Transcriber’s Note
Italic text displayed as: _italic_
[Illustration: “—ON OUR CHIEFTAIN SPEEDED, RALLIED QUICK THE FLEEING
FORCES.”
[p. 105
]
THE BOY’S BOOK
OF
BATTLE-LYRICS
A COLLECTION OF VERSES ILLUSTRATING SOME NOTABLE EVENTS IN THE
HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, FROM THE COLONIAL
PERIOD TO THE OUTBREAK OF THE SECTIONAL WAR
BY
THOS. DUNN ENGLISH, M.D., LL.D.
_WITH HISTORICAL NOTES
AND NUMEROUS ENGRAVINGS OF PERSONS, SCENES, AND PLACES_
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE
1885
Copyright, 1885, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
TO
ADOLPH SCHALK, ESQ.
AS A RECOGNITION OF MANY YEARS OF UNBROKEN FRIENDSHIP, AND AS A TOKEN
OF ESTEEM FOR HIS MANLINESS AND WORTH
THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED BY
THE AUTHOR
PREFACE.
During the last twenty-five years my work in verse has been mainly
confined to illustrating the history of the United States, with
occasional studies of local life and character. Of this, judging
by notices of the press, and their appearance in compilations of
a patriotic or martial nature, the metrical narratives of battles
seem to have been most approved; and it occurred to me that a volume
embracing my productions in that line of literary labor might meet
with popular favor. My first intention was to take up every notable
event, so that the book might be a complete metrical history, and I
prepared partly the matter for the purpose, including the capture of
the _Serapis_ and the achievements of _Old Ironsides_. But I found
the volume would be inconveniently large, and I abandoned my plan
reluctantly.
The historical sketches prefixed in the proper places will be found
full, unless the details are faithfully given in the text, when the
introductions are purposely made meagre. In either case they will
be found to be accurate, the verses being, as I have styled them,
“metrical narratives” rather than poems. In that form, I trust,
they more readily impress on the mind of the reader a sense of the
patriotism and courage of our forefathers, and give a notion of the
nature of the struggle by which these States emerged from a dependent
condition to take high rank among the peoples of the world. The story
of each event being told in the first person, the style and language
are intentionally marked by the peculiarities of the imaginary
narrator. And in this connection it will be observed that, because
of the nearness of the conflict, the battles of the late sectional
war have been avoided, and the two incidents of that period touched
on at the close are personal, and not likely to offend even the most
sensitive.
T. D. E.
NEWARK, N. J., _July 30, 1885_.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
PREFACE vii
_De Soto’s Expedition_ 1
THE FALL OF MAUBILA 2
_Bacon’s Rebellion_ 12
THE BURNING OF JAMESTOWN 13
_The Deerfield Massacre_ 16
THE SACK OF DEERFIELD 17
_The Lewises_ 24
THE FIGHT OF JOHN LEWIS 24
_The First Blood Drawn_ 31
THE FIGHT AT LEXINGTON 33
_Bombardment of Fort Sullivan_ 40
SULLIVAN’S ISLAND 41
_A Turn of the Tide_ 53
THE SURPRISE AT TRENTON 54
_Following the Operations at Trenton_ 61
ASSUNPINK AND PRINCETON 63
_Donald M’Donald_ 67
COLONEL HARPER’S CHARGE 67
_Oriskany_ 70
THE FIGHT AT ORISKANY 71
_Baum’s Expedition_ 83
THE BATTLE OF BENNINGTON 85
_The Capture of Burgoyne_ 90
ARNOLD AT STILLWATER 91
_Siege of Fort Henry_ 95
BETTY ZANE 96
_Operations at Monmouth_ 100
THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH 103
_John Berry, the Loyalist_ 108
JACK, THE REGULAR 108
_Tarleton’s Defeat_ 112
THE BATTLE OF THE COWPENS 113
_The Affair of Cherry Valley_ 118
DEATH OF WALTER BUTLER 119
_The Fight of the Mountaineers_ 129
THE BATTLE OF KING’S MOUNTAIN 131
_Mrs. Merrill’s Defence_ 139
THE LONG-KNIFE SQUAW 139
_The Last Battle of the War_ 144
THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS 149
_El Molino del Rey_ 156
BATTLE OF THE KING’S MILL 156
_A Tale of the War_ 160
THE FENCING-MASTER 160
_An Ambuscade_ 164
THE CHARGE BY THE FORD 164
_A New Folk-song_ 166
FLAG OF THE RAINBOW 166
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
“—ON OUR CHIEFTAIN SPEEDED, RALLIED QUICK }
THE FLEEING FORCES” } _Frontispiece_
HERNANDO DE SOTO 1
JAMESTOWN AS IT IS 12
ELEAZER WILLIAMS 16
“HUGE HE WAS, AND BRAVE AND BRAWNY, BUT I MET THE SLAYER TAWNY” 19
“FOR WHILE THEY THE HOUSE WERE HOLDING, BALLS THE WIVES WERE
QUICKLY MOULDING” 21
CLARK’S HOUSE, LEXINGTON 31
SAMUEL ADAMS 31
THE LEXINGTON MASSACRE 32
JOHN HANCOCK 32
FIGHT AT THE BRIDGE 33
BATTLE-GROUND AT CONCORD 35
MERIAM’S CORNER, ON THE LEXINGTON ROAD 36
HALT OF TROOPS NEAR ELISHA JONES’S HOUSE 36
THE PROVINCIALS ON PUNKATASSET 37
MONUMENT AT CONCORD 39
WILLIAM MOULTRIE 40
PLAN OF FORT ON SULLIVAN’S ISLAND 40
SOUTH CAROLINA FLAG 40
SULLIVAN’S ISLAND AND THE BRITISH FLEET AT THE TIME OF THE ATTACK 40
SIR HENRY CLINTON 42
SIR PETER PARKER 46
MOULTRIE MONUMENT, WITH JASPER’S STATUE 49
CHARLESTON IN 1780 51
TRENTON—1777 53
RAHL’S HEAD-QUARTERS 54
BATTLE OF TRENTON 55
SUBSEQUENT OPERATIONS 61
FRIENDS’ MEETING-HOUSE 62
VIEW OF THE BATTLE-GROUND NEAR PRINCETON 62
BATTLE OF PRINCETON 66
THE BATTLE-GROUND OF ORISKANY 70
PETER GANSEVOORT 70
GENERAL HERKIMER’S RESIDENCE 71
THE SITE OF OLD FORT SCHUYLER 72
GENERAL HERKIMER DIRECTING THE BATTLE 78
MARINUS WILLETT 81
MAP OF BENNINGTON HEIGHTS 83
VAN SCHAIK’S MILL 84
JOHN STARK 84
THE BATTLE-GROUND OF BENNINGTON 89
LIEUTENANT-GENERAL BURGOYNE 90
HORATIO GATES 90
BENEDICT ARNOLD 91
“FIVE TIMES WE CAPTURED THEIR CANNON, AND FIVE TIMES THEY TOOK
THEM AGAIN” 92
“FIRING ONE PARTHIAN VOLLEY” 94
GEORGE ROGERS CLARKE 95
PLAN OF THE BATTLE 100
LAFAYETTE IN 1777 101
GENERAL WAYNE 101
HENRY KNOX 102
FREEHOLD MEETING-HOUSE 102
BATTLE-GROUND AT MONMOUTH 103
WASHINGTON REBUKING LEE 105
MOLLY PITCHER 107
BANASTRE TARLETON 112
DANIEL MORGAN 112
WILLIAM WASHINGTON 114
JOHN E. HOWARD 116
JOSEPH BRANT 118
DISTANT VIEW OF CHERRY VALLEY 119
COLONEL ISAAC SHELBY 129
KING’S MOUNTAIN BATTLE-GROUND 130
ANDREW JACKSON 144
VILLERÉ’S MANSION 145
“THE HERMITAGE,” JACKSON’S RESIDENCE, IN 1861 146
JACKSON’S TOMB 147
PLAIN OF CHALMETTE.—BATTLE-GROUND 148
JOHN COFFEE 148
STATUE OF JACKSON IN FRONT OF THE CATHEDRAL 149
THE LAST CHARGE 158
THE BOY’S
BOOK OF BATTLE LYRICS.
_DE SOTO’S EXPEDITION._
Hernando de Soto was of good Spanish family, and started early
upon a career of adventure. He was with Francisco Pizarro, and
took a prominent part in the conquest of Peru. Some account of his
actions while with the Pizarros will be found in Helps’s “Spanish
Conquest in America.” He particularly distinguished himself in
the battle which resulted in the conquest of Cuzco, and desired
to be the lieutenant of Almagro in the invasion of Chili; but in
this he was disappointed. Returning to Spain with much wealth, he
married into the Bobadilla family, and became a favorite with the
king. Here he conceived the notion of conquering Florida, which
he believed to abound in gold and precious stones. Offering to do
this at his own expense, the king gave him permission, and at the
same time appointed him governor of Cuba. De Soto set sail from
Spain in April, 1538, but remained in Cuba some time fitting out
his expedition, which did not arrive at Florida until the following
year, when it landed at Tampa Bay. His force consisted of twelve
hundred men, with four hundred horses, and he took with him a
number of domestic animals. In quest of gold, he penetrated the
territory now known as the States of Alabama, Georgia, Tennessee,
and Mississippi, finally striking the Mississippi River, which he
called the Rio Grande, at or near the Lower Chickasaw Bluffs. He
found the inhabitants to be quite unlike the Peruvians. He met
with a fierce resistance from the natives, and by severe hardships
and bloody conflicts found his army very much reduced in numbers.
In 1542 De Soto died of a fever. To prevent the mutilation of his
body, it was enclosed in a coffin hollowed from the trunk of a
tree, and sunk at midnight in the great river. The command then
devolved on Moscoso, who escaped with his comrades by way of the
river, and reached Mexico in a miserable condition.
[Illustration: HERNANDO DE SOTO.]
It was during this raid, on the 18th of October, 1539, that the
battle with the Mobilians was fought. The incidents, so far as
they have been gathered from all sources, are faithfully given in
the ballad, with one exception. The speech of Tuscaloosa was in
the shape of a message, and was delivered by one of his men after
the chief had escaped and found refuge in his “palace,” which was
probably a hut more commodious than the others in the town. The
Spaniards, in spite of their superiority of weapons, had much the
worst of the affair at one time, and might have been disastrously
defeated but for the opportune arrival of Moscoso with the reserve
of four hundred fresh men. After that the battle changed to a mere
massacre.
The “singing women” described in the text must have been
picked Amazons, for the women in general, and children, had
been previously sent to a place of refuge by the Mobilians in
anticipation of a fight. The slaughter of the poorly armed natives
was very great, but the invaders suffered severely. Not only were
eighty-two killed, including the nephew and nephew-in-law of the
Adelantado (as De Soto was styled), but none of the Spaniards
escaped severe wounds. To add to their sufferings, the medicines
and surgical appliances, having been placed in the town previous to
the breaking out of the conflict, were burned, and all the surgeons
but one were killed. De Soto himself received an arrow in his
thigh. The missile was not extracted until after the battle, and he
was forced to continue the fight standing in his stirrups.
The place of the battle is supposed to be what is now known as
Choctaw Bluff, in Clarke County, Alabama.
_THE FALL OF MAUBILA._
Hearken the stirring story
The soldier has to tell,
Of fierce and bloody battle,
Contested long and well,
Ere walled Maubila, stoutly held,
Before our forces fell.
Now many years have circled
Since that October day,
When proudly to Maubila
De Soto took his way,
With men-at-arms and cavaliers
In terrible array.
Oh, never sight more goodly
In any land was seen;
And never better soldiers
Than those he led have been,
More prompt to handle arquebus,
Or wield their sabres keen.
The sun was at meridian,
His hottest rays fell down
Alike on soldier’s corselet
And on the friar’s gown;
The breeze was hushed as on we rode
Right proudly to the town.
First came the bold De Soto,
In all his manly pride,
The gallant Don Diego,
His nephew, by his side;
A yard behind Juan Ortiz rode,
Interpreter and guide.
Baltasar de Gallegos,
Impetuous, fierce, and hot;
Francisco de Figarro,
Since by an arrow shot;
And slender Juan de Guzman, who
In battle faltered not.
Luis Bravo de Xeres,
That gallant cavalier;
Alonzo de Cormono,
Whose spirit knew no fear;
The Marquis of Astorga, and
Vasquez, the cannoneer.
Andres de Vasconcellos,
Juan Coles, young and fair,
Roma de Cardenoso,
Him of the yellow hair—
Rode gallant in their bravery,
Straight to the public square.
And there, in sombre garments,
Were monks of Cuba four,
Fray Juan de Gallegos,
And other priests a score,
Who sacramental bread and wine
And holy relics bore.
And next eight hundred soldiers
In closest order come,
Some with Biscayan lances,
With arquebuses some,
Timing their tread to martial notes
Of trump and fife and drum.
Loud sang the gay Mobilians,
Light danced their daughters brown;
Sweet sounded pleasant music
Through all the swarming town;
But ’mid the joy one sullen brow
Was lowering with a frown.
The haughty Tuscaloosa,
The sovereign of the land,
With moody face, and thoughtful,
Rode at our chief’s right hand,
And cast from time to time a glance
Of hatred at the band.
And when that gay procession
Made halt to take a rest,
And eagerly the people
To see the strangers prest,
The frowning King, in wrathful tones,
De Soto thus addressed:
“To bonds and to dishonor
By faithless friends trepanned,
For days beside you, Spaniard,
The ruler of the land
Has ridden as a prisoner,
Subject to your command.
“He was not born the fetters
Of baser men to wear,
And tells you this, De Soto,
Hard though it be to bear—
Let those beware the panther’s rage
Who follow to his lair.
“Back to your isle of Cuba!
Slink to your den again,
And tell your robber sovereign,
The mighty lord of Spain,
Whoso would strive this land to win
Shall find his efforts vain.
“And, save it be your purpose
Within my realm to die,
Let not your forces linger
Our deadly anger nigh,
Lest food for vultures and for wolves
Your mangled forms should lie.”
Then, spurning courtly offers,
He left our chieftain’s side,
And crossing the enclosure
With quick and lengthened stride,
He passed within his palace gates,
And there our wrath defied.
Now came up Charamilla,
Who led our troop of spies,
And said unto our captain,
With tones that showed surprise,
“A mighty force within the town,
In wait to crush us, lies.
“The babes and elder women
Were sent at break of day
Into the forest yonder,
Five leagues or more away;
While in yon huts ten thousand men
Wait eager for the fray.”
“What say ye now, my comrades?”
De Soto asked his men;
“Shall we, before these traitors,
Go backward, baffled, then;
Or, sword in hand, attack the foe
Who crouches in his den?”
Before their loud responses
Had died upon the ear,
A savage stood before them,
Who said, in accents clear,
“Ho! robbers base and coward thieves!
Assassin Spaniards, hear!
“No longer shall our sovereign,
Born noble, great, and free,
Be led beside your master,
A shameful sight to see,
While weapons here to strike you down,
Or hands to grasp them be.”
As spoke the brawny savage
Full wroth our comrades grew—
Baltasar de Gallegos
His heavy weapon drew,
And dealt the boaster such a stroke
As clave his body through.
Then rushed the swart Mobilians
Like hornets from their nest;
Against our bristling lances
Was bared each savage breast;
With arrow-head and club and stone,
Upon our band they prest.
“Retreat in steady order!
But slay them as ye go!”
Exclaimed the brave De Soto,
And with each word a blow
That sent a savage soul to doom
He dealt upon the foe.
“Strike well who would our honor
From spot or tarnish save!
Strike down the haughty Pagan,
The infidel and slave!
Saint Mary Mother sits above,
And smiles upon the brave.
“Strike! all my gallant comrades!
Strike! gentlemen of Spain!
Upon the traitor wretches
Your deadly anger rain,
Or never to your native land
Return in pride again!”
Then hosts of angry foemen
We fiercely held at bay,
Through living walls of Pagans
We cut our bloody way;
And though by thousands round they swarmed,
We kept our firm array.
At length they feared to follow;
We stood upon the plain,
And dressed our shattered columns;
When, slacking bridle rein,
De Soto, wounded as he was,
Led to the charge again.
For now our gallant horsemen
Their steeds again had found,
That had been fastly tethered
Unto the trees around,
Though some of these, by arrows slain,
Lay stretched upon the ground.
And as the riders mounted,
The foe, in joyous tones,
Gave vent to shouts of triumph,
And hurled a shower of stones;
But soon the shouts were changed to wails,
The cries of joy to moans.
Down on the scared Mobilians
The furious rush was led;
Down fell the howling victims
Beneath the horses’ tread;
The angered chargers trod alike
On dying and on dead.
Back to the wooden ramparts,
With cut and thrust and blow,
We drove the panting savage,
The very walls below,
Till those above upon our heads
Huge rocks began to throw.
Whenever we retreated
The swarming foemen came—
Their wild and matchless courage
Put even ours to shame—
Rushing upon our lances’ points,
And arquebuses’ flame.
Three weary hours we fought them,
And often each gave way;
Three weary hours, uncertain
The fortune of the day;
And ever where they fiercest fought
De Soto led the fray.
Baltasar de Gallegos
Right well displayed his might;
His sword fell ever fatal,
Death rode its flash of light;
And where his horse’s head was turned
The foe gave way in fright.
At length before our daring
The Pagans had to yield,
And in their stout enclosure
They sought to find a shield,
And left us, wearied with our toil,
The masters of the field.
Now worn and spent and weary,
Our force was scattered round,
Some seeking for their comrades,
Some seated on the ground,
When sudden fell upon our ears
A single trumpet’s sound.
“Up! ready make for storming!”
That speaks Moscoso near;
He comes with stainless sabre,
He comes with spotless spear;
But stains of blood and spots of gore
Await his weapons here.
Soon, formed in four divisions,
Around the order goes—
“To front with battle-axes!
No moment for repose.
At signal of an arquebus,
Rain on the gates your blows.”
Not long that fearful crashing,
The gates in splinters fall;
And some, though sorely wounded,
Climb o’er the crowded wall;
No rampart’s height can keep them back,
No danger can appall.
Then redly rained the carnage—
None asked for quarter there;
Men fought with all the fury
Born of a wild despair;
And shrieks and groans and yells of hate
Were mingled in the air.
Four times they backward beat us,
Four times our force returned;
We quenched in bloody torrents
The fire that in us burned;
We slew who fought, and those who knelt
With stroke of sword we spurned.
And what are these new forces,
With long, black, streaming hair?
They are the singing maidens
Who met us in the square;
And now they spring upon our ranks
Like she-wolves from their lair.
Their sex no shield to save them,
Their youth no weapon stayed;
De Soto with his falchion
A lane amid them made,
And in the skulls of blooming girls
Sank battle-axe and blade.
Forth came a wingèd arrow,
And struck our leader’s thigh;
The man who sent it shouted,
And looked to see him die;
The wound but made the tide of rage
Run twice as fierce and high.
Then cried our stout camp-master,
“The night is coming down;
Already twilight darkness
Is casting shadows brown;
We would not lack for light on strife
If once we burned the town.”
With that we fired the houses;
The ranks before us broke;
The fugitives we followed,
And dealt them many a stroke,
While round us rose the crackling flame,
And o’er us hung the smoke.
And what with flames around them,
And what with smoke o’erhead,
And what with cuts of sabre,
And what with horses’ tread,
And what with lance and arquebus,
The town was filled with dead.
Six thousand of the foemen
Upon that day were slain,
Including those who fought us
Outside upon the plain—
Six thousand of the foemen fell,
And eighty-two of Spain.
Not one of us unwounded
Came from the fearful fray;
And when the fight was over,
And scattered round we lay,
Some sixteen hundred wounds we bore
As tokens of the day.
And through that weary darkness,
And all that dreary night,
We lay in bitter anguish,
But never mourned our plight,
Although we watched with eagerness
To see the morning light.
And when the early dawning
Had marked the sky with red,
We saw the Moloch incense
Rise slowly overhead
From smoking ruins and the heaps
Of charred and mangled dead.
I knew the slain were Pagans,
While we in Christ were free,
And yet it seemed that moment
A spirit said to me:
“Henceforth be doomed while life remains
This sight of fear to see.”
And ever since that dawning
Which chased the night away,
I wake to see the corses
That thus before me lay;
And this is why in cloistered cell
I wait my latter day.
_BACON’S REBELLION._
Not an hour’s ride from Williamsburg, the seat of the venerable
William and Mary College, lie the ruins of Jamestown—part of the
tower of the old brick church, piles of bricks, and a number
of tombstones with quaint inscriptions, all half overgrown by
copse and brambles, being all that remains of the first town of
Virginia. At the time of its destruction it could not have been a
considerable place. It had the church, a state-house, and a few
dwellings built of imported bricks, not more than eighteen in
number, if so many. The other houses were probably framed, with
some log-huts. Our accounts of the place are meagre, and derived
from different sources.
[Illustration: JAMESTOWN AS IT IS.]
Nor have we a very full account of the circumstances attending its
destruction. So far as they are gathered they amount to this: Sir
William Berkeley, who at the outset of his administration had been
a good governor, was displaced during the troubles at home, and
when he returned, had been soured, and proved to be exacting and
tyrannical. Refusing to allow a force to be led against the Indian
enemy, the people took it in their own hands. Berkeley had a show
of right in the matter. Indian chiefs had come to John Washington,
the great-grandfather of George Washington, to treat of peace.
Washington was colonel of Westmoreland County, and he had these
messengers killed. Berkeley was indignant. “They came in peace,”
said he, “and I would have sent them in peace if they had killed
my father and mother.” The bloody act aroused the vengeance of the
Indians, and they fell on the frontier and massacred men, women,
and children. The governor considered it a just retribution, and
refused authority for reprisals. The people, who had no notion
that innocent parties should suffer for one man’s barbarous-deed,
organized. They chose Nathaniel Bacon, who was a popular young
lawyer, for their leader, and asked Berkeley to confirm him. This
request was refused. When some new murders by the Indians occurred,
Bacon marched against the enemy, and the governor proclaimed him
and his men rebels. When Bacon returned in triumph he was elected
a member of the assembly from Henrico County, and that assembly
passed laws of such a popular nature that Berkeley, in alarm, left
Jamestown. Bacon raised a force of five hundred men, and Berkeley,
who possessed high personal courage, met them alone. He uncovered
his breast and said, “A fair mark. Shoot!” But when Bacon explained
that he merely asked a commission, the people being in peril from
the enemy, this was granted; but no sooner had Bacon departed to
attack the Indians than Berkeley withdrew to the Eastern Shore,
where he collected a force of a thousand men from Accomac, to whom
he offered pay and plunder. With these he returned to Jamestown,
and proclaimed Bacon and his adherents rebels and traitors.
Bacon, having severely chastised the Indians, returned; but only
a few of his followers remained. This was in September, 1676. He
laid regular siege to Jamestown; but, as his force was so weak, he
feared a sortie by overwhelming numbers. To avert this, and gain
time to complete his works, he resorted to stratagem. By means
of a picked party, sent at night, he captured the wives of the
leading inhabitants. These, the next day, he placed on the summit
of a small work in sight of the town, and kept them thus exposed
until he had completed his lines, when he released them. Berkeley
sallied out, and was repulsed. He could not depend on his own men,
and that night he retired in his vessels. Bacon entered the town
next morning, and after consultation, it was agreed to destroy the
place. At seven o’clock in the evening, the torch was applied, and
in the morning the tower of the church and a few chimneys were all
that were left standing.
A number of Berkeley’s men now joined Bacon, who was undisputed
master of the colony; but dying shortly after, his party dispersed.
Berkeley, reinstated, took signal vengeance and executed about
twenty of the most prominent of Bacon’s friends. He was only
stopped by the positive orders of the King, by whom he was removed,
and Lord Culpepper, almost as great a tyrant, sent in his room.
_THE BURNING OF JAMESTOWN._
Mad Berkeley believed, with his gay cavaliers,
And the ruffians he brought from the Accomac shore,
He could ruffle our spirit by rousing our fears,
And lord it again as he lorded before:
It was—“Traitors, be dumb!”
And—“Surrender, ye scum!”
And that Bacon, our leader, was rebel, he swore.
A rebel? Not he! He was true to the throne;
For the King, at a word, he would lay down his life;
But to listen unmoved to the piteous moan
When the redskin was plying the hatchet and knife,
And shrink from the fray,
Was not the man’s way—
It was Berkeley, not Bacon, who stirred up the strife.
On the outer plantations the savages burst,
And scattered around desolation and woe;
And Berkeley, possessed by some spirit accurst,
Forbade us to deal for our kinsfolk a blow;
Though when, weapons in hand,
We made our demand,
He sullenly suffered our forces to go.
Then while we were doing our work for the crown,
And risking our lives in the perilous fight,
He sent lying messengers out, up and down,
To denounce us as outlaws—mere malice and spite;
Then from Accomac’s shore
Brought a thousand or more,
Who swaggered the country around, day and night.
Returning in triumph, instead of reward
For the marches we made and the battles we won,
There were threats of the fetters or bullet or sword—
Were these a fair guerdon for what we had done?
When this madman abhorred
Appealed to the sword,
And our leader said—“fight!” did he think we would run?
Battle-scarred, and a handful of men as we were,
We feared not to combat with lord or with lown,
So we took the old wretch at his word—that was fair;
But he dared not come out from his hold in the town,
Where he lay with his men,
Like a wolf in his den;
And in siege of the place we sat steadily down.
He made a fierce sally—his force was so strong
He thought the mere numbers would put us to flight—
But we met in close column his ruffianly throng,
And smote it so sore that we filled him with fright;
Then while ready we lay
For the storming next day,
He embarked in his ships, and escaped in the night.
The place was our own; could we hold it? why, no!
Not if Berkeley should gather more force and return;
But one course was left us to baffle the foe—
The birds would not come if the nest we should burn;
So the red, crackling fire
Climbed to roof-top and spire,
A lesson for black-hearted Berkeley to learn.
That our torches destroyed what our fathers had raised
On that beautiful isle, is it matter of blame?
That the houses we dwelt in, the church where they praised
The God of our Fathers, we gave to the flame?
That we smiled when there lay
Smoking ruins next day,
And nothing was left of the town but its name?
We won; but we lost when brave Nicholas died;
The spirit that nerved us was gone from us then;
And Berkeley came back in his arrogant pride
To give to the gallows the best of our men;
But while the grass grows
And the clear water flows,
The town shall not rise from its ashes again.
So, you come for your victim! I’m ready; but, pray,
Ere I go, some good fellow a full goblet bring.
Thanks, comrade! Now hear the last words I shall say
With the last drink I take. Here’s a health to the King,
Who reigns o’er a land
Where, against his command,
The rogues rule and ruin, and honest men swing.
_THE DEERFIELD MASSACRE._
In 1703, Colonel Johannis Schuyler, grandfather of the
Revolutionary general, Philip Schuyler, and uncle of the still more
famous Peter Schuyler, so distinguished in the Franco-Canadian war,
was mayor of Albany. From some Indians trading there he obtained
information that an attack on Deerfield was planned from Canada.
He sent word to the villagers, who prepared to meet it. The design
not having been carried out that summer, the people of Deerfield
supposed it to have been abandoned, and dismissed their fears.
The next year Vaudreuil, the governor of Canada, despatched a
force of three hundred French and Indians against the place. The
expedition was under the command of Hertel de Rouville, the son
of an almost equally famous partisan officer. With him were four
of his brothers. The raiders came by way of Lake Champlain to the
Onion River—then called the French—up which they advanced, and
passed on, marching on the ice, until they were near Deerfield.
The minister of the place, the Rev. Mr. Williams, unlike the rest
of the townsmen, had feared an attack for some time, and on his
application the provincial government had sent a guard of twenty
men. There were two or three block-houses, and around these some
palisades. De Rouville came near the town before daylight on the
29th of February, and learned by his spies the condition of the
place. Finding that the sentinels had gone to sleep two hours
before dawn, and that the snow had drifted in one place so as to
cover the palisades, he led a rush, and then dispersed his men in
small parties through the town to make a simultaneous attack. The
place was carried, with the exception of one garrison-house which
held out successfully. Forty-seven of the inhabitants were killed,
and nearly all the rest captured. The enemy, failing to reduce the
single block-house, retreated with their prisoners, taking up their
march for Canada. A band of colonists was hurriedly raised, and
pursued De Rouville; but they were beaten off after a sharp fight.
A hundred and twelve prisoners were carried away. A few were killed
on the march; the greater part were ransomed, and returned in about
two years.
[Illustration: ELEAZER WILLIAMS.]
Among the prisoners was the Rev. Mr. Williams. His wife, unable to
keep up with the party, was killed on the second day by her captor.
Two of his children had been killed during the sack. One of his
daughters, Eunice, while in captivity was converted to the Catholic
religion, and married with an Indian. She entirely adopted Indian
habits, and was pleased with her life. Afterwards she occasionally
visited her friends in New England, but no persuasion would induce
her to remain there. A chronicler states, with a comical mixture
of surprise and indignation, “She uniformly persisted in wearing
her blankets and counting her beads.” One of her descendants
was a highly respected clergyman, the Rev. Eleazer Williams, who
died a few years since, and who during life became the subject of
controversy. Mr. Hansen wrote an article, and finally a book, “The
Lost Prince,” to prove that Mr. Williams was really the missing
Dauphin, Louis the Sixteenth. A look at the clergyman’s portrait
shows the half-breed features quite distinctly, though the claim
was plausibly put, and for a time had its ardent supporters.
_THE SACK OF DEERFIELD._
Of the onset fear-inspiring, and the firing and the pillage
Of our village, when De Rouville with his forces on us fell,
When, ere dawning of the morning, with no death-portending warning,
With no token shown or spoken, came the foemen, hear me tell.
High against the palisadoes, on the meadows, banks, and hill-sides,
At the rill-sides, over fences, lay the lingering winter snow;
And so high by tempest rifted, at our pickets it was drifted,
That its frozen crust was chosen as a bridge to bear the foe.
We had set at night a sentry, lest an entry, while the sombre
Heavy slumber was upon us, by the Frenchman should be made;
But the faithless knave we posted, though of wakefulness he boasted,
’Stead of keeping watch was sleeping, and his solemn trust betrayed.
Than our slumber none profounder; never sounder fell on sleeper,
Never deeper sleep its shadow cast on dull and listless frames;
But it fled before the crashing of the portals, and the flashing,
And the soaring, and the roaring, and the crackling of the flames.
Fell the shining hatchets quickly ’mid the thickly crowded women,
Growing dim in crimson currents from the pulses of the brain;
Rained the balls from firelocks deadly, till the melted snow ran redly
With the glowing torrent flowing from the bodies of the slain.
I, from pleasant dreams awaking at the breaking of my casement,
With amazement saw the foemen quickly enter where I lay;
Heard my wife and children’s screaming, as the hatchets woke their dreaming,
Heard their groaning and their moaning as their spirits passed away.
’Twas in vain I struggled madly as the sadly sounding pleading
Of my bleeding, dying darlings fell upon my tortured ears;
’Twas in vain I wrestled, raging, fight against their numbers waging,
Crowding round me there they bound me, while my manhood sank in tears.
At the spot to which they bore me, no one o’er me watched or warded;
There unguarded, bound and shivering, on the snow I lay alone;
Watching by the firelight ruddy, as the butchers dark and bloody
Slew the nearest friends and dearest to my memory ever known.
And it seemed, as rose the roaring blaze, up soaring, redly streaming
O’er the gleaming snow around me through the shadows of the night,
That the figures flitting fastly were the fiends at revels ghastly,
Madly urging on the surging, seething billows of the fight.
Suddenly my gloom was lightened, hope was heightened, though the shrieking,
Malice-wreaking, ruthless wretches death were scattering to and fro;
For a knife lay there—I spied it, and a tomahawk beside it
Glittering brightly, buried lightly, keen edge upward, in the snow.
Naught knew I how came they thither, nor from whither; naught to me then
If the heathen dark, my captors, dropped those weapons there or no;
Quickly drawn o’er axe-edge lightly, cords were cut that held me tightly,
Then, with engines of my vengeance in my hands, I sought the foe.
Oh, what anger dark, consuming, fearful, glooming, looming horrid,
Lit my forehead, draped my figure, leapt with fury from my glance;
’Midst the foemen rushing frantic, to their sight I seemed gigantic,
Like the motion of the ocean, like a tempest my advance.
Stoutest of them all, one savage left the ravage round and faced me;
Fury braced me, for I knew him—he my pleading wife had slain.
Huge he was, and brave and brawny, but I met the slayer tawny,
And with rigorous blow, and vigorous, clove his tufted skull in twain—
Madly dashing down the crashing bloody hatchet in his brain.
As I brained him rose their calling, “Lo! appalling from yon meadow
The Monedo of the white man comes with vengeance in his train!”
As they fled, my blows Titanic falling fast increased their panic,
Till their shattered forces scattered widely o’er the snowy plain.
[Illustration: “HUGE HE WAS, AND BRAVE AND BRAWNY, BUT I MET THE
SLAYER TAWNY.”]
Stern De Rouville then their error, born of terror, soon dispersing,
Loudly cursing them for folly, roused their pride with words of scorn;
Peering cautiously they knew me, then by numbers overthrew me;
Fettered surely, bound securely, there again I lay forlorn.
Well I knew their purpose horrid, on each forehead it was written—
Pride was smitten that their bravest had retreated at my ire;
For the rest the captives durance, but for me there was assurance
Of the tortures known to martyrs—of the terrible death by fire.
Then I felt, though horror-stricken, pulses quicken as the swarthy
Savage, or the savage Frenchman, fiercest of the cruel band,
Darted in and out the shadows, through the shivered palisadoes,
Death-blows dealing with unfeeling heart and never-sparing hand.
Soon the sense of horror left me, and bereft me of all feeling;
Soon, revealing all my early golden moments, memory came;
Showing how, when young and sprightly, with a footstep falling lightly,
I had pondered as I wandered on the maid I loved to name.
Her, so young, so pure, so dove-like, that the love-like angels whom a
Sweet aroma circles ever wheresoe’er they wave their wings,
Felt with her the air grow sweeter, felt with her their joy completer,
Felt their gladness swell to madness, silent grow their silver strings.
Then I heard her voice’s murmur breathing summer, while my spirit
Leaned to hear it and to drink it like a draught of pleasant wine;
Felt her head upon my shoulder drooping as my love I told her,
Felt the utterly pleased flutter of her heart respond to mine.
Then I saw our darlings clearly that more nearly linked our gladness;
Saw our sadness as a lost one sank from pain to happy rest;
Mingled tears with hers, and chid her, bade her by our love consider
How our dearest now was nearest to the blessed Master’s breast.
I had lost that wife so cherished, who had perished, passed from being,
In my seeing—I, unable to protect her or defend;
At that thought dispersed those fancies, born of woe-begotten trances,
While unto me came the gloomy present hour my heart to rend.
For I heard the firelocks ringing, fiercely flinging forth the whirring,
Blood-preferring leaden bullets from a garrisoned abode;
There it stood so grim and lonely, speaking of its tenants only,
When the furious leaden couriers from its loop-holes fastly rode.
And the seven who kept it stoutly, though devoutly triumph praying,
Ceased not slaying, trusting somewhat to their firelocks and their wives;
For while they the house were holding, balls the wives were quickly moulding—
Neither fearful, wild, nor tearful, toiling earnest for their lives.
Onward rushed each dusky leaguer, hot and eager, but the seven
Rained the levin from their firelocks as the Pagans forward pressed;
Melting at that murderous firing, back that baffled foe retiring,
Left there lying, dead or dying, ten, their bravest and their best.
[Illustration: “FOR WHILE THEY THE HOUSE WERE HOLDING, BALLS THE
WIVES WERE QUICKLY MOULDING.”]
Rose the red sun, straightly throwing from his glowing disk his brightness
On the whiteness of the snow-drifts and the ruins of the town—
On those houses well defended, where the foe in vain expended
Ball and powder, standing prouder, smoke-begrimed and scarred and brown.
Not for us those rays shone fairly, tinting rarely dawning early
With the pearly light and glistering of the March’s snowy morn;
Some were wounded, some were weary, some were sullen, all were dreary,
As the sorrow of that morrow shed its cloud of woe forlorn.
Then we heard De Rouville’s orders, “To the borders!” and the dismal,
Dark, abysmal fate before us opened widely as he spoke;
But we heard a shout in distance—into fluttering existence,
Brief but splendid, quickly ended, at the sound our hopes awoke.
’Twas our kinsmen armed and ready, sweeping steady to the nor’ward,
Pressing forward fleet and fearless, though in scanty force they came—
Cried De Rouville, grimly speaking, “Is’t our captives you are seeking?
Well, with iron we environ them, and wall them round with flame.
“With the toil of blood we won them, we’ve undone them with our bravery;
Off to slavery, then, we carry them or leave them lifeless here.
Foul my shame so far to wander, and my soldiers’ blood to squander
’Mid the slaughter free as water, should our prey escape us clear.
“Off, ye scum of peasants Saxon, and your backs on Frenchmen turning,
To our burning, dauntless courage proper tribute promptly pay;
Do you come to seize and beat us? Are you here to slay and eat us?
If your meat be Gaul and Mohawk, we will starve you out to-day.”
How my spirit raged to hear him, standing near him bound and helpless!
Never whelpless tigress fiercer howled at slayer of her young,
When secure behind his engines, he has baffled her of vengeance,
Than did I there, forced to lie there while his bitter taunts he flung.
For I heard each leaden missile whirr and whistle from the trusty
Firelock rusty, brought there after long-time absence from the strife,
And was forced to stand in quiet, with my warm blood running riot,
When for power to give an hour to battle I had bartered life.
All in vain they thus had striven; backward driven, beat and broken,
Leaving token of their coming in the dead around the dell,
They retreated—well it served us! their retreat from death preserved us,
Though the order for our murder from the dark De Rouville fell.
As we left our homes in ashes, through the lashes of the sternest
Welled the earnest tears of anguish for the dear ones passed away;
Sick at heart and heavily loaded, though with cruel blows they goaded,
Sorely cumbered, miles we numbered four alone that weary day.
They were tired themselves of tramping, for encamping they were ready,
Ere the steady twilight newer pallor threw upon the snow;
So they built them huts of branches, in the snow they scooped out trenches,
Heaped up firing, then, retiring, let us sleep our sleep of woe.
By the wrist—and by no light hand—to the right hand of a painted,
Murder-tainted, loathsome Pagan, with a jeer, I soon was tied;
And the one to whom they bound me, ’mid the scoffs of those around me,
Bowing to me, mocking, drew me down to slumber at his side.
As for me, be sure I slept not: slumber crept not on my senses;
Less intense is lovers’ musing than a captive’s bent on ways
To escape from fearful thralling, and a death by fire appalling;
So, unsleeping, I was keeping on the Northern Star my gaze.
There I lay—no muscle stirring, mind unerring, thought unswerving,
Body nerving, till a death-like, breathless slumber fell around;
Then my right hand cautious stealing, o’er my bed-mate’s person feeling,
Till each finger stooped to linger on the belt his waist that bound.
’Twas his knife—the handle clasping, firmly grasping, forth I drew it,
Clinging to it firm, but softly, with a more than robber’s art;
As I drove it to its utter length of blade, I heard the flutter
Of a snow-bird—ah! ’twas no bird! ’twas the flutter of my heart.
Then I cut the cord that bound me, peered around me, rose uprightly,
Stepped as lightly as a lover on his blessed bridal day;
Swiftly as my need inclined me, kept the bright North Star behind me,
And, ere dawning of the morning, I was twenty miles away.
_THE LEWISES._
The Lewis family seem to have occupied a position as prominent,
and to have been as much identified with the local history of
the Colony of Virginia, as the Schuyler family with New York and
New Jersey. The John Lewis who is the hero of the ballad, though
less known than Andrew, who overcame Cornstalk at Point Pleasant,
and who was thought of before Washington for command of the
Continental army, was nevertheless a remarkable man. He was of that
Scotch-Irish race which settled the western part of Pennsylvania
and Virginia, and spread into North Carolina, Kentucky, and
Tennessee, making a people distinct in dialect and character,
and preserving a number of North of Ireland customs to this day.
John was a famous Indian fighter in his youth. At the time of the
defence described in the ballad he had grown quite old. His wife,
who came of a fighting family, aided him to drive off the enemy,
who would have endured almost any loss to have secured him as a
prisoner. They hated him intensely, and with just cause. When red
clover was introduced in that section, the savages believed that it
was the white clover, dyed in the blood of the Indians killed by
the Lewises.
_THE FIGHT OF JOHN LEWIS._
I.
To be captain and host in the fortress,
To keep his assailants at bay,
To battle a hundred of Mingos,
A score of the foemen to slay—
John Lewis did so in Augusta,
In days that have long gone away.
And I will maintain on my honor,
That never by poet was told
A fight half so worthy of mention,
Since those which the annals of old
Record as the wonderful doings
Of knights and of Paladins bold—
Ay, though about Richards or Rolands,
Or any such terrible dogs,
Who were covered with riveted armor
Of the pattern of Magog’s and Gog’s,
While Lewis wore brown linsey-woolsey,
And lived in a cabin of logs.
II.
They had started in arms from Fort Lewis,
One morn, in pursuit of the foe;
They had gone at the hour before dawning,
Over hills and through valleys below,
Leaving there, with the children and women,
John Lewis, unfitted to go.
Too weak for the toil of the travel,
Too old in the fight to have part,
Too feeble to stalk through the forest,
Yet fierce as a storm in his heart—
He chafed that without him his neighbors
Should thus to the battle-field start.
“How well,” he exclaimed, “I remember,
When over my threshold there came
A proud and an arrogant noble
To proffer me outrage and shame,
To bring to my household dishonor,
And offer my roof to the flame—
“I rose up erect in my manhood,
The sword of my fathers I drew;
In spite of his many retainers,
That arrogant noble I slew,
And then, with revenge fully sated,
Bade home and my country adieu.
“Ah, were I but stronger and younger,
How eager and ready, to-day,
I would move with the bravest and boldest,
As first in the perilous fray;
But now, while the rest do the fighting,
A laggard, with women I stay.”
The women they laughed when they heard him,
But one answered kindly, and said,
“Uncle John, though the days have departed
When our chiefest your orders obeyed,
Yet still, at the name of John Lewis,
The Mingos grow weak and afraid.
“Yon block-house were weak as a shelter,
Were blood-thirsty savages near,
Yet while you are at hand to defend us,
Not one of us women would fear,
But laugh at their malice and anger,
Though hundreds of foemen were here.”
Away to their work went the women—
Some drove off the cattle to browse;
Some swept from the hearth the cold embers;
Some started to milking the cows;
While Lewis went into the block-house,
And said unto Maggie, his spouse,
“Ah, would they but come to besiege me,
They’d find, though no more on the trail
I may move as in earlier manhood—
Though thus, in my weakness, I rail—
That to handle the death-dealing rifle,
These fingers of mine would not fail.”
III.
John Lewis, thy vaunt shall be tested,
John Lewis, thy boast shall be tried;
Two maidens are with thee for shelter,
The wife of thy youth by thy side;
And thy foemen pour down like a river
When spring-rains have swollen its tide.
They come from the depths of the forest,
They scatter in rage through the dell,
Five score, led by young Kiskepila,
And leap to their work with a yell,
Like the shrieks of an army of demons
Let loose from their prison in hell.
Oh, then there were shrieking and wailing,
And praying for mercy in vain;
Through the skulls of the hapless and helpless
The hatchet sank in to the brain;
And the slayers tore, fastly and fiercely,
The scalps from the heads of the slain.
By the ruthless and blood-thirsty Mingos
Encompassed on every side,
Cut off from escape to the block-house,
No way from pursuers to hide,
With a prayer to the Father Almighty,
Unresisting, the innocents died.
John Lewis, in torture of spirit,
Beheld them ply hatchet and knife,
And said, “Were I younger and stronger,
And fit as of yore for the strife!
Oh, had I from now until sunset
The vigor of earlier life!”
IV.
Unsated with horror and carnage,
Their arms all bedabbled with gore,
The foemen, with purpose determined,
Assembled the block-house before,
And their leader exclaimed, “Ho! John Lewis!
The Mingos are here at the door.
“The mystery-men of our nation
Declare that the blood you have shed
Has fallen so fastly and freely
The white clover flowers have grown red;
And that never will safety be with us
Till you are a prisoner or dead.
“So keep us not waiting, old panther;
Come forth from your log-bounded lair!
If in quiet you choose to surrender,
Your life at the least we will spare;
But refuse, and the scalping-knife bloody
Shall circle ere long in your hair.”
“Cowards all,” answered Lewis; “now mark me.
Beside me are good-rifles three;
I can sight on the bead true as ever,
My wife she can load, do you see?
You may war upon children and women,
Beware how you war upon me.”
They rushed on the block-house in anger;
They rushed on the block-house in vain;
Swift sped the round ball from the rifle—
The foremost invader was slain;
And ere they could bear back the fallen,
The dead of the foemen were twain.
So, firmly and sternly he fought them,
And steadily, six hours and more;
And often they rushed to the combat,
And often in terror forbore;
But never they wounded John Lewis,
Who slew of their number a score.
Ah, woe to your white hair, old hunter,
When powder and bullet be done;
You shall die by the slowest of tortures
When these shall the battle have won.
Look then to your Maker for mercy,
The Mingo will surely have none.
V.
A shout! ’tis the neighbors returning!
Now, Mingos, in terror fall back!
It is well that your sinews are lusty,
And well that no vigor ye lack;
He is best who in motion is fleetest
When the white man is out on his track.
Oh, then fell around them a terror;
Oh, then how the enemy ran;
For each hunter, in chosen position,
With coolness of vengeance began
To take a good aim with his rifle,
And send a sure shot to his man.
Oh, then there was racing and chasing,
And fastly they hurried away;
They feared at those husbands and fathers,
And dared not stand boldly at bay;
And in front of his men, Kiskepila
Ran slightly the fastest they say.
And well for the lives of the wretches
They fly from the brunt of the fight;
And well for their lives that around them
Are falling the shadows of night;
For life is in distance and darkness,
And death in the nearness and light.