THE ATTACK
“It was a dread, yet spirit-stirring sight!
The billows foamed beneath a thousand oars.” —Scott.
“Though few the numbers—there’s the strife,
That neither spares, nor speaks for life.” —Byron.
The British advanced in the most gallant manner to the attack of Major
Gordon’s position, each boat keeping its place as carefully in the
line as soldiers on parade. In a few minutes the fleet turned the point
of the river, and came dashing up to the landing, the water rolling
under the bows and the oars keeping steady time. The sunshine, which now
began to stream from the west, glanced from the muskets; was reflected
from the bright buttons of the soldiers; and flashed back from the
millions of drops showered from the ashen blades, till the river seemed
alive with diamonds, sparkling as they fell.
Major Gordon, by this time, had arranged his men behind the
half-finished breastwork, which, being within a short distance of the
river, was intended to command the landing.
“Look to your priming carefully,” were his last words. “Let nobody
fire till I give the word; then every other man. When I give command
again, let those who have reserved, fire. Everything depends on
steadiness. Remember Bunker Hill.”
He had scarcely finished passing along the line, repeating these orders,
when the boats dashed up to the landing, their crews giving three
cheers; and immediately the British, numbering several hundred, began to
marshal themselves on dry ground, as coolly as if Major Gordon and his
little force were a thousand miles away. Our hero saw that not a moment
was to be lost. Springing upon the rampart, where he could be seen by
all, he waved his sword and gave the command to fire.
Instantaneously a volley of musketry rattled on the air; a stream of
fire ran down the line; and the rampart was covered with light blue
smoke, which the breeze wafted slowly away. Other muskets followed in
irregular succession, when the firing ceased.
At first the enemy had staggered: but the stern voice of the British
commander, crying, “close up, close up,” they moved steadily
forward, with fixed bayonets, giving a gallant cheer. This was the
moment for which Major Gordon had reserved his second fire. He knew that
if the enemy reached the rampart, there would be but little prospect of
a successful defence.
Again, therefore, leaping up on the breastwork, he waived his sword and
shouted to fire.
But no volley, as he had expected, answered his command. Only a few
dropping shots were heard. His men, in the ardor common to raw troops,
had been unable to retain their fire before, and being flurried by the
novelty of their position had scarcely taken aim at all. Fifty good
muskets, in fact, would have done more execution than the hundreds which
had been discharged ineffectually, leaving scarcely a score serviceable
now.
The British discovered immediately the advantage which they possessed.
Their leader, springing in front, raised his blade, and pointing to the
Americans, called on his men, in words distinctly heard behind the
breastwork, to “drive the rebels to the woods.”
At the same instant a heavy launch, which, armed with a swivel, had
pulled around on the flank of the fortification, began to open a galling
fire on the defenders.
“Stand to your post,” shouted Major Gordon, observing that some of
his men began to waver under this unexpected assault. “Load and fire
as quick as you can. Beat them back with the butts of your muskets.
Liberty or death!”
The stirring cry; the gallantry with which our hero exposed himself; and
the firmness which a few exhibited, headed by Uncle Lawrence and Mullen,
stayed the rout for awhile. The men hurriedly loaded and fired, each one
for himself. But in the excitement of their novel position in presence
of an enemy for the first time, they generally wasted their powder; and
in fact it was no uncommon thing for many a gun to be discharged before
the ball had been placed in it, while a few actually fired off their
ramrods.
Major Gordon saw all this with feelings it is impossible to describe. As
long, however, as there was the remotest prospect of success, he omitted
no effort to repulse the foe. He rushed to and fro along the line,
encouraging, ordering, and appealing; now snatching a musket from a
hesitating defender and discharging it himself; and now heading a hand
to hand struggle, at an opening in the defences, where the British were
endeavoring to enter.
It was here that the crisis of the conflict took place. In less time
than we have taken to describe it, the enemy had reached the foot of the
ramparts, when the cry became general that all was over, and most of the
militiamen sought safety in flight. Up to this point they had fought
courageously, even if with comparative inefficiency, but when they saw
the glittering bayonets, levelled in a serried line directly under them,
they recoiled in dismay. Not once in a hundred times, indeed, can raw
troops stand a bayonet charge. It is scarcely an imputation on those
undisciplined defenders of the Neck, that, finding themselves without
this weapon, they abandoned the breastwork, leaving the position to its
fate.
Not such, however, was the conduct of Major Gordon and the few heroic
followers, who, either attached to him personally or gifted with more
than ordinary courage, rallied to the defence of the spot we have
described. Here, for the space of nearly thirty feet, the ramparts were
unfinished: and assailants and defenders consequently met on equal
terms. At the near approach of the enemy, the Major had flown to this
spot, aware of its weakness: and hither also had followed Uncle
Lawrence, Mullen, Charley Newell, and about a score of others, equally
indomitable in courage.
“Never give up the gate,” cried Major Gordon, manfully opposing
himself to the glittering line of bayonets. “Stand fast about me.
Liberty or death!”
“Liberty or death!” shouted Uncle Lawrence, swinging in the air his
heavy musket, which he had taken by the muzzle, and placing himself at
the side of our hero.
“Liberty or death!” echoed the brave Mullen, holding his loaded
piece ready, with his finger on the trigger, and only waiting for a
suitable foe to fire.
“Liberty or death!” repeated Charley Newell, as he pressed forward
to the side of the latter; and “Liberty or death!” cried every man
of that devoted band, rushing to this new Thermopylae.
It was a sight that might well make the bravest pause, that little
company of heroes, thus declaring their readiness to make a rampart with
their bodies. Foremost of all stood Major Gordon, conspicuous in his
blue and buff uniform. His brow was knit; his eyes flashed; his mouth
was rigid with indomitable resolution. The next most striking figure was
that of Uncle Lawrence, who, having lost his hat in the melee, now stood
with his bare locks streaming in the wind; while his eye blazed with all
the fire of youth, and the usual wintry russet of his cheek was flushed
to vivid crimson.
At the aspect of this little band, the serried line of bayonets came to
a halt, and for a moment the two parties stood breathlessly regarding
each other. The British, up to this crisis, confident of an easy
victory, recoiled at the expression in the faces and attitudes of the
patriots before them, as a party of hunters may be supposed to start
back, when, having followed the lion’s cubs to their den, they
suddenly hear the growl of the parent lioness, and discover her eyes
gleaming at them from the entrance.
It was only for a moment, however, that they hesitated. An officer, who
was but a few paces distant, rushed to the spot, exclaiming that the
Americans were in full flight everywhere else, and that it needed only a
bold push to carry the works.
“Forward, forward,” he cried, throwing himself into the very brunt
of the conflict. “Come on, the day’s our own.”
But, at that instant, and before Major Gordon could measure swords with
him, Mullen discharged his gun, and the chivalric officer tumbled
headlong at the very feet of our hero. His example, however, had not
been lost upon his men; and the sight of his fallen body stimulated them
to madness. With a wild, angry cry, they dashed forwards, bearing
everything before them for an instant.
“Break in on their line,” shouted Uncle Lawrence, as with a blow of
his tremendous gun, he struck down the bayonet of the soldier opposed to
him. “Liberty or death!” And with the words, he grasped his opponent
in mortal struggle.
“Close in, close in,” cried Major Gordon, availing himself of the
disorder caused by Uncle Lawrence’s blow, to grapple with a soldier
likewise. “Liberty or death!”
In an instant all was confusion. Nearly everywhere the patriots
succeeded in breaking the steel rampart before them, and in engaging
hand to hand with the enemy, though it was often at the cost of the
lives of those who attempted it. Foe soon became intermixed with friend.
The cries of “Liberty or death” were mingled with those of “God
save the King.” The shouts of the living rose to heaven simultaneously
with the groans of the wounded and the expiring gasp of the dying. Such
was the fury of the fight, that the combatants disappeared on either
side like grass before the scythe. Yet Uncle Lawrence and our hero still
remained unhurt, as if bearing charmed lives, and still led the terrible
strife. Each had long since overcome his first antagonist, and was
striking right and left in aid of others of the defenders unequally
matched or overpowered by numbers. Wherever the former rushed, with his
uplifted musket, it seemed as if a new Artimesius, with his flail, had
come; for his opponents went down before him like oxen in the
slaughterer’s stall. His voice was faint with shouting the war-cry of
his little band, “Liberty or death!” but his arms appeared as
nervous as ever, and his blows fell with crushing rapidity and force.
But the defenders were now reduced to a dozen men, and what could that
number effect against hundreds? Already the British had cleared the
works everywhere else, and now assailing Major Gordon and his party, in
flank, rear and front at once, soon left no hope of retreat, if retreat
had been even now the aim of our hero. But such was not his purpose.
Unappalled by the overpowering odds, he continued battling stoutly, with
Uncle Lawrence at his side, until a bayonet thrust pinned him to the
earth, and the assailants rushed in over his body.