Chapter V (3)

In June, 1777, the American army was still encamped at Valley
Forge. Instructions had been sent from England to Sir Henry
Clinton, who replaced Howe as commander-in-chief, to evacuate
Philadelphia, and make New York the centre of his operations.
So prudently did he prepare for this step that Washington knew
nothing of his intention until the British army was actually
over the Delaware. A council of war held at Valley Forge decided
adversely to an attack upon the enemy, but Washington took up the
pursuit, determined to act according to circumstances. He sent
Arnold, who was incapacitated for action in the field, with a small
detachment to take possession of Philadelphia, while he crossed
the river at Coryell’s Ferry, above Trenton. Clinton, who had to
build bridges all along his route, and who was encumbered with
baggage and stores, so that on the single effective road he found
his train was twelve miles long, was slow in his movements. This,
somehow, produced an impression that he meant to draw on a general
engagement. An American council of war was called at Hopewell,
which still opposed a battle, but recommended harassing the enemy
by detachments. Washington ordered Morgan’s corps to the British
right flank, Maxwell’s brigade to the left, and Scott’s picked
corps, with some forces under Dickinson and Cadwallader, to annoy
them on flanks and rear.

Clinton’s first plan was to strike New Brunswick and embark at
the Raritan; but at Allentown, finding Washington in his way, and
disinclined to a general engagement under the circumstances, he
moved to the right, intending to pass Monmouth Court-house and
embark at Sandy Hook. The Americans were now at Kingston. Lee and
all the general officers, except La Fayette, Greene, and Wayne,
were in favor of continuing the system of annoyance; but Washington
at last made ready for a battle. He ordered forward Wayne with
a thousand men to support the troops most in advance, giving La
Fayette the command of the advanced force—about four thousand in
all—while he moved the main body towards Cranberry. On the morning
of the 27th, La Fayette arrived at Englishtown. By this time
Clinton had made a different disposition of his forces, throwing
his grenadiers to his rear, and placing the encumbrances in front
under charge of Knyphausen. He made his camp in a strong position
near the court-house, in a line three miles in length, protected by
woods and marshes. This forced Washington to support his advance
strongly, and he sent Lee forward to join La Fayette with two
brigades at Englishtown, which placed Lee in command then as senior
officer. The corps of Morgan still threatened the enemy’s right,
and Dickinson’s force his left. Washington, fearing the enemy would
take post on Middletown Heights, determined to attack the rear on a
movement in that direction, and sent orders to Lee to prepare for
an assault.

The next day, the 28th, was Sunday, and bade fair to be, as it
became, one of the hottest days of the season. An hour after
midnight, Lee ordered Dickinson forward with a strong party of
observation, and directed Morgan to attack the British as soon
as they moved. The rest of the troops were ordered to prepare to
march, and before dawn, Scott and Varnum’s brigades were moving
slowly towards the court-house; at daybreak, Knyphausen, with his
Hessians and loyalists; and at eight o’clock Clinton followed with
the main body. The whole American army was put in motion, and Lee
received orders to attack, unless he saw very powerful reasons
otherwise. This discretionary clause had like to have resulted
in defeat. Dickinson having received word that the British were
about to attack with the main force, which was incorrect, sent the
news to Lee, who believed it. He pushed forward across the morass
to a narrow road near the parsonage, and joined Dickinson on the
heights. Here the news brought was conflicting, and while Lee was
trying to get it correctly, Lafayette came up with the rest of the
advanced corps. Learning that the enemy was not in force on either
flank, he marched on. He had between five and six thousand men,
including those under Morgan and Dickinson. He pressed forward,
under cover of the woods, formed a part of his line for action,
and rode forward with Wayne far enough to see that the British
deploying on the left were merely a heavy covering party. Hoping
to cut them off from the main army, he detached Wayne with seven
hundred men and two field-pieces to make a feint in the rear.

About nine o’clock, the Queen’s Dragoons being observed on a
height, apparently preparing to attack, Lee ordered the light-horse
to let them nearly approach, and then to fall back on Wayne. This
manœuvre would have succeeded, had not a small party under Butler
fired at them from ambush, which caused them to fall back. Wayne
ordered the artillery to open on them, and then charged, Oswald
opening fire from an eminence in the morass. Wayne was attacking
with vigor, when to his chagrin he received an order from Lee to
move less vigorously, lest he might prevent the latter from cutting
off the covering party. Wayne obeyed, but Lee brought his forces
from under cover in detachments only. Sir Henry Clinton, fearing
that the Americans were massing on both flanks for the purpose of
capturing his baggage, faced about to attack Lee, and force those
threatening his flanks to come to the latter’s aid. Lafayette
seeing this, asked permission of Lee to attempt gaining the rear
of the enemy. Lee refused at first, but finally agreed to let him
attack the enemy’s left; but weakened Lafayette by withdrawing
three regiments to the support of the right. Riding forward to
reconnoitre, Lee saw, or thought he saw, a heavy force marching
on the Middletown road towards the court-house. He ordered the
right to fall back. The British were advancing with the apparent
design of gaining the American rear, just as Scott and Maxwell’s
brigades were approaching the enemy’s right, the former forming
for action. Lee ordered both to fall back, arrange their line in
the woods, and await orders. Mistaking the nature of the order,
they retreated through the woods towards Freehold meeting-house. As
soon as Lee learned this, instead of recalling them, he sent word
to Lafayette to fall back on the court-house, which he obeyed, the
enemy pursuing him as far as the latter place, where they halted.
Both parties suffered from the extreme heat, their men in some
instances dropping exhausted. Lee made one stand, and then resumed
his retreat. It degenerated into a panic. Numbers were lost in the
morass—few perished by ball. There was little firing on either side.

During this time Washington was moving to Lee’s support.
For Lee, when he discovered the large covering party in the
enemy’s rear, and had planned to cut them off, sent word to the
commander-in-chief of his purpose. On the receipt of this message,
Washington had despatched Greene with the right wing by Freehold
Meeting-house, to prevent the enemy turning that flank, while he
prepared to move the left in the rear of Lee, in support. Suddenly
came the news that Lee was retreating, with Clinton in pursuit.
Washington was astounded. There had been little firing to indicate
battle, and, riding forward, he met the head of the retreating
force. Halting it, he pushed on and found Lee at the head of the
second column. He demanded in an angry way the meaning of the
confusion, and Lee, who also lost his temper, replied harshly. A
few hasty and bitter words passed, when Washington rode on, stayed
the troops, and ordered Oswald to check the progress of the enemy
with his cannon. The men under Stewart and Ramsay were formed
in battle order. Then Washington turned to the chafed Lee, and
said, “Will you command in that place, sir?” Lee replied in the
affirmative. “Then,” said Washington, “I expect you to attack the
enemy immediately.” “Your command shall be obeyed, sir,” replied
Lee, “and I will not be the first to leave the field.”

While Washington was bringing order out of the confusion elsewhere,
and disposing properly of Greene’s forces, and the left wing under
Stirling, Lee vigorously carried out his orders; but the force of
the enemy was too overwhelming. After a vigorous fight, he brought
them under cover of a fire by Ogden, detailed for that purpose, he
being “the last to leave the field,” and forming them in line on
the slope, reported to Washington for further orders. Washington
seeing the men were worn out, ordered him to arrange them at
Englishtown, while he attacked with the main body. The action
now became hot all along the line, and was pursued with varying
success, until at length, towards sunset, the British army, badly
worsted, fell back upon the heights held by Lee in the morning.
It was a strong position, flanked by forest and morass, but
Washington prepared to attack it. The darkness coming on, the men
were ordered to sleep on their arms, and to move at daylight.

But this was unneeded. At midnight, Clinton silently stole off;
and when dawn came he was so far away towards New Brunswick, that
pursuit was useless. The Americans lost in the battle sixty-seven
killed, one hundred and sixty wounded, and one hundred and thirty
missing; but a number of the last had been merely prostrated by the
extreme heat, and afterward rejoined their commands. There were two
hundred and forty-nine of the British left dead on the field, of
whom fifty-nine died of sunstroke. The number of their wounded is
unknown.

_BATTLE OF MONMOUTH._

Four-and-eighty years are o’er me; great-grandchildren sit before me;
These my locks are white and scanty, and my limbs are weak and worn;
Yet I’ve been where cannon roaring, firelocks rattling, blood outpouring,
Stirred the souls of patriot soldiers, on the tide of battle borne;
Where they told me I was bolder far than many a comrade older,
Though a stripling at that fight for the right.

All that sultry day in summer beat his sullen march the drummer,
Where the Briton strode the dusty road until the sun went down;
Then on Monmouth plain encamping, tired and footsore with the tramping,
Lay all wearily and drearily the forces of the crown,
With their resting horses neighing, and their evening bugles playing,
And their sentries pacing slow to and fro.

Ere the day to night had shifted, camp was broken, knapsacks lifted,
And in motion was the vanguard of our swift-retreating foes;
Grim Knyphausen rode before his brutal Hessians, bloody Tories—
They were fit companions, truly, hirelings these and traitors those—
While the careless jest and laughter of the teamsters coming after
Rang around each creaking wain of the train.

’Twas a quiet Sabbath morning; nature gave no sign of warning
Of the struggle that would follow when we met the Briton’s might;
Of the horsemen fiercely spurring, of the bullets shrilly whirring,
Of the bayonets brightly gleaming through the smoke that wrapped the fight;
Of the cannon thunder-pealing, and the wounded wretches reeling,
And the corses gory red of the dead.

Quiet nature had no prescience; but the Tories and the Hessians
Heard the baying of the beagles that were hanging on their track;
Heard the cries of eager ravens soaring high above the cravens;
And they hurried, worn and worried, casting startled glances back,
Leaving Clinton there to meet us, with his bull-dogs fierce to greet us,
With the veterans of the crown, scarred and brown.

For the fight our souls were eager, and each Continental leaguer,
As he gripped his firelock firmly, scarce could wait the word to fire;
For his country rose such fervor, in his heart of hearts, to serve her,
That it gladdened him and maddened him and kindled raging ire.
Never panther from his fastness, through the forest’s gloomy vastness,
Coursed more grimly night and day for his prey.

I was in the main force posted; Lee, of whom his minions boasted,
Was commander of the vanguard, and with him were Scott and Wayne.
What they did I knew not, cared not; in their march of shame I shared not;
But it startled me to see them panic-stricken back again,
At the black morass’s border, all in headlong, fierce disorder,
With the Briton plying steel at their heel.

Outward cool when combat waging, howsoever inward raging,
Ne’er had Washington showed feeling when his forces fled the foe;
But to-day his forehead lowered, and we shrank his wrath untoward,
As on Lee his bitter speech was hurled in hissing tones and low:
“Sir, what means this wild confusion? Is it cowardice or collusion?
Is it treachery or fear brings you here?”

Lee grew crimson in his anger—rang his curses o’er the clangor,
O’er the roaring din of battle, as he wrathfully replied;
But his raging was unheeded; fastly on our chieftain speeded,
Rallied quick the fleeing forces, stayed the dark, retreating tide;
Then, on foaming steed returning, said to Lee, with wrath still burning,
“Will you now strike a blow at the foe?”

At the words Lee drew up proudly, curled his lip and answered loudly:
“Ay!” his voice rang out, “and will not be the first to leave the field;”
And his word redeeming fairly, with a skill surpassed but rarely,
Struck the Briton with such ardor that the scarlet column reeled;
Then, again, but in good order, past the black morass’s border,
Brought his forces rent and torn, spent and worn.

As we turned on flanks and centre, in the path of death to enter,
One of Knox’s brass six-pounders lost its Irish cannoneer;
And his wife who, ’mid the slaughter, had been bearing pails of water
For the gun and for the gunner, o’er his body shed no tear.
“Move the piece!”—but there they found her loading, firing that six-pounder,
And she gayly, till we won, worked the gun.

Loud we cheered as Captain Molly waved the rammer; then a volley
Pouring in upon the grenadiers, we sternly drove them back;
Though like tigers fierce they fought us, to such zeal had Molly brought us
That, though struck with heat, and thirsting, yet of drink we felt no lack:
There she stood amid the clamor, busily handling sponge and rammer,
While we swept with wrath condign on their line.

From our centre backward driven, with his forces rent and riven,
Soon the foe re-formed in order, dressed again his shattered ranks;
In a column firm advancing, from his bayonets hot rays glancing
Showed in waving lines of brilliance as he fell upon our flanks,
Charging bravely for his master: thus he met renewed disaster
From the stronghold that we held back repelled.

Monckton, gallant, cool, and fearless, ’mid his bravest comrades peerless,
Brought his grenadiers to action but to fall amid the slain;
Everywhere their ruin found them; red destruction rained around them
From the mouth of Oswald’s cannon, from the musketry of Wayne;
While our sturdy Continentals, in their dusty regimentals,
Drove their plumed and scarlet force, man and horse.

Beamed the sunlight fierce and torrid o’er the battle raging horrid,
Till, in faint exhaustion sinking, death was looked on as a boon;
Heat, and not a drop of water—heat, that won the race of slaughter,
Fewer far with bullets dying than beneath the sun of June;
Only ceased the terrible firing, with the Briton slow retiring,
As the sunbeams in the west sank to rest.

On our arms so heavily sleeping, careless watch our sentries keeping,
Ready to renew the contest when the dawning day should show;
Worn with toil and heat, in slumber soon were wrapt our greatest number,
Seeking strength to rise again and fall upon the wearied foe;
For we felt his power was broken: but what rage was ours outspoken
When, on waking at the dawn, he had gone.

In the midnight still and sombre, while our force was wrapt in slumber,
Clinton set his train in motion, sweeping fast to Sandy Hook;
Safely from our blows he bore his mingled Britons, Hessians, Tories—
Bore away his wounded soldiers, but his useless dead forsook;
Fleeing from a worse undoing, and too far for our pursuing:
So we found the field our own, and alone.

How that stirring day comes o’er me! How those scenes arise before me!
How I feel a youthful vigor for a moment fill my frame!
Those who fought beside me seeing, from the dim past brought to being,
By their hands I fain would clasp them—ah! each lives but in his name;
But the freedom that they fought for, and the country grand they wrought for,
Is their monument to-day, and for aye.

_JOHN BERRY, THE LOYALIST._

There is scarcely a native of Bergen County, in New Jersey, who has
not heard of Jack, the Regular, and by the older residents there
are still told a number of stories of his cruelty and rapacity.
That there was such a person, that he was an active loyalist during
the Revolutionary war, and that he was finally killed by the Van
Valens, and his lifeless body brought into Hackensack in a wagon,
there seems to be no doubt. But with all my industrious endeavor I
have never been able to get particulars as to his family, the date
of his birth, or when he was killed. I find that his real name was
John Berry, and that he managed to gain rank as a captain—probably
of loyalists. His nickname arose from a boast he made that he
was no marauder, but held a regular commission from his Gracious
Majesty. Hence those who sided with the Americans called him Jack,
the Regular, and he was scarcely ever known by another name.

So far as I can learn he was killed on the slope of the Palisade
ridge, not far from what is known as the Ridgefield station, on
the Northern Railroad, and by a long shot. It was merely fired in
vexation by Van Valen, who was astonished when the partisan fell,
and hesitated for some time to verify the fact of his death. Jack’s
band at that time had been broken up, or he was in some disgrace;
for he had had apparently no command for some time before he was
killed, and was with but one companion at the time.

_JACK, THE REGULAR._

In the Bergen winter night, when the hickory fire is roaring,
Flickering streams of ruddy light on the folk before it pouring;
When the apples pass around, and the cider passes after,
And the well-worn jest is crowned by the hearers’ hearty laughter,
When the cat is purring there, and the dog beside her dozing,
And within his easy-chair sits the grandsire old, reposing,
Then they tell the story true to the children hushed and eager,
How the two Van Valens slew, on a time, the Tory leaguer,
Jack, the Regular.

Near a hundred years ago, when the maddest of the Georges
Sent his troops to scatter woe on our hills and in our gorges,
Less we hated, less we feared, those he sent here to invade us
Than the neighbors with us reared who opposed us or betrayed us;
And amid those loyal knaves who rejoiced in our disasters,
As became the willing slaves of the worst of royal masters,
Stood John Berry, and he said that a regular commission
Set him at his comrades’ head; so we called him, in derision,
“Jack, the Regular.”

When he heard it—“Let them fling! Let the traitors make them merry
With the fact my gracious king deigns to make me Captain Berry.
I will scourge them for the sneer, for the venom that they carry;
I will shake their hearts with fear, as the land around I harry;
They shall find the midnight raid waking them from fitful slumbers;
They shall find the ball and blade daily thinning out their numbers;
Barn in ashes, cattle slain, hearth on which there glows no ember,
Neatless plough and horseless wain—thus the rebels shall remember
Jack, the Regular.

Well he kept his promise then, with a fierce, relentless daring,
Fire to roof-trees, death to men, through the Bergen valleys bearing.
In the midnight deep and dark came his vengeance darker, deeper—
At the watch-dog’s sudden bark woke in terror every sleeper;
Till at length the farmers brown, wasting time no more on tillage,
Swore these ruffians of the crown, fiends of murder, fire, and pillage,
Should be chased by every path to the dens where they had banded,
And no prayers should soften wrath when they caught the bloody-handed
Jack, the Regular.

One by one they slew his men: still the chief their chase evaded;
He had vanished from their ken, by the fiend or fortune aided—
Either fled to Paulus Hoek, where the Briton yet commanded,
Or his stamping-ground forsook, waiting till the hunt disbanded.
So they stopped pursuit at length, and returned to toil securely—
It was useless wasting strength on a purpose baffled surely;
But the two Van Valens swore, in a patriotic rapture,
They would never give it o’er till they’d either kill or capture
Jack, the Regular.

Long they hunted through the wood, long they slept upon the hill-side;
In the forest sought their food, drank when thirsty at the rill-side;
No exposure counted hard—theirs was hunting border fashion;
They grew bearded like the pard, and their chase became a passion.
Even friends esteemed them mad, said their minds were out of balance,
Mourned the cruel fate, and sad, fallen on the poor Van Valens.
But they answered to it all, “Only wait our loud view-holloa
When the prey shall to us fall; for to death we mean to follow
Jack, the Regular.

Hunted they from Tenavlie to the shore where Hudson presses
On the base of trap-rocks high; through Moonachie’s damp recesses;
Down as far as Bergen Hill; by the Ramapo and Drochy,
Overproek and Pellum Kill—meadows flat and hill-top rocky—
Till at last the brothers stood where the road from New Barbadoes
At the English Neighborhood slants towards the Palisadoes;
Still to find the prey they sought leave no sign for hunter eager;
Followed steady, not yet caught was the skulking, fox-like leaguer,
Jack, the Regular.

Who are they that yonder creep by those bleak rocks in the distance,
Like the figures born in sleep, called by slumber to existence?
Tories, doubtless, from below—from the Hoek sent out for spying.
“No! the foremost is our foe—he so long before us flying!
Now he spies us! See him start! wave his kerchief like a banner,
Lay his left hand on his heart in a proud, insulting manner.
Well he knows that distant spot past our ball—his low scorn flinging—
If you can not feel the shot, you shall hear the firelock’s ringing,
Jack, the Regular.”

Ah! he falls! An ambuscade? ’Twas impossible to strike him.
Are there Tories in the glade? Such a trick is very like him.
See! his comrade by him kneels, turning him in terror over,
Then takes nimbly to his heels. Have they really slain the rover?
It is worth some risk to know; so, with firelocks poised and ready,
Up the sloping hill they go, with a quick lookout, and steady.
Dead! The random shot had struck, to the heart had pierced the Tory—
Vengeance seconded by luck! Lies there cold and stiff and gory
Jack, the Regular.

“Jack, the Regular, is dead! Honor to the man who slew him!”
So the Bergen farmers said as they crowded round to view him.
For the wretch that lay there slain had, with wickedness unbending,
To their roofs brought fiery rain, to their kinsfolk woful ending.
Not a mother but had prest, in a sudden pang of fearing,
Sobbing darlings to her breast when his name had smote her hearing;
Not a wife that did not feel terror when the words were uttered;
Not a man but chilled to steel when the hated sounds he muttered—
“Jack, the Regular.”

Bloody in his work was he, in his purpose iron-hearted;
Gentle pity could not be when the pitiless had parted;
So the corse in wagon thrown with no decent cover o’er it—
Jeers its funeral rites alone—into Hackensack they bore it,
’Mid the clanging of the bells in the old Dutch church’s steeple,
And the hooting and the yells of the gladdened, maddened people.
Some they rode and some they ran by the wagon where it rumbled,
Scoffing at the lifeless man, all elate that Death had humbled
Jack, the Regular.

Thus within the winter night, when the hickory fire is roaring,
Flickering streams of ruddy light on the folk before it pouring;
When the apples pass around, and the cider follows after,
And the well-worn jest is crowned by the hearers’ hearty laughter;
When the cat is purring there, and the dog beside her dozing,
And within his easy-chair sits the grandsire old, reposing,
Then they tell the story true to the children hushed and eager,
How the bold Van Valen slew, on a time, the Tory leaguer,
Jack, the Regular.

_TARLETON’S DEFEAT._

After his disaster at Camden, Gates was superseded in the command
of the Southern Departments by Greene, to whom he turned over the
remnant of his army, about two thousand men in all. Of these a
force of a thousand, or less, were placed in Union District, near
the junction of the Broad and Pacolet rivers, nearly fifty miles to
the left of Greene’s position. Lord Cornwallis at once determined
to attack and destroy this detachment, and sent. Tarleton, with
eleven hundred men, including his own cavalry and two field-pieces,
for that purpose. Morgan’s forces, outside of Howard’s Continentals
and Washington’s dragoons, were raw militia, some of whom had never
seen battle, had had little drill, and were devoid of discipline.
The task was supposed to be easy, and Tarleton began his march in
high spirits. In consequence of bad roads he was much delayed on
the march, and it was not until the 15th of January, 1781, four
days after starting, that he drew near the Pacolet. Morgan, finding
his forces not sufficient to stop the enemy at the river, retreated
and took post on the north side of Thickety Mountain, near the
Cowpens. Tarleton at once pushed on in pursuit, leaving his baggage
behind, riding all night, and at eight o’clock of the morning of
the 17th came in sight of the American patrol. Fearing they might
escape he ordered an immediate attack. To his surprise he found
Morgan prepared to give battle.

It is unnecessary to expand this note further, since the movements
in the battle are given with accuracy in the ballad. The pursuit of
the British was not relinquished until they reached the open wood
near or about the point where the fight first began. The remnant of
Tarleton’s force, by the next morning, reached Cornwallis’s camp.
The American loss was twelve killed and about forty-eight wounded.
Cornwallis’s report to Sir Henry Clinton gives the British loss at
one hundred killed and five hundred and twenty-three prisoners.
The Americans captured the two field-pieces, two standards, eight
hundred muskets, thirty-five baggage-wagons, and one hundred
dragoon horses. The battle was not so important itself but in its
consequences. It contributed very much towards the capture of
Cornwallis.

_THE BATTLE OF THE COWPENS._

To the Cowpens riding proudly, boasting loudly, rebels scorning,
Tarleton hurried, hot and eager for the fight;
From the Cowpens, sore confounded, on that January morning,
Tarleton hurried somewhat faster, fain to save himself by flight.

In the morn he scorned us rarely, but he fairly found his error
When his force was made our ready blows to feel;
When his horsemen and his footmen fled in wild and pallid terror
At the leaping of our bullets and the sweeping of our steel.

All the day before we fled them, and we led them to pursue us,
Then at night on Thickety Mountain made our camp;
There we lay upon our rifles, slumber quickly coming to us,
Spite the crackling of our camp-fires and our sentries’ heavy tramp.

Morning on the mountain border, ranged in order, found our forces,
Ere our scouts announced the coming of the foe;
While the hoar-frost lying near us, and the distant watercourses,
Gleamed like silver in the sunlight, seemed like silver in their glow.

Morgan ranged us there to meet them, and to greet them with such favor
That they scarce would care to follow us again;
In the rear the Continentals—none were readier nor braver;
In the van, with ready rifles, steady, stern, our mountain men.

Washington, our trooper peerless, gay and fearless, with his forces
Waiting panther-like upon the foe to fall,
Formed upon the slope behind us, where, on rawboned country horses,
Sat the sudden-summoned levies brought from Georgia by M’Call.

Soon we heard a distant drumming, nearer coming, slow advancing—
It was then upon the very nick of nine;
Soon upon the road from Spartanburg we saw their bayonets glancing,
And the morning sunlight playing on their swaying scarlet line.

In the distance seen so dimly they looked grimly; coming nearer
There was naught about them fearful, after all,
Until some one near me spoke, in voice than falling water clearer,
“Tarleton’s quarter is the sword-blade, Tarleton’s mercy is the ball.”

Then the memory came unto me, heavy, gloomy, of my brother
Who was slain while asking quarter at their hand;
Of that morning when was driven forth my sister and my mother,
From our cabin in the valley by the spoilers of the land.

I remembered of my brother slain, my mother spurned and beaten,
Of my sister in her beauty brought to shame;
Of the wretches’ jeers and laughter, as from mud-sill up to rafter
Of the stripped and plundered cabin leaped the fierce, consuming flame.

But that memory had no power there in that hour there to depress me—
No! it stirred within my spirit fiercer ire;
And I gripped my sword-hilt firmer, and my arm and heart grew stronger;
And I longed to meet the wronger on the sea of steel and fire.

On they came, our might disdaining, where the raining bullets leaden
Pattered fast from scattered rifles on each wing;
Here and there went down a foeman, and the ground began to redden;
And they drew them back a moment, like the tiger ere his spring.

Then said Morgan, “Ball and powder kill much prouder men than George’s;
On your rifles and a careful aim rely.
They were trained in many battles—we in workshops, fields, and forges;
But we have our homes to fight for, and we do not fear to die.”

Though our leader’s words we cheered not, yet we feared not; we awaited,
Strong of heart, the threatened onset, and it came:
Up the sloping hill-side swiftly rushed the foe so fiercely hated;
On they came with gleaming bayonet ’mid the cannon-smoke and flame.

At their head rode Tarleton proudly; ringing loudly o’er the yelling
Of his men we heard his voice’s brazen tone;
With his dark eyes flashing fiercely, and his sombre features telling
In their look the pride that filled him as the champion of the throne.

On they pressed, when sudden flashing, ringing, crashing, came the firing
Of our forward line upon their close-set ranks;
Then at coming of their steel, which moved with steadiness untiring,
Fled our mountaineers, re-forming in good order on our flanks.

Then the combat’s ranging anger, din, and clangor, round and o’er us
Filled the forest, stirred the air, and shook the ground;
Charged with thunder-tramp the horsemen, while their sabres shone before us,
Gleaming lightly, streaming brightly, through the smoky cloud around.

Through the pines and oaks resounding, madly bounding from the mountain,
Leaped the rattle of the battle and the roar;
Fierce the hand-to-hand engaging, and the human freshet raging
Of the surging current urging past a dark and bloody shore.

Soon the course of fight was altered; soon they faltered at the leaden
Storm that smote them, and we saw their centre swerve.
Tarleton’s eye flashed fierce in anger; Tarleton’s face began to redden;
Tarleton gave the closing order—“Bring to action the reserve!”

Up the slope his legion thundered, full three hundred; fiercely spurring,
Cheering lustily, they fell upon our flanks;
And their worn and wearied comrades, at the sound so spirit-stirring,
Felt a thrill of hope and courage pass along their shattered ranks.

By the wind the smoke-cloud lifted lightly, drifted, to the nor’ward,
And displayed in all their pride the scarlet foe;
We beheld them, with a steady tramp, and fearless, moving forward,
With their banners proudly waving, and their bayonets levelled low.

Morgan gave his order clearly—“Fall back nearly to the border
Of the hill, and let the enemy come nigher!”
Oh! they thought we had retreated, and they charged in fierce disorder,
When out rang the voice of Howard—“To the right about, face!—Fire!”

Then upon our very wheeling came the pealing of our volley,
And our balls made red a pathway down the hill;
Broke the foe, and shrank and cowered; rang again the voice of Howard—
“Give the hireling dogs the bayonet!”—and we did it with a will.

In the mean while one red-coated troop, unnoted, riding faster
Than their comrades, on our rear in fury bore;
But the light-horse led by Washington soon brought it to disaster,
For they shattered it and scattered it, and smote it fast and sore.

Like a herd of startled cattle from the battle-field we drove them;
In disorder down the Mill-gap road they fled;
Tarleton led them in the racing, fast he fled before our chasing,
And he stopped not for the dying and he stayed not for the dead.

Down the Mill-gap road they scurried and they hurried with such fleetness—
We had never seen such running in our lives!
Ran they swifter than if seeking homes to taste domestic sweetness,
Having many years been parted from their children and their wives.

Ah! for some no wife to meet them, child to greet them, friend to shield them!
To their home o’er ocean never sailing back;
After them the red avengers, bitter hate for death had sealed them,
Yelped the dark and red-eyed sleuthhound unrelenting on their track.

In their midst I saw one trooper, and around his waist I noted
Tied a simple silken scarf of blue and white;
When my vision grasped it clearly to my hatred I devoted
Him, from all the hireling wretches who were mingled there in flight.

For that token in the summer had been from our cabin taken
By the robber-hands of wrongers of my kin;
’Twas my sister’s—for the moment things around me were forsaken;
I was blind to fleeing foemen, I was deaf to battle’s din.

Olden comrades round me lying dead or dying were unheeded;
Vain to me they looked for succor in their need;
O’er the corses of the soldiers, through the gory pools I speeded,
Driving rowel-deep my spurs within my madly bounding steed.

As I came he turned, and staring at my glaring eyes he shivered;
Pallid fear went quickly o’er his features grim;
As he grasped his sword in terror, every nerve within him quivered,
For his guilty spirit told him why I solely sought for him.

Though the stroke I dealt he parried, onward carried, down I bore him—
Horse and rider—down together went the twain:
“Quarter!”—He! that scarf had doomed him! stood a son and brother o’er him;
Down through plume and brass and leather went my sabre to the brain—
Ha! no music like that crashing through the skull-bone to the brain.

_THE AFFAIR OF CHERRY VALLEY._

The massacre at Cherry Valley, New York, was notably cruel and
bloody. In November, 1778, Walter Butler, with two hundred
loyalists, and Joseph Brant, with five hundred Indians, swept
down on the place, and commenced an indiscriminate slaughter. The
very loyalists among the inhabitants were not spared. John Wells
was well affected to the crown, yet he and his family, with the
exception of his son John, who happened to be in Schenectady, were
killed. Jane Wells was very much esteemed for her kindness and
other good qualities. The elder Wells was a particular friend of
Colonel John Butler, Walter’s father, who said, when he heard of
his death, “I would have gone miles on my hands and knees to have
saved that family, and why my son did not do it God only knows.”
One loyalist, Peter Smith, who had formerly been a servant in the
family, tried to save Miss Jenny, but the Indian who had seized
her struck her on the head with his tomahawk and killed her. One
man by the name of Mitchell was at a distance, saw the savages
approaching, and finding that he could not rejoin his family,
escaped into the woods. On his return he found his house burning,
and near it lay the bodies of his wife and four children. One
of these, a little girl, was still living, when he saw a party
approach. He dropped the child, and secreted himself behind a tree.
One of the new-comers saw the child to be alive yet, and stooping,
brained her with a hatchet. The wretch was not an Indian, but a
white loyalist savage named Newbery, who was afterwards hanged as
a spy by General James Clinton. Brant saved a number of prisoners,
and would have spared the women and children, but Walter Butler
denied all appeals for mercy.

Butler’s time was to come. On the 22d of August, 1781, Colonel
Willet attacked a force of five hundred loyalists and Indians at
Johnstown, and defeated them. They were commanded by Major Ross and
Walter Butler. The remnant of the enemy retreated all that night,
and could not be overtaken. It was during that retreat that Butler
was killed in the manner related in the ballad. Skenando, the
Oneida chief, who is supposed to have been his slayer, was about
seventy-four years old at the time. He lived many years after,
dying at the age of one hundred and ten, on March 19, 1816. His
burial was attended by a large number of citizens. A short time
before his death he said to a visitor, who made some inquiries
about his age, “I am an old hemlock. The winds of a hundred winters
have whistled through my top. The generation to which I belonged
has gone and left me. Pray to my Jesus that I may have patience to
wait for my appointed time to die.”

_DEATH OF WALTER BUTLER._