FORCING CLINTON TO BATTLE
I was left behind at Coryell's Ferry, for the purpose of hastening
forward any supplementary orders from Washington, when Maxwell, and the
Jersey militiamen, pressed forward in an effort to retard the march of
the enemy. From the reports of scouts we began to understand what was
occurring. Before dawn on the eighteenth of June the British army began
leaving the city, crossing the Delaware at Gloucester Point, and by
evening the motley host, comprising Regulars, Hessians, Loyalists, and a
swarm of camp followers, were halted near Haddenfield, five miles
southeast of Camden.
The moment this knowledge reached Washington, he acted. In spite of
opposition from some of his leading officers, his own purpose remained
steadfast, and every preparation had already been carefully made for
energetic pursuit. Our troops fit for service numbered less than five
thousand men, many of these hastily gathered militia, some of whom had
never been under fire, but the warmth and comfort of the summer time,
together with the good news from France, had inspired all with fresh
courage. Whatever of dissension existed was only among the coterie of
general officers, the men in the ranks being eager for battle, even
though the odds were strong against us. There was no delay, no hitch in
the promptness of advance. The department of the Quartermaster-General
had every plan worked out in detail, and, within two days, the entire
army had crossed the river, and pushed forward to within a few miles of
Trenton. Morgan, with six hundred men, was hurried forward to the
reinforcement of Maxwell, and, relieved from my duties at the ferry, I
was permitted to join his column.
I know not when, during all my army life, I was more deeply impressed
with the awful solemnity of war, than as I watched these volunteer
soldiers land on the Jersey shore, and tramp away through the dust. In
those ranks were sick and wounded scarcely able to keep up; occasionally
one would crawl aside but the moment he was able would join some new
body, and resume the march. There were many still pale and emaciated from
the horrors of the past winter, some in rags, others practically
barefooted; only occasionally would troops appear in what might be termed
uniform, although each separate command was distinguishable by some
insignia. It was a rough, motley concourse, yet, thanks to Baron de
Steuben, drilled into military compactness, and well officered. In column
after column, I could perceive the evidence of his work, the men standing
erect and soldierly, obeying their orders with veteran precision. This,
however, was most noticeable among those of the Continental Line, the men
who had fought on other fields, marched in other campaigns, and braved
the suffering at Valley Forge. The militia was little more than an
organized mob, indifferently armed, and loosely commanded. To me the
mounted men, and the artillery, appeared most efficient, although I
appreciated to the full the sterling fighting qualities of the footmen.
They were animated by a stern purpose which yielded power. Such as these
were not to be trifled with. Others might scoff at their raggedness of
line, their carelessness of discipline, their nondescript garments, and
variety of equipment, but to one who had seen such in battle--who had
been with them at Trenton, Brandywine, and Germantown--they were warriors
not to be despised, stern, grim fighters, able to hold their own against
England's best drilled battalions. I watched them file past--Wayne's,
Varnum's, Scott's brigades, and Jackson's and Grayson's
regiments--marking the brown, dust-caked faces, the eager eyes, the
sturdy, tireless tread, the well oiled muskets. Boys, men, graybeards,
all alike exhibited in their faces the same expression. They were
anticipating battle against a hated foe, and counted hardship as nothing
compared with the joy of conflict. Every step brought them closer to the
grapple of arms--to that supreme test of strength, courage, endurance,
for which they had left their homes. They might be poorly drilled,
ill-dressed, variously armed, yet these were fighting men.
It was at midnight when Morgan led us up the steep bluff, and out upon
the sandy road. We advanced silently, and in straggling column through
the darkness, passing the embers of camp-fires for several miles, the
recumbent soldiery of other commands sleeping on the ground. At Hopewell,
Washington was holding another council with his officers. As we swung
past we could perceive his tall figure standing in the glow of a fire,
and there arose from the lips of our men a sudden, involuntary cheer,
breaking strangely upon the solemn silence of the night. The group about
him were startled and looked about, and he paused a moment shading his
eyes.
"What troops are those?" he asked, his voice cutting across the distance.
A hundred answered him:
"Morgan's riflemen!"
"Good, my lads!" and even at that distance I could see his face brighten.
"There will be work for you at dawn."
With a rolling cheer, echoing down our ranks from front to rear, we
answered, swinging the guns over our heads, as we swept forward into the
dark night. There might be discussion, dissension about that council
fire, but there was none in the hearts of those who were going out to
die. Already rumors were flying about regarding Lee's unwillingness to
engage in battle. I saw him as I trudged past, standing beside Wayne, the
firelight on his face, although his head was bowed. Even to our cheers he
never once glanced up, and, as we passed beyond the radius of light, I
laid my hand upon the mane of Morgan's horse.
"Is it true that Charles Lee thinks we should let Clinton go without
fighting?" I asked soberly. "That was rumored at the ferry."
"'T is true enough," he answered, his eyes upon the dark column of
plodding men. "And he seems to have others with him. I know not what has
put the coward into the fellows of late. Saint Andrew! the odds are no
greater than we have met before. But there'll be no fighting, lad, I
fear, unless Washington takes the bit in his teeth, and orders it. I'm
glad the boys cheered him; 'twill give the man new heart."
"You favor the joining of issue?"
"Why not? Were we ever in better fettle? A retreating army is always half
whipped, and we can choose our ground. Why, lad, 'tis reported Clinton's
line stretches out full twelve miles, with train of baggage-wagons and
battery horses, and camp-followers enough for a division. 'Twill be easy
work attending to them, and most of his troops are Dutch and Tories."
My horse was in ill condition, limping sadly, although I could not
discover the cause, and I walked with the men, leading the animal,
through the smouldering clouds of dust. It was a hot, still night, and
Morgan marched us swiftly, with few pauses for rest. By daylight we came
up with the New Jersey militia, lying at rest along the bank of the
Millstone River, waiting their turn to ford that stream, and join Maxwell
on the opposite shore. From where I stood I could see the thin lines of
Continentals spreading out like a fan, as the skirmishers advanced up the
opposite bluffs. Down the trampled bank, men were struggling with a light
battery, and suddenly in the press of figures I came upon Farrell. He was
mud from head to foot, his face streaked with it, but he looked up with
beaming eyes as I spoke his name, and our hands clasped.
"I thought you would be over there with Maxwell," he said, pointing
across at the black dots, now clearly distinguishable in the glow of
sunshine.
"I was left behind, and came up just now with Morgan," I replied. "But I
am anxious enough to be with my own fellows. What means that skirmish
line, Farrell? Are we already in touch with Clinton?"
He swept the hair out of his eyes with his great fist.
"No one knows exactly, but the British are not far off, and are headed
this way. A scout came through with the news two hours ago--Clinton has
taken the road to Monmouth." He chuckled grimly, glancing at my face.
"And who think ye the lad was who told us?"
"Who?" my throat tightening.
"The same you was so anxious about a few days back."
"Mortimer! Eric Mortimer?"
"Aye, unless my eyes fail me already, it was the boy."
"You are sure? You saw him?"
"Well, I had a glimpse, as he came up the bank here from the ford, his
horse dripping. It was dark still, and he only stopped to ask the road. I
knew the voice, and the form--the lad is as slender as a girl--then he
went by me, digging his horse with the spurs, and lying close. He had a
Dragoon's cape flapping from his shoulders, but 'twas the boy all right.
Ah! there go the guns up the bank. Now, perhaps, they'll let me take my
fighting dogs across."
The way was open for me, at least, and I swung up into the saddle, and
drove my horse down the slippery shore into the water. The stream was not
deep, although the current flowed swiftly, and a moment later I had found
Maxwell.
"Yes," he said to my first question, "we are going to fight, although it
may not be anything more serious than skirmishing to-day. Washington has
decided in spite of Lee, thank God, and we'll have a go at the Red-coats.
Lafayette commands the advance, and Wayne will be up within a few hours.
We are to skirmish forward toward Monmouth Court House; Clinton has
turned that way."
"You learned that from a scout?"
"Yes; he just came through; one of Charles Lee's men, I understood--a
blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked boy, who said his name was Mortimer. He had
ridden from Cookstown, and was reeling in the saddle, but would go on.
Your men are over there, Major, beyond the clump of timber. In my
judgment we'll accomplish little to-day, for there is a heavy storm in
those clouds yonder."
"How many men will we have when Wayne comes up?"
"About four thousand, with the militia. We are ordered to hang close to
Clinton's left, while Morgan circles him to the right. 'Tis said the
British have transports, at Sandy Hook, and are trying to get there; that
was the word young Mortimer brought in."
The bath in the water seemed to have helped my horse, but I rode slowly
up the valley toward the wood which served as my guide. Troops were
strung along the sandy expanse of valley, the men mostly lying down,
exhausted by their hard night's march. These were of my own brigade, men
of the Pennsylvania and Maryland Line, uniformed in well-worn blue and
buff. Already the sun beat down hot upon them, the air heavy and dead. No
breath of breeze stirred the leaves, or grass blades, and most of those
lying there had flung aside their coats. Over all the western and
southern sky extended a menacing bank of clouds, slowly advancing, huge
thunder-heads, already jagged with forked lightnings, pushing up into the
blue. Before I reached the skirmishers, great drops of rain fell, and
then a downpour, utterly blotting out the landscape. Lightning flashed,
the thunder unremitting, the rain a flood, water leaped down the side of
the hill in cascades, and, blinded, I drew my horse back into the slight
shelter of the wood, and waited, gripping him by the bit. Men ran back
down the hill, seeking shelter from the fury of it, and I bent my head,
soaked to the skin. For the first time I realized how tired I was, every
muscle aching with the strain of the long night's march, my head
throbbing from the awful heat of the early morning. I sat down in the mud
and water; my arm through the bridle rein, my head against the trunk of a
tree, which partially protected my face from the beating rain. But there
was no sleep possible.
My mind pictured the field of action, reviewed the events leading up to
this hour, and, as surely, reverted to Claire Mortimer. She would have
been left behind in Philadelphia, which ere this was doubtless occupied
by our troops under Arnold. I had understood at the Ferry those were his
orders, to march in the moment Clinton evacuated. She would be safe
enough then, unless--unless she had again returned to Elmhurst. Yet if
Eric was well there would be no occasion for the girl assuming such a
risk, as the Mortimer plantation must have been in the very track of the
retreating army. Perhaps she was with them--but no; I recalled the rumor
about our camps that the officers' wives and the loyalist ladies were to
be transported to New York by water. Arnold would permit that, and no
doubt this daughter of a colonel would be among them.
I had almost forgotten the sturdy downpour so intensely was I thinking,
when a courier came spurring forward, blinded by the storm, yet riding
recklessly. He must have seen the group of men huddled at the edge of the
grove, for he drew up his horse, calling my name.
"Major Lawrence, I come from General Maxwell," he shouted between the
crashes of thunder. "You are given command of the right of the line, and
will press on regardless of the storm until the enemy is met in force.
Dragoons have been seen two miles east. You understand, sir?"
"Yes," leading forth my horse. "Come on, lads, it's the top of the hill!
What about the artillery?"
"We may not be able to move the guns," he answered, "but you are to keep
your powder as dry as possible and hold Clinton to the road. Dry powder
will be sent as soon as the storm breaks. That's all, sir."
I could scarce see the fellow as his horse whirled, and went splashing
down the slope. Through the mist of rain the men gathered about were mere
blotches.
"All right, you water-rats, come on!" I sang out cheerfully. "We'll give
the Red-coats the butts of our guns anyhow."
There was a faint cheer as the drenched figures sprang forward racing
after me. Half of them had flung away their coats in the fierce heat, and
their shirts clung soaked and dripping. Swinging them into some semblance
of line, each man barely within sight of his neighbor, and picking up
others as we advanced, we made the crest of the hill, and entered the
open country beyond. Looking back, as the clouds broke, we could see the
long lines of infantry forming in the valley below, with black specks
here and there as staff officers rode with orders. Twice we ran up
against small parties of horsemen, exchanging shots, but these fell back,
leaving the road clear. By dark we were at Englishtown, hungry and
thoroughly worn out, and there were halted, sleeping upon our arms. All I
had in my haversack was a single hard biscuit, after munching which I lay
down upon the ground and fell instantly asleep.