CHAPTER XIA MESSENGER OF DEFEAT
IN the excitement of those September days, when the two armies overran the Pennsylvania hills to the west and south of Philadelphia, Hadley came near forgetting his Uncle Ephraim and the promise he had made his mother regarding the old man. Miser Morris had so repelled his nephew’s kindly efforts to help him, that the boy felt he was no more able to do him any good while at the Three Oaks than he was miles away from the Morris farm in the lines of the Continental troops. And then, the glamour of the life—the drilling, the marching, the uncertainty, the danger—all fed his imagination and inspired him with actual delight. Prentice declared almost hourly that Hadley was “spoiling a good officer by hanging about a country inn.”
“I don’t feel that I could regularly enlist,” the boy said to him, “so I am not likely to be an officer yet awhile. I am here only as a volunteer, and my conscience troubles me, too, at that.”
But all things end in their own good time, and the long wait which ensued after the landing of the British finally was closed on the morning of September 11th. Captain Prentice’s command had not even tasted a skirmish until that day; but Hadley—nor the captain himself—could find no fault with the position they occupied during the fearful hours which followed the first gun of attack. Hadley was eager to see a real battle, to see the armies charge each other and try their strength upon a real battle-field, instead of individual men snapping their muskets at one another in little skirmishes. Before the end of that day he could not realize what awful motive had ever urged such foolish desire in his heart.
He saw men lying dead upon the browning hillsides; he heard wounded horses screaming in their death agony; the earth shook with the discharge of the heavy guns; the crackling of the musketry fire deafened him. The fife and drums, the uniformed officers, the marching soldiery made no appeal to Hadley Morris now. Wounds and death were all about him, and fear gripped his heart as though in a vice. Time and again as he heard the shriek of the bullets over his head he could have fainted, or run away in abject terror, had he dared! But the thought of being considered a coward frightened him even more, and he stayed.
Once, when there was a lull of heavy firing on both sides, a strange sound reached his ears. Captain Prentice’s command was somewhat above and to one side of the main line of battle, and this sound, growing louder and more ear-piercing as the strange silence continued, had such an eerie effect upon the listener that Hadley actually shook with a nervous chill, without knowing what caused it. The sound was little more than a murmur—yet a very insistent, penetrating murmur.
“What is it?” Hadley whispered to the man who stood next him in the broken line.
“The cries of the wounded,” was the stern reply, and the boy was glad when a renewal of the conflict drowned the awful sound.
No history fittingly tells the story of that day’s struggle—the high hopes with which the battle was begun by the Americans, the determined, dogged resistance they offered the British soldiery. Yet its salient points are familiar enough. We do not like, even now, to speak at length upon the defeats of our arms even in that unequal war. But without doubt, had not Sullivan blundered and lost to the American cause a good twelve hundred men, the Battle of the Brandywine would have been placed upon the list of American victories.
Hadley saw the patriot army driven back and as they retreated he observed many of the men weeping like women at the thought of flying before an enemy which they had practically held in check since early morning. Captain Prentice, who had been recklessly courageous during the engagement, was wounded, yet still kept on the firing line with his arm and shoulder swathed in bandages. As they broke into the final disorderly retreat, an aide galloped to the young captain and said a word to him.
“Morris!” exclaimed Prentice, “follow this man to Colonel Cadwalader. He wants you. All’s lost here, anyway; there’s nothing more to be done.”
Hadley threw down his musket and ran beside the aide’s stirrup along the dusty road for nearly a quarter of a mile before overtaking the group of officers of which Colonel Cadwalader was the centre. The Colonel sat on his horse firmly and, despite the creature’s dancing, was writing rapidly on the pommel of his saddle.
“Morris,” he said, scarcely glancing at the youth. “It is over for to-day. You are not kept here with Captain Prentice by any enlistment, I believe?”
“No, sir.”
“Then you can go back if you wish—you can go home. We shall retreat, and whether His Excellency secures another such chance to meet the enemy soon, we know not. It is an awful thing—an awful thing! But that is not why I called you. There is a fresh horse yonder being held for you. Here branches the road to Philadelphia. You will not be molested, for the British have not yet crossed it—though it’s not sure they’ll not throw a column out between us and the city.
“This letter goes to Holdness at the Indian Queen Hotel in Fourth street—anybody will direct you. Then, when it is delivered, you may follow your own wishes, Master Morris,” and the gentleman leaned down and dropped the unsealed note into the boy’s hand with a grave smile. “Leave the horse where you exchanged steeds before on the Germantown pike—you already have a horse there, have you not?”
“I left one there, sir.”
“Very well. Now, off with you! I shall see you anon—and hear more of you to your credit, I believe,” and with a wave of his hand Colonel Cadwalader dismissed him.
Together with the men beside whom he had fought Hadley was nigh heartbroken over the result of the battle. The retreat was almost a rout in some parts of the field. The boy sprang upon the horse held by an orderly, and at once dashed away through the broken lines and soon left the disorganized army behind. It was a bitter hour, and, young as he was, the youth felt it keenly. How would he be greeted in the city toward which he was carrying the news of the battle? He could imagine with what despair the result of the struggle would be received.
But he could not imagine all that had occurred in the capital during the hours of that fateful day. The days of anxiety and suspense which had followed the landing of the enemy culminated that morning when the distant booming of heavy guns announced the beginning of a general engagement in the southwest. At the first cannon shot many people left their houses and collected in the streets, and all day long their straining ears listened to the thunderous muttering of the guns. About six o’clock it died away, but the groups in the street still listened and waited. The sun set and supper-time came and went unnoticed by those still remaining in the Quaker City.
Naturally there were not any great number of male adults, excepting the old men, or those burdened by family or business cares which actually forbade their being in the ranks of the patriot army. Of course, there were a few Tories left, but they were not active, as had been Joseph Galloway and the Allens before they were banished from the town. There were no young men—only boys and children hanging on the skirts of the various groups about the State House, or listening to the remarks of the wise ones gathered before the doors of the houses of public entertainment.
The women, too, whispered on their doorsteps to each other, or craned their necks out of the darkened windows to look nervously along the street. The sound of the guns had brought that grim, horrible Thing called War so much nearer to them than it had ever seemed before.
About eight o’clock there was some little disturbance at one of the inns called the Old Coffee House, where the story gained credit that Washington had won a victory, and some few began to cheer. But there was no authority behind the story, and the enthusiasm died out, and by nine o’clock the suspense was actually painful.
At last, far out Chestnut street toward the distant Schuylkill, there rose the sound of rapid hoof-beats. As the approaching horseman tore down the street voices rose and hailed him as he passed, and soon the clamor grew to a roar, which roused the town for blocks around. The people ran together toward the State House, and saw a youth on a foam-flecked horse, covered with dust, and exhausted, riding hard along the rough way.
Once he drew rein for a moment to inquire the way again to the Indian Queen; but he refused to answer any questions until he had ridden around into Fourth street and stopped before the door of the old hostelry.
“Had Morris!” exclaimed a voice in the crowd which poured out of the place, and the lank figure of Lafe Holdness pushed through the throng and helped the boy from the saddle.
“What’s the news? Tell us of the battle!” cried the crowd. “What does the lad bring?”
Hadley thrust Colonel Cadwalader’s letter into the scout’s hand first. Then he said weakly to the anxious citizens: “There has been a battle fought to-day; but there are plenty of stragglers to tell you of it. There is another messenger in town already—he can tell you better than I.”
“But, is it defeat or victory?” somebody cried.
“The army has been beaten—I don’t know how badly. They say somebody blundered, and General Washington is obliged to fall back. The French Marquis was wounded, I was told—seriously. The army is marching northward and there will be plenty of stragglers here soon.”
Then he clutched Holdness by his sleeve. “Get me a bed, Lafe. I am nearly dead with riding so far on top of all that’s been done to-day. And I have no money.”
“Tut, tut!” exclaimed the Yankee. “Never mind money here, lad. Ye’ll be well entertained—I’ll speak to somebody about ye. But I must be off myself at once.”
And in ten minutes Hadley was alone in a little room at the top of the house, anxious to rest after his toilsome ride, while Holdness was away on some business connected with Colonel Cadwalader’s note. The city was, however, in a tumult. Hadley’s news had now been verified by a dozen other messengers of ill-tidings, and few in Philadelphia that night believed that Washington could successfully oppose the enemy again before Howe threw his troops upon the city itself.
Indeed, when Hadley appeared in the street the next morning to mount his horse brought around by the stableman, the same groups of excited citizens seemed to surround the Indian Queen which had been there the night before when he arrived. As far as he could learn, everybody seemed to believe that the city was doomed to capture by the British, and that the defeat of Brandywine could not be retrieved. A night’s sleep, however, had renewed Hadley’s courage as well as refreshed his body. When he clattered out of town, following the road northward toward Germantown, he drew in, with every breath of the fresh morning air, the feeling that all was not yet lost. He remembered how bravely his comrades had fought the day before; how reluctant they had been to fall back, even when commanded to do so. He thought of General Washington himself, and a mental picture of His Excellency’s stern, firmly lined face rose before him. That was not a man to give up—nor would General Knox, nor Wayne, nor Colonel Cadwalader, nor even young Captain Prentice! Before he reached the farm-house where he had left his horse, he was confident that Philadelphia would not be given over to the enemy without a second struggle.
And with that belief another idea entered the boy’s mind. He had experienced a real battle. It had frightened him, and the thoughts of some of the awful things he had seen and heard still troubled him; but he felt that now, when he had been initiated in war’s alarms, it was too bad that he should not remain and fight again when the patriots tried to keep the enemy out of the city.
“I’ll go home as quick as ever I can and beg uncle to let me go—he must let me enlist!” the boy thought. “Anyway, if he says ‘no,’ I’ll go just as I did this time, find a gun, and stay as long as the battle’s on. I know Jonas won’t care.”
He came again to the Ferry and crossed it at night, Black Molly, he had found her in good condition at the farmer’s, apparently as eager to be home as himself. The news of the disastrous battle had preceded him, and everywhere Hadley was met by anxious inquiries. He met no Tories, for most of them had gone to join the British forces; but the American farmers had again lost hope.
As he was poled across the river one of the ferrymen said to him: “Morris, ye’d best watch sharply as ye go along home. It is reported a party of Tories crossed below here not two hours ago. They used old Alwood’s bateau, and Brace Alwood is with them. They’re meaning no good to folks, I take it.”
“I thought all the Tories would be with the King’s men,” said the boy. “I heard on the road that they’ve sworn to march into Philadelphia with the Redcoats when the city is captured.”
“Well, Brace has got business of some kind over here—and it isn’t any good business, I’ll be bound. You’d better warn Jonas. They may come to the inn.”
Hadley was somewhat troubled by this information. Brace Alwood had been a reckless sort of a young man before the war broke out, and had incurred the enmity of many of the neighbors. It was reported that since he had joined the British he had given full sway to his more harmful propensities, and that he was noted among the Tory hangers-on of the King’s troops for his cruelty and bitter enmity against the patriots. He had obtained some petty office in the army, and now, with others, perhaps as brutal as himself, had come into his own neighborhood for no good purpose. Surely, if he had crossed the river merely to visit his father and mother, he would not have brought a troop with him.
But Hadley saw nobody on the road until he came abreast of his uncle’s property. Then he did not see any man, but a light in a clump of trees some distance back from the horse-path, and in Miser Morris’ pasture, attracted his attention. This was so strange a place for a fire, for a fire it was Hadley could tell by the intermittent leaping and fading of the light, that he could not go by without investigating, and after riding Black Molly a few rods beyond the grove in question, he dismounted, tied her to a fence rail, and crept over to reconnoitre.
There was a campfire in the middle of the clump of trees. It was well hidden from the house and outbuildings, and scarcely discernible from the highway. But when he got into the edge of the grove Hadley saw with surprise that although the fire was small there was a good-sized company about the blaze. He counted eight heavily armed and roughly dressed men lying about the fire, but Brace Alwood, Lon’s older brother, was not among them.
EIGHT HEAVILY ARMED MEN STOOD ABOUT THE FIRE
EIGHT HEAVILY ARMED MEN STOOD ABOUT THE FIRE
“Now, why should these fellows be roosting here?” thought the American youth, quite puzzled. “Of course they know that most of our men are away now with the army, and have they really come over here to harass the unprotected homesteads? If they have, and if they trouble the farmers’ wives, it will be too hot about here for the Alwoods to stay when the men do come back.”
A crackling in the bushes startled him, and he crouched lower. The Tories seemed so sure of their position that they did not keep a guard, and now two other figures came rapidly into the circle of the firelight, Hadley noticing that their approach was from the direction of his uncle’s house. An instant later he recognized Brace Alwood, the probable leader of this party of bushwhackers. He was grown much older looking since he had left home, and his bronzed face was covered by a tangled growth of beard. His companion he held by the arm, and Hadley saw that it was Alonzo.
“Here he is, boys,” declared Brace, with a laugh. “He’s young, but he’s sharp—a reg’lar fox for cunning. I found him watching the premises yonder, and he tells me everybody’s gone for the night, and the old man is in the house. All we got to do is to wait an hour or so till things get thoroughly quieted down, and then make our call. Miser Morris’ll be glad to see us, eh?” and the fellow laughed unpleasantly.
[TO BE CONTINUED]