On And Near The Delaware - Charles M. Skinner
MYTHS AND LEGENDS
OF
OUR OWN LAND
By
Charles M. Skinner
Vol. 3.
ON AND NEAR THE DELAWARE
CONTENTS:
The Phantom Dragoon
Delaware Water Gap
The Phantom Drummer
The Missing Soldier of Valley Forge
The Last Shot at Germantown
A Blow in the Dark
The Tory's Conversion
Lord Percy's Dream
Saved by the Bible
Parricide of the Wissahickon
The Blacksmith at Brandywine
Father and Son
The Envy of Manitou
The Last Revel in Printz Hall
The Two Rings
Flame Scalps of the Chartiers
The Consecration of Washington
Marion
ON AND NEAR THE DELAWARE
THE PHANTOM DRAGOON
The height that rises a mile or so to the south of Newark, Delaware, is
called Iron Hill, because it is rich in hematite ore, but about the time
of General Howe's advance to the Brandywine it might well have won its
name because of the panoply of war--the sullen guns, the flashing swords,
and glistening bayonets--that appeared among the British tents pitched on
it. After the red-coats had established camp here the American outposts
were advanced and one of the pickets was stationed at Welsh Tract Church.
On his first tour of duty the sentry was thrown into great alarm by the
appearance of a figure robed from head to foot in white, that rode a
horse at a charging gait within ten feet of his face. When guard was
relieved the soldier begged that he might never be assigned to that post
again. His nerves were strong in the presence of an enemy in the
flesh--but an enemy out of the grave! Ugh! He would desert rather than
encounter that shape again. His request was granted. The sentry who
succeeded him was startled, in the small hours, by a rush of hoofs and
the flash of a pallid form. He fired at it, and thought that he heard the
sound of a mocking laugh come back.
Every night the phantom horseman made his rounds, and several times the
sentinels shot at him without effect, the white horse and white rider
showing no annoyance at these assaults. When it came the turn of a
sceptical and unimaginative old corporal to take the night detail, he
took the liberty of assuming the responsibilities of this post himself.
He looked well to the priming of his musket, and at midnight withdrew out
of the moonshine and waited, with his gun resting on a fence. It was not
long before the beat of hoofs was heard approaching, and in spite of
himself the corporal felt a thrill along his spine as a mounted figure
that might have represented Death on the pale horse came into view; but
he jammed his hat down, set his teeth, and sighted his flint-lock with
deliberation. The rider was near, when bang went the corporal's musket,
and a white form was lying in the road, a horse speeding into the
distance. Scrambling over the fence, the corporal, reassured, ran to the
form and turned it over: a British scout, quite dead. The daring fellow,
relying on the superstitious fears of the rustics in his front, had made
a nightly ride as a ghost, in order to keep the American outposts from
advancing, and also to guess, from elevated points, at the strength and
disposition of their troops. He wore a cuirass of steel, but that did not
protect his brain from the corporal's bullet.
DELAWARE WATER GAP
The Indian name of this beautiful region, Minisink, "the water is gone,"
agrees with the belief of geologists that a lake once existed behind the
Blue Ridge, and that it burst its way through the hills at this point.
Similar results were produced by a cataclysm on the Connecticut at Mount
Holyoke, on the Lehigh at Mauch Chunk, and Runaway Pond, New Hampshire,
got its name by a like performance. The aborigines, whatever may be said
against them, enjoyed natural beauty, and their habitations were often
made in this delightful region, their councils being attended by chief
Tamanend, or Tammany, a Delaware, whose wisdom and virtues were such as
to raise him to the place of patron saint of America. The notorious
Tammany Society of New York is named for him. When this chief became old
and feeble his tribe abandoned him in a hut at New Britain, Pennsylvania,
and there he tried to kill himself by stabbing, but failing in that, he
flung burning leaves over himself, and so perished. He was buried where
he died. It was a princess of his tribe that gave the name of Lover's
Leap to a cliff on Mount Tammany, by leaping from it to her death,
because her love for a young European was not reciprocated.
There is a silver-mine somewhere on the opposite mountain of Minsi, the
knowledge of its location having perished with the death of a recluse,
who coined the metal he took from it into valuable though illegal
dollars, going townward every winter to squander his earnings. During the
Revolution "Oran the Hawk," a Tory and renegade, was vexatious to the
people of Delaware Valley, and a detachment of colonial troops was sent
in pursuit of him. They overtook him at the Gap and chased him up the
slopes of Tammany, though he checked their progress by rolling stones
among them. One rock struck a trooper, crushed him, and bore him down to
the base of a cliff, his blood smearing it in his descent. But though he
seemed to have eluded his pursuers, Oran was shot in several places
during his flight, and when at last he cast himself into a thicket, to
rest and get breath, it was never to rise again. His bones, cracked by
bullets and gnawed by beasts, were found there when the leaves fell.
THE PHANTOM DRUMMER
Colonel Howell, of the king's troops, was a gay fellow, framed to make
women false; but when he met the rosy, sweet-natured daughter of farmer
Jarrett, near Valley Forge, he attempted no dalliance, for he fell too
seriously in love. He might not venture into the old man's presence, for
Jarrett had a son with Washington, and he hated a red-coat as he did the
devil; but the young officer met the girl in secret, and they plighted
troth beneath the garden trees, hidden in gray mist. As Howell bent to
take his first kiss that night, a rising wind went past, bringing from
afar the roll of a drum, and as they talked the drum kept drawing nearer,
until it seemed at hand. The officer peered across the wall, then hurried
to his mistress' side, as pale as death. The fields outside were empty of
life.
Louder came the rattling drum; it seemed to enter the gate, pass but a
yard away, go through the wall, and die in the distance. When it ceased,
Howell started as if a spell had been lifted, laxed his grip on the
maiden's hand, then drew her to his breast convulsively. Ruth's terror
was more vague but no less genuine than his own, and some moments passed
before she could summon voice to ask him what this visitation meant. He
answered, "Something is about to change my fortunes for good or ill;
probably for ill. Important events in my family for the past three
generations have been heralded by that drum, and those events were
disasters oftener than benefits." Few more words passed, and with another
kiss the soldier scaled the wall and galloped away, the triple beat of
his charger's hoofs sounding back into the maiden's ears like drum-taps.
In a skirmish next day Colonel Howell was shot. He was carried to farmer
Jarrett's house and left there, in spite of the old man's protest, for he
was willing to give no shelter to his country's enemies. When Ruth saw
her lover in this strait she was like to have fallen, but when she
learned that it would take but a few days of quiet and care to restore
him to health, she was ready to forgive her fellow-countrymen for
inflicting an injury that might result in happiness for both of them.
It took a great deal of teasing to overcome the scruples of the farmer,
but he gruffly consented to receive the young man until his hurt should
heal. Ruth attended him faithfully, and the cheerful, manly nature of the
officer so won the farmer's heart that he soon forgot the color of
Howell's coat. Nor was he surprised when Howell told him that he loved
his daughter and asked for her hand; indeed, it had been easy to guess
their affection, and the old man declared that but for his allegiance to
a tyrant he would gladly own him as a son-in-law. It was a long struggle
between love and duty that ensued in Howell's breast, and love was
victor. If he might marry Ruth he would leave the army. The old man gave
prompt consent, and a secret marriage was arranged. Howell had been
ordered to rejoin his regiment; he could not honorably resign on the eve
of an impending battle, and, even had he done so, a long delay must have
preceded his release. He would marry the girl, go to the country, live
there quietly until the British evacuated Philadelphia, when he would
return and cast his lot with the Jarrett household.
Howell donned citizen's dress, and the wedding took place in the spacious
best room of the mansion, but as he slipped the ring on the finger of his
bride the roll of a drum was heard advancing up the steps into the room,
then on and away until all was still again. The young colonel was pale;
Ruth clung to him in terror; clergymen and guests looked at each other in
amazement. Now there were voices at the porch, the door was flung open,
armed men entered, and the bridegroom was a prisoner. He was borne to his
quarters, and afterward tried for desertion, for a servant in the Jarrett
household, hating all English and wishing them to suffer, even at each
other's hands, had betrayed the plan of his master's guest. The
court-martial found him guilty and condemned him to be shot. When the
execution took place, Ruth, praying and sobbing in her chamber, knew that
her husband was no more. The distant sound of musketry reverberated like
the roll of a drum.
THE MISSING SOLDIER OF VALLEY FORGE
During the dreadful winter of the American encampment at Valley Forge six
or eight soldiers went out to forage for provisions. Knowing that little
was to be hoped for near the camp of their starving comrades, they set
off in the direction of French Creek. At this stream the party separated,
and a little later two of the men were attacked by Tory farmers. Flying
along the creek for some distance they came to a small cave in a bluff,
and one of them, a young Southerner named Carrington, scrambled into it.
His companion was not far behind, and was hurrying toward the cave, when
he was arrested by a rumble and a crash: a block of granite, tons in
weight, that had hung poised overhead, slid from its place and completely
blocked the entrance. The stifled cry of despair from the living occupant
of the tomb struck to his heart. He hid in a neighboring wood until the
Tories had dispersed, then, returning to the cave, he strove with might
and main to stir the boulder from its place, but without avail.
When he reached camp, as he did next day, he told of this disaster, but
the time for rescue was believed to be past, or the work was thought to
be too exhausting and dangerous for a body of men who had much ado to
keep life in their own weak frames. It was a double tragedy, for the
young man's sweetheart never recovered from the shock that the news
occasioned, and on her tomb, near Richmond, Virginia, these words are
chiselled: "Died, of a broken heart, on the 1st of March, 1780, Virginia
Randolph, aged 21 years, 9 days. Faithful unto death." In the summer of
1889 some workmen, blasting rock near the falls on French Creek,
uncovered the long-concealed cavern and found there a skeleton with a few
rags of a Continental uniform. In a bottle beside it was an account,
signed by Arthur L. Carrington, of the accident that had befallen him,
and a letter declaring undying love for his sweetheart.
He had starved to death. The bones were neatly coffined, and were sent to
Richmond to be buried beside those of the faithful Miss Randolph.
THE LAST SHOT AT GERMANTOWN
Many are the tales of prophecy that have been preserved to us from war
times. In the beginning of King Philip's war in Connecticut, in 1675, it
was reported that the firing of the first gun was heard all over the
State, while the drumbeats calling settlers to defence were audible eight
miles away. Braddock's defeat and the salvation of Washington were
foretold by a Miami chief at a council held in Fort Ponchartrain, on
Detroit River, the ambush and the slaughter having been revealed to him
in a dream. The victims of that battle, too, had been apprised, for one
or two nights before the disaster a young lieutenant in Braddock's
command saw his fellow-officers pass through his tent, bloody and torn,
and when the first gun sounded he knew that it spoke the doom of nearly
all his comrades. At Killingly, Connecticut, in the autumn before the
outbreak of the Revolution, a distant roar of artillery was heard for a
whole day and night in the direction of Boston, mingled with a rattle of
musketry, and so strong was the belief that war had begun and the British
were advancing, that the minute men mustered to await orders. It was
afterward argued that these noises came from an explosion of meteors, a
shower of these missiles being then in progress, invisible, of course, in
the day-time. Just after the signing of the Declaration of Independence
the royal arms on the spire of the Episcopal church at Hampton, Virginia,
were struck off by lightning. Shortly before the surrender of Cornwallis
a display of northern lights was seen in New England, the rays taking the
form of cannon, facing southward. In Connecticut sixty-four of these guns
were counted.
At the battle of Germantown the Americans were enraged by the killing of
one of their men who had gone out with a flag of truce. He was shot from
the windows of Judge Chew's house, which was crowded with British
soldiers, and as he fell to the lawn, dyeing the peaceful emblem with his
blood, at least one of the Continentals swore that his death should be
well avenged. The British reinforcements, sixteen thousand strong, came
hurrying through the street, their officers but half-dressed, so urgent
had been the summons for their aid. Except for their steady tramp the
place was silent; doors were locked and shutters bolted, and if people
were within doors no sign of them was visible. General Agnew alone of all
the troop seemed depressed and anxious. Turning to an aide as they passed
the Mennonist graveyard, he said, "This field is the last I shall fight
on."
An eerie face peered over the cemetery wall, a scarred, unshaven face
framed in long hair and surmounting a body clothed in skins, with the
question, "Is that the brave General Gray who beat the rebels at Paoli?"
One of the soldiers, with a careless toss of the hand, seemed to indicate
General Agnew. A moment later there was a report, a puff of smoke from
the cemetery wall, and a bullet whizzed by the head of the general, who
smiled wanly, to encourage his men. Summary execution would have been
done upon the stranger had not a body of American cavalry dashed against
the red-coats at that moment, and a fierce contest was begun. When the
day was over, General Agnew, who had been separated from his command in
the confusion of battle, came past the graves again. Tired and depressed,
he drew rein for a moment to breathe the sweet air, so lately fouled with
dust and smoke, and to watch the gorgeous light of sunset. Again, like a
malignant genius of the place, the savage-looking stranger arose from
behind the wall. A sharp report broke the quiet of evening and awoke
clattering echoes from the distant houses. A horse plunged and General
Agnew rolled from his saddle, dead: the last victim in the strife at
Germantown.
A BLOW IN THE DARK
The Tory Manheim sits brooding in his farmhouse near Valley Forge, and
his daughter, with a hectic flush on her cheek, looks out into the
twilight at the falling snow. She is worn and ill; she has brought on a
fever by exposure incurred that very day in a secret journey to the
American camp, made to warn her lover of another attempt on the life of
Washington, who must pass her father's house on his return from a distant
settlement. The Tory knows nothing of this; but he starts whenever the
men in the next room rattle the dice or break into a ribald song, and a
frown of apprehension crosses his face as the foragers crunch by,
half-barefoot, through the snow. The hours go on, and the noise in the
next room increases; but it hushes suddenly when a knock at the door is
heard. The Tory opens it, and trembles as a tall, grave man, with the
figure of an athlete, steps into the fire-light and calmly removes his
gloves. "I have been riding far," said he. "Can you give me some food and
the chance to sleep for an hour, until the storm clears up?"
Manheim says that he can, and shuffling into the next room, he whispers,
"Washington!" The girl is sent out to get refreshments. It is in vain
that she seeks to sign or speak to the man who sits there so calmly
before the fire, for her father is never out of sight or hearing. After
Washington has finished his modest repast he asks to be left to himself
for a while, but the girl is told to conduct him to the room on the left
of the landing on the next floor.
Her father holds the candle at the foot of the stairs until he sees his
guest enter; then he bids his daughter go to her own bed, which is in the
chamber on the right of the landing. There is busy whispering in the room
below after that, and the dice box is shaken to see to whose lot it shall
fall to steal up those stairs and stab Washington in his sleep. An hour
passes and all in the house appear to be at rest, but the stairs creak
slightly as Manheim creeps upon his prey. He blows his candle out and
softly enters the chamber on the left. The men, who listen in the dark at
the foot of the stair, hear a moan, and the Tory hurries back with a
shout of gladness, for the rebel chief is no more and Howe's reward will
enrich them for life.
Glasses are filled, and in the midst of the rejoicing a step is heard on
the stair. Washington stands before them. In calm, deep tones he thanks
the farmer for his shelter, and asks that his horse be brought to the
door and his reckoning be made out. The Tory stares as one bereft. Then
he rushes aloft, flings open the door of the room on the left, and gazes
at the face that rests on the pillow,--a pillow that is dabbled with red.
The face is that of his daughter. The name of father is one that he will
never hear again in this world. The candle falls from his hand; he sinks
to the floor; be his sin forgiven! Outside is heard the tramp of a horse.
It is that of Washington, who rides away, ignorant of the peril he has
passed and the sacrifice that averted it.
THE TORY'S CONVERSION
In his firelit parlor, in his little house at Valley Forge, old Michael
Kuch sits talking with his daughter. But though it is Christmas eve the
talk has little cheer in it. The hours drag on until the clock strikes
twelve, and the old man is about to offer his evening prayer for the
safety of his son, who is one of Washington's troopers, when hurried
steps are heard in the snow, there is a fumbling at the latch, then the
door flies open and admits a haggard, panting man who hastily closes it
again, falls into a seat, and shakes from head to foot. The girl goes to
him. "John!" she says. But he only averts his face. "What is wrong with
thee, John Blake?" asks the farmer. But he has to ask again and again ere
he gets an answer. Then, in a broken voice, the trembling man confesses
that he has tried to shoot Washington, but the bullet struck and killed
his only attendant, a dragoon. He has come for shelter, for men are on
his track already. "Thou know'st I am neutral in this war, John Blake,"
answered the farmer,--"although I have a boy down yonder in the camp. It
was a cowardly thing to do, and I hate you Tories that you do not fight
like men; yet, since you ask me for a hiding-place, you shall have it,
though, mind you, 'tis more on the girl's account than yours. The men are
coming. Out--this way--to the spring-house. So!"
Before old Michael has time to return to his chair the door is again
thrust open, this time by men in blue and buff. They demand the assassin,
whose footsteps they have tracked there through the snow. Michael does
not answer. They are about to use violence when, through the open door,
comes Washington, who checks them with a word. The general bears a
drooping form with a blood splash on its breast, and deposits it on the
hearth as gently as a mother puts a babe into its cradle. As the
firelight falls on the still face the farmer's eyes grow round and big;
then he shrieks and drops upon his knees, for it is his son who is lying
there. Beside him is a pistol; it was dropped by the Tory when he
entered. Grasping it eagerly the farmer leaps to his feet. His years have
fallen from him. With a tiger-like bound he gains the door, rushes to the
spring-house where John Blake is crouching, his eyes sunk and shining,
gnawing his fingers in a craze of dismay. But though hate is swift, love
is swifter, and the girl is there as soon as he. She strikes his arm
aside, and the bullet he has fired lodges in the wood. He draws out his
knife, and the murderer, to whom has now come the calmness of despair,
kneels and offers his breast to the blade. Before he can strike, the
soldiers hasten up, and seizing Blake, they drag him to the house--the
little room--where all had been so peaceful but a few minutes before.
The culprit is brought face to face with Washington, who asks him what
harm he has ever suffered from his fellow countrymen that he should turn
against them thus. Blake hangs his head and owns his willingness to die.
His eyes rest on the form extended on the floor, and he shudders; but his
features undergo an almost joyous change, for the figure lifts itself,
and in a faint voice calls, "Father!" The young man lives. With a cry of
delight both father and sister raise him in their arms. "You are not yet
prepared to die," says Washington to the captive. "I will put you under
guard until you are wanted. Take him into custody, my dear young lady,
and try to make an American of him. See, it is one o'clock, and this is
Christmas morning. May all be happy here. Come." And beckoning to his men
he rides away, though Blake and his affianced would have gone on their
knees before him. Revulsion of feeling, love, thankfulness and a latent
patriotism wrought a quick change in Blake. When young Kuch recovered
Blake joined his regiment, and no soldier served the flag more honorably.
LORD PERCY'S DREAM
Leaving the dissipations of the English court, Lord Percy came to America
to share the fortunes of his brethren in the contest then raging on our
soil. His father had charged him with the delivery of a certain package
to an Indian woman, should he meet her in his rambles through the western
wilds, and, without inquiring into the nature of the gift
or its occasion, he accepted the trust. At the battle of the
Brandywine--strangely foretold by Quaker prophecy forty years before--he
was detailed by Cornwallis to drive the colonial troops out of a
graveyard where they had intrenched themselves, and though he set upon
this errand with the enthusiasm of youth, his cheek paled as he drew near
the spot where the enemy was waiting.
It was not that he had actual physical fear of the onset: he had dreamed
a dream a few nights before, the purport of which he had hinted to his
comrades, and as he rode into the clearing at the top of Osborn's Hill he
drew rein and exclaimed, "My dream! Yonder is the graveyard. I am fated
to die there." Giving a few of his effects to his brother officers, and
charging one of them to take a message of love to his betrothed in
England, he set his lips and rode forward.
His cavalry bound toward the scene of action and are within thirty paces
of the cemetery wall, when from behind it rises a battalion of men in the
green uniform of the Santee Rangers and pours a withering fire into the
ranks. The shock is too great to withstand, and the red-coats stagger
away with broken ranks, leaving many dead and wounded on the ground. Lord
Percy is the coolest of all. He urges the broken columns forward, and
almost alone holds the place until the infantry, a hundred yards behind,
come up. Thereupon ensues one of those hand-to-hand encounters that are
so rare in recent war, and that are the sorest test of valor and
discipline. Now rides forward Captain Waldemar, chief of the rangers and
a half-breed Indian, who, seeing Percy, recognizes him as an officer and
engages him in combat. There is for a minute a clash of steel on steel;
then the nobleman falls heavily to the earth--dead. His dream has come
true. That night the captain Waldemar seeks out the body of this officer,
attracted by something in the memory of his look, and from his bosom
takes the packet that was committed to his care.
By lantern-light he reads, carelessly at first, then rapidly and eagerly,
and at the close he looks long and earnestly at the dead man, and seems
to brush away a tear. Strange thing to do over the body of an enemy! Why
had fate decreed that they should be enemies? For Waldemar is the
half-brother of Percy. His mother was the Indian girl that the earl, now
passing his last days in England, had deceived with a pretended marriage,
and the letters promise patronage to her son. The half-breed digs a grave
that night with his own hands and lays the form of his brother in it.