VIII.—VALLEY FORGE.
Hidden away there in a deep glen, not many miles from Valley Forge, a
quaint old farm house rose darkly over a wide waste of snow.
It was a cold dark winter night, and the snow began to fall—when from
the broad fireplace of the old farm house, the cheerful blaze of massive logs
flashed around a wide and spacious room.
Two persons sat there by that fire, a father and child. The father, who
sits yonder, with a soldier's belt thrown over his farmer's dress, is a man
of some fifty years, his eyes bloodshot, his hair changed to an untimely grey,
his face wrinkled and hallowed by care, and by dissipation more than care.
And the daughter who sits in the full light of the blaze opposite her father
—a slenderly formed girl of some seventeen years, clad in the coarse linsey
skirt and kerchief, which made up the costume of a farmer's daughter, in
the days of the Revolution.
She is not beautiful—ah, no!
Care—perhaps that disease, consumption, which makes the heart grow
cold to name—has been busy with that young face, sharpened its outlines,
and stamped it with a deathly paleness.
There is no bloom on that young cheek. The brown hair is laid plainly
aside from her pale brow. Then tell me, what is it you see, when you gaze
in her face?
You look at that young girl, you see nothing but the gleam of two large
dark eyes, that burn into your soul.
Yes, those eyes are unnaturally large and dark and bright—perhaps consumption
is feeding their flame.
And now as the father sits there, so moody and sullen, as the daughter
sits yonder, so sad and silent and pale, tell me, I pray you, the story of
their lives.
That farmer, Jacob Manheim, was a peaceful, a happy man, before the
Revolution. Since the war, he has become drunken and idle—driven his
wife broken-hearted to the grave—and worse than all, joined a band of Tory
refugees, who scour the land as dead of night, burning and murdering as
they go.
To-night, at the hour of two, this Tory band will lie in wait, in a neighboring
pass, to attack and murder the “Rebel” Washington, whose starving
soldiers are yonder in the huts of Valley Forge.
Washington on his lonely journeys is wont to pass this farm house;—
the cut-throats are there in the next chamber, drinking and feasting, as they
wait for two o clock at night.
And the daughter, Mary—for her name was Mary; they loved that name
in the good old times—what is the story of her brief young life?
She had been reared by her mother, now dead and gone home, to revere
this man Washington, who to-night will be attacked and murdered—to revere
him next to God. Nay, more: that mother on her death-bed joined the
hands of this daughter, in solemn betrothal with the hands of a young partisan
leader, Harry Williams, who now shares the crust and the cold of
Valley Forge.
Well may that maiden's eye flash with unnatural brightness, well may
her pale face gather a single burning flush, in the centre of each cheek!
For yesterday afternoon, she went four miles, over roads of ice and snow,
to tell Captain Williams the plot of the refugees. She did not reach Valley
Forge until Washington had left on one of his lonely journeys; so this night,
at twelve, the partizan captain will occupy the rocks above the neighboring
pass, to “trap the trappers” of George Washington.
Yes, that pale slender girl, remembering the words of her dying mother,
had broken through her obedience to her father, after a long and bitter struggle.
How dark that struggle in a faithful daughter's heart! She had
betrayed his plots to his enemies—stipulating first for the life, the safety of
her traitor-father.
And now as father and child are sitting there, as the shouts of the Tory
refugees echo from the next chamber—as the hand of the old clock is on the
hour of eleven—hark! There is the sound of horses' hoofs without the
farm house—there is a pause—the door opens—a tall stranger, wrapped in
a thick cloak, white with snow, enters, advances to the fire, and in brief
words solicits some refreshment and an hour's repose.
Why does the Tory Manheim start aghast at the sight of that stranger's
blue and gold uniform—then mumbling something to his daughter about
“getting food for the traveller,” rush wildly into the next room, where his
brother Tories are feasting?
Tell me, why does that young girl stand trembling before the tall stranger,
veiling her eyes from that calm face, with its blue eye and kindly smile?
Ah—if we may believe the legends of that time, few men, few warriors,
who dared the terror of battle with a smile, could stand unabashed before
the solemn presence of Washington.
For it was Washington, exhausted, with a long journey—his limbs stiffened
and his face numbed with cold—it was the great “Rebel” of Valley
Forge, who returning to camp sooner than his usual hour, was forced by
the storm to take refuge in the farmer's house, and claim a little food and
an hour's repose at his hands.
In a few moments, behold the Soldier, with his cloak thrown off, sitting
at that oaken table, partaking of the food, spread out there by the hands of
the girl, who now stands trembling at his shoulder.
And look! Her hand is extended as if to grasp him by the arm—her lips
move as if to warn him of his danger, but make no sound. Why all this
silent agony for the man who sits so calmly there?
One moment ago, as the girl, in preparing the hasty supper, opened
yonder closet door, adjoining the next room, she heard the low whispers of
her father and the Tories; she heard the dice box rattle, as they were casting
lots, who should stab George Washington in his sleep!
And now, the words: “Beware, or this night you die!” trembles half-formed
upon her lips, when the father comes hastily from that room and
hushes her with a look.
“Show the gentleman to his chamber, Mary!”—(how calmly polite a
murderer can be!)—“that chamber at the head of the stairs, on the left. On
the left, you mind!”
Mary takes the light, trembling and pale. She leads the soldier up the
oaken stairs. They stand on the landing, in this wing of the farm-house,
composed of two rooms, divided by thick walls from the main body of the
mansion. On one side, the right, is the door of Mary's chamber; on the
other, the left, the chamber of the soldier—to him a chamber of death.
For a moment, Mary stands there trembling and confused. Washington
gazes upon that pale girl with a look of surprise. Look! She is about to
warn him of his danger, when, see there!—her father's rough face appears
above the head of the stairs.
“Mary, show the gentleman into the chamber on the left. And look ye,
girl—it's late—you'd better go into your own room and go to sleep.”
While the Tory watches them from the head of the stairs, Washington
enters the chamber on the left, Mary the chamber on the right.
An hour passes. Still the storm beats on the roof—still the snow drifts
on the hills. Before the fire, in the dim old hall of that farm-house, are
seven half-drunken men, with that tall Tory, Jacob Manheim, sitting in their
midst; the murderer's knife in his hand. For the lot had fallen upon him.
He is to go up stairs and stab the sleeping man.
Even this half-drunken murderer is pale at the thought—how the knife
trembles in his hand—trembles against the pistol barrel. The jeers of his
comrades rouse him to the work,—the light in one hand, the knife in the
other, he goes up the stairs—he listens!—first at the door of his daughter's
chamber on the right, then at the door of the soldier's chamber on the left.
All is still. Then he places the light on the floor—he enters the chamber
on the left—he is gone a moment—silence!—there is a faint groan! He
comes forth again, rushes down the stairs, and stands there before the fire,
with the bloody knife in his hand.
“Look!” he shrieks, as he scatters the red drops over his comrades'
faces, over the hearth, into the fire—“Look! it is his blood—the traitor
Washington!”
His comrades gather round him with yells of joy: already, in fancy, they
count the gold which will be paid for this deed, when lo! that stair door
opens, and there, without a wound, without even the stain of a drop of blood,
stands George Washington, asking calmly for his horse.
“What!” shrieked the Tory Manheim, “can neither steel nor bullet
harm you? Are you a living man? Is there no wound about your heart?
no blood upon your uniform?”
That apparition drives him mad. He starts forward—he places his hands
tremblingly upon the arms, upon the breast of Washington! Still no wound.
Then he looks at the bloody knife, still clutched in his right hand, and stands
there quivering as with a death spasm.
While Washington looks on in silent wonder, the door is flung open, the
bold troopers from Valley Forge throng the room, with the gallant form and
bronzed visage of Captain Williams in their midst. At this moment the
clock struck twelve. Then a horrid thought crashes like a thunderbolt upon
the brain of the Tory Manheim. He seizes the light—rushes up stairs—
rushes into the room of his daughter on the right. Some one had just risen
from the bed, but the chamber was vacant. Then towards that room on
the left, with steps of leaden heaviness.—Look! how the light quivers in
his hand! He pauses at the door; he listens! Not a sound—a stillness
like the grave. His blood curdles in his veins! Gathering courage, he
pushes open the door. He enters. Towards that bed through whose curtains
he struck so blindly a moment ago! Again he pauses—not a sound
—a stillness more terrible than the grave. He flings aside the curtains—
There, in the full light of the lamp, her young form but half covered,
bathed in her own blood—there lay his daughter, Mary!
Ah, do not look upon the face of the father, as he starts silently back,
frozen to stone; but in this pause of horror listen to the mystery of this
deed!
After her father had gone down stairs, an hour ago, Mary silently stole
from the chamber on the right. Her soul shaken by a thousand fears, she
opened the door on the left, and beheld Washington sitting by a table on
which were spread a chart and a Bible. Then, though her existence was
wound up in the act, she asked him, in a tone of calm politeness to take the
chamber on the opposite side. Mary entered the chamber which he left.
Can you imagine the agony of that girl's soul, as lying on the bed intended
for the death-couch of Washington, she silently awaited the knife,
although that knife might be clenched in a father's hand.
And now that father, frozen to stone, stood there, holding the light in one
hand, the other still clutching the red knife.
There lay his child, the blood streaming from that wound in her arm—
her eyes covered with a glassy film.
“Mary!” shrieked the guilty father—for robber and Tory as he was, he
was still a father. “Mary!” he called to her, but that word was all he
could say.
Suddenly, she seemed to wake from that stupor. She sat up in the bed
with her glassy eyes. The strong hand of death was upon her. As she
sat there, erect and ghastly, the room was thronged with soldiers. Her
lover rushed forward, and called her by name. No answer. Called again
—spoke to her in the familiar tones of olden time—still no answer. She
knew him not.
Yes, it was true—the strong hand of death was upon her.
“Has he escaped?” she said, in that husky voice.
“Yes!” shrieked the father. “Live, Mary, only live, and to-morrow I
will join the camp at Valley Forge.”
Then that girl—that Hero-Woman—dying as she was, not so much from
the wound in her arm, as from the deep agony which had broken the last
chord of life, spread forth her arms, as though she beheld a form floating
there above her bed, beckoning her away. She spread forth her arms as
if to enclose that Angel form.
“Mother!” she whispered—while there grouped the soldiers—there,
with a speechless agony on his brow stood the lover—there, hiding his face
with one hand, while the other grasped the light crouched the father—that
light flashing over the dark bed, with the white form in its centre—
“Mother, thank God! For with my life I have saved him —”
Look, even as starting up on that bloody couch, she speaks the half-formed
word, her arms stiffen, her eyes wide open, set in death,glare in her
father's face!
She is dead! From that dark room her spirit has gone home!
That half-formed word, still quivering on the white lips of the Hero-Woman—that
word uttered in a husky whisper, choked by the death-rattle—
that word was—“Washington!”[3]
