A Soldier of Virginia - Burton Egbert Stevenson
We found it in the utmost confusion. At five o'clock on the morning after
the battle, a teamster, who had cut loose his horse and fled at the first
onset, had ridden madly into the camp crying that the whole army was
destroyed and he alone survived. At his heels came other teamsters, for
with an appalling cowardice, which makes me blush for my countrymen, they
had one and all cut loose their teams at the first fire, and selecting
the best horse, had fled precipitately from the field. Toward noon,
Colonel Washington had arrived, bringing the first accurate news of the
disaster, and at once setting on foot the relief expedition. After him
came troops of haggard, toil-worn, famished men, without arms, bewildered
with terror, fearing a second ambuscade at every step, and with the yells
of the Indians still ringing in their ears. The news of the disaster and
the incoherent stories of these half-crazed fugitives spread
consternation through the camp. Men deserted by scores and started
hot-foot for the settlements, and all pretense of discipline vanished.
Nor did the arrival of the general greatly better matters. He was fast
sinking, and long periods of delirium sapped his strength. It was evident
that the end was near.
On the morning of the twelfth, I was engaged in collecting such of
the Virginia troops as I could find about the camp, when I saw
Colonel Washington approaching with a face so gloomy that I foresaw
some new disaster.
"What is it?" I asked, almost before he had reached me.
"Have you not heard?" and he looked meaningly back toward a spring near
which a number of men were unheading some casks. "We are to destroy all
our powder and stores, burn our wagons, and flee back to the settlements,
like so many children."
"Why, 'tis folly!" I cried. "'Tis monstrous! Who gave such an order?"
"I know not," and Washington smiled bitterly. "It is certain that the
general did not, since he has been raving with fever all the night.
Besides, his one thought has been to march back against the French the
instant he could get his troops together. Come, walk over with me and let
us watch this unhappy work."
I followed him, and witnessed a sight which filled me with speechless
anger and indignation. Powder casks were being knocked open and their
contents cast into the spring, cohorns broken, shells burst, provisions
destroyed, and upwards of a hundred and fifty wagons burned. I remembered
bitterly what work we had had to obtain those wagons. Such a scene of
senseless and wanton destruction I had never seen before, and hope never
to see again. A frenzy of terror seemed to possess officers and men
alike, and I turned away, raging at heart, to think that to such men as
these had been intrusted the defense of our country. At last the work of
destruction was complete. With barely enough provision to carry us to
Fort Cumberland, and with no ammunition save that in our cartouch boxes,
the retreat commenced, if the flight of a disordered and frenzied rabble
can be dignified by such a name.
CHAPTER XX
BRADDOCK PAYS THE PRICE
It was the morning of Sunday, July 13, that this shameful flight began.
Its arrant cowardice weighed on many of the officers who were left alive,
and even on some of the men, especially, I am glad to say, on many of the
Virginians. Whose fault was it? Well, Colonel Dunbar was in command,
since the general was no longer conscious, and must take the blame.
Colonel Washington had asked me to remain near him, if possible. He had
secured me a horse, and together with Captain Orme, who was no less
depressed, we formed the escort to the litter whereon lay the dying man.
Doctor Craik came to us from time to time, but the general was far beyond
human aid. I had never respected him so much as in this hour, for of his
downright valor I had had every proof. If only his pride had been a
little less, that his valor might have counted! It was while I was riding
thus, absorbed in melancholy thought, that a horse cantered up beside me,
and looking up, I saw Lieutenant Allen.
"Confess I was a true prophet, Lieutenant Stewart," he remarked, with
a sorry attempt at a smile, "though damme if I could have foretold
that act of folly back yonder! You see, I know our new commander
better than do you."
"So it seems," I answered, and at that moment caught Colonel Washington's
astonished eyes fixed upon us. Allen followed my glance, and smiled as he
saw the expression of Washington's face.
"He cannot understand our friendliness," he laughed. "He is doubtless
wondering if we are arranging the preliminaries for the desperate
encounter for which we were booked. Let me explain the situation to him,"
and he spurred to Washington's side. "I had occasion to say to Lieutenant
Stewart a few evenings ago," he said, "that I had been grievously
mistaken in my estimate of his courage, and that of the Virginia
companies, and that I was truly sorry that I had ever questioned them. In
the light of to-day's event, I am still more sorry, and I wish to add to
you, Colonel Washington, that I regret the words I used to you, and that
I sincerely ask your pardon."
"'Tis granted with all my heart!" cried Washington, his face illumined
with that fine smile which always lighted it before any deed of courage
or gentleness, and the two shook hands warmly. "'Twas granted before you
asked it. I am not such a fire-eater as Tom, back there. I have regretted
that foolish quarrel many times, and had determined that it should not
lead to another meeting between you, which would have been mere folly.
Come here, sir," he called to me. "I wish to tell you how pleased I am
that this quarrel has been adjusted."
"No more pleased than I, I assure you, colonel," I laughed.
"Lieutenant Allen gave me a sample of his swordsmanship I shall not
soon forget. I should have been as helpless before him as a lamb in the
jaws of a tiger."
"Now you are mocking me!" cried Allen, and as I related to Colonel
Washington the story of his little bout with Langlade, we rode on
laughing, the best of friends.
"But, believe me, Lieutenant Stewart," he said, when I had finished, "it
was not self-complacency which urged me to take up the foils that day. I
merely wished to show you that you had need to keep in practice, and so
prevent you from becoming over-sure."
"'T was well done," said Washington heartily. "I appreciate your conduct,
Lieutenant Allen."
"And I certainly took the lesson to heart," I laughed. "Just before you
came, I had conceived a most exalted opinion of my own abilities. I shall
not make the mistake a second time."
Presently Allen fell back to rejoin the rear-guard, with which he had
been stationed, and we rode on beside the general's litter. He was
delirious most of the time, and was fighting the battle of the
Monongahela over and over again, giving orders and threshing from side to
side of his couch in his agony. In one of his intervals of consciousness,
he called my companion to him.
"Colonel Washington," he said in a low tone, "I feel that I have done you
great injustice. Had I followed your advice, this catastrophe might not
have happened. But my eyes were not opened until too late. Had I lived,
I should not have forgot you. I am sure you cannot withhold your pardon
from a dying man."
Washington's lips were trembling as he bent over the litter.
"If there is anything to pardon, general," he said softly, "be sure I
pardon you with all my heart. You have the love of all your officers,
sir, who revere you as a brave and gallant man."
"Ay, but a proud and stubborn one," and he smiled sadly. "Would God I had
had the grace to see it while it was yet time. Colonel Washington," he
added, "I wish you to have my charger, Bruce, and my body servant,
Bishop. These two gentlemen are witnesses that I give them to you."
Orme and I bowed our assent, and Washington thanked him with a trembling
voice. He was soon wandering again, this time, apparently, among the
scenes of his earlier manhood.
"Messieurs de la Garde Francaise," he cried, "tirez, s'il vous plait!"
"Ah," murmured Orme, "he is at Fontenoy."
And again,--
"Poor Fanny, I always thought she would play till she would be forced to
tuck herself up."
"She was his sister," said Orme, answering our questioning glances. "She
ruined herself at cards and then hanged herself. It was a sad story."
And yet again,--
"No, I'll not take your purse!" he cried; and then after a moment, "nor
ask my life at your hands. Do what you will."
I could bear no more, and rode forward out of earshot. To see this
gallant man lying there, slowly dying, bereft at one stroke of life and
that far dearer to him than life, his military reputation, moved me as
few things had ever done. He had another lucid interval toward the middle
of the afternoon, and warmly praised the conduct of his officers.
"They were gallant boys, every one," he said. "They did their duty
as brave men should. How many of them fell?" he asked suddenly,
turning to Orme.
"Sixteen," answered Orme sadly.
"And how many were wounded?"
"Forty-seven."
"Sixty-three,--and there were only eighty-nine," and Braddock sighed
heavily. "And how went it with the men?"
Orme hesitated, fearing to disclose the extent of the disaster, but the
general's eyes were on his and would take no denial.
"They suffered very heavily," said Orme at last. "Less than five hundred
escaped unharmed. All of the wounded who remained on the field were
killed by the Indians."
"And we went into battle with near fifteen hundred men," said Braddock.
"Why, it was mere slaughter. There has never an army gone into battle
which lost such proportion of its numbers. Ah, well, I shall soon join
them. And they are happier than I, for they went to their end honored
and applauded, whilst I am a broken and ruined man, who will be
remembered only to be cursed."
He turned his head away from us, and a great tear rolled down his cheek.
Orme was crying like a child, and made no effort to conceal it, nor were
Washington and I less moved.
"At least," he said at last, turning back to us with a smile, "it were
better to have died than to have lived. I am glad I do not have to live."
He soon lapsed again into delirium, and seemed to be living over a second
time a meeting with some woman.
"Dear Pop," he said, "we are sent like sacrifices to the altar. They have
given me a handful of men and expect me to conquer whole nations. I know
that I shall never see you more. Good-by, Pop, and God bless you."
Orme turned away for a moment to master his emotion.
"'T was his last night in London," he said when he could speak. "He was
to set out on the morrow, and he asked Colonel Burton and myself to go
with him to visit a very dear protegee of his, George Anne Bellamy, the
actress, to whom, I think, he has left all his property. He used to her
almost the same words he has just repeated."
"So he had doubts of his success," said Washington musingly. "Well, he
was a brave man, for he never permitted them to be seen."
He was fast growing weaker. His voice faltered and failed, and he lay
without movement in his litter, continuing so until eight o'clock in the
evening. We had halted for the night, and had gathered about his couch,
watching him as his breathing grew slowly fainter. At last, when we
thought him all but gone, he opened his eyes, and seeing the ring of
anxious faces about him, smiled up at them.
"It is the end," he said quietly. "You will better know how to deal with
them next time;" and turning his head to one side, he closed his eyes.
We buried him at daybreak. The grave was dug in the middle of the road,
so that the wagons passing over it might efface all trace of its
existence and preserve it inviolate from the hands of the Indians. Our
chaplain, Mr. Hughes, had been severely wounded, so it was Colonel
Washington who read the burial service. I shall not soon forget that
scene,--the open grave in the narrow roadway, the rude coffin draped with
a flag, the martial figure within in full uniform, his hands crossed over
the sword on his breast, the riderless charger neighing for its master,
and the gray light of the morning over it all. The burial service has
never sounded more impressively in my ears than it did as read that
morning, in Colonel Washington's strong, melodious voice, to that little
group of listening men, in the midst of the wide, unbroken, whispering
forest. How often have I heard those words of hope and trust in God's
promise to His children, and under what varying circumstances!
We lowered him into the grave, and lingered near until the earth was
heaped about it. Then the drums beat the march, the wagons rolled over
it, and in half an hour no trace of it remained. So to this day, he lies
there undisturbed in the heart of the wilderness, in a grave which no man
knows. Others have railed at him,--have decried him and slandered
him,--but I remember him as he appeared on that last day of all, a brave
and loyal gentleman, not afraid of death, but rather welcoming it, and
the memory is a sweet and dear one. If he made mistakes, he paid for them
the uttermost penalty which any man could pay,--and may he rest in peace.
Of the remainder of that melancholy flight little need be said. We
struggled on through the wilderness, bearing our three hundred wounded
with us as best we could, and marking our path with their shallow graves,
as they succumbed one after another to the hardships of the journey. On
the twenty-second day of July we reached Fort Cumberland, and I learned
with amazement that Dunbar did not propose to stop here, although he had
placed near a hundred and fifty miles between him and the enemy, but to
carry his whole army to Philadelphia, leaving Virginia open to Indian and
French invasion by the very road which we had made. He alleged that he
must go into winter quarters, and that, too, though it was just the
height of summer. Colonel Washington ventured to protest against this
folly, but was threatened with court-martial, and came out of Dunbar's
quarters red with anger and chagrin.
And sure enough, on the second of August, Dunbar marched away with all
his effective men, twelve hundred strong, leaving at the fort all his
sick and wounded and the Virginia and Maryland troops, over whom he
attempted to exercise no control. I bade good-by to Orme and Allen and
such other of the officers as I had met. Colonel Burton took occasion to
come to me the night before he marched, and presented me with a very
handsome sword in token of his gratitude, as he said, for saving his
life,--an exploit, as I pointed out to him, small enough beside a hundred
others that were done that day.
The sword he gave me hangs above my desk as I write. I am free to confess
that I have performed no great exploits with it, and when I took it down
from its hook the other day to look at it, I found that it had rusted in
its scabbard.
CHAPTER XXI
VIRGINIA BIDS US WELCOME
"To my mind, there is only one thing to be done. That is to retire."
The speaker was Colonel Henry Innes, commandant of the fort, but as he
looked up and down the row of faces opposite him, he saw few which showed
assent. Scarcely had the rear-guard of Dunbar's troops disappeared among
the trees which lined the narrow military road, when Colonel Innes had
called this meeting of the officers left at the fort, "to decide," as the
summons put it, "on our future course of action." As if, I thought
indignantly to myself, there could be any question as to what our future
course of action should be.
"We are left here," continued the speaker, in a louder voice and growing
somewhat red in the face, "with scarce five hundred men, all provincials,
and most of them unfit for service. A great part of the army's equipment
has been abandoned or destroyed back there in the woods. In short, we are
so weak that we can hope neither to advance against the enemy nor to
repel an assault, should they march against us in force, as they are most
like to do."
For a moment there was an ominous silence.
"May I ask what it is you propose, Colonel Innes?" asked Captain
Waggoner at last.
"I propose to abandon the place," replied Innes, "and to fall back to
Winchester or some other point where our wounded may lie in safety and
our men have opportunity to recover from the fatigues of the campaign."
Again there was a moment's silence, and all of us, as by a common
impulse, glanced at Colonel Washington, who sat at one end of the table,
his head bowed in gloomy thought. The fever, which he had shaken off for
a time, had been brought back by the arduous work he had insisted on
performing, and he was but the shadow of his former self. He felt our
eyes upon him and suddenly raised his head.
"Do you really anticipate that the French will march against us, Colonel
Innes?" he asked quietly. "There were scarce three hundred of them at the
fort three weeks ago, hardly enough for an expedition of such moment, and
it is not likely that they can be reinforced to undertake any campaign
this summer."
"There would be little danger from the French themselves," retorted
Innes, with an angry flush, "but they will undoubtedly rally the Indians,
and lead them against us along the very road which Braddock cut over the
mountains. Fort Cumberland stands at one end of that road."
Washington smiled disdainfully.
"I have heard of few instances," he said, "where Indians have dared
attack a well-manned fortification, and of none where they have captured
one. To retreat from here would be to leave our whole frontier open to
their ravages, and would be an act of cowardice more contemptible than
that which Colonel Dunbar performed this morning, when he marched his
troops away."
I had never seen him so moved, and I caught the infection of his anger.
"Colonel Washington is right!" I cried hotly. "Our place is here."
Innes did not so much as look at me. His eyes were on Washington, and his
face was very red.
"Colonel Washington," he sneered, his lips curling away from his teeth
with rage, "was, I believe, an aide on the general's staff. Since the
general is dead, that position no longer exists. Consequently, Colonel
Washington is no longer an officer of the army, and I fail to see what
right he has to take part in this discussion."
Half a dozen of us were on our feet in an instant, but Washington was
before us and waved us back with a motion of his hand.
"Colonel Innes is right," he said, his deep-set eyes gleaming like two
coals of fire. "I am no longer an officer of the army, and I thank God
this is so, since it is about to further disgrace itself."
"Take care, sir," cried Innes, springing to his feet. "You forget there
is such a thing as court-martial."
"And you forget that I am no longer of the army, and so can defy its
discipline."
He stood for a moment longer looking Innes in the eyes, and then,
without saluting, turned on his heel and left the place. A moment later
the council broke up in confusion, for Innes saw plainly that the
sentiment of nearly all the other officers present was against him, and
he did not choose to give it opportunity of expression. I had scarcely
reached my quarters when I received a note from his secretary stating
that as the mortality among the Virginia companies had been so heavy, it
had been decided to unite the three into one, and my lieutenancy was
therefore abolished. Trembling with anger, I hurried to Washington's
quarters and laid the note before him.
"Why, Tom," he said, with a short laugh, after he had read it, "we seem
to have fallen into disgrace together. But come," he added more
cheerfully, seeing my downcast face, "do not despair. We may yet win out.
The governor and the House of Burgesses will not receive so quietly this
project to retire from the frontier. I had a letter from Dinwiddie but
the other day, in which he said as much. In the mean time, I am going
home to Mount Vernon to rest, and you must come with me."
I accepted readily enough, for I knew not what else to do, and on the
morrow we set out. Colonel Washington was so ill that we could proceed
but slowly. We finally reached Winchester, and from there, because of the
better road, crossed the river to Frederick, where a great surprise
awaited us. For scarcely were we off our horses at the little tavern,
than the host, learning our names, rushed away down the wide, rambling
street, crying the news aloud, to our great wonderment, who saw not why
it should interest any one. In an incredibly short time, above a hundred
people had gathered before the inn, cheering and hallooing with all their
might, while we looked at them in dumb amazement. We sent for the host to
learn what this might mean, thinking doubtless there was some mistake,
and even as he entered, a dozen men burst into the room, and insisted
that we should not be permitted for a moment to think of putting up at an
inn, but should accompany them home.
"But, gentlemen," protested Washington, "you have mistaken us for some
one else. We have done nothing to deserve your hospitality."
"Have you not?" they cried, and they hustled us out into the yard. There
was no denying them, so off we rode again, greatly bewildered, and in the
course of half an hour were being introduced by our self-appointed
entertainer to his wife and three pretty daughters.
"'T is Colonel Washington, you understand, wife," he cried. "Colonel
Washington, whose advice, had it been followed, would have saved the
expedition."
A great light broke upon me. So my friend's merits were to be recognized
at last,--were to win him something more than contumely and insult,--and
as he would have made denial, I cut him short.
"Do not listen to him!" I cried. "'T is true, every word of it, and much
more besides."
Whereat the girls smiled at me very sweetly, our host wrung my hand
again, and I swear there were tears in Washington's eyes as he looked at
me in feigned anger. Such a night's entertainment as was given us I shall
not soon forget, nor Colonel Washington either, I dare say. Word of our
presence had got about the neighborhood with singular speed, and the
people flocked in by dozens, until the great hallway, which ran through
the house from front to rear, was crowded from end to end. Then, nothing
would do but that Colonel Washington must tell the story of the advance,
the ambuscade, and the retreat, which he did with such consummate
slighting of his own part in the campaign that I interrupted him in great
indignation, and, unheeding his protests, related some of the things
concerning him which I have already written, and which, I swear, were
very well received.
"But Lieutenant Stewart says nothing of what he himself did," cried
Washington, when I had finished.
"Because I did nothing worth relating," I retorted, my cheeks hot with
embarrassment at the way they looked at me.
"Ask him how he won that sword he wears at his side," he continued, not
heeding my interruption, his eyes twinkling at my discomfiture. "Believe
me, 'tis not many Virginia officers can boast such a fine one."
And then, of course, they all demanded that he tell the story, which he
did with an exaggeration that I considered little less than shameful.
In some mysterious manner, tankards of cold, bitter Dutch beer, the
kind that is so refreshing after a journey or at the close of a hot
day's work, had found their way into the right hand of every man
present, and as Washington ended the story and I was yet denying, our
host sprang to his feet.
"We'll drink to the troops of Maryland and Virginia," he cried, "who
behaved like soldiers and died like men, teaching England's redcoats a
lesson they will not soon forget, and to two of the bravest among them,
Colonel Washington and Lieutenant Stewart!"
It was done with a cheer that made the old hall ring, and when, half an
hour later, I found myself beside the prettiest of the three daughters of
the house, I was not yet quite recovered. Only this I can say,--it is a
pleasant thing to be a hero, though trying to the nerves. I had only the
one experience, and did not merit that, as the reader has doubtless
decided for himself.
Of course there was a dance,--what merrymaking would be complete without
one?--and Colonel Washington walked a minuet with a certain Mistress
Patience Burd, with a grace which excited the admiration of every swain
in the room, and the envy of not a few,--myself among the number, for I
was ever but a clumsy dancer, and on this occasion no doubt greatly vexed
my pretty partner. But every night must end, as this one did at last.
Colonel Washington was much better next morning, for his illness had been
more of the mind than of the body, and our kind reception had done
wonders to banish his vexation. Our friends bade us Godspeed, and we rode
on our way southward. I never saw the house again, and it is one of my
great regrets and reasons for self-reproach that I have forgot the name
of the honest man who was our host that night, and remember only that the
name of his prettiest daughter was Betty.