Lucy Foster Madison

“Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in beauty’s circle, proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marshaling in arms,—the day,
Battle’s magnificently-stern array!”

—Byron.

The cry echoed and reËchoed through the streets of Tom’s River:

“Every man to the blockhouse! The British and refugees are approaching!”

It seemed but an instant until the village was aroused. Candles flashed in the windows, and lanthorns gleamed in the streets as the people prepared for the foe. Every man and boy capable of bearing a musket hurried to the fort, while white-faced women snatched their little ones from their cots, and huddled together for mutual comfort and consolation.

Peggy and Sally had awakened at the first alarm. Often the former had been thankful for the Quaker teaching which enabled her to retain her self-control. She felt doubly grateful for it now in the midst of a confusion that was terrifying. Men shouted hoarsely as they ran through the town: sometimes repeating the orders of their captain, sometimes calling reassuringly to the women. The wailing and crying of the children, added to the screaming of the mothers, made a commotion that was frightful. The girls were pale, but they managed to retain composure.

“Is thee afraid, Peggy?” whispered Sally.

“Yes,” admitted Peggy squeezing her friend’s hand. “I am, Sally, but ’twill not help matters to give way to it.”

“Ye are brave girls,” commented Mrs. Ashley joining them. “Let us go down-stairs. ’Tis planned to have all of the women and children come here, as this is the largest house, and ’twill give comfort to be together. If some of us remain calm it will help to quiet the others. You can aid greatly in this.”

So the Quakeresses went down among the assembled women, and, by assisting to quiet the children, helped Mrs. Ashley, Nurse Johnson, and others to bring a sort of order out of the tumult. An hour went by; then another, yet there was no sign of the enemy, and the tension relaxed among the waiting, frightened women. A few whispered that it was a false alarm, and smiled hopefully. Some slept; others sat quietly by their slumbering children, or stood about the rooms in listening attitudes. All wore the tense expression of those who face a fearful danger. Slowly the time passed, until another hour had gone by. All at once the sound of hurrying feet was heard without, and Peggy and Sally ran out on the verandah to find the meaning of it. It proved to be a scouting party sent down the river road by Captain Johnson to intercept the foe should it approach from that direction.

“I feel better out here in the air; doesn’t thee, Sally?” asked Peggy after the men had passed.

“Yes; let’s stay for a while. There is naught more that can be done inside.”

For answer Peggy slipped her arm about Sally’s waist, and the two sat down on the steps of the porch. The house was near the bay, and the restless lapping of the waves smote their ears with rhythmic dismalness. A brisk southwest wind was singing through the pines, but after the tumult engendered by the alarm, the stillness seemed abnormal. The streets were deserted now, and the only sign of life came from the dim lanthorns of the blockhouse. Nothing was stirring save the waves, the wind, and the leaves of the forest. Slowly the gray dawn crept into the sky, and still the maidens sat on the steps, silently waiting and watching.

Then, so suddenly that it drew an involuntary scream from both of them, a rifle went bang among the trees in the direction of the fort. Another report rang out, followed almost instantly by twenty or more in a volley. In the imperfect light of the dawn a number of dark forms could be seen running toward the blockhouse.

“’Tis from the Court House Road,” exclaimed Sally rising quickly. “And oh, Peggy! Fairfax thought they would come the river way.”

“Yes,” said Peggy with despair in her voice. There seemed to be a great many of the attacking party, and she recalled Fairfax’s misgivings concerning the fewness of the garrison. “And he hath sent part of his force to meet them there. I fear! I fear!”

Had Peggy been aware of the full force of the attacking party she would have known that there were grounds for grave apprehension. This is what had happened: Forty loyalists, under command of Captain Evan Thomas, had embarked from New York on whaleboats manned by Lieutenant Blanchard, of the British navy, and eighty armed seamen. Landing at Coates’ Point, a place near the mouth of Tom’s River, they were there joined by a detachment of Monmouth County refugees under Richard Davenport. Securing a guide, the party had made a wide dÉtour through the woods, coming upon the blockhouse from the Court House Road instead of the river road, which was the logical one to use. The small force of the garrison was outnumbered several times over by their assailants, but of this fact both sides were ignorant for the time being. All these particulars Peggy, of course, did not know. She only knew that the fort was being stormed; that the numbers of the enemy seemed multitudinous, and that the noise was deafening.

By this time the women were up; either out on the verandah, or at the windows of the upper floors of the dwelling straining their eyes eagerly toward the blockhouse. Firelocks and muskets were banging, and the surrounding woods swam in smoke. Volley after volley swept the pines, then came the thundering report of the cannon. The smoke came driving toward the town into their faces, blinding and choking them. Again and again the cannon flashed and thundered. Again and again came the dense black pall of smoke. But so long as the fort stood the village was safe, and breathlessly the anxious women waited the issue, striving, when the smoke lifted, to catch glimpses of what was occurring.

For a considerable time the report of musketry and the cannonading was incessant. The assault on the part of the enemy was furious, and was met by the defenders with great firmness and gallantry. Suddenly the sound of the cannon ceased. The women gazed at each other in alarm. What did it mean? Had the garrison repulsed the foe, or was the ammunition exhausted? For a little longer the volleys from the muskets continued unabated, then these became fewer, until presently only a few scattering reports sounded. Soon the firing stopped altogether. The countenances of the women blanched. What was taking place behind those clouds of smoke?

As if in answer to the question, the smoke cleared. Through the whirling rifts they caught glimpses of the sky, the tree tops, and finally of the blockhouse itself. An awful cry arose from the women. The walls were partly down, and a terrific hand-to-hand struggle was taking place between friend and foe. There followed a few moments in which attackers and attacked were indistinguishable. Then, high above the clash of pike and bayonet, sounded the terrible command:

“No quarter! No quarter! No quarter!”

A dreadful moment succeeded when the air resounded with the screams of wounded and dying men, the agony of the conquered. The blockhouse had fallen.

A cry of anguish went up from the women. A cry so terrible, so heart-breaking in its bereavement that Peggy and Sally covered their ears to shut out the awfulness of its desolation. This was war in its most fearful aspect. War, civil war, that knows neither mercy nor compassion. War, the Juggernaut that rides to victory on a highway of women’s hearts, watered by women’s tears. O Liberty! thou art as the breath of life to man. Without thee he were a base, ignoble thing! We cannot set thy metes and bounds, for thou art thine own eternal law. Thou art the light by which man claims kinship with his Maker. And yet, at what price art thou bought? At what price! At what price!

The tragedy darkened.

A tiny tongue of flame darted up from one corner of the doomed fort. At a little distance another showed luridly. Presently the whole structure was a mass of flames. Trussed like fowls, the prisoners were taken to the oyster boats on the river, and thrown in unceremoniously. The barges and scows not wanted by the conquerors were scuttled and sunk, or fired and burned to the water. Then, with shouts of triumph, the yelling horde of British and refugees came toward the ill-fated village.

As though paralyzed with fear the terrified women waited their approach. Of what use to flee? All that made life dear was about them. That gone, what was left? And so they looked on in the numbness of despair while their houses were stripped and the torch applied. House after house burst into flame, and pitchy clouds of vapor obscured everything. Suddenly the women were galvanized into action as the enemy approached the house near which they stood. It was the only one remaining. As though animated by one impulse they turned and fled into the forest.

Peggy found herself running with the others. In all her short life she had never been so possessed by blind, unreasoning terror as she was at that moment. When at length tree and sky, and objects resumed their normal relation, she found that she and Sally were clinging to each other, and sobbing convulsively. And Sally was saying something. Peggy could not comprehend at first, but presently the words came to her clearly:

“We must go back, Peggy. We must go back.”

“Why?” whispered Peggy, her voice filled with the horror of the scenes she had witnessed.

“Because, because,” sobbed Sally, “there must be wounded. Oh, the poor, poor fellows!”

Peggy made a violent effort to collect herself.

“Yes,” she said. “Thee is right, Sally. We must go back.”

Soon they regained a degree of composure, and then they turned back. When again they came into the village, or rather the place where the village had been, the enemy had gone, but the destruction was complete. Not a dwelling stood, the salt works, the grist-mills, the lumber mills, even the little boats of the fishermen had been destroyed. Of that busy, lively, little town not a vestige remained. Shudderingly but with the resolution to be of service, if service should be necessary, the two girls made their way to the spot where the blockhouse had stood. As they drew near they saw the form of a woman moving among the bodies of the dead. She limped slightly, and they knew it was Nurse Johnson.

“Friend Nurse! Oh, Friend Nurse!” cried the girls running to her.

“He is not here,” said Nurse Johnson apathetically. “They carried away some prisoners; he must be among them.”

“Then he can be exchanged,” cried Peggy, a gleam of joy irradiating her countenance. “Oh, I’m glad, glad!”

Nurse Johnson smiled wanly.

“I shall know no peace until I find where he is,” she said. “I am glad that you are safe. Why came ye back from the woods? The British have just gone.”

“The wounded,” cried the maidens together. “We must care for them.”

“Only the dead lie here,” she told them with terrible composure. “Did ye not hear the order to spare none? There was no quarter given after the surrender. ’Tis that which makes me fearful for my son.”

With that she sat down upon the bank of the river, and bowed her head upon her hands. One by one the women stole back from the forest. Each went first to those still forms lying so quietly, searching for father, husband, son or brother among them; then silently sat down among the ashes, and bowed her head. The little children stifled the sobs that rose in their throats, awed by this voiceless grief, and crept softly to the sides of their mothers, hiding their faces against them. More than a hundred women and children were stripped of everything, and rendered homeless, widowed and orphaned by the attack.

As though unable to bear the sight of such sorrow, the sun hid his face behind a cloud, and the forest lay in shadow. The waters of the bay sobbed in their ebb and flow upon the sands, and the wind that sighed through the pines echoed the wail of the grief-stricken women:

“Desolate! Desolate! Desolate!”