THE HOT TRAIL.
After leaving the fort, the dragoons followed the well-worn but
solitary path leading to the residence of Mr. Lear, which they were
certain Imogene had taken.
Onward they swiftly rode, hoping at every moment to overtake their
intended charge. Though they frequently listened to catch the
slightest sound, however, nothing was audible save the monotonous
rattling of their sabers.
The deep baying of hounds, the same that had awakened Imogene from
her reverie, told them they were near their journey’s end. In a few
moments afterward the dragoons drew up their panting steeds before
the residence of Thomas Lear.
All was still. The lieutenant dismounted and rapped loudly on the
door with the hilt of his saber. Finding that the summons was
unanswered, he repeated his rap with redoubled vehemence. The echo
had hardly died away when the door was partly opened, and a negro
domestic peering cautiously out inquired the reason of their visit at
such an unseemly hour.
Hearing, in reply to her question, the deep, heavy tones of a man’s
voice, and seeing the person himself garbed in the habiliments of a
continental soldier, she was about to quickly close the door in her
fright; but the assurance that she was to be in no wise molested
filled her with more confidence, and after some hesitancy she
admitted the strange visitors.
Upon making inquiries, the lieutenant was astounded to find that
Imogene had not yet returned, and was on the point of dispatching
some of his men to scour the woods in the vicinity, when her steed,
riderless and with saddle and girth nearly torn from his back, came
dashing up the lawn.
Mr. Lear, on hearing the loud tones of the conversation carried on
below, hurried down-stairs. Seeing a party of soldiers congregated
before his house, his mind was filled with forebodings of some
impending calamity.
“What is the meaning of this unseasonable visit?” he eagerly
inquired, turning to the lieutenant of the dragoons.
“We have come in obedience to the command of Colonel Hall, to
ascertain whether Miss Lear has yet arrived from the fort, which she
persisted in leaving this evening unattended.”
“Imogene at the fort! What mean you--how came she there?”
“She was at the ball, sir.”
“At the ball! You mystify me--explain yourself;” but just at that
moment, catching sight of the riderless steed, he started back with
an agonizing groan. “I understand,” he murmured, “something has
happened to Imogene.”
“Indeed, sir, I fear there has been foul play.”
“No, no, there must be some dreadful mistake here!” exclaimed the old
man, nervously grasping the arm of the officer. “Who could be so base
as to harm my child?”
“In truth, the affair is enveloped in profound mystery. We have
examined the horse and find no traces of blood, and I greatly fear
that your daughter has been--”
“What?” cried Mr. Lear, seeing the soldier hesitate.
“Abducted.”
“Oh! my God! what new villainy is this!” and the sorrow-stricken
parent staggered at the fearful intelligence. Clutching the
lieutenant with feverish suddenness, he frantically exclaimed:
“Oh! save my daughter, my darling girl! Reclaim her from the hands of
those merciless fiends, and my property, my life, my all is yours!
Oh! my child! my child! my child!” and with a heartrending cry, the
poor afflicted father reeled, then sunk to the floor.
Leaving the grief-stricken old man in the care of his weeping
servants, with the assurance that nothing would be left undone to
recover Miss Lear from the hands of her abductors, the lieutenant
vaulted into his saddle, and in company with his men hurried back to
the fort to impart to the commandant the unwelcome news.
“Lieutenant,” said Colonel Hall, after the officer had related to
him what had taken place, “you will hold yourself and command in
readiness to start at break of day, in pursuit of these villains.”
The dragoon was about departing, when the colonel stopped him.
“The Indian, War-Cloud, is still in the garrison, is he not?” he
asked.
“He is, sir.”
“Send him to me, then, without delay.”
The officer bowed and retired. The Indian quickly obeyed the summons.
War-Cloud was a chief of the Oneidas. Although a great part of his
tribe went over to the British with the Five Nations, of which it was
a member, he always remained a stanch friend of the Americans, and an
inveterate foe of the Mohawks.
He was one of the most trustworthy scouts attached to the Continental
army, and in that capacity had performed invaluable service in the
cause of liberty.
To Captain Sherwood he was especially attached, and would have been
ready at any moment to sacrifice his life in his behalf. A large,
crackling wood-fire shed its rays about the room which he entered.
As the Indian stood there, calmly awaiting the pleasure of his
commander, with his arms quietly folded on his breast, with the
beautiful war-plumes that decorated his head drooping over his
countenance so as to give a more somber shade to his finely-molded
features, he looked like some brazen colossus and the _beau-ideal_ of
a true warrior.
Colonel Hall was pacing up and down the apartment, deeply absorbed in
meditation. He stopped a moment and looked up.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, as he beheld his visitor, “you have come!”
Placing a chair near the table for the scout, he seated himself
opposite.
“I suppose you are aware of the reason that has caused me to send for
you?” continued the colonel.
The Indian bowed in response.
“You have already heard of the abduction of Miss Lear?”
“War-Cloud knows all,” answered the scout.
“Then you will hold yourself ready to accompany the troopers on the
trail of the abductors in the morning.” After giving the Indian his
instructions, the commander dismissed him.
The remainder of the night was spent by a greater part of the inmates
of the fort, in a state of feverish excitement. It was deemed prudent
to withhold the knowledge of Imogene’s abduction from Captain
Sherwood, until more particulars of her fate were obtained.
The next morning, just as the bright sun commenced to tint the
neighboring hill-tops and light up the eastern horizon, witnessed the
departure of the dragoons from the fort.
They immediately took the path of the previous evening, which they
slowly followed, scrutinizing every foot of the ground minutely,
until they reached the spot where Imogene had been stopped by her
abductors. This they knew by the trampled state of the earth.
Dismounting, War-Cloud made a careful examination of the numerous
footprints, while the remainder of the company patiently awaited the
result of his investigation.
Quickly beckoning the commander to his side, the scout pointed to
several deep prints in the soft soil.
“Well, what’s peculiar about them?” asked the officer, inspecting
them closely.
“White man’s tracks.”
“White men’s! How know you that?”
“See!” exclaimed the scout, as he directed the officer’s attention
to several nearly erased marks, “Indian no wear boots--Indian wear
moccasin.”
Sure enough, there, in the loose earth, were imprinted the faint
outlines of boot-traces. Penetrating the trampled bushes on either
side of the path, War-Cloud at length came upon the spot where the
inanimate form of Imogene had been placed during the passage of the
dragoons.
These signs not only satisfied the party that they had struck upon
the right trail, but also gave convincing proof that the abductors
were white men, not Indians, as at first supposed.
Without stopping to waste any more time in words, the dragoons
started on the trail, with War-Cloud a short distance in advance. The
traces of the fugitives were so broad and plain, and so little care
had been taken to conceal them, that they could be followed with but
little difficulty.
However, as the troopers entered deeper into the heart of the forest,
their progress became slower and more difficult, and the trail less
distinct.
At length, however, they reached the deserted house where the
abducting party had stopped the previous evening. They surrounded the
building, but this precaution was unnecessary, as a hasty examination
showed that their intended victims had departed several hours before.
The old trail was again resumed, which led them to the dwelling in
which we left Imogene and her abductors in the previous chapter.
It was now dark, and the obscurity and quietude in which the
house was buried seemed to foreshadow another disappointment. The
lieutenant knocked loudly at the door; no answer. He knocked again;
still no answer. He was about to effect an entrance by force, when
the shadow of a man was observed to flit across the lawn.
The dragoons started in hurried pursuit. Through the dim twilight
the fugitive was hardly distinguishable. He had almost reached the
woods--in another moment he would be safe, when the sharp, whip-like
report of War-Cloud’s rifle was heard, and the fleeing man fell to
the dust.
The next instant he was surrounded by his pursuers, who made a litter
for him with their rifles, and carried him to the house. The injured
man was bleeding copiously, and appeared to be seriously, if not
mortally wounded.
“Who are you, and what were you doing here?” inquired the lieutenant,
after seeing that the sufferer’s position had been made as
comfortable as possible.
“What’s thet to ye?” was the surly reply.
“Come, come, my good fellow, you had better be a little more
communicative, for I think your time is growing short.”
“What’s thet ye say?” exclaimed the man, with a sudden start.
“I fear your injury is fatal.”
“Do ye think so?”
“I do.”
“If thet’s the case, Tom Turley had better tell all afore he goes
under, for he hez a purty good deal thet weighs on his mind.”
“Be brief.”
“Send yer cap’n to me; I’ll tell no other.”
“I am the sole commander here.”
To this the man uttered a guttural, unintelligible response and
then remained quiet. The lieutenant perceived that nothing could be
elicited from him, except by the closest interrogating.
“Who are you?”
“I’m one of the Tory League,” answered the man, in a low whisper.
At the mention of this name, a scowl darkened the brows of the
dragoons that were crowded around.
“How came you with that wound?” asked the officer, seeing one of the
hands of the Tory ill-bandaged and bloody.
“I got bit by a horse belongin’ to a gal thet myself and two more of
the band wor carryin’ off.”
“What!” exclaimed the lieutenant, springing suddenly to his feet;
“you, then, were one of the abductors of Miss Lear?”
“Thet’s the name, but--quick--water! water!” A drink was immediately
given him.
“Who were your companions, and where are they? Tell me what has
become of Miss Lear!” but before any reply could be made to these
questions, a short, burly individual, a surgeon, had elbowed his way
through the crowd and reached the wounded man.
He had accompanied the dragoons on the expedition, evidently more
for the sake of adventure than from any expectation that his medical
services would be required.
He had joined in the pursuit on foot, and it was several minutes
after the dragoons had returned to the house, before he made his
appearance.
Thrusting back the men who were collected around, eager to hear what
the Tory had to say, he proceeded to examine the man’s wound.
The ball had entered the upper part of the shoulder, but striking the
blade, had taken a downward course and come out at the back.
“It’s only a flesh wound,” said the surgeon, after he had finished
bandaging the injury; “the man has bled profusely, which has made
him weak, but in a few hours he will be all right again.”
“What! then I’ll yet live?” exclaimed the man, with a nervous
shudder, a deathlike pallidness overspreading his countenance.
“Why, certainly! you are worth a dozen dying men.”
At these words the man sunk back with a groan.
“But, my good fellow, why do you speak in this manner?” asked the
surgeon; “you don’t wish to die, do you?”
“He’s one of the Tory League, doctor, and thought he wor goin’
under,” ventured to say one of the soldiers.
“One of the Tory League, eh?” exclaimed the surgeon, with a look of
surprise. “Ah! I understand his wish to die; he’s afraid that he has
escaped one mode of dying to suffer a worse, which he has deserved a
hundred times for his black deeds.”
With an almost superhuman effort, the wounded man sprung to his feet,
his face livid with passion.
“Ye’ve desaved me!” he fairly shrieked, pointing his bloody hand at
the commander of the dragoons.
“I told you what I conscientiously thought to be true. I believed you
to be dying and I told you so. You betrayed yourself,” calmly replied
the lieutenant.
“Ye lie! Ye’ve desaved me, I tell ye!” and with a howl of rage, the
ruffian, a fiendish look overspreading his scowling brow, drew forth
a dagger he had concealed in his bosom, and sprung at the officer.
In an instant, he was seized by a dozen hands, and disarmed before he
could carry out his design. The villain, seeing his plans frustrated,
cast a diabolical look at his intended victim, then settled into a
dogged quietude.
“Answer the questions I put to you,” said the lieutenant, approaching
the Tory, “and you are a free man, though you should have merited a
thousand deaths for your bloody acts.”
The man only looked at his interlocutor, but made no answer.
“Tell me who were your companions, and what they have done with Miss
Lear,” continued the officer, “and on my honor as a soldier, the
moment I feel assured that you have spoken the truth, you will be at
liberty to depart unmolested.”
“Ye’ve desaved me once, and ye shan’t do it again.”
“I repeat my question. Will you or will you not tell me the names of
your companions, and whither they have taken the young lady?”
“I’ll not!”
“Bring the prisoner without!” commanded the lieutenant, in a stern
voice.
The order was promptly obeyed, and the Tory was conducted to the
green in front of the dwelling.
The moon had already arisen, and its bright beams rendered the night
almost equal to day. A towering oak stood a few yards from the door,
and under its spreading branches the soldiers had collected in a
group, forming quite a picturesque scene.
A strong rope was cast over one of the largest limbs, and a dragoon
quietly formed a sliding noose at the end. A small cask was brought
from the house and placed directly under the hanging cord.
The prisoner watched these ominous preparations with suspicion. The
officer now approached him again.
“Will you answer the question that I have asked you?” he said.
“I’ve tol’ ye once; ask me no more.”
“Men, do your duty!”
In an instant the prisoner’s hands were pinioned behind him, and the
rope placed around his neck.
“Mount,” said the officer.
The prisoner reluctantly placed himself on the cask. He now began to
surmise the true meaning of what was going on, though at first he
had half-suspected it was only a resort to the old ruse of extorting
information.
“What are ye goin’ to do wid me?” he asked, in a trembling tone.
“You shall see presently,” was the answer.
“What does all this mean?” inquired the Tory, now thoroughly alarmed
at the manner of the soldiers.
“That you are going to suffer a penalty that you have too often
eluded, and which you merit but too well,” answered the officer.
“Ye’re not goin’ to put me to death?”
“If you answer me what I have already asked you, no; but if you
refuse, yes!”
“If I answer yer questions am I free?”
“You are.”
“If I refuse?”
“Then you die.”
“Will you show me no mercy?”
“Think not of mercy, but of your God!”
“Look yere cap’n,” said the Tory, who, though a miscreant, was no
coward; “though ye wor to slice and quarter me, ye couldn’t make Tom
Turley blow on his comrades.”
He had scarcely finished uttering these last words when the support
was knocked from under him by a violent blow, and he was left
dangling in the air.
He struggled violently for several moments, then uttered a piercing
shriek:
“Help! help! cut the rope! Oh, God! mercy! mercy! mercy! Iron
Hand!--old man!--Hank Put--! I’ll t--t--t--” His voice was hushed.
The words, whatever they were, assumed only a gurgling sound in his
throat, then died away in nothingness.
His limbs were slowly contracted, then as slowly straightened out
again. His hands were tightly clenched. The finger-nails penetrated
the flesh, making wounds from which nearly stagnant blood slowly
oozed, pattering in drops on the leaves below.
He made a spasmodic effort to release his arms, but they fell
quivering by his side. A slight, convulsive shudder shook his frame,
and the soul of the Tory passed to its Maker.
Just at that moment a blast of wind, like a solemn dirge, swept
through the forest, chanting, as it were, the dead man’s requiem. The
body was left swinging in the breeze, as a warning to all evil-doers,
or until chance should direct the footsteps of some stragglers to the
spot.
Thoughtful, and pondering on the ruffian’s dying words, the dragoons
returned to the house, there to deliberate what next should be done.
After a short debate, they concluded to go back to the fort in the
morning, as it was evident that the abducting party had either
discovered their approach and fled or had departed before their
arrival.
In either case they would reach the British lines before daylight,
and as it was impossible to follow the trail by night, the dragoons
were obliged to abandon the pursuit.
Making themselves as comfortable as possible, the troopers waited
patiently until dawn, when they returned to the fort to make known
the result of the expedition.