IRON HAND, CHIEF OF THE TORY LEAGUE.

BY FREDERICK FOREST.

NEW YORK. BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS, 98 WILLIAM STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by FRANK STARR & CO., In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

CHAPTER I. THE QUARREL.

When the colonists had acquired a mastery over the savages of the wilderness, and assisted in breaking the French power on their frontier, they began to feel their manhood stirring within them, and they tacitly agreed no longer to submit to the narrow and oppressive policy of Great Britain. Their industry and commerce were too expansive to be confined within the narrow limits of those restrictions which the Board of Trade, from time to time, had imposed, and they determined to cast off these chains. Moreover, the principles of civil and religious liberty urged them on; and, at last, the trumpet of the Revolution was sounded, as the violent result of their dissatisfactions.

It was during the fourth year of this Revolution, in the year of our Lord 1778, that our tale opens in the vicinity of Lake George, near Fort Ann.

In a pretty, white cottage a short distance from the fort sat two men over their wine, discussing the politics of the day.

One, who is destined to be our hero, was about five and twenty years of age; he was tall and commanding; his features nicely molded and in perfect harmony; the eyes were gray, although, at a distance, one might mistake them for black, and his hair was dark-brown and curled close to his head.

[10]

Edgar Sherwood, for such was his name, was of English birth. Another brother and he were the last of an aristocratic family. These two had, however, some few years previous, separated on account of a misunderstanding in regard to their paternal acres. After the death of their father, our hero inherited the greater part of the estate. This his brother declared to be unjust, and had sworn he would have satisfaction. Thus they parted.

Edgar had been treated perhaps a little unfairly by his native country in some affairs, and becoming enraged against her he had come to America to espouse the cause of the struggling colonists.

The man with whom Edgar Sherwood was conversing was the father of his betrothed; his name was Thomas Lear. He was a native of England, and a thorough Tory.

“Can it be possible, young man, that you are so rash as to think of joining the Continental army?” said Thomas Lear, gazing at Edgar Sherwood with a look of astonishment, and his face flushing to a deep crimson.

“It is, sir.”

“And have you no respect for your king, or love for your family and friends?”

“For the former, none whatever, but for the latter a great deal of love and respect.”

“Well, then, how can you go to work deliberately and bring this disgrace upon them? Why, Sherwood, it is absurd to think of doing such a thing!” and Lear began to grow angry.

“If it is absurd to lend one’s aid to a righteous cause, then I am willing to be called absurd or rash, but I am determined to do this.”

“But, do you have faith in this war? Do you believe these colonists will ever overcome King George?”

“Most assuredly they will!” replied Edgar Sherwood. “Why, sir, they fight like tigers, and they never will remain conquered. What arouses these men to arms is the love of liberty, their firesides, their wives and children.”

“Very well; perhaps they are good at fighting, but, where is the money coming from to maintain this war any longer? Congress has none.”

[11]

“They will fight without pay; and, moreover, each soldier will contribute his mite.”

“Nevertheless, they are but a handful at best, and can not hold out much longer.”

“Ah, my good sir!” and Edgar Sherwood’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, “do not be deceived in this. The colonists, though few in number, have been compelled from the beginning to be self-reliant, and have been made strong by their mother’s neglect. Heretofore they have built fortifications, raised armies, and fought battles for England’s glory and their own preservation, without England’s aid and without her sympathy; and, think you now they can not do this again, with twofold zeal, for themselves?”

Thomas Lear was beginning to chafe under the young man’s patriotic words, and perceiving that he could not persuade him to abandon his purpose, he became very angry.

“I ask you once more, Sherwood,” said he, “to pause and consider the consequences; think—I entreat you—of my daughter, Imogene, before you take this rash step.”

“I have considered it all, sir, but my mind remains the same.”

Lear grew deathly pale with rage at these last words. Thomas Lear was a rich man, and he had long counted upon having Edgar Sherwood for a son-in-law, but this could not be under these circumstances. He dashed his wine-glass savagely upon the table, and sprung to his feet.

“You are mad! stark mad!” he cried. “Henceforth our connection is severed; never dare to cross my threshold again, for you are a traitor to your king, sir—begone!”

Having uttered these words, the old man sunk back in his chair perfectly exhausted.

At this moment, the door was suddenly thrown open, and Imogene Lear—Edgar Sherwood’s betrothed—appeared upon the scene.

“Oh, father!” she cried, casting herself at the feet of her parent, “I implore you to have mercy! Recall your words—forgive!”

“Never!” cried Lear.

“Be it so!” said Edgar Sherwood, scornfully, and was gone.

[12]

One month has passed away since the events last related, and during this time Edgar Sherwood had become a captain in the American army, and was stationed with his regiment at Fort Ann.

It was a bright, clear morning in the month of September, and a gentle breeze caused the flag of freedom to rise and fall in graceful folds over the garrison, inspiring the heart of every loyal man with patriotic fervor as he looked up to it.

Within the fort, every thing seemed in commotion, but without, all was quiet, and an observer would never have surmised that any thing particular was going on. The soldiers were hurrying back and forth; and some were collected in groups busily talking.

During the past night, the commander had received information from one of his spies that the notorious band, called the Tory League, led by their villainous chief, Iron Hand, was preparing to attack the house of a prominent Whig, and that it would be necessary to send a company or two of men to secure the patriot’s safety.

The colonel had chosen Captain Sherwood to go on this little expedition with his company, and the men were now preparing for that purpose.

The Tory League was composed of Tories and Indians, whom King George, foreseeing at the beginning of the war would be valuable allies to him if but secured, sent over agents to enlist in his cause. Among these agents came the man who had made himself so notorious throughout the country under the title of Iron Hand, which name the Indians gave him. The villainous deeds of this band and their white chief were countless, and they had become a terror to all stanch Whigs.

A large reward had been offered for the capture of Iron Hand, dead or alive, but to no profit; he was too artful for his enemy. In fact, no one, as yet, in the Continental army had been able even to obtain a sight of him. Search had been made for the rendezvous of the band but without success.

The attacks of the Tory League were always made with so much privacy as to exclude the sufferers, not only from succor, but frequently, through a dread of future depredations, from the commiseration of their neighbors also.

[13]

The soldiers received the orders to prepare for action with delight; excitement of any kind had been scarce for the last few months around the fort, and time dragged heavily on with them. Captain Sherwood felt some pleasure also on being chosen for this occasion, as he had had but little opportunity to show his valor since his enlistment. Yet, all day long his face wore a troubled look, and his whole manner seemed changed from usual gayety to sadness. The few who had observed this attributed it to fear, and yet could not believe that such a man should even know the meaning of the word.

When evening came, and a few hours before he was to start out upon his mission, he sat down, and, writing a short note, dispatched it to the little white cottage on the hill.

Imogene Lear, on receiving her lover’s note, cast a shawl about her delicate form, and hastened to the place appointed for their meeting. It was in a thick grove of cedars a short distance from the cottage.

Captain Sherwood, dressed in his long military cloak, with his sword girded to his side, was pacing to and fro in a thoughtful mood under the shadow of the stalwart trees.

“Edgar,” whispered Imogene, approaching with noiseless steps behind him, and placing her little white hand upon his shoulder.

“Imogene? It is you!” said he, turning quickly and throwing his arm around her waist. “I was afraid you would be unable to come, my darling.”

“Father was asleep and I stole out unobserved, but I must not remain long away, or he may awake and miss me.”

“Is he as savage against me as ever?” asked Edgar.

“Yes; but, do not let this trouble you, dear Edgar, I am the same—as—ever.”

“I know you are, my darling,” and he imprinted a kiss upon her cheek.

Imogene Lear was eighteen years of age. She was tall in stature, and most exquisitely formed. Her skin was white, even waxen white; and now and then a tinge of the rose visited her cheek; her lips were of that ruby red which goes with perfect health; perfectly arched brows, and long, dark lashes, shading eyes of wonderful brilliancy and depth of expression, made up this face suitable for an angel.

[14]

“Let us sit down,” said Edgar, leading the way to a fallen tree. “How are we to overcome this prejudice of your father, Imogene?”

“I know not,” said she; “he is very angry with you, but time may change him.”

“Do you think he is right and I am wrong in this matter?”

Imogene colored and did not reply. Edgar saw this, and dropping his head, said, sorrowfully:

“Then you think I am in the wrong?”

“Oh, no! but you know—he—is my father.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Edgar, impatiently.

“There, dear Edgar, do not let us quarrel about this; of course you are in the right.”

Then the couple remained silent for some time.

“We were to be married next month. Need this rupture between your father and me make any difference?”

“You would not urge me to marry against his will?”

“Oh, no,” said Edgar, coldly.

“We can wait awhile and he may relent.”

“And pray how long will you wait for me?”

“All my lifetime, if need be!” and Imogene looked him full in the face with her beautiful eyes.

“And will you never forget, whatever may happen?”

“Never.”

“My beautiful one, I believe you. Forgive me for asking you to do wrong.”

“You said in your note, Edgar, that you were going away to-night.”

The same troubled look that had haunted him all day now again was plainly visible on Edgar Sherwood’s face.

“Yes,” said he, “but we return to-morrow morning.”

“Are you going to battle?” asked Imogene, quickly, perceiving this look. “Is there any thing serious about to happen?”

“No; why do you ask?”

“Because you seem troubled about something.”

“I am a little—shall I tell you why?”

“Certainly, dear Edgar, are we to have any secrets between us?”

“But you will laugh at me if I tell you?”

“Try me.”

[15]

“Are you superstitious, Imogene?”

“No, not very.”

“Well, it is all about a strange dream that I had last night, and you will say that I am superstitious if I tell it to you.”

“Come, now, do not delay any longer, but tell it to me at once; my curiosity is excited.”

“It appeared to me as follows:

“I seemed to be walking by the side of a lake, when, suddenly, a shriek, which fairly chilled my blood, filled the air, and then I thought I saw you rush past me, dressed in white, and crying, help! help! help!

“Approaching the water you sprung into a canoe and pushed far away from the shore. I could neither move nor speak to you, and my agony was killing me. The canoe began to float, I thought, bearing you with it. Then I was trying to swim to you, when, in a moment, the boat mysteriously disappeared. I was paralyzed, and looking down into the clear water, I thought I saw you lying upon the bottom.

“At this moment some one behind me laughed—laughed as only a fiend could laugh. Turning around, I thought I saw my own image, and I started back a step. The apparition approached, and pointing down at you, said: ‘Look, look, this shall be your grave also! Beware of your shadow!’ and then it vanished.

“I awoke. Cold perspiration stood in great beads upon my forehead. You will tell me that I ought not to let this trouble me, as it was only a dream; nevertheless, I can not help it; it has taken a strong hold upon me, and I can not shake it off.”

“It was strange,” mused Imogene. “I hope nothing will happen to you, Edgar, for if I could hear that you were—well, never mind what—I should die with grief.”

The couple now observed that there was a light in the cottage.

“I must go now,” said Imogene, starting up, half-affrighted lest her father should miss her.

“I will go part way with you,” and they moved away.

As they arrived near the house, they stopped a moment before parting, and Edgar happened to cast a glance back to the woods.

[16]

There, standing by a huge tree, where the moonlight fell upon him, was the form of a man—a perfect copy in every respect of Edgar Sherwood.

“Do you see it?” whispered Imogene, trembling and turning ashy pale.

“Yes.”

CHAPTER II. THE MURDERED MAN.

It was near midnight when Captain Sherwood and his men arrived in the vicinity of the Whig’s house. They had miscalculated the distance from the fort, and were later than was designed.

The Whig’s residence was one of the old-fashion farmhouses common in those days, and on all sides of it was a thick growth of foliage which, at a short distance, completely hid it from view.

The soldiers marched in single file cautiously up the road that led to the front of the house and halted. All was quiet and dark around the place. Captain Sherwood advanced a few steps and listened—the low, melancholy howl of a dog broke the stillness. Then he approached the front door to knock, but finding it open, entered.

The lower rooms of the house were dark and deserted; the furniture was scattered about in great disorder. Again the captain heard the howl of a dog which seemed to come from over his head, and hastening up the stairs he entered one of the upper rooms, where a horrid spectacle met his sight. There, on the floor, lay an old man weltering in his blood—dead. His body was horribly mangled and the scalp torn from his head. A faithful Newfoundland dog was standing with his forepaws upon the dead man’s breast, mourning over him.

Captain Sherwood turned away sick at heart, and darted down the stairs back to his men.

“The villains have been here,” said he, “and sacked the house. The old man lies dead upon the floor; the rest of the family were probably taken prisoners. Let War-Cloud hunt out their trail, for we must shoot every man of this gang.”

[17]

The soldiers were furious at this new outrage, and manifested their willingness to follow the Tory League to the end of the earth, for vengeance. In a few moments War-Cloud—the scout—gave the signal that he had found the trail, and the company started off in pursuit. Every foot of the ground was familiar to the scout, and he had no difficulty in leading the way.

All night long they hurried on in pursuit, over hills and valleys, through woods, and across plains. The trees, clad in their autumnal garb, looked like iron warriors in the moonlight, and every now and then, as a slight wind whirled the leaves to the ground, the troops would stop and listen for their enemy.

The night wore on until the moon having completed her course, left the land in darkness—but darkness not long to last, for soon the orient heralded the approach of dawning day.

As the eastern horizon began to show these signs, the soldiers, being fatigued, halted upon the summit of a high hill. Their tramp had been a long one, but still there were no signs of the Tory League save their trail, which they seemed to have taken no pains to conceal. The League had undoubtedly got a good start and were improving their advantage.

Captain Sherwood and War-Cloud withdrew a short distance from the troops, to a cliff that jutted out from the general line of the mountain. Here they could command a view of an entire valley to the distance of many miles. It was quite level and presented a beautiful scene. The surface was covered with a carpet of bright green, enameled by flowers that gleamed like many-colored gems, and here and there the willow mingled its foliage in soft shady groves, forming inviting retreats. A stream, like a silver serpent, bisected the valley—not running in a straight course, but in luxuriant windings, as though it loved to tarry in the midst of the bright scene.

War-Cloud, after scanning the whole plain before him for some time, turned to the captain with delight.

“Look, chief!” said he, pointing to that part of the valley almost below them. “See! white and red devils right there.”

Yes, there was the Tory League sure enough, quietly seated[18] upon the ground, enjoying their morning meal in full sight of the captain.

It was a motley crowd, indeed. There were white men dressed in British uniforms and others merely in loose hunting-shirts and breeches, together with the dusky savages who were in full war-costume—that is, naked to the waist, and painted over the breast and face so as to render them as frightful as possible. Their heads were closely shaven over the temples and behind the ears—a patch upon the top was cropped short, but in the center of the crown, one long lock of hair remained uncut, which was intermingled with plumes and plaited so as to hang down the back.

“Surely,” said the captain, “this is but a small part of the Tory League, for there are hardly more than seventy-five men here, and the band is said to number two or three hundred.”

“We’ll make the snakes these many less!” said the scout.

“Yes, we’ll give the villains their deserts in a short space of time; but where are the prisoners?” exclaimed the captain, glancing searchingly over the band.

“There!” said War-Cloud, his practiced eye observing them at once, seated beneath the shade of a willow tree. “Three women.”

“To their rescue at once!” cried the captain, dashing away to his company. “Up, up, every man of you, and follow me!”

The path that led from the cliff to the valley was nearly half a mile in length before it reached the level below, winding through a growth of young trees which completely hid the soldiers from view.

Down, down the mountain’s side they hurried faster and faster, until at length they burst forth upon the open plain within a few hundred yards of the enemy.

“Now, my brave fellows!” shouted Captain Sherwood, wielding his sword above his head, “teach these British villains and red rascals decency!” and away the whole troop rushed wildly upon the foe.

This was a surprise to the Tories and Indians, and a general panic seized upon them. Unmindful of every thing but their own safety, they took to flight, leaving their prisoners.[19] But, after fleeing a short distance, and finding themselves hard pressed by their foe, they turned about like hunted game at bay to give battle.

But a moment elapsed, and full two hundred men were engaged in deadly conflict.