Buchanan County bulletin. [volume] (Independence, Iowa) 1869-1891, 1876-03-31
THE BATTLE OF GERMAN
TOWN.
A Story of the Revolutionary War
BY GEORGE LIPPARD.

That rifle blaze, flashing through
the mist, is the first shot of the bat
tie day Of Germantown. And that
dead man, flung along the porch in
all the ghastlln, SIS Of sndden death
cold and stiff there, while his sister
awakes from her sinless sleep to pray
for him, three thousand miles away
is the first dead man of that day of
horror!
They break from the folds of the
mist, the men of Brandywine-foot
soldier and troopers come thunder
ing up the hill. God of Battles,
what a scene! The whole road, fur
ther than the eye could see, further
than the ear could hear, crowded by
armed men, hurrying over Chestnut
hill, hurrying along the valley be-
tween Chestnut hill and Mount Airy,
sweeping up the hill of Aliens house,
rushing forward in one dense column
with the tall form of Sullivan at their
head, while the war shout of Antho-
ny Wayne is borne along by the
morning breeze. There, rising from
rank to rank, speeding from battal-
ion, from column to column, a form
of majesty sweeps by, mounted on a
steed oflron gray, waving encourage
ment to the men, while every lip re-
peats the whisper, and every heart
beats at the sound, echoed like a
word of magic along the line: ''There
he rides-how grandly his form tow
ers in the mist; it's Washington-it's
Washington" and the whole army
take up the sound-"It is Washing
toni"
The descent was like the path of a
hurricane. The light of the break
ing day, streaming dlmly through
mist and gloom, fell over the forms
of the patriot band as they swept
down the hill, every man with his
musket ready for the charge, every
trooper with his sword drawn, every
eye fixed upon the shroud of mist in
front of their path, in the vain effort
to gaze upon the position of the ad-
vance post of the enemy mile below,
every heart throbbing wildly with
the excitement of the coming contest,
and all prepared for the keen encoun-
ter-the fight, hand to hand, foot to
foot, the charge of death, and the
sweeping hail Of the iron cannon ball
and the leadcn bullet.
Sullivan's men have posed, they
are down the hill, and you see them
bclow-rank after rank disappear
ing in the pail of the enveloping mist.
Here they come-a band brave and
true, band with SCARED faces and
sunburnt visages, with rusted mus
kets and tattered apparel, yet with
true hearts and stout hands. These
are the men of Paoli!
And there, riding in the midst, as
though his steed and himself were
but one animal-so we'll he backs
that steed, so like is the battle fever
of horse, with the waving name and
glaring eyes, to the wild rage that
stamps the warriors face-there in
the midst of the Men of Paoli, rides
their leader-Mad Anthony Wayne!
And then his voice-how it rings
out upon the morning air, rising
above the clatter of arms and the
tramp of steeds, rising in mighty
shout: "On, boys, on! In mo-
ment we'll have them! On, comrades
on-and remember Paoli!''
And then comes the band with
the gallant Frenchman at their head;
the brave Conway-brave though un-
fortunate-also rushing wildly on in
the train of the hunt. Your eye
sickens as you gaze oyer file after
file of brave men, with mean apparel
and meaner arms, some half clad,
others nearly barefoot, yet treading
gaily over the flinty ground; some
with fragments of coat on their
backs, others without coverings for
their heads. all marked by wounds,
all thinned by hunger and disease,
yet every man of them is firm, every
hand is true, as it cluches the musket
with an eager grasp.
The band Of Pulaski sweeps past,
eager for the hunt of death, and as
they spur their steeds forward a ter.
rible confusion arises far ahead.
There is flashing of strange fires
through the folds of mist, lifting the
snow-white Fall for moment-there
is rolling of musketry, rattling like
the thunderbolt ere it strikes-there
is the tramp of hurrying legions, the
far-oR shout of the charging Cont
nentals, and the yells and the shouts
of the snrnrised foreman.