Israel himself started in tamely enough as a farmer, having bought a tract of five hundred acres down in Connecticut. Wild animals had been pretty well exterminated by that time, but one old she-wolf still had her den not far from Putnam's farm, and one night she came out and amused herself by killing sixty or seventy of his fine sheep. When Putnam found them stretched upon the ground next morning, a great rage seized him; he swore that that wolf should never have the chance to do such another night's work; he tracked her to her cave, and descending without hesitation into the dark and narrow entrance, shot straight between the eyes he saw gleaming at him through the darkness, and dragged the carcass out into the daylight. That incident gives some idea of Israel Putnam's temper, and what desperate things he was capable of doing when his blood was up.
That was in 1735, and twenty years elapsed before he again appeared upon the page of history. But in 1755 began the great war with France, and for the next ten years, Putnam's life was fairly crowded with incident. Connecticut furnished a thousand men to resist the expected French invasion, and Putnam was put in command of a company with the rank of captain. His company acted as rangers, and for two years did remarkable service in harassing the enemy and in warning the settlers against lurking bands of Indians, set on by the French. On more than one occasion, he saved his life by the closest margin. He was absolutely fearless, and this, together with a clear head and quick eye, carried him safely through peril after peril, any one of which would have proved the death of a man less resolute.
He saved a party of soldiers from the Indians by steering them in a bateau safely down the dangerous rapids of the Hudson; he saved Fort Edward from destruction by fire at the imminent risk of his life, working undaunted although the flames were threatening, every moment, to explode the magazine; a year later, captured by the Indians, who feared and hated him, he was bound to a stake, after some preliminary tortures, and a pile of fagots heaped about him and set on fire. The flames were searing his flesh, when a French officer happened to come up and rescued him. These are but three incidents out of a dozen such. He seemed to bear a charmed life, and any of his men would willingly have died for him. In 1765, when he returned home after ten years of continuous campaigning, it was with the rank of colonel, and a reputation for daring and resourcefulness second to none in New England.
Ten years of quiet followed, and Israel Putnam was fifty-seven years of age—an age when most men consider their life work done. On the afternoon of April 20, 1775, he was engaged in hauling some stones from a field with a team of oxen, when he heard galloping hoofbeats down the road, and looking up, saw a courier riding up full speed. The courier paused only long enough to shout the tidings of the fight at Concord, and then spurred on again. Putnam, leaving his oxen where they stood, threw himself upon horseback, without waiting to don his uniform, and at sunrise next day, galloped into Cambridge, having travelled nearly a hundred miles! Verily there were giants in those days!
He was placed in command of the Connecticut forces with the rank of brigadier-general, and soon afterwards was one of four major-generals appointed by the Congress for the Continental army. For four years thereafter he took a conspicuous part in the war, bearing himself always with characteristic gallantry. But the machine had been worn out by excessive exertion; in 1779 he was stricken with paralysis, and the last years of his life were passed quietly at home. For sheer, extravagant daring, which paused at no obstacle and trembled at no peril, he has, perhaps, never had his equal among American soldiers.
Not far from West Greenwich, Connecticut, there is a steep and rocky bluff, the scene of one of Putnam's most extraordinary feats, performed only a short time before he was stricken down. An expedition, fifteen hundred strong, had been sent by the British against West Greenwich, and Putnam rallied a company to oppose the invaders, but his little force was soon routed and dispersed, and sought to escape across country with the British in hot pursuit. Putnam, prominent as the leader of the Americans, was hard pressed, and his horse, weary from a long march, was failing; his capture seemed certain, for the enemy gained upon him rapidly; when suddenly, he turned his horse down the steep bluff at his side, reached the bottom in safety by some miracle, and rode away in triumph, leaving his astonished and baffled pursuers at the top, for not one dared follow him!
I have spoken of how the test of war winnows the wheat from the chaff. This was so in those days as in these, and, as an amusing proof of it, one has only to glance over the names of the generals appointed by the Congress at the same time as Putnam. Artemas Ward, Seth Pomeroy, William Heath, Joseph Spencer, David Wooster, John Thomas, John Sullivan—what cursory student of American history knows anything of them? Four others are better remembered—Richard Montgomery, for the gallant and hopeless assault upon Quebec in which he lost his life; Charles Lee for disobeying Washington's orders at the battle of Monmouth and provoking the great Virginian to an historic outburst of rage; Nathanael Greene for his masterly conduct of the war in the South; Horatio Gates, first for a victory over Burgoyne which he did very little to bring about, and second for his ill-starred attempt to supplant Washington as commander-in-chief.
Let us pause for a glance at Gates. Born in England, he had seen service in the British army, and had been badly wounded at Braddock's defeat, but managed to escape from the field. He resigned from the army, after that, and settled in Virginia, where his supposed military prowess won him the appointment of brigadier-general at the outbreak of the Revolution. He secured command of the Northern army, which had gathered to resist the great force which was marching south from Canada under John Burgoyne. He found the field already prepared by General Schuyler, a much more able officer. Stark had defeated and captured a strong detachment at Bennington, and Herkimer had won the bloody battle of Oriskany; the British army was hemmed in by a constantly-increasing force of Americans, and was able to drag along only a mile a day; Burgoyne and his men were disheartened and apprehensive of the future, while the Americans were exultant and confident of victory. In such circumstances, on September 19, 1777, was fought the first battle of Bemis Heights, a bloody and inconclusive struggle, supported wholly by the division of Benedict Arnold, who behaved so gallantly that Gates, who had not even ridden on the field of battle, was consumed with jealousy, took Arnold's division away from him, and did not mention him in the dispatches describing the battle.
The eve of the second battle found the most successful and popular general in the American army without a command. Gates, deeming victory certain, thought it safe to insult Arnold, and banished him to his tent; but on October 7th, when the second struggle was in progress, Arnold, seeing the tide of battle going against his men, threw himself upon his horse and dashed into the conflict. In a frenzy of rage, he dressed the lines, rallied his men, who cheered like mad when they saw him again at their head, and led a charge which sent the British reeling back. He pursued the fleeing enemy to their entrenchments, and dashed forward to storm them, but, in the very sally-port, horse and rider fell together—the horse dead, the rider with a shattered leg. That ended the battle which he had virtually conducted in the most gallant manner imaginable. Had he died then, he would have been a national hero—but another fate awaited him!