University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

The distant roll of the drums of the retreating Americans,
was now indistinctly borne along on the sluggish
breeze of the morning; and the feeble rays of the
sun had not yet dispersed the murky vapours that arose
from the humid earth, and hung like a veil of mourning
over the bloody scene, as if to conceal from the broad
eye of day the carnage and desolation. The British
had not yet returned from the pursuit; and those who
remained in the encampment, had not sufficiently recovered
from their consternation to perform the melancholy
duties necessarily attendant upon collisions of
this nature.

The dead and the dying—friend and enemy—were
still indiscriminately strewed over the field of battle;
no one yet appeared to relieve the agonies of the
wounded; no one to mourn over and close the glazed
eyes of the departed; where they lay stiff in their gory
garments, with their deadly weapons beside them.

Here lay the war-horse in his gaudy trappings, and
the bruised earth to prove the struggle and agony of
the noble animal when dying: there the poor subaltern
destined to be cast into his place of mouldering unwept,
unhonoured, and unknown; and a little further, the aspirant
of fame, who could boast as his winding-sheet,

the striped emblem of his country's freedom—who
preferred blotting out the stripes with his life's blood,
to basely surrendering it as a trophy to the hands of the
victor.

By the uncertain light, a few solitary beings were to
be seen wandering over the field of death, whose presence,
by calling us back to life, only served to increase
the horrors of the surrounding scene. A few of the
most daring villagers had ventured forth to behold the
work of destruction. Here was seen the wounded soldier,
who having risen from the bed of death, was
slowly tottering towards his more fortunate companions,
with both hands pressed upon his bleeding
wound, and pallid and gasping from the loss of blood:
there was seen the sacrilegious follower of the camp,
rifling the dead of those earthly vanities, which may be
considered as treasures in this world, but in the next—
as chaff before the wind—as dross in the crucible.

Among those wandering about, was a tall female
figure, clad in a gray cloak, the hood of which was
thrown over her head, and concealed her features from
the eyes of the few she chanced to meet on her melancholy
errand.

She bent her head repeatedly, the better to examine
the faces of the slain; and was occasionally seen turning
the lifeless bodies in order to accomplish her purpose.
She finally approached a large tree, by the trunk
of which lay the body of a soldier, apparently lifeless;
his right arm thrown across his face, concealed his features
from the scrutinizing eye of the spectator. She
gazed upon him for a moment, and then removed the
arm that obstructed her vision: she started back with
horror, and the arm fell lifeless upon the ground by the
side of the soldier. The aged woman stood erect,
with her bony and withered hands clenched, contemplating
in horror the pallid countenance before her. At
length she cried—

“And is it thus I find thee! then the prayer of my

widowed heart, and not its curse be on thee—the prayer
of the heart thy villany has broken.”

She seated herself upon the ground, and raised the
head of the soldier to her lap, and parted with her fingers
the hair that hung over his manly forehead.

“Wretch, thou hast broken the last fibre of my heart,”
she continued, “and I came to curse thee in the bitterness
of despair—yea, to destroy that life which has destroyed
the last hope of mine; but the hand of another
has saved me from that guilt, and changed my curse to
prayer. I pray for the guilty, for thou art gone where
the widow's curse would weigh heavy, and the prayer
of the most sinful will be heard. No, no; I will not
curse thee now, and render thee as hopeless as thou
hast rendered me.”

She bent over him for some minutes, rocking her
slender form; her face, which still retained the marks
of former beauty, being turned towards heaven, and her
mind wholly occupied with her meditations.

She had not remained long in this position, when a
convulsive motion of the body proved that life was not
extinct. She shrunk back, and gazed wildly upon his
countenance. The eyes of the soldier opened.

“Ha! ha! ha! he lives! he lives!” shrieked the old
woman, hysterically, “thank God, he lives!” and at the
same time rising, suffered the head of the wounded man
to fall upon the earth. He soon recovered sufficiently
to be sensible of his situation, having swooned from
the loss of blood. The aged female stood erect beside
him, with her slender and skinny arms raised, and extended
over the body, as if in the act of imprecation.
She continued muttering to herself—

“May his heart be smitten and withered like grass,
so that he forget to eat his bread; and by reason of the
voice of his groaning, may his bones cleave to his skin!”

Her wild eyes glistened with frenzy, and as the bleeding
soldier gradually recovered his senses, he beheld
in the right hand of the female a coarse handkerchief,

at one end of which was firmly secured a large grape
shot: she darted a look of horror and indignation upon
the prostrate soldier, and in her delirium assumed an
attitude as if about to extinguish the faint spark of returning
animation. The soldier vainly attempted to
move: he raised his arm in order to ward off the
impending blow, and faintly exclaimed—

“For God's sake, mother Alice, you will not murder
me!”

“Expect not mercy from the tigress when thou hast
robbed her of her young.”

“Hear me—in mercy hear me!”

“Yes, in another world, but not in this; I came to
curse you; I sought you to destroy.”

“She raised her withered arm; threw the cowl from
her head, and exhibited a countenance distorted and
wild with passion. She planted her foot upon the breast
of the prostrate soldier, who, too much exhausted to
defend himself, raised his hands, reeking with his life's
blood, to implore her mercy—but her ears were deaf
to the call, and she was on the point of striking, when
a loud voice, near at hand, exclaimed—

“Alice Grey, is thy heart still so obdurate, that he
who turned the hard rock into a standing water, and
the flint stone into a springing well, cannot soften it?”

“Merciful heavens, who art thou!” cried Alice, and
suffered her uplifted weapon to fall harmless to the
ground.

“A wretch, who for thee has eaten ashes like bread,
and mingled his drink with weeping.”

She raised her eyes, and beheld the haggard form
of Corwin leaning against the trunk of the tree; his
face was begrimed, and his straight black hair was
clotted with blood, which proceeded from a gash across
his forehead.

“Speak! art thou of this world, or of the world to
come; hast thou arisen from the grave to curse me,”
cried the woman in agitation, and averted her eyes

from the bloody spectacle. Corwin still remained calm
and immovable.

“My curse availeth not,” he replied, “and prayers
alone should ascend from the lips of the impure; and
with the man of Uz, I may say, `I have sewed sackcloth
upon my skin, and defiled my horn in the dust;
my face is foul with weeping, and on my eyelids is the
shadow of death.' Then what availeth the curse of a
worm so bruised and writhing?”

“Then turn from me,” said Alice, “and leave me
to my fate. I thought I should have been spared the
shame and agony of again meeting you in this world, but
now there is no bitterer curse can visit me here. Leave
me, leave me!” She concealed her face in her cloak,
her frame shook convulsively, and she sobbed aloud.

“Why talk of cursing?” continued Corwin, “we,
who are about to go where the small and the great are,
and the servant is free from his master. I curse thee,
Alice!—never! thy burthen, I fear, is too heavy already.
But may he who led his people like a flock
by the hand of Moses and Aaron, watch over thee.”
The maniac stretched his arms towards her, as in the
act of bestowing a benediction. She sunk upon the
earth, and drawing the hood of her cloak over her head,
murmured—

“Merciful Father! low, grovelling in the dust, behold
a penitent and guilty wretch supplicating for mercy!”—
Her utterance became inaudible, and was finally choked
by her tears.

“Ay, pray, pray to him, and I will join my guilty
voice with thine; for he maketh sore and bindeth up;
he woundeth and his hands make whole.”

She crawled to the spot where Corwin, stood and
threw her arms around his knees; after a violent struggle
of feeling she raised her face, and the big tears
rolled down the furrows in her cheeks. He bent his
haggard eye upon her, and a tear from his heart mingled

with those of the supplicant;—as it fell, the
wretched woman exclaimed—

“You weep! Pardon, thou injured being, the guilty
and miserable wretch that crushed thee.” Corwin
raised his hand, and pointing towards heaven, cried—

“There, there seek for pardon, and not from a sinful
mortal like thyself. There! ere thy hope be cut off,
and thy trust be a spider's web.”

He raised his eyes above, and continued for some
time lost in meditation; during which Alice lay at his
feet, clasping his knees, and her eyes fixed upon his
countenance, as if striving to trace the effect of years:
at length she sobbed to herself—

“Oh God! how great a change!” The sound fell
upon his ears, and he again turned his eyes towards her.

“True, Alice, I am altered indeed,” he replied, “for
the earth has brought forth thorns and thistles to me,
and I have eaten of the herb of the field. My brethren
have dealt deceitfully as a brook, and as the stream of
brooks they have past away.”

Gordon arose, for it was he who had called forth the
indignation of Alice. He was bleeding and exhausted,
and stood in silence leaning against the tree.

They were interrupted by the approach of a small
party of soldiers, who moved along in mournful silence,
bearing the lifeless body of an officer. The fatal ball
had entered his breast, and his garments were besmeared
with blood. It was the gallant Agnew, who
but an hour before had dreamt of a long life of glory:
death closed the dream. The soldiers moved on towards
the centre of the encampment, and another party appeared
a few moments afterwards. On perceiving Corwin,
they apprehended him, and conducted him to the
spot where other Americans were secured. Alice
followed, and Gordon was supported from the field.

A few words may be necessary to explain the conduct
of Alice towards Gordon. Her daughter Miriam had
disappeared a short time previous, and there was no

clue left to trace the direction she had taken. A few
days passed in fruitless search, and the wretched mother
became nearly frantic with anxiety. She knew of the
attachment of Gordon to Miriam, and it was whispered
that he had betrayed her. She concluded that she had
absconded in order to conceal her shame. The thought
appeared reasonable, and was almost insupportable.
The mother left her home with the determination not to
return until she had ascertained the fate of her child,
the only source of earthly consolation. Her first object
was to find Gordon, from whom she expected information,
and on discovering him, her feelings were beyond
control.

A few days after the battle, the royal army removed
from Germantown to Philadelphia, but the possession
of the city was not attended with those advantages
which were expected from it, nor were the inhabitants
of the country in the least intimidated by the event.
Washington, posted on the heights of the Schuylkill,
maintained a menacing attitude; he employed his cavalry
and light troops in scouring the country between the
banks of that river and those of the Delaware. He
thus repressed the excursions of the British, prevented
them from foraging with safety, and deterred the disaffected
and avaricious among the people from conveying
provisions to the camp. Moreover, Congress
passed a resolution subjecting to martial law and to
death, all those who should furnish the royal troops with
provisions, or any aid whatsoever.