For Love of Country: A Story of Land and Sea in the Days of the Revolution

by Cyrus Townsend Brady

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  _The British Play "Taps"_

  The day after the battle Washington sent his nephew, Major Lewis, underprotection of a flag of truce, to attend upon the wounded GeneralMercer; the exigency of his pursuit of the flying British and theirsubsequent pursuit of him having precluded him from giving to his oldfriend that personal attention which would have so accorded with hiskindly heart and the long affection in which he had held the oldScotchman. Seymour received permission to accompany Lewis, in order toascertain if possible what had become of Talbot.

  The men of Mercer's command reported that they had seen the twoofficers dismounted and fighting bravely, after having refused toretreat. The two young officers were very melancholy as they rodealong the familiar road. Lewis belonged to a Virginia regiment, andhad known both Mercer and Talbot well, and in fact all the officers whohad been killed. The officers of that little army were like a band ofbrothers, and after every battle there was a general mourning for theloss of many friends. The casualties among the officers in the sharpengagement had been unusually severe, and entirely disproportioned tothe total loss; the bulk of the loss had fallen upon Mercer's brigade.

  They found the general in Clark's farmhouse, near the field of battle,lingering in great pain, and slowly dying from a number of ferociousbayonet wounds. He was attended by his aid, Major Armstrong, and thecelebrated Dr. Benjamin Rush came especially from Philadelphia to givethe dying hero the benefit of his skill and services. He had beentreated with the greatest respect by the enemy, for Cornwallis wasalways quick to recognize and respect a gallant soldier. The kindlyQuakers had spared neither time nor trouble to lighten his dying hours,and the women of the household nursed him with gentle and assiduouscare. He passed away ten days after the battle, leaving to hisdescendants the untarnished name of a gallant soldier and gentleman,who never faltered in the pursuit of his high ideals of duty. Brief ashad been his career as a general in the Revolution, his memory is stillcherished by a grateful posterity, as one of the first heroes of thatmighty struggle for liberty.

  Details of the British were already marching toward the field of actionto engage in the melancholy work of burying the dead, when Seymour,under Major Armstrong's guidance, went over the ground in a search forTalbot. He had no difficulty in finding the place where his friend hadfallen. The field had not been disturbed by any one. A bloody frozenmass of ice and snow had shown where Mercer had fallen, and across theplace where his feet had been lay the body of Talbot. In front of himlay the lieutenant with whom he had fought, the sword still buried inhis breast; farther away were the two men that the general and he hadcut down in the first onslaught, and at his feet was the corpse of theman he had last shot, his stiffened hands still tightly clasping hisgun. Around on the field were the bodies of many others who hadfallen. Some of the Americans had been literally pinned to the earthby the fierce bayonet thrusts they had received in the charge; some ofthe British had been frightfully mangled and mashed by blows from theclubbed rifles of the Americans before they had retreated. Off to theright a long line of motionless bodies marked where the Pennsylvaniamilitia had advanced and halted; there in the centre, lying in heaps,were the reminders of the fiercest spot of the little conflict, whereMoulder's battery had been served with such good effect; here was theplace where Washington had led the charge.

  In one brief quarter of an hour nearly three hundred men had given uptheir lives, on this little farm, and there they lay attesting in mutesilence their fidelity to their principles, warm red coat and tatteredblue coat side by side, peace between them at last; indifferent each tothe severities of nature or the passions of men; unheeding alike theambitions of kings, the obstinacy of parliaments, or the desire ofliberty on the part of peoples. Some were lying calmly, as if theirlast moments had been as peaceful as when little children they laidthemselves down to sleep; others twisted and contorted with looks ofhorror and anguish fixed upon their mournful faces, which bespokeagonies attending the departure of life like to the travail pains withwhich it had been ushered into existence. Seymour with a sad heartstooped and turned over the body of his friend, lifting his face oncemore to that heaven he had gazed upon so bravely a few hours since--forit was morning again, but oh, how different! The face was covered withblood from the wound in the forehead, by which he had been beaten down.Sadly, tenderly, gratefully, remembering an hour when Talbot had kneltby his side and performed a similar service, he endeavored to wipe thelurid stains from off his marble brow. Then a thought came to him.Taking from his breast Katharine's handkerchief, which had never lefthim, he moistened it in the snow, and finding an unstained place whereher dainty hand had embroidered her initials "K. W.," he carefullywiped clean the white face of his dead friend. There was a littlesmile upon Talbot's lips, and a look of peace and calm upon his face,which Seymour had not seen him wear since the sinking of the frigate.His right hand, whiter than the lace which drooped over it, was pressedagainst his heart, evidently as the result of his last consciousmovement. Seymour bent down and lifted it up gently; there wassomething beneath it inside his waistcoat. The young sailor reverentlyinserted his hand and drew it forth. It was a plain gold locket.Touching the spring, it opened, and there were pictured the faces ofthe two women Talbot had loved,--on the one side the mother, stately,proud, handsome, resolute, the image of the man himself; on the other,the brown eyes and the fair hair and the red lips of beautifulKatharine Wilton. There was a letter too in the pocket. The bayonetthrust which had reached his heart had gone through it, and it, and thelocket also, was stained with blood. The letter was addressed toSeymour; wondering, he broke the seal and read it. It was a briefnote, written in camp the night of the march. It would seem thatTalbot had a presentiment that he might die in the coming conflict;indeed the letter plainly showed that he meant to seek death, to courtit in the field. His mother was to be told that he had done his duty,and had not failed in sustaining the traditions of his honorable house;and the honest soldierly little note ended with these words,--

  _As for you, my dear Seymour, would that fate had been kinder to you!Were Katharine alive, I would crave your permission to say these wordsto her: 'I love you, Kate,--I've always loved you--but the better manhas won you.' My best love to the old mother. Won't you take it toher? And good-by, and God bless you!----Hilary Talbot._

  The brilliance went out of the sunshine, the brightness faded out ofthe morning, and Seymour stood there with the tears running down hischeeks,--not ashamed to weep for his friend. And yet the man was withKate, he thought, and happy,--he could almost envy him his quiet sleep.The course of his thoughts was rudely broken by the approach of a partyof horsemen, who rode up to where he stood. Their leader, a boldhandsome young man, of distinguished appearance, in the brilliant dressof a British general officer, reined in his steed close by him, andaddressed him.

  "How now, sir! Weeping? Tears do not become a soldier!"

  "Ah, sir," said Seymour, saluting, and pointing down to Talbot's bodyat the same time, "not even when one mourns the death of a friend?"

  "Your friend, sir?" replied the general officer, courteously,uncovering and looking down at the bodies with interest; his practisedeye immediately taking in the details of the little conflict.

  "He did not go to his death alone," he said meaningly. "'Fore Gad,sir, here has been a pretty fight! Your name and rank, sir?"

  "Lieutenant John Seymour, of the American Continental navy, volunteeraid on his excellency General Washington's staff."

  "And what do you here? Are you a prisoner?"

  "No, sir, I came with Major Lewis to visit General Mercer, and to lookfor my friend, under cover of a flag of truce."

  "Ha! How is General Mercer?"

  "Frightfully wounded; he cannot live very long now."

  "He was a gallant fellow, so I am told, sir, and fought the father ofhis majesty in the '45."

  "Yes," said Seymour, simply; "this is where he fell."

  The general look
ed curiously about him.

  "And who was your dead friend?" he continued.

  "Captain Hilary Talbot, of Virginia, of General Washington's staff."

  "What! Not Talbot of Fairview Hall on the Potomac?" said one of theofficers.

  "The same, sir."

  "Gad, my lord, Madam Talbot's a red-hot Tory! She swears by the king.I 've been entertained at the house,--not when the young man was there,but while he was away,--and a fine place it is. Well, here 's a housedivided truly!"

  "Is it indeed so, Mr. Seymour?"

  The young man nodded affirmatively.

  "What were you proposing to do with the body?"

  "Bury it near here, sir, in the cemetery on the hill by the college.We have no means of transporting it hence."

  "Well, you shall do so, and we will bury him like a soldier. Iremember the family now, in England, very well. Don't they call themthe Loyal Talbots? Yes, I thought so. He was a rebel, and so farfalse to his creed, but a gentleman nevertheless, and a brave one too.Look at the fight he made here, gentlemen! Damme, he shall have anescort of the king's own troops, and Lord Cornwallis himself and hisstaff for his chief mourners! eh, Erskine?" said the gallant earl,turning to the officer who rode near him.

  "How will that suit you, Mr. Seymour? You can tell that to his poorold mother too, when you see her once again. Some of you bring up acompany of troops and get a gun carriage,--there's an abandoned one ofMawhood's over there,--and we 'll take him up properly. Have you ahorse, sir? Ah, that's well, and bring a Prayer Book if you can findone,--I doubt if there be any in my staff. I presume the man was aChurchman, and he shall have prayers too. We have no coffin for him,either; but stay--here 's my own cloak, a proper shroud for a soldier,surely that will do nicely; and now let us go on, gentlemen."

  In a short time the martial cortege reached the little Presbyteriancemetery. The young man wrapped in the general's cloak was soon laidaway in the shallow grave, which had hastily been made ready for him.Seymour, attended by the two other American officers, Armstrong andLewis, after cutting off a lock of Talbot's dark hair for his mother,read the burial service out of the young soldier's own little PrayerBook, which he had found in the pocket of his coat; as the earth wasput upon him, Cornwallis and his officers stood about reverentlyuncovered, while the sailor read with faltering lips the old familiarwords, which for twenty centuries have whispered of comfort to theheart-broken children of men, and illumined the dark future by aneternal hope--nay, rather, fixed assurance--of life everlasting.

  There was one tender-hearted woman there too, one of the sweet-faceddaughters of the kindly Quaker, Miss Clark. She had taken time totwine a hasty wreath from the fragrant ever-verdant pine; when thelittle mound of earth was finished, softly she laid it down, breathinga prayer for the mother in far-off Virginia as she did so.

  Then they all drew back while the well-trained soldiers fired the lastthree volleys, and the drummers beat the last call. 'T was the samesimple ending which closes the career of all soldiers, of whateverdegree, when they come to occupy those narrow quarters, where earthlyconsiderations of rank and station are forgot.

  "Sir, I beg to thank you for this distinguished courtesy," saidSeymour, with deep feeling, extending his hand to the knightly Briton.

  "Do not mention it, sir, I beg of you," replied Cornwallis, shaking hishand warmly. "You will do the same for one of us, I am sure, shouldoccasion ever demand a like service at your hands. I will see thatyour other men and officers are properly buried. Do you return now?"

  "Immediately, my lord."

  "Pray present my compliments to Mr.--nay, General--Washington," saidthe generous commander, "and congratulate him upon his brilliantcampaign. Ay, and tell him we look forward eagerly to tryingconclusions with him again. Good-by, sir. Come, gentlemen," he cried,raising his hat gracefully as he mounted his horse and rode away,followed by his staff.