THE NAVAL BATTLE.
From Montpelier other messengers were sent in all directions to warn
the farmers, and Lieut. Van Sicklen pushed on to Randolph, Morgan’s
old home. His former friends along the way would never have believed
it, had they not known his age. Full twenty-five years old, he was
yet eager, and, hard as the riding had been, not once had he faltered.
Whilst he waited in Randolph, Lieut. Van Sicklen, amidst roars of
applause, roused the people to rally round the flag, and made such a
patriotic speech from the porch of Dr. Timothy Baylies’ Tavern, that
the assembled crowd was carried away by his enthusiasm and shouted,
wildly:
“Down with the British!”
It was a fire of patriotism burning high and clear, lighting the
state from North to South.
Presently, on foot, on horseback, in wagons and in “shays,” they
swept out into the winding highways and headed toward Montpelier,
where the Government arms were stored, with a great cracking of whips
and cheering.
Eighty-five volunteers went from Randolph, with Captain Egerton
Lebbins in command. In a fine fever of enthusiasm they were as
splendid a set of men as Morgan had come across in his journey,
showing much heroism and ardor, but their clothes were odd to see,
goodness knows! One thing and another thrown on at random; but
not once did it occur to any of them to doubt the propriety of the
strange costumes.
Fortunate ones had entire buff and blue Continental uniforms,
inherited from father or grandfather or once worn by themselves--which
was a proud boast--some were stained darkly, telling the tale of
another war. Others had brass buttons hastily sewn on their everyday
coats. Still others had but one button--a sort of badge--but these
were great treasures, for did they not bear the inscription, “Long
live our President,” and did they not have his initials--G. W.--on
them?
Their arms, when they started out, were as varied as their coats.
Hunting knives, long muskets, spears made at the forge, of scraps of
iron tied to oak staffs with raw hide, Indian arrow heads stuck into
short hickory handles, and such like.
But after all, the wonder was that they could get together any sort
of suggestive garb, or cared to--New England being in such a fever of
dissatisfaction over the war.
Their mission completed, Lieut. Van Sicklen and Morgan returned to
Burlington, and the day following this, Captain Dulaney rode his
horse down to the wharf and, with many other officers, boarded the
boat for Plattsburg.
The leaky old sloop, used to convey Captain Lebbins’ “heroes” across,
was washed up on Juniper Island in a storm of rain, and great was
the anxiety concerning the brave fellows. A life boat was hurriedly
manned and sent to their rescue--instead of finding the soldiers
_perishing properly_, in true shipwreck fashion, the life-saving
party found them celebrating their patriotism with Medford rum, high
and dry on the island! “The wreck of Juniper Island” was the subject
of many a song and story for long years in Randolph.
Commodore Macdonough’s fleet was anchored off Plattsburg with
fourteen vessels and eighty-six guns. On shore could be heard from
the deck of his flagship, “Saratoga,” the Commodore giving orders,
in that cool, calm voice--so loved by Decatur and Bainbridge--the
voice that indicated at once courage, humanity and confidence. Nor
were these qualities at all disturbed by the rumor that a “host was
advancing down the lake to crush the Yankees!”
The “host” was Captain George Downie, on his flagship, “Confiance,”
with a flotilla of sixteen vessels carrying ninety-two guns.
It was now the eve of a great naval engagement--the tenth of
September, eighteen hundred and fourteen--the story of which has been
told over and over for generations.
Near Captain Dulaney’s headquarters, Morgan slept little that night;
across the lake Burlington throbbed with flaring lights, and the
town about him was wide awake. He dreamed waking dreams of his
ancestor, the Turk, ridden by Captain Byerly, in King William’s wars,
one hundred and twenty-five years before--the Byerly Turk, he was
called--who had seen the glories of Londonderry and Enniskillan.
Of another ancestor, too, he dreamed, the White Turk, ridden by
Oliver Cromwell; and now he, Morgan, was taking part in a war under
the saddle of his Lady’s soldier--for this reason an even greater
personage than Captain Byerly or Oliver Cromwell!
Long before dawn on the eleventh, his owner rode him out to watch the
maneuvers on the lake from an eminence, for it now seemed that Morgan
was not to take an active part in this battle.
Commodore Macdonough had drawn his fleet up in two lines, forty yards
apart, and as daylight came, and the morning advanced, the force
weighed anchor and moved forward in a body. The wind was fair and at
eight bells all was ready for the approaching enemy--not more than a
league away.
As the British ships came nearer the Americans swung their broadsides
to bear--an intense stillness fell whose influence extended to the
watchers on land.
The “Saratoga” was silent--waiting--every man at his post, every
nerve at the highest tension--some in fear, some in restraint, some
in suspense--but every ear astrain against the rending of that awful
silence.
And suddenly it was rent!
A cock, escaped from a coop, having mounted a gun-slide, on the
“Saratoga,” stretched his neck, flapped his wings, and crowed!
His defiance of the British was answered with a rousing cheer--the
strain was broken--the depressed revived!
It was an omen presaging Victory, the Americans said.
Commodore Macdonough, himself, fired the first gun from the flagship.
Death shrieked through the air, ugly and resistless; the ball fairly
mowed down the men as it whizzed the entire deck-length of the
“Confiance.”
The men on the Saratoga shivered as the smoke lifted and they saw the
devastation and the gallant enemy advance, without reply. Then at the
distance of a quarter of a mile Captain Downie anchored and the other
British vessels came to.
The Americans continued to pound away--still the “Confiance” did not
respond until secured. Then, with startling suddenness she seemed
to point all her guns at the “Saratoga” and become a solid sheet of
flame. The air rocked with the blazing of the cannon.
This broadside, from point-blank range, carried destruction to its
target. It came terribly, and in turn sang its death-song to the
Americans through the morning air.
When the eddying smoke cleared it seemed to Commodore Macdonough that
he saw half his crew lying on the deck, stunned, wounded or killed
by this one discharge--forty was the actual number, out of his two
hundred and twelve men. Hammocks were cut to pieces in the netting
and bodies cumbered the deck. But presently the “Saratoga” recovered
and resumed her animated fire, steady as ever.
Fifteen minutes after the enemy anchored an English vessel was
captured, and on Crab Island where there was a hospital and a battery
of one gun, the “invalids” took a second.
Sometimes the galleys of the two navies would lie within a boat’s
hook of each other and the sailors, not liking such close quarters,
would rise from the sweeps, ready to spring into the water. It was
close and hot--this little naval battle--but gradually, as the guns
were injured, the cannonading ceased.
Morgan and Captain Dulaney galloped from place to place for a better
view, the old horse prancing at the terrific sound of the firing,
never having seemed so full of spirit; constantly he raised his
head to sniff the smoke of battle-as if it were a call from his
kins-steeds. The clatter of his own hoofs beat loud in his ears; his
heart was like to burst with patriotic ardor at the flying flags, the
quick orders of the officers, the martial noises, and the sense of
peril. He was mad with excitement.
Suddenly from the men on shore burst a cheer, loud and high in
exultation; the feeling of pride ran hot in Morgan’s veins, he tasted
all the sweets of conquest, and raising his head high, added his
voice to theirs in a great cry of triumph.
And this was Victory! It was worth--that one moment--his whole long
life of hard work and painful partings!