On the evening of July 2, I went over the place with Captain Stobo. We
were in the middle of a grassy meadow about two hundred and fifty yards
wide, and no wood nearer than sixty yards. Stobo would have had us cut
down the nearer trees, but the rangers could work no more. As to men, I
had enough, if I had been supplied with ammunition and food.
The next day being the 3d, this was tried――I mean the clearing away
of trees; but about half-past ten I heard a shot in the woods on that
side where the ground rises, and at once all the men hurried in, as was
beforehand agreed, and a sentry ran limping out of the woods, wounded.
Next came our scouts in haste to say the French and Indians, a great
force, were a mile away, eight hundred it was thought. At eleven I saw
them in the forest on the nearest rise of ground, well under cover.
I left Captain Mackay in the fort, and set my rangers in the ditch,
fairly covered by the earth cast up in the digging of it, hoping the
enemy would make an assault. But they kept in the woods and fired
incessantly. About 4 P.M. it came on to rain very heavy, with thunder
and lightning. So great was the downfall that the water flowing into
the ditch half filled it, and the pans and primings of the muskets got
wetted, and our fire fell off. Seeing this, I drew the men within the
palisadoes and the log fort, where they were favourably disposed to
resist an attack, for which the enemy seemed to have no stomach. This
was near about 5 P.M., and soon, to my dismay, shots began to fall
among us from the Indians, who climbed the trees and thus had us at an
advantage.
Many men began to drop, and De Peyronney, a Huguenot captain, was badly
wounded, while our own shooting, because of the torrent of rain, was
much slackened, and at dusk our ammunition nearly all used. Twelve men
were killed and forty-three wounded out of the three hundred rangers,
but how many out of the Independent company I do not know, nor was the
loss of the enemy ever ascertained.
About 7 P.M., seeing that we had almost ceased to fire, the French
called a parley, which I declined; but at eight, knowing our state and
that we had scarce any provisions left, I answered their second flag
that I would send an officer, and for this errand would have ordered
De Peyronney, who spoke the French tongue, but that he was hurt and in
great pain. I had no one but Van Braam who knew any French. He went,
and returned with demands for a capitulation so dishonourable that I
could not consider them. At last, however, we came to terms, which were
to march out with all the honours of war, Van Braam and Captain Stobo
volunteering to go as hostages for the return of Drouillon and La Force.
It was eleven o’clock at night and very dark when Van Braam translated
the final terms of capitulation. We were to march away unmolested and
to agree not to build forts or occupy the lands of his Most Christian
Majesty for a year; but to this vague stipulation I did not object. It
was raining furiously, and we heard the terms read by the light of one
candle, which was put out by the rain, over and over, as Van Braam,
with no great ease, let me hear what, he declared, was set down.
Unhappily, he translated the words which twice made me agree to be
taken as the _assassin_ of De Villiers’s brother, Jumonville, so as to
read that the French had come to revenge the _death_ of that gentleman,
and understanding it, with Stephen and Mackay, to mean this and no
more, I signed the paper and thus innocently subjected myself to a foul
calumny.
At dawn we moved out with one swivel and drums beating and colours
flying. This was on July 4. I was reminded of it when, on July 9, 1776,
I paraded the army to announce that on July 4 the Congress had declared
that we were no longer colonies but free and independent States. Then
I remembered the humiliation of the morning when we filed away before
those who were to become our friends and allies.
I bade good-by to Van Braam and Stobo, and we began our homeward
march, all on foot, because of our horses having been taken when we
were forced to leave them outside of the fort. We had gone scarce a
mile, carrying our wounded on rude litters, when, against all the
terms agreed upon, the Indians followed and robbed the rear baggage,
misusing many. Upon this, showing a bold front, I drove them off, and
destroying all useless baggage, set out again.
Some died on our way, others fell out and were no more heard of; and
thus, half starved and weary, we made the seventy miles to Wills Creek.
Having conducted my command to this point, where was all they required
in the way of clothing and supplies, I rode with Captain Mackay to
Williamsburg.
I felt for a time and with much sharpness the sense of defeat, and I
heard later that Captain Mackay complained that I was dull company on
the ride, which was no doubt true enough, for I felt that he and his
command were partly to be blamed.
Indeed, I appeared to myself at this time the most unfortunate of men;
but I have often been led to observe that we forget our calamities more
easily than the pleasures of life, nor on the occasion here described
could I so much reproach myself as those who had failed to supply me
with the ammunition and provisions required for success.
Although it was near to nine at night when we rode into Williamsburg
and put up at the Raleigh Tavern, I went at once to the house called
the governor’s palace, but much inferiour in size and convenience
to the fine houses of Westover and Brandon. The governor being
gone to supper elsewhere, I gave the sealed package containing the
capitulation, all in French, with the signatures of De Villiers and
myself, to the governor’s aide.
In the morning I called upon the governor and was cordially received.
He said that we could not go into the details of the capitulation until
the articles of it were fairly Englished. This would require a day. He
made rather too light, I thought, of the surrender and of what seemed
to me serious; for to my mind the French were come to stay.
While the governor was assuring me that we should easily drive out the
invaders, my kinsman, Colonel Willis of the council, joined us. He
considered the situation on the frontier as very grave, and succeeded
in alarming the governor, a man of confident and very sanguine
disposition. At last Colonel Willis turned to me and said: “George, I
dare venture to engage that this little fire you have left blazing will
set the world aflame.”
After further talk I left them. I had been before this in the capital
of the colony, but always for a brief visit. Now, having time, I
walked down the broad Duke of Gloucester street, and saw the famous
William and Mary College. There were many fine houses and the handsome
parish church of Bruton, said to have been planned by the great Sir
Christopher Wren.