University of Virginia Library

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!”