The next day--Sunday, the twenty-eighth of June, 1778--dawned with cloudless sky, hot, sultry, the warmest day of the year. Not a breath of air stirred the leaves, and in the tree branches above us birds sang gleefully. Before daybreak we, who had been permitted to sleep for a few hours, were aroused by the sentries, and, in the gray dawn, partook of a meagre breakfast. A fresh supply of ammunition was brought up and distributed among the men, and, before sunrise, we were in line, stripped for a hot day's work, eagerly awaiting orders. I can make no pretence at describing in any detail, or sequence, the memorable action at Monmouth Court House, but must content myself with depicting what little I saw upon the firing line of Maxwell's brigade. We advanced slowly eastward over a gently rolling country, diversified by small groves. In advance was a thin line of skirmishers, and to left and right were Dickinson's and Wayne's men, their muskets gleaming in the sunlight. Early the rumor crept about among us that Lee had come up during the night with fresh troops, and assumed command. Who led us was of but small consequence, however, as there was now no doubt in any mind but what battle was inevitable. Already to the south echoed a sound of firing where Morgan had uncovered a column of Dragoons. Then a courier from Dickinson dashed along our rear seeking Lee, scattering broadcast the welcome news that Knyphausen and his Hessians, the van of the British movement, were approaching. With a cheer of anticipation, the soldiers flung aside every article possible to discard, and pressed recklessly forward. Before we moved a mile my horse became so lame, I was obliged to dismount, and proceed on foot. Never have I experienced a hotter sun, or more sultry air. It was as though we were within a furnace; men struggled for breath, not a few dropped exhausted, the others straggling grimly forward, their faces streaked with dust and perspiration, their saturated clothing clinging to their bodies. Under these conditions rapid marching was impossible, yet by nine o'clock we had passed the Freehold Meeting House, and were halted in the protection of a considerable wood, the men dropping to the ground in the grateful shadow. Maxwell came along back of our line, his horse walking slowly, as the general mopped his streaming red face. He failed to recognize me among the others until I stepped out into the boiling sun, and spoke: "What is that firing to the right, General? Are the Jersey militia in action?" He drew up his horse with a jerk. "That you, Lawrence? Can't tell anybody in this shirt-sleeved brigade. What's become of your horse?" "Gave out yesterday, sir. Have been on foot ever since. Is it going to be a fight?" The grip of his hand tightened on the saddle pommel, his eyes following the irregular line of exhausted men.