Ghastly and white,
Through the gloom of the night,
From plain and from health,
Like a shroud of death,
The mist all slowly and sullenly sweeps—
A shroud of death for the myriad brave,
Who to-morrow shall find the tombless grave—
In mid heaven now a bright spirit weeps;
While sullenly, slowly rises that pall,
Crimson tears for the brave who shall fall,
Crimson tears for the dead without tomb,
Crimson tears for the death and the doom—
Crimson tears of an angel's sorrow,
For the havoc, the bloodshed, the carnage and
gloom,
That shall startle the field on the morrow;—
And up to the heavens now whitens the mist,
Shrouding the morn with a fiery glare;
Solemn voices now startle the air,
To their sounds of omen you are fain to list:
To listen and tremble, and hold your breath;
While the air is thronging with shapes of death.
“On, on over valley and plain the legions tramp,
Scenting the foemen who sleep in their camp;
Now bare the sword from its sheath blood-red,
Now dig the pits for the unwept dead;
Now let the cannon give light to the hour,
And carnage stalk forth in his crimson power.
Lo! on the plain lay myriads gasping for
breath—
While the mist it is rising—THE Shroud of
Death!”
Along the porch of an ancient mansion, surmounting
the height of Mount Airy, strode the
sentinel of the British picket, his tall form looming
like the figure of a giant in the gathering
mist, while the musquet on his shoulder was
grasped by a hand red with American blood.
He strq ode slowly along the porch, keeping his
lonely watch; now turning to gaze at the dark
shadow of the mansion towering above him, now
fixing his eye along the Germantown road, as it
wound down the hill, on its northward course;
and again he gazed upon the landscape around
him, wrapt in a gathering mist, which chilled his
blood, and rendered all objects around him dim
and indistinct.
All around was vague and shadowy. The mist,
with its white wreaths and snowy columns, came
sweeping up on every side, from the bosom of the
Wissahikon, from the depths of a thousand brooklets,
over hill and over valley, circled that dense
and gathering exhalation; covering the woods
with its ghastly pall, rolling over the plains, and
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winding upward around the height of Mount
Airy, enveloping the cottages opposite the sentinel
in its folds of gloom, and confining the view to a
space of twenty paces from the porch, where he
kept his solitary watch—to him, a watch of death.
It is now daybreak, and a strange sound meets
that soldier's ear. It is now daybreak, and his
comrades sleep within the walls of Allen's house,
and a strange, low, murmuring noise, heard from
a great distance, causes him to incline his ear with
attention, and to listen with hushed breath and
parted lips.
He listens. It is a distant sound—very distant;
like the rush of waters, or the moaning of the
young August storm, bursting into life amid the
ravines of the far-off mountains. It swells on the
ear—it spreads to the east and to the west: it
strikes the sentinel's heart with a strange fear,
and he shoulders his musquet with a firmer grasp;
and now a merry smile wreathes his lips.
That sound—it is the rush of waters: the Wissahikon
has flooded its banks, and is pouring its
torrent over the meadows, while it rolls onward
towards the Schuylkill. The sentinel smiles at
his discovery, and resumes his measured stride.
He is right—and yet not altogether right. A
stream has burst its banks, but not the Wissahikon.
A stream of vengeance—dark, wild, and
terrible, vexed by passion, aroused by revenge,
boiling and seething from its unfathomable deeps—
is flowing from the north, and on its bosom are
borne men with strong arms and stout hearts,
swelling the turbulence of the waters; while a
tide of sword and bayonet is rushing madly onward.
The day is breaking—sadly and ghastly breaking;
along the veil of mist, that whitens over the
face of nature like a Shroud of Death for millions,
the day is slowly, solemnly, and sadly
breaking, and the sentinel leans idly upon the
bannisters of the porch, relaxes the grasp of his
musquet, inclines his head to one side, and no
longer looks upon the face of nature covered by
mist. He sleeps. The sound not long ago far
off, is now near and mighty in its volume, the
tramp of steeds startles the silence of the road,
suppressed tones are heard, and there is a noise
like the moving of legions.
It grows nearer and nearer! The clatter of
horses' hoofs break along the road above Mount
Airy, and one long blaze of light glares through
the whitening mist, lifting for a moment the pall
of gloom, while a terrible echo arises, shrieking
around the scene. The light blazes through the
mist, and at the very moment the clatter of a falling
musquet rings along the porch of Allen's house.
The sentinel is dead at his post, his back to the
floor of the porch, his ghastly face upturned, and
his muscular hands vainly clutching at the red
wound between his eyes.
That strange flash, lifting the shroud of mist,
is the first shot of the battle-day of Germantown;
and that corpse stretched along the floor of the
porch, is the first dead man of that day of horror.
And now forms of armed men, with eager faces
and stout forms, with upraised musquets and drawn
swords, break on the scene, and surround Allen's
house; while the voice of Sullivan is heard far
down the road, urging the men of the first column
onward in the march; and then the battle shout
of Anthony Wayne is borne along by the morning
breeze.
Allen's house is surrounded. The soldiers of
the picket guard rush wildly from their beds, from
the scene of their late carousal by the fire they
rush, and seize their arms—but in vain! A blaze
of fire streams in every window, soldier after soldier
falls heavily to the floor, the picket guard are
surprised, Allen's house is secured, and the hunt
is up!
Great God, what a scene! The whole road,
farther than eye could see, farther than ear could
hear, crowded by armed men, hurrying over Chesnut
Hill, hurrying along the valley between Chesnut
Hill and Mount Airy, sweeping up the hill of
Allen's house, rushing onward in one dense column,
with the tall form of Sullivan at their head,
with the war shout of Anthony Wayne heard
from the centre of his column; while riding from
rank to rank, speeding from battalion to battalion,
from column to column, a form of majesty sweeps
by, mounted on a steed of iron grey, waving encouragement
to the men, while every lip repeats
the whisper, and every heart beats at the sound;
echoed like a word of magic along the lines—
“There he rides—how grandly his form towers in
the mist; it's Washington—it's Washington!”
and the whole army take up the sound—“It is
Washington!”
Allen's house was passed, and now the path of
the central body of the army lay along the descent
of the road from Mount Airy, for the space of a
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mile, until the quarters of Colonel Musgrave's
regiment were reached.
The descent was like the path of a hurricane.
The light of the breaking day, streaming dimly
through mist and gloom, fell over the forms of
the patriot band as they swept down the hill, every
man with his musquet ready for the charge, every
trooper with his sword drawn, every eye fixed
upon the shroud of mist in front of their path, in
the vain effort to gaze upon the position of the advance
post of the enemy a mile below, every heart
throbbing wildly with the excitement of the coming
contest, and all prepared for the keen encounter,—
the fight, hand to hand, foot to foot, the
charge of death, and the sweeping hail of the iron
cannon ball and the leaden bullet.
How it would have made your heart throb, and
beat and throb again, to have stood on that hill of
Mount Airy, and looked upon the legions as they
rushed by.
Sullivan's men have passed, they are down the
hill, and you see them below,—rank after rank
disappearing in the pall of the enveloping mist.
Here they come—a band brave and true, a band
with searred faces and sunburnt visages, with
rusted musquets and tattered apparel, yet with
true hearts and stout hands.
In their midst rides that soldier with the tall
form, marked by the broad shoulders and the muscular
chest; that soldier with the eye of fire and
the voice like thunder; now he waves his sword
on high, now he turns from side to side, speaking
cheerfully to his soldiers, while his steed springs
forward in the race, and every eye beholds him,
and every heart gathers courage at the echo of
his name.
And then his voice—how it rings out upon the
morning air, rising above the clatter of arms and
the tramp of steeds, rising in a mighty shout—
“On, boys, on! In a moment we'll have them.
On, comrades, on—and REMEMBER Paoli!”
And then comes the band with the gallant
Frenchman at their head, the brave Conway, brave
though unfortunate, also rushing wildly by, in the
train of the hunt; while your eye sickens as you
gaze over file after file of brave men, with mean
apparel and meaner arms, some half clad, others
well nigh barefoot, yet treading gaily over the
flinty ground; some with fragments of a coat on
their backs, others without covering for their head,
all marked by wounds, all thinned by hunger and
disease, yet every man of them is firm, every hand
is true, as it clutches the musquet with an eager
grasp.
Ha! That gallant band who came trooping on,
spurring their stout steeds, with wide haunches
and chests of iron, hastily forward, that band with
every face seamed by scars, and darkened by the
thick mustachio, every eye gleaming beneath a
knit brow, every swarthy hand raising the tremendous
sword on high. They wear the look of foreigners,
the manner of men trained to fight in the
exterminating wars of Europe.
And their leader is tall and well-proportioned,
with a dark-hued face, marked by a compressed lip,
rendered fierce by the overhanging mustachio;
his brow is shaded by the trooper's plume, and
his hand grasps the trooper's sword. He speaks
to his men in a foreign tongue, he reminds them
of the well-fought field on the plain of Poland, he
whispers a quick, terrible memento of Brandywine
and Paoli, and the clear word rings from his lips.
“Forwarts,—brudern,—forwarts!”
It is the band of Pulaski sweeping past, eager
for the hunt of death, and as they spur their steeds
forward, a terrible confusion arises far ahead.
There is flashing of strange fires through the
folds of mist, lifting the snow-white pall for a moment—
there is rolling of musquetry, rattling
like the thunderbolt ere it strikes—there is the
tramp of hurrying legions, the far-off shout of the
charging continentals, and the yells and shouts of
the surprised foemen.
Sullivan is upon the camp of the enemy, upon
them with the terror of ball and bayonet. They
rush from their camp, they form hastily across
the road, in front of their baggage, each red-coated
trooper seeks his steed, each footman grasps his
musquet and the loud voice of Musgrave, hurrying
wildly along the line of crimson attire and flashing
bayonets is heard above all other sounds,—“Form—
lads, form—fall in there—to your arms, lads, to
your arms.—Form, comrades, form!”
In vain his shouting, in vain the haste of his men
rushing from their beds, into the very path of the
advancing continentials! The men of Sullivan are
upon them! They sweep on with one bold front,
the forms of the troopers, mounted on their war-steeds,
looming through the mist, as with sword
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upraised, and battle-shout pealing to the skies,
they lead on the charge of death!
A moment of terror, a moment made an age by
suspense! The troopers meet, mid-way in their
charge, horse to horse, sword mingled with sword,
eye glaring in eye, they meet, and as the earthquake
shock shakes the very ground, steeds recoil
on their haunches, the British strew the road side,
flooding the dust with their blood, and the music
of battle, the fierce music of dying groans and
cries of death, rises up with the fog, startling the
very heavens with its discord!
The hunt is up!
“On—boys—on”—rings the voice of Mad Anthony—
“on—comrades—on—and Remember Paoli!”
“Charge!” sounds the voice of Washington,
shrieking along the line, like the voice of a mighty
spirit—“upon them—over them!” Conway reechoes
the sound, Sullivan has already made the air
ring with his shout, and now Pulaski, takes up the
cry—“Forwarts—brüdern—Forwarts!”
The British face the bayonets of the advancing
Americans, but in vain! Each bold backwoodsman
sends his volley of death along the British
line, and then clubbing his musquet rushes wildly
forward, beating the red-coat to the sod with a
blow that cannot be stayed. The British troopers
rush forward in the charge, but ere half the distance
between them and the American host is
measured, Mad Anthony comes thundering on,
with his Legion of Iron, and as his war-shout
swells loudly above, the red-coats are driven back
by the hurricane force of his charge, the ground
is strewn with the dying, and the red hoofs of the
horse, trample madly over the faces of the dead.
Wayne charges, Pulaski charges, Conway
brings up his men, and Washington rides in the
very glare of the mellay.
The fires of the infantry, spreading a sheeted
flame thro' the folds of the mist, light up the scene,
and the never-ceasing clang of sword against
sword, the low muttered shriek of the fallen, vainly
trying to stop the flow of blood, the wild, dread
yell of the soldier, gazing madly round as he receives
his death wound, the shout of the charge,
and the involuntary cry of `quarter,' all furnish a
music most dread and horrible, as tho' an infer
nal band, were urging on the work of slaughter
with their notes of fiendish mockery.
That flash of musquetry! What a light it gives
the scene! Above, clouds of white mist and lurid
smoke; around, all hurry, and tramp, and motion,
faces darkened by all the passions of a demon,
glaring madly in the light, blood red hands upraised,
meeting foemen grappling in contest,
swords rising and falling, glaring and glittering,
the forms of the wounded, with their faces
buried in the earth, the ghastly dead, all heaped
up in positions of ludicrous mockery of death, along
the roadside!
That flash of musquetry!
The form of Washington is in the centre of the
mellay, the battle glare lighting up his face of
majesty; the stalwart form of Wayne is seen riding
hither and thither, waving a dripping sword in
his good right hand; the figure of Pulaski, dark as
the form of an earth riven spirit of some German
story, breaks on your eye, as, enveloped in mist,
he seems rushing everywhere at the same moment,
fighting in all points of the contest, hurrying his
men onward, and driving the affrighted British
before him, with the terror of his charge.
And Col. Musgrave—where is he?
He shouts the charge to his men, he hurries hither
and thither, he shouts till he is hoarse, he
fights till his person is red with the blood of his
own men, slain before his very eyes, but all in
vain!
He shouts the word of retreat along his line—
“Away, my men, away to Chew's House—
away!”
The retreat commences, and then, indeed, the
hunt of death is up in good earnest.
The British wheel down the Germantown road,
they turn their backs to their foes, they flee wildly
toward Germantown, leaving their dead and dying
in their wake, man and horse, they flee, some
scattering their arms by the roadside, others weakened
by loss of blood, feebly endeavoring to join
the retreat, and then falling dead in the path of
the pursuers, who with one bold front, with one
firm step rush after the British in their flight, ride
down the fleeing ranks, and seatter death along
the hurrying columns.
The fever of bloodshed grows hotter, the chase
grows fearful in interest, the hounds who so often
have worried down the starved Americans, are
now hunted in their turn.
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And in the very van of pursuit, his tall form
seen by every soldier, rode George Washington, his
mind strained to a pitch of agony, as the crisis of
the contest approached, and by his side rode Mad
Anthony Wayne, now Mad Anthony indeed, for
his whole appearance was changed, his eye seemed
turned to a thing of living flame, his face
was begrimed with soot, his sword was red
with blood and his battle-shout rung fiercer on the
air—
“Over them boys—upon them—over them, and
Remember Paoli!”
“Now, Wayne, now”—shouted Washington—
“one charge more and we have them!”
“Forwarts—brudern—forwarts!” shouted Pulas
ki, as his iron band came thundering on—“Forwarts—
for Washington—Forwarts!”
The British leader wheeled his steed for a moment
and gazed upon his pursuers. All around
was bloodshed, gloom, and death, mist and smoke
above, flame around, and mangled corses below.—
With one hoarse shout, he again bade his men
make for Chew's House, and again the dying
scattered along the path looked up, and beheld the
British sweeping madly down the road.
The vanguard of the pursuers had gained the
upper end of Chew's wall, when the remnant of
the British force disappeared in the fog; file after
file of the crimson-coated British were lost to
sight in the mist, and in the very heat and flush of
the chase, the American army was brought to
a halt in front of Chew's wall, each soldier falling
back on his comrade with a sudden recoil
while the officers gazed on each other's faces in
vain inquiry for the cause of this unexpected delay.
The fog gathered in dense folds over the heads
of the soldiers, thicker and more dense it gathered
every instant; the enemy was lost to sight in the
direction of Chew's lawn, and a fearful pause of
silence from the din and tumult of bloodshed ensued
for a single moment.
Leaning from his steed in front of the gate that
led into Chew's lawn, Washington gazed round
upon the faces of his staff, who circled him on
every side, with each steed recoiling on his haunches
from the sudden effect of the halt.
Washington was about to speak as he leaned
from his steed, with his sword half lowered in the
misty air, he was about to speak, and ask the
meaning of this sudden disappearance of the British,
when a lurid flash, lifted up the fog from the
lawn, and the thunder of musquetry echoed along
the air, quivering among the nooks and corners of
the ancient houses on the opposite side of the
street.
Another moment, and a soldier with face all
crimsoned with blood and darkened by battle
smoke rushed thro' the group clustering around
the horse of Washington, and in a hurried voice
announced that the remnant of the British Regiment
had thrown themselves into the substantial
stone mansion on the left, and seemed determined
to make good a desperate defence.
“What say you, gentlemen”—cried Washington—
“shall we press onward, into the town, and
attack the main body of the enemy at once, or
shall we first drive the enemy from their strong
hold, at this mansion on our left?”
The answer of Wayne was short and to the
point. “Onward”—he shouted, and his sword
rose in the air, all dripping with blood—“Onward
into the town—our soldiers are warmed
with the chase—onward, and with another blow,
we have them!”
And the gallant Hamilton, the brave Pickering,
the gifted Marshall, echoed the cry—“Onward”—
while the hoarse shout of Pulaski rang out in
the air—“Forwarts—brüdern—Forwarts!”
“It is against every rule of military science”—
exclaimed General Knox, whose opinion in
council was ever valuable with Washington—“It
is against every rule of military science, to leave
a fortified stronghold in the rear of an advancing
army. Let us first reduce the mansion on our
left, and then move forward into the centre of the
town!”
There was another moment of solemn council
the older officers of the staff united in opinion
with Knox, and with one, quick anxious glance
around the seene of fog and mist, Washington
gave the orders to storm the house.
And at the word while a steady volume of flame
was flashing from Chew's House, every window
pouring forth its blaze, flashing over the wreath of
mist, the continentals, horse and foot, formed
across the road, to the north of the house, eager
for the signal, which would bid them advance into
the very jaws of death.
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The artillery were ranged some three hundred
yards from the mansion—their cannon being placed
on a slight elevation, and pointed at the northwest
corner of the house. This was one of the
grand mistakes of the battle, occasioned by the
density of the fog. Had the cannon been placed in a
proper position, the house would have been reduced
ere the first warm flush of pursuit was cold in
the cheeks of the soldiers.
But the fog gathered thicker and more densely
around, the soldiers moved like men moving in
the dark, and all was vague, dim, undefined and
uncertain.
All was ready for the storm. Here were men with
firebrands ready to rush forward under the cover
of the first volley of musquetry and fire the house;
here were long lines of soldiers grasping their guns
with a quick nervous movement, one foot advanced
in the act of springing forward; yonder were the
cannoniers, their pieces loaded, the linstock in
the hand of one soldier, while another stood ready
with the next charge of ammunition; on every side
was intense suspense and expectation, and heard
above all other sounds, the rattle of the British
musquets, rose like thunder over Chew's lawn, and
seen the brightest of all other sights, the light
of the British guns, streamed red and lurid over
the field, giving a strange brilliancy to the wreaths
of mist above, and columns of armed men below.
Tradition states that at this moment, when every
thing was ready for the storm of death, an expression
of the most intense thought passed over
the impenetrable countenance of Washington.
Every line of his features was marked by thought,
his lip was sternly compressed, and his eye gathered
a strange brilliancy.
He turned to the east, and bent one long anxious
gaze over the white folds of mist, as though he
would pierce the fog with his glance, and gaze upon
the advancing columns of Greene and Stephen.
He inclined his head to one side of his steed, and
listened for the tramp of their war-horses, but in
vain. He turned towards Germantown; all was
silent in that direction, the main body of the enemy
were not yet in motion.
And then in a calm voice, he asked for an officer
who would consent to bear a flag of truce to the
enemy. A young and gallant officer of Lee's
Rangers, sprang from his horse, his name Lieut.
Smith, he assumed the snow-white flag held sacred
by all nations, and, with a single glance at
the Continental array, he advanced to Chew's
House.
In a moment he was lost to sight amid the folds
of the fog, and his way lay over the green lawn for
some two hundred yards. All was still and silent
around him. Tradition states that the fire from
the house ceased for a moment, while Musgrave's
band were silently maturing their plan of desperate
defence. The young soldier advanced along his
lonely path, speeding through the bosom of the fog,
all objects lost to his sight, save the green verdure
of the sod, yet uncrimsoned by blood, and here and
there the trunk of a giant tree looming blackly
through the mist,
The outline of a noble mansion began to dawn
on his eye, first the sloping roof, then the massive
chimneys, then the front of the edifice, and then
its windows, all crowded with soldiers in their
crimson attire, whiskered face appearing above face,
with grisly musket and glittering bayonet, thrust
out upon the air, while with fierce glances, the
hirelings looked forth into the bosom of that fearful
mist, which still, like a death-shroud for millions,
hung over the lawn, and over the chimneys of the
house.
The young officer came steadily on, and now he
stood some thirty paces from the house, waving his
white flag on high, and then with an even step he
advanced toward the hall door. He advanced, but
he never reached that hall door. He was within
the scope of the British soldiers' vision, they could
have almost touched him with an extended flagstaff,
when the loud word of command rang through
the house, a volley of fire blazed from every window,
and the whole American army saw the fog
lifted from the surface of the lawn, like a vast curtain
from the scenes of a magnificent theatre,
Slowly and heavily that curtain uprose, and a
hail storm of bullets whistled across the plain, when
the soldiers of the Continental host looked for their
messenger of peace.
They beheld a gallant form in front of the mansion.
He seemed making an effort to advance,
and then he tottered to and fro, and his white flag
disappeared for a moment; and the next instant
he fell down like a heavy weight upon the sod,
and a hand trembling with the pulse of death was
raised above his head, waving a white flag in the
air. That flag was stained with blood: it was
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the warm blood flowing from the young Virginian's
heart.
Along the whole American line there rang one
wild yell of horror. Old men raised their musquets
on high, while the tears gathered in their
eyes; the young soldiers all moved forward with
one sudden step; a wild light blazed in the eye of
Washington; Wayne waved his dripping sword
on high; Pulaski raised his proud form in the stirrups,
and gave one meaning glance to his men;
and then, through every rank and file, through
every column and solid square, rang the terrible
words of command, and high above all other
sounds was heard the voice of Washington—
“Charge, for your country and for vengeance—
CHARGE!”
Lippard, George, 1822-1854 [1843], The battle-day of Germantown (A. H. Diller, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf246].
