you always been victorious—have you always had the luck on your
side,—where did you lose your arm?” The old man took a long and
deliberate survey of the horizon ahead of us, apparently not well
pleased with a dark cloud just beginning to lift itself above its edge;
but whatever inferences he drew from it he kept to himself, and having
relieved his mouth from the quid, and replenished the vacuum by a fresh
bite of the pig-tail, he leisurely turned to us again, and replied with
some emphasis—‘Them as fights the English, fights men—and though it’s
been my luck to be taken twice by them, once’t in the unlucky Chesapeake,
and once’t on the lakes, and though I owes the loss of my flipper to a
musket marked G.R., I hopes I bears them no more grudge than becomes a
true yankee sailor. Now, speaking of that, I’ve always obsarved, since
the war, when our ships is in the same port, that however much we
always fights, when we falls in with each other, that the moment the
English or Americans gets into a muss with the French, or the Dutch, or
the Spaniards, that we makes common cause, and tumbles in and helps one
another—but I’m blest! but that Chesapeake business was a bad affair.
They took the ship;—let them have the credit of it, say I;—but no great
credit neither; for half the men was foreigners in a state of mutiny,
and none of the men know’d their officers. I hearn Captain Lawrence say
himself, after he was carried below, that when he ordered the bugle-man
to sound, to repel boarders, the cursed Portuguese was so frightened, or
treacherous, that no sound came from the bugle, though his cheeks swelled
as if in the act; and I hearn a British officer say to one of our’n,
that Captain Lawrence owed his death to his wearing a white cravat into
action, and that a sharp-shooter in their tops picked him off, knowing as
how, that no common man would be so dressed. I don’t complain of their
getting the best of it, for that’s the fortune of war; but they behaved
badly after the colours was hauled down. They fired down the hatches,
and“—lifting his hat, and exhibiting a seam that measured his head from
the crown to the ear—”I received this here slash from the cutlash of a
drunken sailor, for my share, as I came up the main-hatch, after she
surrendered—My eyes! all the stars in heaven was dancing before me as
I tumbled back senseless on the gun-deck below; and when they brought
the ship into Halifax, she smelt more like a slaughter-house nor a
Christian man-of-war. Howsomever, they whipt us, and there’s an end of
the matter—only I wish’t our gallant Lawrence might have died before the
colours came down, and been spared the pain of seeing his ship in the
hands of the enemy. It was what we old sailors expected, though. She was
an unlucky ship, and that disgraceful affair between her and the Leopard,
was enough to take the luck out of any ship. Now if it had been “Old
Ironsides,”[1] or the “Old Wagon,”[2] I’m blessed! but the guns would
have gone off themselves, had the whole crew mutinied and refused to come
to quarters, when they heard the roar of the British cannon—aye, aye,
Old Ironsides’ bull-dogs have barked at John Bull often enough, aye, and
always held him by the nose, too, when they growled—but the Chesapeake’s
colours was hauled down, while the Shannon’s was flying.—That’s enough—we
had to knock under—let them have the credit of it, say I.—They’d little
cause, except in that ere fight, to crow over the Yankee blue jackets.
They whipt us, and there’s an end of the matter, and be damned to
’em.—But that ain’t answering your question, as how I lost my larboard
flipper. It wasn’t in that ere unfortunate ship, altho’ if it would have
saved the honour of the flag, Bill Kennedy would willingly have given
his head and his arms too—but it was under Old Chauncey on Lake Ontario.
It was in a boat expedition on that ’ere lake, that I first got a loose
sleeve to my jacket, besides being made a pris’ner into the bargain. You
see, Sir James was shut up in Kingston, and beyond the harbour there
was a long bay or inlet setting up some three or four miles. Now, the
Commodore thought it mought be, there was more of his ships in that
same bay; so he orders Lieutenant ——, him as the English called the
‘Dare-devil Yankee,’—the same as went in with a barge the year before
and burned a heavy armed schooner on the stocks, with all their stores,
and came away by the light of it—at—at—I misremember the place—he orders
him to proceed up the bay to reconniter—to see whether there was any of
the enemy’s ships at anchor there—to get all the information he could of
his movements, and to bring off a prisoner if he could catch one—that
the Commodore mought overhaul him at his leisure. So the lieutenant
takes a yawl as we had captured some days before, having Sir James’s
own flag painted upon her bows, with midshipman Hart, and eight of us
men, and pulls leisurely along shore, till we made the entrance of the
bay. It was a bright summer afternoon, and the water was as calm as
the Captain’s hand-basin—not a ripple to be seen. Well, the entrance
was narrow, and somewhat obstructed by small islands; but we soon got
through them, never seeing two heavy English men-of-war barges, as was
snugly stowed in the bushes; but about three miles up, we spies a raft of
timber, with two men on it. We gave way, and before long got up abreast
of it. When we got close aboard the raft, the lieutenant hailing one
of the men, calls him to the side nearest the boat, and says—‘My man,
what are you lying here for, doing nothing—the wind and tide are both in
your favour—don’t you know we are waiting down at Kingston for this here
timber for his Majesty’s sarvice—what are you idling away your time for
here?’ The feller first looks at Sir James’s flag painted upon the bows
of the yawl; and then at the lieutenant, and then again at the flag—and
then at the lieutenant—and then opens his eyes, and looks mighty scarey,
without saying anything, with his mouth wide open,—‘I say,’ says the
Lieutenant agin, ‘I say, you feller with the ragged breeches, do you mean
to swallow my boat—why don’t you answer—what the devil are you doing
here?’ The feller scratches his head, and then stammers, ‘I—I—_I_ know
_you_—you are him as burnt Mr. Peter’s schooner last year.’ ‘Well,’ says
the Lieutenant, ‘what are you going to do with this here timber.’ ‘I’m
carrying it down for a raising,’ says he. ‘What!’ says the Lieutenant,
‘do you use ship’s knees and transom beams for house raising in this part
of the country? It won’t do, my man. Bear a hand, my lads, and pile all
the boards and light stuff in the centre, and we’ll make a bonfire in
honour of his most sacred Majesty.’ So we set fire to it, and took the
spokesman on board the yawl,—towing the other man in their skiff astarn,
intending to release them both when we had got all the information that
we wanted out of them. We returned slowly down the bay again, the blazing
raft making a great smoke; but as we neared the outlet, what does we see,
but them two heavy barges pulling down to cut us off. We had to run some
distance nearly parallel with them, an island intervening—so we every
moment came nearer to them, and soon within speaking distance. The men
gave way hearty—in fear of an English prison, but as we came nearer each
other, some of the officers in the English boats recognises Lieutenant
——, cause why—they had been prisoners with us—and hails him—“G——,” says
they, ‘you must submit, it’s no use for you to resist, we are four to
your one. Come, old feller, don’t make any unnecessary trouble, but give
up—you’ve got to knock under.’ The Lieutenant said nothing,—but he was a
particular man, and had his own notions upon the subject, for, bidding
the men give way, he coolly draws sight upon the spokesman with his
rifle, and most sartin, as he was a dead shot, there would have been a
vacant commission in His Majesty’s Navy, hadn’t the raftsman, who was
frightened out of his wits, caught hold of him by the tails of his coat
and dragged him down into the bottom of the boat. The Lieutenant drops
his rifle, and catches the feller by his legs and shoulders and heaves
him clear of the boat towards the skiff—while we men, dropping our oars,
gave them a volley with our muskets, and then laid down to it again. We
had taken them by surprise, but as we dashed along ahead, they returned
our fire with interest, peppering some of our lads and killing Midshipman
Hart outright, who merely uttered an exclamation as his oar flew up above
his head, and he fell dead in the bottom of the boat. Well, we see’d
the headmost barge all ready, lying on her oars and waiting for us, and
as there was no running the gauntlet past her fire, we made for another
opening from the bay as didn’t appear to be obstructed, but as we nears
it, and just begins to breathe free, three boats full of lobsters, of
red-coats, shoots right across, and closes the entrance effectually on
that side. We was in a regular rat-trap. We had been seen and watched
from the moment we had got inside of the bay, burning the raft and all.
‘Well, my lads,’ says the Lieutenant, ‘this will never do—we must go
about—hug the shore close, and try to push by the barges.’ So about we
went, but as we neared the shore, there was a party of them ’ere riflemen
in their leggins and hunting-shirts, all ready for us, waiting just as
cool and unconsarned as if we was a parcel of Christmas turkies, put up
for them to shoot at. ‘Umph,’ says the Lieutenant again, ‘’twon’t do
for them fellers to be cracking their coach-whips at us neither—we’ve
nothing to do for it, my boys, but to try our luck, such as it is, with
the barges.’ So as we pulled dead for the entrance of the bay, they lay
on their oars, all ready for us, and as we came up, they poured such a
deadly fire into that ere yawl as I never seed before or since. There
was nineteen wounds among eight of us. The Lieutenant was the only one
unhurt, though his hat was riddled through and through, and his clothes
hung about him in tatters. How he was presarved, is a miracle, for he was
standing all the while in the starn-sheets, the most exposed of any on
board. They kept firing away, as if they intended to finish the business,
and gin no quarter, the men doing what little they could to pull at the
oars; but a boat of wounded and dying men couldn’t make much headway. Our
men was true Yankee lads, tho’—and no flinching.
“There was one man named Patterson, as pulled on the same thwart with
me, and of all the men I’ve ever sailed with, he showed most of what
I calls real grit. At their first volley, he gets a shot through his
thigh, shattering the bone so that it hung twisted over on one side, but
he pulls away at his oar as if nothing had happened. Presently another
passes through his lungs, and comes out at his back—still he pulls away,
and didn’t give in;—at last, a third takes him through the throat, and
passes out back of his neck;—then, and not till then, did he call out to
the lieutenant—‘Mr. G—, I’m killed, sir;—I’m dead;—I can’t do no more.’
So the lieutenant says—‘Throw your oar overboard, Patterson, and slide
down into the bottom of the boat, and make yourself as comfortable as you
can.’ Well—what does Patterson do, as he lays in the bottom of the boat
bleeding to death, what does he do but lifts his arm over the gunwale,
and shaking his fist, cry, ‘Come on, damn ye, one at a time, and I’m
enough for ye as I am.’ Aye, aye, Patterson was what I calls real grit.
He was a good, quiet, steady man, too, on board ship; always clean and
ac_tyv_e, and cheerful in obeying orders. Howsomever, his time had come,
and in course there was an end of his boat duty in this world.
“Well—they continued to fire into us as fast as they could load, cause
why, they was aggravated that so small a force should have fired into
them; but the lieutenant takes off his hat and makes a low bow, to let
them know as how he had surrendered, and then directs me to hold up an
oar’s blade; but they takes no notice of neither, and still peppered
away; but just as we concludes that they didn’t intend to give no
quarter, but meant to extarminate us outright, they slacks firing, and,
taking a long circuit, as if we’d have been a torpedo, or some other
dangerous combustible, pulled up aboard. There wasn’t much for them to
be afeard on though, for with the exception of the lieutenant, who was
untouched, there was nothing in the boat but dead and wounded men.
They took us in tow, and carried us down to Kingston, and mighty savage
was Sir James;—he said that it was unpardonable that so small a force
should have attempted resistance, and he and the lieutenant getting
high, and becoming aggravated by something as was said between them,
Sir James claps him in a state-room under arrest, and keeps him there
under a sentry, with a drawn baggonet, for nigh on two months. After
that he sends the lieutenant to Quebec, and then to England, where he
remained till the close of the war; but them of us men as didn’t die of
our wounds was kept down in Montreal, until——” Here the old man broke
off abruptly, and taking another long look at the horizon, said, “If I
a’nt much mistaken, Master Tom, there’s something a-brewing ahead there,
as will make this here craft wake up, as if she was at the little end
of a funnel, with a harricane pouring through the other—and if I knows
the smell of a Potomac thundergust, we’ll have it full blast here before
we’re many minutes older.”
[1] Frigate Constitution.
[2] Frigate United States.
LEE’S PARTISAN LEGION.
Old Kennedy quietly proceeded to make the necessary preparations to
encounter the tempest. His peacoat was got out of the locker, and tightly
buttoned about him, and his tarpaulin well secured by its lanyard to
his button-hole. The mainsail and foresail were stowed and secured, and
nothing but the jib, the bonnet of which was reefed down, was allowed to
remain spread upon our dark and graceful schooner.
The cloud in the horizon began to extend itself, increasing and
gradually rising and covering the sky, and the old man’s prediction was
evidently about to be fulfilled. A dead calm lay upon the river, and a
preternatural stillness clothed in a sort of stupor the whole face of
nature around us; while low muttering rolls of thunder from the dark
cloud, and the frequent, sudden, crinkling lightning, glittering across
its surface, warned us that we were about to encounter one of those
violent and terrible thunder-storms which not unfrequently occur in this
part of the country.
The distant muttering in the horizon rapidly became louder, and the
perfect stillness of the forest was broken. The melancholy sighs of the
coming blast increased to wails,—the boughs of the trees rubbed against
each other with a slow, see-saw motion, and, as the storm increased,
grated with a harsh and continued groaning. The lightning became quick
and incessant, and blindingly vivid, and the dark gloom of the forest
was rendered still darker by its rapid glare. The river itself soon was
lashed into foam behind us, and in a few moments more, accompanied by
huge clouds of dust, the tempest came roaring upon us. The cultivated
fields and cheerful plantations which were but now smiling in quietness
and repose, on the other side of the river, were now instantly shut out
by the deep gloom. As the gust struck the schooner, she checked for a
moment as if in surprise, and then shot forward with the speed of an
arrow from the bow, swept on in the furious tempest as if she had been a
gossamer or feather, enveloped in dust and darkness, the rain and hail
hissing as it drove onwards, and the terrific thunder, now like whole
broadsides of artillery, now quick and incessant peals of musquetry,
roaring with frightful violence around her, while the deep black forest,
lit up by the blue lightning, bellowed incessantly with the hollow
echoes. As we swept forward with frantic swiftness, a quivering white
flash struck the top of an immense oak, and ere the crashing, deafening
roar of the thunder followed, it was torn and splintered, shivered and
burning, hurled on by the blast.
As soon as the squall struck us, we ensconced ourselves below, in full
confidence of our safety with Old Kennedy at the helm; and a fine subject
would the old seaman have been for a painter, as he sat amid the fury of
the storm, stern and erect, the tiller under the stump of his left arm,
and the jib-sheets with one turn around the cleet in his right hand—the
usual surly expression of his countenance increased into grim defiance,
as he steadily and unmovingly kept his eyes fixed into the gloom ahead.
At one time we darted by a sloop at anchor, which had let go every thing
by the run, her sails over her side in the water, on which, if the yacht
had struck, she would have been crumpled up like a broken egg-shell; but
thanks to our old Quartermaster’s care, we dashed by in the gloom, his
eyes never even for a moment turning on her as we passed.
The storm swept us on in its fury for some time, when it gradually abated
in violence, and began to subside. The heavy clouds, flying higher and
higher in detached masses in the heavens, by and bye lifted themselves in
the western sky, and through the ragged intervals the setting sun poured
his last rays over the dripping forest, bronzing the dark sides of our
little schooner as he sunk and disappeared beneath the horizon. As the
evening wore on, a star here and there discovered itself struggling amid
the scud flying over it, and presently the moon shone out with her broad
and silver light, and every vestige of the storm had disappeared.
As we glided gaily on, with a fresh, fine breeze, towards our cottage
home past the deep forest, the silence was broken by a long, melancholy
howl, which I supposed was that of a solitary wolf, but Lee said that
it was more probably from some one of the large breed of dogs which
are found on most of the plantations. Lee’s mind was of a sad and
pensive, although not at all of a gloomy cast; and like most men of
that character, he required strong excitement to arouse him; but when
aroused, of all delightful companions that I have ever met, he was the
man. The excitement of the storm had been sufficient stimulus, and giving
the reins to his wild spirits and excited feelings, he entertained us
with an incessant stream of anecdote and adventure. The howl of the
wolf had recalled to mind an incident in the life of his ancestor,
Lieutenant-Colonel Lee, and in connection, he related it with many other
adventures of the celebrated Partisan Legion. I will not attempt to use
his beautiful and spirit-stirring language, but will confine myself to
a few disjointed anecdotes, of the many which he related of the dashing
corps, as they happen to recur to my memory.
The Legion, intended to act independently or conjointly with the main
army, as circumstances might require, was composed of three companies
of infantry, and three troops of cavalry, amounting in all to three
hundred and fifty men, commanded by Lieutenant-Colonel Henry Lee, who,
every inch a soldier, had won for himself in the Southern campaigns,
and particularly in the masterly retreat of Green, before Cornwallis,
the honourable distinction of being called “the eye of the Southern
army.” He was Green’s confidential adviser and constant friend:—a stern
disciplinarian, he was nevertheless beloved by his officers and men, and
so careful was he of the interests of the latter, that while the rest of
the army were suffering, the Legion by his exertions was always retained
in the highest state of personal appearance and discipline. The horses
were powerful and kept in high condition;—indeed Lee has been accused of
being more careful for their safety than for that of his men. The cavalry
in the British army mounted on inferior horses, could not stand a moment
before them; and armed with their long heavy sabres, Lee’s troopers were
considered full match for double the force of the enemy.
The Legion infantry were well equipped, and thoroughly disciplined men,
and acted in unison with the cavalry. They were commanded by Captain
Michael Rudolph, a man of small stature, but of the most determined
and daring courage, and of great physical strength. He always led in
person the “forlorn hope,” when the Legion’s services were required in
the storm of posts, and he was so completely the idol of his men, that
it was only necessary that he should be detailed on duty of the most
desperate character, that the infantry, to a man, were anxious to be
engaged in it. The leading captain of the cavalry, James Armstrong, was
almost precisely his counterpart in person, in strength, in undaunted
courage and heroic daring, beloved by his men, ahead of whom he was
always found in the charge. O’Neal, also of the cavalry, was a bold and
gallant man, who fought his way up from the ranks; for no carpet knight
had consideration in the corps. In an early part of his career, he came
near cutting off in the bud, Cornwallis’ favourite cavalry officer,
Lieutenant-Colonel Tarleton; for this officer, whatever his merits or
demerits, endeavoured to enter a window at which O’Neal was posted, when
the latter, dropping his carabine, snapped it within an inch of his head,
but the piece missing fire, Tarleton very coolly looked up at him with a
smile, and said, “You have missed it for this time, my lad,” and wheeling
his horse, joined the rest of his troop, who were on the retreat.
It were perhaps difficult to select the brave from a body of men who
were all brave, but it is not invidious to say, that there was not a
man of more fearless courage in the corps than Lieutenant Manning of
the Legion infantry. At the battle of Eutaw, commanding his platoon to
charge, he rushed on in his usual reckless manner, without stopping or
looking behind him, until he was brought up by a large stone house, into
which the Royal York Volunteers under Lieutenant-Colonel Cruger, were
retiring. The British were on all sides, and no American soldier within
two hundred yards of him. Without a moment’s hesitation, he threw himself
upon a British officer, and seizing him by the collar, wrested his sword
from his grasp, exclaiming, in a harsh voice, “You are my prisoner, sir.”
Interposing him between the enemy and himself, as a shield from the heavy
fire pouring from the windows, he then very coolly and deliberately
backed out of danger: the prisoner, who was not deemed by his brother
officers a prodigy of valour, pompously enumerating his rank and titles,
which Manning occasionally interrupted with, “You are right—you are
right—you’re just the man, sir,—you shall preserve _me_ from danger, and
rest assured I’ll take good care of _you_.”
Manning had retreated some distance from the house, when he saw his
friend Captain Joyett, of the Virginia line, engaged in single combat
with a British officer. The American was armed with his sword, while the
Briton was defending himself with a bayonet. As the American approached,
the Englishman made a thrust with the bayonet, which Joyett successfully
parried with his sword, when both of them dropping the arms which they
could not wield in so close an encounter, simultaneously clinched, and
being men of great and nearly equal bodily strength, they were soon
engaged in a desperate and deadly struggle. While thus engaged, an
English grenadier seeing the danger of his officer, ran up and with his
bayonet made a lounge, which luckily missing Joyett’s body, passed only
through the skirts of his coat, but the bayonet becoming entangled in
the folds, upon its withdrawal dragged both of the combatants together
to the ground. The soldier having disengaged it, was about deliberately
to transfix Joyett by a second thrust, when Manning, seeing the danger
of his friend, without being sufficiently near in the crisis to assist
him, called out as he hurried up in an authoritative tone, “You would
not murder the gentleman, you brute!”—The grenadier supposing himself
addressed by one of his own officers, suspended the contemplated blow
and turned towards the speaker, but before he could recover from his
surprise, Manning cut him across the eyes with his sword, while Joyett
disengaging himself from his opponent, snatched up the musket, and
with one blow laid him dead with the butt;—the valiant prisoner whom
Manning had dragged along, and who invariably asserted that he had been
captured by “Joyett, a huge Virginian,”—instead of Manning, who was a
small man—standing a horror-struck spectator of the tragedy. An equally
brave man was Sergeant Ord, of Manning’s company;—in the surprise of
the British at Georgetown, when a company of the Legion infantry had
captured a house with its enclosures, the enemy made an attempt to
regain it; the commanding officer calling out to his men, “Rush on, my
brave fellows—they are only militia, and have no bayonets;”—Ord placing
himself in front of the gate as they attempted to enter, laid six of
them in succession, dead at his feet, accompanying each thrust with—“Oh!
no bayonets here—none to be sure!”—following up his strokes with such
rapidity that the party were obliged to give up the attempt and retire.
But perhaps there could have been no two characters in the corps more
the perfect antipodes of each other, than the two surgeons of the
cavalry, Irvine and Skinner, for while Irvine was entirely regardless
of his person, and frequently found engaged sword in hand, in the
thickest of the fight, where his duty by no means called him, Skinner
was as invariably found in the rear, cherishing his loved person from
the threatened danger. Indeed he was a complete counterpart of old
Falstaff;—the same fat and rotund person—the same lover of good cheer
and good wine—and entertaining the same aversion to exposing his dear
body to the danger of missiles or cuts;—not only was he a source of fun
in himself, “but he was the cause of it in others.” He asserted that his
business was in the rear—to cure men, not to kill them; and when Irvine
was wounded at the charge of Quinby’s bridge, he refused to touch him,
until he had dressed the hurts of the meanest of the soldiers, saying
that Matthew Irvine was served perfectly right, and had no business to be
engaged out of his vocation. At the night alarm at Ninety-six, Colonel
Lee, hastening forward to ascertain the cause, met the Doctor in full
retreat, and stopping him, addressed him, with—“Where so fast, Doctor—not
frightened I hope,”—“No, Colonel,” replied Skinner—“not frightened—but I
confess, most infernally alarmed.” His eccentricities extended not alone
to his acts, but to every thing about him. Among other peculiarities,
he wore his beard long, and unshorn, and upon being asked by a brother
officer why he did so, he replied, that “that was a secret between Heaven
and himself, which no human impertinence should ever penetrate.” Like
Falstaff, and with similar success, he considered himself the admired
of the fair sex,—“Ay!” said he, to Captain Carns, of the infantry, “Ay,
Carns, I have an _eye_!” Yet Skinner was by no means a man to be trifled
with, for he was not devoid of a certain sort of courage, as he had
proved in half a dozen duels, in one of which he had killed his man. When
asked how it was, that he was so careful of his person in action, when he
had shown so plainly that he was not deficient in courage,—he replied,
“That he considered it very arrogant in a surgeon, whose business it was
to cure, to be aping the demeanour and duty of a commissioned officer,
and that he was no more indisposed to die than other gentlemen, but
that he had an utter aversion to the noise and tumult of battle,—that
it stunned and stupified him.” On one occasion, when the Legion was
passing through a narrow defile, the centre was alarmed by the drums
of the infantry beating to arms in front,—Skinner, with the full sense
of what was due to himself, whirled about, and giving his horse a short
turn by the bridle, brought him down on his back in the middle of the
defile, completely blocking it up, and preventing either egress or
ingress—relief or retreat. The infantry and cavalry which had passed the
gorge, immediately deployed on the hill in front, while the remainder
of the Legion, galloping up, were completely severed by this singular
and unexpected obstruction, until Captain Egglestone dismounting some
of his strongest troopers, succeeded in dragging the horse out of the
defile by main force. It turned out that the alarm was false, otherwise
the doctor’s terror might have caused the destruction of one-half of the
corps.