University of Virginia Library

10. THE LAST.
THE MESSENGER OF FREEDOM.

Upon the river a boat glided like an arrow toward the eastern
shore, while the last flush of day is in the sky—the last smile of
light on the waters.

In that boat, you see the form of Mayaniko, wielding the oar
that hisses through the waves, as he fixes his eye on the distant
woods. Away, away—the sunlight's last gleam upon your face,
brave Indian! Away, away—with the sacred parchment near
your heart! Away, away—for you have a hundred miles to
ride, ere the rising of the morrow's sun.

“To the Camp—to the Camp of Washington!”

The boat glides into that quiet cove, overhung with boughs
and flowers. Not a moment passes ere his foot is on the shore.
He leaves the boat, and hurries into the wood. There a magnificent
white horse, arrayed in splendid caparisons, awaits him.
At once the Indian unbuckles the splendid saddle, dashes it on
the ground, and, with his blanket waving all around him, leaps
on the bare back of the steed.

He threads the mazes of the wood, and, just as the night comes
down, emerges on the public road. Some farmers, returning
from their daily toil, behold that white horse and his Indian
rider dashing toward them, and shrink back amazed.

“The Camp of Washington?” cried the Indian, bending over
the neck of his horse.

They point the way, and he is gone.

The night comes down—the stars flash out—and still be hurries
on. The steed seems to feel its precious burden—seems to
know that it bears a warrior form and a sacred parchment, and,
with its eye gleaming through the night, thunders away.

One hundred miles before the rising of the sun—ten miles an
hour, with scarce a moment's rest—a second's delay! A brave
thing to do, gallant war-horse; and a deed that will cost you
your life.

Now, in the shadows of a glen—now on the ascent of a hill—
now in sight of the broad river, with its opposite bank lined with
gardens and flowers.

Still the Indian hurries on!

The only word that he speaks, as he rushes into the view of
the belated wayfarer is—The Camp, the Camp of Washington!
The only way in which his dark eye gazes, is to the north, for
there they say it lies, there miles on miles away, the Camp of
Washington!

At last, in the old town of Trenton—which six months afterward
became the scene of Washington's last hope—he reins the
white steed, surrounded by a crowd who hurry from their doors
with torches in their hands. They gaze in wonder upon the
panting horse; this tall rider, with his straight dark hair, lined
with a coronal of snow-white feathers, and the blanket of many
colors floating from his shoulders.

You may see them stand in the street, circling round Wayaniko,
the lights above their head, the dark town all around.

“The way,” he cries—“the way to the camp of Washington!”

He sees their extended hands; that space in the street is vacant;
far through the night clatters the sound of hoofs, and gleams the
vision of the white steed and his Indian rider.

The moon rises, the hours glide, Princeton and Brunswick are
passed. The Raritan gleams far behind in the light of the moon.
The road rises over rocks and hills, then the Indian messenger
is lost in the bosom of thick woods. Still the brave horse,
urged to his utmost speed, bathed all over with foam, bounds
from the earth and skims along.

The moon rises! Slowly up yonder hill, rugged with crags,
dark with pines, the white horse toils along, his master's blanket
fluttering down his flanks. Not once is that Indian's face
turned back; still his dark eye to the north, still he looks for the
camp of Washington.

The moon rises! A flying cloud overspreads it with a veil.
Down into the hollow where the brook boils beneath the trembling
bridge; down into the stream with the cool water flowing
round the limbs of the panting steed. For a moment he pauses,
suffers the horse to wet his nostrils and his mouth in the grateful

current, and then presses his flanks with his knee and bids
him on!

As the cloud rolls from the moon, do you see that wide meadow,
its sea of grass waving in the clear light, with the white
horse dashing over its surface, while the Indian towers erect
on his back, the war blanket fluttering far behind him!

The moon sinks from her throne in the zenith. Down through
the clouds that float about her, down through the blue vault
until her horizental rays tremble faintly over the wide expanse
of hills and valleys.

Along the dark wood where log huts rise among the pines,
the white horse thunders now. Panting, foaming, his mane
waving in the cool breeze, he glides along, while the blood begins
to mingle with the froth around his nostrils.

Look! A crowd of dark forms overspread the road; you see
their rifles rise, their knives gleam. Tories, in the garb of soldiers;
their challenge rings out upon the night.

“Who goes there?”

But the White Indian does not reply. Hark! the crack of
rifles; a cloud of smoke rolls round his form. He does not
look behind, nor turn to either side; the bullet grazes the tiger
skin about his breast, but the sacred parchment is safe. He
dashes on, while the Tories, gazing upon his retreating form,
hear the deep words—“The Camp of Washington!”

The moon goes down. Pale and dim, her disc, half seen,
trembles over the distant woods, before it sinks to darkness.
The night grows dark. We have lost sight of Mayaniko; ah,
the horse has fallen, the rider pants exhausted by the roadside!
Is it so?

Look yonder through this gloom that gathers so dark before
the break of day, and fix your eyes upon the summit of that
steep hill. On one side a wood—you see it extend, a darkening
mass. On the other a level field, overspread with waving
wheat. A rude hut built among the trees, gives forth from its
window a glare of light. The plain cottager has risen; he is
about to begin his day's toil. He comes forth and stands before
his home, a brawny man, with a coarse dress on his broad
chest, the marks of toil upon his face.

But what sight is this that meets his eyes in the dimness of
the daybreak hour?

Writhing in the roadside bank, his nostrils flooding the dust
with blood, a noble white horse stretches out his limbs, raises
his head, quivers along his flanks, and then is still.

Over him stands a form, which fills the rough laborer with
awe. Into the hut he passes, returns with a light, shading its
rays with the palm of his hand, he approaches, and beholds an
Indian standing with folded arms beside the dying horse. The
heart of the noble beast has burst—look! how its warm blood
pours in a torrent over the road.

The Indian stands with folded arms, his head sunken and his

eyes fixed upon the steed. As the cottager surveys that form,
with the war blanket drooping from the shoulders, the coronal
of feathers waving over the dark hair, he starts back with awe.

For the last time the dying horse lifts his head and fixes his
eye upon his master's form. Then all is over; he lays there,
dead.

The Indian turns—

“The Camp of Washington?” he cries with a voice that
makes the cottager start.

“Look yonder!” exclaims the laborer, as the wind extinguishes
his light.

There, from the summit of the hill, the Indian looks and sees,
a wide expanse of waters heaving in the dim light of the day-break
sky—a black mass, like a wall of ebony, extending along
the distant horizon.

That expanse of waters, the waves of Manhattan Bay—that
wall of ebony the City of New York.

“A boat? A canoe?”

“There aint none within three miles”—hesitates the cottager.

At once the resolution of the Indian is taken; at once he flings
the blanket from his shoulders, the tiger-skin from his breast,
and stands there naked to the waist, disclosing a form, magnificent
in its broad chest and boldly defined muscles. He winds
the parchment in the locks of his long straight hair; secures it
with a cord; and while the plume waves over his brow, hurries
to the river.

A footstep on the sand, a sudden plunge—

Long before the threshold of his home, stood the cottager,
watching that white plume gleaming from the blackness of the
waves.

Through the shadows of a spacious chamber, struggled the
rays of a taper, its waning light imparting a deeper gloom to
the massive furniture, the cumbrous hangings and the curtained
bed.

A man of some forty-five years, whose muscular limbs were
clad in a long dark dressing gown, had sunk to sleep in an arm-chair,
after many weary hours of labor. His hand resting on
the table, still grasped the pen, which marked the unfinished
sentence of his letter. By that hand a sheathed sword; over
that table a mass of papers, bearing the name of great men, and
involving the fate of a nation.

And as this tired soldier slept, the light flickered lower in the
socket and the first gleam of day came through the parted curtains.

Suddenly a cry was heard, the tramp of a footstep! At the
very instant the soldier awoke from his sleep, started to his feet,
and listened. That footstep grew nearer, the door was flung

open, a strange form stood on the threshold, bared to the waist,
and dripping from the dark hair to the moccasined feet with
spray.

Yes it was a noble form, with bold features, and large eyes,
that now rolled wildly in their sockets. Over the brow of this
strange apparition, waved a coronal of snow-white plumes.

The soldier started with surprise, and pressed his hands over
his eyes, as though he beheld the vision of a dream.

But the figure tottered forward, tore a parchment from the
locks of his dark hair, and as he held it aloft, fell like a dead
man to the floor.

The soldier bent down and grasped the parchment, and hurrying
to the window, unclosed it before the first beam of the
rising day.

By that beam of morning light, George Washington, with a
quickening pulse and kindling eye, perused the Declaration
of Independence.

— And the same dawn that shone on his brow, shone
through the cottage home by the still waters, on the sleeping
form of the bride, whose lips parted in a smile, as in a dream,
she saw the dangers that had passed, the trials that had once
darkened her life—

The Rose of Wissahikon.