house, while their horses were pawing the earth and neighing furiously,
for “whizz!” “whizz!” “whizz!” like so many bees the balls were flying
past them.
“Good Lord! here they come, and close upon us!” gasped Uncle Pete,
shaking like an aspen leaf as he glanced up the highway, then looking
toward the sign-board. Would he have time to make the sign change
front? Momentous question! And on the American cavalry were coming—a
whole regiment—on, on, at full speed. But, rapidly as they approached,
the Britishers were too quick for them; every man of the latter was
already in the saddle, and Martha, although seeing but dimly, was
giving Harry’s hand a parting squeeze, heedless of the danger she was
in and deaf to his urgent entreaties to withdraw.
“No, no, I’m not afraid,” she said. Nor did she retire until he had
pressed his lips to her cheek; then back she flew into the house.
Scarcely had Harry put spurs to his horse when Uncle Pete—his movements
happily hidden by a cloud of dust—sprang up the ladder, turned the
sign-board round in a jiffy, then, pulling from his pocket a bit of
chalk, drew it thrice across George Washington’s benign visage. After
which down he came, or rather down he tumbled; the ladder was hastily
flung aside, and through the doorway after Martha he ran, shouting:
“Smash the bottles, child! Smash a lot of ’em!”
Poor Martha, who was cleansing the mortar from her eyes, was filled
with amazement at these words. Had her parent suddenly lost his wits?
Ay, surely he had, for he was already hard at work breaking bottle
after bottle, and by the time Colonel Glover’s regiment, which pursued
the enemy only half a mile, drew up at the Old Stone Jug, two pounds
ten shillings would not have made good the damage which Uncle Pete had
wrought to his own property.
“God save our liberties, and the devil take King George!” cried Van
Alstyne as the American colonel dismounted; then, pointing indignantly
at the sign-board: “Look, sir, what the British villains have done!
Look!”
“Ay, disfigured our noble commander-in-chief,” answered the officer.
“But now come, sir, and see what they have done inside,” continued
Uncle Pete, foaming at the mouth.
In a few minutes the tavern was crowded with officers and soldiers
heaping maledictions upon the British for having destroyed so much
excellent rum; the whole floor was reeking with spirits.
But Uncle Pete, in consideration of his loyalty to the American cause,
recovered all he had lost, and more too; for the cavalry-men made the
inn merry until the day was well-nigh spent. And when at length they
departed there was not a more contented citizen in the township than
Peter Van Alstyne.
“What a narrow escape we had!” he said to Martha when they were once
more alone.
“Very; and we may thank God ’tis all over without one drop of blood
being spilt,” answered the girl.
“Well, no, ’tisn’t quite over yet,” added the publican; then, going to
the door, he shouted: “Popgun, come down.”
Popgun obeyed, but his movements were slow; he moved like one who has
the rheumatism, and he took double the usual time to descend the tree.
“I say, you little black imp,” growled Uncle Pete as soon as the boy
got within reach—“you little black imp, you fell asleep on your perch
to-day. Now, don’t lie; you did, and you’re ‘sponsible for the broken
bottles, and the disfigured sign, and the bullets in the wall. Ay,
you’re ‘sponsible for every penny’s worth of damage, and now I’m going
to punish you.”
“O massa! please don’t make me dance a hornpipe,” said the unhappy boy,
whining and wringing his hands. “Don’t! don’t! I’ll never fall asleep
again—no, never.”
“Well, it’s a hornpipe I’m going to make you dance; and now begin.” So
saying, Uncle Pete lifted up a stout ox-gad and brought it down with
all his might on Popgun’s legs. The blow was followed by a piercing
cry. Martha implored her father not to strike him again, but Van
Alstyne was deaf to her appeals for mercy, and during several minutes
Popgun continued to hop about like a dancing bear, and you might have
heard his screams as far as East Chester village.
Finally, Uncle Pete having broken the whip over the poor child’s legs,
Martha, who was truly vexed at such cruelty, led Popgun into the
kitchen, intending to console him with something good to eat. But Van
Alstyne, who knew how soft her heart was, said:
“Martha, I positively forbid you to give him one mouthful of
sweetmeats, and not a single doughnut or tart. Obey me!”
The girl made no response, but, having fastened the kitchen door and
brushed a tear out of her eye, bade the little sufferer sit down; then
said: “Now, mind, you are to have no sweetmeats and no tarts and no
doughnuts, so here’s some honey and a corncake.”
Popgun looked up in her face, and Martha was not a little surprised to
see him recovering so rapidly from his terrible castigation; so broad
was his grin that every one of his gleaming teeth was visible.
“I’d like to dance a hornpipe every day, Miss Martha,” he said, “for I
love corncake and honey.”
“Do you? Well, then, you shall have plenty.”
But before the urchin began his feast he whispered: “Miss Martha, you
won’t tell anybody if I tell you a secret, will you?”
“Of course not,” answered Martha, who was anxious to please him, and
thus make amends for the barbarous treatment he had received.
“Well, then, Miss Martha, look here.” And Popgun stooped, and, turning
up the rim of his light linen trowsers, revealed underneath a pair of
cowskin breeches about a quarter of an inch thick; and these breeches
had proved a good friend to him, for he had danced many a hornpipe.
“Oh! fie, you naughty boy!” exclaimed Martha; and she was strongly
tempted to take away the honey-jar. But after reflecting a moment she
burst into a laugh, while Popgun tried to laugh too, but did not
succeed for the honey which filled his mouth.
Never had Martha known so much anxiety as during the four months which
followed Harry Valentine’s last visit. Neither of her lovers came to
see her. Never had they stayed away so long before; and whenever any
one arrived at the tavern with news she would listen with rapt
attention and a sinking heart, fearful lest she might hear that some
evil had befallen them. Often and often Martha would turn from her
spinning-wheel to gaze on the flowers they had given her—poor faded
flowers, but more precious now than diamonds in her sight; and instead
of keeping them far apart, Martha set the nosegay and magnolia near
together—so near that she might circle them both in one fond embrace.
It was an anxious, trying summer, too, for the patriots. Washington was
suffering defeats in Pennsylvania; two important posts on the Hudson
River—Fort Montgomery and Fort Clinton—were captured by the British;
and Congress had fled from Philadelphia to York. Nothing seemed likely
to rescue the cause of independence from utter ruin, save the army
under General Gates, which was marching to meet Burgoyne; and every
breath of rumor from the north was eagerly listened to.
“A crisis is approaching, child,” Uncle Pete would say, “and I guess
you’ll be able to select your husband afore the next moon.”
But Martha had grown too down-hearted to heed what her father said, and
more than once he found tears in her eyes.
By and by autumn came—rich, ripe, golden autumn. But in many an orchard
the apples were left unpicked, for the young men were gone to the war
and the old folks had no heart for the labor. The blackbirds were
flocking, and Martha would watch them as they took wing for the south,
and she felt toward the little birds as never before; for perhaps in
their long journey they might pass over Harry and Elisha; in New
Jersey, in Delaware, in Maryland, or even in the far-off Carolinas,
they might see their camp-fires, might hear the cannon booming.
“Sweet birds, you will come back in spring-time,” she sighed. “Will
Harry and Elisha come back?”
“Child, here is something that may cheer you up,” said Uncle Pete one
October evening. The girl looked round, and, lo! he had a letter for
her. Martha’s hand trembled as she took it.
A century ago people did not write as often as nowadays; indeed,
comparatively few knew how to read and write. Hence it was not so very
strange that Martha was unable to tell at a glance from whom the letter
came. Was it from Elisha? or Harry? or from some comrade of theirs
imparting sad news?
Few moments in life are more big with keen suspense than the moment
between the breaking of a letter’s seal and the reading of the first
line, when the missive is from one very dear to us and far away. This
interval of time—brief as three heart-throbs—may prove the
boundary-line where happiness ends for ever and dark days begin, or it
may set us smiling as Martha is smiling now; therefore let us peep over
her shoulder and learn what the glad tidings are:
“I am coming in three days, dearest Martha, to take you to St.
Paul’s Church and make you my darling wife. Now, don’t say nay.
I implore you not to break my heart. I have won two
decorations, and am a major, and in all America nobody loves
you more truly than your devoted
“HARRY VALENTINE.”
Although an exceedingly short letter, it required some little time for
Martha to spell it all out; and when she did get to the end she was in
such a flurry that she could barely speak when Uncle Pete asked what
was the matter.
“O father! Harry Valentine says he will be here in—in three days to
marry me. And—and he has won two decorations, and he is a major, and I
don’t know what to think about it.”
“Humph! he has risked his life twice for you, has he? Got two
decorations! Well, that ought to count a good deal in his favor.”
“Well, yes, it ought, father.”
“And do you know, child, there is a rumor flying about that Gen. Gates
has found Burgoyne too strong for him, and that he is retreating.
Therefore, all things considered, I think you may bet on King George
and marry Harry.”
“O father! how little you understand me,” exclaimed Martha with a look
of reproach. “I may seem a flirt, a coquette, but I’m not. My heart is
not like your sign-board, and I have suffered more than you imagine
from not being able to decide between Harry and Elisha, who love me so
truly, and each of whom is so worthy of my love.” Then, pressing her
hands to her bosom: “Poor heart!” she cried, “what must I do? Oh! tell
me, what must I do?” Then, hastening into the sitting-room, where she
kept the nosegay and the magnolia, she put her lips to Elisha’s
withered love-gift, then carried it off, leaving the magnolia alone in
its glory. But ere Martha reached the window, where she meant to fling
the flowers away, the glass which held them slipped from her quivering
hand, and in an instant it lay shattered at her feet.
“Well, really, child, you do astonish me,” said her father the
afternoon of the day when Harry Valentine was expected. “You can’t
sleep, you’ve lost your appetite, and all because ‘Lisha’s posy dropped
on the floor. Why, what nonsense!”
“Well, yes, it is silly,” said Martha. “One of the two I will wed, and
I have made up my mind it is to be Harry, and I doubt not Elisha will
live fifty years and be happy too. Any one might let a glass break.”
“Ay, ay. I’ve smashed scores of ’em, child, and never knew any ill to
follow—except once, when I stumbled and fell on top of the broken bits
and cut my finger.”
Martha now made a strong effort to dispel the sense of approaching evil
which for three days had been haunting her, and during the next hour
she kept in good spirits. She had on her best gown, there was a flush
upon her cheeks, and every few minutes she would go to the foot of the
cherry-tree and ask if Harry Valentine were in sight.
“No, miss,” answered Popgun the last time she put the question to him.
“But there is a man in the cedars yonder making signs; I guess he wants
to speak with you or master. He looks like an Indian.”
Martha did not hesitate to go herself and see what the stranger wanted;
and after the latter had spoken a few words to her and she turned to
leave him, the bright color had fled from her face and she trembled.
A half-hour later a cavalcade of gay horsemen arrived at the tavern,
and, as we may imagine, Van Alstyne wondered very much why his daughter
was not present to greet Harry Valentine. He searched all through the
house for Martha; he called her name, but she did not answer. Where
could Martha be?
In the meanwhile Harry, directed by Popgun’s finger, which pointed to
the woods, had set out in quest of his love.
And Martha was soon found; but not, as the young officer had fancied
she would be, gathering chestnuts or wild grapes by the brookside, by
Rattlesnake Brook, where he had first met her five years ago—oh!
never-to-be-forgotten day, when she was just emerging from girlhood and
the first down was on his chin. But now Harry found her kneeling upon a
mossy rock, praying. And when at the sound of footsteps Martha rose up
and flew into his arms, although transported with delight to meet her
again, and to feel she had yielded him her heart at last—that heart
which it had taken so long to win—nevertheless a pang shot through him
when he discovered a tear on her cheek; ’twas easy to kiss the tear
away, but why had she been weeping? He asked the question, but Martha
only shook her head and said:
“Remember, dear one, the promise you once made me: if Elisha ever falls
into your hands, you will do him no injury. Remember.”
And now evening has come, and a jovial party is assembled in the Old
Stone Jug. Uncle Pete bestirred himself as never before to do his
guests honor; he could scarce remain quiet a moment. The best his house
afforded he gave without stint, and ’twas a free gift. Uncle Pete
intended that his future son-in-law should long remember the
hospitality of this autumn evening.
Martha was the only one who did not make merry. She sat close beside
Harry Valentine, her eyes resting on his manly, sunburnt face; she
seemed ready to devour him with her eyes, and spoke very little.
But ever and anon she would withdraw her hand from his and go peep out
of the window. It was when she had done this for the third time, then
come back and placed her hand within his again, that Harry observed in
a tone of surprise:
“Why, my beloved, what is the matter? Your hand is grown suddenly cold
as ice.”
“Is it?” said Martha nervously. There were other words quivering on her
lips, but she held them back. In after-years she bitterly lamented her
silence at this critical moment. It was late, yet not too late—the moon
was still a quarter of an hour below the horizon—and when Harry noticed
her agitation, if she had only been frank with him, how different might
have been the whole current of her after-life—how very different!
And now the sky in the east is growing rapidly brighter, and Martha’s
heart is throbbing faster and louder—so loud that Harry might almost
have heard it. But ’twas not necessary for him to hear the beating of
her heart in order to discover her growing distress. Martha was leaning
back in the chair, her cheeks were become as cold as her hand, and her
eyes strayed from his eyes to the window in a wild, fearful way; then,
looking at him again, she seemed about to say something, but did not,
and Harry was really becoming alarmed at the strange mood she was in,
when the tavern door was suddenly flung wide open, and, as it swept
round on its hinges, a small, black hand passed swiftly over the table.
In an instant the candles were extinguished, and in the pitchy darkness
which followed Martha found herself borne away in somebody’s arms.
“Now, Martha, you’re mine,” said Elisha Williams exultingly, as he
bounded like a deer up the road to the spot where he had left his
horse.
“Be true to me, Martha. Mount! and we’ll hie to the Jerseys together.”
What the girl’s feelings were just at this moment ’twere not easy to
describe. In her ears came deafening uproar from the Old Stone
Jug—quick commands; the neighing of steeds; a voice cried, “Fire!”
Then—well, she must have swooned; for when next she became conscious of
anything, Martha found herself seated on the saddle-bow, Elisha’s arm
supporting her, and Dolly Dumplings galloping at terrific speed along
Cusser’s Lane.
And here let us say that the very first thought to enter Martha’s mind
was a glad thought. Ay, her dark presentiment in regard to The Flying
Scout had proved utterly untrue, and she even laughed aloud when
presently she told Elisha what her fears for him had been. Whereupon he
cried: “Me dead! Ha! ha! No indeed! Hurrah for Independence and Martha
Van Alstyne!”
Then, while his voice was echoing through the woods which lined the
road on either side—frightening an owl and rousing a partridge out of
its sleep—Elisha went on to tell the great news of Burgoyne’s
surrender. “I was present, my love,” he said. “I saw the British colors
lowered. Hurrah for Martha and Independence! Hurrah! hurrah!”
But swift as was Dolly’s pace—her tail, back, and nose formed one
beeline—it was none too swift, and she needed all the blood of her
grandsire, the Flying Childers, to save her from being overtaken. On,
on at a furious rate Harry Valentine was coming. He led the pursuit;
his friends were close behind him. And now, we may ask, did Martha
remonstrate with Elisha? Did she urge him to draw rein?—to surrender
her to the one whom she had consented to wed on the morrow? No, indeed.
Elisha’s astounding boldness in stealing her away from her home when
surrounded by a score of armed men drowned every other thought; verily,
he was the boldest of the bold. The bracing night-air, too, was like
wine to her throbbing veins, and the moonbeams shimmering through the
trees lent a weirdness to the scene which prevented Martha from
thinking calmly about anything. She felt as if bewitched. Dolly
Dumplings appeared like a ghostly steed; Elisha was a wizard knight
bearing her off to his enchanted castle; and not for all the world
would she have slipped off the saddle to go back to the Old Stone Jug.
But great changes often come unawares, and in a few minutes everything
changed. It happened thus: lying in the middle of the lane, directly in
front of old Isaac Cusser’s house—from whom the lane takes its name—was
a cow, and between the cow and the stone wall opposite the farmer had
piled a load of salt hay. Now, had there been a little more light,
Dolly Dumplings would have discovered the animal in time and jumped
over her. But the trees just at this spot threw a broad shadow across
Dolly’s path, and naught was visible until the mare got within a stride
of the obstacle. Then she swerved violently to one side, and in another
moment Martha found herself rolling over and over in the hay.
Needless to observe that Elisha did his utmost to stay the course of
Dolly Dumplings. But, once past the cow, Dolly had instantly resumed
her headlong gait, and she went quite a distance ere she was brought to
a halt.
Poor Elisha! he knew well that Martha was lost to him; yet he did not
hesitate to return—to approach within easy pistol-shot of where Harry
Valentine and his friends were assembled round about the young woman.
The farmer, too, had come out with a lantern, and Elisha, plunged in
despair, could distinguish the figure of Martha standing upright, and
he could hear her voice, and even fancied she was laughing! Was this
possible? No, no! Elisha would not believe his ears; and he called to
her to be true to him—that he would never love another.
“Martha, Martha, I will always love you,” he cried.
“Save yourself! Do! do! Make haste!” came back the response to his
words; and Elisha was slowly turning Dolly round when the crack of a
pistol rang through the forest; ’twas followed by a sting in his
breast; and while the mare continued her flight Elisha’s life-blood
trickled down upon the saddle and left red marks along the road.
But, although desperately wounded, The Flying Scout was not going to be
captured, and faithful Dolly, who heard the clatter of hoofs behind
her, flew on swifter than ever. It was the firm belief of Elisha’s
pursuers that he would turn to the right after leaving Cusser’s lane
and take the way to Tuckahoe; for the bridge across the Bronx River, a
half a mile on his left, had been destroyed. Although aware of this
fact, Elisha nevertheless had the audacity to turn Dolly’s head toward
the stream; and down the hill which led to it Dolly plunged, a dozen
bullets whizzing by her. Would the Scout venture such a leap? From bank
to bank was farther than any horse had ever been known to spring. But
blood will tell—Dolly’s grandsire was the Flying Childers—and now like
a bird she rose into the air, and, lo! to the amazement of the enemy,
Elisha was landed upon the west side of the Bronx.
Here, as they abandoned the chase, let us go back to Martha Van
Alstyne.
It is the morrow morning, and we find her once more under her father’s
roof, making ready to repair with Harry Valentine to St. Paul’s Church;
for she has promised to become his bride, and she cannot break her
word. Yet at this the eleventh hour Elisha holds the first place in
Martha’s heart; she openly rejoices to hear that he escaped, and even
twits her affianced husband for not having been able to catch Dolly
Dumplings, whereupon Harry good-naturedly admits that not another steed
in America could have cleared the Bronx at one leap.
“’Twouldn’t surprise me in the least,” Martha said to herself, as they
were about to set out for the village, “if Elisha dashed up to the very
church-door and carried me off a second time. But then,” she added
after a moment’s reflection, “it is not likely to happen; no, I must
banish him from my heart as soon as possible and love Harry alone.”
Here she threw her eyes upon her betrothed and in all the lovely autumn
landscape nothing was more lovely than those two faces as they met.
But although Martha was struggling hard to conquer her greater love for
Elisha, ’twas a difficult battle she was waging with herself.
There are embers which will live and glow despite the ashes we heap
over them; so even now, while her eyes were searching into Harry’s
eyes, while her smile was answering his smile, Martha’s countenance
fell anew and she recoiled from him. ’Twas at this very moment Popgun’s
voice cried out:
“Dolly Dumplings’s in sight!”
This startling announcement was more than Martha could bear without the
deepest emotion. Quick she looked up the road; the astonished Uncle
Pete and all the others did the same, while the girl stretched forth
her hands to welcome the one who was approaching. Her heart was in her
throat; every limb of her body quivered. On, on galloped the mare.
In less than two minutes Dolly dashed into the midst of the party
gathered in front of the Old Stone Jug. And what a spectacle did she
present! She had no rider, and the red marks which stained the empty
saddle were blood-marks! Oh! surely they were. The wild look, too, and
the fierce neigh of poor Dolly told plainly enough that something
horrible had occurred.
It took Martha but an instant to decide what to do, and, breaking loose
from Harry and her father, who were vainly striving to calm her, she
sprang upon the saddle; then, turning to Harry Valentine with an
expression pen cannot describe, “Marry you!” she cried. “No, not for
the kingdom of England!” And away she galloped.
In a remote corner of the graveyard at East Chester is a tombstone with
the following inscription carved upon it: “Here lie the remains of
Martha Van Alstyne, spinster, who departed this life in the year of
grace 1838, aged 81.” These few words tell the rest of our story.
Martha, when she discovered that Elisha Williams had been killed, never
married; and although no man knows Elisha’s burial-place, his name is
not forgotten, and the bridge which spans the Bronx River at the point
where Dolly Dumplings made her wonderful leap is called Williams
Bridge.
As late as 1840 the ruins of the Old Stone Jug were visible on what is
now known as Schieffelin’s Lane; Rattlesnake Brook still flows on, but
the rattlesnakes have long disappeared; and here and there stands an
aged tree beneath whose shade Martha and Harry and Elisha used to play
together in the days when George III. was king.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
BROTHER AND SISTER.