For Love of Country: A Story of Land and Sea in the Days of the Revolution, Brady [acx book reading .TXT] 📗

out in the river (it had disappeared round the bend, he noticed), Blodgett's quiet watch at the foot of the path, the approach of the men, Blodgett's challenge, the first one shot dead as he came up, the pistol-shot which missed him, the rush of the men at the indomitable old soldier, the nearest one struck down from the blow of the clubbed musket of the sturdy old man, the second pistol-shot, which hit him in the forehead, his fall across the path. Faithful unto death at the post of duty. The little drama was perfectly plain to him. But who were these raiders? Who could they be? And Katharine?

"Oh, my God," he exclaimed, stung into quick action at the thought of a possible peril to his love. "Come, Dick, to the house; she may be in danger."

"But dis libe one, Mars' Hil'ry?"

"Quick, quick! leave him; we will see about him later."

With no further attempt at caution, they sprang recklessly up the steep path, and, gaining the brow of the hill, ran at full speed toward the house. He noticed that there were no lights in the negro quarters, no sounds of the merry-making usually going on there in the early evening. Through the open windows on the side of the house, he had a hasty glimpse of the disordered dining-room. The great doors of the hall were open. They were on the porch now,—now at the door of the hall. It was empty. He paused a second. "Katharine, Katharine!" he called aloud, a note of fear in his voice, "where are you? Colonel Wilton!" In the silence which his voice had broken he heard a weak and feeble moan, which struck terror into his heart.

He ran hastily down the hall, and stopped at the dining-room door aghast. The smoking candles in the sconces were throwing a somewhat uncertain light over a scene of devastation and ruin; the furniture of the table and the accessories of the meal lay in a broken heap at the foot of it, the chairs were overturned, the curtains torn, the great sideboard had been swept bare of its usual load of glittering silver.

At his feet lay the body of a man, in the now familiar red uniform, blood from a ghastly sword-thrust clotted about his throat, the floor about his head being covered with ominous stains. A little farther away on the floor, near the table, there was the body of another man, in another uniform, a naked sword lying by his side; he had a frightful-looking wound on his forehead, and the blood was slowly oozing out of his coat-sleeve, staining the lace at his left wrist. Even as he looked, the man turned a little on the floor, and the same low moan broke from his lips. Talbot stepped over the first body to the side of the other.

"My God, it's Seymour," he said. He knelt beside him, as Katharine had done. "Seymour," he called, "Seymour!" The man opened his eyes slowly, and looked vacantly at him.

"Katharine," he murmured.

"What of her? is she safe?" asked Talbot, in an agony of fear.

"Raiders—prisoner," continued Seymour, brokenly, in a whisper, and then feebly murmured, "Water, water!"

"Here, Dick, get some water quickly! First hand me that decanter of wine," pointing to one which had fortunately escaped the eyes of the marauders. He lifted Seymour's head gently, and with a napkin which he had picked up from the floor, wiped the bloody face, washing it with the water the groom quickly brought from the well outside.

Then he poured a little of the wine down the wounded man's throat, next slit the sleeve of his coat, and saw that the scarcely healed wound in the arm had broken out again. He bandaged it up with no small skill with some of the other neglected table linen, and the effect upon Seymour of the stimulant and of these ministrations was at once apparent. With a stronger voice he said slowly,—

"Dunmore's men—Captain Johnson—colonel a prisoner—Katharine also—God grant—no harm intended."

"Hush, hush! I understand. But where are the slaves?"

"Terrified, I suppose—in hiding."

"Dick, see if you can find any of them. Hurry up! We must take Mr. Seymour back to Fairview tonight, and report this outrage to the military commander at Alexandria. Oh that I had a boat and a few men!" he murmured. Katharine was gone. He would not tell his story to-night; she was in the hands of a gang of ruffians. He knew the reputation of Johnson, and the motives which might actuate him. There had been a struggle, it was evident; perhaps she had been wounded, killed. Agony! He knew now how he loved her, and it was too late.

Presently the groom returned, followed by a mob of frightened, terror-stricken negroes who had fled at the first advent of the party. Talbot issued his orders rapidly. "Some of you get the carriage ready; we must take Lieutenant Seymour to Fairview Hall. Some of you go down to the landing and bring up the bodies of the three men there. You go with that party, Dick. Phoebus, you get this room cleared up. Hurry, stir yourselves! You are all right now; the raiders have gone and are not likely to return."

"Why, where is Master Philip, I wonder? Was he also taken?" he said suddenly. "Have any of you seen him?" he asked of the servants.

"He done gone away fishin' wid Mars' Bentley," replied the old butler, pausing; "and dey ain't got back yit, tank de Lawd; but I spec 'em ev'y minute, suh."

CHAPTER IX

Bentley's Prayer

As he spoke, a fresh youthful voice was heard in the hall. "Father, Kate, where are you? Come see our string of— Why, what's all this?" said a young man, standing astonished in the door of the room. It was Philip Wilton, holding a long string of fish, the result of their day's sport; behind him stood the tall stalwart figure of the old sailor. "Talbot—you? Where are father and Kate? What are these men doing in the dining-room? Oh, what is that?" he said, shrinking back in horror from the corpse of the soldier.

"Dunmore's raiders have been here."

"And Katharine?"

"A prisoner, with your father, Philip, but I trust both are uninjured."

"Mr. Seymour, sir, where is he?" said the deep voice of the boatswain, as he advanced farther into the room. The light fell full upon him. He was a splendid specimen of athletic manhood; tall, powerful, long-armed, slightly bent in the shoulders; decision and courage were seen in his bearing, and were written on his face, burned a dull mahogany color by years of exposure to the weather. He was clothed in the open shirt and loose trousers of a seafaring man, and he stood with his feet slightly apart, as if balancing himself to the uneasy roll of a ship. Honesty and fidelity and intelligence spoke out from his eyes, and affection and anxiety were heard in his voice.

"Lieutenant Seymour," he repeated, "where is he, sir?"

"There," said Talbot, stepping aside and pointing to the floor.

"Not dead, sir, is he?"

"Not yet, Bentley," Seymour, with regaining strength, replied; "I am not done for this time."

"Oh, Mr. John, Mr. John," said the old man, tenderly, bending over him, "I thank God to see you alive again. But, as I live, they shall pay dear for this—whoever has done it,—the bloody, marauding, ruffians!"

"Yes, Bentley, I join you in that vow," said Talbot.

"And I too," added Philip, bravely.

"And I," whispered the wounded man.

"It's one more score that has got to be paid off by King George's men, one more outrage on this country, one more debt we owe the English," Bentley continued fiercely.

"No; these were Americans, Virginians,—more's the shame,—led by that blackguard Johnson. He has long hated the colonel," replied Talbot.

"Curses on the renegades!" said the old man. "Who is it that loves freedom and sees not that the blow must be struck to-day? How can any man born in this land hesitate to—" He stopped suddenly, as his eyes fell upon Talbot, whose previous irresolution and refusal had been no secret to him.

"Don't stop for me, Bentley," said that young man, gently; "I am with you now. I came over this evening to tell our friends here that I start north tomorrow as a volunteer to offer my services to General Washington."

"Oh, Hilary," exclaimed Philip, joyfully, "I am so glad. Would that
Katharine and father could hear you now!"

Seymour lifted his unwounded arm, and beckoned to Talbot. "God bless you, Talbot," he said; "to hear you say that is worth a dozen cracks like this, and I feel stronger every minute. If it were not for the old wound, I would n't mind this thing a bit. But there is something you must do. There is an armed cutter stationed up the river at Alexandria; send some one to notify the commander of the Virginia naval militia there. They will pursue and perhaps recapture the party. But the word must be carried quickly; I fear it will be too late as it is."

"I will go, Hilary, if you think best."

"Very well, Philip; take your best horse and do not delay a moment. Katharine's liberty, your father's life perhaps, depend upon your promptness. Better see Mr. West as you go through the town,—your father's agent, you know,—and ask him to call upon me to-morrow. Stop at the Hall as you come back."

"All right, Hilary, I will be in Alexandria in four hours," said
Philip, running out.

"Bentley, I am going to take Lieutenant Seymour over to my plantation. Will you stay here and look after the house until I can notify Colonel Wilton's agent at Alexandria to come and take charge, or until we hear from the colonel what is to be done? You can come over in the morning, you know, and hear about our protégé. I am afraid the slaves would never stay here alone; they are so disorganized and terrorized now over these unfortunate occurrences as to be almost useless."

"Ay, ay, sir; if Lieutenant Seymour can spare me, I will stay."

"Yes, Bentley, do; I shall be in good hands at Fairview Hall."

"This is arranged, then," said Talbot. "It is nine o'clock. I think we would better start at once. I will go out and see that the arrangements about the carriage are made properly, myself," he said, stepping through the door.

Seymour's hand had closed tightly over something which had happened to fall near where it lay. "Bentley," he called, "what is this in my hand?"

"It is a handkerchief, Mr. John,—a woman's handkerchief too, sir, and covered with blood."

"Has it any marks on it?" said Seymour, eagerly.

"Yes, sir; here are the letters K. W. embroidered in this corner."

"I thought so," he smiled triumphantly. "Will you put it inside my waistcoat, there, over my heart? Yes," he added, as if in answer to the old man's anxious look, "it is true; I love her, and she has confessed that she loves me. Oh, who will protect her now?"

"God, sir," said Bentley, solemnly, but with a strange pang of almost womanly jealousy in his faithful old heart.

"Ay, old friend, He will watch over her. He knows best. Now help me up."

"No, sir. Beg pardon for disobeying orders, but you are to lie still. We will carry you to the carriage. Nay, sir, you must. You are too weak from loss of blood with two wounds on you to stand it. A few days will bring you about all right, though, I hope, sir."

"All ready, Bentley?" said Talbot, coming into the room. "The negro boys have rigged up a stretcher out of a shutter, and with a mattress and blankets in the carriage, I think we can manage, driving carefully, to take him over without any great discomfort. I have sent Dick on ahead to ride over to Dr. Craik's and bid him come to the Hall at once; so Mr. Seymour will be well looked after. By the way, Blodgett