21 The Coming of the Foe

The winter came again, and on the frontier we still wallowed deep in the mire of disgrace, for we had only talking generals, strident lawyers, who talked the army into mortal sickness on the march, talked in the face of the foe, and, captured, talked on. Then we thrilled with horror at the news of the Raisin, where our brave Kentuckians were captured and massacred by the Indians. Two of those who fell there under the Indian tomahawk had been my playmates, and it was not a thing to soothe one’s hate of the foe.

Our spirits were dashed again by the taking of our Chesapeake by their Shannon, for the American seamen had fallen into the British fault and grown too confident, but it was only for a little while. Our career of triumph upon the sea was renewed, and always the American ship was the victor. Then came the capture of their entire fleet on Erie by ours, and even on land the war began to turn in our favour, for a thousand mounted Kentuckians galloped over their entire army at the Thames and slew Tecumseh, the greatest and most dangerous of the Indian chiefs. But still New England sulked, and our ports were blockaded by their overwhelming fleets, and the lawyers talked on and led our armies, sometimes to victory, sometimes to defeat, but never to victory through any merit of theirs.

Cyrus Pendleton went to Kentucky once on business, and even at his age would have joined the army on the Canadian frontier had his commercial interests permitted him, but he came back to Washington and remained there, alternately raging and rejoicing as came the news of defeat or victory. Marian did not accompany him to Kentucky, but was in Washington through all this period, and I often saw her. Bidwell, who had become a thorough dandy now, though not quite so extreme as Van Steenkerk, was there too, and he watched me with a jealous eye.

I noticed a change in Marian. She had been an advocate of war, and nobody’s indignation had been greater than hers when the report of some new act of oppression came, but she became silent upon this subject, save to express a hope now and then that it would end soon. The captured flags of the Guerriere and the Macedonian, brought to Washington with the dried blood upon them, had shocked her. She could only see now that war meant suffering, wounds, and death. The brave girl whom I had known so long became tender and sad when she spoke of the wounded soldiers on the battlefields in the dim Northern forests. Among all the women in Washington this spirit ruled, and I think it should ever be the pride of the American race, men and women alike, that in battle, and before and after, our humanity has not been stained by ill treatment of the vanquished—a boast that no European nation can rightly make.

Time went on, and the war with it. In Europe the Continent was in flames; Napoleon had made his retreat from Moscow and was fighting allied Europe with a courage and skill that have not been equalled since lone Hannibal made his stand against Rome. We watched events there with scarcely less interest than those in our own country, and when another winter passed and the news came that Napoleon had been beaten to the ground at last, it seemed as if disasters were closing in upon our young country, for all the armies of Britain were released from European warfare and were sent against us. We were now to fight single-handed with the greatest military power in the world. The veterans of Wellington, who had beaten the veterans of Napoleon in Spain, were shipped from the Garonne to America to fight us. The British fleets covered the seas, and all the vast military resources raised for the combat with Napoleon were now directed against the young United States. In every court of Europe it was thought that our time had come, but they forgot there that a republic is strongest when it faces the greatest danger.

We soon had a taste of their quality. Their ships already upon our coasts outnumbered our own ten to one, and the first order of the British admiral to his captains was to ravage and destroy every American town that he could take. Our foe had ceased to be civilized. But this brought its own punishment, for when such tales as these came in, lukewarm or hostile New England began to rise and join us, ashamed of her treasonable conduct before, and when the New Englanders at last made up their minds to fight they fought with all the courage and tenacity that they had shown in the Revolution, and proved again on the battlefield and at the cannon’s mouth that the New Englanders could outlast the old Englanders.

We were now in the third year of the war, and the British were pouring troops upon our continent and their fleets and transports were everywhere. It was reported that they would strike at every seaboard city, and it was said that Washington itself would be menaced. But the Government could not believe it. “Attack Washington? How absurd!” the President and his Cabinet said. “Why, Washington is nothing but a village. What have they to gain by it?” So they made no defence, fortified nothing, raised no armies, and waited in calmness and confidence.

Meantime our commissioners had gone to meet those of England at Ghent, in Belgium, to consider a treaty of peace, the English demanding everything. Mr. Gallatin was one of the commissioners, but at his order I remained in the Treasury office with his successor, Mr. Campbell.

So you may well understand that Washington was thunderstruck when, one warm August morning, an express messenger galloped into town with the news that fifty British ships of war, loaded down with troops, had arrived in the Potomac and that their army would soon be marching into the capital. I saw the man myself and talked with him after he had delivered his message. He had seen the ships, he did not exaggerate, and beyond a doubt the full danger was upon us, and we had done nothing to stop the invaders. Not a ditch was dug, not an earthwork, and no regular army existed save that which sprawled in legal handwriting across the pages of good paper. With the enemy marching upon us, we selected a general, and, following our habit in that war, we took a Baltimore lawyer, noted for his oratory, and told him to create defences, armies, and victories, all of which he devoutly believed he could do, and for fear that he couldn’t do it, everybody in Washington began to show him the way it ought to be done.

I had ample opportunity now to enlist and serve my country in the field as well as in an office, for with the British almost in sight of the capital Mr. Campbell could not say me no, and I joined a company of volunteers, having Bidwell and Cyrus Pendleton himself as comrades. Courtenay and Mercer had long since gone to the Southwest to join the army that Jackson was leading against the Creek nation.

I had urged Cyrus Pendleton to send Marian to Georgetown, where she could stay in the house of some friends, and the sanguine old man yielded to what he called a useless precaution, saying that the English might get a view of Washington—and he hoped that it would do them good—but that would be all.

I saw Marian just before her departure.

“Philip,” she said, “I can only ask you to be a brave soldier, and that I know you will be.”

Then she was gone.

The militia began to come in from Virginia and Maryland. There was spirit enough before the fight, but of discipline, leadership, preparation—nothing. They tramped into Washington, some in their farmer clothes and with the sod of the furrow yet on them; others wore an army coat and homespun jeans trousers. A few had complete uniforms. Most of them had their squirrel rifles and could not have fastened bayonets upon their muzzles if it had been in the power of the Government to give them. Many had no ammunition and nowhere to obtain it. But all had plenty of advice, and, with the freedom and equality of our country, were quite willing to give it to the President.

Their camp fires burned in the streets and grounds of Washington and flared through the nights, while the generals built defences on the maps and the weary President listened to more advice than was ever before given to one man in the same time. Now I saw how civilians can make war, and, seeing, I wondered. Somebody said to me:

“You may beat them, Ten Broeck; there are enough of you. But do all armies look like this?”

I could not say truthfully, for it was the first of my knowledge, but I hoped not, and, at last, part of us marched out to a place called Old Fields to meet the advancing British, where we promptly ran, and ran well, at the first sight of the enemy; one had no choice, he had to keep up with the crowd, and back we came to Washington, leaving the enemy but nine miles from the capital.

All sorts of rumours reached us that the British were to attack at this point or that point, and we marched from one to the other, until our feet grew sore and our muscles ached and we called aloud for fight or rest.

The days grew hotter, the sun blazed on us, and the dust kicked up by many marching feet became one vast, interminable cloud, whitening our clothing, plastering our faces, filling eyes, nose, and ears, and creeping down our throats. Nothing impressed me like the dust, which, taking the place of atmosphere, was everywhere and hot, tired, and hungry, we swore at it; meanwhile, our confidence in our officers and, most of all, in ourselves was slipping away, as we wore out both strength and courage in vain and useless marches.

We heard at last that Bladensburg would be the battlefield, and, breathing dust, dripping sweat, and swearing many oaths, we marched to a place called the Wood Yard, where we camped.

We did not know yet when the British would come, and while some of us toiled at the earthwork others sought the rest of which they stood in so much need.

We were scattered over a plain and some gentle hills, and the men who were not busy with shovel and spade lay upon the ground panting and wiping their dripping faces. A confused clamour, the thud of the picks as they were struck into the earth, the rattle of weapons, and the hum of many voices floated over the field. Sometimes the soldiers quarrelled with their officers and disputed their orders, and now and then an excited horse, breaking from its owner, would gallop through the lines, scattering the men like a cavalry charge and drawing a stream of oaths after him.

The sun shone down upon us with a hard brilliancy that relaxed our muscles, shortened our breath, and found every pore in our bodies. The huge dust clouds floated over us and sometimes hid us, and we were blinded and choked by the drifting particles. I saw men and distant trees as if through a haze, and the shapes of both were exaggerated and distorted. The world was awry.

“Is it not better to fight than to do this, Mr. Ten Broeck?” a boy of sixteen asked of me.

I could not say, as I had not yet fought, but, like the others, I looked eagerly for the enemy, feeling that anything was better than the waiting and vain work that we were doing.

Mr. Monroe, the Secretary of State, who had seen service in the Revolution, a brave little man in a cocked hat and a fine uniform, but no soldier, was there, very much in the way, adding to the confusion of General Winder, our commander in chief, by giving advice, of which we had too much already, and which was bad if taken.

The noises that arose from the field increased in volume and variety. The men talked as they pleased, and, while willing enough to work, received no orders save those which none knew how to obey. The regiments were mixed, and, without intending it, exchanged officers and men with perfect freedom. Sometimes three or four companies were assigned to the same place, and ours received no place at all, but took it. We were mostly farmers and clerks who had never seen war, and we proposed to wage it in a fashion that would astonish all the great generals and make new military books a necessity.

The twilight was coming, and the camp fires flared here and there on the field, their smoky light showing some of the men settling the issue of the battle, while others, fantastic shapes in the dust and dusk, toiled with pick and spade on the earthwork, and a few slept, stretched flat on the bare ground. Around me the sound of human voices did not decrease as the night approached, and I had no wish for sleep, though knowing well the need of it. I had taken my turn at the earthwork, and lay upon the ground, listening to the noises of the camp and watching the fretting army. This was not war as I had pictured it: the ordered march of battalions, each soldier in his place, knowing his duty and doing it in silence and obedience; but I saw, instead, men ignorant, confused, and wasting their strength, officers who were no officers, and a camp that was not a camp, but merely some thousands of human beings herded together.

The sun had gone down in a blaze of reddish gold behind the western hills and the twilight was deepening into night, heavy, sticky, and hotter than the day, no breath of wind stirring the layers of damp, dusty vapour that we called air. The camp fires rose and increased in number. All around me they twinkled and sent up coils of smoke that thickened and poisoned the already thick and poisonous air.

Coffee and food were served, and sometimes a tumult and a struggle arose over it; the coffee was spilled, soaking into the earth, and the food was trampled and ground into the mud that had formed.

The men still laboured at the earthwork, though in diminished numbers, and the noises began to decrease, part of the army being asleep on the ground, and another part too tired to talk or grumble longer. The fires were sinking, and the dusky rim that encircled the army crept up closer. Seen through the light of the fires it was a grayish, impervious darkness, silent and yet full of threat. I wondered what would come out of its shadow, and if the enemy were marching through it toward us. I put my ear to the earth, thinking I might hear the tread of the advancing regiments, but there was only the noise of our camp.

Some of the lights went out and the darkness invaded the camp itself, but the damp heat, increased by the fires, clung close to the earth and coiled itself around us. I could hear the men gasping for air and cursing because they could not sleep. I, too, tried to sleep, but sleep eluded me, and I stared with aching, dust-burnt eyes over the army that sprawled across the field and into the darkness. I sat up and saw our lawyer-general striding about, followed by his composite staff, which tangled itself up occasionally with its swords and then swore in wicked variety and profusion. The general visited the earthwork, disapproved of most that had been done, and, ordering it to be done over again, strode back to his tent, with his jingling and composite staff striding after him. Around me fires still flared and the smoke drifted in our faces, the tumult of voices still floated over the field, and from the earthwork came the ring of pick and the rasp of spade.

Some one touched me on the arm and said, “Mr. Ten Broeck.” I looked up and saw a tall man in sailor dress, and for a few moments I did not recognise him, but then I knew it was the seaman Patterson, whom we had helped to escape from the Guerriere, but much changed now, for his strength had come back and he looked vigorous and ready.

“I’m glad to see you, Patterson,” I said. “What is it?”

“I’m with the marines under Barney back there,” he said, “and I’m just returning with a despatch that the commodore sent to the general, and as I saw you sitting here I thought I’d speak to you. I want to tell you to look out for yourself in the battle and after.”

“What do you mean by ‘after’?”

“That this is not the way to beat the British—not with an army like this.”

He hurried on and left me to believe that his words were true and to feel discouragement. I dozed after a while and saw a vapoury field, peopled by ghosts, but I was aroused by a shout and the blare of a thousand voices in excited talk. At the edge of the camp I saw a crowd of men jammed closely together.

“What is it?” I asked of a comrade.

“The President has arrived,” he said.

I arose, and, walking toward the crowd, found that he had reported correctly. The President of the United States had come at midnight to see his army. He rode a gray horse, and was bent at the shoulders; his face was older, more pinched, and more anxious than ever. With him came the Secretary of War, the Secretary of the Navy, and the Attorney-General, and as the Secretary of State was among us already, we had almost an entire Cabinet there to give us advice and tell us how to beat an enemy.

I did not watch them long, nor in truth could I have found much chance to do so had I wished it, for half our army, whole companies leaving their places, swarmed around the President to see him, to hear what he had to say, and, if necessary, to tell him what they thought. I tried again to sleep, and when at last I dozed for the second time all the noises of an army talking at high rate and wandering around its encampment, like wild beasts in a cage, filled my ears. Between half-shut eyelids I could see hundreds of figures moving and bending in the light of the dying fires, and as many others farther away were lost in the thickening darkness.

I was awakened once by an alarm that the British had come, and for awhile we were in a terrible tumult trying to find just where the enemy was and just how we should fight him, but it was only a sentinel firing his gun at a tree, which he had mistaken for the advancing army.

Angry and swearing in tune with a thousand others, I sought my six and a half feet of earth again and stretched myself upon it, to fall asleep anew amid all the tumult of voices and the tread of restless feet. When I awoke the day was shining, the enemy had not yet come, and the army took breakfast, broiling it over the coals or taking it already cooked and cold from pockets and knapsacks, and gnawing with sharp teeth and sharper appetites. Though it was the hottest part of the year, there was some chill in the August dawn, which soon fled before the breakfast fires and the rising sun. I was eating a piece of bacon when Cyrus Pendleton, in a militia uniform and quivering all over with anger, came to me and said:

“Do you know what we are going to do now, Philip?”

“Fight?”

“Not at all. We are going to have a dress parade and review by the President, and we don’t even know where the enemy is and when or where he is going to strike. What an army! What generals! Civilians led by civilians. Five hundred of our old Western Indian fighters could go through them all like wolves through a flock of sheep.”

Then he tramped angrily off to pour his disgust into the ears of others. But we had our review, with its evolutions and its new clouds of dust, and the President said it was a brave army, though it was a very tired and noisy one. When it was over I met Bidwell, covered with mud and dust, and far from looking the blossoming dandy who had bade fair to rival Van Steenkerk in time. But our feeling that we were fellow-martyrs made us friends at last, and we condoled together, after which we began to march about again, as if it were our object to make a certain number of circles around Washington within a given time. We did this with great zeal and industry for a day, in order that no strength or spirit might be left in us, and then fell back toward Washington. All the while I knew that the British were somewhere near us, for the crack of a rifle shot would now and then come from the woods, and from the horizon a little puff of smoke would rise, telling us that this was war and not a foot race.

►   ▲