University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER THE SECOND.
THE MAIDEN.

The view was full of natural beauty. Immediately
in front of the window extended a small
flower garden, surrounded by a wicket fence, made
lovely to the eye by groups of wild flowers of
every tint and hue, green arbors, overshadowed by
luxuriant vines, transplanted by a fair hand from
the glades of the forest, and pleasant walks, and
winding paths, separated from the flower beds by
delicate lines of greenest grass, while a fair form
flitting from arbor to arbor, might well have seemed
the divinity of the rural paradise. Beyond the garden,
a sloping pasturage some hundred yards in
extent, bounded on either side by forest trees, sank
down in a gentle descent until its verdant turf was
laved by the ripples of the quiet Wissahikon;
which flowed silently on, from a mass of greenwood,
along the shores of the meadow, under the
shade of the trees on the opposite bank, until it
was lost in the forest of verdure which terminated
the view to the south. The opposite bank of the
stream arose in a swelling hill, covered with lofty
forest trees, the giant-turnked oak, the leafy chestnut,
and branching beech, whose luxuriant foliage,

but faintly tinged by the bright red, and glaring
yellow of autumn, was basking in the mellowing
light of the setting sun, as he sank with half concealed
disc behind the woodlands. The sky was
clear and serene, with light masses of clouds floating
in the pathway of the sun. The whole western
horizon was bathed in light of mellowed gold,
while the zenith expanded with its intensity of autumnal
azure—like the dome of this fair temple of
nature—far,far above, and there was a holy quietude,
a twilight solemnity resting upon that world-hidden
vale, that appealed to the highest and kindliest
feelings of our nature.

The view was lovely, the foliage luxuriant, the
sky serene, the meadow verdant as with the first
kiss of spring, but neither view, foliage, sky nor
pasturage, seemed to attract the attention of the farmer
by reason of their mere natural beauties, but
rather from some association of memory, which
fixed the valley of the Wissahikon as the scene
of some well remembered incident of other days.

Joab gazed for an instant upon this scene, and
then turning away with a hurried step, sought the
other window of the apartment, which opened a
view to the north. There were undulating hills
and green woodlands and brown fields of upturned
earth and white patches of ripe buckwheat, but
upon hill top, and gleaming from the foliage of the
forest, and dotting the russet of the cultivated fields

with strips of white, extended the tents of the British
camp, traversing as far as the eye could reach,
the tract of country between the village of Germantown
and the river Schuylkill, while at short
intervals waved the Cross of St. George, stained
with the best blood of the children of the soil; and
the hirelings of power, in their gaudy trappings,
with their well burnished arms, were observed
moving hither and thither along the line of the encampment.
The view did not by any means seem
to soothe the mind of the Quaker, into its usual
quietude.

“I tell thee, wife, it is in vain—in vain!” he
exclaimed again turning to the window looking out
upon the Wissahikon. “I cannot stifle the remembrance.
I stood here—here at this window,
and saw him die—and yet I had a hand, a strong
hand and a stout arm, but I might not strike. I
beheld him die—”

“Of whom does thee speak, Joab?” asked dame
Hannah, amazed at the excited demeanor of the
staid Quaker. “Methinks thee is wondrously flurried,
Joab!”

“Here I beheld him die. The son of the poor
widow over the creek—that poor trumpeter boy in
the American camp,” he continued, his manner
becoming more excited as he proceeded. “It was
just such an evening as this, save that it happened
in the bloom of spring. He had won his way

through the hosts of the enemy—he had heard his
mother was sick unto death—and he wished if she
was indeed dying to close her eyes. He had won
his way through the hosts of the enemy, he had
gained this meadow, when thundering at his back
came the scarlet men of war on their stout horses,
with their flashing swords. He shrieked for mercy
and I heard his shriek, but might not, could not
save him. He shrieked for mercy, and their swords
were bathed in the warm blood of his heart. He
was a fair youth, but 'twas a ghastly sight—that
ruddy cheek crusted in the cold blood; those
golden locks dyed in crimson red. Ah, 'twas a
fearful sight—and—I—could not save him—”

“In verity 'twas a most pitiful sight! The Lord
have mercy on his murderers!”

“I could not—could not save him”—continued
the Quaker. “But still I beheld him die!” He
raised his eyes and hands to Heaven. “Father of
mercy”—he exclaimed—“if blood crying from the
earth to thee for recompense, is ever in thy wisdom
avenged, surely the account of these scarlet
men is deeply dyed, and cries for ten fold vengeance!
He was but a boy and yet they killed
him!”

“'Twas a dreadful sight—a doleful sight,” sobbed
dame Hannah. “In truth a doleful sight! The
Lord be good to us, what is that?” she exclaimed,
with an outburst of surprise, as a loud and piercing

shriek arose from the garden without, and
rang through the farm house. The Quaker started
quickly at the sound, but ere he had time to move
a step or whisper a word, the sound of hurried footsteps
was heard, the door of the apartment was flung
hurriedly open, and a girl in the full summer of
youth, rushed into the room, her dark hair floating
in masses of jet, down over her neck and shoulders,
and streaming in unconfined luxuriance over her
virgin bosom, bared by the hand of violence. As
she rushed into the room, she was followed by a
coarse, ruffian-like man in the dress of a British
dragoon, who with a drunken shout, and look of
imbecile intoxication, had seized on the 'kerchief
which veiled her bosom, and while she fled to her
father's arms, pursued her footsteps.

“Save me!—Father—save me!” cried the maiden
clinging to the farmer's neck.

“Come my pretty lassie—don't be afraid”—exclaimed
the drunken soldier, as he sprang across the
floor with unsteady steps. “Don't be afraid, lassie
—don't—”

“Come, feller, this is going a little too far”—exclaimed
a strange voice, and a blow from behind
felled the soldier to the oaken planks of the floor.
It was a good stout blow, and it laid the crimson-hued
dragoon, as quietly down, as a new born babe.
The Quaker who had not time to raise a hand in defence
of the maiden, glanced at the stranger and beheld

the form of a young man in the prime of early
manhood, of a strong, muscular and well proportioned
frame, with a face full of honest intelligence
of expression, lighted by the gleam of a dare
devil eye, and a look beaming with ingenuous frankness
and manly courage.

“That's a nice specimen of the terror of turkey
cocks!” exclaimed the stranger, eyeing the prostrated
soldier, with a gaze of quiet admiration. “A
nice pattern of a scare crow to keep turkey gobblers
out of the corn! Haint it, uncle Joab? What d'ye
say, aunt Hannah?—did ever you see sich a beast?”

“Harry Heft!” exclaimed the maiden in surprise,
while her cheek was pale with her recent affright.
“Harry Heft!”

“Henry Heft! And in this warlike guise!” exclaimed
the farmer, participating in the astonishment
of his daughter.

“Why, Henry Heft! Where did thee come
from?” said the dame, in a tone of quiet amazement,
as her lips parted and her eyes distended
with surprise.

The scene would have made a picture. The
staid Joab, with his daughter resting on his right
arm, while the other was raised in involuntary astonishment;
the fair girl with her arms round her
father's neck, her dark hair falling in disordered
tresses over her shoulders and down her back, her
face, with beaming eyes as dark as night, and dimmed

by tears, turned toward the young soldier,
while her bared bosom of virgin whiteness, and
youthful outline, heaved upward in the light, and
glowed with the warm flush that brightened over
her face and neck; the dame slightly in the background
with hands raised and eyes distended; and
the young soldier in the foreground, unheeding the
exclamations of surprise, but gazing downward,
with his sparkling brown eyes, fixed in an expression
of quiet humor, upon the form of the insensible
dragoon, laid along the floor, in the careless attitude
of helpless intoxication; all formed a quiet
picture for the pencil of John Smith, or any other
artist of similar celebrity.

“Reely, jist to think of the feller's impudence!”
exclaimed Harry Heft—“a'ter I'd travelled fifteen
miles, over hill and holler, and through the red-coat
lines, not at all mentionin' my creepin' down
the Wissahikon to get cleer of the picquets—a'ter all
this trouble to get a look at Majorie there, and then
when I reach the garden gate, to find that feller
a-chaseing her about the flower beds jist as if he'd
a right to catch butterflies where he liked!”

“But where did thee come from, Henry? How
did thee git here? Is'nt thee in danger? What
does thee want?” were the hurried questions asked
by the Quaker, who evidently knew not what to
think of young Heft's sudden appearance.

“That's what I call unrollin' the whole catechism

at once. Now uncle—I call you uncle, not
because you're my fa'ther's brother, but because it
sounds sociable, (the same to you, aunt,) jist set down
there while I shut the door. There—it's bolted, now
let me roll this sleepin' scarecrow under the table.
Majorie, dear, let me put your 'kerchief round your
neck. There now—what's the use of blushing so—
did'nt I pay the scoundrel for his impu'dence?—
Now all of you sit down 'round the fire-place, jist
as we used to do in old times—Majorie, you sit by
me—uncle, you sit there, and aunt, you sit there.—
Now then I'll tell you all about it!”

“Henry, wherefore is thee in this warlike guise?”
interrupted the Quaker.

“That's what I was jist a-going to tell you. But
howsomever as I've precious little time to spare,
I'll jist cut a long story short, and let you know,
that I'm fresh from George Washington's army—
which is not much farther off than the Skippack
Creek, some sixteen miles distance from this farm
house. (The Continentals may be a little nearer for
all you know.) I'm on a scouting party—but
p'raps you don't know what that is? You do uncle!
very well.”

“Where did thee go when thee left the Wissahikon
last winter with young Herbert Tracy?”

“Why you must know that young Tracy raised
a company of mounted riflemen, from round about
the country here with whom he joined the Continentals.

He mustered some fifty good, bold-handed,
stout-hearted fellows. This is our uniform—black
frock coat, or rather dark grey—neat
little rifle with a ball that never fails—short sword
—powder horn,—light boots—cap with the feather
of a night-hawk in the way of a plume, and that's
the reason why they calls us the night-hawks,
though our regular name is Captain Tracy's Rifles,
or the Black Rangers. We fight sometimes one by
one dropped about in spots, and most ginerally we
slam into the Britishers all in a bunch, with our
rifles cracking away, our plump black horses at the
top of their speed, and our jolly war-hurrah splitting
the air over our heads. We've seen hard
fighting too—plenty of it. Twenty-six of our
good band left their bones at Brandywine. By the
Lord above us—”

“Henry, Henry! What saith the scripture?—
Take not the name of—”

“I'm wrong, I know it. But these haint no times
for men to be pertikler about what they say. But
to the pint. I came as far as Chestnut Hill on a
scouting party, and then I came on here, through
the British lines, partly to see you folks here—
partly to see my people over the creek, but more
'specially to reconnoitre round the mansion of our
captain's father, jist below the paper mill run. Captain
Tracy thinks there's some mischief a-brewing,
and so I'll jist take a bit of something to eat if you

please, and be off. What's that red-coat grumbling
there about? He is the drunkenest—”

“If I mistake not,” interrupted Joab, “he is the
servant of a young British officer, who with Colonel
Musgrave is at present staying at Mr. Tracy's down
the Wissahikon.”

“Hey, uncle! You don't say so! Then there's
mischief brewin' indeed,—Colonel Musgrave and
old Tracy have always been as thick as thieves.—
It's my opinion that the captain's father is going to
marry that Britisher's nephew of his to young Miss
Waltham, who was betrothed to our captain before
he joined the Continentals.”

“Who is his nephew? I never heard him
spoken of before, Henry.”

“Why, his name is Wellwood Tracy—he's a
Britisher born, and he's a leftenant among the red-coats.
Old Tracy says that he shall inherit his
estate when he dies. There's a father for you, to
cast off his natural born son—but what's that fellow
grumbling about?”

“This way, this way,” muttered the intoxicated
dragoon, raising himself from his resting place
under the table and gazing around with a vacant
stare, which showed that his thoughts were not at
all connected with the scene before him. “This
way—parson—it isn't far. Two miles only along
the Wissahikon. You know where old Tracy
lives? They're to be married at eight o'clock—

fine fun—plenty of drink—the leftenant's a glorious
fellow. Hurrah—at 'em.” And then the
drunken soldier performed various imaginary feats,
rode over imaginary regiments of Continentals,
emptied imaginary bottles, and sang very peculiar
poetical selections.

“Very well, my feller—very well,” exclaimed
Harry Heft, looking complacently at the muttering
soldier. “Very well—that's jist what I
wanted to know. See here, Marjorie.”

Drawing the blushing girl apart, Harry whispered
in her ear, in a low voice, words which gave
a brighter sparkle to her dark black eyes, and
brought a livelier blush upon her budding cheek.

“What d'ye think o' the plan, Marjorie?”

“Verily,” replied the damsel, “verily, Harry, I
think,” she continued hesitatingly. “That is I
like it very well, but—but,” the rest of her reply
was lost in a whisper.

“Henry, what did thee say to our daughter?”
exclaimed the sedate Quaker. “Really, it seemeth
to me—”

“Never mind, uncle—nothing wrong—nothing
wrong. Hist! there is the signal of my comrade
down in the hollow. I must be off, but I'll not
say good bye, for dead or alive you'll hear from
me soon. Now for old Tracy and old Waltham!”

As he said this the young Ranger seized his
rifle from the fire-place and rushed out of the room,

as a clear shrill whistle was heard without, leaving
the black eyed Marjorie to explain the purport of
those whispered words as best she might.

The plan of my story makes it necessary to picture
to the reader two distinct scenes or incidents
which occurred on the same evening of the commencement
of the tale, at the hour of sunset in the
country around the village of Germantown. Now
for the first incident.