II.—THE UNKNOWN FORM.
Let us survey Chew's house in the midst of the fight.
It is the centre of a whirpool of flame.
Above is the mist, spreading its death shroud over the field. Now it is
darkened into a pall by the battle smoke, and now a vivid cannon flash lays
bare the awful theatre.
Still in the centre you may see Chew's house, still from every window
flashes the blaze of musquetry, and all around it columns of jet black smoke
curl slowly upward, their forms clearly defined against the shroud of white
mist.
It is a terrible thing to stand in the shadows of the daybreak hour, by the
bedside of a dying father, and watch that ashy face, rendered more ghastly
by the rays of a lurid taper—it is a terrible thing to clasp the hand of a sister,
and feel it grow cold, and colder, until it stiffens to ice in your grasp—
a fearful thing to gather the wife, dearest and most beloved of all, to your
breast, and learn the fatal truth, that the heart is pulseless, the bosom clay,
the eyes fixed and glassy.—
Yes, Death in any shape, in the times of Peace by the fireside, and in
the Home, is a fearful thing, talk of it as you will.
And in the hour when Riot howls through the streets of a wide city, its
ten thousand faces crimsoned by the glare of a burning church, Death looks
not only horrible but grotesque. For those dead men laid stiffly along the
streets, their cold faces turned to scarlet by the same glare that reveals the
cross of the tottering temple, have been murdered by their—brothers.
Like wild beasts, hunted and torn by the hounds, they have yielded up their
lives, the warm blood of their hearts mingling with the filth of the gutter.
This indeed is horrible, but Death in the Battle, who shall dare paint its
pictures?
What pencil snatched from the hands of a Devil, shall delineate its colors
of blood?
Look upon Chew's house and behold it!
There—under the cover of the mist, thirty thousand men are hurrying to
and fro, shooting and stabbing and murdering as they go! Look! The
lawn is canopied by one vast undulating sheet of flame!
Hark! To the terrible tramp of the horses' hoofs, as they crash on over
heaps of dead.
Here, you behold long columns of blue uniformed soldiers; there dense
masses of scarlet. Hark! Yes, listen and hear the horrid howl of
slaughter, the bubbling groan of death, the low toned pitiful note of pain.
Pain? What manner of pain? Why, the pain of arms torn off at the
shoulder, limbs hacked into pieces by chain shot, eyes darkened forever.
Not much poetry in this, you say. No. Nothing but truth—truth that
rises from the depths of a bloody well.
From those heaps of dying and dead, I beseech you select only one corse,
and gaze upon it in silence—Is he dead? The young man yonder with the
pale face, the curling black hair, the dark eyes wide open, glaring upon that
shroud above—is he dead?
Even if he is dead, stay, O, stay yon wild horse that comes rushing on
without a rider; do not let him trample that young face, with his red hoofs.
For it may be that the swimming eyes of a sister have looked upon that
face—perchance some fair girl, beloved of the heart, has kissed those red
lips—do not let the riderless steed come on; do not let him trample into
the sod that face, which has been wet with a Mother's tears!
And yet this face is only one among a thousand, which now pave the battle
field, crushed by the footsteps of the hurrying soldiers, trampled by the
horses' hoofs.
And while the battle swelled fiercest, while the armies traversed that
green lawn in the hurry of contest, along the blood stained sward, with
calm manner and even step, strode an unknown form, passing over the
field, amid smoke and mist and gloom, while the wounded fell shrieking at
his feet, and the faces of the dead met his gaze on every side.
It was the form of an aged man, with grey hairs streaming over his
shoulders, an aged man with a mild yet fearless countenance, with a tall
and muscular figure, clad neither in the glaring dress of the `Britisher,' or the
hunting shirt of the Continental, but in the plain attire of drab cloth, the
simple coat, vest with wide lappels, small clothes and stockings, that mark
the believers of the Quaker faith.
He was a Friend. Who he was, or what was his name, whence he
came, or whither he went, no one could tell, and tradition still remains
silent.
But along that field, he was seen gliding amid the heat and glare of battle.
Did the wounded soldier shriek for a cup of water? It was his hand
that brought it from the well, on the verge of Chew's wall. Extended
along the sward, with their ghastly faces quivering with the spasmodic throe
of insupportable pain, the dying raised themselves piteously on their trembling
hands, and in broken tones asked for relief, or in the wildness of delirium
spoke of their far off homes, whispered a message to their wives or
little ones, or besought the blessing of their grey haired sires.
It was the Quaker, the unknown and mysterious Friend, who was seen
unarmed save with the Faith of God, undefended save by the Armour of
Heaven, kneeling on the sod, whispering words of comfort to the dying, and
pointing with his uplifted hand to a home beyond the skies, where battle
nor wrong nor death ever came.
Around Chew's house and over the lawn he sped on his message of
mercy. There was fear and terror around him, the earth beneath his measured
footsteps quivered, and the air was heavy with death, but he trembled
not, nor qualied, nor turned back from his errand of mercy.
Now seen in the thickest of the fight, the soldiers rushing on their paths
of blood, started back as they beheld his mild and peaceful figure. Some
deemed him a thing of air, some thought they beheld a spirit, not one offered
to molest or harm the Messenger of Peace.
It was a sight worth all the ages of controversial Divinity to see—this
plain Quaker going forth with the faith of that Saviour, whose name has
ever been most foully blasphemed by those who called themselves his
friends, going forth with the faith of Jesus in his heart, speaking comfort to
the dying, binding up the gashes of the wounded, or yet again striding
boldly into the fight and rescuing with his own unarmed hands the prostrate
soldier from the attack of his maddened foe.
Blessings on his name, the humble Quaker, for this deed which sanctifies
humanity, and makes us dream of men of mortal mould raised to the majesty
of Gods. His name is not written down, his history is all unknown, but
when the books of the unknown world are bared to the eyes of a
congregated universe, then will that name shine brighter and lighter with a
holier gleam, than the name of any Controversial Divine or loud-mouthed
hireling, that ever disgraced Christianity or blasphemed the name of Jesus.
Ah, methinks, even amid the carnage of Germantown, I see the face of
the Redeemer, bending from the battle-mist, and smiling upon the peaceful
Quaker, as he never smiled upon learned priest or mitred prelate.
