Great Events in the History of North and South America

by Charles A. Goodrich

Wayne was that day in command under Lee. On seeing the British train—horses and waggons, miles in extent—following the army in advance, the former, with his detachment, hastened rapidly forward, with the intent to cut off and capture the train. Meanwhile, Lee, with the rest of his division, took a more circuitous route, designing to attack the corps which had the train in charge. Most unexpectedly, however, just as he was ready to commence the charge, intelligence was received that the entire British army—which was on the retreat, but which had had intimation of Lee's advance—had wheeled about, and were in full march to protect its rear.

Lee had reluctantly taken the command; he was in ill-humor, and, moreover, was probably now appalled at the prospect before him. At all adventures, greatly to his discredit, for as yet he had not commenced action, he ordered a retreat. This movement fell upon Wayne like a thunderbolt, who was himself compelled, by reason of it, to fall back, at the hazard of his entire command.

Washington was still at a distance with the remainder of the army; but was rapidly approaching the theatre of the contest. The distant cannonade impelled him forward. The troops, partaking of his own enthusiasm, if not of his anxiety, laid aside knapsacks—coats—all that encumbered, and amidst dust and heat pressed on to the encounter. At this moment, a horseman was seen approaching from the immediate battle-field. He pressed his horse, and made announcement to Washington that Lee's division, in utter disorder, was in full retreat. For a moment, the latter seemed petrified with astonishment; and the next moment—for it seems he had for some reason dismounted—vaulting upon his saddle, he sprang forward, and like a winged arrow directed his way to the scene of confusion and flight. The instant he was seen by the troops in retreat, "The brave fellows"—we use the stirring language of Headley—"the brave fellows, who had not been half beaten, sent up a shout that was heard the whole length of the line, and 'Long live Washington!' rent the air. Flinging a hasty inquiry to Osgood, as to the reason, who replied, 'Sir, we are fleeing from a shadow;' he galloped to the rear, and, reining up his horse beside Lee, bent on him a face of fearful expression, and thundered in his ear, as he leaned over his saddle-bow, 'Sir, I desire to know what is the reason, and whence arises this disorder and confusion!' It was not the words, but the smothered tone of passion in which they were uttered, and the manner, which was severe as a blow, that made this rebuke so terrible. Wheeling his steed, he spurred up to Oswald's and Stewart's regiments, saying, 'On you I depend to check this pursuit;' and riding along the ranks, he roused their courage to the highest pitch by his stirring appeals; while that glorious shout of 'Long live Washington!' again shook the field. The sudden gust of passion had swept by; but the storm that ever slumbered in his bosom was now fairly up; and, galloping about on his splendid charger, his tall and commanding form towering above all about him, and his countenance lit up with enthusiasm, he was the impersonation of all that is great and heroic in man. In a moment, the aspect of the field was changed—the retreating mass halted—officers were seen hurrying about in every direction, their shouts and orders ringing above the roar of the enemy's guns. The ranks opened—and, under the galling fire of the British, wheeled, and formed in splendid order. Washington then rode back to Lee, and, pointing to the firm front he had arrayed against the enemy, exclaimed, 'Will you, sir, command in that place?' He replied, 'Yes.'—'Well,' then said he, 'I expect you to check the enemy immediately.' 'Your orders shall be obeyed,' replied the stung commander, 'and I will not be the first to leave the field.' The battle then opened with renewed fury, and Washington hurried back, to bring his own division into the field."

This took time, as the division was still at a distance. Meanwhile, however, the retreat was partially staid. The troops once more rallied. They stood—they fought—fought with unwonted desperation. But the overpowering legions of the enemy pressed hard. Their shouts were deafening—their cannonade appalling and destructive. Lee now attempted to his utmost power to withstand the impetuous shock—but it was entirely beyond the compass of his troops. They were again giving way. A few moments longer, and all would be lost. At this critical juncture, Hamilton appeared, seemingly sent as a messenger from above—crossing the field—his charger covered with foam, and his hair streaming in the wind—Hamilton appeared, and riding up to Lee, said to him: "My dear general, let us die here rather than retreat."

What would have been the effect of this soul-stirring and patriotic address of Hamilton, had no succor been at hand, we pretend not to say. They were words of comfort and assurance; and, if necessary to prevent a dishonorable retreat, there doubtless Hamilton, and perhaps now Lee himself, would have surrendered up life. But succor was at hand. Washington with his division had arrived. No time was lost. He issued his orders, and they were obeyed. Sterling, Knox, Wayne, brought up their several commands, and soon the battle was raging, and the whole plains shook under the clangor of arms and the thunder of artillery. For a time, few such spectacles were seen during the Revolutionary war. The heat of the day, we have already said, was intense. Water was not to be had, or rather there was no time to quench parched lips, had there been any. Their thirst added to the sufferings of the troops immeasurably. The tongues of the soldiers became so inflamed and swollen, as not to be retained in their mouths. Yet they fought, and fought with a desperation increased by the very sufferings they endured. The British suffered from the same causes, and fought with the same desperation. And for a time, it was indeed doubtful whose cause would triumph. But the batteries of Knox and Sterling, like volcanoes, hurled death and destruction on every side; while the impetuous Wayne with his columns, torrent-like, spread confusion and dismay in every step of their progress. There was a concentration of effort—and that effort, doubtless the more earnest and effective, for the reason of the previous unwarranted and pusillanimous retreat.

In turn, the British themselves now retreated, and encamped on the spot which Lee's division had occupied in the morning. They had fought with unwonted zeal. Officers and soldiers were exhausted. They coveted rest. They needed repose. It was so with the Americans. "Even Washington's powerful frame was overcome by the heat and toil he had passed through; and as he stood begrimed with the dust and the smoke of the battle, and wiped his brow, the perspiration fell in streams from his horse, which looked as if it had been dragged through a muddy stream, rather than rode by a living man."

Yet, wearied as he was—wearied and worn down as were his officers and men—Washington could not consent so to terminate the day. A further duty remained ere he slept. That duty was to dislodge the enemy from the position which he had taken. His officers—his army sympathized with him; they were willing to put forth one more effort to secure all that they had promised themselves, and which in the morning had seemed so practicable.

Two brigades were therefore ordered to attack the British at their post—on the right and left. The battle was now renewed, and renewed with all the spirit and determination of an earlier hour. It continued, however, but for a brief period. The sun was fast descending when the second battle began, and had set ere the several corps had really attained their proposed positions. It was fortunate, probably, that the contest was interrupted. Both armies had done enough. Had Washington succeeded in dislodging the enemy, his troops were too much spent to have followed up the victory.

There they now paused. Darkness soon set in. Too much overcome even to administer to the wants of nature, the troops of both armies flung themselves upon the parched ground, and slept. They slept in sight of each other, and they slept strong and deep. With the morning light, Washington had decided to renew the battle. He, therefore, instead of retiring to his marquee, wrapped himself in his cloak, and sunk upon the earth in the midst of his soldiers.

At the dawn of morning, Washington rose, and with his recruited followers was about to follow up the advantages of the preceding day. But the enemy had retired. Aware of the peril of his condition, the British commander had roused his army at midnight, and ordered a retreat. And so silently was that retreat effected, and so soundly had the American army slept, officers and men, that no one of the thousands which composed it, had any suspicion of the retreat, till the light of day revealed it. Washington was indeed disappointed; but the departure of the enemy, if it was not in all respects equal to a victory, gave practical assurance that Washington had suffered no defeat.