_A Winter Camp_
About half after one o'clock in the afternoon of Wednesday, December
25th, being Christmas day, and very cold, four tired horsemen, on jaded
steeds, rode up to a plain stone farmhouse standing at the junction of
two common country roads, both of which led to the Delaware River, a
mile or so away. In the clearing back of the house a few wretched
tents indicated a bivouac. Some shivering horses were picketed under a
rude shelter, formed by interlacing branches between the trunks of a
little grove of thickly growing trees which had been left standing as a
wind-break. Bright fires blazed in front of the tents, and the men who
occupied them were enjoying an unusually hearty meal. The faded
uniforms of the men were tattered and torn; some of the soldiers were
almost barefoot, wearing wretched apologies for shoes, which had been
supplemented when practicable by bits of cloth tied about the soles of
the feet. The men themselves were gaunt and haggard. Privation,
exposure, and hard fighting had left a bitter mark upon them. Hunger
and cold and wounds had wrestled with them, and they bore the indelible
imprint of the awful conflict upon their faces. It was greatly to
their credit that, like their leader, they had not yet despaired. A
movement of some sort was evidently in preparation; arms were being
looked to carefully, haversacks and pockets were being filled with the
rude fare of which they had been thankful to partake as a Christmas
dinner; ammunition was being prepared for transportation; those who had
them were wrapping the remains of tattered blankets about them, under
the straps of their guns or other equipments; and the fortunate
possessors of the ragged adjuncts to shoes were putting final touches
to them, with a futile hope that they would last beyond the first mile
or two of the march; others were saddling and rubbing down the horses.
A welcome contribution had been made to their fare in a huge steaming
bowl of hot punch, which had been sent from the farmhouse, and of which
they had eagerly partaken.
"What's up now, I wonder?" said one ragged veteran to another.
"Don't know--don't care--couldn't anything be worse than this," was the
reply.
"We 've marched and fought and got beaten, and marched and fought and
got beaten again, and retreated and retreated until there is nothing
left of us. Look at us," he continued, "half naked, half starved, and
we 're the best of the lot, the select force, the picked men, the
head-quarters guard!" he went on in bitter sarcasm.
"Yes, that 's so," replied the other, laughing; then, sadly, "Those
poor fellows by the river are worse off than we are, though. What
would n't they give for some of that punch? My soul, wasn't it good!"
he continued, smacking his lips in recollection.
"Where are we going, sergeant?" asked another.
"Don't know; the command is, 'Three days' rations and light marching
order.'"
"Well, we're all of the last, anyway. Look at me! No stockings,
leggings torn, no shirt; and you'd scarcely call this thing on my back
a coat, would you? What could be lighter? So comfortable, too, in
this pleasant summer weather!"
"Oh, shut up, old man; you 're better off than I am, anyway; you've got
rags to help your shoes out, and just look at mine," said another,
sticking out a gaunt leg with a tattered shoe on the foot, every toe of
which was plainly visible through the torn and worn openings. "And
just look at this," he went on, bringing his foot down hard on the
snow-covered, frost-bound soil, making an imprint which was edged with
blood from his wounded, bruised, unprotected feet. "That's my
sign-manual; and it 's not hard to duplicate in the army yonder,
either."
"That's true; and to think that the cause of liberty's got down so low
that we are its only dependence. And they call us the grand army!"
"Well, as you say," went on another, recklessly, "we can't get into
anything worse, so hurrah for the next move, say I."
"Three days' rations and light marching order, meaning, I suppose, that
we are to leave our heavy overcoats and blankets and foot stoves and
such other luxuries behind; that rather indicates that we are going to
do something besides retreat; and I should like to get a whack at those
mercenary Dutchmen before I freeze or starve," was the reply.
"Bully for you!"
"I'm with you, old man."
"I, too."
"And I," came from the group of undaunted men surrounding the speaker.
"And to think," said another, "of its being Christmas day, and all
those little children at home--oh, well," turning away and wiping his
eyes, "marching and fighting may make us forget, boys. I wouldn't mind
suffering for liberty, if we could only do something, have something to
show for it but a bloody trail and a story of defeat. I 'm tired of
it," he continued desperately. "I 'd fight the whole British army if
they would only let me get a chance at them."
"We're all with you there, man, and I guess this time we get a chance,"
replied one of the speakers, amid a chorus of approval which showed the
spirit of the men.
While the men were talking among themselves thus, the four riders on
the tired horses had ridden up to the farmhouse. A soldier dressed no
better than the rest stood before the door.
"Halt! Who are you?" he cried, presenting his musket.
"Friends. Officers from Philadelphia, with messages for his
excellency," replied the foremost. "Don't you recognize me, my man?"
"Why, it's Lieutenant Talbot! Pass in, sir, and these other gentlemen
with you," answered the soldier, saluting. "It's glad the general will
be to see you."
Without further preliminaries the young man opened the door and
entered, followed by his three companions. A cheerful fire of logs was
blazing and crackling in the wide fireplace in the long low room. On
the table before it stood a great bowl of steaming punch, and several
officers were sitting or standing about the room in various positions.
The uniforms of all save that of one of them were scarcely less worn
and faded, if not quite so tattered, than were those of the escort; the
same grim enemies had left the same grim marks upon them as upon the
soldiers. The only well-dressed person in the room was a bright-eyed
young man, a mere boy, just nineteen, wearing the brilliant uniform of
an officer of the French army. He was tall and thin, red-haired, with
a long nose and retreating forehead; his bright eyes and animated
manner expressed the interest he felt in a conversation carried on in
the French language with his nearest neighbor, another young man
scarcely a year his senior. The contrast between the new and gay
French uniform of the one and the faded Continental dress of the other
was not less startling than that suggested by the difference in their
size. The American officer was a small, a very small man; but, in
spite of his insignificant stature, the whole impression of the man was
striking, and even imposing. In contrast to the other, his face was
very handsome, the head finely shaped, the features clear-cut and
regular; he had a decisive mouth, bespeaking resolution and firmness,
and two piercing eyes out of which looked a will as hard and imperious
as ever dwelt in mortal man.
In front of the fire were two older men, each in the uniform of a
general officer, one of thirty-five or six years of age, the other
perhaps ten years older. The younger of the two, a full-faced,
intelligent, active, commanding sort of man, whose appearance indicated
confidence in himself, and the light of whose alert blue eyes told of
dashing brilliancy in action and prompt decision in perilous moments,
which made him one of those who succeed, would have been more noticed
had not his personality been so overshadowed by that of the officer who
was speaking to him. The latter was possessed of a figure so tall that
it dwarfed every other in the room: he was massively moulded, but well
proportioned, with enormous hands and feet, and long, powerful limbs,
which indicated great physical force, and having withal an erect and
noble carriage, easy and graceful in appearance, which would have
immediately attracted attention anywhere, even if his face had not been
more striking than his figure. He had a most noble head, well
proportioned, and set upon a beautiful neck, with the brow broad and
high, the nose large and strong and slightly aquiline; his large mouth,
even in repose, was set in a firm, tense, straight line, with the lips
so tightly closed from the pressure of the massive jaws as to present
an appearance almost painful, the expression of it bespeaking
indomitable resolution and unbending determination; his eyes were a
grayish blue, steel-colored in fact, set wide apart, and deep in their
sockets under heavy eyebrows. He wore his plentiful chestnut hair
brushed back from his forehead, and tied with a black ribbon in a queue
without powder, as was the custom in the army at this juncture,--a
fashion of necessity, by the way; and his ruddy face was burned by sun
and wind and exposure, and slightly, though not unpleasantly, marked
with the smallpox.
There was in his whole aspect evidence of such strength and force and
power, such human passion kept in control by relentless will, such
attributes of command, that none looked upon him without awe; and the
idlest jester, the lowest and most insubordinate soldier, subsided into
silence before that noble personality, realizing the ineffable dignity
of the man. The grandeur of that cause which perhaps even he scarcely
realized while he sustained it, looked out from his solemn eyes and was
seen in the gravity of his bearing. His was the battle of the people
of the future, and God had marked him deeply for His own. And yet it
was a human man, too, and none of the immortal gods standing there. On
occasion his laugh rang as loudly, or his heart beat as quickly as that
of the most careless boy among his soldiers. He was fond of the good
things of life too,--loving good wine, fair women, a well-told story, a
good jest, pleasant society, and delighting in struggle and contest as
well. He preserved habitually the just balance of his strong nature by
the exercise of an unusual self-control, and he rarely allowed himself
to step beyond that mean of true propriety, so well called the happy,
except at long intervals through a violent outbreak of his passionate
temper, rendered more terrible and blasting from its very infrequency.
And this was the man upon whom was laid the burden of the war of the
Revolution, and to whom, under God, were due the mighty results of that
epoch-making contest. Seldom, if ever, do we see men of such rare
qualities that when they leave their appointed places no other can be
found to fill them; but if such a one ever did live, this was he.