Chapter 20

'Twas May upon the mountains, and on the airy wingOf every floating zephyr came pleasant sounds of spring,—Of robins in the orchards, brooks running clear and warm,Or chanticleer's shrill challenge from busy farm to farm.But, ranged in serried order, attent on sterner noise,Stood stalwart Ethan Allen and his "Green Mountain Boys,"—Two hundred patriots listening, as with the ears of one,To the echo of the muskets that blazed at Lexington!"My comrades,"—thus the leader spake to his gallant band,—"The key of all the Canadas is in King George's hand,Yet, while his careless warders our slender armies mock,Good Yankee swords—God willing—may pick his rusty lock!"At every pass a sentinel was set to guard the way,Lest the secret of their purpose some idle lip betray,As on the rocky highway they marched with steady feetTo the rhythm of the brave hearts that in their bosoms beat.The curtain of the darkness closed 'round them like a tent,When, travel-worn and weary, yet not with courage spent,They halted on the border of slumbering Champlain,And saw the watch lights glimmer across the glassy plain.O proud Ticonderoga, enthroned amid the hills!O bastions of old Carillon, the "Fort of Chiming Rills!"Well might your quiet garrison have trembled where they lay,And, dreaming, grasped their sabres against the dawn of day!In silence and in shadow the boats were pushed from shore,Strong hands laid down the musket to ply the muffled oar;The startled ripples whitened and whispered in their wake,Then sank again, reposing, upon the peaceful lake.Fourscore and three they landed, just as the morning grayGave warning on the hilltops to rest not or delay;Behind, their comrades waited, the fortress frowned before,And the voice of Ethan Allen was in their ears once more:"Soldiers, so long united—dread scourge of lawless power!Our country, torn and bleeding, calls to this desperate hour.One choice alone is left us, who hear that high behest—To quit our claims to valor, or put them to the test!"I lead the storming column up yonder fateful hill,Yet not a man shall follow save at his ready will!There leads no pathway backward—'tis death or victory!Poise each his trusty firelock, ye that will come with me!"From man to man a tremor ran at their captain's word(Like the "going" in the mulberry-trees that onceKing Davidheard),—While his eagle glances sweeping adown the triple line,Saw, in the glowing twilight, each even barrel shine!"Right face, my men, and forward!" Low-spoken, swift-obeyed!They mount the slope unfaltering—they gain the esplanade!A single drowsy sentry beside the wicket-gate,Snapping his aimless fusil, shouts the alarm—too late!They swarm before the barracks—the quaking guards take flight,And such a shout resultant resounds along the height,As rang from shore and headland scarce twenty years ago,When brave Montcalm's defenders charged on a British foe!Leaps from his bed in terror the ill-starred Delaplace,To meet across his threshold a wall he may not pass!The bayonets' lightning flashes athwart his dazzled eyes,And, in tones of sudden thunder, "Surrender!" Allen cries."Then in whose name the summons?" the ashen lips reply.The mountaineer's stern visage turns proudly to the sky,—"In the name of great Jehovah!" he speaks with lifted sword,"And the Continental Congress, who wait upon his word!"Light clouds, like crimson banners, trailed bright across the east,As the great sun rose in splendor above a conflict ceased,Gilding the bloodless triumph for equal rights and laws,As with the smile of heaven upon a holy cause.Still, wave on wave of verdure, the emerald hills arise,Where once were heroes mustered from men of common guise,And still, on Freedom's roster, through all her glorious years,Shine the names of Ethan Allen and his bold volunteers!Mary A. P. Stansbury.

But, ranged in serried order, attent on sterner noise,Stood stalwart Ethan Allen and his "Green Mountain Boys,"—Two hundred patriots listening, as with the ears of one,To the echo of the muskets that blazed at Lexington!

"My comrades,"—thus the leader spake to his gallant band,—"The key of all the Canadas is in King George's hand,Yet, while his careless warders our slender armies mock,Good Yankee swords—God willing—may pick his rusty lock!"

At every pass a sentinel was set to guard the way,Lest the secret of their purpose some idle lip betray,As on the rocky highway they marched with steady feetTo the rhythm of the brave hearts that in their bosoms beat.

The curtain of the darkness closed 'round them like a tent,When, travel-worn and weary, yet not with courage spent,They halted on the border of slumbering Champlain,And saw the watch lights glimmer across the glassy plain.

O proud Ticonderoga, enthroned amid the hills!O bastions of old Carillon, the "Fort of Chiming Rills!"Well might your quiet garrison have trembled where they lay,And, dreaming, grasped their sabres against the dawn of day!

In silence and in shadow the boats were pushed from shore,Strong hands laid down the musket to ply the muffled oar;The startled ripples whitened and whispered in their wake,Then sank again, reposing, upon the peaceful lake.

Fourscore and three they landed, just as the morning grayGave warning on the hilltops to rest not or delay;Behind, their comrades waited, the fortress frowned before,And the voice of Ethan Allen was in their ears once more:

"Soldiers, so long united—dread scourge of lawless power!Our country, torn and bleeding, calls to this desperate hour.One choice alone is left us, who hear that high behest—To quit our claims to valor, or put them to the test!

"I lead the storming column up yonder fateful hill,Yet not a man shall follow save at his ready will!There leads no pathway backward—'tis death or victory!Poise each his trusty firelock, ye that will come with me!"

From man to man a tremor ran at their captain's word(Like the "going" in the mulberry-trees that onceKing Davidheard),—While his eagle glances sweeping adown the triple line,Saw, in the glowing twilight, each even barrel shine!

"Right face, my men, and forward!" Low-spoken, swift-obeyed!They mount the slope unfaltering—they gain the esplanade!A single drowsy sentry beside the wicket-gate,Snapping his aimless fusil, shouts the alarm—too late!

They swarm before the barracks—the quaking guards take flight,And such a shout resultant resounds along the height,As rang from shore and headland scarce twenty years ago,When brave Montcalm's defenders charged on a British foe!

Leaps from his bed in terror the ill-starred Delaplace,To meet across his threshold a wall he may not pass!The bayonets' lightning flashes athwart his dazzled eyes,And, in tones of sudden thunder, "Surrender!" Allen cries.

"Then in whose name the summons?" the ashen lips reply.The mountaineer's stern visage turns proudly to the sky,—"In the name of great Jehovah!" he speaks with lifted sword,"And the Continental Congress, who wait upon his word!"

Light clouds, like crimson banners, trailed bright across the east,As the great sun rose in splendor above a conflict ceased,Gilding the bloodless triumph for equal rights and laws,As with the smile of heaven upon a holy cause.

Still, wave on wave of verdure, the emerald hills arise,Where once were heroes mustered from men of common guise,And still, on Freedom's roster, through all her glorious years,Shine the names of Ethan Allen and his bold volunteers!

Mary A. P. Stansbury.

The Continental army at Cambridge, meanwhile, was busy day and night, drilling and getting into shape. It was at this time that "a gentleman of Connecticut," whose name, it is said, was Edward Bangs, described his visit to the camp in verses destined to become famous. They were printed originally as a broadside.

THE YANKEE'S RETURN FROM CAMP

[June, 1775]

Father and I went down to camp,Along with Captain Gooding,And there we see the men and boys,As thick as hasty pudding.Chorus—Yankee Doodle, keep it up,Yankee Doodle, dandy,Mind the music and the step,And with the girls be handy.And there we see a thousand men,As rich as 'Squire David;And what they wasted every dayI wish it could be savèd.The 'lasses they eat every dayWould keep an house a winter;They have as much that, I'll be bound,They eat it when they're a mind to.And there we see a swamping gun,Large as a log of maple,Upon a deucèd little cart,A load for father's cattle.And every time they shoot it off,It takes a horn of powder,And makes a noise like father's gun,Only a nation louder.I went as nigh to one myselfAs Siah's underpinning;And father went as nigh again,I thought the deuce was in him.Cousin Simon grew so bold,I thought he would have cocked it;It scared me so, I shrinked it off,And hung by father's pocket.And Captain Davis had a gun,He kind of clapt his hand on 't,And stuck a crooked stabbing ironUpon the little end on 't.And there I see a pumpkin shellAs big as mother's bason;And every time they touched it off,They scampered like the nation.I see a little barrel, too,The heads were made of leather,They knocked upon 't with little clubsAnd called the folks together.And there was Captain Washington,And gentlefolks about him,They say he's grown so tarnal proudHe will not ride without 'em.He got him on his meeting clothes,Upon a strapping stallion,He set the world along in rows,In hundreds and in millions.The flaming ribbons in his hat,They looked so tearing fine ah,I wanted pockily to get,To give to my Jemimah.I see another snarl of menA digging graves, they told me,So tarnal long, so tarnal deep,They 'tended they should hold me.It scared me so, I hooked it off,Nor stopped, as I remember,Nor turned about, till I got home,Locked up in mother's chamber.Edward Bangs.

And there we see a thousand men,As rich as 'Squire David;And what they wasted every dayI wish it could be savèd.

The 'lasses they eat every dayWould keep an house a winter;They have as much that, I'll be bound,They eat it when they're a mind to.

And there we see a swamping gun,Large as a log of maple,Upon a deucèd little cart,A load for father's cattle.

And every time they shoot it off,It takes a horn of powder,And makes a noise like father's gun,Only a nation louder.

I went as nigh to one myselfAs Siah's underpinning;And father went as nigh again,I thought the deuce was in him.

Cousin Simon grew so bold,I thought he would have cocked it;It scared me so, I shrinked it off,And hung by father's pocket.

And Captain Davis had a gun,He kind of clapt his hand on 't,And stuck a crooked stabbing ironUpon the little end on 't.

And there I see a pumpkin shellAs big as mother's bason;And every time they touched it off,They scampered like the nation.

I see a little barrel, too,The heads were made of leather,They knocked upon 't with little clubsAnd called the folks together.

And there was Captain Washington,And gentlefolks about him,They say he's grown so tarnal proudHe will not ride without 'em.

He got him on his meeting clothes,Upon a strapping stallion,He set the world along in rows,In hundreds and in millions.

The flaming ribbons in his hat,They looked so tearing fine ah,I wanted pockily to get,To give to my Jemimah.

I see another snarl of menA digging graves, they told me,So tarnal long, so tarnal deep,They 'tended they should hold me.

It scared me so, I hooked it off,Nor stopped, as I remember,Nor turned about, till I got home,Locked up in mother's chamber.

Edward Bangs.

Howe, Clinton, and Burgoyne arrived, May 25, with reinforcements which raised the British force in Boston to ten thousand men, and plans were at once made to extend the lines to cover Charlestown and Dorchester, the occupation of which by the Americans would render Boston untenable. Confident of victory, Gage, on June 12, issued a proclamation offering pardon to all rebels who should lay down their arms and return to their allegiance, save only John Hancock and Samuel Adams. At the same time, all who remained in arms were threatened with the gallows.

TOM GAGE'S PROCLAMATION;

OR BLUSTERING DENUNCIATION(REPLETE WITH DEFAMATION)THREATENING DEVASTATION,AND SPEEDY JUGULATION,OF THE NEW ENGLISH NATION.—WHO SHALL HIS PIOUS WAYS SHUN?

[June 12, 1775]

Whereas the rebels hereaboutAre stubborn still, and still hold out;Refusing yet to drink their tea,In spite of Parliament and me;And to maintain their bubble, Right,Prognosticate a real fight;Preparing flints, and guns, and ball,My army and the fleet to maul;Mounting their guilt to such a pitch,As to let fly at soldiers' breech;Pretending they design'd a trick,Tho' ordered not to hurt a chick;But peaceably, without alarm,The men of Concord to disarm;Or, if resisting, to annoy,And every magazine destroy:—All which, tho' long obliged to bear,Thro' want of men, and not of fear;I'm able now by augmentation,To give a proper castigation;For since th' addition to the troops,Now reinforc'd as thick as hops;I can, like Jeremey at the Boyne,Look safely on—fight you, Burgoyne;And now, like grass, the rebel Yankees,I fancy not these doodle dances:—Yet, e'er I draw the vengeful sword,I have thought fit to send abroad,This present gracious proclamation,Of purpose mild the demonstration,That whosoe'er keeps gun or pistol,I'll spoil the motion of his systole;Or, whip his ——, or cut his weason,As haps the measure of his treason:—But every one that will lay downHis hanger bright, and musket brown,Shall not be beat, nor bruis'd, nor bang'd,Much less for past offences hang'd;But on surrendering his toledo,Go to and fro unhurt as we do:—But then I must, out of this plan, lockBoth Samuel Adams and John Hancock;For those vile traitors (like debentures)Must be tucked up at all adventures;As any proffer of a pardon,Would only tend those rogues to harden:—But every other mother's son,The instant he destroys his gun(For thus doth run the King's command),May, if he will, come kiss my hand.—And to prevent such wicked game, asPleading the plea of ignoramus,Be this my proclamation spreadTo every reader that can read:—And as nor law nor right was knownSince my arrival in this town,To remedy this fatal flaw,I hereby publish martial law.Meanwhile, let all, and every oneWho loves his life, forsake his gun;And all the council, by mandamus,Who have been reckoned so infamous,Return unto their habitation,Without or let or molestation.—Thus graciously the war I wage,As witnesseth my hand,—Tom Gage.

By command ofMother Cary,Thomas Flucker, Secretary.Pennsylvania Journal, June 28, 1775.

By command ofMother Cary,Thomas Flucker, Secretary.

Pennsylvania Journal, June 28, 1775.

The Committee of Safety received intelligence of Gage's plans and ordered out a force of twelve hundred men to take possession of Bunker Hill inCharlestown. At sunset of June 16 this brigade started from Cambridge, under command of Colonel William Prescott, a veteran of the French War. On reaching Bunker Hill, a consultation was held, and it was decided to push on to Breed's Hill, and erect a fortification there. Breed's Hill was reached about midnight, and the work of throwing up intrenchments began at once.

THE EVE OF BUNKER HILL

[June 16, 1775]

'Twas June on the face of the earth, June with the rose's breath,When life is a gladsome thing, and a distant dream is death;There was gossip of birds in the air, and a lowing of herds by the wood,And a sunset gleam in the sky that the heart of a man holds good;Then the nun-like Twilight came, violet-vestured and still,And the night's first star outshone afar on the eve of Bunker Hill.There rang a cry through the camp, with its word upon rousing word;There was never a faltering foot in the ranks of those that heard;—Lads from the Hampshire hills, and the rich Connecticut vales,Sons of the old Bay Colony, from its shores and its inland dales;Swiftly they fell in line; no fear could their valor chill;Ah, brave the show as they ranged a-row on the eve of Bunker Hill!Then a deep voice lifted a prayer to the God of the brave and the true,And the heads of the men were bare in the gathering dusk and dew;The heads of a thousand men were bowed as the pleading rose,—Smite Thou, Lord, as of old Thou smotest Thy people's foes!Oh, nerve Thy servants' arms to work with a mighty will!A hush, and then a loudAmen!on the eve of Bunker Hill!Now they are gone through the night with never a thought of fame,Gone to the field of a fight that shall win them a deathless name;Some shall never again behold the set of the sun,But lie like the Concord slain, and the slain of Lexington,Martyrs to Freedom's cause. Ah, how at their deeds we thrill,The men whose might made strong the height on the eve of Bunker Hill!Clinton Scollard.

There rang a cry through the camp, with its word upon rousing word;There was never a faltering foot in the ranks of those that heard;—Lads from the Hampshire hills, and the rich Connecticut vales,Sons of the old Bay Colony, from its shores and its inland dales;Swiftly they fell in line; no fear could their valor chill;Ah, brave the show as they ranged a-row on the eve of Bunker Hill!

Then a deep voice lifted a prayer to the God of the brave and the true,And the heads of the men were bare in the gathering dusk and dew;The heads of a thousand men were bowed as the pleading rose,—Smite Thou, Lord, as of old Thou smotest Thy people's foes!Oh, nerve Thy servants' arms to work with a mighty will!A hush, and then a loudAmen!on the eve of Bunker Hill!

Now they are gone through the night with never a thought of fame,Gone to the field of a fight that shall win them a deathless name;Some shall never again behold the set of the sun,But lie like the Concord slain, and the slain of Lexington,Martyrs to Freedom's cause. Ah, how at their deeds we thrill,The men whose might made strong the height on the eve of Bunker Hill!

Clinton Scollard.

June 17 dawned fair and bright, and the intrenchments were at once discovered by the British. A lively cannonade was opened upon them by the ships in the harbor, but without effect. At noon, three thousand veterans were ordered forward to rout out the "peasants," and by three o'clock in the afternoon had crossed the river and were ready to storm the intrenchments. Commanded by General Howe and General Pigot, they advanced steadily up the hill, only to be met by so terrific a fire that they gave way and retreated in disorder.

WARREN'S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS

[June 17, 1775]

Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!Will ye give it up to slaves?Will ye look for greener graves?Hope ye mercy still?What's the mercy despots feel?Hear it in that battle-peal!Read it on yon bristling steel!Ask it,—ye who will.Fear ye foes who kill for hire?Will ye to your homes retire?Look behind you! they're a-fire!And, before you, seeWho have done it!—From the valeOn they come!—And will ye quail?—Leaden rain and iron hailLet their welcome be!In the God of battles trust!Die we may,—and die we must;But, oh, where can dust to dustBe consigned so well,As where Heaven its dews shall shedOn the martyred patriot's bed,And the rocks shall raise their head,Of his deeds to tell!John Pierpont.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire?Will ye to your homes retire?Look behind you! they're a-fire!And, before you, seeWho have done it!—From the valeOn they come!—And will ye quail?—Leaden rain and iron hailLet their welcome be!

In the God of battles trust!Die we may,—and die we must;But, oh, where can dust to dustBe consigned so well,As where Heaven its dews shall shedOn the martyred patriot's bed,And the rocks shall raise their head,Of his deeds to tell!

John Pierpont.

A pause followed, during which Charlestown was set on fire by shells from the fleet and was soon in a roaring blaze. Then a second time the British advanced to the assault; again the Americans held their fire, and again, at thirty yards, poured into the Redcoats so deadly a volley that they were forced to retreat.

THE BALLAD OF BUNKER HILL

We lay in the Trenches we'd dug in the GroundWhilePhœbusblazed down from his glory-lined Car,And then from the lips of our Leader renown'd,These lessons we learn'd in theScience of War."Let the Foeman draw nigh,Till the white of his EyeIs in range with your Rifles, and then, Lads, let fly!And shew toColumbia, toBritain, andFame,HowJusticesmiles aweful, whenFreementakeaim!"The Regulars from Town to the Foot of the HillCame in Barges and Rowboats, some great and some small,But they potter'd and dawdl'd, and twaddled, untilWe fear'd there would be noAttackafter all!Two men in red CoatsTalk'd to one in long Boots,And all of thempintedandgestur'dlikeCoots,And we said,—as the Boys do uponTraining-Day—"If they waste all theirTimeso, theSham-fightwon't pay."But when they got Ready, and All came along,The way they march'd up theHill-sidewasn't slow,But we were not a-fear'd, and we welcomed 'em strong,Held ourFiretill the Word, and then laid the Lads low!... But who shall declareTheEndof the Affair?At Sundown there wasn't a Man of us there!But we didn't depart till we'd given themSome!When we burned up our Powder, we had to goHome!Edward Everett Hale.

The Regulars from Town to the Foot of the HillCame in Barges and Rowboats, some great and some small,But they potter'd and dawdl'd, and twaddled, untilWe fear'd there would be noAttackafter all!Two men in red CoatsTalk'd to one in long Boots,And all of thempintedandgestur'dlikeCoots,And we said,—as the Boys do uponTraining-Day—"If they waste all theirTimeso, theSham-fightwon't pay."

But when they got Ready, and All came along,The way they march'd up theHill-sidewasn't slow,But we were not a-fear'd, and we welcomed 'em strong,Held ourFiretill the Word, and then laid the Lads low!... But who shall declareTheEndof the Affair?At Sundown there wasn't a Man of us there!But we didn't depart till we'd given themSome!When we burned up our Powder, we had to goHome!

Edward Everett Hale.

So long a time elapsed after the second assault that it seemed for a time that the Americans would be left in possession of the field. In the confusion of the moment, no reinforcements were sent them, and Prescott, to his dismay, discovered that his supply of powder and ball was nearly exhausted.

BUNKER HILL

"Not yet, not yet; steady, steady!"On came the foe, in even line:Nearer and nearer to thrice paces nine.We looked into their eyes. "Ready!"A sheet of flame! A roll of death!They fell by scores; we held our breath!Then nearer still they came;Another sheet of flame!And brave men fled who never fled before.Immortal fight!Foreshadowing flightBack to the astounded shore.Quickly they rallied, reinforced.Mid louder roar of ship's artillery,And bursting bombs and whistling musketryAnd shouts and groans, anear, afar,All the new din of dreadful war,Through their broad bosoms calmly coursedThe blood of those stout farmers, aimingFor freedom, manhood's birthrights claiming.Onward once more they came;Another sheet of deathful flame!Another and another still:They broke, they fled:Again they spedDown the green, bloody hill.Howe, Burgoyne, Clinton, Gage,Stormed with commander's rage.Into each emptied bargeThey crowd fresh men for a new chargeUp that great hill.Again their gallant blood we spill:That volley was the last:Our powder failed.On three sides fastThe foe pressed in; nor quailedA man. Their barrels empty, with musket-stocksThey fought, and gave death-dealing knocks,Till Prescott ordered the retreat.Then Warren fell; and through a leaden sleet,From Bunker Hill and Breed,Stark, Putnam, Pomeroy, Knowlton, Read,Led off the remnant of those heroes true,The foe too shattered to pursue.The ground they gained; but weThe victory.The tidings of that chosen bandFlowed in a wave of powerOver the shaken, anxious land,To men, to man, a sudden dower.From that stanch, beaming hourHistory took a fresh higher start;And when the speeding messenger, that bareThe news that strengthened every heart,Met near the DelawareRiding to take command,The leader, who had just been named,Who was to be so famed,The steadfast, earnest WashingtonWith hand uplifted cries,His great soul flashing to his eyes,"Our liberties are safe; the cause is won."A thankful look he cast to heaven, and thenHis steed he spurred, in haste to lead such noble men.George H. Calvert.

Quickly they rallied, reinforced.Mid louder roar of ship's artillery,And bursting bombs and whistling musketryAnd shouts and groans, anear, afar,All the new din of dreadful war,Through their broad bosoms calmly coursedThe blood of those stout farmers, aimingFor freedom, manhood's birthrights claiming.Onward once more they came;Another sheet of deathful flame!Another and another still:They broke, they fled:Again they spedDown the green, bloody hill.

Howe, Burgoyne, Clinton, Gage,Stormed with commander's rage.Into each emptied bargeThey crowd fresh men for a new chargeUp that great hill.Again their gallant blood we spill:That volley was the last:Our powder failed.On three sides fastThe foe pressed in; nor quailedA man. Their barrels empty, with musket-stocksThey fought, and gave death-dealing knocks,Till Prescott ordered the retreat.Then Warren fell; and through a leaden sleet,From Bunker Hill and Breed,Stark, Putnam, Pomeroy, Knowlton, Read,Led off the remnant of those heroes true,The foe too shattered to pursue.The ground they gained; but weThe victory.

The tidings of that chosen bandFlowed in a wave of powerOver the shaken, anxious land,To men, to man, a sudden dower.From that stanch, beaming hourHistory took a fresh higher start;And when the speeding messenger, that bareThe news that strengthened every heart,Met near the DelawareRiding to take command,The leader, who had just been named,Who was to be so famed,The steadfast, earnest WashingtonWith hand uplifted cries,His great soul flashing to his eyes,"Our liberties are safe; the cause is won."A thankful look he cast to heaven, and thenHis steed he spurred, in haste to lead such noble men.

George H. Calvert.

There was, in fact, a difference of opinion among the British generals as to continuing the assault. But Howe insisted that a third attempt be made, and at five o'clock it was ordered. For a moment, the advancing column was again shaken by the American fire, but the last cartridges were soon spent, and, at the bayonet point, the Americans were driven from their works and forced to retreat across Charlestown neck.

GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE

AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY

'Tis like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembersAll the achings and the quakings of "the times that tried men's souls;"When I talk ofWhigandTory, when I tell theRebelstory,To you the words are ashes, but to me they're burning coals.I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running battle;Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats still;But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up before me,When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker's Hill.'Twas a peaceful summer's morning, when the first thing gave us warningWas the booming of the cannon from the river and the shore:"Child," says grandma, "what's the matter, what is all this noise and clatter?Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us once more?"Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst of all my quaking,To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to roar:She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter and the pillage,When the Mohawks killed her father with their bullets through his door.Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you fret and worry any,For I'll soon come back and tell you whether this is work or play;There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a minute"—For a minute then I started. I was gone the livelong day.No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing;Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to my heels;God forbid your ever knowing, when there's blood around her flowing,How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet household feels!In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was the stumpingOf the Corporal, our old neighbor, on that wooden leg he wore,With a knot of women round him,—it was lucky I had found him,So I followed with the others, and the Corporal marched before.They were making for the steeple,—the old soldier and his people;The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creaking stair.Just across the narrow river—oh, so close it made me shiver!—Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterday was bare.Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who stood behind it,Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the stubborn walls were dumb:Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild upon each other,And their lips were white with terror as they said,The hour has come!The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we tastedAnd our heads were almost splitting with the cannons' deafening thrill,When a figure tall and stately round the rampart strode sedately;It wasPrescott, one since told me; he commanded on the hill.Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw his manly figure,With the banyan buckled round it, standing up so straight and tall;Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out for pleasure,Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he walked around the wall.At eleven the streets were swarming, for the redcoats' ranks were forming;At noon in marching order they were moving to the piers;How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked far down, and listenedTo the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted grenadiers!At length the men have started, with a cheer (it seemed faint-hearted),In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on their backs,And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea-fight's slaughter,Round the barges gliding onward blushed like blood along their tracks.So they crossed to the other border, and again they formed in order;And the boats came back for soldiers, came for soldiers, soldiers still:The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and fasting,—At last they're moving, marching, marching proudly up the hill.We can see the bright steel glancing all along the lines advancing,—Now the front rank fires a volley,—they have thrown away their shot;For behind their earthwork lying, all the balls above them flying,Our people need not hurry; so they wait and answer not.Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear sometimes and tipple),—He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French war) before,—Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were hearing,—And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty belfry floor:—"Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George's shillin's,But ye'll waste a ton of powder afore a 'rebel' falls;You may bang the dirt and welcome, they're as safe as Dan'l MalcolmTen foot beneath the gravestone that you've splintered with your balls!"In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepidationOf the dread approaching moment, we are well-nigh breathless all;Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety belfry railing,We are crowding up against them like the waves against a wall.Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer,—nearer,—nearer,When a flash—a curling smoke-wreath—then a crash—the steeple shakes—The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's shroud is rended;Like a morning mist it gathered, like a thundercloud it breaks!Oh the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over!The redcoats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes his hay;Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong crowd is flyingLike a billow that has broken and is shivered into spray.Then we cried, "The troops are routed! they are beat—it can't be doubted!God be thanked, the fight is over!"—Ah! the grim old soldier's smile!"Tell us, tell us why you look so?" (we could hardly speak, we shook so),—"Are they beaten?Arethey beaten?Arethey beaten?"—"Wait a while."Oh the trembling and the terror! for too soon we saw our error:They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven them back in vain;And the columns that were scattered, round the colors that were tattered,Toward the sullen, silent fortress turn their belted breasts again.All at once, as we are gazing, lo the roofs of Charlestown blazing!They have fired the harmless village; in an hour it will be down!The Lord in heaven confound them, rain his fire and brimstone round them,—The robbing, murdering redcoats, that would burn a peaceful town!They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see each massive columnAs they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting walls so steep.Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless haste departed?Are they panic-struck and helpless? Are they palsied or asleep?Now! the walls they're almost under! scarce a rod the foes asunder!Not a firelock flashed against them! up the earthwork they will swarm!But the words have scarce been spoken, when the ominous calm is broken,And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance of the storm!So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backwards to the water,Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves of Howe;And we shout, "At last they're done for, it's their barges they have run for:They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle's over now!"And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old soldier's features,Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would ask:"Not sure," he said; "keep quiet,—once more, I guess, they'll try it—Here's damnation to the cut-throats!"—then he handed me his flask,Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop of old Jamaiky;I'm afeard there'll be more trouble afore the job is done;"So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt and hollow,Standing there from early morning when the firing was begun.All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm clock dial,As the hands kept creeping, creeping,—they were creeping round to four,When the old man said, "They're forming with their bagonets fixed for storming:It's the death-grip that's a-coming,—they will try the works once more."With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind them glaring,The deadly wall before them, in close array they come;Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold uncoiling,—Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverberating drum!Over heaps all torn and gory—shall I tell the fearful story,How they surged above the breastwork, as a sea breaks over a deck;How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out men retreated,With their powder-horns all emptied, like the swimmers from a wreck?It has all been told and painted; as for me, they say I fainted,And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with me down the stair:When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening lamps were lighted,—On the floor a youth was lying; his bleeding breast was bare.And I heard through all the flurry, "Send forWarren! hurry! hurry!Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he'll come and dress his wound!"Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death and sorrow,How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark and bloody ground.Who the youth was, what his name was, where the place from which he came was,Who had brought him from the battle, and had left him at our door,He could not speak to tell us; but 'twas one of our brave fellows,As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying soldier wore.For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered round him crying,—And they said, "Oh, how they'll miss him!" and, "Whatwillhis mother do?"Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has been dozing,He faintly murmured, "Mother!"—and—I saw his eyes were blue."Why, grandma, how you're winking!" Ah, my child, it sets me thinkingOf a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived along;So we came to know each other, and I nursed him like a—mother,Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-cheeked, and strong.And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant summer weather,—"Please to tell us what his name was?" Just your own, my little dear,—There's his picture Copley painted: we became so well acquainted,That—in short, that's why I'm grandma, and you children all are here!Oliver Wendell Holmes.

I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running battle;Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats still;But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up before me,When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker's Hill.

'Twas a peaceful summer's morning, when the first thing gave us warningWas the booming of the cannon from the river and the shore:"Child," says grandma, "what's the matter, what is all this noise and clatter?Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us once more?"

Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst of all my quaking,To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to roar:She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter and the pillage,When the Mohawks killed her father with their bullets through his door.

Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you fret and worry any,For I'll soon come back and tell you whether this is work or play;There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a minute"—For a minute then I started. I was gone the livelong day.

No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing;Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to my heels;God forbid your ever knowing, when there's blood around her flowing,How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet household feels!

In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was the stumpingOf the Corporal, our old neighbor, on that wooden leg he wore,With a knot of women round him,—it was lucky I had found him,So I followed with the others, and the Corporal marched before.

They were making for the steeple,—the old soldier and his people;The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creaking stair.Just across the narrow river—oh, so close it made me shiver!—Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterday was bare.

Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who stood behind it,Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the stubborn walls were dumb:Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild upon each other,And their lips were white with terror as they said,The hour has come!

The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we tastedAnd our heads were almost splitting with the cannons' deafening thrill,When a figure tall and stately round the rampart strode sedately;It wasPrescott, one since told me; he commanded on the hill.

Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw his manly figure,With the banyan buckled round it, standing up so straight and tall;Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out for pleasure,Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he walked around the wall.

At eleven the streets were swarming, for the redcoats' ranks were forming;At noon in marching order they were moving to the piers;How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked far down, and listenedTo the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted grenadiers!

At length the men have started, with a cheer (it seemed faint-hearted),In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on their backs,And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea-fight's slaughter,Round the barges gliding onward blushed like blood along their tracks.

So they crossed to the other border, and again they formed in order;And the boats came back for soldiers, came for soldiers, soldiers still:The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and fasting,—At last they're moving, marching, marching proudly up the hill.

We can see the bright steel glancing all along the lines advancing,—Now the front rank fires a volley,—they have thrown away their shot;For behind their earthwork lying, all the balls above them flying,Our people need not hurry; so they wait and answer not.

Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear sometimes and tipple),—He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French war) before,—Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were hearing,—And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty belfry floor:—

"Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George's shillin's,But ye'll waste a ton of powder afore a 'rebel' falls;You may bang the dirt and welcome, they're as safe as Dan'l MalcolmTen foot beneath the gravestone that you've splintered with your balls!"

In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepidationOf the dread approaching moment, we are well-nigh breathless all;Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety belfry railing,We are crowding up against them like the waves against a wall.

Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer,—nearer,—nearer,When a flash—a curling smoke-wreath—then a crash—the steeple shakes—The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's shroud is rended;Like a morning mist it gathered, like a thundercloud it breaks!

Oh the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over!The redcoats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes his hay;Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong crowd is flyingLike a billow that has broken and is shivered into spray.

Then we cried, "The troops are routed! they are beat—it can't be doubted!God be thanked, the fight is over!"—Ah! the grim old soldier's smile!"Tell us, tell us why you look so?" (we could hardly speak, we shook so),—"Are they beaten?Arethey beaten?Arethey beaten?"—"Wait a while."

Oh the trembling and the terror! for too soon we saw our error:They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven them back in vain;And the columns that were scattered, round the colors that were tattered,Toward the sullen, silent fortress turn their belted breasts again.

All at once, as we are gazing, lo the roofs of Charlestown blazing!They have fired the harmless village; in an hour it will be down!The Lord in heaven confound them, rain his fire and brimstone round them,—The robbing, murdering redcoats, that would burn a peaceful town!

They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see each massive columnAs they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting walls so steep.Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless haste departed?Are they panic-struck and helpless? Are they palsied or asleep?

Now! the walls they're almost under! scarce a rod the foes asunder!Not a firelock flashed against them! up the earthwork they will swarm!But the words have scarce been spoken, when the ominous calm is broken,And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance of the storm!

So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backwards to the water,Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves of Howe;And we shout, "At last they're done for, it's their barges they have run for:They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle's over now!"

And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old soldier's features,Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would ask:"Not sure," he said; "keep quiet,—once more, I guess, they'll try it—Here's damnation to the cut-throats!"—then he handed me his flask,

Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop of old Jamaiky;I'm afeard there'll be more trouble afore the job is done;"So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt and hollow,Standing there from early morning when the firing was begun.

All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm clock dial,As the hands kept creeping, creeping,—they were creeping round to four,When the old man said, "They're forming with their bagonets fixed for storming:It's the death-grip that's a-coming,—they will try the works once more."

With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind them glaring,The deadly wall before them, in close array they come;Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold uncoiling,—Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverberating drum!

Over heaps all torn and gory—shall I tell the fearful story,How they surged above the breastwork, as a sea breaks over a deck;How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out men retreated,With their powder-horns all emptied, like the swimmers from a wreck?

It has all been told and painted; as for me, they say I fainted,And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with me down the stair:When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening lamps were lighted,—On the floor a youth was lying; his bleeding breast was bare.

And I heard through all the flurry, "Send forWarren! hurry! hurry!Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he'll come and dress his wound!"Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death and sorrow,How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark and bloody ground.

Who the youth was, what his name was, where the place from which he came was,Who had brought him from the battle, and had left him at our door,He could not speak to tell us; but 'twas one of our brave fellows,As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying soldier wore.

For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered round him crying,—And they said, "Oh, how they'll miss him!" and, "Whatwillhis mother do?"Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has been dozing,He faintly murmured, "Mother!"—and—I saw his eyes were blue.

"Why, grandma, how you're winking!" Ah, my child, it sets me thinkingOf a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived along;So we came to know each other, and I nursed him like a—mother,Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-cheeked, and strong.

And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant summer weather,—"Please to tell us what his name was?" Just your own, my little dear,—There's his picture Copley painted: we became so well acquainted,That—in short, that's why I'm grandma, and you children all are here!

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

In this last charge, the Americans met with an irreparable loss in the death of General Joseph Warren, who was shot through the head as he lingered on the field, loath to join in the retreat. He had hastened to the battlefield in the early morning, replying to the remonstrance of a friend, "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori." He had just been appointed major-general, but refused the command tendered him by Prescott, saying that he was only too glad to serve as a volunteer aid.

THE DEATH OF WARREN

[June 17, 1775]

When the war-cry of Liberty rang through the land,To arms sprang our fathers the foe to withstand;On old Bunker Hill their entrenchments they rear,When the army is joined by a young volunteer."Tempt not death!" cried his friends; but he bade them good-by,Saying, "Oh! it is sweet for our country to die!"The tempest of battle now rages and swells,'Mid the thunder of cannon, the pealing of bells;And a light, not of battle, illumes yonder spire—Scene of woe and destruction;—'tis Charlestown on fire!The young volunteer heedeth not the sad cryBut murmurs, "'Tis sweet for our country to die!"With trumpets and banners the foe draweth near:A volley of musketry checks their career!With the dead and the dying the hill-side is strown,And the shout through our lines is, "The day is our own!""Not yet," cries the young volunteer, "do they fly!Stand firm!—it is sweet for our country to die!"Now our powder is spent, and they rally again;—"Retreat!" says our chief, "since unarmed we remain!"But the young volunteer lingers yet on the field,Reluctant to fly, and disdaining to yield.A shot! Ah! he falls! but his life's latest sighIs, "'Tis sweet, oh, 'tis sweet for our country to die!"And thus Warren fell! Happy death! noble fall!To perish for country at Liberty's call!Should the flag of invasion profane evermoreThe blue of our seas or the green of our shore,May the hearts of our people reëcho that cry,—"'Tis sweet, oh, 'tis sweet for our country to die!"Epes Sargent.

The tempest of battle now rages and swells,'Mid the thunder of cannon, the pealing of bells;And a light, not of battle, illumes yonder spire—Scene of woe and destruction;—'tis Charlestown on fire!The young volunteer heedeth not the sad cryBut murmurs, "'Tis sweet for our country to die!"

With trumpets and banners the foe draweth near:A volley of musketry checks their career!With the dead and the dying the hill-side is strown,And the shout through our lines is, "The day is our own!""Not yet," cries the young volunteer, "do they fly!Stand firm!—it is sweet for our country to die!"

Now our powder is spent, and they rally again;—"Retreat!" says our chief, "since unarmed we remain!"But the young volunteer lingers yet on the field,Reluctant to fly, and disdaining to yield.A shot! Ah! he falls! but his life's latest sighIs, "'Tis sweet, oh, 'tis sweet for our country to die!"

And thus Warren fell! Happy death! noble fall!To perish for country at Liberty's call!Should the flag of invasion profane evermoreThe blue of our seas or the green of our shore,May the hearts of our people reëcho that cry,—"'Tis sweet, oh, 'tis sweet for our country to die!"

Epes Sargent.

The British loss in killed and wounded was 1054, while the American loss, incurred mainly in the last hand-to-hand struggle, was 449. The British had gained the victory, but the moral advantage was wholly with the Americans.

THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL

COMPOSED BY A BRITISH OFFICER, THE DAY AFTER THE BATTLE

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