Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.
THE
STORY OF A HESSIAN.
A TALE OF THE
REVOLUTION IN NEW JERSEY
BY
LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY
AUTHOR OF
"IRISH AMY," "THE HEIRESS OF McGREGOR,"
"GRANDMOTHER BROWN," ETC.
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PHILADELPHIA:
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION
NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.
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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by the
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
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WESCOTT & THOMSON HENRY B. ASHMEAD
Stereotypers and Electrotypers, Philada. Printer, Philada.
CONTENTS.
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CHAPTER I.
A WOLF-HUNT
CHAPTER II.
IN THE CHURCHYARD
CHAPTER III.
THE COUNT'S VISIT
CHAPTER IV.
THE MISCHIANZA
CHAPTER V.
A DOOR OPENED
CHAPTER VI.
THE BEAR
CHAPTER VII.
NEW FRIENDS AND NEW FOES
CHAPTER VIII.
NEWS AND PLANS
CHAPTER IX.
NONNENWALD
CHAPTER X.
CONCLUSION
THE
STORY OF A HESSIAN.
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CHAPTER I.
_A WOLF-HUNT._
ON a certain bright October morning, in the year 1779, a gay train set
out from the princely hunting-lodge of Nonnenwald. This lodge was built
under the shadow of an outlying spire of the great Thuringerwald, a
range of mountains to the south-east of the dominions of the prince to
whom it belonged. It was, in fact, a small Schloss or castle, a part
of which was quite ruinous and overgrown with ivy and brambles. This
part of the building was made of dark stone taken from a quarry near
at hand. A couple of its towers were in good preservation, and showed
signs of being inhabited, while a two-story wing, evidently quite new
and built of brick, looked awkward and uncomfortable beside its sombre
old neighbour. Even with this addition, the lodge would accommodate
very few people—a circumstance which made it something of a favourite
with its owner. The lodge of Nonnenwald belonged to the hereditary
prince or landgrave of Hesse-Cassel, and he liked now and then to
escape to it from the splendours of his magnificent court, to indulge
in the pursuits of hunting and fishing in company with a few special
friends.
The Thuringerwald swarmed with every species of game. Wild boars
abounded, and there was a somewhat mythical story that the great wild
bull of Europe—the urus—was still to be met in its deeper recesses.
Wildcats, bears, and lynxes, made their homes on the rocky ledges,
and the great gray wolves ran down the deer and boars, and now and
then made an incursion into the cultivated country. Such an incursion
had just taken place, early as it was in the year, and many cattle
and sheep had been destroyed in the fields about Nonnenwald. Nay, the
animals had entered the village itself, and had killed a calf belonging
to Gertrude Reinhart, who lived in the little stone house near the
churchyard where was the deserted blacksmith's forge. It was the report
of this incursion which had brought down the prince and his train, and
a fine week's sport was in anticipation.
As the gay train, with the prince in the midst, wound their way through
the street of the little village, it was met by a train of a very
different description arriving from the opposite direction. First
came the Lutheran pastor of the little church in his gown, then time
coffin—a child's coffin decked with a wreath of everlasting flowers and
carried on a bier. Then came the mourning family, the mother leaning on
the arm of a tall gray-haired man and leading a little boy by the hand.
A boy of about fifteen, and a girl somewhat younger, followed hand in
hand, and a few neighbours brought up the rear. They came slowly up the
hill, giving the hunting-train plenty of time to halt and draw up to
the side of the road near the church, which they did with some trouble,
for the horses were very restive and unmanageable, and the great
wolf-hounds bayed and howled and strained furiously at their slips, as
if they already scented their savage game.
"A bad omen for our chase," said a young gentleman who rode near the
prince.
The prince frowned. He had just been thinking the same thing, but it
did not please him to have the thought put into words. He made the sign
of the cross. It was a new accomplishment, and he was rather proud of
it.
"Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis!" said he, piously. And then he frowned
again, for he thought he saw a glance of derision pass between his two
young cousins, Victor and Maurice of Nassau. "Whose is the funeral,
Franz?"
"'Tis the youngest son of Gertrude Reinhart—the woman whose calf was
killed the other night," answered Franz the huntsman, a man who had
grown gray in the service of the landgrave and his father. "The lad was
an innocent—a witless child," he added. "He crept out at evening to see
the new calf, and the wolves fell upon the poor creature and killed it
before his eyes. They would have done the same by him, but the poor
innocent had sense enough to climb upon the roof of the forge, or else
the angels set him there. Who knows?"
"Angels do not interfere for the salvation of heretics, my good Franz,"
said the prince, pompously.
"Humph!" answered Franz, with little respect, as it seemed, either for
the speech or the speaker. "Anyhow, he was found on the roof."
"But the angels could not have put him there; do you think so, my
father?" he asked, turning to a dark gentleman who rode at his left
hand.
"I understand that the lad was an innocent, or witless child," answered
the priest, gravely, though with a little twinkle in his eye; "in which
case such an interference might have taken place."
"Go on, Franz," said the prince. "What was the end of the matter?"
"The end was that the villagers heard the noise and turned out with
what arms they had, and Hans and myself came down with the dogs and
drove the brutes away," answered Franz. "The poor lad was not hurt, but
so frightened that he never held up his head again. It is a sore blow
to poor Gertrude, who was bound up in him."
"Why, he could never be anything but an encumbrance to her; he would
never have earned his own living," said the prince. "She ought to be
thankful to be rid of such a trouble."
The prince did not mean to be hard-hearted, but he was rather stupid
and ignorant even for a German prince of that time, and he really
thought so.
"I fancy women are not often glad to part with their children," said
the priest, gravely, "and I have observed that they cling most to those
who most need their care."
"Here they come," said Count Maurice, and as the little funeral train
reached the place where the riders had drawn up, he took off his hat.
The other gentlemen did the same, and even the prince raised his
beaver, almost, as it seemed, against his will.
"Poor woman! What a tragedy is in her face!" observed Count Maurice, in
an undertone, to his next neighbour. "Is she a widow, I wonder?"
"She might as well be," answered old Franz, on hearing the question.
"Her husband is in America, and she has heard no word from him for
three long years. Poor Gertrude was one of the fairest and sweetest
matrons in all the Thuringerwald, but she is sadly changed, poor thing."
"I dare say. Do you know her, then?"
"She is my grand-niece."
"And did her husband go against her will?"
"I fancy nobody waited to find out what her will was, or his, either,"
answered the old man, dryly. "He had no time even to bid farewell to
his family."
The prince moved uneasily on his horse as he overheard the words.
"Who is the man on whose arms the woman leans?" he asked. "I have never
seen him before."
"He does not live about here, though he is a not unfrequent visitor,"
said Franz. "He is one of the Moravian ministers from Herrnhut, and
goes about the country teaching and preaching where he pleases. The
folks look on him as a prophet or saint. They call him the consoler,
and say he is sure to turn up where there is any great grief or
trouble."
"Well, gentlemen, we may as well ride on," said the prince.
He would have infinitely preferred to return home, only he was afraid
of being laughed at for his superstition. Not that any one (unless
it might be Count Maurice) would have ventured to do so to his face,
but he knew very well they would not hesitate behind his back. He was
especially jealous of his two young visitors, the counts Victor and
Maurice of Nassau, who had been much at the court of Frederick the
Great, and were believed to be infected by the new French philosophy.
He made the sign of the cross again—rather awkwardly, for he never
could remember where to begin—and the train moved on.
The funeral was over, and the neighbours who had lingered at the stone
cottage ceased their well-meant attempts at consolation and went their
way home. Gertrude Reinhart had gone through the funeral services
with dry eyes and compressed lips. She had not shed a tear since her
boy died. With the same outwardly composed face she was engaged in
preparing supper for her children, when she was disturbed by a knock at
the door. With a movement of impatience she opened it. There stood the
priest whom we saw in the morning, and at some little distance behind
him the young count Maurice.
"You are the widow Reinhart, whose son was buried this morning?" said
the priest, kindly.
"I am Gertrude Reinhart, whose son was buried this morning," answered
Gertrude, briefly, for she was in no mood for ceremony. "Whether I am a
widow or not, Heaven only knows. What is your business with me? It must
needs be pressing, since you disturb with it the house of mourning."
"I beg your pardon," answered the priest, gently. "I understood you
were a widow. Forgive me if I have hurt you. My errand is to bring you
this money from His Serene Highness, who was witness of your trouble
this morning and desires to help you."
Gertrude's cheek flushed and her eyes blazed with sudden fire.
"Go back to him who sent you and tell him from me that his money may
perish with him," she cried. "Shall I take the price of my husband's
blood from my husband's murderer?" She seemed about to say more, but
checked herself, and turning away busied herself once more in her
household work.
The priest remained standing a moment, as if uncertain what to do, when
Gertrude again turned toward him with a somewhat softened expression.
"I am wrong, reverend sir," said she. "Doubtless you mean kindly, and
I thank you, but I can take no gold from the prince—not if I and mine
were starving. I cannot take it from one who sent my husband and the
father of my children to perish in the forests or murdered in cold
blood by the cruel, bloodthirsty Americans."
"Nay, there you are wrong, my poor soul!" said Count Maurice, who had
caught Gertrude's words. "Let me comfort you, then. The Americans are
not cruel to their prisoners, but treat them with great kindness and
humanity. I was myself in America for a year at the beginning of the
war, and know what I say to be true."
"In America did you say, sir?" exclaimed the little seven-year-old
Gustaf Reinhart, pulling away his hand from his sister's and springing
forward. "Oh, did Your Highness know my father? He has gone to America,
and we have never heard from him since. Did you know my dear father?
Oh, say that he is alive, and I will show you where to find the
prettiest crystals in all the Thuringerwald and will give you my tame
sparrow-hawk."
The young soldier's proud moustache quivered a little, and he seemed
to have some trouble in finding his voice to answer, as he stroked the
little fair head of the child who was looking so anxiously up into his
face.
"My dear little boy, I did not know your father from a thousand
others," said he, kindly. "I was only a short time in the army before
I was called home, but this much I can tell you: The Americans are
white people and Christians like ourselves, and, as I said, treat their
prisoners with kindness. The stories which were told of their putting
all the Hessians to death were groundless fabrications."
"I thought they were all wild savages," said Gustaf.
"There are plenty of savages, and wild enough," answered Count Maurice.
"They are, indeed, more cruel and bloodthirsty than so many wolves;
but they are not fighting against the British, but for them, more
is the shame for those who let them loose on the helpless women and
children.—But I pray you take comfort, dame," he added, turning once
more to Gertrude. "Your husband may be killed like another, but, again,
he may escape as well as another; and as I said, if he falls into the
hands of the Americans, he will be well treated. Nay, he may perhaps
return before long, since I have heard that the war is likely soon
to come to an end. There, now! I have made you cry, when I meant to
comfort you," said the count, with a young man's natural dismay, as
Gertrude burst into a passion of tears. "Oh how sorry I am!"
"You have done her all the good in the world," said the more
experienced priest, drawing the young man away. "The people tell me
that she has never shed one tear in all her troubles. She will weep the
burden from her heart, and sleep to-night in peace. 'Tis a pity the
poor soul is a heretic. She might else find comfort in the offices of
the Church."
"Like our royal host," said Count Maurice, with a shrug of his
shoulders and as much of a sneer as his amiable face was capable of.
"It is to be hoped he will spend some of the money he got of the king
of England for these same offices for the benefit of his soldiers
killed in America."
"For heretics?" asked the priest, apparently more amused than shocked
at his companion's remark.
"When people send heretics to war, it seems to me that they should pay
the damage," answered Count Maurice, lightly; and then, in a graver
tone, "Say what we may, this selling of one's own subjects to be
butchered for money is a horrible business."
"I agree with you there."
"Then you won't report the poor woman's wild words to His Serene
Highness?" said Count Maurice, rather anxiously.
"Not I," answered the priest, with some emphasis, "nor yours, either."
"Oh, as to that, my princely cousin knows my mind on the subject. We
all but quarrelled on the point some years ago; and only to please my
father, I should not be here now. But as the prince's confessor—"
"I am not his confessor," interrupted the priest; "and if I were,
confessors are not all-powerful. I shall do nothing to injure yonder
poor soul, you may be sure. But what to do with this money. I dare not
return it lest he should ask questions. I believe the best way will be
to give it to some religious house to pray for the soul of the poor
innocent who was buried to-day."
"And much good that will do him!" thought Count Maurice. But he had
too much real respect for his companion to treat his opinions with
contempt, however far they might be from his own, and the two walked
back to the lodge in silence.