The news brought by George confirmed all the fears of the war which
was presently to begin and to last for seven years. The governor
immediately called together his council, laid before them Major
Washington’s report, and for once acted with promptitude. It was
determined to raise a force of several hundred men, to take possession
of the disputed territory, and, without a single opposing voice, the
command was offered to Major Washington, with the additional rank of
lieutenant-colonel.
George said little, but his gratification was deeper than he could
express. He wrote to his mother at once, and also to Betty, and Betty
answered: “Our mother is very resigned, for she knows, dear George,
that when one has a son or a brother who is _a great military genius_,
and who everybody knows must one day be _a great man_, one must give
him up to his country.” At which George laughed very much, for he did
not think himself either a genius or a great man.
After receiving the governor’s instructions, and paying a flying visit
to Ferry Farm, George went to Mount Vernon, as all the preparations for
the campaign were to be made at Alexandria, which was the rendezvous.
His days were now spent in the most arduous labor. He knew what was
before him, and he was full of care. He was very anxious to enlist men
from the mountain districts, as being better able to withstand the
hardships of a mountain campaign. He wrote to Lord Fairfax, who was
lieutenant of the county of Frederick, and a recruiting station was
opened at Greenway Court. At last, in April, he was ready to march on
his first campaign. His force consisted of about four hundred Virginia
troops, with nine swivels mounted on carriages. He expected to be
joined by other troops from Maryland and Pennsylvania, but he was
doomed to be cruelly disappointed. The morning of the 15th of April,
1754, was bright and warm, and at eight o’clock the soldiers marched
out, to the music of the fife and drum, from the town of Alexandria,
with Colonel Washington at their head.
They were a fine-looking body of men, but, as always, Colonel
Washington was the finest figure present. He rode a superb chestnut
horse, handsomely caparisoned. In his splendid new uniform his elegant
figure showed to the greatest advantage. All the windows of the streets
through which they marched were filled with spectators. At one Colonel
Washington removed his chapeau, and bowed as if to royalty, for from it
his mother and Betty were watching him. His mother raised her hands in
blessing, while Betty held out her arms as if to clasp him. And when
he had passed the two fond creatures fell into each other’s arms, and
cried together very heartily.
Captain Vanbraam commanded the first company. In one of the
baggage-wagons sat a familiar figure. It was Billy--not left behind
this time, but taken as George’s body-servant.
On the 20th Will’s Creek was reached. A small party of men under
Captain Trench had been sent forward by the governor to the Ohio River,
with orders to build a fort at what is now Pittsburg, and there await
Colonel Washington. But while the Virginia troops were marching through
the forest, before sighting the creek, an officer on a horse was seen
approaching. He rode up to George, and, saluting, said:
“I am Ensign Ward, sir, of Captain Trench’s company.”
“From the fort at the meeting of the Alleghany and Monongahela?” asked
George.
“Ah, sir,” cried the young officer, with tears in his eyes, “the fort
is no longer ours. A French force, consisting of nearly a thousand
men, appeared while we were at work on it, and opened fire on us. We
were but forty-one, and we were forced to hoist the white flag without
firing a shot.”
This was, indeed, dreadful news. It showed that the French were fully
alive to the situation, if not beforehand with the English. Even a
small detachment of the French force could cut off and destroy this
little band of four companies. George’s mind was hard at work while
young Ward gave the details of the surrender. His only comment was:
“We must push on to a point I have marked on the Monongahela, and there
build the fort instead of at the junction of the rivers.”
After passing Will’s Creek they were in the heart of the wilderness.
The transportation of the guns, ammunition, and baggage was so
difficult, owing to the wildness of the country, that they were
fourteen days in making fourteen miles. But the men, animated by
their commander, toiled uncomplainingly at work most distasteful to
soldiers--cutting down trees, making bridges, and dragging the guns
over rocks when wheels could not turn. Even Billy worked for the first
time in his life. One night, after three weeks of this labor, an
Indian stalked up to the camp and demanded to see the commander. George
happened to be passing on his nightly round of inspection, and in a
moment recognized his old friend Tanacharison. “Welcome!” cried the
chief in the Indian tongue, and calling George by his Indian name of
“Young White Warrior.”
“Welcome to you,” answered George, more than pleased to see his ally.
“This is no time for much talk,” said the Indian. “Fifty French
soldiers with Captain Jumonville are concealed in a glen six miles
away. They are spies for the main body--for the French have three men
to your one--and if they find you here you will be cut to pieces. But
if you can catch the French spies, the main body will not know where
you are; and,” he added, with a crafty smile, “if they should meet
Tanacharison, he will send them a hundred miles in the wrong direction.”
George saw in a moment the excellence of the old chief’s advice.
Tanacharison knew the road, which was comparatively easy, and offered
to guide them, and to assist with several of his braves. It was then
nine o’clock, and rain had begun falling in torrents. George retired to
his rude shelter of boughs, called together his officers, and announced
his intention of attacking this party of fifty Frenchmen. He made a
list of forty picked men, and at midnight he caused them to be wakened
quietly, and set off without arousing the whole camp.
The wind roared and the rain changed to hail, but still the Virginians,
with Washington at their head, kept on through the woods. Sometimes
they sank up to their knees in quagmires--again they cut their feet
against sharp stones; but they never halted. At daybreak they entered
the glen in two files, the Indians on one side, the Virginians on the
other, George leading. It was a wild place, surrounded by rocks, with
only one narrow cleft for entrance. Just as the last man had entered
the alarm was given, and firing began from both parties at the same
time. The French resisted bravely, headed by Captain Jumonville,
who was the first man to fall; but a quarter of an hour’s sharp
fighting decided the skirmish, and the French called for quarter.
This was George’s baptism of fire, and it was the beginning of war
between France and England, which was to last, with but a few years’
intermission, for more than fifty years.
The prisoners were at once taken back to the American camp, and then
sent, under guard, back to Virginia. This little success raised the
spirits of the troops very much, but George, with a prophetic eye,
knew that, as soon as the story of Jumonville’s defeat and death
reached the French, a formidable force would be sent out against him.
He had brave and active spies, who penetrated almost as far as Fort
Duquesne, as the French had named Trench’s fort, but none of them
equalled old Tanacharison. One night, the last of June, he and three
other scouts brought the news that the French were advancing, nine
hundred strong, and were near at hand. A council of war was called, and
it was determined to retreat to Great Meadows, where a better stand
could be made, and where it was thought provisions and reinforcements
would meet them. Accordingly, at daybreak, a start was made. The horses
had become so weak from insufficient food that they could no longer
drag the light swivels, and the men were forced to haul them. George
himself set the example of the officers walking, and, dismounting,
loaded his horse with public stores, while he engaged the men, for
liberal pay, to carry his own small baggage. It very much disgusted
Billy to be thrown out of his comfortable seat in the baggage-wagon,
but he was forced to leg it like his betters.
Two days’ slow and painful marching brought them to Great Meadows, but,
to their intense disappointment, not a man was found, nor provisions
of any sort. The men were disheartened but unmurmuring.
George immediately set them to work felling trees and making such
breastworks of earth and rocks as they could manage with their few
tools.
“I shall call this place Fort Necessity,” he said to his officers; “for
it is necessity, not choice, that made me retreat here.”
Every hour in the day and night he expected to be attacked, but no
attack would have caught him unprepared to resist as best he could with
his feeble force. His ceaseless vigilance surprised even those who knew
how tireless he was.
At last, on the morning of the 3d of July, just as George had finished
making the round of the sentries, he heard, across the camp, a shot,
followed by the sudden shriek of a wounded man. The French skirmishers
were on the ground, and one of them, being seen stealing along in the
underbrush, had been challenged by the sentry, and had fired in reply
and winged his man. The alarm was given, and by nine o’clock it was
known that a French force of nine hundred men, with artillery, was
approaching rapidly. By eleven o’clock the gleam of their muskets could
be seen through the trees as they advanced to the attack. Meanwhile not
a moment since the first alarm had been lost in the American camp.
George seemed to be everywhere at once, animating his men, and seeing
that every possible preparation was made. He had posted his little
force in the best possible manner, and had instructed his officers to
fight where they were, and not to be drawn from their position into the
woods, where the French could slaughter them at will.
The French began their fire at six hundred yards, but the Americans
did not return a shot until the enemy was within range, when George,
himself sighting a swivel, sent a shot screeching into the midst of
them. He fully expected an assault, but the French were wary, and,
knowing their superiority in force, as well as the longer range of
their artillery, withdrew farther into the woods, and began to play
their guns on the Americans, who could not fire an effective shot. The
French sharp-shooters, too, posting themselves behind trees, picked off
the Americans, and especially aimed at the horses, which they destroyed
one by one. All during the hot July day this continued. The Americans
showed an admirable spirit, and this young commander, with the
fortitude of a veteran, encouraged them to resist, but he was too good
a soldier not to see that there could be but one issue to it. At every
volley from the French some of the Americans dropped, and this going
on, hour after hour, under a burning sun, by weary, half-starved men,
would have tried the courage of the best soldiers in the world. But the
men and their young commander were animated by the same spirit--they
must stubbornly defend every inch of ground and die in the last ditch.
Captain Vanbraam, who was second in command, was a man of much
coolness, and knew the smell of burning powder well. During the day,
standing near him, he said quietly to George:
“I see, Colonel Washington, that you practice the tactics of all great
soldiers: if you cannot win, you will at least make the enemy pay
dearly for his victory.” George turned a pale but determined face upon
him.
“I must never let the Frenchman think that Americans are easily beaten.
They outnumber us three to one, but we must fight for honor when we can
no longer fight for victory. Nor can I acknowledge myself beaten before
the Frenchman thinks so, and he must sound the parley first. The braver
our defence the better will be the terms offered us.”
Captain Vanbraam gazed with admiration at the commanding officer of
twenty-three--so cool, so determined in the face of certain disaster.
George in all his life had never seen so many dead and wounded as on
that July day, but he bore the sight unflinchingly.
About sunset on this terrible day a furious thunder-storm arose. Within
ten minutes the sky, that had gleamed all day like a dome of heated
brass, grew black. The clouds rushed from all points of the compass,
and formed a dense black pall overhead. It seemed to touch the very
tops of the tall pines, that rocked and swayed fearfully, as a wind,
fierce and sudden, swept through them. A crash of thunder, like two
worlds coming together, followed a flash of lightning which rent the
heavens. As tree after tree was struck in the forest and came down
the sharp crash was heard. Then the heavens were opened and floods
descended. At the beginning of the tempest George had promptly ordered
the men to withdraw, with the wounded, inside the rude fort. He worked
alongside with the private soldiers in trying to make the wounded men
more comfortable, and lifted many of them with his own arms into the
best protected spots. It was impossible to secure them from the rain,
however, or to keep the powder dry, and George saw, with an anguish
that nearly broke his heart, that he had fired his last shot.
For two hours the storm raged, and then died away as suddenly as
it rose. A pallid moon came out in the heavens, and a solemn and
awful silence succeeded the uproar of tempest and battle. About nine
o’clock, by the dim light of a few lanterns, the Americans saw a
party approaching bearing a white flag, and with a drummer beating
the parley. George, who was the first to see them, turned to Captain
Vanbraam.
“You will meet them, captain, but by no means allow them to enter the
fort so they can see our desperate situation.”
Captain Vanbraam, accompanied by two other officers, met the Frenchmen
outside the breastworks, where they received a letter from the French
commander to Colonel Washington. George read it by the light of a pine
torch which Captain Vanbraam held for him. It ran:
“SIR,--Desirous to avoid the useless effusion of blood, and to save
the lives of gallant enemies like yourself and the men under your
command, I propose a parley to arrange the terms of surrender of your
forces to me as the representative of his most Christian majesty.
Captain Du Val, the bearer of this, is empowered to make terms with
you or your representative, according to conditions which I have
given him in writing, of which the first is that your command be
permitted to march out with all the honors of war, drums beating and
colors flying. I have the honor to be, sir, with the highest respect,
“Your obedient, humble servant,
“DUCHAINE.”
As George finished reading this letter for one moment his calmness
deserted him, and with a groan he covered his face with his hands. But
it was only for a moment; the next he had recovered a manly composure.
With a drum-head for a table, and a log of wood for a seat, he called
his officers about him, and quietly discussed the proposed terms,
Captain Vanbraam translating to those who did not understand French.
The conditions were highly honorable. The Frenchman knew what he was
about, and the stubborn resistance of the Americans had earned them,
not only the respect, but the substantial consideration of the French.
They were to be paroled on delivering up their prisoners, and were to
retain their side-arms and baggage.
The men knew what was going on, as orders had been given to cease
firing, and having built camp-fires, sat about them, gloomy and
despondent. But no word of murmuring escaped them. When at last, in
about an hour, the preliminaries were arranged, signed, and sent to the
French commander, George assembled round him the remnant of men left.
[Illustration: “WITH DRUMS BEATING AND COLORS FLYING”]
“My men,” he said, in a choked voice, “to-morrow morning at nine
o’clock we shall march out of Fort Necessity beaten but not disgraced.
Every man here has done his whole duty, but we were outnumbered
three to one; and our fight this day has been for our honor, not for
victory, because victory was impossible. We are accorded all the honors
of war, which shows that we are fighting men as honorable as ourselves.
I thank you every one, officers and soldiers, for the manly defence you
have made. This is our first fight, but it is not our last, and the
time will come, I hope, when we can wipe out this day’s record by a
victory gained not by superior force but by superior gallantry.”
A cheer broke from the men who had listened to him. They were soldiers,
and they knew that they had been well commanded, and that the unequal
battle had been very nobly fought, and George Washington was one of the
few men in the world’s history who could always command in defeat the
confidence that other men can only secure in success.
Next morning--by a strange coincidence the Fourth of July, then an
unmarked day in the calendar--at nine o’clock the Americans marched out
of camp. The French were drawn up in parallel lines in front of the
intrenchment. Knowing that the American officers would be afoot, the
French officers sent their horses to the rear. As the Americans marched
out, with George Washington at their head, the French commander,
Duchaine, turned to his officers and said, smiling:
“Look at that beautiful boy-commander! Are not such provincials worth
conquering?”
The Americans halted, and George advanced to thank the French commander
for the extreme courtesy shown the Americans, for it was the policy of
the French to conciliate the Americans, and to profess to think them
driven into the war by England.
Before George could speak the Frenchman, saluting, said:
“Colonel Washington, I had heard that you were young, but not until
this moment did I fully realize it. All day yesterday I thought I was
fighting a man as old in war as I am, and I have been a soldier for
more than thirty years.”
George could only say a few words in reply, but to the core of his
heart he felt the cordial respect given him by his enemies.
But his thoughts were bitter on that homeward march. He had been
sent out to do great things, and he came back a defeated man. By
the watch-fires at night he prepared his account to be submitted to
Governor Dinwiddie, and it was the most painful work of his life. After
two weeks’ travel, the latter part of it in advance of his command, he
reached Williamsburg. The House of Burgesses was in session, and this
gave him a painful kind of satisfaction. He would know at once what was
thought of his conduct.
On the day of his arrival he presented himself before Governor
Dinwiddie, who received him kindly.
“We know, Colonel Washington,” he said, “that you surrendered three
hundred men to nine hundred. But we also know that you gave them a
tussle for it. Remain here until I have communicated with the House of
Burgesses, when you will, no doubt, be sent for.”
George remained in his rooms at the Raleigh Tavern, seeing no one.
He knew the governor perfectly well--a man of good heart but weak
head--and he set more value on the verdict of his own countrymen,
assembled as burgesses, than on the governor’s approval. He did not
have to wait long. The House of Burgesses received his report, read it,
and expressed a high sense of Colonel Washington’s courage and ability,
although, in spite of both, he had been unfortunate, and declared a
continuation of their confidence in him. Not so Governor Dinwiddie.
His heart was right, but whenever he thought for himself he always
thought wrong. The fact that he had to report to the home government
the failure of this inadequate expedition set him to contriving, as
all weak men will, some one or some circumstance on which to shift the
responsibility. It occurred to him at once: the Virginia troops were
only provincial troops--Colonel Washington was a provincial officer.
What was needed, this wise governor concluded, was regular troops and
regular officers. This he urged strongly in his report to the home
government, and next day he sent for George.
“Colonel Washington,” he said, suddenly, “I believe nothing can be
accomplished without the aid of regular troops from England, and I
have asked for at least two regiments for the next campaign. Meanwhile
I have determined to raise ten companies to assist the regular force
which is promised us in the spring, for it is now too late in the
season for military operations. I offer you the command of one of those
companies. Your former officers will be similarly provided for; but I
will state frankly that when the campaign opens the officers of the
same rank in his majesty’s regular troops will outrank those in the
provincial army.”
George listened to this remarkable speech with the red slowly mounting
into his face. His temper, brought under control only by the most
determined will, showed in his eyes, which literally blazed with anger.
“Sir,” he said, after a moment, “as I understand, you offer me
a captain’s commission in exchange for that which I now bear of
lieutenant-colonel, and I am to be made the equal of men whom I have
commanded, and all of us are to be outranked by the regular force.”
The governor shifted uneasily in his chair, and finally began a long
rigmarole which he meant for an explanation. George heard him through
in an unbroken silence, which very much disconcerted the governor. Then
he rose and said, with a low bow:
“Sir, I decline to accept the commission you offer me, and I think you
must suppose me as empty as the commission itself in proposing it.
I shall also have the honor of surrendering to your excellency the
commission of lieutenant-colonel, which you gave me; and I bid you,
sir, good-morning”--and he was gone.
The governor looked about him, dazed at finding himself so suddenly
alone.
“What a young fire-eater!” he soliloquized. “But it is the way with
these republicans. They fancy themselves quite as good as anybody the
king can send over here, and the spirit shown by this young game-cock
is just what I might have expected of him.”
The governor tried to dismiss the subject from his mind, but he could
not, and he soon found out that “the young game-cock’s” spurs were
fully grown.