University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER THE THIRD.
THE BLACK RANGERS.

As the last gleam of sunset glanced through the
foliage of a long line of towering elm and chestnut
trees, whose luxuriant verdure marked the course of
a winding bye road, some three miles north of Chestnut
Hill, a party of soldiers were pursuing their
way, under the interlacing boughs, that made a pastoral
arcade of the serpentine lane, and shielded
their path and persons from any intrusive observer.
The soldiers, numbering some twenty-five in all,
were mounted each on a stout and well limbed
steed, black in hue, with flowing mane and tail.
Their tall and sinewy forms were clad in a costume
which, peculiar to their body, would have marked
them out for observation amid the gaudy trappings
of a numerous army. They wore black coats, reaching
to the knee, and fitting closely over their prominent
and muscular chests, and varied in appearance
by a border of black fur around the skirt of
the garment, with a plain line of braiding running
up in front, until it was terminated by the simple
upright collar, buttoning closely round the neck.
A belt of dark leather, from which depended a

powder horn, was slung across the breast; another
belt of similar material girdled the waist, supporting
the scabbard of a short straight sword; while
a glittering hunting knife, with handle of the wild
deer's antlers, depended from the right side; and
a small rifle, with barrel of elegant finish and
stock of mahogany, varied by ornaments of silver,
hung at the saddle-bow of each soldier. On the
head, each rifleman wore a small circular fur cap,
with a feather of the night-hawk, drooped to the
left side, to supply the place of a plume. Their
legs were encased as far as the knees, in well fiting
black boots, displaying the manly proportions of
each muscular leg, the bend below the knee, the
prominent calf and sloping ankle, to every advantage.

Each man of the party was tall, broad chested,
and well proportioned, and each bore upon his
scarred and rugged features, the marks of the spear
thrust, the sword cut, and the bullet wound. They
were such men as would have delighted the heart
of a crusading knight of the thirteenth century,
with all the wild love of adventure—all the daring
courage, and all the frank, hardy qualities which
mark the soldier, who—as the old writer phrases
it—“fight for his own hand” independent of the
great body of an army. And then they sat on
their steeds so well, so gallantly; each ranger
riding firm and erect, adapting his limbs to the

movement of the horse, and guiding him without
having any recourse to the bridle.

It would have been no easy matter to have
picked men of such form, strength and stature from
a regiment of common soldiers, yet the leader of
the Black Rangers, who rode at their head, was to
all appearances, as much superior in all these, as
well as many other qualities to his own gallant
band, as they were superior to the promiscuous
gatherings of an army.

Tall in stature, with a form moulded with the
outline of physical power softened by the gentler
proportions of manly grace, an air and beauty that
marked him out from the mass of common men, a
face warmed with the glow of youth, yet impressed
with the indelible lines of thought, Herbert Arnheim
Tracy was in every point of view worthy of
his reputation (won in the short compass of a year)
of being one of the bravest among the brave, the
first in the storm, the foremost in the charge, the
most untiring in the pursuit, and as obnoxious to
the enemy in the retreat as in the chase.

His face impressed the observer with a high idea
of the intellect expressed in each lineament. His
forehead, high and pale, and bearing the wrinkles
of thought, was relieved by his raven black hair
which fell in luxuriant locks almost to his shoulders.
His eyes, of that deep and thoughtful blackness
which is ever accompanied by strong mental

powers, shone like coals of the living flame from
under his strongly marked and arching eyebrows,
with a clear, steady glance, that told of old memories
stirring up within him, and prospects of the
dim future agitating the depths of his mind. His
nose was small and Grecian, his mouth a thought
too wide, with thin, expressive lips; his chin was
small prominent square and decided in its outline,
while the general contour of his face was in harmony
with the regular lines of manly beauty.

As to his dress, he wore the uniform of his band,
the black frock coat, edged with fur; the boots of
a similar hue; the small sword was suspended from
his left side; the hunting knife was inserted in his
belt, and a small chain of burnished steel passed
over his left shoulder, supported a light hunting
horn of silver, rimmed with gold, which ever hung
ready for immediate use under his right arm. In
place of the feather of the night-hawk worn by his
men, his cap wore in front a long drooping plume
of eagles' feathers, which fell to one side, and
mingled with the luxuriant locks of his raven
hair.

Had you seen Captain Herbert Tracy's mind as
he then rode along the sequestered lane, at the
head of his gallant band, you would have discovered
many a bitter thought sweeping athwart the surface
of his soul, mingling with many a memory of olden
time, many a dreary imagining of future doom,

and many a thought of those he loved, who loved
him not, and many a musing of one who returned
his affection with a deep and burning passion.

A dream, a bright reverie of his early days was
now present with his fancy, and the sunny glades
and the shady recesses of the Wissahikon were
again around him, and again he wandered through
the forests that overlooked the world-hidden stream,
arm in arm with that father, from whose heart and
home he was now a stranger and an outcast.

And then came the memory of the bitter day,
when that father's curse rang in his ears. There
was the small library-room in which the dreamings
of his boyhood had been fed with the additional
fancies from the perusal of the tomes of romance.
The dull light of a November day came through
the solitary window of the apartment, and again,
with words of eloquent persuasion, his father, by
birth an Englishman, and a Loyalist from principle,
endeavored to convince his son of the rectitude of
the cause of Royalty and its intimate connection
with his future pursuits and expectations. For
after a life of voluntary exile from his native land,
after burying his mind and talents for years amid
the shades of the Wissahikon, while his heart was
eating itself away with deep broodings of one of
the last descendants of an honored line, condemned
to comparative penury, Major Herbert Wallingford
Tracy found himself suddenly placed by the death

of various intermediate heirs, but one remove from
the Earldom of Wallingford, whose domains were
located in one of the fairest counties of England,
where his ancestors, a long and honored line, had
lived and flourished since the Conquest. On the
death of the present aged and childless Earl, Major
Tracy would become Earl of Wallingford, and his
son, whose strong innate powers he had often noted
with all a parent's love, would, after his decease,
succeed to the title and estates of the ancient house,
to add, as the father hoped, renewed glory and increased
honor to the records of the venerable line.

But all his hopes, the hopes of a bold, a strong
minded, and worldly ambitious man, soured by the
disappointments of youth into a misanthrope, were
met at the very outset, by the plain, candid, and
fearless declaration of his son, that he could not
draw his sword against the land that gave him
birth.

And then, wound up to a pitch of madness, by
this utter prostration of all his ambitious dreams,—
for Major Tracy had thought to win royal favor for
his son, by the devotion of his influence and his
sword to the cause of royalty,—the father raised
his hand to heaven, and with unquivering lip and
steady eye, cursed that son of all his hopes, and
then thrust him, like an unclean thing, from the
home of his infancy and the side of his betrothed.
Her father, Mr. Waltham, had refused to consummate

the marriage of his daughter with an outcast,
and pour his well filled coffers at the feet of one,
who was a rebel in his opinion—not to his royal
majesty George the Third—but, what was a matter
of much greater consequence, “to the rich Squire
Waltham,” a rebel to all that was high and holy in
religion or nature; or, in other words, that Herbert
Arnheim Tracy was a poor man.

When Herbert departed from the mansion of his
infancy, it was with the determination to join the
banner of Washington. A small fortune bequeathed
to him by a distant relative in Philadelphia, which
he was now enabled to claim, having just attained
his majority, afforded him the means of fitting out
a band of brave farmers' sons, who had known him
from his infancy, and other gallant spirits, and embodying
them in a band which soon became widely
known as Captain Tracy's Mounted Rifles, the
Night Hawks or the Black Rangers.

In less than a year he had gained honor and renown,
and now, after an absence from the home of
his childhood of that duration, he found himself
returning toward the wilds of the Wissahikon, with
the thought of his father's curse hanging heavy over
his soul, and dismal forebodings of the future fate
of his betrothed, giving a melancholy tinge to all
his feelings and fancies.

His meditations were interrupted by the voice of
a war worn veteran at his side. He was a soldier

of a quarter of a century's growth, and had served
under Braddock in the old French wars.

“We shall have warm work of it to-morrow—
Cap'in.”

“Aye, Sergeant, we shall have warm work, most
certainly.”

“Trust our band will remember our trumpeter
boy, Capt'in.”

“He who was murdered some months since, you
mean? Our band of gallant fellows will never forget
the massacre of the young trumpeter, Sergeant
Brown. How far do you think we are from the
British camp, Sergeant?”

“'Bout five miles, Capt'in; three miles to Chestnut
Hill, and two from thence to Chew's House,
which I larn is the location of the Britishers' campment.”

“It must be about five miles then, to the Paper
Mill Run on the Wissahikon?”

“Jist the same, Capt'in.”

“Do you think it will be possible, Sergeant, to
pass the British lines, and reach the Run within an
hour's time?”

“Possible and impossible, Capt'in, jist as you
take it. If you take the bed of the Wissahikon,
and pass the Britishers under cover of the brushwood,
'long side of it—that's what I call possible,
and you'll succeed. If you try any other ways—
that's what I call impossible, and you'll not succeed,

but you will get shot. But what is that thing
bowin' and scrapin' yonder?”

Herbert looked in the direction pointed out by
the Sergeant, and discovered a singular figure, bowing
and posturing after a most curious fashion, at
the distance of some twenty paces; directly in the
centre of the lane, in front of the Rangers' pathway.
On approaching nearer to this singular
figure, it resolved itself into a short, broad-shouldered
negro, with an exceedingly large black face,
flat nose, thick lips and prominent chin, large eyes
with very small pupils, and very large “whites;”
hips and shin-bones of tremendous prominence, feet
of colossal size, and general figure as grotesque in
outline, and as ludicrous in proportion, as though
Nature had turned caricaturist, and manufactured a
walking libel upon the whole monkey tribe.

“Massa Herbert, Massa Herbert—” exclaimed
the negro, making a profound bow as the Rangers
approached—“If dar ar be you jest say so, for
gorra-mighty, Lord bless us, dis nigger am tired—
dat am a fac. I'b been hunting you, eber since
yesterday mornin', way up to de Skippack creek,
sixteen miles from here, as true as my name am
Charles de Fust, and I hab'ent found you till dis
berry instant. De berry debbil's to pay at home,
and no pitch hot.”

“Why, Charley! is that you!” cried Captain
Tracy, as he recognized one of his father's domestics

in the negro, “what message have you got for
me? Who sent you?”

“Dar's de message I hab for you, and Miss Marian
Waltham sent me. True as my name's Charles
de Fust.”

Herbert took the carefully folded note from the
hands of the negro, and, with a beating heart, recognized
the handwriting of his betrothed in the
simple direction—“To Captain Herbert Arnheim
Tracy.” With a nervous hand he broke open the
seal, and read—

“God of Heaven!” exclaimed Tracy, as his
cheek grew for a moment lividly pale—“the letter
is dated yesterday, and yet, Charles, you have
failed to deliver it until this moment. Tell me,
sirrah,” he continued, raising himself in his stirrups,
as his eye flashed with anger—“Wherefore this
neglect? Answer me truly, or by the God that
lives, the next tree and a strong cord shall be
yours!”

“Gorra-mighty, Lord bless us, sure as my name's
Charles de Fust,” stammered the negro, half frightened

out of his wits as he stood bowing in front of
Herbert's horse. “Massa Herbert, what's de use
ob workin' yusef in a passhun? Dese am de facts
ob de case. Two days ago, Massa Waltham, who
libs on de Ridge Road, came ober to Major Tracy's
on a visit. Brought Miss Marian wid him—and de
old fellow was seized by paralytic stroke while at
the Major's—t'ought he was going to die—den him
and your fader make up match between his darter
and dat red coat scamp, Leftenant Wellwood Tracy.
Under dem circumstances Miss Marian dispatch me
off, wid dis note for you. Went up to deSkippack
—could n't find you dar. Dey sed you was gone
out a scouting. Been a follering you up eber
since—and here I be, and dere you are, and Miss
Marian's goin' to be married to dat renegate dis
ebenin'. So if you gwain to do anyting, you better
do it mighty dam quick. Sure's my name's Charles
de Fust.”

“Sergeant,” cried Herbert, turning hurriedly
to the veteran Brown, who rode at his elbow.—
“You know the place of rendezvous? The deserted
mansion among the copse of horse chestnut
trees, about a quarter of a mile hence?”

“The place called the Haunted House?”

“The same. Let the Rangers disperse in every
direction in search of intelligence as regards the
force, numbers, and position of the enemy. We
meet again at twelve to-night at the Haunted

House. It is now dark—disperse the Rangers, Sergeant!”

The Sergeant touched his hat, and presently the
Rangers were seen disappearing in various directions.
“Charles de Fust” was left standing alone
with the Captain.

“They have a desperate game to play,” Herbert
muttered in a whisper, that came through his
clenched teeth. “She is mine—mine by all that
is sacred. Wo be to him who shall say me nay!—
By the God that lives—”

The oath was scattered to the air, and the astonished
negro beheld Herbert plunging the spurs into
the sides of his ebon steed, who swept through field
and meadow with the speed of wind, and in an instant
was lost in the shades of a neighboring forest.

“Dat am berry perlite! Berry! To leave me all
alone here in de middle ob de road! Berry perlite;
—Gorra-mighty, Lord bless us—sure's my name's
Charles de Fust!”