General Brown rode up and inquired, whether he could storm the battery
with his regiment, while General Ripley supported him with the younger
regiment, the _Twenty-third_. Miller, amid the uproar and confusion,
deliberately surveyed the position, then quietly turning with infinite
coolness replied, “_I’ll try, sir._” I think I see him now, said the
Major, as drawing up his gigantic figure to its full height, he turned to
his regiment, drilled to the precision of a piece of mechanism, I hear
his deep lion tones—“_Twenty-first_—attention!—form into column. You
will advance up the hill to the storm of the battery—at the word ‘halt,’
you will deliver your fire at the port-lights of the artillerymen,
and immediately carry the guns at the point of the bayonet.—Support
arms—double quick—march!” Machinery could not have moved with more
compactness than that gallant regiment followed the fearless stride
of its leader. Supported by the _Twenty-third_, the dark mass moved
up the hill like one body,—the lurid light glittering and flickering
on their bayonets, as the combined fire of the enemy’s artillery and
infantry opened murderously upon them. They flinched not—they faltered
not—the stern deep voices of the officers, as the deadly cannon-shot
cut yawning chasms through them, alone was heard. “Close up—steady,
men—steady.” Within a hundred yards of the summit, the loud “Halt”
was followed by a volley—sharp, instantaneous, as a clap of thunder.
Another moment, rushing under the white smoke, a short furious struggle
with the bayonet, and the artillerymen were swept like chaff from their
guns. Another fierce struggle—the enemy’s line was forced down the side
of the hill, and the victory was ours—the position entirely in our
hands—their own pieces turned and playing upon them in their retreat.
It was bought at cruel price—most of the officers being either killed
or wounded. The whole tide of the battle now turned to this point.
The result of the conflict depended entirely upon the ability of the
victorious party to retain it. Major Hindman was ordered up, and posted
his forces at the side of the captured cannon, while the American line
correspondingly advanced. Stung with mortification, the brave General
Drummond concentrated his forces, to retake by a desperate charge the
position. The interval amid the darkness was alone filled by the roar of
the cataracts, and the groans of the wounded. He advanced with strong
reinforcements, outflanking each side of the American line. We were
only able, in the murky darkness, to ascertain their approach by their
heavy tread. “They halted within twenty paces—poured in a rapid fire and
prepared for the rush.” Directed by the blaze, our men returned it with
deadly effect, and after a desperate struggle, the dense column recoiled.
Another interval of darkness and silence, and again a most furious and
desperate charge was made by the British, throwing the whole weight of
their attack upon the American centre. The gallant _Twenty-first_, which
composed it, receiving them with undaunted firmness—while the fire from
our lines was “dreadfully effective,” Hindman’s artillery served with
the most perfect coolness and effect. Staggering, they again recoiled.
During this second attack, General Scott in person, his shattered brigade
now consolidated into a single battalion, made two determined charges
upon the right and left flank of the enemy, and in these he received the
scars which his countrymen now see upon his manly front. Our men were
now almost worn down with fatigue, dying with thirst, for which they
could gain no relief. The British, with fresh reinforcements—their men
recruited and rested—after the interval of another hour, made their third
and final effort to regain the position. They advanced—delivered their
fire as before—and although it was returned with the same deadly effect,
they steadily pressed forward. The _Twenty-first_ again sustained the
shock, and both lines were soon engaged in a “conflict, obstinate and
dreadful beyond description.” The right and left of the American line
fell back for a moment, but were immediately rallied by their officers.
“So desperate did the battle now become, that many battalions on both
sides were forced back,” the men engaged in indiscriminate melée, fought
hand to hand, and with muskets clubbed; and “so terrific was the conflict
where the cannon were stationed, that Major Hindman had to engage them
over his guns and gun-carriages, and finally to spike two of his pieces,
under the apprehension that they would fall into the hands of the enemy.”
General Ripley at length made a most desperate and determined charge upon
both of the enemy’s flanks—they wavered—recoiled—gave way—and the centre
soon following, they relinquished the fight and made a final retreat.
The annals of warfare on this continent have never shown more desperate
fighting. Bayonets were repeatedly crossed, and after the action, many
of the men were found mutually transfixed. The British force engaged
was about five thousand men;—the American thirty-five hundred: the
combined loss in killed and wounded, seventeen hundred and twenty-two,
officers and men. The battle commenced at half-past four o’clock in the
afternoon, and did not terminate till midnight. We were so mingled, said
the Major, and so great the confusion in the darkness, that as I was
sitting with a group of officers in the earlier part of the night, on
horseback, a British soldier came up to us, and recovering his musket,
under the supposition that he was addressing one of his own officers,
said, “Colonel Gordon will be much obliged, sir, if you will march up
the three hundred men in the road to his assistance immediately, as he
is very hard pressed.” I called him nearer, and pressing his musket down
over my holsters, made him prisoner. “What have I done, sir,” said the
astonished man, “what have I done?” and to convince British officers, as
he supposed, of his loyalty, exclaimed, “Hurrah for the King, and damn
the Yankees.” As he was marched to the rear, the poor fellow was cut down
by a grape shot. In another part of the field, an American aid pulled
up suddenly on a body of men under full march. In reply to his demand,
“What regiment is that?” he was answered, “The Royal Scots.” With great
presence of mind, he replied, “Halt! Royal Scots’, till further orders,”
and then turning his horse’s head, galloped from their dangerous
proximity. It was a horrid conflict. Humanity sighs over the slaughter of
the brave men that fell in it.
But here we are, at the grave-yard, with its drooping willows and
flowering locusts. Still—still—and quiet now. No armed men disturb
its calmness and repose—no ponderous artillery wheels rudely cut
its consecrated mounds—no ruffian jest—no savage execration—no moan
of anguish, break now upon its hallowed silence. The long grass and
blossoming heather waive green alike over the graves of friend and enemy.
The marble tells the story of the few—the many, their very parents know
not their resting place. See this broken wooden slab—it has rotted off
even with the ground, and lies face downwards, the earthworm burrowing
under it, in this neglected corner. Pull the grass aside; turn it over
with your foot. What, the nearly effaced inscription?
“Sacred
TO THE MEMORY OF
CAPT’N —— BROWN,
OF THE
21st Regiment
WHO DIED OF WOUNDS RECEIVED IN ACTION,
WITH THE ENEMY, ON THE
25TH OF JULY, 1814.”
And this is honour! This is fame! Why, brave man! e’en now, I read
the tribute to thy bravery in the bulletin of the action. Thou had’st
comrades—father, mother, sisters—to mourn thy loss—and _now_, the
stranger’s foot carelessly spurns thy frail memento; nor father, mother,
sisters, nor human hand can point to the spot where rest thy ashes. Peace
to thy manes! brave countrymen, where’er they sleep.
See from this point how gently and gracefully undulates the battle-field;
the woods bowing to the evening breeze, as the soft sunlight pours
through their branches show not the gashes of rude cannon shot—the
plain, loaded and bending with the yellow harvest, betrays no human
gore—yon hill scathed, scorched and blackened with cannon flame, the very
resting place of the deadly battery, shows no relic of the fierce death
struggle, as covered with the fragrant clover and wild blue-bell, the bee
in monotonous hum banquets o’er it. Nought mars the serenity of nature
as she smiles upon us. Yet, burnt in common funeral pyre, the ashes of
those brave men, of friend and foe, there mingle in the bosom whence they
issued. The frenzied passion passed, the furious conflict o’er, they
have lain down in quiet, and like young children, sleep gently, sweetly,
in the lap of that common mother who shelters with like protection the
little field mouse from its gambols, and the turbaned Sultan sinking amid
his prostrate millions. Shades of my gallant countrymen! Shades of their
daring foes—farewell. Ne’er had warriors more glorious death-couch,—the
eternal Cataracts roar your requiem.
The reader’s attention is requested to the more detailed
account of this action in the Appendix. The inscription on the
tablet is given from recollection, and it is possible that the
number of the Regiment may not be the one to which this officer
belonged.
LAKE GEORGE AND TICONDEROGA.
The Sun of Morning hurls himself in blazing splendour o’er thy crystal
waters, beautiful Horicon, as we float upon thy placid bosom, not
as of yore, in feathery canoe, but in gaily-coloured bark, drawn by
Steam Spirit, as he vainly strives to break his fiery prison. See, how
he puffs and pants in the fierce embrace of the glowing element; in
furious efforts dragging us onward with frantic swiftness, e’en as the
frightened steed, the vehicle wildly bounding after him. As the valve
of safety opens, hear the shriek of mad delight, with which exultingly
he proclaims his freedom;—now, the iron portal closed, how like Sampson
in the Prison Mill, struggling, giant-like, he again applies him to his
toil. Imprisoned Spirit! there is no help for thee. Sweat thou must, and
pant, and groan, till, like thy fellow-labourer, man, released from fire
fetter, as he of earth, resolved to pure ether, thou shalt float again
free and delighted in the clear elements above!
Ho! brother spirit, tarry, tarry—wait thou a little ’till I join
thee,—then, how gallantly we’ll ride! Couched on summer clouds, lazily
we’ll float: or, glancing on sun rays, shoot swift as thought, ’mid the
bright worlds rolling in sublimity above us. We’ll bathe in the Moon’s
cold splendour, fan in the sultry heat of crimson Mars, slide upon
Saturn’s eternal snows, or joyously gambolling along the Milky Way, we’ll
chase the starry Serpent to his den. Ho! brother spirit;—but, we must
bide our time—madly now in wild career, thou sweep’st the placid lake
from under us.
But whom have we here? A sturdy hunter in homespun clad, with his long
rifle—his broad-chested hounds in quiet, sleeping at his feet; our
fellow-passenger, ’till landed on some mountain side, he follows his
sylvan war. Clear animal health and vigour shine from each lineament—with
what open, unsuspicious manhood—what boundless freedom he comports
himself. Ha! what is it, hound? What is it? Why dost shake thy pendant
ears and gaze so keenly in the distance—and why that plaintive howl? Ay,
ay, hunter, thy practised eye hath caught it. On yon wooded island to the
windward—a noble buck with graceful form and branching antlers. He sees
us not, but the dog’s quick senses have caught his scent upon the passing
wind. Still, boy, still! Pilot, put her a little more under the island.
Hunter, lend me thy rifle—launch the canoe. Come, hunter—peace—peace—keep
the dogs on board; paddle for yonder point—now we shoot upon the pebbly
beach—now make her fast to this dead log. We’ll steal gently through
the woods and come upon him unawares. Softly—press those vines away;
whist—avoid the rustling of the branches; here, creep through these
bushes—tread lightly on the fallen leaves—you’ll mire upon that swampy
bottom. Hush—hush—tread softly—that crackling branch! He lifts his
head—he looks uneasily about him—stand quiet. Now he browses again; get
a little nearer—we are within distance. I’ll try him—click. Back go the
antlers—the cocking of the rifle has alarmed him—he’s off! Here goes, hit
or miss—crack—he jumps ten feet in the air. I’ve missed him—he bounds
onward—no—yes—by Jove! he’s down—he’s up again—he plunges forward—he
falls again—he rises—falls—he struggles to his knees—he——falls. Hurrah!
he’s ours—quick—quick—thy _couteau de chasse_, we’ll make sure of him.
Stop—stop. Poor deer! and _I_ have murdered thee, for my _sport_ have
murdered thee—have taken from thee the precious boon of life—with cruelty
have broken the silver chord, which the beggar’s blunt knife can sever,
but not the jewelled fingers of the monarch again rejoin. There—there,
thou liest, true to the Great Master’s picture—
“The big round tears course down thy innocent nose in piteous chase,
And thy smooth leathern sides pant almost to bursting.”
Thy life blood flows apace—e’en now thy large soft eye dims in the sleep
of death—and _I_ have slain thee. Thou had’st nought other enemy than the
gaunt coward wolf, or fanged serpent; him, with light leaping bounds,
thou laugh’st to scorn, as his long howl struck on thy quick ear; and the
sullen rattler, with many blows of thy tiny polished hoof thou dash’st
to pieces, ere from his deadly coil, his flattened head, with glistening
tongue and protruded fangs, could reach thee. Oh! I shame me of my
miscreant fellowship. E’en the poisonous serpent, with quick vibrating
tail, did give thee warning—_I_ stole upon thee unawares. Hunter! take
again thy weapon; for thee—’tis thy vocation—perhaps ’tis well—the game
is thine. I entreat of thee, let not my innocent victim again reproach
my eyesight. So! here is the canoe—we again embark—we rock against the
steamer’s side—and now again rush onward in our swift career. Islands
glide by us in countless numbers. The frightened trout scales in quick
alarm from the splashing waterwheels, while echo, mocking their watery
clamour, wakes the old mountains from their sleepy stillness, who again,
like drowsy giants, relapse into repose as we leave them far behind us.
_Ticonderoga_, we approach thy shore. Ay—true to appointment—here are
the horses. Mount—on we go, over hillock and valley, through brake,
through brier, through mud, through water, through swamp, through mire;
we gallop over the broad green peninsula—leap the entrenchments—thread
the lines. Here is the citadel—descend the moat; the wild dank weeds
and furze o’ertop our heads. Ay—here’s a chasm—a breach in the ancient
walls; spur up—spur up; now we draw rein within the very centre of
the blackened ruins. How lovely the view, from the soft undulating
promontory—the lake bathing its sides; Horicon’s mountains o’erlooking
it on this—the stalwart yeomen of the verdant State, free as the winds,
on that! Oh! Ticonderoga, midst these uncultivated wilds—these silent
mountains—various and eventful hath been thy history.
Ho! Old Time—how calmly strok’st thou thy long greybeard, as seated on
the broken ruins, thou ponderest their past! Come! come, old father!
ascend this crumbling battlement—lean on my shoulder—I, _as yet_, am
straightest—I will hold thy scythe. Now point to me the drama which past
generations have acted upon this green peninsula.
What do I see? I see the savage life—the light canoe floating on the blue
lake—painted warriors spearing the salmon, chasing the deer upon the
plain, dragging the surly bear in triumph,—I see the swift paddle chase—I
hear the laugh of children—the voice of patient squaws—the distant
yell as rounding the point, the returning braves bemoan the dead left
on the war-path, and as the shades of evening close, the sun in golden
radiance retiring o’er the mountains, I see them congregate in wigwams
in the cove.—The blue smoke rises gently o’er the tree tops, and all is
still—quiet and serenity obtain—the whip-poor-will, and cricket, amid the
drowsy hum of insect life, keep melancholy cadence.
“Stranger! venture not near them—the peace is treacherous. No civilized
challenge shall give thee warning, but the cruel war-shriek wildly ring
o’er the insensate brain as the light tomahawk trembles in thy cloven
skull.”
Wild mist rolls onward—I hear sounds of distant music—the mellow horn—the
clashing cymbals break from its midst. Ah! it rises. A gallant army, in
proud array, with flags and banners—bright glittering arms, and ponderous
artillery. With alacrity they effect their landing. They fraternise with
the red-skinned warriors. Their military lines run round like magic. I
feel, e’en where we stand, huge walls, grim towers rise, and bastions
springing up around us—the spotless drapeau blanc, high o’er our heads,
floats in the breeze—wild chansons of love, of war, of la belle France,
mix with mirth and revelry.
“Stranger, ’tis the quick ‘_Qui Vive_’ that doth arrest thy footstep.”
Ay—now, Old Time, the mystic curtain again rolls upwards. What do I
see?—Red-coated soldiers advancing in proud battalia through the forest
glades, the sunbeams dancing on their bayonets. I hear the sound of
bugles—the clamorous roll of drums, the groaning jar and creak of
heavy-wheeled artillery. Spread along the lines, covered with sharp
abattis and water moat, I see the impatient Gaul, with savage ally in
ambushment, await their coming—they advance with desperate valour,—they
ford the ditch, they hew the sharpened trees with axes. In vain—the
balls like hail, from unseen foes murderously destroy them—their leader
falls—hark! the bugle with melancholy wail sounds their retreat.
Again, Old Time, an interval—again red-coated soldiers! again groaning
artillery! Look up!—the drapeau blanc has vanished—the meteor flag
streams proudly from the flag-staff.
“Stranger, ’tis the Anglo-Saxon’s rough challenge that gruffly breaks
upon thy ear.”
Long peace and silence—Old Father, now obtain—the sentry sleeps upon his
post—women and children play upon the ramparts—but, hark! what is it
far in the distance that I hear! the sound of battle! the fusilade of
musketry—the roar of cannon! I see Bunker’s Hill from light barricade
sweep down her thousands—I see hurrying forward the hardy husbandman with
hastily caught musket—the robed divine—the youth—the old man—cheered on
by mothers—sisters—tender wives,—to strike
“For their altars and their fires,
God, and their native homes.”
I see new Nation’s symbol—Stars and Stripes—and watch, now in the
midnight darkness through the fortress moat—how advance that fearless
band of men—Lo! in silence they penetrate the fortress’ centre. Hark!
what voice rouses the astonished officer, as starting from his slumbers,
he meets, close at his throat, the bayonet’s threatening point.
“Surrender!” “To whom?” “The Great Jehovah, and the Continental Congress!”
Now floats the spangled banner proudly o’er the citadel—patriotic men
assemble—armies make temporary resting place—invalid soldiers breathe the
health-restoring air, and age wears on. Ha!—was that a meteor flashing
from Defiance Mountain summit? And there, another?—Plunge! plunge! Cannon
shot! screaming, yelling, bounding i’ th’ very centre of the fortress.
“’Tis the Englishman with his artillery.”
Quick, quick!—St. Clair, withdraw the army—the position is no longer
tenable. Strike not that flag!—palsied be the hand that so degrades
the flag of Freedom—let it shake defiance to the last! Quick, the
magazine—the train—Ha, hah! Ætna, Vesuvius like, the explosion.
Hallo! Old Time!—Ho! thou of the scythe!—What! hast gone? Am I!—ay, I am
alone! Nought but the blackened ruins, and the crumbling ramparts, in
silence surrounding me.
MONTREAL.
Now, in steam palace, we shoot in swift career o’er thy tranquil surface,
Lake Champlain—thy rolling mountains, in wavy outline, accompanying us in
our rapid progress. Vast primeval forests sleep in stillness along thy
borders—their sylvan patriarchs, reigning for centuries, untouched by
woodman’s axe, stretch proudly their far-reaching branches, ’till ancient
Time, pointing with extended finger the wild spirit of the winds breathes
on them as he passes, and they succumb with sullen uproar, long with mock
semblance retaining form and length, as if deriding the puny offspring
shooting up around them; bestowing sore fall, I ween, and tumble on
adventurous hunter, as stumbling through the undergrowth he plunges
prostrate o’er them.
Forests immense cover the mountains, the gorges, valleys, reigning in
stern solitude and silence, save where the fierce fire-god, serpent-like,
pursues his flaming journey. There, followed by wreathing smoke columns,
forward he leaps, with fiery tongue licking up acres—while the waterpools
hissing in mist, join in his escort, and the wild game, with frantic
swiftness, strive to escape the hot destruction of his embraces. With
steady, noiseless progress, the white villages appear and disappear
beside us. Rouse’s skeleton Tower looms largely in the distance;—now ’tis
passed.
Thy military works, and crimson flag, Isle Aux Noix,—town of St. Johns,
Richelieu, La Prairie,—we pass ye all; and advancing in soft summer
atmosphere, Chambly, we behold thy mountain ramparts filling the
far distance. St. Lawrence, majestic river, stretched like sheet of
polished steel, as far as eye can reach, we stand upon thy level shores.
Rapid—wide, rushing expanse of waters, with what glorious brightness
thou look’st upon thy verdant shores, covered with continuous lines of
snow-white cottages, and listenest to the soft music of the religious
bells of the kind-hearted, cheerful habitans—as, with rude painted
cross upon their door posts, they scare away the fiend, and joyously
intercommune, in honest simple neighbourhood. La Chine—we speed o’er thy
surface, with race-horse swiftness, and now _Montreal_,—beautiful—most
beautiful,—couched at the foot of emerald mountain, liest thou upon the
river’s margin, thy spires, roofs, cupolas, glittering in the sunbeams
with silver radiance, and thy grand cathedral chimes floating onwards
till lost in dreamy distance. We land upon thy granite quay—measure
the extended esplanade—now climb thy narrow streets and alleys. Almost
we think we tread one of thy antique cities, ancient France,—alleys
narrow, dark and gloomy courts, grim inhospitable walls,—in place
of airy casement, gratings and chained iron portals,—military
barracks,—nunneries,—prisons,—fantastic churches, and Notre Dame’s
cloud-piercing towers, in huge architectural pile, looming high above
all. Noisy, chattering habitans, in variegated waist-belts, and
clattering sabots, rotund dark-robed priests, lank voyageurs—red-coated
soldiers, and haughty officers,—jostle each other on the narrow
trottoir—but, mark! the sullen, down-cast Indian, in blanket robed, with
gaudy feathers and shining ornaments, his patient squaw, straight as an
arrow, her piercing-eyed papoose clinging to her shoulders, silently
following him, in noiseless moccasins, moves along the _kennel_. Verily,
poor forest child, it hath been written, and Moslem-like, thou to thy
destiny must bow—the fire-water and the Christian will it—fold thee
closer in thy blanket robe, and—die. See yon Indian girl, standing at
the corner—with what classic grace the blue fold drapery thrown o’er her
head, descends her shoulders, as, fawn-like, she stands, avoiding the
rude passer’s stare.
Hardy ponies, in light calash, dash through the narrow streets, of
passengers’ safety regardless; or, tugging at great trucks, strive,
in renewed exertion, to vociferous cries and exclamations of the
volatile Canadian. How well these Englishmen sit their horses. See that
gentleman—with what delicate hand he reins the fiery blood that treads
as if on feathers beneath him—and how picturesque appear, amid the motley
throng, these red-coated soldiers.