Matilda Montgomerie; Or, The Prophecy Fulfilled

by Major Richardson

  CHAPTER XXXI.

  In October of the same year, a numerous body of Americans, principallytroops of the line, had been collected under the orders of General VanRensselaer, and advantage was taken of an extremely dark night to pushthem across the river, with a view to the occupation of the commandingheights above the village of Queenston. In this, favored bycircumstances, the enemy were eminently successful. They carried thebatteries, and at day-break the heights were to be seen covered withtheir battalions, before whom were thrown out a considerable body ofriflemen. At the first alarm, the little detachment stationed atQueenston marched out to dislodge them; but such was the impatientgallantry of General Brock, who had succeeded to the command on thisline of frontier, that without waiting for the main body from FortGeorge to come up, he threw himself at the head of the flank companiesof the Forty-Ninth, and moving forward in double quick time, soon camewithin sight of the enemy.

  Among the General's aides-de-camp, was Henry Grantham, who, havingsucceeded in making his escape at the fatal defeat of the MoravianVillage, with a few men of his company, had in the absence of hisregiment (then prisoners of war), and from considerations of personalesteem, been attached as a supernumerary to his staff. With him at thismoment was the light-hearted De Courcy, and as the young men rode alittle in rear of their Chief, they were so rapt in admiration of hisfine form and noble daring (as he still kept dashing onward, far inadvance even of the handful of troops who followed eagerly and rapidlyin his rear), that they utterly forgot the danger to which he wasexposed.

  On arriving at the ascent, the General for a moment reined in hischarger, in order to give time to the rear to close in, then removingand waving his plumed hat.

  "Hurrah, Forty-Ninth!" he exclaimed, in language suited to those headdressed. "Up these heights lies our road--on ourselves depends thevictory. Not a shot till we gain the summit--then three cheers for oldEngland--a volley--and the bayonet must do the rest!"

  So saying, he resumed his hat; and wheeling his horse, once more led hisgallant little band up the hill.

  But it was not likely that the Americans would suffer the approach of sodetermined an enemy without attempting to check their progress in themost efficient manner. Distinguished from those around him by hiscommanding air, not less than by the military insignia that adorned him,the person of the General was at once recognised for one bearing highrank, and as such became an object of especial attention to thedispersed riflemen. Shot after shot flew past the undaunted officer,carrying death into the close ranks that followed noiselessly in hisrear, yet without harming him. At length he was seen by hisaides-de-camp, both of whom had kept their eyes upon him, to reel in hissaddle. An instant brought the young men to his side, De Courcy on hisright and Grantham on his left hand. They looked up into his face. Itwas suffused with the hues of death. A moment afterwards and he fellfrom his horse, with his head reclining upon the chest of HenryGrantham. There was a momentary halt in the advancing column; all weredismayed at the dreadful event.

  De Courcy and Grantham, having abandoned their horses, now bore theirbeloved leader to the side of the road, and sought some spot out ofreach of the enemy's fire, where he might breathe his last moments inpeace.

  As Henry Grantham glanced his eye towards an old untenanted building,that lay some fifty yards off the road, and which he conceived fullyadapted to the purpose, he saw the form of a rifleman partly exposed ata corner of the building, whose action at the moment was evidently thatof one loading his piece. The idea that this skulking enemy might havebeen the same who had given the fatal death-wound to his beloved Chief,added to the conviction that he was preparing to renew the shot, filledhim with the deepest desire of vengeance. As the bodies of several men,picked off by the riflemen, lay along the road (one at no great distancefrom the spot on which he stood), he hastened to secure the nearestmusket, which, as no shot had been fired by the English, he knew to beloaded.

  Leaving De Courcy to support the head of the General, the youngAid-de-camp moved with due caution towards the building; but ere he hadgone ten paces, he beheld the object of his pursuit issue altogetherfrom the cover of the building, and advance towards him with his rifleon the trail. More and more convinced that his design was to obtain anear approach, with a view to a more certain aim, he suddenly halted andraised the musket to his shoulder. In vain was a shout to desist utteredby the advancing man--in vain was his rifle thrown aside, as if in tokenof the absence of all hostile purposes. The excited Henry Granthamheeded not the words--saw not the action. He thought only of the dangerof his General, and of his desire to avenge his fall. He fired--therifleman staggered, and putting his hand to his breast--

  "My brother! oh, my unhappy brother!" he exclaimed, and sank senselessto the earth.

  Who shall tell the horror of the unfortunate young Aide-de-camp, atrecognising in the supposed enemy his long mourned and much lovedGerald! Motion, sense, life, seemed for the instant annihilated by theastounding consciousness of the fratricidal act: the musket fell fromhis hands, and he who had never known sorrow before, save through thosemost closely linked to his warm affections, was now overwhelmed, crushedby the mountain of despair that fell upon his heart. It was some momentsbefore he could so far recover from the stupor into which that dear andwell-remembered voice had plunged him, as to perceive the possibility ofthe wound not being mortal. The thought acted like electricity upon eachstupified sense and palsied limb; and eager with the renewed hope, hebounded forward to the spot where lay the unfortunate Gerald, writhingin his agony. He had fallen on his face, but as Henry approached him, heraised himself with one hand, and with the other beckoned to his brotherto draw near.

  "Great God, what have I done!" exclaimed the unhappy Henry, throwinghimself, in a paroxysm of despair, upon the body of his bleedingbrother. "Gerald, my own beloved Gerald, is it thus we meet again? Oh!if you would not kill me, tell me that your wound is not mortal. Assureme that I am not a fratricide. Oh, Gerald, Gerald! my brother, tell methat you are not dying."

  A faint smile passed over the pale, haggard features of Gerald: hegrasped the hand of his brother and pressed it fervently, saying:

  "Henry, the hand of fate is visible in all this; therefore condemn notyourself for that which was inevitable. I knew of the attempt of theAmericans to possess themselves of the heights, and I crossed over withthem under favor of this disguise, determined to find death, combattingat the side of our gallant General. Detaching myself from the ranks, Ibut waited the advance of the British column to remove from myconcealment--you know the rest. But oh, Henry! if you could divine whata relief it is to me to part with existence, you would not wish the actundone. This was all I asked: to see you once more--to embrace you--andto die! Life offered me no hope but this."

  Gerald expressed himself with the effort of one laboring under strongbodily pain; and as he spoke he again sank exhausted upon the ground.

  "This packet," he continued, taking one from the breast of thehunting-frock he wore, and handing it to his brother, who, silent andfull of agony, had again raised his head from the ground and supportedit on his shoulder--"this packet, Henry, written at various times duringthe last fortnight, will explain all that has passed since we lastparted in the Miami. When I am no more, read it; and while you mournover his dishonor, pity the weakness and the sufferings of the unhappyGerald."

  Henry was nearly frantic. The hot tears fell from his burning eyes uponthe pale emaciated cheek of his brother, and he groaned in agony.

  "Oh God!" he exclaimed, "how shall I ever survive this blow?--mybrother! oh, my brother! tell me that you forgive me."

  "Most willingly; yet what is there to be forgiven? You took me for anenemy, and hence alone your error. It was fate, Henry. A dreadful doomhas long been prophesied to the last of our race. We are the last--andthis is the consummation. Let it however console you to think, thatthough your hand had not slain me another's would. In the ranks of theenemy I should have found--Henry, my kind, my affectionate brother--yourhand--there--th
ere--what dreadful faintness at my heart--Matilda, it ismy turn now--Oh, God have mercy, oh----"

  While this scene was passing by the roadside between the unfortunatebrothers, the main body of the British force had come up to the spotwhere the General still lay expiring in the arms of De Courcy, andsurrounded by the principal of the medical staff. The majority of thesewere of the regiment previously named--veterans who had known and lovedtheir gallant leader during the whole course of his spotless career, andmore than one rude hand might be seen dashing the tear that startedinvoluntarily to the eye. As the colors of the Forty-ninth passed beforehim, the General made an effort to address some language ofencouragement to his old corps, but the words died away in indistinctmurmurs, and, waving his hand in the direction of the heights, he sankback exhausted with the effort, and resigned his gallant spirit forever.

  For some minutes after life had departed, Henry Grantham continued tohang over the body of his ill-fated brother, with an intenseness ofabsorption that rendered him heedless even of the rapid fire of musketryin the advance. The sound of De Courcy's voice was the first thing thatseemed to call him to consciousness. De Courcy had heard the cryuttered by the latter on receiving the fatal shot, and his imaginationhad too faithfully portrayed the painful scene that had ensued. A friendof both brothers, and particularly attached of late to the younger fromthe similar nature of their service, he was inexpressibly shocked, butstill cherishing a hope that the wound might not be attended with lossof life, he expected to find his anticipations realized by somecommunication from his friend. Finding however that the one rose not,and remarking that the demeanor of the other was that of profounddespair, he began at length to draw the most unfavorable conclusion, andcausing the body of his commander to be borne under cover of thebuilding, until proper means of transport could be found, he hastened toascertain the full extent of the tragedy.

  The horror and dismay depicted in his friend's countenance were speedilyreflected on his own, when he saw that the unfortunate Gerald, whoseblood had completely saturated the earth on which he lay, was indeed nomore. Language at such a moment would not only have been superfluous,but an insult. De Courcy caught and pressed the hand of his friend insilence. The unfortunate young man pointed to the dead body of hisbrother, and burst into tears. While these were yet flowing in a fulnessthat promised to give relief to his oppressed heart, a loud shout fromthe British ranks arrested the attention of both. The sound seemed tohave an electric effect on the actions of Henry Grantham. For the firsttime he appeared conscious there was such a thing as a battle beingfought.

  "De Courcy," he said, starting up, and with sudden animation, "why do welinger here? The dead"--and he pointed first to the body of the Generalin the distance, and then to his brother--"the wretched dead claim noservice from us now."

  "You are right, Henry, our interest in those beloved objects has causedus to be heedless of our duty to ourselves. Victory is our own--butalas! how dearly purchased!"

  "How dearly purchased, indeed!" responded Henry, in a tone of suchheart-rending agony as caused his friend to repent the allusion. "DeCourcy, keep this packet, and should I fall, let it be sent to my uncle,Colonel D'Egville."

  De Courcy accepted the trust, and the young men mounted their horses,which a Canadian peasant had held for them in the meantime, and dashingup the ascent, soon found themselves where the action was hottest.

  "Forward! victory!" shouted Henry Grantham, and his sword was plungeddeep into the side of his nearest enemy. The man fell, and writhing inthe last agonies of death, rolled onward to the precipice, anddisappeared for ever from the view.

  The words, the action--had excited the attention of a tall, muscular,ferocious-looking rifleman, who, hotly pursued by a couple of Indians,was crossing the open ground at his full speed to join the main body ofhis comrades. A ball struck him just as he had arrived within a few feetof the spot where Henry stood, yet still leaping onward, he made adesperate blow at the head of the officer with the butt end of hisrifle. A quick movement disappointed the American of his aim, yet theblow fell so violently on the shoulder, that the stock snapped suddenlyasunder at the small of the butt. Stung with pain, Henry Granthamturned to behold his enemy. It was Desborough! The features of thesettler expressed the most savage and vindictive passions, as, with thehead of the rifle upraised and clenched in both his iron hands, he wasabout to repeat his blow. Ere it could descend Grantham had rushed inupon him, and his sword, still reeking in the blood it had so recentlyspilt, was driven to the very hilt in the body of the settler. Thelatter uttered a terrific scream in which all the most infernal of humanpassions were wildly blended, and casting aside his rifle, seized theyoung officer in his powerful gripe. Then ensued a contest the moststrange and awful, the settler using every endeavor to gain the edge ofthe precipice, the other struggling, but in vain, to release himselffrom his hold. As if by tacit consent, both parties discontinued thestruggle, and became mere spectators of the scene.

  "Villain!" shouted De Courcy, who saw with dismay the terrible object ofthe settler, whose person he had recognised--"if you would have quarter,release your hold."

  But Desborough, too much given to his revenge to heed the words of theAide-de-camp, continued silently, yet with advantage, to drag his victimnearer and nearer to the fatal precipice; and every man in the Britishranks felt his blood to creep, as he beheld the unhappy officer borne,notwithstanding a desperate resistance, at each moment nigher to thebrink.

  "For Heaven's sake, men, advance and seize him," exclaimed the terrifiedDe Courcy, leaping forward to the rescue.

  Acting on the hint, two or three of the most active of the lightinfantry rushed from the ranks in the direction taken by the officer.

  Desborough saw the movement, and his exertions to defeat it became,considering the loss of blood he had sustained from his wounds, almostherculean. He now stood on the extreme verge of the precipice, where hepaused for a moment as if utterly exhausted by his previous efforts. DeCourcy was now within a few feet of his unhappy friend, who stillstruggled ineffectually to free himself, when the settler, suddenlycollecting all his energy into a final and desperate effort, raised theunfortunate Gerald from the ground, and with a loud and exulting laugh,dashed his foot violently against the edge of the crag, and threwhimself backward into the hideous abyss.

  Their picked and whitened bones may be seen even to this day, confoundedtogether and shining through the gloom that pervades every part of theabyss, and often may be remarked an aged and decrepit negro, seated on arock a few feet above them, leaning his elbows upon his knees, andgazing eagerly as if to distinguish the bones of the one from the bonesof the other.

  AND THUS WAS THE FEARFUL PROPHECY OF ELLEN HALLOWAY, THE MOTHER OFDESBOROUGH BY WACOUSTA, FULFILLED!

  THE END.