Great agitation prevailed at Macdonald's post, when the morning
disclosed the escape of Butler. The lieutenant was conscious that this
mischance had exposed him to the risk of heavy censure, and as was
natural to a man who could not entirely acquit himself of some neglect
in the performance of his duty, his first measures were taken in a
spirit of peevish and angry severity. Small parties were sent out to
explore the neighborhood, with a view to gain intelligence of the
direction taken by the fugitive, with orders to bring him in dead or
alive. The sentinels who were on duty during the night were arrested,
and subjected to a rigid examination on the events of their watch; the
several members of Musgrove's family were also interrogated as to
matters touching their own connexion with the prisoner. Nothing,
however, was gathered from these investigations that was calculated to
cast a suspicion of connivance in Butler's liberation, upon any
individual either of the garrison or of the family. It was only apparent
that the prisoner had availed himself of the remissness of the guard and
the darkness of the night, to make a bold descent from the window; and
had succeeded by one of those lucky accidents which sometimes baffle the
most cautious foresight. The nature of the attempt did not necessarily
suppose the aid of an accomplice, and a faint hope was, therefore,
entertained that Butler would be found still lurking in the vicinity of
the post.
In the course of a few hours, the first parties that had been dispatched
in the morning, returned. They could give no account of the prisoner;
nor was there any light thrown upon the escape until about the dinner
hour, when a portion of the detachment which had intercepted Butler and
his comrades in the morning, arrived at the mill, under the conduct of
the soldier whose suspicions had led to the pursuit and skirmish which
we have already described. The report of these men left Macdonald no
room to doubt the identity of Butler with the person described. A
further examination, at the suggestion of the soldier, showed that
Wall-Eye, the wagon-horse, was missing; and it now became certain that
Butler had been aided by a party of the enemy with whom he must have
been in correspondence. The conclusion was, that with his means of
flight there could be little doubt of his being, long before the present
period of the day, out of the reach of successful pursuit. The scheme
was laid to the account of Horse Shoe Robinson, whose name and
adventures were already famous in this district; and it was conjectured
that Sumpter was secretly posted in some neighboring fastness to give
his assistance to the enterprise.
With these reflections, Macdonald felt himself obliged to submit to the
exigencies of the case; a point of philosophy which he did not practise
without a very visible chagrin and mortification. His men were called
together, and after a short, fretful lecture on their neglect, and an
injunction to a more soldier-like vigilance in future, which savored of
the caution of locking the stable after the steed was stolen, they were
dismissed.
About an hour before sundown, Allen Musgrove and Mary, availing
themselves of the confusion and relaxed discipline of the post,
occasioned by the events of the morning, set out on horseback for David
Ramsay's dwelling, whither they were led by a natural anxiety to learn
something of the movements of the fugitives.
"It's a pleasure and a happiness, Allen Musgrove," said Mistress Ramsay,
as the miller and his daughter sat down in the cabin, "to see you and
Mary over here with us at any time, but it is specially so now when we
have good news to tell. John and his friend are safe out of reach of
Macdonald's men, and--God be praised!--I hope out of the way of all
other harms. We have had soldiers dodging in and out through the day,
but not one of them has made any guess what's gone with the major; and
as for John, they don't seem to suspect him to be on the country-side.
It's all Horse Shoe Robinson with them. They say that none but he could
have helped to get the major away, and that General Sumpter was the
instigator. Well, I'm sure they were welcome to that opinion, for it set
them all to looking over towards Broad river, which is as good a
direction as we could wish them to travel."
"The less you seem to know about it, with any of these inquiring
parties, the better, Mistress Ramsay," said Allen Musgrove, "and I would
advise you, even here amongst ourselves, to speak lower, David, what do
you hear this evening?"
"Nothing concerning our runaways since they left us at daylight this
morning," replied Ramsay. "I should guess them to be somewhere near upon
Fair Forest by this time. You know Williams is out-lying upon the upper
branches of the river? It is more like hunted deer, Allen, than
Christian men, that our poor fellows take to the woods now. God knows
what will come of it!"
"He knows and has appointed it," said Musgrove, gravely, "and will in
His own good time and with such instruments as shall faithfully work His
purpose, give the victory to them that have the right. Man, woman, and
child may perish, and house and home may be burnt over our heads, and
the blood of brave men may make the dust of the road red; yes, and the
pastures rich as if new laid with manure; but the will of God shall be
done and His providence be accomplished. The cause of the just shall
prevail against the unjust."
"There were no soldiers," inquired Mary, addressing David Ramsay, "that
you have heard of, who followed towards Fair Forest? I should be sorry
if John was to be troubled with persons going after him; because,"--the
maiden hesitated an instant,--"because it's unpleasant and disagreeable
to be obliged to be riding off the road, through bushes and briers, to
keep out of the way."
"If they were not greatly an overmatch, girl," interrupted Ramsay, "John
wouldn't give himself much trouble upon that account."
"Oh, Mr. Ramsay," said Mary earnestly, "I was thinking of that. It's
hard to say what John would call an overmatch: men are so headstrong and
venturesome."
"That's God's own truth, Mary," interposed Mrs. Ramsay; "and what I have
always been telling David and John both. But they never heed me, no more
than if I was talking to the child in that cradle."
"I've told John as much myself," said Mary, blushing.
"And he would not heed you either," interrupted her father, "A soldier
would have a holiday life of it, if he followed the advice of his
mother or his sweetheart. Daughter, amongst friends here, you needn't
blush; we know more of the secrets betwixt you and the trooper lad than
you count upon. John's a clever boy, Mistress Ramsay, and I think you
have reason to brag of him somewhat; and as there's particular good-will
between him and my Mary, I'll not stand in the way when the war is over,
if God spares us all, and Mary and the lad keep in the same mind; I'll
not stand in the way of a new settlement in the neighborhood. Mary is a
good daughter, well nurtured, and--I don't care to say it to her
face--will make a thriving wife."
The mother smiled as she replied, "I don't pretend to know the young
people's secrets, but I know this, you don't think better of Mary than
John does--nor than me neither, perhaps."
The conversation was interrupted by a knocking at the door, and, in a
moment afterwards, Arthur Butler and the woodman entered the apartment.
"Major Butler, as I am a living woman!" exclaimed Mrs. Ramsay.
"Our good friend himself!" ejaculated Musgrove, with surprise. "What has
turned you back? And Gabriel Drummond here too! What has happened?"
"Where is my son John?" demanded Ramsay. "Are you followed?"
Butler walked up to Mrs. Ramsay, and, as a tear started to his eye, took
her by the hand, and stood for a moment unable to speak.
"Oh, heaven have mercy on me!" screamed Mary Musgrove, as she threw
herself upon a bed, "something dreadful has happened."
"For God's sake, speak what you have to tell!" said David Ramsay,
instantly turning pale.
"John Ramsay is hurt," faintly articulated the mother, and Mary, rising
from the bed, stood beside Butler with a countenance on which was seated
the most agonizing attention. Andy, the hero of the exploit we have
heretofore related, also pressed into the presence of the same group,
and a death-like silence pervaded the whole party.
Butler, with an ineffectual effort to recover himself, turned to
Drummond, making a sign to him to tell the object of their melancholy
errand, and then flung himself into a chair.
"John Ramsay is dead," said the woodman, in a mournful tone. "Your son,
mistress Ramsay, was shot in a fray with the bloody, villanous Tories.
The heartiest curses upon them!"
"Killed, dear madam," said Butler, scarce able to articulate, "killed in
my defence. Would to God the blow had fallen upon my own head!"
"Oh, no, no, no!" exclaimed the matron, as a flood of tears rolled down
her cheeks, and she endeavored to wipe them away with her apron. "It
isn't true. It can't be true. My poor, dear, brave boy!"
At the same instant Mary Musgrove fell insensible into the arms of her
father, where it was some moments before she gave signs of animation. At
length, being laid upon the bed, a deep groan escaped her, which was
followed by the most piteous wailing.
The scene wrought upon the younger members of the family, who, as well
as the domestics, were heard pouring forth deep and loud lamentations,
accompanied with reiterated announcements of the death of the soldier.
When this first burst of the general grief was over, David Ramsay arose
from his seat and walked across the room to a window, where he stood
endeavoring to compose and master his feelings. At length, facing
Butler, he said in a low and tranquil tone,
"John Ramsay, my son, killed, killed in a skirmish? God is my witness, I
expected it! It was his failing to follow his enemy with too hot a hand;
and I am to blame, perhaps, that I never checked him in that temper. But
he died like a man and a soldier, Major Butler," he added, firmly.
"He died in my arms," replied Butler, "as bravely as ever soldier closed
his life, his last thoughts were fixed upon his parents, and--"
"Dead!" interrupted Ramsay, as if communing with himself, and regardless
of Butler's words--"Dead! He fell doing his duty to his country, that's
a consolation. A man cannot die better. If it please God, I hope my end
may be like his. Andrew, my boy, come here. You are now my oldest living
son," he said, taking the lad's hand and looking him full in the face,
as he spoke with a bitter compression of his lips; "I am willing, much
as I love you, that the country should have you."
"No, David, David," interrupted the mother, rousing herself from her
silent grief, "we have given enough; no other child of mine shall
venture in the war. John! John! John! my dear boy, my brave son! How
good and kind he was to us all! And how glad he was to get home to see
us; and how much we made of him!"
"Silence, wife," said David Ramsay, "this is no time to hold back from
our duty. Andrew, listen to me: remember your brother has met his death
fighting against these monsters, who hate the very earth that nurses
liberty. You are young, boy, but you can handle a musket; we will not
forget your brother's death."
"Nor the burning of a good house over your head, and a full barn,
father; nor the frights they have given my poor mother."
"Nor the thousands of brave men," added the father, "who have poured out
their blood to give us a land and laws of our own. My boy, we will
remember these, for vengeance."
"Not for vengeance," said Allen Musgrove, "for justice, David. Your
enemy should be remembered only to prevent him from doing mischief. The
Lord will give him sword and buckler, spear and shield, who stands up
for the true cause: and when it pleases Him to require the sacrifice of
life from the faithful servant who fights the battle, he grants patience
and courage to meet the trial. Your son was not the man, David, to turn
his face away from the work that was before him; may God receive him and
comfort his distressed family! He was an honest and brave son, David
Ramsay."
"A braver soldier never buckled on broadsword, Allen Musgrove," replied
the father. "Yes, I looked for this; ever since my dwelling was levelled
to the ground by these firebrands, I looked for it. John's passion was
up then, and I knew the thoughts that ran through his mind. Ever since
that day his feelings have been most bitter; and he has flung himself
amongst the Tories, making as little account of them as the mower when
he puts his scythe into the grass of the meadows."
"God forgive him, David!" said Musgrove, "and strengthen you and the
boy's good mother in this sharp hour of trial. They who draw the sword
in passion may stand in fear of the judgment of the sword: it is a
fearful thing for sinful man to shed blood for any end but that of
lawful war, and at the bidding of his country. God alone is the
avenger."
Mary had again raised herself from the bed, and at this moment gave vent
to her feelings in a loud and bitter lamentation "John Ramsay is dead,
is dead!" she exclaimed. "I cannot believe it. He that was so true and
so warm-hearted, and that everybody loved! They could not kill him! Oh,
I begged him to keep his foot from danger, and he promised me, for my
sake, to be careful. I loved him, father; I never told you so much
before, but I am not ashamed to tell it now before everybody; I loved
him better than all the world. And we had promised each other. It is so
hard to lose them that we love!" she continued, sobbing violently. "He
was so brave and so good, and he was so handsome, Mrs. Ramsay, and so
dutiful to you and his father, coming home to see you whenever the war
would let him. And he walked, and rode, and ran, and fought for his
friends, and them that he cared for. He was so thoughtful for your
comfort too," she added, as she threw herself on her knees and rested
her head in the lap of the mother, and there paused through a long
interval, during which nothing was heard but her own moans mingled with
the sighs of the party, "we were to be married after this war was at an
end, and thought we should live so happily: but they have murdered him!
Oh they have murdered him," and with her hair thrown in disorder over
her face, she again gave vent to a flood of tears.
"Mary, daughter! Shame on you, girl!" said her father. "Do you forget,
in the hour of your affliction, that you have a friend who is able to
comfort? There is one who can heal up your sorrows and speak peace to
your troubled spirit, if you be not too proud to ask it. I have taught
you, daughter, in all time of tribulation to look to Him for patience
and for strength to bear adversity. Why do you neglect this refuge now?"
"Our Father," said the maiden, fervently clasping her hands and lifting
up her eyes, now dim with weeping, as she appealed to God in prayer,
"who art in heaven--teach us all to say thy will be done. Take--take--my
dear John--Oh my heart will burst and I shall die!" she uttered, almost
overwhelmed with her emotions, as she again buried her face in Mistress
Ramsay's lap--"I cannot speak!"
A silence of inexpressible agony prevailed for some moments. This was at
length interrupted by the uprising of the full, clear, and firm voice of
Allen Musgrove, who now broke forth from the opposite side of a room
where he had kneeled before a chair, in an earnest and impressive
supplication to the Deity, urged with all that eloquence which naturally
flows from deeply-excited feeling. From the solemnity of the occasion,
as well as from the habitually religious temper of the family assembled
in the little cabin, the words of the prayer fell upon the hearts of
those present with a singularly welcome effect, and, for the moment,
brought tranquillity to their feelings.
When the prayer was ended, the grief of the mourners rolled back in its
former flood, and burst from Mary Musgrove in the most heart-rending
bitterness. Paroxysm followed paroxysm with fearful violence, and these
outbreaks were responded to by the mother with scarcely less intensity.
All attempts at consolation, on the part of the men, were unavailing;
and it was apparent that nothing remained but to let the tide of anguish
take its own course.
It was now some time after night-fall, when Butler and Drummond beckoned
Allen Musgrove to leave the room. They retired into the open air in
front of the house, where they were immediately joined by David Ramsay.
Here Butler communicated to them the necessity of making immediate
arrangements for their return to the woodman's cottage, and for the
burial of the deceased trooper. His advice was adopted, and it was
resolved that Musgrove and Ramsay should accompany the other two to the
spot. Before the consultation was closed, Andy had come into the group,
and he was now directed, with all haste, to throw a saddle upon his
father's horse.
"You, Andrew, my son," said David Ramsay, "will stay at home and comfort
your poor mother, and Mary. Speak to them, boy, and persuade them to
give up their useless lamentations. It is the will of God, and we ought
not to murmur at it."
"The burning, father," replied the boy, with a sorrowful earnestness,
"and the fighting, and the frights we have had, was all nothing to this.
I never felt before how terrible the war was."
Andy had now gone to equip the horse, and the men returned to the inside
of the cabin, where they sat in profound silence. Butler, at length,
rose from the door-sill where he had taken his seat, and crossing the
room, took a position by the bed on which Mary Musgrove had thrown
herself, and where she now lay uttering faint and half-smothered moans.
"I have a remembrance for you," he said, stooping down and speaking
scarce above a whisper in the maiden's ear; "I promised to deliver it
into your hand. God knows with what pain I perform my office! John
enjoined upon me to give you this," he continued, as he presented to her
the little copy of the Testament, "and to say to you that his last
thoughts were given to you and his mother. He loved you, Mary, better
than he loved any living creature in this world."
"He did, he did," sobbed forth the girl; "and I loved him far above
family, friends, kinsfolk and all--I wish I were dead by his side."
"Take the book," said Butler, hardly able to articulate. "God for ever
bless you," he added, after a pause of weeping, "and bring you comfort!
I have promised John Ramsay, that neither you, nor any of his family,
shall ever want the service of a friend, while I have life or means to
render it. Before Heaven, that pledge shall be redeemed! Farewell,
farewell! God bless you!"
As Butler uttered these words he grasped the maiden's hand and pressed
it fervently to his lips; then turning to the mother, he addressed some
phrase of comfort to her, and hastily left the room. Scarcely a sound
was heard from any one, except the low sobbing of the exhausted weepers,
and the almost convulsive kisses which Mary imprinted upon the little
book that Butler had put into her hand.
Musgrove, Ramsay, and the woodman, retired from the apartment at the
same moment; and the horses being ready at the door, the retreating beat
of the hoofs upon the turf gave notice to the in-dwellers that the four
men had set forward on their journey.