That night the parties and sentinels thrown out deserted in an hour.
Although very weak, I sat up beside the general all night. Dr. Craik,
who had cared for his wound in the lung, assured me that he would
certainly die before dawn; but he lived longer than was expected. I
never remember having been more disturbed in mind than during that
night.
We all sat up, armed, in or about the rude shelter which held General
Braddock, and talked in whispers sadly of the battle. Captain Montresor
and also Captain Gordon of the engineers, who gave the first alarm,
and who was severely wounded, declared to me that so complete were the
shelters that he never saw so much as a half-dozen of the enemy. We
could only lament the fate of the wounded left on the field, for the
French made later no return of prisoners. Every moment I expected to
hear the yells of the Indians.
At break of day we rigged a kind of litter and got away, being soon
joined, to my relief, by Colonel Gage, who was severely contused, and
his eighty men. I caught here a stray waggon-horse and rode him, with a
rope bridle and no saddle but a blanket.
As we pushed on through the woods, Colonel Gage talked with me at
length of the disaster. He made many excuses for the soldiers, as that
they had been worn out by labour on the way, had no rum, and were
disheartened by the tales our rangers had told them of the Indians.
Indeed, I fear it was true that the Virginians amused themselves with
talk about legions of rattlesnakes, bears, and scalping. Croghan said
the regulars were babes in the woods and quite as helpless. I made
answer to the colonel that but for our rangers few of his Majesty’s men
would have seen their homes, and that the soldiers had behaved like
poltroons. He said that was true, and after this we walked our horses
on through the woods in silence, the rangers ahead.
I met this officer again in 1773, when, being a general, he was
entertained at dinner by the citizens of New York. At this time the
freedom of the city of New York was presented to him in a gold box
having on it the arms of that city, and below, those of the King.[2]
Our final intercourse was by letter, when he was besieged in Boston and
I felt it needful to remonstrate upon his treatment of prisoners.
[2] Now in the possession of Lord Rosebery.
So many officers were wounded that, early on the day after the battle,
although very weak, it fell to me, having at last been better horsed,
to carry orders to the force we had left forty miles in our rear.
With a half-dozen horse I rode on all night in a drizzle of rain, and
so all the next day, very melancholy and ready to drop with fatigue.
Indeed, I fell down as I dismounted when I rode in to Colonel Dunbar’s
camp, and was only revived by a little spirits and a good meal.
The whole force which we had left here were more scared, I believe,
than those who had been in the battle; for the runaway waggoners told
terrible stories, and it was with great difficulty that this division
of the army was kept from flying.
The shocking scenes which presented themselves in this march to
Dunbar’s camp are not to be described: the dead, the dying, the
groans, the lamentations and cries for help of the wounded along the
road (for those who were hurt endeavoured, from the first commencement
of the action, or rather the confusion, to escape to the second
division), were enough to pierce a heart of adamant. Our trouble was
not a little increased by the impervious darkness occasioned by the
thick woods, which rendered it almost impossible for the guides to
know when they were in or out of the track except by groping on the
ground with their hands to find the way. It was happy for the wreck of
the foremost division that they left such a quantity of valuable and
enticing baggage on the field as to occasion a scramble and contention
in the seizure and distribution of it among the enemy; for if a pursuit
had taken place by passing directly across the deep defiles of Turtle
Creek, which General Braddock had avoided, they would have got into
our rear, and then the whole, except a few woodsmen, would have fallen
victims to the merciless savages.
The provisions and waggon needed for the general were made ready during
the night, and at break of day, with two companies of grenadiers, I
rode back again, hardly knowing if I should drop on the road. I met the
general at Gist’s cabin, some thirteen miles away. On our return we
halted half a day at Dunbar’s camp, and then hurried on with his force
to Great Meadows, where we camped on the 13th of July. There were, as
some of us believed, still men enough, if fitly handled, to return
and surprise the French; but, as Gist said, these men were already
defeated, and no one of those in command meant to try it again. Indeed,
Dunbar intended for Philadelphia and to wait there for reinforcements.
Even Governor Dinwiddie would have had him make a new campaign; but
they had all of them had, as Dr. Craik said, a big dose of Indian
medicine, and a council decided with the colonel. The governor was much
troubled when he heard of this decision, and, as he told me later,
wrote to Lord Halifax that he would have now not only to guard the
border, but to protect the counties from combinations of negro slaves,
who had become, Governor Dinwiddie declared, audacious since General
Braddock’s defeat, because the poor creatures believed the French
would give them their freedom. My wounded general’s proud spirit gave
way when he heard of Colonel Dunbar’s intention. He lived four days
after the battle, having been brought in much pain, and still more
distress of mind, to the camp at Great Meadows.
For the most part he was silent and only now and then let a groan.
Dr. Craik told me that he cried out over and over: “Who would have
believed it possible?” Once he said to Captain Stewart: “We shall know
better next time; but what will the duke say? [That was his Grace of
Cumberland.] What will he say?” On the morning of the 13th Dr. Craik
said the general had made his will and desired to see me. When he was
aware of my coming into his hut, he put out his left hand, saying,
“That is the only hand which is left,” for the ball had gone through
his right arm. He was said to be a great wit, but that a man about
to die should have spirit to use his dying breath in a jest much
astonished me.
He said: “I want you to take my horse and my man, Bishop. I have told
St. Clair.” Then he said: “I should have taken your advice. Too late;
too late.” After this he closed his eyes, and again, after a little,
opened them and said feebly: “If I lived I should never wish to see
a red coat again. My compliments to the governor.” He spoke no more,
only, “How they will curse me!” and I went out. In fact, I was too weak
to endure the deadly sorrow with which this brave man’s miserable end
afflicted me, to whom he had been so kind a friend.
I endeavoured to distract my mind by examining the remains of the fort
I had here made. To my amazement, I saw, as I moved about, that there
was little discipline, and I observed that where there is too much
drill and mechanical order a defeat does away with it entirely. The
colonials it was hard to instruct; but as every man was used to rely on
himself at any minute, and not to look all the time for orders, they
suffered less during disaster, and on a retreat knew how to care for
themselves. Now the few that were left looked on with wonder at the
stupid destruction of waggons, provisions, and even artillery. Many of
the officers were disgusted, and protested against these disgraceful
proceedings.
But Colonel Dunbar meant to move on to Philadelphia, as he said, for
winter quarters, and yet now it was only July, and he had men enough
left to guard the frontier or to return and take the fort.
I felt sick and worn out, and soon went to my shelter among the
Virginians. I threw myself down and fell into a deep sleep, and indeed
never stirred until Captain Walter Stewart had to shake me to wake me
up. I must have dreamed, for he told me I had called out “Indians”
twice.
When I was well awakened, he said: “We are to move at once. Every frog
that croaks and every screech-owl is an Indian for these whipped curs.
The general died at twelve o’clock. He is to be buried in the roadway,
so that the red devils may not dig up his scalp. Colonel Dunbar asks
that you will read the service.”
I thought the request strange until he reminded me, as indeed I knew,
that the chaplain, Mr. Hamilton, who had behaved with good sense and
courage in the action, was badly wounded, and that the colonel, who was
the proper person for this sad business, was occupied in arranging for
the march and in destroying what had been gathered at such great cost.
It was just before break of day I went out after Stewart, feeling a
kind of satisfaction that the coward in command was not to commit to
the grave my poor general, whom, being dead, every one would abuse.