burning fevers, of a horrible weakness and weariness, of sleepless
nights racked with pain, to ride his horse. On the fifth he was
compelled to take to a covered wagon. There, on a rough bed, with Billy
holding his burning head, he was jolted along for ten days more, each
day more agonizing than the one before. In that terrible time master and
man seemed to have changed places. It was George who was fretful and
unreasonable and wildly irritable, while Billy, the useless, the lazy,
the incorrigible, nursed him with a patience, a tenderness, a strange
intelligence that amazed all who saw it, and was even dimly felt by
George. The black boy seemed able to do altogether without sleep. At
every hour of the day and night he was awake and alert, ready to do
anything for the poor sufferer. As the days passed on, and George grew
steadily worse, the doctor began to look troubled. In his master's
presence Billy showed no sign of fear, but he would every day follow Dr.
Craik when he left, and ask him, with an ashy face, "Marse doctor, is
Marse George gwi' die?"
"I hope not. He is young and strong, and God is good."
"Ef he die, an' I go home, what I gwin' say when mistis come out and
say, 'Billy, wh'yar yo' Marse George?'" And at that Billy would throw
himself on the ground in a paroxysm of grief that was piteous to see.
The doctor carefully concealed from the soldiers George's real
condition. But after four or five days of agony a change set in, and
within the week George was able to sit up and even to ride a little. The
wagons had kept with the rear division of the army, but George knew that
General Braddock, with twelve hundred picked men, had gone ahead and
must be near Fore Duquesne. On the fourteenth day, in the evening when
the doctor came he found his patient walking about. He was frightfully
thin and pale, but youth and strength and good habits were beginning to
assert themselves. He was getting well.
"Doctor," said he, "this place is about fifteen miles from Fort
Duquesne. I know it well, and from this hour I emancipate myself from
you. This day I shall report for duty."
The next morning, the 9th of July, 1755, dawned beautifully, and the
first long lances of light revealed a splendid sight on the banks of the
Monongahela. On one side flowed the great river in majestic beauty.
Following the shores was a kind of natural esplanade, while a little way
off the rich woods, within which dwelt forever a purple twilight,
overhung this charming open space. And along this open space marched, in
exquisite precision, two thousand of England's crack troops--cavalry,
infantry, and artillery--and a thousand bronzed Virginian soldiery, to
the music of the fife and drum. Often in after-years George Washington
was heard to say that the most beautiful sight his eyes ever rested on
was the sight of Braddock's army at sunrise on that day of blood.
Officers and men were in the highest spirits; they expected within a few
hours to be in sight of Fort Duquesne, where glory, as they thought,
awaited their coming. Even George's apprehensions of the imprudence of
this mode of attack were soothed. He rode by General Braddock's side,
and was by far the most conspicuous figure there for grace and nobility.
His illness seemed to have departed in a night, and he was the same
erect, soldierly form, fairly dwarfing every one contrasted with him. As
the General and his first aide rode together, General Braddock said,
confidently:
"Colonel Washington, in spite of your warning, see how far we have come
upon our way without disaster. The danger of an attack by Indians is now
passed, and we have but to march a few miles more and glory is ours."
Scarcely were the words out of his month when there was one sharp crack
of a gun, followed by a fierce volley, and fifty men dropped in their
tracks. But there was no enemy visible. The shots were like a bolt of
lightning from a clear sky.
"The Indians," said George, in a perfectly composed voice, reining up
his horse.
"I see no Indians," cried General Braddock, excitedly. "There is
disorder in the ranks; have them closed up at once, and march in
double-time. We will soon find the enemy."
But the firing from the invisible foe again broke forth, this time
fiercer and more murderous than before. General Braddock, riding to the
head of the first regiment, which had begun to waver, shouted the order
for them to reform and fire. The veteran troops, as coolly as if on
parade, closed up their ranks and gave a volley, but it was as if fired
in the air. They saw no enemy to fire at. Meanwhile the Virginia troops,
after the first staggering effect of a terrific musketry fire poured
into them by an unseen enemy, suddenly broke ranks, and, each man
running for a tree, took possession of the skirts of the woods. On
seeing this General Braddock galloped up to George.
"Colonel Washington," he cried, violently, "your Virginia troops are
insubordinate! They have scattered through the woods, and I desire them
formed again in column of fours to advance."
"Sir," answered George, in agony, "the ravines are full of Indians--many
hundreds of them. They can slaughter us at their pleasure if we form in
the open. The Virginians know how to fight them."
"You are an inexperienced soldier, sir, and therefore I excuse you. But
look at my English veterans--see how they behave--and I desire the
Virginians to do the same."
At that moment George's horse fell upon his knees, and the next he
rolled over, shot through the heart. The English regiments had closed up
manfully, after receiving several destructive volleys, returning the
fire of their assailants without seeing them and without producing the
smallest effect. But suddenly the spectacle of half their men dead or
wounded on the ground, the galloping about of riderless horses, the
shrieks of agony that filled the air, seemed to unman them. They broke
and ran in every direction. In vain General Braddock rode up to them,
actually riding over them, waving his sword and calling to them to halt.
The men who had faced the legions of Europe were panic-stricken by this
dreadful unseen foe, and fled, only to be shot down in their tracks. To
make it more terrible, the officers were singled out for slaughter, and
out of eighty-six officers in a very little while twenty-six were killed
and thirty-seven wounded. General Braddock himself had his horse shot
under him, and as he rolled on the ground a cry of pain was wrung from
him by two musket-balls that pierced his body. Of his three aides, two
lay weltering in their blood, and George alone was at his side helping
him to rise.
Rash and obstinate as General Braddock might be, he did not lack for
courage, and in that awful time he was determined to fight to the last.
"Get me another horse," he said, with difficulty, to George. "Are you
too wounded?"
"No, General, but I have had two horses shot under me. Here is my third
one. Mount!" And by the exertion of an almost superhuman strength he
raised General Braddock's bulky figure from the ground and placed him in
the saddle.
"I am badly wounded," said General Braddock, as he reeled slightly; "but
I can sit my horse yet. Your Virginians are doing nobly, but they should
form in column."
Besotted to the end, but seeing that the Virginians alone were standing
their ground, General Braddock did not give a positive order, and George
did not feel obliged to obey this murderous mistake. But General
Braddock, after a gasp or two, turned a livid face towards George.
"Colonel Washington, the command is yours. I am more seriously wounded
than I thought." He swayed forward, and but for George would have fallen
from his horse.
[Illustration: GEORGE DID ALL THAT MORTAL MAN COULD DO TO RALLY THE
PANIC-STRICKEN MEN.]
The panic was now at its height. Men, horses, wagons, all piled together
in a terrible mélée, made for the rear; but there, again, they were met
by a hail of bullets. Staggered, they rushed back, only to be again
mowed down by the hidden enemy. The few officers left commanded, begged,
and entreated the men to stand firm; but they, who had faced death upon
a hundred fields, were now so mad with fear that they were incapable of
obedience. George, who had managed to have General Braddock carried to
the rear with the aid of Dr. Craik, had got another horse, and riding
from one end of the bloody field to the other, did all that mortal man
could do to rally the panic-stricken men, but it was in vain. His
clothes were riddled with bullets, but in the midst of the carnage
around him he was unharmed, and rode over the field like the embodied
spirit of battle.
The Virginians alone, cool and determined, fought steadily and sold
their lives dearly, although picked off one by one. At last, after hours
of panic, flight, and slaughter, George succeeded in bringing off the
remnant of the Virginians, and, overtaking the fleeing mob of regular
troops some miles from the scene of the conflict, got them across the
ford of the Monongahela. They were safe from pursuit, for the handful of
Frenchmen could not persuade their Indian allies to leave the plunder of
the battle-field for the pursuit of the enemy. The first thing that
George did was to send immediately for wagons, which had been left
behind, to transport the wounded. General Braddock, still alive but
suffering agonies from his wounds, was carried on horseback, then in a
cart, and at last, the jolting being intolerable, on a litter upon the
shoulders of four sturdy backwoodsmen. But he was marked for death. On
the third day of this terrible retreat, towards sunset, he sank into a
lethargy. George, who had spent every moment possible by his side,
turned to Dr. Craik, who shook his head significantly--there was no
hope. As George dismounted and walked by the side of the litter, the
better to hear any words the dying soldier might utter, General Braddock
roused a little.
"Colonel Washington," he said, in a feeble voice, "I am satisfied with
your conduct. We have had bad fortune--very bad fortune; but"--here his
mind began to wander--"yonder is the smoke rising from the chimneys; we
shall soon be home and at rest. Good-night, Colonel Washington--"
[Illustration: THE BURIAL OF GENERAL BRADDOCK.]
The men with the litter stopped. George, with an over-burdened heart,
watched the last gasp of a rash but brave and honorable soldier, and
presently gently closed his eyes. At daylight the body of General
Braddock, wrapped in his military cloak, was buried under a great
oak-tree in the woods by the side of the highway, and then the mournful
march was resumed.
The news of the disaster had preceded them, and when George, attended
only by Captain Vanbraam and a few of his Virginian officers, rode into
Williamsburg on an August evening, it was with the heaviest heart he had
ever carried in his bosom. But by one of those strange paradoxes ever
existing in the careers of men of destiny, the events that had brought
ruin to others only served to exalt him personally. His gallant conduct
in battle, his miraculous escape, his bringing off the survivors,
especially among the Virginia troops, and the knowledge which had come
about that had his advice been heeded the terrible disaster would not
have taken place--all conspired to make him still more of a popular
hero. Not only his own men adored him, and pointed out that he had saved
all that could be saved on that dreadful day, but the British troops as
well saw that the glory was his, and the return march was one long
ovation to the one officer who came out of the fight with a greater
reputation than when he entered it. Everywhere crowds met him with
acclamations and with tears. The streets of the quaint little town of
Williamsburg were filled with people on this summer evening, who
followed the party of officers, with George at their head, to the
palace. George responded to the shouts for him by bowing gracefully from
side to side.
Arrived at the palace, he dismounted, and just as the sentry at the main
door presented arms to him he saw a party coming out, and they were the
persons he most desired to see in the world and least expected. First
came the Earl of Fairfax with Madam Washington, whom he was about to
hand down the steps and into his coach, which had not yet driven up.
Behind them demurely walked Betty, and behind Betty came Lance, carrying
the mantles of the two ladies.
The Earl and Madam Washington, engaged in earnest conversation, did not
catch sight of George until Betty had rushed forward, and crying out in
rapture, "George, dear George!" they saw the brother and sister clasped
in each other's arms.
Madam Washington stood quite still, dumfounded with joy, until George,
kissing her hand tenderly, made her realize that it was indeed he, her
best beloved, saved from almost universal destruction and standing
before her. She, the calmest, the stateliest of women, trembled, and had
to lean upon him for support; the Earl grasped his hand; Lance was in
waiting. George was as overcome with joy as they were.
"But I must ask at once to see the Governor," said he, after the first
rapture of meeting was over. "You, my lord, must go with me, for I want
friends near me when I tell the story of sorrow and disaster."
Four days afterwards, the House of Burgesses being in session, Colonel
Washington was summoned by the Speaker to read his report of the
campaign before it, and to be formally designated as commander-in-chief
of the forces. The facts were already known, but it was thought well, in
order to arouse the people to the sense of their danger, and to provide
means for carrying on the war in defence of their frontiers, that
Colonel Washington should make a public report, and should publicly
receive the appointment of commander-in-chief of the next expedition.
The House of Burgesses, then as ever proudly insistent of its rights,
had given the Governor to understand that they would give him neither
money nor supplies unless their favorite soldier should have the command
in the next campaign--and, indeed, the attitude of the officers and
soldiery made this absolutely necessary. Even the Governor had realized
this, and, disheartened by the failure of his much-heralded regulars,
was in a submissive mood, and these haughty colonial legislators, of
whose republican principles Governor Dinwiddie already complained much,
took this opportunity to prove that without their co-operation but
little could be done.
The large hall of the House of Burgesses, but dimly lighted by small
diamond-paned windows, was filled with the leading men of the colony,
including Lord Fairfax. Ladies had been admitted to the floor, and among
them sat in majestic beauty Madam Washington, and next to her sat Betty,
palpitating, trembling, blushing, who with proud, bright eyes awaited
the entrance of her "darling George," as she called him, although often
reproved for her extravagance by her mother.
At last George entered this august assembly. His handsome head was
uncovered, showing his fair hair. He wore a glittering uniform, and his
sword, given him by Lord Fairfax, hung at his side. He carried himself
with that splendid and noble air that was always his characteristic,
and, quietly seating himself, awaited the interrogatory of the
president. When this was made he rose respectfully and began to read
from manuscript the sad story of Braddock's campaign. It was brief, but
every sentence thrilled all who heard it. When he said, in describing
the terrible story of the 9th of July, "The officers in general behaved
with incomparable bravery, for which they suffered, upwards of sixty
being killed or wounded," a kind of groan ran through the great
assemblage; and when he added, in a voice shaken with emotion, "The
Virginia companies behaved like men and died like soldiers; for, I
believe, out of three companies on the ground that day scarce thirty men
were left alive," sobs were heard, and many persons, both men and women,
burst into tears.
His report being ended, the president of the House of Burgesses arose
and addressed him:
"Colonel Washington, we have listened to your account of the late
campaign with feelings of the deepest and most poignant sorrow, but
without abandoning in any way our intention to maintain our lawful
frontiers against our enemies. It has been determined to raise sixteen
companies in this colony for offensive and defensive warfare, and by the
appointment of his Excellency the Governor, in deference to the will of
the people and the desire of the soldiers, you are hereby appointed, by
this commission from his Excellency the Governor, which I hold in my
hand, commander-in-chief of all the forces now raised or to be raised by
this colony, reposing special confidence in your patriotism, valor,
conduct, and fidelity. And you are hereby invested with power and
authority to act as you shall think for the good of the service.
"And we hereby strictly charge all officers and soldiers under your
command to be obedient to your orders, and diligent in the exercise of
their several duties.
"And we also enjoin and require you to be careful in executing the great
trust reposed in you, by causing strict discipline and order to be
observed in the army, and that the soldiers be duly exercised and
provided with all necessaries.
"And you are to regulate your conduct in every respect by the rules and
discipline of war, and punctually to observe and follow such orders and
directions as you shall receive from his Excellency the Governor, and
this or other House of Burgesses, or committee of the House of
Burgesses."
A storm of applause broke forth, and George stood silent, trembling and
abashed, with a noble diffidence. He raised one hand in deprecation, and
it was taken to mean that he would speak, and a solemn hush fell upon
the assembly. But in the perfect silence he felt himself unable to utter
a word, or even to lift his eyes from the floor. The president sat in a
listening attitude for a whole minute, then he said:
"Sit down, Colonel Washington. Your modesty is equal to your valor, and
both are above comparison. Your life would not have been spared, as if
by a miracle, had not the all-wise Ruler of the heavens and the earth
designed that you should fulfil your great destiny; and one day, believe
me, you shall be called the prop, the stay, and the glory of your
country."
THE END.
THE SMALL BOY IN WAR.
BY C. E. SEARS.
Much has been recently said and written about the resources of the
nation in the event of war, the fighting capacity of our army and navy,
and the character of recruits who would constitute the new army that
must be speedily organized should a conflict result from present
complications. The valor of the veterans who participated in our civil
war has been often dwelt on, but nowhere have I seen any calculation
based on the intrepidity and wild courage of the small boy--an element
that constitutes a more important factor in every successful campaign
than most people imagine. Literature is full of accounts of the small
boy at school and at play. Humorists have depicted his weaknesses, his
mischievous proclivities, and volunteer poets have made him the victim
of rhyming obituaries. Dickens has painted him in pathetic colors,
Thackeray has alternately satirized and sympathized with him, and Hughes
has described him in his character of friend and fighter. None of his
peculiarities has escaped detection. His disappointments have been
ridiculed, his triumphs belittled; nor have even his sorrows been held
sacred from the rude analysis and heartless ridicule of maturer and more
conceited minds. While asleep the pockets of his little pants have been
invaded, and their curious collections exposed to excite merriment. If
he wears his cap-brim backward, smuts his face with sooty fingers or
marks the progress of the season with fruit stains on his clothes,
whistles from the gallery of the theatre, guys the actors, projects
spiral play-bills on the spectators below, tortures the house cat,
fights chickens in out-of-the-way places, or burglarizes his sister's
safety bank of its pennies, he is condemned and often lashed. And these
are penalties he pays for existence outside of the school-room. His life
there is one of continued anxiety and peril. But this part of his
history has been over and over narrated. My purpose is to give some
account of the small boy on the battle-field--not in the petty conflicts
that occur on the play-ground, but in the fiercer and bloodier clash of
arms, where the very souls of grown men were tried, and where they were
oftener found wanting than the small boy.
After Julius Cæsar had conquered Gaul, Britain, and Egypt, and had even
overcome the great Pompey at Pharsalia, he found a victory over Pompey's
two sons, mere lads, in Spain, a very different enterprise. Encountering
them at the great battle of Munda, his army was about to yield before
their intrepid leadership, when he rushed among his men, exclaiming,
"Will you deliver me into the hands of boys?" He afterwards said he had
often fought for victory, but it was the first time he had fought for
his life.
Mr. Bryan, in a speech in Congress, made good use of an incident
recorded by Muelbach, who narrated that at Marengo, when Napoleon gave
up the battle as lost, and ordered a drummer-boy to beat a retreat, the
lad's face saddened as he said: "Sire, I do not know how. Dessaix has
never taught me retreat, but I can beat a charge. Oh, I can beat a
charge that would make the dead fall into line! I beat it at Mount
Tabor; I beat it at the Pyramids. Oh, may I beat it here?" The charge
was ordered, and victory plucked from the jaws of defeat by the little
hands of that heroic lad.
The incident is fanciful, but it is illustrative. There is a stone wall
in a cemetery at Paris where many Communists were executed. When I saw
it the wall still bore marks of shot, and fragments of the skin and hair
of the victims were matted to the masonry. A lad who had been among the
fiercest of the fighters was one of the condemned. While marching near
his home and to the place of execution, he told the officer in command
that he had a locket which he had just taken from the body of his dead
father, and begged that he might bear it to his mother, promising to
return and resume his place in the fated line. The officer, touched by
his tender age, gave the permission, hoping and believing he would not
return, thus sparing him the necessity of executing a mere child. Before
the line reached its destination, however, the lad came up with hasty
steps, stood against the wall, and faced the soldiers. The first volley
tore out his brave little heart.
The cradles of France furnished the troops who fought and won the
desperate battle of Wagram. "In my young soldiers," said Napoleon, "I
have found all the valor of my old companions in arms."