III.—THE CAMP OF THE BRITISHER.
As the sun went down on the 3d of October, 1777, his last beams flung
a veil of golden light over the verdure of a green lawn, that extended from
the road near the head of Germantown, bounded along the village street by
a massive wall of stone, spreading north and south, over a quarter of a mile,
while toward the east, it swept in all its greenness and beauty, for the distance
of some two hundred yards.
A magnificent mansion arose towering on the air, a mansion built of grey
stone, with a steep roof, ornamented by heavy cornices, and varied massive
chimneys, with urns of brown stone, placed on pedestals of brick at each
corner of the building. This fabric was at once substantial, strikingly
adapted for defence in time of war, and neat and well-proportioned as regards
architectural beauty. The walls thick and massive, were well supplied
with windows, the hall door opened in the centre of the house, facing the
road, and the steps were decorated by two marble Lions placed on either
side, each holding an escutcheon in its grasp.
Here and there a green tree arose from the bosom of the lawn; in the
rear of the mansion were seen the brown-stone buildings of the barn, and to
the north the grounds were varied by the rustic enclosures of a cattle-pen.
This was the mansion of Chew's House, and that green lawn, spreading
bright and golden in the beams of the declining sun, was the Battle-Field
of Germantown.
One word with regard to the position of the British on the Eve of Battle.
The left wing of the British army extended from the centre of the village,
more than a mile below Chew's house, from a point near the old market
house, westward across the Wissahikon, and toward the Schuylkill. The
German chasseurs in their heavy uniform, the ponderous caps, defended by
bear-skin and steel, the massive sword, and the cumbrous ornaments of silver,
were stationed in the front and on the flank of the left wing.
The right wing swept away towards the Delaware, as far as the Old
York Road; each soldier well armed and accoutred, each dragoon supplied
with his stout war-steed, each cannon with its file of men, ready for action,
and every musket, with brilliant tube and glittering bayonet, prepared with
its man, for the keen chase of the rebel route, whenever the master of the
hounds might start the hunt.
This wing was defended in the front by a battalion of light infantry, and
the Queen's American Rangers, whose handsome accoutrements, uniform
of dark green, varied by ornaments of gold, and rifles mounted with silver,
gleamed gaily from amid the depths of the greenwood, presenting a brilliant
contrast to the course blue hunting shirt, the plain rifle, and uncouth woodsman's
knife that characterised the American Rifleman.
In a green field, situated near the Germantown road, a mile above Chew's
house, the banner of the 40th regiment floated above the tent of Col. Musgrave,
its brave commander, while the canvass dwellings of the soldiers were
scattered around the flag, intermingled with the tents of another battalion
of light infantry.
Such was the British position at Germantown—a picket at Allan's house,
Mount Airy, two miles above Chew's house—Col. Musgrave's command a
mile below Allen's house—the main body two miles below Chew's, somewhere
near the old market house—and this force was backed by four regiments
of British Grenadiers, stationed in the barracks in the Northern
Liberties, Philadelphia.
And this force, exceeding 18000 able-bodied regulars, the Patriot chieftian
had resolved to attack with 8000 Continental troops and 3000 militia, inferior
in arms, in clothing, and in everything but the justice of their cause, to
the proud soldiers of the British host.
Night came down upon Germantown. The long shadows of the old
houses were flung across the village road, and along the fields; the moon
was up in the clear heavens, the dark grey roofs were tinted with silver,
and glimpses of moonlight were flung around the massive barns of the village,
yet its peaceful denizens had not yet retired to rest, after their good old German
fashion, at early candle-light.
There was a strange fear upon the minds of the villagers. Each porch
contained its little circle; the hoary grandsire, who had suffered the bright-cheeked
grandchild to glide from his knee, while he leaned forward, with
animated gesture, conversing with his son in a low whisper—the blooming
mother, the blue-eyed maiden, and the ruddy-cheeked, flaxen-haired boy, all
sharing the interest of the scene, and having but one topic of discourse—the
terror of war.
Could we go back to that quiet autumnal night on the 3d of October, in
the Year of the “Three Sevens,” and stroll along the village street of Germantown,
we would find much to interest the ear and attract the eye.
We would leave Chew's house behind us, and stroll along the village
street. We would note the old time costumes of the villagers, the men clad
in coarse linsey wolsey, voluminous vests with wide lappels, breeches of
buckskin, stockings and buckled shoes, while the head was defended by the
`skimming dish hat;' we would admire the picturesque costume of the dames
and damsels of Germantown, here and there a young lady of “quality”
mincing her way in all the glory of high-heeled shoes, intricate head-dress,
and fine silk gown, all hooped and frilled; there a stately dame in frock of
calico, newly bought and high-priced; but most would we admire the blushing
damsel of the village, her full round cheeks peeping from beneath the
kerchief thrown lightly around her rich brown locks, her blue eyes glancing
mischievously hither and thither, her bust, full rounded and swelling with
youth and health, enclosed in the tight bodice, while the rustic petticoat of
brown linsey wolsey, short enough to disclose a neat ancle and a little foot,
would possess more attractions for our eyes, than the frock of calico or
gown of silk.
We would stroll along the street of the village, and listen to the conversation
of the villagers. Every tongue speaks of war, the old man whispers
the word as his grey hairs wave in the moonlight, the mother murmurs the
syllable of terror as the babe seeks the shelter of her bosom, the boy gaily
shouts the word, as he brandishes the rusted fowling piece in the air, and
the village beau, seated beside his sweetheart, mutters that word as the
thought of the British ravis her flashes over his mind.
Strolling from Chew's House, we would pass the Bringhursts, seated
on their porch, the Helligs, the Peters, the Unrods just opposite the old
Grave Yard, and the Lippards, and the Johnsons, below the grave yard,
at the opposite corners of the lane leading back to the township line; we
would stroll by the mansion of the Keysers, near the Mennonist grave yard;
further down we would pass the Knoors, the Haines, the Pastorius', the
Hergesimers, the Engles, the Cookes, the Conrads, the Schæffers, and
the hundred other families of Germantown, descendants of old German stock,
as seated on the porch in front of the mansion, each family circle discussed
the terrible topic of war, bloodshed, battle, and death.
Nor would we forget the various old time families, bearing the names of
Nice—Moyer—Bowman—Weaver—Bockius—Forrest—Billmeyer—Leibert—Matthias.
These names may not figure brilliantly in history, but
their's was the heraldry of an honest life.
And at every step, we would meet a British soldier, strutting by in his
coat of crimson, on every side we would behold the gleam of British arms,
and our ears would be saluted by the roll of British drums, beating the tattoo,
and the signal cannon, announcing the hour of repose.
And as midnight gathered over the roofs of the town, as the baying of the
watchdog broke upon our ears, mingled with the challenge of the sentinel,
we would stroll over the lawn of Chew's House, note the grass growing
greenly and freshly, heavy with dew, and then gazing upon the heavens, our
hearts would ask the question, whether no omen of blood in the skies,
heralded the door and the death of the morrow?
Oh, there is something of horror in the anticipation of a certain death,
when we know as surely as we know our own existence, that a coming
battle will send scores of souls shrieking to their last account, when the
green lawn, now silvered by the moonlight, will be soddened with blood,
when the ancient mansion, now rising in the midnight air, like an emblem
of rural ease, with its chimneys and its roof sleeping in the moonbeams, will
be a scene of terrible contest with sword, and ball, and bayonet; when the
roof will smoke with the lodged cannon ball, when the windows will send
their volumes of flame across the lawn, when all around will be mist and
gloom, grappling foemen, heaps of dying mingled with the dead, charging
legions, and recoiling squadrons.
