COLONEL DAVENPORT RELATES HIS EXPERIENCES.
A few days after the tea-party, Colonel and Mrs. Davenport came to
take tea at the parsonage. It was an engagement of long standing, and
eagerly looked forward to by the children, who with one accord begged
that they might be allowed to sit up and hear the Colonel's stories.
For, stories of the war it was known the Colonel could tell; the
fame of them hovered in vague traditions on the hills and valleys of
Poganuc, and whenever he was to be in the circle it was always in the
programme of hope that he might be stimulated and drawn out to tell
of some of the stirring scenes of his camp-life.
In a general way, too, the children were always glad to have company.
The preparations had a festive and joyous air to their minds. Mrs.
Cushing then took possession of the kitchen in person, and various
appetizing and suggestive dainties and condiments stood about in
startling profusion. Dolly and the boys stoned raisins, pounded
cinnamon, grated nutmegs and beat eggs with enthusiasm, while Nabby
heated the oven and performed the part of assistant priestess in high
and solemn mysteries. Among her many virtues and graces, Mrs. Cushing
had one recommendation for a country minister's wife which commanded
universal respect: she could make cake. Yea, more, she could make
_such_ cake as nobody else could make--not even Colonel Davenport's
Venus.
So the children had stoned raisins, without eating more than the
natural tribute to be expected in such cases; they had been allowed
in perquisites a stick of cinnamon apiece; and the pound-cake, the
sponge-cake, the fruit-cake and the tea-rusks were each in their kind
a perfect success.
During tea-time every word uttered by the Colonel was eagerly watched
by attentive and much-desiring ears; but as yet no story came. The
vivacity imparted by two or three cups of the best tea was all spent
in denunciations of the Democrats, their schemes, designs and dangers
to the country, when the Colonel and Dr. Cushing seemed to vie with
each other in the vigor and intensity of their prognostications of
evil.
But after tea there came the genial hour of the social sit-down in
front of the andirons, when the candles were duly snuffed, and the
big fore-stick had burned down to glowing coals, and the shadows
played in uncertain flashes up and down the walls of the fire-lighted
room; and then the Colonel's mind began traveling a road hopeful to
his listening auditors.
From Democracy to Jefferson, from Jefferson to France and the French
Revolution, the conversation led by easy gradations, and thence
to the superior success of our own Revolution--from La Fayette to
Washington.
Now, the feeling of the Doctor and of his whole family for General
Washington was to the full as intense as that of the ancient
Israelites for Moses. They were never tired of hearing the smallest
particular about him--how he looked; how he walked; what he wore; the
exact shade of his eyes; the least word that ever dropped from his
lips.
"You have no doubt whatever that the General was a religious man?"
said the Doctor, propounding what was ever his most anxious inquiry
with regard to one who had entered on the Invisible Verities.
"Not a doubt, sir," was the Colonel's reply, in those ringing and
decisive tones which were characteristic of him.
"I have always heard," pursued the Doctor, "that he was eminently a
man of prayer."
"Eminently so," said the Colonel. "The General, sir, was a
communicant in the Episcopal Church, a firm believer in
Christianity, and I think he was sustained in all the trying
emergencies of the war by his faith in his God. That, sir, I have not
a doubt of."
"That has always been my belief," said the Doctor; "but I am glad to
hear you say so."
"Yes, sir," added the Colonel with energy; "his influence in the
army was openly and decidedly that of a Christian. You recollect
his general order at one time, excusing soldiers and sailors from
fatigue-duty on Sunday, that they might have time to attend religious
service, and his remarks upon the custom of profane swearing in the
army; how he reminded both officers and men that 'We could have but
little hope of the blessing of Heaven upon our arms, if we insult it
by impiety.'"
"Yes, I remember all that," said the Doctor. "Nothing could have been
better worded. It must have had an immense influence. But does it
not seem astonishing that a military man, going through the terrible
scenes that he did, should never have been tempted to profanity? I
declare," said the Doctor, musingly, "I would not answer for myself.
There were times in that history when without preventing grace I am
quite sure _I_ could not have held myself in."
"Well, sir, since you speak on that subject," said the Colonel, "I
am free to say that, on one occasion I saw our General carried
beyond himself. I have often thought I would like to tell you the
circumstances, Doctor."
There was a little edging towards the Colonel, both of the Doctor and
Mrs. Cushing, as the Colonel, looking dreamily far into the hickory
coals, said:
"Yes, sir; that was one of those critical times in our war, when it
turned on the events of a few hours whether we had been the nation we
are now, or trodden down under the British heel; whether Washington
had been made President of the United States, or hanged for treason.
It was at the time of the Long Island retreat."
"And you were there?" asked Dr. Cushing. The Doctor knew very well
that the Colonel was there, and was eager to draw him out.
"There? Sir, indeed I was," answered the Colonel. "I shall never
forget it to my dying day. We had been fighting all day at terrible
odds, our men falling all around us like leaves, and the British
pressing close upon us; so close, that when it grew dark we could
hear every movement in their camp, every sound of pick, or shovel,
or gun. Our men had got behind their intrenchments, and there the
enemy stopped pursuing. What a night that was! We were deadly
tired--dispirited as only fellows can be that have seen their friends
shot down about them; no tents, no shelter, and the sentries of the
victorious enemy only a quarter of a mile from our lines. Nearly two
thousand, out of the five thousand men we had in the fight, were
killed, wounded, or missing. Well, it was a terribly anxious night
for Washington; for what had we to expect, next day? He went round at
four o'clock in the morning to see to us and speak a word of cheer
here and there. It was a cold, drizzling, gloomy, rainy morning,
but we could see through the fog a large encampment; and they were
intrenching themselves, though the rain drove them into their tents.
The day advanced, continuing rainy and stormy, and they made no
move to attack us. Our scouts, that were out watching the motions
of the enemy down at Red Hook, got a peep at the shipping at Staten
Island and saw at once that there was a movement and bustle there,
as if there were something on foot; and they got the idea that the
enemy were planning at turn of tide to come up behind us in the East
River, and cut us off from the army in New York. Sir, that was just
what they were meaning to do; and, if they had, we should have been
caught there like rats in a trap, the war would have been ended, and
Washington hanged. The party hurried back to tell the General. A
council of war was held, and it was decided that we all must cross to
New York that very night. There it was; nine thousand men, with all
our baggage and artillery, to steal away in the night from that great
army, and they so near that we could hear every dog that barked or
man that whistled among them."
"How wide was the place to be crossed?" asked the Doctor.
"Full three-quarters of a mile, sir, and with a rapid tide sweeping
through. As the Lord's providence would have it, Colonel Glover had
just come in that day with his Marblehead regiment--thirteen hundred
fishermen and sailors, such as the world cannot equal."
"Glorious!" exclaimed the Doctor. "God bless the Marblehead boys!"
"Yes, they saved us, under God and the General; we never could have
crossed without them.
"Well, the General sent to the Quartermaster to impress all the boats
and transports of every kind that could be got, and have them ready
by evening. By eight o'clock they were all at Brooklyn, and under the
management of the Marblehead regiment. Word was given out in the army
to be prepared for a night attack, and the poor fellows, tired as
they were, were all up and ready to move on order.
"Then Washington ordered Gen. Mifflin's brigade, including what
remained of our regiment, to stay and keep the intrenchments with
guards and patrols and sentinels posted, to make the enemy believe
we were there, while the rest all moved down to the water and
embarked.
"Now I tell you, sir, it was a good deal harder to stand there
than to be moving just then. We were wide awake and we counted the
minutes. It is always longer to those who wait than to those who
work. The men were true as steel, but, poor fellows, there is a limit
to human endurance, and they got pretty restive and nervous. So,
between you and me, did we officers too. Standing still in such a
danger is a thousand times worse than fighting.
"Finally the men began to growl and mutter; it was all we could do to
hold them; they were sure the army had crossed--word _must_ have been
sent to them! So, finally, when Washington's aid misunderstood his
order and came running to say that we were to move down, we started
on the double-quick and got to the shore. There we found that the
tide had turned, a strong north-east wind was blowing, the boats had
been brought without oars enough to convey the troops, the sail-boats
were unable to make head against wind and tide, and full half the
army were still on Long Island shore!
"Washington stood there amid the confusion and perplexity--when, in
the midst of his troubles, down we all came.
"Sir, I never saw a mortal being look as Gen. Washington looked at
us. He ordered us back with a voice like thunder, and I never heard
such a terrific volley of curses as he poured out upon us when the
men hesitated. Sir, that man was so dreadful that we all turned and
ran. We had rather face the judgment-day than face him. Upon my soul,
I thought when I turned back that I was going straight into eternity,
but I had rather face death than him."
"And he swore?"
"Indeed he did--but it was not profane swearing; it was not taking
God's name in vain, for it sent us back as if we had been chased by
lightning. It was an awful hour, and he saw it; it was life or death;
country or no country."
"Sir," said Dr. Cushing, starting up and pacing the room, "it was the
oath of the Lord! It would be profane to call it swearing."
"Yes, sir," said the Colonel, "you remember that one time Moses threw
down both tables of the law and broke them, and the Lord did not
reprove him."
"Exactly," answered the Doctor; "he saw his nation going to ruin and
forgot all else to save them. The Lord knows how to distinguish."
"But, sir," said the Colonel, "I never tell this except to the
initiated. No man who saw Washington then dared ever to allude
to it afterward. He was habitually so calm, so collected, so
self-contained, that this outburst was the more terrific. Whatever he
felt about it was settled between him and his Maker. No man ever took
account with him."
Then followed a few moments of silence, when Dolly emerged from a
dark corner--her cheeks very much flushed, her eyes very wide and
bright--and, pressing up to the Colonel's knee, said eagerly: "But,
oh please, sir, what became of you and the men?"
The Colonel looked down and smiled as he lifted Dolly on his knee.
"Why, my little girl, here I am, you see; I wasn't killed after all."
"But did you really go clear back?" asked Dolly.
"Yes, my dear, we all went back and staid two or three hours; and
when it came morning we made believe to be the whole army. We made
our fires and we got our breakfasts and we whistled and talked and
made all the stir we could, but as the good Lord would have it there
was such a thick fog that you could not see your hand before your
face. You see that while the fog hung over the island and covered us,
it was all clear down by the river."
"Why, that's just the way it was when they crossed the Red Sea," said
Dolly, eagerly; "wasn't it, Papa?"
"Something so, my dear," said her father; but her mother made her a
sign not to talk.
"How long did it take to do the whole thing?"
"Well, thanks to those Marblehead boys, by daybreak the greater part
of the army were safe on the New York side. A little after daylight
we marched off quietly and went down to the ferry. Washington was
still there, and we begged him to go in the first boat; but no, he
was immovable. He saw us all off, and went himself in the very last
boat, after every man was in."
"What a glorious fellow!" said the Doctor.
"Please, sir," said Will, who, with distended eyes, had been
listening, "what did the British say when they found out?"
The Colonel laid his head back and gave a hearty laugh.
"They had a message sent them, by a Tory woman down by the ferry,
what was going on. She sent her black servant, and he got through
our American lines but was stopped by the Hessians, who could not
understand his gibberish, and so kept him till long after all
was over. Then a British officer overhauled him and was pretty
well amazed at his story. He gave the alarm, and General Howe's
aid-de-camp, with a body of men, climbed over the intrenchments and
found all deserted. They hurried down to the landing just in time to
see the rear boats half way across the river."
"Well, that is _almost_ like the crossing of the Red Sea," said the
Doctor.
"Oh, weren't the British furious!" cried Bill.
"Yes, they did fire away at the boats, and one straggling boat they
hit and forced the men to return; but it turned out only three
vagabonds that had come to plunder."
It was after the nine o'clock bell had dismissed the Colonel and his
lady that the Doctor noticed the wide and radiant eyes of little
Dolly and his boys.
"My children," he said, "to use the name of the great God solemnly
and earnestly for a great and noble purpose is not to 'swear.'
Swearing is taking God's holy name in vain, in a trifling way, for a
trivial purpose--a thing which our great and good general never did.
But this story I would rather you would never repeat. It might not be
understood."
"Certainly," said Bill, with proud gravity; "common boys wouldn't
understand--and, Dolly, don't _you_ tell."
"Of course I shouldn't," said Dolly. "I never shall tell even Nabby,
nor Bessie, nor anybody."
And afterwards, in the family circle, when General Washington was
spoken of, the children looked on one another with grave importance,
as the trusted depositaries of a state secret.