There was a wonderful spirit on everything in Plattsburg, and the
earthly tabernacle in which it dwelt, was the tall, grave young man who
had protested against Hampton's behaviour at Burlington--Captain, now
General Macomb. Nothing was neglected, every emergency was planned for,
every available man was under arms. Personally tireless, he was ever
alert and seemed to know every man in his command and every man of
it had implicit confidence in the leader. We have heard of soldiers
escaping from a besieged fortress by night; but such was the inspiring
power of this commander that there was a steady leaking in of men from
the hills, undrilled and raw, but of superb physique and dead shots with
the ride.
A typical case was that of a sturdy old farmer who was marching through
the woods that morning to take his place with those who manned the
breastworks and was overheard to address his visibly trembling legs:
“Shake, damn you, shake; and if ye knew where I was leading you, you'd
be ten times worse.”
His mind was more valiant than his body, and his mind kept control--this
is true courage.
No one had a better comprehension of all this than Macomb. He knew that
all these men needed was a little training to make of them the best
soldiers on earth. To supply that training he mixed them with veterans,
and arranged a series of unimportant skirmishes as coolly and easily as
though he were laying out a programme for an evening's entertainment.
The first of these was at Culver's Hill. Here a barricade was thrown up
along the highway, a gun was mounted, and several hundred riflemen were
posted under leaders skilled in the arts of harrying a foe and giving
him no chance to strike back.
Among the men appointed for the barricade's defence was Rolf and near
him Quonab. The latter had been seasoned in the Revolution, but it was
the former's first experience at the battle front, and he felt as most
men do when the enemy in brave array comes marching up. As soon as they
were within long range, his leader gave the order “Fire!” The rifles
rattled and the return fire came at once. Balls pattered on the
barricade or whistled above. The man next to him was struck and dropped
with a groan; another fell back dead. The horror and roar were overmuch.
Rolf was nervous enough when he entered the fight. Now he was unstrung,
almost stunned, his hands and knees were shaking, he was nearly
panic-stricken and could not resist the temptation to duck, as the balls
hissed murder over his head. He was blazing away, without aiming, when
an old soldier, noting his white face and shaking form, laid a hand
on his shoulder and, in kindly tones, said: “Steady, boy, steady;
yer losing yer head; see, this is how,” and he calmly took aim, then,
without firing, moved the gun again and put a little stick to raise the
muzzle and make a better rest, then fired as though at target practice.
“Now rest for a minute. Look at Quonab there; you can see he's been
through it before. He is making a hit with every shot.”
Rolf did as he was told, and in a few minutes his colour came back,
his hand was steady, and thenceforth he began to forget the danger and
thought only of doing his work.
When at length it was seen that the British were preparing to charge,
the Americans withdrew quickly and safely to Halsey's Corner, where was
another barricade and a fresh lot of recruits awaiting to receive their
baptism of fire. And the scene was repeated. Little damage was done to
the foe but enormous benefit was gained by the Americans, because it
took only one or two of these skirmishes to turn a lot of shaky-kneed
volunteers into a band of steady soldiers--for they had it all inside.
Thus their powder terror died.
That night the British occupied the part of the town that was north
of the Saranac, and began a desultory bombardment of the fortification
opposite. Not a very serious one, for they considered they could take
the town at any time, but preferred to await the arrival of their fleet
under Downie.
The fight for the northern half of the town was not serious, merely part
of Macomb's prearranged training course; but when the Americans retired
across the Saranac, the planks of the bridges were torn up, loop-holed
barricades were built along the southern bank, and no effort spared to
prepare for a desperate resistance.
Every man that could hold up a gun was posted on the lines of
Plattsburg. The school-boys, even, to the number of five hundred formed
a brigade, and were assigned to places where their squirrel-hunting
experiences could be made of service to their country.
Meanwhile the British had established a battery opposite Fort Brown. It
was in a position to do some material and enormous moral damage. On the
ninth it was nearly ready for bloody work, and would probably begin next
morning. That night, however, an extraordinary event took place, and
showed how far from terror-palsy were the motley troops in Plattsburg. A
sturdy Vermonter, named Captain McGlassin, got permission of Malcomb to
attempt a very Spartan sortie.
He called for fifty volunteers to go on a most hazardous enterprise. He
got one thousand at once. Then he ordered all over twenty-five and under
eighteen to retire. This reduced the number to three hundred. Then,
all married men were retired, and thus again they were halved. Next he
ordered away all who smoked--Ah, deep philosopher that he was!--and from
the remnant he selected his fifty. Among them was Rolf. Then he divulged
his plan. It was nothing less than a dash on the new-made fort to spike
those awful guns--fifty men to dash into a camp of thirteen thousand.
Again he announced, “Any who wish to withdraw now may do so.” Not a man
stirred.
Twenty of those known to be expert with tools were provided with hammers
and spikes for the guns, and Rolf was proud to be one of them.
In a night of storm and blackness they crossed the Saranac; dividing in
two bodies they crawled unseen, one on each side of the battery. Three
hundred British soldiers were sleeping near, only the sentries peered
into the storm-sleet.
All was ready when McGlassin's tremendous voice was heard, “Charge
front and rear!” Yelling, pounding, making all the noise they could, the
American boys rushed forth. The British were completely surprised, the
sentries were struck down, and the rest assured that Macomb's army was
on them recoiled for a few minutes. The sharp click, click, click of the
hammers was heard. An iron spike was driven into every touch hole;
the guns were made harmless as logs and quickly wheeling, to avoid the
return attack, these bold Yankee boys leaped from the muzzled redoubt
and reached their own camp without losing one of their number.