A Soldier of Virginia Part 25

"We'll drink to the troops of Maryland and Virginia," he cried, "who behaved like soldiers and died like men, teaching England's redcoats a lesson they will not soon forget, and to two of the bravest among them, Colonel Washington and Lieutenant Stewart!"

It was done with a cheer that made the old hall ring, and when, half an hour later, I found myself beside the prettiest of the three daughters of the house, I was not yet quite recovered. Only this I can say,--it is a pleasant thing to be a hero, though trying to the nerves. I had only the one experience, and did not merit that, as the reader has doubtless decided for himself.

Of course there was a dance,--what merrymaking would be complete without one?--and Colonel Washington walked a minuet with a certain Mistress Patience Burd, with a grace which excited the admiration of every swain in the room, and the envy of not a few,--myself among the number, for I was ever but a clumsy dancer, and on this occasion no doubt greatly vexed my pretty partner. But every night must end, as this one did at last.

Colonel Washington was much better next morning, for his illness had been more of the mind than of the body, and our kind reception had done wonders to banish his vexation. Our friends bade us G.o.dspeed, and we rode on our way southward. I never saw the house again, and it is one of my great regrets and reasons for self-reproach that I have forgot the name of the honest man who was our host that night, and remember only that the name of his prettiest daughter was Betty.

As we reached a part of the country which was more closely settled, I soon perceived that however great dishonor had accrued to British arms and British reputations as the result of that battle by the Monongahela, Colonel Washington had won only respect and admiration by his consistent and courageous conduct. We were stopped a hundred times by people who asked first for news, and when they heard my companion's name, vied with one another to do him honor. It did me good to see how he brightened under these kind words and friendly acts, and how the color came again into his face and the light into his eyes. And I hold that this was as it should be, for I know of nothing of which a man may be more justly proud than of the well-earned praises of his fellows.

At last, toward the evening of a sultry August day, we turned our horses'

heads into the wide road which led up to Mount Vernon, and drew near to that hospitable and familiar mansion. News of our approach must have preceded us, for there, drawn up in line, were the bowing and grinning negroes, while at the entrance gate were Mrs. Washington and her children, as well as a dozen families a.s.sembled from as many miles around to do honor to the returning warrior. My heart beat more quickly as I ran my eyes over this gathering, but fell again when I saw that the family from Riverview was not there.

And such a greeting as it was! We all remained a s.p.a.ce apart until Mrs.

Washington had kissed her son, as something too sacred for our intrusion.

But when he turned to greet his neighbors, I have rarely seen such genuine emotion shown even in our whole-hearted Virginia. At the great dinner which followed, with Mrs. Washington at the head of the table and her son at the foot, we told again the story of the campaign, and the men forgot to sip their wine until the tale was ended. Yet with all this largess of goodwill, I was not wholly happy. For I had no home to go to, nor was there any waiting to welcome me, and the woman I loved seemed farther away than ever, though now she was so near.

CHAPTER XXII

A NEW DANGER AT RIVERVIEW

But Dorothy was not so near as I had thought, for next morning came a message from my aunt. It was delivered almost as soon as I was out of bed by a negro boy who had ridden over at daybreak. It was dated but two days before, and began very formally.

"Sir," it ran, "since you no doubt will wish to recuperate from the fatigues of the campaign so unfortunately ended, and as there is no place where you can do this so well as at Riverview, I hasten to a.s.sure you that the place is entirely at your service."

I paused a moment to get my breath. Her reference to the campaign was intended as a stab, of course, yet could it be she was relenting? But hope fell as I read on.

"In order that you may feel at liberty to avail yourself of this invitation," the note continued, "my daughter and I have accepted one of long standing to spend a month, or perhaps two months, at the home of a relative. James is at Williamsburg, so that you may be entirely free to occupy your leisure at Riverview as best pleases you. Do not think that you have driven us from the place, for that is not at all the case. I have long felt the need of rest, and take advantage of this opportunity, while there is little doing on the plantation, to secure it. I trust to your sense of honor to make no inquiries as to where we are stopping, nor to attempt to see my daughter, who, I believe, has already discovered that any fancy she may ever have seemed to entertain for you was more imaginary than real."

Here was a blow, straight from the shoulder, and I winced under it.

"I could never consent," the note concluded, "to any attachment of a serious nature between you, having quite other views for my daughter, which, I am sure, will be for her happiness and well-being."

I read the note through a second time before I realized what a blow it gave to all my hopes. I had had little cause to antic.i.p.ate any other treatment, it is true, and yet I have often observed that men hope most who have least reason for it, and this was so in my case. As I read the note again, I could not but admire the adroitness of its author. She had placed me upon honor--without my consent, 't is true--to make no effort to see Dorothy. I stood biting my lips with anger and vexation, and then, with sudden resolve, turned back to the messenger.

"Go around to the kitchen and get something to eat, if you are hungry," I said to him. "I shall be ready to ride back with you in half an hour;"

and as he disappeared around a corner of the house, agrin from ear to ear at the prospect of refreshment, I sought Mrs. Washington and told her that I had just received a note from my aunt and would ride to Riverview at once. How much she suspected of my difference with my aunt, I do not know, but if she experienced any surprise at my sudden departure, she certainly did not show it, saying only that she regretted that I must go so soon, and that I must always consider Mount Vernon no less my home than Riverview,--an a.s.surance which Colonel Washington repeated when the moment came to say good-by, and I rode away at last with a very tender feeling in my heart for those two figures which stood there on the steps until I turned into the road and pa.s.sed from sight.

"And how is everything at Riverview, Sam?" I asked of the boy, as we struck into the road and settled our horses into an easy canter. He did not answer for a moment, and when I glanced at him to see the cause of his silence, I was astonished to find him rolling his eyes about as though he saw a ghost.

"What's the matter, boy?" I asked sharply. "Come, speak out. What is it?"

He looked behind him and all around into the woods, and then urged his horse close to mine.

"Mas' Tom," he said, almost in a whisper, "dere's gwine t' be h.e.l.l at d'

plantation foh long. Youse stay 'way fum it."

I looked at him, still more astonished by his singular behavior. A full-blooded negro does not turn pale, but under the influence of great terror his skin grows spotted and livid. Sam's was livid at that moment.

"See here, Sam," I said sharply, "if you have anything to tell, I want you to tell me right away. What are you afraid of?"

"D' witch man," he whispered, his eyes almost starting from his head, and his forehead suddenly beading with perspiration.

"The witch man? Has a witch man come to Riverview?"

He nodded.

"And what is he doing there, Sam?"

"He says d' French dun whopped d' English, an' a-comin' t' set all d'

n.i.g.g.ahs free. He says we mus' holp, an' dere won't be no mo' slaves. All ub us be free, jus' like white folks."

It took me a minute or two to grasp the full meaning of this extraordinary revelation.

"He says the French are coming to set all the n.i.g.g.e.rs free?" I repeated.

Sam nodded.

"And that the n.i.g.g.e.rs must help them?"

Again Sam nodded.

"Help them how, Sam?"

He hesitated.

"By killing the English, Sam?"

"I reckon dat 's it," he said reluctantly.

"And burning down their houses, perhaps?"

"I 'se hearn dat talked erboat, too."

I drew my horse in with a jerk, and catching Sam's by the bridle, pulled it to me.

"Now, boy," I said, "you must tell me all about this. I promise you that no one shall harm you."

He began to whimper.

"I'll tell yo', Mas' Tom," he stuttered, "but yo' mus' n' hurt d'

witch man."

"Who is this witch man?" I demanded.

"Ole uncle Polete."