The storms of heaven
Beat on him; gaping hinds stare at his woe. —Joanna Baillie.

Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,
My dog howls at the gate. —Byron.

An exile, ill in heart and frame,—
A wanderer, weary of the way. —Mrs. Osgood.

Fastening the skiff to the overhanging bough of a tree, Uncle Lawrence stepped ashore, followed by Major Gordon. For about ten minutes, the two advanced along a narrow woodland path, until suddenly they were stopped by the challenge of a sentry.

Yielding themselves prisoners immediately, they were conducted to a woodland bivouac, where several volunteers recognized both Major Gordon and his companion. The horses picketed about, with the dismounted cavalry soldiers, imparted to the Major the glad intelligence that Count Pulaski had arrived.

“Say to the Count,” he said, addressing his captor, “that I desire an interview, as soon as possible.” For he was now all impatience to be gone.

In a few minutes he was ushered into the presence of his successor, whom we must take this opportunity to describe.

The Count Pulaski, who served so gallantly in the war of independence, until he fell at the storming of Savannah, must not be confounded with his relative, who achieved the daring feat of carrying off Stanislaus, King of Poland, from the heart of his capital. Nevertheless he was scarcely inferior in daring to that adventurous conspirator. Driven from his native land, in consequence of his connexion with the patriotic party, the Pulaski to whom we now introduce the reader, had, like Kosciusko, offered his sword to the struggling colonies of England, and now held the rank of Brigadier General, with the command of the entire American cavalry.

A more consummate horseman, perhaps, never lived. When in the saddle he seemed to be a part of the charger he bestrode. The traditions told of his skill appear really fabulous. He could pick up a pistol when galloping at speed; dismount and mount again in full career; and make his horse execute the most difficult feats apparently without moving hand or limb. Seventy-five years ago, equestrianism, as an art, was carried to a perfection unknown at the present time; and to say that Pulaski was considered the most perfect rider of his day, is, therefore, to assert that he would have been regarded as a miracle now.

Those who were intimate with the exile spoke enthusiastically of his lofty honor and the steadfastness of his friendship. But the number of these were few. Though courageous in his deportment, he was reserved, and this, added to his ignorance of the language, circumscribed the number of his associates. When alone he was the victim of a settled melancholy; for he remembered then, in all its force, that he was an exile, and what exile meant. As an officer he was diligent, sober and intrepid, never permitting himself to be disheartened by difficulties, but prosecuting the vexatious duty of organizing the cavalry force amid a thousand discouragements. The legionary corps which he established, and which he so chivalrously led till he fell at the siege of Savannah, was the model of one subsequently raised by Major Henry Lee, and which won immortal laurels under Greene, in the southern campaign.

Major Gordon was among the few who enjoyed the friendship of Pulaski. The gallant Pole was standing with folded arms, looking sadly up to the sky, thinking that the stars, which shone down on him, shone also on his native land, when the Major was announced. At once the melancholy faded from the Count’s face, and he eagerly embraced our hero in the Polish fashion.

“Mon ami,” he cried, in excellent French, “this is, indeed, a surprise. I heard you had been taken prisoner, or killed, the accounts did not agree as to which. How did you manage to escape?”

In a few hurried words, Major Gordon explained the cause and manner of his deliverance. The Count listened breathlessly. When, at last, the Major paused, Pulaski said, earnestly,

“Much as I wish to have a friend’s companionship tonight, for I am in one of my dark moods, I beg you, dear Major, to be gone at once. Miss Aylesford must be rescued, or avenged, no matter at what cost. I shall count it one of the few fortunate events of my life, that I arrived here in time to release you from your command, especially if you succeed in recovering this fair girl from the hands of the refugees.”

The Count accompanied Major Gordon to the river side, where, with many a “God-speed” from Pulaski, our hero and his companion embarked again. The little lateen sail was given to the wind, and the boat went dancing up the stream, until it vanished from the eyes of the spectators like the white wing of a gull disappearing in the distant gloom of the seaboard.

For some time there was silence on board the skiff. But at last Uncle Lawrence spoke.

“We’ll be able, I suppose,” said he, “to find a few men at the Forks; and we’d better strike into the woods there, instead of following the track of the varmints from the river. I’ve a notion I know pretty well where to find the rogues. If Arrison was alone, you might have to hunt him here, and there, and everywhere; but when a lady’s in the case, he’s sure to take to some roof; and there’s a clearing, a matter of six miles or so, sou’east of Sweetwater, and right in the heart of the swamp, where a little gal lives, that I’ve heerd was a niece of Arrison’s. I once stopped there for a drink of water; but though it’s the only time I was ever there, seein’ I don’t gin’raly hunt on that side of Sweetwater, I can go to the place as straight as my gun would carry buckshot; it’s a pity,” he added, with a sigh, “that I’ve lost the old piece.”

The fugitives did not, however, continue their route without pausing at the post where the refugees were fired on. They did this in the faint hope that the patriot boat, which Aylesford had seen set forth in pursuit, had overtaken the refugees.

Neither Major Gordon nor Uncle Lawrence knew how much each had secretly nourished this expectation, until it was destroyed by the intelligence they received at the post. But one good result followed the narrative they hurriedly gave in return. The sentry, who proved to be an old acquaintance of Uncle Lawrence, when he learned who the lady was, and into whose hands she had fallen, promised to follow, within half an hour, with four other able woodsmen. “We shan’t be wanted below now, since the Neck’s burnt,” he said, “unless the British advance up the river; which they’ll not try, I reckon, since Pulaski’s come.”

The sun was but an hour high, when every arrangement had been completed, and a party of a dozen determined men, all experienced shots, and all well armed, set out from the Forks, under the guidance of Uncle Lawrence and the leadership of Major Gordon. To hunt down the refugees, if it took days instead of hours; to rescue Kate unharmed, and to avenge her, at any cost:—these were the solemn vows of every member of the party.

While Uncle Lawrence had been marshaling the expedition, Major Gordon had thrown himself on Selim, and galloped to Sweetwater, with the faint hope that Kate might have been released, or made good her escape. Early as it was, he found Mrs. Warren already up. The good lady, as we have seen, had not slept a wink; and, just before the Major’s arrival, she had been summoned to interrogate Pomp, who, to the amazement of all, had suddenly appeared, leading Arab captive.

The lad, of course, suppressed his fright, but said, that not hearing anything of Kate on the road to Mr. Herman’s, but observing the tracks of what he thought her horse, he had followed down the river, by unfrequented paths, till about nightfall, when, passing a small cabin, he had been surprised to hear Arab whinny, from a shed that was apparently used for a cow-stable.

“When I hears dat,” said he, “I goes up to de door, and axes ef dey wouldn’t let me stay all night, telling ‘em I’d lost my way, and was afeerd of de refugees. Dey said I might, ef I’d sleep in de barn; and guv me some cold pork. De minnit I goes in de stable, Arab he knew me, and lays his nose agin me, as ef he’d been a kitten, deed he did. I got in among de salt hay, and begun to snore dre’ful loud; but I wasn’t asleep for all dat. By’m bye, when de moon rose, I gits up, saddles de colt, takes Arab by de halter, and here I is.” And he looked around, not a little proud of his exploit, while Dinah, hugging him in her arms, sobbed over her recovered boy.

It was at this juncture that Major Gordon arrived. Mrs. Warren, in dishabille, her hair all dishevelled, no sooner saw him, than she rushed forward, frantically asking if he had brought back Kate. The Major, who had hoped, as we have seen, to find Miss Aylesford at Sweetwater, was not less disappointed than the anxious aunt; but he controlled his feelings better, and considerately forbore informing Mrs. Warren either of the terrible situation of her niece, or of Aylesford’s death. A fit of hysterics almost immediately seized the now heart-broken woman, in which condition, time being precious, the Major was compelled to leave her, in order to reach the rendezvous.

Uncle Lawrence was waiting for him on his return. The little party set forth immediately, the veteran leading the way to the refugee’s hut, almost in a straight line.