University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

The battle of Brandywine was fought on the eleventh,
of September 1777; and lasted all the day long. It
was a bloody affair to us; and had well nigh been fatal
to Greene and Sullivan.

We had been in the saddle about four hours, under
the intrepid Pulaski, who, with his own hand, examined
our points, pistols and furniture, as if assured that
the struggle would be a deadly, and long continued one.
The day—by heaven! it was one of the most beautiful
that ever broke over the earth.[1] We were about half
a mile from the main body, ranged along a green slope,
facing the west; our horses, in number about four hundred,
standing as patiently as so many marble creatures—until,
just as the eastern sky began to redden
and undulate; and cloud after cloud, to roll up, and
heave, like a great curtain, upon the wind; and the
whole heaven seemed discharging all its beauty and
brightness upon one spot—I happened to turn about

and saw the tall Pole, bareheaded, tilting his horse, like
some warlike presence—come up out of the solid earth,
to worship upon the very summit of the hil! behind us;
it might be, for the noble carriage of the man—the martial
bearing of the soldier, would permit either interpretation;
it might be, in the awful employment of devotion—or—in
the more earthward one, of martial observation.
But, suddenly, he reined up his charger,
shook the heavy dew from his horseman's cap—replaced
it, and leaped, headlong, down the hill, just as a
bright flash passed away on the horizon, followed by a
loud report; and, the next moment, a part of our ranks
were covered with dust and turf, thrown up by a cannon-ball
that struck within a hundred yards of the
place that he had just left. Our horses pricked up
their ears at the sound; and, all at once, as if a hundred
trumpets were playing in the wind, came the noise
of the enemy in his advance.

Pulaski unsheathed his sword—called out a select body,
and set off at a full gallop to a more distant elevation,
where we saw the enemy advancing in two columns;
one, under Knyphausen, which moved in tremendous
steadiness, like a dark, solid mass, in a direction
toward Maxwell; the other, under Cornwallis,
which seemed to threaten the right flank of our main
body. Intelligence was immediately sent to Washington,
and reinforcements called in, from the horse that
we had left.

We kept our position, awaiting, for a whole hour,
the sound of conflict: at last, a heavy volley rattled
along the sky—a few moments passed, and then another
followed, like a storm of iron upon drum-heads.
The whole air rung with it; another, and another
followed, and then, gradually increasing in loudness,
and loudness, came peal after peal upon us, till it resembled
one continual clap of thunder, rolling about under
an illuminated vapour.

Archibald could not sit still—and his mare seemed
possessed with a devil; in her effort to rush toward
the quarter, where the white, fiery, transparent smoke

evolved, and eddied, like that of a furnace, in a high
wind—with one uninterrupted reverberation, she struggled
and snorted, and plunged, till the clear bright
blood ran out of her nostrils, and frothed and foamed
about her lips: there was rebellion in her very eyes.

But Pulaski, with all his impetuosity, was a general;
and knew his duty too well, to hazard any movement,
till he should be able to see with certainty, the operation
of the enemy in the vapour below. Meanwhile,
several little parties that we had sent out, came in, one
after the other, in full gallop, with the intelligence, that
Knyphausen had broken down upon Maxwell in magnificent
style—been beaten back, again and again; but,
that he had finally prevailed, and that Maxwell had
retreated across the river.

A thin vapour now rose from the green earth below
us, and completely covered the enemy from our view.
It was no longer possible to follow him, except by the
sound of his tread, which we could feel in the solid
earth, jarring ourselves and our horses; and now and
then, a quick glimmering in the mist, as some standard
was raised above it—some weapon flourished, or some
musket shot through it—like a rocket.

About an hour after, a horseman dashed through the
smoke, on the very verge of the horizon—and after
scouring the fields for a whole mile, within view, communicated
with two or three others, who set off in different
directions—one to us, with orders to hurry down
to the ford, where the commander-in-chief was determined
to fall upon Knyphausen with all his power, before
Cornwallis could come to his aid. It was a noble but
hazardous game. And Pulaski, whose war-horse, literally
thundered and lightened along the broken and
stony precipice, by which we descended, kept his eyes
warily to the right, as if not quite certain, that the order
would not be countermanded.

We soon fell in with Greene, who was posting, all on
fire, to give Knyphausen battle; and, the next moment,
saw Sullivan in full march, over a distant hill, (upon

which, the morning sun broke out just then, as if leaving
the heavens for a while,) to turn the enemy's flank.

This arrangement would have been fatal to Knyphausen;
but, unluckily there was a stop put to it, almost
in the very moment, when we were ready to fall upon
him, man and horse, by the alarming intelligenee, that
Cornwallis had moved off to another quarter. There
was a moment of irresolution—doubt. It was the death
of us. Greene was recalled; and Sullivan commanded
to halt. Hardly had this happened, and our horses
were covered with sweat and froth—fretting like chained
tigers upon the bit; our men, covered with dust, and
blinded with the wind, and sun—for it was extremely
hot and sultry—when a heavy cannonade was heard on
our right flank; and Greene, whose division we had
been attached to, was put in motion for the support of
Sullivan, whom we had left some hours before. The
truth now broke upon us like a thunder clap. The enemy
had passed, concentrated, (as we supposed,) and
fallen upon our right. Lord! I never shall forget
Greene's countenance, when the news came; he was
in the road side, upon a very steep bank—but he wheeled
where he was—dashed down the bank—his face
white as the bleached marble—and calling to us, to
gallop forward for encouragement, without throwing
ourselves into the enemy's power, put his division forward,
with such a tremendous impulse, that they
marched four miles in forty minutes: we held on our
way, in a cloud of dust, and met Sullivan, all in disorder,
nearly a mile from the field, retreating, step by
step, at the head of his men, and shouting himself
hoarse—covered with blood and sweat; and striving, in
vain, to bring them to a stand—while Cornwallis was
pouring in upon them, an incessant volley.

Pulaski dashed out to the right, over the broken
fences; and there stood awhile, upright in his stirrups,
reconnoitering—while the enemy who appeared by the
smoke and dust that rolled before them, in the wind, to
be much nearer than they really were, redoubled their
efforts: but, at last, he saw a favourable opportunity.

The column wheeled—the wind swept athwart their van,
revealing them, like a batallion of spirits, breathing
fire and smoke: he gave the signal—Archibald repeated
it—Arthur—and myself. In three minutes, we were
ready for the word; and, when Pulaski, shouting in a
voice that thrilled through and through us, struck
spurs to his charger—it was half a minute—so fierce
and terrible was his charge, before we were able to
come up with him. What could he mean! gracious
heaven! my hand, convulsively, like that of a drowning
man, reined up for a moment—when I saw that we
were galloping straight forward, into a field of bayonets
—yet he was the first man! and who would not have
followed him! We did follow him, and with such a
hurricane of fire and steel, that, when we wheeled, our
whole path lay broad and open before us, with a wall
of fire upon the right hand and the left but not a bayonet
nor a blade in front, except what were under the
hoofs of our horses. My blood rushes now, like a flash
of fire, through my forehead, when I recal the devastation
that we had made—almost to the very heart of the
enemy's column. But Pulaski—he, who afterward
rode into their entrenchments, on horseback, sword in
hand, was accustomed to it; and, having broken over
them once—aware of his peril, if he should give them time
to awake from their consternation, he wheeled in a
blaze of fire, with the intention of returning, through a
wall of death, more perilous than that which shut in
the children of Israel, upon the red sea—but no! the
walls had rolled in upon us, and we were left no choice,
but to continue as we had began. The undaunted Pole
rioted in the excess of his joy; I remember how he
passed me, again and again, recking with blood—riding,
absolutely, upon the very bayonets of the enemy;
and, at last, as they pressed upon him—and horseman
after horseman, fell from our saddles—when we were
all faint and feeble, and even Archibald was fighting
on foot, over his beautiful mare, with Arthur battling
over his head, we heard the joyful cry of succour! succour!
and felt the enemy give way—heave, this way
and that, and finally concentrate, beyond us: `Once
more!' cried Pulaski, `once more!' and away he went
again, breaking in upon them, as they were forming;
and trampling down whole platoons, in the charge, before
a man could plant his bayonet, or bring his piece
to an aim: and, the next moment, we were scouring
over the ground, where I could yet see Archibald and
Arthur battling it, with four or five of the enemy's
horse; but our aspect, as we came thundering round
upon them, proved sufficient. They took to their heels,
and we brought them both off, unwounded—unhurt.

It was getting dark now, but the hour was that of
sunset; when, in this climate, the sky is like a mass of
coloured vapour floating over a bath. Greene was
forming in our rear, with that fearful calmness, which
boded a terrible time, always, to him that ventured upon
it. The ground was favourable to him; and the
half hour that the enemy lost by our charge, a mere
handful, into his solid column, was of inconcievable
benefit to Greene; for his men were literally out of
breath, and ready to drop down, at the first onset. But,
that half hour gave them an opportunity to see their
commander's face, and hear his voice; and, from that moment,
they would have stood their ground, though the
heavens had rained fire upon them

I have been in many a battle—many a one, that
made my hair stiffen afterward in my sleep, when I
dreamt of it—but never in one, where the carnage
was so dreadful—the rush of blood and fire so incessant,
as that which followed the arrival of Greene: we
were unable to strike a blow. The enemy imagining
us, no doubt, to he much more formidable than we were,
had hedged in all his exposed points, by a rank of men,
kneeling with planted bayonets; and, though we rode
upon them, again and again, discharging our pistols in
their faces—yet not one of them shut his eyes, or fired
a shot—but, where he knelt, he died; and his place was
immediately filled by another, as resolute, so that we
could not, the thing was impossible, repeat the blow
that we had given.

But one thing happened, within my own sight and
hearing, that nearly brought me to the ground, in terrour
and helplessness. Two horsemen had set upon
me; and, while I was doing my best to return their visit.
I saw that they were only a part of a squadron,
whom we had not seen before, or who had but just been
brought into action; and that several were upon Archibald,
who, while I was looking upon him, recled in the
saddle, and took a blow, I thought, that cleft his head
—for his bear-skin cap flew, and his horse broke from
the encounter, and dashed off to the right; I followed,
and soon came in contact with Weedon's Virginia
brigade, which soon relieved me from all apprehensions
on my own account; for the enemy fell before them, rank
after rank, like flax in the blaze; they were supported
by a body of the Pennsylvania militia, near the head
of whom, I saw La Fayette; the reins all loose—
wounded in the arm—his red scarf shot away, and
streaming in the wind—yet showing the same unaltered
front; and leading the raw militia up to the very eyes
of the enemy, while a sheet of fire scorched their faces.

I continued my course, and soon discovered a horseman
staggering in the darkness—whom, I knew, from
the shape and bearing, to be Archibald, long and long
before I could get to him. It was he—and he was faint,
very faint, from the loss of blood—I—I spoke to him,
and was reaching out my hand to catch the rein of his
unmanageable horse, when the animal stumbled—rolled
over—snorted, so as to cover me with a shower of
blood, and died. Archibald fell with her; and for
some minutes, I stood over him, utterly unable to
hear if he answered me, or not; such was the terrible
noise from the place of contention—so deafening—so
blinding; and such, the low, deep, inarticulate sobbing
of my poor brother: at last, however, O, how unspeakably
dear was the first sound of his voice! at last
he spoke.

`Arthur?—John?'

`Yes, brother,' said I.

We were sitting upon a wet bank—and it was quite
dark.

`Brother, is it you? I would give the world for a
drop of cool water.'

I left him, and ran about for a long time, before I
was able to find any—and, after all, was only able to
bring him a small quantity in my leather cap—that I
dare say, had been trampled into, and bled into, by dying
horses and men that day.

`God bless you!' he cried—drinking it every drop,
before he returned the cap—and, without stopping to
breathe. `Ha! the cannon still! will they fight forever?
Let us go back.'

`What! are you able to go back?'

`Able!' he cried—leaping upon his feet—`able! aye,
and will—though a whole regiment of horse had been
shot under me. I—I—'

He staggered, and fell athwart the trodden turf; and
lay for some minutes, without speaking; so long indeed,
that the firing had ceased—and we heard the two
armies moving away. Heard, I say—but I mean that
we felt them; for, inconceivable as it may seem, to
those who have had no experience, it is true, that the
tread of a battalion, heavily armed, may be felt many
miles by a person lying upon level ground in a serene
day. The Indians know this, and profit by it.

But the battle was now over; and we were at last
discovered by a party of our own troop, who, ignorant
of their loss, were scouring the open country, to protect
the wounded, and cut off the stragglers.

We then crossed the river, and moved up toward
Sweeds ford; while Sir William Howe, who seemed to
be satisfied, whenever he had fought us, without being
beaten, and was never prepared to follow up any advantage,
halted three days upon the field of battle, to
contemplate the havock that had been made; while
our cause was never in greater danger. We had lost
nearly twelve hundred men, and ten brass field pieces.

Arehibald had been sorely bruised, and fatigued beyond
all example, in the strife; but, in no other way
was he materially injured.

Again we were upon the river—Archibald and I,
sitting together; and he, poor fellow, lamenting the
loss of his mare, as if she had been his wife: by this. I
mean, not, that he whistled and sang—but, that he wept
—aye, wept, for the loss of the noble beast, and believed,
I am sure, to his dying day, that she died of a broken
heart. `Would that I had let her have her own
way!' he said.

While we were ruminating on the event and I was;
watching his full eyes, and almost mocking at his
grief—we heard a loud cry, and a plunge; we turned,
and saw Du Coudray, whom we instantly knew, by his
beautiful uniform, in the middle of the current, upon
the back of his furious horse: unluckily, in the animal's
terrour, he had entangled his feet in the reins, so
as to keep his mouth and nose under. The gallant
Frenchman lost not his presence of mind, for a moment,
but threw himself from the saddle—while the fiery
horse was beating the dark water all into foam about
him, and attemped to gain the shore. In vain, in vain
—he fainted—struck, as we always thought it probable,
by the hoofs of his horse; he gasped a moment—
made two or three desperate plunges—sobbed—the water
rushed into his throat, and he gradually sunk, till
nothing but his beautiful hair was seen floating upon
the wave, and the motion of his hands, blindly toiling
under the water for a moment longer. Many an arm
was near him—many a voice—he heard them—tried to
reach them; put his hands out of the water for a little
distance—the fingers wide apart, and went down then
forever!

Poor fellow! Archibald was near to him—but not
the nearest—and, when he went down, he uttered a loud
cry, threw himself half out of water, and sunk. Archibald
plunged after him—but it was too late—Du Coudray
had been swept away.

Again were we on the point of battle. It was the
17th of Sept. We were on the Lancaster road—near
the Warren tavern. Archibald was just able to sit his

horse, and felt particularly solicitous to do his duty
again; for Washington had been pleased to speak to
him, face to face, for his good conduct; and he was
now to battle under Washington's eyes. Our van was
already engaged; and Pulaski, all on fire, for another
dash at the enemy, was beginning to shew the usual
symptoms of onset, when, all at once, the windows of
heaven were opened; and the rain poured down in such
torrents that both armies drew off—ours with every
cartridge that they had, spoilt,—theirs, to march on to
Philadelphia, of which they took possession immediately.

And here an affair took place, in which Arthur was
personally concerned. He had been detailed, with about
twenty of our troop, to the aid of Captain Lee's dragoons,
for the purpose of destroying some flour.
Colonel Hamilton was with us. We had succeeded in
our purpose—and were about returning; when our
videttes, that we had left out, came down upon us, at
full speed, with the enemy at their heels. I was near
Hamilton, who immediately ordered us into a flat
bottomed boat, leaping his own horse in at the same
time. I obeyed; and, as we put off, under several successive
vollies from the enemy, poured into us like
hail from the bank and bridge above us—I saw Lee
and Arthur. They faced suddenly with one other
dragoon in the rear—upon the advancing column, and
dashed athwart the bridge, in their very faces, under a
general discharge. Over they went—with the fire
streaming from the heels of their horses---and all eyes
upon them---I, for one, holding my breath---and expecting
to see their bodies fall off, at the first turn of
the horses. But no---not a bullet struck them. It
seemed miraculous---yet so it was. And when I had
hold of Arthur's hand, a few moments afterward, and
saw his unaltered countenance, and handsome eyes
bright with his deliverance---I could scarcely believe
my own senses---nay---scarcely refrain from tears.

`The enemy are in Philadelphia,' said I.

`No, not yet'—he replied; `but on their way
there. What mean you?'.

`I mean,' said I, `that—that—are you entirely
at ease about Mary?'

`Perfectly,' said he, smiling. `Do you know where
she is?'

`In Philadelphia—is she not?'

He shook his head. `No,' said he—`no, I thank
you. She is in better quarters.'

`By heaven—Arthur—it is'nt possible; that young
man with you—can it be, that he.'

A young, handsome fellow, had lately joined Arthur;
and, for a moment, I was childish enough to think—
what I am ashamed to utter. He understood me—
coloured, and frowned.

`No,' he exclaimed—`no! I do not ask you what
you thought. I should not like to hear it. But Mary
is safe—at Mr. Arnauld's. Ha!—you are strangely
disturbed. Mark me, they are all well, very well—all
except Clara, and Lucia. They have heard of Clinton's
death.'