Chapter IX (3)

On the preceding 20th of July--a Sunday--General David Forman, who had been patiently watching from the shores of New York Bay the embarkation of the British army upon the fleet of Lord Howe, and anxiously wondering from day to day whither the armada, with its eighteen thousand soldiers, would sail, observed an increased activity amongst the ships. One hundred and sixty sail lay inside of Sandy Hook. Next morning fifteen more came down from the city, and in the afternoon yet eighty more--mostly small brigs, schooners and sloops--came out of the Narrows and joined the fleet, so that it numbered two hundred and fifty-five sail.

On Wednesday the wind favored their departure. At half-past six in the morning the admiral's signal-gun was fired, and at seven they began to get under way. All day the vigilant Forman watched them as they passed out of the bay and moved down the Jersey coast. In three divisions they stretched away, steering mostly south-east, and moving like an immense flock of white waterfowl over the placid summer seas. He riding on shore as they sailed on the water, night found him at Shrewsbury, and thence, with all speed, he sent couriers to General Washington and to the Executive Council of Pennsylvania at Philadelphia. The council, in whose archives we find his despatch, at once sent another scout, Captain John Hunn, to the Jersey coast to watch the hostile fleet. Setting off promptly, Hunn had reached the shore, near Little Egg Harbor, by two o'clock of Friday, the 25th, and thence he rode slowly down to Cape May, not seeing any of the ships, however, until the 30th, when, after three days of "thick" weather, some of them came into the view of observers on both capes of the Delaware. From the Delaware side, at ten in the morning, that truculent Sussex Whig, Henry Fisher, had discerned two hundred and twenty-eight sail, and he sent off an express to ride with might and main, up the forest roads by Dover and Cantwell's Bridge, to Wilmington, and so to Philadelphia. Leaving the cape at ten in the morning, the messenger reached Chester at a quarter before six in the afternoon, and thence hurried on.

Hunn, too, saw the ships from his post on Cape May, and only the need of being brief is reason for not giving here his quaint and badly-spelled despatches, which, however, in spite of imperfect orthography, sufficiently told the movements of the fleet.

July 31st the ships were still in the offing, but the next day not one could be seen from the Delaware capes. Howe had sailed away for the ampler waters of the Chesapeake, though the change of plan involved further delay on shipboard and exposure to the dangers of a greatly lengthened voyage. August 7th his ships were seen beating down the coast toward Cape Charles, but, encountering adverse winds, it was some ten days later before they were heard of inside the great bay.

Washington had already moved from New Jersey, and on the 24th of August he set forth from Philadelphia, riding at the head of his troops, who, as they marched through the streets, were decorated with sprays of green and watched by great crowds. With him rode the marquis de la Fayette, and other foreign officers of renown accompanied the march--Pulaski, the gallant Pole, the marquis de la Rouerie, and Louis de Fleury, a young and spirited compatriot of La Fayette, on duty with Stirling's division.

Part of the army, including the division of General Stephen, had preceded the commander's march to Chester, and at that place General Armstrong had been for some days gathering the Pennsylvania militia. There moved with Washington the remaining divisions of the army under Sullivan, Stirling, Wayne and Greene, the artillery alone excepted. This, General Nash was to place upon flatboats at Philadelphia, and so float down to Chester.

By the 26th the whole army was in and about Wilmington, then only a modest town, the larger part gathered on one side along the Christiana, and the other clustered about the great mills upon the Brandywine, whose corn-meal gave the place its chief repute. Washington fixed his head-quarters in the mansion of one of the mill-owners (presumably Joseph Tatnall's spacious house), and the troops occupied the hills around, on which some traces of their lines of defence may still be discovered. The Delaware militia, urgently called upon by Congress, had been aroused, as far as possible, by the ever-faithful Rodney, the Signer of the Declaration--that tall, thin, odd-looking man, with a green patch covering the cancer that consumed his face--and they had taken the field under the command of General Thomas Collins of Belmont Hall in Kent, recently sheriff of that county, and afterward governor of the State. Part of their duty had been an attempt to save from the enemy's hands the stores, including a large quantity of that precious article, salt, which had been gathered at the "Head of Elk."

The British had arrived. Their enormous fleet, proceeding slowly, had kept well together, and now lay anchored in Elk River, the greatest company by far that these quiet estuaries, the home of the wildfowl, fish and crab, had ever seen; and on the 25th the debarkation of the troops began, Cornwallis's command landing first, and Knyphausen's, local chronicles say, not coming ashore until the 31st of the month. The long voyage had been especially trying to the horses: those that survived were almost starved, and in no condition either to carry dragoons or drag cannon. General Howe issued a proclamation to the people declaring that he came only to punish the rebellious, and making all due assurances to those disposed to maintain the royal authority. They were informed they would be paid in gold and silver for all the horses, cattle and produce they would bring in, and the Tories, we are told, thereupon drove in some of the stock of their Whig neighbors. Knyphausen's men destroyed the county buildings of Cecil at Court-house Point, and the public records were carried away, most of them being subsequently recovered in New York. Several thousand bushels of oats and corn were amongst the stores captured.

Heavy rains fell on the 26th, the day after the debarkation began, and no forward movement of importance was made until the 27th, when Cornwallis marched to Elkton (the Head of Elk), and thence issued the proclamation referred to. The next day his advance-guard occupied Gray's Hill, two miles to the east.

The two armies therefore confronted each other at a distance of some fifteen to eighteen miles, and the unhappy people between sustained the usual penalties of such a situation. The American "light-horse," part of which was the famous command of Harry Lee, scoured the country, annoying the British outposts and capturing numbers of prisoners. On the 28th they secured thirty or forty, and the next day twenty-nine were reported, besides twenty deserters who had come in, eight of them from the fleet. General Collins, with his Delaware militia, hung upon the right flank of the British, commanded by Knyphausen, and preserved the lower section of New Castle county from being despoiled. Numerous skirmishes occurred, and amongst them one which, upon the scale of other Revolutionary encounters, almost rises to the dignity of a battle. Should we call it by that name, it was the only battle ever fought in Delaware during the struggle, unless we except some bloody local fights between the Whigs and the Tories of Sussex. This affair took place on the 3d of September. The British were then advancing slowly eastward, and their vanguard, composed of German yagers, supported by light infantry, encountered at Cooch's Bridge, a crossing of the White Clay Creek, the riflemen of Maxwell and some of the Delaware militia. Maxwell's men, posted thinly and under cover, poured a deadly fire into the British ranks as they advanced, but were presently forced back by their superior numbers across the stream. The Americans admitted a loss of forty killed and wounded, and while the casualties on the other side were not known, a woman who came the next day from the British camp declared she had seen nine wagonloads of wounded brought in.

Meanwhile, the American commanders had been choosing a position in which to meet the advance of the enemy. During the rains of the 26th, Washington himself rode down nearly to the British front, and Greene and Weeden, reconnoitring carefully, had selected the high ground of Iron Hill, near the British lines on Gray's Hill, as a strong position. A council of general officers, however, decided against this location, choosing instead an advance of five or six miles out of Wilmington to the east side of Red Clay Creek. To the position thus chosen on September 5th the whole army moved, except a brigade under General Irwin, which was left to occupy the defensive works around Wilmington. On the Red Clay the line extended from near the confluence of that stream with the Christiana on the left up to Hockessin on the right. Greene disapproved altogether of the position. He pointed out that it did not cover Philadelphia, and that it would be easily turned by the march of Howe northward into Pennsylvania--exactly what subsequently occurred.

Three days after the line of the Red Clay had been occupied, the British, having bought and seized horses enough to serve their pressing needs, began their forward movement. Their tents and heavy baggage, the last to be disembarked, had now been landed, and the rear, under General Grant, was ready to follow the onward march. On the 8th, therefore, Cornwallis extended his left flank well up into the country above Newark, far outreaching the American lines, while a strong column of the right wing threatened the American front, moving directly toward it as far as Milltown, only two miles away. This manoeuvre developed the untenable character of the Red Clay line, and Washington hastened to extricate himself. On the night of the 8th he broke camp and marched rapidly northward. At two o'clock on the morning of the 9th he crossed the Brandywine at Chad's Ford, and posted his army on the high hill-slopes east of the creek, directly in Howe's path toward Philadelphia. The British commander, disappointed and chagrined when he perceived at daylight the escape of the Americans, moved also, and on the evening of September 10th united his two columns at Kennet Square, directly west some seven miles, by a well-used road, from Washington's position.

The Brandywine Valley, near the battle-ground, then, as now, teemed with agricultural wealth. The fine farms of the thrifty English settlers, many of whom traced their ownership back in a family line of three-quarters of a century, spread out along the creek in fine meadows of natural "green grass," and rolled upward over the hill-slopes, which, though broken and irregular, nowhere rise precipitously or to great height. The invading forces, as they marched up from the Chesapeake, could not but see the richness of the region, and one of their officers, conversed with by Joseph Townsend, exclaimed "in some rapture," Joseph says, "You have got a hell of a fine country here; which we have found to be the case ever since we landed at the Head of Elk."

Along the hill-slopes, on the east side of the Brandywine, from Chad's Ford up to Brinton's, a distance of about three miles, the Americans lay on the night of September 10th. Wayne was posted to guard the lower ford, and Sullivan had his own division and those of Stirling and Stephen stretched up along the stream. Greene's division formed the reserve. Sullivan's duties included the guarding of the fords above Brinton's, and he had become possessed of the unfortunate idea that there were but three of these fordable, and that beyond the three in question there was no place for a distance of twelve miles where the hostile army could cross. He therefore sent detachments on this evening of the 10th to the three fords--the Delaware regiment to Jones's, and battalions of Hazen's regiment to Wistar's and Buffington's. With this he rested content. It is, however, true that the cavalry at his command seems to have been pitifully meagre: he asserts that on the morning of the battle he had _four_ light-horsemen only, two of whom he sent on scouting duty, retaining the other two to serve as couriers to head-quarters.

Below the line of Washington's main army, at Pyle's Ford, were posted the Pennsylvania militia under General Armstrong, and below their position the Brandywine enters rocky hills, flowing between steep banks that forbid the easy passage of an army.

Washington slept on this night at Benjamin Ring's, just east of Chad's Ford, and La Fayette at Gideon Gilpin's, near by. Both the dwellings are still standing and occupied as places of residence. To defend the crossing at the ford a battery of six guns was planted in front of John Chad's house. Its location may yet be distinctly traced. West of the stream, Maxwell's riflemen were posted well out on the road toward Kennet Square, where General Howe occupied Wiley's tavern, an ancient hostelry, as his quarters. He had formed his plan of attack--to engage the attention of the Americans by a sharp attack on the road to the crossing at Chad's with Knyphausen's division of five thousand men, while Cornwallis should proceed, upon roads concealed from the American view by distance and intervening forests, far up the creek to the fords that Sullivan had not guarded, and, crossing there, descend with crushing force upon the American line. Sullivan himself declared, in letters written after the battle, that he had anticipated such an attack: it was the natural plan of battle for Howe to adopt under the circumstances. If, then, our general had only taken sufficient precaution to meet it!

Early on this foggy, warm morning of the 11th the British were in motion. There was no hurry for Knyphausen, but Cornwallis's men had a long, hard march before them. At five o'clock they set off, leaving behind them all encumbering baggage, even their knapsacks. Turning northward, they took the road which, pursuing a direction generally parallel with the Brandywine, reaches the west branch of the creek at Trimble's Ford. Howe himself rode with them. He was mounted, Townsend says, "on a large English horse, much reduced in flesh"--thanks to short rations on shipboard. Thirteen thousand men, the whole left wing of the army, marched in this column. Hidden by the forests and hills, as well as by the mists of the morning, they had moved several miles on their way before any word of their march reached the Americans across the creek, only three miles away.

Cornwallis having gone, Knyphausen presently took up his share of the morning's work. At nine o'clock, or thereabout, he pressed forward on the road toward Chad's. The opposing force between him and that place was mainly Maxwell's command of riflemen and light infantry, whose main body, about a thousand strong, lay upon the high ground a mile west of the ford, but whose scouting-parties the British advance-guard speedily encountered. A party of scouts, indeed, tradition says, had ventured to Johnny Welsh's tavern, almost in the very embraces of Knyphausen, and there, in cheerful disregard of precaution, had tied their horses in front, and were making merry with the apple whiskey and New England rum of the bar-room. Surprised thus, the patriot bacchanals ran for their lives from the back door and escaped through the fields, emptying their guns in one sputtering volley that wounded one of their own horses left in the hands of the enemy.

A little farther, however, the riflemen began to fire upon the advancing British, though, pressed by the heavy column, they fell slowly back toward Maxwell's main body. From behind the clumps of trees, the hedges, the walls and the houses they aimed at the invaders, and harassed, if they did not impede, their march. The "Old Kennet" meeting-house and its graveyard walls gave them another and yet more favorable ambush. But by ten o'clock the fighting had become more serious. Maxwell, pressed by a greatly superior force, resisted stoutly, and the firing on both sides was heavy. Proctor's artillery pounded away across the stream. The riflemen, well under cover, at first threw Knyphausen's men into confusion, though they included some of the best regiments of the British army, the Fourth, Fifth, Twenty-eighth, Forty-ninth and Seventy-first being among them.

As Proctor trained his guns upon the advancing British, the house of William Harvey (Senior--his son William, Junior, lived east of the creek) was directly in the line of fire. William, who was a quiet but firm old Friend, was at his home, intending to protect his goods if possible, though he had sent his family away. His neighbor, Jacob Way, found him at this juncture sitting on his front piazza, which ended to the eastward against his kitchen, a semi-detached building. "Come away!" said Jacob: "thee is in danger here. Thee will surely be killed." But William refused. Jacob expostulated. As they exchanged words, a twelve-pound cannon-ball came from Proctor's battery directly for the house, passed through both walls of the kitchen, and plunged along the piazza floor, tearing up the boards and barely avoiding William's legs, until, a little farther on, it buried itself six feet deep in the earth. It is recorded that William hesitated no longer, but sought a safer place. His house was thoroughly despoiled when the British came up.

Knyphausen, however, steadily pressed the Americans back, forced them from the high ground down to the edge of the creek, and finally drove them across. By half-past ten o'clock this was accomplished, and the British line was then formed half a mile back from the stream, where it lay until half-past four in the afternoon, the artillery keeping up a threatening but not serious fire upon Wayne's position on the east side, which his batteries returned. On the whole, the Americans thought themselves doing fairly well. Washington's secretary sent off a despatch to Congress saying that the British loss must be three hundred killed and wounded, "while ours does not exceed fifty altogether."

Part of the British force at the ford on this morning was a rifle corps commanded by Major Patrick Ferguson, a young Scotchman recently arrived in America, and subsequently killed in the sanguinary fight on King's Mountain. In a letter describing the Brandywine battle he says his men were lying concealed in a skirt of woods when "a rebel officer in a huzzar dress" passed in front, followed by another in dark green and blue "mounted on a good bay horse and wearing a remarkably high cocked hat." Ferguson ordered three men to steal near and fire upon them, but believing that they would surely be killed, so near were they riding, he felt the act to be murder and recalled his men. Again, having first passed to some distance, the officer on the bay horse returned, and rode within easy shooting distance, but Ferguson again restrained himself. The next day he learned from wounded Americans who fell into the hands of the British "that General Washington was all the morning with the light troops, and attended only by a French officer in a huzzar dress, he himself mounted and dressed in every respect as above described."

The Friends whom we left gathered in the wheelwright-shop adjourned with some agitation. "While we were sitting therein," Joseph Townsend says, "some disturbance was discovered near the house and about the door, which occasioned some individuals to go out to know the cause, and they not returning and the uneasiness not subsiding, suspicions arose that something serious was taking place: the meeting accordingly closed."

It was indeed quite time that the heads of the meeting had shaken hands as the signal for adjourning. The "uneasiness" outside had good reason. The cry was that the red-coats were coming. Women were weeping and crying that "they murdered all before them, young and old." The men endeavored to allay their fears, and urged them to be more composed; but while this took place "our eyes were caught, on a sudden, by the appearance of the army coming out of the woods into the fields belonging to Emmor Jefferis, on the west side of the creek, above the fording-place. In a few minutes the fields were literally covered over with them, and they were hastening toward us. Their arms and bayonets, being raised, shone bright as silver, there being a clear sky and the day exceedingly warm."

Howe and Cornwallis, making their long detour, since five in the morning had crossed the western branch at Trimble's Ford, and were here now, at the undefended crossing of the eastern branch, ready to sweep down upon the American line. Emmor Jefferis, who lived at the ford in a substantial house, was surprised at such an arrival of visitors. There lay in his ample cellar great store of wines and other liquors, silks, cloths, etc., the most valuable goods of some of the merchants down at Wilmington, which they had hauled up to this point when they considered their own town threatened. As the British pressed their company upon Emmor with great unreserve, they speedily found the prize in the cellar. The casks were rolled out, the heads knocked in, and the officers, quaffing the old madeira, drank to its rebel owners, whose chagrin may be imagined when they heard of its fate.

To cross the creek, General Howe ordered Jefferis to act as guide and further to direct them down the roads toward the American position. Emmor obeyed with great hesitancy, and later, when the battle was on and a bullet flew uncomfortably near, he flinched so perceptibly that Howe felt called on to say, "Don't be afraid, Mr. Jefferis: they won't hurt you." Notwithstanding which assurance, Emmor still was not happy.

The hour of crossing must have been near noon or a little after. They turned down the road toward Birmingham as they reached the east side, and soon the head of the column passed through Sconnel's, by the meeting-house so lately vacated. "The space occupied by the main body and flanking-parties was near a half mile wide." Sarah Boake, the wife of Abel, whose house stood near, called to Joseph Townsend and his brother William--who since meeting closed had gone home to secure their horses in the stable, but had now returned--to see what fine fellows these were. "They're something like an army!" cried she. As the column passed "one of the most eligible houses" in the little cluster at Sconnel, "divers of the principal officers" entered and soon "manifested an uncommon social disposition," being full of inquiries where the rebels now were, and especially where Mr. Washington was to be found. To this William Townsend answered that he thought if they would have patience they would presently meet with Mr. Washington, as he and his men were not far distant--a dry joke that does great credit, under the circumstances, to Quaker William. Moreover, as they plied the young men with further inquiries, William said he had seen the commander down at his quarters at Chad's the day before, and described him as "a stately, well-proportioned, fine-looking man, of great ability, active, firm and resolute, of a social disposition, and considered to be a good man." This was observed, Joseph says, "to check their ardor for a sight of him," though one rejoined that "he might be a good man, but he was most damnably misled to take up arms against his sovereign." As they sat thus talking, Cornwallis passed the house. He appeared tall and sat very erect, wearing his scarlet uniform, richly trimmed with gold lace and heavy epaulets. Most of the officers, our narrator says, "were rather short, portly men, well dressed and of genteel appearance, and did not look as if they had ever been exposed to any hardship, their skins being as white and delicate as is customary for females brought up in large cities or towns." A halt of the advance-guard had been made a few minutes in the village while the horses were fed on some patches of growing corn. These troops were Germans, "and many of them," Townsend remarks, "wore their beards on their upper lips, which was a novelty in that part of the country."

By two o'clock, or somewhat earlier, the British had reached Osborne's Hill, from which they had a good view to the south and east. The high ground around Birmingham meeting-house, on which a little later the hurrying Americans would appear, was plainly in view. Cornwallis's men had now marched since morning about thirteen miles under the burning sun, wading the two branches of the Brandywine. They were halted here, took out their dinner-rations and ate them, and about three o'clock were rested and ready to fight.

All the fore part of the day Washington had been near the crossing at Chad's, watching the encounter there. It must have been nearly noon when he received intelligence of a startling character. Colonel Bland had been across the creek (the main stream below its "forks"), and now sent word that he had observed at a distance the march north of a large body of the enemy. Two brigades he had distinctly seen, "and the dust appeared to rise in their rear for a considerable distance." While this despatch was in Washington's hand came another from Colonel Ross, who had ridden to a point on "the Great Valley road," in the rear of Howe's column, and sent word confirming Bland's observations. He estimated the moving force at not less than five thousand.

With such intelligence of Howe's strategy, Washington promptly resolved upon a bold and vigorous counter-movement--not hastily, we may presume, for he had doubtless anticipated the contingency and formed the plan in anticipation of such an attempt to outflank him. He now gave orders to his division commanders--Sullivan on the right, Greene in the centre and Wayne on the left--to prepare for an immediate offensive movement against Knyphausen, designing to cross the creek, crush him and capture his baggage before Howe could counter-march and come to his relief. Sullivan says he received orders to cross and attack the enemy's left, while the rest of the army crossed below (at Chad's) and engaged his right. "This I was preparing to do when Major Spear, a militia officer, rode hastily in. He informed me that he was from the upper country, that he had come in the road where the enemy must have passed to attack our right, and that there was not the least appearance of them in that quarter." He added that he had been sent to reconnoitre by General Washington. Sullivan now hesitated: he could not omit to forward such intelligence. It contradicted certainly what Colonel Bland and Colonel Ross had sent, but it was possible that Cornwallis had moved northward only as a feint, and had returned to the support of Knyphausen; so that if the Americans should now cross, they would encounter not merely the British right, but their whole army--not five thousand men, but eighteen thousand. Sullivan therefore sat down, took Spear's statement word for word "from his own mouth," and forwarded it to Washington, sending Spear himself after the messenger to report verbally. "I made no comment and gave no opinion," says Sullivan. Upon the heels of Spear came another keen-eyed scout who had not seen the British. This was "Sergeant Tucker of the Light Horse." He confirmed Spear's story. Washington now recalled his orders and abandoned the intended attack on Knyphausen.

On the hill-slope south of the present road which crosses the Brandywine at Chad's, Washington was resting under the shade of a cherry tree (which fell in a storm a few years ago), when, about half-past one o'clock, there came riding across the hillside fields from above, avoiding the circuitous roads, Squire Thomas Cheyney, his hat gone, his black hair streaming in the wind and his black eyes blazing with excitement. The blooded mare he rode, trained to fox-hunting, carried his two hundred pounds easily, and cleared ditches, fences and hedges. Cheyney had been near the upper fords, and had suddenly come upon the British as they moved down toward Osborne's Hill. They fired upon him as he wheeled and galloped off, but he escaped unhurt. Reporting to Sullivan, that officer received him discourteously, the chroniclers say; as not improbably he might, for the contradictory reports as to the British movement were, upon a subject so terribly momentous, exasperating enough. But as Sullivan hesitated, Cheyney demanded to see Washington himself, and was accordingly sent to him. Washington ordered him to dismount. "Now," said he, "draw me a sketch of the upper roads. Where did the British cross? and where are they now?"

Cheyney alighted and made the plan. Washington seemed to hesitate, as if doubting the information. The ardent squire, in the intensity of the moment, cried, "Take my life, general, if I deceive you!"

If the commander doubted, however, there came on the instant further word. Colonel Bland had sent another despatch to Sullivan, dated at "a quarter-past one o'clock," and saying that the enemy were then arriving in great force on Osborne's Hill, a little to the right of Birmingham meeting-house. This despatch Sullivan sent instantly to Washington, and the word Cheyney had brought was now made sure beyond peradventure.

Bland's confirmation of Cheyney's news aroused the injudicious but brave commander of the right wing, and he moved his troops at once up toward Birmingham. His immediate command, he says in one of the several defensive letters written after the battle, marched a mile from the position it occupied to that in which it met the enemy. On a hill just west of the meeting-house, from which, as they looked north-west, they could see the British on Osborne's Hill, they made their line of battle, and Cornwallis, as he sat upon his horse watching them through his glass, cried out with a round army oath, "The damned rebels form well!"

In what order the American line was formed we know. The division of Stephen occupied the right, that of Stirling the centre, that of Sullivan the left. But many of the details are vaguely and contradictorily stated. Lossing, following the sketch of the battle in the Pennsylvania Historical Society's collections, describes Sullivan's circuitous march to outreach Deborre, both seeking to obtain the right of the line, while Bancroft says that Sullivan posted his division in advance of the extreme left, detached by a half-mile gap from the rest of the line, but that, on being remonstrated with, he moved to close up the space, and was attacked before he had again formed his line of battle. What followed, however, is distinct enough. Rested and fed, the royal army precipitated itself, three to one in strength, and equally disproportionate in discipline and experience, upon the unready line of the Americans. The German and British troops, we are told, "vied with each other in fury" as they ran forward in a superb and irresistible bayonet charge. The struggle began about four o'clock: it lasted perhaps half an hour. As the enemy advanced they were fired upon by a body of outposted riflemen in an orchard near the road on which the attacking column moved; whereupon, says Joseph Townsend, who was near by watching the movement, the Hessians ran up the bank by the roadside, and, levelling their guns through the fence, returned the fire.

Overwhelmed by the attack, the Americans broke on the right. This was the post of honor which Deborre, an old French officer, had obtained for his brigade. Conway, in a letter written a few weeks later to support Sullivan's defence, says the latter, though entitled to the right, took the left in order to save time, and that Deborre, though the ground was much more favorable for the quick formation of his line, was not in order when the enemy attacked. It is agreed that Deborre's brigade broke first, and that then the left, Sullivan's men, gave way, though Sullivan struggled bravely to hold them. "I saw him," says De Fleury, "rallying his men with great ardor," but unsuccessfully; and he then came to Stirling's division, which was fighting on the hill, braving the thick of the fire until the centre too gave way, when, at the last, he was striving to rally the fugitives and encourage them to form a new line behind the fences. Had Sullivan shown vigilance and discretion equal to his courage, the day's history might have been totally different.

Thirty minutes completed this epoch of the battle. The first line was destroyed. Those who had formed it were stretched on the sere pastures or hurrying to the rear. Stirling and Conway, as well as Sullivan, had shown great bravery and coolness, but the resistance, practically, had been totally ineffective. The beaten and demoralized troops streamed into the woods, and sought shelter or escape until they met the reinforcements under Greene.

As the sound of Sullivan's encounter reached him--possibly sooner--Greene had moved from his reserve position to the support of the right flank. He marched, it is asserted, four miles in forty minutes. Washington himself left Chad's Ford, giving the command there to Wayne, and hurried off to the more perilous quarter of the field. Joseph Brown, a resident of the vicinity, was impressed as a guide. He was hurriedly mounted on a fine charger belonging to a staff officer, and Washington bade him ride with all speed in the direction of the firing. Away they went, Joseph's horse clearing fences and ditches gallantly, the commander at his flank urging him on. "Push along, old man! push along, old man!" was his repeated command, remembered and related for many years after by Joseph. They rode, he said, to a point between Dilworthtown and the meeting-house, half a mile away from the former place, and here the sounds of the battle seemed close at hand. Bullets flew thick, the general and his staff turned their attention from the guide, and he, glad to be excused, slipped from his saddle and withdrew.

Precisely when and where Greene met the fugitives from the first rout is another of the uncertainties. The best descriptions of the battle, upon being compared carefully, will be found vague and to some degree conflicting. But there are two points on the road from the meeting-house to Dilworth, marked upon the military map of the field as the "Second Position," where Greene undoubtedly posted his men. These positions are near together: one is south of the road, half a mile east of the meeting-house, on a hill-slope descending toward the west; and the other is north of the road, at a ravine now known as Sandy Hollow.

It is said that Greene opened his lines, received the fugitives from the front, and re-formed. Possibly this took place at this second position. It is certain that here the British advance was sharply checked, and the Americans stubbornly held their ground until late in the afternoon. It was at this turn in the battle that La Fayette was wounded, and not in the first encounter, as the current historical narrative would give us to understand. A survey of the map ascertains very precisely the place where he was shot, according to abundant testimony, and this is more than a mile distant from Sullivan's lines. It is very unlikely that La Fayette was in the first encounter, beyond the meeting-house. He probably arrived on the field with Washington, or he may possibly have accompanied Greene. The place where he was wounded is a field about halfway from the meeting-house to Dilworth, south-west of the road and about a hundred rods away. Trustworthy accounts say he was with Washington at the time, both engaged in rallying the troops; and this is quite likely: the place is only a little distance westward from the point to which Joseph Brown guided the general. In July, 1825, when La Fayette revisited the ground, he drove up from Wilmington in a carriage with the Messrs. Du Pont, whom he had been visiting. Great crowds accompanied him over the historic field, and as he drove along the road near the place already described, the carriage was stopped and the gallant old gentleman rose to his feet to point out the position in which he sustained his wound. "It was," he said, "somewhere on yonder slope. The exact spot I cannot now tell."[A]

[Footnote A: The precise nature of La Fayette's wound is differently stated in the chronicles. It was a gun-shot injury in his left leg, and did not immediately disable him. He rode that night to Chester, and thence reached Bristol, from which place Henry Laurens took him to the gentle nursing of the Moravian Sisters at Bethlehem. He remained there two months before he rejoined the army.]

Baffled as Howe was by the stubborn resistance after Greene arrived, this check was almost the only American triumph in the day's contest. There was hard fighting from five o'clock until dusk. Posted in strong positions, well supported by the artillery, commanded by Washington himself, the patriot troops displayed their most soldierly qualities. The brigades of Muhlenberg, the Episcopal rector, and of Weeden, the Virginia innkeeper, stood well and fought bravely. History preserves especially the names of three regiments as earning distinction--one from Pennsylvania, under Colonel Stewart; and two from Virginia--the Tenth, under Colonel Stevens, and the Third, commanded by John Marshall, afterward chief-justice of the United States. The Marylanders, under Smallwood, and the Delaware regiment, acquitted themselves with probably equal credit. Amongst the officers, Sullivan, Stirling and Conway had been conspicuous for courage; La Fayette was wounded; De Fleury had his horse shot under him (Congress soon voted him another); Pulaski had rendered gallant service, earning early promotion; the marquis de la Rouerie was a prisoner.

But though resisting so well, the effect was only to cover the needful retreat. Down at Chad's Ford the conflict had been quickly over after the fighting began at Birmingham. The sound of the guns from the hills set Knyphausen in motion in earnest after all his feints and pretences since morning. He pressed forward to cross the creek. Wayne fought him well a little while, Proctor's artillery raking the advancing Hessians as they waded the stream until its placid waters ran crimson with their blood. But while Knyphausen's column was itself too heavy for Wayne to oppose successfully, the catastrophe at Birmingham followed so quickly upon the beginning of the struggle there that the contest at the ford was soon ended. Howe was rapidly gaining his rear when Wayne learned of Sullivan's disaster, and there was now only one resource--to retreat with all speed. Proctor's guns and other munitions were abandoned, and the fragments of the left wing, like those of the right, went drifting toward the Delaware.

As the friendly shades of night came down the British were pressing the fugitive army off the field, though not with a hot pursuit. In the Wilmington road, below Dilworthtown, at dusk, we have a view of Washington riding hastily along and ordering the officers whom he met to gather up the disorganized troops and hurry toward Chester. As the night hid the retreat, the stars came out to shine upon the dead, the dying and the wounded. Howe estimated the American loss at three hundred killed, six hundred wounded and four hundred prisoners--figures which Greene's report did not essentially contradict. The wounded were mostly in Howe's hands: few had escaped, as one did in a "chair" hurriedly driven over to the Black Horse tavern, on the road to Chester, by Robert Mendinhall, a neighboring Quaker farmer. The British loss was reported as five hundred and seventy-eight killed and wounded, including fifty-eight officers. Even if these figures were too low, the day's casualties aggregated fifteen hundred. The little meeting-house was filled with the badly wounded, and Howe sent word to Washington that more surgeons were needed, in response to which message several were sent to the field. The dead, as usual, were hastily buried, and heavy rains after the battle washed out many of the shallow pits, exposing their ghastly occupants to the elements and prowling beasts. The neighboring people were compelled to undertake the work of re-interment, in which, Joseph Townsend says, "it would be difficult to describe the many cases of horror and destruction of human beings" that they encountered. The battle was over, the tide of war had swept past, but these horrid evidences of its slaughter remained as the memorials of the struggle by which, for a time, the British had captured Philadelphia.

HOWARD M. JENKINS.

A GREAT DAY.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF EDMONDO DE AMICIS.

The G---- family were at their villa, a few miles out of Florence, when the Italian army was preparing to march on Rome. The enterprise was not favorably regarded by them. The father, the mother and the two grown-up daughters, ardent Catholics and mild patriots, desired "moral measures." "We do not understand politics," said Madame G---- to her friends, "and I least of all; and if I had to tell you quite clearly and distinctly why I think as I do, I should be puzzled. But what can I do? I have a presentiment; I hear a voice within me; I feel a thrill--something which tells me they must not go, they ought not to go, they cannot go, to Rome in such a manner. I remember '48; I remember '59; I remember '60. Well, in those days I had no fear; I never felt at heart the anxiety that I have now: I always thought things would come right. But this time, my friends, there is no use in talking, I see trouble in the air, and a great deal of it. You smile. Pray to Heaven that some day or other you may not have cause to weep. That day does not seem to me far off."

The only one of the whole family who did not think thus was the son, a young man of twenty, who was just now reading Roman history, and was in a state of ferment. The mere mention of Rome in his presence was the signal for a battle: there had already been one of the liveliest kind, and it was agreed never to broach the subject again.

One evening early in September they received an official journal in which the news was authoritatively announced that the Italian soldiers had passed the frontier. The young man leapt for joy. The father read the article, remained thoughtful for some time, and then, shaking his head, muttered, "No!" and again, "No!" and a third time, "No, no, no!"

"But excuse me, papa," exclaimed the son, firing up.

"There! there!" interrupted the mother tenderly.

And during the rest of the evening no more was said about it. But serious trouble occurred the following evening, when, shortly before going to bed, the young man frankly and without preamble, as if he were doing the most natural thing in the world, announced his intention of going to Rome with the army.

There was a general cry of surprise and indignation, followed by a tempest of reproaches and threats. "It was not a thing one could honorably desire to see; already part of the guilt attached to each of them as an Italian, without having to add the responsibility of being an eye-witness; and this, that and the other; and, in fine, that anything might be conceded or pardoned in a well-born young man except the madness of going to see" (these were the mother's words) "_a poor old man bombarded_. A fine war! Fine glory, indeed!"

When she had finished the young man gnashed his teeth, tore the journal to pieces, jumped up from his seat, lighted a lamp and went to shut himself up in his room, stamping his feet like an Italian actor playing the part of a furious king.

But in half an hour softly, softly, on tiptoe, he returned to the dining-room. There was no one there but the father and mother, silent and sad. He asked pardon of his father, who growled, but suffered him to press his hand, and then returned to his room, followed by his mother. "Now we shall have no more of such ideas, shall we?" she said to him tenderly, laying her hands on his shoulders.

The son answered with a kiss.

The next day he crossed the frontier of the Pontifical States.

As soon as they became aware of it at home there were tears, outbursts, invectives, suggestions of never receiving him again, of not even rising from their seats when he returned, of allowing a month to pass without addressing a word to him, of striking out the item "pocket-money" from the family budget, and a hundred other things. On the mother's part these were words, but on the father's serious intentions. He was not a man to waver; he was good, but stern, and at times, when he was angry, even terrible: his son knew this, and feared him. How he had ever been able, therefore, to offer him such an outrage was inexplicable. The accounts of the 20th of September only served to embitter the parents more. "He shall feel it," said they between their teeth. "Let him come!" Their words, their gestures, their plan of action, had all been thought over and prepared. It would be a severe lesson.

On the morning of the 22d they were all seated at table when suddenly a loud knock was heard at the door, and immediately after the son appeared, red in the face, out of breath, bronzed by the sun, standing erect and motionless on the threshold. No one moved.

"What!" exclaimed the young man, folding his arms with an air of astonishment, "you do not know the news?"

No one answered.

"Have you been told nothing? Has no one been here from Florence? Are you still in the dark about everything?"

No one breathed.

"The taking of Rome," one of the girls ventured to say presently, after having consulted her papa with a glance--"we know of it."

"What! Nothing else?"

"Nothing else."

"But what a taking of Rome!" burst out the young man with a cry that made them all tremble--"what a taking of Rome! Then I bring you the account of it."

They all rose and gathered around him.

"But how is it possible," he went on crying, waving his hands--"how is it possible that you know nothing of it? Has not the news spread through the country? Have not the country-people assembled? What is the city government doing? Listen, then--listen; seat yourselves around me; I will relate all to you. My heart beats so that I can hardly speak."

"But what has happened?"

"Nothing: I will tell you nothing. I wish to relate everything in order: give me breathing-time. I wish you to hear the facts one by one as I saw them."

"Oh, you mean the Roman feasts?"

"The plebiscite?"

"The arrival of the king?"

"No, indeed, no: something quite different."

"Well, tell us."

"But sit down."

"Oh, how is it that we have heard nothing about it here?"

"How can I tell? All I know is, that to be the first who brings you this news is the greatest pleasure I have experienced in my whole life. I arrived this morning at Florence: they knew all about it. I left immediately. Who knows? thought I, perhaps the news has not yet reached home. I am out of breath."

"Tell us! tell quickly!"

They all seated themselves around him.

"You shall hear, mamma--things to make one wild! Come nearer: so! You know all about the morning of the 21st, do you not? The other regiments entered: crowds, noise, music, as on the previous day, until twelve o'clock. At twelve o'clock, as if by common consent, the confusion ceased--first in the Corso, then in the other main streets, and gradually everywhere. The crowds of citizens stood still, formed groups and chatted in an undertone; then they dispersed in all directions, nodding to each other like people who expect to meet soon again. It seemed as if the order had circulated to prepare for some great event. People meeting in the street spoke to each other hastily, and then each one went his own way. From one end to the other of the Corso there was a general bustle, some going home, others going out; some calling from the street, others answering from the windows; the soldiers rushing to and fro as if they had heard a call; officers on horseback trotting by; men and boys passing with bundles of flags on their shoulders and in their arms; all active and hurrying as if they were being pursued. I, who knew nothing and no one, looked now at this face, now at that, to try and discover something. They all seemed happy, but did not exhibit their former boisterous, unrestrained joy: all betrayed a disturbing thought, a misgiving, almost an uneasiness: one could see that they were people concocting something. I turned into one of the smaller streets; went farther on; stopped at two or three crossways: everywhere was the same sight--great crowds, a great stir, great haste and an indescribable manner of speaking and gesticulating, which I had already remarked in the Corso, as if the whole mass of people wished to conceal something from some one, although it was visible to every one. Knots of people passed by me, troops, hundreds of men and women together, and not a cry was to be heard. All were going in the same direction, as if to a place of rendezvous."

"Where were they going?" asked the mother and father.

"Wait. I returned to the Corso. The nearer I approached, the more distinctly I heard a dull, continuous roar, like that of an immense crowd. I reached it: the Corso was full of people, who had all stopped and turned toward the Campidoglio, as if they were waiting for something from that quarter. From the Piazza del Popolo to the Piazza di Venezia there was such a press that it was impossible to move. There was a whispering here and there, 'They will be here in a little while;' 'They are coming yonder,'--'Who are coming yonder?'--'The main column.'--'The main column is coming.'--'Here it is!'--'No.'--'Yes.'--All at once the crowd began to move turbulently. Everybody cried on all sides, 'There they are!' And in less time than I can say it the street was cleared in the middle, as if to make way for a procession. All heads were uncovered. I, who had remained behind, elbowed my way across the street and looked. I seem to feel now a thrill that ran through me from head to foot. First advanced generals in full uniform and noblemen in black coats with tri-colored scarfs: in the midst of the nobles and generals came men, women and children with tattered, unbuttoned shirts; behind, work-people, country-people, women with babies on their backs, soldiers of all arms, grand ladies, students, whole families holding each other by the hands so as not to get lost; all crowded and pressed, so that it seemed strange they were able to walk; and yet only a monotonous murmur like a buzz was to be heard--not a sound on either side of the street, not a sound from the windows. It was a solemn sight: what with surprise and awe I was in a trance."

"But where were they going?" asked the father, mother and sisters eagerly.

"Let me finish," resumed the young man. "I was turned off in the mean while, and with me gradually all those who were leaning against the wall right and left were turned off also. Fancy what a tight squeeze! The crowd was just like a torrent, filling both pavements, pouring people like rushing waves into the shops, to the gates, wherever an inch of room could be found. As the procession advanced more swarms of people streamed into the Corso from the side streets, which were also thronged from end to end; and the procession continued to ascend from the Campidoglio, and the rumor spread that thousands more were coming from Campo Vaccino. Numbers of people arrived from the Piazza di Spagna, from the Via del Babbuino, from the Piazza del Popolo. All had something in their hands--some garlands of flowers, some olive and laurel branches, some banners, some rags tied on the top of sticks; some carried in both hands sacred images over their heads--inscriptions, emblems, portraits of the pope, of the king, of the princes and of Garibaldi. It was a mixture, a medley, a confusion of persons and things, such as I believe has never been seen under the sun; and always and everywhere that subdued murmur, that slow pace, that repose, that dignity, so singular and astonishing in such a multitude that I thought I must be dreaming."

The whole family pressed closer round the young man without speaking a word.