The Rangers; or, The Tory's Daughter Part 18

"Just so, Harry; same as you know what brought _you_ here with a _pack_ on your back, in so queer a route for a journey, when a smooth road is so near you."

Well knowing Bart's peculiarities, and that it would be useless to try to draw from him the secret of his appearance here until he chose to reveal it, Woodburn, while the other dismounted and told his pony to be cropping the bushes in the mean time, related all that had transpired between himself and the victim of his deeply regretted paroxysm of pa.s.sion, adding, at the close of his gloomy and self-accusing recital,--

"I first thought, after reaching my house, that I would return and give myself up to the authorities; but knowing, whether Peters should live or die, that I should be a doomed man in this part of the country, I at length brought myself, perhaps wrongly, to try to get out of it undiscovered. And I have now set my course for Boston, to join those there gathering for the approaching struggle for liberty.

And Heaven knows with what pleasure I shall now sacrifice my life in her battles."

"Good! that's grand!" warmly responded Bart, who had listened to the other with many a _whew_! of surprise at his accompanying expressions of self-condemnation for killing an antagonist who struck the first blow--"that's grand! Here is what goes with you, Harry; for, between us here, I and Lightfoot are clipping it from a predicament, as well as you."

"So I suspected. But what is it? Let us have _your_ story now."

"Well, Harry, in the first place, do you know this critter I call Lightfoot?"

"No; at least I don't now remember to have noticed the animal before."

"Well, it is the colt old skin-flint Turner cheated me out of, last year."

"I think you told me something about it, but don't recollect the particulars; though I had then no doubt, I believe, but the old man wronged you, as I understood you worked very hard for him through the season."

"I did, like a n.i.g.g.ar--cause he promised to give me this colt, then a little snubby three-year-old, for my summer's work, if I would stay and work well for him, which I did, as I said. Well, supposing the colt was to be mine, without any mistake, I made a sight of her, named her Lightfoot, fed her, got her as tame as a dog, then trained her to understand certain words and signs, which I at last got her to obey; and whether it was to trot, run, or jump fences, she would do it as no other critter could. But just as I had got her to mind and love _me_, as I did _her_, my time was out; and I went to settle off matters with the old man, and tell him I was going to take her off with me, when--rot his pictur!--he pretended he had forgot all about his promise to let me have her, and forbid my touching her, saying he had paid me all I earnt in the old clothes which he urged on to me, against my will, and which were not worth one week's work, as true as the book, Harry. Well, I couldn't help crying, to be cheated so, and, what was worse, to lose Lightfoot. But it did no good. I had to come away without her, or any other pay; and, from that time, I haven't seen her till to-day."

"But you have not now stole and run away with her, I trust Bart?"

"No; she run away with me," replied Bart, roguishly, as I can prove; for I hollered _whoa_ all the time, as loud as I could yell."

"But how came you mounted upon her at all?"

"Well, Harry, that brings me to the worst and best part of my story, all in one; and here goes for it."

Bart, in his own peculiar manner, then related, with great accuracy, the particulars of his arrest and escape from the tories, as we have already described them in the preceding chapter, merely explaining, in addition, that Lightfoot well understood the game, and knew she was to obey the signs he secretly gave her with his feet and hands, however loud he, or others, might cry _whoa_ or any of the terms usually addressed to horses. He then proceeded:--

"Well, you see, as soon as I got over the hill, out of sight, I looked out for a hard, stony place, where Lightfoot couldn't be tracked; and, soon finding one, I leaped her over the fence, and made full speed for the woods, which I luckily reached jest in time to wheel round in safety, and see them thundering along by, in the road, after me. I then took it leisurely off in this direction, contriving to keep mostly in the woods, where I had learnt Lightfoot, in riding after the cows, last summer, to be as much at home in as in the road."

"And what do you propose to do with this horse now?" asked Woodburn.

"Take her along with me, to be sure, Harry."

"And so make yourself, in law, a horse-thief, eh? Do you expect me to join company with such a character?"

"Well, now, Harry, I didn't expect the like of that from you, any how," observed Bart, evidently touched at the remark. "The creature is honestly mine; and I supposed I had a right to get what was mine away, if I could, without going to law, which would help me about as much as it has you, I reckon. But supposing that to be law which aint right and justice, and so make me out a thief, as you say, how much boot could I afford to give you, Harry, to swap predicaments with me? You have just called yourself a murderer, which you aint, and me a horse-thief, which _I_ aint, any more than you the other. Now, how will you swap characters?"

"Bart, you have silenced me. Injustice and oppression have made us both outlaws, but not intentionally wrong-doers. Let us still abstain from all intentional wrong, however trifling. And that leads me to observe, that whatever justification you may have for taking away the horse, you probably have none for carrying off the bridle."

"There you are out again, Harry. That bridle, which queerly happened to be put on Lightfoot to-day, (as if it was kinder ordered I should get the beast,) is the very one I bought last fall, to take her off with; but being so worked up, when I left, I forgot to bring it away."

"Upon my word, Bart, you are successful to-day in making defences."

"Always mean to be able to do so, Harry. n.o.body has any honest claims on me in Guilford, now, nor I any on them. I leave 'em with every thing squared, according to my religion.

"Except in the matter of your gun, which you leave--not exactly won by your opponent--behind you; do you not?"

"They are welcome to it; much good may it do 'em. It has gone pretty much where I calkerlated to get it off--among those who used me the worst; though I'd some rather it had gone to Fitch, who hunts some, and would be sure to try it."

"That is queer reasoning, Bart."

"Well, there is a head and tail to it, for all that, Harry."

"What are they?"

"Why, the head, or cause, is, that the last time I shot the piece, I overloaded it, being for black ducks, and the charge raised a seam, in a flaw underside the barrel, which I could blow through. And the tail, or consequence, is, that the next man who shoots it will wish he'd never seen it, I reckon."

"Ah, Bart, Bart, your religion, as you term it, is a strange one! But let us now dismiss the past, and think of the future. If you join me for the army, what do you propose to do with your horse--sell her?"

"Sell her? why, I'd as soon sell my daddy, if I had one. No, we'll keep her between us. You, and Tom Dunning, and Lightfoot are the only friends I have in the world, Harry; and I want we should kinder stick together. So I've been thinking up the plan, that we ride and tie, or keep along together and foot it by turns, to-night, till we get to Westminster, when we will beat up Dunning, and leave Lightfoot with him, who can take her to some of his sly places over the mountain, and have her kept for us. Then, if one of us gets killed, or any thing, so as never to come back, let the other take her; and if both fail to come, then let Tom have her for his own."

And Bart's plan being adopted, our two humble, friendless, and nearly penniless adventurers left the wood, and entering the northern road, set forth on their destination, Woodburn first mounting the pony and keeping some hundred yards in advance, and Bart forming the rear-guard, under the agreement that the latter, on hearing any bounds of pursuit, should utter the cry of the racc.o.o.n, when both were to plunge into the woods, and remain till the danger had pa.s.sed by.

After travelling in this manner, and at a rapid rate, about two hours, without encountering any thing to excite their apprehension or delay their progress, they entered a long reach of unbroken forest, which neither of them remembered ever to have pa.s.sed through. But not being able to conceive where they could have turned off from the river road, which was their intended route, they continued to move doubtingly onwards some miles farther, till the increasing obstructions and narrowness of the path, together with the absence of the settlements which they knew they must have found before this time on the road up the Connecticut, fully convinced Woodburn they had lost their way. And he was on the point of proposing to retrace their steps, when, descrying a light some distance ahead, emanating, as he supposed, from the hut of a new settler, he at once concluded to push on towards it, for the purpose of making inquiries of the occupants to ascertain their situation. In making for the light, of which, for a while, only feeble and occasional glimmerings could be obtained through the dense foliage that overhung the devious path, they at length came to an apparently well-cultivated opening, containing about a dozen acres, on one side of which stood a small, snug-looking stone house, built against or near a boldly projecting ledge of rocks. As they approached the house, their attention was arrested by the loud and earnest voice of a man within, engaged, evidently, in prayer. Concluding that the man was at his family evening devotions, which they had no thought of disturbing, they left the horse at a little distance from the house, and silently drawing near to the door, paused and reverently listened.

A confused recollection of the supplicant's voice, together with his deep and fervid tones, his bold language, and especially the subject that seemed then mostly to engross his thoughts, at once awakened the interest and rivetted the attention of Woodburn. The great burden of his soul was, obviously, the political condition of his country. And, after vividly painting the many wrongs she had suffered from her haughty oppressors, and warmly setting forth her claims to divine a.s.sistance, he broke forth, in conclusion,--

"My country! O my injured, oppressed, and down-trodden country! shall the cry of thy wrongs go up in vain to Heaven? Will not the G.o.d of battles hear and help thee, in this the hour of thy peril and of thy need? O, wilt thou not, Lord, extend Thy mighty arm in her defence? O, teach the proud Britons, now thronging our sh.o.r.es--teach them, scoffing Goliahs as they are, that there are young Davids in our land!

O, bring their counsels to nought! Scatter their fleets by thy tempests at sea, and destroy their armies on land! Sweep them off by bullet and plague! and--and"--suddenly checking himself, he meekly added, "and save their souls; and this, Lord, is all that in conscience I can ask for them. Amen."

Woodburn now gently rapped at the door, which, after a slight pause, was opened, and Herriot, the late prisoner of the royal court, stood before him.

"If this is Harry Woodburn," he said, after scrutinizing the other's features a moment, "he is very welcome to my hut. But you are not alone?" he added, glancing towards Bart, who stood several paces in the background.

"No," replied Woodburn; "I have in company a young man whom you may, perhaps, recollect as the messenger that appeared several times at the grate of our prison at Westminster, to bring us news of the progress of the rising."

"Ah, yes, well do I recollect that goodly youth, and have ever since taken a peculiar interest in him. Invite him in. All this is opportune, very--very," said Herriot, leading the way into the house.

After the recluse had ushered his guests into the princ.i.p.al room of his very simply furnished house, of which he and a servant boy, of perhaps fifteen, were the only inmates, he turned to Woodburn, and said,--

"As my retreat here in the woods, and the road that leads to it, are known to so few, I conclude that your young friend here, Mr. Woodburn, acted as your guide on the occasion."

"O, no," replied the other; "we had lost our way, having left the river road inadvertently, and were about to turn back, when, catching a glimpse of your light, we came on to make inquiries. We neither of us knew when we struck into the road leading hither."

"Do you agree to that statement, without any qualification, master Bart?" asked the recluse, with a doubting and slightly puzzled air.

"Well, some of it, I reckon," answered Bart, with a look of droll gravity.

"Why, you told me, sir," responded Woodburn, rather sharply "that you had never travelled this road before."

"No more I hadn't," replied Bart, composedly; "but I didn't say I didn't know where it turned off, for Tom Dunning told me that."

"Bart," said Woodburn, seriously, "though I am not sorry to have fallen in with father Herriot, yet, as between you and me, this needs explanation. It looks as if you purposely led me astray."

"Well now, Harry, no offence, I hope. The thing was kinder agreed on, somehow, that you should come this way, when you left Guilford, which was understood would happen soon. If I hadn't fell in with you as I did, it was my notion to take Lightfoot here, or at Dunning's, and then go back and skulk there somewheres till you was ready to come; but finding you and things all coming so handy like, when we got to where the road turned off, I thought I'd let you follow me into it, if you would, and say nothing till we got here."

"I am still perfectly at a loss how to understand all this, Bart and I still wish you would more fully explain it."