University of Virginia Library

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?”