1. Part the First.
THE BATTLE EVE.
I.—THE RED CROSS IN PHILADELPHIA.
Toll—toll—toll! The State House bell, that once rung the birth-day of
Freedom, now tolled its knell.
It was a sad day for Philadelphia, a sad day for the nation, when the
pomp of British banners and the gleam of British arms were in her streets
and along her avenues; when, as far as eye could reach, was seen the long
array of glaring red coats, with the sunbeams of a clear September day falling
on helm and cuirass, shining like burnished gold.
It was a sad and gloomy day for the nation, when the Congress was
forced to flee the old provincial town of William Penn, when the tories
paraded the streets with loud hurrahs, with the British lion waving overhead,
while the whigs hung their heads in shame and in despair.
True, the day was calm and bright overhead; true, the sky was clear,
and the nipping air of autumn gave freshness to the mind and bloom to the
cheek; true it was, the city was all alive with the glitter of processions,
and the passing to and fro of vast crowds of people; but the processions
were a dishonor to our soil, the crowds hurried to and fro to gaze upon the
living monuments of the defeat of Brandywine—the armed and arrogant
British legions thronging the streets of Philadelphia.
They came marching along in front of the old State House, on their way
to their barracks in the Northern Liberties. The scene was full of strange
and startling interest. The roofs of the State House arose clearly in the
autumn air, each peak and cornice, each gable-end and corner, shown in full
and distinct outline, with the trees of Independence Square towering greenly
in the rear of the fabric, while up into the clear sky arose the State House
steeple, with its solemn bell of independence, that but a year ago sent forth
the news of liberty to all the land, swinging a welcome to the British host—
a welcome that sounded like the funeral knell of new world freedom. The
columns of the army were passing in front of Independence Hall. Along
Chesnut street, as far as the eye could see, shone the glittering array of
sword and bayonet, with the bright sunshine falling over the stout forms of
the British troopers, mounted on gallant war steeds, and blazing with burnished
cuirass and polished helm, while banner and pennon waived gaily
overhead. There, treading the streets in all the flush of victory, were the
regiments of British infantry, with the one bold front of their crimson attire
flashing in the light, with their bayonets rising overhead like a forest of steel,
and with marks of Brandywine written on many a whiskered face and
burly chest.
And at their head, mounted on a gallant steed, with the lordlings of his
staff around him, rode a tall and athletic man, with a sinewy frame, and a
calm, placid face, wearing an even smile and quiet look, seen from beneath
the shadow of his plumed chapeau, while his gaudy attire of crimson, with
epaulettes of gold on either shoulder, announced Lord Cornwallis, the second
general of the invading army.
And as the General glanced around, fixing his eye proudly upon the
British banner, waving from the State House steeple, as his glance was met
by the windows of Independence Hall, decorated by the flags of the British
King, a proud gleam lit up his calm blue eye; and with the thought of
Brandywine, came a vision of the future, speaking eloquently of provinces
subjugated, rebels overthrown and liberties crushed.
And then peals of music, uttered by an hundred bands, filled the street,
and startled the silence of the State House avenues, swelling up to the
heavens with notes of joy, the roll of drum, the shriek of bugle, and the
clash of cymbal mingling in grand chorus. The banners waved more
proudly overhead, the spears, the bayonets, and helmets shone brighter in
the light, and between the peals of music the loud huzzas of the crowd
blackening the sidewalks, looking from the windows, and clinging to the
trees, broke gladly upon the air.
Toll—toll—toll—the solemn notes of independence bell heralded, with an
iron tongue, the entrance of the invaders into the city; the possession of
Philadelphia by the British.
It was a grand sight to see—the windows crowded with the forms of
beauty, waving scarfs in the air, aged matrons lifting little children on high,
who clapped their hands with glee, as they beheld the glimmer of arms and
the glitter of steel, the streets below all crimson with British uniform, all
music and all joy, the side walks blackened by crowds of servile tories who
shouted till their loyal throats were tired “Long life to King George—confusion
to Washington, and death to the rebels!”
They trooped through the streets of Philadelphia on the 26th of September,
1777; just fifteen days after the battle-day of Brandywine, they took
possession with all the pomp of victory; and as the shades of twilight sank
down over the town, they marched proudly into their barracks, in the
Northern Liberties.
II.—THE HAUNT OF THE REBEL.
And where was Washington?
Retreating from the forces of Sir William Howe, along the Schuylkill;
retreating with brave men under his command, men who had dared death in
a thousand shapes, and crimsoned their hands with the carnage of Brandywine;
retreating because his powder and ammunition were exhausted; because
his soldiers wanted the necessary apparel, while their hands grasped
muskets without lock or flint.
The man of the American army retreated, but his soul was firm. The
American Congress had deserted Philadelphia, but Washington did not
despair. The British occupied the surrounding country, their arms shone
on every hill; their banners toyed in every breeze; yet had George Washington
resolved to strike another blow for the freedom of this fair land.
The calm sunlight of an autumnal afternoon was falling over the quiet
valleys, the green plains, and the rich and rolling woodland of an undulating
tract of country, spreading from the broad bosom of the Delaware to the
hilly shores of the Schuylkill, about seven miles from Philadelphia.
The roofs of an ancient village, extending in one unbroken line along the
great northern road, arose grey and massive in the sunlight, as each corniced
gable and substantial chimney looked forth from the shelter of the surrounding
trees. There was an air of quaint and rustic beauty about this village.
Its plan was plain and simple, burdened with no intricate crossings of streets,
no labyrinthine pathways, no complicated arrangement of houses. The
fabrics of the village were all situated on the line of the great northern road,
reaching from the fifth mile stone to the eighth, while a line of smaller villages
extended this “Indian file of houses” to the tenth milestone from
the city.
The houses were all stamped with marks of the German origin of their
tenants. The high, sloping roof, the walls of dark grey stone, the porch
before the door, and the garden in the rear, blooming with all the freshness
of careful culture, marked the tenements of the village, while the heavy
gable-ends and the massive cornices of every roof, gave every house an appearance
of rustic antiquity.
Around the village, on either side, spread fertile farms, each cultivated
like a garden, varied by orchards heavy with golden fruit, fields burdened
with the massive shocks of corn, or whitened with the ripe buckwheat, or
embrowned by the upturning plough.
The village looked calm and peaceful in the sunlight, but its plain and
simple people went not forth to the field to work on that calm autumnal
afternoon. The oxen stood idly in the barn-yard, cropping the fragrant hay,
the teams stood unused by the farmer, and the flail was silent within the
barn. A sudden spell seemed to have come strangely down upon the
peaceful denizens of Germantown, and that spell was the shadow of the
British banner flung over her fields of white buckwheat, surmounting the
dream-like steeps of the Wissakikon, waving from Mount Airy, and floating
in the freshning breeze of Chesnut Hill.
Had you ascended Chesnut Hill on that calm autumnal afternoon, and
gazed over the tract of country opened to your view, your eye would have
beheld a strange and stirring sight.
Above your head the clear and boundless sky, its calm azure giving no
tokens of the strife of the morrow; declining in the west, the gorgeous sun
pouring his golden light over the land; his beams of welcome having no
omen of the battle-smoke and mist that shall cloud their light on the morrow
morn.
Gaze on the valley below. Germantown, with its dark grey tenements,
sweeps away to the south, in one unbroken line; farther on you behold the
glitter of steeples, and the roofs of a large city—they are the steeples and
roofs of Philadelphia. Yon belt of blue is the broad Delaware, and yon
dim, dark object beyond the city, blackening the bosom of the waters, is
Fort Mifflin, recently erected by General Washington.
Gaze over the fields of Germantown near the centre of the village. In
every field there is the gleam of arms, on every hill-top there waves a royal
banner, and over hill and plain, toward the Schuylkill on the one side, and
the Delaware on the other, sweep the white tents of the British army.
Now turn your gaze to the north, and to the northwest. The valley
opens before you, and fairer valley never smiled beneath the sun.
Away it sweeps to the northwest, an image of rustic beauty, here a rich
copse of green woodland, just tinged by autumn, there a brown field, yonder
the Wissahikon, marking its way of light, by a winding line of silver, in
one green spot a village peeping out from among the trees; a little farther
on, a farmer's dwelling with the massive barn and the dark grey hay-stack;
on every side life, and verdure, and cultivation, mingled and crowded together,
as though the hand of God, had flung his richest blessings over the
valley, and clothed the land in verdure and in beauty.
Yonder the valley sweeps away to the northwest; the sun shines over a
dense mass of woodland rolling away to the blue of the horizon. Mark
that woodland well, try and discern the outline of every tree, and count the
miles as you gaze upon the prospect.
The distance from Chesnut Hill, is sixteen weary miles, and under that
mass of woodland, beneath the shadows of those rolling forests, beside the
streams hidden from your eye, in distress and in want, in defeat and in
danger, rendevouz the bands of a desperate, though gallant army.
It is the Continental army, and they encamp on the banks of the Skippack.
Their encampment is sad and still, no peals of music break upon the
woodland air, no loud hurrahs, no shouts of arrogant victory. The morrow
has a different tale to tell, for by the first flush of the coming morn, a meteor
will burst over the British Hosts at Germantown, and fighting for life, for
liberty, will advance the starved soldiers of the Continental host.
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.
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.
