AFTER THE BATTLE
TOM COWARD, as we know, had been selected to serve as one of the guides of the American army. The roads were not so numerous as to cause any fear of serious trouble from confusion; but boys and young men from the region were nevertheless a.s.signed to this duty, and in some instances were said to have been so greatly excited as to have failed in finding the way themselves. To this cause some a.s.signed the failure of Morgan"s dragoons to enter the battle; but doubtless there were other causes as well which prevented that terrible band of riflemen from having a share in the struggle.
Tom had been reserved to move with the troops that were under the command of General Washington himself, and that followed the division which General Lee had failed to lead into battle. Frightened as the lad was, he still noted keenly all that was occurring about him, and had been as highly excited as any over the interview which took place between Washington and Lee when the latter was retreating. The impressions he there received were those which the people of Old Monmouth ever after retained concerning Charles Lee, for he was remembered, not for his experiences abroad or for his successes in the south, but as the man who had been the traitor in the battle.
When the engagement began, Tom"s duties as guide were ended, but as no one gave him any instructions, he was driven from one band of men to another, and while he still retained the rifle which he had taken when he had departed from Benzeor"s house, he had not made any use of it.
For a time he remained within sight of the young lieutenant, and they were together when in the early part of the battle Captain Molly had done the deed which has caused her name to be remembered until this day.
Molly had marched with her husband, and as the advanced batteries opened fire upon each other the intrepid woman had been running back and forth between the men and a little spring, which was near by, bringing water to her husband and his companions. Her task was no light one in the heat of that day.
As she had started to return from one of her visits to the spring, she turned just in time to see her husband fall as he was advancing to his post, for he was a cannoneer, as we already know. Molly hastily ran to his a.s.sistance, but she at once perceived that he was dead. She heard an officer order the cannon to be moved from its position, but instantly controlling her grief, she declared her purpose to take her husband"s place. Amidst the cheers of the men she did so, and so bravely and well did she perform the duty, that after the battle was ended General Greene himself presented her to the great commander and related the story of her bravery. Washington added his words of praise and bestowed upon her a lieutenant"s commission. The men received the news with loud cheers, and then themselves bestowed upon "Molly Pitcher" the t.i.tle of "Captain Molly," and as Captain Molly she was known thereafter.
Another story, told afterwards by the Frenchmen, reflected great credit upon General Clinton, and perhaps in a measure atoned for the action of that commander in wantonly burning so many of the houses in Old Monmouth. An American officer with about twenty of his men advanced under the English batteries to observe their position. The redcoats opened fire, and the officer"s aid-de-camp fell at his side. The men, who were dragoons, instantly turned and fled,--that is, all save the officer, who, although he was directly under the fire of the cannon, calmly dismounted and advanced to discover whether the fallen man was dead or not, or whether the wound had been mortal. Quickly discovering that the man was dead, the American officer, visibly weeping, turned and remounted his horse and slowly rejoined his comrades. The officer was the young Marquis de Lafayette, and his white charger had been recognized by General Clinton, who himself ordered his men not to fire, and doubtless thereby saved the life of the brave young n.o.bleman. It was long cherished as the one deed of mercy in the midst of a campaign and battle which left its marks of suffering and sorrow on every side.
An instance of the other side of the British commander"s character came to Tom"s attention not long afterwards, when he heard of the misfortune of an old lady seventy years of age, in whose house General Clinton made his headquarters. The British officer, noticing that his hostess had caused all of her better furniture and valuables to be removed, informed her that she need have had no fears for the safety of her possessions, for he himself would protect her and them, and urged her to have them brought back again. As the old lady expressed her fears and objected, he repeated his a.s.surances so strongly that she yielded and sent a man with a wagon to the place in which they had been concealed.
When the wagon-load arrived in front of her door, she in person applied to the British commander for a guard; but the permission was refused and, not even giving her a change of dress for herself or her aged husband, the goods were at once confiscated, and the old lady was compelled to give up her bedroom and sleep with the negro women upon the floor of the kitchen.
Among the congregation which had a.s.sembled at the "new church" to watch the battle was one man who, instead of joining his friends upon the roof or steeple, took his seat upon one of the gravestones. Not long afterwards, a cannon-ball came speeding in that direction, and struck the unfortunate man.
The congregation upon the roof did not wait for the customary benediction to be p.r.o.nounced, we may be sure, and while the most of them hastily dispersed, a few remained to carry the wounded man into the "meeting-house," where he died within a few minutes, and the stains of his blood remained for many years upon the floor. It was within six feet of the west end of this same "new church" that the body of the unfortunate British Colonel Monckton, over which the contending forces had such a desperate struggle, was buried.
Within the vicinity of Monmouth Court House many houses and farm buildings were set on fire and burned by the redcoats, some of whom openly declared that there was no hope of conquering the rebels until "they had burned every house and killed every man, woman, and child."
Just how they expected to conquer _after_ they had burned the buildings and slain the people is not clear to us to-day; but doubtless the expression and the purpose alike were born of the fury of the battle, and was only one among many of the results of war, which even in its mildest forms appeals to all that is bad in men. And as the campaign in Old Monmouth presented none of the milder forms of war, such deeds, terrible as they were, were not unnatural.
Nor were they all confined to one side, for the men in buff and blue were as much aroused as the men in scarlet, and, while naturally the anecdotes and incidents of the battle are largely those of the cruel deeds of the redcoats, doubtless if all things had been recorded, we should have found that many of those brave ancestors of ours were not entirely guiltless of similar deeds.
An unusual story was that of Captain Cook of the Virginia Corps, who was shot through the lungs. He was carried into a room in a near-by house and ordered by the surgeon not to speak. A brother officer came into the room and tenderly asked of the wounded man whether anything could be done for him. Captain Cook, in spite of his sufferings, was mindful of the surgeon"s words and made no reply. Mistaking the cause of the silence, his friend departed from the house and reported to Washington that Captain Cook was dead, and then the commander ordered a coffin to be placed under the window of the room in which the brave captain was supposed to be lying dead. But Captain Cook was not dead, nor did he die until many years afterwards, and lived to visit several times the good people in Old Monmouth, who had tenderly ministered to his wants until he was able to rejoin the army.
After the battle, many of the dead were found beneath the shade of trees, or beside the little streams to which they had crawled for shelter or for water; and many of these had perished, not from wounds, but from their labors in the intense heat of the day. Several houses at Monmouth Court House were filled with the wounded after the battle, and every room in the Court House itself was likewise filled. The suffering soldiers lay upon the straw which had been scattered over the floors, and the groans and cries of the wounded and the moanings of the dying resounded together. The faces of many were so blackened that their dearest friends did not recognize them, and as fast as they died their bodies were taken and buried in pits, which were only slightly covered by the sand.
A similar service was rendered for the enemy"s dead, and among them was found a sergeant of dragoons whose immense body had been a familiar sight to both armies, for the man was said to have been the tallest soldier ever seen in all the struggle of the Revolution, and to have measured seven feet and four inches in height.
So, side by side, or in neighboring graves, the nameless bodies of friends and foes were left for their last long sleep. The roar of the cannon, the shouts of the men, the calls of the officers, the bitter feelings of the awful war were never to disturb or arouse them again.
They had done their part, and done it well; but the land for which they struggled could never mark their resting-places, nor perhaps recall the names of all. But the heroes whose names we praise would never have been honored except for the part the faithful and brave, but nameless and forgotten, heroes took. In honoring the one cla.s.s, let us never forget to pay a tribute of honor and of praise to the unknown and forgotten heroes of Old Monmouth.
The loss of the Americans in the battle had been three hundred and sixty-two. That of the British, while it was reported to have been four hundred and sixteen, was doubtless much greater, for the Americans buried no less than two hundred and forty-five of the redcoats, and had no means of knowing how many had been carried away. Washington himself believed the loss to have been as great as twelve hundred.
Who were the victors on the plains of Old Monmouth? What were the effects of the campaign upon the fortunes of the struggling States? Most American writers have claimed that the victory belonged to the Continentals because they had driven the British from the field, while many British writers have claimed that it was a drawn battle.
Certainly, Washington must have felt bitterly disappointed, for he had hoped to defeat the enemy and capture their baggage and stores. His failure to do so was not due to the British, but to the treachery of Charles Lee. Had Lee carried out the orders given him, there can be little doubt to-day that the battle of Monmouth would have aided in putting an end to the war long before peace came.
We are not concerned by what might have been the result, however, but by what was the result. Clinton succeeded in withdrawing his troops and saving his baggage train, and with both soon after embarked (June 30) upon the ships which Lord Howe had been keeping in waiting off Sandy Hook, and thereby gained the safety of New York. But his men were greatly disheartened, and came to regard the despised "rebels" in an entirely new light. Indeed, within a week more than two thousand deserted, the most of whom were Hessians, and the confidence of those who remained was sadly broken. While it is a current saying that "nothing succeeds like success," it is also evident that nothing fails like failure, and this was as true in those trying days of the Revolution as it is to-day, and General Clinton soon found it to be so.
Upon the Americans, the moral effect of the campaign and battle was more needed than the material effect. Valley Forge was pa.s.sed now, Philadelphia had been abandoned by the British, and the Americans had found upon the plains of Old Monmouth, as they had at Trenton and Princeton, that their men were not inferior to their enemies, while their officers were among the best the world had known. The opponents and enemies of Washington, and they were many at the time both within and without Congress, were compelled to be silent, and the great commander was free to face his difficulties and dangers, which were not ended after the battle of Monmouth. That campaign had served chiefly to place behind him one more of his problems, but, as we shall see, many yet remained to try the soul of the n.o.blest American of them all.
Meanwhile, what had become of the lad Tom Coward? Alarmed by the battle, not daring to fight and yet not knowing where to withdraw, although his fear had not been strong enough to lead to such a result, he was driven about by the movements of the men, and in one of the lulls which came in the conflict, he found himself almost alone. He was near a barn which stood beyond the borders of the battlefield, and was just about to turn the corner when he stumbled over the body of a fallen man.
As he glanced down, he was almost overcome when he discovered that the soldier was his friend, the young lieutenant. A hurried examination revealed that he was still living, though he was badly wounded in the throat. The lad lifted the head of the suffering man, but a groan caused him to desist. Almost overcome by grief and fear, he turned to seek for aid.
[Ill.u.s.tration: HE DISCOVERED THAT THE SOLDIER WAS HIS FRIEND]
As he looked quickly about him, he perceived a man in the distance on the border of the woods away from the battle-ground. Instantly he turned and ran toward him, and to his surprise discovered that the man was none other than Friend Nathan Brown.
"Come, Nathan! come! Be quick! Lieutenant Gordon"s over here by the barn. He"s terribly wounded and may die any moment. Come and help me with him!"
The Quaker instantly responded, and without explaining how it had happened that he should be discovered so near a scene to which in spirit as well as in practice he was strongly opposed, ran by the side of the eager lad to the place where the wounded man had fallen.
CHAPTER x.x.x
TOM COWARD"S PATIENT
THE place where young Lieutenant Gordon was lying was in the rear of the barn which belonged to the parsonage of the "new church." After the bullet had hit him, he had managed to crawl to that secluded place, but the sounds of the battle, which was still being waged in the vicinity, were not long heard by the wounded officer, for he had soon become unconscious, and the roar of the cannon and the shouts of the men were all unheeded and unheard.
"Is he dead?" said Nathan in a low voice, as he looked down upon the unconscious man.
"No! no!" replied Tom hastily; "or at least he wasn"t a minute ago. No, he"s still alive," he added after a hurried examination. "We must carry him away from this place."
"I see no place for thy friend. These sons of Belial are not likely to permit thee to depart unnoticed."
Friend Nathan was trembling, and his face betrayed his alarm. And there was much to frighten him. Clouds of smoke could be seen not far away, and the loud shouts of men and the reports of their guns could be distinctly heard. The struggle near the meeting-house was one of the most severe in all the battle, and the danger of which the frightened Nathan spoke was not unreal. But Tom"s fears had departed now, and although he never fully understood the cause of the change in his feelings, the sight of his suffering friend and his determination to aid him had banished all thoughts concerning his own personal safety.
At a distance of a half mile, Tom could see a little farmhouse, and he hastily decided that the young lieutenant must be carried there. The building was on the border of the plain and on the side opposite to the place where the struggle was going on.
There would be danger in the attempt to carry him across the field, but thinking only of his friend, Tom said hastily, "We must carry him to that farmhouse yonder, Nathan. I don"t know who lives there, but whoever does won"t refuse to receive a wounded man, I know. You take hold of his feet, and I"ll lift the head and shoulders, and we"ll get him there somehow. Come, Nathan, we mustn"t delay a minute."
"Have it thine own way, Friend Thomas," replied Nathan, as he stooped and grasped the legs of the wounded officer.
Tom gently lifted the head of the young lieutenant at the same time, and carefully across the field the two men began to move with their burden.
Their progress necessarily was slow, and the lad"s fears were not allayed by the evident alarm of his companion. Nathan repeatedly glanced behind him, and several times Tom was compelled to speak sharply to recall the frightened man to their present task. The shouts and reports of the guns were increasing, and Tom"s strongest desire was to avoid attracting the attention of any of the combatants.
They had safely pa.s.sed beyond the orchard, and he was just beginning to hope that their efforts would be successful, when suddenly Nathan"s hat was lifted from his head and the sound of a whistling musket-ball was heard as it pa.s.sed above them.
For a moment, the startled Nathan looked down at his hat, and as he perceived the hole in it which the bullet had made, he instantly dropped his burden, and turning sharply about, started in a swift run across the field.
"Come back, Nathan! Come back! Don"t leave me here!" pleaded Tom; but Nathan did not heed the call.
His pace was a marvelous one for a man of his years, and as he bent low over the ground, as if to avoid other bullets which might be coming toward him, and sped swiftly forward, under other circ.u.mstances Tom might have felt inclined to laugh at the ludicrous sight the fleeing man of peace presented. But as it was he felt much more inclined to cry than to laugh, and, as he realized his own helplessness, he knew not what to do. If he had been alone he might have followed Nathan and gained a place of safety, but, as he glanced down upon the suffering man, who now lay stretched upon the ground, his whole soul rebelled against the thought of deserting his friend in a time like that.
What could he do? The desperate lad looked about him hoping to discover some one whom he might summon to his aid. In the distance he could see the bands of struggling soldiers, and their shouts and shots could be clearly heard. But they were all intent upon their own contest, and there was no one who would hear or heed him if he should call.
He could not abandon his friend--that much at least was certain; and at last he determined to do his utmost to carry the helpless, wounded man himself. Placing his arms beneath the shoulders of the unconscious lieutenant, and striving to rest the head against his own body, he started slowly on, dragging the man with him. His progress was necessarily slow, and he was compelled to stop frequently, both for his own sake and that of his friend. Still, on and on he persistently made his way. The intense heat of the day, his constant fear that life would depart from the body he was dragging forward, the sound of the battle behind him, all combined to increase his troubles; but not for a moment did he think of abandoning his efforts for his friend.
Proceeding slowly, stopping at frequent intervals and then resuming his efforts, he steadily drew nearer to the farmhouse he had perceived in the distance. How much time had been consumed he could not determine.