The boy's book of battle-lyrics

by Thomas Dunn English

ORISKANY.

The battle at Oriskany is one of the many instances during the Revolutionary contest where disaster resulted through the rashness and insubordination of inferior officers. A lack of discipline continually placed the cause in peril, and success was frequently won at a cost which might have been avoided. The enemy, under the command of Johnson and Brant, were, fortunately for their antagonists, troubled with the same fault. Had it been otherwise, the Americans would have been exterminated.

PETER GANSEVOORT.

The enemy had laid siege to Fort Schuyler, where Gansevoort lay with a small garrison. General Herkimer, though without much pretensions to military science, was a brave and prudent officer, and perfectly fitted for the occasion. He had called out the militia of Tryon County to the number of eight hundred. His plan was to make an attack upon the enemy simultaneously with a sortie from the fort, and he sent a messenger to effect that arrangement with Gansevoort. The signal for Herkimer’s advance was to be a single gun from Fort Schuyler. It was some time before the scout could make his way safely through the investing force. In the mean while some of the men grew impatient, and clamored for an immediate advance. Colonels Cox and Paris headed this party, and when Herkimer refused they denounced him as a coward. At length he submitted to a precipitous movement, at the same time saying that these very bold gentlemen would be the first to run. And so it proved.

GENERAL HERKIMER’S RESIDENCE.

The incidents of the fight are so minutely given in the ballad that no further explanation is needed. The Americans remained masters of the field, but at a fearful loss, of which that of Herkimer was not the least. Had the original plan been followed, much of the slaughter would have been spared.

There is no portrait of Herkimer in existence; all that we learn of his appearance was that he was short, stout, and full-faced. He was a man of ability, and, had he survived, from his character and courage he would doubtless have figured creditably in the partisan warfare waged in Eastern and Northern New York, if not in a wider sphere of action.

THE FIGHT AT ORISKANY.

On the fifth of August, in the morn,

I was ploughing between the rows of corn,

When I heard Dirck Bergen blow his horn.

I let the reins in quiet drop;

I bade my horse in the furrow stop,

And the sweet green leaves unheeded crop.

Down at the fence I waited till

Dirck galloped down the sloping hill,

Blowing his conch-horn with a will.

“Ho, neighbor! stop!” to Dirck I cried,

“And tell me why so fast you ride—

What is the news you scatter wide?”

He drew the rein, and told me then

How, with his seventeen hundred men,

St. Leger vexed the land again.

A fiendish crew around him stood—

The Tory base, the Hessian rude,

The painted prowler of the wood—

The savage Brant was in his train,

Before whose hatchet, quick to brain,

Fell patriot blood in scarlet rain—

THE SITE OF OLD FORT SCHUYLER.

How all this force, to serve the crown,

And win in civil strife renown,

Before Fort Schuyler settled down,

Where Gansevoort close with Willett lay—

Their force too weak for open fray—

Bristling like hunted bucks at bay.

And Dirck, by Herkimer the stout,

Was sent to noise the news about,

And summon all to arm and out.

Far must he spread the word that day,

So, bidding me come to join the fray,

And blowing his horn, he rode away.

I had been married then a year;

My wife to me was doubly dear,

For a child had come our home to cheer.

I had not mingled in the strife

That swept the land; my aim in life

To tend my farm and cheer my wife.

I watched my flocks and herds increase,

And ploughed my land and held my peace:

Men called me the Tory Abner Reece.

Yet now the country needed all

Her manly sons to break her thrall;

Could I be deaf to her piteous call?

I thought me of the cruel foe,

The red-skinned Mingo, skulking low,

The midnight raid, the secret blow—

Hessians and Brunswickers, the lees

Of Europe’s cup of miseries,

And brutal Tories, worse than these—

Britons, with rude, relentless hand:

All these made up the cruel band

Which came to spoil and vex the land.

I felt my heart in anger leap—

“No!” cried my spirit from its deep,

“I will not here ignobly creep.

“I have a strong arm for the fray;

I have a rifle sure to slay;

I fear no man by night nor day.

“When prowling wolves have left their den,

The hunter’s craft is needed then—

The country must not lack for men.”

So from the corn-rows green and tall,

I led my plough-horse to the stall,

Then took my rifle from the wall.

I slung my pouch and powder-horn,

I kissed my babe scarce three months born,

And bade my wife farewell that morn.

I journeyed steadily all that day—

Through brake and brier I made my way;

For stream or hill I did not stay.

At set of sun I made my camp

Mid alder bushes thick and damp,

And at the dawn resumed my tramp.

I reached the meeting-place at eight,

But, though no laggard, came too late—

They had not thought for me to wait.

Oh, fatal haste, so soon to stir!

Yet not the fault of Herkimer,

Who knew his foe too well to err.

Rash, headstrong men the others led,

Who mocked at what the general said,

And heaped contumely on his head.

“You know not what you seek,” he cried;

“Those are but fools who foes deride;

And prudence dwells with courage tried.

“My messenger left at set of sun;

When once his errand has been done,

Will sound Fort Schuyler’s signal-gun.

“Wait till that cannon’s voice you hear,

And then we’ll fall upon their rear,

As Gansevoort to their van draws near.”

Said Colonel Paris, then, “Not so!

We left our homes to strike a blow;

So lead us quickly to the foe.

“Else all may see those do not err

Who brand you as a coward cur

And skulking Tory, Herkimer.”

But Herkimer only smiled at first—

He knew those merely words at worst

That from hot-headed rashness burst.

“I have been placed your path to guide,

And shall I lead you, then,” he cried,

“To the jaws of ruin gaping wide?”

But Cox replied, “This talk is vain;

If Herkimer fears he may be slain,

Let him in safety here remain.”

Flashed Herkimer’s eyes with fire at this,

And sank his voice to an angry hiss—

“Such shafts,” he cried, “my honor miss.

“March on! but if I judge aright,

You’ll find, when comes our foe in sight,

The loudest boaster first in flight.”

And so they were marching through a glen

Not far from the mouth of Oriskany, when

I overtook their hindmost men.

I saw Dirck Bergen’s honest face

Among the rest; he had reached the place

An hour before me in the race.

He wrung my hand and told me all—

“Look out,” said he, “for a rain of ball

And the thickest shower that well can fall.

“For Brant is watching round about,

And long ere this, by many a scout,

He knows his foes are armed and out.

“We’ll have it heavily, by-and-by;

But that’s no matter—one can but die,

And safer it is to fight than fly.”

I laughed a little my fear to hide;

But I felt my memory backward glide

To the home I left on the river-side.

I saw that cabin of logs once more,

The ceiling low and the sanded floor,

And my wife the cradle leaning o’er.

I saw her bending with girlish grace,

And I knew the mother was trying to trace

The father’s look in the infant’s face.

The house-dog pricked his watchful ear—

He heard some traveller passing near—

She listened my coming step to hear.

But soon dispersed that pleasant scene,

And I glanced with vision clear and keen

Through the close-set boughs of the forest green.

A deep ravine was in our way,

Marshy and damp, and o’er it lay

A causeway formed of logs and clay.

The spot was pleasant—stilly down

Fell forest shadows, cool and brown,

From branch and bough and lofty crown.

Fringing the foreground of the scene,

I saw the slender birches lean

Lovingly o’er the tussocks green.

The leaves were thickly set o’erhead,

The low-growth dense around was spread—

But suddenly filled my heart with dread.

A sight, a sound the soul to shock—

A dark face peering past a rock,

The clicking of a rifle lock.

Forth from a jet of fiery red

Leaped to its mark the deadly lead—

Dirck Bergen fell beside me dead.

To life the sleeping echoes woke,

As from each rock and tree there broke

A flash of fire, a wreath of smoke.

Then rang around us yell on yell,

As though the very fiends of hell

Had risen in that gloomy dell.

And though the foe we scarce could see,

Still from each bush and rock and tree

He poured his fire incessantly.

From a sheltering trunk I glanced around—

Dying and dead bestrewed the ground,

Though some by flight scant safety found.

Ay, flight! as Herkimer had said,

Appalled at blood-drops raining red,

The rear-guard all like dastards fled.

But Herkimer blenched not—clearer, then,

His accents rang throughout the glen,

Cheering the spirits of his men.

And though his horse was slain, and he

Was wounded sorely in the knee,

A cooler man there could not be.

He was not chafed nor stirred the least,

But, gay as a guest at a wedding-feast,

He bade them strip his dying beast.

A famous seat the saddle made

Beneath a beech-tree’s spreading shade,

From whence the battle he surveyed.

All through the hottest of the fight

He sat there with his pipe alight,

And gave his orders left and right.

GENERAL HERKIMER DIRECTING THE BATTLE.

Whoever could gaze at him and flee,

The basest of poltroons would be—

The sight chased every fear from me.

None shrank the foe, though sore bestead;

Each from his tree the bullet sped,

And paid them back with lead for lead.

The battle-shout, the dying groan,

The hatchet’s crash, the rifle’s tone,

Mixed with the wounded’s painful moan.

Full many a stout heart bounding light,

Full many a dark eye beaming bright,

Were still’d in death and closed in night.

I was not idle through the fray;

But there was one alone that day

I had a fierce desire to slay.

I had seen the face, and marked it well,

That peered from the rock when Bergen fell;

And I watched for that at every yell.

No hound on scent more rapt could be,

As I scanned the fight from behind the tree;

And five I slew, but neither was he.

At length I saw a warrior brain

A neighbor’s son, young Andrew Lane,

And stoop to scalp the fallen slain.

’Twas he! my brain to throb began,

My eager hands to the gunstock ran,

And I dropped fresh priming in the pan.

His savage work was speedily through;

He raised and gave the scalp-halloo;

Sure aim I took, and the trigger drew.

Off to its mark the bullet sped;

Leaped from his breast a current red;

And the slayer of honest Dirck was dead.

Upon us closer now they came;

We formed in circles walled with flame,

Which way they moved our front the same.

Sore galled and thinned came Butler’s men,

With a bayonet charge to clear the glen,

And gallantly we met them then.

Our wrath upon the curs to deal,

There, hand to hand and steel to steel,

We made their close-set column reel.

Fiercely we fought ’mid fire and smoke,

With rifle shot and hatchet stroke,

When over our heads the thunder broke.

And I have heard the oldest say

That ne’er before that bloody day

Such storm was known as stopped our fray.

’Twas one of the cloud-king’s victories—

Down came the rain in gusty seas,

Driving us under the heaviest trees.

But short the respite that we got;

The rain and thunder lasted not,

And strife again grew fierce and hot.

At the foot of a bank I took my stand,

To pick out a man from a coming band,

When I felt on my throat a foeman’s hand.

At the tightening grasp my eyes grew dim;

But I saw ’twas a Mingo, stout of limb,

And fierce was the struggle I made with him.

Deep peril hung upon my life;

My foot gave way in the fearful strife,

The wretch was o’er me with his knife.

In my hair his eager fingers played,

I felt the keen edge of his blade;

But I struggled the harder undismayed.

I had sunk before his deadly blow,

When suddenly o’er me fell my foe—

A friendly ball had laid him low.

The Mohawks wavered—Brant in vain

Would bring them to the charge again,

For the chiefest of their braves were slain.

We heard a firing far away

In the distance where Fort Schuyler lay—

’Twas Willett with Johnson making play.

MARINUS WILLETT.

Advancing, then, with friendly cries,

A band of patriots met our eyes—

The Tories of Johnson in disguise.

They came as though to aid our band,

With cheerful front and friendly hand—

An artful trick and ably planned.

We hailed their coming with a cheer,

But the keen eye of Gardinier

Saw through their mask as they drew near.

“They think,” he cried, “by tricks like these,

To lock our sense and bear the keys—

Look! those are Johnson’s Refugees!”

A deadly purpose in us rose;

There might be quarter for our foes

Of Mingo breed, but none for those.

For cabins fired, and old men slain,

And outraged women pleading vain,

Cried vengeance on those sons of Cain.

A hurtling volley made to tell,

And then, with one wild, savage yell,

Resistless on their ranks we fell.

The Mohawks see their allies die;

Dismayed, they raise the warning cry

Of “Oonah!” then they break and fly.

A panic seized the startled foe;

They show no front, they strike no blow,

As through the forest in rout they go.

We could not follow—weak and worn

We stood upon the field that morn;

Never was triumph so forlorn.

For of our band who fought that day

One half or dead or wounded lay,

When closed that fierce and fearful fray.

And on that field, ere daylight’s close,

We buried our dead, but mourned not those

We laid to rest beside our foes.

Revenge, not grief, our souls possest—

We heaped the earth upon each breast,

And left our brothers to their rest.

BAUM’S EXPEDITION.

When Burgoyne was making the descent from Canada which ended in his capture, he began to fall short of provisions. Having learned that the colonists had a store of cattle, he despatched Lieutenant-colonel Baum, with a force of Hessians, loyalists, and savages, to capture the stock and drive it into camp. There were other ostensible objects, such as feeling the opinion of the country and recruiting the corps of loyalists; but the main object was the capture of the cattle. Baum received a sort of roving commission. He was ordered “to scour the country from Rockingham to Otter Creek,” to go down the Connecticut to Brattleborough, return by the Albany road, and rejoin Burgoyne, and to impress people with the belief that his force was the advance guard of Burgoyne’s army on its way to Boston. He was to arrest all officers or men of the enemy who were found to live off the country, and to impress all the horses in the way, “with as many saddles and bridles as can be found.” There were to be thirteen hundred horses, at least, taken, tied in tens for convenience. In short, Baum was to plunder.

The command marched, and on the next day, the 14th of August, 1777, they arrived at the mill on Walloomscoick, after a little skirmish with some Americans who were guarding cattle at Cambridge. Here Baum began to find that his march would not be a holiday parade.

VAN SCHAIK’S MILL.

People were uncertain as to the real destination of Burgoyne. He had partially succeeded in convincing many that he meant to march on Boston. The Green Mountain men sent word to Exeter imploring aid. The Provincial Assembly of New Hampshire was called hastily together, and its speaker, John Langdon, offered a subsidy of several thousand dollars in hard money to raise and equip troops, and suggested that John Stark should take command. Langdon’s words aroused his hearers. Two brigades were raised, one under Whipple and the other under Stark. The latter was then at home. He had distinguished himself at Trenton and Princeton, and had been sent home to direct recruiting. While there, Congress promoted several junior officers, and left his name off. He resigned, but kept up active efforts in behalf of the cause. He accepted the command offered, with the stipulation that he should act at his own discretion; and a part of the brigade raised for him, and a part of Whipple’s, was at once placed under his separate command. Men flocked to his support, and at Manchester, twenty miles north of Bennington, he was joined by Colonel Warner, with the remnant of the Vermont men from the disastrous field of Hubbardton. At the same time General Lincoln, who had been ordered to conduct these new forces to the Hudson River, made his appearance. But Stark refused to yield the command, notwithstanding Congress had passed a resolution that the agreement made between him and New Hampshire was “highly prejudicial to the common cause.” He held his position. Hearing of the skirmish at Cambridge, he sent a detachment to meet them. Learning of Baum’s advance, he collected all the additional forces possible, and on the morning of the 14th he set forward to support the advance detachment. He soon met the retreating advance under Gregg, and found the enemy posted upon high ground near the Walloomscoick, where they were throwing up hasty intrenchments. Stark fell back to wait for support and plan his action; and Baum, alarmed at the number of the Americans, sent an express to Burgoyne asking for reinforcements. It resulted in Brayman being sent with five hundred men; but they came too late to be of use.

JOHN STARK.

The next day there was a heavy rain, and both sides merely made ready for the fight. The main part of Baum’s forces were posted on the high ground, and intrenched as we have stated; but a strong party, principally of Rangers, guarded the ford where the Bennington road crossed. The loyalists, under Peters, had a breastwork on the south side of the river, and a few chasseurs at the mouth of a small water-course. Stark’s main body was encamped on the Bennington road.

There had been skirmishing on the 15th, but the rain prevented any active movement. The next morning was clear and bright, and Stark at once proceeded with his plan. It involved a simultaneous attack of various parties on the intrenchments of the enemy, while the main body under Stark drove the Tories upon the fortified Hessians, and the latter out of their fortified hold. The battle lasted two hours, and in spite of the obstinate bravery of Reidesel’s dragoons, led by Baum in person, was won by the Americans. But as soon as this was done, the undisciplined troops began to disperse in search of plunder. Brayman came up with his fresh men, rallied Baum’s flying troops, and renewed battle, with every prospect of retrieving the fortunes of the day; but Colonel Warner’s small force coming up and meeting the enemy, with the assistance of the scattered forces Stark was enabled to bring into action, the tide changed again. At sunset the victory was complete. The loss of the Americans was less than two hundred killed and wounded; of the British, in killed, wounded, and prisoners, nine hundred and thirty-five. Among the spoils were four brass cannon, several hundred stands of arms, two hundred and fifty dragoon swords, and four ammunition wagons.

THE BATTLE OF BENNINGTON.

I see that August morning now before me as I tell

The story of the stirring scenes which I remember well—

The battle-day of Bennington, and what thereon befell.

Yes! we were in the stubble where the hands had gone at dawn,

When, riding swiftly down the road, his dappled gray upon,

Whose flanks were marked with blood and foam, I saw my brother John.

His face was bright, his eyes alight, his bearing proud and high—

“Ho! whither do you speed so fast? Why do you hurry by,

While friends are eager for the news, John Manchester?” said I.

“To fight!” he cried; “who stays at home upon this August day,

Now Stark has come to Bennington, to lead us in the fray,

Where we may smite these Hessian wolves who babes and women slay?

Let baser men remain at toil, as such have done before,

Let women spin and children play before the farm-house door;

But till these knaves are driven hence I till the ground no more.

Come you and join me in the strife that Lexington began;

And as the foe comes down on us, and dares us man to man,

Let you and I acquit ourselves as stout Vermonters can.”

The words he uttered on our hearts fell fast in fiery rain;

The blood in wilder current coursed through artery and vein;

An impulse there to do and dare went swiftly through each brain.

Our sight and hearing keener grew before his voice’s tone—

We saw the cottage roof aflame, the corn-crib overthrown;

We heard the widow’s woful wail, the famished orphan’s moan.

We thrilled from heart to finger-tip; the very air grew red;

And casting by the tools of toil, off to the house we sped,

To wipe the chambers of our guns and mould the deadly lead.

My mother met me at the door—“James, stay at home!” said she;

“If you, my youngest born, should fall, what would become of me?

And then, a boy in such a fight of little use can be—”

With that she raised her hand to brush away an oozing tear,

And added—“It was but in June you reached your sixteenth year;

So, while your brother is away, remain to guard us here.

These Hessians whom the king has sent, a hireling war to wage

On children as on bearded men, are ruthless in their rage;

Then go not hence to fall in fight, child of your mother’s age.”

“Fear not for me,” I answered her; “the Hessians I defy;

In years a boy, I know, but then a man in heart am I;

My country needs me in the fight—I cannot more than die.

I come of Abner Manchester, who never knew a fear;

And though as much as any one I hold my mother dear,

I may not on this day of days remain a laggard here.

To herd with women while the fight for freedom is unwon,

While he has sight to mark a foe and strength to bear a gun,

Suits not a stout Green Mountain Boy, nor yet my father’s son.”

“If you will leave me here alone, so be it!” she replied;

“But take yon firelock from the hooks—it was your father’s pride—

He bore it well against the French, nine years before he died—”

As thus she spoke my mother’s voice grew tremulous in tone—

“And when you use it, lest your foe in lingering anguish moan,

Sight at a point two fingers’ length beneath the collar-bone.

Now, go! my heart, as thus we part, thrills with a mother’s pain;

To save you from a single pang, its latest drop I’d drain;

But—show the courage of your sire, or come not here again!”

We started, six of us in all; we made to camp our way,

And found the forces drawn in line, at two o’clock that day,

In front of where, on Walloomscoick, intrenched the foemen lay.

Bold Stark rode slowly down the ranks, with proud, uncovered head—

So quiet we that on the turf we heard his horse’s tread—

And at the centre drew his rein, and these the words he said—

“Boys! yonder are the red-coat troops, and, mark me every one,

We win this fight for truth and right, before the day be done,

Or Molly Stark’s a widow at the setting of the sun!”

Loud rang the cheering in reply, but through the ranks there ran

A murmur, for they felt it long until the fight began,

Although they knew the tardiness was from a well-formed plan.

For in their hurried council there our leaders planned the fight,

That Herrick with three hundred men should march upon their right,

And Nichols on the left with more spared from our scanty might,

To join their forces in the rear, and there assault begin,

While we upon their front advanced at signal of the din;

And then let those who dealt their blows with fiercest vigor win.

Our forces stood without a stir, in silence grim and dark,

While like a statue on his steed so motionless sat Stark,

When suddenly, with finger raised, the general whispered—“Hark!”

We stood as silent as the grave, and as we bent to hear,

Above the silence far away there came a lusty cheer;

Some shots were fired—we knew our friends had joined upon their rear—

“Now, hearts so warm, move like the storm!” said Stark, and led the way;

“Green Mountain Boys, acquit yourselves like mettled men to-day!

Take careful aim and waste no lead! the wolves are brought to bay!”

Then came the crash of musketry loud pealing on my ear;

I heard a whizzing sound go past—down fell a comrade near—

There was a throbbing in my breast that seemed almost like fear—

A shock, to see a stout young man, in all his youth and pride,

One who had left the day before a fond and blooming bride,

Thus done to death, the scarlet blood slow trickling from his side;

And doubly strange that fearful sight to one who ne’er before,

Amid the shouting of the hosts, and the cannon’s deadly roar,

Had seen a fellow-mortal lie thus lifeless in his gore.

But rage supplanted this at once—my heart grew strong again;

Uprose grim wrath and bitter hate, and bitterer disdain.

I longed to add a leaden drop unto that whizzing rain—

The tenderness of youth I found forevermore had gone.

My cheek was leaned upon my gun, the sight was finely drawn

Upon a gold-laced officer who cheered the Hessians on;

And, trembling in my eagerness to strike for home a blow,

I sent the lead, as mother said, two fingers’ length below

The ridge that marked the collar-bone, and laughed when fell the foe.

There comes a pause within the fight—we see some horsemen group,

And on the breastwork ridge take line, a dark and threatening troop—

Compact they form, with sabres drawn, upon our force to swoop.

Oh, now we smile a grimly smile, and wrath our bosom stirs;

We newly load and careful prime our firelocks for the curs—

For well we know their uniform, those Brunswicker chasseurs!

They come at last whose doom was past long, weary months before—

They come to meet the death that we to deal upon them swore

When first the bearded robbers came for plunder to our shore.

They come, the mercenary dogs, assassins of the crown;

Right gracefully and gallantly they sit their horses brown,

Then rowel-deep they drive their spurs, and thunder madly down.

But as the ground is shaking round before their horses’ tread,

A sheet of fire their sabres lights, high waving overhead,

And of the hundred men who charge full forty-eight lie dead.

Those who survive in vain they strive; they may not fight nor run—

We pass them quickly to the rear, our captives every one.

And so we serve the Brunswicker that day at Bennington.

Then where their remnant lay at bay our angry torrent rolled—

As when a dam gives way, and leaves the waters uncontrolled—

Sweeping to break the square of steel in centre of their hold.

No peal of trump nor tap of drum our eager footsteps timed;

With firelocks clubbed or knife in hand, our faces powder-grimed,

Fatigue unfelt and fear unknown, the ridge of earth we climbed;

Down from its crest we fearless plunged amid the smoke clouds dun,

But struck no blow upon the foe—resistance there was none—

Down fell their arms, uprose the white, and Bennington was won.

Then greeted we surviving friends, and mourned for those who fell,

And, leaning on our firelocks, heard the tales that soldiers tell

How comrades whom they little knew had done their duty well,

And how amid the hosts in fight no coward had been found;

Then gazed upon the foemen slain that lay in heaps around,

And said, in bitter hate and scorn, they well became the ground—

So evermore by sea and shore might those invaders be,

Who came with chains for limbs of men who by their birth were free—

A pang shot sharply through my brain—my brother! where was he?

I sought and found him with the blood slow oozing from his brain;

His feet were pointed to the ridge, his back was to the plain,

And round him in a curving row a dozen Hessians slain.

How well his sword had mown was shown in gazing at the heap—

Strown like a swathe of grass before some lusty mower’s sweep—

Of those whose souls had fled their forms through bloody wounds and deep.

I placed his corse upon his horse, and gently homeward led

The wearied steed that ne’er before was ridden by the dead;

And we buried the corse in the meadow with a white stone at its head.

THE BATTLE-GROUND OF BENNINGTON.

THE CAPTURE OF BURGOYNE.

LIEUTENANT-GENERAL BURGOYNE.

[From an English Print, 1783.]

The way for the operations which resulted in the capture of Burgoyne and his forces was mainly prepared by General Schuyler, who was unjustly replaced by Gates. The battles at Stillwater rendered the result a certainty. The surrender of Burgoyne and his forces, by showing the probability of success, secured the French alliance. The value of that consisted in the fact that it gave Great Britain more to do, and prevented her from crushing the new States, which had declared their independence from “the State of Great Britain.” Up to that time Louis the Sixteenth had only given us covert assistance. Then he, unwisely for himself, declared war against England, leading to a train of events which crystallized the memory of long years of oppression of the French people into revolution. The king did not foresee the consequences. Joseph the Second of Austria was more shrewd. When urged to join the alliance against Great Britain he said—“I am a sovereign, and will not aid to injure my own trade.” The material assistance afforded by France was slight, and at Savannah injurious. The French were at Yorktown, but Cornwallis would have fallen without their aid. Afterwards they not only claimed the laurels, but affected to consider us as a French dependency, and carried it so far as to provoke us to war. We owe France nothing; but we owe much to the memory of the Marquis de la Fayette, who generously placed at our disposal his life and fortune; who was our disinterested friend at a critical period and throughout; and who will be remembered with gratitude so long as the Union remains.

HORATIO GATES.

Whether Arnold distinguished himself at the first battle of Stillwater may be a moot question. That he was a moving spirit in the second battle is undoubted. The victory was very much due to his exertions. Up to the time of his treason, despite his rapacity and extravagance at Philadelphia, he merited praise for his dash, bravery, and unflinching devotion to the cause of Independence. That he was treated badly by the Congress is true; but that is scarcely a palliation of his infamous conduct in revenge. The Congress seems to have had a faculty for injustice. As it acted towards Arnold, so it did to Paul Jones, John Stark, and Philip Schuyler. But none of the last named revenged themselves by treason. The contrast between the conduct of Arnold and Schuyler is particularly notable. The latter had managed affairs with dexterity, and it was to his prudence, decision, and skill that the surrender of Burgoyne was mainly due. At the last moment he was superseded by Gates, under circumstances calculated to arouse his resentment. Schuyler, unlike Arnold, was not merely a patriot, but a man of honor. He was ready to submit to wrong rather than betray the cause. The conduct of Arnold was the baser from the fact that Washington, who felt that the man had been wronged, labored to do him right, and had placed him in the responsible command of West Point, to pave the way to that distinction his services on the battle-field deserved. Arnold, therefore, added ingratitude and breach of confidence to treason. He seems to have had the courage of a bull-dog, but to have been totally lacking in moral principle.

BENEDICT ARNOLD.

When I was a boy I met an old Revolutionary soldier who had served under Arnold. He would praise him for his bravery in one minute, and denounce his treachery the next, rarely speaking of him without tears. Hence the idea of the ballad.

ARNOLD AT STILLWATER.

Ah! you mistake me, comrades, to think that my heart is steel,

Cased in a cold endurance, nor pleasure nor pain to feel;

Cold as I am in my manner, yet over these cheeks so seared

Tear-drops have fallen in torrents, thrice since my chin grew beard.

Thrice since my chin was bearded I suffered the tears to fall:

Benedict Arnold, the traitor! he was the cause of them all.

Once, when he carried Stillwater, proud of his valor I cried;

Then, with my rage at his treason—with pity when André died.

Benedict Arnold, the traitor, sank deep in the pit of shame,

Bartered for vengeance his honor, blackened for profit his fame;

Yet never a gallanter soldier, whatever his after-crime,

Fought on the red field of honor than he in his early time.

Ah! I remember Stillwater as it were yesterday:

Then first I shouldered a firelock, and set out the foemen to slay.

The country was up all around us, racing and chasing Burgoyne,

And I had gone out with my neighbors, Gates and his forces to join.

Marched we with Poor and with Learned, ready and eager to fight;

There stood the foemen before us, cannon and men on the height.

Onward we trod with no shouting, forbidden to fire till the word;

As silent their long line of scarlet—not one of them whispered or stirred

“FIVE TIMES WE CAPTURED THEIR CANNON, AND FIVE TIMES THEY TOOK THEM AGAIN.”

Suddenly, then, from among them smoke rose and spread on the breeze;

Grape-shot flew over us sharply, cutting the limbs from the trees;

But onward we pressed till the order of Cilley fell full on the ear,

Then we levelled our pieces and fired them, and rushed up the slope with a cheer.

Fiercely we charged on their centre, and beat back the stout grenadiers,

And wounded the brave Major Ackland, and grappled the swart cannoneers.

Five times we captured their cannon, and five times they took them again;

But the sixth time we had them we kept them, and with them a share of their men.

Our colonel who led us dismounted, high on a cannon he sprang;

Over the noise of our shouting clearly his joyous words rang:

“These are our own brazen beauties! Here to America’s cause

I dedicate each, and to freedom!—foes to King George and his laws!”

Worn as we were with the struggle, wounded and bleeding and sore,

Some stood all pale and exhausted, some lay there stiff in their gore;

And round through the mass went a murmur that grew to a whispering clear,

And then to reproaches outspoken—“If General Arnold were here!”

For Gates, in his folly and envy, had given the chief no command,

And far in the rear some had seen him horseless and moodily stand,

Knitting his forehead in anger, and gnawing his red lip in pain,

Fretting himself like a blood-hound held back from his prey by a chain.

Hark! at our right there is cheering! there is the ruffle of drums!

Here is the well-known brown charger! Spurring it madly he comes!

Learned’s brigade have espied him, rending the air with a cheer:

Woe to the terrified foeman, now that our leader is here!

Piercing the tumult behind him, Armstrong is out on his track:

Gates has despatched his lieutenant to summon the fugitive back.

Armstrong might summon the tempest, order the whirlwind to stay,

Issue commands to the earthquake—would they the mandate obey?

Wounds, they were healed in a moment, weariness instantly gone:

Forward he pointed his sabre—led us, not ordered us on.

Down on the Hessians we thundered, he, like a madman, ahead:

Vainly they strove to withstand us; raging, they shivered and fled.

On to their earthworks we drove them, shaking with ire and dismay;

There they made stand with a purpose to beat back the tide of the day.

Onward we followed, then faltered; deadly their balls whistled free.

Where was our death-daring leader? Arnold, our hope, where was he?

He? He was everywhere riding! hither and thither his form,

On the brown charger careering, showed us the path of the storm;

Over the roar of the cannon, over the musketry’s crash,

Sounded his voice, while his sabre lit up the way with its flash.

Throwing quick glances around him, reining a moment his steed—

“Brooks! that redoubt!” was his order: “let the rest follow my lead!

Mark where the smoke-cloud is parting! see where their gun-barrels glance!

Livingston, forward! On, Wesson! charge them! Let Morgan advance!”

“Forward!” he shouted, and, spurring on through the sally-port then,

Fell sword in hand on the Hessians, closely behind him our men.

Back shrank the foemen in terror, off went their forces pell-mell,

Firing one Parthian volley: struck by it, Arnold he fell.

“FIRING ONE PARTHIAN VOLLEY.”

Ours was the day. Up we raised him; spurted the blood from his knee—

“Take this cravat, boys, and bind it; I am not dead yet,” said he.

“What! did you follow me, Armstrong? Pray, do you think it quite right,

Leaving your duties out yonder to risk your dear self in the fight?”

“General Gates sent his orders—” faltering the aide-de-camp spoke—

“You’re to return, lest some rashness—” Fiercely the speech Arnold broke:

“Rashness! Why, yes! tell the general the rashness he dreaded is done!

Tell him his kinsfolk are beaten! tell him the battle is won!”

Oh, that a soldier so glorious, ever victorious in fight,

Passed from a daylight of honor into the terrible night;

Fell as the mighty archangel, ere the earth glowed in space, fell—

Fell from the patriot’s heaven down to the loyalist’s hell!

SIEGE OF FORT HENRY.

GEORGE ROGERS CLARKE.

In 1771, a stockade fort was erected at the mouth of Wheeling Creek, in what was then the district of West Augusta, in Virginia, to protect the settlers against a threatened invasion of the savages. It was called Fort Fincastle, and is said to have been planned by George Rogers Clarke. The original garrison was twenty-five men; but though this was afterwards ordered to be doubled, it is doubtful if the command were ever obeyed. In 1776, when the colonists rebelled against the crown, and West Augusta was divided into the counties of Ohio, Youghiogheny, and Monongahela, the name was changed to Fort Henry, in honor of Patrick Henry, then governor of Virginia.

The organization of Ohio County at this time was essentially military, every able-bodied man being enrolled; and this enrollment was a list of taxables, and formed the basis of the county revenue. David Shepherd, the colonel commanding the county militia, was also the presiding justice of the county court. Besides this the county had to raise two companies as a part of the Continental Army. These were commanded respectively by Captains John Lemmon and Silas Zane; but as they appear never to have enlisted more than twenty men, the project was probably abandoned.

Fort Henry was the only fortified place capable of a protracted defence, though there were block-houses in the settlements at Peach Bottom, Grave Creek, Short Creek, and Cross Creek. It stood on high ground a short distance above the mouth of Wheeling Creek, and near it were twenty or thirty log-houses, the beginning of what is now the flourishing city of Wheeling. The famous attack upon it was made in September, 1777. During the spring of that year frequent aggressions had been made upon the white settlements by thieving bands of Indians, and these attacks had been either repulsed or the marauders followed up and chastised. During the summer these increased, and the result was a cessation of ordinary occupations, and an understood placing of the country under martial law. At the beginning of September it was learned that Simon Girty, a notorious white renegade, was raising a strong band of Wyandots, Mingoes, and Shawanock—mainly of the former. So well did their leader manage, however, that he brought his band, from four to five hundred in number, to the walls of Fort Henry before his real points of attack were known.

On the night of the 26th of September, a small scouting party discovered smoke arising at the south of Wheeling Creek. Captain Ogle, one of these, thought it came from the burning of the block-house at Grave Creek; and Colonel Shepherd sent out to ascertain the truth, and caused the families living around to take refuge in the fort. The next morning his scouts sent to warn neighboring settlements were fired on, and one of them killed, by six lurking Indians. A party of fifteen, sent to dislodge these, encountered the main force, and all but three were killed. A party sent to their aid, lost two-thirds of their number. These losses cut down the garrison to twelve men and boys. The assailing force, which now closely invested the garrison, was never estimated at less than three hundred and eighty, but was probably much more.

During the whole of the day the fight was maintained with great vigor. The Indians at one time made an impromptu cannon of a huge log, winding it around with chains from the blacksmith’s shop in the village, loading it with round stones, and directing it against the gate of the fort. It exploded, and killed and wounded several of the besiegers. The next morning, relief came in the shape of forty men, under M’Culloch, from Short Creek, and fourteen more from Cross Creek. The enemy burned the houses around, carried off the cattle, and, bearing their dead, moved away.

During the fight, the defenders grew short of powder. There was a keg in Ebenezer Zane’s house about sixty yards away, and this was obtained by the sister of Ebenezer, a young woman, in the way described in the ballad.

BETTY ZANE.

Women are timid, cower and shrink

At show of danger, some folk think;

But men there are who for their lives

Dare not so far asperse their wives.

We let that pass—so much is clear,

Though little dangers they may fear,

When greater perils men environ,

Then women show a front of iron;

And, gentle in their manner, they

Do bold things in a quiet way,

And so our wondering praise obtain,

As on a time did Betty Zane.

A century since, out in the West,

A block-house was by Girty pressed—

Girty, the renegade, the dread

Of all that border, fiercely led

Five hundred Wyandots, to gain

Plunder and scalp-locks from the slain;

And in this hold—Fort Henry then,

But Wheeling now—twelve boys and men

Guarded with watchful ward and care

Women and prattling children there,

Against their rude and savage foes,

And Betty Zane was one of those.

There had been forty-two at first

When Girty on the border burst;

But most of those who meant to stay

And keep the Wyandots at bay,

Outside by savage wiles were lured,

And ball and tomahawk endured,

Till few were left the place to hold,

And some were boys and some were old;

But all could use the rifle well,

And vainly from the Indians fell,

On puncheon roof and timber wall,

The fitful shower of leaden ball.

Now Betty’s brothers and her sire

Were with her in this ring of fire,

And she was ready, in her way,

To aid their labor day by day,

In all a quiet maiden might.

To mould the bullets for the fight,

And, quick to note and so report,

Watch every act outside the fort;

Or, peering from the loop-holes, see

Each phase of savage strategy—

These were her tasks, and thus the maid

The toil-worn garrison could aid.

Still, drearily the fight went on

Until a week had nearly gone,

When it was told—a whisper first,

And then in loud alarm it burst—

Their powder scarce was growing; they

Knew where a keg unopened lay

Outside the fort at Zane’s—what now?

Their leader stood with anxious brow.

It must be had at any cost,

Or toil and fort and lives were lost.

Some one must do that work of fear;

What man of men would volunteer?

Two offered, and so earnest they,

Neither his purpose would give way;

And Shepherd, who commanded, dare

Not pick or choose between the pair.

But ere they settled on the one

By whom the errand should be done,

Young Betty interposed, and said,

“Let me essay the task instead.

Small matter ’t were if Betty Zane,

A useless woman, should be slain;

But death, if dealt on one of those,

Gives too much vantage to our foes.”

Her father, smiled with pleasure grim—

Her pluck gave painful pride to him;

And while her brothers clamored “No!”

He uttered, “Boys, let Betty go!

She’ll do it at less risk than you;

But keep her steady in your view,

And be your rifles shields for her.

If yonder foe make step or stir,

Pick off each wretch who draws a bead,

And so you’ll serve her in her need.

Now I recover from surprise,

I think our Betty’s purpose wise.”

The gate was opened, on she sped;

The foe astonished, gazed, ’tis said,

And wondered at her purpose, till

She gained that log-hut by the hill.

But when, in apron wrapped, the cask

She backward bore, to close her task,

The foemen saw her aim at last,

And poured their fire upon her fast.

Bullet on bullet near her fell,

While rang the Indians’ angry yell;

But safely through that whirring rain,

Powder in arms, came Betty Zane.

They filled their horns, both boys and men,

And so began the fight again.

Girty, who there so long had stayed,

By this new feat of feet dismayed,

Fired houses round and cattle slew,

And moved away—the fray was through.

But when the story round was told

How they maintained the leaguered hold,

It was agreed, though fame was due

To all who in that fight were true,

The highest meed of praise, ’twas plain,

Fell to the share of Betty Zane.

A hundred years have passed since then;

The savage never came again.

Girty is dust; alike are dead

Those who assailed and those bestead.

Upon those half-cleared, rolling lands,

A crowded city proudly stands;

But of the many who reside

By green Ohio’s rushing tide,

Not one has lineage prouder than

(Be he or poor or rich) the man

Who boasts that in his spotless strain

Mingles the blood of Betty Zane.

PLAN OF THE BATTLE.

OPERATIONS AT MONMOUTH.

In June, 1777, the American army was still encamped at Valley Forge. Instructions had been sent from England to Sir Henry Clinton, who replaced Howe as commander-in-chief, to evacuate Philadelphia, and make New York the centre of his operations. So prudently did he prepare for this step that Washington knew nothing of his intention until the British army was actually over the Delaware. A council of war held at Valley Forge decided adversely to an attack upon the enemy, but Washington took up the pursuit, determined to act according to circumstances. He sent Arnold, who was incapacitated for action in the field, with a small detachment to take possession of Philadelphia, while he crossed the river at Coryell’s Ferry, above Trenton. Clinton, who had to build bridges all along his route, and who was encumbered with baggage and stores, so that on the single effective road he found his train was twelve miles long, was slow in his movements. This, somehow, produced an impression that he meant to draw on a general engagement. An American council of war was called at Hopewell, which still opposed a battle, but recommended harassing the enemy by detachments. Washington ordered Morgan’s corps to the British right flank, Maxwell’s brigade to the left, and Scott’s picked corps, with some forces under Dickinson and Cadwallader, to annoy them on flanks and rear.

Clinton’s first plan was to strike New Brunswick and embark at the Raritan; but at Allentown, finding Washington in his way, and disinclined to a general engagement under the circumstances, he moved to the right, intending to pass Monmouth Court-house and embark at Sandy Hook. The Americans were now at Kingston. Lee and all the general officers, except La Fayette, Greene, and Wayne, were in favor of continuing the system of annoyance; but Washington at last made ready for a battle. He ordered forward Wayne with a thousand men to support the troops most in advance, giving La Fayette the command of the advanced force—about four thousand in all—while he moved the main body towards Cranberry. On the morning of the 27th, La Fayette arrived at Englishtown. By this time Clinton had made a different disposition of his forces, throwing his grenadiers to his rear, and placing the encumbrances in front under charge of Knyphausen. He made his camp in a strong position near the court-house, in a line three miles in length, protected by woods and marshes. This forced Washington to support his advance strongly, and he sent Lee forward to join La Fayette with two brigades at Englishtown, which placed Lee in command then as senior officer. The corps of Morgan still threatened the enemy’s right, and Dickinson’s force his left. Washington, fearing the enemy would take post on Middletown Heights, determined to attack the rear on a movement in that direction, and sent orders to Lee to prepare for an assault.

LAFAYETTE IN 1777.

The next day, the 28th, was Sunday, and bade fair to be, as it became, one of the hottest days of the season. An hour after midnight, Lee ordered Dickinson forward with a strong party of observation, and directed Morgan to attack the British as soon as they moved. The rest of the troops were ordered to prepare to march, and before dawn, Scott and Varnum’s brigades were moving slowly towards the court-house; at daybreak, Knyphausen, with his Hessians and loyalists; and at eight o’clock Clinton followed with the main body. The whole American army was put in motion, and Lee received orders to attack, unless he saw very powerful reasons otherwise. This discretionary clause had like to have resulted in defeat. Dickinson having received word that the British were about to attack with the main force, which was incorrect, sent the news to Lee, who believed it. He pushed forward across the morass to a narrow road near the parsonage, and joined Dickinson on the heights. Here the news brought was conflicting, and while Lee was trying to get it correctly, Lafayette came up with the rest of the advanced corps. Learning that the enemy was not in force on either flank, he marched on. He had between five and six thousand men, including those under Morgan and Dickinson. He pressed forward, under cover of the woods, formed a part of his line for action, and rode forward with Wayne far enough to see that the British deploying on the left were merely a heavy covering party. Hoping to cut them off from the main army, he detached Wayne with seven hundred men and two field-pieces to make a feint in the rear.

GENERAL WAYNE.

About nine o’clock, the Queen’s Dragoons being observed on a height, apparently preparing to attack, Lee ordered the light-horse to let them nearly approach, and then to fall back on Wayne. This manœuvre would have succeeded, had not a small party under Butler fired at them from ambush, which caused them to fall back. Wayne ordered the artillery to open on them, and then charged, Oswald opening fire from an eminence in the morass. Wayne was attacking with vigor, when to his chagrin he received an order from Lee to move less vigorously, lest he might prevent the latter from cutting off the covering party. Wayne obeyed, but Lee brought his forces from under cover in detachments only. Sir Henry Clinton, fearing that the Americans were massing on both flanks for the purpose of capturing his baggage, faced about to attack Lee, and force those threatening his flanks to come to the latter’s aid. Lafayette seeing this, asked permission of Lee to attempt gaining the rear of the enemy. Lee refused at first, but finally agreed to let him attack the enemy’s left; but weakened Lafayette by withdrawing three regiments to the support of the right. Riding forward to reconnoitre, Lee saw, or thought he saw, a heavy force marching on the Middletown road towards the court-house. He ordered the right to fall back. The British were advancing with the apparent design of gaining the American rear, just as Scott and Maxwell’s brigades were approaching the enemy’s right, the former forming for action. Lee ordered both to fall back, arrange their line in the woods, and await orders. Mistaking the nature of the order, they retreated through the woods towards Freehold meeting-house. As soon as Lee learned this, instead of recalling them, he sent word to Lafayette to fall back on the court-house, which he obeyed, the enemy pursuing him as far as the latter place, where they halted. Both parties suffered from the extreme heat, their men in some instances dropping exhausted. Lee made one stand, and then resumed his retreat. It degenerated into a panic. Numbers were lost in the morass—few perished by ball. There was little firing on either side.

HENRY KNOX.

During this time Washington was moving to Lee’s support. For Lee, when he discovered the large covering party in the enemy’s rear, and had planned to cut them off, sent word to the commander-in-chief of his purpose. On the receipt of this message, Washington had despatched Greene with the right wing by Freehold Meeting-house, to prevent the enemy turning that flank, while he prepared to move the left in the rear of Lee, in support. Suddenly came the news that Lee was retreating, with Clinton in pursuit. Washington was astounded. There had been little firing to indicate battle, and, riding forward, he met the head of the retreating force. Halting it, he pushed on and found Lee at the head of the second column. He demanded in an angry way the meaning of the confusion, and Lee, who also lost his temper, replied harshly. A few hasty and bitter words passed, when Washington rode on, stayed the troops, and ordered Oswald to check the progress of the enemy with his cannon. The men under Stewart and Ramsay were formed in battle order. Then Washington turned to the chafed Lee, and said, “Will you command in that place, sir?” Lee replied in the affirmative. “Then,” said Washington, “I expect you to attack the enemy immediately.” “Your command shall be obeyed, sir,” replied Lee, “and I will not be the first to leave the field.”

FREEHOLD MEETING-HOUSE.

While Washington was bringing order out of the confusion elsewhere, and disposing properly of Greene’s forces, and the left wing under Stirling, Lee vigorously carried out his orders; but the force of the enemy was too overwhelming. After a vigorous fight, he brought them under cover of a fire by Ogden, detailed for that purpose, he being “the last to leave the field,” and forming them in line on the slope, reported to Washington for further orders. Washington seeing the men were worn out, ordered him to arrange them at Englishtown, while he attacked with the main body. The action now became hot all along the line, and was pursued with varying success, until at length, towards sunset, the British army, badly worsted, fell back upon the heights held by Lee in the morning. It was a strong position, flanked by forest and morass, but Washington prepared to attack it. The darkness coming on, the men were ordered to sleep on their arms, and to move at daylight.

BATTLE-GROUND AT MONMOUTH.

But this was unneeded. At midnight, Clinton silently stole off; and when dawn came he was so far away towards New Brunswick, that pursuit was useless. The Americans lost in the battle sixty-seven killed, one hundred and sixty wounded, and one hundred and thirty missing; but a number of the last had been merely prostrated by the extreme heat, and afterward rejoined their commands. There were two hundred and forty-nine of the British left dead on the field, of whom fifty-nine died of sunstroke. The number of their wounded is unknown.

BATTLE OF MONMOUTH.

Four-and-eighty years are o’er me; great-grandchildren sit before me;

These my locks are white and scanty, and my limbs are weak and worn;

Yet I’ve been where cannon roaring, firelocks rattling, blood outpouring,

Stirred the souls of patriot soldiers, on the tide of battle borne;

Where they told me I was bolder far than many a comrade older,

Though a stripling at that fight for the right.

All that sultry day in summer beat his sullen march the drummer,

Where the Briton strode the dusty road until the sun went down;

Then on Monmouth plain encamping, tired and footsore with the tramping,

Lay all wearily and drearily the forces of the crown,

With their resting horses neighing, and their evening bugles playing,

And their sentries pacing slow to and fro.

Ere the day to night had shifted, camp was broken, knapsacks lifted,

And in motion was the vanguard of our swift-retreating foes;

Grim Knyphausen rode before his brutal Hessians, bloody Tories—

They were fit companions, truly, hirelings these and traitors those—

While the careless jest and laughter of the teamsters coming after

Rang around each creaking wain of the train.

’Twas a quiet Sabbath morning; nature gave no sign of warning

Of the struggle that would follow when we met the Briton’s might;

Of the horsemen fiercely spurring, of the bullets shrilly whirring,

Of the bayonets brightly gleaming through the smoke that wrapped the fight;

Of the cannon thunder-pealing, and the wounded wretches reeling,

And the corses gory red of the dead.

Quiet nature had no prescience; but the Tories and the Hessians

Heard the baying of the beagles that were hanging on their track;

Heard the cries of eager ravens soaring high above the cravens;

And they hurried, worn and worried, casting startled glances back,

Leaving Clinton there to meet us, with his bull-dogs fierce to greet us,

With the veterans of the crown, scarred and brown.

For the fight our souls were eager, and each Continental leaguer,

As he gripped his firelock firmly, scarce could wait the word to fire;

For his country rose such fervor, in his heart of hearts, to serve her,

That it gladdened him and maddened him and kindled raging ire.

Never panther from his fastness, through the forest’s gloomy vastness,

Coursed more grimly night and day for his prey.

I was in the main force posted; Lee, of whom his minions boasted,

Was commander of the vanguard, and with him were Scott and Wayne.

What they did I knew not, cared not; in their march of shame I shared not;

But it startled me to see them panic-stricken back again,

At the black morass’s border, all in headlong, fierce disorder,

With the Briton plying steel at their heel.

Outward cool when combat waging, howsoever inward raging,

Ne’er had Washington showed feeling when his forces fled the foe;

But to-day his forehead lowered, and we shrank his wrath untoward,

As on Lee his bitter speech was hurled in hissing tones and low:

“Sir, what means this wild confusion? Is it cowardice or collusion?

Is it treachery or fear brings you here?”

WASHINGTON REBUKING LEE.

Lee grew crimson in his anger—rang his curses o’er the clangor,

O’er the roaring din of battle, as he wrathfully replied;

But his raging was unheeded; fastly on our chieftain speeded,

Rallied quick the fleeing forces, stayed the dark, retreating tide;

Then, on foaming steed returning, said to Lee, with wrath still burning,

“Will you now strike a blow at the foe?”

At the words Lee drew up proudly, curled his lip and answered loudly:

“Ay!” his voice rang out, “and will not be the first to leave the field;”

And his word redeeming fairly, with a skill surpassed but rarely,

Struck the Briton with such ardor that the scarlet column reeled;

Then, again, but in good order, past the black morass’s border,

Brought his forces rent and torn, spent and worn.

As we turned on flanks and centre, in the path of death to enter,

One of Knox’s brass six-pounders lost its Irish cannoneer;

And his wife who, ’mid the slaughter, had been bearing pails of water

For the gun and for the gunner, o’er his body shed no tear.

“Move the piece!”—but there they found her loading, firing that six-pounder,

And she gayly, till we won, worked the gun.

Loud we cheered as Captain Molly waved the rammer; then a volley

Pouring in upon the grenadiers, we sternly drove them back;

Though like tigers fierce they fought us, to such zeal had Molly brought us

That, though struck with heat, and thirsting, yet of drink we felt no lack:

There she stood amid the clamor, busily handling sponge and rammer,

While we swept with wrath condign on their line.

From our centre backward driven, with his forces rent and riven,

Soon the foe re-formed in order, dressed again his shattered ranks;

In a column firm advancing, from his bayonets hot rays glancing

Showed in waving lines of brilliance as he fell upon our flanks,

Charging bravely for his master: thus he met renewed disaster

From the stronghold that we held back repelled.

Monckton, gallant, cool, and fearless, ’mid his bravest comrades peerless,

Brought his grenadiers to action but to fall amid the slain;

Everywhere their ruin found them; red destruction rained around them

From the mouth of Oswald’s cannon, from the musketry of Wayne;

While our sturdy Continentals, in their dusty regimentals,

Drove their plumed and scarlet force, man and horse.

Beamed the sunlight fierce and torrid o’er the battle raging horrid,

Till, in faint exhaustion sinking, death was looked on as a boon;

Heat, and not a drop of water—heat, that won the race of slaughter,

Fewer far with bullets dying than beneath the sun of June;

Only ceased the terrible firing, with the Briton slow retiring,

As the sunbeams in the west sank to rest.

MOLLY PITCHER.

On our arms so heavily sleeping, careless watch our sentries keeping,

Ready to renew the contest when the dawning day should show;

Worn with toil and heat, in slumber soon were wrapt our greatest number,

Seeking strength to rise again and fall upon the wearied foe;

For we felt his power was broken: but what rage was ours outspoken

When, on waking at the dawn, he had gone.

In the midnight still and sombre, while our force was wrapt in slumber,

Clinton set his train in motion, sweeping fast to Sandy Hook;

Safely from our blows he bore his mingled Britons, Hessians, Tories—

Bore away his wounded soldiers, but his useless dead forsook;

Fleeing from a worse undoing, and too far for our pursuing:

So we found the field our own, and alone.

How that stirring day comes o’er me! How those scenes arise before me!

How I feel a youthful vigor for a moment fill my frame!

Those who fought beside me seeing, from the dim past brought to being,

By their hands I fain would clasp them—ah! each lives but in his name;

But the freedom that they fought for, and the country grand they wrought for,

Is their monument to-day, and for aye.

JOHN BERRY, THE LOYALIST.

There is scarcely a native of Bergen County, in New Jersey, who has not heard of Jack, the Regular, and by the older residents there are still told a number of stories of his cruelty and rapacity. That there was such a person, that he was an active loyalist during the Revolutionary war, and that he was finally killed by the Van Valens, and his lifeless body brought into Hackensack in a wagon, there seems to be no doubt. But with all my industrious endeavor I have never been able to get particulars as to his family, the date of his birth, or when he was killed. I find that his real name was John Berry, and that he managed to gain rank as a captain—probably of loyalists. His nickname arose from a boast he made that he was no marauder, but held a regular commission from his Gracious Majesty. Hence those who sided with the Americans called him Jack, the Regular, and he was scarcely ever known by another name.

So far as I can learn he was killed on the slope of the Palisade ridge, not far from what is known as the Ridgefield station, on the Northern Railroad, and by a long shot. It was merely fired in vexation by Van Valen, who was astonished when the partisan fell, and hesitated for some time to verify the fact of his death. Jack’s band at that time had been broken up, or he was in some disgrace; for he had had apparently no command for some time before he was killed, and was with but one companion at the time.

JACK, THE REGULAR.

In the Bergen winter night, when the hickory fire is roaring,

Flickering streams of ruddy light on the folk before it pouring;

When the apples pass around, and the cider passes after,

And the well-worn jest is crowned by the hearers’ hearty laughter,

When the cat is purring there, and the dog beside her dozing,

And within his easy-chair sits the grandsire old, reposing,

Then they tell the story true to the children hushed and eager,

How the two Van Valens slew, on a time, the Tory leaguer,

Jack, the Regular.

Near a hundred years ago, when the maddest of the Georges

Sent his troops to scatter woe on our hills and in our gorges,

Less we hated, less we feared, those he sent here to invade us

Than the neighbors with us reared who opposed us or betrayed us;

And amid those loyal knaves who rejoiced in our disasters,

As became the willing slaves of the worst of royal masters,

Stood John Berry, and he said that a regular commission

Set him at his comrades’ head; so we called him, in derision,

“Jack, the Regular.”

When he heard it—“Let them fling! Let the traitors make them merry

With the fact my gracious king deigns to make me Captain Berry.

I will scourge them for the sneer, for the venom that they carry;

I will shake their hearts with fear, as the land around I harry;

They shall find the midnight raid waking them from fitful slumbers;

They shall find the ball and blade daily thinning out their numbers;

Barn in ashes, cattle slain, hearth on which there glows no ember,

Neatless plough and horseless wain—thus the rebels shall remember

Jack, the Regular.

Well he kept his promise then, with a fierce, relentless daring,

Fire to roof-trees, death to men, through the Bergen valleys bearing.

In the midnight deep and dark came his vengeance darker, deeper—

At the watch-dog’s sudden bark woke in terror every sleeper;

Till at length the farmers brown, wasting time no more on tillage,

Swore these ruffians of the crown, fiends of murder, fire, and pillage,

Should be chased by every path to the dens where they had banded,

And no prayers should soften wrath when they caught the bloody-handed

Jack, the Regular.

One by one they slew his men: still the chief their chase evaded;

He had vanished from their ken, by the fiend or fortune aided—

Either fled to Paulus Hoek, where the Briton yet commanded,

Or his stamping-ground forsook, waiting till the hunt disbanded.

So they stopped pursuit at length, and returned to toil securely—

It was useless wasting strength on a purpose baffled surely;

But the two Van Valens swore, in a patriotic rapture,

They would never give it o’er till they’d either kill or capture

Jack, the Regular.

Long they hunted through the wood, long they slept upon the hill-side;

In the forest sought their food, drank when thirsty at the rill-side;

No exposure counted hard—theirs was hunting border fashion;

They grew bearded like the pard, and their chase became a passion.

Even friends esteemed them mad, said their minds were out of balance,

Mourned the cruel fate, and sad, fallen on the poor Van Valens.

But they answered to it all, “Only wait our loud view-holloa

When the prey shall to us fall; for to death we mean to follow

Jack, the Regular.

Hunted they from Tenavlie to the shore where Hudson presses

On the base of trap-rocks high; through Moonachie’s damp recesses;

Down as far as Bergen Hill; by the Ramapo and Drochy,

Overproek and Pellum Kill—meadows flat and hill-top rocky—

Till at last the brothers stood where the road from New Barbadoes

At the English Neighborhood slants towards the Palisadoes;

Still to find the prey they sought leave no sign for hunter eager;

Followed steady, not yet caught was the skulking, fox-like leaguer,

Jack, the Regular.

Who are they that yonder creep by those bleak rocks in the distance,

Like the figures born in sleep, called by slumber to existence?

Tories, doubtless, from below—from the Hoek sent out for spying.

“No! the foremost is our foe—he so long before us flying!

Now he spies us! See him start! wave his kerchief like a banner,

Lay his left hand on his heart in a proud, insulting manner.

Well he knows that distant spot past our ball—his low scorn flinging—

If you can not feel the shot, you shall hear the firelock’s ringing,

Jack, the Regular.”

Ah! he falls! An ambuscade? ’Twas impossible to strike him.

Are there Tories in the glade? Such a trick is very like him.

See! his comrade by him kneels, turning him in terror over,

Then takes nimbly to his heels. Have they really slain the rover?

It is worth some risk to know; so, with firelocks poised and ready,

Up the sloping hill they go, with a quick lookout, and steady.

Dead! The random shot had struck, to the heart had pierced the Tory—

Vengeance seconded by luck! Lies there cold and stiff and gory

Jack, the Regular.

“Jack, the Regular, is dead! Honor to the man who slew him!”

So the Bergen farmers said as they crowded round to view him.

For the wretch that lay there slain had, with wickedness unbending,

To their roofs brought fiery rain, to their kinsfolk woful ending.

Not a mother but had prest, in a sudden pang of fearing,

Sobbing darlings to her breast when his name had smote her hearing;

Not a wife that did not feel terror when the words were uttered;

Not a man but chilled to steel when the hated sounds he muttered—

“Jack, the Regular.”

Bloody in his work was he, in his purpose iron-hearted;

Gentle pity could not be when the pitiless had parted;

So the corse in wagon thrown with no decent cover o’er it—

Jeers its funeral rites alone—into Hackensack they bore it,

’Mid the clanging of the bells in the old Dutch church’s steeple,

And the hooting and the yells of the gladdened, maddened people.

Some they rode and some they ran by the wagon where it rumbled,

Scoffing at the lifeless man, all elate that Death had humbled

Jack, the Regular.

Thus within the winter night, when the hickory fire is roaring,

Flickering streams of ruddy light on the folk before it pouring;

When the apples pass around, and the cider follows after,

And the well-worn jest is crowned by the hearers’ hearty laughter;

When the cat is purring there, and the dog beside her dozing,

And within his easy-chair sits the grandsire old, reposing,

Then they tell the story true to the children hushed and eager,

How the bold Van Valen slew, on a time, the Tory leaguer,

Jack, the Regular.

TARLETON’S DEFEAT.

BANASTRE TARLETON.

After his disaster at Camden, Gates was superseded in the command of the Southern Departments by Greene, to whom he turned over the remnant of his army, about two thousand men in all. Of these a force of a thousand, or less, were placed in Union District, near the junction of the Broad and Pacolet rivers, nearly fifty miles to the left of Greene’s position. Lord Cornwallis at once determined to attack and destroy this detachment, and sent. Tarleton, with eleven hundred men, including his own cavalry and two field-pieces, for that purpose. Morgan’s forces, outside of Howard’s Continentals and Washington’s dragoons, were raw militia, some of whom had never seen battle, had had little drill, and were devoid of discipline. The task was supposed to be easy, and Tarleton began his march in high spirits. In consequence of bad roads he was much delayed on the march, and it was not until the 15th of January, 1781, four days after starting, that he drew near the Pacolet. Morgan, finding his forces not sufficient to stop the enemy at the river, retreated and took post on the north side of Thickety Mountain, near the Cowpens. Tarleton at once pushed on in pursuit, leaving his baggage behind, riding all night, and at eight o’clock of the morning of the 17th came in sight of the American patrol. Fearing they might escape he ordered an immediate attack. To his surprise he found Morgan prepared to give battle.

DANIEL MORGAN.

It is unnecessary to expand this note further, since the movements in the battle are given with accuracy in the ballad. The pursuit of the British was not relinquished until they reached the open wood near or about the point where the fight first began. The remnant of Tarleton’s force, by the next morning, reached Cornwallis’s camp. The American loss was twelve killed and about forty-eight wounded. Cornwallis’s report to Sir Henry Clinton gives the British loss at one hundred killed and five hundred and twenty-three prisoners. The Americans captured the two field-pieces, two standards, eight hundred muskets, thirty-five baggage-wagons, and one hundred dragoon horses. The battle was not so important itself but in its consequences. It contributed very much towards the capture of Cornwallis.

THE BATTLE OF THE COWPENS.

To the Cowpens riding proudly, boasting loudly, rebels scorning,

Tarleton hurried, hot and eager for the fight;

From the Cowpens, sore confounded, on that January morning,

Tarleton hurried somewhat faster, fain to save himself by flight.

In the morn he scorned us rarely, but he fairly found his error

When his force was made our ready blows to feel;

When his horsemen and his footmen fled in wild and pallid terror

At the leaping of our bullets and the sweeping of our steel.

All the day before we fled them, and we led them to pursue us,

Then at night on Thickety Mountain made our camp;

There we lay upon our rifles, slumber quickly coming to us,

Spite the crackling of our camp-fires and our sentries’ heavy tramp.

Morning on the mountain border, ranged in order, found our forces,

Ere our scouts announced the coming of the foe;

While the hoar-frost lying near us, and the distant watercourses,

Gleamed like silver in the sunlight, seemed like silver in their glow.

Morgan ranged us there to meet them, and to greet them with such favor

That they scarce would care to follow us again;

In the rear the Continentals—none were readier nor braver;

In the van, with ready rifles, steady, stern, our mountain men.

Washington, our trooper peerless, gay and fearless, with his forces

Waiting panther-like upon the foe to fall,

Formed upon the slope behind us, where, on rawboned country horses,

Sat the sudden-summoned levies brought from Georgia by M’Call.

Soon we heard a distant drumming, nearer coming, slow advancing—

It was then upon the very nick of nine;

Soon upon the road from Spartanburg we saw their bayonets glancing,

And the morning sunlight playing on their swaying scarlet line.

In the distance seen so dimly they looked grimly; coming nearer

There was naught about them fearful, after all,

Until some one near me spoke, in voice than falling water clearer,

“Tarleton’s quarter is the sword-blade, Tarleton’s mercy is the ball.”

Then the memory came unto me, heavy, gloomy, of my brother

Who was slain while asking quarter at their hand;

Of that morning when was driven forth my sister and my mother,

From our cabin in the valley by the spoilers of the land.

I remembered of my brother slain, my mother spurned and beaten,

Of my sister in her beauty brought to shame;

Of the wretches’ jeers and laughter, as from mud-sill up to rafter

Of the stripped and plundered cabin leaped the fierce, consuming flame.

WILLIAM WASHINGTON.

But that memory had no power there in that hour there to depress me—

No! it stirred within my spirit fiercer ire;

And I gripped my sword-hilt firmer, and my arm and heart grew stronger;

And I longed to meet the wronger on the sea of steel and fire.

On they came, our might disdaining, where the raining bullets leaden

Pattered fast from scattered rifles on each wing;

Here and there went down a foeman, and the ground began to redden;

And they drew them back a moment, like the tiger ere his spring.

Then said Morgan, “Ball and powder kill much prouder men than George’s;

On your rifles and a careful aim rely.

They were trained in many battles—we in workshops, fields, and forges;

But we have our homes to fight for, and we do not fear to die.”

Though our leader’s words we cheered not, yet we feared not; we awaited,

Strong of heart, the threatened onset, and it came:

Up the sloping hill-side swiftly rushed the foe so fiercely hated;

On they came with gleaming bayonet ’mid the cannon-smoke and flame.

At their head rode Tarleton proudly; ringing loudly o’er the yelling

Of his men we heard his voice’s brazen tone;

With his dark eyes flashing fiercely, and his sombre features telling

In their look the pride that filled him as the champion of the throne.

On they pressed, when sudden flashing, ringing, crashing, came the firing

Of our forward line upon their close-set ranks;

Then at coming of their steel, which moved with steadiness untiring,

Fled our mountaineers, re-forming in good order on our flanks.

Then the combat’s ranging anger, din, and clangor, round and o’er us

Filled the forest, stirred the air, and shook the ground;

Charged with thunder-tramp the horsemen, while their sabres shone before us,

Gleaming lightly, streaming brightly, through the smoky cloud around.

Through the pines and oaks resounding, madly bounding from the mountain,

Leaped the rattle of the battle and the roar;

Fierce the hand-to-hand engaging, and the human freshet raging

Of the surging current urging past a dark and bloody shore.

Soon the course of fight was altered; soon they faltered at the leaden

Storm that smote them, and we saw their centre swerve.

Tarleton’s eye flashed fierce in anger; Tarleton’s face began to redden;

Tarleton gave the closing order—“Bring to action the reserve!”

Up the slope his legion thundered, full three hundred; fiercely spurring,

Cheering lustily, they fell upon our flanks;

And their worn and wearied comrades, at the sound so spirit-stirring,

Felt a thrill of hope and courage pass along their shattered ranks.

By the wind the smoke-cloud lifted lightly, drifted, to the nor’ward,

And displayed in all their pride the scarlet foe;

We beheld them, with a steady tramp, and fearless, moving forward,

With their banners proudly waving, and their bayonets levelled low.

Morgan gave his order clearly—“Fall back nearly to the border

Of the hill, and let the enemy come nigher!”

Oh! they thought we had retreated, and they charged in fierce disorder,

When out rang the voice of Howard—“To the right about, face!—Fire!”

JOHN E. HOWARD.

Then upon our very wheeling came the pealing of our volley,

And our balls made red a pathway down the hill;

Broke the foe, and shrank and cowered; rang again the voice of Howard—

“Give the hireling dogs the bayonet!”—and we did it with a will.

In the mean while one red-coated troop, unnoted, riding faster

Than their comrades, on our rear in fury bore;

But the light-horse led by Washington soon brought it to disaster,

For they shattered it and scattered it, and smote it fast and sore.

Like a herd of startled cattle from the battle-field we drove them;

In disorder down the Mill-gap road they fled;

Tarleton led them in the racing, fast he fled before our chasing,

And he stopped not for the dying and he stayed not for the dead.

Down the Mill-gap road they scurried and they hurried with such fleetness—

We had never seen such running in our lives!

Ran they swifter than if seeking homes to taste domestic sweetness,

Having many years been parted from their children and their wives.

Ah! for some no wife to meet them, child to greet them, friend to shield them!

To their home o’er ocean never sailing back;

After them the red avengers, bitter hate for death had sealed them,

Yelped the dark and red-eyed sleuthhound unrelenting on their track.

In their midst I saw one trooper, and around his waist I noted

Tied a simple silken scarf of blue and white;

When my vision grasped it clearly to my hatred I devoted

Him, from all the hireling wretches who were mingled there in flight.

For that token in the summer had been from our cabin taken

By the robber-hands of wrongers of my kin;

’Twas my sister’s—for the moment things around me were forsaken;

I was blind to fleeing foemen, I was deaf to battle’s din.

Olden comrades round me lying dead or dying were unheeded;

Vain to me they looked for succor in their need;

O’er the corses of the soldiers, through the gory pools I speeded,

Driving rowel-deep my spurs within my madly bounding steed.

As I came he turned, and staring at my glaring eyes he shivered;

Pallid fear went quickly o’er his features grim;

As he grasped his sword in terror, every nerve within him quivered,

For his guilty spirit told him why I solely sought for him.

Though the stroke I dealt he parried, onward carried, down I bore him—

Horse and rider—down together went the twain:

“Quarter!”—He! that scarf had doomed him! stood a son and brother o’er him;

Down through plume and brass and leather went my sabre to the brain—

Ha! no music like that crashing through the skull-bone to the brain.

THE AFFAIR OF CHERRY VALLEY.

JOSEPH BRANT.

The massacre at Cherry Valley, New York, was notably cruel and bloody. In November, 1778, Walter Butler, with two hundred loyalists, and Joseph Brant, with five hundred Indians, swept down on the place, and commenced an indiscriminate slaughter. The very loyalists among the inhabitants were not spared. John Wells was well affected to the crown, yet he and his family, with the exception of his son John, who happened to be in Schenectady, were killed. Jane Wells was very much esteemed for her kindness and other good qualities. The elder Wells was a particular friend of Colonel John Butler, Walter’s father, who said, when he heard of his death, “I would have gone miles on my hands and knees to have saved that family, and why my son did not do it God only knows.” One loyalist, Peter Smith, who had formerly been a servant in the family, tried to save Miss Jenny, but the Indian who had seized her struck her on the head with his tomahawk and killed her. One man by the name of Mitchell was at a distance, saw the savages approaching, and finding that he could not rejoin his family, escaped into the woods. On his return he found his house burning, and near it lay the bodies of his wife and four children. One of these, a little girl, was still living, when he saw a party approach. He dropped the child, and secreted himself behind a tree. One of the new-comers saw the child to be alive yet, and stooping, brained her with a hatchet. The wretch was not an Indian, but a white loyalist savage named Newbery, who was afterwards hanged as a spy by General James Clinton. Brant saved a number of prisoners, and would have spared the women and children, but Walter Butler denied all appeals for mercy.

Butler’s time was to come. On the 22d of August, 1781, Colonel Willet attacked a force of five hundred loyalists and Indians at Johnstown, and defeated them. They were commanded by Major Ross and Walter Butler. The remnant of the enemy retreated all that night, and could not be overtaken. It was during that retreat that Butler was killed in the manner related in the ballad. Skenando, the Oneida chief, who is supposed to have been his slayer, was about seventy-four years old at the time. He lived many years after, dying at the age of one hundred and ten, on March 19, 1816. His burial was attended by a large number of citizens. A short time before his death he said to a visitor, who made some inquiries about his age, “I am an old hemlock. The winds of a hundred winters have whistled through my top. The generation to which I belonged has gone and left me. Pray to my Jesus that I may have patience to wait for my appointed time to die.”

DISTANT VIEW OF CHERRY VALLEY.

DEATH OF WALTER BUTLER.

I.

Overhead the sky of morning

Gives of goodly weather sign;

From the milking to the meadows

Slowly go the lowing kine.

Fall in sparks of fire the dew-drops

From the overburdened leaves;

Flit from bough to bough the peewees;

Hum the mud-wasps at the eaves.

Mists that recent wrapped the valley

Now are sweeping o’er the hills;

And the broad red sun is casting

Gold upon the lakes and rills.

Deep and brown and sombre shadows

Creep the forest trees between;

Here and there the shades of crimson

Speck the liquidambars’ green.

Lo! a horseman swiftly rising

From between the river’s banks;

Dust is on the rider’s garments,

Blood upon his horse’s flanks.

At the portal of the tavern

Hard he draws the bridle-rein,

For a moment, feet in stirrup,

One refreshing draught to drain.

What can make the village dwellers,

In a hushed and breathless group,

Gather round that jaded horseman

By the village-tavern stoop?

To him come the anxious mothers,

Bearing babes upon their arms;

Close behind them crowd the maidens,

Yet unscathed by love’s alarms.

Near him gather stalwart farmers,

Sturdy, strong, and sun-embrowned;

And the curious village children,

Play suspending, stand around.

Breathless all, until the horseman,

Mug in hand, has told his tale;

Then around there spreads a murmur

Like the warning of the gale.

Now it lulls and now it rises,

Like the patter of the rain—

“Heaven at last has dealt its vengeance!

Walter Butler has been slain!”

II.

Never tongue may tell the horror

Of that dark November day,

When through startled Cherry Valley

Walter Butler took his way—

Walter Butler and his Tories,

With the savage Brant in train,

Marking every rod of progress

By the bodies of the slain.

Walter Butler! cruel panther,

Lapping tongue in human gore;

Even Brant, the bloody Mohawk,

Had of truth and pity more.

His the will to save the helpless

From the tomahawk and ball,

Had not you with rage forbade him,

Saying, “Curse them! kill them all!”

Even boyhood’s old companions,

Comrades of your later days,

Friends who, seeing not your vices,

Gave your scanty virtues praise—

None of these could gain your mercy

On that long-remembered day;

For the stranger, friend or foeman,

Came one doom relentless—“Slay!”

Swiftly at your word the hatchet

Crashed into the quivering brain,

And the swarthy fiends in fury

Tore the scalp-skins from the slain.

Gray-haired elders, whom your father

Knew as friends in days of yore,

You had joy to see their corses

Welter in their oozing gore.

Mothers lying mangled, dying,

In their throes made deeper moans

As they saw the skulls of infants

Shattered on the ruthless stones.

These, and shrieks of fleeing maidens,

Speechless children’s pleading tears,

And the yelling of the savage,

Made sweet music to your ears.

Bloody Walter Butler! owning

Brain of fire and heart of stone,

Twenty deaths, could you endure them,

Would not for these deeds atone.

Nevermore may come your victims

To the pleasant earth again—

Never hear the blessed tidings—

“Walter Butler has been slain!”

III.

When the savage had departed,

Careless of the woe he caused,

Then, amid the smouldering ruins,

An Oneida came and paused.

He was tall and gaunt and aged,

Crowned his head with films of snow;

For the frosts of seventy winters

Thus had honored Skenando.

Gazed he on the work of evil,

Which around its traces spread,

On the blood which stained the herbage,

On the pale and mangled dead.

“I have been,” so spake the chieftain,

“Forty years the white man’s friend;

So have been to Walter Butler—

Would have proved so to the end.

“Cruel son of lying father,

Faithless, too, as this may show,

You shall rue the dreadful doing

Which creates in me a foe.

“Here are friends—I knew and loved them,

Proved them often in my need.

Great Monedo’s curse be on you,

Walter Butler, for this deed.

“Here, by all his bitter sorrow,

By his scant and whitened hairs,

By the spirits of the fallen,

Thus the old Oneida swears:

“He will follow in your pathway,

He will hang upon your track,

Through the hurry of the foray,

Through the battle’s awful rack,

“Till at length his keen-edged hatchet,

Driven to your coward brain,

With its crashing voice shall utter,

‘Walter Butler has been slain!’”

IV.

In the waste of Cherry Valley

Desolation long was seen,

Seated on the heaps of ashes

Where the home of man had been.

Desolation there was sitting,

Brooding on the fearful past,

Crouching in the murky shadows

Of her sullen pinions vast.

There, amid the thorny briers,

Mingled with the earth and stones,

Hidden by the noxious herbage,

Were the weather-whitened bones.

On the branches of the maples

Sat the houseless cocks, and crowed;

In the forest’s dark recesses

Starveling watch-dogs made abode.

Through the copse-wood, snorting, scampered

Herds of wild and savage swine;

And with yellow deer there wandered

What survived among the kine.

In the fenceless fields the panther

Crouched to spring upon his prey;

And the rattlesnake lay basking

Careless in the public way.

Where had stood the barn and stable,

And the garden with its bees;

Where the house, with peakèd gable,

Peeped through groves of locust-trees;

Where the children, newly risen,

Peered at sunrise through the pane,

But through which the murdered children

Nevermore may peer again;

Where the housewife in the morning,

Pail in hand, the fountain near,

Stopped to gossip with her neighbors,

And the village news to hear;

Where the farmers in the porches

Sat at closing of the day,

Smoking pipes whose odors mingled

With the fragrance of the hay;

Where at eve the cows were lowing

Answer to the milkmaid’s cry;

And, with hens about him, proudly

Sultan Spurs came strutting by;

Where the horses, in the pasture,

On the fence’s topmost rail,

Crossed their necks and loudly whinnied,

Some tired traveller’s horse to hail;

Where the rooting swine at footsteps

Raised their heads beneath the trees,

And the watch-dog bayed defiance

To the murmur of the breeze—

Clouds that overhung the valley

Would not melt in gentle rain;

They were waiting for the tidings—

“Walter Butler has been slain!”

V.

Where the Canada so swiftly

Through the mountain gorges flows,

Walter Butler found the mercy

He had dealt to hapless foes.

He had fought that day with Willet,

And the battle had been lost,

For our men the past remembered,

To the ruthless Tories’ cost.

No one there would seek for quarter,

No one mercy would bestow;

From the wrath that swept around them,

Flight alone could save the foe.

Butler, baffled, fled the combat

On his charger tried and good,

Through the glen and o’er the valley,

Through the gap within the wood.

Rode he steadily and swiftly,

While a swart and angry pack

Of the hound-like, wild Oneidas

Yelped in anger on his track.

On the Canada was rushing,

Tempest-swollen, from the hills,

Maddened with the furious urging

Of a hundred surging rills.

But he heeded not its raging;

At the danger fear was lost.

In he spurred his panting charger,

And the foaming river crossed.

On its bank a moment halting,

To the foes upon his track

Words and motions of defiance

Butler hurled, exulting, back.

On his hot and spent pursuers

Thus his words of scorning fell:

“He who rides with Walter Butler

Sits a steed that carries well.

“In the battle and the foray

Human blood shall fall like rain,

Ere you carry round the tidings—

‘Walter Butler has been slain!’”

VI.

As he waved his hand in mocking

Came the whizzing of the ball;

Loudly shouted the Oneidas

As they saw the braggart fall.

Then the white-haired chief who led them

Flung his powder-horn aside,

And his rifle dropped, preparing

For a leap within the tide.

“Skenando!” exclaimed a comrade,

“Stay! the stream runs fierce and wild;

And your age will make you weaker

In its current than a child.

“For the youngest there is danger

Ere he’d reach the farther shore,

From the raging of the waters,

And the rocks o’er which they pour.”

“Stay me not!” he answered, sternly;

“Vengeance to the flood impels;

Hear you not the dying moaning

Of the murdered Jenny Wells?”

Plunging in the yellow torrent

With his tomahawk in hand,

Swam the chief of the Oneidas,

Struggling till he reached the land—

Till upon the green bank’s summit,

Close beside the shaded, wood,

O’er the sorely wounded Butler

With a purpose fierce he stood.

Said the pallid, craven butcher,

“Let my ransom save my head;

I can give you gold if living,

I am profitless if dead!”

Skenando replied, “With fever

I in Cherry Valley lay,

Where a white man nursed and healed me,

Clothed and sent me on my way.

“That same white man had a daughter;

She with you in childhood played;

Yet one day, when leaves had fallen,

By your orders died the maid.

“The Oneida, sworn to vengeance,

Stands prepared to keep his vow;

Think of Jenny Wells and tremble!

Ah! you ask no mercy now.

“Wretch! remember Cherry Valley!”

Sank the Tory with a groan,

And the fierce and vengeful savage

Drove his hatchet through the bone.

---

Back returned the swart Oneidas

Ere the setting of the sun;

And the scalp of Walter Butler

Dangled from the belt of one.

To the stout, victorious soldiers

Who so well that day had fought,

And were now at ease reposing,

Pleasant was the news they brought.

When was told around the camp-fire

How the hatchet clave the brain,

Oh, how joyous was the shouting—

“Walter Butler has been slain.”

THE FIGHT OF THE MOUNTAINEERS.

From the narrative of a survivor of the gallant men who participated in the fight at King’s Mountain I wrote the ballad, and aimed to give it the simple style of the narrator. But the old man, perfectly truthful in intent, fell into some errors. He omits all mention of the M’Dowells. Colonel M’Dowell was not in the battle. He objected to fighting a battle without a general officer, and he was despatched in search of one. While gone, the rest elected Colonel Campbell to command, and got to work. Major M’Dowell however remained, and commanded the regiments. He calls Shelby, Evan Shelby. But Evan Shelby, who was Isaac’s father, and who distinguished himself at Point Pleasant, was not at King’s Mountain.

COLONEL ISAAC SHELBY.

The official account of the battle transmitted to Gates, and probably the correct one, is as follows:

“On receiving intelligence that Major Ferguson had advanced up as high as Gilbert Town, in Rutherford County, and threatened to cross the mountains to the Western waters, Colonel William Campbell, with four hundred men, of Washington County, of Virginia, Colonel Isaac Shelby, with two hundred and forty men from Sullivan County, of North Carolina, and Lieutenant-colonel Sevier, with two hundred and forty men, of Washington County, of North Carolina, assembled at Watauga, on the twenty-fifth day of September, where they were joined by Colonel Charles M’Dowell, with one hundred and sixty men, from the counties of Burke and Rutherford, who had fled before the enemy to the Western waters. We began our march on the twenty-sixth, and on the thirtieth we were joined by Colonel Cleaveland, on the Catawba River, with three hundred men, from the counties of Wilkes and Surrey. No one officer having properly the right to the command-in-chief, on the first of October we despatched an express to Major-general Gates, informing him of our situation, and requested him to send a general officer to take command of the whole. In the mean time, Colonel Campbell was chosen to act as commandant, till such general officer should arrive. We marched to the Cowpens, on Broad River, in South Carolina, where we were joined by Colonel James Williams, with four hundred men, on the evening of the sixth of October, who informed us that the enemy lay encamped somewhere near the Cherokee Ford, off Broad River, about thirty miles distant from us. By a council of principal officers, it was then thought advisable to pursue the enemy that night with nine hundred of the best horsemen, and have the weak horse and foot men to follow us as fast as possible. We began our march with nine hundred of the best men about eight o’clock the same evening, and, marching all night, came up with the enemy about three o’clock P.M. of the seventh, who lay encamped on the top of King’s Mountain, twelve miles north of the Cherokee Ford, in the confidence that they could not be forced from so advantageous a post. Previous to the attack on our march, the following disposition was made: Colonel Shelby’s regiment formed a column in the centre on the left; Colonel Campbell’s regiment another on the right, with part of Colonel Cleaveland’s regiment, headed in front by Major Joseph Winston; and Colonel Sevier’s formed a large column on the right wing. The other part of Cleaveland’s regiment, headed by Colonel Cleaveland himself, and Colonel Williams’s regiment, composed the left wing. In this order we advanced, and got within a quarter of a mile of the enemy before we were discovered. Colonel Shelby’s and Colonel Campbell’s regiments began the attack, and kept up a fire on the enemy, while the right and left wings were advancing to surround them, which was done in about five minutes, when the fire became general all around. The engagement lasted an hour and five minutes, the greater part of which a heavy and incessant fire was kept up on both sides. Our men, in some parts where the regulars fought, were obliged to give way a distance, two or three times, but rallied and returned with additional ardor to the attack. The troops upon the right having gained the summit of the eminence, obliged the enemy to retreat along the summit of the ridge to where Colonel Cleaveland commanded, and were there stopped by his brave men. A flag was immediately hoisted by Captain Depeyster, the commanding officer (Major Ferguson having been killed a little before), for a surrender. Our fire immediately ceased, and the enemy laid down their arms (the greater part of them charged) and surrendered themselves prisoners at discretion. It appears from their own provision returns for that day, found in their camp, that their whole force consisted of eleven hundred and twenty-five men, out of which they sustained the following loss:

“Of the regulars, one major, one captain, two sergeants, and fifteen privates killed; thirty-five privates wounded, left on the ground not able to march; two captains, four lieutenants, three ensigns, one surgeon, five sergeants, three corporals, one drummer, and forty-nine privates taken prisoners.

“Loss of the Tories: two colonels, three captains, and two hundred and one killed; one major and one hundred and twenty-seven privates wounded, and left on the ground not able to march. One colonel, twelve captains, eleven lieutenants, two ensigns, one quartermaster, one adjutant, two commissaries, eighteen sergeants, and six hundred privates taken prisoners.

“Total loss of the enemy, eleven hundred and five men at King’s Mountain.

“Given under our hands at camp.

“Benja. Cleaveland,
Isaac Shelby,
Wm. Campbell.”

KING’S MOUNTAIN BATTLE-GROUND.

THE BATTLE OF KING’S MOUNTAIN.

I.

You ask your grandsire hoary

To tell you of the day,

When, in his lusty manhood’s prime,

To fight he took his way.

So here beside our cabin,

Deep in the Baptist Yale,

While sinks the sun within the west,

And light begins to fail—

Upon the lofty summit,

Before the set of sun,

I’ll tell you how by mountaineers

The battle-field was won.

II.

In Southern Carolina

Cornwallis settled down;

And Forguson twelve hundred led,

In pride from Gilbert Town.

For Gates was crushed at Camden,

And only Marion’s band

Lay, but a remnant of itself,

Within the low swamp-land.

The cause was hid in darkness,

And few expected dawn,

For strength had fled, and fire was dead,

And even hope was gone.

Then spoke old Evan Shelby

To Campbell and Sevier—

“Shall base maurauders revel thus,

As we sit idle here?

“Up steep and stern King’s Mountain

Went Forguson, I learn;

Should men take heart to deal a blow,

He never would return.

“Out then and scour the counties,

Our forces shall combine,

And, ready for the battle, cross

The Carolina line.”

Said gallant William Campbell—

“I’m with you there, old friend;

Though borne by numbers to the earth,

We will not break nor bend.

“Three hundred western hunters

I volunteer to bring,

All loyal to their country’s cause,

Though rebel to the king.

“All hardy western hunters,

Who serve for love, not hire;

Each prompt to mark the foeman dark,

And drop him when they fire.”

Sevier was in their counsel—

“Three hundred I can bring

To meet these savage myrmidons

Of George, our former king.

“Each man is firm and fearless,

Each uses rifle well;

Nor sabre-stroke, nor musket-ball,

Upon our ranks may tell.

“From home or over ocean

They fear no haughty foes—”

’Twas thus he boasted of his band,

And I was one of those.

Then word went out that Shelby,

With Campbell and Sevier,

Against the common enemy

Would lead the mountaineer.

With moccasons corked, and rifles

New flinted every one,

Right soon a thousand brave and strong

Were gathered at Doe Run.

To them came Cleaveland’s forces,

When once they left the glen,

And mounted on their own good steeds

Rode sixteen hundred men.

Campbell, as chief commander,

The centre column led;

And with him Shelby’s regiment,

With Shelby at its head.

The left was led by Cleaveland,

The right obeyed Sevier;

And like the sky which bent o’erhead

Each brow was calm and clear.

Then this laconic order

Was passed both left and right—

“Tie overcoats, pick touch-holes, prime,

And ready be for fight!”

We neared where they stood waiting,

And cleft our force in three;

And then dismounting, to the limbs

Tied horses silently.

The centre up the mountain

Pressed eager to the fight,

While round the base, to gain his rear,

The wings swept left and right.

In calm and deadly silence,

With firm and steady tramp,

On pressed our three divisions towards

The centre of their camp.

Then came their muskets’ rattle,

And comrades at my side,

Whom I had known for many years,

Were stricken down, and died.

Uriah Byrne, of Black Fork,

A younger man than I—

His hot blood spurting in my face—

Fell at my feet to die.

And swarthy Robin Harper,

Whose house was nigh to mine,

Pierced by a bullet, fell and left

A wife and orphans nine.

And golden-haired John Bowen,

A boy scarce past sixteen—

I knew his mother ere his birth,

And few so fair I’ve seen—

A woman fair and stately,

Who loved her husband well,

And mourned, nor ever wedded more,

When he in battle fell.

She sent with us this stripling,

And thus to him she said,

“Return with honor to your home,

Or stay among the dead.

“You are the stay and comfort

Of my declining years;

That I am loath to part with you,

Witness these bitter tears.

“But now these foul invaders

Sweep hill and valley o’er,

Go! drive them from these mountains free,

Or see my face no more!”

And there I saw his ringlets

Lie, bloody, on his cheek;

I caught his eye, and stooped to hear

The words that he might speak.

“A message to my mother,

If you survive the day:

And say her darling son was still

The foremost in the fray.

“My spirit to my Maker

I yield, and trust that He

Forgives my sins for sake of Him

Who died upon the tree.

“Yet ’tis a thing of terror,

When youthful hopes are bright,

And youthful blood flows full and free,

To bid the world good-night.

“Go, comrade, to your duty,

And leave me here to die—”

His pulses stopped, I turned away,

I had no time to sigh.

But filled with sudden fury,

I joined the strife again,

Nor paused to watch the fight around

Till I three foes had slain—

One for my early schoolmate,

One for my neighbor old,

And one for him with golden hair

That lay so stark and cold.

The foe raised shouts exulting;

We answered not at all;

But still with steady coolness poured

Our rain of rifle-ball.

But hark! a voice is ringing

As clearly as a drum—

’Tis Forguson’s—“Charge bayonet!

And drive the rebel scum!”

III.

Down gallantly and boldly

The British soldiers came,

When on their wall of bristling steel

We hurled our scorching flame.

They paused a single moment,

And then they broke and fled;

But Forguson re-formed their ranks,

Proud riding at their head.

They fell on us like panthers

In laurel roughs at bay,

And at their front, compact and firm,

The Cleaveland men gave way.

But ere a rod they drove them,

Sevier came back again,

And up the ridge the Britons ran,

Thinned by the leaden rain.

Relieved by reinforcements,

They wheeled and charged again,

O’er rock and hillock, log and stone,

And through the heaps of slain.

On Shelby and on Campbell

They charged in wrath once more,

Though every step they made in front

Was in their comrades’ gore.

But Cleaveland now had rallied,

Sevier kept firing fierce,

And through our solid centre there

They vainly strove to pierce.

Then first there rose our shouting,

And rang our wild hurra;

For well we knew that they would lose

And we would win the day.

It roused the Briton’s anger,

Who bade his men stand fast;

And, turning, tried another charge,

The fourth one and the last.

But now our blood had risen,

The hour of fury came;

And driving them within their lines,

We hemmed them round with flame.

The dead lay heaped around us,

The ground with blood was wet;

And gouts of gore hung dripping there

From knife and bayonet.

But still our hardy hunters,

As when the fight began,

Kept plying trigger busily,

And no one missed his man.

Still smaller grew the circle

Around the loyal band;

Still fell our long-pent hate upon

The spoiler of our land.

Hark! Forguson is speaking!

His voice is stern and low—

“To saddle, horsemen! Sabres draw!

And charge upon the foe!”

Ah! deadly was that order,

For, as upon his horse

Each horseman strove to mount, he fell

Or wounded or a corse.

But with his heart undaunted,

The soldier of the crown

Contrived to save one section there,

And bade it ride us down.

Down came the bold Dupoister,

And down came Forguson:

We held our fire, for well we knew

Our work was nearly done.

Down came they like a torrent—

A stream of bold and brave;

We met them like the solid rock

That breaks to foam the wave.

The clinking of their horse-hoofs

Was only heard at first,

Then came a sound as sharp and loud

As though a mine had burst;

Down falls both horse and rider,

Backward the charge rebounds,

And down falls gallant Forguson

With seven mortal wounds.

The tide was spent and harmless;

Ere we could fire again,

Up went the white, appealing flag—

None raised to us in vain.

Up went a cry for quarter,

And down their muskets fell,

While rang our cry of victory

Through nook, ravine, and dell.

And so upon King’s Mountain,

From rise till set of sun,

By hardy western mountaineers

The battle-field was won.

MRS. MERRILL’S DEFENCE.

The event which forms the subject of the ballad occurred in Nelson County, Kentucky, during the summer of 1787. About midnight, the approach of a hostile party was made known to John Merrill and his wife, by the barking of their house-dog. At first, Merrill supposed it to be some travellers seeking shelter, and opened the door. He received the fire of a half-dozen rifles, which broke an arm and a thigh. He fell, and his wife, at his call, closed the door. The Indians broke open the door, but Mrs. Merrill, who was a very large and powerful woman, killed four of them with an axe, and they gave that up. They next climbed the roof to effect an entrance by the broad chimney. There was a fire smouldering on the hearth, and on this Mrs. Merrill threw the feathers of the bed, which she had ripped open. The smoke caused two of the remaining three Indians to fall insensible. Braining these, she ran to the open door where the last surviving savage was entering. He was too close for her to strike, but she cut his cheek with the keen blade of the axe. He gave a yell of affright and despair, and fled, spreading a terrible story of the strength and courage of his female antagonist. A similar instance of female courage is that of Mrs. Dustan, in New England; but in the latter case the victims were asleep.

THE LONG-KNIFE SQUAW.

I was out upon the Piqua, two-and-forty years ago,

Ere my sinews lost their vigor, or my head received its snow.

I was not so skilled in woodcraft as I should have been that day,

And towards the shade of evening, in the forest lost my way.

Yet I wandered hither, thither, till beside a grey old rock,

I beheld the smoky lodges of a band of Shawanock.

There was peace between the races, and a welcome warm I found,

And a supper which they gave me, by the camp-fire, on the ground.

That despatched, I fell to smoking, and as up the round moon rolled,

With a thirsty ear I listened to the tales the old men told.

There they sat and chatted gayly, while the flickering of the blaze

Led the shadows on their faces in a wild and devious maze.

And among them one I noted, unto whom the rest gave place,

Which was token he was foremost in the fight or in the chase.

He had been among the white men till he spoke our language well,

Though his speech was marked by phrases that from Western hunters fell.

There was pausing in the stories, when he turned and spoke to me,

As his red pipe he replenished—“I could tell a tale,” said he.

“Those there are of daring white men, whom no danger can appall;

But I knew a squaw among them, who surpassed them one and all.

“Six good Shawanock, my comrades, did that pale-face woman kill.”

Then I said—“Pray tell the story!” Quoth the other—“So I will.

“There were seven of us together, who upon an August day,

From the sullen, broad Ohio, up Salt River took our way.

“Up the Rolling Fork we travelled, seeking where we might obtain

Precious plunder from the living, bleeding trophies from the slain.

“By a spring-branch in the bottom, near a clearing in the wood,

Hidden by the sombre hemlocks, Merrill’s low-roofed cabin stood.

“It was built of logs of white-oak, chinked, save loop-holes here and there,

With a door of heavy puncheons, made the axe’s blow to bear.

“At its end a good stone chimney reared itself among the trees,

And the smoke-wreaths, as we neared it, still were breaking in the breeze.

“Out we lay upon the mountain, till the midnight hour came on,

Till the darkness growing deeper told the summer moon had gone.

“Then we downward crept in silence—not a rustle, scarce a stir—

Till by chance a stone we loosened, which descended with a whirr.

“Rose the dog who had been lying in the cabin’s deepest shade,

Snuffed our presence in the valley, and, to warn his master, bayed.

“Then aroused he came to tear us, in his fury, limb from limb,

But my hatchet’s blow unerring was enough to quiet him.

“There was stirring in the cabin, and I heard old Merrill say—

‘Wife, that is some wearied hunter, who perchance has lost his way.

“‘Rouse you, stir the ash-hid embers, and get ready to prepare

Bed of feathers for the stranger and a bait of cabin fare.’

“How we chuckled as he said it; then, in English, ‘House!’ I cried,

While my comrades all stood ready, when the door should open wide.

“With one hand his rifle grasping, Merrill then unclosed the door,

When we poured a sudden volley, and he sank upon the floor.

“In the fall the gun exploded, lighting up again the dark;

But no fingers drew the trigger, and the bullet found no mark.

“Ere we reached the open portal, though the journey was not far,

Lo! the woman Merrill closed it, and secured it with a bar.

“Long we hacked and long we hammered at the door with useless din,

Till at length a heavy sapling, fiercely driven, burst it in.

“Young Penswataway, our leader, stout old Cornstalk’s gallant son,

At the breach we had thus opened, entered in the foremost one.

“He had battled at Point Pleasant, and escaped the deadly ball,

By the weapon of a woman at the dead of night to fall.

“There she stood, that fearless woman, in her hand a heavy axe;

Came a sound of skull-bone crashing, and he died there in his tracks.

“Then, as four more strove to enter at the breach within the door,

One by one my slaughtered comrades sank and died upon the floor.

“Thus that stern unflinching woman managed five of us to slay,

And with axe and blow so ready those surviving kept at bay.

“Yet another entry offered; so, while I with rifle stood,

Lest the woman should escape us in the darkness of the wood,

“To the roof my two companions quickly climbed, a path to gain

By the great, capacious chimney, where resistance would be vain;

“For, so soon as they descended and attacked her on the floor,

Unopposed I’d find an entrance in the then unguarded door.

“But let no one boast his cunning, if a squaw be in the way,

Never fox hath more of shrewdness than a woman held at bay.

“From its place within the corner soon she tore a feather-bed,

And she tossed it in an instant on the embers fiery red.

“Scorched with fierce and sudden blazing, nearly stifled with the smoke,

Fell my two remaining comrades, to receive her axe’s stroke.

“Then I struggled at the entrance, and had partly made my way

When the woman came before me, like a wounded buck at bay.

“From her mouth the foam was flying, and her eyes were glazed and green;

Such a sight to shake my courage, I before had never seen.

“Turned I quickly in my terror, bounding through the darkness deep,

And I never stopped my running till the dawn began to peep.

“Now, what think you of my story?” said the savage unto me—

“Was she not a woman worthy leader of a tribe to be?”

“Ay!” I answered, “but I tell you, should you try it, you would see

We have many a hundred women that in need were stout as she.

“On the mountains of Virginia, in Kentucky’s bloody ground,

In the forests of Ohio, scores of such are to be found—

“Women tender, trusting, tearful; yet if peril forced among,

They can fight as stern and fiercely as a pantheress for her young.”

Quoth the chieftain, “If so many like that woman you can find,

You should send them forth to battle, while your men remained behind.

“I have met your braves in combat when the skies were red with fire,

And the sabres of your horsemen flashed the lightning of their ire—

“When your brazen-bodied cannon spoke their wrath to those around,

And the trampling of your legions shook the awed and trembling ground.

“Where the waters of Kanawha rush to join a clearer tide,

I was there with stout old Cornstalk, when you broke our power and pride.

“With the Mingoes, under Girty, at Fort Henry I was one,

When your forty kept four hundred baffled there from sun to sun.

“By Tecumthe’s side I battled at the Thames the day he fell,

Where continual flash kept lighting forest, river, swamp, and dell.

“But I never knew a terror, and a fear I never felt,

Save that midnight when the woman so upon my comrades dealt.

“And if I were young and likely, then, whatever dames I saw,

I would wed none save the equal of that daring long-knife squaw.”

THE LAST BATTLE OF THE WAR.

ANDREW JACKSON.

There is no event in American history which seems to be so misunderstood, especially in details, as the battle fought in New Orleans after the close of the war of 1812. The commander of the Americans at that notable repulse became afterwards a prominent politician, or, rather, resumed his political career, and was twice elected President of the United States by the Democratic party, which his course in office aided to disintegrate. The contest during the three times he was a candidate was extremely bitter, and while he was lauded by his friends as a hero, patriot, and statesman, he was denounced by his foes as an illiterate ruffian, ignorant alike of military science and state-craft. The battle upon which his fame mainly rested, was said to have been won entirely by the folly of the British, who stupidly marched upon impregnable works, and were shot down easily by expert marksmen intrenched behind cotton-bales. This last error is amusing, and nothing will ever correct it. The embankment behind which most of the militia lay was formed of swamp-mud mainly, the best material possible for earthworks. A few cotton-bales had been used at one point, but one of them being fired, the dense smoke made it an annoyance, and it was speedily removed. That my readers may comprehend the affair, I give a brief account of the operations leading up to the fight.

The proclamations of Lieutenant-colonel Nichols at Pensacola, which, in violation of Spanish neutrality, he occupied with a British force, and the attempt of the enemy to obtain the aid and co-operation of Lafitte, the head of the Baratarian outlaws, had aroused the attention of Jackson, who acted with his usual promptness and decision, without awaiting orders from the War Department. He had been satisfied of these designs before, through information obtained by means of his agents, and waited an opportunity to strike a blow at the combined British and Spanish enemy. He knew that New Orleans was to be the objective point of an expedition, and prepared for its defence. Recruiting went on slowly; the Southern Indians were openly or covertly hostile; but the failure of a naval and land attack on Fort Bowyer, repulsed with slaughter, and the loss of the flag-ship, disengaged most of the savages from alliance with Nichols, and brought in large numbers of volunteers. Jackson marched against Pensacola, where the British were intrenched, and proposed to the governor to occupy two of the forts with American garrisons until the Spanish government could send enough troops to make its neutrality respected. This the governor refused, when Jackson at once attacked the town, and after storming a battery, most of the forts were surrendered. Fort Barrancas was in the hands of the British, but before Jackson could attack it, the enemy abandoned and blew it up, and with the Spanish governor and troops embarked on the squadron and left the harbor. The American government gave a cold support, almost amounting to censure, for this necessary and justifiable action; but public opinion in the South and West sustained the commander of the Seventh Department.

VILLERÉ’S MANSION.

Jackson, who had gone to Mobile before this to look after its defence, received from Governor Claiborne the letter of Lafitte, giving the British propositions and their rejection, and learned that the citizens of New Orleans, under the lead of Edward Livingston, had organized a Defence Committee. He soon after left for New Orleans, where he arrived on the 2d of December. He found the people alarmed and discordant—the masses blaming the Legislature, the Legislature the governor, and the governor both. There was a lack of money, arms, ammunition, and men. It is true there were two militia regiments and a slender volunteer battalion, commanded by Major Planché, a brave creole officer;[1] but these were not sufficient to guard the city, which contained a large amount of property, and had but meagre fortifications to protect its approaches. Jackson went actively to work to improve the condition of things by strengthening the forts, erecting new ones, obstructing the bayous, and establishing discipline.

“THE HERMITAGE,” JACKSON’S RESIDENCE, IN 1861.

On the 9th of December the British squadron, having on board over seven thousand troops, made their appearance and anchored near the entrance to Lake Borgne. Here they prepared to land. They were not aware of the revelations of Lafitte, and hoped to take the place by surprise. They soon learned their error. The late commodore (then lieutenant) Ap Catesby Jones was in command of our flotilla, and had sent out two gun-boats, under command of Lieutenant M’Keever and sailing-master Ulrick, to watch their approach. These reported the fleet to Jones on the 10th, and Jones made for Pass Christian, where the astounded enemy saw his flotilla at anchor on the 13th. As it was impossible to land troops under these circumstances, Admiral Cochrane manned sixty barges, each armed with a carronade and filled with men, to capture the tiny squadron, which was manned by one hundred and eighty-three men. He succeeded in this, with the loss of three hundred killed and wounded, after an hour’s fight. The American loss was only six killed and thirty-five wounded. This partly cleared the way for the enemy, who also discovered the passage through the Bayou Bienvenu. On the 22d, as many of the invaders as could find transportation embarked, and landing at the Fisherman’s Village, at the mouth of the bayou, captured most of the picket-guard. The men taken so represented the numbers of Jackson’s force that the invaders proceeded with more caution. They moved slowly up the bayou, and at Villeré’s plantation surrounded the house, and took Major Villeré, the commander of the pickets. He escaped, however, and carried the news to Jackson.

The American general in the mean while had not been idle. He had proclaimed martial law in the city, brought the troops to a state of discipline, infused his heroic spirit into the population, and sent messengers to Coffee, Carroll, and Thomas, urging them to move forward their commands as soon as possible. On the 22d, Carroll’s troops of Tennessee levies, all skilled riflemen, landed in New Orleans, and Coffee’s brigade of mounted rifles were encamped five miles above the city. As soon as the news of the enemy’s presence was brought to Jackson he determined to attack on the night of the 23d, both to check the enemy and to familiarize his raw troops with their work. In the mean time the schooner Carolina was directed to drop down the river in the darkness, and open fire on the enemy’s camp. That fire would drive them upon the land-forces.

The affair was carefully managed and brilliantly carried out. The British were driven under the levee, and the troops, excited and triumphant, returned to the city in perfect order and with full confidence in their commander.

JACKSON’S TOMB.

The events of the night had somewhat depressed the spirits of the enemy, and on Christmas-day, which was cold and disagreeable, a gloom pervaded the British encampment. That day, however, their spirits were lifted by the arrival of Sir Edward Pakenham, “the hero of Salamanca.” Sir Edward was then in the prime of manhood, thirty-three years of age, brave, upright, and honorable, and altogether undeserving of the obloquy that so long hung over his memory as the reputed author of the asserted watchword—“beauty and booty.” He was among old friends, most of the troops there having fought with him in the Spanish Peninsula. He gave renewed life to the force. A battery of twelve and eighteen pounders and a howitzer was planted so as to command the Carolina, and by means of hot shot, on the night of the 27th, she was set on fire and destroyed. The Louisiana, the only remaining American vessel, escaped with difficulty. Pakenham arranged his army in two columns, one under Keane and the other under Gibbs, and moved forward, driving in the American outposts, and then encamped during the night, where the riflemen annoyed them and prevented them from much sleep. The next morning at dawn they moved to the attack, two to one in numbers and confident of success. But they met with an unexpected resistance. The Baratarians and the crew of the Carolina came up, and opened on them with twenty-four pounders, while the fire of the Louisiana from the river enfiladed their line, doing terrible damage. On the right, Gibbs was not more successful, though less terribly punished, and Pakenham was compelled to order a retreat, which on the left became disorderly. The comparative loss was remarkable—the Americans had seventeen killed and wounded, and the British about one hundred and fifty—owing, doubtless, to the terrible oblique fire of the Louisiana.

PLAIN OF CHALMETTE.—BATTLE-GROUND.

At the council of war called that evening, it was determined to land heavy siege guns from the ships, to throw up redoubts, and prepare for a regular and concerted attack. During the next few days this was carried out, and several attempts were made to break the American line. The fighting went on, until Sir Edward, finding he could make no impression, concluded to hazard all in a stroke and carry the works by storm.

JOHN COFFEE.

Jackson during all this time was energetically at work strengthening his position. On the 4th of January his forces were increased by the arrival of General Thomas, with two thousand drafted men from Kentucky, raw and undisciplined, but for defensive work useful, being cool, brave, and good marksmen. His intrenchments were carried into the swamp to prevent being flanked, and batteries were placed in proper positions on the lines on both sides of the river. Behind the levee on Jourdan’s plantation, Commander Patterson had placed a battery of heavy guns from his schooner, and manned them with seamen. This battery commanding the front of the American lines, drove the enemy from Chalmette’s plantation to a point between Bienvenu and De la Ronde’s.

On the 7th Major-general Lambert arrived with reinforcements, among the rest Sir Edward’s own regiment, the 7th Fusileers, bringing his force up to ten thousand men, the very flower of the British army. This was divided into three brigades, commanded by Generals Lambert, Gibbs, and Keane, and on the following morning an attack was to be made on both sides of the Mississippi. Thornton was to cross the river, and fall upon the Americans on that side before dawn. His guns were to be the signal for the main attack. He was detained, however, in the river, and the main attack was not made until daylight. Thornton was quite successful, but retreated when he learned of the terrible repulse on the other side of the river.

The incidents of the main attack and the results will be found in the ballad.

STATUE OF JACKSON IN FRONT OF THE CATHEDRAL.

THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS.

Here, in my rude log cabin,

Few poorer men there be

Among the mountain ranges

Of Eastern Tennessee.

My limbs are weak and shrunken,

White hairs upon my brow,

My dog—lie still, old fellow!—

My sole companion now.

Yet I, when young and lusty,

Have gone through stirring scenes,

For I went down with Carroll

To fight at New Orleans.

You say you’d like to hear me

The stirring story tell,

Of those who stood the battle

And those who fighting fell.

Short work to count our losses—

We stood and dropped the foe

As easily as by firelight

Men shoot the buck or doe.

And while they fell by hundreds

Upon the bloody plain,

Of us, fourteen were wounded

And only eight were slain.

The eighth of January,

Before the break of day,

Our raw and hasty levies

Were brought into array.

No cotton-bales before us—

Some fool that falsehood told;

Before us was an earthwork

Built from the swampy mould.

And there we stood in silence,

And waited with a frown,

To greet with bloody welcome

The bull-dogs of the Crown.

The heavy fog of morning

Still hid the plain from sight,

When came a thread of scarlet

Marked faintly in the white.

We fired a single cannon,

And as its thunders rolled,

The mist before us lifted

In many a heavy fold—

The mist before us lifted

And in their bravery fine

Came rushing to their ruin

The fearless British line.

Then from our waiting cannon

Leaped forth the deadly flame,

To meet the advancing columns

That swift and steady came.

The thirty-twos of Crowley

And Bluchi’s twenty-four

To Spotts’s eighteen-pounders

Responded with their roar,

Sending the grape-shot deadly

That marked its pathway plain,

And paved the road it travelled

With corpses of the slain.

Our rifles firmly grasping,

And heedless of the din,

We stood in silence waiting

For orders to begin.

Our fingers on the triggers,

Our hearts, with anger stirred,

Grew still more fierce and eager

As Jackson’s voice was heard:

“Stand steady! Waste no powder!

Wait till your shots will tell!

To-day the work you finish—

See that you do it well!”

Their columns drawing nearer,

We felt our patience tire,

When came the voice of Carroll,

Distinct and measured, “Fire!”

Oh! then you should have marked us

Our volleys on them pour—

Have heard our joyous rifles

Ring sharply through the roar,

And seen their foremost columns

Melt hastily away

As snow in mountain gorges

Before the floods of May.

They soon re-formed their columns,

And, ’mid the fatal rain

We never ceased to hurtle,

Came to their work again.

The Forty-fourth is with them,

That first its laurels won

With stout old Abercrombie

Beneath an eastern sun.

It rushes to the battle,

And, though within the rear

Its leader is a laggard,

It shows no signs of fear.

It did not need its colonel,

For soon there came instead

An eagle-eyed commander,

And on its march he led.

’Twas Pakenham in person,

The leader of the field;

I knew it by the cheering

That loudly round him pealed;

And by his quick, sharp movement

We felt his heart was stirred,

As when at Salamanca

He led the fighting Third.

I raised my rifle quickly,

I sighted at his breast,

God save the gallant leader

And take him to his rest!

I did not draw the trigger,

I could not for my life.

So calm he sat his charger

Amid the deadly strife,

That in my fiercest moment

A prayer arose from me—

God save that gallant leader,

Our foeman though he be!

Sir Edward’s charger staggers;

He leaps at once to ground.

And ere the beast falls bleeding

Another horse is found.

His right arm falls—’tis wounded;

He waves on high his left;

In vain he leads the movement,

The ranks in twain are cleft.

The men in scarlet waver

Before the men in brown,

And fly in utter panic—

The soldiers of the Crown!

I thought the work was over,

But nearer shouts were heard,

And came, with Gibbs to head it,

The gallant Ninety-third.

Then Pakenham, exulting,

With proud and joyous glance,

Cried, “Children of the tartan—

Bold Highlanders—advance!

Advance to scale the breastworks,

And drive them from their hold,

And show the stainless courage

That marked your sires of old!”

His voice as yet was ringing,

When, quick as light, there came

The roaring of a cannon,

And earth seemed all aflame.

Who causes thus the thunder

The doom of men to speak?

It is the Baratarian,

The fearless Dominique.

Down through the marshalled Scotsmen

The step of death is heard,

And by the fierce tornado

Falls half the Ninety-third.

The smoke passed slowly upward,

And, as it soared on high,

I saw the brave commander

In dying anguish lie.

They bear him from the battle

Who never fled the foe;

Unmoved by death around them

His bearers softly go.

In vain their care, so gentle,

Fades earth and all its scenes;

The man of Salamanca

Lies dead at New Orleans.

But where were his lieutenants?

Had they in terror fled?

No! Keane was sorely wounded

And Gibbs as good as dead.

Brave Wilkinson commanding,

A major of brigade,

The shattered force to rally

A final effort made.

He led it up our ramparts,

Small glory did he gain—

Our captives some; some slaughtered,

And he himself was slain.

The stormers had retreated,

The bloody work was o’er;

The feet of the invaders

Were soon to leave our shore.

We rested on our rifles

And talked about the fight,

When came a sudden murmur

Like fire from left to right;

We turned and saw our chieftain,

And then, good friend of mine,

You should have heard the cheering

That rang along the line.

For well our men remembered

How little, when they came,

Had they but native courage,

And trust in Jackson’s name;

How through the day he labored,

How kept the vigils still,

Till discipline controlled us—

A stronger power than will;

And how he hurled us at them

Within the evening hour,

That red night in December,

And made us feel our power.

In answer to our shouting

Fire lit his eye of grey;

Erect, but thin and pallid,

He passed upon his bay.

Weak from the baffled fever,

And shrunken in each limb,

The swamps of Alabama

Had done their work on him;

But spite of that and fasting,

And hours of sleepless care,

The soul of Andrew Jackson

Shone forth in glory there.