The Athens Post

THE HERO WOMAN.

BY GEORGE LIPPARD

In the shadow of the Wissahickon woods, 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 circled by a palisade wall. It had been erected in the early 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 stones, 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 western 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-clustering 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 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 this small chamber, in charge of some ammunition intended for a band of brave farmers about to join the host of freedom. Even as she stood there, gazing out of the southern window, a faint glimpse of sunlight 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, with 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 leveled at his head; he is down. down at their feet, grappling for life! But look again! He dashes his foes aside—with one bold movement he springs through the gate; an instant 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 the old man himself his brow bared, his arm grasping the rifle, while his gray 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 deathstruggle.

Death struggle? Yes! for the old man; Isaac Walpole, 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 block-house—perhaps the daughter herself—was to be their reward. There was scarcely a hope for the old man, and yet he determined to make a desperate fight.

"We must bluff off these 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 suddenly grown 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 braves are somewhat loth of that wall. when a stout old "Rebel," rifle in hand, is looking from yonder window. There is a pause; low deep murmurs, they are holding a council.

A moment is gone, and nine heads are thrust above the walls 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 upon the ground like weights of lead, and a single red coat is seen, slowly mounting on 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 bound are leaping from the summit of the wall.

"Quick, Bess, my rifle!"

And look here; even while the veteran was looking upon his foes, the brave girl, for slender in form and wildly beautiful in the 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 a ramrod rising and falling in her slender fingers!

Now look to the wall again! The refugees are clambering over its summit; again a horrid cry, and another wounded man toppling down upon his dead and dying comrades!

But now look! smoke rises there, a fire blazes around the wall; they have fired the gate. A moment, and the bolt and lock will be burnt from its sockets; the passage will be free! Now is the fiery moment of the old man's trial! While his brave daughter loads he continues to fire with that deadly aim; but now, oh, horror! He falls, he falls with musket ball driven in his breast; the daughter's outstretched arms received the father, as with the blood spouting from his wound, he topples back from the window.

Ah, it is a 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 gray hairs, while the ancient furniture of the small chamber afford a dim back ground to the scene!

Now hark! The sound of axes at the hall door; shouts, hurrahs, curses!

"We have the old rebel at last!"

The old man raises his head at the sound makes an effort to rise; clutches for a rifle and then falls back again, his eyes glaring, as the fierce pain of the 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 the powder keg and then, placing her finger on the trigger, stands over her father's form, while the shouts of the enraged soldiers came thundering from the stairs. Yes, they have broken the hall door into fragments, they are in possession of the old block house, they are rushing to 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's purchase now.

Still the girl; grown suddenly white as the 'kerchief round 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 in 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 this 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 !—Embrued as they are in deeds of blood, there is something terrible to the 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 "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 and say a prayer for me, and let me feel your warm breath upon my face, I am cold—O, dark and cold!"

Look as those trembling accents fall from the old man's tongue, those fingers unloose their hold of the rifle—already the troops 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 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 assail 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 shriek quivers through the room, and that young girl—that Hero Woman, with one bound, springs forward into her brother's arms, and nestled there, while her dead father—his form yet warm—lies with fixed eyeballs on the floor.