“Lord Prescott, down in Newport,”
Brave William Barton[1] said,
“Would make all show his colors, though
Their own blood dyed them red.
“Perhaps he thinks our natives,
On England’s footstool here,
Did they not feel his lordly heel,
Might deem him not a peer.”
“Say footpath here,” said Potter[8];
“Just now their doorsteps go
To pave the way[2] where, once a day,
His lordship walks, you know.
“And then if those who meet him
Go by, nor doff their caps,[3]
Aha, his cane will fall like rain,
To make them mend their lapse.”
“Small spite! and yet,” said Barton:
“A wrinkle shows the will.
A grazing ass that kicks but grass
Has tricks that yet may kill.
“Who minds it, though a Quaker,
Forsooth, lift not his hat;
Yet one in town, he first rode down,[4]
Then had him chain’d for that.
“And Tripp[5]—when spies had jail’d him;
And none knew what it meant;
And when, half dead with fear, they said,
His wife to see him went;
“Said Prescott: ‘Come and see him
When hang’d[5] and no dispute.’
Who domineers o’er woman’s tears
Is less a man than brute!
“And I, for one, would enter
This British lion’s lair,
And volunteer to fetch him here,
Or die beside him there.”
“Sure death!” his comrades mutter’d;
“The troops guard every road.
A man to try your scheme should fly;
We know no other mode.”
“He quarters now,” said Barton,
“At Overton’s,[6] the Friend’s,
Whose house is by the bay-road nigh
Where by the bay it bends.
“The roads are block’d by soldiers;
We cannot reach him thus.
What then?—A way across the bay
May yet remain for us.
“I know three frigates guard it.[7]
But when, some moonless night,
By clouds beset, the wind and wet
Have swept the sky of light;
“And when the breeze and breakers
Out-sound a rowlock’s beat,
Amid the roar a muffled oar
Might safely pass the fleet.”
His comrades hush’d and heard him;
Then swore to try the feat;
And soon with more each held an oar
To row him past the fleet.[8]
The night was dark and stormy;
The bay was wild and wide;
And, deftly weigh’d, each paddle-blade
Like velvet stroked the tide.
They near’d the English frigates,
They heard their sentries’ feet,
They heard a bell, and then “All’s well”[9]
Re-echo’d through the fleet.
They pull’d around a guard-boat[9];
They struck the land, and then
Filed softly out, and moved about,
Like shadows more than men.
They split in three small parties[10];
And each stole softly round,
A sentry near a guard-house here,
And there a camping ground.
At last the three were guarding
The house on every side,
With six or eight before the gate[13]
They just had open’d wide.
“Your countersign!” a sentry[11]
Call’d out; and Barton said:
“Have none to-night”;—his tone was light—
“Have here deserters fled?”
“Ah, from the boats?” the guard said.
“Yes,” Barton hiss’d, “from one!”
But as he hiss’d he clutch’d, nor miss’d,
The sentry’s throat and gun.
The sentry gasp’d and gave it;
Lay gunless, gagg’d, and bound.
Our men had pass’d the door, at last,
Nor yet had roused a sound.
The Quaker sat there reading[12]
“What would you have?” he said;
Then, when they ask’d for Prescott, cast
His eyes up o’er his head.
As whist as cats the captors
Crept up each tell-tale stair,[13]
And cross’d the floor to where a door
Was lock’d, nor time to spare.
Then one of them—Jack Sisson,[13]
A burly, patriot black—
Bent down his frame, and, taking aim,
Burst through, and flung it back.
They saw the general starting,[14]
And bounding forth from bed,
And seizing hold his watch of gold
That hung beside his head.
“Let darkness take you robbers
From sword,” he cried, “and shot!”
“No robber harms; put up those arms,”
He heard, nor left the spot.
“We came to take you captive,
Alive,” he heard, “or dead.
If you alarm the camp, the harm
Will fall on you,” they said.[14]
“Move on.”—“I dress,” he told them.[15]
But they, in tones polite,
Replied: “Not so. We came, you know,
Without our wives to-night.
“Your cloak is all you need now,
The night is black and hot.
Your last resort—our time too short!—
Thank God you were not shot.”
Down stairs they march’d their captive.
But hark! In some far room
A window crash’d—and Barton dash’d
Out doors and through the gloom.
No harm was done; for others
Had swiftly caught and bound
The general’s aid, just where he made
A leap to reach the ground.[16]
So now they held three captives;
And these, by daggers led,
They slipt about the camp and out,
As needles flit with thread.
At last they reach’d the water,
At last, row’d o’er the tide;
None heard their oars upon the shores,
Or boats by which they hied.
They pass’d the English frigates,
They heard their sentries’ feet,
They heard, “All’s well!” call’d out to tell
How fool’d had been the fleet.[9]
And then their stroke was bolder:
For Warwick Point[17] they bore.
A coach and pair were there to bear
Their captive far from shore.
Here[17] Prescott broke the silence:
“Your push was boldly plann’d.”
Said Barton: “Yes, and with success”;
And took the reins in hand.
Success it was for Newport.
The foe knew all it meant;
They lock’d no more a prison door
Against our innocent.
Success it was for Barton.
In days like those of old
No envy rife, nor party strife,
Would slur a deed so bold.
Through all our homes in Newport,
Through all our camps afar,
Men praised his name, and hoped he came
As victory’s morning star.
Where Freedom’s day was dawning,
The man, whose light so shone
To bless the land, appear’d more grand
Because he rose alone.
Erelong, a grateful Congress
Chose one that for him brought
A sword on which inscriptions rich
Recorded all they thought.[18]
In green Vermont they gave him
A generous land-grant too.[18]
A part of what we all had got
By fighting, seem’d his due.
But what by far was fittest,
And cheer’d in every tent,
Were words that raised this man we praised
To lead our regiment.[19]
Where few and frail the forces
Our land could call its own,
All felt that he would steadfast be,
And fight, though left alone.