Part 11

A few shots impulsively fired, but quickly restrained, drew an innocent fire from the advancing column. But the pale men behind the scant defense, obedient to one will, answered not.... The left wing is near the redoubt. It surely is nothing to surmount a bank of fresh earth but six feet high; and its sands and clods can almost be counted, it is so near, so easy, _sure_! Short, crisp, and earnest, low-toned, but felt as an electric pulse from redoubt to river, are the words of a single man, Prescott. Warren, by his side, repeats them. The word runs quickly along the impatient line. The eager fingers give back from the waiting trigger. “Steady, men! Wait until you see the white of the eye! Not a shot sooner! Aim at the handsome coats! Aim at the waistbands! Pick off the officers! Wait for the word, every man! Steady!”

Already those plain men, so patient, can count the buttons, can read the emblems on the belt-plate, can recognize the officers and men whom they have seen at parade on Boston Common. Features grow more and more distinct. The silence is awful! These men seem breathless,—dead! It comes, that word, the word waited for,—“Fire!” That word had waited behind the center and the left wing, where Putnam watched, as it lingered behind breastwork and redoubt. Sharp, clear, and deadly, in tone and essence, it rings forth,—“Fire!”

From redoubt to river, along the whole sweep of devouring flame, the forms of men wither as in a furnace heat. The whole front goes down. For an instant the chirp of the grasshopper and the cricket in the freshly-cut grass might almost be heard; then the groans of the suffering; then the shouts of impatient yeomen, who leap over obstacles to pursue until recalled to silence and to duty.

Staggering but reviving, grand in the glory of their manhood, heroic in the fortitude which restores self-possession, with a steady step, in the face of fire and over the bodies of their dead, the remnant dare to renew battle. Again the deadly volley; and the shattered columns, in spite of entreaty or command, move back to the place of starting, and the first shock of battle is over.

A lifetime when it is past seems but as a moment! A moment sometimes is as a lifetime. Onset and repulse! Three hundred lifetimes ended in twenty minutes!

THE MARYLAND BATTALION

BY JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER

Spruce Macaronis, and pretty to see, Tidy and dapper and gallant were we; Blooded, fine gentlemen, proper and tall, Bold in a fox-hunt and gay at a ball; Prancing soldados so martial and bluff, Billets for bullets, in scarlet and buff— But our cockades were clasped with a mother’s low prayer, And the sweethearts that braided the sword-knots were fair.

There was grummer of drums humming hoarse in the hills, And the bugle sang fanfaron down by the mills; By Flatbush the bagpipes were droning amain, And keen cracked the rifles in Martense’s lane; For the Hessians were flecking the hedges with red, And the grenadiers’ tramp marked the roll of the dead.

Three to one, flanked and rear, flashed the files of St. George. The fierce gleam of their steel as the glow of a forge. The brutal boom-boom of their swart cannoneers Was sweet music compared with the taunt of their cheers— For the brunt of their onset, our crippled array, And the light of God’s leading gone out in the fray!

Oh, the rout on the left and the tug on the right! The mad plunge of the charge and the wreck of the flight! When the cohorts of Grant held stout Stirling at strain, And the mongrels of Hesse went tearing the slain; When at Freeke’s Mill the flumes and the sluices ran red, And the dead choked the dyke and the marsh choked the dead!

“O Stirling, good Stirling! how long must we wait? Shall the shout of your trumpet unleash us too late? Have you never a dash for brave Mordecai Gist, With his heart in his throat, and his blade in his fist? Are we good for no more than to prance in a ball, When the drums beat the charge and the clarions call?”

Tralara! Tralara! Now praise we the Lord For the clang of His call and the flash of His sword! Tralara! Tralara! Now forward to die; For the banner, hurrah! and for sweethearts, good-by! “Four hundred wild lads!” Maybe so. I’ll be bound ’Twill be easy to count us, face up, on the ground. If we hold the road open, tho’ Death take the toll, We’ll be missed on parade when the States call the roll— When the flags meet in peace and the guns are at rest, And fair Freedom is singing Sweet Home in the West.

THE BATTLE OF TRENTON

(Dec. 26, 1776.)

ANONYMOUS AND CONTEMPORARY

On Christmas-day in seventy-six, Our ragged troops with bayonets fixed, For Trenton march away. The Delaware see! the boats below! The light obscured by hail and snow! But no signs of dismay.

Our object was the Hessian band, That dared invade fair freedom’s land, And quarter in that place. Great Washington he led us on, Whose streaming flag, in storm or sun, Had never known disgrace.

In silent march we passed the night, Each soldier panting for the fight, Though quite benumbed with frost. Greene, on the left, at six began, The right was led by Sullivan, Who ne’er a moment lost.

The pickets stormed, the alarm was spread, The rebels risen from the dead Were marching into town. Some scampered here, some scampered there, And some for action did prepare; But soon their arms laid down.

Twelve hundred servile miscreants, With all their colors, guns, and tents, Were trophies of the day. The frolic o’er, the bright canteen In center, front, and rear was seen Driving fatigue away.

Now brothers of the patriot bands, Let’s sing deliverance from the hands Of arbitrary sway, And as our life is but a span, Let’s touch the tankard while we can, In memory of that day.

COLUMBIA

BY TIMOTHY DWIGHT

(Written during the author’s services as an army chaplain, 1777-78.)

Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise, The queen of the world, and the child of the skies; Thy genius commands thee; with rapture behold, While ages on ages thy splendor unfold! Thy reign is the last, and the noblest of time, Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime; Let the crimes of the East ne’er encrimson thy name, Be freedom, and science, and virtue thy fame.

To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire; Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire; Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend, And triumph pursue them, and glory attend; A world is thy realm: for a world be thy laws, Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause; On Freedom’s broad basis, that empire shall rise, Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies.

Fair science her gates to thy sons shall unbar, And the east shall with morn hide the beams of her star. New bards, and new sages, unrivaled shall soar To fame unextinguished, when time is no more; To thee, the last refuge of virtue designed, Shall fly, from all nations the best of mankind; Here, grateful to heaven, with transport shall bring Their incense, more fragrant than odors of spring.

Nor less shall thy fair ones to glory ascend, And genius and beauty in harmony blend; The graces of form shall awake pure desire, And the charms of the soul ever cherish the fire; Their sweetness unmingled, their manners refined, The virtue’s bright image, instamped on the mind, With peace and soft rapture shall teach life to glow, And light up a smile in the aspect of woe.

Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display, The nations admire and the ocean obey; Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold, And the East and the South yield their spices and gold. As the day-spring unbounded, thy splendor shall flow, And earth’s little kingdoms before thee shall bow; While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurled, Hush the tumult of war and give peace to the world.

Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o’erspread, From war’s dread confusion I pensively strayed, The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired; The winds ceased to murmur; the thunders expired; Perfumes as of Eden flowed sweetly along, And a voice as of angels enchantingly sung: “Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise, The queen of the world, and the child of the skies.”

THE FIGHTING PARSON[10]

BY HENRY AMES BLOOD

It was brave young Parson Webster, His father a parson before him, And here in this town of Temple The people used to adore him; And the minute-men from all quarters That morning had grounded their arms ’Round the meeting-house on the hilltop, Looking down on Temple farms.

Dear to the Puritan soldier The food which his meeting-house offered, And especially dear the fine manna Which the young Temple minister proffered; And believe as he might in his firelock, His bayonet, or his sword, The minute-man’s heart was hopeless If not filled with the strength of the Lord.

The minute-man ever and always Waited the signal of warning, And he never dreamed in the evening Where his prayers would ascend the next morning; And they even said that the parson Undoubtedly preached his best When his musket stood in the pulpit Ready for use with the rest.

Sad was the minister’s message, And many a heart beat faster, And many a soft eye glistened, Whenever the voice of the pastor Dwelt on the absent dear ones Who had followed their country’s call To the distant camp, or the battle, Or the frowning fortress-wall.

And now when near to “fifteenthly,” And the urchins thought of their luncheon, And into the half-curtained windows Hotter and hotter the sun shone, And the redbreast dozed in the branches, And the crow on the pine tree’s top, And the squirrel was lost in his musings, The sermon came to a stop.

For sharp on the turnpike the clatter Of galloping hoofs resounded, And the granite ring of the roadway Louder and louder sounded; And now no longer the redbreast Was inclined to be dull that day, And now no longer the sexton Slept in his usual way.

But all sprang up on the instant, And the widest of eyes grew wider, While on towards the porch, like a tempest, Came sweeping the horse and its rider; And now from the din of the hoof-beats A trumpet voice leapt out, And, tingling to its rafters, The church was alive with the shout,—

“Burgoyne’s at Ticonderoga: Would you have the old fort surrender?” “No, no!” cried the parson; “New Hampshire Will send the last man to defend her!” But before he could shoulder his musket A Tory sang up from below, “I hear a great voice out of heaven, sir, Warning us not to go.”

Quick from the pulpit descending, With the agile step of a lion,— “The voice you hear is from hell, sir!” Replied the young servant of Zion. And out through the open doorway, And on past the porch he strode, And the congregation came after, And gathered beside the road.

Sadly enough the colonel, The minute-men all arraying, From the dusty cocked hat of the rider Drew the lots for going or staying. Then waving his hat as he took it, And putting the spurs to his mare, The stranger rode off to New Ipswich In a cheering that rent the air.

Worse than the shock of battle, Now came the sad leave-taking. And to mothers and maids and matrons The deepest of grief and heart-aching; And far on the road through the mountains Whence the rider had just come, They followed the minute-men marching To the sound of the fife and the drum.

Long dead have they been who sat there At that feast of things eternal— Long dead the laymen, the deacons, The lawyer, the doctor, the colonel; Long dead the youths and the maidens, And long on the graves of all Have the summers and the winters Their leaves and their snows let fall.

But whenever I come to the churchyard, Where, by the side of the pastor, They afterwards laid the colonel, His friend in success and disaster, I see again on the Common The minute-men all in array, And again I behold the departure, The pastor leading the way.

And I think of the scene when his comrades Brought back the young pastor, dying, To his home in the house of the colonel; And how, on his death-bed lying, He took the hand that was offered, And, gazing far into the night, Whispered, “I die for my country— I have fought—I have fought the good fight.”

THE SARATOGA LESSON

(From an Address delivered October 17, 1877.)

BY GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS

The drama of the Revolution opened in New England, culminated in New York, and closed in Virginia. It was a happy fortune that the three colonies which represented the various territorial sections of the settled continent were each, in turn, the chief seat of war. The common sacrifice, the common struggle, the common triumph, tended to weld them locally, politically, and morally together. Doubtless there were conflicts of provincial pride and jealousy and suspicion. In every great crisis of war, however, there was a common impulse and devotion, and the welfare of the continent obliterated provincial lines.

It is by the few heaven-piercing peaks, not by the confused mass of upland, that we measure the height of the Andes, of the Alps, of the Himalaya. It is by Joseph Warren not by Benjamin Church, by John Jay not by Sir John Johnson, by George Washington not by Benedict Arnold, that we test the quality of the Revolutionary character. The voice of Patrick Henry from the mountains answered that of James Otis by the sea. Paul Revere’s lantern shone along through the valley of the Hudson, and flashed along the cliffs of the Blue Ridge. The scattering volley of Lexington green swelled to the triumphant thunder of Saratoga, and the reverberation of Burgoyne’s falling arms in New York shook those of Cornwallis in Virginia from his hands. Doubts, jealousies, prejudices, were merged in one common devotion. The union of the colonies to secure liberty, foretold the union of the States to maintain it, and wherever we stand on Revolutionary fields, or inhale the sweetness of Revolutionary memories, we tread the ground and breathe the air of invincible national union.

So, upon this famous and decisive field, let every unworthy feeling perish! Here, to the England that we fought let us now, grown great and strong with a hundred years, hold out the hand of fellowship and peace! Here, where the English Burgoyne, in the very moment of his bitter humiliation generously pledged George Washington, let us, in our high hour of triumph, of power, and of hope, pledge the queen! Here, in the grave of brave and unknown foemen, may mutual jealousies and doubts and animosities lie buried forever! Henceforth, revering their common glorious traditions, may England, and America press forward side by side, in noble and inspiring rivalry to promote the welfare of man!

Fellow-citizens, with the story of Burgoyne’s surrender, the Revolutionary glory of the State of New York, still fresh in our memories, I am glad that the hallowed spot on which we stand compels us to remember not only the imperial State, but the national Commonwealth, whose young hands here together struck the blow, and on whose older head descends the ample benediction of the victory. On yonder height, a hundred years ago, Virginia and Pennsylvania lay encamped. Beyond, and further to the north, watched New Hampshire and Vermont. Here, in the wooded uplands at the south, stood New Jersey and New York, while across the river to the east, Connecticut and Massachusetts closed the triumphant line. Here was the symbol of the Revolution, a common cause, a common strife, a common triumph; the cause, not of a class, but of human nature; the triumph, not of a colony, but of united America.

And we who stand here proudly remembering, we who have seen Virginia and New York, the North and the South, more bitterly hostile than the armies whose battles shook this ground, we who mutually proved in deadlier conflict the constancy and courage of all the States, which, proud to be peers, yet own no master but their united selves, we renew our heart’s imperishable devotion to the common American faith, the common American pride, the common American glory! Here America stood and triumphed. Here Americans stand and bless their memory. And here, for a thousand years, many grateful generations of Americans come to rehearse the glorious story, and to rejoice in a supreme and benignant American nationality!

THE SURRENDER OF BURGOYNE

BY JAMES WATTS DE PEYSTER

(Extract from Centennial Poem, read October 17, 1877.)

Brothers, this spot is holy! Look around! Before us flows our memory’s sacred river, Whose banks are Freedom’s shrines. This grassy mound, The altar, on whose height the Mighty Giver Gave Independence to our country; when, Thanks to its brave, enduring, patient men, The invading host was brought to bay, and laid Beneath “Old Glory’s” new-born folds, the blade, The brazen thunder-throats, the pomp of War, And England’s yoke, broken forevermore. ... Yes, on this spot,—thanks to our gracious God,— Where last in conscious arrogance it trod, Defiled, as captives, Burgoyne’s conquered horde; Below, their general yielded up his sword; There, to our flag bowed England’s, battle-torn; Where now we stand, the United States was born.

THE SARATOGA MONUMENT BEGUN

BY HORATIO SEYMOUR

(From Address delivered October 17, 1877.)

One hundred years ago, on this spot, American independence was made a great fact in the history of nations. Until the surrender of the British army under Burgoyne, the Declaration of Independence was but a declaration. It was a patriotic purpose asserted in bold words by brave men, who pledged for its maintenance their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor. But here it was made a fact by virtue of armed force. It had been regarded by the world merely as an act of defiance, but it was now seen that it contained the germs of a government which the event we celebrate made one of the powers of the earth. Here rebellion was made revolution. Upon this ground, that which had in the eye of the law been treason, became triumphant patriotism. At the break of day, in the judgment of the world, our fathers were rebels. When the echoes of the evening gun died away along this valley, they were patriots who had rescued their country from wrong and outrage. We had passed through the baptism of blood, and gained a name among the nations of the earth.

Before the Revolution the people of the several colonies held but little intercourse. They were estranged from each other by distance, by sectional prejudices, by differences of lineage and religious creeds. But when the men of Virginia went to Massachusetts to rescue Boston, when the men of the East and South battled side by side with those from the Middle States, when Greene and Lincoln went to the relief of the Southern colonies, all prejudices not only died away, but more than fraternal love animated every patriotic heart from the bleak forests of New England to the milder airs of Georgia. And now that a hundred years have passed, and our country has become great beyond the wildest dreams of our fathers, will not the story of their sufferings revive in the breast of all the love of our country, of our common country, and all who live within its boundaries?

It was the most remarkable fact of the Revolutionary War and of the formation of state and national governments, that although the colonists were of different lineages and languages, living under different climates, with varied pursuits and forms of labor, cut off from intercourse by distance, yet, in spite of all these obstacles to accord, they were from the outset animated by common views, feelings, and purposes. When the independence was gained, they were able, after a few weeks spent in consultation, to form the constitution under which we have lived for nearly one hundred years. There can be no stronger proof that American institutions were born and shaped by American necessities. This fact should give us new faith in the lasting nature of our government.

Monuments make as well as mark the civilization of a people. The surrender of Burgoyne marks the dividing line between two conditions of our country: the one the colonial period of dependence, and the other the day from which it stood full-armed and victorious here, endowed with a boldness to assert its independence, and endowed with a wisdom to frame its own system of government. We are told that during more than twenty centuries of war and bloodshed, only fifteen battles have been decisive of lasting results. The contest of Saratoga is one of them. Shall not some suitable structure recall this fact to the public mind? Neither France, nor Britain, nor Germany could spare the statues or works of art which keep alive the memory of patriotic services or of personal virtues. Such silent teachers of all that ennobles men, have taught their lessons through the darkest ages, and have done much to save society from sinking into utter decay and degradation. If Greece or Rome had left no memorials of private virtues or public greatness, the progress of civilization would have been slow and feeble. If their crumbling remains should be swept away, the world would mourn the loss, not only to learning and the arts, but to virtue and patriotism. It concerns the honor and welfare of the American people that this spot should be marked by some structure which should recall its history and animate all, who look upon it, by its grand teachings. No people ever held lasting power or greatness who did not reverence the virtues of their fathers, or who did not show forth this reverence by material and striking testimonials.

Let us, then, build here, a lasting monument, which shall tell of our gratitude to those who, through suffering and sacrifice, wrought out the independence of our country.

MOLLY MAGUIRE AT MONMOUTH

(June 28, 1778.)

BY WILLIAMS COLLINS

On the bloody field of Monmouth Flashed the guns of Greene and Wayne, Fiercely roared the tide of battle, Thick the sward was heaped with slain. Foremost, facing death and danger, Hessian, horse, and grenadier, In the vanguard, fiercely fighting, Stood an Irish Cannonier.

Loudly roared his iron cannon, Mingling ever in the strife, And beside him, firm and daring, Stood his faithful Irish wife. Of her bold contempt of danger Greene and Lee’s brigades could tell, Every one knew “Captain Molly,” And the army loved her well.

Surged the roar of battle round them, Swiftly flew the iron hail, Forward dashed a thousand bayonets, That lone battery to assail. From the foeman’s foremost columns Swept a furious fusillade, Mowing down the massed battalions In the ranks of Greene’s Brigade.

Fast and faster worked the gunner, Soiled with powder, blood and dust, English bayonets shone before him, Shot and shell around him burst; Still he fought with reckless daring, Stood and manned her long and well, Till at last the gallant fellow Dead—beside his cannon fell.