ready for the fight. The main part of Baum’s forces were posted
on the high ground, and intrenched as we have stated; but a
strong party, principally of Rangers, guarded the ford where
the Bennington road crossed. The loyalists, under Peters, had a
breastwork on the south side of the river, and a few chasseurs at
the mouth of a small water-course. Stark’s main body was encamped
on the Bennington road.
There had been skirmishing on the 15th, but the rain prevented any
active movement. The next morning was clear and bright, and Stark
at once proceeded with his plan. It involved a simultaneous attack
of various parties on the intrenchments of the enemy, while the
main body under Stark drove the Tories upon the fortified Hessians,
and the latter out of their fortified hold. The battle lasted
two hours, and in spite of the obstinate bravery of Reidesel’s
dragoons, led by Baum in person, was won by the Americans. But as
soon as this was done, the undisciplined troops began to disperse
in search of plunder. Brayman came up with his fresh men, rallied
Baum’s flying troops, and renewed battle, with every prospect of
retrieving the fortunes of the day; but Colonel Warner’s small
force coming up and meeting the enemy, with the assistance of
the scattered forces Stark was enabled to bring into action, the
tide changed again. At sunset the victory was complete. The loss
of the Americans was less than two hundred killed and wounded;
of the British, in killed, wounded, and prisoners, nine hundred
and thirty-five. Among the spoils were four brass cannon, several
hundred stands of arms, two hundred and fifty dragoon swords, and
four ammunition wagons.
_THE BATTLE OF BENNINGTON._
I see that August morning now before me as I tell
The story of the stirring scenes which I remember well—
The battle-day of Bennington, and what thereon befell.
Yes! we were in the stubble where the hands had gone at dawn,
When, riding swiftly down the road, his dappled gray upon,
Whose flanks were marked with blood and foam, I saw my brother John.
His face was bright, his eyes alight, his bearing proud and high—
“Ho! whither do you speed so fast? Why do you hurry by,
While friends are eager for the news, John Manchester?” said I.
“To fight!” he cried; “who stays at home upon this August day,
Now Stark has come to Bennington, to lead us in the fray,
Where we may smite these Hessian wolves who babes and women slay?
Let baser men remain at toil, as such have done before,
Let women spin and children play before the farm-house door;
But till these knaves are driven hence I till the ground no more.
Come you and join me in the strife that Lexington began;
And as the foe comes down on us, and dares us man to man,
Let you and I acquit ourselves as stout Vermonters can.”
The words he uttered on our hearts fell fast in fiery rain;
The blood in wilder current coursed through artery and vein;
An impulse there to do and dare went swiftly through each brain.
Our sight and hearing keener grew before his voice’s tone—
We saw the cottage roof aflame, the corn-crib overthrown;
We heard the widow’s woful wail, the famished orphan’s moan.
We thrilled from heart to finger-tip; the very air grew red;
And casting by the tools of toil, off to the house we sped,
To wipe the chambers of our guns and mould the deadly lead.
My mother met me at the door—“James, stay at home!” said she;
“If you, my youngest born, should fall, what would become of me?
And then, a boy in such a fight of little use can be—”
With that she raised her hand to brush away an oozing tear,
And added—“It was but in June you reached your sixteenth year;
So, while your brother is away, remain to guard us here.
These Hessians whom the king has sent, a hireling war to wage
On children as on bearded men, are ruthless in their rage;
Then go not hence to fall in fight, child of your mother’s age.”
“Fear not for me,” I answered her; “the Hessians I defy;
In years a boy, I know, but then a man in heart am I;
My country needs me in the fight—I cannot more than die.
I come of Abner Manchester, who never knew a fear;
And though as much as any one I hold my mother dear,
I may not on this day of days remain a laggard here.
To herd with women while the fight for freedom is unwon,
While he has sight to mark a foe and strength to bear a gun,
Suits not a stout Green Mountain Boy, nor yet my father’s son.”
“If you will leave me here alone, so be it!” she replied;
“But take yon firelock from the hooks—it was your father’s pride—
He bore it well against the French, nine years before he died—”
As thus she spoke my mother’s voice grew tremulous in tone—
“And when you use it, lest your foe in lingering anguish moan,
Sight at a point two fingers’ length beneath the collar-bone.
Now, go! my heart, as thus we part, thrills with a mother’s pain;
To save you from a single pang, its latest drop I’d drain;
But—show the courage of your sire, or come not here again!”
We started, six of us in all; we made to camp our way,
And found the forces drawn in line, at two o’clock that day,
In front of where, on Walloomscoick, intrenched the foemen lay.
Bold Stark rode slowly down the ranks, with proud, uncovered head—
So quiet we that on the turf we heard his horse’s tread—
And at the centre drew his rein, and these the words he said—
“Boys! yonder are the red-coat troops, and, mark me every one,
We win this fight for truth and right, before the day be done,
Or Molly Stark’s a widow at the setting of the sun!”
Loud rang the cheering in reply, but through the ranks there ran
A murmur, for they felt it long until the fight began,
Although they knew the tardiness was from a well-formed plan.
For in their hurried council there our leaders planned the fight,
That Herrick with three hundred men should march upon their right,
And Nichols on the left with more spared from our scanty might,
To join their forces in the rear, and there assault begin,
While we upon their front advanced at signal of the din;
And then let those who dealt their blows with fiercest vigor win.
Our forces stood without a stir, in silence grim and dark,
While like a statue on his steed so motionless sat Stark,
When suddenly, with finger raised, the general whispered—“Hark!”
We stood as silent as the grave, and as we bent to hear,
Above the silence far away there came a lusty cheer;
Some shots were fired—we knew our friends had joined upon their rear—
“Now, hearts so warm, move like the storm!” said Stark, and led the way;
“Green Mountain Boys, acquit yourselves like mettled men to-day!
Take careful aim and waste no lead! the wolves are brought to bay!”
Then came the crash of musketry loud pealing on my ear;
I heard a whizzing sound go past—down fell a comrade near—
There was a throbbing in my breast that seemed almost like fear—
A shock, to see a stout young man, in all his youth and pride,
One who had left the day before a fond and blooming bride,
Thus done to death, the scarlet blood slow trickling from his side;
And doubly strange that fearful sight to one who ne’er before,
Amid the shouting of the hosts, and the cannon’s deadly roar,
Had seen a fellow-mortal lie thus lifeless in his gore.
But rage supplanted this at once—my heart grew strong again;
Uprose grim wrath and bitter hate, and bitterer disdain.
I longed to add a leaden drop unto that whizzing rain—
The tenderness of youth I found forevermore had gone.
My cheek was leaned upon my gun, the sight was finely drawn
Upon a gold-laced officer who cheered the Hessians on;
And, trembling in my eagerness to strike for home a blow,
I sent the lead, as mother said, two fingers’ length below
The ridge that marked the collar-bone, and laughed when fell the foe.
There comes a pause within the fight—we see some horsemen group,
And on the breastwork ridge take line, a dark and threatening troop—
Compact they form, with sabres drawn, upon our force to swoop.
Oh, now we smile a grimly smile, and wrath our bosom stirs;
We newly load and careful prime our firelocks for the curs—
For well we know their uniform, those Brunswicker chasseurs!
They come at last whose doom was past long, weary months before—
They come to meet the death that we to deal upon them swore
When first the bearded robbers came for plunder to our shore.
They come, the mercenary dogs, assassins of the crown;
Right gracefully and gallantly they sit their horses brown,
Then rowel-deep they drive their spurs, and thunder madly down.
But as the ground is shaking round before their horses’ tread,
A sheet of fire their sabres lights, high waving overhead,
And of the hundred men who charge full forty-eight lie dead.
Those who survive in vain they strive; they may not fight nor run—
We pass them quickly to the rear, our captives every one.
And so we serve the Brunswicker that day at Bennington.
Then where their remnant lay at bay our angry torrent rolled—
As when a dam gives way, and leaves the waters uncontrolled—
Sweeping to break the square of steel in centre of their hold.
No peal of trump nor tap of drum our eager footsteps timed;
With firelocks clubbed or knife in hand, our faces powder-grimed,
Fatigue unfelt and fear unknown, the ridge of earth we climbed;
Down from its crest we fearless plunged amid the smoke clouds dun,
But struck no blow upon the foe—resistance there was none—
Down fell their arms, uprose the white, and Bennington was won.
Then greeted we surviving friends, and mourned for those who fell,
And, leaning on our firelocks, heard the tales that soldiers tell
How comrades whom they little knew had done their duty well,
And how amid the hosts in fight no coward had been found;
Then gazed upon the foemen slain that lay in heaps around,
And said, in bitter hate and scorn, they well became the ground—
So evermore by sea and shore might those invaders be,
Who came with chains for limbs of men who by their birth were free—
A pang shot sharply through my brain—my brother! where was he?
I sought and found him with the blood slow oozing from his brain;
His feet were pointed to the ridge, his back was to the plain,
And round him in a curving row a dozen Hessians slain.
How well his sword had mown was shown in gazing at the heap—
Strown like a swathe of grass before some lusty mower’s sweep—
Of those whose souls had fled their forms through bloody wounds and deep.
I placed his corse upon his horse, and gently homeward led
The wearied steed that ne’er before was ridden by the dead;
And we buried the corse in the meadow with a white stone at its head.
[Illustration: THE BATTLE-GROUND OF BENNINGTON.]
_THE CAPTURE OF BURGOYNE._
[Illustration: LIEUTENANT-GENERAL BURGOYNE.
[From an English Print, 1783.]]
The way for the operations which resulted in the capture of
Burgoyne and his forces was mainly prepared by General Schuyler,
who was unjustly replaced by Gates. The battles at Stillwater
rendered the result a certainty. The surrender of Burgoyne and his
forces, by showing the probability of success, secured the French
alliance. The value of that consisted in the fact that it gave
Great Britain more to do, and prevented her from crushing the new
States, which had declared their independence from “the State of
Great Britain.” Up to that time Louis the Sixteenth had only given
us covert assistance. Then he, unwisely for himself, declared war
against England, leading to a train of events which crystallized
the memory of long years of oppression of the French people into
revolution. The king did not foresee the consequences. Joseph the
Second of Austria was more shrewd. When urged to join the alliance
against Great Britain he said—“I am a sovereign, and will not aid
to injure my own trade.” The material assistance afforded by France
was slight, and at Savannah injurious. The French were at Yorktown,
but Cornwallis would have fallen without their aid. Afterwards they
not only claimed the laurels, but affected to consider us as a
French dependency, and carried it so far as to provoke us to war.
We owe France nothing; but we owe much to the memory of the Marquis
de la Fayette, who generously placed at our disposal his life and
fortune; who was our disinterested friend at a critical period and
throughout; and who will be remembered with gratitude so long as
the Union remains.
[Illustration: HORATIO GATES.]
Whether Arnold distinguished himself at the first battle of
Stillwater may be a moot question. That he was a moving spirit in
the second battle is undoubted. The victory was very much due to
his exertions. Up to the time of his treason, despite his rapacity
and extravagance at Philadelphia, he merited praise for his dash,
bravery, and unflinching devotion to the cause of Independence.
That he was treated badly by the Congress is true; but that is
scarcely a palliation of his infamous conduct in revenge. The
Congress seems to have had a faculty for injustice. As it acted
towards Arnold, so it did to Paul Jones, John Stark, and Philip
Schuyler. But none of the last named revenged themselves by
treason. The contrast between the conduct of Arnold and Schuyler
is particularly notable. The latter had managed affairs with
dexterity, and it was to his prudence, decision, and skill that
the surrender of Burgoyne was mainly due. At the last moment he was
superseded by Gates, under circumstances calculated to arouse his
resentment. Schuyler, unlike Arnold, was not merely a patriot, but
a man of honor. He was ready to submit to wrong rather than betray
the cause. The conduct of Arnold was the baser from the fact that
Washington, who felt that the man had been wronged, labored to do
him right, and had placed him in the responsible command of West
Point, to pave the way to that distinction his services on the
battle-field deserved. Arnold, therefore, added ingratitude and
breach of confidence to treason. He seems to have had the courage
of a bull-dog, but to have been totally lacking in moral principle.
When I was a boy I met an old Revolutionary soldier who had served
under Arnold. He would praise him for his bravery in one minute,
and denounce his treachery the next, rarely speaking of him without
tears. Hence the idea of the ballad.
[Illustration: BENEDICT ARNOLD.]
_ARNOLD AT STILLWATER._
Ah! you mistake me, comrades, to think that my heart is steel,
Cased in a cold endurance, nor pleasure nor pain to feel;
Cold as I am in my manner, yet over these cheeks so seared
Tear-drops have fallen in torrents, thrice since my chin grew beard.
Thrice since my chin was bearded I suffered the tears to fall:
Benedict Arnold, the traitor! he was the cause of them all.
Once, when he carried Stillwater, proud of his valor I cried;
Then, with my rage at his treason—with pity when André died.
Benedict Arnold, the traitor, sank deep in the pit of shame,
Bartered for vengeance his honor, blackened for profit his fame;
Yet never a gallanter soldier, whatever his after-crime,
Fought on the red field of honor than he in his early time.
Ah! I remember Stillwater as it were yesterday:
Then first I shouldered a firelock, and set out the foemen to slay.
The country was up all around us, racing and chasing Burgoyne,
And I had gone out with my neighbors, Gates and his forces to join.
Marched we with Poor and with Learned, ready and eager to fight;
There stood the foemen before us, cannon and men on the height.
Onward we trod with no shouting, forbidden to fire till the word;
As silent their long line of scarlet—not one of them whispered or stirred
[Illustration: “FIVE TIMES WE CAPTURED THEIR CANNON, AND FIVE TIMES
THEY TOOK THEM AGAIN.”]
Suddenly, then, from among them smoke rose and spread on the breeze;
Grape-shot flew over us sharply, cutting the limbs from the trees;
But onward we pressed till the order of Cilley fell full on the ear,
Then we levelled our pieces and fired them, and rushed up the slope with a cheer.
Fiercely we charged on their centre, and beat back the stout grenadiers,
And wounded the brave Major Ackland, and grappled the swart cannoneers.
Five times we captured their cannon, and five times they took them again;
But the sixth time we had them we kept them, and with them a share of their men.
Our colonel who led us dismounted, high on a cannon he sprang;
Over the noise of our shouting clearly his joyous words rang:
“These are our own brazen beauties! Here to America’s cause
I dedicate each, and to freedom!—foes to King George and his laws!”
Worn as we were with the struggle, wounded and bleeding and sore,
Some stood all pale and exhausted, some lay there stiff in their gore;
And round through the mass went a murmur that grew to a whispering clear,
And then to reproaches outspoken—“If General Arnold were here!”
For Gates, in his folly and envy, had given the chief no command,
And far in the rear some had seen him horseless and moodily stand,
Knitting his forehead in anger, and gnawing his red lip in pain,
Fretting himself like a blood-hound held back from his prey by a chain.
Hark! at our right there is cheering! there is the ruffle of drums!
Here is the well-known brown charger! Spurring it madly he comes!
Learned’s brigade have espied him, rending the air with a cheer:
Woe to the terrified foeman, now that our leader is here!
Piercing the tumult behind him, Armstrong is out on his track:
Gates has despatched his lieutenant to summon the fugitive back.
Armstrong might summon the tempest, order the whirlwind to stay,
Issue commands to the earthquake—would they the mandate obey?
Wounds, they were healed in a moment, weariness instantly gone:
Forward he pointed his sabre—led us, not ordered us on.
Down on the Hessians we thundered, he, like a madman, ahead:
Vainly they strove to withstand us; raging, they shivered and fled.
On to their earthworks we drove them, shaking with ire and dismay;
There they made stand with a purpose to beat back the tide of the day.
Onward we followed, then faltered; deadly their balls whistled free.
Where was our death-daring leader? Arnold, our hope, where was he?
He? He was everywhere riding! hither and thither his form,
On the brown charger careering, showed us the path of the storm;
Over the roar of the cannon, over the musketry’s crash,
Sounded his voice, while his sabre lit up the way with its flash.
Throwing quick glances around him, reining a moment his steed—
“Brooks! that redoubt!” was his order: “let the rest follow my lead!
Mark where the smoke-cloud is parting! see where their gun-barrels glance!
Livingston, forward! On, Wesson! charge them! Let Morgan advance!”
“Forward!” he shouted, and, spurring on through the sally-port then,
Fell sword in hand on the Hessians, closely behind him our men.
Back shrank the foemen in terror, off went their forces pell-mell,
Firing one Parthian volley: struck by it, Arnold he fell.
[Illustration: “FIRING ONE PARTHIAN VOLLEY.”]
Ours was the day. Up we raised him; spurted the blood from his knee—
“Take this cravat, boys, and bind it; I am not dead yet,” said he.
“What! did you follow me, Armstrong? Pray, do you think it quite right,
Leaving your duties out yonder to risk your dear self in the fight?”
“General Gates sent his orders—” faltering the aide-de-camp spoke—
“You’re to return, lest some rashness—” Fiercely the speech Arnold broke:
“Rashness! Why, yes! tell the general the rashness he dreaded is done!
Tell him his kinsfolk are beaten! tell him the battle is won!”
Oh, that a soldier so glorious, ever victorious in fight,
Passed from a daylight of honor into the terrible night;
Fell as the mighty archangel, ere the earth glowed in space, fell—
Fell from the patriot’s heaven down to the loyalist’s hell!
_SIEGE OF FORT HENRY._
[Illustration: GEORGE ROGERS CLARKE.]
In 1771, a stockade fort was erected at the mouth of Wheeling
Creek, in what was then the district of West Augusta, in Virginia,
to protect the settlers against a threatened invasion of the
savages. It was called Fort Fincastle, and is said to have been
planned by George Rogers Clarke. The original garrison was
twenty-five men; but though this was afterwards ordered to be
doubled, it is doubtful if the command were ever obeyed. In 1776,
when the colonists rebelled against the crown, and West Augusta was
divided into the counties of Ohio, Youghiogheny, and Monongahela,
the name was changed to Fort Henry, in honor of Patrick Henry, then
governor of Virginia.
The organization of Ohio County at this time was essentially
military, every able-bodied man being enrolled; and this enrollment
was a list of taxables, and formed the basis of the county revenue.
David Shepherd, the colonel commanding the county militia, was also
the presiding justice of the county court. Besides this the county
had to raise two companies as a part of the Continental Army. These
were commanded respectively by Captains John Lemmon and Silas Zane;
but as they appear never to have enlisted more than twenty men, the
project was probably abandoned.
Fort Henry was the only fortified place capable of a protracted
defence, though there were block-houses in the settlements at Peach
Bottom, Grave Creek, Short Creek, and Cross Creek. It stood on high
ground a short distance above the mouth of Wheeling Creek, and near
it were twenty or thirty log-houses, the beginning of what is now
the flourishing city of Wheeling. The famous attack upon it was
made in September, 1777. During the spring of that year frequent
aggressions had been made upon the white settlements by thieving
bands of Indians, and these attacks had been either repulsed or
the marauders followed up and chastised. During the summer these
increased, and the result was a cessation of ordinary occupations,
and an understood placing of the country under martial law. At the
beginning of September it was learned that Simon Girty, a notorious
white renegade, was raising a strong band of Wyandots, Mingoes, and
Shawanock—mainly of the former. So well did their leader manage,
however, that he brought his band, from four to five hundred in
number, to the walls of Fort Henry before his real points of attack
were known.
On the night of the 26th of September, a small scouting party
discovered smoke arising at the south of Wheeling Creek. Captain
Ogle, one of these, thought it came from the burning of the
block-house at Grave Creek; and Colonel Shepherd sent out to
ascertain the truth, and caused the families living around to
take refuge in the fort. The next morning his scouts sent to warn
neighboring settlements were fired on, and one of them killed, by
six lurking Indians. A party of fifteen, sent to dislodge these,
encountered the main force, and all but three were killed. A party
sent to their aid, lost two-thirds of their number. These losses
cut down the garrison to twelve men and boys. The assailing force,
which now closely invested the garrison, was never estimated at
less than three hundred and eighty, but was probably much more.
During the whole of the day the fight was maintained with great
vigor. The Indians at one time made an impromptu cannon of a huge
log, winding it around with chains from the blacksmith’s shop in
the village, loading it with round stones, and directing it against
the gate of the fort. It exploded, and killed and wounded several
of the besiegers. The next morning, relief came in the shape of
forty men, under M’Culloch, from Short Creek, and fourteen more
from Cross Creek. The enemy burned the houses around, carried off
the cattle, and, bearing their dead, moved away.
During the fight, the defenders grew short of powder. There was
a keg in Ebenezer Zane’s house about sixty yards away, and this
was obtained by the sister of Ebenezer, a young woman, in the way
described in the ballad.
_BETTY ZANE._
Women are timid, cower and shrink
At show of danger, some folk think;
But men there are who for their lives
Dare not so far asperse their wives.
We let that pass—so much is clear,
Though little dangers they may fear,
When greater perils men environ,
Then women show a front of iron;
And, gentle in their manner, they
Do bold things in a quiet way,
And so our wondering praise obtain,
As on a time did Betty Zane.
A century since, out in the West,
A block-house was by Girty pressed—
Girty, the renegade, the dread
Of all that border, fiercely led
Five hundred Wyandots, to gain
Plunder and scalp-locks from the slain;
And in this hold—Fort Henry then,
But Wheeling now—twelve boys and men
Guarded with watchful ward and care
Women and prattling children there,
Against their rude and savage foes,
And Betty Zane was one of those.