The chilling air sighed through the leafless branches of the gnarled and crooked oaks, as with a step so light as hardly to rustle the dry leaves on which she trod, Frances moved forward to that part of the hill where she expected to find this secluded habitation; but nothing could she discern that in the least resembled a dwelling of any sort. In vain she examined every recess of the rocks, or inquisitively explored every part of the summit that she thought could hold the tenement of the pedlar. No hut, nor any vestige of a human being, could she trace. The idea of her solitude struck on the terrified mind of the affrighted girl, and approaching to the edge of a shelving rock, she bent forward to gaze on the signs of life in the vale, when a ray of keen light dazzled her eyes, and a warm air diffused itself over her whole frame. Recovering from her surprise, Frances looked on the ledge beneath her, and at once perceived that she stood directly over the object of her search. A hole through its roof, afforded a passage to the smoke, which, as it blew aside, showed her a clear and cheerful fire crackling and snapping on a rude hearth of stone. The approach to the front of the hut, was by a winding path around the point of the rock on which she stood, and by this she advanced to its door.
Three sides of this singular edifice, if such it could be called, were composed of logs laid alternately on each other, to a little more than the height of a man; and the fourth was formed by the rock against which it leaned. The roof was made of the bark of trees, laid in long strips from the rock to its eaves;—the fissures between the logs had been stuffed with clay, which in many places had fallen out, and dried leaves were made use of as a substitute to keep out the wind. A single window of four panes of glass was in front, but a board carefully closed it in such a manner, as to emit no light, from the fire within. After pausing some time to view this singularly constructed hiding-place, for such Frances well knew it to be, she applied her eye to a crevice to examine the inside. There was no lamp or candle, but the blazing fire of dry wood made the interior of the hut light enough to read by. In one corner lay a bed of straw, with a pair of blankets thrown carelessly over it, as if left where they had last been used. Against the walls and rock were suspended, from pegs forced into the crevices, various garments, and such as were apparently fitted for all ages and conditions, and for either sex. British and American uniforms hung peaceably by the side of each other; and on the peg that supported a gown of striped calico, such as was the usual country wear, was also depending a well powdered wig—in short, the attire was numerous, and as various as if a whole parish were to be equipped from this one wardrobe.
In the angle against the rock, and opposite to the fire which was burning in the other corner, was an open cup-board, that held a plate or two, a mug, and the remains of some broken meat. Before the fire was a table, with one of its legs fractured, and made of rough boards; these, with a single stool, composed the furniture, if we except a few articles for cooking. A book that by its shape and size appeared to be a bible, was lying on the table, unopened. But it was the occupant of the hut in whom Frances was chiefly interested.—This was a man, sitting on the stool, with his head leaning on his hand, in such a manner as to conceal his features, and deeply occupied in examining some open papers. On the table lay a pair of curiously and richly mounted horseman’s pistols, and the handle of a sheathed rapier of exquisite workmanship, protruded from between the legs of the gentleman, one of whose hands carelessly rested on its guard. The tall stature of this unexpected tenant of the hut, and his form, much more athletic than that of either Harvey or her brother, told Frances, without the aid of his dress, that it was neither of those she sought. A close surtout was buttoned high in the throat of the stranger, and parting at his knees, showed breeches of buff, with military boots and spurs. His hair was dressed so as to expose the whole face, and, after the fashion of that day, it was profusely powdered. A round hat was laid on the stones that formed a paved floor to the hut, as if to make room for a large map, which, among the other papers, occupied the table.
This was an unexpected event to our adventurer.—She had been so confident that the figure twice seen was the pedlar, that on learning his agency in her brother’s escape, she did not in the least doubt of finding them both in the place, which, she now discovered, was occupied by another and a stranger. She stood, earnestly looking through the crevice, hesitating whether to retire, or to wait with the expectation of yet meeting Henry, as the stranger moved his hand from before his eyes, and raised his face, apparently in deep musing, when Frances instantly recognized the benevolent and strongly marked, but composed features of Harper.
All that Dunwoodie had said of his power and disposition—all that he had himself promised her brother, and all the confidence that had been created by his dignified and paternal manner, rushed across the mind of Frances, who threw open the door of the hut, and falling at his feet, clasped his knees with her arms, as she cried—
“Save him—save him—save my brother—remember your promise, and save him!”
Harper had risen as the door opened, and there was a slight movement of one hand towards his pistols, but it was cool, and instantly checked. He raised the hood of the cardinal which had fallen over her features, and exclaimed, with some uneasiness—
“Miss Wharton! But you cannot be alone!”
“There is none here but my God and you; and by his sacred name, I conjure you to remember your promise, and save my brother!”
Harper gently raised her from her knees, and placed her on the stool, begging her at the same time to be composed, and to acquaint him with the nature of her errand. This Frances instantly did, ingenuously admitting him to a knowledge of all her views in visiting that lone spot at such an hour, and by herself.
It was at all times difficult to probe the thoughts of one who held his passions in such disciplined subjection as Harper, but still there was a lighting of his thoughtful eye, and a slight unbending of his muscles, as the hurried and anxious girl proceeded in her narrative. His interest, as she dwelt upon the manner of Henry’s escape and the flight to the woods, was deep and manifest, and he listened to the remainder of her tale with a marked expression of benevolent indulgence. Her apprehensions, that her brother might still be too late through the mountains, seemed to have much weight with him, for, as she concluded, he walked a turn or two across the hut, in silent musing.
Frances hesitated, and unconsciously played with the handle of one of the pistols, and the paleness that her fears had spread over her fine features, began to give place to a rich tint, as after a short pause she added—
“We can depend much on the friendship of Major Dunwoodie, but his sense of honour is so pure, that—that—notwithstanding his—his—feelings—his desire to serve us—he will conceive it to be his duty to apprehend my brother again. Besides, he thinks there will be no danger in so doing, as he relies greatly on your interference.”
“On mine!” said Harper, raising his eyes in surprise.
“Yes, on yours. When we told him of your kind language, he at once assured us all that you had the power, and if you had promised, would have the inclination, to procure Henry’s pardon.”
“Said he more?” asked Harper, who appeared slightly uneasy.
“Nothing but reiterated assurances of Henry’s safety—even now he is in quest of you.”
“Miss Wharton, that I bear no mean part, in the unhappy struggle between England and America, it might now be useless to deny. You owe your brother’s escape this night to my knowledge of his innocence, and the remembrance of my word. Major Dunwoodie is mistaken, when he says that I might openly have procured his pardon. I now, indeed, can controul his fate, and I pledge to you a word which has some influence with Washington, that means shall be taken to prevent his recapture. But from you also, I exact a promise, that this interview, and all that has passed between us, remain confined to your own bosom, until you have my permission to speak upon the subject.”
Frances gave
the desired assurance, and he continued—
“The pedlar and your brother will soon be here, but I must not be seen by the royal officer, or the life of Birch might be the forfeiture.”
“Never!” cried Frances, ardently; “Henry could never be so base as to betray the man who saved him.”
“It is no childish game that we are now playing, Miss Wharton. Men’s lives and fortunes hang upon slender threads, and nothing must be left to accident that can be guarded against. Did Sir Henry Clinton know that the pedlar held communion with me, and under such circumstances, the life of the miserable man would be taken instantly—therefore, as you value human blood, or remember the rescue of your brother, be prudent, and be silent.—Communicate what you know to them both, and urge them to instant departure—if they can reach the last picquets of our army before morning, it shall be my care that there are none to intercept them.—There is better work for Major Dunwoodie, than to be exposing the life of his friend.”
While Harper was speaking, he carefully rolled up the map he had been studying, and placed it, together with sundry papers that were also open, into his pocket. He was still occupied in this manner, when the voice of the pedlar, talking in unusually loud tones, was heard directly over their heads.
“Stand further this way, Captain Wharton, and you can see the tents in the moonshine—but let them mount, and ride; I have a nest, here, that will hold us both, and we will go in at our leisure.”
“And where is this nest? I confess that I have eaten but little the two last days, and I crave some of the cheer that you mention.”
“Hem!”—said the pedlar, exerting his voice still more; “hem—this fog has given me a cold; but move slow—and be careful not to slip, or you may land on the bayonet of the sentinel on the flats—’tis a steep hill to rise, but one can go down it with ease.”
Harper pressed his finger on his lip, to remind Frances of her promise, and taking his pistols and hat, so that no vestige of his visit remained, he retired deliberately to a far corner of the hut, where, lifting several articles of dress, he entered a recess in the rock, and letting them fall again, was hid from view. Frances noticed, by the strong fire-light, as he entered, that it was a natural cavity, and contained nothing but a few more articles of domestic use.
The surprise of Henry and the pedlar, on entering and finding Frances in possession of the hut, may be easily imagined. Without waiting for explanations, or questions, the warm-hearted girl flew into the arms of her brother, and gave a vent to her emotions in tears. But the pedlar seemed struck with very different feelings. His first look was at the fire, which had been recently supplied with fuel; he then drew open a small drawer of the table, and looked a little alarmed at finding it empty—
“Are you alone, Miss Fanny?” he asked in a quick voice; “you did not come here alone?”
“As you see me, Mr. Birch,” said Frances, raising herself from her brother’s arms, and turning an expressive glance towards the secret cavern, that the quick eye of the pedlar instantly understood.
“But why, and wherefore are you here?” exclaimed her astonished brother; “and how knew you of this place, at all?”
Frances entered at once into a brief detail of what had occurred at the house since their departure, and the motives which induced her to seek them.
“But,” said Birch, “why follow us here, when we were left on the opposite hill?”
Frances related the glimpse that she had caught of the hut and the pedlar, in her passage through the highlands, as well as her view of him on that day; and her immediate conjecture that the fugitives would seek the shelter of this habitation, for the night. Birch examined her features, as with open ingenuousness she related the simple incidents that had made her mistress of his secret, and as she ended, he sprang upon his feet, and striking the window with the stick in his hand, demolished it at a blow.
“’Tis but little luxury or comfort that I know,” he said, “but even that little cannot be enjoyed in safety!—Miss Wharton,” he added, advancing before Fanny, and speaking with the bitter melancholy that was common to him; “I am hunted through these hills, like a beast of the forest; but whenever, tired with my toils, I can reach this spot, poor and dreary as it is, I can spend my solitary nights in safety.—Will you aid to make the life of a wretch still more miserable?”
“Never!” cried Frances, with fervour; “your secret is safe with me.”
“Major Dunwoodie—” said the pedlar slowly, turning an eye upon her that read her soul.
Frances lowered her head upon her bosom, for a moment in shame; then elevating her fine and glowing face, she added, with enthusiasm—
“Never, never—Harvey, as God may hear my prayers!”
The pedlar seemed satisfied; for he drew back, and watching his opportunity, unseen by Henry, slipped behind the skreen, and entered the cavern.
Frances, and her brother, who thought his companion had passed through the door, continued conversing on the latter’s situation for several minutes, when the former urged the necessity of expedition on his part, in order to precede Dunwoodie, from whose sense of duty they knew they had no escape. The captain took out his pocket book and wrote a few lines with his pencil, then folding the paper, he handed it to his sister—
“Frances,” he said, “you have this night proved yourself to be an incomparable woman. As you love me, give that unopened to Dunwoodie, and remember, that two hours may save my life.”
“I will—I will—but why delay? why not fly, and improve these precious moments?”
“Your sister says well, Captain Wharton,” exclaimed Harvey, who had re-entered unseen; “we must go at once. Here is food to eat as we travel.”
“But who is to see this fair creature in safety?” cried the captain. “I can never desert my sister, in such a place as this.”
“Leave me! leave me—” said Frances; “I can descend as I came up. Do not doubt me—you know not my courage, nor my strength.”
“I have not known you, dear girl, it is true; but now, as I learn your value, can I quit you here? never—never.”
“Captain Wharton!” said Birch, throwing open the door, “you can trifle with your own lives, if you have many to spare: I have but one, and must nurse it.—Do I go alone or not?”
“Go—go—dear Henry,” said Frances, embracing him; “go—remember our father—remember Sarah—” She waited not for his answer, but gently forced him through the door, and closed it with her own hands.
For a short time there was a warm debate between Henry and the pedlar; but the latter finally prevailed, and the breathless girl heard the successive plunges, as they went down the sides of the mountain at a rapid rate.
Immediately after the noise of their departure had ceased Harper re-appeared. He took the arm of Frances in silence, and led her from the hut. The way seemed familiar to him for, ascending to the ledge above them, he led his companion across the table land, tenderly pointing out the little difficulties in their route, and cautioning her against injury.
Frances felt as she walked by the side of this extraordinary man, that she was supported by one of no common stamp. The firmness of his step and the composure of his manner, seemed to indicate a mind settled and resolved. By taking a route over the back of the hill, they descended with great expedition and but little danger. The distance it had taken Frances an hour to conquer, was passed by Harper and his companion in ten minutes, and they entered the open space, already mentioned. He struck into one of the sheep paths, and crossing the clearing with rapid steps, they came suddenly upon a horse, caparisoned for a rider of no mean rank. The noble beast snorted and pawed the earth, as his master approached and replaced the pistols in the holsters.
Harper then turned, and taking the hand of Frances, spoke as follows:
“You have this night saved your brother, Miss Wharton. It would not be proper for me to explai
n why there are limits to my ability to serve him, but if you can detain the horse for two hours, he is assuredly safe. After what you have already done, I can believe you equal to any duty. God has denied to me children, young lady, but if it had been his blessed will that my marriage should not have been childless, such a treasure as yourself would I have asked, from his mercy. But you are my child. All who dwell in this broad land are my children and my care, and take the blessing of one who hopes yet to meet you in happier days.”
As he spoke, with a solemnity that touched Frances to the heart, he laid his hand impressively upon her head. The guileless girl turned her face towards him, and the hood again falling back, exposed her lovely features to the moon-beams. A tear was glistening on either cheek, and her mild blue eyes were gazing upon him, in reverence. Harper bent and pressed a paternal kiss upon her forehead, and continued—
“Any of these sheep-paths will take you to the plain; but here we must part—I have much to do and far to ride—forget me, in all but your prayers.”
He then mounted his horse, and lifting his hat, rode towards the back of the mountain, descending at the same time, and was soon hid by the trees. Frances sprang forward with a lightened heart, and taking the first path that led downwards, in a few minutes she reached the plain in safety. While busied in stealing through the meadows towards the house, the noise of horse approaching, startled her, and she felt how much more was to be apprehended from man, in some situations, than from solitude.—Hiding her form in the angle of a fence near the road, she remained quiet for a moment, and watched their passage. A small party of dragoons, whose dress was different from the Virginians, passed at a brisk trot. They were followed by a gentleman, enveloped in a large cloak, whom she at once knew to be Harper. Behind him rode a black in livery, and two youths, in uniforms, brought up the rear.—Instead of taking the road that led by the encampment, they turned short to the left, and entered the hills.
The Spy & Lionel Lincoln Page 44