IV.—THE NIGHT-MARCH.
And as the sun went down, on that calm day of autumn, shooting his
level beams thro' the wilds of the rivulet of the Skippack, there gathered
within the woods, and along the shores of that stream, a gallant and desperate
army, with every steed ready for the march, with the columns marshalled
for the journey of death, every man with his knapsack on his shoulder,
and musket in his grasp, while the broad banner of the Continental
Host drooped heavily over head, its folds rent and torn by the fight of
Brandywine, waving solemnly in the twilight.[1]
The tents were struck, the camp fires where had been prepared the hasty
supper of the soldier, were still burning; the neighing of steeds, and the suppressed
rattle of arms, rang thro' the grove startling the night-bird of the
Skippack, when the uncertain light of a decaying flame, glowing around the
stump of a giant oak, revealed a scene of strange interest.
The flame-light fell upon the features of a gallant band of heroes, circling
round the fire, each with his war cloak, drooping over his shoulder, half
concealing the uniform of blue and buff; each with sword by his side, chapeau
in hand, ready to spring upon his war-steed neighing in the grove hard
by, at a moments warning, while every eye was fixed upon the face of the
chieftain who stood in their midst.
By the soul of Mad Anthony it was a sight that would have stirred a
man's blood to look upon—that sight of the gallant chieftains of a gallant
band, clustering round the camp fire, in the last and most solemn council of
war, ere they spurred their steeds forward in the march of death.
The man with the form of majesty, and that calm, impenetrable face,
lighted by the hidden fire of soul, bursting forth ever and again in the glance
of his eye! Had you listened to the murmurs of the dying on the field of
Brandywine you would have heard the name, that has long since become a
sound of prayer and blessing on the tongues of nations—the name of Washington.
And by his side was Greene, his fine countenance wearing a
shade of serious thought; and there listlessly thrusting his glittering sword
in the embers of the decaying fire, with his fierce eyes fixed upon the earth,
while his mustachioed lip gave a stern expression to his face, was the man
of Poland and the Patriot of Brandywine,
Pulaski, whom it were tautology
to call the brave; there was the towering form of
Sullivan, there was
Conway, with his fine face and expressive features, there was
Armstrong
and
Nash and
Maxwell and
Stirling and
Stephens, all brave men and
true, side by side with the gallant
Smallwood of Maryland, and the stalwart
Forman of Jersey.
And there with his muscular chest, clad in the close buttoned blue coat,
with his fatigue cloak thrown over his left shoulder, with his hand resting
on the hilt of his sword, was the hero of Chadd's Ford, the Commander of
the Massacred of Paoli, the future avenger of Stony Point, Anthony Wayne,
whom the soldiers loved in their delight to name Mad Anthony; shouting
that name in the hour of the charge and in the moment of death like a watch-word
of terror to the British Army.
Clustered around their Chief, were the aids-de-camp of Washington, John
Marshall, afterwards Chief Justice of the States, Alexander Hamilton,
gifted, gallant, and brave, Washington's counsellor in the hour of peril, his
bosom friend and confidant, all standing in the same circle with Pickering
and Lee, the Captain of the Partizan Band, with his slight form and swarthy
face, who was on that eventful night detailed for duty near the Commander-in-chief.
And as they stood there clustered round the person of Washington, in a
mild yet decided voice, the chieftain spoke to them of the plan of the contemplated
surprise and battle.
It was his object to take the British by surprise. He intended for the
accomplishment of this object, to attack them at once on the front of the
centre; and on the front, flank and rear of each wing. This plan of operation
would force the American commander to extend the continental army
over a surface of from five to seven miles.
In order to make this plan of attack effective, it would be necessary for
the American army to seperate near Skippack, and advance to Germantown
in four divisions, marching along as many roads.
General Armstrong with the Pennsylvania militia, 3000 strong, was to
march down the Manatawny road (now Ridge road,) and traversing the
shores of the Schuylkill, until the beautiful Wissahikon poured into its
bosom, he was to turn the left flank of the enemy at Vandurings (now Robinson's
Mill,) and then advance eastward, along the bye roads, until two
miles distance between this mill and the Germantown market-house were
accomplished.
Meanwhile the Militia of Maryland and New Jersey, were to take up
their line of march some seven or eight miles to the eastward of Armstrong's
position, and over three miles distance from Germantown. They were to
march down the Old York Road, turn the right flank of the enemy, and
attack it in the rear, also entering the town at the market-house, which was
the central point of operation for all the divisions.
Between Germantown and Old York Road, at the distance of near two
miles from the village, extends a road, called Limekiln road. The divisions
of Greene and Stephens flanked by McDougal's Brigade were to take a
circuit by this road, and attack the front of the enemy's right wing. They
also were to enter the town by the market-house.
The main body, with which was Washington, Wayne, and Sullivan, were
to advance toward Germantown by the Great Northern Road, entering the
town by way of Chesnut Hill, some four miles distant from the Market-house.
A column of this body was led on by Sullivan, another by Wayne, and
Convay's Brigade flanked the entire division.
While these four divisions advanced, the division of Lord Stirling, combined
with the brigades of Maxwell and Nash were to form a corps de
reserve.
The reader, and the student of American History, has now the plan of
battle spread out before him. In order to take in the full particulars of this
magnificent plan of battle, it may be necessary to remember the exact nature
of the ground around Germantown.
In some places plain and level, in others broken by ravines, rendered intricate
by woods, tangled by thickets, or traversed by streams, it was in its
most accessible points, and most favorable aspects, broken by enclosures,
difficult fences, massive stone walls, or other boundary marks of land, rendering
the operation of calvary at all times hazardous, and often impassible.
In the vicinage of the town, for near a mile on either side, the land spread
greenly away, in level fields, still broken by enclosures, and then came thick
woods, steep hills and dark ravines.
The base line of operations was the country around Skippack Creek,
from which point, Washington, like a mighty giant, spread forth the four
arms of his force, clutching the enemy in front, on his wings and on the
rear, all at the same moment.
It was a magnificent plan of battle, and success already seemed to hover
round the American banner, followed by a defeat of the British, as terrible
as that of Yorktown, when the red-coat heroes of Germantown struck their
own Lion from his rock.
As Washington went over the details of battle, each brave officer and
scarred chieftain leaned forward, taking in every word, with absorbing interest,
and then receiving the orders of his commander, with the utmost
attention and consideration.
All was now planned, everything was ready for the march, each General
mounted on his war-steed, rode to the head of his division, and with a low
solemn peal of music, the night-march of Germantown commenced.
And through the solemn hours of that night, along the whole valley, on
every side, was heard the half suppressed sound of marching legions, mingled
with the low muttered word of command, the clank of arms and the
neighing of war-steeds—all dim and indistinct, yet terrible to hear.—The
farmer sleeping on his humble couch, rushed to the window of his rustic
mansion at the sound, and while his wife stood beside him, all tremor and
affright, and his little ones clung to his knees, he saw with a mingled look
of surprise and fear, the forms of an armed band, some on horse and some
on foot, sweeping through his green fields, as the dim moonbeams gleaming
through the gathering mist and gloom, shone over glittering arms, and dusky
banners, all gliding past, like phantoms of the Spectre Land.
