University of Virginia Library

1. THE
OLD CONTINENTAL;
OR,
THE PRICE OF LIBERTY.
BY
THE AUTHOR OF “THE DUTCHMAN'S FIRESIDE,” &c., &c.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.

CHAPTER I.

During the most gloomy and disastrous period of
our revolutionary war, there resided in the county of
Westchester a family of plain country people, who
had, in time long past, seen better days; but who
now had nothing to boast of, but a small farm, a good
name, and a good conscience. Though bred in the
city, they had lived so long in a retired part of the
country, that their habits, tastes, and manners, had become
altogether rural, and they had almost outlived
every vestige of former refinements, except in certain
modes of thinking, and acting, which had survived

in all changes of time and circumstances. Their residence
was an old stone-house, bearing the date of
1688, the figures of which were formed by Holland
bricks, incorporated with the walls. The roof
was green with mossy honours, and the entire edifice
bore testimony, not only to the lapse of time, but to
the downhill progress of its inmates. Though not in
ruins, it was much decayed; and, though with a good
rousing fire in the broad capacious chimney, it was
comfortable enough in winter, it afforded nothing
without to indicate anything but the possession of
those simple necessaries of life, which fall to the lot
of those who derive their means of happiness from
the labours of their hands, the bounties of the earth,
and the blessing of a quiet soul.

The old stone-house stood on the brow of a little
knoll, fronting a stream something between a brook
and a river, that meandered and murmured among
willows and alders, at the foot of a range of high hills,
which approached not so near but that they left long
strips of rich meadows between their base and the
banks of the stream. In the rear of the house, at no
great distance, was a pond of some half a mile in
circumference, and so shallow, in many places, that a
variety of aquatic shrubs grew out above the surface,
where congregated clouds of black-birds, whose music
made but poor amends for their depredations on
the newly planted corn-fields. This was not the only
music; for, of a still summer evening, the sonorous
bull-frog ever and anon twanged his horn, accompanied
by a mingled variety of strange harmonies,

that we can only compare with the inexplicable jargon
of a fashionable overture.

In those days, too, the young plough-boys, and milkmaids
sometimes sung their rustic ditties, with
blithesome hearts, mornings and evenings, until the
harsh dissorence of the trumpet, calling to deeds of
bloody strife, scared away all other music, and the rural
retreats of our country no longer resounded to the
laugh or the song. Indeed, the latter seems to have
been scared away forever. Those rural ballads are
now scarcely ever heard in the quiet retreats of our
country; whether it be that the long and arduous
struggles, severe sufferings, and perpetual anxieties of
our people, during seven years of bloody war, have
given a sober, thoughtful, anxious cast to their characters,
or that the possession of freedom, like every
worldly blessing, has its drawbacks in new cares for
ourselves and our offspring, new solicitudes and new
responsibilities.

The spot I have thus slightly sketched, seemed consecrated
to rural happiness and rural virtue. And so
it was, and so it long had been; but the time had now
come when that destiny which had carried our forefathers
from the old, followed and overtook them
in the new world. They left their native land to escape
a despotism equally exercised over mind and
body. They sought the wilderness of the west, to enjoy
in the new world, that seemed to have been discovered
on purpose, that freedom of the soul, more
precious than all other freedom. But bigotry and
persecution, those bloody and remorseless fiends that
so often assume the livery of the Prince of Peace, still

followed them in the disguise of political devices, calling
for new sacrifices, new struggles, and new sufferings.
The rights and privileges, for which they had
sacrificed everything in the home of their fathers, were
now to be once more asserted and maintained for the
home of their children. A contest had commenced,
in which a proud and arrogant parent offered every
wrong and violence which power could inflict, or
weakness endure. There was no longer safety in the
cities, or repose in the cottage. It was not only a
war against men, but against women, children, and
domestic animals; against the labours of husbandmen,
and the bounties of the earth. The hen-roost
and the pig-stye, were no longer the prey of four-footed
prowlers, but of gallant soldiers; and no man could
reasonably hope either to reap where he had sown, or
eat the bread he had earned by the sweat of his brow.

It was not alone the foreign mercenaries of a misguided
monarch that assailed the peaceful inhabitants
who dwelt in the district which is the scene of our
story. The army of the invader had now established
its head quarters in New York, and the Americans
were sheltered from a far superiour foe, in the Highlands
of the Hudson. The intermediate space from
Kingsbridge, or Spuytey Duyvel, was consequently a
sort of “debateable land,” like the English and Scottish
borders, before the union of the two kingdoms. It
was occupied by neither party, and it might almost be
said there was neither law or gospel there. The farmers
of this region, who remained at home, some because
they did not know where else to go; some from being
too old to remove; and some, perhaps, in the vain hope

that neutrality would protect them from the ravages
of war, were placed between two fires. Such peculiar
situations are always, in these troubled times, the
scenes of violence and devastation; the resort of
reckless, unprincipled villains, belonging to neither
party, yet a disgrace to both, from alternately passing,
as occasion required, for adherents of one or the other.
Beyond the sphere of military coercion, or the restraints
of civil authority, it is here that the plunderer and
ravisher luxuriates in unrestrained violence, and
weakness and innocence become his unresisting prey.

The enemy, in small parties, made almost daily incursions
from New York, and the sad domestic history
of those melancholy times, if it were written down
from the lips of those who suffered and survived their
calamities, a few of whom yet live to relate them,
would tell, what has never yet been told, the price
at which liberty and independence were bought. On
the other hand, bands of lawless tories of native growth,
aided by a class of worthless outlaws belonging to
no party, but scourges to both, scoured the country at
night, robbing the houses, and often setting them on
fire; stealing the cattle, insulting and maltreating the
wretched women and children, and not unfrequently
murdering the poor victims they had dispoiled. The
devoted inhabitants had no heart to labour, except
from extreme necessity; the fields were fruitful only
of weeds and briars; the fences destroyed, the windows
broken; the roads, as far as could be seen, presented
no living object, and as is ever the case, under
a perpetual succession of suffering, the minds of

the inhabitants had settled down into the dead calm
of apathy or despair.

The little narrow vale, I have been describing, being
several miles from the high road, leading along
the bank of the Hudson, had hitherto, in a great degree,
if not entirely, escaped the ravages either of the red-coats,
the Yagers, or outlawed scum, all whose varieties
were included in the expressive denomination of
Cow Boys and Skinners. But every day, and more especially
every night, afforded indications that the tempest
was gradually approaching nearer and nearer. As the
country along the river became exhausted of the means
of satisfying these lawless plunderers, whose exploits,
we earnestly hope, will never, like those of the Scottish
border thieves, become the theme of poetic eulogium—they
diverged from the high road, and penetrated
into the interior. Now it was that those who
had hitherto escaped the scourge, trembled for their
property and their lives. The farmers no longer rejoiced
in the prospect of a golden harvest, which
they never expected to reap; the women lay awake
at night—trembling at every whispering leaf, or breath
of air; and the children fled from their cherished
sports, at the cry of “the Yagers are coming!” These
Yagers were a band of foreign mercenaries, hired
by our mother country to assist in our subujation; and
being totally ignorant of the grounds of the quarrel,
as well as, beyond doubt, stimulated by the most cruel
misrepresentations of the motives and character of
the people of the United States, are noted in the traditions
of the times for a thousand acts of ruthless
barbarity. Little did they think they were warring

against themselves, and those rights, the enjoyment of
which is now so anxiously sought by thousands of
their countrymen.

The family at the old stone-house consisted of an
aged couple, whose snow-white locks and stooping
figures bore testimony to a long pilgrimage through
this vale of tears; one son, and a grandson of some
nineteen years old. The son had gone forth to give
aid to his country in her hour of peril, and was now
with the army of Washington. The grandson, whose
name was John, remained at home, sorely against his
will, to assist in the management of the farm. But
he longed to go forth and fight by the side of his father,
and frequently joined parties of militia in expeditions
towards Kingsbridge to gain information of the
movements of the enemy, or to protect the inhabitants
from the Yagers, the Skinners, and the Cow Boys. On
one of these occasions he had greatly distinguished
himself, and received the thanks of the gallant Colonel
Philip Van Courtlandt, who commanded the outposts
at Peekskill. He was handsome, active, and possessed
an intrepidity, as well as cool self-possession in time
of danger, that qualifies a man to become a leader in
all desperate or trying occasions. During the first
fourteen years of his life, he had been brought up in
the city of New York, where he received every advantage
of education, until the misfortunes of his father
compelled him to join his parents on the farm, now
their only possession.

One evening, in the lazy month of August, the family
were in quiet chat under an old willow-tree, just at
the door. The party consisted only of the old people,

John, and a young woman named Jane, the only
daughter of Colonel Hammond, a near neighbour, who
had served in the old French war and performed divers
brilliant exploits not recorded in history. The conversation
naturally turned on the state of their country,
and the probability of ere long receiving a visit from
the red coats, the Yagers, or the outlaws, to whom allusion
has previously been made. Its tone was saddened
by gloomy forebodings, for nothing is more depressing
to the mind than perpetual fears, and were it
not that people become used to them, as to every other
evil, their perpetual recurrence would be intolerable.
The aged couple had made up their minds to endure
all that might come with patient acquiescence; but
the youth, though he said not a word, exhibited in the
bright energies of his fiery eye, a far different determination.
After a long pause, the old man, as if suddenly
recovering himself, turned to him, and said—

“So, John, you were out last night. Did you see
anything besides the stars?”

“I saw brighter lights than the stars, sir,” replied
John.

“Aye! what were they—the lights of the north?”

“Only a couple of houses burning. They made the
country smile for miles around. It was a glorious
sight, sir,” said the young man with bitter irony.

“What, the red coats were out, hey?”

“Yes, sir, the red coats—at least, I suppose so—
though when we came up there were none there.
They had reaped the harvest of glory and retired.”

“No, no, John,” said the good woman, who still, like
all the colonists, especially women, cherished a great

respect for red coats, until roused by injuries to resentment
and resistance; “no, John, not the red coats—the
tories and the Yagers.”

“All one to me, mother”—so he always called her
after the death of his own—“British, or tories, or Yagers.
They all hoist the same flag—they are all in
the pay of the same employer. Master and man, like
man and wife, are one flesh. I hold them all alike,
and treat them so, when I meet them.”

“Ah! John, John! you should not bear malice.
Remember, we are commanded to forgive our enemies,
persecutors, and slanderers.”

“I know it, mother, and when our country is free,
and not an enemy's foot-print is to be seen on our soil,
I will obey the command; but while they are every
day inflicting new injuries, I cannot forgive them.”

“Right, John—you say right,” exclaimed the old
man; “and I almost wish you were old enough to be
a soldier. I could find in my heart to send you after
your father, to fight by the side of Washington.”

“Old enough or not, sir, I must go. I can't stay
here any longer. Yesterday, I was pointed at by old
Mrs. Read, who has three sons in the army, as a booby
tied to his grandmother's apron-string, instead of being
among men, defending his country.”

“The wicked old woman!” said Jane, in a half
whisper.

“I'll tell you at once,” continued John, “for it must
out at last. I am going this very night with a party,
to see if we can't catch some of the rascals who steal
our cattle under cover of darkness, and run away by
the light of the burning houses.”

“Don't go—I beseech you not to go, John,” cried the
old grandmother, earnestly.

“I entreat you not to go!” cried Jane, tenderly.

“And I,” exclaimed the old man, “command—no!
God forbid I should prevent your doing anything to
serve our cause and our country!”

“I must go, for I have given my word. I must be
off bright and early in the morning, to procure a pass
from Colonel Philip Van Courtlandt, and shall hardly
be back in time to meet our neighbours at the Hole.
We are to scout during the night towards Kingsbridge,
and must be off as soon as it is dark.”

“Alas!” said Jane, “what can you raw country boys
do against the red coats?”

“Whatever stout hearts and strong arms can do,
Jane,” rejoined the other. “Don't you remember that
blessed little David, the peasant-boy after God's own
heart? how, just as if to humble the pride of the
proud invader, Providence armed him with a sling and
a stone, to overcome Goliah? The destinies of empires,
Jane, is always in the hands of a brave and virtuous
people, let them be ever so poor. Our cause is
that of the lowly against the exalted, and it is for poor
men to maintain it.”

“But, John—John!” cried the grandmother.

But John heard her not. He had relapsed into an
old habit of abstraction, common to minds of a higher
order, and strengthened by being much alone. He
began talking to himself, though his voice was raised,
and his eye kindled with animation.

“I never read that glorious story of little David,
without thinking how much is in the power of every

man, if it pleases God. A sling and a stone! I have
a musket and a sword, and for a good cause—a cause
more just and noble never breathed fire into the soul
of man. The arm of Heaven was against the Philistine,
and will it not be on our side, too? But come
what will, one thing I know—if a good chance happens,
my name shall ring.”

“There—there—now the boy has got on his high
horse again! He grows madder every day. Ring,
indeed! It will never be heard as far as a cow-bell,
John,” cried the old woman, impatiently.

“Yes, ring, mother. I feel as if I could do something
to be remembered if it comes in my way, and if
it don't come, I will seek it. What is it, after all, that
rules the world, but courage and daring? Yonder
strutting game-cock reigns over the poultry-yard, not
because his father reigned before him, but by fighting
his way to power. So with all, except the race of
mankind which claims to wield the sceptre by right
of superior intellect, and yet is continually conceding
it to fools and cowards. By my soul, I think a man
with the heart of a true game-chicken, may be just
what he pleases in a strife like this.”

“The Lord be with you, John!” sighed the old woman,
“you will be shot one of these days.”

“It shall not be for cowardice, or mutiny, then. All
flesh must die, and fish, too, either yesterday, to-day,
or to-morrow. A good deed is better than a long life,
and to die for our country is to live forever.”

“The boy talks like a parson. It wasn't for nothing
his father sent him to the academy in New York,”
said the old man.

“Ah! John—you will be shot one of these days, I
tell you. Remember, life is sweet!” sighed the old
grandmother.

“Only a bitter, which long tasting makes sweet,
mother. But I must go and get ready, for I must start
before daylight. Jane, shall I see you home, for it is
getting dusky. I want to talk to you about the little
ducks and chickens,” said John, sportively, and they
went away together.

“Ducks and chickens!” quoth the dame. “The sly
rogue! Did you hear that?”

“To be sure I did—I know they love each other
dearly.”

“I'm glad of it with all my heart, for Jane is a nice
girl. But what will the colonel say to it? He is rich
and proud, and we are poor and lowly, and what little
we have may be laid waste before to-morrow. The
colonel loves money, I believe, better than even his
daughter.”

“Yes—so he does—so he does,” replied the old man,
thoughtfully. “But who knows but John's queer notions
about making his name ring may come true in
the end? They say, some people have a sort of insight
into what is to come, long before it happens. Who
knows?”

“Who, indeed! Strange things happen in war-time.
I have heard the great Washington was but a farmer's
son.”

“Well—well—old folks that can do nothing but talk
must trust to Providence, and those that can, take care
of themselves. I must make up for John's absence by
stirring my old stumps a little more actively.”

“And so must I; but I wish from my heart the boy
was safe home again from his trip to Kingsbridge,”
exclaimed the good soul, with her apron to her eyes.

They then retired to their humble bed, and Providence,
for that night, blessed them with a repose undisturbed
by Cow Boys, Skinners, or red coats.