The south-western. [volume] (Shreveport, La.) 1852-1870, 1855-08-15

dred and seventy nine Twas cherries
evening in October, the sun had already set,
and a young moon was struggling with the
dark clouds that at intervals obscured her
bright dice, as they we're borne along by the
resistless fury of the angry wind which howied
dismally among the naked branches OF the
leafess forest trees. Now it came IN httal
gusts, scattering the fallen leaves, and whining
piteously atts lack fpower. Now 1t increased
in strength, swapping the decayed branches
and bending the tough boughs OF the sturdy
oak.
Anon it swelled into an overwhelming blast,
twisting the gnarIed trunks, and with deaf
ening crash uproohng and overthrowing the
mighty lords of the SOIL then sinking into
sullen moan it howled a mournful requiem over
its spent and departed strength
Dark indeed, and dismal was the night, and
furious the warning of the elements bat dark
er and more dismal were the reflections, and
more fierce the conflict that ragged within the
breast of the injured, patriot, who forms the
subject of our narrative.
Mr.. Charles Forman was a young farmer
residing within a few miles of Hackensack.
At the first outbreaking of our revolutionary
troubles, he had shouldered lis musket, and
tearing himself from his young and lovely wife,
had fought, aye, and bled in freedoms cause.
He was with the army at Morristown, when
having received intelligence of the illness Of
his wife, he asked and obtained leave to visit
his home.
He had travelled on foot and alone for two
days-had crossed the rugged 'Blue Ridge"
and on the evening of the second day had
reached his humble dwelling. As he neared
the house the evidences Of tory visit we're
even at night-plain1y discernible.
With beating heart he crossed the little
court yard, and stood upon the door step. His
heart sank within him, as he lifted the latch,
and found the door was fastened. Gently he
knocked, fearing to disturb his suffering wife,
again, he knocked, and again. but knocked in
vain. There was no cheerful light as of late
was wont to beam from his little window, to
comfort those within, and direct the weary
wayworn wanderer to a shelter. No curling
smoke issued from the chimney, no blazing
hearth was there, and save the aapping of the
shutters, and the rustIing of the vines that
overhung the porch all was silent.
He could endure suspense no longer, and
forcing the door he stood within the house.
All was darkness there. He groped his way
|
called upon his wife by name-no answer came!
'Sarahn' he cried, and the winds howed the
louder, as if in mockery of his agony With
a trembling hand he produced his Undertook
and lighted the lamp that stood in its accus-
toned place, upon the mantel!
| Great heaven! what sight did its pale rays
reveal to him. Extended upon the floor lay
the body Of his wife, with her infant child
clasped 10 her bosom-both cold in death.
! Blood, too, was there-the life blood OF his
guileess wife, and innocent babe-a cold coad-
gulated pool!'
ooh, God! my wife, my child" he shrek
ed-his brain reeed, and tottering few PAGES,
he fell at her side. Soon he recovered himself
and lifting them gently from the floor, he placed
them side by side upon the bed, and stood 81
lently gazing upon the placid countenance o
his young wife, beautiful even in death.
There is an eoquence in silence, when the
heart is too full for utterance and solemn
voice in silent grief Vain were our attemp
to describe the tumult of feeling, the crush o.
emotion that filled the heart of poor Charles
as he bent over the bod Of his murdered wife
No word escaped him, no sigh, no tear drop
started, but his bosom heaved quickly, his lip
quivered, and his eye rolled wildly, and with
demonical glare. He seemed as though bis
every faculty of mind was intent upon a word,
which should speak the fullness of his misery
and desperation. and his lip struggled to give
itutterance. Atlength it came: ''Vengeance!
and he started at the coarse, unearthly tone Of
his own voice. "Vengeance?' and the dark
winds swept away the echo as it formed "Ven-
geance!" and his wild and solemn VOW stood
eternally recorded.
All that night he watched by the bodies of
his wife and child-and the next morning
buried them with his own hands, swearing
over their graves bitterly to avenge them.
AS he was returning from his melancholy
task, he found lying upon the grass near the
door a large hunting knife still red with blood.
Upon the haft was carved in rude characters
the name "Charles Smith,
This Smith was a violent and cruel tory
partizan IA companion of the notorious Van
buskirk) who, with company Of outcasts like
himself, and a few negroes, made frequent in
cursions into the upper counties of New Jersey
and were notorious for their cruel and barba-
rous treatment of the patriotic females.
Years ago, when the wife of Forman was
quite young, he had professcd an attachment
for her, which she by no means encouraged,
and the offer of his hand was as might have
been expected, refused. Even then he swore
she should have cause to repent it, and still
nourishing deadly hatred, he had taken ad-
vantge Of her husband, paying a visit with
his troop, to Hackensack, and with his own hand
dealt the blows which had deprived boh
mother and child of life
':This knife,' exclaimed Charles, as he gla-
red upon its recking blade, ''this knife which
has rendered my life blank, and utterly dark
ened my future, shall yet drink thine hearts
blood, inhuman monster!" And after carefully
wipng the blade, he placed it in his belt, ard
entered his desolate home.
For more than an hour he sat in silent ago
ny, the big drops coursing down his haggered
checks, as he brooded over his wrongs and
dreamed of vengeance. Then, starting sud-
denly to his feet he cast one last, long, linger
ing look upon each familiar object and rushed
from the house, vowing as he shot the bolt,
never to return while Smith lived to murder
and destroy.
A week had passed, twas midnight and