The Young Continentals at Monmouth

Having made up his mind that nothing could be gained by seeking to draw Washington into a trap, General Howe finally decided upon a plan and embarked his troops. What he would do was a matter for speculation in the American army; every one wondered where the next blow would fall. Thinking that Philadelphia must be the point aimed at, Washington once more crossed the Delaware and took up a position at Germantown. While here the tidings came that the British troop ships had entered Chesapeake Bay, and that Howe’s army would disembark at the head of the Elk River.

At this news the Tories in Philadelphia became overbold, and thinking to put them down by a display of power, Washington on the way southward marched his array through Front and along Chestnut Streets with bands playing and colors flying. There were some twelve thousand of them, while the British, whom they were advancing to check, numbered almost twenty thousand, with powerful artillery.

The Americans marched to Wilmington, and there entered camp upon some heights near to the Christiana and the Brandywine. Heavy parties were sent forward to come in touch with the enemy and harass his advance as much as possible. Howe landed his force at a point seventy miles from Philadelphia, and almost at once took up his line of march. The militia and other parties sent out by Washington rendered this progress much slower than it would otherwise have been, and in this way the American commander was given an opportunity to reconnoiter the roads and passes and fords.

“It looks,” said George Prentiss to Ben, “as though the general had made up his mind to risk a battle in the open.”

“He must, if he is to fight at all, I think,” said Ben. “And that he must fight is settled. Philadelphia, the city where Congress meets, must not be allowed to fall without a blow.”

“Right,” spoke Nat Brewster. “That would never do, as I look at it. Everything must be risked at this point; to desert the city, now that the enemy are approaching it, would be to lose its confidence forever.”

Talk of this sort ran through the American force, showing that the rank and file understood the position in which their officers stood. And the position was a most critical one. The great bulk of the army was made up of raw men, the militia of New Jersey, Pennsylvania and Delaware; and in no way was the American force to be compared to the British—neither in number, equipment nor discipline.

At White Clay Creek, General Maxwell’s sharpshooters encountered the British vanguard, and a spirited fight took place, the sharpshooters falling back, but the invaders meeting with much the greater loss. At first Washington selected a position on the east of Red Clay Creek, on the Philadelphia road; but he discovered the intention of Sir William Howe to pass the Brandywine, gain the heights to the north of the stream and so cut him off from Philadelphia; the American army was put in motion during the night and took possession of this point.

There were several crossings of the Brandywine and the best of them was in direct line with the enemy’s advance. This was called Chadd’s Ford, and here Washington stationed the main body of his army under Wayne, Weedon and Muhlenberg. Maxwell’s riflemen were also placed at this point, and Wayne’s and Proctor’s artillery were placed upon a hill commanding the ford. The right wing was in the care of General Sullivan, Sterling and Stephen, while the left, mainly militia, was commanded by General Armstrong.

What seemed to be the main body of the enemy began an advance on Chadd’s Ford early on the morning of September 11th. Washington rode along the ranks cheering his men and being cheered in return. The reports of the rifles of Maxwell’s men soon began to be heard across the Brandywine; after a long time spent in skirmishing, the sharpshooters themselves were driven across the stream. The enemy did not attempt to follow, but their artillery opened, and the American guns answered promptly.

While this was going on a rider from General Sullivan’s command dashed up to headquarters bearing the news that a heavy body of troops under Howe was pushing along the Lancaster road with the intent to cross at one of the upper fords and turn the American right flank. Instantly a party of riders were sent to ascertain the truth of this; then the Americans determined to cross the creek and attack those before them, word being sent to both wings to do likewise. But just as the movement was begun, word came by a militia major that there was no enemy in the quarter Howe was reported to be in, and instantly Washington halted the troops once more. Horsemen were scurrying backward and forward—all was in suspense. Finally a resident of the section, Squire Cheyney, came galloping up, breathless, and with horse covered with foam; he had come upon the main body of the British as they were hurrying along on the east side of the stream; they had fired upon him, but he had succeeded in reaching the American lines unhurt.

“You must move, General Washington,” he cried, “or you will be surrounded.”

The horsemen, sent out earlier, now returned, confirming this. The British main body, under Cornwallis, was sweeping down upon the right wing. Without hesitation, Washington’s orders were given. Sullivan was to attack the invaders, Sterling’s and Stephen’s brigades were to support him. Wayne was to hold Chadd’s Ford and see to it that the German Knyphausen did not cross, while General Greene was to hold his command ready to dash in wherever needed.

Sullivan followed his orders, but the time which had elapsed between the warning and the orders reaching him enabled Cornwallis to select his own ground. Taken at a complete disadvantage, the Americans broke on each wing; the center stood firm, but receiving the concentrated fire of the enemy, it, too, gave way. The young Lafayette, who had begged permission to go where the fight would be thickest, seeing that the pursuing British became entangled in the wood, leaped from his horse and made a gallant attempt to rally the broken division of Sullivan.

“He proves true under the guns of the enemy,” spoke Nat Brewster, admiringly.

Ben Cooper paused and wiped away the perspiration which streamed from his face.

“I knew he would, the first time I——” Suddenly he stopped and uttered a cry; then both he and Nat drove spurs to their horses and raced forward.

As Lafayette strove with the disorganized rabble of fleeing militia, a mass of British suddenly appeared, emerging from the wood; their pieces sent a volley into the fugitives, and at the discharge Lafayette fell. Side by side Ben Cooper and the stalwart Nat Brewster swept forward; as they neared the young Frenchman they opened a trifle, then bending simultaneously, their horses slowing, they lifted him from the ground, swung him across Nat’s horse—turned in the very teeth of the oncoming British, and sped away.

Washington came up with fresh troops, and the Americans made a stand upon a hill near Dilworth; but again they were driven back with much loss.

Knyphausen, hearing the heavy firing, which was his signal to move in earnest, made a rush to cross Chadd’s Ford. Wayne’s and Proctor’s artillery began to sound and Maxwell’s riflemen picked off the advance. General Greene was also preparing to oppose the oncoming German, when Ezra Prentiss rode up with orders from the commander-in-chief that he come to the aid of the right wing, which was in desperate peril.

Without the waste of a moment the division of Greene was put into motion and never was there more rapid marching. It is said that the brigade covered the distance of five miles in less than fifty minutes. But, for all his gallant effort, he was too late to prevent defeat. However, he was well in time to cover the retreat; with his field pieces well planted he kept up a steady fire; again and again his ranks opened to allow the blocks of fugitives to pass to the rear. It was a spot selected by Washington the day before as an excellent one for a stand should the army be driven from its first position, and right well did it prove his judgment.

Cornwallis, flushed with success, came on with the exultation of a victor; he had seen the Americans running away, and thought in the pursuit to deal them a fatal blow. But Greene with his guns, and Muhlenberg’s and Weedon’s brigades met them fairly and drove them back repeatedly. Finally the British became so exhausted that Greene saw his opportunity and drew off his men in an orderly manner; and so threatening were his guns, so desperate the aspect of his grim ranks that the enemy did not make any effort at pursuit. Wayne also had kept his opponents back at the ford; and he, too, now drew off his force in such perfect order that Knyphausen did not dare to follow.

With the Chester road so well covered as to prevent any calamity, Washington, after a consultation with his generals, wrote a dispatch giving a full account of the day’s fortunes and misfortunes, knowing well that a horde of panic-stricken runaways would soon burst into Philadelphia and spread the news of utter rout.

“Ride with all speed and deliver this to Mr. Hancock,” said the general, upon handing the dispatch to Ben Cooper. “And do what you can to stem the tide of false reports that will be going about.” Then as Ben saluted and gathered up his reins, the commander-in-chief added anxiously, to General Greene, “I trust no disorder arises in the city; there are, as you know, many who would willingly take advantage of so rich an opportunity.”

As Ben sped along the Chester road, his horse pushed its way, in places, through dense masses of retreating soldiers; the broken fragments of the army, also field pieces and baggage wagons were flowing along in one disorganized stream, all making for Philadelphia. At Chester, some dozen miles north of the scene of battle, was a good sized stream which the fugitives would have to cross to reach the city. Here young Lafayette placed a strong guard at the bridge and refused to permit any one to cross unless properly armed with an order from some one in authority.

With his leg swathed in bandages showing where the bullet had struck him, the youthful Frenchman sat his horse with much difficulty. However, sit him he did, and gave his orders like one born to the work, never betraying a sign of pain. He recognized Ben at once as he came up and replied to his salute, and inquired anxiously as to the complexion of things at Dilworth.

“General Greene held them until the danger was past,” replied Ben, cheerfully. “And it looks now as though the situation were well in hand.”

“Ah, yes,” Lafayette said. “With us there was fortune at any rate. We lost the battle, but,” and he gestured eloquently, “we are saved from utter ruin; and another day we can fight again.”

Ben pushed on at top speed; all along the road he found wagons loaded with household goods and such like, with excited men, white-faced women and crying children trudging at their sides. The news of the defeat had reached them, also the report that Washington’s army had been cut to pieces and was flying in complete rout before the British. The lad did his best to steady the men by crying out to them that Washington was holding Howe in check.

As he passed into the city he found much the same state of things; all day the citizens had gathered in the streets and public squares, listening to the roar of the cannon which came plainly to their ears; and now the fleeing families grew more numerous; terror seemed to be in every face. The throngs recognized Ben in a moment as being one from the battle-field; they closed around him demanding tidings.

“What news?” called one.

“How goes the fight?” demanded another.

“What’s left of the army?” questioned a third.

“How soon will the British be here?” cried another.

Ben waved a hand to them—the hand which held his dispatches.

“Make way,” he cried out, repeatedly. “Make way for the messenger to Congress.”

“The battle! the battle!” chorused the populace. “What news from the army?”

“The army was driven back——” A groan interrupted the boy. He continued: “But the British were repulsed at last. The army is safe!”

The more hardy spirits found comfort in this last; but the greater part lost none of their fear; the steady stream of fleeing families still passed along the streets; men rushed hither and thither, preparing to depart, women sobbed and gathered their children about them.

“To the mountains,” was the cry. “To the mountains!”

Ben leaped from his horse at the State House door; but upon inquiry he learned that Congress was not sitting as he had expected it to be in such a crisis. It had held a session that evening and decided to quit the city; the next meeting of the body was to be held at Lancaster.

“But,” said the custodian, “a number of the members are now at Clark’s Inn, just across the way; and I feel sure that you’ll find Mr. Hancock there, also.”

Clark’s Inn was a quaint and ancient place, almost as old as the city itself; the doors stood wide and the light streamed out upon the stone-paved walk. Within, all was hubbub; the day’s misfortunes were, of course, the chief topic, but the decision of Congress to quit the city was almost as much discussed.

“What do I call it, sir?” were the first words that come to Ben’s ears as he entered the inn. “What do I call it, do you say? Why, I call it cowardice, sir, rank cowardice.”

The speaker was the stout Master Samuel Livingstone, whom Ben had met with several times before. His face was mottled with excitement, and one fat hand beat the table before him.

“Not cowardice, perhaps,” said the person to whom he addressed himself. “Not cowardice, exactly, but rather unseemly haste.”

“It is cowardice, sir!” maintained Master Livingstone. “It is just that, and nothing less! Was it not Congress who brought us all to the point of resistance to the king? Was it not, I ask of you? And now that we have resisted to the extent of all we have, what does Congress do?” He paused, and his great face glowered at the man to whom he was speaking. “It deserts us! No sooner does it hear of the enemy’s approach to the city than it deserts us. The moment that the slightest chance of danger to itself appears, it flies.”

Here the other man held up a warning finger; bending across the table he said something in a low tone. Master Livingstone grew a little paler in color; his manner took on a trace of anxiety.

“Hah!” said he, as his eyes went about the room, alarmed. “Yes, yes, you are right. Perhaps I had best not go too far. I did not know,” in a still lower tone, “that our friends voted for the removal to Lancaster.”

In a quiet corner, Ben found John Hancock and some friends soberly talking over the momentous happenings of the day. The elegant Hancock received the boy with the rather distant formality for which he was known; and the dispatches were read at once.

“Somewhat too late,” said he, coldly, after reading the hasty lines to his friends. “This matter of there being no immediate danger will have to be acted upon at Lancaster.”

There was a slight laugh at this, for the remark was evidently intended as a witticism.

“At a little distance inland,” spoke one of the party, also a member of the Congress, “we can be assured of safety. For even our present commanders will scarcely allow the enemy to penetrate that far.”

“Washington,” said Mr. Hancock, “has not failed altogether. He has given us victories. Remember, sir, with the means at his hand he cannot win all the time. It is too much to require of any general.”

“But action is not too much to require of a general; it is not too much to ask the commander of an army that he have some enterprise; that he take the initiative occasionally, that he do not always wait until the enemy advances upon him before he makes a show of fighting.”

“Right! Right!” came a number of voices. “Quite right!”

But another member, and apparently a supporter of Washington, here spoke out.

“I think,” said he, “you have not properly considered what Mr. Hancock meant when he mentioned ‘the means at his hand.’” The speaker tapped the table edge with the tip of one finger and proceeded: “When one considers the slender supply of soldiers which present themselves for service, one might wonder very properly where an army sufficiently powerful to cope with England is coming from. And even the small force which our general gathers only remains with him a short time. The term of enlistment is so short that scarcely has a regiment reached a fair state of discipline than it disbands—and in this constant recruiting and training, the personnel of the army never reaches any but a most indifferent state. And, then, the money with which the force is to be maintained!” here the member looked about him and smiled. “What must keep Washington going for weeks would not cover the requirements of Howe for days. The supplies are seldom of sufficient quantity to fill the needs of our soldiers; the men go barefoot in the ranks; the able men lack the arms to fight with, and the sick men have not the medicine to make them well.”

At this there arose a chorus of approval and protest; the gathered members and their friends entered into the case with spirit and heat, and in the clamor that followed Ben heard little more. Having had nothing to eat since early morning, the lad, for the first time, began to feel a trifle faint; until this the excitement had sustained him, but the need of food was now strongly brought to his mind. So seating himself in a quiet nook near to a window at the front of the house he ordered a dish of eggs with bacon and well browned bread and other comforting things. The window was raised a few inches.

When these were placed before him, he fell to with relish and will, paying little attention to the high talk going on all about him.

Outside the inn door were several benches where patrons of the place were accustomed to sit in pleasant weather, and as Ben gazed idly out through the window at his elbow he found himself looking at the back of one of these, which was so placed; and over the top of it he saw the crown of a hat.

“Some sensible person who quietly takes the air in spite of the cold weather,” said Ben. “All this clatter and complaining is not worth listening to, he thinks, and so he will have none of it.”

He had about reached this conclusion, when he saw a tall figure turn in from the street toward the inn door. At a glance the lad recognized Tobias Hawkins; the next moment the man upon the bench had arisen to greet the newcomer, and he, in turn, Ben knew, even in the indifferent light and though his back was turned, as the man with the yellow smile.