CHAPTER VII

March! March! March! from sunrise till it's dark,And let no man straggle on the way!March! March! March! as we follow old John Stark,For the old man needs us all to-day.Load! Load! Load! Three buckshot and a ball,With a hymn-tune for a wad to make them stay!But let no man dare to fire till he gives the word to all,Let no man let the buckshot go astray.Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire all along the line,When we meet those bloody Hessians in array!They shall have every grain from this powder-horn of mine,Unless the cowards turn and run away.Home! Home! Home! When the fight is fought and won,To the home where the women watch and pray!To tell them how John Stark finished what he had begun,And to hear them thank our God for the day.Edward Everett Hale.

March! March! March! from sunrise till it's dark,And let no man straggle on the way!March! March! March! as we follow old John Stark,For the old man needs us all to-day.

Load! Load! Load! Three buckshot and a ball,With a hymn-tune for a wad to make them stay!But let no man dare to fire till he gives the word to all,Let no man let the buckshot go astray.

Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire all along the line,When we meet those bloody Hessians in array!They shall have every grain from this powder-horn of mine,Unless the cowards turn and run away.

Home! Home! Home! When the fight is fought and won,To the home where the women watch and pray!To tell them how John Stark finished what he had begun,And to hear them thank our God for the day.

Edward Everett Hale.

Stark found Baum and his Hessians about six miles distant, and the latter hastily took up a strong position on some rising ground, and began to throw up intrenchments. Stark laid his plans to storm this position on the morrow. During the night, a company of Berkshire militia arrived, and with them the warlike parson of Pittsfield, Thomas Allen.

PARSON ALLEN'S RIDE

[August 15, 1777]

The "Catamount Tavern" is lively to-night.The boys of Vermont and New Hampshire are here,Assembled and grouped in the lingering light,To greet Parson Allen with shout and with cheer.Over mountain and valley, from Pittsfield green,Through the driving rain of that August day,The "Flock" marched on with martial mien,And the Parson rode in his "one-hoss shay.""Three cheers for old Berkshire!" the General said,As the boys of New England drew up face to face,"Baum bids us a breakfast to-morrow to spread,And the Parson is here to say us the 'grace.'""The lads who are with me have come here to fight,And we know of no grace," was the Parson's reply,"Save the name of Jehovah, our country and right,Which your own Ethan Allen pronounced at Fort Ti.""To-morrow," said Stark, "there'll be fighting to do,If you think you can wait for the morning light,And, Parson, I'll conquer the British with you,Or Molly Stark sleeps a widow at night."What the Parson dreamed in that Bennington camp,Neither Yankee nor Prophet would dare to guess;A vision, perhaps, of the King David stamp,With a mixture of Cromwell and good Queen Bess.But we know the result of that glorious day,And the victory won ere the night came down;How Warner charged in the bitter fray,With Rossiter, Hobart, and old John Brown:And how in the lull of the three hours' fight,The Parson harangued the Tory line,As he stood on a stump, with his musket bright,And sprinkled his texts with the powder fine:—The sword of the Lord is our battle-cry,A refuge sure in the hour of need,And freedom and faith can never die,Is article first of the Puritan creed."Perhaps the 'occasion' was rather rash,"He remarked to his comrades after the rout,"For behind a bush I saw a flash,But I fired that way and put it out."And many the sayings, eccentric and queer,Repeated and sung through the whole country side,And quoted in Berkshire for many a year,Of the Pittsfield march and the Parson's ride.All honor to Stark and his resolute men,To the Green Mountain Boys all honor and praise,While with shout and with cheer we welcome again,The Parson who came in his one-horse chaise.Wallace Bruce.

The "Catamount Tavern" is lively to-night.The boys of Vermont and New Hampshire are here,Assembled and grouped in the lingering light,To greet Parson Allen with shout and with cheer.

Over mountain and valley, from Pittsfield green,Through the driving rain of that August day,The "Flock" marched on with martial mien,And the Parson rode in his "one-hoss shay."

"Three cheers for old Berkshire!" the General said,As the boys of New England drew up face to face,"Baum bids us a breakfast to-morrow to spread,And the Parson is here to say us the 'grace.'"

"The lads who are with me have come here to fight,And we know of no grace," was the Parson's reply,"Save the name of Jehovah, our country and right,Which your own Ethan Allen pronounced at Fort Ti."

"To-morrow," said Stark, "there'll be fighting to do,If you think you can wait for the morning light,And, Parson, I'll conquer the British with you,Or Molly Stark sleeps a widow at night."

What the Parson dreamed in that Bennington camp,Neither Yankee nor Prophet would dare to guess;A vision, perhaps, of the King David stamp,With a mixture of Cromwell and good Queen Bess.

But we know the result of that glorious day,And the victory won ere the night came down;How Warner charged in the bitter fray,With Rossiter, Hobart, and old John Brown:

And how in the lull of the three hours' fight,The Parson harangued the Tory line,As he stood on a stump, with his musket bright,And sprinkled his texts with the powder fine:—

The sword of the Lord is our battle-cry,A refuge sure in the hour of need,And freedom and faith can never die,Is article first of the Puritan creed.

"Perhaps the 'occasion' was rather rash,"He remarked to his comrades after the rout,"For behind a bush I saw a flash,But I fired that way and put it out."

And many the sayings, eccentric and queer,Repeated and sung through the whole country side,And quoted in Berkshire for many a year,Of the Pittsfield march and the Parson's ride.

All honor to Stark and his resolute men,To the Green Mountain Boys all honor and praise,While with shout and with cheer we welcome again,The Parson who came in his one-horse chaise.

Wallace Bruce.

The next day, August 16, 1777, dawned clear and bright, and the morning was consumed in preparations for the attack. Stark managed tothrow half his force on Baum's rear and flanks, and, early in the afternoon, assaulted the enemy on all sides. The Germans stood their ground and fought desperately, but they were soon thrown into disorder, and at the end of two hours were all either killed or captured.

THE BATTLE OF BENNINGTON

[August 16, 1777]

Up through a cloudy sky, the sunWas buffeting his way,On such a morn as ushers inA sultry August day.Hot was the air—and hotter yetMen's thoughts within them grew:They Britons, Hessians, Tories saw—They saw their homesteads too.They thought of all their country's wrongs,They thought of noble livesPour'd out in battle with her foes,They thought upon their wives,Their children, and their aged sires,Their firesides, churches, God—And these deep thoughts made hallow'd groundEach foot of soil they trod.Their leader was a brave old man,A man of earnest will;His very presence was a host—He'd fought at Bunker Hill.A living monument he stoodOf stirring deeds of fame,Of deeds that shed a fadeless lightOn his own deathless name.Of Charlestown's flames, of Warren's blood,His presence told the tale,It made each hero's heart beat highThough lip and cheek grew pale;It spoke of Princeton, Morristown,Told Trenton's thrilling story—It lit futurity with hope,And on the past shed glory.Who were those men—their leader who?Where stood they on that morn?The men were Berkshire yeomanry,Brave men as e'er were born,—Who in the reaper's merry rowOr warrior rank could standRight worthy such a noble troop,John Stark led on the band.Wollamsac wanders by the spotWhere they that morning stood;Then roll'd the war-cloud o'er the stream,The waves were tinged with blood;And the near hills that dark cloud girt,And fires like lightning flash'd,And shrieks and groans, like howling blasts,Rose as the bayonets clash'd.The night before, the Yankee hostCame gathering from afar,And in each belted bosom glow'dThe spirit of the war.As full of fight, through rainy storm,Night, cloudy, starless, dark,They came, and gathered as they came,Around the valiant Stark.There was a Berkshire parson—heAnd all his flock were there,And like true churchmen militantThe arm of flesh made bare.Out spake the Dominie and said,"For battle have we comeThese many times, and after thisWe mean to stay at home.""If now we come in vain," said Stark,"What! will you go to-nightTo battle it with yonder troops,God send us morning light,And we will give you work enough:Let but the morning come,And if ye hear no voice of warGo back and stay at home."The morning came—there stood the foe,Stark eyed them as they stood—Few words he spake—'twas not a timeFor moralizing mood."See there the enemy, my boys!Now strong in valor's might,Beat them, or Molly Stark will sleepIn widowhood to-night."Each soldier there had left at homeA sweetheart, wife, or mother,A blooming sister, or, perchance,A fair-hair'd, blue-eyed brother.Each from a fireside came, and thoughtsThose simple words awokeThat nerved up every warrior's armAnd guided every stroke.Fireside and woman—mighty words!How wondrous is the spellThey work upon the manly heart,Who knoweth not full well?And then the women of this land,That never land hath knownA truer, prouder hearted race,Each Yankee boy must own.Brief eloquence was Stark's—nor vain—Scarce utter'd he the words,When burst the musket's rattling pealOut-leap'd the flashing swords;And when brave Stark in after timeTold the proud tale of wonder,He said the battle din was one"Continual clap of thunder."Two hours they strove—then victory crown'dThe gallant Yankee boys.Nought but the memory of the deadBedimm'd their glorious joys;Ay—there's the rub—the hour of strife,Though follow years of fame,Is still in mournful memory link'dWith some death-hallow'd name.The cypress with the laurel twines—The pæan sounds a knell,The trophied column marks the spotWhere friends and brothers fell.Fame's mantle a funereal pallSeems to the grief-dimm'd eye,For ever where the bravest fallThe best beloved die.Thomas P. Rodman.

They thought of all their country's wrongs,They thought of noble livesPour'd out in battle with her foes,They thought upon their wives,Their children, and their aged sires,Their firesides, churches, God—And these deep thoughts made hallow'd groundEach foot of soil they trod.

Their leader was a brave old man,A man of earnest will;His very presence was a host—He'd fought at Bunker Hill.A living monument he stoodOf stirring deeds of fame,Of deeds that shed a fadeless lightOn his own deathless name.

Of Charlestown's flames, of Warren's blood,His presence told the tale,It made each hero's heart beat highThough lip and cheek grew pale;It spoke of Princeton, Morristown,Told Trenton's thrilling story—It lit futurity with hope,And on the past shed glory.

Who were those men—their leader who?Where stood they on that morn?The men were Berkshire yeomanry,Brave men as e'er were born,—Who in the reaper's merry rowOr warrior rank could standRight worthy such a noble troop,John Stark led on the band.

Wollamsac wanders by the spotWhere they that morning stood;Then roll'd the war-cloud o'er the stream,The waves were tinged with blood;And the near hills that dark cloud girt,And fires like lightning flash'd,And shrieks and groans, like howling blasts,Rose as the bayonets clash'd.

The night before, the Yankee hostCame gathering from afar,And in each belted bosom glow'dThe spirit of the war.As full of fight, through rainy storm,Night, cloudy, starless, dark,They came, and gathered as they came,Around the valiant Stark.

There was a Berkshire parson—heAnd all his flock were there,And like true churchmen militantThe arm of flesh made bare.Out spake the Dominie and said,"For battle have we comeThese many times, and after thisWe mean to stay at home."

"If now we come in vain," said Stark,"What! will you go to-nightTo battle it with yonder troops,God send us morning light,And we will give you work enough:Let but the morning come,And if ye hear no voice of warGo back and stay at home."

The morning came—there stood the foe,Stark eyed them as they stood—Few words he spake—'twas not a timeFor moralizing mood."See there the enemy, my boys!Now strong in valor's might,Beat them, or Molly Stark will sleepIn widowhood to-night."

Each soldier there had left at homeA sweetheart, wife, or mother,A blooming sister, or, perchance,A fair-hair'd, blue-eyed brother.Each from a fireside came, and thoughtsThose simple words awokeThat nerved up every warrior's armAnd guided every stroke.

Fireside and woman—mighty words!How wondrous is the spellThey work upon the manly heart,Who knoweth not full well?And then the women of this land,That never land hath knownA truer, prouder hearted race,Each Yankee boy must own.

Brief eloquence was Stark's—nor vain—Scarce utter'd he the words,When burst the musket's rattling pealOut-leap'd the flashing swords;And when brave Stark in after timeTold the proud tale of wonder,He said the battle din was one"Continual clap of thunder."

Two hours they strove—then victory crown'dThe gallant Yankee boys.Nought but the memory of the deadBedimm'd their glorious joys;Ay—there's the rub—the hour of strife,Though follow years of fame,Is still in mournful memory link'dWith some death-hallow'd name.

The cypress with the laurel twines—The pæan sounds a knell,The trophied column marks the spotWhere friends and brothers fell.Fame's mantle a funereal pallSeems to the grief-dimm'd eye,For ever where the bravest fallThe best beloved die.

Thomas P. Rodman.

Just at this moment, when the Americans, thinking the battle over, began to scatter to the plunder of the German camp, a relieving force of five hundred men, sent by Burgoyne, came upon the scene. Luckily, Seth Warner also arrived with fresh men at this juncture, charged furiously upon the British, and by nightfall had killed or captured the entire column, with the exception of six men, who succeeded in reaching the British camp.

BENNINGTON

[August 16, 1777]

A cycle was closed and rounded,A continent lost and won,When Stark and his men went overThe earthworks at Bennington.Slowly down from the northward,Billowing fold on fold,Whelming the land and crushing,The glimmering glacier rolled.Down from the broad St. Lawrence,Bright with its thousand isles,Through the Canadian woodlands,Sweet with the summer smiles,On over field and fastness,Village and vantage coigne,Rolled the resistless legionsLed by the bold Burgoyne.Roared the craggy ledgesLooming o'er Lake Champlain;Red with the blaze of naviesQuivered the land-locked main;Soared the Vancour eagle,Screaming, across the sun;Deep dived the loon in terrorUnder Lake Horicon.Panther and hart togetherFled to the wilds afar,From the flash and the crash of the cannonAnd the rush of the southward war.But at last by the lordly riverThe trampling giant swayed,And his massive arm swung eastwardLike a blindly-plunging blade.New England felt her bosomMenaced with deadly blow,And her minute-men sprang up againAnd flew to bar the foe.But Stark in his Hampshire valleyWatched like a glowering bear,That hears the cry go sweeping byYet stirs not from his lair;For on his daring spiritA wrath lay like a spell,—The wrath of one rewarded illFor a great work wrought right well.Neighbor and friend and brotherFlocked to his side in vain,—"What, can it be that they long for meTo ruin their cause again?"Surely the northern lights are bright.Surely the South lies still.Would they have more?—Lo, I left my swordOn the crest of Bunker Hill."But at last from his own New HampshireAn urgent summons came,That stirred his heart like the voice of GodFrom Sinai's walls of flame.He bowed his head, and he rose aloft;Again he grasped the brand,—"For the cause of man and my native State,Not for an ingrate land!"Through the mist-veil faintly struggling,The rays of the setting sunReddened the leafy villageOf white-walled Bennington.Then out of the dismal weatherCame many a sound of war,—The straggling shots and the volleysAnd the cries, now near now far.For forms half seen were chasingThe phantom forms that fled;And ghostly figures grappledAnd spectres fought and bled;Till the mist on a sudden settledAnd they saw before them fair,Over a hill to the westward,An island in the air.There were tree-trunks and waving branches,And greensward and flowers below;It rose in a dome of verdureFrom the mist-waves' watery flow.A flag from its summit floatedAnd a circling earthwork grew,As the arms of the swarming soldiersAt their toil unwonted flew."Aha!" cried the Yankee leader,"So the panther has turned at bayWith his claws of steel and his breath of fireBehind that wall of clay!"Oursteel is in muscle and sinew.But I know,"—and his voice rang free,—"Right well I know we shall strike a blowThat the world will leap to see."I stood by a blazing cityTill the fires had died away,Save a flickering gleam in the ruinsAnd a fitful gleam on the bay.But a swarthy cove by the waterBlue-bristled from point to base,With the breath of demons, burstingThrough the crust of their prison-place;And another beside it flauntedA thousand rags of red,Like the Plague King's dancing bannersOn a mound of the swollen dead.Twin brothers of flame and evil,In their quivering living light,They ruled with a frightful beautyThe desolate waste of night.Thus did the battle mountainBlazon with flashes dire;The leaguered crest respondedIn a coronal of fire.The tough old fowling-piecesIn huddling tumult rang.Louder the muskets' roaring!Shriller the rifles' clang!Hour after hour the turmoilGathered and swelled apace,Till the hill seemed a volcanoBursting in every place.Then the lights grew faint and meagre,Though the hideous noise rolled on;And out of a bath of gloryUprose the noble sun.It brightened the tossing banner;It yellowed the leafy crest;It smote on the serried weapons,On helmet and scarlet breast.It drove on the mist below themWhere Stark and his foremost stood,Flashing volley for volleyInto the stubborn wood.A thousand stalwart figuresSprang from the gulf profound,A thousand guns upliftedWent whirling round and round.Like some barbarian onslaughtOn a lofty Roman hold;Like the upward rush of TitansOn Olympian gods of old;With a swirl of the wrangling torrentsAs they dash on a castle wall;With the flame-seas skyward surgingAt the mountain demon's call,Heedless of friend and brotherStricken to earth below,The sons of New England boundedOn the breastwork of the foe.Each stalwart form on the rampartsSwaying his battered gunSeemed a vengeful giant, loomingAgainst the rising sun.The pond'rous clubs swept crashingThrough the bayonets round their feetAs a woodman's axe-edge crashesThrough branches mailed in sleet,Shattering head and shoulder,Splintering arm and thigh,Hurling the redcoats earthwardLike bolts from an angry sky.Faster each minute and fasterThe yeomen swarm over the wall,And narrower grows the circleAnd thicker the Britons fall;Till Baum with his Hessian swordsmenSwift to the rescue flies,The frown of the Northland on their browsAnd the war-light in their eyes.Back reeled the men of Berkshire,The mountaineers gave back,But Stark and his Hampshire yeomenFlung full across their track.The stern Teutonic motherWell might she grandly eyeThe prowess dread of her war-swarms redAs they racked the earth and sky.Like rival wrestling athletesGrappled the East and West.With straining thews and staring eyesThey swayed and strove for the royal prize,A continent's virgin breast.Till at last as a strong man's wrenchingShatters a brittle vase,The lustier arms of the WestlandShattered the elder race.Baum and his bravest cohortsLay on the trampled sod,And Stark's strong cry rose clear and high,"Yield in the name of God!"Then the sullen Hessians yielded,Girt by an iron ring,And down from the summit flutteredThe flag of the British king.Vainly the tardy BreymanMay strive that height to gain;More work for the Hampshire war-clubs!More room for the Hessian slain!The giant's arm is severed,The giant's blood flows free,And he staggers in the pathwayThat leads to the distant sea.The Berkshire and Hampshire yeomenWith the men of the Hudson join,And the gathering flood rolls overThe host of the bold Burgoyne.For a cycle was closed and rounded,A continent lost and won,When Stark and his men went overThe earthworks at Bennington.W. H. Babcock.

A cycle was closed and rounded,A continent lost and won,When Stark and his men went overThe earthworks at Bennington.

Slowly down from the northward,Billowing fold on fold,Whelming the land and crushing,The glimmering glacier rolled.

Down from the broad St. Lawrence,Bright with its thousand isles,Through the Canadian woodlands,Sweet with the summer smiles,

On over field and fastness,Village and vantage coigne,Rolled the resistless legionsLed by the bold Burgoyne.

Roared the craggy ledgesLooming o'er Lake Champlain;Red with the blaze of naviesQuivered the land-locked main;

Soared the Vancour eagle,Screaming, across the sun;Deep dived the loon in terrorUnder Lake Horicon.

Panther and hart togetherFled to the wilds afar,From the flash and the crash of the cannonAnd the rush of the southward war.

But at last by the lordly riverThe trampling giant swayed,And his massive arm swung eastwardLike a blindly-plunging blade.

New England felt her bosomMenaced with deadly blow,And her minute-men sprang up againAnd flew to bar the foe.

But Stark in his Hampshire valleyWatched like a glowering bear,That hears the cry go sweeping byYet stirs not from his lair;

For on his daring spiritA wrath lay like a spell,—The wrath of one rewarded illFor a great work wrought right well.

Neighbor and friend and brotherFlocked to his side in vain,—"What, can it be that they long for meTo ruin their cause again?

"Surely the northern lights are bright.Surely the South lies still.Would they have more?—Lo, I left my swordOn the crest of Bunker Hill."

But at last from his own New HampshireAn urgent summons came,That stirred his heart like the voice of GodFrom Sinai's walls of flame.

He bowed his head, and he rose aloft;Again he grasped the brand,—"For the cause of man and my native State,Not for an ingrate land!"

Through the mist-veil faintly struggling,The rays of the setting sunReddened the leafy villageOf white-walled Bennington.

Then out of the dismal weatherCame many a sound of war,—The straggling shots and the volleysAnd the cries, now near now far.

For forms half seen were chasingThe phantom forms that fled;And ghostly figures grappledAnd spectres fought and bled;

Till the mist on a sudden settledAnd they saw before them fair,Over a hill to the westward,An island in the air.

There were tree-trunks and waving branches,And greensward and flowers below;It rose in a dome of verdureFrom the mist-waves' watery flow.

A flag from its summit floatedAnd a circling earthwork grew,As the arms of the swarming soldiersAt their toil unwonted flew.

"Aha!" cried the Yankee leader,"So the panther has turned at bayWith his claws of steel and his breath of fireBehind that wall of clay!

"Oursteel is in muscle and sinew.But I know,"—and his voice rang free,—"Right well I know we shall strike a blowThat the world will leap to see."

I stood by a blazing cityTill the fires had died away,Save a flickering gleam in the ruinsAnd a fitful gleam on the bay.

But a swarthy cove by the waterBlue-bristled from point to base,With the breath of demons, burstingThrough the crust of their prison-place;

And another beside it flauntedA thousand rags of red,Like the Plague King's dancing bannersOn a mound of the swollen dead.

Twin brothers of flame and evil,In their quivering living light,They ruled with a frightful beautyThe desolate waste of night.

Thus did the battle mountainBlazon with flashes dire;The leaguered crest respondedIn a coronal of fire.

The tough old fowling-piecesIn huddling tumult rang.Louder the muskets' roaring!Shriller the rifles' clang!

Hour after hour the turmoilGathered and swelled apace,Till the hill seemed a volcanoBursting in every place.

Then the lights grew faint and meagre,Though the hideous noise rolled on;And out of a bath of gloryUprose the noble sun.

It brightened the tossing banner;It yellowed the leafy crest;It smote on the serried weapons,On helmet and scarlet breast.

It drove on the mist below themWhere Stark and his foremost stood,Flashing volley for volleyInto the stubborn wood.

A thousand stalwart figuresSprang from the gulf profound,A thousand guns upliftedWent whirling round and round.

Like some barbarian onslaughtOn a lofty Roman hold;Like the upward rush of TitansOn Olympian gods of old;

With a swirl of the wrangling torrentsAs they dash on a castle wall;With the flame-seas skyward surgingAt the mountain demon's call,

Heedless of friend and brotherStricken to earth below,The sons of New England boundedOn the breastwork of the foe.

Each stalwart form on the rampartsSwaying his battered gunSeemed a vengeful giant, loomingAgainst the rising sun.

The pond'rous clubs swept crashingThrough the bayonets round their feetAs a woodman's axe-edge crashesThrough branches mailed in sleet,

Shattering head and shoulder,Splintering arm and thigh,Hurling the redcoats earthwardLike bolts from an angry sky.

Faster each minute and fasterThe yeomen swarm over the wall,And narrower grows the circleAnd thicker the Britons fall;

Till Baum with his Hessian swordsmenSwift to the rescue flies,The frown of the Northland on their browsAnd the war-light in their eyes.

Back reeled the men of Berkshire,The mountaineers gave back,But Stark and his Hampshire yeomenFlung full across their track.

The stern Teutonic motherWell might she grandly eyeThe prowess dread of her war-swarms redAs they racked the earth and sky.

Like rival wrestling athletesGrappled the East and West.With straining thews and staring eyesThey swayed and strove for the royal prize,A continent's virgin breast.

Till at last as a strong man's wrenchingShatters a brittle vase,The lustier arms of the WestlandShattered the elder race.

Baum and his bravest cohortsLay on the trampled sod,And Stark's strong cry rose clear and high,"Yield in the name of God!"

Then the sullen Hessians yielded,Girt by an iron ring,And down from the summit flutteredThe flag of the British king.

Vainly the tardy BreymanMay strive that height to gain;More work for the Hampshire war-clubs!More room for the Hessian slain!

The giant's arm is severed,The giant's blood flows free,And he staggers in the pathwayThat leads to the distant sea.

The Berkshire and Hampshire yeomenWith the men of the Hudson join,And the gathering flood rolls overThe host of the bold Burgoyne.

For a cycle was closed and rounded,A continent lost and won,When Stark and his men went overThe earthworks at Bennington.

W. H. Babcock.

Saint Leger, meanwhile, had landed at Oswego and advanced against Fort Stanwix. General Nicholas Herkimer, commander of the militia of Tryon County, at the head of eight hundred men, started to the rescue. He met the enemy, on August 5, at Oriskany, and there followed the most obstinate and murderous battle of the Revolution. Both sides claimed the victory.

THE BATTLE OF ORISKANY

[August 6, 1777]

As men who fight for home and child and wife,As men oblivious of lifeIn holy martyrdom,The yeomen of the valley fought that day,Throughout thy fierce and deadly fray,—Blood-red Oriskany.From rock and tree and clump of twisted brushThe hissing gusts of battle rush,—Hot-breathed and horrible!The roar, the smoke, like mist on stormy seas,Sweep through thy splintered trees,—Hard-fought Oriskany.Heroes are born in such a chosen hour;From common men they rise, and tower,Like thee, brave Herkimer!Who wounded, steedless, still beside the beechCheered on thy men, with sword and speech,In grim Oriskany.But ere the sun went toward the tardy night,The valley then beheld the lightOf freedom's victory;And wooded Tryon snatched from British armsThe empire of a million farms—On bright Oriskany.The guns of Stanwix thunder to the skies;The rescued wilderness replies;Forth dash the garrison!And routed Tories, with their savage aids,Sink reddening through the sullied shades—From lost Oriskany.Charles D. Helmer.

As men who fight for home and child and wife,As men oblivious of lifeIn holy martyrdom,The yeomen of the valley fought that day,Throughout thy fierce and deadly fray,—Blood-red Oriskany.

From rock and tree and clump of twisted brushThe hissing gusts of battle rush,—Hot-breathed and horrible!The roar, the smoke, like mist on stormy seas,Sweep through thy splintered trees,—Hard-fought Oriskany.

Heroes are born in such a chosen hour;From common men they rise, and tower,Like thee, brave Herkimer!Who wounded, steedless, still beside the beechCheered on thy men, with sword and speech,In grim Oriskany.

But ere the sun went toward the tardy night,The valley then beheld the lightOf freedom's victory;And wooded Tryon snatched from British armsThe empire of a million farms—On bright Oriskany.

The guns of Stanwix thunder to the skies;The rescued wilderness replies;Forth dash the garrison!And routed Tories, with their savage aids,Sink reddening through the sullied shades—From lost Oriskany.

Charles D. Helmer.

Saint Leger rallied his shaken columns and settled down to besiege the fort, which laughed at his summons to surrender. Soon afterwards, news of Oriskany and of the siege arrived at General Schuyler's headquarters at Stillwater, and Benedict Arnold set out at once for Fort Stanwix at the head of twelve hundred men. Such exaggerated reports of the size of his force were conveyed to Saint Leger that, on August 22, he raised the siege and retreated to Canada.

SAINT LEGER

[August, 1777]

From out of the North-land his leaguer he led,Saint Leger, Saint Leger;And the war-lust was strong in his heart as he sped;Their courage, he cried,it shall die i' the throatWhen they mark the proud standards that over us float—See rover and ranger, redskin and redcoat!Saint Leger, Saint Leger.He hurried by water, he scurried by land,Saint Leger, Saint Leger,Till closely he cordoned the patriot band:Surrender, he bade,or I tighten the net!Surrender?they mocked him,we laugh at your threat!By Heaven!he thundered,you'll live to regretSaint Leger, Saint Leger!He mounted his mortars, he smote with his shell,Saint Leger, Saint Leger;Then fumed in a fury that futile they fell;But he counselled with rum till he chuckled, elate,As he sat in his tent-door,Egad, we can wait,For famine is famous to open a gate!Saint Leger, Saint Leger.But lo! as he waited, was borne to his ear—Saint Leger, Saint Leger—A whisper of dread and a murmur of fear!They come, and as leaves are their numbers enrolled!They come, and their onset may not be controlled,For 'tis Arnold who heads them, 'tis Arnold the bold—Saint Leger, Saint Leger!Retreat!Was the word e'er more bitterly said,Saint Leger, Saint Leger,Than when to the North-land your leaguer you led?Alas, for Burgoyne in his peril and pain—Who lists in the night for the tramp of that train!And, alas, for the boasting, the vaunting, the vainSaint Leger!Clinton Scollard.

He hurried by water, he scurried by land,Saint Leger, Saint Leger,Till closely he cordoned the patriot band:Surrender, he bade,or I tighten the net!Surrender?they mocked him,we laugh at your threat!By Heaven!he thundered,you'll live to regretSaint Leger, Saint Leger!

He mounted his mortars, he smote with his shell,Saint Leger, Saint Leger;Then fumed in a fury that futile they fell;But he counselled with rum till he chuckled, elate,As he sat in his tent-door,Egad, we can wait,For famine is famous to open a gate!Saint Leger, Saint Leger.

But lo! as he waited, was borne to his ear—Saint Leger, Saint Leger—A whisper of dread and a murmur of fear!They come, and as leaves are their numbers enrolled!They come, and their onset may not be controlled,For 'tis Arnold who heads them, 'tis Arnold the bold—Saint Leger, Saint Leger!

Retreat!Was the word e'er more bitterly said,Saint Leger, Saint Leger,Than when to the North-land your leaguer you led?Alas, for Burgoyne in his peril and pain—Who lists in the night for the tramp of that train!And, alas, for the boasting, the vaunting, the vainSaint Leger!

Clinton Scollard.

Saint Leger's retreat, joined to the disaster at Bennington, left Burgoyne in an exceedingly critical condition. The Americans hemmed him in, front and rear, and increased rapidly in numbers; he had received no news from Howe, whowas supposed to be on his way up the Hudson to join him; and he found it more and more difficult to get provisions.

THE PROGRESS OF SIR JACK BRAG

Said Burgoyne to his men, as they passed in review,Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys!These rebels their course very quickly will rue,And fly as the leaves 'fore the autumn tempest flew,When him who is your leader they know, boys!They with men have now to deal,And we soon will make them feel—Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys!That a loyal Briton's arm, and a loyal Briton's steel,Can put to flight a rebel, as quick as other foe, boys!Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo,Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo-o-o-o, boys!As to Sa-ra-tog' he came, thinking how to jo the game,Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys!He began to see the grubs, in the branches of his fame,He began to have the trembles, lest a flash should be the flameFor which he had agreed his perfume to forego, boys!No lack of skill, but fates,Shall make us yield to Gates,Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys!The devils may have leagued, as you know, with the States.But we never will be beat by any mortal foe, boys!Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo,Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo-o-o-o, boys!

As to Sa-ra-tog' he came, thinking how to jo the game,Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys!He began to see the grubs, in the branches of his fame,He began to have the trembles, lest a flash should be the flameFor which he had agreed his perfume to forego, boys!No lack of skill, but fates,Shall make us yield to Gates,Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys!The devils may have leagued, as you know, with the States.But we never will be beat by any mortal foe, boys!Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo,Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo-o-o-o, boys!

The American army was stationed along the western bank of the Hudson; while Burgoyne's troops were encamped along the eastern bank. For nearly a month the armies remained in this position; then Burgoyne determined to advance to Albany, and on September 13, 1777, the British army crossed on a pontoon bridge to the west bank of the Hudson. Two desperate attempts were made to break through the American lines, but the British were routed by Benedict Arnold's superb and daring generalship, and forced to retreat to Saratoga.

ARNOLD AT STILLWATER

[October 7, 1777]

Ah, you mistake me, comrades, to think that my heart is steel!Cased in a cold endurance, nor pleasure nor pain to feel;Cold as I am in my manner, yet over these cheeks so searedTeardrops have fallen in torrents, thrice since my chin grew beard.Thrice since my chin was bearded I suffered the tears to fall;Benedict Arnold, the traitor, he was the cause of them all!Once, when he carried Stillwater, proud of his valor, I cried;Then, with my rage at his treason—with pity when André died.Benedict Arnold, the traitor, sank deep in the pit of shame,Bartered for vengeance his honor, blackened for profit his fame;Yet never a gallanter soldier, whatever his after crime,Fought on the red field of honor than he in his early time.Ah, I remember Stillwater, as it were yesterday!Then first I shouldered a firelock, and set out the foemen to slay.The country was up all around us, racing and chasing Burgoyne,And I had gone out with my neighbors, Gates and his forces to join.Marched we with Poor and with Learned, ready and eager to fight;There stood the foemen before us, cannon and men on the height;Onward we trod with no shouting, forbidden to fire till the word;As silent their long line of scarlet—not one of them whispered or stirred.Suddenly, then, from among them smoke rose and spread on the breeze;Grapeshot flew over us sharply, cutting the limbs from the trees;"What! did you follow me, Armstrong? Pray, do you think it quite right,Leaving your duties out yonder, to risk your dear self in the fight?""General Gates sent his orders"—faltering the aide-de-camp spoke—"You're to return, lest some rashness—" Fiercely the speech Arnold broke:"Rashness! Why, yes, tell the general the rashness he dreaded is done!Tell him his kinsfolk are beaten! tell him the battle is won!"Oh, that a soldier so glorious, ever victorious in fight,Passed from a daylight of honor into the terrible night!—Fell as the mighty archangel, ere the earth glowed in space, fell—Fell from the patriot's heaven down to the loyalist's hell!Thomas Dunn English.

Thrice since my chin was bearded I suffered the tears to fall;Benedict Arnold, the traitor, he was the cause of them all!Once, when he carried Stillwater, proud of his valor, I cried;Then, with my rage at his treason—with pity when André died.

Benedict Arnold, the traitor, sank deep in the pit of shame,Bartered for vengeance his honor, blackened for profit his fame;Yet never a gallanter soldier, whatever his after crime,Fought on the red field of honor than he in his early time.

Ah, I remember Stillwater, as it were yesterday!Then first I shouldered a firelock, and set out the foemen to slay.The country was up all around us, racing and chasing Burgoyne,And I had gone out with my neighbors, Gates and his forces to join.

Marched we with Poor and with Learned, ready and eager to fight;There stood the foemen before us, cannon and men on the height;Onward we trod with no shouting, forbidden to fire till the word;As silent their long line of scarlet—not one of them whispered or stirred.

Suddenly, then, from among them smoke rose and spread on the breeze;Grapeshot flew over us sharply, cutting the limbs from the trees;"What! did you follow me, Armstrong? Pray, do you think it quite right,Leaving your duties out yonder, to risk your dear self in the fight?"

"General Gates sent his orders"—faltering the aide-de-camp spoke—"You're to return, lest some rashness—" Fiercely the speech Arnold broke:"Rashness! Why, yes, tell the general the rashness he dreaded is done!Tell him his kinsfolk are beaten! tell him the battle is won!"

Oh, that a soldier so glorious, ever victorious in fight,Passed from a daylight of honor into the terrible night!—Fell as the mighty archangel, ere the earth glowed in space, fell—Fell from the patriot's heaven down to the loyalist's hell!

Thomas Dunn English.

Burgoyne was hotly pursued, and when he reached the place where he had crossed the Hudson, found it occupied in force by the Americans. The British army, in short, was surrounded, and, after a week's indecision, Burgoyne sent a flag of truce to Gates, inquiring what terms of surrender would be accepted. Three days were spent in a discussion of terms, and on October 17, 1777, Burgoyne surrendered to the American forces.

THE FATE OF JOHN BURGOYNE

[October 17, 1777]

When Jack the King's commanderWas going to his duty,Through all the crowd he smiled and bowedTo every blooming beauty.The city rung with feats he'd doneIn Portugal and Flanders,And all the town thought he'd be crownedThe first of Alexanders.To Hampton Court he first repairsTo kiss great George's hand, sirs;Then to harangue on state affairsBefore he left the land, sirs.The "Lower House" sat mute as mouseTo hear his grand oration;And "all the peers," with loudest cheers,Proclaimed him to the nation.Then off he went to Canada,Next to Ticonderoga,And quitting those away he goesStraightway to Saratoga.With great parade his march he madeTo gain his wished-for station,While far and wide his minions hiedTo spread his "Proclamation."To such as stayed he offers madeOf "pardon on submission;But savage bands should waste the landsOf all in opposition."But ah, the cruel fates of war!This boasted son of Britain,When mounting his triumphal car,With sudden fear was smitten.The sons of Freedom gathered round,His hostile bands confounded,And when they'd fain have turned their backThey found themselves surrounded!In vain they fought, in vain they fled;Their chief, humane and tender,To save the rest soon thought it bestHis forces to surrender.Brave St. Clair, when he first retired,Knew what the fates portended;And Arnold and heroic GatesHis conduct have defended.Thus may America's brave sonsWith honor be rewarded,And be the fate of all her foesThe same as here recorded.

When Jack the King's commanderWas going to his duty,Through all the crowd he smiled and bowedTo every blooming beauty.

The city rung with feats he'd doneIn Portugal and Flanders,And all the town thought he'd be crownedThe first of Alexanders.

To Hampton Court he first repairsTo kiss great George's hand, sirs;Then to harangue on state affairsBefore he left the land, sirs.

The "Lower House" sat mute as mouseTo hear his grand oration;And "all the peers," with loudest cheers,Proclaimed him to the nation.

Then off he went to Canada,Next to Ticonderoga,And quitting those away he goesStraightway to Saratoga.

With great parade his march he madeTo gain his wished-for station,While far and wide his minions hiedTo spread his "Proclamation."

To such as stayed he offers madeOf "pardon on submission;But savage bands should waste the landsOf all in opposition."

But ah, the cruel fates of war!This boasted son of Britain,When mounting his triumphal car,With sudden fear was smitten.

The sons of Freedom gathered round,His hostile bands confounded,And when they'd fain have turned their backThey found themselves surrounded!

In vain they fought, in vain they fled;Their chief, humane and tender,To save the rest soon thought it bestHis forces to surrender.

Brave St. Clair, when he first retired,Knew what the fates portended;And Arnold and heroic GatesHis conduct have defended.

Thus may America's brave sonsWith honor be rewarded,And be the fate of all her foesThe same as here recorded.

SARATOGA SONG

[October 17, 1777]

Come unto me, ye heroesWhose hearts are true and bold,Who value more your honorThan others do their gold;Give ear unto my story,And I the truth will tell,Concerning many a soldierWho for his country fell.Burgoyne, the King's commander,From Canada set sail;With full eight thousand regulars,He thought he could not fail;With Indians and Canadians,And his cursèd Tory crew,On board his fleet of shippingHe up the Champlain flew.Before Ticonderoga,The first day of July,Appeared his ships and army,And we did them espy.Their motions we observed,Full well both night and day,And our brave boys preparedTo have a bloody fray.Our garrison, they viewed them,And straight their troops did land;And when St. Clair, our chieftain,The fact did understand,That they the Mount DefianceWere bent to fortify,He found we must surrender,Or else prepare to die.The fifth day of July, then,He ordered a retreat;And when next morn we started,Burgoyne thought we were beat.And closely he pursued us,Till when near Hubbardton,Our rear guards were defeated,He thought the country won.And when 'twas told in CongressThat we our forts had left,To Albany retreated,Of all the North bereft,Brave General Gates they sent us,Our fortunes to retrieve,And him, with shouts of gladness,The army did receive.Where first the Mohawk's watersDo in the sunshine play,For Herkimer's brave soldiersSellinger ambushed lay;And them he there defeated,But soon he had his due,And scared by Brooks and Arnold,He to the north withdrew.To take the stores and cattleThat we had gathered then,Burgoyne sent a detachmentOf fifteen hundred men;By Baum they were commanded,To Bennington they went;To plunder and to murderWas fully their intent.But little did they know thenWith whom they had to deal;It was not quite so easyOur stores and stocks to steal,Bold Stark would give them onlyA portion of his lead;With half his crew, ere sunset,Baum lay among the dead.The nineteenth of September,The morning cool and clear,Brave Gates rode through our army,Each soldier's heart to cheer;"Burgoyne," he cried, "advances,But we will never fly;No—rather than surrender,We'll fight him till we die!"The news was quickly brought us,The enemy was near,And all along our lines then,There was no sign of fear;It was above StillwaterWe met at noon that day,And every one expectedTo see a bloody fray.Six hours the battle lasted,Each heart as true as gold,The British fought like lions,And we like Yankees bold;The leaves with blood were crimson,And then did brave Gates cry,"'Tis diamond now cut diamond!We'll beat them, boys, or die."The darkness soon approaching,It forced us to retreatInto our lines till morning,Which made them think us beat;But ere the sun was risen,They saw before their eyesUs ready to engage them,Which did them much surprise.Of fighting they seem weary,Therefore to work they goTheir thousand dead to bury,And breastworks up to throw;With grape and bombs intendingOur army to destroy,Or from our works our forcesBy stratagem decoy.The seventh day of OctoberThe British tried again,Shells from their cannon throwing,Which fell on us like rain;To drive us from our stations,That they might thus retreat;For now Burgoyne saw plainlyHe never could us beat.But vain was his endeavorOur men to terrify;Though death was all around us,Not one of us would fly.But when an hour we'd fought them,And they began to yield,Along our lines the cry ran,"The next blow wins the field!"Great God who guides their battlesWhose cause is just and true,Inspired our bold commanderThe course he should pursue!He ordered Arnold forward,And Brooks to follow on;The enemy was routed!Our liberty was won!Then, burning all their luggage,They fled with haste and fear,Burgoyne with all his forces,To Saratoga did steer;And Gates, our brave commander,Soon after him did hie,Resolving he would take them,Or in the effort die.As we came nigh the village,We overtook the foe;They'd burned each house to ashes,Like all where'er they go.The seventeenth of October,They did capitulate,Burgoyne and his proud armyDid we our prisoners make.Now here's a health to Arnold,And our commander Gates,To Lincoln and to Washington,Whom every Tory hates;Likewise unto our Congress,God grant it long to reign;Our Country, Right, and JusticeForever to maintain.Now finished is my story,My song is at an end;The freedom we're enjoyingWe're ready to defend;For while our cause is righteous,Heaven nerves the soldier's arm,And vain is their endeavorWho strive to do us harm.

Burgoyne, the King's commander,From Canada set sail;With full eight thousand regulars,He thought he could not fail;With Indians and Canadians,And his cursèd Tory crew,On board his fleet of shippingHe up the Champlain flew.

Before Ticonderoga,The first day of July,Appeared his ships and army,And we did them espy.Their motions we observed,Full well both night and day,And our brave boys preparedTo have a bloody fray.

Our garrison, they viewed them,And straight their troops did land;And when St. Clair, our chieftain,The fact did understand,That they the Mount DefianceWere bent to fortify,He found we must surrender,Or else prepare to die.

The fifth day of July, then,He ordered a retreat;And when next morn we started,Burgoyne thought we were beat.And closely he pursued us,Till when near Hubbardton,Our rear guards were defeated,He thought the country won.

And when 'twas told in CongressThat we our forts had left,To Albany retreated,Of all the North bereft,Brave General Gates they sent us,Our fortunes to retrieve,And him, with shouts of gladness,The army did receive.

Where first the Mohawk's watersDo in the sunshine play,For Herkimer's brave soldiersSellinger ambushed lay;And them he there defeated,But soon he had his due,And scared by Brooks and Arnold,He to the north withdrew.

To take the stores and cattleThat we had gathered then,Burgoyne sent a detachmentOf fifteen hundred men;By Baum they were commanded,To Bennington they went;To plunder and to murderWas fully their intent.

But little did they know thenWith whom they had to deal;It was not quite so easyOur stores and stocks to steal,Bold Stark would give them onlyA portion of his lead;With half his crew, ere sunset,Baum lay among the dead.

The nineteenth of September,The morning cool and clear,Brave Gates rode through our army,Each soldier's heart to cheer;"Burgoyne," he cried, "advances,But we will never fly;No—rather than surrender,We'll fight him till we die!"

The news was quickly brought us,The enemy was near,And all along our lines then,There was no sign of fear;It was above StillwaterWe met at noon that day,And every one expectedTo see a bloody fray.

Six hours the battle lasted,Each heart as true as gold,The British fought like lions,And we like Yankees bold;The leaves with blood were crimson,And then did brave Gates cry,"'Tis diamond now cut diamond!We'll beat them, boys, or die."

The darkness soon approaching,It forced us to retreatInto our lines till morning,Which made them think us beat;But ere the sun was risen,They saw before their eyesUs ready to engage them,Which did them much surprise.

Of fighting they seem weary,Therefore to work they goTheir thousand dead to bury,And breastworks up to throw;With grape and bombs intendingOur army to destroy,Or from our works our forcesBy stratagem decoy.

The seventh day of OctoberThe British tried again,Shells from their cannon throwing,Which fell on us like rain;To drive us from our stations,That they might thus retreat;For now Burgoyne saw plainlyHe never could us beat.

But vain was his endeavorOur men to terrify;Though death was all around us,Not one of us would fly.But when an hour we'd fought them,And they began to yield,Along our lines the cry ran,"The next blow wins the field!"

Great God who guides their battlesWhose cause is just and true,Inspired our bold commanderThe course he should pursue!He ordered Arnold forward,And Brooks to follow on;The enemy was routed!Our liberty was won!

Then, burning all their luggage,They fled with haste and fear,Burgoyne with all his forces,To Saratoga did steer;And Gates, our brave commander,Soon after him did hie,Resolving he would take them,Or in the effort die.

As we came nigh the village,We overtook the foe;They'd burned each house to ashes,Like all where'er they go.The seventeenth of October,They did capitulate,Burgoyne and his proud armyDid we our prisoners make.

Now here's a health to Arnold,And our commander Gates,To Lincoln and to Washington,Whom every Tory hates;Likewise unto our Congress,God grant it long to reign;Our Country, Right, and JusticeForever to maintain.

Now finished is my story,My song is at an end;The freedom we're enjoyingWe're ready to defend;For while our cause is righteous,Heaven nerves the soldier's arm,And vain is their endeavorWho strive to do us harm.

THE SECOND STAGE

News of the reverse at Saratoga was received in England with amazement and consternation, and its effect on the government was soon discernible. On February 17, 1778, Lord North astonished the House of Commons by rising in his place and moving that Parliament repeal the tea tax and other measures obnoxious to the Americans, that it renounce forever the right of raising a revenue in America, and that commissioners be sent to Congress, with full powers for negotiating a peace. So complete a political somersault has seldom been turned by an English minister.

LORD NORTH'S RECANTATION

[February 17, 1778]

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