V. THE FIRST CAMPAIGN
News of the Declaration of Independence was accompanied over the country by that of a brilliant success at the South. Early in June, the British, under Sir Peter Parker, Sir Henry Clinton, and Lord Cornwallis, prepared to capture Charleston, S. C. To oppose them there was practically nothing but a fort of palmetto logs built on Sullivan's Island in Charleston harbor by Colonel William Moultrie. On June 28, 1776, the British advanced to the attack, but were beaten off with heavy loss.
THE BOASTING OF SIR PETER PARKER
[June 28, 1776]
'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker came sailing in from the sea, With his serried ships-of-line a-port, and his ships-of-line a-lee; A little lead for a cure, he said, for these rebel sires and sons! And the folk on the Charleston roof-tops heard the roar of the shotted guns; They heard the roar of the guns off shore, but they marked, with a hopeful smile, The answering ire of a storm of fire from Sullivan's sandy isle.
'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who saw with the climbing noon Ruin and wreck on each blood-stained deck that day in the wane of June,-- The shivered spar and the shattered beam and the torn and toppling mast And the grimy gunners wounded sore, and the seamen falling fast; But from the stubborn fort ashore no sight of a single sign That the rebel sires and sons had quailed before his ships-of-the-line.
'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who saw the fall of the flag From the fortress wall; then rang his call:--They have lost their rebel rag! And the fifty guns of the Bristol flamed, and the volumed thunder rolled; 'Tis now, the haughty Admiral cried, we'll drive them out of their hold! But little he knew, and his British crew, how small was their vaunted power, For lo, to the rampart's crest there leaped the dauntless man of the hour!
'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who saw with a wild amaze This hero spring from the fortress height 'mid the hail and the fiery haze; Under the wall he strode, each step with the deadliest danger fraught, And up from the sand with a triumph hand the splintered staff he caught. Then, still unscathed by the iron rain, he clambered the parapet, And 'mid the burst of his comrades' cheers the flag on the bastion set.
'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who slunk through the night to sea, With his shattered ships-of-line a-port and his ships-of-line a-lee; Above there was wreck, and below was wreck, and the sense of loss and woe, For the sneered-at rebel sires and sons had proved them a direful foe; But War's dark blight on the land lay light, and they hailed with a joyful smile The stars of victory burning bright over Sullivan's sandy isle.
CLINTON SCOLLARD.
The British fleet remained in the neighborhood for three weeks to refit and then sailed away to New York to coöperate with Howe. Charleston was saved and for two years the Southern States were free from the invader.
A NEW WAR SONG BY SIR PETER PARKER
My lords, with your leave, An account I will give, Which deserves to be written in metre; How the rebels and I Have been pretty nigh, Faith, 'twas almost too nigh for Sir Peter!
De'il take 'em! their shot Came so swift and so hot, And the cowardly dogs stood so stiff, sirs, That I put ship about And was glad to get out, Or they would not have left me a skiff, sirs.
With much labor and toil Unto Sullivan's Isle, I came, swift as Falstaff, or Pistol; But the Yankees, od rat 'em-- I could not get at 'em, They so terribly maul'd my poor Bristol.
Behold, Clinton, by land, Did quietly stand, While I made a thundering clatter; But the channel was deep, So he only could peep, And not venture over the water.
Now, bold as a Turk, I proceeded to York, Where, with Clinton and Howe, you may find me: I've the wind in my tail, And am hoisting my sail, To leave Sullivan's Island behind me.
But, my lords, do not fear, For, before the next year, Although a small island should fret us, The continent, whole, We will take, by my soul, If the cowardly Yankees will let us.
The victory at Charleston was the last success which American arms were to achieve for many months. The British had decided to capture and hold the line of the Hudson in order to cut the colonies in two. Howe, with a trained army of twenty-five thousand men, prepared to attack New York, while, to oppose him, Washington had only eighteen thousand undisciplined levies. Half this force was concentrated at Brooklyn Heights, which was strongly fortified, and here, on August 27, 1776, Howe delivered his attack. Overwhelming superiority of numbers enabled the British to press back their opponents to their works on the heights. Not daring to storm, the British prepared to lay siege to this position. Washington had no way to withstand a siege, which must have resulted in the loss of his whole army, and after nightfall of August 29, he succeeded in ferrying the entire force, with their cannon, arms, ammunition, horses, and larder, over to the New York side.
THE MARYLAND BATTALION
[August 27, 1776]
Spruce Macaronis, and pretty to see, Tidy and dapper and gallant were we; Blooded fine gentlemen, proper and tall, Bold in a fox-hunt and gay at a ball; Prancing soldados, so martial and bluff, Billets for bullets, in scarlet and buff-- But our cockades were clasped with a mother's low prayer. And the sweethearts that braided the sword-knots were fair.
There was grummer of drums humming hoarse in the hills, And the bugles sang fanfaron down by the mills, By Flatbush the bagpipes were droning amain, And keen cracked the rifles in Martense's lane; For the Hessians were flecking the hedges with red, And the Grenadiers' tramp marked the roll of the dead.
Three to one, flank and rear, flashed the files of St. George, The fierce gleam of their steel as the glow of a forge. The brutal boom-boom of their swart cannoneers Was sweet music compared with the taunt of their cheers-- For the brunt of their onset, our crippled array, And the light of God's leading gone out in the fray!
Oh, the rout on the left and the tug on the right! The mad plunge of the charge and the wreck of the flight! When the cohorts of Grant held stout Stirling at strain, And the mongrels of Hesse went tearing the slain; When at Freeke's Mill the flumes and the sluices ran red, And the dead choked the dyke and the marsh choked the dead!
"Oh, Stirling, good Stirling! How long must we wait? Shall the shout of your trumpet unleash us too late? Have you never a dash for brave Mordecai Gist, With his heart in his throat, and his blade in his fist? Are we good for no more than to prance in a ball, When the drums beat the charge and the clarions call?"
Tralára! Tralára! Now praise we the Lord, For the clang of His call and the flash of His sword! Tralára! Tralára! Now forward to die; For the banner, hurrah! and for sweethearts, good-by! "Four hundred wild lads!" Maybe so. I'll be bound 'Twill be easy to count us, face up, on the ground. If we hold the road open, though Death take the toll, We'll be missed on parade when the States call the roll-- When the flags meet in peace and the guns are at rest, And fair Freedom is singing Sweet Home in the West.
JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.
On September 15, 1776, the British took possession of New York, and the American lines were withdrawn to the line of the Harlem River. On September 16 the British attempted to break through their centre at Harlem Heights. The attack was repulsed, and for nearly a month the lines remained where they had been formed.
HAARLEM HEIGHTS
Captain Stephen Brown of Knowlton's Connecticut Rangers tells of the affair of September 16, 1776.
They've turned at last! Good-by, King George, Despite your hireling band! The farmer boys have borne a brunt, The 'prentice lads will stand!
Though Peace may lag and Fortune flag, Our fight's as good as won; We've made them yield in open field! We've made the Redcoats run!
Our Rangers sallied forth at dawn With Knowlton at their head To rout the British pickets out And spend a little lead.
We gave them eight brisk rounds a-piece, And hurried, fighting, back; For, eighteen score, the Light Armed Corps Were keen upon our track.
Along the vale of Bloomingdale They pressed our scant array; They swarmed the crag and jeered our flag Across the Hollow Way.
Their skirmishers bawled "Hark, away!" Their buglers, from the wall, In braggart vaunt and bitter taunt Brayed out the hunting call!
Oh, sound of shame! It woke a flame In every sunburned face, And every soul was hot as coal To cleanse the foul disgrace.
And some that blenched on Brooklyn Heights And fled at Turtle Bay Fair wept for wrath, and thronged my path And clamored for the fray.
Our General came spurring!-- There rolled a signal drum.-- His eye was bright; he rose his height; He knew the time had come.
He gave the word to Knowlton To lead us on once more-- The pick of old Connecticut,-- And Leitch with Weedon's corps
Of proud Virginia Riflemen, Tall hunters of the deer,-- To round the boastful Briton's flank And take him in the rear.
We left the dell, we scaled the fell, And up the crest we sprang, When swift and sharp along the scarp A deadly volley rang;
And down went Leitch of Weedon's corps! Deep hurt, but gallant still; And down went Knowlton!--he that bore The sword of Bunker Hill.
I raised his head. But this he said, Death-wounded as he lay: "Lead on the fight! I hold it light If we but get the day!"
In open rank we struck their flank, And oh! the fight was hot! Up came the Hessian Yagers! Up came the kilted Scot!
Up came the men of Linsingen, Von Donop's Grenadiers! But soon we sped the vengeful lead A-whistling 'bout their ears!
They buckled front to Varnum's brunt; We crumpled up their right, And hurling back the crimson wrack We swept along the height.
The helmets of the Hessians Are tumbled in the wheat; The tartan of the Highlander Shall be his winding-sheet!
A mingled rout, we drove them out From orchard, field, and glen; In goodly case it seemed to chase Our hunters home again!
We flaunted in their faces The flag they thought to scorn, And left them with a loud "Hurrah!" To choke their bugle-horn!
Upon a ledge embattled Above the Hudson's shore We dug the grave for Knowlton And Leitch of Weedon's corps.
And though in plight of War's despite We yield this island throne, Upon that ledge we left a pledge That we shall claim our own!
ARTHUR GUITERMAN.
At this time occurred the first of the two most dramatic and moving tragedies of the Revolution. It was important that Washington should obtain detailed and accurate information as to the position and intentions of the British, and Nathan Hale, a captain in Knowlton's regiment, volunteered for the service, and passed into the British lines in disguise. He was captured and taken before Sir William Howe, to whom he frankly acknowledged his errand. Howe ordered him hanged next day.
NATHAN HALE
[September 22, 1776]
The breezes went steadily thro' the tall pines, A-saying "Oh! hu-ush!" a-saying "Oh! hu-ush!" As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse, For Hale in the bush; for Hale in the bush.
"Keep still!" said the thrush as she nestled her young, In a nest by the road; in a nest by the road. "For the tyrants are near, and with them appear What bodes us no good; what bodes us no good."
The brave captain heard it, and thought of his home, In a cot by the brook; in a cot by the brook. With mother and sister and memories dear, He so gayly forsook; he so gayly forsook.
Cooling shades of the night were coming apace, The tattoo had beat; the tattoo had beat. The noble one sprang from his dark lurking-place, To make his retreat; to make his retreat.
He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves, As he pass'd thro' the wood; as he pass'd thro' the wood; And silently gain'd his rude launch on the shore, As she play'd with the flood; as she play'd with the flood.
The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night, Had a murderous will; had a murderous will. They took him and bore him afar from the shore, To a hut on the hill; to a hut on the hill.
No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer, In that little stone cell; in that little stone cell. But he trusted in love, from his Father above. In his heart, all was well; in his heart, all was well.
An ominous owl with his solemn bass voice, Sat moaning hard by; sat moaning hard by. "The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice, For he must soon die; for he must soon die."
The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrain'd, The cruel gen'ral; the cruel gen'ral. His errand from camp, of the ends to be gain'd, And said that was all; and said that was all.
They took him and bound him and bore him away, Down the hill's grassy side; down the hill's grassy side. 'Twas there the base hirelings, in royal array, His cause did deride; his cause did deride.
Five minutes were given, short moments, no more, For him to repent; for him to repent. He pray'd for his mother, he ask'd not another, To Heaven he went; to Heaven he went.
The faith of a martyr, the tragedy show'd, As he trod the last stage; as he trod the last stage. And Britons will shudder at gallant Hale's blood, As his words do presage; as his words do presage.
"Thou pale king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, Go frighten the slave; go frighten the slave; Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe. No fears for the brave; no fears for the brave."
The execution took place shortly after sunrise, the scaffold being erected in an orchard near the present junction of Market Street and East Broadway. Hale's last words were the famous, "I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country."
NATHAN HALE
[September 22, 1776]
To drum-beat and heart-beat, A soldier marches by; There is color in his cheek, There is courage in his eye, Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat In a moment he must die.
By the starlight and moonlight, He seeks the Briton's camp; He hears the rustling flag And the armèd sentry's tramp; And the starlight and moonlight His silent wanderings lamp.
With slow tread and still tread, He scans the tented line; And he counts the battery guns, By the gaunt and shadowy pine; And his slow tread and still tread Gives no warning sign.
The dark wave, the plumed wave, It meets his eager glance; And it sparkles 'neath the stars, Like the glimmer of a lance-- A dark wave, a plumed wave, On an emerald expanse.
A sharp clang, a still clang, And terror in the sound! For the sentry, falcon-eyed, In the camp a spy hath found; With a sharp clang, a steel clang, The patriot is bound.
With calm brow, and steady brow, He listens to his doom; In his look there is no fear, Nor a shadow-trace of gloom; But with calm brow and steady brow, He robes him for the tomb.
In the long night, the still night, He kneels upon the sod; And the brutal guards withhold E'en the solemn word of God! In the long night, the still night, He walks where Christ hath trod.
'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn, He dies upon the tree; And he mourns that he can lose But one life for Liberty; And in the blue morn, the sunny morn, His spirit wings are free.
But his last words, his message-words, They burn, lest friendly eye Should read how proud and calm A patriot could die, With his last words, his dying words, A soldier's battle-cry.
From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf, From monument and urn, The sad of earth, the glad of heaven, His tragic fate shall learn; But on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf The name of HALE shall burn!
FRANCIS MILES FINCH.
Washington soon found himself unable to cope with Howe's superior force, retreated across New Jersey, and on December 8 reached the west bank of the Delaware River. The British came up the next day and took a position on the east bank, with their centre at Trenton. Never did America's future look darker than on that Christmas night of 1776.
THE BALLAD OF SWEET P
[December 25, 1776]
Mistress Penelope Penwick, she, Called by her father, "My Sweet P," Painted by Peale, she won renown In a clinging, short-waisted satin gown; A red rose touched by her finger-tips And a smile held back from her roguish lips.
Thus, William Penwick, the jolly wight, In clouds of smoke, night after night, Would tell a tale in delighted pride, To cronies, who came from far and wide; Always ending (with candle, he) "And this is the picture of my Sweet P!"
The tale? 'Twas how Sweet P did chance To give to the British a Christmas dance. Penwick's house past the outpost stood, Flanked by the ferry and banked by the wood. Hessian and British quartered there Swarmed through chamber and hall and stair.
Fires ablaze and candles alight, Soldier and officer feasted that night. The enemy? Safe, with a river between, Black and deadly and fierce and keen; A river of ice and a blinding storm!-- So they made them merry and kept them warm.
But while they mirth and roistering made, Up in her dormer window stayed Mistress Penelope Penwick apart, With fearful thought and sorrowful heart. Night by night had her candle's gleam Sent through the dark its hopeful beam.
But the nights they came and they passed again, With never a sign from her countrymen; For where beat the heart so brave, so bold, Which could baffle that river's bulwark cold? Penelope's eyes and her candle's light Were mocked by the storm that Christmas night.
But lo, full sudden a missile stung And shattered her casement pane and rung At her feet! 'Twas a word from the storm outside. She opened her dormer window wide. A wind-swept figure halted below-- The ferryman, old and bent and slow. Then a murmur rose upward--only one, Thrilling and powerful--"Washington!"
With jest and laughter and candles bright, 'Twas two by the stairway clock that night, When Penelope Penwick tripped her down, Dressed in a short-waisted satin gown, With a red rose (cut from her potted bush). There fell on the rollicking crowd a hush.
She stood in the soldiers' midst, I ween, The daintiest thing they e'er had seen! And swept their gaze with her eyes most sweet, And patted her little slippered feet. "'Tis Christmas night, sirs," quoth Sweet P, "I should like to dance! Will you dance with me?"
Oh, but they cheered; ran to and fro, And each for the honor bowed him low. With smiling charm and witching grace She chose him pranked with officer's lace And shining buttons and dangling sword; No doubt he strutted him proud as a lord!
Doffed with enmity, donned with glee,-- Oh, she was charming, that Sweet P! And when it was over, and blood aflame, Came an eager cry for "A game!" "A game!" "We'll play at forfeits," Penelope cried. "If one holdeth aught in his love and pride,
"Let each lay it down at my feet in turn, And a fine from me shall he straightway learn!" What held they all in their love and pride? Straight flew a hand unto every side; Each man had a sword and nothing more, And the swords they clanged in a heap on the floor.
Standing there, in her satin gown, With candlelight on her yellow crown, And at her feet a bank of steel (I'll wager that look was caught by Peale!) Penelope held her rose on high-- "I fine each one for a leaf to try!"
She plucked the petals and blew them out, A rain of red they fluttered about. Over the floor and through the air Rushed the officers here and there; When lo! a cry! The door burst in! "The enemy!" Tumult, terror, and din!
Flew a hand unto every side,-- Swords?--Penelope, arms thrown wide Leapt that heap of steel before; Swords behind her upon the floor; Facing her countrymen staunch and bold, Who dared the river of death and cold, Who swept them down on a rollicking horde, And found they never a man with sword!
And so it happened (but not by chance), In '76 there was given a dance By a witch with a rose and a satin gown (Painted in Philadelphia town), Mistress Penelope Penwick, she, Called by her father, "My Sweet P."
VIRGINIA WOODWARD CLOUD.
The British soldiers, thinking the war virtually ended, had grown careless, and Howe and Cornwallis had returned to New York to celebrate Christmas. It was at this juncture that Washington decided to attack. More than ten hours were consumed in getting across the river, which was blocked with ice. At daybreak on the 26th, Washington entered Trenton, and surprised the enemy.
ACROSS THE DELAWARE
The winter night is cold and drear, Along the river's sullen flow; The cruel frost is camping here-- The air has living blades of snow. Look! pushing from the icy strand, With ensigns freezing in the air, There sails a small but mighty band, Across the dang'rous Delaware.
Oh, wherefore, soldiers, would you fight The bayonets of a winter storm? In truth it were a better night For blazing fire and blankets warm! We seek to trap a foreign foe, Who fill themselves with stolen fare; We carry freedom as we go Across the storm-swept Delaware!
The night is full of lusty cheer Within the Hessians' merry camp; And faint and fainter on the ear Doth fall the heedless sentry's tramp. O hirelings, this new nation's rage Is something 'tis not well to dare; You are not fitted to engage These men from o'er the Delaware!
A rush--a shout--a clarion call, Salute the early morning's gray: Now, roused invaders, yield or fall: The refuge-land has won the day! Soon shall the glorious news be hurled Wherever men have wrongs to bear; For freedom's torch illumes the world, And God has crossed the Delaware!
WILL CARLETON.
The surprise was complete. Eighteen of the enemy were killed and over a thousand made prisoners, while the American loss was only four. The remainder of the enemy retreated in disorder to Princeton, leaving their sick and wounded, and all their heavy arms and baggage behind them.
THE BATTLE OF TRENTON
On Christmas-day in seventy-six, Our ragged troops, with bayonets fixed, For Trenton marched away. The Delaware see! the boats below! The light obscured by hail and snow! But no signs of dismay.
Our object was the Hessian band, That dared invade fair freedom's land, And quarter in that place. Great Washington he led us on, Whose streaming flag, in storm or sun, Had never known disgrace.
In silent march we passed the night, Each soldier panting for the fight, Though quite benumbed with frost. Greene on the left at six began, The right was led by Sullivan Who ne'er a moment lost.
Their pickets stormed, the alarm was spread, That rebels risen from the dead Were marching into town. Some scampered here, some scampered there, And some for action did prepare; But soon their arms laid down.
Twelve hundred servile miscreants, With all their colors, guns, and tents, Were trophies of the day. The frolic o'er, the bright canteen, In centre, front, and rear was seen Driving fatigue away.
Now, brothers of the patriot bands, Let's sing deliverance from the hands Of arbitrary sway. And as our life is but a span, Let's touch the tankard while we can, In memory of that day.
At Princeton Cornwallis joined them, and on January 2, 1777, advanced against Trenton at the head of eight thousand men. By the time he reached there, Washington had withdrawn his whole force beyond a little stream called the Assunpink, where he repelled two British assaults. That night, he marched toward Princeton, routed a British detachment of two thousand, and took up a strong position on the heights at Morristown.
TRENTON AND PRINCETON
[December 26, 1776--January 3, 1777]
On December, the sixth And the twentieth day, Our troops attacked the Hessians, And show'd them gallant play.
Our roaring cannon taught them Our valor for to know; We fought like brave Americans Against a haughty foe.
The chiefs were kill'd or taken, The rest were put to flight, And some arrived at Princeton, Half-fainting with affright.
The third of January, The morning being clear, Our troops attack'd the regulars, At Princeton, we do hear.
About a mile from Princeton, The battle is begun, And many a haughty Briton fell Before the fight was done.
And what our gallant troops have done We'll let the British know; We fought like brave Americans Against a haughty foe.
The British, struck with terror, And frighted, ran away: They ran across the country Like men in deep dismay,
Crying to every one they met, "Oh! hide us! hide us! do! The rebels will devour us, So hotly they pursue."
Oh, base, ungenerous Britons! To call us by that name; We're fighting for our liberty, Our just and lawful claim.
We trust in Heaven's protection, Nor fear to win the day; When time shall come we'll crown our deeds With many a loud huzza!
Our foes are fled to Brunswick, Where they are close confined; Our men they are unanimous, In Freedom's cause combined.
Success to General Washington, And Gates and Putnam, too, Both officers and privates, Who liberty pursue.
ASSUNPINK AND PRINCETON
[January 3, 1777]
Glorious the day when in arms at Assunpink, And after at Princeton the Briton we met; Few in both armies--they'd skirmishes call them, Now hundreds of thousands in battle are set. But for the numbers engaged, let me tell you, Smart brushes they were, and two battles that told; There 'twas I first drew a bead on a foeman-- I, a mere stripling, not twenty years old.
Tell it? Well, friends, that is just my intention; There's nothing a veteran hates and abhors More than a chance lost to tell his adventures, Or give you his story of battles and wars. Nor is it wonder old men are loquacious, And talk, if you listen, from sun unto sun; Youth has the power to be up and be doing, While age can but tell of the deeds it has done.
Ranged for a mile on the banks of Assunpink, There, southward of Trenton, one morning we lay, When, with his red-coats all marshalled to meet us, Cornwallis came fiercely at close of the day-- Driving some scouts who had gone out with Longstreet, From where they were crossing at Shabbaconk Run-- Trumpets loud blaring, drums beating, flags flying-- Three hours, by the clock, before setting of sun.
Two ways were left them by which to assail us, And neither was perfectly to their desire-- One was the bridge we controlled by our cannon, The other the ford that was under our fire. "Death upon one side, and Dismal on t' other," Said Sambo, our cook, as he gazed on our foes: Cheering and dauntless they marched to the battle, And, doubtful of choice, both the dangers they chose.
Down at the ford, it was said, that the water Was reddened with blood from the soldiers who fell: As for the bridge, when they tried it, their forces Were beaten with terrible slaughter as well. Grape-shot swept causeway, and pattered on water, And riddled their columns, that broke and gave way; Thrice they charged boldly, and thrice they retreated; Then darkness came down, and so ended the fray.
How did I get there? I came from our corn-mill At noon of the day when the battle begun, Bringing in flour to the troops under Proctor; 'Twas not very long ere that errand was done. Up to that time I had never enlisted, Though Jacob, my brother, had entered with Wayne; But the fight stirred me; I sent back the horses, And made up my mind with the rest to remain.
We camped on our side--the south--of Assunpink, While they bivouacked for the night upon theirs; Both posting sentries and building up watchfires, With those on both sides talking over affairs. "Washington's caught in a trap!" said Cornwallis, And smiled with a smile that was joyous and grim; "Fox! but I have him!"--the earl had mistaken; The fox, by the coming of daylight, had him.
Early that night, when the leaders held council, Both St. Clair and Reed said our action was clear; Useless to strike at the van of our foemen-- His force was too strong; we must fall on his rear. Washington thought so, and bade us replenish Our watchfires till nearly the dawn of the day; Setting some more to make feint of intrenching, While swiftly in darkness the rest moved away.
Marching by Sandtown, and Quaker Bridge crossing, We passed Stony Creek a full hour before dawn, Leaving there Mercer with one scant battalion Our foes to amuse, should they find we were gone; Then the main force pushed its way into Princeton, All ready to strike those who dreamed of no blow; Only a chance that we lost not our labor, And slipped through our fingers, unknowing, the foe.
Mawhood's brigade, never feeling its danger, Had started for Trenton at dawn of the day, Crossed Stony Creek, after we had gone over, When Mercer's weak force they beheld on its way; Turning contemptuously back to attack it, They drove it with ease in disorder ahead-- Firelocks alone were no match for their cannon-- A fight, and then flight, and brave Mercer lay dead.
Murdered, some said, while imploring for quarter-- A dastardly deed, if the thing had been true-- Cruel our foes, but in that thing we wronged them, And let us in all give the demon his due. Gallant Hugh Mercer fell sturdily fighting, So long as his right arm his sabre could wield, Stretching his enemies bleeding around him, And then, overpowered, fell prone on the field.
Hearing the firing, we turned and we met them, Our cannon replying to theirs with a will; Fiercely with grape and with canister swept them, And chased them in wrath from the brow of the hill. Racing and chasing it was into Princeton, Where, seeking the lore to be taught in that hall, Redcoats by scores entered college, but stayed not-- We rudely expelled them with powder and ball.
Only a skirmish, you see, though a sharp one-- It did not last over the fourth of an hour; But 'twas a battle that did us this service-- No more, from that day, had we fear of their power. Trenton revived us, Assunpink encouraged, But Princeton gave hope that we held to the last; Flood-tide had come on the black, sullen water And ebb-tide for ever and ever had passed.
Yes! 'twas the turn of the tide in our favor-- A turn of the tide to a haven that bore. Had Lord Cornwallis crossed over Assunpink That day we repelled him, our fighting were o'er. Had he o'ertaken us ere we smote Mawhood, All torn as we were, it seems certain to me, I would not chatter to you about battles, And you and your children would not have been free.
THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.
"Thus in a brief campaign of three weeks, Washington had rallied the fragments of a defeated and broken army, fought two successful battles, taken nearly two thousand prisoners, and recovered the state of New Jersey."
SEVENTY-SIX
What heroes from the woodland sprung, When, through the fresh-awakened land, The thrilling cry of freedom rung And to the work of warfare strung The yeoman's iron hand!
Hills flung the cry to hills around, And ocean-mart replied to mart, And streams, whose springs were yet unfound, Pealed far away the startling sound Into the forest's heart.
Then marched the brave from rocky steep, From mountain-river swift and cold; The borders of the stormy deep, The vales where gathered waters sleep, Sent up the strong and bold,--
As if the very earth again Grew quick with God's creating breath, And, from the sods of grove and glen, Rose ranks of lion-hearted men To battle to the death.
The wife, whose babe first smiled that day The fair fond bride of yestereve, And aged sire and matron gray, Saw the loved warriors haste away, And deemed it sin to grieve.
Already had the strife begun; Already blood, on Concord's plain, Along the springing grass had run, And blood had flowed at Lexington, Like brooks of April rain.
That death-stain on the vernal sward Hallowed to freedom all the shore; In fragments fell the yoke abhorred-- The footstep of a foreign lord Profaned the soil no more.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
The question of a national flag, which had been under consideration for a long time, was now finally settled. There is a tradition that in June, 1776, General Washington and a committee of Congress had called upon Mrs. John Ross, of Philadelphia, and requested her to make a flag after a design which Washington furnished, which she did, producing the first "stars and stripes."
BETSY'S BATTLE FLAG
From dusk till dawn the livelong night She kept the tallow dips alight, And fast her nimble fingers flew To sew the stars upon the blue. With weary eyes and aching head She stitched the stripes of white and red, And when the day came up the stair Complete across a carven chair Hung Betsy's battle flag.
Like shadows in the evening gray The Continentals filed away, With broken boots and ragged coats, But hoarse defiance in their throats; They bore the marks of want and cold, And some were lame and some were old, And some with wounds untended bled, But floating bravely overhead Was Betsy's battle flag.
When fell the battle's leaden rain, The soldier hushed his moans of pain And raised his dying head to see King George's troopers turn and flee. Their charging column reeled and broke, And vanished in the rolling smoke, Before the glory of the stars, The snowy stripes, and scarlet bars Of Betsy's battle flag.
The simple stone of Betsy Ross Is covered now with mold and moss, But still her deathless banner flies, And keeps the color of the skies. A nation thrills, a nation bleeds, A nation follows where it leads, And every man is proud to yield His life upon a crimson field For Betsy's battle flag!
MINNA IRVING.
It was not, however, until Saturday, June 14, 1777, that a flag was formally adopted by Congress. On that day, Congress "Resolved, That the flag of the thirteen United States be thirteen stripes alternate red and white; that the union be thirteen stars, white in a blue field, representing a new constellation." Save for the addition of a star for each new state admitted to the Union, this is the flag of the United States to-day.
THE AMERICAN FLAG
I
When Freedom from her mountain height Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there; She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure, celestial white With streakings of the morning light; Then from his mansion in the sun She called her eagle bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land.
II
Majestic monarch of the cloud! Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, And see the lightning lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven-- Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle-stroke, And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers of victory!
III
Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high, When speaks the signal trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on; Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, Each soldier eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn, And, as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud And gory sabres rise and fall, Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall; Then shall thy meteor-glances glow, And cowering foes shall sink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death.
IV
Flag of the seas! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye.
V
Flag of the free heart's hope and home, By angel hands to valor given; The stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.
Chapter VI
"THE FATE OF SIR JACK BRAG"
Defeated in Jersey, the English turned with increased vigor to the task of securing the line of the Hudson. An army under General Burgoyne, starting from Canada, was to march down the Hudson to Albany; a second, under Colonel Saint Leger, was to descend the Mohawk valley and unite with Burgoyne; while a third, under Sir William Howe, was to ascend the river to Albany, thus completing the conquest of New York. Burgoyne began his advance early in June with an army of eight thousand men; but soon ran short of supplies, and finally, on August 13, detached an expedition to the little village of Bennington, where the Americans had collected horses and stores. Word of its approach was sent forward and Colonel John Stark prepared to give it a warm reception.
THE RIFLEMAN'S SONG AT BENNINGTON
Why come ye hither, stranger? Your mind what madness fills? In our valleys there is danger, And danger on our hills! Hear ye not the singing Of the bugle, wild and free? Full soon ye'll know the ringing Of the rifle from the tree! The rifle, the sharp rifle! In our hands it is no trifle!
Ye ride a goodly steed; He may know another master: Ye forward come with speed, But ye'll learn to back much faster, When ye meet our mountain boys And their leader, Johnny Stark! Lads who make but little noise, But who always hit the mark With the rifle, the true rifle! In their hands will prove no trifle!
Had ye no graves at home Across the briny water, That hither ye must come, Like bullocks to the slaughter? If we the work must do, Why, the sooner 'tis begun, If flint and trigger hold but true, The quicker 'twill be done By the rifle, the good rifle! In our hands it is no trifle!
Within a day, eight hundred yeomen were marching under Stark's orders. He was joined by a regiment under Colonel Seth Warner, and on August 15, 1777, in the midst of a drenching rain, set out to meet the enemy.
THE MARCHING SONG OF STARK'S MEN
[August 15, 1777]
March! March! March! from sunrise till it's dark, And let no man straggle on the way! March! March! March! as we follow old John Stark, For the old man needs us all to-day.
Load! Load! Load! Three buckshot and a ball, With a hymn-tune for a wad to make them stay! But let no man dare to fire till he gives the word to all, Let no man let the buckshot go astray.
Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire all along the line, When we meet those bloody Hessians in array! They shall have every grain from this powder-horn of mine, Unless the cowards turn and run away.
Home! Home! Home! When the fight is fought and won, To the home where the women watch and pray! To tell them how John Stark finished what he had begun, And to hear them thank our God for the day.
EDWARD EVERETT HALE.
Stark found Baum and his Hessians about six miles distant, and the latter hastily took up a strong position on some rising ground, and began to throw up intrenchments. Stark laid his plans to storm this position on the morrow. During the night, a company of Berkshire militia arrived, and with them the warlike parson of Pittsfield, Thomas Allen.
PARSON ALLEN'S RIDE
[August 15, 1777]
The "Catamount Tavern" is lively to-night. The boys of Vermont and New Hampshire are here, Assembled and grouped in the lingering light, To greet Parson Allen with shout and with cheer.
Over mountain and valley, from Pittsfield green, Through the driving rain of that August day, The "Flock" marched on with martial mien, And the Parson rode in his "one-hoss shay."
"Three cheers for old Berkshire!" the General said, As the boys of New England drew up face to face, "Baum bids us a breakfast to-morrow to spread, And the Parson is here to say us the 'grace.'"
"The lads who are with me have come here to fight, And we know of no grace," was the Parson's reply, "Save the name of Jehovah, our country and right, Which your own Ethan Allen pronounced at Fort Ti."
"To-morrow," said Stark, "there'll be fighting to do, If you think you can wait for the morning light, And, Parson, I'll conquer the British with you, Or Molly Stark sleeps a widow at night."
What the Parson dreamed in that Bennington camp, Neither Yankee nor Prophet would dare to guess; A vision, perhaps, of the King David stamp, With a mixture of Cromwell and good Queen Bess.
But we know the result of that glorious day, And the victory won ere the night came down; How Warner charged in the bitter fray, With Rossiter, Hobart, and old John Brown:
And how in the lull of the three hours' fight, The Parson harangued the Tory line, As he stood on a stump, with his musket bright, And sprinkled his texts with the powder fine:--
The sword of the Lord is our battle-cry, A refuge sure in the hour of need, And freedom and faith can never die, Is article first of the Puritan creed.
"Perhaps the 'occasion' was rather rash," He remarked to his comrades after the rout, "For behind a bush I saw a flash, But I fired that way and put it out."
And many the sayings, eccentric and queer, Repeated and sung through the whole country side, And quoted in Berkshire for many a year, Of the Pittsfield march and the Parson's ride.
All honor to Stark and his resolute men, To the Green Mountain Boys all honor and praise, While with shout and with cheer we welcome again, The Parson who came in his one-horse chaise.
WALLACE BRUCE.
The next day, August 16, 1777, dawned clear and bright, and the morning was consumed in preparations for the attack. Stark managed to throw half his force on Baum's rear and flanks, and, early in the afternoon, assaulted the enemy on all sides. The Germans stood their ground and fought desperately, but they were soon thrown into disorder, and at the end of two hours were all either killed or captured.
THE BATTLE OF BENNINGTON
[August 16, 1777]
Up through a cloudy sky, the sun Was buffeting his way, On such a morn as ushers in A sultry August day. Hot was the air--and hotter yet Men's thoughts within them grew: They Britons, Hessians, Tories saw-- They saw their homesteads too.
They thought of all their country's wrongs, They thought of noble lives Pour'd out in battle with her foes, They thought upon their wives, Their children, and their aged sires, Their firesides, churches, God-- And these deep thoughts made hallow'd ground Each foot of soil they trod.
Their leader was a brave old man, A man of earnest will; His very presence was a host-- He'd fought at Bunker Hill. A living monument he stood Of stirring deeds of fame, Of deeds that shed a fadeless light On his own deathless name.
Of Charlestown's flames, of Warren's blood, His presence told the tale, It made each hero's heart beat high Though lip and cheek grew pale; It spoke of Princeton, Morristown, Told Trenton's thrilling story-- It lit futurity with hope, And on the past shed glory.
Who were those men--their leader who? Where stood they on that morn? The men were Berkshire yeomanry, Brave men as e'er were born,-- Who in the reaper's merry row Or warrior rank could stand Right worthy such a noble troop, John Stark led on the band.
Wollamsac wanders by the spot Where they that morning stood; Then roll'd the war-cloud o'er the stream, The waves were tinged with blood; And the near hills that dark cloud girt, And fires like lightning flash'd, And shrieks and groans, like howling blasts, Rose as the bayonets clash'd.
The night before, the Yankee host Came gathering from afar, And in each belted bosom glow'd The spirit of the war. As full of fight, through rainy storm, Night, cloudy, starless, dark, They came, and gathered as they came, Around the valiant Stark.
There was a Berkshire parson--he And all his flock were there, And like true churchmen militant The arm of flesh made bare. Out spake the Dominie and said, "For battle have we come These many times, and after this We mean to stay at home."
"If now we come in vain," said Stark, "What! will you go to-night To battle it with yonder troops, God send us morning light, And we will give you work enough: Let but the morning come, And if ye hear no voice of war Go back and stay at home."
The morning came--there stood the foe, Stark eyed them as they stood-- Few words he spake--'twas not a time For moralizing mood. "See there the enemy, my boys! Now strong in valor's might, Beat them, or Molly Stark will sleep In widowhood to-night."
Each soldier there had left at home A sweetheart, wife, or mother, A blooming sister, or, perchance, A fair-hair'd, blue-eyed brother. Each from a fireside came, and thoughts Those simple words awoke That nerved up every warrior's arm And guided every stroke.
Fireside and woman--mighty words! How wondrous is the spell They work upon the manly heart, Who knoweth not full well? And then the women of this land, That never land hath known A truer, prouder hearted race, Each Yankee boy must own.
Brief eloquence was Stark's--nor vain-- Scarce utter'd he the words, When burst the musket's rattling peal Out-leap'd the flashing swords; And when brave Stark in after time Told the proud tale of wonder, He said the battle din was one "Continual clap of thunder."
Two hours they strove--then victory crown'd The gallant Yankee boys. Nought but the memory of the dead Bedimm'd their glorious joys; Ay--there's the rub--the hour of strife, Though follow years of fame, Is still in mournful memory link'd With some death-hallow'd name.
The cypress with the laurel twines-- The pæan sounds a knell, The trophied column marks the spot Where friends and brothers fell. Fame's mantle a funereal pall Seems to the grief-dimm'd eye, For ever where the bravest fall The best beloved die.
THOMAS P. RODMAN.
Just at this moment, when the Americans, thinking the battle over, began to scatter to the plunder of the German camp, a relieving force of five hundred men, sent by Burgoyne, came upon the scene. Luckily, Seth Warner also arrived with fresh men at this juncture, charged furiously upon the British, and by nightfall had killed or captured the entire column, with the exception of six men, who succeeded in reaching the British camp.
BENNINGTON
[August 16, 1777]
A cycle was closed and rounded, A continent lost and won, When Stark and his men went over The earthworks at Bennington.
Slowly down from the northward, Billowing fold on fold, Whelming the land and crushing, The glimmering glacier rolled.
Down from the broad St. Lawrence, Bright with its thousand isles, Through the Canadian woodlands, Sweet with the summer smiles,
On over field and fastness, Village and vantage coigne, Rolled the resistless legions Led by the bold Burgoyne.
Roared the craggy ledges Looming o'er Lake Champlain; Red with the blaze of navies Quivered the land-locked main;
Soared the Vancour eagle, Screaming, across the sun; Deep dived the loon in terror Under Lake Horicon.
Panther and hart together Fled to the wilds afar, From the flash and the crash of the cannon And the rush of the southward war.
But at last by the lordly river The trampling giant swayed, And his massive arm swung eastward Like a blindly-plunging blade.
New England felt her bosom Menaced with deadly blow, And her minute-men sprang up again And flew to bar the foe.
But Stark in his Hampshire valley Watched like a glowering bear, That hears the cry go sweeping by Yet stirs not from his lair;
For on his daring spirit A wrath lay like a spell,-- The wrath of one rewarded ill For a great work wrought right well.
Neighbor and friend and brother Flocked to his side in vain,-- "What, can it be that they long for me To ruin their cause again?
"Surely the northern lights are bright. Surely the South lies still. Would they have more?--Lo, I left my sword On the crest of Bunker Hill."
But at last from his own New Hampshire An urgent summons came, That stirred his heart like the voice of God From Sinai's walls of flame.
He bowed his head, and he rose aloft; Again he grasped the brand,-- "For the cause of man and my native State, Not for an ingrate land!"
Through the mist-veil faintly struggling, The rays of the setting sun Reddened the leafy village Of white-walled Bennington.
Then out of the dismal weather Came many a sound of war,-- The straggling shots and the volleys And the cries, now near now far.
For forms half seen were chasing The phantom forms that fled; And ghostly figures grappled And spectres fought and bled;
Till the mist on a sudden settled And they saw before them fair, Over a hill to the westward, An island in the air.
There were tree-trunks and waving branches, And greensward and flowers below; It rose in a dome of verdure From the mist-waves' watery flow.
A flag from its summit floated And a circling earthwork grew, As the arms of the swarming soldiers At their toil unwonted flew.
"Aha!" cried the Yankee leader, "So the panther has turned at bay With his claws of steel and his breath of fire Behind that wall of clay!
"Our steel is in muscle and sinew. But I know,"--and his voice rang free,-- "Right well I know we shall strike a blow That the world will leap to see."
I stood by a blazing city Till the fires had died away, Save a flickering gleam in the ruins And a fitful gleam on the bay.
But a swarthy cove by the water Blue-bristled from point to base, With the breath of demons, bursting Through the crust of their prison-place;
And another beside it flaunted A thousand rags of red, Like the Plague King's dancing banners On a mound of the swollen dead.
Twin brothers of flame and evil, In their quivering living light, They ruled with a frightful beauty The desolate waste of night.
Thus did the battle mountain Blazon with flashes dire; The leaguered crest responded In a coronal of fire.
The tough old fowling-pieces In huddling tumult rang. Louder the muskets' roaring! Shriller the rifles' clang!
Hour after hour the turmoil Gathered and swelled apace, Till the hill seemed a volcano Bursting in every place.
Then the lights grew faint and meagre, Though the hideous noise rolled on; And out of a bath of glory Uprose the noble sun.
It brightened the tossing banner; It yellowed the leafy crest; It smote on the serried weapons, On helmet and scarlet breast.
It drove on the mist below them Where Stark and his foremost stood, Flashing volley for volley Into the stubborn wood.
A thousand stalwart figures Sprang from the gulf profound, A thousand guns uplifted Went whirling round and round.
Like some barbarian onslaught On a lofty Roman hold; Like the upward rush of Titans On Olympian gods of old;
With a swirl of the wrangling torrents As they dash on a castle wall; With the flame-seas skyward surging At the mountain demon's call,
Heedless of friend and brother Stricken to earth below, The sons of New England bounded On the breastwork of the foe.
Each stalwart form on the ramparts Swaying his battered gun Seemed a vengeful giant, looming Against the rising sun.
The pond'rous clubs swept crashing Through the bayonets round their feet As a woodman's axe-edge crashes Through branches mailed in sleet,
Shattering head and shoulder, Splintering arm and thigh, Hurling the redcoats earthward Like bolts from an angry sky.
Faster each minute and faster The yeomen swarm over the wall, And narrower grows the circle And thicker the Britons fall;
Till Baum with his Hessian swordsmen Swift to the rescue flies, The frown of the Northland on their brows And the war-light in their eyes.
Back reeled the men of Berkshire, The mountaineers gave back, But Stark and his Hampshire yeomen Flung full across their track.
The stern Teutonic mother Well might she grandly eye The prowess dread of her war-swarms red As they racked the earth and sky.
Like rival wrestling athletes Grappled the East and West. With straining thews and staring eyes They swayed and strove for the royal prize, A continent's virgin breast.
Till at last as a strong man's wrenching Shatters a brittle vase, The lustier arms of the Westland Shattered the elder race.
Baum and his bravest cohorts Lay on the trampled sod, And Stark's strong cry rose clear and high, "Yield in the name of God!"
Then the sullen Hessians yielded, Girt by an iron ring, And down from the summit fluttered The flag of the British king.
Vainly the tardy Breyman May strive that height to gain; More work for the Hampshire war-clubs! More room for the Hessian slain!
The giant's arm is severed, The giant's blood flows free, And he staggers in the pathway That leads to the distant sea.
The Berkshire and Hampshire yeomen With the men of the Hudson join, And the gathering flood rolls over The host of the bold Burgoyne.
For a cycle was closed and rounded, A continent lost and won, When Stark and his men went over The earthworks at Bennington.
W. H. BABCOCK.
Saint Leger, meanwhile, had landed at Oswego and advanced against Fort Stanwix. General Nicholas Herkimer, commander of the militia of Tryon County, at the head of eight hundred men, started to the rescue. He met the enemy, on August 5, at Oriskany, and there followed the most obstinate and murderous battle of the Revolution. Both sides claimed the victory.
THE BATTLE OF ORISKANY
[August 6, 1777]
As men who fight for home and child and wife, As men oblivious of life In holy martyrdom, The yeomen of the valley fought that day, Throughout thy fierce and deadly fray,-- Blood-red Oriskany.
From rock and tree and clump of twisted brush The hissing gusts of battle rush,-- Hot-breathed and horrible! The roar, the smoke, like mist on stormy seas, Sweep through thy splintered trees,-- Hard-fought Oriskany.
Heroes are born in such a chosen hour; From common men they rise, and tower, Like thee, brave Herkimer! Who wounded, steedless, still beside the beech Cheered on thy men, with sword and speech, In grim Oriskany.
But ere the sun went toward the tardy night, The valley then beheld the light Of freedom's victory; And wooded Tryon snatched from British arms The empire of a million farms-- On bright Oriskany.
The guns of Stanwix thunder to the skies; The rescued wilderness replies; Forth dash the garrison! And routed Tories, with their savage aids, Sink reddening through the sullied shades-- From lost Oriskany.
CHARLES D. HELMER.
Saint Leger rallied his shaken columns and settled down to besiege the fort, which laughed at his summons to surrender. Soon afterwards, news of Oriskany and of the siege arrived at General Schuyler's headquarters at Stillwater, and Benedict Arnold set out at once for Fort Stanwix at the head of twelve hundred men. Such exaggerated reports of the size of his force were conveyed to Saint Leger that, on August 22, he raised the siege and retreated to Canada.
SAINT LEGER
[August, 1777]
From out of the North-land his leaguer he led, Saint Leger, Saint Leger; And the war-lust was strong in his heart as he sped; Their courage, he cried, _it shall die i' the throat When they mark the proud standards that over us float-- See rover and ranger, redskin and redcoat_! Saint Leger, Saint Leger.
He hurried by water, he scurried by land, Saint Leger, Saint Leger, Till closely he cordoned the patriot band: Surrender, he bade, or I tighten the net! Surrender? they mocked him, we laugh at your threat! By Heaven! he thundered, you'll live to regret Saint Leger, Saint Leger!
He mounted his mortars, he smote with his shell, Saint Leger, Saint Leger; Then fumed in a fury that futile they fell; But he counselled with rum till he chuckled, elate, As he sat in his tent-door, _Egad, we can wait, For famine is famous to open a gate_! Saint Leger, Saint Leger.
But lo! as he waited, was borne to his ear-- Saint Leger, Saint Leger-- A whisper of dread and a murmur of fear! _They come, and as leaves are their numbers enrolled! They come, and their onset may not be controlled, For 'tis Arnold who heads them, 'tis Arnold the bold_-- Saint Leger, Saint Leger!
Retreat! Was the word e'er more bitterly said, Saint Leger, Saint Leger, Than when to the North-land your leaguer you led? Alas, for Burgoyne in his peril and pain-- Who lists in the night for the tramp of that train! And, alas, for the boasting, the vaunting, the vain Saint Leger!
CLINTON SCOLLARD.
Saint Leger's retreat, joined to the disaster at Bennington, left Burgoyne in an exceedingly critical condition. The Americans hemmed him in, front and rear, and increased rapidly in numbers; he had received no news from Howe, who was supposed to be on his way up the Hudson to join him; and he found it more and more difficult to get provisions.
THE PROGRESS OF SIR JACK BRAG
Said Burgoyne to his men, as they passed in review, Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys! These rebels their course very quickly will rue, And fly as the leaves 'fore the autumn tempest flew, When him who is your leader they know, boys! They with men have now to deal, And we soon will make them feel-- Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys! That a loyal Briton's arm, and a loyal Briton's steel, Can put to flight a rebel, as quick as other foe, boys! Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo-o-o-o, boys!
As to Sa-ra-tog' he came, thinking how to jo the game, Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys! He began to see the grubs, in the branches of his fame, He began to have the trembles, lest a flash should be the flame For which he had agreed his perfume to forego, boys! No lack of skill, but fates, Shall make us yield to Gates, Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys! The devils may have leagued, as you know, with the States. But we never will be beat by any mortal foe, boys! Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo-o-o-o, boys!
The American army was stationed along the western bank of the Hudson; while Burgoyne's troops were encamped along the eastern bank. For nearly a month the armies remained in this position; then Burgoyne determined to advance to Albany, and on September 13, 1777, the British army crossed on a pontoon bridge to the west bank of the Hudson. Two desperate attempts were made to break through the American lines, but the British were routed by Benedict Arnold's superb and daring generalship, and forced to retreat to Saratoga.
ARNOLD AT STILLWATER
[October 7, 1777]
Ah, you mistake me, comrades, to think that my heart is steel! Cased in a cold endurance, nor pleasure nor pain to feel; Cold as I am in my manner, yet over these cheeks so seared Teardrops have fallen in torrents, thrice since my chin grew beard.
Thrice since my chin was bearded I suffered the tears to fall; Benedict Arnold, the traitor, he was the cause of them all! Once, when he carried Stillwater, proud of his valor, I cried; Then, with my rage at his treason--with pity when André died.
Benedict Arnold, the traitor, sank deep in the pit of shame, Bartered for vengeance his honor, blackened for profit his fame; Yet never a gallanter soldier, whatever his after crime, Fought on the red field of honor than he in his early time.
Ah, I remember Stillwater, as it were yesterday! Then first I shouldered a firelock, and set out the foemen to slay. The country was up all around us, racing and chasing Burgoyne, And I had gone out with my neighbors, Gates and his forces to join.
Marched we with Poor and with Learned, ready and eager to fight; There stood the foemen before us, cannon and men on the height; Onward we trod with no shouting, forbidden to fire till the word; As silent their long line of scarlet--not one of them whispered or stirred.
Suddenly, then, from among them smoke rose and spread on the breeze; Grapeshot flew over us sharply, cutting the limbs from the trees; "What! did you follow me, Armstrong? Pray, do you think it quite right, Leaving your duties out yonder, to risk your dear self in the fight?"
"General Gates sent his orders"--faltering the aide-de-camp spoke-- "You're to return, lest some rashness--" Fiercely the speech Arnold broke: "Rashness! Why, yes, tell the general the rashness he dreaded is done! Tell him his kinsfolk are beaten! tell him the battle is won!"
Oh, that a soldier so glorious, ever victorious in fight, Passed from a daylight of honor into the terrible night!-- Fell as the mighty archangel, ere the earth glowed in space, fell-- Fell from the patriot's heaven down to the loyalist's hell!
THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.
Burgoyne was hotly pursued, and when he reached the place where he had crossed the Hudson, found it occupied in force by the Americans. The British army, in short, was surrounded, and, after a week's indecision, Burgoyne sent a flag of truce to Gates, inquiring what terms of surrender would be accepted. Three days were spent in a discussion of terms, and on October 17, 1777, Burgoyne surrendered to the American forces.
THE FATE OF JOHN BURGOYNE
[October 17, 1777]
When Jack the King's commander Was going to his duty, Through all the crowd he smiled and bowed To every blooming beauty.
The city rung with feats he'd done In Portugal and Flanders, And all the town thought he'd be crowned The first of Alexanders.
To Hampton Court he first repairs To kiss great George's hand, sirs; Then to harangue on state affairs Before he left the land, sirs.
The "Lower House" sat mute as mouse To hear his grand oration; And "all the peers," with loudest cheers, Proclaimed him to the nation.
Then off he went to Canada, Next to Ticonderoga, And quitting those away he goes Straightway to Saratoga.
With great parade his march he made To gain his wished-for station, While far and wide his minions hied To spread his "Proclamation."
To such as stayed he offers made Of "pardon on submission; But savage bands should waste the lands Of all in opposition."
But ah, the cruel fates of war! This boasted son of Britain, When mounting his triumphal car, With sudden fear was smitten.
The sons of Freedom gathered round, His hostile bands confounded, And when they'd fain have turned their back They found themselves surrounded!
In vain they fought, in vain they fled; Their chief, humane and tender, To save the rest soon thought it best His forces to surrender.
Brave St. Clair, when he first retired, Knew what the fates portended; And Arnold and heroic Gates His conduct have defended.
Thus may America's brave sons With honor be rewarded, And be the fate of all her foes The same as here recorded.
SARATOGA SONG
[October 17, 1777]
Come unto me, ye heroes Whose hearts are true and bold, Who value more your honor Than others do their gold; Give ear unto my story, And I the truth will tell, Concerning many a soldier Who for his country fell.
Burgoyne, the King's commander, From Canada set sail; With full eight thousand regulars, He thought he could not fail; With Indians and Canadians, And his cursèd Tory crew, On board his fleet of shipping He up the Champlain flew.
Before Ticonderoga, The first day of July, Appeared his ships and army, And we did them espy. Their motions we observed, Full well both night and day, And our brave boys prepared To have a bloody fray.
Our garrison, they viewed them, And straight their troops did land; And when St. Clair, our chieftain, The fact did understand, That they the Mount Defiance Were bent to fortify, He found we must surrender, Or else prepare to die.
The fifth day of July, then, He ordered a retreat; And when next morn we started, Burgoyne thought we were beat. And closely he pursued us, Till when near Hubbardton, Our rear guards were defeated, He thought the country won.
And when 'twas told in Congress That we our forts had left, To Albany retreated, Of all the North bereft, Brave General Gates they sent us, Our fortunes to retrieve, And him, with shouts of gladness, The army did receive.
Where first the Mohawk's waters Do in the sunshine play, For Herkimer's brave soldiers Sellinger ambushed lay; And them he there defeated, But soon he had his due, And scared by Brooks and Arnold, He to the north withdrew.
To take the stores and cattle That we had gathered then, Burgoyne sent a detachment Of fifteen hundred men; By Baum they were commanded, To Bennington they went; To plunder and to murder Was fully their intent.
But little did they know then With whom they had to deal; It was not quite so easy Our stores and stocks to steal, Bold Stark would give them only A portion of his lead; With half his crew, ere sunset, Baum lay among the dead.
The nineteenth of September, The morning cool and clear, Brave Gates rode through our army, Each soldier's heart to cheer; "Burgoyne," he cried, "advances, But we will never fly; No--rather than surrender, We'll fight him till we die!"
The news was quickly brought us, The enemy was near, And all along our lines then, There was no sign of fear; It was above Stillwater We met at noon that day, And every one expected To see a bloody fray.
Six hours the battle lasted, Each heart as true as gold, The British fought like lions, And we like Yankees bold; The leaves with blood were crimson, And then did brave Gates cry, "'Tis diamond now cut diamond! We'll beat them, boys, or die."
The darkness soon approaching, It forced us to retreat Into our lines till morning, Which made them think us beat; But ere the sun was risen, They saw before their eyes Us ready to engage them, Which did them much surprise.
Of fighting they seem weary, Therefore to work they go Their thousand dead to bury, And breastworks up to throw; With grape and bombs intending Our army to destroy, Or from our works our forces By stratagem decoy.
The seventh day of October The British tried again, Shells from their cannon throwing, Which fell on us like rain; To drive us from our stations, That they might thus retreat; For now Burgoyne saw plainly He never could us beat.
But vain was his endeavor Our men to terrify; Though death was all around us, Not one of us would fly. But when an hour we'd fought them, And they began to yield, Along our lines the cry ran, "The next blow wins the field!"
Great God who guides their battles Whose cause is just and true, Inspired our bold commander The course he should pursue! He ordered Arnold forward, And Brooks to follow on; The enemy was routed! Our liberty was won!
Then, burning all their luggage, They fled with haste and fear, Burgoyne with all his forces, To Saratoga did steer; And Gates, our brave commander, Soon after him did hie, Resolving he would take them, Or in the effort die.
As we came nigh the village, We overtook the foe; They'd burned each house to ashes, Like all where'er they go. The seventeenth of October, They did capitulate, Burgoyne and his proud army Did we our prisoners make.
Now here's a health to Arnold, And our commander Gates, To Lincoln and to Washington, Whom every Tory hates; Likewise unto our Congress, God grant it long to reign; Our Country, Right, and Justice Forever to maintain.
Now finished is my story, My song is at an end; The freedom we're enjoying We're ready to defend; For while our cause is righteous, Heaven nerves the soldier's arm, And vain is their endeavor Who strive to do us harm.
VII. THE SECOND STAGE
News of the reverse at Saratoga was received in England with amazement and consternation, and its effect on the government was soon discernible. On February 17, 1778, Lord North astonished the House of Commons by rising in his place and moving that Parliament repeal the tea tax and other measures obnoxious to the Americans, that it renounce forever the right of raising a revenue in America, and that commissioners be sent to Congress, with full powers for negotiating a peace. So complete a political somersault has seldom been turned by an English minister.
LORD NORTH'S RECANTATION
[February 17, 1778]
When North first began With his taxation plan, The Colonies all to supplant, To Britain's true cause, And her liberty, laws, Oh, how did he scorn to recant.
Oh! how did he boast Of his pow'r and his host, Alternately swagger and cant; Of freedom so dear, Not a word would he hear, Nor believe he'd be forc'd to recant.
That freedom he swore They ne'er should have more, Their money to give and to grant; Whene'er they addressed, What disdain he express'd, Not thinking they'd make him recant.
He armies sent o'er To America's shore, New government there to transplant; But every campaign Prov'd his force to be vain, Yet still he refus'd to recant.
But with all their bombast, They were so beat at last, As to silence his impious rant; Who for want of success, Could at last do no less Than draw in his horns, and recant.
With his brother Burgoyne, He's forc'd now to join, And a treaty of peace for to want; Says he ne'er will fight, But will give up his right To taxation, and freely recant.
With the great General Howe, He'd be very glad now, He ne'er had engag'd in the jaunt; And ev'ry proud Scot In the devilish plot, With his Lordship, are forc'd to recant.
Old England, alas! They have brought to such pass, Too late are proposals extant; America's lost, Our glory at most Is only that--tyrants recant.
But these proposals came too late. America had just concluded with France a treaty by which she agreed, in consideration of armed support to be furnished by that power, never to entertain proposals of peace from Great Britain until her independence should be acknowledged. On March 13 this action on the part of France was communicated to the British government, and war against France was instantly declared.
A NEW BALLAD
[1778]
Rouse, Britons! at length, And put forth your strength Perfidious France to resist; Ten Frenchmen will fly, To shun a black eye, If an Englishman doubles his fist. Derry down, down, hey derry down.
But if they feel stout, Why let them turn out, With their maws stuff'd with frogs, soups, and jellies, Brave Hardy's sea thunder Shall strike them with wonder, And make the frogs leap in their bellies!
For their Dons and their ships We care not three skips Of a flea--and their threats turn into jest, O! We'll bang their bare ribs For the infamous fibs Cramm'd into their fine manifesto.
Our brethren so frantic Across the Atlantic, Who quit their old friends in a huff, In spite of their airs, Are at their last prayers, And of fighting have had quantum suff.
Then if powers at a distance Should offer assistance, Say boldly, "we want none, we thank ye," Old England's a match And more for old scratch, A Frenchman, a Spaniard, a Yankee! Derry down, down, hey derry down.
In spite of this change in the complexion of affairs abroad, the situation in America was still critical. Howe had abandoned Burgoyne to his fate, but he had not been inactive. He had set his heart upon the capture of Philadelphia, and in June, 1777, assembled his army at New Brunswick, but finding Washington strongly posted on the Heights of Middlebrook and not daring to attack him, was forced to retire to New York.
GENERAL HOWE'S LETTER
The substance of Sir W.'s last letter from New York, versified.
[June, 1777]
As to kidnap the Congress has long been my aim, I lately resolv'd to accomplish the same; And, that none, in the glory, might want his due share, All the troops were to Brunswick desir'd to repair. Derry down, down, hey derry down.
There I met them in person, and took the command, When I instantly told them the job upon hand; I did not detain them with long-winded stuff, But made a short speech, and each soldier look'd bluff.
With this omen elated, towards Quibbletown I led them, concluding the day was our own; For, till we went thither, the coast was quite clear,-- But Putnam and Washington, d--n them, were there!
I own I was stagger'd, to see with what skill The rogues were intrenched, on the brow of the hill; With a view to dismay them, I show'd my whole force, But they kept their position, and car'd not a curse.
There were then but two ways,--to retreat or attack, And to me it seem'd wisest, by far, to go back; For I thought, if I rashly got into a fray, There might both be the Devil and Piper to pay.
Then, to lose no more time, by parading in vain, I determin'd elsewhere to transfer the campaign; So just as we went, we return'd to this place, With no other diff'rence,--than mending our pace.
Where next we proceed, is not yet very clear, But, when we get there, be assur'd you shall hear; I'll settle that point, when I meet with my brother,-- Meanwhile, we're embarking for some place or other.
Having briefly, my lord, told you,--how the land lies, I hope there's enough--for a word to the wise; 'Tis a good horse, they say, that never will stumble,-- But, fighting or flying,--I'm your very humble.
Howe, finding the approach to the "rebel capital" by land cut off, determined to reach it by water, and about the middle of July put to sea with a fleet of two hundred and twenty-eight sail, carrying an army of eighteen thousand men. Not until the 25th of August did he succeed in landing this force at the head of Chesapeake Bay. Washington, though he had only eleven thousand men, decided to offer battle, rather than let Philadelphia be taken without a blow, and on September 11, 1777, the armies met at Brandywine Creek. The Americans were forced to retire, with a loss of about a thousand men, and the British entered Philadelphia two weeks later.
CARMEN BELLICOSUM
In their ragged regimentals Stood the old Continentals, Yielding not, When the grenadiers were lunging, And like hail fell the plunging Cannon-shot; When the files Of the isles, From the smoky night-encampment, bore the banner of the rampant Unicorn, And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of the drummer, Through the morn!
Then with eyes to the front all, And with guns horizontal, Stood our sires; And the balls whistled deadly, And in streams flashing redly Blazed the fires: As the roar Of the shore, Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres Of the plain; And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder, Cracking amain!
Now like smiths at their forges Worked the red St. George's Cannoneers; And the "villainous saltpetre" Rung a fierce, discordant metre Round their ears; As the swift Storm-drift, With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangor On our flanks: Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fire Through the ranks!
Then the bareheaded Colonel Galloped through the white infernal Powder-cloud; And his broadsword was swinging And his brazen throat was ringing Trumpet-loud. Then the blue Bullets flew, And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden Rifle-breath; And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder, Hurling Death.
GUY HUMPHREYS MCMASTER.
Washington retired to winter quarters at Valley Forge, where, through the neglect and mismanagement of Congress, the patriot army was so ill-provided with food, clothing, and shelter, and endured sufferings so intense that, from disease and desertion, it dwindled at times to less than two thousand effective men.
VALLEY FORGE
From "The Wagoner of the Alleghanies"
[1777-78]
O'er town and cottage, vale and height, Down came the Winter, fierce and white, And shuddering wildly, as distraught At horrors his own hand had wrought.
His child, the young Year, newly born, Cheerless, cowering, and affrighted, Wailed with a shivering voice forlorn, As on a frozen heath benighted. In vain the hearths were set aglow, In vain the evening lamps were lighted, To cheer the dreary realm of snow: Old Winter's brow would not be smoothed, Nor the young Year's wailing soothed.
How sad the wretch at morn or eve Compelled his starving home to leave, Who, plunged breast-deep from drift to drift, Toils slowly on from rift to rift, Still hearing in his aching ear The cry his fancy whispers near, Of little ones who weep for bread Within an ill-provided shed!
But wilder, fiercer, sadder still, Freezing the tear it caused to start, Was the inevitable chill Which pierced a nation's agued heart,-- A nation with its naked breast Against the frozen barriers prest, Heaving its tedious way and slow Through shifting gulfs and drifts of woe, Where every blast that whistled by Was bitter with its children's cry.
Such was the winter's awful sight For many a dreary day and night, What time our country's hope forlorn, Of every needed comfort shorn, Lay housed within a hurried tent, Where every keen blast found a rent, And oft the snow was seen to sift Along the floor its piling drift, Or, mocking the scant blankets' fold, Across the night-couch frequent rolled; Where every path by a soldier beat, Or every track where a sentinel stood, Still held the print of naked feet, And oft the crimson stains of blood; Where Famine held her spectral court, And joined by all her fierce allies: She ever loved a camp or fort Beleaguered by the wintry skies,-- But chiefly when Disease is by, To sink the frame and dim the eye, Until, with seeking forehead bent, In martial garments cold and damp, Pale Death patrols from tent to tent, To count the charnels of the camp.
Such was the winter that prevailed Within the crowded, frozen gorge; Such were the horrors that assailed The patriot band at Valley Forge.
It was a midnight storm of woes To clear the sky for Freedom's morn; And such must ever be the throes The hour when Liberty is born.
THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
Howe's army, meanwhile, spent the winter in Philadelphia; very pleasantly, for the most part, and yet not without various alarms, one of which was celebrated by Francis Hopkinson in some famous verses to the tune of "Yankee Doodle," published in the Pennsylvania Packet, March 4, 1778.
BRITISH VALOR DISPLAYED;
OR, THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS
[January 5, 1778]
Gallants attend, and hear a friend Trill forth harmonious ditty; Strange things I'll tell which late befel In Philadelphia city.
'Twas early day, as Poets say, Just when the sun was rising, A soldier stood on a log of wood, And saw a sight surprising.
As in a maze he stood to gaze (The truth can't be deny'd, Sir), He spy'd a score of kegs, or more, Come floating down the tide, Sir.
A sailor, too, in jerkin blue, This strange appearance viewing, First damn'd his eyes, in great surprise, Then said "Some mischief's brewing:
"These kegs now hold, the rebels bold, Packed up like pickl'd herring; And they're come down t' attack the town In this new way of ferry'ng."
The soldier flew, the sailor too, And, scar'd almost to death, Sir, Wore out their shoes to spread the news, And ran 'til out of breath, Sir.
Now up and down, throughout the town Most frantic scenes were acted; And some ran here, and others there, Like men almost distracted.
Some fire cry'd, which some deny'd, But said the earth had quaked; And girls and boys, with hideous noise, Ran thro' the streets half naked.
Sir William he, snug as a flea, Lay all this time a snoring; Nor dream'd of harm as he lay warm In bed with Mrs. Loring.
Now in a fright, he starts upright, Awaked by such a clatter; He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries, "For God's sake, what's the matter?"
At his bedside he then espy'd, Sir Erskine at command, Sir; Upon one foot he had one boot, And t' other in his hand, Sir.
"Arise, arise," Sir Erskine cries, "The rebels--more's the pity-- Without a boat, are all afloat, And rang'd before the city.
"The motley crew, in vessels new, With Satan for their guide, Sir, Pack'd up in bags, and wooden kegs, Come driving down the tide, Sir.
"Therefore prepare for bloody war; These kegs must all be routed; Or surely we dispis'd shall be, And British valor doubted."
The royal band now ready stand, All ranged in dread array, Sir, On every slip, on every ship, For to begin the fray, Sir.
The cannons roar from shore to shore; The small-arms loud did rattle; Since wars began I'm sure no man E'er saw so strange a battle.
The rebel dales, the rebel vales, With rebel trees surrounded, The distant woods, the hills and floods, With rebel echoes sounded.
The fish below swam to and fro, Attack'd from every quarter; Why, sure (thought they), the De'il's to pay 'Mong folks above the water.
The kegs, 'tis said, though strongly made Of rebel staves and hoops, Sir, Could not oppose their pow'rful foes, The conq'ering British troops, Sir.
From morn to night these men of might Display'd amazing courage; And when the sun was fairly down, Retired to sup their porridge.
A hundred men, with each a pen, Or more, upon my word, Sir, It is most true, would be too few, Their valor to record, Sir.
Such feats did they perform that day Against these wicked kegs, Sir, That years to come, if they get home, They'll make their boasts and brags, Sir.
FRANCIS HOPKINSON.
Another pleasant story of the same period, which also has its foundation in fact, is told by Mr. Carleton in "The Little Black-Eyed Rebel." The heroine's name was Mary Redmond, and she succeeded more than once in helping to smuggle through letters from soldiers in the Continental army to their wives in Philadelphia.
THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL[5]
A boy drove into the city, his wagon loaded down With food to feed the people of the British-governed town; And the little black-eyed rebel, so innocent and sly, Was watching for his coming from the corner of her eye.
His face looked broad and honest, his hands were brown and tough, The clothes he wore upon him were homespun, coarse, and rough; But one there was who watched him, who long time lingered nigh, And cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her eye.
He drove up to the market, he waited in the line; His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine; But long and long he waited, and no one came to buy, Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner of her eye.
"Now who will buy my apples?" he shouted long and loud; And "Who wants my potatoes?" he repeated to the crowd; But from all the people round him came no word of a reply, Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the corner of her eye.
For she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he wore that day, Were long letters from the husbands and the fathers far away, Who were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain or die; And a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye.
But the treasures--how to get them? crept the question through her mind, Since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might find: And she paused awhile and pondered, with a pretty little sigh; Then resolve crept through her features, and a shrewdness fired her eye.
So she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red; "May I have a dozen apples for a kiss?" she sweetly said: And the brown face flushed to scarlet; for the boy was somewhat shy, And he saw her laughing at him from the corner of her eye.
"You may have them all for nothing, and more, if you want," quoth he. "I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them," said she; And she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all were by, With a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of her eye.
Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her fingers white and small, And then whispered, "Quick! the letters! thrust them underneath my shawl! Carry back again this package, and be sure that you are spry!" And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of her eye.
Loud the motley crowd were laughing at the strange, ungirlish freak, And the boy was scared and panting, and so dashed he could not speak; And, "Miss, I have good apples," a bolder lad did cry; But she answered, "No, I thank you," from the corner of her eye.
With the news of loved ones absent to the dear friends they would greet, Searching them who hungered for them, swift she glided through the street, "There is nothing worth the doing that it does not pay to try," Thought the little black-eyed rebel, with a twinkle in her eye.
WILL CARLETON.
[5] From Poems for Young Americans, published by Harper & Bros.
Early in May, Sir Henry Clinton succeeded Howe in command of the British forces, and on June 18, 1778, evacuated Philadelphia, and started, with his whole army, for New York. Washington started in pursuit, and on Sunday, June 28, ordered General Charles Lee, in command of the advance guard, to fall upon the British left wing near Monmouth Court-House. Instead of pressing forward, Lee ordered his men to retire, and they began to fall into disorder. At that moment, Washington, summoned by Lafayette, galloped up, white with rage, ordered Lee to the rear, re-formed the troops, and drove the British back. Night put an end to the conflict, and Clinton managed to get away under cover of the darkness, leaving his wounded behind.
THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH
[June 28, 1778]
Whilst in peaceful quarters lying We indulge the glass till late, Far remote the thought of dying, Hear, my friends, the soldier's fate: From the summer's sun hot beaming, Where yon dust e'en clouds the skies, To the plains where heroes bleeding, Shouts and dying groans arise. Halt! halt! halt! form every rank here; Mark yon dust that climbs the sky, To the front close up the long rear, See! the enemy is nigh; Platoons march at proper distance, Cover close each rank and file, They will make a bold resistance, Here, my lads, is gallant toil.
Now all you from downy slumber Roused to the soft joys of love, Waked to pleasures without number, Peace and ease your bosoms prove: Round us roars Bellona's thunder, Ah! how close the iron storm, O'er the field wild stalks pale wonder, Pass the word there, form, lads, form. To the left display that column, Front, halt, dress, be bold and brave; Mark in air yon fiery volume, Who'd refuse a glorious grave; Ope your boxes, quick, be ready, See! our light-bobs gain the hill; Courage, boys, be firm and steady, Hence each care, each fear lie still.
Now the dismal cannon roaring Speaks loud terror to the soul, Grape shot wing'd with death fast pouring, Ether rings from pole to pole; See, the smoke, how black and dreary, Clouds sulphureous hide the sky, Wounded, bloody, fainting, weary, How their groans ascend on high! Firm, my lads; who breaks the line thus? Oh! can brave men ever yield, Glorious danger now combines us, None but cowards quit the field. To the rear each gun dismounted; Close the breach, and brisk advance. All your former acts recounted This day's merit shall enhance.
Now half-choked with dust and powder, Fiercely throbs each bursting vein: Hark! the din of arms grows louder, Ah! what heaps of heroes slain! See, from flank to flank wide flashing, How each volley rends the gloom; Hear the trumpet; ah! what clashing, Man and horse now meet their doom; Bravely done! each gallant soldier Well sustained this heavy fire; Alexander ne'er was bolder; Now by regiments retire. See, our second line moves on us, Ope your columns, give them way, Heaven perhaps may smile upon us, These may yet regain the day.
Now our second line engaging, Charging close, spreads carnage round, Fierce revenge and fury raging, Angry heroes bite the ground. The souls of brave men here expiring Call for vengeance e'en in death, Frowning still, the dead, the dying, Threaten with their latest breath. To the left obliquely flying, Oh! be ready, level well, Who could think of e'er retiring, See, my lads, those volleys tell. Ah! by heavens, our dragoons flying, How the squadrons fill the plain! Check them, boys, ye fear not dying, Sell your lives, nor fall in vain.
Now our left flank they are turning; Carnage is but just begun; Desperate now, 'tis useless mourning, Farewell, friends, adieu the sun! Fix'd to die, we scorn retreating, To the shock our breasts oppose, Hark! the shout, the signal beating, See, with bayonets they close: Front rank charge! the rear make ready! Forward, march--reserve your fire! Now present, fire brisk, be steady, March, march, see their lines retire! On the left, our light troops dashing, Now our dragoons charge the rear, Shout! huzza! what glorious slashing, They run, they run, hence banish fear!
Now the toil and danger's over, Dress alike the wounded brave, Hope again inspires the lover, Old and young forget the grave; Seize the canteen, poise it higher, Rest to each brave soul that fell! Death for this is ne'er the nigher, Welcome mirth, and fear farewell.
R. H.
THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH
[June 28, 1778]
Four-and-eighty years are o'er me; great-grandchildren sit before me; These my locks are white and scanty, and my limbs are weak and worn; Yet I've been where cannon roaring, firelocks rattling, blood outpouring, Stirred the souls of patriot soldiers, on the tide of battle borne; Where they told me I was bolder far than many a comrade older, Though a stripling at that fight for the right.
All that sultry day in summer beat his sullen march the drummer, Where the Briton strode the dusty road until the sun went down; Then on Monmouth plain encamping, tired and footsore with the tramping, Lay all wearily and drearily the forces of the crown, With their resting horses neighing and their evening bugles playing, And their sentries pacing slow to and fro.
Ere the day to night had shifted, camp was broken, knapsacks lifted, And in motion was the vanguard of our swift-retreating foes; Grim Knyphausen rode before his brutal Hessians, bloody Tories-- They were fit companions, truly, hirelings these and traitors those-- While the careless jest and laughter of the teamsters coming after Rang around each creaking wain of the train.
'Twas a quiet Sabbath morning; nature gave no sign of warning Of the struggle that would follow when we met the Briton's might; Of the horsemen fiercely spurring, of the bullets shrilly whirring, Of the bayonets brightly gleaming through the smoke that wrapped the fight; Of the cannon thunder-pealing, and the wounded wretches reeling, And the corses gory red of the dead.
Quiet nature had no prescience; but the Tories and the Hessians Heard the baying of the bugles that were hanging on their track; Heard the cries of eager ravens soaring high above the cravens; And they hurried, worn and worried, casting startled glances back, Leaving Clinton there to meet us, with his bull-dogs fierce to greet us, With the veterans of the crown, scarred and brown.
For the fight our souls were eager, and each Continental leaguer, As he gripped his firelock firmly, scarce could wait the word to fire; For his country rose such fervor, in his heart of hearts, to serve her, That it gladdened him and maddened him and kindled raging ire. Never panther from his fastness, through the forest's gloomy vastness, Coursed more grimly night and day for his prey.
I was in the main force posted; Lee, of whom his minions boasted, Was commander of the vanguard, and with him were Scott and Wayne. What they did I know not, cared not; in their march of shame I shared not; But it startled me to see them panic-stricken back again, At the black morass's border, all in headlong, fierce disorder, With the Briton plying steel at their heel.
Outward cool when combat waging, howsoever inward raging, Ne'er had Washington shown feeling when his forces fled the foe; But to-day his forehead lowered, and we shrank his wrath untoward, As on Lee his bitter speech was hurled in hissing tones and low: "Sir, what means this wild confusion? Is it cowardice or collusion? Is it treachery or fear brings you here?"
Lee grew crimson in his anger--rang his curses o'er the clangor, O'er the roaring din of battle, as he wrathfully replied; But his raging was unheeded; fastly on our chieftain speeded, Rallied quick the fleeing forces, stayed the dark, retreating tide; Then, on foaming steed returning, said to Lee, with wrath still burning, "Will you now strike a blow at the foe?"
At the words Lee drew up proudly, curled his lip and answered loudly; "Ay!" his voice rang out, "and will not be the first to leave the field;" And his word redeeming fairly, with a skill surpassed but rarely, Struck the Briton with such ardor that the scarlet column reeled; Then, again, but in good order, past the black morass's border, Brought his forces rent and torn, spent and worn.
As we turned on flanks and centre, in the path of death to enter, One of Knox's brass six-pounders lost its Irish cannoneer; And his wife who, 'mid the slaughter, had been bearing pails of water For the gun and for the gunner, o'er his body shed no tear. "Move the piece!"--but there they found her loading, firing that six-pounder, And she gayly, till we won, worked the gun.
Loud we cheered as Captain Molly waved the rammer; then a volley Pouring in upon the grenadiers, we sternly drove them back; Though like tigers fierce they fought us, to such zeal had Molly brought us That, though struck with heat, and thirsting, yet of drink we felt no lack: There she stood amid the clamor, busily handling sponge and rammer, While we swept with wrath condign on their line.
From our centre backward driven, with his forces rent and riven, Soon the foe re-formed in order, dressed again his shattered ranks; In a column firm advancing, from his bayonets hot rays glancing Showed in waving lines of brilliance as he fell upon our flanks, Charging bravely for his master: thus he met renewed disaster From the stronghold that we held back repelled.
Monckton, gallant, cool, and fearless, 'mid his bravest comrades peerless, Brought his grenadiers to action but to fall amid the slain; Everywhere their ruin found them; red destruction rained around them From the mouth of Oswald's cannon, from the musketry of Wayne; While our sturdy Continentals, in their dusty regimentals, Drove their plumed and scarlet force, man and horse.
Beamed the sunlight fierce and torrid o'er the raging battle horrid, Till, in faint exhaustion sinking, death was looked on as a boon; Heat, and not a drop of water--heat, that won the race of slaughter, Fewer far with bullets dying than beneath the sun of June; Only ceased the terrible firing, with the Briton slow retiring, As the sunbeams in the west sank to rest.
On our arms so heavily sleeping, careless watch our sentries keeping, Ready to renew the contest when the dawning day should show; Worn with toil and heat, in slumber soon were wrapt our greatest number, Seeking strength to rise again and fall upon the wearied foe; For we felt his power was broken! but what rage was ours outspoken When, on waking at the dawn, he had gone.
In the midnight still and sombre, while our force was wrapt in slumber, Clinton set his train in motion, sweeping fast to Sandy Hook; Safely from our blows he bore his mingled Britons, Hessians, Tories-- Bore away his wounded soldiers, but his useless dead forsook; Fleeing from a worse undoing, and too far for our pursuing: So we found the field our own, and alone.
How that stirring day comes o'er me! How those scenes arise before me! How I feel a youthful vigor for a moment fill my frame! Those who fought beside me seeing, from the dim past brought to being, By their hands I fain would clasp them--ah! each lives but in a name; But the freedom that they fought for, and the country grand they wrought for, Is their monument to-day, and for aye.
THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.
The most famous incident of the fight, next to Washington's encounter with Lee, is the exploit of a camp follower named Molly Pitcher or Molly McGuire. She was a sturdy, red-haired, freckle-faced Irishwoman, and during the battle was engaged in carrying water to her husband, who was a cannoneer. A bullet killed him at his post and Molly, seizing his rammer as it fell, sprang to take his place. She served the gun with skill and courage, and on the following morning, covered with dirt and blood, she was presented by General Greene to Washington, who conferred upon her a sergeant's commission.
MOLLY PITCHER
[June 28, 1778]
'Twas hurry and scurry at Monmouth town, For Lee was beating a wild retreat; The British were riding the Yankees down, And panic was pressing on flying feet.
Galloping down like a hurricane Washington rode with his sword swung high, Mighty as he of the Trojan plain Fired by a courage from the sky.
"Halt, and stand to your guns!" he cried. And a bombardier made swift reply. Wheeling his cannon into the tide, He fell 'neath the shot of a foeman nigh.
Molly Pitcher sprang to his side, Fired as she saw her husband do. Telling the king in his stubborn pride Women like men to their homes are true.
Washington rode from the bloody fray Up to the gun that a woman manned. "Molly Pitcher, you saved the day," He said, as he gave her a hero's hand.
He named her sergeant with manly praise, While her war-brown face was wet with tears-- A woman has ever a woman's ways, And the army was wild with cheers.
KATE BROWNLEE SHERWOOD.
MOLLY PITCHER
All day the great guns barked and roared; All day the big balls screeched and soared; All day, 'mid the sweating gunners grim, Who toiled in their smoke-shroud dense and dim, Sweet Molly labored with courage high, With steady hand and watchful eye, Till the day was ours, and the sinking sun Looked down on the field of Monmouth won, And Molly standing beside her gun.
Now, Molly, rest your weary arm! Safe, Molly, all is safe from harm. Now, woman, bow your aching head, And weep in sorrow o'er your dead!
Next day on that field so hardly won, Stately and calm stands Washington, And looks where our gallant Greene doth lead A figure clad in motley weed-- A soldier's cap and a soldier's coat Masking a woman's petticoat. He greets our Molly in kindly wise; He bids her raise her tearful eyes; And now he hails her before them all Comrade and soldier, whate'er befall, "And since she has played a man's full part, A man's reward for her loyal heart! And Sergeant Molly Pitcher's name Be writ henceforth on the shield of fame!"
Oh, Molly, with your eyes so blue! Oh, Molly, Molly, here's to you! Sweet honor's roll will aye be richer To hold the name of Molly Pitcher.
LAURA E. RICHARDS.
About the middle of July, a strong French fleet, commanded by Count D'Estaing, arrived off Sandy Hook, bringing with it M. Gérard, the first minister from France to the United States. It was found that the ships could not pass the bar at the mouth of New York harbor, and it was decided to attempt the capture of the British force which held Newport, R. I., but the expedition proved a failure, and the French sailed away to Boston to refit.
YANKEE DOODLE'S EXPEDITION TO RHODE ISLAND
[August, 1778]
From Lewis, Monsieur Gérard came, To Congress in this town, sir, They bow'd to him, and he to them, And then they all sat down, sir.
Begar, said Monsieur, one grand coup You shall bientôt behold, sir; This was believ'd as gospel true, And Jonathan felt bold, sir.
So Yankee Doodle did forget The sound of British drum, sir, How oft it made him quake and sweat, In spite of Yankee rum, sir.
He took his wallet on his back, His rifle on his shoulder, And veow'd Rhode Island to attack Before he was much older.
In dread array their tatter'd crew Advanc'd with colors spread, sir, Their fifes played Yankee doodle, doo, King Hancock at their head, sir.
What numbers bravely cross'd the seas, I cannot well determine, A swarm of rebels and of fleas, And every other vermin.
Their mighty hearts might shrink they tho't, For all flesh only grass is, A plenteous store they therefore bought Of whiskey and molasses.
They swore they'd make bold Pigot squeak, So did their good ally, sir, And take him pris'ner in a week, But that was all my eye, sir.
As Jonathan so much desir'd To shine in martial story, D'Estaing with politesse retir'd, To leave him all the glory.
He left him what was better yet, At least it was more use, sir, He left him for a quick retreat A very good excuse, sir.
To stay, unless he rul'd the sea, He thought would not be right, sir, And Continental troops, said he, On islands should not fight, sir.
Another cause with these combin'd To throw him in the dumps, sir, For Clinton's name alarmed his mind, And made him stir his stumps, sir.
Lord Howe came up, soon afterwards, with the British fleet, and made a pretence of blockading the French in Boston harbor, but prudently withdrew when he saw the French were ready to put to sea again. The latter abandoned all attempt to coöperate with the Americans and sailed away for the West Indies.
RUNNING THE BLOCKADE
[September, 1778]
When the French fleet lay In Massachusetts bay In that day
When the British squadron made Its impudent parade Of blockade;
All along and up and down The harbor of the town,-- The brave, proud town
That had fought with all its might Its bold, brave fight For the right,
To win its way alone And hold and rule its own, Such a groan
From the stanch hearts and stout Of the Yankees there went out: But to rout
The British lion then Were maddest folly, when One to ten
Their gallant allies lay, Scant of powder, day by day In the bay.
Chafing thus, impatient, sore, One day along the shore Slowly bore
A clipper schooner, worn And rough and forlorn, With its torn
Sails fluttering in the air: The British sailors stare At her there,
So cool and unafraid. "What! she's running the blockade, The jade!"
They all at once roar out, Then--"Damn the Yankee lout!" They shout.
Athwart her bows red hot They send a challenge shot; But not
An inch to right or left she veers, Straight on and on she steers, Nor hears
Challenge or shout, until Rings forth with British will A shrill
"Heave to!" Then sharp and short Question and quick retort Make British sport.
"What is it that you say,-- Where do I hail from pray, What is my cargo, eh?
"My cargo? I'll allow You can hear 'em crowin' now, At the bow.
"And I've long-faced gentry too, For passengers and crew, Just a few,
"To fatten up, you know, For home use, and a show Of garden sass and so.
"And from Taunton town I hail; Good Lord, it was a gale When I set sail!"
The British captain laught As he leaned there abaft: "'Tis a harmless craft,
"And a harmless fellow too, With his long-faced gentry crew; Let him through,"
He cried; and a gay "Heave ahead!" Sounded forth, and there sped Down the red
Sunset track, unafraid, Straight through the blockade, This jade
Of a harmless craft, Packed full to her draught, Fore and aft,
With powder and shot, One day when, red hot The British got
Their full share and more Of this cargo, they swore, With a roar,
At the trick she had played, This "damned Yankee jade" Who had run the blockade!
NORA PERRY.
The abortive expedition against Rhode Island practically ended the war at the north, and for a time the scene of activity was transferred to the frontier. The Indians had naturally allied themselves with the British at the beginning of the war, and early in September, 1777, attacked Fort Henry, near Wheeling, but were beaten off after a desperate fight, during which the garrison was saved by the famous exploit of Elizabeth Zane.
BETTY ZANE
[September, 1777]
Women are timid, cower and shrink At show of danger, some folk think; But men there are who for their lives Dare not so far asperse their wives. We let that pass--so much is clear, Though little perils they may fear, When greater perils men environ, Then women show a front of iron; And, gentle in their manner, they Do bold things in a quiet way, And so our wondering praise obtain, As on a time did Betty Zane.
A century since, out in the West, A block-house was by Girty pressed-- Girty, the renegade, the dread Of all that border, fiercely led Five hundred Wyandots, to gain Plunder and scalp-locks from the slain; And in this hold--Fort Henry then, But Wheeling now--twelve boys and men Guarded with watchful ward and care Women and prattling children there, Against their rude and savage foes, And Betty Zane was one of those.
There had been forty-two at first When Girty on the border burst; But most of those who meant to stay And keep the Wyandots at bay, Outside by savage wiles were lured, And ball and tomahawk endured, Till few were left the place to hold, And some were boys and some were old; But all could use the rifle well, And vainly from the Indians fell, On puncheon roof and timber wall, The fitful shower of leaden ball.
Now Betty's brothers and her sire Were with her in this ring of fire, And she was ready, in her way, To aid their labor day by day, In all a quiet maiden might. To mould the bullets for the fight, And, quick to note and so report, Watch every act outside the fort; Or, peering through the loopholes, see Each phase of savage strategy-- These were her tasks, and thus the maid The toil-worn garrison could aid.
Still, drearily the fight went on Until a week had nearly gone, When it was told--a whisper first, And then in loud alarm it burst-- Their powder scarce was growing; they Knew where a keg unopened lay Outside the fort at Zane's--what now? Their leader stood with anxious brow. It must be had at any cost, Or toil and fort and lives were lost. Some one must do that work of fear; What man of men would volunteer?
Two offered, and so earnest they, Neither his purpose would give way; And Shepherd, who commanded, dare Not pick or choose between the pair. But ere they settled on the one By whom the errand should be done, Young Betty interposed, and said, "Let me essay the task instead. Small matter 'twere if Betty Zane, A useless woman, should be slain; But death, if dealt on one of those, Gives too much vantage to our foes."
Her father smiled with pleasure grim-- Her pluck gave painful pride to him; And while her brothers clamored "No!" He uttered, "Boys, let Betty go! She'll do it at less risk than you; But keep her steady in your view, And be your rifles shields for her. If yonder foe make step or stir, Pick off each wretch who draws a bead, And so you'll serve her in her need. Now I recover from surprise, I think our Betty's purpose wise."
The gate was opened, on she sped; The foe, astonished, gazed, 'tis said, And wondered at her purpose, till She gained that log-hut by the hill. But when, in apron wrapped, the cask She backward bore, to close her task, The foemen saw her aim at last, And poured their fire upon her fast. Bullet on bullet near her fell, While rang the Indians' angry yell; But safely through that whirring rain, Powder in arms, came Betty Zane.
They filled their horns, both boys and men, And so began the fight again. Girty, who there so long had stayed, By this new feat of feet dismayed, Fired houses round and cattle slew, And moved away--the fray was through. But when the story round was told How they maintained the leaguered hold, It was agreed, though fame was due To all who in that fight were true, The highest meed of praise, 'twas plain, Fell to the share of Betty Zane.
A hundred years have passed since then; The savage never came again. Girty is dust; alike are dead Those who assailed and those bestead. Upon those half-cleared, rolling lands, A crowded city proudly stands; But of the many who reside By green Ohio's rushing tide, Not one has lineage prouder than (Be he or poor or rich) the man Who boasts that in his spotless strain Mingles the blood of Betty Zane.
THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.
Early in July, 1778, the Indians struck a blow at which the whole country stood aghast. The valley of Wyoming, in northeastern Pennsylvania, had, by its fertility, attracted many settlers. The position of the settlement was peculiarly exposed, and yet it had sent the best part of its militia to serve with Washington. This circumstance did not escape the eyes of the enemy, and on July 3, 1778, a force of twelve hundred Indians and Tories fell upon the settlement, routed the garrison, tortured the prisoners to death, and plundered and burned the houses. The settlers fled to the woods, where nearly a hundred women and children perished of fatigue and starvation.
THE WYOMING MASSACRE
[July 3, 1778]
Kind Heaven, assist the trembling muse, While she attempts to tell Of poor Wyoming's overthrow By savage sons of hell.
One hundred whites, in painted hue, Whom Butler there did lead, Supported by a barb'rous crew Of the fierce savage breed.
The last of June the siege began, And several days it held, While many a brave and valiant man Lay slaughtered on the field.
Our troops marched out from Forty Fort The third day of July, Three hundred strong, they marched along, The fate of war to try.
But oh! alas! three hundred men Is much too small a band To meet eight hundred men complete, And make a glorious stand.
Four miles they marchèd from the Fort Their enemy to meet, Too far indeed did Butler lead, To keep a safe retreat.
And now the fatal hour is come-- They bravely charge the foe, And they, with ire, returned the fire, Which prov'd our overthrow.
Some minutes they sustained the fire, But ere they were aware, They were encompassed all around, Which prov'd a fatal snare.
And then they did attempt to fly, But all was now in vain, Their little host--by far the most-- Was by those Indians slain.
And as they fly, for quarters cry; Oh hear! indulgent Heav'n! Hard to relate--their dreadful fate, No quarters must be given.
With bitter cries and mournful sighs, They seek some safe retreat, Run here and there, they know not where, Till awful death they meet.
Their piercing cries salute the skies-- Mercy is all their cry: "Our souls prepare God's grace to share, We instantly must die."
Some men yet found are flying round Sagacious to get clear; In vain to fly, their foes too nigh! They front the flank and rear.
And now the foe hath won the day, Methinks their words are these: "Ye cursed, rebel, Yankee race, Will this your Congress please?
"Your pardons crave, you them shall have, Behold them in our hands; We'll all agree to set you free, By dashing out your brains.
"And as for you, enlisted crew, We'll raise your honors higher: Pray turn your eye, where you must lie, In yonder burning fire."
Then naked in those flames they're cast, Too dreadful 'tis to tell, Where they must fry, and burn and die, While cursed Indians yell.
Nor son, nor sire, these tigers spare,-- The youth, and hoary head, Were by those monsters murdered there, And numbered with the dead.
Methinks I hear some sprightly youth His mournful state condole: "Oh, that my tender parents knew The anguish of my soul!
"But oh! there's none to save my life, Or heed my dreadful fear; I see the tomahawk and knife, And the more glittering spear.
"When years ago, I dandled was Upon my parents' knees, I little thought I should be brought To feel such pangs as these.
"I hoped for many a joyful day, I hoped for riches' store-- These golden dreams are fled away; I straight shall be no more.
"Farewell, fond mother; late I was Locked up in your embrace; Your heart would ache, and even break, If you could know my case.
"Farewell, indulgent parents dear, I must resign my breath; I now must die, and here must lie In the cold arms of death.
"For oh! the fatal hour is come, I see the bloody knife,-- The Lord have mercy on my soul!" And quick resigned his life.
A doleful theme; yet, pensive muse, Pursue the doleful theme; It is no fancy to delude, Nor transitory dream.
The Forty Fort was the resort For mother and for child, To save them from the cruel rage Of the fierce savage wild.
Now, when the news of this defeat Had sounded in our ears, You well may know our dreadful woe, And our foreboding fears.
A doleful sound is whispered round, The sun now hides his head; The nightly gloom forebodes our doom, We all shall soon be dead.
How can we bear the dreadful spear, The tomahawk and knife? And if we run, the awful gun Will rob us of our life.
But Heaven! kind Heaven, propitious power! His hand we must adore. He did assuage the savage rage, That they should kill no more.
The gloomy night now gone and past, The sun returns again, The little birds from every bush Seem to lament the slain.
With aching hearts and trembling hands, We walkèd here and there, Till through the northern pines we saw A flag approaching near.
Some men were chose to meet this flag, Our colonel was the chief, Who soon returned and in his mouth He brought an olive leaf.
This olive leaf was granted life, But then we must no more Pretend to fight with Britain's king, Until the wars are o'er.
And now poor Westmoreland is lost, Our forts are all resigned, Our buildings they are all on fire,-- What shelter can we find?
They did agree in black and white, If we'd lay down our arms, That all who pleased might quietly Remain upon their farms.
But oh! they've robbed us of our all, They've taken all but life, And we'll rejoice and bless the Lord, If this may end the strife.
And now I've told my mournful tale, I hope you'll all agree To help our cause and break the jaws Of cruel tyranny.
URIAH TERRY.