Chapter XIII: With “mad Anthony” Wayne

On this 16th day of September, the opposing forces--Howe’s army led by Lord Cornwallis and the Americans by Anthony Wayne--met in conflict near the Warren Inn. Since Brandywine, when, because of Sullivan’s defeat, Washington had been forced to retreat to Chester, the armies had been maneuvering on the Lancaster pike; but nothing more serious than skirmishes had resulted. But this conflict near the old inn was a close and sharp engagement, and it would have been general had not the rain which was falling become a veritable deluge. The arms and ammunition were rendered almost useless, and the Americans had to retreat again.

Bitterly did Hadley Morris grieve as, through the mud and downpour, he trudged in the ranks of his countrymen. Somebody sought him out on the march. It was Captain Prentice, relieved for the time of his command because of his wound; yet he had been near all day to encourage the men and was able still to wield his sword.

“Eh, boy, I knew you would come back!” he said, smiling. “Your blood’s up, and you’ll not sit at peace in the chimney-corner till this bloody war is settled one way or ’tother.”

Hadley told him what had occurred at his uncle’s house, and at the inn where he worked. “You did right to come back to fight with us,” Prentice said. “And you’ll see fighting enough with ‘Mad Anthony.’ Where he goes there is fighting always--that is his business. And a braver or better general does not command on our side, despite the slanders that are told about him. Ah, Hadley, these adventurers and politicians with His Excellency are what keep us back. They so fear to see a good man win that they will do all they can to ruin him. Why, do you know, they are trying to throw some of the blame for Sullivan’s blunder, down there at Brandywine creek, upon Anthony Wayne, although he fought with all the stubbornness a man ever displayed, and held off Knyphausen and his Hessians all day--until, in fact, he learned of the defeat in his rear, and that the rest of the army was retreating.

“We were too busy ourselves that day, Master Morris, to know much about what went on excepting directly in front of us,” Prentice continued, with a smile. “But now that the matter is history, for history is being made rapidly these days, we can get at the truth pretty easily. Colonel Cadwalader, who, by the way, has gone to Philadelphia to look out for his private interests, and several other officers, were discussing the Brandywine engagement yesterday. The colonel, naturally, is a strong opponent of Sullivan and a warm adherent of General Wayne, for the former has too many political friends, and the latter is a plain, out-and-out fighter. Wayne is a Pennsylvania man, you know; has been a farmer over near Easton ’most all his life--though they do say he traveled north once, surveying land. He is somewhere about thirty-three years old now.

“He brought his own regiment into the army--the Fourth Pennsylvania,” continued the captain, getting away from the real matter under discussion, but holding Hadley’s attention, nevertheless, “and he has been advanced to brigadier-general for conspicuous gallantry. They call him ‘Mad Anthony’ and claim he is reckless and thoughtless; but it’s a pity we haven’t more such mad men in the army. You have seen to-day how the troops love him and what they will do for him. This handful of muddy, half-starved creatures would charge the whole of Howe’s army if Anthony Wayne were at their head! Did you get a glimpse of him to-day, Morris?”

“Yes, sir. And I think him a fine figure of a man,” declared the boy, enthusiastically.

“He is that, indeed. A man of more forceful facial expression I never saw, and his dark eyes are always sparkling--either in fun or with earnestness. Anthony Wayne is an ‘all or nothing’ man--he is never lukewarm, as are some of these fellows who have obtained their commissions from Congress. What if he does brag? Why, Morris, if we’d done what he has, and were masters of the science of war as he is, we’d brag ourselves!”

“But why do they try to drag him into the trouble over the Brandywine defeat?” queried the boy.

“Why? Ask me why a mangy, homeless cur always snarls at the heels of a dog that is well bred. ’Tis always so. Jealousy is at the bottom of all these cabals and plots with which the army is troubled. Even His Excellency is not free from the arrows of their hate. And, as I tell you, Sullivan has too many political friends. They wish to attract attention from his mistakes to somebody else, and they fall upon General Wayne and call him reckless. Reckless, forsooth! His fighting that day when he faced those Hessians was marvelous.

“Nobody,” pursued Prentice, warmly, “unless it was His Excellency himself, realized how exceedingly well placed my Lord Howe’s troops were for defence on the left bank of the Brandywine. Greene selected our position--the position of the main army. I mean, at Chadd’s Ford--and it was well. Wayne was there. Sullivan, as the senior Major-General, commanded the left wing. Wayne’s line was three miles long, and the farthest crossing, which he did not cover, Sullivan was supposed to watch.

“You and I, Morris, were too busy in our little corner to know these facts at that time. But it has all come out now, and, just because a certain Major Spear was either a fool or a coward, Sullivan’s flank was turned and the army routed.”

“What had Major Spear to do with it?” asked Hadley, interested despite the mud and rain through which they continued to plod.

“I’ll explain. Early on the day of the battle,--the 11th, you know,--Howe and Cornwallis marched for the forks of the Brandywine, where there are easy fords. Evidently they intended to do exactly what they did do--cross the river and march down on our side, doubling Sullivan’s wing back upon the main army. For a maneuver in broad daylight it was childish; but it won because of this man Spear.

“Colonel Bland had been ordered to cross at Jones’ Ford to find out what the British were about. He sent back word--there can be no doubt of this, although Sullivan’s friends have tried to deny it--that Cornwallis was surely marching for the upper crossings. His Excellency, learning of this report, threw Wayne across the river to attack Grant and Knyphausen, while Sullivan and Greene were to engage the flanking column of Britishers. Why, if things had gone right, we’d have cut the two divisions of the enemy to pieces!” declared the captain, bitterly.

“But it was not to be. A part of Wayne’s troops had already forded the river when this Major Spear, who had been reconnoitering in the direction of the forks, reported no sign of the enemy in that direction. What the matter was with the man I don’t know--nobody seems to know; but Sullivan should have known whether he was to be trusted or not. The general, on his own responsibility, halted his column and sent word to His Excellency that the first report of the British movements was wrong--Cornwallis was not in the vicinity of the Brandywine forks. Naturally this put the Commander-in-Chief out, and, fearing a surprise, he withdrew Wayne’s men from across the river. The Hessians followed; but they got no farther. Mad Anthony held them in check.

“While we were fighting so hard down there by Chadd’s Ford, Sullivan was doing nothing at all. About one o’clock, it seems, a man named Cheney rode into Sullivan’s division and reported that the British had crossed the river and had reached the Birmingham meeting-house. That was some distance then on Sullivan’s right. But the general still stuck to his belief in Major Spear, and instead of sending out a scouting party, put aside the report as valueless.

“This ’Squire Cheney is something of a man in his township--lives over Thornbury way, they tell me--and it angered him to be treated so superciliously by Sullivan. So what does he do but spur on to headquarters and inform General Washington himself. The report could scarcely be believed by the Commander-in-Chief and his staff, and you cannot blame them. Everybody knew how much depended on the day’s action, and that Sullivan should make such a terrible blunder was past belief.

“Your friend Colonel Cadwalader told me about it afterward. ‘If you doubt my word, put me under arrest until you can ask Anthony Wayne or Persie Frazer if I am a man to be believed!’ said Cheney, getting red in the face. The staff--some of the young men, it seemed--had laughed at the queer figure the old fellow cut on his horse. ‘I’d have you know that I have this day’s work as much at heart as e’er a one of ye!’ quoth Cheney, and at that His Excellency ordered a change of face, and part of the army moved up to the support of Sullivan.

“You know what happened after that. You saw the fugitives and the wounded when you rode to Philadelphia, Hadley. It was a sad day, and all because one man made a mistake,--either foolishly or willfully,--and another man did not consider the fate of the first city in the land of sufficient importance to have every report brought to him corroborated. Sullivan must bear the brunt of this thing,--as his men bore the brunt of the enemy’s charge--because he was in command at that end of the line. But they’re trying to make out that Anthony Wayne could have saved the day with his troops had he wished. They’d not talk so bold had they faced those bloody Hessians as we did.”

“It seems awful that there should be friction in an army of patriots,” Hadley said, thoughtfully. “They are all patriotic--they all desire the freedom of the Colonies.”

“What some of them desire it would be hard to say,” declared Prentice, gloomily. “And we are not patriots until we win. We’re rebels now--and rebels we shall go down into history unless the Great Jehovah Himself shall strike for us and give us a lasting victory over the British. I tell you, boy, I am discouraged.”

And it was a discouraged column of 1,500 men who marched that night to Tredyfrrin, where Wayne had been ordered by the Commander-in-Chief “to watch the movements of the enemy, and, when joined by Smallwood and the Maryland militia, to cut off their baggage and hospital trains.”

On the 19th, after waiting in vain for Smallwood’s reinforcements, Wayne again crossed the river, and was, at Paoli, able to advance within half a mile of Howe’s encampment. He reported to General Washington that the enemy was then quietly washing and cooking. The British seemed to consider this advance on Philadelphia more in the light of a picnicing party than anything else. To his commander, however, Wayne said that the enemy was too compactly massed to be openly attacked by his small force, and begged that the entire army might come to his aid and strike a heavy blow. But neither Smallwood’s brigade nor any other division of the American forces arrived to aid the little party at Paoli on that day, nor the one following.

Scouts brought in the tale that Howe was about to take up his line of march, and so, as the night of the 20th drew near, Wayne determined to attack in any case, reinforcements or not. The watchword that night in the American camp was, “Here we are and there they go!” and the troops were eager to follow their beloved leader into the very heart of the British encampment. It was believed that the night attack was unsuspected by the British, but it proved later that vigilant Tories had wormed the information from somebody on Wayne’s staff and hastened with it to the British camp.

So confident was Wayne that his plans were unsuspected that, when informed by a friendly citizen, between nine and ten in the evening, that a boy of the neighborhood, who had been in the British camp during the day, had overheard a soldier say that “an attack on the American party would be made during the night,” Mad Anthony would not credit it. It did not seem probable that if such an attack was being considered by the British leaders, it would be common camp talk.

However, believing that surplus precaution would do no harm, he multiplied his pickets and patrols and ordered the troops to repose on their arms, and, as it was then raining, made the men put their ammunition under their coats. He was thus prepared to meet an attack or withdraw, as circumstances might direct.

Ere this, Captain Prentice had been sent to headquarters, almost by force, indeed, because his wound had become inflamed, and Hadley, being simply a volunteer, was obliged to take pot-luck where he found it, and was even without a blanket or pouch in which to carry his rations. He would have been more comfortable on picket duty that night, only volunteers were not trusted in such serious matters; and perhaps, if he had been, the youth would not have gotten out of the terrible engagement alive.

Somewhere about eleven o’clock, rumor had it that the British were on the move. Wayne believed that the enemy would attack his right flank, and immediately ordered Colonel Humpton, his second in command, to wheel his line and move off by the road leading to the White Horse Tavern. Meanwhile, General Gray, in command of three British regiments and some dragoons with Tory guides, approached Paoli. The British were ordered to withhold their fire and to depend altogether on the bayonet. At midnight, two hours before the time fixed for his own advance on Howe’s force, Wayne learned that his pickets had been surprised.

Colonel Humpton had not obeyed, nor did he do so until the third order reached him. The artillery moved without loss or injury, but the remainder of the army was in confusion, and, when charged by the British, the affair became almost a rout. An English officer who was present at the attack afterward wrote:

“It was a dreadful scene of havoc. The Americans were easily distinguished by the light of the camp fires as they fell into line, thus offering Gray’s men an advantage. The charge was furious, and all Wayne’s efforts to rally his men were useless. They were driven through the woods two miles, and nearly a hundred and seventy men were killed.”

With those about him, inspired as they were with fear of the bayonet, and confused by the darkness, Hadley Morris ran blindly through the woods to escape the death which followed him. The awful sabre-like bayonets of the British muskets he did escape; but a half-spent ball imbedded itself in the flesh of his leg above the knee and brought him at last to earth. The others streamed by and left him. He feared he would be captured and perhaps sent to the prison hulks in New York Bay; but both pursued and pursuer passed him by, and he was saved in the darkness.

He could not travel with the ball in his leg, and so he lay down again under some bushes, and, despite the wound and his fright, dropped off into slumber, and slept just as soundly as he would had war and bloodshed been farthest from his thoughts.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

Education is a better safeguard of liberty than a standing army.
--Edward Everett.

MIDSUMMER DAYS
By Julia McNair Wright

The production of seed is the chief object of plant life. Upon this depends the continuance of the vegetable world, and therefore all animal existence. From the elephant to the mouse, from the whale to the minnow, from the eagle to the humming-bird, life is conditioned upon the constant return of “the herb-bearing fruit whose seed is in itself.”

In every minute particular the flower is constructed to insure the production of sound seed. The first form of this seed is the tiny ovule in the germ. Ovules cannot grow into seeds, unless they are brought in contact with the pollen, which must arrive at them by way of the stigma.

The pollen of flowers is a most fine, delicate dust. It must be conveyed without injury in the most delicate manner. Many flowers are exceedingly high up, as on climbing vines, or growing on tree-tops, peaks, or house-tops. Many other plants are very low down, lying close to the ground, as the bluets, chickweed, arbutus, partridge-berry, and others. A large number of plants are in positions inaccessible to man or the larger animals.

Man excepted, the larger animals seem generally to have a destructive mission to plants, devouring, breaking, or trampling down. Men themselves are often ruthless destroyers of beautiful plants, and seem to care for and conserve only what concerns human convenience.

Here, then, we have the problem of plants fixed in their places, needing carriers for their pollen to distant plants of their own kind, at the exact period of maturity. The carriers must be able to go high or low, into all manner of different localities; they must be delicately made, so that they will not injure the plants which they visit, capable of carrying the frail pollen grains unharmed, and they must have some object of their own in these visitations, which shall infallibly secure their doing of the work required. Finally, let us remember that the pollen of flowers is but seldom spread where it is easy to secure it. The buttercup lavishly expends a golden saucer of pollen; the lily has a wide-open door, near which hangs the antlers, like so many ready bells. On the other hand, how long and narrow are the throats of the morning-glories and honeysuckles; how tiny are the tubes of mint, thyme, and clover; how fast-closed is the mouth of the snap-dragon; how narrow the fox-glove’s throat. Pollen-carriers must be able to secure the dust so jealously kept, and must be afforded a reward for their trouble.

What form of animal life meets all these conditions? But one--the insect. It is generally light and delicate in structure, active, winged; its life is conterminous with that of flowers; they are spring and summer guests. The slender shape and the long, slim mouth organs of the insect can penetrate and gently force open flower tubes and the fast-shut lips of corollas; the velvet coats and fine, waving antennæ will receive and carry uninjured the precious dust, and the insect habit of constant roaming from bloom to bloom assures the accomplishment of its important errand.

Not all insects, but a few widely-distributed families, are the chosen partners of the flowers; these are the various tribes of bees, moths, and butterflies, with some help from a few others.

“Nothing for nothing” seems to be a law of nature. What does the flower offer to the insect for its services as pollen distributer? Honey, which is the chief food of flying insects, also wax, and pollen for its private use at home. The miller, we know, takes toll from the flour he grinds.

To secure insect visitants, the flower provides honey; almost all flowers secrete some dainty juices. As shopkeepers set up signs to inform the public of their wares, so the flowers hang forth signs; these are the brilliant corollas, or parts highly colored which take the place of corollas.

Another bid for visits is made by perfume, which attracts insects as being generally associated with honey. Many flowers have inconspicuous corollas, or are hidden under foliage, or so placed as to risk being neglected; these call attention by fragrance, as the mignonette, the violet, or arbutus. Others, as the lilies, have large and attractive corollas, yet add perfume to size and color, to insure the securing of insect attention and help.

Plants which depend upon moths, or any night-flying insects, have usually strong perfume and pale color, as white or light lemon color, which can easily be seen in twilight. The odor attracts the insect in its direction; and on a nearer approach the flower is seen.

Most flowers have peculiarly bright streaks, spots, or other markings, in the direction of the honey, and the honey is placed at the bottom of the stamens, thus the insect is attracted just where he should go. The tiger lily has its startling red spots; the arum its lines of red and green; the morning-glory its vivid stripes, the jonquil its ruffled bi-colored crown, and the beauty-of-the-night its bright purple centre.

When the pollen is ripe for carrying, all the parts of the flower are at their best: the perfume is the strongest, the coloring the brightest, the nectar most abundant.

On these hot July days, when the sun draws out the richest fragrance and lights up the most brilliant colors, watch the bees and butterflies. The bee seeks the clover on one trip, mignonette on another, lilies on a third. The butterflies have no hive returning to mark their work, but you can count their visits, a dozen or more to flowers of one kind before they investigate the sweets of flowers of some other kind.

So, the plant’s partners, while gathering honey for their daily needs, toil unthinkingly to perpetuate the very flowers upon which their existence depends.

A DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST
By Evelyn Raymond