University of Virginia Library

LEGEND SEVENTH.
THE HUNTER OF THE ALLEGHANIES.

Ninety-three years ago — from the ninth of
July, 1848 — a man of almost giant stature,
clad in the garb of a hunter, emerged from the
shadows of a western forest, and stood in the
sunlight, upon the summit of a rock, which overhung
the waves of a wood-embosomed river.

It was a calm day in summer. There was
no cloud in the sky; no shadow on the waves.
The air whispered in subdued murmurs through
the leaves of the colossal trees, and the river,
flashing in the sun, rolled through the solitude
with wild flowers scattered upon its bosom.

And the hunter, a man of gaunt form, and
sunburnt face, seamed with scars, rested his
arms upon his rifle, and surveyed the scene
with a quiet delight. Standing thus alone,
amid the silence and verdure of the green
forest, he looked like an impersonation of those
rugged pioneers of the white race, who combine
the craft of civilization, with the costume
and manners of the red men.

The scene was marked by peculiar features.
Gazing up the river, the hunter beheld on one
side the sombre verdure of a trackless forest,
advancing to the very brink of the waters; on
the other a level plain — bordered by woods
— succeeded by a sloping hill, with depth of
woods beyond, rising boldly into the summer
sky.

There were dismal ravines among those
woods — paths of difficulty and danger, beside
that river; and the hunter clutched his rifle,
while a grim smile crossed his scarred features
as the thought of his Indian foes flashed over
his brain.

Still, clad in his garb of skins, with a hunting
shirt worn over all, and girt by a leathern
belt to his waist, this man of the wilderness,
whose delight it was to track the wild beast to
its lair, or follow the Indian on his way of
death, leaned upon his rifle, while his sunken
eyes began to flash and brighten in his sunburnt
face.

It was high noon.

The silence of the wilderness was unbroken
by a sound.

Here waved the forest leaves, gorgeous with
the drapery of summer; there flashed the river,
bearing stray flowers upon its tremulous
bosom; yonder, on the northern shore,
extended the plain, with the hill rising gently
toward the distant wood.

In fact, the river and the plain, and sloping
hill, embosomed among woods, smiled in the
noonday sun, without one floating cloud to
shadow their beauty, or dim the tranquil azure
of the summer sky.

While the hunter stood on the projecting
rock, drinking the silence and the fragrance of
the untrodden wild, a change came suddenly
over the scene. The blast of a war trumpet
was borne upon the air; a war banner fluttered
in glimpses on the sight.

That trumpet was the voice of an army;
that banner waved over the heads of twelve
hundred men in battle array.

It was a very beautiful sight to see, as
emerging from the shadows, they came along
the southern bank of the river, with the great
forest on one hand, and the river, rolling and
flashing on the other. Banners were waving
there, and drum answered to trumpet, as they
came, and the tread of twelve hundred men
awoke the echoes of the woody glen.

There were British soldiers with their scarlet
coats glaring, and their burnished arms
flashing in the sun; there was the pride of the
Virginian chivalry, clad in huntsman attire;

and there, riding leisurely along, upon a snow-white
steed, came the general of the host, upon
whose word hung twelve hundred lives.

He was a man of commanding presence,
with a golden-hilted sword by his side, and a
laced chapeau upon his forehead. A scarlet
coat, adorned with gold lace, displayed the
strength and elegance of his warrior form; his
florid face, stamped with an abiding complacency,
was ruffled with a smile.

Around him rode a band of gallant men, the
officers of his staff, arrayed, like their General,
in scarlet and tinsel.

Only one in that band was attired in different
costume; only one did not mingle in
the laughter, or take part in the careless conversation.

He was a youth of twenty-three years, and
his pale cheek bore traces of sickness. Over
his blue uniform a hunting shirt was thrown,
but it did not conceal the noble outline of his
tall form, nor altogether hide the proportions
of his manly chest. Mounted upon a dark
bay horse, he rode forward in silence, his grey
eyes flashing from his pale face with steady
light.

On this side the woods — yonder the river
— around him the glitter of tinsel and the
waving of plumes, and the youth of twenty-three
years laid one hand absently upon the flowing
mane of his steed, while the other rested upon
the hilt of his sword. His thoughts were far
away — his absent eye and pale cheek contrasted
strongly with the laughing faces which
encircled him.

The General and his Staff were thinking gay
thoughts and talking pleasant words in that
quiet summer hour.

The youth of twenty-three was the only
silent one in the band. Unsheathing his gold-hilted
sword, the General pointed to the
opposite shore, where the level plain, embosomed
among woods, rose into a gently sloping
hill, backed by a sombre forest and a
smiling sky:

“Before sunset, Fort Duquesne is ours,” he
said, with a smile. “Our men will cross the
river at this ford, ascend yonder hill, and
traverse ten miles of forest road, which lie
between us and the fort, ere the setting of the
sun. The banner of his Majesty will wave
over the conquered fort before the day is gone.”

The gallant men who rode near their General
chorussed his words, and amid the tramp of
that legion of armed men, the roll of drum and
the peal of trumpet, you might have heard
their exclamations —

“Before sunset, the flag will wave over the
conquered fort!”

The youth of twenty-three did not mingle
in the chorus. He cast his glance toward the
opposite shore — toward those magnificent
woods, whose depths embosomed dismal
ravines — toward the far-off hill-top, which
was separated from Fort Duquesne by a wilderness
of ten miles; and his lip was compressed,
his cheek grew paler, his eye gathered
new fire.

Only the night before he had started from
the sick couch and mounted his war horse.
Perchance the fever still lingered in his veins;
but his face was shrouded in sadness — his
heart was shadowed by a vague but overwhelming
foreboding.

The General turned to him with a laugh —

“Colonel, you are gloomy to-day,” he said.
“But then you have just risen from a sick
couch, and the road is rough and fatiguing.
In a little while, however, the danger and the
peril will be over. To-night we will sleep in
Fort Duquesne, and drink a bumper to the
health of our King.”

The young man urged his horse nearer to
the General's side.

“General,” he said, bending toward him,
and speaking in a whisper, “there are dangerous
coverts on yonder shore — fatal ravines
in the depths of yonder woods. Let me take
a band of picked men, and beat the covert and
explore the ravines, before the whole body of
our men cross the river.”

There was an inexpressible earnestness in
his voice — a steady light in his grey eye.

The General uttered an ejaculation of impatience:

“There is no danger,” he exclaimed, assuming
all the dignity of a General in the regular
service. “To-night we will sleep in Fort
Duquesne.”

The young man did not reply; and while
the bugle answered to the drum, and the
solemn grandeur of the forest was contrasted
by the flashing of the waters, General Braddock

and Colonel Washington rode side by
side on the border of the Monongahela.

Twelve hundred men, some clad in scarlet,
others in blue — some lifting their glittering
bayonets into light — others girding their tried
rifles in sinewy arms, were marching there,
with their General in their midst, and the sad
eye of George Washington glancing from line
to line.

And the same breeze which fanned the pale
cheek of the young soldier, lifted the great
banner of England into light, and tossed its
gay emblazonry over plumes and bayonets of
the armed men.

It was a sight, mingling grandeur and beauty,
to see these soldiers emerge from the solemn
shadows, and take their way along the river's
verge; but as the glittering array, parting into
three divisions, prepared to ford the river, while
the bugles rang with merrier peals, the scene
assumed a deeper interest, a stranger and wilder
grandeur.

Braddock, reining his white horse near the
shore, saw the first division, of three hundred
men, march into the waves in exact order,
while the banner fluttered in their van. The
face of the brave General was clad in smiles;
his voice, heard in repeated commands, was
gay and boisterous.

And as the bayonets of the first division
glittered near the northern shore, the second
division, two hundred strong, left the southern
shore, with the roll of drum and the clang of
trumpet. Beautiful it was to see their burnished
arms, reflecting the blaze of noonday,
and firing the tremulous waves with masses of
dazzling light.

And as the General saw the first division
ascend the opposite bank, the second fording
the river; he himself led on the third, — the
main body of his brave army, — and while
his white horse bent down to slake his thirst
in the cool waves, he beheld the artillery and
the baggage train, slowly urging onward, while
the thoughtful young soldier, rode in silence at
his side.

There was no smile upon the face of young
Washington. True, the sky was smiling beyond
the opposite woods, but dismal ravines
were hidden beneath those groups of foliage;
deathly coverts lurked beneath those bowers
of summer verdure.

And yet it was a magnificent thing to see
this brave band parting into three divisions —
one flashing on yonder plain, the second
emerging from the waves, and the third toiling,
on in mid-stream —while from each division
trumpet answered trumpet, and the clattering
of arms, the tread of regular columns, the
neighing of war steeds, gave omen of a day of
glory, to be followed by a night of victorious
repose.

The grim hunter who stood upon the rocks
beheld it all. Saw the first division ascend
the hill, the second emerge upon the opposite
shore, and the third in the midst of the waters,
and then the animated face of Braddock, side
by side with the pale visage of Washington, for
a moment enchained his gaze.

He left the tree which had sheltered him;
he descended from the rock, and drew near the
shore. A solitary soldier, whose red coat
shamed the hunter's grim array, lingered there,
the last to cross the river, the last man of the
army. His foot was in the water, when the
hand of the hunter pressed his shoulder.

“Drink, man, drink, from the river, before
you cross,” cried the hunter to the astonished
soldier, “For there's a warm day before you,
and your next draught will be of blood.”

And while the soldier, startled at the appearance
of the gaunt backwoodsman, shrunk from
his touch, the hunter clasped his rifle more
firmly in his knotted fingers, and dashed
through the river's waves.

We will see him again, when the fight goes
on most horribly under its pall of cloud; the
rifle which he grasps is the fate of yonder
gallant army.

Meanwhile, Braddock, passing from the
river to the shore, — his eye drinking in, with
one quick glance, the blue sky, the encircling
woods, and the hillside clad in scarlet and steel,
— Braddock we say, the General of the army,
who had been trained to war on the parade
ground of Hyde Park, turned with a smile to
the young Virginian who rode near his
side.

“The sky is clear, Colonel, — to-night we
sleep in Fort Duquesne!”