We insert the following, with thanks to the writer, and should be glad to receive the remainder of the story:
Mr. Merry:
I am one of your “blue-eyed friends,” and although not a “little” one, I have been much interested in the articles which have appeared in the Museum, connected with the war of our Revolution.
I know many of the warm advocates for peace, query how far it is judicious to interest the minds of the rising generation, in the details of war; still, I must believe that many of the blessings we enjoy, peculiar to our own country, were purchased by the self-sacrifices of our fathers, and their “children’s children,” should not overlook this fact.
It has occurred to me that a little sketch of one who took an active part in the scenes of those eventful days, may perhaps amuse your readers. The old soldier from whom I have my history, enlisted into the army at the age of fifteen, as a fifer. He was much below the common size of boys at that age, and, for this reason, chose to be a musician. He heard the sound of the guns on the morning of the Lexington battle, and soon after this event, he was ordered, with the company to which he belonged, to New York. His good mother furnished him with all that a kind, pious mother could think of, for his comfort, even to a ball of yarn and a needle, to repair his stockings. He returned them to her, after his service in the army, “safe and sound.”
Soon after their arrival in New York, the alarm was given that the enemy were approaching; and not doubting a skirmish, at least, a company of men volunteered to go out and meet the enemy. They were ordered to be in ambush, and then rise suddenly upon the foe. The little fifer (a mere boy) joined the party, and soon found himself in the heat of battle. He has often told me that he felt no sensation of fear at the time; the dense smoke, the roaring of the cannon, the groans and shrieks of the dying, were alike unheeded by him. His only wish was to load—aim—fire, and kill one of the British. He always thought he accomplished his object, and God seems to have awarded a quick retribution.
Just as he had fired, his party were ordered to retreat, and, in turning to obey the orders, the poor fellow received a ball in the back, which lodged near the spine. He thought it must be his death-wound, and after moving on a few rods, he left his comrades, and concealing himself behind a small white oak tree, he set up his gun, and falling on his knees, he committed his soul to the Saviour. His eye-sight and hearing left him; he was bleeding profusely, and of course believed this to be his last hour on earth.
How long he was in this state he could not tell, but hoping his strength would permit, as soon as he could see and hear, he crawled on his hands and knees into the road, and soon met the surgeon, who, with the vehicle for the wounded soldiers, was on his way to the place where the skirmish was fought. The hospital was a mile distant, and the lad chose to remain where he was, until the cart came back. He was placed in it, and, in the course of a day or two after his wound had been given, the surgeon attempted to extract the ball, but it could not be done without causing instant death.
He remained in the hospital eight or ten weeks, slowly recovering his strength. He was two hundred miles from home; poor, feeble, and in this sad condition, he resolved to attempt a journey home on foot. A young man, who was his intimate friend and fellow-townsman, agreed to be his guide and protector, and they started on their melancholy journey.
If the sketch, thus far, has awakened any interest, the writer will cheerfully communicate some touching incidents connected with the “soldier’s return home.” What is your opinion, Mr. Merry?