 | Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution |  |
IX.—THE HOUR OF BATTLE.
It was now four o'clock—the hour of battle.
It is the awful moment, when twenty-two thousand human beings, gazing
in each other's faces from opposite hills, await the signal word of fight.
Along the brow of yonder high hill—Osborne's hill, and down on either
side, into the valley on one hand, the plain on the other, sweeps the formidable
front of the British army, with the glittering line of bayonets above
their heads, another glittering line in their rear, while the arms of the Brigade
in Reserve glimmer still farther back, among the woods on the hill-top—and
yet farther on, a Regiment of stout Englishers await the bidding
of their masters, to advance or retire, as the fate of the day may decree.
There are long lines of glittering cannon pointed toward the opposite
hills, there are infantry, artillery and cavalry, a band of twelve thousand
men, all waiting for the signal word of fight.
On that clear space of green hill-side, between the Regiment of horse and
the Brigade in Reserve, General Howe and Lord Cornwallis rein their
steeds, encircled by the chieftains of the British host.
And from the trees along the opposite hills, pour the hurried bands of the
Continental Army, at the very moment that the British General is about to
give the word of battle, which will send an hundred Souls to Eternity!
There comes the Right Division of the army under the brave Sullivan,
the unfortunate Stephens, the gallant Stirling. They take their position in
hurry and disorder. They file along the hills in their coats of blue and
buff, they throw their rifle-bands into the Meeting House. With stout
hands, with firm hearts, this division of the Continental host confront the
formidable army, whose array flashes from yonder hill.
There mounted on his grey war-steed, Sir William Howe looked for a
and banners, and then slowly unsheathing his sword, he waved it in the
light.
That was the signal of battle.
An hundred bugles hailed that sign with their maddening peals, an hundred
drums rolled forth their deafening thunder—Hark! The hill quivers
as though an earthquake shook its grassy bosom!
Along the British line streams the blaze of musquetry, the air is filled
with the roar of cannon!
Look down into the valley below! There all is shrouded in snow-white
smoke—snow-white that heaves upward in those vast and rolling folds.
A moment passes!—
That cloud is swept aside by a breeze from the American army. That
breeze bears the groans of dying men to the very ears of Howe!
That parting cloud lays bare the awful panorama of death—wounded
men falling to the earth—death-stricken soldiers leaping in the air, with the
blood streaming from their shattered limbs.
Where solid ranks but a moment stood, now are heaps of ghastly dead!
Another moment passes, and the voice of Sullivan is heard along the
Continental line. From the southern heights there is a deafening report,
and then a blaze of flame bursts over the British ranks!
The piercing musquet shot, the sharp crack of the rifle, the roar of the
cannon, these all went up to heaven, and then all was wrapt in smoke on
the southern hills.
Then the white pall was lifted once again! Hah! The Quaker Meeting
House has become a fortress! From every window, nook and cranny
peals the rifle-blaze, the death-shot!
And then a thousand cries and groans commingling in one infernal chorus,
go shrieking up to yon sky of azure, that smiles in mockery of this scene
of murder!—And yonder, far in the west, the waters of the Brandywine
still laugh into light for a moment, and then roll calmly on.
Another moment passes! That loud shout yelling above the chorus of
death—what means it? The order rings along the British line—Charge,
charge for King George!
The Continental columns give back the shout with redoubled echo,
Charge, charge in the Name of God, in the name of Washington!
And then while the smoke gathers like a black vault overhead—like a
black vault built by demon hands, sweeping from either side, at the top of
their horses speed the troopers of the armies meet, sword to sword, with
banners mingling and with bugle pealing, fighting for life they meet. There
is a crash, a fierce recoil, and another charge!
Now the Red Cross of St. George, and the Starry Banner of the New
World, mingle their folds together, tossing and plunging to the impulse of
the battle-breeze.
Hurrah! The fever of blood is in its worst and wildest delirium! Now
are human faces trampled deep into the blood-drenched sod, now are glazing
eyes torn out by bayonet thrusts, now are quivering hearts rent from the
still-living bodies of the foemen!
Hurrah!
How gallantly the Continentals meet the brunt of strife. Rushing forward
on horse and foot, under that Starry Banner, they seek the British
foemen, they pour the death-hail into their ranks, they throttle them with
their weaponless hands.
| Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution | |