A RUSTIC FUNERAL.
How glumly sounds yon dirgy song;
Night ravens flap the wing.--_Burger's Leonora._
By eleven o'clock at night, Butler and the party from Ramsay's arrived
at the woodman's cabin. Winter and his comrades had been busy in making
preparations for the funeral. The body had been laid out upon a table, a
sheet thrown over it, and a pine torch blazed from the chimney wall
close by, and flung its broad, red glare over the apartment. An elderly
female, the wife of the woodman, and two or three children, sat quietly
in the room. The small detachment of troopers loitered around the
corpse, walking with stealthy pace across the floor, and now and then
adjusting such matters of detail in the arrangements for the interment
as required their attention. A rude coffin, hastily constructed of such
materials as were at hand, was deposited near the table. A solemn
silence prevailed, which no less consisted with the gloom of the
occasion than with the late hour of the night.
When the newly arrived party had dismounted and entered the apartment, a
short salutation, in suppressed tones, was exchanged, and without
further delay, the whole company set themselves to the melancholy duty
that was before them. David Ramsay approached the body, and, turning the
sheet down from the face, stood gazing on the features of his son. There
was a settled frown upon his brow that contrasted signally with the
composed and tranquil lineaments of the deceased. The father and son
presented a strange and remarkable type of life and death--the
countenance of the mourner stamped by the agitation of keen, living
emotion, and the object mourned bearing the impress of a serene, placid,
and passionless repose:--the one a vivid picture of misery, the other a
quiet image of happy sleep. David Ramsay bent his looks upon the body
for some minutes, without an endeavor to speak, and at last retreated
towards the door, striking his hand upon his forehead as he breathed out
the ejaculation, "My son, my son, how willingly would I change places
with you this night!"
Allen Musgrove was less agitated by the spectacle, and whilst he
surveyed the features of the deceased, his lips were moved with the
utterance of a short and almost inaudible prayer. Then turning to
Drummond, he inquired: "Has the grave been thought of? Who has attended
to the preparations?"
"It has been thought of," replied the woodman; "I sent two of my people
off to dig it before I went with Major Butler to see David. We have a
grave-yard across in the woods, nigh a mile from this, and I thought it
best that John Ramsay should be buried there."
"It was kindly thought on by you, Gabriel," replied Musgrove. "You have
your father and others of your family in that spot. David Ramsay will
thank you for it."
"I do, heartily," said Ramsay, "and will remember it, Gabriel, at
another time."
"Let the body be lifted into the coffin," said Musgrove.
The order was promptly executed by Harry Winter and the other troopers.
In a few minutes afterwards, the rough boards which had been provided to
close up the box or coffin, were laid in their appropriate places, and
Winter had just begun to hammer the nails into them, when from the
outside of the cabin was heard a wild and piercing scream, that fell so
suddenly upon the ears of those within as to cause the trooper to drop
the hammer from his hand. In one moment more, Mary Musgrove rushed into
the room and fell prostrate upon the floor. She was instantly followed
by Andrew.
"God of heaven!" exclaimed Butler, "here is misery upon misery. This
poor girl's brain is crazed by her misfortune. This is worst of all!"
"Mary, Mary, my child!" ejaculated Musgrove, as he raised his daughter
into his arms. "What madness has come upon you, that you should have
wandered here to-night!"
"How has this happened, Andrew?" said David Ramsay, all speaking in the
same breath.
"When Mary heard," replied Andrew, in answer to his father's question,
"that you had all come to Gabriel Drummond's to bury my brother, she
couldn't rest content; and she prayed so pitifully to come after you,
and see him before they put him in the ground, that I thought it right
to tell her that I would come with her. And if I hadn't, she would have
come by herself; for she had got upon her horse before any of us were
aware."
"I couldn't stay at home, father," said Mary, reviving and speaking in a
firm voice. "I should have died with a broken heart. I couldn't let you
come to put him in the earth without following after you. Where is he? I
heard them nailing the coffin; it must be broken open for me to see
him!"
These words, uttered with a bitter vehemence, were followed by a quick
movement towards the coffin, which was yet unclosed; and the maiden,
with more composure than her previous gestures seemed to render it
possible for her to acquire, paused before the body with a look of
intense sorrow, as the tears fell fast from her eyes.
"It is true--it is too true--he is dead! Oh, John, John!" she exclaimed,
as she stooped down and kissed the cold lips, "I did not dream of this
when we parted last night near the willows. You did not look as you do
now, when I found you asleep under the rock, and when you promised me,
John, that you would be careful and keep yourself from danger, if it was
only to please me. We were doing our best for you then, Major
Butler--and here is what it has come to. No longer than last night he
made me the promise. Oh me, oh me! how wretched--how miserable I am!"
"Daughter, dear," said Allen Musgrove, "rise up and behave like a brave
girl as, you know, I have often told you you were. We are born to
afflictions, and young as you are, you cannot hope to be free from the
common lot. You do yourself harm by this ungoverned grief. There's a
good and a kind girl--sit yourself down and calm your feelings."
Musgrove took his daughter by the hand, and gently conducted her to a
seat, where he continued to address her in soothing language, secretly
afraid that the agony of her feelings might work some serious misfortune
upon her senses.
"You are not angry with me, father, for following you to-night?" said
Mary, for a moment moderating the wildness of her sorrow.
"No, child, no. I cannot be angry with you; but I fear this long
night-ride may do you harm."
"I can but die, father; and I would not step aside from that."
"Recollect yourself, Mary; your Bible does not teach you to wish for
death. It is sinful to rebel under the chastisements of God. Daughter, I
have taught you in your day of prosperity, the lessons that were to be
practised in your time of suffering and trial. Do not now turn me and my
precepts to shame."
"Oh, father, forgive me. It is so hard to lose the best, the dearest!"
Here Mary again gave way to emotions which could only relieve themselves
in profuse tears.
In the meantime the body was removed to the outside of the cabin, and
the coffin was speedily shut up and deposited upon a light wagon-frame,
to which two lean horses were already harnessed, and which waited to
convey its burden to the grave-yard.
"All is ready," said Winter, stepping quietly into the house, and
speaking in a low tone to Musgrove. "We are waiting only for you."
"Father," said Mary, who, on hearing this communication, had sprung to
her feet, "I must go with you."
"My child!"
"I came all this way through the dark woods on purpose, father--and it
is my right to go with him to his grave. Pray, dear father, do not
forbid me. We belonged to each other, and he would be glad to think I
was the last that left him--the very last."
"The poor child takes on so," said the wife of Drummond, now for the
first time interposing in the scene; "and it seems natural, Mr.
Musgrove, that you shouldn't hinder her. I will go along, and maybe it
will be a comfort to her, to have some woman-kind beside her. I will
take her hand."
"You shall go, Mary," said her father; "but on the condition that you
govern your feelings, and behave with the moderation of a Christian
woman. Take courage, my child, and show your nurture."
"I will, father--I will; the worst is past, and I can walk quietly to
John's grave," replied Mary, as the tears again flowed fast, and her
voice was stifled with her sobs.
"It is a heavy trouble for such a young creature to bear," said Mistress
Drummond, as she stood beside the maiden, waiting for this burst of
grief to subside; "but this world is full of such sorrows."
Musgrove now quitted the apartment. He was followed by his daughter and
the rest of the inmates, all of whom repaired to the front of the cabin,
where they awaited the removal of the body.
A bundle of pine faggots had been provided, and each one of the party
was supplied from them with a lighted torch. Some little delay occurred
whilst Harry Winter was concluding his arrangements for the funeral.
"Take your weapons along, boys," said the trooper to his comrades, in a
whisper. "John Ramsay shall have the honors of war--and mark, you are to
bring up the rear--let the women walk next the wagon. Gabriel Drummond,
bring your rifle along--we shall give a volley over the grave."
The woodman stepped into the cabin and returned with his fire lock. All
things being ready, the wagon, under the guidance of a negro who walked
at the horses' heads, now moved forward. The whole party formed a
procession in couples--the woodman's wife and Mary being first in the
train, the children succeeding them, and the rest following in regular
order.
It was an hour after midnight. The road, scarcely discernible, wound
through a thick forest, and the procession moved with a slow and heavy
step towards its destination. The torches lit up the darkness of the
wood with a strong flame, that penetrated the mass of sombre foliage to
the extent of some fifty paces around, and glared with a wild and
romantic effect upon the rude coffin, the homely vehicle on which it was
borne, and upon the sorrowing faces of the train that followed it. The
seclusion of the region, the unwonted hour, and the strange mixture of
domestic and military mourning, half rustic and half warlike, that
entered into the composition of the group; and, above all, the
manifestations of sincere and intense grief that were seen in every
member of the train, communicated to the incident a singularly
imaginative and unusual character. No words were spoken, except the few
orders of the march announced by Harry Winter in a whisper; and the ear
recognised, with a painful precision, the unceasing sobs of Mary
Musgrove, and the deep groan that seemed, unawares, to escape now and
then from some of the males of the party. The dull tramp of feet, and
the rusty creak of the wagon-wheels, or the crackling of brushwood
beneath them, and the monotonous clank of the chains employed in the
gearing of the horses, all broke upon the stillness of the night with a
more abrupt and observed distinctness, from the peculiar tone of feeling
which pervaded those who were engaged in the sad offices of the scene.
In the space of half an hour, the train had emerged from the wood upon a
small tract of open ground, that seemed to have been formerly cleared
from the forest for the purpose of cultivation. Whatever tillage might
have once existed there was now abandoned, and the space was overgrown
with brambles, through which the blind road still struggled by a track
that even in daylight it would have been difficult to pursue. Towards
the centre of this opening grew a cluster of low cherry and peach trees,
around whose roots a plentiful stock of wild scions had shot up in the
absence of culture. Close in the shade of this cluster, a ragged and
half-decayed paling formed a square inclosure of some ten or twelve
paces broad, and a few rude posts set up within, indicated the spot to
be the rustic grave-yard. Here two negroes were seen resting over a
newly-dug grave.
The wagon halted within some short distance of the paling, and the
coffin was now committed to the shoulders of the troopers. Following
these, the whole train of mourners entered the burial-place.
My reader will readily imagine with what fresh fervor the grief of poor
Mary broke forth, whilst standing on the verge of the pit in which were
to be entombed the remains of one so dear to her. The solemn interval or
pause which intervened between the arrival of the corpse at this spot,
and its being lowered into the ground, was one that was not signalized
only by the loud sorrow of her who here bore the part of chief mourner;
but all, even to the negroes who stood musing over their spades, gave
vent to feelings which, at such a moment, it neither belongs to
humanity, nor becomes it, to resist.
The funeral service was performed by Allen Musgrove. The character of
the miller, both physical and moral, impressed his present employment
with singular efficacy. Though his frame bore the traces of age, it was
still robust and muscular; and his bearing, erect and steadfast, denoted
firmness of mind. His head, partially bald, was now uncovered; and his
loose, whitened locks played in the breeze. The torches were raised
above the group; and as they flared in the wind and flung their heavy
volumes of smoke into the air, they threw also a blaze of light upon the
venerable figure of the miller, as he poured forth an impassioned
supplication to the Deity; which, according to the habit of thinking of
that period, and conformably also to the tenets of the religious sect to
which the speaker belonged, might be said to have expressed, in an equal
degree, resignation to the will of Heaven and defiance of the power of
man. Though the office at the grave was thus prolonged, it did not seem
to be unexpected or wearisome to the auditory, who remained with
unabated interest until they had chanted a hymn, which was given out by
the miller, and sung in successive couplets. The religious observances
of the place seemed to have taken a profitable hold upon the hearts of
the mourners; and before the hymn was concluded, even the voice of Mary
Musgrove rose with a clear cadence upon the air, and showed that the
inspirations of piety had already supplanted some of the more violent
paroxysms of grief.
This exercise of devotion being finished, the greater part of the
company began their retreat to the woodman's cabin. Winter and his
comrades remained to perform the useless and idle ceremony of
discharging their pistols over the grave, and when this was accomplished
they hurried forward to overtake the party in advance.
They had scarcely rejoined their companions, before the horses of the
wagon were seized by an unknown hand; and the glare of the torches
presented to the view of the company some fifteen or twenty files of
British troopers.
"Stand, I charge you all, in the name of the king!" called out an
authoritative voice from the contiguous thicket; and before another
word could be uttered, the funeral train found themselves surrounded by
enemies.
"Hands off!" exclaimed Butler, as a soldier had seized him by the coat.
A pistol shot was heard, and Butler was seen plunging into the wood,
followed by Winter and one or two others.
The fugitives were pursued by numbers of the hostile party, and in a few
moments were dragged back to the lights.
"Who are you, sir?" demanded an officer, who now rode up to Butler,
"that you dare to disobey a command in the name of the king? Friend or
foe, you must submit to be questioned."
"We have been engaged," said Allen Musgrove, "in the peaceful and
Christian duty of burying the dead. What right have you to interrupt
us?"
"You take a strange hour for such a work," replied the officer, "and, by
the volley fired over the grave, I doubt whether your service be so
peaceful as you pretend, old man. What is he that you have laid beneath
the turf to-night?"
"A soldier," replied Butler, "worthy of all the rites that belong to the
sepulture of a brave man."
"And you are a comrade, I suppose?"
"I do not deny it."
"What colors do you serve?"
"Who is he that asks?"
"Captain McAlpine of the new levies," replied the officer. "Now, sir,
your name and character? you must be convinced of my right to know it."
"I have no motive for concealment," said Butler, "since I am already in
your power. Myself and four comrades are strictly your prisoners; the
rest of this party are inhabitants of the neighboring country, having no
connexion with the war, but led hither by a simple wish to perform an
office of humanity to a deceased friend. In surrendering myself and
those under my command, I bespeak for the others an immunity from all
vexatious detention. I am an officer of the Continental service: Butler
is my name, my rank, a major of infantry."
After a few words more of explanation, the party were directed by the
British officer to continue their march to Drummond's cabin, whither,
in a brief space, they arrived under the escort of their captors.
A wakeful night was passed under the woodman's roof; and when morning
came the circumstances of the recapture of Butler were more fully
disclosed. The detachment under Captain McAlpine were on their way to
join Ferguson, who was now posted in the upper district; and being
attracted by the sound of voices engaged in chanting the psalm at the
funeral of John Ramsay, and still more by the discharge of the volley
over the grave, they had directed their march to the spot, which they
had no difficulty in reaching by the help of the torches borne by the
mourners.
The detachment consisted of a company of horse numbering some fifty men,
who had no scruple in seizing upon Butler and his companions as
prisoners of war. It was some relief to Butler when he ascertained that
his present captors were ignorant of his previous history, and were
unconnected with those who had formerly held him in custody. He was also
gratified with the assurance that no design was entertained to molest
any others of the party, except those whom Butler himself indicated as
belligerents.
Captain McAlpine halted with his men at the woodman's cabin, until after
sunrise. During this interval, Butler was enabled to prepare himself for
the journey he was about to commence, and to take an affectionate leave
of Musgrove and his daughter, David Ramsay, and the woodman's family.
Allen Musgrove and Mary, and their friend Ramsay, deemed it prudent to
retreat with the first permission given them by the British officer;
and, not long afterwards, Butler and his comrades found themselves in
the escort of the Tory cavalry, bound for Ferguson's camp.
Thus, once more, was Butler doomed to feel the vexations of captivity.