"'Come out and meet your enemy like a man!' exclaimed Humphries, 'and don't crawl, like a snake, into a hollow tree, and wait for his heel. Come out, you skunk! You shall have fair fight, and your own distance. It shall be the quickest fire that shall make the difference of chances between us. Come out, if you're a man!' Thus he raved at him; but a fiendish laugh was the only answer he got. He next tried to cut his legs with his knife, by piercing the bark; but a bend of the tree, on which Blonay rested, prevented him. He then selected from some fallen limbs one of the largest, which he carried to the tree and thrust into the hollow, trying to wedge it between the inner knobs on which the feet of the half-breed evidently were placed. But Blonay soon became aware of his design, and opposed it with a desperate effort. Baffled for a long time by his enemy, Humphries became enraged, and, seizing upon a jagged knot of light wood, he thrust it against one of the legs of Blonay. Using another heavy knot as a mallet, he drove the wedge forward against the yielding flesh, which became awfully torn and lacerated by the sharp edges of the wood. Under the severe pain, the feet were drawn up, and Humphries was suffered to proceed with his original design. The poor wretch, thus doomed to be buried alive, was now willing to come to any terms, and agreed to accept the offer to fight; but Humphries refused him, exclaiming, 'No, you don't, you cowardly skunk! you shall die in your hole, like a varmint as you are; and the tree which has been your house shall be your coffin. There you shall stay, if hard chunks and solid wood can keep you, until your yellow flesh rots away from your bones. You shall stay there until the lightning rips open your coffin, or the autumn winds tumble you into the swamp.' So saying, he left him, and went back to the camp—left him to die in the old woods, where no help could ever come; and in this wild and awful manner—buried alive—perished the savage half-breed."
"That was an awful death, indeed," exclaimed Mrs. Harmar. "That
Humphries must have been a very disagreeable fellow."
"And why so?" enquired Higgins. "The men in those parts of the country were forced to be as fierce as their foes. Humphries was one of the cleverest fellows I ever knew."
"A man after your own heart," remarked Smith. "A warm friend and a warm foe. I know you, Higgins."
"You should know me, Smith, or no man should," replied Higgins, evidently profoundly satisfied with himself.
"Many a time have we messed together," added Smith; "ay, and many a time have we hunted in company for the food we made a mess of."
"Those times are gone," said old Harmar mournfully. "Those times are gone."
"I wonder where?" put in Mrs. Harmar's youngest, looking up in her face for an answer. She smoothed his hair, and shook her head.
STORY OF THE DEATH OF COLONEL LOVELACE.
"Speaking of awful deaths," said Morton, "reminds me of a scene I witnessed at Saratoga, which I may as well tell you about, as young Mr. Harmar seems anxious to hear anything relating to the war of independence. You know there was an unconscionable number of tories up there in New York State about the time of Burgoyne's invasion. Some of them were honest, good sort of men, who didn't happen to think just as we did: they kept at home, and did not lift their arms against us during the war, though some of them were pretty hardly used by their whig neighbors. Another set of the tories, however, acted upon the maxim that 'might makes right.' They were whigs when the royal power was weak, and tories when they found it strong. Though raised in the same neighborhood with the staunch whigs, these men turned robbers and murderers, and lost all virtuous and manly feelings. Colonel Tom Lovelace was one of this class: He was born and raised in the Saratoga district, and yet his old neighbors dreaded him almost as much as if he had been one of the fierce Senecas. When the war commenced, Lovelace went to Canada, and there confederated with five men from his own district, to come down to Saratoga, and kill, rob, or betray his old neighbors and friends. There's no denying Lovelace was a bold, wary, and cunning fellow, and he made the worst use of his qualities. He fixed his quarters in a large swamp, about five miles from the residence of Colonel Van Vechten, at Dovegat, and very cunningly concealed them.
"Soon after, the robberies and captures around that neighborhood became frequent. General Schuyler's house was robbed, and an attempt was made, by Lovelace and his companions, to carry off Colonel Van Vechten. But General Stark, who was in command of the barracks north of Fish Creek, was too wide awake for him. He got wind of the scheme, and gave the Colonel a strong guard, and so Lovelace was balked, and compelled to give up his design. Captain Dunham, who commanded a company of militia in the neighborhood, found out the tory colonel's place of concealment, and he determined to attempt his capture. Accordingly, he summoned his lieutenant, ensign, orderly, and one private, to his house; and, about dusk, they started for the swamp, which was two miles distant. Having separated to reconnoitre, two of them, named Green and Guiles, got lost; but the other three kept together, and, about dawn, discovered Lovelace and his party, in a hut covered over with boughs, just drawing on their stockings. The three men crawled cautiously forward till near the hut, when they sprang up with a shout, levelled their muskets, and Captain Dunham sang out, 'Surrender, or you are all dead men!' There was no time for parley; and the tory rascals, believing that our men were down on them in force, came out one by one, without arms, and Dunham and his men marched them off to General Stark's quarters. The rascals were all tried by court-martial, as spies, traitors, and robbers; and Lovelace was sentenced to be hung, as he was considered too dangerous to be allowed to get loose again. He made complaint of injustice, and said he ought to be treated as a prisoner of war; but our general could not consent to look upon such a villain as an honorable soldier, and his sentence was ordered to be carried into effect three days afterwards. I was then with a company of New York volunteers, sent to reinforce General Stark, and I was enabled to gratify my desire to witness the execution of a man I detested. The gallows was put up on the high bluff a few miles south of Fish Creek, near our barracks. When the day arrived, I found that our company was on the guard to be posted near the gallows. It was a gloomy morning, and about the time the tory colonel was marched out to the gallows, and we were placed in position at the foot of the bluff, a tremendous storm of wind and rain came on. It was an awful scene. The sky seemed as black as midnight, except when the vivid sheets of lightning glared and shot across it; and the peals of thunder were loud and long. Lovelace knelt upon the scaffold, and the chaplain prayed with him. I think if there was anything could change a man's heart, it must have been the thought of dying at such a time, when God himself seemed wrathful at the deeds of men.
"I expected to be delighted with seeing such a man hung; but I tell you, my friends, I felt very differently when the time came, and I saw the cruel tory kneeling on the scaffold, while the lightning seemed to be quivering over the gallows. I turned away my head a moment, and when I looked again, the body of Lovelace was suspended in the air, and his spirit had gone to give its account to its God."
The account of this terrible scene had deeply interested the company; and the animated manner of Morton impressed even the children with a feeling of awe.
"Why didn't they postpone the hanging of the man until there was a clear day?" enquired Mrs. Harmar.
"Executions are never postponed on account of the weather, my dear," replied her husband. "It would be rather cruel than otherwise thus to delay them."
"I've heard of that Lovelace before," remarked old Harmar. "I judged that he was a bold villain from some of his outrages, and I think he deserved his death."
"For my part," said Higgins, "I hated the very name of a tory so much, during the war, that I believe I could have killed any man who dared to speak in their defence. All that I knew or heard of were blood-thirsty scoundrels."
STORY OF THE MURDER OF MISS M'CREA.
"If you were at Saratoga, Mr. Morton, perhaps you know something about the murder of Miss M'Crea," said Mrs. Harmar.
"Oh, yes! I know the real facts of the case," replied Morton. "I got them from one who was acquainted with her family. The real story is quite different from the one we find in the histories of the war, and which General Gates received as true."
"Then set us right upon the matter," remarked young Harmar.
"Do," added Wilson. "I've heard the story through two or three twistings, and I'm only satisfied that the lady was killed."
"Well," commenced Morton, "what I now tell you may depend on as the truest account you can receive. No one but Heaven and the Indians themselves witnessed the death of the young girl; and our only evidence of a positive nature is the declaration of those who were supposed to be her murderers. But to the story.
"Jane M'Crea, or Jenny M'Crea, as she is more generally known, was the daughter of a Scotch clergyman, who resided in Jersey City, opposite New York. While living with her father, an intimacy grew up between the daughter of a Mrs. M'Niel and Jenny. Mrs. M'Niel's husband dying, she went to live on an estate near Fort Edward. Soon after, Mr. M'Crea died, and Jenny went to live with her brother near the same place. There the intimacy of former years was renewed, and Jenny spent much of her time at the house of Mrs. M'Niel and her daughter. Near the M'Niel's lived a family named Jones, consisting of a widow and six sons. David Jones, one of the sons, became acquainted with Jenny, and at length this friendship deepened into love. When the war broke out, the Jones's took the royal side of the question; and, in the fall of 1776, David and Jonathan Jones went to Canada, raised a company, and joined the British garrison at Crown Point. They both afterwards attached themselves to Burgoyne's army; David being made a lieutenant in Frazer's division. The brother of Jenny M'Crea was a whig, and, as the British army advanced, they prepared to set out for Albany. Mrs. M'Niel was a loyalist, and, as she remained, Jenny remained with her, perhaps with the hope of seeing David Jones.
"At length Jenny's brother sent her a peremptory order to join him, and she promised to comply the next day after receiving it. On the morning of that day, (I believe it was the 27th of July,) a black servant boy belonging to Mrs. M'Niel discovered some Indians approaching the house, and, giving the alarm, he ran to the fort, which was but a short distance off. Mrs. M'Niel, Jenny, a black woman, and two children, were in the house when the alarm was given. Mrs. M'Niel's eldest daughter was at Argyle. The black woman seized the two children, fled through the back door into the kitchen, and down into the cellar. Jenny and Mrs. M'Niel followed; but the old woman was corpulent, and before they could descend, a powerful Indian seized Mrs. M'Niel by the hair and dragged her up. Another brought Jenny out of the cellar. But the black woman and the children remained undiscovered. The Indians started off with the two women on the road towards Burgoyne's camp. Having caught two horses that were grazing, they attempted to place their prisoners upon them. Mrs. M'Niel being too heavy to ride, two stout Indians took her by the arms, and hurried her along, while the others, with Jenny on horseback, proceeded by another path through the woods. The negro boy having alarmed the garrison at the fort, a detachment was sent out to effect a rescue. They fired several volleys at the party of Indians; and the Indians said that a bullet intended for them mortally wounded Jenny, and she fell from her horse; and that they then stripped her of her clothing and scalped her, that they might obtain the reward offered for those things by Burgoyne.
"Mrs. M'Niel said that the Indians who were hurrying her along seemed to watch the flash of the guns, and fell down upon their faces, dragging her down with them. When they got beyond the reach of the firing, the Indians stript the old lady of everything except her chemise, and in that plight carried her into the British camp. There she met her kinsman, General Frazer, who endeavored to make her due reparation for what she had endured. Soon after, the Indians who had been left to bring Jenny arrived with some scalps, and Mrs. M'Niel immediately recognised the long bright hair of the poor girl who had been murdered. She charged the savages with the crime, but they denied it, and explained the manner of her death. Mrs. M'Niel was compelled to believe their story, as she knew it was more to the interest of the Indians to bring in a prisoner than a scalp.
"It being known in camp that Lieutenant Jones was betrothed to Jenny, some lively imagination invented the story that he had sent the Indians to bring her to camp, and that they quarrelled, and one of them scalped her. This story seemed to be confirmed by General Gates' letter to Burgoyne, and soon spread all over the country, making the people more exasperated against the British than ever. Young Jones was horror-stricken by the death of his betrothed, and immediately offered to resign his commission, but they would not allow him. He bought Jenny's scalp, and then, with his brother, deserted, and fled to Canada."
"Did you ever hear what became of him?" enquired Mrs. Harmar.
"Yes; he was living in Canada the last time I heard of him," replied Morton. "He never married; and, from being a lively, talkative fellow, he became silent and melancholy."
"Poor fellow! It was enough to make a man silent and melancholy," remarked young Harmar. "I can imagine how I would have felt if deprived of her I loved, in as tragical a manner." "Don't—don't mention it, my dear!" exclaimed his wife, sensibly affected at the thought of her being scalped.
"It was a horrible transaction," remarked Wilson; "and it had a stirring effect upon our people. I can recollect when I first heard the story with all its embellishments; I felt as if I could have eaten up all the red varmints I should chance to meet."
"General Gates's version of the affair answered a good purpose," said Higgins. "It roused our people to great exertions to defeat the designs of a government which employed those savages."
"King George's government thought it had a right to make use of every body—rascals and honest men—to effect its design of enslaving us; but we taught 'em a thing or two," added Morton, with a gratified smile.
STORY OF THE DEFENCE OF SHELL'S BLOCK-HOUSE.
"I suppose," said young Harmar, "that, while you were up in New York, you heard of many bloody affairs with the Indians and tories."
"Many a one," replied Morton. "Many a one, sir. I could interest you for days in recounting all I saw and heard. The poor whigs suffered a great deal from the rascals—they did. Those in Tryon county, especially, were always exposed to the attacks of the savages. I recollect an affair that occurred at a settlement called Shell's Bush, about five miles from Herkimer village.
"A wealthy German, named John Shell, had built a block-house of his own. It was two stories high, and built so as to let those inside fire straight down on the assailants. One afternoon in August, while the people of the settlement were generally in the fields at work, a Scotchman named M'Donald, with about sixty Indians and tories, made an attack on Shell's Bush. Most of the people fled to Fort Dayton, but Shell and his family took refuge in the block-house. The father and two sons were at work in the field when the alarm was given. The sons were captured, but the father succeeded in reaching the block-house, which was then besieged. Old Shell had six sons with him, and his wife loaded the muskets, which were discharged with sure aim. This little garrison kept their foes at a distance. M'Donald tried to burn the block-house, but did not succeed. Furious at the prospect of being disappointed of his expected prey, he seized a crowbar, ran up to the door, and attempted to force it; but old Shell fired and shot him in the leg, and then instantly opened the door and made him a prisoner. M'Donald was well supplied with cartridges, and these he was compelled to surrender to the garrison. The battle was now hushed for a time; and Shell, knowing that the enemy would not attempt to burn the house while their captain was in it, went into the second story, and began to sing the favorite hymn of Martin Luther, when surrounded with the perils he encountered in his controversy with the Pope."
"That was cool," remarked Higgins.
"Bravely cool," added old Harmar.
"Oh, it was necessary to be cool and brave in those times," said Morton. "But to go on with my story; the respite was very short. The tories and Indians were exasperated at the successful resistance of the garrison, and rushed up to the block-house. Five of them thrust the muzzles of their pieces through the loop-holes; but Mrs. Shell seized an axe, and, with well-directed blows, ruined every musket by bending the barrels. At the same time, Shell and his sons kept up a brisk fire, and drove the enemy off. About twilight, the old man went up stairs, and called out in a loud voice to his wife, that Captain Small was approaching from Fort Dayton, with succor. In a few minutes, he exclaimed, 'Captain Small, march your company round on this side of the house. Captain Getman, you had better wheel your men off to the left, and come up on that side.' This, you see, was a stratagem. The enemy were deceived, took to their heels, and fled through the woods, leaving eleven men killed and six wounded. M'Donald was taken to Fort Dayton the next day, where his leg was amputated; but the blood flowed so freely that he died in a few hours. On his person was found a silver-mounted tomahawk, which had thirty-two scalp notches on the handle, to show how he had imitated the savages."
"But what became of the two sons who were captured by the tories and
Indians?" inquired young Harmar.
"They were carried to Canada," replied Morton. "They afterwards asserted that nine of the wounded tories died on the way. But some of the Indians were resolved to have revenge for their defeat, and they lurked in the woods near Shell's house. One day they found the wished-for opportunity, and fired upon Shell and his boys while they were at work in the field. One of the boys was killed, and Shell so badly wounded that he died soon after, at Fort Dayton."
"Revenge seems a part of an Indian's nature," remarked young Harmar.
"Yes," said Higgins, "they will pursue one who has injured them in any way until he has paid for it."
"Our people suffered much from them during the Revolution," added
Higgins, "and they want no instruction in regard to their character."
STORY OF BATE'S BEVENGE.
"I recollect," said old Harmar, "after our line went south, under General Wayne, just after the surrender of Cornwallis, I met some of the men who had passed through Green's campaign. They were the bitterest kind of whigs—men who had seen their houses burnt over their heads, and who could have killed and eaten all the tories they should meet. They told me many wild stories of the black doings of those traitorous rascals."
"Tell us one of them, won't you?" entreated Mrs. Harmar.
"Come, father, spin us one of those yarns, as the sailors say," added her husband. The children also became clamorous for 'a story,' and the old veteran was compelled to comply.
"Well, you shall hear. A man named Joe Bates told me how he had been used by the enemy, and how he had been revenged. He joined the southern army when Greene first took command of it, leaving his wife and two children at his farm on the banks of the Santee River. His brother, John Bates, promised to take care of the family and the farm. You see, John used to help Marion's band whenever he could spare the time—he was so anxious to do something for the good of his country, and he didn't know how else he could do it than by going off on an occasional expedition with Marion. Well, some how or other, Major Wernyss, the commander of the royalists in the neighborhood, got wind of John's freaks, and also of those of some other whig farmers, and he said he would put a stop to them. So he sent a detachment of about twenty-five men to burn the houses of the people who were suspected of being the friends of Marion. John Bates heard of their coming, and collected about ten or a dozen whigs to defend his house. He hadn't time to send the wife of Joe and his children away to a safer place, or else he thought there was no better place. However it was, they remained there. The house was barred up, and everything fixed to give the red-coats a warm reception, should they attempt to carry out their intention. The time they chose for it was a moonlight night. The neighbors could see their houses burning from the upper windows of the one where they were posted, and they kept muttering curses and threats of vengeance all the time."
"Why didn't each man stay at home, and take care of his own house?" enquired Mrs. Harmar.
"Of what use would that have been?" returned old Harmar. "By so doing, they could not have saved any house, and would have lost the chance of punishing the red-coats for their outrages. I forgot to tell you, though, that some of the farmers had brought their wives and children to Bates', and these were all put up-stairs out of the way. The little garrison had made loop-holes on all sides of the house, and each man had his rifle and knife ready to guard the post at which he was stationed. John Bates was the captain, because he knew most about such fightin' matters; he learned it of Marion. Well, at last the garrison caught sight of the Britishers coming up steadily, the leader a little in advance. They didn't seem to suspect that any body was in the house, for they had found all the rest deserted. Still they thought it wise to be careful. They surrounded the house at their leader's command, and were getting their things ready to set fire to it, when the garrison, who had kept still as death all the time, blazed away at them from all sides. This staggered the whole party; four or five of their number were shot dead, and as many more wounded. They rallied, however, and poured a volley into the house. The garrison, under John's command, returned the fire, and seemed to have decidedly the best of the matter. Joe's wife couldn't content herself up-stairs with the women and children. She wanted to be of some use in defending her own house. She would come down and load the guns for John, while he kept a look-out on the movements of the British party. Well, she had just loaded the gun, and was handing it to John, when a bullet whizzed past him, struck her in the breast, and she fell dead. John Bates looked through the loop-hole, and caught sight of one of the red-coats running back from the house, and fired at him but missed. He saw the man's face, though, and remembered it. John then bore the corpse up-stairs. The women and children shrieked at the sight, and thus discovered to the cowardly foe where they were placed. A volley was sent through the upper part of the house, which killed one of Joe's children and wounded the wife of a neighbor. But the enemy were losing men too fast to continue the attack. I think Joe said they had lost half their party in killed and wounded, while in the house only one man was wounded. The red-coats that were left began to move off, dragging some of their wounded with them. Then the farmers threw open the doors and windows, and, giving a shout of triumph, sent a volley after them that must have done some damage."
"Didn't they start a pursuit?" inquired Higgins.
"No: John thought his party was not strong enough, and that the glory of defeating such a party of regulars was enough for once. But several of the wounded red-coats were taken. Some of the farmers wanted to kill them right off, but John wouldn't let them. He said there had been blood enough shed already, and set them at work to bury the dead. Soon after, John went to the army, and told Joe of the attack, and of the death of his wife and child. Joe swore, by the most sacred oaths, to have revenge; and made John describe the appearance of the man whom he had seen running away from the house after firing the shot that had killed Mrs. Bates. The man had peculiar features, and could not be mistaken.
"At the great Battle of Eutaw Springs, Joe was among the troops who charged with trailed arms. He came upon a man who answered the description given by John, and rushed upon him with such force that he pinned him to the ground with his bayonet, and he then drew a knife across his throat to make sure work of it. He told me that he stopped, amid a tremendous storm of grape and musketry, to take a look at the Britisher, and to be sure that he had no life in him."
"What bloody creatures war can make men," remarked young Harmar. "That man was not sure he had killed the murderer of his wife."
"It made no difference to him," replied old Harmar. "He hated the whole set, and he had no mercy on any of them. Joe Bates was a clever fellow—as warm a friend and as quiet a companion as you would wish to meet in time of peace; but he hated like he loved—with all his heart, and would go through fire and death to get at a foe."
"I believe Joe Bates' conduct was a fair specimen of that of the whole people of those parts, at that time," said Wilson. "I've been told that the whigs and tories had no mercy on each other."
"Not a bit," added old Harmar. "It seems to me that the fighting up here in the North was child's play in comparison with that in the South. Every man on the American side that went into the battle of Eutaw Springs, was so full of courage and the desire of revenge that he was equal to two common men. Greene had difficulty in restraining their ardor within the limits of prudence. I heard of Colonel Henry Lee and his legion coming up with a body of tories who were assembled to march to the British camp, and his men would slaughter them without mercy, in spite of his efforts to restrain them."
"It was a bloody time," remarked Smith.
"God grant that we may never see its like again," added Morton.
"Up this way," said Wilson, "the tories were quite peaceable and respectable; and some of them were badly treated without any reason for it. They were honest men, and differed in opinion with those who judged the Declaration of Independence and the assumption of arms, necessary measures."
"Yes," replied Higgins; "its all very well for men to differ in opinion—nobody finds fault with that; its taking up arms against their own countrymen, and opposing their country's cause, that we grumble at. We should all adopt Commodore Decatur's motto; 'Our country—right or wrong.' If she be right, our support cannot be refused; if wrong, we should endeavor to set her right, and not, by refusing our support, or by taking up arms against her, see her fall."
"Bravo!" cried Mr. Jackson Harmar. "There's the true patriotic sentiment for you. Allow me, Mr. Higgins, to shake hands with you over that sentiment."
The veteran patriot extended his hand, and received the hearty shake of the patriot of another generation.
STORY OF GENERAL WAYNE
"Grandfather," said Thomas Jefferson Harmar, "wont you tell us something about Mad Anthony Wayne?"
"Who learnt you to call him Mad Anthony Wayne?" inquired Higgins.
"That's what grandfather calls him," replied the boy.
"Yes," said old Harmar; "we always called him Mad Anthony—he was such a dare-devil. I don't believe, if that man, when alone, had been surrounded by foes, they could really have made him afraid."
"He was a bold and skilful general," remarked Morton. "He was equal to
Arnold in those qualities, and superior to him in all others."
"I think I can see him now, at Morristown, in the midst of the mutineers, with his cocked pistol in his hand, attempting to enforce orders—an action that no other man would have thought of doing under such circumstances." "He did his duty," said Wilson; "but the men cannot be censured for their conduct. They had received no pay for many months, were without sufficient clothing to protect them from the weather, and sometimes without food. If they had not been fighting for freedom and their country's rights, they never could have stood it out."
"One of the best things Wayne ever did," said Smith, "was that manoeuvre of his in Virginia, where the British thought they had him surely in a net."
"What manoeuvre was that?" inquired Mr. Jackson Harmar.
"Why, you see, General Lafayette was endeavoring to avoid a general action with Cornwallis, and yet to harass him. Early in July, 1781, the British army marched from Williamsburg, and encamped on the banks of the James River, so as to cover a ford leading to the island of Jamestown. Soon after, the baggage and some of the troops passed the ford, but the main army kept its ground. Lafayette then moved from his encampment, crossed the Chichahominy, pushed his light troops near the British position, and advanced with the continentals to make an attempt on the British rear, after the main body had passed the river. The next day, the Marquis was told that the main body of the British had crossed the ford, and that a rear-guard only remained behind. This was what the British general wanted him to believe, and he posted his troops ready to receive our men. Well, General Wayne, with eight hundred men, chiefly of the Pennsylvania line, (including Mr. Harmar, Mr. Higgins, Mr. Wilson, and myself,) was ordered to advance against the enemy. Now, Wayne thought he had to fight a rear-guard only, and so he moved forward boldly and rapidly; but, in a short time, he found himself directly in front of the whole British army, drawn up to receive him. Retreat was impracticable, as the enemy then might have had a fair chance to kill or capture the whole detachment. Wayne thought that the best plan was to put on a bold face, and so he commenced the attack at once. A fierce and bloody struggle followed, and I'm not sure but we were gaining the advantage, when General Lafayette discovered the mistake and ordered a retreat, and we were compelled to fall back, leaving two cannon in the hands of the enemy. By General Wayne's presence of mind and courage, you see, we got off with but the loss of one hundred men. The British lost the same number."
"The Marquis was, of course, right in ordering a retreat," remarked young Harmar.
"I suppose so," replied Smith. "Our detachment might have made considerable havoc among the British, and, perhaps, if promptly supported, have maintained a long and doubtful battle. But General Lafayette wanted to save his men until a more certain contest could be brought about. He was a very young general—younger than Napoleon when he took command of the army of Italy; but all his movements about that time indicated that he was as skilful and vigilant as he was brave."
"Americans should ever be grateful to the memory of such a man as Lafayette," said old Harmar. "He was a true lover of liberty, and a staunch friend to this land when it most needed friends."
"And that reminds me," added young Harmar, "that I've a song here, which I wrote for one of the papers, in relation to Lafayette. It is arranged in the measure of the feeling melody of 'Auld Lang Syne.'"
"Sing it," said Mr. Smith; and the request was echoed by the rest. Mr. Jackson Harmar, therefore, after sundry excuses in the usual routine—that he had a cold, &c.—sang the following words in a very emphatic manner, with an occasional break in the high notes, and huskiness in the low ones.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind?
The friend that's true, remember'd not,
And days of auld lang syne?
For auld lang syne, my dear,
We never can forget;
When dangers press'd, and foes drew near,
Our friend was Lafayette.
When first our fathers bravely drew
'Gainst tyrants and their laws,
On wings of generous zeal he flew
To aid the holy cause.
For auld lang syne, my dear, &c.
He stemm'd the broad Atlantic wave;
He vow'd they should be free;
He led the bravest of the brave
To death or victory.
For auld lang syne, my dear, &c.
Let Brandywine his glory tell,
And Monmouth loud proclaim;
Let York in triumph proudly swell
The measure of his fame.
For auld lang syne, my dear, &c.
Shall sons of freedom e'er forget,
Till time shall cease to move,
The debt they owe to Lafayette
Of gratitude and love?
For auld lang syne, my dear, &c.
The song was listened to with considerable pleasure by the company, and there was an occasional attempt, on the part of the veterans, to join in the chorus, which, however, ended in a slight cough and shaking of the head, as if the attempt was hopeless.
"There's good sentiment in that song," remarked Smith. "It stirs the heart."
"Mr. Harmar, did you say the piece was your own composition?" inquired
Morton.
"It is one of my humble efforts," modestly replied Mr. Jackson Harmar.
"I'm very glad there are some young men left who can write something else besides the love trash that's so popular," said Mr. Higgins. Old men generally have a strong aversion or lofty contempt for everything relating to the love matters of youth.
"Everything has its time," was the sage remark of Mr. Jackson Harmar; "or, in the more popular phrase of Mr. Shakespeare, 'Every dog will have his day!'"
"I should like to see patriotic songs more popular," remarked Morton; and it is highly probable the conversation would have continued on this subject, but Mrs. Harmar and the children kept up a constant clamor for more stories, and old Harmar consented to amuse them and the rest of the company with a story which, he said, he had seen in several papers, and told in several different ways, none of which were correct. The true circumstances he would then relate in order that his son might make a story of it for his forthcoming work,—"Legends of the Times that tried Men's Souls."
STORY OF THE OUTLAW OF THE PINES.
"In the fall and winter of 1776," began Mr. Harmar, "the people of New Jersey experienced their full share of the miseries of civil war. During no period of the Revolutionary contest did the enemy's troops act more cruelly or more unlike civilized men. As they marched through the Jerseys, driving our poor 'rebel' army before them, they committed all kinds of outrages on helpless women and old men; but this conduct was destined to recoil upon the heads of the foe. The people were roused to resist the invaders, and the militia was organised throughout the State—silently but surely. Our victories at Trenton and Princeton were received as the signals for action. As the enemy retired on Brunswick, they were followed by the exasperated farmers, and harassed terribly. But, at the time when my story commences, the red-coats were in quiet possession of New Jersey, from Burlington to New York. General Washington had come over on this side of the Delaware.
"It was late in December. The weather was bitter cold, and the enemy seldom stirred from their quarters to visit the interior of the State. This respite would have been refreshing to the harassed farmer, if the withdrawal of the regular troops had not left free play for the more desperate servants of King George, or others who pretended to be such. One of these pretenders was named Fagan. He was the leader of about twenty ruffians as free from any particle of human feeling as himself. There was no romance about the black character of Fagan; he was a perfect wretch; he robbed for gain, and murdered to conceal the robbery. The hiding-place of the band was in the pine barrens of New Jersey, and they thence received the name of 'the pine robbers' from the people of the country. Their violence and cruelty towards women and even children had made them the terror of all classes. The whigs charged their doings on the tories and refugees; but the robbers were against both parties. They plundered a tory in the name of the continentals, and were true to the Crown when a whig chanced to be in their power.
"Well, I'm going to tell you about one of their exploits. Not many miles from Trenton, on the road to Bordentown, was the farm-house of Nathaniel Collins, a Quaker, but who was not strict enough for his sect. He was disowned by them on account of encouraging his two sons to join the continental army, and for showing a disposition to do the same himself. He was about sixty years old at the time of which I speak, but still a large, powerful man, with the glow of health on his cheek and intelligence in his eye. Though disowned by the Quaker sect, Nathaniel Collins retained their dress, manners, and habits, and always defended them from the attacks of their enemies.
"One night, the old Quaker, his wife Hannah, cousin Rachel, and daughter Amy, were sitting up till a very late hour. They expected Nathan's sons home from the Continental army. These sons had chosen the night to cross the river, to avoid the notice of the Hessians at Trenton. Well, the family waited till the clock struck one, but the sons did not appear, and Nathan was getting impatient. At last footsteps were heard on the road.
"'There they are at last!' eagerly exclaimed Amy.
"'Let me see,' said Nathan, as, with the placid manner characteristic of a Friend, he moved to a window which commanded a view of the kitchen door, at which a knocking had commenced. He could distinguish six men, armed and equipped like militia, and another, whose pinioned arms proclaimed him a prisoner. His sons were not of the party; and as the persons of the strangers were unknown, and the guise of a militia-man was often assumed by Fagan, our friend was not 'easy in his mind how to act.' His first idea was to feign deafness; but a second knock, loud enough to wake all but the dead, changed his intention—he raised the window and hailed the men:
"'Friends, what's your will?'
'A little refreshment of fire and food, if you please; we have been far on duty, and are half frozen and quite starved.' 'We don't entertain them who go to war.'
'Yes; but you will not refuse a little refreshment to poor fellows like us, this cold night; that would be as much against the principles of your society as war.'
'Thee's from Trenton?'
'No, I thank you; Nathaniel Collins is too well known as a friend to the country, and an honest man, to aid a refugee—we know that.'
'Soap the old fox well,' whispered one of the band.
'Come, friend, make haste and let us in, we are almost perished, and have far to go before sunrise, or we may change places with our prisoner here before sunset.'
'But what does the party here, this side of the river, right under the
Hessians' nose, if—'
'Oh, we are minute-men, sent from within by Captain Smallcross, to seize this deserter—don't you mean to let us in?'
"Nathaniel closed the window and said, 'I don't know what to make of these men. Amy, call the boys; tell them to make haste and bring their guns, but keep them out of sight, where they will be handy.'
"As the command was obeyed, and the three young men, laborers on the farm, appeared and placed their guns behind the inner, their master unbolted the outer door and admitted five of the armed men—the prisoner and one of his captors remaining without. Nathaniel thought this unnecessary of so cold a night, and a little suspicious—'Will not thy companions enter also?'
"'No, thank you; he guards the prisoner.'
'But why may not the prisoner, too?' 'Pshaw! he's nothing but a deserter. The cold will be good for him.'
"'I must say,' quote Nathan, 'exercised,' as he afterwards owned, past endurance, 'thy conduct neither becomes thy nature as a man, or thy calling, which should teach thee more feeling—I'll take the poor fellow something to eat myself.'
"The old man had reached the door on his merciful errand, meaning it is true, to satisfy his curiosity at the same time, when he who had acted as leader of the party sprang from his chair, and, placing his hand on his host's breast, pushed him rudely back. 'Stand back—back, I say, and mind your own business, if you are a Quaker.'
"There was a momentary struggle in Nathan's mind, whether to knock the fellow down, as from appearances he easily might, or to yield, in obedience to his principles. 'It was strongly on his mind,' he confessed, to pursue the former course, but prudence conquered, and he quietly withdrew to the upper end of the apartment, where his men lounged on a bench, apparently half asleep, and indistinctly visible in the light of the fire and one small candle, which burned near the strangers. In the interim, the old cook had been summoned, and had arranged some cold provisions on the table. 'Old Annie,' the cook, was the child of Indian and mulatto parents, but possessed none of the features of her darker relation, except a capacious mouth and lips to match. She refused to associate with either negroes or Indians, considering herself as belonging to neither, and indulging a sovereign contempt for both. Her favorite term of reproach was 'Injin' and 'nigger,' and when they failed separately to express her feelings, she put the two together, a compliment always paid the Hessians, when she had occasion to mention them. A party of these marauders had, on a visit to her master's house, stolen her fall's store of sausages; thenceforth she vowed eternal hatred to the race—a vow she never forgot to the day of her death.
"The strangers ate their repast, showing anything but confidence in their entertainer, and ate, each man with his gun resting on his shoulder. During the whole meal, he who called himself their captain was uneasy and restless. For some time, he appeared to be engaged in a very close scrutiny of the household, who occupied the other end of the kitchen—a scrutiny which, owing to the darkness, could not yield him much satisfaction. He then whispered anxiously and angrily with his men, who answered in a dogged, obstinate fashion, that evidently displeased him; till, finally, rising from his seat, he bade them follow, and scarcely taking time to thank Nathan for his food and fire, passed out of the door and made from the house.
"'Well, now, that beats me!' said Elnathan, as he and his comrades looked at each other in astonishment at the abrupt departure and singular conduct of their guests.
"'That are a queer lark, any how!' responded John; 'it beats all natur'.'
''The Injins,' said Ann. 'If that is not Fagan or some of his gang, never trust me!—why did you not give them a shot, the 'tarnal thieves?'
"But our household troop were too glad to get rid of their visitors to interrupt their retreat. The house was secured again, the men had thrown themselves down, and some of them were already asleep, when another knock at the same door brought them as one man to their feet. On opening the door, a laborer attached to a neighboring farm presented himself, breathless from haste, and almost dead with fear. When he so far recovered his speech as to be able to tell his story, he proved to be the man whom the pretended militia-men had brought with them as a prisoner, and his captors were found to be no less than Fagan and a portion of his band. They had that night robbed five different houses before they attempted our Friend's. Aware that his sons were from home, they expected to find the old man unsupported, but having gained admission into the house, they were surprised at the appearance of three additional men. Fagan, however, was bent upon completing his enterprise in spite of all opposition; but his followers obstinately refused. At the foot of the avenue a bitter quarrel ensued, Fagan taxing his men with cowardice; but the fear of pursuit silenced them at length. The next question was, how to dispose of their prisoner, whom they had seized in one of their 'affairs,' and, for want of some means of securing him, brought with them. Fagan, as the shortest way, proposed, as he had before, to cut his throat; but the proposal was overruled as unnecessary. He was unbound, and, upon his solemn promise to return without giving the alarm, one of the band returned him his silver and a little money they had abstracted from his chest. In consideration whereof he made to the nearest house and gave the alarm, impelled by instinct more than anything else.
"Suddenly, the man's narrative was interrupted by an explosion of fire-arms, which broke upon the clear, frosty night, and startled even Nathan. Another and another followed before a word was uttered.
"'What can that be? It must be at Trenton.'
"'By jingo,' exclaimed Elnathan, forgetting, in his excitement, that his master was present, 'if I don't believe our men ain't giving the Hessians a salute this morning with ball cartridges—there it goes again!—I say, John, it's a piert scrimmage.'
"In his own anxiety, Nathan forgot to correct his servant's profanity.
'It must be—but how they got over through the ice without wings—'
"'No matter 'zackly how, marster, it's them. I'll warrant them's hard plums for a Christmas pudding. Ha! ha! they get it this morning,—them tarnation Hessian niggers!'
"'Ann, thee'll never forgive the Hessians thy sausages and pork.'
"'Forgive—not I. All my nice sausages and buckwheat cakes, ready buttered—and all for them 'are yaller varments.'
"The firing having continued some minutes, though less in volleys than at first, gradually ceased, and all was quiet, as if nothing had happened to disturb the deathlike stillness of the night. Yet, in that brief hall hour, the fate of a continent was decided—the almost desperate cause of the colonies had been retrieved. The victory of Trenton had been achieved.
"The attention of Nathan was diverted, by this first incident, from the other events of the night, but was soon recalled to the pursuit of the robbers, and the relief of their victims, who, from their late prisoner's account, had been left in an unpleasant condition. His men being dispatched to collect aid, Nathan now remained with old Anne; the sole efficient defender of the house. He was not doomed to wait their return undisturbed—the indistinct sound, as of many feet, was heard advancing along the road to Bordentown.
"'It's them Hessians,' said Anne. But Nathan thought not—it was not the tread of regular troops, but the confused rush of a multitude. He hastened to an upper window to reconnoitre. The day had begun to break, and he easily distinguished a large body of men in Hessian uniform, hurrying along the road in broken ranks. As they came nearer, he perceived many individuals half clad and imperfectly equipped. The whole consisted of about six hundred men. Before their rear was lost behind a turn in the road another body appeared in rapid pursuit. They marched in closer order and more regular array. In the stillness of the morning the voice of an officer could be distinctly heard urging on the men. They bore the well-known standard of the colonies. It all flashed on Nathan's mind—Washington had crossed the river, and was in pursuit of the routed foe. The excited old man forgot his years, as he almost sprang down stairs to the open air, proclaiming the tidings as he went. Even the correct Hannah, who had preserved her faith unbroken, in spite of her husband's and sons' contumacy, and the, if possible, still more particular Rachel, were startled from their usual composure, and gave vent to their joy.
"'Well, now, does thee say so?' said the latter, eagerly following the others to the door. 'I hope it is not unfriendly to rejoice for such a cause.'
"'I hope not, cousin Rachel,' said Amy; 'nor to be proud that our boys had a share in the glorious deed.'
"Amy was left to herself, and broke loose upon this occasion from the bonds of Quaker propriety; but no one observed the transgression—except old Anne.
"'That's right, Amy Collins; I like to hear you say so. How them Hessians can run—the 'tarnal niggers; they steal sausages better than they stand bullets. I told 'em it would be so, when they was here beguzzlen my buckwheat cakes, in plain English; only the outlandish Injins couldn't understand their mother tongue. They're got enough swallowen without chawen, this morning. I wish them nothen but Jineral Maxwell at their tails, tickling 'em with continental bagonets.'
"'That friend speaks my mind,' said Elnathan, with a half-sanctimonious, half-waggish look, and slight nasal twang.
"'Mine too,' as devoutly responded a companion, whom he had just brought to assist in the pursuit of the robbers.
"The whole family had assembled at the door to watch the motions of the troops. The front ranks had already passed down the road, when a horseman, at full speed, galloped along the line of march to the extreme right, and commanded a halt. After a few minutes delay, two or three officers, followed by a party carrying a wounded man, emerged from the ranks and approached the house. This was too much for the composure of our late overjoyed family; all hastened to meet their wounded or dead relation, but were disappointed agreeably—the brothers were indeed of the party, but unhurt.
"'Charles—boys—what means—'
'Nothing, father, except that we paid the Hessians a friendly visit this morning. You saw them?'
'A part—where are the rest?'
'Oh, we could not consent to turn them out of their comfortable quarters this cold night, so we insisted on their remaining, having first gone through the trifling ceremony of grounding their arms.'
"The greeting between the young soldiers and their more peaceful relations could not have been more cordial if their hands had been unstained with blood. Nathaniel proffered refreshments to the whole detachment; old Anne trembled for her diminished stock of sausages, and remarked to Elnathan, that it would take a ''tarnal griddle' to bake cakes for 'all that posse cotatus.' But the offer was declined by the officer in command, who only desired our friends to take charge of the wounded Hessian, whom his own men had deserted in the road.
[Illustration: THE OUTLAW OF THE PINES.]
"In the meanwhile, about forty men had assembled at Nathan's summons to pursue the robbers, some of them having first visited those who had suffered from the previous night's depredations. In one instance, they found a farmer tied in his own stable, with his horse gear, and his wife, with the bed-cord, to some of the furniture in her own apartment. In another place, the whole household was quietly disposed down a shallow well, up to their knees in water, and half frozen. In a third, a solitary man, who was the only inmate at the time, having fled, in his fright, to the house-top, was left there by the unfeeling thieves, who secured the trap-door within. But the last party who arrived had a bloody tale to tell: they had been to the house of Joseph Farr, the sexton to a neighboring Baptist church; a reputation for the possession of concealed gold proved fatal to him. On entering his house, the door of which stood open, the party sent to his relief stumbled over his body. After having most cruelly beaten him, in the hope of extorting the gold he was said to possess, the murderers, upon his positive denial, pierced him in twenty places with their bayonets. The old bedridden wife was still alive in her bed, though the blood had soaked through the miserable pallet and run in a stream into the fire-place. Their daughter, a woman of fifty years, fled from the house as the murderers entered, and was pursued by one of them, nearly overtaken, and even wounded in the arm by his bayonet; but his foot slipped in making the thrust, and she escaped slightly hurt.
"This bloody business aroused the whole country; a persevering and active pursuit was commenced. The murderers had many miles to traverse before they could reach a safe retreat, and were obliged to lighten themselves of their heavier plunder in the chase. Four were shot down in the pursuit; the knapsack of a fifth was found partly concealed in a thicket, and pierced with a ball, which had also penetrated a large mass of continental money in sheets, and, by the blood on the inner covering, had done good service on the wearer. It was believed that he contrived to conceal himself in a thicket, and died there; as he was never heard of after. Fagan alone escaped unhurt to the pines, and for days defied all the exertions of the whig farmers. By this time, the pursuing party had increased to nearly two hundred men. The part of the wood in which he was known to be concealed, was surrounded and fired, till the wretch was literally burnt from his den, and, in an attempt to escape from one flaming thicket to another, taken alive, although not unwounded. One of the gang, who had not participated in the deeds I have mentioned, was secured at the same time.
"There appeared to be no difference of opinion about the mode of disposing of the prisoners—indeed, an opinion was scarcely asked or given. It seemed taken for granted—a thing of course; and the culprits were led in silence to the selected place of execution. There was neither judge nor jury—no delay—no prayer for mercy; a large oak then stood at the forks of two roads, one of which leads to Freehold; from the body of the tree a horizontal branch extended over the latter road, to which two ropes were attached. One of them having been fixed to the minor villain's neck, his sufferings were soon over; but a horrible and lingering death was reserved for Fagan. The iron hoops were taken off a meat cask, and by a blacksmith in the company fitted round his ankles, knees, and arms, pinioning the latter to his body, so that, excepting his head, which was 'left free to enjoy the prospect,' he could not move a muscle. In this condition he hung for days beside his stiffened companion; dying by inches of famine and cold, which had moderated so as, without ending, to aggravate his misery. Before he died, he had gnawed his shoulder from very hunger. On the fifth night, as it approached twelve o'clock, having been motionless for hours, his guards believed him to be dead, and, tired of their horrid duty, proposed to return home. In order, however, to be sure, they sent one of the party up the ladder to feel if his heart still beat. He had ascended into the tree, when a shriek, unlike anything human, broke upon the stillness of the night, and echoed from the neighboring wood with redoubled power. The poor fellow dropped from the tree like a dead man, and his companions fled in terror from the spot. When day encouraged them to return, their victim was swinging stiffly in the north wind—now lifeless as the companion of his crime and its punishment. It is believed, to this day, that no mortal power, operating upon the lungs of the dead murderer, produced that awful, unearthly, and startling scream; but that it was the voice of the Evil One, warning the intrusive guard not to disturb the fiend in the possession of his lawful victim; a belief materially strengthened by a fact that could not be disputed—the limb upon which the robbers hung, after suffering double pollution from them and their master's touch, never budded again; it died from that hour; the poison gradually communicated to the remaining branches, till, from a flourishing tree, it became a sapless and blasted trunk, and so stood for years, at once an emblem and a monument of the murderers' fate.
"Fagan was never buried; his body hung upon its gibbet till the winds picked the flesh from off his bones, and they fell asunder by their own weight. A friend of mine has seen his horrid countenance, as it hung festering and blackening in the wind, and remembers, by way of amusement, between schools, pelting the body with stones. The old trunk has disappeared, but the spot is still haunted in the belief of the people of the neighborhood, and he is a bold man who dare risk a nocturnal encounter with the bloody Fagan, instead of avoiding the direct road, at the expense of half a mile's additional walk. No persuasion or force will induce a horse raised in the neighborhood to pass the fated spot at night, although he will express no uneasiness by daylight. The inference is, that the animals, as we know animals do, and Balaam's certainly did, see more than their masters. A skeptical gentleman, near, thinks this only the force of habit, and that the innocent creatures have been so taught by the cowards who drive them, and would saddle the horses with their own folly.
"I am at the close of my story, and not a lover or a tender scene in the whole tedious relation—alas! what a defect, but it is too late to mind it now; it only remains to take leave of our friends. Nathan and Hannah have mingled with dust, and their spirits with that society whose only business is love, and where sighing and contention can never intrude. Nathan was permitted, on his expressing his sorrow that he had 'disobliged Friends,' to rejoin his society, and he died an elder. Rachel departed at a great age, as she had lived, a spotless maiden. The blooming, the warm-hearted, mischievous Amy lives, a still comely old lady, the mother of ten sons, and the grandparent of three times as many more. She adheres strictly to all the rules of her society, and bears her testimony in the capacity of a public Friend. Still, she is evidently not a little proud of her father's and brothers' share in the perils and honors of the revolutionary contest, though she affects to condemn their contumacy and unfriendly conformity to the world's ways, and their violation of 'Friends' testimony concerning war.' Old Annie died four years since, at an almost incredible age, though she was not able to name the exact number of the days of her pilgrimage. From the deep furrows on her cheeks, and the strong lines of her naturally striking countenance, which, as she advanced in years, assumed more and more the character of her Indian parentage, and the leather-like appearance of her skin, she might have passed for an antediluvian. While other less important matters lost their impression on her memory, the Hessian inroads upon her sausages and buckwheat cakes were neither forgotten nor entirely forgiven to the last. She sent for a friend when on her death-bed, to make arrangement of her little affairs. He found her strength of body exhausted, but her powers of mind unimpaired. After disposing her stock of personalities among some of her friends, she turned to him. 'That's all, Mr. Charles, except the old sash you used to play with, which I sp'iled from the Hessian officer, the Injin—keep that to mind old Anne by,'
"'Thank you, Anne—I'll keep it carefully. But you must not bear malice now, Anne; you must forgive even the Hessians,' said Charles.
"'What, them Hessians, the bloody thieves?' and the old woman's eyes lighted up, and she almost arose in her bed with astonishment, as she asked the question.
'Yes; even them: you are about to need forgiveness as much as they—they were your enemies and persecutors, whom you are especially enjoined to pardon, as you would expect to be pardoned.'
'So it is, Mr. Charles; you say the truth,—poor ignorant, sinful mortal that I am! Well, then, I do—I hope I do—forgive 'em; I'll try—the bloody creeters.'
"There; will that do for a story, Thomas Jefferson?" asked the old grandfather, when he had concluded. The old man had a straight-forward, natural way of telling a story that showed he had practised it frequently. The boy seemed much gratified by the horrible narration. Mrs. Harmar said she was interested, but didn't like it much; her husband remarked, however, that it would make a thrilling sketch.
"I suppose that Nathaniel Collins was very much the same sort of a Quaker as General Green," said Morton. "They were peaceable men, as long as peace and quiet were not inconsistent with self-defence. To be peaceable when a foe is wasting your fields and slaughtering your brethren, is cowardly and against nature."
"That's truth," replied Higgins. "We must look upon a merciless invader in the same light as upon a cruel beast, whom it is saving life to slay."
"Fagan was well punished for his outrages," remarked Wilson.
"It was the only way for the inhabitants to ensure their safety," said
Smith.
THE TORY'S CONVERSION.
"By the bye," said Mr. Morton, "some events have just recurred to my mind, which interested me very much when I first heard of them, and which I think may strike you as being wonderful. I knew of many strange and unaccountable things that happened during the Revolution, but the conversion of Gil Lester from toryism capped the climax."
"Enlighten us upon the subject, by all means," remarked Mr. Jackson
Harmar.
"Yes, that was a strange affair, Morton; tell 'em about it," added
Higgins.
"There's a little love stuff mixed up with the story," said Morton, "but you will have to excuse that. I obtained the incidents from Lester himself, and I know he was always true to his word, whether that was right or wrong. Gilbert Lester, Vincent Murray, and their ladye-loves, lived up here in Pennsylvania, in the neighborhood of the Lehigh. One night a harvest ball was given at the house of farmer Williams. Vincent Murray and Mary Williams, the farmer's daughter, joined in the festivities, and, becoming tired of dancing in a hot room, they went out to walk along the banks of the Lehigh, and, of course, to talk over love matters.
"They had seated themselves on a fallen tree, and continued for a few moments to gaze in the mirrored Lehigh, as if their very thoughts might be reflected on its glassy surface. Visions of war and bloodshed were passing before the fancy of the excited girl, and she breathed an inward prayer to heaven to protect her lover; when, casting her eyes upward, she suddenly exclaimed with startling energy:
"'Vincent, look at the sky!' Murray raised his head, and sprang instantly on his feet. 'Tell me,' continued Mary, 'am I dreaming, or am I mad! or do I actually see armies marching through the clouds?'
"Murray gazed steadfastly for a moment, and then exclaimed, 'It is the
British, Mary—I see the red coats as plainly as I see you.'
"The young girl seemed transfixed to the spot, without the power of moving. 'Look there,' said she, pointing her finger upward—'there are horses, with officers on them, and a whole regiment of dragoons! Oh, are you not frightened?'
"'No,' replied her companion—but before he had time to proceed, she again exclaimed:
'There, there, Vincent! See the colors flying, and the drums, and trumpets, and cannon, I can almost hear them! What can it mean?'
'Don't be so terrified, Mary. It is my belief, that what we see is an intimation from God of the approaching war. The 'Lord of Hosts' has set his sign in the heavens. But come, let us run to the house. This is no time to dance—and they will not believe us, unless their own eyes behold the vision!'
"Before he had finished speaking, they were hastily retracing their steps to the scene of merriment; and in another moment the sound of the violin was hushed, and the feet of the dancers were still. With one accord, they all stood in the open air, and gazed with straining glances at the pageant in the heavens; and marked it with awe and wonder. A broad streak of light spread itself gradually over the sky, till the whole wide expanse was in one brilliant blaze of splendor. The clouds, decked in the richest and most gorgeous colors, presented a spectacle of grandeur and glory, as they continued to shape themselves into various forms of men, and horses, and armor, till a warlike and supernatural host was distinctly presented to the view. The dragoons, on their prancing horses; the riflemen and artillery, with their military ensigns and accoutrements; the infantry, and even the baggage-wagons in the rear, were all there to complete the imposing array. It is no fiction; many were eye-witnesses of that remarkable vision, which passed on from the east, and disappeared in the west—and, from that evening, the sound of the violin was heard no more in those places, until the end of the Revolution.
"Mary Tracy hung upon the arm of her lover, and listened anxiously to his words, as he spoke to her in a low but decided tone." "That's very strange; but you have not told us how the young tory was converted," interrupted Mrs. Harmar.
"I am coming to that," replied Morton. "Vincent Murray and Mary Williams conversed together for some time. He told her he was going to leave his friends and join the American army. He said he thought the signs in the clouds were warning to all the friends of liberty to rush to the aid of our little struggling band; and that he intended to go to New York, and then seek out the best plan for enlistment. Before he bade his sweetheart farewell, he also told her he was resolved to do his best to convert Gilbert Lester from his tory principles. Now this was no easy task, as the two young men had often argued the question of rights, and Lester had shown that he was as firmly fixed to his creed as Murray was to his. Mary told him that she thought that the frowns or the smiles of Jane Hatfield alone could change his way of thinking. But, nevertheless, Murray resolved to try what he could do.
"The little group of dancers were all scattered in different directions. Murray sought among the number for Gilbert Lester, and found him, at length, leaning in a thoughtful attitude against the trunk of a huge sycamore tree, whose broad shadow fell upon the waters of the Lehigh. So profound was his reverie, that Murray touched his arm before he stirred from his position, or was aware of approaching footsteps.
"'Gilbert, shall I divine your thoughts?'
"'You, perhaps, think you could do so, but I doubt whether you would guess right.' "'Why, there can be but one subject, I should suppose, which could occupy the mind of any one who has seen what we have seen this evening.'
"'True; but there may be different interpretations put upon what is equally a mystery to us all.'
"'Well, I will not dispute that point with you,—but there is a right and a wrong, notwithstanding. Now, tell me, what is your opinion?'
"'It will hardly coincide with yours, Vincent; for I fear we shall never agree in our ideas of the propriety and expediency of taking up arms against our sovereign. As to this pantomime of the clouds, I must confess it is beyond my comprehension; so, if your understanding has been enlightened by the exhibition, I beg you will have charity to extend the benefit.'
"'You are always for ridiculing my impressions, Gilbert; but you cannot change my belief that our cause is a rightful one, and that it will, with the help of the Almighty, ultimately prevail.'
"'What, against such a host as we have just seen imaged out in the sky?'
"'The Lord's hand is not shortened, that it cannot save,' replied
Murray.
"'But,' continued his friend, 'if a real army, coming over the sea to do battle for the king, has been represented by that ghostly multitude which passed before our view, you will find the number too strong for this fanciful faith of yours, in the help of an invisible arm.'
"'It is a faith, however, which I am not yet disposed to yield,—the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong.' "'I will acknowledge,' said Lester, interrupting him, 'that you have the advantage of me in quoting Scripture—but depend upon it, the practical advantages of the British over the rebel army will soon overturn your theory.'
"'No such thing, Gilbert. I tell you that the zeal, fortitude, undaunted courage, and invincible resolution, which encompass our little band of patriots, will prove a shield of strength that will make every single man of them equal to at least a dozen British soldiers. And having once risen up in defence of their rights, they will persevere to the last extremity before they will submit to the disgraceful terms of a despotic government. It grieves me that you should be among the tories. Come, I entreat you, and share in the glory of the triumph which I am persuaded will eventually be ours.'
"'Then you really do believe, Murray, that God will work a modern miracle in favor of America! My dear friend, I wish you would abandon this vain chimera of your imagination, and let common sense and reason convince you of the folly of this mad rebellion.'
"'And what then? Should I sit down in cowardly inaction, while others are sacrificing their lives in the struggle? No—that shall never be said of Vincent Murray! My resolution is taken; I will rise or fall with my country!'
"'And perhaps the next time we meet,' said Lester, 'it may be on the field of battle.'
"'God forbid! But should it even be the case, Gilbert, I should know no friend among my country's enemies. Farewell—you will think better of this subject; and remember, that no one but a Republican will ever win Jane Hatfield,' said Murray.
"The young men wrung each other's hands, and each went his way."
"Murray thought he would put in the last remark by way of strengthening the effect of the vision in the clouds, I suppose," remarked Mr. Jackson Harmar.
"Yes; the promise of the hand of a lovely girl has a great influence on the opinions of a young man," replied Morton. "But in this case, if you will wait till my story is through, you will see that Jane Hatfield had but little to do with Lester's conversion. The next morning after the occurrence of the wonderful phantom in the clouds, Murray left his home, and soon after enlisted in the army under General Montgomery. He was in the unlucky expedition against Québec.
"After the death of Montgomery, and the uniting of the different detachments under Arnold, as their head, Murray, to his marvellous astonishment, encountered his friend Gilbert Lester among the Pennsylvania riflemen, under Captain Morgan. By some strange accident, and each being ignorant of the proximity of the other, they had not met before the attack on Québec. Great, therefore, was Murray's surprise and pleasure; for, since the evening of their last conversation on the banks of the Lehigh, he had no opportunity of learning whether there had been any change in the political sentiments of his friend. With the utmost fervor of delight he grasped his hand as he exclaimed: "'I rejoice to see you,—but, my dear friend, what is the meaning of this meeting? And how, in the name of wonder, came you here?'