One day a schoolboy stood on the stone steps before the old State House, in Philadelphia, as the first President of the United States was driven up to make his formal visit to Congress. This small boy glided into the hall, under the cover of the long coats of the finely dressed escort. Boylike he climbed to a hiding place, {73} from which he watched the proceedings with the deepest awe. The boy lived to write fifty years afterwards a pleasing description of the affair. He tells us that while Washington entered, and walked up the broad aisle, and ascended the steps leading to the speaker's chair, the large and crowded chamber "was as profoundly still as a house of worship in the most solemn pauses of devotion."

On this occasion, Washington was dressed in a full suit of the richest black velvet, with diamond knee buckles, and square silver buckles set upon shoes japanned with the greatest neatness, black silk stockings, his shirt ruffled at the breast and the wrists, a light sword, his hair fully {74} dressed, so as to project at the sides, and gathered behind in a silk bag, ornamented with a large rose of black ribbon. As he advanced toward the chair, he held in his hand his cocked hat, which had a large black cockade. When seated, he laid his hat upon the table. Amid the most profound silence, Washington, taking a roll of paper from his inside coat pocket, arose and read with a deep, rich voice his opening address.

Those who knew Washington have said that his presence inspired a feeling of awe and veneration rarely experienced in the presence of any other American. His countenance rarely softened or changed its habitual gravity, and his manner in public life was always grave and self-contained. In vain did the merry young women at Lady Washington's receptions do their best to make the stately President laugh. Some declared that he could not laugh. Beautiful Nellie Custis, his ward and foster child, used to boast of her occasional success in making the sedate President laugh aloud.

We may be sure that President Washington's receptions, every other Tuesday afternoon, were formal. On such occasions, he was in the full dress of a gentleman of that day,—black velvet, powdered hair gathered in a large silk bag, and yellow gloves. At his side was a long, finely wrought sword, with a scabbard of white polished leather. He always stood in front of the fireplace, with his face toward the door. He received each visitor with a dignified bow, but never shook hands, even with his {75} nearest friends. He considered himself visited, not as a friend, but as President of the United States.



While President, Washington used to give a public dinner, every Thursday at four o'clock, "to as many as my table will hold." He allowed five minutes for difference in watches, and, at exactly five minutes past four by his hall clock, went to the table. His only apology to the laggard guest was, "I have a cook who never asks whether the company has come, but whether the hour has come."

If we may judge from the very full accounts of these grand dinners, as described in the diaries of the {76} guests, they must have been stiff affairs. These people probably wrote the truth when they said, "glad it is over," "great formality," "my duty to submit to it," "scarcely a word was said," "there was a dead silence." No doubt there was much good food to eat and choice wine to drink, but the formal manners of the times were emphasized by awe of their grave host. Very few of the guests, both at Mount Vernon and at Philadelphia, failed to allude to the habit that Washington had of playing with his fork and striking on the table with it.

It would take a book many times larger than this to tell you all that has been written about Washington's everyday life. Some day you will delight to read more about him, and learn why he was, in every sense of the word, a wise, a good, and a great man,—the man who "without a beacon, without a chart, but with an unswerving eye and steady hand, guided his country safe through darkness and through storm."

Every young American should remember of Washington that "there is no word spoken, no line written, no deed done by him, which justice would reverse or wisdom deplore." His greatness did not consist so much in his intellect, his skill, and his genius, though he possessed all these, as in his honor, his integrity, his truthfulness, his high and controlling sense of duty—in a word, his character, honest, pure, noble, great.

{77}

CHAPTER VI A MIDNIGHT SURPRISE

We have certainly read enough about General Washington to know that he often planned to steal a march on the British. Don't you remember how surprised General Howe was one morning to find that Washington had gone to Dorchester Heights, with a big force of men, horses, and carts, and how he threw up breastworks, mounted cannon, and forced the British general after a few days to quit the good city of Boston? Haven't we also read how the "ragged Continentals" left their bloody footprints in the snow, as they marched to Trenton all that bitter cold night in December, 1777, and gave the Hessians a Christmas greeting they little expected?

In January, 1779, England sent orders to General Clinton "to bring Mr. Washington to a general and decisive action at the opening of the campaign," and also "to harry the frontiers and coasts north and south."

General Clinton wrote back that he had found "Mr. Washington" a hard nut to crack, but he would do his level best, he said, "to strike at Washington while he was in motion."

{78} The main American force was still in winter quarters in northern New Jersey, near New York. Various brigades were stationed up and down the Hudson as far as West Point. As at the beginning of the war, so now in 1779, the line of the Hudson from Albany to New York was the key to the general situation. Its protection, as Washington had written, was of "infinite consequence to our cause."

The first real move in the game was made in May, when a large British force marched up, captured, and strongly fortified the two forts at Stony Point and Verplanck's Point, only thirteen miles below West Point. The enemy thus secured the control of King's Ferry, where troops and supplies for the patriot army were ferried across the Hudson.

Our spies now sent word to Washington that the British were ready to move on some secret service. The patriot army was at once marched up, and went into camp within easy reach of West Point, to wait for the next move in the game. Once more these far-famed Hudson Highlands were to become the storm center of the struggle.

For some reason, Clinton did not push farther up the Hudson. On the contrary, he began to make raids into various parts of the country, from Martha's Vineyard to the James River. These raids were marked by cruelties unknown in the earlier years of the war. The hated Tryon, once the royal governor of New York, led {79} twenty-six hundred men into Connecticut. His brutal soldiers killed unarmed and helpless men and women, and sacked and burned houses and churches.

One of Clinton's objects in sending out the raiders was to coax Washington to weaken his army by sending out forces to offset them, or to tease him into making what he called a "false move." Washington was, of course, keenly alive to the misery brought upon the people of the country by these brutalities, but he was too wise a general to run any risk of losing his hold upon the line of the Hudson. The Continental army could not muster ten thousand men. Although not strong enough to begin a vigorous campaign, yet it was sufficiently powerful to hold the key to the Highlands.

Washington could, if need be, strike a quick, hard blow, either in New England or farther south. It might be, to be sure, a sort of side play, and yet it was to have the effect of a great battle. Indeed, it was high time to give the enemy another surprise.

At length it was decided to attack Stony Point. Any open assault, however, would be hopeless. This stronghold, if taken at all, must be taken by night.

What kind of place was this Stony Point?

It was a huge rocky bluff, shooting out into the river more than half a mile from the shore, and rising, at its highest point, nearly two hundred feet. It was joined to the shore by a marshy neck of land, crossed by a rude bridge, or causeway.

{80} The British had fortified the top of this rocky point with half a dozen separate batteries. The cannon were so mounted as to defend all sides. Between the fort and the mainland, two rows of logs were set into the ground, with their ends sharpened to a point and directed outwards, forming what is known in military language as an abatis. This stronghold was defended by six hundred men.

Washington Irving well describes Stony Point as "a natural sentinel guarding the gateway of the far-famed Highlands of the Hudson." The British called it their "little Gibraltar," and defied the rebels to come and take it.

And now for a leader! Who was the best man to perform this desperate exploit?

There was really no choice, for there was only one officer in the whole army who was fitted for the undertaking,—General Anthony Wayne.

Wayne was a little over thirty years old. He was a fine-looking man with a high forehead and fiery hazel eyes. He had a youthful face, full of beauty. He liked handsome uniforms and fine military equipments. Some of his officers used to speak of him in fun as "Dandy Wayne." But the men who followed their dashing, almost reckless leader called him "Mad Anthony," and this name has clung to him ever since.

Wayne was, without doubt, the hardest fighter produced on either side during the American Revolution. {81} He had an eager love of battle; and he was cautions, vigilant, and firm as a rock. This gallant officer eagerly caught at the idea when the commander in chief told him what he wanted. And so it came to pass that Washington did the planning, and Wayne did the fighting.



Washington's plans were made with the greatest care. The dogs for three miles about the fort were killed the day before the intended attack, lest some indiscreet bark might alarm the garrison. The commander in chief himself rode down and spent the whole day looking over the situation. Trusty men, who knew every inch of the region, guarded every road and every trail by which spies and deserters could pass.

"Ten minutes' notice to the enemy blasts all your hopes," wrote Washington to Wayne.

The orders were "to take and keep all stragglers."

"Took the widow Calhoun and another widow going to the enemy with chickens and greens," reported Captain McLane. "Drove off twenty head of horned cattle from their pasture."

The hour of attack was to be midnight. Washington hoped for a dark night and even a rainy one. Not a gun was to be loaded except by two companies who were to {82} make the false attack. The bayonet alone was to be used, Wayne's favorite weapon. At Germantown, it was Wayne's men who drove the Hessians at the point of the bayonet. And at Monmouth, these men had met, with cold steel, the fierce bayonet charge of the far-famed British grenadiers.

About thirteen hundred men of the famous light infantry were chosen to make the attack. Both officers and men were veterans and the flower of the Continental army.

On the forenoon of July 15, the companies were called in from the various camps, and drawn up for inspection as a battalion, "fresh-shaved and well-powdered," as Wayne had commanded.

At twelve o'clock the inspection was over, but the men, instead of being sent to their quarters, were wheeled into the road, with the head of the column facing southward. The march to Stony Point had begun.

"If any soldier loads his musket, or fires from the ranks, or tries to skulk in the face of danger, he is at once to be put to death by the officer nearest him." One soldier did begin to load his gun, saying that he did not know how to fight without firing. His captain warned him once. The soldier would not stop. The officer then ran his sword through him in an instant. The next day, however, the captain came to Colonel Hull and said he was sorry that he had killed the poor fellow. "You performed a painful service," said Hull, "by which, {83} perhaps, victory has been secured, and the life of many a brave man saved. Be satisfied."

All that hot July afternoon, the men picked their way along rough and narrow roads, up steep hillsides, and through swamps and dense ravines, often in single file. No soldier was allowed to leave the ranks, on any excuse whatever, except at a general halt, and then only in company with an officer.

At eight o'clock the little army came to a final halt at a farmhouse, thirteen miles from their camp, and a little more than a mile back of Stony Point. Nobody was permitted to speak. The tired men dropped upon the ground, and ate in silence their supper of bread and cold meat.

A little later, Wayne's order of battle was read. For the first time the men knew what was before them. No doubt many a brave fellow's knees shook and his cheek grew pale, when he thought of what might happen before another sunrise.

Until half past eleven o'clock they rested.

Each man now pinned a piece of white paper "to the most conspicuous part of his hat or his cap," so that, in the thick of the midnight fight, he might not run his bayonet through some comrade. No man was to speak until the parapet of the main fort was reached. Then all were to shout the watchword of the night, "The fort's our own!"

One of the last things that Wayne did was to write a letter to a friend at his home in Philadelphia, dated {84} "Eleven o'clock and near the hour and scene of carnage." He wrote that he hoped his friend would look after the education of his children.

"I am called to sup," he wrote, "but where to breakfast? Either within the enemy's lines in triumph, or in another world."

Half past eleven! It was time to start.

A negro, named Pompey, who sold cherries and strawberries to the garrison, was used as a guide. This shrewd darkey had got the British password for the night, by claiming that his master would not let him come in during the daytime, because he was needed to hoe corn. You will be glad to know that Pompey, as a reward for this eventful night's service, never had to hoe corn again, and that his master not only gave him a horse to ride, but also set him free.



Wayne divided his little army into two main columns, to attack right and left, having detached two companies, with loaded guns, to move in between the two columns and make a false attack.

Each column was divided into three parts. A "forlorn hope" of twenty men was to be the first to rush headlong into the hand to hand fight. Then followed an advance guard of one hundred and fifty men, who, with axes in hand and muskets slung, were to cut away the timbers. Last of all came the main body.

The silent band reaches the edge of the marsh at midnight, the hour set by Washington for the assault. {85} Wayne himself leads the right column, to attack by the south approach. The tide has not ebbed, and the water is in places waist deep. The marsh is fully six hundred feet across. No matter for that! Straight ahead the column moves as if on parade. Now they have crossed, and are close to the outer defense. The British pickets hear the noise, open fire, and give the general alarm. The drums on the hill beat the "long roll." Quick and sharp come the orders. The redcoats leap from the barracks, and in a few moments every man is at his post.



Up rush the pioneers with their axes, and cut away the sharpened timbers the best they can in the darkness, while the bullets whiz over their heads. Then follow the main columns, who climb over, and form on the other side. Now they reach the second defense. They cut and tear away the sharp stakes. The bullets fall like hail. On, on, the two columns rush. They push up the steep hill, and dash {86} for the main fort on the top. On the left, the "forlorn hope" has lost seventeen out of twenty men, either killed or wounded.

Meanwhile, Colonel Murfree and his two companies take their stand directly in front of the fort, and open a brisk and rapid fire, to make the garrison believe that they are the real attacking party. The redcoats are surely fooled, for they hurry down with a strong force to meet them, only to find their fort captured before they can get back.

Wayne is struck in the head by a musket ball, and falls. The blood flows over his face. He fears in the confusion that he has received his death wound.

He cries to his aids, "Carry me into the fort and let me die at the head of the column."

Two of his officers pick up their gallant leader, and hurry forward; but it is only a scalp wound, and Wayne returns to the fight.

Wayne's column scales the ramparts.

The first man over shouts, "The fort's our own," and pulls down the British flag.

The second main column follows.

"The fort's our own!" "The fort's our own!" echoes and re-echoes over the hills.

The bayonet is now doing its grim work. The darkness is lighted only by the flashes from the guns of the redcoats. The bewildered British are driven at the point of the bayonet into the corners of the fort, and {87} cry, "Mercy, mercy, dear Americans!" "Quarter! quarter!" "Don't kill us! we surrender!"

At one o'clock the work was done,—thirty minutes from the time the marsh was crossed! As soon as they were sure of victory, Wayne's men gave three rousing cheers. The British on the war vessels in the river, and at the fort on the opposite side of the river, answered; for they thought that the attacking party had been defeated. The only British soldier to escape from Stony Point was a captain. Leaping into the Hudson, he swam a mile to the Vulture and told its captain what had happened. In this way the news of the disaster reached Sir Henry Clinton at breakfast.

{88} After the surrender, Wayne wrote the following letter to Washington:

Stony Point, 16th July, 1779, 2 o'clock.

Dear General,

The fort and garrison with Colonel Johnson are ours. Our officers and men behaved like men who are determined to be free.

Yours most sincerely, Ant'y Wayne.

General Washington.

The news spread like wildfire. Wayne and his light infantry were the heroes of the hour.

Two days afterwards, Washington, with his chief officers, rode down to Stony Point and heard the whole story. The commander in chief shook hands with the men, and "with joy that glowed in his countenance, here offered his thanks to Almighty God, that He had been our shield and protector amidst the dangers we had been called to encounter."

Washington did not, of course, intend to hold Stony Point, for the enemy could besiege it by land and by water. The prisoners, the cannon, and the supplies were carried away, and very little was left to the foe but the bare rock of their "little Gibraltar."

This exploit gave the Continental soldier greater confidence in himself. It proved to the British that the "rebel" could use the bayonet with as much boldness and effect as the proudest grenadier. The fight {89} was not a great affair in itself. Only fifteen Americans were killed and eighty-three wounded; of the British, sixty-three were killed and some seventy wounded.

As for Clinton, although he put on a bold face in the matter, and spoke of the event as an accident, he owned that he felt the blow keenly.

"Mr. Washington" was still master of the situation.

{90}

CHAPTER VII THE DEFEAT OF THE RED DRAGOONS

If what the proverb tells us is true, that it is always darkest before dawn, the patriots of the South in 1780 must indeed have prayed for the light. Affairs had gone rapidly from bad to worse. Sir Henry Clinton had come again from New York, and in May of that year had captured Charleston with all of Lincoln's army.

Sir Henry went back to New York, leaving Lord Cornwallis in command. Washington desired to send his right-hand man, General Greene, to stem the tide of British success, but the Continental Congress chose to send General Gates.

In August, this weak general was utterly defeated in the battle of Camden, in South Carolina. How the bitter words of General Charles Lee, "Beware lest your Northern laurels change to Southern willows," must have rung in his ears! Gates fled from Camden like the commonest coward in the army. Mounted on a fast horse, he did not stop until he reached Charlotte, seventy miles away.

No organized American force now held the field in the South, and the red dragoons easily overran Georgia and South Carolina. There seemed to be little left for {91} Cornwallis to do; for the three Southern colonies were for the time ground under the iron heel of the enemy.

Crushing blows, however, only nerved the leaders, Sumter, Pickens, Marion, Davie, and others, to greater efforts. The insolence, the cruelty, and the tyranny of the British soldiers, and the bitter hatred of the Tories, had brought to the front a new class of patriots. These men cared little about the original cause of the war, but the burning of their houses, the stealing of their cattle and their horses, and the brutal insulting of their wives and their daughters, aroused them to avenge their wrongs to the bitter end. And many were the skirmishes they brought about with the British.

Thirty days had now passed since the battle of Camden, and Cornwallis on his return march had not yet reached the Old North State. It was still a long way to Virginia, and the road thither was beset with many dangers.

Meanwhile, the British commander had intrusted to two of his officers, Tarleton and Ferguson, the task of pillaging plantations, raising and drilling troops among the Tories, and breaking up the bands of armed patriots.

The brutal manner in which Tarleton and his men plundered, burned, and hanged does not concern this story.

Ferguson was the colonel of a regular regiment that had been recruited in this country, instead of in England. With his kind heart and his winning manner, he was bold {92} and brave, and always ready to take desperate chances in battle. He was noted for hard riding, night attacks, and swift movements with his troopers; and as a marksman he was unsurpassed. In short, Ferguson was just the leader to win the respect and the admiration of the Tories; and they eagerly enlisted in his service.

With a few regulars and a large force of loyalists, he pushed his victories to the foot of the mountains, in the western borders of the Carolinas. For the first time, he learned that over the high ranges in front of him were the homes of the men who had been causing him annoyance, and who were harboring those that had fled before his advance.

The proud young Briton now made the mistake of his life. He sent a prisoner, Samuel Phillips, over to the frontier settlements, to Colonel Isaac Shelby, with the insolent message that, if the "backwater" men did not quit resisting the royal arms, he would march his army over the mountains, and would straightway lay waste their homes with fire and sword, and hang their leaders.

He little knew what kind of men he had stirred to wrath. The frontier settlers of Franklin and Holston, which grew into the great commonwealth of Tennessee, were, for the most part, Scotch-Irish people. They had grappled with the wilderness, and had hewn out homes for themselves. Along with their log cabins they had built meetinghouses and schoolhouses. Their life was {93} full of ever-present peril and hardship; for they were engaged in a ceaseless struggle with the Indians. The minister preached with his gun at his side, and the men listened with their rifles within their grasp.

As we should expect, these hardy settlers were generally stanch patriots. They believed in Washington and in the Continental Congress. They knew that British gold bribed the Indians, and furnished them with weapons to butcher their women and children. It was British gold, too, that hired the wild and lawless among them to enlist in the invading army; and it was British officers that drilled them to become expert in killing their brethren of the lowlands.

At the time of the Revolution, these backwoodsmen were still fighting with the savages, and so had not taken an active part in the war on the seaboard. Like a rear guard of well-seasoned veterans, they stood between the Indians and their people on the coast.

Now these hardy mountaineers took Ferguson's threat seriously. Their Scotch-Irish blood was up.

Colonel Shelby, one of the county lieutenants of Washington County, rode posthaste to John Sevier's home, sixty miles away, to carry Ferguson's threat.

Sevier lived on the Nolichucky River, and from his deeds of daring and his hospitality was nicknamed "Chucky Jack." When Shelby arrived, it was a day of merrymaking. They were having a barbecue; that is, they were roasting oxen whole on great spits; and a {94} horse race was to be run. The colonel told his story, and the merrymakers agreed to turn out.

Shelby now rode home at full speed to muster his own men, and sent urgent word to Colonel William Campbell, a famous Indian fighter, who lived forty miles away, to call out the Holston Virginians.

The place appointed for meeting was at Sycamore Shoals, a central point on the Watauga River. The day set was September 25.

Hither came Shelby and Sevier with about five hundred men, William Campbell with four hundred Virginians, and McDowell with about one hundred and sixty refugees from North Carolina.

Word was sent to Colonel Cleveland, a hunter and Indian fighter of Wilkes County in North Carolina, to come with all the men he could raise east of the mountains.

Colonel Sevier tried in vain to borrow money to furnish the men with horses and supplies. The people were willing to give their last dollar, but they had paid out all their money for land, and the cash was in the hands of the county entry taker, John Adair.

Sevier appealed to him.

This patriot's reply is historic: "I have no authority by law, Colonel Sevier, to make that disposition of this money. It belongs to the treasury of North Carolina, and I dare not appropriate a penny of it to any purpose. But if the country is overrun by the British, liberty is {95} gone. Let the money go, too. Take it. If the enemy, by its use, is driven from the country, I can trust that country to justify and vindicate my conduct. Take it."

This money, thirteen thousand dollars in silver and gold, was taken, and the supplies bought. Shelby and Sevier pledged themselves to refund the money, or to have the act legalized by the legislature.

September 25 was a day of intense excitement in those frontier settlements. The entire military force of what is now Tennessee met at Sycamore Shoals. The younger and more vigorous men were to march, while the older men with poorer guns were to remain behind, to help the women defend their homes against the savages. But all came, to bid good-by to husbands, to brothers, and to lovers. Food, horses, guns, blankets,—everything except money was brought without stint.

The backwoodsmen were mounted on swift, wiry horses. Their long hunting shirts were girded with bead-worked belts. Some wore caps made of mink or of coonskins, with the tails hanging down behind; others had soft hats, in each of which was fastened either a sprig of evergreen or a buck's tail.

Nearly all were armed with what was called the Deckhard rifle, remarkable for the precision and the distance of its shot. Every man carried a tomahawk and a scalping knife. There was not a bayonet in the whole force. Here and there an officer wore a sword.

{96} There was no staff, no commissary, no quartermaster, and no surgeon.

Early in the morning of September 26, the little army was ready to march. Before leaving camp, all met in an open grove to hear their minister, the Rev. Samuel Doak, invoke divine blessing on their perilous undertaking.



Years before, this God-fearing man had crossed the mountains, driving before him an "old flea-bitten gray horse" loaded with Bibles, and had cast his lot with the Holston settlers. By his energy in founding churches and in building schoolhouses, as well as by his skill in shooting Indians, he had become a potent influence for good among these frontier people.

Every man doffed his hat and bowed his head on his long rifle, as the white-headed Presbyterian prayed in burning words that they might stand bravely in battle, and that the sword of the Lord and of Gideon might smite their foes.

{97} Our little army now pushed on over the mountains. On the third day they crossed the Blue Ridge, and saw far away the fertile valleys of the upper Catawba. The next day they reached the lovely lowlands, where Colonel Cleveland with three hundred and fifty militia joined them.

Hitherto, each band of the mountain army had been under the command of its own leader. Some of the men were unruly; others were disposed to plunder. This would never do, if they were to be successful; and so, on October 2, it was decided to give the supreme command to Colonel Cleveland.

Before the army set out on the following day, the colonels told their men what was expected of them.

"Now, my brave fellows," said Colonel Cleveland, "the redcoats are at hand. We must up and at them. When the pinch comes, I shall be with you."

"Everybody must be his own officer!" cried Colonel Shelby. "Give them Indian play, boys; and now if a single man among you wants to go back home, this is your chance; let him step three paces to the rear."

Not a man did so.

The pioneer army continued its march, picking up small bands of refugees. When they reached Gilberttown the next night, they numbered nearly fifteen hundred men. They hoped to find Ferguson at this place, but the wily partisan had sharp eyes and quick ears. He had been told by his Tory friends that the army of riflemen were after him.

{98} The Briton sent posthaste to Cornwallis for more men; he called upon the Tories to rally to his support; and he issued a proclamation, in which he called the backwoodsmen "the dregs of mankind," "a set of mongrels," and other bad names. "Something must be done," he wrote to Cornwallis.

All this showed to the patriot riflemen that Ferguson was retreating because he feared them. Doubtless he would have escaped easily enough from ordinary soldiers; but his pursuers were made of different stuff. They had hunted wild beasts and savages all their lives. Now they were after the redcoats in the same way they would pursue a band of Indians. They had come over the mountains to fight, and fight they would.

Seven hundred and fifty men, mounted on the strongest horses, now hurried forward, leaving the rest to follow.

At sunset, on October 6, they reached Cowpens, where three months later Morgan was to defeat Tarleton. Here several hundred militia under noted partisan leaders joined them. Seated round their blazing camp fires, the hungry men roasted for supper the corn which they had stripped from the field of a rich Tory.

The colonels decided in council to pick out about nine hundred men, and with these to push on all night in pursuit of their hated foe. Some were so eager to fight that they followed on foot, and actually arrived in time for the battle.

{99} All this time Ferguson was working to keep out of the way of the patriots. Several large bands of Tories were already on their way to help him. He also expected help from Cornwallis. The one thing needed was a day or two of time, and then he would be able to make a stand against his pursuers.



On the same night of October 6, Ferguson halted at King's Mountain, about a day's march from the riflemen at Cowpens, and thirty-five miles from the camp of Cornwallis. The ridge on which he pitched his camp was nearly half a mile long, and about sixty feet above the level of the valley. Its steep sides were covered with timber.

The next day the British did not move. The heavy baggage wagons were massed along the northeast part of the ridge, while the soldiers camped on the south side.

{100} In his pride, the haughty young Briton declared that he could defend the hill against any rebel force, and "that God Almighty Himself could not drive him from it."

Through that dark and rainy night the mountaineers marched. It rained hard all the next forenoon, but the men wrapped their blankets and the skirts of their hunting shirts round their gunlocks, and hurried on after Ferguson. A few of Shelby's men stopped at a Tory's house.

"How many are there of you?" asked a young girl.

"Enough," said one of the riflemen, "to whip Ferguson, if we can catch him."

"He is on that hill yonder," replied the girl, pointing to the high range about three miles away.

Shelby had sent out Enoch Gilmer as a spy. He came back, saying that he had met a young woman who had been at the enemy's camp to sell chickens, and that Ferguson was encamped on the spot where some hunters had been the year before. These same hunters were with Shelby, and at once said they knew every inch of the way. Two captured Tories were compelled to tell how the British leader was dressed.

It was now three o'clock. It had stopped raining, and the sun was shining. All was hurry and bustle. The plan was to surround the hill, to give the men a better chance to fire upward, without firing into each other.

When the patriots came within about a mile of the ridge, they dismounted and tied their horses. The {101} watchword was "Buford," the name of the brave officer whose troops had been massacred by Tarleton after their surrender. Each man was ordered to fight for himself. He might retreat before the British bayonets, but he must rally at once to the fight, and let the redcoats have "Indian play."

Sevier led the right wing. Some of his men by hard riding got to the rear of Ferguson's army, and cut off the only chance for retreat. Cleveland had charge of the left wing, while Campbell and Shelby were to attack in front. So swiftly did the different detachments reach their {102} places that Ferguson found himself attacked on every side at once.

On horseback the gallant Briton leads his regulars in a bayonet charge down the steep hillside. With the Indian war whoop, which echoes and re-echoes, Campbell's riflemen rush forward. They have no bayonets, and are driven down the hill. In a voice of thunder, Campbell rallies his men, and up the hill they go with a still deadlier fire, as the regulars retreat.



Now Shelby's men swarm up on the other side. Again the bayonets drive these new foes down the rocky cliffs. No sooner do the redcoats retire, than up comes Shelby again at the head of his men, nearer the top than before.

Meanwhile the riflemen, behind every tree and every rock, were picking off the redcoats. Clad in a hunting shirt, and blowing his silver whistle, the brave Ferguson dashes here and there to rally his men. He cuts and slashes with his sword until it is broken off at the hilt. Two horses are killed under him.

Some of the Tories raise a white flag. Ferguson rides up and cuts it down. A second flag is raised elsewhere. He rides there and cuts that down.

Now he flies at Sevier's riflemen, who had just made their way to the top of the hill. At once they recognize their man. In an instant, half a dozen bullets strike the gallant officer, and he falls dead from his horse. No longer is the shrill whistle heard.

{103} Colonel De Peyster, the next in command, bravely keeps up the fight, but the deadly rifles have done their work. The British are hemmed in and there is no escape. At the head of their men the several colonels arrive at the top of the hill about the same time. The Tories are now huddled together near the baggage wagons.

"Quarter! quarter!" they cry everywhere.

"Remember Buford!" madly shout the victorious patriots.

"Throw down your arms, if you want quarter!" cries Shelby.

In despair, De Peyster at last raises a white flag, and white handkerchiefs are waved from ramrods. Some of the younger backwoodsmen did not know what a white flag meant, and kept on firing. The colonels ordered them to stop, and then made the Tories take off their hats and sit down on the ground.

There had been fierce and bloody work this beautiful autumn afternoon, on the crest of that rocky hill. Friends, neighbors, and relatives, in their bitter hatred, taunted and jeered one another, as they shot and stabbed in the desperate struggle.

Ferguson had about eleven hundred men in the action. Of these about four hundred were killed, wounded, or missing, and some seven hundred made prisoners. Of the patriots, twenty-eight were killed and about sixty wounded.

{104} Under bold and resolute leaders, the backwoods riflemen had swept over the mountains like a Highland clan. Their work done, they wished to return home. They knew too well the dangers of an Indian attack on those they had left in their distant log cabins.

After burying their dead, and loading their horses with the captured guns and supplies, the victors shouldered their rifles, and, carrying their wounded on litters made of the captured tents, vanished from the mountains as suddenly as they had appeared.

Such was the defeat of the red dragoons at King's Mountain. It proved to be one of the decisive battles of the Revolution, and was the turn of the tide of British success in the South. The courage of the Southern patriots rose at a bound, and the Tories of the Carolinas never recovered from the blow.

{105}

CHAPTER VIII FROM TEAMSTER TO MAJOR GENERAL

On July 3, 1775, under the great elm on Cambridge Common, Washington took command of the patriot army. During the siege of Boston, which followed, his headquarters were in that fine old mansion, the Craigie house, where, from time to time, met men whose names became great in the history of the Revolution.



Hither came to consult with the commander in chief three men who died hated and scorned by their countrymen. The first was Horatio Gates, a vainglorious man, given to intrigue and treachery. Next came tall and slovenly Charles Lee of Virginia, a restless adventurer, who, by his cowardice in the battle of Monmouth, stirred even Washington to anger. Then there was a young man for whom Washington had a peculiar liking on account of his great personal bravery, who afterward became the despised Benedict Arnold.

But here were also gathered men of another stamp,—men whom the nation delights to honor. From the granite hills of New Hampshire, came rough and ready John Stark, who afterwards whipped the British at Bennington. From little Rhode Island, came Nathanael Greene, a young Quaker, who began life as a blacksmith, {106} but who became the ablest general of the Revolution except Washington.

Into this group of patriot leaders came also Daniel Morgan of Virginia. Little is known of the early life of this remarkable man. He would rarely say anything about his family. It is believed that he was born of obscure Welsh people, in New Jersey, about the year 1737.

At seventeen, Morgan could barely read and write. He was rude of speech and uncouth in manners, but his heart was brave, and he scorned to lie.

The next two years did wonders for this awkward boy. He grew to be over six feet tall, with limbs of fine build, and with muscles like iron. In some way he had found time to study, and was regarded by the village people as a promising young fellow.

Stirring times were at hand. The bitter struggle between the French and the English in the Ohio valley was raging.

Morgan at once enlisted in the Virginia troops, and served one of the companies as a teamster. An incident revealed the stuff of which the young wagoner was made. The captain of his company had trouble with a surly fellow who was a great bully and a skillful boxer. It was agreed, according to the unwritten rules of the time, that the matter should be settled by a fight at the next stopping place; and so when the troops halted for dinner, out strode the captain to meet his foe.

{107} "You must not fight this man," said Morgan, stepping to the front.

"Why not?" asked the officer.

"Because you are our captain," replied the young teamster, "and if the fellow whips you, we shall all be disgraced. Let me fight him, and if he whips me, it will not hurt the name of the company."

The captain said it would never do, but at last yielded. Morgan promptly gave the bully a sound thrashing.

After the defeat of Braddock, in 1755, the French and the redskins wreaked their vengeance upon the terrified frontier settlements. A regiment of a thousand men was raised, and Washington was made its colonel. With this small force, he was supposed to guard a frontier of two hundred and fifty miles.

Morgan enlisted as a teamster. It was his duty to carry supplies to the various military posts on this long frontier. This meant almost daily exposure to all kinds {108} of dangers. It was a rough, hard school for a young man of twenty; but it made him an expert with the rifle and the tomahawk, and a master of Indian warfare, which was so useful to him in after years.

During one of these wild campaigns on the frontier, a British captain took offense at something young Morgan had said or done, and struck him with the flat of his sword. This was too much for the high-strung teamster. He straightway knocked the redcoat officer senseless.

A drumhead court-martial sentenced the young Virginian to receive one hundred lashes on the bare back. He was at once stripped, tied up, and punished. Morgan said in joke that there was a miscount, and that he actually received only ninety-nine blows. With his wonderful power of endurance, the young fellow stood the punishment like a hero, and came out of it alive and defiant.

This act, extreme even in those days of British cruelty, doubtless nerved him to incredible deeds of bravery in fighting the hated redcoats.

Shortly after this, he became a private in the militia. He made his mark when the French and Indians attacked a fort near Winchester. The story is that he killed four savages in as many minutes.

The young Virginian never drove any more army wagons. From this time, he stood forth as a born fighter and a leader of men. Such was his coolness in danger, his sound judgment, and, more than all else, his great {109} influence over his men, that he was recommended to Governor Dinwiddie for a captain's commission.

"What!" exclaimed the governor, "to a camp boxer and a teamster?"

Still, the best men of Virginia urged it, and the royal governor so far yielded as to give him the commission of an ensign.

Not long afterwards, in one of the bloody fights with the French and Indians, Morgan was shot through the back of the neck. The bullet went through his mouth and came out through the left cheek, knocking out all the teeth on the left side. Supposing that he was {110} mortally wounded, and resolved not to lose his scalp, the fainting rifleman clasped his arms tightly round the neck of his good horse, and galloped for life through the woods. A fleet Indian ran after him, tomahawk in hand. Finding at last that the horse was leaving him behind, the panting savage hurled his weapon, and with a wild yell gave up the chase.



The hardy frontiersman lay for months hovering between life and death, but finally recovered, and was once more in the thick of the wild warfare.

In his old age, Morgan used to tell his grandchildren of the fiendish look on the Indian's face while he felt sure of another scalp, and he would also imitate the horrible yell the redskin made when he was forced to give up the pursuit.

At last the war was over, and Morgan went back to his farm. He brought home with him, however, the vices of his wild campaign life. He used strong drink, and gambled. Far and near, he was noted as a boxer and a wrestler. Pugilists came from a distance to try their skill with the noted Indian fighter and athlete, who weighed over two hundred pounds, and yet had not an extra ounce of flesh.

But these were only passing incidents in the life of the great man. With a giant's frame, he had a tender heart. His good angel came to him in the person of a farmer's daughter, Abigail Bailey. She had great beauty; and she was a loving, Christian woman.

{111} They were soon married, and, as the fairy books say, were happy ever after. As if by a magic spell, the strong man left his tavern chums and their rough sports, his boxing, his gambling, and his strong drink, and to the day of his death lived an upright life.

The young wife taught her husband to believe in God, and to trust in prayer. In his simple-hearted way, Morgan tells us that, just before the fierce attack on the fort at Quebec, he knelt in the drifting snow, and felt that God had nerved him to fight.

In riding over the battlefield after his great victory at Cowpens, old soldiers saw with wonder the fierce fighter stop his horse and pray aloud, and, with tears running down his face, thank God for the victory.

{112} His men never scoffed at their leader's prayers, for it was noticed that the harder "old Dan Morgan" prayed, the more certain they were of being soon led into the jaws of death itself.

Meanwhile, he and his young bride were thrifty and prosperous. They were both ignorant of books, but they studied early and late to make up for lost time. For the next nine years, Morgan, with his household treasures,—his good wife, and his two little daughters,—lived in the pure atmosphere of a Christian home.



The storm cloud of the Revolution was now gathering thick and fast. Events followed each other with startling rapidity. Morgan watched keenly. He never did anything in a half-hearted way; and we may be sure that he took up the cause of the Revolution with all the fervor of his strong nature.

After the bloodshed at Lexington, the Continental Congress called for ten companies from Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia. Morgan received his commission as captain, five days after Bunker Hill. When he shouted, "Come, boys, who's for the camp before Cambridge?" every man in his section turned out.

In less than ten days, Morgan at the head of ninety-six expert riflemen started for Boston. It was six hundred miles away, but they marched the distance in twenty-one days without the loss of a single man.

One day as Washington was riding out to inspect the redoubts, he met these Virginians.

{113} Morgan halted his men, and saluted the commander in chief, saying, "From the right bank of the Potomac, General!"

Washington dismounted, and, walking along the line, shook hands with each of them.

Late in the fall of 1775, Morgan and his famous sharpshooters marched with about a thousand other troops on Arnold's ill-fated expedition to Quebec. This campaign, as you have read, was one of the most remarkable exploits of the war.

In the attack upon Quebec, after Arnold had been carried wounded from the field, and Montgomery had been killed, Morgan took Arnold's place and fought like a hero. He forced his way so far into the city that he and all his men were surrounded and captured.

A British officer who greatly admired his daring visited him in prison, and offered him the rank and pay of a colonel in the royal army.

"I hope, sir," answered the Virginian patriot, "you will never again insult me, in my present distressed and unfortunate situation, by making me offers which plainly imply that you think me a scoundrel."

Soon after his release, Congress voted him a colonel's commission, with orders to raise a regiment. The regiment reported for service at Morristown, New Jersey, in the winter of 1776.

Five hundred of the best riflemen were selected from the various regiments, and put under the command of {114} Colonel Morgan. He was well fitted to be the leader of this celebrated corps of sharpshooters. They were always to be at the front, to watch every movement of the enemy, and to furnish prompt and accurate news for Washington. They were to harass the British, and to fight with the enemy's outposts for every inch of ground.

Meanwhile, in the fall of 1777, Burgoyne, with a large army of British, Hessians, and Indians, marched down from Canada, through the valley of the Hudson. The country was greatly alarmed. Washington could ill spare Morgan, but generously sent him with his riflemen to help drive back the invaders.

Two great battles, the first at Freeman's Farm, the second at Saratoga, sealed Burgoyne's fate. In each battle, the sharpshooters did signal service. Before their deadly rifles, the British officers, clad in scarlet uniforms, fell with frightful rapidity. They were a terror to the Hessians. As Morgan would often say in high glee, "The very sight of my riflemen was always enough for the Hessian pickets. They would scamper into their lines as if the devil drove them, shouting in all the English they knew, 'Rebel in de bush! rebel in de bush!'"

After the surrender, when Burgoyne was introduced to Morgan, he took him warmly by the hand and said, "Sir, you command the finest regiment in the world."

For over a year and a half after Saratoga, Morgan and his riflemen were attached to Washington's army, and saw hard service. Their incessant attacks on the enemy's {115} outposts, and their numberless picket skirmishes, are all lost to history, and are now forgotten.

Just before the battle of Monmouth, a painful disease, known as sciatica, brought on by constant exposure and hardship, disabled Morgan. Sick and discouraged because he had seen officers who were favorites with Congress promoted over his head, he, like Greene, Stark, and Schuyler, now left the army for a time.

But after Gates was defeated at Camden, the fighting blood of the old Virginian was greatly stirred. He declared that no man should have any personal feeling when his country was in peril. So he hurried down South, and took, under Gates, his old place as colonel.

After the battle at King's Mountain, Congress very wisely made Morgan a brigadier general.



The glorious and ever-memorable victory at Cowpens made him more famous than ever before. Hitherto he had fought in battles that other men had planned. Now he had a chance to plan and to fight as he pleased. It was not a great battle so far as numbers were concerned, but "in point of tactics," says John Fiske, the historian, "it was the most brilliant battle of the war for independence."

{116} After leading eleven hundred men into the northeast part of South Carolina, to cut off Cornwallis from the seacoast, General Greene gave Morgan the command of about a thousand men, with orders to march to the southwest, and threaten the inland posts and their garrisons. Cornwallis, the English earl, scarcely knew which way to turn; but he followed Greene's example, and, dividing his army, sent Colonel Tarleton to crush Morgan.

Tarleton, confident of success, dashed away with his eleven hundred troopers to pounce upon the "old wagoner" and crush him at a single blow. Morgan, well trained in the school of Washington and Greene, and wishing just then to avoid a decisive battle, skillfully fell back until he found a spot in which to fight after his own fashion.

His choice was at a place where cattle were rounded up and branded, known as Cowpens. A broad, deep river, which lay in the rear, cut off all hope of retreat. A long, thickly wooded slope commanded the enemy's approach for a great distance. Morgan afterwards said that he made this choice purposely, that the militia might know they could not run away, but must fight or die.

At Cowpens, then, the patriot army lay encamped the night before the expected battle. A trusty spy was sent to Tarleton, to say that the Americans had faced about, and were waiting to fight him sometime the next day. There was no fuss and feathers about Morgan. In the {117} evening, he went round among the various camp fires, and with fatherly words talked the situation over.

"Stand by me, boys," said he in his blunt way, "and the old 'wagoner' will crack his whip for sure over Tarleton to-morrow."

The British commander, eager to strike a sudden blow, put his army in motion at three o'clock in the morning. He was not early enough, however, to catch the old rifleman napping. Morgan had rested his men during the night, and given them a good breakfast early in the morning. When Tarleton appeared upon the scene about sunrise, he found the patriots ready.

In the skirmish line, Morgan placed one hundred and twenty riflemen that could bring down a squirrel from the tallest tree. The militia, under the command of Colonel Pickens, were drawn up about three hundred yards in front of the hill. Along the brow of the hill, and about one hundred and fifty yards behind the militia, were the veterans of the Continental line. And beyond the brow of the hill, he stationed Colonel Washington with his cavalry, out of sight, and ready to move in an instant.

"Be firm, keep cool, take good aim. Give two volleys at killing distance, and fall back," were the orders to the raw militia.

"Don't lose heart," said Morgan to the Continentals, "when the skirmishers and the militia fall back. 'Tis a part of the plan. Stand firm, and fire low. Listen for my turkey call."

{118} Morgan was in the habit of using a small turkey call such as hunters use to decoy turkeys. In the heat of battle he would blow a loud blast. This he said was to let the boys know that he was still alive and was watching them fight.

Tarleton, unmindful of the fact that Morgan's retreat was "sullen, stern, and dangerous," had marched his men all night through the mud. They were tired out and hungry. Never mind, their restless leader would crush "old wagoner" first, and eat breakfast afterwards. He could hardly wait to form his line or to allow his reserves to come up.

The battle begins in real earnest. The militia fire several well-aimed volleys, and fall back behind the Continentals. With a wild hurrah, the redcoats advance on the run. They are met with a deadly volley. They overlap the Continentals a little, who fall back a short distance, to save their left flank. Tarleton hurls his whole force upon them. The veterans stand their ground and pour in a heavy and well-sustained fire. Quick as a flash, Morgan sees his golden chance.

"They are coming on like a mob!" shouts Colonel Washington to the gallant Colonel Howard, the commander of the Continentals. "Face about and fire, and I will charge them."

Then is heard the shrill whistle of the turkey call, and Morgan's voice rings along the lines, "Face about! One good fire, and the victory is ours!"

{119} Like a thunderbolt, Colonel Washington and his troopers, flying their famous crimson flag, sweep down in a semicircle round the hill, and charge the enemy's right flank.

"Charge bayonets!" shouts Howard.

Instantly the splendid veterans face about, open a deadly fire, and charge the disordered British line with the bayonet.



All was over in a few minutes. The old "teamster" had set his trap, and the redcoats were caught. Finding themselves surrounded, six hundred threw down their guns, and cried for quarter. The rest, including Tarleton himself, by hard riding, escaped.

{120} Colonel Washington and his troopers rode in hot haste to capture Tarleton, if possible. In the eagerness of his pursuit, Washington rode in advance of his men. Tarleton and two of his aids turned upon him. Just as one of the aids was about to strike the colonel with his saber, a trooper came up and disabled the redcoat's arm. Before the other aid could strike, he was wounded by Washington's little bugler, who, too small to handle a sword, fired his pistol. Tarleton now made a thrust at the colonel with his sword. The latter parried the blow, and wounded his enemy in the hand.



As the story is told, this wound was twice the subject for witty remarks by two young women, the daughters of a North Carolina patriot. Tarleton remarked to one of these sisters that he understood Colonel Washington was an unlettered fellow, hardly able to write his name.

"Ah, Colonel," said the lady, "you ought to know better, for you can testify that he knows how to make his mark."

At another time, Tarleton said with a sneer to the other sister, "I should be happy to see Colonel Washington."

"If you had looked behind you at the battle of Cowpens, Colonel Tarleton," she replied, "you would have enjoyed that pleasure."

In the battle of Cowpens, the British lost two hundred and thirty, killed and wounded. The Americans had twelve killed and sixty-one wounded.

{121} Morgan did not rest for one moment after his victory. He knew that Lord Cornwallis, stung by the defeat of Tarleton, would do his best to crush him before he could rejoin Greene's army. By forced marches, he got to the fords of the Catawba first, and when his lordship reached the river, he learned that the patriots had crossed with all their prisoners and booty two days before, and were well on their way to join General Greene.

Soon after the battle of Cowpens, repeated attacks of his old enemy, sciatica, so disabled Morgan that he was forced to retire from the service and go back to his home, in Virginia.

During the summer of 1780, when the British invaded the Old Dominion, he again took the field. With Wayne and Lafayette, he took part in a series of movements which led to the capture of Cornwallis. The exposure of camp life again brought on a severe illness.

"I lay out the night after coming into camp," Morgan wrote General Greene, "and caught cold."

{122} Crippled and suffering great pain, he went home with the belief that he had dealt his last blow for the cause he loved so well. He afterward received from Washington, Greene, Jefferson, Lafayette, and other leaders, letters that stir our blood after so many years.

From a simple teamster, Morgan had become a major general. After taking part in fifty battles, he lived to serve his country in peace as well as in war, and was returned to Congress the second time. His valor at the North is commemorated, as you already know, by the statue on the monument at Saratoga. In the little city of Spartanburg, in South Carolina, stands another figure of Daniel Morgan, the "old wagoner of the Alleghanies," the hero of Cowpens.

{123}

CHAPTER IX THE FINAL VICTORY

About the middle of March, 1781, Lord Cornwallis defeated Greene in a stubborn battle at Guilford, North Carolina. Although victorious, the British general was in desperate straits. He had lost a fourth of his whole army, and was over two hundred miles from his base of supplies. He could not afford to risk another battle.

There was now really only one thing for Cornwallis to do, and that was to make a bee line for Wilmington, the nearest point on the coast, and look for help from the fleet.

General Greene must have guessed that the British general would march northwards, to unite forces with Arnold, who was already in Virginia. At all events, the sagacious American general made a bold move. He followed Cornwallis for about fifty miles from Guilford, and then, facing about, marched with all speed to Camden, a hundred and sixty miles away.

His lordship was not a little vexed. He was simply ignored by his wily foe, and left to do as he pleased. So he made his way into Virginia, and on May 20 arrived at Petersburg.

{124} Benedict Arnold, who was now fighting under the British flag, had been sent to Virginia to burn and to pillage. Washington dispatched Lafayette to check the traitor's dastardly work. When Lord Cornwallis reached Virginia, Arnold had been recalled, and the young Frenchman was at Richmond.

Cornwallis thought he might now regain his reputation by some grand stroke. The first thing to do was to crush the young Lafayette.

"The boy cannot escape me," he said.

But Lafayette was so skillful at retreating and avoiding a decisive action that his lordship could get no chance to deal him a blow.

"I am not strong enough even to be beaten," wrote the French general to the commander in chief.

Away to the west rode our friend Colonel Tarleton, still smarting from the sound thrashing he had received from old Dan Morgan at Cowpens. He was trying to break up the State Assembly, and capture Thomas Jefferson, governor of Virginia.

It was a narrow escape for the man who wrote the Declaration of Independence. The story is told that Jefferson had only five minutes in which to take flight into the woods, before Tarleton's hard riders surrounded his house at Monticello.

About this time, Mad Anthony Wayne, with a thousand Pennsylvania regulars, appeared upon the scene and joined Lafayette.

{125} Now Cornwallis, finding that he could not catch "the boy," and having a wholesome respect for Wayne, stopped his marching and countermarching, and retreated to Williamsburg by way of Richmond and the York peninsula.

During the first week in August, the British commander continued his retreat to the coast, and occupied Yorktown, with about seven thousand men. Lafayette was encamped on Malvern Hill, in the York peninsula, where he was waiting for the next act in the drama.



Far away in the North, at West Point, Washington was keeping a sharp lookout over the whole field. The main part of the patriot army was encamped along the Hudson.

At Newport, there was a French force under General Rochambeau. Late in May, Washington rode over to a little town in Connecticut, to consult with him. It was decided that the French army should march to the Hudson as speedily as possible, and unite with the patriot forces encamped there.

The plan at this time was to capture New York. This could not be done without the aid of a large fleet.

Early in the spring of this year, 1781, the French government had sent a powerful fleet to the West Indies, under the command of Count de Grasse. De Grasse now had orders to act in concert with Washington and Rochambeau, against the common enemy. This was joyful news.

{126} News traveled very slowly in those times. It took ten days for Washington to hear from Lafayette that Cornwallis had retreated to Yorktown, and thirty days to learn that Greene was marching southward against Lord Rawdon in South Carolina. And as for De Grasse, it was uncertain just when and where he would arrive on the coast.

Washington had some hard thinking to do. The storm center of the whole war might suddenly shift to Virginia.

Now came the test for his military genius. Hitherto, the British fleet had been in control of our coast. Now, however, nobody but a Nelson would ever hope to defeat the French men-of-war that were nearing our shores. Cornwallis was safe enough on the York peninsula so long as the British fleet had control of the Virginia coast. But suppose De Grasse should take up a position on the three sides of Yorktown, would it not be an easy matter, with the aid of a large land force, to entrap Cornwallis?

The supreme moment for the patriot cause was now at hand. In the middle of August, word came from De Grasse that he was headed with his whole fleet for Chesapeake Bay.

As might be expected, Washington was equal to the occasion. The capture of New York must wait. He made up his mind that he would swoop down with his army upon Yorktown, four hundred miles away, and crush Cornwallis.

{127} Yes, but what about Sir Henry Clinton, the British commander in chief in New York? If Sir Henry should happen to get an inkling of what Washington intended to do, what would prevent his sending an army by sea to the relief of Yorktown?

Nothing, of course, and so the all-important point was to hoodwink the British commander. It was cleverly done, as we shall see.

Clinton knew that the French fleet was expected; but everything pointed to an attack on New York.

If we glance at the map of this section, we shall see that, from his headquarters at West Point, Washington could march half way to Yorktown, by way of New Jersey, without arousing suspicions of his real design.

Nobody but Rochambeau had the least knowledge of what he intended to do. Bodies of troops were moved toward Long Island. Ovens were built as if to bake bread for a large army. The patriots seemed merely to be waiting for the French fleet before beginning in earnest the siege of New York.

Washington wrote a letter to Lafayette which was purposely sent in such a way as to be captured by Clinton. In this letter, the American general said he should be {128} happy if Cornwallis fortified Yorktown or Old Point Comfort, because in that case he would remain under the protection of the British fleet.

Washington wrote similar letters to throw Clinton off his guard. For instance, to one of his generals he wrote in detail just how he had planned to lay siege to New York. He selected a young minister, by the name of Montaigne, to carry the dispatch to Morristown, through what was called the Clove.

"If I go through the Clove," said Montaigne, "the cowboys will capture me."

"Your duty, young man, is to obey," sternly replied Washington.

The hope of the ever-alert commander in chief was fulfilled, for the young clergyman soon found himself a prisoner in the famous Sugar House, in New York. The next day, the dispatch was printed with great show in Rivington's Tory paper.

On August 19, or just five days after receiving the dispatch from De Grasse, Washington crossed the Hudson at King's Ferry, and set out on his long march, with two thousand Continental and four thousand French troops.

They had nearly reached Philadelphia before their real destination was suspected.

The good people of the Quaker city had just heard of Greene's successes in the South. The popular feeling showed itself in the rousing welcome they gave to the {129} "ragged Continentals" and to the finely dressed French troops, as the combined forces marched hurriedly through the streets. The drums and fifes played "The White Cockade and the Peacock's Feather"; everywhere the stars and stripes were flung to the breeze; and ladies threw flowers from the windows.

"Long live Washington!" shouted the people, as the dusty soldiers marched by in a column nearly two miles long.

"He has gone to catch Cornwallis in his mouse trap!" shouted the crowd, in great glee.

Even the self-possessed Washington was a trifle nervous. Galloping ahead to Chester on his favorite charger, Nelson, he sent back word that De Grasse had arrived in Chesapeake Bay.

By rapid marches, the combined armies reached the head of the Bay on September 6. From this point, most of the men were carried in transports to the scene of action. In another week, an army of more than sixteen thousand men was closing round Cornwallis.

Soon after his arrival, Washington, accompanied by Rochambeau, Knox, Hamilton, and others, made a formal call on Admiral De Grasse on board his flagship, the famous ship of the line, Ville de Paris, then at anchor in Hampton Roads.

When Washington reached the quarter-deck, the little French admiral ran to embrace his guest, and kissed him on each cheek, after the French fashion.

{130} "My dear little general!" he exclaimed, hugging him.

Now when the excited admiral stood on tiptoe to embrace the majestic Washington, and began to call him "petit," or "little," the scene was ludicrous. The French officers politely turned aside; but it was too much for General Knox, who was a big, jolly man. He simply forgot his politeness, and laughed aloud until his sides shook.

Where was the British fleet all this time?

Its commander, Admiral Hood, had followed sharply after De Grasse, and had outsailed him. Not finding the enemy's fleet in the Chesapeake, he sailed on to New York and reported to Admiral Graves.

Then Sir Henry began to open his eyes to the real state of affairs. All was bustle and hurry. Crowding on all sail, the British fleet headed for the Chesapeake, and there found De Grasse blockading the bay.

It would be all up with Washington's plans if the British fleet should now defeat the French. The French fleet, however, was much the stronger, and Graves was no Nelson. There was a sharp fight for two hours. On the two fleets, the killed and the wounded amounted to seven hundred. The British admiral was then forced to withdraw; and after a few days he sailed back to New York. De Grasse was now in complete control of the Chesapeake.

Cornwallis did not as yet know that Washington was marching at full speed straight for Yorktown. Still, his {131} lordship began to realize that he was fast getting himself into a tight place.

Why not cross the James River and retreat to a safe place in North Carolina?

It was too late. Three thousand French troops had already landed on the neck of the peninsula, and were united with the patriot forces. The "boy" had now more than eight thousand men, with which he could easily cut off every chance for his lordship's retreat.

In the American camp, the combined armies were working with a hearty good will to hasten the siege. There could be no delay. The British fleet was sure to return, and another fleet was hourly expected from England. Again, Sir Henry might at any moment come by sea to the rescue. Day and night the men toiled. Nobody was permitted to speak aloud, for they were close to the British pickets. Intrenchments were made, and cannon were rapidly dragged up and placed in position. By October 10, all was ready.



{132} The siege begins in earnest. Shot and shell are hurled into the British lines. All day and all night long, are heard the roaring of cannon and the bursting of shells. Bang! bang! The French fire red-hot shot across the water and set fire to the British transports.

New lines of redoubts are thrown up during the night, and guns are mounted, which pound away at the doomed army. Two of the British redoubts are troublesome. These are gallantly captured.

On the next night, Cornwallis makes a vigorous effort to break through the American lines, but is driven back into the town. With seventy cannon pounding away, the British earthworks are fast crumbling. The British commander grows desperate. He thinks that, by leaving his baggage and his sick behind, he can cross the river to Gloucester in boats, by night, cut through the French, and by forced marches make his way to New York.

On the night of the 16th, a few of the redcoats actually succeeded in reaching the opposite shore, when a storm of wind and rain suddenly arose and continued till morning. This last ray of hope was gone.

Cornwallis had his headquarters in a large brick mansion owned by a Tory. It was a fine target for the artillery, and was soon riddled. His lordship stayed in the house until a cannon ball killed his steward, as he was carrying a tureen of soup to his master's table.

The British general now moved his headquarters into Governor Nelson's fine stone mansion. Its owner was {133} in command of the Virginia troops in the besieging army. He was the "war governor" who had left his crops to their fate, and his plows in the furrows, while his horses and his oxen were harnessed to the cannon that were being hurried to the siege. When Nelson learned, through a deserter, where Cornwallis and his staff were, regardless of his personal loss, he ordered the bombarding of the house.

In Trumbull's famous painting, "The Surrender of Cornwallis," Governor Nelson's mansion is plainly seen.

By this time, the only safe place in Yorktown was a cave, which had been dug under the bank of the river. To this spot, as the story goes, Cornwallis moved his headquarters. Here he received a British colonel who had made his way in the night through the French fleet, to bring orders from Sir Henry Clinton. Cornwallis was to hold out to the last. Seven thousand troops had sailed to his relief.

His lordship served a lunch for his guest, and while they were drinking their wine, the colonel declared his intention of going up on the ramparts for a moment, to take a look at the Yankees. As he left, he gayly said that on his return he would give Washington's health in a bumper. It was useless to urge him to remain under shelter. He had scarcely climbed to the top of the redoubt when his head was shot off by a cannon ball.

On October 17, the thirteenth day of the siege and the fourth anniversary of Burgoyne's surrender, a red-coated {134} drummer boy stands on the rampart and beats a parley. A white flag is raised on the British works. The roar of the cannon ceases. Cornwallis sends an officer to ask that fighting be stopped for twenty-four hours.

Twenty-four hours! No! "No more fighting for two hours," says Washington.

Held in an iron grasp both by land and by sea, the British commander knows that all is lost. He can do nothing but surrender.

At two o'clock on the afternoon of October 19, in a field not far from Washington's headquarters, the formal surrender takes place. This ceremony, so joyful to the one side, so painful to the other, is carried out in stately form. The officers on both sides wear their best uniforms and military equipments. Washington rides his favorite charger, Nelson. The stars and stripes of America, and the white flag and lilies of France, wave in triumph. While the band plays a quaint old English melody, "The World Turned Upside Down," the British troops, over seven thousand in number, slowly march between the columns of the combined armies and lay down their arms.

Cornwallis was not there. Saying that he was sick, he sent O'Hara, one of his generals, to deliver up his sword, while Washington, with his usual high regard for official dignity, sent General Lincoln.

As perhaps you may remember, when General Lincoln was forced to surrender to Cornwallis, at Charleston {135} in 1780, the haughty British general turned him over to an inferior officer, as if to treat his surrender with contempt.

Lafayette said, in after years, that the captive redcoats, while they gazed at the French soldiers with their showy trappings, "did not as much as look at my darling light infantry, the apple of my eye and the pride of my heart." Whereupon the lively young French general ordered his fife and drum corps to strike up "Yankee Doodle." "Then," he said, "they did look at us, but were not very well pleased."

After the surrender, both the Americans and the British hastened away. Scores of brave men, whom thus far the bullets had spared, were the victims of camp fever and smallpox. Fourteen days afterwards, Yorktown became again a sleepy little hamlet of sixty houses.

On the same day that Cornwallis found "the world turned upside down," Clinton sailed from New York, with thirty-five ships and over seven thousand of his best troops. Had this great force reached the scene ten days earlier, the story of Yorktown might have been different.

{136} "Cornwallis is taken!" How quickly the news spread! Men, women, and children pour in from the country, and wait along the road leading to Philadelphia, for the long-expected news.

At length a horseman is seen riding at headlong speed.

He waves his hat and shouts to the eager people, "Cornwallis is taken!"

It is Colonel Tilghman, whom Washington sent posthaste to Philadelphia to inform Congress of the surrender.

It is after midnight when he arrives. The drowsy night watchman is slowly pacing the streets. Suddenly is heard the joyful cry, "Past three o'clock, and Cornwallis is taken!"



Up go the windows. Men and women rush into the streets, all eager to hear the news. An hour before daylight, old Independence bell rings out its loudest peals, and sunrise is greeted with the boom of cannon.

Congress meets during the forenoon, to read Washington's dispatches. In the afternoon, the members go in solemn procession to the Lutheran church, "and return thanks to Almighty God for crowning the allied armies of the United States and France with success."

At noon on Sunday, November 25, the news reached London. Somebody asked a member of the cabinet how Lord North, the prime minister, received the "communication."

"As he would have taken a cannon ball in his chest," was the reply; "for he opened his arms, exclaimed {137} wildly, as he walked up and down the room during a few minutes, 'O God! it is all over! it is all over!'"

The news was sent to King George, who replied the same evening. It was noted that His Majesty being a trifle stupid, wrote very calmly, but forgot to mark the exact hour and minute of his writing. This circumstance, the like of which had never happened before, seemed to indicate to his cabinet some unusual disturbance. Shortly afterwards, however, the old king took some comfort in declaring that the Yankees were a wretched set of knaves, whom he was glad to get rid of at any price.

* * * * * *

On a gentle slope at Yorktown stands a monument, erected a century later by Congress, in commemoration of the surrender of Lord Cornwallis. There it stands, a tall, white shaft, solitary, glorious, and impressive, a landmark for many miles along that sleepy shore.

{138}

CHAPTER X THE CRISIS

Exactly eight years from the day when

"the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world,"

the Continental Congress informed General Washington that the war was over. In September, 1783, the formal treaty of peace was signed; a month later, the Continental army was disbanded; and three weeks later, the British army sailed from New York.

What a pathetic and impressive scene took place at a little tavern, in lower New York, when Washington said good-by to his generals! With hearts too full for words, and with eyes dimmed with tears, these veterans embraced their chief and bade him farewell.



A few days before Christmas, Washington gave up the command of the army, and hurried away to spend the holidays at Mount Vernon.

"The times that tried men's souls are over," wrote the author of "Common Sense," a man whose writings voiced the opinions of the people.

Freedom was indeed won, but the country was in a sad plight.

{139} "It is not too much to say," says John Fiske, "that the period of five years following the peace of 1783 was the most critical moment in all the history of the American people."

Thirteen little republics, fringing the Atlantic, were hemmed in on the north, the south, and the west, by two hostile European nations that were capable of much mischief.

In 1774, under the pressure of a common peril and the need of quick action, the colonies had banded together for the common good. By a kind of general consent their representatives in the Continental Congress had assumed the task of carrying on the war. But for nine years Congress had steadily declined in power, and now that peace had come and the need of united action was removed, there was danger that this shadowy union would dissolve. Believing strongly in their own state governments, the people had almost no feeling in favor of federation.

{140} Just before the disbanding of the army and his retirement to private life, Washington wrote a letter to the governor of each colony. This letter, he said, was his "legacy" to the American people.

He urged the necessity of forming a more perfect union, under a single government. He declared that the war debt must be paid to the last penny; that the people must be willing to sacrifice some of their local interests for the common good; and that they must regard one another as fellow citizens of a common country.

We must not make the mistake of thinking that the Continental Congress was like our present national Congress.

When the struggle between the colonies and the mother country threatened war, the colonies through their assemblies, or special conventions, chose delegates to represent them in Philadelphia. These delegates composed the first Continental Congress. It met on September 5, 1774, and broke up during the last week of the following October.

Three weeks after Lexington, a second Congress met in the same city. This was the Congress that appointed Washington commander in chief, and issued the immortal Declaration of Independence.

In the strict sense of the word, this body had no legal authority. It was really a meeting of delegates from the several colonies, to advise and consult with each other concerning the public welfare.

{141} There was war in the land. Something must be done to meet the crisis. The Continental Congress, therefore, acted in the name of the "United Colonies."

Many of the ablest and most patriotic men of the country were sent as delegates to this Congress; and until the crowning victory at Yorktown, although without clearly defined powers, it continued to act, by common consent, as if it had the highest authority. It made an alliance with France; it built a navy; it granted permits to privateers; it raised and organized an army; it borrowed large sums of money, and issued paper bills.

A few days after the Declaration of Independence was signed, a form of government, called the "Articles of Confederation," was brought before Congress; but it was not adopted until several weeks after the surrender of Burgoyne, in 1777.

The "Articles" were not finally ratified by the states until the spring of 1781.

The constitution thus adopted was a league of friendship between the states. It was bad from beginning to end; for it dealt with the thirteen states as thirteen units, and not with the people of the several states. It never secured a hold upon the people of the country, and for very good reasons.

Each state, whether large or small, had only one vote. A single delegate from Delaware or from Rhode Island could balance the whole delegation from New York or from Virginia.

{142} Congress had no power to enforce any law whatever. It could recommend all manner of things to the states, but it could do nothing more. It could not even protect itself.

Hence, the states violated the "Articles" whenever they pleased. Thus Congress might call for troops, but the states could refuse to obey. Without the consent of every state, not a dollar could be raised by taxation.

At one time, twelve states voted to allow Congress to raise money to pay the soldiers; but little Rhode Island flatly refused, and the plan failed. The next year Rhode Island consented, but New York refused.

Although Congress had authority to coin money, to issue bills of credit, and to make its notes legal tender for debts, each one of the thirteen states had the same authority.

Money affairs got into a wretched condition. Paper money became almost worthless. The year after Saratoga, a paper dollar was worth only sixteen cents, and early in 1780 its value had fallen to two cents.

A trader in Philadelphia papered his shop with dollar bills, to show what he thought of the flimsy stuff. In the year of Cornwallis's surrender, a bushel of corn sold for one hundred and fifty dollars; and Samuel Adams, the Boston patriot, had to pay two thousand dollars for a hat and a suit of clothes.

A private soldier had to serve four months before his pay would buy a bushel of wheat. When he could {143} not collect this beggarly sum, is it any wonder that he deserted or rebelled?

At one time, being unable to get money for the army, Congress asked the states to contribute supplies of corn, pork, and hay.

To add to the general misery, the states began to quarrel with one another, like a lot of schoolboys. They almost came to bloodshed over boundary lines, and levied the most absurd taxes and duties.

If a Connecticut farmer brought a load of firewood into New York, he had to pay a heavy duty. Sloops that sailed through Hell Gate, and Jersey market boats that crossed to Manhattan Island, were treated as if from foreign ports. Entrance fees had to be paid, and clearance papers must be got at the custom house.

The country was indeed in a bad condition. There were riots, bankruptcy, endless wranglings, foreclosed mortgages, and imprisonment for debt.

The gallant Colonel Barton, who captured General Prescott, was kept locked up because he could not pay a small sum of money. Robert Morris, once a wealthy merchant, was sent to jail for debt, although he had given his whole fortune to the patriot cause.

Thoughtful and patriotic men and women throughout the country felt that something must be done.

Washington and other far-sighted men of Virginia began to work out the problem. First it was proposed that delegates from two or three states should meet at {144} Annapolis, to discuss the question of trade. Finally all the states were invited to send delegates.

At this meeting, only twelve delegates, from five states, were present. Alexander Hamilton wrote an eloquent address, which it was voted to send to the state assemblies, strongly recommending that delegates should be appointed to meet at Philadelphia on the second day of May, 1787.



This plan, however, Congress promptly rejected.

During the winter of 1786, the times were perhaps even harder, and the country nearer to the brink of civil war and ruin. There were riots in New Hampshire and in Vermont and Shays's Rebellion in the old Bay State. There were also the threatened separation of the Northern and Southern states, the worthless paper money, wildcat speculation, the failure to carry out certain provisions of the treaty of peace, and many troubles of less importance.

As we may well suppose, all this discord made King George and his court happy. He declared that the several states would soon repent, and beg on bended knees to be taken back into the British empire.

{145} When it was predicted in Parliament that we should become a great nation, a British statesman, who bore us no ill will, said, "It is one of the idlest and most visionary notions that was ever conceived even by a writer of romance."

Frederick the Great was friendly to us, but he declared that nobody but a king could ever rule so large a country.

All these unhappy events produced a great change in public opinion. People were convinced that anarchy might be worse than the union of these thirteen little commonwealths, under a strong, central government.

At this great crisis in affairs, Virginia boldly took the lead, and promptly sent seven of her ablest citizens, one of whom was Washington, to the Philadelphia convention. This was a masterly stroke of policy. People everywhere applauded, and the tide of popular sentiment soon favored the convention. At last Congress yielded to the voice of the people and approved the plan. Every state except Rhode Island sent delegates.



It was a notable group of Americans that met in one of the upper rooms of old Independence Hall, the last {146} week of May, 1787. There were fifty-five delegates in all, some of whom, however, did not arrive for several weeks after the convention began its meetings.

Eight of the delegates had signed the Declaration of Independence, in the same room; twenty-eight had been members of the Continental Congress, and seven had been governors of states. Two afterwards became presidents of the United States, and many others in after years filled high places in the national government.

Head and shoulders above all others towered George Washington. The man most widely known, except Washington, was Benjamin Franklin, eighty-one years old; the youngest delegate was Mr. Dayton of New Jersey, who was only twenty-six.

Here also were two of the ablest statesmen of their time, Alexander Hamilton of New York, and James Madison of Virginia.

Connecticut sent two of her great men, Oliver Ellsworth, afterwards chief justice of the United States, and Roger Sherman, the learned shoemaker.

Near Robert Morris, the great financier, sat his namesake, Gouverneur Morris, who originated our decimal system of money, and James Wilson, one of the most learned lawyers of his day.

The two brilliant Pinckneys and John Rutledge, the silver-tongued orator, were there to represent South Carolina.

{147} Then there were Elbridge Gerry and Rufus King of Massachusetts, John Langdon of New Hampshire, John Dickinson of Delaware, and the great orator, Edmund Randolph of Virginia.

Thomas Jefferson and John Adams would no doubt have been delegates, had they not been abroad in the service of their country. Patrick Henry and Samuel Adams remained at home; for they did not approve of the convention.

How Rhode Island must have missed her most eminent citizen, Nathanael Greene, who had just died of sunstroke, in the prime of manhood!

Washington was elected president of the convention. The doors were locked, and, every member being pledged to secrecy, they settled down to work.

Just what was said and done during those four months was for more than fifty years kept a profound secret. After the death of James Madison, often called the {148} "Father of the Constitution," his journal was published, giving a complete account of the proceedings.



When the delegates began their work, they soon realized what a problem it was to frame a government for the whole country. As might have been expected, some of these men had a fit of moral cowardice. They began to cut and to trim, and tried to avoid any measure of thorough reform.

Washington was equal to the occasion. He was not a brilliant orator, and his speech was very brief; but the solemn words of this majestic man, as his tall figure drawn up to its full height rose from the president's chair, carried conviction to every delegate.

"If, to please the people," he said, "we offer what we ourselves disapprove, how can we afterward defend our work? Let us raise a standard to which the wise and the honest can repair; the event is in the hand of God."

The details of what this convention did would be dull reading; but some day we shall want to study in our school work the noble Constitution which these men framed.

The gist of the whole matter is that our Federal Constitution is based upon three great compromises.

The first compromise was between the small and the large states. In the upper house, or Senate, equal representation was conceded to all the states, but in the lower house of Congress, representation was arranged according to the population.

{149} Thus, as you know, little Rhode Island and Delaware have each two senators, while the great commonwealths of New York and Ohio have no more. In the House of Representatives, on the other hand, New York has forty-three representatives, and Ohio has twenty-two, while Rhode Island has three, and Delaware only one.

The second compromise was between the free and the slave states.

Were the slaves to be counted as persons or as goods?

South Carolina and Georgia maintained that they were persons; the Northern states said they were merely property.

Now indeed there was a clashing over local interest; but it was decided that in counting the population, whether for taxation, or for representation in the lower house, a slave should be considered as three fifths of an individual. And so it stood until the outbreak of the Civil War.

It was a bitter pill for far-sighted men like Washington, Madison, and others, who did not believe in slavery. Without this compromise, however, they believed that nine slave states would never adopt the Constitution, and doubtless they were right.

The slave question was the real bone of contention that resulted in the third compromise. The majority of the delegates, especially those from Virginia, were not in favor of slavery.

{150} "This infernal traffic that brings the judgment of Heaven on a country!" said George Mason of Virginia.

At first, it was proposed to abolish foreign slave trade. South Carolina and Georgia sturdily protested.

"Are we wanted in the Union?" they said.

They declared that it was not a question of morality or of religion, but purely a matter of business.

Rhode Island had refused to send delegates; and those from New York had gone home in anger. The discussions were bitter, and the situation became dangerous.

While the convention "was scarcely held together by the strength of a hair," the question came up for discussion, whether Congress or the individual states should have control over commerce.

The New England states, with their wealth of shipping, said that by all means Congress should have the control, and should make a uniform tariff in all the states. This, it was believed, would put an end to all the wranglings and the unjust acts which were so ruinous to commerce.

The extreme Southern states that had no shipping said it would never do; for New England, by controlling the carrying trade, would extort ruinous prices for shipping tobacco and rice.

When the outlook seemed darkest, two of the Connecticut delegates suggested a compromise.

"Yes," said Franklin, "when a carpenter wishes to fit two boards, he sometimes pares off a bit from each."

{151} It was finally decided that there should be free trade between the states, and that Congress should control commerce.

To complete the "bargain," nothing was to be done about the African slave trade for twenty years. Slavery had been slowly dying out both in the North and in the South, for nearly fifty years. The wisest men of 1787 believed that it would speedily die a natural death and give way to a better system of labor.

It was upon these three great foundation stones, or compromises, that our Constitution was built. The rest of the work, while very important, was not difficult or dangerous. The question of choosing a president, and a hundred other less important matters were at last settled.

{152} The scorching summer of 1787 was well-nigh spent before the great document was finished. The convention broke up on September 17. Few of its members were satisfied with their work. None supposed it complete.

Tradition says that Washington, who was the first to sign, standing by the table, held up his pen and said solemnly, "Should the states reject this excellent Constitution, they probably will never sign another in peace. The next will be drawn in blood."

Of the delegates who were present on the last day of the convention, all but three signed the Constitution.



It is said that when the last man had signed, many of the delegates seemed awe-struck at what they had done. Washington himself sat with head bowed in deep thought.

Thirty-three years before this, and before some of the delegates then present were born, Franklin had done his best to bring the colonies into a federal union. He was sixty years of age when, in this very room, he put his name to the Declaration of Independence. Now, as the genial old man saw the noble aim of his life accomplished, he indulged in one of his homely bits of pleasantry.

There was a rude painting of a half sun, gorgeous with its yellow rays, on the back of the president's black armchair. When Washington solemnly rose, as the meeting was breaking up, Franklin pointed to the chair and said, "As I have been sitting here all these weeks, I have often wondered whether that sun behind our president is rising or setting. Now I do know that it is a rising sun."

{153}

The Constitution was sent to the Continental Congress, who submitted it to the people of the several states for their approval. It was agreed that when it was adopted by nine states, it should become the supreme law of the land.

Now for the first time there was a real national issue. The people arranged themselves into two great political parties, the Federalists, who believed in a strong government and the new Constitution, and the Anti-Federalists, who were opposed to a stronger union between the states.

And now what keen discussions, bitter quarrels, and scurrilous and abusive newspaper articles! A bloodless war of squibs, broadsides, pamphlets, and frenzied oratory was waged everywhere.

Hamilton and Madison were "mere boys" and "visionary young men"; Franklin was an "old dotard" and "in his second childhood"; and as for Washington, "What did he know about politics?"

{154} The Constitution was called "a triple-headed monster." Many able men sincerely believed it to be "as deep and wicked a conspiracy as ever was invented in the darkest ages against the liberties of the people."

How eloquently did such men as Hamilton, Madison, Randolph, Jay, "Light-Horse Harry" Lee, John Marshall, Fisher Ames, and a score of other "makers of our country" defend the "New Roof," as the people were then fond of calling the Federal Constitution!

A series of short essays written by Hamilton, Madison, and Jay, and published under the name of "The Federalist," were widely read. Although written at a white heat, their grave and lofty eloquence and their stern patriotism carried conviction to the hearts of the people.

"The Delaware State," as it was called, was the first to adopt the Constitution. It was not until the next June that Massachusetts and Virginia ratified it, as the sixth and tenth states. New York next fell into line in July.