Chapter V: Appendix: 233 (4)

The gallant Armstrong for a moment leaned forward in his saddle, towards the adjutant, as if thunder-struck, with this reflection on his courage,—in the next his sword glanced like a streak of light around his head, his noble horse leapt with a snort clear of the ground, as the spur-rowels were buried to the gaffs in his sides, and in another shouting in a voice of thunder—“Legion cavalry, charge!” at the head of his section, he cleared the bridge, the horses throwing off the loose planks in every direction, the next instant driving the soldiers headlong from the howitzer which they had mounted at the other end to defend it, he was cutting and slashing in the very centre of the British regiment, which, taken completely by surprise, threw down their arms, retreating in every direction. The horses of Armstrong’s section had thrown off the planks as they cleared the bridge, leaving a yawning chasm, beneath which the deep black stream was rushing turbidly onwards; but Lt. Carrington, at the head of his section, took the leap and closed with Armstrong, engaged in a desperate personal encounter with Lt. Col. Coates, who had had barely time to throw himself with a few of his officers behind some baggage-wagons, where they were parrying the sabre cuts made by the dragoons at their heads. Most of the soldiers, alarmed at the sudden attack, had abandoned their officers, and were running across the fields, to shelter themselves in a neighbouring farm-house. Lee, by this time, had himself got up to the bridge, where O’Neal, with the third section had halted, the chasm having been so much enlarged by Carrington’s horses throwing off additional planks, that his horses would not take the leap, and seeing the howitzer abandoned, and the whole regiment dispersed, except the few officers who were defending themselves with their swords, while they called upon the flying soldiers for assistance, he proceeded to recover and replace the planks. The river was deep in mud, and still deeper in water, so that the dragoons could neither get a footing to re-place the planks, nor a firm spot from which they might swim their horses to the aid of their comrades. Seeing this posture of affairs, some of the bravest of the British soldiers began to hurry back to the assistance of their officers, and Armstrong and Carrington, being unable to sustain with only one troop of dragoons, so unequal a combat, they abandoned the contest, forcing their way down the great road, into the woods on the margin of the stream, in the effort to rejoin the corps. Relieved from the immediate danger, Coates hastened back to the bridge, and opened a fire from the deserted howitzer upon Lee and the soldiers, who were fruitlessly striving to repair the bridge, and being armed only with their sabres, which the chasm made perfectly useless, as they could not reach the enemy across it, they were also forced to give up the attempt, and retire without the range of the fire from the gun.

Marion shortly after coming up, in conjunction with Lee marched some distance down the banks, where they were enabled to ford the stream, and effect a passage. In the edge of the evening, they reached the farm-house, but found that Coates had fortified himself within it, with his howitzer, and was thus impregnable to cavalry. “While halting in front, Armstrong and Carrington came up with their shattered sections. Neither of the officers were hurt, but many of the bravest dragoons were killed, and still more wounded. Some of their finest fellows—men, who had passed through the whole war esteemed and admired, had fallen in this honourable but unsuccessful attempt.” Being without artillery, and within striking distance of Charleston, they were obliged, fatigued as they were, to commence their retreat. Placing the wounded in the easiest posture for conveyance, and laying the dead on the pommels of their saddles, the Legion counter-marched fifteen miles; at its close, burying in sadness and grief in one common sepulchre the bodies of those that had fallen.

These anecdotes of the Legion are but a few of the many stirring and spirited narrations with which Lee whiled away the time, as we glided along on our return up the river. His own observations and adventures in travelling over the world were not wanting for our amusement, for, with a mind well prepared for its enjoyment, he had passed the years that had intervened, since I last saw him, in travelling leisurely over Europe and the East. With the true philosophy of life, calling all men brothers, and restrained by no narrow prejudices of country or habit, he had entered eagerly into the manners and participated in the amusements of those around him. First after the hounds in England, he shouted “tally ho!” with all the enthusiasm of the veriest sportsman in the hunt; while his voice was heard equally loud and jovial in the wild and half frantic chorus of the drinking and smoking students of Germany. He scrupled not to wear his beard long, and partake of the hard black loaf in the cabin of the Russian boor, while, with equal equanimity he wore his turban, and smoked his chiboque cross-legged in the caffarets of Turkey. He climbed the huge pyramids, and their dark and silent chambers echoed the sounds of his voice, as he called on Cheops, Isis and Orus; and, kneeling in the gorgeous mosque of Omar, he worshipped the true God, while the muzzeim from its minarets was proclaiming, that Mahomet was his prophet. He had luxuriated amid the never-dying works of the great masters at Florence, and, lulled by the harmonious chaunt of the gondolier, had swept over the moonlit lagoons of Venice. He had whirled in all the gaiety of living Paris, and measured with careful steps the silent streets of dead Herculaneum and Pompeii. He had stood amid the awful stillness on the glittering ice-covered summits of Mont Blanc, and looked fearlessly down into the great roaring caverns of fire boiling in the crater of Vesuvius—but now there was a sadness about his heart which rarely lighted up, and, as I have observed, it was only under momentary excitement that he blazed into brilliant entertainment.

As the fresh breeze wafted us swiftly onwards, Venus, mid the stars trembling in unnumbered myriads, rivalled with her silvery rays the great round-orbed moon, sailing joyously in her career high in the heavens above us,—and soon the bright beacon on the plantation shore, lighted for our guidance, shone steadily over the dark water, and ere long we were all quietly seated at the supper-table, with our beautiful hostess at its head,—again in Tom’s cottage on the banks of the Potomac.

NOTE.—The incidents related in the above article are derived
from “Lee’s Southern Campaigns” and “Col. Gardner’s Military
Anecdotes,” where, if he has not already perused them, the
reader will find much to interest and amuse him.

HUDSON RIVER.

Here we are met again, all booted and spurred, and ready for another journey. Come, let us make the most of our time on this mundane sphere, for verily we are but two of the automata of the great moving panorama which is so rapidly hastening o’er its surface—two of the unnumbered millions who, lifted from our cradles, are hurrying with like equal haste towards the great dark curtain of the future, where, drawing its gloomy folds aside, we shall pass behind and disappear for ever. Therefore let us hasten; for though some of us complacently imagine that we are bound on our own special road and chosen journey, yet, surely we are but travelling the path which has been marked out for us by an all-seeing Providence; and though, like soldiers, we may be marching, as we suppose, to good billets and snug quarters, yet perhaps, before the day’s route be closed, we shall be plunged into the centre of the battle-field, with sad curtailment of our history. Tempus fugit! Therefore let us hasten, for, in a few short years, some modern Hamlet o’er our tomb-stones thus shall moralize: “Here be two fellows tucked up right cosily in their last quarters, ‘at their heads a grass-green turf, and at their heels a stone.’ Humph! for all their stillness, I warrant me, they’ve strutted their mimic stage, and flaunted with the best; they’ve had their ups and downs, their whims and fancies, their schemes and projects, their loves and hates,—have been elated with vast imaginings, and depressed to the very ocean’s depths; and now their little day and generation passed, they’re settled to their rest. The school-boy astride on one’s memento, with muddy heels kicks out his epitaph, while the other’s name is barely visible among the thistle’s aspiring tops,—yet both alike have rendered, with the whole human family, the same brief epitome of history. ‘They laughed—they groaned—they wept—and here they are,’ for such are but the features of bright, confiding youth, stern manhood’s trials, and imbecile old age.” And this same sage Hamlet’s right; therefore, without more ado, let us get us on our travels.

So, here we are in the Jerseys. Now _westward_ shall lie our course. Here come the cars. Quick—jump in—here is a good seat, close by the old gentleman in the India-rubber cape. Ding, ding—ding, ding. There goes the bell. Shwist, shwist. We are off. Clank—jirk—click—click—clickety—click—click. Here we go. We fly over the bridges, and through the tunnels; the rail fences spin by us in ribands; the mile-stones play leap-frog; the abutments dash by us. Screech! the cattle jump like mad out of our way. Already at Jersey City? We paddle across. Ay, here we are, just in time, on board the “Swallow.” What a pandemonium of racket, and noise, and confusion! Steam yelling, bells ringing, boys and negroes bawling, porters and hackmen hurrying.—“Get out of my way, you dirty little baboon, with your papers.”—“Thank you, madam, no oranges.”—“All aboard.”—Tinkle, tinkle.—The walking-beam rises, the heavy wheels splash.—We shoot out into the stream.—We make a graceful curve, and, simultaneously with five other steamers, stretch like race-horses up the majestic Hudson.

How beautifully the Narrows and the Ocean open to our view, and the noble bay, studded with its islands, and fortresses, and men-of-war, “tall, high admirals,” with frowning batteries and chequered sides. In what graceful amity float the nations’ emblems—the Tricolour, the Red Cross, the Black Eagle, the Stars and Stripes. But we take the lead. Fire up—fire up, engineer,—her namesake cuts the air not more swiftly than our fleet boat her element. Still as a mirror lies the tranquil water. The dark pallisades above us, with fringed and picturesque outline, are reflected on its polished surface; and the lordly sloops, see how lazily they roll and pitch on the long undulating swell made by our progress, their scarlet pennons quivering on its surface as it regains its smoothness.

How rich and verdant extend thy shores, delightful river! Oh! kindly spirit—Crayon, Diedrick, Irving, whate’er we call thee,—with what delightful Indian summer of rustic story, of dreamy legend, hast thou invested them? Lo! as we slide along, what moving panorama presents itself? Phlegmatic Mynheers, in sleepy Elysium, evolve huge smoke-wreaths of the fragrant weed as they watch thy placid stream. Blooming Katrinas, budding like roses out of their boddices, coquette with adoring Ichabods,—sturdy, broad-breeched beaux, sound “boot and saddle.” Roaring Broms dash along on old Gun-powders. Headless horsemen thunder onwards through Haunted hollows—heads on saddle-bow. Dancing, laughing negroes—irate, rubicund trumpeters—huge Dutch merry-makings—groaning feasts, and loafing, hen-pecked Rips, pass in review before us. And now, as we open the Tappan Zee, see! see Old Hendrick,—see the old fellow in his scarlet cloak, his gallant hanger, cocked-hat, and many-buttoned breeches—see how the huge clouds of smoke, encircling his nose, float upwards, as, seated on his lofty poop, he sluggishly lays his course. See the old Dutchman—no—stop! stop!—’tis but a creature of thy fantasy, floating in the setting sunlight. Oh! historian of Columbus, with thy fellow-spirit, him of the “North Star,” and the “Evening Wind,” gently, yet sorrowfully you float above the miasma clouds of gain, that in their poisonous wreaths envelope your countrymen. In the evening twilight thy beacon, Stony Point, throws far its streaming rays o’er the darkening scenery, different, I ween, when mid midnight mist and stillness, mid cannon-blaze and roar, “Mad Anthony’s” attacking columns simultaneously struck the flag-staff in thy centre. The sparks stream rocket-like from our chimneys, as we enter your dark embrace, ye Highlands! Hark! the roll of the drum, as we round the bend—thy beautiful plateau, West Point, with its gallant spirits, is above us. Success to thee, school of the brave! Engineers for her hours of peace, soldiers in war to lead her armies, dost thou furnish to thy country—brave, enduring men. When fell thy sons other than in the battle’s front? when in the fiercest danger were they found recreant? Aye, well may Echo answer “When?”

The thunder of thy bowling balls, Old Hudson, we hear as we pass the gorges of the Catskill. Hyde Park, thou glancest by us—the villas of the Rensselaers and Livingstons flit ’mid their green trees,—thy cottages, oh Kinderhook—the Overslaugh—rush by us, and now we are at Albany. Albany, Rochester, Utica, by smoaking steam-car, we are delivered from you. Auburn, we breathe among thy shady walks—and now, for a moment, Buffalo, we rest with thee. All hail to thee, thou city of the Bison Bull! Great caravansera and resting-place of coming nations! Byzantium of the future—hail! As on a quay shall meet hereafter, through the Lawrence and the Oregon, the hardy seamen of the Atlantic and Pacific, the Otaheitean and the fair-haired Swede; while the bronzed trapper, the savage Blackfoot, the greasy Esquimaux, and half-civilized voyageur, shall mingle with astonishment and admiration on thy busy marts. Hail! hail! to thee, thou city of the desert lord, all hail!

NIGHT ATTACK ON FORT ERIE.

(August 14th, 1814.)

Hostler! bring up the horses, we will cross to the Canadian shore, and ride leisurely o’er its battlegrounds. Tighten the girths, John. Take up another hole. So—never mind the stirrup. Jump—I’m in my saddle. Are you ready?—_Allons._ Well broken is that grey of yours, he has a good long trot—how easy it makes your rise in the saddle, and how graceful is the gait. But here we are at the Ferry. Now, we cross thy stream, Niagara! Now, we stand on British ground! Generous and gallant blood has deeply stained its soil! Observe these crumbling works—the old stone fort facing the river—the remains of ramparts and trenches—here a bastion—further on, a redoubt—there again lines and earthworks, forming a continuous circle of defence, but all now fast sinking to their original level. These are, or rather were, the fortress and defences of “Fort Erie.” When some years since I rode over the ground with our kind and excellent friend, the Major, I listened with great interest to his narration of the part of the campaign acted upon this spot and the adjoining country. I will repeat it to you as we ride over it. Jump your horse upon this decaying mound—it was a bastion.

Standing on this bastion, “Here,” said the Major, “we had thrown up our lines, making the defences as strong as practicable. The British had also erected formidable works about half a mile in front, (the forest intervening,) composed of a large stone battery on their left, and two strong redoubts, from which they kept up an incessant discharge of shot and shells for several successive days, which was returned by us with equal vigour. At length a shell from their batteries having fallen upon it, blew up one of our small magazines, but with trifling injury to the rest of the defences. They greatly miscalculated the damage, and were elated with their success, and General Gaines received secret information that they intended to carry the works by storm on the following night. That night, said the Major, I shall not soon forget. It set in intensely dark and cloudy, extremely favourable to the design of the enemy. Every thing was put in the fullest state of preparation to receive them. The men enthusiastically awaiting the attack, were ordered to lie on their arms. Extended along the lines, and manning the fort and bastion, our little army, in perfect silence, awaited their coming.

The forest had been cleared about three hundred yards in front of our works—beyond that were, as you see, the woods. As the night wore on, we listened with earnestness to every sound. A little after midnight, we heard on the dry leaves the stealthy sound of footsteps—pat—patter—patter. We listened—they came nearer. A short, sharp challenge: “Who goes there?” issued from that farther redoubt. The footsteps ceased, as if irresolute to advance or recede, and all was still. Another quick challenge—a rattle of the musket, as it fell into the hollow of the hand,—followed the reply:—“Picquet guard, forced in by the enemy’s advance”—“Back, guard! back to your posts instantly, or we will fire upon you,” rung the stern voice of our commanding officer. The footsteps of the stragglers slowly receded, and entire stillness again obtained. It was as profound as the darkness, not even the hum of an insect rose upon the ear. We laid our heads upon the ramparts, and listened with all our faculties. We listened. Perhaps half an hour elapsed, when we imagined we heard the dead, heavy sound of a large body of men—tramp—tramp—tramp—advancing through the pitchy darkness. A few moments passed—a brisk scattering fire, and the picquets came in in beautiful order, under the brave subaltern in command. The measured tread of disciplined troops became apparent. Every sense was stretched to the utmost in expectancy—every eye endeavoured to fathom the darkness in front, when, from Towson’s battery, that towards the river, glanced a volley of musquetry, and in another instant, the whole line of the works, bastion, redoubt, and rampart, streamed forth one living sheet of flame. Two eighteens, mounted where we stand, were filled to the muzzle with grape, cannister, and bags of musket-bullets—imagine their havoc. The enemy came on with loud shouts and undaunted bravery. By the continued glare of our discharges, we could see dense dark masses of men, moving in columns to three separate points of attack upon our works. Our artillery and musketry poured on them as they advanced a continual stream of fire, rolling and glancing from angles, bastions, and redoubts. Repulsed—they were re-formed by their officers, and brought again to the charge, to be again repulsed. At such times, hours fly like minutes. A life appears concentrated to a moment. We had been engaged perhaps an hour—perhaps three, when I heard in that bastion of the Fort, a hundred feet from me, above the uproar, a quick, furious struggle, as if of men engaged in fierce death-fight; a clashing of bayonets, and sharp pistol shots, mixed with heavy blows, and short quick breathing, such as you may have heard men make in violent exertion—in cutting wood with axes, or other severe manual labour. The conflict, though fierce, was short—the assailants were repelled. Those that gained a footing were bayonetted, or thrown back over the parapet. In a few moments, I heard again the same fierce struggle, and again followed the like result and stillness—if stillness could be said to exist under continual roar of musketry and artillery. A third time it rose, sudden and desperate; it ceased, and presently a clear loud voice rose high above the battle from the bastion: “Stop firing in front there, you are firing on your friends.” An instant cessation followed. We were deceived. In another moment, the voice of an officer with startling energy replied: “Aye, aye, we’ll stop: give it them, men, give it them!”—and the firing, renewed, was continued with redoubled fury. The head of the centre column, composed of eight hundred picked men, the veterans of Egypt, led by Lieut. Col. Drummond in person, after three several assaults, had gained possession of the bastion, and by that ruse, endeavoured to cause a cessation of the fire—a result that might have been fatal to us, had not the deception been so soon discerned. But the prize was of little value, as the bastion was commanded by the interior of the works, and the men, under cover of the walls of an adjoining barrack, poured into the gorge that led from it, a continued storm of musketry. The firing continued with unabated fury. The enemy, repulsed with great loss in every attack, was unsuccessful on every point save that bastion, the possession of which they still retained—when I heard a groaning roll and shake of the earth, and instantly the bastion, bodies of men, timber, guns, earth and stones, were blown up in the air like a volcano, making every thing in the glare as clear as noon-day. A descending timber dashed one of my artillerymen to pieces within a foot of my shoulder. Profound darkness and silence followed. Naught but the groans of the wounded and dying were heard. As if by mutual consent, the fighting ceased, and the enemy withdrew, repulsed on every side, save from the parapet which they purchased for their grave. A large quantity of fixed ammunition had been placed in the lower part, and a stray wad falling upon it, had blown them all up together. My duty required that I should immediately repair the bastion, and most horrible was the sight—bodies burnt and mutilated—some of them still pulsating with life, among them Lieut. Colonel Drummond, the leader of the attack. There he lay in the morning light, stark and stiff, extended on the rampart, a ball having passed through his breast. History mourns, that his courage assumed the character of ferocity. His war-cry of “No quarter to the damned Yankees,” his own death-warrant, was long remembered against his countrymen. The enemy did not resume the attack, but retiring to their entrenched camp, strengthened their works, and prepared to make their approach by regular advances.

But come, spur on, we have far to ride—spur on. Here we are upon their works. Here is the stone water-battery, and there the two strong redoubts, and back of them the remains of their lines, and deep entrenchments. These are the works which were carried in the memorable and desperate sortie of Fort Erie. The right by Davis and Miller; the left by Porter and his volunteers. Here, on the left, quoth the Major, fell my gallant, my accomplished friend, Lieut. Col. Wood, at the head of his column. He was one of the most brilliant officers in the service, and as beautiful as a girl. I often gazed with astonishment at the desperate daring that characterised him in action; here he fell; he was bayonetted to death on the ground, on this spot“—and the Major’s voice quivered, and he turned his face from me, for the cruel death of his dear friend was too much for his manhood. His ashes sleep amid the Highlands of the Hudson, beneath their monument, near the flag-staff at West Point. Peace to his gallant spirit! The stars of his country can wave over no braver of her sons.

BATTLE OF LUNDY’S LANE.

We cross thy tranquil plains, Oh! Chippewa. Scott—Ripley—Towson—Hindman—brave soldiers; long will this battle-ground your names remember. And thou too, Riall! brave Englishman, foeman wert thou worthy of warriors’ steel. But far different music has resounded through these continuous woods than the wild bird’s carol, the hum of insects, and the waving of the breeze that now so gently greets our ear. Ay! yonder it is—yonder is the white house. There, said the Major, as General Scott, making a forward movement with his brigade in the afternoon of the 25th of July, 1814, came in view of it, we saw the court-yard filled with British officers, their horses held by orderlies and servants in attendance. As soon as we became visible to them, their bugles sounded to saddle, and in a few moments they were mounted and soon disappeared through the woods at full gallop, twenty bugles ringing the alarm from different parts of the forest. All vanished as if swallowed by the earth, save an elegant veteran officer, who reined up just out of musket shot, and took a leisurely survey of our numbers. Having apparently satisfied himself of our force, he raised the plumed hat from his head, and bowing gracefully to our cortege, put spurs to his horse and disappeared with the rest. From the occupant of the house we gathered that we were about a mile distant from a strong body of the enemy, posted in the rising ground just beyond the woods in our front. General Scott, turning to one of his escort, said, “Be kind enough, sir, to return to Major General Brown; inform him that I have fallen in with the enemy’s advance, posted in force at ‘_Lundy’s Lane_,’ and that in one half hour, I shall have joined battle.” “Order up Ripley with the second brigade,—direct Porter to get his volunteers immediately under arms,” was the brief reply of Major General Brown to my message, and the aids were instantly in their saddles, conveying the orders. As I galloped back through the woods, continued the Major, the cannon shot screaming by me, tearing the trees and sending the rail fences in the air in their course, warned me that the contest had begun.—But we are on the battle-ground. There, said the Major, upon the verge of that sloping hill, parallel with the road, and through the grave-yard towards the Niagara, was drawn up the British line under General Riall, in force three times greater than our brigade—his right covered with a powerful battery of nine pieces of artillery, two of them brass twenty-fours.

The _Eleventh_ and _Twenty-second_ regiments first leaving the wood, deployed upon the open ground with the coolness and regularity of a review,—and were soon engaged furiously in action; the fire from the enemy’s line and from the batteries, which completely commanded the position, opening upon them with tremendous effect. Towson, having hurried up with his guns on the left, in vain endeavoured to attain sufficient elevation to return the fire of their battery. The destruction on our side was very great;—the two regiments fought with consummate bravery. They were severely cut up, their ammunition became exhausted, and their officers nearly all of them having been killed and wounded, they were withdrawn from action,—the few officers remaining unhurt throwing themselves into the _Ninth_, which now came into action, led by the gallant Colonel Leavenworth.

The brunt of the battle now came upon them, and they alone sustained it for some time, fighting with unflinching bravery, until their numbers were reduced to one-half by the fire of the enemy. At this juncture, General Scott galloped up with the intention of charging up the hill; but finding them so much weakened, altered his intention, entreating them to hold their ground until the reinforcements, which were hastening up, should come to their assistance. A momentary cessation of the action ensued, while additional forces hurried up to the aid of each army—Ripley’s brigade, Hindman’s artillery, and Porter’s volunteers, on the part of the Americans, and a strong reinforcement under General Drummond on that of the British. Hindman’s artillery were attached to that of Towson, and soon made themselves heard. Porter’s brigade displayed on the left, while Ripley formed on the skirts of the wood to the right of Scott’s brigade. The engagement was soon renewed, with augmented vigour; General Drummond taking command in person, with his fresh troops in the front line of the enemy. Colonel Jesup, who had at the commencement of the action been posted on the right, succeeded, after a gallant contest, in turning the left flank of the enemy, and came in upon his reserve, “burdened with prisoners, making himself visible to his own army, amid the darkness, in a blaze of fire,” completely destroying all before him. The fight raged for some time with great fury, but it became apparent, uselessly to the Americans, if the enemy retained possession of the battery, manifestly the key of the position.

I was standing at the side of Colonel Miller, said the Major, when General Brown rode up and inquired, whether he could storm the battery with his regiment, while General Ripley supported him with the younger regiment, the _Twenty-third_. Miller, amid the uproar and confusion, deliberately surveyed the position, then quietly turning with infinite coolness replied, “_I’ll try, sir._” I think I see him now, said the Major, as drawing up his gigantic figure to its full height, he turned to his regiment, drilled to the precision of a piece of mechanism, I hear his deep lion tones—“_Twenty-first_—attention!—form into column. You will advance up the hill to the storm of the battery—at the word ‘halt,’ you will deliver your fire at the port-lights of the artillerymen, and immediately carry the guns at the point of the bayonet.—Support arms—double quick—march!” Machinery could not have moved with more compactness than that gallant regiment followed the fearless stride of its leader. Supported by the _Twenty-third_, the dark mass moved up the hill like one body,—the lurid light glittering and flickering on their bayonets, as the combined fire of the enemy’s artillery and infantry opened murderously upon them. They flinched not—they faltered not—the stern deep voices of the officers, as the deadly cannon-shot cut yawning chasms through them, alone was heard. “Close up—steady, men—steady.” Within a hundred yards of the summit, the loud “Halt” was followed by a volley—sharp, instantaneous, as a clap of thunder. Another moment, rushing under the white smoke, a short furious struggle with the bayonet, and the artillerymen were swept like chaff from their guns. Another fierce struggle—the enemy’s line was forced down the side of the hill, and the victory was ours—the position entirely in our hands—their own pieces turned and playing upon them in their retreat. It was bought at cruel price—most of the officers being either killed or wounded. The whole tide of the battle now turned to this point. The result of the conflict depended entirely upon the ability of the victorious party to retain it. Major Hindman was ordered up, and posted his forces at the side of the captured cannon, while the American line correspondingly advanced. Stung with mortification, the brave General Drummond concentrated his forces, to retake by a desperate charge the position. The interval amid the darkness was alone filled by the roar of the cataracts, and the groans of the wounded. He advanced with strong reinforcements, outflanking each side of the American line. We were only able, in the murky darkness, to ascertain their approach by their heavy tread. “They halted within twenty paces—poured in a rapid fire and prepared for the rush.” Directed by the blaze, our men returned it with deadly effect, and after a desperate struggle, the dense column recoiled. Another interval of darkness and silence, and again a most furious and desperate charge was made by the British, throwing the whole weight of their attack upon the American centre. The gallant _Twenty-first_, which composed it, receiving them with undaunted firmness—while the fire from our lines was “dreadfully effective,” Hindman’s artillery served with the most perfect coolness and effect. Staggering, they again recoiled. During this second attack, General Scott in person, his shattered brigade now consolidated into a single battalion, made two determined charges upon the right and left flank of the enemy, and in these he received the scars which his countrymen now see upon his manly front. Our men were now almost worn down with fatigue, dying with thirst, for which they could gain no relief. The British, with fresh reinforcements—their men recruited and rested—after the interval of another hour, made their third and final effort to regain the position. They advanced—delivered their fire as before—and although it was returned with the same deadly effect, they steadily pressed forward. The _Twenty-first_ again sustained the shock, and both lines were soon engaged in a “conflict, obstinate and dreadful beyond description.” The right and left of the American line fell back for a moment, but were immediately rallied by their officers. “So desperate did the battle now become, that many battalions on both sides were forced back,” the men engaged in indiscriminate melée, fought hand to hand, and with muskets clubbed; and “so terrific was the conflict where the cannon were stationed, that Major Hindman had to engage them over his guns and gun-carriages, and finally to spike two of his pieces, under the apprehension that they would fall into the hands of the enemy.” General Ripley at length made a most desperate and determined charge upon both of the enemy’s flanks—they wavered—recoiled—gave way—and the centre soon following, they relinquished the fight and made a final retreat. The annals of warfare on this continent have never shown more desperate fighting. Bayonets were repeatedly crossed, and after the action, many of the men were found mutually transfixed. The British force engaged was about five thousand men;—the American thirty-five hundred: the combined loss in killed and wounded, seventeen hundred and twenty-two, officers and men. The battle commenced at half-past four o’clock in the afternoon, and did not terminate till midnight. We were so mingled, said the Major, and so great the confusion in the darkness, that as I was sitting with a group of officers in the earlier part of the night, on horseback, a British soldier came up to us, and recovering his musket, under the supposition that he was addressing one of his own officers, said, “Colonel Gordon will be much obliged, sir, if you will march up the three hundred men in the road to his assistance immediately, as he is very hard pressed.” I called him nearer, and pressing his musket down over my holsters, made him prisoner. “What have I done, sir,” said the astonished man, “what have I done?” and to convince British officers, as he supposed, of his loyalty, exclaimed, “Hurrah for the King, and damn the Yankees.” As he was marched to the rear, the poor fellow was cut down by a grape shot. In another part of the field, an American aid pulled up suddenly on a body of men under full march. In reply to his demand, “What regiment is that?” he was answered, “The Royal Scots.” With great presence of mind, he replied, “Halt! Royal Scots’, till further orders,” and then turning his horse’s head, galloped from their dangerous proximity. It was a horrid conflict. Humanity sighs over the slaughter of the brave men that fell in it.

But here we are, at the grave-yard, with its drooping willows and flowering locusts. Still—still—and quiet now. No armed men disturb its calmness and repose—no ponderous artillery wheels rudely cut its consecrated mounds—no ruffian jest—no savage execration—no moan of anguish, break now upon its hallowed silence. The long grass and blossoming heather waive green alike over the graves of friend and enemy. The marble tells the story of the few—the many, their very parents know not their resting place. See this broken wooden slab—it has rotted off even with the ground, and lies face downwards, the earthworm burrowing under it, in this neglected corner. Pull the grass aside; turn it over with your foot. What, the nearly effaced inscription?

“Sacred
TO THE MEMORY OF
CAPT’N —— BROWN,
OF THE
21st Regiment
WHO DIED OF WOUNDS RECEIVED IN ACTION,
WITH THE ENEMY, ON THE
25TH OF JULY, 1814.”

And this is honour! This is fame! Why, brave man! e’en now, I read the tribute to thy bravery in the bulletin of the action. Thou had’st comrades—father, mother, sisters—to mourn thy loss—and _now_, the stranger’s foot carelessly spurns thy frail memento; nor father, mother, sisters, nor human hand can point to the spot where rest thy ashes. Peace to thy manes! brave countrymen, where’er they sleep.

See from this point how gently and gracefully undulates the battle-field; the woods bowing to the evening breeze, as the soft sunlight pours through their branches show not the gashes of rude cannon shot—the plain, loaded and bending with the yellow harvest, betrays no human gore—yon hill scathed, scorched and blackened with cannon flame, the very resting place of the deadly battery, shows no relic of the fierce death struggle, as covered with the fragrant clover and wild blue-bell, the bee in monotonous hum banquets o’er it. Nought mars the serenity of nature as she smiles upon us. Yet, burnt in common funeral pyre, the ashes of those brave men, of friend and foe, there mingle in the bosom whence they issued. The frenzied passion passed, the furious conflict o’er, they have lain down in quiet, and like young children, sleep gently, sweetly, in the lap of that common mother who shelters with like protection the little field mouse from its gambols, and the turbaned Sultan sinking amid his prostrate millions. Shades of my gallant countrymen! Shades of their daring foes—farewell. Ne’er had warriors more glorious death-couch,—the eternal Cataracts roar your requiem.

The reader’s attention is requested to the more detailed
account of this action in the Appendix. The inscription on the
tablet is given from recollection, and it is possible that the
number of the Regiment may not be the one to which this officer
belonged.

LAKE GEORGE AND TICONDEROGA.

The Sun of Morning hurls himself in blazing splendour o’er thy crystal waters, beautiful Horicon, as we float upon thy placid bosom, not as of yore, in feathery canoe, but in gaily-coloured bark, drawn by Steam Spirit, as he vainly strives to break his fiery prison. See, how he puffs and pants in the fierce embrace of the glowing element; in furious efforts dragging us onward with frantic swiftness, e’en as the frightened steed, the vehicle wildly bounding after him. As the valve of safety opens, hear the shriek of mad delight, with which exultingly he proclaims his freedom;—now, the iron portal closed, how like Sampson in the Prison Mill, struggling, giant-like, he again applies him to his toil. Imprisoned Spirit! there is no help for thee. Sweat thou must, and pant, and groan, till, like thy fellow-labourer, man, released from fire fetter, as he of earth, resolved to pure ether, thou shalt float again free and delighted in the clear elements above!

Ho! brother spirit, tarry, tarry—wait thou a little ’till I join thee,—then, how gallantly we’ll ride! Couched on summer clouds, lazily we’ll float: or, glancing on sun rays, shoot swift as thought, ’mid the bright worlds rolling in sublimity above us. We’ll bathe in the Moon’s cold splendour, fan in the sultry heat of crimson Mars, slide upon Saturn’s eternal snows, or joyously gambolling along the Milky Way, we’ll chase the starry Serpent to his den. Ho! brother spirit;—but, we must bide our time—madly now in wild career, thou sweep’st the placid lake from under us.

But whom have we here? A sturdy hunter in homespun clad, with his long rifle—his broad-chested hounds in quiet, sleeping at his feet; our fellow-passenger, ’till landed on some mountain side, he follows his sylvan war. Clear animal health and vigour shine from each lineament—with what open, unsuspicious manhood—what boundless freedom he comports himself. Ha! what is it, hound? What is it? Why dost shake thy pendant ears and gaze so keenly in the distance—and why that plaintive howl? Ay, ay, hunter, thy practised eye hath caught it. On yon wooded island to the windward—a noble buck with graceful form and branching antlers. He sees us not, but the dog’s quick senses have caught his scent upon the passing wind. Still, boy, still! Pilot, put her a little more under the island. Hunter, lend me thy rifle—launch the canoe. Come, hunter—peace—peace—keep the dogs on board; paddle for yonder point—now we shoot upon the pebbly beach—now make her fast to this dead log. We’ll steal gently through the woods and come upon him unawares. Softly—press those vines away; whist—avoid the rustling of the branches; here, creep through these bushes—tread lightly on the fallen leaves—you’ll mire upon that swampy bottom. Hush—hush—tread softly—that crackling branch! He lifts his head—he looks uneasily about him—stand quiet. Now he browses again; get a little nearer—we are within distance. I’ll try him—click. Back go the antlers—the cocking of the rifle has alarmed him—he’s off! Here goes, hit or miss—crack—he jumps ten feet in the air. I’ve missed him—he bounds onward—no—yes—by Jove! he’s down—he’s up again—he plunges forward—he falls again—he rises—falls—he struggles to his knees—he——falls. Hurrah! he’s ours—quick—quick—thy _couteau de chasse_, we’ll make sure of him. Stop—stop. Poor deer! and _I_ have murdered thee, for my _sport_ have murdered thee—have taken from thee the precious boon of life—with cruelty have broken the silver chord, which the beggar’s blunt knife can sever, but not the jewelled fingers of the monarch again rejoin. There—there, thou liest, true to the Great Master’s picture—

“The big round tears course down thy innocent nose in piteous chase,
And thy smooth leathern sides pant almost to bursting.”

Thy life blood flows apace—e’en now thy large soft eye dims in the sleep of death—and _I_ have slain thee. Thou had’st nought other enemy than the gaunt coward wolf, or fanged serpent; him, with light leaping bounds, thou laugh’st to scorn, as his long howl struck on thy quick ear; and the sullen rattler, with many blows of thy tiny polished hoof thou dash’st to pieces, ere from his deadly coil, his flattened head, with glistening tongue and protruded fangs, could reach thee. Oh! I shame me of my miscreant fellowship. E’en the poisonous serpent, with quick vibrating tail, did give thee warning—_I_ stole upon thee unawares. Hunter! take again thy weapon; for thee—’tis thy vocation—perhaps ’tis well—the game is thine. I entreat of thee, let not my innocent victim again reproach my eyesight. So! here is the canoe—we again embark—we rock against the steamer’s side—and now again rush onward in our swift career. Islands glide by us in countless numbers. The frightened trout scales in quick alarm from the splashing waterwheels, while echo, mocking their watery clamour, wakes the old mountains from their sleepy stillness, who again, like drowsy giants, relapse into repose as we leave them far behind us.

_Ticonderoga_, we approach thy shore. Ay—true to appointment—here are the horses. Mount—on we go, over hillock and valley, through brake, through brier, through mud, through water, through swamp, through mire; we gallop over the broad green peninsula—leap the entrenchments—thread the lines. Here is the citadel—descend the moat; the wild dank weeds and furze o’ertop our heads. Ay—here’s a chasm—a breach in the ancient walls; spur up—spur up; now we draw rein within the very centre of the blackened ruins. How lovely the view, from the soft undulating promontory—the lake bathing its sides; Horicon’s mountains o’erlooking it on this—the stalwart yeomen of the verdant State, free as the winds, on that! Oh! Ticonderoga, midst these uncultivated wilds—these silent mountains—various and eventful hath been thy history.

Ho! Old Time—how calmly strok’st thou thy long greybeard, as seated on the broken ruins, thou ponderest their past! Come! come, old father! ascend this crumbling battlement—lean on my shoulder—I, _as yet_, am straightest—I will hold thy scythe. Now point to me the drama which past generations have acted upon this green peninsula.

What do I see? I see the savage life—the light canoe floating on the blue lake—painted warriors spearing the salmon, chasing the deer upon the plain, dragging the surly bear in triumph,—I see the swift paddle chase—I hear the laugh of children—the voice of patient squaws—the distant yell as rounding the point, the returning braves bemoan the dead left on the war-path, and as the shades of evening close, the sun in golden radiance retiring o’er the mountains, I see them congregate in wigwams in the cove.—The blue smoke rises gently o’er the tree tops, and all is still—quiet and serenity obtain—the whip-poor-will, and cricket, amid the drowsy hum of insect life, keep melancholy cadence.

“Stranger! venture not near them—the peace is treacherous. No civilized challenge shall give thee warning, but the cruel war-shriek wildly ring o’er the insensate brain as the light tomahawk trembles in thy cloven skull.”

Wild mist rolls onward—I hear sounds of distant music—the mellow horn—the clashing cymbals break from its midst. Ah! it rises. A gallant army, in proud array, with flags and banners—bright glittering arms, and ponderous artillery. With alacrity they effect their landing. They fraternise with the red-skinned warriors. Their military lines run round like magic. I feel, e’en where we stand, huge walls, grim towers rise, and bastions springing up around us—the spotless drapeau blanc, high o’er our heads, floats in the breeze—wild chansons of love, of war, of la belle France, mix with mirth and revelry.

“Stranger, ’tis the quick ‘_Qui Vive_’ that doth arrest thy footstep.”

Ay—now, Old Time, the mystic curtain again rolls upwards. What do I see?—Red-coated soldiers advancing in proud battalia through the forest glades, the sunbeams dancing on their bayonets. I hear the sound of bugles—the clamorous roll of drums, the groaning jar and creak of heavy-wheeled artillery. Spread along the lines, covered with sharp abattis and water moat, I see the impatient Gaul, with savage ally in ambushment, await their coming—they advance with desperate valour,—they ford the ditch, they hew the sharpened trees with axes. In vain—the balls like hail, from unseen foes murderously destroy them—their leader falls—hark! the bugle with melancholy wail sounds their retreat.

Again, Old Time, an interval—again red-coated soldiers! again groaning artillery! Look up!—the drapeau blanc has vanished—the meteor flag streams proudly from the flag-staff.

“Stranger, ’tis the Anglo-Saxon’s rough challenge that gruffly breaks upon thy ear.”

Long peace and silence—Old Father, now obtain—the sentry sleeps upon his post—women and children play upon the ramparts—but, hark! what is it far in the distance that I hear! the sound of battle! the fusilade of musketry—the roar of cannon! I see Bunker’s Hill from light barricade sweep down her thousands—I see hurrying forward the hardy husbandman with hastily caught musket—the robed divine—the youth—the old man—cheered on by mothers—sisters—tender wives,—to strike

“For their altars and their fires,
God, and their native homes.”

I see new Nation’s symbol—Stars and Stripes—and watch, now in the midnight darkness through the fortress moat—how advance that fearless band of men—Lo! in silence they penetrate the fortress’ centre. Hark! what voice rouses the astonished officer, as starting from his slumbers, he meets, close at his throat, the bayonet’s threatening point. “Surrender!” “To whom?” “The Great Jehovah, and the Continental Congress!”

Now floats the spangled banner proudly o’er the citadel—patriotic men assemble—armies make temporary resting place—invalid soldiers breathe the health-restoring air, and age wears on. Ha!—was that a meteor flashing from Defiance Mountain summit? And there, another?—Plunge! plunge! Cannon shot! screaming, yelling, bounding i’ th’ very centre of the fortress.

“’Tis the Englishman with his artillery.”

Quick, quick!—St. Clair, withdraw the army—the position is no longer tenable. Strike not that flag!—palsied be the hand that so degrades the flag of Freedom—let it shake defiance to the last! Quick, the magazine—the train—Ha, hah! Ætna, Vesuvius like, the explosion.

Hallo! Old Time!—Ho! thou of the scythe!—What! hast gone? Am I!—ay, I am alone! Nought but the blackened ruins, and the crumbling ramparts, in silence surrounding me.

MONTREAL.

Now, in steam palace, we shoot in swift career o’er thy tranquil surface, Lake Champlain—thy rolling mountains, in wavy outline, accompanying us in our rapid progress. Vast primeval forests sleep in stillness along thy borders—their sylvan patriarchs, reigning for centuries, untouched by woodman’s axe, stretch proudly their far-reaching branches, ’till ancient Time, pointing with extended finger the wild spirit of the winds breathes on them as he passes, and they succumb with sullen uproar, long with mock semblance retaining form and length, as if deriding the puny offspring shooting up around them; bestowing sore fall, I ween, and tumble on adventurous hunter, as stumbling through the undergrowth he plunges prostrate o’er them.

Forests immense cover the mountains, the gorges, valleys, reigning in stern solitude and silence, save where the fierce fire-god, serpent-like, pursues his flaming journey. There, followed by wreathing smoke columns, forward he leaps, with fiery tongue licking up acres—while the waterpools hissing in mist, join in his escort, and the wild game, with frantic swiftness, strive to escape the hot destruction of his embraces. With steady, noiseless progress, the white villages appear and disappear beside us. Rouse’s skeleton Tower looms largely in the distance;—now ’tis passed.

Thy military works, and crimson flag, Isle Aux Noix,—town of St. Johns, Richelieu, La Prairie,—we pass ye all; and advancing in soft summer atmosphere, Chambly, we behold thy mountain ramparts filling the far distance. St. Lawrence, majestic river, stretched like sheet of polished steel, as far as eye can reach, we stand upon thy level shores. Rapid—wide, rushing expanse of waters, with what glorious brightness thou look’st upon thy verdant shores, covered with continuous lines of snow-white cottages, and listenest to the soft music of the religious bells of the kind-hearted, cheerful habitans—as, with rude painted cross upon their door posts, they scare away the fiend, and joyously intercommune, in honest simple neighbourhood. La Chine—we speed o’er thy surface, with race-horse swiftness, and now _Montreal_,—beautiful—most beautiful,—couched at the foot of emerald mountain, liest thou upon the river’s margin, thy spires, roofs, cupolas, glittering in the sunbeams with silver radiance, and thy grand cathedral chimes floating onwards till lost in dreamy distance. We land upon thy granite quay—measure the extended esplanade—now climb thy narrow streets and alleys. Almost we think we tread one of thy antique cities, ancient France,—alleys narrow, dark and gloomy courts, grim inhospitable walls,—in place of airy casement, gratings and chained iron portals,—military barracks,—nunneries,—prisons,—fantastic churches, and Notre Dame’s cloud-piercing towers, in huge architectural pile, looming high above all. Noisy, chattering habitans, in variegated waist-belts, and clattering sabots, rotund dark-robed priests, lank voyageurs—red-coated soldiers, and haughty officers,—jostle each other on the narrow trottoir—but, mark! the sullen, down-cast Indian, in blanket robed, with gaudy feathers and shining ornaments, his patient squaw, straight as an arrow, her piercing-eyed papoose clinging to her shoulders, silently following him, in noiseless moccasins, moves along the _kennel_. Verily, poor forest child, it hath been written, and Moslem-like, thou to thy destiny must bow—the fire-water and the Christian will it—fold thee closer in thy blanket robe, and—die. See yon Indian girl, standing at the corner—with what classic grace the blue fold drapery thrown o’er her head, descends her shoulders, as, fawn-like, she stands, avoiding the rude passer’s stare.

Hardy ponies, in light calash, dash through the narrow streets, of passengers’ safety regardless; or, tugging at great trucks, strive, in renewed exertion, to vociferous cries and exclamations of the volatile Canadian. How well these Englishmen sit their horses. See that gentleman—with what delicate hand he reins the fiery blood that treads as if on feathers beneath him—and how picturesque appear, amid the motley throng, these red-coated soldiers.

Picturesque! I like them not—they indicate a subjugated people. Come! here stands one at the Champ de Mars—how martially he deports himself—his exactly poised musket, and his brazen ornaments—how bright! Inscribed upon his gorget are the actions which have signalized his regiment,—“Badajos”—“Salamanca”—“Vittoria”—“Waterloo.” We will address him. Soldier, your regiment was at Salamanca,—“_S-i-r_.” By the inscription on your gorget, your regiment distinguished itself at Salamanca—“scaled the imminent deadly breach” at “Badajos”—stood the Cuirassiers wild charge amid the sulphurous smoke at Waterloo?—“Don’t know, indeed, s-i-r.” And is this the gallant soldier! Why, for years, under the menace of thy sergeant, thou hast scoured that gorget to regulation brightness—for years hast marched under thy regimental colours emblazoned with those characters, and still in ignorance, need’st a Champoillion to decipher them. ’Tis well. Thou art the machine, indeed, that they require.—Verily, thy daily wage of sixpence, and thy ration, are full compensation for thy service.

Listen! The masses hurrying forward in the western hemisphere—whether to happiness and equality,—or furious license and bloody anarchy—with joyous shouts, and cries of freedom, arouse the echo. Dost hear above hoarse cries of “bread,” and mob hurrah’s—confused sounds—low muttering thunder—the rend and clank of chains that o’er the broad Atlantic roll from old Europe? ’Tis the chariot wheels of Liberty, as charging onwards she sweeps away rust-covered chains, and feudal bands, like maze of cobwebs, from her path. Hear! The Nations cry for Constitutions—the monarchs hurrying with ghastly smiles _grant_ their request—the people would _take_ them else. Therefore prepare thee, for wilt thou or thy rulers—the time surely approaches. Expand thy mind—cultivate thy intelligence—study thy God—so that when the hour arrives, in the first wild bounds of freedom, as the desert steed thou dash not thyself to pieces; nor, like the frantic Gaul, bursting from imprisonment of ages, gore thyself with thine own broken fetters, rushing on to deeds of blood and frenzy that cause humanity to shudder. Ponder it, soldier! fare thee well.

THE NUN.