The twenty-fifth of December, 1776, was a gloomy day in the American
camp. An army of thirty thousand British soldiers lay scattered along
the opposite side of the freezing Delaware, from Brunswick to the
environs of Philadelphia. Gen. Howe commanded the British cantonment,
and Lord Cornwallis was on the march from New York to reinforce him.
The British soldiers were flushed with success. They had driven us
through the Jerseys. New York Island and the North River were in their
power. They had tracked us by our bloody foot-prints along the gloomy,
though snow-clad hills: and they looked eagerly forward to the day when
the head of our illustrious Washington should be placed upon Temple Bar,
and the mob of London should cry out while they pointed at it, “there
rests the head of a Traitor.” The banner of England floated heavily in
the wintry air, and the fur-clad Hessian paced his rounds on the gloomy
hills, with his bayonet gleaming in the stormy light; videttes were seen
galloping along the hill sides, and the valleys echoed with the martial
airs of England. But in our camp all was sadness. Five thousand men,
ill-armed, and worse clad, without tents or even camp utensils, sat
crouching over their lonely watch-fires.
But this was not all. The crafty British general had offered a pardon to
all who would desert the American cause, and many men of property, aye!
even members of Congress, recreant to honor and principle, pocketed
their patriotism with the proclamation, and basely betrayed their
country in the hour of her peril. Members of Congress did I say? Yes,
those that had been members: and let me repeat their names, lest
perchance they may have been forgotten in the age of sham power and
speculation. Galloway and Allen deserted, and joined the enemies of
freedom in the fall of 1776.
Such was the state of things at this period. All was silence in the
American camp. The spangled banner hung drooping over our head quarters,
and the sentinel by the low door-way stood leaning in melancholy mood
upon his rusty and flintless gun. The commander-in-chief held a council
of war. At the close of it he gave his opinion—he had heard of the
scattered cantonment of the British army.
“Now,” said he striking his hand upon an order of battle, and pointing
from the window of the little farm house toward the wild river, “now is
the time to clip their wings.” It was a master-thought; the council of
war concurred with their leader, and each member retired silently to
prepare for immediate action.
The regiments were mustered—the sentinels were called in—a hasty meal
was devoured—the evening shut in with darkness and storm—the word was
given—and we began our march. One party moved down, one remained
stationary, and one passed up to a point above Trenton. I was with
Washington. No one in the ranks knew where he was to go—all was
mystery; until we wheeled down the steep bank of the Delaware.
“Onward,” was the word. “Cross the river,” thundered along the line, and
our freezing legions moved on. Who shall describe the pains and the
perils of that terrible march? Who shall reward the noble spirits, who,
trusting in their illustrious leader, moved onward, amid famine,
nakedness, and the winter’s storm? Surely at this day a generous nation
will not let the poor, old veteran die who has his scars—but no
certificate—to testify to the glory of that night—better feed an
imposter than starve a hero.
But to my tale.—Upon a high bank Washington, and Knox, and a few staff
officers, wrapped in scanty military cloaks, sat upon their shivering
chargers, and awaited the progress of the broken line.
We moved on—some on cakes of ice—some on rafts with the artillery—and
some in little boats. Dark reigned the night around—the wild blast from
the hills swept down the roaring stream—the water froze to our tattered
clothes, and our feet were blistered and peeled by treading upon the icy
way. The snow, like feathers borne upon a gale, whirled around us—the
dark waters yawned fearfully before us—at every step we were in danger.
Now precipitated into the stream, and now forced to climb the rugged
sides of the drift-ice, still we advanced. At length the cannon and
tumbrils were landed, and the last soldier stood upon the opposite
shore.
Shivering with cold, and pale with hunger and fatigue, our column formed
and waited for the word. Washington and his staff were at hand.
“Briskly, men, briskly,” said he, as he rode to the head of the line;
and then the captains gave the word from company to company, and the
army marched on in silence. A secret movement of an army at night keeps
the drowsy awake, and the hungry from complaining. Man is an inquisitive
animal, and the only way to make him perform apparent impossibilities,
is to lead him after he knows not what. Columbus discovered America in a
cruize after Solomon’s gold mine, and the vast field of chemistry was
laid open to human ken, in a search for the elixir of life, and the
philosopher’s stone.
All night our troops moved down the west bank of the river, and as the
morning spread her grey mantle over the eastern hills, we reached
Trenton.
The Hessians, under Rawle, slept. No one feared Washington,—and the
moustached soldier dreamed of the Rhine and the Elbe, and the captain
slept careless at his inn. But suddenly the cry was raised,—“He comes!
he comes!” Our frosty drums beat the charge; the shrill fifes mingled in
with a merry strain; and our hungry army, with bare feet entered the
city. Like the Scandinavian horde—in impetuosity and necessity—before
the eternal city, we rushed up the streets, and attacked the surprised
enemy at every turn. The startled foe endeavored to defend themselves;
but, before any body of them could collect, a charge of our infantry cut
them to pieces. Their colors were absolutely hacked off of their
standard-staff, while they advanced in line, by a sergeant’s sword, and
their officers were cut down or taken prisoners. Our victory was
complete. One thousand men were killed and made prisoners, and the
artillery, consisting of nine pieces, was captured. Such was the effect
of the Battle of Trenton upon the enemy; but to us the consequences were
the reverse. Our hungry men were fed, our naked were clothed, the rank
and file were armed, and the officers promoted.
The same evening we re-crossed the river, but it was not the terrible
stream of the previous night. The foot-prints of boots and shoes were
left on our trail, and the drums beat a merry call, while the bugles
answered sweet and clear.
In a few hours the Hessian tents shrouded the captors on the site of our
old encampment; and Rawle’s officers had the pleasure of drinking _their
own wine in their own tents_, with General Washington, and his
subalterns, as prisoners of war. So well planned was this attack that we
lost but nine men, and two of them were frozen to death after being
wounded.
On the 29th of December, 1776, we again crossed the Delaware, and at 1
P. M., our eagles floated over Trenton.
* * * * *
The “merry Christmas” of our evening party astonished and aroused the
king’s generals. Lord Cornwallis hastened to form a junction with
General Grant at Princeton; and on the 2d of January, 1777, the British
army marched against Trenton.
It was late in the afternoon when the advance guard of the enemy
appeared in sight, their red coats forming a striking contrast with the
winter’s snow. Our drums now beat to arms, and General Washington, with
5,000 of us, crossed the rivulet Assumpinck, and took post upon the high
ground facing the rivulet. A heavy cannonade speedily commenced, and
when night came on, both armies had a breathing spell.
Fresh fuel was now piled upon the camp-fires—the sentinels were posted
in advance—small parties were stationed to guard each ford—the cry,
“all’s well,” the quick challenge, and the prompt answer; the tramping
of a returning vidette—and the occasional tapping of a drum in the
guard-room, were heard in our camp. The British general rejoiced in the
belief that the morning sun would behold him a conqueror of our leader
and ourselves. Secure of his prey, the enemy made preparations to attack
our camp on the first blush of morning. The noise of hammers—the heavy
rumbling of cannon wheels—the clashing of the armorer’s hammer, and the
laugh of the artizan and pioneer, came over upon the night-wind, and
grated harshly upon our sensitive ears.
An officer, mounted, and wrapped in a military cloak, was now seen
silently approaching the commanders of regiments in quick succession. He
whispered his orders in a low tone—the colonels started with
astonishment,—they looked—it was their general, and they immediately
sent for their captains. Each officer heard the new order with
astonishment, but to hear was to obey. The captains whispered it to
their orderlies, and in twenty minutes after it was communicated to
commanders of regiments the whole army stood upon their feet in battle
array. Our tents were struck, and our baggage wagons were ready for a
march.
The sentinels paced their rounds as though nothing was about to happen.
The laugh of the relieved guard was heard above the din of both armies,
and “all’s well” rang above the night.
We now stood ready in open column to march. General Hugh Mercer had
command of the van-guard, and in a few moments our captains whispered,
“forward, and be silent”—our living mass immediately moved onward, and
filed off toward Allentown. Presently we heard the rear guard, with the
artillery, rumbling in our rear, and then our camp, so quietly deserted,
was lost sight of in the shadow of the hills.
For upward of two hours we moved on in comparative silence. Nothing but
the whispers of the officers, and the heavy tread of men was heard. It
was quite dark, and every breast seemed to be under the spell of
mystery. At length a noise was heard ahead, and a staff officer galloped
to the rear. As he passed along he said, in a clear voice, “the enemy
are in sight.” In a few minutes the voice of the gallant Mercer was
heard loud and distinct, giving his orders—“attention, van-guard, close
order, quick time, march.” We sprang at the word—each soldier grasped
his musket with a firmer gripe—and away we went upon the run.
Three regiments of light-infantry opposed us upon the plain at
Maidenhead, and their drums were beating merrily as we drew near
them—our front now came upon an open common. We broke into three
columns, and headed by the gallant Mercer, dashed on. In a moment a
stream of fire passed along the British line, the dead and wounded fell
around me, and our columns wavered. At this instant while General
Mercer, with his sword raised, was encouraging the van-guard to rush on
and secure the victory, a bullet struck him, and he fell from his horse
mortally wounded. For a moment only the battle was against us, but soon
the firm voice of Washington was heard, as he pressed on to the front.
Our musketry now echoed terribly; the enemy began to give way; a
well-directed fire from the artillery told fearfully upon the small
armed foe, and they were routed. At this moment a British soldier
clapped his bayonet to my breast—Charles Greely thrust it away with his
right hand—the soldier fired—his musket and the noble-hearted Greely
fell upon my breast. I grasped his hand—it faintly returned my
pressure—and then he straitened himself upon the ground, his eyes
became fixed, his jaw fell, and he was dead. I bore him quickly to a
wounded cart, and hastened to my platoon. The enemy were flying toward
Brunswick, and we were masters of the field.
“On to Princeton,” shouted our noble leader, as he sent his wounded aid
to the rear on a litter.
The line moved on in quick time, and soon we entered the town. Our visit
was as unexpected here as at Trenton. A portion of the enemy had taken
shelter in the college. Our general, as at Trenton, headed the charge in
gallant style, while the troops, animated by his fearlessness, nobly
seconded him. The artillery thundered against the garrisoned college,
and the musketry rung wildly from every corner. Surrounded by a superior
force, and not knowing but what Cornwallis had been routed, for they had
heard the midnight cannon at Maidenhead, most of the enemy surrendered.
A few, however, escaped by a precipitate flight along an unguarded
street at the commencement of the attack. In this affair one hundred of
the enemy were killed, and three hundred taken prisoners. Lord
Cornwallis, as he lay on his camp bed, was roused by the roar of cannon.
He started—the sound came from Princeton—he immediately ordered his
troops under arms, and hastened to the scene of action. When he arrived
the battle was won, and we were on our return march in triumph. As we
crossed the Milestone river, we were halted to destroy the bridge at
Kingston. I ordered a file of men to assist me, and hastily buried my
companion in arms by the water-side, while the enemy’s cannon answered
for minute-guns for the brave. Having shed a tear of sympathy over his
lonely grave, we joined the main-body. At sun-set we trod upon the bleak
hills of Morristown, and when the camp-fires were lighted the campaign
of ’76 was over.
* * * * *
As the old man finished his tale, the widow turned away her head, and
the grand-children hid their faces and wept. At length when they raised
their eyes to their guest, his face was pallid—a wildness was manifest
in his eyes; and his frame appeared to be stiffening in death. They
sprang to him.
“Forward—on—to—Princeton!” said he, in a cold whisper; and then the
last Life Guardsman joined his companions in Heaven.
The next day a numerous body of strangers followed the old veteran to
the tomb; and the widow Greely placed a plain marble slab at the head of
it, and inscribed upon it—
HERE LIES
THE LAST OF WASHINGTON’S
LIFE GUARD.
* * * * *