University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER THE THIRD.
THE ATTACK—THE CHASE—THE HAVOC.

“Look!” shouted Herbert Tracy, as he halted
his steed for an instant on the brow of a hill, within
pistol-shot of the Germantown Road, below Mount
Airy. “Look ye, my Rangers, how the Loyalists
flee! See how the Continentals sweep all before
them—there's Mad Anthony—I'd swear to the
stroke of his sword—and there's Pulaski—there's
Washington in the very centre of the melee. A
blow for Washington, Rangers! Whoop and
away!”

With an answering shout, the Rangers dashed
down the hill, and swept across the plain toward
the Germantown Road.

While Herbert Tracy was engaged with the troop
of Lieutenant Wellwood, a mile westward of Chestnut
Hill, the central body of the American troops,
under Wayne and Sullivan, with Washington at
their head, had reached Mount Airy, surprised a
battalion of light infantry, lodged in Allen's house
in that vicinity, and, by a bold and determined
movement, drove the enemy before them at pleasure,
following up the work with all the flush and

heat of an unexpected triumph. Scattering their
arms along the way, or ever and anon turning to
face their pursuers, the remains of the battalion of
light infantry proved the aptness of their name,
and, in the course of fifteen minutes, fled precipitately
down the Germantown Road, for the distance
of three-quarters of a mile, until they reached the
point where the 40th Regiment was stationed,
under the command of Col. Musgrave.

Here the attack was renewed with all its vigor,
and the American soldiers pressed forward as one
man, and engaged with the British muzzle to muzzle.
Col. Musgrave was seen hurrying hither and
thither along the lines, and the form of a tall, dark-browed
man, in the dress of a private citizen, with
a star of honor on his left breast, was ever at his
shoulder, aiding him in his attempts to restore confidence
to his men, and riding in the very thickest
of the fight. But it was in vain. In vain did the
British infantry plant their muskets in the sod, and
sinking on one knee, present to the advancing
Americans a wall of bristling bayonets. The charge
of Wayne came thundering on, and his loud war-cry—“Upon
them! over them!” rose above the
din of battle. In vain did the British dragoons
form in one solid front, and with upraised sword,
sweep on to meet the American infantry. They
were received mid-way by the fire of the back-woodsmen,
each rifle marking its man; and each

shot told as surely and effectually as though it was
aimed at an inanimate rather than a living mark.

The confusion of the scene increased with each
moment. Vast clouds of thick smoke began to roll
in heavy folds over the field of contest, and from
its bosom flashed the glare of musquetry, and the
blaze of the rifle, while the clash of intermingling
swords, the shouts of the combatants, the yells of
the dying, shrieks of the wounded, swelled upward
to the Heavens, in one fearful chorus, more terrible
to hear than the sound of the most fearful convulsions
of nature, the rumbling of the earthquake amid
the subterranean caverns, or the thunder peals bursting
around the summit of the Andes. These sounds
strike us with preternatural fear and awe, but the
confusion of a battle-field not only thrills us with
a feeling of indefinable awe, but awakens our sympathies
almost to madness. In every shout, a man
formed like ourselves bites the dust, in every groan
the earth is crimsoned with the life current of the
wounded, in every peal of musquetry a score of
souls wing their way from all the flush of life and
vigor of active manhood, up to that unseen and
spiritual world that is encircled with all the shadowy
creations of the brightest hopes and darkest
terrors of the human mind.

At this crisis of the contest, Captain Tracy, at
the head of his Rangers, came rushing on to join
the tide of conflict. Each man with his head erect,

his sword drawn, and his nighthawk plume fluttering
in the wind swelled the shout of vengeance, as
they poured upon the British host, and as each rifle
winged its bullet, or as each sword sought its living
sheath, the war cry of the Rangers rose high above
all other sounds—“This for Dennis McDermott!”
“This for the trumpeter boy!”

“It is in vain!” cried Colonel Musgrave to the
gentleman in citizen's dress who stood at his side—
“Major Tracy we must beat a retreat! The rebels
fight like incarnate devils! Away—away to the
main body—away toward Chew's house!”

As the order was passed along the British line,
the Americans followed up the attack with increased
zeal, and the scene became one of deadly
chase and precipitate pursuit on the Continental
side, and of hurried rout and confused retreat on
the part of his Majesty's 40th regiment.

In utter confusion, and heedless of all system or
regularity of march, the British soldiers fled along
the Germantown road, down toward the main line,
at the distance of three-quarters of a mlle.

“Now, Wayne, now!” shouted Washington, as
he rode in the van of the chase—“Follow up the
blow and we have them!”

“See! how they fly!” exclaimed Herbert with
an outburst of the wild excitement of the scene,
“On, Rangers, on! This for Dennis McDermott!
Over them, Rangers, over them! This for the
trumpeter boy!”

“This for Dennis McDermott!” shouted Harry
Heft at each stroke.

“This for the trumpeter boy! This for Dennis
McDermott!” re-echoed the Rangers, as they rode
over the retreating enemy, and scattered panic and
confusion among the British by their singular appearance,
their uniform of sable, their short sword,
which they used with a celerity and expedition that
defied all the tactics of the European soldiers, and
their rifle that uttered its volume of flame every
instant, while their jet black horses swept on with
the speed of wind.

Meanwhile, far on the American left, to the westward
of Chew's house, Greene engages with the
enemy's right, and the militia of Maryland and Jersey
attack his rear, at the same time that the Pennsylvanian
troops pour down the Ridge Road, and
throw their force upon the left of the British wing.

The sounds of battle disturbed the quiet shades
of the Wissahikon, and resounded over the fields,
along the village, to the hills on the east, and every
movement of the opposing combatants, tended to
make Germantown the centre of the contest.

The fog which had been raised for a moment at
sunrise, again passed over the landscape, and involved
the scene of strife in mist and darkness that
gave additional horror to the fight. As the divisions
of Wayne and Sullivan swept along the Germantown
Road in the pursuit of the enemy's 40th

regiment, the conflict, to the British left, began to
deepen, and the smoke of battle rolled over the farm
house of the Friend Joab Smiley, who stood gazing
from a window upon the scene of strife and bloodshed.

Dame Smiley sat in one corner of the apartment
with her face buried in her hands, to veil her eyes
from the vivid flashes of the cannon, which like
lightning ever and anon streamed through the windows.
Her daughter, the fair Marjorie, with her
dark hair all dishevelled, and her hands clasped in
silent prayer, buried her face in her mother's bosom,
in a half-kneeling, half-reclining position, while
her bosom heaved upward from its scanty covering,
and sobs and sighs of indefinable terror convulsed
her slender form. Near the mother and daughter,
with his large eyes fixed upon his massive, pawlike
hands, which were laid upon his knees, sat the
negro, “Charles the First,” whose wanderings
across the country, on his way to Major Tracy's
mansion, had been suddenly terminated by the conflict
of the opposing armies, and he was forced to
seek shelter in the farm house of the Quaker.

Apart from all the others, looking from the northern
window of the apartment, stood the Quaker
farmer, his muscular form raised to its full height,
his head erect, and his stout arms folded upon his
prominent chest, as he gazed sternly upon the
scene of conflict.

The surrounding hills and woods were enveloped
in the thick fog that enshrouded the entire face of
the country, yet still the Quaker could perceive
the form of men mingling in deadly conflict, and
the red glare of the cannon would for an instant
lift the curtain of mist, and the scene of death was
laid bare to his view.

“There—there—is the flag of the Continentals,”
he exclaimed—“Now it is down—there sails the
cross—the blood red cross of the British men. Verily
it is terrible to see so much strife and bloodshed.
Now the Americans march up the hill—
there go their war horses—now they are driven
back—Ha!—Verily!”

The Quaker drew a long breath, and stifled the
exclamation that was about to issue from his lips.

“I am a strong man,” muttered the farmer, “and
I stand and look on while my neighbors are murdered.
Verily, Hannah, I will even go forth to
the field—I will forth to the field, Hannah—Ha!
Verily!”

“Surely, Joab”—exclaimed his wife, starting on
her feet—“thee will not so far forget thee God, and
thee brethren, as to mingle in the strife of battle?
Joab—Joab—I cannot think thus hardly of thee?”

“Father, father”—shrieked Marjorie—“thee
will not peril thy life among the men of war—
father go not forth”—

The maiden's utterance was choked by sobs, and
she fell weeping upon her mother's shoulder.

“Ha! verily! I will go forth—alone—there
may be wounded who cry in vain for the cup of
water—the maiden Waltham may be in danger.
Harry Heft may be dying, and I standing here like
a block of stone, looking calmly on. I must go
forth to the field, wife—hold me not, daughter. I
must forth—I'll be with ye presently”—

“Sure's my name's Chawls de Fust”—exclaimed
the negro, rising from his deep cogitations,
“I'll go to Massa Chew's house too. Missa Waltham
may be dar alone and de debble to pay. De
Britishers may shoot me—I hab but one life—
Massa Smiley I go wid you. Dat am a fac.”

“Charles thee is a good fellow. Come with me
if thy heart fails the not. Nay, wife, I must forth
to the field!”

The Quaker and the negro servant issued from
the farm house door, and took their way to the
scene of contest, and while the mother and daughter
gazed from the window, they disappeared in
the folds of the surrounding fog.