Produced by David Widger
By
Charles M. Skinner
Vol. 3.
The Phantom Dragoon
Delaware Water Gap
The Phantom Drummer
The Missing Soldier of Valley Forge
The Last Shot at Germantown
A Blow in the Dark
The Tory's Conversion
Lord Percy's Dream
Saved by the Bible
Parricide of the Wissahickon
The Blacksmith at Brandywine
Father and Son
The Envy of Manitou
The Last Revel in Printz Hall
The Two Rings
Flame Scalps of the Chartiers
The Consecration of Washington
Marion
The height that rises a mile or so to the south of Newark, Delaware, iscalled Iron Hill, because it is rich in hematite ore, but about the timeof General Howe's advance to the Brandywine it might well have won itsname because of the panoply of war—the sullen guns, the flashing swords,and glistening bayonets—that appeared among the British tents pitched onit. After the red-coats had established camp here the American outpostswere advanced and one of the pickets was stationed at Welsh Tract Church.On his first tour of duty the sentry was thrown into great alarm by theappearance of a figure robed from head to foot in white, that rode ahorse at a charging gait within ten feet of his face. When guard wasrelieved the soldier begged that he might never be assigned to that postagain. His nerves were strong in the presence of an enemy in theflesh—but an enemy out of the grave! Ugh! He would desert rather thanencounter that shape again. His request was granted. The sentry whosucceeded him was startled, in the small hours, by a rush of hoofs andthe flash of a pallid form. He fired at it, and thought that he heard thesound of a mocking laugh come back.
Every night the phantom horseman made his rounds, and several times thesentinels shot at him without effect, the white horse and white ridershowing no annoyance at these assaults. When it came the turn of asceptical and unimaginative old corporal to take the night detail, hetook the liberty of assuming the responsibilities of this post himself.He looked well to the priming of his musket, and at midnight withdrew outof the moonshine and waited, with his gun resting on a fence. It was notlong before the beat of hoofs was heard approaching, and in spite ofhimself the corporal felt a thrill along his spine as a mounted figurethat might have represented Death on the pale horse came into view; buthe jammed his hat down, set his teeth, and sighted his flint-lock withdeliberation. The rider was near, when bang went the corporal's musket,and a white form was lying in the road, a horse speeding into thedistance. Scrambling over the fence, the corporal, reassured, ran to theform and turned it over: a British scout, quite dead. The daring fellow,relying on the superstitious fears of the rustics in his front, had madea nightly ride as a ghost, in order to keep the American outposts fromadvancing, and also to guess, from elevated points, at the strength anddisposition of their troops. He wore a cuirass of steel, but that did notprotect his brain from the corporal's bullet.
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