John Stark is not a man easily stirred. I remember at the battle of Bunker's Hill, when a man rushed up to him, and told him that his son was killed,—which was a mistake, for he is alive at this day,—John turned to the man and said: "Back to your post. This is no time to think of our private affairs."
But when he saw that brilliant soldier, that man whose virtues, accomplishments, and genial, lovable nature showed us what a man might be, lying there, dead, he knelt down beside him, and the tears ran down his cheeks. All of us were overcome with grief, we loved the man so much.
Stark took his hand, bent over, and kissed his forehead.
"Good-by, my dear friend. God bless you and have mercy on us." He rose, and I walked away with him.
"Comee, the life is departed out of Israel. I have no further faith in this expedition. Our sun is set."
We mourned his loss a long time, and our Province raised the money for a great monument, which was erected to him in Westminster Abbey, in memory of "the affection her officers and soldiers bore to his command."
After Lord Howe was killed, everything fell into disorder. The army became all mixed up in the thick woods, and was sent back to the landing-place.