University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
THE SPEAKING CORPSE.

Major Willoughby had been frequently solicited
to accept of some civil office in his native
state, but always declined the proposal as
incongenial to his more active disposition. But
in the year 1790, when the Indians of the southwestern
frontier resumed the hatchet and the
scalping knife, and commenced their desolating
incursions among our back settlements, he again
buckled on the cuiras, and braved the dangers
of the western wilderness against these unprincipled
savages. But the Sword of Washington
was on his thigh, which, in his romantic imagination,
was a talisman more potent than any
recorded in the fables of antiquity. But he had
not now to contend with an honorable magnanimous
enemy, but to cope with foes more ferocious
than the panthers that prowled their forests,
more subtle than the serpents which infested
their morasses. A battle was fought in the winter
following, in which the Americans gained
nothing but honorable wounds, and suffered the
loss of near seven hundred of their bravest
troops. Willoughby was wounded, and General
St. Clair very narrowly escaped destruction.
Many skirmishes, much hardships, and little
success attended their subsequent campaigns,
until the year 1794, when, on the twentieth of August,
under the gallant Wayne, they obtained a

complete and decisive victory, near the rapids
of the Miami, where the Indians were totally
defeated, and the foundation laid of a safe and
durable peace.

Previous to this important event, Willoughby
had lost a friend to whom he was very strongly
attached, in the death of Robert Elliott. This
gentleman was unfortunately slain near the Muskingum
river, by a party of hostile Indians,
while he was conducting the necessary supplies
for the American army. This melancholy event
cast a peculiar gloom over the mind of Willoughby,
and it was some time before he recovered
his wonted cheerfulness.

On the morning of the twentieth of August, he
felt unusually dejected, and never had entered an
action with such depression of spirits and gloomy
forebodings, as now hung about him. His personal
courage had not deserted him, but he
felt sensations which he could neither account
for nor describe. Something seemed to impress
him with the idea that some heavy disaster was
impending over him, and that he should never
again embrace his dear Amelia, or kiss his
prattling babes. It was now five months since
he had left them on the present campaign, and
nearly two since he had received a letter from
his wife. If he should fall in the approaching
contest, it would afford her some consolation to
receive his last farewell. He therefore seized
a pencil and hastily wrote a few tender lines,
bidding Amelia and her children an affectionate
adieu, which he directed to be dispatched by
express, should the event prove fatal to himself;
then breathing a silent but fervent prayer
for the safety and happiness of his family, he

was in a moment ready for the field. “My God,
my Country, and Washington!” he exclaimed
as he drew his well-tried sword, and Willoughby
“was himself again.”

In the hottest of the engagement, while hatchets,
swords and bayonets were clashing in dreadful
response to the hellish yells of the savages,
the right hand of Willoughby was pierced by
an arrow, and the sword of Washington fell
from his grasp. He had scarcely regained it
when the stroke of a tomahawk severed the
same hand from his wrist. In this situation,
unable to retreat, he fought with his left hand,
until fainting with loss of blood, he was carried
from the field. In the mean time the enemy
were routed, and the victory decided.

“O that I had a son!” exclaimed Willoughby
when the surgeon had finished dressing his wound,
“O that I had a son to inherit this sword, since
I can no more wield it myself. Had I but one
son to give my country in my room. I would
swear never to repine at this misfortune, or any
other that may befal me. I had bound myself
by a most solemn vow, never to relinquish this
weapon but with life, and twice, this ill-omened
day, has it been struck from my hand by a
savage. O that I had a son to redeem my vow.”

“You have a son!” murmured a voice in a
low, but very distinct accent. Every eye was
directed to the spot, where lay the lifeless body
of a Miami Chief, who had fallen early in the
action. The anguish of Willoughby's wound
was now almost forgotten in the amazement
that absorbed his every faculty, and all present
exhibited signs of the most unaffected astonishment.
Each one was well convinced that

there was neither life nor motion in the gigantic
form before them; and that the words proceeded
from no other source, they were, however
reluctantly, compelled to believe. If any
doubts existed on that point, they were instantly
removed; for the same words were repeated, almost
in the ear of an officer who was stooping
to examine the corpse, and yet sufficiently audible
and articulate for every one present to
hear and understand: “You have a son, to redeem
your vow.”

More than eight hundred miles from the field
of battle, at that moment, the wife of Willoughby
was delivered of an infant. He was, at length,
blest with a son! Blest, did I say? It was a
blessing purchased at a dreadful price, to have
redeemed which, he would have been willing
to relinquish son, daughters, fortune, fame, and
all. Amelia expired in giving it birth! Happy
for Willoughby he did not learn the dreadful truth
until his health was in a great degree restored.
Few men had loved like him—few men ever
experienced anguish like his.

A very natural curiosity in those who witnessed
the foregoing phenomenon, induced a most
critical contemplation of this oracular corpse.
And here a new source of surprise and admiration
presented itself. More symmetry of form, regularity
of features, and dignity of countenance,
were never united in man. The prowess of Hercules
appeared combined with the graces of Adonis.
His death-wound was directly through his
heart, and made by a rifle ball: but no distortion
of feature was visible in his aspect; and nothing
like ferocity had shaded the placidity of his brow.
His eyes were closed as in a pleasant sleep, and

every muscle composed in majestic serenity. His
hatchet lay by his side, and he had a dagger in his
girdle of wampum. But who he was, remained an
impenetrable mystery. Several prisoners were
brought to examine him, but neither of them would
acknowledge that he knew him, although his
countenance was one of those which can never be
forgotten. Previous to his being removed from
the spot where he fell, an expert artist, belonging
to the regiment, took a faithful copy of this interesting
figure, painted at full length, which he presented
to Major Willoughby on the termination of
the campaign.