Chapter I.

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.

Chapter II.

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.

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.

Chapter IV.

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 difficulties
cul 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.

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.

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.

Chapter VII.

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.

Chapter VIII.

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)v 116
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)r 123
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.

Chapter IX.

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.

Chapter X.

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.