CHAPTER VII
THE SECOND STAGE
News of the reverse at Saratoga was received in England with amazement and consternation, and its effect on the government was soon discernible. On February 17, 1778, Lord North astonished the House of Commons by rising in his place and moving that Parliament repeal the tea tax and other measures obnoxious to the Americans, that it renounce forever the right of raising a revenue in America, and that commissioners be sent to Congress, with full powers for negotiating a peace. So complete a political somersault has seldom been turned by an English minister.
[February 17, 1778]
When North first began
With his taxation plan,
The Colonies all to supplant,
To Britain's true cause,
And her liberty, laws,
Oh, how did he scorn to recant.
Oh! how did he boast
Of his pow'r and his host,
Alternately swagger and cant;
Of freedom so dear,
Not a word would he hear,
Nor believe he'd be forc'd to recant.
That freedom he swore
They ne'er should have more,
Their money to give and to grant;
Whene'er they addressed,
What disdain he express'd,
Not thinking they'd make him recant.
He armies sent o'er
To America's shore,
New government there to transplant;
But every campaign
Prov'd his force to be vain,
Yet still he refus'd to recant.
But with all their bombast,
They were so beat at last,
As to silence his impious rant;
Who for want of success,
Could at last do no less
Than draw in his horns, and recant.
With his brother Burgoyne,
He's forc'd now to join,
And a treaty of peace for to want;
Says he ne'er will fight,
But will give up his right
To taxation, and freely recant.
With the great General Howe,
He'd be very glad now,
He ne'er had engag'd in the jaunt;
And ev'ry proud Scot
In the devilish plot,
With his Lordship, are forc'd to recant.
Old England, alas!
They have brought to such pass,
Too late are proposals extant;
America's lost,
Our glory at most
Is only that—tyrants recant.
But these proposals came too late. America had just concluded with France a treaty by which she agreed, in consideration of armed support to be furnished by that power, never to entertain proposals of peace from Great Britain until her independence should be acknowledged. On March 13 this action on the part of France was communicated to the British government, and war against France was instantly declared.
A NEW BALLAD
[1778]
Rouse, Britons! at length,
And put forth your strength
Perfidious France to resist;
Ten Frenchmen will fly,
To shun a black eye,
If an Englishman doubles his fist.
Derry down, down, hey derry down.
But if they feel stout,
Why let them turn out,
With their maws stuff'd with frogs, soups, and jellies,
Brave Hardy's sea thunder
Shall strike them with wonder,
And make the frogs leap in their bellies!
For their Dons and their ships
We care not three skips
Of a flea—and their threats turn into jest, O!
We'll bang their bare ribs
For the infamous fibs
Cramm'd into their fine manifesto.
Our brethren so frantic
Across the Atlantic,
Who quit their old friends in a huff,
In spite of their airs,
Are at their last prayers,
And of fighting have had quantum suff.
Then if powers at a distance
Should offer assistance,
Say boldly, "we want none, we thank ye,"
Old England's a match
And more for old scratch,
A Frenchman, a Spaniard, a Yankee!
Derry down, down, hey derry down.
In spite of this change in the complexion of affairs abroad, the situation in America was still critical. Howe had abandoned Burgoyne to his fate, but he had not been inactive. He had set his heart upon the capture of Philadelphia, and in June, 1777, assembled his army at New Brunswick, but finding Washington strongly posted on the Heights of Middlebrook and not daring to attack him, was forced to retire to New York.
The substance of Sir W.'s last letter from New York, versified.
[June, 1777]
As to kidnap the Congress has long been my aim,
I lately resolv'd to accomplish the same;
And, that none, in the glory, might want his due share,
All the troops were to Brunswick desir'd to repair.
Derry down, down, hey derry down.
There I met them in person, and took the command,
When I instantly told them the job upon hand;
I did not detain them with long-winded stuff,
But made a short speech, and each soldier look'd bluff.
With this omen elated, towards Quibbletown
I led them, concluding the day was our own;
For, till we went thither, the coast was quite clear,—
But Putnam and Washington, d—n them, were there!
I own I was stagger'd, to see with what skill
The rogues were intrenched, on the brow of the hill;
With a view to dismay them, I show'd my whole force,
But they kept their position, and car'd not a curse.
There were then but two ways,—to retreat or attack,
And to me it seem'd wisest, by far, to go back;
For I thought, if I rashly got into a fray,
There might both be the Devil and Piper to pay.
Then, to lose no more time, by parading in vain,
I determin'd elsewhere to transfer the campaign;
So just as we went, we return'd to this place,
With no other diff'rence,—than mending our pace.
Where next we proceed, is not yet very clear,
But, when we get there, be assur'd you shall hear;
I'll settle that point, when I meet with my brother,—
Meanwhile, we're embarking for some place or other.
Having briefly, my lord, told you,—how the land lies,
I hope there's enough—for a word to the wise;
'Tis a good horse, they say, that never will stumble,—
But, fighting or flying,—I'm your very humble.
Howe, finding the approach to the "rebel capital" by land cut off, determined to reach it by water, and about the middle of July put to sea with a fleet of two hundred and twenty-eight sail, carrying an army of eighteen thousand men. Not until the 25th of August did he succeed in landing this force at the head of Chesapeake Bay. Washington, though he had only eleven thousand men, decided to offer battle, rather than let Philadelphia be taken without a blow, and on September 11, 1777, the armies met at Brandywine Creek. The Americans were forced to retire, with a loss of about a thousand men, and the British entered Philadelphia two weeks later.
CARMEN BELLICOSUM
In their ragged regimentals
Stood the old Continentals,
Yielding not,
When the grenadiers were lunging,
And like hail fell the plunging
Cannon-shot;
When the files
Of the isles,
From the smoky night-encampment, bore the banner of the rampant
Unicorn,
And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of the drummer,
Through the morn!
Then with eyes to the front all,
And with guns horizontal,
Stood our sires;
And the balls whistled deadly,
And in streams flashing redly
Blazed the fires:
As the roar
Of the shore,
Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres
Of the plain;
And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder,
Cracking amain!
Now like smiths at their forges
Worked the red St. George's
Cannoneers;
And the "villainous saltpetre"
Rung a fierce, discordant metre
Round their ears;
As the swift
Storm-drift,
With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangor
On our flanks:
Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fire
Through the ranks!
Then the bareheaded Colonel
Galloped through the white infernal
Powder-cloud;
And his broadsword was swinging
And his brazen throat was ringing
Trumpet-loud.
Then the blue
Bullets flew,
And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden
Rifle-breath;
And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder,
Hurling Death.
Guy Humphreys McMaster.
Washington retired to winter quarters at Valley Forge, where, through the neglect and mismanagement of Congress, the patriot army was so ill-provided with food, clothing, and shelter, and endured sufferings so intense that, from disease and desertion, it dwindled at times to less than two thousand effective men.
VALLEY FORGE
From "The Wagoner of the Alleghanies"
[1777-78]
O'er town and cottage, vale and height,
Down came the Winter, fierce and white,
And shuddering wildly, as distraught
At horrors his own hand had wrought.
His child, the young Year, newly born,
Cheerless, cowering, and affrighted,
Wailed with a shivering voice forlorn,
As on a frozen heath benighted.
In vain the hearths were set aglow,
In vain the evening lamps were lighted,
To cheer the dreary realm of snow:
Old Winter's brow would not be smoothed,
Nor the young Year's wailing soothed.
How sad the wretch at morn or eve
Compelled his starving home to leave,
Who, plunged breast-deep from drift to drift,
Toils slowly on from rift to rift,
Still hearing in his aching ear
The cry his fancy whispers near,
Of little ones who weep for bread
Within an ill-provided shed!
But wilder, fiercer, sadder still,
Freezing the tear it caused to start,
Was the inevitable chill
Which pierced a nation's agued heart,—
A nation with its naked breast
Against the frozen barriers prest,
Heaving its tedious way and slow
Through shifting gulfs and drifts of woe,
Where every blast that whistled by
Was bitter with its children's cry.
Such was the winter's awful sight
For many a dreary day and night,
What time our country's hope forlorn,
Of every needed comfort shorn,
Lay housed within a hurried tent,
Where every keen blast found a rent,
And oft the snow was seen to sift
Along the floor its piling drift,
Or, mocking the scant blankets' fold,
Across the night-couch frequent rolled;
Where every path by a soldier beat,
Or every track where a sentinel stood,
Still held the print of naked feet,
And oft the crimson stains of blood;
Where Famine held her spectral court,
And joined by all her fierce allies:
She ever loved a camp or fort
Beleaguered by the wintry skies,—
But chiefly when Disease is by,
To sink the frame and dim the eye,
Until, with seeking forehead bent,
In martial garments cold and damp,
Pale Death patrols from tent to tent,
To count the charnels of the camp.
Such was the winter that prevailed
Within the crowded, frozen gorge;
Such were the horrors that assailed
The patriot band at Valley Forge.
It was a midnight storm of woes
To clear the sky for Freedom's morn;
And such must ever be the throes
The hour when Liberty is born.
Thomas Buchanan Read.
Howe's army, meanwhile, spent the winter in Philadelphia; very pleasantly, for the most part, and yet not without various alarms, one of which was celebrated by Francis Hopkinson in some famous verses to the tune of "Yankee Doodle," published in the Pennsylvania Packet, March 4, 1778.
[BRITISH VALOR DISPLAYED;
OR, THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS]
[January 5, 1778]
Gallants attend, and hear a friend
Trill forth harmonious ditty;
Strange things I'll tell which late befel
In Philadelphia city.
'Twas early day, as Poets say,
Just when the sun was rising,
A soldier stood on a log of wood,
And saw a sight surprising.
As in a maze he stood to gaze
(The truth can't be deny'd, Sir),
He spy'd a score of kegs, or more,
Come floating down the tide, Sir.
A sailor, too, in jerkin blue,
This strange appearance viewing,
First damn'd his eyes, in great surprise,
Then said "Some mischief's brewing:
"These kegs now hold, the rebels bold,
Packed up like pickl'd herring;
And they're come down t' attack the town
In this new way of ferry'ng."
The soldier flew, the sailor too,
And, scar'd almost to death, Sir,
Wore out their shoes to spread the news,
And ran 'til out of breath, Sir.
Now up and down, throughout the town
Most frantic scenes were acted;
And some ran here, and others there,
Like men almost distracted.
Some fire cry'd, which some deny'd,
But said the earth had quaked;
And girls and boys, with hideous noise,
Ran thro' the streets half naked.
[Sir William] he, snug as a flea,
Lay all this time a snoring;
Nor dream'd of harm as he lay warm
In bed with [Mrs. Loring].
Now in a fright, he starts upright,
Awaked by such a clatter;
He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries,
"For God's sake, what's the matter?"
At his bedside he then espy'd,
[Sir Erskine] at command, Sir;
Upon one foot he had one boot,
And t' other in his hand, Sir.
"Arise, arise," Sir Erskine cries,
"The rebels—more's the pity—
Without a boat, are all afloat,
And rang'd before the city.
"The motley crew, in vessels new,
With Satan for their guide, Sir,
Pack'd up in bags, and wooden kegs,
Come driving down the tide, Sir.
"Therefore prepare for bloody war;
These kegs must all be routed;
Or surely we dispis'd shall be,
And British valor doubted."
The royal band now ready stand,
All ranged in dread array, Sir,
On every slip, on every ship,
For to begin the fray, Sir.
The cannons roar from shore to shore;
The small-arms loud did rattle;
Since wars began I'm sure no man
E'er saw so strange a battle.
The rebel dales, the rebel vales,
With rebel trees surrounded,
The distant woods, the hills and floods,
With rebel echoes sounded.
The fish below swam to and fro,
Attack'd from every quarter;
Why, sure (thought they), the De'il's to pay
'Mong folks above the water.
The kegs, 'tis said, though strongly made
Of rebel staves and hoops, Sir,
Could not oppose their pow'rful foes,
The conq'ering British troops, Sir.
From morn to night these men of might
Display'd amazing courage;
And when the sun was fairly down,
Retired to sup their porridge.
A hundred men, with each a pen,
Or more, upon my word, Sir,
It is most true, would be too few,
Their valor to record, Sir.
Such feats did they perform that day
Against these wicked kegs, Sir,
That years to come, if they get home,
They'll make their boasts and brags, Sir.
Francis Hopkinson.
Another pleasant story of the same period, which also has its foundation in fact, is told by Mr. Carleton in "The Little Black-Eyed Rebel." The heroine's name was Mary Redmond, and she succeeded more than once in helping to smuggle through letters from soldiers in the Continental army to their wives in Philadelphia.
THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL[5]
A boy drove into the city, his wagon loaded down
With food to feed the people of the British-governed town;
And the little black-eyed rebel, so innocent and sly,
Was watching for his coming from the corner of her eye.
His face looked broad and honest, his hands were brown and tough,
The clothes he wore upon him were homespun, coarse, and rough;
But one there was who watched him, who long time lingered nigh,
And cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her eye.
He drove up to the market, he waited in the line;
His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine;
But long and long he waited, and no one came to buy,
Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner of her eye.
"Now who will buy my apples?" he shouted long and loud;
And "Who wants my potatoes?" he repeated to the crowd;
But from all the people round him came no word of a reply,
Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the corner of her eye.
For she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he wore that day,
Were long letters from the husbands and the fathers far away,
Who were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain or die;
And a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye.
But the treasures—how to get them? crept the question through her mind,
Since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might find:
And she paused awhile and pondered, with a pretty little sigh;
Then resolve crept through her features, and a shrewdness fired her eye.
So she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red;
"May I have a dozen apples for a kiss?" she sweetly said:
And the brown face flushed to scarlet; for the boy was somewhat shy,
And he saw her laughing at him from the corner of her eye.
"You may have them all for nothing, and more, if you want," quoth he.
"I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them," said she;
And she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all were by,
With a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of her eye.
Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her fingers white and small,
And then whispered, "Quick! the letters! thrust them underneath my shawl!
Carry back again this package, and be sure that you are spry!"
And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of her eye.
Loud the motley crowd were laughing at the strange, ungirlish freak,
And the boy was scared and panting, and so dashed he could not speak;
And, "Miss, I have good apples," a bolder lad did cry;
But she answered, "No, I thank you," from the corner of her eye.
With the news of loved ones absent to the dear friends they would greet,
Searching them who hungered for them, swift she glided through the street,
"There is nothing worth the doing that it does not pay to try,"
Thought the little black-eyed rebel, with a twinkle in her eye.
Will Carleton.
Early in May, Sir Henry Clinton succeeded Howe in command of the British forces, and on June 18, 1778, evacuated Philadelphia, and started, with his whole army, for New York. Washington started in pursuit, and on Sunday, June 28, ordered General Charles Lee, in command of the advance guard, to fall upon the British left wing near Monmouth Court-House. Instead of pressing forward, Lee ordered his men to retire, and they began to fall into disorder. At that moment, Washington, summoned by Lafayette, galloped up, white with rage, ordered Lee to the rear, re-formed the troops, and drove the British back. Night put an end to the conflict, and Clinton managed to get away under cover of the darkness, leaving his wounded behind.
THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH
[June 28, 1778]
Whilst in peaceful quarters lying
We indulge the glass till late,
Far remote the thought of dying,
Hear, my friends, the soldier's fate:
From the summer's sun hot beaming,
Where yon dust e'en clouds the skies,
To the plains where heroes bleeding,
Shouts and dying groans arise.
Halt! halt! halt! form every rank here;
Mark yon dust that climbs the sky,
To the front close up the long rear,
See! the enemy is nigh;
Platoons march at proper distance,
Cover close each rank and file,
They will make a bold resistance,
Here, my lads, is gallant toil.
Now all you from downy slumber
Roused to the soft joys of love,
Waked to pleasures without number,
Peace and ease your bosoms prove:
Round us roars Bellona's thunder,
Ah! how close the iron storm,
O'er the field wild stalks pale wonder,
Pass the word there, form, lads, form.
To the left display that column,
Front, halt, dress, be bold and brave;
Mark in air yon fiery volume,
Who'd refuse a glorious grave;
Ope your boxes, quick, be ready,
See! our light-bobs gain the hill;
Courage, boys, be firm and steady,
Hence each care, each fear lie still.
Now the dismal cannon roaring
Speaks loud terror to the soul,
Grape shot wing'd with death fast pouring,
Ether rings from pole to pole;
See, the smoke, how black and dreary,
Clouds sulphureous hide the sky,
Wounded, bloody, fainting, weary,
How their groans ascend on high!
Firm, my lads; who breaks the line thus?
Oh! can brave men ever yield,
Glorious danger now combines us,
None but cowards quit the field.
To the rear each gun dismounted;
Close the breach, and brisk advance.
All your former acts recounted
This day's merit shall enhance.
Now half-choked with dust and powder,
Fiercely throbs each bursting vein:
Hark! the din of arms grows louder,
Ah! what heaps of heroes slain!
See, from flank to flank wide flashing,
How each volley rends the gloom;
Hear the trumpet; ah! what clashing,
Man and horse now meet their doom;
Bravely done! each gallant soldier
Well sustained this heavy fire;
Alexander ne'er was bolder;
Now by regiments retire.
See, our second line moves on us,
Ope your columns, give them way,
Heaven perhaps may smile upon us,
These may yet regain the day.
Now our second line engaging,
Charging close, spreads carnage round,
Fierce revenge and fury raging,
Angry heroes bite the ground.
The souls of brave men here expiring
Call for vengeance e'en in death,
Frowning still, the dead, the dying,
Threaten with their latest breath.
To the left obliquely flying,
Oh! be ready, level well,
Who could think of e'er retiring,
See, my lads, those volleys tell.
Ah! by heavens, our dragoons flying,
How the squadrons fill the plain!
Check them, boys, ye fear not dying,
Sell your lives, nor fall in vain.
Now our left flank they are turning;
Carnage is but just begun;
Desperate now, 'tis useless mourning,
Farewell, friends, adieu the sun!
Fix'd to die, we scorn retreating,
To the shock our breasts oppose,
Hark! the shout, the signal beating,
See, with bayonets they close:
Front rank charge! the rear make ready!
Forward, march—reserve your fire!
Now present, fire brisk, be steady,
March, march, see their lines retire!
On the left, our light troops dashing,
Now our dragoons charge the rear,
Shout! huzza! what glorious slashing,
They run, they run, hence banish fear!
Now the toil and danger's over,
Dress alike the wounded brave,
Hope again inspires the lover,
Old and young forget the grave;
Seize the canteen, poise it higher,
Rest to each brave soul that fell!
Death for this is ne'er the nigher,
Welcome mirth, and fear farewell.
R. H.
THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH
[June 28, 1778]
Four-and-eighty years are o'er me; great-grandchildren sit before me;
These my locks are white and scanty, and my limbs are weak and worn;
Yet I've been where cannon roaring, firelocks rattling, blood outpouring,
Stirred the souls of patriot soldiers, on the tide of battle borne;
Where they told me I was bolder far than many a comrade older,
Though a stripling at that fight for the right.
All that sultry day in summer beat his sullen march the drummer,
Where the Briton strode the dusty road until the sun went down;
Then on Monmouth plain encamping, tired and footsore with the tramping,
Lay all wearily and drearily the forces of the crown,
With their resting horses neighing and their evening bugles playing,
And their sentries pacing slow to and fro.
Ere the day to night had shifted, camp was broken, knapsacks lifted,
And in motion was the vanguard of our swift-retreating foes;
Grim Knyphausen rode before his brutal Hessians, bloody Tories—
They were fit companions, truly, hirelings these and traitors those—
While the careless jest and laughter of the teamsters coming after
Rang around each creaking wain of the train.
'Twas a quiet Sabbath morning; nature gave no sign of warning
Of the struggle that would follow when we met the Briton's might;
Of the horsemen fiercely spurring, of the bullets shrilly whirring,
Of the bayonets brightly gleaming through the smoke that wrapped the fight;
Of the cannon thunder-pealing, and the wounded wretches reeling,
And the corses gory red of the dead.
Quiet nature had no prescience; but the Tories and the Hessians
Heard the baying of the bugles that were hanging on their track;
Heard the cries of eager ravens soaring high above the cravens;
And they hurried, worn and worried, casting startled glances back,
Leaving Clinton there to meet us, with his bull-dogs fierce to greet us,
With the veterans of the crown, scarred and brown.
For the fight our souls were eager, and each Continental leaguer,
As he gripped his firelock firmly, scarce could wait the word to fire;
For his country rose such fervor, in his heart of hearts, to serve her,
That it gladdened him and maddened him and kindled raging ire.
Never panther from his fastness, through the forest's gloomy vastness,
Coursed more grimly night and day for his prey.
I was in the main force posted; Lee, of whom his minions boasted,
Was commander of the vanguard, and with him were Scott and Wayne.
What they did I know not, cared not; in their march of shame I shared not;
But it startled me to see them panic-stricken back again,
At the black morass's border, all in headlong, fierce disorder,
With the Briton plying steel at their heel.
Outward cool when combat waging, howsoever inward raging,
Ne'er had Washington shown feeling when his forces fled the foe;
But to-day his forehead lowered, and we shrank his wrath untoward,
As on Lee his bitter speech was hurled in hissing tones and low:
"Sir, what means this wild confusion? Is it cowardice or collusion?
Is it treachery or fear brings you here?"
Lee grew crimson in his anger—rang his curses o'er the clangor,
O'er the roaring din of battle, as he wrathfully replied;
But his raging was unheeded; fastly on our chieftain speeded,
Rallied quick the fleeing forces, stayed the dark, retreating tide;
Then, on foaming steed returning, said to Lee, with wrath still burning,
"Will you now strike a blow at the foe?"
At the words Lee drew up proudly, curled his lip and answered loudly;
"Ay!" his voice rang out, "and will not be the first to leave the field;"
And his word redeeming fairly, with a skill surpassed but rarely,
Struck the Briton with such ardor that the scarlet column reeled;
Then, again, but in good order, past the black morass's border,
Brought his forces rent and torn, spent and worn.
As we turned on flanks and centre, in the path of death to enter,
One of Knox's brass six-pounders lost its Irish cannoneer;
And his wife who, 'mid the slaughter, had been bearing pails of water
For the gun and for the gunner, o'er his body shed no tear.
"Move the piece!"—but there they found her loading, firing that six-pounder,
And she gayly, till we won, worked the gun.
Loud we cheered as Captain Molly waved the rammer; then a volley
Pouring in upon the grenadiers, we sternly drove them back;
Though like tigers fierce they fought us, to such zeal had Molly brought us
That, though struck with heat, and thirsting, yet of drink we felt no lack:
There she stood amid the clamor, busily handling sponge and rammer,
While we swept with wrath condign on their line.
From our centre backward driven, with his forces rent and riven,
Soon the foe re-formed in order, dressed again his shattered ranks;
In a column firm advancing, from his bayonets hot rays glancing
Showed in waving lines of brilliance as he fell upon our flanks,
Charging bravely for his master: thus he met renewed disaster
From the stronghold that we held back repelled.
Monckton, gallant, cool, and fearless, 'mid his bravest comrades peerless,
Brought his grenadiers to action but to fall amid the slain;
Everywhere their ruin found them; red destruction rained around them
From the mouth of Oswald's cannon, from the musketry of Wayne;
While our sturdy Continentals, in their dusty regimentals,
Drove their plumed and scarlet force, man and horse.
Beamed the sunlight fierce and torrid o'er the raging battle horrid,
Till, in faint exhaustion sinking, death was looked on as a boon;
Heat, and not a drop of water—heat, that won the race of slaughter,
Fewer far with bullets dying than beneath the sun of June;
Only ceased the terrible firing, with the Briton slow retiring,
As the sunbeams in the west sank to rest.
On our arms so heavily sleeping, careless watch our sentries keeping,
Ready to renew the contest when the dawning day should show;
Worn with toil and heat, in slumber soon were wrapt our greatest number,
Seeking strength to rise again and fall upon the wearied foe;
For we felt his power was broken! but what rage was ours outspoken
When, on waking at the dawn, he had gone.
In the midnight still and sombre, while our force was wrapt in slumber,
Clinton set his train in motion, sweeping fast to Sandy Hook;
Safely from our blows he bore his mingled Britons, Hessians, Tories—
Bore away his wounded soldiers, but his useless dead forsook;
Fleeing from a worse undoing, and too far for our pursuing:
So we found the field our own, and alone.
How that stirring day comes o'er me! How those scenes arise before me!
How I feel a youthful vigor for a moment fill my frame!
Those who fought beside me seeing, from the dim past brought to being,
By their hands I fain would clasp them—ah! each lives but in a name;
But the freedom that they fought for, and the country grand they wrought for,
Is their monument to-day, and for aye.
Thomas Dunn English.
The most famous incident of the fight, next to Washington's encounter with Lee, is the exploit of a camp follower named Molly Pitcher or Molly McGuire. She was a sturdy, red-haired, freckle-faced Irishwoman, and during the battle was engaged in carrying water to her husband, who was a cannoneer. A bullet killed him at his post and Molly, seizing his rammer as it fell, sprang to take his place. She served the gun with skill and courage, and on the following morning, covered with dirt and blood, she was presented by General Greene to Washington, who conferred upon her a sergeant's commission.
MOLLY PITCHER
[June 28, 1778]
'Twas hurry and scurry at Monmouth town,
For Lee was beating a wild retreat;
The British were riding the Yankees down,
And panic was pressing on flying feet.
Galloping down like a hurricane
Washington rode with his sword swung high,
Mighty as he of the Trojan plain
Fired by a courage from the sky.
"Halt, and stand to your guns!" he cried.
And a bombardier made swift reply.
Wheeling his cannon into the tide,
He fell 'neath the shot of a foeman nigh.
Molly Pitcher sprang to his side,
Fired as she saw her husband do.
Telling the king in his stubborn pride
Women like men to their homes are true.
Washington rode from the bloody fray
Up to the gun that a woman manned.
"Molly Pitcher, you saved the day,"
He said, as he gave her a hero's hand.
He named her sergeant with manly praise,
While her war-brown face was wet with tears—
A woman has ever a woman's ways,
And the army was wild with cheers.
Kate Brownlee Sherwood.
MOLLY PITCHER
All day the great guns barked and roared;
All day the big balls screeched and soared;
All day, 'mid the sweating gunners grim,
Who toiled in their smoke-shroud dense and dim,
Sweet Molly labored with courage high,
With steady hand and watchful eye,
Till the day was ours, and the sinking sun
Looked down on the field of Monmouth won,
And Molly standing beside her gun.
Now, Molly, rest your weary arm!
Safe, Molly, all is safe from harm.
Now, woman, bow your aching head,
And weep in sorrow o'er your dead!
Next day on that field so hardly won,
Stately and calm stands Washington,
And looks where our gallant Greene doth lead
A figure clad in motley weed—
A soldier's cap and a soldier's coat
Masking a woman's petticoat.
He greets our Molly in kindly wise;
He bids her raise her tearful eyes;
And now he hails her before them all
Comrade and soldier, whate'er befall,
"And since she has played a man's full part,
A man's reward for her loyal heart!
And Sergeant Molly Pitcher's name
Be writ henceforth on the shield of fame!"
Oh, Molly, with your eyes so blue!
Oh, Molly, Molly, here's to you!
Sweet honor's roll will aye be richer
To hold the name of Molly Pitcher.
Laura E. Richards.
About the middle of July, a strong French fleet, commanded by Count D'Estaing, arrived off Sandy Hook, bringing with it M. Gérard, the first minister from France to the United States. It was found that the ships could not pass the bar at the mouth of New York harbor, and it was decided to attempt the capture of the British force which held Newport, R. I., but the expedition proved a failure, and the French sailed away to Boston to refit.
YANKEE DOODLE'S EXPEDITION TO RHODE ISLAND
[August, 1778]
From Lewis, Monsieur Gérard came,
To Congress in this town, sir,
They bow'd to him, and he to them,
And then they all sat down, sir.
Begar, said Monsieur, one grand coup
You shall bientôt behold, sir;
This was believ'd as gospel true,
And Jonathan felt bold, sir.
So Yankee Doodle did forget
The sound of British drum, sir,
How oft it made him quake and sweat,
In spite of Yankee rum, sir.
He took his wallet on his back,
His rifle on his shoulder,
And veow'd Rhode Island to attack
Before he was much older.
In dread array their tatter'd crew
Advanc'd with colors spread, sir,
Their fifes played Yankee doodle, doo,
[King Hancock at their head], sir.
What numbers bravely cross'd the seas,
I cannot well determine,
A swarm of rebels and of fleas,
And every other vermin.
Their mighty hearts might shrink they tho't,
For all flesh only grass is,
A plenteous store they therefore bought
Of whiskey and molasses.
They swore they'd make [bold Pigot] squeak,
So did their good ally, sir,
And take him pris'ner in a week,
But that was all my eye, sir.
As Jonathan so much desir'd
To shine in martial story,
D'Estaing with politesse retir'd,
To leave him all the glory.
He left him what was better yet,
At least it was more use, sir,
He left him for a quick retreat
A very good excuse, sir.
To stay, unless he rul'd the sea,
He thought would not be right, sir,
And Continental troops, said he,
On islands should not fight, sir.
Another cause with these combin'd
To throw him in the dumps, sir,
For Clinton's name alarmed his mind,
And made him stir his stumps, sir.
Lord Howe came up, soon afterwards, with the British fleet, and made a pretence of blockading the French in Boston harbor, but prudently withdrew when he saw the French were ready to put to sea again. The latter abandoned all attempt to coöperate with the Americans and sailed away for the West Indies.
RUNNING THE BLOCKADE
[September, 1778]
When the French fleet lay
In Massachusetts bay
In that day
When the British squadron made
Its impudent parade
Of blockade;
All along and up and down
The harbor of the town,—
The brave, proud town
That had fought with all its might
Its bold, brave fight
For the right,
To win its way alone
And hold and rule its own,
Such a groan
From the stanch hearts and stout
Of the Yankees there went out:
But to rout
The British lion then
Were maddest folly, when
One to ten
Their gallant allies lay,
Scant of powder, day by day
In the bay.
Chafing thus, impatient, sore,
One day along the shore
Slowly bore
A clipper schooner, worn
And rough and forlorn,
With its torn
Sails fluttering in the air:
The British sailors stare
At her there,
So cool and unafraid.
"What! she's running the blockade,
The jade!"
They all at once roar out,
Then—"Damn the Yankee lout!"
They shout.
Athwart her bows red hot
They send a challenge shot;
But not
An inch to right or left she veers,
Straight on and on she steers,
Nor hears
Challenge or shout, until
Rings forth with British will
A shrill
"Heave to!" Then sharp and short
Question and quick retort
Make British sport.
"What is it that you say,—
Where do I hail from pray,
What is my cargo, eh?
"My cargo? I'll allow
You can hear 'em crowin' now,
At the bow.
"And I've long-faced gentry too,
For passengers and crew,
Just a few,
"To fatten up, you know,
For home use, and a show
Of garden sass and so.
"And from Taunton town I hail;
Good Lord, it was a gale
When I set sail!"
The British captain laught
As he leaned there abaft:
"'Tis a harmless craft,
"And a harmless fellow too,
With his long-faced gentry crew;
Let him through,"
He cried; and a gay "Heave ahead!"
Sounded forth, and there sped
Down the red
Sunset track, unafraid,
Straight through the blockade,
This jade
Of a harmless craft,
Packed full to her draught,
Fore and aft,
With powder and shot,
One day when, red hot
The British got
Their full share and more
Of this cargo, they swore,
With a roar,
At the trick she had played,
This "damned Yankee jade"
Who had run the blockade!
Nora Perry.
The abortive expedition against Rhode Island practically ended the war at the north, and for a time the scene of activity was transferred to the frontier. The Indians had naturally allied themselves with the British at the beginning of the war, and early in September, 1777, attacked Fort Henry, near Wheeling, but were beaten off after a desperate fight, during which the garrison was saved by the famous exploit of Elizabeth Zane.
[September, 1777]
Women are timid, cower and shrink
At show of danger, some folk think;
But men there are who for their lives
Dare not so far asperse their wives.
We let that pass—so much is clear,
Though little perils they may fear,
When greater perils men environ,
Then women show a front of iron;
And, gentle in their manner, they
Do bold things in a quiet way,
And so our wondering praise obtain,
As on a time did Betty Zane.
A century since, out in the West,
A block-house was by Girty pressed—
Girty, the renegade, the dread
Of all that border, fiercely led
Five hundred Wyandots, to gain
Plunder and scalp-locks from the slain;
And in this hold—Fort Henry then,
But Wheeling now—twelve boys and men
Guarded with watchful ward and care
Women and prattling children there,
Against their rude and savage foes,
And Betty Zane was one of those.
There had been forty-two at first
When Girty on the border burst;
But most of those who meant to stay
And keep the Wyandots at bay,
Outside by savage wiles were lured,
And ball and tomahawk endured,
Till few were left the place to hold,
And some were boys and some were old;
But all could use the rifle well,
And vainly from the Indians fell,
On puncheon roof and timber wall,
The fitful shower of leaden ball.
Now [Betty's brothers] and her sire
Were with her in this ring of fire,
And she was ready, in her way,
To aid their labor day by day,
In all a quiet maiden might.
To mould the bullets for the fight,
And, quick to note and so report,
Watch every act outside the fort;
Or, peering through the loopholes, see
Each phase of savage strategy—
These were her tasks, and thus the maid
The toil-worn garrison could aid.
Still, drearily the fight went on
Until a week had nearly gone,
When it was told—a whisper first,
And then in loud alarm it burst—
Their powder scarce was growing; they
Knew where a keg unopened lay
Outside the fort at Zane's—what now?
Their leader stood with anxious brow.
It must be had at any cost,
Or toil and fort and lives were lost.
Some one must do that work of fear;
What man of men would volunteer?
Two offered, and so earnest they,
Neither his purpose would give way;
And Shepherd, who commanded, dare
Not pick or choose between the pair.
But ere they settled on the one
By whom the errand should be done,
Young Betty interposed, and said,
"Let me essay the task instead.
Small matter 'twere if Betty Zane,
A useless woman, should be slain;
But death, if dealt on one of those,
Gives too much vantage to our foes."
Her father smiled with pleasure grim—
Her pluck gave painful pride to him;
And while her brothers clamored "No!"
He uttered, "Boys, let Betty go!
She'll do it at less risk than you;
But keep her steady in your view,
And be your rifles shields for her.
If yonder foe make step or stir,
Pick off each wretch who draws a bead,
And so you'll serve her in her need.
Now I recover from surprise,
I think our Betty's purpose wise."
The gate was opened, on she sped;
The foe, astonished, gazed, 'tis said,
And wondered at her purpose, till
She gained that log-hut by the hill.
But when, in apron wrapped, the cask
She backward bore, to close her task,
The foemen saw her aim at last,
And poured their fire upon her fast.
Bullet on bullet near her fell,
While rang the Indians' angry yell;
But safely through that whirring rain,
Powder in arms, came Betty Zane.
They filled their horns, both boys and men,
And so began the fight again.
Girty, who there so long had stayed,
By this new feat of feet dismayed,
Fired houses round and cattle slew,
And moved away—the fray was through.
But when the story round was told
How they maintained the leaguered hold,
It was agreed, though fame was due
To all who in that fight were true,
The highest meed of praise, 'twas plain,
Fell to the share of Betty Zane.
A hundred years have passed since then;
The savage never came again.
Girty is dust; alike are dead
Those who assailed and those bestead.
Upon those half-cleared, rolling lands,
A crowded city proudly stands;
But of the many who reside
By green Ohio's rushing tide,
Not one has lineage prouder than
(Be he or poor or rich) the man
Who boasts that in his spotless strain
Mingles the blood of Betty Zane.
Thomas Dunn English.
Early in July, 1778, the Indians struck a blow at which the whole country stood aghast. The valley of Wyoming, in northeastern Pennsylvania, had, by its fertility, attracted many settlers. The position of the settlement was peculiarly exposed, and yet it had sent the best part of its militia to serve with Washington. This circumstance did not escape the eyes of the enemy, and on July 3, 1778, a force of twelve hundred Indians and Tories fell upon the settlement, routed the garrison, tortured the prisoners to death, and plundered and burned the houses. The settlers fled to the woods, where nearly a hundred women and children perished of fatigue and starvation.
[July 3, 1778]
Kind Heaven, assist the trembling muse,
While she attempts to tell
Of poor Wyoming's overthrow
By savage sons of hell.
One hundred whites, in painted hue,
Whom Butler there did lead,
Supported by a barb'rous crew
Of the fierce savage breed.
The last of June the siege began,
And several days it held,
While many a brave and valiant man
Lay slaughtered on the field.
Our troops marched out from Forty Fort
The third day of July,
Three hundred strong, they marched along,
The fate of war to try.
But oh! alas! three hundred men
Is much too small a band
To meet eight hundred men complete,
And make a glorious stand.
Four miles they marchèd from the Fort
Their enemy to meet,
Too far indeed did Butler lead,
To keep a safe retreat.
And now the fatal hour is come—
They bravely charge the foe,
And they, with ire, returned the fire,
Which prov'd our overthrow.
Some minutes they sustained the fire,
But ere they were aware,
They were encompassed all around,
Which prov'd a fatal snare.
And then they did attempt to fly,
But all was now in vain,
Their little host—by far the most—
Was by those Indians slain.
And as they fly, for quarters cry;
Oh hear! indulgent Heav'n!
Hard to relate—their dreadful fate,
No quarters must be given.
With bitter cries and mournful sighs,
They seek some safe retreat,
Run here and there, they know not where,
Till awful death they meet.
Their piercing cries salute the skies—
Mercy is all their cry:
"Our souls prepare God's grace to share,
We instantly must die."
Some men yet found are flying round
Sagacious to get clear;
In vain to fly, their foes too nigh!
They front the flank and rear.
And now the foe hath won the day,
Methinks their words are these:
"Ye cursed, rebel, Yankee race,
Will this your Congress please?
"Your pardons crave, you them shall have,
Behold them in our hands;
We'll all agree to set you free,
By dashing out your brains.
"And as for you, enlisted crew,
We'll raise your honors higher:
Pray turn your eye, where you must lie,
In yonder burning fire."
Then naked in those flames they're cast,
Too dreadful 'tis to tell,
Where they must fry, and burn and die,
While cursed Indians yell.
Nor son, nor sire, these tigers spare,—
The youth, and hoary head,
Were by those monsters murdered there,
And numbered with the dead.
Methinks I hear some sprightly youth
His mournful state condole:
"Oh, that my tender parents knew
The anguish of my soul!
"But oh! there's none to save my life,
Or heed my dreadful fear;
I see the tomahawk and knife,
And the more glittering spear.
"When years ago, I dandled was
Upon my parents' knees,
I little thought I should be brought
To feel such pangs as these.
"I hoped for many a joyful day,
I hoped for riches' store—
These golden dreams are fled away;
I straight shall be no more.
"Farewell, fond mother; late I was
Locked up in your embrace;
Your heart would ache, and even break,
If you could know my case.
"Farewell, indulgent parents dear,
I must resign my breath;
I now must die, and here must lie
In the cold arms of death.
"For oh! the fatal hour is come,
I see the bloody knife,—
The Lord have mercy on my soul!"
And quick resigned his life.
A doleful theme; yet, pensive muse,
Pursue the doleful theme;
It is no fancy to delude,
Nor transitory dream.
The Forty Fort was the resort
For mother and for child,
To save them from the cruel rage
Of the fierce savage wild.
Now, when the news of this defeat
Had sounded in our ears,
You well may know our dreadful woe,
And our foreboding fears.
A doleful sound is whispered round,
The sun now hides his head;
The nightly gloom forebodes our doom,
We all shall soon be dead.
How can we bear the dreadful spear,
The tomahawk and knife?
And if we run, the awful gun
Will rob us of our life.
But Heaven! kind Heaven, propitious power!
His hand we must adore.
He did assuage the savage rage,
That they should kill no more.
The gloomy night now gone and past,
The sun returns again,
The little birds from every bush
Seem to lament the slain.
With aching hearts and trembling hands,
We walkèd here and there,
Till through the northern pines we saw
A flag approaching near.
Some men were chose to meet this flag,
Our colonel was the chief,
Who soon returned and in his mouth
He brought an olive leaf.
This olive leaf was granted life,
But then we must no more
Pretend to fight with Britain's king,
Until the wars are o'er.
And now poor Westmoreland is lost,
Our forts are all resigned,
Our buildings they are all on fire,—
What shelter can we find?
They did agree in black and white,
If we'd lay down our arms,
That all who pleased might quietly
Remain upon their farms.
But oh! they've robbed us of our all,
They've taken all but life,
And we'll rejoice and bless the Lord,
If this may end the strife.
And now I've told my mournful tale,
I hope you'll all agree
To help our cause and break the jaws
Of cruel tyranny.
Uriah Terry.