CHAPTER II
THE BURSTING OF THE STORM
All through the winter of 1774-75, the people of Massachusetts had offered a passive but effective resistance to General Gage. Not a councillor, judge, sheriff, or juryman could be found to serve under the royal commission; and for nine months the ordinary functions of government were suspended. At eventide, on every village-green, a company of yeomen drilled, and a supply of powder and ball was gradually collected at Concord; but every man in the province was given to understand that England must fire the first shot. At the beginning of spring, Gage received peremptory orders to arrest Samuel Adams and John Hancock, and send them to England to be tried for treason. He learned that they would be at a friend's house at Lexington, during the middle of April, and on the night of April 18 dispatched a force of eight hundred men to seize them, and then to proceed to Concord and destroy the military stores collected there. Although the movement was conducted with the greatest secrecy, Joseph Warren divined its purpose, and sent out Paul Revere by way of Charlestown to give the alarm.
[April 18-19, 1775]
Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,—
One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."
Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock,
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
At the same time Warren dispatched William Dawes by way of Roxbury; but though Dawes played an important part in the events of the night, his exploits have been completely overshadowed in the popular imagination by those of the other courier.
WHAT'S IN A NAME?
I am a wandering, bitter shade;
Never of me was a hero made;
Poets have never sung my praise,
Nobody crowned my brow with bays;
And if you ask me the fatal cause,
I answer only, "My name was Dawes."
'Tis all very well for the children to hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere;
But why should my name be quite forgot,
Who rode as boldly and well, God wot?
Why should I ask? The reason is clear—
My name was Dawes and his Revere.
When the lights from the old North Church flashed out,
Paul Revere was waiting about,
But I was already on my way.
The shadows of night fell cold and gray
As I rode, with never a break or pause;
But what was the use, when my name was Dawes?
History rings with his silvery name;
Closed to me are the portals of fame.
Had he been Dawes and I Revere,
No one had heard of him, I fear.
No one has heard of me because
He was Revere and I was Dawes.
Helen F. More.
Revere galloped at top speed to Lexington, and warned Hancock and Adams, who left the town shortly before daybreak. Meanwhile the minute-men of the village had gathered, and the vanguard of the English column was confronted by about fifty colonials under command of Captain John Parker. The British commander, Major Pitcairn, ordered them to disperse, and as they stood motionless, he gave the order to fire. His men hesitated, but he discharged his own pistol and repeated the order, whereupon a deadly volley killed eight of the minute-men and wounded ten. A moment later, the main body of the British came up, and Parker, seeing the folly of resistance, ordered his men to retire.
LEXINGTON[3]
[April 19, 1775]
From "Psalm of the West"
O'er Cambridge set the yeoman's mark:
Climb, patriot, through the April dark.
O lanthorn! kindle fast thy light,
Thou budding star in the April night,
For never a star more news hath told,
Or later flame in heaven shall hold.
Ay, lanthorn on the North Church tower,
When that thy church hath had her hour,
Still from the top of Reverence high
Shalt thou illume Fame's ampler sky;
For, statured large o'er town and tree,
Time's tallest Figure stands by thee,
And, dim as now thy wick may shine,
The Future lights his lamp at thine.
Now haste thee while the way is clear,
Paul Revere!
Haste, Dawes! but haste thou not, O Sun!
To Lexington.
[Then Devens looked] and saw the light:
He got him forth into the night,
And watched alone on the river-shore,
And marked the British ferrying o'er.
John Parker! rub thine eyes and yawn,
But one o'clock and yet 'tis Dawn!
Quick, rub thine eyes and draw thy hose:
The Morning comes ere darkness goes.
Have forth and call the yeomen out,
For somewhere, somewhere close about
Full soon a Thing must come to be
Thine honest eyes shall stare to see—
Full soon before thy patriot eyes
Freedom from out of a Wound shall rise.
[Then haste ye, Prescott and Revere!]
Bring all the men of Lincoln here;
Let Chelmsford, Littleton, Carlisle,
Let Acton, Bedford, hither file—
Oh hither file, and plainly see
Out of a wound leap Liberty.
Say, Woodman April! all in green,
Say, Robin April! hast thou seen
In all thy travel round the earth
Ever a morn of calmer birth?
But Morning's eye alone serene
Can gaze across yon village-green
To where the trooping British run
Through Lexington.
Good men in fustian, stand ye still;
The men in red come o'er the hill.
Lay down your arms, damned Rebels! cry
The men in red full haughtily.
But never a grounding gun is heard;
The men in fustian stand unstirred;
Dead calm, save maybe a wise bluebird
Puts in his little heavenly word.
O men in red! if ye but knew
The half as much as bluebirds do,
Now in this little tender calm
Each hand would out, and every palm
With patriot palm strike brotherhood's stroke
Or ere these lines of battle broke.
O men in red! if ye but knew
The least of the all that bluebirds do,
Now in this little godly calm
Yon voice might sing the Future's Psalm—
The Psalm of Love with the brotherly eyes
Who pardons and is very wise—
Yon voice that shouts, high-hoarse with ire,
Fire!
[The red-coats fire, the homespuns fall]:
The homespuns' anxious voices call,
Brother, art hurt? and Where hit, John?
And, Wipe this blood, and, Men, come on,
And, Neighbor, do but lift my head,
And, Who is wounded? Who is dead?
Seven are killed. My God! my God!
Seven lie dead on the village sod.
Two Harringtons, Parker, Hadley, Brown,
Monroe and Porter,—these are down.
Nay, look! Stout Harrington not yet dead!
He crooks his elbow, lifts his head.
He lies at the step of his own house-door;
He crawls and makes a path of gore.
The wife from the window hath seen, and rushed;
He hath reached the step, but the blood hath gushed;
He hath crawled to the step of his own house-door,
But his head hath dropped: he will crawl no more.
Clasp, Wife, and kiss, and lift the head:
Harrington lies at his doorstep dead.
But, O ye Six that round him lay
And bloodied up that April day!
As Harrington fell, ye likewise fell—
At the door of the House wherein ye dwell;
As Harrington came, ye likewise came
And died at the door of your House of Fame.
Sidney Lanier.
LEXINGTON
[April 19, 1775]
Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping,
Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun,
When from his couch, while his children were sleeping,
Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun.
Waving her golden veil
Over the silent dale,
Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire;
Hushed was his parting sigh,
While from his noble eye
Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire.
On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is springing
Calmly the first-born of glory have met;
Hark! the death-volley around them is ringing!
Look! with their life-blood the young grass is wet!
Faint is the feeble breath,
Murmuring low in death,
"Tell to our sons how their fathers have died;"
Nerveless the iron hand,
Raised for its native land,
Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side.
Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling,
From their far hamlets the yeomanry come;
As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling,
Circles the beat of the mustering drum.
Fast on the soldier's path
Darken the waves of wrath,—
Long have they gathered and loud shall they fall;
Red glares the musket's flash,
Sharp rings the rifle's crash,
Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall.
Gayly the plume of the horseman was dancing,
Never to shadow his cold brow again;
Proudly at morning the war-steed was prancing,
Reeking and panting he droops on the rein;
Pale is the lip of scorn,
Voiceless the trumpet horn,
Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high;
Many a belted breast
Low on the turf shall rest
Ere the dark hunters the herd have passed by.
Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is raving,
Rocks where the weary floods murmur and wail,
Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving,
Reeled with the echoes that rode on the gale;
Far as the tempest thrills
Over the darkened hills,
Far as the sunshine streams over the plain,
Roused by the tyrant band,
Woke all the mighty land,
Girdled for battle, from mountain to main.
Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying!
Shroudless and tombless they sunk to their rest,
While o'er their ashes the starry fold flying
Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest.
Borne on her Northern pine,
Long o'er the foaming brine
Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun;
Heaven keep her ever free,
Wide as o'er land and sea
Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
The British pressed on to Concord, but the greater part of the stores had been hidden, and minute-men were gathering from all directions. Colonel Smith, commanding the British, began to realize the dangers of his position and about noon started to retreat to Boston. And none too soon, for the whole country was aroused. Minute-men swarmed in from all directions, and taking advantage of every tree and hillock by the roadside, poured into the British a fire so deadly that the retreat soon became a disorderly flight. The timely arrival of strong reinforcements was all that saved the British from annihilation.
[April 19, 1775]
'Twas the dead of the night. By the pine-knot's red light
Brooks lay, half-asleep, when he heard the alarm,—
Only this, and no more, from a voice at the door:
"The Red-Coats are out, and have passed Phips's farm."
Brooks was booted and spurred; he said never a word;
Took his horn from its peg, and his gun from its rack;
To the cold midnight air he led out his white mare,
Strapped the girths and the bridle, and sprang to her back.
Up the North Country road at her full pace she strode,
Till Brooks reined her up at John Tarbell's to say,
"We have got the alarm,—they have left Phips's farm;
You rouse the East Precinct, and I'll go this way."
John called his hired man, and they harnessed the span;
They roused Abram Garfield, and Abram called me:
"Turn out right away; let no minute-man stay;
The Red-Coats have landed at Phips's," says he.
By the Powder-House Green seven others fell in;
At Nahum's, the men from the Saw-Mill came down;
So that when Jabez Bland gave the word of command,
And said, "Forward, march!" there marched forward the town.
Parson Wilderspin stood by the side of the road,
And he took off his hat, and he said, "Let us pray!
O Lord, God of might, let thine angels of light
Lead thy children to-night to the glories of day!
And let thy stars fight all the foes of the Right
As the stars fought of old against Sisera."
And from heaven's high arch those stars blessed our march,
Till the last of them faded in twilight away;
And with morning's bright beam, by the bank of the stream,
Half the county marched in, and we heard Davis say:
"On the King's own highway I may travel all day,
And no man hath warrant to stop me," says he;
"I've no man that's afraid, and I'll march at their head."
Then he turned to the boys,—"Forward, march! Follow me."
And we marched as he said, and the Fifer he played
The old "White Cockade," and he played it right well.
[We saw Davis fall dead], but no man was afraid;
That bridge we'd have had, though a thousand men fell.
This opened the play, and it lasted all day.
We made Concord too hot for the Red-Coats to stay;
Down the Lexington way we stormed, black, white, and gray;
We were first in the feast, and were last in the fray.
They would turn in dismay, as red wolves turn at bay.
They levelled, they fired, they charged up the road.
Cephas Willard fell dead; he was shot in the head
As he knelt by Aunt Prudence's well-sweep to load.
John Danforth was hit just in Lexington Street,
John Bridge at that lane where you cross Beaver Falls,
And Winch and the Snows just above John Munroe's,—
Swept away by one swoop of the big cannon-balls.
I took Bridge on my knee, but he said, "Don't mind me;
Fill your horn from mine,—let me lie where I be.
Our fathers," says he, "that their sons might be free,
Left their king on his throne, and came over the sea;
And that man is a knave or a fool who, to save
His life for a minute, would live like a slave."
Well, all would not do! There were men good as new,—
From Rumford, from Saugus, from towns far away,—
Who filled up quick and well for each soldier that fell;
And we drove them, and drove them, and drove them, all day.
We knew, every one, it was war that begun,
When that morning's marching was only half done.
In the hazy twilight, at the coming of night,
I crowded three buckshot and one bullet down.
'Twas my last charge of lead; and I aimed her and said,
"Good luck to you, lobsters, in old Boston Town."
In a barn at Milk Row, Ephraim Bates and Munroe
And Baker and Abram and I made a bed.
We had mighty sore feet, and we'd nothing to eat;
But we'd driven the Red-Coats, and Amos, he said:
"It's the first time," says he, "that it's happened to me
To march to the sea by this road where we've come;
But confound this whole day, but we'd all of us say
[We'd rather have spent it this way than to home]."
* * * * *
The hunt had begun with the dawn of the sun,
And night saw the wolf driven back to his den.
And never since then, in the memory of men,
Has the Old Bay State seen such a hunting again.
Edward Everett Hale.
April 19, 1882.
THE KING'S OWN REGULARS
AND THEIR TRIUMPH OVER THE IRREGULARS
Since you all will have singing, and won't be said nay,
I cannot refuse, when you so beg and pray;
So I'll sing you a song,—as a body may say,
'Tis of the King's Regulars, who ne'er ran away.
Oh! the old soldiers of the King, and the King's own Regulars.
At Prestonpans we met with some rebels one day,
We marshalled ourselves all in comely array;
Our hearts were all stout, and bid our legs stay,
But our feet were wrong-headed and took us away.
At Falkirk we resolved to be braver,
And recover some credit by better behavior:
We wouldn't acknowledge feet had done us a favor,
So feet swore they would stand, but—legs ran however.
No troops perform better than we at reviews,
We march and we wheel, and whatever you choose,
George would see how we fight, and we never refuse,
There we all fight with courage—you may see 't in the news.
To Monongahela, with fifes and with drums,
We marched in fine order, with cannon and bombs;
That great expedition cost infinite sums,
But a few irregulars cut us all into crumbs.
It was not fair to shoot at us from behind trees,
If they had stood open, as they ought, before our great guns, we should have beat them with ease,
They may fight with one another that way if they please,
But it is not regular to stand, and fight with such rascals as these.
At Fort George and Oswego, to our great reputation,
We show'd our vast skill in fortification;
The French fired three guns;—of the fourth they had no occasion;
For we gave up those forts, not through fear, but mere persuasion.
To Ticonderoga we went in a passion,
Swearing to be revenged on the whole French nation;
But we soon turned tail, without hesitation,
Because they fought behind trees, which is not the regular fashion.
Lord Loudon, he was a regular general, they say;
With a great regular army he went on his way,
Against Louisburg, to make it his prey,
But returned—without seeing it,—for he didn't feel bold that day.
Grown proud at reviews, great George had no rest,
Each grandsire, he had heard, a rebellion suppressed,
He wish'd a rebellion, looked round and saw none,
So resolved a rebellion to make—of his own.
The Yankees he bravely pitched on, because he thought they wouldn't fight,
And so he sent us over to take away their right;
But lest they should spoil our review clothes, he cried braver and louder,
For God's sake, brother kings, don't sell the cowards any powder.
Our general with his council of war did advise
How at Lexington we might the Yankees surprise;
We march'd—and re-marched—all surprised—at being beat;
And so our wise general's plan of surprise—was complete.
For fifteen miles, they follow'd and pelted us, we scarce had time to pull a trigger;
But did you ever know a retreat performed with more vigor?
For we did it in two hours, which saved us from perdition;
'Twas not in going out, but in returning, consisted our EXPEDITION.
Says our general, "We were forced to take to our arms in our defence
(For arms read legs, and it will be both truth and sense),
Lord Percy (says he), I must say something of him in civility,
And that is—'I can never enough praise him for his great—agility.'"
Of their firing from behind fences he makes a great pother;
Every fence has two sides, they made use of one, and we only forgot to use the other;
Then we turned our backs and ran away so fast; don't let that disgrace us,
'Twas only to make good what Sandwich said, that the Yankees—could not face us.
As they could not get before us, how could they look us in the face?
We took care they shouldn't, by scampering away apace.
That they had not much to brag of, is a very plain case;
For if they beat us in the fight, we beat them in the race.
Pennsylvania Evening Post, March 30, 1776.
How the alarm of the fight spread through the countryside, how men left the plough, the loom, the anvil, and hastened, musket in hand, to the land's defence that day, has been told and retold in song and story. Here is the story of Morgan Stanwood, one among hundreds such.
MORGAN STANWOOD
CAPE ANN, 1775
Morgan Stanwood, patriot!
Little more is known;
Nothing of his home is left
But the door-step stone.
Morgan Stanwood, to our thought
You return once more;
Once again the meadows lift
Daisies to your door.
Once again the morn is sweet,
Half the hay is down,—
Hark! what means that sudden clang
From the distant town?
Larum bell and rolling drum
Answer sea-borne guns;
Larum bell and rolling drum
Summon Freedom's sons!
And the mower thinks to him
Cry both bell and drum,
"Morgan Stanwood, where art thou?
Here th' invaders come!"
"Morgan Stanwood" need no more
Bell and drum-beat call;
He is one who, hearing once,
Answers once for all.
Ne'er the mower murmured then,
"Half my grass is mown,
Homespun isn't soldier-wear,
Each may save his own."
Fallen scythe and aftermath
Lie forgotten now;
Winter need may come and find
But a barren mow.
Down the musket comes. "Good wife,—
Wife, a quicker flint!"
And the face that questions face
Hath no color in 't.
"Wife, if I am late to-night,
Milk the heifer first;—
Ruth, if I'm not home at all,—
Worse has come to worst."
Morgan Stanwood sped along,
Not the common road;
Over wall and hill-top straight,
Straight to death, he strode;
Leaving her to hear at night
Tread of burdened men,
By the gate and through the gate,
At the door, and then—
Ever after that to hear,
When the grass is sweet,
Through the gate and through the night,
Slowly coming feet.
Morgan Stanwood's roof is gone;
Here the door-step lies;
One may stand thereon and think,—
For the thought will rise,—
Were we where the meadow was,
Mowing grass alone,
Would we go the way he went,
From this very stone?
Were we on the door-step here,
Parting for a day,
Would we utter words as though
Parting were for aye?
Would we? Heart, the hearth is dear,
Meadow-math is sweet;
Parting be as parting may,
After all, we meet.
Hiram Rich.
Tidings of the fight reached Northboro' early in the afternoon, while a company of minute-men were listening to a patriotic address. They shouldered their muskets and started at once for the firing line.
THE MINUTE-MEN OF NORTHBORO'
[April 19, 1775]
'Tis noonday by the buttonwood, with slender-shadowed bud;
'Tis April by the Assabet, whose banks scarce hold his flood;
When down the road from Marlboro' we hear a sound of speed—
A cracking whip and clanking hoofs—a case of crying need!
And there a dusty rider hastes to tell of flowing blood,
Of troops a-field, of war abroad, and many a desperate deed.
The Minute-Men of Northboro' were gathering that day
To hear the Parson talk of God, of Freedom and the State;
They throng about the horseman, drinking in all he should say,
Beside the perfumed lilacs blooming by the Parson's gate:
"The British march from Boston through the night to Lexington;
Revere alarms the countryside to meet them ere the sun;
Upon the common, in the dawn, the red-coat butchers slay;
On Concord march, and there again pursue their murderous way;
We drive them back; we follow on; they have begun to run:
All Middlesex and Worcester's up: Pray God, ours is the day!"
The Minute-Men of Northboro' let rust the standing plough,
The seed may wait, the fertile ground up-smiling to the spring.
They seize their guns and powder-horns; there is no halting now,
At thought of homes made fatherless by order of the King.
The pewter-ware is melted into bullets—long past due,
The flints are picked, the powder's dry, the rifles shine like new.
Within their Captain's yard enranked they hear the Parson's prayer
Unto the God of armies for the battles they must share;
He asks that to their Fathers and their Altars they be true,
For Country and for Liberty unswervingly to dare.
The Minute-Men of Northboro' set out with drum and fife;
With shining eyes they've blest their babes and bid their wives good-by.
The hands that here release the plough have taken up a strife
That shall not end until all earth has heard the battle-cry.
At every town new streams of men join in the mighty flow;
At every crossroad comes the message of a fleeing foe:
The British force, though trebled, fails against the advancing tide.
Our rifles speak from fence and tree—in front, on every side.
The British fall: the Minute-Men have mixed with bitterest woe
Their late vainglorious vaunting and their military pride.
The Minute-Men of Northboro' they boast no martial air;
No uniforms gleam in the sun where on and on they plod;
But generations yet unborn their valor shall declare;
They strike for Massachusetts Bay; they serve New England's God.
The hirelings who would make us slaves themselves are backward hurled,
On Worcester and on Middlesex their flag's forever furled.
Theirs was the glinting pomp of war; ours is the victor's prize:
That day of bourgeoning has seen a race of freemen rise.
A Nation born in fearlessness stands forth before the world
With God her shield, the Right her sword, and Freedom in her eyes.
The Minute-Men of Northboro' sit down by Boston-town;
They fight and bleed at Bunker Hill; they cheer for Washington.
In thankfulness they speed their bolt against the British Crown;
And take the plough again in peace, their warrior's duty done.
Wallace Rice.
LEXINGTON
[1775]
No Berserk thirst of blood had they,
No battle-joy was theirs, who set
Against the alien bayonet
Their homespun breasts in that old day.
Their feet had trodden peaceful ways;
They loved not strife, they dreaded pain;
They saw not, what to us is plain,
That God would make man's wrath His praise.
No seers were they, but simple men;
Its vast results the future hid:
The meaning of the work they did
Was strange and dark and doubtful then.
Swift as their summons came they left
The plough mid-furrow standing still,
The half-ground corn grist in the mill,
The spade in earth, the axe in cleft.
They went where duty seemed to call,
They scarcely asked the reason why;
They only knew they could but die,
And death was not the worst of all!
[Of man for man the sacrifice],
All that was theirs to give, they gave.
The flowers that blossomed from their grave
Have sown themselves beneath all skies.
Their death-shot shook the feudal tower,
And shattered slavery's chain as well;
On the sky's dome, as on a bell,
Its echo struck the world's great hour.
That fateful echo is not dumb:
The nations listening to its sound
Wait, from a century's vantage-ground,
The holier triumphs yet to come,—
The bridal time of Law and Love,
The gladness of the world's release,
When, war-sick, at the feet of Peace
The hawk shall nestle with the dove!—
The golden age of brotherhood
Unknown to other rivalries
Than of the mild humanities,
And gracious interchange of good,
When closer strand shall lean to strand,
Till meet, beneath saluting flags,
The eagle of our mountain-crags,
The lion of our Motherland!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
The news of the fight at Lexington spread with remarkable rapidity throughout the whole country, and nearly every colony at once took steps for the enlistment and training of a colonial militia. No stronger proof of the electric condition of the country could be offered than the way in which men everywhere rushed to arms.
THE RISING
From "The Wagoner of the Alleghanies"
Out of the North the wild news came,
Far flashing on its wings of flame,
Swift as the boreal light which flies
At midnight through the startled skies.
And there was tumult in the air,
The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat,
And through the wild land everywhere
The answering tread of hurrying feet,
While the first oath of Freedom's gun
Came on the blast from Lexington;
And Concord, roused, no longer tame,
Forgot her old baptismal name,
Made bare her patriot arm of power,
And swell'd the discord of the hour.
* * * * *
Within its shade of elm and oak
The church of Berkeley Manor stood;
There Sunday found the rural folk,
And some esteem'd of gentle blood.
In vain their feet with loitering tread
Pass'd mid the graves where rank is naught;
All could not read the lesson taught
In that republic of the dead.
* * * * *
The pastor rose; the prayer was strong;
The psalm was warrior David's song;
The text, a few short words of might,—
"The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!"
He spoke of wrongs too long endured,
Of sacred rights to be secured;
Then from his patriot tongue of flame
The startling words for Freedom came.
The stirring sentences he spake
Compell'd the heart to glow or quake,
And, rising on his theme's broad wing,
And grasping in his nervous hand
The imaginary battle-brand,
In face of death he dared to fling
Defiance to a tyrant King.
Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed
In eloquence of attitude,
Rose, as it seem'd, a shoulder higher;
Then swept his kindling glance of fire
From startled pew to breathless choir;
When suddenly his mantle wide
His hands impatient flung aside,
And, lo! he met their wondering eyes
Complete in all a warrior's guise.
A moment there was awful pause,—
When Berkeley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease!
God's temple is the house of peace!"
The other shouted, "Nay, not so,
When God is with our righteous cause;
His holiest places then are ours,
His temples are our forts and towers
That frown upon the tyrant foe;
In this, the dawn of Freedom's day,
There is a time to fight and pray!"
And now before the open door—
The warrior priest had order'd so—
The enlisting trumpet's sudden soar
Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er,
Its long reverberating blow,
So loud and clear, it seem'd the ear
Of dusty death must wake and hear.
And there the startling drum and fife
Fired the living with fiercer life;
While overhead, with wild increase,
Forgetting its ancient toll of peace,
The great bell swung as ne'er before.
It seemed as it would never cease;
And every word its ardor flung
From off its jubilant iron tongue
Was, "War! war! war!"
"Who dares"—this was the patriot's cry,
As striding from the desk he came—
"Come out with me, in Freedom's name,
For her to live, for her to die?"
A hundred hands flung up reply,
A hundred voices answer'd, "I!"
Thomas Buchanan Read.
Early in May, news of the fight at Lexington reached Machias, Maine, and on the 11th a party of young men boarded the British armed schooner, Margaretta, which was in the harbor there, and forced her to surrender, after a loss of about twenty on each side.
THE PRIZE OF THE MARGARETTA[4]
[May 11, 1775]
I
Four young men, of a Monday morn,
Heard that the flag of peace was torn;
Heard that "rebels" with sword and gun,
Had fought the British at Lexington,
While they were far from that bloody plain,
Safe on the green-clad shores of Maine.
With eyes that glittered, and hearts that burned,
They talked of the glory their friends had earned,
And asked each other, "What can we do,
So our hands may prove that our hearts are true?"
II
Silent the Margaretta lay,
Out on the bosom of the bay;
On her masts rich bunting gleamed;
Bravely the flag of England streamed.
The young men gazed at the tempting prize—
They wistfully glanced in each other's eyes;
Said one, "We can lower that cloth of dread
And hoist the pine-tree flag instead.
"We are only boys to the old and sage;
We have not yet come to manhood's age;
"But we can show them that, when there's need,
Men may follow and boys may lead."
Tightly each other's hand they pressed,
Loudly they cried, "We will do our best;
"The pine-tree flag, ere day is passed,
Shall float from the Margaretta's mast."
III
They ran to a sloop that lay near by;
They roused their neighbors, with hue and cry;
They doffed their hats, gave three loud cheers,
And called for a crew of volunteers.
Their bold, brave spirit spread far and wide,
And men came running from every side.
Curious armed were the dauntless ones,
With axes, pitchforks, scythes, and guns;
They shouted, "Ere yet this day be passed,
The pine-tree grows from the schooner's mast!"
IV
With sails all set, trim as could be,
The Margaretta stood out to sea.
With every man and boy in place,
The gallant Yankee sloop gave chase.
Rippled and foamed the sunlit seas;
Freshened and sung the soft May breeze;
And came from the sloop's low deck, "Hurray!
We're gaining on her! We'll win the day!"
A sound of thunder, echoing wide,
Came from the Margaretta's side;
A deadly crash, and a loud death-yell,
And one of the brave pursuers fell.
They aimed a gun at the schooner then,
And sent the compliment back again;
He who at the helm of the schooner stood,
Covered the deck with his rich life-blood.
V
Each burning to pay a bloody debt,
The crews of the hostile vessels met;
The Western nation now to be,
Made her first fight upon the sea.
And not till forty men were slain,
Did the pine-tree flag a victory gain;
But at last the hearts of the Britons quailed,
And grandly the patriot arm prevailed.
One of the youths, the deed to crown,
Grasped the colors and pulled them down;
And raised, 'mid cries of wild delight,
The pine-tree flag of blue and white.
And the truth was shown, for the world to read,
That men may follow and boys may lead.
Will Carleton.
In North Carolina, the men of Mecklenburg County met, May 31, and adopted their famous "Resolves," declaring that each provincial congress was invested with all legislative and executive powers for the government of the colonies, and should exercise them independently of Great Britain, until Parliament should resign its arbitrary pretensions. It was from these "Resolves" that the legend of the Mecklenburg "Declaration of Independence, said to have been signed May 20," originated.
THE MECKLENBURG DECLARATION
[May 20, 1775]
Oppressed and few, but freemen yet,
The men of Mecklenburg had met
Determined to be free,
And crook no coward knee,
Though Might in front and Treason at the back
Brought death and ruin in their joint attack.
The tyrant's heel was on the land
When Polk convoked his gallant band,
And told in words full strong
The bitter tale of wrong,
Then came a whisper, like the storm's first waves:
"We must be independent, or be slaves!"
But, hark! What hurried rider, this,
With jaded horse and garb amiss,
Whose look some woe proclaims,
Ere he his mission names?
He rides amain from far-off Lexington,
And tells the blood-red news of war begun!
Then Brevard, Balch, and Kennon spoke
The wise bold words that aye invoke
Men to defend the right
And scorn the despot's might;
Until from all there rose the answering cry:
"We will be independent, or we die."
When Alexander called the vote,
No dastard "nay's" discordant note
Broke on that holy air—
For dastard none was there!
But in prompt answer to their country's call,
They pledged life, fortune, sacred honor—all!
In solemn hush the people heard;
With shout and cheer they caught the word:
Independence! In that sign
We grasp our right divine;
For the tyrant's might and the traitor's hate
Must yield to men who fight for God and State!
The hero shout flew on the breeze;
Rushed from the mountains to the seas;
Till all the land uprose,
Their faces to their foes,
Shook off the thraldom they so long had borne,
And swore the oath that Mecklenburg had sworn!
And well those men maintained the right;
They kept the faith, and fought the fight;
Till Might and Treason both
Fled fast before the oath
Which brought the God of Freedom's battles down
To place on patriot brows the victor's crown!
William C. Elam.
Up and down the land, in every city, town, and hamlet, men were drilling—with brooms and corn-stalks, when no muskets were available. The storm, which had been gathering for years, had burst at last.
A SONG
Hark! 'tis Freedom that calls, come, patriots, awake!
To arms, my brave boys, and away:
'Tis Honor, 'tis Virtue, 'tis Liberty calls,
And upbraids the too tedious delay.
What pleasure we find in pursuing our foes,
Thro' blood and thro' carnage we'll fly;
Then follow, we'll soon overtake them, huzza!
The tyrants are seized on, they die!
Triumphant returning with Freedom secur'd,
Like men, we'll be joyful and gay—
With our wives and our friends, we'll sport, love, and drink,
And lose the fatigues of the day.
'Tis freedom alone gives a relish to mirth,
But oppression all happiness sours;
It will smooth life's dull passage, 'twill slope the descent,
And strew the way over with flowers.
Pennsylvania Journal, May 31, 1775.