Myths and Legends of Our Own Land, vol 3 | Page 4

all over the State,
while the drumbeats calling settlers to defence were audible eight miles
away. Braddock's defeat and the salvation of Washington were foretold
by a Miami chief at a council held in Fort Ponchartrain, on Detroit
River, the ambush and the slaughter having been revealed to him in a
dream. The victims of that battle, too, had been apprised, for one or two
nights before the disaster a young lieutenant in Braddock's command
saw his fellow-officers pass through his tent, bloody and torn, and
when the first gun sounded he knew that it spoke the doom of nearly all
his comrades. At Killingly, Connecticut, in the autumn before the
outbreak of the Revolution, a distant roar of artillery was heard for a
whole day and night in the direction of Boston, mingled with a rattle of
musketry, and so strong was the belief that war had begun and the
British were advancing, that the minute men mustered to await orders.
It was afterward argued thatthese noises came from an explosion of
meteors, a shower of these missiles being then in progress, invisible, of
course, in the day-time. Just after the signing of the Declaration of
Independence the royal arms on the spire of the Episcopal church at
Hampton, Virginia, were struck off by lightning. Shortly before the
surrender of Cornwallis a display of northern lights was seen in New
England, the rays taking the form of cannon, facing southward. In

Connecticut sixty-four of these guns were counted.
At the battle of Germantown the Americans were enraged by the killing
of one of their men who had gone out with a flag of truce. He was shot
from the windows of Judge Chew's house, which was crowded with
British soldiers, and as he fell to the lawn, dyeing the peaceful emblem
with his blood, at least one of the Continentals swore that his death
should be well avenged. The British reinforcements, sixteen thousand
strong, came hurrying through the street, their officers but half-dressed,
so urgent had been the summons for their aid. Except for their steady
tramp the place was silent; doors were locked and shutters bolted, and
if people were within doors no sign of them was visible. General
Agnew alone of all the troop seemed depressed and anxious. Turning to
an aide as they passed the Mennonist graveyard, he said, "This field is
the last I shall fight on."
An eerie face peered over the cemetery wall, a scarred, unshaven face
framed in long hair and surmounting a body clothed in skins, with the
question, "Is that the brave General Gray who beat the rebels at Paoli?"
One of the soldiers, with a careless toss of the hand, seemed to indicate
General Agnew. A moment later there was a report, a puff of smoke
from the cemetery wall, and a bullet whizzed by the head of the general,
who smiled wanly, to encourage his men. Summary execution would
have been done upon the stranger had not a body of American cavalry
dashed against the red-coats at that moment, and a fierce contest was
begun. When the day was over, General Agnew, who had been
separated from his command in the confusion of battle, came past the
graves again. Tired and depressed, he drew rein for a moment to
breathe the sweet air, so lately fouled with dust and smoke, and to
watch the gorgeous light of sunset. Again, like a malignant genius of
the place, the savage-looking stranger arose from behind the wall. A
sharp report broke the quiet of evening and awoke clattering echoes
from the distant houses. A horse plunged and General Agnew rolled
from his saddle, dead: the last victim in the strife at Germantown.

A BLOW IN THE DARK
The Tory Manheim sits brooding in his farmhouse near Valley Forge,
and his daughter, with a hectic flush on her cheek, looks out into the
twilight at the falling snow. She is worn and ill; she has brought on a

fever by exposure incurred that very day in a secret journey to the
American camp, made to warn her lover of another attempt on the life
of Washington, who must pass her father's house on his return from a
distant settlement. The Tory knows nothing of this; but he starts
whenever the men in the next room rattle the dice or break into a ribald
song, and a frown of apprehension crosses his face as the foragers
crunch by, half-barefoot, through the snow. The hours go on, and the
noise in the next room increases; but it hushes suddenly when a knock
at the door is heard. The Tory opens it, and trembles as a tall, grave
man, with the figure of an athlete, steps into the fire-light and calmly
removes his gloves. "I have