The Potter journal. [volume] (Coudersport, Pa.) 1857-1872, 1865-04-12

green on which L sported when a boy
But another flag than that waved when
was child. And listen, old man, wer
to pass the streets as [ passed then
when child, the babes in their cradle
would raise their tiny hands to curse me
The graves in yonder churchyard would
would shrink from my footsteps, an,
yonder flag would rain baptism of bloot
upon my heart"
That was an awful death bed! The
minister had watched the "last night
with hundred convicts in their cells
and yet never beheld scene so terrible
as this.
Suddenly the dying man arose. He
tottered along the floor, with those white
fingers, whose nails are blue with the
death chill, he threw open the valise.-
He showed military coat trimmed with
silver, an old parchment, and piece OF
cloth, that looked like the wreck of a
battle flag
"Look ye, priest, this faded coat is
spotted with my blood! !' he cried, as old
memories seemed stirring at bis heart
This is the coat that I wore when
planted the stars on Tioonderoga. That
bullet hole was pierced at the fight of
Quebec, c,--now | am a-let NC whisper
in your ear"
"Now help me, priest" he said IN a
voice growing suddenly tremulous, "help
me to put on this coat of blue and silver.
For you see," and CHASTITY smile came
over his face, there is no one to wipe
the cold drops from my brow; no wife,
no child must meet death alone but
[ will meet him as | met him in battle,
without fear"
While be stood arraying himself in
that worm eateu coat of blue and silver,
the good preacher spoke to him of faith
in Jesus. Yes, of that great faith that
pierces the clouds of human guilt, and
rolls them back from the face of God.
"Faith p echoed the strange man, who
stood there erect with the death light in
his eye, faith can't give me back my
honor p! Look ye, priest, there, over the
waves sits George Washington, telling his
comrades the pleasant story of the eight
years war-there, in his royal hall, sits
George of England, bewailing in his ldi-
otic voice the loss of his colonies. And
here am II, who was first to raise the
flag of freedom, The 6rst to strike the blow
against that king-here am l, dying like
a dog!
4 The awe stricken preacher started back
from the look of the dying man, while
.hrob-throb-beat the death watch in
the shattered wall
"Hush silence along the lines, there !"
be muttered, in that wild, absent tone, as
tfOugh speaking to the dead "sience
alopg the lines Hark there, Montgom.
er3 we will meet there in victory or
death hist silence, my men, not whis
per- as you move up to those steep rocks
nov on, my boys, now on Men of the
wilderness, we will gain the town! Now
up With the banner of the stars up with
the iAg of freedom, though the night is
dark and the snow falls Now, now p
shrieled the death stricken man, tower
ing :lere in his blue uniform, with his
cleucted hands moving ln the air-"now,
now me blow. and Queoec is ours"
Anc look His eyes grow CLASSY
With that word on his lips, he stands
there-ah what hideous picture of des-
pair, EJECT, liVld, ghastly. There for
moment, and then he falls ! He is dead
All !! lo,k at the proud form, thrown cold
and stiff upon the dark floor. In the
CLASSY eyes there fingers even yet horrible
euergy,a a sublimity of despair.
WHO'S the strange man dying here
alone in this garret, this man who, 10 all
his crime, still treasured up his blue uni.-
form and faded flag?
Who is this thing of terrible remorse
this man, whose memories link some
thing of heaven and more of hell /?
Let US look at the parchment and that
flag,
The old minister unfolded that faded
hag-it was the blue banner cleaning
with thirteen stars.
He unrol(s the parchment. It was
Coloneps commission 10 the continental
army, addressed, BENEDICT ARNOLD.
And, thele. in that rude hut, while
the death watch throbbed like heart in
the shattered wall-unknown, unwept,
IN all the bitterness of desolation, lay the
! corpse of that patriot and traitor.
U, that our own true Washington had
oeen there. to seve' that good right arm
from the corpse, and while the dishon.
ored body rotted into dust, to bring home
that good right arm, and embalm it among
the holiest memories of the past
For that right arm had struck macy a
gallant blow for freedom yonder at ri.
conderoga, at Quebec, Champlain. Sara
toga-that arm yonder, beneath the snow