On this night of the 2d of October, Jack told me we should move next
morning or the day after. He had seen General Wayne on an errand for
our colonel. “A strong talker, the general; but as ready to fight as to
talk.” In fact, ammunition was issued, and before dawn on the 4th the
myriad noises of an army breaking camp aroused me. It was a gray morning
over-head, and cool. When we fell into line to march, Jack called me out
of the ranks.
“There will be a fight, Hugh. Mr. Howe has sent troops into Jersey, and
weakened his hold on the village, or so it is thought. In fact, you know
that, for it was you that fetched the news. If--I should get killed--you
will tell your aunt--not to forget me--and Darthea too. And my
father--my father, Hugh--I have written to him and to Miss Wynne--in
case of accident.” The day before a fight Jack was always going to be
killed. I do not think I ever thought I should be hit. I had, later
in the war, a constant impression that, if I were, it would be in the
stomach, and this idea I much disliked. I fell to thinking of Darthea
and Jack, wondering a little, until the drum and fife struck up, and at
the word we stepped out.
I have no intention to describe more of the fight at Germantown than
I saw, and that was but little. It seemed to me confusion worse
confounded, and I did not wonder that Graydon had once written me from
the North that we were in a “scuffle for liberty.” The old village was
then a long, broken line of small, gray stone houses, set in gardens on
each side of the highway, with here and there a larger mansion, like the
Chew House, Cliveden, and that of the Wisters.
The ascent from the city is gradual. At Mount Airy it is more abrupt,
and yet more steep at Chestnut Hill, where my aunt’s house, on the
right, looks down on broken forests, through which the centre marched
by the Perkiomen road. The fight on our right wing I knew nothing of for
many a day.
As we tramped on our march of many miles, the fog which the east wind
brought us grew thicker, but there was less dust. Soon after dusk of
morning we came out of the woods, and moved up the ascent of Chestnut
Hill, where I wondered to find no defences. There were scarce any houses
hereabouts, and between the hill and the descent to Mount Airy our
own regiment diverged to the left, off the road. There were hardly any
fences to trouble us, and where the lines were broken by gardens or
hedges, we went by and remade the line, which was extended more to left
as we moved away from the highway.
At length we were halted. I was thinking of the glad days I had spent
hereabouts when we heard to right the rattle of muskets. McLane had
driven in the advance picket of the enemy. Then the right of our own
force fell on some British light infantry, and, swinging the left on the
right as a pivot, our own flanking regiment faced their guns, so that we
were in part back on the main road. The sun came out for a little, but
the fog thickened, and it was lost. I saw Jack look at me, and noticed
how flushed he was, and that his face was twitching. So heavy was the
fog that, as we saw the guns, we were almost on them. To see fifty feet
ahead was impossible. I saw two red flashes as the muskets rang out.
There were wild cries, quick orders: “Fire! fire!” And with a great
shout we ran forward, I hearing Jack cry, “The bayonet! the bayonet!” I
saw in the smoke and fog men fall to right and left, and in a moment was
after Jack, who stood between the guns, fencing with two big grenadiers.
I clubbed one of them with my butt, and Jack disposed of the second.
Meanwhile the English line had broken, and men who had fallen hurt
or were standing were crying for quarter. I saw none given. It was
horrible. Our men were paying a sad debt, contracted on the 20th of
September, when Grey surprised Wayne at Paoli, and there were no wounded
left and few prisoners.
It was a frightful scene, and when the officers succeeded to stop the
slaughter, the account had been mercilessly settled, and there was
scarce a living enemy in sight. Hastily reforming, we went on again,
more to left of the main road, through tents, scattered baggage, dying
horses, and misty red splotches where the scarlet uniforms lay thick on
the wet grass. As we pushed on, the fog broke a little, and a confused
mass of redcoats was seen, some running, and some following tumultuously
their colonel, Musgrave, into the solid stone house of Cliveden, while
the larger number fled down the road and over the fields.
Meanwhile Sullivan’s people came up. Two cannon set across the
road--they were but four-pounders--opened with small effect on the stone
house. The fire from the windows was fierce and fatal. Men dropped here
and there, until Jack called to us to lie down. We were at this time
behind the mansion. As we lay, I saw Jack walking to and fro, and coolly
lighting a pipe. Our company lay to the left a little, and away from the
rest of the regiment. I called to Jack:
“Let us rush it, Jack, and batter down the back door.”
Jack, as I rose, called out to me, with a fierce oath, to keep still and
obey orders. I dropped, and as I did so saw an officer with a white flag
shot down as he went forward to ask a surrender.
Then we were ordered to march, leaving a regiment to continue the siege;
a half-hour had been lost. We went at a run quite two miles down the
slope, now on, now off the main street, with red gleams now and then
seen through this strangeness of fog. The British were flying, broken
and scattered, over the fields.
I heard “Halt!” as we swung parallel with the road at the market-place,
where the Grenadiers made a gallant stand, as was known by the more
orderly platoon firing. Then we, too, broke out in great blaze, and
after, what with fog and smoke, a fight in a cellar were as good.
The next minute our people came down the highway, and, between the two
fires, the English again gave way. I heard, “Forward! We have ‘em!” Some
near me hesitated, and I saw Jack run by me crying, “The bayonet, men!
After me!” I saw no more of Jack for many a day. We were in the wide
marketplace--a mob of furious men, blind with fog and smoke, stabbing,
clubbing, striking, as chance served. My great personal strength helped
me well. Twice I cleared a space, until my musket broke. I fell twice,
once with a hard crack on the head from the butt of a musket. As some
English went over me, I stabbed at them madly, and got a bayonet thrust
in my left arm. I was up in a moment, and for a little while, quite
unarmed, was in the middle of a confused mass of men raging and swearing
like maniacs. Suddenly there was no one to be seen near me; the noise of
muskets, the roar of cannonry, red flashes in the fog in front--that was
all, as I stood panting and dazed. Next I heard wild cries back of me,
and the crash of musketry. Stephens’s division, coming up behind us,
began to fire, mistaking us, in the infernal darkness, for an enemy.
Our people broke under it, and, passing me, ran, beaten; for the panic
spread in the very moment of victory.
I turned, not understanding, stumbled over a dead man, and suddenly felt
as if a stone had struck my left leg above the knee. I fell instantly,
and for a time--I do not know how long--lost consciousness. It could
have been but a few moments.
When I came to myself, I got up, confused and giddy, and began to walk,
but with painful difficulty, stumbling over dead or wounded men. Our
people were gone, and I saw no one for a little, till I heard the
quick tramp of feet and saw through the fog the red line of a marching
regiment almost upon me. I made an effort to fall to one side of the
street, but dropped again, and once more knew nothing. I think they
went over me. When evening came, I found myself lying with others on the
sidewalk in front of the Wister house. How I was taken thither I know
as little as any. I was stiff, sore, and bloody, but soon able to look
about me. I found a bandage around my leg, and felt in no great pain
unless I tried to move. Men in red coats came and went, but none heeded
my cry for water, until an old servantwoman, who during the fight had
refused to leave the house, brought me a drink. I knew her well. I tried
to tell her who I was, but my parched tongue failed me, and a rough
corporal bade her begone. My watch, a good silver one, was stolen, but
my money-belt was safe.
Beside me were many other wounded, one man hideous with his jaw broken;
he seemed to me dying. By and by soldiers fetched others. Then a
detachment of Virginians went past, in their fringed skin shirts,
prisoners, black with smoke, dirty and sullen. Surgeons’ aids came and
went in and out, and soon the sidewalk was crowded with the wounded. At
last they carried a dying general into the house. I asked his name, but
no one answered me. It was the brigadier Agnew, now lying at rest in the
lower burial-ground by Fisher’s Lane.
An officer came and counted us like sheep. About nine a row of carts
stopped,--country waggons seized for the purpose,--and, with small
tenderness, we were told to get in, or at need lifted in. I was put,
with eight others, in a great Conestoga wain without a cover. Soon a
detachment of horse arrived, and thus guarded, we were carted away like
logs.
The road was never good, but now it was full of holes and cut up by the
wheels of artillery. I shall never forget the misery of that ride. I set
my teeth and resolved to utter no groan. Before us and behind us were
many loads of wounded men, chiefly such as seemed fit to travel. There
were nine of us. One was dead before we reached town. As we jolted on,
and the great wain rocked, I heard the crack of the drivers’ whips, and
far and near, in the darkness or near beside me, curses, prayers, mad
screams of pain, or men imploring water.
When near to Nicetown, came on a cold, heavy rain which chilled us to
shivering. I let my handkerchief get soaked, and sucked it. Then I wet
it again--the rain a torrent--and gave it into the hand of him who was
next me. He could not use his arm, nor could I turn to aid him, nor did
he answer me.
At times we waited on the way, so that it was one in the morning when we
found ourselves in Chestnut street in front of the State-House. It was
still dismally raining. We were told to get out, and with help I did so,
a line of soldiers standing on each side; but no one else near, and it
was too dark to see if any whom I knew were to be seen. When they pulled
out the man next to me, his head fell, and it was clear that he was
dead. He was laid on the sidewalk, and we were helped or made to crawl
upstairs to the long room in the second story.
Here some surgeons’ mates came and saw to us quite patiently. Soldiers
fetched bread and water. I asked a pleasant kind of youth, a surgeon’s
aid, to let my aunt know of my condition. He said he would, and, without
the least doubt that he would keep his word, I managed to get into a
position of partial ease, and, sure of early relief, lay awaiting the
sleep which came at last when I was weary with listening to the groans
of less patient men. The young surgeon never troubled himself with the
delivery of my message. May the Lord reward him!