University of Virginia Library

VI.—THE DAWN OF THE FIGHT.

It was the battle day.—The Eleventh of September!

It broke in brightness and beauty, that bloody day: the sky was clear
and serene; the perfume of wild flowers was upon the air, and the blue
mists of autumn hung around the summit of the mound-like hills.

The clear sky arched above, calm as in the bygone days of Halcyon
peace, the wide forests flung their sea of leaves all wavingly into the light—
the Brandywine, with its stream and vallies, smiled in the face of the dawn,
nature was the same as in the ancient time, but man was changed.

The Fear of war had entered the lovely valley. There was dread in all
the homes of Brandywine on that autumnal morn. The Blacksmith wrought
no more at his forge, the farmer leaned wistfully upon the motionless plough,
standing idly in the half-turned furrow. The fear of war had entered the
lovely valley, and in the hearts of its people, there was a dark presentiment
of coming Doom.

Even in the Quaker Meeting house, standing some miles away from
Chadd's Ford, the peaceful Friends assembled for their Spirit Worship, felt
that another Spirit than that which stirred their hearts, would soon claim
bloody adoration in the holy place.

On the summit of a green and undulating hill, not more than half-a-mile
distant from the plain of Chadd's Ford, the eye of the traveller is arrested,
even at this day, by the sight of a giant chesnut tree, marked by a colossal
trunk, while the wide-branching limbs, with their exuberance of deep
green-leaved foliage, tell the story of two hundred years.

Under this massive chesnut tree, on that renowned morn, as the first
glimpse of the dawn broke over the battlefield, there stood a band of men in
military costume, grouped around a tall and majestic figure.

Within sight of this warlike group—a mound-shaped hill and rolling valley
intervening,—lay the plain of Chadd's Ford, with the hastily-erected
tents of the American encampment, whitening along its sward.

There floated the banner of the stars, and there, resting on their well-tried
arms, stood the brave soldiers of the Continental host, casting anxious yet
fearless glances towards the western woods which lined the rivulet, in momentary
expectation of the appearance of the British forces.

And while all was expectation and suspense in the valley below, this
warlike group had gathered under the shade of the ancient chesnut tree—a
hurried Council of war, the Prelude to the blood-stained toil of the coming
battle.

And the man who stood in their midst, towering above them all, like a
Nobleman whose title is from God, let us look well upon him. He converses
there, with a solemn presence about him. Those men, his battle-worn
peers, stand awed and silent. Look at that form, combining the symmetry
of faultless limbs, with a calm majesty of bearing, that shames the
Kings of earth into nothingness—look upon that proud form, which dignifies
that military costume of blue and buff and gold—examine well the
outlines of that face, which you could not forget among ten thousand, that
face, stamped with the silent majesty of a great soul.—

Ask the soldier the name he shouts in the vanguard of battle, ask the dying
patriot the name he murmurs, when his voice is husky with the flow of
suffocating blood, and death is iceing over his heart, and freezing in his
veins—ask the mother for the name she murmurs, when she presses her
babe to her bosom and bids him syllable a prayer for the safety of the father,
far away, amid the ranks of battle, ask History for that name, which shall
dwell evermore in the homes and hearts of men, a sound of blessing and
praise, second only in sanctity to the name of the Blessed Redeemer.—

And that name—need I speak it?

Need I speak it with the boisterous shout or wild hurrah, when it is
spoken in the still small voice of every heart that now throbs at the sound
of the word—the name of George Washington.

And as the sunbeams came bright and golden through the foliage of the
ancient chesnut tree, they shone upon the calm face of the sagacious Greene
—the rugged brow of the fearless Pulaski—the bluff, good-humored visage
of Knox—the frank, manly face of De Kalb—and there with his open brow,
his look of reckless daring, and the full brown eye that never quailed in its
glance, was the favorite son of Pennsylvania, her own hero, dear to her
history in many an oft-told tradition, the theme of a thousand legends, the
praise of historian and bard—Mad Antony Wayne!

Standing beside George Washington, you behold a young soldier—quite
a boy—with a light and well-proportioned form, mingling the outlines of
youthful beauty with the robust vigor of manly strength. His face was
free, daring, chivalric in expression, his blue eye was clear and sparkling in
its glance, and his sand-hued hair fell back in careless locks from a bold and
lofty brow.

And who was he?

Not a soldier in the American camp, from the green mountain boy of the
north, to the daring Ranger of the Santee, but knows his name and has his
story at his tongue's end, familiar as a household word.

And why cast he friends and rank and hereditary right aside, why tearing
himself from the bosom of a young and beautiful wife, did he cross the
Atlantic in peril and in danger, pursued by the storm and surrounded by the
ships of the British fleet—why did he spring so gladly upon the American
shore, why did he fling wealth, rank, life, at the feet of George Washington,
pledging honor and soul in the American cause?

Find your answer in the history of France—find your answer in the
history of her Revolutions—the Revolution of the Reign of Terror, and the
Revolution of the Three days—find your answer in the history of the
world for the last sixty years—in every line, you will behold beaming forth
that high resolve, that generous daring, that nobility of soul, which in life
made his name a blessing, and in death hangs like a glory over his memory
—the name—the memory of La Fayette.

Matter of deep import occupied this hurried council of war. In short
and emphatic words, Washington stated the position of the Continental
army. The main body were encamped near Chadd's Ford—the Pennsylvania
militia under Armstrong two miles below; the Right Wing under Sullivan
two miles above.

This Washington stated was the position of the army. He looked for
the attempt of the enemy to pass the Brandywine, either at Chadd's or
Brinton's Ford.

He had it is true, received information that a portion of the British
would attack him in front, while the main body crossing the Brandywine
some miles above, would turn his right flank and take him by surprise.

But the country—so Washington said in a tone of emphatic scorn—
swarmed with traitors and tories; he could not rely upon this information.

While the chiefs were yet in council, all doubt was solved by the arrival
of a scout, who announced the approach of Kniphausen towards Chadd's
Ford.

An hour passed.

Standing on the embankment, which grim with cannon, frowned above
Chadd's Ford, General Wayne beheld the approach of the Hessians along
the opposite hills.

The word of command rang from his lips, and then the cannon gave
forth their thunder, and the smoke of battle for the first time, darkened the
valley of the Brandywine.

Standing on the embankment, Mad Antony Wayne beheld the valley below
shrouded in smoke, he heard the cries of wounded and the dying!

He saw the brave riflemen, headed by Maxwell and Porterfield, dart
down from the fortified knoll, hurry across the meadow, until the green trees
overlooking the stream, received them in their thick shade.

Then came the fierce and deadly contest, between these riflemen and the
Yager bands of the Hessian army!

Then came the moment, when standing in mid stream, they poured the
rifle-blaze into each other's faces, when they fought foot to foot, and hand
to hand, when the death-groan bubbled up to the water's surface, as the
mangled victim was trodden down into the yellow sands of the rivulet's bed.

Then with a shout of joy, gallant Mad Anthony beheld the Hessians driven
back, while the Banner of the Stars rose gloriously among the clouds of
battle, and then—

But why should I picture the doubt, the anxiety, the awful suspense of
that morning, when Washington looking every moment for the attack of
the British on his front, was yet fearful that they would turn his right wing
and take him by surprise?

Suffice it to say, that after hours of suspense, one o'clock came, and with
that hour came the thunderbolt.

A wounded scout brought intelligence of the approach of the British, in
full force, above the heights of Birmingham Meeting House, toward the
Right Wing of the Continental Army. The wounded scout gave this dread
message, and then bit the dust, a dead man.

Come with me now, come with me through the lanes of Brandywine;
let us emerge from these thick woods, let us look upon the hills around
Birmingham Meeting House.