HOW ONE BOY HELPED THE BRITISH TROOPS OUT OF BOSTON IN 1776.
It was Commander-in-chief Washington’s birthday, and it was Jeremy Jagger’s birthday.
General Washington was forty-four years old that birthday, a hundred years ago. Jeremy Jagger was fourteen, and early in the morning of the 22d of February, 1776, the General and the lad were looking upon the same bit of country, but from different positions. General George Washington was reviewing his precious little army for the thousandth time; the lad Jeremy was looking from a hill upon the camp at Cambridge, and from thence across the River Charles over into Boston, which city had, for many months, been held by the British soldiers.
At last Jeremy exclaimed: “I say, it’s too chestnut-bur bad; it is.”
“Did you step on one?” questioned a tall, hard-handed, earnest-faced man, who at the instant had come up to the stone-wall on which Jeremy stood, surveying the camp and its surroundings.
“No, I didn’t,” retorted the lad; “but I wish Boston was paved all over with chestnut-burs, and 48 that every pesky British officer in it had to walk barefoot from end to end fourteen times a day, I do; and the fourteenth time I’d order two or three Colony generals to take a turn with ’em. General Gates for one.”
“Come along, Jeremy,” called his companion, who had strode across the wall and gone on, regardless of the boy’s words.
When Jeremy had ended his expressed wishes, he gathered up his hatchet, dinner-basket, and coil of stout cord, and plunged through the snow after his leader.
When he had overtaken him, the impulsive lad’s heart burst out at the lips with the words: “We could take Boston now, just as easy as anything—without wasting a jot of powder either. Skip across the ice, don’t you see, and be right in there before daylight. A big army lying still for months and months, and just doing nothing but wait for folks in Boston to starve out! I say it’s shameful; now, too, when the ice has come that General Washington has been waiting all winter for.”
“You won’t help your country one bit by scolding about it, Jeremy. You’d better save your strength for cutting willow-rods to-day.”
“I’d cut like a hurricane if the rods were only going to whip the enemy with. But just for sixpence a day—pshaw! I say, it don’t pay.”
“Look here, lad, can you keep a secret?”
“Trust me for that,” returned Jeremy. Turning 49 suddenly upon his questioner, he faced him to listen to a supposed bit of information.
“Then why on earth are you talking to me in that manner, boy?” questioned the man.
“Why you know all about it, just as well as I do; and a fellow must speak out in the woods or somewhere. Why, I get so mad and hot sometimes that it seems as if every thought in me would burn right out on my face, when I think about my poor mother over there,” pointing backward to the three-hilled city.
The two were standing at the moment midway of a corn-field. The February wind was lifting and rustling and shaking rudely the withered corn-stalks, with their dried leaves. To the northward lay the Cambridge camp, across the Charles River. To the south and east, just over Muddy River and Stony Brook, lay the right wing of the American Army, with here a fort and there a redoubt stretching at intervals all the distance between the camp at Cambridge and Dorchester Neck, on the southeast side of Boston. Behind them, to the westward, lay Cedar Swamp, while not more than half a mile to the front there was a four-gun battery and Brookline Fort, on the Charles, near by.
While Jeremy Jagger was pouring forth his words with vociferous violence, the man by his side glanced eagerly about the wide field; but, satisfying himself that no one was within hearing, he said, resting his hatchet on the lad’s shoulder 50 while speaking: “See here, my boy. The brave man never boasts of his bravery nor the trustworthy man of his trustworthiness. How you learned what you know of the plans of General Washington I do not care to ask; but to-day and all days keep quiet and show yourself worthy of being trusted.”
“I’ll try as hard as I can,” promised Jeremy.
“No one can have tried his best without accomplishing something that it was grand to do, though not always just what he was trying to do,” responded the man, glancing kindly down upon the fresh, eager lad, tramping through the snow, at his side. “Don’t forget. ‘Silence is golden,’ in war always. Not a word, mind, when you get home, about the work of to-day.”
They were come now to a spot where the marsh seemed to be filled with sounds of wood-cutting. As they plunged into Cedar Swamp, the sounds grew nearer and multiplied. It was like the rapid firing of muskets.
Running through the swamp there was a trout-brook, that bore along its borders a dense growth of water-willows.
And now they advanced within sight of at least two hundred men and boys, every one of whom worked away as though his life depended on cutting a certain amount of willow-boughs in a given time.
“What does it all mean?” questioned Jeremy.
“It means,” replied his companion, “work for 51 your country to-day with all your might and main.”
“But, pray tell me,” persisted Jeremy, “what under the sun the things are for, anyway. They’re good for nothing for fire-wood, green.”
Mr. Wooster turned and looked at the lad and said: “A good soldier asks no questions and marches, without knowing whither. He also cuts, without knowing for what. Now, to work!” and, at the instant they mingled with the workmen.
In less than a minute Jeremy’s dinner-basket was swinging on a willow-bough, his coat was hanging protectingly over it (you must remember that it contained Jeremy Jagger’s birthday cake), and the lad’s own arms were working away to the musical sounds of a hatchet beating on a vast amount of “whistle-stuff,” until mid-day and hunger arrived in company.
At the signal for noon Jeremy Jagger began his birthday feast. He perched himself on a stout willow-branch, hanging the basket on a conveniently growing peg at his right hand, and, by frequent examination of the store within, was able to solace two or three lads, less fortunate than himself, who were taking the mid-day rest, refreshed by plain bread and cheese, seated on a branch, lower down on the same tree.
“It isn’t every day that a fellow eats his birthday dinner in the woods,” he exclaimed, by way of apology for the dainties he tossed down to them in the shape of sugar-cake and “spice pie.” 52 “Aunt Hannah was pretty liberal with me this morning. I wonder if she knew anything, for she said: ‘I’d find plenty of squirrels to help eat it.’ Where do you live, anyway?” he questioned, after he had fed them.
“We live in Brookline,” answered the elder.
“Well, do you know what under the sun we are cutting such bundles of fagots for to-day?” he slyly questioned, being beyond the hearing of the ears of his friend, and so safe from censure.
“I asked father this morning,” spoke up the younger lad (of not more than nine years), “and he told me he guessed General Washington was going to take Boston on the ice, and every soldier was going to take a bundle of fagots along, so as to keep from sinking if the ice broke through.”
This bit of military news was received with shouts of laughter, that echoed from tree to tree along the brook, and then the noon-day rest was over. The wind began to blow in cooler and faster from the sea, and busy hands were obliged to work fast to keep from stiffening under the power of the growing frost.
When the new moon hung low in the west and the sun was gone, the brookside, the cart-path, even the swamp fell back into its accustomed silence, for the workers, in groups of eight or ten, had from minute to minute gone homeward, leaving huge piles of fagots near the log bridge.
Jeremy went early to bed that night. His right arm was weary and his left arm ached; 53 nevertheless, he went straightway to dreaming that both arms were dragging his beloved mother forth from Boston.
At midnight his companion of the morning came and stood under his chamber window, and tapped lightly with a bean-pole against the glass to awaken him.
Jeremy heard the sound, but in his dream thought it was a gun fired from one of the ships in the harbor at his mother, and himself, and Boston.
“Jeremy, get up!” said somebody, touching his shoulder.
“Come, mother!” ejaculated Jeremy, clutching at the air and uttering the words under tremendous pressure.
“Come yourself, lad,” said somebody, shaking him a little roughly; whereupon Jeremy awoke. “Get up, Jeremy Jagger. Hitch the oxen to the cart. Put on the hay-rigging. Stay, I must help you to do that; but hurry.”
Jeremy rubbed his eyes, wondered what had become of his mother, and how Mr. Wooster found his way into the house in the night, and lastly, what was to be done. Furthermore, he dressed with speed, and awakened the oxen by vigorous touches and moving words.
“Get up! get up!” he importuned, “and work for your country, and may be you won’t be killed and eaten for your country when you are old.” The large, patient eyes of the oxen slowly 54 opened into the night, and after awhile the vigorous strokes and voiceful “get ups” of their master had due effect.
Mr. Wooster helped to adjust the hay-rigging, and then the large-wheeled cart rolled grindingly over the frozen ground of the highway, until it turned into the path leading into the swamp, over which the snow lay in unbroken surface. Jeremy Jagger’s was but the pioneer cart that night. A half-dozen rolled and tumbled and reeled over the uneven surface behind him, to the log bridge. It was cold and still. As the topmost fagot was tossed on the pile in his cart he drew off a mitten, thrust his benumbed fingers between his parted lips, and when he removed them said: “I hope General Washington has had a better birthday than mine.”
“I know one thing, my lad.”
Jeremy turned quickly, for he did not recognize the voice. Even then he could not discern the face; but he knew instantly that it was no common person who had spoken. Nevertheless, with that sturdy, good-as-anybody air that made the men of April 19th and June 17th fight so gloriously, he demanded:
“What do you know?”
“That General Washington would gladly change places with you to-night, if you are the honest lad you seem to be.”
“Go and see him in his comfortable bed over there in Cambridge,” was Jeremy’s response, 55 uttered in the same breath with the word to his oxen to move on. They moved on. The fagots reeled and swayed, the cart rumbled over the logs of the bridge, and boy, oxen and cart were soon lost to sight and hearing in the cedar thickets of the swamp.
Through the next two hours they toiled on, Jeremy on foot, and often ready to lie down with the healthy sleep that would not leave its hold on his weary brain.
It was day-dawn when the fagots had been duly delivered at the appointed place and Jeremy reached home.
He had been cautiously bidden to see that the cart was not left outside with its tell-tale rigging. He obeyed the injunction, shut the oxen in, gave them double allowance of hay, and was startled by Aunt Hannah’s cheery call of: “Jerry, my boy, come to breakfast.”
“Breakfast ready?” said Jeremy.
“Why, yes. I was up early this morning, and thought of you.” And that was the only allusion Aunt Hannah made to his night’s work. He longed to tell her and chat about it all at the table; but, remembering his promise in the swamp, he said not a word.
Six nights out of seven Jeremy and his oxen worked all night and slept nearly all day.
The brook in Cedar Swamp was robbed of its willows, and many another bit of land and watercourse suffered in a like manner.
Then came the order to make the fagots into fascines. Two thousand soldiers were got to work to effect this. Jeremy Jagger began to understand what was going on behind the lines at Roxbury. He was the happiest lad in existence during the ensuing days. He forgot to eat, even, when the fascines were in making. Perceiving the manner in which they were formed he volunteered to help, and soon found he could drive the cross supports into the ground, lay the saplings upon them, and even aid in twisting the green withes about them, as well as any soldier of them all.
Bales of “screwed” hay began to appear in great numbers within the lines, and empty barrels by the hundreds sprang up from somewhere.
And all this time, guess as every man might and did—the coming event was known only to the commander-in-chief and to the six generals forming the council of war.
Monday night, before sundown, Jeremy Jagger received an order. It was:
March 4th.
Jeremy Jagger:
With oxen and cart (hay-rigging on), be at the Roxbury lines by moon-rise to-night. Take a pocketful of gingerbread along.
Wooster.
With manly pride the boy set forth. He longed to put the note in his aunt’s hand ere he 57 went; but she (long ago it seemed, though only a few days had passed) seemed to take no note of his frequent absences. He had scarcely gone a rod ere the cannon-balls began their march into Boston from all the fortifications of the Americans; and in return from Boston, flying north and south and west, came shot and shells.
Undaunted and excited by the mere possibility of being hit, Jeremy went onward. When he arrived in Roxbury he found everybody and everything astir. His cart was seized, filled with bundles of “screwed” hay, and, ere he knew it, he was in line with two hundred and ninety-nine other carts, marching forward to fortify Dorchester Heights. Before him went twelve hundred troops, under the command of General Thomas; before the troops trundled an unknown number of carts, filled with intrenching tools; before the tools were eight hundred men. Not a word was spoken. In silence and with utmost care they trod the way. At eight of the clock the covering party of eight hundred reached the Height and divided—one-half going toward the point nearest Boston, the other to the point nearest Castle William, on Castle Island, held by the British.
Then the working party began their labor with enthusiasm unbounded, wondering what the British general would think when he should behold their work in the morning. They toiled in silence by the light of the moon and the home music of 144 shot and 13 shell going into Boston, and 58 unnumbered shot and shell coming out of Boston. Gridley, whose quick night work at Breed’s Hill on the sixteenth of June had startled the world, headed the intrenching party as engineer.
Poor Jeremy was not allowed to go farther than Dorchester Neck with his first load. The bundles of hay were tumbled out and laid in line, to protect the supplying party, in case the work going on on the hill beyond should be found out.
The next time, to his extreme delight, he found that fascines were to go in his cart. When he reached Dorchester Height quick work was made of unloading his freight, and, without a word spoken, he was ordered back with a move of the hand.
Four times the lad and the oxen went up Dorchester Hill that night. The fourth time, as no order was given to return, Jeremy thought he might as well stay and see the battle that would begin with the dawn.
He left the oxen behind an embankment with a big bundle of hay to the front of them; and after five minutes devoted to gingerbread he went to work. Morning would come long before they were ready to have it unveil the growing forts to the eyes of Admiral Shuldham, with his ships of war lying in the harbor; or to the sentinels at Castle William, on Castle Island, to the right of them; or to General Howe, with his vigilant thousands of Englishmen safe and snug in Boston, to the north of them.
Jeremy was rolling barrels to the brow of the hill they were fortifying, and tumbling into them with haste shovelful after shovelful of good solid earth, that they might hit hard when rolled down on the foe that should dare to mount the height, when a cautious voice at his side uttered the one word “Look!” accompanied with a motion of the hand toward Dorchester Neck.
In the moonlight, past the bales of hay, two thousand Americans were filing in silent haste to the relief of the men who had toiled all night to build forts they meant to defend on the morrow.
It was four o’clock in the morning when they came. Jeremy was tired and sleepy too. His eyelids would drop over his eyes, shutting out everything he so longed to keep in sight.
“You’ve worked like a hero,” said a kind voice to the lad. “It will be hot work here by sunrise—no place for boys, when the battle begins.”
“I can fight,” stoutly persisted Jeremy, nodding as he spoke; and, had anybody thought of the lad at all after that, he might have been found in the ox-cart, carelessly strewn over with hay, taking a nap.
Meanwhile on came the morning. A friendly fog hung lovingly around the new hills on the old hills, that the Yankees had built in a night.
Admiral Shuldham was called in haste from his bed by frightened men, who wondered what had happened on Dorchester Height. Castle William 60 stood aghast with astonishment. Messengers went up the bay to tell the army the news.
General Howe marched out to take a look through the fog at the old familiar hills he had known so long, and didn’t like the looks of the new hats they wore. He wondered how in the world the thing had been done without discovery; but there it was, larger a good deal than life, seen through the fog, and he knew also why it was that the cannon had been playing on Boston through the hours of three or four nights. He was angry, astonished, perplexed. He had a little talk with Admiral Shuldham; and they agreed to do something. Yes, they would walk up and demand back the hills looking over into Boston. Transports came hurrying to pier and wharf, and soldiers went bravely down and gave themselves to the work of a short sea voyage.
Meanwhile Jeremy Jagger’s nap was broken by a number of trenching tools thrown carelessly over his back, as he lay asleep in his cart.
“Halloo there!” he shouted, striving to rise from the not very comfortable blanket that dropped in twain to the left and the right, as he shook off the tools and returned from the land of sleep to Dorchester Heights and the 5th of March. He was just in time to hear a voice like a clarion cry out: “Remember it is the 5th of March, and avenge the death of your brethren.”
It was the very voice that had said in the swamp in the night that “General Washington 61 would gladly change places with Jeremy Jagger.” It was the voice of General Washington animating the troops for the coming battle.
Meanwhile a new and unexpected force arrived on the field of action. It came in from sea—a great and mighty wind, that tossed and tumbled the transports to and fro on the waves and would not let them land anywhere save at the place they came from. So they went peacefully back to Boston, and the Liberty Men over on the hills went on all day and all night, in the rain and the wind, building up, strengthening, fortifying, in fact getting ready, as Jeremy told his aunt, when he reached home on the morning of the sixth of March, “for a visit from King George and all his army.”
The next day General Howe doubted and did little. The next and the next went on and then on the morning of the 17th of March something new had happened. There was one little hill, so near to Boston that it was almost in it; and lo! in the night it had been visited by the Americans, and a Liberty Cap perched above its head.
General Howe said: “We must get away from here in haste.”
“Take us with you,” said a thousand Royalists of the town; and he took them, bag and baggage, to wander up and down the earth.
Over on Bunker Breed’s Hill wooden sentinels did duty when the British soldiers left and for full two hours after; and then two brave Yankees 62 guessed the men were wooden, and marched in to take possession just nine months from the day they bade it good-by, because they had no powder with which to “tune” their guns.
Over on Cambridge Common marched, impatient as ever, General Putnam, with his four thousand followers, ready to cross the River Charles and walk once more the city streets of the good old town. On all the hills were gathered men, women and children to see the British troops depart.
Jeremy Jagger was up before the dawn on that sweetest of Sunday mornings in March, and he reached the Roxbury lines just as General Ward was ready to put his arms about Boston’s Neck. The lad took his place with the five hundred men and walked by Ensign Richards’ side, as he proudly bore the standard up to the gates, which Ebenezer Learned “unbarred and opened.” Once within the lines, Jeremy, unmindful of the crow’s feet strewn over the way, made haste through lane and street to his old home on Beacon Hill. “Could that be his mother looking out at him through the window-pane?” he thought, as he drew near.
She saw him. She knew him. But what could it mean that she did not open the door to let him in; that she waved him away? It could not be that she, his own mother, had turned Tory, that her face was grown so red and angry at the sight of her son.
Jeremy banged away at the door. There was no answer.
At last he heard the lifting of a sash, a head, muffled carefully, appeared from the highest window in the house, and a voice (the lad knew whose it was) said: “Go, Jeremy! Go away out of Boston as fast as you can. I’ll come to you as soon as it is safe.”
“Why, mother, what’s the matter?” cried the boy.
“Small pox! I’ve had it. Everybody has it. Go!”
“Good-by,” cried Jeremy, running out of Boston as fast as any British soldier of them all and a good deal more frightened. He burst into Aunt Hannah’s house with the news that he had been to Boston, that the soldiers were all gone, that he had seen his mother, that she had the small-pox and sent him off in a hurry.
“Tut! tut!” she cried. “It’s wicked to tell lies, Jeremy Jagger.”
“I’m not telling lies. Every word is true. Please give me something to eat.”
But Aunt Hannah did not wait to give the lad food, nor even to speak the prayer of thanksgiving that went like incense from her heart. She went into the barn-yard and threw corn on the barn-floor, to which the hens and turkeys made haste. Closing the door, she summoned Jeremy to kill the largest and best of them.
That Sunday afternoon the brick oven glowed 64 with fervent heat, the white, fat offerings went in, and the golden-brown turkeys and chickens came out; and as each, in turn, was pronounced “done,” Aunt Hannah repeated the words: “Hungry! hungry! hungry! Hungry all winter!”
The big clothes-basket was full of lint for wounds that now never should be made. Gladly she tossed out the fluffy mass, and packed within it every dainty the house contained.
It was nearly sunset when Aunt Hannah and Jeremy started forth, with the basket between them, to Mr. Wooster’s house, hoping that he would carry it in his wagon up to Boston. He was not at home.
“Get out the cart,” said Aunt Hannah to Jeremy, when they learned no help was to be obtained. She sat by the roadside watching the basket until the cart arrived.
“I’m going with you,” she said, after the basket was in; she climbed to the seat beside the lad, and off they started for Boston.
It was dark when they reached the lines, and no passes granted, the officers said, to go in that night.
“But I’ve food for the hungry,” said Aunt Hannah, in her sweetest voice, from the darkness of the cart, “and folks are hungry in the night as well as in the day.”
She deftly threw aside the cover from the basket and took out a chicken, which she held forth to the man, saying: “Take it. It’s good.”
He hesitated a moment, then seized it eagerly.
“I know you,” spoke up Jeremy, at this juncture. “You went up the Neck with us this morning. I saw you.”
“Then you are the boy who got first into Boston this morning, are you, sir?”
“I believe I did, sir.”
“Go on.”
The oxen went on.
“Now, Jeremy, down with you and wait here for me. You haven’t had small-pox,” said Aunt Hannah.
“But the oxen won’t mind you,” said Jeremy.
Aunt Hannah was troubled. She never had driven oxen.
At the moment who should appear but Mr. Wooster. He gladly offered to take the basket and deliver it at Mrs. Jagger’s door.
“Don’t go in, mind! Mother’s had small-pox,” called Jeremy, as he started.
“I’m tired,” gasped Aunt Hannah, who had done baking enough for a small army that day, as she sat down to rest on the broad seat of the cart, and the two started for home. The soldier at the gate scarcely heeded them as they went out, for roasted chicken “tasted so good.”
“I’m so glad the British are out of Boston,” said Aunt Hannah, as she touched home soil again and went wearily up the walk to the little dark house.
“And so am I,” said Jeremy to the oxen, as he 66 turned them in for the night; “only if I’d had my way, they wouldn’t have gone without one good fair fight. You’ve done your duty, anyhow,” he added, soothingly, with a parting stroke to the honest laborer who went in last, “and you deserve well of your country, too, for like Gen. Washington, you have served without hope of reward. The thing I like best about the man is that he don’t work for money. I don’t want my sixpence a day for cutting willows; and—I won’t—take it.” And he didn’t take it, consoling himself with the reflection “that he would be like Gen. Washington in one thing, anyhow.”
PUSSY DEAN’S BEACON FIRE.
March 17, 1776.
A hundred years ago the winds of March were blowing.
To-day the same winds rush by the stone memorials and sweep across the low mounds that securely cover the men and the women that then were alive to chill blast and stirring event. Even the lads who gathered at sound of drum and fife on village green, wishing, as they saw the troopers march, that they were men, and the little girls who hung about father’s neck because he was going off to war, who watched the post-riders on their course, wishing that they knew the news he carried, are no longer with us.
For nearly two years Boston had been the lost town of the people. It had been taken from the children by an unkind father and given to strangers. You have been told how British ships came and closed her harbor, so that food and raiment could not enter. You know how grandly the younger sister towns behaved toward stately, hungry Boston; how they marched up the narrow neck of land that holds back the town from 68 the sea, each and every one bearing gifts to the beloved town, until there came the sad and fatal day wherein British military lines turned back the tide of offerings and closed the gate of entrance.
Then it was that friends began to gather across the rivers that wound their waters around Boston. Presently an army grew up and stationed itself with leaders and banners and forts.
Summer came. The army waited through all the long warm days. The summer went; the leaves fell; the chill winds and the cold sea-fogs wound into and out of the poor little tents and struck the brave men who, having no tents, tried to be strong and endure.
Every child knows, or ought to know, the story of that winter; how day by day, all over New England, men were striving to gather firearms and powder wherewith to take back from the foe poor Boston. But, alas, there was not powder enough in all the land to do it.
The long, wearying winter had done its worst for the prisoned inhabitants within the town; and, truly, it had tried and pinched the waiting friends who stood at the gates.
At last, in March, in the night, the brave helpers climbed the hills, built on them smaller hills, and by the light of the morning were able to look over into the town—at which the patriots were glad and the British commander frightened.
A little after nine of the clock on Sunday morning, 69 the 17th of March, 1776, three Narragansett ponies stood before General Washington’s headquarters at Cambridge.
“Go with all possible speed to Governor Trumbull,” said Washington, delivering despatches to a well-known and trusted messenger, who instantly mounted one of the ponies in waiting—Sweeping Wind by name—and rode away, with many a sharp and inquiring glance back at city and river and camp.
It was four of the clock in the afternoon, and the messenger had not paused since he set forth, longer than to give Sweeping Wind water to drink, when, on the highway in the distance, he saw a red cloak fluttering and flying before him.
It was Pussy Dean who wore the cloak. She was fifteen, fair and lovely, brave and patriotic as any soldier in the land.
At first she was angry at the law by which she was denied a new cloak that winter, made of English fabric, but when wrapped in the coveted broadcloth of scarlet belonging to her mother she was more than reconciled.
On this Sunday Pussy had been at the meeting-house on the hill, two miles from home, at both morning and afternoon service, and afterward had lingered a little to gather up bits of news from camp and town to take home to her mother, and so it had happened that she was quite alone on the highway.
Pussy chanced to look back to the summit of 70 the hill down which she had walked, and she saw the express coming.
“Now,” she thought, “if I could only stop him! I wonder if I can’t. I’ll try, and then,” swinging her silken bag, “I shall have news to carry home, the very latest, too.”
As she swung the bag she suddenly remembered that she had something within it to offer the rider.
“Of course I can,” she went on saying to herself. “Post-riders are always hungry, and it’s lucky for him that I didn’t have to eat my dinner myself, to-day. Now, if I only had a basketful of clover heads or roses for that pony, I’d find out all about Boston while it was eating.”
The only roses within sight were blooming on Pussy Dean’s two cheeks as Sweeping Wind came clattering his shoes against the frozen ground. He would have gone straight on had a scarlet cloak not been planted, like a fluttering standard, full in his pathway.
The rider gave the pony the slightest possible check, since he felt sure that no red-coated soldier lurked behind the red cloak.
“Take something to eat, won’t you?” accosted Pussy, rather glowing in feature and agitated in voice by her own daring.
Meanwhile the rider had given Sweeping Wind a second intimation to stand, which he obeyed, and sniffed at Pussy’s cloak and cheeks and silken bag as she held it forth to the rider, saying 71 naively, “I went to meeting and was invited to luncheon, and so didn’t eat mine.” She spoke swiftly, as though she knew she must not detain him.
He answered with a smile and a “Thank you,” took the bag, and rewarded her by saying, “The British are getting out of Boston, bag and baggage.”
“And where are you going?” demanded Pussy, determined not to go home with but half the story if she could help it.
“To Governor Trumbull with the good news and a demand for two thousand men to save New York,” he cried back, having gone on. His words were entangled with a mouthful of gingerbread or mince-pie to such an extent that it was a full minute before Pussy understood their import, and then she could only say over and over to herself, as she hastened on, “Father will be here, father will come home, and we’ll have the good old times back again.”
But notwithstanding her hope and a country’s wish, the good old times were not at hand.
Pussy reached home and told the story. Baby went down plump into the wooden cradle at the first note of it, and set up a tune of rejoicing in his own fashion which no one regarded. Brother Benjamin, aged thirteen, whistled furiously, regardless of the honors of the day. Sammy, who was ten, clapped his hands and knocked his heels together, first in joy, and then began to fear lest 72 the war should be over before he grew big enough to be in it.
“Mother,” said Pussy, a few minutes later, “let Benny come with me to tell Mr. Gale about it; may he?”
Pussy laid aside her Sunday bonnet, tied a straw hat over her ears with a silk kerchief to keep out the wind, and in three minutes got Benny into the highway.
“See here, Ben, I’m going to light a fire on Baldhead to tell all the folks together about it, and I want you to help me; quick, before it gets dark.”
“You can’t gather fagots,” responded Ben.
Yes, she could, and would, and did, while Benny went to the house nearest to Baldhead to ask for some fire in a kettle.
The two worked with such vigor and will that the first gathering of darkness saw the light of the beacon-flame burst forth, and the great March wind blew it into fiercest glow. Every eye that saw the fire there knew that it had been kindled with a purpose, and many feet from house and hamlet set forth to learn the cause.
While Pussy and Ben were yet adding fagots to the fire, they heard a voice crying out: “The young rascals shall be punished soundly for this,” and ere Pussy had time to explain or expostulate, a strong man had Ben in his grasp.
“Stop that, sir!” cried the girl, rushing to the rescue with a burning fagot that she had seized 73 from the fire, and shaking it full in the assailant’s face.
By the light of it, the man saw Pussy and she saw him; and then both began to laugh, while Ben rubbed his ears and wondered whether they were both on his head.
“It means,” spoke the girl, waving the still flaming brand toward the east, “that the British left Boston this morning, and that General”—(just here a dozen men were at the fire. Pussy raised her voice and continued)—“Washington wants you all, every one of you, to march straight to Governor Trumbull, and he’ll tell you what to do next.”
“If that’s the case,” said the responsible man of the constantly-increasing group after questioning Pussy, “we’d better summon the militia by the ringing of the bell,” and off they went in the direction of the village, while Pussy and Ben went home.
The next day saw fifty men, well armed, and provisioned for three days, on the road to Lebanon. They marched into town and into the now famous war-office of Governor Trumbull, to his pleased surprise.
“Who sent you?” asked the governor, for it was not yet six hours since the demand on the nearest town had been made.
“Who sent us?” echoed the lieutenant, looking confused and at a loss to explain, and finally answering truthfully, he said: “It was a young 74 girl, your excellency. She lit a beacon fire on a hill and gave the command that we report to you.”
A laugh ran around the sides of the old war-office. The messenger who had ridden from Cambridge sat upon the counter pressing his spurs into the wood and heard it all.
“And who commissioned the girl as a recruiting officer?” questioned the governor.
“I’m afraid,” said the messenger, “I am the guilty party. I met a young patriot in scarlet cloak who asked my news, and, I told her.”
“Where is the girl’s father?” demanded Governor Trumbull.
“He is with the army, at Cambridge,” was the response.
“And his name?”
“Reuben Dean.”
A scratch or two of the quill pen was heard on the open paper. It was folded, sealed, and handed to the ready horseman, with the words: “Reuben Dean; he is mentioned for promotion.”
The words, as they were spoken by Governor Trumbull, were caught up and gathered into a mighty cheer, for every man of their number knew that Reuben Dean was worthy of promotion, even had his daughter not gained it for him by her services as recruiting officer.
DAVID BUSHNELL AND HIS AMERICAN TURTLE.
THE FIRST SUBMARINE BOAT INVENTED.
“David!” cried a voice stern and commanding, from a house-door one morning, as the young man who owned the name was taking a short cut “across lots” in the direction of Pautapoug.
“Sir!” cried the youth in response to the call, and pausing as nearly as he could, and at the same time keep his feet from sinking into the marshy soil.
“Where are you going?” was the response.
“To Pautapoug, to see Uriah Hayden, sir.”
“You’d better hire out at ship-building with him. Your college learning’s of no earthly use in these days,” said the father of David Bushnell, returning from the door, and sinking slowly down into his high-backed chair.
Then spoke up a sweet-voiced woman from the kitchen fire-side, where she had that moment been hanging an iron pot on the crane:
“Have a little patience, father (Mrs. Bushnell always called her husband, father), David is only 76 looking about to see what to do. It’s hardly four weeks since he was graduated.”
“True enough; but where can you find an idle man in all Saybrook town? and you know as well as I do that it makes men despise college-learning to see folks idle. I’d rather, for my part, David did go to work on the ship Uriah Hayden is building. I wish I knew what he’s gone over there for to-day.”
A funny smile crept into the curves of Mrs. Bushnell’s lips, but her husband did not notice it.
Mr. Bushnell moved uneasily in his chair, as he sat leaning forward, both hands clasped about a hickory stick, and his chin resting on the knob at its top. Presently he said:
“Anna, I fear David is getting into bad habits. He used to talk a good deal. Now he sits with his eyes on the floor, and his forehead in wrinkles, and I’m sure I’ve heard him moving about more than one night lately, after all honest folks were in bed.”
“Father, you must remember that you’ve been very sick, and fever gives one queer notions sometimes. I shouldn’t wonder one bit if you dreamed you heard something, when ’twas only the rats behind the wainscot.”
“Rats don’t step like a grown man in his stocking-feet, nor make the rafters creak, either.”
Madam Bushnell appeared to be investigating the contents of the pot hanging on the crane, and perhaps the heat of the blazing wood was sufficient 77 to account for the burning of her cheeks. She cooled them a moment later by going down cellar after cider, a mug of which she offered to her husband, proposing the while that he should have his chair out of doors, and sit under the sycamore tree by the river-bank. When he assented, and she had seen him safely in the chair, she made haste to David’s bed-room.
Since Mr. Bushnell’s illness began, no one had ascended to the chamber except herself and her son.
On two shelves hanging against the wall were the books that he had brought home with him from Yale College, just four weeks ago.
A table was drawn near to the one window in the room. On it were bits of wood, with iron scraps, fragments of glass and copper. In fact, the same thing to-day would suggest boat-building to the mother of any lad finding them among her boy’s playthings. To this mother they suggested nothing beyond the fact that David was engaged in something which he wished to keep a profound secret.
He had not told her so. It had not been necessary. She had divined it and kept silence, having all a mother’s confidence in, and hope of, her son’s success in life.
As she surveyed the place, she thought:
“There is nothing here, even if he (meaning her husband) should take it into his head to come up and look about.”
Meanwhile young David had crossed the Pochaug River, and was half the way to Pautapoug.
All this happened more than a thousand moons ago, when all the land was aroused and astir, and David Bushnell was not in the least surprised to meet, at the ship-yard of Uriah Hayden, Jonathan Trumbull, Governor of Connecticut.
This man was everywhere, seeing to everything, in that year. Whatever his country needed, or Commander-in-chief Washington ordered from the camp at Cambridge, was forthcoming.
A ship had been demanded of Connecticut, and so Governor Trumbull had come down from Lebanon to look with his own eyes at the huge ribs of oak, thereafter to sail the seas as “The Oliver Cromwell.”
The self-same oaken ribs had intense interest for young David Bushnell. Uriah Hayden had promised to sell to him all the pieces of ship-timber that should be left, and while the governor and the builder planned, he went about gathering together fragments.
“Better take enough to build a boat that will carry a seine. ’T won’t cost you a mite more, and might serve you a good turn to have a sizable craft in a heavy sea some day,” said Mr. Hayden.
Now David Bushnell had been wishing that he had some good and sufficient reason to give Mr. Hayden for wanting the stuff at all, and here he had given it to him.
“That’s true,” spoke up David, “but how am I to get all this over to Pochaug?”
“Don’t get it over at all, until it’s ready to row down the Connecticut, and around the Sound. You’re welcome to build your boat at the yard, and, now and then, there will be odd minutes that the men can help you on with it.”
David thanked Mr. Hayden, grew cheerful of heart over the prospect of owning a boat of his own, and went merrily back to the village of Pochaug.
Two weeks later David’s boat was ready for sea. It was launched into the Connecticut from the ways on which the “Oliver Cromwell” grew, was named Lady Fenwick, and, when water-tight, was rowed down the river, past Saybrook and Tomb Hill, and so into the Long Island Sound.
When its owner and navigator went by Tomb Hill, he removed his hat, and bowed reverently. He thought with respect and admiration of the occupant of the sandstone tomb on its height, the Lady Fenwick who had slept there one hundred and thirty years.
With blistered palms and burning fingers David Bushnell pushed his boat with pride up the Pochaug River, and tied it to a stake at the bridge just beyond the sycamore tree, near his father’s door.
“I’ll fetch father and mother out to see it,” he thought, “when the moon gets up a little higher.”
With boyish pride he looked down at the work of his hands from the river-bank, and went in to get his supper.
“David!” called Mr. Bushnell, having heard his steps in the entry-way.
“Here I am, father,” returned the young man, appearing within the room, and speaking in a cheerful tone.
“Don’t you think you have wasted about time enough?”
The voice was high-wrought and nervous in the extreme. He, poor man, had been that afternoon thinking the matter over in a convalescent’s weak manner of looking upon the act of another man.
David Bushnell, smiling still, and taking out a large silver watch from his waistcoat pocket, and looking at it, replied:
“I haven’t wasted one moment, father. The tide was against me, but I’ve rowed around from Pautapoug ship-yard to the sycamore tree out here since two o’clock.”
“You row a boat!” cried Mr. Bushnell, with lofty disdain.
“Why, father, you have not a very good opinion of your son, have you?” questioned the son. “Come, though, and see what he has been doing. Come, mother,” as Mrs. Bushnell entered, bearing David’s supper in her hands.
She put it down. Mr. Bushnell pulled himself upright with a groan or two, and suffered David 81 to assist him by the support of his arm as they went out.
“Why, you tremble as though you had the palsy,” said the father.
“It’s nothing. I’m not used to pulling so long at the oar,” said the son.
When they came to the bank, the full moon shone athwart the little boat rocking on the stream.
“What’s that?” exclaimed both parents.
“That is the Lady Fenwick. I’ve been building the boat myself. You advised me, father, to go to ship-building one morning—do you remember? I took your advice, and began at the bottom of the ladder.”
“You built that boat with your own hands, you say?”
“With my own hands, sir.”
“In two weeks’ time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And rowed it all the way down the river, and up the Pochaug?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good boy! You may go in and have your supper,” said Mr. Bushnell, patting him on the back, just as he had done when he returned from college with his first award.
As for Madam Bushnell, she smiled down upon Lady Fenwick and did her great reverence in her heart, while she said to the boat-builder:
“David, dear, wait a few minutes, and I’ll give 82 you something nice and warm for your supper. Your father, Ezra and I had ours long ago.”
That night Mr. Bushnell did not lie awake to listen for the stealthy stepping in the upper room. He slept all the sounder, because he had at last seen one stroke of honest work, as he called it, as the result of his endeavors to help David on in life.
As for David himself, he went to sleep, saying in his heart: “It is a good stepping-stone at least;” which conclusion grew into form in sleep, and shaped itself into a mighty monster, that bored itself under mountains, and, after taking a nap, roused and shook itself so mightily that the mountain flew into fragments high in air.
If you go, to-day, into the Connecticut River from Long Island Sound, you will see on its left bank the old town of Saybrook, on its right the slightly younger town of Lyme, and you will have passed by, without having been very much interested in it, an island lying just within the shelter of either bank.
In the summer of 1774 a band of fishermen put up a reel upon the island, on which to wind their seine. Over the reel they built a roof to protect it from the rains. With the exception of the reel, there was no building upon the island. A large portion of the land was submerged at the highest tides, and in the spring freshets, and was covered with a generous growth of salt grass, in which a small army might readily find concealment.
The little fishing band was now sadly broken and lessened by one of the Washingtonian demands upon Brother Jonathan. For reasons that he did not choose to give, David Bushnell joined this band of fishermen in the summer of 1775. Gradually he made himself, by purchase, the owner of the larger part of the reel and seine. In a few weeks’ time he had induced his brother Ezra to become as much of a fisherman as he himself was.
As the days went by, the brothers fairly haunted this island. They gave it a name for their own use, and, early in the day-dawn of many a morning, they pulled the Lady Fenwick wearily up the Pochaug, to snatch a few winks of sleep at home, before the sun should fairly rise and call them to their daily tasks, for David assumed to help Ezra on the farm, even as Ezra helped him on the island.
The two brothers owned the reel and the seine before the end of the month of August in 1775. As soon as they became the sole owners, they procured lumber and enclosed the reel, and very seldom took down the seine from its great round perch; they used it just often enough to allay any suspicion as to their real object in becoming owners of the fishing implements.
About that time a story grew into general belief that the tomb of Lady Fenwick was haunted. Boatmen, passing in the stillness of the solemn night hours, asserted that they heard strange 84 noises issuing from the hill, just where the lady slept in her lonely burial-place. The sounds seemed to emerge from the earth, and timid men passed up the river with every inch of sail set to catch the breeze, lest the solemn thud should sound, that a hundred persons were willing to testify had been heard by each and every one of them, at some hour of the night, coming from the tomb.
One evening in late September, the two brothers started forth as usual, nominally to “go fishing.” As they stepped down the bank, Mr. Bushnell followed them.
“Boys,” said he, “it’s an uncommon fine night on the water. I believe I’ll take a seat in your boat, with your permission. I used to like fishing myself when I was young and spry.”
“And leave mother alone!” objected David.
“She’s been out with me many a night on the Sound. She’s brave, and won’t mind a good south-west wind, such as I dare say breaks in on the shore this minute. Go and call her.”
And so the family started forth to go fishing.
This was a night the two brothers had been looking forward to during weeks of earnest labor, and now—well, it could not be helped, and there was not a moment in which to hold counsel.
Mr. Bushnell had planned this surprise early in the day, but had not told his wife until evening. Then he announced his determination to “learn what all these midnight and all-night absences did mean.”
As the Lady Fenwick came out from the Pochaug River into the Sound, the south-west wind brought crested waves to shore. The wind was increasing, and, to the great relief of David and Ezra, Mr. Bushnell gave the order to turn back into the river.
The next day David Bushnell asked his mother whether or not she knew the reason his father had proposed to go out with them the night before.
“Yes, David,” was the reply, “I do.”
“Will you tell me?”
“He does not believe that you and Ezra go fishing at all.”
“What do you believe about it, mother?”
“I believe in you, David, and that when you have anything to tell to me, I shall be glad to listen.”
“And father does not trust me yet; I am sorry,” said David, turning away. And then, as by a sudden impulse, he returned and said:
“If you can trust me so entirely, mother, we can trust you. To-day, two gentlemen will be here. You will please be ready to go out in the boat with us whenever they come.”
“Where to?”
“To my fishing ground, mother.”
The strangers arrived, and were presented to Mrs. Bushnell as Dr. Gale and his friend, Mr. Franklin.
At three of the clock the little family set off in 86 the row-boat. Down at Pochaug harbor, there was Mr. Bushnell hallooing to them to be taken on board.
“I saw my family starting on an unknown voyage,” he remarked, as the boat approached the shore as nearly as it could, while he waded out to meet it.
“Ah, Friend Gale, is that you?” he said, as with dripping feet he stepped in. “And whither bound?” he added, dropping into a seat.
“For the far and distant land of the unknown, Mr. Bushnell. Permit me to introduce you to my friend, Mr. Franklin.”
“Franklin! Franklin!” exclaimed Mr. Bushnell, eyeing the stranger a little rudely. “Doctor Benjamin Franklin, if you please, Benjamin Gale!” he corrected, to the utter amazement of the party.
The oars missed the stroke, caught it again, and, for a minute, poor Dr. Franklin was confused by the sudden announcement that he existed at all, and, in particular, in that small boat on the sea.
“Yes, sir, even so,” responded Dr. Gale, cheerfully adding, “and we’re going down to see the new fishing tackle your son is going to catch the enemy’s ships with.”
“Fishing tackle! Enemy’s ships! Why, David is the laziest man in all Saybrook town. He does nothing with his first summer but fish, fish all night long! The only stroke of honest work I’ve 87 ever known him to do was to build this boat we’re in.”
During this time the brothers were pulling with a will for the island.
Arrived there, the boat was drawn up on the sand, the seine-house unlocked, and, when the light of day had been let into it, fishing-reel and seine had disappeared, and, in the language of Doctor Benjamin Gale, this is what they found therein:
The American Turtle.
“The body, when standing upright, in the position in which it is navigated, has the nearest resemblance to the two upper shells of the tortoise, joined together. It is seven and a half feet long, and six feet high. The person who navigates it enters at the top. It has a brass top or cover which receives the person’s head, as he sits on a seat, and is fastened on the inside by screws.
“On this brass head are fixed eight glasses, viz: two before, two on each side, one behind, and one to look out upwards. On the same brass head are fixed two brass tubes to admit fresh air when requisite, and a ventilator at the side, to free the machine from the air rendered unfit for respiration.
“On the inside is fixed a barometer, by which he can tell the depth he is under water; a compass by which he knows the course he steers. In the barometer, and on the needles of the compass, is fixed fox-fire—that is, wood that gives light in the dark. His ballast consists of about nine hundred-weight of lead, which he carries at the bottom and on the outside of the machine, part of which is so fixed as he can let run down to the bottom, and serves as an anchor by which he can ride ad libitum.
“He has a sounding lead fixed at the bow, by which he can take the depth of water under him, and a forcing-pump by which he can free the machine at pleasure, and can rise above water, and again immerge, as occasion requires.
“In the bow he has a pair of oars fixed like the two opposite arms of a windmill, with which he can row forward, and, turning them the opposite way, row the machine backward; another pair, fixed upon the same model, with which he can row the machine round, either to the right or left; and a third by which he can row the machine either up or down; all of which are turned by foot, like a spinning wheel. The rudder by which he steers he manages by hand, within-board.
“All these shafts which pass through the machine are so curiously fixed as not to admit any water.
“The magazine for the powder is carried on the hinder part of the machine, without-board, and so contrived that, when he comes under the side of a ship, he rubs down the side until he comes to the keel, and a hook so fixed as that when it touches the keel it raises a spring which frees the magazine from the machine, and fastens it to the side of the ship; at the same time it draws a pin, which sets the watch-work a-going, which, at a given time, springs the lock, and an explosion ensues.”
Thus wrote Dr. Benjamin Gale to Silas Deane, member of Congress at Philadelphia. His letter bears the date November 9, 1775, and, after describing the wonderful machine, he adds:
“I well know the man. Lately he has conducted matters with the greatest secrecy, both for the personal safety of the navigator, and to produce the greater astonishment to those against whom it is designed; and, you may call me a visionary, an enthusiast, or what you please, I do insist upon it that I believe the inspiration of the Almighty has given him understanding for this very purpose and design.”
When the seine-house door had been fastened open, when Dr. Franklin and Dr. Gale had gone within, followed by the two brothers, Mr. Bushnell and his wife stood without looking in, and wondering in their hearts what the sight they saw could mean; for, of the intent or purpose of 89 the curious, oaken, iron-bound, many-paddled, brass-headed, window-lighted thing, they, it must be remembered, knew nothing. It must mean something extraordinary, of course, or Doctor Franklin would never have thought it worth his while to come out of his way to behold it.
“Father,” whispered Mrs. Bushnell, “it’s the fish David has been all summer catching.”
“Fish!” ejaculated Mr. Bushnell, “it’s more like a turtle.”
“That’s good!” spoke up Dr. Gale, from within. “Turtle it shall be.”
“It is the first submarine boat ever made—a grand idea, wrought into substance,” slowly pronounced Dr. Franklin; “let us have it forth into the river.”
“And run the risk of discovery?” suggested David, pleased that his work approved itself to the man of science.
“We meant to try it last night, but failed,” said Ezra Bushnell.
“There, now, father, don’t you wish we had staid at home?” whispered Mrs. Bushnell.
“No!” growled the father. “They would have killed themselves getting it down alone.”
He stepped within and laid his hand on the machine, saying:
“Anna, you keep watch, and, if any boat heaves in sight, let us know. Does the Turtle snap, David?” he questioned, putting forth his hand and laying it cautiously upon the animal.
“Never, until the word is given,” replied the son, and then ten strong hands applied the strength within them to lift the curious piece of mechanism and carry it without.
The seine-house was close to the river-bank, and in a half-hour’s time the American Turtle was in its native element.
Madam Anna Bushnell kept strict watch over the shores and the river, but not a sail slid into sight, not an oar troubled the waters of the tide, as it tossed back the tumble of the down-flowing river.
It was a hard duty for the mother to perform; for, at a glance toward the bank, she saw David step into the machine, and the brass cover close down over his head. She felt suffocating fears for him, as, at last, the thing began to move into the stream. She saw it go out, she saw it slowly sinking, going down out of sight, until even the brass head was submerged.
Then she forsook her post, and hastened to the bank to keep watch with the rest.
One, two, three minutes went by. The men looked at the surface of the waters, at each other, grew thoughtful, pale; the mother gasped and dropped on the salt grass, fainting; the brother gave to Lady Fenwick a running push, bounded on board, and clutched the oars to row swiftly to the spot where David went down.
Mr. Bushnell filled his hat with water, and sprinkled the pale face in the sedge.
“There! there!” cried Dr. Franklin, with distended eyes and eager outlook.
“Where? where?” ejaculated Dr. Gale, striving to take into vision the whole surface of the river, at a glance.
“It’s all right! He’s coming up plump!” shouted Ezra, from his boat, as he rowed with speed for the spot where a brass tube was rising, sun-burnished, from the Connecticut.
Presently the brass head, with its very small windows, emerged, even the oaken sides were rising,—and Mr. Bushnell was greeting the returning consciousness of his wife with the words:
“It’s all right, mother. David is safe.”
“Don’t let him know,” were the first words she spoke, “that his own mother was so faithless as to doubt!”
And now, paddle, paddle, toward the river-bank came the Turtle, David Bushnell’s head rising out of its shell, proud confidence shining forth from his eyes, as feet and hands busied themselves in navigating the boat that had lived for months in his brain, and now was living, in very substance, under his control.
As he neared the bank a shout of acclamation greeted him.
He reached the island, was fairly dragged forth from his seat, and carried up to the spot where his mother sat, trying to overcome every trace of past doubt and fear.
“Now,” said Dr. Gale, “let us give thanks unto 92 Him who hath given this youth understanding to do this great work.”
With bared heads and devout hearts the thanksgiving went upward, and thereafter a perfect shower of questions pelted David Bushnell concerning his device to blow up ships: how he came to think of it at all—where he got this idea and that as to its construction—to all of which he simply said:
“You’ll find your answer in the prayer you’ve just offered!”
“But,” said practical Mr. Bushnell, “the Lord did not send you money to buy oak and iron and brass, did he?”
“Yes,” returned David, “by the hand of my good friend, Dr. Gale. To him belongs half the victory.”
“Pshaw! pshaw!” impatiently uttered the doctor. “I tell you it is no such thing! I only advanced My Lady here,” turning to Madam Bushnell, “a little money, on her promise to pay me at some future time. I’m mightily ashamed now that I took the promise at all. Madam Bushnell, I’ll never take a penny of it back again, never, as long as I live. I will have a little of the credit of this achievement, and no one shall hinder me.”
“How is that, mother?” questioned Mr. Bushnell. “You borrow money and not tell me!” and David and Ezra looked at her.
“I—I—” stammered forth the woman, “I only guessed that David was doing something that he 93 wanted money for, and told Dr. Gale if he gave it to him I would repay it. Do you care, father?”
Before he had a chance to get an answer in, David Bushnell stepped forward, and, taking the little figure of his mother in his arms, kissed her sharply, and walked away, to give some imaginary attention to the Turtle at the bank.
“It is a fair land to work for!” spoke up Doctor Franklin, looking about upon river and earth and sea; “worthy it is of our highest efforts; of our lives, even, if need be. God give us strength as our need shall be.”
With many a tug and pull and hearty heave-ho, the Turtle was hoisted up the bank and safely drawn into the seine-house. The door was locked, and Lady Fenwick’s tomb gave forth no sound that night.
Doctor Franklin went his way to Boston. Doctor Gale returned to Killingworth and his waiting patients, and the Bushnells, father, mother and sons, having put the two gentlemen on the Saybrook shore, went down the river into the Sound, along its edge, and up the small Pochaug to their own home by the sycamore tree.
Mr. Bushnell and Ezra did the rowing that night. David’s white hands had, somehow, a new radiance in them for his father’s eyes, and did not seem exactly fitted for rowing just a common boat and every-day oars.
The young man sat in the stern, beside his mother, one arm around her waist, and the other 94 clasped closely between her little palms, while, now and then, her finding eyes would penetrate his consciousness with a glance that seemed to say, “I always believed in you, David.”
If you go to-day and stand upon the site of the old fort, built at the mouth of the Connecticut River, in the year 1635, by Lion Gardiner, once engineer in the service of the Prince of Orange, and search the waters up and down for the island on which David Bushnell built the American Turtle in 1775, you will not find it.
If you seek the oldest inhabitant of Saybrook, and ask him to point out its locality, he will say, with boyhood’s fondness for olden play-grounds in his tone:
“Ah, yes! It is Poverty Island that you mean. It used to be there, but spring freshets and beating storms have washed it away.”
The unexpected visit of Dr. Benjamin Franklin, to see the machine David Bushnell was building, gave new force to that young gentleman’s confidence in his own powers of invention.
He worked with increased energy and hope to perfect boat and magazine, that he might do good service with them before winter should fall on the waters of the Massachusetts Bay, where the hostile ships were lying.
At last came the day wherein the final trial-trip should be made. The pumps built by Mr. Doolittle, but not according to order, had failed once, but new ones had been supplied, and everything seemed propitious. David and Ezra, with their mother in the boat, rowed once more to Poverty Island. “On the morrow the great venture should begin,” they said.
The time was mid-October. The forests had wrapped the cooling coast in warmth of coloring that was soft and many-hued as the shawls of Cashmere, while the sun-made fringe of goldenrod fell along the shores of river and island and sea.
Mrs. Bushnell’s heart beat proudly above the fond affection that could not suppress a shiver, as the Turtle was pushed into the stream. She could not help seeing that David made a line fast from the seine-house to his boat ere he went down. They watched many minutes to see him rise to the surface, but he did not.
“Mother,” said Ezra, “the pump for forcing water out when he wants to rise don’t work, and we must pull him in. He feared it.”
As he spoke the words he laid hold on the line, and began gently to draw on it.
“Hurry! hurry! do!” cried Mrs. Bushnell, seizing the same line close to the water’s edge, and drawing on it with all her strength. She was vexed that Ezra had not told her the danger in the beginning, and she “knew very well that 96 SHE would not have stood there and let David die of suffocation, in that horrid, brass-topped coffin!”
“Hold, mother!” cried Ezra; “pull gently, or the line may part on some barnacled rock if it gets caught.”
Nevertheless, Mrs. Bushnell pulled in as fast as she could.
The tide was sweeping up the river, and a shark, in hard chase after a school of menhaden, swam steadily up, with fin out of water.
Just as the shark reached the place, he made a dive, and the rope parted!
Mrs. Bushnell screamed a word or two of the terror that had seized her. Ezra looked up, amazed to find the rope coming in so readily, hand over hand. He cast it down, sprang to the boat, and pushed off to the possible rescue, only to find that the Turtle was making for the river-bank instead of the island.
He rowed to the spot. His brother, for the first time in his life, was overcome with disappointment and disinclined to talk.
“I—I,” said David, wiping his forehead. “I grew tired, and made for shore. The tide was taking me up fast.”
“Did you let go the line?” questioned Ezra.
“Yes.”
“The pump works all right, then?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve frightened mother terribly.”
“Have I? I never thought. I forgot she was here. Let us get back, then;” and the two brothers, without speaking a word, rowed down against the sweep of tide, the great Turtle in tow.
The three went home, still keeping a silence broken only by briefest possible question and answer.
The golden October night fell upon the old town. Pochaug River, its lone line of silver gathered in many a stretch of interval into which the moon looked calmly down, lay on the land for many a mile.
Again and again, during the evening, David Bushnell went out from the house and stood silently on the rough bridge that crossed the river by the door.
“Let David alone, mother,” urged Ezra, as she was about to follow him on one occasion. “He is thinking out something, and is better alone.”
That which the young man was thinking at the moment was, that he wished the moon would hurry and go down. He longed for darkness.
The night was growing cold. Frost was in the air.
As he stood on the rough logs, a post-rider, hurrying by with letters, came up.
“Holloa there!” he called aloud, not liking the looks of the man on the bridge.
“It’s I,—David Bushnell, Joe Downs! You can ride by in safety,” he responded, ringing out one of his merriest chimes of laughter at the very idea of being taken for a highwayman.
“I’ve news,” said Joe; “want it?”
“Yes.”
Joe Downs opened his pocket, and, by the light of the moon, found the letter he had referred to.
“Dr. Gale told me not to fail to put this into your hands as I came by. I should kind o’ judge, by the way he spoke, that the continent couldn’t get along very well ’thout you, if I hadn’t known a thing or two. Howsomever, here’s the letter, and I’ve to jog on to Guilford afore the moon goes down. So good-night.”
“Good night, Joe. Thank you for stopping,” said David, going into the house.
“Were you expecting that letter, David?” questioned Mr. Bushnell, when it had been read.
“No, sir. It is from Dr. Gale. He asks me to hasten matters as far as possible, but a new contrivance will have to go in before I am ready.”
“There! That’s what troubles him,” thought both Mrs. Bushnell and Ezra, and they exchanged glances of sympathy and satisfaction—and the little household went to sleep, quite care-free that night.
At two of the clock, with nearly noiseless tread, David Bushnell left the house.
As the door closed his mother moved uneasily in her sleep, and awoke with the sudden consciousness that something uncanny had happened. She looked from a window and saw, by the light of a low-lying moon, that David had gone out.
Without awakening her husband she protected herself with needful clothing, and, wrapped about in one of the curious plaid blankets of mingled blue and white, adorned with white fringe, that are yet to be found in the land, she followed into the night.
Save for the sleepy tinkle of the water over the stones in the Pochaug River, and an occasional cry of a night-bird still lingering by the sea, the air was very still.
With light tread across the bridge she ran a little way, and then ventured a timid cry of her own into the night:
“David! David!”
Now David Bushnell hoped to escape without awakening his mother. He was lingering near, to learn whether his going had disturbed anyone, and he was quite prepared for the call.
Turning back to meet her he thought: “What a mother mine is.” And he said, “Well, mother, what is it? I was afraid I might disturb you.”
“O David!” was all that she could utter in response.
“And so you are troubled about me, are you? I’m only going to chase the will-o’-the-wisp a little while, and I could not do it, you know, until moon-down.”
“O David!” and this time with emphatic pressure on his arm, “David, come home. I can’t let you go off alone.”
“Come with me, then. You’re well blanketed, 100 I see. I’d much rather have some one with me, only Ezra was tired and sleepy.”
He said this with so much of his accustomed manner that Mrs. Bushnell put her hand within his arm and went on, quite content now, and willing that he should speak when it pleased him to do so, and it pleased him very soon.
“Little mother,” he said, “I am afraid you are losing faith in me.”
“Never! David; only—I was a little afraid that you were losing your own head, or faith in yourself.”
“No; but I am afraid I’ve lost my faith in something else. I showed you the two bits of fox-fire that were crossed on one end of the needle in the compass, and the one bit made fast to the other? Well, to-day, when I went to the bottom of the river, the fox-fire gave no light, and the compass was useless. Can you understand how bad that would be under an enemy’s ship, not to know in which direction to navigate?”
“You must have fresh fire, then.”
“That is just what I am out for to-night. I had to wait till the moon was gone.”
“Oh! is that all? How foolish I have been! but you ought to tell me some things, sometimes, David.”
“And so I will. I tell you now that it will be well for you to go home and go to sleep. I may have to go deep into the woods to find the fire I want.”
But his mother only walked by his side a little faster than before, and on they went to a place where a bit of woodland had grown up above fallen trees.
They searched in places wherein both had seen the fire of decaying wood a hundred times, but not one gleam of phosphorescence could be found anywhere. At last they turned to go homeward.
“What will you do, David? Go and search in the Killingworth woods to-morrow night?” she asked, as they drew near home.
“It is of no use,” he said, with a sigh. “It must be that the frost destroys the fox-fire. Unless Dr. Franklin knows of a light that will not eat up the air, everything must be put off until spring.”
The next day David Bushnell went to Killingworth, to tell the story to Dr. Gale, and Dr. Gale wrote to Silas Deane (Conn. Historical Col., Vol. 2), begging him to inquire of Dr. Franklin concerning the possibility of using the Philosopher’s Lantern, but no light was found, and the poor Turtle was housed in the seine-house on Poverty Island during the long winter, which proved to be one of great mildness from late December to mid-February.
In February we find David Bushnell before Governor Jonathan Trumbull and his Council at Lebanon, to tell about and illustrate the marvels of his wonderful machine.
During this time the whole affair had been kept 102 a profound secret from all but the faithful few surrounding the inventor. And now, if ever, the time was drawing near wherein the labor and outlay must either repay laborer and lender, or give to both great trouble and distress.
I cannot tell you with what trepidation the young man walked into the War Office at Lebanon, with a very small Turtle under his arm.
You will please remember the situation of the colonists at that moment. On the land they feared not to contend with Englishmen. Love of liberty in the Provincials was strong enough, when united with a trusty musket and a fair supply of powder, to encounter red-coated regulars of the British army; but on the ocean, and in every bay, harbor and river, they were powerless. The enemy’s ships had kept Boston in siege for nearly two years, the Americans having no opposing force to contend with them.
Could this little Turtle, which David Bushnell carried under his arm, do the work he wished it to, why, every ship of the line could be blown into the air!
The inventor had faith in his invention, but he feared, when he looked into the faces of the grave Governor and his Council of War, that he could never impart his own belief to them.
I cannot tell you with what trust of heart and faith of soul Mrs. Bushnell kept the February day in the house by the bridge at Pochaug. Even the strong-minded, sturdy-nerved Mr. Bushnell 103 looked often up the road by which David and Ezra would approach from Lebanon, with a keen interest in his eyes; but he would not let any word escape him, until darkness had fallen and they were not come.
“He said he would be here at eight, at the very latest,” said the mother at length, and she went to the fire and placed before the burning coals two chickens to broil.
“I’m afraid David won’t have much appetite, unless his model should be approved, and money is too precious to spend on experiments,” said Mr. Bushnell, as she returned to his side.
“Do you mean to tell me you doubt?”
“Of course I doubt. Jonathan Trumbull is a man not at all likely to give his consent to anything that does not commend itself to common sense.”
Mr. Bushnell was saved the pain of saying his thought, that he was afraid, if David’s plan was a good one, somebody would have thought of it long ago, for vigorous knuckles were at work upon the winter-door.
As soon as it was opened the genial form of good Dr. Gale stood revealed.
“Are the boys back yet?” he asked, stepping within.
“No, but we expect them every minute,” said Mr. Bushnell.
“Well, friends, I had a patient within three miles of you to visit, and I thought I’d come on and hear the news.”
Ere he was fully made welcome to hearth and home, in walked David, with the little Turtle under his arm. Without ado he went up to his mother and said:
“Madam, I present this to you, with Governor Trumbull’s compliments. He has ordered your boy money, men, metals and powder without stint to work with. Wish me joy, won’t you?”
I do not anywhere find a record of the words in which the joy was wished, on that 2nd of February, a hundred years ago, but it is easy to imagine the very tones in which the good, God-loving Dr. Gale gave thanks for the new blessing that had that day fallen on his friend’s house.
It is impossible to follow David Bushnell in his many journeys to the iron furnaces of Salisbury, in the spring and early summer of 1776, during which time the entire country was aroused and astir from the removal of the American army from Boston to New York; and our friends at Saybrook were busy as bees from morning till night, in getting ready perfect machines for duty.
David Bushnell’s strength proved insufficient to navigate one of his Turtles in the tidal waters of the Sound, and his brother Ezra learned to do it most perfectly.
In the latter end of June, the British fleet, which had sailed out of Boston harbor so ingloriously on the 17th of March, for Halifax, there to await re-inforcements, appeared in waters adjacent to New York.
The signal of their approach was gladly hailed by the inventor and by the navigator of the American Turtle.
A whale-boat from New London, her seamen sworn to inviolable secrecy, was ordered to be in the river at a given point, on a given night, for a service of which the men were utterly ignorant.
On the evening previous, Ezra Bushnell, overworn by many attempts at navigating the machine, was taken seriously ill. At midnight he was delirious—at day-dawn Dr. Gale was sent for.
When night fell he was in a raging fever, with no prospect of rapid recovery.
David set off alone, and with a heavy heart, to meet the boatmen. In the seine-house on Poverty Island the brothers had stored provisions for a cruise of several days. To this spot David Bushnell went alone, and with a saddened heart, for he knew that it must be many days ere he could learn of his brother’s condition.
The New London boatmen were promptly at the appointed place of meeting.
When they saw the curious thing they were told to take in tow, their curiosity knew no bounds; and it was only when assured that it was dangerous to examine it, that they desisted from their determination to know all about it, and consented to obey orders.
When, at last, a departure was made, the hour was midnight, the tide served, and no ill-timed discovery was made of the deed.
The strong-armed boatmen rowed well and long, and, as daylight dawned, they were directed to keep a look-out for Faulkner’s Island, a small bit of land in the Sound, nearly five miles from the Connecticut shore.
The flashing light that illumines the waters at night for us, did not gleam on them, but nevertheless, the high brown bank and the little slope of land looked inviting to weary men, as they cautiously rowed near to it, not knowing whom they might meet there.
They landed, made a fire, cooked their food, ate of it, and lay down to sleep until night should come again.
They set out early in the ensuing twilight, and rowed westward all night, in the face of a gentle wind.
“If there were only another Faulkner’s Island to flee to,” said Mr. Bushnell, as morning drew near. “Do you know (to one of the men) a safe place to hide in on this coast?”
They were then off Merwin’s Point, and between West Haven and Milford.
“There’s Poquahaug,” was the reply, with a momentary catch of the oar, and incline of the head toward the south-west.
“What is Poquahaug?”
“A little island, pretty well in, close to shore, as it were, and, maybe, deserted.”
After deliberate council had been held it was resolved to examine the locality.
A few years after New Haven and Milford churches were formed under the oak-tree at New Haven, this little island, to which they were fleeing to hide the Turtle from daylight, was “granted to Charles Deal for a tobacco plantation, provided that he would not trade with the Dutch or Indians;” but now Indians, Dutch and Charles Deal alike had left it, the latter with a rude, sheltering building in place of Ansantawae’s big summer wigwam that used to adorn its crest.
To this spot, bright with grass, and green with full-foliaged trees of oak on its eastern shore, the weary boatmen, who had had a long, hard pull of twenty miles to make, came, just as the longest day’s sun was at its rising.
They were so glad and relieved and satisfied to find no one on it.
The Turtle was left at anchor near the shore; the whale-boat gave up of its provisions, and presently the little camp was in the enjoyment of a long day of rest and refreshment.
Should anyone approach from the seaward or from the mainland, it was determined that the party should resolve itself into a band of fishermen, fishing for striped bass, for which the locality was well known.
As the day wore on, and the falling tide revealed a line of stones that gradually increased, as the water fell, to a bar a hundred feet wide, stretching from the island to the sands of the Connecticut shore, David Bushnell perceived 108 that the locality was just the proper place in which to learn and teach the art of navigating the Turtle. He examined the region well, and then called the men together.
They were staunch, good-hearted fellows, accustomed to long pulls in northern seas after whales, and that they were patriotic he fully believed. The Turtle was drawn up under the grassy bank, where the long sedge half hid, and bushels of rock-weed and sea-drift wholly concealed it, and then, in a few carefully-chosen words, David Bushnell entrusted it to the watch and care of the boatmen.
“I am going to leave it here, and you with it, until I return,” he said. “Guard it with your lives if need be. If you handle it, it will be at the risk of life. If you keep it well, Congress will reward you.”
The mystery of the whole affair enchanted the men. They made faithful promises, and, in the glorious twilight of the evening, rowed David Bushnell across the beautiful stretch of Sound that to-day separates Charles Island from the comely old town of Milford.
As the whale-boat went up the harbor, a sailing vessel was getting ready to depart.
Finding that it was bound to New York, David Bushnell took passage in it the same night.
Two days later, with a letter from Governor Trumbull to General Washington as his introduction, the young man, by command of the latter, 109 sought out General Parsons, and “requested him to furnish him with two or three men to learn the navigation of his new machine. General Parsons immediately sent for Ezra Lee, then a sergeant, and two others, who had offered their services to go on board a fireship; and, on Bushnell’s request being made known to them, they enlisted themselves under him for this novel piece of service.”
Returning to Poquahaug (the Indian name of Charles Island), the American Turtle was found safe and sound. Here the little party spent many days in experimenting with it in the waters about the island; and in the Housatonic River.
During this time the enemy had got possession of a portion of Long Island, and of Governor’s Island in the harbor—thus preventing the approach to New York by the East River.
When the appalling news of the battle of Long Island reached David Bushnell, he resolved, cost what it might of danger to himself, or hazard to the Turtle, to get it to New York with all speed.
To that end he had it conveyed by water to New Rochelle, there landed and carried across the country to the Hudson River, and presently we hear of it as being on a certain night, late in August, ready to start on its perilous enterprise.
If you will go to-day and stand where the Turtle floated that night (for the land has since that time grown outward into the sea), on your right hand across the Hudson River, you will see New 110 Jersey. At your left, across the East River, Long Island begins, with the beautiful Governor’s Island in the bay just before you, and, looking to the southward, in the distance, you will discern Staten Island.
Let us go back to that day and hour.
The precise date of the Turtle’s voyage down the bay is not given, but the time must have been on the night of either the thirtieth or thirty-first of August. We will choose the thirtieth, and imagine ourselves standing in the crowd by the side of Generals Washington and Putnam, to see the machine start.
Remember, now, where we stand. It is only last night that our army, defeated, dispirited, exhausted by battle, lay across the river on Brooklyn Heights. Behind it, busy with pickaxe and shovel, the victorious troops of Mother England were making ready to “finish” the Americans on the morrow.
There were supposed to be twenty-four thousand of the enemy, only nine thousand Continentals; and, just ready to enter East River and cut them off from New York, lay the British fleet to the north of Staten Island.
As happened at Boston in March, so happened it last night in New York, a friendly fog held the heights of Brooklyn in its grasp, while at New York all was clear.
Under cover of this fog General Washington withdrew across the river, a mile or more in 111 width, nine thousand men, with all their “baggage, stores, provisions, horses, and munitions of war,” and not a man of the enemy knew that they were gone until the fog lifted.
Now, as we stand, Long Island, Governor’s Island, Staten Island, one and all are under the control of Britons.
David Bushnell is in a whale-boat, down close to the Turtle, giving some last important words of direction to brave Ezra Lee, who has stepped within it. David Bushnell could not help wishing, as he did so, that he could take his place and guide the spirit of the child of his own creation, in its first great encounter with the world.
The word is given. The brass top of the Turtle is shut down. Watchful eyes and swift rowers belonging to the enemy are keeping guard on Governor’s Island, by which Ezra Lee must row, and it is safer to go under water. How crowded this little pier would be, did the inhabitants but know what is going on!
The whale-boats start out, David Bushnell in one of them. They mean to take the Turtle in tow the minute it is safe to do so and save Ezra Lee the labor of rowing it until the last minute.
It is eleven o’clock. All silently they dip the oars, and hear the sentinels cry from camp and shore.
Past the island, in safety, at last. They look for the Turtle. Up it comes, a distant watch-light gleaming across its brass head disclosing its 112 presence. Once more it is in tow, and Lee is in the whale-boat.
Down the bay they go, until the lights from the fleet grow dangerously near.
On the wide, wind-stirred waters of New York Bay, Ezra Lee gets into the Turtle, and is cast off, and left alone, for the whale-boats return to New York.
With the rudder in his hand, and his feet upon the oars, he pursues his way. The strong ebb tide flows fast, and, before he is aware of it, it has drifted him down past the men-of-war.
However, he immediately gets the machine about, and, “by hard labor at the crank for the space of five glasses by the ships’ bells, or two and a half hours, he arrives under the stern of one of the ships at about slack water.”
Day is now beginning to dawn. He can see the people on board, and hear them talk.
The moment has come for diving. He closes up quickly overhead, lets in the water, and goes down under the ship’s bottom.
He now applies the screw and does all in his power to make it enter, but in vain; it will not pierce the ship’s copper. Undaunted, he paddles along to a different part, hoping to find a softer place; but, in doing this, in his hurry and excitement, he manages the mechanism so that the Turtle instantly arises to the surface on the east side of the ship, and is at once exposed to the piercing light of day.
Again he goes under, hoping that he has not been seen.
This time his courage fails. It is getting to be day. If the ship’s boats are sent after him his escape will be very difficult, well-nigh impossible, and, if he saves himself at all, it must be by rowing more than four miles.
He gives up the enterprise with reluctance, and starts for New York.
Governor’s Island must be passed by. He draws near to it, as near as he can venture, and then submerges the Turtle. Alas! something has befallen the compass. It will not guide the rowing under the sea.
Every few minutes he is compelled to rise to the surface to look out from the top of the machine to guide his course, and his track grows very zig-zag through the waters.
Ah! the soldiers at Governor’s Island see the Turtle! Hundreds are gathering upon the parapet to watch its motions, such a curious boat as it is, with turret of brass bobbing up and down, sinking, disappearing—coming to the surface again in a manner wholly unaccountable.
Brave Lee knows his danger, and paddles away for dear life and love of family up in Lyme, eating breakfast quietly now he remembers, not knowing his peril.
Once more he goes up to take a lookout, to see where White-hall slip lies.
A glance at Governor’s Island, and he sees a barge shove off laden with his enemies.
Down again, and up, and he sees it making for him. There is no escape! What can he do!
“If I must die,” he thinks, “they shall die with me!” and he lets go the magazine.
Nearer and nearer—the barge is very close. “If they pick me up they will pick that up,” thinks Lee, “and we shall all be blown to atoms together!”
They are now within a hundred and fifty feet of the Turtle and they see the magazine that he has detached.
“Some horrible Yankee trick!” cries a British soldier. “Beware!” And they do beware by turning and rowing with all speed for the island whence they came.
Poor Lee looks out with amazement to see them go. He is well-nigh exhausted, and the magazine, with its dreadful clock-work going on within it, and its hundred and fifty pounds of powder, ready to go off at a given moment, is floating on behind him, borne by the tide.
He strains every muscle to near New York. He signals the shore.
Since daylight Putnam has been there keeping watch. David Bushnell has paced up and down all night, in keen anxiety.
The friendly whale-boats put out to meet him.
Meanwhile, slowly borne by the coming tide, the magazine floats into the East River.
“It will blow up in five minutes now,” says Bushnell, looking at his watch, and he goes to welcome Ezra Lee.
The five minutes go by.
Suddenly, with tremendous voice, and awful uproar of the sea, the magazine explodes.
Columns of water toss high in air, mingled with the oaken ribs that held the powder but a minute ago.
Consternation seizes British troops on Long Island. The brave soldiers on the parapet at Governor’s Island quake with fear. All New York rushes to the river-side to find out what it can mean. Nothing, on all the face of the earth, ever happened like it before, one and all declare.
Opinion varies concerning it, from bomb to earthquake, from meteor to water-spout, and settles down on neither.
Poor Ezra Lee feels that he meant well, but did not act wisely. David Bushnell praises the sergeant, and takes all the want of success to himself, in not going to do his own work.
Meanwhile, with astonishment, Generals Washington and Putnam and David Bushnell himself behold, as did the Provincials, after the battle of Bunker-Breed’s Hill, victory in defeat, for lo! no British ship sails up the East River, or appears to bombard New York.
Silently they weigh anchor and drop down the bay. The little American Turtle gained a bloodless victory that day.
Note.—The writer has carefully followed, in the account of the Turtle’s attempt upon the Eagle, the statement of Ezra Lee, made to Mr. Charles Griswold of Lyme, more than forty years after the occurrence, and by him communicated to the American Journal of Science and Arts in 1820. For the description of the wonderful mechanism of the machine, the account given at the time by Dr. Gale in his letters to Silas Deane has been chosen, as probably more accurate than one made from memory after forty years had passed.
David Bushnell was appointed from civil life Captain-Lieutenant of a Corps of Sappers and Miners—recommended for the position by Governor Trumbull, General Parsons and others. June 8, 1781, he was promoted full Captain. He was present at the siege of Yorktown and commanded the Corps in 1783.
He was also a member of the Society of the Cincinnati.