THE days glided by very pleasantly to the little company at Crag
Cottage, the greater part of them passed by the children in the open
air, far enough from the house to make them feel sure of not disturbing
Evelyn, even if they indulged in rather loud chat and laughter.
In the evening, if it were not too cool, they usually gathered upon the
porch overlooking the river, and were very apt to be entertained with a
story from either Grandma Elsie or Captain Raymond.
“I’m right glad to be where I can see this grand old Hudson River,”
remarked Edward Leland one evening as they sat there. “It is a
beautiful stream, and so much happened on it in early days.”
“What in particular are you thinking of now?” asked his mother.
“Something I read not so very long ago in Lossing’s Field Book of the
Revolution. He tells of things that happened to Putnam nearly twenty
years before that war. He was lying in a bateau on the east side of
the river above the rapids, when he was suddenly surprised by a party
of Indians. He couldn’t cross the river quickly enough to escape the
danger from their rifles; so the only way to save himself from being
killed or taken prisoner—which I suppose would have amounted to the
same thing—was to go over those dangerous rapids. It took Putnam but
an instant to decide; he steered directly down the current, between
whirling eddies and over shelving rocks, cleared them all in a few
moments, and was gliding along the smooth current below, far out of
the reach of the Indians’ weapons. They would never have dared to go
over those falls as he did, so thought he must have been favored by the
Great Spirit, and that if they should try to kill him with powder and
ball, that Great Spirit would consider it an affront to him.
“Putnam was certainly a very brave man,” continued the lad; “Lossing
tells of a brave deed of his at Fort Edward. He says that in the winter
of 1756 the barracks took fire, and the magazine, which contained three
hundred barrels of gunpowder, was only twelve feet distant from the
blaze. Men attempted to knock down those barracks with heavy cannon,
but failed.
“Putnam, who was stationed on Roger’s Island, in the Hudson, opposite
the fort, must have seen the fire. He hurried over there, took his
station on the roof of the barracks, and ordered a line of soldiers
to hand him water. He did his best, but could not put the fire out;
it drew nearer and nearer to the magazine. Colonel Haviland, seeing
his danger, ordered him down, but he was too brave and persevering
to obey that order; he worked on and would not leave his post until
the building began to totter as if just ready to fall. Then he jumped
to the ground and put himself between it—the falling barrack—and
the magazine, and poured on water with all his might. The outside
planks of the magazine were already burned so that there was only a
thin partition between the fire and the powder; but he did succeed in
extinguishing the flames and saving the powder.”
“But wasn’t he dreadfully burned?” asked Elsie.
“Yes, his hands and face were,” replied Edward, “and his whole body
more or less blistered; so that it was several weeks before he
recovered from the bad effects of that fight.”
“He must have been a very brave man,” cried Ned Raymond.
“He was,” said Grandma Elsie. “Would you all like to hear something
more about him and his doings?”
“Yes, indeed, grandma, if you will be pleased to tell it,” answered
several young voices, and at once she began:
“He was a Massachusetts man; had a fine, large farm, where he paid
particular attention to the raising of fruits and of sheep. There had
been a good many wild beasts in that region, but in 1735 all seemed to
have been killed except an old female wolf that for some seasons went
on visiting the farm yards and killing the fowls. Her lair was near
Putnam’s farm, and one night she killed sixty or seventy of his fine
sheep. Of course, a company was promptly raised to search for and kill
her. They tracked her to her lair in a cave. It was dark and narrow,
but Putnam pursued her into it, shot her at short range and dragged her
out in triumph.
“Twenty years after that, 1755, troops were raised to defend the
country against the French, and Putnam was given the rank of captain.
He became a leading member of the band of Rangers that did much to
annoy and embarrass the enemy during the next two years. In 1757 he was
promoted to the rank of major, and after that occurred the two events
Edward has just given us.
“In August, 1758, he was taken prisoner by the Indians, after a sharp
skirmish, near Wood Creek. The Indians tortured him, and then decided
to burn him alive. They stripped him, bound him to a tree and kindled
a fire about him. The flames were searing his flesh when Captain
Molang, a French officer, came rushing through the crowd, scattered the
firebrands, cuffed and upbraided the Indians, and released poor Putnam.”
“Then did he get away from the Indians?” asked Elsie.
“He was taken to Montreal and soon afterward exchanged,” replied her
grandma. “Afterward he was promoted to a lieutenant-colonelcy and given
command of a regiment.
“The next year he was with General Amherst in his march from Oswego
to Montreal. When going down the St. Lawrence River they found it
desirable to dislodge the French from Fort Oswegatchie; but the
approach to it was guarded by two schooners, the larger one having
twelve guns, which could have done serious damage to the English boats.
Thinking of that danger, General Amherst said: ‘I wish there were some
way of taking that schooner.’ ‘All right,’ said Putnam; ‘just give me
some wedges and a mallet, and half a dozen men of my own choosing, and
I’ll soon take her for you.’
“The British general smiled incredulously, evidently not believing the
thing could be done; but he consented to Putnam’s making the proposed
attempt, and in the night Putnam and his little party got into a light
boat and, with muffled oars, rode under the schooner’s stern and drove
the wedges between the rudder and the stern-post so firmly as to render
the helm unmanageable. They then went around under the bow, cut the
vessel’s cable, then rowed quietly away. All that, of course, made
the vessel unmanageable. She drifted ashore before morning and struck
her colors; then the other French vessels surrendered and the English
captured the fort.
“But I shall not attempt to tell the story of the services of Putnam’s
whole life,” continued Grandma Elsie. “I suppose what you all care
particularly to hear is of what he did and suffered in and after the
Revolution.”
“Yes, grandma—yes, indeed!” replied several voices, and she continued
her story.
“In August, 1774, before General Gage had quite shut up the approaches
to Boston, Putnam rode over the Neck with one hundred sheep as a gift
from the parish of Brooklyn. While there he was the guest of Dr.
Warren. On the twentieth of the next April came the news of the fight
at Concord.”
“Ah! news didn’t fly so fast then as it does now,” remarked Eric.
“No, not by any means,” assented his grandma. “Putnam was in the field
ploughing when it reached him. So great was his excitement on hearing
it that he left his plough in the furrow, and without waiting to put
on his uniform, mounted a horse and rode toward Cambridge, reaching
there at sunrise of the next morning. Later in the same day he was
at Concord; but he was soon summoned to Hartford to consult with the
Connecticut Legislature. He returned from there with the chief command
of the forces of that colony, and the rank of brigadier.”
“He was one of the officers at the battle of Bunker Hill, wasn’t he,
grandma?” asked Eric.
“Yes, he is spoken of as the ranking officer, and it was he who had the
earthworks thrown up on the crest of Bunker Hill in the rear, and who,
toward the close of the day, conducted the retreat and directed the
fortifying of Prospect Hill.”
“And his rank was soon made still higher by Congress, was it not,
grandma?” asked Edward.
“Yes; in June, 1775, Congress appointed Washington to the chief command
and made Ward, Lee, Schuyler and Putnam major-generals. Putnam was
in command for a time in New York, in Philadelphia and Princeton;
afterward he had charge of the defence of the highlands of the Hudson
River, with headquarters at Peekskill.
“There took place an occurrence that will no doubt interest you all. A
man named Edmund Palmer was caught lurking in the American camp and
condemned to death as a spy.
“The British considered American spies worthy of death, but that those
in the king’s service were not; so Sir Henry Clinton sent up a flag of
truce from New York and a threat to Putnam of signal vengeance should
he dare to injure the person of the king’s liege subject, Edmund Palmer.
“The old general’s reply was brief and to the point. I think I can
recall it word for word:
“‘_Headquarters_, 7th of August, 1777.
“‘Edmund Palmer, an officer in the enemy’s service, was
taken as a spy lurking within our lines. He has been tried
as a spy, condemned as a spy, and shall be executed as a
spy, and the flag is ordered to depart immediately.
ISRAEL PUTNAM.
“‘P. S.—He has accordingly been executed.’”
“I daresay Sir Henry Clinton was very angry when he read that note?”
remarked Eric.
“Yes,” said his brother, “but no doubt it was well for Putnam that Sir
Henry never had power to carry out his threat of vengeance upon him.”
“Is that all of the story about him, grandma?” asked Ned Raymond.
“Yes,” she replied, “except that there is a story of a remarkable
escape of his from General Tryon’s troops by riding down a flight of
stone steps at Horseneck, or West Greenwich, in the town of Greenwich,
Conn. He was visiting his outposts there, staying at the house of
General Mead. It was the 26th of March, early in the morning, and he
was standing before a looking-glass shaving, when he saw in the glass
the reflection of a body of red-coats marching up the road from the
westward. Though only half shaven, he dropped his razor, buckled on his
sword, and, hurrying out, mounted his horse and hastened to prepare
his handful of men to oppose the approaching enemy. There were nearly
fifteen hundred of the British regulars and Hessians, under Governor
Tryon. Putnam had with him only one hundred and fifty men. He arranged
them upon the brow of the hill near a church in the village. There he
planted a battery composed of two old iron field-pieces, and waited for
the coming of the enemy.
“They came up in a solid column, until almost within musket shot; then
detachments were broken off and tried to gain the Americans’ flanks.
At the same time the British dragoons and some infantry made ready to
charge. Perceiving that and noting the overwhelming numbers of the
enemy, Putnam ordered a retreat—after some volleys of musketry and a
few discharges of the field-pieces. But the enemy was so near that the
retreat of the Americans became a rout. The soldiers broke and fled
singly to the adjacent swamps, and the general, putting spurs to his
horse, hastened toward Stamford, pursued by several of the dragoons.
“About a quarter of a mile distant from Putnam’s starting on that ride
is a steep declivity; on the brow of that the road turned northward,
and passed, in a broad sweep, round the hill. Putnam, seeing that his
pursuers were gaining on him, took a desperate resolve, left the road,
and wheeled his horse, while on a gallop, down the rocky height, making
a zigzag course to the bottom, and reaching the road again in safety.”
“And did the dragoons follow him, grandma?” asked Ned.
“No,” she said; “it was too perilous for them. They did not dare
attempt it. They fired their pistols at Putnam, but did not succeed in
wounding him. He rode on in safety to Stamford.”
“Was Putnam good to his soldiers, grandma?” asked Elsie.
“I think he was,” Mrs. Travilla answered; “he felt for them in their
sore privations and tried to get them help. Lossing tells us that in a
letter to Washington, January, 1778, he gives a picture of the terrible
suffering his soldiers in the highlands were enduring. He said: ‘Very
few have either a shoe or a shirt, and most of them have neither
stockings, breeches, nor overalls. Several companies of enlisted
artificers are in the same situation, and unable to work in the field.’
Lossing tells us of something similar that occurred at Reading, in
Connecticut, the next year—in 1779. The troops, poor fellows, were
badly fed and clothed and worse paid, for their small pittance when
it came was in the form of Continental money, which was depreciating
rapidly. Brooding over their hard lot, and talking the matter over
among themselves, they resolved to march to Hartford and demand of the
assembly there a redress of their grievances. The second brigade had
assembled under arms with that intention, when Putnam learned what
was going on. He at once galloped to the encampment, and earnestly
addressed them:
“‘My brave lads, where are you going?’ he asked. ‘Do you intend to
desert your officers, and to invite the enemy to follow you into the
country? Whose cause have you been fighting and suffering so long
for? Is it not your own? Have you no property, no parents, wives, or
children? You have behaved like men so far; all the world is full of
your praise, and posterity will stand astonished at your deeds, but not
if you spoil all at last. Don’t you consider how much the country is
distressed by the war, and that your officers have not been better paid
than yourselves? But we all expect better times and that the country
will do us ample justice. Let us all stand by one another, then, and
fight it out like brave soldiers. Think what a shame it would be for
Connecticut men to run away from their officers.’ That was Putnam’s
little speech, and when he had finished the discontented regiments
cheered him loudly, then returned to their quarters in good humor,
resolved still to suffer and fight for the cause of their country.”
“Poor fellows!” sighed Elsie.
“Did Putnam live till the Revolutionary War was over, grandma?” asked
Eric.
“Yes,” she replied; “he died on the 29th of May, 1790, aged
seventy-two years. There is an inscription on the marble slab over
his grave which says that he was ever tenderly attentive to the lives
and happiness of his men and that he dared to lead where any dared to
follow. It speaks of how much the country owes to his disinterested and
gallant exertions. It speaks of his generosity as singular, his honesty
as proverbial, and says that he was one who, with small advantages,
slender education, and no powerful friends, raised himself to universal
esteem, and to offices of eminent distinction by personal worth and the
diligent services of a useful life.”