Boys and girls from Thackeray - Kate Dickinson Sweetser
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"What will Mr. Washington and those gentlemen think of my servant
telling my mother at home that I was going to fight a duel?" growled Mr.
George in wrath.
"You should have shown your proofs before, George," says Harry,
respectfully. "And, thank Heaven, you are not going to fight our old
friend. For it was a mistake; and there is no quarrel now, dear, is
there? You were unkind to him under a wrong impression."
"I certainly acted under a wrong impression," owns George, "but--"
"George! George Washington!" Harry here cries out, springing over the
cabbage garden towards the bowling-green, where the Colonel was stalking,
and though we cannot hear him, we see him, with both his hands out, and
with the eagerness of youth, and with a hundred blunders, and with love
and affection thrilling in his honest voice, we imagine the lad telling
his tale to his friend.
There was a custom in those days which has disappeared from our manners
now, but which then lingered.
When Harry had finished his artless story his friend the Colonel took
him fairly to his arms, and held him to his heart; and his voice faltered
as he said, "Thank God, thank God for this!"
"Oh, George," said Harry, who felt now he loved his friend with all his
heart, "how I wish I was going with you on the campaign!" The other
pressed both the boy's hands in a grasp of friendship, which, each knew,
never would slacken.
Then the Colonel advanced, gravely holding out his hand to Harry's elder
brother. But, though hands were joined, the salutation was only formal
and stern on both sides.
"I find I have done you a wrong, Colonel Washington," George said, "and
must apologise, not for the error, but for much of my late behaviour,
which has resulted from it."
"The error was mine! It was I who found that paper in your room and
showed it to George, and was jealous of you, Colonel. All women are
jealous," cried Mrs. Mountain.
"'Tis a pity you could not have kept your eyes off my paper, Madame,"
said Mr. Washington. "You will permit me to say so. A great deal of
mischief has come because I chose to keep a secret which concerned only
myself and another person. For a long time George Warrington's heart has
been black with anger against me, and my feeling towards him has, I own,
scarce been more friendly. All this pain might have been spared to both
of us had my private papers only been read by those for whom they were
written. I shall say no more now, lest my feelings again should betray me
into hasty words. Heaven bless thee, Harry! Farewell, George! And take a
true friend's advice, and try to be less ready to think evil of your
friends. We shall meet again at the camp, and will keep our weapons for
the enemy. Gentlemen! if you remember this scene tomorrow, you will know
where to find me." And with a very stately bow to the English officers,
the Colonel left the abashed company, and speedily rode away.
We must fancy that the parting between the brothers is over, that George
has taken his place in Mr. Braddock's family, and Harry has returned home
to Castlewood and his duty. His heart is with the army, and his pursuits
at home offer the boy no pleasure. He does not care to own how deep his
disappointment is, at being obliged to stay under the homely, quiet roof,
now more melancholy than ever since George is away. Harry passes his
brother's empty chamber with an averted face; takes George's place at the
head of the table, and sighs as he drinks from his silver tankard. Madame
Warrington calls the toast of "The King" stoutly every day; and on
Sundays when Harry reads the Service, and prays for all travellers by
land and by water, she says, "We beseech Thee to hear us," with a
peculiar solemnity.
Mrs. Mountain is constantly on the whimper when George's name is
mentioned, and Harry's face frequently wears a look of the most ghastly
alarm; but his mother's is invariably grave and sedate. She makes more
blunders at piquet and backgammon than you would expect from her; and the
servants find her awake and dressed, however early they may rise. She has
prayed Mr. Dempster to come back into residence at Castlewood. She is not
severe or haughty, as her wont certainly was, with any of the party, but
quiet in her talk with them, and gentle in assertion and reply. She is
forever talking of her father and his campaigns, who came out of them all
with no very severe wounds to hurt him; and so she hopes and trusts will
her eldest son.
George writes frequent letters home to his brother, and, now the army is
on its march, compiles a rough journal, which he forwards as occasion
serves. This document is read with great eagerness by Harry, and more
than once read out in family councils on the long summer nights as Madame
Esmond sits upright at her tea-table; as little Fanny Mountain is busy
with her sewing, as Mr. Dempster and Mrs. Mountain sit over their cards,
as the hushed old servants of the house move about silently in the
gloaming and listen to the words of the young master. Hearken to Harry
Warrington reading out his brother's letter!
"It must be owned that the provinces are acting scurvily by his Majesty
King George, and his representative here is in a flame of fury. Virginia
is bad enough, and poor Maryland not much better, but Pennsylvania is
worst of all. We pray them to send us troops from home to fight the
French; and we propose to maintain the troops when they come. We not only
don't keep our promise, and make scarce any provision for our defenders,
but our people insist upon the most exorbitant prices for their cattle
and stores, and actually cheat the soldiers who are come to fight their
battles. No wonder the General swears, and the troops are sulky. The
delays have been endless. Owing to the failure of the several provinces
to provide their promised stores and means of locomotion, weeks and
months have elapsed, during which time no doubt the French have been
strengthening themselves on our frontier and in the forts they have
turned us out of. Though there never will be any love lost between me and
Colonel Washington, it must be owned that _your favourite_ (I am not
jealous, Hal) is a brave man and a good officer. The family respect him
very much, and the General is always asking his opinion. Indeed, he is
almost the only man who has seen the Indians in their war-paint, and I
own I think he was right in firing upon Mons. Jumonville last year."
Harry resumes: "We keep the strictest order here in camp, and the orders
against drunkenness and ill behaviour on the part of the men are very
severe. The roll of each company is called at morning, noon, and night,
and a return of the absent and disorderly is given in by the officer to
the commanding officer of the regiment, who has to see that they are
properly punished. Each regiment has Divine Service performed at the head
of its colours every Sunday. The General does everything in the power of
mortal man to prevent plundering, and to encourage the people round about
to bring in provisions. He has declared soldiers shall be shot who dare
to interrupt or molest the market people. He has ordered the price of
provisions to be raised a penny a pound, and has lent money out of his
own pocket to provide the camp. Altogether he is a strange compound, this
General, and shows many strange inconsistencies in his conduct.
"Colonel Washington has had the fever very smartly, and has hardly been
well enough to keep up with the march. When either of us is ill, we are
almost as good friends again as ever, and though I don't love him as you
do, I know he is a good soldier, a good officer, and a brave, honest man;
and, at any rate, shall love him none the worse for not wanting to be our
step-father."
"'Tis a pretty sight," Harry continued, reading from his brother's
journal, "to see a long line of red coats threading through the woods or
taking their ground after the march. The care against surprise is so
great and constant that we defy prowling Indians to come unawares upon
us, and our advanced sentries and savages have on the contrary fallen in
with the enemy and taken a scalp or two from them. They are such cruel
villains, these French and their painted allies, that we do not think of
showing them mercy. Only think, we found but yesterday a little boy
scalped but yet alive in a lone house, where his parents had been
attacked and murdered by the savage enemy, of whom--so great is his
indignation at their cruelty--our General has offered a reward of L5 for
all the Indian scalps brought in.
"When our march is over, you should see our camp, and all the care
bestowed on it. Our baggage and our General's tents and guard are placed
quite in the centre of the camp. We have outlying sentries by twos, by
threes, by tens, by whole companies. At the least surprise, they are
instructed to run in on the main body and rally round the tents and
baggage, which are so arranged themselves as to be a strong
fortification. Sady and I, you must know, are marching on foot now, and
my horses are carrying baggage. The Pennsylvanians sent such rascally
animals into camp that they speedily gave in. What good horses were left
'twas our duty to give up; and Roxana has a couple of packs upon her back
instead of her young master. She knows me right well, and whinnies when
she sees me, and I walk by her side, and we have many a talk together on
the march.
"July 4. To guard against surprises, we are all warned to pay especial
attention to the beat of the drum; always halting when we hear the long
roll beat, and marching at the beat of the long march. We are more on the
alert regarding the enemy now. We have our advanced pickets doubled, and
two sentries at every post. The men on the advanced pickets are
constantly under arms, with fixed bayonets, all through the night, and
relieved every two hours. The half that are relieved lie down by their
arms, but are not suffered to leave their pickets. 'Tis evident that we
are drawing near to the enemy now. This packet goes out with the
General's to Colonel Dunbar's camp, who is thirty miles behind us; and
will be carried thence to Frederick, and thence to my honoured mother's
house at Castlewood, to whom I send my duty, with kindest remembrances,
as to all friends there, and how much love I need not say to my dearest
brother from his affectionate George E. Warrington."
The whole land was now lying parched and scorching in the July heat. For
ten days no news had come from the column advancing on the Ohio. Their
march, though it toiled but slowly through the painful forest, must bring
ere long up with the enemy; the troops, led by consummate captains, were
accustomed now to the wilderness, and not afraid of surprise. Every
precaution had been taken against ambush. It was the outlying enemy who
were discovered, pursued, destroyed, by the vigilant scouts and
skirmishers of the British force. The last news heard was that the army
had advanced considerably beyond the ground of Mr. Washington's
discomfiture in the previous year, and two days after must be within a
day's march of the French fort. About taking it no fears were
entertained; the amount of the French reinforcements from Montreal was
known. Mr. Braddock, with his two veteran regiments from Britain, and
their allies of Virginia and Pennsylvania, was more than a match for any
troops that could be collected under the white flag.
Such continued to be the talk, in the sparse towns of our Virginian
province, at the gentry's houses, and the rough road-side taverns, where
people met and canvassed the war. The few messengers sent back by the
General reported well of the main force. It was thought the enemy would
not stand or defend himself at all. Had he intended to attack, he might
have seized a dozen occasions for assaulting our troops at passes through
which they had been allowed to go entirely free. So George had given up
his favourite mare, like a hero as he was, and was marching a-foot with
the line. Madame Esmond vowed that he should have the best horse in
Virginia or Carolina in place of Roxana. There were horses enough to be
had in the provinces, and for money. It was only for the King's service
that they were not forthcoming.
Although at their family meetings and repasts the inmates of Castlewood
always talked cheerfully, never anticipating any but a triumphant issue
to the campaign, or acknowledging any feeling of disquiet, yet it must be
owned they were mighty uneasy when at home, quitting it ceaselessly, and
forever on the trot from one neighbour's house to another in quest of
news. It was prodigious how quickly reports ran and spread. For three
weeks after the army's departure, the reports regarding it were cheerful;
and when our Castlewood friends met at their supper their tone was
confident and their news pleasant.
But on the 10th of July a vast and sudden gloom spread over the province.
A look of terror and doubt seemed to fall upon every face. Affrighted
negroes wistfully eyed their masters and retired, to hum and whisper with
one another. The fiddles ceased in the quarters; the song and laugh of
those cheery black folk were hushed. Right and left everybody's servants
were on the gallop for news. The country taverns were thronged with
horsemen, who drank and cursed and brawled at the bars, each bringing his
gloomy story. The army had been surprised. The troops had fallen into an
ambuscade, and had been cut up almost to a man. All the officers were
taken down by the French marksmen and the savages. The General had been
wounded, and carried off the field in his sash. Four days afterwards the
report was that the General was dead, and scalped by a French Indian.
Ah, what a scream poor Mrs. Mountain gave when Gumbo brought this news
from across the James River, and little Fanny sprang crying to her
mother's arms! "Lord God Almighty, watch over us, and defend my boy!"
said Mrs. Esmond, sinking down on her knees and lifting her rigid hands
to heaven. The gentlemen were not at home when the rumour arrived, but
they came in an hour or two afterwards, each from his hunt for news. The
Scotch tutor did not dare to meet the widow's agonising looks. Harry
Warrington was as pale as his mother. It might not be true about the
manner of the General's death--but he was dead. The army had been
surprised by Indians, and had fled, and been killed without seeing the
enemy. An express had arrived from Dunbar's camp. Fugitives were pouring
in there. Should he go and see? He must go and see. He and stout little
Dempster armed themselves and mounted, taking a couple of mounted
servants with them.
They followed the northward track which the expeditionary army had hewed
out for itself, and at every step which brought them nearer to the scene
of action, the disaster of the fearful day seemed to magnify. The day
after the defeat a number of the miserable fugitives from the fatal
battle of the 9th of July had reached Dunbar's camp, fifty miles from the
field. Thither poor Harry and his companions rode, stopping stragglers,
asking news, giving money, getting from one and all the same gloomy tale.
A thousand men were slain--two-thirds of the officers were down--all the
General's aides-de-camp were hit. Were hit--but were they killed? Those
who fell never rose again. The tomahawk did its work upon them. Oh,
brother brother! All the fond memories of their youth, all the dear
remembrances of their childhood, the love and the laughter, the tender
romantic vows which they had pledged to each other as lads, were recalled
by Harry with pangs inexpressibly keen. Wounded men looked up and were
softened by his grief; rough men melted as they saw the woe written on
the handsome young face; the hardy old tutor could scarcely look at him
for tears, and grieved for him even more than for his dear pupil, who, he
believed, lay dead under the savage Indian knife.
At every step which Harry Warrington took towards Pennsylvania the
reports of the British disaster were magnified and confirmed. Those two
famous regiments which had fought in the Scottish and Continental wars
had fled from an enemy almost unseen, and their boasted discipline and
valour had not enabled them to face a band of savages and a few French
infantry. The unfortunate commander of the expedition had shown the
utmost bravery and resolution.
Four times his horse had been shot under him. Twice he had been wounded,
and the last time of the mortal hurt which ended his life three days
after the battle. More than one of Harry's informants described the
action to the poor lad,--the passage of the river, the long line of
advance through the wilderness, the firing in front, the vain struggle of
the men to advance, and the artillery to clear the way of the enemy; then
the ambushed fire from behind every bush and tree, and the murderous
fusillade, by which at least half of the expeditionary force had been
shot down. But not all the General's suite were killed, Harry heard. One
of his aides-de-camp, a Virginian gentleman, was ill of fever and
exhaustion at Dunbar's camp.
One of them--but which? To the camp Harry hurried, and reached it at
length. It was George Washington Harry found stretched in a tent there,
and not his brother. A sharper pain than that of the fever Mr. Washington
declared he felt, when he saw Harry Warrington, and could give him no
news of George.
Mr. Washington did not dare to tell Harry all. For three days after the
fight his duty had been to be near the General. On the fatal 9th of July
he had seen George go to the front with orders from the chief, to whose
side he never returned. After Braddock himself died, the aide-de-camp had
found means to retrace his course to the field. The corpses which
remained there were stripped and horribly mutilated. One body he buried
which he thought to be George Warrington's. His own illness was
increased, perhaps occasioned, by the anguish which he underwent in his
search for the unhappy volunteer.
"Ah, George! If you had loved him you would have found him dead or
alive," Harry cried out. Nothing would satisfy him but that he, too,
should go to the ground and examine it. With money he procured a guide or
two. He forded the river at the place where the army had passed over; he
went from one end to the other of the dreadful field. The horrible
spectacle of mutilation caused him to turn away with shudder and
loathing. What news could the vacant woods, or those festering corpses
lying under the trees, give the lad of his lost brother? He was for
going, unarmed, with a white flag, to the French fort, whither, after
their victory, the enemy had returned; but his guides refused to advance
with him. The French might possibly respect them, but the Indians would
not. "Keep your hair for your lady-mother, my young gentleman," said the
guide. "Tis enough that she loses one son in this campaign."
When Harry returned to the English encampment at Dunbar's it was his turn
to be down with the fever. Delirium set in upon him, and he lay some time
in the tent and on the bed from which his friend had just risen
convalescent. For some days he did not know who watched him; and poor
Dempster, who had tended him in more than one of these maladies, thought
the widow must lose both her children; but the fever was so far subdued
that the boy was enabled to rally somewhat, and get on horseback. Mr.
Washington and Dempster both escorted him home. It was with a heavy
heart, no doubt, that all three beheld once more the gates of Castlewood.
A servant in advance had been sent to announce their coming. First came
Mrs. Mountain and her little daughter, welcoming Harry with many tears
and embraces; but she scarce gave a nod of recognition to Mr. Washington;
and the little girl caused the young officer to start, and turn deadly
pale, by coming up to him with her hands behind her, and asking, "Why
have you not brought George back, too?"
Dempster was graciously received by the two ladies. "Whatever could be
done, we know _you_ would do, Mr. Dempster," says Mrs. Mountain, giving
him her hand. "Make a curtsey to Mr. Dempster, Fanny, and remember,
child, to be grateful to all who have been friendly to our benefactors.
Will it please you to take any refreshment before you ride, Colonel
Washington?"
Mr. Washington had had a sufficient ride already, and counted as
certainly upon the hospitality of Castlewood as he would upon the shelter
of his own house.
"The time to feed my horse, and a glass of water for myself, and I will
trouble Castlewood hospitality no farther," Mr. Washington said.
"Sure, George, you have your room here, and my mother is above stairs
getting it ready!" cries Harry. "That poor horse of yours stumbled with
you, and can't go farther this evening."
"Hush! Your mother won't see him, child," whispered Mrs. Mountain.
"Not see George? Why, he is like a son of the house," cries Harry.
"She had best not see him. I don't meddle any more in family matters,
child; but when the Colonel's servant rode in, and said you were coming,
Madame Esmond left this room and said she felt she could not see Mr.
Washington. Will you go to her?" Harry took Mrs. Mountain's arm, and
excusing himself to the Colonel, to whom he said he would return in a few
minutes, he left the parlour in which they had assembled, and went to the
upper rooms, where Madame Esmond was.
He was hastening across the corridor, and, with an averted head, passing
by one especial door, which he did not like to look at, for it was that
of his brother's room; and as he came to it, Madame Esmond issued from
it, and folded him to her heart, and led him in. A settee was by the bed,
and a book of psalms lay on the coverlet. All the rest of the room was
exactly as George had left it.
"My poor child! How thin thou art grown--how haggard you look! Never
mind. A mother's care will make thee well again. 'Twas nobly done to go
and brave sickness and danger in search of your brother. Had others been
as faithful, he might be here now. Never mind, my Harry; our hero will
come back to us. I know he is not dead. He will come back to us, I know
he will come." And when Harry pressed her to give a reason for her
belief, she said she had seen her father two nights running in a dream,
and he had told her that her boy was a prisoner among the Indians.
Madame Esmond's grief had not prostrated her as Harry's had when first it
fell upon him; it had rather stirred and animated her; her eyes were
eager, her countenance angry and revengeful. The lad wondered almost at
the condition in which he found his mother.
But when he besought her to go downstairs, and give her a hand of welcome
to George Washington, who had accompanied him, the lady's excitement
painfully increased. She said she should shudder at touching his hand.
She declared Mr. Washington had taken her son from her; she could not
sleep under the same roof with him.
"No gentleman," cried Harry, warmly, "was ever refused shelter under my
grandfather's roof."
"Oh, no, gentlemen!" exclaims the little widow; "well let us go down, if
you like, son, and pay our respects to this one. Will you please to give
us your arm?" and taking an arm which was very little able to give her
support, she walked down the broad stairs and into the apartment where
the Colonel sat.
She made him a ceremonious curtsey, and extended one of the little hands,
which she allowed for a moment to rest in his. "I wish that our meeting
had been happier, Colonel Washington," she said.
"You do not grieve more than I do that it is otherwise, Madame," said
the Colonel.
"I might have wished that the meeting had been spared, that I might not
have kept you from friends whom you are naturally anxious to see, that my
boy's indisposition had not detained you. Home and his good nurse
Mountain, and his mother and our good Dr. Dempster will soon restore him.
'Twas scarce necessary, Colonel, that you who have so many affairs on
your hands, military and domestic, should turn doctor too."
"Harry was ill and weak, and I thought it was my duty to ride by him,"
faltered the Colonel.
"You yourself, sir, have gone through the _fatigues_ and _dangers_ of the
campaign in the most wonderful manner," said the widow, curtseying again,
and looking at him with her impenetrable black eyes.
"I wish to Heaven, Madame, someone else had come back in my place!"
"Nay, sir, you have ties which must render your life more than ever
valuable and dear to you, and duties to which, I know, you must be
anxious to betake yourself. In our present deplorable state of doubt and
distress Castlewood can be a welcome place to no stranger, much less to
you, and so I know, sir, you will be for leaving us ere long. And you
will pardon me if the state of my own spirits obliges me for the most
part to keep my chamber. But my friends here will bear you company as
long as you favour us, whilst I nurse my poor Harry upstairs. Mountain!
you will have the cedar room on the ground floor ready for Mr. Washington
and anything in the house is at his command. Farewell, sir. Will you be
pleased to present my compliments to your mother, who will be thankful to
have her son safe and sound out of the war?--as also to my young friend,
Martha Custis, to whom and to whose children I wish every happiness.
Come, my son!" and with these words, and another freezing curtsey, the
pale little woman retreated, looking steadily at the Colonel, who stood
dumb on the floor.