And now 'tis still! no sound to wake
The primal forest's awful shade;
And breathless lies the covert brake,
Where many an ambushed form is laid:
I see the red-man's gleaming eye,
Yet all so hushed the gloom profound,
That summer birds flit heedlessly,
And mocking nature smiles around.
Lunt.
The eventful summer of 1776 had been genial and generous in the valley
of the Hutted Knoll. With a desire to drive away obtrusive thoughts,
the captain had been much in his fields, and he was bethinking himself
of making a large contribution to the good cause, in the way of fatted
porkers, of which he had an unusual number, that he thought might yet
be driven through the forest to Fort Stanwix, before the season closed.
In the way of intelligence from the seat of war, nothing had reached
the family but a letter from the major, which he had managed to get
sent, and in which he wrote with necessary caution. He merely mentioned
the arrival of Sir William Howe's forces, and the state of his own
health. There was a short postscript, in the following words, the
letter having been directed to his father:--"Tell dearest Maud," he
said, "that charming women have ceased to charm me; glory occupying so
much of my day-dreams, like an _ignis fatuus_, I fear; and that as
for love, _all_ my affections are centred in the dear objects at
the Hutted Knoll. If I had met with a single woman I admired half as
much as I do her pretty self, I should have been married long since."
This was written in answer to some thoughtless rattle that the captain
had volunteered to put in his last letter, as coming from Maud, who had
sensitively shrunk from sending a message when asked; and it was read
by father, mother, and Beulah, as the badinage of a brother to a
sister, without awaking a second thought in either. Not so with Maud,
herself, however. When her seniors had done with this letter, she
carried it to her own room, reading and re-reading it a dozen times;
nor could she muster resolution to return it; but, finding at length
that the epistle was forgotten, she succeeded in retaining it without
awakening attention to what she had done. This letter now became her
constant companion, and a hundred times did the sweet gill trace its
characters, in the privacy of her chamber, or in that of her now
solitary walks in the woods.
As yet, the war had produced none of those scenes of ruthless frontier
violence, that had distinguished all the previous conflicts of America.
The enemy was on the coast, and thither the efforts of the combatants
had been principally directed. It is true, an attempt on Canada had
been made, but it failed for want of means; neither party being in a
condition to effect much, as yet, in that quarter. The captain had
commented on this peculiarity of the present struggle; all those which
had preceded it having, as a matter of course, taken the direction of
the frontiers between the hostile provinces.
"There is no use, Woods, in bothering ourselves about these things,
after all," observed captain Willoughby, one day, when the subject of
hanging the long-neglected gates came up between them. "It's a heavy
job, and the crops will suffer if we take off the hands this week. We
are as safe, here, as we should be in Hyde Park; and safer too; for
there house-breakers and foot-pads abound; whereas, _your_
preaching has left nothing but very vulgar and everyday sinners at the
Knoll."
The chaplain had little to say against this reasoning; for, to own the
truth, he saw no particular cause for apprehension. Impunity had
produced the feeling of security, until these gates had got to be
rather a subject of amusement, than of any serious discussion. The
preceding year, when the stockade was erected, Joel had managed to
throw so many obstacles in the way of hanging the gates, that the duty
was not performed throughout the whole of the present summer, the
subject having been mentioned but once or twice, and then only to be
postponed to a more fitting occasion.
As yet no one in the valley knew of the great event which had taken
place in July. A rumour of a design to declare the provinces
independent had reached the Hut, in May; but the major's letter was
silent on this important event, and positive information had arrived by
no other channel; otherwise, the captain would have regarded the
struggle as much more serious than he had ever done before; and he
might have set about raising these all-important gates in earnest. As
it was, however, there they stood; each pair leaning against its proper
wall or stockade, though those of the latter were so light as to have
required but eight or ten men to set them on their hinges, in a couple
of hours at most.
Captain Willoughby still confined his agricultural schemes to the site
of the old Beaver Pond. The area of that was perfectly beautiful, every
unsightly object having been removed, while the fences and the tillage
were faultlessly neat and regular. Care had been taken, too, to render
the few small fields around the cabins which skirted this lovely rural
scene, worthy of their vicinage. The stumps had all been dug, the
surfaces levelled, and the orchards and gardens were in keeping with
the charms that nature had so bountifully scattered about the place.
While, however, all in the shape of tillage was confined to this one
spot, the cattle ranged the forest for miles. Not only was the valley,
but the adjacent mountain-sides were covered with intersecting paths,
beaten by the herds, in the course of years. These paths led to many a
glen, or look-out, where Beulah and Maud had long been in the habit of
pursuing their rambles, during the sultry heats of summer, Though so
beautiful to the eye, the flats were not agreeable for walks; and it
was but natural for the lovers of the picturesque to seek the
eminences, where they could overlook the vast surfaces of leaves that
were spread before them; or to bury themselves in ravines and glens,
within which the rays of the sun scarce penetrated. The paths mentioned
led near, or to, a hundred of these places, all within a mile or two of
the Hut. As a matter of course, then, they were not neglected.
Beulah had now been a mother several months. Her little Evert was born
at the Knoll, and he occupied most of those gentle and affectionate
thoughts which were not engrossed by his absent father. Her marriage,
of itself, had made some changes in her intercourse with Maud; but the
birth of the child had brought about still more. The care of this
little being formed Beulah's great delight; and Mrs. Willoughby had all
that peculiar interest in her descendant, which marks a grandmother's
irresponsible love. These two passed half their time in the nursery, a
room fitted between their respective chambers; leaving Maud more alone
than it was her wont to be, and of course to brood over her thoughts
and feelings. These periods of solitude our heroine was much accustomed
to pass in the forest. Use had so far emboldened her, that apprehension
never shortened her walks, or lessened their pleasure. Of danger, from
any ordinary source, there was literally next to none, man never having
been known to approach the valley, unless by the regular path; while
the beasts of prey had been so actively hunted, as rarely to be seen in
that quarter of the country. The panther excepted, no wild quadruped
was to be in the least feared in summer; and, of the first, none had
ever been met with by Nick, or any of the numerous woodsmen who had now
frequented the adjacent hills for two lustrums.
About three hours before the setting of the sun, on the evening of the
23d of September, 1776, Maud Willoughby was pursuing her way, quite
alone, along one of the paths beaten by the cattle, at some little
distance from a rocky eminence, where there was a look-out, on which
Mike, by her father's orders, had made a rude seat. It was on the side
of the clearing most remote from all the cabins; though once on the
elevation, she could command a view of the whole of the little panorama
around the site of the ancient pond. In that day, ladies wore the well-
known gipsey hat, a style that was peculiarly suited to the face of our
heroine. Exercise had given her cheeks a rich glow; and though a shade
of sadness, or at least of reflection, was now habitually thrown
athwart her sweet countenance, this bloom added an unusual lustre to
her eyes, and a brilliancy to her beauty, that the proudest belle of
any drawing-room might have been glad to possess. Although living so
retired, her dress always became her rank; being simple, but of the
character that denotes refinement, and the habits and tastes of a
gentlewoman. In this particular, Maud had ever been observant of what
was due to herself; and, more than all, had she attended to her present
appearance since a chance expression of Robert Willoughby's had
betrayed how much he prized the quality in her.
Looking thus, and in a melancholy frame of mind, Maud reached the rock,
and took her place on its simple seat, throwing aside her hat, to catch
a little of the cooling air on her burning cheeks. She turned to look
at the lovely view again, with a pleasure that never tired. The rays of
the sun were streaming athwart the verdant meadows and rich corn,
lengthening the shadows, and mellowing everything, as if expressly to
please the eye of one like her who now gazed upon the scene. Most of
the people of the settlement were in the open air, the men closing
their day's works in the fields, and the women and children busied
beneath shades, with their wheels and needles; the whole presenting
such a picture of peaceful, rural life, as a poet might delight to
describe, or an artist to delineate with his pencil.
"The landscape smiles
Calm in the sun; and silent are the hills
And valleys, and the blue serene of air."
_The Vanished Lark_.
"It is very beautiful!" thought Maud. "Why cannot men be content with
such scenes of loveliness and nature as this, and love each other, and
be at peace, as God's laws command? Then we might all be living happily
together, Mere, without trembling lest news of some sad misfortune
should reach us, from hour to hour. Beulah and Evert would not be
separated; but both could remain with their child--and my dear, dear
father and mother would be so happy to have us all around them, in
security--and, then, Bob, too--perhaps Bob might bring a wife from the
town, with him, that I could love as I do Beulah"--It was one of Maud's
day-dreams to love the wife of Bob, and make him happy by contributing
to the happiness of those he most prized--"No; I could never love her
as I do _Beulah_; but I should make her very dear to me, as I
ought to, since she would be Bob's wife."
The expression of Maud's face, towards the close of this mental
soliloquy, was of singular sadness; and yet it was the very picture of
sincerity and truth. It was some such look as the windows of the mind
assume, when the feelings struggle against nature and hope, for
resignation and submission to duty.
At this instant, a cry arose from the valley! It was one of those
spontaneous, involuntary outbreakings of alarm, that no art can
imitate, no pen describe; but which conveys to the listener's ear,
terror in the very sound. At the next instant, the men from the mill
were seen rushing up to the summit of the cliff that impended over
their dwellings, followed by their wives dragging children after them,
making frantic gestures, indicative of alarm. The first impulse of Maud
was to fly; but a moment's reflection told her it was much too late for
that. To remain and witness what followed would be safer, and more
wise. Her dress was dark, and she would not be likely to be observed at
the distance at which she was placed; having behind her, too, a back-
ground of gloomy rock. Then the scene was too exciting to admit of much
hesitation or delay in coming to a decision; a fearful species of
maddened curiosity mingling with her alarm. Under such circumstances,
it is not surprising that Maud continued gazing on what she saw, with
eyes that seemed to devour the objects before them.
The first cry from the valley was followed by the appearance of the
fugitives from the mill. These took the way towards the Hut, calling on
the nearest labourers by name, to seek safety in flight. The words
could not be distinguished at the rock, though indistinct sounds might;
but the gestures could not be mistaken. In half a minute, the plain was
alive with fugitives; some rushing to their cabins for their children,
and all taking the direction of the stockade, as soon as the last were
found. In five minutes the roads and lanes near the Knoll were crowded
with men, women and children, hastening forward to its protection,
while a few of the former had already rushed through the gateways, as
Maud correctly fancied, in quest of their arms.
Captain Willoughby was riding among his labourers when this fearful
interruption to a tranquillity so placid first broke upon his ear.
Accustomed to alarms, he galloped forward to meet the fugitives from
the mill, issuing orders as he passed to several of the men nearest the
house. With the miller, who thought little of anything but safety at
that instant, he conversed a moment, and then pushed boldly on towards
the verge of the cliffs. Maud trembled as she saw her father in a
situation which she thought must be so exposed; but his cool manner of
riding about proved that he saw no enemy very near. At length he waved
his hat to some object, or person in the glen beneath; and she even
thought she heard his shout. At the next moment, he turned his horse,
and was seen scouring along the road towards the Hut. The lawn was
covered with the fugitives as the captain reached it, while a few armed
men were already coming out of the court-yard. Gesticulating as if
giving orders, the captain dashed through them all, without drawing the
rein, and disappeared in the court. A minute later, he re-issued,
bearing his arms, followed by his wife and Beulah, the latter pressing
little Evert to her bosom.
Something like order now began to appear among the men. Counting all
ages and both colours, the valley, at this particular moment, could
muster thirty-three males capable of bearing arms. To these might be
added some ten or fifteen women who had occasionally brought down a
deer, and who might be thought more or less dangerous, stationed at a
loop, with a rifle or a musket. Captain Willoughby had taken some pains
to drill the former, who could go through some of the simpler light-
infantry evolutions. Among them he had appointed sundry corporals,
while Joel Strides had been named a serjeant. Joyce, now an aged and
war-worn veteran, did the duty of adjutant. Twenty men were soon drawn
up in array, in front of the open gateway on the lawn, under the
immediate orders of Joyce; and the last woman and child, that had been
seen approaching the place of refuge, had passed within the stockade.
At this instant captain Willoughby called a party of the stragglers
around him, and set about hanging the gates of the outer passage, or
that which led through the palisades.
Maud would now have left the rock, but, at that moment, a dark body of
Indians poured up over the cliffs, crowning it with a menacing cloud of
at least fifty armed warriors. The rivulet lay between her and the Hut,
and the nearest bridge that crossed it would have brought her within
reach of danger. Then it would require at least half an hour to reach
that bridge by the circuitous path she would be compelled to take, and
there was little hope of getting over it before the strangers should
have advanced. It was better to remain where she could behold what was
passing, and to be governed by events, than to rush blindly into unseen
risks.
The party that crowned the cliffs near the mills, showed no impatience
to advance. It was evidently busy in reconnoitring, and in receiving
accessions to its numbers. The latter soon increased to some seventy or
eighty warriors. After waiting several minutes in inaction, a musket,
or rifle, was fired towards the Hut, as if to try the effect of a
summons and the range of a bullet. At this hint the men on the lawn
retired within the stockade, stacked their arms, and joined the party
that was endeavouring to get the gates in their places. From the
circumstance that her father directed all the women and children to
retire within the court, Maud supposed that the bullet might have
fallen somewhere near them. It was quite evident, however, that no one
was injured.
The gates intended for the stockade, being open like the rest of that
work, were materially lighter than those constructed for the house
itself. The difficulty was in handling them with the accuracy required
to enter the hinges, of which there were three pairs. This difficulty
existed on account of their great height. Of physical force, enough
could be applied to toss them over the stockade itself, if necessary;
but finesse was needed, rather than force, to effect the principal
object, and that under difficult circumstances. It is scarcely possible
that the proximity of so fierce an enemy as a body of savages in their
war-paint, for such the men at the mill had discovered was the guise of
their assailants, would in any measure favour the coolness and tact of
the labourers. Poor Maud lost the sense of her own danger, in the
nervous desire to see the long-forgotten gates hung; and she rose once
or twice, in feverish excitement, as she saw that the leaf which was
raised fell in or out, missing its fastenings. Still the men
persevered, one or two sentinels being placed to watch the Indians, and
give timely notice of their approach, should they advance.
Maud now kneeled, with her face bowed to the seat, and uttered a short
but most fervent prayer, in behalf of the dear beings that the Hut
contained. This calmed her spirits a little, and she rose once more to
watch the course of events. The body of men had left the gate at which
they had just been toiling, and were crowding around its fellow. One
leaf was hung! As an assurance of this, she soon after saw her father
swing it backward and forward on its hinges, to cause it to settle into
its place. This was an immense relief, though she had heard too many
tales of Indian warfare, to think there was any imminent danger of an
attack by open day, in the very face of the garrison. The cool manner
in which her father proceeded, satisfied her that he felt the same
security, for the moment; his great object being, in truth, to make
suitable provision against the hours of darkness.
Although Maud had been educated as a lady, and possessed the delicacy
and refinement of her class, she had unavoidably caught some of the
fire and resolution of a frontier life. To her, the forest, for
instance, possessed no fancied dangers; but when there was real ground
for alarm, she estimated its causes intelligently, and with calmness.
So it was, also, in the present crisis. She remembered all she had been
taught, or had heard, and quick of apprehension, her information was
justly applied to the estimate of present circumstances.
The men at the Hut soon had the second leaf of the gate ready to be
raised. At this instant, an Indian advanced across the flat alone,
bearing a branch of a tree in his hand, and moving swiftly. This was a
flag of truce, desiring to communicate with the pale-faces. Captain
Willoughby met the messenger alone, at the foot of the lawn, and there
a conference took place that lasted several minutes. Maud could only
conjecture its objects, though she thought her father's attitude
commanding, and his gestures stern. The red-man, as usual, was quiet
and dignified. This much our heroine saw, or fancied she saw; but
beyond this, of course, all was vague conjecture. Just as the two were
about to part, and had even made courteous signs of their intention, a
shout arose from the workmen, which ascended, though faintly, as high
as the rock. Captain Willoughby turned, and then Maud saw his arm
extended towards the stockade. The second leaf of the gate was in its
place, swinging to and fro, in a sort of exulting demonstration of its
uses! The savage moved away, more slowly than he had advanced,
occasionally stopping to reconnoitre the Knoll and its defences.
Captain Willoughby now returned to his people, and he was some time
busied in examining the gates, and giving directions about its
fastenings. Utterly forgetful of her own situation, Maud shed tears of
joy, as she saw that this great object was successfully effected. The
stockade was an immense security to the people of the Hut. Although it
certainly might be scaled, such an enterprise would require great
caution, courage, and address; and it could hardly be effected, at all,
by daylight. At night, even, it would allow the sentinels time to give
the alarm, and with a vigilant look-out, might be the means of
repelling an enemy. There was also another consideration connected with
this stockade. An enemy would not be fond of trusting himself
_inside_ of it, unless reasonably certain of carrying the citadel
altogether; inasmuch as it might serve as a prison to place him in the
hands of the garrison. To recross it under a fire from the loops, would
be an exploit so hazardous that few Indians would think of undertaking
it. All this Maud knew from her father's conversations, and she saw how
much had been obtained in raising the gates. Then the stockade, once
properly closed, afforded great security to those moving about within
it; the timbers would be apt to stop a bullet, and were a perfect
defence against a rush; leaving time to the women and children to get
into the court, even allowing that the assailants succeeded in scaling
the palisades.
Maud thought rapidly and well, in the strait in which she was placed.
She understood most of the movements, on both sides, and she also saw
the importance of her remaining where she could note all that passed,
if she intended to make an attempt at reaching the Hut, after dark.
This necessity determined her to continue at the rock, so long as light
remained. She wondered she was not missed, but rightly attributed the
circumstance to the suddenness of the alarm, and the crowd of other
thoughts which would naturally press upon the minds of her friends, at
such a fearful moment. "I will stay where I am," thought Maud, a little
proudly, "and prove, if I am not really the daughter of Hugh
Willoughby, that I am not altogether unworthy of his love and care! I
can even pass the night in the forest, at this warm season, without
suffering."
Just as these thoughts crossed her mind, in a sort of mental soliloquy,
a stone rolled from a path above her, and fell over the rock on which
the seat was placed. A footstep was then heard, and the girl's heart
beat quick with apprehension. Still she conceived it safest to remain
perfectly quiet. She scarce breathed in her anxiety to be motionless.
Then it occurred to her, that some one beside herself might be out from
the Hut, and that a friend was near. Mike had been in the woods that
very afternoon, she knew; for she had seen him; and the true-hearted
fellow would indeed be a treasure to her, at that awful moment. This
idea, which rose almost to certainty as soon as it occurred, induced
her to spring forward, when the appearance of a man, whom she did not
recognise, dressed in a hunting-shirt, and otherwise attired for the
woods, carrying a short rifle in the hollow of his arm, caused her to
stop, in motionless terror. At first, her presence was not observed;
but, no sooner did the stranger catch a glimpse of her person, than he
stopped, raised his hands in surprise, laid his rifle against a tree,
and sprang forward; the girl closing her eyes, and sinking on the seat,
with bowed head, expecting the blow of the deadly tomahawk.
"Maud--dearest, _dearest_ Maud--do you not know me!" exclaimed
one, leaning over the pallid girl, while he passed an arm round her
slender waist, with an affection so delicate and reserved, that, at
another time, it might have attracted attention. "Look up, dear girl,
and show that at least you fear not _me!_"
"Bob," said the half-senseless Maud. "Whence come you?--_Why_ do
you come at this fearful instant!--Would to God your visit had been
better timed!"
"Terror makes you say this, my poor Maud! Of all the family, I had
hoped for the warmest welcome from _you_. We think alike about
this war--then you are not so much terrified at the idea of my being
found here, but can hear reason. Why do you say this, then, my dearest
Maud?"
By this time Maud had so far recovered as to be able to look up into
the major's face, with an expression in which alarm was blended with
unutterable tenderness. Still she did not throw her arms around him, as
a sister would clasp a beloved brother; but, rather, as he pressed her
gently to his bosom, repelled the embrace by a slight resistance.
Extricating herself, however, she turned and pointed towards the
valley.
"Why do I say this? See for yourself--the savages have at length come,
and the whole dreadful picture is before you."
Young Willoughby's military eye took in the scene at a glance. The
Indians were still at the cliff, and the people of the settlement were
straining at the heavier gates of the Hut, having already got one of
them into a position where it wanted only the proper application of a
steady force to be hung. He saw his father actively employed in giving
directions; and a few pertinent questions drew all the other
circumstances from Maud. The enemy had now been in the valley more than
an hour, and the movements of the two parties were soon related.
"Are you alone, dearest Maud? are you shut out by this sudden inroad?"
demanded the major, with concern and surprise.
"So it would seem. I can see no other--though I did think Michael might
be somewhere near me, in the woods, here; I at first mistook your
footsteps for his."
"That is a mistake"--returned Willoughby, levelling a small pocket spy-
glass at the Hut--"Mike is tugging at that gate, upholding a part of
it, like a corner-stone. I see most of the faces I know there, and my
dear father is as active, and yet as cool, as if at the head of a
regiment."
"Then I am alone--it is perhaps better that as many as possible should
be in the house to defend it."
"Not alone, my sweet Maud, so long as I am with you. Do you still think
my visit so ill-timed?"
"Perhaps not, after all. Heaven knows what I should have done, by
myself, when it became dark!"
"But are we safe on this seat?--May we not be seen by the Indians,
since we so plainly see them?"
"I think not. I have often remarked that when Evert and Beulah have
been here, their figures could not be perceived from the lawn; owing, I
fancy, to the dark back-ground of rock. My dress is not light, and you
are in green; which is the colour of the leaves, and not easily to be
distinguished. No other spot gives so good a view of what takes place
in the valley. We must risk a little exposure, or act in the dark."
"You are a soldier's daughter, Maud"--This was as true of major
Meredith as of captain Willoughby, and might therefore be freely said
by even Bob--"You are a soldier's daughter, and nature has clearly
intended you to be a soldier's wife. This is a _coup-d'-oeil_ not
to be despised."
"I shall never be a wife at all"--murmured Maud, scarce knowing what
she said; "I may not live to be a soldier's daughter, even, much
longer. But, why are _you_ here?--surely, surely _you_ can
have no connection with those savages!--I have heard of such horrors;
but _you_ would not accompany _them_, even though it were to
_protect_ the Hut."
"I'll not answer for that, Maud. One would do a great deal to preserve
his paternal dwelling from pillage, and his father's grey hairs from
violence. But I came alone; that party and its objects being utterly
strangers to me."
"And _why_ do you come at all, Bob?" inquired the anxious girl,
looking up into his face with open affection--"The situation of the
country is now such, as to make your visits very hazardous."
"Who could know the regular major in this hunting-shirt, and forest
garb? I have not an article about my person to betray me, even were I
before a court. No fear for me then, Maud; unless it be from these
demons in human shape, the savages. Even they do not seem to be very
fiercely inclined, as they appear at this moment more disposed to eat,
than to attack the Hut. Look for yourself; those fellows are certainly
preparing to take their food; the group that is just now coming over
the cliffs, is dragging a deer after it."
Maud took the glass, though with an unsteady hand, and she looked a
moment at the savages. The manner in which the instrument brought these
wild beings nearer to her eye, caused her to shudder, and she was soon
satisfied.
"That deer was killed this morning by the miller," she said; "they have
doubtless found it in or near his cabin. We will be thankful, however,
for this breathing-time--it may enable my dear father to get up the
other gate. Look, Robert, and see what progress they make?"
"One side is just hung, and much joy does it produce among them!
Persevere, my noble old father, and you will soon be safe against your
enemies. What a calm and steady air he has, amid it all! Ah! Maud, Hugh
Willoughby ought, at this moment, to be at the head of a brigade,
helping to suppress this accursed and unnatural rebellion. Nay, more;
he _may_ be there, if he will only listen to reason and duty."
"And _this_ is then your errand here, Bob?" asked his fair
companion, gazing earnestly at the major.
"It is, Maud--and I hope you, whose feelings I know to be right, can
encourage me to hope."
"I fear not. It is now too late. Beulah's marriage with Evert has
strengthened his opinions--and then"
"What, dearest Maud? You pause as if that '_then_' had a meaning
you hesitated to express."
Maud coloured; after which she smiled faintly, and proceeded: "We
should speak reverently of a father--and such a father, too. But does
it not seem probable to you, Bob, that the many discussions he has with
Mr. Woods may have a tendency to confirm each in his notions?"
Robert Willoughby would have answered in the affirmative, had not a
sudden movement at the Hut prevented.