CHAPTER XXVI
FORCING CLINTON TO BATTLE
I was left behind at Coryell's Ferry, for the purpose of hasteningforward any supplementary orders from Washington, when Maxwell, and theJersey militiamen, pressed forward in an effort to retard the march ofthe enemy. From the reports of scouts we began to understand what wasoccurring. Before dawn on the eighteenth of June the British army beganleaving the city, crossing the Delaware at Gloucester Point, and byevening the motley host, comprising Regulars, Hessians, Loyalists, and aswarm of camp followers, were halted near Haddenfield, five milessoutheast of Camden.
The moment this knowledge reached Washington, he acted. In spite ofopposition from some of his leading officers, his own purpose remainedsteadfast, and every preparation had already been carefully made forenergetic pursuit. Our troops fit for service numbered less than fivethousand men, many of these hastily gathered militia, some of whom hadnever been under fire, but the warmth and comfort of the summer time,together with the good news from France, had inspired all with freshcourage. Whatever of dissension existed was only among the coterie ofgeneral officers, the men in the ranks being eager for battle, eventhough the odds were strong against us. There was no delay, no hitch inthe promptness of advance. The department of the Quartermaster-Generalhad every plan worked out in detail, and, within two days, the entirearmy had crossed the river, and pushed forward to within a few miles ofTrenton. Morgan, with six hundred men, was hurried forward to thereinforcement of Maxwell, and, relieved from my duties at the ferry, Iwas permitted to join his column.
I know not when, during all my army life, I was more deeply impressedwith the awful solemnity of war, than as I watched these volunteersoldiers land on the Jersey shore, and tramp away through the dust. Inthose ranks were sick and wounded scarcely able to keep up; occasionallyone would crawl aside but the moment he was able would join some newbody, and resume the march. There were many still pale and emaciated fromthe horrors of the past winter, some in rags, others practicallybarefooted; only occasionally would troops appear in what might be termeduniform, although each separate command was distinguishable by someinsignia. It was a rough, motley concourse, yet, thanks to Baron deSteuben, drilled into military compactness, and well officered. In columnafter column, I could perceive the evidence of his work, the men standingerect and soldierly, obeying their orders with veteran precision. This,however, was most noticeable among those of the Continental Line, the menwho had fought on other fields, marched in other campaigns, and bravedthe suffering at Valley Forge. The militia was little more than anorganized mob, indifferently armed, and loosely commanded. To me themounted men, and the artillery, appeared most efficient, although Iappreciated to the full the sterling fighting qualities of the footmen.
They were animated by a stern purpose which yielded power. Such as thesewere not to be trifled with. Others might scoff at their raggedness ofline, their carelessness of discipline, their nondescript garments, andvariety of equipment, but to one who had seen such in battle--who hadbeen with them at Trenton, Brandywine, and Germantown--they were warriorsnot to be despised, stern, grim fighters, able to hold their own againstEngland's best drilled battalions. I watched them file past--Wayne's,Varnum's, Scott's brigades, and Jackson's and Grayson'sregiments--marking the brown, dust-caked faces, the eager eyes, thesturdy, tireless tread, the well oiled muskets. Boys, men, graybeards,all alike exhibited in their faces the same expression. They wereanticipating battle against a hated foe, and counted hardship as nothingcompared with the joy of conflict. Every step brought them closer to thegrapple of arms--to that supreme test of strength, courage, endurance,for which they had left their homes. They might be poorly drilled,ill-dressed, variously armed, yet these were fighting men.
It was at midnight when Morgan led us up the steep bluff, and out uponthe sandy road. We advanced silently, and in straggling column throughthe darkness, passing the embers of camp-fires for several miles, therecumbent soldiery of other commands sleeping on the ground. At Hopewell,Washington was holding another council with his officers. As we swungpast we could perceive his tall figure standing in the glow of a fire,and there arose from the lips of our men a sudden, involuntary cheer,breaking strangely upon the solemn silence of the night. The group abouthim were startled and looked about, and he paused a moment shading hiseyes.
"What troops are those?" he asked, his voice cutting across the distance.A hundred answered him:
"Morgan's riflemen!"
"Good, my lads!" and even at that distance I could see his face brighten."There will be work for you at dawn."
With a rolling cheer, echoing down our ranks from front to rear, weanswered, swinging the guns over our heads, as we swept forward into thedark night. There might be discussion, dissension about that councilfire, but there was none in the hearts of those who were going out todie. Already rumors were flying about regarding Lee's unwillingness toengage in battle. I saw him as I trudged past, standing beside Wayne, thefirelight on his face, although his head was bowed. Even to our cheers henever once glanced up, and, as we passed beyond the radius of light, Ilaid my hand upon the mane of Morgan's horse.
"Is it true that Charles Lee thinks we should let Clinton go withoutfighting?" I asked soberly. "That was rumored at the ferry."
"'T is true enough," he answered, his eyes upon the dark column ofplodding men. "And he seems to have others with him. I know not what hasput the coward into the fellows of late. Saint Andrew! the odds are nogreater than we have met before. But there'll be no fighting, lad, Ifear, unless Washington takes the bit in his teeth, and orders it. I'mglad the boys cheered him; 'twill give the man new heart."
"You favor the joining of issue?"
"Why not? Were we ever in better fettle? A retreating army is always halfwhipped, and we can choose our ground. Why, lad, 'tis reported Clinton'sline stretches out full twelve miles, with train of baggage-wagons andbattery horses, and camp-followers enough for a division. 'Twill be easywork attending to them, and most of his troops are Dutch and Tories."
My horse was in ill condition, limping sadly, although I could notdiscover the cause, and I walked with the men, leading the animal,through the smouldering clouds of dust. It was a hot, still night, andMorgan marched us swiftly, with few pauses for rest. By daylight we cameup with the New Jersey militia, lying at rest along the bank of theMillstone River, waiting their turn to ford that stream, and join Maxwellon the opposite shore. From where I stood I could see the thin lines ofContinentals spreading out like a fan, as the skirmishers advanced up theopposite bluffs. Down the trampled bank, men were struggling with a lightbattery, and suddenly in the press of figures I came upon Farrell. He wasmud from head to foot, his face streaked with it, but he looked up withbeaming eyes as I spoke his name, and our hands clasped.
"I thought you would be over there with Maxwell," he said, pointingacross at the black dots, now clearly distinguishable in the glow ofsunshine.
"I was left behind, and came up just now with Morgan," I replied. "But Iam anxious enough to be with my own fellows. What means that skirmishline, Farrell? Are we already in touch with Clinton?"
He swept the hair out of his eyes with his great fist.
"No one knows exactly, but the British are not far off, and are headedthis way. A scout came through with the news two hours ago--Clinton hastaken the road to Monmouth." He chuckled grimly, glancing at my face."And who think ye the lad was who told us?"
"Who?" my throat tightening.
"The same you was so anxious about a few days back."
"Mortimer! Eric Mortimer?"
"Aye, unless my eyes fail me already, it was the boy."
"You are sure? You saw him?"
"Well, I had a glimpse, as he came up the bank here from the ford, hishorse dripping. It was dark still, and he only stopped to ask the road. Iknew the voice, and the form--the lad is as slender as a girl--then hewent by me, digging his horse with the spurs, and lying close. He had aDragoon's cape flapping from his shoulders, but 'twas t
he boy all right.Ah! there go the guns up the bank. Now, perhaps, they'll let me take myfighting dogs across."
The way was open for me, at least, and I swung up into the saddle, anddrove my horse down the slippery shore into the water. The stream was notdeep, although the current flowed swiftly, and a moment later I had foundMaxwell.
"Yes," he said to my first question, "we are going to fight, although itmay not be anything more serious than skirmishing to-day. Washington hasdecided in spite of Lee, thank God, and we'll have a go at the Red-coats.Lafayette commands the advance, and Wayne will be up within a few hours.We are to skirmish forward toward Monmouth Court House; Clinton hasturned that way."
"You learned that from a scout?"
"Yes; he just came through; one of Charles Lee's men, I understood--ablue-eyed, rosy-cheeked boy, who said his name was Mortimer. He hadridden from Cookstown, and was reeling in the saddle, but would go on.Your men are over there, Major, beyond the clump of timber. In myjudgment we'll accomplish little to-day, for there is a heavy storm inthose clouds yonder."
"How many men will we have when Wayne comes up?"
"About four thousand, with the militia. We are ordered to hang close toClinton's left, while Morgan circles him to the right. 'Tis said theBritish have transports, at Sandy Hook, and are trying to get there; thatwas the word young Mortimer brought in."
The bath in the water seemed to have helped my horse, but I rode slowlyup the valley toward the wood which served as my guide. Troops werestrung along the sandy expanse of valley, the men mostly lying down,exhausted by their hard night's march. These were of my own brigade, menof the Pennsylvania and Maryland Line, uniformed in well-worn blue andbuff. Already the sun beat down hot upon them, the air heavy and dead. Nobreath of breeze stirred the leaves, or grass blades, and most of thoselying there had flung aside their coats. Over all the western andsouthern sky extended a menacing bank of clouds, slowly advancing, hugethunder-heads, already jagged with forked lightnings, pushing up into theblue. Before I reached the skirmishers, great drops of rain fell, andthen a downpour, utterly blotting out the landscape. Lightning flashed,the thunder unremitting, the rain a flood, water leaped down the side ofthe hill in cascades, and, blinded, I drew my horse back into the slightshelter of the wood, and waited, gripping him by the bit. Men ran backdown the hill, seeking shelter from the fury of it, and I bent my head,soaked to the skin. For the first time I realized how tired I was, everymuscle aching with the strain of the long night's march, my headthrobbing from the awful heat of the early morning. I sat down in the mudand water; my arm through the bridle rein, my head against the trunk of atree, which partially protected my face from the beating rain. But therewas no sleep possible.
My mind pictured the field of action, reviewed the events leading up tothis hour, and, as surely, reverted to Claire Mortimer. She would havebeen left behind in Philadelphia, which ere this was doubtless occupiedby our troops under Arnold. I had understood at the Ferry those were hisorders, to march in the moment Clinton evacuated. She would be safeenough then, unless--unless she had again returned to Elmhurst. Yet ifEric was well there would be no occasion for the girl assuming such arisk, as the Mortimer plantation must have been in the very track of theretreating army. Perhaps she was with them--but no; I recalled the rumorabout our camps that the officers' wives and the loyalist ladies were tobe transported to New York by water. Arnold would permit that, and nodoubt this daughter of a colonel would be among them.
I had almost forgotten the sturdy downpour so intensely was I thinking,when a courier came spurring forward, blinded by the storm, yet ridingrecklessly. He must have seen the group of men huddled at the edge of thegrove, for he drew up his horse, calling my name.
"Major Lawrence, I come from General Maxwell," he shouted between thecrashes of thunder. "You are given command of the right of the line, andwill press on regardless of the storm until the enemy is met in force.Dragoons have been seen two miles east. You understand, sir?"
"Yes," leading forth my horse. "Come on, lads, it's the top of the hill!What about the artillery?"
"We may not be able to move the guns," he answered, "but you are to keepyour powder as dry as possible and hold Clinton to the road. Dry powderwill be sent as soon as the storm breaks. That's all, sir."
I could scarce see the fellow as his horse whirled, and went splashingdown the slope. Through the mist of rain the men gathered about were mereblotches.
"All right, you water-rats, come on!" I sang out cheerfully. "We'll givethe Red-coats the butts of our guns anyhow."
There was a faint cheer as the drenched figures sprang forward racingafter me. Half of them had flung away their coats in the fierce heat, andtheir shirts clung soaked and dripping. Swinging them into some semblanceof line, each man barely within sight of his neighbor, and picking upothers as we advanced, we made the crest of the hill, and entered theopen country beyond. Looking back, as the clouds broke, we could see thelong lines of infantry forming in the valley below, with black speckshere and there as staff officers rode with orders. Twice we ran upagainst small parties of horsemen, exchanging shots, but these fell back,leaving the road clear. By dark we were at Englishtown, hungry andthoroughly worn out, and there were halted, sleeping upon our arms. All Ihad in my haversack was a single hard biscuit, after munching which I laydown upon the ground and fell instantly asleep.
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