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.
[Illustration: WAYNE QUICKLY RALLIED HIS MEN]
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.
[Illustration: PLANTS AND THEIR PARTNERS]
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