I'd fight those dreadful torments of the damned Ah, if I might have known how it would be, I'll drink ye down-what! blood? Drink blood? THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER. CHARLES SHEPPARD. It was the 7th of October, 1777. Horatio Gates stood before his tent, gazing steadfastly upon the two armies, now arrayed in order of battle. It was a clear, bracing day, mellow with the richness of Autumn. The sky was cloudless; the foliage of the woods scarce tinged with purple and gold; the buckwheat in yonder fields frostened into snowy ripeness. But the tread of legions shook the ground; from every bush shot the glimmer of the rifle barrel; on every hill-side blazed the sharpened bayonet. Gates was sad and thoughtful, as he watched the evolutions of the two armies. But all at once a smoke arose, a thunder shook the ground, and a chorus of shouts and groans yelled along the darkened air. The play of death had begun. The two flags, this of the stars, that of the red cross, tossed amid the smoke of battle, while the sky was clouded with leaden folds, and the earth throbbed with the pulsations of a mighty heart. Suddenly, Gates and his officers were startled. Along the height on which they stood, came a rider, upon a black horse, rushing toward the distant battle. There was some thing in the appearance of this horse and his rider, that struck them with surprise. Look! he draws his sword, the sharp blade quivers through the air-he points to the distant battle, and lo! he is gone; gone through those clouds, while his shout echoes over the plains. Wherever the fight Is thickest, there through intervals of cannon smoke, you may see riding madly forward that strange soldier, mounted on his steed black as death. Look at him, as with face red with British blood he waves his sword and shouts to his legions. Now you may see him fighting in that cannon's glare, and the next moment he is away off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up that steep cliff. Is it not a magnificent sight, to see that strange soldier and that noble black horse dashing, like a meteor, down the long columns of battle? Let us look for a moment into those clouds of battle. Over this thick hedge bursts a band of American militiamen, their rude farmer coats stained with blood, while scattering their arms by the way, they flee before that company of red-coat hirelings, who come rushing forward, their solid front of bayonets gleaming in the battle light. In this moment of their flight, a horse comes crashing over the plains. The unknown rider reins his steed back on his haunches, right in the path of these broad shouldered militia-men. "Now cowards! advance another step and I'll strike you to the heart!" shouts the unknown, extending a pistol in either hand. “What! are you Americans, men, and fly before British soldiers? Back again, and face them once more or I myself will ride you down." This appeal was not without its effect. Their leader turns, his comrades, as if by one impulse follow his example. In one line, but thirty men in all, they confront thirty sharp bayonets. The British ad"Now upon the rebels, charge!" shouts the red-coat officer. They spring forward at the same bound. Look! their bayonets almost touch the muzzles of their rifles. At this moment the voice of the unknown rider was heard: "Now let them have it! Fire!" A sound is heard, a smoke is seen, twenty Britons are down, some writhing in death, some crawling along the soil, and some speechless as stone. The remaining ten start back. "Club your rifles and charge them home!" shouts the unknown. That black horse springs vance. forward, followed by the militia-men. Then a confused conflict-a cry for quarter, and a vision of twenty farmers grouped around the rider of the black horse, greeting him with cheers. Thus it was all the day long. Wherever that black horse and his rider went, there followed victory. At last, toward the setting of the sun, the crisis of the conflict came. That fortress yonder, on Bemus's Heights, must be won, or the American cause is lost! That cliff is too steep-that death is too certain. The officers cannot persuade the men to advance. The Americans have lost the field. Even Morgan, that iron man among iron men, leans on his rifle and despairs of the field. But look yonder! In this moment when all is dismay and horror, here crashing on, comes the black horse and his rider. That rider bends upon his steed, his frenzied face covered with sweat and dust and blood; he lays his hand upon that bold rifleman's shoulder, and as though living fire had been poured into his veins, he seizes his rifle and starts toward the rock. And now look! now hold your breath, as that black steed crashes up that steep cliff. That steed quivers! he totters! he falls! No! No! Still on, still up the cliff, still on toward the fortress. The rider turns his face and shouts, "Come on, men of Quebec! come on!" That call is needless. Already the bold riflemen are on the rock. Now British cannon pour your fires, and lay your dead in tens and twenties on the rock. Now, red-coat hirelings, shout your battle cry if you can! For look! there in the gate of the fortress, as the smoke clears away, stands the black horse and his rider. That steed falls dead, pierced by an hundred balls; but his rider, as the British cry for quarter, lifts up his voice and shouts afar to Horatio Gates waiting yonder in his tent, "Saratoga is won!" As that cry goes up to heaven, he falls with his leg shattered by a cannon ball. Who was the rider of the black horse? Do you not guess his name? Then bend down and gaze on that shattered limb, and you will see that it bears the mark of a former wound. That wound was received in the storming of Quebec. That rider of the black horse was-Benedict Arnold. DE PINT WID OLE PETE. Upon the hurricane deck of one of our gunboats, an elderly darkey, with a very philosophical and retrospective cast of countenance, squatted on his bundle, toasting his shins against the chimney, and apparently plunged into a state of profound meditation. Finding, upon inquiry, that he belonged to the Ninth Illinois, one of the most gallantly behaved and heavy losing regiments at the Fort Donaldson battle, I began to interrogate him upon the subject. "Run at the first fire, did you?" "Yes, sa; and would hab run soona, had I know'd it war comin'." Why, that wasn't very creditable to your courage." Massa, dat isn't my line, sa; cookin's my profeshun." "Well, but have you no regard for your reputation?” "Yah, yah! reputation's nuflin to me by de side ob life.” “Do you consider your life worth more than other people's?" "It is worth more to me, sa." "Then you must value it very highly?" "Yes, sa, I does; more dan all dis world, more dan a million ob dollars, sa; for what would dat be wuth to a man wid the bref out ob him? Self-preserbation am de fust law wid me." "But why should you act upon a different rule from other men?" "Because different men set different values upon deir lives; mine is not in de market." "But if you lost it, you would have the satisfaction of knowing that you died for your country.” 66 What satisfaction would dat be to me when de power ob feelin' was gone?" "Then patriotism and honor are nothing to you?" "Nuffin whatever, sa; I regard them as among the vanities." "If our soldiers were like you, traitors might have broken up the government without resistance.' Yes, sa; dar would hab been no help for it." "Do you think any of your company would have missed yon, if you had been killed? 'Maybe not, sa; a dead white man ain't much to dese sogers, let alone a dead nigga; but I'd a missed myself, and dat was de pint wid me." LITTLE BROWN HANDS.-M. H. KROUT. They drive home the cows from the pasture, Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat fields, They find in the thick waving grasses Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows; They gather the earliest snowdrops And the first crimson buds of the rose. They toss the new hay in the meadow; They gather the delicate sea-weeds, Those who toil bravely are strongest ; |