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It was very late, but there were few in Jamestown on that last night of its
existence that cared to sleep. Those who were not kept awake by the
cares of state or military duties, were yet suffering from an intense
apprehension, which denied them repose. There was “hurrying to and
fro,” along Stuart street, and “whispering with white lips,” among the
thronging citizens. Ever siding with the stronger party, and inclined to
attribute to the besieged Governor the whole catalogue of evils under
which the colony was groaning, many of the lower classes of the citizens
expressed their sympathy with Nathaniel Bacon, and only awaited a
secret opportunity to desert to his ranks. A conspiracy was ripening
among the soldiery to open the gates to the insurgents, and surrender at
once the town and the Governor into their hands—but over-awed by the
resolute boldness of their leader, and wanting in the strength of will to act
for themselves, they found it difficult to carry their plan into execution.
Sir William Berkeley, with a few of his steady adherents and faithful
friends, was anxiously awaiting, in the large hall of the palace, the tidings
of the recent sally upon the besiegers. Notwithstanding the superior
numbers of his men, he had but little confidence either in their loyalty or
courage, while he was fully conscious of the desperate bravery of the
insurgents. While hope whispered that the little band of rebels must yield
to the overwhelming force of the garrison, fear interposed, to warn him
of the danger of defection and cowardice in his ranks. As thus he sat
anxiously endeavouring to guess the probable result of his sally, heavy
footsteps were heard ascending the stairs. The heart of the old Governor
beat thick with apprehension, and the damp drops wrung from him by
anxiety and care, stood in cold beads upon his brow.
“What news?” he cried, in a hoarse, agitated voice, as Colonel Ludwell,
Robert Beverley, and Alfred Bernard entered the room. “But I read it in
your countenances! All is lost!”
“Yes, Governor Berkeley,” said Philip Ludwell, “all is lost! we have not
even the melancholy consolation of Francis, 'that our honour is
preserved.' The cowardly hinds who followed us, fled from the first
charge of the rebels, like frightened hares. All attempts to rally them were
in vain, and many of them we understand have joined with the rebels.”
As the fatal tidings fell upon his ear, Berkeley pressed his hand to his
forehead, and sobbed aloud. The heart of the brave old loyalist could
bear no more—and all the haughty dignity of his nature gave way in a
flood of bitter tears. But the effect was only transient, and nerving
himself, he controlled his feelings once more by the energy of his iron
will.
“How many still remain with us?” he asked, anxiously, of Ludwell.
“Alas! sir, if the rumour which we heard as we came hither be true—none,
absolutely none. There was an immense crowd gathered around the
tavern, listening to the news of our defeat from one of the soldiers, and
as we passed a loud and insulting cry went up of “Long live Bacon! and
down with tyranny!” The soldiers declared that they would not stain their
hands with the blood of their fellow-subjects; the citizens as vehemently
declared that the town itself should not long harbour those who had
trampled on their rights. Treason stalks abroad boldly and openly, and I
fear that the loyalty of Virginia is confined to this room.”
“Now, Heaven help me,” said Berkeley, sadly, “for the world has well nigh
deserted me. And yet, if I fall, I shall fall at my post, and the trust
bestowed upon me by my king shall be yielded only with my life.”
“It were madness to think of remaining longer here,” said Beverley; “the
rebels, with the most consummate courage, evince the most profound
prudence and judgment. Before the dawn they will bring their cannon to
bear upon our ships and force them to withdraw from the harbour, and
then all means of escape being cut off, we will be forced to surrender on
such terms as the enemy may dictate.”
“We will yield to no terms,” replied Berkeley. “For myself, death is far
preferable to dishonour. Rather than surrender the trust which I have in
charge, let us remain here, until, like the brave senators of Rome, we are
hacked to pieces at our posts by the swords of these barbarians.”
“But what can you expect to gain by such a desperate course,” said old
Ballard, who, though not without a sufficient degree of courage, would
prefer rather to admire the heroism of the Roman patriots in history, than
to vie with them in their desperate resolution.
“I expect to retain my honour,” cried the brave old Governor. “A brave
man may suffer death—he can never submit to dishonour.”
“My honoured Governor,” said Major Beverley, whose well-known courage
and high-toned chivalry gave great effect to his counsel; “believe me, that
we all admire your steady loyalty and your noble heroism. But reflect,
that you gain nothing by desperation, and it is the part of true courage
not to hazard a desperate risk without any hope of success. God knows
that I would willingly yield up my own life to preserve unsullied the
honour of my country, and the dignity of my king; but I doubt how far we
serve his real interests by a deliberate sacrifice of all who are loyal to his
cause.”
“And what then would you advise?” said the Governor, in an irritated
manner. “To make a base surrender of our persons and our cause, and to
grant to these insolent rebels every concession which their insolence may
choose to demand? No! gentlemen, sooner would William Berkeley
remain alone at his post, until his ashes mingled with the ashes of this
palace, than yield one inch to rebels in arms.”
“It is not necessary,” returned Beverley. “You may escape without loss of
life or compromise of honour, and reserve until a future day your
vengeance on these disloyal barbarians.”
Berkeley was silent.
“Look,” continued Beverley, leading the old loyalist to the window which
overlooked the river; “by the light of dawn you can see the white sails of
the Adam and Eve, as she rests at anchor in yonder harbor. There is still
time to escape before the rebels can suspect our design. Once upon the
deck of that little vessel, with her sails unfurled to this rising breeze, you
may defy the threats of the besiegers. Then once more to your faithful
Accomac, and when the forces from England shall arrive, trained bands of
loyal and brave Britons, your vengeance shall then be commensurate with
the indignities you have suffered.”
Still Berkeley hesitated, but his friends could see by the quiver of his lip,
that the struggle was still going on, and that he was thinking with grim
satisfaction of that promised vengeance.
“Let me urge you,” continued Beverley, encouraged by the effect which
he was evidently producing; “let me urge you to a prompt decision. Will
you remain longer in Jamestown, this nest of traitors, and expose your
faithful adherents to certain death? Is loyalty so common in Virginia, that
you will suffer these brave supporters of your cause to be sacrificed? Will
you leave their wives and daughters, whom they can no longer defend, to
the insults and outrages of a band of lawless adventurers, who have
shown that they disregard the rights of men, and the more sacred
deference due to a woman? We have done all that became us, as loyal
citizens, to do. We have sustained the standard of the king until it were
madness, not courage, further to oppose the designs of the rebels. Beset
by a superior force, and with treason among our own citizens, and
defection among our own soldiers—with but twenty stout hearts still true
and faithful to their trust—our alternative is between surrender and death
on the one hand, and flight and future vengeance on the other. Can you
longer hesitate between the two? But see, the sky grows brighter toward
the east, and the morning comes to increase the perils of the night. I
beseech you, by my loyalty and my devotion to your interest, decide
quickly and wisely.”
“I will go,” replied Berkeley, after a brief pause, in a voice choking with
emotion. “But God is my witness, that if I only were concerned, rebellion
should learn that there was a loyalist who held his sacred trust so near
his heart, that it could only be yielded with his life-blood. But why should
I thus boast? Do with me as you please—I will go.”
No sooner was Berkeley's final decision known, than the whole palace
was in a state of preparation. Hurriedly putting up such necessaries as
would be needed in their temporary exile, the loyalists were soon ready
for their sudden departure. Lady Frances, stately as ever, remained
perhaps rather longer before her mirror, in the arrangement of her tire,
than was consistent with their hasty flight. Virginia Temple scarcely
devoted a moment for her own preparations, so constantly was her
assistance required by her mother, who bustled about from trunk to
trunk, in a perfect agony of haste—found she had locked up her mantle,
which was in the very bottom of an immense trunk, and finally, when she
had put her spectacles and keys in her pocket, declared that they were
lost, and required Virginia to search in every hole and corner of the room
for them. But with all these delays—ever incident to ladies, and old ones
especially, when starting on a journey—the little party were at length
announced to be ready for their “moonlight flitting.” Sadly and silently
they left the palace to darkness and solitude, and proceeded towards the
river. At the bottom of the garden, which ran down to the banks of the
river, were two large boats, belonging to the Governor, and which were
often used in pleasure excursions. In these the fugitives embarked, and
under the muscular efforts of the strong oarsmen, the richly freighted
boats scudded rapidly through the water towards the good ship “Adam
and Eve,” which lay at a considerable distance from the shore, to avoid
the guns of the insurgents.
Alfred Bernard had the good fortune to have the fair Virginia under his
immediate charge; but the hearts of both were too full to improve the
opportunity with much conversation. The young intriguer, who cared but
little in his selfish heart for either loyalists or rebels, still felt that he had
placed his venture on a wrong card, and was about to lose. The hopes of
preferment which he had cherished were about to be dissipated by the ill
fortune of his patron, and the rival of his love, crowned with success, he
feared, might yet bear away the prize which he had so ardently coveted.
Virginia Temple had more generous cause for depression than he. Hers
was the hard lot to occupy a position of neutrality in interest between the
contending parties. Whichever faction in the State succeeded, she must
be a mourner; for, in either case, she was called upon to sacrifice an idol
which she long had cherished, and which she must now yield for ever.
They sat together near the stern of the boat, and watched the moonlight
diamonds which sparkled for a moment on the white spray that dropped
from the dripping oar, and then passed away.
“It is thus,” said Bernard, with a heavy sigh. “It is thus with this present
transient life. We dance for a moment upon the white waves of fortune,
rejoicing in light and hope and joy—but the great, unfeeling world rolls
on, regardless of our little life, while we fade even while we sparkle, and
our places are supplied by others, who in their turn, dance and shine, and
smile, and pass away, and are forgotten!”
“It is even so,” said Virginia, sadly—then turning her blue eyes upward,
she added, sweetly, “but see, Mr. Bernard, the moon which shines so still
and beautiful in heaven, partakes not of the changes of these reflected
fragments of her brightness. So we, when reunited to the heaven from
which our spirits came, will shine again unchangeable and happy.”
“Yes, my sweet one,” replied her lover passionately, “and were it my
destiny to be ever thus with you, and to hear the sweet eloquence of
your pure lips, I would not need a place in heaven to be happy.”
“Mr. Bernard,” said Virginia, “is this a time or place to speak thus? The
circumstances by which we are surrounded should check every selfish
thought for the time, in our care for the more important interests at
stake.”
“My fair, young loyalist,” said Bernard, “and is it because of the interest
excited in your bosom by the fading cause of loyalty, that you check so
quickly the slightest word of admiration from one whom you have called
your friend? Nay, fair maiden, be truthful even though you should be
cruel.”
“To be candid, then, Mr. Bernard,” returned Virginia, “I thought we had
long ago consented not to mention that subject again. I hope you will be
faithful to your promise.”
“My dearest Virginia, that compact was made when your heart had been
given to another whom you thought worthy to reign there. Surely, you
cannot, after the events of to-night oppose such an obstacle to my suit.
Your gentle heart, my girl, is too pure and holy a shrine to afford refuge
to a rebel, and a profaner of woman's sacred rights.”
“Mr. Bernard,” said Virginia, “another word on this subject, and I seek
refuge myself from your insults. You, who are the avowed champion of
woman's rights, should know that she owns no right so sacred as to
control the affections of her own heart. I have before told you in terms
too plain to be misunderstood, that I can never love you. Force me not to
repeat what you profess may give you pain, and above all force me not
by your unwelcome and ungenerous assaults upon an absent rival to
substitute for the real interest which I feel in your happiness, a feeling
more strong and decided, but less friendly.”
“You mean that you would hate me,” said Bernard, cut to the heart at her
language, at once so firm and decided, yet so guarded and courteous.
“Very well,” he added, with an hauteur but illy assumed. “I trust I have
more independence and self-respect than to intrude my attentions or
conversation where they are unwelcome. But see, our journey is at an
end, and though Miss Temple might have made it more pleasant, I am
glad that we are freed from the embarrassment that we both must feel in
a more extended interview.”
And now the loud voice of Captain Gardiner is heard demanding their
names and wishes, which are soon told. The hoarse cable grates harshly
along the ribs of the vessel, and the boats are drawn up close to her
broadside, and the loyal fugitives ascending the rude and tremulous rope-
ladder, stand safe and sound upon the deck of the Adam and Eve.
Scarcely had Berkeley and his adherents departed on their flight from
Jamestown, when some of the disaffected citizens of the town, seeing the
lights in the palace so suddenly extinguished, shrewdly suspected their
design. Without staying to ascertain the truth of their suspicions, they
hastened with the intelligence to General Bacon, and threw open the
gates to the insurgents. Highly elated with the easy victory they had
gained over the loyalists, the triumphant patriots forgetting their fatigue
and hunger, marched into the city, amid the loud acclamations of the
fickle populace. But to the surprise of all there was still a gloom resting
upon Bacon and his officers. That cautious and far-seeing man saw at a
glance, that although he had gained an immense advantage over the
royalists, in the capture of the metropolis, it was impossible to retain it in
possession long. As soon as his army was dispersed, or engaged in
another quarter of the colony, it would be easy for Berkeley, with the
navy under his command, to return to the place, and erect once more the
fallen standard of loyalty.
While then, the soldiery were exulting rapturously over their triumph,
Bacon, surrounded by his officers, was gravely considering the best policy
to pursue.
“My little army is too small,” he said, “to leave a garrison here, and so
long as they remain thus organized peace will be banished from the
colony; and yet I cannot leave the town to become again the harbour of
these treacherous loyalists.”
“I can suggest no policy that is fit to pursue, in such an emergency,” said
Hansford, “except to retain possession of the town, at least until the
Governor is fairly in Accomac again.”
“That, at best,” said Bacon, “will only be a dilatory proceeding, for sooner
or later, whenever the army is disbanded, the stubborn old governor will
return and force us to continue the war. And besides I doubt whether we
could maintain the place with Brent besieging us in front, and the whole
naval force of Virginia, under the command of such expert seamen as
Gardiner and Larimore, attacking us from the river. No, no, the only way
to untie the Gordian knot is to cut it, and the only way to extricate
ourselves from this difficulty is to burn the town.”
This policy, extreme as it was, in the necessities of their condition was
received with a murmur of assent. Lawrence and Drummond, devoted
patriots, and two of the wealthiest and most enterprising citizens of the
town, evinced their willingness to sacrifice their private means to secure
the public good, by firing their own houses. Emulating an example so
noble and disinterested, other citizens followed in their wake. The
soldiers, ever ready for excitement, joined in the fatal work. A stiff breeze
springing up, favored their design, and soon the devoted town was
enveloped in the greedy flames.
From the deck of the Adam and Eve, the loyalists witnessed the stern,
uncompromising resolution of the rebels. The sun was just rising, and his
broad, red disc was met in his morning glory with flames as bright and as
intense as his own. The Palace, the State House, the large Garter Tavern,
the long line of stores, and the Warehouse, all in succession were
consumed. The old Church, the proud old Church, where their fathers had
worshipped, was the last to meet its fate. The fire seemed unwilling to
attack its sacred walls, but it was to fall with the rest; and as the broad
sails of the gay vessel were spread to the morning breeze, which swelled
them, that devoted old Church was seen in its raiment of fire, like some
old martyr, hugging the flames which consumed it, and pointing with its
tapering steeple to an avenging Heaven.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
“We take no note of time but by its loss.”
Young.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
Moonlight at Windsor Hall! The waning, January moon shone coldly and
brightly, as it rose above the dense forest which surrounded the once
more peaceful home of Colonel Temple. The tall poplars which shaded the
quiet yard were silvered with its light, and looked like medieval knights all
clad in burnished and glistening mail. The crisp hoarfrost that whitened
the frozen ground sparkled in the mellow beams, like twinkling stars,
descended to earth, and drinking in with rapture the clear light of their
native heaven. Not a sound was heard save the dreary, wintry blast, as it
sighed its mournful requiem over the dead year, “gone from the earth for
ever.”
Virginia Temple had not yet retired to rest, although it was growing late.
She was sitting alone, in her little chamber, and watching the glowing
embers on the hearth, as they sparkled for a moment, and shed a ruddy
light around, and then were extinguished, throwing the whole room into
dark shadow. Sad emblem, these fleeting sparks, of the hopes that had
once been bright before her, assuming fancied shapes of future joy and
peace and love, and then dying to leave her sad heart the darker for their
former presence. In the solitude of her own thoughts she was taking a
calm review of her past life—her early childhood—when she played in
innocent mirth beneath the shade of the oaks and poplars that still stood
unchanged in the yardher first acquaintance with Hansford, which opened
a new world to her young heart, replete with joys and treasures unknown
before—all the thrilling events of the last few months—her last meeting
with her lover, and his prayer that she at least would not censure him,
when he was gone—her present despondency and gloom—all these
thoughts came in slow and solemn procession across her mind, like
dreary ghosts of the buried past.
Suddenly she was startled from her reverie by the sound of a low, sweet,
familiar voice, beneath her window, and, as she listened, the melancholy
spirit of the singer sought and found relief in the following tender strains: