THE RELEASE
Oh! give me liberty. —Dryden.
Thus doth the ever-changing course of things
Run a perpetual circle. —Daniels.
‘Tis not the many oaths, that make the truth;
But the plain single vow, that is vow’d true. —Shakespeare.
Captain Powell was one of those who had been a listener at Aylesford’s
bedside, during the confession of the latter. Arriving in New York,
after the loss of his ship, without employment, or the chance of any, he
had volunteered on the expedition against the Neck, and hence his
presence. He it was, also, who had been commissioned by the chaplain to
quiet Aylesford, by carrying a message to the American camp.
Accordingly, Captain Powell had left the room, but with other ulterior
designs. He had already ascertained that Major Gordon had been made
prisoner, and having heard his name mentioned by Aylesford more than
once, a suspicion of the truth had flashed upon him. Indeed, often since
his rescue from the wreck, had he speculated on an attachment springing
up between our hero and Kate; for though he had seen little of the
officer, he had observed enough, during those hours of terrible peril,
to be convinced that he and Miss Aylesford were eminently fitted for
each other. He resolved, accordingly, to see Major Gordon, in this
crisis, satisfied, that if it was as he suspected, the best course would
be to secretly liberate the prisoner.
“This is my friend,” said our hero, turning to Uncle Lawrence, on
observing that Captain Powell seemed surprised at not finding him alone.
“He has, this day, saved my life, and whatever debt you may think you
owe to me, I transfer to him.”
The captain looked at Uncle Lawrence, at these words, with increased
interest. But he was a judge of character, and the simple dignity with
which the veteran rose and returned the salutation of the visitor, at
once convinced the latter that the old man was no common person. The
delicate subject, however, on which he had come to see Major Gordon,
made him hesitate. Our hero, discovering this from his manner, said,
“You can speak, Captain, before Mr. Herman, as frankly as if he was
myself.”
Still, Captain Powell knew not how to open his mission, and paused in
embarrassment. At last he bethought him to mention the fact, that “a
young gentleman, named Aylesford, had come into camp desperately
wounded, and was now at the point of death.”
The surprise of Major Gordon, the horror of Uncle Lawrence, and the
interest of both, produced immediately a torrent of questions, which led
the conversation to the point that the visitor desired.
We will not attempt to paint the excitement of the hearers, when Captain
Powell informed them that Kate was in the hands of Arrison. The emotion
of Uncle Lawrence was almost as great as that of Major Gordon. The
former, in fact, was more thoroughly acquainted with the refugee’s
character, and had consequently a keener sense, if possible, of Kate’s
peril. It was fortunate it was so: fortunate that the Major could
scarcely believe in depravity so great as Arrison’s; for otherwise he
must have gone mad with suspense.
As it was, he could not keep still for an instant. He had started to his
feet again, on the first intimation of Kate’s danger; and had heard
the conclusion of the narrative, striding up and down the narrow
apartment, like a chafed lion in a cage.
“Oh! if I had been there, instead of here,” he cried, clenching his
hands. “Just heaven! such villainy.”
“Calm yourself, my dear Major,” answered Captain Powell. “You will
be overheard.” For this, as well as the former conversation between
the prisoners, had been conducted in low tones, to prevent the other
occupants of the building from hearing, whereas the Major, under the
excitement of his feelings, had uttered these exclamations aloud.
“Calm yourself,” continued Captain Powell. “It is to set you free,
remember, that I am here.”
The words were scarcely uttered before Major Gordon stopped in his walk,
and seizing the speaker’s hand, wrung it with energetic gratitude. His
heart, however, was too full to allow him utterance.
“I need not say,” resumed Captain Powell, “that there is not a
minute to be lost.”
But suddenly a shade of deep concern extinguished the light in Major
Gordon’s countenance. For the instant he had forgotten his fellow
prisoner. But it had been only for an instant. Much as he desired
freedom, in order to rescue Kate, or die in the attempt, he could not
abandon Uncle Lawrence. He paused, and fixed his eyes on the old man,
who stood silent and motionless, though every feature of his face was
working with intense emotion; emotion not on his own account; not
because the Major was to be freed, and himself remain a prisoner, but
because his darling was in the hands of such a ruffian as Arrison.
“I cannot go,” said Major Gordon, turning frankly to Captain Powell,
“at least alone. My friend must accompany me. He has a family, and his
life is precious to them; let him be released in my stead.”
Captain Powell looked perplexed. But Uncle Lawrence spoke up.
“No,” said he, addressing Captain Powell, “I am an old man, and my
time is nearly out, while the Major is young, and can yet be of service
to his country.”
“But the young lady, consider her, sir,” urged Captain Powell,
speaking to Major Gordon. “Time is precious, and succor ought to be
sent at once. For God’s sake, Major, don’t stand on scruples, which
would honor you at another time, but are only periling Miss
Aylesford’s life at this crisis.”
A sharp pang of agony shot visibly across his hearer’s face. But the
Major was inexorable. He resembled Uncle Lawrence, indeed, in the
inflexibility with which he walked in the path of duty, when that duty
became plain. No martyr, condemned to pass barefoot over burning
plough-shares, could have executed his task more unflinchingly.
“Mr. Herman,” he replied, “is the more suitable person then to be
released, for he knows every acre of the forests about Sweetwater; and
can do more, in an hour, in tracking these ruffians to their den, than I
could in a day.”
Captain Powell was evidently struck with this remark. He looked
inquiringly at Uncle Lawrence, feeling, by that instinct which is called
insight into character, that the veteran would speak the truth in reply,
irrespective of conventional reserve on the one hand, or of
self-interest on the other.
“I’ll not deny,” said the patriarch, mildly, “but what the Major
speaks truth, in that partic’lar. I’ve hunted a’most every inch of
the woods, for a dozen miles about, on every side, these forty years
nigh. And I’d give,” he added, earnestly, “half of the years I may
have to live, if the Lord allowed me the right to do it, that I might be
free. I’d burn the rascal out, like a fox from his hole, I’ll
warrant, afore to-morrow’s sun was many hours high.”
Captain Powell looked from one to the other, in perplexity, for a full
minute, before he spoke again. At last he said, with sudden impulse,
“You shall both be free. Nay! no thanks,” he continued, as the Major
sprang forward again, and grasped his hand, “but listen. I have a pass
for the Major. You, my venerable sir, are luckily about my height. You
must exchange hats and coats with me,” removing the articles as he
spoke, and proffering them to Uncle Lawrence. “Go boldly out, for I
left the pass with the sentinel, as if you were myself. The breeze was
beginning to blow freely up the river, when I came in. You’ll find a
boat, with her sail ready, lying near the outside of the camp. The
sentinel there will let you pass, on giving the watchword,
‘loyalty.’ Make the best of your way, in God’s name, up the
stream; and may success crown your efforts!”
He pressed the hands of both his hearers, as he ceased speaking, and the
change of garments having been effected, fairly pushed them out of the
place, first giving the lantern in charge to Uncle Lawrence, and
whispering, as a parting admonition, “I brought it in with me, and
they’ll naturally expect to see me carry it out—be sure to lose not
a minute, for the trick must soon be found out.”
We will not detain the reader with the obstacles which the fugitives met
on their way to the boat. To avoid being seen they were forced to skulk
along in the shadows; but twice even this failed; though fortunately the
knowledge of the pass-word secured their safety. At last they reached
the skiff, and were almost instantly sweeping up the river, carrying
what was a wholesale breeze, when we consider the size of their craft.
She was, indeed, but a mere cockle-shell, one of those small, decked,
gunning skiffs, such as are still used in those waters, intended for
only one person, but capable on emergency of carrying two; and she sank
under the weight of her passengers, quite to the gunwale. There is, in
these light and buoyant craft, which a strong man may easily carry on
his shoulder, a small hole cut in the deck, where the sportsman sits,
covered with sedge, and so paddles himself unperceived upon the wild
fowl. Into this aperture, Uncle Lawrence directed Major Gordon to insert
himself, while the old man, sitting flat on the stern, took both the
tiller and sheet in his hand.
“Now, all I’ll ask,” said the veteran, “is that you’ll trim
boat as I tell you, and that this ‘ere wind will hold all night.
There’s one or two reaches, where we’ll have to row, probably.”
“But I must first land and seek my late command,” interposed Major
Gordon. “If Count Pulaski has come up, I will then attend you; but if
not,” and he sighed audibly, “you will have to proceed alone.”
Uncle Lawrence did not reply immediately. But a little reflection
convinced him that his companion had decided aright, and therefore he
said nothing to change the Major’s opinion, though his heart ached.
“We had better come to here,” he said, at last. “There’s a road,
somewhere near, that’ll take us where we’ll be pretty sure to find
the Count, if he’s on the ground.”