Quaker Partisans; A Story Of The Revolution

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Williamson, Edward H. (Edward Hand), d. 1895.

The Quaker partisans : a story of the Revolution é Ls

Chapter I

THERE are not many scenes this side the “ Delectable Mountains,” more beautiful, after their kind, than the Brandywine Hills. There is nothing grand, nor sublime, nor magnificent, in them; there is no stern or rugged feature, except one of which I will speak in a moment, to be seen, as far as the eye can reach, in that part of them among which my story begins; but the hills roll back in long gentle slopes east and west from the little river; low, exquisitely rounded hills, rolling back and back like waves, with sweet valleys sleeping between them, through which flow small streams, sometimes silently, sometimes gurgling over stones and against sharp turns in the banks, into the river. It is the beauty of tenderness and repose. Soft shadows slumber on the hill-sides and in the valleys, and nestle among the masses of foliage in the woods which still overspread the country.

In the cool gray of the dawning, in the shimmering blaze of a July noon, bathed in the golden splendor of the sunset, or sweeping their wavy outline in strong, sharp relief against the night sky, they are alike beau-

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tiful with a solemn, tender loveliness, the recollection of which never fades out from the hearts of any who have lived among them.

The one rugged feature of which I spoke—and that is not visible at a distance which takes in the whole sweep of the landscape—is a rock which stands upon the right bank of the river, about two or three hundred yards below the bridge over which the Strasburg road crosses it, and about two miles from the borough of West Chester, now one of the prettiest towns in Hastern Pennsylvania,—though at the time of which I am writing, consisting as it did of a single tavern, known then, and indeed ever since, with the exception of a year or two during which it was occupied as a girls’ boarding-school, as ‘‘The Turk’s Head,” its beauty may be said to have been in an undeveloped and inchoate state. There may have been a blacksmith’s shop and a country store, also; I presume those concomitants were not wanting; but, having no historical evidence thereof, and wishing to be as exact as circumstances will admit of, I had rather not say positively.

This rock rises perpendicularly from the water’s edge to the height of about forty or fifty feet, haying near its southern extremity a mass of stone projecting some six or eight feet from the rough, craggy face, over the water, at perhaps three or four feet above the ordinary surface-level, and perfectly flat on the under side, thus forming a capital shade from sun or shelter from rain for that most patient class of men yclept anglers; albeit the stream at this day furnishes but little to reward their patience.

On the south side the rock, covered there, as indeed every where except on its perpendicular face, with green sod, rises with a steep ascent to the top, while backwards it slopes by a gradual descent to the level of the country behind; from the top northward runs a rather steep bluff for some distance up the stream, and parallel with its course.

At present there are a few trees scattered over its

sides and top, while a number of others, some large and some small, grow in front of it, on the strip of ground between it and the stream which flows placidly on below. At the summit, the ground is covered with scattered boulders, some loose, but mostly only cropping out above the surface, which, near the front, is much broken; the highest part humps up, as it were, into aridge, leaving a rugged, irregular terrace on each side, that on the south falling away rather precipitately, and that on the north stretching away up the stream, as I have mentioned, in a steep bluff, almost resembling an artificial embankment. . The ridge above is not more than thirty or forty feet wide where it begins, running back, and gradually widening as it goes, to the distance of perhaps five hundred yards, before it is lost in the level of the ground in the rear; rough near the face of the rock, but growing smoother as you recede from it.

Below the rock, for some distance down the stream, and extending two or three hundred yards on each side of it, the ground consists of low and level meadow, rich and fertile, as indeed is all the land in this part of Chester county.

About a quarter of a mile before you reach the bridge, which steps on its solid stone piers across the Brandywine, a road turns off to the left from the Strasburg road, nearly at right angles with it, and runs parallel with the stream at about the same distance, till it reaches what is known as the “Factory” (which for a good many years went periodically into a state of suspension for want of funds), where the stream sweeps to the eastward, so as to bring itself close to the road ; thence they run cosily side by side to Jefferis’ Ford, and thence, the road, leaving the stream, goes across the country, past Strode’s Mill (both of them points connected with Chester county’s share of Revolutionary history), to Birmingham, which is as far as we need to follow it. On the east side of this road, about two or three hundred yards below the main road, and in full view of the rock, stands a quaint little old brick house with a steep roof, which, though modernized in some respects, still retains one of the narrow windows, glazed with small lozenge-shaped lights set in lead, which was brought from England when the house was built. Nobody knows how old the quaint little building is, nor who built it; but there it stands, facing the old rock, a relic of the good old times, the only thing there, with which man’s meddlesome hands have had anything to do, that saw the time when Chester county was part of ‘‘ ye pprovince of Pennsilvania,”—at whose door, for aught I know, William Penn himself may have sat on some summer evening. with his plain cocked hat laid off to allow the cool evening wind to play on his brow, while he looked abroad through the curling smoke of his pipe over the goodly land which the munificent Charles II. had allowed him to buy from the red owners of the soil and thus cancel a bad debt the monarch owed to William Penn the elder.

Veriiy, William the younger found it an exceedingly bad debt before he had done with it.

At the door of this house, on a pleasant evening in the beginning of July, 1777, resting after his day of labor, sat an old man, quietly enjoying the evening air, as it came cool and moist from the creek, laden with the fresh smell of the sedge upon its banks. The sun was sinking behind the trees, and the mist was beginning to settle down along the course of the stream, while the light grew fainter and fainter as the night came on.

The old man had been sitting silently, his eyes wandering carelessly over the scene before him, when something in the by-road on which the house stood, attracted his attention. Turning partly around in his chair toward the door, he called,—

“ Jenny!”

“ What is it, father?” answered a low, very pleasant voice within the house.

“Come here and tell me what this is comin’ up the

mill-road. I can’t make out whether iW’s a steer, or a man on horseback.”

““Why, father, it’s a man on horseback,” said Jenny, coming beside him. ‘I can see him plain.”

‘““Yes, yes ; young eyes are better than old ones! to me it looks like nothing but a big black spot movin’ along. Can thee see who it is?”

“No,” said Jenny, “I can’t make out yet: if I do know him, it’s too dark, and he’s most too far off.”

Jenny stood by her father, scrutinizing the stranger, until the latter, having arrived opposite the door, reined up his horse and stopped, looking inquiringly for a few moments alternately at the old man and at Jenny, after the usual greetings had been exchanged.

He was a well-built man, about five feet ten inches high, rather slender, but muscular-looking, and clad in an ordinary citizen’s dress. At last he spoke.

“Can you tell me where a person lives named Thomas Sanford, somewhere in this neighborhood ?”

“That's my name,” said the farmer. ‘“ What does thee wish with me ?”

“You are the man I’m looking for, then,” said the stranger, with a frank smile. “I judge so from what you say, as well as from the location, which answers the description pretty well, and—and—from some other things which Frank told me,” he added, with a glance at Jenny.

“Frank !” exclaimed the old man; “then thee comes from—where does thee come from, and who is the Frank thee speaks of ?”

“T come from Philadelphia,” said the stranger, “and the Frank I speak of is the man to whom you lent this purse, with instructions to send it back by the right man”—laying a slight emphasis on the last words, and holding out an ordinary wallet purse with very gauntlooking sides.

‘“‘Thee comes from Frank Lightfoot, sure,” said the old man, getting up and taking the purse from the other’s hand ; “he’s sent back the purse leaner than he took it; but light down, light down, and come into the house; thee’s hungry, and so’s thy beast, I know. Jenny, get something for this friend to eat—I forgot to ask thee thy name iu

“ Bettle—William Bettle,” answered the other, dismounting; “but it would be as well, for several reasons, that my name should be kept as quiet as possible. Just call me William; nothing more.”

“T understand,” said the old farmer ; “calling names

THE QUAKER PARTISANS. Tel does no good. Here, Mike,” he added, addressing the hired man, who had just made his appearance; “take this critter to the stable and give him a feed and some water, and rub him down, and put some straw in the stall for him.”

“Yis, sur,”’ said Mike, springing into the saddle with a “whoop, git ‘lang now!” and kicking his heels into the spirited beast’s sides as he lit.

Showing off one’s agility on strange horses is sometimes unsatisfactory in its results. The fiery animal, as he felt the heels touch him, sprang from all fours into the air, whirling half round as he did so, and suddenly humping his back in a way that shot Mike up as if from a spring, and landed him in a very crumpled state in the fence-corner on the opposite side of the road, while the horse stood looking at him as quietly as if nothing had occurred.

“Roland don’t fancy strange heels in his ribs,” said Bettle, dryly, as he crossed the road to the assistance of the discomfited Mike. ‘Any bones cracked, neck put out of joint, or any little matter of the kind ?”

Mike slowly raised himself, feeling his limbs, and carefully moving his joints one by one, looking first at the horse and then at his questioner, in a kind of ireful bewilderment, without speaking.

“ All right, I see,” said Bettle; “nothing’s out of joint but the nose, this time. I think you'll find it quite as comfortable an arrangement to lead him to the stable:” which Mike immediately did, with a rather crest-fallen air.

“That’s rather a ‘ree’ critter o’ thine,” said the farmer, as Mike led the horse away. ‘As Mike’s not hurt, I’m not sorry to see his comb cut a little, he’s so fond of braggin’ about his ridin’, and sayin’ there are no horses here fit for a ‘gintleman’ to ride.” “Roland is an Irish hunter, and therefore a sort of cousin to Mike: he’d have been more neighborly if Mike hadn’t introduced himself quite so uproariously. But what’s up now?” exclaimed Bettle, suddenly, as a fierce, ringing neigh, followed by the sound of a lash or two, then a sudden rush of the horse and a crashing blow of his feet upon what seemed to be some boards, came from the barnyard. ‘The fool is beating him! He’d better have grappled with a mad bull.”

So saying, Bettle rushed to the stable just in time to see Mike standing behind the pump, his teeth chattering and hair standing on end with fright, while the horse, with his ears laid flat back upon his head, and the foam flying from his distended nostrils, leaped open-mouthed at him, right over the well-curb and the trough that stood upon it, snapping at him savagely as he passed.

“Och, git out, ye divil!” exclaimed Mike, dodging around the pump again, so as to have it between him and the furious brute ; “ ye’re no horse at all; ye’re H

“Run, you fool! Run for your life!” shouted Bettle, darting into the yard. “The horse’ll kill you! Run, I say !”

It was high time; for the beast, finding that he had missed his aim, had turned again, after making a short circuit, and was crouching for another spring.

Mike ran with a speed he never accomplished before nor afterward, never stopping till he was safe in the house, with the door bolted.

As he shot past Bettle, who was standing about half-way between the gate and the pump, the horse came flying over the well-curb again, after him; but, as he lit, Bettle, who had stepped directly in his track, threw up his hand, saying, calmly enough, “ Halt! Roland ;”’ and the horse, in the heat of his mad fury, stopped as if he had been struck dead.

‘Thee has the beast under tolerable good command,” said Thomas Sanford, from the gate, whither he had hurried, though not quite so fast as the younger man. “JT don’t think a farm-horse would have understood that ‘Halt!’ as well as thine did. Ireckon he’s smelt powder before now; and there’s something about thee that looks as if it would be more at home under the blue coat than the drab one thee wears.”

Bettle smiled, and answered,—

“‘T suppose there’s no use in denying that ’ma soldier, or that Roland has been trained to something besides road-service. Ill tell you more when we get to the house. In the mean while, I had better take him to the stable myself, as I don’t suppose Mike will want to have much to do with him. Where shall I put him ?”

The farmer accompanied Bettle to the stable, the horse following as quietly as a dog, and indicated the place he was to occupy, where Roland in a few minutes was standing at his ease, munching the fragrant hay with which the rack was filled.

They then returned to the house, where they found supper ready, with Jenny at the head of the table, her mother sitting at a little distance from it, knitting, and Mike in the chimney-corner, recovering, as well as he could, from his fright. He was not naturally timid, but he had never come in contact with anything in the shape of horseflesh possessing the peculiar traits of character with which Roland had so unceremoniously made him acquainted; and let me tell you, you who are incredulous, that there is no more dangerous wild beast on this earth than an enraged stallion; and a braver man than Mike ever claimed to be might well be excused for letting his discretion get the better of his valor, under the circumstances. Besides, he was firmly persuaded in his own mind that the horse was possessed of an evil spirit, and, as soon as the two men entered, he exclaimed, eagerly,—

“Did ye ixercise the divil out iv ’im, misther? Sure I niver was so frekened in my life.”

“There was no devil in him to be exorcised,” said Bettle, quietly; ‘‘but he don’t like the whip, and I’d recommend you not to try it on him again.”

“Sure an’ I’m not goin’ within rache iv his ugly mouth agin, nor thim hales o’ his, aither. Bedad, whin he sthruck at me wid his fore faate, they splut the well-curb like an axe.’”’ So saying, Mike, whose bones were a little sore, betook himself to bed.

The supper was soon over, Bettle being the sole performer, as the family had finished their meal an hour before. He then entered into an explanation of the meaning of his visit.

Frank Lightfoot, he said, had directed him to Thomas Sanford, as a stanch Whig, and one who could tell him where to find fifteen or twenty bold, active young farmers of Frank’s acquaintance, who were ready and willing to fight, if they had anybody to lead them. Did Thomas know of such, and would he give him the assistance Frank had promised?

“Yes,” answered the farmer, “I do know, I s’pose, that many idle young vagabonds who are ready for anything but useful work. But it was strange for Frank to send thee to me on such anerrand. He knew well enough, as I s’pose thee knows by this time, that I am a Friend, and 7

“So am I,” said Bettle, quietly, ‘“‘and have had none but Friends in my family since William Penn came over.”

‘‘And a soldier?” said Mrs. Sanford, who was a stout, comfortable, motherly old lady, such as most farmers’ wives become, ‘ How’s that? Haven’t they dealt with thee?”

““No,” answered Bettle, smiling; “I’m in good standing in the meeting to which I belong. Did you never hear of the Free Quakers?”

“Yes,” said Thomas, ‘“‘I have heard tell of them, but never knew much about them. I s’pose thee’s one, of course ?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Have they all dropped the plain language as completely as thee has?” inquired Jenny, mischievously.

“Well, no,” answered Bettle, coloring slightly; ‘“‘the fact is, I’ve been so much in bad company, as regards that, for a year or two past, that I’ve got out of the way of using it, almost without knowing it.”

‘“‘ Never mind that, Jenny,” said her father; “I want Friend William to tell me more about the people called Free Quakers.”

Bettle proceeded to give the history of the schism, in substance as I shall describe it in a future chapter, having no room for it here, and contrived to interest the old farmer so much, and so far to enlist his sympathy in the movement, as to induce him to say,—

“Well, if thee chooses to go among the boys and talk the matter over with them, and Mike chooses to tell thee where to find them, I don’t know as I can help it, though I may not feel exactly free to tell thee myself. It’s hard-to know exactly what zs right. I'll tell thee this much, though: most of the people in this region are Friends and Loyalists—what thee calls Tories—and I must keep quiet on the subject, if possible, so as to keep out of trouble with the meeting and with them. Thee will stay here, as a visitor, as long as thee sees proper, and I shall ask no questions about matters that are none of my business. Thee understands?”

“ Perfectly,” said Bettle; ‘‘and I'll take care not to compromise thee.”

He was gradually drifting back into his old style of language, partly from the force of present associations, and partly because he had an idea that it would please Jenny better.

And this reminds me that I have omitted a very important matter, that should have been attended to earlier. Here have I been talking, through the larger part of a chapter, about a young lady, without giving any idea of her personal appearance.

The fact is, there was nothing very extraordinary about her to describe. She was not one of your impossible beauties, but she had a face that was pretty enough, though not handsome in what I conceive to be the strict acceptation of the term; that is, she had no features that were aristocratic or classical (whatever those terms may mean), but simply a sweet, rather childish face, shaded by chestnut-brown hair, which would run waving across her forehead and cheeks in spite of all her efforts to coax and smooth such vanities out of it. Her complexion was of a clear red and white, which contrasted well with large hazel eyes, that in repose had something in kind, though not in degree, of the sad, dreamy look of Faed’s Evangeline, if you ever saw the engraving; it is the most touching face, in its depth of desolate woe, that ever artist’s pencil drew or engraver’s burin traced.

I love to see a broad, well-opened eye, in either man or woman; one into which your own glance sinks, as it were, sounding unfathomable depths of clear light. When Jenny was aroused by conversation, or her attention was attracted in any way, she had a frank, earnest look, straight and steady, into the eyes of the one to whom she spoke or listened; an expression of simple, straightforward sincerity and faith, that showed a, nature utterly free from guile in itself or suspicion of it in others. There was something in this look of hers, joined to her low, clear voicc, that attracted Bettle as he had never been attracted before.

He was a good-looking fellow himself, moderately tall, broad-shouldered and narrow-hippéd, with welldeveloped muscles, and a rather small head, surmounted by-light curly hair, and with bluish-gray eyes, in which, though their expression usually was mild and quiet, there shone now and then, as he talked of the war and its events, a light, quick and flashing, that showed that there was a world of reckless daring beneath that quiet exterior. He was about twenty-three years of age, and had satisfied himself, or rather the thought had slid into his mind almost insensibly, that Jenny ox must be somewhere from eighteen to twenty. I am afraid that something else was sliding into his mind— or his heart—along with this calculation, quite as insensibly, and taking a good deal firmer hold of it. At any rate, unconsciously to himself, his conversation was soon directed almost exclusively to Jenny, who sat opposite him, looking into his eyes with that earnest look I have mentioned, which seemed, without any design on her part, to read what he was saying, even before he had uttered the words.

What feelings occupied her mind I will not undertake to say, or whether any but the curiosity and interest a maiden might naturally feel in listening to and conversing with a young and good-looking stranger who was talking upon subjects in which she felt a great interest.

Women do not fallin love as promptly as men do. Sophisticated or unsophisticated, trained in the ménage of society or growing up artless and unsuspecting in the seclusion of home, they keep a better guard upon their feelings, acting unconsciously from the instinct of danger,—a faculty entirely apart from reasoning or judgment, working independently of both, and always on the alert in the weak when thrown into collision with natures stronger and more aggressive than their own. ;

It was so with Jenny Sanford. She was interested in Bettle; she could not help admiring him, and contrasting the gentleness and courtesy of his manner, not only toward herself, but toward her aged parents, with the hearty but frequently uncouth demonstrations of the young men of the neighborhood, who, up to this time, were all she had secn of male society.

Women do not like feminine men, though they frequently make them useful; but they do like gentle ones, who treat them as reasonable creatures, and not as children or playthings; who show them a manly deference and respect, instead of obsequious servility on the one hand, or a coarse assumption of superiority on the other.

I said that Jenny was interested in Bettle; and, after the group had separated for the night, she found herself recalling: his look and voice with a vague, indefinite kind of pleasure, such as she had never before experienced, and which she neither understood nor thought of analyzing. Even had she possessed experience enough to do so, she would at this stage, with her Quaker feelings, and principles even more powerful, have shrunk from the thought of becoming attached to a soldier, and one whose sole errand in the neighborhood was to procure men for a purpose which she had always been taught to abhor as unrighteous and abominable.

No, Jenny was not in love, yet; but the soldier had a share in her dreams, nevertheless.

Chapter II

Tue family were stirring next morning by sunrise; a good old country fashion, which we in the city have pretty thoroughly got rid of. In fact, here, unless your business calls you up early,—and when you-have enough of it for that in the city it is very apt to keep you up late too, thus cutting off your sleep at both ends,—I really can’t see any sound reason for getting up much before breakfast-time.

In the country, had we been with Bettle, as he walked slowly along the road toward a little bridge which he had crossed the evening before, just before reaching the house, we might have seen what he did: the thin morning clouds floating tranquilly over the horizon, in the glowing light, golden-edged below and rose-tinted above, relieved against the pale blue of the eastern sky; the wide sky itself, with no bound but the distant horizon, to which his gaze traveled over rolling hills, crowned with solemn old woods; over quiet valleys, dotted with trees in little groves, or standing in lonely majesty; over the calmly flowing Brandywine and its tributary streams, flashing where the rising light glanced from them, like mirrors held toward the sun. We might have seen old Deborah’s Rock, with its seamed and rugged face all aglow with the flood of sunlight which poured directly upon it, lighting up even the dusk and gloom beneath the penthouse crag that projected over the water from its foot. We might have heard, the wild birds singing by the thousand among the orchard-trees, in the chestnut groves, and the bushes which fringed the banks of the little river; all warbling at once, each in his own time and at his own pitch, but all, somehow, blending in a wonderful harmony; and the chattering of the blackbirds from the willows that fringed the run, on whose edge he stood listening to the musical murmur of the water; while from the topmost sprig of the solitary hickory-tree, where he sat with his head knowingly slewed half around, watching Bettle’s motions out of one bright eye, the crow shouted hoarsely his uncouth welcome to the sunrise; from the meadow helow rose the lark’s long, liquid whistle, and from every farm the cock’s harsh, rasping call.

If we get up by sunrise in the city, what have-we? The sun does not rise on the city at all. He only gets up from behind the houses or the end of the long street, a mile or two off. We have no crisp, dewy air full of the fresh, sweet scent of new-mown hay and cloverblossoms; but, instead, a smoky atmosphere, with a chilly dampness, impregnated with villainous coal-gas, and heavy with a vague, sooty smell, as though it had been cooked over-night and been slightly scorched in the process.

For the song of birds, the lowing of cattle, and the booming of the musical cow-bells, we have the rumbling of bakers’ carts, the rattling of milk- and marketwagons over the cobble-stones, and the rumble of street-cars, enlivened by the infernal howl of the factory steam-whistles pealing and echoing all around. Decidedly, getting up early in the city, merely for the sake of getting up, don’t pay; and that, after all, where business is king, is the ultimatum in all questions.

Bettle sat upon the rail of the bridge, watching the glancing water as it shot away beneath him, and abandoned himself passively to the influence of the scene around him. Many thoughts passed through his mind. Old recollections of childhood crowded back upon him, some quaint and grotesque, bringing a faint smile upon his face as they trooped fantastically before him ; some tender and solemn, full of that indefinite sadness which is not sorrow nor regret, but resembles them only

“As the mist resembles rain.”

In all these thoughts, Jenny Sanford somehow was present in some incomprehensible, though seemingly natural, connection. From some power of association and sympathy, he felt as though he had always known her. She was the embodiment of many a boyish vision and romantic day-dream.

She it was, he knew now, whom, under Protean shapes, he had defended and saved in all manner of imminent perils, in his dreams. She it was whom he had rescued, single-handed, from a troop of banditti, in a horrible, dark, lonely forest—-whom he had carried from the burning house, where the fire was raging beneath him, and the charred beams bent and cracked beneath his tread, and the reeling walls gaped open, and the red flame licked out through the fissures as he sprang over the fallen door into the street and bore her off triumphantly amid the clanking of the engines and the shouts of the toiling firemen. She it was for whose sake At this moment his reveries were cut short by the horn blowing for breakfast. The sound recalled him at once from the delicious dream-land in which he had been wandering, and he walked slowly back to the house, where he found the meal prepared and the family seated at the table, including Mike, who had pretty well recovered from his last evening’s fright, and two young men, one apparently about his own age, the other about sixteen, whom Jenny introduced as her brothers; explaining their absence the evening before by saying that they had been helping a neighbor get in his harvest, and had stayed over-night.