II.—THE FIRST CORSE OF GERMANTOWN.
And yet he sleeps—he dreams! Shall we guess his dream? That home,
hidden away yonder in the shadows of an English dell—he is approaching
its threshhold.
Yes, down the old path by the mill—he sees his native cottage—his aged
father stands in the door—his sister, whom he left a young girl, now grown
into a blooming woman, beckons him on. He reaches her side—presses
her lips, and in that kiss hushes her welcome—“Brother, have you come
at last!”
But, ah! That horrid sound crashing through his dream!
He wakes,—wakes there on the porch of the old mansion—he sees that
rifle-blaze flashing through the mist—he feels the death-shot, and then falls
dead to wake in Eternity.
That rifle-blaze, flashing through the mist, is the first shot of the Battle-day
of Germantown.
And that dead man, flung along the porch in all the ghastliness of sudden
death—cold and stiff there, while his Sister awakes from her sinless sleep
to pray for him, three thousand miles away—is the first dead man of that
day of horror!
And could we wander yonder, up through the mists of this fearful morning,
even to the Throne of Heaven, we might behold the Prayer of the Sister,
the Soul of the Brother, meet face to face before Almighty God.
And now listen to that sound, thundering yonder to the North, and now
stand here on the porch of Allen's house, and see the Legions come!
They break from the folds of the mist, the Men of Brandywine—foot-soldiers
and troopers come thundering up the hill.
The blood-red moon, shining from yonder sky, like a funeral torch through
a shroud, now glares upon the advancing legions—over the musquets glittering
in long lines, over the war-horses, over the drawn swords, over the
flags rent with bullet and bayonet, over the broad Banner of Stars.
Allen's house is surrounded. The soldiers of the picket guard rush wildly
from their beds, from the scene of their late carousal by the fire, they rush
and seize their arms—but in vain! A blaze streams in every window,
soldier after soldier falls heavily to the floor, the picket guard are with the
Dead Sentinel. Allen's house is secured, and the hunt is up!
God of Battles, what a scene! The whole road, farther than the eye
could see, farther than the ear could hear, crowded by armed men, hurrying
over Chesnut Hill, hurrying along the valley between Chesnut Hill and
Mount Airy, sweeping up the hill of Allen's house, rushing onward in one
dense column, with the tall form of Sullivan at their head, while the war
shout of Anthony Wayne is borne along by the morning breeze. There,
riding from rank to rank, speeding from battalion to battalion, from column
to column, a form of majesty sweeps by, mounted on a steed of iron grey,
waving encouragement to the men, while every lip repeats the whisper, and
every heart beats at the sound, echoed like a word of magic along the lines—
“There he rides—how grandly his form towers in the mist; it's Washington—it's
Washington!” and the whole army take up the sound—“It is
Washington!”
Allen's house was passed, and now the path of the central body of the
army lay along the descent of the road from Mount Airy, for the space of a
mile, until the quarters of Colonel Musgrave's regiment were reached.
The descent was like the path of a hurricane. The light of the breaking
day, streaming dimly through mist and gloom, fell over the forms of the
patriot band as they swept down the hill, every man with his musquet ready
for the charge, every trooper with his sword drawn, every eye fixed upon
the shroud of mist in front of their path, in the vain effort to gaze upon the
position of the advance post of the enemy a mile below, every heart throbbing
wildly with the excitement of the coming contest, and all prepared for
the keen encounter,—the fight, hand to hand, foot to foot, the charge of
death, and the sweeping hail of the iron cannon ball and the leaden bullet.
How it would have made your heart throb, and beat and throb again, to
have stood on that hill of Mount Airy, and looked upon the legions as they
rushed by.
Sullivan's men have passed, they are down the hill, and you see them
below,—rank after rank disappearing in the pall of the enveloping mist.
Here they come—a band brave and true, a band with scarred faces and
sunburnt visages, with rusted musquets and tattered apparel, yet with true
hearts and stout hands. These are the men of Paoli!
And there, riding in their midst, as though his steed and himself were but
one animal—so well he backs that steed, so like is the battle-fever of
horse, with the waving mane and glaring eye, to the wild rage that stamps
the warrior's face—there in the midst of the Men of Paoli, rides their
leader—Mad Anthony Wayne!
And then his voice—how it rings out upon the morning air, rising above
the clatter of arms and the tramp of steeds, rising in a mighty shout—“On,
boys, on! In a moment we'll have them. On, comrades, on—and remember
Paoli!”
And then comes the band with the gallant Frenchman at their head; the
brave Conway, brave though unfortunate, also rushing wildly on, in the train
of the hunt. Your eye sickens as you gaze over file after file of brave men,
with mean apparel and meaner arms, some half clad, others well nigh bare-foot,
yet treading gaily over the flinty ground; some with fragments of a
coat on their backs, others without covering for their heads, all marked by
wounds, all thinned by hunger and disease, yet every man of them is firm,
every hand is true, as it clutches the musquet with an eager grasp.
Ha! That gallant band who come trooping on, spurring their stout steeds,
with wide haunches and chests of iron, hastily forward, that band with every
face seemed by scars, and darkened by the thick mustachio, every eye
gleaming beneath a knit brow, every swarthy hand raising the iron sword on
high. They wear the look of foreigners, the manner of men trained to fight
in the exterminating wars of Europe.
And their leader is tall and well-proportioned, with a dark-hued face,
marked by a compressed lip, rendered fierce by the overhanging mustachio;
his brow is shaded by the trooper's plume, and his hand grasps the trooper's
sword. He speaks to his men in a foreign tongue, he reminds them of the
well-fought field on the plain of Poland, he whispers a quick, terrible memento
of Brandywine and Paoli, and the clear word rings from his lips:
“Forwarts,—brudern,—forwarts!”
It is the band of Pulaski sweeping past, eager for the hunt of death, and
as they spur their steeds forward, a terrible confusion arises far ahead.
There is flashing of strange fires through the folds of mist, lifting the
snow-white pall for a moment—there is rolling of musquetry, rattling like
the thunderbolt ere it strikes—there is the tramp of hurrying legions, the
far-off shout of the charging continentals, and the yells and shouts of the
surprised foemen.
Sullivan is upon the camp of the enemy, upon them with the terror of
ball and bayonet. They rush from their camp, they form hastily across the
road, in front of their baggage, each red-coated trooper seeks his steed, each
footman grasps his musquet, and the loud voice of Musgrave, echoing wildly
along the line of crimson attire and flashing bayonets, is heard above all other
sounds,—“Form—lads, form—fall in there—to your arms, lads, to your
arms.—Form, comrades, form!”
In vain his shouting, in vain the haste of his men rushing from their beds,
into the very path of the advancing continentals! The men of Sullivan are
upon them! They sweep on with one bold front—the forms of the troopers,
mounted on their war-steeds, looming through the mist, as with sword
upraised, and battle-shout pealing to the skies, they lead on the charge of
death!
A moment of terror, a moment made an age by suspense! The troopers
meet, mid-way in their charge, horse to horse, sword mingled with sword,
eye glaring in eye, they meet. The ground quivers with an earthquake
shock. Steeds recoil on their haunches, the British strew the road-side,
flooding the dust with their blood, and the music of battle, the fierce music
of dying groans and cries of death, rises up with the fog, startling the very
heavens with its discord!
The hunt is up!
“On—boys—on”—rings the voice of Mad Anthony—“on—comrades—
on—and Remember Paoli!”
“Charge!” sounds the voice of Washington, shrieking along the line,
like the voice of a mighty spirit—“upon them—over them!” Conway
re-echoes the sound, Sullivan has already made the air ring with his shout,
and now Pulaski takes up the cry—“Forwarts—brudern—Forwarts!”
The hunt is up!
The British face the bayonets of the advancing Americans, but in vain!
Each bold backwoodsman sends his volley of death along the British line,
and then clubbing his musquet, rushes wildly forward, beating the red-coat
to the sod with a blow that cannot be stayed. The British troopers rush
forward in the charge, but ere half the distance between them and the Amercan
host is measured, Mad Anthony comes thundering on, with his Legion
of Iron, and as his war-shout swells on the air, the red-coats are driven back
by the hurricane force of his charge, the ground is strewn with the dying,
and the red hoofs of the horse trample madly over the faces of the dead.
Wayne charges, Pulaski charges, Conway brings up his men, and Washington
is there, in front of the battle, his sword gleaming like a meteor
through the gloom.
The fire of the infantry, spreading a sheeted flame thro' the folds of the
mist, lights up the scene. The never-ceasing clang of sword against sword,
the low muttered shriek of the fallen, vainly trying to stop the flow of
blood, the wild yell of the soldier, gazing madly round as he receives his
death wound, the shout of the charge, and the involuntary cry of `quarter,'
all furnish a music most dread and horrible, as tho' an infernal band were
urging on the work of slaughter, with their notes of fiendish mockery.
That flash of musquetry! What a light it gives the scene! Above,
clouds of white mist and lurid smoke; around, all hurry, and tramp, and
motion; faces darkened by all the passions of a demon, glaring madly in the
light, blood red hands upraised, foemen grappling in contest, swords rising
and falling, circling and glittering, the forms of the wounded, with their faces
buried in the earth, the ghastly dead, all heaped up in positions of ludicrous
mockery of death, along the roadside!
That flash of musquetry!
The form of Washington is in the centre of the fight, the battle-glare
lighting up his face of majesty; the stalwart form of Wayne is seen riding
hither and thither, waving a dripping sword in his good right hand; the
figure of Pulaski, dark as the form of an earth-riven spirit of some German
story, breaks on your eye, as enveloped in mist, he seems rushing every
where at the same moment, fighting in all points of the contest, hurrying his
men onward, and driving the affrighted British before him with the terror
of his charge.
And Col. Musgrave—where is he?
He shouts the charge to his men, he hurries hither and thither, he shouts
till he is hoarse, he fights till his person is red with the blood of his own
men, slain before his very eyes, but all in vain!
He shouts the word of retreat along his line—“Away, my men, away to
Chew's House—away!”
The retreat commences, and then indeed, the hunt of death is up in good
earnest.
The British wheel down the Germantown road, they turn their backs to
their foes, they flee wildly toward Germantown, leaving their dead and
dying in their wake, man and horse, they flee, some scattering their arms by
the roadside, others weakened by loss of blood, feebly endeavoring to join
the retreat, and then falling dead in the path of the pursuers, who with one
bold front, with one firm step rush after the British in their flight, ride down
the fleeing ranks, and scatter death along the hurrying columns.
The fever of bloodshed grows hotter, the chase grows fearful in interest,
the hounds who so often have worried down the starved Americans, are
now hunted in their turn.
And in the very van of pursuit, his tall form seen by every soldier, rode
George Washington, his mind strained to a pitch of agony, as the crisis of
the contest approached, and by his side rode Mad Anthony Wayne, now
Mad Anthony indeed, for his whole appearance was changed, his eye
seemed turned to a thing of living flame, his face was begrimed with
powder, his sword was red with blood, and his battle-shout rung fiercer on
the air—
“Over them boys—upon them—over them, and Remember Paoli!”
“Now Wayne, now”—shouted Washington—“one charge more and we
have them!”
“Forwarts—brüdern—forwarts!” shouted Pulaski, as his iron band came
thundering on—“Forwarts—for Washington—Forwarts!”
The British leader wheeled his steed for a moment, and gazed upon his
pursuers. All around was bloodshed, gloom, and death; mist and smoke
above; flame around, and mangled corses below.—With one hoarse shout,
he again bade his men make for Chew's House, and again the dying scattered
along the path looked up, and beheld the British sweeping madly
down the road.
The vanguard of the pursuers had gained the upper end of Chew's wall,
when the remnant of the British force disappeared in the fog; file after file
of the crimson-coated British were lost to sight in the mist, and in the very
heat and flush of the chase, the American army was brought to a halt in
front of Chew's wall, each soldier falling back on his comrade with a sudden
movement, while the officers gazed on each other's faces in vain inquiry
for the cause of this unexpected delay.
The fog gathered in dense folds over the heads of the soldiers, thicker
and more dense it gathered every instant; the enemy was lost to sight in
the direction of Chew's lawn, and a fearful pause of silence, from the din
and tumult of bloodshed, ensued for a single moment.
Bending from his steed in front of the gate that led into Chew's lawn,
Washington gazed round upon the faces of his staff, who circled him on
every side, with every horse recoiling on his haunches from the sudden effect
of the halt.
Washington was about to speak as he leaned from his steed, with his
sword half lowered in the misty air, he was about to speak, and ask the
meaning of this sudden disappearance of the British, when a lurid flash
lifted up the fog from the lawn, and the thunder of musquetry boomed along
the air, echoing among the nooks and corners of the ancient houses on the
opposite side of the street.
Another moment, and a soldier with face all crimsoned with blood and
darkened by battle smoke, rushed thro' the group clustering around the horse
of Washington, and in a hurried voice announced that the remnant of the
British Regiment had thrown themselves into the substantial stone mansion
on the left, and seemed determined to make good, a desperate defence.
“What say you, gentlemen”—cried Washington—“shall we press onward
into the town, and attack the main body of the enemy at once, or shall
we first drive the enemy from their strong hold, at this mansion on our left?”
The answer of Wayne was short and to the point. “Onward!”—he
shouted, and his sword rose in the air, all dripping with blood—“Onward
into the town—our soldiers are warmed with the chase—onward, and with
another blow, we have them!”
And the gallant Hamilton, the brave Pickering, the gifted Marshall, echoed
the cry—“Onward—” while the hoarse shout of Pulaski rang out in the
air—“Forwarts—brüdern—Forwarts!”
“It is against every rule of military science—” exclaimed General Knox,
whose opinion in council was ever valuable with Washington—“It is
against every rule of military science, to leave a fortified stronghold in the
rear of an advancing army. Let us first reduce the mansion on our left,
and then move forward into the centre of the town!”
There was another moment of solemn council; the older officers of the
staff united in opinion with Knox, and with one quick anxious glance
around the scene of fog and mist, Washington gave the orders to storm the
house.
And at the word, while a steady volume of flame was flashing from Chew's
House, every window pouring forth its blaze, glaring over the wreath of
mist, the continentals, horse and foot, formed across the road, to the north
of the house, eager for the signal which would bid them advance into the
very jaws of death.
The artillery were ranged some three hundred yards from the mansion—
their cannon being placed on a slight elevation, and pointed at the north-west
corner of the house. This was one of the grand mistakes of the battle, occasioned
by the density of the fog. Had the cannon been placed in a
proper position, the house would have been reduced ere the first warm flush
of pursuit was cold on the cheeks of the soldiers.
But the fog gathered thicker and more densely around, the soldiers
moved like men moving in the dark, and all was vague, dim, undefined and
uncertain.
All was ready for the storm. Here were men with firebrands, ready to
rush forward under the cover of the first volley of musquetry and fire the
house; here were long lines of soldiers grasping their guns with a quick
nervous movement, one foot advanced in the act of springing forward;
yonder were the cannoniers, their pieces loaded, the linstock in the hand
of one soldier, while another stood ready with the next charge of ammunition;
on every side was intense suspense and expectation, and heard above
all other sounds, the rattle of the British musquetry rose like thunder over
Chew's lawn, and seen the brightest of all other sights, the light of the
British guns, streamed red and lurid over the field, giving a strange brilliancy
to the wreaths of mist above, and columns of armed men below.
