CHAPTER III
THE COLONISTS TAKE THE OFFENSIVE
A rustic army of nearly twenty thousand men quickly gathered about Boston to besiege Gage there; but its warlike spirit ran too high to be contented with passive and defensive measures. Benedict Arnold suggested that expeditions be sent against the fortresses at Ticonderoga and Crown Point, which commanded the northern approach to the Hudson and were of great strategic importance. The suggestion was at once adopted. Arnold was created colonel and set out to raise a regiment among the Berkshire Hills. When he arrived there, he found that Ethan Allen had already raised a force of Vermonters and started for Ticonderoga.
THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS
[May 9, 1775]
I
Here halt we our march, and pitch our tent
On the rugged forest-ground,
And light our fire with the branches rent
By winds from the beeches round.
Wild storms have torn this ancient wood,
But a wilder is at hand,
With hail of iron and rain of blood,
To sweep and waste the land.
II
How the dark wood rings with our voices shrill,
That startle the sleeping bird!
To-morrow eve must the voice be still,
And the step must fall unheard.
The Briton lies by the blue Champlain,
In Ticonderoga's towers,
And ere the sun rise twice again,
Must they and the lake be ours.
III
Fill up the bowl from the brook that glides
Where the fire-flies light the brake;
A ruddier juice the Briton hides
In his fortress by the lake.
Build high the fire, till the panther leap
From his lofty perch in flight,
And we'll strengthen our weary arms with sleep
For the deeds of to-morrow night.
William Cullen Bryant.
Arnold overtook Allen and his "Green Mountain Boys" on May 9, and accompanied the expedition as a volunteer. At daybreak of the 10th, Allen and Arnold, with eighty-three men, crossed Lake Champlain and entered Ticonderoga side by side. The garrison was completely surprised and surrendered the stronghold without a blow.
THE SURPRISE AT TICONDEROGA
[May 10, 1775]
'Twas May upon the mountains, and on the airy wing
Of every floating zephyr came pleasant sounds of spring,—
Of robins in the orchards, brooks running clear and warm,
Or chanticleer's shrill challenge from busy farm to farm.
But, ranged in serried order, attent on sterner noise,
Stood stalwart Ethan Allen and his "Green Mountain Boys,"—
Two hundred patriots listening, as with the ears of one,
To the echo of the muskets that blazed at Lexington!
"My comrades,"—thus the leader spake to his gallant band,—
"The key of all the Canadas is in King George's hand,
Yet, while his careless warders our slender armies mock,
Good Yankee swords—God willing—may pick his rusty lock!"
At every pass a sentinel was set to guard the way,
Lest the secret of their purpose some idle lip betray,
As on the rocky highway they marched with steady feet
To the rhythm of the brave hearts that in their bosoms beat.
The curtain of the darkness closed 'round them like a tent,
When, travel-worn and weary, yet not with courage spent,
They halted on the border of slumbering Champlain,
And saw the watch lights glimmer across the glassy plain.
O proud Ticonderoga, enthroned amid the hills!
O bastions of old Carillon, the "Fort of Chiming Rills!"
Well might your quiet garrison have trembled where they lay,
And, dreaming, grasped their sabres against the dawn of day!
In silence and in shadow the boats were pushed from shore,
Strong hands laid down the musket to ply the muffled oar;
The startled ripples whitened and whispered in their wake,
Then sank again, reposing, upon the peaceful lake.
Fourscore and three they landed, just as the morning gray
Gave warning on the hilltops to rest not or delay;
Behind, their comrades waited, the fortress frowned before,
And the voice of Ethan Allen was in their ears once more:
"Soldiers, so long united—dread scourge of lawless power!
Our country, torn and bleeding, calls to this desperate hour.
One choice alone is left us, who hear that high behest—
To quit our claims to valor, or put them to the test!
"I lead the storming column up yonder fateful hill,
Yet not a man shall follow save at his ready will!
There leads no pathway backward—'tis death or victory!
Poise each his trusty firelock, ye that will come with me!"
From man to man a tremor ran at their captain's word
(Like the "going" in the mulberry-trees that once [King David] heard),—
While his eagle glances sweeping adown the triple line,
Saw, in the glowing twilight, each even barrel shine!
"Right face, my men, and forward!" Low-spoken, swift-obeyed!
They mount the slope unfaltering—they gain the esplanade!
A single drowsy sentry beside the wicket-gate,
Snapping his aimless fusil, shouts the alarm—too late!
They swarm before the barracks—the quaking guards take flight,
And such a shout resultant resounds along the height,
As rang from shore and headland scarce twenty years ago,
When brave Montcalm's defenders charged on a British foe!
Leaps from his bed in terror the ill-starred Delaplace,
To meet across his threshold a wall he may not pass!
The bayonets' lightning flashes athwart his dazzled eyes,
And, in tones of sudden thunder, "Surrender!" Allen cries.
"Then in whose name the summons?" the ashen lips reply.
The mountaineer's stern visage turns proudly to the sky,—
"In the name of great Jehovah!" he speaks with lifted sword,
"And the Continental Congress, who wait upon his word!"
Light clouds, like crimson banners, trailed bright across the east,
As the great sun rose in splendor above a conflict ceased,
Gilding the bloodless triumph for equal rights and laws,
As with the smile of heaven upon a holy cause.
Still, wave on wave of verdure, the emerald hills arise,
Where once were heroes mustered from men of common guise,
And still, on Freedom's roster, through all her glorious years,
Shine the names of Ethan Allen and his bold volunteers!
Mary A. P. Stansbury.
The Continental army at Cambridge, meanwhile, was busy day and night, drilling and getting into shape. It was at this time that "a gentleman of Connecticut," whose name, it is said, was Edward Bangs, described his visit to the camp in verses destined to become famous. They were printed originally as a broadside.
THE YANKEE'S RETURN FROM CAMP
[June, 1775]
Father and I went down to camp,
Along with Captain Gooding,
And there we see the men and boys,
As thick as hasty pudding.
Chorus—[Yankee Doodle], keep it up,
Yankee Doodle, dandy,
Mind the music and the step,
And with the girls be handy.
And there we see a thousand men,
As rich as 'Squire David;
And what they wasted every day
I wish it could be savèd.
The 'lasses they eat every day
Would keep an house a winter;
They have as much that, I'll be bound,
They eat it when they're a mind to.
And there we see a swamping gun,
Large as a log of maple,
Upon a deucèd little cart,
A load for father's cattle.
And every time they shoot it off,
It takes a horn of powder,
And makes a noise like father's gun,
Only a nation louder.
I went as nigh to one myself
As Siah's underpinning;
And father went as nigh again,
I thought the deuce was in him.
Cousin Simon grew so bold,
I thought he would have cocked it;
It scared me so, I shrinked it off,
And hung by father's pocket.
And Captain Davis had a gun,
He kind of clapt his hand on 't,
And stuck a crooked stabbing iron
Upon the little end on 't.
And there I see a pumpkin shell
As big as mother's bason;
And every time they touched it off,
They scampered like the nation.
I see a little barrel, too,
The heads were made of leather,
They knocked upon 't with little clubs
And called the folks together.
And there was Captain Washington,
And gentlefolks about him,
They say he's grown so tarnal proud
He will not ride without 'em.
He got him on his meeting clothes,
Upon a strapping stallion,
He set the world along in rows,
In hundreds and in millions.
The flaming ribbons in his hat,
They looked so tearing fine ah,
I wanted pockily to get,
To give to my Jemimah.
I see another snarl of men
A digging graves, they told me,
So tarnal long, so tarnal deep,
They 'tended they should hold me.
It scared me so, I hooked it off,
Nor stopped, as I remember,
Nor turned about, till I got home,
Locked up in mother's chamber.
Howe, Clinton, and Burgoyne arrived, May 25, with reinforcements which raised the British force in Boston to ten thousand men, and plans were at once made to extend the lines to cover Charlestown and Dorchester, the occupation of which by the Americans would render Boston untenable. Confident of victory, Gage, on June 12, issued a proclamation offering pardon to all rebels who should lay down their arms and return to their allegiance, save only John Hancock and Samuel Adams. At the same time, all who remained in arms were threatened with the gallows.
OR BLUSTERING DENUNCIATION
(REPLETE WITH DEFAMATION)
THREATENING DEVASTATION,
AND SPEEDY JUGULATION,
OF THE NEW ENGLISH NATION.—
WHO SHALL HIS PIOUS WAYS SHUN?
[June 12, 1775]
Whereas the rebels hereabout
Are stubborn still, and still hold out;
Refusing yet to drink their tea,
In spite of Parliament and me;
And to maintain their bubble, Right,
Prognosticate a real fight;
Preparing flints, and guns, and ball,
My army and the fleet to maul;
Mounting their guilt to such a pitch,
As to let fly at soldiers' breech;
Pretending they design'd a trick,
Tho' ordered not to hurt a chick;
But peaceably, without alarm,
The men of Concord to disarm;
Or, if resisting, to annoy,
And every magazine destroy:—
All which, tho' long obliged to bear,
Thro' want of men, and not of fear;
I'm able now by augmentation,
To give a proper castigation;
For since th' addition to the troops,
Now reinforc'd as thick as hops;
I can, like Jeremey at the Boyne,
Look safely on—fight you, Burgoyne;
And now, like grass, the rebel Yankees,
I fancy not these doodle dances:—
Yet, e'er I draw the vengeful sword,
I have thought fit to send abroad,
This present gracious proclamation,
Of purpose mild the demonstration,
That whosoe'er keeps gun or pistol,
I'll spoil the motion of his systole;
Or, whip his ——, or cut his weason,
As haps the measure of his treason:—
But every one that will lay down
His hanger bright, and musket brown,
Shall not be beat, nor bruis'd, nor bang'd,
Much less for past offences hang'd;
But on surrendering his toledo,
Go to and fro unhurt as we do:—
But then I must, out of this plan, lock
Both Samuel Adams and John Hancock;
For those vile traitors (like debentures)
Must be tucked up at all adventures;
As any proffer of a pardon,
Would only tend those rogues to harden:—
But every other mother's son,
The instant he destroys his gun
(For thus doth run the King's command),
May, if he will, come kiss my hand.—
And to prevent such wicked game, as
Pleading the plea of ignoramus,
Be this my proclamation spread
To every reader that can read:—
And as nor law nor right was known
Since my arrival in this town,
To remedy this fatal flaw,
I hereby publish martial law.
Meanwhile, let all, and every one
Who loves his life, forsake his gun;
And all the council, by mandamus,
Who have been reckoned so infamous,
Return unto their habitation,
Without or let or molestation.—
Thus graciously the war I wage,
As witnesseth my hand,—Tom Gage.
By command of Mother Cary,
Thomas Flucker, Secretary.
Pennsylvania Journal, June 28, 1775.
The Committee of Safety received intelligence of Gage's plans and ordered out a force of twelve hundred men to take possession of Bunker Hill in Charlestown. At sunset of June 16 this brigade started from Cambridge, under command of Colonel William Prescott, a veteran of the French War. On reaching Bunker Hill, a consultation was held, and it was decided to push on to Breed's Hill, and erect a fortification there. Breed's Hill was reached about midnight, and the work of throwing up intrenchments began at once.
THE EVE OF BUNKER HILL
[June 16, 1775]
'Twas June on the face of the earth, June with the rose's breath,
When life is a gladsome thing, and a distant dream is death;
There was gossip of birds in the air, and a lowing of herds by the wood,
And a sunset gleam in the sky that the heart of a man holds good;
Then the nun-like Twilight came, violet-vestured and still,
And the night's first star outshone afar on the eve of Bunker Hill.
There rang a cry through the camp, with its word upon rousing word;
There was never a faltering foot in the ranks of those that heard;—
Lads from the Hampshire hills, and the rich Connecticut vales,
Sons of the old Bay Colony, from its shores and its inland dales;
Swiftly they fell in line; no fear could their valor chill;
Ah, brave the show as they ranged a-row on the eve of Bunker Hill!
Then a deep voice lifted a prayer to the God of the brave and the true,
And the heads of the men were bare in the gathering dusk and dew;
The heads of a thousand men were bowed as the pleading rose,—
Smite Thou, Lord, as of old Thou smotest Thy people's foes!
Oh, nerve Thy servants' arms to work with a mighty will!
A hush, and then a loud Amen! on the eve of Bunker Hill!
Now they are gone through the night with never a thought of fame,
Gone to the field of a fight that shall win them a deathless name;
Some shall never again behold the set of the sun,
But lie like the Concord slain, and the slain of Lexington,
Martyrs to Freedom's cause. Ah, how at their deeds we thrill,
The men whose might made strong the height on the eve of Bunker Hill!
Clinton Scollard.
June 17 dawned fair and bright, and the intrenchments were at once discovered by the British. A lively cannonade was opened upon them by the ships in the harbor, but without effect. At noon, three thousand veterans were ordered forward to rout out the "peasants," and by three o'clock in the afternoon had crossed the river and were ready to storm the intrenchments. Commanded by General Howe and General Pigot, they advanced steadily up the hill, only to be met by so terrific a fire that they gave way and retreated in disorder.
WARREN'S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS
[June 17, 1775]
Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!
Will ye give it up to slaves?
Will ye look for greener graves?
Hope ye mercy still?
What's the mercy despots feel?
Hear it in that battle-peal!
Read it on yon bristling steel!
Ask it,—ye who will.
Fear ye foes who kill for hire?
Will ye to your homes retire?
Look behind you! they're a-fire!
And, before you, see
Who have done it!—From the vale
On they come!—And will ye quail?—
Leaden rain and iron hail
Let their welcome be!
In the God of battles trust!
Die we may,—and die we must;
But, oh, where can dust to dust
Be consigned so well,
As where Heaven its dews shall shed
On the martyred patriot's bed,
And the rocks shall raise their head,
Of his deeds to tell!
John Pierpont.
A pause followed, during which Charlestown was set on fire by shells from the fleet and was soon in a roaring blaze. Then a second time the British advanced to the assault; again the Americans held their fire, and again, at thirty yards, poured into the Redcoats so deadly a volley that they were forced to retreat.
We lay in the Trenches we'd dug in the Ground
While Phœbus blazed down from his glory-lined Car,
And then from the lips of our Leader renown'd,
These lessons we learn'd in the Science of War.
"Let the Foeman draw nigh,
Till the white of his Eye
Is in range with your Rifles, and then, Lads, let fly!
And shew to Columbia, to Britain, and Fame,
How Justice smiles aweful, when Freemen take aim!"
The Regulars from Town to the Foot of the Hill
Came in Barges and Rowboats, some great and some small,
But they potter'd and dawdl'd, and twaddled, until
We fear'd there would be no Attack after all!
Two men in red Coats
Talk'd to one in long Boots,
And all of them pinted and gestur'd like Coots,
And we said,—as the Boys do upon Training-Day—
"If they waste all their Time so, the Sham-fight won't pay."
But when they got Ready, and All came along,
The way they march'd up the Hill-side wasn't slow,
But we were not a-fear'd, and we welcomed 'em strong,
Held our Fire till the Word, and then laid the Lads low!
... But who shall declare
The End of the Affair?
At Sundown there wasn't a Man of us there!
But we didn't depart till we'd given them Some!
When we burned up our Powder, we had to go Home!
Edward Everett Hale.
So long a time elapsed after the second assault that it seemed for a time that the Americans would be left in possession of the field. In the confusion of the moment, no reinforcements were sent them, and Prescott, to his dismay, discovered that his supply of powder and ball was nearly exhausted.
BUNKER HILL
"Not yet, not yet; steady, steady!"
On came the foe, in even line:
Nearer and nearer to thrice paces nine.
We looked into their eyes. "Ready!"
A sheet of flame! A roll of death!
They fell by scores; we held our breath!
Then nearer still they came;
Another sheet of flame!
And brave men fled who never fled before.
Immortal fight!
Foreshadowing flight
Back to the astounded shore.
Quickly they rallied, reinforced.
Mid louder roar of ship's artillery,
And bursting bombs and whistling musketry
And shouts and groans, anear, afar,
All the new din of dreadful war,
Through their broad bosoms calmly coursed
The blood of those stout farmers, aiming
For freedom, manhood's birthrights claiming.
Onward once more they came;
Another sheet of deathful flame!
Another and another still:
They broke, they fled:
Again they sped
Down the green, bloody hill.
Howe, Burgoyne, Clinton, Gage,
Stormed with commander's rage.
Into each emptied barge
They crowd fresh men for a new charge
Up that great hill.
Again their gallant blood we spill:
That volley was the last:
Our powder failed.
On three sides fast
The foe pressed in; nor quailed
A man. Their barrels empty, with musket-stocks
They fought, and gave death-dealing knocks,
Till Prescott ordered the retreat.
Then Warren fell; and through a leaden sleet,
From Bunker Hill and Breed,
Stark, Putnam, Pomeroy, Knowlton, Read,
Led off the remnant of those heroes true,
The foe too shattered to pursue.
The ground they gained; but we
The victory.
The tidings of that chosen band
Flowed in a wave of power
Over the shaken, anxious land,
To men, to man, a sudden dower.
From that stanch, beaming hour
History took a fresh higher start;
And when the speeding messenger, that bare
The news that strengthened every heart,
Met near the Delaware
Riding to take command,
The leader, who had just been named,
Who was to be so famed,
The steadfast, earnest Washington
With hand uplifted cries,
His great soul flashing to his eyes,
"Our liberties are safe; the cause is won."
A thankful look he cast to heaven, and then
His steed he spurred, in haste to lead such noble men.
George H. Calvert.
There was, in fact, a difference of opinion among the British generals as to continuing the assault. But Howe insisted that a third attempt be made, and at five o'clock it was ordered. For a moment, the advancing column was again shaken by the American fire, but the last cartridges were soon spent, and, at the bayonet point, the Americans were driven from their works and forced to retreat across Charlestown neck.
[GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE]
AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY
'Tis like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembers
All the achings and the quakings of "the times that tried men's souls;"
When I talk of Whig and Tory, when I tell the Rebel story,
To you the words are ashes, but to me they're burning coals.
I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running battle;
Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats still;
But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up before me,
When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker's Hill.
'Twas a peaceful summer's morning, when the first thing gave us warning
Was the booming of the cannon from the river and the shore:
"Child," says grandma, "what's the matter, what is all this noise and clatter?
Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us once more?"
Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst of all my quaking,
To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to roar:
She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter and the pillage,
When the Mohawks killed her father with their bullets through his door.
Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you fret and worry any,
For I'll soon come back and tell you whether this is work or play;
There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a minute"—
For a minute then I started. I was gone the livelong day.
No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing;
Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to my heels;
God forbid your ever knowing, when there's blood around her flowing,
How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet household feels!
In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was the stumping
Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on that wooden leg he wore,
With a knot of women round him,—it was lucky I had found him,
So I followed with the others, and the Corporal marched before.
They were making for the steeple,—the old soldier and his people;
The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creaking stair.
Just across the narrow river—oh, so close it made me shiver!—
Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterday was bare.
Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who stood behind it,
Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the stubborn walls were dumb:
Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild upon each other,
And their lips were white with terror as they said, The hour has come!
The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we tasted
And our heads were almost splitting with the cannons' deafening thrill,
When a figure tall and stately round the rampart strode sedately;
It was Prescott, one since told me; he commanded on the hill.
Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw his manly figure,
With the banyan buckled round it, standing up so straight and tall;
Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out for pleasure,
Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he walked around the wall.
At eleven the streets were swarming, for the redcoats' ranks were forming;
At noon in marching order they were moving to the piers;
How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked far down, and listened
To the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted grenadiers!
At length the men have started, with a cheer (it seemed faint-hearted),
In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on their backs,
And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea-fight's slaughter,
Round the barges gliding onward blushed like blood along their tracks.
So they crossed to the other border, and again they formed in order;
And the boats came back for soldiers, came for soldiers, soldiers still:
The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and fasting,—
At last they're moving, marching, marching proudly up the hill.
We can see the bright steel glancing all along the lines advancing,—
Now the front rank fires a volley,—they have thrown away their shot;
For behind their earthwork lying, all the balls above them flying,
Our people need not hurry; so they wait and answer not.
Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear sometimes and tipple),—
He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French war) before,—
Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were hearing,—
And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty belfry floor:—
"Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George's shillin's,
But ye'll waste a ton of powder afore a 'rebel' falls;
You may bang the dirt and welcome, they're as safe as Dan'l Malcolm
Ten foot beneath the gravestone that you've splintered with your balls!"
In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepidation
Of the dread approaching moment, we are well-nigh breathless all;
Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety belfry railing,
We are crowding up against them like the waves against a wall.
Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer,—nearer,—nearer,
When a flash—a curling smoke-wreath—then a crash—the steeple shakes—
The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's shroud is rended;
Like a morning mist it gathered, like a thundercloud it breaks!
Oh the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over!
The redcoats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes his hay;
Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong crowd is flying
Like a billow that has broken and is shivered into spray.
Then we cried, "The troops are routed! they are beat—it can't be doubted!
God be thanked, the fight is over!"—Ah! the grim old soldier's smile!
"Tell us, tell us why you look so?" (we could hardly speak, we shook so),—
"Are they beaten? Are they beaten? Are they beaten?"—"Wait a while."
Oh the trembling and the terror! for too soon we saw our error:
They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven them back in vain;
And the columns that were scattered, round the colors that were tattered,
Toward the sullen, silent fortress turn their belted breasts again.
All at once, as we are gazing, lo the roofs of Charlestown blazing!
They have fired the harmless village; in an hour it will be down!
The Lord in heaven confound them, rain his fire and brimstone round them,—
The robbing, murdering redcoats, that would burn a peaceful town!
They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see each massive column
As they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting walls so steep.
Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless haste departed?
Are they panic-struck and helpless? Are they palsied or asleep?
Now! the walls they're almost under! scarce a rod the foes asunder!
Not a firelock flashed against them! up the earthwork they will swarm!
But the words have scarce been spoken, when the ominous calm is broken,
And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance of the storm!
So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backwards to the water,
Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves of Howe;
And we shout, "At last they're done for, it's their barges they have run for:
They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle's over now!"
And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old soldier's features,
Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would ask:
"Not sure," he said; "keep quiet,—once more, I guess, they'll try it—
Here's damnation to the cut-throats!"—then he handed me his flask,
Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop of old Jamaiky;
I'm afeard there'll be more trouble afore the job is done;"
So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt and hollow,
Standing there from early morning when the firing was begun.
All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm clock dial,
As the hands kept creeping, creeping,—they were creeping round to four,
When the old man said, "They're forming with their bagonets fixed for storming:
It's the death-grip that's a-coming,—they will try the works once more."
With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind them glaring,
The deadly wall before them, in close array they come;
Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold uncoiling,—
Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverberating drum!
Over heaps all torn and gory—shall I tell the fearful story,
How they surged above the breastwork, as a sea breaks over a deck;
How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out men retreated,
With their powder-horns all emptied, like the swimmers from a wreck?
It has all been told and painted; as for me, they say I fainted,
And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with me down the stair:
When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening lamps were lighted,—
On the floor a youth was lying; his bleeding breast was bare.
And I heard through all the flurry, "Send for Warren! hurry! hurry!
Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he'll come and dress his wound!"
Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death and sorrow,
How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark and bloody ground.
Who the youth was, what his name was, where the place from which he came was,
Who had brought him from the battle, and had left him at our door,
He could not speak to tell us; but 'twas one of our brave fellows,
As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying soldier wore.
For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered round him crying,—
And they said, "Oh, how they'll miss him!" and, "What will his mother do?"
Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has been dozing,
He faintly murmured, "Mother!"—and—I saw his eyes were blue.
"Why, grandma, how you're winking!" Ah, my child, it sets me thinking
Of a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived along;
So we came to know each other, and I nursed him like a—mother,
Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-cheeked, and strong.
And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant summer weather,—
"Please to tell us what his name was?" Just your own, my little dear,—
There's his picture Copley painted: we became so well acquainted,
That—in short, that's why I'm grandma, and you children all are here!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
In this last charge, the Americans met with an irreparable loss in the death of General Joseph Warren, who was shot through the head as he lingered on the field, loath to join in the retreat. He had hastened to the battlefield in the early morning, replying to the remonstrance of a friend, "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori." He had just been appointed major-general, but refused the command tendered him by Prescott, saying that he was only too glad to serve as a volunteer aid.
THE DEATH OF WARREN
[June 17, 1775]
When the war-cry of Liberty rang through the land,
To arms sprang our fathers the foe to withstand;
On old Bunker Hill their entrenchments they rear,
When the army is joined by a young volunteer.
"Tempt not death!" cried his friends; but he bade them good-by,
Saying, "Oh! it is sweet for our country to die!"
The tempest of battle now rages and swells,
'Mid the thunder of cannon, the pealing of bells;
And a light, not of battle, illumes yonder spire—
Scene of woe and destruction;—'tis Charlestown on fire!
The young volunteer heedeth not the sad cry
But murmurs, "'Tis sweet for our country to die!"
With trumpets and banners the foe draweth near:
A volley of musketry checks their career!
With the dead and the dying the hill-side is strown,
And the shout through our lines is, "The day is our own!"
"Not yet," cries the young volunteer, "do they fly!
Stand firm!—it is sweet for our country to die!"
Now our powder is spent, and they rally again;—
"Retreat!" says our chief, "since unarmed we remain!"
But the young volunteer lingers yet on the field,
Reluctant to fly, and disdaining to yield.
A shot! Ah! he falls! but his life's latest sigh
Is, "'Tis sweet, oh, 'tis sweet for our country to die!"
And thus Warren fell! Happy death! noble fall!
To perish for country at Liberty's call!
Should the flag of invasion profane evermore
The blue of our seas or the green of our shore,
May the hearts of our people reëcho that cry,—
"'Tis sweet, oh, 'tis sweet for our country to die!"
Epes Sargent.
The British loss in killed and wounded was 1054, while the American loss, incurred mainly in the last hand-to-hand struggle, was 449. The British had gained the victory, but the moral advantage was wholly with the Americans.
COMPOSED BY A BRITISH OFFICER, THE DAY AFTER THE BATTLE
It was on the seventeenth, by break of day,
The Yankees did surprise us,
With their strong works they had thrown up
To burn the town and drive us.
But soon we had an order come,
An order to defeat them;
Like rebels stout, they stood it out,
And thought we ne'er could beat them.
About the hour of twelve that day,
An order came for marching,
With three good flints and sixty rounds,
Each man hoped to discharge them.
We marchèd down to the Long Wharf,
Where boats were ready waiting;
With expedition we embark'd,
Our ships kept cannonading.
And when our boats all fillèd were
With officers and soldiers,
With as good troops as England had,
To oppose who dare controul us?
And when our boats all fillèd were,
We row'd in line of battle,
Where showers of ball like hail did fly,
Our cannon loud did rattle.
There was Copps' Hill battery, near Charlestown,
Our twenty-fours they played;
And the three frigates in the stream,
That very well behaved.
The Glasgow frigate clear'd the shore,
All at the time of landing,
With her grape-shot and cannon-balls,
No Yankee e'er could stand them.
And when we landed on the shore,
We draw'd up all together;
The Yankees they all mann'd their works,
And thought we'd ne'er come thither.
But soon they did perceive brave Howe,
Brave Howe, our bold commander;
With grenadiers, and infantry,
We made them to surrender.
Brave William Howe, on our right wing,
Cried, "Boys, fight on like thunder;
You soon will see the rebels flee,
With great amaze and wonder."
Now some lay bleeding on the ground,
And some fell fast a-running
O'er hills and dales, and mountains high,
Crying, "Zounds! brave Howe's a-coming."
They 'gan to play on our left wing,
Where Pigot, he commanded;
But we returned it back again,
With courage most undaunted.
To our grape-shot and musket-balls,
To which they were but strangers,
They thought to come with sword in hand,
But soon they found their danger.
And when their works we got into,
And put them to the flight, sirs,
Some of them did hide themselves,
And others died of fright, sirs.
And when their works we got into,
Without great fear or danger,
The works they'd made were firm and strong,
The Yankees are great strangers.
But as for our artillery,
They all behavèd dinty;
For while our ammunition held,
We gave it to them plenty.
But our conductor, he got broke
For his misconduct sure, sir;
The shot he sent for twelve-pound guns,
Were made for twenty-fours, sir.
There's some in Boston pleased to say,
As we the field were taking,
We went to kill their countrymen,
While they their hay were making.
For such stout whigs I never saw,
To hang them all I'd rather;
For making hay with musket-balls,
And buckshot mixt together.
Brave Howe is so considerate,
As to guard against all dangers:
He allows us half a pint a day—
To rum we are no strangers.
Long may he live by land and sea,
For he's belov'd by many;
The name of Howe the Yankees dread,
We see it very plainly.
And now my song is at an end:
And to conclude my ditty,
It is the poor and ignorant,
And only them, I pity.
But as for their king, John Hancock,
And Adams, if they're taken,
Their heads for signs shall hang up high,
Upon that hill call'd Beacon.
On July 2, 1775, George Washington, who had, a fortnight before, been appointed commander-in-chief of the Continental army by the Congress then assembled in Philadelphia, arrived at Cambridge, and on the following day, under the shade of the great elm which is still standing near Cambridge Common, he took command of the sixteen thousand men composing the American forces.
THE NEW-COME CHIEF
From "Under the Old Elm"
[July 3, 1775]
Beneath our consecrated elm
A century ago he stood,
Famed vaguely for that old fight in the wood
Whose red surge sought, but could not overwhelm
The life foredoomed to wield our rough-hewn helm:—
From colleges, where now the gown
To arms had yielded, from the town,
Our rude self-summoned levies flocked to see
The new-come chief and wonder which was he.
No need to question long; close-lipped and tall,
Long trained in murder-brooding forests lone
To bridle others' clamors and his own,
Firmly erect, he towered above them all,
The incarnate discipline that was to free
With iron curb that armed democracy.
A motley rout was that which came to stare,
In raiment tanned by years of sun and storm,
Of every shape that was not uniform,
Dotted with regimentals here and there;
An army all of captains, used to pray
And stiff in fight, but serious drill's despair,
Skilled to debate their orders, not obey;
Deacons were there, selectmen, men of note
In half-tamed hamlets ambushed round with woods,
Ready to settle Freewill by a vote,
But largely liberal to its private moods;
Prompt to assert by manners, voice, or pen,
Or ruder arms, their rights as Englishmen,
Nor much fastidious as to how and when:
Yet seasoned stuff and fittest to create
A thought-staid army or a lasting state:
Haughty they said he was, at first; severe;
But owned, as all men own, the steady hand
Upon the bridle, patient to command,
Prized, as all prize, the justice pure from fear,
And learned to honor first, then love him, then revere.
Such power there is in clear-eyed self-restraint
And purpose clean as light from every selfish taint.
* * * * *
Never to see a nation born
Hath been given to mortal man,
Unless to those who, on that summer morn,
Gazed silent when the great Virginian
Unsheathed the sword whose fatal flash
Shot union through the incoherent clash
Of our loose atoms, crystallizing them
Around a single will's unpliant stem,
And making purpose of emotion rash,
Out of that scabbard sprang, as from its womb,
Nebulous at first but hardening to a star,
Through mutual share of sunburst and of gloom,
The common faith that made us what we are.
That lifted blade transformed our jangling clans,
Till then provincial, to Americans,
And made a unity of wildering plans;
Here was the doom fixed; here is marked the date
When this New World awoke to man's estate,
Burnt its last ship and ceased to look behind:
Nor thoughtless was the choice; no love or hate
Could from its poise move that deliberate mind,
Weighing between too early and too late
Those pitfalls of the man refused by Fate:
His was the impartial vision of the great
Who see not as they wish, but as they find.
He saw the dangers of defeat, nor less
The incomputable perils of success;
The sacred past thrown by, an empty rind;
The future, cloud-land, snare of prophets blind;
The waste of war, the ignominy of peace;
On either hand a sullen rear of woes,
Whose garnered lightnings none could guess,
Piling its thunder-heads and muttering "Cease!"
Yet drew not back his hand, but gravely chose
The seeming-desperate task whence our new nation rose.
James Russell Lowell.
Tory balladists found rich material for their rhymes in the undisciplined and motley army of which Washington was the head, but, strangely enough, the commander himself was the object of very few attacks of this kind. The following is almost the only one which has survived.
THE TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE
[July 3, 1775]
When Congress sent great Washington
All clothed in power and breeches,
To meet old Britain's warlike sons
And make some rebel speeches;
['Twas then he took his gloomy way]
Astride his dapple donkeys,
And travelled well, both night and day,
Until he reach'd the Yankees.
Away from camp, 'bout three miles off,
From Lily he dismounted.
His sergeant brush'd his sun-burnt wig
While he the specie counted.
All prinkèd up in full bag-wig;
The shaking notwithstanding,
In leathers tight, oh! glorious sight!
He reach'd the Yankee landing.
The women ran, the darkeys too;
And all the bells, they tollèd;
For Britain's sons, by Doodle doo,
We're sure to be—consolèd.
Old mother Hancock with a pan
All crowded full of butter,
Unto the lovely Georgius ran,
And added to the splutter.
Says she, "Our brindle has just calved,
And John is wondrous happy.
He sent this present to you, dear,
As you're the 'country's papa.'"—
"You'll butter bread and bread butter,
But do not butt your speeches.
You'll butter bread and bread butter,
But do not grease your breeches."
Full many a child went into camp,
All dressed in homespun kersey,
To see the greatest rebel scamp
That ever cross'd o'er Jersey.
The rebel clowns, oh! what a sight!
Too awkward was their figure.
'Twas yonder stood a pious wight,
And here and there a nigger.
Upon a stump he placed (himself),
Great Washington did he,
And through the nose of [lawyer Close],
Proclaimed great Liberty.
The patriot brave, the patriot fair,
From fervor had grown thinner,
So off they march'd, with patriot zeal,
And took a patriot dinner.
The Colonials, on the other hand, among whom he seems to have inspired almost instant respect and affection, made him the subject of many songs, the most popular of which was Sewall's "War and Washington," which was sung by soldiers and civilians during the whole Revolution.
WAR AND WASHINGTON
Vain Britons, boast no longer with proud indignity,
By land your conquering legions, your matchless strength at sea,
Since we, your braver sons incensed, our swords have girded on,
Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza, for war and Washington.
Urged on by North and vengeance those valiant champions came,
Loud bellowing Tea and Treason, and George was all on flame,
Yet sacrilegious as it seems, we rebels still live on,
And laugh at all their empty puffs, huzza for Washington!
Still deaf to mild entreaties, still blind to England's good,
You have for thirty pieces betrayed your country's blood.
[Like Esop's greedy cur] you'll gain a shadow for your bone,
Yet find us fearful shades indeed inspired by Washington.
Mysterious! unexampled! incomprehensible!
The blundering schemes of Britain their folly, pride, and zeal,
Like lions how ye growl and threat! mere asses have you shown,
And ye shall share an ass's fate, and drudge for Washington!
Your dark unfathomed councils our weakest heads defeat,
Our children rout your armies, our boats destroy your fleet,
And to complete the dire disgrace, cooped up within a town,
You live the scorn of all our host, the slaves of Washington!
Great Heaven! is this the nation whose thundering arms were hurled,
Through Europe, Afric, India? whose navy ruled a world?
The lustre of your former deeds, whole ages of renown,
Lost in a moment, or transferred to us and Washington!
Yet think not thirst of glory unsheaths our vengeful swords
To rend your bands asunder, or cast away your cords,
'Tis heaven-born freedom fires us all, and strengthens each brave son,
From him who humbly guides the plough, to god-like Washington.
For this, oh could our wishes your ancient rage inspire,
Your armies should be doubled, in numbers, force, and fire.
Then might the glorious conflict prove which best deserved the boon,
America or Albion, a George or Washington!
Fired with the great idea, our Fathers' shades would rise,
To view the stern contention, the gods desert their skies;
And Wolfe, 'midst hosts of heroes, superior bending down,
Cry out with eager transport, God save great Washington!
Should George, too choice of Britons, to foreign realms apply,
And madly arm half Europe, yet still we would defy
Turk, Hessian, Jew, and Infidel, or all those powers in one,
While Adams guards our senate, our camp great Washington!
Should warlike weapons fail us, disdaining slavish fears,
To swords we'll beat our ploughshares, our pruning-hooks to spears,
And rush, all desperate, on our foe, nor breathe till battle won,
Then shout, and shout America! and conquering Washington!
Proud France should view with terror, and haughty Spain revere,
While every warlike nation would court alliance here;
And George, his minions trembling round, dismounting from his throne
Pay homage to America and glorious Washington!
Jonathan Mitchell Sewall.
While the army at Cambridge was getting into shape to assume the offensive, the British were by no means idle. They recovered St. John's, which Arnold had captured in May, and a fleet under Admiral Wallace ravaged the shores of Narragansett Bay. On October 7, 1775, he bombarded the town of Bristol, which had refused to furnish him with supplies,—an incident which is described in one of the most ingenuous and amusing of Revolutionary ballads.
THE BOMBARDMENT OF BRISTOL
[October 7, 1775]
In seventeen hundred and seventy-five,
Our Bristol town was much surprised
By a pack of thievish villains,
That will not work to earn their livings.
October 'twas the seventh day,
As I have heard the people say,
Wallace, his name be ever curst,
Came on our harbor just at dusk.
And there his ship did safely moor,
And quickly sent his barge on shore,
With orders that should not be broke,
Or they might expect a smoke.
Demanding that the magistrates
Should quickly come on board his ship,
And let him have some sheep and cattle,
Or they might expect a battle.
At eight o'clock, by signal given,
Our peaceful atmosphere was riven
By British balls, both grape and round,
As plenty afterwards were found.
But oh! to hear the doleful cries
Of people running for their lives!
Women, with children in their arms,
Running away to the farms!
With all their firing and their skill
They did not any person kill;
Neither was any person hurt
But the Reverend Parson Burt.
And he was not killed by a ball,
As judged by jurors one and all;
But being in a sickly state,
He, frightened, fell, which proved his fate.
Another truth to you I'll tell,
That you may see they levelled well;
For aiming for to kill the people,
They fired their shot into a steeple.
They fired low, they fired high,
The women scream, the children cry;
And all their firing and their racket
Shot off the topmast of a packet.
From the moment, almost, of the fight at Lexington, the conquest of Canada had been dreamed of, and in September, 1775, a force of two thousand men, under General Richard Montgomery, started for Quebec. He was joined by another force under Benedict Arnold, and an attempt was made to carry the citadel by storm. But Montgomery fell as he led the way over the walls, Arnold was wounded, and the Americans were beaten back.
MONTGOMERY AT QUEBEC
[December 31, 1775]
Round Quebec's embattled walls
Moodily the patriots lay;
Dread disease within its thralls
Drew them closer day by day;
Till from suffering man to man,
Mutinous, a murmur ran.
Footsore, they had wandered far,
They had fasted, they had bled;
They had slept beneath the star
With no pillow for the head;
Was it but to freeze to stone
In this cruel icy zone?
Yet their leader held his heart,
Naught discouraged, naught dismayed;
Quelled with unobtrusive art
Those that muttered; unafraid
Waited, watchful, for the hour
When his golden chance should flower.
'Twas the death-tide of the year;
Night had passed its murky noon;
Through the bitter atmosphere
Pierced nor ray of star nor moon;
But upon the bleak earth beat
Blinding arrows of the sleet.
While the trumpets of the storm
Pealed the bastioned heights around,
Did the dauntless heroes form,
Did the low, sharp order sound.
"Be the watchword Liberty!"
Cried the brave Montgomery.
Here, where he had won applause,
When Wolfe faced the Gallic foe,
For a nobler, grander cause
Would he strike the fearless blow,—
Smite at Wrong upon the throne,
At Injustice giant grown.
"Men, you will not fear to tread
Where your general dares to lead!
On, my valiant boys!" he said,
And his foot was first to speed;
Swiftly up the beetling steep,
Lion-hearted, did he leap.
Flashed a sudden blinding glare;
Roared a fearsome battle-peal;
Rang the gloomy vasts of air;
Seemed the earth to rock and reel;
While adown that fiery breath
Rode the hurtling bolts of death.
Woe for him, the valorous one,
Now a silent clod of clay!
Nevermore for him the sun
Would make glad the paths of day;
Yet 'twere better thus to die
Than to cringe to tyranny!—
Better thus the life to yield,
Striking for the right and God,
Upon Freedom's gory field,
Than to kiss Oppression's rod!
Honor, then, for all time be
To the brave Montgomery!
Clinton Scollard.
Though the Americans had lost Canada, they were soon to gain Boston. During the winter of 1775-76, a great number of captured cannon had been dragged on sledges from Ticonderoga, the drilling of the army had gone steadily on, and at last Washington felt that he was able to assume the offensive, and on the night of March 4, 1776, he seized and fortified Dorchester Heights.
A SONG
[1776]
Smile, Massachusetts, smile,
Thy virtue still outbraves
The frowns of Britain's isle,
The rage of home-born slaves.
Thy free-born sons disdain their ease,
When purchased by their liberties.
Thy genius, once the pride
Of Britain's ancient isle,
Brought o'er the raging tide
By our forefathers' toil;
In spite of North's despotic power,
Shines glorious on this western shore.
In Hancock's generous mind
Awakes the noble strife,
Which so conspicuous shined
In gallant Sydney's life;
While in its cause the hero bled,
Immortal honors crown'd his head.
Let zeal your breasts inspire;
Let wisdom guide your plans;
'Tis not your cause entire,
On doubtful conflict hangs;
The fate of this vast continent,
And unborn millions share th' event.
To close the gloomy scenes
Of this alarming day,
A happy union reigns
Through wide America.
While awful Wisdom hourly waits
To adorn the councils of her states.
Brave Washington arrives,
Arrayed in warlike fame,
While in his soul revives
Great Marlboro's martial flame,
To lead your conquering armies on
To lasting glory and renown.
To aid the glorious cause,
Experienc'd Lee has come,
Renown'd in foreign wars,
A patriot at home.
While valiant Putnam's warlike deeds
Amongst the foe a terror spreads.
Let Britons proudly boast,
"That their two thousand braves
Can drive our numerous host,
And make us all their slaves;"
While twice six thousand quake with fear,
Nor dare without their lines appear.
Kind Heaven has deign'd to own
Our bold resistance just,
Since murderous Gage began
The bloody carnage first.
Near ten to one has been their cost,
For each American we've lost.
Stand firm in your defence,
Like Sons of Freedom fight,
Your haughty foes convince
That you'll maintain your right.
Defiance bid to tyrants' frown,
And glory will your valor crown.
The Connecticut Gazette, 1776.
Howe realized that Boston was untenable unless the Americans could be dislodged; but with the memory of Bunker Hill before him, he had no heart for the enterprise. While he hesitated, the American works were made well-nigh impregnable, and Howe decided to abandon the town. On March 17, 1776, the British troops, eight thousand in number, sailed away for Halifax. Washington at once took possession of the city.
[A POEM CONTAINING SOME REMARKS ON THE PRESENT WAR]
[March 17, 1776]
Britons grown big with pride
And wanton ease,
And tyranny beside,
They sought to please
Their craving appetite,
They strove with all their might,
They vow'd to rise and fight,
To make us bow.
The plan they laid was deep
Even like hell;
With sympathy I weep,
While here I tell
Of that base murderous brood,
Void of the fear of God,
Who came to spill our blood
In our own land.
They bid their armies sail
Though billows roar,
And take the first fair gale
For Boston's shore;
They cross'd the Atlantic sea
A long and watery way,
Poor Boston fell a prey
To tyranny.
* * * * *
Gage was both base and mean,
He dare not fight,
The men he sent were seen
Like owls in night:
It was in Lexington
Where patriots' blood did run
Before the rising sun
In crimson gore.
Here sons of freedom fell
Rather than flee,
Unto those brutes of hell
They fell a prey;
But they shall live again,
Their names shall rise and reign
Among the noble slain
In all our land.
But oh! this cruel foe
Went on in haste,
To Concord they did go,
And there did waste
Some stores in their rage,
To gratify old Gage,
His name in every page
Shall be defam'd.
Their practice thus so base,
And murder too,
Rouz'd up the patriot race,
Who did pursue,
And put this foe to flight,
They could not bear the light,
Some rued the very night
They left their den.
And now this cruelty
Was spread abroad,
The sons of liberty
This act abhorr'd,
Their noble blood did boil,
Forgetting all the toil,
In troubles they could smile,
And went in haste.
Our army willingly
Did then engage,
To stop the cruelty
Of tyrants' rage!
They did not fear our foe,
But ready were to go,
And let the tyrants know
Whose sons they were.
But when old Gage did see
All us withstand,
And strive for liberty
Through all our land,
He strove with all his might,
For rage was his delight,
With fire he did fight,
A monster he.
On Charlestown he display'd
His fire abroad;
He it in ashes laid,
An act abhorr'd
By sons of liberty,
Who saw the flames on high
Piercing their native sky,
And now lies waste.
To Bunker-Hill they came
Most rapidly,
And many there were slain,
And there did die.
They call'd it bloody hill,
Altho' they gain'd their will
In triumph they were still,
'Cause of their slain.
Here sons of freedom fought
Right manfully,
A wonder here was wrought
Though some did die.
Here Warren bow'd to death,
His last expiring breath,
In language mild he saith,
Fight on, brave boys.
Oh! this did stain the pride
Of British troops,
They saw they were deny'd
Of their vain hopes
Of marching thro' our land,
When twice a feeble band,
Did fight and boldly stand
In our defence.
Brave Washington did come
To our relief;
He left his native home,
Filled with grief,
He did not covet gain,
The cause he would maintain
And die among the slain
Rather than flee.
His bosom glow'd with love
For liberty,
His passions much did move
To orphans' cry,
He let proud tyrants know,
How far their bounds should go
And then his bombs did throw
Into their den.
This frighted them full sore
When bombs were sent,
When cannon loud did roar
They left each tent:
Oh! thus did the tyrants fly,
Went precipitately,
Their shipping being nigh,
They sailed off.
And now Boston is free
From tyrants base,
The sons of liberty
Possess the place;
They now in safety dwell.
Free from those brutes of hell,
Their raptur'd tongues do tell
Their joys great.
A portion of the British fleet remained in Boston harbor, and apprehensions began to be felt that an effort would be made to recapture the town. It was at this juncture that Captain James Mugford, of the schooner Franklin, captured the British ship Hope, bound for Boston with supplies and fifteen hundred barrels of powder. Two days later, on May 19, the Franklin ran aground at Point Shirley, at the mouth of the harbor, and was at once attacked by boats from the British vessels. A sharp engagement ensued, in which Mugford was killed. His last words are said to have been those used by Lawrence nearly forty years later: "Don't give up the ship! You will beat them off!" And they did.
MUGFORD'S VICTORY
[May 17-19, 1776]
Our mother, the pride of us all,
She sits on her crags by the shore,
And her feet they are wet with the waves
Whose foam is as flowers from the graves
Of her sons whom she welcomes no more,
And who answer no more to her call.
Amid weeds and sea-tangle and shells
They are buried far down in the deep,—
The deep which they loved to career.
Oh, might we awake them from sleep!
Oh, might they our voices but hear,
And the sound of our holiday bells!
Can it be she is thinking of them,
Her face is so proud and so still,
And her lashes are moistened with tears?
Ho, little ones! pluck at her hem,
Her lap with your jollity fill,
And ask of her thoughts and her fears.
"Fears!"—we have roused her at last;
See! her lips part with a smile,
And laughter breaks forth from her eyes,—
"Fears! whence should they ever arise
In our hearts, O my children, the while
We can remember the past?
"Can remember that morning of May,
When Mugford went forth with his men,
Twenty, and all of them ours.
'Tis a hundred years to a day,
And the sea and the shore are as then,
And as bright are the grass and the flowers;
But our twenty—they come not again!
"He had heard of the terrible need
Of the patriot army there
In Boston town. Now for a deed
To save it from despair!
To thrill with joy the great commander's heart,
And hope new-born to all the land impart!
"Hope! ay; that was the very name
Of the good ship that came
From England far away,
Laden with enginery of death,
Food for the cannon's fiery breath;
Hope-laden for great Washington,
Who, but for her, was quite undone
A hundred years ago to-day.
"'Oh, but to meet her there,
And grapple with her fair,
Out in the open bay!'
Mugford to Glover said.
How could he answer nay?
And Mugford sailed away,
Brave heart and newly wed.
"But what are woman's tears,
And rosy cheeks made pale,
To one who far off hears
The generations hail
A deed like this we celebrate to-day,
A hundred years since Mugford sailed away!
"I love to picture him,
Clear-eyed and strong of limb,
Gazing his last upon the rocky shore
His feet should press no more;
Seeing the tall church-steeples fade away
In distance soft and gray;
So dropping down below the horizon's rim
Where fame awaited him.
"Slow sailing from the east his victim came.
They met; brief parley; struggle brief and tame,
And she was ours;
In Boston harbor safe ere set of sun,
Great joy for Washington!
But heavy grew the hours
On Mugford's hands, longing to bring to me,
His mother proud, news of his victory;
But that was not to be!
"Abreast Nantasket's narrow strip of gray
The British cruisers lay:
They saw the daring skipper dropping down
From the much-hated rebel-haunted town,
And in the twilight dim
Their boats awaited him,
While wind and tide conspired
To grant what they desired.
"Thickly they swarmed about his tiny craft;
But Mugford gayly laughed
And gave them blow for blow;
And many a hapless foe
Went hurtling down below.
Upon the schooner's rail
Fell, like a thresher's flail,
The strokes that beat the soul and sense apart,
And pistol-crack through many an eager heart
Sent deadly hail.
But when the fight was o'er,
Brave Mugford was no more.
Crying, with death-white lip,
'Boys, don't give up the ship!'
His soul struck out for heaven's peaceful shore.
"We gave him burial meet;
Through every sobbing street
A thousand men marched with their arms reversed;
And Parson Story told,
In sentences of gold,
The tale since then a thousand times rehearsed."
Such is the story she tells,
Our mother, the pride of us all.
Ring out your music, O bells,
That ever such things could befall!
Ring not for Mugford alone,
Ring for the twenty unknown,
Who fought hand-to-hand at his side,
Who saw his last look when he died,
And who brought him, though dead, to his own!
John White Chadwick.
A month later, on June 14, 1775, the Continentals occupied various islands and points in the bay, and opened so hot a fire upon the British ships that they were finally forced to weigh anchor and sail away. The news of the capture of Boston and departure of the British was received with the greatest rejoicing throughout the country. Among the many songs composed to celebrate the event, one, "Off from Boston," gained wide popularity.
OFF FROM BOSTON
Sons of valor, taste the glories
Of celestial liberty,
Sing a triumph o'er the Tories,
Let the pulse of joy beat high.
Heaven hath this day foil'd the many
Fallacies of George the King;
Let the echo reach Britan'y,
Bid her mountain summits ring.
See yon navy swell the bosom
Of the late enragèd sea;
Where'er they go, we shall oppose them,
Sons of valor must be free.
Should they touch at fair Rhode Island,
There to combat with the brave,
Driven from each dale and highland,
They shall plough the purple wave.
Should they thence to fair Virginia,
Bend a squadron to Dunmore,
Still with fear and ignominy,
They shall quit the hostile shore.
To Carolina or to Georg'y,
Should they next advance their fame,
This land of heroes shall disgorge the
Sons of tyranny and shame.
Let them rove to climes far distant,
Situate under Arctic skies,
Call on Hessian troops assistant,
And the savages to rise.
Boast of wild brigades from Russia,
To fix down the galling chain,
Canada and Nova Scotia,
Shall disgorge these hordes again.
In New York state, rejoin'd by Clinton,
Should their standards mock the air,
Many a surgeon shall put lint on
Wounds of death receivèd there.
War, fierce war, shall break their forces,
Nerves of Tory men shall fail,
Seeing Howe, with alter'd courses,
Bending to the western gale.
Thus from every bay of ocean,
Flying back with sails unfurl'd,
Tossed with ever-troubled motion,
They shall quit this smiling world.
Like Satan banishèd from heaven,
Never see the smiling shore;
From this land, so happy, driven,
Never stain its bosom more.