by Ron Carter
Five times the British took the top of the hill, and five times the Americans regrouped and stubbornly fought their way back up to reclaim it. Bodies of the dead and wounded littered the slopes. A pall of white gun smoke settled to shroud the battle, and still they fought on, both sides exhausted from the forced marches of the preceding night and morning—sweated, loading and firing mechanically. Despite their bulldog tenacity, their determination, their willingness to fight as long as General Washington commanded, the numbers were against the Americans. Once more they backed off the hill and gave it to the British. Quickly the redcoats rolled four cannon to the crest, depressed the muzzles, and fired. As General Washington watched, twenty pounds of grapeshot tore into the retreating Americans.
We will fight but not to the death. We must save the core of the army, or the revolution is finished.
“Fall back! Fall back!” he shouted. “Fire and fall back, reload, fire and fall back.”
Then suddenly a tumultuous shout rolled from the throats of the Americans. Behind them came the fresh division of General Nathanael Greene. Some of them had done the impossible by running four miles in forty-five minutes, knowing from the sound of the raging battle that the Americans were in desperate need. The exhausted ranks opened to allow General Greene, followed by Colonel Peter Muhlenberg and General George Weedon, to come through at a run, straight into the British, firing as they came, surprising the red-coated soldiers, stopping them in their tracks, giving the retreating Americans time to rally, regroup.
Greene’s men formed into ranks and stormed into the British lines. What had been a musket and bayonet battle became hand-to-hand, face-to-face with musket-butts, rocks, fists, bayonets—anything they could grasp to stop a man. Colonel Peter Muhlenberg, commanding a brigade, led his men in a furious charge. German born and raised, he had been trained in the arts of war in his homeland, among his fellow Germans. Some of his old comrades in arms were now in the ranks of the Hessians, and they recognized him. He heard them shout, “Hier kommt Tuefel Piet!” “Here comes Devil Pete,” and for one split second Muhlenberg hesitated in surprise, then plunged on, sword swinging as he led his men into the blue-coated Hessians.
Obedient to the orders of General Washington, Greene’s men began a masterful retreat, covering the backs of the exhausted men who had met the best the British had to offer and, outnumbered two to one, had fought them to a standstill five times. With the sun below the western rim, they backed away from Battle Hill and into the open fields and onto the dirt roads behind. In deep dusk they reached the Chester Creek Bridge, and while the exhausted Americans poured across, Lafayette pulled his horse to a stop and turned, calculating.
The British must cross that bridge if they mean to follow us.
He raised his hand and shouted the order to his men, “Halt! Form ranks and reload!”
While the remainder of the Continental Army clattered across the bridge to scatter in all directions into the night, Lafayette sat his tired horse, positioning his men, first rank kneeling, second rank standing, muskets loaded and cocked at the ready. The wound in his foot ached. His boot was filled with blood, and his wound was still bleeding as he sat waiting in the first shades of night, waiting until he could see the white belts crossed on the chests of the pursuing British as they reached the middle of the bridge.
Only then did he shout, “Fire!”
Muzzle flashes leaped three feet from the American muskets, and those in the leading ranks of the British went down. The red-coated regulars had been marching since four o’clock that morning. They had stopped but once to eat hard rations, drink from a stream, and collapse in the grass for twenty minutes before they marched on. The heat of the late summer day, the eighteen-mile march in full battle gear, the agonizing draining of their strength in the battle, it all caught up with them as they faced Lafayette in the deep gloom.
Again Lafayette shouted, “Fire!” and again the American muskets blasted orange flame in the darkness, and the second rank of pursuing British went down.
They had had enough. Lafayette heard the shouted command, “Fall back! Fall back!” and then the sounds of men searching in the darkness to take the bodies of their dead and wounded with them as they retreated, boots thumping hollow on the wooden bridge. Lafayette held his position until he could no longer hear the British retreating, and then he too turned to lead his men away into the night.
South of Battle Hill and the Birmingham Meeting House, General Anthony Wayne pulled his jaded horse to a halt in the stubble of a harvested wheat field two miles east of the breastworks that his weary, beaten regiment had abandoned three hours earlier at Brandywine Creek. He twisted in his saddle, peering back in the dark, trying to see how many of his men had survived the wild fight on the banks of the stream and the chaotic, fragmented retreat that had scattered them in all directions. He could see the dark forms of those nearest and hear the rustle of feet in the wheat stubble behind them, but he did not know the count of those who had followed him.
He raised his hand and hissed, “Halt. Sit down and listen. They might still be following.” The whispered order was passed on as the survivors sank down in the wheat straw and dirt, ears straining for any sound that could be the blue- and green-coated Hessians coming upon them in the black of night. Minutes passed, and the only sounds were the creak of the saddle as Wayne’s tired horse breathed, bullfrogs in the creek that they had crossed to get into the field, and crickets. Far away the bark of a farm dog came furious, then quieted. There were no sounds of pursuit.
From his right came the voice of one of his captains. “Sir, are we going to find the others tonight? General Washington?”
“No. First we’ve got to find a place to tend our wounded, and then we’ve got to send out patrols to find the rest of our regiment and regroup.”
Quiet held for a moment before the captain spoke again. “What happened back at the breastworks?”
Wayne dismounted. “You mean where did those British regulars come from?”
“Yes. We could have held the Germans right across the creek, even after some of them crossed Pyle’s Ford to the south of us and came up on our left flank. But where did those redcoats come from that charged in on our right?”
Wayne shook his head in the dark. In his mind he was again feeling the bewildering shock of hearing the shouts of his men from behind, “The redcoats, the redcoats,” and turning to see a horde of British regulars already into the rear of his command, muskets blasting, bayonets thrusting as they drove into them.
He drew and released a great, frustrated breath. “I don’t know where they came from. I doubt Howe or Cornwallis sent them from the big battle up at Birmingham Meeting House. I think they got lost somehow and walked into our fight by mistake.”
There was a pause, then, “We didn’t have a chance. Not fighting in three directions at once. Surrounded.”
Wayne spoke wistfully. “Battles come on their own terms. One never knows. General Washington’s orders were to fight but not to the death. We’ve got to save enough to keep an army.”
“Save any of the cannon?”
There was pain in Wayne’s voice. “Not one. No time. They got them all.”
“That’s bad.”
“Maybe we’ll have to go get some of theirs. Maybe we can get some from the French. We’ll need cannon for what’s coming.”
“Something big coming?”
“Philadelphia. Congress wants us to keep the British out. Could be heavy.”
Silence held for a time, with both men lost in their own thoughts. Then Wayne turned to his horse and loosened the girth on the saddle as he spoke.
“Sounds like we lost them. Work back among the men. Find out who’s here and who’s not. Get a count if you can. I’ll send out a patrol to find a farmhouse where we can take the wounded. Tell them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wayne watched the dark shape rise and listened as the captain quietly made his way back through the decimated regiment.
* * * * *
Nine miles west and north, across the Brandywine, Thomas Cheyney cautiously dismounted Henry Tredwell’s trembling horse and led it forward in the darkness through the trees lining the path from the road to his home and barn. Lamplight shone dully from the inside on the drawn window curtains. A great mound of ashes glowed where he had set fire to the cord of wood. He stopped and listened, but there were no sounds other than the crickets. He walked into the open yard, watching in the dark, listening. There was nothing, no one.
He dropped the reins to the horse and sprinted to the kitchen door, jerked the latch-string and burst in. Polly was seated at the table, head leaned forward on her arms, asleep. Across the table before her was the long Pennsylvania rifle. At the sound of the door opening she jerked erect in her chair and grabbed for the rifle, trying to focus her eyes, when she recognized Thomas in the yellow light. She came to her feet running and threw herself into his arms, shoulders shaking silently as she clung to him.
The battle of Brandywine Creek was over.
Notes
The battle of Brandywine Creek, from beginning to end, is accurate as described herein, including the officers of each opposing army, their assignments, their efforts in carrying them out, their strengths, and their mistakes and weaknesses. The heroics of Generals Lafayette and Greene were critical to saving the American army. Thomas Cheyney’s participation is accurate, including his drawing a map in the dirt. His conversation with General Washington is nearly verbatim from recorded history. See Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 185–86; Mackesy, The War of American Independence, 1775–1778, pp. 128–29; Freeman, Washington, pp. 349–52; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 352–56.
Germantown, Pennsylvania
September 15, 1777
CHAPTER XII
* * *
Giants wearing crimson coats and black tricorns and crossed white belts came in perfect ranks that extended into infinity, marching over the rolling hills, each man identical to the next, each with dead eyes in a dead face, each with a gigantic Brown Bess musket, muzzle lowered, with a steel bayonet five feet long shining, the tip pointed directly ahead. A band marched in the first ranks, drummers hammering, brass section blowing, but there was no sound.
Caleb fired his musket at the giant directly in front of him, and in the instant the ball hit, the huge creature was transformed into a man smaller than Caleb, with brown hair and pleading brown eyes. There was anguish in his face as he fell forward, eyes locked on Caleb, and he died, except for his eyes. They remained open, unblinking, staring at Caleb, accusing him.
Scalding pain leaped searing in Caleb’s breast, and he threw down his musket and clapped both hands over his eyes to shut out the accusing brown eyes, but he could not. They were still there before him, unblinking, staring vacantly. A strangled sound came surging from his throat, and he fell to his knees, hands still over his eyes, trying to shut out the oncoming giants with their monstrous bayonets, and the silent blasting of the muskets, and the dead men that were everywhere, all staring with unblinking eyes.
Then one of the giants seized his shoulders, and the world became an impossible tangle of writhing motion and confused thoughts. The huge hands lifted him up, shaking him, and Caleb screamed at the giant, and the jumbled scene faded into blackness. He heard the echo of a human voice, and then there were stars above and a dim quarter-moon shining on the dark stands of oak and maple and pine trees nearby, and there was a face before him with a red beard and a pair of rough gnarled hands clamped on his shoulders as Caleb recognized the fading echo of his own voice.
O’Malley’s voice hissed, “Wake up! Yer scarin’ half the company!”
Sweat was running as Caleb blinked, wide-eyed, struggling to find his way from the battle with the giants back to the blackness of the Continental Army camp on the outskirts of Germantown at three o’clock in the morning. His voice croaked as he spoke.
“I . . . there were . . . giants.”
“You were nightmarin’ again. Are you waked up enough to let it go?”
“I’m awake. I’m all right.”
“You’re still sufferin’ from your first battle. Get back to sleep. Reveille’s in two hours. We march in three.”
Caleb nodded. O’Malley released his grip, rose, and disappeared into the night while disgruntled voices mumbled at Caleb in the dark, then quieted. For a time Caleb sat still, listening to the sounds of the night while his heart slowed from its pounding and the grotesque images slowly faded. At four o’clock the chill of an early fall had settled over the camp, and he gathered his blanket around his shoulders as he sat cross-legged with his troubled thoughts running.
War—battle—like a dream—another world—so many dead—dead men everywhere—pain—suffering—evil—all evil—why doesn’t God stop it?—if He’s there and He’s so good why does he let it go on?—is it because He’s not there?—only another dream?—the killing was no dream—the men I killed are dead—God didn’t stop me—and He didn’t stop them when they tried to kill me—didn’t stop them when they came with their bayonets—didn’t stop them when our men cried out and died—got to stop thinking about it—got to stop.
The soft call of an owl came from far, and nearer was a sharp squeal and then silence as something large caught something small in the night.
Killing—everywhere killing—no end to it—got to stop thinking about it—think about Mother—home.
Without warning a lump rose in his throat to choke him. His eyes brimmed with tears, but he did not cry.
She’ll hear about the battle at Brandywine, and she’ll worry—must write a letter—tell her I’m fine—tell her I think of her—the twins—Brigitte—Matthew—and Father—Father, who is dead—gone—in a battle—killed.
He caught himself and by force of will drove thoughts of war and killing from his mind.
We march in the morning—where?—why?—men been coming in for four days—scattered everywhere in the battle—whole companies—half of Third Company gone—lost, dead, wounded, deserted—who knows?—haven’t seen Dorman—him or Fifth Company—what happened to Fifth Company?—Captain Venables missing—General Wayne’s command lost somewhere for two days—half our cannon gone—ammunition—gunpowder—blankets—winter coming—how do we replace it all?—where do . . . Slowly his head slumped, and his eyes closed, and he drifted into a fitful sleep, still sitting with the blanket about his shoulders.
He jerked awake at the rattle of the reveille drums and for several seconds struggled before he remembered where they were camped, nine miles north of Philadelphia. The lights of the farms surrounding the small village of Germantown in the lush rolling hills of Pennsylvania were winking on in the gray of dawn. Caleb winced at the sour taste in his mouth and stood, stretching to relieve stiff muscles. He turned at the sound of O’Malley’s voice.
“On your feet. We march at six o’clock.”
A grizzled old veteran called, “We just got here. Which way this time?”
“South. Across the Schuylkill.”
“We goin’ to Philadelphia?”
“Don’t know. We’ll find out when we get across the river. Breakfast crews, get at it.”
The wood detail dumped firewood beside the iron tripods while the cooks filled the black iron kettles with creek water and stirred in milled oats and a handful of salt. Others poured poached ground wheat into pots of boiling water to make a strong, bitter drink. Third Company gathered around the smoking kettles, each man waiting for the cooks to ladle steaming oatmeal porridge into his wooden bowl and dip the seething brown drink into his cup, to be followed by a measured spoonful of molasses.
While they ate, men drifted from the trees into camp, gaunt, starving, weary, some wounded. They stared at the hot oatmeal and wiped at their mouths before they asked the nearest officers if anyone from their regiments or companies had made it back from the chaos of the nighttime retreat following the battle of Brandywine Creek. Officers pointed, and
the men moved on.
With the sun cresting the eastern mountains, the captains gave orders, and the sergeants bawled their companies into ranks. Five minutes later the remnant of the Continental Army was marching south on the winding dirt road from Germantown, toward the river. At ten o’clock the column stopped, and the men sought the shade of the woods on either side as they drank long from their wooden canteens. Caleb wiped his mouth, smacked the corncob stopper back into his canteen, dropped his bedroll, and sat down with his back against the rough bark of a pine tree, listening to the soldier talk.
“We gave the hill to ’em, back there at Brandywine, but we held ’em five times. Outnumbered two to one we was, but we held ’em. The best they had.”
“If we’d of had the numbers they had, we’d of beat ’em. Drove ’em clean back to New York.”
“Scared ’em good. They got the hill, but every man-jack among ’em knows we only had half what they had, and we fought ’em to a standstill five times. They knew if it had been an even matched fight, we’d of won. Scared ’em.”
“We get some rest and reg’lar food, and a little ammunition, and next time they’ll see who gives up the hill.”
Caleb listened, and thought, and remained silent.
They reached the Schuylkill River in the early afternoon, and by five o’clock had crossed it to continue their march south.
Throughout the afternoon stragglers came from the woods and the fields looking for their regiments. They brought stories of hiding in woods and caves and under bridges during the day while roving patrols of Hessians and British prowled the countryside searching for them. They moved at night, eating what they could find in the fields or in barns, silent, refusing to be seen by the farmers, to save them from the wrath of the British and Hessians who burned barns and crops and slaughtered animals of any who had harbored or helped the Americans or even knew of their passing.
