But this was not all. The crafty British general had offered a pardon to all who would desert the American cause, and many men of property, aye! even members of Congress, recreant to honor and principle, pocketed their patriotism with the proclamation, and basely betrayed their country in the hour of her peril. Members of Congress did I say? Yes, those that had been members: and let me repeat their names, lest perchance they may have been forgotten in the age of sham power and speculation. Galloway and Allen deserted, and joined the enemies of freedom in the fall of 1776. Such was the state of things at this period. All was silence in the American camp. The spangled banner hung drooping over our head quarters, and the sentinel by the low door-way stood leaning in melancholy mood upon his rusty and flintless gun. The commander-in-chief held a council of war. At the close of it he gave his opinion—he had heard of the scattered cantonment of the British army. “Now,” said he striking his hand upon an order of battle, and pointing from the window of the little farm house toward the wild river, “now is the time to clip their wings.” It was a master-thought; the council of war concurred with their leader, and each member retired silently to prepare for immediate action. The regiments were mustered—the sentinels were called in—a hasty meal was devoured—the evening shut in with darkness and storm—the word was given—and we began our march. One party moved down, one remained stationary, and one passed up to a point above Trenton. I was with Washington. No one in the ranks knew where he was to go—all was mystery; until we wheeled down the steep bank of the Delaware. “Onward,” was the word. “Cross the river,” thundered along the line, and our freezing legions moved on. Who shall describe the pains and the perils of that terrible march? Who shall reward the noble spirits, who, trusting in their illustrious leader, moved onward, amid famine, nakedness, and the winter’s storm? Surely at this day a generous nation will not let the poor, old veteran die who has his scars—but no certificate—to testify to the glory of that night—better feed an imposter than starve a hero. But to my tale.—Upon a high bank Washington, and Knox, and a few staff officers, wrapped in scanty military cloaks, sat upon their shivering chargers, and awaited the progress of the broken line.