I.—THE FORLORN HOPE.
And while the mist gathered thicker and darker above, while the lurid
columns of battle smoke waved like a banner overhead, while all around
was dim and indistinct,—all objects rendered larger and swelled to gigantic
proportions by the action of the fog,—along that green lawn arose the
sound of charging legions, and the blaze of musquetry flashing from the
windows of Chew's house, gave a terrible light to the theatre of death.
Again, like a vast curtain, the mist uprose,—again were seen armed men
brandishing swords aloft, or presenting fixed bayonets, or holding the sure
rifle in their unfailing grasp, or yet again waving torches on high, all rushing
madly forward, still in regular columns, file after file, squadron after squadron—a
fierce array of battle and of death.
It was a sight worth a score of peaceful years to see! The dark and
heavy pall of battle smoke overhead, mingled with curling wreaths of snow-white
mist—the curtain of this theatre of death—the mansion of dark, grey
stone, rising massive and ponderous from the lawn, each peak and corner,
each buttress and each angle, shown clearly by the light of the musquet
flash—the green lawn spreading away from the house—the stage of the
dread theatre—crowded by bands of advancing men, with arms glittering in
the fearful light, with fierce faces stamped with looks of vengeance, sweeping
forward with one steady step, their eyes fixed upon the fatal honse;
while over their heads, and among their ranks, swept and fell the leaden
bullets of their foes, hissing through the air with the sound of serpents, or
pattering on the sod like a hailstorm of death.
And while a single brigade, with which was Washington and Sullivan
and Wayne, swept onward toward the house, the other troops of the central
division, extending east and west along the fields, were forced to remain
inactive spectators of this scene of death, while each man vainly endeavored
to pierce the gloom of the mist and smoke, and observe the course of the
darkening fight.
Some thirty yards of green lawn now lay between the forlorn hope of
the advancing Americans and Chew's house; all became suddenly still and
hushed, and the continentals could hear their own foot tramp breaking upon
the air with a deadened sound, as they swept onward toward the mansion.
A moment of terrible stillness, and then a moment of bloodshed and horror!
Like the crash of thunderbolts meeting in the zenith from distant
points of the heavens, the sound of musquetry broke over the lawn, and
from every window of Chew's house, from the hall door, and from behind
the chimneys on the roof, rolled the dense columns of musquet smoke;
while on every side, overhead, around, and beneath, the musquet flash of
the British glared like earth-riven lightning in the faces of the Americans,
and then the mist and smoke came down like a pall, and for a moment all
was dark as midnight.
A wild yell broke along the American line, and then the voice of Wayne
rung out through the darkness and the gloom—“Sweep forward under the
cover of the smoke—sweep forward and storm the house!”
They came rushing on, the gallant band of rangers, bearing torches in
their hands—they came rushing on, and their path lay over the mangled
bodies of the forlorn hope, scattered along the sod, in all the ghastliness of
wounds and death, and at their backs advanced with measured step the firm
columns of the continental army, while the air was heavy with the shriek
of wounded men, and burdened with cries of agony.
On they swept, trampling over the face of the dead in the darkness and
gloom, and then the terrible words of command rung out upon the air—
“Advance and fire—advance and storm the house!”
A volley of sheeted flame arose from the bosom of the fog along the
lawn, the thunder of the American musquetry broke upon the air, and the
balls were heard pattering against the walls of the house, and tearing splinters
from the roof.
Another moment, and the pall of mist and battle smoke is swept aside,
revealing a scene that a thousand words might not describe—a scene whose
hurry, and motion, and glare, and horror, the pencil of the artist might in
vain essay to picture.
There were glittering bayonets thrust from the windows of the house,—
there were fierce faces, with stout forms robed in crimson attire, thrust from
every casement,—there were bold men waving torches on high, rushing
around the house; here a party were piling up combustible brush-wood;
there a gallant band were affixing their scaling ladder to a second story
window, yonder another band were thundering away at the hall door, with
musquet and battle axe; while along the whole sweep of the wide lawn
poured the fire of the continental host, with a flash like lightning, yet with
uncertain and ineffectual aim.
The hand of the soldier with the hand gathered near the combustible pile
under a window—the hand of the soldier was extended with the blazing
torch, he was about to fire the heap of faggots, when his shattered arm fell
to his side, and a dead comrade came toppling over his chest.
A soldier near the hall door had been foremost among that gallant band,
the barricades were torn away, all obstructions well nigh cleared, and he
raised his battle axe to hew the door in fragments, when the axe fell with a
clanging sound upon the threshold stone, and his comrades caught his falling
body in their arms, while his severed jaw hung loosely on his breast.
The party who rushed forward in the endeavor to scale the window!
The ladder was fixed—across the trench dug around Chew's house it was
fixed—the hands of two sturdy continentals held it firm, and a file of desperate
men, headed by a stalwart backwoodsman, in rough blue shirt and
fur cap, with buck-tail plume, began the ascent of death.
The foot of the backwoodsman touched the second round of the scaling
ladder, when he sprang wildly in the air, over the heads of his comrades,
and fell dead in the narrow trench, with a death shriek that rang in the ears
of all who heard it for life. A musquet ball had penetrated his skull, and
the red torrent was already streaming over his forehead, and along his
swarthy features.
The Americans again rushed forward to the house, but it was like rushing
into the embrace of death; again they scaled the windows, again were
they driven back, while the dead bodies of their comrades littered the trench;
again they strode boldly up to the hall door, and again did soldier after
soldier crimson the threshold-stone with his blood.
