The New Era

THE HERO WOMAN.

A LEGEND FROM GEORGE LIPPARD, ESQ.'s

FOURTH LECTURE ON THE "ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION."

DELIVERED BEFORE THE

WILLIAM WIRT INSTITUTE.

In a thick wood, 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 eastern 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 sun-light, 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 scarce a hope for the old man, and yet he had determined to make a desperate fight.

"We must bluff off those 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 loth to try that wall, when a stout old Rebel, rifle in hand, is looking from yonder window! Here 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 fall back, like the weight of lead, upon the ground, and a single redcoat 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 trials! While his brave daughter loads, he continues to fire, with that deadly aim, but now—oh horror! He falls. he falls, with a musket ball driven into his breast—the daughter's out-stretched arms receive the father, as, with the blood spouting from his wound, he topples back from the window.

Ah, it is 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 hair, 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—hurras—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 now.

Still that girl—grown suddenly white as the kerchief around 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 muskets 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! Embruied 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 musket, 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 these 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—the Hero Woman, with one bound, springs forward into her brother's arms, and nestles there, while her dead father—his form yet warm—lies, with fixed eye-balls, upon the floor.