It was a sad day for Philadelphia, a sad day for
the nation, when the pomp of British banners and
the gleam of British arms was in her streets and
along her avenucs; when, as far as eye could
reach, was seen the long array of glaring red coats,
with the sunbeams of a clear September day falling
on helm and cuirass, shining like burnished
gold.

It was a sad and gloomy day for the nation,
when the Congress was forced to flee the old provincial
town of William Penn, when the tories paraded
the streets with loud hurrahs, with the British
lion waving overhead, while the whigs hung
their heads in shame and in despair.

True, the day was calm and bright overhead;
true, the sky was clear, and the nipping air of autumn
gave freshness to the mind and bloom to the
cheek; true it was, the city was all alive with the
glitter of processions, and the passing to and fro
of vast crowds of people; but the processions were
a dishonor to our soil, the crowds hurried to and
fro to gaze upon the living monuments of the defeat
of Brandywine—the armed and arrogant Britishers
filling the streets of Philadelphia.

They came marching along in front of the old
State House, on their way to their barracks in the
Northern Liberties. The scene was full of strange
and startling interest. The roofs of the State
House arose clearly in the autumn air each peak
and cornice, each gable-end and corner, shown in
full and distinct outline, with the trees of Independence
Square towering greenly in the rear of the
fabric, while up into the clear sky arose the State
House steeple, with its solemn bell of indepen
dence, that but a year ago sent forth the news of
liberty to all the land, swinging a welcome to the
British host—a welcome that sounded like the
funeral knell of new world freedom.

The columns of the army were passing in front
of Independence Hall. Along Chesnut street, as
far as the eye could see, shone the glittering array
of sword and bayonet, with the bright sunshine
falling over the stout forms of the British troopers,
mounted on gallant war steeds, and blazing with
burnished cuirass and polished helm, while banner
and pennon waved gaily overhead; and there,
treading the streets in all the flush of victory, were
the regiments of British infantry, with the one
bold front of their crimson attire flashing in the
light, with their bayonets rising overhead like a
forest of steel, and with marks of Brandywine
written on many a whiskered face and burly
chest.

And at their head, mounted on a gallant steed,
with the lordlings of his staff around him, rode a
tall and athletic man, with a frame of sinew, and
a calm, placid face, wearing an even smile and
quiet look, seen from beneath the shadow of his
plain chapeau, while his gaudy attire of crimson,
with epaulettes of gold on either shoulder, announced
Sir William Howe,[1] commander-in-chief
of the invading army.

And as the General glanced around, fixing his
eye proudly upon the British banner, waving from

[figure description] Page 002.[end figure description]

the State House steeple, as his glance was met by
the windows of Independence Hall, decorated by
the flags of the Britisher, a proud gleam lit up his
calm blue eye; and with the thought of Brandywine,
came a vision of the future, speaking eloquently
of provinces subjugated, rebels overthrown
and liberties crushed.

And then peals of music, uttered by an hundred
bands, filled the street, and startled the silence of
the State House avenues, swelling up to the heavens
with notes of joy the roll of drum, the shrick
of bugle, and the clash of cymbal mingling in
grand chorus; while the banners waved more
proudly overhead, the spears, the bayonets, and
helmets shone brighter in the light, and between
the peals of music the loud huzzas of the crowd
blackening the sidewalks, looking from the windows,
and clinging to the trees, broke gladly upon
the air, as the solemn notes of independence bell
heralded, with an iron tongue, the entrance of the
invaders into the city; the possession of Philadelphia
by the British.

It was a grand sight to see—the windows
crowded with the forms of beauty, waving scarfs
in the air, aged matrons lifting little children on
high, who clapped their hands with glee, as they
beheld the glimmer of arms and the glitter of
steel, the streets below all crimson with British
uniform, all music and all joy, the side walks blackened
by crowds of servile tories, who shouted till
their loyal throats were tired “Long life to King
George—confusion to Washington, and death to
the rebels!”

They trooped through the streets of Philadelphia
on that 26th of September, 1777; just fifteen days after
the battle-day of Brandywine, they took possession
with all the pomp of victory; and as the shades
of twilight sank down over the town, they marched
proudly into their barracks, in the Northern Liberties.

eaf246.n1

[1] Some accounts state that Sir William Howe
took possession of Philadelphia in person, while
others state that Lord Cornwallis entered the city
with four regiments of grenadiers.

And where was Washington?

Retreating from the forces of Sir William Howe,
along the Schuylkill; retreating with brave men
under his command, men who had dared death in
a thousand shapes, and crimsoned their hands with
the carnage of Brandywine; retreating because his
powder and ammunition were exhausted; because
his soldiers wanted the necessary apparel, while
their hands grasped muskets without lock or flint.

The man of the American army retreated, but
his soul was firm. The American Congress had
deserted Philadelphia, but Washington did not
despair. The British occupied the surrounding
country, their arms shone on every hill; their banners
toyed in every breeze; yet had George Washington
resolved to strike another blow for the freedom
of this fair land.

The calm sunlight of an autumnal afternoon was
falling over the quiet valleys, the green plains, and
the rich and rolling woodland of an undulating
tract of country, spreading from the broad bosom
of the Delaware to the hilly shores of the Schuylkill,
about seven miles from Philadelphia.

The roofs of an ancient village, extending in one
unbroken line along the great northern road, arose
grey and massive in the sunlight, as each corniced
gable and substantial chimney looked forth from
the shelter of the surrounding trees. There was
an air of quaint and rustic beauty about this village.
Its plan was plain and simple, burdened
with no intricate crossings of streets, no labyrinthine
pathways, no complicated arrangement of
houses. The fabrics of the village were all situated
on the line of the great northern road, reaching
from the fifth mile stone to the eighth, while a line
of smaller villages extended this “Indian file of
houses” to the tenth milestone from the city.

The houses were all stamped with marks of the
German origin of their tenants. The high, sloping
roof, the walls of dark grey stone, the porch before
the door, and the garden in the rear, blooming
with all the freshness of careful culture, marked
the tenements of the village, while the heavy
gable-ends and the massive cornices of each roof,
gave each house an appearance of rustic antiquity.

Around the village, on either side, spread fertile
farms, each cultivated like a garden, varied by orchards
heavy with golden fruit, fields burdened
with the massive shocks of corn, or whitened with
the ripe buckwheat, or embrowned by the upturning
plough.

The village looked calm and peaceful in the
sunlight, but its plain and simple denizens went
not forth to the field to work on that calm autumnal
afternoon. The oxen stood idly in the barn
yard, cropping the fragrant hay, the teams stood
unused by the farmer, and the flail was silent
within the barn. A sudden spell seemed to have
come strangely down upon the peaceful denizens
of Gormantown, and that spell was the shadow of
the British banner flung over her fields of white
buckwheat, surmounting the dream-like steeps of

[figure description] Page 003.[end figure description]

the Wissahikon, waving from Mount Airy, and
floating in the freshning breeze of Chesnut Hill.

Had you ascended Chesnut Hill on that calm
autumnal afternoon, and gazed over the tract of
country opened to your view, your eye would have
beheld a strange and stirring sight.

Above your head the clear and boundless sky,
its calm azure giving no tokens of the strife of
the morrow; declining in the west, the gorgeous
sun pouring his golden light over the land, his
beams of welcome having no omen of the battle
smoke and mist that shall cloud their light on the
morrow morn.

Gaze on the valley below. Germantown, with
its dark grey tenements, sweeps away to the south,
in one unbroken line; farther on you behold the
glitter of steeples, and the roofs of a large city—
they are the steeples and roofs of Philadelphia.
Yon belt of blue is the broad Delaware, and you
dim, dark object beyond the city, blackening the
bosom of the waters, is Fort Mifflin, recently crected
by General Washington.

Gaze over the fields of Germantown near the
centre of the village. In every field there is the
gleam of arms, on every hill-top there waves a
royal banner, and over hill and plain, toward the
Schuylkill on the one side, and the Delaware on
the other, sweep the white tents of the British
army.

Now turn your gaze to the north, and to the
northwest. The valley opens before you, and fairer
valley the sun never looked down upon.

Away it sweeps to the northwest, an image of
rustic beauty, here a rich copse of green woodland,
just tinged by autumn, there a brown field, yonder
the Wissahikon, marking its way of light, by a
winding line of silver, in one green spot a village
peeping out from among the trees; a little farther
on, a farmer's dwelling with the massive barn and
the dark, grey hay-stack; on every side life, and
verdure, and cultivation, mingled and crowded together,
as though the hand of God, had flung his
richest blessings over the valley, and clothed the
land in verdure and in beauty.

Yonder the valley sweeps away to the southwest;
the sun shines over a dense mass of woodland
rolling away to the blue of the horizon. Mark
that woodland well, try and discern the outline of
every tree, and count the miles as you gaze upon
the prospect.

The distance from Chesnut Hill, is sixteen wea
ry miles, and under that mass of woodland, beneath
the shadows of those rolling forests, beside
the streams hidden from your eye, in distress
and in want, in defeat and in danger, rendevouz
the bands of a desperate, though gallant army.

It is the Continental army, and they encamp
on the banks of the Skippack. Their encampment
is sad and still, no peals of music break upon
the woodland air, no loud hurrahs, no shouts
of arrogant victory. The morrow has a different
tale to tell, for by the first flush of the coming
moon, a meteor will burst over the British Hosts
at Germantown, and fighting for life, for liberty,
will advance the starved soldiers of the Continental
host.

As the sun went down in his way of glory, on
that 3rd day of October, 1777, his last beams
flung a veil of golden light over the verdure of a
green lawn, that extended from the road near the
head of Germantown, bounded along the village
street by a massive wall of stone, spreading north
and south, over a quarter of a mile, while toward
the east, it swept in all its greenness and beauty,
for the distance of some two hundred yards.

A magnificent mansion arose towering on the
air, a mansion built of grey stone, with a steep
roof, ornamented by heavy cornices, and varied
massive chimneys, with urns of brown stone, placed
on pedestals of brick at each corner of the
building. This fabric was at once substantial,
strikingly adapted for defence in time of war,
and neat and well-proportioned as regards architectural
beauty. The walls thick and massive,
were well supplied with windows, the hall door
opened in the centre of the house, facing the road,
and the steps were decorated by two marble Lions
placed on either side, each holding an escutcheon
in its grasp.

Here and there a green tree arose from the bosom
of the lawn; in the rear of the mansion arose
the brown-stone buildings of the barn, and to the
north the grounds were varied by the rustic enclosures
of a cattle pen.

This was the mansion of Chew's House, and
that green lawn, spreading bright and golden in
he beams of the declining sun, was the Battle
Field of Germantown.

One word with regard to the position of the
British on the Eve of Battle.

The left wing of the British army extended

[figure description] Page 004.[end figure description]

from the centre of the village, more than a mile
below Chew's house, from a point near the old
market house, westward across the Wissahikon,
and toward the Schuylkill. The German chasseurs
in their heavy uniform, the ponderous caps,
defended by bear skin and steel, the massive sword,
and the cumbrous ornaments of silver, were stationed
in the front and on the flank of the left
wing.

The right wing swept away towards the Delaware,
as far as the Old York Road; each soldier
well armed and accoutred, each dragoon supplied
with his stout war-steed, each cannon with its file
of men, ready for action, and every musket, with
brilliant tube and glittering bayonet, prepared
with its man, `for the keen chase of the rebel route,
whenever the master of the hounds might start the
hunt.'

This wing was defended in the front by a battalion
of light infantry, and the Queen's American
Rangers, whose handsome accoutrements, uniform
of dark green, varied by ornaments of gold, and
rifles mounted with silver, gleamed gaily from amid
the depths of the greenwood, presenting a brilliant
contrast to the coarse blue hunting shirt, the
plain rifle, and uncouth woodsman's knife that
characterised the American Riflemen.

In a green field, situated near the Germantown
road, a mile above Chew's house, the banner of
the 40th regiment floated above the tent of Col.
Musgrave, its brave commander, while the canvass
dwellings of the soldiers were scattered around the
field, intermingled with the tents of another battalion
of light infantry.

Such was the British position at Germantown—
a picket at Allan's house, Mount Airy, two
miles above Chew's house—Col. Musgrave's command
a mile below Allen's house—the main body
two miles below Chew's, somewhere near the old
market house—and this force was backed by four
regiments of British Grenadiers, stationed in the
barracks in the Northern Liberties, Philadelphia.

And this force, exceeding 18000 able-bodied regulars,
the Patriot chieftain had resolved to attack
with 8000 Continental troops and 3000 militia, inferior
in arms, in clothing, and in everything but the
justice of their cause, to the proud soldiers of the
British host.

Night came down upon Germantown. The
long shadows of the old houses were flung across
the village road, and along the fields; the moon
was up in the clear heavens, the dark grey roofs
were tinted with silver, and glimpses of moonlight
were flung around the massive barns of the village,
yet its peaceful denizens had not yet retired to
rest, after their good old German fashion, at early
candle-light.

There was a strange fear upon the minds of the
villagers. Each porch contained its little circle,
the grey haired grandsire, who had suffered the
bright-cheeked grandchild to glide from his knee,
while he leaned forward, with animated gesture,
conversing with his son in a low whisper—the
blooming mother, the blue-eyed maiden, and the
ruddy-cheeked, flaxen-haired boy, all sharing the
interest of the scene and having but one terrible
topic of discourse—the terror of war.

Could we go back to that quiet autumnal night
on the 3rd of October, in the Year of the “Three
Sevens,” and stroll along the viilage street of Germantown,
we would find much to interest the ear
and attract the eye.

We would leave Chew's house behind us, we
would stroll along the village street. We would
note the old time costumes of the villagers, the
men clad in coarse linsey wolsey, voluminous
vests with wide lappels, breeches of buckskin,
stockings and buckled shoes, while the head was
defended by the skimming dish hat; we would admire
the picturesque costume of the dames and
damsels of Germantown, here and there a young
lady of “quality” mincing her way in all the glory
f high-heeled shoes, intricate head-dress, and fine
silk gown, all hooped and frilled; there a stately
dame in frock of calico, newly bought and high-priced;
but most would we admire the blushing
damsel of the village, her full round cheeks peeping
from beneath the kerchief thrown lightly around
her rich brown locks, her blue eyes glancing mischievously
hither and thither, her bust, full rounded
and swelling with youth and health, enclosed
in the tight bodice, while the rustic petticoat of
brown linsey wolsey, just long enough to disclose
a plump ancle and a little foot, would possess
more attractions for our eyes, than the frock of
calico or gown of silk.

We could stroll along the street of the village,

[figure description] Page 005.[end figure description]

and listen to the conversation of the villagers.—
Every tongue speaks of war, the old man whispers
the word as his grey hairs wave in the moonlight,
the mother murmurs the syllable of terror as the
babe seeks the shelter of her bosom, the boy gaily
shouts the word, as he brandishes the rusted fowling
piece in the air, and the village beau, seated
beside his sweetheart, mutters that word as the
thought of the British ravisher flashes over his
mind.

Strolling from Chew's House, we would pass
the Bringhursts, seated on their porch, the Heiligs,
the Peters, the Unrods just opposite Axe's
Grave Yard, and the Lippards, and the Johnsons,
below the grave yard, at the opposite corners
of the lane leading back to the township line;
we would stroll by the mansion of the Keysers,
near the Mœnist grave yard; further down we would
pass the Knorrs, the Haines, the Pastorius,
the Hergeseimers, the Engles, the Cookes,
the Conrads, the Watsons, the Schæffers and
the hundred other families of Germantown, desendants
of old German stock, we would pass by, as
seated on the porch in front of the mansion, each
family circle discussed the terrible topic of war,
of bloodshed, of battle and of death.

And at every step, we would meet a British
soldier, strutting by in his coat of crimson, on
every side we would behold the gleam of British
arms, and our ears would be saluted by the
roll of British drums, beating the tattoo, and the
signal cannon, announcing the hour of repose.

And as midnight gathered over the roofs of the
town, as the baying of the watchdog broke upon
our ears, mingled with the challenge of the sentinel,
we would stroll over the lawn of Chew's House,
note the grass growing greenly and freshly, heavy
with dew, and then gazing upon the heavens, our
hearts would ask the question, whether no omen
of blood in the skies, heralded the doom and the
death of the morrow?

Oh, there is something of horror in the anticipation
of a certain death, when we know as
surely as we know our own existence, that a
coming battle will send scores of souls shrieking
to their last account, when the green lawn,
now silvered by the moonlight, will be soddened
with blood, when the ancient mansion, now
rising in the midnight air, like an emblem of ru
ral ease, with its chimneys and its roof sleeping in
the moonbeams, will be a scene of terrible contest
with sword, and ball, and bayonet, when the roof
will smoke with the lodged cannon ball, when the
windows will send their volumes of flame across
the lawn, when all around will be mist and gloom,
grappling foemen, heaps of dying mingled with
the dead, charging legions, and recoiling squadrons.

And as the sun went down, on that calm day
of autumn, shooting his level beams thro' the wilds
of the rivulet of the Skippack, there gathered within
the woods, and along the shores of that stream,
a gallant and desperate army, with every steed
ready for the march, with the columns marshalled
for the journey of death, every man with his knapsack
on his shoulder, with his musket ready for
action, while the broad banner of the Continental
Host drooped heavily over head, its folds rent
and torn by the fight of Brandywine, waving
solemnly in the twilight.[2]

The tents were struck, the camp fires where had
been prepared the hasty supper of the soldier,
were still burning, the neighing of steeds, and the
suppressed rattle of arms, rang thro' the grove
startling the night-bird of the Skippack, when the
flashing light of a decaying flame, burning around
the stump of a great oak, revealed a scene of
strange and terrible interest.

eaf246.n2

[2] The Skippack, the reader will remember, was
some 16 miles from Germantown.

The flame light fell upon the features of a gallant
band of heroes, circling round the fire, each
with his war cloak, drooping over his shoulder,
half concealing the uniform of blue and buff, each
with sword by his side, chapeau in hand, ready
to spring upon his war steed neighing in the grove
hard by, at a moment's warning, while every eye
was fixed upon the face of the chieftain who stood
in their midst.

By the soul of Mad Anthony it was a sight that
would have stirred a man's blood to look upon—that
sight of the gallant chieftains of a gallant band,
clustering round the camp fire, in the last and
most solemn council of war, ere they spurred
their steeds forward in the march of death.

The man with the form of majesty, and that
calm, impenetrable face, lighted by the hidden fire
of soul bursting forth ever and again in the glance
of his eye! Had you listened to the murmurs of

[figure description] Page 006.[end figure description]

the dying on the field of Brandywine you would
have heard the name, that has long since become
a sound of prayer and blessing on the tongues of
nations—the name of Washington. And by his
side was Greene, his fine countenance wearing
a shade of serious thought; and there listlessly
thrusting his glittering sword in the embers of
the decaying fire, with his fierce eyes fixed upon
the earth, while his mustachioed lip gave a stern
expression to his face, was the man of Poland and
the Patriot of Brandywine, Pulaski, whom it were
tautology to call the brave; there was the towering
form of Sullivan, there was Conway, with his
fine face and expressive features, there was Armstrong
and Nash and Maxwell and Stirling and
Stephens, all brave men and true, side by side
with the gallant Smallwood of Maryland, and the
stalwart Forman of Jersey.

And there with his muscular chest, clad in the
close buttoned blue coat, with his fatigue cloak
thrown over his left shoulder, with his hand resting
on the hilt of his sword, was the hero of
Chadd's Ford, the Commander of the Massacred of
Paoli, the future avenger of Stony Point, Anthony
Wayne, whom the soldiers loved in their delight
to name Mad Anthony; shouting that name in
the hour of the charge and in the moment of death
like a watchword of terror to the British Army.

Clustered around their Chief, were the aids decamp
of Washington, John Marshall, afterwards
Chief Justice of the States, Alexander Hamilton,
gifted, gallant, and brave, Washington's
counsellor in the hour of peril, his bosom friend
and confidant, all standing in the same circle with
Pickering and Lee, the Captain of the Partizan
Band, with his slight form and swarthy face,
who was on that eventful night detailed for duty
near the Commander-in-chief.

And as they stood there clustered round the
person of Washington, in a mild yet decided voice,
the chieftain spoke to them of the plan of the contemplated
surprise and battle.

It was his object to take the British by surprise.
He intended for the accomplishment of this object,
to attack them at once in the front of each wing,
as well as in the front of the centre; on the flank
and on the rear of each wing. This plan of operation
would force the American commander to extend
the continental army over a surface of from
five to seven miles.

In order to make this plan of attack effective, it
would be necessary for the American army to
separate near Skippack, and advance to Germantown
in four divisions, marching through as many
roads.

General Armstrong with the Pennsylvania militia,
3000 strong, was to march down the Manatawny
road (now Ridge road,) and traversing the
shores of the Schuylkill, until the beautiful Wissahikon
poured into its bosom, he was to turn the
left flank of the enemy at Vandurings (now Robinson's)
Mill, and then advance eastward, along
the bye roads, until two miles distance between this
mill and the Germantown market-house were accomplished.

Meanwhile the Militia of Maryland and New
Jersey, were to take up their line of march some
seven or eight miles to the eastward of Armstrong's
position, and over three miles distance from Germantown.
They were to march down the Old
York Road, turn the right flank of the enemy, and
attack it in the rear, also entering the town at the
market-house, which was the central point of operation
for all the divisions.

Between Germantown and Old York Road, at
the distance of near two miles from the village,
extends a road, called Limekiln road. The divisions
of Greene and Stephens flanked by McDougal's
Brigade were to take a circuit by this road,
and attack the front of the enemy's right wing.
They also were to enter the town by the market-house.

The main body, with which was Washington,
Wayne, and Sullivan, were to advance toward
Germantown by the Great Northern Road, entering
the town by way of Chesnut Hill, some four
miles distant from the Market-house.

A column of this body was led on by Sullivan
another by Wayne, and Conway's Brigade flanked
the entire force.

While these four divisions advanced, the division
of Lord Stirling, combined with the brigades
of Maxwell and Nash were to form a corps de reserve.

The reader, and the student of American History,
has now the plan of battle spread out before
him. In order to take in the full particulars of
this magnificent plan of battle, it may be necessary
to remember the exact nature of the ground around
Germantown.

In some places plain and level, in others broken
by ravines, rendered intricate by woods, tangled
by thickets, or traversed by streams, it was in
its most accessible points, and most favorable

[figure description] Page 007.[end figure description]

aspects, broken by enclosures, difficult fences, massive
stone walls, or other boundary marks of land,
rendering the operation of cavalry at all times
hazardous, and often impossible.

In the vicinage of the town, for near a mile on
either side, the land spread greenly away, in level
fields, still broken by enclosures, and then came
thick woods, steep hills and dark ravines.

The base line of operations was the country
around Skippack Creek, from which point, Washington,
like a mighty giant, spread forth the four
arms of his force, clutching the enemy in front,
on his wings and on his rear, all at the same moment.

It was a magnificent plan of battle, and success
already seemed to hover round the American banner,
followed by a defeat of the British, as terrible as
that of Yorktown, when the red-coat heroes of Germantown
struck their town Lion from his rock.

As Washington went over the details of battle,
each brave officer and scarred chieftain leaned
forward, taking in every word, with absorbing interest,
and then receiving the orders of his com
mander, with the utmost attention and consideration.

All was now planned, everything was ready for
the march, each General mounted on his warsteed,
rode to the head of his division, and with a
low solemn peal of music, the night-march of
Germantown commenced.

And through the solemn hours of that night,
along the whole valley, on every side, was heard
the half suppressed sound of marching legions,
mingled with the low muttered word of command,
the clank of arms and the neighing of war-steeds—
all dim and indistinct, yet terrible to hear.—
The farmer sleeping on his humble couch, rushed
to the window of his rustic mansion at the sound,
and while his wife stood beside him, all tremor
and affright, and his little ones clung to his knees
in alarm, he saw with a mingled look of surprise
and fear, the forms of an armed band, some on
horse and some on foot, sweeping through his
green fields, as the dim moonbeams shining
through the gathering mist and gloom, shone over
glittering arms, and dusky banners, all gliding
past, like phantoms of the Spectre Land.