Twelve Nightmares of Christmas, Day 8 — Ghost Rider of the Revolution

  Ready for another ghost story as we creep up on Christmas? Me too! Let’s dive in! Here’s another story from Spirits of Christmas.   The winter winds whistled around the cabin in the South Carolina woods, but inside the snug home, all was well. The cabin’s owner, David Miles, was a Quaker, and held himself and … Continue reading Twelve Nightmares of Christmas, Day 8 — Ghost Rider of the Revolution

  Ready for another ghost story as we creep up on Christmas? Me too! Let’s dive in! Here’s another story from Spirits of Christmas.

  The winter winds whistled around the cabin in the South Carolina woods, but inside the snug home, all was well. The cabin’s owner, David Miles, was a Quaker, and held himself and his family aloof from the fighting that raged around them. The Revolutionary War was a necessary evil, but Miles prayed it would not touch his two teenaged children.

Nineteen-year-old Charity, David’s daughter, heard the light hoofbeats of a horse just outside the rear of the cabin. Her heart leapt, and she jumped up from her chair, leaving her knitting forgotten on the table. A sharp knock on the door brought her father and brother to their feet as well. Charity eased the door open just a crack.

Young Henry Galbreath, a scout with the Continental Army, stood outside. Charity grabbed his hand and pulled him into the safety of the cabin.

Tears, both of joy and of worry, stood in Charity’s eyes. “Henry, I almost wish you hadn’t come. It’s too dangerous. You can’t keep coming here, not with General Tarleton’s Redcoats patrolling the area. You know I love you, but you must stay away!”

Henry bent and kissed Charity. “I can’t, love. I have to see you, or I’ll go mad. Besides, no one knows these woods better than I do. I’ll be safe, I promise.”

David Miles pulled a chair closer to the fire, and the young patriot plumped into it with a grateful smile. Henry enjoyed the company of Charity’s family, and he loved Charity. After this war was over, after the Americans won their freedom, he’d make Charity his wife.

Charity poured four mugs of chicory coffee, and Henry wrapped his cold fingers around his mug, happy for the warmth. He gazed up at Charity.

“My love, I’ll come back for you. One year from now, whether or not the war is over, I will come back.”

Charity nodded. “I will wait for you, Henry.”

David took a sip of his coffee, then stiffened. Over the sounds of the wind he’d heard the pounding of horses’ hooves—several of them. The Tories were out searching for the young scout.

Henry tossed his coffee into the fire, and Charity hastily dried the mug on her apron and threw it into the cabinet. Her brother rushed to the back of the cabin and, with the skill of long practice, removed a plank from the wall near the floor. Henry squirmed through the opening into the back yard, where his horse waited.

Scarcely had Charity’s brother replaced the board when a barrage of knocks came on the cabin door. Rough voices called out, “Open up, in the name of King George!” Gun butts smashed against the door, which sagged inwards under the blows.

Three Tories burst into the cabin, their muskets held at the ready. “Where is he?” one of the soldiers demanded.

David Miles, still seated by the fire, closed his Bible and calmly took a sip of coffee. “I have no idea who you might be looking for. My children and I are the only ones here.”

A flurry of fading hoofbeats, and the soldiers knew their prey was lost. They mounted up and thundered after the scout, but the thickly falling snow hid his tracks well.

The fighting dragged on. Weeks turned into months with no word from Henry. Even the Continental soldiers who sometimes passed through had no news of him.

One night, Charity was sitting up late after her father and brother had gone to bed. Henry’s words still echoed in her heart: One year from now, I will come back. It hadn’t yet been a year, but she longed to see Henry again, no matter the danger. She reached for her shawl and stepped out of the cabin. She felt oddly drawn to the edge of the clearing.

At the edge of the woods, a strange bluish light began to glow. Raising her hand to her eyes to shield them, Charity saw movement in the light. A rider came galloping out of the woods. He was dressed all in black, the better to blend into the shadows. He was riding hard, intent on some urgent business. He didn’t stop at the cabin, but urged his foam-flecked horse onward.

The rider hadn’t even glanced at Charity, but she knew him anyway. At that moment, she knew Henry Galbreath was dead.

Five long years passed. The Revolution, begun in hope, ended in victory. David Miles and his family gave thanks that the terrible war was over. One December night, five years after they’d last seen Henry, the family was once again enjoying a cozy winter evening together.

Charity still carried a flame of hope in her heart. Maybe she’d been wrong about the identity of the ghostly rider. Maybe the ragged rider and his sweating horse had been a trick of the moonlight. She put on a new dress and joined her father and brother, hoping that that evening, Henry would keep his promise and return to her at last.

The cabin door slammed open and a shining light filled the room. Henry Galbreath stood in the brilliance. His army uniform hung in tatters from his broad shoulders, and his eyes were raw sockets in his haggard face. His ghostly gaze fell on Charity, and she cowered in terror in spite of herself. Then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, the specter was gone.

Charity Miles never did marry. She never found out for certain what happened to her Henry, either. Being a scout, his whereabouts were often unknown. It was assumed that he had been killed in battle.

The cabin in which Henry Galbreath pledged his love to Charity Miles is long gone. But legends say that when winter winds blow cold on a December night, and the snow falls thick, a ghostly horse and rider still gallop through the woods, forever carrying news for Washington’s army.