Gallipolis journal. [volume] (Gallipolis, Ohio) 1837-1919, 1855-08-16

ed the farmer, as his agony found words
The British they came in the night
lthey'-and then he spoke that outrag,
which the lip quivered to think on
which the heart'grows palzied to tell
that outrage too foul to name-'You
Wife, he shrieked, pointing to that hid
eous mass amidst the smoking ruins
The British, they murdered your wife
they flung her dead body in the flames
they dashed your child against tht
hearthstone.' This was the farmer
story. And there, as the light of tn,
breaking day fell around the spot, ther,
stood the husband, the father, gazing
upon that mass of flesh and blackeneC
bones, all that was once his wifel DE-
you ask me for the words that trembled
from his white lips9 Do you ask mt
for the fire that blazed from his eye?
cannot tell you: but lean tell you tha
there was vow going up to HEAVIER
from that blacksmith's heartl that there
was clenched hand upraised in the
light of the breaking day. Yes, as the
first gleam of the autumnal dawn broke
around the spot, as the first long stream
of sunlight streamed over the peeled
skull of that fair young wife-she was
that last night-there was vow going
up to heaven, the vow of a maddened
heart and anguisbed brain. How was
that VOW kept? Go to Brandywine. and
where the carnage gathers thickest,
where the fighting is most bloody. and
there you may see stout form striding
on, lifting a hammer into light, where
that hammer falls it kills--where that
hammer strikes it crushes. 1t is the
blacksmith's form, and the war cry that
he shoutsl Its amad cry of vengeance
half howl, half hurrahl 1t is but a
fierce yell breaking up from his heav
ing chestl All mol All no! 1t is the
name of Mary! 1t is the name of his
young wife! Oh, Mary, sweetest name
of woman-name so soft, so ripping,
so musical--name of the mother of Je-
sus, made. .holy by poet and religion
How strange did the syllables of music
ring out from that blacksmith's lips, as
he went numbering on. Mary he
shouts, as he drags that red coated
trooper from his steed. Mary he
shrieks, as his hammer crushes down,
laying that officer in the dust. Look!
another officer with gallant face and
form-another officer glittering with tin
sci, clasps the blacksmith by the knee and
begs for mercy. l have wife-mercy,
l have a wife in yonder England, spare
me- The blacksmith, crazed as he is,
trembles-there is tear in his eye
L would spare you, but there is form
before me-the form of my dead wife!
That form has gone before me all day..
she calls upon me to strike the ham
mer fell, and then rang out that strange
war cry, Mary At last, when the
battle was over, he was found by wag-
oner, who had at least shouldered cart
whip in his country's service. He was
found sitting by the road side, his head
sunken. his leg was broken, and the life
blood flowing from his many wounds s.
The WAGNER would have carried him
from the field, but the stout blacksmith
refused, You see neighbor,' he said
in that voice husky with death. Il never
meddled with the British till they burn
ed my home--till they'-he could not
speak the outrage, but his wife and
child were there before his eyes. And
now I've but five minutes life in me, I'd
like to have shot at the British before
l die. Do you see that cherry tree?-I
Place me there, give me a powder horn,
three rifle balls and good rife, that's
all 1 ask The WAGNER granted his
request; he lifted him to the foot of the
cherry tree; he placed the rifle, the
balls and the powder horn in his grasp;
then whipping his horses through the
narrow path, from the summit of a
neighboring height he looked down up
on the last scene of the blacksmith's life.
There lay the stout man at the foot of
the cherry tree, his head sunk, his
leg hanging over the bank-the blood
was streaming from his wounds-he was
dying. Suddenly he raised his head; a
sound struck on his ear, party of Brit
ish came rushing along the narrows
with carnage, and thirsting for blood
they pursued band of scattered Con-
tinentals. An officer led the way, wav-
ing them on with his sword; the black
smith loaded his rife; with that eye
bright with death, he took the aim
that's for Washington he shouted as
he fred; the officer lay quivering on the
road side dead. On, and on came the
British, nearer and nearer to the cherry
tree; the Continentals swept through
the pass; again the blacksmith loaded
again he fired. That's for Mad An
thony Wayne he shouted, as another
officer bit the dust. The British now
came rushing to the cherry tree, deter
mined to cut down the wounded man,
who with his face towards them, bleed
ing as he was, dealt death among their
ranks. A fair visaged officer, with
golden hair waving in the wind, led
them on; the blacksmith raised his rife
with that hand stiffening in death. he
took the aim, he fired; the young Brit
on fell with shrek. And that. cried
the blacksmith in voice that strength
ened into shout, and that's for'-his
voice was gone, the shrek died on his
white lips. His head sunk-his rifle