Bradford opinion. [volume] (Bradford, Vt.) 1874-1881, 1876-03-11
The Battle Of Germantown.
A STORY OF THE REVOLUTION.
AIRY WAR.
BY GEORGE LIPPARD.

That rifle blaze, flashing through the
mist, is the first shot of the battle day
of Germantown. And that dead man,
flung along the porch in all the ghastli-
ness of sudden death-cold and stiff
there, while his sister awakes from her
sinless sleep to pray for him, three thou
sand 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 soldiers
and troopers come laundering up the
hill. God of Battles, what scene |
The whole road, further than the eye
could see, further than the ear could
hear, crowded by armed men, hurrying
over Chestnut hill, hurryipe along the
valley between Chestnut hill and Mount
Airy, sweeping up the hill of Allen 8
house, rushing onward in one dense
column, with the tall form Of Sullivan at
their head, while the war shout of
Anthony Wayne is borne along by the
morning breeze. There, rising from
rank to rank, speeding from battalion to
battalion, from column to column, a
form of majesty sweeps by, mounted on
a steed OF iron gray, waving encourage
ment to the men, while every lip repeats
the whisper, and every heart beats at
the sound, echoed like word of magic
along the lines: "There he rides-how
grandly his form towers in the mist; it's
W. Aington-it's Washington |" and the
p -lole army take up the sound" 1t is
Washington |"
The descent was like the path of
hurricane. The light of the breaking
day, streaming dimly 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 advance post of the enemy mile
below, every heart throbbing wildly
with the excitement of the coming CON
test, aud all prepared for the keen en-
counter-the fight, hand to hand, foot
to foot, the charge of death, and the
sweeping hail of the iron cannon ball
and the leaden bullet.
Sullivan's men have passed, they are
down the hill, and you see item below
rank after rank disappearing in the pail
Of the enveloping mist. Here they
come--a band brave and true, band
with fcarred faces and sunburnt visages,
with rusted muskets and tattered ap-
parel, yet with true hearts and stout
hands. These are the men of Paoli
And there, riding in their midst, as
though his steed and himself were but
one animal-so we'll he backs that steed,
10 like is the battle fever of horse, with
the waving name and glaring eye, 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
latter OF arms and the tramp of steeds,
rising in mighty shout: "On. boys,
on In a moment we'll have them. On,
on-and remember Paoi |"
And then comes the band with the |
gallant Frenchman at their head; the
brave Conway, brave though unfortu-
nate, also rushing wildly on, in the train
,f the hunt. Your eye sickens as you
gaze over file after file of brave men,
with mean apparel and meaner arms,
,ome half clad, others well nigh bare.
loot, yet treading gayly over the finty
ground; some with fragments of coat
IN their backs, others without covering
or their heads, all marked by wounds,
III thinned by hunger and disease, yet
,very man of them is firm, every hand
8 true, as it clutches the musket with
III eager grasp.
The band of Pulaski sweeps past,
,ager for the hunt of death, and as they
'pur their steeds forward, a terrible
'onfusion arises far ahead.
There is flashing of strange fires
through the folds of mist, lifting the
now-white pail for q moment-there is
olling of musketry, rattling like The
ere it strikes-!here is the
ramp of hurrying legions, the far-off
hout OF the charging Continentals, and
he yells and shouts Of the surprised foe
nen.
Sullivan is upon the camp of the enc
nv, upon them with the terror of ball
nd bayonet. They rush from their can
on, they form hastily across the road,
n front of their baggage, each red
Dated trooper seeks his steed, each
ootman grasps his musket, and the
,ud voice of Musgrave, echoing wildly
long the line of crimson attire and
ashing bayonets, is heard above all
ther sounds
"Form-lads, form-fall in thereto
our arms, lads, to your arms. Form, ,
omrades, forml"
In vain his shouting, in vain the haste
biq mon rr,ph;ou froy,, thar ho1o |