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“This is short notice,” said the veteran, holding the pen in his hand, in a suspense that had no object; “not a day to fit one so young for heaven.”

“The royal officers gave Hale¹⁰⁶ but an hour,” returned his comrade; “we have granted the usual time. But Washington has the power to extend it, or to pardon.”

“Then to Washington will I go,” cried the colonel, returning the paper with his signature; “and if the services of an old man like me, or that brave boy of mine, entitle me to his ear, I will yet save the youth.”

So saying, he departed, full of the generous intentions in favor of Henry Wharton.

CHAPTER XVIII.
MR. HARPER IS SOUGHT BUT NOT FOUND

The sentence of the court was communicated with proper tenderness to the prisoner, and after giving a few necessary instructions to the officer in command, and despatching a courier to headquarters with their report, the remaining judges mounted and rode to their own quarters.

A few hours were passed by the prisoner, after his sentence was received, in the bosom of his family.

Dunwoodie, from an unwillingness to encounter the distress of Henry’s friends, and a dread of trusting himself within its influence, had spent the time walking by himself, in keen anxiety, at a short distance from the dwelling. To him the rules of service were familiar, and he was more accustomed to consider his general in the capacity of a ruler than as exhibiting the characteristics of the individual.

While pacing with hurried step through the orchard, laboring under these constantly recurring doubts, Dunwoodie saw the courier approaching; leaping the fence, he stood before the trooper.

“What news?” cried the major, the moment the soldier stopped his horse.

“Good!” exclaimed the man; and feeling no hesitation to trust an officer so well known as Major Dunwoodie, he placed the paper in his hands, as he added: “But you can read it, sir, for yourself.”

Dunwoodie paused not to read, but flew, with the elastic spring of joy, to the chamber of the prisoner. The sentinel knew him, and he was suffered to pass without question.

“O Peyton,” cried Frances, as he entered the apartments, “you look like a messenger from heaven. Bring you tidings of mercy?”

“Here, Frances – here, Henry – here, dear cousin Jeanette,” cried the youth, as with trembling hands he broke the seal; “here is the letter itself, directed to the captain of the guard. But listen!”

All did listen with intense anxiety; and the pang of blasted hope was added to their misery, as they saw the glow of delight which had beamed on the countenance of the major give place to a look of horror. The paper contained the sentence of the court, and underneath was written these simple words:

“Approved – Geo. Washington.”

“He’s lost, he’s lost!” cried Frances, sinking into the arms of her aunt.

“My son, my son!” sobbed the father, “there is mercy in heaven, if there is none on earth. May Washington never want that mercy he thus denies to my innocent child!”

“There is yet time to see Washington again,” said Miss Peyton, moving towards the door; and then, speaking with extreme dignity, she continued: “I will go myself; surely he must listen to a woman from his own colony; and we are in some degree connected with his family.”

“Why not apply to Mr. Harper?” said Frances, recollecting the parting words of their guest for the first time.

“Harper!” echoed Dunwoodie, turning towards her with the swiftness of lightning; “what of him? Do you know him?”

“It is in vain,” said Henry, drawing him aside; “Frances clings to hope with the fondness of a sister. Retire, my love, and leave me with my friend.”

But Frances read an expression in the eye of Dunwoodie that chained her to the spot. After struggling to command her feelings, she continued:

“He stayed with us for a few days; he was with us when Henry was arrested.”

“And – and – did you know him?”

“Nay,” continued Frances, catching her breath as she witnessed the intense interest of her lover, “we knew him not; he came to us in the night, a stranger, and remained with us during the severe storm; but he seemed to take an interest in Henry, and promised him his friendship.”

“What!” exclaimed the youth, in astonishment; “did he know your brother?”

“Certainly; it was at his request that Henry threw aside his disguise.”

“But,” said Dunwoodie, turning pale with suspense, “he knew him not as an officer of the royal army?”

“Indeed he did,” cried Miss Peyton; “and he cautioned us against this very danger.”

Dunwoodie caught up the fatal paper, that lay where it had fallen from his own hands, and studied its characters intently. Something seemed to bewilder his brain. He passed his hand over his forehead, while each eye was fixed on him in dreadful suspense – all feeling afraid to admit those hopes anew that had been so sadly destroyed.

“What said he? what promised he?” at length Dunwoodie asked, with feverish impatience.

“He bid Henry apply to him when in danger, and promised to requite the son for the hospitality of the father.”

“Said he this, knowing him to be a British officer?”

“Most certainly; and with a view to this very danger.”

“Then,” cried the youth aloud, and yielding to his rapture, “then you are safe – then I will save him; yes, Harper will never forget his word.”

“But has he the power to?” said Frances. “Can he move the stubborn purpose of Washington?”

“Can he! If he cannot,” shouted the youth, “if he cannot, who can? Greene,¹⁰⁷ and Heath,¹⁰⁸ and the young Hamilton¹⁰⁹ are nothing compared to this Harper. But,” rushing to his mistress, and pressing her hands convulsively, “repeat to me – you say you have his promise?”

“Surely, surely, Peyton; his solemn, deliberate promise, knowing all the circumstances.”

“Rest easy,” cried Dunwoodie, holding her to his bosom for a moment, “rest easy, for Henry is safe.”

He waited not to explain, but darting from the room, he left the family in amazement. They continued in silent wonder until they heard the feet of his charger as he dashed from the door with the speed of an arrow.

A long time was spent after this abrupt departure of the youth, by the anxious friends he had left, in discussing the probability of his success. The confidence of his manner had, however, communicated to his auditors something of his own spirit. Each felt the prospects of Henry were again brightening, and with their reviving hopes they experienced a renewal of spirits, which in all but Henry himself amounted to pleasure. Frances reposed in security on the assurance of Dunwoodie; believing her lover able to accomplish everything that man could do and retaining a vivid recollection of the manner and benevolent appearance of Harper, she abandoned herself to all the felicity of renovated hope.

From the window where she stood, the pass that they had travelled through the Highlands was easily to be seen; and the mountain which held on its summit the mysterious hut was directly before her. Its sides were rugged and barren; huge and apparently impassable barriers of rocks presenting themselves through the stunted oaks, which, stripped of their foliage, were scattered over its surface. The base of the hill was not half a mile from the house, and the object which attracted the notice of Frances was the figure of a man emerging from behind a rock of remarkable formation, and as suddenly disappearing. The manœuvre was several times repeated, as if it were the intention of the fugitive (for such by his air he seemed to be) to reconnoitre the proceedings of the soldiery, and assure himself of the position of things on the plain. Notwithstanding the distance, Frances instantly imbibed the opinion that it was Birch, who had so connected himself with the mysterious deportment of Harper, within her imagination, that under circumstances of less agitation than those in which she had labored since her arrival, she would have kept her suspicions to herself. After gazing for a long time at the point where she had last seen the figure, in the vain expectation of its reappearance, she turned to her friends in the apartment.

Dunwoodie soon made his appearance, but his air was that of neither success nor defeat, but of vexation. He took the hand of Frances, in the fulness of her heart extended towards him, but instantly relinquishing it, threw himself into a chair, in evident fatigue.

“You have failed,” said Wharton, with a bound of his heart, but an appearance of composure.

“Have you seen Harper?” cried Frances, turning pale.

“I have not; I crossed the river in one boat as he must have been coming to this side in another. I returned without delay to relieve your uneasiness. I will this night see him and bring a respite for Henry.”

“But you saw Washington?” asked Miss Peyton.

“The commander-in-chief had left his quarters.”

“But, Peyton,” cried Frances, in returning terror, “if they should not see each other, it will be too late. Harper alone will not be sufficient.”

“You say that he promised to assist Henry?”

“Certainly, of his own accord, and in requital for the hospitality he had received.”

“I like not that word ‘hospitality’ – it has an empty sound; there must be something more reasonable to tie Harper. I dread some mistake: repeat to me all that passed.”

Frances, in a hurried and earnest voice, complied with his request. She related particularly the manner of his arrival at the Locusts, the reception that he received, and the events that passed, as minutely as her memory could supply her with the means.

As she alluded to the conversation that occurred between her father and his guest, the major smiled but remained silent. She then gave a detail of Henry’s arrival, and the events of the following day. She dwelt upon the part where Harper desired her brother to throw aside his disguise, and recounted, with wonderful accuracy, his remarks upon the hazard of the step that the youth had taken. She even remembered a remarkable expression of his to her brother, “that he was safer from Harper’s knowledge of his person, than he would be without it.” Frances mentioned, with the warmth of youthful admiration, the benevolent character of his deportment to herself, and gave a minute relation of his adieus to the whole family.

Dunwoodie at first listened with grave attention; evident satisfaction followed as she proceeded. When she spoke of herself in connection with her guest, he smiled with pleasure, and as she concluded, he exclaimed with delight:

“We are safe! – we are safe!”

CHAPTER XIX.
WHAT CAME OF A REVEREND GENTLEMAN’S VISIT TO CAPTAIN WHARTON

But he was interrupted by the opening of the door by the corporal of the guard, who stated that the woman of the house desired admittance.

“Admit the woman,” said Dunwoodie, sternly.

“Here is a reverend gentleman below, come to soothe the parting soul, in place of our own divine, who is engaged with an appointment that could not be put aside.”

“Show him in,” said Henry, with feverish impatience.

Dunwoodie spoke a few words with Henry in an undertone, and hastened from the apartment, followed by Frances. The subject of their conversation was a wish expressed by the prisoner for a clergyman of his own persuasion.

The person who was ushered into the apartment, preceded by Cæsar, and followed by the matron, was a man beyond the middle age, or who might rather be said to approach the down-hill of life.

In stature he was above the ordinary size of men, though his excessive leanness might contribute in deceiving as to his height; his countenance was sharp and unbending, and every muscle seemed set in rigid compression. No joy or relaxation appeared ever to have dwelt on features that frowned habitually, as if in detestation of the vices of mankind. The brows were beetling, dark, and forbidding, giving the promise of eyes of no less repelling expression; but the organs were concealed beneath a pair of enormous green goggles, through which he glared around with a fierceness that denounced the coming day of wrath. All was fanaticism,¹¹⁰ uncharitableness, and denunciation. Long, lank hair, a mixture of gray and black, fell down his neck, and in some degree obscured the sides of his face, and, parting on his forehead, fell in either direction in straight and formal screens. On the top of this ungraceful exhibition was laid, impending forward, so as to overhang in some measure the whole fabric, a large hat of three equal cocks. His coat was of a rusty black, and his breeches and stockings were of the same color; his shoes without lustre, and half concealed beneath huge plated buckles.

He stalked into the room, and giving a stiff nod with his head, took the chair offered him by the black, in dignified silence. For several minutes no one broke this ominous pause in the conversation; Henry feeling a repugnance¹¹¹ to his guest that he was endeavoring to conquer, and the stranger himself drawing forth occasional sighs and groans that threatened a dissolution of the unequal connection between his sublimated¹¹² soul and its ungainly tenement. During this deathlike preparation, Mr. Wharton, with a feeling nearly allied to that of his son, led Sarah from the apartment. His retreat was noticed by the divine, in a kind of scornful disdain, who began to hum the air of a popular psalm tune, giving it the full richness of the twang that distinguished the Eastern psalmody.

“My presence disturbs you,” said Miss Peyton, rising; “I will leave you with my nephew, and offer those prayers in private that I did wish to mingle with his.”

So saying, she withdrew, followed by the landlady.

The minister stood erect, with grave composure, following with his eye the departure of the females. A third voice spoke.

“Who’s that?” cried the prisoner, in amazement, gazing around the room in quest of the speaker.

“It is I, Captain Wharton,” said Harvey Birch, removing the spectacles, and exhibiting his piercing eyes shining under a pair of false eyebrows.

“Good Heaven – Harvey!”

“Silence,” said the peddler, solemnly; “’tis a name not to be mentioned, and least of all here, within the heart of the American army.” Birch paused and gazed around him for a moment, with an emotion exceeding the base passion of fear, and then continued in a gloomy tone: “There are a thousand halters in that very name, and little hope would there be left me of another escape, should I be again taken. This is a fearful venture that I am making; but I could not sleep in quiet, and know that an innocent man was about to die the death of a dog, when I might save him.”

“No,” said Henry, with a glow of generous feeling on his cheek; “if the risk to yourself be so heavy, retire as you came, and leave me to my fate. Dunwoodie is making, even now, powerful exertions in my behalf; and if he meets with Mr. Harper in the course of the night, my liberation is certain.”

“Harper!” echoed the peddler, remaining with his hands raised, in the act of replacing his spectacles; “what do you know of Harper, and why do you think he will do you service?”

“I have his promise; you remember our recent meeting in my father’s dwelling, and he then gave me an unasked promise to assist me.”

“Yes; but do you know him? – that is, why do you think he has the power, or what reason have you for believing he will remember his word?”

“If there ever was the stamp of truth or simple honest benevolence in the countenance of man, it shone in his,” said Henry; “besides, Dunwoodie has powerful friends in the rebel army, and it would be better that I take the chance where I am, than thus to expose you to certain death, if detected.”

“Captain Wharton,” said Birch, “if I fail, you all fail. No Harper nor Dunwoodie can save your life; unless you get out with me, and that within the hour, you die to-morrow on the gallows of a murderer. Cæsar met me as he was going on his errand this morning, and with him I laid the plan which, if executed as I wish, will save you – otherwise you are lost; and again I tell you, that no power on earth, not even Washington, can save you.”

“I submit,” said the prisoner, yielding to his earnest manner, and goaded by his fears that were thus awakened anew.

The peddler beckoned him to be silent, and walking to the door, opened it, with the stiff, formal air with which he had entered the apartment.

“Friend, let no one enter,” he said to the sentinel; “we are about to go to prayer, and would wish to be alone.”

“I don’t know that any will wish to interrupt you,” returned the soldier, with a waggish leer of the eye; “but, should they be so disposed, I have no power to stop them, if they be of the prisoner’s friends.”

“Have you not the fear of God before your eyes?” said the pretended priest. “I tell you, as you will dread punishment at the last day, to let none of the idolatrous communion enter, to mingle in the prayers of the righteous.”

“If you want to be alone, have you no knife to stick over the door-latch, that you must have a troop of horse to guard your meeting-house?”

The peddler took the hint, and closed the door immediately, using the precaution suggested by the dragoon.

“A faint heart, Captain Wharton, would do but little here. Come, here is a black shroud for your good-looking countenance,” taking, at the same time, a parchment mask, and fitting it to the face of Henry. “The master and the man must change places for a season.”

“I don’t t’ink he look a bit like me,” said Cæsar, with disgust, as he surveyed his young master with his new complexion.

“Stop a minute, Cæsar,” said the peddler, with a drollery that at times formed part of his manner, “till we get on the wool.”

“He worse than ebber now,” cried the discontented African. “A t’ink colored man like a sheep! I nevver see sich a lip, Harvey; he most as big as a sausage!”

“There is but one man in the American army who could detect you, Captain Wharton,” said the peddler.

“And who is he?”

“The man who made you prisoner. He would see your white skin through a plank. But strip, both of you; your clothes must be exchanged from head to foot.”

Cæsar, who had received minute instructions from the peddler in their morning interview, immediately commenced throwing aside his coarse garments, which the youth took up and prepared to invest himself with.

In the manner of the peddler there was an odd mixture of care and humor. “Here, captain,” he said, taking up some loose wool, and beginning to stuff the stockings of Cæsar, which were already on the legs of the prisoner; “some judgment is necessary in shaping this limb. You will display it on horseback; and the southern dragoons are so used to the brittle-shins that, should they notice your well-turned calf, they’d know at once it never belonged to a black.”

“Golly!” said Cæsar, with a chuckle that exhibited a mouth open from ear to ear, “Massa Harry breeches fit.”

“Anything but your leg,” said the peddler, coolly pursuing the toilet of Henry. “Slip on the coat, captain, over all. And here, Cæsar, place this powdered wig over your curls, and be careful and look out of the window whenever the door is open, and on no account speak, or you will betray all.”

“I s’pose Harvey t’ink a colored man has no tongue like oder folk,” grumbled the black, as he took the station assigned him.

Everything was now ready for action, and the peddler very deliberately went over the whole of his injunctions to the two actors in the scene. The captain he conjured to dispense with his erect military carriage, and for a season to adopt the humble paces of his father’s negro; and Cæsar he enjoined to silence and disguise, so long as he could possibly maintain them. Thus prepared, he opened the door and called aloud to the sentinel, who had retired to the farthest end of the passage.

“Let the woman of the house be called,” said Harvey, in the solemn key of the assumed character; “and let her come alone. The prisoner is in a happy train of meditation, and must not be led from his devotions.”

Cæsar sank his face between his hands; and when the soldier looked into the apartment, he thought he saw his charge in deep abstraction. Casting a glance of huge contempt at the divine, he called aloud for the good woman of the house. She hastened at the summons, with earnest zeal, entertaining a secret hope that she was to be admitted to the gossip of a death-bed repentance.

“Sister,” said the minister in the authoritative tones of a master, “have you in the house ‘The Christian Criminal’s Last Moments, or Thoughts on Eternity, for them who die a violent death’?”

“I never heard of the book!” said the matron in astonishment.

“’’Tis not unlikely; there are many books you have never heard of; it is impossible for this poor penitent to pass in peace, without the consolation of that volume. One hour’s reading in it is worth an age of man’s preaching.”

“Bless me, what a treasure to possess! – when was it put out?”

“It was first put out at Geneva¹¹³ in the Greek language, and then translated at Boston. It is a book, woman, that should be in the hands of every Christian, especially such as die upon the gallows. Have a horse prepared instantly for this black, who shall accompany me to my brother, and I will send down the volume yet in season; brother, compose thy mind, you are now in the narrow path to glory.”

Cæsar wriggled a little in his chair, but he had sufficient recollection to conceal his face with hands that were, in their turn, concealed by gloves. The landlady departed, to comply with this very reasonable request, and the group of conspirators were again left to themselves.

“This is well,” said the peddler; “but the difficult task is to deceive the officer who commands the guard – he is lieutenant to Lawton, and has learned some of the captain’s own cunning in these things. Remember, Captain Wharton,” continued he with an air of pride, “that now is the moment when everything depends on our coolness.”

“My fate can be made but little worse than it is at present, my worthy fellow,” said Henry; “but for your sake I will do all that in me lies.”

The man soon returned, and announced that the horses were at the door. Harvey gave the captain a glance, and led the way down the stairs, first desiring the women to leave the prisoner to himself, in order that he might digest the wholesome mental food that he had so lately received.

A rumor of the odd character of the priest had spread from the sentinel at the door to his comrades; so that when Harvey and Wharton reached the open space before the building, they found a dozen idle dragoons loitering about with waggish intention of quizzing the fanatic and employed in affected admiration of the steeds.

“A fine horse!” said the leader in this plan of mischief; “but a little low in flesh; I suppose from hard labor in your calling.”

“What are you at there, scoundrels?” cried Lieutenant Mason, as he came in sight from a walk he had taken to sneer at the evening parade of the regiment of militia. “Away with every man of you to your quarters, and let me find that each horse is cleaned and littered when I come round.” The sound of the officer’s voice operated like a charm, and no priest could desire a more silent congregation, although he might possibly have wished for one that was more numerous. Mason had not done speaking, when it was reduced to the image of Cæsar only. The peddler took the opportunity to mount, but he had to preserve the gravity of his movements, for the remark of the troopers upon the condition of their beasts was but too just, and a dozen dragoon horses stood saddled and bridled at hand to receive their riders at a moment’s warning.

“Well, have you bitted the poor fellow within,” said Mason, “that he can take his last ride under the curb of divinity, old gentleman?”

“There is evil in thy conversation, profane man,” cried the priest, raising his hands and casting his eyes upwards in holy horror; “so I will depart from thee unhurt, as Daniel¹¹⁴ was liberated from the lions’ den.”

“Off with you, for a hypocritical,¹¹⁵ psalm-singing, canting rogue in disguise,” said Mason scornfully. “By the life of Washington! it worries an honest fellow to see such voracious¹¹⁶ beasts of prey ravaging a country for which he sheds his blood. If I had you on a Virginian plantation for a quarter of an hour, I’d teach you to worm the tobacco with the turkeys.”

“I leave you, and shake the dust off my shoes, that no remnant of this wicked hole may tarnish the vestments of the godly!”

“Start, or I will shake the dust from your jacket, designing knave! But hold! whither do you travel, master blackey, in such godly company?”

“He goes,” said the minister, “to return with a book of much condolence to the sinful youth above. Would you deprive a dying man of the consolation of religion?”

“No, no; poor fellow, his fate is bad enough. But harkee, Mr. Revelations, my advice is that you never trust that skeleton of yours among us again, or I will take the skin off and leave you naked.”

“Out upon thee for a reviler and scoffer of goodness!” said Birch, moving slowly, and with a due observance of clerical dignity, down the road, followed by the imaginary Cæsar.