The Illinois Free Trader And Lasalle County Commercial Advertiser

From Graham's (Philadelphia) Magazine.

The Life Guardsman.
BY JESSE E. DOW.

The Life Guard of Washington!—
Who can think upon this band of gallant
spirits without feeling a glow of patriotism
warming his heart, and stirring up
the sluggish feelings of his soul? Fancy
paints again the figures which history
has suffered to fade away, as the shadows
departed from the magic mirror of
Cornelius Agrippa: and the heroes of the
past start up before us like the clan of
Roderick Dhu at the sound of their
chieftain's whistle. They come from
Cambridge, and from the Hudson, from
Trenton and from Princeton, from Yorktown
and from the Brandywine, and
from mountain pass, and woody vale,
gathering in battle array around the
lowly bed of their sleeping leader, amid
the solitary shades of Vernon.

The life guardsmen are fast fading
away. One by one the aged members
have departed, and now Lee's corporal
slumbers beside his commander. Their
march of life is over.

A more efficient corps never existed
on this side of the Atlantic than the Life
Guard. Animated by one motive, guided
by one object, they surrounded their
commander-in-chief, and gloried in being
known as his body guard. Was there
any difficult duty to perform? it fell to
this body, and gallantly did they perform
the service entrusted to them. The eye
of the General glistened with delight as
they filed before him in the shade of evening,
or returned into camp from some
successful incursion beyond the enemy's
lines, ere

"Jocund day stood tiptoe on the mountain top."

or the reveille roused the army from
their slumbers.

It was the anniversary of the battle of
Princeton, when an aged man, with a
stout staff in his hand, was seen trudging
manfully down Broadway. As he
passed along from square to square, he
cast his eyes upon the signs and door
plates, and muttering continued on his
course.

"Here," said he, "was Clinton's Quarters"— "Edward Mallory: silks and
laces"— "and here was the house that
Washington stopped at"—"John Kniphausen,
tobacconist,"—"and here was
where the pretty Quakeress lived, who
used to furnish the commander-in-chief
with information as to the enemy's movements."—"all, all, are changed: time has
been busy with every thing but the season—they
are the same—the sun and
the rain—the evening and the morning—
the icicle and the dew-drop— the frost
and the snow-drift change not: but man
and his habitations—aye, the very names
of places and people have been altered,
and the New York of the Revolution is
not the New York of '37."

As the old man said this he seated
himself upon a marble door-step, and
wiped the perspiration from his brow;
for he had walked a long way that morning,
and the thousand associations that
pressed upon his memory wearied him.

A company of volunteers, in all the
pomp and circumstance of city war, now
approached by a cross street. The
bugle's shrill note, mingled in with the
clarionet and cymbals: and the glance of
the sun upon their bayonets and polished
helmets, lit up the martial fire that slumbered
in the old man's soul. He rose
upon his feet.

"It is pleasant enough now to look
upon such gatherings," said he, "but
those who have heard the drums beat to
drown the cries of the wounded and the
dying, cannot forget their meaning, tho
youth and joy accompany them, and
though the smiles of beauty urge them
on." And the old man wept, for the
men of other days stood about him: and
the battle fields, then silent and deserted,
teemed with the dead and dying; and the
blood formed in pools amid the trampled
grass, or trickled in little rills down the
smoky hill-side.

A servant now came out of a neighboring
house and invited the old man in.
He thankfully accepted the hospitality of
the polite citizen, and soon stood in a
comfortable breakfast room. A young
man of twenty-one received him with
kindness; and a tall, prim woman of
eighty-six cordially insisted upon his
joining her family at the breakfast table.
A beautiful girl of eighteen took the old
man's hat and cane, and wheeled up an
old arm chair that had done the family
some service in ancient days. The old
man as she seated herself beside him,
patted her upon the head, and a firm
"God bless you" escaped from his wrinkled
and pallid lips. The old lady suddenly
paused in her tea-table duty, and
looked earnestly at her guest. The old
man's eyes met hers—they had seen each
other before—but the mists of time
shrouded their memories, and blended
names and places and periods strangely
together.

"Wilt thee have another cup of tea?"
said the matron to the old man.

"I have heard that voice," thought the
stranger, as he took the proffered cup
with gratitude, and finished his breakfast
in silence.

"Oh! Grandmother," said the maiden
springing to the window, "here come the
Iron Greys; how splendid they look."

"I cannot look at them," said the matron,
in a trembling voice—"thy grandfather
was killed by the Brunswick Greys at Princeton."

"What was his name?" said the old
man, fixing his dim eye steadily upon
the speaker's face.

"Charles Greely," said the matron,
shedding an unexpected tear.

"Charles Greely?" said the old man,
springing up—"why he was a Life
Guardsman, and died by my side—I buried
him at the hour of twilight by the
milestone."

"And thou art?" said the matron, earnestly.

"Old Hugh Maxwell, a corporal of
Washington's Life Guard, at your service,"
said the stranger guest.

"Oh! well do I know thee," said the
matron, weeping—"it was thee who gave
me directions where to find him, and
delivered to me his dying sigh. This
is an unhappy day to me, Hugh Maxwell,
but thy presence lends an interest
to it that I had no idea of enjoying.—
William and Anne, thy grandfather died
on Hugh Maxwell's breast in battle—let
us bless God that we are permitted to
entertain the gallant soldier upon the
anniversary of that day of glory."

And the son brought forth the old family
bible, and the widow Greely prayed
after the manner of the Quakers, amid
her little congregation.

When the service was over, and the
breakfast equipage had been removed,
the son and the daughter each drew a seat
beside the old veteran, while their grandmother
carefully wiped her spectacles
and took a moderate pinch of Maccouba.
Then seating herself as straight as a drill
sergeant in her cushioned seat in the
corner, she turned her well ear toward
the old corporal and looked out of the
window.

"Tell us about the battle of Trenton
and of Princeton, Mr. Maxwell," said
the grand-children in one voice.

The old man looked inquiringly at the widow
Greely.

"Thee may tell it, though it may be
a sad tale to me," said the matron, and
Hugh Maxwell, after resting his head
upon his hand for a moment, began his
account of the

Battles of Trenton and Princeton.

The twenty-fifth of December, 1776,
was a gloomy day in the American camp.
An army of thirty thousand British soldiers
lay scattered along the opposite side
of the freezing Delaware, from Brunswick
to the environs of Philadelphia.
Gen. Howe commanded the British cantonnement,
and Lord Cornwallis was on
the march from New York to reinforce
him.

The British soldiers were flushed with
success. They had driven us through
the Jerseys. New York Island and the
North River were in their power. They
had tracked us by our bloody footprints
along the gloomy, though snow-clad
hills: and they looked eagerly forward
to the day when the head of our illustrious
Washington should be placed upon
Temple Bar, and the mob of London
should cry out while they pointed at it,
"there rests the head of a Traitor." The
banner of England floated heavily in the
wintry air, and the fur-clad Hessian paced
his rounds on the dismal hills, with
his bayonet gleaming in the stormy light;
videttes were seen galloping along the
hill-sides, and the valleys echoed with
the martial airs of England. But in our
camp all was sadness. Five thousand
men, ill-armed, and worse clad, without
tents or even camp utensils, sat crouching
over their lonely watch-fires.

But this was not all. The crafty British
General had offered a pardon to all
who would desert the American cause,
and many men of property, aye' even
members of Congress, recreant to honor
and principle, pocketed their patriotism
with the proclamation, and basely betrayed
their country in the hour of her
peril. Members of Congress did I say?
Yes, those that had been members: and
let me repeat their names, lest perchance
they may have been forgotten in the age
of steam power and speculation. Galloway
and Allen deserted, and joined the
enemies of freedom in the fall of 1776.

Such was the state of things at this period.
All was silence in the American
camp. The star spangled banner hung
drooping over our head quarters, and the
sentinel by the lower door way stood leaning
in melancholy mood upon his rusty
and flintless gun. The commander-in-chief
held a council of war. At the close
of it he gave his opinion—he had heard
of the scattered cantonment of the British
army.

"Now," said he, striking his hand upon
an order of battle, and pointing from
the window of the little farm house toward
the wild river, "now is the time to
clip their wings." It was a master thought;
the council of war concurred with their
leader, and each member retired silently
to prepare for immediate action.

The regiments were mustered—the
sentinels were called in—a hasty meal
was devoured—the evening shut in with
darkness and storm—the word was given,
and we began our march. One party
moved down, one remained stationary,
and one passed up to a point above Trenton.
I was with Washington. No one
in the ranks knew where he was to go—
all was mystery; until we wheeled down
the steep bank of the Delaware.

"Onward!" was the word. "Cross
the river!" thundered along the line, and
our freezing legions moved on.—Who
shall describe the pains and perils of that
terrible march? Who shall reward the
noble spirits who, trusting in their illustrious
leader, moved onward, amid famine,
nakedness, and the winter's storm?
Surely at this day a generous nation will
not let the poor old veteran die who has
his scars—but no certificate—to testify to
the glory of that night. Better feed an
imposter than starve a hero.

But to my tale. Upon a high bank
Washington and Knox, and a few staff
officers, wrapped in scanty military cloaks,
sat upon their shivering chargers and
awaited the progress of the broken lines.
We moved on—some on cakes of ice
—some on rafts with the artillery—and
some in little boats. Dark reigned the
night around—the wild blast from the
hills swept down the roaring stream—the
water froze to our tattered clothes, and
our feet were blistered and peeled by treading
upon the icy way. The snow, like
feathers borne on the gale, whirled around
us—at every step we were in danger.
Now precipitated into the stream, and
now forced to climb the rugged sides of
the drift-ice, still we advanced. At length
the cannon and tumbrils were landed, and
the last soldier stood upon the opposite
shore.

Shivering with cold, and pale with hunger
and fatigue, our column formed and
waited for the word. Washington and
his staff were at hand. "Briskly, men,
briskly," said he, as he rode to the head
of the line; and then the captains gave
the word from company to company, and
the army marched on in silence. A secret
movement of an army at night keeps
the drowsy awake, and the hungry from
complaining. Man is an inquisitive animal,
and the only way to make him perform
apparent impossibilities, is to lead
him after he knows not what. Columbus
discovered America in a cruise after Solomon's
gold mine, and the vast field of
chemistry was laid open to human ken, in
a search for the elixir of life, and the philosopher's
stone.

All night our troops moved down on
the west bank of the river, and as morning
spread her gay mantle over the eastern
hills, we reached Trenton.

The Hessians, under Rahl, slept.—
No one feared Washington, and the mustached
soldier dreamed of the Rhine and
the Elbe, and the captain slept carelessly
at his inn. But suddenly the cry
was raised: "He comes! he comes!"
Our frosty drums beat the charge; the
shrill fifes mingled in with a merry strain,
and our hungry army, with bare feet, entered
the city. Like the Scandinavian
horde—in impetuosity and necessity—
before the eternal city, we rushed up the
streets, and attacked the surprised enemy
at every turn. The startled foe endeavored
to defend themselves; but before any
body could collect, a charge of our infantry
cut them to pieces. Their colors also
were absolutely hacked off their standardstaff,
while they advanced in line, by a
sergeant's sword, and their officers were
cut down or taken prisoners. Our victory
was complete. One thousand men
were killed and made prisoners, and the
artillery, consisting of nine pieces, was
captured.—Such was the effect of the battle
of Trenton upon the enemy; but to
us the consequences were the reverse.
Our hungry men were fed, our naked
were clothed, the rank and file were armed,
and officers promoted.

The same evening we recrossed the river,
but it was not the terrible stream of
the previous night. The foot-prints of
boots and shoes were left on our trail, and
the drums beat a merry call, while the bugles
answered sweet and clear.

In a few hours the Hessian tents shrouded
the captors on the site of our encampment:
and Rahl's officers had the pleasure
of drinking their own wine in their
own tents, with General Washington and
his subalterns, as prisoners of war. So
well planned was this attack that we lost
but nine men, and two of them were frozen
to death after being wounded. On
the 29th of December, 1776, we again
crossed the Delaware, and at one o'clock
P. M. our eagle floated over Trenton.
The "merry Christmas" of our evening
party astonished and aroused the
king's Generals. Lord Cornwallis hastened
to form a junction with General
Grant at Princeton; and on the 2d of January
1777, the British army marched
against Trenton.

It was late in the afternoon when the
advance guard of the enemy appeared in
sight, their red coats forming a striking
contrast with the winter's snow. Our
drums now beat to arms, and General
Washington, with 5000 of us, crossed the
rivulet Assunpink and took post on the high
ground facing the rivulet. A
heavy cannonade speedily commenced,
and when night came on, both armies had
a breathing spell.

Fresh fuel was now piled upon the
camp fires—the sentinels were posted in
advance—small parties were stationed to
guard each ford—the cry "all's well,"
the quick challenge and the prompt answer;
the trampling of a returning vidette—and
the occasional tapping of a
drum in the guardroom, were heard in our
camp. The British General rejoiced in
the belief that the morning sun would behold
him a conqueror of our leader and
ourselves. Secure of his prey, the enemy
made preparations to attack our camp
on the first blush of morning. The noise
of hammers—the heavy rumbling of cannon
wheels—the clashing of the armorer's
hammer, and the laugh of the artisan and
pioneer, came over upon the night wind,
and grated harshly upon our sensitive
ears.

An officer, mounted and wrapped in a
military cloak, was now seen silently approaching
the commanders of regiments
in quick succession. He whispered his
orders in a low tone—the colonels started
with astonishment—they looked—it was
their general, and they immediately sent
for their captains. Each officer heard the
new order with surprise, but to hear was
to obey. The captains whispered to their
orderlies, and in 20 minutes after it was
communicated to the commanders of regiments,
the whole army stood upon their
feet in battle array. Our tents were
struck, and our baggage waggons were
ready for a march.

The sentinels paced their rounds as
though nothing was about to happen.—
The laugh of the relieved guard was heard
above the din of both armies, and "all's
well" rang above the night.

We now stood ready in open column
to march. General Hugh Mercer had
command of the van-guard: in a few moments
our captains whispered, "forward
and be silent."—our living mass immediately
moved onward, and filed off toward
Allentown. Presently we heard
the rear guard, with their artillery, rumbling
in our rear, and then our camp, so
quietly deserted, was lost sight of in the
shadow of the hills.

For upwards of two hours we moved
on in comparative silence. Nothing but
the whispers of the officers, and the heavy
tread of men was heard. It was quite
dark, and every breast seemed to be under
the spell of mystery. At length a noise
was heard ahead, and a staff officer galloped
to the rear. As he passed along
he said in a clear voice, "the enemy are
in sight." In a few moments the voice
of the gallant Mercer was heard loud and
distinct, giving his orders—"Attention,
van-guard, close order, quick time,
march!" We sprang at the word—each
soldier grasped his musket with a firm
grip—and away we went upon the run.
Three regiments of light infantry opposed
us upon the plain at Maidenhead,
and their drums were beating merrily as
we drew near them—our front now came
upon an open common. We broke into
three columns, and, headed by the gallant
Mercer, dashed on. In a moment a stream
of fire passed along the British line, the
dead and wounded fell around me, and
our columns wavered. At this instant,
while General Mercer, with his sword
raised, was encouraging the van-guard to
rush on and secure the victory, a bullet
struck him, and he fell from his horse
mortally wounded. For a moment only
the battle was against us, but soon the
firm voice of Washington was heard as he
pressed on to the front. Our musketry
now echoed terribly; the enemy began
to give; a well-directed fire from the artillery
told fearfully upon the small armed
foe, and they were routed. At this moment
a British soldier clapped his bayonet
to my breast—Charles Greely thrust it
away with his right hand—the soldier
fired—his musket and the noble hearted
Greely fell upon my breast. I grasped
his hand—it faintly returned my pressure—and
then he straightened himself upon
the ground, his eyes became fixed, his
jaw fell—he was dead! I bore him quickly
to a wounded cart, and hastened to my
platoon. The enemy were flying towards
Brunswick, and we were masters
of the field.

"On to Princeton!" shouted our noble
leader, as he sent his wounded aid to the
rear on a litter.

The line moved on in quick time, and
soon we entered the town. Our visit was
as unexpected here as at Trenton. A
portion of the enemy had taken shelter in
the college. Our general, as at Trenton,
headed the charge in gallant style, while
the troops, animated by his fearlessness,
nobly seconded him. The artillery thundered
against the garrisoned college, and
the musketry rung wildly from every corner.
Surrounded by a superior force,
and not knowing but Cornwallis had been
routed, for they had heard the night cannon
at Maidenhead, most of the enemy
surrendered.—A few, however, escaped
by precipitate flight along an unguarded
street at the commencement of the attack.
In this affair one hundred of the enemy
were killed, and three hundred taken prisoners.
Lord Cornwallis, as he lay on
his camp bed, was roused by the roar of
the cannon. He started—the sound came
from Princeton—he immediately ordered
his troops under arms, and hastened to the
scene of action. When he arrived the
battle was won, and we were on our return
march in triumph. As we crossed
the Millstone river, we were halted to destroy
the bridge at Kingston. I ordered
a file of men to assist me, and hastily buried
my companion in arms by the water
side, while the enemy's cannon answered
for minute guns for the brave. Having
shed a tear of sympathy over his lonely
gave, we joined the main body. At sun
set we trod upon the bleak hills of Morristown,
and when the camp-fires were
lighted, the campaign of '76 was over.

As the old man finished his tale, the
widow turned away her head, and the
grand-children hid their faces and wept.

At length, when they raised their eyes to
their guest, his face was pallid—a wildness
was manifested in his eyes; and his
frame appeared to be stiffening in death.
They sprang to him.

"Forward—on—to—Princeton!" said
he, in a cold whisper: and then the last
Life Guardsman joined his companions in
heaven.

The next day a numerous body of
strangers followed the old veteran to the
tomb: and the widow Greely placed a
plain marble slab at the head of it, and inscribed
upon it:—

HERE LIES
THE LAST OF WASHINGTON'S
LIFE GUARD.