The departure of the Merediths for headquarters under arrest had set Brunswick agog, and all sorts of surmises as to their probable guilt and fate had given the gossips much to talk of; their return, three days later, not merely unpunished, but with a protection from the commander-in-chief, set the village clacks still more industriously at work.
Events were moving so rapidly, however, that local affairs were quickly submerged. News of Washington’s abandonment of the island of New York and retreat into Westchester, pursued by Howe’s army, of the capture of Fort Washington and its garrison, of the evacuation of Fort Lee, of the steady dwindling of the Continental Army by the expiration of the terms of enlistment, and still more by wholesale desertions, reached the little community in various forms. But interesting though all this was for discussion at the tavern of an evening, or to fill in the vacant hour between the double service on a Sunday, it was still too distant to seem quite real, and so the stay-at-home farmers peacefully completed the getting in of their harvests, while the housewives baked and spun as of yore, both conscious of the conflict more through the gaps in the village society, caused by the absences of their more belligerently inclined neighbours, than from the actual clash of war.
The absent ones, it is needless to say, were the doughty warriors of the “Invincibles,” who had been called into service along with the rest of the New Jersey militia when Howe’s fleet had anchored in the bay of New York three months before, and who had since formed part of the troops defending the towns of Amboy and Elizabethport, but a few miles away, from the possible descent of the British forces lying on Staten Island. This arrangement not only spared them from all active service, thus saving the parents and wives of Brunswick from serious anxiety, but also permitted frequent home visits, with or without furlough, thus supplying the town with its chief means of news.
An end came, however, to this period of quiet. Early in November vague rumours, growing presently to specific statements, told the villagers that their day was approaching. The British troops on Staten Island were steadily reinforced; the small boats of the line-of-battle ships and frigates were gathered opposite Amboy and Paulus Hook; large supplies of forage and cattle were massed at various points. Everything betokened an intended descent of the royal army into New Jersey; that the new-made State was to be baptised with blood.
The successive defeats of the Continental army wonderfully cooled many of the townspeople who but a few months before had vigorously applauded and saluted the glowing lines of the Declaration of Independence, when it had been read aloud to them by the Rev. Mr. McClave. One of the first evidences of this alteration of outward manner, if not of inward faith, was shown in the sudden change adopted by the community toward the household of Greenwood. When the squire had departed in custody he apparently possessed not one friend in Brunswick, but within a month of his return the villagers, the parson excepted, were making bows to him, in the growing obsequiousness of which might be inferred the growing desperation of the Continental cause. Yet another indication was the appearance of certain of the,” Invincibles,” who came straggling sheepishly into town one by one—“Just ter see how all the folks wuz”—and who, for reasons they kept more private, failed to rejoin their company after having satisfied their curiosity. Most incriminating of all, however, was the return of Bagby from the session of the Legislature then being held in Princeton, and his failure to go to Amboy to take command of his once gloried-in company.
“’T would n’t be right to take the ordering away from Zerubbabel just when there ’s a chance for fighting, after he’s done the work all summer,” was the captain’s explanation of his conduct; and though his townsmen may have suspected another motive, they were all too bent on staying at home themselves, and were too busy taking in sail on the possibility of having to go about on another tack, to question his reasons.
If the mountain would not go, Mahomet would come; and one evening late in November, while the wind whistled and the rain beat outside the “Continental Tavern,” as it was now termed, the occupants of the public room suddenly ceased from the plying of glasses and pipes, upon the hurried entrance of a man.
“The British is comin’!” he bellowed, bringing every man to his feet by the words.
“How does yer know?” demanded Squire Hennion.
“I wuz down ter the river ter see if my boat wuz tied fast enuf ter stand the blow an’ I hearn the tramp of snogers comin’ across the bridge.”
“The bridge!” shouted Bagby. “Then they must be— Swamp it! there is n’t more than time enough to run.”
Clearly he spoke truly, for even as he ended his sentence the still unclosed door was filled by armed men. A cry of terror broke from the tavern frequenters, but in another moment this was exchanged for others of relief and welcome, when man after man entered and proved himself to be none other than an invincible.
“How, now, Leftenant Buntling?” demanded Bagby, in an attempt to regain his dignity. “What is the meaning of this return without orders?”
“The British landed a swipe o’ men at Amboy this mornin’, makin’ us fall back mighty quick ter Bonumtown, an’ there, arter the orficers confabulated, it wuz decided thet as the bloody-backs wuz too strong ter fight, the militia and the flyin’ camp thereabouts hed better go home an’ look ter their families. An’ so we uns come off with the rest.”
“You mean to say,” asked Joe, “that you did n’t strike one blow for freedom; did n’t fire one shot at the tools of the tyrant?”
“Oh, cut it, Joe,” growled one of the privates. “Thet ’ere talk duz fer the tavern and fer election times, but ’t ain’t worth a darn when ye’ve marched twenty miles on an empty stomick. Set the drinks up fer us, or keep quiet.”
“That I will for you all,” responded Bagby, “and what ’s more, the whole room shall tipple at my expense.”
No more drinks were ordered, however; for a second time the occupants of the room were startled by the door being thrown open quickly to give entrance to a man wrapped in a riding cloak, but whose hat and boots both bespoke the officer.
“Put your house in readiness for General Washington and his staff, landlord,” the new-comer ordered sharply. “They will be here shortly, and will want supper and lodgings.” He turned in the doorway and called: “Get firewood from where you can, Colonel Hand, and kindle beacon fires at both ends of the bridge, to light the waggons and the rest of the forces; throw out patrols on the river road both to north and south, and quarter your regiment in the village barns.” Then he added in a lower voice to a soldier who stood holding a horse at the door: “Put Janice in the church shed, Spalding; rub her down, and see to it that she gets a measure of oats and a bunch of fodder.” He turned and strode to the fire, his boots squelching as he walked, as if in complaint at their besoaked condition. Hanging his hat upon the candle hook on one side of the chimney breast and his cloak on the other, he stood revealed a well-dressed officer, in the uniform of a Continental colonel.
It had taken the roomful a moment to recover their equipoise after the fright, but now Squire Hennion spoke up:
“So yer retreatin’ some more, hey?”
The officer, who had been facing the fire in an evident attempt to dry and warm himself, faced about sharply: “Retreat!” he answered bitterly. “Can you do anything else with troops who won’t fight; who in the most critical moment desert by fifties, by hundreds, ay, by whole regiments? Six thousand men have left us since we crossed into Jersey. A brigade of your own troops—of the State we had come to fight for—left us yesterday morning, when news came that Cornwallis was advancing upon our position at Newark. What can we do but retreat?”
“Well, may I be dummed!” ejaculated Bagby, “if it is n’t Squire Meredith’s runaway bondsman, and dressed as fine as a fivepence!”
The officer laughed scornfully. “Ay,” he assented. “’T is the fashion of the land to run away, so ’t is only à la mode that bondsmen and slaves should imitate their betters.”
“Yer need n’t mount us Americans so hard, seem’ as yer took mortal good care ter git in the front ranks of them as wuz retreatin’,” asserted an Invincible.
I undertook to guide the retreat, because I knew the roads of the region,” retorted the officer, hotly, evidently stung by the remark; then he laughed savagely and continued: “And how comes it, gentlemen all, that you are not gloriously serving your country? Cornwallis, with nine thousand picked infantry, is but a twenty miles to the northward; Knyphausen and six thousand Hessians landed at Perth Amboy this morning, and would have got between us and Philadelphia but for our rapid retreat. Canst sit and booze yourself with flip and swizzle when there are such opportunities for valour? Hast forgotten the chorus you were for ever singing?” Brereton sang out with spirit:—
“‘In Freedom we’re born, and, like Sons of the Brave,
We’ll never surrender,
But swear to defend her,
And scorn to survive, if unable to save.’”
“’T ain’t no good fighting when we hav n’t a general,” snarled Bagby.
“Now damn you for a pack of dirty, low-minded curs!” swore the officer, his face blazing with anger. “Here you’ve a general who is risking life, and fortune, and station; and then you blame him because he cannot with a handful of raw troops defeat thirty thousand regulars. There’s not a general in Europe—not the great Frederick himself—who’d so much as have tried to make head against such odds, much less have done so much with so little. After a whole summer campaign what have the British to show? They’ve gained the territory within gunshot of their fleet; but at White Plains, though they were four to one, they dared not attack us, and valiantly turned tail about, preferring to overrun undefended country to assaulting our position. I tell you General Washington is the honestest, bravest, most unselfish man in the world, and you are a pack of—”
“Are my quarters ready, Colonel Brereton?” asked a tall man, standing in the doorway.
“This way, yer Excellency,” obsequiously cried the landlord, catching up a candle and coming out from behind the bar. “I’ve set apart our settin’-room and our bestest room —thet ’ere with the tester bed—for yer honourable Excellency.”
“Come with me, Colonel Brereton,” ordered the general, as he followed the publican.
Motioning the tavern-keeper out of the room, Washington threw aside his wet cloak and hat, and taking from a pocket what looked like a piece of canvas, he unfolded and spread it out on the table, revealing a large folio map of New Jersey.
“You know the country,” he said; “show me where the Raritan can be forded.”
“Here, here, and here,” replied Brereton, indicating with his finger the points. “But this rain to-night will probably so swell it that there’ll be no crossing for come a two days.”
“Then if we destroy the bridge Cornwallis cannot cross for the present?”
“No, your Excellency. But if ’t is their policy to again try to outflank us, they’ll send troops from Staten Island by boat to South Amboy; and by a forced march through Monmouth they can seize Princeton and Trenton, while Cornwallis holds us here.”
“’T is evident, then, that we can make no stand except at the Delaware, should they seek to get in our rear. Orders must be sent to secure all the boats in that river, and to—”
A knock at the door interrupted him, and in reply to his “Come in,” an officer entered, and, saluting, said hurriedly: “General Greene directs me to inform your Excellency that word has reached him that a brigade of the New Jersey militia have deserted and have seized and taken with them the larger part of the baggage train. The commissary reports that the stores saved will barely feed the forces one day more.”
Washington stood silent for a moment. “I will send a message back to General Greene by you presently. In the meantime join my family, who are Supping, Major Williams.” Then, when the officer had left the room, the commander sat down at the table and rested his head on his hand, as if weary. “Such want of spirit and fortitude, such disaffection and treachery, show the game to be pretty well up,” he muttered to himself.
Brereton who had fallen back at the entrance of the aide, once more came to the table. “Your Excellency,” he said, “we are but losing the fair-weather men, who are really no help, and what is left will be tried troops and true.”
“Left to starve!”
“This is a region of plenty. But give me the word, and in one day I’ll have beef and corn enough to keep the army for a three months.”
“They refuse to sell for Continental money.”
“Then impress.”
“It must come to that, I fear. Yet it will make the farmers enemies to the cause.”
“No more than they are now, I wot,” sneered the aide. “And if you leave them their crops ’t will be but for them to sell to the British. ’T is a war necessity.”
Washington rose, the moment’s discouragement already conquered and his face set determinedly. “Give orders to Hazlett and Hand to despatch foraging parties at dawn, to seize all cattle, pigs, corn, wheat, or flour they may find, save enough for the necessities of the people, and to impress horses and wagons in which to transport them. Then join us at supper.”
Brereton saluted, and turned, but as he did so Washington again spoke:—
“I overheard what you were saying in the public room, Brereton,” he said. “Some of my own aides are traducing me in secret, and making favour with other generals by praising them and criticising me, against the possibility that I may be superseded. But I learned that I have one faithful man.”
“Ah, your Excellency,” impulsively cried the young officer, starting forward, “’t is a worthless life,—which brought disgrace to mother, to father, and to self; but what it is, is yours.”
“Thank you, my boy,” replied Washington, laying his hand affectionately on Brereton’s shoulder. “As you say, ’t is a time which winnows the chaff from the wheat. I thank God He has sent some wheat to me.” And there were tears in the general’s eyes as he spoke.