Note to Fort Erie.—The Dying Soldier.—“On the day preceding the night attack,” said the Major, “while the enemy were throwing an incessant discharge of shot and shells into our works, I observed at a little distance beyond me a group of people collected on the banquette of the rampart; I approached and found that one of the militia had been mortally wounded by a cannot shot, and that, supported by his comrades, he was dictating with his dying breath his last words to his family. “Tell them,” said he, “that—that—I d-i-e-d l-i-k-e a b-r-a-v-e m-a-n—fig-h—fig-h-t—” and here his breath failed him, and he sunk nearly away—but rousing himself again with a desperate exertion—”b-r-a-v-e m-a-n—fight-in-g for—for—my c-o-u-n-try,”—and he expired with the words upon his lips.”
Night Attack on Fort Erie.—The Officer’s Sabre.—The writer saw in the possession of Major ——, a beautiful scimitar-shaped sabre, with polished steel scabbard; the number of the regiment, (119th, he thinks,) embossed on its blade, which one of the soldiers picked up and brought in from among the scattered arms and dead bodies in front of the works on the following morning. The white leathern belt was cut in two, probably by a grape shot or musket ball, and saturated with blood. Whether its unfortunate owner was killed, or wounded only, of course could not be known. It was a mute and interesting witness of that night’s carnage—and had undoubtedly belonged to some officer who had been in Egypt, and had relinquished the straight European sabre, for this favourite weapon of the Mameluke.
Note to Attack on Fort Erie, and Battle of Lundy’s Lane.—These two articles elicited the following reply from the pen of an officer of the U. S. army, who has, alas! since it was written, fallen before the hand of the grim tyrant, whose blow never falls but in death. The authenticity of the statement can be relied upon, as the documents from whence it was derived, were the papers of Major-General Brown, and other high officers engaged in the campaign. It is proper to observe, that in the rambling sketch of a tourist, where a mere cursory description was all that was aimed at, the apparent injustice done to that gallant officer and eminently skilful soldier, Major-General Brown, (who certainly ought to have been placed more prominently in the foreground,) was entirely unintentional. The officer alluded to was under the impression that Colonel Wood’s remains were never recovered, and that consequently the monument erected to his memory at West-Point does not rest upon them. Much of the material of the two articles (eliciting these comments) was derived from conversations with another highly accomplished and now retired officer of the U. S. army; and as they were published without his knowledge, the writer inserts the following reply made to the strictures at the time:
... “Deeming that ‘a local habitation and a name’ may be affixed to my friend the ‘Major,’ and that he may be considered responsible for inaccuracies for which others alone are accountable, I hasten to say, that in the description of the battle at Lundy’s Lane, (with the exception of some of the personal anecdotes,) the title is retained merely as a nom de guerre to carry the reader through the different phases of the action. The description of the night attack on Fort Erie, as well as that of the character and personal appearance of Lieutenant-Colonel Wood, is, however, almost literally that given at the fireside of my friend. The information received from the British camp on the following morning, through a flag, was, as near as could be ascertained, that Colonel Wood had been bayonetted to death on the ground; and my impression was that his body had been subsequently identified and returned. But as your correspondent, apparently a brother officer, speaks so decidedly, I presume he is correct. Far more agreeable to me would it have been to have remained under the delusion, that the bones of that gallant and accomplished soldier slept under the green plateau of West Point, than the supposition that even now they may be restlessly whirling in some dark cavern of the cataracts. The account of the battle at Lundy’s Lane was compiled from one of the earlier editions of Brackenridge’s History of the Late War, (I think the third,) the only written authority that I had upon the subject, and from conclusions drawn from rambles and casual conversations on the battle-ground. In how far a rough sketch, which was all that was aimed at, has been conveyed from that authority, the reader, as well as your correspondent, can best determine by referring to the history alluded to.” The desperate bayonet charge is thus described in that work, fourth edition, p. 269-270.
... “The enemy’s artillery occupied a hill which was the key to the whole position, and it would be in vain to hope for victory while they were permitted to retain it. Addressing himself to Colonel Miller, he inquired whether he could storm the batteries at the head of the twenty-first, while he would himself support him with the younger regiment, the twenty-third? To this the wary, but intrepid veteran replied, in an unaffected phrase, ‘I’ll try, sir;’[4] words which were afterwards given as the motto of his regiment.
... “The twenty-third was formed in close column under its commander, Major McFarland, and the first regiment, under Colonel Nicholas, was left to keep the infantry in check. The two regiments moved on to one of the most perilous charges ever attempted; the whole of the artillery opened upon them as they advanced, supported by a powerful line of infantry. The twenty-first advanced steadily to its purpose; the twenty-third faltered on receiving the deadly fire of the enemy, but was soon rallied by the personal exertions of General Ripley. When within a hundred yards of the summit, they received another dreadful discharge, by which Major McFarland was killed, and the command devolved on Major Brooks. To the amazement of the British, the intrepid Miller firmly advanced, until within a few paces of their line, when he impetuously charged upon the artillery, which, after a short but desperate resistance, yielded their whole battery, and the American line was in a moment formed in the rear upon the ground previously occupied by the British infantry. In carrying the larger pieces, the twenty-first suffered severely; Lieutenant Cilley, after an unexampled effort, fell wounded by the side of the piece which he took: there were but few of the officers of this regiment who were not either killed or wounded.
“So far as I can recollect, the personal narrative of my friend was as follows: Miller, quietly surveying the battery, coolly replied—‘I’ll try, sir;’ then turning to his regiment, drilled to beautiful precision, said, ‘Attention, twenty-first.’ He directed them as they rushed up the hill, to deliver their fire at the port-lights of the artillerymen, and to immediately carry the guns at the point of the bayonet. In a very short time they moved on to the charge, delivered their fire as directed, and after a furious struggle of a few moments over the cannon, the battery was in their possession. The words of caution of the officers, ‘Close up—steady, men—steady,’ I have heard indifferently ascribed to them at this charge, and at the desperate sortie from Fort Erie. I am thus particular with regard to the detail of this transaction, not that I think your correspondent, any more than myself, regards it as of much moment, but lest my friend should be considered responsible for words which he did not utter.