"Your command shall be obeyed," a.s.sured Lee, "and I will not be the first to leave the field."

Washington hurried further back to the main army, and lost no time in forming it in battle order on the ridge that rose above the western side of the mora.s.s. Meanwhile General Lee partly atoned for his fault by a display of skill and courage in obedience to his commander's orders.

While a hot cannonade was going on between the artillery of both forces, he gallantly repulsed a troop of royal light horse that charged upon the right of his division. Nevertheless the enemy were too strong to be held in check more than temporarily, and before long the greater part of the Americans were obliged to give way and fall back toward Washington.

Stretching across the open field in front of the causeway over the mora.s.s was a hedgerow, and here the conflict raged for some little time, the place being held stoutly by Livingston's regiment and Varnum's brigade, with a battery of artillery. But their ranks were finally broken by a desperate bayonet charge from the British cavalry and infantry, and Varnum and Livingston, with the artillery, retreated across the mora.s.s, their rear effectually protected by Colonel Ogden and his men, who held a wood near the causeway. Lee was the last to leave the field, bringing Ogden's corps off with him, and after forming the whole of his division in good order on the hillside west of the mora.s.s, he reported to Washington for further instructions.

Lee's forces had thus far borne the brunt of the day's fighting, so Washington considerately ordered them to the rear in the direction of Englishtown, while he himself prepared to engage the enemy with the fresh and main army. His left was commanded by Lord Stirling, and the right by General Greene. Wayne was on an eminence in an orchard near the parsonage, while on his right a battery of artillery occupied the crest of Comb's Hill.

The battle now began in earnest, the enemy being drawn up in force on the hills and in the fields across the mora.s.s, and having possession of the lost hedgerow. They were repulsed from the American left, and on trying to turn the right flank they were driven back by Knox's battery, supported by General Greene. Meanwhile Wayne kept up a brisk fire on the British centre, and repeatedly hurled back the royal grenadiers, who several times advanced upon him from the hedgerow.

The commander of the grenadiers, Colonel Monckton, determined to make a last attempt to drive Wayne from his position. So he formed his men in solid column, and advanced anew with the regularity of a corps on parade. Wayne's troops were partly sheltered by a barn, and they reserved their fire until the enemy were very close. Monckton was about to give the order to charge, sword in hand, when the terrible volley was poured forth. He himself was killed instantly, and most of the British officers fell with him. A desperate hand-to-hand fight ensued, and the survivors of the grenadiers finally fled in confusion, leaving the body of their commander behind. Thus the conflict raged from point to point, while the sultry day grew older, and the roar of cannons and muskets echoed far over the peaceful Jersey countryside.

And what was Nathan Stanbury doing all this time? We shall see. Behind the American lines was the meeting-house, and in front, down the hill toward the swamp that separated the two armies, were the parsonage and barn, an orchard, and a bit of woods. These places of shelter bristled with Washington's skirmishers. From behind trees and fences, from the loop-holes and crevices of the barn, they poured a hot and steady fire on the red-coats.

The Pennsylvania regiment to which the Wyoming troops belonged, occupied the strip of woods near the mora.s.s. Nathan was crouched behind a stump, and next to him was Barnabas Otter. Captain Stanbury was twenty feet away, and from time to time he looked anxiously around to see that his boy was all right. Overhead bullets whistled, sending down fluttering showers of leaves and twigs. Sh.e.l.ls went screeching and hissing by, some bursting far off, others exploding close at hand with a deafening report. But Nathan kept his place like an old soldier, steadily loading and firing, and shifting the hot breech of his musket from hand to hand.

At first the lad was nervous under fire, but that feeling had long since pa.s.sed away. His head was cool and his nerves steady. He felt that he had to do his part in winning the battle, and he regretted that his post of duty was with the skirmishers instead of on one of the flanks of the main army. Men died around him by shot and sh.e.l.l, but these dreadful sights only made his hand steadier and his aim truer.

"Be careful, boy," his father called to him. "Keep your head down."

"All right, sir," Nathan shouted back, "but I've got to see to fire."

"Aim low, lad," muttered old Barnabas Otter. "You know it's the natural tendency of a musket to carry high."

"And who taught me that but yourself, Barnabas?" retorted Nathan. "Have you forgotten all the fat deer I killed up on the Susquehanna? I'm shooting just as carefully now."

He went on loading and firing, peering this way and that through the smoke to get a glimpse of the red-coats. Far off he saw officers galloping to and fro, and he wondered if one of them could be G.o.dfrey Spencer. He hoped the cruel fortune of war would not bring them together on the battle-field.

So, for hour after hour through the long afternoon, the fight went on, the skirmishers bravely holding their position. To right and left, where the mora.s.s ended, there was a constant panorama of moving cavalry, infantry and guns. The roar of battle echoed miles away, and the smoke floated overhead on the still air. The heat was terrific, and men dropped, fainting and exhausted, to the ground. Not since Bunker Hill had the American army shown such desperate valor. In vain Clinton thundered and stormed at the centre. In vain did Lord Cornwallis a.s.sail Sterling's invincible left wing.

The approach of evening found both armies still holding their ground, and now a large force of the British advanced on the American right wing. But a spare battery hastened to that quarter, unlimbered their guns, and poured into the enemy such a storm of shot and sh.e.l.l as drove them back in confusion.

Part of an infantry brigade--mostly grenadiers--pa.s.sed near the strip of woods. The skirmishers had just turned their fire in this direction when a mounted officer arrived with orders to charge on the enemy's flank.

With ringing cheers the Pennsylvania regiment poured out from the trees, Captain Stanbury's Wyoming company in front; and a double-quick trot brought them to close quarters with the rear of the British.

The grenadiers doggedly kept up the retreat, firing as they went, and many fell on both sides. Most of the enemy's officers were far in front, and Nathan felt sure that he recognized G.o.dfrey's figure at a distance.

But one mounted officer, seeing what was taking place, pluckily galloped back to the rear to try to rally the broken lines. He ventured too far, and a shot brought horse and rider to the ground. Before his own men could rescue him, the front line of the Americans was nearly at the spot.

Barnabas and Nathan had seen the occurrence, and they ran up to the officer just as he struggled to his feet from under the body of his horse. At the first glance Nathan recognized Major Langdon, and he was quick to observe the half healed scar on his left wrist.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "SURRENDER!" YELLED BARNABAS]

"Surrender!" yelled Barnabas, presenting his musket at the officer's head.

Major Langdon glanced around, bit his lip pa.s.sionately, and then dropped his half-drawn sword into its scabbard.

"The fortune of war has made me your prisoner," he said proudly; "I am an officer and a gentleman, and I demand proper treatment."

"You Britishers never were backward about demandin'," snorted Barnabas.

"Fall to the rear now."

Though the bullets were flying thickly Major Langdon showed no inclination to move, he had suddenly seen and recognized Nathan, and there was a strange look of hatred on his deeply flushed face as he stared at the lad. Nathan returned the officer's piercing gaze for an instant, and then, hearing a couple of loud shouts to one side, he looked around in time to see his father toss up his arms and fall.

The retreating grenadiers were still being hotly pressed, both sides firing steadily, but half a dozen men of Captain Stanbury's company at once ran to him. He was lying on his back, deathly pale, and with blood oozing from the left breast of his coat.

He lifted himself on one elbow as Nathan reached him and sank tearfully down at his side.

"I am wounded, my boy--mortally wounded," he gasped, "but before I die I have a secret to tell you--a secret that will change your whole life.

Listen, while I have breath to speak."

CHAPTER VII

IN WHICH A b.u.t.tON BETRAYS ITS OWNER

"No, no, you will not die, father," cried Nathan. "It may not be a mortal wound. Where are you hit?" He looked wildly around, wringing his hands. "Can't something be done?" he added. "Bring water from the swamp, or send for a surgeon."

"I'm afraid it's no use, lad," said the lieutenant of the company. "If it was possible to help him--"

"No, I'm past human aid," groaned the wounded man. "My time has come, and I must answer the call. I'm shot in the breast, and my strength is nearly spent. Compose yourself, dear boy, and listen to me. Remember, it may soon be too late."

Nathan forced back the tears, and with a white, rigid face, he bent nearer his dying parent. "Speak, father," he replied, huskily. "I am listening."

Captain Stanbury nodded. "There are papers buried under the floor of my cabin up at Wyoming," he said in a voice that was broken with pain. "I have kept them all these years--for you. Get them, Nathan, and guard them carefully. You little know--how important they are."

"Yes, I will get them, father," promised Nathan.

"Barnabas will help you, lad. He is a trusty old friend--and neighbor."

"You kin count on me, Captain," declared Barnabas, as he wiped a tear from his eye with the palm of his h.o.r.n.y hand. "An' what are you doin'

here, Mister Redcoat?" he added sharply.

The last remark was addressed to Major Langdon. He had pushed into the group uninvited, and heard the American officer's words to his son. Now, as he peeped furtively at the wounded man from one side, his face was pale and bloodless under its bronzed skin, and in his black eyes was a strange and half-triumphant expression.

"Have you a prisoner there?" asked Captain Stanbury, catching a glimpse of the red uniform. "See that he is well treated, men. Oh, this pain!"

he added, grasping at his breast. "Nathan--don't forget--the papers--they contain the secret--and the proofs of--" His head dropped back and his eyes closed, the secret that had been on his lips still untold.

Was the brave officer living or dead? There was no time to tell. As Nathan clasped his father's hands in a pa.s.sion of grief, the straggling musketry-fire in front suddenly ceased, and back in full flight poured the Pennsylvania troops. On their right flank, sweeping along under the gathering shades of evening to cover the retreat of the British brigade, came a compact line of dragoons. A dozen voices yelled at Nathan, but he only shook his head.

"Take my father along," he cried, "and I will go."

Crack! crack! crack!--the rear ranks of the grenadiers had turned and were firing. The dragoons were galloping closer. A ball tore the lad's cap from his head, and he sprang to his feet, staring around him undecidedly. Then Barnabas Otter and Corporal Dubbs grasped him by each arm, and in spite of protest they dragged him rapidly along with the retreating regiment. In the rout Major Langdon was forgotten, and he seized the opportunity to drop into a clump of bushes, where he lay unseen until his own men came up.

The dragoons continued the pursuit almost to the edge of the woods, and there a hot fire from the rallied skirmishers, and a few sh.e.l.ls from Knox's guns on the hillside, drove them back with severe loss to the British lines.