General Bacon apprehending that the rising sun might disclose to view the approaching columns of the army under Sir William Berkley, had ordered the dismantled fort to be refitted in such a manner as to afford some protection to his exhausted troops. The trees were again brought round to their former position, and the limbs by which themselves had gained entrance lopped off. The sun, however, rose above the horizon without betraying any sign, either of the expected army, or of the mounted scouts whom he had sent out just before the battle. This latter circumstance gave him not a little uneasiness, as he could account for their protracted absence in no other way than by supposing that they had fallen into Sir William's hands.

Most of the troops were yet indulging in repose, after the extraordinary fatigues of the night, and were cheerfully indulged by their officers, in the hope that they would rise with renewed ardour and courage for the expected attack.

At about ten o'clock in the morning, the troops having been roused from their slumbers, and partaken of a hasty breakfast, the sentinel pacing to and fro upon the top of the walls, announced the approach of the expected foe. Bacon and his staff quickly mounted the breastwork to examine the number and appointments of his confident enemy; but to his great joy and relief, the approaching troops proved to be his own missing scouts. He mounted his charger and galloped over the intervening ground in order to learn the cause of their strange absence; so impatient was he, not only on that score, but likewise to learn tidings from his pursuers. He very soon met the advancing horsemen, who, upon perceiving their general, halted in the road. The information communicated by the commander of the party was not less surprising to Bacon than was the account of the battle to the officer, who had been absent from its dangers and its glories. The latter stated, that after having ridden about twenty miles on the previous night, they suddenly came upon the encampment of Sir William's army, but having discovered their fires in sufficient time, had avoided their pickets. They scouted round his camp for a considerable length of time, endeavouring to learn something of his intended movements—the number of his soldiers, and their disposition toward themselves, but found no means of gaining information. At length they narrowly escaped being discovered and intercepted by a foraging party, and having discovered that the troopers composing it, had come last from the house of a planter, living not far from the encampment, they resolved to present themselves before him, candidly explain their business, and throw themselves upon his patriotism for any information which he might possess. They did so, and were fortunate enough to find that the planter was not only able, but willing to give them important information, and was anxious for the success of Bacon's expedition—his own son being engaged in it. The amount of his information in few words, was, that Sir William Berkley had that very evening received an express from Jamestown, urgently summoning him back to the capital, with all his forces. That two influential citizens residing in the counties south of Jamestown, by name Walklate and Ingraham,[9] having heard of his expedition to cut off the return of General Bacon and his army, had immediately raised a force of horse and foot scarcely inferior to his own, and were marching upon the capital. Nor was this all the unfavourable news communicated by the express: it farther stated that the House of Burgesses, then in session, (contrary to the promise of Sir William to dissolve it,) were engaged upon some resolutions, very injurious to the reputation and farther influence of the Governor, and that they had already approved of the proceedings of General Bacon, and resolved to require the Governor to sign his commission as commander in chief of the colonial forces, besides having transmitted to the ministry at home, testimonials of his patriotism, talents, and bravery.

The foraging party from the army of Sir William, had farther informed the planter, that it was the intention of his excellency to break up his camp by dawn of day, and return by forced marches, to the protection of the capital.

At this juncture, the Colony of Virginia presented the singular spectacle of three distinct and independent armies, assembled at one time. One at the falls, commanded by Bacon—another in the Peninsula, commanded by Sir William Berkley, and the third in the south, commanded by Generals Ingraham and Walklate. The first and last were nothing more than disciplined assemblages of volunteers from among the people, while that under the command of the Governor in person, was composed in part of veteran regular troops, and partly of loyal subjects, called together by the urgent appeals of him who had so long been the honoured organ of his majesty's authority in the colony.

When General Bacon returned to the camp, and had assembled his associates in command, and communicated to them the foregoing particulars, he also announced to them his intention of leaving the temporary command of the army with his next in rank, and repairing in person immediately to the capital.

His views having met the approbation of the council of officers, the sloop which had brought up the marine part of the expedition was promptly put in readiness, and forty chosen men embarked for his escort.[10]

His unfortunate valet and devoted adherent, Brian O'Reily, although much enfeebled by long confinement and want of wholesome food, was, at his own earnest request, added to the number. So urgent had been the various claims upon the time of General Bacon, that he had not yet heard Brian's account of his sufferings and privations.

Before embarking he issued the strictest orders for the safety, comfort, and protection of the numerous prisoners, and of Wyanokee in particular. He directed that she should be conveyed in the same wagon, then preparing for the purpose of transporting the remains of Mrs. Fairfax to Jamestown.

Before taking leave of his comrades in arms, he entered the marquÉe containing the honoured remains. The sentinel was walking his solitary rounds of monotonous duty, with solemn aspect. Strange that the ceremonies attending the laying out and decently guarding this lifeless body should more powerfully impress this sturdy soldier than all the heaps of slain piled into one common grave during the night.

Bacon entered the marquÉe alone. There sat the last daughter of the kings of Chickahominy, in precisely the attitude in which he had seen her five hours before. She was the sole mourner at the feet of her whom in life she had most honoured. He was powerfully affected by the sight of many little personal ornaments, not worn on the previous night, but which had been collected by Wyanokee and placed conspicuously upon the corpse. He was struck, too, with the delicate consideration of the Indian maiden in these native observances in honour of the dead. Conspicuous among the things valued by her friend while living, was a small silver clasped pocket bible; it was spread open upon the neat folds of her white garments, surrounded with a profusion of wild flowers, such as he had often known her to transplant into her own garden.

But time pressed, and urgent circumstances called him to the capital; he therefore lifted the covering (a white handkerchief) from her face, and gazed for the last time upon those features impressed upon his heart and memory from infancy. Almost involuntarily he drew from his doublet the diminutive locket, reassured his heart by a momentary comparison of the features—and then forced himself away and proceeded to the bank of the river, where the sloop already spread her sails to the ready breeze.

The prisoners taken at the battle of the Falls, or of the Bloody Run as it was more frequently called, were placed in the centre of the army, with the exception of Wyanokee, and the fort burnt to the ground, after which the Colonial troops took up their line of march for the capital. Toward this central point three separate armies were now advancing, while the House of Burgesses were passing a series of resolutions in which all three were deeply interested. A more important juncture in the affairs of the Colony had never occurred, and the approach of the various hostile parties toward the capital excited the deepest anxiety in all the reflecting inhabitants of the city.

The courier announcing the successful issue of Bacon's campaign against the tribes of the Peninsula, which had so long disturbed the peace and tranquillity of the planters, was received with general manifestations of joy and expressions of gratitude to the youthful commander of the expedition.

By a resolution of the assembly, the State House was ordered to be illuminated, and the inhabitants generally were requested to follow the example. These, with other voluntary demonstrations of rejoicing on the part of the citizens, were about to be carried into execution, when the vanguard of Sir William Berkley's army, commanded by the sturdy old knight in person, arrived at the gates of the bridge. When he was informed of the cause of this unusual measure, and of the resolutions which had been passed by the House of Burgesses, both in regard to himself and his young rival in the popular favour, he burst into a most ungovernable fit of rage—threw his sword into the river, and swore he would embark for England the next morning. He was no sooner dissuaded from the rash step, than he resolved upon an expedient equally inconsiderate. It was nothing less than to march his army into the streets of the city, and thence, with a chosen band of followers, disperse the assembly at the point of the bayonet. It was with the greatest difficulty, and after long efforts, that his more discreet friends were enabled to dissuade him from this step likewise, nor even then until they had compromised the affair, by agreeing that he should issue a proclamation with the same view, and forthwith issue writs for a new election. Accordingly, having marched his troops into the heart of the city, and encamped them immediately round the State House and public grounds, he carried his threats into execution.

The dissolution of the assembly was immediately proclaimed, and writs were issued for the election of their successors. To such a length had Sir William Berkley carried his high-handed measures, from time to time, since his reaccession to the vice-regal chair, that he imagined the people would submit to any dictation emanating from so high a functionary as himself—that it was only necessary to make his will and pleasure known to the good citizens of Jamestown, at once to put an end to all the demonstrations of joy by which his arrival was so unwelcomely greeted. He was led into this error, partly by his own overweening pride, and partly by the respect which so many years of unclouded prosperity in the same station had naturally engendered in the people. And doubtless they would have endured much, and did submit to many oppressions, rather than resist the authority of one who had so long held the reins of government. But the true secret of the change in the character of that government, was in the erroneous views conceived by the captious old knight, during the government of the commonwealth. He had fallen with his first Royal master and risen with the second—and thus had come into power the second time, with all the extravagant notions of prerogative entertained by his transatlantic prototype, without having derived any wholesome lessons of experience from the fate of his first unfortunate master.

The people heard the proclamation dissolving the assembly, with murmurs indeed at the spirit and motive in which it originated, but without feelings of opposition to the measure, because it was one which they had themselves demanded before his departure. They therefore moodily acquiesced, and even submitted to be bearded by the foreign mercenaries in their streets and public walks, but when the Governor, emboldened by this apparent tameness undertook to issue another document, proclaiming Bacon, Dudley, Harrison, Walklate, Ingraham, and their followers, rebels, the people could submit no longer. The muttered thunders of popular discontent burst out into all the fury of a storm. His officers were forcibly prevented from reading his proclamations in the streets, and public places—a general meeting of the citizens voluntarily assembled at the State House, surrounded as it was by his soldiers, and there passed resolutions, condemning his recent conduct, in the most unmeasured terms. They also appointed a large committee to wait on him forthwith, and not only demand the suppression of the last proclamation, but that he should sign the commissions, already prepared by the assembly for the very persons so denounced. After making these demands of the infatuated old man, they farther informed him that two expresses were already mounted—one to be despatched to the army under Bacon, and the other to that headed by Ingraham and Walklate, both of which were probably within a short distance of the city. That besides these preparations for any extreme measures to which he might think proper to resort, the citizens generally were arming themselves, and even that many members of the late House of Burgesses, which he had just dissolved, were taking up arms, and held themselves in readiness to assist in disarming and expelling the mercenaries under his command. Sir William demanded two hours for deliberation and consultation with his friends. These were soon assembled, and the committee withdrew to await the expiration of the allotted time.

Again the Governor was destined to be mortified. The officers assembled, most of whom had been with him in his recent expedition, stated that the popular spirit of revolt and insubordination, had spread among the soldiery to such an extent that no dependence could be placed upon them in case of a rupture with the citizens. In this emergency he was compelled to listen to the admonitions of the friends, who advised that he should endeavour to turn the popular current in his favour, by signing the commissions, and withdrawing the offensive proclamations. To this he was forced to accede, and accordingly when the committee of the citizens returned he signed the commissions. Scarcely had he dismissed them, however, before he began devising measures to counteract the very purpose of his act. He ordered a representation to be immediately drawn up for ministers, in which the now commissioned officers in question were represented as traitors—directed the most resolute and trust-worthy of his adherents to embark for Accomac, whither he resolved to transfer the seat of Government until the citizens of the capital should be taught that respect for his majesty's representative in which they had shown themselves so deficient within the last few hours; and commanded all the armed ships not engaged in transporting his own troops across the bay,[11] (and there were many of them in the river,) to cruise up the stream, in order to intercept the sloop conveying General Bacon and his suite to the city, with strict orders to bring him dead or alive to Accomac. Having issued these various orders, and seen them put in a regular train of execution, he embarked the same night on board an armed brigantine, with his own family and suite, not forgetting his imprisoned and deeply injured niece.

Meanwhile General Bacon was calmly reclining upon the deck of his little sloop; it was the second night from his embarkation—the moon was shining brightly in the heavens, and the stars sparkled brilliantly through a hazy but not damp atmosphere, and not a breath of air filled the white sails as they flapped idly against the mast. The vessel was drifting slowly toward her place of destination it is true, but not with a velocity in accordance with the ardent desires of the passengers. Every soul on board had retired to rest except himself, Brian O'Reily, and that part of the crew to which belonged the duty of the watch. It was the same night the reader will remember, on which Sir William Berkley arrived at, and afterward so suddenly departed, from the capital.

Brian O'Reily was for the first time explaining to his master the manner in which he came into the hands of the Indians. Bacon had readily surmised the whole process, but knowing that O'Reily must be indulged with the relation at one time or another, and being unable to sleep in his present excited state of mind, he had given the impulse to Brian's garrulity, not inadvertently, however, by the simple question,

"So Brian, you were in pursuit of me when the Powhatans made you a prisoner?"

"Ay, by St. Stephen the martyr, and the twelve Apostles, barrin one iv them that was a thraitor, I was near bein a martyr myself, only the bloody nagres had a notion to fatten me, and that's the rason they kept me tied on me back all the while, jist as I used to fix the misthress's blind calf, the saints bless her soul."

"Fatten you, Brian, for what?"

"To ate me, to be sure!"

"Pshaw, O'Reily, they are not cannibals."

"Oh the divil burn my eyes, but I saw thim roastin babies by the fire, and ating them like pathriges, widout so much as salt to season them!"

"You just now told me you were tied in a dark hole, and fed on parched corn, all the time you were a prisoner."

"Divil a word iv a lie's in that, any way, your honour, and sure enough I didn't jist see thim kooking the young ones, but didn't I smell thim roastin? Sure and Brian O'Reily wouldn't be after being decaived in the smell of a pig for a sucking baby. Didn't the divil tempt me wid that same smell any way? may be he didn't? Wasn't I starvin myself upon short allowance iv their murtherin popped corn, and didn't the bloody nagers roast a baby jist whin me unconscionable bowels came up into my throat every day, begging for muttin and turnips? and didn't they want to fatten me like the misthress's blind calf—me bowels I mane? and didn't I put thim aff wid a half score o' parched corns? Oh! if they had only been stilled into whiskey, may be it wouldn't iv cured the smotherin I had about the heart."

"I suppose, Brian, you were never sober for such a length of time together in your life before."

"Oh! be our Lady you may say that—there was jist nothing to ate, and the same to dhrink, barrin the parched corn, and the babies, and may be, an oldher sinner for Sundays, by way of a feast."

"You travelled on foot, I suppose, from place to place, until they concentrated at the falls!"

"Divil a foot iv mine touched the ghround, since they pulled me off my horse at yon town of theirs over the river. I rode on a horse ivery foot iv the way, your haner, and had one iv the nagers to attind me; may be he didn't ride behint me on the same baste, and put his arms around me like a butcher taking a fat wether to the shambles."

"You were in right good case too, when you fell into the hands of this singular butcher, that deals in human flesh, according to your account?"

"Ay was I, but I lost it asier than I got it—by the five crasses, but the sweat run down to me shoes every time I looked round at the painted divil sittin on the same baste wid me—his nose ornamented wid a lead ring like a wild steer. Sure I thought the ghreat inimy was flyin away wid me, before I was dacently buried."

"What did he say to you, Brian?"

"Say to me, your haner! By the holy father, but he addressed none iv his discourse to me. Maybe he was talkin to the divil that was in him as big as a sheep—didn't he grunt it all away down in his pipes like a pig in a passion? Or may be he was talkin to the horse, for he grunted too, and one iv thim jist discoursed as well as the t'other, to my mind."

"Could you not tell upon what subject he spoke, from his gestures or signs.—Did he not point to Jamestown frequently?"

"Not he—he pointed to the colour iv me hair, more belikes, and when they gat to yon place where your haner put so many iv thim to slape, they all gathered round me to see it. They had their own crowns painted the same colour, and they wonthered at the beauty iv mine, and faith, that was the most rasonable thing I saw among thim, barrin that they brought me the paint-pot, and wanted me to figure off one iv their beautiful gourds like Brian O'Reily's. I towld thim it was a thing out iv all rason, and pulled out some iv the hair to show thim, and divil burn the bloody thaives, but they cut it all aff jist for keepsakes among thim."

"They left you a top-knot, I see, however."

Before O'Reily could make a reply, the sailor on the watch cried out that there was a large ship bearing down upon them. Bacon sprung upon his feet, ordered Brian to alarm the soldiers, and walked hastily forward. At the first glance, he saw a crowd of warlike heads, and caught the reflection of the light upon their arms. A second look at the strange movements of the vessel, and the hostile preparations of those on board served to convince him that he was himself the object of their pursuit. Taking two of the first soldiers who made their appearance on deck, he silently entered the boat swinging from the tafferel of the sloop, motioned the two soldiers to follow him, and then ordered the boat to be let down with all silence and despatch. O'Reily seeing these preparations as he came on deck from the performance of his orders, sprung into the boat as one end struck the water; it was too late, and the circumstances too urgent for his master to order him back—the frail bark was pushed off, therefore, with muffled oars, and as much within the shadow of the approaching vessels as their destined course would permit. Scarcely were they without the protection of these, before they discovered the yawl of the ship full of armed men, rapidly gliding into the water, and in the next moment, they heard musket balls whistling over their heads, accompanied by the momentary gleam and then the quick report of fire-arms. Seizing an oar himself, and ordering Brian to follow his example, they pulled with all their strength for the shore; this once gained, he hoped that the protection of the forest and the increasing haziness of the atmosphere settling upon the high banks of the river, would effectually protect his retreat. But in spite of their utmost efforts, the superior power with which the yawl was propelled through the water was rapidly shortening the distance between them. Brian threw off his jerkin, and strenuously exhorted his master to trust himself to the mercy of the waves, though he knew not the nature of the threatened danger. On this point, Bacon himself could only conjecture, that it was some device of his old enemy to get him secretly into his power, and hence his anxiety to reach Jamestown at the present juncture. He knew nothing of the change which had taken place at the capital in his favour, but he knew his own power over the populace, and he preferred being made prisoner in public, to trusting himself to the tender mercies of Sir William Berkley. In spite of all his exertions, and the hopes of reward held out to the soldiers in case of success, their boat was cut off from the shore by the pursuers interposing between it and themselves. He saw that resistance would be madness, as the boat now wheeling exactly in front of them contained five times their number, and would doubtless, in case of a struggle, be promptly sustained by assistance from the ship, which was now nearer to them than their own vessel. His only course, therefore, was to submit with as much philosophy as he could muster. He was deeply mortified and chagrined however, for his presence seemed to him to be most urgently called for at the capital. These views were founded upon the information he had received, now two days old. Could he have known what had taken place at Jamestown only a few hours before, and only a few miles distant from his present position; could he have known that Sir William Berkley was at that very moment an adventurer upon the same waters, but a few miles below, and driven thence by the firmness of the patriotic citizens who belonged to his own party, he would doubtless have made a desperate resistance. Perhaps it was more fortunate for all parties that he was thus ignorant of existing circumstances at the capital, for had he fallen at this juncture, (which was most probable) the fate of the Republican party in the infant state might have been very different.

He and his party soon found themselves on board of the hostile ship, which was commanded by Capt. Gardiner, an Englishman—a devoted loyalist and adherent of Sir William Berkley. He was politely received by that officer, but informed that he must consider himself a prisoner until he could exculpate himself before the Governor in person, at Accomac. Until this moment Bacon had been partially reconciled to his mishap, trusting to his known popularity among the people of the city, which he knew would not be diminished by the eclat of his Indian victories; but now that he was informed of the present residence of the Governor, and the destination of the ship, his hopes were totally prostrated. He began to suspect that something was wrong with Sir William at Jamestown, from his present singular location, and was not a little uneasy at the secret and unusual measures he had taken to get him into his power. He knew the turbulent and impetuous temperament of the old knight, and how little he was given to consult right and humanity in too many of his summary measures of what he chose to call justice, to think that he would hesitate one moment to summon a court-martial of his own partizans—try, condemn, and execute him and his three unfortunate followers, if not the more numerous body, now also prisoners, in the sloop. As he stood upon deck in the midst of his guard, weighing these various aspects of his position, the ship was silently gliding within view of the lights from the city. He observed that the captain steered his course as far from the island as the channel of the river would permit, which confirmed his previous suspicions as to the state of popular feeling in the capital, and increased his uneasiness as to the secret designs of the Governor upon himself. From Captain Gardiner he could gain no satisfactory information—he merely replied to Bacon's demand for his authority, that Governor Berkley had commanded him to bring him (Bacon) to Accomac, and to deliver him dead or alive into his hands.

When it was too late, Bacon saw the rashness of the councils which had induced him to abandon his army, and trust himself among the numerous ships floating in the river, the commanders of which were known adherents of his enemies.

The reflections of our hero, as he paced the quarter deck toward morning, were bitter in the extreme. He saw all the bright hopes of his reviving spirits vanish like a dream, as the vessel now just emerging from the waters of the Powhatan, and propelled by a fresh morning breeze from the land, was plunging with every swell of the buoyant waves into the waters of the Chesapeake, and receding farther and farther at every plunge from the objects of his highest and dearest aspirations.

That portion of the magnificent bay into which they were now entering immediately ahead, was expanded and lost to the eye on the limitless waves of the ocean. On the starboard tack, like a black cloud joining the sea and the sky together, lay Cape Henry, and on the larboard, still more faintly pencilled against the horizon, lay Cape Charles. Between the two, the white bordered waves of the Atlantic rolled their swelling volumes into the Chesapeake.

The faint yellow tinge of dawn could just be discerned, like a moving shadow, now upon the waves and then upon the hazy clouds, dipping into their bosom, while hundreds of aquatic birds, interposed like a black cloud at intervals to intercept the view in the distance, or more suddenly flapped their wings from under the very prow of the vessel as they swooped along the surface of the stream and dipped the points of their wings like a flash of light into the sparkling waters.

A steady breeze was blowing from off the land, and the white sails of the ship swelled proudly and the tapering spars bent under its influence, as she ploughed up the waves foaming and falling in divided masses before her prow. On any other occasion than the present, Bacon would have enjoyed the prospect on this grandest of all inland seas, but now his mind was oppressed with gloomy doubts and forebodings. Every plunge of the vessel was bearing him more within the grasp of his relentless foe. But the mishap of his own personal adventure, every way unfortunate as it was both for himself and the cause in which he had engaged, was not that which weighed most oppressively upon his mind. Ever since the discovery of the miniature contained in the locket, he had been gradually giving way to his reviving hopes, and building upon that slender assurance bright and glorious superstructures of imagination. He had endured and lived, and fought and conquered with that hope, as the polar star to his otherwise dark and dreary course. Now again his destinies were almost wrecked by a storm from a quarter in which he had scarcely cast his eyes. How could he imagine that Sir William Berkley would be driven from the capital, by the stern and independent resistance of the unarmed citizens? How could he know that being thus driven from it he would yet retain a sufficient naval force to capture him and his escort upon the very eve of his triumphal entry into the city? These were the reflections which made him look with a feeling of dark misanthropy upon the glorious beauties of the Chesapeake. His ambition, his pride, and his conscience were satisfied; but his love for a bride, already once led to the very steps of the altar, was again thwarted upon the eve of what he had supposed and hoped would prove the final and happy fulfilment of his most ardent hopes. His feelings toward the devoted and interesting maiden, who had perilled and suffered so much on his account, were enthusiastic in the highest degree. She stood toward him not only in the relation of his betrothed, but his wedded bride; and the more endearing and captivating she became to him as he contemplated her in these relations, the more he cursed in his heart the hard-hearted and perverse old man who had been the cause of all his troubles.

Every chance of escape was intensely examined; not a word was suffered to fall unheeded from Captain Gardiner and his subordinates. He noted carefully the distribution of the prisoners in the vessel in which he was himself confined, as well as of those in the sloop following in their wake. He took careful observations of the most prominent objects on their route—the state of the tide in the river which they had just left. He examined the boats—how they were secured—the equipments and appearance of the crew on board, and resolved if he must fall in the midst of his reviving hopes, to die as became the conqueror of Bloody Run and the lover of Virginia Fairfax.