XI.—LORD PERCY'S DREAM.
It was at this moment—the darkest of the conflict—that Lord Cornwallis,
surveying the tide of a battle, turned to a young officer who had been detained
for a moment by his side.
“Colonel Percy—” said he—” The rebels have entrenched themselves
in yonder graveyard. Would that I had a brave man, who would dare to
plant the royal standard on those dark grey walls!”
“I will take it,” said the young officer, as he gave his golden-hued steed
the spur, “I will take it, or die!”
And now as with his manly form, attired in a uniform of dark green
velvet, he speeds down the hill, followed by a band of thirty bold troopers,
his long dark hair flying back from his pale face; let me tell you the strange
story of his life.
Tradition relates, that accompanying the British host, urged by some
wild spirit of adventure, was a young and gallant spirit—Lord Percy, a near
connection of the proud Duke of Northumberland.
He was young, gallant, handsome, but since the landing of the troops on
the Chesapeake, his gay companions had often noted a frown of dark
thought shadowing his features, a sudden gloom working over his pale face,
and a wild unearthly glare in his full dark eye.
The cause had been asked, but no answer given. Again and again, yet
still no answer.
At last, Lord Cornwallis asked young Percy what melancholy feelings
were these, which darkened his features with such a strange gloom. With
the manner of a fated man, the young lord gave his answer.
(This scene occurred not ten minutes before the battle, when Cornwallis
was urging his way thro' the thick wood, that clothed the summit of Osborne's
Hill.)
He had left the dissipations of the English Court, for the wilds of the
New World, at the request of the aged Earl, his father. That earl, when a
young man, had wandered in the wilds of South Carolina—he had tricked
a beautiful girl, in whose dark cheek there glowed the blood of an Indian
King—he had tricked this beautiful girl into a sham marriage, and then deserted
her, for his noble bride in England.
And now, after long years had passed, this aged Man, this proud Earl,
had hurried his legitimate son to the wilds of America, with the charge to
seek out the illegitimate child of the Indian girl of Carolina, and place a
pacquet in his hands.
This, in plain words, was the object of Lord Percy's journey to America.
And as to the gloom on his brow, the deathly light in his eye? This
was the answer which Percy gave to Cornwallis —
A presentiment of sudden death—he said—was on his mind. It had
haunted his brain, from the very first moment he had trodden the American
shores. It had crept like a Phantom beside him, in broad daylight, it had
brooded with images of horror, over the calm hours devoted to sleep. It
was ever with him, beside his bed and at his board, in camp and bouviac,
that dark presentiment of sudden death.
Whence came this presentiment? was the query of Lord Cornwallis.
“One night when crossing the Atlantic, one night when the storm was
abroad and the thunderbolt came crashing down the mainmast, then, my
Lord, then I had a dream! In that dream I beheld a lovely valley, a rustic
fabric, too rude for a lordly church and a quiet graveyard, without a tomb-stone
or marble pillar! And over that valley, and around that graveyard,
the tide of battle raged, for it was a battle fierce and bloody!
“And therein that graveyard, I beheld a form thrown over a grassy mound,
with the life-blood welling from the death-wound near the heart! That
form was mine! Yes, yes, I saw the eyes glaring upon the blue heavens,
with the glassy stare of death! That form was mine!”
“Pshaw! This is mere folly,” exclaimed Lord Cornwallis, as he endeavored
to shake off the impression which the young Lord's earnest words
had produced—“This is but a vain fancy—”
As he spoke they emerged from the thick wood, they reined their horses
upon the summit of Osborne's hill—the valley of the meeting-house lay
at their feet.
At this moment Lord Percy raised his face—at a glance he beheld the
glorious landscape—a horrible agony distorted his countenance—
“My dream! My dream!” he shrieked, rising in his stirrups, and
spreading forth his hands.
And then with straining eyes he looked over the landscape.
That single small white cloud hovered there in the blue heavens! It
hovered in the blue sky right over the Meeting House! Hill and plain and
valley lay basking in the sun. Afar were seen pleasant farm houses embosomed
in trees, delightful strips of green meadow, and then came the blue
distance where earth and sky melted into ONE!
But not on the distance looked Lord Percy—not on the blue sky, or glad
fields, or luxuriant orchards.
His straining eye saw but the valley at his feet, the Quaker temple, the
quiet graveyard!
“My dream! My dream!” he shrieked—“This is the valley of my
dream—and yonder is the graveyard! I am fated to die upon this field!”
No words could shake this belief. Seeking his brother officers, Lord
Percy bestowed some token of remembrance on each of them, gave his
dearest friend a last word of farewell for his Betrothed, now far away in the
lofty halls of a ducal palace, and then, with a pale cheek and flashing eye,
rode forth to battle.
And now look at him, as with his dark hair waving on the wind, he
nears the graveyard wall.
He raised his form in the stirrups, he cast one flashing glance over his
trooper band, robed in forest green, and then his eye was fixed upon the
graveyard.
All was silent there! Not a shot from the windows—not a rifle-blaze
from the dark grey wall. There was that dark grey wall rising some thirty
paces distant—there were the green mounds, softened by the rays of the
sun, pouring from that parted cloud, and there back in the graveyard, under
the shelter of trees, there is ranged a warrior-band, clad like his own in
forest green, and with the form of a proud chieftain, mounted on a gold-hued
steed, towering in their midst.
That chieftain was Captain Waldemar, a brave partizan leader from the
wild hills of the Santee. His bronzed cheek, his long dark hair, his well-proportioned
form, his keen dark eye, all mark his relationship to the
Indian girl of Carolina.
Little does Lord Percy think, as he rides madly toward that graveyard,
that there that half-Indian brother is waiting for him, with bullet and
sword.
On with the impulse of an avalanche sweep the British troopers—behind
them follow the infantry with fixed bayonets—before them is nothing but
the peaceful graveyard sward.
They reach the wall, their horses are rearing for the leap—
When lo! What means this miracle?
Starting from the very earth, a long line of bold backwoodsmen start up
from behind the wall, their rifles poised at the shoulder, and that aim of
death securely taken!
A sheet of fire gleamed over the graveyard wall pouring full into the faces
of the British soldiers—clouds of pale blue smoke went rolling up to heaven,
and as they took their way aloft, this horrid sight was seen.
Where thirty bold troopers, but a moment ago rushed forward, breasting
the graveyard wall, now were seen, thirty mad war-horses, rearing wildly
aloft, and trampling their riders' faces in the dust.
Lord Percy was left alone with the British Banner in his hand, his
horse's hoofs upon the wall!
“On Britons, on,” shrieked Percy, turning in wild haste to the advancing
columns of infantry—“On and revenge your comrades!”
At the same moment, from the farther extreme of the graveyard, was
heard the deep-toned shout—
“Riders of Santee upon these British robbers! Upon these British robbers,
who redden our soil with the blood of its children!”
And then the British infantry, and then other bands of British troopers
came pouring over that fatal wall, upon the graveyard sward!
Then crashing on—one fierce bolt of battle—that band of Rangers burst
upon the British bayonets; there was crossing of swords and waving of
banners—steeds mingled with steeds—green uniforms with green uniforms,
and scarlet with green—now right now left—now backward now forward,
whirled the fiery whirlpool of that fight—and there, seen clearly and distinctly
amid the bloody turmoil of that battle, two forms clad in green and
gold, mounted on golden-hued steeds, with a gallant band of sworn brothers
all around them, fought their way to each other's hearts!
Percy and the dark-visaged Partizan Waldemar, met in battle!
Unknown to each other, the Brothers crossed their swords—the child of
the proud English Countess, and the son of the wild Indian girl! Both
mounted on golden-hued steeds, both attired in dark green velvet, that
strange resemblance of brotherhood stamped on each face, they met in
deadly combat!
Say was not this Fate?
Their swords crossed rose and fell—there was a rapid sound of clashing
steel, and then with his brother's sword driven through his heart, Lord
Percy fell!
The Indian girl was avenged.
A wild whirl of the fight separated Captain Waldemar from his brother,
but when the battle was past, in the deep silence of that night, which
brooded over the battle-slain, this son of the Indian woman sought out the
corse of the English Lord from the heaps of dead. Bending slowly down
by the light of the moon, he perused the pale face of Lord Percy; he tore
the pacquet from his bosom, he read the testimonial of his mother's marriage,
he read the offers of favor and patronage, from the old Earl to the Indian
woman's son.
Then he knew that he held the body of a dead brother in his arms.
Then he tore those offers of favor into rags, but placed the marriage testimonial
close to his heart.
Then he—that half Indian man, in whose veins flowed the blood of a
long line of Indian kings mingling with the royal blood of England, he with
tears in his dark eyes, scooped a grave for his brother, and buried him
there.
And that fair young maiden gazing from the window of that ducal palace,
far away yonder in the English Isle, that fair young maiden, whose long
hair sweeps her rose-bud cheeks with locks of midnight darkness—look
how her deep dark eyes are fixed upon the western sky?
She awaits the return of her betrothed, the gallant Lord Percy. She
gazes to the west, and counts the hours that will elapse ere his coming!
Ah she will count the weeks and the months and the years, and yet he will
not come.
He will not come, for deep under the blood-drenched earth of Brandywine,
he the young, the gallant, the brave, rots and moulders into dust.
And she shall wait there many a weary hour, while her dark eye, dilating
with expectation, is fixed upon that western sky! Ah that eye shall
grow dim, that cheek will pale, and yet her betrothed will not come!
Ah while her eye gleams, while her heart throbs as if to greet his coming
footstep, the graveworm is feasting upon his manly brow!
And there, in that lonely graveyard of Brandy wine, without a stone to
mark his last resting place, unhonored and unwept, the gallant Percy moulders
into dust!
