On foot, and bag in hand, Mrs. Darrah started on her journey through the almost untrodden snow, stopping at General Howe's head-quarters, on Market Street near Sixth, to obtain the requisite passport to leave the city. It was still early in the day when the devoted woman reached the mills. The British outposts did not extend to this point; those of the Americans were not far beyond. Leaving her bag at the mill to be filled, Mrs. Darrah, full of her vital mission, pushed on through the wintry air, ready to incur any danger or discomfort if thereby she could convey to the patriot army the important information which she had so opportunely learned.

Fortunately, she had not far to go. At a short distance out she met Lieutenant-Colonel Craig, who had been sent out by Washington on a scouting expedition in search of information. She told him her story begged him to hasten to Washington with the momentous tidings and not to reveal her name and hurried back to the mill. Here she shouldered the bag of flour, and trudged her five miles home, reaching there in as reasonably short a time as could have been expected.

Night came. The next day passed. They were a night and day of anxious suspense for Lydia Darrah. From her window, when night had again fallen, she watched anxiously for movements of the British troops. Ah! there at length they go, long lines of them, marching steadily through the darkness, but as noiselessly as possible. It was not advisable to alarm the city. Patriot scouts might be abroad.

When morning dawned the restless woman was on the watch again. The roll of a drum came to her ears from a distance. Soon afterwards troops appeared, weary and discontented warriors, marching back. They had had their night's journey in vain. Instead of finding the Americans off their guard and an easy prey, they had found them wide awake, and ready to give them the hottest kind of a reception. After manoeuvring about their lines for a vulnerable point, and finding none, the doughty British warriors turned on their track and marched disconsolately homeward, having had their labor for their pains.

The army authorities were all at sea. How had this information got afoot? Had it come from the Darrah house? Possibly, for there the conference had been held. The adjutant-general hastened to his quarters, summoned the fair Quakeress to his room, and after locking the door against intrusion, turned to her with a stern and doubting face.

"Were any of your family up, Lydia," he asked, "on the night when I had visitors here?"

"No," she replied; "they all retired at eight o'clock."

This was quite true so far as retiring went. Nothing was said about a subsequent rising.

"It is very strange," he remarked, musingly. "You, I know, were asleep, for I knocked at your door three times before you heard me; yet it is certain that we were betrayed. I am altogether at a loss to conceive who could have given Washington information of our intended attack. But on arriving near his camp we found him ready, with troops under arms and cannon planted, prepared at all points to receive us. We have been compelled to turn on our heels, and march back home again, like a parcel of fools."

As may well be surmised, the patriotic Lydia kept her own counsel, and not until the British had left Philadelphia was the important secret of that signal failure made known.



THE SIEGE OF FORT SCHUYLER.

All was terror in the valley of the Mohawk, for its fertile fields and happy homes were threatened with the horrors of Indian warfare. All New York State, indeed, was in danger. The hopes of American liberty were in danger. The deadliest peril threatened the patriotic cause; for General Burgoyne, with an army of more than seven thousand men, was encamped at St. John's, at the foot of Lake Champlain, prepared to sweep down that lake and Lake George, march to the valley of the upper Hudson, driving the feeble colonial forces from his path, and by joining with a force sent up the Hudson from New York City, cut off New England from the remaining colonies and hold this hot-bed of rebellion at his mercy. It was a well-devised and threatening scheme. How disastrously for the royalists it ended all readers of history know. With this great enterprise, however, we are not here concerned, but with a side issue of Burgoyne's march whose romantic incidents fit it for our pages.

On the Mohawk River, at the head of boat-navigation, stood a fort, built in 1758, and named Fort Stanwix; repaired in 1776, and named Fort Schuyler. The possession of this fort was important to General Burgoyne's plan. Its defence was of vital moment to the inhabitants of the Mohawk Valley. Interest for the time being centred round this outpost of the then almost unbroken wilderness.

On one side Lieutenant-Colonel St. Leger was despatched, at the head of seven hundred rangers, to sail up the St. Lawrence and Lake Ontario to Oswego, and from that point to march southward, rousing and gathering the Indians as he went, capture Fort Schuyler, sweep the valley of the Mohawk with the aid of his savage allies, and join Burgoyne at Albany when his triumphant march should have reached that point.

On the other side no small degree of haste and consternation prevailed. Colonel Gansevoort had been placed in command at the fort with a garrison of seven hundred and fifty men. But he found it in a state of perilous dilapidation. Originally a strong square fortification, with bomb-proof bastions, glacis, covered way, and ditch outside the ramparts, it had been allowed to fall into decay, and strenuous efforts were needed to bring it into condition for defence.

Meanwhile, news of the coming danger had spread widely throughout the Mohawk Valley, and everywhere the most lively alarm prevailed. An Oneida Indian brought the news to the fort, and from there it made its way rapidly through the valley. Consternation was wide-spread. It was too late to look for aid to a distance. The people were in too great a panic to trust to themselves. That the rotten timbers of the old fort could resist assault seemed very doubtful. If they went down, and Brant with his Indians swept the valley, for what horrors might they not look? It is not surprising that, for the time, fear drove valor from almost every heart in the imperilled region.

Up Lake Oneida came the enemy, now seventeen hundred strong, St. Leger with his rangers having been joined by Johnson, Butler, and Brant with their Tories and Indians. Every tribe of the Iroquois had joined the invaders with the exception of the Oneidas, who remained faithful to the colonists.

On the 2d of August, 1777, Brent with his savage followers reached and invested the fort, the plumed and moccasined foe suddenly breaking from the forest, and with their wild war-whoops seeking to intimidate the beleaguered garrison. On the next day came St. Leger with his whole force. On the 4th the siege commenced. Bombs were planted and threw their shells into the fort; the Indians, concealed behind bushes and trees, picked off with their arrows the men who were diligently employed in strengthening the parapets; and during the evening the savages, spreading through the woods, sought, by frightful yells, to drive all courage from the hearts of the defenders.

Meanwhile, aid was approaching. The valor of the patriots, which fled at the first threat of danger, had returned. The enemy was now almost at their doors; their helpless families might soon be at the mercy of the ruthless savages; when General Herkimer, a valiant veteran, called for recruits, armed men flocked in numbers to his standard. He was quickly at the head of more than eight hundred men. He sent a messenger to the fort, telling Gansevoort of his approach, and bidding him to discharge three signal-guns to show that the tidings had reached him. His small army was called to a halt within hearing of the guns of the fort, as he deemed it the part of prudence to await the signal before advancing on the foe.

Unfortunately for the brave Herkimer, his men, lately over-timid, were now over-bold. His officers demanded to be led at once to the fort. Two of them, Cox and Paris by name, were impertinent in their demands, charging the veteran with cowardice.

"I am placed over you as a father and guardian," answered Herkimer, calmly, "and shall not lead you into difficulties, from which I may not be able to extricate you."

But their importunities and taunts continued, and at length the brave old man, angered by their insults, gave the word "March on!" He continued, "You, who want to fight so badly now, will be the first to run when you smell burnt powder."

On they marched, in tumultuous haste, and with the lack of discipline of untrained militia. It was now August 6, two days after the beginning of the siege. Indian scouts lurked everywhere in the forest, and the movements of the patriot army were closely watched. St. Leger was informed of their near approach, and at once took steps to intercept their advance.

Heedless of this, and of the cautious words of their commander, the vanguard pressed hastily on, winding along the road, and at length entering a deep curving ravine, over whose marshy bottom the road way was carried by a causeway of earth and logs. The borders of the ravine were heavily timbered, while a thick growth of underwood masked its sloping sides.

Utterly without precaution, the militia pushed forward into this doubtful passage, until the whole body, with the exception of the rear-guard, had entered it. Behind them came the baggage-wagons. All was silent, unnaturally silent, for not even the chirp of a squirrel nor the rustle of a prowling ground-animal broke the stillness. The fort was not far distant. The hurrying provincials hoped soon to join their beleaguered friends.

Suddenly, from the wooded hill to the west, around which the ravine curved in a semicircle, rose a frightful sound,—the Indian war-whoop from hundreds of savage throats. Hardly had it fallen on the startled ears of the patriots when the sharp crack of musketry followed, and leaden missiles were hurled into the crowded ranks. Arrows accompanied them, and spears and tomahawks came hurtling through the air hurled with deadly aim.

The patriot army had fallen into a dangerous ambuscade. Herkimer's prediction was fulfilled. The rear-guard, on hearing the warlike sounds in front, turned in panic flight, leaving their comrades to their fate. No one can regret to hear that they were pursued by the Indians, and suffered more than if they had stood their ground.

As for the remainder of the force, flight was impossible. They had entered a trap. It was fight or fall. Bullets, arrows, war-axes hurtled through their ranks. Frightful yells still filled the air. Many fell where they stood. Herkimer was severely wounded, his horse being killed and his own leg shattered. But, with a composure and cool courage that have rarely been emulated, he ordered the saddle to be taken from his horse and placed against a large beech-tree near by. Here seated, with his men falling and the bullets of the enemy whistling perilously near, he steadily gave his orders while many of those who had called him coward were in full flight. During the heat of the action he took his tinder box from his pocket, calmly lighted his pipe, and sat smoking as composedly as though by his own fireside. A striking spectacle, that old man, sitting in the midst of hottest battle, with the life blood oozing from his shattered leg, smoking and giving his orders with the quiet composure of one on dress-parade! It is one of the most imposing pictures in the portrait-gallery of American history.

The battle went on. If it was to be fight or fall, the brave frontiersmen decided it should be fight. Great confusion reigned at first, but courage soon returned, and though men fell in numbers, the survivors stood their ground like veterans. For nearly an hour the fierce affray continued. The enemy surrounded the provincials on all sides, and were pressing step by step closer. The whole force might have been slain or captured, but for a wise suggestion of one of their number and an admirable change in their line of battle. Each small group was formed into a circle, and thus they met the enemy at all points. This greatly increased their defensive powers. So destructive now became their fire that the British soldiers rushed upon them in rage, seeking to break their line by a bayonet charge. They were boldly met, and a hand-to-hand death-struggle began.

At this moment a heavy thunder-peal broke from the darkening skies. Down poured the rain in drenching showers. Lightning filled the air. Crash after crash of thunder rolled through the sky. Checked in their blood-thirst by the fury of the elements, the combatants hastily separated and ran for the shelter of the trees, vanquished by water where fire had failed to overcome their rage.

The affair so far had not been unlike that of Braddock's defeat, some twenty years before. But these were American militia, not British regulars, frontiersmen who knew too much of Indian fighting to stand in their ranks and be shot down. They had long since taken to the trees, and fought the savages in their own way. To this, perhaps, may be ascribed the difference in result from that of the Braddock fight.

After the rain, the patriots gained better ground and adopted new and useful tactics. Before, when the Indians noticed a shot from behind a tree, they would rush forward and tomahawk the unlucky provincial before he could reload. But now two men were placed behind each tree, so that when the whooping savage sprang forward with his tomahawk a second bullet was ready to welcome him. The fire from the American side now grew so destructive that the Indians began to give way.

A body of Johnson's Greens came up to their support. These were mostly loyalist refugees from the Mohawk Valley, to whom the patriot militia bore the bitterest enmity. Recognizing them, the maddened provincials leaped upon them with tiger-like rage, and a hand-to-hand contest began, in which knives and bayonets took the place of bullets, and the contest grew brutally ferocious.

At this moment a firing was heard in the direction of the fort. New hope sprung into the hearts of the patriots. Was aid coming to them from the garrison? It seemed so, indeed, for soon a body of men in Continental uniform came marching briskly towards them. It was a ruse on the part of the enemy which might have proved fatal. These men were Johnson Green's disguised as Continentals. A chance revealed their character. One of the patriots seeing an acquaintance among them, ran up to shake hands with him. He was seized and dragged into their ranks. Captain Gardenier, perceiving this, sprang forward, spear in hand, and released his man; but found himself in a moment engaged in a fierce combat, in which he killed two of his antagonists and wounded another, but was himself seriously hurt.

"For God's sake, captain," cried some of the militia, "you are killing our own men!"

"They are not our own men, they are Tories!" yelled back the captain. "Fire away!"

Fire they did, and with such deadly effect that numbers of the disguised Tories fell, and nearly as many Indians. In an instant the battle was violently raging again, with roar of rifles, clash of steel, yells of combatants, and the wild war-whoops of the savages.

But the Indians by this time had enough of it. The stubborn defence of the provincials had sadly thinned their ranks, and seeing the Tories falling back, they raised their cry of retreat, "Oonah! Oonah!" and at once broke and fled. The Tories and regulars, dismayed by their flight, quickly followed, the bullets of the provincials adding wings to their speed.

Thus ended one of the hottest and most deadly, for the numbers engaged, of the battles of the Revolution. Of the provincials, less than half of them ever saw their homes again. The loss of the enemy was probably still heavier. General Herkimer died ten days after the battle. The militia, despite the well-laid ambuscade into which they had marched, were the victors, but they had been so severely handled that they were unable to accomplish their design, the relief of the fort.

As for the garrison, they had not been idle during the battle. The sound of the combat had been borne to their ears, and immediately after the cessation of the rain Colonel Willett made a sally from the fort, at the head of two hundred and fifty men. The camp of the enemy had been depleted for the battle, and the sortie proved highly successful. The remnants of Johnson's regiment were soon driven from their camp. The Indian encampment beyond was demolished, its savage guards flying in terror from "the Devil," by which expressive name they called Colonel Willett. Wagons were hurried from the fort, camp equipage, British flags, papers, and the effects of the officers loaded into them, and twenty-one loads of this useful spoil triumphantly carried off. As the victorious force was returning, Colonel St. Leger appeared, with a strong body of men, across the river, just in time to be saluted by a shower of bullets, the provincials then retiring, without the loss of a man. The setting sun that day cast its last rays on five British standards, displayed from the walls of the fort, with the stars and stripes floating proudly above them. The day had ended triumphantly for the provincials, though it proved unsuccessful in its main object; for the fort was still invested, and the rescuing force were in no condition to come to its aid.

The investment, indeed, was so close that the garrison knew nothing of the result of the battle. St. Leger took advantage of this, and sent a white flag to the fort with false information, declaring that the relief-party had been annihilated, that Burgoyne had reached and captured Albany, and that, unless the fort was surrendered, he could not much longer restrain the Indians from devastating the valley settlements with fire and tomahawk.

This story Gansevoort did not half believe, and answered the messenger with words of severe reprobation for his threat of an Indian foray.

"After you get out of this fort," he concluded, "you may turn around and look at its outside, but never expect to come in again, unless as a prisoner. Before I would consent to deliver this garrison to such a murdering set as your army, by your own account, consists of, I would suffer my body to be filled with splinters and set on fire, as you know has at times been practised by such hordes of women-and children-killers as belong to your army."

After such a message there was no longer question of surrender, and the siege was strongly pushed. The enemy, finding that their guns had little effect on the sod-work of the fort, began a series of approaches by sapping and mining. Colonel Gansevoort, on his part, took an important step. Fearing that his stock of food and ammunition might give out, he determined to send a message to General Schuyler, asking for succor.

Colonel Willet volunteered for this service, Lieutenant Stockwell joining him. The night chosen was a dark and stormy one. Shower followed shower. The sentinels of the enemy were not likely to be on the alert. Leaving the fort at the sally-port at ten o'clock, the two messengers crept on hands and knees along a morass till they reached the river. This they crossed on a log, and entered a dense wood which lay beyond. No sentinel had seen them. But they lost their way in the darkness, and straggled on blindly until the barking of a dog told them that they were near an Indian camp.

Progress was now dangerous. Advance or retreat alike might throw them into the hands of the savage foe. For several hours they stood still, in a most annoying and perilous situation. The night passed; dawn was at hand; fortunately now the clouds broke the morning-star shone in the east, and with this as a guide they resumed their journey. Their expedition was still a dangerous one. The enemy might strike their trail in the morning light. To break this they now and then walked in the bed of a stream. They had set out on the night of the 10th. All day of the 11th they pushed on, with a small store of crackers and cheese as their only food. Another night and day passed. On the afternoon of the 12th, nearly worn out with hardship, they reached the settlement of the German Flats. Here horses were procured, and they rode at full speed to General Schuyler's head-quarters at Stillwater.

Schuyler had already heard of Herkimer's failure, and was laying plans for the relief of the fort. His purpose was opposed by many of his officers, who were filled with fear of the coming of Burgoyne. Schuyler was pacing the floor in anxious thought when he heard the low remark,—

"He means to weaken the army."

Schuyler turned towards the speaker, so angry that he bit into pieces a pipe he was smoking, and exclaimed,—

"Gentlemen, I shall take the responsibility; where is the brigadier that will take command of the relief? I shall beat up for volunteers to-morrow."

General Arnold, one of the boldest and most impulsive men in the army, immediately asked for the command. The next morning the drums beat, and before noon eight hundred volunteers were enrolled. Arnold at once advanced, but, feeling that his force was too weak, stopped at Fort Dayton till reinforcements could reach him.

And now occurred one of the most striking events in the history of the war, that of the defeat of an invading army by stratagem without sight of soldier or musket. It is to be told from two points of view, that of the garrison, and that of the army of relief. As regards the garrison, its situation was becoming critical. St. Leger's parallels were approaching the fort. The store of provisions was running low. Many of the garrison began to hint at surrender, fearing massacre by the Indians should the fort be taken by assault. Gansevoort, despairing of further successful resistance, had decided upon a desperate attempt to cut through the enemy's lines. Suddenly, on the 22d, there came a sudden lull in the siege. The guns ceased their fire; quick and confused movements could be seen; there were signs of flight. Away went the besiegers, Indians and whites alike, in panic disarray, and with such haste that their tents, artillery, and camp equipage were left behind. The astonished garrison sallied forth to find not a foeman in the field, yet not a sign to show what mysterious influence had caused this headlong flight. It was not from the face of an enemy, for no enemy was visible, and the mystery was too deep for the garrison to fathom.

To learn the cause of this strange event we must return to Arnold and his stratagem. He had, on learning the peril of the fort, been about to advance despite the smallness of his force, when an opportunity occurred to send terror in advance of his march. There were in his hands several Tory prisoners, among them an ignorant, coarse, half-idiotic fellow named Hon-Yost Schuyler, who had been condemned to death for treason. His mother pleaded for his life, casting herself on her knees before Arnold, and imploring for her son with tears and entreaties. She found him at first inexorable, but he changed his tone and appeared to soften as a fortunate idea came to his mind.

Her son's life should be spared, but upon conditions. These were, that he should go to Fort Schuyler and, by stories of the immense force upon the march, endeavor to alarm St. Leger. Hon-Yost readily consented, leaving his brother as a hostage in Arnold's hands.

The seemingly foolish fellow was far from being an idiot. Before leaving the camp he had several bullet-holes shot through his coat. He arranged also with a friendly Oneida Indian to follow and confirm his tale. Thus prepared, he set out for St. Leger's camp. Reaching it, he ran breathlessly among the Indians, seemingly in a state of terror. Many of the savages knew him, and he was eagerly questioned as to what had happened.

The Americans were coming, he replied; numbers of them, hosts of them; he had barely escaped with his life; he had been riddled with bullets. He pointed to his coat in evidence. How many were there? he was asked. Hon-Yost, in reply, shook his head mysteriously, and pointed to the leaves on the trees.

His seeming alarm communicated itself to the Indians. They had been severely dealt with at Oriskany. The present siege dragged on. They were dissatisfied. While the chiefs debated and talked of flight, the Oneida appeared with several others of his tribe whom he had picked up on the way. These told the same story. A bird had brought them the news. The valley was swarming with soldiers. The army of Burgoyne had been cut to pieces, said one. Arnold had three thousand men, said another. Others pointed to the leaves, as Hon-Yost had done, and meaningly shook their heads.

The panic spread among the Indians. St. Leger stormed at them; Johnson pleaded with them; but all in vain. Drink was offered them, but they refused it. "The pow-wow said we must go," was their answer to every remonstrance, and go they did.

"You said there would be no fighting for us Indians," said a chief. "We might go down and smoke our pipes. But many of our warriors have been killed, and you mean to sacrifice us all."

Oaths and persuasions proved alike useless. The council broke up and the Indians took to flight. Their panic communicated itself to the whites. Dropping everything but their muskets, they fled in terror for their boats on Oneida Lake, with such haste that many of them threw away arms and knapsacks in their mad flight.

The Indians, who had started the panic, grew merry on seeing the wild terror of their late allies. They ran behind them, shouting, "They are coming, they are coming!" and thus added wings to their flight. They robbed, stripped, and even killed many of them, plundered them of their boats, and proved a more formidable foe than the enemy from whom they fled.

Half-starved and empty-handed, the whites hurried to Oswego and took boat on the lake for Montreal, while their Indian allies, who had proved of more harm than good, went merrily home to their villages, looking upon the flight as a stupendous joke.

When Arnold, hearing of what had happened, hurried to the fort, the enemy had utterly vanished, except a few whom Gansevoort's men had brought in as prisoners. Hon-Yost soon came back, having taken the first opportunity to slip away from the flying horde. He had amply won his pardon.

Thus ended the siege of Fort Schuyler; in its way, considering the numbers engaged, the most desperate and bloody struggle of the Revolution, and of the greatest utility as an aid to the subsequent defeat of Burgoyne. As regards its singular termination, it is without parallel in the history of American wars. Hon-Yost had proved himself the most surprising idiot on record.



ON THE TRACK OF A TRAITOR.

While Major André was dying the death of a spy, General Arnold, his tempter and betrayer, was living the life of a cherished traitor, in the midst of the British army at New York. This was a state of affairs far from satisfactory to the American authorities. The tool had suffered; the schemer had escaped. Could Arnold be captured, and made to pay the penalty of his treason, it would be a sharp lesson of retribution to any who might feel disposed to follow his base example.

Washington had his secret correspondents in New York, and from them had learned that Arnold was living in quarters adjoining those of Sir Henry Clinton, at but a short distance from the river, and apparently with no thought of or precaution against danger. It might be possible to seize him and carry him away bodily from the midst of his new friends.

Sending for Major Henry Lee, a brave and shrewd cavalry leader, Washington broached to him this important matter, and submitted a plan of action which seemed to him to promise success.

"It is a delicate and dangerous project," he said. "Much depends on our finding an agent fit for such hazardous work. You may have the man in your corps. Whoever volunteers for this duty will lay me under the greatest personal obligation, and may expect an ample reward. But no time is to be lost. He must proceed, if possible, to-night."

"Not only courage and daring, but very peculiar talent, are needed for such an enterprise," said Lee. "I have plenty of brave men, but can think of only one whom I can recommend for such a duty as this. His name is John Champe; his rank, sergeant-major, but there is one serious obstacle in the way,—he must appear to desert, and I fear that Champe has too high a sense of military honor for that."

"Try him," said Washington. "The service he will do to his country far outweighs anything he can do in the ranks. Rumor says that other officers of high rank are ready to follow Arnold's example. If we can punish this traitor, he will have no imitators."

"I can try," answered Lee. "I may succeed. Champe is not without ambition, and the object to be attained is a great one. I may safely promise him the promotion which he ardently desires."

"That will be but part of his reward," said Washington.

Lee sent for Champe. There entered in response a young man, large and muscular of build, saturnine of countenance; a grave, thoughtful, silent person, safe to trust with a secret, for his words were few, his sense of honor high. In all the army there was not his superior in courage and persistence in anything he should undertake.

It was no agreeable surprise to the worthy fellow to learn what he was desired to do. The plan was an admirable one, he admitted, it promised the best results. He did not care for peril, and was ready to venture on anything that would not involve his honor; but to desert from his corps, to win the scorn and detestation of his fellows, to seem to play the traitor to his country,—these were serious obstacles. He begged to be excused.

Lee combated his objections. Success promised honor to himself and to his corps, the gratitude of his country, the greatest service to his beloved commander-in-chief. Desertion, for such a purpose, carried with it no dishonor, and any stain upon his character would vanish when the truth became known. The conference was a long one; in the end Lee's arguments proved efficacious; Champe yielded, and promised to undertake the mission.

The necessary instructions had already been prepared by Washington himself. The chosen agent was to deliver letters to two persons in New York, who were in Washington's confidence, and who would lend him their assistance. He was to use his own judgment in procuring aid for the capture of Arnold, and to lay such plans as circumstances should suggest; and he was strictly enjoined not to kill the traitor under any circumstances.

All this settled, the question of the difficulties in the way arose. Between the American camp and the British outpost were many pickets and patrols. Parties of marauding patriots, like those that had seized André, might be in the way. Against these Lee could offer no aid. The desertion must seem a real one. All he could do would be to delay pursuit. For the rest, Champe must trust to his own skill and daring.

Eleven o'clock was the hour fixed. At that hour the worthy sergeant, taking his cloak, valise, and orderly-book, and with three guineas in his pocket, which Lee had given him, secretly mounted his horse and slipped quietly from the camp.

Lee immediately went to bed, and seemingly to sleep, though he had never been more wide awake. A half-hour passed. Then a heavy tread was heard outside the major's quarters, and a loud knock came upon his door. It was some time before he could be aroused.

"Who is there?" he asked, in sleepy tones.

"It is I, Captain Carnes," was the reply. "I am here for orders. One of our patrols has just fallen in with a dragoon, who put spurs to his horse on being challenged, and fled at full speed. He is a deserter, and must be pursued."

Lee still seemed half asleep. He questioned the officer in a drowsy way, affecting not to understand him. When at length the captain's purpose was made clear to his seemingly drowsy wits, Lee ridiculed the idea that one of his men had deserted. Such a thing had happened but once during the whole war. He could not believe it possible.

"It has happened now," persisted Captain Carnes. "The fellow is a deserter, and must be pursued."

Lee still affected incredulity, and was with difficulty brought to order that the whole squadron should be mustered, to see if any of them were missing. This done, there was no longer room for doubt or delay. Champe, the sergeant-major, was gone, and with him his arms, baggage, and orderly-book.

Captain Carnes ordered that pursuit should be made at once. Here, too, Lee made such delay as he could without arousing suspicion; and when the pursuing party was ready he changed its command, giving it to Lieutenant Middleton, a tender-hearted young man, whom he could trust to treat Champe mercifully if he should be overtaken. These various delays had the desired effect. By the time the party started, Champe had been an hour on the road.

It was past twelve o'clock of a starry night when Middleton and his men took to horse, and galloped away on the track of the deserter. It was a plain track, unluckily; a trail that a child might have followed. There had been a shower at sunset, sharp enough to wash out all previous hoof-marks from the road. The footprints of a single horse were all that now appeared. In addition to this, the horse-shoes of Lee's legion had a private mark, by which they could be readily recognized. There could be no question; those foot prints were made by the horse of the deserter.

Here was a contingency unlooked for by Lee. The pursuit could be pushed on at full speed. At every fork or cross-road a trooper sprang quickly from his horse and examined the trail. It needed but a glance to discover what road had been taken. On they went, with scarce a moment's loss of time, and with sure knowledge that they were on the fugitive's track.

At sunrise the pursuing party found themselves at the top of a ridge in the road, near the "Three Pigeons," a road-side tavern several miles north of the village of Bergen. Looking ahead, their eyes fell on the form of the deserter. He was but half a mile in advance. They had gained on him greatly during the night.

At the same moment Champe perceived them. Both parties spurred their horses to greater speed, and away went fugitive and pursuers at a rattling pace. The roads in that vicinity were well known to them all. There was a short cut through the woods from near the Three Pigeons to the bridge below Bergen. Middleton sent part of his men by this route to cut off the fugitive, while he followed the main road with the rest. He felt sure now that he had the deserter, for he could not reach the British outposts without crossing the bridge.

On they went. No long time elapsed before the two divisions met at the bridge. But Champe was not between them. The trap had been sprung, but had failed to catch its game. He had in some strange manner disappeared. What was to be done? How had he eluded them?

Middleton rode hastily back to Bergen, and inquired if a dragoon had passed through the village that morning.

"Yes; and not long ago."

"Which way did he go?"

"That we cannot say. No one took notice."

Middleton examined the road. Other horses had been out that morning, and the Lee corps footprint was no longer to be seen. But at a short distance from the village the trail again became legible and the pursuit was resumed. In a few minutes Champe was discovered. He had reached a point near the water's edge, and was making signals to certain British galleys which lay in the stream.

The truth was that the fugitive knew of the short cut quite as well as his pursuers, and had shrewdly judged that they would take it, and endeavor to cut him off before he could reach the enemy's lines at Paulus Hook. He knew, besides, that two of the king's galleys lay in the bay, a mile from Bergen, and in front of the small settlement of Communipaw. Hither he directed his course, lashing his valise, as he went, upon his back.

Champe now found himself in imminent peril of capture. There had been no response from the galleys to his signals. The pursuers were close at hand, and pushing forward with shouts of triumph. Soon they were but a few hundred yards away. There was but one hope left. Champe sprang from his horse, flung away the scabbard of his sword, and with the naked blade in his hand ran across the marshy ground before him, leaped into the waters of the bay, and swam lustily for the galleys, calling loudly for help.

A boat had just before left the side of the nearest galley. As the pursuers reined up their horses by the side of the marsh, the fugitive was hauled in and was swiftly rowed back to the ship. Middleton, disappointed in his main object, took the horse, cloak, and scabbard of the fugitive and returned with them to camp.

"He has not been killed?" asked Lee, hastily, on seeing these articles.

"No; the rascal gave us the slip. He is safely on a British galley, and this is all we have to show."

A few days afterwards Lee received a letter from Champe, in a disguised hand and without signature, transmitted through a secret channel which had been arranged, telling of his success up to this point, and what he proposed to do.

As it appeared, the seeming deserter had been well received in New York. The sharpness of the pursuit and the orderly-book which he bore seemed satisfactory proofs of his sincerity of purpose. The captain of the galley sent him to New York, with a letter to Sir Henry Clinton.

Clinton was glad to see him. For a deserter to come to him from a legion so faithful to the rebel cause as that of Major Lee seemed an evidence that the American side was rapidly weakening. He questioned Champe closely. The taciturn deserter answered him briefly, but with such a show of sincerity as to win his confidence. The interview ended in Clinton's giving him a couple of guineas, and bidding him to call on General Arnold, who was forming a corps of loyalists and deserters, and who would be glad to have his name on his rolls. This suggestion hit Champe's views exactly. It was what had been calculated upon by Washington in advance. The seeming deserter called upon Arnold, who received him courteously, and gave him quarters among his recruiting sergeants. He asked him to join his legion, but Champe declined, saying that if caught by the rebels in this corps he was sure to be hanged.

A few days sufficed the secret agent to lay his plans. He delivered the letters which had been given him, and made arrangements with one of the parties written to for aid in the proposed abduction of Arnold. This done, he went to Arnold, told him that he had changed his mind, and agreed to enlist in his legion. His purpose now was to gain free intercourse with him, that he might learn all that was possible about his habits.

Arnold's quarters were at No. 3 Broadway. Back of the house was a garden, which extended towards the water's edge. Champe soon learned that it was Arnold's habit to seek his quarters about midnight, and that before going to bed he always visited the garden. Adjoining this garden was a dark alley, which led to the street. In short, all the surroundings and circumstances were adapted to the design, and seemed to promise success.

The plan was well laid. Two patriotic accomplices were found. One of them was to have a boat in readiness by the river-side. On the night fixed upon they were to conceal themselves in Arnold's garden at midnight, seize and gag him when he came out for his nightly walk, and take him by way of the alley, and of unfrequented streets in the vicinity, to the adjoining river-side. In case of meeting any one and being questioned, it was arranged that they should profess to be carrying a drunken soldier to the guard-house. Once in the boat, Hoboken could quickly be reached. Here assistance from Lee's corps had been arranged for.



The plot was a promising one. Champe prepared for it by removing some of the palings between the garden and the alley. These he replaced in such a way that they could be taken out again without noise. All being arranged, he wrote to Lee, and told him that on the third night from that date, if all went well, the traitor would be delivered upon the Jersey shore. He must be present, at an appointed place in the woods at Hoboken, to receive him.

This information gave Lee the greatest satisfaction. On the night in question he left camp with a small party, taking with him three led horses, for the prisoner and his captors, and at midnight sought the appointed spot. Here he waited with slowly declining hope. Hour after hour passed; the gray light of dawn appeared in the east; the sun rose over the waters; yet Champe and his prisoner failed to appear. Deeply disappointed, Lee led his party back to camp.

The cause of the failure may be told in a few words. It was a simple one. The merest chance saved Arnold from the fate which he so richly merited. This was, that on the very day which Champe had fixed for the execution of his plot, Arnold changed his quarters, his purpose being to attend to the embarkation of an expedition to the south, which was to be under his command.

In a few days Lee received a letter from his agent, telling the cause of failure, and saying that, at present, success was hopeless. In fact, Champe found himself unexpectedly in an awkward situation. Arnold's American legion was to form part of this expedition. Champe had enlisted in it. He was caught in a trap of his own setting. Instead of crossing the Hudson that night, with Arnold as his prisoner, he found himself on board a British transport, with Arnold as his commander. He was in for the war on the British side; forced to face his fellow-countrymen in the field.

We need not tell the story of Arnold's expedition to Virginia, with the brutal incidents which history relates concerning it. It will suffice to say that Champe formed part of it, all his efforts to desert proving fruitless. It may safely be said that no bullet from his musket reached the American ranks, but he was forced to brave death from the hands of those with whom alone he was in sympathy.

Not until Arnold's corps had joined Cornwallis at Petersburg did its unwilling recruit succeed in escaping. Taking to the mountains he made his way into North Carolina, and was not long in finding himself among friends. His old corps was in that State, taking part in the pursuit of Lord Rawdon. It had just passed the Congaree in this pursuit when, greatly to the surprise of his old comrades, the deserter appeared in their ranks. Their surprise was redoubled when they saw Major Lee receive him with the utmost cordiality. A few minutes sufficed to change their surprise to admiration. There was no longer occasion for secrecy. Champe's story was told, and was received with the utmost enthusiasm by his old comrades. So this was the man they had pursued so closely, this man who had been seeking to put the arch-traitor within their hands! John Champe they declared, was a comrade to be proud of, and his promotion to a higher rank was the plain duty of the military authorities.

Washington knew too well, however, what would be the fate of his late agent, if taken by the enemy, to subject him to this peril. He would have been immediately hanged. Champe was, therefore, discharged from the service, after having been richly rewarded by the commander-in-chief. When Washington, seventeen years afterwards, was preparing against a threatened war with the French, he sent to Lee for information about Champe, whom he desired to make a captain of infantry. He was too late. The gallant sergeant-major had joined a higher corps. He had enlisted in the grand army of the dead.



MARION, THE SWAMP-FOX.

Our story takes us back to the summer of 1780, a summer of war, suffering, and outrage in the States of the South. General Gates, at the head of the army of the South, was marching towards Camden, South Carolina, filled with inflated hopes of meeting and defeating Cornwallis. How this hopeful general was himself defeated, and how, in consequence, the whole country south of Virginia fell under British control, history relates; we are not here concerned with it.

Gates's army had crossed the Pedee River and was pushing southward. During its march a circumstance occurred which gave great amusement to the trim soldiery. There joined the army a volunteer detachment of about twenty men, such a heterogeneous and woe-begone corps that Falstaff himself might have hesitated before enlisting them. They were a mosaic of whites and blacks, men and boys, their clothes tatters, their equipments burlesques on military array, their horses—for they were all mounted—parodies on the noble war-charger. At the head of this motley array was a small-sized, thin-faced, modest-looking man, his uniform superior to that of his men, but no model of neatness, yet with a flashing spirit in his eye that admonished the amused soldiers not to laugh at his men in his presence. Behind his back they laughed enough. The Pedee volunteers were a source of ridicule to the well-clad Continentals that might have caused trouble had not the officers used every effort to repress it.

As for Gates, he offered no welcome to this ragged squad. The leader modestly offered him some advice about the military condition of the South, but the general in command was clothed in too dense an armor of conceit to be open to advice from any quarter, certainly not from the leader of such a Falstaffian company, and he was glad enough to get rid of him by sending him on a scouting expedition in advance of the army, to watch the enemy and report his movements.

This service precisely suited him to whom it was given, for this small, non-intrusive personage was no less a man than Francis Marion, then but little known, but destined to become the Robin Hood of partisan warriors, the celebrated "Swamp-Fox" of historical romance and romantic history.

Marion had appeared with the title of colonel. He left the army with the rank of general. Governor Rutledge, who was present, knew him and his worth, gave him a brigadier's commission, and authorized him to enlist a brigade for guerilla work in the swamps and forests of the State.

Thus raised in rank, Marion marched away with his motley crew of followers, they doubtless greatly elevated in dignity to feel that they had a general at their head. The army indulged in a broad laugh, after they had gone, at Marion's miniature brigade of scarecrows. They laughed at the wrong man, for after their proud array was broken and scattered to the winds, and the region they had marched to relieve had become the prey of the enemy, that modest partisan alone was to keep alive the fire of liberty in South Carolina, and so annoy the victors that in the end they hardly dared show their faces out of the forts. The Swamp-Fox was to pave the way for the reconquest of the South by the brave General Greene.

No long time elapsed before Marion increased his disreputable score to a brigade of more respectable proportions, with which he struck such quick and telling blows from all sides on the British and Tories, that no nest of hornets could have more dismayed a marauding party of boys. The swamps of the Pedee were his head-quarters. In their interminable and thicket-hidden depths he found hiding-places in abundance, and from them he made rapid darts, north, south, east, and west, making his presence felt wherever he appeared, and flying back to shelter before his pursuers could overtake him. His corps was constantly changing, now swelling, now shrinking, now little larger than his original ragged score, now grown to a company of a hundred or more in dimensions. It was always small. The swamps could not furnish shelter and food for any large body of men.

Marion's head-quarters were at Snow's Island, at the point where Lynch's Creek joins the Pedee River. This was a region of high river-swamp, thickly forested, and abundantly supplied with game. The camp was on dry land, but around it spread broad reaches of wet thicket and canebrake, whose paths were known only to the partisans, and their secrets sedulously preserved. As regards the mode of life here of Marion and his men, there is an anecdote which will picture it better than pages of description.

A young British officer was sent from Georgetown to treat with Marion for an exchange of prisoners. The Swamp-Fox fully approved of the interview, being ready enough to rid himself of his captives, who were a burden on his hands. But he was too shrewd to lay bare the ways that led to his camp. The officer was blindfolded, and led by devious paths through canebrake, thicket, and forest to the hidden camp. On the removal of the bandage from his eyes he looked about him with admiration and surprise. He found himself in a scene worthy of Robin Hood's woodland band. Above him spread the boughs of magnificent trees, laden with drooping moss, and hardly letting a ray of sunlight through their crowding foliage. Around him rose their massive trunks, like the columns of some vast cathedral. On the grassy or moss-clad ground sat or lay groups of hardy-looking men, no two of them dressed alike, and with none of the neat appearance of uniformed soldiers. More remote were their horses, cropping the short herbage in equine contentment. It looked like a camp of forest outlaws, jovial tenants of the merry greenwood.

The surprise of the officer was not lessened when his eyes fell on Marion, whom he had never seen before. It may be that he expected to gaze on a burly giant. As it was, he could scarcely believe that this diminutive, quiet-looking man, and this handful of ill-dressed and lounging followers, were the celebrated band who had thrown the whole British power in the South into alarm.

Marion addressed him, and a conference ensued in which their business was quickly arranged to their mutual satisfaction.

"And now, my dear sir," said Marion, "I should be glad to have you dine with me. You have fasted during your journey, and will be the better for a woodland repast."

"With pleasure," replied the officer. "It will be a new and pleasant experience."

He looked around him. Where was the dining-room? where, at least, the table, on which their mid-day repast was to be spread? Where were the dishes and the other paraphernalia which civilization demands as the essentials of a modern dinner?—Where? His eyes found no answer to this mental question. Marion looked at him with a smile.

"We dine here in simple style, captain," he remarked. "Pray be seated."

He took his seat on a mossy log, and pointed to an opposite one for the officer. A minute or two afterwards the camp purveyor made his appearance, bearing a large piece of bark, on which smoked some roasted sweet potatoes. They came from a fire of brushwood blazing at a distance.

"Help yourself, captain," said Marion, taking a swollen and brown-coated potato from the impromptu platter, breaking it in half, and beginning to eat with a forest appetite.

The officer looked at the viands and at his host with eyes of wonder.

"Surely, general," he exclaimed, "this cannot be your ordinary fare?"

"Indeed it is," said Marion. "And we are fortunate, on this occasion, having company to entertain, to have more than our usual allowance."

The officer had little more to say. He helped himself to the rural viands, which he ate with thought for salt. On returning to Georgetown he gave in his report, and then tendered his commission to his superior officer, saying that a people who could fight on roots for fare could not be, and ought not to be, subdued, and that he, for one, would not serve against them.

Of the exploits of Marion we can but speak briefly; they were too many to be given in detail. His blows were so sharply dealt, in such quick succession, and at such remote points, that his foes were puzzled, and could hardly believe that a single band was giving them all this trouble. Their annoyance culminated in their sending one of their best cavalry leaders, Colonel Wemyss, to surprise and crush the Swamp-Fox, then far from his hiding-place. Wemyss got on Marion's trail, and pursued him with impetuous haste. But the wary patriot was not to be easily surprised, nor would he fight where he had no chance to win. Northward he swiftly made his way, through swamps and across deep streams, into North Carolina. Wemyss lost his trail, found it, lost it again, and finally, discouraged and revengeful, turned back and desolated the country from which he had driven its active defender, and which was looked on as the hot-bed of rebellion.

Marion, who had but sixty men in his band, halted the moment pursuit ceased, sent out scouts for information, and in a very short time was back in the desolated district. The people rushed, with horse and rifle, to his ranks. Swiftly he sped to the Black Mingo, below Georgetown, and here fell at midnight on a large body of Tories, with such vigor and success that the foe were almost annihilated, while Marion lost but a single man.

The devoted band now had a short period of rest, the British being discouraged and depressed. Then Tarleton, the celebrated hard-riding marauder, took upon himself the difficult task of crushing the Swamp-Fox. He scoured the country, spreading ruin as he went, but all his skill and impetuosity were useless in the effort to overtake Marion. The patriot leader was not even to be driven from his chosen region of operations, and he managed to give his pursuer some unwelcome reminders of his presence. At times Tarleton would be within a few miles of him, and full of hope of overtaking him before the next day's dawn. But, while he was thus lulled to security, Marion would be watching him from the shadows of some dark morass, and at midnight the British rear or flank would feel the sharp bite of the Swamp-Fox's teeth. In the end, Tarleton withdrew discomfited from the pursuit, with more hard words against this fellow, who "would not fight like a gentleman or a Christian," than he had ever been able to give him hard blows.

Tarleton withdrawn, Marion resumed all his old activity, his audacity reaching the extent of making an attack on the British garrison at Georgetown. This was performed in conjunction with Major Lee, who had been sent by General Greene to Marion's aid. Lee had no little trouble to find him. The active partisan was so constantly moving about, now in deep swamps, now far from his lurking-places, that friend and foe alike were puzzled to trace his movements. They met at last, however, and made a midnight attack on Georgetown, unsuccessful, as it proved, yet sufficient to redouble the alarm of the enemy.

In the spring of 1781 we find Colonel Watson, with a force of five hundred men, engaged in the difficult task of "crushing Marion." He found him,—unlike the predecessors,—but, as it proved, to his own cost. Marion was now at Snow's Island, whence he emerged to strike a quick succession of heavy blows at such different points that he appeared to be ubiquitous. His force met that of Watson unexpectedly, and a fight ensued. Watson had the advantage of field-pieces, and Marion was obliged to fall back. Reaching a bridge over the Black River, he checked his pursuers with telling volleys long enough to burn the bridge. Then a peculiar contest took place. The two forces marched down the stream, one on each side, for ten miles, skirmishing across the water all the way. Darkness ended the fight. The two camps were pitched near together. For ten days Watson remained there, not able to get at Marion, and so annoyed by the constant raids of his active foe that in the end he made a midnight flight to escape destruction in detail. Marion pursued, and did him no small damage in the flight. Watson's only solace was the remark, already quoted, that his troublesome foe would not "fight like a gentleman or a Christian."

Major Lee tells an amusing story of an incident that happened to himself, on his march in search of Marion. He had encamped for the night on Drowning Creek, a branch of the Pedee. As morning approached, word was brought to the officer of the day that noises were heard in front of the pickets, in the direction of the creek. They seemed like the stealthy movements of men. Now a sentinel fired, the bugles sounded for the horse patrols to come in, and the whole force was quickly got ready for the coming enemy. But no enemy appeared. Soon after another sentinel fired, and word came that an unseen foe was moving in the swamp. The troops faced in this direction, and waited anxiously for the coming of dawn. Suddenly the line of sentinels in their rear fire in succession. The enemy had undoubtedly gained the road behind them, and were marching on them from that direction. The line again faced round. Lee went along it, telling his men that there was nothing left but to fight, and bidding them to sustain the high reputation which they had long since won. The cavalry were ordered not to pursue a flying force, for the country was well suited for concealment, and they might be tempted into an ambuscade.

When day broke the whole column advanced with great caution, infantry in front, baggage in centre, cavalry in rear. Where was the foe? None appeared. The van officer carefully examined the road for an enemy's trail. To his surprise and amusement, he found only the tracks of a large pack of wolves.

These animals had been attempting to pass the camp at point after point, turned from each point by the fire of the sentinels, and trying the line on all sides. Great merriment followed, in which pickets, patrols, and the officer of the day were made the butt of the ridicule of the whole force.

We shall close with one interesting story in which Marion played the leading part, but which is distinguished by an example of womanly patriotism worthy of the highest praise. The mansion of Mrs. Rebecca Motte, a rich widow of South Carolina, had been taken possession of by the British authorities, she being obliged to take up her residence in a farm-house on her lands. The large mansion was converted into a fort, and surrounded by a deep ditch and a high parapet. A garrison of one hundred and fifty men, under Captain McPherson, was stationed here, the place being re-named Fort Motte.

This stronghold was attacked, in May, 1781, by Marion and Lee, then in conjunction. Lee took position at the farm-house, and posted his men on the declivity of the plain on which the fort stood. Marion cast up a mound, placed on it the six-pounder they had brought with them, and prepared to assail the parapet while Lee made his approaches. McPherson had no artillery.

Their approaches were made by a trench from an adjacent ravine. In a few days they were near enough to be justified in demanding a surrender. McPherson refused. The same evening word reached the Americans that Lord Rawdon was approaching. On the following night the light of his camp-fires could be seen on the neighboring hills of the Santee. The garrison saw them as well as the assailants, and were filled with renewed hope.

What was to be done? The besiegers must succeed quickly or retreat. Lee was not long in devising an expedient. The mansion of Mrs. Motte was shingled and the shingles very dry. There had been no rain for several days, and the sun had poured its rays warmly upon them. They might be set on fire. Lee suggested this to Mrs. Motte, with much dread as to how she would receive it. Her acquiescence was so cheerful that his mind was relieved. The patriotic woman expressed herself as ready to make any sacrifice for her country.

Lee told his plan to Marion, who warmly approved it. It was proposed to do the work by means of arrows carrying flaming combustibles. As it proved, however, the only bows and arrows they could find in the camp were very inferior articles.

"They will never do," said Mrs. Motte. "I can provide you with much better. I have in the house an excellent bow and a bundle of arrows, which came from the East Indies. They are at your service."

She hastened from the room, and quickly returned with the weapons, which she handed to Lee as cheerfully as though she looked for some special benefit to herself from their use. Word was sent to McPherson of what was intended, and that Rawdon had not yet crossed the Santee. Immediate surrender would save many lives. The bold commandant still refused.

At midday, from the shelter of the ditch, Nathan Savage, one of Marion's men, shot several flaming arrows at the roof. Two of them struck the dry shingles. Almost instantly these were in a flame. The fire crept along the roof. Soldiers were sent up to extinguish it, but a shot or two from the field-piece drove them down.

There was no longer hope for McPherson. He must surrender, or have his men burned in the fort, or decimated if they should leave it. He hung out the white flag of surrender. The firing ceased; the flames were extinguished; at one o'clock the garrison yielded themselves prisoners. An hour afterwards the victorious and the captive officers were seated at an ample repast at Mrs. Motte's table, presided over by that lady with as much urbanity and grace as though these guests were her especial friends. Since that day Mrs. Motte has been classed among the most patriotic heroines of the Revolution.

This is, perhaps, enough in prose, but the fame of Marion and his men has been fitly enshrined in poetry, and it will not be amiss to quote a verse or two, in conclusion, from Bryant's stirring poem entitled "Song of Marion's Men."

Our band is few, but true and tried Our leader frank and bold: The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood, Our tent the cypress-tree; We know the forest round us, As seamen know the sea. We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass; Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads,— The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlit plain; 'Tis life to feel the night wind That lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp,— A moment,—and away Back to the pathless forest Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs; Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton Forever from our shore.



THE FATE OF THE PHILADELPHIA.

It was a mild evening on the Mediterranean, the wind light, the sea smooth, the temperature—though the season was that of midwinter—summer-like in its geniality. Into the harbor of Tripoli slowly glided a small, two-masted vessel, all her sails set and moderately well filled by the wind, yet moving with the tardiness of a very slow sailer. A broad bay lay before her, its surface silvered by the young moon whose crescent glowed in the western sky. Far inward could be dimly seen the masts and hull of a large vessel, its furled sails white in the moonlight. Beyond it were visible distant lights, and a white lustre as of minaret tops touched by the moonbeams. These were the lights and spires of Tripoli, a Moorish town then best known as a haunt and stronghold of the pirates of the Mediterranean. All was silence, all seemingly peace. The vessel—the ketch, to give it its nautical name—moved onward with what seemed exasperating slowness, scarcely ruffling the polished waters of the bay. The hours passed on. The miles lagged tardily behind. The wind fell. The time crept towards midnight. The only life visible in the wide landscape was that of the gliding ketch.

But any one who could have gained a bird's-eye view of the vessel would have seen sufficient to excite his distrust of that innocent-seeming craft. From the water-side only ten or twelve men could be seen, but on looking downward the decks would have been perceived to be crowded with men, lying down so as to be hidden behind the bulwarks and other objects upon the deck, and so thick that the sailors who were working the vessel had barely room to move.

This appeared suspicious. Not less suspicious was the fact that the water behind the vessel was ruffled by dragging objects of various kinds, which seemed to have something to do with her slowness of motion. As the wind grew lighter, and the speed of the vessel fell until it was moving at barely a two-knots' rate, these objects were drawn in, and proved to be buckets, spars, and other drags which had been towed astern to reduce the vessel's speed. Her tardiness of motion was evidently the work of design.

It was now about ten o'clock. The moon hovered on the western horizon, near its hour of setting. The wind was nearly east, and favorable to the vessel's course, but was growing lighter every moment. The speed of the ketch diminished until it seemed almost to have come to rest. It had now reached the eastern entrance to the bay, the passage here being narrowed by rocks on the one hand and a shoal on the other. Through this passage it stole onward like a ghost, for nearly an hour, all around being tranquil, nothing anywhere to arouse distrust. The craft seemed a coaster delayed by the light winds in making harbor.

The gliding ketch had now come so near to the large vessel in front, that the latter had lost its dimness of outline and was much more plainly visible. It was evidently no Moorish craft, its large hull, its lofty masts, its tracery of spars and rigging being rather those of an English or American frigate than a product of Tripolitan dock-yards. Its great bulk and sweeping spars arose in striking contrast to the low-decked vessels which could be seen here and there huddled about the inner sides of the harbor.

A half-hour more passed. The ketch was now close aboard the frigate-like craft, steering directly towards it. Despite the seeming security of the harbor, there were sentries posted on the frigate and officers moving about its deck. From one of these now came a loud hail in the Tripolitan tongue.

"What craft is that?"

"The Mastico, from Malta," came the answer, in the same language.

"Keep off. Do you want to run afoul of us?"

"We would like to ride beside you for the night," came the answer. "We have lost our anchors in a gale."

The conversation continued, in the Tripolitan language, as the ketch crept slowly up, an officer of the frigate and the pilot of the smaller vessel being the spokesmen. A number of Moorish sailors were looking with mild curiosity over the frigate's rails, without a moment's suspicion that anything was wrong. The moon still dimly lit up the waters of the bay, but not with light enough to make any object very distinct.

As the ketch came close a boat was lowered with a line, and was rowed towards the frigate, to whose fore-chains the end was made fast. At the same time the officer of the large vessel, willing to aid the seemingly disabled coaster, ordered some of his men to lower a boat and take a line from the stern to the ketch. As the boat of the latter returned, it met the frigate's boat, took the line from the hands of its crew, and passed it in to the smaller vessel.

The ketch was now fast to the frigate bow and stern. The lines were passed to the men lying on the deck, none of whom were visible from the frigate's rail, and were slowly passed from hand to hand by the men, the coaster thus being cautiously drawn closer to the obliging Moorish craft.

All this took time. Foot by foot the ketch drew nearer, her motion being almost imperceptible. The Moors looked lazily over their bulwark, fancying that it was but the set of the current that was bringing the vessels together. But suddenly there was a change. The officer of the frigate had discovered that the ketch was still provided with anchors, despite the story that her anchors had been lost in a gale.

"What is this?" he cried, sternly. "You have your anchors! You have lied to me! Keep off! Cut those fasts there!"

A moment afterwards the cry of "Amerikanos!" was raised in the ship, and a number of the night-watch drew their knives and hastened fore and aft to cut the fasts.

The crew of the Mastico—or the Intrepid, to give it its proper name—were still more alert. At the first signal of alarm, their cautious pull on the ropes was changed to a vigorous effort which sent the ketch surging through the water to the side of the frigate, where she was instantly secured by grappling-irons, hurled by strong hands.

Up to this moment not a movement or whisper had betrayed the presence of the men crouched on the deck. The ten or twelve who were visible seemed to constitute the whole crew of the craft. But now there came a sudden change. The stirring cry of "Boarders away!" was raised in stentorian tones, and in an instant the deck of the Intrepid seemed alive. The astonished Moors gazed with startled eyes at a dense crowd of men who had appeared as suddenly as if they had come from the air.

The order to board had been given by an officer who sprang at the same moment for the frigate's chain-plates. Two active young men followed him, and in an instant the whole crew were at their heels, some boarding the frigate by the ports, others over the rail, swarming upon her deck like so many bees, while the Moors fell back in panic fright.

The surprise was perfect. The men on the frigate's deck ran to the starboard side as their assailants poured in on the larboard, and constant plunges into the water told that they were hastily leaping overboard in their fright. Hardly a blow had been struck. The deck was cleared in almost a minute after the order to board. The only struggle took place below, but this lasted little longer. In less than ten minutes from the time of boarding all resistance was at an end, and the craft was an undisputed prize to the Intrepid's crew.

And now to learn the meaning of this midnight assault. The vessel which had been so skilfully captured was the frigate Philadelphia, of the American navy, which had fallen into the hands of the Tripolitans some time before. For years the Moorish powers of Africa had been preying upon the commerce of the Mediterranean, until the weaker nations of Europe were obliged to pay an annual tribute for the security of their commerce. The United States did the same for some time, but the thing grew so annoying that war was at length declared against Tripoli, the boldest of these piratical powers. In 1803 Commodore Preble was sent with a fleet to the Mediterranean. He forced Morocco to respect American commerce, and then proceeded to Tripoli, outside whose harbor his fleet congregated, with a view of blockading the port.

On October 31 Captain Bainbridge of the Philadelphia, while cruising about, saw a vessel in shore and to windward, standing for Tripoli. Sail was made to cut her off. The chase continued for several hours, the lead being kept constantly going to avoid danger of shoals. When about a league distant from Tripoli it became evident that the fugitive craft could not be overtaken, and the frigate wore round to haul off into deeper waters. But, to the alarm of the officers, they found the water in their front rapidly shoaling, it having quickly decreased in depth from eight to six and a half fathoms. A hasty effort was now made to wear the ship, but it was too late; the next instant she struck on a reef, with such force that she was lifted on it between five and six feet.

This was an appalling accident. No other cruiser was near. The enemy was close at hand. Gunboats were visible near the town. The moment it was discovered that the frigate was in trouble these dogs of war would be out. Captain Bainbridge gave orders to lighten the ship with all speed. All but a few of her guns were thrown overboard. The anchors were cut from the bows. The water-casks in the hold were started, and the water pumped out. All heavy articles were thrown overboard, and finally the foremast was cut away. But all proved in vain. The ship still lay immovable on the rocks. The gunboats of the enemy now surrounded her, and were growing bolder every minute. There was nothing for it but surrender. Resistance could only end in the death of all on board.

But before hauling down his flag, Captain Bainbridge had the magazine drowned, holes bored in the ship's bottom, the pumps choked, and every measure taken to insure her sinking. Then the colors were lowered and the gunboats took possession, three hundred and fifteen prisoners being captured. The officers were well treated by the bashaw of Tripoli, but an enormous ransom was demanded for them, and all signs of an inclination to peace disappeared.

Captain Bainbridge's efforts to sink the Philadelphia proved ineffectual. During a high wind the prize was got off the reef, her leaks stopped, and she taken in triumph to the city. Her guns, anchors, and other articles were raised from the reef, the ship was moored about a quarter of a mile from the bashaw's castle, and her injuries repaired, it being the intention to fit her for sea as a Tripolitan cruiser.

These were the events that preceded the daring attempt we have detailed. Lieutenant Stephen Decatur had volunteered to make an effort to destroy the vessel, with the aid of a recently-captured ketch, called the Mastico. This, renamed the Intrepid, manned with a crew of seventy-six men, had entered the harbor on the evening of February 3, 1804. What followed, to the capture of the frigate, has been told. The succeeding events remain to be detailed.

Doubtless Lieutenant Decatur would have attempted to carry off the prize had it been possible. His orders, however, were to destroy it, and the fact that there was not a sail bent or a yard crossed left him no alternative. The command was, therefore, at once given to pass up the combustibles from the ketch. There was no time to be lost. The swimming fugitives would quickly be in the town and the alarm given. Every moment now was of value, for the place where they were was commanded by the guns of the forts and of several armed vessels anchored at no great distance, and they might look for an assault the instant their character was determined.

With all haste, then, officers and men went to work. They had been divided into squads, each with its own duty to perform, and they acted with the utmost promptitude and disciplined exactness. The men who descended with combustibles to the cockpit and after-store-rooms had need to haste, for fires were lighted over their heads before they were through with their task. So rapidly did the flames catch and spread that some of those on board had to make their escape from between-decks by the forward ladders, the after-part of the ship being already filled with smoke.

In twenty minutes from the time the Americans had taken possession of the ship they were driven out of her by flames, so rapidly had they spread. The vessel had become so dry under those tropical suns that she burned like pine. By the time the party which had been engaged in the store-rooms reached the deck, most of the others were on board the Intrepid. They joined them, and the order to cast off was given. It was not an instant too soon, for the daring party were just then in the most risky situation they had been in that night.

The fire, in fact, had spread with such unexpected rapidity that flames were already shooting from the port-holes. The head fast was cast off, and the ketch fell astern. But the stern fast became jammed and the boom foul, while the ammunition of the party, covered only with a tarpaulin, was within easy reach of the increasing flames.

There was no time to look for an axe, and the rope was severed with swords-blows, while a vigorous shove sent the Intrepid clear of the frigate and free from the danger which had threatened her. As she swung clear, the flames reached the rigging, up which they shot in hissing lines, the ropes being saturated with tar which had oozed out through the heat of the sun.

The Intrepid did not depend on her sails alone for escape. She was provided with sweeps, and these were now got out and manned with haste, a few vigorous strokes sending the vessel safely away from the flaming frigate. This done, the crew, as with one impulse, dropped their oars and gave three rousing cheers for their signal victory.

Their shouts of triumph appeared to rouse the Moors from their lethargy. So rapid and unlooked-for had been the affair, that the vessel was in full flame before the town and the harbor were awake to the situation. There were batteries on shore, and two corsairs and a galley were anchored at no great distance from the Philadelphia, and from these now the boom of cannon began. But their fire was too hasty and nervous to do much harm, and the men of the Intrepid seized their sweeps again and bowled merrily down the harbor, their progress aided by a light breeze in their sails.

The spectacle that followed is described as of a beauty that approached sublimity. The ship, aflame from hull to peak, presented a magnificent appearance, the entire bay was illuminated, and the flash and roar of cannon were constant, the guns of the Philadelphia going off as they became heated, and adding to the uproar. She lay so that one of her broadsides was directed towards the town, thus returning the enemy's fire, while the other sent its balls far out into the harbor. "The most singular effect of the conflagration was on board the ship, for the flames, having run up the rigging and masts, collected under the tops, and fell over, giving the whole the appearance of glowing columns and fiery capitals."

The Intrepid moved on down the harbor, none the worse for the cannon-balls that were sent after her, and continued her course until she reached her consort, the Siren, which awaited her outside the harbor. Joining company, they proceeded to Syracuse, where the fleet then lay.

The exploit we have here described was one of the most notable in the annals of the American navy. It was one that needed the utmost daring combined with the most exact attention to details, and in both these respects there was nothing wanting to insure the success of the enterprise. The hour was well chosen, as that in which the foe would most likely be off their guard, and to this we must ascribe the slowness of their assault on the Americans and the uncertainty of their aim. The mode of approach to the frigate, the skill with which the ketch was laid alongside without exciting suspicion, and the rapidity and completeness with which the destruction of the prize was prepared for, were all worthy of high commendation. As for the boldness of the enterprise, one has but to consider what would have been the fate of the Americans had the attack failed. Directly under the frigate's guns, and in a harbor filled with gunboats and armed cruisers and surrounded by forts and batteries, escape would have been impossible, and every man in the Intrepid must have perished. The greatest courage, coolness, and self-possession, and the most exact discipline, alone could have yielded success in the daring project, and these qualities seem to have been possessed in a high degree.

The success of this exploit gave Lieutenant Decatur a reputation for gallantry which had its share in his subsequent elevation to the highest rank in the navy. The country generally applauded the feat, and the navy long considered it one of its most brilliant achievements, it being deemed a high honor among sailors and officers to have been one of the Intrepid's crew. The writer of these pages may add that it is to him a matter of some interest that the first man to reach the deck of the Philadelphia on that memorable night was a namesake of his own, Midshipman Charles Morris. For the credit of the name he is also glad to say that Mr. Morris in time become a commodore in the navy, and attained a high reputation as an officer both in war and peace.



THE VICTIM OF A TRAITOR.

On the Ohio River, fourteen miles below Marietta, lies a beautiful island, which became, in the early part of this century, the scene of a singular romance. At that time it was a wild and forest-clad domain, except for a few acres of clearing near its upper extremity, on which stood a large and handsome mansion, with spacious out-buildings and surrounding grounds which were laid out with the finest taste. The great elms and gigantic sycamore of the West gave grandeur to the surrounding woodland, and afforded shelter to grazing flocks and herds. Huge water-willows dipped their drooping branches into the waves of the Ohio as they ran swiftly by. In front of the mansion were several acres of well-kept lawn. In its rear were two acres of flower-garden, planted with native and exotic shrubs. Vine-covered arbors and grottos rose here and there. On one side of the house was the kitchen garden, stocked with choice fruit-trees. Through the forest-trees an opening had been cut, which afforded an attractive view of the river for several miles of its course. On the whole, it was a paradise in the wilderness, a remarkable scene for that outlying region, for not far from the mansion still stood a large block-house, which had, not many years before, been used as a place of refuge in the desolating Indian wars.

Here dwelt Harman Blennerhasset and his lovely wife; he a man of scientific attainments, she a woman of fine education and charming manners. He was of Irish origin, wealthy, amply educated, with friends among the highest nobility. But he had imbibed republican principles, and failed to find himself comfortable in royalist society. He had therefore sought America, heard of the beautiful islands of the Ohio, and built himself a home on one of the most charming of them all.

We have described the exterior of the mansion. Interiorly it was richly ornamented and splendidly furnished. The drawing-room was of noble proportions and admirable adornment. The library was well filled with choice books. The proprietor was fond of chemistry, and had an excellent laboratory; he enjoyed astronomy, and possessed a powerful telescope; he had a passion for music, had composed many airs, and played well on several instruments. He was, in his way, a universal genius, courteous in manners, benevolent in disposition, yet of that genial and unsuspicious nature which laid him open to the wiles of those shrewd enough to make use of his weak points.

Mrs. Blennerhasset loved society, and was none too well pleased that her husband should bury himself and her in the wilderness, and waste his fine powers on undeveloped nature. Such guests of culture as could be obtained were hospitably welcomed at their island mansion. Few boats passed up and down the river without stopping at the island, and cultured and noble persons from England and France not infrequently found their way to the far-off home of the Blennerhassets.