Left thus alone, the skinner began to throw fearful glances around, to espy the hiding places of his tormentors. For the first time, the horrid idea seemed to shoot through his brain, that something serious was intended by the Cow-Boy. He called entreatingly to be released, and made rapid and incoherent promises of important information, mingled with affected pleasantry at their conceit, which he could hardly admit to himself could mean any thing so dreadful as it seemed.-- But as he heard the tread of the horses moving on their course, and in vain looked around for human aid, violent tremblings seized his limbs, and his eyes began to start from his head with terror.-- He made a desperate effort to reach the beam, but too much exhausted with his previous exertions he caught the rope in his teeth, in a vain effort to sever the cord, and fell to the whole length of his arms.--Here his cries were turned into shrieks--
“Help--cut the rope--Captain!--Birch!--good pedlar--down with the Congress!--sergeant!--for God’s sake help--Hurrah for the King!--Oh God! Oh God!--mercy--mercy--mercy--”
As his voice became suppressed, one of his hands endeavoured to make its way between the rope and his neck, and partially succeeded, but the other fell quivering by his side. A convulsive shuddering passed over his whole frame, and he hung a hideous livid corse.
Birch continued gazing on this scene with a kind of infatuation, and at its close he placed his hands to his ears, rushing towards the highway; but still the cries for mercy rung through his brain, and it was many weeks before his memory ceased to dwell on the horrid event. The Cow-boys rode steadily on their route, as if nothing had occurred, and the body was left swinging in the wind, until chance directed the footsteps of some straggler to the place.
CHAPTER XVII.
“Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days--
None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor nam’d thee but to praise.”
Halleck
While the scenes and events that we have recorded, were occurring, Captain Lawton led his small party, by slow and wary marches, from the four-corners to the front of a body of the enemy, where he so successfully manœuvred for a short time as completely to elude all their efforts to entrap him, and yet so to disguise his own force, as to excite the constant apprehension of an attack from the Americans. This forbearing policy on the side of the partisan, was owing to orders that he had received from his commander. When Dunwoodie left his detachment, the enemy were known to be slowly advancing, and he directed Lawton to hover around them until his own return, and the arrival of a body of foot, which might aid in intercepting their retreat.
The trooper discharged his duty to the letter, but with no little of the impatience that made part of his character, when restrained from the attack. During these movements, Betty Flanagan guided her little cart with indefatigable zeal among the rocks of West-Chester, now discussing with the sergeant the nature of evil spirits and the quality of her own, and now combatting with the surgeon sundry points of practice that were hourly arising under their opposite opinions upon the subject of stimulus. But the moment at length arrived that was to terminate their controversies, and decide the mastery of the field. A detachment of the eastern militia moved out from their fastnesses, and approached the enemy.
The junction between Lawton and his auxiliaries, was made at midnight, and an immediate consultation was held between him and the leader of the foot soldiers. After listening to the statements of the partisan, who rather despised the prowess of his enemy, the commandant of the party determined to attack the British, the moment that daylight enabled him to reconnoitre their position, without waiting for the aid of Dunwoodie and his horse. So soon as this decision was made, Lawton retired from the building where the consultation was held, and rejoined his own small command.
The few troopers who were with the Captain, had fastened their horses in a spot adjacent to a hay-stack, and laid their own frames under its shelter to catch a few hours sleep. But Dr. Sitgreaves, Sergeant Hollister, and Betty Flanagan, were congregated at a short distance by themselves, having spread a few blankets upon the dry surface of a rock. Lawton threw his huge frame by the side of the surgeon, and folding his cloak around him, leaned his head upon one hand, and appeared deeply engaged in contemplating the moon as it waded majestically through the heavens. The sergeant was sitting upright in respectful deference to the conversation that the operator was kindly dispensing, and the washerwoman was now raising her head in order to vindicate some of her favourite maxims, and now composing it on one of her gin casks, in a vain effort to sleep.
“So, sergeant,” continued the operator, after pausing a moment while Lawton took the position which we have described, “if you cut upwards, the blow, by losing the additional momentum of your weight, will be less destructive, and at the same time effect the true purposes of war, that of disabling your enemy.”
“Pooh! pooh! sargeant, dear,” said the washerwoman, raising her head from her blanket; “where’s the harm of taking a life jist in the way of battle? Is it the rig’lars who’ll show favour, and they fighting? Ask Captain Jack, there, if the country could get the liberty, and the boys no strike their might--Pooh! I wouldn’t have them disparage the whiskey so much.”
“It is not to be expected, that an ignorant female like yourself, Mrs. Flannagan,” returned the operator, with ineffable disdain, “can comprehend the distinctions of surgical science; neither are you accomplished in the sword exercise; so that dissertations upon the judicious use of that weapon could avail you nothing, either in theory or practice.”
“It’s but little I care, any way, for sich botherments,” said Betty, sinking her head under her blanket again; “but fighting is no play, and a body should’nt be partic’lar how they strike, or who they hit, so it’s the inimy.”
“Are we likely to have a warm day, Captain Lawton?” said the surgeon, turning from the washerwoman with vast contempt.
“’Tis more than probable,” replied the trooper in a voice that startled his companion; “these militia seldom fail of making a bloody field, either by their cowardice or their ignorance. And the real soldier is made to suffer for their bad conduct.”
“Are you ill, John?” said the surgeon, passing his hand along the arm of the captain, until it instinctively settled on his pulse; but the steady, even beat announced neither bodily nor mental malady.
“Sick at heart, Archibald, at the folly of our rulers, in believing that battles are to be fought, and victories won, by fellows, who handle a musket as they would a flail--lads who wink when they pull a trigger, and form a line like a hoop pole. It is the dependance we place on these men that spills the best blood of the country.”
The surgeon listened to his philippic with amazement. It was not the matter but the manner that surprised him. The trooper had uniformly exhibited on the eve of battle, an animation and eagerness to engage, that was directly at variance with the admirable coolness of his manner at other times. But now there was a despondency in the tones of his voice, and a listlessness in his air, that was entirely different. The operator hesitated a moment to reflect in what manner he could render this change of service, in furthering his favorite system, and then continued--
“It would be wise, John, to advise the Colonel to keep at long shot--a spent ball will disable--”
“No!” exclaimed the trooper impatiently; “let the rascals singe their whiskers at the muzzles of the British muskets--if they can be driven there; but enough of them. Archibald, do you deem that moon to be a world like this, and containing creatures like ourselves?”
“Nothing more probable, dear John--we know its size, and reasoning from analogy, may easily conjecture its use. Whether or not its inhabitants have attained that perfection in the sciences which we have acquired, must depend greatly on the state of its society, and in some measure, upon its physical influences.”--
“I care nothing about their learning, Archibald; but, ’tis a wonderful power that can create such worlds, and cont
roul them in their wanderings. I know not why, but there is a feeling of melancholy excited within me, as I gaze on that body of light, shaded as it is by your fancied sea and land. It seems to be the resting-place of departed spirits!”
“Take a drop, darling,” said Betty, raising her head once more, and proffering her own bottle; “’tis the night damps that chills the blood--and then the talk with the cursed militia is no good for a fiery temper; take a drop darling, and yee’ll sleep ’till the morning. I fed Roanoke myself, for I thought yee might need hard riding the morrow.”
“’Tis a glorious heaven to look upon,” continued the trooper, in the same tone, and utterly disregarding the offer of Betty; “and ’tis a thousand pities, that such worms as men, should let their vile passions deface such goodly work.”
“You speak the truth, dear John; there is room for all to live and enjoy themselves in peace, if each could be satisfied with his own. Still war has its advantages--it particularly promotes the knowledge of surgery--and”
“There is a star,” continued Lawton, still bent on his own ideas, “struggling to glitter through a few driving clouds; perhaps that too is a world, and contains creatures endowed with reason like ourselves; think you, that they know of war and bloodshed?”
“If I might be so bold,” said sergeant Hollister, mechanically raising his hand to his cap,“ ’tis mentioned in the good book, that the Lord made the sun to stand still, while Joshua was charging the enemy, in order do you see, sir, as I suppose, that they might have day-light to turn their flank, or perhaps make a feint in the rear, or some such matter. Now, if the Lord would lend them a hand, fighting cannot be sinful. I have often been non-plushed though, to find that they used them chariots instead of heavy dragoons, who are in all comparison, better to break a line of infantry, and who, for the matter of that, could turn such wheel carriages, and getting in the rear, play the very devil with them, horses, and all.”
“It is because you do not understand the construction of those vehicles for war, sergeant Hollister, that you judge of them so erroneously,” said the surgeon. “They were armed with sharp weapons that protruded from their wheels, and which broke the columns of foot like the dismembered particles of matter. I doubt not, if similar instruments were affixed to the cart of Mrs. Flanagan, that great confusion might be carried into the ranks of the enemy thereby, this very day.”
“It’s but little that the mare would go, and the rig’lars firing at her,” grumbled Betty from under her blanket; “when we got the plunder, the time we drove them through the Jarseys, it was I had to back the baste up to the dead, for divil the foot would she move, forenent the firing, wid her eyes open. Roanoke and Captain Jack are good enough for the red coats, letting alone myself and the mare.”
A long roll of the drums, from the hill occupied by the British, announced that they were on the alert, and a corresponding signal was immediately heard from the Americans. The bugle of the Virginians struck up its martial tones, and in a few moments, both the hills, the one held by the royal troops, and the other by their enemies, were alive with armed men. Day had begun to dawn, and preparations were making by either party, to give and to receive the attack. In numbers the Americans had greatly the advantage, but in discipline and equipments, the superiority was entirely with their enemies. The arrangements for the battle were brief, and by the time that the sun had risen, the militia moved forward to the attack.
The ground did not admit of the movements of the horse, and the only duty that could be assigned to the dragoons, was to watch the moment of victory, and endeavour to improve the success to the utmost. Lawton soon got his warriors into the saddle, and leaving them to the charge of Hollister, he rode himself along the line of foot, who in varied dresses and imperfectly armed, were formed in a shape that in some degree resembled a martial array. A scornful smile lowered around the lip of the trooper, as he guided Roanoke with a skilful hand through the windings of their ranks, and as the word was given to march, he turned the flank of the regiment, and followed close in the rear. The Americans had to descend into a little hollow, and rise a hill on its opposite side to approach the enemy. The descent was made with tolerable steadiness, until near the foot of the hill, when the royal troops advanced in a beautiful line, with their flanks protected by the formation of the ground. The appearance of the British drew a fire from the militia, which was given with good effect, and for a moment staggered the regulars. But they were rallied by their officers, and threw in volley after volley, with great steadiness. For a short time the firing was warm and destructive, until the English advanced with the bayonet. This assault the militia had not sufficient discipline to withstand. Their line wavered, then paused, and finally broke into companies, and fragments of companies, keeping up at the same time a scattering and desultory fire.
Lawton witnessed these operations in silence, nor opened his mouth to speak, until the field was covered with parties of the flying Americans.-- Then, indeed, he seemed stung with the disgrace that was thus heaped upon the arms of his country. Spurring Roanoke along the side of the hill, he called to the fugitives in all the strength of his powerful voice. He pointed to the enemy, and assured his countrymen that they had mistaken the way. There was such a mixture of indifference and irony in his exhortations, that a few paused in surprise--more joined them, until roused by the example of the trooper, and stimulated by their own spirits, they demanded to be led against their foe once more.
“Come on then, my brave friends!” shouted the trooper, turning his horse’s head towards the British line, one flank of which was very near him; “come on, and hold your fire until it will scorch their eye-brows.”
The men sprang forward, and followed his example, neither giving nor receiving a fire, until they had reached to within a very short distance of the enemy. An English sergeant, who had been concealed by a rock, enraged with the audacity of the officer who thus dared their arms, stept from behind his cover, and advancing within a few yards of the trooper levelled his musket--
“Fire, and you die,” cried Lawton, spurring his charger, who sprung forward at the instant. The action and the tone of his voice shook the nerves of the Englishman, who drew his trigger with an uncertain aim. Roanoke sprang with all his feet from the earth, and, plunging, fell headlong and lifeless at the feet of his destroyer. Lawton kept his feet, and stood face to face with his enemy, who presented his bayonet, and made a desperate thrust at the trooper’s heart. The steel of their weapons emitted sparks of fire, and the bayonet flew fifty feet in the air. At the next moment its owner lay a quivering corpse.
“Come on,” shouted the trooper, as a body of English appeared on the rock and threw in a steady fire; “come on,” he repeated, and brandished his sabre fiercely. His gigantic form fell backward like a majestic pine that was yielding to the axe, but still, as he slowly fell, he continued to wield his sabre, and once more the deep tones of his voice uttered, “come on.”
The advancing Americans paused aghast, as they witnessed the fate of their new leader, and then turning, they left to the royal troops the victory.
It was neither the intention nor the policy of the English commander to pursue his success, as he well knew that strong parties of the Americans would soon arrive; accordingly, he only tarried to collect his wounded, and forming into a square, he commenced his retreat towards their shipping.-- Within twenty minutes of the fall of Lawton, the ground was deserted by both English and Americans.
When the inhabitants of the country were called upon to enter the field, they were necessarily attended by such surgical advisers, as were furnished by the low state of the profession in the interior, at that day. Dr. Sitgreaves entertained quite as profound a contempt for the medical attendants of the militia, as the Captain did of the troops themselves. He wandered therefore, around the field, casting many an expressive glance of disapprobation at the slight operations that came under his eye; but, when among the flying troops, he found that his comrade and friend was no where
to be seen, he hastened back to the spot at which Hollister was posted, to inquire if the trooper was returned. Of course, the answer he received was in the negative. Filled with a thousand uneasy conjectures, the surgeon, without regarding, or indeed without at all reflecting, upon any dangers that might lie in his way, strode over the ground at an enormous rate, to the point where he knew had been the final struggle. Once before, the surgeon had rescued his friend from death, in a similar situation, as he supposed, and he felt a secret joy in his own conscious skill, as he perceived Betty Flanagan seated on the ground, holding in her lap the head of a man, whose size and dress he knew belonged only to the trooper. As he approached the spot, the surgeon became alarmed at the aspect of the washerwoman. Her little black bonnet was thrown aside, and her hair, which was already streaked with gray, hung around her face in disorder.
“John! dear John,” said the Doctor tenderly, as he bent and laid his hand upon the senseless wrist of the trooper, from which it recoiled with an intuitive knowledge of his fate, “John! dear John, where are you hurt?--can I help you?”
“Yee talk to the senseless clay,” said Betty, rocking her body, and unconsciously playing with the raven ringlets of the trooper’s hair; “it’s no more will he hear, and it’s but little will he mind yee’r probes and yee’r med’cines. Och! hone-- och! hone--and where will be the liberty now? or who will there be to fight the battles, or gain the day?”
“John!” repeated the surgeon, still unwilling to believe the evidence of his unerring senses; “dear John, speak to me--say what you will, that you do but speak. Oh! God!” exclaimed the surgeon, giving way to his emotions, “he is dead; would that I had died with him!”
“There is but little use in living and fighting now,” said Betty; “both him and the baste!-- see, there is the poor animal, and here is his master. I fed the horse with my own hands the day; and the last male that he ate, was of my own cooking. Och! hone--och! hone--that Captain Jack should live to be killed by the rig’lars!”
The Spy, Volume 2 Page 23