“Sing it where forests wave,--
From mountain to the sea,
And o'er each hero's grave,--
Sing, sing, the land is free.”
It was evening; and all that met the eye was joy and animation in the
little village of Bennington, in which, not only the great body of the
opposing armies, either as conquerors or prisoners, but the best
portion of the patriotism, wisdom, and beauty of young Vermont, were now
congregated. There her statesmen and sages--many of whom had mingled
in the strife of the day--were gathered to rejoice over a result which
their own heads, and hearts, and hands, through the anxious days and
nights of the preceding month, had been unceasingly engaged in
securing for their country and their homes. There, too, the old men and
striplings, drawn from all the neighboring settlements by the ominous
sounds which had reached them from the distant battlefield, and there
the maids and matrons, whose solicitude for the near and dear ones,
supposed to be engaged in the conflict, would not permit them to stay
behind, were all found mingling with the victors, and participating in
their exultations. Bright lights were streaming from every window, or
dancing in every direction in the streets; while the smiling faces and
animated voices, everywhere seen and heard among the commingling throng,
seemed to tell only of a scene of universal joy and triumph. But as
joyous and lively as was the scene, in its predominating features, it
was yet not without its painful contrasts. The broken sob, or the
low wail of sorrow, was heard rising sadly on the night air, in
every interval that occurred in the more boisterous but irrepressible
manifestations which characterized the hour. And, even in the same
dwellings, these two contrasted phases in war's exciting but melancholy
picture were not unfrequently presented; for, while in one room might be
heard the notes of joy and exultation, in another might be distinguished
the stifled groan of some wounded soldier, or the lamentations of the
bereaved over the body of a slain relative.
Among the most noted of the class last mentioned was the late residence
of Esquire Haviland, situated in the outskirts of the village, and
recently occupied as the quarters of the officers of the Rangers, on the
invitation of the patriotic but singular and mysterious man, who, at
its sale by the commissioners of confiscation, had purchased the
establishment, among several others of a valuable description thus sold
in this section of the country. To this residence, the scene of a former
portion of our story, we will now once more, and for the last time,
repair.
While in one part of the building the officers just named, with other
distinguished persons, were engaged in discussing the incidents of the
day, in another and more retired apartment, on a pillowed couch, lay
the wounded Father Herriot, who, having been stricken down in the last
moments of the battle, as before intimated, had been borne hither to
complete the willing sacrifice he had made of his life to the cause of
his country. On a small table, within his reach, lay several documents,
which were fresh from the hand of that ready writer, the accomplished
secretary of the Council of Safety, who had just left the apartment.
And around his bedside stood those in whom all his private interests and
sympathies had been for some time secretly concentrated, though to two
of them personally unknown till a few hours before, when he had beer
brought in wounded and committed to their care. Those persons were Henry
Woodburn, Bart Burt, Sabrey Haviland, and Vine Howard, who, ignorant of
his particular wishes or intentions, and wondering why the presence of
all of them should be desired at the same time, had been summoned to his
bedside to hear his last communication and receive his blessing.
“My prayer is answered,” said Herriot, after looking round
affectionately a while upon his expectant auditors, who, at his request,
after the room was cleared of other company, had advanced to his
bedside. “My last prayer has been to be permitted to see all of you,
in whose personal welfare I have been led to take a peculiar interest,
assembled before me while life and reason remained, so that I could
commune with you; and the prayer has been graciously answered. Still,
when, at the close of our first, and, as we all then supposed, final
triumph to-day, Miss Haviland, with her friend, at my request, was
conveyed here to her former home, of which I had become the purchaser,
I then thought to have met you all here this evening under circumstances
in which I could have actively shared with you in the rejoicings that
our victory so naturally calls forth, as well as in the happiness,
which, as far as regards you, I believed I could superadd by my own
acts. But He who holds the fate of individuals, as well as that of
armies, in his hands, has seen fit to deny me such participation; and
_He doeth all things well_.”
“Your wound is not necessarily a mortal one, Father Herriot and I trust
you may yet live to enjoy the fruits of a victory you have contributed
so much by your bravery to win,” observed Woodburn, feelingly.
“That may not be. I feel the destroyer busily at work here, undermining
the citadel,” responded the other, placing his hand on that part of his
chest where the bullet had entered. “But I regret not having made the
poor sacrifice of my life for so righteous a cause. And though I shall
not live to see the happiness I would be the means of imparting, yet
the wish and the duty of doing what I proposed to that end remains to be
fulfilled, and for this purpose I have requested your presence.”
The speaker here paused, as if at a loss how he should open the subject
which seemed to rest on his mind. But at length he resumed:--
“Miss Haviland, what you have done and suffered for the cause, in which
you so nobly took your stand, is known to many. The part you have acted
in the events of this day is known to still more; but have not those
events had a bearing on your happiness beyond what would arise from the
bare liberation of your person?”
“They have, sir,” replied the maiden, frankly, but with an air of
surprise at the unexpected question.
“And have I been correctly informed, by the person who has just left us,
and who has long been my confidential friend and adviser, that, by the
relinquishment of a certain contract, you are now left free to bestow
your hand on one whose character and feelings may be more congenial with
your own?”
“Why am I questioned in so unusual a manner, and by one so much a
stranger?” asked the former, in a half-remonstrating, half-beseeching
tone.
“I knew,” rejoined the other, “that you, as well as the rest of those
present, might, at first, wonder why and how I should have kept myself
apprised, as I confess I have long done, of all that concerned the
individual interests, and even inclinations, as far as could be
conjectured, of each of you. And I know, also, that my ways are not like
those of other men. But cannot you trust to the motives of a dying man,
and let him proceed in his own manner?”
“I can--I will, Father Herriot,” answered Sabrey, touched by the appeal.
“And I will not affect to misunderstand you. I have been freed from
fetters under which I have suffered--perhaps unnecessarily--both
persecution and embarrassment of feeling. And I am thankful,” she
continued, throwing a grateful glance to Woodburn--“greatly thankful for
that generous forbearance by which this was effected without bloodshed.
Yes, I am free, doubly free; but whoever takes me,” she added, slightly
coloring, “must now receive a penniless bride.”
“Perhaps not,” said Herriot, musingly--“perhaps not. But I did not mean
to be understood as imposing any conditions to the act I was about to
perform, after ascertaining your entire deliverance from the power and
supposed claims of one whom I deem a bad man, as well as a foe to his
country. Here, deserving girl,” he continued, taking up one of the
documents from the table and extending it towards her, “here is a deed
of gift, from me to you, of all this, which was your father's estate.
Take it; it is freely given and worthily bestowed.”
Surprise at an act as unexpected as it was munificent, kept all mute for
some seconds; when Sabrey, whose sensibilities were too deeply moved
to permit her to speak, threw upon the donor a look which her grateful
emotions made more eloquent than any language she could have summoned
for a reply; and then, turning, she silently extended her hand to
Woodburn, with the deed still laying across the open palm.
“Which?--the hand or the paper?” asked the latter, in a low tone, and
with a slightly apprehensive air.
“Either, or both,” replied the maiden, as a blush stole over her
conscious cheek.
“The hand, then,” exclaimed the delighted lover, grasping the coveted
prize, and bearing it in triumph to his lips.
“It is all right; but no words,” said Herriot, making a motion for
silence to Woodburn, who was about to address him--“no words. I have
much to say--let me proceed. Bart,” he continued, after a thoughtful
pause, as he turned to the young man who had stood mutely noting the
proceedings with a puzzled look--“Bart, do you remember the old Rose
Homestead, which was confiscated, and also purchased by me?”
“Well, yes,” replied Bart, looking up with an inquiring, doubtful
expression--“yes, for as many as two several reasons, or more,” he
added, with one glance to Woodburn, and another, and more significant
one, to Vine, who was standing demurely at his side.
“Would you like it for your own?” asked the former.
“My own!” exclaimed Bart, casting an incredulous but searching look at
the other's countenance, in which, however, he read something that at
once changed his demeanor; and, in a softened and respectful tone, he
replied to the question, “Yes, Father Herriot, as soon as the smell of
toryism got fairly out of it, I would like it grandly, that's a fact.”
“It is yours, then, as this deed will show,” said Herriot, handing to
the surprised and hesitating young man the instrument in question; “it
is yours; but have you no one to share it with you?”
“Well, don't know exactly, but may be the chap that helped me fix up
my spy disguises, and gave me so many good hints for ferreting out the
tories, won't object much to that, seeing we have had considerably
the start of the captain and his lady here, in the way of finished
bargains,” replied Bart, turning, with an expression of droll gravity,
to the blooming girl at his side, who, thereupon, with an arch and
blushful smile, placed her hand in his, which had been extended to
receive it.
“Who are you, Father Herriot?” exclaimed the now completely surprised
Woodburn; “who are you, to take such an interest in us, and bestow on us
gifts so valuable, with so little hope, as you can have, of any adequate
return?”
“Listen, and you shall be answered,” replied Herriot; “for the time has
now arrived when you all should know the relation in which we stand to
each other; and I know not but I have already delayed the disclosure of
this fact too long. Perhaps I should have made it, as I had nearly done,
when, at the breaking out of the war, you and Bart visited my hermit
cabin in the vicinity of the Connecticut. But when I found you about
to embark in the cause of liberty, for which I stood ready to make any
sacrifice, I concluded to defer it, lest the discovery, which I had but
then just made myself, should turn you from a service that I thought
none were at liberty to withhold. I therefore, after communicating to
you enough to lead you, in case of my death, to all the knowledge
I wished you to obtain, encouraged you on your way. And it has all,
doubtless, been for the best; for who knows but your individual
exertions were needed to turn the scale which has been so long trembling
at equipoise? But the events of this day,” continued the patriot,
kindling at the thought--“the events of this day, which will be
memorable through all, time, have turned that scale in favor of American
freedom. I read it with a prophetic eye, which is made for me too clear
for error or misconception. Our avenging armies will henceforth go on
conquering and to conquer, till the last vestige of British usurpation
is swept from the land.”
Here the speaker paused a while to recover from his exhaustion, and
indulge his mental vision, apparently, with the enrapturing glimpses
he was catching of the future destiny of his country. But soon arousing
himself from his reverie, he resumed,--
“Harry Woodburn, you had once a paternal uncle?”
“I have been told so,” was the reply.
“Who, by his folly and wickedness, disgraced himself and ruined your
father,” proceeded the former.
“I had such an uncle,” responded Woodburn, with an expression of
gathering interest and surprise; “or, rather, I had an uncle, who,
though not a bad man, was, I have understood, at one time, a very
indiscreet one; and, by his indiscretion, lost his own property, and
deeply involved that of my father. But I do not feel to condemn him as
much as your words imply you expect I should.”
“Or as he has always condemned himself,” rejoined Herriot, with an air
of deep self-abasement. “But I thank God for giving me the means, and
the will, for making ample restitution to such as remain of my injured
brother's family, or of my own. Harry, I am that uncle. I am the erring
Charles Woodburn.”
“I am surprised, deeply surprised,” said the other; “for, attributing
the interest you have taken in me to other causes, I have, till within
a few minutes, been totally unprepared for such a revelation. And now
it seems as if it could not be. You could not have much resembled my
father, and you bear another name.”
“I did not strikingly resemble my more staid brother, in person or
character,” responded the former, meekly; “and my reasons for assuming
another name are explained by the circumstances under which you first
saw me, the accused of a revolting crime, of which, as I then declared,
I was never guilty. And this the wicked men, who combined against me,
and hunted me out, even in this new settlement, full well knew. But they
knew, also, that I had somewhere at command the large amount of money
that had been left me by a wealthy and heirless gentleman, whom I had
previously rescued from death. Are you now satisfied that I am the man I
claim to be, and, as such, willing to acknowledge me?”
“Fully, now--not only satisfied of the identity, but willing, nay, proud
to acknowledge the relationship,” said Woodburn, with warmth and rising
emotion. “Nor is this all, my uncle, my friend! The acts you have just
performed will ever--”
“Enough, enough!” interrupted the former; “but let me go on. I have
still another and more humiliating duty to perform. Bart,” he continued,
turning, with an agitated countenance, to the young man, “as forsaken
and guideless as you have been, many a parent has had a less deserving
offspring. And had you not done more for yourself than he, who should
have been your protector and guide, has done for you, you had been less
than nothing among men. But listen; for the story of your origin, which,
thus far, has been as a sealed book to you, must now be disclosed Your
father contracted a private, but legal marriage, with a woman, who, as
the world falsely esteemed it, was below him in station; and, in
his pride, he refused to acknowledge her, and, having squandered the
property that should have been applied to her support, absconded from
the country. In after years, however, conscience drove him back, but
only to find her dying of destitution and a broken heart, and to learn
from her last words that the offspring of their connection, a male
infant, had been thrown unacknowledged on the charity of the
public. Aroused by a new sense of duty, he diligently sought for the
child--followed it from its first lodgment to its next asylum in the
city; from that to another in the country; and then, through various
shifts and wanderings, till the trace was lost far in the interior; when
he gave up the search, and again left the country. In the process of
time, he once more returned to New England, in altered circumstances,
and located himself in this settlement, where he soon met with a youth,
whose countenance so strikingly resembled that of his deceased wife,
as to put him instantly on inquiry and research, which, in a few weeks,
resulted in supplying the broken chain of evidence, and in identifying
the youth as his lost son. Bart, you were, and still are, that son.
I was, and still am, that father. Do I die, my much injured son,
acknowledged and forgiven?”
The young man was too deeply affected by his surprise and emotion to
utter a word in reply; but tears, which all the wrongs and hardships he
had endured had failed to wring from him, now stole out on his sunburnt
cheeks, testifying, not only his gratification at the discovery, but
that the slumbering fountain of a naturally generous nature was now
effectually stirred within his bosom. And the speaker, seeming satisfied
with the answer which this evidence implied, soon proceeded:--
“Little more now remains to be imparted. You remember, Harry, that at
the visit at my cabin, to which I have already alluded, I showed you two
small casks, labelled '_Printers Type_,' concealed under a stone in the
cellar?”
“I do; and the impression they caused of the absurdity of bringing that
kind of property into our new settlement,” replied the other.
“They were so marked for greater security,” resumed the former; “for
they contained silver coin, and, at that time, nearly all the property I
possessed. Of these, one has been recently appropriated to the purchase
of confiscated estates, whenever a lack of money in others was likely to
prevent a sale at a fair value. The other remains in the same spot. And
this, and the rest of my property, except what I have just conveyed, and
except, also, bequests of small farms to Dunning and Piper, for their
friendship to you, and faithfulness to the cause, you will find, by my
will here on the table, to be equally divided between you, my son and
nephew. And now,” he added, in a faltering tone, and in accents of
touching tenderness, “now, my children, having said all I wished to
communicate, I will commend you to our common Parent above. Kneel and
receive my blessing.”
Hand in hand, and side by side, with the fair sharers of their gushing
sympathies, the young men now reverently knelt around the dying patriot,
and bowed their faces beneath his outspread hands to receive the
proffered blessing, which was then pronounced with much fervor, but with
the last words he was destined ever to utter; for after waiting a while
after he had ceased to speak, the tearful group gently removed his hands
from their heads, and arose to be greeted by a face pale in death.
CONCLUSION.
On a summer afternoon, nearly a year after the occurrence of the
events last described, there was an unusual gathering in the village
of Bennington. As early as one o'clock, multitudes of people were seen
pouring in by every road leading into the place from the surrounding
country, and filling up the streets with a promiscuous crowd of all
ages, sexes, and conditions. And as the hour of two approached, the
commotion increased to a degree which plainly showed that some crisis
was at hand; and soon the dense throng, gathered in the vicinity of the
Green Mountain Tavern, then the principal place of public resort,
broke away into groups and companies, and began to flock towards
a newly-erected gallows, standing, at no great distance, on the
neighboring common. Here arranging themselves, as they came up, in a
circle round the ill-omened structure, they assumed the attitude of
spectators awaiting the advent of some promised spectacle.
Presently a clamor rose from the outer part of the crowd, as, with the
exclamations, “_There comes the new Overseer of the Tories!_” [Footnote:
The Overseer of the Tories, an officer peculiar to the times, and
perhaps to the locality, was one to whom was intrusted the general
surveillance and control of that class of persons, to prevent them from
communicating with the British, and see that they did not pass over
the limits of the farms, or town lines, within which, under various
penalties, they were doomed to remain, unless called out by such officer
for some public service, such as clearing out the highways, &c., to
which they were held subject.] “_There comes Dunning and his gang of
beauties!_” They pointed to a column of some dozens of variously-clad,
dejected-looking men, headed by a well-armed officer in the continental
uniform, just coming round a corner into view, and advancing towards the
spot.
“Der open there to the right and left!” cried the commander of this
unique company, as he marched them up to the crowd. “Make way for Mother
Britain's ditter darlings! The coming sight is as much for their der
benefit as your ditter fun. There, halt!” he continued, bringing the
submissive creatures into their allotted place. “Now, the first one
of you that attempts to sneak away hem the sight, takes a der pistol
bullet. So face the music without flinching. It will ditter do you
good.”
Scarcely had this transpired before the crowd, whose attention, for the
moment, was too much engrossed to notice the approach of the principal
procession, now close at hand, was again thrown into commotion by the
sound of a muffled drum, followed by the loud cry of, “_Clear the way
for the prisoner and his escort!_” in a voice whose well-known tones
never fell unheeded on the ears of a Green Mountain assemblage. With
magic quickness, a clear space opened through the ranks of the receding
throng, in the direction of this fresh summons, when the first object
that met the eye was the towering form of Ethan Allen, mounted on a
large black horse; he having recently returned from his captivity, and
been appointed, in the quaint language of his commission, “_to conduct,
in behalf of the state, the trial and execution of that inimical person,
David Redding_” [Footnote: David Redding, the only person ever executed
in Vermont for political offences, was, after changing two or three
times from the American to the British cause, and two trials, hanged
July 17, 1777. at 2 o'clock, P. M.] Next to Allen came the prisoner,
riding in an ox-cart, and sitting between two armed men, who were acting
as his special guards. Then followed a company of soldiers, under the
command of another of our old acquaintances Bill Piper, who had been
promoted to a captaincy in a volunteer service then recently projected;
while the president, secretary, and members of the Council of Safety,
succeeded by a band of private citizens, brought up the rear of the
procession. On reaching its destination, the team was brought to a stand
immediately beneath the gallows, which was a naked cross-tree, set into
the ground like a sign-post, and wholly unprovided with platform, or
other of the usual adjuncts of such structures. The prisoner was then
ordered to stand up in the cart, when the noose at the end of the rope,
dangling from the arm above, was securely adjusted round his neck, and
every thing made ready for the awful moment.
Ira Allen, having mounted some object at hand, then addressed the people
in an eloquent exhortation on the duty and policy of a faithful and
unwavering adherence to the cause of the country, which he enforced
by giving a rapid sketch of the character and career of the wretched
traitor before them, as contrasted with those who had been true to that
cause, and especially those who had captured him.
“Of the four brave men,” he said, in conclusion, “who, at such odds
and risk, pursued and took the prisoner and his party, on that glorious
occasion, two are present, and in positions which amply testify the high
estimation that has been placed on their gallant conduct. The others,
the two Woodburns, who remained in the city, are--as I learn from
letters I have recently seen from them or their scarcely less heroic
young wives, left to conduct the affairs of their respective homes--now
in New Jersey, acting under the eye of their beloved Washington, whose
confidence in them in their different spheres of action--one as the
honored colonel of a regiment and the other as the most trusty and
adroit manager in the secret service--they consider their sufficient
reward, and one that was only wanting to crown that which, on the eve of
our memorable battle here, they received in their wives, and the wealth
obtained through the romantic disclosures of their dying relative, the
lamented Father Herriot. And of the party taken alive by those
gallant men, the tory leader, Peters, was exchanged for several of our
imprisoned officers, and at a bargain which secured us advantages not
to be obtained by stretching his worthless neck; and he has retired into
Canada, to sink into insignificance, despised and hated by those whom
his misrepresentations respecting the alleged easy conquest of our state
so completely deceived. Fitch, after having ransomed himself by the
payment of all he could raise, offered through his fear of a fate to
which, after all, he probably would not have been condemned, sneaked
back to his old haunts in Guilford, where he perished miserably by the
hand of one whom former wrongs, committed in acts of official cruelty
and extortion, had made desperate. And the other, and last of the
infamous trio, now stands before us, to make atonement for his crimes by
an ignominious death on the gallows.”
When the speaker had concluded, the prisoner, after glancing around him,
with that fitful, furtive, and restless expression, which at all times
so strongly marked his countenance, turned to Ethan Allen, and meekly
begged permission to address the multitude.
“Why--yes,” hesitatingly replied the rough old hero, who had been
sitting upon his horse, moodily looking at his watch lying in his broad
palm, and occasionally exhibiting signs of impatience at the length of
his more wordy young brother's remarks--“yes, it may be right enough,
that you should have your say unless you want to preach some more of
your damnable tory doctrines to the people. But be short, sir. Your hour
is nearly up; and I do not intend that the earth shall be polluted by
your living presence one moment beyond the time.”
Immediately availing himself of this ungracious permission, the prisoner
turned, shrinkingly, towards the crowd, and said,--
“All you who hear me, I hope, will take warning by my miserable end--an
end to which I have been brought, in my opinion only by my inconstancy.
In the first place, I adhered to my oath allegiance, and supported the
king; but, finding myself in danger, I enrolled myself under the new
state, and went for the authority of Congress. Conscience, however,
quickly carried me lack to the royal cause, which I again supported a
while; and then, being over-persuaded by my neighbors, I came out once
more openly for the state, and went for it till the approach of Burgoyne
emboldened me to risk another change, and go for my old master. But,
being soon taken in arms, I must now untimely perish. It is, therefore,
my advice to you all--never fluctuate as I have done; but you who are
for the States, stick by the States; and you who are for the king, stick
by the king, and prove--”
“And so,” fiercely interrupted old Ethan--“so you would have an
interminable war, would you? Take your treason along with you to Tophet,
ye doubly-damned miscreant! I will have no more of it here. Teamster,
drive on the cart!”
The teamster did so; and the next moment the traitor Redding was
launched into eternity.