WITH WASHINGTON AT VALLEY FORGE
By W. Bert Foster
CHAPTER XII
Hadley gets better Acquainted with Col. Knowles
SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.
The story opens in the year 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 American cause. When, therefore, he is intrusted with a message to be forwarded to the American headquarters, the boy gives up, for the time, his duties at the Three Oaks and sets out for the army. Here he remains until after the fateful Battle of Brandywine. On the return journey he discovers a party of Tories who have concealed themselves in a woods in the neighborhood of his home. By approaching cautiously to the group around the fire, Hadley overhears their plan to attack his uncle for the sake of the gold which he is supposed to have concealed in his house.
THE words Brace Alwood uttered were enough to rivet Hadley to the spot, and, almost within a long arm reach of the men lounging about the fire, he crouched and listened to the dialogue which followed. The reason stated by Brace for the presence of the Tories in this place naturally startled and horrified Ephraim Morris’s nephew. When the old man was well-known to be a strong Royalist, why should these fellows be plotting to attack him? At once Hadley was sure that they were after the money which rumor said Miser Morris kept concealed in his house.
Remembering the incident of the night at his uncle’s house, Hadley doubted if the men would gain what they hoped for; but Uncle Ephraim was old and alone, and there was no telling what these rough fellows might do to gain their ends.
“You’d better make sure the old man is alone, Alwood,” suggested one of the others, as Brace and his younger brother took seats in the circle around the fire. “There used to be a boy with Miser Morris—his nevvy, was it?—who might make us trouble.”
Brace Alwood laughed harshly. “We ought to be a match for an old man and a boy, I reckon—though Lon, here, tells me Had Morris is pretty sharp.”
“He made me and Black Sam pole him across the river one night when he was carrying dispatches to the army,” Lon admitted. “An’ he pretty near broke my arm just before he left these parts last, too.”
“What army was he carrying dispatches to?” demanded the first speaker.
“Washington’s, of course.”
“But the old man is for the king, you say—worse luck!”
“That doesn’t say the boy is,” Brace remarked. “He’s a perky lad, I reckon.”
“He may do us harm, then—in slipping away and rousin’ the farmers, I mean.”
“He’s with the army now,” said Lon.
“And there’s nobody with the old man?”
“Not a soul.”
“Well, we’ll likely have an easy time of it. If he’s got as much as they say hid away in the house, this night’s work will pay us fine.”
“And settle some old scores, too,” added Brace. “Colonel Knowles will be revenged on the old scoundrel, I reckon.”
“Ah! I remember what you told us,” said the first man, thoughtfully. “His Honor is too loyal a man to appear in this matter, though, I take it?”
Brace laughed shortly. “No doubt—no doubt. He comes here to get something out of Miser Morris; but the old fox gives nothing away—not him!”
Hadley had heard enough to assure him that the Tories were actually going to attack his uncle, Royalist though he was. With silent tread he crept away from the place, crossed the pasture to the road, and getting on Black Molly’s back, sent her flying toward the inn. He was fearful for Uncle Ephraim’s safety, but it was useless for him to ride and warn the old man. He must arouse the farmers—or such of them as were at home—and bring a band to oppose the men with Brace Alwood. There would be some lack of enthusiasm, however, when it was learned that the Tory renegades were attacking one of their own kind; it was a case of “dog eat dog,” and most of the neighbors would scarce care if the old man was robbed.
But Hadley rode swiftly toward the Three Oaks Inn, determined to raise a rescuing party at all hazard. It was evening and the men usually centered there to hear the news and talk over the war and kindred topics, and the boy was quite confident of getting some help. Besides, what he had heard while lying hidden in the grove made him believe that Colonel Creston Knowles was partly the cause of this cowardly attack by the Tories upon Uncle Ephraim, and if the British officer was still at the inn the boy determined that he should not go unpunished for instigating the crime.
The American farmers about the inn had borne with the British officer more because he was Jonas Benson’s guest than aught else. Before being sent by Lafe Holdness on this last errand to the army, Hadley knew that many of the neighbors spoke threateningly of the British officer, who, apparently, knew no fear even in an enemy’s country. If they should be stirred up now, after the disaster to the American forces, when feeling would be sure to run high, Colonel Knowles would find himself in very dangerous quarters. For the moment Hadley did not think of the danger to Mistress Lillian. He was only anxious for his uncle’s safety and enraged at Colonel Knowles for the part he believed the officer had in the plot to rob—and perhaps injure—the farmer.
In an hour, so Brace Alwood said, they would attack the lonely homestead of the man whom the whole countryside believed to be a miser. Hadley had good reason to know that his uncle was possessed of much wealth, whether rightfully or not did not enter into the question now; but the money was no longer in the house—of that he was confident. Enraged at not finding it, the Tories might seriously injure Ephraim Morris. With these tumultuous thoughts filling his brain, the boy rode into the inn yard, let Black Molly find her old stall herself, and was on the steps of the inn before those in the kitchen had time to open the door, aroused though they had been by the rattle of the mare’s hoofs.
“It’s a courier!” cried some one. “What’s the news?”
“It’s that Hadley Morris!” exclaimed Mistress Benson, showing little cordiality in her welcome. Jonas was not in evidence, and there was no other men in the kitchen.
“Where is Master Benson, madam?” demanded Hadley of the innkeeper’s wife. “I want him to help me—and all other true men in the neighborhood. There is a party of Tories up the road yonder, and they are going to attack Uncle Ephraim’s house and rob him this very night.”
“Tories!” gasped the maids.
“King’s men!” exclaimed Mistress Benson. “And why should they wish to plague Master Morris, Hadley? He is loyal.”
“That Brace Alwood is at their head. They are bent on robbery. Nobody will be safe now, if they overrun the country. Where is Master Benson, I say?”
“He is gone to Trenton,” declared one of the frightened women. “There is no man here but Colonel Knowles’ servant.”
“Then he is here yet?” cried the boy, and pushing through the group of women, he entered the long hall which ran through the inn from the kitchen to the main entrance. His coming had evidently disturbed the guests. Colonel Knowles stood in the hall by the parlor door, a candlestick held above his head that the light might be cast along the passage, his daughter, clinging to his sleeve, stood behind him.
“Whom have we here?” demanded the British officer.
“It is Hadley Morris, father!” exclaimed the girl, first to recognize the youth.
Hadley approached without fear, for his indignation was boundless. “It is I, Colonel Knowles,” he said, his voice quivering with anger. “I have come back just in time to find that, unable to bring my uncle to such terms as you thought right, you have set Brace Alwood and his troop of villainous Tories upon the old man. But I tell you, sir, I will arouse the neighborhood, and if Uncle Ephraim is injured, you shall be held responsible!”
The officer took a stride forward and seized the boy by the arm. He waved the crowd of women back. “Return to your work!” he commanded. “Mistress Benson, call William.” Then he said to Hadley: “Master Morris, step into the parlor here and tell me what you mean. I am in the dark.”
Hadley began to think that perhaps he had been too hasty in his judgment. He stepped within the room. He did not speak to the officer’s daughter, but she stared at him with wide open, wondering eyes. Then in a few sentences he told how he had discovered the plot against his uncle.
“Who are these Alwoods?” demanded the Colonel, when he had finished.
“Alonzo Alwood is the boy who came here once to see you, father,” Lillian interposed, before Hadley could reply. “Do you not remember? He told you that Master Morris was about to carry dispatches to Mr. Washington again, and asked you to help stop him in his journey.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Hadley. “He did try to halt me. But your servant, sir, stopped him. Have I to thank—?”
“Mistress Lillian, sir,” said the Colonel, shortly, but a smile quivered about his mouth. “I am in the enemy’s country, as you advised me once, Master Morris, and I would not be a party to the young man’s plan. So this Brace Alwood is his brother?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And they connect my name with their raid upon that—that old man?”
“They do, sir.”
“Then to prove to you, Master Morris, that I am not in their confidence, or they in mine, I will ride back with you.” At the instant the man-servant entered. “William, saddle my horse and one of the bays for yourself—instantly! I will join you at once, Master Morris. If you have other men in the neighborhood on whom you can depend in this emergency, arouse them.”
Hadley, feeling that his impulsiveness had caused him to accuse Colonel Knowles wrongfully, ran out again without a word. While William, as silent as ever, saddled the officer’s black charger and another animal for himself, the boy took the saddle off Black Molly and threw it upon one of the other horses in the stable. Then he clattered over to the nearest neighbor’s house and routed out the family. But the only men folk at home were two half-grown boys, and when their mother learned that there were Tories in the neighborhood she refused to allow them to leave her and the younger children. So he rode on to the next homestead and brought back with him to the inn but one man to join the party. Colonel Knowles and his servant were awaiting their coming in the road before the door of the Three Oaks.
“Lead on, Master Morris!” commanded the officer. “You know the way by night better than I.”
“But there are only four of us,” began Hadley, doubtfully.
“We can wait for no more if what you have told me is true. They will be attacking the old man by now.”
The quartette rode off at a gallop and little was said until they turned into the farm path which led through the pastures and fields to the Morris homestead. Then the neighbor was riding nearest Hadley’s side and he whispered: “Hey, Morris, suppose this should be a trap? Suppose the Britisher should be playing us false?”
Hadley tapped the butt of the pistol beneath his coat. “Then he’ll get what’s in this first—and do you take William,” the boy whispered. “But I do not believe Colonel Knowles will play us false. These Tory blackguards are nothing to him.”
The ring of the horses’ hoofs announced their coming before they were within shot of the house, around which the rascals under Brace Alwood had assembled. But no shots were fired, for Colonel Knowles was ahead and his mount was recognized by Lon in the light of the huge bonfire which had been built in front of the farmer’s door. Part of the Tories were already inside the house, ransacking the dwelling from cellar to garret, while Ephraim was tied hard and fast to one of his own chairs, and Brace Alwood, with cruel delight in the farmer’s terror, was threatening to hold the old man’s feet in the flames on the hearth if he did not divulge the hiding place of his gold. Colonel Knowles’ coming struck the entire party of marauders dumb.
“What are you doing here, you scoundrels?” exclaimed the officer, almost riding into the farmhouse in his rage, and laying about him with the riding whip he carried.
The men shrank away in confusion. Even Brace Alwood, the bully, was cowed. “The old miser’s got more money than is good for him,” whined Alwood. “And his nephew is off with the rebels—”
“Sirrah!” exclaimed the colonel, sharply. “Here is his nephew with me. And it matters not what his nephew may be, in any case; the man himself is for King George, God bless him!—or so I understand.”
“Yes, yes, Master!” squealed the farmer from the chair where he was tied. “I am for the king. I told these villains I was for the king. It is an outrage. I cannot help what my rascally nephew is—I am loyal.”
“And as for his money,” continued the colonel, savagely, “you’d work hard and long before you got any of it—and what you got would likely not be his, but belong to those whom he has robbed!” At that Uncle Ephraim recognized his rescuer, and he relapsed into frightened silence. “Come out of that house and go about your business!” commanded the officer. “Let me not find any of you in this neighborhood in the morning; and think not I shall forget this escapade. Your colonel shall hear of it, Alwood.”
Somebody released the farmer from his uncomfortable position, and he followed the bushwhackers to the door, bemoaning his fate. The men clattered out and, evidently fearing the power of Colonel Knowles, hurried away toward the river. When Uncle Ephraim saw his woodpile afire, he rushed out and began pulling from the flames such sticks as had only been charred, or were burning at one end, all the time railing at the misfortune that had overtaken him. The neighbor looked on a minute and then said, brusquely:
“I’ve little pity in my heart for such as you, neighbor Morris—a man that will take sides against his country.”
“And I’ve little pity for you, either,” Colonel Knowles declared, when the first speaker had ridden away, “for you are a dishonest old villain!”
He and William wheeled their horses and followed the bridle path back to the highway; but Hadley, much troubled by what he had heard, remained to help put out the fire in the woodpile. His uncle did not speak to him, however, but when the last spark was quenched by the water which the boy brought from the well, he went into the house and, fairly shutting the door in his nephew’s face, locked and barred it!
“Well!” muttered Hadley, “I don’t need a kick to follow that hint that my company’s not wanted,” and he rode back to the inn, feeling very sorrowful. Evidently his uncle was angry with him. But more than all else was he troubled by the words he had heard Colonel Knowles address to Ephraim Morris. The British officer had broadly intimated that the farmer was a thief!
On his return to the inn he was so tired that he did not think of supper, and, instead of going into the house, tumbled into his couch in the loft and dropped to sleep almost instantly. The next morning Master Benson did not arrive, and the mistress of the inn met Hadley with a very sour face and berated him well for the manner in which he had burst in upon her guests the night before.
“You are spending more than half your time with Washington’s ragamuffin army,” quoth she; “you’d better stay with them altogether. I cannot have my guests disturbed and troubled by such as you.”
Hadley was inclined to take her berating good-naturedly, for he knew at heart that she was a kindly woman, and that, when Jonas was at home, she would not dare talk so. But she had really engaged a neighbor to perform his tasks, and, learning that Jonas was not expected back for a week or more, Hadley saw that it was going to be very unpleasant for him in the neighborhood meanwhile. Even his uncle did not care for his company, and he could not eat the bread of idleness at the Three Oaks Inn. There were three or four men starting to join Washington’s forces, and he determined to accompany them, sorry now that he had returned at all.
He did not feel at liberty to take one of the Bensons’ horses this time, and so started afoot for the vicinity of Philadelphia. The roads were full of refugee families, and, although he could not learn of any real battle having been fought, the country people had evidently lost all hope of Washington staying the advance of the British. Hadley and his comrades traveled briskly, reaching the vicinity of Warren’s Inn early on the morning of the 16th and joined General Wayne’s forces just as the downpour of rain which spoiled the operations of that day began.
CHAPTER XIII
WITH “MAD ANTHONY” WAYNE
ON this 16th day of September, the opposing forces—Howe’s army led by Lord Cornwallis and the Americans by Anthony Wayne—met in conflict near the Warren Inn. Since Brandywine, when, because of Sullivan’s defeat, Washington had been forced to retreat to Chester, the armies had been maneuvering on the Lancaster pike; but nothing more serious than skirmishes had resulted. But this conflict near the old inn was a close and sharp engagement, and it would have been general had not the rain which was falling become a veritable deluge. The arms and ammunition were rendered almost useless, and the Americans had to retreat again.
WAYNE QUICKLY RALLIED HIS MEN
Bitterly did Hadley Morris grieve as, through the mud and downpour, he trudged in the ranks of his countrymen. Somebody sought him out on the march. It was Captain Prentice, relieved for the time of his command because of his wound; yet he had been near all day to encourage the men and was able still to wield his sword.
“Eh, boy, I knew you would come back!” he said, smiling. “Your blood’s up, and you’ll not sit at peace in the chimney-corner till this bloody war is settled one way or ’tother.”
Hadley told him what had occurred at his uncle’s house, and at the inn where he worked. “You did right to come back to fight with us,” Prentice said. “And you’ll see fighting enough with ‘Mad Anthony.’ Where he goes there is fighting always—that is his business. And a braver or better general does not command on our side, despite the slanders that are told about him. Ah, Hadley, these adventurers and politicians with His Excellency are what keep us back. They so fear to see a good man win that they will do all they can to ruin him. Why, do you know, they are trying to throw some of the blame for Sullivan’s blunder, down there at Brandywine creek, upon Anthony Wayne, although he fought with all the stubbornness a man ever displayed, and held off Knyphausen and his Hessians all day—until, in fact, he learned of the defeat in his rear, and that the rest of the army was retreating.
“We were too busy ourselves that day, Master Morris, to know much about what went on excepting directly in front of us,” Prentice continued, with a smile. “But now that the matter is history, for history is being made rapidly these days, we can get at the truth pretty easily. Colonel Cadwalader, who, by the way, has gone to Philadelphia to look out for his private interests, and several other officers, were discussing the Brandywine engagement yesterday. The colonel, naturally, is a strong opponent of Sullivan and a warm adherent of General Wayne, for the former has too many political friends, and the latter is a plain, out-and-out fighter. Wayne is a Pennsylvania man, you know; has been a farmer over near Easton ’most all his life—though they do say he traveled north once, surveying land. He is somewhere about thirty-three years old now.
“He brought his own regiment into the army—the Fourth Pennsylvania,” continued the captain, getting away from the real matter under discussion, but holding Hadley’s attention, nevertheless, “and he has been advanced to brigadier-general for conspicuous gallantry. They call him ‘Mad Anthony’ and claim he is reckless and thoughtless; but it’s a pity we haven’t more such mad men in the army. You have seen to-day how the troops love him and what they will do for him. This handful of muddy, half-starved creatures would charge the whole of Howe’s army if Anthony Wayne were at their head! Did you get a glimpse of him to-day, Morris?”
“Yes, sir. And I think him a fine figure of a man,” declared the boy, enthusiastically.
“He is that, indeed. A man of more forceful facial expression I never saw, and his dark eyes are always sparkling—either in fun or with earnestness. Anthony Wayne is an ‘all or nothing’ man—he is never lukewarm, as are some of these fellows who have obtained their commissions from Congress. What if he does brag? Why, Morris, if we’d done what he has, and were masters of the science of war as he is, we’d brag ourselves!”
“But why do they try to drag him into the trouble over the Brandywine defeat?” queried the boy.
“Why? Ask me why a mangy, homeless cur always snarls at the heels of a dog that is well bred. ’Tis always so. Jealousy is at the bottom of all these cabals and plots with which the army is troubled. Even His Excellency is not free from the arrows of their hate. And, as I tell you, Sullivan has too many political friends. They wish to attract attention from his mistakes to somebody else, and they fall upon General Wayne and call him reckless. Reckless, forsooth! His fighting that day when he faced those Hessians was marvelous.
“Nobody,” pursued Prentice, warmly, “unless it was His Excellency himself, realized how exceedingly well placed my Lord Howe’s troops were for defence on the left bank of the Brandywine. Greene selected our position—the position of the main army. I mean, at Chadd’s Ford—and it was well. Wayne was there. Sullivan, as the senior Major-General, commanded the left wing. Wayne’s line was three miles long, and the farthest crossing, which he did not cover, Sullivan was supposed to watch.
“You and I, Morris, were too busy in our little corner to know these facts at that time. But it has all come out now, and, just because a certain Major Spear was either a fool or a coward, Sullivan’s flank was turned and the army routed.”
“What had Major Spear to do with it?” asked Hadley, interested despite the mud and rain through which they continued to plod.
“I’ll explain. Early on the day of the battle,—the 11th, you know,—Howe and Cornwallis marched for the forks of the Brandywine, where there are easy fords. Evidently they intended to do exactly what they did do—cross the river and march down on our side, doubling Sullivan’s wing back upon the main army. For a maneuver in broad daylight it was childish; but it won because of this man Spear.
“Colonel Bland had been ordered to cross at Jones’ Ford to find out what the British were about. He sent back word—there can be no doubt of this, although Sullivan’s friends have tried to deny it—that Cornwallis was surely marching for the upper crossings. His Excellency, learning of this report, threw Wayne across the river to attack Grant and Knyphausen, while Sullivan and Greene were to engage the flanking column of Britishers. Why, if things had gone right, we’d have cut the two divisions of the enemy to pieces!” declared the captain, bitterly.
“But it was not to be. A part of Wayne’s troops had already forded the river when this Major Spear, who had been reconnoitering in the direction of the forks, reported no sign of the enemy in that direction. What the matter was with the man I don’t know—nobody seems to know; but Sullivan should have known whether he was to be trusted or not. The general, on his own responsibility, halted his column and sent word to His Excellency that the first report of the British movements was wrong—Cornwallis was not in the vicinity of the Brandywine forks. Naturally this put the Commander-in-Chief out, and, fearing a surprise, he withdrew Wayne’s men from across the river. The Hessians followed; but they got no farther. Mad Anthony held them in check.
“While we were fighting so hard down there by Chadd’s Ford, Sullivan was doing nothing at all. About one o’clock, it seems, a man named Cheney rode into Sullivan’s division and reported that the British had crossed the river and had reached the Birmingham meeting-house. That was some distance then on Sullivan’s right. But the general still stuck to his belief in Major Spear, and instead of sending out a scouting party, put aside the report as valueless.
“This ’Squire Cheney is something of a man in his township—lives over Thornbury way, they tell me—and it angered him to be treated so superciliously by Sullivan. So what does he do but spur on to headquarters and inform General Washington himself. The report could scarcely be believed by the Commander-in-Chief and his staff, and you cannot blame them. Everybody knew how much depended on the day’s action, and that Sullivan should make such a terrible blunder was past belief.
“Your friend Colonel Cadwalader told me about it afterward. ‘If you doubt my word, put me under arrest until you can ask Anthony Wayne or Persie Frazer if I am a man to be believed!’ said Cheney, getting red in the face. The staff—some of the young men, it seemed—had laughed at the queer figure the old fellow cut on his horse. ‘I’d have you know that I have this day’s work as much at heart as e’er a one of ye!’ quoth Cheney, and at that His Excellency ordered a change of face, and part of the army moved up to the support of Sullivan.
“You know what happened after that. You saw the fugitives and the wounded when you rode to Philadelphia, Hadley. It was a sad day, and all because one man made a mistake,—either foolishly or willfully,—and another man did not consider the fate of the first city in the land of sufficient importance to have every report brought to him corroborated. Sullivan must bear the brunt of this thing,—as his men bore the brunt of the enemy’s charge—because he was in command at that end of the line. But they’re trying to make out that Anthony Wayne could have saved the day with his troops had he wished. They’d not talk so bold had they faced those bloody Hessians as we did.”
“It seems awful that there should be friction in an army of patriots,” Hadley said, thoughtfully. “They are all patriotic—they all desire the freedom of the Colonies.”
“What some of them desire it would be hard to say,” declared Prentice, gloomily. “And we are not patriots until we win. We’re rebels now—and rebels we shall go down into history unless the Great Jehovah Himself shall strike for us and give us a lasting victory over the British. I tell you, boy, I am discouraged.”
And it was a discouraged column of 1,500 men who marched that night to Tredyfrrin, where Wayne had been ordered by the Commander-in-Chief “to watch the movements of the enemy, and, when joined by Smallwood and the Maryland militia, to cut off their baggage and hospital trains.”
On the 19th, after waiting in vain for Smallwood’s reinforcements, Wayne again crossed the river, and was, at Paoli, able to advance within half a mile of Howe’s encampment. He reported to General Washington that the enemy was then quietly washing and cooking. The British seemed to consider this advance on Philadelphia more in the light of a picnicing party than anything else. To his commander, however, Wayne said that the enemy was too compactly massed to be openly attacked by his small force, and begged that the entire army might come to his aid and strike a heavy blow. But neither Smallwood’s brigade nor any other division of the American forces arrived to aid the little party at Paoli on that day, nor the one following.
Scouts brought in the tale that Howe was about to take up his line of march, and so, as the night of the 20th drew near, Wayne determined to attack in any case, reinforcements or not. The watchword that night in the American camp was, “Here we are and there they go!” and the troops were eager to follow their beloved leader into the very heart of the British encampment. It was believed that the night attack was unsuspected by the British, but it proved later that vigilant Tories had wormed the information from somebody on Wayne’s staff and hastened with it to the British camp.
So confident was Wayne that his plans were unsuspected that, when informed by a friendly citizen, between nine and ten in the evening, that a boy of the neighborhood, who had been in the British camp during the day, had overheard a soldier say that “an attack on the American party would be made during the night,” Mad Anthony would not credit it. It did not seem probable that if such an attack was being considered by the British leaders, it would be common camp talk.
However, believing that surplus precaution would do no harm, he multiplied his pickets and patrols and ordered the troops to repose on their arms, and, as it was then raining, made the men put their ammunition under their coats. He was thus prepared to meet an attack or withdraw, as circumstances might direct.
Ere this, Captain Prentice had been sent to headquarters, almost by force, indeed, because his wound had become inflamed, and Hadley, being simply a volunteer, was obliged to take pot-luck where he found it, and was even without a blanket or pouch in which to carry his rations. He would have been more comfortable on picket duty that night, only volunteers were not trusted in such serious matters; and perhaps, if he had been, the youth would not have gotten out of the terrible engagement alive.
Somewhere about eleven o’clock, rumor had it that the British were on the move. Wayne believed that the enemy would attack his right flank, and immediately ordered Colonel Humpton, his second in command, to wheel his line and move off by the road leading to the White Horse Tavern. Meanwhile, General Gray, in command of three British regiments and some dragoons with Tory guides, approached Paoli. The British were ordered to withhold their fire and to depend altogether on the bayonet. At midnight, two hours before the time fixed for his own advance on Howe’s force, Wayne learned that his pickets had been surprised.
Colonel Humpton had not obeyed, nor did he do so until the third order reached him. The artillery moved without loss or injury, but the remainder of the army was in confusion, and, when charged by the British, the affair became almost a rout. An English officer who was present at the attack afterward wrote:
“It was a dreadful scene of havoc. The Americans were easily distinguished by the light of the camp fires as they fell into line, thus offering Gray’s men an advantage. The charge was furious, and all Wayne’s efforts to rally his men were useless. They were driven through the woods two miles, and nearly a hundred and seventy men were killed.”
With those about him, inspired as they were with fear of the bayonet, and confused by the darkness, Hadley Morris ran blindly through the woods to escape the death which followed him. The awful sabre-like bayonets of the British muskets he did escape; but a half-spent ball imbedded itself in the flesh of his leg above the knee and brought him at last to earth. The others streamed by and left him. He feared he would be captured and perhaps sent to the prison hulks in New York Bay; but both pursued and pursuer passed him by, and he was saved in the darkness.
He could not travel with the ball in his leg, and so he lay down again under some bushes, and, despite the wound and his fright, dropped off into slumber, and slept just as soundly as he would had war and bloodshed been farthest from his thoughts.
[TO BE CONTINUED]
Education is a better safeguard of liberty than a standing army.
—Edward Everett.