THE RED TIDE OF BLOOD
Spruce Macaronies, and pretty to see,
Tidy and dapper and gallant were we;
Blooded, fine gentlemen, proper and tall,
Bold in a fox-hunt and gay at a ball;
Tralara! Tralara! now praise we the Lord,
For the clang of His call and the flash of His sword.
Tralara! Tralara! now forward to die;
For the banner, hurrah! and for sweethearts, good-bye!
JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.
It was on the 22d day of August that the rumour flew through the camp
that the enemy had landed and was preparing to attack. But the hours
flew by, and still no orders came, until the Line became restless, and
the fear grew that the fight would begin before we could reach the
field of battle. The sun began to sink over the Heights of Harlem
when an aide rode into our lines. It was Tench Tilghman, who swung his
hat and shouted as he went by: "You will have warm work in a day or
two, boys!"
We gave him a yell in reply, and started with renewed interest the
preparations for the coming fight. A few minutes later came the orders
that we were to march at dawn. The men received the news joyfully, and
it was wonderful to see the change in their bearing; for while the
doubt hung over them, they were restless and murmuring was heard all
through the camp; but now all was laughter and gaiety. They prepared
for the fight as one would prepare for the next county ball or a
fox-hunt on the morrow.
The stirring notes of the bugle ringing over the camp brought me to my
feet with a bound, and I looked out of the tent to see a heavy mist
over everything, and hear the sound of men's voices coming through it
all around me. It does not take a soldier long to don his uniform, and
I was soon out attending to my duties. At seven o'clock we were on our
march to the ferry, crossing the East River at the foot of the main
street of the small town of Brooklyn; then we took a road leading over
a creek called Gowanus, and knew that we were marching to guard the
right of the American line. Low-lying hills, heavily wooded, lay
before us; it was in these woods that our line was called to a halt,
and we took up our position for the battle. We lay there several days,
with constant rumours flying through the camp of the enemy's advance,
but yet they would not come.
It was on the morning of the 27th of August that the great battle of
Long Island, so disastrous for the patriot forces, broke upon us. The
scattering shots of the skirmishers first made us spring to arms; then
the sharp rattle of the musketry of Atlee's men and the boom of
Carpenter's cannon on our immediate right told that the enemy was
pushing them hard. Then through the forest trees came the line of the
British advance. The fire extended along our whole front, while far
over, to our left came the distant roar of cannon and musketry.
"They are having a hot time over there," said Dick, "but why don't
these fellows charge us?"
"They will charge us soon enough," I replied. But it seemed as if they
never would, for what promised to be an attack along our whole line
dwindled down to a mere exchange of shots. Hour after hour went by,
and yet they never advanced beyond a certain point except when a
company or so would dash forward and a sharp skirmish would break
forth for a moment or two, and then die away again. But far over to
our left the sound of the battle came rolling nearer and nearer,
telling the tale of Sullivan's men being driven in.
"I do not like that," said Dick. "They are doing all the fighting,
while we are merely exchanging courtesies with our friends six hundred
yards away. Hello! There comes news."
I looked behind us to a small hill, where Lord Stirling stood with his
staff, and saw Tench Tilghman riding up at full speed. There was a
hurried movement among the staff, and Stirling's glasses swept the
country to our left and rear. A moment later an order was given and
the aides came dashing down our lines, and then, to our disgust, came
the order to retire.
"Retreat!" cried one of the men. "Why, we haven't begun to fight
yet!"
"Steady, men," cried Captain Ramsay; "you form the rear guard and must
hold the enemy in check," for they were beginning to advance as the
regiments on each side of us withdrew. Then we began slowly to
withdraw, but there came an aide riding swiftly to Major Gist.
Pennsylvania and Delaware regiments took our place in the rear, and we
were marched rapidly to the front. The heavy woods had heretofore
prevented our seeing what was taking place, but now that we had come
out to the opening a wild scene of terror and dismay lay before us.
Gowanus Creek, deep and unfordable, with its sullen tide rising fast,
lay like a great ugly serpent across our path, while over the meadow
and far in our front the broken streams of fugitives were swarming,
flying toward the bridge at the mill, the only hope of crossing
Gowanus Creek. And as I looked, to my horror, the mill and the bridge
burst into flames, catching the routed army as it were between the
rising tide and the advancing legions of the victorious English. Then,
as we watched it, a rumour grew and spread through the ranks, as such
things will in battle, that a New England Colonel had fired the bridge
to save himself and his regiment. How we cursed New England then, and
swore that if we ever escaped we would have our reckoning with her and
her people.
"There they come!" cried Dick at my side, pointing to where a large
stone house crowned a hill immediately in the rear and commanded the
whole field of the terror-stricken fugitives.
I saw the brilliant scarlet of their coats as they took possession of
the hill and prepared to open fire.
"They will have to be driven from there or we are lost," I answered.
Then, as the prospect looked the darkest and the long line of the
British formed to make their last advance, Lord Stirling rode up to
our line.
"Men of Maryland!" he shouted, "charge that hill, hold Cornwallis in
check and save the army!"
We answered with a yell, as he sprang from his horse to lead us.
Ah, I shall never forget the pride with which we stepped out of the
mass of flying fugitives, four hundred Marylanders, the greatest
dandies and bluest blood in all the army, for this, the proudest
service of the day. We formed for the charge as if on the drill
ground; our evolutions and lines were perfect, and would have done
credit to the grenadiers of the later empire. Stirling's sword was in
the air, the drums were beating the charge, when there broke from the
throats of our Marylanders the wild, thrilling yell of the southern
provinces, and we leaped to the charge up the long hill, straight into
the face of Cornwallis's army, a handful against thousands. Up, up the
hill we dashed. A fire as of hell broke upon us and rattled and roared
about our ears, thinning our ranks and strewing our pathway with the
dead. Men fell to the right and to the left of me, and I strode across
the bodies of the slain in my path; but still, over the roar of the
cannon and the rattle of musketry, high and shrill rose the yell of
the charging line. We swept up the hill, the crest was gained, and the
British fell back before us, when we were met by a sheet of flame, a
storm of lead and smoke and fire. We were raised as it were in the air
and held there gasping for breath, and then we were swept back down
the hill, struggling desperately to gain a foothold to make a stand.
Again we saw Stirling glance over the meadow and the marsh behind us
as we re-formed our line. His voice came ringing down our ranks.
"Once again, men of Maryland."
Once again! Aye, we knew how to answer that call, for the bodies of
our comrades lay dotting the long hillside.
"Once again, and charge home!" cried Ramsay.
We sprang to the charge, and wilder, shriller, fiercer, more terrible,
rose the yell--the yell of vengeance that seemed to pick the line up
bodily and hurl it up the hill through the scorching, blistering storm
and hail of lead, fire, and smoke. I remembered naught till the crest
was gained, and Edward Veasey crying, "Charge home! Charge home!" and
we dashed in upon the scarlet line. Ah me, for a moment, then it was
glorious, as steel met steel, and we drove them, ten times our
number, back, and rolled them up against the house and forced them off
the plain. And then our hands were on the ugly muzzles of the guns,
and Edward Veasey, springing on the carriage, cheered on his men. But
ere it had died on his lips, so desperate was the struggle, the
English Captain of the guns fired, and Veasey fell. I was but a dozen
steps away, and, seeing Veasey fall, I dashed through the press of
bayonets to where the English Captain fought.
"Another one!" he cried, as we met face to face.
"Yes, and the last;" and our swords met.
"No time for that!" cried a voice at my side; then there was a flash,
and the Englishman fell back into the arms of his men, and the guns
were won for an instant. But only for an instant. Our men melted away
under the storm of lead from the Cortelyou house, and the weight of
the advancing regiments forced us back to the crest of the hill. Then
slowly, step by step, down the hill they forced us, until we rested
once more at its foot.
But still the meadow, the marsh, and the creek were black with the
mass of flying men seeking eagerly, desperately to escape, while
between them and the victorious British stretched the ranks of the
Maryland Line, now sadly thinned, for one-third of our men were dyeing
the long dank grass with their blood. But that line, thin as it was,
closed up the wide gaps in the ranks with as jaunty a step and as
gallant a carriage as when they first stepped out for the charge.
Their faces looked grim, it is true, for with the smoke and the fire,
and the blood and the dust, the genius of battle had sketched
thereon.
For a few minutes we rested at the foot of the hill, for we knew that
our work was not half done, and until the last fugitive was over
Gowanus Creek we must check the British advance. A glance from Lord
Stirling told us to charge, as he pointed up the long hill with his
sword.
Again there came the answering yell, the requiem for many a gallant
soul, and the line once more swung forward to breast the hill. Up the
long hill we toiled again, straight into the teeth of the fire.
Again we gained the crest and fought them, man to man; again by weight
of numbers they forced us off the crest, and sent us staggering,
reeling down the hill, desperate now.
Yet again Lord Stirling called on us to follow, and yet again we
charged them home.
Men lay wounded, men lay dying, all across the long hillside, and
more than half our number were dead or sorely stricken.
Yet it was for a fifth time that Stirling's voice rang clear, over the
roar of the battle, and for the fifth time we picked up the gauge of
their challenge, and swept forward in the charge.
Thus for the last time we reached the crest, and for one heroic moment
held our own, and then came reeling back from the shock. And, as I was
carried down the hill with the retreating line, I saw the tall figure
of Lord Stirling standing upright and alone amid the storm of bullets,
courting death and disdaining to retreat.
"To the rescue of Lord Stirling," I cried to the few soldiers who were
around me. Dick, who was near, echoed my shout, and we dashed forward,
determined to bring him off by force if no other way could be found.
But we had not advanced a dozen yards before every man that was with
us had fallen and only Dick and I reached Lord Stirling, who was
calmly awaiting the end.
"The day is lost, my lord," I cried, "but we have yet time to save
you."
"Save yourselves, lads," he replied; "you have done everything that
men can do, but it remains for me either to die or surrender."
"My lord," I cried; but at this moment Dick reeled. "Struck, by
George!" he exclaimed, and I caught him as he fell.
"See to your comrade," said Lord Stirling; "you have yet time to
escape."
So, throwing Dick's arms around my neck, for there was no time to
parley under that rain of lead, I bore him quickly down the hill.
But our work had not been in vain, for as a soldier came to my
assistance I saw that the last of the fugitives had reached the other
side, and the army for the moment was saved.
And so, when we reached the banks of Gowanus Creek, we formed in line
once more and gave a parting yell of defiance; then, turning, we
plunged into the creek and swam to the other side, while the shot and
grape from the English on the hill tore across the whole surface of
the water.
Dick was badly wounded, but, with the soldier's assistance, I swam
with him across the creek and bore him safely out of the range of the
fire.
Ah, it was but a shadow of our former line when we formed once more,
but the great General himself came to thank us, and that shadow of a
line was worth a thousand men.
Thereafter we claimed as our own the post of honour in advance or in
retreat; during the famous march on the night after the battle, and
in the retreat to White Plains, we formed the rear guard, and the army
felt secure.
There came a breathing time one day during the retreat, and the
General rode up to our lines. We greeted him with the yell he loved to
hear, for it brought back to him the Southland and the hunting fields
of Old Virginia.
Then he told our officers that he wanted us to pick out the youngest
of our line to carry a special despatch to the Committee of Public
Safety, sitting at Annapolis, announcing the battle and the famous
part we had taken therein. The choice fell on me, as poor Dick was
groaning in the hospital, but luckily out of danger from his wound.
"Well, my boy, how old are you?" said the General, smiling down upon
me, as I saluted.
"Eighteen, General."
"Do you think you can carry this safely?"
"I was in the charge at Gowanus Ford, General," said I modestly.
"I see," laughed the General, "you are a true Marylander. I wish I had
more of you in the army."