 | CHAPTER V. The old Continental, or, The price of liberty |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
“I see nothing before us but accumulating distress. We have
been half our time without provisions, and are likely to continue so.
We have no magazines, nor money to form them. We have lived
upon expedients till we can live no longer.”
—Washington's Letter
to a Friend.
The dark days of the infant republic of America
had now come. The enemy, everywhere victorious,
had overrun, though he could not subdue, a large portion
of the land, and lorded it over some of our capitals.
The paper currency, that last and most fatal of
all the expedients of despair, was fast depreciating
into a mere nominal value; the resources of the
country were either exhausted, or could not be procured
for such a worthless equivalent; the little
waning army, suffering under the privation of almost
every necessary of life, and every means of warfare,
was struggling without hope, and the cradle of the
infant Liberty seemed on the eve of becoming its
grave.
But amid all these discouragements and disasters,
the great mass of the people, the sturdy yeomanry of
the country, remained true to the cause of independence;
and the destitute soldiers, though raw and undisciplined
in the main, continued to display a spirit
manly submission, never on any occasion exhibited by
standing armies of hirelings. So little did their rulers
doubt the patriotism of the people, that when the parliament
of England sent commissioners to the United
States with offers of forgiveness at the mere price of
returning to their allegiance, Congress directed the
terms to be published throughout the land, that every
man might see and judge for himself. This confidence
was not misplaced. The people scorned to accept
of pardon, for what they considered no crime;
and the attempt to subdue them by an amnesty for the
past, only animated their greater exertions in the future.
Both men and women, with few exceptions, remained
true to the cause, and resolved to drain the
cup of suffering to the dregs, rather than turn aside
the draught by abject submission. They never despaired,
even in the gloomiest times; but, with a generous
confidence in an oft defeated leader, resolved to
dare all, suffer all, rather than lose the glorious prize
for which they had already paid so dearly. It was
this noble confidence, this invincible ardour, this unconquerable
perseverance, which, aided by the blessing
of heaven, and heaven's best gift, a Washington,
at length baffled the efforts of one of the most powerful
nations of the earth, and gave liberty to a new
world.
The little army of Washington, after performing
wonders in New Jersey, and winning laurels in the
depths of the snows, with bare, bleeding feet, and
half-naked bodies, was now in winter-quarters at the
Highlands of the Hudson, secure, for a brief period,
in a great measure, destitute of tents; and if this had
not been the case, the rough, inclement winter of
these northern regions would have rendered these an
inadequate defence against the driving snows and
boisterous winds, that drifted and howled along the
narrow valley, through which the majestic river pursues
its way to the Atlantic.
Bidding farewell to home, as he believed for a long
while, and receiving divers cautions to take care of
himself from the old folks, John had, the morning
after parting with Jane, pursued his way to the
quarters of General Alexander McDougal, one of the
earliest and worthiest patriots of New York, with
whom his family had been acquainted during their residence
in the city, and in whose brigade his father
served as a captain of dragoons. The general was
of Scottish descent, of a cool determined character,
and undoubted courage. Like Napoleon, he was an
egregious snuff-taker, and to save the trouble of opening
a box, or, because no box of reasonable dimensions
would contain his daily supply, usually carried
his snuff in his waistcoat pocket, as we have often
heard from one of his old companions in arms. From
the same authority, we learn that the general's ruffles
and buff-jerkin, generally exhibited a plentiful sprinkling
of his favourite debauch. Our adventurer first
sought his father, and the meeting was affectionately
solemn. But after the parent had welcomed his son,
he began a long lecture on the impropriety of leaving
home, where his presence was required for the protection
farm.
“Besides,” added the captain, “you would have seen
me soon without coming here. I was about asking
leave for a few days, as early as next week—however,
John, I should not find fault with you for taking all
this trouble to see me. So give me your hand, you
are heartily welcome.”
“But, sir,” replied John, “I did not come to see you:
that is, I did not come on purpose.”
“No? what then brought you here?”
“I came to fight for my country, sir!”
“You? why, you're but a boy—a chicken, what will
you do amongst our old cocks?”
“Crow, and fight like the rest, father.”
“Pooh, John! go home and take care of the farm,
and the old people. I'm sure you've run away without
permission.”
“No, on my word, sir, they consented.”
“What! mother too?”
“Yes sir. She opposed it at first, but at last said
to me, “well go, John, fight for your country, and take
care of your father.”
“Did she, the dear old soul?” exclaimed the captain,
drawing his hand across his brow; “but why should I
doubt it, when I have seen so many of our women
with the hearts of men in their bosoms? John, you
can hardly remember your mother, you were so young
when you lost her. Though brought up tenderly in a
quiet city, I verily believe she never knew what it
was to fear for herself. I have seen her twice in situations
that made old soldiers turn pale, without a
John, you will disgrace both your parents. But you
are too young for a soldier of freedom. Can you live
without eating; sleep without covering; fight without
shirt to your back, or shoe to your foot; without pay,
and without the hope of victory? If you cannot, you'd
better go home. Look at me, John.”
John ran his eye over the poor soldier of freedom,
and though he had been absent little more than a year,
was struck with the change in his face and person.
He had grown very thin; his brow was seamed with
deep furrows; his hair, which was only a little grizzly
when he left home, was now almost white, and a
deep scar on his cheek, gave token of his having been
within arm's reach of an enemy. Cap he had none,
but its place was supplied by a coarse wool hat, of a
grim, weather beaten hue, ornamented with a little
faded plume, now of a most questionable colour. His
epaulette was of the tint of rusty copper; his garments
not only worn threadbare, but rent in more than
one place; he wore a common leather stock, and his
clumsy cowhide boots, the soles of which were gradually
departing from each other, were innocent of oil
or blacking. His sword was cased in a scabbard of
cartridge paper, made by his own hands, and his entire
appearance presented no bad emblem of the fortunes
of his country.
“Well, John, what do you think of me?”
John made no answer. His heart was too full for
words, but he thought to himself, “Such is ever the
price of liberty!”
“But don't be discouraged, boy. Though I seem
Look here—” and the captain drew from his pocket
a handful of paper money, with a smile that partook
of bitter irony. “See how rich I am, if I could only
persuade people to take these rags for money. I offered
Mangham, the pedlar—you know him, I believe,
a wary rascal—a hundred dollars for a pair of stockings,
a luxury I have not enjoyed for some time, but
the fellow answered, `No, captain, if I want to be
charitable, I give things away; but when I trade, I
expect something of equal value for my goods.' He
offered to give me a pair for old acquaintance sake,
but I could not bring myself to that. So you see me
barefoot, with a pocketful of money.”
“If I were in your place, sir, I would resign and go
home. Let me take your place, while you get a little
rest and clothe yourself. I can't bear to see you look
like a beggar.”
“No, my son,” replied the captain, with a firm determination,
unalloyed by a single spark of enthusiasm,
“no, John; when I first put on this old rusty
sword, I swore never to lay it down till my country
was free, or all hope of freedom was at an end. I
mean, if God spares my life, to keep my oath, let what
else may happen. If my country cannot give me
shoes, I will fight barefoot; if she cannot afford me a
hat, I will fight bareheaded; and if she can't pay me
for my services in money, I will live in the hope of
being repaid hereafter by her gratitude. I know she
gives us the best she has to give—that she shares in
our sufferings—and may God forsake me, when I desert
her!”
Such were the men who bore the country on their
shoulders, through peril, doubt, and despair: such the
unknown, nameless heroes, who live only in the blessings
they bestowed on posterity. And here lies the
mystery which has puzzled the world, namely, the
achievement of independence in the face of apparently
insuperable obstacles, presenting themselves at
every step and every moment, which cannot be explained
but by the virtuous firmness, the unwavering
patriotism, not more of the high than of the low; not
more of those whose names will forever remain objects
of national gratitude, than of those whose names
were never remembered. The soul that animated and
inspired the revolution, spoke from the lips of this
nameless soldier.
A somewhat animated discussion took place between
father and son, on the subject of the latter volunteering
his services in the cause of his country.
“You'll be half-starved, John.”
“I can bear what thousands suffer here.”
“You'll be half-naked.”
“So are they, sir.”
“You'll be ragged and dirty.”
“So are you, sir,” said John, rather irreverently.
“You'll never be able to go through with it.”
“Why not, as well as my father?”
“You never smelt powder, or drew blood in the
course of your life. You could never find in your
heart to cut a man down, even to save your own life.”
“Couldn't I?” quoth John—and he drew from his
pocket the testimonial of Colonel Courtlandt, giving
the particulars of the affair at old Ira Tebow's. The
clapped his hand approvingly on his shoulder.
“John,” cried he, after hesitating a few moments,
“you were born for a soldier of freedom. Come along,
and, like the old patriarch, I will offer up my only son
to God and my country.”
Accordingly, they proceeded to the quarters of General
McDougal, to wit, a hut of rough stone walls,
covered with moss-grown shingles, and containing a
single apartment, destitute of the most ordinary accommodations.
They found the rusty old soldier in a
weather-beaten suit of regimentals, solacing himself
with his favourite luxury, which he administered with
his thumb and two fingers.
“Well, captain, what news?”
“Nothing, general, except that the tories are up in
Monmouth county.”
“Ah! so I hear;” and the general took a pinch extraordinary.
“General,” said the captain, “I have brought you a
young lad, who wishes to share the pleasures of a soldier's
life. I have just been giving him some account
of them, and he has fallen in love with the profession.”
“Aye—and how old may he be, captain?”
“Between eighteen and nineteen, sir.”
“Too young—too young, captain, by a great deal.
He'll be on the sick list, the first campaign, and be
sick of the service besides. Young man, can you live
upon nothing, and sleep on the ground of a frosty
night, without any blanket but the sky?”
“I don't know, sir, till I try.”
“Eh?—well, that is a more sensible answer than I
expected. But do you think you can manage to go
half the time without a shirt to your back, or shoe to
your foot, in short, without meat, drink, clothing, or
lodging—serve without any other pay than what will
not pay for anything, fight without the prospect of victory,
and look a red coat in the face without turning
your back?”
“General, I can only answer for one thing—a heart,
and I hope an arm, to serve my country. I have other
motives than patriotism, which I will not trouble you
with. Allow me to say, I believe I can look any man
in the face, when I have done nothing that makes me
ashamed of myself.”
The general thrust his hand into his waistcoat-pocket,
and regaling himself with a pinch, half of
which, as usual, he spilled on his ruffles and buff-jerkin,
ran his eye over the young candidate.
“Faith and troth, young man, you're a likely lad,
and promise fair. God knows we want men, and
must take boys when we can get them. Do you
come of a good whig stock, for hang me, if I don't
believe whig and tory run in the blood, just like game
in fighting-cocks.”
“This is my father, sir.”
“Ho! ho!—what, captain, have you brought him
here?”
“He is my only son, general, but I did not bring
him here. He came from home by himself, of his
own accord, and I confess, I did all I could to make
him go back again. But nothing would do, and here
he is at your disposal.”
“Well, if he is your chicken, he comes of the right
breed. Lad, would you like to serve on horseback, or
on foot? But for the matter of that, there are not
half enough horses to mount the dragoons already enlisted,
captain.”
“I have brought a horse with me, general,” said
John.
“Faith, you are a provident lad, and you and your
horse shall be welcome. You wish to serve as a volunteer,
I believe?”
“If you please, general, under my father.”
“What—I suppose you would like to go home when
you get tired?”
“No, sir. I wish to enter as a volunteer, because
there is some little merit in serving my country without
being obliged to do it.”
“Well, lad, I like that answer, and shall probably
have occasion for the services of one who acts from
such motives. Can you read, write, and cipher, upon
occasion? I ask, because in these times schoolmasters
are as scarce as guineas.”
“He is something of a scholar, general,” replied the
captain, “and was educated in New York, under old
Macdonald, till the age of fourteen.”
“Macdonald, hey? then I am perfectly satisfied.
He has had learning instilled into him with the oil of
birch. How many times did he flog you, lad?”
“I don't know exactly, general. I kept count till
fifty, and then lost my reckoning.”
The general now dismissed John, with instructions
to join his father's company of dragoons, and be sure
to return upon the red coats the flogging he had received
then took their way to quarters.
The young volunteer forthwith entered on his career
with an ardour and enthusiasm inspired by patriotism
and love. He had two mistresses, his country and
Jane, who, so far from dividing, concentrated his heart
on one and the same object. His father placed him
under an old subaltern of his company, to be drilled,
and being already an expert rider, he, in a very short
period, became equally distinguished for the steadiness
and precision of his movements, as well as skill in the
management of his weapons. In short, he practiced
unweariedly, in order to accomplish himself in all the
arduous duties of a soldier, and disciplined both mind
and body to meet all the exigencies of those times
which tried the souls of men, and the firmness of
women.
The American forces being on one occasion drawn
out for review on the plain between the foot of the
mountains and the river, John had, for the first time,
a full opportunity of contemplating the man, who, by
his virtues and services, has deserved the highest of
all titles, that of father of his country. As he rode
along with that graceful dignity for which he was so
eminently distinguished, John gazed at him till he almost
forgot his soldierly duties; while all that the
great and good man had done, and was still doing for
his country rushed on his mind. He contemplated
him with affectionate reverence, unlimited confidence,
and profound gratitude; and, in the delirium of his soul,
wished to heaven, that like him, though at humble
distance, he might some day be able to do or suffer
and the remembrance of posterity. He felt, what
thousands every day experienced, in the presence of
Washington, while they all but despaired everywhere
else, a degree of confidence in the good cause which
inspired him with hope, and animated him to exertion.
Men, clothed in rags, suffering hunger and cold, and
dispirited by a long succession of disasterous fortunes,
awakened from the depths of despondency, and gazed
on the blameless hero with reviving hope of the future.
Such is the unflinching reliance of mankind on
that virtue which has been long tried and never failed.
For more than four years had the country been
overrun in various directions by an unscrupulous enemy,
who stigmatized as rebels a whole nation that
had risen in defence of its rights; and who, instead of
looking on the Americans as fellow-countrymen, manfully
struggling in behalf of every subject of England,
viewed them as turbulent mutineers, rising against
their lawful commander, and treated them as without
claim to the courtesies of civilized warfare. More
than four years had the country bled at every pore,
and bled almost without the hope its blood would not
be shed in vain. During this long period of suffering,
seldom were the soldiers of freedom, or the people
struggling to be free, cheered forward by success, or
animated by victory; and, while every day paying the
price of liberty, the boon seemed only every day receding
farther and farther from their grasp. Yet,
during this trying period, both leaders and people, soldiers
and citizens, rejected with unconquerable decision,
and wonderful unanimity, every offer of peace
past, although almost without hope of the future;
they rested with a generous reliance on a leader whose
destiny it was to be ever on the defensive without the
means of defence; and, amid all their sufferings, disappointments,
disasters and defeats, clung, with all
the ardour of devoted faith, to their virtuous, courageous,
indefatigable leader. Even despondency could
not weaken their reliance, and when a victorious general
was presented as a successor to Washington, fleeing
before a superior enemy, they decided with one
heart, one voice, that they would have no other leader.
Never did people display a more noble confidence, and
never was such confidence more richly repaid.
| CHAPTER V. The old Continental, or, The price of liberty | |