THE NIGHT JOURNEY.
The heart once broken by the loved,
Is strong to meet the foeman.—MRS. BROWNING.
Nearly a fortnight of extreme anxiety passed away, during which
Catherine heard nothing from her messenger. On the evening of the
thirteenth day of his departure, however, a letter was brought to her,
directed in the well-known, but alas! not very familiar hand-writing of
Major Clifton. Oh, joy! He was living then, and even well enough to
write. With a fervent ejaculation of deep gratitude to Heaven, she broke
the seal. But her face paled as she read—
“ON BOARD THE BRITISH SHIP ALBION, }
“August 21st, 1814. }
“CATHERINE:—
“Are you then destined to be forever fatal, not only to me, but to
every human creature that is faithful to me? See what your reckless
disregard of others’ lives has done!—doomed a poor, fond, faithful
creature to a felon’s death! Attend, woman! to what I am about to
write. I was not dangerously wounded, as the newspapers reported, but
slightly hurt, and taken prisoner, and conveyed on board this, the
Admiral’s ship—as they did not report. Thus, the poor fellow, whom you
sent on this death’s errand, not finding me in the American camp, and
hearing that I was a prisoner on board the British fleet, true to your
command, to find and communicate with me, and reckless of his own
danger, procured a boat at Benedict, and came out alongside this ship.
You know the result, as well as I can inform you. The wretched boy was
taken and put in irons as a spy, and has been doomed to be hanged at
the yard-arm. He only waits the Admiral’s orders for execution. My own
inconvenience is nothing beside his cruel fate—yet, nevertheless, I
may as well inform you that I, who was upon parole, when your
messenger sought to communicate with me, have also to thank your
interference for being put under arrest, and nothing but the
relaxation of strict discipline, incident upon the departure of the
two commanders, and a mere fortuity, affords me the opportunity of
writing, and sending this note. Admiral Cockburn and General Ross are
now on their march to Washington City. And my object in writing to you
is merely this: to assure you, by all my hopes of salvation, that
unless you, in your unequaled machiavelism, find some way of saving
this boy from death, I will never see, or speak to you again.
ARCHER CLIFTON.”
Still clasping the letter, her hand and head fell with a gesture of
utter despair.
“Why, what’s de matter, Miss Kate, honey? no bad news, I trus’,” said
Henny.
A deep, heart-breaking sob only answered her.
“My goodness, Miss Kate, deary, what is it den? is marster dead? Oh,
deary me, Miss Kate, chile, don’t keep on looking dat a way—’deed, you
puts a scare on to me!—don’t! Sider how it’s de Lord’s will, honey, an’
let de tears come, let de tears come, chile! _Do_, honey. ’Deed,
troubles like de measles; ef it don’t break out, it strikes in an’ kills
you dead—”
A gasp from Catherine, and a gesture imploring silence, while she
spanned her temples with both hands, and tried to think clearly.
“My gracious, Miss Kate, don’t look so ghashly, honey—don’t. _Is_
marster dead, sure enough?”
“He’s not dead, he’s not dead,” said Catherine, huskily, while she waved
her hand for peace.
“Well, den, honey, long as der’s life der’s hope, an’ no ’casion for
’spair. Is he berry bad, honey?”
“He’s well—well,” said Catherine, in the same tone.
“Well, den, long as he’s well, what ’casion you take on so, honey——Oh!
my Lor’—taint—taint poor brother Jack as anything’s happened to?”
“Oh, Henny! Your master and Jack have both been taken prisoners by
Admiral Cockburn!”
“Oh, Miss Kate! Oh, my Lor’, Miss Kate! An’ dey do tell me how he eats
his prisoners ’live,” exclaimed Henny, falling down into a chair,
flinging her check apron over her head, and beginning to cry.
Almost heedless of her handmaid’s violent demonstrations of grief and
terror, Catherine walked up and down the floor, with her hands clasped
around her temples, in the very agony of thought. To save the boy from
death—_how_ was she, at that remote distance, to save him? Oh! it seemed
a mockery, a snare, to put forgiveness upon such an impracticable
condition! Yet she thought him no setter of snares. She thought over the
whole of the letter, searching for a _hint_; she needed not to look at
it again—every line and word was burned in upon her brain and heart—she
thought over the whole of it, earnestly searching for a clue to
action—she found it at length in the phrases, “He only waits the
Admiral’s order for execution,” and “Admiral Cockburn and General Ross
are now on their march to Washington City.” She thought if she could see
the Admiral, she might yet save his life—of so little worth as a
sacrifice to the enemy, but of such inestimable value to her. The date
of the letter was the twenty-first—this day was the twenty-third. “Oh!
he is probably executed by this time,” said Despondency. “But possibly
not,” said Hope. She tried to think clearly, to separate the dreadful
chaos of thought and passion, and to weigh and adjust circumstances, so
as she might decide and act promptly. Admiral Cockburn and General Ross
must be near Washington, if they had not already reached the city.
Washington was two full day’s journey from her home, but every hour was
precious, for life and death might hang upon it. She could perform the
journey in a day and night. Her resolution was taken. Going up to where
Henny sat crying, and rocking herself backward and forward, she said—
“Rise, Henny, and go and tell James to saddle my horse, _my rough coated
pony_, Henny, he is the strongest and the fleetest, and bring him around
to the door.”
“Oh, Miss Kate! does you think he’ll eat ’em sure ’nough?”
“What do you mean, Henny—are you crazy?”
“Admirable Cockbu’n, honey. Does you think he’ll eat Marse Archy an’
brother Jack, sure ’nough? I hopes not, ’cause you see, chile, brother
Jack, he’s so poor an’ lean, an’ Marse Archer, he mus’ be tough an’
stringy ’nough, too long o’ all dis yer warfarin’, but Lor’, ’haps he’ll
think der good ’nough for sojers rations, and give ’em to dem.”
“Henny that is all a notion.”
“’Bout der eaten ’em, honey?”
“Yes, yes—_don’t_ stop me now, Henny! hasten! hasten! quick! quick,
Henny! Have my pony caught, and then hurry back to me.”
“But, Miss Kate, are you sure?”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure. Oh! hurry, hurry!”
The woman went out, and Catherine sat down and penned a hasty note to
her neighbor, the down-east tenant of Hardbargain, requesting him to
give a slight supervision of affairs at White Cliffs during her absence
for a few days. By the time she had sealed and directed it, Henny
re-appeared.
“Go fetch my riding-dress, Henny,” was her next prompt command.
“My goodness, Miss Kate, where—”
“Go, Henny, at once, and don’t stay to question me.”
The maid obeyed, and her mistress rang the bell, and gave the note she
had written to a boy, to carry to Hardbargain.
As he left the room, Henny entered it with the riding habit.
“Help me on with it at once, Henny,” said Catherine, meeting her.
“My goodness, Miss Kate! you to be goin’ out this time o’ night, an’
we-dem in so much trouble. You didn’ ax me to tell nobody who wur to
wait on you; but Jeemes, he’s gettin’ ready.”
“No, no, I don’t want anybody.”
“Dear me, mist’ess, honey, where’s you gwine?”
“Didn’t I tell you? To Washington City.”
“To Washington?” exclaimed Henny, letting the dress fall from her hands,
and looking up in stupor.
“Yes, yes, didn’t I tell you—to Washington, to see Admiral Cockburn, and
save your brother. I do not believe of Cockburn—I never believe of any
one—as ill as is reported of them, and I think if I go and make a proper
representation to him, I shall be able to save Jack.”
Henny stood gazing at her mistress in the same stupor.
“Come, come, Henny! give me the other sleeve around here,” said
Catherine, impatiently.
Still Henny stood and stared in a stupor, until suddenly all her muscles
and limbs gave way, and she sank down before her mistress, embraced her
knees, looked up into her face, and said, in tones of earnest, deep
affection—
“_Don’t_ go, mist’ess, _don’t_ go—don’t trust yerse’f long o’ Admirable
Cockburn an’ his hang-gallows sojers. _Don’t._”
“I must, Henny.”
“_Oh! no, no._ Memorize what happened at Raison River, an’ at Ham’ton,
how dey nyder spared sexes nor ages—nyder ole paralytic men nor little
babies, nor der young moders—dem leastes’ ob all. Don’t mist’ess, dear.”
“I _must_ Henny. It is the only chance of saving your brother.”
“Oh, dear me! Oh, my heart’s ready for to break; but nebber mind—don’t
go, mist’ess, don’t go. Let him die, mist’ess, tain’t nothin’ only _but_
death arter all! an’ Admirable Cockburn, ’save his funnelly soul, can’t
do nuffin’ ’tall _but_ kill him. An’, poor fellow, he hadn’ long to live
no how, wid a’sumption in his breas’, an’ so it on’y comes a little
sooner an’ a little deffunt like. Don’t go, Miss Kate, dear, let him
die. I’se his sister, an’ I’se been a mammy to him, but I sez so, an’
_he’d_ say so, too, brother Jack would, ef he could on’y speak long o’
you! Sure he’d lay down his life willin’, an’ so would us all, sooner
’an you should fall in wid Admirable Cockburn.”
“I know it, Henny! I know it! Don’t talk to me any longer, though every
word you say but fixes my resolution to go.”
“Oh, Miss Kate! oh! _don’t, don’t_,” exclaimed Henny, clasping her
knees, and repeating all the arguments and entreaties she had used
before. But Catherine was firm as sad.
“If you _mus’_ make an effort, sen’ a messenger long of a note, Miss
Kate. Dar! do dat—now dat’s a good trought.”
“Ah, Heaven forbid! I have had enough of risking poor ignorant
creatures, who cannot keep themselves out of danger.”
“Well, den, Miss Kate, _who_ is you gwine for to take long o’ you, to
wait on you, chile?”
“There, give me my hat, Henny.”
“Yes, honey, _who’s_ you gwine to take wid you?”
“I told you no one, Henny—where are my gloves?”
“Here dey is, honey. Oh, mist’ess, dat’s susanside, an’ nothin’ ’tall
else. Take Jeemes ’long o’ you! He’s brave as a lion—comes to ’fendin’
at _you_.”
“No, James would need rest and food on the journey—I shall require—I
shall stop for neither. Besides there is not a horse here who could bear
his weight continuously for so long a journey. My strong little mountain
pony, I think, may carry my light weight to the journey’s end with very
little stopping.”
“Oh, Miss Kate! ’deed I shall pray for you.”
“Yes, do, Henny—that is the only way in which you can help me. Come, go
with me out.”
“Stay, mist’ess, stay one minute! Ise trought ob anoder trought.”
“Well?”
“Long as you will go onattended, please don’t be ’noyed at what I’m
gwine to say.”
“Only be quick, Henny, that is all.”
“Well, den, ’long as you will go widout any ’fence or ’tection—”
“Except the Lord, Henny.”
“Yes, honey, sure ’nough—’cept de Lord’s—hadn’t you better put
on—hem—a-hem—male boy’s clothes?”
“_What?_”
“Wouldn’t it be more of a ’tection to you? Now, der’s a suit in de
house, you calls to min’, as ’ill jus’ fit you. Dem as ’longed to Miss
Georgy, when she were a masquerade-play-actorin’ here wid de city folks,
here one Christmas. Dey’d fit you to a tee.”
“No, thank you, Henny!”
“You ain’t mad ’long o’ me for sayin’ of it, is you, Miss Kate?”
“Mad? Poor girl! No, Henny.”
“Nor likewise ’noyed in yer feelin’s?”
“No, no, you did but mistake,” answered Catherine, getting into her
saddle, while James held the pony, and Henny affectionately arranged the
riding skirt around her feet and handed her the whip.
“There, there, that will do; good-bye, all of you,” said Catherine,
feverishly.
Henny burst into loud wailing. Catherine paused and laid her hand upon
her shoulder, silencing her while she said—
“My poor girl, do not fear. I have committed myself to the Lord! I am in
His hands. I trust in Him, else I should not dare do this which seems to
you so much like madness. I trust in Him, and no evil can befall me.”
“But oh! mist’ess, mist’ess! If you should arter al’ perish!”
“If I perish, I perish!—it will be no evil if the Lord permits it!”
“I doesn’t b’lieve de Lord am gwine fur to ’mit it! I feels safe ’bout
young mist’ess, _I_ does! I b’lieves how ef Admirable Cockburn or any of
his jail-birds was to come fur to sturve Mist’ess, trustin’ in Hebben as
she does, how a thunderbolt would strike him down sooner, an’ she as
puts her trus’ in de Lord, should come to any harm.”
“Yes, or a yethquake, if ne’ssary!” exclaimed the more ardent Henny. “I
ain’t ’feard for you no longer, mist’ess dear! Hebben is wid you!”
Catherine waved her hand in adieu, gave reins to her pony which bounded
beneath her, and seemed to fly over the lawn. She was fevered,
excited—“mad inspired,” say either. Night was closing darkly around her,
but its sedative shadows had no power to soothe her excited nerves—the
dews were falling, but they had no efficacy to cool her fevered veins; a
long journey lay before her, but its length could not discourage her;
dangers were thickly strown about her path, but they could not appall
her; her only desire, her only anxiety, was to reach her destination in
season, if possible, to rescue this boy from death, because he was dear
to Clifton—dearer than she herself, his wife, was, she now thought; and
now her life itself seemed of little worth, since the hope that was
life’s earthly end, was laid low. Her only remaining hope was to save
this life—her only remaining fear, to fail in doing so.
Her path, for many miles, lay through the deep, interminable wilderness
of forest, that, rising and falling with the low mountain ranges,
extended over more than half the county. Her path was so narrow, and the
branches of the trees often so low and interlaced, that a single start
of her horse, or a single moment’s hesitation to bow her head, might
have dashed her brains out against the intersecting branches of the
trees. And in the deep darkness of the night, and in the despairing
absence of her perceptive faculties, this danger beset her every
instant. But she rode on, like a monomaniac, strangely heedless, and,
like a somnambulist, strangely preserved. As night deepened, and
lowered, and thickened around her in the awful depths of the wilderness,
the distant howl of the hungry wolf, the nearer cry of the fierce wild
cat, and once the more fearful whistle-signal of some outlawed desperado
fell upon her ear. But even these appalling sounds struck no terror to a
heart, stunned by despair into insensibility to danger. And she rode on
through these terrific perils, strangely unconscious, and strangely
protected.
At length, as she descended the last steep, and drew near to the
outskirts of the wilderness, the lights of the small village of L——
gleamed through the interstices of the woods—appearing and disappearing,
jack-o’-lanternlike, until she emerged from the forest and came full
upon the hamlet. It was so late at night, that all the houses were shut
and dark, and the only lights were those she had seen in the forest,—the
lights of the stage and post-office. She passed like a meteor through
the gloomy street, eliciting only a “What the deuce was that?” from a
loiterer in the stage-office, who had seen her flight, and emerged again
upon an open plain, over which her road lay for many miles. Another
village gleamed up from the plains—was reached, passed, and left far
behind with the same lightning-like speed.
She rode all night, less sensible to danger and fatigue than the hardy
little mountain pony that was carrying her light weight, but straining
every nerve and sinew in the service. The night was deeply dark—the
clouds thick, heavy and lowering; she had no means of computing time or
distance, but farms, forests and fields continued to loom, appear and
vanish, as she fled past them. She watched the East with feverish
anxiety for day. But still mountain, meadow, and moorland came and went,
as she approached and hurried by them, and still deep darkness hung like
a pall over Heaven and earth. Vainly she watched the East, for hamlet,
village or town in turn was seen and reached and left behind, and still
a wall of dense blackness blocked up the Orient.
A new and very serious danger threatened her every instant—her poor
horse, fatigued nearly to death, was ready to fall, and she did not know
it. He reeled and tottered, and stumbled and recovered himself many
times, and she did not see or feel it! nay, she mechanically exerted
every nerve and sinew to hold him up, and keep him on his feet, while
totally unconscious of her own exertion. Like a sleep walker was she in
her deep abstraction.
She was in a deep forest again riding for life, and the veins in her
arms were swelled out like cords, with straining to hold the horse up on
his feet. She could no longer see the Eastern horizon, but it was
growing lighter, and she knew that morning was dawning. She rode on, and
on, and on, and at length came out of the forest in time to see the
level rays of the rising sun striking redly across the fields. The
windows of a farm-house flashing back the early light gleamed upon her
vision, and at the same time her horse reeled and fell with her. “Good
Lord!” “Are you hurt?” “Run here, Tim.” “Call your mist’ess, Peter.”
“Where are you hurt, lady? can you tell us?”
Catherine awoke as out of a dream, to see many people around her all
asking questions, and all attempting to extricate her from her saddle.
She passed her hand across her brow, as was her wont when trying to
dispel thought, and she looked at them in perplexity.
“My Lord, I’m afraid she’s very much hurt! Can you speak, lady? Where is
your injury?” said the eldest man of the party, at length, lifting her
in his arms.
“I—no—I’m not hurt—not the least; is the horse?”
“We don’t know, ma’am; I’m sure it’s a blessed thing you’re not killed
yourself,” said another of the group, who, with several more, were
trying to raise the pony upon his legs.
“Pray put me down upon my feet. Thank you. I’m not hurt. How far is
Washington City from this place?” said Catherine, as she stood watching
her horse.
“Good forty miles, lady. I don’t think he’s hurt, but poor fellow, he’s
trembling with fatigue,” said the farmer, answering her, and then
examining the horse, which was raised at last and stood trembling and
blowing.
“Can he take me to Washington to-day?” asked Catherine, as she leaned
against the fence for support.
“_He?_—Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Why look at him, lady: Besides, can you go
there yourself anyhow? Why you’re ready to drop now! Better go in and
let the old woman put you to bed and give you some breakfast.”
“It is true I’m very stiff and weary—having ridden all night. But I must
reach Washington without delay; there is one I care about under sentence
of death. If I reach there in time, I may get a reprieve and save him. I
_must_ go to-day.” Catherine spoke this, frequently pausing for breath.
When she ceased—
“Some of her ‘lations gwine to be hung, an’ she gwine to see President
Madison to get him off! May depen’, that’s it!” whispered one farm
laborer to another.
“Can you let me have a horse to take me there to-day? I will pay
twice—ten times his value,” said Catherine, raising her heavy eyelids to
the old farmer’s kind face.
“Lady, I’ll let you have another horse in two hours from this, on
condition that you go in to my old woman and take some refreshment, and
lie down to rest for that time. And not a minute sooner, and not on any
other terms whatsoever, even if it was your father was going to be
hanged—would I let you have a horse; because I see very clearly that,
unless you take some rest, you will drop down dead before you get a mile
farther on your road.”
“It is true—it is the voice of Providence, I think—I thank you very
much; I will rest. Please take care of my poor pony.”
“He shall be looked after, lady. Take my arm.” And the worthy farmer
drew Catherine’s arm within his own, and carefully and respectfully
supported her to the house, where he gave her into the charge of his
wife, saying, “Here, wait upon this lady, honey! be a mother to her,
honey! for she’s sorrowfully in want of one.”
The farmer’s wife placed her in a stuffed chair, drew off her gloves,
untied her hat and removed it, unfastened her spencer, and asked her if
she would have breakfast, which was just ready to go on the table.
“No, thank you. You are very kind. The Lord reward you. But—rest, I want
only rest,” said Catherine, ready to swoon, for the sense of fatigue was
growing upon her.
“Yes, _rest_, that’s all she wants, or rather that’s the most she wants
now! Put her to bed! let her sleep for two hours, and have a cup of
strong coffee and a broiled chicken ready for her when she wakes. That
will set her up again, and help her to reach her journey’s end,” said
the kind-hearted man.
Supported by the farmer’s wife, Catherine was guided up the stairs to a
cool and quiet room, where she dropped upon the bed. No sooner had her
head touched the pillow, than the room, the white-washed wall, blue
window-curtains, the evergreens on the whitened fire-place, the picture
of the annunciation over the mantle-piece—all reeled around her senses
as a vision, and wheeled off, carrying with them the outside world and
all consciousness of being.
To her, existence was blotted out for two hours.
“Wake up, lady: wake up! your breakfast is ready, and so is your horse!”
Catherine started up at the voice of her landlady, and gazed around,
bewildered. Then memory flashed upon her, and she sprung to her feet,
and began hastily and nervously to fasten her habit.
“Here is water, lady, and napkins—and is there anything else I can bring
you?”
“No, thank you, you are very good.”
“How do you find yourself?”
“Better—I think. How long have I slept?”
“Just two hours. I wished to let you lie longer, but my dear old fellow
insisted on keeping his word with you.”
“I’m glad he did. It was very needful. But you are kind, and I thank
you.”
Catherine bathed her head and face, and the good hostess combed and
arranged her hair, and fastened her habit and took her down stairs,
where a comfortable breakfast awaited her. It was yet but seven o’clock,
and the farmer assured her that she had time enough to reach Washington
by night-fall, and that she would be far better able to do it from
having had this rest. She hastily swallowed a few mouthfuls of food,
drank a cup of strong coffee, that gave her a sort of fictitious
strength, and then arose from the table and quickly prepared to resume
her journey. The good woman followed her with many kind wishes, and the
good man set her in her saddle, and while adjusting her comfortably,
gave directions about the nearest way to W——, the next considerable town
upon the road. Then he gave her the reins, and prayed God to bless her.
She thanked her kind hosts earnestly again, put whip to her horse and
galloped away, leaving her valuable pony in pledge.
The farm-house, with its garden, orchard and vineyard, barns,
wheat-stack and stubble-fields vanished behind her flying steed. The
country was now open, and she flew on and on before the wind. And now
she had entered the forest, and she hurried through its deep shadows,
flecked with golden sun-glances. When she emerged again, and found
herself in the open meadows, it was high noon, and the August sun was
pouring down his burning rays with intolerable power. But on and on she
rode, unconscious of suffering in herself, and unheedful of the fatigue
of her panting and perspiring steed.
It was two hours past noon when she reached the town of W——, and at the
very first inn on the suburbs her horse stopped, of his own will, nor
could she, with all her efforts, persuade or force him to budge a step.
A boy, a colored woman, and then the landlord, his wife and all the
children came out, to see a lady riding, unattended, who could not make
her horse go.
“He wants food and drink, I suppose,” said Catherine, to the landlord,
who at last came to offer her aid. And then she alighted, and requesting
the host to have the animal attended, very quickly, followed the
landlady, who conducted her into the rustic parlor. She was now so
fatigued and stiffened, that the act of standing or walking was really
painful, so she sank down upon the lounge, and declining all the
landlady’s offers of refreshment, waited a weary half hour, while her
horse was feeding. At the end of that time, she mounted again, and
resumed her journey. She passed through the town, and over the wooded
hills that environed it on the east, and came down upon the plains. The
heat of the afternoon was of that close, breathless, insufferable kind,
that always forebodes an awful storm. The sense of suffering was
beginning to force itself upon her, and as for the animal she rode, she
could not, by any means, coax or drive him beyond a walk. Then her mind
became again anxiously concentrated upon the end of her journey, to the
total exclusion of all other thought, and all sense. It was in this
state that she arrived at the foot of a steep hill, covered with
copse-wood, ascended its top, descended the other side, and reached a
small river at its foot. She drew up her feet, doubled her riding-skirt
up over the horse’s shoulders, and guided him into the ford, and—with
the water splashing around, and rising even to the animal’s neck, she
crossed the river—so mechanically, so unconsciously, that had people
asked her, thereafter, whether she had forded a stream in her journey,
she could not have told them.
The sun was declining to his setting, and the sky was heavy with clouds,
while still the air was close, sultry, stifling and oppressive.
Everything indicated the approach before long of a tremendous tornado.
The shades of evening were falling thickly around her when she was
passing through the dense, low-lying forest south-west of Washington.
When she emerged from its deep obscurity and came out into the open
country, an alarming phenomenon arrested her attention; the eastern
horizon was luridly lighted by a low, dull, red glow, like the earliest
dawn of a wintry morning. Her road led directly towards this murky
light, and her eyes were fascinated to it. As she rode and gazed, the
blood-tinged illumination seemed to glow and brighten on her vision, and
presently after, began to send up meteoric streams of fire towards the
clouds. As the distance lessened between herself and the awful
conflagration, it began to illumine her path more and more distinctly
and fearfully, until every object for miles around was plainly visible
in the lurid glare. And then at last Catherine recognized it for a
burning city—the city of Washington wrapped in flames!
On descending the road towards the Potomac, a scene difficult to
describe met her view. All up and down the river and on either shore,
were seen in the red glare multitudes of fugitives—some seeking to
cross, some in boats on the water, and some landed and hurrying in
disorder up the country. Soon after this, she met great numbers of
terrified women and children, flying from their desolated homes. The
greatest possible consternation and confusion prevailed among these
panic-stricken fugitives. The most terrific reports were rife: That the
enemy were in hot pursuit—that the slaves had been incited to revolt,
and mad with emancipation, and drunk with all manner of licentious
excess, were perpetrating more horrible and revolting atrocities than
those which at Hampton, the year before, steeped the country in blood
and shame.
Rendered by despair senseless as the dead to all those dangers,
Catherine laboriously pushed and threaded her way down the road, blocked
up with horses, carriages, foot-passengers, baggage wagons, cattle, and
all the miscellaneous emptyings of a hastily and fearfully evacuated
city. As she drew near the Long Bridge, she heard by the frightened talk
of the flying multitude, that the end of the bridge on the Virginia side
had been burned to prevent, or at least delay, the pursuit of the enemy.
She then turned her horse’s head up the course of the river, with the
intention of crossing by the Georgetown Ferry. She had no trouble in
picking her way through the thicket under the hills that bordered the
Potomac from this point, for every minutest object on the way was made
painfully distinct by the light of the burning city. When nearly
opposite Georgetown, she descried the ferry-boat put off from the other
shore, and propelled rapidly across the river. She stopped her horse,
intending to wait and return with it. In less than five minutes it
touched the beach, and a carriage with a small party of ladies, escorted
by a guard of nine cavalry volunteers, landed.
In the hurried consultation that ensued among them, Catherine learned
that the party consisted of Mrs. Madison and her friends and attendants,
flying from the burning Presidential Mansion. When they had turned their
horses’ heads up the river road, Catherine rode down to the boat, and
addressed herself to the ferryman, asking to be taken over. The man
looked at her in astonishment, and when he saw that she was in earnest,
advised her strongly against the trip, telling her that she had best
turn rein and ride as fast and as far as possible in the opposite
direction—that every one had fled or was flying from Washington, that
the city was in the undisputed possession of the enemy, who were
demolishing, burning and laying waste the metropolis at pleasure. There
was no need to tell that—the fact was awfully visible by the light of
the great conflagration. But Catherine still persisted in her purpose,
replying to his objections that some one whom she did not wish to desert
was in the hands of the enemy; and at last prevailed upon him to put her
across.
She was landed on the flats west of the city. Here crowds of women and
children, pale with terror, and weeping and wailing for their ruined
city and lost homes, waited impatiently to be taken across the river,
out of the way of more horrible fates, which the atrocious reputation of
Cockburn and his Cossacks reasonably taught them to dread. Catherine
left them hurrying in mad confusion into the boat, while she hastened on
to the very scene of peril from which they were flying. She passed
swiftly over the low and marshy fields that then lay between the river
and the heart of the city, and entered upon Twenty-first Street, above
the War Department, and turned into Pennsylvania Avenue.
What a scene! Volumes of smoke, as from an enormous volcano, were
disgorged in massive clouds, and settled like a black canopy over the
doomed city. The President’s Palace and the Treasury Building, swathed
in their shrouds of fire, illumined all the scene with terrific
splendor. Even at the distance of several hundred yards off, her eyes
ached with the insufferable light and scorching heat. At the distance of
a mile, the Capitol, wrapped in its mantle of flame, sent forth a
hail-storm of sparks and burning brands.
In strange and awful contrast to this appalling progress of destruction,
was the dread silence that reigned over the falling city. All the
terror, consternation, hurry and distraction were left without. Here,
upon the very scene of action, all was comparatively quiet. The houses
were shut up, and if they contained any inmates, they were hiding in
obscurity. The streets seemed forsaken by the conquerors, as by the
conquered. There was no shout of soldiery, no martial music, no sign
expression of a grand military triumph anywhere, no sound to be heard
from the powerful enemy in possession, except a distant, dull, heavy,
monotonous tramp, as of many retreating hoofs. The flames were doing
their work of destruction in silence, only broken by the occasional
crash of some falling roof, cupola, or pillar, or some reverberating
explosion. Catherine passed under the blinding glare and scathing heat
of the burning Treasury Building, and turning the elbow of the Avenue,
came upon a sentinel, who instantly levelled his musket and challenged
her, with “Who goes there?”
“The Admiral,” said Catherine, drawing rein.
The sentinel lowered his musket with a surly “Pass on,” followed by a
low, insulting comment. Catherine had merely intended to express her
errand, and had chanced upon the countersign.
“Where shall I find your commander?” she next said.
“The General?”
“No—Admiral Cockburn.”
“Corporal,” said the soldier, in a low, distinct voice. The Corporal of
the Guard advanced.
“What did you want, mum?”
“To be conducted to the presence of the Admiral,” answered Catherine,
with an imploring glance. Perhaps some thing in her countenance moved
the pity of the officer—perhaps he thought her a sufferer from the
devastation of the city. At least he volunteered to be her guide, and
requesting her to accompany him, led the way down the avenue towards the
Capitol.
“Did you know, mum, that a curfew had been proclaimed, and the citizens
forbidden to appear in the streets after eight o’clock in the evening?”
“No, and if I had, I should have been still obliged to disregard it, for
a matter of more than life and death hangs upon my interview with the
Admiral,” replied Catherine, speaking out of the fullness of her heart.
The distance between the Treasury Building and the Capitol was about one
mile, and the glare of the conflagration at each end, revealed a line of
sentinels, posted at regular intervals the whole length of the avenue.
A ride of ten minutes brought them to the encampment of the enemy on the
Capitol Hill, east of the burning edifice. Here, indeed, prevailed much
of the noise and disorder consequent upon the relaxation of discipline
after a day of severe action. Nearly four thousand men were resting,
some leaning upon their muskets, some seated upon the grass, and some
flat upon the ground, in the death-like sleep of drunkenness or
exhaustion.
A group of officers, with their gorgeous scarlet and gold laced dresses
resplendant in the glare, stood watching the progress of the fire.
Towards these the Corporal conducted Catherine. One from among them
advanced, laughing coarsely, as he exclaimed—“Who have we got here,
Corporal?—a woman, by George! and a young and pretty one, too, to judge
by the pretty figure. You’re welcome, madam. What, afraid? Well, I
suppose you have formed a terrible opinion of me from the newspapers,
which delight to represent us all as devils. Never fear me. Satan is not
half so black as the saints paint him! You shall be far safer under any
government than under Madison’s. Ross says he makes no war upon letters
or ladies. Ho, ho, ho! Ross—_he’s_ sentimental, you know! Well! d——
letters, but _I_ make no war upon ladies either, except with Cupid’s
weapons—ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! What, afraid still. Come! let’s see your
face; never saw a shy woman yet that had not a face worth seeing.”
Abashed at this manner of address, Catherine hung her head, until the
Corporal whispered—
“Rear Admiral Cockburn.”
Then she stole a glance at the speaker.
A flashy, overdressed, yet slovenly person, a florid complexion, a
clear, mirthful, audacious blue eye—a sensual mouth, and a free,
dashing, insolent manner, marked the licensed Pirate of the Chesapeake,
and the boon companion of the profligate Prince of Wales.
“What, shy yet! By your leave, my dear!” said the Admiral, chucking his
hand under Catherine’s chin, and raising her face. Poor Kate’s face, as
well as her hair and her dress, was stained with dust and tears and
perspiration, and her features were pale and haggard with sorrow,
anxiety and extreme fatigue. The profligate dropped her chin with a
start, as if it had burnt him, exclaiming—
“Whisht! Ugh! Brownies and kelpies, and witches on broomsticks! Oh! ho,
ho, ho, ho, ho! _Ugh!_ what a face! Here, Corporal, I pass her over to
you; you seem to be kindly disposed. There is no accounting for tastes,
so—Oh! ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! I make you a present of her. _Oh-h!_ where
can I find a dozen pretty girls to get the cross out of my eyes?”
Mortified, repulsed, despairing, Catherine stood by her horse, with one
arm thrown around his neck, and her head resting upon it.
A low hum of voices around her, seemingly incident upon some one’s
arrival on the scene of action, and then a sweet, deep-toned voice near
her, inquiring—
“Can we be so happy as to serve you in any way, lady, I should be most
grateful for the opportunity. To be able to render any service is always
a most soothing amelioration to me of the harsh duties of war.”
“Major-General Ross,” whispered the friendly Corporal, stooping to her
ear.
Catherine raised her head, and saw, bending towards her, a very handsome
man, in the early prime of life, of a grave, sweet, thoughtful, and
somewhat melancholy expression of countenance, who regarding her with
respectful sympathy, repeated his offers of service, saying—
“If I am so fortunate as to be able to assist you, lady, pray do not
hesitate a moment to command me.”
“Thank you, thank you—I—wished to speak with the Admiral—but—”
“With _me_! oh, ho, ho, ho, ho! I beg your pardon! I beg to decline the
honor! Talk to Ross—he’s sentimental, _and_—responsible! the father of a
family, etc.—‘a married man myself, with several sweet children, and
venerate the sanctity,’[3] etc. Eh, Ross? Oh, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!”
Footnote 3:
Words used by the generous and unfortunate General Ross, while trying
to soothe the fears of Mrs. E——
“Speak with me, lady. I shall be most happy to aid you. What is it? Have
you or yours suffered, or received any injury by our soldiers that I can
redress? Can I help you in any way?” asked General Ross, in gentle,
earnest tones.
“Yes, yes, I think you may have power to do me a vital service.”
“Name it, lady. My word is pledged.”
“His word is pledged! Oh, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!—pledged to a
scare-crow!—pledged to a kelpie!—pledged to a witch on a broomstick! Oh,
ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! _Oh-h!_” shouted the coarse Admiral.
The eye of Ross flashed for an instant, but sheathed its fire as he
turned to Catherine, and, taking her hand respectfully, drew her aside
from the proximity of the brutal Cockburn, who, in addition to his other
graces, was now doubly inflamed by drink and triumph.
“A tryste! a tryste with the Queen of the Kelpies! Oh, ho, ho, ho, ho,
ho!” roared the Admiral, holding his sides, and bending forward to shout
his insulting laughter, and then stalking off.
“Explain, lady. I shall be proud to serve you. Pray have confidence in
me, madam, and believe in the sincerity of my words,” said General Ross,
still holding her hand, while she passed her other one slowly to and fro
across her forehead, as was her habit when embarrassed, trying to clear
her mind and arrange her thoughts.
But as soon as she was relieved from the presence of the coarse and
insolent Cockburn, she recovered breath and self-possession, and spoke
clearly and to the point.
“I thank you, sir,—I deeply thank you. I will tell you. I heard, in my
distant mountain home, that my husband, Major Clifton, of the ——
Regiment of Volunteers, had been dangerously wounded in the action at
St. Leonard’s. I did not hear that he had also been taken prisoner.
Believing him to be still in the American camp, and fearing that he
needed more constant attention than he could get, and feeling very
anxious to hear directly from him, I sent his favorite servant to find
him, directing the man to remain with him, and to write me of his state.
He, this servant, was a poor, rustic negro, sir, totally ignorant of the
usages of war. When he reached the American camp, he discovered that his
master was a prisoner on board the British fleet. He procured a boat and
boarded the Albion. He was taken as a spy, of course, and, to end the
miserable story, awaits only the orders of Admiral Cockburn to be
executed. I heard that yesterday evening, and I instantly set off, and
between that hour and this have ridden more than seventy miles, almost
without stopping for food or rest, and entered the city to-night alone,
when all were flying from it, to beg this man’s life from the Admiral.
Now, you know, _you know_, how vital is my request, my prayer.”
“You could not have done more for your father, lady!” replied General
Ross, with a gentle, earnest wonder on his fine countenance. “You could
not have done more for your father than you have done for this slave.”
“Do not wonder, sir. He would have laid down his life for us. But, oh,
sir! time presses—death threatens!”
“Be at peace, lady! The life or death of this slave, of such vital
importance to you, is really a matter of so little moment to Admiral
Cockburn, that I have not the slightest hesitation in promising to
secure for you his pardon and liberation.”
“Oh, may the Lord forever bless you, sir! I never, never can tell you
how grateful I am—”
“Peace, peace, dear lady. It is absolutely nothing. I would to Heaven I
could really do anything to merit your kind word and kind remembrance,
when others are cursing me for what the stern duties of war force me to
do!”
“I shall ever remember you, sir, with the deepest gratitude.”
“And now, Mrs. Clifton, you must have rest and refreshment. My
head-quarters are at Doctor E——’s. His amiable family are at home. They
will gladly afford you comfort and assistance. Permit me to conduct you
thither.”
He replaced her carefully in her saddle, and taking the reins, led her
horse until they reached the commodious mansion of Doctor E——. Here he
introduced Mrs. Clifton, who was received with respect and sympathy.
Leaving her in the care of the kind and hospitable family, he then set
out to seek Admiral Cockburn.
Catherine was shown to a chamber, and afforded the refreshments of a
partial bath and food. After which she lay down on a sofa, to rest, and
await the return of the gentle and generous Ross.
In about half an hour she was summoned to the parlor, where she found
him standing. He advanced to meet her, and said—
“Mrs. Clifton, I have the pardon here, but I very much fear—” and his
face clouded over—“I very much fear it will be too late.”
“‘_Too late!_’” echoed Catherine, sinking into a chair, as she repeated
the saddest words in the language—“Too late. Is he dead?” she asked,
covering her face with her hands.
“No, Mrs. Clifton, but he has been ordered for execution at eight
o’clock to-morrow.”
“IT IS NOT TOO LATE!” exclaimed Catherine, starting up, with electric
energy. “Give me—oh! give me the pardon!—I will take it there in time!”
“Lady, the distance is over forty miles—and the necessary delays, and
the dangers that threaten a young female, traveling alone by night,
through a country infested—”
“_Oh!_ give me the pardon! give it me, I implore you! I will take it
there safely, and in time! Heaven has protected me through dangers as
great, and Heaven will protect me through these! Oh, for the love of
Heaven, do not hesitate! Every moment is inestimable when a ‘_too late_’
threatens us! Give me the pardon!”
“Nay, lady, I can send a courier with the pardon, rather than that you
should go, for many reasons.”
“Oh, no, no, your courier would want to stop, to eat and drink—or he
might fall in with some of our people, and be killed or taken,—or if he
escaped, through his explanation of his errand—why, that very errand
would be rendered futile, by the time lost in investigation. _I_ shall
pause for nothing. Heaven will protect and speed me. Oh! give me the
pardon. Do not delay! _All_ depends upon promptitude. Alas! excuse my
importunity! but give me the pardon!”
General Ross attempted to dissuade her; but neither arguments nor
persuasions had the least effect upon her resolution. At last, overruled
by her earnestness, vehemence and faith, he yielded—handed her the
pardon, and went out to see if he could procure her a fresh horse.
When he entered again, after a successful search, he found her equipped
for her second night’s journey, and standing in the midst of her
astonished hosts. He informed her that her horse was ready, and also
that he had provided her a guard, to escort her beyond Bladensburg. Then
she took a hasty and grateful leave of her amiable entertainers, and
accepting the arm of the Major-General, left the house.
As General Ross placed her in the saddle, and handed her the reins, he
said—
“Heaven protect and speed you, lady. Farewell—and sometimes remember
me.”
“I will remember and pray for General Ross while I live,” said
Catherine. And then she put whip to her horse, and rode away, upheld by
a wonderful energy.