by Ron Carter
“This is the Kennett Meeting House where we arrived several days ago.” His finger moved east and stopped near the bank of the creek. “This is where we are now.” He moved his finger to the Brandywine. “The creek runs shallow in some places, deep in others, narrow some places, wide in others. There are fords all up and down.” He shifted his finger down, reading from the map. “Here is Pyle’s Ford. To the north is Chad’s Ford, Brinton’s, Painter’s, Jones’s, Wistar’s, Buffington’s, Trimble’s, Jeffrie’s, and up here, Taylor’s Ford.”
He straightened, and his eyes swept the faces of the officers. The only sound was the quiet buzz of insects in the stifling heat of the tent.
“I’m going to go over this once, working south to north, so get it right. This is how the rebels are positioned.” He returned his finger to Pyle’s Ford.
“This is the southern end of the rebel positions. Washington’s extreme left. John Armstrong has a brigade of Pennsylvania Militia there, nothing more.”
He waited until he was satisfied everyone was ready to move on, then moved his finger north, up the creek.
“This is Chad’s Ford. Nathanael Greene is entrenched here with two brigades. Washington is with him. I believe Washington intends holding Greene and his command in reserve to reinforce any breakthrough in his lines farther north. I’ll come to that.”
Again he waited before he moved on.
“North of Chad’s Ford, less than two miles, is the center of the rebel line. John Sullivan is entrenched there with two regiments. There’s a ford in front of him, but I don’t know the name. It makes no difference.”
Again he paused, waited, and went on.
“Just north of Sullivan, between Painter’s and Brinton’s Fords, Adam Stephen has a brigade, here, and just to his right and a little behind him, William Alexander Stirling—Lord Stirling—has a brigade. Stephen and Stirling anchor the right of Washington’s positions.”
Contemptuous smiles flashed and were gone at the mention of Lord Stirling, the British officer who had claimed the title “Lord” before abandoning England to join the Americans.
“There are small patrols up and down the river, none of them large enough to be of consequence.”
He straightened, cleared his throat, and waited until no one was moving.
“Now I want to point out some landmarks you must not forget.” Once again his finger tapped the map. “Here, seven miles above Chad’s Ford, is Trimble’s Ford. Take a hard look.” He waited. “Nearly due east of Trimble’s Ford, here, is Osborne’s Hill. Both Trimble’s Ford and Osborne’s Hill are about two miles north of Stirling and Stephen.” Again his finger moved. “Between Osborne’s Hill and the Americans, here, is a road called Street Road. It runs east and west. Behind Stirling and Stephen, here, not far from Street Road, is the Birmingham Meeting House. Now, study this map until you have all those places well in mind.”
He straightened and waited for three minutes while each officer committed the landmarks to memory.
“Let’s move on. You will remember the battle of Long Island. Our forces moved up the Jamaica Road to come in behind the rebels, and we caught them by total surprise. The same at White Plains. We circled behind them again, and they broke.”
Instantly the plan that was coming clarified in the minds of most of the officers, and they stiffened, then leaned back, waiting.
Howe’s finger tapped Trimble’s Ford. “The rebels have no one here. It is not patrolled. Either Washington or Sullivan—most likely Sullivan—has simply ignored it, exactly as he did the Jamaica Pass on Long Island. We’re going to take a major force of men to that ford, cross the Brandywine, move on around Osborne’s Hill, turn south toward Street Road, past Birmingham Meeting House, and come in directly behind Stirling, Stephen, and Sullivan. They’re the center of the entire rebel army. If we can catch them by surprise, we can destroy the center, and from there it will be a simple matter to crush Greene and Washington and then Armstrong. The heart of the Continental Army.”
Excited talk broke out as the officers caught the vision of it. Simple. Practical. Workable. Howe raised a hand and went on.
“To do it, we shall divide into two divisions. General Cornwallis and I will take ten thousand troops north to Trimble’s Ford, cross it, and come in behind the American center.”
Cornwallis nodded his understanding.
“General Knyphausen will take the remainder of our forces—about five thousand men and most of the cannon—and move east. He will stop just short of the Brandywine Creek bank and make a strong show out where the Americans can see, of getting prepared for battle. He will then commence a general cannonade of Sullivan’s positions to hold them where they are. He must make Sullivan think we intend crossing the Brandywine in a frontal attack.”
He turned to look at Knyphausen. The German general’s lower lip was thrust forward, face passive. He neither looked at Howe, nor spoke. Orders were orders.
“General Knyphausen, you will maintain the cannonade until you hear shooting from the rear of the rebel positions. That will be General Cornwallis and myself. The sound of our artillery will mean we’re in position behind them, and that will be your signal. When you hear it, you cross the Brandywine and commence a direct frontal assault on Sullivan. With us behind him and you in front, the center and the right wing of the rebel positions will be ours almost immediately. From there, we go south immediately to take Greene and Washington. Do you understand?”
The German bobbed his head once. “Ja. I understand.”
Howe reached with a white handkerchief to wipe at the sweat on his forehead. With the flap closed, the temperature inside the tent was becoming unbearable.
“Timing will be critical. General Cornwallis and I will march out at precisely four o’clock tomorrow morning. That means everything has to be in readiness tonight before tattoo. Tell your men only two things: Be ready, and that we march at four o’clock. Nothing more is to be said until we are at Trimble’s Ford.”
He stopped and partially closed his eyes while he searched for anything he had missed. He could think of nothing.
“Questions?”
“What about the cavalry? With whom does it go?”
“What little we have will be with General Cornwallis and myself. We will likely need the riders to strike at the first place the rebel lines show weakness. Anything else?”
No one spoke.
“I will have written orders delivered to you this afternoon.”
He stopped, waited for silence, then leaned forward, palms flat on the table, arms straightened. His eyes met each of theirs as he spoke.
“I told you before, and I repeat it now. To end this revolution, we must first destroy the rebel army and Washington himself. We cannot let him escape with any remnant of his army. If he does, he will gather more of his rabble and fight on, and we will have failed. Tomorrow we take them down. When the sun sets, Washington and the rebels must be ours.”
Notes
The description of Brandywine Creek and the surrounding towns, villages, and fords is accurate. The battleground, the location of the opposing armies, the general battle plan of General Howe and the British, the commanders of the two great British divisions, Generals Cornwallis and Knyphausen, and the progress of the two armies as the battle approached were as described. See Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 350–52; Freeman, Washington, pp. 349–50. In particular, see map opposite page 321, Freeman, Washington, and map opposite page 352, Leckie, George Washington’s War.
West side of Brandywine Creek
September 11, 1777
CHAPTER X
* * *
Thomas Cheyney, husky, bearded, square-faced, burned brown by winter snows and summer suns, softly closed the plank door to his kitchen, hitched his suspenders over his shoulders, and walked ten steps out into the hard-packed dirt of his dooryard. He stopped and slowly turned completely around, eyes turned upward as he studied the cloudless heavens, gray in the approaching sunrise. The earl
y morning Delaware River breeze coming up the Brandywine, a quarter mile east of the house, was soft and cool on his face. He glanced at the rutted wagon road that ran past the barn to Trimble’s Ford, half a mile north.
He scuffed his shoe in the dirt beneath his feet and studied it for a moment. The earth was still damp from the torrential storms that had swept through ten days earlier, and the three summer rains that had fallen since, but the sun had dried it in the last three days enough to support horses and a loaded wagon. He felt a rise of satisfaction as he strode on toward his low, unpainted, slab-sided barn.
He had won. This year he had won. Most of the fourteen acres of wheat he and the children had planted in the spring and nurtured throughout the summer had survived the first storms of fall. The heavy heads were full and golden in the dawn, the stalks swaying gently, like waves on the ocean in the morning breeze. They would have wheat through the winter for their pigs, and the cow and steer, and the chickens. And there would be enough for Mother to bake her twelve loaves of bread each Tuesday and cakes and pies for the German Christmas celebration and birthdays and once in a while on Saturday, for a Sunday afternoon feast after church. The dawn-to-dark, rough, unending work had been rewarded this year.
Last year? He had lost. Two nights before the harvest, nature had rebelled. A violent storm had struck and held through the day. Howling winds had stripped trees and lifted shakes from the roof of the barn. Rain had fallen so thick that from the small south window in the kitchen, the barn was only a gray blur. Twice that morning he had slogged through mud a foot deep to reach the wheat field. By the second visit, not one stalk was left standing. The wind had laid the entire field down and stripped the stalks to leave the full heads of wheat soaked, swollen, useless in the mud. He trudged back to the house to sit down at the table for a long time in silence, shoulders sagging, while he slowly worked his hard, callused hands before him.
His wife knew. With silent gestures she warned the fourteen-year-old twins, Edith and Esther—sturdy, heart-faced copies of their mother—to quietly do their chores and twelve-year-old Samuel to go to his place in the loft at the north end of the house. Careful not to disturb her husband, she and eight-year-old Sarah continued working silently in the kitchen. The baby, eight-month-old Damon, was asleep in his crib.
It was half an hour before Thomas rose from his chair, squared his shoulders, and brought his book of accounts from its place behind a stone in the fireplace to the table. He began making adjustments and fresh entries. He could trade the heifer calf and six of the weaner pigs for wheat. Maybe work for Heinrich Steinman up the road for some more. Steinman had more than three hundred acres of crops. He kept two hired hands, year-round. He had gotten half of his fifty-five acres of wheat harvested before the storms hit. He likely had thirty, maybe thirty-five tons in his bins. Steinman was a hard, frugal man, but he was fair. Thomas had worked for him twice before, once for a calf, once for a colt, and though Steinman’s severe, humorless expression never changed, Thomas was sure Steinman approved of his work. Maybe Steinman would part with some of his wheat for work. Maybe his barn needed a new roof or his pens needed new rails or his fences new posts. Maybe. Thomas worked on his ledger in silence for an hour before he turned defensive eyes to his wife.
“Polly, the wheat’s gone.”
He used her name only in unusual times. She stopped and nodded, waiting.
“I’ll try to trade the new heifer calf for some wheat, and maybe some of the piglets at Birmingham or at Kennett Square. Maybe Steinman will trade wheat for work.”
She nodded and went on with her unending work. Once again her world was safe, secure. Thomas would be all right. They would survive the loss of their year’s wheat, and they would go on with the unending cycle of planting, nurturing, harvesting, and enduring through the winters. That night in the quiet of their bed she would reach for him and would hold him, giving her strength to him, her assurance that she knew he could find his way through.
Next year? Come spring, they would plow and plant again and nurture and pray and watch the weather. And now next year had come, and the heavens had smiled on them. The Cheyney barn and sheds and root cellar would be full.
Those who do not till the soil to sustain life will never know the primal satisfaction that comes to those who plant and nurture in faith and trust the Almighty to reward them according to His will.
There was strength in Thomas’s stride as he marched to the barn and opened the door to the pen where their Guernsey cow waited, bag full and dripping. Four years before Samuel had named the cow Chronicles. He didn’t know why. He only knew he had heard their minister, tall and rigid in the pulpit, read from a place in the Bible he called Chronicles, and Samuel thought it was a fine name for a tan and white Guernsey cow with short horns that curled inward.
Thomas held the door open while the patient animal entered the barn and walked to her milking stanchion. He dropped the lock bar into place and forked dried grass into the manger before her, then settled onto the one-legged milking stool. He leaned his forehead into the cavity of her flank and began the rhythmic pumping that would drain her udder. The fresh milk came warm and frothy, hissing into the wooden bucket, to be taken to the cool of the root cellar. What remained of yesterday’s milk was there in jars, and today Eva would begin the process of separating it—butter to trade and sell across the Brandywine at Birmingham or west at Kennett Square—cheese for the winter, whey for the sow and her annual litter of ten piglets.
Finished, he tossed the locking block on the stanchion upward to release Chronicles. She would remain until she had finished the dried grass hay, then return to her pen to be turned out to pasture later in the morning. Thomas dropped the milking stool into the corner and walked out of the barn with the rope handle of the wooden milk bucket in his left hand.
He cast his eyes east, across the creek, as he remembered the day just over a week before when the Continental Army had marched past on the far road. He had gathered the entire family into the wagon and driven the team to Trimble’s Ford to watch them as they marched, muddy to the knees, muskets over their shoulders, loud, shouting at their horses as the jaded animals struggled to pull first the cannon and then the wagons in the rutted road. Fourteen thousand of them, with General George Washington, tall and erect near the front, leading them south to meet the British.
Shy, with diverted eyes, Edith and Esther, just on the cusp of sensing the power women exercise over men, had watched the soldiers pass and felt the delicious color rise in their faces when some of the marching men tipped their hats and smiled or called to them. Samuel had stood spellbound and pointed wide-eyed at the cannon as the horses dragged them past, mud-splattered, jolting between the five-foot-tall wheels that sank in the muddy road halfway to the axles. The campfires of the army had glowed in the southern sky that night, and then they were gone.
Thomas lifted the door into the root cellar and descended the five steps to the cool, damp earthen floor. While he carefully poured the morning milk into great jars, his thoughts were still with the Continental Army.
The soldiers are somewhere down there now, across the creek, looking for the British. Will they find them? I wonder if they’ll find them. If they do, will there be a battle? He finished pouring the milk and climbed from the cellar back out into the bright sunlight and the quiet beauty of the late summer September morning. As he strode to the house with the milk bucket to be washed, his mind came back to practical, hardheaded New England conclusions. Well, they’ll find them or they won’t find them. There will be a battle or there won’t be a battle. Either way, it won’t get the wheat harvested and into the bin.
He set the bucket by the kitchen door and walked inside, blinking as his eyes adjusted. He poured water from a pitcher into a pewter basin on the washstand in the corner and washed his hands and face, then reached for a towel.
“Places,” he called, and two minutes later he was seated at the head of the table, Polly facing him at the far end, with t
he children on both sides. He bowed his head, uttered a perfunctory grace over clasped hands, and waited. Polly circled the table, a large bowl of steaming oatmeal porridge on her hip, working with a great wooden spoon to portion generous helpings into the bowls before each of them. A little molasses, a little milk, a thick slice of Polly’s bread piled heavy with butter, and the chatter quieted while breakfast was finished.
Thomas pushed his empty pewter bowl away, and the children settled, knowing the signs, waiting for his orders.
“Wheat’s ready,” he said. “Samuel and I will hitch up the team. Edith, you drive. Samuel, you’re in the wagon stacking. I’ll cut, and Esther and I will shock for a while, then Edith and Esther will trade. This is Thursday. We’ve got to have it all in the bin Saturday night, before the Sabbath.”
Without a word they all rose and quietly went about preparing for their assignments. The foundation of their existence, the place their thinking began and ended, rested on the hard fact that they ate or starved, prospered or suffered, lived or died by the crops that were in the bin and the barn and the root cellar.
The girls, dressed in worn, plain cotton, ankle-length work dresses covered their hair with white bandannas. Thomas and Samuel wore loose cotton shirts and trousers that reached below their knees but left their lower legs bare. They all wore heavy, hard-leather work shoes.
Thomas backed his team of two big, heavy-boned Percheron draft horses on either side of the wagon tongue, swung the heavy leather harnesses over their backs, shoved the big U-shaped horse collars upward ahead of the horses’ shoulders, and snapped them into place while Samuel connected the tugs to the singletrees. Thomas threaded the reins through the rings, back to the driver’s box, and wrapped them around the brake pole while the three children climbed a wheel and sat down inside the two-foot-deep walls of the wagon. Inside with them was a three-tined wooden pitchfork and the big scythe with its peculiar S-shaped handle and three-foot-long blade. Samuel glanced at the cutting edge, shiny where Thomas had worked on it with the long whetstone he carried in his back pocket when he cut wheat or oats or barley or weeds. He would use the stone half a dozen times during the morning, stroking the cutting edge quickly, refining it. A sharp scythe cut clean, and a clean cut did not shake the ripe wheat heads from the stock into the dirt. To lose wheat heads during cutting was waste, and waste was a sin. They all knew the rules.