FOILED.
A fortunate chance seemed about to do for Preston, that which he had
been deliberating about, and hesitating whether or no he should have
it done. John Vale, having crossed the line of the enemy in disguise,
was, according to the laws of war, a spy; and spies, when captured,
are always hung. So reasoned Captain Reginald, and his satisfaction
was intense. The family which stood between him and a competency
would now disappear, sure enough.
The night had worn far on when Reginald, tossing aside the papers
on which he had been engaged, for the moment resigned himself to
his thoughts. “Let me see,” he discoursed to himself; “I must get a
glimpse of my little beauty to-night, and see whether or no she will
be reasonable. I must keep my temper, though, for it was a shame
the way I went off into a passion the last time I saw her. One such
exhibition will do more damage than a week’s bowing and kisses, and
soft whispers, can well repair. I wish my arm was full strong again,
for I am more than half afraid to enter single armed into a contest
with a mad woman, armed with a heavy water-pitcher! Heavens! What a
picture she made! I think I see her now, with her eyes flashing, and
her arm thrown back, and I--ha! ha!--well! I adopted as a motto the
old proverb that ‘discretion is the better part of valor,’ and let
her alone. Here goes, then, for another visit to my rebel beauty. The
hour is so late I wonder if she will be awaiting my coming?” Throwing
on his cloak, he issued from his door and trod along the streets
which led to Fagan’s cottage.
The night could scarce have been better suited to Hunt and his
friends. Without raining, the heavy clouds lay in dense banks over
the heavens, and it was but occasionally that a star could be seen
to twinkle. The heavens were indeed propitious; and the lonely,
unfrequented streets were unusually dreary and deserted.
As, however, Preston turned a corner, he thought he heard footsteps
coming up the street which he had just passed. Peering anxiously
behind he could just make out the figures of two men. They seemed to
be conversing in whispers, for they leaned closely together. Preston
could not hear what they said, and was glad to see them keep on their
way up the street without interfering with him.
Waiting until the noise of their footsteps had fully died away,
Reginald again pursued his lonely journey, nor stopped until he
reached its end. Entering the cottage by means of a key which he
carried with him, he closed the door carefully and relocked it; then
mounted the stairs.
Soon the sounds of another’s footsteps were heard approaching the
house and Nat Ernshaw, guided by a son of Simon Hunt’s, appeared by
the door. Dismissing the boy, Nat looked around him as well as he
could by the extremely faint light. “The window by the sycamore-tree
which stands by the porch in front of the house. Then, if my eyes
are not deceived, this must be it, and now for Kate.” So saying, Nat
began the ascent of the tree.
All this Preston did not see, or even think of, for he had made his
way to the room in which was confined her whom he sought. A light was
burning in the room--it never was suffered to go out; and Kate had
been sleeping, but on hearing the noise made by the bolt, she started
from the bed, all dressed as she was, and cast a frightened glance
toward the door. A sudden arousing from sleep makes cowards even of
brave men. What wonder, then, that Kate, a poor weak, defenseless
girl, was startled from her presence of mind? Standing erect, without
a purpose, speechless and pale, she awaited the pleasure of him who,
at this unseemly hour, broke in upon her slumbers.
“I have come once more on a friendly visit, my own Kate, and though,
at an unusual hour, yet as a friend. I know you will receive me
kindly even though I intrench upon your time for slumber. Have you
entirely recovered from the sudden fit of illness which came upon you
when I was last here?”
The cloven hoof _will_ show itself, be it ever so nicely concealed;
and the purpose of Reginald Preston could not be concealed even by
his bland tones. Preston continued:
“To tell the truth to you, however mortifying it may be to me, I am
ashamed of myself, and acknowledge that the way in which I acted was
reprehensible in the extreme. No man ever gained any thing by getting
into a passion, especially with a woman. Having made this apology, I
can return to the calm and dispassionate discussion of the subject
before us.”
The captain spoke in an easy, self-assured manner. Kate was herself
again, and she answered in a tone calm but clear and stern: “Mr.
Preston, there is nothing to be discussed between us. You have done
that which removes you forever beyond the pale of common honesty,
a deed most foul; I am to some extent, in your power. You may keep
me imprisoned here, but more than that you can never, _dare_ never,
attempt. I have friends who will find me though they have not the
slightest clue to guide their search; and they will, as sure as there
is a Heaven above us, avenge to the last, any wrong done to me while
I am in your power.”
“That you have friends, for the sake of argument, we’ll admit; but,
if you include your brother in the number, I am afraid you will never
see _him_ again. He was captured in Charleston last night, is at
present in prison, and will be hung to-morrow as a spy.”
“Then may God preserve him and me!” answered Catherine, and she sank
fainting on the bed beside her. Captain Preston, springing to raise
her, was arrested by a voice exclaiming: “And He will!”
Turning, he saw standing in the door, which, through inadvertence,
he had neglected to lock, the stalwart frame of Nathaniel Ernshaw.
“Who are you, who dares to intrude here?” was on his lips, but not
uttered; for, as he placed his hand to his sword-hilt, Ernshaw sprang
forward and planted his fist straight between the eyes of Reginald.
The captain fell senseless to the floor. Ernshaw gently raised the
senseless form of Kate, and called her name. His voice recalled her
wandering senses. Opening her eyes, she murmured, “Thank God! I am
saved! Saved! make haste away!”
Passing quickly out, and crossing a small hall, Nat and his fair
charge entered another room--the one whose window looked out upon
the little porch and the sycamore-tree. The shutters of this room
were the only ones about the house which were to be opened. The old
negress, who brought to Catherine her meals, occupied this apartment,
and obstinately persisted in retaining the privilege of sunshine and
fresh air. Through this window, Nat had entered, and finding that
the old woman was awake and about making an outcry, he had bound and
gagged her.
Letting Kate down from the window by means of a quilt which he had
snatched from the bed, Ernshaw swung himself down by the branches
of the tree. Standing once more on the solid ground he gave a low
whistle, which was answered by another from the garden, and young
Hunt appeared, leading a horse; a moment more found the young man in
the saddle, with Kate in front of him. “Is it time?” he inquired of
the boy. “Almost,” was the answer.
“Then here goes for liberty!” half shouted Ernshaw, as he touched the
horse lightly with a spur. In a moment he was lost in the blackness
of the night.
Acting in obedience to the injunction of the blacksmith, John did
not attempt to loosen his irons until the jailer had made his final
round. Then, though working without a light, half an hour enabled
him, with the aid of the sharp-biting file, to throw off the
fetters. With a sigh of relief he laid them quietly upon the floor,
and stretched his limbs well wearied with the load which they had
endured. He next examined the bars that guarded the window by which
escape was to be made. The aperture was full large enough to admit of
the egress of a man twice as large as Vale were the iron bars once
removed; and of these bars there were three.
The saw which John had in his possession, was made from a portion of
a watch-spring, and a trial of it convinced him that with a little
time he could easily cut through the bars even without the promised
assistance of Hunt. The bars were so placed, that if but two of them
could be removed, the other would hardly give much trouble; and
to the task of removing these two did Vale most assiduously bend
himself. By an hour after midnight one of the bars was taken out. By
the hour of three, the second bar was more than half sawn in two.
As the hours wore on, Vale would occasionally pause in his work and
listen for some signal from his expected friend. The faint, bell-like
notes of a distant clock chiming the expected hour, finally reached
him, sounding solemn and still through the noiseless night-air. The
steady movement of the saw ceased for a season, but no sound was
heard, and again the nervous arm of the young man continued its task.
A faint sound as of something scratching the wall was the signal for
work to be discontinued; then, the cheery voice of Simon whispered:
“Are you there, John?”
“All right!” answered Vale as he stretched his hand out through the
opening to be grasped by the hardy blacksmith.
“You have done better than I thought you would, and if they give us
half an hour, or even a quarter, it will go hard but that you once
more regain your liberty.”
The quarter of an hour was destined to be granted, and, though the
work was done noiselessly enough, yet, at the expiration of that
time, under the vigorous wrist of the blacksmith the bar was severed.
“Wait a moment,” said Simon, “the ladder does not seem to be
over-strong and may not bear two of us.”
Hunt descended to the ground, and, in a moment more Vale stood beside
him. The spot where the two stood was in a garden, upon which one
side of the prison looked, and which belonged to one of the most
influential men in the city. Making their way carefully along,
passing through another garden, they reached an alley. Hunt gave a
low whistle, received an answer, and, vaulting over the fence, two
horses were found there in waiting, held by a man--his features could
not be made out in the darkness.
Vale turned to his companion, in doubt: “Mr. Hunt,” said he, “you
seem to be well provided. Whose horses are these? Hardly yours, and
yet they could hardly have come from the British.”
“They are yours as much as mine, though they did not come from the
British. They were furnished me by an influential and rich man who
has found it necessary to conceal his patriotic proclivities. But
into the saddle with you! If Nat Ernshaw has been successful, there
is one waiting for you whom you much long to see.”
“My sister?” said John excitedly, as he vaulted into his saddle.
“Yes, your sister; but follow me. I attend you in the ride to-night;
and henceforth until this war is ended, and the colonies have gained
their independence, I shall be found fighting for my country.”
Following close behind, Vale stopped when his guide stopped, and the
two remained perfectly silent for a moment. The sound of a horse’s
steps were distinctly heard. Nearer and nearer they came, then a
whistle, to which Hunt replied, and the approaching horseman was soon
by the side of the two.
“Thank Heaven it has turned out so well;” said Ernshaw, and a
well-known voice sounded in the ears of Vale, “O John! are you there?”
“Kate!” exclaimed John. “Kate, and safe!”
“Yes! safe and saved!”
Ernshaw had ridden close up to John, and the fair young girl
stretched out her hand to her brother. Lifting her from her place,
he seated her in front of his saddle, and printed a kiss with all
a brother’s affection upon her cheek. “This street is no place for
explanations,” said Hunt. “We must be far away before morning comes.
We have many miles to ride before we can say we are in safety.”
“On then!” said John. “Here is a light heart fit for the dark night!
Hurrah!” burst from his lips.
“Are you crazy, man!” said Hunt, “to thus run the risk of arousing
the sentinels on the lines? We are not yet beyond their hearing; and
a word might be fatal to us all.”
“That’s true,” answered Ernshaw; “but, I own I would like to give one
good _whoop_ as a parting salutation.”
“Now for it, boys!” exclaimed Hunt as he led the way in the early
morning dimness, for the darkness was lifting its trailing robes, and
the morning was streaking the east with its golden arrows.
* * * * *
Away, past houses, sentinels, barriers following the lead of Simon
Hunt, sped the fugitives; through the early hour that preceded the
morning, through the misty light of day-breaking, into the full
glories of the morning; and hard behind rode Reginald Preston with
his troop of dragoons. Certainly no more then ten minutes’ start
had the patriots--and fairly flying in the pursuit came the British
captain, his heart wild with rage and a burning desire to wreak its
revenge. That blow burned upon his forehead like fire; his prisoned
bird, caught with so much care and money, again was free--the thought
of these awoke all the mad energy of his wicked nature. He would have
the fugitives, or die!
Hastening on, Ernshaw wished only to meet with his men. Whether or
no there was pursuit, he could not, as yet, tell; but this he felt
assured of: once with his company, he would not be afraid to turn and
face any force that would be sent for his capture, or rather for the
recapture of John Vale. With the first flush of early light, came to
the ears of the flying the sounds of pursuit. The company of Reginald
rode hard, and a company of fifty horsemen, going at full speed, made
no slight noise.
“They come!” cried Ernshaw, as he heard the sounds.
Kate said nothing, but clung tighter to her brother.
“Let them come,” responded Hunt. “Another mile will see us in safety,
unless some unforeseen accident may chance to occur. Five minutes’
riding should bring us to the brigade, and with the start which we
have, they can not come up with us in that time.”
“On! on!” exclaimed Vale; and in silence the flight was continued.
The sounds behind became more distinct, as more brightly the morning
broke above them. On the brow of a hill, Hunt turned partly round and
glanced behind. Half a mile away he could distinguish the forms of
horsemen riding recklessly on, gaining at almost every stride. Ten
minutes more, at the pace they were going, would bring them within
pistol-shot distance. Would that ten minutes bring them to Ernshaw’s
brigade?
Down the hill Simon spurred his horse, the others keeping close
company; but the animal which John Vale bestrode was beginning to
lag, for it carried double weight.
“Thank Heaven! we are safe!” exclaimed Hunt; and “Safe!” ejaculated
Ernshaw, as, at the distance of but a few hundred yards, a dozen of
the patriot troopers could be seen standing by the sides of their
saddled steeds. A wild hurrah burst from these men as they saw their
captain and his friend appear, all unharmed. At the cheer, from the
wood which stood by the road-side, or rather through which the road
passed, a score or more of men emerged and joined their shouts with
those of their comrades. A moment more and the four were in the midst
of the patriot brigade.
Forty hands were stretched out toward Nathaniel and Vale, and forty
lips clamored forth congratulations.
“I accept your congratulations,” said Nat, “but this is no time for
words. Hard behind me rides a large force of British dragoons. They
may outnumber us by ten or a dozen men, but we can easily crush them
at a blow. What say ye, men? Shall we fight or retreat?”
A scornful laugh ran around the circle. “Fight! fight! Down with the
Britishers--the miscreants--dogs!”
“Then back into the woods with you, and we will attack them as they
come up.” In a moment, from the road, not an American was in sight.
“I want some one,” continued Ernshaw, when they were fairly under
cover, “for a duty that will be both pleasant and unpleasant; some
one who is well enough acquainted with the country to guide Miss Vale
to a place of safety, in case any thing disastrous should happen to
us. Of course he can not mix in with the fight.”
“The person for that is the boy that came to us yesterday mornin’. I
see now that he is with you. After his fifty miles of ridin’, I guess
he wouldn’t be of much use in a scrimmage, but he’ll do as well as a
man fur the lady,” said one of the men.
“You are right,” replied Nat. “Simon is worthy of the trust.” So,
calling forward the boy, he gave him his instructions.
Hurrying onward with unabating speed, Captain Preston and his company
drew nigh to the spot where the brigade stood under close cover, all
ready for the fray.
“Now, boys, at them!” rang in the ears of the startled British.
But their quick reply was a discharge of pistols, and their balls
rattled like hail among the tree-limbs overhead. Instantly from among
the trees flashed Nat Ernshaw’s troopers--each man grasping in his
strong hand his trusty sword.
The _melee_ which followed can scarcely be described. There is an
appalling sublimity in a hand-to-hand conflict, when life or death is
in the issue. Whether the conflict be on a larger or smaller scale,
the same fierce elements are excited--the same personal results
follow. As fierce the individual strife between a hundred as between
a thousand times one hundred.
Blended together, horse to horse, arm to arm, sword to sword, each
man shouting his war-cry--each man hewing fiercely, the hundred
struggled, and panted, and strove for victory, without one thought of
death.
“Down with the rebel hounds!” shouted Preston.
“Show the minions no quarter!” answered Nat, in a voice like thunder.
In the midst of the British, fighting with the fierceness to which a
despairing, cowardly heart can sometimes be goaded, was Turner.
Twice did John Vale urge his horse in the direction of the tory, and
twice was he prevented from reaching him. Though blows fell fast
around, yet the two seemed to bear a charmed life, and the strife
continued, bearing them still unhurt. Again did Vale press forward.
Suddenly he felt a strange sensation creep over him; his sight became
dimmed, his head appeared to be whirling round and round, and he fell
from his horse.
But if John Vale was down, a score and a half of stout, unflinching,
maddened patriots were not. One Briton after another fell, until
scarce fifteen left, they broke and fled.
Mounted on horseback, with young Hunt on foot beside her, Catherine
hastened on. Passing through the woods for some distance, the road,
turning, crossed their way, and the two kept on in the beaten path.
Kate’s heart was beating wildly enough with suspense. The first
volley of pistol-shots was heard quite plainly by her; after that the
sounds of battle came but indistinctly--soon nothing was to be heard.
Almost unconsciously Kate had reined in her horse, and sat as though
waiting to hear news of the fight. How long she thus remained, she
could hardly have told; it must have been for some minutes, for the
boy seemed to think the delay too long.
“Come, miss,” said he, “if I am to take charge of you, I would rather
have you further off from the spot we have just left. There’s no
telling what _may_ happen, and, although I want to see our side whip,
you can’t have every thing as you want it. Best to be moving along, I
guess.”
The advice was good, but it came rather late. Around the bend of
the road, from underneath the overhanging boughs, came a flying
horseman. Hatless and bleeding, his locks disheveled and his face all
distorted with anger and fear, one could scarce recognize the once
gallant-looking Captain Preston. Catherine Vale did, and right good
reason had she to do so. With a cry of terror she drew up her reins
and struck the horse with her foot to urge him into a run.
Onward thundered the trooper; and behind him, but a few rods, still
grasping a sword, came Timothy Turner.
The eye of Reginald fell upon Kate.
“Ha! ha!” he shouted; “found once more!”
Driving his spurs deep into his horse, he increased his speed. The
young boy, Simon, endeavored to sweep Reginald from his saddle by
a blow from his stick; but, ere it descended, the captain flung at
him a discharged pistol. The aim was true: it struck the lad upon
the breast and felled him to the ground. Catherine’s steed, though
a good one, was no match for the high-bred animal which the captain
bestrode; and at every stride the distance between them was lessened.
Far behind, like an avenging fury, came Nat Ernshaw, but too far
distant to afford assistance now.
With a great bound, the horse of the captain was placed side by side
with that of the flying girl. He caught her bridle in his grasp.
“Mine! mine once more!” he shouted. “Found again and forever!”
Loud came the shouts of the pursuers--Nat Ernshaw and a dozen men
drew near.
One glance behind, then Preston checked his speed. “If not for me in
life, then be it in death!”
Drawing his sword, all smeared with blood, Reginald poised the
weapon, for a moment, then seizing the girl by the throat, he raised
the messenger of death, shouting, “Good-by, Kate! _Cousin_ Kate!”
With closed eyes and outstretched hands, Catherine awaited the blow.
She heard a crashing sound; the grasp on her throat was loosened;
then came the noise of a heavy fall. Bewildered she beheld Capt.
Preston lying on the road, his head cleft down to the very jaw, while
by her side, with a saber dripping with the still liquid life’s
blood, stood the tory, Timothy Turner. Blood was slowly trickling
from a bullet-wound in his breast, and his face was ghastly pale;
but, from underneath his lowering brows, his dark eye gleamed with a
bright light.
“I am dying,” he muttered, as he rolled from his horse, staggering to
the green bank which margined the road.
With a brain all awhirl with wonder and doubt, Kate surveyed the
tory. Involuntarily she turned her panting, trembling horse to one
side, and drew near to the man as he lay there; the life-blood
gurgling forth at every quick pant, the pallid countenance upturned
to her with a wistful look. She saw the lips move, and bent down in
her saddle.
“Will you listen to a dying man?” he faintly asked.
“Whatever you have to say, tell it quickly,” she answered.
“Do not let your friends murder me. I shall die soon. Come nearer.”
Catherine felt herself greatly moved. “Fear not,” she said, and
lightly sprang from her saddle. As she touched the ground, Nat
Ernshaw and his men thundered up. “Harm him not!” almost commanded
Catherine. “He has saved my life and is dying. Touch him not, I say!”
The men were eager to saber him, it was plain.
“We will not,” replied Nat; and Kate bent over the dying man.
“I’m going,” said Turner, speaking hoarsely and quickly. “It’s hard,
but it must be. It isn’t much for you to do, but I want you to say
you forgive me.”
“For what?”
“It was me that carried you off.” Turner saw the fire flash in those
eyes, and he continued, “I’ve been wicked--I loved money--but I loved
you better and stronger than any thing else. It’s the only good in
me, but that was made bad enough when your brother turned me out of
the house. I hated him and Ernshaw. But I didn’t mean to let Preston
harm you. I would have stolen you from him again. I was near when he
was. If I could have made up my mind, I could have given the alarm
when you first escaped. I loved you and myself, and hated every one
else. Say you forgive me. I have done great wrong, but I’m sorry.
_Will_ you forgive?”
Touched more by his tone, so piteously pleading, than by his words,
Catherine answered: “I do.”
“Let me take your hand,” he murmured.
She gave it to him without hesitation. Turner grasped it, pressed it
to his lips, and died with the slight effort.