spirited narrations with which Lee whiled away the time, as we glided
along on our return up the river. His own observations and adventures
in travelling over the world were not wanting for our amusement, for,
with a mind well prepared for its enjoyment, he had passed the years
that had intervened, since I last saw him, in travelling leisurely over
Europe and the East. With the true philosophy of life, calling all men
brothers, and restrained by no narrow prejudices of country or habit, he
had entered eagerly into the manners and participated in the amusements
of those around him. First after the hounds in England, he shouted “tally
ho!” with all the enthusiasm of the veriest sportsman in the hunt; while
his voice was heard equally loud and jovial in the wild and half frantic
chorus of the drinking and smoking students of Germany. He scrupled not
to wear his beard long, and partake of the hard black loaf in the cabin
of the Russian boor, while, with equal equanimity he wore his turban, and
smoked his chiboque cross-legged in the caffarets of Turkey. He climbed
the huge pyramids, and their dark and silent chambers echoed the sounds
of his voice, as he called on Cheops, Isis and Orus; and, kneeling in the
gorgeous mosque of Omar, he worshipped the true God, while the muzzeim
from its minarets was proclaiming, that Mahomet was his prophet. He had
luxuriated amid the never-dying works of the great masters at Florence,
and, lulled by the harmonious chaunt of the gondolier, had swept over
the moonlit lagoons of Venice. He had whirled in all the gaiety of
living Paris, and measured with careful steps the silent streets of dead
Herculaneum and Pompeii. He had stood amid the awful stillness on the
glittering ice-covered summits of Mont Blanc, and looked fearlessly
down into the great roaring caverns of fire boiling in the crater of
Vesuvius—but now there was a sadness about his heart which rarely lighted
up, and, as I have observed, it was only under momentary excitement that
he blazed into brilliant entertainment.
As the fresh breeze wafted us swiftly onwards, Venus, mid the stars
trembling in unnumbered myriads, rivalled with her silvery rays the great
round-orbed moon, sailing joyously in her career high in the heavens
above us,—and soon the bright beacon on the plantation shore, lighted for
our guidance, shone steadily over the dark water, and ere long we were
all quietly seated at the supper-table, with our beautiful hostess at its
head,—again in Tom’s cottage on the banks of the Potomac.
NOTE.—The incidents related in the above article are derived
from “Lee’s Southern Campaigns” and “Col. Gardner’s Military
Anecdotes,” where, if he has not already perused them, the
reader will find much to interest and amuse him.
HUDSON RIVER.
Here we are met again, all booted and spurred, and ready for another
journey. Come, let us make the most of our time on this mundane sphere,
for verily we are but two of the automata of the great moving panorama
which is so rapidly hastening o’er its surface—two of the unnumbered
millions who, lifted from our cradles, are hurrying with like equal haste
towards the great dark curtain of the future, where, drawing its gloomy
folds aside, we shall pass behind and disappear for ever. Therefore
let us hasten; for though some of us complacently imagine that we are
bound on our own special road and chosen journey, yet, surely we are but
travelling the path which has been marked out for us by an all-seeing
Providence; and though, like soldiers, we may be marching, as we suppose,
to good billets and snug quarters, yet perhaps, before the day’s route
be closed, we shall be plunged into the centre of the battle-field, with
sad curtailment of our history. Tempus fugit! Therefore let us hasten,
for, in a few short years, some modern Hamlet o’er our tomb-stones thus
shall moralize: “Here be two fellows tucked up right cosily in their
last quarters, ‘at their heads a grass-green turf, and at their heels a
stone.’ Humph! for all their stillness, I warrant me, they’ve strutted
their mimic stage, and flaunted with the best; they’ve had their ups and
downs, their whims and fancies, their schemes and projects, their loves
and hates,—have been elated with vast imaginings, and depressed to the
very ocean’s depths; and now their little day and generation passed,
they’re settled to their rest. The school-boy astride on one’s memento,
with muddy heels kicks out his epitaph, while the other’s name is barely
visible among the thistle’s aspiring tops,—yet both alike have rendered,
with the whole human family, the same brief epitome of history. ‘They
laughed—they groaned—they wept—and here they are,’ for such are but the
features of bright, confiding youth, stern manhood’s trials, and imbecile
old age.” And this same sage Hamlet’s right; therefore, without more ado,
let us get us on our travels.
So, here we are in the Jerseys. Now _westward_ shall lie our
course. Here come the cars. Quick—jump in—here is a good seat,
close by the old gentleman in the India-rubber cape. Ding,
ding—ding, ding. There goes the bell. Shwist, shwist. We are off.
Clank—jirk—click—click—clickety—click—click. Here we go. We fly over the
bridges, and through the tunnels; the rail fences spin by us in ribands;
the mile-stones play leap-frog; the abutments dash by us. Screech! the
cattle jump like mad out of our way. Already at Jersey City? We paddle
across. Ay, here we are, just in time, on board the “Swallow.” What a
pandemonium of racket, and noise, and confusion! Steam yelling, bells
ringing, boys and negroes bawling, porters and hackmen hurrying.—“Get out
of my way, you dirty little baboon, with your papers.”—“Thank you, madam,
no oranges.”—“All aboard.”—Tinkle, tinkle.—The walking-beam rises, the
heavy wheels splash.—We shoot out into the stream.—We make a graceful
curve, and, simultaneously with five other steamers, stretch like
race-horses up the majestic Hudson.
How beautifully the Narrows and the Ocean open to our view, and the
noble bay, studded with its islands, and fortresses, and men-of-war,
“tall, high admirals,” with frowning batteries and chequered sides. In
what graceful amity float the nations’ emblems—the Tricolour, the Red
Cross, the Black Eagle, the Stars and Stripes. But we take the lead. Fire
up—fire up, engineer,—her namesake cuts the air not more swiftly than
our fleet boat her element. Still as a mirror lies the tranquil water.
The dark pallisades above us, with fringed and picturesque outline, are
reflected on its polished surface; and the lordly sloops, see how lazily
they roll and pitch on the long undulating swell made by our progress,
their scarlet pennons quivering on its surface as it regains its
smoothness.
How rich and verdant extend thy shores, delightful river! Oh! kindly
spirit—Crayon, Diedrick, Irving, whate’er we call thee,—with what
delightful Indian summer of rustic story, of dreamy legend, hast thou
invested them? Lo! as we slide along, what moving panorama presents
itself? Phlegmatic Mynheers, in sleepy Elysium, evolve huge smoke-wreaths
of the fragrant weed as they watch thy placid stream. Blooming Katrinas,
budding like roses out of their boddices, coquette with adoring
Ichabods,—sturdy, broad-breeched beaux, sound “boot and saddle.”
Roaring Broms dash along on old Gun-powders. Headless horsemen thunder
onwards through Haunted hollows—heads on saddle-bow. Dancing, laughing
negroes—irate, rubicund trumpeters—huge Dutch merry-makings—groaning
feasts, and loafing, hen-pecked Rips, pass in review before us. And now,
as we open the Tappan Zee, see! see Old Hendrick,—see the old fellow in
his scarlet cloak, his gallant hanger, cocked-hat, and many-buttoned
breeches—see how the huge clouds of smoke, encircling his nose, float
upwards, as, seated on his lofty poop, he sluggishly lays his course.
See the old Dutchman—no—stop! stop!—’tis but a creature of thy fantasy,
floating in the setting sunlight. Oh! historian of Columbus, with thy
fellow-spirit, him of the “North Star,” and the “Evening Wind,” gently,
yet sorrowfully you float above the miasma clouds of gain, that in their
poisonous wreaths envelope your countrymen. In the evening twilight thy
beacon, Stony Point, throws far its streaming rays o’er the darkening
scenery, different, I ween, when mid midnight mist and stillness, mid
cannon-blaze and roar, “Mad Anthony’s” attacking columns simultaneously
struck the flag-staff in thy centre. The sparks stream rocket-like from
our chimneys, as we enter your dark embrace, ye Highlands! Hark! the roll
of the drum, as we round the bend—thy beautiful plateau, West Point, with
its gallant spirits, is above us. Success to thee, school of the brave!
Engineers for her hours of peace, soldiers in war to lead her armies,
dost thou furnish to thy country—brave, enduring men. When fell thy sons
other than in the battle’s front? when in the fiercest danger were they
found recreant? Aye, well may Echo answer “When?”
The thunder of thy bowling balls, Old Hudson, we hear as we pass the
gorges of the Catskill. Hyde Park, thou glancest by us—the villas of the
Rensselaers and Livingstons flit ’mid their green trees,—thy cottages,
oh Kinderhook—the Overslaugh—rush by us, and now we are at Albany.
Albany, Rochester, Utica, by smoaking steam-car, we are delivered from
you. Auburn, we breathe among thy shady walks—and now, for a moment,
Buffalo, we rest with thee. All hail to thee, thou city of the Bison
Bull! Great caravansera and resting-place of coming nations! Byzantium
of the future—hail! As on a quay shall meet hereafter, through the
Lawrence and the Oregon, the hardy seamen of the Atlantic and Pacific,
the Otaheitean and the fair-haired Swede; while the bronzed trapper, the
savage Blackfoot, the greasy Esquimaux, and half-civilized voyageur,
shall mingle with astonishment and admiration on thy busy marts. Hail!
hail! to thee, thou city of the desert lord, all hail!
NIGHT ATTACK ON FORT ERIE.
(August 14th, 1814.)
Hostler! bring up the horses, we will cross to the Canadian shore, and
ride leisurely o’er its battlegrounds. Tighten the girths, John. Take up
another hole. So—never mind the stirrup. Jump—I’m in my saddle. Are you
ready?—_Allons._ Well broken is that grey of yours, he has a good long
trot—how easy it makes your rise in the saddle, and how graceful is the
gait. But here we are at the Ferry. Now, we cross thy stream, Niagara!
Now, we stand on British ground! Generous and gallant blood has deeply
stained its soil! Observe these crumbling works—the old stone fort facing
the river—the remains of ramparts and trenches—here a bastion—further on,
a redoubt—there again lines and earthworks, forming a continuous circle
of defence, but all now fast sinking to their original level. These are,
or rather were, the fortress and defences of “Fort Erie.” When some
years since I rode over the ground with our kind and excellent friend,
the Major, I listened with great interest to his narration of the part
of the campaign acted upon this spot and the adjoining country. I will
repeat it to you as we ride over it. Jump your horse upon this decaying
mound—it was a bastion.
Standing on this bastion, “Here,” said the Major, “we had thrown up our
lines, making the defences as strong as practicable. The British had
also erected formidable works about half a mile in front, (the forest
intervening,) composed of a large stone battery on their left, and two
strong redoubts, from which they kept up an incessant discharge of shot
and shells for several successive days, which was returned by us with
equal vigour. At length a shell from their batteries having fallen upon
it, blew up one of our small magazines, but with trifling injury to the
rest of the defences. They greatly miscalculated the damage, and were
elated with their success, and General Gaines received secret information
that they intended to carry the works by storm on the following night.
That night, said the Major, I shall not soon forget. It set in intensely
dark and cloudy, extremely favourable to the design of the enemy. Every
thing was put in the fullest state of preparation to receive them. The
men enthusiastically awaiting the attack, were ordered to lie on their
arms. Extended along the lines, and manning the fort and bastion, our
little army, in perfect silence, awaited their coming.
The forest had been cleared about three hundred yards in front of
our works—beyond that were, as you see, the woods. As the night
wore on, we listened with earnestness to every sound. A little
after midnight, we heard on the dry leaves the stealthy sound of
footsteps—pat—patter—patter. We listened—they came nearer. A short,
sharp challenge: “Who goes there?” issued from that farther redoubt. The
footsteps ceased, as if irresolute to advance or recede, and all was
still. Another quick challenge—a rattle of the musket, as it fell into
the hollow of the hand,—followed the reply:—“Picquet guard, forced in
by the enemy’s advance”—“Back, guard! back to your posts instantly, or
we will fire upon you,” rung the stern voice of our commanding officer.
The footsteps of the stragglers slowly receded, and entire stillness
again obtained. It was as profound as the darkness, not even the hum
of an insect rose upon the ear. We laid our heads upon the ramparts,
and listened with all our faculties. We listened. Perhaps half an hour
elapsed, when we imagined we heard the dead, heavy sound of a large
body of men—tramp—tramp—tramp—advancing through the pitchy darkness. A
few moments passed—a brisk scattering fire, and the picquets came in
in beautiful order, under the brave subaltern in command. The measured
tread of disciplined troops became apparent. Every sense was stretched
to the utmost in expectancy—every eye endeavoured to fathom the darkness
in front, when, from Towson’s battery, that towards the river, glanced
a volley of musquetry, and in another instant, the whole line of the
works, bastion, redoubt, and rampart, streamed forth one living sheet
of flame. Two eighteens, mounted where we stand, were filled to the
muzzle with grape, cannister, and bags of musket-bullets—imagine their
havoc. The enemy came on with loud shouts and undaunted bravery. By the
continued glare of our discharges, we could see dense dark masses of men,
moving in columns to three separate points of attack upon our works.
Our artillery and musketry poured on them as they advanced a continual
stream of fire, rolling and glancing from angles, bastions, and redoubts.
Repulsed—they were re-formed by their officers, and brought again to the
charge, to be again repulsed. At such times, hours fly like minutes. A
life appears concentrated to a moment. We had been engaged perhaps an
hour—perhaps three, when I heard in that bastion of the Fort, a hundred
feet from me, above the uproar, a quick, furious struggle, as if of men
engaged in fierce death-fight; a clashing of bayonets, and sharp pistol
shots, mixed with heavy blows, and short quick breathing, such as you may
have heard men make in violent exertion—in cutting wood with axes, or
other severe manual labour. The conflict, though fierce, was short—the
assailants were repelled. Those that gained a footing were bayonetted, or
thrown back over the parapet. In a few moments, I heard again the same
fierce struggle, and again followed the like result and stillness—if
stillness could be said to exist under continual roar of musketry and
artillery. A third time it rose, sudden and desperate; it ceased, and
presently a clear loud voice rose high above the battle from the bastion:
“Stop firing in front there, you are firing on your friends.” An instant
cessation followed. We were deceived. In another moment, the voice of
an officer with startling energy replied: “Aye, aye, we’ll stop: give
it them, men, give it them!”—and the firing, renewed, was continued
with redoubled fury. The head of the centre column, composed of eight
hundred picked men, the veterans of Egypt, led by Lieut. Col. Drummond
in person, after three several assaults, had gained possession of the
bastion, and by that ruse, endeavoured to cause a cessation of the fire—a
result that might have been fatal to us, had not the deception been so
soon discerned. But the prize was of little value, as the bastion was
commanded by the interior of the works, and the men, under cover of the
walls of an adjoining barrack, poured into the gorge that led from it,
a continued storm of musketry. The firing continued with unabated fury.
The enemy, repulsed with great loss in every attack, was unsuccessful
on every point save that bastion, the possession of which they still
retained—when I heard a groaning roll and shake of the earth, and
instantly the bastion, bodies of men, timber, guns, earth and stones,
were blown up in the air like a volcano, making every thing in the glare
as clear as noon-day. A descending timber dashed one of my artillerymen
to pieces within a foot of my shoulder. Profound darkness and silence
followed. Naught but the groans of the wounded and dying were heard.
As if by mutual consent, the fighting ceased, and the enemy withdrew,
repulsed on every side, save from the parapet which they purchased for
their grave. A large quantity of fixed ammunition had been placed in
the lower part, and a stray wad falling upon it, had blown them all up
together. My duty required that I should immediately repair the bastion,
and most horrible was the sight—bodies burnt and mutilated—some of them
still pulsating with life, among them Lieut. Colonel Drummond, the leader
of the attack. There he lay in the morning light, stark and stiff,
extended on the rampart, a ball having passed through his breast. History
mourns, that his courage assumed the character of ferocity. His war-cry
of “No quarter to the damned Yankees,” his own death-warrant, was long
remembered against his countrymen. The enemy did not resume the attack,
but retiring to their entrenched camp, strengthened their works, and
prepared to make their approach by regular advances.
But come, spur on, we have far to ride—spur on. Here we are upon their
works. Here is the stone water-battery, and there the two strong
redoubts, and back of them the remains of their lines, and deep
entrenchments. These are the works which were carried in the memorable
and desperate sortie of Fort Erie. The right by Davis and Miller; the
left by Porter and his volunteers. Here, on the left, quoth the Major,
fell my gallant, my accomplished friend, Lieut. Col. Wood, at the head of
his column. He was one of the most brilliant officers in the service, and
as beautiful as a girl. I often gazed with astonishment at the desperate
daring that characterised him in action; here he fell; he was bayonetted
to death on the ground, on this spot“—and the Major’s voice quivered,
and he turned his face from me, for the cruel death of his dear friend
was too much for his manhood. His ashes sleep amid the Highlands of the
Hudson, beneath their monument, near the flag-staff at West Point. Peace
to his gallant spirit! The stars of his country can wave over no braver
of her sons.
BATTLE OF LUNDY’S LANE.
We cross thy tranquil plains, Oh! Chippewa.
Scott—Ripley—Towson—Hindman—brave soldiers; long will this battle-ground
your names remember. And thou too, Riall! brave Englishman, foeman wert
thou worthy of warriors’ steel. But far different music has resounded
through these continuous woods than the wild bird’s carol, the hum of
insects, and the waving of the breeze that now so gently greets our
ear. Ay! yonder it is—yonder is the white house. There, said the Major,
as General Scott, making a forward movement with his brigade in the
afternoon of the 25th of July, 1814, came in view of it, we saw the
court-yard filled with British officers, their horses held by orderlies
and servants in attendance. As soon as we became visible to them,
their bugles sounded to saddle, and in a few moments they were mounted
and soon disappeared through the woods at full gallop, twenty bugles
ringing the alarm from different parts of the forest. All vanished as
if swallowed by the earth, save an elegant veteran officer, who reined
up just out of musket shot, and took a leisurely survey of our numbers.
Having apparently satisfied himself of our force, he raised the plumed
hat from his head, and bowing gracefully to our cortege, put spurs to
his horse and disappeared with the rest. From the occupant of the house
we gathered that we were about a mile distant from a strong body of the
enemy, posted in the rising ground just beyond the woods in our front.
General Scott, turning to one of his escort, said, “Be kind enough, sir,
to return to Major General Brown; inform him that I have fallen in with
the enemy’s advance, posted in force at ‘_Lundy’s Lane_,’ and that in one
half hour, I shall have joined battle.” “Order up Ripley with the second
brigade,—direct Porter to get his volunteers immediately under arms,”
was the brief reply of Major General Brown to my message, and the aids
were instantly in their saddles, conveying the orders. As I galloped back
through the woods, continued the Major, the cannon shot screaming by me,
tearing the trees and sending the rail fences in the air in their course,
warned me that the contest had begun.—But we are on the battle-ground.
There, said the Major, upon the verge of that sloping hill, parallel with
the road, and through the grave-yard towards the Niagara, was drawn up
the British line under General Riall, in force three times greater than
our brigade—his right covered with a powerful battery of nine pieces of
artillery, two of them brass twenty-fours.
The _Eleventh_ and _Twenty-second_ regiments first leaving the wood,
deployed upon the open ground with the coolness and regularity of a
review,—and were soon engaged furiously in action; the fire from the
enemy’s line and from the batteries, which completely commanded the
position, opening upon them with tremendous effect. Towson, having
hurried up with his guns on the left, in vain endeavoured to attain
sufficient elevation to return the fire of their battery. The destruction
on our side was very great;—the two regiments fought with consummate
bravery. They were severely cut up, their ammunition became exhausted,
and their officers nearly all of them having been killed and wounded,
they were withdrawn from action,—the few officers remaining unhurt
throwing themselves into the _Ninth_, which now came into action, led by
the gallant Colonel Leavenworth.
The brunt of the battle now came upon them, and they alone sustained it
for some time, fighting with unflinching bravery, until their numbers
were reduced to one-half by the fire of the enemy. At this juncture,
General Scott galloped up with the intention of charging up the hill;
but finding them so much weakened, altered his intention, entreating
them to hold their ground until the reinforcements, which were hastening
up, should come to their assistance. A momentary cessation of the
action ensued, while additional forces hurried up to the aid of each
army—Ripley’s brigade, Hindman’s artillery, and Porter’s volunteers,
on the part of the Americans, and a strong reinforcement under General
Drummond on that of the British. Hindman’s artillery were attached
to that of Towson, and soon made themselves heard. Porter’s brigade
displayed on the left, while Ripley formed on the skirts of the wood
to the right of Scott’s brigade. The engagement was soon renewed, with
augmented vigour; General Drummond taking command in person, with his
fresh troops in the front line of the enemy. Colonel Jesup, who had at
the commencement of the action been posted on the right, succeeded, after
a gallant contest, in turning the left flank of the enemy, and came in
upon his reserve, “burdened with prisoners, making himself visible to his
own army, amid the darkness, in a blaze of fire,” completely destroying
all before him. The fight raged for some time with great fury, but it
became apparent, uselessly to the Americans, if the enemy retained
possession of the battery, manifestly the key of the position.