 | CHAPTER XVII. The forsaken |  |
17. CHAPTER XVII.
He has filched a page from history, and calls it romance.
To-morrow let us do or die.
—Campbell.
The American army, while encamped at Skippach
creek, received a reinforcement by the junction of the
troops from Peeks-kill, and the Maryland militia. The
information obtained from Corwin, that a considerable
force had been detached from the British army, determined
the commander-in-chief to fall upon them unexpectedly,
not doubting that if he succeeded in breaking
their line of encampment, as they were not only distant
but totally separated from the fleet, his victory must be
decisive.
The British line of encampment crossed Germantown
at right angles about the centre, the left wing extending
on the west, from the town to the Schuylkill. That
wing was covered in front by the mounted and dismounted
German chasseurs, who were stationed a little
above, towards the American camp. A battalion of
light infantry and the queen's American Rangers were
in the front of the right. The centre being placed
within the town, was guarded by the fortieth regiment,
and another battalion of light infantry stationed about
three quarters of a mile above the head of the village.
General Washington so disposed his troops, that the
divisions of Sullivan and Wayne, flanked by Conway's
the town by the way of Chesnut-hill; while general
Armstrong, with the Pennsylvania militia, was ordered
to march down the Ridge road upon the banks of the
Schuylkill, attack the enemy's left and rear, and endeavour
to turn them should they retire from the river.
The divisions of Greene and Stephens, flanked by MacDougall's
brigade, were to take a circuit towards the
east by the Limekiln road, and entering the village at
the market-house, attack the left flank of the right
wing: and the militia of Maryland and Jersey, under
generals Smallwood and Freeman, were to march by
the Old York road, and fall upon the rear of the right.
Lord Sterling, with the brigades of generals Nash and
Maxwell, formed a corps of reserve.
These dispositions being made, Washington quitted
the camp at Skippach creek, and moved towards the
enemy on the third of October, about seven o'clock in
the evening. The night was uncommonly dark. The
march was rapid and silent; not a drum was sounded,
and the enlivening tones of the fife were hushed. Parties
of cavalry silently scoured all the roads to seize
any individuals who might give notice to the British of
the approaching danger. The heavy and regular tramp
of the army, and the words of command passing from
one officer to another, were the only sounds that interrupted
the dead quiet of the night. Washington in person
accompanied the column of Sullivan and Wayne.
As the army approached Chesnut-hill, Washington
expected that the enemy would be prepared to receive
them at that spot, but on emerging from the wood, and
beholding the open country unoccupied, he flattered
himself that they would be completely surprised in their
camp. The picket-guards were driven in, and as the
Americans advanced rapidly down the main road, the
hurried beat of distant drums to arms, the shrill fife, and
the braying of trumpets resounded from all quarters in
front of the advancing army. It was now near sunrise,
to see more than twenty yards before them. As
they ascended the hill near Mount Airy, their progress
was impeded by the fortieth regiment and the battalion
of light infantry posted in that quarter. A brisk fire commenced
on both sides, the Americans advanced steadily
beneath it, and the British soon began to waver. A
youthful officer, by the uncertain light, was seen riding
from one extremity of the lines to the other, encouraging
his soldiers to maintain the pass. The Americans
pressed forward, the enemy's ranks were broken—they
fled, and were pursued into the village. A loud huzzah
from those in the advance proclaimed the tidings.
The pursuit was rapid, but had not continued long
before the division was commanded to halt. This interruption
was occasioned by colonel Musgrave, who,
with six companies of the fortieth regiment, had taken
shelter in a house lying full in front of the Americans,
from which they poured a destructive fire upon their
pursuers. The Americans attempted to storm this unexpected
covert of the enemy, but those within continued
to defend themselves with resolution. A brief
council between the commander-in-chief and generals
Knox and Reed was held.
“Push on, push on,” exclaimed Reed, warmed with
the advantage gained, and impatient of delay. “Let
Musgrave escape until a nobler work shall be completed.”
“It is contrary to all military rule,” observed general
Knox, “to leave a fort possessed by an enemy in
their rear.”
“What! call this a fort, and lose the happy moment!”
exclaimed general Reed. “Where is general
Conway, let us hear his judgment.” Conway was not
to be found.
“It is madness to waste our time and ammunition
here,” continued the impatient Reed; “send a flag to
the house and summon them to surrender.” This
and volunteered to undertake the perilous expedition.
“A gallant youth, on my life,” exclaimed Knox, “I
hope yet to see the day when you shall wear a brace of
epaulettes.”
“And if so,” returned the youth, “I hope I may
carry them as nobly as my general.” A flag was presented
to the young soldier, and, as the firing abated on
the part of the Americans, he dashed his spurs into the
flanks of his impatient steed, and in a moment was lost
in the impenetrable mist that enveloped the contending
parties. A pause ensued as he approached the house,
waving the striped flag over his devoted head; the
pause was but momentary, and was succeeded by a
platoon of musketry. An instant after the horse was
seen running wild about the field of battle; his curved
neck covered with blood, which left no doubt as to the
fate of his rider.
“They have killed the gallant boy,” cried Knox;
“bring up the artillery to the assault.”
The iron lips of the cannon soon proclaimed the determination
of the assailants, while the brisk fire of the
besieged proved that they would not surrender until the
last extremity. In consequence of this attack at least
one half of Washington's division remained for some
time inactive, during which a great part of the left wing
of the British advanced with a regular and determined
step. A close and warm engagement ensued; at length
the firm phalanx of the British began to melt beneath
the intense fire of the Americans; a joyful “huzza!”
denoted the advantage; and captain Swain, who was
in the advance, cried out, “forward, brave hearts, the
town is ours!” “Forward! forward!” re-echoed
along the line. They advanced but a few paces, and
the next moment a long extended sheet of fire blazed
through the almost impenetrable mist before them, like
lightning through the murky clouds. Many fell, and
their prostrate comrades, when a deep and hollow
voice exclaimed—
“Quail not, it is for freedom ye fight; for your
homes, your wives and children. Quail not at an hour
like this.”
As captain Swain turned towards the spot whence
the sound proceeded, he beheld the wild and haggard
figure of Corwin. His blanket was secured over his
shoulders by a leather thong; his arms were extended
as if in the act of encouraging the soldiers to advance;
his features were animated to frenzy; and his long and
matted hair was streaming in the wind.
The eyes of captain Swain rested but for a moment
upon this singular figure, and then were attracted by a
more melancholy and affecting spectacle. At the feet
of Corwin lay the body of a bleeding soldier, who turned
his feeble sight towards his commander and stretched
out his hands in token of recognition. It was Mauns
Talman.
“Heaven receive you, my brave fellow!” sighed
the worthy old man, and turned from the afflicting
sight. His company had reloaded their arms. They
advanced, and the next moment the smoke of their
musketry added to the darkness that prevailed. Corwin
still kept his position by the bleeding soldier, who
crawled closer, and clasping his legs, endeavoured to
raise himself from the earth, that he might not be trampled
to death by the feet of his countrymen, who were
eagerly pressing forward to partake of the dangers of
the battle. The maniac stood firm and motionless,
with head erect, and his wild eyes turned towards the
enemy, as if the mist, that obscured the sight of others,
had no effect upon his penetrating vision. Mauns had
succeeded in raising himself upon his knees, but fell to
the earth again, through the loss of blood.
“For God's sake, save me from a death so horrible!”
he cried, as he sunk exhausted at the feet of Corwin.
“Save you; ay, and avenge you too!” cried the
maniac. “Blood for blood is heavenly retribution.”—
Saying which he picked up the gun of the soldier; the
smoke had in some measure dispersed from the spot
towards which his eyes were directed; the white
plumes of an officer were indistinctly seen; the fatal
tube was presented, and discharged. Corwin threw
down the gun and continued looking in the same direction
for a few moments. The white plumes were no
longer seen; he burst into a wild laugh, and shouted,
“Freedom! freedom! universal and unshackled freedom!”
He then lifted the wounded man from the
ground, and hurried from the scene of carnage, supporting
him in his arms. He had not advanced far before
his ears were greeted with the exclamations,
“Agnew has fallen!” “Agnew is dead!”
During this bloody conflict with the centre, general
Greene came up with his column; and as a number of
his troops were stopped by the division that had halted
in front of Chew's house, he moved a few hundred yards
north of the village, and commenced a furious attack
upon the right wing of the enemy. Great numbers of
the villagers by this time had ascended to the roofs of
their houses, and were spectators of the fearful conflict.
Colonel Matthews, of Greene's column, assailed the
enemy with such spirit, that their ranks were soon
broken, and they retreated in confusion towards the
centre of the village. Matthews pursued so closely
upon the rear of the light infantry and the queen's
Rangers, that numbers fell beneath his destructive fire,
and upwards of a hundred surrendered themselves prisoners
to their gallant conqueror. They were about
entering the village, with victory perched beside the
eagle on their banners, when they perceived they had
lost sight of the rest of the division, owing to the dense
fog, and the unevenness of the ground they had marched
over. While in this perplexity, the extremity of the
right wing of the British, seeing that there was nothing
Maryland and Jersey, fell back, and completely hemmed
in the victorious Americans.
Colonel Matthews no sooner perceived his danger
than he gave over the pursuit, and prepared to fight his
way to the main body of the Americans. The prisoners
he had taken were rescued, and a bloody conflict followed,
which, however, was of short duration. In the
heat of the conflict, Corwin, mounted on a milk-white
steed, richly caparisoned, dashed in between the contending
parties, waving a drawn sword above his head,
and shouting, “Freedom! freedom! universal and unshackled
freedom!”
The impatience of the steed was evidently beyond
the control of the rider, for he rushed indiscriminately
among friends and enemies, while the maniac kept his
seat as if wholly unconscious of the dangers that surrounded
him. The figure was peculiarly striking. The
war-horse, as much excited and bewildered by the din
of battle as his rider, stood for a moment pawing the
red earth, until the clangour of martial instruments and
the scent of blood rendered him unmanageable. He
tossed his head from the fresh earth he had turned up
with his foot, and snorted aloud. A soldier was dying
within a few paces, and the hoofs of the horse were
stained with his life's blood. The generous animal then
darted headlong towards the advancing phalanx of the
enemy, while Corwin continued to shout, “Freedom!
freedom! universal and unshackled freedom!”
His cry was lost in the report of a platoon of musketry
as he approached. The horse threw back his
head at the report, paused for a moment, and then
rushed at full speed in the opposite direction. He had
not proceeded more than fifty yards before he stopped
suddenly, reared up, and fell backwards upon the earth.
The blood was streaming from his breast—he raised
his head, threw out one of his fore-legs, and as the din
of the battle increased, the other followed. He made
attempts, fell exhausted to the ground. He pawed in
desperation, which but increased the discharge of blood
from his wound; and, finally, summoning all the strength
of expiring nature, he started on his feet, and pricked
his ears at the braying of the trumpet. The flash was
but momentary; his head gradually descended; he gasped
for breath; his knees bent beneath his weight, and
he again fell upon the bloody sward from which he
had just risen. After a faint struggle his limbs were
motionless.
Corwin had fortunately disengaged himself from the
animal before he fell: he watched him until dead, and
then directed his steps towards colonel Matthews's regiment.
The British were now advancing with fixed
bayonets. Two of the queen's Rangers chanced to
espy Corwin, slowly crossing the space that lay between
the contending parties. They clapped spurs to
their horses, and in the next moment were beside the
unhappy man.
“Surrender!” shouted one of his pursuers.
“To death, sooner,” replied Corwin, at the same
time attempting to fight his way from between the
horsemen.
“Then be it as you wish,” was the reply. Their swords
flashed before the eyes of the maniac, and glittered in
the feeble rays of the morning sun, faintly struggling
through the murky atmosphere. They stood erect in
their stirrups—Corwin raised his head and threw up
his arms—the swords fell—and the next moment Corwin
was writhing at the feet of the horses. As he fell,
the Rangers darted off in a direction where their services
were more required.
Colonel Matthews perceiving the impossibility of
fighting his way through the enemy, and that no assistance
was to be expected from the militia under
generals Smallwood and Freeman, reluctantly surrendered
his whole regiment, after having performed
lasting reputation for dauntless courage, and science in
the art of war. In consequence of this check, two
regiments of the English right wing were enabled to
throw themselves into Germantown, and to attack the
Americans who had entered it in flank. Unable to
sustain the shock, they retired precipitately, leaving a
number killed and wounded. Colonel Musgrave was
then relieved from all peril, and general Grey being
absolute master of the town, hastened to the succour
of the right wing, which was engaged with the left of
the column of Greene. The Americans then retreated,
and abandoned a victory, throughout the line, of which
they had felt assurance in the commencement of the
action.
General Greene, with his own and Stephens's division,
formed the last column of the retreating Americans.
They marched in a north-westernly direction
from the village, and as the pursuit was warm, upon
coming to the junction of two roads, general Greene
marched one division on the one road, and the second
on the other, that they might aid each other, and prevent
the enemy advancing by either road so as to get
ahead of him.
While continuing his retreat, Pulaski's cavalry, who
were in his rear, being fired upon by the enemy, rode
over the second division, and threw them into the utmost
disorder, as they knew not at first but that they
were the British dragoons. The men scattered in dismay,
and the general was apprehensive that he should
lose his artillery, as he found it difficult to rally sufficient
to form a rear-guard. In the midst of the
confusion, he ordered his men to lay hold of each
others' hands, and by this means form a chain that
would stop the fugitives until they could be rallied. A
number were collected: the lines were speedily formed
again, and by the help of the artillery, the enemy was
it nearly five miles.
Lord Cornwallis arrived with a squadron of light
horse from Philadelphia, just in season to join in the
pursuit. His Lordship, apprehensive that he might be
too late, ran at full speed the whole distance.
Thus terminated the battle of Germantown, which
continued two hours and forty minutes. The Americans
retreated the same day about twenty miles, to
Perkiomen creek, and the British remained in possession
of the field of battle.
History tells us, that the principal causes of the
failure of this well-concerted enterprise, were the extreme
haziness of the weather—which was so thick,
that the Americans could neither discover the situation
nor movements of the British army, nor yet those of
their own; the inequality of the ground, which incessantly
broke the ranks of their battalions—an inconvenience
more serious and difficult to be repaired for new
and inexperienced troops, as were most of the Americans,
than for the English veterans; and finally, the
unexpected resistance of colonel Musgrave, who found
means, in a critical moment, to transform a mere house
into an impregnable fortress.
| CHAPTER XVII. The forsaken | |