 | Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution |  |
V.—TRENTON; OR, THE FOOTSTEP IN THE SNOW.
A TRADITION OF CHRISTMAS NIGHT, 1776.
It was a dark and dreary night, sixty-nine years ago, when, in an ancient
farm-house, that rises along yonder shore, an old man and his children had
gathered around their Christmas hearth.
It was a lovely picture.
That old man, sitting there on the broad hearth, in the full glow of the
flame—his dame, a fine old matron, by his side—his children, a band of
red-lipped maidens,—some with slender forms, just trembling on the verge
of girlhood,—others warming and flushing into the summer morn of womanhood!
And the warm glow of the fire was upon the white locks of the
old man, and on the mild face of his wife, and the young bloom of those
fair daughters.
Had you, on that dark night—for it was dark and cold—while the December
sky gloomed above, and the sleet swept over the hills of the Delaware
— drawn near that farm-house window, and looked in upon that
Christmas hearth, and drank in the full beauty of that scene—you would
confess with me that though this world has many beautiful scenes—much
of the strangely beautiful in poetry—yet there, by that hearth, centred and
brightened and burned that poetry, which is most like Heaven, THE Poetry
of Home!
You have all heard the story of the convict, who stood on the gallows,
embruted in crime—steeped to the lips in blood—stood there, mocking at
the preacher's prayer, mocking even the hangman! When, suddenly, as
he stood with the rope about his neck—his head sunk—a single, burning,
scalding tear rolled down his cheek.
“I was thinking,” said he, in a broken voice, “I was thinking of the—
Christmas fire!”
Yes, in that moment, when the preached failed to warn, when even the
hangman could not awe—a thought came over the convict's heart of that
time, when a father and his children, in a far land, gathered around their
Christmas fire.
That thought melted his iron soul.
“I care not for your ropes and your gibbets,” he said. “But now, in
that far land—there, over the waters—my father, my brothers, my sisters,
are sitting around their Christmas fire! They are waiting for me! And I
am here—here upon the scaffold!”
Is there not a deep poetry in the scene, that could thus touch a murderer's
soul, and melt it into tears?
And now, as the old man, his wife, his daughters cluster around their
fire, tell me, why does that old man's head droop slowly down, his eyes fill,
his hands tremble?
Ah, there is ONE absent from the Christmas hearth!
He is thinking of the absent one—his manly, brave boy, who has been
gone from the farm-house for a year.
But hark! Even as the thought comes over him, the silence of that fire-side
is broken by a faint cry—a faint moan, heard over the wastes of snow
from afar.
The old man grasps a lantern, and, with that young girl by his side, goes
out upon the dark night.
Look there—as following the sound of that moan—they go softly over
the frozen path: how the lantern flashes over their forms—over a few
white paces of frozen snow—while beyond all is darkness!
Still that moan, so low, so faint, so deep-toned, quivers on the air.
Something arrests the old man's eye, there in the snow—they bend down,
he and his daughter—they gaze upon that sight.
It is a human footstep painted in the snow, painted in blood.
“My child,” whispers the old man, tremulously, “now pray to Heaven
for Washington! For by this footstep, stamped in blood, I judge that his
army is passing near this place!”
Still that moan quivers on the air!
Then the old man, and that young girl, following those footsteps stained
in blood—one—two—three—four—look how the red tokens crimson the
white snow!—following those bloody footprints; go on until they reach
that rock, beetling over the river shore.
There the lantern light flashes over the form of a half-naked man, crouching
down in the snow—freezing and bleeding to death.
The old man looks upon that form, clad in ragged uniform of the Continental
army—the stiffened fingers grasping the battered musket.
It was his only son.
He called to him—the young girl knelt, and—you may be sure there
were tears in her eyes—chafed her brother's hands—ah, they were stiff and
cold! And when she could not warm them, gathered them to her young
bosom, and wept her tears upon his dying face.
Suddenly that brother raised his head—he extended his hand towards
the river.
“Look THERE, FATHER!” he said, in his husky voice.
And bending down over the rock, the old man looked far over the
river.
There, under the dark sky, a fleet of boats were tossing amid piles of
floating ice. A fleet of boats bearing men and arms, and extending in irregular
lines from shore to shore.
And the last boat of the fleet—that boat just leaving the western shore
of the Delaware; the old man saw that too, and saw—even through the
darkness—yon tall form, half-muffled in a warrior's cloak, with a grey war-horse
by his side.
Was not that a strange sight to see at dead of night, on a dark river,
under a darker sky?
The old man turned to his dying son to ask the meaning of this
mystery.
“Father,” gasped the brave boy, tottering to his feet. “Father, give
me my musket—help me on—help me down to the river—for to-night—for
to-night—
As that word was on his lips—he fell. He fell, and lay there stiff and
cold. Still on his lips there hung some faintly spoken words.
The old man—that fair girl—bent down—they listened to those words—
“To-night—Washington—the British—to-night—TRENTON!”
And with that word gasping on his lips—“Trenton!” he died!
The old man did not know the meaning of that word until the next morning.
Then there was the sound of musketry to the south; then, booming
along the Delaware came the roar of battle.
Then, that old man, with his wife and children, gathered around the body
of that dead boy, knew the meaning of that single word that had trembled
on his lips.
Knew that George Washington had burst like a thunderbolt upon the
British Camp in Trenton!
Ah! that was a merry Christmas Party which the British officers kept
in the town of Trenton, seventy years ago—although it is true, that to
that party there came an uninvited guest, one Mister Washington, his half-clad
army, and certain bold Jerseymen!
Would that I might linger here, and picture the great deeds of that morning,
seventy years ago.
Would that I might linger here upon the holy ground of Trenton.
For it is holy ground. For it was here, in the darkest hour of the Revolution,
that George Washington made one stout and gallant blow in the name
of that Declaration, which fifty-six bold men had proclaimed in the old
State House of Philadelphia, six months before.
If that State House is the Mecca of Freedom, to which the pilgrims
of all climes may come to worship, then is the battle-ground of Trenton,
the twin-Mecca—the Jerusalem of Freedom—to which the Children of
Liberty, from every land, may come — look upon the footsteps of the
mighty dead—bring their offerings—shed their tears.
December 26th, 1776!—
It was a dark night, but the first gleam of morning shone over the form
of George Washington, as he stood beside the Hessian leader, Ralle, who
lay in yonder room wrestling with death—yes, Washington stood there, and
placed the cup of water to his feverish lips, and spoke a prayer for his
passing soul.
It was a dark night, but the gleam of morning shone over you cliff darkening
a band of children, clustered around the cold form of a dead soldier.
He was clad in rags, but there was a grim smile on his white lips—his
frozen hand still clenched with an iron grasp the broken rifle.
His face, so cold, so pale, was wet with his sister's tears, but his soul had
gone to yonder heaven, there to join the Martyrs of Trenton and of Bunker
Hill.
| Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution | |