Chapter XIV: Part 14

There can not be a more striking proof of the different value set upon the services of André and Hale by their respective nations, than the fact afforded by the different manner of their arrest. There was not a single circumstance connected with the capture of André, but what is known to every reader of history, but in the case of Hale, who stands André's equal in every particular, it is not even known with certainty how he was apprehended. We have a few uncertain legends relative to it, but these are widely different, some making him arrested on the Sound, some on the island, and others on the outskirts of the city. But there was one circumstance connected with Hale's capture, which should enhance our sympathy for him. André fell into the American hands by means of the sagacity, watchfulness, and fidelity of our own soldiers; but Hale was betrayed by the base perfidy and treason of a renegade relative. And what two opposite phases of human nature does the contrast between these two incidents afford! In the first, we find three men, three poor men, so fixed in principle and determined in right, that the most tempting offers—offers when an assent would have given them wealth, ease, and luxury—were refused. Strong honesty overcame temptation, and they were content to struggle on in poverty, oblivion, and privation, with unsullied hearts, rather than feast and riot in luxury. But in the latter incident, we find one of the most execrable acts recorded in history. The betrayal of Hale by his relative, contrasted with the stem integrity of André's captors, affords a most striking picture.

We are all aware of what followed the capture of André. He was tried before an honorable court, and while strict justice demanded his life, the necessity was deplored by his judges, and his fate aroused in every heart the keenest sympathy and the deepest sorrow. But how widely different was the unhappy end of the noble Hale! He was surrendered to the incarnate fiend, Cunningham, the Provost-Marshal, and ordered to immediate execution, without even the formality of a trial.

The twenty-first of September, 1776, was a day to be remembered in New York. From Whitehall to Barclay Street, a conflagration raged along both sides of Broadway, in which, four hundred and ninety-three houses, or about one-third of the city, was laid in ashes. The College Green, and a change of wind, only arrested the swift destruction. On that day, the dignified, harsh, cold, and courtly Howe, had his head-quarters at the Beekman House, (now standing at the corner of Fifty-first Street and First Avenue) on the East River, about three and a quarter miles from the Park. The conflagration, checked, but not subdued, still clouded the air, when a generous youth, of high intelligence, kindly manners, and noble character, was brought into the presence of this stern dignitary. That youth was charged with being a spy, and the allegation was substantiated by some military sketches and notes found on his person. In this court of last resort, Hale dropped all disguises, and at once proclaimed himself an American officer and a spy. He attempted no plea of extenuation; he besought no pardoning clemency; he promised no transfer of allegiance. He waited calmly, with no unmanly fears, the too evident sentence which was to snap his brittle thread of life. Howe kept him not long waiting, but at once wrote a brief order, giving to William Cunningham, Provost Marshal of the Royal army, the care and custody of the body of Nathan Hale, Captain in the rebel army, this day convicted as a spy, and directing him to be hung by the neck until dead, "to-morrow morning at daybreak."

Dare we allow our sad and sympathizing fancies to follow the young hero to the old Provost, where one night only remained to him of earth? It is difficult to conceive a night of greater distress, or more thronged with memories, endurances, and anticipations. Never was prison presided over by a more insatiate monster than this Cunningham. All the surroundings were of the most forbidding character. The coming morning was to conduct the prisoner, through unspeakable contumely, to the portals of eternity. He calmly asked that his hands might be loosed, and that a light and writing materials might be supplied, to enable him to write to his parents and friends. Cunningham denied the request! Hale asked for the use of a Bible, and even this was savagely refused.

Thank God, there was one there with enough of the heart and feelings of a man, to be roused to energetic remonstrance by such malignant inhumanity. The Lieutenant of Hale's guard earnestly and successfully besought that these requests be granted. In the silent hours, so swiftly bearing him on to the verge of his dear and happy life, the strong soul of the martyr was permitted to write, for loved eyes its parting messages. Doubtless, one of these was to the sweet Alice Adams, the maiden to whom he was betrothed. On came the swift and fatal morning, and with it the diabolical Cunningham, eager to luxuriate in another's woe. Hale handed him the letters he had written; Cunningham at once read them, and, growing furious at their high spirit, _tore them to pieces before the writer's eyes_. He afterward gave, as his reason, "that the rebels should never know they had a man who could die with such firmness."

Confronted by this representative of His Majesty, cheered by no voice of friendship, or even of sympathy, beset by the emblems and ministers of ignominious death, Hale stood on the fatal spot. His youthful face transfigured with the calm peace of a triumphant martyr; a life, suffused with religious sensibilities, and blooming with holy love, then and there culminated.

The ritual of disgrace had been performed, and a single refinement of malice, was all that even Cunningham's ingenuity could devise; he demanded "a dying speech and confession." Humanity had begun to assert itself in the crowd of curious gazers, for pity was swelling up in many hearts, finding expression in stifled sobs. Firm and calm, glowing with purification and self-sacrifice, Hale seemed to gather up his soul out of his body, as, with solemn emphasis, he gave answer to this last demand of malignity:

"_I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country._"

Why have not we a sky-piercing monument, wherein is set a tablet of solid silver, whereon those words are printed in letters of pure gold?

Honest Tunis Bogart, a witness of Hale's execution, said:

"I have never been able to efface the scene of horror from my mind—it rises up to my imagination always." Ashar Wright, who was Hale's personal attendant, was so completely overwhelmed by his fate, that his understanding reeled from its throne, never to be fully reinstated.

There was such lamentation among relatives, friends, and brother officers, when his death was learned, as betokened how he had endeared himself to all. His memory has been quietly cherished in many hearts. And ever, as the tide of time rolls on, his fame increases—his star sails steadily up among the immortal crowd of illustrious dead.

A certain share of infamy attaches to Howe, on account of the barbarities of Hale's execution. He could and should have known that Cunningham was a devil, unfit for any earthly trust. He should, too, have observed the due formality of a court-martial, and he certainly should have taken care to have had the sentence executed with decency. Howe is deeply blameworthy for his lack of humanity, and for his unrestrained indulgence of such monsters as the Provost-Marshal. He stands convicted of a tolerance of demoniac cruelty, not only in this case, but in the prison-ships, and his general administration. There is something even more damning in being an ungenerous enemy, than an ungenerous friend. Let the disgrace which it fairly won, rest forever on the name of Howe.

As for that sweet Alice Adams, to whom Nathan Hale was engaged, the events of a long life, the transformation of four score and eight years, passed over her head. In life's extremity, when shadows came and went, and earth was receding dimly, the first loved name was the last word on her lips. Truth and love came back to her in old age and death; perhaps she saw him standing on the eternal shores awaiting to help her over—love, life and youth are immortal there—and calling to him, she passed away.

MRS. SLOCUMB AT MOORE'S CREEK.

Mary Slocumb was the noble-hearted wife of one of the bravest soldiers of the Southern army, and was a fair specimen of the heroic women whose influence was so sensibly felt in the Carolinas at the period when the Revolutionary storm was deluging that section with all the horrors of civil war. Lieutenant Slocumb, her husband, like many others whose patriotism would not allow them to remain at home in the enjoyment of ease and comfort, while their country called for the exertion of her sons to free her from the thraldom of a foreign tyrant, had attached himself to the regiment of Colonel Caswell, who, at the period of which we write, had collected his friends and the yeomen of the surrounding country, to give battle to Donald McDonald, and his Highlanders and Tories, then on their way to join Sir Henry Clinton on Cape Fear, after having escaped from Colonel Moore at Cross Creeks. In the battle of Moore's Creek, which followed, Lieutenant Slocumb and his detachment, by turning the flank of the enemy, secured the victory to the patriots, and captured a large portion of the loyal Highlanders, among whom was the brave McDonald himself. It was a hard fought and bloody battle, and Slocumb, in after years, delighted to relate the incidents of the obstinately contested field, among which none was so interesting as his meeting with his wife on his return from the pursuit of the defeated Tories. It seems that on the night after the departure of her husband and his detachment, Mrs. Slocumb had dreamed of seeing her husband's body, wrapped in his military cloak, lying upon the battle-field, surrounded with the dead and dying. So strong was the impression upon her mind, that she could sleep no more, and she determined to go to him. Telling her woman to look after her child, and merely saying that she could not sleep, and would ride down the road, she went to the stable, saddled her mare—as fleet a nag as ever traveled—and in a few moments was on her way after the little army, sixty miles distant. By the time she had ridden some ten miles, the night air had cooled her feverish excitement, and she was tempted to turn back, but the thought that her husband might be dead, or dying, urged her on, and when the first faint tints of morning illumined the east, she was thirty miles from home. At sunrise, she came upon a group of women and children, who had taken their station in the road to catch any tidings that might pass from the battle-field. Of these she inquired if the battle had been fought, but they could give her no information, and she rode on, following the well-marked trail of the troops.

About eight or nine o'clock she heard a sound like distant thunder. She stopped to listen; again it boomed in the distance, and she knew it must be cannon. The battle was then raging.

"What a fool!" thought she. "My husband could not be dead last night, and the battle only fighting now. Still, as I am so near, I will go on and see how they come out."

Every step now brought her nearer the field, and she soon heard the sound of the musketry and shouting. In a few moments she came out into the road below Moore's Creek bridge. A short distance from the road, under a cluster of trees, were lying perhaps twenty men. They were wounded.

"I knew the spot—the very trees; and the position of the men I knew as if I had seen it a thousand times. I had seen it all night! I saw all at once; but in an instant my whole soul was centered in one spot; for there, wrapped in his bloody guard cloak, lay the body of my husband. How I passed the few yards from my saddle to the spot I never knew. I remember uncovering the head, and seeing a face clothed with gore from a dreadful wound across the temple. I put my hand on the bloody face; 'twas warm, and an _unknown voice_ begged for water."

What a revulsion! It was not her husband, then, after all! She brought water, gave him some to drink, washed his face, and discovered that it was Frank Cogdell. He soon revived, and could speak.

"I was washing the wound on his head. Said he: 'It is not that; it is that hole in my leg that is killing me.' A puddle of blood was standing on the ground about his feet; I took his knife, cut away his trowsers and stocking, and found the blood came from a shot-hole, through and through the fleshy part of his leg."

She sought for some healing leaves, bound up his wounds, and then went to others, whose wounds she dressed, and while engaged in this charitable work, Colonel Caswell came up. He was surprised, of course, to see her, and was about to pay her some compliment, when she abruptly asked for her husband.

"He is where he ought to be, madam, in pursuit of the enemy. But, pray, how came you here?"

"Oh, I thought," said she, "you would need nurses as well as soldiers. See! I have already dressed many of these good fellows; and here is one," going to Frank, and lifting up his head so that he could drink some more water, "would have died before any of you men could have helped him."

Just then she looked up, and her husband, covered with blood and dirt, stood before her.

"Why, Mary!" he exclaimed, "what are you doing there? Hugging Frank Cogdell, the greatest reprobate in the army!"

"I don't care," she cried, "Frank is a brave fellow, a good soldier, and a true friend to Congress."

"True, true! every word of it!" said Caswell; "you are right, madam," with the lowest possible bow.

"I would not tell my husband," says she, "what brought me there. I was so happy; and so were all! It was a glorious victory; I came just at the hight of the enjoyment, I knew my husband was surprised, but I could see he was not displeased with me. It was night again before our excitement had all subsided. Many prisoners were brought in, and among them some very obnoxious; but the worst of the Tories were not taken prisoners. They were for the most part left in the woods and swamps, whenever they were overtaken. I begged for some of the poor prisoners, and Caswell readily told me none should be hurt, but such as had been guilty of murder and house-burning. In the middle of the night, I again mounted my mare and started for home. Caswell and my husband wanted me to stay till next morning, and they would send a party with me; but no; I wanted to see my child, and I told them they could send no party who could keep up with me. What a happy ride I had back! and with what joy did I embrace my child as he ran to meet me."

Could the inventive genius of the most able writer of fiction suggest a more thrilling narrative? Alas! how many such intensely interesting incidents are buried in the graves of those noble men and women who sacrificed everything but honor, that we, their children, might live free and independent.

How many females of the present age could be found to ride a hundred and twenty-five miles in less than forty hours, even on such an errand?

This was not the only adventure of this spirited lady, living, as she did, in the midst of contending armies, and entering with ardor, into all the plans and hopes of her husband.

Another couple, living at the North, had some spirited adventures, quite worth chronicling. In the town of North Castle, Westchester County, New York, resided, during the War for Independence, a young married couple, who were both, heart and soul, enlisted in the patriotic cause, and whose best services were devoted to their country. Mr. Fisher was an eminent and active member of a partisan band, under Major Paulding, whose confidence and esteem he always enjoyed to an eminent degree, and who by his unflinching patriotism, and the energy and skill with which he thwarted the plans and designs of the Tories, made himself particularly obnoxious to them. His active duties as a scout, sometimes kept him for months from his home, where his young wife had nothing but her heroism of spirit to oppose to the marauding bands that traversed the "Neutral Ground," and whose creed it was, to make war upon women and children indiscriminately. While the high-minded Whig, therefore, was serving his country, in the swamp and on the mountain, the wife had to undergo scenes, requiring an equal courage and fortitude, with those of his.

She was one of those women of the revolution, by whose indomitable spirit and active benevolence our armies were often held together, and our soldiers encouraged to persevere in the glorious course they had begun. She was without fear, and was always ready to serve her country, or defend herself, upon any emergency. The American soldier, too, often found relief from suffering, through her benevolence. She was one of those, who attended upon the wounded of White Plains, and administered comfort to the dying, and relief to the wounded. After this battle, when Washington's army was encamped near her residence, the Commander-in-Chief's table was often indebted for many of its delicacies, to the prudent attention and care of Mrs. Fisher. Washington often expressed his obligations to her in person.

Many anecdotes are related of her daring. On one occasion, a favorite colt was stolen, when she mounted a horse and rode down to Morrissania, where the loyalists were encamped, and demanded of the English officer in command, the restoration of her property. The Englishman courteously assented, and the colt being found, it was restored to her. This was considered at the time, a most daring expedition. Her route, which was a long one, was through a section of country beset with marauders, who were never in the habit of hesitating to make war on a woman.

We remarked that the danger from the marauding Tory bands, prevented Mr. Fisher from visiting his home, but at long intervals. There was one band of Tories notorious for its cruelty, headed by one Blindberry, a most bloodthirsty wretch, whose memory to this day, is only preserved to be execrated. This fellow was the terror of the whole community. On one occasion, after having been absent for six months, Mr. Fisher's anxiety to see his family, became so great, that one evening he cautiously approached the house, and was admitted unseen. Late that night, after he had retired, steps were heard without, and presently there was a loud knocking at the door, with a peremptory summons for it to be opened. This not being heeded, it was repeated, with a threat to break open the door, if it was not complied with. The house was a simple old-fashioned cottage, the door opening directly into a room, which was used by Mr. Fisher and his wife as a sleeping room. The party now discharged their pistols three or four times through the window, but the balls lodged harmlessly in the walls. This proceeding effecting nothing, they begun at once to demolish the door, and in a few moments they burst roughly into the room. Mr. Fisher sprung from the bed, prepared to defend his wife and himself to the last. But the only object of this band was plunder. In those times, the country people were compelled to convert their effects into money, as every thing moveable, would be sure to be captured, and having no means of investing their wealth, it was generally concealed in secure places. But these concealments rarely availed them any thing, if their persons should fall into the hands of the Tories, as every means of torture that ingenuity could suggest, was availed of to force the hapless victims to betray the hiding place of their wealth. Hanging, roasting over slow fires, or a pistol at the head, were the usual modes adopted.

The Tory leader, who was no other than this same Blindberry, demanded of Mr. Fisher his gold. The stern patriot, who was a man of unconquerable will, calmly refused. The marauders became enraged, and he was threatened with death if he persisted in his denial. But neither the flashing swords that gleamed around him, the musket at his breast, nor the furious aspects of the wretches, could move him a jot from his determined purpose. The word was given to try hanging. In an instant a rope was thrown over the branch of a tree, that stood by the door, and their victim was drawn beneath it, and the rope adjusted to his neck. Once more he was asked to give up his money. Without the tremor of a muscle, he refused. The next moment he was dangling high up in the air. He was allowed to suspend for a few seconds, and lowered to the ground. His reply to the same question was given, in an undaunted refusal. Again did his tormentors run him up into the air; but when they again lowered him, he had fainted. In a few moments, however, he revived, and as the knowledge of the affair gradually broke upon his mind, he thundered out, "No, not a farthing!" Once more did the wretches swing him off, and this time he was kept suspended until they thought he was dead, when they lowered him, and seeing now no chance of obtaining the coveted gold, they departed.

Mrs. Slocumb at Moore's Creek.—_Page_ 27.
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The agony of the wife during this scene, can only be imagined. A Tory was stationed by her side, and with a pistol at her head, enjoined silence on the penalty of her life. In those few minutes were crowded a life of torture and suffering. When they had gone, she tremblingly stole out to the side of her husband, and with what little strength she possessed, dragged his lifeless form into the house. With the vague hope that he might not be dead, she applied restoratives, and soon had the unspeakable joy of detecting signs of life. Ere morning, he was entirely restored, and that very day joined his scout.

Continuing their route, the Tories fell upon several of the neighbors, all of whom suffered some cruelty at their hands. At one house they placed its master in a chair, tied him down, and built a fire under him, by which means he was at last compelled by his unsupportable agony to reveal the hiding place of his gold. But a terrible retribution was preparing for them. Major Paulding had gathered a party of his men, and was in hot pursuit of them. As the Major was following up their track, he stopped at the residence of Mr. Wright, an old Quaker, who felt a strong sympathy for the American cause, but whose principles prevented him from taking an active part in the contest. To the inquiry, if such a party of Tories as has been described, was seen, the Quaker replied in the affirmative, pointing out the course they had taken.

"What do you say, my men," said the Major to his followers, "shall we follow them up?"

A unanimous consent was given.

"Jonathan, if thee wishes to see those men," said Mr. Wright, approaching Major Paulding, with a knowing look, "if thee wishes to see them particular, would it not be better for thee to go to 'Brundage's Corner,' as they are most likely from the North, and will return that way. There thee can'st see them without doubt."

The shrewd insinuation of the Quaker, was caught in an instant. The place referred to, afforded a most admirable place for an ambuscade, and by secreting themselves there, the enemy was certain to fall into their hands.

The Whigs had not been concealed long, ere the party was heard approaching. At the signal, the patriots sprung forward, and discharged their weapons. At the very first fire, the bloodthirsty Tory leader fell, some said from a bullet discharged by the hand of Major Paulding himself.

The intense hatred felt by the people toward Blindberry, and the universal joy manifested at his fall, prompted some to make a public rejoicing on the event, and in order to express their uncompromising hostility to their foe, his body was hung before the assembled patriots of the district, amid their jeers and expressions of pleasure. Among the assembly was Mr. Fisher, who, but a few hours before had so nearly fallen a victim to his cruelty.

Some little time after the preceding events, while Mr. Fisher was on another visit to his family, sudden word was brought, that the Tories were approaching. This, as before, was during the night. Mr. Fisher had reason to suppose, that the object of this party, was to secure his person, and it became necessary to obtain a place of concealment. The most advantageous one that offered, was beneath the flooring, which was loose, where was ample room for him, and where it was hoped, the Tories would not think of looking for their enemy. Scarcely had he secreted himself, when the Tories appeared. They burst into the presence of Mrs. Fisher, in a boisterous manner, and with brutal jests and extravagant threats, demanded to be informed, where her husband was. To these inquiries, the undaunted woman deigned no reply.

"Come, give us a light," said the leader, "that we may ferret out your rebel husband's hiding place. I'll swear, that you've got him stowed away somewhere here."

"I have no light," was the calm reply.

The difficulties of procuring stores, sometimes left Whig families for weeks without the common necessities.

"Come, my woman, none of that!" broke in the Tory; "a light we want, and a light we must have, so bring out your candles!"

"I have none," reiterated Mrs. Fisher.

The Tory, with an oath, drew a pistol, cocked it, and coming up to her, placed the muzzle in her face.

"Look here, my lady," said he, "we know that you've got your rebel of a husband somewhere about here, and if you don't at once give us a candle, so that we may hunt out his hiding place, I'll blow your brains out."

"I have told you," replied the lady, "that I have no candle; I can not give you one, so you may blow my brains out the moment you please."

The heroic spirit that breathed in her words, and the firm look from her undaunted eye, convinced the Tory that she was not to be intimidated. They were compelled to make their search in the dark. After rummaging into every nook and corner in vain, they gave up their object. On several other occasions, Mr. Fisher had similar narrow escapes.

We can not refrain from referring to one enterprise in which Mr. Fisher was engaged, by which means fifteen Whigs put to flight, over three hundred Hessians. The news of their approach was spread abroad, and the utmost consternation prevailed. The Hessians were always held in great terror by the country people. On this occasion, they fled at their approach into the forests and other secure fastnesses. Coney Hill, was the usual place of retreat on these alarms. This was a hill somewhat off from the main roads, and which was surrounded by narrow defiles, and reached only through dense thickets, while its rocky and irregular surface, afforded a means of defense impregnable. No fortress could have been more secure. All the inhabitants, therefore, retreated to this fastness, Mrs. Fisher alone of all neighbors, venturing to remain within her own house.

The usual road traveled by the armies, that led north from White Plains, in one place described a wide circuit, but there was a narrow, irregular road, sometimes used, that shortened the distance considerably. But this road was very dangerous to any large body of men. It led by the Coney Hill, which we have mentioned, and its whole length was through a rocky region, overgrown with tangled thickets of laurel, that would have afforded effectual protection and concealment to a body of assailants, and have made a small force formidable to a large one.

At a point on this road, therefore, Major Paulding and fifteen followers stationed themselves, with a belief, that from the irregular and incautious manner the Hessians were marching, they would be induced to lessen their route, by taking the shorter cut. The belief proved to be well founded. The spot where Major Paulding posted his ambuscade, was one remarkably well adapted to that kind of warfare. It was, where the road passing through a defile, made a sudden turn around a large rock, and where it was so narrow, that six men could not pass abreast, while the whole rising ground on either side was irregular, with rough, jagged rocks, and covered with a dense growth of laurel.

Stationed at different points, and protected by rocky battlements, the little band quietly awaited the coming of their enemy. At last they appeared, approaching carelessly, and with an utter want of military prudence. Not a sound, nor breath betrayed to them the presence of a foe. The rocks, and laurel bushes, gave forth no sign of the deadly messengers to be launched from their bosoms. Part of the Hessians had already passed the turn of the road, when suddenly, like a clap of thunder from an azure sky, an explosion burst from the flinty rocks that surrounded them, and several of their number, pitched headlong to the earth. Those in front, panic struck, fell back upon those in the rear, while those in the rear pressed forward, uncertain of the danger, and discharged their muskets into the thickets, but the bullets rebounded harmlessly from the rocky walls, that inclosed their enemy. Another volley completed their panic. Terrified at the presence of an enemy, that seemed to fight from the bowels of the earth, and unable to estimate the full extent of their danger, which their imagination greatly magnified, they gave a wild cry, and fled precipitately.

This event afforded the Whigs for a long time much merriment, particularly as it was accompanied with no loss to the little party, who had given the Hessians their terrible flight. Mrs. Fisher was accustomed to give an amusing relation of the manner they appeared, as they flew by her house, each running at his utmost speed, with the tin cannisters and other numerous accouterments with which the Hessian soldiers were always so plentifully provided—flying out in a straight line behind them.

The following incident, admirably illustrates the presence of mind, and the many resources of this courageous lady. One day, a Whig neighbor burst hastily into her presence, saying, that he was pursued by a body of Tories, and if not concealed immediately, he was lost. It did not take a moment for Mrs. Fisher to decide upon her course. There was a large ash heap just out of the back door, some four or five feet in hight, and as many long. Seizing a shovel, in a moment she made an excavation, into which the fugitive crept, and the lady covered him with ashes, having first taken the precaution to procure some _quills_, which she placed one in another, and thus formed him a breathing-hole, by which he sustained life, while the Tories sought in vain for his hiding place.

A more humble family, but one which did good service in the cause of liberty, was that of William Maybin. Maybin was taken prisoner, it was supposed, at Sumter's surprise, on Fishing Creek, August, 1780. He was carried to Charleston, and died in one of those charnel-houses of freedom, a prison-ship. Here, just as he was dying, he was discovered by his wife's brother, Benjamin Duncan, a soldier in the British army, who obtained permission to bring his corpse on shore for burial. Duncan then visited his bereaved sister, and, after a short stay, returned to his duty, promising, as soon as possible, to come back and provide for her and his other sister, a married woman. As a pledge, he left with her his watch, and some other articles. The news of this valuable deposit was soon spread among the loyalists; it was rumored that the watch was of gold, falsely, for it was a silver one. Spoil was ever first in the thoughts of many of those guilty traitors; and two marauders soon came to the house of the widow and orphans. They demanded the watch, threatening to take the lives of the helpless women and children, if it was not delivered. Mrs. Maybin, anxious only, like a true mother, for the safety of her children, fled to the woods, leaving her sister to contend alone with the ruffians. She succeeded in baffling their cupidity. They did not find the watch, although it was hidden under the head of the bed. It became the property of Maybin's son, who valued it as a memento of the courage of his aunt.

This family had their full share of trial and privation. When Rawdon's army pursued General Greene on his retreat from Ninety-six, they encamped about a week at Colonel Glenn's Mills, on the Enoree. They then marched through the Fork, and crossed at Lisle's Ford. On this march, the soldiers plundered everything on their way. The only piece of meat she had left for her family, and which she had hidden on the wood-beams of the house, was found and taken away. A small gray mare, called "Dice," her only beast, was also stolen, but was afterward recovered. This disgraceful foray, had, it is said, the sanction of Lord Rawdon.

On another occasion, a Tory visited Mrs. Maybin's cabin, and finding a piece of homespun in her loom, cut it out and bore it away as a prize. The wretch who could look upon the almost naked children of a poor widow, and take from her the means of a scanty covering, did not, however, escape. Little Ephraim Lyle, afterward met him, and, finding the cloth upon his legs in a pair of leggins, inflicted upon him a severe drubbing, and forced him to relinquish the spoil.

Horrible, truly, were these sufferings and privations, but far more real than the trials of fortitude to which some "leading citizens" were subjected.

John Clark, settled on the Enoree, near the place now called Clarke's Ford. He was a staunch and zealous Whig during the war. In a skirmish at the ford, under the command of Captain Jones, he was shot through the leg, and with difficulty escaped to a bluff a mile distant. To this place the enemy traced him, by his blood, and took him prisoner. His mother furnished him with a bit of salve, and a piece of cloth to draw and bind up his wound. His captors compelled him to mount a very poor horse, and ride him, with nothing to separate him from the animal's sharp backbone but an old bed-quilt, which his mother had given him from her own scanty covering. With his feet bound under the _garron_, he was compelled to ride, in great and increasing agony, more than forty miles, to Ninety-six. There he was cast into prison, in his wounded condition, in the midst of poor fellows suffering under a virulent type of small-pox. He was the tenth sufferer, and marvelously recovered, was liberated, made his way home, and lived long after the close of the revolutionary struggle. His descendants are still to be found in Newberry district.

Brady's Leap.—_Page_ 43.
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BRADY'S LEAP.

Captain Samuel Brady was the Daniel Boone of Ohio, and was as efficient in the settlement of that State as his illustrious cotemporary was in establishing the domain of the white man in the State of Kentucky. He entered the army at the commencement of our Revolutionary struggle, and was engaged at the siege of Boston, as well as in many other important contests, during the war for independence. He was a Lieutenant under Wayne at the massacre of Paoli, when that officer was surprised, and the greater portion of his command cut to pieces and destroyed in cold blood. Toward the close of the war, he was Captain of a corps of rangers at Fort Pitt, under General Brodhead, and rendered effectual service against the Indians, who were in league with the British. He had lost a father and brother at the hands of the red-skins, and swore to take a terrible revenge.

To a mind fertile in expedient, and quick as a flash of light in its deliberations, he added a frame well-knit, though slight, and a constitution of iron mold. He was an Indian-fighter _con amore_, and the greater portion of his time was spent in the war-path. Many are the deeds of daring and thrilling adventure related of him. A volume might be written embracing the adventures and hair-breadth escapes of the gallant Captain; but, in common with an immense mass of unwritten tradition equally valuable and interesting, they are fast being forgotten and buried in the graves of the past generation.

On one occasion, while out with a small party of his rangers in pursuit of the Indians, he had gone as far as Slippery Rock Creek, a branch of Beaver River, in Western Pennsylvania, without seeing any signs of his foe. Here, however, he struck upon a fresh trail, which led up the creek, and he hastened in pursuit of the savages, who were some distance in advance. He followed the trail until evening, when he was obliged to wait the return of daylight before he could pursue it further. At the earliest dawn he started afresh, and without stopping to break his fast, he hurried on, bent on coming up with the enemy before they could reach their towns. His precipitancy had nearly cost him his life, for although the party in front did not dream of his proximity, yet a body of warriors, far outnumbering his own small band, had discovered _his_ trail, and were following it with as much avidity as he was pursuing their comrades.

Brady discovered those in front, just as they were finishing their morning meal and preparing to renew their journey. Placing his men in such a manner as to intercept them, should any attempt to escape, at a given signal they delivered a close and well-directed volley, and started up to rush upon the enemy with their tomahawks, when the band in their rear fired upon them in turn, taking them completely by surprise, killing two of their number, and throwing the remainder into confusion. Finding himself thus between two fires, and vastly outnumbered, there was nothing left but flight; and Brady, directing his men to look out for themselves, started off at his topmost speed in the direction of the creek.

The Indians had a long and heavy account to settle with him, however, and deemed this the opportunity to wipe it out with his blood. For this purpose they desired to secure him alive, and fifty red-skins, regardless of the others, who had scattered in every direction, dropped their rifles and followed him. The Indians knew the ground, Brady did not, and they felt secure of their victim when they saw him run toward the creek, which was at this point a wide, deep, and rapid stream. A yell of triumph broke from them as he arrived at the bank and comprehended his desperate situation. There was apparently no escape, and for a moment the Captain felt that his time had come. It was but for an instant, however. He well knew the fate which awaited him should he fall into the hands of his enemies, and this reflection nerved him to a deed which, perhaps, in his calmer moments, he would have found himself incapable of performing. Gathering all his force into one mighty effort, as he approached the brink of the stream, and clinging with a death-grip to his trusty rifle, he sprung across the chasm through which the stream run, and landed safely upon the other side, with his rifle in his hand. Quick as thought, his piece was primed, and he commenced to reload. His feet had barely made their imprint upon the soft, yielding soil of the western bank, before his place was filled by the brawny form of a warrior, who, having been foremost in the pursuit, now stood amazed as he contemplated the gap over which the Captain had passed. With a frankness which seemed not to undervalue the achievement of an enemy, the savage, in tolerable good English, exclaimed: "Blady make good jump! Blady make very good jump!" His conflicting emotions of regret at the escape of his intended victim, and admiration of the deed by which that escape had been accomplished, did not hinder the discovery that Brady was engaged in loading his piece; and he did not feel assured but that his compliment would be returned from the muzzle of the Captain's rifle. He incontinently took to his heels as he discovered the latter ramming home the bullet, which might the next moment be searching out a vital part in his dusky form; and his erratic movements showed that he entertained no mean idea of his enemy's skill at sharp-shooting. The outline of the most intricate field fortification would convey but a slight idea of the serpentine course he pursued, until satisfied that he was out of rifle shot. Sometimes leaping in the air, at others squatting suddenly on his haunches, and availing himself of every shelter, he evinced a lively fear, which doubtless had its origin in a previous knowledge of the fatal accuracy of the Captain's aim. Brady had other views, however, and was not disposed to waste time and powder upon a single enemy, when surrounded by hundreds, and when the next moment an empty barrel might cost him his life; and while the savage was still displaying his agility on the opposite bank, he darted into the woods, and made his way to a rendezvous previously fixed upon, where he met the remainder of his party, and they took their way for home, not more than half defeated. It was not a great while before they were again on the war-path, in search of further adventures.

Brady afterward visited the spot, and, out of curiosity, he measured the stream at the place where he jumped, and found it to measure twenty-three feet from shore to shore, and the water to be twenty feet deep.

A similar incident is related of Brady in the "Historical Collections of Ohio," as having occurred on the banks of the Cuyahoga, in which it is stated that, as he was crawling up the opposite bank, the Indians fired upon him, and wounded him in the hip, but he managed to stanch the wound and escape, by hiding himself in the hollow trunk of a tree until the search for him was over, when he crawled out, and, after incredible hardship and fatigue, arrived safe at his quarters. The two stories may have had their origin in the same occurrence, but the details are so dissimilar, except in the distance, which is in both cases about twenty-three feet, that it is possible, nay, more than probable, that the Captain was called upon to exert his great powers on two separate occasions to save himself from the torture or the stake.

At the time of this famous occurrence, Brady was under orders from General Brodhead. The Indians did not return that season to do any injury to the whites; and early that fall, moved off to their friends, the British, who had to keep them all winter, their corn having been destroyed by Brodhead.

When the General found the Indians were gone, at the suggestion of Brady, three companies were ordered out, with a sufficient number of pack-horses, to kill game for the supply of the garrison. These companies were commanded by Captains Harrison, Springer and Brady. Game was very plenty, for neither whites nor Indians ventured to hunt, and great quantities were put up.

In putting up his tent, Captain Brady's tomahawk had slipped and cut his knee, by which he was lamed for some time. This occasioned him to remain at the tents until he got well, which afforded him the opportunity of witnessing some of the peculiar superstitions of his Indian allies, for he had his Indians and their families along with him.

One of these Indians had assumed the name of Wilson. The Captain was lying in his tent one afternoon, and observed his man, Wilson, coming home in a great hurry, and that, as he met his squaw, he gave her a kick, without saying a word, and begun to unbreech his gun. The squaw went away, and returned soon after, with some roots, which she had gathered; and, after washing them clean, she put them into a kettle to boil. While boiling, Wilson corked up the muzzle of his gun, and stuck the breech into the kettle, and continued it there until the plug flew out of the muzzle. He then took it out and put it into the stock. Brady, knowing the Indians were very "superstitious," as we call it, did not speak to him until he saw him wiping his gun. He then called to him, and asked what was the matter. Wilson came to the Captain, and said, in reply, that his gun had been very sick—that she could not shoot; he had been just giving her a vomit, and she was now well. Whether the vomit helped the gun, or only strengthened Wilson's nerves, the Captain could not tell, but he averred that Wilson killed ten deer the next day.

Beaver Valley was the scene of many of Captain Brady's stirring adventures. We have heard from many of the older citizens their accounts of his thrilling exploits. They speak in unbounded terms of admiration of his daring and success; his many hair-breadth escapes by "field and flood;" and always concluded by declaring that he was a greater man than Daniel Boone or Lewis Wetzel, either of whom, in the eyes of the old pioneers, were the very embodiment of dare-devilism.

The following, illustrating one of Brady's adventures in the region referred to, we give from a published source. In one of his trapping and hunting excursions, he was surprised and taken prisoner by Indians who had closely watched his movements.

"To have shot or tomahawked him would have been but a small gratification to that of satiating their revenge by burning him at a slow fire, in presence of all the Indians of their village. He was, therefore, taken alive to their encampment, on the west bank of the Beaver River, about a mile and a half from its mouth. After the usual exultations and rejoicings at the capture of a noted enemy, and causing him to run the gauntlet, a fire was prepared, near which Brady was placed, after being stripped, and with his arms unbound. Previous to tying him to the stake, a large circle was formed around of Indian men, women and children, dancing and yelling, and uttering all manner of threats and abuses that their small knowledge of the English language could afford. The prisoner looked on these preparations for death and on his savage foe with a firm countenance and a steady eye, meeting all their threats with truly savage fortitude. In the midst of their dancing and rejoicing, a squaw of one of their chiefs came near him with a child in her arms. Quick as thought, and with intuitive prescience, he snatched it from her, and threw it into the midst of the flames. Horror-stricken at the sudden outrage, the Indians simultaneously rushed to rescue the infant from the fire. In the midst of this confusion, Brady darted from the circle, overturning all that came in his way, and rushed into the adjacent thicket, with the Indians yelling at his heels. He ascended the steep side of a hill amid a shower of bullets, and darting down the opposite declivity, secreted himself in the deep ravines and laurel thickets that abound for several miles in the West. His knowledge of the country and wonderful activity enabled him to elude his enemies, and reach the settlements in safety."

Shortly after he entered the service of General Broadhead, he was sent, on a scout, as far west as Sandusky. Captain Brady was not insensible to the danger, or ignorant of the difficulty of the enterprise. But he saw the anxiety of the father of his country to procure information that could only be obtained by this perilous mode, and knew its importance. His own danger was an inferior consideration. The appointment was accepted, and, selecting a few soldiers, and four Chickasaw Indians as guides, he crossed the Allegany river, and was at once in the enemy's country.

It was in May, 1780, that he commenced his march. The season was uncommonly wet. Every considerable stream was swollen; neither road, bridge nor house facilitated their march, or shielded their repose. Part of their provision was picked up by the way, as they crept, rather than marched through the wilderness by night, and lay concealed in its branches by day. The slightest trace of his movement, the print of a white man's foot on the sand of a river, might have occasioned the extermination of the party. Brady was versed in all the wiles of Indian "strategy," and, dressed in the full war dress of an Indian warrior, and well acquainted with their languages, he led his band in safety near to the Sandusky towns, without seeing a hostile Indian.

The night before he reached Sandusky he saw a fire, approached it, and found two squaws reposing beside it. He passed on without molesting them. But his Chickasaws now deserted. This was alarming, for it was probable they had gone over to the enemy. However, he determined to proceed. With a full knowledge of the horrible death that awaited him if taken prisoner, he passed on, until he stood beside the town, and on the bank of the river.

His first care was to provide a place of concealment for his men. When this was effected, having selected one man as the companion of his future adventures, he waded the river to an island partially covered with driftwood, opposite the town, where he concealed himself and comrade for the night.

In constancy of purpose, in cool, deliberate courage, the Captain of the Rangers will compare with any hero of this age, or any other. Neither banner nor pennon waved over him. He was hundreds of miles in the heart of an enemy's country—an enemy who, had they possessed it, would have given his weight in gold for the pleasure of burning him to death with a slow fire—adding to his torments, both mental and physical, every ingredient that savage ingenuity could supply.

Who that has poetry of feeling, or feeling of poetry, but must pause over such a scene, and, in imagination, contemplate its features! The murmuring river; the sylvan landscape; as each was gazed upon by that lonely, but dauntless warrior, in the still midnight hour.

The next morning a dense fog spread over hill and dale, town and river. All was hid from Brady's eyes, save the logs and brush around him. About eleven o'clock it cleared off, and afforded him a view of about three thousand Indians, engaged in the amusements of the race ground.

They had just returned from Virginia or Kentucky with some very fine horses. One gray horse in particular attracted his notice. He won every race until near evening, when, as if envious of his speed, two riders were placed on him, and thus he was beaten. The starting post was only a few rods above where Brady lay, and he had a pretty fair chance of enjoying the amusement, without the risk of losing any thing by betting on the race.

He made such observation through the day as was in his power, waded out from the island at night, collected his men, went to the Indian camp he had seen as he came out; the squaws were still there; he took them prisoners, and continued his march homeward.