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!”