WITH WASHINGTON AT VALLEY FORGE
By W. Bert Foster
CHAPTER X
The Landing of the Enemy
SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.
The story opens in the year of 1777, during one of the most critical periods of the Revolution. Hadley Morris, our hero, is in the employ of Jonas Benson, the host of the Three Oaks, a well-known inn on the road between Philadelphia and New York. Like most of his neighbors, Hadley is an ardent sympathizer with the patriot cause. When, therefore, a dispatch bearer is captured on the way to Philadelphia, he gives Hadley the all-important packet to be forwarded to General Washington. The boy immediately escapes with it, and, after many perilous experiences, finally makes his way across the river to the Pennsylvania side. On the road, Hadley, failing to give the countersign, is stopped by a foraging party of Americans; but by his honest bearing he wins the attention of John Cadwalader, a personal friend of Washington, just then journeying to the American headquarters. Under his protection, our hero speedily arrives at his destination, and delivers the dispatches. Hadley then returns to the Three Oaks to resume his duties. But the lad is destined for a more eventful life. Shortly afterwards he receives an urgent summons from Cadwalader, whereupon he immediately sets out for the patriot headquarters.
AS Lafe Holdness said, the enemy could take nothing from the boy courier on this journey—nothing of information or papers of value; but the possibility of being waylaid and beaten, perhaps killed, was not pleasant to contemplate. Hadley could scarcely understand the veiled warning he had received from Lillian Knowles. Was her father about to stop him on the road, believing that he again carried documents of importance to the American forces? He did not wish to fall into Colonel Creston Knowles’ hands just then, for the latter was angry enough with him as it was, and Hadley did not care to add to his irritation.
It might be, however, that somebody else had overheard a part of the recent conference in the inn stable, and Lillian was cognizant of the fact. Some Tory visitor, perhaps, had known of his starting forth. He drew rein again in the shadow of a long pile of cordwood which bordered the wall of the Benson estate, and felt in the darkness for a stout club, heavy enough to do a man’s head serious damage, but not too clumsy for him to swing easily. Then he chirruped to Black Molly, and she trotted on, her master keeping his eyes sharply open for trouble.
He was too proud to ride back and ask Lafe to come with him; Hadley did not lack personal courage. But he was nevertheless all of a tremor as the little mare trotted over the hard road. He gripped the club nervously, and tried to pierce the gloom, which was thickest, of course, under the trees which bordered the road. He was taking the shortest road to the ferry to-night, for there was no trouble to be apprehended there from British soldiers, and he would be sure to get quick transportation to the other side, for the people at the ferry were loyal. He would not have gone around by the Alwood house again for a good deal.
Rod after rod the inn was left behind and Black Molly had now brought him quite a quarter of a mile from the Benson place. There were no other houses on this road until he passed the Morris pastures, where he had his unpleasant meeting with Lon Alwood the day before. The mare footed it nicely over the road until now; but suddenly she threw up her head, her quivering ears pointed forward—Had could see them as dark as the night was—as though she listened to some sound too faint for her rider’s dull hearing to catch.
“What is it, Molly?” the youth demanded, holding a tight rein and gripping the club more firmly than before.
Instantly a harsh voice addressed him out of the darkness. “Stand there, and deliver!” At the same instant a figure sprang before the little mare and her bridle was seized by a firm hand. “Don’t make her dance!” ordered the stranger; “for if you do I’ll put a ball through her head and perhaps one through you.”
Hadley saw that the speaker waved a big horse-pistol in his other hand, and he spoke quietingly to Molly. “What do you want?” he demanded, in as brave a tone as he could assume.
“Give me what you carry,” commanded the other, still speaking gruffly. Hadley felt sure that it was a disguised voice, and remembering what Lillian Knowles had said to him as he left the inn, he wondered who the person was who had halted him. “No slippery tricks, Had Morris!” growled he at the horse’s head. “Hand me the papers you carry. Give me what you’ve got.”
But the strain of disguising his voice grew too much for the fellow, and as he talked he unconsciously dropped back into his usual manner of speaking. At once Hadley, although he was still unable to see his face, knew that it was Lon Alwood who had stopped him. And he was puzzled by the discovery, for he wondered how Mistress Lillian could have known of the Tory youth’s intention.
His mind did not work in one direction alone, however. Before Alwood had reiterated his demand Hadley was preparing to make answer. “You want what I carry?” he cried. “Then take it!” and swinging up the club suddenly he brought it down again upon the shoulder of his enemy. Lon roared and dropped both the pistol and the mare’s bridle rein; but Hadley did not come out of the affray without trouble.
Black Molly was startled by the blow and darted to the side of the road. Before the American youth could pull her in she was in the ditch, and only her quickness saved her from a disastrous fall. As she slid down the steep side of the gulley Had slipped his feet from the stirrups and leaped to the ground. Lon, with many imprecations and threats, groped madly about the dark roadway, and finally found the pistol. He was maddened beyond all control now, and dimly beholding Hadley’s bulk through the gloom—where he stood on the edge of the ditch urging the mare out upon the level again—he aimed the weapon and would have fired at his old schoolfellow point-blank!
But before his finger pressed the trigger a third actor appeared upon the scene. A man sprang from the bushes on the far side of the road and in two strides was beside the Tory. He seized Alwood’s arm, and the pistol ball flew wide of its intended mark.
At the moment the shot was fired Hadley had managed to half drag Black Molly from the ditch. His quick side glance saw the danger, and he sprang for the steed’s back; the explosion of the heavy pistol frightened Black Molly again, and before her rider was firmly settled in the saddle she was off like the wind. He obtained, however, another swift glance at the two figures struggling in the roadway behind him, just as the second barrel of the weapon was exploded. The flash lit up the scene, and with astonishment Hadley recognized the person who had saved him as Colonel Knowles’ cockney servant.
He and Molly were a good mile further on their way, however, before he had time to think much of this surprising fact, for the little mare ran like a scared rabbit. “Who could have sent the man to help me?” he thought, when Molly had finally settled into a respectable pace. “Surely not his master, and Mistress Lillian—”
To believe that the Colonel’s daughter had done him this favor—had sent William to assist him in overcoming the Tory youth—was rather pleasant; yet it seemed too improbable to be true, and he wondered much as he rode swiftly on to the ferry.
There was no trouble in crossing the river on this night. He found fires burning on the banks, and the ferrymen were wide awake. There was considerable bustle at the landing, and Hadley learned that several parties bound for Philadelphia had gone over ahead of him, and that others were expected. The loyal Jersey farmers and farmers’ sons were hastening to join General Washington, eager to take part in this new movement against the enemy. The boy was not delayed or molested in any way, and once on the Pennsylvania shore he urged the little mare to the utmost, passing party after party of recruits, all hastening in the same direction.
Not long past midnight he reached the farmer’s at which he had previously changed horses. The man remembered him, and, thanks to Hadley’s first appearance there under Colonel Cadwalader’s protection, the youth was enabled to get a fresh mount on this occasion. The farmer, too, was able to give him certain information about the movements of the American forces.
“You will not find his Excellency at Germantown,” the farmer declared. “Aye, an’ ye’ll not catch him at Philadelphia, I’m thinkin’. The Redcoats are coming up the Chesapeake, an’ the army’s movin’ south to shelter the city from attack.” Then followed directions relating to crossroads and bridle paths, by following which he might overtake the army on its way to Wilmington.
Without waiting for sleep, but fortified with a hearty meal which the farmer’s wife prepared, Hadley set off again within the hour on a fresh mount. He was weary, saddle-sore, and parched by the August heat. But he was obeying orders, and although he did not understand the importance of the verbal message Holdness had given him for Colonel Cadwalader, the youth knew what his duty was. He could not foresee what was to happen and what sights he should witness before he again rode into the yard of the Three Oaks Inn. The people whom he passed, the Tory element was not in evidence, were very cheerful regarding the battle which they believed would be fought as soon as Lord Howe’s troops landed. Despair and inaction had held the Colonials in a hard grip during these past few months; but now there was a chance to do something, and the farmers were again hopeful.
It so happened that while Hadley Morris was riding hard over the dusty roads to overtake Washington’s personal staff on this 24th day of August, the American army, augmented by fresh recruits, and some 11,000 strong, marched through the length of Front street. Philadelphia had seen some gloomy days of late, but the appearance of so many armed men was calculated to raise the spirits of the populace a little; yet it is said that the cheering along the line of march lacked that inspiring quality with which a conquering army usually goes to battle. It was known that they were about to meet an enemy well-trained and seasoned, and, in addition, outnumbering them by several thousands.
Philadelphia had from the beginning of the war been the headquarters of rebellion, and the British were determined to humble the city. How could Washington’s forces hope to cope with men who had fought on half the battle-fields of Europe? It had been a handful of untrained farmers, however, who had beaten back the grenadiers at Bunker Hill; and it could scarcely be called a trained army that had driven the Redcoats finally out of Boston town.
It was long past mid-afternoon when Hadley overtook the rear guard of the American army. It was no easy matter to find the commander and his staff, and, when found, to select Colonel Cadwalader from the other officers and get near enough to him to deliver the message he carried. But the instant the officer saw and recognized the youth he graciously called him near. Evidently Lafe Holdness’ message, which had been a mystery to Had because he did not understand what the seemingly simple sentence meant, was most important, for Colonel Cadwalader hurried off at once to General Washington, bidding the boy remain with the column until he returned.
When he did return there was with him the young officer who had desired Hadley as a recruit on the day he brought dispatches to the Commander-in-Chief at Germantown. “I cannot let you go back just yet, Master Morris,” Colonel Cadwalader declared; “I may have work for you to do later. Meanwhile I shall place you in Captain Prentice’s care,” and he indicated the smiling subordinate officer. “You are not obliged to fight if it be against your conscience; but you may see some fighting before you return to Jersey.”
He wheeled his horse and rode away again, and Captain Prentice offered the youth his hand. “Leave the nag, Morris,” he said, cordially, “and take your place with ‘Foot and Leggets’ company. Your horse seems about done for anyway, and you will be able to pick up a better one when you return. You’re to go with me, and I am in the infantry.”
And so, rather unexpectedly, Hadley found himself marching with the patriot forces toward Wilmington. Captain Prentice secured him a gun, and he shared the rations of the good-natured fellows about him. The youth was very tired after his long ride, but walking was better than riding, and there were times when the ranks rested. The next day, however, the army reached the Delaware town, only to learn through the scouts that the British had landed at the head of the Elk River, fifty miles or more from Philadelphia. The news spread, too, how greatly the Redcoats outnumbered the Americans. There were 18,000 of the former, and the faces of even the rank and file grew grave.
The Americans marched to Red Clay Creek, beyond Wilmington, and for several days there were smart skirmishes between portions of the two armies. But there was no decisive engagement, and finally Washington outgeneraled Howe and fell back upon the Brandywine, which he crossed at Chadd’s Ford, posting his army on the hills to the east. Meanwhile Captain Prentice’s command had seen little fighting, and both the young officer and Hadley Morris were anxious to get closer to the firing line than they had been thus far.
Hadley had forgotten his original expectation of returning at once to the Three Oaks Inn, after having delivered his message to Colonel Cadwalader; and it looked as though the Colonel had forgotten him. But he was so excited by the prospect of a battle that he was not chafing over the delay of his return journey. Without doubt a fight was imminent, the commanders of the opposing forces maneuvering for the best positions for their line of battle.
Thus August slipped away, September came, and the fateful eleventh day approached.
CHAPTER XI
A MESSENGER OF DEFEAT
IN the excitement of those September days, when the two armies overran the Pennsylvania hills to the west and south of Philadelphia, Hadley came near forgetting his Uncle Ephraim and the promise he had made his mother regarding the old man. Miser Morris had so repelled his nephew’s kindly efforts to help him, that the boy felt he was no more able to do him any good while at the Three Oaks than he was miles away from the Morris farm in the lines of the Continental troops. And then, the glamour of the life—the drilling, the marching, the uncertainty, the danger—all fed his imagination and inspired him with actual delight. Prentice declared almost hourly that Hadley was “spoiling a good officer by hanging about a country inn.”
“I don’t feel that I could regularly enlist,” the boy said to him, “so I am not likely to be an officer yet awhile. I am here only as a volunteer, and my conscience troubles me, too, at that.”
But all things end in their own good time, and the long wait which ensued after the landing of the British finally was closed on the morning of September 11th. Captain Prentice’s command had not even tasted a skirmish until that day; but Hadley—nor the captain himself—could find no fault with the position they occupied during the fearful hours which followed the first gun of attack. Hadley was eager to see a real battle, to see the armies charge each other and try their strength upon a real battle-field, instead of individual men snapping their muskets at one another in little skirmishes. Before the end of that day he could not realize what awful motive had ever urged such foolish desire in his heart.
He saw men lying dead upon the browning hillsides; he heard wounded horses screaming in their death agony; the earth shook with the discharge of the heavy guns; the crackling of the musketry fire deafened him. The fife and drums, the uniformed officers, the marching soldiery made no appeal to Hadley Morris now. Wounds and death were all about him, and fear gripped his heart as though in a vice. Time and again as he heard the shriek of the bullets over his head he could have fainted, or run away in abject terror, had he dared! But the thought of being considered a coward frightened him even more, and he stayed.
Once, when there was a lull of heavy firing on both sides, a strange sound reached his ears. Captain Prentice’s command was somewhat above and to one side of the main line of battle, and this sound, growing louder and more ear-piercing as the strange silence continued, had such an eerie effect upon the listener that Hadley actually shook with a nervous chill, without knowing what caused it. The sound was little more than a murmur—yet a very insistent, penetrating murmur.
“What is it?” Hadley whispered to the man who stood next him in the broken line.
“The cries of the wounded,” was the stern reply, and the boy was glad when a renewal of the conflict drowned the awful sound.
No history fittingly tells the story of that day’s struggle—the high hopes with which the battle was begun by the Americans, the determined, dogged resistance they offered the British soldiery. Yet its salient points are familiar enough. We do not like, even now, to speak at length upon the defeats of our arms even in that unequal war. But without doubt, had not Sullivan blundered and lost to the American cause a good twelve hundred men, the Battle of the Brandywine would have been placed upon the list of American victories.
Hadley saw the patriot army driven back and as they retreated he observed many of the men weeping like women at the thought of flying before an enemy which they had practically held in check since early morning. Captain Prentice, who had been recklessly courageous during the engagement, was wounded, yet still kept on the firing line with his arm and shoulder swathed in bandages. As they broke into the final disorderly retreat, an aide galloped to the young captain and said a word to him.
“Morris!” exclaimed Prentice, “follow this man to Colonel Cadwalader. He wants you. All’s lost here, anyway; there’s nothing more to be done.”
Hadley threw down his musket and ran beside the aide’s stirrup along the dusty road for nearly a quarter of a mile before overtaking the group of officers of which Colonel Cadwalader was the centre. The Colonel sat on his horse firmly and, despite the creature’s dancing, was writing rapidly on the pommel of his saddle.
“Morris,” he said, scarcely glancing at the youth. “It is over for to-day. You are not kept here with Captain Prentice by any enlistment, I believe?”
“No, sir.”
“Then you can go back if you wish—you can go home. We shall retreat, and whether His Excellency secures another such chance to meet the enemy soon, we know not. It is an awful thing—an awful thing! But that is not why I called you. There is a fresh horse yonder being held for you. Here branches the road to Philadelphia. You will not be molested, for the British have not yet crossed it—though it’s not sure they’ll not throw a column out between us and the city.
“This letter goes to Holdness at the Indian Queen Hotel in Fourth street—anybody will direct you. Then, when it is delivered, you may follow your own wishes, Master Morris,” and the gentleman leaned down and dropped the unsealed note into the boy’s hand with a grave smile. “Leave the horse where you exchanged steeds before on the Germantown pike—you already have a horse there, have you not?”
“I left one there, sir.”
“Very well. Now, off with you! I shall see you anon—and hear more of you to your credit, I believe,” and with a wave of his hand Colonel Cadwalader dismissed him.
Together with the men beside whom he had fought Hadley was nigh heartbroken over the result of the battle. The retreat was almost a rout in some parts of the field. The boy sprang upon the horse held by an orderly, and at once dashed away through the broken lines and soon left the disorganized army behind. It was a bitter hour, and, young as he was, the youth felt it keenly. How would he be greeted in the city toward which he was carrying the news of the battle? He could imagine with what despair the result of the struggle would be received.
But he could not imagine all that had occurred in the capital during the hours of that fateful day. The days of anxiety and suspense which had followed the landing of the enemy culminated that morning when the distant booming of heavy guns announced the beginning of a general engagement in the southwest. At the first cannon shot many people left their houses and collected in the streets, and all day long their straining ears listened to the thunderous muttering of the guns. About six o’clock it died away, but the groups in the street still listened and waited. The sun set and supper-time came and went unnoticed by those still remaining in the Quaker City.
Naturally there were not any great number of male adults, excepting the old men, or those burdened by family or business cares which actually forbade their being in the ranks of the patriot army. Of course, there were a few Tories left, but they were not active, as had been Joseph Galloway and the Allens before they were banished from the town. There were no young men—only boys and children hanging on the skirts of the various groups about the State House, or listening to the remarks of the wise ones gathered before the doors of the houses of public entertainment.
The women, too, whispered on their doorsteps to each other, or craned their necks out of the darkened windows to look nervously along the street. The sound of the guns had brought that grim, horrible Thing called War so much nearer to them than it had ever seemed before.
About eight o’clock there was some little disturbance at one of the inns called the Old Coffee House, where the story gained credit that Washington had won a victory, and some few began to cheer. But there was no authority behind the story, and the enthusiasm died out, and by nine o’clock the suspense was actually painful.
At last, far out Chestnut street toward the distant Schuylkill, there rose the sound of rapid hoof-beats. As the approaching horseman tore down the street voices rose and hailed him as he passed, and soon the clamor grew to a roar, which roused the town for blocks around. The people ran together toward the State House, and saw a youth on a foam-flecked horse, covered with dust, and exhausted, riding hard along the rough way.
Once he drew rein for a moment to inquire the way again to the Indian Queen; but he refused to answer any questions until he had ridden around into Fourth street and stopped before the door of the old hostelry.
“Had Morris!” exclaimed a voice in the crowd which poured out of the place, and the lank figure of Lafe Holdness pushed through the throng and helped the boy from the saddle.
“What’s the news? Tell us of the battle!” cried the crowd. “What does the lad bring?”
Hadley thrust Colonel Cadwalader’s letter into the scout’s hand first. Then he said weakly to the anxious citizens: “There has been a battle fought to-day; but there are plenty of stragglers to tell you of it. There is another messenger in town already—he can tell you better than I.”
“But, is it defeat or victory?” somebody cried.
“The army has been beaten—I don’t know how badly. They say somebody blundered, and General Washington is obliged to fall back. The French Marquis was wounded, I was told—seriously. The army is marching northward and there will be plenty of stragglers here soon.”
Then he clutched Holdness by his sleeve. “Get me a bed, Lafe. I am nearly dead with riding so far on top of all that’s been done to-day. And I have no money.”
“Tut, tut!” exclaimed the Yankee. “Never mind money here, lad. Ye’ll be well entertained—I’ll speak to somebody about ye. But I must be off myself at once.”
And in ten minutes Hadley was alone in a little room at the top of the house, anxious to rest after his toilsome ride, while Holdness was away on some business connected with Colonel Cadwalader’s note. The city was, however, in a tumult. Hadley’s news had now been verified by a dozen other messengers of ill-tidings, and few in Philadelphia that night believed that Washington could successfully oppose the enemy again before Howe threw his troops upon the city itself.
Indeed, when Hadley appeared in the street the next morning to mount his horse brought around by the stableman, the same groups of excited citizens seemed to surround the Indian Queen which had been there the night before when he arrived. As far as he could learn, everybody seemed to believe that the city was doomed to capture by the British, and that the defeat of Brandywine could not be retrieved. A night’s sleep, however, had renewed Hadley’s courage as well as refreshed his body. When he clattered out of town, following the road northward toward Germantown, he drew in, with every breath of the fresh morning air, the feeling that all was not yet lost. He remembered how bravely his comrades had fought the day before; how reluctant they had been to fall back, even when commanded to do so. He thought of General Washington himself, and a mental picture of His Excellency’s stern, firmly lined face rose before him. That was not a man to give up—nor would General Knox, nor Wayne, nor Colonel Cadwalader, nor even young Captain Prentice! Before he reached the farm-house where he had left his horse, he was confident that Philadelphia would not be given over to the enemy without a second struggle.
And with that belief another idea entered the boy’s mind. He had experienced a real battle. It had frightened him, and the thoughts of some of the awful things he had seen and heard still troubled him; but he felt that now, when he had been initiated in war’s alarms, it was too bad that he should not remain and fight again when the patriots tried to keep the enemy out of the city.
“I’ll go home as quick as ever I can and beg uncle to let me go—he must let me enlist!” the boy thought. “Anyway, if he says ‘no,’ I’ll go just as I did this time, find a gun, and stay as long as the battle’s on. I know Jonas won’t care.”
He came again to the Ferry and crossed it at night, Black Molly, he had found her in good condition at the farmer’s, apparently as eager to be home as himself. The news of the disastrous battle had preceded him, and everywhere Hadley was met by anxious inquiries. He met no Tories, for most of them had gone to join the British forces; but the American farmers had again lost hope.
As he was poled across the river one of the ferrymen said to him: “Morris, ye’d best watch sharply as ye go along home. It is reported a party of Tories crossed below here not two hours ago. They used old Alwood’s bateau, and Brace Alwood is with them. They’re meaning no good to folks, I take it.”
“I thought all the Tories would be with the King’s men,” said the boy. “I heard on the road that they’ve sworn to march into Philadelphia with the Redcoats when the city is captured.”
“Well, Brace has got business of some kind over here—and it isn’t any good business, I’ll be bound. You’d better warn Jonas. They may come to the inn.”
Hadley was somewhat troubled by this information. Brace Alwood had been a reckless sort of a young man before the war broke out, and had incurred the enmity of many of the neighbors. It was reported that since he had joined the British he had given full sway to his more harmful propensities, and that he was noted among the Tory hangers-on of the King’s troops for his cruelty and bitter enmity against the patriots. He had obtained some petty office in the army, and now, with others, perhaps as brutal as himself, had come into his own neighborhood for no good purpose. Surely, if he had crossed the river merely to visit his father and mother, he would not have brought a troop with him.
But Hadley saw nobody on the road until he came abreast of his uncle’s property. Then he did not see any man, but a light in a clump of trees some distance back from the horse-path, and in Miser Morris’ pasture, attracted his attention. This was so strange a place for a fire, for a fire it was Hadley could tell by the intermittent leaping and fading of the light, that he could not go by without investigating, and after riding Black Molly a few rods beyond the grove in question, he dismounted, tied her to a fence rail, and crept over to reconnoitre.
There was a campfire in the middle of the clump of trees. It was well hidden from the house and outbuildings, and scarcely discernible from the highway. But when he got into the edge of the grove Hadley saw with surprise that although the fire was small there was a good-sized company about the blaze. He counted eight heavily armed and roughly dressed men lying about the fire, but Brace Alwood, Lon’s older brother, was not among them.
EIGHT HEAVILY ARMED MEN STOOD ABOUT THE FIRE
“Now, why should these fellows be roosting here?” thought the American youth, quite puzzled. “Of course they know that most of our men are away now with the army, and have they really come over here to harass the unprotected homesteads? If they have, and if they trouble the farmers’ wives, it will be too hot about here for the Alwoods to stay when the men do come back.”
A crackling in the bushes startled him, and he crouched lower. The Tories seemed so sure of their position that they did not keep a guard, and now two other figures came rapidly into the circle of the firelight, Hadley noticing that their approach was from the direction of his uncle’s house. An instant later he recognized Brace Alwood, the probable leader of this party of bushwhackers. He was grown much older looking since he had left home, and his bronzed face was covered by a tangled growth of beard. His companion he held by the arm, and Hadley saw that it was Alonzo.
“Here he is, boys,” declared Brace, with a laugh. “He’s young, but he’s sharp—a reg’lar fox for cunning. I found him watching the premises yonder, and he tells me everybody’s gone for the night, and the old man is in the house. All we got to do is to wait an hour or so till things get thoroughly quieted down, and then make our call. Miser Morris’ll be glad to see us, eh?” and the fellow laughed unpleasantly.
[TO BE CONTINUED]
