The Young Continentals at Monmouth

General Lord Howe had demonstrated on many occasions since he had taken command of the king’s army that he was a man of small enterprise; more than once had his failure to follow up an advantage permitted Washington’s force to recuperate after receiving a staggering blow. After Brandywine the same thing occurred. Howe, instead of pursuing the flying Americans as a commander of proper spirit would have done, camped upon the field of battle, remaining there two days.

Washington retreated through Darby, and crossed the Schuylkill to Germantown, where his army had a brief rest. Then, with the idea that Philadelphia must not fall even though Congress had deserted it, he made up his mind to advance once more and offer battle to the British.

Ben Cooper and Paddy Burk had rejoined the army before it crossed the river; and now, when it began to move once more, were among the light horse which had been sent on in advance. During the stop at Germantown, Ben had gathered his friends in their tent and told them in detail of the conversation which he had heard at Clark’s Inn between Tobias Hawkins and his companion. They all listened with great attention and interest, and when he had finished Ezra Prentiss said:

“So this is the explanation of it. I knew there was envy of Washington among some of the other officers, and I heard that there was jealousy of him, in a certain faction of Congress. But the reason for these coming together and making a common cause against him, I had not known until now.”

“They would risk ruining the country in order to further their own ends,” ejaculated George Prentiss, indignantly. “With the same breath that they vote starvation to a faithful army, they declare themselves patriots.”

“What a change a few years can make in men,” bemoaned Ben. “The first Congress was made up of giants who had nothing but freedom from tyranny in their minds, while this present one is composed, so it would seem, of some of the smallest spirits in the land.”

Nat Brewster, always the most thoughtful of the four, had not said a great deal; but that night he sought out General Greene and to him imparted Ben’s story. The grave-faced Rhode Islander listened with every evidence of interest.

“Whom did you say overheard this talk?” he inquired when Nat had finished.

“Cooper.”

“Ah! Then we can rely upon the report.” There was a short silence; then the general said: “I will bring the matter to the attention of the commander-in-chief. In the meantime, do you keep silent regarding it and warn your friends to do likewise.”

However, though Ben expected to be summoned to headquarters, nothing developed that the boys could see. Notwithstanding this, he felt that below the surface of things a change must be taking place—that the commander and his trusted friends were forewarned, and would now be better prepared to cope with the insidious danger creeping upon the states.

As he marched south once more, Washington left a body of Pennsylvania militia to guard the city; a number of other detachments held the various fords of the Schuylkill; orders were given to unmoor the floating bridge at the south road; every boat upon the west bank was taken to the east, and so an attack was guarded against from this direction. Down the Lancaster road pushed the Americans, horse, foot and artillery, the intention being to outflank the enemy. Howe’s scouts, however, brought him news of this movement, and he at once proceeded to dispose his army so that he might in turn outflank the Americans. About a score of miles from Philadelphia at a place called Warren’s Tavern, the two armies came face to face; but before more than a scattering fire could be exchanged, a deluge of rain descended, so wetting the ammunition of the patriots that the attack had to be abandoned.

Along the streaming roads and under a ceaseless downpour the army once more took up its march of retreat. At Warwick Furnace, which stood near French Creek, a halt was made, and the chilled soldiers given a chance to dry themselves and their ammunition. From this place General Wayne set off with his division to endeavor to form a junction with some Maryland troops which were known to be somewhere in the rear of the British. Two nights later, while hanging upon the left of the enemy, Wayne was surprised by a powerful party under General Gray. Into the camp of the unsuspecting Americans plunged the British, firing no shot, but trusting to the bayonet for their work of death. In this fight three hundred of Mad Anthony’s men were killed, and the remainder fled.

And it was only a short time after this that Howe marched toward Reading as though to seize the American stores gathered in that town. Upon the opposite side of the river Washington kept him in sight. Some two-score miles above Philadelphia, the British made an unexpected move in the night. A swift countermarch, a crossing of a ford, and next morning he was between Washington and the city, which he now proceeded to occupy without resistance. There was a parade of troops through Philadelphia—the second within a few weeks—but how vast was the difference between the two. The first was that of an unkempt, semi-rabble, unshaven, ragged, badly armed, and with little training; the second was brilliant with gorgeously uniformed officers, shining with brass and gleaming with steel; the disciplined troops marched in steady, solid columns; powerful batteries trailed at the heels of great English horses; dragoons, mounted upon fiery chargers, pranced along in seemingly endless ranks. Little wonder if those true to the cause remaining in Philadelphia were shaken with doubt at this splendid display of British power; the Tories were exultant; the patriots looked on with brooding eyes, defiant still, but with despair in their hearts.

Everywhere the detractors of the commander-in-chief of the American army were busy; in the streets and public places of the city, and the towns round about; in the country roads when men met, and in inns where travelers foregathered, the bitter venom of petty spirits was heard, the brutal criticism of minds uninformed upon the points at issue was loud and long.

“We provide him with an army, and he uses it to race the roads with,” would be the cry of one.

“He has trained it to run from the British, and not to fight them,” declares another.

“Give us a general who has a knowledge of the country’s needs,” implores a third. “Washington will remain without striking a blow for so long that we shall be too weak, finally, to ever strike it.”

“Give us Gates as a leader,” proclaimed the friends of that general, “and the country will be saved.”

“Lee would be the man,” cried still another faction who held that general in much esteem. “If Lee were only not a prisoner of the British.”

And so it went, seeming to gather strength each day. Statesmen spoke publicly of the weakness, as they styled it, of Washington; and urged their fellow members in Congress to depose him.

“He has shown his unfitness to command the nation’s forces from the beginning,” they said. “But in nothing has it been more openly shown than in the campaign just closing. He has wasted a month in fruitless marching and countermarching.”

To all but those who had the entire field of action in mind, this last seemed true. But to the few who knew the broad purpose of the great general it was the charge of gross ignorance. A month had been used, indeed, but it had not been wasted. Away in northern New York the powerful army of Burgoyne had slowly moved southward, driving the Americans before it through the wilderness. Day after day the patriots had fallen back before the allied British, Hessians and Indians, and day after day they drew them further from their base. It had been the understanding between Howe and Burgoyne that the former was to make a rush upon Philadelphia, take it and then send a huge reinforcement to the aid of the latter. But Washington understood this and kept Howe so busily engaged that he could not afford to send any of his force to form the junction with his fellow general; and now, because of this failure, Burgoyne was facing a mass of New York and New England troops with every prospect of defeat.

“It is shameful!” declared young Lafayette, in his broken English. “It is unjust and unfair! They do not understand, and yet they will not hold their peace.”

As far as could be seen, all this clamor had no effect on Washington; he calmly looked over the prospects before him, disdaining the petty natures which threw themselves in his way; and before long he saw an opportunity to strike a blow which might undo all that Howe had gained.

Ben Cooper and George Prentiss rode into the American camp on the Skippack Creek one afternoon early in October. They had come upon news of an important movement and were in haste to bring it to headquarters.

“A large body of the enemy have been sent against the Delaware River forts,” was their report; “and another, almost as large, is conveying provisions; the camp at Germantown is none too strongly manned.”

That very night the army was under arms and advancing upon Germantown, where Howe was encamped; Philadelphia, some miles away, was in charge of Cornwallis and another force. Four columns streamed through the October dusk along as many roads; two were to attack the enemy’s center, the others were to leap upon either flank.

At dawn on the fourth of October, the onset was made; the columns consisting of Sullivan’s, Wayne’s and Conway’s commands plunged at the enemy as the pickets sounded the alarm. A battalion of infantry and Musgrave’s veteran regiment felt the lead and steel of Mad Anthony’s men, who burned to avenge their defeat at Paoli; back went the British unable to steady themselves against the shock. But Musgrave threw himself and a few hundred men into Chew House, barricaded the doors and windows and prepared for defense. Musket and grape-shot tore holes in the British, still retreating in spite of the pleadings of General Howe, who had sprung from his bed when he heard the confusion of the flight.

But instead of leaving a small force to cope with Musgrave and his improvised fortress and following Howe, the American column came to a stand and spent the greater part of a half hour in the endeavor to take it. This delay gave the British time to collect themselves; and when the Americans did finally press on, they met with a determined resistance; also a dense fog settled upon everything and they could not recognize friend from foe; different detachments would come upon each other and begin a destructive fire which would do great harm before either learned the other’s true quality. And finally, when a cannonade away in the rear was opened upon Musgrave’s men in Chew House, the division under Wayne became panic stricken, thinking an enemy had gotten behind them. Headlong they fled, and in their flight encountered another brigade in the fog under the American general, Stephens, who took them for an attacking enemy, and also began to retreat. Then confusion sprang up everywhere, until seeing that it was useless to continue an enterprise so stricken with disorder, Washington, who had been in the heaviest of the fight, ordered a retreat, and the army disappeared in the fog with the cavalry, under the soldier-like Count Pulaski, covering its rear.

This spirited, but apparently unsuccessful dash upon the enemy was followed by excellent results. It taught the British that they could not be sure of their ground for a day at a time and so restricted their operations to a limited area about the city. But the enemies of the commander-in-chief did not, of course, take this view of the matter; it was a new repulse, they said, and their clamor for his removal grew louder than before.

A few days later, the Hudson River forts, Clinton and Montgomery, fell before the wily attack of the enemy; then Fort Constitution was abandoned, and the great waterway was open to the enemy as far as Albany. But Clinton neglected to take advantage of this opportunity to go to the aid of the fated Burgoyne; the result was that, on October 17th, that general gave up his sword to Gates at Saratoga.

When this later news filtered through to the American camp it added fuel to the fires already so fiercely burning.

“There will scarcely be any holding them now,” said Ben Cooper, as he discussed the matter with his friends. “Gates will be a national hero, and the cries for him will be redoubled.”

“They say that General Gates is so inflated by his success that he deemed it beneath him to make a report of his victory to the commander-in-chief.”

“His victory, did you say, young gentleman?” spoke a heavy voice almost at the boy’s elbow. “The victory of General Gates? Well, well——” and here the words were lost in a laugh.

The army of Washington was at this time occupying a strong position among the wooded heights at Whitemarsh, some distance from Philadelphia; the afternoon was cold and the boys were clustered about a camp-fire in the shelter of a hill. At sound of the words and the jeering laugh that followed them, they turned curiously, and saw a short, stocky man in horseman’s dress, standing near by. And as they turned he nodded his head good-naturedly and moved nearer to the fire.

“If it does not inconvenience you,” he said, “I’ll share a bit of the blaze with you, for I’ve had a cold, long ride, and I’m fair chilled through.”

The lads made room for him willingly enough; he seated himself upon a log and spread his strong, short-fingered hands out to the black-tipped jets of light that leaped from the green wood.

“The victory of General Gates, says you!” Again the man laughed and again he nodded his head. “Ah, yes, yes, that’s what it will be called; but, between us all, and in confidence, mind you, Gates had no more to do with the beating of Burgoyne than either one of you.”

“You mean,” said Ben Cooper, “that Schuyler prepared the way—roused the countryside—bore the hardships that went before and all that.”

The man nodded.

“I see you understand that part of it, and, believe me, young gentlemen, it’s true as gospel. Schuyler wore his heart out trying to get men to stand to the cause; he worked night and day breaking the British strength bit by bit, and when it was all ready for him to strike, Congress removes him and sends Gates.”

“And it is because of this,” said Nat Brewster, “that you say Gates had no more to do with it than either of us.”

“That would be enough, indeed,” answered the man in the riding dress. “But, as it happens, it is not at all the chief reason for what I say. We of the army of the north hated to see General Schuyler go, but if we had received a fighter in his place we would not have cared so much.”

Ezra Prentiss regarded the speaker with interest.

“So,” said he, “you are of the northern army.”

“I am,” said the man. “My name is Johnson Quinsey, and I come from the neighborhood of Fort Edward. It may interest you all to know,” and again his good-natured smile went from one to another about the fire, “that I am the courier who brought General Gates’ report to Congress.”

There was a stir among his young listeners, and George Prentiss asked:

“Then, perhaps, you took part in the Saratoga fight?”

“That I did,” replied the courier, his hands held out to the blaze, “that I did, young gentleman, and a tolerable fight it was. But Gates you hear of, only—Gates! Gates! they cry wherever I go. But it’s naught but the plain truth when I repeat it; Gates had no more to do with the victory than either of you.”

“But he directed the course of battle,” said Nat Brewster.

But Johnson Quinsey held up one hand.

“It’s a sore thing to say against an American leader,” spoke he, “but he might as well—aye, much better—have stopped at home. Schuyler, like the honest high soul that he is, took him by the hand when he came—never a thought of jealousy had he in his mind for the man who was taking his place. But Gates, when he held a council of war, invited some inconsequential officers to take part; and General Schuyler was ignored.”

A murmur went around among the boys.

“And when the fight began at Bemis Heights did our General Gates lead his men? No! such dangers he left to others. Like a fine gentleman he took his ease in his camp, well removed from the field. Arnold had to beg permission to begin the battle.”

“A brilliant officer that General Arnold,” said Nat, admiringly, and Johnson Quinsey nodded.

“There is none more able or daring in the whole army. A hard man he is, with a cruel eye and the temper of a fiend; but he wins battles that for others would be defeats. As it stands, he is the real victor of Saratoga, if you must pick any single man.”

There was a short silence; then the man went on:

“The first fight shattered Burgoyne’s force badly. Arnold had been in the thick of it, and knew this, and when morning came he once more besought Gates to let him advance. But Gates would not. He felt that he had a victory in his hands and his little spirit was vexed at what he thought interference. You should have seen him swell like a turkey cock and rear his head. His empty vanity maddened the other; I was close by and saw the red rage in Arnold’s eyes. In a fury he demanded a pass to go to General Washington’s camp; and, afraid of his genius, Gates gladly gave it to him.”

“But he did not use it?”

“No; I suppose calmer thought told him that it would not look well to leave the army in the face of the enemy, so he remained, though his command was given to General Lincoln. For two weeks he fretted and fumed, and for two weeks Gates preened himself like an empty-headed dandy. And when the second battle was raging, Arnold, burning to show his zeal and display the wrongs that had been done him, suddenly emerged from his tent, leaped upon a horse and dashed toward the place where the roar of the guns told him the engagement was the most desperate.”

Here Johnson Quinsey grimaced and laughed.

“They say,” he proceeded, “that Gates, as before, taking his ease in camp while others did the fighting, saw Arnold dash away, and filled with alarm, sent an aide speeding after him to forbid his taking part in the battle.”

“But the aide did not overtake him, I’ll warrant you,” said George Prentiss, his eyes shining.

“He might as well have pursued the wind; Arnold rode his great brown horse ‘Warren,’ and in a little while was careering through a sleet of bullets from friend and foe to reach his old command. In quiet times in camp General Arnold is no gentle officer; but in the fight his men think him unbeatable. So when they saw him, though he had no right to command them, they shouted for joy; he threw himself at their head and led them like a band of demons at the enemy. Nothing could stand before him; he raged up and down the field like a madman, the British and Hessians flying before his plunging brigade as though its very aspect struck terror to their hearts. Rushing up to the very muzzles of the Hessians’ muskets at a stockade, he drove them out, but fell with a shattered leg. And,” here Johnson Quinsey laughed grimly, “General Gates’ messenger came up to him, as his men were bearing him to the rear in a litter. But it was too late to do any harm. Arnold had already won the battle.”

For quite some time the boys sat discussing the surrender of Burgoyne; then a trooper came up, calling:

“Cooper! Cooper! To report to headquarters at once!”

Ben arose.

“It’ll be a cold night for the saddle,” smiled he, “but then, we can’t choose our weather.”

He had departed, with a wave of his hand, and had proceeded some hundred yards or more upon his way, when he heard a step in the snow at his side; and glancing up, he recognized the courier, Johnson Quinsey.

“Your pardon,” said the man, and in the rays of a near-by camp-fire, Ben noted an intent expression upon his face. “I heard you answer to the name of Cooper?”

“That,” said Ben, “is my name.”

“Benjamin Cooper?” The man’s head bent a trifle nearer, as though to show the increase of his interest.

“The same,” answered the boy.

There was a brief pause, then the man said:

“It is odd how chance guides one’s footsteps, at times. When I approached that fire where you sat I had no thought of meeting with you, and yet it was the hope of seeing you, alone, that brought me to this encampment.”