THE CONTINENTAL DRAGOON.
The Peytons of Virginia were descended from a younger son of the
Peytons of Pelham, England, of which family was Sir Edward Peyton, of
Pelham, knight and baronet. Sir Edward's relative, the first American
Peyton, settled in Westmoreland County. Within one generation the
family had spread to Stafford County, and within another to Loudoun
County also. Thus it befell that there was a Mr. Craven Peyton, of
Loudoun County, justice of the peace, vestryman, and chief warden of
Shelburne Parish. He was the father of nine sons and two daughters.
One of the sons was Harry.
This Harry grew up longing to be a soldier. Military glory was his
ambition, as it had been Washington's; but not as a mere provincial
would he be satisfied to excel. He would have a place as a regular
officer, in an army of the first importance, on the fields of Europe.
Before the Revolution, Americans were, like all colonials, very loyal
to their English King. Therefore would Harry Peyton be content with
naught less than a King's commission in the King's army.
His father, glad to be guided in choosing a future for one of so many
sons, sent Harry to London in 1770, to see something of life, and so
managed matters, through his English relations, that the boy was in
1772, at the age of nineteen, the possessor, by purchase, of an
ensign's commission. He was soon sent to do garrison duty in Ireland,
being enrolled with the Sixty-third Regiment of Foot.
He had lived gaily enough during his two years in London, occupying
lodgings, being patronized by his relations, seeing enough of society,
card-tables, drums, routs, plays, prize-fights, and other diversions.
He had made visits in the country and showed what he had learned in
Virginia about cock-fighting, fox-hunting and shooting, and had taken
lessons from London fencing-masters. A young gentleman from Virginia,
if well off and "well connected," could have a fine time in London in
those days; and Harry Peyton had it.
But he could never forget that he was a colonial. If he were
treated by his English associates as an equal, or even at times
with a particular consideration, there was always a kind of
implication that he was an exception among colonials. Other
colonial youths were similarly treated, and some of these were glad
to be held as exceptions, and even joined in the derision of the
colonials who were not. For these Harry Peyton had a mighty disgust
and detestation. He did not enjoy receiving as Harry Peyton a
tolerance and kindness that would have been denied him as merely an
American. And he sometimes could not avoid seeing that, even as
Harry Peyton, he was regarded as compensating, by certain attractive
qualities in the nature of amiability and sincerity, for occasional
exhibitions of what the English rated as social impropriety and
bad taste. Often, at the English lofty derision of colonials, at
the English air of self-evident superiority, the English pretence of
politely concealed shock or pain or offence at some infringement of a
purely superficial conduct-code of their own arbitrary fabrication,
he ground his teeth in silence; for in one respect, he had as good
manners as the English had then, or have now,--when in Rome he did
not resent or deride what the Romans did. He began to think that the
lot of a self-respecting American among the English, even if he
were himself made an exception of and well dealt with, was not the
most enviable one. And, after he joined the army, he thought this
more and more every day. But he would show them what a colonial
could rise to! Yet that would prove nothing for his countrymen, as
he would always, on his meritorious side, be deemed an exception.
His military ambition, however, predominated, and he had no thought of
leaving the King's service.
The disagreement between the King and the American Colonies grew,
from "a cloud no bigger than a man's hand," to something larger.
But Harry heard little of it, and that entirely from the English
point of view. He received but three or four letters a year from
his own people, and the time had not come for his own people to write
much more than bare facts. They were chary of opinions. Harry
supposed that the new discontent in the Colonies, after the repeal of
the Stamp Act and the withdrawal of the two regiments from Boston
Town to Castle William, was but that of the perpetually restless,
the habitual fomenters, the notoriety-seeking agitators, the mob,
whose circumstances could not be made worse and might be improved by
disturbances. Now the Americans, from being a subject of no
interest to English people, a subject discussed only when some rare
circumstance brought it up, became more talked of. Sometimes, when
Americans were blamed for opposing taxes to support soldiery used
for their own protection, Harry said that the Americans could protect
themselves; that the English, in wresting Canada from the French,
had sought rather English prestige and dominion than security for the
colonials; that the flourishing of the Colonies was despite English
neglect, not because of English fostering; that if the English had
solicitude for America, it was for America as a market for their own
trade. Thereupon his fellow officers would either laugh him out,
as if he were too ignorant to be argued with, or freeze him out,
as if he had committed some grave outrage on decorum. And Harry would
rage inwardly, comparing his own ignorance and indecorousness with the
knowledge and courtesy exemplified in the assertion of Doctor Johnson,
when that great but narrow Englishman said, in 1769, of Americans,
"Sir, they are a race of convicts, and ought to be thankful for
anything we allow them short of hanging."
There came to Harry, now and then, scraps of vague talk of uneasiness
in Boston Town, whose port the British Parliament had closed, to
punish the Yankees for riotously destroying tea on which there was a
tax; of the concentration there of British troops from Halifax,
Quebec, New York, the Jerseys, and other North American posts. But
there was not, in Harry's little world of Irish garrison life, the
slightest expectation of actual rebellion or even of a momentous local
tumult in the American Colonies.
Imagine, therefore, his feelings when, one morning late in March in
1775, he was told that, within a month's time, the Sixty-third, and
other regiments, would embark at Cork for either Boston or New York!
There could not be a new French or Spanish invasion. As for the
Indians, never again would British regulars be sent against them. Was
it, then, Harry's own countrymen that his regiment was going to
fight?
His comrades inferred the cause of his long face, and laughed. He
would have no more fighting to do in America against the Americans
than he had to do in Ireland against the Irish, or than an English
officer in an English barrack town had to do against the English. The
reinforcements were being sent only to overawe the lawless element.
The mere sight of these reinforcements would obviate any occasion for
their use. The regiment would merely do garrison duty in America
instead of in Ireland or elsewhere.
He had none to advise or enlighten him. What was there for him to do
but sail with his regiment, awaiting disclosures or occurrences to
guide? What misgivings he had, he kept to himself, though once on the
voyage, as he looked from the rocking transport towards the west, he
confided to Lieutenant Dalrymple his opinion that 'twas damned bad
luck sent _his_ regiment to America, of all places.
When he landed in Boston, June 12th, he found, as he had expected,
that the town was full of soldiers, encamped on the common and
quartered elsewhere; but also, as he had not expected, that the troops
were virtually confined to the town, which was fortified at the Neck;
that the last time they had marched into the country, through
Lexington to Concord, they had marched back again at a much faster
gait, and left many score dead and wounded on the way; and that a host
of New Englanders in arms were surrounding Boston! The news of April
19th had not reached Europe until after Harry had sailed, nor had it
met his regiment on the ocean. When he heard it now, he could only
become more grave and uneasy. But the British officers were scornful
of their clodhopper besiegers. In due time this rabble should be
scattered like chaff. But was it a mere rabble? Certainly. Were not
the best people in Boston loyal to the King's government? Some of
them, yes. But, as Harry went around with open eyes and ears, eager
for information, he found that many of them were with the "rabble."
News was easy to be had. The citizens were allowed to pass the barrier
on the Neck, if they did not carry arms or ammunition, and there was
no strict discipline in the camp of New Englanders. Therefore Harry
soon learned how Doctor Warren stood, and the Adamses, and Mr. John
Hancock; and that a Congress, representing all the Colonies, was now
sitting at Philadelphia, for the second time; and that in the Congress
his own Virginia was served by such gentlemen as Mr. Richard Henry
Lee, Mr. Patrick Henry, Mr. Thomas Jefferson, and Colonel Washington.
And the Virginians had shown as ready and firm a mind for revolt
against the King's measures as the New Englanders had. Here, for once,
the sympathies of trading Puritan and fox-hunting Virginian were one.
Moreover, a Yankee was a fellow American, and, after five years of
contact with English self-esteem, Harry warmed at the sight of a New
Englander as he never would have done before he had left Virginia.
But it did not conduce to peace of mind, in his case, to be convinced
that the colonial remonstrance was neither local nor of the rabble.
The more general and respectable it was, the more embarrassing was his
own situation. Would it really come to war? With ill-concealed
anxiety, he sought the opinion of this person and that.
On the fourth day after his arrival, he went into a tavern in King
Street with Lieutenant Massay, of the Thirty-fifth, Ensign Charleton,
of the Fifth, and another young officer, and, while they were
drinking, heard a loyalist tell what one Parker, leader of the
Lexington rebels, said to his men on Lexington Common, on the morning
of April 19th, when the King's troops came in sight.
"'Stand your ground,' says he. 'Don't fire till you're fired on, but
if they mean to have a war, let it begin here!'"
"And it began there!" said Harry.
The English officers stared at him, and laughed.
"Ay, 'twas the Yankee idea of war," said one of them. "Run for a stone
wall, and, when the enemy's back is turned, blaze away. I'd like to
see a million of the clodhoppers compelled to stand up and face a line
of grenadiers."
"Ay, gimme ten companies of grenadiers," cried one, who had doubtless
heard of General Gage's celebrated boast, "and I'll go from one end of
the damned country to the other, and drive 'em to their holes like
foxes. Only 'tis better sport chasing handsome foxes in England than
ill-dressed poltroons in Bumpkin-land."
"They're not all poltroons," said Harry, repressing his feelings the
more easily through long practice. "Some of them fought in the French
war. There's Putnam, and Pomeroy, and Ward. I heard Lieutenant-Colonel
Abercrombie, of the Twenty-second, say yesterday that Putnam--"
"Cowards every one of 'em," broke in another. "Cowards and louts. A
lady told me t'other day there ain't in all America a man whose coat
sets in close at the back, except he's of the loyal party. Cowards and
louts!"
"Look here, damn you!" cried Peyton. "I want you to know I'm American
born, and my people are American, and I don't know whether they are of
the loyal party or not!"
"Oh, now, that's the worst of you Americans,--always will get
personal! Of course, there are exceptions."
"Then there are exceptions enough to make a rule themselves," said
Harry. "I'm tired hearing you call these people cowards before you've
had a chance to see what they are. And you needn't wait for that, for
I can tell you now they're not!"
"Well, well, perhaps not,--to you. Doubtless they're very dreadful,--to
you. You don't seem to relish facing 'em, that's a fact! You'll be
resigning your commission one o' these days, I dare say, if it comes to
blows with these terrible heroes!"
Harry saw everybody in the room looking at him with a grin.
"By the Lord," said he, "maybe I shall!" and stalked hotly out of the
place.
His wrath increased as he walked. He noticed now, more than before,
the confident, arrogant air of the redcoats who promenaded the
streets; how they leered at the women, and made the citizens who
passed turn out of the way. Forthwith, he went to his quarters, and
wrote his resignation.
When the ink was dry he folded up the document and put it in the
pocket of his uniform coat. Then that last tavern speech recurred to
him. "If I resign now," he thought, "they'll suppose it's because I
really am afraid of fighting, not because the rebels are my
countrymen." So he lapsed into a state of indecision,--a state
resembling apathy, a half-dazed condition, a semi-somnolent waiting
for events. But he kept his letter of resignation in his coat.
At dawn the next morning, Saturday, June 17th, he was awakened by the
booming of guns. He was soon up and out. It was a beautiful day.
People were on the eminences and roofs, looking northward, across the
mouth of the Charles, towards Charlestown and the hill beyond. On that
hill were seen rough earthworks, six feet high, which had not been
there the day before. The booming guns were those of the British
man-of-war _Lively_, firing from the river at the new earthworks.
Hence the earthworks were the doing of the rebels, having been raised
during the night. Presently the _Lively_ ceased its fire, but soon
there was more booming, this time not only from the men-of-war, but
also from the battery on Copp's Hill in Boston. After awhile Harry
saw, from where he stood with many others on Beacon Hill, some of the
rebels emerge from one part of the earthworks, as if to go away. One
of these was knocked over by a cannon-ball. His comrades dragged his
body behind the earthen wall. By and by a tall, strong-looking man
appeared on top of the parapet, and walked leisurely along, apparently
giving directions. Harry heard from a citizen, who had a field-glass,
the words, "Prescott, of Pepperell." Other men were now visible on
the parapet, superintending the workers behind. And now the booming of
the guns was answered by disrespectful cheers from those same unseen
workers.
The morning grew hot. Harry heard that General Gage had called a
council of war at the Province House; that Generals Howe, Clinton,
Burgoyne,[3]--these three having arrived in Boston about three weeks
before Harry had,--Pigott, Grant, and the rest were now there in
consultation. At length there was the half-expected tumult of drum and
bugle; and Harry was summoned to obey, with his comrades, the order to
parade. There was now much noise of officers galloping about, dragoons
riding from their quarters, and rattling of gun-carriages. The booming
from the batteries and vessels increased.
At half-past eleven Harry found himself--for he was scarcely master of
his acts that morning, his will having taken refuge in a kind of
dormancy--on parade with two companies of his regiment, and he noticed
in a dim way that other companies near were from other different
regiments, all being supplied with ammunition, blankets, and
provisions. When the sun was directly overhead and at its hottest, the
order to march was given, and soon he was bearing the colors through
the streets of Boston. The roar of the cannon now became deafening.
Harry knew not whether the rebels were returning it from their hill
works across the water or not. In time the troops reached the wharf.
Barges were in waiting, and field-pieces were being moved into some of
them. He could see now that all the firing was from the King's vessels
and batteries. Mechanically he followed Lieutenant Dalrymple into a
barge, which soon filled up with troops. The other barges were
speedily brilliant with scarlet coats and glistening bayonets. Not far
away the river was covered with smoke, through which flashed the fire
of the belching artillery. A blue flag was waved from General Howe's
barge, and the fleet moved across the river towards the hill where the
rebels waited silently behind their piles of earth.
At one o'clock, Harry followed Lieutenant Dalrymple out of the barge
to the northern shore of the river, at a point northeast of
Charlestown village and east of the Yankees' hill. There was no
molestation from the rebels. The firing from the vessels and batteries
protected the hillside and shore. The troops were promptly formed in
three lines. Harry's place was in the left of the front line. Then
there was long waiting. The barges went back to the Boston side. Was
General Howe, who had command of the movements, sending for more
troops? Many of the soldiers ate of their stock of provisions. Harry,
in a kind of dream, looked westward up the hill towards the silent
Yankee redoubt. It faced south, west, and east. The line of its
eastern side was continued northward by a breastwork, and still beyond
this, down the northern hillside to another river, ran a straggling
rail fence, which was thatched with fresh-cut hay. What were the men
doing behind those defences? What were they saying and thinking?
The barges came back across the Charles from Boston, with more
troops, but these were disembarked some distance southwest, nearer
Charlestown. General Howe now made a short speech to the troops
first landed. Then some flank guards were sent out and some cannon
wheeled forward. The companies of the front line, with one of which
was Harry, were now ordered to form into files and move straight
ahead. They were to constitute the right wing of the attacking
force, and to be led by General Howe himself. The four regiments
composing the two rear lines moved forward and leftward, to form, with
the troops newly landed, the left wing, which was to be under General
Pigott. The cannonading from the river and from Boston continued.
The companies with which was Harry advanced slowly, having to pass
through high grass, over stone fences, under a roasting sun. These
companies were moving towards the hay-thatched rail fence that
straggled down the hillside from the breastwork north of the redoubt.
Harry had a vague sense that the left wing was ascending the
southeastern side of the hill, towards the redoubt, at the same time.
His eye caught the view at either side. Long files of scarlet coats,
steel bayonets, grenadiers' tall caps. He looked ahead. The stretch of
green, grassy hillside, the hay-covered rail fence looking like a
hedge-row, the rude breastwork, the blue sky. Suddenly there came from
the rail fence the belching of field-pieces. Two grenadiers fell at
the right of Harry. One moaned, the other was silent. Harry, shocked
into a sense that war was begun between his King and his people,
instantly resolved to strike no blow that day against his people. But
this was no time for leaving the ranks. Mechanically he marched on.
Heads appeared over the fence-rail, guns were rested on it, and there
came from it some irregular flashes of musketry. Then Harry saw a man
moving his head and arms, as if shouting and gesticulating. The musket
flashes ceased. Harry did not know it then, but the man was Putnam,
and he was commanding the Yankees to reserve their fire. The British
files were now ordered to deploy into line, and fire. They did so as
they advanced, firing in machine-like unison, as if on parade, but
aiming high. Nearer and nearer, as Harry went forward, rose the fence
ahead and the breastwork on the hill towards the left. Why did not the
Yankees fire? Were they, indeed, paralyzed with fear at sight of the
lines of the King's grenadiers?
All at once blazed forth the answer,--such a volley of musketry, at
close range, as British grenadiers had not faced before. Down went
officers and men, in twos and threes and rows. Great gaps were cut in
the scarlet lines. The broken columns returned the volley, but there
came another. Harry found himself in the midst of quivering, writhing,
yelling death. The British who were left,--startled, amazed,--turned
and fled. As mechanically as he had come up, did Harry go back in the
common movement. General Howe showed astonishment. The left wing, too,
had been hurled back, down the hill, by death-dealing volleys. The
rabble had held their rude works against the King's choice troops.
Never had as many officers been killed or wounded in a single charge.
There had not been such mowing down at Fontenoy or Montmorenci. These
unmilitary Yankees actually aimed when they fired, each at some
particular mark! Harry had heard them cheering, and had thought they
were about to pursue the King's troops; they had evidently been
ordered back.
The troops re-formed by the shore. Orders came for another assault.
Back again went Harry with the right wing, bearing the colors as
before. He had secretly an exquisite heart-quickening elation at the
success of his countrymen. If they should win the day, and hold this
hill, and drive the King's troops from Boston! He knew, at last, on
which side his heart was.
There was more play of artillery during this second charge. Harry
could see, too, that the village of Charlestown was on fire, sending
flames, sparks, and smoke far towards the sky. It was not as easy to
go to the charge this time, there were so many dead bodies in the way.
But the soldiers stepped over them, and maintained the straightness of
their lines. Again it seemed as if the rebels would never fire. Again,
when the King's troops were but a few rods from them, came that
flaming, low-aimed discharge. But the troops marched on, in the face
of it, till the very officers who urged them forward fell before it;
then they wavered, turned, and ran. Harry's joy, as he went with them,
increased, and his hopes mounted. The left wing, too, had been thrown
back a second time.
There was a long wait, and the generals were seen consulting. At last
a third charge was ordered. This time the greater part of the right
wing was led up the hill against the breastwork. With this part was
Harry. One more volley from the rebel defences met the King's troops.
They wavered slightly, then sprang forward, ready for another. But
another came not. The rebels' ammunition was giving out. Harry's
heart fell. The British forced the breastwork, carrying him along. He
found himself at the northern end of the redoubt. Some privates lifted
him to the parapet; he and a sergeant mounted at the same time, and
leaped together into the redoubt. They saw Lieutenant Richardson, of
the Royal Irish Regiment, appear on the southern parapet, give a shout
of triumph, and fall dead from a Yankee musket-ball. A whole rank that
followed him was served likewise, but others surged over the parapet
in their places. The rebels were defending mainly the southern
parapet. Many were retreating by the rear passageway. Harry saw that
the King's troops had won the redoubt. He took his resolution. He
threw the colors to the sergeant, pulled off his coat, handed it to
the same sergeant, shouting into the man's ear, "Give it to the
colonel, with the letter in the pocket;" picked up a dead man's
musket, and ran to the aid of a tall, powerful rebel who was parrying
with a sword the bayonets of three British privates. The tramp of the
retreating rebels, invading British, and hand-to-hand fighters raised
a blinding dust. Harry and the tall American, gaining a breathing
moment, strode together with long steps, guarding their flank and
rear, to the passageway and out of it; and then fought their course
between two divisions of British, which had turned the outer corners
of the redoubt. There was no firing here, so closely mingled were
British and rebels, the former too exhausted to use forcibly their
bayonets. So Harry retreated, beside the tall man, with the rebels. A
British cheer behind him told the result of the day; but Harry cared
little. His mind was at ease; he was on the right side at last.
[Illustration: "'GIVE IT TO THE COLONEL.'"]
Thus did young Mr. Peyton serve on both sides in the same battle,
being with each in the time of its defeat, striking no blow against
his country, yet deserting not the King's army till the moment of its
victory. His act was indeed desertion, desertion to the enemy, and in
time of action; for, though his resignation was written, it was not
only unaccepted, but even undelivered. Thus did he render himself
liable, under the laws of war, to an ignominious death should he ever
fall into the hands of the King's troops.
During the flight to Cambridge, Harry was separated from the tall man
with whom he had come from the redoubt, but soon saw him again, this
time directing the retreat, and learned that he was Colonel Prescott,
of Pepperell. Some of the rebels discussed Harry freely in his own
hearing, inferring from his attire that he was of the British, and
wondering why he was not a prisoner. Harry asked to be taken to the
commander, and at Cambridge a coatless, bare-headed captain led him
to General Ward, of the Massachusetts force. That veteran militiaman
heard his story, gave it credit, and, with no thought that he might be
a spy, invited him to remain at the camp as a volunteer. Harry
obtained a suit of blue clothes, and quartered in one of the Harvard
College buildings. In a few days news came that the Congress at
Philadelphia had resolved to organize a Continental army, of which the
New England force at Cambridge was to be the present nucleus; that a
general-in-chief would soon arrive to take command, and that the
general-in-chief appointed was a Virginian,--Colonel Washington. Harry
was jubilant.
Early in July the new general arrived, and Harry paid his respects to
him in the house of the college president. General Washington advised
the boy to send another letter of resignation, then to go home and
join the troops that his own State would soon be raising. On hearing
Harry's story, Washington had given a momentary smile and a look at
Major-General Charles Lee, who had but recently published his
resignation of his half-pay as a retired British officer, and who did
not know yet whether that resignation would be accepted or himself
considered a deserter.
Peyton sent a new letter of resignation to Boston, then procured a
horse, and started to ride to Virginia. Six days later he was in New
York. In a coffee-house where he was dining, he struck up an
acquaintance with three young gentlemen of the city, and told his name
and story. One of the three--a dark-eyed man--thereupon changed manner
and said he had no time for a rascally turncoat. Harry, in hot
resentment, replied that he would teach a damned Tory some manners. So
the four went out of the town to Nicholas Bayard's woods, where, after
a few passes with rapiers, the dark-eyed gentleman was disarmed, and
admitted, with no good grace, that Harry was the better fencer. Harry
left New York that afternoon, having learned that his antagonist was
Mr. John Colden, son of the postmaster of New York. His grandfather
had been lieutenant-governor.
Harry had for some time thought he would prefer the cavalry, and
he was determined, if possible, to gratify that preference in
entering the military service of his own country. On arriving home
he found his people strongly sympathizing with the revolt. But it was
not until June, 1776, that Virginia raised a troop of horse. On the
18th of that month Harry was commissioned a cornet thereof. After
some service he found himself, March 31, 1777, cornet in the First
Continental Dragoons. The next fall, in a skirmish after the battle
of Brandywine, he was recognized by British officers as the former
ensign of the Sixty-third. In the following spring, thanks to his
activity during the British occupation of Philadelphia, he was made
captain-lieutenant in Harry Lee's battalion of light dragoons. After
the battle of Monmouth he was promoted, July 2, 1778, to the rank of
captain. In the early fall of that year he was busy in partisan
warfare between the lines of the two armies.
And thus it came that he was pursuing a troop of Hessians down the New
York and Albany post-road on a certain cold November evening. Eager on
the chase, he was resolved to come up with them if it could be, though
he should have to ride within gunshot of King's Bridge itself.
Suddenly his horse gave out. He had the saddle taken from the dead
animal and given to one of his men to bear while he himself mounted in
front of a sergeant, for he was loath to spare a man. Approaching
Philipse Manor-house, the party saw a boy leading horses into a
stable. Captain Peyton ordered some of his men to patrol the road, and
with the rest he went on to the manor-house lawn.
Here he gave further directions, dismounted, knocked at the door, and
was admitted to the hall where were Miss Elizabeth Philipse, Major
Colden, Miss Sally Williams, and old Matthias Valentine; and, on
Elizabeth's demand, announced his name and rank.