Part 22 (2/2)

All was again silent in that deserted suburb, and for long hours nothing disturbed the solemn stillness of the chamber of death, save the low sob or earnest prayer of parting love, though sounds of tumult had not ceased wholly in the village. The invaders had been interrupted in their work of destruction by an alarm from some of their own party of an approaching foe. They hurried to their s.h.i.+ps with mad impetuosity, conscious that their acts deserved only war to the knife, and that they were not prepared to cope with any regular force. Only they, who, like Captain Percy, had held themselves aloof from the brutal barbarities which they had striven vainly to prevent, were now composed enough to take any steps for the safety of others. To collect those who had straggled off was the first business, and while the recall was hastily beaten, Captain Percy, selecting a small party of men on whom he could depend, went to patrol the more distant quarters of the town. Having seen no trace of an enemy on his way to the parsonage, he had somewhat hastily concluded the alarm to be false, and therefore did not hesitate, before returning with his pistols to Mr. Sinclair, to send forward his men in charge of those whom he had found, promising to join them before they reached the point of embarcation. Without a thought of danger he traversed the silent and deserted streets on his return, and had arrived where a single turn would bring him within view of the rallying point of his companions in arms, when the sound that met his practised ears told of something more than the hurrying tread and mingling voices of soldiers rapidly embarking. Had his men been opposed? If so, they should not be without a leader--and with that thought he sprang forward. He was too late. Already they had fought their way through the band of villagers, who, maddened by the desolation of their homes, had gathered together such weapons as they could, and led on by one gallant and experienced soldier, whom their burning houses had lighted to their aid, were seeking to cut off the retreat of some amongst their invaders, and thus to revenge those whom they had been unable to protect. Captain Percy's men had, as we have said, fought their way through this band--not without loss. He now stood alone--one against many--with only his good sword to aid, for his pistols he had given to Mr. Sinclair. To retreat un.o.bserved was impossible, for his own cry of ”Forward--forward, my men!” uttered as he rushed to the scene of the just decided contest, had betrayed him--to fight against such odds with the faintest hope of success was equally impossible, and to yield was an alternative which there seemed to be no intention of offering him. In an instant twenty swords flashed before his eyes--twenty muskets were pointed at his breast. That instant had been his last had not Major Scott, the leader of whom we have spoken, sprang forward and placed himself before him.

Himself a brave and generous soldier, he could not tamely witness such butchery; and pale with the terror for another which he had never felt for himself, he exclaimed, ”Yield yourself, sir, quickly--a moment's delay, and I cannot protect you.”

Captain Percy's sword was in the hand of his n.o.ble foe, who, linking his arm in his, turned to face his own band, shouting as he did so, ”Back--back on your lives--he is my prisoner, and who touches him makes me his enemy.”

The day had pa.s.sed with all its exciting incidents. The glow of sunset had faded into twilight's soberer hues, and these had deepened into the darkness of night. With the darkness silence had settled upon the streets of Havre de Grace. They who had trodden, for hours, with burning hearts around the sites of their desecrated homes, retired to the house of some charitable and more fortunate neighbor, to seek such rest as misery may hope. They went with sullen as well as sad brows, and as they pa.s.sed one house in the village they muttered ”curses not loud, but deep.” This was the house in which Major Scott had found a refuge for himself and the prisoner, whom all his influence had scarcely been able to protect. To remove him from Havre de Grace in the light of day, and under the eyes of his infuriated enemies, was too hazardous a project to be attempted; and by the advice of some who seemed disposed to second his efforts for his safety, he had delayed his departure till night should veil the obnoxious features of the British officer.

At the parsonage, death had accomplished his work, and the room in which we have already seen Mr. Sinclair, bears the solemn impress of his presence. Beside the bed on which the lifeless limbs have been composed with tender care, the pastor kneels. His prayer is no longer, ”Let this cup pa.s.s from me”--he is struggling for power to say, ”Father, not my will, but Thine be done!” In an upper room lies Mary Sinclair. Tears are falling fast as summer rain-drops from her closed eyes; but she utters neither sob nor moan, and by the dim light of the shaded lamp she seems to the two women, who, with well-meant but officious kindness, have insisted on watching with her through the night, to sleep. A slight noise in the street causes one of these women to start, and she whispers to the other, ”I am 'feard of every thing to-night--the least noise puts me all of a trimble, for I'm thinking of my Jack. He's gone to guard that British soger, and I shouldn't wonder if he had a skrimmage about him before morning.”

”And I must say, Miss Dunham, if he did, it would be nothin' more than them deserves us would go for to guard them cruel British.”

”But they do say, Miss Caxton, that this Capin--for Jack says he is a Capin--was better than the rest--that he took the part of our people every where when he found there wasn't any fair fight, and that he was drivin' his men to the s.h.i.+ps when we caught him.”

”Them may believe that that will, but for my part I think that it must be a poor, mean speritted American that will hold guard over one of them British----”

”Not so mean speritted as you think perhaps,” said Jack's mother with a flushed face.

”Well, I must say, Miss Dunham, I never thought Jack would do such a thing--if I had----”

Miss Caxton stopped abruptly, but her companion would hear the whole--”Well ma'am, if you had--what if you had?”

”Why, then, Miss Dunham, I shouldn't have been so well pleased to see him keepin' company with my Sarah--but after this, of course, that's at an end.”

”May be, Miss Caxton, you may think to-morrow mornin' that it would have been just as well to wait till the night was gone before you said that--when you see the British Capin hanging by the neck in his fine regimentals, and hear that his guard were the men that did it--as I know they've sworn to do--you may think after all they an't so mean speritted.”

”Miss Dunham! if they'll do that, I'll unsay every word I've said, and proud enough I would be to call one of 'em my son-in-law--but now do tell me all about it--she's asleep you see,” glancing at Mary Sinclair, ”and there an't n.o.body to hear.”

”Why, there an't much to tell. You see the Major wouldn't give way any how at all about this here man--so, as they didn't want to fight _him_, they agreed that some of the real true blues who an't afeard of nothin', should seem to help the Major and persuade him to keep the man here till late in the night, and that they would guard him--but they were to take care to have the key of his room, and when the Major goes there he'll find it empty, or at best only a b.l.o.o.d.y corpse there. They'll hang him if they can get him out of the window without too much noise, but if there's any danger of his waking the Major with his screeching, they'll stop his voice quick enough.”

Any further conversation between these discreet watchers was prevented by a sudden movement on the part of Mary Sinclair. Springing from her bed she was hastening to the door when her steps were arrested.

”Dear me, Miss Mary! where are you going? Now do lie down again, my dear young lady!--be patient--it's the Lord's will, you know.” Such were the remonstrances of her officious attendants, while, one on either side, they strove to lead her back again, but Mary persisted.

”I must go to my father, Mrs. Dunham, pray let me go, Mrs. Caxton, I must speak to my father.”

”Well, then, my good young lady, just put your wrapping gown around you first, and put your feet in these slippers.”

Mary complied silently, and then was suffered to proceed. Rapidly she flew to her father's room--it was unoccupied, and a glance at his bed showed her that it had not been disturbed. Mary was at no loss to conjecture where she should find her father--but as she approached _that_ room her steps grew slower, lighter--she was treading on holy ground. With difficulty she nerved herself to turn the latch of the door, and in an awed whisper she entreated her father to come to her.

Mr. Sinclair rose from his knees, but he lingered a moment to cast one look on that still lovely face, to press his lips to that cold brow, and then, reverently veiling it, he approached his daughter.

”Come quickly, papa!--not a moment is to be lost if you would save him from death, and such a death--oh, papa, papa!--it may be even now too late.”

Her tale was rapidly told, and before it was concluded Mr. Sinclair was ready for action.

”But the house, Mary, what house is he in?”

This Mary could not tell, but rapidly ascending the stairs to her room, Mr. Sinclair obtained from the two gossips the information he sought.

Startled as they were by his appearance, they reverenced the rector too much to question his designs. Leaving his daughter to forget even her own heavy sorrow in the imminent danger of another--of one whom, without any very satisfactory reason, she as well as Mr. Sinclair had at once concluded to be her deliverer of the morning--let us follow his steps.

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