THE HAPPY CONSUMMATION.
When Ernshaw returned from the pursuit of Preston and the tory, he
found several of the men standing over John Vale, anxiously feeling
his breast to see if the breath of life was still left within him.
His heart very faintly fluttered, though he lay in a state of utter
unconsciousness.
That night Mrs. Vale found beneath her roof, once again, her
children; Catherine safe, John dangerously, though not necessarily
mortally wounded. For a time his life was held by a feeble thread;
but, through a strong constitution and good care, he slowly regained
his health and strength.
How in the Carolinas a partisan warfare was waged; how Marion and
Sumpter and many other brave-hearted commanders made themselves a
terror to the British and tories, how the spirit of freedom could
never be quenched, but continued to be made manifest in the midst of
the most trying circumstances and the most perilous positions--all
this is well-known to the student of American history. For the year
following the events just described, Nat Ernshaw’s brigade did noble
service in its country’s cause. Sometimes by themselves, again in
conjunction with other patriot bands, they swooped down upon a tory
gathering, or cut off a detachment of British soldiers. Now here, now
there, they but seldom remained long in one place; but Cedar Swamp
was ever a rendezvous to which they retired. Here they would take up
their quarters at intervals of some weeks, and lie perfectly quiet
until intelligence reached them of some occasion where a blow could
be struck; then from this spot, like lightning from a thunder cloud,
the fires of freedom flashed forth.
Through all the hand-to-hand conflicts, Wild Nat passed safely. A
sword stroke on the brow had left a scar, but the wound was not
dangerous, for his own blade had carried death to his enemy, and thus
paralyzed his well-aimed blow. John Vale, too, was fortunate. While
more than one brave comrade fell beside him, he remained untouched.
His first wound was his last. As being the best fitted to devise and
carry out the campaign, the men placed most implicit confidence in
these two. That confidence was never abused.
From the time when Catherine Vale re-entered the walls of her
mother’s house, that house was never disturbed. Though houses might
blaze around them, and the homesteads of others be desolated, yet was
the dwelling of Mrs. Vale unmolested.
At length came an event which filled every true American’s heart
with joy. The dark pall which had so long been stretched over the
State was lifted. On the 19th of October, 1781, Lord Cornwallis with
seven thousand men, surrendered to the American army under General
Washington. No event in the history of any nation was ever hailed
with more grateful joy than was this. Though the British were still
masters of Charleston and Savannah, yet it had the effect of doing
away with the necessity of partisan warfare; and marauding bands of
tories, and pillaging troops of soldiers were no longer to be met
wandering through the States.
The tories, seeing that the war must soon end--and end in the success
of the colonies--ceased to rant of the divine right of kings, and
began to consider that perhaps it would be best to keep their fingers
from off the property of their whig neighbors. They therefore became
a source of no further anxiety to the patriots.
Though willing to meet together at any time for the defense of
their country, the men of Nat Ernshaw’s brigade disbanded, each one
returning to his home.
* * * * *
Winter passed and summer came again. The war was virtually at an end,
and though the city was still retained by the British, yet no blood
had been shed for some time.
It was a moonlight evening in July, and a pleasant breeze swept
softly through the branches of the old pear-tree which stood near the
dwelling of Mrs. Vale.
On a seat under the tree sat Nat Ernshaw and Catherine Vale; at
their feet an old friend, the dog Lion, who appeared to regard the
two with a look of grave curiosity. Sitting under the tree there,
with the pale light of the moon shining down upon them, the three
made a picture. Nat Ernshaw, with his fine, manly countenance,
weather-beaten and marked with a single scar upon his brow, and that
more than half-hidden by his hair; Catherine Vale, with her fair
face, golden hair, and loving eyes; Lion, huge as he was, looking
pleasant as he gazed up into the face of his mistress.
Tenderly taking the hand of his companion, Ernshaw, after a momentary
silence, said:
“There is something, Kate, of which I have long wished to speak,
but the distracted state of the country prevented my doing so. For
years--almost from the hour of our first acquaintance--no true man
could say that his head sat firmly upon his shoulders. Life has
been, at the most, held on slender tenure, and hearthstones have
been desecrated on short notice. Now it is, I think, otherwise. The
struggle for freedom is all but ended; independence is placed within
our grasp, and with an assurance which I could not otherwise feel, I
can speak my feelings and wishes. I love you, Kate. Not with a fierce
passion, but with a hopeful, manly, lasting love. We have known each
other long and, I think, well. Such as I am you see me. I profess not
to be free from faults, nor to be wholly made up of virtues. From the
fullness of an unchecked spirit I have done things which to others
might seem wrong; but they were sins of the head, not of the heart.
I can offer you a hand, a home, and a _heart_. Knowing me as you do,
having tried my affection as you have, will you be mine?”
For some moments Catherine did not reply, but sat gazing on the
ground. Though she had often done so before, she wished again to
analyze her heart, and scrutinize closely, calmly, the feelings
which she felt she entertained for Nathaniel.
Under this very tree, two years ago, had Reginald Preston pleaded
his love. What an issue that profession brought forth! She recalled
her abduction--her solitary confinement--the horrid threats of the
British captain--Ernshaw’s daring--his striking down of the wretch,
and his rescue of her--the dying declaration of Turner; all these
incidents came up again before her, and though they touched her heart
with a sense of sadness, how they all pleaded for the man at her side!
“I have been thinking,” she at length calmly said, “as I have, I
acknowledge, thought before, of you and your claim upon me. We have
known each other long, and have reason to believe that we know each
other truly. I have looked into my heart, and find that it fully
and entirely responds to your own in its hopes, wishes, love, and
confidence. I say then, in all the truth of my own soul, that I love
you as a woman should love the man she would claim as her husband,
and that, as far as my consent goes, my hand and heart are yours. I
will be your wife, Nathaniel.”
Catherine’s manner was deliberate, unimpassioned; but her whole being
stood looking from her eyes, and her sweet face lit up like a morning
in June. Ernshaw’s strong nature had met its entire response.
When the patriot captain that night took his leave, he printed, for
the first time, upon the lips of Catherine the holy kiss of plighted
troth.
The next evening Nat Ernshaw came to the cottage, and told his love
to Mrs. Vale in a straight-forward, manly way. Catherine had told
her all, during the day, and received her parent’s blessing upon
her love. For Nathaniel she now entertained a real, undisguised
affection, and answered his petition for the hand of Catherine in a
cordial consent.
“Take her, Nathaniel; she is a precious treasure. Keep her sacredly,”
was all she could say.
* * * * *
Mrs. Vale’s house is all astir. Lights flash all over it, and glad
sounds issue from within. That night will see both son and daughter
of the respected widow enter into the bonds of wedlock; a double
wedding is to occur at the house.
To describe the ceremony, to tell how the brides were dressed, and
who were the bridemaids--to recapitulate all the songs that were
sung, all the speeches that were made, all the toasts that were
drunk, would quite exceed the limits of this little story. Let it
suffice to aver that two handsomer couples had never been united
since Carolina became a State, and that a happier evening was never
known, even to that mythic person, the “oldest inhabitant.”
About a week after the wedding, John Vale’s mother received a letter,
the contents of which rather surprised her. The communication read as
follows:
“RESPECTED MADAM:--As relict of the late John Vale, son of Charles
Vale, M. P., recently deceased, we would beg leave to inform you
that the heir or heirs of the said John Vale are entitled to a
fortune of twenty-seven thousand, three hundred and odd pounds,
sterling. Although there is little danger of any one disputing your
right, yet it will be necessary to have a competent person to look
after your interests. May we hope that your patronage will go to
our firm. We will write further in a few days.
Yours, respectfully,
“THOMPSON, SMITH & CO., _per_ SMITH.”
Though Messrs. Thompson, Smith & Co., were sharp to ferret out
business, they were also faithful when that business demanded a
severe discharge of duty. Through their exertions, the fortune of the
“recently deceased Charles Vale” was secured to its rightful owners.
Justice will not be defeated. Though Reginald put his shoulder to
the wheel of fate, and strove to push it backward, yet for all his
boldness and sagacity he was crushed. That for which he toiled,
and made himself a villain, the gold of his relative, passed into
worthier hands, and his very name became synonym of whatever was bad.
For years, annually did Nat Ernshaw gather around him, in a
grand reunion, the former members of the brigade; and to these
reunions always came Simon Hunt. No longer Simon the blacksmith. A
self-educated man, he was at once true citizen, an upright man, a
clear-headed adviser. The States, just escaped from the despotism of
foreign and reckless rulers, needed just such men to assist in their
counsels. Was it any wonder then, that at one of their reunions Nat
Ernshaw introduced the once plain blacksmith as “the Hon. Simon Hunt?”
* * * * *
Under the green turf of Carolina now rest the brave men who once
composed Wild Nat’s brigade. Truer hearts never beat, more patriotic
bosoms never swelled with the inspiration of liberty. Long in the
memories of descendants shall they live, these veritable heroes of
the Revolution. Over their graves let us give them our benedictions,
and with Percival say:--
Here rest the great and good. Here they repose
After their generous toil. A sacred band,
They take their sleep together, while the year
Comes with its early flowers to deck their graves,
And gathers them again, as Winter frowns.
Theirs is no vulgar sepulcher,--green sods
Are all their monument, and yet it tells
A nobler history than pillared piles,
Or the eternal pyramids. They need
No statue nor inscription to reveal
Their greatness. It is round them; and the joy
With which their children tread the hallowed ground
That holds their venerated bones, the peace
That smiles on all they fought for, and the wealth
That clothes the land they rescued,--these, though mute,
As feeling ever is when deepest,--these
Are monuments more lasting than the fanes
Reared to the kings and demigods of old.
Touch not the ancient elms, that bend their shade
Over their lowly graves; beneath their boughs
There is a solemn darkness, even at noon,
Suited to such as visit at the shrine
Of serious liberty. No factious voice
Called them unto the field of generous fame,
But the pure consecrated love of home.
No deeper feeling sways us, when it wakes
In all its greatness. It has told itself
To the astonished gaze of awestruck kings,
At Marathon, at Bannockburn, and here,
Where first our patriots sent the invader back,
Broken and cowed. Let these green elms be all
To tell us where they fought and where they lie
Their feelings were all nature, and they need,
No art to make them known. They live in us,
While we are like them, simple, hardy, bold,
Worshiping nothing but our own pure hearts,
And the one universal Lord. They need
No column pointing to the heaven they sought,
To tell us of their home. The heart itself,
Left to its own free purpose, hastens there,
And there alone reposes. Let these elms
Bend their protecting shadow o’er their graves,
And build with their green roof the only fane,
Where we may gather on the hallowed day
That rose to them in blood, and set in glory.
Here let us meet, and while our motionless lips
Give not a sound, and all around is mute
In the deep sabbath of a heart too full
For words or tears, here let us strew the sod
With the first flowers of spring, and make to them
An offering of the plenty Nature gives,
And they have rendered ours--perpetually.
A MARVEL OF BEAUTY!
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Transcriber’s Notes
The Table of Contents at the beginning of the book was created by
the transcriber.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation such as “fore-finger”/“forefinger”
have been maintained.
Minor punctuation and spelling errors have been silently corrected
and, except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the
text, especially in dialogue, and inconsistent or archaic usage,
have been retained.
Page 22: “Such was the expedition used, that John Vail” changed to
“Such was the expedition used, that John Vale”.
Page 34: “those who had come to spoil them, the armdes” changed to
“those who had come to spoil them, the arms”.
Page 43: “Will you promise secresy and obedidence” changed to “Will
you promise secrecy and obedience”.
Page 54: “the black of a mourning vail” changed to “the black of a
mourning veil”.