 | Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution |  |
XIV.—WASHINGTON'S LAST CHARGE AT BRANDYWINE.
They tell us that he was cold, calm, passionless; a heart of ice and a
face of marble.
Such is the impression which certain men, claiming the title of Philosopher
and Historian, have scattered to the world, concerning our own Washington.
They compare him with the great man of France. Yes, they say Napoleon
was a man of genius, but Washington a man of talent. Napoleon was
all fire, energy, sublimity; Washington was a very good man, it is true, but
cold, calculating, common-place.
While they tell the mass of the people that Washington was a saint,
nay, almost a demi-god, they draw a curtain over his heart, they hide from
us, under piles of big words and empty phrases, Washington the Man.
You may take the demi-god if you like, and vapor away whole volumes
the Man.
He was a Man. The blood that flowed in his veins, was no Greenland
current of half-melted ice, but the warm blood of the South; fiery as its sun,
impetuous as its rivers. His was the undying love for a friend; his, the
unfathomable scorn for a mean enemy; his, the inexpressible indignation
when the spirit of party—that crawling thing, half-snake, half-ape—began
to bite his heel.
I like to look at Washington the Man. Nay, even at Washington the
Boy, dressed in plain backwoodsman's shirt and moccasins, struggling for
his life, yonder on the raft, tossed to and fro by the waves and ice of
Alleghany river.
Or at Washington the young General, sitting in his camp at Cambridge,
the map of the New World before him, as sword by his side, and pen in
hand, he planned the conquest of the Continent.
Or yet again, I love to behold Washington the Despised Rebel, sitting so
calm and serene, among those wintry hills of Valley Forge, while the
Pestilence thins his camp and Treason plots its schemes for his ruin in
Congress. Yes, I love to look upon him, even as he receives the letter announcing
the Cabal, which has been formed by dishonest and ambitious
men, for his destruction; I see the scorn flush his cheek and fire his eye;
I hear the words of indignation ring from his lips; as I look, his broad
chest heaves, his clenched hand grasps his sword.
And yet in a moment, he is calm again; he has subdued his feelings of
indignation, not because they are unjust, but from the sublime reason that
the Cause in which he is engaged is too high, too holy, for any impulse of
personal vengeance.
Here is the great key to Washington's heart and character. He was a
Man of strong passions and warm blood, yet he crushed these passions,
and subdued this fiery blood, in order to accomplish the Deliverance of his
Country. He fervently believed that he was called by God to Deliver the
New World.—This belief was in fact, the atmosphere of all his actions;
it moulded the entire man anew, and prepared the Virginia Planter, the Provincial
Colonel, for the great work of a Deliverer.
They tell me that he was never known to smile. And yet there never
breathed a man, whose heart bounded more freely at the song and jest, than
his. But there was a cause for the deep solemnity, which veiled his face
when he appeared in public. The image of his Country bleeding on her
thousand hills, under the footsteps of British Tyranny, was ever before
him, calling as with the voice of a ghost, upon him, her Champion and
Saviour.
After the Revolution, there were as substantial and important reasons for
his solemnity of look and presence as before.
The country which he had redeemed, was torn by the fangs of party-spirit.
during the war, came out from their dens as soon as the day broke over
the long night, and howled their watch-words in the ear of Washington and
around the Ark of the Country's Freedom.
How to crush these creatures, without endangering that Ark, or embroiling
the land in a civil war—this was the thought that always shadowed,
with deep solemnity, sometimes gloom, the countenance of Washington, the
President.
It is a bitter thought to me that the heart of this great, this good, this
warm-hearted man, was as much torn and pained during his Presidential
career, by the war of opposing factions, as it was in the Revolution by his
contest with a British foe.
To him there never came an hour of rest. His anxiety for his country
followed him to Mount Vernon, and ended only with his last breath. Too
pure for a party-man, soaring far above the atmosphere of faction, he only
held one name, one party dear to his heart—the name and party of the
American People.
In order to reveal a new page in this man's character and history, let us
look upon him in the hour of battle and defeat. Let us pierce the battlemists
of Brandywine, and gaze upon him at the head of his legions.
“Pulaski!”
The noble countenance of the brave Pole stood out in strong relief from
the white smoke of battle. That massive brow, surmounted by the dark
fur cap and darker plume, the aquiline nose, the lip concealed by a thick
moustache, and the full square chin, the long black hair, sweeping to the
shoulders—this marked profile was drawn in bold relief, upon the curtain
of the battle-smoke. An expression of deep sadness stamped the face of
the hero.
“I was thinking of Poland!” he exclaimed, in broken accents, as he
heard his name pronounced by Washington.
“Yes,” said Washington, with a deep solemnity of tone, “Poland has
many wrongs to avenge! But God lives in Heaven, yonder”—he pointed
upward with his sword—“and he will right the innocent at last!”
“He will!” echoed the Pole, as his gleaming eye reaching beyond time
and space seemed to behold this glorious spectacle—Poland free, the cross
shining serenely over her age-worn shrines, the light of peace glowing in
her million homes.
“Pulaski,” said Washington, “look yonder!”
The Polander followed with his eye the gesture of Washington's sword.
Gazing down the hill, he beheld the last hope of the Continental Army embosomed
among British bayonets; he saw the wreck of Sullivan's right
wing yielding slowly before the invader, yet fighting for every inch of
ground. He beheld the reserve under Greene, locked in one solid mass,
faces, hands, musquets, swords, all turned to the foe; an island of heroes,
over the fields to the foot of Osbourne's hill; the Red Cross banner waved
over the walls of the Quaker Temple. Far to the South, scattered bands
of Continentals were hurrying from the fields, some bearing their wounded
comrades, some grasping broken arms, some dragging their shattered forms
slowly along. Still that brave reserve of Greene, that wreck of Sullivan's
right wing, fought around the banner of the Stars, while the Red Cross flag
glared in their faces from every side.
The declining sun shone over the fight, lighting up the battle-clouds with
its terrible glow. It was now five o'clock. But one hour since the conflict
began, and yet a thousand souls had gone from this field of blood up to
the throne of God!
The sky is blue and smiling yonder, as you see it through the rifted
clouds—look there upon the serene azure, and tell me! Do you not behold
the ghosts of the dead, an awful and shadowy band, clustering yonder
—ghastly with wounds—dripping with blood—clustering in one solemn
meeting around that Impenetrable Bar?
At one glance, Pulaski took in the terrible details of the scene.
“Now,” shouted Washington, “Let us go down!”
He pointed to the valley with his sword. All his reserve, all his calmness
of manner were gone.
“Let us go down!” he shouted again. “The day is lost, but we will
give these British gentlemen our last farewell. Pulaski—do you hear me
—do you echo me—do you feel as I feel? The day is lost, but we will go
down!”
“Down!” echoed Pulaski, as his eye caught the glow flashing from the
eye of Washington—“Give way there! Down to the valley, for our last
farewell!”
Washington quivered from head to foot. His eye glared with the fever
of strife. The sunlight shone over his bared brow, now radiant with an
immortal impulse.
His hand gathered his sword in an iron grasp—he spoke to his steed—
the noble horse moved slowly, on, through the ranks of Pulaski's legion.
Those rough soldiers uttered a yell, as they beheld the magnificent form
of Washington, quivering with battle-rage.
“Come, Pulaski! Our banner is there! Now we will go down!”
Then there was a sight to see once—and die!
Rising in his stirrups, Washington pointed to the fight, and swept down
the hill like a whirlwind, followed by Pulaski's band, Pulaski himself vainly
endeavoring to rival his pace, at the head of the iron men.
General Greene, turning his head over his shoulders, in the thickest of
the fight, beheld with terror, with awe, the approach of Washington. He
would have thrown his horse in the path of the chief, but the voice of
even amid the clamor of that fight.
“Greene—come on!”
Who could resist that look, the upraised sword, the voice?
The band of Pulaski thundered by, and Greene followed with horse and
foot, with steed and bayonet! The fire blazing in Washington's eye spread
like an electric flash along the whole column. The soldiers were men no
longer; no fear of bayonet or bullet now! The very horses caught the
fever of that hour.
One cry burst like thunder on the British host:—“Give way there!
Washington comes to battle!”
Far down the hill, La Fayette and the Life Guard were doing immortal
deeds, for the banner of the stars.
Brows bared, uniforms fluttering in rags, they followed the Boy of Nineteen,
into the vortex of the fight, waving evermore that banner overhead.
They saw Washington come. You should have heard them shout, you
should have seen their swords how, dripping with blood, they glittered on
high.—La Fayette saw Washington come, yes, the majestic form, the sunlighted
brow! That sight inflamed his blood—
“Now, La Fayette, come on!”
They were ranged beside the band of Pulaski, these children of Washington;
the gallant Frenchman led them on.
Thus Washington, Pulaski, Greene, La Fayette, thundered down into
the fight. It was terrible to hear the tramp of their horses' hoofs.
Captain Waldemar—the brave partizan—with the last twenty of his
riders, was holding a de perate fight with thrice the number of British
troopers.—He too beheld Washington come, he too beheld that solid
column at his back; with one bound he dashed through the British band;
in another moment he was by the side of La Fayette. Washington turned
to him —
“Waldemar, we go yonder to make our last farewell! Come on!”
And they went,—yes, Washington at the head of the column led them
on. With banners waving all along the column, with swords and bayonets
mingling in one blaze of light, that iron column went to battle.
The British were in the valley and over the fields; you might count
them by thousands.
There was one horrid crash, a sound as though the earth had yawned to
engulph the armies.
Then, oh then, you might see this bolt of battle, crashing into the British
host, as a mighty river rushing into the sea, drives the ocean waves far
before it. You might see the bared brow of Washington, far over swords
and spears; then might you hear the yell of the British, as this avalanche
of steel burst on their ranks! Men, horses, all were levelled before the
path of this human hurricane. Follow the sword of Washington, yonder,
gone in terrible glory! On either side swell the British columns, but this
avalanche is so sudden, so unexpected, that their proud array are for the
moment paralyzed.
And now Washington turns again. He wheels, and his band wheel with
him. He comes back, and they come with him. His sword rises and
falls, and a thousand swords follow its motion.
And down—shrieking, torn, crushed,—the foemen are trampled; another
furrow of British dead strew the ground. Vain were it to tell the deeds of
all the heroes, in that moment of glory. Greene, La Fayette, Pulaski,
Waldemar, the thousand soldiers, all seem to have but one arm, one soul!
They struck at once, they shouted at once, at once they conquered.
“Now,” he shouted, as his uniform, covered with dust and blood, quivered
with the glorious agitation that shook his proud frame, “Now, we can
afford to retreat!”
It was a magnificent scene.
Washington—his steed halted by the roadside, the men of Pulaski and
his own life-guard ranged at his back—Washington gazed upon his legions
as they swept by. They came with dripping swords, with broken arms;
—horse and foot, went hurrying by, spreading along the rode to the south,
while the banner of the stars waved proudly overhead. First, the legions
of Greene, then the band of Waldemar, with the gallant La Fayette riding
in their midst. He was ashy pale, that chivalrous boy, and the manly arm
of a veteran trooper held him in the saddle. His leg was shattered by a
musquet ball. Yet, as he went by, he raised his hand, still grasping that
well-used sword, and murmured faintly that word his French tongue pronounced
so well—“Washington!” Washington beheld the hero, and smiled.
“God be with you, my brave friend!”
Then came the wreck of Sullivan's division, blood-stained their faces,
broken their arms, wild and wan their looks, sad and terrible their shattered
array. They swept by to the south, their gallant General still with his
band.
“Now,” said Washington, while the Life Guard and Pulaski's men encircled
him with a wall of steel, “Now we will retreat!”
At this moment, while the British recovered from their late panic, were
rushing forward in solid columns, the face and form of Washington presented
a spectacle of deep interest.
He sat erect upon his steed, gazing with mingled sadness and joy, now
upon the retrearing Continentals, now upon the advancing British. Around
him were the stout troopers; by his side the warrior form of Pulaski, far
away hills and valleys, clouded with smoke, covered with marching legions;
above, the blue sky, seen in broken glimpses—the blue sky and the declining
sun.
The blue and buff uniform of the Hero was covered with dust and blood.
His sword, lifted in his extended arm, was dyed with crimson drops.
You could see his chest heave again, and his eye glare once more:
“On, comrades, now we can afford to retreat!”
And the sunlight poured gladly over the uncovered brow of Washington.
This was the last incident of the battle! But an hour since the conflict
began, and yet the green valley is crowded with the bodies of dead men.
The Quaker temple throbs with the groans of the dying. The clear spring
of cold water, down in the lap of the valley, is now become a pool of blood,
its yellow sands clotted with carnage.
A thousand hearts, that one brief hour ago, beat with the warmest pulsations
of life, are now stilled forever. And at this dread hour, as if in
mockery of the scene, while the souls of the slain thronged trembling
to their dread account, the sun set calmly over the battle field, the blue
sky smiled again—the Brandywine went laughing on!
Let us group together these Legends of the past, illustrative of the
Romance and Tragedy of Brandywine.
| Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution | |