BATTLE OF LUNDY’S LANE.
We cross thy tranquil plains, Oh! Chippewa. Scott—Ripley—Towson—Hindman—brave soldiers; long will this battle-ground your names remember. And thou too, Riall! brave Englishman, foeman wert thou worthy of warriors’ steel. But far different music has resounded through these continuous woods than the wild bird’s carol, the hum of insects, and the waving of the breeze that now so gently greets our ear. Ay! yonder it is—yonder is the white house. There, said the Major, as General Scott, making a forward movement with his brigade in the afternoon of the 25th of July, 1814, came in view of it, we saw the court-yard filled with British officers, their horses held by orderlies and servants in attendance. As soon as we became visible to them, their bugles sounded to saddle, and in a few moments they were mounted and soon disappeared through the woods at full gallop, twenty bugles ringing the alarm from different parts of the forest. All vanished as if swallowed by the earth, save an elegant veteran officer, who reined up just out of musket shot, and took a leisurely survey of our numbers. Having apparently satisfied himself of our force, he raised the plumed hat from his head, and bowing gracefully to our cortege, put spurs to his horse and disappeared with the rest. From the occupant of the house we gathered that we were about a mile distant from a strong body of the enemy, posted in the rising ground just beyond the woods in our front. General Scott, turning to one of his escort, said, “Be kind enough, sir, to return to Major General Brown; inform him that I have fallen in with the enemy’s advance, posted in force at ‘Lundy’s Lane,’ and that in one half hour, I shall have joined battle.” “Order up Ripley with the second brigade,—direct Porter to get his volunteers immediately under arms,” was the brief reply of Major General Brown to my message, and the aids were instantly in their saddles, conveying the orders. As I galloped back through the woods, continued the Major, the cannon shot screaming by me, tearing the trees and sending the rail fences in the air in their course, warned me that the contest had begun.—But we are on the battle-ground. There, said the Major, upon the verge of that sloping hill, parallel with the road, and through the grave-yard towards the Niagara, was drawn up the British line under General Riall, in force three times greater than our brigade—his right covered with a powerful battery of nine pieces of artillery, two of them brass twenty-fours.
The Eleventh and Twenty-second regiments first leaving the wood, deployed upon the open ground with the coolness and regularity of a review,—and were soon engaged furiously in action; the fire from the enemy’s line and from the batteries, which completely commanded the position, opening upon them with tremendous effect. Towson, having hurried up with his guns on the left, in vain endeavoured to attain sufficient elevation to return the fire of their battery. The destruction on our side was very great;—the two regiments fought with consummate bravery. They were severely cut up, their ammunition became exhausted, and their officers nearly all of them having been killed and wounded, they were withdrawn from action,—the few officers remaining unhurt throwing themselves into the Ninth, which now came into action, led by the gallant Colonel Leavenworth.
The brunt of the battle now came upon them, and they alone sustained it for some time, fighting with unflinching bravery, until their numbers were reduced to one-half by the fire of the enemy. At this juncture, General Scott galloped up with the intention of charging up the hill; but finding them so much weakened, altered his intention, entreating them to hold their ground until the reinforcements, which were hastening up, should come to their assistance. A momentary cessation of the action ensued, while additional forces hurried up to the aid of each army—Ripley’s brigade, Hindman’s artillery, and Porter’s volunteers, on the part of the Americans, and a strong reinforcement under General Drummond on that of the British. Hindman’s artillery were attached to that of Towson, and soon made themselves heard. Porter’s brigade displayed on the left, while Ripley formed on the skirts of the wood to the right of Scott’s brigade. The engagement was soon renewed, with augmented vigour; General Drummond taking command in person, with his fresh troops in the front line of the enemy. Colonel Jesup, who had at the commencement of the action been posted on the right, succeeded, after a gallant contest, in turning the left flank of the enemy, and came in upon his reserve, “burdened with prisoners, making himself visible to his own army, amid the darkness, in a blaze of fire,” completely destroying all before him. The fight raged for some time with great fury, but it became apparent, uselessly to the Americans, if the enemy retained possession of the battery, manifestly the key of the position.
I was standing at the side of Colonel Miller, said the Major, when General Brown rode up and inquired, whether he could storm the battery with his regiment, while General Ripley supported him with the younger regiment, the Twenty-third. Miller, amid the uproar and confusion, deliberately surveyed the position, then quietly turning with infinite coolness replied, “I’ll try, sir.” I think I see him now, said the Major, as drawing up his gigantic figure to its full height, he turned to his regiment, drilled to the precision of a piece of mechanism, I hear his deep lion tones—“Twenty-first—attention!—form into column. You will advance up the hill to the storm of the battery—at the word ‘halt,’ you will deliver your fire at the port-lights of the artillerymen, and immediately carry the guns at the point of the bayonet.—Support arms—double quick—march!” Machinery could not have moved with more compactness than that gallant regiment followed the fearless stride of its leader. Supported by the Twenty-third, the dark mass moved up the hill like one body,—the lurid light glittering and flickering on their bayonets, as the combined fire of the enemy’s artillery and infantry opened murderously upon them. They flinched not—they faltered not—the stern deep voices of the officers, as the deadly cannon-shot cut yawning chasms through them, alone was heard. “Close up—steady, men—steady.” Within a hundred yards of the summit, the loud “Halt” was followed by a volley—sharp, instantaneous, as a clap of thunder. Another moment, rushing under the white smoke, a short furious struggle with the bayonet, and the artillerymen were swept like chaff from their guns. Another fierce struggle—the enemy’s line was forced down the side of the hill, and the victory was ours—the position entirely in our hands—their own pieces turned and playing upon them in their retreat. It was bought at cruel price—most of the officers being either killed or wounded. The whole tide of the battle now turned to this point. The result of the conflict depended entirely upon the ability of the victorious party to retain it. Major Hindman was ordered up, and posted his forces at the side of the captured cannon, while the American line correspondingly advanced. Stung with mortification, the brave General Drummond concentrated his forces, to retake by a desperate charge the position. The interval amid the darkness was alone filled by the roar of the cataracts, and the groans of the wounded. He advanced with strong reinforcements, outflanking each side of the American line. We were only able, in the murky darkness, to ascertain their approach by their heavy tread. “They halted within twenty paces—poured in a rapid fire and prepared for the rush.” Directed by the blaze, our men returned it with deadly effect, and after a desperate struggle, the dense column recoiled. Another interval of darkness and silence, and again a most furious and desperate charge was made by the British, throwing the whole weight of their attack upon the American centre. The gallant Twenty-first, which composed it, receiving them with undaunted firmness—while the fire from our lines was “dreadfully effective,” Hindman’s artillery served with the most perfect coolness and effect. Staggering, they again recoiled. During this second attack, General Scott in person, his shattered brigade now consolidated into a single battalion, made two determined charges upon the right and left flank of the enemy, and in these he received the scars which his countrymen now see upon his manly front. Our men were now almost worn down with fatigue, dying with thirst, for which they could gain no relief. The British, with fresh reinforcements—their men recruited and rested—after the interval of another hour, made their third and final effort to regain the position. They advanced—delivered their fire as before—and although it was returned with the same deadly effect, they steadily pressed forward. The Twenty-first again sustained the shock, and both lines were soon engaged in a “conflict, obstinate and dreadful beyond description.” The right and left of the American line fell back for a moment, but were immediately rallied by their officers. “So desperate did the battle now become, that many battalions on both sides were forced back,” the men engaged in indiscriminate melée, fought hand to hand, and with muskets clubbed; and “so terrific was the conflict where the cannon were stationed, that Major Hindman had to engage them over his guns and gun-carriages, and finally to spike two of his pieces, under the apprehension that they would fall into the hands of the enemy.” General Ripley at length made a most desperate and determined charge upon both of the enemy’s flanks—they wavered—recoiled—gave way—and the centre soon following, they relinquished the fight and made a final retreat. The annals of warfare on this continent have never shown more desperate fighting. Bayonets were repeatedly crossed, and after the action, many of the men were found mutually transfixed. The British force engaged was about five thousand men;—the American thirty-five hundred: the combined loss in killed and wounded, seventeen hundred and twenty-two, officers and men. The battle commenced at half-past four o’clock in the afternoon, and did not terminate till midnight. We were so mingled, said the Major, and so great the confusion in the darkness, that as I was sitting with a group of officers in the earlier part of the night, on horseback, a British soldier came up to us, and recovering his musket, under the supposition that he was addressing one of his own officers, said, “Colonel Gordon will be much obliged, sir, if you will march up the three hundred men in the road to his assistance immediately, as he is very hard pressed.” I called him nearer, and pressing his musket down over my holsters, made him prisoner. “What have I done, sir,” said the astonished man, “what have I done?” and to convince British officers, as he supposed, of his loyalty, exclaimed, “Hurrah for the King, and damn the Yankees.” As he was marched to the rear, the poor fellow was cut down by a grape shot. In another part of the field, an American aid pulled up suddenly on a body of men under full march. In reply to his demand, “What regiment is that?” he was answered, “The Royal Scots.” With great presence of mind, he replied, “Halt! Royal Scots’, till further orders,” and then turning his horse’s head, galloped from their dangerous proximity. It was a horrid conflict. Humanity sighs over the slaughter of the brave men that fell in it.
But here we are, at the grave-yard, with its drooping willows and flowering locusts. Still—still—and quiet now. No armed men disturb its calmness and repose—no ponderous artillery wheels rudely cut its consecrated mounds—no ruffian jest—no savage execration—no moan of anguish, break now upon its hallowed silence. The long grass and blossoming heather waive green alike over the graves of friend and enemy. The marble tells the story of the few—the many, their very parents know not their resting place. See this broken wooden slab—it has rotted off even with the ground, and lies face downwards, the earthworm burrowing under it, in this neglected corner. Pull the grass aside; turn it over with your foot. What, the nearly effaced inscription?
“Sacred
TO THE MEMORY OF
CAPT’N —— BROWN,
OF THE
21st Regiment
WHO DIED OF WOUNDS RECEIVED IN ACTION,
WITH THE ENEMY, ON THE
25TH OF JULY, 1814.”
And this is honour! This is fame! Why, brave man! e’en now, I read the tribute to thy bravery in the bulletin of the action. Thou had’st comrades—father, mother, sisters—to mourn thy loss—and now, the stranger’s foot carelessly spurns thy frail memento; nor father, mother, sisters, nor human hand can point to the spot where rest thy ashes. Peace to thy manes! brave countrymen, where’er they sleep.
See from this point how gently and gracefully undulates the battle-field; the woods bowing to the evening breeze, as the soft sunlight pours through their branches show not the gashes of rude cannon shot—the plain, loaded and bending with the yellow harvest, betrays no human gore—yon hill scathed, scorched and blackened with cannon flame, the very resting place of the deadly battery, shows no relic of the fierce death struggle, as covered with the fragrant clover and wild blue-bell, the bee in monotonous hum banquets o’er it. Nought mars the serenity of nature as she smiles upon us. Yet, burnt in common funeral pyre, the ashes of those brave men, of friend and foe, there mingle in the bosom whence they issued. The frenzied passion passed, the furious conflict o’er, they have lain down in quiet, and like young children, sleep gently, sweetly, in the lap of that common mother who shelters with like protection the little field mouse from its gambols, and the turbaned Sultan sinking amid his prostrate millions. Shades of my gallant countrymen! Shades of their daring foes—farewell. Ne’er had warriors more glorious death-couch,—the eternal Cataracts roar your requiem.
The reader’s attention is requested to the more detailed account of this action in the [Appendix]. The inscription on the tablet is given from recollection, and it is possible that the number of the Regiment may not be the one to which this officer belonged.