Part 6

The incidents of the fight are so minutely given in the ballad that no further explanation is needed. The Americans remained masters of the field, but at a fearful loss, of which that of Herkimer was not the least. Had the original plan been followed, much of the slaughter would have been spared.

There is no portrait of Herkimer in existence; all that we learn of his appearance was that he was short, stout, and full-faced. He was a man of ability, and, had he survived, from his character and courage he would doubtless have figured creditably in the partisan warfare waged in Eastern and Northern New York, if not in a wider sphere of action.

_THE FIGHT AT ORISKANY._

On the fifth of August, in the morn, I was ploughing between the rows of corn, When I heard Dirck Bergen blow his horn.

I let the reins in quiet drop; I bade my horse in the furrow stop, And the sweet green leaves unheeded crop.

Down at the fence I waited till Dirck galloped down the sloping hill, Blowing his conch-horn with a will.

“Ho, neighbor! stop!” to Dirck I cried, “And tell me why so fast you ride— What is the news you scatter wide?”

He drew the rein, and told me then How, with his seventeen hundred men, St. Leger vexed the land again.

A fiendish crew around him stood— The Tory base, the Hessian rude, The painted prowler of the wood—

The savage Brant was in his train, Before whose hatchet, quick to brain, Fell patriot blood in scarlet rain—

How all this force, to serve the crown, And win in civil strife renown, Before Fort Schuyler settled down,

Where Gansevoort close with Willett lay— Their force too weak for open fray— Bristling like hunted bucks at bay.

And Dirck, by Herkimer the stout, Was sent to noise the news about, And summon all to arm and out.

Far must he spread the word that day, So, bidding me come to join the fray, And blowing his horn, he rode away.

I had been married then a year; My wife to me was doubly dear, For a child had come our home to cheer.

I had not mingled in the strife That swept the land; my aim in life To tend my farm and cheer my wife.

I watched my flocks and herds increase, And ploughed my land and held my peace: Men called me the Tory Abner Reece.

Yet now the country needed all Her manly sons to break her thrall; Could I be deaf to her piteous call?

I thought me of the cruel foe, The red-skinned Mingo, skulking low, The midnight raid, the secret blow—

Hessians and Brunswickers, the lees Of Europe’s cup of miseries, And brutal Tories, worse than these—

Britons, with rude, relentless hand: All these made up the cruel band Which came to spoil and vex the land.

I felt my heart in anger leap— “No!” cried my spirit from its deep, “I will not here ignobly creep.

“I have a strong arm for the fray; I have a rifle sure to slay; I fear no man by night nor day.

“When prowling wolves have left their den, The hunter’s craft is needed then— The country must not lack for men.”

So from the corn-rows green and tall, I led my plough-horse to the stall, Then took my rifle from the wall.

I slung my pouch and powder-horn, I kissed my babe scarce three months born, And bade my wife farewell that morn.

I journeyed steadily all that day— Through brake and brier I made my way; For stream or hill I did not stay.

At set of sun I made my camp Mid alder bushes thick and damp, And at the dawn resumed my tramp.

I reached the meeting-place at eight, But, though no laggard, came too late— They had not thought for me to wait.

Oh, fatal haste, so soon to stir! Yet not the fault of Herkimer, Who knew his foe too well to err.

Rash, headstrong men the others led, Who mocked at what the general said, And heaped contumely on his head.

“You know not what you seek,” he cried; “Those are but fools who foes deride; And prudence dwells with courage tried.

“My messenger left at set of sun; When once his errand has been done, Will sound Fort Schuyler’s signal-gun.

“Wait till that cannon’s voice you hear, And then we’ll fall upon their rear, As Gansevoort to their van draws near.”

Said Colonel Paris, then, “Not so! We left our homes to strike a blow; So lead us quickly to the foe.

“Else all may see those do not err Who brand you as a coward cur And skulking Tory, Herkimer.”

But Herkimer only smiled at first— He knew those merely words at worst That from hot-headed rashness burst.

“I have been placed your path to guide, And shall I lead you, then,” he cried, “To the jaws of ruin gaping wide?”

But Cox replied, “This talk is vain; If Herkimer fears he may be slain, Let him in safety here remain.”

Flashed Herkimer’s eyes with fire at this, And sank his voice to an angry hiss— “Such shafts,” he cried, “my honor miss.

“March on! but if I judge aright, You’ll find, when comes our foe in sight, The loudest boaster first in flight.”

And so they were marching through a glen Not far from the mouth of Oriskany, when I overtook their hindmost men.

I saw Dirck Bergen’s honest face Among the rest; he had reached the place An hour before me in the race.

He wrung my hand and told me all— “Look out,” said he, “for a rain of ball And the thickest shower that well can fall.

“For Brant is watching round about, And long ere this, by many a scout, He knows his foes are armed and out.

“We’ll have it heavily, by-and-by; But that’s no matter—one can but die, And safer it is to fight than fly.”

I laughed a little my fear to hide; But I felt my memory backward glide To the home I left on the river-side.

I saw that cabin of logs once more, The ceiling low and the sanded floor, And my wife the cradle leaning o’er.

I saw her bending with girlish grace, And I knew the mother was trying to trace The father’s look in the infant’s face.

The house-dog pricked his watchful ear— He heard some traveller passing near— She listened my coming step to hear.

But soon dispersed that pleasant scene, And I glanced with vision clear and keen Through the close-set boughs of the forest green.

A deep ravine was in our way, Marshy and damp, and o’er it lay A causeway formed of logs and clay.

The spot was pleasant—stilly down Fell forest shadows, cool and brown, From branch and bough and lofty crown.

Fringing the foreground of the scene, I saw the slender birches lean Lovingly o’er the tussocks green.

The leaves were thickly set o’erhead, The low-growth dense around was spread— But suddenly filled my heart with dread.

A sight, a sound the soul to shock— A dark face peering past a rock, The clicking of a rifle lock.

Forth from a jet of fiery red Leaped to its mark the deadly lead— Dirck Bergen fell beside me dead.

To life the sleeping echoes woke, As from each rock and tree there broke A flash of fire, a wreath of smoke.

Then rang around us yell on yell, As though the very fiends of hell Had risen in that gloomy dell.

And though the foe we scarce could see, Still from each bush and rock and tree He poured his fire incessantly.

From a sheltering trunk I glanced around— Dying and dead bestrewed the ground, Though some by flight scant safety found.

Ay, flight! as Herkimer had said, Appalled at blood-drops raining red, The rear-guard all like dastards fled.

But Herkimer blenched not—clearer, then, His accents rang throughout the glen, Cheering the spirits of his men.

And though his horse was slain, and he Was wounded sorely in the knee, A cooler man there could not be.

He was not chafed nor stirred the least, But, gay as a guest at a wedding-feast, He bade them strip his dying beast.

A famous seat the saddle made Beneath a beech-tree’s spreading shade, From whence the battle he surveyed.

All through the hottest of the fight He sat there with his pipe alight, And gave his orders left and right.

Whoever could gaze at him and flee, The basest of poltroons would be— The sight chased every fear from me.

None shrank the foe, though sore bestead; Each from his tree the bullet sped, And paid them back with lead for lead.

The battle-shout, the dying groan, The hatchet’s crash, the rifle’s tone, Mixed with the wounded’s painful moan.

Full many a stout heart bounding light, Full many a dark eye beaming bright, Were still’d in death and closed in night.

I was not idle through the fray; But there was one alone that day I had a fierce desire to slay.

I had seen the face, and marked it well, That peered from the rock when Bergen fell; And I watched for that at every yell.

No hound on scent more rapt could be, As I scanned the fight from behind the tree; And five I slew, but neither was he.

At length I saw a warrior brain A neighbor’s son, young Andrew Lane, And stoop to scalp the fallen slain.

’Twas he! my brain to throb began, My eager hands to the gunstock ran, And I dropped fresh priming in the pan.

His savage work was speedily through; He raised and gave the scalp-halloo; Sure aim I took, and the trigger drew.

Off to its mark the bullet sped; Leaped from his breast a current red; And the slayer of honest Dirck was dead.

Upon us closer now they came; We formed in circles walled with flame, Which way they moved our front the same.

Sore galled and thinned came Butler’s men, With a bayonet charge to clear the glen, And gallantly we met them then.

Our wrath upon the curs to deal, There, hand to hand and steel to steel, We made their close-set column reel.

Fiercely we fought ’mid fire and smoke, With rifle shot and hatchet stroke, When over our heads the thunder broke.

And I have heard the oldest say That ne’er before that bloody day Such storm was known as stopped our fray.

’Twas one of the cloud-king’s victories— Down came the rain in gusty seas, Driving us under the heaviest trees.

But short the respite that we got; The rain and thunder lasted not, And strife again grew fierce and hot.

At the foot of a bank I took my stand, To pick out a man from a coming band, When I felt on my throat a foeman’s hand.

At the tightening grasp my eyes grew dim; But I saw ’twas a Mingo, stout of limb, And fierce was the struggle I made with him.

Deep peril hung upon my life; My foot gave way in the fearful strife, The wretch was o’er me with his knife.

In my hair his eager fingers played, I felt the keen edge of his blade; But I struggled the harder undismayed.

I had sunk before his deadly blow, When suddenly o’er me fell my foe— A friendly ball had laid him low.

The Mohawks wavered—Brant in vain Would bring them to the charge again, For the chiefest of their braves were slain.

We heard a firing far away In the distance where Fort Schuyler lay— ’Twas Willett with Johnson making play.

Advancing, then, with friendly cries, A band of patriots met our eyes— The Tories of Johnson in disguise.

They came as though to aid our band, With cheerful front and friendly hand— An artful trick and ably planned.

We hailed their coming with a cheer, But the keen eye of Gardinier Saw through their mask as they drew near.

“They think,” he cried, “by tricks like these, To lock our sense and bear the keys— Look! those are Johnson’s Refugees!”

A deadly purpose in us rose; There might be quarter for our foes Of Mingo breed, but none for those.

For cabins fired, and old men slain, And outraged women pleading vain, Cried vengeance on those sons of Cain.

A hurtling volley made to tell, And then, with one wild, savage yell, Resistless on their ranks we fell.

The Mohawks see their allies die; Dismayed, they raise the warning cry Of “Oonah!” then they break and fly.

A panic seized the startled foe; They show no front, they strike no blow, As through the forest in rout they go.

We could not follow—weak and worn We stood upon the field that morn; Never was triumph so forlorn.

For of our band who fought that day One half or dead or wounded lay, When closed that fierce and fearful fray.

And on that field, ere daylight’s close, We buried our dead, but mourned not those We laid to rest beside our foes.

Revenge, not grief, our souls possest— We heaped the earth upon each breast, And left our brothers to their rest.

_BAUM’S EXPEDITION._

When Burgoyne was making the descent from Canada which ended in his capture, he began to fall short of provisions. Having learned that the colonists had a store of cattle, he despatched Lieutenant-colonel Baum, with a force of Hessians, loyalists, and savages, to capture the stock and drive it into camp. There were other ostensible objects, such as feeling the opinion of the country and recruiting the corps of loyalists; but the main object was the capture of the cattle. Baum received a sort of roving commission. He was ordered “to scour the country from Rockingham to Otter Creek,” to go down the Connecticut to Brattleborough, return by the Albany road, and rejoin Burgoyne, and to impress people with the belief that his force was the advance guard of Burgoyne’s army on its way to Boston. He was to arrest all officers or men of the enemy who were found to live off the country, and to impress all the horses in the way, “with as many saddles and bridles as can be found.” There were to be thirteen hundred horses, at least, taken, tied in tens for convenience. In short, Baum was to plunder.

The command marched, and on the next day, the 14th of August, 1777, they arrived at the mill on Walloomscoick, after a little skirmish with some Americans who were guarding cattle at Cambridge. Here Baum began to find that his march would not be a holiday parade.

People were uncertain as to the real destination of Burgoyne. He had partially succeeded in convincing many that he meant to march on Boston. The Green Mountain men sent word to Exeter imploring aid. The Provincial Assembly of New Hampshire was called hastily together, and its speaker, John Langdon, offered a subsidy of several thousand dollars in hard money to raise and equip troops, and suggested that John Stark should take command. Langdon’s words aroused his hearers. Two brigades were raised, one under Whipple and the other under Stark. The latter was then at home. He had distinguished himself at Trenton and Princeton, and had been sent home to direct recruiting. While there, Congress promoted several junior officers, and left his name off. He resigned, but kept up active efforts in behalf of the cause. He accepted the command offered, with the stipulation that he should act at his own discretion; and a part of the brigade raised for him, and a part of Whipple’s, was at once placed under his separate command. Men flocked to his support, and at Manchester, twenty miles north of Bennington, he was joined by Colonel Warner, with the remnant of the Vermont men from the disastrous field of Hubbardton. At the same time General Lincoln, who had been ordered to conduct these new forces to the Hudson River, made his appearance. But Stark refused to yield the command, notwithstanding Congress had passed a resolution that the agreement made between him and New Hampshire was “highly prejudicial to the common cause.” He held his position. Hearing of the skirmish at Cambridge, he sent a detachment to meet them. Learning of Baum’s advance, he collected all the additional forces possible, and on the morning of the 14th he set forward to support the advance detachment. He soon met the retreating advance under Gregg, and found the enemy posted upon high ground near the Walloomscoick, where they were throwing up hasty intrenchments. Stark fell back to wait for support and plan his action; and Baum, alarmed at the number of the Americans, sent an express to Burgoyne asking for reinforcements. It resulted in Brayman being sent with five hundred men; but they came too late to be of use.

The next day there was a heavy rain, and both sides merely made ready for the fight. The main part of Baum’s forces were posted on the high ground, and intrenched as we have stated; but a strong party, principally of Rangers, guarded the ford where the Bennington road crossed. The loyalists, under Peters, had a breastwork on the south side of the river, and a few chasseurs at the mouth of a small water-course. Stark’s main body was encamped on the Bennington road.

There had been skirmishing on the 15th, but the rain prevented any active movement. The next morning was clear and bright, and Stark at once proceeded with his plan. It involved a simultaneous attack of various parties on the intrenchments of the enemy, while the main body under Stark drove the Tories upon the fortified Hessians, and the latter out of their fortified hold. The battle lasted two hours, and in spite of the obstinate bravery of Reidesel’s dragoons, led by Baum in person, was won by the Americans. But as soon as this was done, the undisciplined troops began to disperse in search of plunder. Brayman came up with his fresh men, rallied Baum’s flying troops, and renewed battle, with every prospect of retrieving the fortunes of the day; but Colonel Warner’s small force coming up and meeting the enemy, with the assistance of the scattered forces Stark was enabled to bring into action, the tide changed again. At sunset the victory was complete. The loss of the Americans was less than two hundred killed and wounded; of the British, in killed, wounded, and prisoners, nine hundred and thirty-five. Among the spoils were four brass cannon, several hundred stands of arms, two hundred and fifty dragoon swords, and four ammunition wagons.

_THE BATTLE OF BENNINGTON._

I see that August morning now before me as I tell The story of the stirring scenes which I remember well— The battle-day of Bennington, and what thereon befell. Yes! we were in the stubble where the hands had gone at dawn, When, riding swiftly down the road, his dappled gray upon, Whose flanks were marked with blood and foam, I saw my brother John. His face was bright, his eyes alight, his bearing proud and high— “Ho! whither do you speed so fast? Why do you hurry by, While friends are eager for the news, John Manchester?” said I.

“To fight!” he cried; “who stays at home upon this August day, Now Stark has come to Bennington, to lead us in the fray, Where we may smite these Hessian wolves who babes and women slay? Let baser men remain at toil, as such have done before, Let women spin and children play before the farm-house door; But till these knaves are driven hence I till the ground no more. Come you and join me in the strife that Lexington began; And as the foe comes down on us, and dares us man to man, Let you and I acquit ourselves as stout Vermonters can.”

The words he uttered on our hearts fell fast in fiery rain; The blood in wilder current coursed through artery and vein; An impulse there to do and dare went swiftly through each brain. Our sight and hearing keener grew before his voice’s tone— We saw the cottage roof aflame, the corn-crib overthrown; We heard the widow’s woful wail, the famished orphan’s moan. We thrilled from heart to finger-tip; the very air grew red; And casting by the tools of toil, off to the house we sped, To wipe the chambers of our guns and mould the deadly lead.

My mother met me at the door—“James, stay at home!” said she; “If you, my youngest born, should fall, what would become of me? And then, a boy in such a fight of little use can be—” With that she raised her hand to brush away an oozing tear, And added—“It was but in June you reached your sixteenth year; So, while your brother is away, remain to guard us here. These Hessians whom the king has sent, a hireling war to wage On children as on bearded men, are ruthless in their rage; Then go not hence to fall in fight, child of your mother’s age.”

“Fear not for me,” I answered her; “the Hessians I defy; In years a boy, I know, but then a man in heart am I; My country needs me in the fight—I cannot more than die. I come of Abner Manchester, who never knew a fear; And though as much as any one I hold my mother dear, I may not on this day of days remain a laggard here. To herd with women while the fight for freedom is unwon, While he has sight to mark a foe and strength to bear a gun, Suits not a stout Green Mountain Boy, nor yet my father’s son.”

“If you will leave me here alone, so be it!” she replied; “But take yon firelock from the hooks—it was your father’s pride— He bore it well against the French, nine years before he died—” As thus she spoke my mother’s voice grew tremulous in tone— “And when you use it, lest your foe in lingering anguish moan, Sight at a point two fingers’ length beneath the collar-bone. Now, go! my heart, as thus we part, thrills with a mother’s pain; To save you from a single pang, its latest drop I’d drain; But—show the courage of your sire, or come not here again!”

We started, six of us in all; we made to camp our way, And found the forces drawn in line, at two o’clock that day, In front of where, on Walloomscoick, intrenched the foemen lay. Bold Stark rode slowly down the ranks, with proud, uncovered head— So quiet we that on the turf we heard his horse’s tread— And at the centre drew his rein, and these the words he said— “Boys! yonder are the red-coat troops, and, mark me every one, We win this fight for truth and right, before the day be done, Or Molly Stark’s a widow at the setting of the sun!”

Loud rang the cheering in reply, but through the ranks there ran A murmur, for they felt it long until the fight began, Although they knew the tardiness was from a well-formed plan. For in their hurried council there our leaders planned the fight, That Herrick with three hundred men should march upon their right, And Nichols on the left with more spared from our scanty might, To join their forces in the rear, and there assault begin, While we upon their front advanced at signal of the din; And then let those who dealt their blows with fiercest vigor win.

Our forces stood without a stir, in silence grim and dark, While like a statue on his steed so motionless sat Stark, When suddenly, with finger raised, the general whispered—“Hark!” We stood as silent as the grave, and as we bent to hear, Above the silence far away there came a lusty cheer; Some shots were fired—we knew our friends had joined upon their rear— “Now, hearts so warm, move like the storm!” said Stark, and led the way; “Green Mountain Boys, acquit yourselves like mettled men to-day! Take careful aim and waste no lead! the wolves are brought to bay!”