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Though against all the rules of story-writing, we continue our
narrative of these mainly true incidents (for such they are,) no
further. Only to say that _the murderer_ soon departed for a new
field of action--that he is still living--and that this is but one of
thousands of cases of unravel'd, unpunish'd crime--left, not to the
tribunals of man, but to a wider power and judgment.

THE LAST LOYALIST

"_She came to me last night, The floor gave back no tread_."] The
story I am going to tell is a traditional reminiscence of a country
place, in my rambles about which I have often passed the house,
now unoccupied, and mostly in ruins, that was the scene of the
transaction. I cannot, of course, convey to others that particular
kind of influence which is derived from my being so familiar with the
locality, and with the very people whose grandfathers or fathers were
contemporaries of the actors in the drama I shall transcribe. I must
hardly expect, therefore, that to those who hear it thro' the medium
of my pen, the narration will possess as life-like and interesting a
character as it does to myself.

On a large and fertile neck of land that juts out in the Sound,
stretching to the east of New York city, there stood, in the latter
part of the last century, an old-fashion'd country-residence. It had
been built by one of the first settlers of this section of the New
World; and its occupant was originally owner of the extensive tract
lying adjacent to his house, and pushing into the bosom of the salt
waters. It was during the troubled times which mark'd our American
Revolution that the incidents occurr'd which are the foundation of my
story. Some time before the commencement of the war, the owner, whom I
shall call Vanhome, was taken sick and died. For some time before his
death he had lived a widower; and his only child, a lad of ten years
old, was thus left an orphan. By his father's will this child was
placed implicitly under the guardianship of an uncle, a middle-aged
man, who had been of late a resident in the family. His care and
interest, however, were needed but a little while--not two years
claps'd after the parents were laid away to their last repose before
another grave had to be prepared for the son--the child who had been
so haplessly deprived of their fostering care.

The period now arrived when the great national convulsion burst forth.
Sounds of strife and the clash of arms, and the angry voices of
disputants, were borne along by the air, and week after week grew to
still louder clamor. Families were divided; adherents to the crown,
and ardent upholders of the rebellion, were often found in the bosom
of the same domestic circle. Vanhome, the uncle spoken of as guardian
to the young heir, was a man who lean'd to the stern, the high-handed
and the severe. He soon became known among the most energetic of the
loyalists. So decided were his sentiments that, leaving the estate
which he had inherited from his brother and nephew, he join'd the
forces of the British king. Thenceforward, whenever his old neighbors
heard of him, it was as being engaged in the cruelest outrages, the
boldest inroads, or the most determin'd attacks upon the army of his
countrymen or their peaceful settlements. Eight years brought the
rebel States and their leaders to that glorious epoch when the last
remnant of a monarch's rule was to leave their shores--when the last
waving of the royal standard was to flutter as it should be haul'd
down from the staff, and its place fill'd by the proud testimonial of
our warriors' success.

Pleasantly over the autumn fields shone the November sun, when a
horseman, of somewhat military look, plodded slowly along the road
that led to the old Vanhome farmhouse. There was nothing peculiar in
his attire, unless it might be a red scarf which he wore tied round
his waist. He was a dark-featured, sullen-eyed man; and as his glance
was thrown restlessly to the right and left, his whole manner appear'd
to be that of a person moving amid familiar and accustom'd scenes.
Occasionally he stopp'd, and looking long and steadily at some object
that attracted his attention, mutter'd to himself, like one in whose
breast busy thoughts were moving. His course was evidently to the
homestead itself, at which in due time he arrived. He dismounted, led
his horse to the stables, and then, without knocking, though there
were evident signs of occupancy around the building, the traveler made
his entrance as composedly and boldly as though he were master of the
whole establishment.

Now the house being in a measure deserted for many years, and the
successful termination of the strife rendering it probable that the
Vanhome estate would be confiscated to the new government, an aged,
poverty-stricken couple had been encouraged by the neighbors to take
possession as tenants of the place. Their name was Gills; and these
people the traveler found upon his entrance were likely to be his host
and hostess. Holding their right as they did by so slight a tenure,
they ventur'd to offer no opposition when the stranger signified his
intention of passing several hours there.

The day wore on, and the sun went down in the west; still the
interloper, gloomy and taciturn, made no signs of departing. But as
the evening advanced (whether the darkness was congenial to his sombre
thoughts, or whether it merely chanced so) he seem'd to grow more
affable and communicative, and informed Gills that he should pass the
night there, tendering him at the same time ample remuneration, which
the latter accepted with many thanks.

"Tell me," said he to his aged host, when they were all sitting around
the ample hearth, at the conclusion of their evening meal, "tell me
something to while away the hours."

"Ah! sir," answered Gills, "this is no place for new or interesting
events. We live here from year to year, and at the end of one we find
ourselves at about the same place which we filled in the beginning."

"Can you relate nothing, then?" rejoin'd the guest, and a singular
smile pass'd over his features; "can you say nothing about your own
place?--this house or its former inhabitants, or former history?"

The old man glanced across to his wife, and a look expressive of
sympathetic feeling started in the face of each.

"It is an unfortunate story, sir," said Gills, "and may cast a chill
upon you, instead of the pleasant feeling which it would be best to
foster when in strange walls."

"Strange walls!" echoed he of the red scarf, and for the first time
since his arrival he half laughed, but it was not the laugh which
comes from a man's heart.

"You must know, sir," continued Gills, "I am myself a sort of intruder
here. The Vanhomes--that was the name of the former residents and
owners--I have never seen; for when I came to these parts the last
occupant had left to join the red-coat soldiery. I am told that he is
to sail with them for foreign lands, now that the war is ended, and
his property almost certain to pass into other hands."

As the old man went on, the stranger cast down his eyes, and listen'd
with an appearance of great interest, though a transient smile or a
brightening of the eye would occasionally disturb the serenity of his
deportment.

"The old owners of this place," continued the white-haired narrator,
"were well off in the world, and bore a good name among their
neighbors. The brother of Sergeant Vanhome, now the only one of the
name, died ten or twelve years since, leaving a son--a child so small
that the father's willmade provision for his being brought up by his
uncle, whom I mention'd but now as of the British army. He was a
strange man, this uncle; disliked by all who knew him; passionate,
vindictive, and, it was said, very avaricious, even from his
childhood.

"Well, not long after the death of the parents, dark stories began
to be circulated about cruelty and punishment and whippings and
starvation inflicted by the new master upon his nephew. People who
had business at the homestead would frequently, when they came away,
relate the most fearful things of its manager, and how he misused
his brother's child. It was half hinted that he strove to get the
youngster out of the way in order that the whole estate might fall
into his own hands. As I told you before, however, nobody liked the
man; and perhaps they judged him too uncharitably.

"After things had gone on in this way for some time, a countryman, a
laborer, who was hired to do farm-work upon the place, one evening
observed that the little orphan Vanhome was more faint and pale even
than usual, for he was always delicate, and that is one reason why I
think it possible that his death, of which I am now going to tell you,
was but the result of his own weak constitution, and nothing else. The
laborer slept that night at the farmhouse. Just before the time at
which they usually retired to bed, this person, feeling sleepy with
his day's toil, left the kitchen hearth and wended his way to rest.
In going to his place of repose he had to pass a chamber--the very
chamber where you, sir, are to sleep to-night--and there he heard the
voice of the orphan child uttering half-suppress'd exclamations as if
in pitiful entreaty. Upon stopping, he heard also the tones of the
elder Vanhome, but they were harsh and bitter. The sound of blows
followed. As each one fell it was accompanied by a groan or shriek,
and so they continued for some time. Shock'd and indignant, the
countryman would have burst open the door and interfered to prevent
this brutal proceeding, but he bethought him that he might get himself
into trouble, and perhaps find that he could do no good after all, and
so he passed on to his room.

"Well, sir, the following day the child did not come out among the
work-people as usual. He was taken very ill. No physician was sent for
until the next afternoon; and though one arrived in the course of the
night, it was too late--the poor boy died before morning.

"People talk'd threateningly upon the subject, but nothing could be
proved against Vanhome. At one period there were efforts made to have
the whole affair investigated. Perhaps that would have taken place,
had not every one's attention been swallow'd up by the rumors of
difficulty and war, which were then beginning to disturb the country.

"Vanhome joined the army of the king. His enemies said that he feared
to be on the side of the rebels, because if they were routed his
property would be taken from him. But events have shown that, if this
was indeed what he dreaded, it has happen'd to him from the very means
which he took to prevent it."

The old man paused. He had quite wearied himself with so long talking.
For some minutes there was unbroken silence. Presently the stranger
signified his intention of retiring for the night. He rose, and his
host took a light for the purpose of ushering him to his apartment.

When Gills return'd to his accustom'd situation in the large arm-chair
by the chimney-hearth, his ancient helpmate had retired to rest. With
the simplicity of their times, the bed stood in the same room where
the three had been seated during the last few hours; and now the
remaining two talk'd together about the singular events of the
evening. As the time wore on, Gills show'd no disposition to leave his
cosy chair; but sat toasting his feet, and bending over the coals.
Gradually the insidious heat and the lateness of the hour began to
exercise their influence over the old man. The drowsy indolent feeling
which every one has experienced in getting thoroughly heated through
by close contact with a glowing fire, spread in each vein and sinew,
and relax'd its tone. He lean'd back in his chair and slept.

For a long time his repose went on quietly and soundly. He could not
tell how many hours elapsed; but, a while after midnight, the torpid
senses of the slumberer were awaken'd by a startling shock. It was a
cry as of a strong man in his agony--a shrill, not very loud cry, but
fearful, and creeping into the blood like cold, polish'd steel. The
old man raised himself in his seat and listen'd, at once fully awake.
For a minute, all was the solemn stillness of midnight. Then rose that
horrid tone again, wailing and wild, and making the hearer's hair to
stand on end. One moment more, and the trampling of hasty feet sounded
in the passage outside. The door was thrown open, and the form of the
stranger, more like a corpse than living man, rushed into the room.

"All white!" yell'd the conscience-stricken creature--"all white, and
with the grave-clothes around him. One shoulder was bare, and I saw,"
he whisper'd, "I saw blue streaks upon it. It was horrible, and I
cried aloud. He stepp'd toward me! He came to my very bedside; his
small hand almost touch'd my face. I could not bear it, and fled."

The miserable man bent his head down upon his bosom; convulsive
rattlings shook his throat; and his whole frame waver'd to and fro
like a tree in a storm. Bewilder'd and shock'd, Gills look'd at his
apparently deranged guest, and knew not what answer to make, or what
course of conduct to pursue.

Thrusting out his arms and his extended fingers, and bending down
his eyes, as men do when shading them from a glare of lightning, the
stranger stagger'd from the door, and, in a moment further, dash'd
madly through the passage which led through the kitchen into the outer
road. The old man heard the noise of his falling footsteps, sounding
fainter and fainter in the distance, and then, retreating, dropp'd his
own exhausted limbs into the chair from which he had been arous'd so
terribly. It was many minutes before his energies recover'd their
accustomed tone again. Strangely enough, his wife, unawaken'd by the
stranger's ravings, still slumber'd on as profoundly as ever.

Pass we on to a far different scene--the embarkation of the British
troops for the distant land whose monarch was never more to wield
the sceptre over a kingdom lost by his imprudence and tyranny. With
frowning brow and sullen pace the martial ranks moved on. Boat after
boat was filled, and, as each discharged its complement in the ships
that lay heaving their anchors in the stream, it return'd, and was
soon filled with another load. And at length it became time for the
last soldier to lift his eye and take a last glance at the broad
banner of England's pride, which flapp'd its folds from the top of the
highest staff on the Battery.

As the warning sound of a trumpet called together all who were
laggards--those taking leave of friends, and those who were arranging
their own private affairs, left until the last moment--a single
horseman was seen furiously dashing down the street. A red scarf
tightly encircled his waist. He made directly for the shore, and the
crowd there gather'd started back in wonderment as they beheld his
dishevel'd appearance and ghastly face. Throwing himself violently
from his saddle, he flung the bridle over the animal's neck, and gave
him a sharp cut with a small riding whip. He made for the boat; one
minute later, and he had been left. They were pushing the keel from
the landing--the stranger sprang--a space of two or three feet already
intervened--he struck on the gunwale--and the Last Soldier of King
George had left the American shores.

WILD FRANK'S RETURN

As the sun, one August day some fifty years ago, had just pass'd the
meridian of a country town in the eastern section of Long Island,
a single traveler came up to the quaint low-roof'd village tavern,
open'd its half-door, and enter'd the common room. Dust cover'd the
clothes of the wayfarer, and his brow was moist with sweat. He trod in
a lagging, weary way; though his form and features told of an age not
more than nineteen or twenty years. Over one shoulder was slung a
sailor's jacket, and in his hand he carried a little bundle. Sitting
down on a rude bench, he told a female who made her appearance behind
the bar, that he would have a glass of brandy and sugar. He took off
the liquor at a draught: after which he lit and began to smoke a
cigar, with which he supplied himself from his pocket--stretching out
one leg, and leaning his elbow down on the bench, in the attitude of a
man who takes an indolent lounge.

"Do you know one Richard Hall that lives somewhere here among you?"
said he.

"Mr. Hall's is down the lane that turns off by that big locust tree,"
answer'd the woman, pointing to the direction through the open door;
"it's about half a mile from here to his house."

The youth, for a minute or two, puff'd the smoke from his mouth
very leisurely in silence. His manner had an air of vacant
self-sufficiency, rather strange in one of so few years.

"I wish to see Mr. Hall," he said at length--"Here's a silver
six-pence, for any one who will carry a message to him."

"The folks are all away. It's but a short walk, and your limbs are
young," replied the female, who was not altogether pleased with the
easy way of making himself at home which mark'd her shabby-looking
customer. That individual, however, seem'd to give small attention
to the hint, but lean'd and puff'd his cigar-smoke as leisurely as
before.

"Unless," continued the woman, catching a second glance at the
sixpence; "unless old Joe is at the stable, as he's very likely to be.
I'll go and find out for you." And she push'd open a door at her back,
stepp'd through an adjoining room into a yard, whence her voice was
the next moment heard calling the person she had mention'd, in accents
by no means remarkable for their melody or softness.

Her search was successful. She soon return'd with him who was to act
as messenger--a little, wither'd, ragged old man--a hanger-on there,
whose unshaven face told plainly enough the story of his intemperate
habits--those deeply seated habits, now too late to be uprooted, that
would ere long lay him in a drunkard's grave. The youth inform'd him
what the required service was, and promised him the reward as soon as
he should return,

"Tell Richard Hall that I am going to his father's house this
afternoon. If he asks who it is that wishes him here, say the person
sent no name," continued the stranger, sitting up from his indolent
posture, as the feet of old Joe were about leaving the door-stone, and
his blear'd eyes turned to eaten the last sentence of the mandate.

"And yet, perhaps you may as well," added he, communing a moment with
himself: "you may tell him his brother Frank, Wild Frank, it is, who
wishes him to come."

The old man departed on his errand, and he who call'd himself Wild
Frank, toss'd his nearly smoked cigar out of the window, and folded
his arms in thought.

No better place than this, probably, will occur to give a brief
account of some former events in the life of the young stranger,
resting and waiting at the village inn. Fifteen miles east of that
inn lived a farmer named Hall, a man of good repute, well-off in the
world, and head of a large family. He was fond of gain--required all
his boys to labor in proportion to their age; and his right hand man,
if he might not be called favorite, was his eldest son Richard. This
eldest son, an industrious, sober-faced young fellow, was invested by
his father with the powers of second in command; and as strict and
swift obedience was a prime tenet in the farmer's domestic government,
the children all tacitly submitted to their brother's sway--all but
one, and that was Frank. The farmer's wife was a quiet woman, in
rather tender health; and though for all her offspring she had a
mother's love, Frank's kiss ever seem'd sweetest to her lips. She
favor'd him more than the rest--perhaps, as in a hundred similar
instances, for his being so often at fault, and so often blamed. In
truth, however, he seldom receiv'd more blame than he deserv'd, for he
was a capricious, high-temper'd lad, and up to all kinds of mischief.
From these traits he was known in the neighborhood by the name of Wild
Frank.

Among the farmer's stock there was a fine young blood mare--a
beautiful creature, large and graceful, with eyes like dark-hued
jewels, and her color that of the deep night. It being the custom of
the farmer to let his boys have something about the farm that they
could call their own, and take care of as such, Black Nell, as the
mare was called, had somehow or other fallen to Frank's share. He was
very proud of her, and thought as much of her comfort as his own. The
elder brother, however, saw fit to claim for himself, and several
times to exercise, a privilege of managing and using Black Nell,
notwithstanding what Frank consider'd his prerogative. On one of these
occasions a hot dispute arose, and, after much angry blood, it was
referr'd to the farmer for settlement. He decided in favor of Richard,
and added a harsh lecture to his other son. The farmer was really
unjust; and Wild Frank's face paled with rage and mortification. That
furious temper which he had never been taught to curb, now swell'd
like an overflowing torrent. With difficulty restraining the
exhibition of his passions, as soon as he got by himself he swore that
not another sun should roll by and find him under that roof. Late at
night he silently arose, and turning his back on what he thought an
inhospitable home, in mood in which the child should never leave the
parental roof, bent his steps toward the city.

It may well be imagined that alarm and grief pervaded the whole of
the family, on discovering Frank's departure. And as week after week
melted away and brought no tidings of him, his poor mother's heart
grew wearier and wearier. She spoke not much, but was evidently sick
in spirit. Nearly two years had claps'd when about a week before the
incidents at the commencement of this story, the farmer's family were
joyfully surprised by receiving a letter from the long absent son. He
had been to sea, and was then in New York, at which port his vessel
had just arrived. He wrote in a gay strain; appear'd to have lost the
angry feeling which caused his flight from home; and said he heard in
the city that Richard had married, and settled several miles distant,
where he wished him all good luck and happiness. Wild Frank wound
up his letter by promising, as soon as he could get through the
imperative business of his ship, to pay a visit to his parents and
native place. On Tuesday of the succeeding week, he said he would be
with them.

Within half an hour after the departure of old Joe, the form of that
ancient personage was seen slowly wheeling round the locust-tree at
the end of the lane, accompanied by a stout young man in primitive
homespun apparel. The meeting between Wild Frank and his brother
Richard, though hardly of that kind which generally takes place
between persons so closely related, could not exactly be call'd
distant or cool either. Richard press'd his brother to go with him to
the farmhouse, and refresh and repose himself for some hours at least,
but Frank declined.

"They will all expect me home this afternoon," he said, "I wrote to
them I would be there to-day."

"But you must be very tired, Frank," rejoin'd the other; "won't you
let some of us harness up and carry you? Or if you like--" he stopp'd
a moment, and a trifling suffusion spread over his face; "if you like,
I'll put the saddle on Black Nell--she's here at my place now, and you
can ride home like a lord."

Frank's face color'd a little, too. He paused for a moment in thought
--he was really foot-sore, and exhausted with his journey that hot
day--so he accepted his brother's offer.

"You know the speed of Nell, as well as I," said Richard; "I'll
warrant when I bring her here you'll say she's in good order as ever."
So telling him to amuse himself for a few minutes as well as he could,
Richard left the tavern.

Could it be that Black Nell knew her early master? She neigh'd and
rubb'd her nose on his shoulder; and as he put his foot in the stirrup
and rose on her back, it was evident that they were both highly
pleased with their meeting. Bidding his brother farewell, and not
forgetting old Joe, the young man set forth on his journey to his
father's house. As he left the village behind, and came upon the long
monotonous road before him, he thought on the circumstances of his
leaving home--and he thought, too, on his course of life, how it was
being frittered away and lost. Very gentle influences, doubtless, came
over Wild Frank's mind then, and he yearn'd to show his parents that
he was sorry for the trouble he had cost them. He blamed himself for
his former follies, and even felt remorse that he had not acted more
kindly to Richard, and gone to his house. Oh, it had been a sad
mistake of the farmer that he did not teach his children to love one
another. It was a foolish thing that he prided himself on governing
his little flock well, when sweet affection, gentle forbearance, and
brotherly faith, were almost unknown among them.

The day was now advanced, though the heat pour'd down with a strength
little less oppressive than at noon. Frank had accomplish'd the
greater part of his journey; he was within two miles of his home. The
road here led over a high, tiresome hill, and he determined to stop on
the top of it and rest himself, as well as give the animal he rode a
few minutes' breath. How well he knew the place! And that mighty oak,
standing just outside the fence on the very summit of the hill, often
had he reposed under its shade. It would be pleasant for a few minutes
to stretch his limbs there again as of old, he thought to himself;
and he dismounted from the saddle and led Black Nell under the tree.
Mindful of the comfort of his favorite, he took from his little
bundle, which he had strapped behind him on the mare's back, a piece
of strong cord, four or five yards in length, which he tied to the
bridle, and wound and tied the other end, for security, over his own
wrist; then throwing himself at full length upon the ground, Black
Nell was at liberty to graze around him, without danger of straying
away.