THE SECRET MISSION.
The cool night air awakened Imogene from the unconscious state into
which she had fallen when first seized by her abductors.
Staring wildly around the apartment in which she was confined, she
was unable to account for her strange position. Pressing her hot
hands to her throbbing temples she tried to collect her scattered
thoughts.
The recollection of the events of the past evening appeared to her
like a terrible dream. Like a flash the thought occurred to her that
she had been abducted. To think of such a thing almost crazed her
brain.
“Where am I?” she wildly exclaimed, springing toward the ruffian who
was keeping guard at her chamber door.
Without heeding her question, he made a commanding gesture for her to
remain silent. She tried to draw him into conversation, but in vain.
Seeing she could not gain any information, she seated herself on the
rude couch that had been prepared for her, and commenced to reflect.
The excitement and fatigue of the past few hours, however, were too
much for her delicate frame, and in a few moments she fell into a
gentle slumber.
The guard, seeing his charge asleep, closed the door of the chamber
gently, and being wearied, seated himself near the fire. After
fruitless endeavors to keep his heavy eyelids from closing, he was
finally obliged to succumb to his drowsiness.
His head fell heavily on his breast, his arms hung listlessly by his
side, and in a few moments he was slumbering heavily. Imogene’s sleep
was light and fitful. Her dreams were haunted by the transactions of
the past night.
In a short time she awoke. Hearing no movement outside, she listened
attentively for the monotonous tread of her guard, but it had ceased.
Nothing broke the awful stillness save the heavy breathing of the
sleeping ruffians.
Rising quickly, she peered cautiously out, and there, by the dim
light of the dying embers, she perceived her abductors wrapped in
sound slumber.
Hastily procuring what articles were necessary to protect her against
the chill air of the evening, she wrapped her shawl around her
person, and quietly entered the dimly lighted room. Stepping lightly
over the sleeping forms of her captors, she fled down the stairs.
The cool air fanned her fevered brow, and seemed to impart new
strength to her exhausted frame. The inspiring hopes of escaping from
her villainous captors had a salutary effect. Vaulting on the back of
one of the horses that stood ready equipped, she dashed away from the
house.
The clattering of the horse’s hoofs aroused her guard. Looking around
him in a bewildered manner, he hurried to where his prisoner was
confined, only to find her gone.
“Awake! awake! to horse! to horse!” he frantically cried, applying
his foot in no gentle manner to the sleeping forms of his companions.
“What’s up?” asked they, in a single breath, springing to their feet.
“Our prisoner’s escaped!”
“The prisoner escaped!” they both exclaimed in one voice.
“Yes; look for yerselves!” answered the other, pointing to the
vacated chamber.
“To yer horses! We must hev the gal again, dead or alive!” cried the
ruffian leader, hurrying to where the animals were picketed.
When they reached the spot, there were but two horses, the third was
gone. Imogene had unconsciously selected the animal belonging to the
wounded member of the party, and the owner had no other alternative
than to follow in the pursuit on foot, or go back to the house and
await the return of his comrades. He chose the latter.
He slowly retraced his steps, muttering imprecations loud and deep.
The mounted ruffians hurried in pursuit of Imogene, hoping every
moment to catch some sound that would direct them.
The chase was fruitless. They scoured the forest for miles around,
but were finally obliged to abandon the search. Chagrined and
disappointed by their ill-success, they were slowly returning to
where they had left their companion that morning.
The day was drawing gradually to a close. The sun had already
disappeared behind the western hills, when the two ruffians were
suddenly confronted by a female--it was Imogene.
It appears that after leaving the house, she wandered, she knew not
whither, until chance directed her attention to a small cavity near
the roadside, where she lay concealed during the greater part of the
day without being discovered by her pursuers.
The shades of night were fast approaching, wrapping the grand old
forest in a somber gloom, when Imogene awakened to a sense of her
lonely situation. As she pondered on her isolated condition, her mind
was filled with fear and dreadful forebodings.
The thought, that she was there alone in that gloomy forest, a prey
to wild beasts and starvation, almost distracted her. She almost
wished that she had not effected her escape, and was about to give
vent to her wild grief, when the tread of horses attracted her
attention.
She paused and listened. Her ears had not deceived her. There was
no mistaking the sound--some one was approaching. She quickly hid
herself in the bushes, where she could get a view of the passers-by.
She had not long to wait; the footsteps steadily approached, and the
next instant two horsemen loomed up in the distance. What was it
that made Imogene start, and sent the hot blood coursing through her
veins, as she caught sight of the foremost stranger?
“No--yes--it must be--it is _he_!” she murmured to herself. She
could with difficulty refrain from uttering a cry of joy, as she
recognized in the form of one of these men, the pretended American
scout and patriot--Hank Putney.
The sight of the scout reanimated her and restored her drooping
spirits, and she quickly determined to discover herself to him and
claim his protection until she should reach some place of safety.
At the sudden appearance of Imogene, after her recapture had been
given up as hopeless, the scowl that darkened the brows of the two
ruffians gave place to a look of savage joy.
It was evident to Putney, for it was indeed he, that Imogene had not
yet recognized him as being one of her abductors, for what other
reason could possibly have induced her to surrender herself into his
hands unless it was that she still deemed him to be the character he
had so basely assumed--a stanch American patriot, and the thought
seemed to give infinite pleasure to the ruffian.
“So we’ve found ye at last,” he growled.
“Oh, Hank!” exclaimed Imogene, with delight, without noticing his
rough salutation, as she approached the scout, her hands extended to
welcome him, “I am so glad to have met you.”
“Yes?” answered Putney, with a sinister smile on his countenance.
“I have been in this dreary place the entire day, without either
food or drink,” and Imogene shuddered as she commenced to relate the
particulars of her abduction and escape, but the scout interrupting
her, replied:
“I know all about it.”
“Have you captured some of the miscreants?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then you have been informed of their vile plot?”
“That neither.”
“In what manner, then, did you acquire this knowledge? You puzzle
me, Hank--I can not understand you,” said Imogene, growing a little
nettled at his cold, formal manner.
“That’ll all be explained to ye soon enough. In the meanwhile ye’ll
mount and foller us,” he responded, at the same time making a gesture
to his comrade to lead forward Imogene’s steed, which she had
fastened near her place of concealment.
Depressed by the mysterious manner of Putney, Imogene, with a
heavy heart, mechanically obeyed his order. The two ruffians
stationed themselves on either side of her. These precautions looked
suspicious, and a chill of fear crept over Imogene, as she witnessed
them.
However, she quietly accompanied her companions, following wherever
they led. During their journey she endeavored to draw her taciturn
escort into a conversation, but without success. After a weary ride
of several miles, stopping suddenly, she exclaimed:
“I will proceed no further, until you tell me whither you are leading
me!”
“Ye won’t, eh! I’ll see about that.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“That, willin’ or unwillin’, ye must foller me.”
“Where?”
“To th’ place ye left this mornin’.”
“Not back to the haunt of my villainous abductors?”
“’Xactly.”
“Oh, no, Hank! You do not--you can not mean this! Tell me that you
are but jesting!” wildly exclaimed Imogene, now thoroughly alarmed at
the villain’s words.
“It’s th’ truth.”
“Then you are concerned in this plot?”
“If ye’ll hev it so, I am.”
“What! You do not mean to tell me, Hank, that _you, you_ are a
traitor--that _you_ are one of these ruffians!”
The Tory hesitated a moment before answering, but feeling assured
that he had nothing to fear in revealing his true character to
his captive, as it was beyond her power to do him harm, he turned
abruptly and replied:
“Yes. Hereafter ye’ll know me, not as Hank, th’ American scout and
patriot, but as Putney, th’ spy of th’ Tory League!”
This announcement, like the sting of some venomous serpent, sunk
deep into the heart of Imogene. For a moment she seemed completely
paralyzed.
“Great Heavens! then I am lost!” she murmured, seeing how basely she
had been betrayed, and how unwarily she had surrendered herself into
the clutches of the villains.
The fact that Hank Putney and the leader of her abductors were one
and the same person, was more than she could seem to realize. To her,
the greatness of the man’s crime was only equaled by his perfidy.
Her spirit was almost crushed by the acknowledged treachery of him in
whom she had reposed so much confidence, and she resigned herself to
her fate.
The party continued the remainder of their journey in silence. The
moon had risen bright and full, when they arrived near the house in
which the ruffians had left their companion to await their return.
As they emerged from the forest to cross the lawn leading to the
dwelling, a slight breeze shook the tall pines--a peculiar sound
reached their ears--the lengthened shadow of a human body stretched
across the moonlit sward, reaching nigh to their very feet in its
vacillating course.
They stopped--looked up--when, oh, horror! they beheld a spectacle
sufficient to harrow up their very souls.
There, pendent between heaven and earth, with its form clearly
outlined against the bright sky, was a black, frightful, hideous
corpse, once their own cheerful comrade, now no more.
As it slowly swayed to and fro, moved by the gentle wind, with the
pale moonbeams reflecting on the grim, distorted countenance, with
features ghastly and repulsive, with eyes staring and glassy, that
seemed to protrude from their sockets in their endeavors to pierce,
as it were, the impenetrable darkness that enveloped the path of the
soul, the ill-boding, shrill screams of the birds of prey, as they
struggled and fought over their ghostly banquet of flesh, was a sight
too dreadful to look upon.
The ruffians turned their heads in disgust from the horrible sight,
and dragging more than leading Imogene, who seemed chained to the
spot by some terrible fascination, they hurried away.
The ominous cries of the carnivorous birds still rung in their
ears--sounds that penetrated the deepest chambers of their own
dark hearts, pricking their consciences with the knowledge of the
loathsome deeds there secreted.
On, on they hurried, through brier, bramble, and thicket, stopping
not even to cast a single glance behind them, lest they should
again see the spectral figure of their late companion, until they
had satisfied themselves that they had nothing to fear from ghost or
human, when they reined in their panting steeds to recover breath.
“Oh, God! thet wor awful!” exclaimed Putney, in a husky voice. “Poor
Tom wor a plucky one; but that wor an awful death to die!” and he
covered his face with his brawny hands, trying to shut out the
terrible scene from his imagination.
The corpse was that of their companion, to whom, that morning, the
dragoons had administered such summary justice.
After a moment of respite, Putney gave the signal to again press
onward. Over fallen trees, through swamp and morass, up the steep
hill and across the valley, they hurried with a precipitation which
naught but their superstitious fears could have created.
Their progress was at length arrested by the small stream that flowed
into Lake George, between Forts William Henry and George. One of the
party reconnoitered the bank for some distance to find a fordable
place.
Finally the desired spot was discovered, and they succeeded in
passing over in safety, receiving only a slight wetting. They were so
near the forts, that the distant roll of the drums and winding of the
bugles could be heard distinctly.
Putney urged the party to their utmost celerity. He was in great
trepidation lest he should come across some scouting party returning
to the fort. However, the crisis passed safely over, and they
breathed freely as they escaped beyond the American lines.
After a short but wearisome ride, Putney signaled the party to
halt and dismount. The spot at which they stopped was at the base
of a large hill, possessed, in no respect, of any peculiarities to
distinguish it from the landscape of the surrounding country.
Putney pushed his way through a large clump of bushes that grew some
distance back from the roadside, and made a sign for the others to
follow him.
They proceeded cautiously along a secret path that wound around the
base of the mountain, and at length stopped before a large cavity
partly concealed by shrubbery.
Putney knocked on a small door that barred what appeared to be the
entrance to a cave. The bolts were slowly withdrawn, and the door
cautiously opened by a dark, sullen-looking man, who held a large
bunch of keys in his hand.
A nod of recognition was exchanged between this personage and Putney,
and the party was allowed to enter. The place into which they were
introduced, bore a dismal, somber appearance.
Benches were scattered promiscuously about, while on the side walls
were hung all sorts of martial implements. Not a single person,
however, was visible: all was as quiet as the grave.
They were conducted along a large corridor dimly lighted a by a
single lantern, whose feeble glare served only to heighten the
gloominess of the situation.
Imogene was ushered into a brilliantly illuminated apartment, which,
from all appearances, had, no doubt, been fitted up for her special
reception.
She gazed about her with a half-bewildered air. The apartment was a
magnificent one. There was a lavish display of grandeur, unsurpassed
in many of our wealthiest drawing rooms.
From the ceiling hung a beautiful pendent, with variegated lights.
The tapestried walls were grandiosely decorated in the richest and
most artistic manner.
In the center of the room stood a table with vases, containing the
choicest and rarest flowers, whose fragrant exhalations perfumed the
whole apartment, serving to dispel the disagreeable odors emanating
from the naturally damp walls.
The whole appearance of the place was strikingly at variance with
the rest of the interior of this mysterious cavern. Recovering from
her fit of abstraction into which she had fallen, Imogene rushed to
the door of her prison, for this we must term it, to try and gain an
egress, but it was securely barred.
She then turned her attention to the walls, lest perchance there
might be some secret avenue to escape, but her hopes in that
direction were speedily blasted.
Again she returned to her prison door, and with frantic energy shook
it violently, but it was proof against her feeble strength.
In an agony of despair, she cried aloud for assistance; however,
naught save the echoes of her own voice gave back an answer.
“Lost! lost! lost!” she cried! “May Heaven defend and guide me in
this, my hour of peril!”
The exertions she had made were too much for her delicate and
exhausted frame. Tottering to a small couch that stood at the further
end of the room, she cast herself upon it, and burying her face in
her hands, gave vent to her grief.
Gradually a sense of drowsiness stole over her, and succumbing to
nature’s wants, she soon was lost in slumber. How long she remained
thus, she knew not, when she was awakened by the creaking of her
prison door as some person entered.
Remaining silent, she listened. The footsteps approached the middle
of the apartment, then stopped. She started in alarm from her
reclining posture and confronted her silent visitor.
He was a tall and stately personage, with an authoritative and
commanding mien. His face was carefully concealed in the folds of an
ample cloak that fell gracefully from his shoulders.
“Why this intrusion, sir?”
“No intrusion, fair lady, only a friendly visit.”
At the sound of the stranger’s voice Imogene involuntarily drew back.
“That voice--surely I have heard it before--it is so like _his_!” she
whispered to herself. “Who are you, sir?”
“Behold!” exclaimed the stranger, throwing off his disguise.
“Great Heavens! Maurice!” and Imogene, trembling in every joint,
staggered against the wall for support.
“Yes, Imogene!” replied her visitor, making a bow, half courteous,
half ironical--“it is I.”
“For what reasons are you here?--you, whom all thought to be hundreds
of leagues hence?”
“To express my love to you. Yes, Imogene--it is the great love I bear
you that has placed me here, and made me what you see me.”
“Are you a voluntary inmate of this horrid place?”
“I am.”
“And these wretched men that brought me hither?”
“Are my subordinates.”
“But they, according to their own confession, are members of that
notorious band called the Tory League. Are you then, numbered among
their associates?”
“I am--their leader.”
“Do you mean to tell me that _you_--but I dare not mention that
terrible name; the very thought of it makes my blood run cold with
horror.”
“It is but too true--I _do_ bear that name which none have learned
to repeat, save to visit with curses and execrations the head of its
possessor--Iron Hand.”
“Yes, yes; that dreadful synonym for bloody murder and rapine.”
“Imogene, you judge me too harshly. Though hated by mankind; though
my name be whispered in accents of fear and loathing, yet I am not
so bad as the world would have me. One thing always has sustained
me when on the very verge of despair, and like a celestial guide,
has directed my footsteps, and bid me hope when all around me was
ingulfed in misery and darkness--it is the thought, that you might
yet look upon me more kindly; that you might at some future day, even
learn to love me.”
“Talk not to me of love! Know you not that I am already
betrothed--that my hand is already plighted to another?”
“Ay! I know it but too well. It is that that has compelled me to have
recourse to these extreme measures; it is the burning love that is
consuming me, that has goaded me on to undertake that which in my
better moments I would scorn to do.”
“Is it to avow your vile passion that you have torn me from my happy
home, and brought sorrow to the heart of my venerable father? Is it
for that purpose that you have seduced America’s sons from their
allegiance--that you have enlisted in your service the silvery locks
of age, and made them subservient tools for the furtherance of your
diabolical schemes? It is for this, then, that you have outraged
propriety, modesty, and the laws of God and man? Is it thus you
expect to be successful? You speak of love; yes, it is like that the
hawk bears the dove, merely to toy with its victim for a time, then
to rend it in pieces with its talons. Thank God! I have penetrated
your disguise, and understand your villainous designs--I am no longer
deceived. Your heart is black and treacherous, your soul stained
with crimes innumerable, and honor has fled the breast of one so
corrupted!”
The Tory chieftain drew back at the passionate energy of Imogene’s
manner. His rage stood revealed in his pale and distorted face; but
suppressing his anger--he thought it policy--he replied with affected
composure:
“You know not, Imogene, how I have loved and love you. Even supposing
that I have acted with any rashness in this, why will you insist on
my suffering for it? Why should reproaches be added to rejection, as
if to make the cup of bitterness more full? Come, Imogene, we must
yet be friends. I do not press you for an immediate answer; but tell
me you will think of me, and think more kindly, and I will be happy.
I go now, but will return on the morrow to receive my answer.”
Bowing low, he turned to depart.
“Hold! hold, sir!” exclaimed Imogene. “I wish to be harassed no
further by these unwelcome visits. Your very presence fills me with a
loathsome feeling I can not express. You can not deceive me by your
duplicity. I know your purposes are vile. Hear then my answer. It is
irrevocable and absolute. I hate you! I despise you! My soul tells me
that you are worse than you appear. You have bribed a villain with a
heart as black as your own, to deliver me into your power. Think you
that vengeance sleepeth? No! its loud cry will rise to Heaven until
you perish beneath its withering influence!”
As she spoke these words, with an energy beyond what she had ever
shown, the fire that smoldered on the hearth fell in, and caused a
sudden light to fill the place.
It shone ruddy brown upon the beautiful but stern face and uplifted
arm of Imogene, and gave to her the appearance of an angel denouncing
on the head of the villain before her the sentence of eternal woe.
It glared likewise upon the pale countenance of the Tory, and gave
to his distorted features a look of ghastliness and fear that might
have suited such an occasion well.
The awe-inspiring picture lasted but for a second, then vanished.
The fire again sunk low, the light grew dim. It came like a dismal
vision, and like a vision faded.
This was more than her visitor had expected. He felt how thoroughly
he was despised, and for a moment was speechless; but quickly
recovering himself, a Satanic look overspread his countenance, and
his eyes glared with a furious fire as he fairly hissed these words
between his teeth:
“You have given me _your_ answer, now list ye to _mine_! When we were
but mere children together, you rejected my boyish love--you looked
down upon me with scorn and contempt as you do now--you spurned
me from you as though I were a dog, without pity, without mercy!
Think you that I am impervious to such wrongs, such insults? Think
you that you can with impunity beard the lion in his den, without
reaping the result of your audacity? Mark ye! I will give you three
days to reconsider your rash decision; at the expiration of that
time, I will return for a final answer. Should you refuse me, then
you are mine--mine, body and soul. There is no one to whom you can
appeal for assistance--none that can help you. I alone possess that
power, and should you disdain to avail yourself of it, then you are
irretrievably lost!” and with a demoniac laugh, the Tory rushed from
the place.
Imogene gazed for a moment with a wild stare after the retreating
form of her late visitor, then reeled, and sunk swooning to the floor.
* * * * *
The morning succeeding the arrest of Captain Sherwood dawned clear
and beautiful. The bright sunbeams struggled through the narrow,
grated window of Edgar’s cell, and brilliantly illuminated the
apartment.
When he gazed about him, and beheld the joyful sunlight streaming
athwart the floor of his prison, his feelings were too painful for
description--it seemed, as it were, that every thing mocked him.
“Would that I could dispel these gloomy thoughts that possess me,” he
murmured. “There is an indescribable something--a feeling of sadness
I can not banish. Shake it off I can not--it clings to me despite my
efforts, and I feel as though it were a precursor of some terrible
affliction about to befall me.”
While these despondent thoughts occupied his mind, he remained
leaning with his shoulder against the wall, and gazing with a
troubled look upon the decaying fire, when Colonel Hall entered the
cell.
“Ah, good-morning, colonel,” exclaimed Edgar; “I am so glad to see
you; your presence makes me feel less sad.”
“Good-morning, captain; I hope you are well.”
“Yes, colonel, well in body, though not in spirit. But why do _you_
look so sad? Are you in trouble?”
“Yes, captain, I am.”
“Then we are companions in misfortune.”
“Would to God that we were!”
“Why? Do you so commiserate the unhappiness of others, that you are
willing to share it with them?”
“The affliction is not so much my own, captain, as my friend’s.”
“Your friend! Ah! then there is another to whom you may offer
condolence. May I inquire his name?”
“Alas! you know it but too well; the person is--yourself!”
“Myself! Is there then some new tale of woe--some additional sorrow
to be added to my already heavy burden? Tell it me, I beseech you,
colonel--keep me not in suspense.”
“Calm yourself, Captain Sherwood, that you may listen to me.”
Drawing his seat close to that of Edgar, Colonel Hall, in as gentle
a manner as possible, related to him Imogene’s sudden and mysterious
disappearance, the success of the party that he had dispatched in
search of her, and their return to the fort that morning.
At the conclusion of this sad intelligence, Edgar uttered a deep
groan. His head sunk forward on his knees in an access of deep
emotion, and his eyes were fixed with a vacant stare on the floor.
For several moments, silence, gloomy and profound, reigned. Raising
his head slowly, his face, which was now pale and haggard, presented
a picture of despair.
“What have they done with her?” he faintly asked.
“At present I am unable to answer you. The prisoner that was
captured, and from whom the information which I have imparted to
you was elicited, remained reticent on that point. However, I will
use the most strenuous exertions to have the mystery unraveled in
a satisfactory manner. Too long has the border ran with the blood
of the victims of these cut-throats. I will have them hunted down
wheresoever they be, till they pay the penalty of their villainous
deeds,” exclaimed Colonel Hall, in an emphatic tone, a stern look
settling on his brow.
“Heaven bless and reward you, colonel, for your kindness to me.”
“Mention it not, Captain Sherwood, I beg of you. I have done no
more to you, than I would have expected you to do me under like
circumstances. I must tarry no longer, however, as the time flies
swiftly by, and my men are under orders, impatiently awaiting my
commands.”
His hand was already on the latch of the cell-door, when Edgar again
addressed him.
“A word more, Colonel Hall, before you go. I have another--a final
request to make of you; should you accede to it, you will confer upon
me an inestimable boon.”
“Well, what may it be?”
“That you will allow my friend, War-Cloud, to visit me here alone.”
“Captain, any thing within my power that will tend to alleviate the
rigorousness of your unpleasant position I will willingly do--your
request I grant.”
“Thanks! thanks!”
But a short interval elapsed after the departure of Colonel Hall,
when the door opened and War-Cloud entered. Edgar, seizing the hand
of his friend with warmth, and wringing it cordially, led him to a
seat beside his own, near the fire.
“I have a purpose, my friend, in thus sending for you,” said Edgar.
“You are aware of my helpless situation, unable assist myself, or
even her who is dearer to me than life itself; for this reason have
I sought you, as the only one to whom I could unhesitatingly reveal
my grave suspicions. I also have a plan to unfold. Should it succeed,
every thing may again be righted; however, its undertaking entails
many hazards, perhaps death.”
“War-Cloud is always ready to aid his white brother.”
“Thanks, my faithful friend! To you, then, will I confide my
suspicion--in you do I place my last, my forlorn hope. Draw near to
me, that not a single word I speak may escape you; for should this
fail, then all is lost!”
Looking cautiously around to see that he could not be overheard,
Edgar commenced in a low, whispering tone to disclose to the scout
the plan of which he had spoken.
It was evident by the startled manner of War-Cloud, so foreign to
his natural stoicism, that he was a listener to a disclosure that
surpassed his most extravagant conceptions.
After a long conversation, they both arose. The sad, dejected
features of Edgar were now lighted up by a more hopeful look, while
on the countenance of War-Cloud there was an expression of settled
determination to be successful in this enterprise, could human
efforts effect such a result.
Moving toward the door, their eyes met, and in that gaze each read
the depth of friendship’s love. The two friends clasped hands
affectionately, and with a mutual farewell, the next moment the
Indian was gone.
The following morning anxious inquiries were made at the fort
concerning the whereabouts of War-Cloud, but he was nowhere to be
found.
He had quietly made his exit, unknown to any of the garrison; but
as these sudden and mysterious disappearances were of no uncommon
occurrence, they created no suspicion.