for Henry Wharton, the searching eyes of his captors were examining, through a pocket glass, the column of infantry that still held its position on the bank of the stream, while the remnants of the Hessian yagers were seeking its friendly protection. His horse was of the best blood of Virginia, and carried him with the swiftness of the wind along the Valley; and the heart of the youth was already beating tumultuously with pleasure at his deliverance, when a well-known voice reached his startled ear, crying aloud,—
“Bravely done, captain! Don’t spare the whip, and turn to your left before you cross the brook.”
Wharton turned his head in surprise, and saw, sitting on the point of a jutting rock that commanded a bird’s-eye view of the valley, his former guide, Harvey Birch. His pack, much diminished in size, lay at the feet of the peddler, who waved his hat to the youth, exultingly, as the latter flew by him. The English captain took the advice of this mysterious being, and finding a good road, which led to the highway, that intersected the valley, turned down its direction, and was soon opposite to his friends. The next minute he crossed the bridge, and stopped his charger before his old acquaintance, Colonel Wellmere.
“Captain Wharton!” exclaimed the astonished commander of the English troops, “dressed in mohair, and mounted on a rebel dragoon horse! Are you from the clouds in this attire, and in such a style?”
“Thank God!” cried the youth, recovering his breath, “I am safe, and have escaped from the hands of my enemies; but five minutes since and I was a prisoner, and threatened with the gallows.”
“The gallows, Captain Wharton! surely those traitors to the king would never dare to commit another murder in cold blood; is it not enough that they took the life of Andre? Wherefore did they threaten you with a similar fate?”
“Under the pretense of a similar offense,” said the captain, briefly explaining to the group of listeners the manner of his capture, the grounds of his personal apprehensions, and the method of his escape. By the time he had concluded his narration, the fugitive Germans were collected in the rear of the column of infantry, and Colonel Wellmere cried aloud,—
“From my soul I congratulate you, my brave friend; mercy is a quality with which these traitors are unacquainted, and you are doubly fortunate in escaping from their hands uninjured. Prepare yourself to grant me your assistance and I will soon afford you a noble revenge.”
“I do not think there was danger of personal outrage to any man, Colonel Wellmere, from a party that Major Dunwoodie commands,” returned young Wharton, with a slight glow on his face. “His character is above the imputation of such an offense; neither do I think it altogether prudent to cross this brook into the open plain, in the face of those Virginian horse, flushed as they must be with the success they have just obtained.”
“Do you call the rout of those irregulars and these sluggish Hessians a deed to boast of?” said the other with a contemptuous smile. “You speak of the affair, Captain Wharton, as if your boasted Mr. Dunwoodie, for major he is none, had discomfited the bodyguards of your king.”
“And I must be allowed to say, Colonel Wellmere, that if the bodyguards of my king were in yon field, they would meet a foe that it would be dangerous to despise. Sir, my boasted Mr. Dunwoodie is the pride of Washington’s army as a cavalry officer,” cried Henry with warmth.
“Dunwoodie, Dunwoodie!” repeated the colonel slowly, “surely I have met the gentleman before.”
“I have been told you once saw him for a moment, at the town residence of my sisters,” replied Wharton, with a lurking smile.
“Ah! I do remember me of such a youth; and does the most potent congress of these rebellious colonies intrust their soldiers to the leading of such a warrior!”
“Ask the commander of yon Hessian horse, whether he thinks Major
Dunwoodie worthy of the confidence.”
Colonel Wellmere was far from wanting that kind of pride which makes a man bear himself bravely in the presence of his enemies. He had served in America a long time, without ever meeting with any but new raised levies, or the militia of the country. These would sometimes fight, and that fearlessly, but they as often chose to run away without pulling a trigger. He was too apt to judge from externals, and thought it impossible for men whose gaiters were so clean, whose tread so regular, and who wheeled with so much accuracy, to be beaten. In addition to all these, they were Englishmen, and their success was certain. Colonel Wellmere had never been kept much in the field, or these notions, which he had brought with him from home, and which had been greatly increased by the vaporing of a garrisoned town, would have long since vanished. He listened to the warm reply of Captain Wharton with a supercilious smile, and then inquired,—
“You would not have us retire, sir, before these boasted horsemen, without doing something that may deprive them of part of the glory which you appear to think they have gained!”
“I would have you advised, Colonel Wellmere, of the danger you are about to encounter.”
“Danger is but an unseemly word for a soldier,” continued the British commander with a sneer.
“And one as little dreaded by the 60th, as any corps who wear the royal livery,” cried Henry Wharton, fiercely. “Give but the word to charge, and let our actions speak.”
“Now again I know my young friend,” cried Wellmere, soothingly; “but if you have anything to say before we fight, that can in any manner help us in our attack, we’ll listen. You know the force of the rebels; are there more of them in ambush?”
“Yes,” replied the youth, chafing still under the other’s sneers, “in the skirt of this wood on our right are a small party of foot; their horse are all before you.”
“Where they will not continue long,” cried Wellmere, turning to the few officers around him. “Gentlemen, we will cross the stream in column, and deploy on the plain beyond, or else we shall not be able to entice these valiant Yankees within the reach of our muskets. Captain Wharton, I claim your assistance as an aid-de-camp.”
The youth shook his head in disapprobation of a movement which his good sense taught him was rash, but prepared with alacrity to perform his duty in the impending trial.
During this conversation, which was held at a small distance in advance of the British column, and in full view of the Americans, Dunwoodie had been collecting his scattered troops, securing his few prisoners, and retiring to the ground where he had been posted at the first appearance of his enemy. Satisfied with the success he had already obtained, and believing the English too wary to give him an opportunity of harassing them further, he was about to withdraw the guides; and, leaving a strong party on the ground to watch the movements of the regulars, to fall back a few miles, to a favorable place for taking up his quarters for the night. Captain Lawton was reluctantly listening to the reasoning of his commander, and had brought out his favorite glass, to see if no opening could be found for an advantageous attack, when he suddenly exclaimed,—
“How’s this! a bluecoat among those scarlet gentry? As I hope to live to see old Virginia, it is my masquerading friend of the 6oth, the handsome Captain Wharton, escaped from two of my best men!”
He had not done speaking when the survivor of these heroes joined his troop, bringing with him his own horse and those of the Cowboys; he reported the death of his comrade, and the escape of his prisoner. As the deceased was the immediate sentinel over the person of young Wharton, and the other was not to be blamed for defending the horses, which were more particularly under his
