 | CHAPTER X. The forsaken |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
All mandates issued and obeyed;
And the deep silence was unbroke,
Save where the watch his signal spoke,
Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill,
And echo answer'd from the hill.
—Byron.
The affair at Brandywine having terminated unfavourably
to the American cause, Washington was impatient
to redeem whatever credit may have been lost,
and on the other hand, the British troops, flushed with
success, and relying on their superior force and discipline,
were equally eager for a second meeting. The
British general flattered himself that another battle
would be so decisive that it would be unnecessary
to spill another drop of rebel blood in order to subdue
the colonies to their former allegiance.
A few days after the American forces evacuated
Philadelphia, they encamped upon the highlands extending
from Valley Forge towards the Yellow Springs.
The ground was difficult of access, yet being of easy
descent, it was favourable for partial actions, without
admitting of a decisive blow.
General Wayne, with a corps of fifteen hundred
men, was in the rear of sir William Howe, from which
advantageous position of the continental army, it was
supposed that in case the enemy should attempt to
cross the Schuylkill, he would be obliged to fight the
the conflict, that he would not venture to take possession
of Philadelphia.
We shall now leave the main body safely encamped
upon the heights, and turn to that section of the army
to which captain Swain and his company were at this
period attached. He was under the command of general
Wayne, who, as just observed, was in the rear of
the British forces, and on the night of the 21st of September,
he was lying in a woods with his corps of veterans.
Numerous fires were lighted by the soldiers,
for neither their tents nor apparel were suited to the
season. Reader, imagine a night as dark as Erebus;
the watch set; the general and officers in their respective
marquees, dreaming of victory and the emancipation
of their country; the weary soldiers stretched on
the bare earth before their watch-fires, and others
slumbering in their miserable and uncomfortable tents;
imagine the silence of the camp interrupted alone by
the hard breathing of the sleeper; the regular tread of
the sentinel on his post, and the buz that proceeds from
an occasional group, who being indisposed to sleep, rebuild
the fire, and strive to while away the night, with
speculations upon the result of the morrow, or comments
on the events of the past. Imagine this, and
just enough more to make a perfect picture of an encampment
of harassed soldiers at the dead of night—
soldiers who were striving not only to emancipate their
native land, but to revolutionize the human mind. If
you will do this, gentle reader, I have no doubt you will
do it to your own satisfaction, and spare me the mortification
of failing in the attempt to convey an intelligible
picture to your imagination.
Captain Swain had been selected as the officer of the
night, and M`Crea offered to keep his old friend company
in his tent, while upon his tour of duty. Shortly
after the first watch, the conversation began to flag, and
the captain appeared to be wrapped in a brownstudy,
which lasted for ten minutes.
“What are you thinking about?” demanded the surgeon,
who perceived by his countenance that he had
got hold of a subject that he could not master.
“There is one particular respecting my illustrious
ancestor,” replied the captain, “that I am unable to
establish, notwithstanding patient and laborious research,
during my intervals of leisure, for the last forty
years. Historians disagree on the subject, and I fear
I shall die without clearing up the doubt. It is whether
the lord of Passaiung actually had a wooden leg or not.
It has been boldly asserted that he was lame, and as
boldly denied, in which case how is it possible to arrive
at a fair conclusion on this important point?”
“We must reason from the premises,” replied
M`Crea.
“Well, doctor, you have much book-learning,” said
the captain, “and I should like to hear your argument.
I promise you the finest bullock in my meadows if you
satisfy my doubts.”
“Well, then,” continued M`Crea, “it is admitted on
all hands that Peter Stuyvesant was lame, and wore a
wooden leg?”
“Yes, lame as a duck,” replied the captain.
“It is also admitted that he conquered the Fort of
the Holy Trinity, while under the command of Sven
Schute.”
“Yes, it is so recorded, and the historians do not
disagree on that point,” replied the captain, in a serious
tone.
“Then the difficulty resolves itself to this position.
Could a lame Dutchman with a wooden leg, conquer a
Swede in the full enjoyment of all his members?”
“Never!” exclaimed the captain, starting from his
seat, “you have settled a point in half a minute that
has bothered my brains for half a century. The bullock
is yours. Zounds, I should not be astonished, if in addition
to the loss of a leg, he had lost his right arm also.”
In looking through history, we find numberless historic
but by no means as satisfactorily settled.
Whenever the captain broached the affair at Fort
Casimer, though naturally a taciturn man, he was prone
to become loquacious. He considered it the most brilliant
defence to be found in the records of history, and in
comparison with it the conduct of Leonidas at the pass of
Thermopylæ or the self-devotion of Arnold of Winkelreid
sank into insignificance. We say, whenever he
broached this subject he was disposed to run it to the
dregs. A second fit of absence came over him.
“What are you ruminating about now?” demanded
the surgeon.
“I have been thinking, my friend,” replied the captain,
“what must have been the feelings of that illustrious
warrior from whom it is my pride to be descended,
when he beheld the flag of Stuyvesant, floating above
the walls over which the Swedish flag had lately
flaunted!”
“Much the same as those of Jugurtha, I suppose,”
replied the surgeon, “when led captive through the
streets of Rome.”
“I have searched Campanius and Arfswedson,” continued
the captain, “to learn how he conducted himself
during this reverse of fortune, but those historians
are by no means satisfactory in their details. As you
have so ably cleared up the doubt respecting his wooden
leg, I make no question that with a little trouble you
could satisfy me on this subject also.”
“I will investigate the point,” said the surgeon.
“Arfswedson, it is true,” continued the captain,
“would have us believe that he tamely capitulated
without striking a blow, and that he signed the capitulation
on board of Stuyvesant's flag ship. That he
suffered the whole fleet to pass the fort without as much
as firing a gun, and other circumstances derogatory to
the immortal Sven. Libellous reptile, thus to traduce
the character of the ablest soldier that has yet appeared
in the world.”
“Keep your temper,” said the surgeon.
“Of what avail is a life of public service! Of what
consequence the most brilliant exploits, since an envious
dunce with the scratch of a pen may pervert the
whole tenor of a man's existence.”
“True,” replied M`Crea, “there are many who died
for the public good, and yet are stigmatized as traitors,
while others who lived but to plunder the public treasury
are canonized for their patriotism and public services.”
“In every camp,” replied the captain, “there are
some to fight the battles, and others to run off with the
spoil; and the rascals, in this instance, would even
steal the laurels from the brows of my ancestor.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the approach
of a soldier, who halted at the entrance of the tent, and
assumed a military position, his heels together, and his
long arms close to his sides. This apparition, who
stood in the full blaze of the watch-fire, remained
speechless, until addressed by his captain—
“Well, sergeant, how wears the watch?”
“All's well,” replied the sergeant, and remained stationary.
Sergeant Talman was a man of few words, but it
must not be inferred from this that he was a man of
few ideas also, though he was a single-minded man.
There was only sufficient space in his brain for one
idea at a time, and he seldom employed many words to
give it birth. He was an exception to the general rule,
that those who think least talk most.
The sergeant was at least six feet in height, and his
lank body had been so carelessly joined to his lower
members, that they formed an obtuse angle, which defied
the most rigid military discipline ever to extend to
a straight line. His long chin, however, he held erect,
by way of example to that more obstinate portion of his
person. His head seldom moved either to the right or
left, and he was never known to smile, though his countenance
constantly bespoke perfect satisfaction with all
the world, notwithstanding his huge military whiskers.
sergeant never had more than one at a time, his risible
muscles led a life of idleness.
“Have you no report to make, sergeant?” demanded
the captain.
“None, sir,” replied the sergeant, touching his cap.
“Then what brings you from your post before the
expiration of the watch?”
“Brings me! nothing brings me. I came of my own
accord.”
“But why come at all, if you have nothing to say?”
“I have something to say. I have brought a straggler.”
“From the enemy?” demanded the captain.
“Not from the enemy,” replied the taciturn sergeant,
and came to a dead pause.
“Zounds! go on,” exclaimed the captain. “You
are like a pump without a handle; there is no getting
any thing out of you.”
Mauns Talman was descended from one of the heroes
of Fort Casimer, on which account captain Swain
not only tolerated his peculiarities, but looked upon him
as one of the best soldiers in his corps. He particularly
admired his military appearance and cast of mind,
and frequently protested that he was the only true sample
remaining of the primitive Swedes.
“Go on with your story, Mauns. Go on with your
story,” said the captain, impatiently.
“What story, sir?” demanded the single-minded sergeant.
“I was telling no story, that I remember.”
“The straggler you spoke of! Where is he, and what
of him?”
“O! true, sir. Master Jurian has arrived at camp,”
replied the sergeant, “and I came to show him the way
to your quarters. That is all. I had well nigh forgot
my errand.”
Jurian now appeared. Talman demanded of the
captain whether he had any further orders, and being
his heel, and silently stalked off in the direction he had
come.
“What a fine military walk!” exclaimed the captain,
gazing after him.” I am not astonished that honest
Sven performed such exploits of noble daring, with an
army of such men at his command. Come in, Jurian,
and be seated. Welcome to camp, my boy.” Jurian
entered and was greeted by M`Crea. The captain continued—“The
doctor and myself have been discussing
an important historical subject, and as you are familiar
with these matters, I should be pleased to know what
you consider the most striking picture that history presents?”
“Really, sir,” replied Jurian, “they are so various
that it is difficult to make a selection.”
“Then name a few of the many, and we will choose
for you.”
“The return of the exiled Camillus to Rome,” continued
Jurian, “at the instant they were weighing the
gold to ransom the city, produced on my mind a vivid
impression. The haughty and insulting deportment
of the barbarian who had thrown his arms into the scale,
is finely contrasted with the calm determination of the
Roman, who, in the emergency, possessed sufficient
presence of mind to recollect the extent of his prerogative,
obtained by his newly conferred dignities.
“Certainly a striking picture,” replied the captain,
“but the quibbling of Camillus rather belonged to a
court of justice than the field of battle.”
“Perhaps so,” continued Jurian. “I will then instance
the death of Socrates, or that of Seneca, who
with his own hands opened his veins, and calmly philosophized
while the fountain of life was draining.”
“An unnatural picture,” replied M`Crea. “The
heathen who had formed his ideas of a future state
from his enjoyments here, and clothed his gods with
sensual appetites more degrading than his own, might
new light has blazed upon the world, he must be more
than man to whom death appears divested of his terrors.
The death of the veteran Dentatus, who, placing
his back against a rock, with his single arm kept the
host of murderers at bay until they ascended the precipice
and cast stones upon him, appears to me a much
grander picture than that of your philosopher.”
“The reason of your partiality is plain,” replied Jurian;
“you are disciples of the same school.”
“How can you make that appear?” demanded the
surgeon.
“He also studied the prolongation of human life,”
replied Jurian, “though his theory differed somewhat
from your own.”
“But why draw all your examples from Roman history,”
demanded the captain. “The world is wide
enough; there is no necessity to confine yourself to
that patch of ground.”
“Then let us cross the Atlantic,” replied Jurian.
“Ay, come to the new world, boy,” exclaimed the
captain, “there is a field worthy of investigation.”
“What think you then, sir,” continued Jurian, “of
the fortitude of the Mexican, while extended on a bed
of burning coals, by the order of Cortes, to compel
him to discover hidden treasures. His reply to one of
his countrymen, who uttered loud lamentations, while
undergoing similar tortures, speaks his character at
once, and for severity of reproof and laconic brevity,
is not surpassed by any thing of the kind in the annals
of polished Greece or Rome, even at those periods
when they studied to be laconic—`Do I repose upon a
bed of roses?”'
“A smart reply,” said the captain, evidently disappointed,
“but rather too poetical for the occasion.
Did you ever read Arfswedson, my boy?”
“Never, sir,” replied Jurian.
“Nor Campanius?”
“I do not recollect to have heard of him. Who
was he, pray?”
“You may talk of your Tacitus, Herodotus, your
Plinys, and your Plutarchs,” continued the captain,
“but after all, Campanius is the only true model of a
historian. True, the magnitude of his subject may
have elevated his style, but the circumstance of selecting
a theme worthy of his talents, rather enhances
than detracts from his merit.”
The captain had always entertained a high respect
for the literary attainments of Jurian, but this confession
convinced him that there was still ample room in
his storehouse for a vast deal more lumber.
“You have presented several pictures,” continued
the captain, “but as none of them are to my taste, I
will take the brush in my own hand and paint what I
have often witnessed. O! it was a joyful scene, some
forty years ago, of a sabbath morning in spring, to behold
the countless canoes on the Delaware approaching
the stately church at Wicaco, each well freighted with
buxom girls, dressed in their short round jackets and
homespun petticoats. Among the group assembled at
the church door you might here and there see a venerable
Swede, who still retaining a partiality for the primitive
costume of the province, was clad in his calfskin
vest and jacket, tanned with the hair on, and buckskin
breeches. His venerable locks surmounted by a
little cap with a flap before it. It was a picture more
impressive and beautiful than any thing that after-life
has presented.”
“Such is usually the case with the scenes of boyhood,”
replied M`Crea.
“And in those days,” continued the captain, “it was
a joyful thing to go to a Swedish wedding. Their light
cedar canoes were invariably launched, and a whole
fleet would paddle off merrily together. You may talk
of your gondolas at Venice and your moonlight scenes,
wedding in former times than I am to the hero of Fort
Casimer.
“You say, sir, they always went in their boats,” replied
Jurian, “but how if there were no communication
by water?”
“Zounds, they would find water, and without witch
hazel, too!” exclaimed the captain. “Your true Swede
would rather travel five miles in a boat than one by
land, and between the Delaware and Schuylkill it were
hard, indeed, if he could not indulge his propensity.
They seldom used horse-flesh where nature's own
highway would answer. They were a happy and simple
race of people. Instead of the abominable plant
that has created so much bloodshed among us, they
made tea of our native sassafras, and from the persimon-tree
they had the ingenuity to extract both beer
and brandy.”
“The devil's own decoction, no doubt,” replied
M`Crea. “He has kept the whole world brewing poisons
since the time Eve pressed the apple.”
“Now tell me,” exclaimed the captain, with an air
of triumph, and without noticing the interruption,
“whether the homely picture I have roughly sketched,
is not worth a whole gallery full of your horrible designs
of men bleeding to death, or composedly making
poetry while roasting on living coals?”
“I must confess that it is a more agreeable picture,
by far,” replied Jurian, “and one altogether new to
me.”
“I knew it would be,” replied the captain. You
must read Campanius, and the scientific travels of professor
Kalm, and you will find much equally novel and
instructive. You should blush, in the midst of all your
knowledge, to betray such shameful ignorance of the
history of your own country.”
The conversation now took a different turn, M`Crea
few days before, and concluded his lecture by asking
what had become of the sword with which he had been
furnished.
“It was a treacherous blade,” replied Jurian, “and
failed me upon the first trial.”
“The devil! have you been at work already!” exclaimed
M`Crea.
“And his sword failed him!” cried the captain, betraying
the deep interest he felt. “Satisfy me of one
point, my boy, you have not been disgraced?”
“The conflict, sir, was between man and man, and
you see me here,” replied Jurian.
“Enough!” continued the captain, “I do not ask to
know your quarrel, but should another arm be wanting
before it ends, you know to whom you are in duty
bound first to apply.”
“Thanks, my generous benefactor,” replied Jurian,
grasping him by the hand.
“Old as I am,” continued the captain, “I would
not begrudge to spill a little of the best blood of honest
Sven in any quarrel of yours.”
“No quarrel of mine, I hope, sir, shall ever be vindicated
by blood so precious to me,” replied Jurian, and
again pressed the old man's hand. “I am weary, sir,
and would sleep if possible. Is their room in your tent
for me?”
“Ample, my son, and a blanket to spare, too.” He
handed a blanket to Jurian, who, wrapping it around
his body, threw himself upon the bed of straw. M`Crea
prepared to follow the example. The captain continued—
“This is the first night that you have lain in a tent,
Jurian. A harder bed than you have been accustomed
to, but that is no reason that your slumbers may not
be refreshing and sweet.”
“Fatigue may make them so. Good night.”
“Good night, and heaven bless you, my boy.”
“M`Crea threw himself on the straw beside Jurian;
and in a few minutes the hard breathing of the sleepers
saluted the ears of captain Swain, as he sat at the entrance
of the tent contemplating the fitful blaze of the
watch-fire.
| CHAPTER X. The forsaken | |