Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 20, Number 95, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 August 1899 — THE PATRIOTS TALISMAN. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THE PATRIOTS TALISMAN.

BY Sylvanus Cobb,Jr

court leading 'aln§r Sect, near the Schuyltoodjppmall wooden house, in t GMp3 Seaton and his son, mK> In a retired apart- » on this July aft awpfCteTly man in a great ThljSrwas a bed in the room, plain and substanr sALthe hours -drag on! t, g£t a sound yet! Will theflK*to himself, while his graiSHlieJiilt of a magnifiupon the is was a man of at white hair and his cheeks being P this fashion of and had become to would not give it >re SHHp garb—that of a ST of the Patriot army. W*danging of a bell breaks r—clang! clang! clang! Then outing of distant voices; and coming -of' cannon. The old to his feet, and raises his rds heaven. £sp<J6jome man, tall and sp!endL and the fire that flashed in «r'wßs of the very brightest &},’J&ut he could not stand A.dfttP sigh he sank back into rfrpressed his hand upon his &tghhlrp pain had seized him. Übjegmpatriots will hear that themselves anew for the while I—while I— O, in Gilead for me? Is eatihg of this cruel wound? just as the nation of my love id’s will be' done!” his head upon his hand, and of the great excitement left » huu m fearfully pale and deeply and long, >ucn worn. By and by he and took a parchment roll ble, that had lain by the side BSSarfce oppned it and looked gj&gager-a tear stole from his 5 a commission from the Con-ns£f@|£-*tfa)dng him Gerald in the American in his'hand the awftinent was opened, and •nqpSl. She was a stout, of middle age, sed, ’and rather plain of face, k and genial, and bearing the nest truth in every lineament, tience Angefl; (rom Vermont, e servant of the household—operly speaking, she was the . •. u been out, Patience?” asked , the flush coming back to his e light to his eyes, at sight of servatif.' J ’ replied the woman, drawing proudly. “I’ve been to the >, and I’ve heard the re heard the men shout. My you feel the air better to Lh! they’ve done it, % general. le it!” *’ rocy O. they could not help ut, where .is Robert?” Ser-here soon, sir; never fear, ■amr-into the State House, ■jjpn&all the particulars. But Htg is done, general. There S particulars beyond that.” ■ nee, but how was it done? | s|rij|gßpgly ? Was it done in Were there dissentiiu jjlilflllii woman, smiting her piroad pali*Sts£ men “I learned all jjjjtboat State was represented, and tUEKvote was unanimous! O, BpSput afhepfnot- a State yet. Patience, ■llaim admiSftm under the new compact.” ||**Aye,” the woman, with en“ln the ngpe ofthe Great Jehovah and “As he dflj added Pa■k she hadßßKra Information to give, ■he did could to make her maspt comfortable, after which she went to look to other affjrirs; of the household. I Half an hoy .afterwards Robert Season entere<f*Mw*fyresen ce of his father, pliom he mntiy aw aiting him. “O, my boy,,ram glad you have come. sTou have UWn'W thV State House?” - '“And did°you see and speak with any access. I spoke with John Hangtock of Massachusetts* qnd with Richard ■fency Lee a'M||jhopi|s| Jefferson of VirjLtoole wide world has none braver or betpier, or more trujjr.’great. Now sit down Buld tell me all about it. Was the grand Kpclaration adoptfed afe I read it yester“With alterations< Struck out, for was its keen edge in any Bjfcr htaated. But I,will tell you more of phis ai another On. ! stranger has come ■g|m£ with m# much to see pA. ettanyr?” repeated the general, in fpi. strangest Whet* you need not see if Bp do n<* Irish; and perhaps you had Pff BOt see him. I doubt if he knows ! ® 8 name i

“And that name?” “He bade me announce him as ‘Old Stephen Wilson.’ ” “Stephen Wilson!” repeated Seaton, with a start. He was deeply moved, as was to be plainly seen, but he restrained himself. He had experienced too much of the wild turmoil of life to be overcome in an emergency, though the blow might be startling. “How old is this man?” he asked. “He is as old as you are, father, if not older.” “And how looks he?” “Tall and heavily framed; with dark features, and a pair of large, very black, and protruding eyes.” “Let me see him, Robert. Stop, my son. I would see this man alone. You will show him to my door, and then leave him to me, and see that no one, not even Patience, comes to disturb us. I will ring if I want you.” Robert went out and fonnd Stephen WHson where he had found him, in the kitchen with Patience. “My father will see you, sir. You will see for yourself that he is very weak, and I trust you will not tarry longer than la necessary.” “My stay shall be as brief as your father desires.” Robert conducted him to the door of the general’s apartment and bade him enter; and when he had gone in, the youth returned to the kitchen to answer the many questions which Patience had to ask. It was between three and four o’clock when Stephen Wilson entered the room where sat Gerald Seaton. “He is making a long stop,” said the housekeeper, as the clock struck four. Shortly after this a messenger from the State House called on private business, and Robert went out with him, and was absent half an hour. When he returned home he found Patience just come from his father’s room. “Has the man gone?” he asked. “No. I answered your father’s bell, and was directed to bring in wine and biscuit.” “My faith! Then the man must have business of importance.” “I should say so, Robert; and I should judge that it was of importance to your father. His eyes were bright, his face was flushed, and his voice had something of the old ring in It. There were papers on the table, and both of them seemed to have been writing.” The clock struck five, and still the strange old man remained closeted with Gerald Seaton. At six o’clock Robert and Patience sat down to their supper, and it was not until half an hour later that Stephen Wilson came out from the conference. His head was bowed, and traces of tears were upon his cheeks. He had taken his hat, and would have departed without speaking had not Robert interposed. “Will you not take refreshment before you go, sir?” “I broke bread with your father, sir, and require no more. I thank you for your kindness.” “You have known my father before?” “Yes, I have known him. He will tell you that you did right in bringing me hither. We may meet again, and until then may God preserve and bless you.” And with this the old man put on his hat and departed. Robert found his father in his easy chair, with his head bent upon his hands. The papers of which Patience had spoken were not in sight, and even the writing materials had been put away. “You had a long conference with the stranger, my father.” The old man looked up, and motioned his son to a seat.

“I found him not a stranger, Robert. He is one whom I knew in my younger days. I will tell you of him to-morrow. Do not ask me now. I must have time for reflection before I tell to you the story. Will you pass me the wine?” The general filled his glass, and as he sipped he asked his son to tell him of the doings at the State House. This was a grand and inspiring theme for the youthful patriot, and he easily put aside his curiosity while he told the wondrous story of the Declaration. “And,” he added, when he had told all he had to tell of the doings of the day, “a messenger has been here from President Hancock. Gen. Washington has sent on from New York to know if you will be able to command a division in the coming campaign. He fears dissensions among his generals. This is private, of coarse, and only those to whom the illustrious commander-in-chief was forced to communicate the possibilities of the hour are aware of it. \yith Gates and Schuyler and Arnold, there may be trouble. Old Putnam is above any petty animosity that can interfere with the patriot's duty, and Washington wants you, my dear father, to stand by that veteran’s side.” “God bless our Washington! and God bless Israel Putnam!” uttered Gerald Seaton, devoutly. “But/’ he added, after a pause, “I shall never see them again. They have all been true friends of mine thus far, bnt I knbw not how long I might count them so, if I were to be particularly favored, and placed in rank above them. Putnam I should not fear. Schuyler is a true-hearted man; but he has enemies. He will be worried, and he will worry others. Gates is ambitious and overbearing. He will give trouble to somebody. Arnold is as brave as man <;an be; but he lacks moral force. He can be a good friend, and a dangerous enemy.” “Wbat do you think of Gen. Lee?’ asked Robert. 1 A cloud passed over the old man’s face. “I know Charles Lee,” he said, thoughtfully, “and I knew his father. They were both English officers. Charles is not the man for the place he holds. He does not love America so much as he hates England. He pould sot sacrifice self for the good of our country. I must see Hancock and Adams to-morrow. I can see what they do not see. Now that the colonies have declared themselvet a' free and independent nation, there should daily should there be no divisions among

the leaders of our armies. You will call upon the leaders of Congress to-morrow, my son, and ask them to visit me. I would thank them for the honor they have thought to bestow upon me, though I shall not live to profit by it.” “Let us hope for better things, my father. If your wound should heal ” “Ah, my boy, it cannot heal. The British lead is in my vitals still. How can a wound heal while the missile that makes the wound is burrowing in the flesh? But you know what you promised me. The surgeon, has promised it as well, but I would have you see to it. Do not allow this poor body to be buried with that piece of foeman's lead keeping it hostile company.” “You may make your mind easy on that point, father. If I am living when you pass away, I will see, with my own eyes, that the bullet is removed. If I am called first ” “Stop!” interposed the general, with an energetic wave of the hand. “You are to follow me in the service. You will represent me in the field. God will spare you for my sake. O, if I could but give to you my knowledge of the military art as , I can give you my sword and my pistols. I should like it, and, in this private way I may say, our country would be the gainer. But it may not be. I spent years in study on the field, under the roar and smoke of battle. I was by the side of Marshal Schwerin four years. Frederick deemed him worth ten thousand men. The grand marshal died in my arms, Robere, and Frederick the Great stood by and wept like a child. On that day we won the victory for Prussia against full twice our numbers. -It was at Prague. O! it was a bloody day. Sixteen thousand of our men were left dead *on the field, and more than nineteen thousand Austrians were stricken from the roll of life. But I have told you the story, my boy. Ah! the old, old times! God doeth all things well—and yet—and yet, why should I die just when the genius of liberty most needs my sword!” “If death must come, my father,” said Robert in a reverential tone, “remember that the blood of the martyrs is not shed in vaim In the years to come, when this nation is great and prosperous, I believe that no field of all its battles for liberty will be held more in grateful remembrance and veneration than that where you received your cruel wound —the field of Bunker Hill!” “Aye!” cried the veteran, his eyes blazing, and his right hand reaching out to the golden hilt of the sword that still lay upon the table at his side. “Aye, my boy, you speak truly; for it was at Bunker Hill that England’s proudly trained and vaunted soldiers first broke in wild confusion from their serried ranks, and fled like frightened children, beneath the fire of a Patriot band! I stood by Putnam’s side when I was struck; but I did not give up. No, no, I fought on! I was one of the last ” At this point the old soldier’s vivid emotions proved too much for his strength, and he sank forward, and was caught in the arms of his son, who shortly afterwards assisted him to his bed. Half an hour later, when the general seemed to have fallen asleep, Robert arose from his place of watching, and moved softly towards the door. The sun had set, and the shades of evening were gathering. “Robert!” The young man stopped and turned and found his father’s.head lifted from the pillow and supported upon his hand. “One moment, my son.” “I thought you slept.” “No —I have been thinking. Come here and sit down.”

The youth went back with evident reluctance. He felt it in the atmosphere that his father had something to say which he cared not to hear—something which would jar upon his feelings. He knew from the look and from the tone very near what was coming. We do not like to hear our very dearest friends—even the beloved of our household—probe those secrets which we hoard in our innermost hearts. There are certain treasures of the soul which we hold sacred beyond the right of any human hand to touch. And such a treasure Robert Seaton held; and borne to his consciousness by the electric current from his father’s eyes, came the impression that the treasure was to be dragged forth to sight and discussion. “My son,” said the old man, after the youth had resumed his seat by the bedside, “I have one last word to say to you on a particular subject. I know, from your darkening brow, that you guess what it is. Yet you will pardon me. 1 speak more for my own peace of mind than for your guidance. I wish not to interfere with any well-regulated plan you may have formed. You saw Lillian Eastcourt last evening?” “Yes,” replied Robert, with a slight show of restiveness at first, but finally looking his father full and frankly in the face. “You still love the girl?” “With all my heart and soul. I love her as I shall never love another. She is all in all to me.” “Is she more than your country ?” “She is a part of my country. I will not separate them. The two devotions cannot constitute a divided allegiance.” “And yet, my boy, you, may have to give up one or the other.” “Father!” “I know what I say, Robert. I believe Lillian to be all that is pure and good, and I confess that my heart has been most strangely drawn towards her, but she is in the hands of her father. He is her lawfnl ruler; he can be her tyrant. Do you know what he is?” “I think he is a royalist.” “No, no, Robert—you do not think—yon know! You know that Jacob Eastconrt is an enemy of the colonies.” “But I saw him hear the State House to-day, and he shouted with the rest in honor of the Declaration.” “Aye, and that shows his baseness and bis traitorous hypocrisy. Robert, I know the character of that man. Had I used the knowledge I possess against him, he would have been in the hapds of the committee of safety- ere this; but my deep concern for his daughter, and for his estimable wife, restrained me. I know that be has furnished money to an organized band of Tosies in the upper valley of the Schuylkill, and that he is prepared, when the need may come, to direct and control their movements. I know this, though I might find it difficult to prove it aH. Suppose the alternative should come, and you should be forced to choose between Lillian and your country?’ “O! H cannot-it cannot come!” “But, my son, suppose it should come? Suppose Jacob Eastcourt should so exercise his authority a. to force

absolutely upon you? Can you answst me?" Robert Seaton arose from his chair and paced several times across the room. “Father,” he said, as he finally stopped by the bedside, speaking slowly and distinctly, “I have not been debating upon the subject of my duty. I have been trying to bring my mind to comprehend the dread alternative you have presented. My life is not more dear to me than is Lillian, and woe to the man that comes between ns! Bat my honor of the name which you have made bright—is dearer to me than life. If the dread necessity should come, which may God forbid! I will turn from all the world beside, and cling to my country!” “My boy!—my own brave boy! Heaven bless you! You have lifted the last load from my heart. I can now depart in peace, since mine eyes have seen the salvation of the Lord!” (To be continued.) Copyright.