THE RETURN OF THE TORY
As I turned to ride away, after bidding good-bye to the Captain, I
heard a voice calling me, and looking up, I saw Mistress Nancy at a
window, and riding under it she commanded me to convey to Master
Richard a tiny case wrapped in many papers.
"And now, sir," said she, "here is something for you;" and she threw
me a little case, which, on opening quickly, I saw contained a
miniature of a fair young girl, with a wealth of dark brown hair, the
loveliest eyes and the sweetest face.
"Mistress Nancy," I cried, "you are my guardian angel." Placing the
miniature over my heart, I threw her a kiss, and rode on my way
rejoicing.
I rode from Chestertown to Fairlee, where I bade my mother good-bye,
and from there I took up the trail to the North, riding into camp one
evening just as the sun was setting.
I reported immediately to the great General, who thanked me for the
speed with which I had carried the despatches and returned. And then I
was once more among my old comrades of the Line.
They crowded around me, one and all, for I had messages for many of
them, and they were eager for the news of old Kent and the shore, and
my welcome was right royal.
And now, for a month or so, disasters came crowding upon our arms;
defeat and death stalked through our ranks, and cast a gloom over the
cause.
We fought the fight at White Plains, and when Fort Washington fell
many of our Maryland boys went to the hulks of old Jersey to find a
last resting-place under the cold gray waters of Wallabout Bay. Amid
constant marching, skirmishes, and defeats the months slipped away,
and the cold gloomy winter was upon us. Ah, how cold and bleak and
barren the hillsides looked after the smiling fields of Maryland,
touched and warmed by the Southern sun! And then the cold, the bitter
cold of it all, the white winding sheet of the snow and the ice made
us shiver and hug the fire of dry fence-rails and button our
threadbare coats more tightly around us, while we looked in despair at
the toes peeping through the ends of our boots. But the great General
knew how to warm the blood in our veins and drive the despair from our
hearts, when on that bitterly cold Christmas night he led us across
the Delaware and hurled us against the Hessians.
It is true that we left a trail of blood as we marched, dyeing the
snow with its crimson. Yet the fight itself was glorious, and when we
came back in our triumph the cold and the snow were as nothing. We
made sport of our rags and tatters and laughed the English to scorn.
Then again when we struck them at Princeton seven days later, threw
the dust in Cornwallis's eyes, and played with him as we willed, we
were ready to follow our leader wherever he pointed the way.
And so, after humbling the English, we returned to our camp for the
winter, and there made ready for the spring, when we saw my Lord
Cornwallis back on the Hudson again.
Then we lay in Jersey, watching them over in New York, until far into
the summer, ready to take up the march when the news should come of
the destination of the English fleet that lay off Sandy Hook.
At last one day there came a horseman spurring fast from the
southward, bearing the news of a vast fleet that covered the waves of
the Chesapeake and lay at that moment off the harbor of Baltimore,
threatening it with fire and sword.
Then there was a mighty bustle in the camp, and we whose homes were
now in danger took up the march to the southward, eager to meet the
foe.
When we reached Philadelphia we found that the enemy had entered the
Elk, and was now marching on the city, while the hastily called
Maryland and Delaware volunteers threw themselves in the way, cutting
off straggling parties and obstructing the advance.
So we hurried on to assist them, and found ourselves on the evening of
the 10th of September at the Brandywine, with the English advance but
a few miles away.
It was here that I met with one of the volunteers, who on hearing the
English were in the Chesapeake had taken his rifle from the rack and
joined in the defence. He came from lower Kent, but told me of the
devastation all through the county of Cecil, wherever the enemy had
laid its blighting hand.
"They tell me," he said, "that the old Tory, Charles Gordon, whom they
ran out of Cecil, is with Lord Howe, and high in his counsels. When
they arrived in the Elk, Gordon, with a body of troops, marched all
night and attacked the house of James Rodolph at dawn. Rodolph was
away from home, and that is the only thing that saved him, for they
say that Gordon swore that he would hang him if he once caught him. As
it was, he gave Rodolph's house to the flames, and burned everything
on the place. 'An eye for an eye,' said he, 'is a Highland saying as
well as a Jewish one. I regret that I cannot destroy the land as
well.' Rodolph, when he heard of it, stormed and swore, but he has not
dared to venture within the confines of Cecil since."
"Did Gordon do anything else?" I asked.
"No. After he burnt Rodolph out he tried to stop Lord Howe from
pillaging, but his lordship answered, 'You have had your turn, and now
you must let the others have theirs,' and so the pillaging went on."
But the planters and the yeomen who had risen at the first alarm hung
on the flanks of Lord Howe's army, cutting off stragglers and
scouting-parties, and confining the belt of desolation within narrow
lines.
At last came the 11th of September, the day when we met Lord Howe at
the Brandywine, and were sent reeling back in disorderly retreat, when
by a skilful march they outflanked our right wing and rolled it up.
And then disaster followed disaster. Paoli came, that grim and bloody
surprise at the dead of night. We had marched with Wayne and gained
the rear of the British column, and lay for the night in a dense wood,
waiting for the recruits under Smallwood, who was marching to join us,
before we began our attack on the British rear.
It was in the early hours of the morning, the blackest of the night,
the hour before the dawn, when there came sudden shots from our
pickets, and before we could spring to arms the Highland war-cry rang
through the forest and the Black Watch swept over us. The wild forms
of the Highlanders, the intense darkness, the surprise, the din and
noise of the strife as those who could grasp their muskets made a
desperate stand, struck terror through the camp, and ere the men could
rally we were swept into the woods beyond. It seemed to me, as I was
borne along in the press, I heard, high over the charging cry of the
Scots, the voice of the old Tory cheering his men on. Certain it is
that I saw him for a moment by the light of a camp-fire, sword in
hand, urging on his wild Scots, who seemed to grow wilder under his
leadership, as our line melted away before their advance.
Ah! but it was grim and terrible. Our men, overcome by the surprise
and the rout, carried terror into the camp of Smallwood's recruits,
which was near at hand, and they, too, gave way.
But the dawn came: with it we gathered our shattered forces together
and marched back to join Washington.
Philadelphia fell, but the tide soon turned; for at Germantown we once
more met them and avenged the surprise at Paoli.
But the thing that thrilled us through and through and set our banners
high was the courage of our brothers of the Line, who, thrown into
Fort Mifflin, held it in the teeth of the enemy's fire until every gun
was dismounted and the fort itself levelled to the earth, leaving
nothing to defend. It was a brave and gallant action, and we envied
them for their good fortune.
We had avenged Paoli at Germantown, yet this added another wreath to
our banner. It was a thing to stir the blood and to set the pulses
bounding to hear how those heroes fought under the crumbling walls of
Mifflin, and prayed for the friendly cover of night to fall to hide
them from that storm of fire and shell, and yet fought on.