For Love of Country: A Story of Land and Sea in the Days of the Revolution, Brady [acx book reading .TXT] 📗

swept the bayonet away from his heart by a blow of his sword delivered with a quick movement of his powerful arm. Mercer profited by the moment's respite to leap to his feet.

"Thank you, my lad," he said.

"Do you get to the rear and rally the men, general," cried Talbot, firing a pistol at short range into the midst of the crowding enemy. "I 'll hold these men in play." But the fighting blood of the old Scotchman was up, and for answer he struck boldly at the man opposite him.

"Surrender, you damned rebels!" cried an officer near them.

"Never!" replied Mercer, cutting down the man with whom he was engaged, while Talbot did the like to the one next him. With a roar of rage the British sprang on the two men. In a trice one of the bayonets got past Mercer's guard and grazed his arm, another buried itself in his bosom, a third struck him in the breast. The old man struck out weakly, dropped his sword and fell, pierced by a dozen wounds, but still breathing. Talbot, who was as yet unharmed, though covered with blood and dust, his hat gone, stepped across his body.

He might have retreated, being young and active; but that was not the custom of his family, neither would he abandon the body of his brave commander; besides, every moment of delay was precious. Surely they would be reinforced and rallied; he knew the promptness of Washington too well to doubt it for a moment; and, last of all, what was life without Kate? One glance he cast to the bright sky, flushed with the first rays of the rising sun, and then he stood on guard. The young man's eyes were burning with the intoxication of the fight, and his soul filled with great resolve; but his sword-play was as cool and as rapid as it had been in the Salle des Armes at Paris, where few could be found to master him. The little group of British paused a moment in admiration of his courage.

"One at a time, gentlemen," he cried, smiling, and warding off a vicious bayonet thrust. "Are there none here who will cross swords with me, for the honor of their flag?"

The young lieutenant in command of that part of the line promptly sprang forward and engaged; the two blades rang fiercely together, and grated along each other a moment later. The men stepped back. But the brave lieutenant had met his match, and, with set lips and iron arm, Talbot drove home his blade in the other's heart. Ere he could recover himself or withdraw his sword, he was beaten to his knees by a blow from a gun-barrel; the blood ran down over his face.

"Surrender! surrender!" they cried to him, "and we will spare your life."

For answer his hand sought his remaining pistol. The first one of his opponents fell dead with a bullet through his heart, and the next moment the deadly steel of a bayonet was buried in Talbot's throat.

"Kate—Kate!" he cried in agony, the blood bubbling from his lips, and then another bayonet found his gallant heart; and he sank down on his face, at the foot of the dying officer, his lips kissing the soil of that country in defence of whose liberties he had fallen.

As was customary with his family, he had died on the field, grimly facing fearful odds to the last. The last of his line, he had made a good ending, not unworthy his distinguished ancestry; for none of the proud and gallant race had ever died in the service of a better cause, be it that of king or Parliament, than this young soldier who had just laid down his life for love of his country!

The slight check afforded by the interposition of the Americans was over. The British were sweeping everything before them, when Colonel Mawhood, the cool-headed officer, who had been sitting on a little brown pony, with a small switch in his hand, directing the combat, became aware of a large body of men coming up on his right flank through the wood. With the readiness of a practised soldier, he instantly stopped the advance of his men, wheeled them about, brought up his guns, and prepared to open fire. The American officers had time to mark with admiration the skill with which the manoeuvre was effected, and the beautiful precision with which the men carried out their orders. Then the force, a large body of Pennsylvania militia which Washington had despatched at the first sound of firing in the direction of Mercer, broke out of the wood, and advanced rapidly. The muskets of the redcoats were quickly brought to the shoulder, and at the word of command the British line was suddenly tipped with fire and then covered with smoke. Many of the militia fell at this volley delivered at close range; some of the fallen lay still and motionless, while others groaned with pain; the raw troops fired hastily into the smoke, then hesitated and stopped uncertainly as the volley was repeated. It was another critical moment, and the hour brought the man.

Washington himself had most opportunely arrived on the field in advance of the troops, attended by Seymour. One glance showed him Mercer's broken retreating column and the hesitating Pennsylvania militia! Everything was at stake. It was not a time for strategic manoeuvres now, but for men—nay, there were men there as good as ever fought—but for a man then. Providentially one was at hand. Putting spurs to his gallant white horse, he rode down the line in front of the Pennsylvania militia, waving his hat and cheering them on.

"An old-fashioned Virginia fox-hunt, gentlemen!" he cried gayly, giving the view halloo! Galloping forward under the fire of the British battery, he called to Mercer's shattered men. They halted and faced about; the Seventh Virginia broke through the wood on the flank of the British; Hitchcock's New Englanders came up on the run with fixed bayonets; Moulder's Philadelphia battery opened fire from the hill on the opposing guns.

The fire of a warrior had now supplanted the coolness of a general. Dashing boldly forward, reckless of the storm of bullets, to within thirty yards of the British line, and smiling with stern pleasure in the crisis which seemed to develop and bring out every fibre of his deep nature, he called upon his men to come on. Recovering themselves, they responded with the utmost gallantry. Mawhood was surrounded and outnumbered, his victory suddenly changed to defeat; but, excellent soldier that he was, he fought on with desperate resolution, and the conflict was exceedingly hot. Washington was in the thick of it. Seymour, who had followed him closely until the general broke away in the smoke to lead the charge, lost sight of him for a moment, enveloped as he was in the dust and smoke of the battle. When he saw him emerge from the cloud, waving his sword, and beheld the enemy giving way on every side, he spurred up to him.

"Thank God!" he said; "your excellency is safe."

"Away! away! my dear Seymour," he cried, "and bring up the troops. The day is our own!"

To the day of his death Seymour never lost the splendid impression of that heroic figure, the ruddy face streaked with smoke and dust, the eyes blazing with the joy of battle, the excitement of the charge, the mighty sweep of the mighty arm! Mawhood's men were, indeed, routed in every direction; most of them laid down their arms. A small party only, under that intrepid leader, succeeded in forcing its way through the American ranks with the bayonet, and ran at full speed toward Trenton under the stimulus of a hot pursuit.

Meanwhile the Fifty-fifth Regiment had been vigorously attacked by St. Clair's brigade, and, after a short action, those who could get away were in full retreat towards New Brunswick. The last regiment, the Fortieth, had not been able to get into action at all; a part of it fled in a panic, with the remains of the Fifty-fifth, towards New Brunswick, hotly pursued by Washington with the Philadelphia City Troop and what cavalry he could muster, and the rest took refuge in the college building in Princeton, from which they were dislodged by artillery and compelled to surrender. The British loss was about five hundred in killed and wounded and prisoners, the American less than one hundred; but among the latter were many valuable officers,—Colonels Haslet and Potter, Major Morris, Captains Shippen, Fleming, Talbot, Neal, and General Mercer.

After following the retiring and demoralized British for a few miles, Washington determined to abandon the pursuit. The men were exhausted by their long and fatiguing marches, and were in no condition to make the long march to New Brunswick; most of them were still ill equipped and entirely unfitted for the fatigue and exposure of a further winter campaign,—even those iron men must have rest at last. The flying British must have informed Leslie's troops, six miles away, of the situation; they would soon be upon them, and they might expect Cornwallis with his whole force at any time. He drew off his troops, therefore, and, leaving a strong party to break down the bridge over Stony Brook and impede the advance of the English as much as possible, he pushed on towards Pluckamin and Morristown, officers and men thoroughly satisfied with their brilliant achievements.

Early in the morning the pickets of Cornwallis' army discovered that something was wrong in the American camp; the guard had been withdrawn, the fires had been allowed to die away, and the place was as still as death. A few adventurous spirits, cautiously crossing the bridge, found that the guns mounted in front of it were only "quakers," and that the whole camp was empty,—the army had decamped silently, and stolen away before their eyes! My Lord Cornwallis, rudely disturbed from those rosy dreams of conquest with which a mocking spirit had beguiled his slumber, would not credit the first report of his astonished officers; but investigation showed him that the "old fox" was gone, and he would not be bagged that morning—nor on any other morning, either! But where had he gone? For a time the perplexed and chagrined commander could not ascertain.

The Americans had vanished—disappeared—leaving absolutely no trace behind them, and it was not until he heard the heavy booming of cannon from the northeast, borne upon the frosty air of the cold morning about sunrise, that he divined the brilliant plan of his wily antagonist and discovered his whereabouts. He had been outfought, outmanoeuvred, outflanked, and outgeneralled! The disgusted British were sent back over the familiar road to Princeton, now in hotter haste than before. His rear-guard menaced, perhaps overwhelmed, his stores and supplies in danger, Cornwallis pushed on for life this time. The English officer conceived a healthy respect for Washington at this juncture which did not leave him thereafter.

The short distance between Trenton and Princeton on the direct road was passed in a remarkably short time by the now thoroughly aroused and anxious British. A little party under command of Seymour and Kelly, which had been assiduously engaged in breaking down the bridge over Stony Brook, was observed and driven away by two field-pieces, which had been halted and unlimbered on a commanding hill, and which opened fire while the troops advanced on a run; but the damage had been done, and the bridge was already impassable. After a futile attempt to repair it, in which much time was lost, the indefatigable earl sent his troops through the icy water of the turbulent stream, which rose breast-high upon the eager men, and the hasty pursuit was once more resumed. A mile or so beyond the bridge the whole army was brought to a stand by a sudden discharge from a heavy gun, which did some execution; it was mounted in a breastwork some distance ahead. The army was halted, men were sent ahead to reconnoitre, and a strong column deployed to storm what was supposed to be a heavy battery. When the storming party reached the works, there was no one there! A lone thirty-two-pounder, too unwieldy to accompany the rapid march of the Americans, had been left behind, and Philip Wilton had volunteered to remain, after Seymour's party had passed, and further delay the British by firing it at their army as soon as they came in range. These delays had given Washington