Standing on this bastion, “Here,” said the Major, “we had thrown up our lines, making the defences as strong as practicable. The British had also erected formidable works about half a mile in front, (the forest intervening,) composed of a large stone battery on their left, and two strong redoubts, from which they kept up an incessant discharge of shot and shells for several successive days, which was returned by us with equal vigour. At length a shell from their batteries having fallen upon it, blew up one of our small magazines, but with trifling injury to the rest of the defences. They greatly miscalculated the damage, and were elated with their success, and General Gaines received secret information that they intended to carry the works by storm on the following night. That night, said the Major, I shall not soon forget. It set in intensely dark and cloudy, extremely favourable to the design of the enemy. Every thing was put in the fullest state of preparation to receive them. The men enthusiastically awaiting the attack, were ordered to lie on their arms. Extended along the lines, and manning the fort and bastion, our little army, in perfect silence, awaited their coming.
The forest had been cleared about three hundred yards in front of our works—beyond that were, as you see, the woods. As the night wore on, we listened with earnestness to every sound. A little after midnight, we heard on the dry leaves the stealthy sound of footsteps—pat—patter—patter. We listened—they came nearer. A short, sharp challenge: “Who goes there?” issued from that farther redoubt. The footsteps ceased, as if irresolute to advance or recede, and all was still. Another quick challenge—a rattle of the musket, as it fell into the hollow of the hand,—followed the reply:—“Picquet guard, forced in by the enemy’s advance”—“Back, guard! back to your posts instantly, or we will fire upon you,” rung the stern voice of our commanding officer. The footsteps of the stragglers slowly receded, and entire stillness again obtained. It was as profound as the darkness, not even the hum of an insect rose upon the ear. We laid our heads upon the ramparts, and listened with all our faculties. We listened. Perhaps half an hour elapsed, when we imagined we heard the dead, heavy sound of a large body of men—tramp—tramp—tramp—advancing through the pitchy darkness. A few moments passed—a brisk scattering fire, and the picquets came in in beautiful order, under the brave subaltern in command. The measured tread of disciplined troops became apparent. Every sense was stretched to the utmost in expectancy—every eye endeavoured to fathom the darkness in front, when, from Towson’s battery, that towards the river, glanced a volley of musquetry, and in another instant, the whole line of the works, bastion, redoubt, and rampart, streamed forth one living sheet of flame. Two eighteens, mounted where we stand, were filled to the muzzle with grape, cannister, and bags of musket-bullets—imagine their havoc. The enemy came on with loud shouts and undaunted bravery. By the continued glare of our discharges, we could see dense dark masses of men, moving in columns to three separate points of attack upon our works. Our artillery and musketry poured on them as they advanced a continual stream of fire, rolling and glancing from angles, bastions, and redoubts. Repulsed—they were re-formed by their officers, and brought again to the charge, to be again repulsed. At such times, hours fly like minutes. A life appears concentrated to a moment. We had been engaged perhaps an hour—perhaps three, when I heard in that bastion of the Fort, a hundred feet from me, above the uproar, a quick, furious struggle, as if of men engaged in fierce death-fight; a clashing of bayonets, and sharp pistol shots, mixed with heavy blows, and short quick breathing, such as you may have heard men make in violent exertion—in cutting wood with axes, or other severe manual labour. The conflict, though fierce, was short—the assailants were repelled. Those that gained a footing were bayonetted, or thrown back over the parapet. In a few moments, I heard again the same fierce struggle, and again followed the like result and stillness—if stillness could be said to exist under continual roar of musketry and artillery. A third time it rose, sudden and desperate; it ceased, and presently a clear loud voice rose high above the battle from the bastion: “Stop firing in front there, you are firing on your friends.” An instant cessation followed. We were deceived. In another moment, the voice of an officer with startling energy replied: “Aye, aye, we’ll stop: give it them, men, give it them!”—and the firing, renewed, was continued with redoubled fury. The head of the centre column, composed of eight hundred picked men, the veterans of Egypt, led by Lieut. Col. Drummond in person, after three several assaults, had gained possession of the bastion, and by that ruse, endeavoured to cause a cessation of the fire—a result that might have been fatal to us, had not the deception been so soon discerned. But the prize was of little value, as the bastion was commanded by the interior of the works, and the men, under cover of the walls of an adjoining barrack, poured into the gorge that led from it, a continued storm of musketry. The firing continued with unabated fury. The enemy, repulsed with great loss in every attack, was unsuccessful on every point save that bastion, the possession of which they still retained—when I heard a groaning roll and shake of the earth, and instantly the bastion, bodies of men, timber, guns, earth and stones, were blown up in the air like a volcano, making every thing in the glare as clear as noon-day. A descending timber dashed one of my artillerymen to pieces within a foot of my shoulder. Profound darkness and silence followed. Naught but the groans of the wounded and dying were heard. As if by mutual consent, the fighting ceased, and the enemy withdrew, repulsed on every side, save from the parapet which they purchased for their grave. A large quantity of fixed ammunition had been placed in the lower part, and a stray wad falling upon it, had blown them all up together. My duty required that I should immediately repair the bastion, and most horrible was the sight—bodies burnt and mutilated—some of them still pulsating with life, among them Lieut. Colonel Drummond, the leader of the attack. There he lay in the morning light, stark and stiff, extended on the rampart, a ball having passed through his breast. History mourns, that his courage assumed the character of ferocity. His war-cry of “No quarter to the damned Yankees,” his own death-warrant, was long remembered against his countrymen. The enemy did not resume the attack, but retiring to their entrenched camp, strengthened their works, and prepared to make their approach by regular advances.
But come, spur on, we have far to ride—spur on. Here we are upon their works. Here is the stone water-battery, and there the two strong redoubts, and back of them the remains of their lines, and deep entrenchments. These are the works which were carried in the memorable and desperate sortie of Fort Erie. The right by Davis and Miller; the left by Porter and his volunteers. Here, on the left, quoth the Major, fell my gallant, my accomplished friend, Lieut. Col. Wood, at the head of his column. He was one of the most brilliant officers in the service, and as beautiful as a girl. I often gazed with astonishment at the desperate daring that characterised him in action; here he fell; he was bayonetted to death on the ground, on this spot“—and the Major’s voice quivered, and he turned his face from me, for the cruel death of his dear friend was too much for his manhood. His ashes sleep amid the Highlands of the Hudson, beneath their monument, near the flag-staff at West Point. Peace to his gallant spirit! The stars of his country can wave over no braver of her sons.
BATTLE OF LUNDY’S LANE.
We cross thy tranquil plains, Oh! Chippewa. Scott—Ripley—Towson—Hindman—brave soldiers; long will this battle-ground your names remember. And thou too, Riall! brave Englishman, foeman wert thou worthy of warriors’ steel. But far different music has resounded through these continuous woods than the wild bird’s carol, the hum of insects, and the waving of the breeze that now so gently greets our ear. Ay! yonder it is—yonder is the white house. There, said the Major, as General Scott, making a forward movement with his brigade in the afternoon of the 25th of July, 1814, came in view of it, we saw the court-yard filled with British officers, their horses held by orderlies and servants in attendance. As soon as we became visible to them, their bugles sounded to saddle, and in a few moments they were mounted and soon disappeared through the woods at full gallop, twenty bugles ringing the alarm from different parts of the forest. All vanished as if swallowed by the earth, save an elegant veteran officer, who reined up just out of musket shot, and took a leisurely survey of our numbers. Having apparently satisfied himself of our force, he raised the plumed hat from his head, and bowing gracefully to our cortege, put spurs to his horse and disappeared with the rest. From the occupant of the house we gathered that we were about a mile distant from a strong body of the enemy, posted in the rising ground just beyond the woods in our front. General Scott, turning to one of his escort, said, “Be kind enough, sir, to return to Major General Brown; inform him that I have fallen in with the enemy’s advance, posted in force at ‘Lundy’s Lane,’ and that in one half hour, I shall have joined battle.” “Order up Ripley with the second brigade,—direct Porter to get his volunteers immediately under arms,” was the brief reply of Major General Brown to my message, and the aids were instantly in their saddles, conveying the orders. As I galloped back through the woods, continued the Major, the cannon shot screaming by me, tearing the trees and sending the rail fences in the air in their course, warned me that the contest had begun.—But we are on the battle-ground. There, said the Major, upon the verge of that sloping hill, parallel with the road, and through the grave-yard towards the Niagara, was drawn up the British line under General Riall, in force three times greater than our brigade—his right covered with a powerful battery of nine pieces of artillery, two of them brass twenty-fours.
The Eleventh and Twenty-second regiments first leaving the wood, deployed upon the open ground with the coolness and regularity of a review,—and were soon engaged furiously in action; the fire from the enemy’s line and from the batteries, which completely commanded the position, opening upon them with tremendous effect. Towson, having hurried up with his guns on the left, in vain endeavoured to attain sufficient elevation to return the fire of their battery. The destruction on our side was very great;—the two regiments fought with consummate bravery. They were severely cut up, their ammunition became exhausted, and their officers nearly all of them having been killed and wounded, they were withdrawn from action,—the few officers remaining unhurt throwing themselves into the Ninth, which now came into action, led by the gallant Colonel Leavenworth.
The brunt of the battle now came upon them, and they alone sustained it for some time, fighting with unflinching bravery, until their numbers were reduced to one-half by the fire of the enemy. At this juncture, General Scott galloped up with the intention of charging up the hill; but finding them so much weakened, altered his intention, entreating them to hold their ground until the reinforcements, which were hastening up, should come to their assistance. A momentary cessation of the action ensued, while additional forces hurried up to the aid of each army—Ripley’s brigade, Hindman’s artillery, and Porter’s volunteers, on the part of the Americans, and a strong reinforcement under General Drummond on that of the British. Hindman’s artillery were attached to that of Towson, and soon made themselves heard. Porter’s brigade displayed on the left, while Ripley formed on the skirts of the wood to the right of Scott’s brigade. The engagement was soon renewed, with augmented vigour; General Drummond taking command in person, with his fresh troops in the front line of the enemy. Colonel Jesup, who had at the commencement of the action been posted on the right, succeeded, after a gallant contest, in turning the left flank of the enemy, and came in upon his reserve, “burdened with prisoners, making himself visible to his own army, amid the darkness, in a blaze of fire,” completely destroying all before him. The fight raged for some time with great fury, but it became apparent, uselessly to the Americans, if the enemy retained possession of the battery, manifestly the key of the position.
I was standing at the side of Colonel Miller, said the Major, when General Brown rode up and inquired, whether he could storm the battery with his regiment, while General Ripley supported him with the younger regiment, the Twenty-third. Miller, amid the uproar and confusion, deliberately surveyed the position, then quietly turning with infinite coolness replied, “I’ll try, sir.” I think I see him now, said the Major, as drawing up his gigantic figure to its full height, he turned to his regiment, drilled to the precision of a piece of mechanism, I hear his deep lion tones—“Twenty-first—attention!—form into column. You will advance up the hill to the storm of the battery—at the word ‘halt,’ you will deliver your fire at the port-lights of the artillerymen, and immediately carry the guns at the point of the bayonet.—Support arms—double quick—march!” Machinery could not have moved with more compactness than that gallant regiment followed the fearless stride of its leader. Supported by the Twenty-third, the dark mass moved up the hill like one body,—the lurid light glittering and flickering on their bayonets, as the combined fire of the enemy’s artillery and infantry opened murderously upon them. They flinched not—they faltered not—the stern deep voices of the officers, as the deadly cannon-shot cut yawning chasms through them, alone was heard. “Close up—steady, men—steady.” Within a hundred yards of the summit, the loud “Halt” was followed by a volley—sharp, instantaneous, as a clap of thunder. Another moment, rushing under the white smoke, a short furious struggle with the bayonet, and the artillerymen were swept like chaff from their guns. Another fierce struggle—the enemy’s line was forced down the side of the hill, and the victory was ours—the position entirely in our hands—their own pieces turned and playing upon them in their retreat. It was bought at cruel price—most of the officers being either killed or wounded. The whole tide of the battle now turned to this point. The result of the conflict depended entirely upon the ability of the victorious party to retain it. Major Hindman was ordered up, and posted his forces at the side of the captured cannon, while the American line correspondingly advanced. Stung with mortification, the brave General Drummond concentrated his forces, to retake by a desperate charge the position. The interval amid the darkness was alone filled by the roar of the cataracts, and the groans of the wounded. He advanced with strong reinforcements, outflanking each side of the American line. We were only able, in the murky darkness, to ascertain their approach by their heavy tread. “They halted within twenty paces—poured in a rapid fire and prepared for the rush.” Directed by the blaze, our men returned it with deadly effect, and after a desperate struggle, the dense column recoiled. Another interval of darkness and silence, and again a most furious and desperate charge was made by the British, throwing the whole weight of their attack upon the American centre. The gallant Twenty-first, which composed it, receiving them with undaunted firmness—while the fire from our lines was “dreadfully effective,” Hindman’s artillery served with the most perfect coolness and effect. Staggering, they again recoiled. During this second attack, General Scott in person, his shattered brigade now consolidated into a single battalion, made two determined charges upon the right and left flank of the enemy, and in these he received the scars which his countrymen now see upon his manly front. Our men were now almost worn down with fatigue, dying with thirst, for which they could gain no relief. The British, with fresh reinforcements—their men recruited and rested—after the interval of another hour, made their third and final effort to regain the position. They advanced—delivered their fire as before—and although it was returned with the same deadly effect, they steadily pressed forward. The Twenty-first again sustained the shock, and both lines were soon engaged in a “conflict, obstinate and dreadful beyond description.” The right and left of the American line fell back for a moment, but were immediately rallied by their officers. “So desperate did the battle now become, that many battalions on both sides were forced back,” the men engaged in indiscriminate melée, fought hand to hand, and with muskets clubbed; and “so terrific was the conflict where the cannon were stationed, that Major Hindman had to engage them over his guns and gun-carriages, and finally to spike two of his pieces, under the apprehension that they would fall into the hands of the enemy.” General Ripley at length made a most desperate and determined charge upon both of the enemy’s flanks—they wavered—recoiled—gave way—and the centre soon following, they relinquished the fight and made a final retreat. The annals of warfare on this continent have never shown more desperate fighting. Bayonets were repeatedly crossed, and after the action, many of the men were found mutually transfixed. The British force engaged was about five thousand men;—the American thirty-five hundred: the combined loss in killed and wounded, seventeen hundred and twenty-two, officers and men. The battle commenced at half-past four o’clock in the afternoon, and did not terminate till midnight. We were so mingled, said the Major, and so great the confusion in the darkness, that as I was sitting with a group of officers in the earlier part of the night, on horseback, a British soldier came up to us, and recovering his musket, under the supposition that he was addressing one of his own officers, said, “Colonel Gordon will be much obliged, sir, if you will march up the three hundred men in the road to his assistance immediately, as he is very hard pressed.” I called him nearer, and pressing his musket down over my holsters, made him prisoner. “What have I done, sir,” said the astonished man, “what have I done?” and to convince British officers, as he supposed, of his loyalty, exclaimed, “Hurrah for the King, and damn the Yankees.” As he was marched to the rear, the poor fellow was cut down by a grape shot. In another part of the field, an American aid pulled up suddenly on a body of men under full march. In reply to his demand, “What regiment is that?” he was answered, “The Royal Scots.” With great presence of mind, he replied, “Halt! Royal Scots’, till further orders,” and then turning his horse’s head, galloped from their dangerous proximity. It was a horrid conflict. Humanity sighs over the slaughter of the brave men that fell in it.
But here we are, at the grave-yard, with its drooping willows and flowering locusts. Still—still—and quiet now. No armed men disturb its calmness and repose—no ponderous artillery wheels rudely cut its consecrated mounds—no ruffian jest—no savage execration—no moan of anguish, break now upon its hallowed silence. The long grass and blossoming heather waive green alike over the graves of friend and enemy. The marble tells the story of the few—the many, their very parents know not their resting place. See this broken wooden slab—it has rotted off even with the ground, and lies face downwards, the earthworm burrowing under it, in this neglected corner. Pull the grass aside; turn it over with your foot. What, the nearly effaced inscription?