“Drink to her that each loves best;
And if you nurse a flame
That’s told but to her mutual breast,
We will not ask her name.”
—Campbell.
The sixth day of May dawned clear at Valley Forge. In the crowded huts and tents was an unusual stir, a brushing and repairing of ragged uniforms, and a burnishing of bayonets and sword-hilts. Then the bugles sounded their stirring call, and the morning sun looked down upon the army drawn up in two lines upon the drill plateau. Richard, gazing down the line in front of him, and knowing that the one in which he stood was but its ragged prototype, felt his heart swell with admiration and a sickening pity; for everywhere were the marks of privation and starvation. Only the faces, transfigured by the radiance of a new hope, told of the unconquered wills that lay dormant under the scars of suffering.
Thus they heard the news for which they had been mustered into line—France had acknowledged the independence of the colonies, and would send them substantial martial aid. Franklin had won, and the fleur-de-lys was to float beside the star-studded banner of the young republic fighting for her life.
When the proclamation was read, a salute of thirteen guns boomed out, each the symbolic voice of a State pledging allegiance to the new alliance. Down the lines went the rattle of musketry, and there rolled up a shout that filled the blue hollow of the sky with its hoarse echo.
“Long live the king of France!”
“Long live the new Republic!”
“Hip—hip—huzza!”
It was as if the prisoned joy of months had broken into song. Scars and tatters and hunger, pains and aching wounds were forgotten, and only the radiance of peace and freedom yet to come shone in the dazzled upturned eyes.
“Long live the lilies of France!”