by Ron Carter
In desperation Sullivan turned and shouted, “General Wayne!—Forward!—to the west. Charge!”
“Mad Anthony” Wayne’s division did not hesitate. The men remembered Paoli—seeing the British come out of the night with their bayonets to massacre the American command, giving no quarter or mercy, running men through while they were trying to surrender. They came charging out of the fog like an avenging horde, bayonets flashing as they shouted, “Remember the Paoli Massacre—have at the bloodhounds!”
They swept the British before them like an avalanche, asking no quarter, giving no quarter, using their bayonets like demented men, showing no fear. The redcoats faltered, then began to fall back, and panic seized them as the wild-eyed Americans came on. Twice the routed British dug in their heels to make a stand, and twice Wayne’s men ripped into them like men possessed, and twice the British broke, falling back.
And then, floating over the battlefield, came the sound of British bugles sounding retreat. Never had an American army heard music so inspiring, so sweet! They smelled victory, and like a tidal wave they swept on.
Racing his horse toward the front, General Washington turned his head to listen to the British bugles, and his heart leaped with elation. They’re in full retreat! We’ve routed them!
Ahead of him, Wayne’s command led the charge, with Sullivan’s and Conway’s divisions right behind, as they drove Musgrove and the British back, one field, one split-rail fence at a time, half a mile, then a mile, before General William Howe himself came in from the south, spurring his horse to the battle line. Furious, he pulled his mount to a prancing stop before his men, livid with anger, cursing, shouting at them.
“Shame! You’ve never retreated before! They’re just a scouting party! Form! Form!”
By coincidence, or accident, or providence—no one ever knew—at that precise moment an American cannon blasted in the fog, and the canister of grapeshot exploded directly over Howe’s head. Howe ducked, and his horse shied violently as the one-inch lead balls kicked dirt for thirty yards in all directions, and though none of them struck him or his horse, half a dozen red-coated regulars buckled and went down all around him. The screaming Americans burst through the mist and the smoke, and the British withered before them as Howe’s command broke into full retreat, hurling themselves through the trees and brush with the howling Americans following less than ten yards behind.
Fighting his panic-stricken horse, pounding his own men on their backs with the flat of his sword, British Colonel Thomas Musgrave suddenly found himself on a dirt road, and moments later there was a split-rail fence less than ten feet to his left, and beyond that the great, gray shape of a building dim in the fog. For a moment he stared, unable to grasp where he was, and then it burst in his mind.
We’re on Skippack Road—Lime Kiln Road is just south of us! That’s the home of Judge Benjamin Chew! The walls are stone—nearly two feet thick!—a natural fort.
Instantly he shouted orders. “Companies one through six—over the fence and into the building! Take the second floor and fire from the windows!”
The one hundred twenty men from the first six companies, who were still able, bounded over the split-rail fence and tore open the two doors into the spacious, elaborately decorated home. They slammed and locked the shutters to every window on the main floor, barricaded every door, and bounded up the stairs to throw open every window on the second floor. Thirty seconds later they had one hundred twenty muskets leveled against all comers, waiting for the shouting Yankees to materialize in the fog.
The Americans came surging over the fence north of the home and were but twenty-five yards from the thick stone walls when they made out the shape of the huge structure looming in the fog. They could vaguely see the dark shapes of the windows as they came on, never suspecting the second floor was crammed with British regulars. They were a scant thirty feet from the back wall when the orange flame leaped from every north-facing window, and the blast of the first British volley tore into them. Shocked, confused, the rebel Americans stopped in their tracks for one split second before they understood what had happened, and then they scattered. The momentum of their attack, and of the British retreat faltered and slowed.
At that moment Washington jumped his laboring horse over the north fence and reined it to a sweating halt in the Chew House yard, shouting in the fog, “Why have you stopped? Move on! Move on!”
The second volley boomed out from the second-story windows, and again the musketballs came whistling. Washington held firm as the Americans scattered, and then he reined to his right, back toward the Skippack Road. He turned to his aide Colonel John Laurens. “Get the generals here as fast as possible.”
Precious minutes passed with Washington tenuously controlling his need to drive on, maintain the attack, not give the British time to rally. Then the officers came on tired, sweaty horses, uniforms damp in the fog. They remained mounted while they waited for their commander to speak.
Washington pointed. “The British have a force in the second story of the Chew House. We have the British in full-blown retreat! I say we leave a company behind to surround the house and wait them out. What is your advice?”
Wayne nearly yelled, “Leave them! Move on! We’ve got half the British army on the run!”
Conway joined in. “We can drive Howe clear back to Philadelphia! In the name of heaven, leave the Chew House behind!”
Knox shook his head violently as he raised his voice. “A maxim of war! Never, never leave an occupied castle in your rear!”
Sullivan cut him off. “That’s not a castle! That’s a house, and there couldn’t be many inside. We’ve got Howe himself running! Move on!”
For three seconds Washington weighed it in his mind. “Get an officer from one of your commands and have him go in under a white flag to offer surrender terms!”
Sullivan turned, shouted orders, and a young captain came cantering in, eyes wide in question. Sullivan handed him a large, white handkerchief. “Put that on your sword and walk your horse to that house. Offer the British inside safe passage and humane treatment if they surrender.”
The young captain made it to within ten feet of the rear door before a musket cracked and he tumbled from his saddle dead.
Washington gritted his teeth. “Bring up the cannon.”
For ten minutes, six-pound cannon blasted at point-blank range. The cannonballs splintered the ground-level doors off their hinges but did nothing more than knock chips and mortar from the thick stone walls.
“Storm the place!” Washington called.
Wayne shouted orders, and two companies from his command came charging. The muskets from the second-story windows knocked the first two ranks backward, and those behind stopped, then retreated.
“Let me go,” Colonel John Laurens said, and Washington looked at his aide.
“To do what?”
“Burn them out. I’ll need a volunteer to help.” Chevalier du Mauduit du Plessis, a French officer, spurred his horse forward. “I will go.”
Laurens sprinted to the Chew House stables and came out with a great load of fresh wheat straw in his arms as Mauduit ran dodging to the house, broke open the shutters to a window, smashed out the glass, and swung himself over the windowsill into the house. A British officer with a raised sword burst into the room.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
Mauduit shrugged his shoulders. “I am only taking a walk.”
For a moment the British officer struggled at the nonchalance, the sheer insanity of Mauduit’s reply, then strode forward, sword leveled. “Surrender, sir.”
A British regular burst into the room behind the British officer, saw both men, instantly raised his musket, and fired at Mauduit as the officer closed with him. The musketball struck the British officer in the back. As the officer fell forward onto his face, Mauduit leaped back to the ground outside the window, Laurens threw down the straw, and both men sprinted back toward their horses. They were yet three step
s from their rearing mounts when a musketball took Laurens in the shoulder, and he went down to one knee, recovered, made it to his horse, and the two men returned to the gathered American officers.
Washington sat his horse, weighing what to do. Leave the Chew House filled with British regulars behind, with the possibility they could strike his advancing army from the rear? He stood tall in the stirrups, probing, listening for the approach of Greene and his large command. He jerked out his watch and felt the grab in the pit of his stomach. Past nine o’clock. Where’s Greene? Where is Greene?
Half a mile due east, General Nathanael Greene paused in the fog and turned an ear to listen intently. The unmistakable sound of cannon came through the fog from the west, and Greene tensed. Whose cannon?
He spun around to an aide. “Where’s General Stephen? Have you seen him lately?”
“Sir, there’s something you should know. I think he’s been drinking. He might be drunk.”
“What?” blurted Greene. “Where is he?”
“I believe he has just ordered his division west, toward the sound of the cannon.”
Greene gaped. “Without orders? He left without my orders to do so?”
“He led his division away, sir, including his cannon.”
Greene bit down on the rage that sprang in his chest. “So be it.” He twisted in his saddle and shouted, “Follow me! We must take Luken’s Mill and then hit the British breastworks.”
Five minutes later the American brigades of Muhlenberg, McDougall, and Scott were running forward, following Greene in a full-out charge against the red-coated regulars at Luken’s Mill. The fog covered both sides until they were sixty feet apart, and then the roar of the muskets and the orange tongues of flame leaped from both sides as they closed in mortal combat. For long minutes the fighting was hand-to-hand, face-to-face, and then the British line began to sag. The shouting Americans sensed the weakness and charged again, and the British began to fall back.
“To the right,” the British officers shouted, and the line shifted as the British tried to flank Greene’s charge.
“To the left,” Greene shouted to his men, and they veered to their left to meet the British counterattack head-on.
American General “The Devil” Pete Muhlenberg had had enough. He stood in his stirrups, sword raised, and shouted to his men, “Follow me, boys. CHARGE!”
He ripped into the British lines with a renewed fury, scattering the redcoats, tearing great holes in their leading companies. His brigade shattered the British formation, and suddenly Muhlenberg realized he had plunged completely through the battle lines. He was inside the British camp!
“Surrender or die,” he shouted, and hundreds of the startled British regulars threw down their arms and raised their hands.
Behind Wayne’s charging division, Stephen’s division swept in toward the Chew House, wheeled their cannon about, and began firing at the walls. Washington squinted in the fog to recognize who they were and instantly sent word. “Return to assist Greene! We are in control here!”
Stephen struggled with his alcohol-fogged brain for several minutes before he understood, and he swung his division around to return to support Greene.
Wayne heard Stephen’s cannon battering the Chew House, and then the firing stopped. For a moment Wayne pondered, face drawn in puzzlement. Who’s up there with cannon? Sullivan? Is Sullivan in trouble? It has to be Sullivan. If Sullivan’s lines collapse, my command will be trapped between two major British forces!
Instantly he barked orders. “Back! Find and support Sullivan!”
When Wayne gave the order, he had no idea Stephen’s division was behind him, running the wrong way to support Greene. The plan clearly called for Stephen to be far to the east. In the fog and the confusion and the incessant roar of cannon and musketfire from guns and men that could not be seen, Wayne’s division suddenly found itself within forty yards of the shapes of men running through the fog and gun smoke. There was no way for him to know he had struck Stephen’s misguided division broadside.
It flashed in Wayne’s mind, It has to be the British! “Open fire!” he shouted, and all up and down the line American muskets blasted orange flame and musketballs into Stephen’s men. Caught by total surprise, shocked, they staggered back, then knelt and delivered a full volley back into Wayne’s men in the fog. Neither side knew who the other was. As fast as they could reload, the two lines fired, then each began to fall back, and finally both disintegrated into a full-blown retreat.
At that moment, to the east, Major General James Agnew led his fresh division of British regulars, joined by the divisions of General Grey from the west and General Grant from the east, headlong into the command of Nathanael Greene. The Americans had marched all night and had fought in a maddening fog all morning. They were exhausted, confused, disoriented, and burning with thirst. Greene knew they could not hold, and he took control.
“Fall back! Fall back! Fire from behind walls or fences or trees. Do not run. Bring the cannon. Bring the cannon. Do not run. Fire as you retreat!”
Behind Greene, Sullivan’s aides hauled their horses to a stop, pointing as they reported to Sullivan. “Sir, the men are running out of ammunition. Maybe three, four cartridges per man is all they have left.”
At that moment a cavalryman from the light brigade came storming up in panic. “We’re surrounded, we’re surrounded,” he shouted and galloped off northward into the fog. Sullivan’s men, who had carried the center of the attack on their shoulders, looked at each other, then at the empty cartridge boxes on their hips, and they began to fall back, slowly at first, then in a full retreat. They came streaming past Washington, cartridge boxes held high to show him they were empty, and Washington groaned inwardly. We had them! We had taken the field, and now we are losing it!
He kicked his horse to a gallop, headlong into the fog, riding to the sound of the hottest fight, where Muhlenberg was trying to break through to support Greene’s well-organized retreat. Again and again Washington rode within yards of the British, trying to rally his men back to the attack. Musketballs whined and whistled all around him, but none struck him. Within minutes it was clear the Americans were in a panicked retreat, and there was no stopping it. Washington followed his men, covering their retreat, back to the north from whence they had come.
He did not know that General Cornwallis had just arrived from Philadelphia with three fresh divisions, nor did he know that Howe had ordered them to pursue Washington and the Continentals until they were far from the battlefield.
For eight miles Cornwallis followed the retreating Continentals, trading cannon shots, before he turned back. General Washington continued with his army for another eight miles to Pennypacker’s Mill before he called a halt. His men fell asleep where they dropped. General Muhlenberg nodded off in his saddle.
Washington sat his horse with his head down, heartbroken, knowing he had been on the brink of a victory that could have ended the war, but his blunders and those of his men and the morning fog had allowed it to slip from them. Once again they were a beaten army.
I misjudged at the Chew House—should never have stopped the momentum—Greene arrived too late—Stephen left Greene without orders—Wayne blundered into Stephen—we had them beaten—in full retreat—and we gave it all away—lost it all. What will Congress say? What will our people say? Can we rise above another defeat? Is this the end of the revolution? Have we lost all we held so dear?
Once again the iron in his backbone straightened him. The men fought magnificently. We survived. We still have an army. Howe won the field but lost what he had to have—he did not destroy us. We will fight another day.
He reined his weary horse about to look at his men, then gave orders to his officers. “Move on to Whitemarsh. We’ll rally and resupply there.”
To the south, General Howe dismounted his horse and for a time listened to the exchange of cannon fire far to the north. The deep boom of the big guns stopped, and he waited for the return o
f Cornwallis with his thoughts running.
It was a near thing—we knew he was coming, and we prepared but still he very nearly succeeded—but for their blunders and the fog, who knows?
Impatiently he waited for the return of Cornwallis, then gathered his war council.
“We will return to camp to tend our wounded, and then I want a company of men to proceed north to locate the rebels. It is still possible to destroy them before the summer campaign closes.”
Two days later, at Whitemarsh, near the Wissahickon Creek, Caleb sat down near the evening fire, huddled against the cold, and unwrapped the oilcloth packet. He drew out the pencil and paper, reflected for a time, then began to write.
“The Battle of Germantown began on the night of October 2, 1777, when American scouts located the British pickets north of their breastworks near the Skippack Road . . .”
He stopped writing for a moment to stare into the flames. He was seeing auburn hair and green eyes, and he was silently repeating to himself, Nancy—Nancy—Nancy.
He drove her from his mind and once again put pencil to paper.
* * * * *
Days passed while British companies prowled through the hills and draws surrounding Whitemarsh, reporting back to Howe regularly on the fortifications Washington had set up around his camp and the numbers of men still gathered in the rebel army. Patiently Howe waited for the opening through which he could send his army to smash the Continentals beyond recovery, but none came. He ordered his men to engage the Continentals in any way they could to try to draw them out into a full battle, but all efforts failed. As the days grew shorter and the nights colder, Howe shook his head. Too late—the summer campaign is over—must return to Philadelphia for the winter.
Then he paused to ponder deeply.
Twice in the past three months we engaged them to destroy them—twice they fought and lost—but still they are there and still the rebellion goes on—their losses were greater than ours in both engagements, but at this moment they have replacements for every man they lost, and we do not. I do not believe we will be able to destroy their army.