Part 26 (1/2)

I know not when, during all my army life, I was more deeply impressed with the awful solemnity of war, than as I watched these volunteer soldiers land on the Jersey sh.o.r.e, and tramp away through the dust. In those ranks were sick and wounded scarcely able to keep up; occasionally one would crawl aside but the moment he was able would join some new body, and resume the march. There were many still pale and emaciated from the horrors of the past winter, some in rags, others practically barefooted; only occasionally would troops appear in what might be termed uniform, although each separate command was distinguishable by some insignia. It was a rough, motley concourse, yet, thanks to Baron de Steuben, drilled into military compactness, and well officered. In column after column, I could perceive the evidence of his work, the men standing erect and soldierly, obeying their orders with veteran precision. This, however, was most noticeable among those of the Continental Line, the men who had fought on other fields, marched in other campaigns, and braved the suffering at Valley Forge. The militia was little more than an organized mob, indifferently armed, and loosely commanded. To me the mounted men, and the artillery, appeared most efficient, although I appreciated to the full the sterling fighting qualities of the footmen.

They were animated by a stern purpose which yielded power. Such as these were not to be trifled with. Others might scoff at their raggedness of line, their carelessness of discipline, their nondescript garments, and variety of equipment, but to one who had seen such in battle--who had been with them at Trenton, Brandywine, and Germantown--they were warriors not to be despised, stern, grim fighters, able to hold their own against England's best drilled battalions. I watched them file past--Wayne's, Varnum's, Scott's brigades, and Jackson's and Grayson's regiments--marking the brown, dust-caked faces, the eager eyes, the st.u.r.dy, tireless tread, the well oiled muskets. Boys, men, graybeards, all alike exhibited in their faces the same expression. They were antic.i.p.ating battle against a hated foe, and counted hards.h.i.+p as nothing compared with the joy of conflict. Every step brought them closer to the grapple of arms--to that supreme test of strength, courage, endurance, for which they had left their homes. They might be poorly drilled, ill-dressed, variously armed, yet these were fighting men.

It was at midnight when Morgan led us up the steep bluff, and out upon the sandy road. We advanced silently, and in straggling column through the darkness, pa.s.sing the embers of camp-fires for several miles, the rec.u.mbent soldiery of other commands sleeping on the ground. At Hopewell, Was.h.i.+ngton was holding another council with his officers. As we swung past we could perceive his tall figure standing in the glow of a fire, and there arose from the lips of our men a sudden, involuntary cheer, breaking strangely upon the solemn silence of the night. The group about him were startled and looked about, and he paused a moment shading his eyes.

”What troops are those?” he asked, his voice cutting across the distance.

A hundred answered him:

”Morgan's riflemen!”

”Good, my lads!” and even at that distance I could see his face brighten.

”There will be work for you at dawn.”

With a rolling cheer, echoing down our ranks from front to rear, we answered, swinging the guns over our heads, as we swept forward into the dark night. There might be discussion, dissension about that council fire, but there was none in the hearts of those who were going out to die. Already rumors were flying about regarding Lee's unwillingness to engage in battle. I saw him as I trudged past, standing beside Wayne, the firelight on his face, although his head was bowed. Even to our cheers he never once glanced up, and, as we pa.s.sed beyond the radius of light, I laid my hand upon the mane of Morgan's horse.

”Is it true that Charles Lee thinks we should let Clinton go without fighting?” I asked soberly. ”That was rumored at the ferry.”

”'T is true enough,” he answered, his eyes upon the dark column of plodding men. ”And he seems to have others with him. I know not what has put the coward into the fellows of late. Saint Andrew! the odds are no greater than we have met before. But there'll be no fighting, lad, I fear, unless Was.h.i.+ngton takes the bit in his teeth, and orders it. I'm glad the boys cheered him; 'twill give the man new heart.”

”You favor the joining of issue?”

”Why not? Were we ever in better fettle? A retreating army is always half whipped, and we can choose our ground. Why, lad, 'tis reported Clinton's line stretches out full twelve miles, with train of baggage-wagons and battery horses, and camp-followers enough for a division. 'Twill be easy work attending to them, and most of his troops are Dutch and Tories.”

My horse was in ill condition, limping sadly, although I could not discover the cause, and I walked with the men, leading the animal, through the smouldering clouds of dust. It was a hot, still night, and Morgan marched us swiftly, with few pauses for rest. By daylight we came up with the New Jersey militia, lying at rest along the bank of the Millstone River, waiting their turn to ford that stream, and join Maxwell on the opposite sh.o.r.e. From where I stood I could see the thin lines of Continentals spreading out like a fan, as the skirmishers advanced up the opposite bluffs. Down the trampled bank, men were struggling with a light battery, and suddenly in the press of figures I came upon Farrell. He was mud from head to foot, his face streaked with it, but he looked up with beaming eyes as I spoke his name, and our hands clasped.

”I thought you would be over there with Maxwell,” he said, pointing across at the black dots, now clearly distinguishable in the glow of suns.h.i.+ne.

”I was left behind, and came up just now with Morgan,” I replied. ”But I am anxious enough to be with my own fellows. What means that skirmish line, Farrell? Are we already in touch with Clinton?”

He swept the hair out of his eyes with his great fist.

”No one knows exactly, but the British are not far off, and are headed this way. A scout came through with the news two hours ago--Clinton has taken the road to Monmouth.” He chuckled grimly, glancing at my face.

”And who think ye the lad was who told us?”

”Who?” my throat tightening.

”The same you was so anxious about a few days back.”

”Mortimer! Eric Mortimer?”

”Aye, unless my eyes fail me already, it was the boy.”

”You are sure? You saw him?”

”Well, I had a glimpse, as he came up the bank here from the ford, his horse dripping. It was dark still, and he only stopped to ask the road. I knew the voice, and the form--the lad is as slender as a girl--then he went by me, digging his horse with the spurs, and lying close. He had a Dragoon's cape flapping from his shoulders, but 'twas the boy all right.

Ah! there go the guns up the bank. Now, perhaps, they'll let me take my fighting dogs across.”

The way was open for me, at least, and I swung up into the saddle, and drove my horse down the slippery sh.o.r.e into the water. The stream was not deep, although the current flowed swiftly, and a moment later I had found Maxwell.