THE WHIGS CONTINUE THEIR MARCH.--MILDRED IS LEFT BEHIND.
The army of mountaineers halted at Gilbert-town only until a vidette
from Williams brought tidings of Ferguson's late movements. These
reached Campbell early in the day succeeding his arrival at the village,
and apprised him that Williams followed on the footsteps of the British
partisan, and would expect to unite his force with that of the allied
volunteers at the Cowpens--(a field not yet distinguished in
story)--whither he expected to arrive on the following day. Campbell
determined, in consequence, to hasten to this quarter.
The present position of Mildred, notwithstanding the kind sympathy with
which every one regarded her, was one that wrought severely upon her
feelings. She had heretofore encountered the hardships of her journey,
and borne herself through the trials, so unaccustomed to her sex, with a
spirit that had quailed before no obstacle. But now, finding herself in
the train of an army just moving forth to meet its enemy, with all the
vicissitudes and peril of battle in prospect, it was with a sinking of
the heart she had not hitherto known, that she felt herself called upon
to choose between the alternative of accompanying them in their march,
or being left behind. To adopt the first resolve, she was painfully
conscious would bring her to witness scenes, and perhaps endure
privations, the very thought of which made her shudder; whilst, to
remain at a distance from the theatre of events in which she was so
deeply concerned, was a thought that suggested many anxious fears, not
less intolerable than the untried sufferings of the campaign. She had,
thus far, braved all dangers for the sake of being near to Butler; and
now to hesitate or stay her step, when she had almost reached the very
spot of his captivity, and when the fortunes of war might soon throw her
into his actual presence, seemed to her like abandoning her duty at the
most critical moment of trial. She was aware that he was in the camp of
the enemy; that this enemy was likely to be overtaken and brought to
combat; and it was with a magnified terror that she summoned up to her
imagination the possible mischances which might befal Arthur Butler in
the infliction of some summary act of vengeance provoked by the
exasperation of conflict. "I have tempted the dangers of flood and storm
for him--of forest and field--noon-day battle and midnight assault," she
said, with an earnestness that showed she had shaken all doubts from her
mind; "I have taken my vow of devotion to his safety--to be performed
with such fidelity as befits the sacred bond between us. I will not
blench now, in the last struggle, though perils thicken around me. I'm
prepared for the worst."
Allen Musgrove, Robinson, and Henry combated this resolve with joint
expostulation, urging upon Mildred the propriety of her tarrying in the
village, at least until the active operations of the army were
terminated--an event that might be expected in a few days. But it was
not until Campbell himself remonstrated with her against the
indiscretion of her purpose, and promised to afford her the means of
repairing to the scene of action at any moment she might think her
presence there useful, that she relinquished her determination to
accompany the army on its present expedition. It was, in consequence,
ultimately arranged that she should remain in the quarters provided for
her in Gilbert-town, attended by the miller and his daughter, whilst a
few soldiers were to be detailed as a guard for her person. With this
train of attendants, she was to be left at liberty to draw as near to
the centre of events as her considerate and faithful counsellor, Allen
Musgrove, might deem safe.
Another source of uneasiness to her arose out of the separation which
she was about to endure from the sergeant and her brother Henry. Horse
Shoe, swayed by an irresistible and affectionate longing to be present
at the expected passage of arms, which might so materially affect the
fortunes of his captive fellow-soldier, Butler, had represented to
Mildred the value of the services he might be able to render; and as
the friendly solicitude of the miller and his daughter left nothing
within their power to be supplied, towards the comfort and protection
of the lady, she did not refuse her consent to this temporary
desertion--although it naturally awakened some painful sense of
bereavement, at a moment when her excited feelings most required the
consolation of friends.
Henry, captivated with the prospect of military adventure, and magnified
in his own esteem by the importance which Stephen Foster and the Rangers
playfully assigned to his position in the ranks, had so far lost sight
of the special duty he had assumed, as his sister's companion, that he
now resolutely rebelled against all attempts to persuade him to remain
in the village; and Mildred, at last, upon the pledge of the sergeant to
keep the cadet under his own eye, reluctantly yielded to a demand which
she found it almost impossible to resist.
These matters being settled, it was not long before Mildred and Mary
Musgrove, seated at the window of the house which had been selected as
their present abode, saw the long array of the army glide by at a brisk
pace, and watched the careless and laughing faces of the soldiers, as
they filed off through the only street in the village, and took the high
road leading south.
The troops had been gone for several hours, and Allen Musgrove and the
few soldiers who had been left behind, had scattered themselves over the
village, to get rid of the tedium of idleness in the gossip of the scant
population which the place afforded. Mildred had retired to a chamber,
and Mary loitered from place to place like one disturbed with care. All
the party felt that deep sense of loneliness which is so acutely
perceptible to those who suddenly change a life of toil and incident for
one of rest, while events of busy interest are in expectation.
"They are gone, ma'am," said Mary, as she now crept into Mildred's
presence, after having travelled over nearly the whole village, in the
state of disquietude I have described; "they are gone at least twenty
miles, I should think, by this time; and I never would have believed
that I could have cared so much about people I never saw before. But we
are so lonesome, ma'am. And young Mister Henry Lindsay, I should say,
must be getting tired by this time of day. As for the matter of that,
people may get tireder by standing still than by going on."
"How far do they march to-day?" inquired Mildred; "have you heard your
father say, Mary?"
"I heard him and the troopers who are here allow," replied the maiden,
"that Colonel Campbell wouldn't reach Colonel Williams before to-morrow
afternoon. They said it was good fifty miles' travel. They look like
brave men--them that marched this morning, ma'am; for they went out with
good heart. The Lord send that through Him they may be the means of
deliverance to Major Butler!"
At the mention of this name, Mildred covered her face with her hands,
and the tears trickled through her fingers. "The Lord send it!" she
repeated, after a moment's pause. "May He, in his mercy, come to our
aid!" Then uncovering her face, and dropping on her knees beside her
chair, she whispered a prayer for the success of those who had lately
marched forth against the enemy.
When she arose from this posture, she went to the window, and there
stood gazing out upon the quiet and unfrequented street, running over in
her mind the perils to which her brother as well as Butler might be
exposed, and summoning to her imagination the thousand subjects of
solicitude, which her present state of painful expectation might be
supposed to create or recall.
"We will set forth early to-morrow," she said, addressing herself to her
companion, "so tell your father, Mary. We will follow the brave friends
who have left us: I cannot be content to linger behind them. I will
sleep in the lowliest hovel, or in the common shelter of the woods, and
share all the dangers of the march, rather than linger here in this
dreadful state of doubt and silence. Tell your father to make his
preparations for our departure to-morrow: tell him I cannot abide
another day in this place."
"I should think we might creep near them, ma'am," replied Mary, "near
enough to see and hear what was going on--which is always a great
satisfaction, and not get ourselves into trouble neither. I am sure my
father would be very careful of us, and keep us out of harm's way, come
what would. And it is distressing to be so far off, when you don't know
what's going to turn up. I will seek my father--who I believe is over
yonder with the troopers at the shop, talking to the blacksmith--I will
go there and try to coax him to do your bidding. I know the troopers
want it more than we do, and they'll say a word to help it along."
"Say I desire to have it so, Mary. I can take no refusal. Here I will
not stay longer."
Mary left the apartment, and as she descended the steps, she fell into a
rumination which arrested her progress full five minutes, during which
she remained mute upon the stair-case. "No wonder the poor dear lady
wishes to go!" was the ejaculation which came at last sorrowfully from
her heart, with a long sigh, and at the same time tears began to flow:
"no wonder she wants to be near Major Butler, who loves her past the
telling of it. If John Ramsay was there," she added, sobbing, "I would
have followed him--followed him--yes, if I died for it."