Yes, down the old path by the mill—he sees his native cottage—his aged
father stands in the door—his sister, whom he left a young girl, now grown
into a blooming woman, beckons him on. He reaches her side—presses
her lips, and in that kiss hushes her welcome—“Brother, have you come
at last!”

But, ah! That horrid sound crashing through his dream!

He wakes,—wakes there on the porch of the old mansion—he sees that
rifle-blaze flashing through the mist—he feels the death-shot, and then falls
dead to wake in Eternity.

That rifle-blaze, flashing through the mist, is the first shot of the Battle-day
of Germantown.

And that dead man, flung along the porch in all the ghastliness of sudden
death—cold and stiff there, while his Sister awakes from her sinless sleep
to pray for him, three thousand miles away—is the first dead man of that
day of horror!

And could we wander yonder, up through the mists of this fearful morning,
even to the Throne of Heaven, we might behold the Prayer of the Sister,
the Soul of the Brother, meet face to face before Almighty God.

And now listen to that sound, thundering yonder to the North, and now
stand here on the porch of Allen's house, and see the Legions come!

They break from the folds of the mist, the Men of Brandywine—foot-soldiers
and troopers come thundering up the hill.

The blood-red moon, shining from yonder sky, like a funeral torch through
a shroud, now glares upon the advancing legions—over the musquets glittering
in long lines, over the war-horses, over the drawn swords, over the
flags rent with bullet and bayonet, over the broad Banner of Stars.

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 streams in every window,
soldier after soldier falls heavily to the floor, the picket guard are with the
Dead Sentinel. Allen's house is secured, and the hunt is up!

God of Battles, what a scene! The whole road, farther than the eye
could see, farther than the 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, while the war
shout of Anthony Wayne is borne along by the morning breeze. There,
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!”

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

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
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 scarred faces and
sunburnt visages, with rusted musquets and tattered apparel, yet with true
hearts and stout hands. These are the men of Paoli!

And there, riding in their midst, as though his steed and himself were but
one animal—so well he backs that steed, so like is the battle-fever of
horse, with the waving mane and glaring eye, to the wild rage that stamps
the warrior's face—there in the midst of the Men of Paoli, rides their
leader—Mad Anthony Wayne!

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 on, in the train
of the hunt. 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 bare-foot,
yet treading gaily over the flinty ground; some with fragments of a
coat on their backs, others without covering for their heads, 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 come trooping on, spurring their stout steeds,
with wide haunches and chests of iron, hastily forward, that band with every
face seemed by scars, and darkened by the thick mustachio, every eye
gleaming beneath a knit brow, every swarthy hand raising the iron 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,

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

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, echoing 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 continentals! 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
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. The ground quivers with an earthquake
shock. 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
re-echoes the sound, Sullivan has already made the air ring with his shout,
and now Pulaski takes up the cry—“Forwarts—brudern—Forwarts!”

The hunt is up!

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

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

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 Amercan
host is measured, Mad Anthony comes thundering on, with his Legion
of Iron, and as his war-shout swells on the air, 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
is there, in front of the battle, his sword gleaming like a meteor
through the gloom.

The fire of the infantry, spreading a sheeted flame thro' the folds of the
mist, lights up the scene. 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 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 infernal 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, foemen grappling in contest, swords rising
and falling, circling 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 fight, 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 every
where 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

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

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 scatter 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.

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
powder, 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—brüdern—forwarts!” shouted Pulaski, 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
movement, 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.

Bending 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 every horse 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 boomed along

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

the air, echoing 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 scene 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, glaring 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.

The artillery were ranged some three hundred yards from the mansion—
their cannon being placed on a slight elevation, and pointed at the north-west
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 on 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;

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

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 musquetry 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 fire.

He turned to the east, and bent one long anxious look 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 musquet 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

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

that hall door. He was within the scope of the British soldiers' vision,
they could have almost touched him with an extended flag staff, 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 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!”

Now bare the sword from its sheath blood-red,
'Tis wet with the gore of the massacred dead;
Now raise the sword in the cause most holy—
And while the whispers of ghosts break on your ear,
Oh! strike without mercy, or pity, or fear;
Oh! strike for the massacred dead of Paoli!
Revolutionary Song.

And while the mist gathered thicker and darker above, while the lurid
columns of battle smoke waved like a banner overhead, while all around
was dim and indistinct,—all objects rendered larger and swelled to gigantic

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

proportions by the action of the fog,—along that green lawn arose the
sound of charging legions, and the blaze of musquetry flashing from the
windows of Chew's house, gave a terrible light to the theatre of death.

Again, like a vast curtain, the mist uprose,—again were seen armed men
brandishing swords aloft, or presenting fixed bayonets, or holding the sure
rifle in their unfailing grasp, or yet again waving torches on high, all rushing
madly forward, still in regular columns, file after file, squadron after squadron—
a fierce array of battle and of death.

It was a sight worth a score of peaceful years to see! The dark and
heavy pall of battle smoke overhead, mingled with curling wreaths of snow-white
mist—the curtain of this theatre of death—the mansion of dark, grey
stone, rising massive and ponderous from the lawn, each peak and corner,
each buttress and each angle, shown clearly by the light of the musquet
flash—the green lawn spreading away from the house—the stage of the
dread theatre—crowded by bands of advancing men, with arms glittering in
the fearful light, with fierce faces stamped with looks of vengeance, sweeping
forward with one steady step, their eyes fixed upon the fatal honse;
while over their heads, and among their ranks, swept and fell the leaden
bullets of their foes, hissing through the air with the sound of serpents, or
pattering on the sod like a hailstorm of death.

And while a single brigade, with which was Washington and Sullivan
and Wayne, swept onward toward the house, the other troops of the central
division, extending east and west along the fields, were forced to remain
inactive spectators of this scene of death, while each man vainly endeavored
to pierce the gloom of the mist and smoke, and observe the course of the
darkening fight.

Some thirty yards of green lawn now lay between the forlorn hope of
the advancing Americans and Chew's house; all became suddenly still and
hushed, and the continentals could hear their own foot tramp breaking upon
the air with a deadened sound, as they swept onward toward the mansion.

A moment of terrible stillness, and then a moment of bloodshed and horror!
Like the crash of thunderbolts meeting in the zenith from distant
points of the heavens, the sound of musquetry broke over the lawn, and
from every window of Chew's house, from the hall door, and from behind
the chimneys on the roof, rolled the dense columns of musquet smoke;
while on every side, overhead, around, and beneath, the musquet flash of
the British glared like earth-riven lightning in the faces of the Americans,
and then the mist and smoke came down like a pall, and for a moment all
was dark as midnight.

A wild yell broke along the American line, and then the voice of Wayne
rung out through the darkness and the gloom—“Sweep forward under the
cover of the smoke—sweep forward and storm the house!”

They came rushing on, the gallant band of rangers, bearing torches in
their hands—they came rushing on, and their path lay over the mangled

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

bodies of the forlorn hope, scattered along the sod, in all the ghastliness of
wounds and death, and at their backs advanced with measured step the firm
columns of the continental army, while the air was heavy with the shriek
of wounded men, and burdened with cries of agony.

On they swept, trampling over the face of the dead in the darkness and
gloom, and then the terrible words of command rung out upon the air—
“Advance and fire—advance and storm the house!”

A volley of sheeted flame arose from the bosom of the fog along the
lawn, the thunder of the American musquetry broke upon the air, and the
balls were heard pattering against the walls of the house, and tearing splinters
from the roof.

Another moment, and the pall of mist and battle smoke is swept aside,
revealing a scene that a thousand words might not describe—a scene whose
hurry, and motion, and glare, and horror, the pencil of the artist might in
vain essay to picture.

There were glittering bayonets thrust from the windows of the house,—
there were fierce faces, with stout forms robed in crimson attire, thrust from
every casement,—there were bold men waving torches on high, rushing
around the house; here a party were piling up combustible brush-wood;
there a gallant band were affixing their scaling ladder to a second story
window, yonder another band were thundering away at the hall door, with
musquet and battle axe; while along the whole sweep of the wide lawn
poured the fire of the continental host, with a flash like lightning, yet with
uncertain and ineffectual aim.

The hand of the soldier with the hand gathered near the combustible pile
under a window—the hand of the soldier was extended with the blazing
torch, he was about to fire the heap of faggots, when his shattered arm fell
to his side, and a dead comrade came toppling over his chest.

A soldier near the hall door had been foremost among that gallant band,
the barricades were torn away, all obstructions well nigh cleared, and he
raised his battle axe to hew the door in fragments, when the axe fell with a
clanging sound upon the threshold stone, and his comrades caught his falling
body in their arms, while his severed jaw hung loosely on his breast.

The party who rushed forward in the endeavor to scale the window!
The ladder was fixed—across the trench dug around Chew's house it was
fixed—the hands of two sturdy continentals held it firm, and a file of desperate
men, headed by a stalwart backwoodsman, in rough blue shirt and
fur cap, with buck-tail plume, began the ascent of death.

The foot of the backwoodsman touched the second round of the scaling
ladder, when he sprang wildly in the air, over the heads of his comrades,
and fell dead in the narrow trench, with a death shriek that rang in the ears
of all who heard it for life. A musquet ball had penetrated his skull, and
the red torrent was already streaming over his forehead, and along his
swarthy features.

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

The Americans again rushed forward to the house, but it was like rushing
into the embrace of death; again they scaled the windows, again were
they driven back, while the dead bodies of their comrades littered the trench;
again they strode boldly up to the hall door, and again did soldier after
soldier crimson the threshold-stone with his blood.

And while the battle swelled fiercest, and the flame flashing from the
windows of Chew's house was answered by the volley of the continental
brigade, two sounds came sweeping along the air, one from the south, and
the other from the northwest. They were the sounds of marching men—
the tread of hurrying legions.

On the summit of a gentle knoll, surrounded by the officers of his staff,
Washington had watched the progress of the fight around Chew's mansion,
not more than two hundred yards distant.

With his calm and impenetrable face, wearing an unmoved expression,
he had seen the continentals disappear in the folds of the fog, he had seen
file after file marching on their way of death, he had heard the roar of contest,
the shrieks of the wounded and the yells of the dying had startled his
ear, but not a muscle of his countenance moved, not a feature trembled.

But when those mingling sounds of marching men came pealing on his
ear, he inclined slightly to one side of his steed and then to the other, as if
in the effort to catch the slightest sound, his lips were fixedly compressed
and his eye flashed and flashed again, until it seemed turning to a thing of
living flame.

The sounds grew near, and nearer! A horseman approached from the
direction of Germantown, his steed was well nigh exhausted and the rider
swayed heavily to and fro in the saddle. The horse came thundering up
the knoll, and a man with a ghastly face, spotted with blood, leaned from
the saddle and shrieked forth, as he panted for breath—

“General—they are in motion—they are marching through Germantown—
Kniphausen, Agnew, and Grey, they will be on you in a moment, and—
Cornwallis—Cornwallis is sweeping from Philadelphia.”

The word had not passed his lips, when he fell from his steed a ghastly
corpse.

Another messenger stood by the side of Washington—his steed was also
exhausted, and his face was covered with dust, but not with blood. He
panted for breath as he shrieked forth an exclamation of joy:—

“Greene is marching from the northwest—attracted by the fire in this
quarter, he has deviated from his path, and will be with you in a moment?”

And as he spoke, the forms of a vast body of men began to more, dim
and indistinctly, from the folds of the fog on the northwest, and then the
glare of crimson was seen appearing from the bosom of the mist on the

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

south, as a long column of red coated soldiers, began to break slowly on the
vision of Washington and his men.

Turn we for a moment to Germantown.

The first glimpse of day, flung a grey and solemn light over the tenements
of Germantown, when the sound of distant thunder, aroused the startled
inhabitants from their beds, and sent them hurriedly into the street. There
they crowded in small groups, each one asking his neighbor for the explanation
of this sudden alarm, and every man inclining his ear to the north,
listening intently to those faint yet terrible sounds, thundering along the
northern horizon.

The crowded moments of that eventful morn, wore slowly on. Ere the
day was yet light, the streets of Germantown were all in motion, crowds
of anxious men were hurrying hither and thither, mothers stood on the rustic
porch, gathering their babes in a closer embrace, and old men, risen in haste
from their beds, clasped their withered hands and lifted their eyes to heaven
in muttered prayer, as their ears were startled by the sounds of omen pealing
from the north.

The British leaders were yet asleep; the soldiers of the camp, it is true,
had risen hastily from their couches, and along the entire line of the British
encampment, ran a vague, yet terrible rumor of coming battle and of sudden
death; yet the generals in command slept soundly in their beds, visited, it
may be, with pleasant dreams of massacred rebels, fancy pictures of the
night of Paoli, mingled with a graphic sketch of the head of Washington
adorning one of the gates of London, while the grim visage of mad Anthony
Wayne figured on another.

The footstep of a booted soldier rang along the village street, near the
market-house, in the centre of the village, and presently a tall grenadier
strode up the stone steps of an ancient mansion, spoke a hurried word to
the sentinel at the door, and then hastily entered the house. In a moment
he stood beside the couch of General Grey, he roused him with a rude
shake of his vigorous hands, and the startled `Britisher' sprang up as hastily
from his bed as though he had been dreaming a dream of the terrible night
of Paoli.

“Your Excellency—the Rebels are upon us!” cried the grenadier—
“they have driven in our outposts, they surround us on every side—”

“We must fight it out—away to Kniphausen—away to Agnew—”

“They are already in the field, and the men are about advancing to
Chew's House.”

But a moment elapsed, and the British general with his attire hung hastily
over his person, rode to the head of his command, and while Kniphausen,
gay with the laurels of Brandywine, rode from rank to rank, speaking

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

encouragement to his soldiers in his broken dialect, the British army moved
forward over the fields and along the solitary street of Germantown towards
Chew's House.

The brilliant front of the British extended in a flashing array of crimson,
over the fields, along the street; and through the wreaths of mist on every
side shone the glitter of bayonets, on every hand was heard the terrible
tramp of 16,000 men sweeping onward, toward the field of battle, their
swords eager for American blood.

As the column under command of General Agnew swept through the
village street, every man noted the strange silence that seemed to have
come down upon the village like a spell. The houses were all carefully
closed, as though they had not been inhabited for years, the windows were
barricaded; the earthquake tramp of the vast body of soldiers was the
only sound that disturbed the silence of the town.

Not a single inhabitant was seen. Some had fled wildly to the fields,
others had hastened with the strange and fearful curiosity of our nature to
the very verge of the battle of Chew's House, and in the cellars of the
houses gathered many a wild and affrighted group, mothers holding their
little children to their breasts, old men whose eyes were vacant with enfeebled
intellect, asking wildly the cause of all this alarm, while many a faircheeked
maiden turned pale with horror, as the thunder of the cannon seemed
to shake the very earth.

A singular legend is told in relation to General Agnew. Tradition states,
that on the eventful morn, as he led the troops onward through the town, a
singular change was noted in his appearance. His cheeks were pale as
death, his compressed lip trembled with a nervous movement, and his eyes
glared hither and thither with a strange wild glance.

He turned to the aid-de-camp at his side, and said with a ghastly smile,
that this day's work would be his last on earth, that this battle-field would
be the last he should fight, that it became him to look well at the gallant
array of war, and share in the thickest of the fight, for in war and in fight
should his hand this day strike its last and dying blow.

And tradition states that as his column neared the Mennonist grave-yard,
[2] a man of strange and wild aspect, clad in the skins of wild beasts,
with scarred face and unshaven beard, came leaping over the grave-yard
wall, and asked a soldier of the British column, with an idiotic smile whether
that gallant officer, riding at the head of the men, was the brave General
Grey, who had so nobly routed the rebels at Paoli?

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

The soldier replied with a peevish oath that yonder officer was General
Grey, and he pointed to General Agnew as he spoke.

The strange man said never a word, but smiled with a satisfied look and
sprang over the grave-yard wall, and as he sprang, a bullet whistled past the
ear of General Agnew, and a thin column of blue smoke wound upward
from the grave-yard wall.

The General turned and smiled. His officers would have searched the
grave-yard for the author of the shot, but a sound broke on their ears from
the road above, and presently the clatter of hoofs and the clamor of swords
came thundering through the mist.

eaf251.n2

[2] Adjoining the dwelling of Mr. Samuel Keyser, about three fourths of a mile below
Chew's House.

And in a moment the voice of Sullivan was heard—“Charge—upon the
`Britishers'—charge them home!”

And the steeds of the American cavalry came thundering on, sweeping
down the hill with one wild movement, rushing into the very centre of the
enemy's column, each trooper unhorsing his man, while a thousand fierce
shouts mingled in chorus, and the infantry advanced with fixed bayonets,
speeding steadily onward until they had driven back their foes with
the force of their solid charge.

And along that solitary street of Germantown swelled the din and terror
of battle, there grappled with the fierce grasp of vengeance and of death the
columns of contending foemen, there rode the troopers of the opposite
armies, their swords mingling, their horses meeting breast to breast in the
shock of this fierce tournament; there shrieked the wounded and dying,
while above the heads of the combatants waved the white folds of mist,
mingled with the murky battle smoke.

Sullivan charged bravely, Wayne came nobly to his rescue, Pulaski
scattered confusion into the ranks of the enemy, and the Americans had
been masters of the field were it not for a fresh disaster at Chew's House,
combined with the mistakes of the various bodies of the Continentals, who
were unable to discern friend from foe in the density of the fog.

Meanwhile the contest thickened around Chew's house; the division of
Greene, united with the central body of the American army, were engaged
with the left wing of the British army, under Kniphausen, Grant, and Grey,
while Sullivan led forward into the town, a portion of the advance column
of his division.

Tradition has brought down to our times a fearful account of the carnage
and bloodshed of the fight, around Chew's house at this moment, when the
British army to the south, and the Americans to the north, advanced in the
terrible charge, under the cover of the mist and gloom.

It was like fighting in the dark. The Americans advanced column after

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

column; they drove back the British columns with a line of bristling
bayonets, while the fire of the backwoodsmen rattled a death-hail over the
field; but it was all in vain! That gloomy mist hung over their heads,
concealing their foes from sight, or investing the forms of their friends with
a doubtful gloom, that caused them to be mistaken for British; in the
fierce mellé; all was dim, undefined and indistinct.

It was at this moment that a strange resolution came over the mind of
Washington. All around him was mist and gloom, he saw his men disappear
within the fog, toward Chew's house, but he knew not whether their
charge met with defeat or victory. He heard the tread of hurrying
legions, the thunder of the cannon, the rattle of the musquetry broke on his
ear, mingled with the shrieks of the wounded and the groans of the dying.
The terrible panorama of a battle field, passed vividly before his eyes,
but still he knew not the cause of the impregnability of Chew's house.

He determined to advance toward the house, and examine its position in
person.

He turned to the officers of his staff—“Follow me who will!” he cried,
and in a moment, his steed of iron grey was careering over the sod, littered
with ghastly corses, while the air overhead was alive with the music of bullets,
and earth beneath was flung against the war steed's flanks by the cannon
ball.

Followed by Hamilton, by Pickering, by Marshall, and by Lee, of the
gallant legion, Washington rode forward, and speeding between the fires of
the opposing armies, approached the house.

At every step, a dead man with a livid face turned upward; little pools
of blood crimsoning the lawn, torn fragments of attire scattered over the
sod; on every side hurrying bodies of the foemen, while terrible and unremitting,
the fire flashing from the windows of Chew's House, flung a lurid
glare over the battle-field.

Washington dashed over the lawn; he approached the house, and every
man of his train held his breath. Bullets were whistling over their heads,
cannon balls playing round their horses' feet, yet their leader kept on his
way of terror. A single glance at the house, with its vollies of flame flashing
from every window, and he turned to the north to regain the American
lines, but the fog and smoke gathered round him, and he found his horse
entangled amid the enclosures of the cattle-pen to the north of the mansion.

“Leap your horses—” cried Washington to the brave men around him—
“Leap your horses and save yourselves!”

And in a moment, amid the mist and gloom his officers leaped the northern
enclosure of the cattle-pen, and rode forward to the American line,
scarcely able to discover their path in the dense gloom that gathered around

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

them. They reached the American lines, and to their horror, discovered
that Washington was not among their band. He had not leaped the fence
of the cattle-pen; with the feeling of a true warrior, he was afraid of injuring
his gallant steed, by this leap in the dark.

While the officers of the staff were speeding to the American line, Washington
turned his steed to the south, he determined to re-pass the house,
strike to the north-east, and then facing the fires of both armies, regain the
Continental lines.

He rose proudly in the stirrups, he placed his hand gently on the neck
of his steed, he glanced proudly around him, and then the noble horse
sprang forward with a sudden leap, and the mist rising for a moment disclosed
the form of Washington, to the vision of the opposing armies.

“What seest thou now, comrade?”
“I look from the oriel window—I see a forest of glittering steel, rising in the
light, with the snow-flakes of waving plumes flaunting with the sunbeams! Our
men advance—the banner of the stars is borne aloft, onward and on it sweeps, like a
mighty bird; and now the foemen waver, they recoil—they—”
“They fly!—they fly!”
“No—no!—oh, moment of horror!—the banner of the stars is lost!—the flag of
blood-red hue rises in the light—the foemen advance—I dare not look upon the
scene —”
“Look again, good comrade—look, I beseech thee—what seest thou now?”
“I see a desolated field, strewn with dead carcases and broken arms—the banner
of the stars is trampled in the dust—all is lost, and yet not ALL!”

The form of the Chieftain rose through the smoke and gloom of battle,
in all its magnificence of proportion, and majesty of bearing, as speeding
between two opposing fires—his proud glance surveying the battle-field—he
retraced his path of death, and rode toward the American army.

He was now in front of Chew's House, he was passing through the very
sweep of the fires, belching from every window; the bullets whistled
around him; on every hand was confusion, and darkness, made more
fearful by the glare of musquetry, and the lightning flash of cannon.

He is now in front of Chew's House! Another moment and the Man
of the Army may fall from his steed riddled by a thousand bullets, a single
moment and his corse may be added to the heaps of dead piled along the

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

lawn in all the ghastliness of death; another moment and the Continentals
may be without a leader, the British without their most determined foe.

His form is enrapt in mist, he is lost to sight, he again emerges into
light, he passes the house and sweeps away toward the Continental army.

He passes the house, and as he speeds onward toward the American
lines, a proud gleam lights up his eye, and a prouder smile wreaths his determined
lips. “The American army is yet safe, they are in the path to
victory—” he exclaims, as he rejoins the officers of his staff, within the
American lines—“Had I but intelligence of Armstrong in the West—of
Smallwood and Forman in the East, with one bold effort, we might carry
the field!”

But no intelligence of Smallwood or Forman came—Armstrong's movements
were all unknown—Stephens, who flanked the right wing of Greene,
was not heard from, nor could any one give information concerning his
position.

And as the battle draws to a crisis around Chew's house, as the British
and Americans are disputing the possession of the lawn now flooded with
blood, let me for a moment turn aside from the path of regular history, and
notice some of the legends of the battle field, brought down to our times by
the hoary survivors of the Revolution.

Let us survey Chew's house in the midst of the fight.

It is the centre of a whirpool of flame.

Above is the mist, spreading its death shroud over the field. Now it is
darkened into a pall by the battle smoke, and now a vivid cannon flash lays
bare the awful theatre.

Still in the centre you may see Chew's house, still from every window
flashes the blaze of musquetry, and all around it columns of jet black smoke
curl slowly upward, their forms clearly defined against the shroud of white
mist.

It is a terrible thing to stand in the shadows of the daybreak hour, by the
bedside of a dying father, and watch that ashy face, rendered more ghastly
by the rays of a lurid taper—it is a terrible thing to clasp the hand of a sister,
and feel it grow cold, and colder, until it stiffens to ice in your grasp—
a fearful thing to gather the wife, dearest and most beloved of all, to your
breast, and learn the fatal truth, that the heart is pulseless, the bosom clay,
the eyes fixed and glassy.—

Yes, Death in any shape, in the times of Peace by the fireside, and in
the Home, is a fearful thing, talk of it as you will.

And in the hour when Riot howls through the streets of a wide city, its
ten thousand faces crimsoned by the glare of a burning church, Death looks
not only horrible but grotesque. For those dead men laid stiffly along the

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

streets, their cold faces turned to scarlet by the same glare that reveals the
cross of the tottering temple, have been murdered by their—brothers.
Like wild beasts, hunted and torn by the hounds, they have yielded up their
lives, the warm blood of their hearts mingling with the filth of the gutter.

This indeed is horrible, but Death in the Battle, who shall dare paint its
pictures?

What pencil snatched from the hands of a Devil, shall delineate its colors
of blood?

Look upon Chew's house and behold it!

There—under the cover of the mist, thirty thousand men are hurrying to
and fro, shooting and stabbing and murdering as they go! Look! The
lawn is canopied by one vast undulating sheet of flame!

Hark! To the terrible tramp of the horses' hoofs, as they crash on over
heaps of dead.

Here, you behold long columns of blue uniformed soldiers; there dense
masses of scarlet. Hark! Yes, listen and hear the horrid howl of
slaughter, the bubbling groan of death, the low toned pitiful note of pain.
Pain? What manner of pain? Why, the pain of arms torn off at the
shoulder, limbs hacked into pieces by chain shot, eyes darkened forever.

Not much poetry in this, you say. No. Nothing but truth—truth that
rises from the depths of a bloody well.

From those heaps of dying and dead, I beseech you select only one corse,
and gaze upon it in silence—Is he dead? The young man yonder with the
pale face, the curling black hair, the dark eyes wide open, glaring upon that
shroud above—is he dead?

Even if he is dead, stay, O, stay yon wild horse that comes rushing on
without a rider; do not let him trample that young face, with his red hoofs.

For it may be that the swimming eyes of a sister have looked upon that
face—perchance some fair girl, beloved of the heart, has kissed those red
lips—do not let the riderless steed come on; do not let him trample into
the sod that face, which has been wet with a Mother's tears!

And yet this face is only one among a thousand, which now pave the battle
field, crushed by the footsteps of the hurrying soldiers, trampled by the
horses' hoofs.

And while the battle swelled fiercest, while the armies traversed that
green lawn in the hurry of contest, along the blood stained sward, with
calm manner and even step, strode an unknown form, passing over the
field, amid smoke and mist and gloom, while the wounded fell shrieking at
his feet, and the faces of the dead met his gaze on every side.

It was the form of an aged man, with grey hairs streaming over his
shoulders, an aged man with a mild yet fearless countenance, with a tall
and muscular figure, clad neither in the glaring dress of the `Britisher,' or the
hunting shirt of the Continental, but in the plain attire of drab cloth, the

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

simple coat, vest with wide lappels, small clothes and stockings, that mark
the believers of the Quaker faith.

He was a Friend. Who he was, or what was his name, whence he
came, or whither he went, no one could tell, and tradition still remains
silent.

But along that field, he was seen gliding amid the heat and glare of battle.
Did the wounded soldier shriek for a cup of water? It was his hand
that brought it from the well, on the verge of Chew's wall. Extended
along the sward, with their ghastly faces quivering with the spasmodic throe
of insupportable pain, the dying raised themselves piteously on their trembling
hands, and in broken tones asked for relief, or in the wildness of delirium
spoke of their far off homes, whispered a message to their wives or
little ones, or besought the blessing of their grey haired sires.

It was the Quaker, the unknown and mysterious Friend, who was seen
unarmed save with the Faith of God, undefended save by the Armour of
Heaven, kneeling on the sod, whispering words of comfort to the dying, and
pointing with his uplifted hand to a home beyond the skies, where battle
nor wrong nor death ever came.

Around Chew's house and over the lawn he sped on his message of
mercy. There was fear and terror around him, the earth beneath his measured
footsteps quivered, and the air was heavy with death, but he trembled
not, nor qualied, nor turned back from his errand of mercy.

Now seen in the thickest of the fight, the soldiers rushing on their paths
of blood, started back as they beheld his mild and peaceful figure. Some
deemed him a thing of air, some thought they beheld a spirit, not one offered
to molest or harm the Messenger of Peace.

It was a sight worth all the ages of controversial Divinity to see—this
plain Quaker going forth with the faith of that Saviour, whose name has
ever been most foully blasphemed by those who called themselves his
friends, going forth with the faith of Jesus in his heart, speaking comfort to
the dying, binding up the gashes of the wounded, or yet again striding
boldly into the fight and rescuing with his own unarmed hands the prostrate
soldier from the attack of his maddened foe.

Blessings on his name, the humble Quaker, for this deed which sanctifies
humanity, and makes us dream of men of mortal mould raised to the majesty
of Gods. His name is not written down, his history is all unknown, but
when the books of the unknown world are bared to the eyes of a
congregated universe, then will that name shine brighter and lighter with a
holier gleam, than the name of any Controversial Divine or loud-mouthed
hireling, that ever disgraced Christianity or blasphemed the name of Jesus.

Ah, methinks, even amid the carnage of Germantown, I see the face of
the Redeemer, bending from the battle-mist, and smiling upon the peaceful
Quaker, as he never smiled upon learned priest or mitred prelate.

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

Within Chew's house this was the scene:

Every room crowded with soldiers in their glaring crimson attire, the old
hall thronged by armed men, all stained with blood and begrimed with battle
smoke, the stair-way trembling beneath the tread of soldiers bearing ammunition
to the upper rooms, while every board of the floor, every step of the
stair-case bore its ghastly burden of dying and dead. The air was pestilent
with the smell of powder, the walls trembled with the shock of battle; thick
volumes of smoke rolling from the lower rooms, wound through the doors,
into the old hall, and up the stairway, enveloping all objects in a pall of
gloom, that now shifted aside, and again came down upon the forms of the
British soldiers like dark night.

Let us ascend the stairway. Tread carefully, or your foot will trample
on the face of that dead soldier; ascend the staircase with a cautious step,
or you will lose your way in the battle smoke.

The house trembles to its foundation, one volley of musquetry after
another breaks on your ear, and all around is noise and confusion; nothing
seen but armed men hurrying to and fro, nothing heard but the thunder of
the fight.

We gain the top of the stairway—we have mounted over the piles of
dead—we pass along the entry—we enter the room on the right, facing toward
the lawn.

A scene of startling interest opens to our sight. At each window are
arranged files of men, who, with faces all blood stained and begrimed, are
sending their musquet shots along the lawn; at each window the floor is
stained with a pool of blood, and the bodies of the dead are dragged away
by the strong hands of their comrades, who fill their places almost as soon
as they receive their death wound. The walls are rent by cannon balls,
and torn by bullets, and the very air seems ringing with the carnival shouts
of old Death, rejoicing in the midst of demons.

Near a window in this room clustered a gallant band of British officers,
who gave the word to the men, directed the dead to be taken from the floor,
or gazed out upon the lawn in the endeavor to pierce the gloom of the
contest.

Some were young and handsome officers, others were veterans who had
mowed their way through many a fight, and all were begrimed with the
blood and smoke of battle. Their gaudy coats were rent, the epaulette was
torn from one shoulder by the bullet, the plume from the helm of another,
and a third fell in his comrades' arms, as he received the ball in his heart.

While they stood gazing from the window, a singular incident occurred.

A young officer, standing in the midst of his comrades, felt something
drop from the ceiling, and trickle down his cheek.

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

The fight was fierce and bloody in the attic overhead. They could hear
the cannon balls tearing shingles from the roof—they could hear the low,
deep groans of the dying.

Another drop fell from the ceiling—another and another.

“It is blood!” cried his comrades, and a laugh went round the group.

Drop after drop fell from the ceiling; and in a moment a thin liquid
stream came trickling down, and pattered upon the blood-stained floor.

The young officer reached forth his hand, he held it extended beneath the
falling stream: he applied it to his lips.

“Not blood, but wine!” he shouted. “Good old Madeira wine!”

The group gathered round the young officer in wonder. It was wine—
good old wine—that was dripping from the ceiling. In a few moments the
young officer, rushing through the gloom and confusion of the stairway, had
ransacked the attic, and discovered under the eaves of the roof, between the
rafters and the floor, some three dozen bottles of old Madeira wine, placed
there for safe-keeping some score of years before the battle. These bottles
were soon drawn from their resting-place, and the eyes of the group in the
room below were presently astonished by the vision of the ancient bottles,
all hung with cobwebs, their sealed corks covered with dust.

In a moment the necks were struck off some half-dozen bottles, and while
the fire poured from the window along the lawn, while cries and shrieks,
and groans, broke on the air; while the smoke came rolling in the window,
now in folds of midnight blackness, and now turned to lurid red by the
glare of cannon; while the terror and gloom of battle arose around them,
the group of officers poured the wine in an ancient goblet, discovered in a
closet of the mansion,—they filled it brimming full with wine, and drank a
royal health to the good King George!

They drank and drank again, until their eyes sparkled, and their lips
grew wild with loyal words, and their thirst for blood—the blood of the
rebels—was excited to madness. Again and again were the soldiers shot
down at the window, again were their places filled, and once more the goblet
went round from lip to lip, and the old wine was poured forth like water,
in healths to the good King George!

And as they drank, one by one, the soldiers were swept away from the
windows, until at the last the officers stood exposed to the blaze of the
American fire, flashing from the green lawn.

“Health to King George—Death to the rebels!”

The shout arose from the lips of a grey-haired veteran, and he fell to the
floor, a mangled corse. The arm that raised the goblet was shattered at
the elbow by one musket ball, as another penetrated his brain.

The goblet was seized by another hand, and the revel grew loud and
wild. The sparkling wine was poured forth like water, healths were drank,
hurrahs were shouted, and—another officer measured his length on the floor.
He had received his ball of death.

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

There was something of ludicrous horror in the scene.

Those sounds of revel and bacchanalian uproar, breaking on the air, amid
the intervals—the short and terrible intervals of battle—those faces flushed
by wine, and agitated by all the madness of the moment, turned from one
side to another, every lip wearing a ghastly smile, every eye glaring from
its socket, while every voice echoed the drunken shout and the fierce
hurrah.

Another officer fell wounded, and another, and yet another. The young
officer who had first discovered the wine alone remained.

Even in this moment of horror, we cannot turn our eyes away, from his
young countenance, with its hazel eyes and thickly clustered hair!

He glanced round upon his wounded and dying comrades, he looked
vacantly in the faces of the dead, he gazed upon the terror and confusion
of the scene, and then he seized the goblet, filled it brimming-full with wine,
and raised it to his lips.

His lip touched the edge of the goblet, his face was reflected in the
quivering wavelets of the wine, his eyes rolled wildly to and fro, and then
a musket shot pealed through the window. The officer glared around with
a maddened glance, and then the warm blood, spouting from the wound
between his eyebrows, fell drop by drop into the goblet, and mingled with
the wavelets of the ruby wine.

And then there was a wild shout; a heavy body toppled to the floor;
and the young soldier with a curse on his lips went drunken to his God.

Let us for a moment notice the movements of the divisions of Washington's
army, and then return to the principal battle ground at Chew's house.

The movements of the divisions of Smallwood and Forman are, to this
day, enveloped in mystery. They came in view of the enemy, but the
density of the mist, prevented them from effectually engaging with the
British.

Armstrong came marching down the Manatawny road, until the quiet
Wissahikon dawned on the eyes of his men; but after this moment, his
march is also wrapt in mystery.—Some reports state that he actually
engaged with the Hessian division of the enemy, others state that the alarm
of the American retreating from Chew's house reached his ear, as the vanguard
of his command entered Germantown, near the market-house, and
commenced firing upon the chasseurs who flanked the left wing of the
British army.

However this may be, yet tradition has brought down to our times a terrible
legend connected with the retreat of Armstrong's division. The
theatre of this legend was the quiet Wissahikon, and this is the story of
ancient tradition.

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

It is a poem of everlasting beauty—a dream of magnificence—the
world-hidden, wood-embowered Wissahikon. Its pure waters break forever
in ripples of silver around the base of colossal rocks, or sweep murmuringly
on, over beds of pebbled flints, or spread into calm and mirror-like
lakes, with shores of verdure, surmounted by green hills, rolling away
in waves of forest trees, or spreading quietly in the fierce light of the summer
sun, with the tired cattle grouped beneath the lofty oaks.

It is a poem of beauty—where the breeze mourns its anthem through the
tall pines; where the silver waters send up their voices of joy; where
calmness, and quiet, and intense solitude awe the soul, and fill the heart
with bright thoughts and golden dreams, woven in the luxury of the summer
hour.

From the moment your eyes first drink in the gladness of its waters, as
they pour into the Schuylkill, seven miles from Philadelphia, until you behold
it winding its thread of silver along the meadows of Whitemarsh, many
miles above, it is all beauty, all dream, all magnificence.

It breaks on your eye, pouring into the Schuylkill, a calm lake, with an
ancient and picturesque mill[3] in the foreground. A calm lake, buried in
the depths of towering steeps, that rise almost perpendicularly on either
side, casting a shadow of gloom over the water, while every steep is green
with brushwood, every rocky cleft magnificent with the towering oak, the
sombre pine, or the leafy chesnut.

This glen is passed; then you behold hilly shores, sloping away to the
south in pleasant undulations, while on the north arise frowning steeps.
Then your mind is awed by tremendous hills on either side, creating one
immense solitude; rugged steeps—all precipice and perpendicular rock—
covered and crowded with giant pines, and then calm and rippleless lakes,
shadowy glens, deep ravines and twilight dells of strange and dreamy
beauty.

There is, in sooth, a stamp of strange and dreamy beauty impressed
upon every ripple of the Wissahikon, every grassy bank extending greenly
along its waters, on every forest-tree towering beside its shores.

On the calm summer's day, when the sun is declining in the west, you
may look from the height of some grey, rugged steep, down upon the depths
of the world-hidden waters. Wild legends wander across your fancy as
you gaze; every scene around you seems but the fitting location for a wild
and dreamy tradition, every rock bears its old time story, every nook of the
wild wood has its tale of the ancient days. The waters, deep, calm, and
well-like, buried amidst overhanging hills, have a strange and mysterious

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

clearness. The long shadows of the hills, broken by golden belts of sunshine,
clothe the waters in sable and gold, in glitter and in shadow. All
around is quiet and still; silence seems to have assumed a positive existence
amid these vallies of romance and of dreams.

It was along the borders of this quiet stream, that an ancient fabric arose,
towering through the verdure of the trees, with its tottering chimneys
enveloped in folds of mist. The walls were severed by many a fissure, the
windows were crumbling to decay; the halls of the ancient mansion were
silent as the tomb.

It was wearing toward noon, when a body of soldiers, wearing the blue
hunting-shirt and fur cap with bucktail plume, came rushing from the woods
on the opposite side of the rivulet, came rushing through the waters of the
lonely stream, and hurried with hasty steps toward the deserted house.

In a moment they had entered its tottering doorway, and disappeared
within its aged walls. Another instant, and a body of soldiers broke from
the woods on the opposite side of the stream, clad in the Hessian costume,
with ponderous bearskin caps, heavy accroutements, and massive muskets.

They crossed the stream, and rushed into the house in pursuit of the
flying continentals. They searched the rooms on the first floor; they hurried
along the tottering timbers, but not a single Continental was to be seen.
They ascended the crumbling stairway with loud shouts and boisterous
oaths, and reached the rooms of the second story. Every door was flung
hastily aside, every closet was broken open, the boards were even torn from
the floor, every nook was searched, every corner ransacked, and yet no
vision of a blue shirted backwoodsman, met the eye of the eager Hessians.

All was silent as death.

Their own footfalls were returned in a thousand echoes, their own shouts
alone disturbed the silence of the house, but no sound or sight, could be obtained
of the fleeing Continentals. Every room was now searched, save
the garret, and the Hessians, some twenty men, able bodied and stout, were
about rushing up the stairway of the attic in pursuit of the ten Continental
soldiers, when the attention of one of their number was arrested by a singular
spectacle.

The Hessian soldier beheld through a crumbling window frame, the
figure of a woman, standing on the height of an abrupt steep, overhanging
the opposite side of the stream. She waved her hands to the soldier,
shouted and waved her hands again. He heeded her not, but rushed up the
stairway after his companions.

The shout of that unknown woman was the warning of death.

While the Hessians were busily engaged in searching the attic, while
their shouts and execrations awoke the echoes of the roof, while they were
thrusting sword and bayonet into the dark corners of the apartment, that
shout of the woman on the rock, arose, echoing over the stream again and
again.

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]