es of
Trenton. Morgan, with six hundred men, was hurried forward to the
reinforcement of Maxwell, and, relieved from my duties at the ferry, I
was permitted to join his column.

I know not when, during all my army life, I was more deeply impressed
with the awful solemnity of war, than as I watched these volunteer
soldiers land on the Jersey shore, and tramp away through the dust. In
those ranks were sick and wounded scarcely able to keep up; occasionally
one would crawl aside but the moment he was able would join some new
body, and resume the march. There were many still pale and emaciated from
the horrors of the past winter, some in rags, others practically
barefooted; only occasionally would troops appear in what might be termed
uniform, although each separate command was distinguishable by some
insignia. It was a rough, motley concourse, yet, thanks to Baron de
Steuben, drilled into military compactness, and well officered. In column
after column, I could perceive the evidence of his work, the men standing
erect and soldierly, obeying their orders with veteran precision. This,
however, was most noticeable among those of the Continental Line, the men
who had fought on other fields, marched in other campaigns, and braved
the suffering at Valley Forge. The militia was little more than an
organized mob, indifferently armed, and loosely commanded. To me the
mounted men, and the artillery, appeared most efficient, although I
appreciated to the full the sterling fighting qualities of the footmen.

They were animated by a stern purpose which yielded power. Such as these
were not to be trifled with. Others might scoff at their raggedness of
line, their carelessness of discipline, their nondescript garments, and
variety of equipment, but to one who had seen such in battle--who had
been with them at Trenton, Brandywine, and Germantown--they were warriors
not to be despised, stern, grim fighters, able to hold their own against
England's best drilled battalions. I watched them file past--Wayne's,
Varnum's, Scott's brigades, and Jackson's and Grayson's
regiments--marking the brown, dust-caked faces, the eager eyes, the
sturdy, tireless tread, the well oiled muskets. Boys, men, graybeards,
all alike exhibited in their faces the same expression. They were
anticipating battle against a hated foe, and counted hardship as nothing
compared with the joy of conflict. Every step brought them closer to the
grapple of arms--to that supreme