VI.—THE HERO WOMAN.
In the shadows of the Wissahikon woods, not more than half a mile
from the Schuylkill, there stood in the time of the Revolution, a quaint old
fabric, built of mingled logs and stone, and encircled by a palisaded wall. It
had been erected in the earlier days of William Penn,—perhaps some years
before the great apostle of peace first trod our shores,—as a block-house, intended
for defence against the Indians.
And now it stood with its many roofs, its numerous chimneys, its massive
square windows, its varied front of logs and stone, its encircling wall,
through which admittance was gained by a large and stoutly-built gate: it
stood in the midst of the wood, with age-worn trees enclosing its veteran
outline on every side.
From its western window you might obtain a glimpse of the Schuylkill
waves, while a large casement in the southern front, commanded a view of
the winding road, as it sunk out of view, under the shade of thickly-clustered
boughs, into a deep hollow, not more than one hundred yards from the
mansion.
Here, from the southern casement, on one of those balmy summer days
which look in upon the dreary autumn, toward the close of November, a
farmer's daughter was gazing with dilating eyes and half-clasped hands.
Well might she gaze earnestly to the south, and listen with painful intensity
for the slightest sound! Her brothers were away with the army of
Washington, and her father, a grim old veteran—he stood six feet and three
inches in his stockings—who had manifested his love for the red-coat invaders,
in many a desperate contest, had that morning left her alone in the
old mansion, alone in this small chamber, in charge of some ammunition intended
for a band of brave farmers, about to join the hosts of freedom.
Even as she stood there, gazing out of the southern window, a faint glimpse
of sunlight from the faded leaves above, pouring over her mild face, shaded
by clustering brown hair, there, not ten paces from her side, were seven
loaded rifles and a keg of powder.
Leaning from the casement, she listened with every nerve quivering with
suspense, to the shouts of combatants, the hurried tread of armed men echoing
from the south.
There was something very beautiful in that picture! The form of the
young girl, framed by the square massive window, the contrast between the
rough timbers, that enclosed her, and that rounded face, the lips parting, the
hazel eye dilating, and the cheek warming and flushing with hope and fear;
there was something very beautiful in that picture, a young girl leaning from
the window of an old mansion, with her brown hair waving in glossy
masses around her face!
Suddenly the shouts to the south grew nearer, and then, emerging from
the deep hollow, there came an old man, running at full speed, yet every
few paces, turning round to fire the rifle, which he loaded as he ran. He
was pursued by a party of ten or more British soldiers, who came rushing
on, their bayonets fixed, as if to strike their victim down, ere he advanced
ten paces nearer the house.
On and on the old man came, while his daughter, quivering with suspense,
hung leaning from the window;—he reaches the block-house gate—
look! He is surrounded, their muskets are levelled at his head; he is
down, down at their feet, grappling for his life! But look again!—He
dashes his foes aside, with one bold movement he springs through the gate;
an instant, and it is locked; the British soldiers, mad with rage, gaze upon
the high wall of logs and stone, and vent their anger in drunken curses.
Now look to yonder window! Where the young girl stood a moment
ago, quivering with suspense, as she beheld her father struggling for his life,
now stands that old man himself, his brow bared, his arm grasping the rifle,
while his grey hairs wave back from his wrinkled and blood-dabbled face!
That was a fine picture of an old veteran, nerved for his last fight; a stout
warrior, preparing for his death-struggle.
Death-struggle? Yes!—for the old man, Isaac Wampole, had dealt too
many hard blows among the British soldiers, tricked, foiled, cheated them
too often to escape now! A few moments longer, and they would be reinforced
by a strong party of refugees; the powder, the arms, in the old
block-house, perhaps that daughter herself, was to be their reward. There
was scarcely a hope for the old man, and yet he had determined to make a
desperate fight.
“We must bluff off these rascals!” he said, with a grim smile, turning to
his child. “Now, Bess, my girl, when I fire this rifle, do you hand me
another, and so on, until the whole eight shots are fired! That will keep
them on the other side of the wall, for a few moments at least, and then we
will have to trust to God for the rest!”
Look down there, and see, a hand stealing over the edge of the wall!
The old man levels his piece—that British trooper falls back with a crushed
hand upon his comrades' heads!
No longer quivering with suspense, but grown suddenly firm, that young
girl passes a loaded rifle to the veteran's grasp, and silently awaits the
result.
For a moment all is silent below; the British bravoes are somewhat
loath to try that wall, when a stout old “Rebel,” rifle in hand, is looking
from yonder window! There is a pause—low, deep murmurs—they are
holding a council!
A moment is gone, and nine heads are thrust above the wall at once—
hark! One—two—three!—The old veteran has fired three shots, there are
three dying men, grovelling in the yard, beneath the shadow of the wall!
“Quick, Bess, the rifles!'
And the brave girl passes the rifles to her father's grasp; there are four
shots, one after the other; three more soldiers fell back, like weights of lead
upon the ground, and a single red-coat is seen, slowly mounting to the top of
the wall, his eye fixed upon the hall door, which he will force ere a moment
is gone!
Now the last ball is fired, the old man stands there, in that second-story
window, his hands vainly grasping for another loaded rifle! At this moment,
the wounded and dying band below, are joined by a party of some
twenty refugees, who, clad in their half-robber uniform, came rushing from
the woods, and with one bound are leaping for the summit of the wall!
“Quick, Bess, my rifle!”
And look there—even while the veteran stood looking out upon his foes,
the brave girl—for, slender in form, and wildly beautiful in face, she is a
brave girl, a Hero-Woman—had managed, as if by instinctive impulse, to
load a rifle. She handed it to her father, and then loaded another, and another!—Wasn't
that a beautiful sight? A fair young girl, grasping powder
and ball, with the ramrod rising and falling in her slender fingers!
Now look down to the wall again! The refugees are clambering over
its summit—again that fatal aim—again a horrid cry, and another wounded
man toppling down upon his dead and dying comrades!
But now look!—A smoke rises there, a fire blazes up around the wall;
they have fired the gate. A moment, and the bolt and the lock will be
burnt from its sockets—the passage will be free! Now is the fiery moment
of the old man's trial! While his brave daughter loads, he continues to
fire, with that deadly aim, but now—oh horror! He falls, he falls, with a
musquet ball driven into his breast — the daughter's outstretched arms
receive the father, as with the blood spouting from his wound, he topples
back from the window.
Ah, it is a sad and terrible picture!
That old man, writhing there, on the oaken floor, the young daughter
bending over him, the light from the window streaming over her face, over
her father's grey hairs, while the ancient furniture of the small chamber
affords a dim back-ground to the scene!
Now hark!—The sound of axes, at the hall door—shouts—hurrahs—
curses!
“We have the old rebel, at last!”
The old man raises his head at that sound; makes an effort to rise;
clutches for a rifle, and then falls back again, his eyes glaring, as the fierce
pain of that wound quivers through his heart.
Now watch the movements of that daughter. Silently she loads a rifle,
silently she rests its barrel against the head of that powder keg, and then,
placing her finger on the trigger, stands over her father's form, while the
shouts of the enraged soldiers come thundering from the stairs. Yes, they
have broken the hall door to fragments, they are in possession of the old
block-house, they are rushing toward that chamber, with murder in their
hearts, and in their glaring eyes! Had the old man a thousand lives, they
were not worth a farthing's purchase now.
Still that girl—grown suddenly white as the 'kerchief round her neck—
stands there, trembling from head to foot, the rifle in her hand, its dark
tube laid against the powder-keg.
The door is burst open—look there! Stout forms are in the doorway,
with musquets in their hands, grim faces stained with blood, glare into the
room.
Now, as if her very soul was coined into the words, that young girl with
her face pale as ashes, her hazel eye glaring with deathly light, utters this
short yet meaning speech—
“Advance one step into the room, and I will fire this rifle into the powder
there!”
No oath quivers from the lips of that girl, to confirm her resolution, but
there she stands, alone with her wounded father, and yet not a soldier dare
cross the threshold! Embrued as they are in deeds of blood, there is something
terrible to these men in the simple words of that young girl, who
stands there, with the rifle laid against the powder-keg.
They stood as if spell-bound, on the threshold of that chamber!
At last one bolder than the rest, a bravo, whose face is half-concealed in
a thick red beard, grasps his musquet, and levels it at the young girl's
breast!
“Stand back, or by —, I will fire!”
Still the girl is firm; the bravo advances a step, and then starts back.
The sharp “click” of that rifle falls with an unpleasant emphasis upon
his ear.
“Bess, I am dying,” gasps the old man, faintly extending his arms.
“Ha, ha, we foiled the Britishers! Come—daughter—kneel here; kneel
and say a prayer for me, and let me feel your warm breath upon my face,
for I am getting cold — O, dark and cold!”
Look!—As those trembling accents fall from the old man's tongue,
those fingers unloose their hold of the rifle—already the troopers are secure
of one victim, at least, a young and beautiful girl; for affection for her father,
is mastering the heroism of the moment—look! She is about to spring
into his arms! But now she sees her danger! again she clutches the rifle;
again—although her father's dying accents are in her ears—stands there,
prepared to scatter that house in ruins, if a single rough hand assails that
veteran form.
There are a few brief terrible moments of suspense. Then a hurried
sound, far down the mansion; then a contest on the stairs; then the echo
of rifle shot and the light of rifle blaze; then those ruffians in the doorway,
fall crushed before the strong arms of Continental soldiers. Then a wild
shriek quivers through the room, and that young girl—that Hero-Woman,
with one bound, springs forward into her brothers' arms, and nestles there,
while her dead father—his form yet warm—lays with fixed eyeballs upon
the floor.
