Within a few days Nathan was thoroughly accustomed to his new life, and though the weather turned bitter and freezing, giving him a taste of the hardships the army had endured before his arrival, he felt no longing or desire to return to the comfortable guardianship of Cornelius De Vries.
On the contrary, he took pride in showing that he could endure the rigors and duties of camp-life as unflinchingly as the older and veteran soldiers. His pluck and boyish good nature quickly made him a favorite with officers and men alike. He was always ready to help a comrade, or to assume tasks that did not properly belong to him. Without a murmur he did picket-duty by day or night, in rain and snow and freezing cold. He made light of the poor and scanty food that was served out to him, and when he lay awake shivering for want of sufficient covering, his bed-fellows heard never a word of complaint from his lips.
Thus a week passed, and the lad's heroic and steadfast performance of duty was all the more praiseworthy because he was hourly tortured by fears for his father's life. The result of Captain Stanbury's wound was still uncertain. He was delirious and in a high fever, and none but the hospital attendants and surgeons were permitted to see him. He was receiving the best care and treatment possible under the circumstances, and his vigorous constitution was a strong point in his favor; but until the crisis was reached the issue could not be foretold. Not only the Wyoming men, but many others as well, longed and prayed for the gallant captain's recovery. Washington sent twice daily to inquire for him, and on several occasions spoke a few words of comfort and hope to Nathan in person.
In the meantime the lad had written to Cornelius De Vries, and the letter, together with certain official dispatches to patriot friends in Philadelphia, was delivered by a trusty messenger. The latter, on his return to camp, brought papers for Washington and a reply to Nathan's letter. Of necessity the worthy Hollander wrote briefly, yet what he had to say was full of interest. He expressed deep sorrow for Captain Stanbury's critical illness, and while he showed that he was sorry to lose Nathan and missed him greatly, he took pains to give the lad some good advice suitable for a soldier's career. Referring to the memorable night at the Indian Queen, he stated that Anthony Benezet and Timothy Matlack had escaped to the lower floor of the tavern in the darkness and confusion that followed the pursuit of Nathan, and that Jenkins had concealed them in the cellar until the danger was over. "Major Langdon was slightly wounded in the arm," a postscript added, "by the bullet that shattered his lantern."
A few words must be said here concerning Mr. Noah Waxpenny. That peculiar individual did not appear again at the Indian Queen. Being under the impression that the information given him was true, and that Major Langdon was not in the town, he took up temporary quarters at the Cross Keys Inn on Chestnut Street. For several days he was occupied in making sly inquiries about Richard Stanbury and a certain other person, with what success will appear further on in the story. Then, still taking it for granted that Major Langdon was not in Philadelphia, he set out for Long Island in search of him. But on reaching New York he was prostrated by illness resulting from a heavy cold, and in that city he lay on his back for weeks, unable to give any attention to the task that had brought him to America.
A few days after the receipt of Cornelius De Vries's letter, and while Captain Stanbury was still hovering between life and death, Nathan met with an adventure which very nearly terminated fatally, but which raised him even higher in the estimation of the commander-in-chief. To his own quick wits and courage he owed his escape, but in after life he could never recall that night without a shudder.
Driven by necessity to make use of a power granted him by Congress, Washington had issued a proclamation to all the farmers within seventy miles of Valley Forge—they were mostly Tories in their sympathies—ordering them to thresh out as much grain as might be demanded, and at short notice, under penalty of having their whole stock seized as straw. Requisitions were first made on the farmers living at a distance, while those in the vicinity of the camp were prudently left till the last. Among the latter was a certain Jacob Troup, a man known to be loyal to the Americans, and the owner of a large barn stocked with the previous summer's crop of wheat and oats. His turn came during the third week in February, and as the farm was close to camp, and Troup had three or four hirelings in his employ, a lot of confiscated grain was brought there to be threshed at the same time with his own.
For three days the work went on, the greater portion of the grain accumulating in the loyal farmer's granary preparatory to being carted to camp. But, late in the afternoon of the fourth day, Washington received word that a force of British cavalry had been seen within twenty miles of Valley Forge, and this news, considered in connection with a well-founded rumor that spies were, or had been, within the lines, led him to take prompt measures to secure the large store of grain.
For this duty twenty men of the Wyoming Company were detailed, and Barnabas Otter and Nathan were of the number. So many of the officers were sick or disabled that the command of the little party fell to the lot of Corporal Dubbs. Shortly after supper they formed in the company street and marched quietly through the camp, heading southwest toward Philadelphia. They passed out of the lines between Knox's batteries and Woodford's redoubt, from which point the farmhouse of Jacob Troup was rather more than a mile distant.
It was as bitter and stormy a night as the army at Valley Forge could remember in all that winter. That morning a brief thaw had been succeeded by a cold snap, which formed a hard crust on the snow that thickly covered the ground. Since afternoon fresh snow had been falling, and now the flakes were coming down in a dense, fine mass. Aided by a cutting wind drifts were gathering here and there, and it was impossible to see more than a few yards in any direction. The cold was still intense.
Under these circumstances the thinly-clad and poorly-shod men suffered greatly as they marched on in the teeth of the storm, leading with them four horses that were to haul the grain to camp in the farmer's big sledge. But not a word of complaint was uttered. The thought that the success of their mission meant bread for the army kept their spirits up, and like true heroes they faced the cold and snow. No doubt the brave fellows longed for a fight to heat their blood, but there was little chance that any of the British would be hovering near on such a night as this.
On they went, holding their musket-stocks with numbed fingers. In a black line they straggled through the storm, up hill and down, across patches of timber and low scrub, now knee-deep in fresh snow-drifts, now plodding over the wind-swept crust beneath. At last the leader gave the word to halt. It was in a hollow partly sheltered from the wind, and straight ahead, toward Philadelphia, the snowy landscape merged duskily into the night. To the left a narrow lane led fifty yards to the farm buildings of Jacob Troup. Word of the coming had been sent to him, and a cheery light was flashing in house and barn.
"All's well," declared Corporal Dubbs. "I expected nothing else, for the Britishers ain't the kind of chaps to stir from their warm fires in such weather. But precautions won't go amiss, and I'm going to post half a dozen pickets to watch while the rest of us load the grain."
Accordingly he selected two men, and gave them orders to advance to the left and take their stand on a road that lay some distance to the rear of the farm buildings. "Amos Brown," he said, "you and Tom Relyea march in the opposite direction—off here to the right—and keep on till you come to the road that leads to the Schuylkill beyond Valley Creek."
The corporal now turned to Barnabas Otter, pointing one numbed hand straight ahead to the southwest, in a direction at right angles to those indicated to the other sentries. "Comrade, you know who lives over yonder?" he asked.
"Abner Wilkinson," replied Barnabas. "I've seen the place often. The owner is a rank Tory."
"Ay, he's said to be," admitted the corporal, "and I reckon opinion is right. He certainly looked mighty sour when we stript him of his grain and stock. Well, to proceed, just back of Abner Wilkinson's barn is a broad lane that connects further on with the main highway from Philadelphia. It's bordered by woods, and if the enemy come at all, they'll likely come that way. So you post yourself on that little hill overlooking the road beyond the barn—it's not much over a quarter of a mile from here. Nathan Stanbury will go with you as far as the orchard this side of the house, and that's where I want him to stay. Do you understand?"
"Ay, ay, sir," assented Barnabas.
"And you, lad?"
"Yes, I understand," said Nathan. "I'm to mount guard at the edge of the orchard."
"Exactly; and keep an eye on the house. I'm telling you this because of the rumors about spies being in camp. The family are living in Philadelphia, and Abner Wilkinson is said to be there too. But I've my doubts about that, and you and Barnabas may learn something to-night if you're wide-awake."
The six pickets had stepped to the front as their names were called, and Corporal Dubbs now addressed them collectively in a few brief words. "These precautions are no more than my duty warrants," he said. "A soldier never knows what's going to happen. As for the posts I've assigned you to—why, I don't believe General Washington himself could improve on 'em. If the enemy come they won't find us napping, and there'll be plenty of time to save the grain. In case all goes well you can leave your places in about half an hour from the time you get there. Should one of you discover the British he will fire his musket, and then you must all fall back. The report will reach us over here, and will give us a chance to get the grain into the lines. Now off with you, and be spry about it."
The corporal gave the word to march, and his fourteen men and four horses followed him down the lane toward the farm-house. The six pickets, trudging off by twos, quickly vanished in the darkness and the storm. Side by side Nathan and Barnabas struck over the open field, and a tramp of a quarter of a mile brought them to the crest of a slight ridge, from whence they saw the Tory farmer's house and barn looming mistily out of the snow at a distance of four hundred yards. The wind now had a clean sweep at them, and the snow cut their faces like sleet as they pushed on down the slope. They felt their limbs growing numb, and half of the time they had to close their eyes. At length, panting and exhausted, they reached the welcome shelter of the orchard, and were out of the worst of the storm. For several minutes they crouched in a snow-drift on the farther side of the fence to recover breath and to reconnoiter. But there was no sign of danger—so far as they could see or hear. The house, looming close by, had a dreary and desolate look with its shuttered windows below and its black squares of glass above.
"I reckon there's nobody in yonder," said Barnabas, his teeth chattering as he spoke. "I sort of agreed with the corporal that Abner Wilkinson might be lurking about, but I daresay he's keeping snug in Philadelphia."
"Yes, that's more likely," assented Nathan. "And I don't believe that troop of cavalry is anywhere near."
"Perhaps not," replied Barnabas, "but if they are, it'll fall to my lot to spy 'em. I must be going now, lad. Just you stay right here, and be sure to keep moving a bit, else you'll get numbed and drop over asleep in the snow. If you hear the crack of my weapon don't wait—cut and run for Troup's place."
"And if I fire you'll hurry this way?" asked Nathan.
"Of course, lad; but there's no danger of you givin' an alarm. If the British are prowlin' about I'll be the first to see 'em."
With this Barnabas shouldered his musket and trudged off. His tall figure grew dimmer and dimmer amid the flurrying snow-flakes, and he was out of sight before he had reached the farther end of the orchard.
A sudden feeling of loneliness now oppressed Nathan, and with it came an unaccountable suspicion of danger. He looked warily up the bare, white hillside toward the Troup farm, and then he trudged across the orchard in the opposite direction. Looking from the fence past the end of the barn, he could vaguely make out against the sky-line the rounded and wooded little hill on top of which Barnabas was to mount guard. It was very nearly a quarter of a mile distant. Coming back to his former post, he riveted his eyes on the house. It faced toward the barn, and the side wall was directly opposite him, separated by a thirty foot strip of yard. He half expected to see one of the shutters thrown open, or to hear the sound of voices from within.
But, as the minutes slipped by, and only the moaning of the wind broke the silence of the night, the lad grew ashamed of his fears. The bitter cold was the only enemy he had to contend with. His bare ears and hands pained him terribly, and a slight sensation of drowsiness warned him that he must keep moving. So he stood his musket against a big apple tree, wrapping a rag around the flint and pan to protect them from the damp, and began to pace up and down the narrow angle of the orchard. He continued this for a quarter of an hour, stopping occasionally to look and listen, until his feet had trodden a well-defined path between the trees. Feeling the need of more violent exercise, he rapidly folded and unfolded his arms for a few minutes, and then, fastening his hands on a big limb overhead, he repeatedly drew his chin up to a level with it. When he had warmed himself comfortably by these means he shouldered his musket and stepped to the fence.
"Why don't Barnabas come?" he said half aloud. "I've surely been here half an hour, and that was the limit. By this time the grain ought to be all loaded and on the way to camp. I wouldn't mind the cold if there was any fighting going on, but this sentry duty in winter is the worst part of a soldier's life. And I am anxious to get back to see how my father is—"
The sentence was stifled on the lad's lips, and he very nearly uttered a sharp cry. For just then, under one of the shuttered windows of the house, he saw a flash of yellow light. It was visible for a few seconds, and then it vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared.
Nathan felt a cold shiver run down his back. "Did I imagine that light?" he asked himself, "or is there some one in the house?"
The next instant he was crouching low behind the fence, every nerve quivering with excitement, and his musket trembling in his hands. He had made another startling discovery, and one that was too real to be doubted. The dark figure of a man was approaching the rear of the house from the direction of the American lines, and it was only too evident that he was not one of Corporal Dubbs's sentries. On he came through the drifted snow, stepping quickly but stealthily, and turning his head from right to left.
Nathan aimed his musket through the fence. "A spy!" he muttered. "He's just been to the camp! Shall I shoot?" putting his finger to the trigger. "No, I have a better plan. He's going to the house, and there he'll be trapped."
The lad was right. A moment later the crouching figure had gained the rear wall and was lost to sight. A door was heard to softly open and close.
Nathan watched and listened in vain. For half a minute he hesitated. Should he hurry off to bring Barnabas, or should he first endeavor to learn who was in the house? The thought that he might, after all, be mistaken decided him. Holding his musket ready for instant use he lightly scaled the fence, and waded through the snow to the side wall of the house. He crept to the rear angle, cautiously peeped around, and then boldly turned it. A few steps brought him to the door, and he discovered it was open a few inches. The wind had evidently done this, the latch having failed to drop into its socket.
Nathan stood at attention, outwardly cool and alert in spite of his inward excitement. All was black behind the crevice, but he could hear faint voices at a distance. The temptation was too strong to be resisted, and with a sudden impulse he carefully pushed the door farther open and stepped into what seemed to be a wide hall. Looking to the left he saw another door. This also was open an inch or two, and in the lighted room to which it led two persons were talking in low and eager tones.
"I've got to find out who's in there," the lad resolved. Holding his gun in front of him he advanced with a cat-like tread. Happily the bare floor did not creak under him, and his ragged shoes were so full of snow that they made no noise. He reached the door, halted, and peered anxiously through the crack.
What he saw was a small room, scantily furnished with a bed, two chairs, and a table. A lamp was burning dimly on a shelf, and every crevice of the one window was stuffed with rags to keep the light from showing outside—a precaution that had not been entirely successful.
In the chair beside the table sat a bearded, harsh-looking man, who could be none other than Abner Wilkinson himself; he was wrapped in a heavy cloak and held a hat in his hand. Near by stood the man who had just entered the house. He was young and smooth-shaven, with a handsome but sinister countenance. He was hurriedly exchanging his snowy and wet garments for a uniform of green faced with white—the uniform, as Nathan well knew, of the Tory soldiers of the British army.
The lad saw all this at a brief glance, and then he listened keenly to the conversation. "I wouldn't have done what you did for a king's ransom," Abner Wilkinson was saying. "Man, you took your life in your hands—"
"But I got what I wanted," the other interrupted, calmly, "and now that I have them safe we had better be off at once. There's no telling what will happen if the loss is discovered, as it may be at any moment."
"It's a bad night to travel on foot," said Abner Wilkinson. "Don't you think we might wait till morning? There's no danger of your being traced here, for the snow will cover your footsteps—"
"But not right away. I tell you we're in danger, and the sooner we start the better. Have you got those other papers ready?"
"Yes, Captain," the Tory farmer answered; and he stepped toward a closet at the end of the room.
Out in the dark hall Nathan trembled with excitement. "They have papers," he said to himself, "and the one in uniform has been spying in our lines. They mustn't get away."
Just then Abner Wilkinson turned around from the closet, holding a packet in his hand. "Here they are, Captain," he said.
"Put them in your pocket," replied the officer. "They may be as important as those I have. Are you ready to start? We'll go as soon as Mawhood comes back. I'm beginning to feel worried about him."
"Oh, he'll be in presently," said Wilkinson, "unless he's lost his bearings in the storm—"
Nathan trembled with sudden fear, missing the rest of the sentence. "There's another spy," he reflected, "and he's outside somewhere. These two are waiting for him. Whew! what a scrape I'm in! There's no time to lose if I want to get away."
He turned cautiously around to retreat, and even as he did so the floor creaked and he saw a dark object between himself and the outer door. The next instant, as he made a headlong dash for liberty, a strong arm encircled him and a hand clutched his throat. The lad's musket fell with a crash, and he struggled hard to break loose. But his efforts were futile. In less time than it takes to tell he was dragged, bruised and half-choked, into the room. Abner Wilkinson was trembling with fright in a far corner, and the officer had drawn a sword and a pistol. With an oath he reached for the lamp, evidently intending to blow it out.
"Stop, sir; you needn't do that," cried Nathan's captor, who was a burly Britisher in plain dress. "There's only one of 'em, and I've got him safe. He must have crept into the house a bit ago, for he was listening at yonder door when I spied him." He released the lad's throat, and held him out at arm's length.
The officer glared at Nathan. "Are you sure there are no more, Mawhood?" he demanded hoarsely.
"Quite sure, Captain," the man replied. "There's a party of rebels removing the grain from Troup's farm back across the hill, and this chap was posted here as an advance picket. There are no others in the neighborhood, for I've been all around the house. But I would advise getting away just as quick as possible—"
"Yes, yes, let's start at once!" interrupted Abner Wilkinson, who was pale with fright. "We will be hung if we are caught."
"We must attend to the prisoner first," said the officer. "Who are you?" he added to the lad. "Why did you come in here?"
Nathan tightened his lips and made no reply.
"Do you hear?" thundered the officer. "Answer my questions! Were you listening at the door while we talked? Are any more of your rebel friends posted in the neighborhood?"
"I won't tell you, sir," the lad replied firmly.
"You won't?" cried the officer. "Well, if you did it wouldn't help you any now. I'm going to hang you, my fine fellow."
"Yes, hang the dog," exclaimed the Tory farmer. "I'll show you how." He darted to the closet and produced a coil of heavy rope. The soldier quickly seized this in obedience to a signal from his officer, threw one end over a thick beam of the ceiling, and deftly looped the other end. Swish! the fatal noose settled on Nathan's neck, and was tightened by a jerk.
The lad stood firm, but in a few seconds a thousand thoughts seemed to flit through his throbbing brain. He thought of Philadelphia, of Cornelius De Vries, of his father lying sick in the hospital—of all his past life. He realized that there was no hope for him. Even should he shout, Barnabas and the other sentries were too far away to hear him.
Mawhood stood face to face with Nathan at a distance of a couple of feet. The end of the rope was twisted in both his hands, and the officer was close alongside of him. The latter pulled out a watch. "I'll give you twenty seconds to pray," he said, "and then up you go."
"Don't murder me," Nathan begged hoarsely. "I've done nothing to deserve death."
"You're a dog of a rebel," was the brutal answer, "and that's enough. Ten seconds gone."
The lad glanced at the mocking and merciless faces of his enemies, hardly realizing his doom, and then a ray of hope flashed suddenly to his bewildered brain. His hands had fortunately been left untied, and as he saw a huge pistol protruding from the soldier's belt decision and action were almost simultaneous. A rapid snatch, and the barrel of the weapon was between his fingers. As quickly the butt crushed with stunning force on Mawhood's temple, and over he went like a log, the rope slipping from his nerveless fingers.
Back Nathan sprang with a shout, and reversing and cocking the pistol he turned it on the officer. The latter already had his own pistol out and leveled, but when the hammer fell only a sharp click followed. With an oath he dodged to one side, and his agility saved his life. The lad's bullet barely grazed him, and struck Abner Wilkinson, who was directly in range. With a shrill cry the Tory farmer fell to his knees and then toppled over on his back.
The report was terrific and seemed to shake the very house. The powder smoke hid the scene for a moment, and then it cleared sufficiently to reveal the officer in the act of drawing his sword. There was no time to hesitate, and Nathan dashed at him before he could lift the weapon for a thrust. The two grappled, swayed fiercely for a few moments, and then came heavily to the floor. Over and over they rolled in a tight embrace, the officer cursing most savagely, and Nathan shouting at the top of his voice.
The struggle lasted but a short time, though to the combatants it seemed a long while. The lad was the weaker of the two, and he realized that he must soon succumb. But he fought on, gasping hard for breath, and just when his hold was relaxing there came a rush of feet and a loud shout.
The faithful Barnabas had arrived, and without an instant's delay he hauled the officer away from his intended victim. Nathan was able to assist, and between the two the desperate Britisher was overpowered and his arms were bound behind him with the rope that had so nearly ended the plucky lad's life. Abner Wilkinson was just breathing his last, and the soldier Mawhood was beginning to show signs of returning consciousness.
"The shot brought me here in time," exclaimed Barnabas. "But what does it all mean, lad?"
Before Nathan could reply a muffled clatter of hoofs was heard from the rear of the house, followed by the shrill whinny of a horse. Barnabas and the lad exchanged startled glances, but they quickly discovered that they had no cause for alarm. The next instant half a dozen soldiers in the uniform of Washington's bodyguard surged into the room, and with them, muffled in a heavy cloak, was General Washington himself.
"Gentlemen, we appear to have come too late," remarked the commander-in-chief. "I think that is the spy yonder." Then he asked for explanations, and Nathan briefly and clearly told the whole story.
"You have done well," said Washington. "Search that man at once," he added, pointing to the prisoner.
Barnabas did so, and speedily produced a thick bundle of papers. Washington took them eagerly, glanced over them, and then thrust them into his bosom.
"These were stolen from a chest in my private room but half an hour ago," he said. "The thief entered the window by means of a tree, and I suppose the storm enabled him to pass the sentries. Fortunately the loss was discovered a few moments afterward, and before the snow had covered the man's tracks sufficiently to prevent us from following him. The importance and value of the papers cannot be exaggerated, and I am indeed fortunate to recover them."
Washington now ordered Abner Wilkinson to be searched. The Tory was quite dead, having been shot through the heart, and in his pocket were found minute plans and data relating to the camp, showing that the man must have made numerous excursions within the lines.
As there was possible danger of a surprise by British cavalry, the whole party speedily left the house, taking the two prisoners with them, but leaving the body of the Tory behind. Mawhood and the officer refused to speak, and they sullenly submitted to be mounted behind a couple of the troopers. Barnabas and Nathan trudged behind the little procession to the house of Jacob Troup, where they found Corporal Dubbs and his men in a state of excitement induced by the pistol shot. The other sentries had come in, and the grain was already far on its way to camp. An hour later all who had participated in the night's adventure were sleeping soundly in their quarters, and the two prisoners were pacing restlessly up and down the narrow confines of the guard-house, with the spectre of the hangman's noose dangling over them.
The following day Nathan was summoned to headquarters, where Washington thanked him for the great service he had performed and complimented him highly on his pluck and bravery. This gave the lad keen pleasure, but it was as nothing compared to the joy he felt a week later, when his father passed the crisis and began to recover. His convalescence lasted a long time, and during that period Nathan did not venture to excite or worry his father by telling him of the visit of Mr. Noah Waxpenny to the Indian Queen. And when at last Captain Stanbury had entirely recovered, the lad had come to regard the affair as hardly worth speaking of.
Brief mention must be made of the two men captured in the farm-house of Abner Wilkinson. The officer turned out to be Captain Conway, of the Tory troop of horse known as the Queen's Rangers, and Mawhood was a private of the same force. Death by hanging would certainly have been their punishment had they not made a desperate attempt to escape shortly before being brought to trial. Mawhood did succeed in eluding the guards and getting out of the camp, but Captain Conway was riddled with musket-balls and killed instantly.
As the spring months wore on, bringing sunshine and warmth instead of snow and ice, the situation at Valley Forge changed decidedly for the better. The shadows of the winter were fading before the hopes of freedom promised by the fresh campaign soon to be opened. Most of the sick had recovered, and the troops fit for active service numbered about fifteen thousand. They had much to cheer them, and the greatest source of gratification was the good news from France. For, early in February, Benjamin Franklin had negotiated a treaty with that nation, news of which reached the United States in the following May, and was promptly ratified by Congress. And, to further encourage the struggling people, it was learned that a French fleet, commanded by Count d'Estaing, had already sailed for Philadelphia.
Meanwhile, on the 11th of May, Lord Howe had been superseded in command of the British army by Sir Henry Clinton, and it was generally believed that the latter had been ordered by the ministry to evacuate Philadelphia.
But that much-desired event was long delayed. The enemy spent weeks in slothful preparation, and the middle of June found the boats of the fleet all collected and moored below the town—which was taken as a pretty sure sign that the flight would be by water. At almost any day the French armament might be expected to sail up the Delaware.
But, in spite of this danger of a blockade, the British still lingered, to the satisfaction of Tory citizens and the disgust of all good patriots. And at Valley Forge, Washington was patiently watching and waiting, with his orders written out, his baggage ready to be packed at a moment's notice, and his troops in condition to form in line of march at the first beat of the drum.
It was past midday of the 17th of June, 1778, when the long-expected word came at last to the American camp. It was in the form of a private dispatch, the tenor of which was not at once communicated to the army. But a conference took place between Washington and his staff, as a result of which a trusty officer named Captain McLane left Valley Forge that evening under secret orders. He was suitably disguised and well mounted.
The night was far advanced when Captain McLane entered Philadelphia, unchallenged by a single sentry as he rode along.
He found the town in a ferment of excitement and joy. At nine o'clock the long-expected evacuation of the British army had begun. Down to the Delaware the troops marched quietly, regiment by regiment, and embarked in small boats. But instead of boarding the big vessels at anchor, they crossed the river and disembarked on the Jersey shore. The retreat was to be by land, and not by water.
Captain McLane found means of crossing with the enemy, and all night long, while the boats flitted from shore to shore, the brave man went here and there unsuspected. He followed the lead of the column five miles into the Jersies, to Haddonfield, ascertained General Clinton's intended line of march, and then retraced his steps past the long train of baggage, provisions, carriages, and saddle-horses that brought up the rear of the retreating army.
He safely reached the city early on the morning of the 18th—while the evacuation was still in progress—and before ten o'clock he was back at the camp with the electrifying news. Two hours after the last of the British had departed, Washington's dragoons were riding through the streets of Philadelphia, and a small detachment under General Arnold occupied the town.
Before night the whole of the patriot army was in motion toward the Delaware, and the huts at Valley Forge, consecrated by the winter's heroic sufferings and fortitude, were left to solitude and decay. The line of march was in the direction of Trenton, it being the intention of Washington to press closely on the rear of the enemy, and of the thousands of American soldiers who longed for a decisive battle, none desired it more ardently than Nathan Stanbury and his father.
General Clinton led the British army northeast through the Jersies, his object being to reach the Raritan River and there embark his troops. But the sandy roads and oppressively hot weather made marching tedious and slow, and, as there was but a single road, his train of baggage-wagons, horses and men made a line nearly twelve miles in extent. In addition, he had to build bridges and causeways over the streams and marshes.
Meanwhile the American army was moving swiftly, and had crossed the Delaware near Trenton in several divisions. On the 25th of June, learning that Washington was almost on his front, Clinton concluded to change his course rather than risk a general action with his numerous encumbrances. So, turning to the right, he followed the road leading to Monmouth Court-house and Sandy Hook, intending now to embark his troops at the latter place instead of on the Raritan.
As yet Washington was himself disinclined to risk a battle, and was merely trying to harass the enemy on their march. The advance American forces—certain corps and brigades under Maxwell, Morgan, Scott, Dickinson, and Cadwallader—had been ordered to annoy the British on the rear and flanks. On June 25th, when Clinton turned toward Monmouth Court-house, the Americans reached a place called Kingston. Here another council was held, and though General Lee, as before, was strongly opposed to any interference with the movements of the enemy, Lafayette, Green, and Wayne declared in favor of a general battle. Washington was of the same mind, and so he promptly proceeded to make his arrangements to that effect. He sent a thousand men forward under General Wayne to join the troops nearest the enemy, gave Lafayette the command of all the advanced forces, and himself moved with the main body to Cranberry on the 28th of June.
Early on the morning of the 27th, Lafayette reached Englishtown, a village about five miles to the west of Monmouth Court-house. The British general, being advised of the movements of the Americans, prepared for battle at Monmouth, where he had now arrived. He placed his baggage train in front and his best troops—the grenadiers, light infantry, and chasseurs—in the rear. Then he encamped near the Court-house, in a strong position that was secured by woods and marshy ground. His line stretched a mile and a half on the right toward Shrewsbury, and three miles on the left in the direction of Allentown.
Washington heard of this, and found it necessary to increase the numbers of his advance corps. He sent Lee with two brigades to join Lafayette, and gave him the command of the whole division. The main army marched the same day to within three miles of Englishtown. Morgan was now hovering on the British right, and a force of militia under Dickinson was menacing their left. Three miles beyond Monmouth were the heights of Middletown, which offered a great advantage to the enemy. To prevent them from obtaining that advantage, Washington determined to attack their rear the moment they should attempt to move, and he gave General Lee orders to that effect. Sir Henry Clinton, finding a battle to be inevitable, was no less busy, and the night of the 27th was one of anxiety to both armies.
The 28th of June, 1778, was Sunday. The sun rose out of a cloudless sky, and not a breath of air was stirring. It was the hottest and sultriest day of the year. The Americans were all eager for the fight, and hopeful of striking a decisive blow at the enemies of their country. The force to which Nathan and the Wyoming men belonged were with the main army back near Englishtown, and this was a disappointment to the lad, since he feared that he would miss the battle. But his anxiety was needless, as after events proved.
Before dawn the regiment of Colonel Grayson and the brigades of Scott and Varnum were in the saddle and moving toward Monmouth Court-house. General Knyphausen, with a British force that comprised Hessians and Pennsylvania and Maryland Tories, advanced at daybreak, followed later by Sir Henry Clinton with his main army. Dickinson, observing the earlier movement, sent an express in haste to Lee and the commander-in-chief. Washington at once put his army in motion, and sent orders to General Lee to attack the enemy unless there should be a strong reason to the contrary.
So Lee pressed forward, supported by Dickinson, Grayson, and the brigades of Wayne and Maxwell. He crossed the morass by a causeway near the parsonage, and on reaching a height was joined by Lafayette with the main body of the advanced corps. Here conflicting intelligence was received, some messengers asserting that the enemy were in full retreat, while others reported that the whole British army was filing off to the right to attack the Americans.
Satisfied that no important bodies of foes were on either of his flanks, Lee marched on with about five thousand troops through a broken and heavily-wooded country, and came to the verge of the plain of Monmouth. Seeing a column of the British about two thousand strong on the left, and taking them to be a covering party, he determined to try to cut them off from the main army. So he sent Wayne with artillery and seven hundred men to attack them in the rear, while he himself sought to gain their front by a short cut.
It was now nine o'clock in the morning. Wayne was about to descend on the enemy when a body of the Queen's Dragoons appeared on the edge of a wood, parading as though about to make an attack. Lee, seeing this, planned and partly carried out a clever ruse. He ordered his light horse to entice the dragoons as near as possible, and then retreat to Wayne's position. The dragoons, following the light horse as was expected, were met with a hot musketry fire from an ambush party under Colonel Butler, of Wayne's command. Then they wheeled about and galloped off toward the main column. Wayne ordered Colonel Oswald to open two pieces of artillery upon them, and he himself made a bayonet charge forward with his whole force.
The battle now seemed about to begin in earnest, for Wayne and his command were fighting with vigor, and with good prospect of success. He was therefore greatly chagrined and irritated when Lee ordered him to make only a feigned attack, lest he (Lee) should fail in his plan to cut off the covering party. But Wayne was a true soldier. He obeyed without questioning and checked his troops, hoping that Lee would recover what his untimely order had lost. But here again Wayne was disappointed, for only a small portion of Lee's troops issued from the wood on the right, and these were actually within cannon-shot of the royal forces.
About this time Sir Henry Clinton discovered that the Americans were marching in force on both his flanks, and with the hope of drawing them off by making an urgent necessity for them elsewhere, he faced his army around and prepared to attack Wayne. This move was made, and soon a large body of cavalry were seen approaching. Lafayette discovered this, and it suggested so good a plan to him that he rode straightway and in haste to Lee.
"General," he cried, "have I your permission to gain the rear of these cavalry who are marching against us? I am satisfied that I can do so, and thus cut them off."
"Sir, you do not know British soldiers," replied Lee. "We cannot stand against them. We shall be driven back at first, and we must be cautious."
"Perhaps you are right, General," declared Lafayette. "But British soldiers have been beaten before this, and they are not invincible. At all events, I wish to make this attempt."
Lee partly consented, ordering Lafayette to wheel his column by the right, and gain and attack the cavalry's left. Next he unaccountably weakened Wayne's detachment on the left by sending three regiments to the right, and then rode toward Oswald's battery to reconnoiter.
At this moment, to his great astonishment, as he afterward declared, Lee saw a large portion of the British army marching on the Middletown road toward the Court-house. Apparently confused, he immediately ordered his right to fall back, and gave other commands that virtually amounted to a retreat. Lafayette was instructed to fall back to the Court-house, and Generals Maxwell and Scott, who were about to form for action on the plain, were sent to the woods in their rear.
A general and disastrous retreat had now begun, and one for which there was no excuse, since Lee might have made an effective stand in his advantageous position. The Americans were pursued as far as the Court-house, where the British temporarily halted and opened fire with several batteries. The routed army pressed on across the morass, suffering terribly from heat, thirst, and fatigue, and sinking ankle-deep in the loose and sandy soil. They reached the broken heights of Freehold, and paused here for a brief rest. But soon the British forces came on, and Lee resumed his retreat toward the Freehold meeting-house. The demoralized troops fled in great confusion, many perishing in the mud and water of the swamps, and others, dropping over with the heat, being trampled to death by those behind. It was a black commencement to the battle of Monmouth.
Meanwhile Washington had been pressing forward in haste, and with his right wing commanded by General Greene, and the left wing in charge of himself, he had reached the vicinity of the Freehold meeting-house and Monmouth Court-house. Just at that time arrived a farmer on a fleet horse, announcing that Lee and his forces were in full retreat, with the enemy in close pursuit. Washington at once rode forward with his staff, passing and checking the flying columns of troops, until he met Lee near the rear.
"Sir," he cried, in tones of bitter anger, "I desire to know whence arises this disorder and confusion, and what is the reason."
Lee was a high-spirited man, and being stung more by the manner than the words of his commander, he retorted harshly. A few sharp words passed between the two, but there was no time for full explanations, since the advancing enemy were within fifteen minutes' march.
Wheeling his horse, Washington spurred on toward the rear to avert the consequences of Lee's disaster and check the rout, and the effect of his personal presence on the demoralized troops was speedy and gratifying. Within ten minutes the retreat was suspended, the fugitives were rallying, and order and discipline were visible in the midst of the confusion.
Colonel Oswald, with two pieces of artillery, took a position on an eminence, and by a well-directed fire from his battery, checked the pursuing enemy. Stewart and Ramsey supported him, having formed their troops under cover of a wood. While the British grenadiers were pouring their deadly volleys into the still broken ranks of the Americans, Washington rode fearlessly to and fro in the face of the leaden storm, issuing order after order. The whole of Lee's army, so shortly before on the verge of destruction, was soon drawn up in battle array, with a bold and well-arranged front. Having thus saved the day, Washington rode back to General Lee.
"Will you command in that place, sir?" he said curtly, pointing to the reformed division.
"I will," Lee answered, eagerly.
"Then I expect you to check the enemy at once."
"Your command shall be obeyed," assured Lee, "and I will not be the first to leave the field."
Washington hurried further back to the main army, and lost no time in forming it in battle order on the ridge that rose above the western side of the morass. Meanwhile General Lee partly atoned for his fault by a display of skill and courage in obedience to his commander's orders. While a hot cannonade was going on between the artillery of both forces, he gallantly repulsed a troop of royal light horse that charged upon the right of his division. Nevertheless the enemy were too strong to be held in check more than temporarily, and before long the greater part of the Americans were obliged to give way and fall back toward Washington.
Stretching across the open field in front of the causeway over the morass was a hedgerow, and here the conflict raged for some little time, the place being held stoutly by Livingston's regiment and Varnum's brigade, with a battery of artillery. But their ranks were finally broken by a desperate bayonet charge from the British cavalry and infantry, and Varnum and Livingston, with the artillery, retreated across the morass, their rear effectually protected by Colonel Ogden and his men, who held a wood near the causeway. Lee was the last to leave the field, bringing Ogden's corps off with him, and after forming the whole of his division in good order on the hillside west of the morass, he reported to Washington for further instructions.
Lee's forces had thus far borne the brunt of the day's fighting, so Washington considerately ordered them to the rear in the direction of Englishtown, while he himself prepared to engage the enemy with the fresh and main army. His left was commanded by Lord Stirling, and the right by General Greene. Wayne was on an eminence in an orchard near the parsonage, while on his right a battery of artillery occupied the crest of Comb's Hill.
The battle now began in earnest, the enemy being drawn up in force on the hills and in the fields across the morass, and having possession of the lost hedgerow. They were repulsed from the American left, and on trying to turn the right flank they were driven back by Knox's battery, supported by General Greene. Meanwhile Wayne kept up a brisk fire on the British centre, and repeatedly hurled back the royal grenadiers, who several times advanced upon him from the hedgerow.
The commander of the grenadiers, Colonel Monckton, determined to make a last attempt to drive Wayne from his position. So he formed his men in solid column, and advanced anew with the regularity of a corps on parade. Wayne's troops were partly sheltered by a barn, and they reserved their fire until the enemy were very close. Monckton was about to give the order to charge, sword in hand, when the terrible volley was poured forth. He himself was killed instantly, and most of the British officers fell with him. A desperate hand-to-hand fight ensued, and the survivors of the grenadiers finally fled in confusion, leaving the body of their commander behind. Thus the conflict raged from point to point, while the sultry day grew older, and the roar of cannons and muskets echoed far over the peaceful Jersey countryside.
And what was Nathan Stanbury doing all this time? We shall see. Behind the American lines was the meeting-house, and in front, down the hill toward the swamp that separated the two armies, were the parsonage and barn, an orchard, and a bit of woods. These places of shelter bristled with Washington's skirmishers. From behind trees and fences, from the loop-holes and crevices of the barn, they poured a hot and steady fire on the red-coats.
The Pennsylvania regiment to which the Wyoming troops belonged, occupied the strip of woods near the morass. Nathan was crouched behind a stump, and next to him was Barnabas Otter. Captain Stanbury was twenty feet away, and from time to time he looked anxiously around to see that his boy was all right. Overhead bullets whistled, sending down fluttering showers of leaves and twigs. Shells went screeching and hissing by, some bursting far off, others exploding close at hand with a deafening report. But Nathan kept his place like an old soldier, steadily loading and firing, and shifting the hot breech of his musket from hand to hand.
At first the lad was nervous under fire, but that feeling had long since passed away. His head was cool and his nerves steady. He felt that he had to do his part in winning the battle, and he regretted that his post of duty was with the skirmishers instead of on one of the flanks of the main army. Men died around him by shot and shell, but these dreadful sights only made his hand steadier and his aim truer.
"Be careful, boy," his father called to him. "Keep your head down."
"All right, sir," Nathan shouted back, "but I've got to see to fire."
"Aim low, lad," muttered old Barnabas Otter. "You know it's the natural tendency of a musket to carry high."
"And who taught me that but yourself, Barnabas?" retorted Nathan. "Have you forgotten all the fat deer I killed up on the Susquehanna? I'm shooting just as carefully now."
He went on loading and firing, peering this way and that through the smoke to get a glimpse of the red-coats. Far off he saw officers galloping to and fro, and he wondered if one of them could be Godfrey Spencer. He hoped the cruel fortune of war would not bring them together on the battle-field.
So, for hour after hour through the long afternoon, the fight went on, the skirmishers bravely holding their position. To right and left, where the morass ended, there was a constant panorama of moving cavalry, infantry and guns. The roar of battle echoed miles away, and the smoke floated overhead on the still air. The heat was terrific, and men dropped, fainting and exhausted, to the ground. Not since Bunker Hill had the American army shown such desperate valor. In vain Clinton thundered and stormed at the centre. In vain did Lord Cornwallis assail Sterling's invincible left wing.
The approach of evening found both armies still holding their ground, and now a large force of the British advanced on the American right wing. But a spare battery hastened to that quarter, unlimbered their guns, and poured into the enemy such a storm of shot and shell as drove them back in confusion.
Part of an infantry brigade—mostly grenadiers—passed near the strip of woods. The skirmishers had just turned their fire in this direction when a mounted officer arrived with orders to charge on the enemy's flank. With ringing cheers the Pennsylvania regiment poured out from the trees, Captain Stanbury's Wyoming company in front; and a double-quick trot brought them to close quarters with the rear of the British.
The grenadiers doggedly kept up the retreat, firing as they went, and many fell on both sides. Most of the enemy's officers were far in front, and Nathan felt sure that he recognized Godfrey's figure at a distance.
But one mounted officer, seeing what was taking place, pluckily galloped back to the rear to try to rally the broken lines. He ventured too far, and a shot brought horse and rider to the ground. Before his own men could rescue him, the front line of the Americans was nearly at the spot.
Barnabas and Nathan had seen the occurrence, and they ran up to the officer just as he struggled to his feet from under the body of his horse. At the first glance Nathan recognized Major Langdon, and he was quick to observe the half healed scar on his left wrist.