are well enough to endure the
fatigue of the night march. So do not oblige me to
exert the authority of a superior officer, but call your
servant to assist you, and rise immediately.”

“Do not impose your commands upon me, sir,”
said O’Carroll, “for I would not have disrespect to my
Colonel, added to the long list of disgraces, which we
shall all carry to England as trophies of our American
campaign; and I really think in this instance the obligations
of friendship and humanity are more powerful,
even than those of military duty.”

“Then you will not go!” asked Colonel Percy.

“Why should I, sir!” returned O’Carroll. “Independently
of the pain, which a removal would occasion me,
my wounds must, for some time, render me a useless
and troublesome appendage to the army. Here, perhaps,
I may be able to alleviate the sufferings, and
cheer the solitude of Major Courtland, who, since he
must remain, it would be absolute barbarity to desert.”

“But you do not leave him alone,” returned the
Colonel; “there are several officers, who will also be
compelled to remain.”

8(5)v 94

“But there are none, beside myself, with whom he
is at all intimate.”
said O’Carroll.

“You are aware, however, if you remain,” said the
Colonel, “that you must be made a prisoner, and of
course lose the privilege of again serving in America.”

“I may be exchanged, perhaps, when I am well
enough for active service.”
returned O’Carroll.

“True,” replied the Colonel; “and since you are
absolutely incorrigible, I must even permit you to become
the victim of your own generosity. Our situation
is so precarious, that we cannot look forward a
single hour with any certainty. But our prospects may
yet brighten, and at all events a soldier should never
despond, Captain O’Carroll. Let the worst come that
will, we have still the consoling consciousness of having
performed our duty to the utmost extent of our ability.
And now farewell; keep up your spirits, my dear fellow,
and hope for the best.”

“I hope at least,” said O’Carroll, affecting an air of
gaiety, “the next time we fight these pale-face rebels,
we shall teach them to kneel for pardon to the majesty
they have insulted. And so God bless you, Colonel
Percy
, and send you many and brighter days.”

He wrung the Colonel’s hand, as he spoke, who immediately
left him, to take a hasty farewell of Major
Courtland
, and then without delay rejoined the troops.

Within an hour the whole army were on their march.
Fires were kindled and many tents left standing to deceive
the enemy; but, otherwise, the late noisy and
tumultuous camp was desolate and deserted, except
where the tents of the hospital, emitting feeble gleams
of light, betrayed the residence of the sick and wouned,
who were left by their retreating comrades, to the
mercy of the conquerors. The night was dark and
tempestuous; the wind howled in tremendous gusts
around the walls of the dwelling, which sheltered Major
Courtland
and his companions; and the rain poured in
torrents against the narrow windows; while the swollen
waves of the Hudson joined their hoarse and sullen
murmurs to the discord of the elements, deepening the 8(6)r 95
gloomy horror of the night, and adding more terrific
images to the anticipations of the wounded soldiers.

When the noise of the retreat had at length died
away, and the house became comparatively still, Captain
O’Carroll
was removed so near to Major Courtland
that he could converse with him, without effort.

“You have done wrong, O’Carroll,” said the Major,
aroused by the appearance of his friend beside him,
from the torpor into which he was sinking. “You
should have followed the troops; they need brave and
able officers, and you will be greatly missed in their
extremity.”

“In my present condition,” returned the Captain,
“I should be a burthen, a mere dead weight to incumber
their march, and not half so much worth the trouble
of transportation, as a haversack well filled with provisions.
Besides, Major, did you ever know an Irishman
safely stowed in warm quarters, who was willing to exchange
them for foul skies and a frosty atmostphere?”

“You cannot hope to conceal your real motives
from me by this badinage,”
returned the Major; “I
know them well, and while I admire your generosity,
and feel deeply gratified by the attachment which they
evince for my person, I cannot but regret that you
have yielded to them, at the expense of your own
safety, and because the service is, for a time at least,
deprived of a valuable and useful officer.”

“There are subalterns enough, longing to jump into
my place;”
said the Captain, “and where so many
brave are left, one disabled officer will scarcely be
missed. I shall not complain, Major,”
he said gaily,
“to find my place well occupied; and shall not be
disagreeably surprised, if my superior officer says to
me, ‘You will be pleased to accept the commission
of a Colonel or a Major’
(I will not refuse either), ‘as a
mark of your sovereign’s favor.’”

Major Courtland could not avoid smiling at the characteristic
gaiety of his friend, which no combination of
events could long depress, but instantly resuming a
grave air, he said,

8(6)v 96

“None of us need hope for promotion after this campaign,
O’Carroll; censure and disgrace will doubtless
follow us, and those who are even permitted to retain
the commissions they now hold, may esteem themselves
fortunate. For me it matters little; though my sun
should set in clouds, it may not dawn less brightly on
the morning of eternity.”

“Do not cherish thoughts so melancholy, Sir,” said
O’Carroll; “they serve only to deepen the gloom
which already involves us. Your wounds are not desperate,
and Dr. Rennie’s care, I trust, will soon effect
a complete cure.”

“Dr. Rennie, I doubt not, will do all in his power to
restore me,”
said the Major, “and though I would not
unnecessarily alarm you, O’Carroll, neither would I
have you unprepared for what may happen. I therefore
candidly tell you, that I feel myself growing weaker,
and I greatly fear my wound affects a vital part.”

“Let me send directly for the Surgeon,” said O’Carroll,
in alarm; “in the haste of the moment he may
have thought too lightly of it; indeed it is not a matter
which ought to be delayed.”

“No, O’Carroll,” returned the Major, “he can do
nothing more than he has done, and quiet and repose
are all that I require. I have only one wish which
gives me pain. You have heard me speak of my
daughter, and, in the hour of sickness or misfortune, a
father’s heart yearns for the endearments of his child,
and looks forward with melancholy apprehension to the
moment, which may deprive her of his paternal care
and tenderness.”

“And why cannot she come to you?” asked O’Carroll;
“you have told me she was at Albany, and General
Gates
will not surely have the inhumanity to refuse
a child the melancholy satisfaction of administering to
the comfort of a wounded parent.”

“This is no place, O’Carroll, for a young and inexperienced
female,”
said the Major. “In the midst of
enemies; an object of curiosity to a thousand insolent
eyes, and the subject of impertinent remark to the 9(1)r 97
whole camp. No, cruel as is the alternative, I will
rather renounce the dear hope of again embracing my
child, than expose her retiring delicacy to the wounds
it might receive in a situation so new and embarrassing.”

“Pardon me, Sir,” said O’Carroll; “I feel the force
of your objections, and can only apologize for my
thoughtless proposal, by the wish which prompted it;
that of gratifying a father’s affection, and contributing
to his comfort.”

“I know it well, my dear O’Carroll,” answered the
Major; “you are ever zealous in the cause of friendship
and humanity; but you have never yet experienced
the thousand cares and anxieties of parental love; though,
were there none but spirits as manly and generous as
your own around us, my girl should come to her father’s
arms to-morrow.”

“Thank you, from my soul, sir!” replied O’Carroll,
a flush of grateful feeling brightening the glow of his
ingenuous countenance; and perceiving that the Major
was fatigued by the effort of conversing, he relapsed
into silence, which was not broken during the remainder
of the night.

But, with Captain O’Carroll, the hours passed slowly
and tediously away. He was anxious and alarmed
about Major Courtland, whose uneasy slumbers indicated
increasing illness, and he was several times on the
point of sending his servant for the surgeon, whom he
wished extremely to consult concerning the real situation
of the Major. But reluctant to disturb his repose,
or, should he still be in attendance, to summon him
from those who required his assistance, he relinquished
his design; and, overpowered by weariness at length
sunk into a sleep, which continued undisturbed till
morning.

9 9(1)v 98

Chapter VII.

“The hero’s toil-browned cheek was there, The polished brow was slightly bent, As if the statesman’s studious care, To youth’s own candid front so fair, That cast of thought had lent.” Miss Mitford.

A gentle noise in the apartment chased away the
dream which had transported Captain O’Carroll, in
imagination, to the green fields of his native island, and
awoke him to all the sad consciousness of his unfortunate
situation. A low whisper caught his ear, and,
raising his head to learn from whom it proceeded, he
saw an American officer in conversation with the surgeon.
His tall, athletic figure was strikingly graceful and dignified,
and though he seemed to have passed the early
period of manhood, the fire of youth was tempered,
without being extinguished, by maturity of thought and
intellect. His finely formed features were full of spirit
and intelligence, though the flashing light of his dark
and piercing eyes, and the somewhat haughty curve of
his upper lip, denoted a soul possessed of those elevated
and proudly virtuous feelings which, during the
stormy period of our revolution, characterized those
fearless defenders of liberty, who guided the national
help, or went forth with our armies to combat for the
rights and privileges of freemen.

Captain O’Carroll gazed with admiration on the noble
figure of the officer, while an indefinite feeling of
recognition filled his mind, and he continued to revolve,
in silence, where and when he had met the individual,
whose person seemed so familiar to him. He was
watching, with interest, every gesture, and every variation
of the countenance which could tend to dispel his
uncertainty, when a light step was heard at the door,
and immediately the dark face of an Indian was thrust 9(2)r 99
into the apartment, with a gaze of anxious curiosity.
The officer hastily motioned to him to retire, but his
appearance had brightened the memory of Captain
O’Carroll
, and, by reminding him of the forage, and the
narrative of Colonel Percy, identified, at once, the person
of the unknown, who, he now recollected, had been
pointed out to him by the Colonel, during the engagement
of the 1777-10-07seventh. In the moment of sudden conviction
he involuntarily expressed himself in an audible
tone, and by pronouncing the officer’s name, immediately
attracted his attention.

He turned quickly round, and, without noticing the
Captain’s confusion, advanced towards him.

“I think I heard you pronounce my name, sir,” he
said, bowing low and gracefully, as he spoke; “and,
though ignorant of the manner in which it has become
known to you, I esteem it a fortunate circumstance to
be spared the embarrassment of a formal introduction.”

“There are many ways of identifying the person
of a brave enemy, Colonel Grahame;”
replied O’Carroll,
with all the gallantry of his national character.

“There are, indeed,” returned the officer, “and it is
long since that of Captain O’Carroll became known to
me, and many others, among whom his intrepid gallantry
is a theme of discourse and admiration.”

Captain O’Carroll bent his head in token of reply,
feeling for once, at least, he was outdone in the way of
compliment. Entreating Colonel Grahame to be seated,
he said with his characteristic frankness,

“But even the united bravery and skill of more intrepid
men than I can claim to be, have availed us little
in this battle; here we lie at your mercy, while those
who could, have thought best to retire from the raking
fire which you so unmercifully pour down upon us;
not even allowing us to dine without rolling your cannon
balls across the table, and spicing our viands with
abundance of your grape and rifle shot.”

Colonel Grahame looked with surprise upon the
man, who could trifle on such a subject, and in a situation
so humiliating. But the fine manly countenance 9(2)v 100
of O’Carroll quickly banished this momentary contempt,
and enabled him to penetrate, at once, through
the air of reckless gaiety, which was thrown over a
heart of exquisite sensibility.

“You have indeed been unfortunate,” he said, after
a brief pause, “but even your enemies speak with admiration
of your intrepid valor, and feel their own claim
to merit more honorable and elevated, in having successfully
resisted troops, who fought with such undaunted
bravery.”

“We owe you thanks, sir, for granting us even this
qualified praise,”
returned O’Carroll; “though it is
rather humiliating, I confess, to be made the underpinning,
as it were, of that column, which I perceive
you are already rearing to your own fame upon the
ruin of ours.”

“The column which we are rearing, sir,” said Colonel
Grahame
, “will require no foreign aid to support it.
We pant not after the empty applause of the world,
and we care for victory only as it brings us nearer to
the end of our warfare, and puts us in possession of
those rights, which are essential to our very existence,
as a free and virtuous people. But I did not seek you,
sir, to discuss political dissensions. I am deputed by
General Gates, to inquire into the state of the hospital,
and to make such arrangements as may tend to ameliorate
the condition of those, whom the fortunes of war
have thrown into his hands. Your accomodations
here,”
he continued, glancing round the desolate walls
of the apartment, “are far from good, and if you will
consent to a removal, I can promise you far better in
our hospital at Albany.”

“We are greatly indebted to the American General,
and also to you, sir, for your humane attention,”
returned
O’Carroll. “There are many, I doubt not,
who will gladly accept your offer, but, for myself, I
must beg your permission to remain here for the present.
I cannot desert my friend, who occupies the bed
on your left, and he is too ill to bear a removal, or we
should both of us, I assure you, sir, have taken up our 9(3)r 101
line of march last night, and not have been left in this
crazy trap, waiting for the sportsman to cut our meshes,
and set us free when it pleased him.”

“Speak only for yourself, O’Carroll!” exclaimed
Major Courtland, who had listened in silence to this
conversation, and who, unaccountably averse to the
idea of running from the conquerors, could not hear
this assertion of the Captain’s, without denying his
own wish for escape. Colonel Grahame turned quickly
round at the unexpected sound of the Major’s voice,
and rising from his seat, remained gazing on his pale
countenance, while Major Courtland, without noticing
his gesture, continued speaking, with as much vehemence
as his enfeebled state would permit.

“Yes, sir,” he said, “that brave and generous young
man became a voluntary prisoner for my sake; that he
might soften the rigors of my confinement, and render
it more endurable by the presence of a friend. I do
not intend, sir, to censure the conduct of General Burgoyne,
though he consulted the safety of his troops
rather than their honor; but I should have said, ‘The
judgments of Heaven have placed us in this situation,
and death or victory must set us free.’
I should, perhaps,
have said and acted wrong; but in my youth, I
never turned from the face of an enemy, and it ill becomes
an old soldier, who has so long fought for his
king, to flee from an army of rebels.”

Colonel Grahame, crimsoned with indignation, and
sternly bending his haughty eyes upon Major Courland,
was about to reply and with some severity, when
the Major, regretting the haste with which he had spoken,
said quickly,

“Pardon me, young man! I would not willingly
wound the feelings of one, whom all regard, and to
whom, if I mistake not, I am indebted for a life, twice
preserved from the uplifted hatchet of a barbarous
savage. Accept my thanks, and may Heaven reward
you for your humanity to a fallen foe. Forgive also
the warmth with which I just now expressed myself,
and believe me, it was your cause, and not an individual,9* 9(3)v 102
or even a particular body of men, whom I ventured
to stigmatize.”

“To speak contemptuously of our cause,” returned
Colonel Grahame, with an air of calm dignity, “touches
me as nearly as an insult offered to my own person.
But, sir, I freely pardon the warmth of your manners,
and the obnoxious epithet, which, in common with your
countrymen, you have seen fit to apply to men, who
were driven by injustice and oppression to open resistance;
and I will believe, that, like them, you are influenced
against us by the representations of a party, and
consequently can be but imperfectly acquainted with
the motives of our conduct, and the importance of our
cause. Let us henceforth, sir, drop this subject; it is
one upon which we must continue at variance, and it is
sufficient that we contend for our opinions in the field,
without carrying discord and contention into the scenes
of private and domestic life.”

“I greatly admire your moderation, sir,” said Major
Courtland
; “and, though much your senior in years and
in experience, I confess myself not at all ashamed to take
from it a lesson of instruction. We are thrown into
your power by circumstances, and though the event is
wounding to our feelings, as soldiers, and faithful subjects
of a king whom we revere, it becomes us to bear
it like men, who can endure shame and despise suffering
for a good cause.”

“And it shall be our study, sir,” replied Colonel
Grahame
, “to relieve the unpleasantness of your situation,
by rendering the courtesies and attentions, which
it is the wish of the American officers to pay to those
brave enemies, whom the fortunes of war may have
consigned to their care, and from whom, in similar circumstances,
they would doubtless experience the same
kindness and humanity.”

“Certainly, sir” returned Major Courtland; “I believe
the British nation has never yet been found deficient
in courtesy or humanity, to any who may have
fallen within her power.”

9(4)r 103

“If it had, sir,” replied Colonel Grahame, “we
should not so freely, and though now at variance, I may
add, with so much pride, boast of our descent from the
land of our fathers. The unforeseen events of yesterday
have thrown you, sir, and many of your countrymen,
into close connexion with us, and I trust the contact
will have the favourable effect of softening if not of
obliterating your prejudices, and producing a more just
and impartial estimate of our character and conduct.
Let us at least forget, awhile, that we are enemies, and
as we pledge each other from the same cup, remember
only that we are branches from the same trunk, that
we revere the same principles of justice and humanity,
and worship the same God of mercy and benevolence.”

“That, sir, is all I wish to recollect,” returned Major
Courtland
; “though thoughts more bitter will oftentimes
intrude. But I assure you, the sense of our misfortunes
is alleviated by the knowledge we have obtained
of our foes; who, though we still censure their
cause, are, if we may be allowed to judge from the
bearing of their deputy, brave without arrogance, and,
in the midst of victory, incapable of a wish to triumph
over the fallen, or to remind them by a single look of
the degradation which they feel with so much bitterness.”

“Time, I trust, will convince you, that your judgment
is not premature,”
said Colonel Grahame. “The private
virtues of General Gates add lustre to the valor
and intrepidity of the hero, and it is the earnest wish of
his officers, to imitate a character so worthy of their
love and admiration. But I must bid you a reluctant
good morning ,gentlemen,”
he said, looking at his watch,
and hastily rising to depart; “you have made me forget
that I had other duties to perform; and I hope while
you remain here, you will allow me frequently to renew
the pleasure which I have now enjoyed in your
society.”

They both assured him of the happiness which they
should always derive from his visits, and gratified by
the favorable impression which he had apparently produced 9(4)v 104
on the minds of the prisoners, he took his leave,
and went with the surgeon to visit the other part of the
hospital.

Hugh, who, through every mutation of forutne, retained
his strong affection for the Americans, had listened
with undisguised pleasure to the preceding conversation,
and remarked, with secret triumph, the elegance and
urbanity of Colonel Grahame’s manners. Captain
O’Carroll
had been amusing himself in watching the
expression of his honest countenance, and he said,
with a smiling nod when the American officer had left
them,

“A very good rebel that, Hugh; as the Hessian
soldiers said of General Washington.”

“And they had good reason, your Honor, for saying
so,”
replied Hugh, glad of an opportunity to testify in
favour of the Americans. “They little deserved such
treatment, and the rebels cannot be so bad as some of
us think them, or they would not have let those wooden-headed
Germans go free, without even a touch of
the cat-o’-nine-tails, to settle on the rich lands and
green meadows of the west.”

“You are a rigid disciplinarian, I perceive, Hugh,”
said O’Carroll, laughing; “but here comes Dr. Rennie,
who I hope is not of your opinion, or we shall stand a
chance to be kept with short commons and long bandages
for a week to come.”

The surgeon pronounced Captain O’Carroll convalescent,
but spoke unfavorably of Major Courtland,
though he said he perceived no symptonms that threatened
immediate danger, and gave it as his opinion, that, by
proper care and attention, his recovery would in time
be complete.

Of the three hundred wounded, whom the British,
in their retreat, had left to the mercy of the Americans,
most of them were soon removed to the hospital at
Albany, and every attention, which could contribute to
their comfort, was paid them by their generous captors.
Major Courtland, and Captain O’Carroll, who still refused
to leave him, were almost, if not the only ones 9(5)r 105
who remained; and every luxury which the American
camp afforded, was lavished upon them; and from the
General to the lowest officer, all were assiduous in their
attentions. But none were more so, than Colonel Grahame,
and it was doubtful whether he gave or received
more pleasure, in the frequent visits, which, whenever
his professional duties would permit, he was in
the habit of paying to the two capured officers.

Major Courtland however continued rapidly to grow
worse; anxiety for his daughter, who, in case of his
death, would be left desolate, and the corrosive influence
of shame, regret, and disappointment, united to
irritate his wound, and depress his spirits, to a degree,
which defied alike the fascinating powers of Colonel
Grahame’s
highly gifted mind, and the animating gaiety,
which marked the countenance and conversation of
Captain O’Carroll, who wished often “that the rebels
could be made to swallow their own musket-balls, instead
of forcing them into the stomachs of other people.”

Colonel Grahame forbore to increase the irritation
of Major Courtland’s mind, by speaking of the complete
triumph which promised soon to crown the efforts
of the American arms. The situation of the British
army gave full assurance to this promise. In the position
which they had chosen, or rather, which they had
been compelled to take, at Saratoga, they were soon
surrounded by the continental troops, who kept up a
continual fire, and harassed them by every possible
means. Their retreat was entirely cut off by the vigilance
of the enemy; their provisions were exhausted;
their troops worn down by hardship and toil; and many
of their ablest officers had fallen, or were rendered useless
by wounds and sickness. Thus weakened, and
disadvantageously situated, it would have been madness
to hazard an engagement; a defeat would inevitably
complete their ruin; but to remain any longer in their
present position, was at all events impossible. Some
rumors had to be sure reached them of Sir Henry
Clinton’s
approach up the North river; but they were 9(5)v 106
not sufficiently authentic to claim any reliance, and accordingly,
with the approbation of a council of war, a
treaty of surrender was opened with the American
General.

It was while this important negotation was still pending,
that Major Courtland began slowly, and almost
imperceptibly, to discover some slight symptoms of
amendment. For several days before, he had appeared
to be in a state of lethargy, from which no efforts of
his surgeon could rouse him, and which, from its long
continuance, was apprehended to be the prelude of approaching
dissolution. Captain O’Carroll had frequently
heard Major Courtland express the most decided
disapprobation of sending for his daughter, and both he
and Colonel Grahame were aware of the unpleasantness
of the situation for a young female, and the painful embarassment
to which she would be subjected, in case
of her father’s death. But moved by the entreaties of
Hugh, and influenced by his assertion that Miss Courtland
had expressly commanded him to send for her, if
her father should be wounded, they were almost resolved
to send a messenger after her; and were one evening
discussing the propriety of doing so, when Major
Courtland
appeared to revive, and to view, with an air
of consciousness, those who were in the apartment.
The name of his daughter, frequently pronounced by
the two officers, caught his ear, and after listening with
interest for a few moments, he said with effort,

“No, no, O’Carroll, she must not be sent for; you
know I would not even have her informed of my situation,
lest it should distress her.”

“But she will probably see your name among the
wounded, in the public papers,”
said Colonel Grahame,
“and uncertainty will increase her uneasiness and her
apprehensions.”

“No, they will conceal it from her,” said the Major,
in a feeble voice; I will write to her when I am stronger,
but you must not bring her here.”

Perceiving that he was exhausted by the effort of
speaking, but encouraged by his unexpected revival 9(6)r 107
from almost deathlike lethargy, they assured him they
would acquiesce in his wishes, and entreated him to
give himself no farther uneasiness on the subject.

The following day confirmed the hope of Major
Courtland’s
amendment, and in the course of it, he recovered
so much strength, as to be able to converse, at
intervals, with his friends. Towards evening, as O’Carroll
and Colonel Grahame sat beside him, seeking, by
the assiduities of friendship, to beguile the languor of
illness, the Colonel’s servant entered, and delivered a
whispered message to his master, who instantly rose and
quitted the room. A subaltern was waiting to speak
with him at the door.

“The daughter of the wounded officer, Colonel,
whom you have been visiting, hearing of her father’s
situation, has arrived here from Albany”
――

“How unfortunate!” interrupted Grahame; “it was
surely unwise in her father not to write, and prevent
her taking such a step.”

“General Gates,” continued the subaltern, “desires
her father may be prepared to receive her, lest her
sudden appearance should produce fatal consequences.”

“Most assuredly; the General is ever thoughtful and
humane,”
said Colonel Grahame; “but where is the
lady, and who accompanies her?”

“She has a female attendant, and is accompanied by
an elderly Quaker; Richard Hope, I think General
Schuyler
called him.”

“Ha! Ohmeina,” said the Colonel, turning to the
Indian who had followed him to the house; “is not
that the name of him in whose hands you discovered
the papers, and whom we have so long suspected of
furnishing intelligence to the enemy?”

“Ohmeina has seen him, brother!” replied the Indian,
“and he said to him, the Great God has sent thee
here, and thou mayest learn to love thy American
brethren, and seek not again to betray them.”

“Let him look to his safety if he does,” answered
Colonel Grahame; “but where is the lady waiting,”
he said, again addressing the subaltern.

9(6)v 108

“In front of the house, sir; I did not like to ask her
in till I had spoken to you.”

Colonel Grahame directed his servant to inform Captain
O’Carroll
of Miss Courtland’s arrival, and request
him to communicate it as gently as possible to Major
Courtland
; and to let him know when the Major was
ready to receive his daughter. He then went to the
door to conduct the lady in.

In front of it stood a clumsy Dutch vehicle, drawn by
two horses, a man rather past the meridian of life, with
a sedate and ruddy countenance, which indicated the
gentle approach of a green and healthy old age, was
walking with slow and measured steps beside it. A
lovely figure rounded with the soft fullness of youth,
hung upon his arm, and in silence shared his walk.
They had just turned from the door as Colonel Grahame
reached it, and he stood, for a moment, observing
the persons of the strangers. The precise form of
the Quaker, his broad-brimmed hat, and his formal attire
of light drab-colored cloth, together with the look
of inexpressible horror with which he regarded the vestiges
of recent warfare, that were strewed around, contrasted
singularly with the light and graceful figure of
his companion, who, with head depressed, seemed lost
in thought, and heedless of surrounding objects. As
they turned to retrace their steps, a slight noise caused
her to raise her head, and the sadness and anxiety,
which had overspread her lovely and expressive features,
gave place to a glow of expectancy, when she
saw the American officer waiting, as she supposed, to
conduct her to her father. It apparently cost her an
effort to refrain from springing towards him. Instinctively
her step became more rapid, and, with unconscious
eagerness she drew her arm from the rigid hold of the
Quaker. Colonel Grahame moved to meet her, and a
sentiment of admiration and respect inspired him, as he
remarked the impatience of her filial affection, and gazed
upon the youth and beauty of the delicate female,
who had ventured among enemies, to watch beside the
couch of a wounded father.

10(1)r 109

“I regret, madam,” he said, bending slightly to the
Quaker, and with an air of profound respect to Miss
Courtland
, “that you should have been detained a moment,
in this unpleasant situation; but your unexpected
arrival must plead our excuse.”

“No apology is necessary, sir,” said Catherine; “I
did not look for ceremony here; only lead me to my
father, sir, and all the embarrassments, which have attended
my introduction into your camp, and all the anxieties
of months that are passed, will be forgotten in the
joy of again embracing him.”

“The illness of Major Courtland has been so serious,”
said Colonel Grahame, “that we have judged it prudent
to communicate the news of your arrival with caution,
but in the course of a few minutes, I hope to have the
pleasure of conducting you to his apartment. In the
meantime, Miss Courtland, I beg you will permit me to
lead you from this chilly atmosphere, to the shelter of
the house.”

“Ah, I fear,” said Catherine, “from the caution you
have thought it necessary to use, that my father is worse,
much worse, than even my fears would suffer me to
believe.”

“Do not alarm yourself, Miss Courtland,” said the
Colonel; “your father for two days past has been decidedly
better, though I will not conceal from you, that
we have thought him dangerously ill; and, to save you
from a sudden shock, I must warn you that owing to
his confinement, you will find him somewhat changed
in personal appearance.”

As Colonel Grahame said this, he led Catherine into
the house, and drawing forward a broken chair, the best
that the apartment afforded, he begged her, humble as
was the seat, to accept it, while waiting. But she declined,
and stood looking through the narrow window,
upon the field where the British army had been so recently
encamped. The earth was torn up by the balls
of the enemy, and melancholy traces of the late sanguinary
conflict every where met the view. Catherine’s
eyes filled with tears, as she gazed; and oppressed with 10 10(1)v 110
the gloomy associations which the scene naturally awakened,
she spoke with feeling of the miseries of war, and
the anguish, which, even when successful, it inflicted
on a thousand hearts. Though a brave soldier in the
hour when his country called for aid, Colonel Grahame
was not a lover of war, for its own sake; and he replied
to Catherine’s observation with as much sincerity as
feeling.

“You are right, Miss Courtland; even in the moment
of victory, the field of battle presents a scene, calculated
only to awaken horror and regret; and no feeling
mind can reflect without a sensation of bitter anguish,
upon the waste of human life, and the bereavement of
human happiness, which are the necessary consequences
of a single engagement. But,”
he added, and his
eye kindled as he spoke, “these are not themes on which
a soldier ought to dwell; he must reject all thoughts
but those which nerve his arm for battle, by reminding
him of liberties invaded, and rights insulted; which tell
him he has a country to defend, an altar to protect,
and the sanctity of a domestic hearth to preserve inviolate.”

Even in this moment of sorrow and anxiety, the
patriotism of Catherine’s heart for an instant predominated
over every other feeling, and she fixed her dark
eyes, full of proud emotion and delight, upon the glowing
countenance of Colonel Grahame; but quickly recollecting
herself, she turned away with blushes, which
deepened into crimson, when she caught his eye bent
earnestly upon her. He had indeed remarked her
thrilling glance, and, spell-bound by its fascinating influence,
he was intently regarding her, when he was
aroused by the deep-toned voice of the Quaker, who
with Martha had followed him to the house, and who
could not let so good an opportunity for urging his
pacific sentiments pass unimproved.

“These, young man,” he said, addressing Colonel
Grahame
, “are not the precepts of him whose altar
thou sayest thou wouldst protect. He has enjoined on
us to be merciful, peaceful, forbearing; to render good 10(2)r 111
for evil, and when we are smitten on the one cheek, to
turn the other also. But thou, like the zealous Apostle
of old, wouldst cut off the ears of those who insult thy
master; thou wouldst close thy heart to the cry of the
widow and orphan, lest they should melt thee to mercy,
and deluge the land which thou lovest, with the blood
of those, whom thy God has made in his own image,
and after his own likeness.”

“And wast thou obeying his precepts,” said the
Indian Ohmeina, stepping forward from the passage
where he had remained unobserved, “was thou, Richard
Hope
, obeying his precepts, and treading in the
path of the man of peace and wisdom, whom thou dost
profess to honor, when thou didst purpose to betray thy
brethren into the snares of the English, whose long
knives were thirsting for their blood?”

A transient smile flitted over the lovely features of
Catherine at this unexpected retort of the Indian, whom
at the first glance she recognized. Nor could Colonel
Grahame
forbear smiling at the ingenious home thrust
of Ohmeina, which in truth the Quaker richly deserved;
and he evinced his consciousness of that desert by a
degree of agitation and embarrassment, which his placid
countenance had seldom been seen to wear before.
But without making any attempt to parry the assault of
the Indian, he turned towards him with a gravity as invincible
as his own, saying,

“I did repent me of that deed, as thou well knowest,
friend; and God, I trust, has pardoned the sin of his unworthy
servant.”

Captain O’Carroll at this moment entered with a
smiling countenance, and Catherine, observing the British
uniform, pressed eagerly towards him, and without
waiting for an introduction, exclaimed,

“You come to take me to my father, sir, I hope;
indeed, indeed, I cannot be detained from him a moment
longer.”

“You shall not, madam,” said O’Carroll; “it is not
necessary; he has received the gratifying intelligence
of your arrival with much more firmness than we expected, 10(2)v 112
and is as impatient for the meeting as yourself.”

He took her hand, as he spoke; and beckoning to
Martha to follow her, she was led by him to the door
of her father’s apartment. He bowed low as he opened
it for her to enter, and instantly closing it after her,
retreated to the room where he had left the Colonel,
unwilling to intrude upon the sanctity of the touching
scene which must, of course, ensue between the father
and daughter, meeting under circumstances so peculiar
and affecting.

The Quaker had gone out, and Colonel Grahame
was standing alone with his arms folded, and his head
depressed, in an attitude of deep meditation.

“Has the Circe transformed you to a statue, Colonel!”
asked O’Carroll, gaily, as he passed his arm
through Grahame’s, and looked archly in his face.
“Come,” he added, “I am well enough to walk out
to day, and we cannot have a better opportunity;
though I would not be absent long either; this interview
must not last too long, or our patient may have a
relapse tomorrow. I never knew much good to come
of a woman’s tears, Colonel.”

“But what say you of her smiles?” asked Grahame,
playfully.

“Oh worse, far worse,” said O’Carroll with unusual
emphasis. “Never trust them, Colonel, they are deadly
snares to entrap unwary hearts, sharp arrows tipt
with the poison of asps. Upon my faith, I would
rather, unarmed, encounter Morgan’s whole corps of
riflemen, than half the number of these fair enslavers,
without some spell to preserve me from their enchantments.”

“You would doubtless have a better chance of escape.”
said Colonel Grahame, archly.

“I should, at least, meet a less merciless death,” returned
O’Carroll; “and that is all I should expect in
either case. But why do we stand prating in this dark
place: come, let us be going.”

10(3)r 113

“I think it too damp for you to venture out this
evening, Captain,”
said Grahame; “besides, the Quaker
has some claim upon my attention, and of course
I cannot have the pleasure of accompanying you.”

“Oh, very well,” said O’Carroll, “tomorrow will be
just as pleasant, so do not let me detain you. Bon soir;
and, Colonel, do call early in the morning, since I know
you are dying for another glance at this ‘miracle and
queen of gems,’
that has fallen with such unexpected
lustre amongst us. You, who shrink neither from the
heathenish tomahawks of those gutteral dogs of the
forest, nor from the ponderous sabres of our German
dragoons, can safely stand the fire of a lady’s eyes,
though aided by the artillery of her smiles, and all the
host of mining engines which, in the form of airs and
graces, sap the fountain of our hearts, and light the
train of explosion, before we have had the precaution
to place a single sentinel at the gates.”

Colonel Grahame smiled at the humorous comparison
of the Captain, but was prevented from replying
by the entrance of Richard Hope, who, wearied with
waiting, had come in to see if he might now be admitted
to Major Courtland’s apartment. But as the surgeon
had prohibited any one else from seeing him before
morning, Mr. Hope returned to pass the night with a
Quaker, who resided a few miles below Stillwater, and
Colonel Grahame took leave of O’Carroll, and, mounting
his horse, rode slowly to his quarters.

10* 10(3)v 114

Chapter VIII.

“The wretch, concentered all in self, Living shall forefeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.” Scott.

On the following morning Colonel Grahame was
prevented from paying his customary visit to Major
Courtland
, by a message from General Gates, signifying
his wish to speak with him as soon as convenient.

The crisis of the northern campaign was rapidly approaching,
and it promised to shed new lustre on the
cause of America, while it filled with fresh hope and
courage the hearts of her defenders. The consideration
of the treaty proposed by General Burgoyne, had occasioned
a cessation of hostilities, which, owing to its final
ratification, were not again resumed; and although the
truce allowed to the weary soldiers time for that bodily
repose, which their late active and unremitted warfare
had prohibited, it fully occupied the minds of their
leaders, and consumed the hours designed for sleep in
long consultations and deliberate reflection.

It was on some affairs connected with this subject,
that General Gates now required the presence of Colonel
Grahame
, who instantly obeyed the summons, and
repaired, without delay, to his quarters. General Gates
wished to send a verbal messenger to General Lincoln,
who had been wounded in the battle of the 1777-10-07seventh, and
still remained in the hospital at Albany. Colonel Grahame
received the commission as a mark of his General’s
confidence, and felt too much honored by it, not
to accept it with pleasure.

Without delay he set out for Albany, delivered his
message, and after passing some time in conversation
with the General on the circumstances of the army, he 10(4)r 115
left him to visit some other wounded officers, previous
to his quitting the hospital. As he was hastily passing
a half open door, he heard himself called by name, and
stopping to ascertain by whom, he recognized the well
known features of General Arnold, who was among the
sufferers in the last engagement. Though not an admirer
of this officer, courtesy compelled him to stop
and inquire after his health; but when he beheld the
irritated and flushed face of the General, owing to the
pain he had just suffered from the examination of his
wound, he secretly wished that he had escaped unobserved.

“What brings you here, Grahame,” asked the General,
in a pettish tone; “I thought you had been at
Saratoga, receiving the dictation of those bull-dogs,
whom we have beaten from the field, but who keep us
at bay as if they, forsooth, and not we, were the conquerors.”

“I came, sir, charged with a commission from General
Gates
to General Lincoln,”
returned Grahame,
without noticing the sarcastic remark of Arnold.

“Something about the treaty, I suppose,” said Arnold;
“and he doubtless approves all the humane condescension
of the General.”

“He does so most fully,” said Grahame, disregarding
the sneer which accompanied these words.

“Oh, of course,” returned Arnold; “you Massachusetts
people always remember mercy before sacrifice,
and had much rather be pointed at as good, honest citizens,
than brave and warlike soldiers.”

“You forget, sir,” said Colonel Grahame, “that the
men of Massachusetts were the first to draw the sword
in this good cause; and though they may love and
cultivate the arts of peace, they are not less prompt to
obey the voice of their country, nor less efficient in her
service, as the bravery of Lincoln, and the intrepid
gallantry of Brooks, to mention no others, evince.”

“Though you might have added the name of Grahame,
had your modesty permitted you to do so,”

said the General, wishing to soften the harshness of his 10(4)v116
observation. “I certainly intended no reflection on the
people of Massachusetts, Colonel, though in the irritation
of the moment, I might have said what sounded
like it; but it would be folly in me to dispute the courage
which is self-evident, though I do think, in this
crisis, there is too much consideration shown for the
feelings of an enemy who has had none for ours. General
Gates
, in particular, whether it is that his heart
yearns towards his countrymen I know not, but he is
disposed to be far too lenient in his conduct to these
spoilers, who have come, with fire and sword, to ravage
our fair inheritance and crush us beneath the yoke of
their barbarous oppression.”

“You would not surely have us tarnish the glory of
our victory, General,”
said Grahame, “by an exercise
of tyrannical power over those unfortunate soldiers,
whom we have reduced to the cruel necessity of asking
mercy at our hands.”

“I would have them receive their deserts,” said the
General, fiercely; “I would have them feel, and deeply
too, that we are not to be insulted with impunity; that
after they are vanquished, besieged, destitute of provisions,
and reduced almost to actual misery, they may
not hope to hide their degradation under an affectation of
humanity, and in the very moment when they are suing
for terms, audaciously declare they are only induced to
resort to that measure from the wish to avoid a scene
of carnage which must destroy many valuable lives.”

“And why,” asked Colonel Grahame, “should we
doubt this assertion? Is it incredible that men who
have given us such convincing proofs of their courage,
should choose rather to sacrifice a point of honor, than
lavishly to waste the blood of their remaining troops?”

“Preposterous!” exclaimed the General. “It is only
a feint, Colonel Grahame, to hide their shame, and it is
rendered the more ridiculous by the absurd declaration,
that their retreat is not cut off, while they have
arms in their hands! Yet with all this insolence, so
unbecoming in the vanquished, General Gates is strongly
inclined to soften every thing galling to their pride, 10(5)r 117
in the articles of capitulation, and to accept their surrender,
on terms as easy and as little humiliating as they
choose to make them.”

“Pardon me, sir, if I venture to dissent from you in
opinion,”
said Colonel Grahame; “the humanity, which
General Gates displays in this and every other instance,
adds lustre to the splendor of his conquests, and
throws a softening veil over the horrors of war. We would
not for our own fame’s sake, were there no higher motive,
wish to treat our vanquished enemies like criminals.
The very act of surrender must be sufficiently wounding
to their feelings and their pride, without the aggravation
of arrogant and contemptuous treatment.”

“Surrender!” ejaculated Arnold; “call it a convention,
Colonel; that is the dignified appellation the
treaty is to receive, in order to save the fallen General
all the mortification possible.”

“It matters little what appellation it receives,” said
Grahame; “its nature will not be changed by the
mere circumstance of a name; nor will the honor
which it reflects on the victors be in the least degree
sullied by the benevolence, which induces them to soften
the disgraces of their humbled foes.”

“Humbled!” repeated the irascible and fiery General;
“would to God they were humbled in spirit, as
well as in condition. Does their answer to the sixth
article of the treaty savor of humility, Colonel Grahame?
And yet General Gates, notwithstanding their
insolent threat, consents to grant their demands, and
allows them to march out of their encampment with all
the honors of war.”

“And even if he has,” said the fearless Grahame,
undaunted by the angry looks of the General, “will this
indulgence lessen the glory he has won; or will he be
at all degraded in the eyes of the captives, by exercising
towards them a lenity, which only the most uncivilized
nations refuse to their unfortunate prisoners? For
one moment, General Arnold, let us imagine ourselves
in their situation. Is there one among us, who would
submit to comply with the sixth article of the treaty? 10(5)v 118
You, I am sure, would sooner die; and Heaven is my
witness that death in its most hideous form would be
less terrible to me, than the fulfilment of a requisition
so degrading. And from my soul, sir, I respect the
foe, who, in the extremest hour of peril, has nobly resisted
a demand, which would have fixed a lasting stigma
on his country, and rendered him contemptible
even in the eyes of his enemy.”

“All this parade might do, were their cause a
worthy one,”
returned the General; “but it is so incompatible
with noble feelings, that I marvel, Colonel
Grahame
, a mind of so nice discernment as yours, can
place any reliance in their affected scruples of delicacy
and honor. I would treat a generous foe with all the
consideration and forbearance consistent with military
discipline, but I confess these lawless oppressors appear
to me to merit little mercy.”

“They are the agents of a king,” replied Grahame,
“who regards us as his lawful subjects, and, as rebellious
ones, asserts his right to chastise us. And those
whom he employs for the purpose, doubtless, believe
themselves doing God and their prince service, in attempting
to quell the turbulent and unnatural commotion,
excited against the rightful authority of a virtuous
sovereign.”

“But they will find it no easy task,” said the General,
“to quell the spirit of a free and valiant people.
They may league with the savages of our forests, more
terrible in their fierce array than so many legions of
devils; they may burn our cities, destroy our villages,
and bring their German barbarians to plunder our citizens
and violate our wives and daughters; yet they
shall find us undismayed, and, in the end, we will compel
them, like this proud General whom we have just
now vanquished, to entreat us for terms of mercy.”

“And we shall, I trust, rejoice to grant it, when that
moment of good fortune shall arrive,”
said Colonel
Grahame
.

“We shall be in no haste to do it, I trust,” said the
General; “at least if we would not give our enemies 10(6)r 119
the idea, that they may offend again with impunity,
and that we are so very glad to be at peace with them,
as to concede it on any conditions which they may
choose to dictate.”

“We can concede it on none,” returned the Colonel,
“which may endanger our future liberties, or lessen
our national dignity; but as far as is consistent with
these, we shall, I hope, be ever ready to exercise the
virtues of forbearance and humanity; virtues which
have a much happier influence on the character and
prosperity of a nation than it is possible for the most
splendid victories of warlike ambition to produce.”

“Do you claim any affinity to the disciples of
George Fox and William Penn, Colonel?”
asked the
General, with a sarcastic smile. “That pacific speech
half inclines me to believe that the fiery current of your
blood is tempered by the milky stream which curdles
in the veins of those peace-loving people.”

“Though I can claim no affinity to them, sir,” returned
the Colonel, “I am not ashamed to acknowledge
that even they cannot love peace, and enjoy the
tranquillizing pleasures of benevolence, more than I
should, did not the interests of my country demand the
sacrifice of private feeling, in this hour of her danger
and tribulation. The heart, General Arnold, round
which the milk of human kindness never circles, must
be dead to all the sweet sympathies of humanity, false
to its own honor, and treacherous to the interests of
others.”

“It is but a stagnant pool at best,” said the General
in a scornful tone. “Give me the arts of war; the
spirit-stirring scenes of the camp have more attractions
than all the soft and enervating luxuries of peace. The
pompous array of battle is enlivening; nay even the
shrieks of the wounded and the dying, the roar of artillery,
the hurry and the rush of men and steeds, as the
dreadful combat thickens, fill the soul with a wild and
fearful delight, which only the heart of the warrior can
conceive. But in the last engagement, Colonel, these
thrilling sensations were somewhat deranged by this 10(6)v 120
cursed wound, just as sword in hand we had forced our
way into the works of the flying enemy. I thought it
mortal; and in that moment of glory and victory I
would have yielded, without reluctance, to the grasp of
death, if, like the warlike Danes, I could have believed
that henceforth I should quaff nectar in heaven from
the skulls of our vanquished foes.”

Colonel Grahame recoiled with involuntary horror,
shocked by the profane levity, and savage fierceness
expressed in these words. But in the animation of
speaking, General Arnold had disarranged his wounded
leg, and, agonized by the pain which it gave him,
he did not observe the gesture of the Colonel. After
a few moments spent in muttering curses, which seemed
to alleviate his suffering, he turned to Grahame, and
said, in a fretful and angry tone,

“It maddens me that this gasconading General, who
has made us all suffer, more or less, should be let off
so easily. His insolence is insufferable. We have a
report here, which I had forgotten to mention, that he
has demanded more time for the settlement of preliminaries,
and that he has said, he is willing, willing indeed,
to appoint two officers who may meet with two
of ours to discuss and settle the subordinate articles of
the treaty.”

“The report is authentic,” returned Grahame. “And
really, sir,”
he added, scarcely able to conceal his disgust
at the ferocity of the General, “really, sir, I can
discern nothing either insolent or unreasonable in the
proposition. General Burgoyne owes it to his king,
to his soldiers, and to himself, to render as favourable as
possible the terms of the surrender which he is compelled
to make.”

“And the spot, which he has chosen for the proposed
meeting,”
observed the General, “is not one which
can tend to soften the hearts of the American officers
towards him. The ruined walls of General Schuyler’s
house, will not awaken a train of associations the most
favorable to the interests of the spoilers.”

11(1)r 121

“I trust,” returned Grahame, “the minds of the
American officers are too free from prejudice and party
feeling, to yield to the influence of recollections, which
the desolated scene may momentarily awaken. It has
been said, and I know not that we have any right to
doubt the truth of the report, that the house was destroyed
from motives of policy. Sentiments of revenge
had nothing to do with it; it was burned merely
to prevent its affording shelter to our troops. If then
it was not a deed of wanton outrage, we can and ought
to pardon it. General Schuyler, who is certainly in a
private point of view the only sufferer by the loss, has
generously done so, and speaks of it not merely as a
pardonable, but as a justifiable act, warranted by the
laws of war, and if not absolutely necessary, at least
prudent, considering the desperate situation of the British
commander.”

“Well, if he is contented,” said the General, “to
have his lands destroyed and his houses pillaged and
burned by the hands of these Vandals, I have not the
slightest objection. But if they had thus despoiled my
property, I should not brook the injury with all the
smiling patience, which the good General thinks proper
to display upon the occasion.”

Colonel Grahame was stung by the taunting manners
of Arnold, and by the lurking sarcasm, which was
directed against the upright and excellent man whom
all loved and respected, and he replied with a haughty
severity, which he intended should repel any farther
ebullition of spleen.

“General Schuyler’s heart glows with the purest patriotism,
sir, and he thinks lightly of private losses or
acquirements, in comparison with the momentous interests
of his country, whose fate, notwithstanding our late
successes, is still involved in clouds of doubt and obscurity.
Would to God that every heart among us
were as pure, as free from dissimulation, as zealous in
the cause, for which we are contending, as that of the
brave and virtuous General Schuyler!”

11 11(1)v 122

“No one doubts his virtue or his patriotism, Colonel
Grahame
,”
returned Arnold, who felt the reproof intended,
though he was master of an address too artful
and consummate, to discover that he did so. “A sincere
and patriotic love of liberty is the motive, which actuates
each one of us, I trust; and though on minor
points our opinions may vary, the difference can never
be so essential as to affect the public good. I have
private wrongs as well as others, Colonel Grahame;
but I endeavour to stifle the recollection of them, to forget
that men from whom I expected other things, have
proved themselves ungrateful and unjust. I feel that I
am the servant of my country, and for her sake I endure
all; I even see the laurels, which I have ventured life
to pluck with my own sword from fields deluged in
blood, encircling the brows of others, and I ask not a
leaf from the garland I have won, to preserve as a memento
of the past.”

Colonel Grahame knew that Arnold alluded to the
recent coolness between himself and General Gates,
but anxious to avoid all discussion of the subject, he
only said,

“There are few men, General Arnold, who have not
either real or imaginary injuries to complain of; and
those whose consciences can bear testimony to the integrity
of their motives, and the uprightness of their
conduct, may rise superior to the petty grievances of
life, and enjoy a serentiy, which neither injustice nor
ingratitude can destroy. But I must leave you, sir;
time wears away, and I must be at my quarters before
night.”

“There is time enough, even if you remain another
half hour,”
said the General; “this cursed leg of mine
keeps me tied in one position, and so shut out from the
world, that it is really a deed of charity to indulge me
with your society.”

Colonel Grahame, however, excused himself, on the
plea that he must immediately quit Albany, and, glad
to be released from the society of a man whose feelings
were so uncongenial with his own, he bade him farewell, 11(2)r123
and left the room. At the door, he met a young officer
who, having been slightly wounded, was now convalescent.

“Ah Colonel,” he exclaimed, as Grahame, wrapped
in his own reflections, was passing him, without recognition,
“what brings you among us? though I need not
ask, for I perceive you have been holding a council
with the gallant General.”

“Gallant!” repeated the Colonel, scornfully; “call
him any thing but gallant, Budworth; no man is gallant,
unless he possesses generous and noble qualities.”

“Shall I call him brave then?” asked the young
officer with a smile.

“If you please,” said Grahame. “He has a kind of
animal ferocity, which may pass with some for bravery.
He loves the battle, for its carnage, and conquest, that he
may humble and degrade his unfortunate captives. You
may think me swayed by personal prejudice, Captain
Budworth
, but I have just witnessed the display of a
revengeful and polluted mind, from the recollection of
which my very soul revolts. But go, I will not detain
you; go and learn to hate vice, though disguised beneath
the becoming garb of patriotism and courage.”

The Colonel passed on, as he finished speaking, and
Captain Budworth, after a moment’s hesitation turned
to enter the apartment of the wounded General.

11(2)v 124

Chapter IX.

“With one so fair, so sweet, and yet so high In all her aspirations, I could blend Thought, wish, and feeling.—Time might hasten by, And age invade us; Love could never end.” Percival.

Colonel Grahame reached Saratoga that evening, and
on the following morning, as soon as circumstances
would permit, proceeded to inquire after the health of
Major Courtland. Captain O’Carroll was lingering
about the door, and his face brightened when he saw
the Colonel approaching.

“You are truly welcome,” he said, as he advanced
to meet him; “we passed a tiresome day without you,
yesterday, though in the hope of discerning you in the
distance, I made a watch-tower of yonder blackened
tree, and sat demurely perched among its leafless branches,
straining my eyes, like sister Anne in the nursery
tale, looking for the approach of Blue-beard.”

“And did you maintain that comfortable station all
day?”
asked Colonel Grahame, smiling.

“No,” returned O’Carroll, gravely; “that knave of
a sentinel unfortunately mistook me for the scientific
biped, vulgarly ycleped the owl, and levelled his musket
at me; so to save the ruffling of my plumage, and confront
the popular belief, that the bird of wisdom never
flies by day, I vacated my perch, with all convenient
speed. But come, let us go to the Major; he will not
forgive me if I detain you a moment longer; to say
nothing of the fair lady, who has turned her eyes, bright
with expectation, towards the door, every time it has
opened, and turned them away again, with a most flattering
look of disappointment, when they encountered
only the unusually awkward length of visage, which
I have thought it decorous to wear in complaisance to
the stranger, since her arrival.”

11(3)r 125

Colonel Grahame smiled at the irrepressible gaiety of
the Captain; but as they reached the door of Major
Courtland’s
apartment at this instant, he did not attempt
a reply. O’Carroll rapped gently, and the door was
opened by Catherine herself, who was sitting alone with
her father. She smiled and blushed as she welcomed
them, and the Colonel, as he entered, stopped a moment
to inquire how she found herself after the fatigue of her
ride. He then followed her to the side of her father’s
bed, who, supported by pillows, sat half upright, and
his cheerful and animated countenance evinced the rapidity
of his amendment, since the arrival of his daughter.
He smiled with pleasure as the Colonel approached,
and extended towards him his hand with an air of
cordial welcome.

“I am, indeed, most happy, sir,” said Grahame, as he
pressed it affectionately, “to witness this change for
the better. I scarcely thought, when I last saw you,
that a whole month of careful nursing would renovate
your feeble frame, as two short days have done.”

“Under the blessing of God, it is my sweet Kate,
who has restored me,”
said the Major, turning his eyes,
full of doting affection, upon the lovely countenance of
his daughter. “Though I did chide her for coming,”
he added “her smiles have brought peace and healing
with them.”

“Ah, dear father!” said Catherine, “your gentle chidings
were mingled with words of such fond welcome,
that I regarded them not; and you cannot regret my
coming, since it has contributed so greatly to my happiness.”

“I trust I shall have no cause to regret it,” said her
father; “should it please Heaven to restore me to
health, we shall neither of us be detained here much
longer, probably; for though a prisoner,”
and a slight
shade for a moment saddened his countenance at the
recollection, “though a prisoner, I may presume to
hope my parole will be allowed me.”

“Undoubtedly sir,” said Colonel Grahame; “and
for your sake, as well as for Miss Courtland’s, I shall feel 11*
11(3)v 126
happy, when you can be with safety removed. These
accommodations are miserable indeed, and I fear, Madam,
you can scarcely make yourself comfortable in
them.”

“I am a soldier’s daughter, sir; and though,” she
added with a smile, “this is the first active service I
have seen, I find no difficulty in accommodating myself
to whatever circumstances the fortunes of war may
render necessary.”

“Do not make yourself uneasy, Colonel Grahame,”
said the Major; “we are very commodiously situated,
and have not a wish ungratified, which the humane
and courteous attentions of the American officers have
been able to supply. To them I am deeply indebted,
but more peculiarly so to you, who have endured my
pettish infirmities with such manly and generous forbearance,
and so kindly shared with my friend O’Carroll,
the cares and attentions which are so soothing and
grateful in the season of illness and misfortune. The
hours of my captivity, which I dreaded as the most
wearisome and humbling of my life, have been cheered
by your society, and the feeling of degradation, which
at first nearly overpowered me, has been softened by
a more intimate acquaintance with the characters of
our generous conquerors.”

“The American officers, sir,” replied Colonel Grahame,
“are ever desirous to render as easy as possible
the condition of their prisoners, and in doing so, they
but obey the dictates of that benevolence which, I am
proud to think, is characteristic of their nation. The
trifling attentions which personally I have been so happy
as to bestow, you estimate too highly, sir. You
know not how much of self there is, in the motive
which brings me daily to enjoy the society I find in
this apartment.”

“Ah, sir,” exclaimed Catherine, no longer able to
repress her grateful feelings, “you cannot hope to persuade
us that self was the origin of all those benevolent
actions which have imposed on us such deep and
lasting obligations. I can never forget that I owe to 11(4)r 127
you my father’s life, that you have soothed his sufferings
and softened the mortifications of my captured
countrymen; and, in so doing, have acted like a true
son of that virtuous band, which is valiantly struggling
for liberty and life.”

Catherine was hurried by excess of feeling into this
partial avowal of her opinions, and it was not till she
caught Captain O’Carroll’s glance of comic surprise,
that she became conscious of having said any thing,
which was not consonant with the feelings of all present.
The deepest blushes instantly suffused her face;
but she made an effort to appear unconcerned, and
looked up with an intention of adding some qualifying
observation, when she encountered the piercing glance
of Colonel Grahame’s dark eyes, fixed full upon her,
with an expression of astonishment, not unmingled
with pleasure, and with increased confusion she turned
towards her father. Embarrasment was visible upon
his countenance, but a lurking smile betrayed his sympathy
with Captain O’Carroll’s evident propensity to
mirth.

“You are rightly caught, Kate,” he said, reading her
appealing look, and, though half provoked, yet secretly
compassionating her confusion; “you are rightly caught,
girl; I always told you, your whiggish principles would
bring you into difficulty, and now my words are verified.”

“Father, I am not ashamed of them,” said Catherine,
resolved, since she had inadvertently betrayed them,
not meanly to retract the avowal; “I never yet disowned
them, and you would have cause to blush for me,
were I to deny them now, in presence of their brave
defender, to whom we owe so much.”

Colonel Grahame bowed low, and colored with excess
of pleasure. “It increases my confidence in the
justice of my cause,”
he said, “to find it espoused by
the lovely and virtuous of your sex, Miss Courtland.
The soldier’s arm is nerved with fresh valor by the
smiles and encouragements of woman, whose gentle but
unshaken constancy cheers him in dangers, and supports 11(4)v 128
him in difficulties, from which his bolder but less
enduring courage would otherwise shrink.”

“I espouse no cause, sir,” said Catherine, blushing;
“and I regret that the feelings of the moment should
have betrayed me into any expression indicative of the
opinions I may entertain respecting the quarrel, which
now agitates this unhappy country. But I will not
disavow the sentiments I have incautiously uttered, nor
deny that the land which has sheltered me from infancy,
is the land of my affection, and a hundred times
endeared to me by the free and noble spirit, with
which she rises in her might, to shake off the thraldom
of oppression.”

“Catherine, Catherine, say no more, if you love
me,”
exclaimed Major Courtland, in an accent of displeasure.
“Methinks your prejudices have acquired
new strength, instead of softening, towards the cause
which your father honors.”

“Pardon me, dearest father,” she replied; “but do
not degrade, by the name of prejudices, those gentle
affections which you yourself implanted in my infant
bosom. America has loved and cherished every thing
which is dear to me. Even the simple wild flowers,
which I have gathered in her forests, seemed to me
fairer and more fragrant than the rarest exotics, which
were brought from other climes; and how often have
you smiled upon me when I said, I love these wild blossoms
because they have expanded in the air of my
country, and been nurtured in the soil of the brave.
Dear father,”
she continued, forgetting, in the enthusiasm
of the moment, the presence of those who were
gazing in silent admiration on the impassioned eloquence
of her glowing countenance; “dear father,
every event of my life links me, with fond associations,
to this land; its rivers, its forests, its mountains, every
feature of its lovely landscapes are like those of a dear
familiar friend, whom death itself cannot shut from the
affections and the memory. How then can I wish evil
to her cause! How, when I speak of her afflictions,
can I repress the feelings which overflow my heart!”

11(5)r 129

“Go, go, you are an enthusiast, Kate,” said her father,
touched by her earnest appeal, but striving to resist its
influence. “Your fond, foolish sex have always some
darling theme to rave about, and it is fortunate for us,
that your fancies are only suffered to waste themselves
in words, or the world would be kept forever in an uproar.”

“Alas! dear father,” said Catherine, laughing, “since
it is the only way in which they are permitted to waste
themselves, we may be pardoned for making a good
use of our privelege; though, I think, were we less limited,
we should soon disprove the assertions of those
who predict misrule and anarchy, as a necessary consequence
of suffering us to exercise power.”

“The prediction has stood the test of experience,
Kate,”
said the Major; “we have only to look into the
history of the past, to see it verified in a hundred instances.”

“In a thousand, Major, you should have said,” exclaimed
O’Carroll; “‘Who lost Mark Antony the world? a woman.Who was the cause of a long ten years’ war,And laid at last old Troy in ashes? a woman.’”

“I thought you a more gallant man, Captain O’Carroll,”
interrupted the Colonel, “than to second an attack
upon that sex, who are the inspirers of the soldier’s
courage, and the rewarders of his toil and danger.”

“I thought so too, Captain O’Carroll,” said Catherine,
“and should not have expected my father to have
found a supporter of his opinions, in a native of your
island, whose sons, with such frank courage, are ever
ready to draw the sword in our defence.”

“And none, madam, will be found more ready than
myself, in a cause so honorable,”
said O’Carroll; “but
policy often dictates measures, at which the feelings
revolt. An occasional skirmish between our pickets
may possibly prevent the danger of my defection; but
in case of a long armistice, I greatly fear my loyalty
may be shaken by the eloquence, which none can hear 11(5)v 130
unmoved, and I would not, for the honor of my profession,
prove a traitor at this crisis.”

“I use no efforts to make traitors, I assure you, Captain
O’Carroll,
,”
said Catherine; “nor would I be thought
a partisan, because I love my country, and speak warmly
in its behalf.”

“Not a partisan, but a patriot, madam,” said O’Carroll;
“and there is fascination even in the name.”

“Yes,” said the Major, “to Irishmen who love rebellion,
and are always getting up some lawless riot,
there is a charm in any thing which is a signal for fighting
and revolt.”

“Though some of us even forego the pleasure of a
riot, for the honor of fighting under the banners of loyalty,”
said O’Carroll, in a tone half playful and half
reproachful.

“Indeed you do,” returned the Major, “and there
are none, my dear fellow, more brave and zealous than
yourself in the good cause.”

“There are none more loyal, I can truly say,” replied
O’Carroll. “But, if the principles, which have
defied the frosty nights and foggy mornings of this
climate, to mention nothing of hairbreadth escapes,
and wounds, and disgraces, should now yield to the
charm of woman’s eloquence, you will say,—you will
only say, it was just like that hair-brained O’Carroll,
who, ‘wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat, it
changes with the next block’
.”

“That is not half I would say, O’Carroll,” returned
the Major, “and rather than such a thing should betide,
I will send my mischievous Kate back to the peaceable
dwelling of good Richard Hope, to be schooled into
loyalty and obedience by his aphorisms and scriptural
quotations.”

Catherine had been conversing apart with Colonel
Grahame
, but her attention was caught by hearing her
own name, and, turning with a playful air towards her
father, she said,

“And am I to be banished, father, lest Captain
O’Carroll
should break his faith? I will endure any 11(6)r 131
penance rather than incur so unwelcome a sentence;
I will even immure myself, when he is present, in
what Martha terms our cell, if my absence is necessary
to avert the apprehended danger.”

She retreated a few steps towards a small apartment,
or rather large closet, where a bed for herself and one
for her attendant had been placed, when Colonel Grahame
catching a view of its interior, exclaimed with a
look of mortification,

“A cell indeed! Miss Courtland, and of dimensions
so narrow that I greatly fear you could enjoy no repose
in its stifled atmosphere.”

“It is but for a short time that she will have to occupy
it,”
said the Major; “as, unless she chooses to get
a commission under General Gates, we shall soon, I
trust, be at liberty to quit this place. But the foolish
thing,”
he added, looking fondly at her, “might have
rested very well, had she not chosen rather to hover
round my bed half the night, though I constantly urged
her to retire. But I am not the worse for it; she strewed
my pillow with flowers, and inspired me with happy
dreams; though I fear she has not been benefited by her
wakefulness.”

“I slept very well, my dear father,” said Catherine,
“and was only once or twice by your bed side, to know
if you wanted any thing. If all were as well accommodated
as myself, they would have no cause for complaint;
but I fear Captain O’Carroll has reason to wish
me again beneath the Dutch-tiled roof of Richard Hope,
since I have obliged him to vacate your apartment and
seek a lodging elsewhere.”

“I found a very good one hard by,” said O’Carroll,
“and slept without disturbance. A soldier’s life, Miss
Courtland
, is one of constant mutation, and he becomes
so accustomed to changes, as scarcely to regard
them, even when they happen for the worse.”

“And extremely amusing incidents often arise from
these changes,”
said Colonel Grahame, which sometimes
compensate for their unpleasantness.”

11(6)v 132

“Yes,” returned O’Carroll “I recollect when the
army was at Skenesborough, we had many of us, for
some reason, changed our quarters, and I was awakened
the first morning after doing so, by a most unceremonious
shake. On looking up to learn the meaning of
this unprovoked attack, I saw that automaton of a surgeon,
Major, who, you know, was attached to Harcourt’s
corps, and who walked about, without knowing that he
did so, and examined his patients, when he had any,
without seeing them, standing by my bedside with his
Cyclops eye, for he had but one, and that, if I recollect
right, was in the centre”

“Be less ridiculous, O’Carroll,” interrupted Major
Courtland
, “and give us the story, if there is one, with
fewer embellishments.”

“This Polyphemus, Major,” pursued the Captain,
with a smile, “held forth a pair of iron tongs, almost
as uncouth as himself. I had been reading the story of
Ulysses and his companions, till late, on the preceding
evening, my dreams had been impressed with their
adventures, and as between sleeping and waking I gazed
on the horrible apparatus of the surgeon, I verily
thought the monster of the cavern stood before me, and
that my turn to be devoured had arrived.”

“But I never heard before,” said Major Courtland,
“that this renowned Cyclops of old, made use of any
apparatus to dissect his victims, before demolishing them.”

“Oh, he might not,” returned O’Carroll, “but you
must recollect that this was a modern Polyphemus of
whom I speak, and who, like us, had improved in the
humane art of devouring people; at all events, he began
with appalling solemnity to advance his twisted tongs
towards my visage, which completely aroused me, and
him too, I think; for in the flight, which I caused them
to take in an opposite direction, they grazed the projecting
angle of his proboscis, with a force which threatened
to annihilate a portion of that conspicuous promontory,
and, stretching open his huge eye in utter amazement,
he begged to be informed if I did not wish to have a
tooth extracted. I threatened to make him swallow all 12(1)r 133
his own, if he did not evacuate my tent with what speed
he could make; and then first discovering that I was not
the mannerly ensign, who had before occupied the
place and requested his attendance, he jostled off, with
all convenient haste, and, by the time he was out of
sight, had forgotten, I dare say, but what he left me as
toothless as old Peter the drummer.”

“A most edifying narration, O’Carroll,” said the
Major, “and told with becoming gravity, though my
saucy Kate looks rather sceptical, and even Colonel
Grahame
smiles somewhat incredulously.”

“If they wish for ocular demonstration of my
veracity,”
said O’Carroll, “I doubt not the proboscis of
the surgeon will afford it to them; for the mark of the
tooth-drawer, I think, has left an indelible impression
upon that unwieldy organ.”

“Oh, your recital is too amusing to be doubted,
Captain,”
said Catherine.

“Or if it were not,” said Grahame, “its ingenuity
would readily atone for its extravagance. But time
has passed so pleasantly here, Captain O’Carroll, that
we have quite forgotten our intended walk, and the
morning is so fine, I am desirous to have you improve
it. If you are inclined to enjoy the exercise, I shall
be happy to accompany you.”

Captain O’Carroll assented, and bidding Major Courtland
and his daughter good morning, they went out
together.

12 12(1)v 134

Chapter X.

“Oh that fairy form is ne’er forgot Which first love traced; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot In memory’s waste.” Moore.

That part of New York which in the year 17771777 was
the scene of contest between the two experienced
generals, Burgoyne and Gates, exhibited at that period
few marks of cultivation or improvement, except such
as might be occasionally observed around the log hut
of some enterprising settler, who had ventured to invade
the solitary wilderness. The remains of several
forts also, on the borders of those mighty rivers and
inland seas, which intersect our country with a magnificence
and grandeur, unknown in any other region of
the globe, gave evidence that restless and destroying
man had early tracked the untilled soil with steps of
blood, and awakened the startled echoes of this new
world, with the discord of his mad ambition.

Villages and towns now rise on the site of those
forests which, forty-five years since, witnessed the fierce
encounter of two adverse armies; and churches, and
seminaries for the instruction of future patriots and
statesmen, occupy the spot, where the cruel savage
immolated his unfortunate captive, or performed the
superstitious rites of his untutored worship. The
frowning wilderness has become a scene of gaiety and
splendor, where the bloom and brightness of beauty,
the enchanting vagaries of fashion, and the luxurious
reginements of wealth, unite their witching influence;
where the graceful dance, the ravishment of music, and
every varying pleasure, which invention can devise,
conspire to charm away the hours of the gay and idle
throng, who annually resort to taste the far-famed
waters of Saratoga.

12(2)r 135

Nor can the foot of the American press this soil,
mingled, as it is, with the dust of the great and the
brave, without a thrill of national pride, as he recalls
the events of the year so glorious in the annals of his
country, and which have shed a tinge of romantic, we
had almost said of classic interest over the wild scenery
of the north.

At no great distance from the house at present occupied
by Major Courtland, was a beautiful glen, which
continued, for nearly half a mile, to wind through the
intricacies of the forest. Its banks rose precipitously,
and were thickly clothed with shrubbery, while their
summits were crowned with stately trees, among which
the pine, towering magnificently to the height of seventy
and a hundred feet, was chiefly conspicuous, though
others, less aspiring, were freely interspersed, which
stretched their leafy arms across the narrow glen, and
intervwove their branches so as to form an almost impervious
canopy. A brawling rivulet, swollen by the recent
rains, gave freshness to the spot, and soothed the ear with
the music of its gushing waters, as it foamed impetuously
over the little obstacles which marked its course, impatient
to pour its tributary stream into the bosom of
the lordly Hudson; while a thousand dancing leaves,
the spoils of autumn, gay with the colors of the rainbow,
floated on its surface, seeming to the eye of fancy,
like fairy barks, speeding on their voyage to regions of
brighter warmth and beauty.

It was on the evening succeeding the memorable
1777-10-17seventeenth of October, when the final surrender of
General Burgoyne had crowned the victorious gallantry
of his brave adversary with honor, that two personages
of our narrative met in this lonely glen. The sun
was declining with a mild splendor unusual to the season,
and his rays, as they glanced through the gay
autumnal foliage upon the still green turf of the sheltered
little valley, and crimsoned the foam of the sparkling
rivulet, seemed to promise, on the morrow, one of
those soft and balmy days which, at this period of the 12(2)v 136
year, are not unfrequent in our climate, and come with
all the sweet and healing influences of spring, to refresh
and animate the spirits.

The persons, of whom we speak walked slowly up
the glen, one of them, the taller of the two, often stopping
and looking upward, and around, as if to inhale
the fragrance which floated on the air, and enjoy the
serenity which reigned throughout the scene. The
dark blue dress and crimson facings announced an
American officer; and the gestures, so full of ease and
military grace, the proud decisive step, the quick
glancing of the eagle eye, the lofy motion of the warrior’s
crest, identified the admired and gallant Colonel
Grahame
.

Beside him walked his Indian friend, Ohmeina,
decked out in savage pomp. Yet in his barbarous
attire there was a mixture of tasteful elegance, that
harmonized well with his finefigure and noble and expressive
countenance. His moccasins of deer skin,
were richly embroidered with the quills of the porcupine,
and the sort of kilt, or short petticoat, which reached
to his knees, was formed of the same materials, and
ornamented in a similar manner. Several strings of
wampum were suspended round his neck, intermixed
with ornaments of silver, and beads of various colors.
His long black hair was parted on his forehead, and
decorated with a plume of eagle feathers. Over his
right shoulder was thrown a cloak, or robe, formed of
the plumage of birds, and glittering with a thousand
vivid colors; and on his left was fastened a quiver, well
filled with arrows which he would never consent to exchange
for the musket or the rifle, though they were
becoming in common use among his brethren of the
forest, by whom they were eagerly and gladly received.
He carried his bow in his hand, and walked with an
air of grave dignity beside the Colonel, though with so
light a step, that he scarcely depressed the slender
blade, which bent but for an instant beneath his elastic
tread.

12(3)r 137

Suddenly breaking from the meditations which had,
for some time, deeply absorbed him, Colonel Grahame
turned abruptly towards the chief, and glancing his
quick eye over his person said, after a moment’s observation,

“Methinks, Ohmeina, you are adorned with more
than usual care this evening; needlessly so, at least, considering
the toils and, perhaps, the perils of the journey
you are about to undertake.”

“The toils are nothing, brother,” answered the
Indian; “the perils many, and it is therefore that I
have thus adorned myself. I will die in the faith
which I have learned from the people of thy nation;
but I would meet death, in the dress which becomes a
warrior of the Mohawks.”

“Then, Ohmeina,” said the Colonel, “you are
adorned only like a victim for the sacrifice. I will not
be the means of endangering your life, and, if you apprehend
so much peril, this journey must not be performed.”

“I fear nothing, brother,” returned the chief;
“there are no dangers, which I have not braved a
thousand times. And shall the foot of Ohmeina fear
to tread the mazes of the forest, to climb the steep
precipice, or ford the swollen torrent, when it is the
voice of his friend and his avenger, which bids him
go?”

“Yes,” answered Grahame, “if there is danger in
the path, your life must not be sacrificed. I cannot
suffer you to tempt it.”

“Brother,” said the Indian, proudly, “the warriors
of the Mohawks know not fear, and never shrink from
the open or the secret foe. These arrows are dipped
in deadly poison, and they seldom miss their aim.
But if they should, what have I to care? Death is not
terrible to me; for thy religion has taught me to hope,
that, when it is past, I shall meet my Yurac and be
happy with her, in the bright blue heaven which is
above us.”

12* 12(3)v 138

“And so I trust you will, Ohmeina,” replied the
Colonel; “but still it would be wrong to throw away
the life, which God has given you. But tell me, if you
have heard any thing that threatens your safety.”

“My brethren of the forest may entrap me,” said
the Chief; “they lie in wait for me, and are thirsting
for my blood.”

“How know you this?” inquired Grahame, earnestly.

“The soldier whom we met at the log house in the
forest, and bribed to betray his comrades,”
answered
Ohmeina, “bade me beware of the vengeance of Kamaset,
for the torture was prepared, and my footsteps
were watched.”

“Ohmeina, this warning must not be disregarded,”
said the Colonel. “Neither your poisoned arrows,
your courage, nor your strength, will avail you against
the cunning ferocity of these bloodthirsty savages, who
hate you for your friendship to us, and are resolved
upon your death. No, I cannot permit you to endanger
your life, for my sake; we will defer this journey,
Ohmeina, till it can be performed with more safety.”

“Brother, suffer me to go,” said the Indian; “those
to whom thou wouldst send me, may require my services,
and thou knowest not how long before thou wilt
be with them thyself. Thy friend is feeble with sickness,
and his weak arm cannot bring the soaring bird
to earth, nor pierce the swift beast of the forest, which
falls only beneath the skillful arrow of the wary hunter.
And the fair lily too, thinkest thou she will not droop,
because our steps return no more to her? Detain me
not, brother; I fear no snares, I have the sharp eye of
the hawk, and thou knowest I am fleet and sure as the
young deer of the wilderness. Bid me then haste on
my way; the lily will not revive, till I bear her tidings
of thee.”

Colonel Grahame colored slightly, but said after a
momentary pause,

“Go then, Ohmeina; I know you may walk safely,
where it would be death for another to venture. I can
only commend you to the protection of Heaven, and 12(4)r 139
entreat you to be cautious and vigilant. I have many
fears for those to whom I send you, and, as I know
not how long before I may return to them, your service
may be indispensable during my absence. Had you
continued on your way, when I sent you before, the
journey at this wet season might have been avoided.”

“And did I not do better service, brother,” asked
the chief, “in bringing to thee the papers, which
Richard Hope would have sent to the English?”

“You did, indeed, Ohmeina,” replied the Colonel;
“and, by that act, gave me a proof of your zeal and
fidelity, which I shall not soon forget. Those papers
were invaluable, and you effectually frightened the
Quaker out of his treasonable projects; I only regretted,
on your account, that your journey was delayed
till now.”

“Brother,” said the Indian, “the skies are bright,
the winds soft; Ohmeina’s eye is keen, his step light
and fleet, and before three nights have passed he will
stand beside the grey rock, and refresh, with tidings of
peace, the wan lily which blooms under its shelter.”

“Guard well the papers, with which I have charged
you,”
said the Colonel, “and destroy them if they are
endangered. And now, God speed you on your way;
I hear footsteps approaching, and you must be gone.”

They had once measured the length of the glen, and
returned again to where it opened upon a cleared
space, from which the trees had been felled, for the
use of fuel to the camp. The glowing tints of twilight
were fading into the grey and sombre hue of darkness,
yet sufficient light still remained, to render visible the
surrounding objects, when, as they stopped beneath the
jutting crag of a rock, which half hid the entrance to
the narrow glen, and the Indian was about to reply to
the injunction of his friend, his quick eye caught a
glimpse of some one approaching; and, pressing the
Colonel’s hand for a moment to his heart, in token that
he would obey him, he sprang to the top of the bank
and disappeared among the thick trees of the forest.

12(4)v 140

Colonel Grahame turned, as the chief quitted him
to examine the person of the intruder, who had now
approached within a few paces of him, when the gay
voice of Captain O’Carroll at once terminated the
uncertainty with which he had, for a few moments,
regarded him.

“I hope I am not so unfortunate, Colonel, as to interrupt
a gentle tete-a-tete,”
he said, archly. “Nay,” he
continued, as Grahame was about to speak, “never deny
it, man; I heard the rustling of her robes, as I approached,
and even now the branches wave, through which
she so hastily forced her retreat.”

“I assure you,” returned the Colonel with a smile,
“I have no idea of denying that you interrupted a tete-
a-tete, though not exactly such an one as you seem to
imagine.”

“Ah, ha, Colonel,” said O’Carroll, “this witching
glen seems made on purpose for tender meetings. I
might have caught a glimpse of the enchantress, had I
not, in my haste, unluckily tripped over one of the
devilish stumps, which are left on purpose, I think, to
endanger the necks of honest fellows in the dark.”

“Your haste was peculiarly ill-judged to-night, Captain
O’Carroll
,”
said the Colonel, laughing, “and will
teach you to use more moderation the next time you sit
at the table until it is too dark to see your way from
it.”

“Ah, Colonel,” said O’Carroll, “I believe you are
right, and that the stumps were less to blame than the
bottle, after all. To confess the truth, I have been
dining to-day with half a dozen merry fellows, whom
this surrender has thrown in my way again, and who
were resolved I should make amends for my unusual
abstinence this ten days past; so just to oblige them,
I drained a glass or two extra, till my head began to
revolve like the wheel of a scissors-grinder, when I
broke away from their toasts and chorusses, and came
out to shake off the fumes of the wine, in the cool air.
And I thought that cursed somerset over the pine stump
yonder, had completely restored me to my sober senses 12(5)r 141
again; though it seems your penetrating eye, Colonel,
has detected traces of the recent revel, which I fancied
were quite dissipated. But I have honestly confessed;
so now it is your turn; and will you please inform
me who the damsel was, that fled so hastily at my approach?
Perhaps some wood-nymph, or water naiad;
or what is far more probable, a mere ‘mortal mixture of
earth’s mould,’
who has surrendered at discretion to the
prowess of the conquering Grahame.”

“It was in truth,” answered the Colonel, “only a
‘mortal mixture of earth’s mould,’ and not her finest
mould either, mere potter’s clay, dark and unpolished.”

“Ah, a nut-brown nymph! The princess of one of
those log castles, I will vouch for it,”
said O’Carroll.
“But I dare swear she had ―― ‘a vermeil-tinctured lip――Love-darting eyes, and tresses like the morn,’
in despite of her sun-burnt complexion; or she might
have hung herself upon the highest log of her castle,
ere she would have won a single glance from the fastidious
Colonel.”

Grahame saw that the Captain was much excited, or
he would not have brooked the most distant hint of a
suspicion so inconsistent with his high feelings of honor,
so averse from his principles and his practice. In his
estimation, the virtue of the simplest maiden, whose
humble lot was cast in the depths of poverty and obscurity,
was as sacred, as that of the elegant and high-
bred females, who graced the polished circles of wealth
and fashion; and to have made himself master of the
world, he would not have trifled a moment with the
affections of the most lowly cottager, at the expense of
her future peace and happiness. He was not, however,
so foolish as to resent the light raillery of the Captain;
and, answering him in his own manner, he said,

“And what if I should tell you, Captain O’Carroll,
that your eyes, as well as your feet, have betrayed you;
and that this fair vision, whom you have dignified with
so many poetic quotations, is a strapping fellow, of six 12(5)v 142
feet, some inches high, who fears the face of no man,
and cares for that of no woman?”

“Absurd!” exclaimed O’Carroll; “tell me no such
thing, for I will not believe that you have left the gay
and bustling camp, and sought this lonely glen to hold
sweet converse with a fellow of six feet and more, who flies
at the sound of footsteps, with the fleetness of a Camilla,
and whom you soliloquize, for half an hour after, with all
the passion of an ancient knight of romance”
――

Colonel Grahame interrupted him with a loud laugh;
“Upon my honor,” he said, “your imagination is
imbued with the very essence of the sparkling champaigne,
which you have quaffed so freely, and has transformed
the swarthy Indian Ohmeina, with his savage
ornaments of beads and feathers, into a matchless damsel,
rivalling the exquisite Dulcinea del Toboso herself,
for whom another knight errant, were there one to be
found in these degenerate and unchivalrous days, might
be proud to fight all the windmills in the country.”

“The Indian Ohmeina indeed!” ejaculated O’Carroll,
incredulously; then, after a brief pause, passing
his arm through the Colonel’s, he added, “come, let us
walk up this glen; it is scarcely dark yet, and the sound
of this babbling rivulet cools my feverish brain. And
now tell me, Colonel, if you are not deceiving me?
Though to be sure it is no concern of mine; but if ever
I saw a woman’s petticoat in my life, I could take my
oath it was while I lay grappling with those devilish
stumps yonder.”

“In very truth then,” returned the Colonel, “it was
the Indian Ohmeina himself, and no one fairer or more
feminine. And now tell me if you have seen Major
Courtland
to day?”

“Only for a few minutes in the morning,” said
O’Carroll; I should have gone directly there this
evening, but the Major has an eye as keen as your own,
Colonel; and I had no mind to be reprimanded before
the fair Catherine. Percy has been with him all day;
in fact, I believe he dined there. He is a resistless
fellow among the ladies, and may supersede you, Colonel, 12(6)r 143
in the good graces of Miss Courtland, if you pass
your evenings in this dark glen, and suffer him to charm
her solitude, with all his eloquence of eye and tongue.”

“And what then,” asked Colonel Grahame, with apparent
carelessness. “I have made no pretensions to
the lady’s favor, and, of course, cannot fear to be superseded.”

“You have as yet made none,” said O’Carroll; “but
that is no evidence that you never design to do so; nor
does it prove that you are not already high in the lady’s
estimation. I wish only to place you on your guard,
Colonel; for a gem so beautiful will not remain long
unappropriated, and I know of none more worthy to
wear it than yourself.”

“Thank you, Captain O’Carroll; indeed you are truly
disinterested,”
exclaimed Grahame, his fine features
crimsoning with pleasurable emotion. “But how can
I be assured, that, while, according to your directions,
I am endeavouring to rival Colonel Percy, I may not, if
successful, disappoint you also, in the affections of a
lady, for whom I have repeatedly heard you profess the
warmest admiration?”

“If I were so deeply interested, think you I should
bestow this advice unasked?”
said O’Carroll. “No;
combustible as my Irish nature may appear to you, Colonel,
my heart is not of such tinder as to be kindled by
every stray glance from the bright eyes of a pretty
maiden; they warm the surface but penetrate no deeper;
the core is adamant, and, having ‘twice or thrice
cut Cupid’s bowstring, the little hangman dares not shoot
at me again.’”

“This is quite a new view of your character,” said
the Colonel; “and you are certainly the first Hibernian,
whom I had ever the honor of knowing, that pretended
indifference for the charms of female beauty,
but did not rather glory in the susceptibility, which is,
pardon me, a trait of your national character.”

“They were more fond of ‘wooing, wedding, and
repenting,’
than I am,”
said O’Carroll; “or they would
not have made a boast of an infirmity. Colonel Grahame,”
12(6)v 144
he continued in a tone of deep feeling, utterly inconsistent
with the usual reckless gaiety of his manner, and therefore
the more impressive; “the heart which has been once
betrayed cannot soon forget it. Its native warmth is
chilled, and it becomes ossified, if I may so express it,
by disappointment and suspicion, till it is no longer
susceptible of gentle impressions, and learns to distrust
the fairest and the loveliest promises.”

“You shock me by this picture,” said Colonel Grahame;
“it must surely be imaginary; no heart, at least
no heart like yours, my dear O’Carroll, could, for a
moment, harbor feelings so misanthropic, and place an
eternal bar before the avenues of those gentle and kindly
affections, which are the sweetest solace of humanity,
—and all, because one frail object proved herself
treacherous and unworthy.”

“But if that object was the dearest and the loveliest,”
said O’Carroll, in a tone of vehement emotion, “the
very sun of your existence, the centre of every cherished
hope, an idol consecrated by the purest homage of a
doting heart,—if almost in the very moment of possession,
you found yourself betrayed, deceived, deserted, for
another,—and such an one—good Heaven! the shame
and agony of that moment will never fade from my remembrance.
Colonel Grahame, pride and resentment
sustained me; but to you, firm, lofty, and aspiring as your
spirit is, I do believe, life, from that hour, would have
become a dark and gloomy scene, and every soft feeling
have been forever excluded from your heart.”

In the excessive agitation of the moment, O’Carroll
had quitted his hold of the Colonel’s arm, and now, in
emotion which seemed to defy control, he buried his
face in his hands, and leaned against the broad trunk
of a tree, which grew beside the path. Colonel Grhame
forbore to intrude upon the sacredness of his sorrow
by a single word of sympathy or advice, and he
stood silently beside him, his arms folded, and his eyes
bent upon the earth, touched by the impassioned grief
of the seemingly gay and thoughtless young man, 13(1)r 145
whom he had believed free from the withering touch of
early disappointment and misfortune.

But he was not suffered long to indulge his silent
meditations; the passions of O’Carroll were strong and
violent; but when the first burst of frenzied feeling had
subsided, it was not unfrequently succeeded by those of
a directly opposite nature. After a few moments of
agonized regret, he turned towards Grahame, and taking
his arm, said in a hurried voice,

“I am a fool, a very fool, Colonel Grahame, to put
myself in such a turmoil about a faithless woman; as if
there were but one in the world, and they were not things
to be met with every day; though may I forfeit my
commission, if I am ever caught in their toils again.
There is mirth and enjoyment enough without them;
and so we find it among ourselves, what need we search
beneath their gilded coils for the fatal sweets which we
taste at the peril of our lives; the folds of the serpent
involve us while in the act, and we find, too late, the
bitter price, which we are doomed to pay for the fond
indulgence of a moment.”

The assumed gaiety of Captain O’Carroll’s air could
not disguise the bitterness of feeling, which his words
implied, and which had awakened Colonel Grahame’s
sympathy and compassion. But he already knew
O’Carroll sufficiently well, to feel assured that, by
dwelling on this painful topic, he should only increase
the poignancy of his regrets, and prolong the moment
of painful retrospection. He of course sought rather
to divert his thoughts, and draw him from the misanthropic
gloom, so uncongenial to his nature, and he said
cheerfully, in reply to his last observation,

“A truly philosophic resolution, my dear fellow!
We, the lords of the creation, sadly forget our dignity,
when we sink into despondency, because a fickle woman
frowns. She who can deliberately betray a fond
and trusting heart, is not worthy a single sigh of remembrance
or regret.”

“Then surely not worth the philippic I have pronounced
against the whole of her faithless sex,”
interrupted13 13(1)v 146
O’Carroll; “but it has afforded me abundant
relief, Colonel; and now again shall ‘mirth admit me
of her crew,’
and none shall even dream that the black
ox has ever trod on the foot of the laughter-loving
O’Carroll. And now for other subjects; and firstly,
what thought you of the interview between the two
Generals this morning?”

“Of course, it was a scene of pride and interest to
every American heart,”
replied Colonel Grahame.

“Ah, indeed it has been as proud a day for you, as
it has been humiliating for us,”
returned O’Carroll.
“But we have nothing to complain of in your countrymen.
On the contrary, we may truly declare, that
the conquest, which valor has won, humanity and
courtesy have secured. General Gates is an insinuating
man, and it was thought by many, that he even surpassed
our dignified commander, in the easy and unaffected
grace of his demeanor, during the interview. Then,
too, the generosity and delicacy of his conduct, in sparing
us the mortification of piling our arms, before his
whole army, demands our warmest gratitude and admiration.
Every tongue is loud in praise of this act, and
in spite of our misfortunes and humiliations, we shall
be constrained to remember America with affection and
respect.”

“Thank you, Captain O’Carroll,” returned Grahame,
touched by this voluntary tribute to the virtues and gallantry
of his countrymen. “The favorable impression,”
he added, “which we have been so happy as to
make on the minds of those, whom the fortunes of war
have thrown into our power, is nearly as gratifying to
our private feelings, as the success, which has crowned
the effort of our arms, is to us, as soldiers and defenders
of a country which we love. And may the friendly
sentiments produced by this unexpected association, be
the first step towards effecting a permanent union between
the two great nations, now unfortunately at
issue.”

“Heaven grant it may be so!” replied O’Carroll.
“At all events our swords are not to be again unsheathed 13(2)r 147
in the struggle. So says the treaty, and I confess I
am not sorry for this stipulation. Your faces look so
like those of friends and countrymen, that, when I first
met you in the field, I really shrunk from the idea of
disfiguring them. And when, now and then, a broad
Irish phiz was seen grinning with true Hibernian expression,
in your ranks, I was forced to recollect, that
it was turned against the land which I love, before I
could calmly see it become the mark for an Irish musket.”

“These feelings are perfectly natural,” returned
Colonel Grahame, “and such as almost every heart has
experienced, more or less frequently, since the commencement
of this unhappy contest.”

The Colonel forbore to make any farther remark, lest
it should lead to an unpleasant discussion of rights and
motives, in which it was impossible they should agree;
and, hoping to change the conversation, he inquired if
Colonel Percy designed to follow the troops.

“Yes, he goes to-morrow,” returned O’Carroll,
“though he was pressed by General Schuyler to accompany
General Burgoyne, with several other officers and
their ladies, to his residence in Albany.”

“Major Courtland and his daughter were included
in the invitation, I understand,”
said the Colonel; “but
he declined under the plea that he was not sufficiently
recovered to bear the fatigue of the ride.”

“And besides,” said O’Carroll, “he has a nice sojourning
with our friend Richard Hope, whom Miss
Courtland
is impatient to rejoin, and they are both
anxious to get quietly settled on the banks of the Schuylkill,
before the cold weather sets in; where, through
your instrumentality, for which I am greatly indebted,
I have obtained permission to accompany them. And
if the troops do not sail before spring, as it is not probable
they will, I promise myself a winter of much enjoyment.”

Colonel Grahame half suppressed a sigh, and inquired
in an absent tone, if Major Courtland had friends in
that part of the country.

13(2)v 148

“Not many now, I fancy,” returned the Captain;
“but he has a house there, in which he has lived these
sixteen years past, and where he hopes to find as comfortable
quarters as he left.”

“It is somewhat doubtful if he does,” said Grahame,
thoughtfully; “the house of a known royalist is in no
safe hands when abandoned to the mercy of an exasperated
enemy.”

“But he was aware of this danger,” returned O’Carroll,
and has guarded against it, by transferring his
property to a friend, who has ever preserved a strict
neutrality, and of course it will remain unmolested by
either party.”

“Yes, if the present occupant escapes suspicion,”
said the Colonel, “and I sincerely hope he may. But
can you tell me where the estate is situated?”

“Not exactly; some ten or fifteen miles from Philadelphia,
I believe,”
said O’Carroll. “But I am so
imperfectly acquainted with the topography of your
country, that I can give you no accurate information;
if you will accompany me to Major Courtland’s lodgings,
he will not only be gratified by the visit, but answer,
with pelasure, any inquiries, which may enable
you, when in that part of the country, to find his residence.”

“I fear it will not do to intrude upon him, at this
hour,”
said Grahame; “you are not aware, Captain,
how long a time we have been pacing up and down
this dark place.”

“Then we must renounce the hope of seeing those
witching dark eyes of Miss Courtland’s to-night,”
, said
O’Carroll. “But I hope you will bear the deprivation,
of which I am in part the cause, with all proper resignation,
Colonel.”

“Do not make yourself uneasy; my sleep will not
be at all the less sound for it,”
replied Grahame, smiling
and slightly coloring.

“No, I dare swear to the truth of that,” said O’Carroll;
“for nothing sets a man’s eyes open so effectually,
as the bright glances and smiles of a pretty woman, 13(3)r 149
from whom he has parted just at the hour of bed time.
They haunt his pillow, disturb his slumbers, and he
rises in the morning, with the worn-out feelings of a
wretch, who has been dragged through a mill stream,
and just escaped without drowning.”

“Then, indeed, the disappointment must be considered
a fortunate one,”
returned the Colonel. “Though
for myself I apprehend no evil consequences from that,
or from the indulgence which you are inclined to think
so dangerous. We are both soldiers, and though we
may jest upon affairs of gallantry, we have but little
time, at present, to devote to its trifling observances.”

“I have none,” said O’Carroll; “at least, not till I
see a beautiful cheek crimson with pleasure at my approach,
and fade to the lily’s hue, when I speak of my
removal.”

“You speak in enigmas, Captain” said Grahame.

“Which you, I suppose, have not ingenuity enough
to solve;”
returned O’Carroll, gaily. “But let it pass,”
he added, “you will be able to puzzle them out ere long, ‘And tire the hearer with a book of words’
by way of exposition. Come, let us away now; that
hooting owl, yonder, is warning us from his dominions,
and she has good reason to complain of our encroachment,
who idly ―― ‘wandering near her secret bower,Molest her ancient, solitary reign.’”

“She mistakes your oracular wisdom probably, for
the solemn note of a comrade,”
said the Colonel.

“And is confirming it, by the sanction of her own
prophetical hoot,”
returned O’Carroll, whom a jest
seldom discomposed. “But do let us retreat from her
discordant screech, Colonel; she seems trying her utmost
to disconcert us, and will be about our ears shortly;
so we had better be off, unless you have a mind
to endure the flapping of her unclean wings.”

“Wait an instant,” said the Colonel, as O’Carroll
was endeavouring to draw him forward, “I miss one of
my pistols, and must have left it on a flat rock, where 13* 13(3)v 150
I recollect to have laid it, while examining the other,
before you joined me. I will just step for it and be
back directly.”

“You had better leave it till morning, Colonel,”
said O’Carroll. “It will be safe in this unfrequented
place, and it is impossible that you should be able to
find it now.”

“Oh, I think I know exactly where I laid it,” said
Grahame; “on a broad flat rock, about twenty paces
up the glen. I can put my hand directly upon it, and
will rejoin you instantly; or if you grow weary with
waiting, walk on and I will overtake you.”

He quitted him abruptly, as he finished speaking, and
Captain O’Carroll sat down on a projecting point of
the rock, which overshadowed the entrance of the glen,
to wait for his return. The minutes passed away unnoted,
while he amused himself by watching the fires
of the camp. The groups of soldiers passing to and
fro, and gathered about them, seemed, in the distance,
like shadowy forms, performing their unearthly orgies
around the huge fires which shot their spiry flames
high in the dark atmostphere, and partially illuminated,
with their lurid glare, every indistinct object which
caught the bright and unsteady reflection.

Wearying, at length, of this solitary pleasure, he became
impatient of the Colonel’s absence, which had,
indeed, been much longer than he imagined; and, surprised
that he did not return, the Captain at last walked
up the glen with the hope of meeting him. But all
was silent, not a footstep rustled the withered leaves,
and the discordant hooting of the owl alone disturbed the
gloomy stillness of the forest. Alarm and anxiety, lest
some accident had befallen his friend, now banished
every other emotion from the mind of O’Carroll. He
listened, he groped around with his hands, though he
scarcely knew why or wherefore, and he called again
and again upon the Colonel’s name. But the damp
earth and the seared foliage of autumn only met his
touch, and the deep echoes of the forest alone repeated,
as if in mockery, the name of Grahame. For a moment 13(4)r 151
doubt and despair oppressed him, but he was too
sanguine to be long subdued by either, and the thought
soon occurred that the Colonel must have passed him
unobserved, while he sat absorbed in the occupation of
watching the distant fires of the camp. Instantly admitting
a belief which dispelled his anxiety, he retraced
his steps down the glen, and walked hastily towards
the quarters of Colonel Grahame to laugh with him
about the fright, which his long absence had occasioned.

Chapter XI.

“The disappointed hope deferred, till all Is hung around with doubt’s funereal pall.” Percival.

Captain O’Carroll was greatly surprised, on reaching
the quarters of Colonel Grahame, to learn that he had
not returned, nor had been seen, since early in the
evening; and, utterly at a loss to account for the mystery
of his sudden disappearance, he could not resolve
to retire to his own lodgings, without first consulting
some of the officers on the course which it was most
advisable to pursue.

Captain Budworth, with whom his acquaintance was
of the longest standing, was the first, to whom he communicated
his intelligence, and from him it soon extended
to others, till the whole camp was thrown into
a state of excitement and alarm. The regularity and
strict discipline, which Colonel Grahame uniformly observed,
as well as enforced, convinced every one, that
some fatal accident must have occurred to occasion his
sudden and mysterious absence; and a party of officers,
guided by Captain O’Carroll, immediately proceeded to
explore the glen. They were accompanied by a band
of soldiers, bearing flaming torches of pine knots, and 13(4)v 152
among them was Grahame’s servant with a flambeau
larger and brighter, than any of the others. Distracted
with grief and anxiety by the loss of a master most
deservedly dear to him, he pressed eagerly forward,
thrusting his torch behind every bush, and enlightening
every dark nook of the glen, where it was possible a
human form might lie concealed. But the Colonel
was not to be found. The pistol was gone from the
flat rock, on which he informed O’Carroll he had left
it;—still, in the hope of tracing him, the party pursued
their way through the whole length of the glen, holding
their torches close to the ground, and often stopping to
listen for some sound, which might guide them to the
object of their search. They even penetrated into the
depths of the forest, and were confirmed in the belief
that some violence had been used, by finding an end
of the crimson sash, which Grahame had worn, and
which appeared to have been torn forcibly from the
rest; the ground, too, in many places, was trampled
and broken, as if by the struggles of men, and the moss
and leaves were dragged into heaps, as though some
one had been forced rudely along. But it was in vain
that they endeavoured to follow these traces; they soon
disappeared entirely, and, after a toilsome search, they
were constrained to give it up, as fruitless, and return
anxious and dispirited to the camp.

Captain O’Carroll’s ardent feelings were greatly excited,
and though he retired to rest, he neither slept,
nor attempted to sleep, during the whole of the wearisome
night. As soon as the morning dawned, a detachment
of troops was sent out to search the country,
and Captain O’Carroll, after again exploring the glen
without success, returned to inform Major Courtland,
whom he had not yet seen, of the singular and melancholy
occurrence.

Catherine was reading to her father, when he knocked
gently at the door. She arose immediately to open
it, and her bright face became yet brighter and more
lovely, as, with frank and unaffected cordiality, she welcomed
him to their humble abode.

13(5)r 153

“Come in, my dear O’Carroll,” cried the Major;
“I am right glad to see you. But what in the name
of wonder became of you and the Colonel yesterday?
You both played me the truant, and, had it not been
for Colonel Percy, who brought me all the news, Kate
and I should have been as humdrum, as two owls in a
cage. But how now, man! What mean these pale
looks of thine?”
exclaimed the Major, suddenly struck
and alarmed by the anxiety visible in the Captain’s
usually gay countenance.

“Can you tell me any thing of Colonel Grahame,
sir?”
inquired O’Carroll in a voice of emotion, which
he vainly sought to control.

“What is the meaning of this agitated inquiry,
O’Carroll?”
asked the Major, in surprise. “I have
not seen the Colonel, since the evening before the last,
when he left me in company with yourself.”

O’Carroll made no reply, but walked across the
apartment with an air of so much disturbance, that
Catherine, convinced he had evil tidings to communicate,
laid her hand upon his arm, with a degree of
emotion of which she seemed utterly unconscious, and
turning towards him a countenance, from which the
bloom had faded, and the glowing animation fled, she
exclaimed, in a voice of tremulous earnestness,

“What fatal intelligence have you to impart! Do
not keep us longer in suspense, but tell us what misfortune
has befallen Colonel Grahame.”

Captain O’Carroll instantly related the events of the
preceeding evening, the mysterious disappearance of
Colonel Grahame, the fruitless search, which had already
been made after him, and the attempts which
they were still pursuing, in the hope of at last tracing
him, or at least discovering the cause of his singular
and prolonged absence.

Major Courtland listened with unfeigned astonishment
to O’Carroll’s recital, and not without considerable
agitation; for he had imbibed a sincere and strong
attachment to the Colonel, and was truly concerned to
learn that any disaster had befallen him. He poured 13(5)v 154
forth a thousand inquiries, devised as many expedients
for tracing the person of Grahame, and hinted at every
circumstance, which, to his awakened imagination,
seemed at all probable, or even possible. But none
were satisfactory to himself, or to Captain O’Carroll,
who, to speak the truth, scarcely bestowed on them
the slightest degree of attention. A low and half
breathed ejaculation from the lips of Catherine, had
reached his ears, as he finished his strange recital, and,
for a few minutes, forgetting even the lost Grahame, he
bent his eye earnestly upon her, to read, if possible,
what was passing in her mind.

Her pale cheek and downcast eye evinced extreme
emotion; but of what nature, O’Carroll felt himself
unskilled to determine; at least, he could not decide
whether any softer emotion mingled with the alarm,
which was visibly depicted on her features.

“We intended to have left here tomorrow, or by
the day after, at farthest,”
said Major Courtland, still
continuing to speak without observing the abstraction
of his companions; “but, indeed, I am reluctant to go,
before I am assured of Colonel Grahame’s safety.”

“Father, we must not think of it!” exclaimed
Catherine, aroused by these words from her painful
reverie, and starting up with an air of sudden animation,
while the blood, which had forsaken her cheeks,
rushed tumultuously back, dying them with the deepest
tint of crimson, and her dark eyes glanced like those
of a young Pythoness in the moment of inspiration,
with a resolute and lofty expression,

“Dear father,” she said, “you will not surely go,
while the fate of him, to whom you owe your life, and
I the happiness which your death would have wrested
from me, remains involved in mystery! Heaven forbid
that we should thus repay those beneifts. Rather
will I myself explore these forests and the caves, where
the brave and unfortunate Grahame may be lingering
out the remnant of his gallant life, than have it said,
they who owed him so much, with cold and selfish
indifference, sought their own peaceful home, regardless 13(6)r 155
of the welfare of that generous friend, who had
given them their lives, and kindly softened the pains
and sorrows of their captivity.”

“My dear girl,” replied the Major, “your feelings
are natural, though you will excuse me for saying I
think them somewhat extravagant; but this is constitutional
with you, and, therefore, I make all due allowance.
I should be as unwilling as yourself, Catherine,
to quit this place, while the fate of Colonel Grahame,
to whom I deeply feel my obligations, remains uncertain,
were there a probability that any efforts of ours
could ensure his safety, or hasten his discovery. But,
situated as we are, the hope of rendering any assistance
is vain. I am still feeble from my long confinement,
and, of course, incapable of exertion; and you a timid
—no I will not say timid, Kate, but a powerless maiden,
—what can you do to aid the search, which others are
so active in making? Unless indeed you resolve to
put your threat in execution, and beat the bushes and
explore the forest caves, for our lost hero.”

Catherine blushed deeply at her father’s raillery, and
when she raised her eyes, they were suffused with tears.
The Major perceived that he had unintentionally given
her pain, and to atone for it he drew her gently towards
him and kissing her, said,

“Forgive me, my love; my levity was ill timed, I
allow; you know I would not for the world say what
should purposely wound your feelings, or breathe a word
in ridicule against that exquisite and generous sensibility,
which I am so happy to see you possess. And to
prove to you, Kate, that I am equally interested with
yourself in the welfare of Colonel Grahame, I will consent
to remain here till he is found, or all hope of his
recovery is given over.”

“Thank you, dearest father,” she replied, tenderly
returning his caress, while her beautiful countenance
shone with renovated smiles. “He must soon be found,
I think,”
she added; “for who can bear him any
malice? or who, if they did, could be so dastardly as 13(6)v 156
to seek revenge in a mode which all, save the veriest
coward, must despise.”

“There are those mean enough to do it , who call
themselves brave men,”
said the Major. “But where,
Captain, is the Indian, Ohmeina, who is so strongly attached
to the person of Colonel Grahame? Perhaps
he may be able to afford us some clue to this mystery.”

“He parted from the Colonel,” returned O’Carroll,
“just before I joined him in the glen last evening; and
Grahame’s servant informed me, this morning, that he
had gone to Pennsylvania, on some business for his
master.”

“The circumstance of his absence just at this moment,
however, has rather a suspicious appearance,”

said the Major. “These treacherous Indians are not
to be trusted, and I greatly fear that Grahame’s confidence
has been fatally abused.”

“Ohmeina is as true as the polestar,” exclaimed the
Captain, “and, cordially as I detest the whole of his
copper-colored generation, I am constrained to respect
the virtues and fidelity of this wonderful savage. His
name must not be coupled with treachery, for I am
persuaded some other hand has done this deed of darkness.”

“And whose can it possibly be?” asked the Major;
do your suspicions, O’Carroll, or those of others, rest
upon any one in particular?”

“Mine do not,” said O’Carroll; “for I assure you I
know not the individual, so base as to be capable of injuring
the generous and high-minded Grahame. I have
in my perplexity, it is true, sometimes thought of those
devils who sacked and burned Ohmeina’s colony, and
murdered all the inhabitants, like so many helpless
sheep; but then Colonel Percy told us that Grahame
made crow’s meat of most of them, and the few who
escaped, cannot be such incarnate fiends, even if they
had the courage, as to venture in this manner upon
him.”

Major Courtland shook his head doubtingly, as he
said

14(1)r 157

“They dare do almost any thing for the gratification
of their malice. Revenge, in the estimation of an Indian,
is a paramount virtue, and he is never known to forget
an injury. I fear exceedingly, that Colonel Grahame
has fallen into the power of these savages.”

“Then he is lost indeed!” exclaimed Catherine,
with emotion. She had learned from her father the
story of Ohmeina, and, though the suggestion of Captain
O’Carroll
had occurred to her the moment she
received the intelligence of Grahame’s sudden disappearance,
she had not yet found resolution to mention
a suspicion so horrible, and which if correct must destroy
almost every hope of his rescue; since the cruelty
of a savage is alike fierce and cunning; and it is seldom
indeed, that the unhappy victim escapes from the
dreadful fate which awaits him.

“I cannot admit so dreadful a belief,” said O’Carroll;
“no, I am sure they would have found opportunities
before this, had they wished to revenge themselves. At
all events, I will hope better things, till I have stronger
grounds for this frightful supposition. But I will go out
to learn what tidings I can gather.”

“And return, as soon as convenient,” said the Major,
“to relieve our anxiety. We shall wish to know
how matters are going on.”

Captain O’Carroll promised to do as the Major
desired; and, hastily quitting them, he bent his steps
almost instinctively towards the glen, which had been
the scene of his conference with Grahame, on the preceding
evening. As he approached it, he perceived a
small party advancing towards him, and, upon a nearer
view, he recognized Captain Budworth, who, with a
Lieutenant and ten or twelve men, was going to explore
the forest in the hope of proving more successful, than
in their former search. Captain O’Carroll instantly attached
himself to this party, and they proceeded cautiously
up the glen, looking with diligence around them,
and often stopping, as they fancied the tones of a human
voice were borne on the autumnal gale, which sighed
through the seared and withered foliage of the forest.

14 14(1)v 158

But no living object met their view, nor any vestige
of a human being, till they reached the spot, where the
bruised and trampled turf had, on the preceding evening,
engaged their attention. After examining it with
close attention, they pursued their course without discovering
any other traces, which might afford a clue
to the destiny of Grahame, till they reached a low,
moist spot of ground, of about an acre in extent, which
bore a growth of tall, straight pines; and seemed quite
free from the tangling underwood, which had heretofore
embarrassed their progress. On the boundary of this
swampy ground, they stopped to hold a consultation, on
the expediency of attempting to cross it.

“It appears to me quite useless to venture over this
wet place,”
cried O’Carroll; “there are no lurking
places for villains, among those straight trees, and we
may be mired, if we adventure on it.”

“The straight trees will serve us to cling by, in case
we find ourselves sinking,”
said Lieutenant Wilmot,
gravely.

“They might, Wilmot, if there were any branches
on them,”
said Captain Budworth; “but since there
are none within arms length, and we are not gifted with
the talons of wild-cats to cling by, their huge trunks
will afford us little service. But here is certainly a
man’s track,”
he said, stooping down to examine a print
which bore a resemblance to the human foot; “and
here is another,”
he added, looking still around him;
“it may be worth our while, Captain O’Carroll, to go
over this marshy spot; I apprehend no danger, and, at
all events, there are enough of us to help each other in
case of difficulty.”

While he was speaking, one of the soldiers had discovered
some drops of blood among the withered
leaves, and they all now gathered round to view them,
with looks of horror and dismay. They argued a fatal
termination to the career of the unhappy Grahame;
but those, who were engaged in the search after him,
refused to receive this evidence as certain; and, by
mutual consent, resolved to press forward and learn, if 14(2)r 159
possible, whether their labors and hopes were destined
to prove futile. The tracks induced them to believe
they were in the right course, and, with renewed courage,
they boldly adventured on the marshy soil. Contrary
to their expectations, however, they found it perfectly
firm and safe;—moist, but not miry, and presenting
an even surface, over which they walked with ease
and convenience. In crossing it, they once or twice
perceived the same tracks, though they were not able to
trace them far; but on gaining the opposite side they
discerned one, still more distinct, and which William,
Colonel Grahame’s servant, who had accompanied the
party, declared to be the very print of his master’s foot.

With unwearying patience, they climbed a steep, wooded
bank, which rose abruptly from the low, wet soil
they had been traversing, and, having attained the summit,
they stopped to look around them, and determine,
in what direction it was best to proceed. The bank,
on which they stood, sloped gradually downward into
a deep ravine, choked with shrubbery and tangling underwood;
but Captain O’Carroll, as he gazed attentively
into it, perceived something, which, he imagined,
bore some resemblance to a human habitation. He
pointed it out to Captain Budworth, and, followed by
the rest of the party, they cautiously descended the
slope and proceeded to reconnoitre the ravine. The
object, which had attracted their attention, proved to be
an Indian wigwam. It was constructed of stakes driven
into the ground in a circular form, while smaller sticks
crossed transversely; and the whole was covered with
slender twigs firmly interwoven, and overlaid with dried
moss and leaves. A mat of plaited grass was suspended
before a small opening, which served for a door,
but no appearance of any living being was to be seen;
and, leaving Lieutenant Wilmot with the soldiers to
watch against a sudden surprise, Captains Budworth
and O’Carroll gently raised the mat and entered this
singular habitation. It presented no novelty to Captain
Budworth
, who had seen more, as he said, “of these
dwellings of Satan, than he ever wished to see again;”
and, 14(2)v 160
of course, in assisting O’Carroll to examine the interior
of this, he was only stimulated by the hope of finding
something, which might lead to the discovery of Colonel
Grahame
.

The inside of the hut was hung round with mats,
similar to that which served as a door, curiously plaited
with coarse grass, or the slender twigs of the willow;
and, like the hall of a feudal chieftain, was garnished
with trophies of sylvan and warlike prowess. Several
deer’s heads, still bearing their proud and branching
antlers, were disposed about the walls, besides the tusk
of a wild boar and the beak and claws of an enormous
eagle, with various other spoils of a similar kind.

In the centre of the dwelling, some flat stones were
so arranged as to form a not inconvenient fireplace,
from which the smoke escaped, in no very direct manner,
as may well be supposed, through a hole in the
roof. A number of mats, and skins of wild beasts, were
spread around the fireplace, though fire there was none;
but the white ashes and half decayed brands showed
that it had not long been extinct. There were also
other tokens, which indicated that the place had been
recently deserted. Captain O’Carroll discovered a
wooden bowl full of freshly dug ground-nuts, and in an
iron pot, suspended over the fire by a stick placed upon
two upright stones, were some culinary preparations,
which from the crudeness of their present state seemed
to have been left suddenly, and in haste.

O’Carroll had the curiosity to remove the broad cabbage-leaf
which covered it, and examine the ingredients,
of which it was composed. They consisted of
thin slices of venison, intermixed with strips of pumpkin,
and probably designed to form a savory and favorite
mess.

But that which chilled O’Carroll’s heart with horror,
was a string of human scalps, suspended across the antlers
of a deer, and which, among the multiplicity of
other objects had, till now, escaped his observation.
They were dried and hideously painted, but evidently
those of white men; and, after pointing them out to 14(3)r 161
Captain Budworth, O’Carroll turned, with a revolting
heart, from the shocking spectacle.

At this instant, a movement was heard on the outside
of the wigwam, and, before the two officers had time to
escape through the narrow aperture, which served for a
door, the voice of Lieutenant Wilmot was heard exclaiming,

“Seize him! seize the villain!”

O’Carroll and his companion rushed through the
small door, their swords already drawn, just in time to
see an Indian disappear from the summit of the bank,
which rose above the wigwam. They joined in the
rapid pursuit of the soldiers, who, led by Wilmot, had
nearly reached the spot where the savage appeared,
for a moment; and at the sight of the military array
around his dwelling, had turned suddenly round, and
vanished like a flash of lightning.

On reaching the top of the eminence, he was no
where visible. The cunning and agility of his savage
nature, together with the familiar acquaintance, which
he might be supposed to have with every lurking-place
in the forest, and the ease with which habit enabled
him swiftly to tread its intricate mazes, rendered it no
difficult matter for him to avoid his pursuers, which it
seemed that he had now effectually done.

“The tormenting demon!” muttered the incensed
O’Carroll, as he looked vainly round to catch a glimpse
of the fugitive. “Would to Heaven we had clutched
him,”
he added; “but the devil shall not be cheated
of his due; so now let’s start the game.”

“We will bring him to confession, before we deliver
him over to his master,”
said Budworth, as they began,
some with caution, and others with violence, to beat
among the bushes, and explore the littel hollows and
thickets, which were numerous in this part of the forest.
They continued their search for a long time, although
it still proved fruitless; and the lengthening shadows
warned them that the day had begun to decline, before
they thought of the necessity of hastening their departure
from the forest. With all convenient speed they 14* 14(3)v 162
prepared for their return, and though they at first
thought of stationing spies around the wigwam, the
plan was upon reflection, rejected, as useless and dangerous.
Grahame’s servant, however, impressed with
the belief that his master was concealed somewhere in
the vicinity of the wigwam, declared it his intention to
secrete himself among the bushes, and remain all night
near the place, in the hope of being able to discover
him. Captains Budworth and O’Carroll strenuously
protested against this rash resolution, till convinced by
their arguments, of the great danger attending it, poor
William consented to relinquish his design.

The party then recrossed the marshy ground, and
finding sufficient time yet remained to enable them to
clear the forest before night-fall they stopped to rest
themselves in a sunny glade, which opened to the west;
for the air had grown damp and chilly, and the wearied
soldiers felt the cheering rays of the sun peculiarly
grateful after the labors of the day.

“We have performed hard duty, to-day,” said O’Carroll,
as he threw himself at full length upon the soft
green moss, which carpeted the ground, in the spot,
where himself and the two American officers had stopped
a little apart from the soldiers; “but I wish,” he added,
“our search had not proved fruitless, and then the
toil would have been nothing. Poor Grahame! I fear
we have seen the last of him.”

“I do not yet give him up” said Budworth. “If
those savage wretches have entrapped him, as seems
but too probable, they dare not, for their lives, put him
to death; they might as safely murder our bravest
General, Arnold himself, for instance, and the cry for
vengeance would not be louder.”

“Many a voice would be mute in that case,” muttered
Wilmot. Then, as if afraid of a reproof for having
spoken with so much freedom before a British officer,
he hastily added,

“We shall have a late dinner to-day, if we stay here
much longer, Captain”

14(4)r 163

“Dinner!” repeated Budworth; “it would not be
amiss, at this moment; and now I think of it, Ned,
some of those fellows are well laden with provisions,
which I wonder thou shouldst forget, who art ever
ready to unlock thy jaws at the sound of the platter.”

“And right glad should I be to hear the merry clatter
of knives and dishes in the wilderness, after fasting
all day,”
said the Lieutenant.

“Yes, yes, it will suit thy courage far better than
more warlike din,”
said Budworth; “so if it please
thee, Ned, thou mayest order Rawson hither with our
basket, and bid them keep their own to dispose of at
pleasure, if indeed they have not already demolished
its contents.”

Wilmot did as he was desired, and a grateful repast
was soon spread upon the turf, of which the three
young men eagerly partook; though the intense interest,
with which they had pursued their fruitless search,
had rendered them absolutely forgetful of the refreshments,
which they now found so palatable.

“It is a banquet fit for the gods!” said O’Carroll,
who, indeed, did ample justice to the feast.

“It would be vastly better though, provided we had
a sip of their Olympian nectar instead of this villanous
wine,”
said Budworth. “Upon my faith, I believe
we have nothing but the lees to drain, it is so devilish
thick.”

“‘Wine upon the lees, and a feast of fat things,’ as
St. Paul said,”
mumbled the wooden-headed Lieutenant,
with the gravity of a profound divine.

“St. Paul indeed!” echoed Budworth with a look
of contempt.—“Thy brains, Ned, are not so thick as
this wine, or thou wouldst not have made an epicure of
the Apostle, when it was king Solomon who”

“No, David, his father,” interrupted O’Carroll.

“Ah, right,” exclaimed Budworth, not dreaming
that O’Carroll was as far from the truth as himself.
“Art not ashamed, Ned, to be no better read in thy
Bible, than to abuse the self-denying Apostle in this
manner? But since thou art so fond of fat things and 14(4)v 164
wine upon the lees, that thou wouldst stuff them down
the throats of other people, thou shalt even have the
drainings of the bottle to cobweb thine own with.”

So saying, he filled Wilmot’s glass with the remnant
of the wine, which indeed resembled a thick mixture of
brickdust and water, rather than the clear, rich juice
of the grape.

“But in good truth,” added Budworth, gaily, as the
Lieutenant, with a sullen look, turned from the uninviting
draught, “thy heavy eyes belie thee, if thou hast
not already had enough, and so here goes a libation to
the jolly god of the grape,”
and, as he spoke, he threw
the contents of the glass over Wilmot’s head.

O’Carroll could not forbear laughing at the grimace,
and endeavour of the Lieutenant to avoid the sudden
shower, which, however, did not pass over without
giving him a slight sprinkling, and seemed to excite
something like indignation in his rather stupid countenance.

“Upon my honor, Ned, it was an accident,” exclaimed
Budworth, parrying the protest which Wilmot
was about to make. “Thy round phiz could never
be mistaken for that of the jolly old Bacchus; though
it might serve to represent the redoubtable Sancho
Panza
, so it were decorated with the pewter helmet of
his master. But a truce to trifling; and now tell me,
for I hear you were with General Arnold when he received
the tidings of Colonel Grahame’s disappearance,
—what said he of the affair!”

“Why do you ask me?” said Wilmot; “you know
he is not a friend to the Colonel.”

“That is the very reason why I do ask thee, Willo’-the-wisp,”
said Budworth; “he is the friend of no
one, whom he cannot make the dupe of his own baseness.”

“But you will only be angry, Captain Budworth, if
I repeat what he said of Colonel Grahame,”
said Wilmot.

“I shall be more angry if you do not,” returned
Budworth, “and that with all speed; for our repast is 14(5)r 165
near an end, and farewell to speaking, when we begin
to fight again with the underbrush of this dark forest.
So speak out, man; I know the good General’s malice
well, and will do him the justice to declare, he has a
heart which would not disgrace Beelzebub himself. You
may think us over free, Captain O’Carroll, in censuring
a superior officer; but we are among the few, who have
found out his metal, and none of those blind worshippers,
who are ready to fall down and kiss the dust of
the idol’s feet. So now, Wilmot, what said he of Grahame?”

“That this sudden decampment savored of the
spice of treachery,”
answered the Lieutenant; “that it
would be an ill wind, if it did not blow the enemy
good.”

“Curse him for a false loon, as he is,” exclaimed
Budworth; “he speaks what he wishes may be true,
for he would rejoice to hear that Grahame had fallen
from the proud height, on which he stands, and to
which he can no more raise his grovelling eyes, than
the hooting bird of night can gaze undazzled at the
noonday sun. But what reasons did he adduce for
the infamous libel which he has dared to utter?”

“That Colonel Grahame’s intimacy with several
British officers, who were our prisoners,”
returned
Wilmot, “justified the suspicion that treason had been
hatching between them; and that his disappearance,
immediately after a long interview with one of them,
would add strength to the evidence of any, who might
choose to accuse him.”

“Were he not beneath the notice of an honorable
man,”
exclaimed O’Carroll, no longer able to suppress
his rising indigantion, “I would teach him to be more
sparing of his hints and accusations. Even were the
character of Colonel Grahame other than it is, the
honor of British officers in our situation would have
forbidden us to tamper with his faith.”

“Cool yourself, my dear sir,” said Captain Budworth;
“you are on your parole, and we can have no
fighting; it is for Grahame, when we find him, to chastise
this insolence, and he would do it in good earnest, 14(5)v 166
if he did not despise it too much to honor it with a
moment’s notice. But have you no more to tell us,
Wilmot? It is warm spice, and lends these cold viands a
relish!”

“I think then I have given you seasoning enough,”
said the Lieutenant.

“No, let us have another dust, just to sprinkle the
wing of this fowl. Had the General no other pithy
reasons to assign for Colonel Grahame’s apostacy?”

“None,” returned the Lieutenant, “except that the
Colonel’s boasted patriotism had always a hollow
sound; with a sneer at the Massachusetts men.”

“Now may the foul fiend light on him!” exclaimed
the exasperated Budworth.

“And bear him off in his talons!” responded O’Carroll.

“With all my heart, to the very centre of his hot
dominions!”
cried Budworth. “Thus to vilify the
spotless character of Grahame, and sneer, with the
malice of a demon, at the valiant men of Massachusetts!
They who from the moment of their birth have
been rocked in the arms of liberty, and were the first,
who spurned the gilded chains of slavery held forth to
fetter them! I could bring a hundred names from that
one noble State, which will brighten the page of our
national annals, and descend with glory to the most
remote posterity. Who has forgotten that in the last
fearful battle, one of the youngest of her sons performed
such prodigies of valor as seem almost incredible.
You well know, Wilmot, with what undaunted bravery
the gallant Brooks led on his men, with what intrepidity
he plunged into the thickest of the fight, and was
the last, on that victorious day, to quit the field, from
which he plucked unfading garlands of renown.”

In the earnestness of defending Grahame’s native
state and his own, Budworth had wrought himself into
a fever of enthusiasm, from which he was suddenly recovered
by the sound of an arrow, that, at this instant,
whizzed over his head, and quivered in the tree against
which he sat. The party were, in a moment, on their
feet.

14(6)r 167

“One inch lower, and you were pinned fast enough
to the tree, Captain,”
said O’Carroll; “and as it is,
the heathen dart has taken off the tip of your plume.”

“True, by Heaven!” said Budworth, as he snatched
off his hat, and, instantly replacing it, called aloud to the
soldiers who were making merry over their repast,

“Ho! my boys, up and away,” he said; “the arrows
of Beelzebub are about our ears, and all his imps will
be let loose upon us in a twinkling.”

“We have caroused here unconscionably long,” said
O’Carroll; “and may thank Heaven, if it does not
prove our last meal; though I wish it had been a less
hearty one, for with so much ballast on board, we shall
be a long time clearing the breakers of this wilderness.”

“If I knew the force of the foe, I would be at them,
in spite of their cunning,”
said Budworth. “But, as
we may encounter a whole tribe of the howling devils,
it will be hardly safe to venture upon them at hazard;
though we will give them a touch of gunpowder; at
least, they shall have the smell of it, before we bid
them good night, provided, Wilmot, you can tell me
from what direction the arrow came.”

“You mightas well expect me to tell you whether
the moon is inhabited,”
said the Lieutenant. “Why,
Captain, the arrow buzzed past my ear like a humming
bird, before I could tell what it was, or see
whence it came.”

“And if it had taken a piece of thy ear with it,
Ned,”
said Budworth, “thou wouldst have lost no
more than many a rogue has done before thee; and I
could better have spared it than the gallant tip of my
plume; but, by the sticking of the dart,”
and he plucked
it from the tree as he spoke, “it must have been
sent from the south; so give them a parting salute, my
brave fellows, and then march, with all the speed you
can make.”

The soldiers obeyed, and fired in the direction designated
by their Captain; but the rocks and caverns
of the forest alone answered, with a thousand echoes, 14(6)v 168
the loud volley of musketry which disturbed the silence
of the wilderness. The men then reloaded their pieces
and marched rapidly after their leaders. The near approach
of night prevented their endeavors to discover
the savage, or savages, who were certainly lurking near
them. But unacquainted with the intricacies of the
forest, and aware that the Indians could, if they chose,
rally a formidable body, which must inevitably destroy
their feeble force, it was the opinion of both Captains
Budworth
and O’Carroll, that they ought immediately
to quit the forest; since their remaining might not
only occasion their own destruction, but, if Colonel
Grahame
were indeed in the power of the savages,
provoke them to treat him with aggravated cruelty, and
perhaps to put him to instant death.

They reached the confines of the forest before night
closed in, without any farther incident. The various
parties, which had been employed in the same search,
had most of them returned already. The others came
in soon after, equally unsuccessful, and all of them persuaded
that Colonel Grahame had been conveyed away
by the wily Indians, and was probably murdered.

Captain O’Carroll, however, still refused to admit
this belief, and in order to strengthen the fading hope
which he cherished, as well as to fulfil his promise to
Major Courtland, he repaired to his lodgings to relate
the occurrences of the day, and converse upon the probable
fate of Grahame. The recital which he gave,
occasioned much surprise and apprehension, both to
the Major and Catherine, and led to many wild and
melancholy conjectures. But they were, of course,
vague and unsatisfactory. O’Carroll was surprised to
find how much Major Courtland appeared interested
and affected by the affair; and he thought the eloquence
of Catherine’s saddened countenance far more
expressive, than all she could have uttered, and more
flattering to Colonel Grahame, than the deepest lamentations
of regret which could have fallen from her lips.

At a late hour, he quitted them, more desponding
than when he first sought their society, though with 15(1)r 169
characteristic versatility, he rose, on the following morning,
buoyant with hope, and, joining the same party
which he had accompanied on the preceding day, set
out for the wigwam, which they had discovered in the
forest.

Judging it prudent to observe great caution in approaching
the dwelling, they chose another route; and,
while Captains Budworth and O’Carroll glided through
matted bushes, and under spreading boughs, with their
pistols cocked and their hands on their sword-hilts, the
soldiers followed silently at a short distance, ready, at
a given signal, to rush forward and seize any one who
should appear to offer resistance or attempt to escape.

But great was their surprise when on reaching the
place unmolested, they found the wigwam destroyed,
and every vestige of it removed; even the holes where
the stakes had been driven into the earth, were not
discernible; the withered leaves of autumn strewed the
ground, and all around was as silent, and as wild, as if
the foot of man had never pressed the soil. The
soldiers were ordered to commence a search, and after
several hours, vainly spent in exploring the forest, the
party again quitted it, almost convinced, that it would
be folly ever more to enter it. But Colonel Grahame
was too much beloved by every heart to be willingly
resigned, and for a number of days the search was
eagerly pursued. It however proved fruitless, and after
every possible means had been used for his discovery,
those most interested in it were constrained to
renounce the cherished hope of finding him, and to
give him up as inevitably lost. The army was about
quitting Saratoga, and, though many a heart mourned
for the gallant individual, who, in the moment of victory,
was so mysteriously snatched from view; yet the
new scenes which were about to open before them,
and the pressing duties which devolved on every one,
forbade the indulgence of private sorrow, and obliged
them to sacrifice even the claims of consanguinity and
friendship, to the interests of their suffering country.

15 15(1)v 170

Major Courtland, also, and his daughter, had left
Saratoga, the former firmly persuaded that Grahame
was no longer in existence, though Catherine still cherished
the hope of his being found, and looked forward
with impatience to the return of the Indian Ohmeina,
whose sagacity she thought would be able to trace his
lost friend. The departure of Major Courtland had
been somewhat hastened by intelligence received from
Albany, of Colonel Dunbar’s death, who was killed in
the battle of Germantown.

Catherine was extremely anxious to rejoin her cousin,
to whom, in this season of affliction, the society and
sympathy of a friend would be peculiarly grateful; and
they accordingly bade adieu, for the present, to Captain
O’Carroll
, and set out on their return to Albany.

O’Carroll had received permission to remain and
prosecute the search, which, fruitless as it had hitherto
been, he was not yet inclined to abandon. Like Catherine,
he had strong faith in the fidelity, as well as the
sagacity, of the Indian Ohmeina; and, as the time of
his expected return drew near, he resolved to await it
in his present situation; and, if the Indian’s endeavors
to discover the Colonel should likewise prove unavailing,
to give up the search as hopeless, and hasten to
rejoin Major Courtland and his daughter, on the banks
of the Schuylkill.

15(2)r 171

Chapter XII.

“――――A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes, and beck’ning shadows dire, And airy tongues, that syllable men’s names On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses.” Milton.

The period appointed for Ohmeina’s return at length
arrived, but without bringing him; though Captain
O’Carroll
, supposing it possible something unusual
might have occurred to detain him, still continued to
defer his departure from Saratoga, and lingered, day
after day, in the glen and about the outskirts of the
forest, as if he fancied the shade of his friend haunted
these scenes of his favorite resort. The ravine in
which the wigwam had stood, was also several times
explored, with the same ill success as formerly; and,
wearied at length by Ohmeina’s protracted absence,
suspicion began to mingle with the impatience of his
feelings, and he was strongly inclined to distrust the
good faith and zealous attachment, which had seemed
to bind the Indian so firmly to his master.

Colonel Grahame’s servant, however, who also remained
at Saratoga, intent on the same object with
himself, would by no means admit the possibility of
Ohmeina’s treachery. The grateful and affectionate
creature had so wound himself around the honest heart
of William, that he was, upon all occasions, his warm
defender, and he now persisted in declaring that some
fatal accident must have happened to prevent the Indian’s
return, since he had promised to be back sooner,
and he was never known voluntarily to break his word.

In the meantime, November, with its wintry skies
and driving storms, arrived. The forest became bare,
the streams swollen, and the last trace of verdure disappeared,
even from the warmest and most sheltered 15(2)v 172
spots. Captain O’Carroll began to feel the discomforts
of his situation, and to long for the society of Major
Courtland
, who had written, urging him to renounce all
farther search after Colonel Grahame, and hasten from
the dreary place, where he had located himself, to enliven
their family circle, over which an unusual gloom
had been cast by the melancholy death of Colonel
Dunbar
. The invitation was resistless to O’Carroll,
and he resolved only once again to examine the ravine,
and, if without success, to quit Saratoga on the following
morning.

While his own servant and Grahame’s went forward,
in the track which they had so often trod before, he
followed, silent and alone, recalling with melancholy
pleasure those manly and endearing qualities of Grahame’s
heart and mind, which had won his warmest
admiration and regard, and revolving, not without a
slight tincture of superstitious awe, the mysterious circumstance,
which had snatched his brave and gallant
friend so suddenly from the busy theatre, where he was
performing a part of such vast interest and importance.

As they approached the precipitous bank which
bounded the ravine, the servants fell back, and O’Carroll
pressed forward, with as much caution, as his impetuous
nature would permit him to observe. Several
days had elapsed, since his last visit to the spot; but
every thing remained the same, except that the trees
and shrubs, which had then retained some portion of
their seared and faded foliage, were now despoiled;
and, as their leafless branches waved in the clear atmosphere
of the morning, they gave an air of increased
desolation to the scene, and deepened the unusual melancholy,
which O’Carroll felt creeping over his spirits.
He stood for some time upon the top of the bank, his
arms folded, and his eyes glancing earnestly around, in
the hope of detecting some wily savage crouching beneath
the bushes, whom it might be in his power to
secure. But no such object presented itself, and he
was about to descend into the ravine, when suddenly
his steps were arrested by a strain of wild, sweet melody, 15(3)r 173
which seemed, to arise from beneath his very feet, and
which caused the pulses of his heart to throb in a tumult
of surprise and hope.

Motioning the servants to keep still, he bent eagerly
forward to ascertain, if possible, the point from whence
the sounds had proceeded; when the strange chant,
which had ceased for a moment, was renewed, and its
soft melody was like the touching tone of a female
voice. One moment it swelled into a full, rich cadence,
then died away, like the last sound of an Eolian harp, and
again rose with a wild and thrilling pathos, which made
the listener shiver with undefinable sensations.

O’Carroll thought in this strange music he could distinguish
an articulation of words, though they seemed
to him disconnected and imperfect; and, unable to
restrain his impatient curiosity, he was on the point of
leaping into the ravine, in order to discover the being
who awakened these mysterious strains; and had actually
advanced several steps with that intention, when
the voice rose almost to a scream, and the words, “Forbear!
forbear!”
distinctly pronounced, and in an accent
of mingled entreaty and command, arrested his progress.
It then murmured in a low and melancholy tone, words
so intelligible, that it was impossible to mistake them.

“Return! return!” it said. “Death lurks in the
dark valley!”
And this warning, several times repeated,
inspired Captain O’Carroll with feelings of awe and
astonishment. By no means free from the superstitious
feelings which characterize his nation, he felt himself
yielding to the belief that he was addressed by an unearthly
being, and, impressed with momentary solemnity,
he remained silent and motionless as a statue.

Ronald, his servant, pale with terror, was already on
his knees, crossing himself, and muttering prayers and
spells against the power of evil spirits, while William, a
native of sturdy New-England, looked at him, with inexpressible
contempt, and was only restrained by the
fear of Captain O’Carroll’s displeasure, from rushing
boldly into the ravine, and attempting to discover the
invisible musician.

15* 15(3)v 174

The reverential feeling, which threatened to subdue
O’Carroll’s daring, was of transient continuance, and,
rousing himself to encounter whatever it was that addressed
him, he resolutely exclaimed, in answer to the
exhortation of the invisible being,

“And why should I return? I fear not death, and
am resolved to search the valley.”

“Return! return, friend of the dark-eyed warrior,”
again chanted the voice. “Return, before thou art
taken in the toils which are spread for thee!”

“Answer me, whoever thou art,” exclaimed O’Carroll,
again yielding to the influence of superstitious
emotions, as he listened to the mysterious warning,
which issued from among the pointed rocks and thick
underbrush of the ravine. “Speak!” he continued, in
a tone of eager yet fearful inquiry, “and inform me if
you know aught of Colonel Grahame, and where I may
hope to find him?”

“Depart! depart!” chanted the low, sweet voice.
“Death lurks in the dark valley! Seek it not again, if
thou dost love his life or thine own!”

“He lives then!” cried O’Carroll; “tell me but
where, and I will encounter danger and death itself to
rescue him.”

The voice did not, as before respond to this entreaty;
and, after waiting a few moments, O’Carroll repeated
the question. But still it remained mute, nor uttered
any reply either to this, or any other of the numerous
demands which the Captain put, in rapid succession, to
the unseen spirit. Irritated by this unexpected silence,
which gave so sad a check to his suddenly excited
hopes, the awe, which had transiently subdued his native
impetuosity fled, and no longer master of himself,
he drew his sword from its scabbard, and rushed into
the ravine, exclaiming, “now, be thou man, woman, or
fiend, I will know why it is that thou mockest me thus!”

William boldly followed him, and Ronald, though pale
with fear, grasped the rifle which he carried, and kept
within view of his master.

15(4)r 175

O’Carroll sprang upon the broad point of a jutting
crag, which was partially concealed by a clump of alders
that grew thickly before it, and from among which, as
well as he could judge, the voice had seemed to proceed.
With his sword he cut away the matted boughs
of the alders, and plunged into the centre of the tangled
copse; but not a vestige of any human being was discoverable,
and though he investigated every spot in the
ravine, which he imagined might serve for a lurking-
place, all were as tranquil and as still, as if now for the
first time invaded by the daring steps of man. In the
most impassioned accents he alternately threatened and
implored the invisible being, who had addressed him,
again to utter some word which might reveal to him its
own nature, or direct him in his search after the lost
Grahame. But all was vain; the voice remained obstinately
mute; and dispirited and agitated by contending
emotions, he at length quitted the ravine, resolved
never again to return to it. The longer, however,
he dwelt upon the singular occurrence which had befallen
him, the stronger became his desire once more to
revisit the scene of his adventure; and accordingly on
the following morning he repaired thither, attended by
William, whose firm heart and stout limbs rendered
him a stranger to fear, and made him ever ready and
willing to encounter man or ghost in open combat.
Ronald, notwithstanding his strong attachment to his
master, could not be prevailed on to accompany him.
He was firm in the belief that an unearthly being had
addressed them from the ravine, whose wrath it was presumptuous,
in mortal man, to provoke by despising its
warnings, and adventuring there again in violation of
its injunction.

Captain O’Carroll, however, received no reproof from
the unknown being for his temerity; and, though his
visit was unavailing, for the voice was not again heard,
he returned unharmed from the forest. His mind was
deeply occupied with the affair, and, full as it was of
mystery, he found all his endeavors to explain it ineffectual.
It might, perhaps, be only a foolish trick, which some 15(4)v176
one had played off upon him: or it might be,—and he
laughed at himself for yielding to an impression so improbable,
—and yet it was possible it might be a supernatural
warning, to preserve him from some threatened
danger. Such things had been; and, prone as his
nation were to a belief in the superstitious relative to
beings of another world, it is no matter of wonder, that
the fervid imagination of O’Carroll should attach ideas
of such a nature, to the wild and thrilling voice, which
had so impressively commanded him to forbear his
visits to the valley, where danger and death awaited
him. But he communicated these feelings of awe to
no one; and, though they deepened with every new
retrospect of the occurrence, he affected to ridicule the
superstitious fears of Ronald, and hinted, that, in all
probability, it was the contrivance of some mischievous
person, who wished to amuse himself at their expence.

Wearied with his residence at Saratoga, and hopeless
of discovering Colonel Grahame, though secretly persuaded
that he was still in existence, Captain O’Carroll
at length took his departure for Albany; and, having
passed a couple of days under the hospitable roof of
Richard Hope, embarked on board an armed sloop,
which was to convey some other officers, who by the
late surrender had become prisoners of war, to New
York
, whither they were permitted to go on their parole.
He remaimned in that city but a few hours, when he
quitted it for Philadelphia, then in possession of the
British, from whence, on the day succeeding his arrival,
he proceeded to the residence of Major Courtland.

It was a bright day near the middle of 1777-11November,
mild and pleasant for the season, that Captain O’Carroll
approached the dwelling of his friend. As he rode
up the long avenue of stately trees, which led to the
house, he perceived two ladies on the piazza, one of
whom he soon recognized as Miss Courtland, while
the other, by her deep mourning dress, he imagined to
be Miss Dunbar. The moment she observed the horseman,
she retired precipitately into the house, but Catherine
did not accompany her; she advanced to the edge of 15(5)r 177
the piazza and stood watching, with interest and anxiety,
his progress up the avenue, which by its frequent winding
concealed him one moment from her view, and the
next presented him full before her. O’Carroll urged
forward his horse, and soon reached the termination of
his ride; when, leaping from the saddle, he threw the
reins to his servant, and advanced hastily towards Miss
Courtland
.

“Captain O’Carroll, is it indeed you?” she exclaimed,
while a glow of pleasure crimsoned her cheek, and
she extended her hand towards him, with a smile of
affectionate welcome.

“Yes, I am, at last, so happy as to see you again,”
he replied, accepting her offered hand, and pressing it,
with the fervor of sincere pleasure, between his own.

“I thought, I hoped, it must be you,” said Catherine;
“indeed, we have long impatiently expected you,
and wondered at your continued absence; and now you
have at last arrived, I hope you will not weary of our
quiet life, and wish to quit us for more bustling scenes.”

“Trust me for that, Miss Courtland;” returned
O’Carroll. “Dearly as I love bustle and variety, I
have had enough of them in the course of my last
campaign, to make me willing now to endure a winter
of warmth and quiet. There is danger of my learning
to love it better than a soldier has a right to do. But
how is the Major, Miss Courtland? well, I hope, after
his hard service.”

“Not quite so well as I could wish, Captain O’Carroll,”
answered Catherine; “but all I trust will be right
now you have come to cheer him with your presence.
He has ridden out this morning, though he went rather
reluctantly; for he seemed to cherish a presentiment of
your arrival; but he will return soon, I think.”

“I have much to say to him,” returned O’Carroll;
“much that will deeply interest him.”

He stopped abruptly and looked at Catherine; her
eyes were bent upon the ground, and the glow had
faded from her cheek. He was thinking of Grahame,
and he saw that her mind was filled with the same object; 15(5)v 178
yet she did not inquire concerning him, and
O’Carroll was reluctant to inform her, that the fate of
their gallant friend was still shrouded in mystery. But
while he hesitated in what manner to communicate his
unwelcome intelligence, Catherine raised her eyes to
his face, as if to read there the tidings, which she dared
not ask to hear. But when she encountered his
troubled glance, her color rapidly varied, and making
a sudden effort she said in a hurried and anxious voice,

“I fear I read in your countenance, Captain O’Carroll
the fruitlessness of your continued residence at
Saratoga. He—Colonel Grahame”
—she stopped, and
blushing deeply at her embarrassment, resumed in a
calmer tone,—“Have you, sir, during this long interval,
been able to discover Colonel Grahame, or to gain any
intelligence, which may throw light on the mystery of
his singular disappearance!”

“None, not the least, my dear Miss Courtland;
and it makes me miserable to say so;”
replied O’Carroll,
and turning from her he walked hastily to the opposite
end of the piazza. The trampling of horses,
and the appearance of Major Courtland riding up the
avenue, followed by his faithful Hugh, recalled O’Carroll
to the side of Catherine. The Major no sooner
recognized his young friend, than he put spurs to his
horse, and, in a minute more, reached the bottom of
the steps, on which the Captain was standing to receive
him.

“My dear fellow, I am heartily rejoiced to see you,”
he exclaimed, as he threw himself almost with youthful
agility from his horse, and embraced O’Carroll with
the joy and tenderness of a father.

“Upon my word, my dear boy,” he continued, “the
sight of you has already taken ten years from my age;
for I could not yesterday, as Kate well knows, have
leaped from my gay steed with so much youthful grace
and vigor, as I have now done, to testify my joy at
your long wished for arrival.”

“Thank you, sir,” said O’Carroll; “but you forget,”
he added, smiling, “the fox hunt at Skenesborough, 15(6)r 179
Major; when the most noted sportsman in
the three kingdoms would have made a stand at the
formidable root fences, which you cleared at a single
leap, in despite of the hundred heads and arms, which,
like the famed Briareus of old, they reared to oppose
your passage.”

“I have borne the brunt of battle since that time,”
said the Major, “and reaped none of its laurels to
shade the locks, which time has whitened. But a
truce to this grating theme, and tell us where you have
been this age, and what tidings you bring us of Grahame.”

“None, sir; said O’Carroll; “all my endeavors
to trace him have been ineffectual. What involves the
affair in still greater darkness, is that the Indian
Ohmeina has also disappeared, and we can only conjecture
that he has proved treacherous, or that they
have both fallen into the power of malignant enemies.”

“It is all an exceedingly strange affair,” said Major
Courtland
; then after a few moments of silent musing
he added. “But come in, O’Carroll, and we will hear
your adventures. I know not why we stand here so
long; the air is growing chilly, and your eyes, Kate, are
red with the cold; or it may be, girl,”
he added, looking
earnestly at her, you have been shedding tears of joy
for Captain O’Carroll’s arrival.”

Catherine blushed, but replied with gaiety,

“And since you came so near it yourself, father, you
cannot wonder at my sensibility. But let us go in, before
this cold wind forces me to a farther display of it.”

“It is indeed quite time to perform the rites of
hospitality,”
said the Major; “for I see by O’Carroll’s
riding dress, that he has not crossed our threshold yet.
So lead the way, Kate, and order refreshments; my
ride has given a sharp edge to my appetite, and I
well remember the Captain’s dread of famine, while at
Saratoga.”

O’Carroll smiled, and followed the Major into a
large parlor, where a bright fire was blazing high to receive 15(6)v 180
them. The books, the work table, and the
musical instruments, proclaimed it the usual sittingroom
of the family. The beautiful plants which lined
the windows, and were disposed about the apartment,
filled it with fragrance, and gave to it an air of cheerful
elegance, which the finest decorations of art could
not so gracefully have bestowed. These sweet and
simple children of Flora bring the odours of spring
into our houses, and by every silken petal which unfolds
beneath our fostering care, “Prompt with remembrance of a present God.”

While partaking of the refreshments, which Catherine
had ordered, Major Courtland resumed the subject
of Colonel Grahame’s disappearance.

“I thought,” he said, “after writing us word that
you should be with us soon, to have seen you before
we left Albany; and, induced by that hope, we protracted
the period of our departure, till the increasing
cold reminded me of our long journey; when I was
compelled, from prudential motives, to come off with
my two girls, and leave you to follow at leisure.”

“The hope of discovering the fate of Colonel Grahame,”
said O’Carroll, “beguiled me from day to
day, and induced me frequently to explore the ravine,
where, as you may recollect, we discovered the Indian
wigwam, and also to penetrate into other parts of the
forest, where it was possible we might find some clue
to the fate of the unfortunate Grahame.”

“But you met with no success?” asked the Major.

“With no positive success,” returned O’Carroll,
“but, in one of my last visits to the ravine, with an
adventure so singular, that I wish to ask your opinion
of what has caused me no little perplexity.”

“Let us hear it, without farther preface, O’Carroll,”
said the Major. “By that look of solemnity, so unusual
with you, and which sits but ill on your merry
countenance, I am already prepared to expect some
wonderful relation.”

16(1)r 181

“Wonderful as it may appear to you,” returned
O’Carroll, “I promise to relate only what I heard, and
that without exaggeration. If my ears deceived me,
those too of Ronald and William were equally false;
for they listened with surprise to the same mysterious
sounds.”

He then proceeded to give an account of his visit to
the ravine, of the music, and the warning words of the
invisible being, though in relating the facts, he threw
over them all that height of coloring, with which his
excited imagination was inclined to invest the occurrence.

Major Courtland heard him through in silence, and
though a lurking smile betrayed his desire to burst
forth into ridicule, he restrained himself till O’Carroll
ceased speaking: and then, unable any longer to subdue
his risable propensity, indulged himself, to the extreme
chagrin and mortification of the Captain, in a
violent fit of laughter.

“Upon my honor,” he exclaimed, so soon as he had
recovered sufficient composure to speak intelligibly—
“Upon my honor, O’Carroll, this is a tale worthy to
grace the legends of the nursery! Why, man, the
wonderful history of Aladdin’s Lamp, or the still more
edifying and instructive relation of the White Cat,
who was transformed into the most beautiful princess
of the age, cannot be compared to it. ‘The Invisible
Lady of the Glen, a true relation of a marvellous occurrence
in North America, witnessed and attested by
Philip O’Carroll, Captain in his Majesty’s――regiment
of foot, and dedicated, by special permission, to’

――whomsoever you may choose. What say you
to this, O’Carroll. It will tell well of the American
forests, and make you as renowned as”
――

“Dear father!” interrupted Catherine, looking, first
at O’Carroll’s crimsoned face, with concern, and then
at her father, with amazement; “you do not right to
treat with so much ridicule what Captain O’Carroll
has related. Indeed, sir, I see nothing improbable in
it; nothing but what may readily be believed, after the 16 16(1)v 182
still more surprising mystery of Colonel Grahame’s disappearance.”

“Improbable and extravagant as it may appear, Miss
Courtland
, I assure you it is strictly true,”
said O’Carroll;
“and even the Major, when he has amused himself
long enough at my expense, will not refuse to yield
it the credit it certainly deserves.”

“And have I yet attempted to deny its truth or probability?”
asked the Major, smoothing his features into
composure. “Have I not rather placed it at the head
of all the marvels of this or preceding ages, and declared
it worthy to be bound in gilt and morocco, for
the edification of future generations?”

“You have thought proper to turn it into perfect
ridicule, sir,”
said the Captain, with an air of pique;
“but you cannot alter the facts which I have related,
or induce me to believe that I was imposed upon by
the delusion of an over-wrought imagination.”

“Nor do I believe so myself,” returned the Major,
with a countenance which had recovered its natural
seriousness of expression. “But I do think it the trick
of some blockhead, who had a mind, either to end
your search, or else to amuse himself at your expense.
Depend upon it, my dear fellow, this is the true secret
of the mystery. The sprites who dwell in our American
forests are not so civil, as those which haunt the
dells and thickets of the mother country. They warn
and prophesy, from their murky recesses, till they are
hoarse, while ours like ill-bred goblins, as they are,
flee from the face of mortal man, and preserve a
silence so invincible, that, till now, I never saw the
ears, which had drunk in the sound of their voices.”

O’Carroll looked displeased, and the Major, observing
it, checked the vein of satire, in which he was again
involuntarily indulging, and said in a serious tone,

“Really, Captain O’Carroll, I see no reason why
you should reflect, with any mixture of awe, upon this
occurrence. Strange as it may appear to you, still I
cannot, for a moment, believe that any unearthly 16(2)r 183
agency has been employed in it. Take my word for
it, the whole will prove a mere farce.”

“Perhaps so, sir,” said O’Carroll, coloring at the
consciousness of having betrayed his superstitious feelings
to the observance of the Major. “And yet I do
and must believe, that this warning, from whomsoever
it might come, had some intimate connexion with the
fate of Colonel Grahame, since the voice distinctly replied
in answer to my interrogations, If you regard
his life or your own, come not here again.”

“And yet you went the next day,” said the Major,
“and here you are alive and merry; or, at least, you
ought to be merry; for you have made me so. And
now fill your glass, and drink confusion to the enemies
of the gallant Grahame, and then come with me to my
library; I have something there to show you.”

O’Carroll smiled, and glad to drop a subject, which
had afforded the Major so much food for satire, said,
as he filled his glass,

“The toast has rather a treasonable import, Major;
or perhaps you liked the confusion made among us by
the rebels at Saratoga so well, that you are willing they
should be as successful elsewhere.”

“Confusion to yourself, O’Carroll, for such a suspicion,”
said the Major; “you know well, I mean only
his personal enemies; and, were they Howe, Burgoyne,
or Clinton, I would as soon wish their plans of
evil against this brave fellow might be foiled, as if he
were the sternest loyalist among us; and Gates or
Washington himself, were striving to injure and degrade
him.”

Catherine had risen, when her father began to speak,
and stood at a window apparently engaged in training
the slender shoots of a geranium upon a small trellis
frame. But O’Carroll observed her deeply attentive
to her father’s words; he saw a richer glow mantle on
her cheek, and remarked the expression of pleasure
with which she fixed her eloquent eyes upon his face,
as he concluded. The Major caught the look, and
said with a smile,

16(2)v 184

“My Kate approves that declaration, I know; or does
she think it too liberal for a man, who has been beaten
by these rebels, and is even now their prisoner?”

“Not too liberal for my dear father,” replied Catherine.
“He can admire, and do justice to the virtues of
an enemy, and is too candid, and too generous to be
swayed by the narrow prejudices of party, or the petty
dislikes and jealousies of personal animosity.”

“Thank you, Kate; and you will drink my toast,
without cavilling about it as O’Carroll did,”
said the
Major.

“We will both drink confusion to the enemies of
Colonel Grahame,”
said O’Carroll, “and ‘confusion
worse confounded’
to them, provided they are rebels.”

“That is a superfluous addition, Captain O’Carroll,”
said Catherine, as she raised her glass and repeated her
father’s toast.

O’Carroll slightly colored, but said with a smile,

“It is so, I confess, Miss Courtland. I stand reproved,
and I would rather face the fire of a garrison, than
merit the reproof of a lady.”

“A harmless thing!” said the Major. “Mere words,
at worst. At all events, never make so serious a matter
of it, unless you mean my saucy Kate shall frown every
time you chance to hum, ‘God save the King,’ or huzza
at the defeat of the rebels. See, the girl is laughing
now at your humility; so come with me, or the staunch
little rebel will do her best to make you ashamed of
your loyalty.”

The Major hurried him from the room, without giving
him time for any reply, and conducted him to the library,
where they passed the remainder of the morning till
dinner time. Captain O’Carroll had formerly some
slight acquaintance with Colonel Dunbar, and he felt a
desire to see his daughter, of whom he had often heard
his friend, Captain Talbot, speak. He was, therefore,
disappointed, when, on being summoned to dinner, he
found Miss Courtland alone at the table. The Major
inquired why his niece was not present, and Catherine, 16(3)r 185
in reply, said she was not quite well, and begged that
her absence might be excused.

“Certainly,” said the Major, if she prefers her own
solitary room, she must be indulged in the whim, though
I really think she would feel vastly better, if she would
not so sedulously seclude herself from society, and
every rational enjoyment.”

“I hope,” said O’Carroll “it is not my presence,
which banishes Miss Dunbar from the family circle.”

“She will soon learn to consider you, as an inmate,”
said the Major; “but indeed, the poor girl has been so
deeply depressed, since the death of her father, that
we have scarcely been able to draw her from her apartment.
She is just beginning to revive from the first
violence of grief, and I hope soon to see her restored
to her accustomed serenity, though her loss was, indeed,
a heavy one, and to her it must be irreparable.”

“Was not Colonel Dunbar killed in the battle of
Germantown?”
asked O’Carroll.

“He was,” returned the Major, “and he died like a
brave and gallant soldier. By the way, O’Carroll, that
attack upon Germantown was a daring thing, so soon
after the beating our troops gave the rebels on the
Brandywine.”

“But they were beaten, were they not?” asked the
Captain.

“Yes, at last,” said the Major; “but not till they had
given us a sound drubbing, and killed some of our best
officers.”

“And did they lose none themselves?” inquired
O’Carroll.

“They say their loss was inconsiderable,” replied
the Major, “but it is known that several names of note
were among the slain; and of this number was General
Nash
of Carolina, one of their ablest and most valuable
officers.”

“But you are aware father,” interrupted Catherine,
“that the royalists had every advantage over the continental
troops; for besides being perfectly familiar with
the ground, they made a garrison of every house in the 16* 16(3)v 186
town, from whence they took good aim at the enemy,
and remained in comparative security themselves.”

“That statement may be correct, Kate,” said her
father, “but I have some doubts concerning its authenticity.
The brave Colonel Musgrave, I know, threw
himself into a large stone house, and battered the enemy
manfully through the windows; and maintained his
post too, in despite of the cannon which was brought to
the assault, till Generals Grey and Agnew came up to
his relief; the latter of whom was unhappily slain in the
contest. But, that they made a garrison of every house
in the town, remains to be proved.”

“Well, sir,” said Catherine laughing, “since you
have bestowed such high encomiums on the conduct of
Colonel Musgrave, you ought, in order to support your
character for impartiality, to bestow a share of praise
on the bravery of the Americans, who, if report says
true, earned many laurels in that bloody conflict.”

“I know little about that, Kate,” said the Major;
“let those who will, give credence to every flying rumor;
I am slow of belief. But I know this, that the Americans
were completely routed, and driven many miles
by our victorious troops.”

“But they were not so much terrified, as to desert
their cannon,”
said Catherine, “which they took good
care to bring off with them. And you know, father, it
is said that, had it not been for the thick fog, and the
smoke occasioned by the burning of some stubble fields,
which our troops had set on fire, the republicans would
have gained a complete victory.”

“No I do not know any such thing,” said the Major,
provoked at her defence of the Americans, “and since
you seem so familiar with all the minutiæ of the affair,
I will thank you to inform me what the smoke and fog
had to do with the defeat of the Americans.”

“It enabled the British troops to recover from the
surprise of an attack so unexpected,”
returned the undaunted
girl, “and prevented the Americans from discovering
their true situation. And what was worse it
rendered it almost impossible for the Americans to distinguish 16(4)r 187
their own troops from those of the enemy, and
thus prevented the possibility of their different parties
acting in concert; and in other ways also greatly embarrassed
them.”

“Upon my word, Miss Courtland,” exclaimed
O’Carroll, “this defeat of the rebels, as you discribe it,
is as glorious as a victory. Would you be equally favorable
to us, in an account of the 1777-10-07seventh of October at
Saratoga, we might yet deserve a few leaves of the laurel
to bind on our dishonored brows.”

“If the girl denies our right to them, when really
victorious,”
said the Major, “not even a stalk will she
grant us, when defeated and prisoners too. But how
know you, Kate,”
he added, addressing her, “that there
was the least chance for the rebels to gain a victory in
this affair of Germantown, had the fog and smoke not
given them so good an excuse for running away.”

“Why sir,” said Catherine, “the advanced party of
the Americans, commanded by General Sullivan, I
think, attacked the pickets of the British, with such
determined bravery and spirit, that they were soon
forced, and the troops stationed near them were obliged
to retreat. This first and great advantage gained,
would probably have decided the contest in their favor,
had the morning been clear, so as to have given them
a distinct view of the number and situation of the
enemy.”

“And who was so kind as to give you all this information?”
asked the Major. “One would almost
suspect you of holding secret correspondence with the
enemy; you seem so well acquainted with particulars,
which, I am sure, are quite new to me.”

“But had you as much curiosity as I have, father,”
she replied, “you might have known all, and more than
I do, a week ago. I am indebted to the American
officer who was here, one morning, when you were out,
for the particulars which I have detailed.”

“And an insolent booby for his pains!” exclaimed
the Major. “To come boasting, forsooth, to the daughter
of a British officer, of his valiant deeds in arms, and 16(4)v 188
insulting her by the declaration, that he would have
beat her countrymen, had they not hidden themselves
in a fog!”

“Father, you do the young man great injustice,”
said Catherine warmly. “He did not even speak of
the affair, till I questioned him concerning it. For, as
my uncle Dunbar lost his life at Germantown, I felt
more than usual interest in the action which took place
there; but it was only from the short and general account
which the officer gave me, that I drew the inference,
which I have named.”

“A most natural inference truly!” said the Major;
“at least, natural enough for any little whig, like you,
Kate, who think you can never sufficiently admire the
valor of these fighting rebels. But I am rather inclined
to believe they are much indebted to this friendly
fog, which gave them so good an excuse for quitting
the field alive; which, I much doubt, if they could
have done in clear day-light; not that they cannot
fight,”
he hastily added, conscious of the illiberality of
his remark, “but the attack, in this instance, was, as I
think, impolitic, and the odds against them so great,
that their chance of success, even had they fought like
lions, could have been but small.”

“And is this all the fighting, which has happened of
late?”
asked the Captain. “And what is doing, or
about to be done now?”

“We have not been at home, long enough to have
gathered much information,”
returned the Major. “Indeed,
nothing worthy of note has occurred, that I know
of, except it be a movement of part of the royal army,
across the Delaware, to a place called Billingsport,
where their cooperation with other forces indicating
some offensive measure, the republicans sent General
Greene
, with a strong detachment, to bring them back.
And he unfortunately succeeded in his attempt. They
returned immediately to Philadelphia, when the rebels
also came back to their camps and are now preparing
to go into winter quarters. At least so I have heard;
but I will not vouch for the correctness of my information, 16(5)r 189
as I am so conscientious a prisoner, that I make
few inquiries, even when I have an opportunity, which
is, indeed, not often. You must go to Kate, if you
want to know these things; she gets all the news, in
some way or other, and will make you believe that the
cause of rebellion is the one, which will at last win
the palm of victory.”

“Triumph, while you may, Miss Courtland,” said
O’Carroll; “for, notwithstanding the honorable retirement,
which we veterans of Saratoga are permitted to
enjoy, it will surely be our turn at last. The forces of
his Britannic Majesty are not always to be repulsed,
and they have yet the shame of our defeat to wash
away with the blood of these rebels, before they quit
the continent. Indeed, their present situation, seems
to me an earnest of complete success;—lodged in the
very capital of the confederation, from whence they
have driven the rebels to seek for quarters where they
can find them, while the dignified Congress itself has
been forced to flee for safety to the northern extremity
of the state!”

“Yes, and a glorious entry our loyal troops made into
the city,”
said Major Courtland. “Captain Talbot told
me, the British and Hessian grenadiers, with a detachment
of royal artillery and a party of light dragoons,
accompanied by Lord Cornwallis and many other
officers of distinction, entered it in triumph, and took
formal possession, with great pomp; while the music
played ‘God save the king,’ and the ladies showered
flowers, and waved white handkerchiefs from the windows,
to welcome the approach of the conquerors.”

“And yet,” said Catherine, “I doubt if there was
half the real glory in this triumphal entrance of the
royal army into a conquered, or rather a deserted city,
that there was in that one simple act of the American
General, Gates, who with a noble delicacy of feeling,
which did him more honor than the victory he had
won, withdrew his troops into their lines, that they
might not even seem to triumph, in the humiliation of
their conquered foes, by gazing on them while they 16(5)v 190
performed the mortifying ceremony of piling the arms,
which by the laws of war they had justly forfeited.”

“It was a noble act, Kate, and it received a tribute
of gratitude from every heart,”
said the Major; “but I
did not expect you would have it ready for a retort
now; though I might have known your invention, if
not your memory, would have furnished you with one.
But without comparing the merits of the two parties,
which we never can agree in doing, what say you to
Captain O’Carroll’s suggestion, that it will shortly be
our turn to triumph?”

“That I hope and trust you will do so with moderation,
when the moment arrives,”
returned Catherine,
smiling. “But really, father, I see no prospect of it
very near. I confess myself an incompetent judge of
these things, though I have interested myself enough in
public events to know, that all the victories gained by
the royal arms, during the past season, have been productive
of no important results, and that even the possession
of Philadelphia, though it furnishes comfortable
winter quarters for the army, is otherwise a matter of
very small moment.”

“Well, girl, enjoy your own opinion,” said the Major,
“so you will not argue us out of ours, which strikes
me as the more reasonable of the two.”

“But not quite so strenuously defended, father,”
said, Catherine, archly, “as it was wont to be, before
these gallant rebels of the north softened your prejudices,
and”
――

“Not an iota! not a particle, Kate!” interrupted the
Major. “So never seek to persuade O’Carroll, that
my loyalty has gone after my honor, or that these rebels
have won my good wishes, because they suffered me
to keep my sword, and come quietly home, under
promise of peaceable behaviour for the future.”

“Well, father,” said Catherine still smiling, “I will
not displease you by attempting to discover the reason,
why you listen with so much more complacency, than
you were wont to, when I bestow praises on the Americans;
and do not even contradict me when I say they 16(6)r 191
are both brave and virtuous; I will content myself with
the humiliating supposition, that it is because you think
me not worth the trouble of contradiction.”

“True, Kate,” said her father, “you have hit upon
the right reason. Your prattle is as harmless, as the
silver bells with which you used to beat your nurse.”

“But not as empty, father,” interrupted Catherine.
“Do not mortify me by saying so, and before Captain
O’Carroll
too.”

“He can judge for himself, by this time, Kate,” said
her father; “and I am greatly mistaken, if he is not
already wearied by your whiggism.”

“Pardon me, sir,” said the Captain, “I only fear,
that my loyalty may be shaken by the arguments of so
fair and eloquent a champion. No wonder the standard
of rebellion gathers its thousands around it, when
the lips of beauty plead its cause, and repeat the praises
of its brave and warlike leaders. Indeed, Major Courtland,
you must lend me your aid to resist the temptations
which beset me, or I had better follow the troops
to Massachusetts, or even return to the deserted plain
of Saratoga, and preserve my fidelity to my sovereign
by dwelling on the remembrance of those disgraces,
which the victorious rebels there brought upon his soldiers.”

“I will not force you to adopt either of these alternatives,
Captain O’Carroll,”
said Catherine, laughing.
“I assure you, had I the power, I have not the wish to
seduce you from your allegiance. Your sword is
sheathed; and I should shudder as much to see it turned
against the hearts of your countrymen, as I have to
know that my father’s was red with the blood of those
I call mine. Both must now remain inactive, and I
only ask you to think without harshness, of the Americans
and their cause.”

“Of the Americans I think with admiration and respect,”
returned O’Carroll; “and there are individuals
among them, for whom I entertain the most affectionate
regard. But you must pardon me, Miss Courtland,
if I venture to deprecate their rebellion, and express 16(6)v 192
my wish that it may speedily be quelled by the power,
to which they have been, and still ought to be in subjection.”

“We will not discuss the merits of this question
now,”
said Catherine, “but reserve it till a period of
more leisure; for I see my father is about to broach a
choice bottle, if I may judge from its coat of dust; and,
leaving you to enjoy it in uninterrupted tranquillity, I
will go for a short time, and enliven my cousin’s solitude.
But remember, while you sip, Captain, that you
have challenged me to a game of chess this evening.”

“Then we must brush the cobwebs from another
bottle,”
he said, as he rose and held open the door for
her to pass through. “A true son of Erin, Miss Courtland,
always fights and plays best, when warmed by the
ruddy nectar of the grape. However, I will strive to
meet you on equal ground, though another treaty of
surrender should be the consequence.”
He bowed low
as she glided from the room, and closing the door after
her, returned to the table, to enjoy the rich contents of
the bottle, from which the Major had just extracted the
cork, and which had been mellowing for twenty long
years, in his well stored wine cellar.

Chapter XIII.

“Where should this music be? i’the air or the
earth?”
Shakspeare.

The gay and winning manners of Captain O’Carroll,
imparted their cheerful influence to those with whom
he was associated; and the family circle of Major Courtland,
which had been saddened by the melancholy circumstances
of Colonel Dunbar’s death, could not long 17(1)r 193
resist the contagion of gaiety so innocent, and exhilarating.
Even Amelia Dunbar was beguiled from the
indulgence of that deep sorrow which had depressed
her, and she began to share, with interest, the walks
and amusements of her cousin, which were enlivened
by the participation of O’Carroll, and diversified by the
numerous plans, which he devised to vary and give
new zest to their pleasures.

Within doors, books, music, conversation, and games
of various sorts, beguiled the stormy days of winter;
and the genial warmth of the apartments, and the fragrant
breath of Catherine’s roses and geranium’s, which “Bloomed in exotic beauty, warm and snug,”
and with a brilliancy rivalled only by the soft tints
which glowed on the cheeks of their lovely mistress,
permitted them to enjoy the mild temperature and delicious
odors of spring. When abroad, all nature was
despoiled of verdure, and a brown and leafless waste
stretched in melancholy dreariness where lately the
brightness and luxuriance of summer gave interest and
beauty to the landscape.

But the rigors of the season did not prevent the ladies
from enjoying frequent exercise in the open air. The
unsettled state of the country, however, forbade their
making long excursions from home. Two large armies
were encamped within twenty miles of each other, and
their foraging parties and scouts were so often traversing
in various directions, as to render it not only unpleasant,
but unsafe, to run the risk of encountering
them. The gentlemen allowed themselves more license,
and, attended by their servants, rode as often, and as
far, as it pleased them. Catherine sometimes accompanied
them, but not so often as she wished, since
she found it impossible to prevail on Amelia to join
the party. From the period of her father’s death
she had studiously avoided every individual and every
scene, that could remind her of his fate; and she not
unfrequently quitted the room in tears, when the military
events of the day chanced to be the subject of
discussion, and these, of course, were not unfrequent 17 17(1)v 194
topics, at a time, when, as might be supposed, they
were of all others the most interesting.

In the meantime, nothing was heard of Colonel Grahame.
The days passed on, and 1777-12December drew towards
a close; but still no tidings came. It was understood,
that in the American camp there were none
who any longer indulged the expectation of his return,
and the opinion generally entertained was, that he had
fallen a sacrifice to the treachery of the Indian Ohmeina.

Major Courtland gave implicit faith to this suspicion.
O’Carroll, too, was almost ready to admit it,
and by degrees they ceased to speak of him as any
longer in existence. When they mentioned his name,
it was to lament his early fate, and extol, with feelings
of melancholy regret, the noble and attaching qualities
of his uncommon mind.

Catherine usually heard these remarks in silence,
but O’Carroll thought, not without emotion. He fancied
he could, at such moments, detect a shade of sadness
stealing over her animated features; and once he
caught the echo of a low-breathed sigh, as, with apparent
inattention to what was said, she carelessly turned
over the leaves of a music book. He had himself been
too deeply wounded, not to sympathize in the affliction
of others, and when he believed Miss Courtland yielding
involuntarily to the softened feelings which Grahame’s
image awoke, he longed to pour into her heart
all the kind and warm feelings of his own, and whisper
the hope, unfounded as it was, that he she mourned
might not be utterly lost. But the transient gloom of
her countenance, if such there was, fled, even while
these thoughts passed through the mind of the enthusiastic
O’Carroll; and the instant gaiety, which succeeded
perhaps, the lively sally, which broke from her
lips, not only surprised and perplexed him, but banished
his suspicions and destroyed the feeling, which had
induced him secretly to lavish on her his tenderest pity
and concern.

17(2)r 195

In truth, though Catherine imparted her thoughts to
no one, she had ever cherished the belief that Colonel
Grahame
lived, and would return. She scarcely knew
on what she had founded this belief; and indeed she
did not seek to know. It was one of those mysterious
presentiments, which sometimes haunt the mind, and
for which we vainly endeavour to account, and which
we as vainly strive to dispel. It impressed her with the
reality of truth; and, though not inclined to superstition,
she almost fancied, in this instance, that some superior
power had inspired her with a confident hope, which
she nurtured like a promise, whose fulfilment she might
anticipate with perfect certainty.

Thus, although the subject was seldom mentioned,
it was often the theme of secret meditation, and particularly
so with Catherine. But whatever she might
feel, no cloud was suffered to gather on her brow, or
to cast a shade over the enjoyments of the domestic
circle. All was bright and animating in her countenance,
and none seemed to enjoy more highly a ride,
a walk, or any other amusement, of which they were
accustomed to partake.

One uncommonly fine afternoon for the season, the
two cousins, with Captain O’Carroll, had been indulging
in a walk of unusual length, from which they were
obliged to hasten their return home, in consequence of
a sudden change in the weather, so common in the
variable climate of the middle and northern states.

The sun was setting in stormy clouds, and the rising
wind swept, in fitful and tremendous gusts, through the
leafless trees. The whole aspect of nature betokened
an approaching tempest, and, with the utmost speed
they could make, the little party were scarcely able to
reach home, before the last ray of light had faded from
the blackening horizon.

When they entered the sitting room, Major Courtland
was reclining on the sofa, enjoying that soothing
hour of “parlor twilight,” so inimitably described by
the sweet moralist, Cowper. Nor did he appear to
notice their entrance, but remained wrapped in musing 17(2)v 196
melancholy, till disturbed by the glare of lights, with
which Hugh shortly illuminated the apartment.

“You light us up early to-night, Hugh,” he said,
raising his hand to shade his eyes; “place that screen
before me; this sudden blaze is enough to blind one,
and has chased away all the dreams I was so quietly
indulging.”

“Perhaps it was the noise of our entrance that disturbed
them, father,”
said Catherine; “but we were
driven home by the appearance of a storm, much
sooner than we wished.”

“No matter, child,” said the Major with a sigh; “it
was time for them to be disturbed. Leave that shutter
half open, Hugh, that we may watch the weather now
and then. O’Carroll, what are you gazing at from that
window, which Hugh has been waiting to fasten up
this half hour!”

“At the sky, Major,” replied the Captain, retreating
as he spoke, to make room for the servant. “There
will be wild work in the Heaven’s to-night, if I mistake
not. It is all confusion there now, the clouds are
scudding before the wind, like the van of a routed
army. Yea, as our friend Richard Hope would say,
much like unto the beaten remnant of the British, who
did flee into their entrenchments before the might of
the rebels.”

“An unseemly comparison,” said the Major; “and
fitter for Richard Hope’s mouth than for your’s, who,
I believe, were not the very last to seek for safety in
the entrenchments.”

“I was kindly dragged in,” said O’Carroll, with
affected gravity, “by a fellow, who well nigh broke his
neck over me first, and stuck his sharp-toed shoe so
far into my ear, that he could not well get it out, without
taking me with him.”

“I fear,” said the Major, “the sharp point touched
the brain, O’Carroll, for it often seems disordered, and
this is the most rational way of accounting for it. But
come, I am ready to beat you at a game of chess, provided
you have no objection.”

17(3)r 197

“Well added, sir,” said O’Carroll, as he arranged
the men upon the board, “and I will endeavour to
convince you that my brain is in too good order to
consent to such a proposition.”

They placed themselves at the table, where Amelia
was already engaged with a book, and Catherine with
her needle; though her attention often wandered from
her employment, to watch the progress of the game,
which, for a time, inclined in favor of her father. It,
however, continued doubtful so long, that, wearied
with the slow movements of the combatants, she took
up a book and was becoming interested in its pages,
when O’Carroll broke the silence, which had prevailed
for many minutes, by exclaiming in a tone of triumph,
which drew the attention of Catherine again to the
game,

“Check, to your king, sir!”

“But not check-mate, sir,” said the Major, deliberately
placing a knight before the threatened monarch.

“Check-mate now, Major, provided you have no objection,”
said O’Carroll, pushing forward his queen,
and displacing the knight. “No retreat, sir,” he pursued,
as the Major cast his eye in silence over the
board; “cut off as fairly, and as completely too, as
ever Burgoyne was at Saratoga.”

“But your triumph more than beseems a brave conqueror,
Captain O’Carroll,”
said Catherine, sorry for
her father’s defeat; “you forget how much you admired
the forbearance of the brave General Gates.”

“We cannot always imitate what we admire, Miss
Courtland
,”
said O’Carroll; “but if you will consent
to become my antagonist, I will strive to be as magnanimous,
as the brave Gates, and say, with as courtly
an air as he did, when addressing the vanquished Burgoyne”
――

“Do have done with that nonsense, O’Carroll,” exclaimed
the Major, sweeping the men from the board
with an air of chagrin, and retreating to his former
station on the sofa. “You are eternally prating about 17* 17(3)v 198
Gates and Burgoyne, and Saratoga, as if there were
no other topics half so pleasing in the world. One
would think our shameful defeat enough to silence you
forever on the subject; instead of which, you sing it in
our ears, on every possible occasion.”

“I wish to lessen its horror by familiarity, sir,” said
the Captain, while he deliberately replaced the fallen
men, and challenged the Major to another game.

“No, Catherine may revenge me,” said the Major;
“and I know she can if she chooses, so prenez garde,
Captain, or your towering crest will be lowered before
you are aware.”

“And I am quite ready to encounter you, Miss
Courtland
; so let us begin the attack,”
said O’Carroll.

“With your leave, Captain, we will defer the game
till another evening;”
said Catherine. “It is too quiet
an amusement for such a night as this.”

“It is indeed a frightful night,” said Amelia, who
was at that moment looking from the window. “How
the wind rages,”
she added, “and the heavens are
black with stormy clouds.”

“And suppose that to drown the discored of the elements,”
said Catherine, “you read us one of these delightful
plays. It will be vastly more amusing to my
father and Amelia, than our slow movements on the
chess board. Here is Measure for Measure, As you
like it,
or Twelfth Night; what say you to that. It
is one of my favorites.”

“And, of course, one of mine,” said O’Carroll with
an air of gallantry. They again drew around the table,
and the Captain began to read aloud, though Amelia
could not instantly fix her attention, so much was she
agitated by the increasing violence of the tempest,
which raged without. As yet it was unaccompanied
by rain, and the tremendous gusts of wind came only
at intervals; but with a fury, which threatened to uproot
the ancient trees, that had braved the tempests of
a century. Then succeeded a perfect calm, and then
again all nature seemed in commotion.

17(4)r 199

O’Carroll, however, began to read; but had scarcely
pronounced those beautiful words, “That strain again; it had a dying fall,”
when, suddenly, a few notes of wild and thrilling melody
rose on the sullen murmurs of the blast, which, after
a short interval of profound silence, seemed striving
again to collect itself, with redoubled violence. O’Carroll
started from his chair; the Major half rose from
his recumbent posture, and leaning on his elbow listened
for a renewal of the sounds; while Catherine sprang
eagerly towards the window, and Amelia, dropping her
work, looked from one to another, with a glance of
amazement and surprise.

“Who is so kind as to serenade us on such a night
as this, and what is the meaning of it?”
at length exclaimed
the Major. “Catherine, my dear, do you see
any thing from the window?”

“Nothing, father,” she replied. “It is too dark to
distinguish any object; but hush, there is the voice
again.”

O’Carroll threw open another shutter, while the
voice, for such it seemed to be, swelled into a clear,
soft, and melodious strain, which continued, for a
minute or two, and then died into profound silence.

“By Heaven! the very tones I heard at Saratoga,
and I will solve the mystery,”
exclaimed O’Carroll,
rushing towards the door.

“Not yet, I entreat you,” said Catherine, laying her
hand on his arm to detain him. “The voice is again
commencing, and I think I can distinguish words. Let
us listen a moment; I have raised the sash a little, so
that we may hear without difficulty; and by violence
we shall defeat our own wishes.”

Captain O’Carroll complied, though not without
secret reluctance, and stationed himself beside her at
the window, which she had opened an inch, in order
to admit the sounds.

The voice, which seemed to be at no great distance,
was clear and sweet, exactly resembling that, which 17(4)v 200
O’Carroll had heard in the ravine at Saratoga, and the
song too, like that, was continually broken by pauses
of unequal length. As they listened in breathless silence,
they plainly distinguished these words, chanted
with an emphasis, which was full of meaning and expression;

“Rejoice! rejoice, friend of the dark-eyed warrior!
Rejoice! for his people have embraced him! The
fire of the sacrifice was preparing, but the victim had
fled, before it was lighted! Rejoice! rejoice, friend
of the dark-eyed warrior!”

The wind, which had been gradually rising into fury,
at this moment blew with a violence that drowned the
mysterious voice, though ever and anon a wild and
thrilling note, mingled distinctly with the tumult of the
elements. O’Carroll was no longer to be restrained;
and both he and Major Courtland rushed in silence
from the house. Catherine followed them to the
piazza, where she continued standing, though Amelia
earnestly entreated her not to expose herself on such a
night, for the sake of discovering a mad creature; for
it could be no other, who chose to sing in the tempest.

The gentlemen’s familiarity with the grounds enabled
them, notwithstanding the darkness of the night,
to explore every corner, but without success. The
servants were ordered out with lanterns, and while the
search was diligently proceeding Catherine observed a
dark figure glide from a thicket of firs, and swiftly darting
forward, it disappeared in an instant, in a copse of
locusts which skirted the southern boundary of the
lawn. She called to O’Carroll and pointed after the
figure, which was, at that moment, visible by the glare
of the domestics’ lanterns; but, although he followed to
a considerable distance, his pursuit was in vain. Not a
footstep was to be heard, and the perfect darkness
which surrounded him, made him sensible of the folly
of adventuring farther. He therefore retraced his way
home, and it may be imagined with what feelings of
perplexity, the whole party reentered the house.

17(5)r 201

Major Courtland, however, seemed inclined to treat
the affair with ridicule, and rallied Catherine on the
seriousness of her countenance and manner.

“You look, Kate,” he said, “as if you were really
inclined to make an important affair of this nonsense.”

“And why should I not, father?” she replied. “It
seems to have meaning in it, though not as yet an intelligible
one to us.”

“Nor ever will be, girl,” said her father. “All that
I can make of it is, that some squaw or wild woman of
the woods, has fallen in love with O’Carroll, and
chooses to follow him up, till with true womanly intrigue,
she has him safe in her snares.”

“Pshaw,” ejaculated the Captain, pettishly, while
he continued hastily to traverse the apartment, evidently
much agitated by the occurrence of the evening.

“It is rather provoking, I allow,” resumed the teazing
Major, “to be dogged from north to south by you
know not whom, and, what is worse, are never like to
know.”

“It is a mysterious circumstance, ridicule it as much
as you will, Major,”
said O’Carroll, suddenly stopping
in his walk, “that the same voice, for I am positive it
is the same, should be heard by me in two distinct
places, so remote from each other, singing words of the
same import, and which evidently have a reference to
the fate of Colonel Grahame.”

“I confess, O’Carroll, it is rather singular,” said the
Major. “If you wish it, I will write a note to-morrow,
to some of the American officers, with whom I have a
slight acquaintance, and inquire if any tidings have
been received of Colonel Grahame. If not, I shall be
inclined to view this affair as a foolish trick upon us,
and advise you to do so too.”

“I shall know better how to view it, when I have
discovered the actor,”
said O’Carroll; “and if it is any
thing which wears a human shape, it shall not long remain
concealed.”

The remainder of the evening was passed in alternate
raillery and conjecture, on the part of Major Courtland, 17(5)v 202
who, though a little surprised and perplexed by
the occurrence, had no mind to deepen the serious impression
it had evidently made on the superstitious feelings
of the Captain. O’Carroll was unusually irritable;
but, though continually provoked by the badinage of the
Major, he could not forbear laughing at the whimsical
conceits by which he affected to solve the mystery of
the evening. He went continually to the windows and
the door, in expectation of again hearing the invisible
musician; but he listened in vain.

The violence of the tempest had gradually abated;
but the clouds were pouring out a mixture of rain and
sleet, which rendered it improbable that any human
being would continue exposed to so uncomfortable a
shower; and, at length, relinquishing the hope of again
hearing the voice, the Captain was persuaded, at a late
hour, to retire to his apartment. His imagination, however,
was too much excited to permit the approach of
sleep, and the morning sun darted into his room before
his harassed thoughts would suffer him to enjoy repose.

It was so late when he awoke, after the refreshing
slumbers of the morning, that the family had all dispersed
before he entered the parlor. Major Courtland
was in his library, and the young ladies had gone out
to walk. O’Carroll made a hasty breakfast, and ordering
his horse directly after, rode out to enjoy the pure
and bracing air of the morning, and to shake from his
mind, the burden of thought, which agitated and perplexed
it. In this he was fortunately successful; for,
notwithstanding the mysterious recollections of the past,
and the uncertain anticipations of the future, he was
imperceptibly drawn from painful contemplations, to the
beautiful appearance of nature, which he could not observe,
without feelings of admiration and delight. Every
object was arrayed in a covering of ice, which sparkled
in the bright beams of the morning sun with indescribable
splendor. The trees and shrubs were completely
encased in crystal, and every slender twig, even the
minutest bud, was visible through the transparent coating;
while the weight of ice declined the branches with 17(6)r 203
more than their natural grace, towards the earth; reflecting
all the prismatic colors of the rainbow.

Catherine and her cousin, having risen much earlier
than the Captian, had for some time admired the beautiful
appearance of nature from the piazza; but, wishing
to enjoy it abroad before the ice began to fall from
the trees, they had taken their morning repast, and gone
out just before O’Carroll quitted his apartment.

Crossing the garden, they passed through a small
gate at the lower extremity of the principal walk, which
opened on a foot-path that traversed the borders of a
forest, occupying many acres of Major Courtland’s estate,
and which, as yet, he had preserved with care,
from the sacrilegious axe of the woodman. It was the
scene of many a delightful ramble, and now, from its
retirement and security, the frequent resort of the fair
cousins; though they never adventured into its mazes,
but contented themselves with treading the circuitous
path which wound along its borders, unless, when occasionally
attracted by a bright moss or a curious
lichen, or, in warmer seasons, by the gay flowers which,
but for this timely notice, had been doomed ―― “to blush unseen,And waste their sweetness on the desert air.”
Arm in arm, Catherine and Amelia now trod this
sequestered spot; sometimes speaking of the occurrence
of the past evening, and again, as accident or occasion
suggested, reverting to other topics of discourse;
now stopping to admire some fantastic conformation of
the ice, and then to view through a sudden opening,
the windings of the river, and the beautiful appearance
of the landscape on its opposite shore.

“How prettily the grey moss, which clothes that
long branch, is fringed with icicles!”
said Catherine, as
they stopped beneath a venerable oak, which seemed
laden with a double portion of the glittering burden.

“Yes, and how delicate they are,” said Amelia.
“They are not larger than a cambric needle, and so
bright and exquisitely pointed, that they resemble small
diamond darts”
――

17(6)v 204

“Such as Cupid is wont to use, I suppose,” interrupted
Catherine.

“Or rather Plutus, when he shoots for him,” returned
Amelia.

“Which is too frequently the case,” said Catherine;
“but I would rather,” she added, laughing, “that our
hearts should be pierced by the sharpest of Cupid’s
dove-fledged arrows, than that they should be vulnerable
to the darts of gold or diamonds used by that
low and sordid deity, who has, alas! and I blush to
acknowledge it, but too many votaries, even among the
soft and lovely of our sex. But that moss, cousin, is
just such as I was wishing for a few days since, to arrange
with my shells, and now it is beyond my reach!”

“I see a rock, however, just through those trees,”
said Amelia, “which is covered with a species of moss
very much resembling this. Supposing we go and examine
it, perhaps it may answer your purpose as well.”

“With all my heart, provided you do not fear to enter
the forest,”
returned Catherine. “I have often
explored its recesses alone, without meeting any one,
and it contains many delightful spots, which I have
loved from childhood, and which are known only to
myself.”

“I should not like to venture far within its limits,” said
Amelia; but I am quite willing to go to that rock, or
even beyond it, so we do not lose sight of the path.”

The cousins, accordingly advanced to the rock, which,
though of considerable extent, was low and flat. Catherine
gathered a handful of moss which clothed its
sides, and, as she stepped upon its craggy ledges, she
observed the top to be covered with a beautiful variety
of the most vivid hues.

“I have a strong inclination to climb to the summit,
Amelia,”
said Catherine, as she stood looking , with a
wishful eye, upon the richly variegated surface of the
rock. “It is but two or three steps, and here is good
footing; will you wait for me?”

“Yes, if you will hasten,” returned her cousin. “I
see the path, and can regain it in a moment in case of 18(1)r 205
alarm, though you could not so quickly descend from
your elevated station.”

“Oh, there can be no cause for alarm,” said Catherine;
and with the lightness of a fawn, she ascended
the craggy side of the rock, and began to gather with
eagerness the gay mosses which the shade and humidity
of the forest preserved in continued brightness.
The ardor of her character led her to engage in every
pursuit and occupation with enthusiasm; and while,
with the eye of a connoisseur, and the taste of a lover
of natural beauties, she selected the finest specimens of
the vegetable she was collecting, she became so interested
in her employment, as quite to forget that Amelia
was waiting for her, and that she had promised not to
detain her long. The voice of her cousin calling her
softly by name, restored her recollection, and she approached
the brow of the rock, to say, she would
rejoin her directly.

“Come now I entreat you,” said Amelia, with a vehemence
altogether unusual; “I hear a rustling in the
forest and we ought not to remain here.”

“My dear girl, you may hear a rustling at any time
where there are half a dozen trees together,”
said Catherine.
“I suppose it is some poor squirrel, that has
exhausted his store of nuts, and come abroad for a fresh
supply; or perhaps, a harmless racoon that has popped
out his nose, to smell the fresh air of this fine morning.
It can be nothing else, you may rest assured, Amelia;
so wait, one moment longer, till I get a superb specimen,
which I left, when you called me.”

“Dear Catherine, you are rash to trifle thus, when I
tell you there is danger!”
exclaimed Amelia, in the
same tone of earnest entreaty. “I certainly heard footsteps
in the forest, and we do wrong to linger here.”

“Just wait for me in the path then,” said the fearless
Catherine, “and I will come in half a minute. You
know there is not a creature in the country, who can
bound over the ground so swiftly as I can, so go and I
will follow you directly.”

18 18(1)v 206

She began to gather the moss, as she spoke, while
Amelia hesitating to remain, and yet unwilling to quit
her cousin, lingered at the foot of the rock, scarcely
able to restrain the tears of fear and vexation, which
were ready to flow.

“Catherine! dear Catherine! I beg of you to
come!”
she exclaimed, after an instant’s silence. “Do
not delay, I hear the steps”
――

She finished with a loud scream; for a large black
dog, at that moment, sprang barking towards her, and
she directed her flight towards the path. The animal
followed, and was on the point of seizing the affrighted
girl, when a loud voice called, “Victor! here, sir, here,”
and he obeyed, instantly quitting his prey, and springing
into the forest. Catherine, reproaching herself for
remaining so long, and exposing Amelia to this alarm,
had already descended from the rock, and was by her
cousin’s side, at the moment the dog left her. The
tones of the voice, which summoned him away, were
familiar to her ear, and anxious to see the person, from
whom they proceeded, she pressed forward in the hope
of obtaining a glimpse, which might satisfy her curiosity.
The sound of his footsteps was still audible, but
they seemed to be rapidly retreating; and Catherine
almost despaired of obtaining her wish, when, through
a narrow vista in the forest, the tall figure and savage
attire of an Indian were for a moment visible; but long
enough for Catherine to recognize the person and
features of the lost Ohmeina!

Astonishment for a minute, overpowered every faculty
of her mind; but other emotions were instantly
blended with it, and, recollecting what important intelligence
might probably be gathered from the Indian,
relative to the fate of his master, she darted swiftly forward,
and called him loudly by name. But he had
already disappeared amidst the intricacies of the forest,
while the falling ice, which in his rapid progress he
had shaken from the trees, rattled upon the frozen earth,
and prevented the voice of Catherine, though raised
to its utmost height, from being heard.

18(2)r 207

Amelia, notwithstanding the timidity which had
caused her to hasten from the forest, was so much surprised
at the gestures of her cousin, that she eagerly
followed her, exclaiming,

“You are mad, Catherine, to run into the very danger,
from which we have just escaped. Who is that
frightful Indian, and why do you pursue him, and call
after him with such earnestness? Speak to me quickly;
your wild looks terrify me.”

“Do not hold me,” said Catherine, striving to break
from her cousin’s grasp. “I must speak with that Indian;
let me go, Amelia, that I may yet overtake him.”

“You cannot!” said Amelia, still firmly retaining the
struggling hand of Catherine. “Overtake an Indian,
who is swifter of foot than the fleetest rein-deer of
Lapland! Impossible! And if you should, what have
you to say to him, and how dare you trust yourself in
his power?”

“I fear nothing;” said Catherine, “I know this Indian,
and I must speak with him.”

“You must not, Catherine,” said Amelia. “Look
around; here is nothing but trees and rocks; no human
being to aid us, and the fate of the murdered Jane McRea
may be ours, if you persist in following the steps of this
savage.”

“Amelia,” replied Catherine, somewhat impatiently,
“the Indian, whom you have just seen, is not a savage.
He is humanized by the influence of that same religion,
which we have been taught to reverence, and I would
rather trust myself with him, than with many a boasting
hero, who has less cause for triumph, and fewer virtues
to ennoble him, than fall to the lot of this poor Indian.
In a word Amelia,”
and Catherine blushed slightly, as
she said it, “he is the protégé of Colonel Grahame, and
I would have inquired concerning the fate of that unfortunate
officer; but you have detained me so long,
that at my utmost speed, I could not now overtake him.
The only opportunity, which will ever occur, of satisfying
our doubts on this mysterious subject, is probably
lost to us forever.”

18(2)v 208

“I shall indeed be sorry,” said Amelia thoughtfully,
“if my ungrounded fears have prevented your obtaining
this so much desired information. But if you reflect
a moment upon the cunning and deceit of the Indian
character, I think you cannot regret the disappointment,
which may possibly have been the means
of saving you from danger. Besides, highly as you think
of this Ohmeina, you are aware, Catherine, that both my
uncle and Captain O’Carroll are suspicious that he has
played a treacherous part, and should it prove so, I shall
have no reason to regret my caution in the present instance.”

“Perhaps you may be right, Amelia,” said her
cousin. “At all events, it would be useless now for
me to force my way through the forest in search of
the Indian, whom it would be impossible to trace.
Notwithstanding your suggestions, however, I cannot
but regret that I did not succeed in gaining his attention.
But it is too late now, so let us hasten home,
and relate our adventure. I am sure my father will
cause this forest to be searched, and keep a watch here,
till the Indian can be found.”

They regained the path as she finished speaking,
and proceeded towards home, with as much rapidity
as Amelia’s fear of falling upon the slippery ground,
would permit. Catherine, accustomed to frequent exercise
upon the snow and ice, walked as steadily upon
the glassy surface of the earth, as if it had been spread
with a carpet of the softest verdure, and could with
difficulty conform her impatient steps to the slow and
careful pace of her timid companion. Anxious to communicate
the reappearance of Ohmeina to her father,
she often left her cousin far behind, and then again returned
to assist and urge her to more speed. In this
manner they approached the house, but were surprised
to observe an appearance of great confusion around
it. The servants were running in various directions;
Major Courtland was walking hastily across the lawn;
and as they gained the piazza, Captain O’Carroll rushed
quickly past them, without even stopping to speak. 18(3)r 209
At the same moment a loud report of musketry seemingly,
at no great distance, filled them with new wonder
and alarm; and they eagerly entered the house, to
seek a solution of the mystery.

Chapter XIV.

“――His magic voice With shame, with praise, with soothing, and with scorn, Scatters the languid mist, that wreathes their souls, And from their blanched cheeks drives the white dismay.” Milman.

Hugh was the first person Catherine encountered
on entering the hall, and he was hasting after his master,
with all the speed he could make. But he stopped
to answer the inquiries which she put to him,
informing her that the firing was occasioned by an accidental
encounter between a foraging party of Americans
and a detachment of British troops; and that the
Major, with Captain O’Carroll, had gone to the hill,
beyond the mulberry grove, to witness the skirmish. After
a few more particular inquiries, Catherine dismissed
Hugh, and followed Amelia to the parlor, whither she
had withdrawn immediately upon hearing the statement
of the old servant.

When Catherine entered the apartment, she was
traversing it, in excessive agitation. The image of her
father, whom she had most tenderly loved, was present
to her, and pale, trembling, and in tears, she shuddered
at the battle sounds which reached her, as if he
were still living, and among the combatants. Catherine
strove to soothe her, but all her efforts were vain;
they seemed rather to increase her agitation. Yet she
remained with her, till Amelia entreated to be left
alone; and then, anxious to gain the earliest intelligence
concerning the issue of the action, she walked
from the house, with the hope of meeting her father, 18* 18(3)v 210
or some other person, who could give her the information
she desired.

She continued her walk, however, without encountering
an individual, till she reached the summit of a small,
wooded eminence, from whence, on a hill beyond, she
discerned her father, with Captain O’Carroll, and several
of the servants, who, she imagined, had a full view
of the engagement, as they appeared to be looking
in a direction, from whence thick volumes of smoke
ascended, and the noise of the firing proceeded. For
some minutes, she continued to watch the gestures of
her father and the Captain. They were exceedingly
animated, and it seemed to her as if they could scarcely
restrain themselves from rushing to the combat.
Once, indeed, she saw O’Carroll put his hand to his
side, and step suddenly forward, when the Major
caught his arm, and he turned from the scene, as
though he feared to trust himself any longer with a
sight, which filled him with irrepressible ardor. Catherine
felt herself tinctured with the same enthusiasm,
and before she was aware of doing so, she had descended
from the eminence, and was moving towards
the spot on which her father stood. Suddenly aroused
to recollection, she stopped—hesitated—and again
walked slowly forward.

“Why,” she asked herself, “should I not go!
True, it is a fearful spectacle, but I am a soldier’s
daughter, and I should not shrink from beholding it.”

While these and similar thoughts passed through her
mind, she still proceeded, though with slow and undecided
steps; when she perceived that her father was
beckoning her to advance; and, the next moment,
O’Carroll descended the hill and ran forward to meet
her. He was breathless with haste, when he reached
her, but he said gaily,

“Come, Miss Courtland, and take your first lesson
in arms; we have marked, with some interest, your
hesitation, and seen without surprise, the rare courage
and independence, which you so eminently possess,
triumph over the native timidity of your sex. Upon 18(4)r 211
my faith, there is not more than one woman, among
ten thousand, who would not have run and buried her
head in pillows to shut out the sound of this fighting.
But hasten, and see how we beat the rebels; they will
all take flight before we reach the hill, if we do not
mend our speed; for they were on the point of it, when
I came to you.”

“Nay then,” said Catherine, drawing back, “my
labor is lost, and I would not add to it, merely to see a
party of cowardly soldiers beaten from the field by the
enemy. So good morning Captain O’Carroll, and
thanks for saving me the trouble of climbing the hill.”

“Oh, but it is worth climbing the highest peak of
Skiddaw, to see how the gallant red coats fight,”
exclaimed
O’Carroll. “My sword leaped from the scabbard,
and I had been in the thickest of the action, in
spite of my parole, had not the Major taken the precaution
to whisper the word ‘honor’ in my ear; and it
never came with such a grating and unwelcome sound
before, thanks to the pacific treaty of Saratoga.”

“And the rebels do not fight as well this morning,
as they did on that memorable occasion?”
asked
Catherine, with arch simplicity.

“You shall judge for yourself, Miss Courtland,” returned
O’Carroll. “And I trust, you will shortly have
the pleasure to see them run faster, than they were
ever known to do before.”

“But I am willing to relinquish that pleasure,” said
Catherine. “You will enjoy it sufficiently, without
my participation; only return, as soon as possible, to
the house, and let us know if the rebels bear their defeat
with as good a grace, as”
――

“As we did at Saratoga, you were about to say,
Miss Courtland,”
interrupted O’Carroll. “But, indeed,
you must excuse me, if I refuse, in case you turn
back now, to tell you any thing about it. Here we
are, just at the foot of the hill, and on the top of it, we
can see the whole engagement. Really, Miss Courtland,
I do not think I could have prevailed on you to 18(4)v 212
return home, without ascending it, if I had told you it
was the British, who were flying.”

“That would have been such a rare thing,” said
Catherine, “and you know ladies are famed for their
love of novelty, Captain.”

“Yes, and justly so, as I know but too well,” answered
O’Carroll, in an accent of bitterness. “And
they love rebellion too,”
he added, “or the cause
would not find so many wellwishers. But, if I mistake
not, the Major is calling to us.”

Catherine looked up, and saw her father, standing
on the brow of the hill, and as they approached nearer,
he cried out in an impatient accent,

“O’Carroll, why do you loiter there so long! the
rogues will be off in an instant; they are just on the
wing; and if Kate has ever a mind to see a spice of
fighting, now is her time.”

“But I have no mind for it at all,” said Catherine to
the Captain. “Go on without me, I will return. I
was foolish to approach a scene, which I now find I
have not courage to look upon.”

“It is nothing, nothing at all, my dear Miss Courtland,”
said O’Carroll, urging her gently forward.
“They are not very near, and of course you can see
nothing to shock you; only the flashing of the bayonets,
and the rapid motions of the men. Were I a
lady, I would rather see twenty such genteel skirmishes,
as this, than read one detailed account of a battle, in
which all the wounds and danger are described with
a minuteness that aggravates its real horrors.”

“Catherine, Catherine, my dear girl, why do you
delay?”
exclaimed Major Courtland, from the hill; “I
entreat you to come up here, with O’Carroll, this
instant.”

Catherine heartily repented having yielded to the
momentary impulse, which had led to her present situation;
but it was too late to recede, and unwilling to
incur her father’s displeasure, she again took the Captain’s
offered arm, and ascended the hill in silence.
The Major advanced to meet her, and his countenance 18(5)r 213
glowed with paternal pride, as he hastily saluted her,
exclaiming, at the same moment,

“Bravo! my Kate! this is like yourself, and I desire
to thank God, who has made you superior to the
silly weakness of your sex, and gifted you with as
brave a soul, as ever animated a hero. But how now!
have I been too hasty in my praises? Or whence that
pale cheek,”
he added, gazing earnestly upon her. “I
will not ask if it is the battle sound, which has faded
the roses that are wont to bloom there.”

“Father, I have done wrong in coming here,” said
Catherine, resting her forhead, a moment, on his
shoulder. “I thought myself heroic, but I fear I am a
very coward.”

“No, that you are not, my girl,” said her father,
leading her, as he spoke, to the opposite edge of the
hill. “So now, look up, and tell me which fight best,
the loyal soldiers of our good king George, or the bluecoated
rebels, who would fain rule themselves.”

Catherine raised her eyes from the ground, on which
they had been rivetted; but when she saw the tumult
of the fight, which seemed directly below her, a more
deadly paleness overspread her beautiful features, and
she covered her face with both hands, to shut the fearful
spectacle from her view. But almost instantly she
raised her eyes, and strove to look steadily upon the
combatants, ats if shamed of her emotion; or perhaps,
apprehensive that it might appear like weakness, in the
eyes of her father and Captain O’Carroll to whom the
present skirmish seemed like mere child’s play, compared
to the mighty battles, in which they had both
been engaged.

The scene of action, lay in a stubble field, some distance
beyond the hill; so that the smoke from the fire
arms, concealed the horrors of the fight. But the
quick and animated movements of the parties, and the
rapid glancing of their arms, were visible; and though
the frequent vollies of musketry involved them in obscurity,
yet the clouds of smoke rose so swiftly in the
pure atmosphere of the morning, that the bustling and 18(5)v 214
active scene was at one instant disclosed, and the next
shrouded again in darkness. The parties engaged,
were small, and apparently equal, in point of numbers.
But the British had evidently gained the advantage,
which they were vigorously pursuing; for the Americans,
though obstinately defending themselves, were
gradually retreating towards the forest, in their rear.

Major Courtland watched his daughter’s countenance,
with interest, as, after the first undecided moment, she
continued earnestly to gaze upon this scene. Her
kindling eye, her flushed cheek, her profound silence,
and motionless attitude, evinced the intense and fervent
feeling, with which the spectacle inspired her.

O’Carroll’s frequent exclamations of “Bravo!” “Huzza
for king George”
and, “The royalists have won the
day!”
were seemingly unheard by her; and it was not
till the ranks of the Americans, which had hitherto remained
firm and unbroken, suddenly gave way, and
they began to retreat in confusion, that she moved, or
uttered a word. But then, her color heightened to
crimson, and, clasping her hands, she exclaimed with
emotion,

“Shame! Shame! They fly, and from a force no
larger than their own!”

“And they seem to understand it too,” said O’Carroll.
“I rather suspect from their gestures, that this is
not the first time the foe has seen their backs. The
officer who is endeavouring to rally them, however, is a
brave fellow. But I fear, he has fought his last field;
for the devil himself could not get clear of Talbot’s
manœuvring, in such a predicament.”

“Does Captain Talbot command the royalists?”
asked Catherine, aroused by O’Carroll’s observation.

“Yes, I met him as I was riding this morning,” returned
the Captain. “It seems they were informed
by a deserter, who had grown weary of the hard fare
and cold quarters of Valley Forge, that this foraging
party was to leave the camp this morning; and Talbot
and his men were lying in wait for them, behind the
group of maples yonder, when I encountered him. 18(6)r 215
The Americans were coming up, when I left him, and
I had just time to ride home, and leave my horse, before
the first musket shot gave the signal, that the engagement
had commenced. But upon my faith, the
rebels have nearly gained the forest; all except that
foolish officer, who will lose his life by seeking to rally
the cowards.”

While O’Carroll spoke, scarcely heeded either by
Catherine or her father, the Americans continued to
retrreat in great disorder, unmindful of the threatenings
or persuasions of their commanding officer, who used
every exertion in his power to induce them to renew
the contest. But it was all in vain; they seemed completely
panic-struck, and eager only to escape the pursuit
of their conquerors, when suddenly their flight was
arrested.

A single horseman, wearing the uniform of the continental
army, sprang from behind a small copse of
trees, and leaping the slight barrier of rails which enclosed
the field of action, waved his sword, with an
air of defiance, and called aloud upon the flying troops
to rally, and act like men. The tones of his commanding
voice were heard distinctly on the hill, where
the party of observation were stationed, and they seemed
like magic to arrest the course of the defeated
soldiers; for they instantly stood still, and the officer,
placing himself at their head, they collected, and with
inconceivable rapidity formed a compact body, presenting
a firm and dauntless front.

The sudden movement produced a visible sensation
in the enemy. They slackened their fire, and retreating
a few steps, drew up again in order of battle. The
attack recommenced with new fury; the British fighting
as if resolved to win a second victory, and the
Americans, as if determined to atone for the shame of
their premature flight.

“Confound those rebels!” exclaimed O’Carroll,
who, with his companions, had anxiously watched the
progress of this unexpected revolution; “they have
always some corps de reserve, some slashing hero, or 18(6)v 216
cunning stratagem, to turn the fortune of fight. We
had fairly won the field, when that tall fellow came,
Heaven knows from whence, to pluck back our
laurels, and bind them on his own rebel brows.”

“Do not begin your lamentation too soon, O’Carroll,”
said the Major. “Our laurels, perhaps, may
bloom the brighter for this fresh attack; if we beat
them from the field again, it is a double victory, you
know.”

“‘If’”—repeated O’Carroll. “There is a great deal
depending on the little word ‘If’, Major. ‘if’ this knight
errant had not leaped into the field, his rebel followers
would before now have leaped out of it; and ‘if’ the
next musket ball knocks him from his horse, the victory
may be ours; but ‘if’ not, Major,”
――

“Have done with your ‘ifs’, O’Carroll,” interrupted
the Major hastily. “By Heaven, this champion has
put the very devil into his soldiers, and in spite of Talbot,
and all his men, they will beat us hollow.”

“Our fellows are giving way,” exclaimed O’Carroll.
“By St. Patrick, they might have held out longer.
Were it not for the cursed treaty, that so fetters our
valor, Major, we might leap to the rescue, with as
valiant an air as this same doughty hero, who has
so steeled the courage of his own villains, and melted
that of ours. How the fellow bears himself! As
haughtily as if he had conquered a host, and were about
to dictate another treaty of surrender!”

“The treaty of surrender again!” exclaimed the
Major, impatiently. “You round off every sentence,
O’Carroll, with this detestable treaty; and begin with
what you will, the Great Mogul, the Pope of Rome,
the usurpation of the round-headed Cromwell, or any
thing else equally foreign to the subject, you are sure
to rack your ingenuity, in order to name this treaty of
Saratoga, the remembrance of which seems to afford
you the most exquisite pleasure.”

“Have patience, Major,” said O’Carroll, his whole
attention direccted to the movements of the combatants; 19(1)r 217
“and look, look quick, by St. George, Talbot is down,
and his soldiers are flying!”

Major Courtland’s attention was instantly directed
to the scene of action, and he saw at once, that the
issue of the contest was decided. The second assault
of the Americans had been far more furious and determined
than the first. Animated by the presence of
a leader, whom they idolized, and solicitous to retrieve
their tarnished honor, they fought with intrepid boldness,
till the enemy, discouraged by this fierce attack,
began to falter, and at length gave way. It is possible
they might have recovered themselves, had not the fall
of Captain Talbot, served to complete their confusion;
when they instantly took to flight, leaving a number
dead on the field, and several, beside their Captain,
desperately wounded.

Major Courtland seeing the engagement at an end,
and the Americans masters of the field, proposed that
they should descend the hill, and offer what assistance
was in their power to the wounded; and also, if Captain
Talbot
yet lived, obtain permission from his conquerors,
to convey him to the house. O’Carroll readily
acceded to the Major’s poposition. Though deeply
chagrined by the issue of the contest, he was desirous,
he said, to return some of the civilities he had received
at Saratoga. Major Courtland frowned at this ill timed
allusion, which did not at all tend to soften his vexation,
and bidding Catherine return to the house, and
have a room prepared for Captain Talbot, he walked
sullenly down the hill, preceded by O’Carroll, whose
eager curiosity subdued, for a time at least, the mortification,
which the sudden turn of fortune in favor of
the Americans had given him.

Catherine walked slowly homeward, dwelling on the
singular appearance of the brave champion, who had so
suddenly changed the fortunes of the fight. There
was something in the proud tossing of his crest, in the
bold waving of his sword, in the grace, with which he
reined the motions of his impatient war-horse, that inspired
her with the deepest admiration; and she could 19 19(1)v 218
not reflect upon the gallantry and spirit, with which he
rallied the panic-struck soldiers, without a glow of enthusiasm,
and a feeling of strongly excited interest.

Her cheek was flushed with the richest bloom, and
her eye kindled into unusual brilliancy by the scene,
which she had just witnessed, and the meditations
which had arisen from it, when she entered the parlor,
where Amelia, pale and sad, reclined upon the sofa,
in an attitude of deep and melancholy abstraction.

“Are you alone, cousin!” asked Catherine, as she
entered; “I thought Martha had been with you, or I
should not have left you so long.”

“She was, till I sent her away,” replied Amelia.
“Solitude is never disagreeable to me, Catherine.”

“Ah, you love it but too well,” returned her cousin,
“though I should not now have indulged you in it so
long, had I not gone”
――

“Do not tell me where you have been,” hastily interrupted
Amelia. “The dreadful sounds which I
have heard this morning are enough to inform me of
the scene, which you have witnessed.”

“And do you feel no interest in it, Amelia, not
even so much as to ask how it has terminated!”
said
her cousin.

“I wish to hear nothing concerning it,” she replied.
“I have been too severe a sufferer by a similar event,
not to shudder at the very mention of this.”

“My dear girl,” said Catherine, “you are surely
wrong in indulging this excess of feeling, which must
cause you so much pain. Situated as we are, we may
be often exposed to sounds and sights of war, and we
should prepare ourselves to meet with fortitude the
events which may befall us, and not shrink, in an hour
or trial, from any duty, however painful, which may
serve our friends, our country, or ourselves.”

“You, who have not a father’s loss to mourn,” replied
Amelia, with emotion, “may act, in any exigence,
with firmness and self possession. But I, who, by this
cruel war, am robbed of my dearest earthly friend, can
only deprecate the sanguinary conflict, which blasts the 19(2)r 219
fairest blossoms of affection, and desolates so many
happy homes.”

The tears gushed from her eyes, as she spoke, and
Catherine, affected by her sorrow, threw her arm tenderly
around her, and said, in a soothing tone,

“My dearest Amelia, do not thus afflict yourself.
You have many things to console you under this bereavement.
Your father died, as he often wished he
might, and as mine would a thousand times rather have
done, than have become a prisoner, under circumstances
so galling and disgraceful.”

“But though a prisoner, he is still with you,” said
Amelia; “and you are permitted to enjoy his love and
his society. You gladly resign an empty honor, for the
sake of substantial happiness.”

“Affection is but too selfish,” said Catherine, “and I
cannot but rejoice that my father is yet spared to me,
thought conquered and a prisoner, and regret that it had
not pleased Heaven to prolong the life of yours, though
he died in the arms of victory. But let us change this
painful theme; we shall soon be called upon to exert
our fortitude, and I would not have you sunk in sadness
and grief, at a moment, when the utmost self-command
may be necessary.”

“What has happened?” asked Amelia, wiping her
eyes, and looking up, with a countenance of anxious
inquiry. “Has any accident befallen my uncle or
Captain O’Carroll? Speak, Catherine; why have you
kept me so long in ignorance?”

“There is nothing to alarm you,” said her cousin,
“but an occurrence which may deeply try your feelings,
and for which I wished to prepare you, when I spoke
of the events of the morning.”

“Do not fear to speak of them again,” said Amelia;
“I will hear you with firmness, and strive to perform
whatever duty the occasion shall impose upon me.”

“I know you will do all you can and ought to do,
my dearest cousin,”
said Catherine, affectionately kissing
the still wet cheek of Amelia; “I much regret that
this unlucky skirmish has occurred so near as to involve 19(2)v 220
us in its consequences; but it was unforseen, and if it
had been otherwise, it would have been unavoidable by
us. The Americans, Amelia, are victorious, and the
retreating party, having left their wounded, and among
them Captain Talbot, on the field, my father is giving
directions to have him brought here, where he can be
properly attended to.”

“Captain Talbot!” ejaculated Amelia, in a voice of
strong emotion; and, turning paler than marble, she
sunk back upon the sofa, and covered her face with her
handkerchief. Catherine gazed anxiously upon her,
surprised by her excessive agitation, but before she
could address her, Amelia, by a powerful effort, recovered
herself, and said, though not without embarrasment,

“He is the son of my dear father’s most favorite
friend, Catherine. Alas! that one so young, so brave,
so amiable, should be thus early snatched from life!”

“We hope he is not badly wounded,” said Catherine;
“at all events, my love, preserve your self-possession.
And now that I have told you all, I will go
and order a room to be made ready for his reception.”

“But will no one else come?” inquired Amelia,
roused by the dread of meeting strangers, from the sad
abstraction into which Catherine’s intelligence had
plunged her.

“I cannot tell,” replied Catherine. “Possibly my
father may invite the American officers home with
him; and if so, you must be mistress of ceremonies,
Amelia, as I expect to be fully occupied with my
wounded hero.”

“No, I cannot!” exclaimed Amelia, shuddering at
the idea of meeting, perhaps, those very men who had
robbed her father of life. “Indeed, I cannot see them,”
she repeated; “let me go with you, dear Catherine, or
any where, rather than remain here.”

Catherine was half vexed by her cousin’s want of
self-command, but sincerely compassionating that excessive
sensibility, which, from the errors of her education,
often degenerated into weakness, she said to her,
with gentleness,

19(3)r 221

“Retire, if you choose, my dear girl; I would not,
for the world, by any wish of mine, impose restraint
upon your inclinations. It is not very probable that the
American officers will call here; but they may, and if
they do, I will be at liberty to receive them; so go to
your own room, my sweet coz, and I will come to you,
when they are gone.”

Catherine quitted the parlor, as she finished speaking,
and went to direct the preparations for Captain
Talbot’s
reception. Amelia remained for several minutes,
standing in the same position, anxious to retire,
and yet ashamed to yield to the weakness which prompted
her to do so. The contrast between her own character,
and that of her cousin struck her more forcibly
than it had ever done before; and while she felt and
lamented her own imperfections, she did full justice to
the loveliness and superiority of Catherine, who, though
gifted with the most exquisite tenderness and sensibility,
rose above the weakness and timidity of her sex, ever
sacrificing her selfish feelings to the happiness of others,
and possessing, on every occasion, that cool and perfect
self-command, which enabled her to decide and act
with promptitude and judgment.

Occupied with these reflections, Amelia forgot her
design of retiring, till reminded of it by the appearance
of Captain O’Carroll, who was advancing towards the
house, followed by a rude litter, on which Captain Talbot,
apparently insensible, was borne by a number of
American soldiers. Amelia became extremely pale,
and sunk, almost fainting, upon a chair; but her solicitude
to retire before the entrance of the party had revived
with new earnestness, and by a strong exertion
she rose and escaped through a side door into the library,
from whence she passed to her own apartment.

In the mean time, Captain O’Carroll entered the hall,
followed by the litter of the wounded officer, who, though
deprived of sense for a time by a deep cut upon his
temple, was not thought to be severely wounded. But
his inanimate form, and his pallid countenance disfigured
with blood, rendered him a spectacle so shocking 19* 19(3)v 222
to female sensibility, that few would have gazed upon
it without fainting. O’Carroll feared it might produce
that consequence on Catherine, and when he saw her
enter the hall, he exclaimed in a hurried tone,

“For heaven’s sake, my dear Miss Courtland, retire;
you will be shocked beyond measure, by poor Talbot’s
ghastly appearance.”

“I am prepared for it, Captain,” said Catherine, still
moving towards the litter. “Shall I,” she continued,
“who have witnessed a battle, turn pale at the sight of
blood, or shrink from those duties which woman was
formed to fulfil? You do not yet known me, Captain
O’Carroll
, if you imagine a wounded soldier can inspire
me with any other sensations than those of pity
and regret. But order your charge into this apartment,
if you please;”
and she threw open a side door as she
spoke. “You see I have assumed the office of nurse,
and come with all my credentials to the scene of action;
here are bandages, and lint, and cordials, and balsams
of various kinds, as the nature of the case may require.”

“And where, may I ask,” said O’Carroll, smiling, as
she held up her little basket furnished with the articles
she had named, “where did you obtain the skill, which
has taught you to dress the wounds of the soldier?”

“At Saratoga, you know, I had some experience,”
she said, as she led the way into the apartment prepared
for Captain Talbot. The soldiers followed with the
litter, and when they had placed him gently on the bed,
she approached and gazed with a steady eye upon him.
“Poor Talbot,” she said, after a brief pause, “how
changed from the bright and animated face which I beheld,
when we last met!”

In raising him from the litter, the motion had caused
his wound to bleed afresh, and alarmed at the consequences
which the effusion of so much blood might
produce, Catherine eagerly sought to staunch it, and by
various applications, she at length succeeded. She then
carefully wiped the clotted blood from his face, and
with a courage far superior to her sex and years, she
bathed the wound upon his forehead, and placed upon 19(4)r 223
it some lint wet with a balsam, the efficacy of which
she had experienced during the illness of her father.

With the assistance of Martha, she bandaged his head,
and having smoothed his pillow, sat down beside him
to watch for the moment of his revival.

O’Carroll observed her motions with interest and
surprise; and at length, overpowered by feelings of admiration,
he exclaimed with unchecked enthusiasm,

“Miss Courtland, you deserve to be the wife of a
hero! No inferior mortal can be worthy of you.
Talbot is a happy fellow to be the object of such gentle
assiduities; though, he is so slightly wounded, I wonder
your cares have not revived him.”

“I wish, indeed, they might restore him to consciousness,”
said Catherine, scarcely regarding the words of
the ever gay O’Carroll.

“The surgeon will be here soon, I think,” said
O’Carroll; “the fellow went off for him before we left
the field. But I wonder where the Major and”
――

He quitted the room abruptly without concluding
what he had begun to say, and when a few minutes
afterward Catherine went out on some errand, he was
hastily traversing the hall, humming in a low tone, but
so that the words were distinctly intelligible, “None but the braveNone but the brave,None but the brave deserve the fair.”

Catherine looked earnestly upon him, and remarked
with surprise his flushed cheek and sparkling eye.

“You are unusually gay,” she said, after observing
him a moment in silence; “mysteriously so, considering
the events of the day. May I ask if any thing
has occurred to afford you pleasure?”

“Has not Talbot revived yet?” said O’Carroll,
evading a reply; and suddenly reentering his apartment,
Catherine’s attention was at once diverted from him,
and she followed to look upon her patient, but he still
remained insensible, and she said with anxiety,

“I see no symptoms of returning consciousness; have
you observed any, Martha?”

19(4)v 224

“No Ma’am, and I have not once lifted my eyes
from his face,”
she replied.

“The poor fellow seems still almost lifeless;” said
Catherine. “Can we do nothing for him till the surgeon
arrives? At least reach me that bottle of lavender,
Martha, the scent may possibly revive him.”

While bending over her inanimate patient with a tender
assiduity, which heightened her natural loveliness,
O’Carroll continued for some minutes to regard her
with deep and admiring attention; he then walked towards
the door; opened and closed it, apparently without
design; stopped to examine the pictures which hung
upon the walls; and in short, exhibited so many symptoms
of restlessness and unusual excitement, that, notwithstanding
her anxiety respecting Captain Talbot,
Catherine could not fail to observe it. She looked up
with a smile of much meaning, as, after one of these
hasty walks through the apartment, he stopped at the foot
of the bed, and began twisting the curtain with unconscious
earnestness around the post. He caught her
smile, and read its expression; but he only said with
an air of affected impatience,

“Miss Courtland, you are wearing yourself by exertions
so new and painful, and wasting both your trouble
and your lavender. Permit me to take your place, I
am more used to wounds and fatigues than you can be.”

“Thank you, Captain, I do not doubt your skill,”
she said; “but I have the vanity to think a female hand
is skilled above all others, and that mine acquired uncommon
experience, during my campaign at Saratoga.
Besides,”
she added, smiling, “you know that many an
illustrious dame of ancient days has contended for the
honor of nursing a wounded hero, and I would not have
it said, that those who suffered in America were neglected
by its daughters. They boast of spirits as fearless
and as lofty, as those which characterized the virtuous
matrons of Rome, in the days of her pride and
power.”

“That speech, Miss Courtland,” said O’Carroll, laughing,
“has produced the effect upon your patient, which 19(5)r 225
all the balsams and perfumes in your basket failed to
do; for see, he actually open his eyes!”

Catherine turned quickly to assure herself, that an
event so much desired had really taken place, and was
filled with pleasure, when she observed a faint color
brighten Talbot’s pale lips, and saw his eyes fixed upon
her countenance, though with a dim vacancy of expression,
which denoted a continued absence of consciousness.
Wholly engrossed, however, by her endeavors
to aid the efforts of reviving nature, Catherine neither
noticed a considerable bustle in the hall; nor the abrupt
departure of Captain O’Carroll from the room;
and was holding a glass to the lips of Talbot, from which
he eagerly drank, when she heard her father, who had
entered unperceived, exclaim,

“Upon my word, Kate, you have grown a very heroine
to-day. First marching off to see a battle, and now
binding up the wounds, and administering cordials, with
as much sang froid, as if you had been born in a camp.”

“You mistake, father, the delicate nerves of a true
heroine could not have endured the sights which I
have looked upon to-day,”
she said, as she withdrew
the glass from the lips of her patient, and shaking back
the clustered hair which, while she bent forward had
fallen over her face, looked up with a smile at her father.
Beside him stood O’Carroll, his eyes sparkling
with pleasure and his face all smiling eagerness; and
she was no longer at a loss to account for his extreme
gaiety, when standing at her father’s right hand, she beheld,
with inexpressible surprise, the majestic figure of
the long lost and deeply regretted Grahame. His fine
countenance was glowing with delight, and his eyes,
full of ardent admiration, and ill restrained impatience,
were fixed earnestly upon her.

Vivid blushes overspread her features, at this unexpected
sight, and as if rivetted to the floor, she remained
for a moment immoveable and silent. Grahame
involuntarily stepped forward, and at this gesture, Catherine’s
suspended faculties awoke; the glass fell from
her hand, and she sprang eagerly to meet him. He 19(5)v 226
clasped her passive hands fervently between his own,
and for a few moments, emotion seemed to deprive
them both of the power of utterance. Colonel Grahame
was the first to break the embarrassing silence,
and he said, though in no very passionless tone,

“I find you, as I left you, Miss Courtland, hovering
like some kind angel around the couch of the suffering
soldier, and soothing his anguish with the healing balm
of sympathy and kindness, which woman administers
so sweetly.”

“And I find you,” said Catherine, subduing her
emotion, and striving to speak with gaiety, “I find you
Colonel Grahame, still conquering my countrymen,
and supplying me with patients, on whom to exercise
my skill.”

“And you take it for granted, Kate,” exclaimed her
father, that you need look no farther to find the gallant
champion, who turned the fortune of the fight!”

“I think, father, I cannot be mistaken,” she replied.

Colonel Grahame smiled, but, before he could speak,
the Major interrupted him.

“You are not, Kate,” he said. “We are indebted
to the Colonel for having snatched away our victory,
to-day, though we almost forrget the chagrin which it
occasioned us, in the pleasure of seeing him again restored
to life. But we have a long story to hear, and
many mysteries to be explained, before O’Carroll, after
so many warnings and intimations, will be convinced
that this is really bonâ fide Colonel Grahame, and not
some visionary spirit, who has assumed his form, and
come among us on his own errand.”

“I shall be happy to prove my identity, as soon as
possible,”
said Grahame; “but first, I should wish to
have my gallant adversary’s wounds inspected, and receive
the assurance of his safety.”

“You have no cause for uneasiness, Colonel,” said
O’Carroll; “for you perceive the wounded man has
not suffered for want of surgical attendance.”

“And pray who has bound up this bloody head in
such a surgeon-like style,”
asked the Major. “Is it 19(6)r 227
you, my brave Kate, who have ventured to dabble your
pretty fingers in this poor fellow’s blood?”

“With Martha’s assistance, father, I attempted to
bandage the wound,”
she replied; “though rather
awkwardly I fear, as I was apprehensive of causing
pain. But the blood flowed freely, and uncertain how
long it might be before the arrival of the surgeon, I
thought it necessary to check the effusion, and therefore
applied lint and balsam, as I had seen your wound
treated at Saratoga.”

“You are a dear girl for your pains,” said her father,
pressing her fondly against his heart; “and have discovered
more fortitude to-day, than I, at your age and
with your inexperience, should have been capable of
exerting.”

“But had you seen her courage, her self-command,
her”
―― O’Carroll began with his accustomed fervor
of feeling and expression, when Catherine hastily interrupted
him.

“Nay, Captain,” she said, smiling, “I have seen
you laugh more than once this morning, at my awkward
inexperience, and now I cannot be appeased, by this
vain sacrifice of flattery, offered to my wounded
vanity.”

“Flattery!” exclaimed O’Carroll; “I should be
unworthy of your friendship, were I capable of thus
insulting you; you, Miss Courtland, who are superior
to ever weakness, exalted in every virtue, far above
your sex.”

Catherine’s face was instantly suffused with a bright
blush, but whether it was occasioned by the sincere
and undisguised warmth of O’Carroll’s praise, or by
the admiring glance of Colonel Grahame’s eloquent
eye, which expressed even more than the Captain had
unhesitatingly uttered, it might be rather difficult to determine.
The Major, however, who delighted in teazing
O’Carroll, laughed heartily, and said, as soon as he
could speak composedly,

“We shall not call this flattery, Captain, but sober,
plain truth, without a single particle of Hibernian hyperbole 19(6)v 2828
to season it. Kate, I hope you will not grow
vain, when you find out what a rare paragon you are.”

“I think I hear the surgeon in the hall,” said O’Carroll,
glad of an opportunity to escape from the Major’s
ridicule; “shall I bring him in here, sir?”

“Yes, if you please,” said Major Courtland; “but
no,”
he added quickly, “I will go to him myself; and
Catherine, my dear, will you order dinner somewhat
earlier than usual, as Colonel Grahame is anxious to
return to camp, and we will detain him the shortest time
possible.”

“But you will not leave us, Colonel,” said O’Carroll,
“without informing us of your adventures, and in what
corner of the earth you have been hid this age past.”

“The recital will occupy more time than I can
possibly command to-day,”
said Colonel Grahame;
“but I have promised the Major to pass tomorrow with
him, and will then recount all that has befallen me,
since the evening on which we parted in the glen at
Saratoga. I reached the camp only yesterday, and
was, this morning, riding hither, when the noise of the
skirmish reached my ear, and on arriving at the scene
of action, I immediately perceived, from the state of
the engagement, that my interference was necessary.”

“It was ill-timed enough, however,” said O’Carroll,
“and the consequences incline me to wish you had
kept peaceably on your way, instead of turning aside,
to snatch away poor Talbot’s victory.”

“I wish, at least, it had been done with less personal
injury to him,”
said Grahame; “but here is the surgeon,
who, I hope, will be able to give us assurance of
his speedy restoration.”

Major Courtland, at this moment, entered, followed
by the surgeon, and Catherine withdrew.

The surgeon pronounced favorably of Captain Talbot’s
wounds, and after remaining with Colonel Grahame
to dinner, they returned together to the American
camp. Towards evening the wounded officer fulfilled
the surgeon’s prediction, by reviving to perfect consciousness,
and though weak, from loss of blood, he 20(1)r 229
appeared easy and free from pain. He was delighted
to find himself under the hospitable roof of Major
Courtland
, though a slight degree of agitation crossed
his features, when the soft voice of Catherine first
greeted his ear, in kind inquiries after his welfare.
But it quickly subsided into a tranquil and happy expression,
and his eye brightened, whenever her light
step sounded in the apartment, or her hand offered any
thing to his lips.

Captain O’Carroll watched beside him, during the
night, and the morning found him so much better,
that the general attention and interest, which an apprehension
of his danger had drawn towards him, became
fixed upon his brave captor.

The reappearance of Colonel Grahame had caused
both the Major and O’Carroll extreme surprise and
joy; while Catherine, though less astonished, experienced
a variety of sensations, which she sought not to
define.

On the following morning, the Colonel arrived
early with the surgeon; and when the visit to Captain
Talbot
was paid, and the doctor had taken his departure,
after confirming his favourable opinion of his
patient, the wounded man was left for a time to the
care of Martha, while the rest of the party assembled
in the parlor, to hear the promised recital of Colonel
Grahame
.

Catherine and Amelia seated themselves at a small
work table, the Major occupied a corner of the sofa,
while O’Carroll took possession of Miss Courtland’s
music stool, and with his back supported against the
instrument, remained stationary, during the recital;
except, when particularly excited, he swung his seat
half round, or rose and walking hastily through the
apartment, as hastily returned, and resumed his former
station. Colonel Grahame drew his chair towards
Catherine, and while recounting his adventures, his
eyes strayed, not unfrequently, to her face, which eloquently
expressed her feelings, and yielded him a flattering20 20(1)v 230
testimony of the interest which she took in his
recital.

But to spare our readers the frequent interruptions,
caused by the remarks and exclamations of the party,
we beg leave to relate the tale in our own words; reserving
it, however, on account of its length, to form
the subject of another chapter.

Chapter XV.

“――—— By your gracious patience, I will a round, unvarnished tale deliver.” Shakspeare.

We will now request permission of our readers to
recur to the evening of Colonel Grahame’s singular disappearance,
after the conversation, which passed between
him and Captain O’Carroll, in the glen at Saratoga.
It may be recollected that he left his companion
to recover a pistol, which he had forgotten, and was
subsequently seen no more, till the period which has
again introduced him to our notice.

The Colonel walked hastily to the low, flat rock, on
which he thought he had left the weapon; but, after
groping over its surface for some minutes, without finding
it, he proceeded farther up the glen, to a similar
rock, on which he imagined it possible he might have
laid it. But here also he was unsuccessful, and feeling
it vain to attempt any farther search, involved as every
object now was in the obscurity of night, he resolved
to defer it till morning, and was on the point of turning
back to rejoin O’Carroll, when he heard a low, deep
groan, as of some one in distress, and apparently at no
great distance; and impelled by humane feelings, he
advanced a few paces, and stopped to listen.

20(2)r 231

The sounds were shortly repeated, with even more
distinctness, and they seemed like the moanings of a
sick child. Grahame’s compassionate feelings were
deeply excited; he imagined that some hapless innocent
had strayed from its parents, and was perishing
with famine in this wilderness. The thought was agony
to him; and forgetful of the situation in which he had
left O’Carroll, unmindful even of personal danger, he
continued to follow the sounds, which were repeated
at regular intervals, intent only on the hope of rescuing
the object of his compassion from the miserable fate
which awaited it. He was somewhat perplexed, however,
to find that the moans seemed to recede, as rapidly,
as he advanced; and though he had left the glen,
and penetrated into the wilderness, they seemed still at
the same distance, as when he first heard them. He
could only suppose, that the unfortunate child, bewildered
by the darkness, continued to stray, wherever
chance might lead, and he walked more quickly forward;
and fearful of alarming it, gently and in a soothing
tone, called on it to stop.

The sounds instantly ceased, and quite unsuspicious
of stratagem, he walked eagerly towards the spot, from
whence they had last proceeded, and where he fancied
he could perceive a figure move beneath the clear light
of the stars, which now thickly studded the heavens,
and partially disclosed the gloomy recesses of the forest.
But it was only a bush waving in the night breeze; and
at a loss how to proceed, he stopped to listen for some
sound, which might direct him, when suddenly he felt
himself seized from behind by a rude and strong grasp,
which confined both his arms with a rigor, from which
he in vain endeavoured to free himself.

By a few low words, which passed between the two
persons who held him, he perceived that he was in
the hands of Indians, and he instantly conceived that
they had imitated the voice of a child, to decoy him
into their power; for he knew it was the custom of
these savages to mimic the cries of different animals,
when they wished to ensnare their prey.

20(2)v 232

The moment this suspicion flashed upon the Colonel’s
mind, he renewed his struggles for freedom with a violence,
which at length enabled him to seize his remaining
pistol; for his sword had been snatched from his side
in the first moment of attack, by a third assailant, who
now joined his efforts to those of his companions, in an
attempt to bind their prisoner.

In the contest which ensued, the pistol went off in
the hand of Grahame, and its contents passed through
his shoulder. Immediately convinced that all further
efforts would now be ineffectual to obtain his freedom,
he called loudly upon O’Carroll, unconscious of the
distance which separated them, and vainly hoping his
voice might reach the ear of his friend, and intimate
to him his need of assistance. The wary savages,
however, had taken the precaution to lure him beyond
the reach of help, before they commenced their attack;
and, though assured that they had him now completely
in their power, yet, with a fierce cruelty, which they
delight to exercise, they tore the military sash from him,
and bound it so rigidly over his mouth, that he was
inable to utter an audible sound. They then raised
him forcibly from the ground, and bore him rapidly onward.
For some time, the resistance which he continued
to make, caused them much trouble, and greatly
retarded their progress; but the effusion of blood from
his wound, soon rendered him incapable of exertion,
and obliged him to remain passive in their hands.

When they reached the low, wet ground in the forest
where Captain Budworth and his party had discovered
the human tracks, they placed him upon his feet, still,
however, retaining strict hold of him; and stopped a
moment to consult on the expediency of crossing the
spot, or of going round it, in order to reach their place
of destination.

Savages, when apprehensive of pursuit, will seldom
venture on ground which easily receives the impression
of the foot; choosing rather to travel miles out of
the direct course, over a rocky or hard surface, where
no trace can be left behind them. In this instance, 20(3)r 233
however, they agreed to depart from their usual custom,
urged by the situation of their prisoner, whose
profuse bleeding had reduced him nearly to a state of
insensibility, and by the fear of the immediate pursuit,
which the disappearance of so valuable an officer as
Colonel Grahame, might occasion. Wrapping a large
bear skin about him, to prevent the blood from staining
the ground, which would, at once, betray their course,
they again raised the Colonel, and proceeded with
expedition across the marshy soil, and ascending the
precipitous bank, on the opposite side again descended
into the ravine, and entered the wigwam, which O’Carroll
had explored with Captain Budworth.

A large fire was blazing in the cntre of the hut,
before which sat, or rather squatted, in the Indian manner,
a young squaw, who rose quickly, as the party
entered, and, at the command of him who seemed to
be the Chief, spread a large mat upon the floor, on
which they placed the Colonel. Two of the savages
sat down, one on each side of him, to prevent any
chance of escape, should he attempt it; and, perceiving
that he looked exceedingly pale, and seemed near fainting
from the loss of so much blood, they offered him
rum to drink from the shell of a gourd. But he rejected
it with disgust; and, making a signal that he
preferred water, the Chief ordered the woman to procure
it. Grahame understood the Mohawk language,
and knew, from their speech, that his captors were of
that nation; but he was careful not to betray to them
his knowledge, lest it should prevent their speaking
with freedom, in his presence, and thus deprive him of
an opportunity to learn their designs. He was attentive,
though not obviously so, to all their gestures, and to
every word which they uttered; and he heard the
woman say, as she rose to bring the water, which the
Chief had desired her to procure,

“He has slaked his thirst with your blood, yet now
you pity his sufferings.”

The answer of the Chief was made in so low a tone,
that he could not understand it, and when the squaw 20* 20(3)v 234
approached him with the water, he felt so great a repugnance
to her, that he did not raise his eyes to her
face, till she said in a whisper, and in very good English,
as she bent over him,

“Fear nothing; Ohmeina is here, and you shall both
be saved.”

Grahame started, and looked up with extreme surprise;
but she motioned him to remain silent, and the
presence of the Indians compelled him to obey her.
But where was Ohmeina? and why should this woman
give him a promise, which her situation seemed to forbid
her performing, and which, besides, was so at variance
with the language which she had addressed to the
Chief? A promise, too, that implied a knowledge of
him, and a degree of interest in his welfare, which
seemed to him exceedingly myserious.

As these thoughts passed through his mind, he continued
to observe, through his half closed eyelids, the
motions of the female; and he could not but admire the
singular beauty of her countenance and figure, as they
were now clearly revealed to his view by the light of
the fire, before which she stood singing, in a sweet, but
subdued tone, one of the wild melodies of her nation.

As she caught the fixed glance of Grahame’s eye,
she raised her finger to her lips, and, without ceasing
her song, changed it into English.

“The deer lies close when the hunter is near; the
snare may be around him, but he seeks not to set himself
free!”

“Woman, thy song is in the language of the foe,”
said one of the Indians, with a frown of suspicion. It
seemed, however, not in the least to intimidate the
female, who with a slow motion of her head continued
her song, mingling the English and Mohawk confusedly
together.

“Frown not upon her, brother,” said the Chief.
“The Great Spirit loves Minoya, and has told her
many things, of which ye are ignorant. Her songs are
to fright the captive, and she rejoices that we have
taken the slayer of our people.”

20(4)r 235

While they continued talking, Minoya, seeing Grahame
still observing her, moved towards a corner of the
wigwam, where, sitting upright upon a mat, the Colonel
perceived his faithful Ohmeina, regarding him with a
mournful and tender expression, and who, the moment
he caught the eye of his benefactor, bowed his head,
and laid his fettered hands upon his breast, with a gesture
of affection and respect.

Minoya bent down, and seemed to speak, but in so
low a tone, that Grahame could not even hear the sound
of her voice, nor could he attend any longer to her
motions; for the pain of his wound, which had received
no attention, was excruciating; and, united to the intense
heat of the fire, against which he lay, reduced
him nearly to fainting.

Kamaset, the Chief, perceiving his sufferings, spoke
to Minoya, who immediately approached the Colonel,
and intimated her wish to examine his wound. Aware
of the skill frequently possessed by these people, he
submitted his shoulder without reluctance to her inspection,
and shortly experienced the beneficial effect of
her attention. The contents of the pistol had passed
through the fleshy part of the shoulder, and though the
wound was, for the present, painful, there was reason
to believe, that, with judicious management, it might
shortly be quite healed.

Minoya dressed it with a balsam distilled from herbs,
of which she had often experienced the virtue, and it
so soothed and quieted the pain, that Grahame soon
felt almost entirely at ease. She performed her office
in silence, broken, at intervals, by a few notes of the
songs, which she seemed to have ever on her lips; but
she made no attempt to renew her former communications
with the Colonel, probably restrained by the
presence of one of the Indians, who stood by to observe
the mode of her operation, while she dressed the wound.
When she had finished, he turned away, and, unobserved,
she placed a pillow of deer skins beneath her patient’s head,
chanting, while she did it, words to the following effect:

“Sleep, warrior! sleep in peace! Minoya watches thee! Sleep, son of the lightning! no harm shall befall thee!” 20(4)v 236

This epithet convinced him that he was in the hands
of those savages, on whom he had avenged the destruction
of Ohmeina’s settlement; for he knew that in
consequence of his having appeared in the midst of a
violent thunder storm, and fallen upon them by the
glare of the vivid lightning which illuminated the horrible
scene, they had bestowed on him the significant
appellation by which Minoya had just now addressed
him.

This conviction, by no means a consoling one, for
some time prevented his enjoying the repose which he
required. The uncertainty of his fate filled his mind
with gloomy reflections, which were not at all enlivened
by the appearance of the fierce looking group who were
gathered around the decaying fire. Among them,
Minoya mingled; her finely formed figure, and delicate
features, full of animation and intelligence, contrasting
strongly with the muscular and half naked persons, and
hideously painted faces of the Indians. They conversed
earnestly, but in a low tone; often looking towards Grahame,
who affected to sleep, and using many gestures
and signs, which he could not interpret. Minoya bore
no inconsiderable part in the conference; her words
flowed rapidly, and her motions were graceful and
animated, but equally unintelligible to the Colonel, as
were those of her companions.

The novelty of this scene, and the interest with which
he, for some time, continued to observe it, could not long,
however, overcome the influence of a powerful anodyne,
which Minoya had administered to him; extreme weariness
increased its effect, and gradually the dusky group
faded from his view, and he sunk into a profound sleep.
He yielded to it the more readily, as he remarked that
his faithful Ohmeina was on the watch, though artfully
pretending sleep whenever he thought himself observed.

Colonel Grahame was rudely awakened long before
day break, by two of the Indians, who were attempting
to lift him from the mat. Bewildered by being so suddenly
aroused from sleep, he looked around him, unable,
for the moment, to account for his present situation, and 20(5)r 237
suffered himself, without resistance, to be placed upon a
litter of woven branches, which, after the precaution of
securing him with thongs of deer skin, two of the Indians
raised, and proceeded with him out of the wigwam.
The other two led the fettered Ohmeina between them,
and Minoya walked by the side of Grahame, without
speaking, but uninterruptedly humming her sweet, but
monotonous song.

The freshness of the morning air revived the recollection
of the Colonel, and by signs he endeavoured to
inquire whither they were carrying him, and what was
to be his fate. But he received no answer, except a
fiend-like laugh, which, heroic as Grahame was, curdled
his blood with horror, and suppressed all farther attempt
at inquiry.

They continued to march forward in perfect silence,
for more than an hour, and with such extreme rapidity,
that Grahame thought they must have travelled many
miles, when they stopped in the admidst of a wet and
tangled thicket, and, setting down the litter, gathered in
a group, and spoke to each other in low whispers.
Grahame imagined they had nearly reached the termination
of their march, and he was not mistaken.
They advanced a few paces, and, forcing aside the
brushwood and matted boughs, disclosed the narrow
mouth of a cave, into which the whole party made their
way, by creeping on their hands and knees. A light
was instantly struck, and a fire kindled, which revealed
to view the interior of the rude cavern. The red and
glaring flame glanced wildly on the craggy walls, dripping
with moisture, and clothed with a short green moss,
which, in this humid atmosphere, flourished in perpetual
verdure; while the smoke, after circling in fantastic
eddies round the roof, found its way out at the numerous
crevices which nature had made.

The place was high enough for a man to stand upright,
and ten or twelve feet in circumference. It appeared
to have been frequently occupied before, for it
was furnished with skins and mats; and many rude
utensils, such as are used by the Indian tribes, were 20(5)v 238
scattered about it. Grahame was furnished with a mat,
on which, wearied and ill as he found himself, he was
glad to seek repose; they offered him also some of the
food which he had prepared for themselves, but he
felt no inclination to eat, though he gladly accepted a
draught of cold water from Minoya; and, throwing himself
upon his mat, fell into a confused and unrefreshing
slumber.

When he awoke, the sun was darting through the
narrow crevices of the cavern, and he looked around
upon its rough walls, and upon the figures which occupied
it, to assure himself that he was not under the influence
of a bewildering dream. But, as he identified
the person of Ohmeina, and the female Indian, the
reality of his unfortunate situation pressed forcibly on
his mind.

They were the only ones who remained in the cave;
and, for a minute, he lay silently observing them. The
hands and feet of Ohmeina were bound, and he sat
leaning against the side of the rock; before him stood
Minoya, speaking in a low and earnest tone, and with
a rapid utterance, as if fearful of sudden interruption.
Ohmeina, at length, caught the Colonel’s eye, and unable
to control his affectionate feelings, he uttered an
exclamation of delight at being able to address him,
without restraint; and was making an effort to spring
towards him, when Minoya, with a look of alarm, placed
her hand upon his shoulder, and said a few words so
hastily, that Grahame could not understand them.
Ohmeina instantly sunk back, and drooping his head
upon his breast, remained silent and motionless. The
woman then hasted to the mouth of the cave, and, after
listening and looking cautiously around, for several
minutes, she returned and approached the mat, on
which Grahame was lying.

Without any ceremony, she addressed him in the
same hurried manner, in which she had conversed
with Ohmeina, informing him, that the Chief would
soon return and she must improve this opportunity to 20(6)r 239
communicate, what it was of the utmost importance for
him to know.

She proceeded to say, that he was a prisoner in the
hands of Kamaset, the Chief, who had burned the
flourishing settlement of Ohmeina, and who enraged
at the vengeance which Colonel Grahame had taken
for the deed, swore, with tremendous oaths, to make
both him and Ohmeina feel the bitterness of his wrath.
Minoya’s husband and infant child were among the
victims of that dreadful night, and terrified by the
frightful scene of bloodshed and destruction, she, with
several other females, fled to the woods for safety.
But they were overtaken in the subsequent flight of the
Indians, and all excepting herself sacrificed to their
fury. Pleased with her beauty, the Chief permitted
her to live, and forced her to become his wife. Detesting
him in her heart, yet informed of his hostile intentions
with regard to Ohmeina and the gallant Grahame,
whose lives she hoped to be the instrument of
preserving, she studiously concealed her real feelings,
and even pretended an affection for Kamaset, and an
aversion for the objects of his hatred. In short she
completely deceived him, and acquired over him the
most entire ascendancy. She also, by assuming a certain
air of mystery, inspired him with a belief in her
superior wisdom, and rendered herself an object of awe
and reverence to his superstitious followers. Never
doubting the sincerity of her words, he believed that
she was as hostile as himself, to the Colonel and his
Indian follower; and persuaded that she held communion
with a superior being, he entrusted her with
all his projects to ensnare them, and consulted her in
every case of importance. In continuing to live with,
and affecting to love this monster, whom from her
very soul she hated and despised, Minoya did constant
violence to her feelings. She sometimes resolved to
kill him, and then make her escape; but she was not
savage enough to execute the deed of horror. Endowed,
in an eminent degree, with that constancy and
firm endurance, which are peculiar attributes of the 20(6)v 240
Indian character, she suffered every species of mental
anguish, and resolved to sacrifice even her life, if that
were necessary, to ensure the safety of the Chief Ohmeina,
and the gallant Grahame, who had so bravely
avenged the cruel slaughter of those who were most
dear to her heart.

In the mean time, Kamaset, intent only on accomplishing
his revenge, deserted from the English army,
with whom his tribe were in alliance, and retired to
the deep ravine in the forest, near Saratoga, where he
constructed a wigwam, and continued to dwell, till the
period which threw the Colonel into his power. Minoya
had made several attempts to discover the Colonel,
or Ohmeina, and inform them of the mischief,
which was threatened against them; but the jealousy
with which she was watched by Samokin, an Indian
who was in league with the Chief, had defeated her
intentions; though she was revolving a plan, which she
hoped might prove successful, at the very moment
when the art of her savage lord had unhappily entrapped
his unsuspicious victim.

On that evening, Samokin, by the order of his chief,
was lurking round the outskirts of the forest, where
Grahame, with other officers, was often known to walk,
when he discovered him, with his follower Ohmeina,
slowly pacing up the narrow glen together. Samokin
was alone, and perceiving that both his victims were
armed, he feared to attack them, without calling in the
aid of Kamaset. He accordingly, returned hastily to
the wigwam; the chief joined him with two others, and
they were on their way back to the glen when they
encountered Ohmeina, who had just separated from
Grahame, and was proceeding on his destined journey.

He was immediately seized, bound, and, under the
escort of the two Indians, sent back to the wigwam.
One of them remained to guard him, and the other
rejoined the Chief and his companion. When they
reached the glen they were disappointed to observe an
officer in the British uniform, walking with Grahame.
The English had been their allies, their very good 21(1)r 241
friends; they feared to offend them, and were apprehensive
of being recognised. They waited a long
time, in perfect silence, hoping that Grahame might
again be left alone; but when they saw the two officers
departing together, they began to think their scheme
frustrated, for the present. The Colonel however,
while talking with O’Carroll, had laid one of his pistols
upon a rock, with the intention of taking it up when he
had examined the lock of the other; but in the interest
of the conversation had forgotten it. Kamaset fixed
his eye upon the weapon, of which he possessed himself,
the moment he was assured that Grahame and his
friend had quitted the glen. But he had scarcely
snatched it from the rock, when he heard steps again
approaching. He flew to his covert, and though the
fast increasing darkness had involved every object in
obscurity, their outlines were still visible, and it was
easy to distinguish the tall figure of Grahame, from the
more diminutive one of O’Carroll. The Colonel was
alone, and Kamaset rightly imagined him to have come
in search of his weapon. He heard him grope about
the rock, and then saw him walk farther on, and stop at
a similar one. So golden an opportunity was not to be
neglected, and the Chief, gliding swiftly to the upper
end of the glen, whispered his companions to precede
him, at a cautious distance, while he endeavoured to
lure his prey beyond the reach of his assistance.

Artfully imitating the cries of a child, which, with
instinctive sagacity, he judged would readily excite the
interest and compassion of Grahame, he led him on,
till convinced his loudest calls for succour would be
made in vain, and then, joining his savage companions,
they seized the unfortunate Colonel, and led him captive
to their wigwam.

Having related these particulars, which she had
learned from theChief, Minoya proceeded to inform
the Colonel, that both he and Ohmeina were destined
to death; but were first to be carried to an Indian village
on the Mohawk, where they were to be publicly
sacrificed. Her interposition alone had prevented their 21 21(1)v 242
being sent directly thither; but alarmed for the consequences
of such a proceeding, she had represented to
the Chief the disgrace which would be reflected upon
his valor, should he sacrifice a prisoner, who was suffering
by a wound from his own weapon; that moreover,
should he persevere in his design, his revenge
would, in all probability, be disappointed, as it was
scarcely possible that the pirsoner, in his present situation,
should live till the end of the march.

Fearful of losing his revenge, Kamaset yielded to
the persuasions of Minoya, and consigned the Colonel
to her charge, with an injunction to heal his wound,
within a week. Uncertain, however, whether she
should be able to effect his release during that time,
she informed the Chief, that the wound was deep, and
that it might perhaps be two weeks, before the prisoner
would be able to commence the journey. Kamaset
heard her with a frown, and said, that if in ten days
he could not walk, the fire of sacrifice should be lighted
in the cave, or they would convey him on a litter
to the Mohawk village. Two of the Indians had that
morning set out for the Mohawk village to prepare for
the sacrifice of the prisoners; and at the appointed
time they were to return, and assist to conveying them
thither.

The Chief and his companion resolved, in the mean
time to confine themselves chiefly to the cave; and
they had now gone to the wigwam, in order to convey
from thence what things they valued, and afterwards
todestroy the hut, lest it should lead to their discovery.

Minoya charged the Colonel to affect extreme illness,
and appear to notice nothing that was passing.
She assured him, she would contrive means for their
escape, and become herself the companion of their
flight; that in order to effect this object, she must pretend
to treat them with harshness, and feign to espouse
warmly the feelings and sentiments of the Chief;
though she had hitherto, and would still, prevent any
exercise of cruelty.

21(2)r 243

Grahame inquired, if it was impossible for her to
convey any intelligence of his situation to his friends.
She replied that it was utterly so, as Samokin was already
so jealous of her, that he had prevailed on Kamaset
to forbid her quitting the cave, and should she attempt
it, she must inevitably be detected, in which case,
not only her death, but that of the prisoners would be
the immediate consequence.

Grahame would not, even to save his own life, endanger
that of the generous Minoya, and while he
thanked her for all she had done, and still wished to
do for him, he entreated her to avoid every thing,
which might excite suspicion, and expose her to the
malice of the bloodthirsty savages. Relying on her
sincerity, and trusting much to her address and ingenuity,
he resolved to give himself no uneasiness; but if
he still remained a prisoner, when his arm had recovered
strength, to attempt, by force, what could not be
effected by stratagem.

Minoya had scarcely finished her communications,
when a rustling noise, at the mouth of the cavern, announced
the return of the Indians. It was Kamaset,
however, who entered alone, and Minoya no sooner
heard him, than she resumed her habitual song, and
pretended to busy herself about the shoulder of her patient.
Kamaset approached the corner where Ohmeina
sat, and addressed him with angry gestures and
words of insulting scorn. But the noble Indian disdained
to cast down his eyes before a foe, and he fixed
them proudly upon the dark countenance of Kamaset,
and endured, in perfect silence, the taunts of his cruel
enemy. Irritated by the calcmness of Ohmeina, the
Chief approached the mat, on which Grahame reclined,
and said, with a laugh of horrid triumph,

“The white men seek thee, son of the lightning!
Arise and join thy brothers, and help them to smite the
red men, as thou didst, when Kamaset, the mighty
warrior, fled from the strength of thy arm!”

By an effort of self-command, which few in his
situation could have made, Colonel Grahame subdued 21(2)v 244
his feelings, so that not a single feature of his countenance
betrayed the slightest emotion. According to
the directions of Minoya, he had forced them to appear
inanimate, and had assumed an appearance of
languor and weakness, which gave an idea of serious
indisposition.

The squaw suspended her song, and turning with a
severe air to the savage, said, in a haughty tone, which
evinced the extent of her power over him,

“Foolish Chief, he hears not thy words; he knows
not the language of our tribes; speak, and tell me what
thou hast seen; and if the paths of the forest are filled
with the long knives of the foe.”

Kamaset immediately related, that when he had
gained the summit of the bank which bounded the ravine,
he beheld the wigwam surrounded by soldiers,
who pursued, and would have caught him, had he not
taken refuge in the hollow trunk of a large tree, near
which they had several times passed, so close, that he
could with ease have grasped them. When they were
weary of searching after him they returned to the ravine;
when he quitted his place of concealment, and
hastened to the cave. Samokin, who had accompanied
the Chief, also concealed himself, on the first alarm of
the soldiers, and before he was perceived by them.
After their departure, he ventured from his hiding
place, and entered the cave while Kamaset was speaking.

He informed them that the soldiers had quitted the
ravine, and crossed the marshy ground; and proposed
to the Chief to follow, at a distance, and endeavour to
wound some of them with their arrows. Kamaset
readily assented, and selecting several of his sharpest
arrows, the two Indians left the cave, and by a circuitous
rout approached the spot, where Captain Budworth
and his party were stopping to refresh themselves.
The arrow, which alarmed them, and which
Captain Budworth plucked from the tree beside him,
was from the bow of Kamaset, who with his companion, 21(3)r 245
took suddenly to flight, after the volley of muskettry,
which Budworth caused to be discharged at them.

The wigwam was destroyed that night; and in consequence
of the parties, which daily scoured the forest
in search of Grahame, the Indians confined themselves
closely to the cave, to the great trouble and annoyance
of the prisoners. Minoya was not less displeased by
it; for her plans were of course delayed, and she feared,
should they persevere in this system of seclusion,
they might be entirely frustrated. But though constantly
revolving new projects, in the hope of finding
one, which, under prersent circumstances, might be
rendered practicable, she was compelled, in order to
lull the suspicions of the jealous Samokin, to appear to
treat the unfortunate captives with harshness, and join
in the contemptuous language, which was uniformly
addressed to them. So well did she act her part, that
Grahame began almost to fear it was not feigned.

His wound, in the mean time, instead of healing,
grew worse; while the anxiety of the mind, the close
confinement which he endured, and the coarse diet
on which he subsisted, contributed to reduce him
actually to the state of weakness, which Minoya had
desired him to affect. In brief, he became exceedingly
ill, and when at the appointed time the other Indians
returned, to assist in guarding him on the march, his
condition rendered it impossible for him to walk, and
the labor of carrying him was so great, that the Chief
consented to wait another week, when Minoya promised
he should be healed.

The general search after Grahame seemed now
quite at an end; but a few individuals were almost daily
seen by the Indians, lurking about the ravine, and
exploring the recesses of the forest. They were in
fact, Captain O’Carroll, and the two servants; and the
circumstance of their being always well armed, alone
deterred the Chief and Samokin from attacking them,
as they had but one musket between them, and that
was but an awkward weapon in their hands, compared
to the bows and arrows, which they were in the habit 21* 21(3)v 246
of using. Irritated however by the continued intrusion
of the explorers, and fearful of their discovering the
cave, the Chief resolved, when reinforced by the two
absent Indians, to lie in wait, and cut them off by surprise.

Minoya was informed of this design, and she determined
to prevent its execution. Fond of mystery, and
jealous of the honor of freeing her Chief and his friend
from captivity, she wished at the same time to put an
end to the interference of their friends, and save their
lives by warning them of the danger which menaced
them. This she desired to do without discovering herself,
in order to render her communications the more
impressive, and to avoid an explanation, which must
ensue, should she make herself known. Without revealing
her project to Colonel Grahame, she obtained
permission of Kamaset to quit the cave for an hour, in
search of some roots, which she wished to prepare for
the wounded captive. Samokin ventured to oppose her
request; but the Chief silenced him with a stern look,
and, bidding Minoya hasten back, ordered Samokin to
watch the prisoners during her absence.

The squaw left the cave immediately, and hastened
to the ravine. It was about the time when O’Carroll
usually made his appearance; and she stood for a few
minutes on the top of the bank, in expectation of seeing
him approach. At last she discerned him and his two
followers crossing the wet soil, and, preciptately descending
the bank, she concealed herself in a small
sunken cavity between two rocks, which rose behind
the site of Kamaset’s wigwam. It was scarcely large
enough to admit even her slender form; but she resolutely
pressed into it, and carefully covered herself with
a profusion of moss and dried leaves, over which she
drew some pine branches, which the tempests had
severed from the trees, and which so effectually concealed
the fissure that only a very minute observer
would have been likely to discern it. A thick group
of dwarf cedars screened the front of the opening,
through which Minoya watched the motions of the 21(4)r 247
party; and, like the Delphic oracle, from behind its
cloudy tabernacle, sent forth her solemn and mysterious
warnings. When, however, in spite of her injunction,
the imputuous O’Carroll descended into the ravine, she
remained motionless and silent; and, though he passed
close to the cedars, and even stopped before them, they
appeared to grow so immediately out of the rock, that
the most distant idea of any person’s being concealed
behind them never even occurred to him. Had he
stopped to examine he could not have failed to see the
piercing black eyes of the Indian peeping from the narrow
fissure in which she lay.

The moment the Captain had left the ravine, she
stole from her hiding-place, and gathering the few roots
she pretended to want, hastened to the cave within the
time prescribed by Kamaset.

The return of O’Carroll on the following morning,
was not discovered by any of the Indians; and, after
watching for several days, and finding he did not again
appear, the two Indians, who had recently rejoined the
Chief, set off on a hunting excursion, from which they
were to return at the end of three or four days.

Delighted with the success of her adventure, Minoya
took the first opportunity to relate it to the Colonel; he
was amused by her ingenious stratagem; but vexed,
that she did not inform O’Carroll of his situation, and
direct him to come with a sufficient force to his rescue.
She replied, that it would not have been in her power
to direct them to the cave, without incurring the danger
of detection, in which case they must all have lost their
lives; that his friend would not probably have placed
any confidence in what she said to him; but would
have feared some wicked stratagem; that, besides, she
dared not speak openly with him, because she knew
some of the Indians were lurking in the forest, and
might, perhaps, observe her. She further added, that
the two savages who had lately arrived, were just gone
off again; and that before they returned she would contrive
means for their escape.

21(4)v 248

Grahame did not express his dissatisfaction, though
he felt exceedingly chagrined, that she should neglect
so good an opportunity of informing O’Carroll (for,
from the description, he had no doubt that it was he,)
of his situation. But he saw her spirit of intrigue, and
that she coveted the pleasure of being herself the sole
instrument of his release; and he became the sooner
reconciled to her manœuvre, since two of the Indians
had again left them, and his strength was returning so
fast, that he imagined he should find it no difficult matter
to subdue those who remained.

On the evening succeeding the departure of the Indians,
the Chief informed Minoya, that he and Samokin
should go out to hunt the next morning, and she must
keep a strict watch over the prisoners. She could
scarcely conceal the joy, which she felt, on hearing of
this design, and she whispered to the Colonel, that, before
the next night, he should sit at the board of his
white brothers. Great was their disappointment, however,
when, on the following morning, Kamaset declared
he should not hunt that day; and, seating himself upon
a mat, began to shape some arrows, from the tough
wood of the ash. Samokin also employed himself in
repairing his moccasins; and Colonel Grahame could
not subdue his vexation, when he found that their escape
was likely to be prevented, for this day at least. He
looked wishfully at the place where his sword was deposited,
with the tomahawks of the Indians, and would
have sprung from the mat to seize it, and fight his way
from the dismal cavern, where so many days of his
existence had lingered miserably away, had not his
fetters convinced him of the hopelessness of the design,
and compelled him to exert that fortitude which had so
long sustained him.

During the severity of his illness, Kamaset, at the
instance of Minoya, had permitted him to remain without
fetters; but the moment he began to recover, the
jealous Samokin insisted upon the danger of leaving him
unbound, and persuaded the Chief to fasten him by the
ancle to a strong stake, which was driven into the ground. 21(5)r 249
Ohmeina was even more securely fettered; but, as he
marked the direction of the Colonel’s eye, he forgot the
restraints which confined him, and made an effort to
spring from the mat, and seize the weapon, which, had
they been unfettered, would have procured them instant
freedom.

Minoya only marked their impatient gestures, and,
with warning looks and signs, she endeavoured to impress
upon them both the importance of perfect quiet and
submission. Minutes seemed like hours to Grahame,
and the fear that the other Indians might return before
they could effect their escape, tortured him with doubt
and anxiety. At length, however, to his inexpressible
delight, Kamaset finished his arrows; and, taking down
his bow, told Minoya he would go hunt awhile in the
forest. She followed him to the mouth of the cave,
and looked after him to observe in what direction he
went; then returning, she glanced significantly at Grahame,
and pointed towards Samokin, who was still
busied in repairing the breaches of his moccasins.

The Colonel endeavoured to make her understand that
he cared nothing for the presence of the savage, who
would not dare to make any resistance, if they were
armed; and signed to her, to reach him his sword.
Samokin sat with his back to them, and was so intently
occupied, that he took no observance of what was passing
in the cave. Minoya hastily snatched the sword, and,
after cutting Grahame’s fetters, and those of Ohmeina,
which were formed of the sinews of the deer, twisted
firmly in the resemblance of rope, she placed the long
absent weapon in the Colonel’s hand, who grasped the
trusty steel with as much delight as he would have done
the hand of a dear and valued friend. She then armed
herself with a tomahawk, and gave another to Ohmeina.
All this was done so silently, and so speedily, that it was
not till Ohmeina sprang, with a shout, upon his feet, that
the startled savage was made aware of the liberation of
his prisoners.

It was too late to prevent their escape, and he saw it
was so; but with all the fury of that deadly passion 21(5)v 250
which is ever most powerful in the breast of the savage,
he rushed towards Minoya, and drawing a short knife
from his girdle, would have plunged it into her heart, had
not Grahame stepped hastily between them, and turned
aside the point of his instrument. The wrath of the
Indian was then directed towards him; but the Colonel
wrested the knife from his hand, and, with a degree of
strength which he scarcely believed himself capable of
exerting, threw him on the earth. Minoya hovered
round with her uplifted tomahawk, ready to let it fall
upon the head of a monster whom she abhorred. Her
lips were compressed, and her eye flashed with ungovernable
passion. She seemed suddenly transformed
from a soft and gentle woman, into a perfect fury; and
Grahame, as he looked at her, recoiled with a feeling of
abhorrence from the features, upon which he had so
often gazed in silent admiration. With a sternness, for
which he reproached himself a moment after, he bade
her retire; and, unwilling to shed the blood of any
human being unless self-defence rendered it an absolute
duty, he called Ohmeina to assist him in binding the
Indian. Finding resistance vain, he submitted in sullen
silence; and, having securely bound him, they left him
to be released by his companions, and hastily quitted
the cave.

Colonel Grahame wished to take the course which
would lead them to Saratoga; but Minoya assured him
Kamaset had gone to hunt in that direction; and, though
she would lead them to Saratoga, she must do it by a
circuitous path, in order to avoid the danger of meeting
the Chief. Grahame knew nothing of the forest, and
he had been conveyed to the cave under such circumstances,
that he was unable to judge of its situation; he,
therefore, consented to follow the steps of Minoya, and
desired her to choose that course which would be safest,
and conduct them soonest to the abodes of civilized men.

Minoya instantly set forward, guiding them with caution
through the intricacies of the forest, and observing
a profound silence, which neither Grahame nor Ohmeina
felt disposed to interrupt. For some time, they proceeded 21(6)r 251
with extreme rapidity; but Colonel Grahame,
weakened by long confinement, and scarcely yet recovered
from severe illness, felt himself wholly unable
to continue it; and the Indians, therefore, conformed to
his more moderate pace. He looked around him, with
the feelings of one who has long been immured from
the light and brilliancy of nature, and drank in the air,
which, though moist and loaded with vapor, seemed to
inspire him with new life, and braced his languid frame
with a vigor unfelt for weeks before.

They had continued in this way for more than an
hour, and made no inconsiderable progress, when suddenly
Minoya stopped, and placed her finger on her lip;
at the same time making a signal that persons were near
them, and they must remain still.

They had scarcely time to withdraw a little from their
path, when three Indians started directly in front of
them, whom they immediately recognised as Kamaset,
and the two, who, the preceding day, had left the cave,
on a hunting expedition.

With the most horrible yells, they rushed towards the
party; Kamaset, with the aspect of a demon, aimed
directly at Minoya, who, not in the least daunted, kept
him at lay with the tomahawk which she had brought
away with her, till Colonel Grahame interfered, and
laid him weltering in blood at her feet. One of the
others in the mean time was approaching to strike the
Colonel a deadly blow behind, when, Grahame turning
suddenly round, he darted back, and took instantly to
flight. The Indian who was struggling with Ohmeina,
seeing his Chief fall, and his companion flee, quitted his
adversary, and followed after him, no longer daring to
sustain a conflict which had become so unequal.

The moment they were left alone, Minoya bent over
the body of Kamaset, and broke forth into a wild chant:

“He has fallen! Kamaset, the mighty, has fallen! Who
is there to weep for him? The hand red with the blood
of our beloved ones, is left unburied! The wild beast
shall devour it! No wife, no child, shall mourn for 21(6)v 252
Kamaset! The mighty warrior has fallen, and our
wrongs are avenged!”

Colonel Grahame was shocked by the cruel triumph
which she expressed, indicative of a thirst for vengeance,
so incompatible with the gentleness of a female character;
with one, too, which had, in many points, been
ameliorated by the mild precepts of Christianity. The
reader is already aware that Minoya had been a member
of Ohmeina’s little community, and by the cruel outrage
which destroyed the settlement, was deprived of the
objects of her affection, and driven from a home, which
a partial civilization had taught her to prize more highly
than a perfect savage is wont. From that period she
had cherished bitter thoughts of vengeance; and with a
constancy which only a mind of uncommon power and
strength could have possessed, she had sustained the
artificial character which her situation induced her to
adopt, till the moment, so ardently anticipated, arrived,
for the destruction of her savage masters, and the release
of their unhappy victims.

Grahame knew all these circumstances, yet he could
not hear her song of exultation over the bleeding body of
him, whom, cruel as he was, she had betrayed to death,
without being greatly shocked. He gazed upon her, in
stern silence; but, with native readiness, she interpreted
the expression of his countenance, and said with tears,
which cancelled her offence:

“Brother! they were our husbands, and our children;
and shall we not weep for them! But the blood
which stained their graves is washed away, and flowers
are springing on the yellow earth which covers them!”

She wiped her eyes with her long black hair, and
moved hastily away as she finished speaking; and Grahame,
who understood by this figurative mode of expression,
so common among the Indians, that she had
forgiven the crimes of Kamaset, now that his death had
expiated them, followed her without reply.

They continued their march till past the hour of
noon, when Minoya produced some roasted groundnuts
and coarse Indian bread, which she had taken the 22(1)r 253
precaution to bring with her, and of which she and
Ohmeina made a savory repast; Grahame, excessively
fatigued, declined sharing it with them; and, after
quenching his thirst from a stream beside which they
had stopped, he threw himself upon the ground, cold
and damp as it was; and, notwithstanding the anxiety
of his mind and the peril of their situation, he slept till
Ohmeina awakened him, and urged him to rise, that
they might, if possible, clear the forest before nightfall.

Grahame sprang upon his feet, and, refreshed by the
short slumber he had enjoyed, was able to resume his
march with more rapidity than before. Without interruption
they continued it till the sun had set, and night
was beginning to veil every object in obscurity, when,
to their extreme pleasure, they reached the verge of the
forest, and, directed by a bright ray of light, which
streamed from the window of a log hut, they bent their
course towards it, in the hope of obtaining a shelter for
the night.

The rain, which during the day had seemed ready to
fall, was now fast descending, and the wet and wearied
travellers longed to enjoy the comforts of the blazing
fire which cheerfully illuminated the humble dwelling.
Leaving his companions beneath a rude shed, where
two cows and some sheep had already located themselves
for the night, Grahame walked forward, and
knocked gently at the door. It was immediately opened
by a sturdy, good-humored looking man, who, after
glancing over the person of the stranger, and perceiving
by his dress that he was an American officer, held forth
his hand and bade him welcome, with an honest warmth
which evinced his affection for the brave defenders of his
country. His wife, a neat and buxom little woman, sat
carding wool beside the fire, and at the same time gently
rocking a cradle, in which a rosy cheeked infant was
quietly sleeping. She rose as the Colonel entered, and
offered a seat with smiling, though homely courtesy.
Grahame accepted it with the peculiar grace which
accompanied all his actions; and, anxious to bring his
companions into this comfortable shelter, he proceeded 22 22(1)v 254
to relate, as concisely as possible, the cause of his
present singular situation, and the leading events which
had preceded and followed his release.

The kind farmer listened with interest to his narrative,
and with that cordial hospitality and unaffected benevolence
which distinguish the honest yeomanry of the
United States, hastened to offer the shelter of his humble
roof to the poor Indians who had so faithfully served
the unfortunate officer. As he left the house Grahame
observed that he used a crutch, and seemed to walk
with difficulty; and, on inquiring the cause from his
wife, he learned that her husband had been so grievously
wounded in the battle of Bennington, that he had not
been able to serve since, and was but just beginning to
go out, after his long confinement. He soon returned,
followed by the Indians, who, hardy and patient as they
were, yet seemed to enjoy the comfort of the blazing
fire and plentiful supper which the good dame prepared
for them. Minoya was lodged in an out house, and
Ohmeina slept upon the kitchen floor; they wished
for no better accommodations, since, unaccustomed to
luxury, they could enjoy repose in any situation, when
wearied nature required it.

Not so Colonel Grahame; his couch was as good as
he desired, far better than that whereon he had slept for
for a fortnight past; but his long confinement and the
harassed state of his spirits, together with the recent
illness which had reduced his strength and depressed
the vigor of his mind, forbade his enjoying repose in
the first moment of recovered freedom. Exhausted as
he was, by the fatigue and excitement of the day, he
courted sleep in vain; it fled from his pillow; and,
when the morning dawned, he felt himself too ill to rise.

The farmer, with kind sympathy, expressed regret
for the indisposition of his guest; and his wife, with
the utmost solicitude administered every little specific
which she had learned from the experienced dames of
her acquaintance. There was no physician within many
miles; and, as the Colonel’s indisposition continued to
increase, the skill of the Indians was put in requisition. 22(2)r 255
Accustomed to heal themselves, they acquire a surprising
knowledge of diseases, and the manner of treating
them; and their remedies, though extremely simple,
are not unfrequently successful, even in the most severe
cases.

For a week Grahame remained very ill; but heaven
blessed the means which the untutored Indians used for
his recovery, and their unwearied attention, united to
the kindness of his host and hostess, soon contributed
to render his recovery complete.

The moment he was able, he began to make arrangements
for his departure, and to reflect how and in what
manner he should dispose of Minoya. She was without
home, friends, or tribe; she had risked her own life to
preserve his, and with unsuspecting confidence thrown
herself under his protection. Grahame was incapable
of sacrificing her to any motive of personal convenience;
and, after some deliberation, he resolved to send her
to a friend in Pennsylvania, where her services might,
perhaps, be useful, and whither Ohmeina was directly
to proceed,. Indeed, such was his destination when entrapped
by the Indians; and it was determined that he
and Minoya should join a party of friendly Oneida Indians,
who, as the farmer informed them, were going to
the American camp, to hold a talk with the commander
in chief.

Having seen his humble friends with six Oneida
Chiefs depart on their journey, which, notwithstanding
the coldness of the season, and the distance which they
had to travel, they seemed to view as a slight undertaking,
he began to think of his own departure.

Neither the farmer nor his wife would listen to any
mention of reward. But the Colonel, though he had it
not in his power when he left them, for he had been
robbed of his purse and every thing else that was valuable
about his person, sent them, on his arrival at Albany,
a valuable token of his gratitude for their benevolent
hospitality to an unfortunate stranger.

The farmer had procured for him a horse, on which
he rode to Albany, where he found his faithful servant, 22(2)v 256
who, when he left Saratoga, had repaired to that city,
where he still continued, in the hope of gaining some
intelligence of a master for whom he had never ceased to
mourn. After passing one day with a friend in Albany,
Colonel Grahame pushed forward with all possible expedition
to join his regiment, then quartered with the
main army at Valley Forge.

The arrival of Ohmeina at the camp was quickly
followed by his own, and the tidings of his welfare had
scarcely reached his friends before he presented himself
to receive the joyful congratulations of all who knew his
worth, and had mourned his loss. And these were not
a few; for the manly virtues of Colonel Grahame endeared
him to all who were honored by his acquaintance,
and procured him the respect and enthusiastic
attachment of the soldiery.

The day of his return was fully occupied; but, on
the succeeding morning, having obstained a direction to
the residence of Major Courtland, he rode thither to
renew the intercourse which had been so unpropitiously
interrupted at Saratoga. On his way, however, he
called upon Minoya, and was pleased to find her quite
happy, and zealously endeavouring to conform to the
habits of civilized life.

She told him that, on the preceding day, she saw
his friend, who had come to the ravine at Saratoga, in
search of him, and whom she had warned away with
her song; and that she had followed him and informed
him by another song, that Colonel Grahame was in
safety.

She had, indeed, seen O’Carroll, walking with the
ladies, and instantly recognised him. Her love of
mystery and adventure prevailed, and instead of accosting
him with tidings of the Colonel’s return, she watched
him, at a distance, till she saw him enter the house.
She then stole after him, and assuring herself by a
glance through the window, that the object of her interest
was within, concealed herself in the shrubbery, till
the darkness became so intense, as to prevent all fear
of discovery. She then raised her song, and while she 22(3)r 257
gratified her own spirit of own intrigue, so framed her
words, as to give the information she wished to convey.
When assured that she had attracted observation
and excited surprise, she glided rapidly from her place
of concealment, and under cover of the night, escaped
without detection.

Colonel Grahame could not forbear laughing at this
characteristic incident, and at the perplexity, into which
he imagined it must have thrown O’Carroll; but at the
same time, he gently reproved the Indian for having
done so, and warned her not to indulge a propensity,
which might be the occasion of much mischief. He
then remounted his horse, and was proceeding to pay
his respects to his English friends, when the affair of
the skirmish interrupted his progress, and introduced
him to their notice, in a manner more abrupt than he
had intended.

Chapter XVI.

“Persuasive speech, and more persuasive sighs, Silence that speaks, and eloquence of eyes.” Pope.

The narrative of Colonel Grahame’s adventures excited
the deepest interest, in his attentive auditors, and
drew forth many congratulations, for his fortunate escape
from the power of the savages, as fervent as they
were sincere. Catherine alone remained silent, but it
was a silence more flattering to the feelings of Grahame,
than would have been the utmost eloquence of
words.

He had not failed to observe how entirely she had
been absorbed during his recital; he had remarked,
with emotion, the rapid mutations of her countenance,
and read in them a sanction to the fondest wishes of 22* 22(3)v 258
his heart. O’Carroll also had bestowed on her a part
of his attention; he saw her cheek alternately glowing
and pale, and her eye brighten with hope or sadden with
anxiety, as Grahame recounted his adventures, and he
felt persuaded that he had read aright the secret of her
heart.

But when the Colonel began to explain the manner,
in which Minoya had practised on them, the night preceeding
his appearance, O’Carroll’s exclusive attention
was devoted to the subject, and he had no sooner heard
the mystery unravelled than he started from his seat
and half laughing, half vexed, exclaimed,

“And so this dusky heroine of your’s Colonel, has
been all this time leading our wits a wild goose chase
for her own amusement, forsooth!”

“Your wits Captain, if you please,” said Major
Courtland
, highly enjoying this denouement of the mystery.
“Ours were not in the least disturbed by the
song of the syren, for, you may recollect, I told you
at the time, it was only some gentle squaw, as susceptible,
as fairer ladies, of whom doubtles you can reckon
a score, that has followed you from Saratoga, to seduce
you with her bewitching melodies.”

O’Carroll, mortified that he had made so serious an
affair of an occurrence, which in the end had proved
so trifling, felt chagrined by the Major’s ridicule, and
desirous to elude it, pretended to be so much engaged
in rescuing a ball of silk from a small terrier dog, that
was lying at Catherine’s feet, as not to notice his words.

“Bless me, Miss Courtland,” he said, as he snatched
it from the playful animal, Juba has ruined your
silk; I fear it will be of no use to you, and my purse
must remain unfinished.”

“Never vex yourself about it, Captain,” exclaimed
the provoking Major, “your wood nymph will make
you a much better one of birch bark, or deer skin; her
jealousy might take the alarm, if she found you bearing
about any gewgaws of Kate’s making, and we have
none of us a mind to incur the displeasure of so powerful
an enchantress.”

22(4)r 259

“She is not vindictive,” said Grahame; “at least, I
have not found her so, among friends; so you need not
fear to accept Miss Courtland’s purse, Captain.”

O’Carroll fancied he could detect a lurking jealousy
in the Colonel’s words, and instantly forgetting his chagrin,
he said with a view to develope his secret sentiments,

“It will not be safe for me, whom as the Major asserts
she regards with feelings of such a peculiar nature,
to tempt her wrath; but you, Colonel, may without apprehension
wear the gift, which Miss Courtland designed
for me; and I am convinced that you will value
it above all it ever will contain.”

“Far, far above all it ever can contain,” said Grahame,
with an animation which covered Catherine’s
cheek with blushes; but she said, with an air of gaiety,
as unconcerned as she could assume,

“I might have spared the reproof I bestowed on
Juba, for spoiling the silk, Captain, since you set so
slight a value on the work for which it was designed,
as voluntarily to transfer it to another.”
She then
added, with a quickness which evinced her anxiety to
change the subject. “But when are we to see this
heroic Indian, Colonel Grahame, who has made so
conspicuous a figure in your narrative, and whose love
of mystery, I doubt not, Captain O’Carroll will forgive
in consideration of the good service she has done in
restoring to him a friend, whose loss he never ceased
to regret?”

“Forgive!” repeated O’Carroll, “I admire her the
more for it, and owe her many thanks for supplying
me with such abundance of food for conjeccture. Besides,
it furnished me with a theme for some dozens of
letters to my friends, which will inspire them with the
most romantic ideas of this western world. But apropos
to Miss Courtland’s question, of when and where
we are to see the handsome savage, Colonel!”

“And Ohmeina too,” said Catherine; “of whom I
had a transient glimpse yesterday, but before I could
address him he disappeared in the forest.”

22(4)v 260

“Ohmeina! and in the forest!” said Grahame, with
a startled look; “and pray may I inquire, Miss Courtland,
in what part of the forest you saw the Indian?”

“At no great distance from the path which borders
it,”
she replied, rather surprised by the earnestness,
with which he asked so apparently trifling a question.
“I have not ventured far within its limits,” she continued,
“since our immediate neighbourhood has become
the scene of contest; and the Indian would have
passed me unobserved, had not a large dog, which
followed him, sprung fiercely towards Amelia, and
obliged me to descend from a rock, where I was
gathering moss, to her rescue.”

“But I was less alarmed by the assault of the dog,”
said Amelia, “than at the eagerness, with which Catherine
pursued this fierce looking Indian, whose person
was unknown to me. I forcibly detained her till she
explained to me her knowledge of him, and her desire
to learn of him some tidings of your fate.”

Catherine blushed deeply, as her cousin innocently
related a circumstance which, from a feeling of intuitive
delicacy she had omitted to mention. She dared
not raise her eyes from her work, or she would have
seen the look of doubt and perplexity, which had a
moment before, embarrassed the fine features of Grahame,
exchanged for one of unclouded delight; while
with eyes beaming gratitude and pleasure, he gazed
upon her glowing countenance.

Major Courtland, who had been for some minutes
ruminating on the singular incidents which Grahame
had related, observing a pause in the conversation, rose
and approached the little group, who were gathered
around his daughters work table. Catherine, glad of
an opportunity to dispel the embarrassment which prevailed,
looked up as he approached, and said,

“We are requesting of Colonel Grahame, an introduction
to the heroine of his tale, sir; but as yet he has
not promised to grant our petition.”

“He will not be so selfish, as to monopolize her,”
said the Major; “O’Carroll, at least may be permitted 22(5)r261
to enjoy an interview with this tutelar divinity of his,
whom I dare say, he invokes with as much solemnity,
as he would any Saint in the calendar.”

“Now since she has proved a mere mortal, Major,
and a swarthy one besides,”
said O’Carroll. “My
interest, of course, is not so great, as when I fancied
her, ‘some gay creature of the element;’ a being,
who might float upon a moon-beam, or a cloud; fathom
the depths of the ocean, and penetrate to the hidden
centre of the earth. But as she has saved a life valued
by us all, and as the Colonel asserts her to be handsome,
I should like to see her; though I confess, I cannot
imagine any beauty in a face where the splendor
of the rose and lilly are usurped by the dusky and lifeless
hue of the olive.”

“But it is the softest olive in the world, Captain,”
said Grahame; “enlivened by teeth of the finest ivory,
and a pair of jet black eyes, whose brilliancy makes
ample compensation for the darkness of the countenance
which they illumine. And then, her figure is
perfect. It has all the native grace and symmetry,
which distinguish these denizens of the forest, who
from infancy are accustomed to athletic exercises,
which require the play of every limb, and unused to
any of those restraints, which fetter the motions of civilized
children. Thus left free to the forming hand of
nature, they expand into a perfection of beauty, which
artificial efforts may in vain attempt to equal.”

“And were you bred among these people, who are
such lovers and promoters of grace?”
asked O’Carroll
archly glancing his eye over the symmetrical proportions
of Grahame’s fine figure.

“Do you inquire, because you find me so familiar
with their customs,”
said Grahame, quite unsuspicious
of O’Carroll’s meaning; “or because I am inclined
to judge them more favourably then many, who without
knowing a single individual, stigmatize the whole
race as bloodthirsty and barbarous wretches, who
should be exterminated without mercy from the earth?”

22(5)v 262

“And are they not bloodthirsty and barbarous?”
inquired Amelia, with surprise.

“I cannot deny that they are, Miss Dunbar,” replied
the Colonel. “But how can it be otherwise,
when they are early taught to glory in revenge, and to
delight in the fierce and hardy exploits, which characterize
uncivilized nations? The sweet sympathies of
social life are unknown to them; the mild light of
christianity has not shed on them its softening influence,
nor exalted their females to that station, where
they may be permitted to soften with their gentleness,
the sterner virtues of their savage lords. But they
have redeeming qualities, which inform us what they
might become, if brought within the pale of civilized
life, and which ought to fill us with the deepest regret,
that the remnant of a people, whom we have hunted
from their forests, and well nigh exterminated from the
soil, should at last perish in the dark ignorance of unenlightened
nature.”

“Those few who have been civilized, may have
imbibed virtues, perhaps,”
said O’Carroll; “but I much
doubt if they have any inherent in their barbarous
state.”

“You misjudge them, Captain O’Carroll,” returned
Grahame. “Even in their savage state, they possess
many virtues, and those the noblest that can dignify
humanity.”

“Did you discover them, Colonel, during the agreeable
days you passed with them in the cavern,”
asked
O’Carroll. “At least you do not reckon their tying
you by the leg with those twisted sinews, among their
good deeds.”

“It was certainly a proof of their ingenuity,” said
Grahame. “But I am sure you will no longer dispute
the justice of the praise, which I have bestowed on
them, when I name a few of the virtues which, like
spots of verdure that occasionally refresh the eye in a
land of sterility, appear amidst the harsh and stern features
of their character, with a brightness that more
than half redeems their failings. A firm reliance on the 22(6)r 263
care and protection of a superior being, never in any
emergency forsakes them. Reverence and respect for
age, fidelity in friendship, and fortitude in suffering,
besides many minor virtues, are peculiarly their own.
And now will you not confess Captain O’Carroll, that
there are few comparatively speaking, even among
those who boast of the highest refinement, that can
with justice lay claim to all the rare and noble qualities,
which I have named, and which, almost without exception,
distinguish the tawny savages of our forests?”

“You have forgotten to mention humanity to captives,”
said O’Carroll, gravely, “of which you can
doubtless speak from experience.”

“I might have said,” returned Grahame, “that towards
captives who are not personally obnoxious to
them, they usually exercise much kindness and humanity,
either adopting them as their own children, or
presenting them to their friends. But if they are rejected
by those to whom they are offered, death is not
unfrequently their fate.”

“I have heard,” said Catherine, “that the brave
General Stark, who, like Cincinnatus, quitted his
plough, at the call of his country, was once a captive,
among some of the Indian tribes.”

“You are correct, Miss Courtland,” said the Colonel.
“He was taken when a young man, and passed
a number of months with them; and the discipline
which he there endured, doubtless contributed to form
that character of intrepidity, decision, and independence,
which renders him one of our bravest as well as
ablest Generals.”

“Yes, he peppered Baum’s fellows unmercifully at
Bennington,”
said O’Carroll. “It was the precursor
of that fatal convention which dished up our valor so
finely; for, by St. George, I believe he roused up the
whole country to fight us at Saratoga.”

“I thought you would not finish the day, O’Carroll,
without ringing a chime upon the worn out subject of
the convention,”
said the Major, petulantly. “Indeed,
I wonder you have contrived to talk so long, without 22(6)v 264
reaching this grand climax of all your eloquence. But,
Colonel, in this discussion upon the merits of the savage
tribes, we have strayed far from the original topic, and
quite forgotten the wished for interview with your friend
Minoya. When shall we see her, and where is she?
Most of the families in this vicinity are known to me,
and I may not be ignorant of that in which she resides.”

“They are known to very few, sir,” returned Grahame,
after a brief pause, and with an air of embarrassment;
“but if you are really desirous to see this squaw,
I will send her here with Ohmeina.”

“By all means, we wish exceedingly to see her,”
said the Major, earnestly regarding Grahame, whose
confusion greatly surprised him, as well as his declining
to mention the name of the family with whom Minoya
resided. “But there is no haste,” he added; “consult
your own convenience, Colonel; we are ready at all
times to receive her.”

“There is no occasion for delay,” said Grahame,
“I will instruct Ohmeina to conduct her highter tomorrow
or the day following.”

“When you please, Colonel; we all feel interested
in one who has so much agency in preserving your
life; and, should the fate of war call you from us, I
make it my request, that you will resign this amiable
savage to our protection.”

“I sincerely thank you, sir;” returned the Colonel;
“and, should circumstances compel me to remove her
from her present situation, I shall accept with gratitude
your kind proposal.”

“Do so, Colonel,” said the Major; “and now, with
your leave, I will just step and see how Talbot is. I
fear the poor fellow has passed a tedious morning
alone.”

“I hope, sir, I have not been the means of detaining
you from him,”
said the Colonel. “I beg my presence
may be no restraint upon you; if you consider it so, I
shall be compelled to make my visits less frequent than
I am inclined.”

23(1)r 265

“That shall not be,” said the Major; “and, to prove
that I mind you no more than I should O’Carroll, I will
not even ask you to excuse me, and perhaps may not
again make my appearance till dinner time.”

He quitted the room as he finished speaking; and
the Captain laughing, said,

“You have, indeed, caused us to forget our wounded
hero, Colonel Grahame; I doubt if even Miss Courtland
has once thought of him since the surgeon left us.”

“Yes, I have, several times,” said Catherine; “and
was on the point of rising to visit him, when my father
anticipated me. But I believe Captain Talbot has not
been entirely neglected; for I observed Amelia steal
away once since Colonel Grahame finished his recital;
and, from her long absence, I fancy she had been on an
errand of consolation to our disabled knight.”

“I wished to speak with Martha,” said Amelia,
blushing. “But Captain Talbot had so many questions
to ask concerning your visit to Saratoga, Catherine,
that I was detained much longer than I wished.”

“Than you wished, cousin!” said Catherine, in a
low tone.

Amelia’s blushes deepened, but she made no reply,
and kept her eyes fixed steadfastly upon her work.
Grahame was earnestly regarding them; and the nature
of his meditations was not rendered more pleasant by
O’Carroll’s observing:

“Talbot is a noble fellow, and a brave one too; we
served together in Ireland, and there was not an officer
in the regiment more generally beloved.”

“And he is highly connected, I believe,” said Catherine.

“Yes,” returned O’Carroll; “he is the son of an
English baronet, and the nephew of an Irish peer,
whose title he will probably inherit; for the present
heir is as sickly a scion as ever sprouted from a noble
tree.”

“He will probably rise fast in his profession,” observed
Catherine, “since he has powerful friends to
interest themselves in his promotion”

23 23(1)v 266

“That he has done already,” said O’Carroll; “but
it has been by merit only. He disdains to rise by any
other means, and refuses all the offers of his friends to
assist his promotion.”

“It is such conduct as I should have expected from
him,”
said Catherine. “Before we went to Albany he
was often here, and he became a great favorite with us.
He was so candid, so free from the spirit of party; and,
though zealous in the cause of his country, he expressed
his opinions with perfect modesty, and spoke of his
opponents with a manly generosity that won our esteem.
Colonel Grahame, I think you will find much to admire
in this gallant adversary.”

Grahame started when Catherine addressed him; for
both he and Amelia had remained silent during this
short conversation, alike attentive to all that was said,
but agitated by far different feelings. Putting down the
dog, that uninvited, and almost unnoticed, was fawning
upon him, he replied.

“It can be no subject of surprise to me, Miss Courtland,
to find talents and virtue united to gallantry and
courage. I only regret for him and those friends to
whom he is deservedly dear, the consequences of that
fearless intrepidity which has caused his present sufferings.”

“And you really regret,” said O’Carroll, “that you
have captured Talbot, since you find him a brave fellow,
and a huge favorite here.”

“You misunderstand me, Captain,” returned the
Colonel. “I pride myself still more upon my conquest,
since I find it one so highly worth the making. I only
regret the effusion of so much blood, and the personal
injury which Captain Talbot has received.”

“We all regret that,” said Catherine; “but hope
our united skill will soon effect a complete cure. In
the mean time, national feelings out of the question, we
can none of us, in sincerity say, we are sorry for this
pleasant addition to our family circle, though we will
not be so disloyal as to thank you for it, Colonel. I
fear, however, the Captain himself will not rejoice at it. 23(2)r 267
The change will be rather dull from a gay city, crowded
with military and enlivened by the society of ladies, to
a retired countryhouse, occupied by a few quiet individuals,
whose days glide on without any distinguishing
occurrence, except an occasional encounter of wits between
my father and Captain O’Carroll, which pleasantly
disturbs the waveless calm of our retirement.”

“Or an occasional argument,” said the Captain,
“between the Major and yourself, Miss Courtland, on
the merits of the republican cause, which you display
so much ingenuity and address in defending.”

“It requires no great effort of ingenuity to defend
the right,”
replied Catherine, smiling, and slightly blushing.
“And you know I have induced you both to
concede many points which formerly it was treason to
mention in your presence.”

“You need not look so delighted, Colonel,” said
O’Carroll, as Grahame raised his fine eyes, full of
pleasure, to the face of Catherine. “She will not
make traitors of us,”
he continued; “though these
Circes of womankind can effect almost any metamorphosis,
yet I believe our loyalty will resist all the
magic of the sex.”

“It is not your loyalty, Captain, that I seek to
weaken,”
said Catherine; “but some few prejudices
only, which, I am happy to say, have almost disappeared
since the convention of Saratoga.”

“How now, Kate,” exclaimed the Major, suddenly
entering the apartment; “you have not taken up the
burden of O’Carroll’s song, I hope.”
“I did not know you were within hearing, father, or
I should not have ventured to speak of the convention,”

said Catherine.

“Tush, girl; why name it again?” exclaimed the
Major. “Excuse me, Colonel Grahame, but I cannot
for my life hear this shameful surrender mentioned
without chagrin and mortification. It is my humor, and
you must pardon it.”

“Willingly, sir,” replied Grahame; “but you must
allow me to repeat what the American officers are 23(2)v 268
unanimous in declaring, that no self accusation ought
to imbitter the reflections of the men, who fought with
such intrepid gallantry.”

“Thank you, Colonel” replied the Major; “humiliated
as we are, we are still compelled to feel, and to
acknowledge the generosity which has sought to alleviate
the misfortunes of a vanquished foe, and soften the
regrets and mortifications of his forlorn situation.”

“If such has been the conduct of the Americans, sir,”
returned the Colonel, “it will perhaps convince you,
that there is less of party feeling than of the pure amor
patriæ
in the motives which have driven them to arms;
that they cannot forget the ties which once united them
to the land of their fathers, nor cease to regard as
brothers, those with whom they would gladly be reconciled,
whenever circumstances shall render it practicable
and expedient.

“I know, Colonel, you believe your cause righteous,
and so do we ours,”
said the Major. “I doubt not
there is party spirit on both sides; and on both sides, I
am sure, there are men of pure, upright, and candid
minds. But, at all hazards, it is an unhappy contest;
and since I am no longer permitted either to aid my own
party or to injure yours, I am sometimes half resolved
to quit this scene of strife, and return with my daughter
to the peaceful shores of my own long forsaken, but still
fondly remembered country.”

Grahame looked disturbed, while Catherine, suddenly
changing color, said quickly:

“To England, father! Who will welcome us there?
You are forgotten, and I was never known. It will, indeed,
be like seeking a strange land, where there is no
friend to embrace us, and no eye to beam with pleasure
at our approach.”

“And what, child, have we to bind us to this soil?”
asked her father. “It is drenched with the blood of
our countrymen, and trodden by a people who view us
with hatred and suspicion.”

“You wrong them, father,” replied Catherine; “we
have received only kindness at their hands; kindness 23(3)r 269
which has bound me to them by a thousand tender ties.
And there are some sweet and sacred links, dear father,
which unite you to this lovely land.”

“Yes, there is one, there is your mother’s grave,”
returned the Major. “But there are dearer memorials
of her in the green vallies of Devonshire, where I first
called her my own, and where you, my love, were born.”

He walked towards a window as he spoke, subdued
by the recollection of earlier days, and of the wife who
had rendered them so happy. Catherine, hurt that she
had awakened painful emotions in her father’s breast,
remained silent and downcast; but he quickly recovered
himself and returned to the circle with his usual air of
cheerfulness.

“You have not informed us how you found Captain
Talbot
, Major,”
said O’Carroll, anxious to change the
subject of discussion, and dispel the slight shade which
still hovered upon Cathaerine’s open brow.

“Looking as wo-begone as the knight of the rueful
countenance,”
returned the Major. “I stopped with
him sometime, but found him so incorrigibly stupid,
that I was glad to return to more agreeable company.
I left him, however, with a promise, which I had well
nigh forgotten, of sending you, Kate, to chase away the
blue vapors which seemed to be settling around him.”

“It is no enviable task, sir, I acknowledge,” said
Catherine; “though as hostess and superintendant of
the hospital, I feel it my duty to attempt it. But really
I think Captain O’Carroll would have been a fitter ambassador
to send on this mission; for you know from
experience, father, that neither gloom nor sadness can
long resist the glance of his mirthful eye.”

“You are wrong, Kate,” said the Major; “he would
have regaled the poor fellow with a dissertation on the
treaty of Saratoga; and he feels his own surrender
heavily enough, without being obliged to hear of other
people’s mishaps.”

“You have become quite fond of the treaty, Major,”
said O’Carroll, “and garnish your speech with it almost
as often as I am wont to do.”

23* 23(3)v 270

“I will begin and end every sentence with it for a
month to come,”
said the Major, “if that will cause
you to be weary of it, O’Carroll. But away, Kate; if
you linger here any longer, the Captain will think I
deceived him just to get off myself.”

“I am gone, sir,” said Catherine, “though without
a hope of success. Come, Juba, and help me to entertain
your master.”

“Poor fellow, he is a dog of taste, and chooses to
remain with more cheerful people,”
said O’Carroll, as
he laid his hand upon the dog, who stood wagging his
tail, and looking, first at Catherine, and then at the
Captain, as if uncertain which invitation to accept.

“But I cannot execute my mission without a coadjutor,”
said Catherine; “so if you will not part with
the dog, Captain, you must go in my stead.”

“Oh, as for a coadjutor,” returned O’Carroll, “if
you do not insist upon his being a quadruped, Colonel
Grahame
, I doubt not, will gladly accept the office; if I
may judge from his looks, he was on the very point of
offering his services.”

“I would not bestow on him a task so unwelcome as
that of soothing the wounded pride of a vanquished soldier,”
said Catherine, deeply blushing. Without giving
the Colonel time to reply, she opened the door, on the
lock of which her hand had rested, for several minutes,
and went hastily out, followed by Juba, who sprung
from O’Carroll, and, bounding on before her, led the
way to his master’s apartment.

Catherine knocked gently at the door, which was
opened by Martha, who, although Talbot’s servant had
that morning arrived from Philadelphia, maintained her
station beside the sick man’s bed, assured that her skill
and experience were necessary to perfect his restoration.

Juba sprung upon the bed, the moment he had
forced his way into the room, and by a thousand mute
demonstrations, expressed his joy at again beholding
his master. But they did not meet with that attention,
which another, and a more interesting object completely
engrossed. Talbot heard the soft voice of Catherine, 23(4)r 271
inquiring of Martha, if he was asleep, and through
the folds of his bed curtains, he caught a glimpse of
her lovely figure, approaching on tip-toe towards him.
The next moment she stood beside him, and the pleasure
which he felt in seeing her, was eloquently expressed
by the sudden brightening of his eye, and the
vivid glow, which overspread his before pale cheek.

“This is very kind, Miss Courtland,” he said; “to
quit the gay circle of your friends, for the unsocial
gloom of an invalid’s apartment.”

“Even pleasure sometimes wearies,” replied Catherine;
“and though I cannot, in this instance, allege
that as the cause of my present visit to you, yet I assure
you, I left my guests, without the least reluctance,
and came, at my father’s desire, to beguile if possible
your solitude.”

“Then I am indebted to the Major for this visit,”
said Talbot, with a look of disappointment.

“Not entirely,” returned Catherine. “I have been
twice on the point of coming hither, but was once
anticipated by Amelia, and once by my father, both of
whom I thought abler comforters than myself. But I
hope you continue as well, as when the surgeon left us
this morning? your color varies so frequently, that I
fear you are more indisposed.”

“Indeed I have not felt so well before, to-day, Miss
Courtland
, as I do at this moment,”
said Talbot, while
a still deeper glow suffused his feature, and increased
the apprehensions of Catherine.

“He has certainly much fever,” she whispered aside
to Martha, who shook her head with a grave look, saying,

“And I fear, Miss Catherine, we can never cure it.”

“Do you then think him so very ill?” asked Catherine
in the same low tone, and with a countenance of
extreme concern.

Martha smiled at the simplicity of her young lady,
in not detecting the cause of Captain Talbot’s frequent
change of complexion, which her discernment had long 23(4)v 272
since enabled her to discover, and she replied in a
whisper,

“Do not alarm yourself, Miss Catherine; the Captain
has no more fever than most other young men of
like courage, and I dare say his sickness will end well
enough.”

“Ah, if that is all, we have indeed no cause for apprehension,”
replied Catherine; and she returned to
the side of Talbot’s bed, who had begun to grow impatient
of her conference with Martha.

Finding the Captain inclined to converse, Catherine
remained with him some time. He seemed to forget
his indisposition, and to derive new life and animation
from the presence of Catherine. A variety of topics
occupied them in succession, and the Captain fearing
lest a pause in the conversation, should give her an
opportunity to quit him, did not suffer it to occur, but
continued to engage her without interruption on subjects,
which he thought would interest her.

Catherine knew that Talbot and O’Carroll, had long
been intimate, and she wished to ask of him some particulars
respecting an unfortunate attachment, to which
she had once heard O’Carroll allude.

“He was, indeed, deeply wounded,” said Talbot, in
reply to her inquiry. “But the native haughtiness of
his spirit forbade his sinking into despondency. It
was somewhat of a singular affair, though I could never
prevail on myself to believe the lady meant him ill.”

“It was ill,” said Catherine, “to deceive him, with
a promise of affection, which she did not feel.”

“True, if the deception was intentional,” returned
Talbot; “but I am inclined to think there was a good
deal of treachery practised on her, as well as upon
O’Carroll.”

“And what reason have you to think so?” asked
Catherine.

“Perhaps, I judged hastily,” said Talbot; “but appearances
certainly justified my suspicions. O’Carroll
and myself, at that time, served in the same regiment,
and were quartered near ―― in the county of Ulster, 23(5)r 273
where his acquaintance with the lady of his affections
commenced. Her father, Mr. Spencer, was one
of those reduced gentlemen so common in Ireland, and
she resided with him, on a small patrimonial estate,
which was all that remained to them of a considerable
inheritance. We obtained an introduction, and made
them long and frequent visits: for our society was
rather limited, and we found Mr. Spencer gentlemanly
and intelligent, and his daughter lovely and accomplished.
O’Carroll shortly became her declared
lover, and was accepted both by herself and her father,
with undisguised pleasure. Indeed she gave so many
unequivocal proofs of her affection for my friend, that
it was impossible to doubt her sincerity. From after
events I might have suspected her of deliberately acting
a part to deceive, had not her character seemed to
me so perfectly artless, tender, and confiding, as to
render such a suspicion absurd.”

“How then,” inquired Catherine, “do you account
for her change of conduct.”

“A Mr. Dalkeith came to reside at his seat in the
neighbourhood,”
returned Talbot, “who, I suspect, had
a powerful agency in the affair. He was rich, and
rather handsome, and he became a frequent guest at
the house of Mr. Spencer, by whom he was evidently
courted and admired. He often praised Miss Spencer’s
charms, and though, in presence of her lover, he
forbore to make her the principal object of his attention,
it was evident to all that she only occupied his
thoughts. O’Carroll’s jealousy was excited, he became
petulant and reserved; and I am positive, that the
change in Miss Spencer’s manners may be partly attributable
to this cause. He would often absent himself,
for several days together, from her society, and
when again he saw her, the interview only furnished
him fresh cause for suspicion, and he would leave her,
far more wretched than before. Her father certainly
treated him with less cordiality and her dejection,
which to me wore the air of deep-rooted sorrow,
seemed to the tortured lover, the effect of unconquerable 23(5)v 274
aversion. Her silence, her tears, her reserve, convinced
him of her attachment to Dalkeith, and he
estranged himself more and more from her society.”

“At last he received a few lines one morning, from
Mr. Spencer informing him, that he was on the point
of setting off for Dublin with his daughter, and should
not return for several weeks. O’Carroll knew that
the journey had been long in contemplation, but angry
that Miss Spencer should not even write a line to say
farewell, he suffered her to depart, without even an attempt
to see her. Before the period fixed for their
return however, O’Carroll had forgotten his chagrin,
and found a thousand excuses for Miss Spencer’s conduct.
With the impatience of devoted love he counted
the days and hours of her absence, and as the term
fixed for their return drew towards a close, he rode
every day to the house, in the hope of finding them
there. But four, five, and even six week wore away,
and still they did not return. Distracted with anxiety,
he wrote repeatedly to both father and daughter; but
without receiving any answer. Unable any longer, to
endure the agony of suspense, he at last obtained leave
of absence from his regiment, and was on the point of
setting out for Dublin, when a letter was handed him
from Mr. Spencer. Its contents at once terminated
his doubts and hopes. They informed him that circumstances
had occurred, which would render it impossible
for any connexion to take place between him
and Miss Spencer; that she herself desired him to renounce
the hope; and in order to avoid any future intercourse,
they should not return to ―― so long as
his regiment remained in its vicinity. The letter ended
with advice to him to forget them, and with many
wishes for his happiness. A few lines from Miss
Spencer
, written with a trembling hand, at the bottom
of the page, confirmed all that her father had said, and
concluded with a repetition of the same wishes, though
less copiously expressed. The Captain was frenzied
with rage and disappointment, which were not at all
softened, when, on riding to the house of Mr. Dalkeith, 23(6)r 275
he learned that he had left the place, several weeks
before. Without delay, he pursued his way to Dublin;
but neither Mr. Spencer nor Dalkeith were to be
found: every search after them was vain, they were
no where to be traced. Still he continued his inquiries,
and before he was resolved to give them up, he
was transferred to another regiment, and that to which I
was still attached, was ordered to embark for America.
I saw him before we sailed, but so altered, that I
should scarcely have known him; pale, dejected, the
very shadow, in fact, of what he was. A year after, he
followed me to America, and now the fortunes of war
have thrown us unexpectedly, indeed, beneath the same
hospitable roof.”

“And has he never seen Miss Spencer, since that
time, nor even heard of her?”
asked Catherine, deeply
interested by the circumstances, which Talbot had
related.

“He has neither seen nor heard of her,” returned the
Captain. “We were informed that Mr. Spencer did
not again return to his estate, and that Dalkeith proved
an impostor, and fled the country; but whither they
went, and what has been their fate, we have been unable
to discover. I believe, however, that O’Carroll
was too deeply wounded by the conduct of Miss Spencer,
ever to love again.”

“And does he still cherish the hope of finding her,”
asked Catherine.

“He continues tenderly to love her, and often reproaches
himself for his harshness towards her,”
said
Talbot; “but he dares not indulge the hope of finding
her free; and he could not endure the shock of seeing
her the wife of Dalkeith, and living perhaps in wretchedness
and obscurity. He therefore seldom mentions
her, and has long since given up all efforts to discover
her. I am persuaded however, if she has married Dalkeith,
it was only by the express command of her
father.”

“Oh yes, I am sure she loved O’Carroll,” said
Catherine; “and amidst all his gaiety I can often see 23(6)v 276
that the remembrance of the past comes like a cloud
over his spirits. But you are weary, Captain Talbot,
I have done wrong in suffering you to talk so much,
and upon a subject not at all calculated to enliven
you.”

“I feel perfectly well,” said Talbot, “and were it
not for these troublesome bandages, I should have a
mind to make my debut at dinner; instead of remaining
here to eat my soup alone.”

“Not to day., said Catherine; “but within a week,
perhaps, we may allow you a seat at the table, provided
you will endure silence and solitude, and consent
to fast till then.”

“I will endure abstinence willingly, if you prescribe
it,”
said Talbot; “but I did not expect you to enjoin
solitude and silence, after witnessing the beneficial influence
of the last delightful hour.”

“Well, then, I will permit occasional society,” said
Catherine; “I would not have you weary of your captivity,
when it has but just commenced, and I already
fear, you will sigh for the gaiety of the city, before you
have passed a week in our quiet and retired abode.
Our circle is seldom larger than it is to-day, and we
are of course obliged to depend upon ourselves and
each other for amusement.”

“‘I have ever loved the life removed’,” said Talbot,
in the words of O’Carroll’s favorite bard; “and the
calm pleasures of domestic life, the rational enjoyments
of friendly intercourse and society, will be peculiarly
delightful to me after the noisy tumult of scenes, in
which I have been compelled to live, for the year past.”

“But you know, Colonel Grahame is a frequent
guest here,”
said Catherine; “will it not be disagreeable
to you to meet an American officer?”

“Not at all,” said Talbot, “I am glad of an opportunity
to become acquainted with some of those men,
who are stigmatized with every opprobrious epithet
by many of my brother officers, and praised and admired
as much, by many more.”

24(1)r 277

“And those the bravest, and most impartial, I doubt
not,”
said Catherine.

“The most impartial certainly,” replied Talbot;
“but brave men, Miss Courtland, will have prejudices,
and sometimes express them too, in most intemperate
language.”

A summons to dinner interrupted the conversation.

“It is quite time for me to leave you, Captain Talbot,”
said Catherine, as she rose to go; “and if you
are not as well tomorrow, I shall be compelled to reproach
myself for it.”

“Your presence brings only healing with it,” said
Talbot, in a tone so marked, and with a look so expressive
of tenderness and admiration, that Catherine
blushed and quitted him, without reply; though as she
crossed the hall, she chid herself for having betrayed
any emotion at a mere effusion of gallantry, and which
even if seriously intended, she was far from designing
to receive in earnest.

When she entered the parlor, O’Carroll rallied her
on the length of her visit to the invalid, and though she
parried his attack, with the most perfect non chalance,
he was induced to continue it, because he observed
Colonel Grahame to be disturbed by it. The conversation,
however, gradually became general, and the
dinner hour passed pleasantly away. Even Amelia,
though naturally taciturn and reserved, was drawn by
the address of Grahame, to take part in the various
subjects, which in succession employed the wit, the
eloquence, or the grave morality of the party.

When they rose from table, the Colonel went to
take leave of Captain Talbot, and after promising the
Major to pass the next evening with them, he remounted
his horse, and returned to the American camp, ruminating
as he rode along, upon the occurrences of the
day, and the different characters, with whom he had
associated.

End of Vol. I.

24 24(1)v