Prevod
Grozljiv je bil na bojišču pri Brandywinu mož, oborožen zgolj s kladivom, ki se je pognal v sovražne vrste, ne meneč se za lastno življenje. Zdelo se je, da se kot po čudežu izmika kroglam in udarcem sabel, sam pa je z udarci, vrednimi Thora, podiral sovražnike na tla. Še včeraj je bila vojna zanj le oddaljena govorica, nekaj tako daleč od njegove koče v Dilworthu, kakor da bi se dogajala v Evropi, toda ko je po naključju slišal za zaroto, da bi ujeli Washingtona, se je uprl in posvaril generala. Iz maščevanja so torijci požgali njegovo kočo, njegova žena in dojenček pa sta umrla v plamenih. Ves dan je sedel ob kadečih se ruševinah, nezmožen jokati, nezmožen misliti, skoraj nezmožen celo trpeti drugače kakor topo in nemo, saj še ni mogel dojeti, kaj se je zgodilo. Ko pa so zadoneli bobni, so v njem prebudili tigra; shujšan od nespečnosti in lakote se je pridružil rojakom in kakor Ajaks divjal po bojišču. Vsak klic po milosti je bil zaman: na vsako takšno prošnjo je imel le en odgovor, ženino ime — Mary.
Proti koncu bitke je ležal ob cesti, z zlomljeno nogo in razmesarjenim telesom, življenje pa mu je odtekalo iz ducata ran. Voznik voza, ki je hitel, da bi se pridružil umikajočim se Američanom, se je ustavil in mu dal piti. »Le še pet minut življenja mi je ostalo,« je rekel kovač. »Me lahko dvigneš na tisto drevo in mi položiš puško v roke?« Krepki voznik ga je dvignil v razsoho hrasta in mu dal puško in strelivo, ki ju je tam izpustil umirajoči vojak. Po cesti je pritekla skupina rdečesuknjičev, ki so preganjali nekaj kmetov. Kovač je skrbno pomeril; počilo je in vodja skupine se je mrtev zgrudil. Premor; spet je odjeknil strel in vojak je omahnil na tla. Strelca so opazili in poročnik je priganjal svoje može, naj pohitijo in ga pokončajo. Odjeknil je tretji strel in poročnik se je opotekel naprej na cesto, krvaveč in preklinjajoč. »To je za Mary,« je izdavil kovač. Puška mu je zdrsnila iz rok in tudi sam se je brez življenja sesedel med veje.
Izvirnik
Terrible in the field at Brandywine was the figure of a man armed only with a hammer, who plunged into the ranks of the enemy, heedless of his own life, yet seeming to escape their shots and sabre cuts by magic, and with Thor strokes beat them to the earth. But yesterday war had been to him a distant rumor, a thing as far from his cottage at Dilworth as if it had been in Europe, but he had revolted at a plot that he had overheard to capture Washington and had warned the general. In revenge the Tories had burned his cottage, and his wife and baby had perished in the flames. All day he had sat beside the smoking ruins, unable to weep, unable to think, unable almost to suffer, except dumbly, for as yet he could not understand it. But when the drums were heard they roused the tiger in him, and gaunt with sleeplessness and hunger he joined his countrymen and ranged like Ajax on the field. Every cry for quarter was in vain: to every such appeal he had but one reply, his wife's name--Mary.
Near the end of the fight he lay beside the road, his leg broken, his flesh torn, his life ebbing from a dozen wounds. A wagoner, hasting to join the American retreat, paused to give him drink. “I've only five minutes more of life in me,” said the smith. “Can you lift me into that tree and put a rifle in my hands?” The powerful teamster raised him to the crotch of an oak, and gave him the rifle and ammunition that a dying soldier had dropped there. A band of red-coats came running down the road, chasing some farmers. The blacksmith took careful aim; there was a report, and the leader of the band fell dead. A pause; again a report rang out, and a trooper sprawled upon the ground. The marksman had been seen, and a lieutenant was urging his men to hurry on and cut him down. There was a third report, and the lieutenant reeled forward into the road, bleeding and cursing. “That's for Mary,” gasped the blacksmith. The rifle dropped from his hands, and he, too, sank lifeless against the boughs.
