spot, once rife with death, yonder cities shall lay their slain for
centuries to come—their slain, falling in the awful contest with the
stern warrior, against whom human strength is nought, and human conflict
vain. Years shall sweep on in steady tide, and these broad fields be
whitened with countless sepulchres—the mounds, covered with graves where
affection still shall plant the flower and trail the vine—in the deep
valleys, and romantic glens to receive their ne’er returning tenants; the
sculptured vaults still shall roll ope their marble fronts—beneath the
massive pyramid’s firm-fixed base, the Martyrs of the Prisons find their
final resting-place—and on this spot the stately column shooting high in
air, to future generations tell, the bloody story of yon battle-field.
All here shall rest;—the old man—his silver hairs in quiet, and the
wailing babe in sweet repose—the strong from fierce conflict with fiery
disease, and bowing submissively, the poor pallid invalid—the old—the
young—the strong—the beautiful—all—here shall rest in deep and motionless
repose.
Oh! Being!—Infinite and Glorious—UNSEEN—shrouded from our vision in
the vast and awful mists of immeasurable Eternity—CREATOR—throned in
splendour inconceivable, mid millions and countless myriads of worlds,
which still rushing into being at thy thought, course their majestic
circles, chiming in obedient grandeur glorious hymns of praise—God
of Wisdom,—thou that hast caused the ethereal spark to momentarily
light frail tenements of clay,—grant, that in the terrors of the awful
Judgment, they may meet the splendours of the opening heavens with
steadfast gaze, and relying on the Redeemer’s mediation, in boundless
ecstacy, still cry—WHERE—WHERE THEN IS DEATH!
[Illustration]
APPENDIX.
CONTENTS.
Note to the RESURRECTIONISTS.—Ghost in the Grave Yard.
” ” OLD KENNEDY, No. I.—Lieutenant Somers.
” ” OLD KENNEDY, No. III.—“The Parting Blessing.”
” ” OLD KENNEDY, No. IV.—Explosion at Craney Island.
” ” HUDSON RIVER.—Military Academy at West-Point.
” ” NIGHT ATTACK ON FORT ERIE.—⎧ The Dying Soldier.
⎩ The Officer’s Sabre.
⎧ Detailed Statement of the Battle.
⎪ Rainbow of the Cataract.
⎪ The Day after the Battle.
” ” LUNDY’S LANE.—⎨ The two Sergeants.
⎪ Death of Captain Hull.
⎪ Scott’s Brigade.
⎩ Death of Captain Spencer.
” ” MONTREAL.—Military Insignia.
” ” LAKE GEORGE.—Attack on Fort Ticonderoga.
” ” BASS FISHING.—⎧ Crew of the Essex frigate.
⎩ Mutiny on board the Essex.
” ” LONG ISLAND SOUND.—New-England Traditions.
APPENDIX.
_Note to the Resurrectionists._—GHOST IN THE GRAVE YARD.—In New-England,
most of the burying-grounds as they are called, are at some distance
from the villages, and generally neglected and rude in their appearance,
frequently overgrown with wild, dank weeds, and surrounded by rough
stone walls.—Dr. W., a physician, whose extensive practice gave him a
large circuit of country to ride over, relates that returning late one
night from visiting a patient who was dangerously ill, his attention was
attracted by a human figure clad in white, perched upon the top of the
stone wall of one of these rustic cemeteries.—The moon was shining cold
and clear, and he drew up his horse for a moment, and gazed steadily at
the object, supposing that he was labouring under an optical illusion,
but it remained immoveable and he was convinced, however singular the
position and the hour, that his eyesight had not deceived him. Being
a man of strong nerves, he determined to examine it, whether human or
supernatural, more closely, and leaping his horse up the bank of the road
he proceeded along the side of the fence towards the object. It remained
perfectly motionless until he came opposite and within a few feet, when
it vanished from the fence, and in another instant, with a piercing
shriek, was clinging round his neck upon the horse.—This was too much,
for even the Doctor’s philosophy, and relieving himself with a violent
exertion from the grasp, he flung the figure from him, and putting
spurs to his horse galloped into the village at full speed, a torrent
of ghostly lore and diablerie pouring through his mind as he dashed
along. Arousing the occupants of the nearest house, they returned to the
scene of the adventure, where they found the object of his terror,—a
poor female maniac who had escaped from confinement in a neighbouring
alms-house, wandering among the tombs.
* * * * *
_Note to Old Kennedy, No. I._—CAPT. SOMERS.[3]—The name of Somers, the
twin brother in arms of Decatur, shines brightly on the History of
American Naval Warfare; and the last desperate action which terminated
his short and brilliant career with his life, is stamped in colours so
indelible, that nothing but the destroying finger of Time can efface it
from its pages. After severe and continued fighting before Tripoli, the
Turkish flotilla withdrew within the mole, and could not be induced to
venture themselves beyond the guns of the Tripolitan Battery. The ketch
Intrepid was fitted out as a fire-ship, filled to the decks with barrels
of gunpowder, shells, pitch, and other combustible materials; and Capt.
Somers, with a volunteer crew, undertook the hazardous, almost desperate,
task, of navigating her, in the darkness of night, into the middle of the
Turkish flotilla, when the train was to be fired, and they were to make
their escape, as they best could in her boats.
Lieutenants Wadsworth and Israel were the only officers allowed to join
expedition, which was comprised of a small crew of picked men. The
Intrepid was escorted as far as was prudent by three vessels of the
squadron, who hove to, to avoid suspicion, and to be ready to pick up the
boats upon their return: the Constitution, under easy sail in the offing.
Many a brave heart could almost hear its own pulsations in those vessels,
as she became more and more indistinct, and gradually disappeared in the
distance. They watched for some time with intense anxiety, when a heavy
cannonade was opened from the Turkish batteries, which, by its flashes,
discovered the ketch determinedly progressing on her deadly errand. She
was slowly and surely making for the entrance of the mole, when the whole
atmosphere suddenly blazed as if into open day; the mast with all its
sails shot high up in the air; shells whizzed, rocket like, exploding in
every direction; a deafening roar followed and all sunk again into the
deepest pitchy darkness. The Americans waited—waited—in anxious—at last
sickening suspense. Their companions came not—the hours rolled on—no boat
hailed—no oar splashed in the surrounding darkness. The East grew grey
with the dawn—the sun shone brightly above the horizon, nought but a few
shattered vessels lying near the shore—the flotilla—the batteries—and
the minarets of Tripoli, gilded by the morning sunbeams, met their gaze.
Those noble spirits had written their history. Whether consigned to
eternity by a shot of the enemy, prematurely exploding the magazine,
or from the firing of the train by their own hands, must always remain
untold and unknown.
[3] The U. S. Brig Somers, in which the late daring mutiny was suppressed
by the prompt and decided measures of Lt. Alexander Slidell McKenzie, was
named after this hero of the Tripolitan war.
* * * * *
_Note to Old Kennedy. No. III._—“THE PARTING BLESSING.”—An officer of
the Lawrence engaged in this desperate action informed the writer, that
he observed, in the latter part of the battle, the captain of one of the
guns, who was a perfect sailor, and remarkable for his neatness and fine
personal appearance, ineffectually endeavouring to work his gun himself,
after all its crew had fallen. He was badly wounded by a grape shot in
the leg; and although in that situation, he was supporting himself on
the other, while he struggled at the tackle to bring the piece to bear.
The officer told him that he had better leave the gun, and join one of
the others, or, as he was badly wounded, go below. “No—no, sir,”—said
the brave tar,—“I’ve loaded her, and if I’ve got to go below, it shan’t
be before _I give ’em a parting blessing_!” The officer then himself
assisted him in running the gun out of the port. The sailor, taking a
good and deliberate aim, discharged her into the British ship, and then
dragged himself down to the cockpit, fully satisfied with the parting
compliment that he had paid the enemy. General Jackson, during his
administration, granted the man a pension.
* * * * *
_Note to Old Kennedy. No. IV._—EXPLOSION AT CRANEY ISLAND.—One of the
oldest of the surgeons now in the navy, who was present when the British
were defeated in their attempt to cut out the Constellation at Craney’s
Island, in Hampton Roads, in the last war, relates the following anecdote.
The fire of the Americans was so heavy, that the British flotilla was
soon obliged to retire, a number of their boats having been disabled
by the cannon shot—one, in particular, having been cut in two, sunk,
leaving the men struggling in the water for their lives. It was thought
that it contained an officer of rank, as the other boats hurried to her
assistance, and evinced much agitation until the individual alluded to
was saved. But to let the doctor tell his own story:—
“Well, they retreated, and we made prisoners of those whose boats having
been cut up, were struggling in the water. Among others, there was a fine
looking fellow, a petty officer, who had been wounded by the same shot
that had sunk the boat; so I got him up to the hospital-tent, and cut off
his leg above the knee, and having made him comfortable, (!) walked out
upon the beach, with my assistant for a stroll. We had not gone far, when
we were both thrown upon our backs by a violent shock which momentarily
stunned us. On recovering ourselves, we observed the air filled with
cotton descending like feathers. We did not know how to account for the
phenomenon, till, advancing some distance farther, we found a soldier
lying apparently dead, with his musket by his side. I stooped down, and
found that the man was wounded in the head, a splinter having lodged
just over the temple. As I drew out the splinter, he raised himself, and
stared stupidly about him. I asked him what he was doing there?—“I’m
standing ground over the tent, sir,” he replied. What tent?—“Why sir,
the tent that had the gunpowder in it.” How came it to blow up—what set
it on fire?—“I don’t know, sir.” Did nobody come along this way?—“Yes,
sir; a man came along with a cigar in his mouth, and asked if he might
go in out of the sun; I told him, yes!—and he went in, and sat himself
down—and that is the last that I recollect, until I found you standing
over me here.” Upon going a few hundred feet farther, we found a part,
and still farther on, the remainder of the body of the unfortunate man,
who ignorantly had been the cause of the explosion, as well as his own
death. He was so completely blackened and burnt that it would have been
impossible, from his colour, to have distinguished him from a negro.”
* * * * *
_Note to Hudson River._—MILITARY ACADEMY AT WEST-POINT.—West-Point,
with her majestic scenery—her savage mountains—the river winding at
their feet—her military ruins rising among the forest-trees—her fine
architectural edifices—her flag proudly floating from its staff against
the back-ground of pure blue ether—her bright and elastic youth, in all
“the pomp and circumstance of war”—now marching on the broad and verdant
plain, in glittering battalion—now as cavalry, spurring their snorting
horses in close squadron—now with light artillery hidden in the smoke
of their rapid evolutions—now calculating amid the bray of mortars, the
curving course of bombs—measuring the ricochetting shot bounding from
the howitzers—amid the roar of heavy cannon, watching the balls as they
shiver the distant targets.—West-Point, enveloped in its spicy mountain
breezes—West-Point—its romantic walks—its melodious birds, warbling in
ecstacy among its trees—its heroic monuments—its revolutionary relics—its
associations, past and present—is, to the tourist, poetry—but to the
cadet—sober, sober prose. Incessant study—severe drilling—arduous
examinations—alike amid the sultry heats of summer, and intense cold of
winter, mark the four years of his stay, with a continual round of labour
and application:—application so severe that health frequently gives way
under the trial. None but the most robust and hardy in constitution, can
sustain the fatigue and labour. But few, nursed in the lap of wealth, are
willing to undergo its hardships; yet, though the far greater part of
the number are from what are called the hardy, certainly not the opulent
part of the community; under the cry of aristocracy, the Academy is made
a standing mark for the attacks of the radicals in the Federal and State
legislatures. Of all the places of public instruction in the country—in a
national point of view—it is the most important; for while it furnishes
to the army a corps of officers acknowledgedly unsurpassed in military
and scientific attainments by that of any service in Europe—officers,
whose names are synonymous with modesty and honour, it is of incalculable
importance in furnishing to the country, commanders and instructors
for the militia in time of war, and engineers for the constant plans
of public improvement in peace. West-Point proudly boasts that not one
of her sons has ever disgraced himself, or his country, in the face of
the enemy. She can, with equal pride, point to almost every work of
importance in the country, and say, “There too, is their handywork.”
While the noble works of defence on the frontiers and sea-board bear
testimony to the talent and science of Totten, Thayer, and other
gentlemen of the corps of engineers, the railroads, aqueducts and canals
of the States bear equal witness to the energies of Douglass, McNeill,
Whistler, and other officers, who have entered the walks of private life.
Well would it be in this disorganizing age, if, instead of prostrating
this, every State had within her borders a similar institution as a
nucleus of order, discipline, and obedience. The following extract of
a letter from an officer who stands high in the service, may not be
uninteresting to the reader.
February 16, 1843.
“I send you herewith a part of the information which you
required in your last letter. The Military Academy is a great
honour to the country, and is so understood abroad. I have
frequently heard foreign officers express their opinion,
that it was equal to any institution in Europe, and I was
particularly gratified when I was abroad, to find the English
officers so jealous of it. They seemed to understand very
distinctly, that, although the policy of the country prevented
our sustaining a standing army, that we had yet kept up with
the age in military science; and stood ready prepared with a
body of officers, well educated in scientific knowledge, to
supply a large army for efficient and vigorous operations.
“The whole number of graduates at the Academy since its
foundation, is 1167. Of this number there have died in service,
168. There have been killed in battle, 24. Of those wounded in
service, there is no record. The number of those who have died
since 1837, is 1 major, 17 captains, 21 first lieutenants, and
9 second lieutenants.
“The rank of those killed since 1837, was 1 lieutenant-colonel,
2 captains, 3 first lieutenants, and 2 second lieutenants.
The rank of those killed previous to that time can only be
ascertained by great care in revising the Registers. The
enemies of the Academy have charged, that men have been
educated and resigned without performing service in the army.
This is not so. Besides, the term of service in the Academy,
where they are liable at any time to be called upon and sent to
the extremes of the Union, they are obliged by law, to serve
four years after they have graduated, and in fact, they seldom
do resign, unless they are treated unfairly by government, and
the proportion of resignations of officers appointed from
civil life, is much greater than from those that have graduated
at the Academy. A large number of resignations took place in
1836, which was attributable to high salaries offered for civil
engineers, and to the general disgust which pervaded the army,
upon the constitution of two regiments of dragoons, when the
appointments were made almost exclusively from civilians, and
officers of long-standing and arduous service in the army found
themselves outranked by men of no experience, and who had done
no service. You can have no idea of the injustice which was
done on that occasion. The ambition of many of the officers was
broken down, and they retired in disgust.”
* * * * *
_Note to Fort Erie._—THE DYING SOLDIER.—“On the day preceding the
night attack,” said the Major, “while the enemy were throwing an
incessant discharge of shot and shells into our works, I observed at a
little distance beyond me a group of people collected on the banquette
of the rampart; I approached and found that one of the militia had
been mortally wounded by a cannot shot, and that, supported by his
comrades, he was dictating with his dying breath his last words to his
family. “Tell them,” said he, “that—that—I d-i-e-d l-i-k-e a b-r-a-v-e
m-a-n—fig-h—fig-h-t—” and here his breath failed him, and he sunk nearly
away—but rousing himself again with a desperate exertion—”b-r-a-v-e
m-a-n—fight-in-g for—for—my c-o-u-n-try,”—and he expired with the words
upon his lips.”
* * * * *
_Night Attack on Fort Erie._—THE OFFICER’S SABRE.—The writer saw in the
possession of Major ——, a beautiful scimitar-shaped sabre, with polished
steel scabbard; the number of the regiment, (119th, he thinks,) embossed
on its blade, which one of the soldiers picked up and brought in from
among the scattered arms and dead bodies in front of the works on the
following morning. The white leathern belt was cut in two, probably
by a grape shot or musket ball, and saturated with blood. Whether its
unfortunate owner was killed, or wounded only, of course could not be
known. It was a mute and interesting witness of that night’s carnage—and
had undoubtedly belonged to some officer who had been in Egypt, and had
relinquished the straight European sabre, for this favourite weapon of
the Mameluke.
* * * * *
_Note to Attack on Fort Erie, and Battle of Lundy’s Lane._—These two
articles elicited the following reply from the pen of an officer of the
U. S. army, who has, alas! since it was written, fallen before the hand
of the grim tyrant, whose blow never falls but in death. The authenticity
of the statement can be relied upon, as the documents from whence it
was derived, were the papers of Major-General Brown, and other high
officers engaged in the campaign. It is proper to observe, that in the
rambling sketch of a tourist, where a mere cursory description was all
that was aimed at, the apparent injustice done to that gallant officer
and eminently skilful soldier, Major-General Brown, (who certainly ought
to have been placed more prominently in the foreground,) was entirely
unintentional. The officer alluded to was under the impression that
Colonel Wood’s remains were never recovered, and that consequently the
monument erected to his memory at West-Point does not rest upon them.
Much of the material of the two articles (eliciting these comments) was
derived from conversations with another highly accomplished and now
retired officer of the U. S. army; and as they were published without his
knowledge, the writer inserts the following reply made to the strictures
at the time:
... “Deeming that ‘a local habitation and a name’ may be
affixed to my friend the ‘Major,’ and that he may be considered
responsible for inaccuracies for which others alone are
accountable, I hasten to say, that in the description of the
battle at Lundy’s Lane, (with the exception of some of the
personal anecdotes,) the title is retained merely as a _nom de
guerre_ to carry the reader through the different phases of
the action. The description of the night attack on Fort Erie,
as well as that of the character and personal appearance of
Lieutenant-Colonel Wood, is, however, almost literally that
given at the fireside of my friend. The information received
from the British camp on the following morning, through a
flag, was, as near as could be ascertained, that Colonel
Wood had been bayonetted to death on the ground; and my
impression was that his body had been subsequently identified
and returned. But as your correspondent, apparently a brother
officer, speaks so decidedly, I presume he is correct. Far
more agreeable to me would it have been to have remained under
the delusion, that the bones of that gallant and accomplished
soldier slept under the green plateau of West Point, than the
supposition that even now they may be restlessly whirling in
some dark cavern of the cataracts. The account of the battle at
Lundy’s Lane was compiled from one of the earlier editions of
Brackenridge’s History of the Late War, (I think the third,)
the only written authority that I had upon the subject, and
from conclusions drawn from rambles and casual conversations
on the battle-ground. In how far a rough sketch, which was all
that was aimed at, has been conveyed from that authority, the
reader, as well as your correspondent, can best determine by
referring to the history alluded to.” The desperate bayonet
charge is thus described in that work, fourth edition, p.
269-270.
... “The enemy’s artillery occupied a hill which was the key
to the whole position, and it would be in vain to hope for
victory while they were permitted to retain it. Addressing
himself to Colonel Miller, he inquired whether he could
storm the batteries at the head of the twenty-first, while
he would himself support him with the younger regiment, the
twenty-third? To this the wary, but intrepid veteran replied,
in an unaffected phrase, ‘I’ll try, sir;’[4] words which were
afterwards given as the motto of his regiment.
... “The twenty-third was formed in close column under its
commander, Major McFarland, and the first regiment, under
Colonel Nicholas, was left to keep the infantry in check. The
two regiments moved on to one of the most perilous charges
ever attempted; the whole of the artillery opened upon them as
they advanced, supported by a powerful line of infantry. The
twenty-first advanced steadily to its purpose; the twenty-third
faltered on receiving the deadly fire of the enemy, but was
soon rallied by the personal exertions of General Ripley. When
within a hundred yards of the summit, they received another
dreadful discharge, by which Major McFarland was killed, and
the command devolved on Major Brooks. To the amazement of the
British, the intrepid Miller firmly advanced, until within a
few paces of their line, when he impetuously charged upon the
artillery, which, after a short but desperate resistance,
yielded their whole battery, and the American line was in a
moment formed in the rear upon the ground previously occupied
by the British infantry. In carrying the larger pieces, the
twenty-first suffered severely; Lieutenant Cilley, after an
unexampled effort, fell wounded by the side of the piece which
he took: there were but few of the officers of this regiment
who were not either killed or wounded.
“So far as I can recollect, the personal narrative of my friend
was as follows: Miller, quietly surveying the battery, coolly
replied—‘I’ll try, sir;’ then turning to his regiment, drilled
to beautiful precision, said, ‘Attention, twenty-first.’ He
directed them as they rushed up the hill, to deliver their fire
at the port-lights of the artillerymen, and to immediately
carry the guns at the point of the bayonet. In a very short
time they moved on to the charge, delivered their fire as
directed, and after a furious struggle of a few moments over
the cannon, the battery was in their possession. The words of
caution of the officers, ‘Close up—steady, men—steady,’ I have
heard indifferently ascribed to them at this charge, and at
the desperate sortie from Fort Erie. I am thus particular with
regard to the detail of this transaction, not that I think your
correspondent, any more than myself, regards it as of much
moment, but lest my friend should be considered responsible for
words which he did not utter.