Chapter V (2)

M’Donald died from wounds received in a very singular conflict. A
German, named Schell—the name usually spelled Shell—had founded a
little settlement about five miles north of Herkimer, which was
known as Shell’s Bush. Here he built a block-house, the upper-story
projecting all around. One August afternoon, while the people were
at work out-of-doors, M’Donald, with sixty men, made a descent
on the Bush. The inhabitants generally fled to Fort Dayton.
Schell saw the enemy almost too late, but managed to escape to
the block-house, with two of his sons—two others were taken. With
the aid of Mrs. Schell, who loaded the guns, the little garrison
made a vigorous defence. M’Donald, failing in an attempt to burn
the block-house, tried to open the door with a crow-bar. A shot
from Schell wounded him in the leg, and he was unable to stand.
Schell opened the door, dragged in M’Donald, and closed it. Then he
stripped his prisoner of all the cartridges he had. Schell felt he
had an insurance against fire while his prisoner was inside. But
the enemy, enraged at the loss of some of their number, made a rush
to the house, and five of them put the ends of their pieces through
the loop-holes. Mrs. Schell bent the barrels with the blows of an
axe, and Schell and his sons fired down on them. At dusk Schell
called to his wife from the second story, and told her that Captain
Small was coming from Fort Dayton. Presently he gave directions
loudly to imaginary troops, and the enemy taking fright ran away.
M’Donald’s leg was taken off next day at Fort Dayton, but he died
soon after the operation.

_COLONEL HARPER’S CHARGE._

As eastward the shadows were steadily creeping,
Fair wives were at spinning, stout husbands at reaping.

Loud chattered the children with no one to hush them;
None knew that the thunder was stooping to crush them.

But soon from the forest, the hill, and the dingle,
Came footmen and horsemen, in bodies and single.

Wild, painted Cayugas, relentless and fearless,
More barbarous Tories, black-hearted and tearless.

To hearth-stone and roof-tree destruction to carry,
The cruel M’Donald came down on Schoharie.

No mercy was offered, no quarter was given;
The souls of the victims departed unshriven.

Their requiem only the shrieks of the flying,
The yells of the slayers, the groans of the dying.

Too weak in our numbers to venture a sally,
We sat in our fortress and looked on the valley.

We heard the wild uproar, the screaming and yelling,
The firing and crashing, of butchery telling.

No tiger imprisoned in iron-bound caging
Felt half of our fury or equalled our raging.

Yet what could we hinder? Revenge was denied us,
While ten times our number to battle defied us.

Though wild was our anguish and deep our despairing,
With three hundred to fight would be imbecile daring.

But Colonel John Harper, who chafed at the ravage,
The pillage and murder, by Tory and savage,

Urged us on to the combat, and angrily showered
Hot words on our chief as a cold-blooded coward.

We heard all his raving of anger in sadness;
We never resented, but pitied his madness.

John Harper looked round him, and said he scorned favor,
He’d seek for assistance from men who were braver.

He called for his horse, and defied us to stay him,
And scoffed at the cowards who dared not obey him.

His foot in the stirrups, he hearkened to no man,
Sank spurs to their rowels, and charged through the foeman.

He scattered them fiercely, and, ere they could rally,
Away like an arrow he shot through the valley.

He broke through the circle created to bound him;
The bullets they showered fell harmlessly round him.

When fair in the saddle, he never was idle;
He rode through the darkness, and kept a loose bridle.

On, on through the darkness, till daylight was o’er him,
And Albany’s houses rose proudly before him.

We heard the shots rattle, we saw his foes rally,
And thought that his life-blood had moistened the valley.

Meanwhile in the fortress, through all the night dreary,
We watched till the sunrise, disheartened and weary.

Noon came in its splendor; we saw them preparing
To storm our rude ramparts, and laughed at their daring.

For we were in shelter, and they were uncovered—
There was work for the buzzards that over us hovered.

Each step they took forward, with eagerness timing,
We handled our rifles, and looked to the priming.

But, stay! is this real, or only delusion?
What means their blank terror, their sudden confusion?

The whole of the foemen seem stricken with one dread—
’Tis Colonel John Harper, with horsemen a hundred!

We gaze but a moment in rapture and wonder—
Rides Harper like lightning, we fall like the thunder.

To saddle, M’Donald! your doom has been spoken;
The tigers are on you, the bars have been broken.

Whose horse is the swiftest may ride from the foray;
No hope for the footman if savage or Tory.

The heart shuts on pity when vengeance is portress;
And husbands and fathers came forth from the fortress.

As the wails of our wives and our babes we remember,
The bright fire of mercy goes out—the last ember.

They meant but a visit, we forced them to tarry;
But few of the foemen went back from Schoharie.

ORISKANY.

The battle at Oriskany is one of the many instances during the
Revolutionary contest where disaster resulted through the rashness
and insubordination of inferior officers. A lack of discipline
continually placed the cause in peril, and success was frequently
won at a cost which might have been avoided. The enemy, under
the command of Johnson and Brant, were, fortunately for their
antagonists, troubled with the same fault. Had it been otherwise,
the Americans would have been exterminated.

The enemy had laid siege to Fort Schuyler, where Gansevoort lay
with a small garrison. General Herkimer, though without much
pretensions to military science, was a brave and prudent officer,
and perfectly fitted for the occasion. He had called out the
militia of Tryon County to the number of eight hundred. His plan
was to make an attack upon the enemy simultaneously with a sortie
from the fort, and he sent a messenger to effect that arrangement
with Gansevoort. The signal for Herkimer’s advance was to be a
single gun from Fort Schuyler. It was some time before the scout
could make his way safely through the investing force. In the
mean while some of the men grew impatient, and clamored for an
immediate advance. Colonels Cox and Paris headed this party, and
when Herkimer refused they denounced him as a coward. At length he
submitted to a precipitous movement, at the same time saying that
these very bold gentlemen would be the first to run. And so it
proved.

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!”

Then came the crash of musketry loud pealing on my ear;
I heard a whizzing sound go past—down fell a comrade near—
There was a throbbing in my breast that seemed almost like fear—
A shock, to see a stout young man, in all his youth and pride,
One who had left the day before a fond and blooming bride,
Thus done to death, the scarlet blood slow trickling from his side;
And doubly strange that fearful sight to one who ne’er before,
Amid the shouting of the hosts, and the cannon’s deadly roar,
Had seen a fellow-mortal lie thus lifeless in his gore.

But rage supplanted this at once—my heart grew strong again;
Uprose grim wrath and bitter hate, and bitterer disdain.
I longed to add a leaden drop unto that whizzing rain—
The tenderness of youth I found forevermore had gone.
My cheek was leaned upon my gun, the sight was finely drawn
Upon a gold-laced officer who cheered the Hessians on;
And, trembling in my eagerness to strike for home a blow,
I sent the lead, as mother said, two fingers’ length below
The ridge that marked the collar-bone, and laughed when fell the foe.

There comes a pause within the fight—we see some horsemen group,
And on the breastwork ridge take line, a dark and threatening troop—
Compact they form, with sabres drawn, upon our force to swoop.
Oh, now we smile a grimly smile, and wrath our bosom stirs;
We newly load and careful prime our firelocks for the curs—
For well we know their uniform, those Brunswicker chasseurs!
They come at last whose doom was past long, weary months before—
They come to meet the death that we to deal upon them swore
When first the bearded robbers came for plunder to our shore.

They come, the mercenary dogs, assassins of the crown;
Right gracefully and gallantly they sit their horses brown,
Then rowel-deep they drive their spurs, and thunder madly down.
But as the ground is shaking round before their horses’ tread,
A sheet of fire their sabres lights, high waving overhead,
And of the hundred men who charge full forty-eight lie dead.
Those who survive in vain they strive; they may not fight nor run—
We pass them quickly to the rear, our captives every one.
And so we serve the Brunswicker that day at Bennington.

Then where their remnant lay at bay our angry torrent rolled—
As when a dam gives way, and leaves the waters uncontrolled—
Sweeping to break the square of steel in centre of their hold.
No peal of trump nor tap of drum our eager footsteps timed;
With firelocks clubbed or knife in hand, our faces powder-grimed,
Fatigue unfelt and fear unknown, the ridge of earth we climbed;
Down from its crest we fearless plunged amid the smoke clouds dun,
But struck no blow upon the foe—resistance there was none—
Down fell their arms, uprose the white, and Bennington was won.

Then greeted we surviving friends, and mourned for those who fell,
And, leaning on our firelocks, heard the tales that soldiers tell
How comrades whom they little knew had done their duty well,
And how amid the hosts in fight no coward had been found;
Then gazed upon the foemen slain that lay in heaps around,
And said, in bitter hate and scorn, they well became the ground—
So evermore by sea and shore might those invaders be,
Who came with chains for limbs of men who by their birth were free—
A pang shot sharply through my brain—my brother! where was he?

I sought and found him with the blood slow oozing from his brain;
His feet were pointed to the ridge, his back was to the plain,
And round him in a curving row a dozen Hessians slain.
How well his sword had mown was shown in gazing at the heap—
Strown like a swathe of grass before some lusty mower’s sweep—
Of those whose souls had fled their forms through bloody wounds and deep.
I placed his corse upon his horse, and gently homeward led
The wearied steed that ne’er before was ridden by the dead;
And we buried the corse in the meadow with a white stone at its head.

_THE CAPTURE OF BURGOYNE._

[From an English Print, 1783.]]

The way for the operations which resulted in the capture of
Burgoyne and his forces was mainly prepared by General Schuyler,
who was unjustly replaced by Gates. The battles at Stillwater
rendered the result a certainty. The surrender of Burgoyne and his
forces, by showing the probability of success, secured the French
alliance. The value of that consisted in the fact that it gave
Great Britain more to do, and prevented her from crushing the new
States, which had declared their independence from “the State of
Great Britain.” Up to that time Louis the Sixteenth had only given
us covert assistance. Then he, unwisely for himself, declared war
against England, leading to a train of events which crystallized
the memory of long years of oppression of the French people into
revolution. The king did not foresee the consequences. Joseph the
Second of Austria was more shrewd. When urged to join the alliance
against Great Britain he said—“I am a sovereign, and will not aid
to injure my own trade.” The material assistance afforded by France
was slight, and at Savannah injurious. The French were at Yorktown,
but Cornwallis would have fallen without their aid. Afterwards they
not only claimed the laurels, but affected to consider us as a
French dependency, and carried it so far as to provoke us to war.
We owe France nothing; but we owe much to the memory of the Marquis
de la Fayette, who generously placed at our disposal his life and
fortune; who was our disinterested friend at a critical period and
throughout; and who will be remembered with gratitude so long as
the Union remains.

Whether Arnold distinguished himself at the first battle of
Stillwater may be a moot question. That he was a moving spirit in
the second battle is undoubted. The victory was very much due to
his exertions. Up to the time of his treason, despite his rapacity
and extravagance at Philadelphia, he merited praise for his dash,
bravery, and unflinching devotion to the cause of Independence.
That he was treated badly by the Congress is true; but that is
scarcely a palliation of his infamous conduct in revenge. The
Congress seems to have had a faculty for injustice. As it acted
towards Arnold, so it did to Paul Jones, John Stark, and Philip
Schuyler. But none of the last named revenged themselves by
treason. The contrast between the conduct of Arnold and Schuyler
is particularly notable. The latter had managed affairs with
dexterity, and it was to his prudence, decision, and skill that
the surrender of Burgoyne was mainly due. At the last moment he was
superseded by Gates, under circumstances calculated to arouse his
resentment. Schuyler, unlike Arnold, was not merely a patriot, but
a man of honor. He was ready to submit to wrong rather than betray
the cause. The conduct of Arnold was the baser from the fact that
Washington, who felt that the man had been wronged, labored to do
him right, and had placed him in the responsible command of West
Point, to pave the way to that distinction his services on the
battle-field deserved. Arnold, therefore, added ingratitude and
breach of confidence to treason. He seems to have had the courage
of a bull-dog, but to have been totally lacking in moral principle.

When I was a boy I met an old Revolutionary soldier who had served
under Arnold. He would praise him for his bravery in one minute,
and denounce his treachery the next, rarely speaking of him without
tears. Hence the idea of the ballad.

_ARNOLD AT STILLWATER._

Ah! you mistake me, comrades, to think that my heart is steel,
Cased in a cold endurance, nor pleasure nor pain to feel;
Cold as I am in my manner, yet over these cheeks so seared
Tear-drops have fallen in torrents, thrice since my chin grew beard.

Thrice since my chin was bearded I suffered the tears to fall:
Benedict Arnold, the traitor! he was the cause of them all.
Once, when he carried Stillwater, proud of his valor I cried;
Then, with my rage at his treason—with pity when André died.

Benedict Arnold, the traitor, sank deep in the pit of shame,
Bartered for vengeance his honor, blackened for profit his fame;
Yet never a gallanter soldier, whatever his after-crime,
Fought on the red field of honor than he in his early time.

Ah! I remember Stillwater as it were yesterday:
Then first I shouldered a firelock, and set out the foemen to slay.
The country was up all around us, racing and chasing Burgoyne,
And I had gone out with my neighbors, Gates and his forces to join.

Marched we with Poor and with Learned, ready and eager to fight;
There stood the foemen before us, cannon and men on the height.
Onward we trod with no shouting, forbidden to fire till the word;
As silent their long line of scarlet—not one of them whispered or stirred

Suddenly, then, from among them smoke rose and spread on the breeze;
Grape-shot flew over us sharply, cutting the limbs from the trees;
But onward we pressed till the order of Cilley fell full on the ear,
Then we levelled our pieces and fired them, and rushed up the slope with a cheer.

Fiercely we charged on their centre, and beat back the stout grenadiers,
And wounded the brave Major Ackland, and grappled the swart cannoneers.
Five times we captured their cannon, and five times they took them again;
But the sixth time we had them we kept them, and with them a share of their men.

Our colonel who led us dismounted, high on a cannon he sprang;
Over the noise of our shouting clearly his joyous words rang:
“These are our own brazen beauties! Here to America’s cause
I dedicate each, and to freedom!—foes to King George and his laws!”

Worn as we were with the struggle, wounded and bleeding and sore,
Some stood all pale and exhausted, some lay there stiff in their gore;
And round through the mass went a murmur that grew to a whispering clear,
And then to reproaches outspoken—“If General Arnold were here!”

For Gates, in his folly and envy, had given the chief no command,
And far in the rear some had seen him horseless and moodily stand,
Knitting his forehead in anger, and gnawing his red lip in pain,
Fretting himself like a blood-hound held back from his prey by a chain.

Hark! at our right there is cheering! there is the ruffle of drums!
Here is the well-known brown charger! Spurring it madly he comes!
Learned’s brigade have espied him, rending the air with a cheer:
Woe to the terrified foeman, now that our leader is here!

Piercing the tumult behind him, Armstrong is out on his track:
Gates has despatched his lieutenant to summon the fugitive back.
Armstrong might summon the tempest, order the whirlwind to stay,
Issue commands to the earthquake—would they the mandate obey?

Wounds, they were healed in a moment, weariness instantly gone:
Forward he pointed his sabre—led us, not ordered us on.
Down on the Hessians we thundered, he, like a madman, ahead:
Vainly they strove to withstand us; raging, they shivered and fled.

On to their earthworks we drove them, shaking with ire and dismay;
There they made stand with a purpose to beat back the tide of the day.
Onward we followed, then faltered; deadly their balls whistled free.
Where was our death-daring leader? Arnold, our hope, where was he?

He? He was everywhere riding! hither and thither his form,
On the brown charger careering, showed us the path of the storm;
Over the roar of the cannon, over the musketry’s crash,
Sounded his voice, while his sabre lit up the way with its flash.

Throwing quick glances around him, reining a moment his steed—
“Brooks! that redoubt!” was his order: “let the rest follow my lead!
Mark where the smoke-cloud is parting! see where their gun-barrels glance!
Livingston, forward! On, Wesson! charge them! Let Morgan advance!”

“Forward!” he shouted, and, spurring on through the sally-port then,
Fell sword in hand on the Hessians, closely behind him our men.
Back shrank the foemen in terror, off went their forces pell-mell,
Firing one Parthian volley: struck by it, Arnold he fell.

Ours was the day. Up we raised him; spurted the blood from his knee—
“Take this cravat, boys, and bind it; I am not dead yet,” said he.
“What! did you follow me, Armstrong? Pray, do you think it quite right,
Leaving your duties out yonder to risk your dear self in the fight?”

“General Gates sent his orders—” faltering the aide-de-camp spoke—
“You’re to return, lest some rashness—” Fiercely the speech Arnold broke:
“Rashness! Why, yes! tell the general the rashness he dreaded is done!
Tell him his kinsfolk are beaten! tell him the battle is won!”

Oh, that a soldier so glorious, ever victorious in fight,
Passed from a daylight of honor into the terrible night;
Fell as the mighty archangel, ere the earth glowed in space, fell—
Fell from the patriot’s heaven down to the loyalist’s hell!

_SIEGE OF FORT HENRY._

In 1771, a stockade fort was erected at the mouth of Wheeling
Creek, in what was then the district of West Augusta, in Virginia,
to protect the settlers against a threatened invasion of the
savages. It was called Fort Fincastle, and is said to have been
planned by George Rogers Clarke. The original garrison was
twenty-five men; but though this was afterwards ordered to be
doubled, it is doubtful if the command were ever obeyed. In 1776,
when the colonists rebelled against the crown, and West Augusta was
divided into the counties of Ohio, Youghiogheny, and Monongahela,
the name was changed to Fort Henry, in honor of Patrick Henry, then
governor of Virginia.

The organization of Ohio County at this time was essentially
military, every able-bodied man being enrolled; and this enrollment
was a list of taxables, and formed the basis of the county revenue.
David Shepherd, the colonel commanding the county militia, was also
the presiding justice of the county court. Besides this the county
had to raise two companies as a part of the Continental Army. These
were commanded respectively by Captains John Lemmon and Silas Zane;
but as they appear never to have enlisted more than twenty men, the
project was probably abandoned.

Fort Henry was the only fortified place capable of a protracted
defence, though there were block-houses in the settlements at Peach
Bottom, Grave Creek, Short Creek, and Cross Creek. It stood on high
ground a short distance above the mouth of Wheeling Creek, and near
it were twenty or thirty log-houses, the beginning of what is now
the flourishing city of Wheeling. The famous attack upon it was
made in September, 1777. During the spring of that year frequent
aggressions had been made upon the white settlements by thieving
bands of Indians, and these attacks had been either repulsed or
the marauders followed up and chastised. During the summer these
increased, and the result was a cessation of ordinary occupations,
and an understood placing of the country under martial law. At the
beginning of September it was learned that Simon Girty, a notorious
white renegade, was raising a strong band of Wyandots, Mingoes, and
Shawanock—mainly of the former. So well did their leader manage,
however, that he brought his band, from four to five hundred in
number, to the walls of Fort Henry before his real points of attack
were known.

On the night of the 26th of September, a small scouting party
discovered smoke arising at the south of Wheeling Creek. Captain
Ogle, one of these, thought it came from the burning of the
block-house at Grave Creek; and Colonel Shepherd sent out to
ascertain the truth, and caused the families living around to
take refuge in the fort. The next morning his scouts sent to warn
neighboring settlements were fired on, and one of them killed, by
six lurking Indians. A party of fifteen, sent to dislodge these,
encountered the main force, and all but three were killed. A party
sent to their aid, lost two-thirds of their number. These losses
cut down the garrison to twelve men and boys. The assailing force,
which now closely invested the garrison, was never estimated at
less than three hundred and eighty, but was probably much more.

During the whole of the day the fight was maintained with great
vigor. The Indians at one time made an impromptu cannon of a huge
log, winding it around with chains from the blacksmith’s shop in
the village, loading it with round stones, and directing it against
the gate of the fort. It exploded, and killed and wounded several
of the besiegers. The next morning, relief came in the shape of
forty men, under M’Culloch, from Short Creek, and fourteen more
from Cross Creek. The enemy burned the houses around, carried off
the cattle, and, bearing their dead, moved away.

During the fight, the defenders grew short of powder. There was
a keg in Ebenezer Zane’s house about sixty yards away, and this
was obtained by the sister of Ebenezer, a young woman, in the way
described in the ballad.

_BETTY ZANE._

Women are timid, cower and shrink
At show of danger, some folk think;
But men there are who for their lives
Dare not so far asperse their wives.
We let that pass—so much is clear,
Though little dangers they may fear,
When greater perils men environ,
Then women show a front of iron;
And, gentle in their manner, they
Do bold things in a quiet way,
And so our wondering praise obtain,
As on a time did Betty Zane.

A century since, out in the West,
A block-house was by Girty pressed—
Girty, the renegade, the dread
Of all that border, fiercely led
Five hundred Wyandots, to gain
Plunder and scalp-locks from the slain;
And in this hold—Fort Henry then,
But Wheeling now—twelve boys and men
Guarded with watchful ward and care
Women and prattling children there,
Against their rude and savage foes,
And Betty Zane was one of those.

There had been forty-two at first
When Girty on the border burst;
But most of those who meant to stay
And keep the Wyandots at bay,
Outside by savage wiles were lured,
And ball and tomahawk endured,
Till few were left the place to hold,
And some were boys and some were old;
But all could use the rifle well,
And vainly from the Indians fell,
On puncheon roof and timber wall,
The fitful shower of leaden ball.

Now Betty’s brothers and her sire
Were with her in this ring of fire,
And she was ready, in her way,
To aid their labor day by day,
In all a quiet maiden might.
To mould the bullets for the fight,
And, quick to note and so report,
Watch every act outside the fort;
Or, peering from the loop-holes, see
Each phase of savage strategy—
These were her tasks, and thus the maid
The toil-worn garrison could aid.

Still, drearily the fight went on
Until a week had nearly gone,
When it was told—a whisper first,
And then in loud alarm it burst—
Their powder scarce was growing; they
Knew where a keg unopened lay
Outside the fort at Zane’s—what now?
Their leader stood with anxious brow.
It must be had at any cost,
Or toil and fort and lives were lost.
Some one must do that work of fear;
What man of men would volunteer?

Two offered, and so earnest they,
Neither his purpose would give way;
And Shepherd, who commanded, dare
Not pick or choose between the pair.
But ere they settled on the one
By whom the errand should be done,
Young Betty interposed, and said,
“Let me essay the task instead.
Small matter ’t were if Betty Zane,
A useless woman, should be slain;
But death, if dealt on one of those,
Gives too much vantage to our foes.”

Her father, smiled with pleasure grim—
Her pluck gave painful pride to him;
And while her brothers clamored “No!”
He uttered, “Boys, let Betty go!
She’ll do it at less risk than you;
But keep her steady in your view,
And be your rifles shields for her.
If yonder foe make step or stir,
Pick off each wretch who draws a bead,
And so you’ll serve her in her need.
Now I recover from surprise,
I think our Betty’s purpose wise.”

The gate was opened, on she sped;
The foe astonished, gazed, ’tis said,
And wondered at her purpose, till
She gained that log-hut by the hill.
But when, in apron wrapped, the cask
She backward bore, to close her task,
The foemen saw her aim at last,
And poured their fire upon her fast.
Bullet on bullet near her fell,
While rang the Indians’ angry yell;
But safely through that whirring rain,
Powder in arms, came Betty Zane.

They filled their horns, both boys and men,
And so began the fight again.
Girty, who there so long had stayed,
By this new feat of feet dismayed,
Fired houses round and cattle slew,
And moved away—the fray was through.
But when the story round was told
How they maintained the leaguered hold,
It was agreed, though fame was due
To all who in that fight were true,
The highest meed of praise, ’twas plain,
Fell to the share of Betty Zane.

A hundred years have passed since then;
The savage never came again.
Girty is dust; alike are dead
Those who assailed and those bestead.
Upon those half-cleared, rolling lands,
A crowded city proudly stands;
But of the many who reside
By green Ohio’s rushing tide,
Not one has lineage prouder than
(Be he or poor or rich) the man
Who boasts that in his spotless strain
Mingles the blood of Betty Zane.

_OPERATIONS AT MONMOUTH._