II.—THE MIDNIGHT DEATH.
Let me tell you a legend of the Revolution—a legend that even now
makes my blood run cold to think upon.
You all have seen the massive rock that projects out into the roadside
near the Red Bridge. You have seen the level space, that spreads from
this rock to that ancient buttonwood tree; you have seen that cluster of
mills, and cottages and barns, nestling there, in the embrace of the wild
Wissahikon, with the dark rocks and the darker trees frowning far above.
It was here along this open space—about the time of the Battle of Germantown—it
was here at dead of night, when the moon was shining down
through a wilderness of floating clouds, that there came an old man and his
four sons, all armed with rifle, powder-horn and knife.
They came stealing down that rock—they stood in the centre of that
level space—a passing ray of moonlight shone over the tall form of that old
man, with his long white hairs floating on the breeze—over the manly
figures of his sons.
And why came that old farmer from the woods at dead of night, stealing
toward the Wissahikon, with his four tall sons around him, armed with rifle
and with knife?
To-night there is a meeting at you lonely house far up the Wissahikon
—a meeting of all the farmers of Germantown, who wish to join the army
of Mister Washington, now hiding away in the wilds of the Skippack.
The old farmer and his children go to join that meeting. Old as he is,
there is yet fiery blood in his veins—old as he is, he will yet strike a blow
for George Washington.
Suddenly he turns—he flings the blaze of a lantern full in the faces of
his sons.
“You are all here, my children,” he said, “and yet not all.” A gleam
of deep sorrow shot from the calm blue eye.
In that moment he remembered that missing son—his youngest boy with
those laughing locks of golden hair, with that eye of summer blue.
One year ago from this night that youth, George Derwent, had disappeared—no
one knew whither. There was a deep mystery about it all.
It was true that this young man, at the time of his disappearance, was betrothed
to a beautiful girl—an orphan child—who had been reared in the
family of an old Tory down the Wissahikon, an old Tory named Isaac
Warden, who was in the pay of the British. It was true that there was
some strange connection between this Tory and young Derwent; yet old
Michael his father, had heard no tidings of his son for a year—there was a
dark mystery about the whole affair.
And while the old man stood there, surveying the faces of his sons, there
came stealing along the narrow road, from the shadows of the cottage and
mill, the form of a young and beautiful girl, with a dark mantle thrown
loosely over her white dress, with her long black hair waving in free tresses
about her shoulders.
It was Ellen, the betrothed of George Derwent, who had now been missing
from the wilds of Wissahikon for a year.
And why comes this orphan girl, with her full dark eye, with her long
black hair waving on the breeze, with her lovely form veiled in a loose
mantle? Why came she hither so lonely at dead of night?
This night, one year ago, George Derwent bade her good-bye under the
shade of that buttonwood tree—told her that some dark mysterious cause
would lead him from the valley for a year—and then, pressing the last
good-bye on her lips, swore to meet her under this same tree, after the
lapse of a year, at this very hour.
And now she comes to meet her lover—and now she comes to keep
her tryst.
And the moon, beaming from the parted clouds, fell over her form, as she
came in all her beauty toward that buttonwood tree, looking for all the
world like the spirit of that lonely dell.
With a muttered shriek she beheld old Michael standing there. Then,
rushing forward, she seized his withered hand, and bade him beware of the
lonely house of the Wissahikon.
That night, at the old Tory's house, she had overheard the plot of some
British troopers to surprise the meeting of the patriot farmers—to surprise
them and crush them at a blow.
Even as she spoke, grasping that old man's withered hand, there to the
south, was heard the tramp of steeds. Already the British troopers came
on to the work of massacre.
A cloud passed over the moon—it was dark—in a moment it was light
again.
That level space between the rock and the tree was vacant—the maiden
was gone into the shade of the forest trees—and there on that bold rock,
half hidden by the thick foliage, there stood Michael Derwent and his four
sons, waiting for the assassin-band.
Hark! The tramp of steeds! Near—and near and nearer yet it grows!
Look! They emerge from the shadow of the mill, ten British troopers,
mounted on stout steeds, with massy cap upon each brow, pistols in each
holster, swords by each side.
For a moment the moon shone over their glittering array, and then all is
dark. Hark to that old man's whisper—
“My boys, do you see them Britishers? Mark each one of you his
man; and when they cross the line between this rock and that Buttonwood
tree—then fire!”
And they came on.
The captain of the band waved his sword boastingly in the air.
In a moment, he cried, we will be—in the midst of the rebels—he would
have said; but the words died on his lips.
He fell from his steed—with a horrid curse he fell—he was dead!
Did you see that flash from the trees? Did you hear that shout of old
Michael? Did you hear the crack of the rifles?
Look, as the smoke goes up to Heaven—look, as the moon shines out
from a cloud!
Where, a moment ago, were ten bold troopers riding forward at their
ease, now are but six. There are four dead men upon the ground—yonder
through the Wissahikon dash four riderless steeds.
With a wild yell the six troopers spur their horses to the fatal rock—they
rear their hoofs against its breast—there is a moment of murder and death.
Look! That trooper with the slouching hat—the dark plume drooping
over his brow—he breasts his steed against the rock—that jet black horse
flings his hoof high against the flinty barrier. While the moon hides her
face behind that cloud, that trooper with the plume drooping over his brow,
leans over the neck of his steed—he seizes old Michael by the throat, he
drags him from the rock, he spurs his horse toward the stream, and that old
man hangs there, quivering at the saddle-bow.
Then it was that old Michael made a bold struggle for his life. He drew
his hunting knife from his belt—he raised it in the darkened air; but look—
the trooper snatches it from his grasp.
“Die, Rebel!” he shouts. Bending over his steed, he strikes it deep
into the old man's neck down to his heart.
Then the moon shone out. Then, as the old man fell, the moon shone
over his face, convulsed in death, over his glaring eyes, over his long white
hair, dabbled in blood.
He fell with the knife sticking in his throat.
Then the trooper slowly dismounted from his steed—he kneels beside
the corse—his long dark plume falls over the face of the dead man.
And there he kneels, while the people of the valley, aroused by the
sound of conflict, come hastening on with torches—there, while that other
band of British troopers, sweeping from the north, surprise the lonely house
of the Wissahikon, and come over the stream with their prisoner in their
grasp—there while the sons of Michael Derwent—there are only two now
—stood pinioned beside the corse of their father, there kneels that trooper,
with his long plume drooping over the dead man's face.
Look—that old man with those hawk-like eyes, the sharp nose and thin
lips—that is the old Tory, Isaac Warden.
Look—that fair girl, stealing from the shade of that tree it is Ellen, the
orphan girl, the betrothed of the missing George Derwent.
Look! The trees towering above are reddened by the light of torches.
Hark—the Wissahikon rolls murmuringly on—still that trooper kneels
there, bending down with that long dark plume drooping over the dead
man's face.
A strange shudder—an unknown fear thrills through the hearts of all
around. No one dared to arouse the kneeling man.
At last that burly trooper advances—he lays his hand upon the shoulder
of the kneeling man—he bids him look up. And he does look up!
Ah, what a shudder ran through the group—ah, what a groan was heard
from the white lips of those two sons of Michael Derwent! Even that
British captain starts back in horror of that face.
The trooper looked up—the light shone upon a young face with light
blue eyes, and locks of golden hair waving all around it,—but there was a
horror written on that face, worse than death, a horror like that which
stamps the face of a soul forever lost.
It was the face of George Derwent—he knelt beside the dead body of
his father—with that knife sticking in his throat.
For a moment there was an awful silence. The Parricide slowly rose,
turned his face from the dead, and folded his arms.
Then a light footstep broke the deep silence of this scene—a fair form
came softly through the crowd—it was Ellen, the Orphan Girl.
“George—George, I see you once more. You are come,” she cried, in
her wild joy, rushing to his arms. But the cry of joy died away in a
groan of horror. She beheld that awful face—one of her dark tresses swept
his clenched right hand. That hand was wet with blood.
Then like a crushed reed, she cowered back upon the ground. Her
lover spoke not, but he slowly raised that blood-red hand in the light, and
then—he pointed to the corse of Michael Derwent, with the reeking knife
standing out from the gash along the throat.
Then the full horror of that hour burst upon the maiden's heart. Then
she slowly rose, then she laid her quivering hand upon the arm of that
hoary Traitor—Isaac Warden.
“Old man!” she whispered, in that low deep tone that came from her
bursting heart.
“It is now one year since you told George Derwent that he could not
win my hand—the hand of your son's child—unless he engaged in your
service as a British spy, (this night, and this night only did I learn the
mystery of that foul bargain.) For one year you have reaped the gains of
his degradation—and now, after that year is past, he, George Derwent, who
loved your son's daughter, with as true a love as ever throbbed beneath the
blue heavens—he returns to reap his harvest, and—oh, God—behold that
harvest!”
And with her dark eyes starting from their sockets, she pointed to the
ghastly son, and the dead father. Then in low, deep tones, a curse trembled
from her white lips—the orphan's curse upon that hoary traitor. And he
trembled. Yes, grown grey in guilt, he trembled, for there is something so
dark, so dread in that curse of a wronged orphan, as it quivers up there,
that methinks the angels around the Throne of God turn pale and weep at
the sound.
And then while this scene froze the bystanders with awe, George Derwent
slowly opened his vest—he unstrung a chain of slender gold from his
neck, he took the locket from the place where it had hung for one year;
moved by each throbbing of his heart—he gave it to the maiden.
He then pointed to her form—and then to Heaven. To his own—and
then downward. That gesture spoke volumes.
“You to Heaven—I—there.”
Then with that blood-stained hand he tore the British Lion from his
breast—he trampled it under foot. Then gathering the strength of his
strong arm for the effort, he tore that British uniform—that scarlet tainted
uniform—from his manly chest—he rent it into rags.
Then without a word, he mounted his steed—he rode toward the stream
—he turned that ghastly face over his shoulder.
“Ellen!' he shrieked, and then he was gone.
“Ellen!” he shrieked, and then there was the sound of a steed dashing
through the water, crashing through the woods.
Then a shriek so wild, so dread, rang on the air—still the Parricide
thundered on.
Not more than a quarter of a mile from the scene of this legend, there is
a steep rock, rising one hundred feet above the dark waters of the Wissahikon—rising
with a robe of gnarled pines all about it, rising like a huge
wreck of some primeval world.
The Parricide thundered on and on—at last his steed tottered on the
verge of this rock.
For a moment the noble horse refused to take the leap.
But there, there is a dark mist before the eyes of the Parricide—there
was the figure of an old man—not a phantom; ah, no! ah, no! It was too
real for that—there was the figure of an old man, that knife protruding from
the fatal wound, that white hair waving in dribbled blood.
And there was a crash—then an awful pause—then far, far down the
dell the yell of the dying horse and his rider mingled in one, and went
quivering up to God.
