Chapter 2
Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw his manly figure, With the banyan buckled round it, standing up so straight and tall; Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out for pleasure, Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he walked around the wall.
At eleven the streets were swarming, for the red-coats' ranks were forming; At noon in marching order they were moving to the piers; How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked far down and listened To the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted grenadiers!
At length the men have started, with a cheer (it seemed faint-hearted), In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on their backs, And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea-fight's slaughter, Round the barges gliding onward blushed like blood along their tracks.
So they crossed to the other border, and again they formed in order; And the boats came back for soldiers, came for soldiers, soldiers still: The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and fasting,-- At last they're moving, marching, marching proudly up the hill.
We can see the bright steel glancing all along the lines advancing-- Now the front rank fires a volley--they have thrown away their shot; Far behind the earthwork lying, all the balls above them flying, Our people need not hurry; so they wait and answer not.
Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear sometimes and tipple),-- He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French war) before,-- Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were hearing,-- And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty belfry floor:--
"Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George's shillin's, But ye'll waste a ton of powder afore a 'rebel' falls; You may bang the dirt and welcome, they're as safe as Dan'l Malcolm Ten foot beneath the gravestone that you've splintered with your balls!"
In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepidation Of the dread approaching moment, we are well-nigh breathless all; Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety belfry railing, We are crowding up against them like the waves against a wall.
Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer,--nearer,-- nearer, When a flash--a curling smoke-wreath--then a crash--the steeple shakes-- The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's shroud is rended; Like a morning mist it gathered, like a thunder-cloud it breaks!
O the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over! The red-coats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes his hay; Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong crowd is flying Like a billow that has broken and is shivered into spray.
Then we cried, "The troops are routed! they are beat--it can't be doubted! God be thanked, the fight is over!"--Ah! the grim old soldier's smile! "Tell us, tell us why you look so?" (we could hardly speak, we shook so),-- "Are they beaten? _Are_ they beaten? ARE they beaten?"-- "Wait a while."
O the trembling and the terror! for too soon we saw our error: They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven them back in vain; And the columns that were scattered, round the colors that were tattered, Toward the sullen silent fortress turn their belted breasts again.
All at once, as we are gazing, lo the roofs of Charlestown blazing! They have fired the harmless village; in an hour it will be down! The Lord in heaven confound them, rain his fire and brimstone round them,-- The robbing, murdering red-coats, that would burn a peaceful town!
They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see each massive column As they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting walls so steep. Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless haste departed? Are they panic-struck and helpless? Are they palsied or asleep?
Now! the walls they're almost under! scarce a rod the foes asunder! Not a firelock flashed against them! up the earthwork they will swarm! But the words have scarce been spoken, when the ominous calm is broken, And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance of the storm!
So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backward to the water, Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves of Howe; And we shout, "At last they're done for, it's their barges they have run for: They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle's over now!"
And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old soldier's features, Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would ask: "Not sure," he said; "keep quiet,--once more, I guess, they'll try it-- Here's damnation to the cut-throats!" then he handed me his flask,
Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop of old Jamaiky: I'm afraid there'll be more trouble afore this job is done;" So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt and hollow, Standing there from early morning when the firing was begun.
All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm clock dial, As the hands kept creeping, creeping,--they were creeping round to four, When the old man said, "They're forming with their bayonets fixed for storming: It's the death grip that's a coming,--they will try the works once more."
With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind them glaring, The deadly wall before them, in close array they come; Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold uncoiling-- Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverberating drum!
Over heaps all torn and gory--shall I tell the fearful story, How they surged above the breastwork, as a sea breaks over a deck; How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out men retreated, With their powder-horns all emptied, like the swimmers from a wreck?
It has all been told and painted; as for me, they say I fainted, And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with me down the stair: When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening lamps were lighted,-- On the floor a youth was lying; his bleeding breast was bare.
And I heard through all the flurry, "Send for WARREN! hurry! hurry! Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he'll come and dress his wound!" Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death and sorrow, How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark and bloody ground.
Who the youth was, what his name was, where the place from which he came was, Who had brought him from the battle, and had left him at our door, He could not speak to tell us; but 'twas one of our brave fellows, As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying soldier wore.
For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered 'round him crying,-- And they said, "O, how they'll miss him!" and, "What will his mother do?" Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has been dozing, He faintly murmured, "Mother!"--and--I saw his eyes were blue.
--"Why, grandma, how you're winking!"--Ah, my child, it sets me thinking Of a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived along; So we came to know each other, and I nursed him like a--mother, Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-cheeked, and strong.
And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant summer weather; --"Please to tell us what his name was?"--Just your own, my little dear,-- There's his picture Copley painted: we became so well acquainted, That--in short, that's why I'm grandma, and you children all are here!
WARREN'S ADDRESS
JOHN PIERPONT
[Sidenote: June 17, 1775] _Joseph Warren was commissioned by Massachusetts as a Major-General three days before the battle of Bunker Hill, at which he fought as a volunteer. He was one of the last to leave the field, and as a British officer in the redoubt called to him to surrender, a ball struck him in the forehead, killing him instantly._
Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What's the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle-peal! Read it on yon bristling steel. Ask it,--ye who will.
Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Will ye to your homes retire? Look behind you!--they're a-fire! And, before you, see Who have done it!--From the vale On they come!--And will ye quail?-- Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be!
In the God of battles trust! Die we may,--and die we must;-- But, O, where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, As where Heaven its dews shall shed On the martyred patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head, Of his deeds to tell!
THE OLD CONTINENTALS
GUY HUMPHREY McMASTER
[Sidenote: 1775--1783] _The nucleus of the Continental Army was the New England force gathered before Boston, to the command of which Washington had been appointed two days before the battle of Bunker Hill, although he arrived too late to take part in that fight._
In their ragged regimentals Stood the old continentals, Yielding not, When the grenadiers were lunging, And like hail fell the plunging Cannon-shot; When the files Of the isles From the smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the rampant Unicorn, And grummer, grummer, grummer rolled the roll of the drummer, Through the morn! Then with eyes to the front all, And with guns horizontal, Stood our sires;
And the balls whistled deadly, And in streams flashing redly Blazed the fires; As the roar On the shore, Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres Of the plain; And louder, louder, louder cracked the black gunpowder, Cracking amain!
Now like smiths at their forges Worked the red St. George's Cannoneers; And the "villainous saltpetre" Rung a fierce, discordant metre Round their ears; As the swift Storm-drift, With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangor On our flanks. Then higher, higher, higher burned the old-fashioned fire Through the ranks!
Then the old-fashioned colonel Galloped through the white infernal Powder-cloud; And his broad-sword was swinging, And his brazen throat was ringing Trumpet loud. Then the blue Bullets flew, And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden Rifle-breath; And rounder, rounder, rounder roared the iron six pounder, Hurling death!
NATHAN HALE
FRANCIS MILES FINCH
[Sidenote: Sept. 22, 1776] _After the retreat from Long Island, Washington needed information as to the British strength. Captain Nathan Hale, a young man of twenty-one, volunteered to get this. He was taken, inside the enemy's lines, and hanged as a spy, regretting that he had but one life to lose for his country._
To drum-beat and heart-beat, A soldier marches by: There is color in his cheek, There is courage in his eye, Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat In a moment he must die.
By starlight and moonlight, He seeks the Briton's camp; He hears the rustling flag, And the armed sentry's tramp; And the starlight and moonlight His silent wanderings lamp.
With slow tread and still tread, He scans the tented line; And he counts the battery guns By the gaunt and shadowy pine; And his slow tread and still tread Gives no warning sign.
The dark wave, the plumed wave, It meets his eager glance; And it sparkles 'neath the stars, Like the glimmer of a lance-- A dark wave, a plumed wave, On an emerald expanse.
A sharp clang, a steel clang, And terror in the sound! For the sentry, falcon-eyed, In the camp a spy hath found; With a sharp clang, a steel clang, The patriot is bound.
With calm brow, steady brow, He listens to his doom; In his look there is no fear, Nor a shadow-trace of gloom; But with calm brow and steady brow He robes him for the tomb.
In the long night, the still night, He kneels upon the sod; And the brutal guards withhold E'en the solemn Word of God! In the long night, the still night, He walks where Christ hath trod.
'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn, He dies upon the tree; And he mourns that he can lose But one life for Liberty; And in the blue morn, the sunny morn, His spirit-wings are free.
But his last words, his message-words, They burn, lest friendly eye Should read how proud and calm A patriot could die, With his last words, his dying words, A soldier's battle-cry.
From the Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf, From monument and urn, The sad of earth, the glad of heaven, His tragic fate shall learn; And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf The name of HALE shall burn.
THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL
WILL CARLETON
[Sidenote: Between Sept. 26, 1777, and June 17, 1778] _The heroine's name was Mary Redmond, and she lived in Philadelphia. During the occupation of that town by the British, she was ever ready to aid in the secret delivery of the letters written home by the husbands and fathers fighting in the Continental Army._
A boy drove into the city, his wagon loaded down With food to feed the people of the British-governed town; And the little black-eyed rebel, so innocent and sly, Was watching for his coming from the corner of her eye.
His face looked broad and honest, his hands were brown and tough, The clothes he wore upon him were homespun, coarse, and rough; But one there was who watched him, who long time lingered nigh, And cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her eye.
He drove up to the market, he waited in the line; His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine; But long and long he waited, and no one came to buy, Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner of her eye.
"Now who will buy my apples?" he shouted, long and loud; And "Who wants my potatoes?" he repeated to the crowd; But from all the people round him came no word of a reply, Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the corner of her eye.
For she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he wore that day, Were long letters from the husbands and the fathers far away, Who were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain or die; And a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye.
But the treasures--how to get them? crept the question through her mind, Since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might find: And she paused a while and pondered, with a pretty little sigh; Then resolve crept through her features, and a shrewdness fired her eye.
So she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red; "May I have a dozen apples for a kiss?" she sweetly said: And the brown face flushed to scarlet; for the boy was some what shy, And he saw her laughing at him from the corner of her eye.
"You may have them all for nothing, and more, if you want," quoth he. "I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them," said she; And she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all were by, With a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of her eye.
Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her fingers white and small, And then whispered, "Quick! the letters! thrust them underneath my shawl! Carry back again _this_ package, and be sure that you are spry!" And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of her eye.
Loud the motley crowd were laughing at the strange, ungirlish freak, And the boy was scared and panting, and so dashed he could not speak; And, "Miss, _I_ have good apples," a bolder lad did cry; But she answered, "No, I thank you," from the corner of her eye.
With the news of loved ones absent to the dear friends they would greet, Searching them who hungered for them, swift she glided through the street. "There is nothing worth the doing that it does not pay to try," Thought the little black-eyed rebel, with a twinkle in her eye.
MOLLY MAGUIRE AT MONMOUTH
WILLIAM COLLINS
[Sidenote: June 28, 1778] _The battle of Monmouth was indecisive, but the Americans held the field, and the British retreated and remained inactive for the rest of the summer._
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.
With a bitter cry of sorrow, And a dark and angry frown, Looked that band of gallant patriots At their gunner stricken down. "Fall back, comrades, it is folly Thus to strive against the foe." "No! not so," cried Irish Molly; "We can strike another blow."
* * * * *
Quickly leaped she to the cannon, In her fallen husband's place, Sponged and rammed it fast and steady, Fired it in the foeman's face. Flashed another ringing volley, Roared another from the gun; "Boys, hurrah!" cried gallant Molly, "For the flag of Washington."
Greene's Brigade, though shorn and shattered, Slain and bleeding half their men, When they heard that Irish slogan, Turned and charged the foe again. Knox and Wayne and Morgan rally, To the front they forward wheel, And before their rushing onset Clinton's English columns reel.
Still the cannon's voice in anger Rolled and rattled o'er the plain, Till there lay in swarms around it Mangled heaps of Hessian slain. "Forward! charge them with the bayonet!" 'Twas the voice of Washington, And there burst a fiery greeting From the Irish woman's gun.
Monckton falls; against his columns Leap the troops of Wayne and Lee, And before their reeking bayonets Clinton's red battalions flee. Morgan's rifles, fiercely flashing, Thin the foe's retreating ranks, And behind them onward dashing Ogden hovers on their flanks.
Fast they fly, these boasting Britons, Who in all their glory came, With their brutal Hessian hirelings To wipe out our country's name. Proudly floats the starry banner, Monmouth's glorious field is won, And in triumph Irish Molly Stands beside her smoking gun.
SONG OF MARION'S MEN
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
[Sidenote: 1780-1781] _While the British Army held South Carolina, Marion and Sumter gathered bands of partisans and waged a vigorous guerilla warfare most harassing and destructive to the invader._
Our band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood Our tent the cypress-tree; We know the forest round us, As seamen know the sea. We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass.
Woe to the English soldiery, That little dread us near! On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear: When, waking to their tents on fire, They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again. And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind.
Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil; We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves.
Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads-- The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlight plain; 'Tis life to feel the night-wind That lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp-- A moment--and away Back to the pathless forest, Before the peep of day.
Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs; Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton, Forever, from our shore.
TO THE MEMORY OF THE AMERICANS WHO FELL AT EUTAW
PHILIP FRENEAU
[Sidenote: Sept. 8, 1781] _The fight of Eutaw Springs, although called a drawn battle, resulted in the withdrawal of the British troops from South Carolina._
At Eutaw Springs the valiant died: Their limbs with dust are covered o'er-- Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide; How many heroes are no more!
If, in this wreck of ruin, they Can yet be thought to claim the tear, Oh, smite your gentle breast, and say, The friends of freedom slumber here!
Thou, who shalt trace this bloody plain, If goodness rules thy generous breast, Sigh for the wasted rural reign; Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to rest!
Stranger, their humble graves adorn; You too may fall, and ask a tear; 'Tis not the beauty of the morn That proves the evening shall be clear,--
They saw their injur'd country's woe; The flaming town, the wasted field; Then rush'd to meet the insulting foe; They took the spear--but left the shield.
Led by thy conquering genius, Greene, The Britons they compell'd to fly: None distant view'd the fatal plain, None griev'd, in such a cause, to die,--
But, like the Parthians, fam'd of old, Who, flying, still their arrows threw; These routed Britons, full as bold Retreated, and retreating slew.
Now rest in peace, our patriot band; Though far from Nature's limits thrown, We trust they find a happier land, A brighter sunshine of their own.
GEORGE WASHINGTON
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
[Sidenote: July 8, 1775] _This is a fragment from the ode for the centenary of Washington's taking command of the American army at Cambridge._