University of Virginia Library

2. BOOK THE SECOND.
CHEW'S HOUSE.

1. CHAPTER THE FIRST.
THE BATTLE MORN.

The morning of Saturday, the 4th of October,
1777, dawned slowly and heavily; and the sky was
obscured by dimly defined masses of clouds and
mist, that overhung the pathway of the sun, and
extended, like one vast shroud, along the dome of
heaven, enveloping hill, and plain, and stream, in
the density of its folds.

Objects were not discernible at more than fifty
paces, and, not unfrequently, the weary eye of the
soldier in vain essayed to define the outline of
marching troops, opposing enclosures, brushwood
or trees, not more than twenty paces in front of
his path.

As the first glimmering of dawn began to steal
over the landscape, the American army resumed
their march, unmarked by the roll of drum or the
peal of trumpet. The only sounds that disturbed
the silence of the atmosphere were the monotonous
tread of men and horses, shaking the earth, like
the low moaning of far off thunder, and ever and

anon the words of command, uttered in a suppressed
tone of voice, passed along the line; and these
sounds, mingled with the jar of clanking swords,
the shrill neigh of the mettled war-horse, and the
thousand half subdued noises that accompany the
movements of a large body of armed men, were all
the tokens that served to warn the surrounding farmers
and peasantry to flee from the scene of the
approaching conflict.

At the head of the central body, with Wayne on
one side and Sullivan on the other, rode the Man of
the Army, his tall form seeming yet more lofty, as
it loomed through the mist, and his face impressed
with an expression of solemn determination, as he
gave to his various aids-de-camp the orders of the
day, the directions regulating the march, or as he
imparted farther instructions in relation to the attack
and surprise.

The deep and prolonged murmur and half-suppressed
bustle, that was heard to the right and left
of the central body, served to show that the divisions
of Greene and Stephen on the left wing, and
the militia of Maryland and Jersey on the extreme
left, as well as the brigade of Pennsylvania on the
extreme right, were defiling east and west, to take
their respective positions in the approaching
struggle.

As the central division advanced in regular order
over the fields, and through the woods, that lay between

the Haunted House and Chestnut Hill, the
fog seemed to deepen, and the light of day served
only to render the gloom more apparent, and objects
around, more vague and shadowy.

The Black Rangers were some two hundred yards
in advance, and a quarter of a mile to the right of
the main body, on the look out for scouts and foraging
parties of the enemy. They had arrived within
a mile of Chestnut Hill, and were ascending a circular
elevation of earth, crowned with a thick
copse, when the quick ear of Harry Heft first discerned
the sounds of laughter, the clank of swords,
and the pattering of horses' hoofs, on the opposite
side of the hill, beyond the woods.

“With your permission, Captain, I'll jist ride up
to the top 'o th' hill and see what them suspicious
sounds might mean.”

“Do so, Lieutenant,” replied Herbert. “It
strikes me that your eye will discover some stray
foraging party who have lost their way in the fog.
Just approach near enough to ascertain their force
and position—don't thrust yourself heedlessly into
danger.”

“And sure, Capt'in,” exclaimed Dennis,
“might n't it be jest as well for meself to ride to
the opposite side of the hill, in a different direction
from that taken by the Leftenant, and take a
dacent peep at the Britishers—if Britishers they
be?”

The Captain nodded assent, and while the party
halted, at some fifty paces from the copse at the
summit of the elevation, Harry Heft puts purs to
his horse, and galloped around the eastern side of
the ascent, while Dennis pursued his way toward
the western side.

Harry passed through the copse, and gained the
opposite brow of the hill, where, reining in his
steed, he tried to discover the nature of the ground.
Below him, for some twenty paces, the hill sloped
down in a gentle descent, and was then lost in the
obscurity of the fog, from the bosom of which, far
down in the valley, came drunken shouts, mingling
with snatches of songs, and the sound of horses'
hoofs.

“Let's see,” soliloquized Harry, “where am I,
and what 's this place like? Ah! now I have it—
this hill slopes down into a small valley, which it
encircles in the shape of a new moon—and now
that I think of it, there is a level outlet from it
toward the south, opening into a flat bottomed
piece of swampy ground. On all other sides it is
circumvented by a semi-cerclar woods, and it strikes
me, them strangers, whoever they be, must be takin'
a frolic right in the lap of the hollow. By the Continental
Congress, what's that?”

The sound that attracted Harry's attention, was
the quick and sudden noise of horses' hoofs, mingled
with vindictive shouts, as though their riders

were in close pursuit of an enemy. Nearer and
nearer the sounds of pursuit drew, and Harry was
about to obey the impulse of the moment and rush
down into the valley, when the jarring report of a
pistol broke upon the air, and the concussion lifted
the fog for some fifty paces below the spot where
stood the gallant Ranger. As the mist slowly rose,
like the upraising of a vast curtain, Harry beheld a
sight that sent the blood, in one wild, warm current,
to his heart.

Quick as the lightning flash he beheld two soldiers
in the crimson uniform of British troopers,
mounted on stout, fleet horses, galloping up the
hill at the top of their speed, their swords suspended
in the air, and their arms nerved to strike
a wounded man, who drooping to one side of his
steed, essayed to escape up the ascent, while his
noble horse made almost supernatural efforts to increase
his speed.

At the same instant that Harry saw the wounded
man and his pursuers, he beheld a body of some
dozen dragoons galloping in the rear; while down
the hill, in the centre of the valley, the main force
of the company (some twenty troopers in all) were
gathered around a fire, in the act of springing upon
their horses, as if disturbed by some unexpected
alarm.

Scarce had Lieutenant Heft time to gather these
particulars at a hurried glance, and ere he could

draw a bridle rein, or give his horse the spur, he
discovered that the wounded man was none other
than his companion Dennis, and at the same moment
his cry for quarter broke upon the air; but
the uplifted swords of the dragoons descended,
winged with all the force of their muscular arms,
and the body of the American Ranger was hurled
to the earth, while the riderless horse dashed by
Harry Heft with his neck arched, his eyes distended,
his mane flying, and the saddle on his back
smoking with his master's blood.

Raising his rifle to his eye, with his blood boiling
with rage at the scene of merciless carnage which
had but now taken place under his very vision,
Harry Heft brought the glittering barrel to bear
upon the foremost of the troopers, and, in a flash,
a lifeless body fell from the war horse, and the
green sod bore upon its bosom the murderer and
the murdered—the dragoon in his scarlet attire and
gay trappings, and the free hearted Irishman in his
uniform of black, changed to a ghastly purple by
the red current that poured a gushing torrent from
his heart.

The sharp cracking sound of Harry's rifle had
not ceased to ring upon the air, when the war
shout of the Black Rangers swelled through the
woods, and in an instant, dashing through the copse,
as one man, the brave “twenty-four,” with Herbert
at their head, followed Harry down the hill at

the top of their horses' speed, each man with his
short, straight sword raised in the air, adding vigor
and volume to the yell of vengeance which arose
from the band, as each eye beheld the bleeding
form of Dennis the Irishman.

Down the hill they came, their gallant steeds
moving with one impulse, as though they were
but limbs of the same vast animal. At the sight,
the twelve British Dragoons halted half way up
the hill, in the full sweep of their career, and with
horses recoiling on their haunches, seemed scarce
to know whether to face the advancing avalanche,
or to fly before its approach.

Not an instant had they for reflection, for the
Black Rangers came on toward them with the
speed of a thunderbolt, and the voice of Harry Heft
was heard above all other sounds—

“Rangers—Dennis cried for quarter, and they
murdered him! Shall we give them quarter?”

“No quarter,” shouted Herbert Tracy, raising
himself in his stirrups and measuring the distance
between his men and the twelve dragoons, with a
glance of his eye, “no quarter! no quarter! The
bullet and the sword for the caitiffs. Over them,
Rangers, over them!”

“No quarter!” echoed the Rangers, “no quarter!”

“Dennis McDermott!” shouted Harry.

“The trumpeter boy!” replied Sergeant Brown.

“Over them! Down with the caitiffs!” reechoed
the Rangers, with one voice, “no quarter!”

And in one compact body, of four abreast, with
their steeds presenting a firm and unwavering
front, the Black Rangers passed like a whirlwind
over the shrinking forms and recoiling horses of
the twelve dragoons. And as the Nighthawks
swept on, with their front unbroken and their ranks
undisturbed, the British soldiers rolled on the
earth, some crushed beneath the weight of their
horses, others with their arms and legs broken,
and others pouring forth their lives on the sod,
from the mortal gash inflicted by the short swords
of the Rangers, in the very crisis of their charge;
and all of them, man and steed, were scattered
upon the earth, an indiscriminate mass of crushed
bodies, of mangled horses and dying men.

As the Rangers passed on in their career of death,
down the hill and toward the centre of the valley,
the main body of the British dragoons formed in
solid phalanx in the level of the vale, presenting a
front of four abreast, with a wood on either side
of their position, and the passage of the glen visible
in their rear. The fog had been raised from the
bed of the valley, by the action of the large fire
which the dragoons had kindled, and the light
wreaths of mist curled gracefully among the treetops
and around the hills, leaving the small level
plain perfectly clear from all obscurity, and free
from all exhalations.

2. CHAPTER THE SECOND.
THE CHARGE.

The British Dragoons awaited the approach of
the Rangers with sword drawn, and steeds firmly
planted against each other, in a solid parallelogram,
and with the determination to avenge their comrades,
whom they could not save, visible in each
countenance, in the flashing eye, the curling lip,
and scowling brow.

The Americans came thundering on, and twenty
paces lay between them and their foes. Another
moment and they would join in deadly contest,
swords would flash, and bullets whistle, and their
blood intermingle like streams of water.

At this moment, when every breath was hushed
with intense expectation, the deep-whispered word
of command came from the lips of Herbert Tracy,
and with the celerity of thought, his men divided
from one another, like drops of rain from the
bursting cloud, and in an instant, the forms of
twelve of their body were concealed in the woods
to the right of the British soldiers, while the other
twelve with Tracy at their head, sought the cover
of the forest on the opposite side of the vale.

Each Ranger reined his steed up by the trunk of
some giant tree, and lifting his rifle to his shoulder,
brought its tube to bear upon the head of a particular
dragoon, or in common parlance “picked his
man;” and as the British soldiers turned to pursue
their scattered foes, a stunning report broke from
the woods on either side, and of the twenty-three
rifle balls, nineteen proved faithful to the aim, and
as many steeds were without riders, while the
ground was strewed with the British dead.

Herbert, too, had raised his rifle, and selected
for his mark, the breast of the commander of the
party, the barrel was leveled, his finger on the
trigger, but at that instant the officer in issuing
some hurried command to his men, turned his face
toward Captain Tracy, and the arm of the Partizan
Leader dropped nerveless by his side. He beheld
the face of Lieutenant Wellwood Tracy, and he
could not kill him. Lieutenant Wellwood Tracy,
his antagonist in love, in honor, in the affections of
his father; the man who made no scruple of usurping
every right belonging to him by the decree of
God and nature, was before him, in the line of his
rifle, and yet he could not fire.

The British Lieutenant looked confusedly round
the dead and the dying about him. Ere he could
attempt an escape, he was surrounded by the two
divisions of the Rangers, uniting from either side
of the vale, with the tall and commanding form of
Herbert Arnheim Tracy towering in the midst.

“Dennis McDermott! shouted Harry Heft,
whose blood was turned to gall, in his stern determination
to avenge the Irishman—“Down with
the Britisher! No quarter!”

“The trumpeter boy!” cried Sergeant Brown—
“No quarter!”

“No quarter!” re-echoed the Rangers, and
twenty-three swords were unsheathed over the
head of Wellwood Tracy. The British Lieutenant
glanced hurriedly around, and seemed endeavoring
to recover his self-possession, when Herbert Tracy
threw his horse between the Rangers and the object
of their anticipated vengeance.

“Rangers, I beg this man's life of ye!” he exclaimed—“He
must not, shall not be slain! Lieutenant
Tracy, you are my prisoner.”

“So I perceive,” observed the Lieutenant, with
a ghastly attempt at humor. “But a moment
since, you might have been indebted to these gentlemen
for ridding you of the care of a prisoner,
in the most expeditious, if not the most honorable
way. You might, by —!”

“It is ill jesting with men whose swords are
whetted for blood, by the sight of a murdered comrade,”
replied Herbert, placing himself at the head
of his men, and galloping toward the spot, where
Dennis McDermott had been murdered, “look to
your prisoner Sergeant Brown.”

The Rangers arrived on the spot half way up

the hill, where lay the dying Ranger, for life had
not yet altogether departed from his manly frame.
He was terribly gashed, a deep sword wound laid
open the scalp of his head, and his shoulder blade
was broken, by a downward blow that had evidently
been propelled by no weak arm. A stream of
blood flowed without intermission from a bullet
wound near his heart, and the crimson current had
flooded the sod on which he lay, and was now
trickling down the hill.

“Dennis, my boy,” said Harry, kneeling beside
the wounded man, “look up, Dennis, my boy!
We paid the scoundrels for their treachery—we
did! For every drop of your blood, a bucket-full
of the British puddle has been spilt. Look up,
Dennis, my boy!”

The dying man passed his hand over his eyes,
and wiped away the blood, which streamed from
his gashed forehead, and obscured his vision.

“Ye paid 'em did ye?” he exclaimed, faintly,
as Harry supported his head.

“Aye, did we. Thirty of the red coats have
bitten the dust.”

“Thirty, did ye say? be jabers, Harry—ochone!
The wife and the childer be the Lake—the Lake
of Kill—Kill—Och! I'm kilt meself. Will ye not
wipe the blood out o' my eyes, Harry Heft—I'd
like to see—to see—sure the sun's going down,
Harry Heft, and its getting dark—It's a lone world

I'm going to, Harry Heft, and never a priest to
show me the way. Remimber me, Harry—masses
for me sowl—Och! but it's dark!”

And with a rattling sound at the throat, like suffocation,
the brave Ranger made a desperate struggle,
as though he were wrestling with some invisible
foe, and then, with a faint attempt to clear the
blood away from his eyes, he sunk into the arms of
Harry Heft, and ceased to live.

Thick, burning tears streamed down the bluff
Ranger's cheeks, as he gazed at the lifeless corse.

“If I don't make 'em pay for this,” he muttered,
“it's no matter; that's all.”

“Comrades!” exclaimed Sergeant Brown, “we'll
have to shout two watchwords in the field to-day.
`This for the trumpeter boy' for every shot we
fire, and `that for Dennis McDermott' for every
sword cut we make.”

A deep murmer of assent arose from the Rangers,
who with their Captain gathered round the corse of
the murdered man.

“I am really sorry,” exclaimed Lieutenant Wellwood
Tracy advancing, that my drunken troopers,
by such a barbarous act, should have provoked such
a sanguinary massacre of my whole command—I
am sorry, by —!”

“Lieutenant Tracy,” interrupted Herbert, “if
you are willing to give me your parole of honor,
not to bear arms against the American forces until

you are properly exchanged, I will accept it, and
you may depart at your own pleasure.”

The Lieutenant seemed not very well pleased
at this sudden interruption, however he gave his
parole of honor, mounted his horse, and galloped
toward the British lines. Callous and cold hearted
as was Lieutenant Tracy, it was not without some
feelings of emotion, that he looked back, from the
passage of the vale, to the scene of the late skirmish,
and marked in place of the lusty soldiers,
who had accompanied him thither, the mangled
forms of the dying and the dead strown over the
sod, which was crimsoned with their blood.

“Mount, Rangers, and away!” shouted Herbert.
Hark! They are in action at Chestnut Hill! Mount,
and away!”

“Captain Tracy,” exclaimed a voice from among
the heap of wounded and dying, “for a cup of
water, I can tell ye a tale that it might like ye to
hear. Miss Waltham—”

“Miss Waltham? What of her?”

“The water first—the water—” murmured the
wounded man.

The water was brought from a brooklet, that ran
down the side of the hill, and having drained the
canteen to the last drop, the trooper proceeded
with his story. He proved to be the drunken
soldier, who had come in contact with Harry at
the Quaker's house, where he had been suffered to

rest under the table until late at night, when by
some means or other, he became possessed of the
fact that Miss Waltham was in the farm house.
Wandering along the fields, he fell in with his
master, the Lieutenant, who was just returning to
camp after the fruitless search for his bride. He
presently became aware of Miss Waltham's hiding
place, and with Col. Musgrave proceeded to the
farm house, informed the young lady that they felt
bound to escort her across the country, to the mansion
of a friend, where the Colonel was quartered,
and where she could remain, until the pleasure of
her father might be known. Miss Waltham begged
to be taken to her father's house, but that was impossible,
the Colonel said; they were bound to
hurry across the country and be with their commands
by day break; and the only way left them
to manifest their interest in her safety, and protect
her from the violence of a rebel leader (they affected
to treat Herbert as an entire stranger) was
to request her attendance, to the mansion of a common
friend. Glad, at all events to have escaped
the hated marriage, Miss Waltham yielded her consent,
to what she could not well refuse, and accompanied
the Colonel and Lieutenant to the mansion
which they designated.

“Well, my wounded terror of turkies,” exclaimed
Harry, when the trooper had proceeded thus far,
“had I known last night that you been up to

cuttin' sich deviltries, I'd a put a stopper on you,
mighty quick. I say, Captain, these red coats are
swelling their account—it 'ill be full a'ter a while.”

“Mount, Rangers, mount and away!” shouted
Herbert, who had mused deeply on the trooper's
story—“we will have warm work to-day, by that
firing yonder! Away, Nighthawks?”

3. CHAPTER THE THIRD.
THE ATTACK—THE CHASE—THE HAVOC.

“Look!” shouted Herbert Tracy, as he halted
his steed for an instant on the brow of a hill, within
pistol-shot of the Germantown Road, below Mount
Airy. “Look ye, my Rangers, how the Loyalists
flee! See how the Continentals sweep all before
them—there's Mad Anthony—I'd swear to the
stroke of his sword—and there's Pulaski—there's
Washington in the very centre of the melee. A
blow for Washington, Rangers! Whoop and
away!”

With an answering shout, the Rangers dashed
down the hill, and swept across the plain toward
the Germantown Road.

While Herbert Tracy was engaged with the troop
of Lieutenant Wellwood, a mile westward of Chestnut
Hill, the central body of the American troops,
under Wayne and Sullivan, with Washington at
their head, had reached Mount Airy, surprised a
battalion of light infantry, lodged in Allen's house
in that vicinity, and, by a bold and determined
movement, drove the enemy before them at pleasure,
following up the work with all the flush and

heat of an unexpected triumph. Scattering their
arms along the way, or ever and anon turning to
face their pursuers, the remains of the battalion of
light infantry proved the aptness of their name,
and, in the course of fifteen minutes, fled precipitately
down the Germantown Road, for the distance
of three-quarters of a mile, until they reached the
point where the 40th Regiment was stationed,
under the command of Col. Musgrave.

Here the attack was renewed with all its vigor,
and the American soldiers pressed forward as one
man, and engaged with the British muzzle to muzzle.
Col. Musgrave was seen hurrying hither and
thither along the lines, and the form of a tall, dark-browed
man, in the dress of a private citizen, with
a star of honor on his left breast, was ever at his
shoulder, aiding him in his attempts to restore confidence
to his men, and riding in the very thickest
of the fight. But it was in vain. In vain did the
British infantry plant their muskets in the sod, and
sinking on one knee, present to the advancing
Americans a wall of bristling bayonets. The charge
of Wayne came thundering on, and his loud war-cry—“Upon
them! over them!” rose above the
din of battle. In vain did the British dragoons
form in one solid front, and with upraised sword,
sweep on to meet the American infantry. They
were received mid-way by the fire of the back-woodsmen,
each rifle marking its man; and each

shot told as surely and effectually as though it was
aimed at an inanimate rather than a living mark.

The confusion of the scene increased with each
moment. Vast clouds of thick smoke began to roll
in heavy folds over the field of contest, and from
its bosom flashed the glare of musquetry, and the
blaze of the rifle, while the clash of intermingling
swords, the shouts of the combatants, the yells of
the dying, shrieks of the wounded, swelled upward
to the Heavens, in one fearful chorus, more terrible
to hear than the sound of the most fearful convulsions
of nature, the rumbling of the earthquake amid
the subterranean caverns, or the thunder peals bursting
around the summit of the Andes. These sounds
strike us with preternatural fear and awe, but the
confusion of a battle-field not only thrills us with
a feeling of indefinable awe, but awakens our sympathies
almost to madness. In every shout, a man
formed like ourselves bites the dust, in every groan
the earth is crimsoned with the life current of the
wounded, in every peal of musquetry a score of
souls wing their way from all the flush of life and
vigor of active manhood, up to that unseen and
spiritual world that is encircled with all the shadowy
creations of the brightest hopes and darkest
terrors of the human mind.

At this crisis of the contest, Captain Tracy, at
the head of his Rangers, came rushing on to join
the tide of conflict. Each man with his head erect,

his sword drawn, and his nighthawk plume fluttering
in the wind swelled the shout of vengeance, as
they poured upon the British host, and as each rifle
winged its bullet, or as each sword sought its living
sheath, the war cry of the Rangers rose high above
all other sounds—“This for Dennis McDermott!”
“This for the trumpeter boy!”

“It is in vain!” cried Colonel Musgrave to the
gentleman in citizen's dress who stood at his side—
“Major Tracy we must beat a retreat! The rebels
fight like incarnate devils! Away—away to the
main body—away toward Chew's house!”

As the order was passed along the British line,
the Americans followed up the attack with increased
zeal, and the scene became one of deadly
chase and precipitate pursuit on the Continental
side, and of hurried rout and confused retreat on
the part of his Majesty's 40th regiment.

In utter confusion, and heedless of all system or
regularity of march, the British soldiers fled along
the Germantown road, down toward the main line,
at the distance of three-quarters of a mlle.

“Now, Wayne, now!” shouted Washington, as
he rode in the van of the chase—“Follow up the
blow and we have them!”

“See! how they fly!” exclaimed Herbert with
an outburst of the wild excitement of the scene,
“On, Rangers, on! This for Dennis McDermott!
Over them, Rangers, over them! This for the
trumpeter boy!”

“This for Dennis McDermott!” shouted Harry
Heft at each stroke.

“This for the trumpeter boy! This for Dennis
McDermott!” re-echoed the Rangers, as they rode
over the retreating enemy, and scattered panic and
confusion among the British by their singular appearance,
their uniform of sable, their short sword,
which they used with a celerity and expedition that
defied all the tactics of the European soldiers, and
their rifle that uttered its volume of flame every
instant, while their jet black horses swept on with
the speed of wind.

Meanwhile, far on the American left, to the westward
of Chew's house, Greene engages with the
enemy's right, and the militia of Maryland and Jersey
attack his rear, at the same time that the Pennsylvanian
troops pour down the Ridge Road, and
throw their force upon the left of the British wing.

The sounds of battle disturbed the quiet shades
of the Wissahikon, and resounded over the fields,
along the village, to the hills on the east, and every
movement of the opposing combatants, tended to
make Germantown the centre of the contest.

The fog which had been raised for a moment at
sunrise, again passed over the landscape, and involved
the scene of strife in mist and darkness that
gave additional horror to the fight. As the divisions
of Wayne and Sullivan swept along the Germantown
Road in the pursuit of the enemy's 40th

regiment, the conflict, to the British left, began to
deepen, and the smoke of battle rolled over the farm
house of the Friend Joab Smiley, who stood gazing
from a window upon the scene of strife and bloodshed.

Dame Smiley sat in one corner of the apartment
with her face buried in her hands, to veil her eyes
from the vivid flashes of the cannon, which like
lightning ever and anon streamed through the windows.
Her daughter, the fair Marjorie, with her
dark hair all dishevelled, and her hands clasped in
silent prayer, buried her face in her mother's bosom,
in a half-kneeling, half-reclining position, while
her bosom heaved upward from its scanty covering,
and sobs and sighs of indefinable terror convulsed
her slender form. Near the mother and daughter,
with his large eyes fixed upon his massive, pawlike
hands, which were laid upon his knees, sat the
negro, “Charles the First,” whose wanderings
across the country, on his way to Major Tracy's
mansion, had been suddenly terminated by the conflict
of the opposing armies, and he was forced to
seek shelter in the farm house of the Quaker.

Apart from all the others, looking from the northern
window of the apartment, stood the Quaker
farmer, his muscular form raised to its full height,
his head erect, and his stout arms folded upon his
prominent chest, as he gazed sternly upon the
scene of conflict.

The surrounding hills and woods were enveloped
in the thick fog that enshrouded the entire face of
the country, yet still the Quaker could perceive
the form of men mingling in deadly conflict, and
the red glare of the cannon would for an instant
lift the curtain of mist, and the scene of death was
laid bare to his view.

“There—there—is the flag of the Continentals,”
he exclaimed—“Now it is down—there sails the
cross—the blood red cross of the British men. Verily
it is terrible to see so much strife and bloodshed.
Now the Americans march up the hill—
there go their war horses—now they are driven
back—Ha!—Verily!”

The Quaker drew a long breath, and stifled the
exclamation that was about to issue from his lips.

“I am a strong man,” muttered the farmer, “and
I stand and look on while my neighbors are murdered.
Verily, Hannah, I will even go forth to
the field—I will forth to the field, Hannah—Ha!
Verily!”

“Surely, Joab”—exclaimed his wife, starting on
her feet—“thee will not so far forget thee God, and
thee brethren, as to mingle in the strife of battle?
Joab—Joab—I cannot think thus hardly of thee?”

“Father, father”—shrieked Marjorie—“thee
will not peril thy life among the men of war—
father go not forth”—

The maiden's utterance was choked by sobs, and
she fell weeping upon her mother's shoulder.

“Ha! verily! I will go forth—alone—there
may be wounded who cry in vain for the cup of
water—the maiden Waltham may be in danger.
Harry Heft may be dying, and I standing here like
a block of stone, looking calmly on. I must go
forth to the field, wife—hold me not, daughter. I
must forth—I'll be with ye presently”—

“Sure's my name's Chawls de Fust”—exclaimed
the negro, rising from his deep cogitations,
“I'll go to Massa Chew's house too. Missa Waltham
may be dar alone and de debble to pay. De
Britishers may shoot me—I hab but one life—
Massa Smiley I go wid you. Dat am a fac.”

“Charles thee is a good fellow. Come with me
if thy heart fails the not. Nay, wife, I must forth
to the field!”

The Quaker and the negro servant issued from
the farm house door, and took their way to the
scene of contest, and while the mother and daughter
gazed from the window, they disappeared in
the folds of the surrounding fog.

4. CHAPTER THE FOURTH.
CHEW'S HOUSE.

“There is but one hope for us!” shouted Colonel
Musgrave, as his regiment rushed in full retreat toward
the British line. “One hope, Major Tracy!
If that fails, our forces will be defeated—Philadelphia
retaken—and the rebel cause triumphant!
We must make a fortress of Chew's House—yonder
mansion of stone—its walls are in some places
three feet thick, and we can hold the place for
hours! Away to Chew's House!”

Major Tracy, by his words and example, encouraged
the scattering regiment to press onward toward
the mansion, which stood retired from the
road at the distance of near two hundred yards.
It was, and is, a substantial edifice, built of the
most lasting stone, which will resist the tooth of
time for ages. It stands facing the road, with two
wings of stone supporting it in the rear, and toward
the north—at the time of the Romance—the edifice
presented a plain side of stone, only varied by two
deep-silled windows, which gave light to that part
of the mansion, one in the first and the other in the
second story. The roof descends with a gentle
slope, and the eves are defended by massive cornices,

which give an appearance of solidity and
strength to the building. In front of Chew's Mansion,
on the battle morn, lay a wide lawn, reaching
over two hundred yards to the main road of the village,
extending south the same distance, and spreading
toward the north, in an open field, of some four
hundred yards in extent.

This lawn was defended along the road by a wall
of stone, and a few trees were scattered here and
there over its surface, while an enclosure of sheds
and fences, for confining cattle, was pitched some
fifty yards to the north of the mansion, in direct
view of the northern windows.

In the north window of the second floor of the
mansion, Marian Waltham sat gazing through the
gloom and obscurity of the mist, upon the lawn that
encircled the edifice. Her fair bosom trembled
with indefinable terror as she listened to the increasing
tumult of battle, with her head inclined to
one side, her blue eyes brightening with interest,
and her lips parted with intense anxiety. This
terror the kind offices of the housekeeper of the
mansion, whose portly form was seated at her side,
in vain endeavored to dispel or assuage.

“La! Miss Waltham, what's the use of taking
on so!” exclaimed the housekeeper, giving the keys
at her girdle an important rattle. “As sure as my
name's Betty Fisher, and as sure as Mr. Chew's
family are all at Phildelphy, leaving me to take

care of this place, as sure as I've had to pervide for
Col. Musgrave, and all his rampaging red-coats, jist
so sure will you be as safe here, as though you
were in your own father's parlor, over on the Ridge
Road. And so a rascally rebel run off with you—
did he? The ragmuffin! Jist as you were a-goin'
to be married, too? How unpolite—”

Miss Betty Fisher's round and rubicand face assumed
an expression of intense curiosity, and her
voluminous figure moved closer to Miss Waltham's
side.

“How kind in Col. Musgrave to rescue you from
the rebels' clutches! I b'lieve my heart that old
Quaker was at the bottom of it all—I do! Jist to
think—goodness grashus! What's that—coming
from the fog—oh! Lud!”

Miss Waltham gazed with a hurried gesture
from the window, at the exclamation of the house-keeper,
and beheld, rushing from the depths of the
fog, which concealed all objects beyond thirty
paces in the vicinity of the mansion, a confused
band of British soldiers, some mounted, others on
foot, who ran with shouts and imprecations towards
the hall door which opened on the lawn. The
soldiers continued to pour along the lawn for the
space of several minutes, in the same irregular
stream, regardless of order or discipline; some of
their number were covered with blood; others had
their uniform soiled and torn; others were destitute

of arms, and the entire body presented all the appearances
that accompany defeat and dismay.

“There's Col. Musgrave!” screamed Betty
Fisher, “and there's Major Tracy all covered with
dust and blood, among the rumpaging troopers!
Oh! Lud! here's a purty how d'ye do—and in
Mr. Chew's house, too! Goodness grashus!”

Ere Marian had time to wonder at the appearance
of Major Tracy and Col. Musgrave, in the
plight in which she saw them, the room in which
she was seated was filled with British soldiers, and
Miss Betty Fisher hurried her fair charge away, to
an obscure corner of the mansion.

While the preparations for an obstinate defence
were progressing in every part of the mansion, the
American troops, in pursuit of the flying enemy,
arrived in full chase, along the Germantown Road,
in front of the field in which the edifice was
situated.

Herbert Tracy with his men, placed, together
with the Partizan Legion of the brave Lee, near
the person of the Commander-in-Chief, swept on
in the very van of the pursuit. When the American
forces were called to a sudden halt, in front of
the mansion, so thick were the clouds of dust, and
the smoke of battle that rolled over their heads, and
so dense was the fog that enveloped their line of
march, that when the young captain gazed around
him, all objects beyond the vicinity of his own men,

were wrapt in obscurity. The stately form of
Washington, surrounded by his staff, was visible,
however, amid all the mist and gloom, as an aid-de-camp
came galloping up, and gave information
of the lodgment of Col. Musgrave with six companies
of infantry in Chew's mansion.

“Shall we press onward,” exclaimed Washington
turning to the brave men around him, “in pursuit
of the main body of the enemy who are flying
before us, or shall we halt and dislodge the party
of Col. Musgrave, who have thrown themselves into
the mansion?”

“Halt! by all means,” cried General Knox, “it
is against every rule of warfare to leave a fortress,
possessed by an enemy, in the rear.”

“What!” exclaimed Col. Pickering, “Shall we
call this a fort, and lose the very moment of success?”

“Let us press onward!” cried Wayne, who at
that moment rode up to the side of Washington,
with his sword dripping with blood. “Let us press
onward! Onward, and follow up the rout of the
enemy, while our troops are flushed with success!
Onward, and with another blow the day is ours!”

“Onward!” exclaimed Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton.
“This is the very crisis of the action.
While we attack the house, the enemy will rally,
and we shall see the laurel of victory plucked rom
our brows in the very moment of triumph!”

“Onward, and over them!” cried Captain Tracy.
“Now the day is our own—in ten minutes we may
flee from the very field of triumph with the British
pressing on in our rear!”

The cry was echoed by all the junior members
of the staff, but their opinion was overruled by that
of the veteran Knox, who, supported by other
senior officers, advised an immediate attack upon
the house.

The roar of a steady fire of musquetry pouring
from every window, from every nook and cranny
of Chew's House, now came rolling through the
fog, and scattered death and confusion through the
American troops, who rushed into the very jaws
of the enemy's artillery.

Chew's House became the centre of the fiercely
contested fight. Greene's column to the east were
engaged hand to hand with the forces of the enemy
in that quarter; Armstrong was thundering away
into the ranks of the foe westward of the house,
and every moment decreased the distance between
the various wings of the opposing armies aad the
centre of the battle.

The American artillery was arrayed on the opposite
side of the Germantown Road, at the distance
of two hundred yards from the house, with the
mouths of the cannon so arrayed, that the balls
would strike the north-west corner of the mansion.

The thunder of the cannon opened full on the

house, but the aim of the gunners was rendered uncertain
by the pressure of the fog; and the American
infantry were about to advance and attempt
to carry the temporary fortress by storm, when it
was determined to send a flag of truce and summon
Col. Musgrave to surrender.

A young and gallant officer, of Lee's Partizan
Legion, was selected from among the throng who
offered to bear the flag. Assuming the snow-white
emblem of peace, held sacred by all nations, the
brave soldier approached the house, and was within
twenty paces of the hall door, when a blaze of
flame issued from a window, and the young officer
measured his grave upon the sod, while the flag of
truce was stained with the warm blood of his
heart.

A yell of horror broke from the American army
at this ghastly spectacle, and the attack upon the
house was renewed with a keen desire on the part
of each soldier to avenge the young officer, and as
each column marched up to the mansion, the name
of the murdered man accompanied each peal of
musquetry and swelled high above the thunder of
the cannon.

The plan of the attack on Chew's house forced
nearly one-half of the central body to stand by and
witness the slaughter of their comrades before their
very eyes, without being able to raise a hand in
their defence.

Taking advantage of this inactivity, General
Grey wheeled the front of the left wing of the
British army from his position east of Germantown,
into the centre of the fight, and supported by the
fourth brigade under General Agnew, opposed a
successful and terrible resistance to the success of
the American arms. The fire of the British musquetry,
enveloping the field in one continual sheet
of flame, was answered by the American fire flashing
like forked lightning at quick intervals, and
from the depths of the fog, arose the sound of host
charging against host, the roar of the cannon, the
cries, the shrieks, the groans of the wounded and
dying, mingling with the voices of the different
commanders, urging their men on to their various
posts in the scene of conflict, but amid all the wild
uproar of the battle, the deep muttered shouts of
the Black Rangers broke upon the air, and their
sable uniform gleamed through the white wreaths
of smoke, as they thundered along the field in the
thickest of the fight, accompanying the deadly
fire with the war cry, “This for Dennis McDermott!”
and each mortal stroke of the short, straight
sword, with the shout—“This for the trumpeter
boy!”

Like a dark thunder cloud, emitting fire and
flame from every point, the Rangers swept through
the foe in one firm phalanx, making a lane of dead
wherever they passed, and leaving the wounded
and the dying scattered in heaps in their rear.

The Americans fought, each man of them, as
though the issue of the fight depended upon his
separate hand and blow; they fought gallantly;
they fought desperately; they fought undismayed
by the heaps of dead that piled each step of ground
on which they trod; but they fought against hope.
The thick and gloomy mist still hung over the field
like a shroud for their dead, and with its evil omen
blasted every prospect of success.

The fog threw the Americans on the left into inextricable
confusion, and they turned their arms
against each other. Many a brave Continental
soldier, leveled his musket, through the mist, at
what he supposed a foe, and found himself the
murderer of a friend.

The brave Col. Matthews, of Green's formidable
column, passed to the east of Chew's house, and
drove the British before him like a tornado; on
every side they fled before the terror of his arms;
and his regiment was soon swelled by the addition
of three hundred prisoners. Returning to the
main body in the heat and glow of triumph, he fell
in with a body of friends—as he thought—and
found himself a prisoner in the heart of the British
army.

Herbert Tracy and his Rangers came galloping
up to the side of Washington in the thickest of the
fight, prepared for any effort that might retrieve
the fatal mistake of the halt at Chew's house.

Never had Herbert seen the Commander-in-Chief,
moved by such deep and powerful emotion as stirred
through every fibre of his commanding frame when
moment after moment, he leaned to one side of his
steed, and received the reports of disaster and partial
defeat, from aid-de-camp after aid-de-camp,
who were hastening, some from Armstrong's brigade,
some from the the command of Generals
Smallwood and Forman, others from the column of
Greene, and all bearing testimony of the fatal effects,
of the want of co-operation and consolidation
caused by the halt at Chew's house.

Washington glanced around upon the scene of
confusion and death. His face, usually so calm
and mild in its aspect, was moved in every lineament
by an expression stern as it was strange to
those features so full of manly wisdom and dignity.
His eye flashed, and his brow gathered a frown,
such as had never before marked his countenance;
his lips were compressed, and his tall figure, raised
to its full height, with an utter recklessness of self
preservation that appeared to possess him in that
moment of agony, when he saw defeat hovering
over the American arms.

“Follow me, who lists,” he exclaimed, putting
spurs to his steed—“We may even yet discover
some vulnerable point around the fatal house.”

He rode directly in the fire of the enemy, toward
the northern wall of Chew's mansion, and in

his train, fired by a generous emulation to share
the danger of the noble man, rode the gallant Hamilton,
the brave Pickering, and the daring Lee, side
by side with Herbert Tracy, who surrendered his
men, for the time, to the command of Harry Heft,
and rushed on with Washington and his staff into
the very jaws of the British cannon.

Ere they were aware, the party found themselves
riding within twenty paces of the northern
wall of the mansion, with a deadly and incesssant
fire of musquetry pouring from the upper window,
and the bullets from the opposing armies sweeping
by their heads like hail, while the sod at their
horses' feet was furrowed by cannon balls.

The danger was imminent, and nothing but interposition
of a Higher Power could have saved the
life of Washington in that dread moment. The
officers of his staff with one voice besought him to
fly, but, unheeding their exclamations, Washington
rode directly along the northern wall of the mansion,
and noted that the shutters of the lower window
were closed, and that it was barricaded half
way up by a heap of loose timber and brushwood
piled upon the ground, while the muzzle of the
British guns poured a constant shower of balls
through loop-holes cut into the shutters.

Having noted this fact,[1] the Commander-in-Chief

turned his horse to the American lines, and, followed
by his gallant band, rode forward, exposed to
the fire of the contending armies, when mistaking
their way in the fog, they presently found themselves
entangled amid the sheds and enclosures of
the cattle-pen, fifty paces from the mansion, with
bullets peeling splinters from the timbers every
instant, and cannon balls scattering dust and sand
into their faces as they struck the earth on every
side.

“Save yourselves, gentlemen!” shouted Washington,
and every member of the staff leaped his horse
over the enclosure of boards, some three feet in
height, and galloped northward toward the American
lines, expecting Washington and Herbert Tracy
to follow their example.

“Leap, Captain Tracy, leap your horse and save
yourself!” shouted Washington, as a bullet lodged
in the pommell of his saddle.

“Not till you are safe!” replied Tracy, facing
the storm of battle with as much calmness and self-possession
as though he were but breasting the career
of a summer shower.

“I cannot endanger the limbs of this noble horse
by leaping yon fence,” exclaimed Washington.
“He has borne me safe in too many a hard fought
fight to think of it. Captain Tracy save yourself
as best you may—I will take the path in front of
the house where the fog is raised by the enemy's
fire!”

And ere Tracy could reply, Washington put
spurs to his steed, who sprang through the gateway
of the cattle-pen toward Chew's mansion, and leaping
over the intervening ground with the speed of
an arrow, bore the Commander-in-Chief toward the
house.

Herbert leaned to one side of his steed, and held
his breath. Another moment, and Washington
would be in the midst of the fire, pouring from the
windows in front of the mansion. Another moment
and his form would fall to the earth riddled
by an hundred bullets!

“He shall not fall alone by the Heaven above
us!” shouted the young Ranger, giving his steed the
rein, and galloping across the lawn toward the
house—“There! there! He is in front of the
house—he is down! no! He passes! He passes as
I live—safe—safe and unscathed! Huzza! Away
Night-hawks!”

As Herbert followed in the footsteps of Washington,
swept through the blaze of musquetry in
front of the mansion, and taking a sudden circuit,
disappeared in the fog toward the Germantown
Road, as he gave his steed the rein, and rode over
the bodies of the dying and the dead, that littered
every foot of earth, the shrill and piercing sound
of a female voice in an agony of fear broke upon
the air from a small circular window in the northern
wing in the rear of the building, and the face

of a fair maiden, with eyes dimmed with tears, and
a lip quivering with terror, was thrust out into the
light, while with clasped hands and heaving bosom,
Marian sent up a prayer to Heaven for the safety
of her lover.

“Oh! Heaven he is lost!” she exclaimed, as
Herbert disappeared in front of the house, “he
falls—he falls from his horse—they have killed
him—murderers that they are! Nay, nay,” she continued,
as Herbert re-appeared on his way to the
main road over the lawn—“He is saved! Heaven
be thanked! He is saved!”

“Here's a purty how d'ye do in Mr. Chew's
house,” exclaimed a familiar voice, and Miss Betty
Fisher entered the small and dimly-lighted apartment
with large drops of perspiration pouring down
her round fat cheeks, her apron usually so neat and
prim all torn into tatters, and her cap, soiled with
soot and dust, suspended by a single thread to her
hair. “Here's a purty how d'ye do, in Mr.
Chew's house! I raley wish some folks 'ud stay
at hom, and take care of their own duds. Oh, lud,
such a fright as I've had!”

Miss Waltham used all her efforts to calm the
agitated state of Miss Betty Fisher's mind, but in
vain.

“Jist to think of it! I jist run down stairs to
take a look a'ter the furnitur', and I'd got to the
first landing, when what should I see—oh, goodness

grashus! there was Sergeant Thompson, sich a nice-portly
man, a-laying at the foot o' the stairs, all his
elegant ruffles kivered with blood, and all the furniture
cracked to pieces, the mahogany tables split
into bits, the carpets torn up—oh, lud, look there
—look out o' the window, Miss Waltham—there's
the ribbles (rebels) a-comin' to fire the house! Oh!
now we'll be burnt up, and Mr. Chew's house will
be turned into a bake oven.”

Marian look from the window, and beheld twelve
forms in dark attire emerging from the cover of the
fog toward the house at a quick running pace, and
at a second glance she recognized in the foremost
figure the person of Herbert Tracy, brandishing his
rifle, and leading his men into the very blaze of the
British musquetry.

The maiden took not another glance at the scene,
but seized by a wild impulse of fear with the idea
of her lover's safety uppermost in her mind, she
rushed from the apartment, and scarce knowing
whither she went, passed down the stairway, entered
an open door, and in a moment stood by the
side of Major Tracy, who, begrimed with dust and
soot, was directing the fire of the soldiers from the
windows of the northern parlor on the ground floor,
toward which Herbert, unconscious of the vicinity
of his father or his betrothed, was fearlessly approaching.

5. CHAPTER THE FIFTH.
THE MEETING BETWEEN FATHER AND SON.

“A band of twelve determined men might approach
the northern window and fire the house,”
exclaimed Washington, the moment he was rejoined
by the officers of his staff within the American
lines. “It is a work of imminent danger, however,
and every man of the band will, in all human probability,
fall a corse beneath the walls, although the
attempt to fire the brushwood and timber by the
northern window may meet with success. I despair
of inducing any twelve in the army to make the
attempt—what say you, gentlemen?”

“I will be one of the twelve!” cried Herbert
Tracy throwing himself from his steed.

“I'll be another!” shouted Harry Heft, imitating
his example.

“And I another?” echoed Sergeant Brown,
placing himself beside the captain and the lieutenant.

“And I another! and I another!” the cry went
round, until every man of the Rangers had thrown
himself from his horse and swelled the line of the
self-sacrificing band.

“Here are nineteen men, Captain Tracy,” exclaimed
Washington, and a gleam of pleasure
brightened in his eye as he gazed upon the stout
and muscular forms of the Rangers.

“The others,” replied Herbert, “have laid their
bones on the battle-field, or else I can assure your
excellency they would not be found missing!”

“Yes, yes, captain, but twelve men are sufficient,
and here are nineteen.”

“Will your excellency be pleased to divide those
those who are to remain from the others?”

“Where all are so brave,” replied Washington,
“the task is no easy one. My friends,” he continued,
“you who form the left of this brave line
be pleased to step aside.”

The seven Rangers stepped aside with the chagrin
they felt visible on each countenance.

“Now, Captain Tracy, I leave the matter to
your discretion. God be with you!”

With this exclamation Washington rode off with
his staff to another part of the field, and Captain
Tracy made his arrangements for the performance
of the desperate task, upon which the success or
defeat of the American arms might turn. In a
few minutes each man of the twelve stood ready
to start. Six of the number carried torches and
combustible materials in their hands, while the
other six, the captain and lieutenant included,
grasped their rifles, loaded in both barrels, with a

double charge, and prepared in every respect for
immediate action.

“Rangers,” exclaimed Tracy, “when we advance
from the cover of the fog, those who bear
rifles will rush forward, and fire in the very faces
of the soldiers who guard the extreme north window
in the front of the mansion. Those Rangers
who bear the torches will then advance—fire the
heap of brushwood and timber under the lower
window in the northern wall—and while they are
thus engaged, the rifles will pour a second discharge
into the window, and then the entire body will retreat.
Forward!”

Herbert Tracy led the way over the lawn,
strewed with dead and wounded, toward the mansion.
Their path was enveloped in the clouds of
battle, and the rain of bullets whistled by their ears
or tore up the earth at every footstep. It was a
dread moment, and each man of the band sent up
a prayer to that God, before whom he presently
expected to appear, and then every heart beat
firmly and regularly, and every hand was nerved
for the approaching scene of death.

“By the Continental Congress!” shouted Harry,
when they had gained their way within fifty yards
of the mansion. “Jist look there! If there aint
the old Quaker, Joab Smiley, and the darkey,
`Charles de Fust,' right in the centre of the scrimmage!
There's a vision, Rangers! Heaven help

my eyes, but I never expected to see such a
sight!”

The Rangers looked across the lawn, and beheld
at the distance of twenty paces, the Quaker kneeling
beside a wounded man, who was placed against
a tree, while the negro stood holding a flask at his
shoulder. The battle was raging around him—
men were measuring their graves within arms
reach of the spot where he knelt, troopers were
sweeping past on their way to join the contest, yet
still did that plain, unfearing Quaker tender his
kind offices to the wounded man, bathe his brow
with water, and moisten his parched tongue, while
the unsophisticated negro who stood at his shoulder,
half scared to death, by the terrors of the scene,
appeared urging him onward to Chew's house,
where his mistress was in danger, whom the negro
amid all his fears was determined to save.

“The noble Quaker is in danger,” exclaimed
Herbert as he glanced at the scene—“But we have
no time now to interpose in his behalf! We must
onward!”

Every breath was hushad, as the Rangers began
to discern the outline of Chew's Mansion, looming
through the smoke and fog.

“What mean those torches glimmering through
the mist?” exclaimed Major Tracy, as standing
amid a body of ten soldiers, placed in the extreme
north window of the front of the house, he discovered

the approach of the Rangers. “Ha!
As I live, they are rebels, engaged in the execution
of some desperate purpose. Now my men,
now—stay—wait a moment—now, now. Let
your aim be sure; pick every man of them;
NOW!”

The word of command rose to his tongue, when
he felt a hand laid lightly on his arm. He turned
and beheld the form of Marian Waltham; her blue
eyes glaring wildly, her lips apart, her cheek pale
as death, and her golden hair, flowing in disordered
masses over her neck and shoulders.

“Mr. Tracy—beware!” exclaimed the maiden,
clutching his arm convulsively. “Pause, for the
sake of Heaven, ere the blood of your son is upon
your soul!

Ere the Major could gather the meaning of the
maiden's words, the voice of the foremost Ranger
arose without—“Now, Nighthawks, now!” and the
blaze of six rifles flashed from the lawn into the
open window. Four British soldiers fell heavily
to the floor, and with a wild shriek, Marian laid
her hand upon her heart, her senses swam in wild
confusion, and she sank at the feet of Major Tracy,
insensible and motionless.

“Follow me, every man of you!” shouted Major
Tracy, leaping from the window out upon the lawn,
while the smoke of the American rifles yet hung
in heavy folds across the casement, and obscured
the vision. Follow me, every man of you!”

Scarce had the words died on the air, when
alighting upon the slight embankment in front of
the mansion, he glanced around and beheld through
the smoke, a body of the Rangers in the act of
firing the brushwood, beneath the northern window,
while the other division were moving toward the
window, raising their pieces as they advanced.

Major Tracy sprang from the embankment:
another leap and he stood within arms length of
the advancing rebels. Raising his sword in the
air, he glanced at the breast of the foremost Ranger,
and prepared to plunge it in his heart, when a slight
breath of air, wafted the smoke aside, and Major
Tracy confronted his son.

“Oh God—my father!”

“My son!”

He started back with the quick, instantaneous
movement of surprise, his right arm dropped to his
side, and with his dark, flashing eyes, starting from
their sockets, while his eye-brows were woven
together, with the sudden nervous expression, that
trembled along every line of his face, he gazed
upon the form of Herbert Tracy before him, and
perused every lineament of his countenance, as if to
assure himself that what he beheld was no phantom
or unreal creation of the agitated fancy.

And there stood the son, the same expression of
intense surprise gathering over his face, his dark
eyes flashing with the same deep glance, the same

frown upon his brow, and his right hand grasping
his good rifle drooped by his side, with the same
impulse that unnerved his father's arm.

Oh, what a wild contest was at work in that
father's heart, as he thus stood gazing upon the
child of all his hopes, now banned and cursed, by
those lips that should have spoken but the words of
blessing and the sounds of prayer; how fiercely
were tumultuous feelings sweeping over his soul;
how bitter was the struggle between nature and
pride; between the long indulged feelings of natural
affection, reviving in all the vigor and the
new-risen bitternass of worldly ambition, opposing
the remembrance of every kindly sympathy, with
the stern thought,—he has set my will at defiance
let the consequences be upon his own head; he has
sown in the storm—let him reap the harvest of his
folly in the whirlwind.

At last words came to the father's tongue, and
again the sword was poised in air.

“Rebel!” he shouted between his clenched
teeth—“Not thus did I think to meet thee, upon
the battle field, with the weapon of thy disloyalty
in thy hand—”

“Father!”—shrieked Herbert, as all the memories
of his infancy came crowding around his
heart.

“But, now, that met we are, here on this crimsoned
sod, foot to foot and hand to hand, I tell

thee, traitor, that thou or I must measure out a
grave upon this field. Thou hast a sword—draw
and defend thyself!”

“Father!” cried Herbert spreading forth his
hands, and dropping his rifle upon the earth,
“Here is my breast! I make no defence—I offer
no resistance—strike and fulfil your curse!”

“Friend Tracy, thee must not harm thy child!”
exclaimed a voice, familiar to the ears of father
and son, and the stalwart arm of the Quaker, was
thrust before the upraised hand of Major Tracy.
“I tell thee, friend Tracy, thee must not harm thy
own flesh and blood,” repeated the Quaker, as
wresting the sword from the father's hand, with a
grasp that it was vain to resist, he very coolly
shattered it into fragments upon his knee. “Major
Tracy, thee is not in thy right mind, or surely thee
would not demean theeself so unwisely. And
young man—does thee hear?—mount thy war-horse
and get thee away from the field! Seest
thou not that the Americans are fleeing around
thee? Away with thee—away with thee! Thy
own men are cut down before thee, in the very act
of firing you window shutter—Ha! verily!”

While Herbert, unheeding the scene of tumult
and blood around him, sank on his knees, and
clasped his father by the hands, the stout Quaker,
Joab Smiley, strode aside to the window, where
Harry Heft and Sergeant Brown were struggling

amid the dead bodies of their comrades, against
five of the British infantry, who had clubbed their
muskets, and were raising them over the heads of
the sinking Rangers, in the act of dealing the
death blow.

“Hold, friend, thee must not strike thy brother!”
shouted the strong armed Quaker, throwing himself
among the enraged British soldiers, wresting a musket
from each arm, at every word,—“Thee has no
business to strike thy brother, friend—what does
thee want with this mischievous weapon?” he continued,
forcing a musket from the grasp of one of
the soldiers—“Nor does thee want this—nor thee
this—(Harry Heft, get thee away and fly—thee
and thy friend.) Ha! verily! Friend, friend,
does thee resist me? Wilt not surrender thy weapon?
Then must I use force! What business
has thee a-walking about friend Chew's ground,
a-cracking people on the head in this style? Hey?
Friend? (Harry Heft, get thee away—thee and
thy friend.) Nay, friends, ye must not resist—I
am stronger than ye—away, Harry, away!”

With these and similar exclamatiens, Joab scattered
the muskets of the British soldiers, until
Harry Heft and Sergeant Brown, were enabled to
secure two horses out of the number of riderless
steeds, that were galloping along the battle-field.

“I say, Joab—uncle Joab,” cried Harry as he
leaned from his prancing horse, “if ever any body

speaks a word against a Quaker in my presence,
may I be — to — if I don't lick the lie out
of their hide, before they can say Jack Robinson!
Hey! What's that, the Sargent gone too!” continued
Harry, as the brave veteran Brown fell from
his horse, wounded by a spent ball. “This has
been a bloody day for the Rangers! Uncle—uncle
Joab, I say! Lay hold of yon horse for the Captain!
Hallo, there, captain—don't be kneelin'
there to the old gentleman, when you should be
makin' yourself missing! Captain, the day's
against us, the Rangers are all killed, and we must
be off.”

Holding the horse, from which Sergeant Brown
had just fallen, in his grasp, the Quaker approached
the father and his kneeling son.

“Father, your blessing, your blessing!” exclaimed
Herbert, as he clasped the hands of his parent, who
was gazing sternly upon him, as the Quaker drew
nigh.

“Herbert, I do not curse—I do not curse thee!
But bless thee, I cannot, my son, while thy sword
is raised in most unrighteous treason! I do not
curse, for I cannot heap a deeper curse on thee,
than the curse of loyal blood, which crimsons thy
hands! I must never see thee more—never,
never!

And with these words the stern hearted Loyalist
turned away, and his son never looked upon his
living form again.

“The day is indeed against us!” cried Herbert,
turning to Harry Heft—“The Americans fly on
every side, and yonder is Washington trying to
stem the current. Let us away—yet hold”—he
exclaimed, wheeling his plunging horse around—
“I have naught left for which to live—I will die
upon this field—I will die with my father's curse
upon my head—”

“Nay, young man,” exclaimed the Quaker,
“that would be desperate, little better than suicide!
Away with thee, away, while flight is in thy
power!”

“Fly, Herbert, fly!” cried a soft voice which
made the young captain's heart throb with a feeling
of wild surprise—“Fly, Herbert, for my sake,
if not for your own—fly!”

A fair hand was thrust from the small circular
window in the northern wing of the mansion, and
Herbert beheld the beaming face of his betrothed.
One token of recognition was exchanged, and
dashing his spurs into the flanks of his steed, side
by side with Harry Heft, Herbert joined the retreat
of the American soldiers, who swept in one wild
torrent of defeat and disorder over the ground,
where they had conquered at the break of day.

“Massa Smiley—Massa Smiley,” cried “Chawls
de Fust” issuing from the hall door of Chew's
house. “My Missa Waltham am safe—she am,
gorra-mighty—lor bless us! Dat am a fac! Sure's
my name's Chawls de Fust.”

“Verily, I must see the damsel”—exclaimed
the Quaker—“She may be in trouble and distress,
and I may comfort her. Nay, friends, look not so
sourly at me”—he continued, as he observed the
scowling brows of the British soldiers, who were
rushing by him to join in the pursuit. “I did but
take away your weapons for your good. Verify, I
must see the damsel.”

And with that he disappeared in the hall door.

Chew's house was now entirely deserted by its
late military occupants who all poured out of its
precincts, to join the current of pursuit which
thundered in the rear of the American host. Along
the Germantown Road, over the fields and enclosures
between the village and Chestnut Hill, fled
the scattered bands of the American army. In vain
did Washington endeavor to breast the tide of
retreat, in vain did Pulaski at the head of his
troopers, throw himself before the disheartened
fugitives, and urge them by all that they held dear
and sacred, to face the pursuing foe! All was in
vain! And Greene and Wayne beheld their men,
who had borne themselves so gallantly, ere the
bright prospects of the day had been blasted at
Chew's house, turn their backs to the foe, and flee
in utter despair from that field, where heaven and
earth had combined to defeat the American arms.

How the American army retreated to the wilds
of Perkiomen, how the wounded and the dying

strewed the way, how the pursuit was maintained,
and how most of the disastrous consequences of
a retreat were avoided by the care and foresight
of Washington, are all matters of historical relation,
and we turn again to the blood-stained field
of Germantown.

6. CHAPTER THE SIXTH.
SUNSET UPON THE BATTLE FIELD.

The declining sun was again bathing the landscape
in its golden beauty, and each sloping hill,
and grassy pasturage, each leafy forest, dyed with
hues of autumn, and each level plain dotted with
orchards and varied by cultivation, looked more
lovely in the setting sunlight, since the raising of
the mist, had imparted new life and freshness to
the view, than when the uncertain beams of the
battle-morn glimmered among wreaths of clouds,
and threw a dim and pallid light along the darkened
air, deepened to the gloom of twilight by the smoke
and dust of battle.

“Will thee mount thy horse, Miss Waltham?
Dost not see, young lady, that friend Tracy is mounted
and ready to start? Nay, Betty Fisher do not
detain the maiden with thy endless gossip, and
Charles, man, what does thee stand grinning at
there, like another chessy-cat.”[2]

With many a warm expression of thanks and
courtesy to Miss Betty Fisher for her care and attendance,
Marian took the hand of the Quaker, and

sprang from the hall steps of Chew's mansion, on
to her favorite steed, which the watchful “Chawls
de Fust” had conveyed from the mansion on the
Ridge Road, over to Germantown, since the strife
and turmoil of the battle morning.

The fair form of Marian was robed in a green
riding habit, which fitted closely and gracefully
around her bust and shoulders, with a ruffle of delicate
white encircling the snowy neck, while the
skirt of the robe fell in voluminous folds over the
maidenly proportions of her figure, and resting upon
the saddle of her bounding steed, swept in a graceful
train until it touched the very earth. Her
glossy hair, with all its golden luxuriance, was
confined within the pressure of a small riding hood,
topped by a delicate white plume, and looped in
front with a brooch of the brightest lustre.

Marian's cheek, was deadly pale, and her eyes
were swollen with weeping, for the thought of her
father's death lay heavy at her heart, and as she
glanced at the tall form of Major Tracy, mounted
on his steed at her side, all the scenes of the day
that was well nigh over, and of the preceding night,
rose before her vivid fancy like the fresh remembrance
of the horrors of some terrible dream.

“Shall we move forward, friend Tracy? It lacks
but an hour of sunset—Charles, mount thy horse;
we must be moving.”

“It reely makes me quite solemn-like to see you

all a-going, and scarce a soul in the house but myself!”—exclaimed
Miss Betty Fisher, advancing to
the side of Marian's horse. “Oh dear, oh, dear,
here's been a purty day of it! And arter the unmannerly
soldiers have filled Mr. Chew's house
with dead, and broke the furnitur and scattered all
the chiney all over the house—Oh! goodness me!
They then must clear out Colonel Musgrave, Lieutenant
Wellwood and all, leavin' me to look to
their miserable place! Oh, lud, Miss Waltham, I
shall never get over this fright for a twelvemonth.
Don't look so sad—that's a dear”—continued the
loquacious house-keeper. “It's a comfort to you
to think, that the ribble officer did'nt run away with
you quite—”

“Verily, Miss Betty Fisher, thee will keep us
here, listening to this prattle, until to-morrow morn.
Let us push on, friend Tracy.”

“Good bye, Miss Waltham!” screamed Betty as
the party rode over the lawn—“Good bye, and
rimimber me to all inquirin' friends.”

“Gorra—mighty—lor bless me!” chuckled the
negro—“Dat ar' woman got a tongue like de hopper
of a flour mill! Clack—clack—and no stoppin'
when it gets a gwoin. Dat am a fac.”

As Marian rode along the lawn, toward the Germantown
Road, on her way homeward, she could
not help noting the awful quietness which had

gathered over the battle field, in place of the noise
and tumult of the morn.

The grounds, as well as the mansion, were deserted
by the British soldiers, and the dead were
strewn over the surface of the lawn in ghastly
heaps. The grass was trodden down, and wet with
blood, while every indentation or hollow of the
earth, was filled with a pool of the crimson current,
and here and there were were crevices dug in the
ground, by the rolling of the cannon wheels, now
affording temporary channels for the reception of
the clotted masses of human gore that made the
lawn a marsh of carnage.

Pieces of broken muskets, fragments of bayonets,
remnants of shattered swords littered the ground,
mingled with bullets and cannon balls, and all the
ten thousand wrecks of war and battle-strife, were
strewn along, amid the piles of dead bodies. The
beams of the setting sun gilded the pale faces of the
dead, with a momentary light that seemed like a
bitter mockery of the ruddy glow of life, and the
warm flush of health.

Marian beheld death in every shape and position.
Here an American soldier had fallen at the foot of
a tree, and died with his back propped against the
trunk, while his head fell to one side, and his mouth
opened with a ghastly grin. One hand clutched the
shattered musket-stock, and the other lay stiffened
on the wound in his side. Close by him, a British

soldier seemed to have been swept down in the
very moment of the charge. His back was turned
to the sky, one knee was bent in as if he had met
the death wound when running, and his face was
buried in the ground, while his arms were outstretched
and his stiffened fingers were thrust into
the upturned earth, as though he had grasped the
sod, in the convulsive throes of mortal agony.

Farther on lay a heap of dead, American and
Briton, Scot and German, interlocked in one ghastly
pile of mangled bodies, some with their faces
upturned to the sunlight, some with their hands upraised
as if to ward off the descending blow, others
with every limb contorted by the spasm that attends
a sudden and a painful death, while some there
were who lay extended upon the earth as calmly
and quietly as though they had but laid themselves
down to take a pleasant sleep.

Here lay a youth, clad in the rustic dress of an
American farmer's boy. He lay on his side with
his tangled brown hair thrown over his forehead,
his sunburnt cheek crimsoned with spots of blood,
and his plain and uncouth garments drilled with
bullet holes, and torn by sword thrusts. His old-fashioned
fowling piece, the companion of many a
wild ramble amid the solitudes of the forest, lay
near his side, and his arm was stretched out as
though he grasped it in his death struggle, but the

stiffened fingers could but touch the shattered stock
without enclosing it in their dying embrace.

And thus along the whole field, in each nook,
each grassy hollow, along the surface of each level
plane, were scattered those who had fallen in the
morning's struggle, resting in all the ghastliness of
death, upon the sod which had bounded beneath
their tread at the hour of sunrise. Had aught been
wanting to complete the picture, it was supplied
by the presence of various mercenary wretches,
who, hovering upon the outskirts of the field, stripped
and plundered the dead, and scared away a
flock of ravens, who had perched upon their victims,
in anticipation of a plentiful banquet.

“God of mercy!” exclaimed the Quaker, as his
eye drank in the horrors of the battle field, “if
ever the fancy might imagine that spirits of the
dark world had built a loathsome mockery of
every high and heavenly sympathy that dwells in
the bosom of man, surely that mocking spectacle
is here, and man outraging all feelings of brotherhood,
all feelings of affection, all that is good or
holy in his nature, has laid his fellow man down
upon the earth in all the shapes of death, and
every mangled limb and torn carcase, seems to
bear witness that the Lord God dwelleth not in
man, but rather that he is the temple of the Evil
One!”

As he spoke, the party reached the main road, and

Major Tracy spurred on his steed some hundred
yards ahead of his companions, and riding in full
gallop, he seemed to woo the current of freshening
air, as it swept over his hot brow and burning
cheek, without for an instant allaying the fever of
his mind.

7. CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
THE BALL FROM THE GRAVE-YARD.

Major Tracy rode along in front of the party
until he reached a point where a quiet grave-yard
looks out upon the village street. It was then, as
it is now, somewhat elevated above the level of the
main street, and a wall of rough, dark grey stone,
separates it from the highway, and half shields its
green mounds of earth, and its long lines of time-eaten
tombstones, from the gaze of the passer by.
He was riding thus leisurely along, with his head
drooped low as if in thought, his eyes downcast,
and his hands on his chest, while the loosened rein
was thrown carelessly upon his horse's neck, and
his entire manner betrayed the absence of all his
musings from the real world around; he was riding
thus leisurely along, and had well nigh gained the
grave-yard gate, which opened into the pathway
from the centre of the wall, when a loud and startling
report broke upon the still air, the body of the
stern Loyalist swayed in the saddle for an instant,
then pitched headlong to the ground, as a line of
light blue smoke was observed floating along the
grave-yard wall.

Startled by the report, the attention of the Quaker
was instantly drawn to the quarter from whence
it proceeded. At the same instant that he heard
the quick and jarring sound, he beheld the body of
Major Tracy falling heavily to the earth, and the
wreaths of pale, blue smoke curling in the air above
the grave-yard wall.

Unheeding the shriek that arose from the lips of
Marian at the sight, or the yell of horror uttered by
the negro, Joab Smiley gave the rein to his horse,
and reached the spot where the major fell the very
moment he had measured his length upon the
ground. Joab sprang from his horse, and in an instant
the head of Major Tracy rested upon his knee.
It needed not a second glance to tell the Quaker
that he held a lifeless corse in his arms. The body
rested in his embrace with the dull leaden weight
of death, the face was pale as ashes, the dark eyes
bursting from their sockets, glared upon the blue
heavens with a cold glassy stare, and the nerves of
the face, along the cheek, and around the mouth,
were starting from the skin, with the electric throe
of sudden death. The silver star, which he wore
upon his left breast, was crimsoned by the current
of blood flowing from the wound near the heart.

Laying the body hurriedly upon the earth, the
Quaker sprang over the wall of the grave-yard, and
as he alighted upon the rising mound of a new
made grave, he beheld the figure of a man, clad in

rustic attire, disappearing among the shrubbery that
overlooked the rear wall of the grave-yard, and, as
he vanished, Joab noted that he held a rifle in his
hand. He pursued the retiring figure, but in vain;
he had fled beyond all hopes of capture, and the
Quaker returned sadly to the highway, where a
group of villagers had gathered around the corse,
and were looking carelessly on, while Marian held
the head of the dead man in her arms, and the
faithful negro servant unfastened his cravat, loosened
his dress, threw water in his face, and used
every means that his untaught fidelity suggested to
restore his master to life.

“Why seek ye not the murderer?” shouted the
Quaker, throwing himself into the midst of the
throng of villagers. “Do ye behold a man cut
down in the very glow of life before your eyes,
and yet stir not a hand to secure his slayer?”

“Well, I minds my own business,” replied an
uncouth looking villager, “I don't know but what
I might tell who sent that bullet, but d'ye see,
friend Broadbrim, this man (pointing to Major Tracy)
is—is a—tory! D'ye mark me?”

“Are you men?” cried Marian, glancing around
the crowd, while her eyes swam in tears. “Are you
men, and have you one feeling of mercy, or pity, or
justice, or right, and can ye stand and see a fellow
being bleeding to death before your eyes, and extend
not a hand to his assistance? Shame on ye!”

“He was a tory!” cried a second villager. “Go
look at Chew's house, and ask for pity!”

“Look at the pits filled with true Americans!”
exclaimed a third. “Go look at the pits dug in
every field for a mile round, and then ask mercy
for a tory!”

“Why, my friends,” cried the Quaker, as his
dark grey eye flashed with anger and honest indignation,
“did ye mingle in the battle? Are ye so
fond of the right cause, and yet struck not a blow
in its behalf? Verily, my friends, it is my plain
opinion that ye are a pack of pitiful dogs, whose
bark is even more terrible than their bite! As the
maiden saith, so say I—shame on ye, shame!”

“You'd better not stick any of your hard names
on me,” cried the ill looking villager advancing,
“for all you are a Quaker, I might chance to strike
you!”

“Thee might friend, might thee?” cried the
Quaker, as he approached the villager; “verily,
friend, thee is of no use here; but, on the contrary,
thee grows troublesome. A little musing among
the tombs may do thee good!”

As the Quaker spoke, he extended his sinewy
arms, and seizing the villager by the shoulder, very
quietly bore him along to the grave-yard wall, and
then, with as much ease as may be imagined, sent
him plunging over among the tombs with an impetus that tended materially to make this ardent

Hater-of-Tories pray earnestly “that he might
alight in a soft place.”

With a bland smile on his face, without any signs
of passion or emotion, the Quaker returned to the
group, who first eyed his tall, robust form, and his
Herculean proportions with a significant scrutiny,
and then were content to vent their spleen in general
curses, upon the whole race of Tories, Loyalists,
and so forth.

The sound of approaching hoofs ran along the
village street, and the attention of the group was
attracted toward two horsemen, who came galloping
from the direction of Chew's House.

“They are Continentals!” cried a villager,
“Continental officers, bearin' a flag of truce to the
British army! I wonder what mought their names
be?”

“I say, captin',” cried one of the horsemen to
the other, “in the name o' th' Continental Congress,
what does this crowd mean in front o' yonder
grave-yard?”

“Let us push forward and see,” was the reply,
and in a moment their steeds were reined in beside
the group, and the foremost horseman pushed
through the throng and beheld the dead man.

“Herbert Tracy!” exclaimed the Quaker with
a start of surprise, but the words died on his tongue,
for the son was gazing steadfastly and fixedly in
the face of his father, and his chest heaved, and his

frame shook with emotion, but no tear dimmed his
eye. His grief was too deep for tears, his agitation
too fearful for utterance.

And as the sun went down on that 4th day of
October, in the year of Grace 1777, there they clustered
around the body of the dead man, as it lay in
the highway of Germantown in front of the grave
yard from which the assassin winged his bullet.

There was Marian Waltham, bending on one
knee, and supporting the corse in her arms; the
tears were flooding her cheeks and sobs of unfeigned
sorrow were heaving her bosom. There was the
Quaker with his plain honest visage and his manly
form; there was Harry Heft, the bluff soldier, with
his face expressive of mingled curiosity and astonishment;
there was honest Charles, the negro,
weeping for his master; around were grouped the
careless idlers of the village, and over the corse, in
the centre of the throng, was the form of Herbert
Tracy; his arms were folded, his eyes were down
cast, his dark hair fell wildly back from his uncovered
brow, and over each lineament of his face
came the expression of unutterable wo that gnawed
at his heart strings for years, and dwelt in his soul
until his dying day.

One thought was gathering over his soul, absorbing
every other feeling, and crushing every sentiment
of natural grief—

“He is dead—the father that I loved! And his
CURSE is on me!”

CHAPTER LAST.
THE RE-UNION.—THE EXILE.—THE MYSTERY.

Autumn passed—winter, with its storms, was
over, and spring again bloomed amid the groves and
glades of the Wissahikon. The day was serene,
the air balmy, and the earth glad with the verdure
of the trees, the music of the free streams, and the
perfume of wild flowers.

Two young maidens of different stations in life,
as might be seen by their attire, were seated upon the
porch of the mansion upon the heights of the Wissahikon,
and as they gazed abroad upon the face of
nature, and drank in the wild delight of sky and
forest and stream, while the fragrant air, was playing
amid the tendrils of the wild vine that clomb
along the pillars of the porch, they forgot that the
house by which they were seated was desolate, that
its occupants were scattered aboard, and the silence
of its halls but rarely disturbed by the sounds of
human speech.

The light haired maiden glanced at her mourning
robe, and she thought of those who slept in
the church-yard; the sparkle of the ring on her

finger met her eye, and then her mind was far
away amid the scenes of battle, and her fancy wandered
with him who battled in the ranks of war,
and who fought against the gloom that was upon
his soul.

The dark haired maiden glanced at the blue sky,
at the forest sweeping in all its verdure along the
height of the opposite hill; she listened to the lulling
music of the rippling stream, and then her
thoughts were with the hardy soldier, whose frank
bearing, and rustic manliness, had won the admiration
and the affection of her young heart, in many
a ramble under that blue sky amid those green
shades, and beside the lulling murmur of the quiet
stream.

At a short distance from the porch, a tall and
robust farmer was engaged in cleaning the walks
of a small flower-garden, from the mass of weeds
and wild grass accumulated by time and neglect.
His plain Quaker coat, was resting on the pailing
of the garden fence, and with his muscular arms
unbared, the farmer plyed the spade with every
mark of alacrity and vigor. Ever and anon he
would pause in his employment, and turning his
honest visage to the heavens, he gazed at the deep
azure above, then at the forest around, and finally
his glance would rest upon the forms of the maidens
seated upon the porch, whom he regarded
with a look of quiet complacency, that told of a

mind sobered by experience, taking delight in the
calm innocence, the guileless converse, and the
ardent hopes of youth.

A little further on, a shining faced negro, with
his arms black as ebony, stripped to the elbow,
was engaged in trailing a wild vine along an arbor,
while his shrill clear whistle broke merrily upon
the air, interspersed with snatches of ditties of
every kind and order of poetical merit, which he
usually wound up with the loud “Hah-a-whah!”
peculiar to the Ethiopian race.

“This spot is more pleasant to thee, Miss Marian,”
exclaimed the black haired maiden, turning to her
fair companion. “This spot is more pleasant to
thee, Miss Marian, than the loneliness of the mansion
on the Ridge Road—is't not Miss Waltham?”

“A thousand feelings, dear Margorie, combine
to make this scene one of the saddest as well as
the loveliest I ever looked upon. I cannot turn
my eye to a flower, a spear of grass, a shrub or a
tree, without the vivid revival of the memory of
the past. Old faces, and well remembered forms,
swim in the air around me—voices that once awoke
the echoes of these walls, again sound in my ears—
friends dearly and fondly beloved, are once more
around me—and all the wo, the sorrow and care
of the world are forgotten”—

“Has thee heard of Captain Tracy lately, Miss
Marian?”

“Yes, Marjorie. But his letters are sad and
gloomy, and he seems to be warring a bitter contest
with the dark remembrance of the past. He
has not mingled with the scenes of battle since the
affray of Chew's House, and the terrible event
that so fearfully wound up a day of bloodshed and
horror.”

“'Twas a sad thing, the death of Major Tracy.
How strange! That the assassin should never be
discovered!”

“A fearful mystery is around the whole affair,
Marjorie. Who it was that fired the shot, whether
the hand of the murderer was raised in revenge of
a private wrong, or from mere partizan enmity,
has never come to light. These are times of strife
and turmoil—and all the sympathies that bind men
together in times of peace, seemed sundered and
broken apart.”

“But tell me, Miss Marian, did thy letters speak
of—of—Lieutenant Heft? Is he still with Captain
Tracy?”

“The captain is still by the side of the Commander-in-chief,
though he mingles not in the
strife of battle. His letters speak of Harry Heft
in the kindest terms. His qualities of a free, open
frankness, and a speech, perhaps somewhat too
blunt and rugged, have proved beneficent to Herbert,
and in the company of his honest friend, he
finds a frequent relief from the sorrow that weighs
upon his soul.”

A gleam of pleasure brightened in Marjorie's
black eye, and a warm glow flushed over her cheek.
She was about to reply, when a loud shout broke
from the negro “Chawls the Fust,” and he was
seen dancing about the lawn in every variety of
grotesque attitudes and fantastic postures, that his
lively imagination suggested.

“Why friend, thee is surely demented!” exclaimed
the astonished Quaker.

“Massa Smiley, Massa Smiley, d'ye hear dat ar'
laugh? A regular haw-haw! Dat am Harry
Heft's laff—sure's my name's Charles de Fust!
Massa's comin' home! Lor bless us—gorra-mighty!
Dat am a fac.”

Marian and Marjorie started up from their seats;
the Quaker leaped over the garden fence on to the
lawn, and the whole party listened eagerly to the
sounds of horses' hoofs, which came echoing through
the woods from the road among the rocks of the
precipice.

In a few moments all doubt was at an end and
two horsemen emerged from the woods and rode
over the lawn, at the top of their horses' speed.

In an instant Marian was clasped in the arms of
her lover, while Harry Heft, unheeding the presence
of the staid Quaker, was so very rude as to
inflict sundry kisses upon the pouting lips of the
black eyed Quakeress, and enfold her pretty figure
in a succession of loving embraces.

“Marian, Marian, my own beautiful Marian”—
exclaimed Herbert, as he gazed upon the fair face
of his betrothed, while her kindling blue eyes returned
his fond and ardent gaze. “Marian, we
shall never part more. I have returned again to
the scenes of our earliest love, to scenes hallowed
by memory, though darkened by many a bitter sorrow;
I will gaze once more upon the green woods
and quiet shades of the Wissahikon and then leave
these hills and vales for ever. Marian, will you
share the fate of a wanderer and an exile?”

It needed not the whispered words that came
from the maiden's lip, to tell Herbert that he was
still beloved. The maiden's beaming eye and
blushing cheek, spoke the thoughts that were fluttering
around her heart.

“Marian,” whispered Herbert, “our love has
been nursed in scenes of joy, it has grown and
flourished amid scenes of trial and wo, and now,
alone as we are in the wide and callous world, we
will be all in all to each other—we will forget in
foreign lands that ever our path was shadowed by
a single cloud.”

“Why Marjorie, you minx”—interrupted Harry
Heft—“how pretty you've grown! How your
dark eyes twinkle—how your rosy lips open with
sich a han'some pout, as though you were good
lookin' and you knew it. No, no, Marjorie—
there's no use o' poutin' your lips and shakin' your

head. We'll be married—that's certain! See—
how uncle is shakin' his sides with quiet joy there!
We'll be married for all I ain't a Quaker, and I'll
away to the wars, and fight many a hard blow for
my country yet, though the Rangers, and Dennis
and all—God help me!—are dead and gone. And
I'll come back a live man, I promise you, Marjorie,
and we'll be married right off for certain. We
will, by the Continental Congress!”

It was the last time Herbert and Marian should
gaze upon the wilds of the Wissahikon. The blue
sky was above, the forest were around, the old
mansion with its closed doors and fastened shutters,
was sleeping in the sunlight.

The arms of Herbert were entwined around
Marian's waist; her face upturned to his countenance,
seared by the lines of premature sorrow,
glowed with the happiness of the hour, and her
bosom heaved and her eyes swam in tears of joy.
A little apart stood the manly Harry Heft beside
the blushing Marjorie; in the back ground was the
negro, dancing for gladness at the joy of others;
and in the centre of the group stood the Quaker,
Joab Smiley, his honest visage heightening with
unfeigned pleasure as he regarded the love and
happiness beaming from the faces of all around him.

It was a scene of quiet joy, and one that dwelt
in the remembrance of those who shared the felicity
of the moment through the long lapse of future
years.

Herbert, entrusted with a mission of the utmost
importance to his country, departed with his blooming
bride to the gay scenes of the French metropolis,
where he remained until the American war
was terminated by the peace of Versailles.

Lieutenant Wellwood Tracy, promotod to a
Colonelcy, left America for England, and then
sailed for India, where his love of pleasure and
dissipation soon supplied him with that narrowest
and quietest of all habitations—a grave.

Harry Heft and the black-eyed Quakeress passed
the quiet and peaceful years of their rustic felicity
amid the shades of the Wissahikon, and long after
the fresh-grown turf, extending greenly along the
lawn of Chew's Mansion, had concealed all marks
of blood and carnage, the blunt soldier and his
pretty wife still lived to tell the story of the 4th
of October, 1777—Harry to describe the scenes of
the battle, the charge, the havoc and the retreat,
and Marjorie to picture the fear and consternation
that spread through the habitations of the village
on that eventful day.

Herbert Arnheim Tracy became known in
foreign lands, as an able counsellor in the cabinet
of kings, and tradition relates that after the lapse
of years had borne his fair and beautiful wife from
earth and its sorrows, a warrior whose brow was
seared by the lines of premature age, was known
among the bravest of the brave men who drew

their swords under the banner of Napoleon, and
shared in the carnage at Waterloo, by the title of
General Arnheim de Tracy, designated by courtesy
Monsieur Le Compte de La Wallingford, rather in
respect to his ancient lineage, than from any actual
possession of the estates of Wallingford, which
finally, for want of a claimant, reverted to the
British Crown. And the murderer of Major Tracy
—was he ever discovered? The hand that pealed
the shot from the graveyard wall of Germantown,
was never recognised with all the accuracy and
minute detail of circumstantial evidence. But tradition
relates, that years after the battle, when the
mansion of Major Tracy had passed into other
hands, and events of the Revolution had assumed
the venerable appearance of antiquity, an aged man,
whose frame was broken down with disease, and
whose brow was furrowed with the traces of long
indulged passions, appeared in the village of Germantown,
and sought the shelter of the village
poor-house. In his dying hour, he muttered a
dark confession of a life of crime and infamy, but
the ears of his hearers were in especial attracted
by a tale of horror, which he told of the evening
succeeding the battle-morn.

Returning from the plunder of the dead bodies
that strewed the battle-field, he sought the shelter
of the grave-yard wall, to examine his ill-gotten
acquisitions. While thus employed, he observed

approaching along the main road, an officer whom
he had seen as he prowled from army to army
during the day, prominent in the van of the British
hosts, heading the charge, and fighting in the
thickest of the melee. Seized by an uncontrolable
impulse, the vagabond raised his piece to the level
of the wall, and taking secure aim at the star on
his breast, he shot the British officer to the heart
and then fled. He knew not why he dealt the
blow, but attributed the action to a sudden feeling
to shed blood, that possessed him for the moment,
together with a dimly defined desire to revenge the
death of the Americans who strewed the battle-field.
He made this confession and died, but still
a thousand other legends exist with regard to the
matter, and point out a thousand other causes of
Major Tracy's death.

How Major Tracy died, and when and where,
was ever a matter of deep remembrance to his son,
but that he died with the curse unrevoked and the
imprecation unrecalled—that thought harrowed
the mind of Herbert Tracy until his dying hour,
and hung like a cloud of evil omen over the brightest
points of the pathway of life.

And so ends the legend of Herbert Tracy and
his gallant band of Rangers, with all its wild and
thrilling incidents, which are too much interwoven
with truth and fact, to admit of the “unity and
oneness,” that gives interest and attraction to a

story purely fictionary in incident and character.
The bones of Herbert Tracy whiten a foreign soil;
his bride, his fair and youthful bride rests far from
the friends, the valley of her childhood; a lowly
mound in a village grave-yard contains the remains
of the bluff Harry Heft and his dark-eyed dame,
and after a lapse of sixty-five long years, the memory
of the Battle has become a record of solemn
and painful history; yet still around the homes of
Germantown, and among the firesides of the quiet
Wissahikon, lingers and lives the

Legend of the Black Rangers.