Hero Stories from American History
by Albert F. Blaisdell · English · Gutenberg #31092 · 365,584 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Hero Stories from American History
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Hero Stories from American History
Author: Albert F. Blaisdell
Francis Kingsley Ball
Release date: January 26, 2010 [eBook #31092]
Most recently updated: January 6, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/31092
Credits: Produced by Ron Swanson
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HERO STORIES FROM AMERICAN HISTORY ***
Produced by Ron Swanson
[Frontispiece: "'Tis the star-spangled banner: O, long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!"]
HERO STORIES
FROM AMERICAN HISTORY
_FOR ELEMENTARY SCHOOLS_
BY
ALBERT F. BLAISDELL
AUTHOR OF "STORIES FROM ENGLISH HISTORY," "THE STORY OF AMERICAN
HISTORY," ETC., ETC.
AND
FRANCIS K. BALL
INSTRUCTOR IN THE PHILLIPS EXETER ACADEMY
GINN AND COMPANY
BOSTON . NEW YORK . CHICAGO . LONDON
ATLANTA . DALLAS . COLUMBUS . SAN FRANCISCO
ENTERED AT STATIONERS' HALL
COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY ALBERT F. BLAISDELL AND FRANCIS K. BALL
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
The Athenæum Press
GINN AND COMPANY . PROPRIETORS . BOSTON . U.S.A.
TO
Edwin Ginn
FINANCIER EDUCATOR PHILANTHROPIST
PREFACE
This book is intended to be used as a supplementary historical reader
for the sixth and seventh grades of our public schools, or for any
other pupils from twelve to fifteen years of age. It is also designed
for collateral reading in connection with the study of a formal
text-book on American history.
The period here included is the first fifty years of our national
life. No attempt has been made, however, to present a connected
account, or to furnish a bird's-eye view, of this half century.
It is the universal testimony of experienced teachers that such
materials as are pervaded with reality serve a useful purpose with
young pupils. The reason is plain. Historical matter that is instinct
with human life attracts and holds the attention of boys and girls,
and whets their desire to know more of the real meaning of their
country's history. For this reason the authors have selected rapid
historical narratives, treating of notable and dramatic events, and
have embellished them with more details than is feasible within the
limits of most school-books. Free use has been made of personal
incidents and anecdotes, which thrill us because of their human
element, and smack of the picturesque life of our forefathers.
It has seemed advisable to arrange the subjects in chronological
order. As the various chapters have appeared in proof, they have been
put to a practical test in the sixth grade in several grammar
schools. In a number of instances the pupils learned that, in the
first reading, some of the stories were less difficult than others.
From the nature of the subject-matter this is inevitable. For
instance, it was found easier, and doubtless more interesting, to
read "The Patriot Spy" and "A Daring Exploit" before beginning "The
Hero of Vincennes" and "The Crisis." "Old Ironsides" will at first
probably appeal to more young people than "The Final Victory."
An historical reader would truly be of little value if it could be
read at a glance, like so many insipid storybooks, and then thrown
aside.
Hence, it is suggested that teachers, after becoming familiar with
the general scope of this book and gauging with some care the
capabilities of their pupils, should, if they find it for the best
interests of their classes, change the order of the chapters for the
first reading. But in the second, or review reading, they should
follow the chronological order.
The attention of teachers is called to the questions for review, the
pronunciation of proper names, and the reference books and
supplementary reading in American history mentioned after the
chapters below. The index (also below) is made full for purposes of
reference and review.
In the preparation of this book, old journals, original records and
documents, and sundry other trustworthy sources have been diligently
consulted and freely utilized.
We would acknowledge our indebtedness to Mrs. Janet Nettleton Ball,
who has aided us materially at several stages of our work; and to Mr.
Ralph Hartt Bowles, Instructor in English in The Phillips Exeter
Academy, for valuable assistance in reading the manuscript and the
proofs.
ALBERT F. BLAISDELL,
FRANCIS K. BALL.
BOSTON, March, 1903.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I PAGE
THE HERO OF VINCENNES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
CHAPTER II
A MIDWINTER CAMPAIGN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
CHAPTER III
HOW PALMETTO LOGS MAY BE USED . . . . . . . . . . . 36
CHAPTER IV
THE PATRIOT SPY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50
CHAPTER V
OUR GREATEST PATRIOT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62
CHAPTER VI
A MIDNIGHT SURPRISE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77
CHAPTER VII
THE DEFEAT OF THE RED DRAGOONS . . . . . . . . . . 90
CHAPTER VIII
FROM TEAMSTER TO MAJOR GENERAL . . . . . . . . . . 105
CHAPTER IX
THE FINAL VICTORY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123
CHAPTER X
THE CRISIS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138
CHAPTER XI
A DARING EXPLOIT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156
CHAPTER XII
"OLD IRONSIDES" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169
CHAPTER XIII
"OLD HICKORY'S" CHRISTMAS . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185
CHAPTER XIV
A HERO'S WELCOME . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199
* * * * * *
QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 217
PRONUNCIATION OF PROPER NAMES . . . . . . . . . . . 231
BOOKS FOR REFERENCE AND READING IN THE STUDY OF
AMERICAN HISTORY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233
INDEX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241
{1}
HERO STORIES FROM AMERICAN HISTORY
CHAPTER I
THE HERO OF VINCENNES
Early in 1775 Daniel Boone, the famous hunter and Indian fighter,
with thirty other backwoodsmen, set out from the Holston settlements
to clear the first trail, or bridle path, to what is now Kentucky. In
the spring of the same year, George Rogers Clark, although a young
fellow of only twenty-three years, tramped through the wilderness
alone. When he reached the frontier settlements, he at once became
the leader of the little band of pioneers.
One evening in the autumn of 1775, Clark and his companions were
sitting round their camp fire in the wilderness. They had just drawn
the lines for a fort, and were busy talking about it, when a
messenger came with tidings of the bloodshed at Lexington, in
far-away Massachusetts. With wild cheers these hunters listened to
the story of the minutemen, and, in honor of the event, named their
log fort "Lexington."
[Illustration: A Minuteman of 1776]
{2} At the close of this eventful year, three hundred resolute men
had gained a foothold in Kentucky. In the trackless wilderness,
hemmed in by savage foes, these pioneers with their wives and their
children began their struggle for a home. In one short year, this
handful of men along the western border were drawn into the midst of
the war of the Revolution. From now on, the East and the West had
each its own work to do. While Washington and his "ragged
Continentals" fought for our independence, "the rear guard of the
Revolution," as the frontiersmen were called, were not less busy.
Under their brave leaders, Boone, Clark, and Harrod, in half a dozen
little blockhouses and settlements, they were laying the foundations
of a great commonwealth, while between them and the nearest eastern
settlements were two hundred miles of wilderness. The struggle became
so desperate in the fall of 1776 that Clark tramped back to Virginia,
to ask the governor for help and to trade for powder.
Virginia was at this time straining every nerve to do her part in the
fight against Great Britain, and could not spare men to defend her
distant county of Kentucky; {3} but, won by Clark's earnest appeal,
the governor lent him, on his own personal security, five hundred
pounds of powder. After many thrilling adventures and sharp fighting
with the Indians, Clark got the powder down the Ohio River, and
distributed it among the settlers. The war with their savage foes was
now carried on with greater vigor than ever.
Now we must remember that the vast region north of the Ohio was at
this time a part of Canada. In this wilderness of forests and
prairies lived many tribes of warlike Indians. Here and there were
clusters of French Creole villages, and forts occupied by British
soldiers; for with the conquest of Canada these French settlements
had passed to the English crown. When the war of the American
Revolution broke out, the British government tried to unite all the
tribes of Indians against its rebellious subjects in America. In this
way the people were to be kept from going west to settle.
[Illustration: Indians attacking a Stockaded Fort on the Frontier]
{4} Colonel Henry Hamilton was the lieutenant governor of Canada,
with headquarters at Detroit. It was his task to let loose the
redskins that they might burn the cabins of the settlers on the
border, and kill their women and children, or carry them into
captivity. The British commander supplied the savages with rum,
rifles, and powder; and he paid gold for the scalps which they
brought him. The pioneers named Hamilton the "hair buyer."
For the next two years Kentucky well deserved the name of "the dark
and bloody ground." It was one long, dismal story of desperate
fighting, in which heroic women, with tender hearts but iron muscles,
fought side by side with their husbands and their lovers.
Meanwhile, Clark was busy planning deeds never dreamed of by those
round him. He saw that the Kentucky settlers were losing ground, and
were doing little harm to their enemies. The French villages, guarded
by British forts, were the headquarters for stirring up, arming, and
guiding the savages. It seemed to Clark that the way to defend
Kentucky was to carry the war across the Ohio, and to take these
outposts from the British. He made up his mind that the whole region
could be won for the United States by a bold and sudden march.
In 1777, he sent two hunters as spies through the Illinois country.
They brought back word that the French took little interest in the
war between England {5} and her colonies; that they did not care for
the British, and were much afraid of the pioneers. Clark was a keen
and far-sighted soldier. He knew that it took all the wisdom and
courage of his fellow settlers to defend their own homes. He must
bring the main part of his force from Virginia.
Two weeks before Burgoyne's surrender at Saratoga, he tramped through
the woods for the third time, to lay his cause before Patrick Henry,
who was then governor of Virginia. Henry was a fiery patriot, and he
was deeply moved by the faith and the eloquence of the gallant young
soldier.
Virginia was at this time nearly worn out by the struggle against
King George. A few of the leading patriots, such as Jefferson and
Madison, listened favorably to Clark's plan of conquest, and helped
him as much as they could. At last the governor made Clark a colonel,
and gave him power to raise three hundred and fifty men from the
frontier counties west of the Blue Ridge. He also gave orders on the
state officers at Fort Pitt for boats, supplies, and powder. All this
did not mean much except to show good will and to give the legal
right to relieve Kentucky. {6} Everything now depended on Clark's own
energy and influence.
[Illustration: General George Rogers Clark]
During the winter he succeeded in raising one hundred and fifty
riflemen. In the spring he took his little army, and, with a few
settlers and their families, drifted down the Ohio in flatboats to
the place where stands to-day the city of Louisville.
The young leader now weeded out of his army all who seemed to him
unable to stand hardship and fatigue. Four companies of less than
fifty men each, under four trusty captains, were chosen. All of these
were familiar with frontier warfare.
On the 24th of June, the little fleet shot the Falls of the Ohio amid
the darkness of a total eclipse of the sun. Clark planned to land at
a deserted French fort opposite the mouth of the Tennessee River, and
from there to march across the country against Kaskaskia, the nearest
Illinois town. He did not dare to go up the Mississippi, the usual
way of the fur traders, for fear of discovery.
At the landing place, the army was joined by a band of American
hunters who had just come from the French settlements. These hunters
said that the fort at Kaskaskia was in good order; and that the
Creole militia not only were well drilled, but greatly outnumbered
the invading force. They also said that the only chance of success
was to surprise the town; and they offered to guide the frontier
leader by the shortest route.
{7} With these hunters as guides, Clark began his march of a hundred
miles through the wilderness. The first fifty miles led through a
tangled and pathless forest. On the prairies the marching was less
difficult. Once the chief guide lost his course, and all were in
dismay. Clark, fearing treachery, coolly told the man that he should
shoot him in two hours if he did not find the trail. The guide was,
however, loyal; and, marching by night and hiding by day, the party
reached the river Kaskaskia, within three miles of the town that lay
on the farther side.
[Illustration: A Map showing the Line of Clark's March]
The chances were greatly against our young leader. Only the speed and
the silence of his march gave him hope of success. Under the cover of
darkness, and in silence, Clark ferried his men across the river, and
spread his little army as if to surround the town.
Fortune favored him at every move. It was a hot July night; and
through the open windows of the fort came the sound of music and
dancing. The officers were giving a ball to the light-hearted
Creoles. All the men of the village were there; even the sentinels
had left their posts.
{8} Leaving a few men at the entrance, Clark walked boldly into the
great hall, and, leaning silently against the doorpost, watched the
gay dancers as they whirled round in the light of the flaring
torches. Suddenly an Indian lying on the floor spied the tall
stranger, sprang to his feet, and gave a whoop. The dancing stopped.
The young ladies screamed, and their partners rushed toward the
doors.
"Go on with your dance," said Clark, "but remember that henceforth
you dance under the American flag, and not under that of Great
Britain."
[Illustration: Clark interrupts the Dance]
The surprise was complete. Nobody had a chance to resist. The town
and the fort were in the hands of the riflemen.
Clark now began to make friends with the Creoles. He formed them into
companies, and drilled them every day. A priest known as Father
Gibault, a man of ability and influence, became a devoted friend to
the Americans. He persuaded the people at Cahokia and at other Creole
villages, and even at Vincennes, about one hundred and {9} forty
miles away on the Wabash, to turn from the British and to raise the
American flag. Thus, without the loss of a drop of blood, all the
posts in the Wabash valley passed into the hands of the Americans,
and the boundary of the rising republic was extended to the
Mississippi.
Clark soon had another chance to show what kind of man he was. With
less than two hundred riflemen and a few Creoles, he was hemmed in by
tribes of faithless savages, with no hope of getting help or advice
for months; but he acted as few other men in the country would have
dared to act. He had just conquered a territory as large as almost
any European kingdom. If he could hold it, it would become a part of
the new nation. Could he do it?
From the Great Lakes to the Mississippi came the chiefs and the
warriors to Cahokia to hear what the great chief of the "Long Knives"
had to say for himself. The sullen and hideously painted warriors
strutted to and fro in the village. At times there were enough of
them to scalp every white man at one blow, if they had only dared.
Clark knew exactly how to treat them.
One day when it seemed as if there would be trouble at any moment,
the fearless commander did not even shift his lodging to the fort. To
show his contempt of the peril, he held a grand dance, and "the
ladies and gentlemen danced nearly the whole night," while the sullen
warriors spent the time in secret council. Clark appeared not to
care, but at the same time he had a large {10} room near by filled
with trusty riflemen. It was hard work, but the young Virginian did
not give up. He won the friendship and the respect of the different
tribes, and secured from them pledges of peace. It was little trouble
to gain the good will of the Creoles.
Let me tell you of an incident which showed Clark's boldness in
dealing with Indians. Years after the Illinois campaign, three
hundred Shawnee warriors came in full war paint to Fort Washington,
the present site of Cincinnati, to meet the great "Long Knife" chief
in council. Clark had only seventy men in the stockade. The savages
strode into the council room with a war belt and a peace belt. Full
of fight and ugliness, they threw the belts on the table, and told
the great pioneer leader to take his choice.
[Illustration: Fort Washington, a Stockaded Fort on the Ohio, the
Present Site of Cincinnati]
Quick as a flash, Clark rose to his feet, swept both the belts to the
floor with his cane, stamped upon them, and thrust the savages out of
the hall, telling them to make peace at once, or he would drive them
off the {11} face of the earth. The Shawnees held a council which
lasted all night, but in the morning they humbly agreed to bury the
hatchet.
Great was the wrath of Hamilton, the "hair buyer general," when he
heard what the young Virginian had done. He at once sent out runners
to stir up the savages; and, in the first week of October, he set out
in person from Detroit with five hundred British regulars, French,
and Indians. He recaptured Vincennes without any trouble. Clark had
been able to leave only a few of the men he had sent there, and some
of them deserted the moment they caught sight of the redcoats.
If Hamilton had pushed on through the Illinois country, he could
easily have crushed the little American force; but it was no easy
thing to march one hundred and forty miles over snow-covered
prairies, and so the British commander decided to wait until spring.
When Clark heard of the capture of Vincennes, he knew that he had not
enough men to meet Hamilton in open fight. What was he to do? Fortune
again came to his aid.
The last of January, he heard that Hamilton had sent most of his men
back to Detroit; that the Indians had scattered among the villages;
and that the British commander himself was now wintering at Vincennes
with about a hundred men. Clark at once decided to do what Hamilton
had failed to do. Having selected the best of his riflemen, together
with a few Creoles, {12} one hundred and seventy men in all, he set
out on February 7 for Vincennes.
All went well for the first week. They marched rapidly. Their rifles
supplied them with food. At night, as an old journal says, they
"broiled their meat over the huge camp fires, and feasted like Indian
war dancers." After a week the ice had broken up, and the thaw
flooded everything. The branches of the Little Wabash now made one
great river five miles wide, the water even in the shallow places
being three feet deep.
It took three days of the hardest work to ferry the little force
across the flooded plain. All day long the men waded in the icy
waters, and at night they slept as well as they could on some muddy
hillock that rose above the flood. By this time they had come so near
Vincennes that they dared not fire a gun for fear of being
discovered.
Marching at the head of his chilled and foot-sore army, Clark was the
first to test every danger.
"Come on, boys!" he would shout, as he plunged into the flood.
Were the men short of food? "I am not hungry," he would say, "help
yourself." Was some poor fellow chilled to the bone? "Take my
blanket," said Clark, "I am glad to get rid of it."
In fact, as peril and suffering increased, the courage and the
cheerfulness of the young leader seemed to grow stronger.
{13} On February 17, the tired army heard Hamilton's sunrise gun on
the fort at Vincennes, nine miles away, boom across the muddy flood.
Their food had now given out. The bravest began to lose heart, and
wished to go back. In hastily made dugouts the men were ferried, in a
driving rain, to the eastern bank of the Wabash; but they found no
dry land for miles round. With Clark leading the way, the men waded
for three miles with the water often up to their chins, and camped on
a hillock for the night. The records tell us that a little drummer
boy, whom some of the tallest men carried on their shoulders, made a
deal of fun for the weary men by his pranks and jokes.
Death now stared them in the face. The canoes could find no place to
ford. Even the riflemen huddled together in despair. Clark blacked
his face with damp gunpowder, as the Indians did when ready to die,
gave the war whoop, and leaped into the ice-cold river. With a wild
shout the men followed. The whole column took up their line of march,
singing a merry song. They halted six miles from Vincennes. The night
was bitterly cold, and the half-frozen and half-starved men tried to
sleep on a hillock.
The next morning the sun rose bright and beautiful. Clark made a
thrilling speech and told his famished men that they would surely
reach the fort before dark. One of the captains, however, was sent
with twenty-five trusty riflemen to bring up the rear, with orders to
shoot any man that tried to turn back.
{14} The worst of all came when they crossed the Horseshoe Plain,
which the floods had made a shallow lake four miles wide, with dense
woods on the farther side. In the deep water the tall and the strong
helped the short and the weak. The little dugouts picked up the poor
fellows who were clinging to bushes and old logs, and ferried them to
a spot of dry land. When they reached the farther shore, so many of
the men were chilled that the strong ones had to seize those
half-frozen, and run them up and down the bank until they were able
to walk.
One of the dugouts captured an Indian canoe paddled by some squaws.
It proved a rich prize, for in it were buffalo meat and some kettles.
Broth was soon made and served to the weakest. The strong gave up
their share. Then amid much joking and merry songs, the column
marched in single file through a bit of timber. Not two miles away
was Vincennes, the goal of all their hopes.
A Creole who was out shooting ducks was captured. From him it was
learned that nobody suspected the coming of the Americans, and that
two hundred Indians had just come into town.
With the hope that the Creoles would not dare to fight, and that the
Indians would escape, Clark boldly sent the duck hunter back to town
with the news of his arrival. He sent warning to the Creoles to
remain in their houses, for he came only to fight the British.
{15} So great was the terror of Clark's name that the French shut
themselves up in their houses, while most of the Indians took to the
woods. Nobody dared give a word of warning to the British.
Just after dark the riflemen marched into the streets of the village
before the redcoats knew what was going on.
Crack! crack! sharply sounded half a dozen rifles outside the fort.
"That is Clark, and your time is short!" cried Captain Helm, who was
Hamilton's prisoner at this time; "he will have this fort tumbling on
your heads before to-morrow morning."
[Illustration: Defending a Frontier Fort against the British and
Indians]
During the night the Americans threw up an intrenchment within rifle
shot of the fort, and at daybreak opened a hot fire into the
portholes. The men begged their leader to let them storm the fort,
but he dared not risk their lives. A party {16} of Indians that had
been pillaging the Kentucky settlements came marching into the
village, and were caught red-handed with scalps hanging at their
belts.
Clark was not slow to show his power.
"Think, men," he said sternly, "of the cries of the widows and the
fatherless on our frontier. Do your duty."
Six of the savages were tomahawked before the fort, where the
garrison could see them, and their dead bodies were thrown into the
river.
The British defended their fort for a few days, but could not stand
against the fire of the long rifles. It was sure death for a gunner
to try to fire a cannon. Not a man dared show himself at a porthole,
through which the rifle bullets were humming like mad hornets.
Hamilton the "hair buyer" gave up the defense as a bad job, and
surrendered the fort, defended by cannon and occupied by regular
troops, as he says in his journal, "to a set of uncivilized Virginia
backwoodsmen armed with rifles."
Tap! tap! sounded the drums, as Clark gave the signal, and down came
the British colors.
Thirteen cannon boomed the salute over the flooded plains of the
Wabash, and a hundred frontier soldiers shouted themselves hoarse
when the stars and stripes went up at Vincennes, never to come down
again.
The British authority over this region was forever at an end. It only
remained for Clark to defend what he had so gallantly won.
{17} Of all the deeds done west of the Alleghanies during the war of
the Revolution, Clark's campaign, in the region which seemed so
remote and so strange to our forefathers, is the most remarkable. The
vast region north of the Ohio River was wrested from the British
crown. When peace came, a few years later, the boundary lines of the
United States were the Great Lakes on the north, and on the west the
Mississippi River.
{18}
CHAPTER II
A MIDWINTER CAMPAIGN
A splendid monument overlooks the battlefield of Saratoga. Heroic
bronze statues of Schuyler, Gates, and Morgan, three of the four
great leaders in this battle, stand each in a niche on three faces of
the obelisk. On the south side the space is empty. The man who led
the patriots to victory forfeited his place on this monument. What a
sermon in stone is the empty niche on that massive granite shaft! We
need no chiseled words to tell us of the great name so gallantly won
by Arnold the hero, and so wretchedly lost by Arnold the traitor.
Only a few months after Benedict Arnold had turned traitor, and was
fighting against his native land, he was sent by Sir Henry Clinton,
the British commander, to sack and plunder in Virginia. In one of
these raids a captain of the colonial army was taken prisoner.
"What will your people do with me if they catch me?" Arnold is said
to have asked his prisoner.
"They will cut off your leg that was shot at Quebec and Saratoga,"
said the plucky and witty officer, "and bury it with the honors of
war, and hang the rest of your body on a gibbet."
{19} This bold reply of the patriot soldier showed the hatred and the
contempt in which Arnold was held by all true Americans; it also
hints at an earlier fame which this strange and remarkable man had
won in fighting the battles of his country.
Now that war with the mother country had begun, an attack upon Canada
seemed to be an act of self-defense; for through the valley of the
St. Lawrence the colonies to the south could be invaded. The "back
door," as Canada was called, which was now open for such invasion,
must be tightly shut. In fact it was believed that Sir Guy Carleton,
the governor of Canada, was even now trying to get the Indians to
sweep down the valley of the Hudson, to harry the New England
frontier.
[Illustration: The Washington Elm in Cambridge, Massachusetts, under
which Washington took Command]
Meanwhile, under the old elm in Cambridge, Washington had taken
command of the Continental army. Shortly afterwards he met Benedict
Arnold for the first time. The great Virginian found the young
officer a man after his own heart. Arnold was at this time captain of
the best-drilled and best-equipped company that the patriot army
could boast. {20} He had already proved himself a man of energy and
of rare personal bravery.
Before his meeting with Washington, Arnold had hurried spies into
Canada to find out the enemy's strength; and he had also sent Indians
with wampum, to make friends with the redskins along the St.
Lawrence. Some years before, he had been to Canada to buy horses; and
through his friends in Quebec and in Montreal he was now able to get
a great deal of information, which he promptly sent to Congress.
Congress voted to send out an expedition. An army was to enter Canada
by the way of the Kennebec and Chaudière rivers; there to unite
forces with Montgomery, who had started from Ticonderoga; and then,
if possible, to surprise Quebec.
The patriot army of some eighteen thousand men was at this time
engaged in the siege of Boston. During the first week in September,
orders came to draft men for Quebec. For the purpose of carrying the
troops up the Kennebec River, a force of carpenters was sent ahead to
build two hundred bateaux, or flat-bottomed boats. To Arnold, as
colonel, was given the command of the expedition. For the sake of
avoiding any ill feeling, the officers were allowed to draw lots. So
eager were the troops to share in the possible glories of the
campaign that several thousand at once volunteered.
About eleven hundred men were chosen, the very flower of the
Continental army. More than one half of {21} these came from New
England; three hundred were riflemen from Pennsylvania and from
Virginia, among whom were Daniel Morgan and his famous riflemen from
the west bank of the Potomac.
On September 13, the little army left Cambridge and marched through
Essex to Newburyport. The good people of this old seaport gave the
troops an ovation, on their arrival Saturday night. They escorted
them to the churches on Sunday, and on Tuesday morning bade them
good-by, "with colors flying, drums and fifes playing, the hills all
around being covered with pretty girls weeping for their departing
swains."
On the following Thursday, with a fair wind, the troops reached the
mouth of the Kennebec, one hundred and fifty miles away. Working
their way up the river, they came to anchor at what is now the city
of Gardiner. Near this place, the two hundred bateaux had been
hastily built of green pine. The little army now advanced six miles
up the river to Fort Western, opposite the present city of Augusta.
Here they rested for three days, and made ready for the ascent of the
Kennebec.
An old journal tells us that the people who lived near prepared a
grand feast for the soldiers, with three bears roasted whole in
frontier fashion, and an abundance of venison, smoked salmon, and
huge pumpkin pies, all washed down with plenty of West India rum.
Among the guests at this frontier feast was a half-breed Indian girl
named Jacataqua, who had fallen in {22} love with a handsome young
officer of the expedition. This officer was Aaron Burr, who
afterwards became Vice President of the United States. When the young
visitor found that the wives of two riflemen, James Warner and
Sergeant Grier, were going to tramp to Canada with the troops, she,
too, with some of her Indian friends, made up her mind to go with
them. This trifling incident, as we shall see later, saved the lives
of many brave men.
The season was now far advanced. There must be no delay, or the early
Canadian winter would close in upon them. The little army was divided
into four divisions. On September 25, Daniel Morgan and his riflemen
led the advance, with orders to go with all speed to what was called
the Twelve Mile carrying place. The second division, under the
command of Colonel Greene, started the next day. Then came the third
division, under Major Meigs, while Colonel Enos brought up the rear.
There were fourteen companies, each provided with sixteen bateaux.
These boats were heavy and clumsy. When loaded, four men could hardly
haul or push them through the shallow channels, or row them against
the strong current of the river. It was hard and rough work. And
those dreadful carrying places! Before they reached Lake Megantic,
they dragged these boats, or what was left of them, round the rapids
twenty-four times. At each carrying place, kegs of powder and of
bullets, barrels of {23} flour and of pork, iron kettles, and all
manner of camp baggage had to be unpacked from the boats, carried
round on the men's backs, and reloaded again. Sometimes the "carry"
was only a matter of a few rods, and again it was two miles long.
[Illustration: A Map of Arnold's Route to Quebec]
From the day the army left Norridgewock, the last outpost of
civilization, troubles came thick and fast. Water from the leaky
boats spoiled the dried codfish and most of the flour. The salt beef
was found unfit for use. There was now nothing left to eat but flour
and pork. The all-day exposure in water, the chilling river fogs at
night, and the sleeping in uniforms which were frozen stiff even in
front of the camp fires, all began to thin the ranks of these sturdy
backwoodsmen.
On October 12, Colonel Enos and the rear guard reached the Twelve
Mile carrying place. The army that had set out from Fort Western with
nearly twelve hundred men could now muster only nine hundred and
fifty well men. And yet they were only beginning the most perilous
stage of their journey. All about them stood the dark and silent
wilderness, through which they were to make their way for sixteen
miles, to reach the Dead River. In this dreaded route there were four
carrying places. The last was three miles long, a third of which was
a miry spruce and cedar swamp. It took {24} five days of hardest toil
to cut their way through the unbroken wilderness. Fortunately, the
hunters shot four moose and caught plenty of salmon trout.
Now began the snail-like advance for eighty-six miles up the crooked
course of the Dead River. Sometimes they cut their way through the
thickets and the underbrush, but oftener they waded along the banks.
Then came a heavy rainstorm, which grew into a hurricane during the
night. The river overflowed its banks for a mile or more on either
side. Many of the boats sank or were dashed to pieces. Barrels of
pork and of flour were swept away. For the next ten days, these
heroic men seemed to be pressing forward to a slow death by
starvation. Each man's ration was reduced to half a pint of flour a
day.
The old adage tells us that misfortunes never come singly. The rear
guard under Colonel Enos, with its trail hewn out for it, had carried
the bulk of the supplies; but, after losing most of the provisions in
the freshet, he refused any more flour for his half-starved comrades
at the front.
On October 25, the rear guard having caught up with Greene's
division, which was in the worst plight of all, encamped at a place
called Ledge Falls. At a council of war held in the midst of a
driving snowstorm, Enos himself voted at first to go forward; but
afterwards he decided to go back. So the rear guard, grudgingly
giving up two barrels of flour, turned their backs, and, {25} in
spite of the jeers and the threats of their comrades, started home.
Greene and his brave fellows showed no signs of faltering, but, as a
diary reads, "took each man his duds to his back, bid them adieu, and
marched on."
Just over the boundary between Maine and Canada there was a great
swamp. In this bog two companies lost their way, and waded knee-deep
in the mire for ten miles in endless circles. Reaching a little
hillock after dark, they stood up all night long to keep from
freezing. Each man was for himself in the struggle for life. The
strong dared not halt to help the weak for fear they too should
perish.
"Alas! alas!" writes one soldier, "these horrid spectacles! my heart
sickens at the recollection."
That each man might fully realize how little food was left, a final
division was made of the remaining provisions. Five pints of flour
were given to each man! This must last him for a hundred miles
through the pathless wilderness, a tramp of at least six days. In the
ashes of the camp fire, each man baked his flour, Indian fashion,
into five little cakes. Though the officers coaxed and threatened,
some of the poor frantic fellows ate all their cakes at one meal.
On November 2, our little army, scattered for more than forty miles
along the banks of the Chaudière River, was still dragging out its
weary way. Tents, boats, and camp supplies were all gone, except here
and there a tin camp kettle or an ax. A rifleman tells us that one
day {26} he roasted and chewed his shot pouch, and adds, "in a short
time there was not a shot pouch to be seen among all those in my
view." For four days this man had not eaten anything except a
squirrel skin, which he had picked up some days before.
Several dogs that had faithfully followed their masters were now
killed and roasted; and even their feet, skin, and entrails were
eaten. Captain Dearborn tells us how downcast he was when he was
forced to kill and eat his fine Newfoundland dog. He writes, "we even
pounded up the dog's bones and made broth for another meal."
A dozen men, who had been left behind to die, caught a stray horse
that had run away from some settlement. They shot it and ate heartily
of the flesh while they rested, and at last reached the main army.
For seven days these men had had nothing for food but roots and black
birch bark.
The Indian girl Jacataqua, with a pet dog, still followed the troops.
She proved herself of the greatest service as a guide. She knew,
also, about roots and herbs, and these she prepared in Indian fashion
for the sick and the injured. The men did not dare to kill her dog,
for she threatened to leave them to their fate if they harmed the
faithful animal.
At one place James Warner, whose wife Jemima was marching with the
troops, lagged behind, and, before his wife knew it, sank exhausted.
The faithful woman ran back alone, and stayed with him until he died.
She {27} buried him with leaves; and then, taking his musket and
girding on his cartridge belt, she hurried breathless and panting for
twenty miles, until she caught up with the troops. And as for
Sergeant Grier's good wife, she tramped and starved her way with the
men. No wonder that one writer, a boy of seventeen at the time, says,
as he saw this plucky woman wading through the rivers, "My mind was
humbled, yet astonished at the exertions of this good woman."
[Illustration: Arnold's Men marching through the Flooded Wilderness]
Where was the bold commander all this time, the man who was to lead
these sturdy riflemen to easy victory? After paddling thirteen miles
across Lake Megantic, {28} Arnold performed one of those brilliant
and reckless deeds for which he was noted. Perhaps no other man in
the American army would have dared to do what he did. The remnant of
his famishing soldiers must be saved, and the time was short.
On October 28, he started down the swollen Chaudière River with only
a few men and without a guide. Sartigan, the nearest French
settlement where provisions could be bought, was nearly seventy miles
away. The swift current carried the frail canoes down the first
twenty miles in two hours. Here through the rapids, there over hidden
ledges, now escaping the driftwood and the sharp-edged rocks, Arnold
and his men wrestled with the angry river.
At one place they plunged over a fall, and every canoe was capsized.
Six of the men found themselves swimming in a large rock-bound basin,
while the angry flood thundered thirty feet over the ledges just
beyond them. The men swam ashore, thankful to escape death.
The last twenty miles was tramped through the wilderness, but such
was the energy of their leader that Sartigan was reached on the
evening of the second day. Long before daybreak, cattle and bags of
flour were ready, and, with a relief party of French Canadians on
horseback, Arnold was on his way back to the starving army.
Four days later, from the famished men in the frozen wilderness was
heard far and wide the joyful cry, "Provisions!" "Provisions!"
{29} The cry was echoed from hill to hill, and along the snow-covered
banks of the great river. The grim fight for life was over. They had
won. How like a pack of famished wolves did they kill, cook, and
devour the cattle!
The next day, two companies dashed through the icy waters of the Du
Loup River, and, shortly afterwards, greeted with cheers the first
house they had seen for thirty days. Six miles beyond, was
Sartigan,--a half dozen log cabins and a few Indian wigwams.
A snowstorm now set in, but the joyful men hastily built huts of pine
boughs, kindled huge camp fires, and waited for the stragglers. The
severe Canadian winter was well begun. It kept on snowing heavily. As
Quebec might be reënforced at any moment, every captain was ordered
to get his men over the remaining fifty-four miles with all possible
speed.
"Quebec!" "Quebec!" was in everybody's mouth.
Five days later, on November 9, the patriots reached Point Levi, a
little French village opposite Quebec. The people looked on with
astonishment as they straggled out of the woods, a worn-out army of
perhaps six hundred men, with faces haggard, clothing in tatters, and
many barefooted and bareheaded. Over eighty had died in the
wilderness, and a hundred were on the sick list. So pitiful and so
ludicrous was their appearance that one man wrote in his diary that
they "resembled those animals of New Spain called {30}
orang-outangs," and "unlike the children of Israel, whose clothes
waxed not old in the wilderness, theirs hardly held together."
With his usual bravado, Arnold planned to capture the "Gibraltar of
America" at one stroke. He little knew that, a few days before, some
treacherous Indians had warned the British commander of his approach.
On the night of November 13, Arnold ferried five hundred of his men
across the St. Lawrence, and climbed to the Heights of Abraham, at
the very place where Wolfe had climbed to victory sixteen years
before. At daybreak the walls of the city were covered with soldiers
and with citizens. Within half a mile of the walls, which fairly
bristled with cannon, the ragged soldiers halted and began to cheer
lustily. The redcoats shouted back their defiance. Arnold wrote a
letter to the governor of Quebec, demanding the surrender of the
city. The bearer of the letter, although under a flag of truce, was
not even allowed to come near the walls.
After six days the little army slipped away one dark night, and
tramped to a village some twenty miles to the west of Quebec. Here
they hoped to join forces with Montgomery, who had already captured
Montreal, and then come back to renew the siege.
Ten days later, on December 1, Arnold paraded his troops in front of
the village church to greet Montgomery with his army. The united
forces, still less than a thousand men, now trudged their way back to
Quebec. On {31} arriving there, Montgomery boldly demanded the
surrender of the town.
Meanwhile, on November 19, Sir Guy Carleton had left Montreal, and,
having made his way down the river, in the disguise of a farmer,
slipped into Quebec. This was the salvation of Canada.
The British general was an able soldier. He at once took energetic
steps for the defense of the city. At every available point he built
blockhouses, barricades, and palisades; and mounted one hundred and
fifty cannon. He took five hundred sailors from the war vessels to
help man the guns, and thus increased the garrison to eighteen
hundred fighting men.
For two weeks the patriot army fired their little three-pounders, and
threw several hundred "fire pills," as the men called them, against
the granite ramparts and into the town. Even the women laughed at
them, for they did no more harm than so many popguns. The redcoats
kept up the bloodless contest by raking with their cannon the
patriots' feeble breastworks of ice and snow.
Montgomery spoke hopefully to his men, but in his heart was despair.
How could he ever go home without taking Quebec? Washington and
Congress expected it, and the people at home were waiting for it.
When he bade his young wife good-by at their home on the Hudson, he
said, "You shall never blush for your Montgomery." What was his duty
now? Should he not make at least one desperate attempt? Did not Wolfe
{32} take equally desperate chances and win deathless renown? At last
it was decided to wait for a dark night, in which to attack the Lower
Town.
At midnight on the last day of 1775, came the snowstorm so long
awaited. The word was given, and about half past three the columns
marched to the assault. Every man pinned to his hat a piece of white
paper, on which was written the motto of Morgan's far-famed riflemen,
"Liberty or Death!"
Arnold and Morgan, with about six hundred men, were to make the
attack on one side of the town, and Montgomery, with three hundred
men, on the other side.
The storm had become furious. With their heads down and their guns
under their coats, the men had enough to do to keep up with Arnold as
he led the attack. Presently a musket ball shattered his leg and
stretched him bleeding in the snow. Morgan at once took command, and,
cheering on his men, carried the batteries; then, forcing his way
into the streets of the Lower Town, he waited for the promised signal
from Montgomery.
Meantime, the precious moments slipped by, while the young Montgomery
was forcing his way through the darkness and the huge snowdrifts,
along the shores of the St. Lawrence. When the head of his column
crept cautiously round a point of the steep cliff, they came face to
face with the redcoats standing beside their cannon with lighted
matches.
{33} "On, boys, Quebec is ours!" shouted Montgomery, as he sprang
forward.
[Illustration: The Midnight Attack on Quebec]
A storm of grape and canister swept the narrow pass, and the young
general fell dead. In dismay and confusion, the column gave way. The
command to retreat was hastily given and obeyed. Strange to say, so
dazed were the British by the fierce attack that they, too, ran {34}
away, but soon rallied. The driving snow quickly covered the dead and
the wounded in a funeral shroud.
The enemy were now free to close in upon Morgan and his riflemen, on
the other side of the town. All night long, fierce hand to hand
fighting went on in the narrow streets, amid the howling storm of
driving snow; and the morning light broke slowly upon scenes of
confusion and horror. Morgan and his men fought like heroes, but they
were outnumbered, and were forced to surrender.
The rest of this sad story may be briefly told. Arnold was given the
chief command. Although he was weakened from loss of blood, and
helpless from his shattered leg, nothing could break his dauntless
will. Expecting the enemy at any moment to attack the hospital, he
had his pistols and his sword placed on his bed, that he might die
fighting. From that bedside, he kept his army of seven hundred men
sternly to its duty. In a month he was out of doors, hobbling about
on crutches, and hopeful as ever of success.
Washington sent orders for Arnold to stand his ground, and as late as
January 27 wrote him that "the glorious work must be accomplished
this winter." With bulldog grip, Arnold obeyed orders, and kept up
the hopeless siege. During the winter, more troops came to his help
from across the lakes, but they only closed the gaps made by
hardships and smallpox.
{35} On the 14th of March, a flag of truce was again sent to the
city, demanding its surrender.
"No flag will be received," said the officer of the day, "unless it
comes to implore the mercy of the king."
A wooden horse was mounted on the walls near the famous old St.
John's gate, with a bundle of hay before it. Upon the horse was
tacked a placard, on which was written, "When this horse has eaten
this bunch of hay, we will surrender."
Although they were short of food, and were forced to tear down the
houses for firewood, the garrison was safe and quite comfortable
behind the snow-covered ramparts.
The end of the coldest winter ever known in Canada save one came at
last. The river was full of ice during the first week of May. A few
days later, three men-of-war forced their way up the St. Lawrence
through the floating ice, and relieved the besieged city. The salute
of twenty-one guns fired by the fleet was joyful music to the people
of Quebec. Amid the thundering of the guns from the citadel, the
great bell of the Cathedral clanged the death knell to Arnold's
hopes.
The "Gibraltar of America" still remained in the possession of
England.
{36}
CHAPTER III
HOW PALMETTO LOGS MAY BE USED
In 1775, in Virginia, the patriots forced the royal governor, Lord
Dunmore, to take refuge on board a British man-of-war in Norfolk
Harbor. In revenge, the town of Norfolk, the largest and the most
important in the Old Dominion, was, on New Year's Day, 1776, shelled
and destroyed. This bombardment, and scores of other less wanton acts
of the men-of-war, alarmed every coastwise town from Maine to
Georgia.
Early in the fall of 1775, the British government planned to strike a
hard blow against the Southern colonies. North Carolina was to be the
first to receive punishment. It was the first colony, as perhaps you
know, to take decided action in declaring its independence from the
mother country. To carry out the intent of the British, Sir Henry
Clinton, with two thousand troops, sailed from Boston for the Cape
Fear River.
The minutemen of the Old North State rallied from far and near, as
they had done in Massachusetts after the battle of Lexington. Within
ten days, there were ten thousand men ready to fight the redcoats.
And so when Sir Henry arrived off the coast, he decided, {37} like a
prudent man, not to land; but cruised along the shore, waiting for
the coming of war vessels from England.
This long-expected fleet was under the command of Sir Peter Parker.
Baffled by head winds, and tossed about by storms, the ships were
nearly three months on the voyage, and did not arrive at Cape Fear
until the first of May. There they found Clinton.
Sir Peter and Sir Henry could not agree as to what action was best.
Clinton, with a wholesome respect for the minutemen of the Old North
State, wished to sail to the Chesapeake; while Lord Campbell, the
royal governor of South Carolina, who was now an officer of the
fleet, begged that the first hard blow should fall upon Charleston.
He declared that, as soon as the city was captured, the loyalists
would be strong enough to restore the king's power. Campbell, it
seems, had his way at last, and it was decided to sail south, to
capture Charleston.
Meanwhile, the people of South Carolina had received ample warning.
So they were not surprised when, on the last day of May, a British
fleet under a cloud of canvas was seen bearing up for Charleston. On
the next day, Sir Peter Parker cast anchor off the bar, with upwards
of fifty war ships and transports. Affairs looked serious for the
people of this fair city; but they were of fighting stock, and, with
the war thus brought to their doors, were not slow to show their
mettle.
{38} For weeks the patriots had been pushing the works of defense.
Stores and warehouses were leveled to the ground, to give room for
the fire of cannon and muskets from various lines of earthworks;
seven hundred wagons belonging to loyalists were pressed into
service, to help build redoubts; owners of houses gave the lead from
their windows, to be cast into bullets; fire boats were made ready to
burn the enemy's vessels, if they passed the forts. The militia came
pouring in from the neighboring colonies until there were sixty-five
hundred ready to defend the city.
It was believed that a fort built on the southern end of Sullivan's
Island, within point-blank shot of the channel leading into
Charleston Harbor, might help prevent the British fleet from sailing
up to the city. At all events it would be worth trying. So, in the
early spring of 1776, Colonel William Moultrie, a veteran of the
Indian wars, was ordered to build a square fort large enough to hold
a thousand men.
[Illustration: Colonel William Moultrie]
The use of palmetto logs was a happy thought. Hundreds of negroes
were set at work cutting down the trees and hauling them to the
southern end of the island. The long straight logs were laid one upon
another in two parallel rows sixteen feet apart, and were bound
together with cross timbers dovetailed and bolted into the logs. The
space between the two rows of logs was filled with sand. This made
the walls of the fort.
{39} The cannon were mounted upon platforms six feet high, which
rested upon brick pillars. Upon these platforms the men could stand
and fire through the openings. The rear of the fort and the eastern
side were left unfinished, being merely built up seven feet with
logs. Thirty-one cannon were mounted, but only twenty-five could at
any one time be brought to bear upon the enemy.
On the day of the battle, there were about four hundred and fifty men
in the fort, only thirty of whom knew anything about handling cannon.
But most of the garrison were expert riflemen, and it was soon found
that their skill in small arms helped them in sighting the artillery.
One day early in June, General Charles Lee, who had been sent down to
take the chief command, went over to the island to visit the fort. As
the old-time soldier, who had seen long service in the British army,
looked over the rudely built affair, and saw that it was not even
finished, he gravely shook his head.
"The ships will anchor off there," said he to Moultrie, pointing to
the channel, "and will make your fort a mere slaughter pen."
{40} The weak-kneed general, who afterwards sold himself to the
British, went back and told Governor Rutledge that the only thing to
do was to abandon the fort. The governor, however, was made of better
stuff, and, besides, had the greatest faith in Colonel Moultrie. But
he did ask his old friend if he thought he really could defend the
cob-house fort, which Lee had laughed to scorn.
Moultrie was a man of few words, and replied simply, "I think I can."
"General Lee wishes you to give up the fort," added Rutledge, "but
you are not to do it without an order from me, and I will sooner cut
off my right hand than write one."
The idea of retreating seems never to have occurred to the brave
commander.
"I was never uneasy," wrote Moultrie in after years, "because I never
thought the enemy could force me to retire."
It was indeed fortunate that Colonel Moultrie was a stout-hearted
man, for otherwise he might well have been discouraged. A few days
before the battle, the master of a privateer, whose vessel was laid
up in Charleston harbor, paid him a visit. As the two friends stood
on the palmetto walls, looking at the fleet in the distance, the
naval officer said, "Well, Colonel Moultrie, what do you think of it
now?"
Moultrie replied, "We shall beat them."
{41} "Sir," exclaimed his visitor, pointing to the distant
men-of-war, "when those ships come to lay alongside of your fort,
they will knock it down in less than thirty minutes."
"We will then fight behind the ruins," said the stubborn patriot,
"and prevent their men from landing."
The British plan of attack, to judge from all military rules, should
have been successful. First, the redcoat regulars were to land upon
Long Island, lying to the north, and wade across the inlet which
separates it from Sullivan's Island. Then, after the war ships had
silenced the guns in the fort, the land troops were to storm the
position, and thus leave the channel clear for the combined forces to
sail up and capture the city.
If a great naval captain like Nelson or Farragut had been in command,
probably the ships would not have waited a month, but would at once
have made a bold dash past the fort, and straightway captured
Charleston. Sir Peter, however, was slow, and felt sure of success.
For over three weeks he delayed the attack, thus giving the patriots
more time for completing their defenses.
Friday morning, June 28, was hot, but bright and beautiful. Early in
the day, Colonel Moultrie rode to the northern end of the island to
see Colonel Thompson. The latter had charge of a little fort manned
by sharpshooters, and it was his duty to prevent Clinton's troops
from getting across the inlet.
Suddenly the men-of-war begin to spread their topsails and raise
their anchors. The tide is coming in. {42} The wind is fair. One
after another, the war ships get under way and come proudly up the
harbor, under full sail. The all-important moment of Moultrie's life
is at hand. He puts spurs to his horse and gallops back to the
palmetto fort.
"Beat the long roll!" he shouts to his officers, Colonel Motte and
Captain Marion.
The drums beat, and each man hurries to his chosen place beside the
cannon. The supreme test for the little cob-house fort has come. The
men shout, as a blue flag with a crescent, the colors of South
Carolina, is flung to the breeze.
Just as a year before, the people of Boston crowded the roofs and the
belfries, to watch the outcome of Bunker Hill; so now, the old men
and the women and children of Charleston cluster on the wharves, the
church towers, and the roofs, all that hot day, to watch the duel
between the palmetto fort and the British fleet.
Sir Peter Parker has a powerful fleet. He is ready to do his work.
Two of his ships carry fifty guns each, and four carry twenty-eight
guns each. With a strong flood tide and a favorable southwest wind,
the stately men-of-war sweep gracefully to their positions.
Moultrie's fighting blood is up, and his dark eyes flash with
delight. The men of South Carolina, eager to fight for their homes,
train their cannon upon the war ships.
"Fire! fire!" shouts Moultrie, as the men-of-war come within
point-blank shot. The low palmetto cob house begins to thunder with
its heavy guns.
{43} A bomb vessel casts anchor about a mile from the fort. Puff!
bang! a thirteen-inch shell rises in the air with a fine curve and
falls into the fort. It bursts and hurls up cart loads of sand, but
hurts nobody. Four of the largest war ships are now within easy
range. Down go the anchors, with spring ropes fastened to the cables,
to keep the vessels broadside to the fort. The smaller men-of-war
take their positions in a second line, in the rear. Fast and furious,
more than one hundred and fifty cannon bang away at the little
inclosure.
But, even from the first, things did not turn out as the British
expected. After firing some fifty shells, which buried themselves in
the loose sand and did not explode, the bomb vessel broke down.
About noon, the flagship signaled to three of the men-of-war, "Move
down and take position southwest of the fort."
Once there, the platforms inside the fort could be raked from end to
end. As good fortune would have it, two of these vessels, in
attempting to carry out their orders, ran afoul of each other, and
all three stuck fast on the shoal on which is now the famed Fort
Sumter.
How goes the battle inside the fort? The men, stripped to the waist
and with handkerchiefs bound round their heads, stand at the guns all
that sweltering day, with the coolness and the courage of old
soldiers. The supply of powder is scant. They take careful aim, fire
slowly, and make almost every shot tell. The twenty-six-pound balls
{44} splinter the masts, and make sad havoc on the decks. Crash!
crash! strike the enemy's cannon balls against the palmetto logs. The
wood is soft and spongy, and the huge shot either bury themselves
without making splinters, or else bound off like rubber balls.
Meanwhile, where was Sir Henry Clinton? For nearly three weeks he had
been encamped with some two thousand men on the sand bar known as
Long Island. The men had suffered fearfully from the heat, from lack
of water, and from the mosquitoes.
During the bombardment of Fort Sullivan, Sir Henry marched his men
down to the end of the sand island, but could not cross; for the
water in the inlet proved to be seven feet deep even at low tide.
Somebody had blundered about the ford. The redcoats, however, were
paraded on the sandy shore while some armed boats made ready to cross
the inlet. The grapeshot from two cannon, and the bullets of Colonel
Thompson's riflemen, so raked the decks that the men could not stay
at their posts. Memories of Bunker Hill, perhaps, made the British
officers a trifle timid about crossing the inlet, and marching over
the sandy shore, to attack intrenched sharpshooters. Thus it happened
that Clinton and his men, through stupidity, were kept prisoners on
the sand island, mere spectators of the thrilling scene. They had to
content themselves with fighting mosquitoes, under the sweltering
rays of a Southern sun.
{45} [Illustration: Defending the Palmetto Fort]
All this time, Sir Peter was doing his best to pound the fort down.
The fort trembled and shook, but it stood. Moultrie and his men, with
perfect coolness and with steady aim, made havoc of the war ships.
Colonel Moultrie prepared grog by the pailful, which, with a negro as
helper, he dipped out to the tired men at the guns.
"Take good aim, boys," he said, as he passed from gun to gun, "mind
the big ships, and don't waste the powder."
The mainmast of the flagship Bristol was hit nine times, and the
mizzenmast was struck by seven thirty-two-pound balls, and had to be
cut away. In short, the flagship was pierced so many times that she
would have sunk had not the wind been light and the water smooth.
While the battle raged in all its fury, the carpenters worked like
beavers to keep the vessel afloat.
{46} At one time a cannon ball shot off one of the cables, and the
ship swung round with the tide.
"Give it to her, boys!" shouts Moultrie, "now is your time!" and the
cannon balls rake the decks from stem to stern.
The captain of the flagship was struck twice, Lord Campbell was hurt,
and one hundred men were either killed or wounded. Once Sir Peter was
the only man left on the quarter-deck, and he himself was twice
wounded.
The other big ship, the Experiment, fared fully as hard as did the
flagship. The captain lost his right arm, and nearly a hundred of his
men were killed or wounded.
In fact, these two vessels were about to be left to their fate, when
suddenly the fire of the fort slackened.
"Fire once in ten minutes," orders Colonel Moultrie, for the supply
of powder is becoming dangerously small.
An aid from General Lee came running over to the fort. "When your
powder is gone, spike your guns and retreat," wrote the general.
Moultrie was not that kind of man.
Between three and five o'clock in the afternoon, the fire of the fort
almost stopped. The British thought the guns were silenced. Not a bit
of it! Even then a fresh supply of five hundred pounds of powder had
nearly reached the fort. It came from Governor Rutledge with a note,
saying, "Honor and victory, my {47} good sir, to you and your worthy
men with you. Don't make too free with your cannon. Keep cool and do
mischief."
How those men shouted when the powder came! Bang! bang! the cannon in
the fort thunder again. The British admiral tries to batter down the
fort by firing several broadsides at the same moment. At times it
seemed as if it would tumble in a heap. Once the broadsides of four
vessels struck the fort at one time; but the palmetto logs stood
unharmed. A gunner by the name of McDaniel was mortally wounded by a
cannon ball. As the dying soldier was being carried away, he cried
out to his comrades in words that will never be forgotten, "Fight on,
brave boys, and don't let liberty die with this day!"
In the hottest of the fight, the flagstaff is shot away. Down falls
the blue banner upon the beach, outside the fort.
{48} "The flag is down!" "The fort has surrendered!" cry the people
of Charleston, with pale faces and tearful eyes.
Out from one of the cannon openings leaps Sergeant William Jasper.
Walking the whole length of the fort, he tears away the flag from the
staff. Returning with it, he fastens it to the rammer of a cannon,
and plants it on the ramparts, amidst the rain of shot and shell.
[Illustration: Sergeant Jasper saves the Flag]
With the setting of the sun, the roar of battle slackens. The victory
is Moultrie's. Twilight and silence fall upon the smoking fort. Here
and there lights glimmer in the city, as the joyful people of
Charleston return to their homes. The stars look down upon the
lapping waters of the bay, where ride at anchor the shadowy vessels
of the British fleet. Towards midnight, when the tide begins to ebb,
the battered war ships slip their cables and sail out into the
darkness with their dead.
The next day, hundreds came from the city to rejoice with Moultrie
and his sturdy fighters. Governor Rutledge came down with a party of
ladies, and presented a silk banner to the fort. Calling for Sergeant
Jasper, he took his own short sword from his side, buckled it on him,
and thanked him in the name of his country. He also offered him a
lieutenant's commission, but the young hero modestly refused the
honor, saying, "I am not fitted for an officer; I am only a
sergeant."
For several days, the crippled British fleet lay in the harbor, too
much shattered to fight or to go to sea. In {49} fact, it was the
first week in August before the patriots of South Carolina saw the
last war ship and the last transport put out to sea, and fade away in
the distance. The hated redcoats were gone.
In the ten hours of active fighting, the British fleet fired
seventeen tons of powder and nearly ten thousand shot and shell, but,
in that little inclosure of green logs and sand, only one gun was
silenced.
The defense of Fort Sullivan ranks as one of the few complete
American victories of the Revolution. The moral effect of the victory
was perhaps more far-reaching than the battle of Bunker Hill. Many of
the Southern people who had been lukewarm now openly united their
fortunes with the patriot cause.
Honors were showered upon the brave Colonel Moultrie. His services to
his state and to his country continued through life. He died at a
good old age, beloved by his fellow citizens.
{50}
CHAPTER IV
THE PATRIOT SPY
It was plain that Washington was troubled. As he paced the piazza of
the stately Murray mansion one fine autumn afternoon, he was saying
half aloud to himself, "Shall we defend or shall we quit New York?"
At this time Washington's headquarters were on Manhattan Island, at
the home of the Quaker merchant, Robert Murray; and here, in the
first week of September, 1776, he had asked his officers to meet him
in council.
Was it strange that Washington's heart was heavy? During the last
week of August, the Continental army had been defeated in the battle
of Long Island. A fourth of the army were on the sick list; a third
were without tents. Winter was close at hand, and the men, mostly new
recruits, were short of clothing, shoes, and blankets. Only fourteen
thousand men were fit for duty, and they were scattered all the way
from the Battery to Kingsbridge, a distance of a dozen miles or more.
The British army, numbering about twenty-five thousand, lay encamped
along the shores of New York Bay and the East River. The soldiers
were veterans, and {51} they were led by veterans. A large fleet of
war ships, lying at anchor, was ready to assist the land forces at a
moment's notice. Scores of guard ships sailed to and fro, watching
every movement of the patriot troops.
To give up the city to the British without battle seemed a great
pity. The effect upon the patriot cause in all the colonies would be
bad. Still, there was no help for it. What was the use of fighting
against such odds? Why run the risk of almost certain defeat?
Washington always looked beyond the present, and he did not intend
now to be shut up on Manhattan Island, perhaps to lose his entire
army; so, with the main body, he moved north to Harlem Heights. Here
he was soon informed by scouts that the British were getting ready to
move at once. Whither, nobody could tell. Such was the state of
affairs that led Washington to call his chief officers to the Murray
mansion, on that September afternoon.
Of course they talked over the situation long and calmly. After all,
the main question was, What shall be done? Among other things, it was
thought best to find the right sort of man, and send him in disguise
into the British camp on Long Island, to find out just where the
enemy were planning to attack.
"Upon this, gentlemen," said Washington, "depends at this time the
fate of our army."
The commander in chief sent for Colonel Knowlton, the hero of the
rail fence at Bunker Hill.
{52} "I want you to find for me in your regiment or in some other,"
he said, "some young officer to go at once into the British camp, to
discover what is going on. The man must have a quick eye, a cool
head, and nerves of steel. I wish him to make notes of the position
of the enemy, draw plans of the forts, and listen to the talk of the
officers. Can you find such a man for me this very afternoon?"
"I will do my best, General Washington," said the colonel, as he took
leave to go to his regiment.
On arriving at his quarters that afternoon, Knowlton called together
a number of officers. He briefly told them what Washington wanted,
and asked for volunteers. There was a long pause, amid deep surprise.
These soldiers were willing to serve their country; but to play the
spy, the hated spy, was too much even for Washington to ask.
One after another of the officers, as Knowlton called them by name,
declined. His task seemed hopeless. At last, he asked a grizzled
Frenchman, who had fought in many battles and was noted for his rash
bravery.
"No, no! Colonel Knowlton," he said, "I am ready to fight the
redcoats at any place and at any time; but, sir, I am not willing to
play the spy, and be hanged like a dog if I am caught."
Just as Knowlton gave up hope of finding a man willing to go on the
perilous mission, there came to him the painfully thrilling but
cheering words, "I will undertake {53} it." It was the voice of
Captain Nathan Hale. He had just entered Knowlton's tent. His face
was still pale from a severe sickness. Every man was astonished. The
whole company knew the brilliant young officer, and they loved him.
Now they all tried to dissuade him. They spoke of his fair prospects,
and of the fond hopes of his parents and his friends. It was all in
vain. They could not turn him from his purpose.
"I wish to be useful," he said, "and every kind of service necessary
for the public good becomes honorable by being necessary. If my
country needs a peculiar service, its claims upon me are imperious."
These patriotic words of a man willing to give up his life, if
necessary, for the good of his country silenced his brother officers.
"Good-by, Nathan!" "Don't you let the redcoats catch you!" "Good luck
to you!" "We never expect to see you again!" cried his nearest
friends in camp, as, in company with Colonel Knowlton, the young
captain rode out that same afternoon to receive his orders from
Washington himself.
[Illustration: Hale receiving his Orders from Washington]
{54} Nathan Hale was born, as were his eight brothers and his three
sisters, in an old-fashioned, two-storied house, in a little country
village of Connecticut. His father, a man of integrity, was a stanch
patriot. Instead of allowing his family to use the wool raised on his
farm, he saved it to make blankets for the Continental army. The
mother of this large family was a woman of high moral and domestic
worth, devoted to her children, for whom she sought the highest good.
It was a quiet, strict household, Puritan in its faith and its
manners, where the Bible ruled, where family prayers never failed,
nor was grace ever omitted at meals. On a Saturday night, no work was
done after sundown.
Young Nathan was a bright, active American boy. He liked his gun and
his fishing pole. He was fond of running, leaping, wrestling, and
playing ball. One of his pupils said that Hale would put his hand
upon a fence as high as his head, and clear it easily at a bound. He
liked books, and read much out of school. Like two of his brothers,
he was to be educated for the ministry. When only sixteen, he entered
Yale College, and was graduated two years before the battle of Bunker
Hill. Early in the fall of 1773, the young graduate began to teach
school, and was soon afterwards made master of a select school in New
London, in his native state.
At this time young Hale was about six feet tall, and well built. He
had a broad chest, full face, light blue eyes, fair complexion, and
light brown hair. He had a {55} large mole on his neck, just where
the knot of his cravat came. At college his friends used to joke him
about it, declaring that he was surely born to be hanged.
Such was Nathan Hale when the news of the bloodshed at Lexington
reached New London. A rousing meeting was held that evening. The
young schoolmaster was one of the speakers.
"Let us march at once," he said, "and never lay down our arms until
we obtain our independence."
The next morning, Hale called his pupils together, "gave them earnest
counsel, prayed with them, and shaking each by the hand," took his
leave, and during the same forenoon marched with his company for
Cambridge.
The young officer from Connecticut took an active part in the siege
of Boston, and soon became captain of his company. Hale's diary is
still preserved, and after all these years it is full of interest. It
seems that he took charge of his men's clothing, rations, and money.
Much of his time he was on picket duty, and took part in many lively
skirmishes with the redcoats. Besides studying military tactics, he
found time to make up wrestling matches, to play football and
checkers, and, on Sundays, to hold religious meetings in barns.
Within a few hours after bidding good-by to General Washington,
Captain Hale, taking with him one of his own trusty soldiers, left
the camp at Harlem, intending at the first opportunity to cross Long
Island Sound. There were so many British guard ships on the watch
{56} that he and his companion found no safe place to cross until
they had reached Norwalk, fifty miles up the Sound on the Connecticut
shore. Here a small sloop was to land Hale on the other side.
Stripping off his uniform, the young captain put on a plain brown
suit of citizen's clothes, and a broad-brimmed hat. Thus attired in
the dress of a schoolmaster, he was landed across the Sound, and
shortly afterwards reached the nearest British camp.
The redcoats received the pretended schoolmaster cordially. A captain
of the dragoons spoke of him long afterwards as a "jolly good
fellow." Hale pretended that he was tired of the "rebel cause," and
that he was in search of a place to teach school.
It would be interesting to know just what the "schoolmaster" did in
the next two weeks. Think of the poor fellow's eagerness to make the
most of his time, drawing plans of the forts, and going rapidly from
one point to another to watch the marching of troops, patrols, and
guards. Think of his sleepless nights, his fearful risk, the
ever-present dread of being recognized by some Tory. All this we know
nothing about, but his brave and tender heart must sometimes have
been sorely tried.
From the midst of all these dangers Hale, unharmed, began his return
trip to the American lines. He had threaded his way through the
woods, and round all the British camps on Long Island, until he
reached in safety the point where he had first landed. Here he had
{57} planned for a boat to meet him early the next morning, to take
him over to the mainland.
Many a patriotic American boy has thought what he should have done if
he could have exchanged places with Nathan Hale on this evening. Near
by, at a place then called and still called "The Cedars," a woman by
the name of Chichester, and nicknamed "Mother Chick," kept a tavern,
which was the favorite resort of all the Tories in that region. Hale
was sure that nobody would know him in his strange dress, and so he
ventured into the tavern. A number of people were in the barroom. A
few minutes afterwards, a man whose face seemed familiar to Hale
suddenly left the room, and was not seen again.
The pretended schoolmaster spent the night at the tavern.
Early the next morning, the landlady rushed into the barroom, crying
out to her guests, "Look out, boys! there is a strange boat close in
shore!"
The Tories scampered as if the house were on fire.
"That surely is the very boat I'm looking for," thought Hale on
leaving the tavern, and hastened towards the beach, where the boat
had already landed.
A moment more, and the young captain was amazed at the sight of six
British marines, standing erect in the boat, with their muskets aimed
at him. He turned to run, when a loud voice cried out, "Surrender or
die!" He was within close range of their guns. Escape was {58} not
possible. The poor fellow gave himself up. He was taken on board the
British guard ship Halifax, which lay at anchor close by, hidden from
sight by a point of land.
Some have declared that the man who so suddenly left the tavern was a
Tory cousin to Hale, and saw at once through the patriot's disguise;
that, being quite a rascal, he hurried away to get word to the
British camp. There seems to be no good reason, however, to believe
that the fellow was a kinsman.
However this may be, the British captured Captain Hale in disguise.
They stripped him and searched him, and found his drawings and his
notes. These were written in Latin, and had been tucked away between
the soles of his shoes.
"I am sorry that so fine a fellow has fallen into my hands," said the
captain of the guard ship, "but you are my prisoner, and I think a
spy. So to New York you must go!"
General Howe's headquarters were at this time in the elegant Beekman
mansion, situated near what is now the corner of Fifty-First Street
and First Avenue. Calm and fearless, the captured spy stood before
the British commander. He bravely owned that he was an American
officer, and said that he was sorry he had not been able to serve his
country better. No time was to be wasted in calling a court-martial.
Without trial of any kind, Captain Hale was condemned to die the
death of a spy. {59} The verdict was that he should be hanged by the
neck, "to-morrow morning at daybreak."
[Illustration: The Patriot Spy before the British General]
That night, which was Saturday, September 21, the condemned man was
kept under a strong guard, in the greenhouse near the Beekman
mansion. He had been given over to the care of the brutal Cunningham,
the infamous British provost marshal, with orders to carry out the
sentence before sunrise the next morning.
"To-morrow morning at daybreak."
How cruelly brief! Nathan Hale, the patriot spy, was left to himself
for the night.
When morning came, Cunningham found his prisoner ready. While
preparations were being made, a young officer, moved in spite of
himself, allowed Hale to sit in his tent long enough to write brief
letters to his parents and his friends. The letters were passed to
Cunningham to be sent. He read them, and as he saw the noble spirit
which breathed in every line, the wretch {60} began to curse, and
tore the letters into bits before the face of his victim. He said
that the rebels should never know they had a man who could die with
such firmness.
It was just before sunrise on a lovely Sabbath morning that Nathan
Hale was led out to death. The gallows was the limb of an apple tree.
Early as it was, a number of men and women had come to witness the
execution.
"Give us your dying speech, you young rebel!" shouted the brutal
Cunningham.
The young patriot, standing upon the fatal ladder, lifted his eyes
toward heaven, and said, in a calm, clear voice, "I only regret that
I have but one life to lose for my country."
These were his last words. The women sobbed, and some of the men
began to show signs of sympathy.
"Swing the rebel off!" cried Cunningham, in a voice hoarse with
anger. The order was obeyed.
[Illustration: Statue of Nathan Hale, standing in City Hall Park in
New York City]
Half an hour later, the body of the patriot spy was buried, probably
beneath the apple tree, but the grave {61} was not marked, and the
exact spot is now unknown. A British officer was sent, under a flag
of truce, to tell Washington of the fate of his gallant young
captain.
Thus died in the bloom of life, Captain Nathan Hale, the early martyr
in the cause of our freedom. Gifted, educated, ambitious, he laid
aside every thought of himself, and entered upon a service of the
greatest risk to life and to honor, because Washington deemed it
important to the sacred cause to which they had both given their best
efforts.
"What was to have been your reward in case you succeeded?" asked
Major Tallmadge, Hale's classmate, of the British spy, Major André,
as his prisoner was being rowed across the Hudson River to be tried
by court-martial.
"Military glory was all I sought for," replied André; "the thanks of
my general and the approbation of my king would have been a rich
reward."
Hale did not expect, nor did he care, to be a hero. He had no thought
of reward or of promotion. He sacrificed his life from a pure sense
of what he thought to be his duty.
{62}
CHAPTER V
OUR GREATEST PATRIOT
If American boys and girls were asked to name the one great man in
their country's history whom they would like to have seen and talked
with, nine out of every ten would probably say, "Washington." Many an
old man of our day has asked his grandfather or his great-grandfather
how Washington looked. Indeed, so much has been said and written of
the "Father of his Country" that we are apt to think of him as
something more than human.
Washington was truly a remarkable man, from whatever point of view we
choose to study his life. He left, as a priceless legacy to his
fellow citizens, an example of what a man with a pure and noble
character can do for himself and for his country. Duty performed with
faithfulness was the keynote to every word and every act of his life.
Still, we must not overlook the fact that Washington was, after all,
quite human. Like all the rest of us, he had his faults, his trials,
and his failures. Knowing this, we are only drawn nearer to him, and
find ourselves possessed of a more abiding admiration for the life he
lived.
{63} Washington was tall, and straight as an arrow. His favorite
nephew, Lawrence Lewis, once asked him about his height. He replied,
"In my best days, Lawrence, I stood six feet and two inches, in
ordinary shoes."
[Illustration: George Washington]
During his whole life, Washington was rather spare than fleshy. Most
of his portraits, it is said, give to his person a fullness that it
did not have. He once said that the best weight of his best days
never exceeded two hundred and twenty pounds. His chest was broad but
not well rounded. His arms and his legs were long, large, and sinewy.
His feet and his hands were especially large. Lafayette, who aided us
in the Revolution, once said to a friend, "I never saw so large a
hand on any human being, as the general's."
Washington's eyes were of a light, grayish blue, and were so deep
sunken that they gave him an unusually serious expression. On being
asked why he painted these eyes of a deeper blue than life, the
artist said, "In a hundred years they will have faded to the right
{64} color." This painting, by Stuart, of the bust of Washington, is
said to be wonderfully true to life.
Many stories are told of the mighty power of Washington's right arm.
It is said that he once threw a stone from the bed of the stream to
the top of the Natural Bridge, in Virginia. Again, we are told that
once upon a time he rounded a piece of slate to the size of a silver
dollar, and threw it across the Rappahannock at Fredericksburg, the
slate falling at least thirty feet on the other side. Many strong men
have since tried the same feat, but have never cleared the water.
Peale, who was called the soldier artist, was once visiting
Washington at Mount Vernon. One day, he tells us, some athletic young
men were pitching the iron bar in the presence of their host.
Suddenly, without taking off his coat, Washington grasped the bar and
hurled it, with little effort, much farther than any of them had
done. "We were indeed amazed," said one of the young men, "as we
stood round, all stripped to the buff, and having thought ourselves
very clever fellows, while the colonel, on retiring, pleasantly said,
'When you beat my pitch, young gentlemen, I'll try again.'"
At another time, Washington witnessed a wrestling match. The champion
of the day challenged him, in sport, to wrestle. Washington did not
stop to take off his coat, but grasped the "strong man of Virginia."
{65} It was all over in a moment, for, said the wrestler, "in
Washington's lionlike grasp, I became powerless, and was hurled to
the ground with a force that seemed to jar the very marrow in my
bones."
In the days of the Revolution, some of the riflemen and the
backwoodsmen were men of gigantic strength, but it was generally
believed, by good judges, that their commander in chief was the
strongest man in the army.
During all his life, Washington was fond of dancing. He learned in
boyhood, and danced at "balls and routs" until he was sixty-four. To
attend a dance, he often rode to Alexandria, ten miles distant from
Mount Vernon. The year he died he was forced, on account of his
failing health, to give up this recreation. "Alas!" he wrote, "my
dancing days are no more."
Many and merry were the dances at the army headquarters during the
long winter evenings. General Greene once wrote to a friend, "We had
a little dance and His Excellency and Mrs. Greene danced upwards of
three hours, without once sitting down." Another winter, although
they had not a ton of hay for the horses, as Greene wrote, and the
provisions had about given out, and for two weeks there was not cash
enough in camp to forward the public dispatches, Washington
subscribed to a series of dancing parties.
Amid all the hardships of campaign life, Washington was ever the same
dignified and self-contained gentleman. At one time, the headquarters
were in an old log {66} house, in which there was only one bed. He
alone occupied this, while the fourteen members of his staff slept on
the floor in the same room. Food, except mush and milk, was scarce.
At this homely but wholesome fare, the commander in chief presided
with his usual dignity.
For a man so large and so strong, Washington ate sparingly and of the
simplest food. We are told that he "breakfasted at seven o'clock on
three small Indian hoecakes, and as many dishes of tea." Custis, his
adopted son, once said that the general ate for breakfast "Indian
cakes, honey, and tea," and that "he was excessively fond of fish."
In fact, salt codfish was at Mount Vernon the regular Sunday dinner.
Even at the state banquets, the President generally dined on a single
dish, and that of a very simple kind. When asked to eat some rich
food, his courteous refusal was, "That is too good for me." People at
a distance, hearing of the great man's liking for honey, took pride
in sending him great quantities of it. During fast days, he
religiously went without food the entire day.
Washington was fond of rich and costly clothes. In truth, he was in
early life a good deal of a dandy. His clothes were made in London;
and from his long letters to his tailor we know that he was fussy
about their quality and their fit. Even while away from home fighting
Indians and making surveys, he did not neglect to write to London for
"Silver Lace for a Hatt," "Ruffled Shirts;" "Waistcoat of superfine
scarlet Cloth and gold {67} Lace," "Marble colored Silk Hose," "a
fashionable gold lace Hat," "a superfine blue Broadcloth Coat with
silver Trimmings," and many other costly and highly colored articles
of apparel worn by the rich young men of that period. As he grew
older, he wore more subdued clothing, and in old age reminded his
nephew that "fine Cloathes do not make fine Men more than fine
Feathers make fine Birds."
You have noticed, of course, the wrong spelling of certain words
quoted from Washington's letters and journals. These words are
spelled as he wrote them. The truth is, the "Father of his Country"
was all his life a poor speller. He was always sensitive over what he
called his "defective education." His more formal letters and his
state papers were in many instances put into shape by his aids or his
secretaries, or by others associated with him in official life.
If Washington had an amiable weakness, it was for horses. From early
boyhood, he was a skillful and daring rider. He rode on horseback,
year in and year out, until shortly before his death. Many were the
stories told by the "ragged Continentals" of the superb appearance of
their commander in chief at the head of the army or in battle. In
speaking of the battle of Monmouth, Lafayette said, "Amid the roar
and confusion of that conflict I took time to admire our beloved
chief, mounted on a splendid charger, as he rode along the ranks amid
the shouts of the soldiers. I thought then, {68} as now," continued
he, "that never had I beheld so superb a man." Jefferson summed it
all up in one brief sentence: "Washington was the best horseman of
his age, and the most graceful figure that could be seen on
horseback."
[Illustration: Washington before Trenton]
During all his life, Washington was thrifty, and very methodical in
business. He grew so wealthy that when he died his estate was valued
at half a million dollars. This large fortune for those days did not
include his wife's estate, or the Mount Vernon property, which he
inherited from his brother. He was the richest American of his time.
[Illustration: Mount Vernon, the Home of Washington]
His management of the Mount Vernon estate would make of itself an
interesting and instructive book. Of {69} the eight thousand acres,
nearly one half was under cultivation during the last part of its
owner's life. We must not forget that at this time few tools and very
little machinery were used in farming. At Mount Vernon, the negroes
and the hired laborers numbered more than five hundred. The owner's
orders were, "Buy nothing you can make within yourselves." The Mount
Vernon gristmill not only ground all the flour and the meal for the
help, but it also turned out a brand of flour which sold at a fancy
price. The coopers of the place made the flour barrels, and
Washington's own sloop carried the flour to market. A dozen kinds of
cloth, from woolen and linen to bedticking and toweling, were woven
on the premises.
{70} In 1793, although he had one hundred and one cows on his farms,
Washington writes that he was obliged to buy butter for the use of
his family. Another time, he says that one hundred and fifteen
hogsheads of "sweetly scented and neatly managed Tobacco" were
raised, and that in a single year he sold eighty-five thousand
herring, taken from the Potomac.
For his services in the French and Indian Wars, Washington received
as a bounty fifteen thousand acres of Western lands. By buying the
claims of his fellow officers who needed money, he secured nearly as
much more. After the Revolution, Washington and General Clinton
bought six thousand acres "amazingly cheap," in the Mohawk valley. No
wonder Washington was spoken of as "perhaps the greatest landholder
in America."
Like many other Southern proprietors, Washington had no end of bother
with his slaves. He bought and sold negroes as he did his cattle and
his horses, but, as he said, "except on the richest of Soils they
only add to the Expense." In 1791, the slaves on the Mount Vernon
estate alone numbered three hundred. In this same year, the owner
wrote one day in his diary that he would never buy another slave; but
the next night his cook ran away, and not being able to hire one,
"white or black," he had to buy one. "Something must be done," he
said, "or I shall be ruined. It would be for my Interest to set them
free, rather than give them Victuals and Clooths."
{71} Washington was too kind-hearted ever to flog his slaves, and yet
his kindness was often abused. Fat and lazy, they made believe to be
sick, or they ran away, and they played all kinds of pranks. In his
diary, we read the tale of woe. We are told that his slaves would
steal his sheep and his potatoes; would burn their tools; and wasted
six thousand twelvepenny nails in building a corn-house.
Like other rich Virginians of his time, Washington kept open house.
He once said that his home had become "a well resorted tavern."
Indeed it was, for guests of all sorts and conditions were dined and
wined to their hearts' content. According to the diary, it seemed to
matter little whether it was a real nobleman, or a tramp "who called
himself a French Nobleman," a sick or a wounded soldier, or "a Farmer
who came to see the new drill Plow," all "were desired to tarry," to
help eat the hot roasts and drink the choice wines.
There seems to have been almost no end to the sums of money, both
large and small, which Washington gave away. Through the pages of his
ledgers, we find hundreds of items of cash paid in charity. Here are
a few entries which are typical of the whole: "10 Shillings for a
wounded Soldier"; "gave a poor Man $2.00"; "two deserving French
Women, $25"; "a poor blind Man, $1.50"; "a Lady in Distress, $50";
"the poor in Alexandria, $100"; "Sufferers by Fire, $300"; "School in
Kentucky, $100." His lavish hospitality and his {72} unceasing
charity were a constant drain on his income. Had he not been so
thorough in business, he surely would have been brought to financial
ruin.
[Illustration: General Washington and Staff riding through a Country
Village]
After the war of the Revolution was over, Congress having failed to
pay certain prominent officers of the army, an outbreak was
threatened. A meeting was held at Newburgh, New York. Washington was
there. Everybody present knew that he had served without pay and had
advanced large sums from his private fortune, to pay the army
expenses. There was a deathlike stillness when the commander in chief
rose to read his address. His eyesight had become so poor that he was
now using glasses. He had never worn these in public, but, finding
his sight dim, he stopped reading, took his spectacles from his
pocket, and put them on, saying quietly, "You will permit me to put
on my spectacles. I have grown gray in the service of my country, and
now find myself growing blind." It was not merely what the beloved
general said, but the way he spoke the few, simple words. The pathos
of this act, and the solemn address of this majestic man touched
every heart. No wonder that some of the veterans were moved to tears.
One day a schoolboy stood on the stone steps before the old State
House, in Philadelphia, as the first President of the United States
was driven up to make his formal visit to Congress. This small boy
glided into the hall, under the cover of the long coats of the finely
dressed escort. Boylike he climbed to a hiding place, {73} from which
he watched the proceedings with the deepest awe. The boy lived to
write fifty years afterwards a pleasing description of the affair. He
tells us that while Washington entered, and walked up the broad
aisle, and ascended the steps leading to the speaker's chair, the
large and crowded chamber "was as profoundly still as a house of
worship in the most solemn pauses of devotion."
On this occasion, Washington was dressed in a full suit of the
richest black velvet, with diamond knee buckles, and square silver
buckles set upon shoes japanned with the greatest neatness, black
silk stockings, his shirt ruffled at the breast and the wrists, a
light sword, his hair fully {74} dressed, so as to project at the
sides, and gathered behind in a silk bag, ornamented with a large
rose of black ribbon. As he advanced toward the chair, he held in his
hand his cocked hat, which had a large black cockade. When seated, he
laid his hat upon the table. Amid the most profound silence,
Washington, taking a roll of paper from his inside coat pocket, arose
and read with a deep, rich voice his opening address.
Those who knew Washington have said that his presence inspired a
feeling of awe and veneration rarely experienced in the presence of
any other American. His countenance rarely softened or changed its
habitual gravity, and his manner in public life was always grave and
self-contained. In vain did the merry young women at Lady
Washington's receptions do their best to make the stately President
laugh. Some declared that he could not laugh. Beautiful Nellie
Custis, his ward and foster child, used to boast of her occasional
success in making the sedate President laugh aloud.
We may be sure that President Washington's receptions, every other
Tuesday afternoon, were formal. On such occasions, he was in the full
dress of a gentleman of that day,--black velvet, powdered hair
gathered in a large silk bag, and yellow gloves. At his side was a
long, finely wrought sword, with a scabbard of white polished
leather. He always stood in front of the fireplace, with his face
toward the door. He received each visitor with a dignified bow, but
never shook hands, even with his {75} nearest friends. He considered
himself visited, not as a friend, but as President of the United
States.
[Illustration: Washington at Mount Vernon]
While President, Washington used to give a public dinner, every
Thursday at four o'clock, "to as many as my table will hold." He
allowed five minutes for difference in watches, and, at exactly five
minutes past four by his hall clock, went to the table. His only
apology to the laggard guest was, "I have a cook who never asks
whether the company has come, but whether the hour has come."
If we may judge from the very full accounts of these grand dinners,
as described in the diaries of the {76} guests, they must have been
stiff affairs. These people probably wrote the truth when they said,
"glad it is over," "great formality," "my duty to submit to it,"
"scarcely a word was said," "there was a dead silence." No doubt
there was much good food to eat and choice wine to drink, but the
formal manners of the times were emphasized by awe of their grave
host. Very few of the guests, both at Mount Vernon and at
Philadelphia, failed to allude to the habit that Washington had of
playing with his fork and striking on the table with it.
It would take a book many times larger than this to tell you all that
has been written about Washington's everyday life. Some day you will
delight to read more about him, and learn why he was, in every sense
of the word, a wise, a good, and a great man,--the man who "without a
beacon, without a chart, but with an unswerving eye and steady hand,
guided his country safe through darkness and through storm."
Every young American should remember of Washington that "there is no
word spoken, no line written, no deed done by him, which justice
would reverse or wisdom deplore." His greatness did not consist so
much in his intellect, his skill, and his genius, though he possessed
all these, as in his honor, his integrity, his truthfulness, his high
and controlling sense of duty--in a word, his _character_, honest,
pure, noble, great.
{77}
CHAPTER VI
A MIDNIGHT SURPRISE
We have certainly read enough about General Washington to know that
he often planned to steal a march on the British. Don't you remember
how surprised General Howe was one morning to find that Washington
had gone to Dorchester Heights, with a big force of men, horses, and
carts, and how he threw up breastworks, mounted cannon, and forced
the British general after a few days to quit the good city of Boston?
Haven't we also read how the "ragged Continentals" left their bloody
footprints in the snow, as they marched to Trenton all that bitter
cold night in December, 1777, and gave the Hessians a Christmas
greeting they little expected?
In January, 1779, England sent orders to General Clinton "to bring
Mr. Washington to a general and decisive action at the opening of the
campaign," and also "to harry the frontiers and coasts north and
south."
General Clinton wrote back that he had found "Mr. Washington" a hard
nut to crack, but he would do his level best, he said, "to strike at
Washington while he was in motion."
{78} The main American force was still in winter quarters in northern
New Jersey, near New York. Various brigades were stationed up and
down the Hudson as far as West Point. As at the beginning of the war,
so now in 1779, the line of the Hudson from Albany to New York was
the key to the general situation. Its protection, as Washington had
written, was of "infinite consequence to our cause."
The first real move in the game was made in May, when a large British
force marched up, captured, and strongly fortified the two forts at
Stony Point and Verplanck's Point, only thirteen miles below West
Point. The enemy thus secured the control of King's Ferry, where
troops and supplies for the patriot army were ferried across the
Hudson.
Our spies now sent word to Washington that the British were ready to
move on some secret service. The patriot army was at once marched up,
and went into camp within easy reach of West Point, to wait for the
next move in the game. Once more these far-famed Hudson Highlands
were to become the storm center of the struggle.
For some reason, Clinton did not push farther up the Hudson. On the
contrary, he began to make raids into various parts of the country,
from Martha's Vineyard to the James River. These raids were marked by
cruelties unknown in the earlier years of the war. The hated Tryon,
once the royal governor of New York, led {79} twenty-six hundred men
into Connecticut. His brutal soldiers killed unarmed and helpless men
and women, and sacked and burned houses and churches.
One of Clinton's objects in sending out the raiders was to coax
Washington to weaken his army by sending out forces to offset them,
or to tease him into making what he called a "false move." Washington
was, of course, keenly alive to the misery brought upon the people of
the country by these brutalities, but he was too wise a general to
run any risk of losing his hold upon the line of the Hudson. The
Continental army could not muster ten thousand men. Although not
strong enough to begin a vigorous campaign, yet it was sufficiently
powerful to hold the key to the Highlands.
Washington could, if need be, strike a quick, hard blow, either in
New England or farther south. It might be, to be sure, a sort of side
play, and yet it was to have the effect of a great battle. Indeed, it
was high time to give the enemy another surprise.
At length it was decided to attack Stony Point. Any open assault,
however, would be hopeless. This stronghold, if taken at all, must be
taken by night.
What kind of place was this Stony Point?
It was a huge rocky bluff, shooting out into the river more than half
a mile from the shore, and rising, at its highest point, nearly two
hundred feet. It was joined to the shore by a marshy neck of land,
crossed by a rude bridge, or causeway.
{80} The British had fortified the top of this rocky point with half
a dozen separate batteries. The cannon were so mounted as to defend
all sides. Between the fort and the mainland, two rows of logs were
set into the ground, with their ends sharpened to a point and
directed outwards, forming what is known in military language as an
abatis. This stronghold was defended by six hundred men.
Washington Irving well describes Stony Point as "a natural sentinel
guarding the gateway of the far-famed Highlands of the Hudson." The
British called it their "little Gibraltar," and defied the rebels to
come and take it.
And now for a leader! Who was the best man to perform this desperate
exploit?
There was really no choice, for there was only one officer in the
whole army who was fitted for the undertaking,--General Anthony
Wayne.
Wayne was a little over thirty years old. He was a fine-looking man
with a high forehead and fiery hazel eyes. He had a youthful face,
full of beauty. He liked handsome uniforms and fine military
equipments. Some of his officers used to speak of him in fun as
"Dandy Wayne." But the men who followed their dashing, almost
reckless leader called him "Mad Anthony," and this name has clung to
him ever since.
Wayne was, without doubt, the hardest fighter produced on either side
during the American Revolution. {81} He had an eager love of battle;
and he was cautions, vigilant, and firm as a rock. This gallant
officer eagerly caught at the idea when the commander in chief told
him what he wanted. And so it came to pass that Washington did the
planning, and Wayne did the fighting.
[Illustration: General Anthony Wayne]
Washington's plans were made with the greatest care. The dogs for
three miles about the fort were killed the day before the intended
attack, lest some indiscreet bark might alarm the garrison. The
commander in chief himself rode down and spent the whole day looking
over the situation. Trusty men, who knew every inch of the region,
guarded every road and every trail by which spies and deserters could
pass.
"Ten minutes' notice to the enemy blasts all your hopes," wrote
Washington to Wayne.
The orders were "to take and keep all stragglers."
"Took the widow Calhoun and another widow going to the enemy with
chickens and greens," reported Captain McLane. "Drove off twenty head
of horned cattle from their pasture."
The hour of attack was to be midnight. Washington hoped for a dark
night and even a rainy one. Not a gun was to be loaded except by two
companies who were to {82} make the false attack. The bayonet alone
was to be used, Wayne's favorite weapon. At Germantown, it was
Wayne's men who drove the Hessians at the point of the bayonet. And
at Monmouth, these men had met, with cold steel, the fierce bayonet
charge of the far-famed British grenadiers.
About thirteen hundred men of the famous light infantry were chosen
to make the attack. Both officers and men were veterans and the
flower of the Continental army.
On the forenoon of July 15, the companies were called in from the
various camps, and drawn up for inspection as a battalion,
"fresh-shaved and well-powdered," as Wayne had commanded.
At twelve o'clock the inspection was over, but the men, instead of
being sent to their quarters, were wheeled into the road, with the
head of the column facing southward. The march to Stony Point had
begun.
"If any soldier loads his musket, or fires from the ranks, or tries
to skulk in the face of danger, he is at once to be put to death by
the officer nearest him." One soldier did begin to load his gun,
saying that he did not know how to fight without firing. His captain
warned him once. The soldier would not stop. The officer then ran his
sword through him in an instant. The next day, however, the captain
came to Colonel Hull and said he was sorry that he had killed the
poor fellow. "You performed a painful service," said Hull, "by which,
{83} perhaps, victory has been secured, and the life of many a brave
man saved. Be satisfied."
All that hot July afternoon, the men picked their way along rough and
narrow roads, up steep hillsides, and through swamps and dense
ravines, often in single file. No soldier was allowed to leave the
ranks, on any excuse whatever, except at a general halt, and then
only in company with an officer.
At eight o'clock the little army came to a final halt at a farmhouse,
thirteen miles from their camp, and a little more than a mile back of
Stony Point. Nobody was permitted to speak. The tired men dropped
upon the ground, and ate in silence their supper of bread and cold
meat.
A little later, Wayne's order of battle was read. For the first time
the men knew what was before them. No doubt many a brave fellow's
knees shook and his cheek grew pale, when he thought of what might
happen before another sunrise.
Until half past eleven o'clock they rested.
Each man now pinned a piece of white paper "to the most conspicuous
part of his hat or his cap," so that, in the thick of the midnight
fight, he might not run his bayonet through some comrade. No man was
to speak until the parapet of the main fort was reached. Then all
were to shout the watchword of the night, "The fort's our own!"
One of the last things that Wayne did was to write a letter to a
friend at his home in Philadelphia, dated {84} "Eleven o'clock and
near the hour and scene of carnage." He wrote that he hoped his
friend would look after the education of his children.
"I am called to sup," he wrote, "but where to breakfast? Either
within the enemy's lines in triumph, or in another world."
Half past eleven! It was time to start.
A negro, named Pompey, who sold cherries and strawberries to the
garrison, was used as a guide. This shrewd darkey had got the British
password for the night, by claiming that his master would not let him
come in during the daytime, because he was needed to hoe corn. You
will be glad to know that Pompey, as a reward for this eventful
night's service, never had to hoe corn again, and that his master not
only gave him a horse to ride, but also set him free.
[Illustration: Pompey guiding General Wayne]
Wayne divided his little army into two main columns, to attack right
and left, having detached two companies, with loaded guns, to move in
between the two columns and make a false attack.
Each column was divided into three parts. A "forlorn hope" of twenty
men was to be the first to rush headlong into the hand to hand fight.
Then followed an advance guard of one hundred and fifty men, who,
with axes in hand and muskets slung, were to cut away the timbers.
Last of all came the main body.
The silent band reaches the edge of the marsh at midnight, the hour
set by Washington for the assault. {85} Wayne himself leads the right
column, to attack by the south approach. The tide has not ebbed, and
the water is in places waist deep. The marsh is fully six hundred
feet across. No matter for that! Straight ahead the column moves as
if on parade. Now they have crossed, and are close to the outer
defense. The British pickets hear the noise, open fire, and give the
general alarm. The drums on the hill beat the "long roll." Quick and
sharp come the orders. The redcoats leap from the barracks, and in a
few moments every man is at his post.
[Illustration: Wayne leads the Assault]
Up rush the pioneers with their axes, and cut away the sharpened
timbers the best they can in the darkness, while the bullets whiz
over their heads. Then follow the main columns, who climb over, and
form on the other side. Now they reach the second defense. They cut
and tear away the sharp stakes. The bullets fall like hail. On, on,
the two columns rush. They push up the steep hill, and dash {86} for
the main fort on the top. On the left, the "forlorn hope" has lost
seventeen out of twenty men, either killed or wounded.
Meanwhile, Colonel Murfree and his two companies take their stand
directly in front of the fort, and open a brisk and rapid fire, to
make the garrison believe that they are the real attacking party. The
redcoats are surely fooled, for they hurry down with a strong force
to meet them, only to find their fort captured before they can get
back.
Wayne is struck in the head by a musket ball, and falls. The blood
flows over his face. He fears in the confusion that he has received
his death wound.
He cries to his aids, "Carry me into the fort and let me die at the
head of the column."
Two of his officers pick up their gallant leader, and hurry forward;
but it is only a scalp wound, and Wayne returns to the fight.
Wayne's column scales the ramparts.
The first man over shouts, "The fort's our own," and pulls down the
British flag.
The second main column follows.
"The fort's our own!" "The fort's our own!" echoes and reëchoes over
the hills.
The bayonet is now doing its grim work. The darkness is lighted only
by the flashes from the guns of the redcoats. The bewildered British
are driven at the point of the bayonet into the corners of the fort,
and {87} cry, "Mercy, mercy, dear Americans!" "Quarter! quarter!"
"Don't kill us! we surrender!"
At one o'clock the work was done,--thirty minutes from the time the
marsh was crossed! As soon as they were sure of victory, Wayne's men
gave three rousing cheers. The British on the war vessels in the
river, and at the fort on the opposite side of the river, answered;
for they thought that the attacking party had been defeated. The only
British soldier to escape from Stony Point was a captain. Leaping
into the Hudson, he swam a mile to the Vulture and told its captain
what had happened. In this way the news of the disaster reached Sir
Henry Clinton at breakfast.
{88} After the surrender, Wayne wrote the following letter to
Washington:
Stony Point, 16th July, 1779, 2 o'clock.
Dear General,
The fort and garrison with Colonel Johnson are ours. Our officers and
men behaved like men who are determined to be free.
Yours most sincerely,
Ant'y Wayne.
General Washington.
The news spread like wildfire. Wayne and his light infantry were the
heroes of the hour.
Two days afterwards, Washington, with his chief officers, rode down
to Stony Point and heard the whole story. The commander in chief
shook hands with the men, and "with joy that glowed in his
countenance, here offered his thanks to Almighty God, that He had
been our shield and protector amidst the dangers we had been called
to encounter."
Washington did not, of course, intend to hold Stony Point, for the
enemy could besiege it by land and by water. The prisoners, the
cannon, and the supplies were carried away, and very little was left
to the foe but the bare rock of their "little Gibraltar."
This exploit gave the Continental soldier greater confidence in
himself. It proved to the British that the "rebel" could use the
bayonet with as much boldness and effect as the proudest grenadier.
The fight {89} was not a great affair in itself. Only fifteen
Americans were killed and eighty-three wounded; of the British,
sixty-three were killed and some seventy wounded.
As for Clinton, although he put on a bold face in the matter, and
spoke of the event as an accident, he owned that he felt the blow
keenly.
"Mr. Washington" was still master of the situation.
{90}
CHAPTER VII
THE DEFEAT OF THE RED DRAGOONS
If what the proverb tells us is true, that it is always darkest
before dawn, the patriots of the South in 1780 must indeed have
prayed for the light. Affairs had gone rapidly from bad to worse. Sir
Henry Clinton had come again from New York, and in May of that year
had captured Charleston with all of Lincoln's army.
Sir Henry went back to New York, leaving Lord Cornwallis in command.
Washington desired to send his right-hand man, General Greene, to
stem the tide of British success, but the Continental Congress chose
to send General Gates.
In August, this weak general was utterly defeated in the battle of
Camden, in South Carolina. How the bitter words of General Charles
Lee, "Beware lest your Northern laurels change to Southern willows,"
must have rung in his ears! Gates fled from Camden like the commonest
coward in the army. Mounted on a fast horse, he did not stop until he
reached Charlotte, seventy miles away.
No organized American force now held the field in the South, and the
red dragoons easily overran Georgia and South Carolina. There seemed
to be little left for {91} Cornwallis to do; for the three Southern
colonies were for the time ground under the iron heel of the enemy.
Crushing blows, however, only nerved the leaders, Sumter, Pickens,
Marion, Davie, and others, to greater efforts. The insolence, the
cruelty, and the tyranny of the British soldiers, and the bitter
hatred of the Tories, had brought to the front a new class of
patriots. These men cared little about the original cause of the war,
but the burning of their houses, the stealing of their cattle and
their horses, and the brutal insulting of their wives and their
daughters, aroused them to avenge their wrongs to the bitter end. And
many were the skirmishes they brought about with the British.
Thirty days had now passed since the battle of Camden, and Cornwallis
on his return march had not yet reached the Old North State. It was
still a long way to Virginia, and the road thither was beset with
many dangers.
Meanwhile, the British commander had intrusted to two of his
officers, Tarleton and Ferguson, the task of pillaging plantations,
raising and drilling troops among the Tories, and breaking up the
bands of armed patriots.
The brutal manner in which Tarleton and his men plundered, burned,
and hanged does not concern this story.
Ferguson was the colonel of a regular regiment that had been
recruited in this country, instead of in England. With his kind heart
and his winning manner, he was bold {92} and brave, and always ready
to take desperate chances in battle. He was noted for hard riding,
night attacks, and swift movements with his troopers; and as a
marksman he was unsurpassed. In short, Ferguson was just the leader
to win the respect and the admiration of the Tories; and they eagerly
enlisted in his service.
With a few regulars and a large force of loyalists, he pushed his
victories to the foot of the mountains, in the western borders of the
Carolinas. For the first time, he learned that over the high ranges
in front of him were the homes of the men who had been causing him
annoyance, and who were harboring those that had fled before his
advance.
The proud young Briton now made the mistake of his life. He sent a
prisoner, Samuel Phillips, over to the frontier settlements, to
Colonel Isaac Shelby, with the insolent message that, if the
"backwater" men did not quit resisting the royal arms, he would march
his army over the mountains, and would straightway lay waste their
homes with fire and sword, and hang their leaders.
He little knew what kind of men he had stirred to wrath. The frontier
settlers of Franklin and Holston, which grew into the great
commonwealth of Tennessee, were, for the most part, Scotch-Irish
people. They had grappled with the wilderness, and had hewn out homes
for themselves. Along with their log cabins they had built
meetinghouses and schoolhouses. Their life was {93} full of
ever-present peril and hardship; for they were engaged in a ceaseless
struggle with the Indians. The minister preached with his gun at his
side, and the men listened with their rifles within their grasp.
As we should expect, these hardy settlers were generally stanch
patriots. They believed in Washington and in the Continental
Congress. They knew that British gold bribed the Indians, and
furnished them with weapons to butcher their women and children. It
was British gold, too, that hired the wild and lawless among them to
enlist in the invading army; and it was British officers that drilled
them to become expert in killing their brethren of the lowlands.
At the time of the Revolution, these backwoodsmen were still fighting
with the savages, and so had not taken an active part in the war on
the seaboard. Like a rear guard of well-seasoned veterans, they stood
between the Indians and their people on the coast.
Now these hardy mountaineers took Ferguson's threat seriously. Their
Scotch-Irish blood was up.
Colonel Shelby, one of the county lieutenants of Washington County,
rode posthaste to John Sevier's home, sixty miles away, to carry
Ferguson's threat.
Sevier lived on the Nolichucky River, and from his deeds of daring
and his hospitality was nicknamed "Chucky Jack." When Shelby arrived,
it was a day of merrymaking. They were having a barbecue; that is,
they were roasting oxen whole on great spits; and a {94} horse race
was to be run. The colonel told his story, and the merrymakers agreed
to turn out.
Shelby now rode home at full speed to muster his own men, and sent
urgent word to Colonel William Campbell, a famous Indian fighter, who
lived forty miles away, to call out the Holston Virginians.
The place appointed for meeting was at Sycamore Shoals, a central
point on the Watauga River. The day set was September 25.
Hither came Shelby and Sevier with about five hundred men, William
Campbell with four hundred Virginians, and McDowell with about one
hundred and sixty refugees from North Carolina.
Word was sent to Colonel Cleveland, a hunter and Indian fighter of
Wilkes County in North Carolina, to come with all the men he could
raise east of the mountains.
Colonel Sevier tried in vain to borrow money to furnish the men with
horses and supplies. The people were willing to give their last
dollar, but they had paid out all their money for land, and the cash
was in the hands of the county entry taker, John Adair.
Sevier appealed to him.
This patriot's reply is historic: "I have no authority by law,
Colonel Sevier, to make that disposition of this money. It belongs to
the treasury of North Carolina, and I dare not appropriate a penny of
it to any purpose. But if the country is overrun by the British,
liberty is {95} gone. Let the money go, too. Take it. If the enemy,
by its use, is driven from the country, I can trust that country to
justify and vindicate my conduct. Take it."
This money, thirteen thousand dollars in silver and gold, was taken,
and the supplies bought. Shelby and Sevier pledged themselves to
refund the money, or to have the act legalized by the legislature.
September 25 was a day of intense excitement in those frontier
settlements. The entire military force of what is now Tennessee met
at Sycamore Shoals. The younger and more vigorous men were to march,
while the older men with poorer guns were to remain behind, to help
the women defend their homes against the savages. But all came, to
bid good-by to husbands, to brothers, and to lovers. Food, horses,
guns, blankets,--everything except money was brought without stint.
The backwoodsmen were mounted on swift, wiry horses. Their long
hunting shirts were girded with bead-worked belts. Some wore caps
made of mink or of coonskins, with the tails hanging down behind;
others had soft hats, in each of which was fastened either a sprig of
evergreen or a buck's tail.
Nearly all were armed with what was called the Deckhard rifle,
remarkable for the precision and the distance of its shot. Every man
carried a tomahawk and a scalping knife. There was not a bayonet in
the whole force. Here and there an officer wore a sword.
{96} There was no staff, no commissary, no quartermaster, and no
surgeon.
Early in the morning of September 26, the little army was ready to
march. Before leaving camp, all met in an open grove to hear their
minister, the Rev. Samuel Doak, invoke divine blessing on their
perilous undertaking.
[Illustration: Praying for the Success of the Riflemen]
Years before, this God-fearing man had crossed the mountains, driving
before him an "old flea-bitten gray horse" loaded with Bibles, and
had cast his lot with the Holston settlers. By his energy in founding
churches and in building schoolhouses, as well as by his skill in
shooting Indians, he had become a potent influence for good among
these frontier people.
Every man doffed his hat and bowed his head on his long rifle, as the
white-headed Presbyterian prayed in burning words that they might
stand bravely in battle, and that the sword of the Lord and of Gideon
might smite their foes.
{97} Our little army now pushed on over the mountains. On the third
day they crossed the Blue Ridge, and saw far away the fertile valleys
of the upper Catawba. The next day they reached the lovely lowlands,
where Colonel Cleveland with three hundred and fifty militia joined
them.
Hitherto, each band of the mountain army had been under the command
of its own leader. Some of the men were unruly; others were disposed
to plunder. This would never do, if they were to be successful; and
so, on October 2, it was decided to give the supreme command to
Colonel Cleveland.
Before the army set out on the following day, the colonels told their
men what was expected of them.
"Now, my brave fellows," said Colonel Cleveland, "the redcoats are at
hand. We must up and at them. When the pinch comes, I shall be with
you."
"Everybody must be his own officer!" cried Colonel Shelby. "Give them
Indian play, boys; and now if a single man among you wants to go back
home, this is your chance; let him step three paces to the rear."
Not a man did so.
The pioneer army continued its march, picking up small bands of
refugees. When they reached Gilberttown the next night, they numbered
nearly fifteen hundred men. They hoped to find Ferguson at this
place, but the wily partisan had sharp eyes and quick ears. He had
been told by his Tory friends that the army of riflemen were after
him.
{98} The Briton sent posthaste to Cornwallis for more men; he called
upon the Tories to rally to his support; and he issued a
proclamation, in which he called the backwoodsmen "the dregs of
mankind," "a set of mongrels," and other bad names. "Something must
be done," he wrote to Cornwallis.
All this showed to the patriot riflemen that Ferguson was retreating
because he feared them. Doubtless he would have escaped easily enough
from ordinary soldiers; but his pursuers were made of different
stuff. They had hunted wild beasts and savages all their lives. Now
they were after the redcoats in the same way they would pursue a band
of Indians. They had come over the mountains to fight, and fight they
would.
Seven hundred and fifty men, mounted on the strongest horses, now
hurried forward, leaving the rest to follow.
At sunset, on October 6, they reached Cowpens, where three months
later Morgan was to defeat Tarleton. Here several hundred militia
under noted partisan leaders joined them. Seated round their blazing
camp fires, the hungry men roasted for supper the corn which they had
stripped from the field of a rich Tory.
The colonels decided in council to pick out about nine hundred men,
and with these to push on all night in pursuit of their hated foe.
Some were so eager to fight that they followed on foot, and actually
arrived in time for the battle.
{99} All this time Ferguson was working to keep out of the way of the
patriots. Several large bands of Tories were already on their way to
help him. He also expected help from Cornwallis. The one thing needed
was a day or two of time, and then he would be able to make a stand
against his pursuers.
[Illustration: A Map of the Military Operations in the Carolinas]
On the same night of October 6, Ferguson halted at King's Mountain,
about a day's march from the riflemen at Cowpens, and thirty-five
miles from the camp of Cornwallis. The ridge on which he pitched his
camp was nearly half a mile long, and about sixty feet above the
level of the valley. Its steep sides were covered with timber.
The next day the British did not move. The heavy baggage wagons were
massed along the northeast part of the ridge, while the soldiers
camped on the south side.
{100} In his pride, the haughty young Briton declared that he could
defend the hill against any rebel force, and "that God Almighty
Himself could not drive him from it."
Through that dark and rainy night the mountaineers marched. It rained
hard all the next forenoon, but the men wrapped their blankets and
the skirts of their hunting shirts round their gunlocks, and hurried
on after Ferguson. A few of Shelby's men stopped at a Tory's house.
"How many are there of you?" asked a young girl.
"Enough," said one of the riflemen, "to whip Ferguson, if we can
catch him."
"He is on that hill yonder," replied the girl, pointing to the high
range about three miles away.
Shelby had sent out Enoch Gilmer as a spy. He came back, saying that
he had met a young woman who had been at the enemy's camp to sell
chickens, and that Ferguson was encamped on the spot where some
hunters had been the year before. These same hunters were with
Shelby, and at once said they knew every inch of the way. Two
captured Tories were compelled to tell how the British leader was
dressed.
It was now three o'clock. It had stopped raining, and the sun was
shining. All was hurry and bustle. The plan was to surround the hill,
to give the men a better chance to fire upward, without firing into
each other.
When the patriots came within about a mile of the ridge, they
dismounted and tied their horses. The {101} watchword was "Buford,"
the name of the brave officer whose troops had been massacred by
Tarleton after their surrender. Each man was ordered to fight for
himself. He might retreat before the British bayonets, but he must
rally at once to the fight, and let the redcoats have "Indian play."
Sevier led the right wing. Some of his men by hard riding got to the
rear of Ferguson's army, and cut off the only chance for retreat.
Cleveland had charge of the left wing, while Campbell and Shelby were
to attack in front. So swiftly did the different detachments reach
their {102} places that Ferguson found himself attacked on every side
at once.
On horseback the gallant Briton leads his regulars in a bayonet
charge down the steep hillside. With the Indian war whoop, which
echoes and reëchoes, Campbell's riflemen rush forward. They have no
bayonets, and are driven down the hill. In a voice of thunder,
Campbell rallies his men, and up the hill they go with a still
deadlier fire, as the regulars retreat.
[Illustration: Charging the British at King's Mountain]
Now Shelby's men swarm up on the other side. Again the bayonets drive
these new foes down the rocky cliffs. No sooner do the redcoats
retire, than up comes Shelby again at the head of his men, nearer the
top than before.
Meanwhile the riflemen, behind every tree and every rock, were
picking off the redcoats. Clad in a hunting shirt, and blowing his
silver whistle, the brave Ferguson dashes here and there to rally his
men. He cuts and slashes with his sword until it is broken off at the
hilt. Two horses are killed under him.
Some of the Tories raise a white flag. Ferguson rides up and cuts it
down. A second flag is raised elsewhere. He rides there and cuts that
down.
Now he flies at Sevier's riflemen, who had just made their way to the
top of the hill. At once they recognize their man. In an instant,
half a dozen bullets strike the gallant officer, and he falls dead
from his horse. No longer is the shrill whistle heard.
{103} Colonel De Peyster, the next in command, bravely keeps up the
fight, but the deadly rifles have done their work. The British are
hemmed in and there is no escape. At the head of their men the
several colonels arrive at the top of the hill about the same time.
The Tories are now huddled together near the baggage wagons.
"Quarter! quarter!" they cry everywhere.
"Remember Buford!" madly shout the victorious patriots.
"Throw down your arms, if you want quarter!" cries Shelby.
In despair, De Peyster at last raises a white flag, and white
handkerchiefs are waved from ramrods. Some of the younger
backwoodsmen did not know what a white flag meant, and kept on
firing. The colonels ordered them to stop, and then made the Tories
take off their hats and sit down on the ground.
There had been fierce and bloody work this beautiful autumn
afternoon, on the crest of that rocky hill. Friends, neighbors, and
relatives, in their bitter hatred, taunted and jeered one another, as
they shot and stabbed in the desperate struggle.
Ferguson had about eleven hundred men in the action. Of these about
four hundred were killed, wounded, or missing, and some seven hundred
made prisoners. Of the patriots, twenty-eight were killed and about
sixty wounded.
{104} Under bold and resolute leaders, the backwoods riflemen had
swept over the mountains like a Highland clan. Their work done, they
wished to return home. They knew too well the dangers of an Indian
attack on those they had left in their distant log cabins.
After burying their dead, and loading their horses with the captured
guns and supplies, the victors shouldered their rifles, and, carrying
their wounded on litters made of the captured tents, vanished from
the mountains as suddenly as they had appeared.
Such was the defeat of the red dragoons at King's Mountain. It proved
to be one of the decisive battles of the Revolution, and was the turn
of the tide of British success in the South. The courage of the
Southern patriots rose at a bound, and the Tories of the Carolinas
never recovered from the blow.
{105}
CHAPTER VIII
FROM TEAMSTER TO MAJOR GENERAL
On July 3, 1775, under the great elm on Cambridge Common, Washington
took command of the patriot army. During the siege of Boston, which
followed, his headquarters were in that fine old mansion, the Craigie
house, where, from time to time, met men whose names became great in
the history of the Revolution.
[Illustration: Washington taking Command of the American Army, at
Cambridge]
Hither came to consult with the commander in chief three men who died
hated and scorned by their countrymen. The first was Horatio Gates, a
vainglorious man, given to intrigue and treachery. Next came tall and
slovenly Charles Lee of Virginia, a restless adventurer, who, by his
cowardice in the battle of Monmouth, stirred even Washington to
anger. Then there was a young man for whom Washington had a peculiar
liking on account of his great personal bravery, who afterward became
the despised Benedict Arnold.
But here were also gathered men of another stamp,--men whom the
nation delights to honor. From the granite hills of New Hampshire,
came rough and ready John Stark, who afterwards whipped the British
at Bennington. From little Rhode Island, came Nathanael Greene, a
young Quaker, who began life as a blacksmith, {106} but who became
the ablest general of the Revolution except Washington.
Into this group of patriot leaders came also Daniel Morgan of
Virginia. Little is known of the early life of this remarkable man.
He would rarely say anything about his family. It is believed that he
was born of obscure Welsh people, in New Jersey, about the year 1737.
At seventeen, Morgan could barely read and write. He was rude of
speech and uncouth in manners, but his heart was brave, and he
scorned to lie.
The next two years did wonders for this awkward boy. He grew to be
over six feet tall, with limbs of fine build, and with muscles like
iron. In some way he had found time to study, and was regarded by the
village people as a promising young fellow.
Stirring times were at hand. The bitter struggle between the French
and the English in the Ohio valley was raging.
Morgan at once enlisted in the Virginia troops, and served one of the
companies as a teamster. An incident revealed the stuff of which the
young wagoner was made. The captain of his company had trouble with a
surly fellow who was a great bully and a skillful boxer. It was
agreed, according to the unwritten rules of the time, that the matter
should be settled by a fight at the next stopping place; and so when
the troops halted for dinner, out strode the captain to meet his foe.
{107} "You must not fight this man," said Morgan, stepping to the
front.
"Why not?" asked the officer.
"Because you are our captain," replied the young teamster, "and if
the fellow whips you, we shall all be disgraced. Let me fight him,
and if he whips me, it will not hurt the name of the company."
The captain said it would never do, but at last yielded. Morgan
promptly gave the bully a sound thrashing.
After the defeat of Braddock, in 1755, the French and the redskins
wreaked their vengeance upon the terrified frontier settlements. A
regiment of a thousand men was raised, and Washington was made its
colonel. With this small force, he was supposed to guard a frontier
of two hundred and fifty miles.
Morgan enlisted as a teamster. It was his duty to carry supplies to
the various military posts on this long frontier. This meant almost
daily exposure to all kinds {108} of dangers. It was a rough, hard
school for a young man of twenty; but it made him an expert with the
rifle and the tomahawk, and a master of Indian warfare, which was so
useful to him in after years.
During one of these wild campaigns on the frontier, a British captain
took offense at something young Morgan had said or done, and struck
him with the flat of his sword. This was too much for the high-strung
teamster. He straightway knocked the redcoat officer senseless.
A drumhead court-martial sentenced the young Virginian to receive one
hundred lashes on the bare back. He was at once stripped, tied up,
and punished. Morgan said in joke that there was a miscount, and that
he actually received only ninety-nine blows. With his wonderful power
of endurance, the young fellow stood the punishment like a hero, and
came out of it alive and defiant.
This act, extreme even in those days of British cruelty, doubtless
nerved him to incredible deeds of bravery in fighting the hated
redcoats.
Shortly after this, he became a private in the militia. He made his
mark when the French and Indians attacked a fort near Winchester. The
story is that he killed four savages in as many minutes.
The young Virginian never drove any more army wagons. From this time,
he stood forth as a born fighter and a leader of men. Such was his
coolness in danger, his sound judgment, and, more than all else, his
great {109} influence over his men, that he was recommended to
Governor Dinwiddie for a captain's commission.
"What!" exclaimed the governor, "to a camp boxer and a teamster?"
Still, the best men of Virginia urged it, and the royal governor so
far yielded as to give him the commission of an ensign.
Not long afterwards, in one of the bloody fights with the French and
Indians, Morgan was shot through the back of the neck. The bullet
went through his mouth and came out through the left cheek, knocking
out all the teeth on the left side. Supposing that he was {110}
mortally wounded, and resolved not to lose his scalp, the fainting
rifleman clasped his arms tightly round the neck of his good horse,
and galloped for life through the woods. A fleet Indian ran after
him, tomahawk in hand. Finding at last that the horse was leaving him
behind, the panting savage hurled his weapon, and with a wild yell
gave up the chase.
[Illustration: Morgan's Escape from the Indian]
The hardy frontiersman lay for months hovering between life and
death, but finally recovered, and was once more in the thick of the
wild warfare.
In his old age, Morgan used to tell his grandchildren of the fiendish
look on the Indian's face while he felt sure of another scalp, and he
would also imitate the horrible yell the redskin made when he was
forced to give up the pursuit.
At last the war was over, and Morgan went back to his farm. He
brought home with him, however, the vices of his wild campaign life.
He used strong drink, and gambled. Far and near, he was noted as a
boxer and a wrestler. Pugilists came from a distance to try their
skill with the noted Indian fighter and athlete, who weighed over two
hundred pounds, and yet had not an extra ounce of flesh.
But these were only passing incidents in the life of the great man.
With a giant's frame, he had a tender heart. His good angel came to
him in the person of a farmer's daughter, Abigail Bailey. She had
great beauty; and she was a loving, Christian woman.
{111} They were soon married, and, as the fairy books say, were happy
ever after. As if by a magic spell, the strong man left his tavern
chums and their rough sports, his boxing, his gambling, and his
strong drink, and to the day of his death lived an upright life.
The young wife taught her husband to believe in God, and to trust in
prayer. In his simple-hearted way, Morgan tells us that, just before
the fierce attack on the fort at Quebec, he knelt in the drifting
snow, and felt that God had nerved him to fight.
In riding over the battlefield after his great victory at Cowpens,
old soldiers saw with wonder the fierce fighter stop his horse and
pray aloud, and, with tears running down his face, thank God for the
victory.
{112} His men never scoffed at their leader's prayers, for it was
noticed that the harder "old Dan Morgan" prayed, the more certain
they were of being soon led into the jaws of death itself.
Meanwhile, he and his young bride were thrifty and prosperous. They
were both ignorant of books, but they studied early and late to make
up for lost time. For the next nine years, Morgan, with his household
treasures,--his good wife, and his two little daughters,--lived in
the pure atmosphere of a Christian home.
[Illustration: Riflemen treating with Indians in the Wilderness of
Virginia]
The storm cloud of the Revolution was now gathering thick and fast.
Events followed each other with startling rapidity. Morgan watched
keenly. He never did anything in a half-hearted way; and we may be
sure that he took up the cause of the Revolution with all the fervor
of his strong nature.
After the bloodshed at Lexington, the Continental Congress called for
ten companies from Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia. Morgan
received his commission as captain, five days after Bunker Hill. When
he shouted, "Come, boys, who's for the camp before Cambridge?" every
man in his section turned out.
In less than ten days, Morgan at the head of ninety-six expert
riflemen started for Boston. It was six hundred miles away, but they
marched the distance in twenty-one days without the loss of a single
man.
One day as Washington was riding out to inspect the redoubts, he met
these Virginians.
{113} Morgan halted his men, and saluted the commander in chief,
saying, "From the right bank of the Potomac, General!"
Washington dismounted, and, walking along the line, shook hands with
each of them.
Late in the fall of 1775, Morgan and his famous sharpshooters marched
with about a thousand other troops on Arnold's ill-fated expedition
to Quebec. This campaign, as you have read, was one of the most
remarkable exploits of the war.
In the attack upon Quebec, after Arnold had been carried wounded from
the field, and Montgomery had been killed, Morgan took Arnold's place
and fought like a hero. He forced his way so far into the city that
he and all his men were surrounded and captured.
A British officer who greatly admired his daring visited him in
prison, and offered him the rank and pay of a colonel in the royal
army.
"I hope, sir," answered the Virginian patriot, "you will never again
insult me, in my present distressed and unfortunate situation, by
making me offers which plainly imply that you think me a scoundrel."
Soon after his release, Congress voted him a colonel's commission,
with orders to raise a regiment. The regiment reported for service at
Morristown, New Jersey, in the winter of 1776.
Five hundred of the best riflemen were selected from the various
regiments, and put under the command of {114} Colonel Morgan. He was
well fitted to be the leader of this celebrated corps of
sharpshooters. They were always to be at the front, to watch every
movement of the enemy, and to furnish prompt and accurate news for
Washington. They were to harass the British, and to fight with the
enemy's outposts for every inch of ground.
Meanwhile, in the fall of 1777, Burgoyne, with a large army of
British, Hessians, and Indians, marched down from Canada, through the
valley of the Hudson. The country was greatly alarmed. Washington
could ill spare Morgan, but generously sent him with his riflemen to
help drive back the invaders.
Two great battles, the first at Freeman's Farm, the second at
Saratoga, sealed Burgoyne's fate. In each battle, the sharpshooters
did signal service. Before their deadly rifles, the British officers,
clad in scarlet uniforms, fell with frightful rapidity. They were a
terror to the Hessians. As Morgan would often say in high glee, "The
very sight of my riflemen was always enough for the Hessian pickets.
They would scamper into their lines as if the devil drove them,
shouting in all the English they knew, 'Rebel in de bush! rebel in de
bush!'"
After the surrender, when Burgoyne was introduced to Morgan, he took
him warmly by the hand and said, "Sir, you command the finest
regiment in the world."
For over a year and a half after Saratoga, Morgan and his riflemen
were attached to Washington's army, and saw hard service. Their
incessant attacks on the enemy's {115} outposts, and their numberless
picket skirmishes, are all lost to history, and are now forgotten.
Just before the battle of Monmouth, a painful disease, known as
sciatica, brought on by constant exposure and hardship, disabled
Morgan. Sick and discouraged because he had seen officers who were
favorites with Congress promoted over his head, he, like Greene,
Stark, and Schuyler, now left the army for a time.
But after Gates was defeated at Camden, the fighting blood of the old
Virginian was greatly stirred. He declared that no man should have
any personal feeling when his country was in peril. So he hurried
down South, and took, under Gates, his old place as colonel.
After the battle at King's Mountain, Congress very wisely made Morgan
a brigadier general.
[Illustration: General Daniel Morgan]
The glorious and ever-memorable victory at Cowpens made him more
famous than ever before. Hitherto he had fought in battles that other
men had planned. Now he had a chance to plan and to fight as he
pleased. It was not a great battle so far as numbers were concerned,
but "in point of tactics," says John Fiske, the historian, "it was
the most brilliant battle of the war for independence."
{116} After leading eleven hundred men into the northeast part of
South Carolina, to cut off Cornwallis from the seacoast, General
Greene gave Morgan the command of about a thousand men, with orders
to march to the southwest, and threaten the inland posts and their
garrisons. Cornwallis, the English earl, scarcely knew which way to
turn; but he followed Greene's example, and, dividing his army, sent
Colonel Tarleton to crush Morgan.
Tarleton, confident of success, dashed away with his eleven hundred
troopers to pounce upon the "old wagoner" and crush him at a single
blow. Morgan, well trained in the school of Washington and Greene,
and wishing just then to avoid a decisive battle, skillfully fell
back until he found a spot in which to fight after his own fashion.
His choice was at a place where cattle were rounded up and branded,
known as Cowpens. A broad, deep river, which lay in the rear, cut off
all hope of retreat. A long, thickly wooded slope commanded the
enemy's approach for a great distance. Morgan afterwards said that he
made this choice purposely, that the militia might know they could
not run away, but must fight or die.
At Cowpens, then, the patriot army lay encamped the night before the
expected battle. A trusty spy was sent to Tarleton, to say that the
Americans had faced about, and were waiting to fight him sometime the
next day. There was no fuss and feathers about Morgan. In the {117}
evening, he went round among the various camp fires, and with
fatherly words talked the situation over.
"Stand by me, boys," said he in his blunt way, "and the old 'wagoner'
will crack his whip for sure over Tarleton to-morrow."
The British commander, eager to strike a sudden blow, put his army in
motion at three o'clock in the morning. He was not early enough,
however, to catch the old rifleman napping. Morgan had rested his men
during the night, and given them a good breakfast early in the
morning. When Tarleton appeared upon the scene about sunrise, he
found the patriots ready.
In the skirmish line, Morgan placed one hundred and twenty riflemen
that could bring down a squirrel from the tallest tree. The militia,
under the command of Colonel Pickens, were drawn up about three
hundred yards in front of the hill. Along the brow of the hill, and
about one hundred and fifty yards behind the militia, were the
veterans of the Continental line. And beyond the brow of the hill, he
stationed Colonel Washington with his cavalry, out of sight, and
ready to move in an instant.
"Be firm, keep cool, take good aim. Give two volleys at killing
distance, and fall back," were the orders to the raw militia.
"Don't lose heart," said Morgan to the Continentals, "when the
skirmishers and the militia fall back. 'Tis a part of the plan. Stand
firm, and fire low. Listen for my turkey call."
{118} Morgan was in the habit of using a small turkey call such as
hunters use to decoy turkeys. In the heat of battle he would blow a
loud blast. This he said was to let the boys know that he was still
alive and was watching them fight.
Tarleton, unmindful of the fact that Morgan's retreat was "sullen,
stern, and dangerous," had marched his men all night through the mud.
They were tired out and hungry. Never mind, their restless leader
would crush "old wagoner" first, and eat breakfast afterwards. He
could hardly wait to form his line or to allow his reserves to come
up.
The battle begins in real earnest. The militia fire several
well-aimed volleys, and fall back behind the Continentals. With a
wild hurrah, the redcoats advance on the run. They are met with a
deadly volley. They overlap the Continentals a little, who fall back
a short distance, to save their left flank. Tarleton hurls his whole
force upon them. The veterans stand their ground and pour in a heavy
and well-sustained fire. Quick as a flash, Morgan sees his golden
chance.
"They are coming on like a mob!" shouts Colonel Washington to the
gallant Colonel Howard, the commander of the Continentals. "Face
about and fire, and I will charge them."
Then is heard the shrill whistle of the turkey call, and Morgan's
voice rings along the lines, "Face about! One good fire, and the
victory is ours!"
{119} Like a thunderbolt, Colonel Washington and his troopers, flying
their famous crimson flag, sweep down in a semicircle round the hill,
and charge the enemy's right flank.
"Charge bayonets!" shouts Howard.
Instantly the splendid veterans face about, open a deadly fire, and
charge the disordered British line with the bayonet.
[Illustration: The Carolina Militia resisting the British Grenadiers
at Cowpens]
All was over in a few minutes. The old "teamster" had set his trap,
and the redcoats were caught. Finding themselves surrounded, six
hundred threw down their guns, and cried for quarter. The rest,
including Tarleton himself, by hard riding, escaped.
{120} Colonel Washington and his troopers rode in hot haste to
capture Tarleton, if possible. In the eagerness of his pursuit,
Washington rode in advance of his men. Tarleton and two of his aids
turned upon him. Just as one of the aids was about to strike the
colonel with his saber, a trooper came up and disabled the redcoat's
arm. Before the other aid could strike, he was wounded by
Washington's little bugler, who, too small to handle a sword, fired
his pistol. Tarleton now made a thrust at the colonel with his sword.
The latter parried the blow, and wounded his enemy in the hand.
[Illustration: Hand to Hand Fight between Colonel Washington and
Colonel Tarleton]
As the story is told, this wound was twice the subject for witty
remarks by two young women, the daughters of a North Carolina
patriot. Tarleton remarked to one of these sisters that he understood
Colonel Washington was an unlettered fellow, hardly able to write his
name.
"Ah, Colonel," said the lady, "you ought to know better, for you can
testify that he knows how to make his mark."
At another time, Tarleton said with a sneer to the other sister, "I
should be happy to see Colonel Washington."
"If you had looked behind you at the battle of Cowpens, Colonel
Tarleton," she replied, "you would have enjoyed that pleasure."
In the battle of Cowpens, the British lost two hundred and thirty,
killed and wounded. The Americans had twelve killed and sixty-one
wounded.
{121} Morgan did not rest for one moment after his victory. He knew
that Lord Cornwallis, stung by the defeat of Tarleton, would do his
best to crush him before he could rejoin Greene's army. By forced
marches, he got to the fords of the Catawba first, and when his
lordship reached the river, he learned that the patriots had crossed
with all their prisoners and booty two days before, and were well on
their way to join General Greene.
Soon after the battle of Cowpens, repeated attacks of his old enemy,
sciatica, so disabled Morgan that he was forced to retire from the
service and go back to his home, in Virginia.
During the summer of 1780, when the British invaded the Old Dominion,
he again took the field. With Wayne and Lafayette, he took part in a
series of movements which led to the capture of Cornwallis. The
exposure of camp life again brought on a severe illness.
"I lay out the night after coming into camp," Morgan wrote General
Greene, "and caught cold."
{122} Crippled and suffering great pain, he went home with the belief
that he had dealt his last blow for the cause he loved so well. He
afterward received from Washington, Greene, Jefferson, Lafayette, and
other leaders, letters that stir our blood after so many years.
From a simple teamster, Morgan had become a major general. After
taking part in fifty battles, he lived to serve his country in peace
as well as in war, and was returned to Congress the second time. His
valor at the North is commemorated, as you already know, by the
statue on the monument at Saratoga. In the little city of
Spartanburg, in South Carolina, stands another figure of Daniel
Morgan, the "old wagoner of the Alleghanies," the hero of Cowpens.
{123}
CHAPTER IX
THE FINAL VICTORY
About the middle of March, 1781, Lord Cornwallis defeated Greene in a
stubborn battle at Guilford, North Carolina. Although victorious, the
British general was in desperate straits. He had lost a fourth of his
whole army, and was over two hundred miles from his base of supplies.
He could not afford to risk another battle.
There was now really only one thing for Cornwallis to do, and that
was to make a bee line for Wilmington, the nearest point on the
coast, and look for help from the fleet.
General Greene must have guessed that the British general would march
northwards, to unite forces with Arnold, who was already in Virginia.
At all events, the sagacious American general made a bold move. He
followed Cornwallis for about fifty miles from Guilford, and then,
facing about, marched with all speed to Camden, a hundred and sixty
miles away.
His lordship was not a little vexed. He was simply ignored by his
wily foe, and left to do as he pleased. So he made his way into
Virginia, and on May 20 arrived at Petersburg.
{124} Benedict Arnold, who was now fighting under the British flag,
had been sent to Virginia to burn and to pillage. Washington
dispatched Lafayette to check the traitor's dastardly work. When Lord
Cornwallis reached Virginia, Arnold had been recalled, and the young
Frenchman was at Richmond.
Cornwallis thought he might now regain his reputation by some grand
stroke. The first thing to do was to crush the young Lafayette.
"The boy cannot escape me," he said.
But Lafayette was so skillful at retreating and avoiding a decisive
action that his lordship could get no chance to deal him a blow.
"I am not strong enough even to be beaten," wrote the French general
to the commander in chief.
Away to the west rode our friend Colonel Tarleton, still smarting
from the sound thrashing he had received from old Dan Morgan at
Cowpens. He was trying to break up the State Assembly, and capture
Thomas Jefferson, governor of Virginia.
It was a narrow escape for the man who wrote the Declaration of
Independence. The story is told that Jefferson had only five minutes
in which to take flight into the woods, before Tarleton's hard riders
surrounded his house at Monticello.
About this time, Mad Anthony Wayne, with a thousand Pennsylvania
regulars, appeared upon the scene and joined Lafayette.
{125} Now Cornwallis, finding that he could not catch "the boy," and
having a wholesome respect for Wayne, stopped his marching and
countermarching, and retreated to Williamsburg by way of Richmond and
the York peninsula.
During the first week in August, the British commander continued his
retreat to the coast, and occupied Yorktown, with about seven
thousand men. Lafayette was encamped on Malvern Hill, in the York
peninsula, where he was waiting for the next act in the drama.
[Illustration: General Lafayette]
Far away in the North, at West Point, Washington was keeping a sharp
lookout over the whole field. The main part of the patriot army was
encamped along the Hudson.
At Newport, there was a French force under General Rochambeau. Late
in May, Washington rode over to a little town in Connecticut, to
consult with him. It was decided that the French army should march to
the Hudson as speedily as possible, and unite with the patriot forces
encamped there.
The plan at this time was to capture New York. This could not be done
without the aid of a large fleet.
Early in the spring of this year, 1781, the French government had
sent a powerful fleet to the West Indies, under the command of Count
de Grasse. De Grasse now had orders to act in concert with Washington
and Rochambeau, against the common enemy. This was joyful news.
{126} News traveled very slowly in those times. It took ten days for
Washington to hear from Lafayette that Cornwallis had retreated to
Yorktown, and thirty days to learn that Greene was marching southward
against Lord Rawdon in South Carolina. And as for De Grasse, it was
uncertain just when and where he would arrive on the coast.
Washington had some hard thinking to do. The storm center of the
whole war might suddenly shift to Virginia.
Now came the test for his military genius. Hitherto, the British
fleet had been in control of our coast. Now, however, nobody but a
Nelson would ever hope to defeat the French men-of-war that were
nearing our shores. Cornwallis was safe enough on the York peninsula
so long as the British fleet had control of the Virginia coast. But
suppose De Grasse should take up a position on the three sides of
Yorktown, would it not be an easy matter, with the aid of a large
land force, to entrap Cornwallis?
The supreme moment for the patriot cause was now at hand. In the
middle of August, word came from De Grasse that he was headed with
his whole fleet for Chesapeake Bay.
As might be expected, Washington was equal to the occasion. The
capture of New York must wait. He made up his mind that he would
swoop down with his army upon Yorktown, four hundred miles away, and
crush Cornwallis.
{127} Yes, but what about Sir Henry Clinton, the British commander in
chief in New York? If Sir Henry should happen to get an inkling of
what Washington intended to do, what would prevent his sending an
army by sea to the relief of Yorktown?
Nothing, of course, and so the all-important point was to hoodwink
the British commander. It was cleverly done, as we shall see.
Clinton knew that the French fleet was expected; but everything
pointed to an attack on New York.
If we glance at the map of this section, we shall see that, from his
headquarters at West Point, Washington could march half way to
Yorktown, by way of New Jersey, without arousing suspicions of his
real design.
Nobody but Rochambeau had the least knowledge of what he intended to
do. Bodies of troops were moved toward Long Island. Ovens were built
as if to bake bread for a large army. The patriots seemed merely to
be waiting for the French fleet before beginning in earnest the siege
of New York.
Washington wrote a letter to Lafayette which was purposely sent in
such a way as to be captured by Clinton. In this letter, the American
general said he should be {128} happy if Cornwallis fortified
Yorktown or Old Point Comfort, because in that case he would remain
under the protection of the British fleet.
Washington wrote similar letters to throw Clinton off his guard. For
instance, to one of his generals he wrote in detail just how he had
planned to lay siege to New York. He selected a young minister, by
the name of Montaigne, to carry the dispatch to Morristown, through
what was called the Clove.
"If I go through the Clove," said Montaigne, "the cowboys will
capture me."
"Your duty, young man, is to obey," sternly replied Washington.
The hope of the ever-alert commander in chief was fulfilled, for the
young clergyman soon found himself a prisoner in the famous Sugar
House, in New York. The next day, the dispatch was printed with great
show in Rivington's Tory paper.
On August 19, or just five days after receiving the dispatch from De
Grasse, Washington crossed the Hudson at King's Ferry, and set out on
his long march, with two thousand Continental and four thousand
French troops.
They had nearly reached Philadelphia before their real destination
was suspected.
The good people of the Quaker city had just heard of Greene's
successes in the South. The popular feeling showed itself in the
rousing welcome they gave to the {129} "ragged Continentals" and to
the finely dressed French troops, as the combined forces marched
hurriedly through the streets. The drums and fifes played "The White
Cockade and the Peacock's Feather"; everywhere the stars and stripes
were flung to the breeze; and ladies threw flowers from the windows.
"Long live Washington!" shouted the people, as the dusty soldiers
marched by in a column nearly two miles long.
"He has gone to catch Cornwallis in his mouse trap!" shouted the
crowd, in great glee.
Even the self-possessed Washington was a trifle nervous. Galloping
ahead to Chester on his favorite charger, Nelson, he sent back word
that De Grasse had arrived in Chesapeake Bay.
By rapid marches, the combined armies reached the head of the Bay on
September 6. From this point, most of the men were carried in
transports to the scene of action. In another week, an army of more
than sixteen thousand men was closing round Cornwallis.
Soon after his arrival, Washington, accompanied by Rochambeau, Knox,
Hamilton, and others, made a formal call on Admiral De Grasse on
board his flagship, the famous ship of the line, Ville de Paris, then
at anchor in Hampton Roads.
When Washington reached the quarter-deck, the little French admiral
ran to embrace his guest, and kissed him on each cheek, after the
French fashion.
{130} "My dear little general!" he exclaimed, hugging him.
Now when the excited admiral stood on tiptoe to embrace the majestic
Washington, and began to call him "petit," or "little," the scene was
ludicrous. The French officers politely turned aside; but it was too
much for General Knox, who was a big, jolly man. He simply forgot his
politeness, and laughed aloud until his sides shook.
Where was the British fleet all this time?
Its commander, Admiral Hood, had followed sharply after De Grasse,
and had outsailed him. Not finding the enemy's fleet in the
Chesapeake, he sailed on to New York and reported to Admiral Graves.
Then Sir Henry began to open his eyes to the real state of affairs.
All was bustle and hurry. Crowding on all sail, the British fleet
headed for the Chesapeake, and there found De Grasse blockading the
bay.
It would be all up with Washington's plans if the British fleet
should now defeat the French. The French fleet, however, was much the
stronger, and Graves was no Nelson. There was a sharp fight for two
hours. On the two fleets, the killed and the wounded amounted to
seven hundred. The British admiral was then forced to withdraw; and
after a few days he sailed back to New York. De Grasse was now in
complete control of the Chesapeake.
Cornwallis did not as yet know that Washington was marching at full
speed straight for Yorktown. Still, his {131} lordship began to
realize that he was fast getting himself into a tight place.
Why not cross the James River and retreat to a safe place in North
Carolina?
It was too late. Three thousand French troops had already landed on
the neck of the peninsula, and were united with the patriot forces.
The "boy" had now more than eight thousand men, with which he could
easily cut off every chance for his lordship's retreat.
In the American camp, the combined armies were working with a hearty
good will to hasten the siege. There could be no delay. The British
fleet was sure to return, and another fleet was hourly expected from
England. Again, Sir Henry might at any moment come by sea to the
rescue. Day and night the men toiled. Nobody was permitted to speak
aloud, for they were close to the British pickets. Intrenchments were
made, and cannon were rapidly dragged up and placed in position. By
October 10, all was ready.
[Illustration: General Washington in the Trenches before Yorktown]
{132} The siege begins in earnest. Shot and shell are hurled into the
British lines. All day and all night long, are heard the roaring of
cannon and the bursting of shells. Bang! bang! The French fire
red-hot shot across the water and set fire to the British transports.
New lines of redoubts are thrown up during the night, and guns are
mounted, which pound away at the doomed army. Two of the British
redoubts are troublesome. These are gallantly captured.
On the next night, Cornwallis makes a vigorous effort to break
through the American lines, but is driven back into the town. With
seventy cannon pounding away, the British earthworks are fast
crumbling. The British commander grows desperate. He thinks that, by
leaving his baggage and his sick behind, he can cross the river to
Gloucester in boats, by night, cut through the French, and by forced
marches make his way to New York.
On the night of the 16th, a few of the redcoats actually succeeded in
reaching the opposite shore, when a storm of wind and rain suddenly
arose and continued till morning. This last ray of hope was gone.
Cornwallis had his headquarters in a large brick mansion owned by a
Tory. It was a fine target for the artillery, and was soon riddled.
His lordship stayed in the house until a cannon ball killed his
steward, as he was carrying a tureen of soup to his master's table.
The British general now moved his headquarters into Governor Nelson's
fine stone mansion. Its owner was {133} in command of the Virginia
troops in the besieging army. He was the "war governor" who had left
his crops to their fate, and his plows in the furrows, while his
horses and his oxen were harnessed to the cannon that were being
hurried to the siege. When Nelson learned, through a deserter, where
Cornwallis and his staff were, regardless of his personal loss, he
ordered the bombarding of the house.
In Trumbull's famous painting, "The Surrender of Cornwallis,"
Governor Nelson's mansion is plainly seen.
By this time, the only safe place in Yorktown was a cave, which had
been dug under the bank of the river. To this spot, as the story
goes, Cornwallis moved his headquarters. Here he received a British
colonel who had made his way in the night through the French fleet,
to bring orders from Sir Henry Clinton. Cornwallis was to hold out to
the last. Seven thousand troops had sailed to his relief.
His lordship served a lunch for his guest, and while they were
drinking their wine, the colonel declared his intention of going up
on the ramparts for a moment, to take a look at the Yankees. As he
left, he gayly said that on his return he would give Washington's
health in a bumper. It was useless to urge him to remain under
shelter. He had scarcely climbed to the top of the redoubt when his
head was shot off by a cannon ball.
On October 17, the thirteenth day of the siege and the fourth
anniversary of Burgoyne's surrender, a red-coated {134} drummer boy
stands on the rampart and beats a parley. A white flag is raised on
the British works. The roar of the cannon ceases. Cornwallis sends an
officer to ask that fighting be stopped for twenty-four hours.
Twenty-four hours! No! "No more fighting for two hours," says
Washington.
Held in an iron grasp both by land and by sea, the British commander
knows that all is lost. He can do nothing but surrender.
At two o'clock on the afternoon of October 19, in a field not far
from Washington's headquarters, the formal surrender takes place.
This ceremony, so joyful to the one side, so painful to the other, is
carried out in stately form. The officers on both sides wear their
best uniforms and military equipments. Washington rides his favorite
charger, Nelson. The stars and stripes of America, and the white flag
and lilies of France, wave in triumph. While the band plays a quaint
old English melody, "The World Turned Upside Down," the British
troops, over seven thousand in number, slowly march between the
columns of the combined armies and lay down their arms.
Cornwallis was not there. Saying that he was sick, he sent O'Hara,
one of his generals, to deliver up his sword, while Washington, with
his usual high regard for official dignity, sent General Lincoln.
As perhaps you may remember, when General Lincoln was forced to
surrender to Cornwallis, at Charleston {135} in 1780, the haughty
British general turned him over to an inferior officer, as if to
treat his surrender with contempt.
Lafayette said, in after years, that the captive redcoats, while they
gazed at the French soldiers with their showy trappings, "did not as
much as look at my darling light infantry, the apple of my eye and
the pride of my heart." Whereupon the lively young French general
ordered his fife and drum corps to strike up "Yankee Doodle." "Then,"
he said, "they did look at us, but were not very well pleased."
After the surrender, both the Americans and the British hastened
away. Scores of brave men, whom thus far the bullets had spared, were
the victims of camp fever and smallpox. Fourteen days afterwards,
Yorktown became again a sleepy little hamlet of sixty houses.
On the same day that Cornwallis found "the world turned upside down,"
Clinton sailed from New York, with thirty-five ships and over seven
thousand of his best troops. Had this great force reached the scene
ten days earlier, the story of Yorktown might have been different.
{136} "Cornwallis is taken!" How quickly the news spread! Men, women,
and children pour in from the country, and wait along the road
leading to Philadelphia, for the long-expected news.
At length a horseman is seen riding at headlong speed.
He waves his hat and shouts to the eager people, "Cornwallis is
taken!"
It is Colonel Tilghman, whom Washington sent posthaste to
Philadelphia to inform Congress of the surrender.
It is after midnight when he arrives. The drowsy night watchman is
slowly pacing the streets. Suddenly is heard the joyful cry, "Past
three o'clock, and Cornwallis is taken!"
[Illustration: The Night Watchman announcing the Capture of
Cornwallis]
Up go the windows. Men and women rush into the streets, all eager to
hear the news. An hour before daylight, old Independence bell rings
out its loudest peals, and sunrise is greeted with the boom of
cannon.
Congress meets during the forenoon, to read Washington's dispatches.
In the afternoon, the members go in solemn procession to the Lutheran
church, "and return thanks to Almighty God for crowning the allied
armies of the United States and France with success."
At noon on Sunday, November 25, the news reached London. Somebody
asked a member of the cabinet how Lord North, the prime minister,
received the "communication."
"As he would have taken a cannon ball in his chest," was the reply;
"for he opened his arms, exclaimed {137} wildly, as he walked up and
down the room during a few minutes, 'O God! it is all over! it is all
over!'"
The news was sent to King George, who replied the same evening. It
was noted that His Majesty being a trifle stupid, wrote very calmly,
but forgot to mark the exact hour and minute of his writing. This
circumstance, the like of which had never happened before, seemed to
indicate to his cabinet some unusual disturbance. Shortly afterwards,
however, the old king took some comfort in declaring that the Yankees
were a wretched set of knaves, whom he was glad to get rid of at any
price.
* * * * * *
On a gentle slope at Yorktown stands a monument, erected a century
later by Congress, in commemoration of the surrender of Lord
Cornwallis. There it stands, a tall, white shaft, solitary, glorious,
and impressive, a landmark for many miles along that sleepy shore.
{138}
CHAPTER X
THE CRISIS
Exactly eight years from the day when
"the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world,"
the Continental Congress informed General Washington that the war was
over. In September, 1783, the formal treaty of peace was signed; a
month later, the Continental army was disbanded; and three weeks
later, the British army sailed from New York.
What a pathetic and impressive scene took place at a little tavern,
in lower New York, when Washington said good-by to his generals! With
hearts too full for words, and with eyes dimmed with tears, these
veterans embraced their chief and bade him farewell.
[Illustration: Washington's Farewell to his Generals]
A few days before Christmas, Washington gave up the command of the
army, and hurried away to spend the holidays at Mount Vernon.
"The times that tried men's souls are over," wrote the author of
"Common Sense," a man whose writings voiced the opinions of the
people.
Freedom was indeed won, but the country was in a sad plight.
{139} "It is not too much to say," says John Fiske, "that the period
of five years following the peace of 1783 was the most critical
moment in all the history of the American people."
Thirteen little republics, fringing the Atlantic, were hemmed in on
the north, the south, and the west, by two hostile European nations
that were capable of much mischief.
In 1774, under the pressure of a common peril and the need of quick
action, the colonies had banded together for the common good. By a
kind of general consent their representatives in the Continental
Congress had assumed the task of carrying on the war. But for nine
years Congress had steadily declined in power, and now that peace had
come and the need of united action was removed, there was danger that
this shadowy union would dissolve. Believing strongly in their own
state governments, the people had almost no feeling in favor of
federation.
{140} Just before the disbanding of the army and his retirement to
private life, Washington wrote a letter to the governor of each
colony. This letter, he said, was his "legacy" to the American
people.
He urged the necessity of forming a more perfect union, under a
single government. He declared that the war debt must be paid to the
last penny; that the people must be willing to sacrifice some of
their local interests for the common good; and that they must regard
one another as fellow citizens of a common country.
We must not make the mistake of thinking that the Continental
Congress was like our present national Congress.
When the struggle between the colonies and the mother country
threatened war, the colonies through their assemblies, or special
conventions, chose delegates to represent them in Philadelphia. These
delegates composed the first Continental Congress. It met on
September 5, 1774, and broke up during the last week of the following
October.
Three weeks after Lexington, a second Congress met in the same city.
This was the Congress that appointed Washington commander in chief,
and issued the immortal Declaration of Independence.
In the strict sense of the word, this body had no legal authority. It
was really a meeting of delegates from the several colonies, to
advise and consult with each other concerning the public welfare.
{141} There was war in the land. Something must be done to meet the
crisis. The Continental Congress, therefore, acted in the name of the
"United Colonies."
Many of the ablest and most patriotic men of the country were sent as
delegates to this Congress; and until the crowning victory at
Yorktown, although without clearly defined powers, it continued to
act, by common consent, as if it had the highest authority. It made
an alliance with France; it built a navy; it granted permits to
privateers; it raised and organized an army; it borrowed large sums
of money, and issued paper bills.
A few days after the Declaration of Independence was signed, a form
of government, called the "Articles of Confederation," was brought
before Congress; but it was not adopted until several weeks after the
surrender of Burgoyne, in 1777.
The "Articles" were not finally ratified by the states until the
spring of 1781.
The constitution thus adopted was a league of friendship between the
states. It was bad from beginning to end; for it dealt with the
thirteen states as thirteen units, and not with the people of the
several states. It never secured a hold upon the people of the
country, and for very good reasons.
Each state, whether large or small, had only one vote. A single
delegate from Delaware or from Rhode Island could balance the whole
delegation from New York or from Virginia.
{142} Congress had no power to enforce any law whatever. It could
recommend all manner of things to the states, but it could do nothing
more. It could not even protect itself.
Hence, the states violated the "Articles" whenever they pleased. Thus
Congress might call for troops, but the states could refuse to obey.
Without the consent of every state, not a dollar could be raised by
taxation.
At one time, twelve states voted to allow Congress to raise money to
pay the soldiers; but little Rhode Island flatly refused, and the
plan failed. The next year Rhode Island consented, but New York
refused.
Although Congress had authority to coin money, to issue bills of
credit, and to make its notes legal tender for debts, each one of the
thirteen states had the same authority.
Money affairs got into a wretched condition. Paper money became
almost worthless. The year after Saratoga, a paper dollar was worth
only sixteen cents, and early in 1780 its value had fallen to two
cents.
A trader in Philadelphia papered his shop with dollar bills, to show
what he thought of the flimsy stuff. In the year of Cornwallis's
surrender, a bushel of corn sold for one hundred and fifty dollars;
and Samuel Adams, the Boston patriot, had to pay two thousand dollars
for a hat and a suit of clothes.
A private soldier had to serve four months before his pay would buy a
bushel of wheat. When he could {143} not collect this beggarly sum,
is it any wonder that he deserted or rebelled?
At one time, being unable to get money for the army, Congress asked
the states to contribute supplies of corn, pork, and hay.
To add to the general misery, the states began to quarrel with one
another, like a lot of schoolboys. They almost came to bloodshed over
boundary lines, and levied the most absurd taxes and duties.
If a Connecticut farmer brought a load of firewood into New York, he
had to pay a heavy duty. Sloops that sailed through Hell Gate, and
Jersey market boats that crossed to Manhattan Island, were treated as
if from foreign ports. Entrance fees had to be paid, and clearance
papers must be got at the custom house.
The country was indeed in a bad condition. There were riots,
bankruptcy, endless wranglings, foreclosed mortgages, and
imprisonment for debt.
The gallant Colonel Barton, who captured General Prescott, was kept
locked up because he could not pay a small sum of money. Robert
Morris, once a wealthy merchant, was sent to jail for debt, although
he had given his whole fortune to the patriot cause.
Thoughtful and patriotic men and women throughout the country felt
that something must be done.
Washington and other far-sighted men of Virginia began to work out
the problem. First it was proposed that delegates from two or three
states should meet at {144} Annapolis, to discuss the question of
trade. Finally all the states were invited to send delegates.
At this meeting, only twelve delegates, from five states, were
present. Alexander Hamilton wrote an eloquent address, which it was
voted to send to the state assemblies, strongly recommending that
delegates should be appointed to meet at Philadelphia on the second
day of May, 1787.
[Illustration: Alexander Hamilton]
This plan, however, Congress promptly rejected.
During the winter of 1786, the times were perhaps even harder, and
the country nearer to the brink of civil war and ruin. There were
riots in New Hampshire and in Vermont and Shays's Rebellion in the
old Bay State. There were also the threatened separation of the
Northern and Southern states, the worthless paper money, wildcat
speculation, the failure to carry out certain provisions of the
treaty of peace, and many troubles of less importance.
As we may well suppose, all this discord made King George and his
court happy. He declared that the several states would soon repent,
and beg on bended knees to be taken back into the British empire.
{145} When it was predicted in Parliament that we should become a
great nation, a British statesman, who bore us no ill will, said, "It
is one of the idlest and most visionary notions that was ever
conceived even by a writer of romance."
Frederick the Great was friendly to us, but he declared that nobody
but a king could ever rule so large a country.
All these unhappy events produced a great change in public opinion.
People were convinced that anarchy might be worse than the union of
these thirteen little commonwealths, under a strong, central
government.
At this great crisis in affairs, Virginia boldly took the lead, and
promptly sent seven of her ablest citizens, one of whom was
Washington, to the Philadelphia convention. This was a masterly
stroke of policy. People everywhere applauded, and the tide of
popular sentiment soon favored the convention. At last Congress
yielded to the voice of the people and approved the plan. Every state
except Rhode Island sent delegates.
[Illustration: The Old State House, in Philadelphia, now called
Independence Hall]
It was a notable group of Americans that met in one of the upper
rooms of old Independence Hall, the last {146} week of May, 1787.
There were fifty-five delegates in all, some of whom, however, did
not arrive for several weeks after the convention began its meetings.
Eight of the delegates had signed the Declaration of Independence, in
the same room; twenty-eight had been members of the Continental
Congress, and seven had been governors of states. Two afterwards
became presidents of the United States, and many others in after
years filled high places in the national government.
Head and shoulders above all others towered George Washington. The
man most widely known, except Washington, was Benjamin Franklin,
eighty-one years old; the youngest delegate was Mr. Dayton of New
Jersey, who was only twenty-six.
Here also were two of the ablest statesmen of their time, Alexander
Hamilton of New York, and James Madison of Virginia.
Connecticut sent two of her great men, Oliver Ellsworth, afterwards
chief justice of the United States, and Roger Sherman, the learned
shoemaker.
Near Robert Morris, the great financier, sat his namesake, Gouverneur
Morris, who originated our decimal system of money, and James Wilson,
one of the most learned lawyers of his day.
The two brilliant Pinckneys and John Rutledge, the silver-tongued
orator, were there to represent South Carolina.
{147} Then there were Elbridge Gerry and Rufus King of Massachusetts,
John Langdon of New Hampshire, John Dickinson of Delaware, and the
great orator, Edmund Randolph of Virginia.
Thomas Jefferson and John Adams would no doubt have been delegates,
had they not been abroad in the service of their country. Patrick
Henry and Samuel Adams remained at home; for they did not approve of
the convention.
How Rhode Island must have missed her most eminent citizen, Nathanael
Greene, who had just died of sunstroke, in the prime of manhood!
Washington was elected president of the convention. The doors were
locked, and, every member being pledged to secrecy, they settled down
to work.
Just what was said and done during those four months was for more
than fifty years kept a profound secret. After the death of James
Madison, often called the {148} "Father of the Constitution," his
journal was published, giving a complete account of the proceedings.
[Illustration: James Madison]
When the delegates began their work, they soon realized what a
problem it was to frame a government for the whole country. As might
have been expected, some of these men had a fit of moral cowardice.
They began to cut and to trim, and tried to avoid any measure of
thorough reform.
Washington was equal to the occasion. He was not a brilliant orator,
and his speech was very brief; but the solemn words of this majestic
man, as his tall figure drawn up to its full height rose from the
president's chair, carried conviction to every delegate.
"If, to please the people," he said, "we offer what we ourselves
disapprove, how can we afterward defend our work? Let us raise a
standard to which the wise and the honest can repair; the event is in
the hand of God."
The details of what this convention did would be dull reading; but
some day we shall want to study in our school work the noble
Constitution which these men framed.
The gist of the whole matter is that our Federal Constitution is
based upon three great compromises.
The first compromise was between the small and the large states. In
the upper house, or Senate, equal representation was conceded to all
the states, but in the lower house of Congress, representation was
arranged according to the population.
{149} Thus, as you know, little Rhode Island and Delaware have each
two senators, while the great commonwealths of New York and Ohio have
no more. In the House of Representatives, on the other hand, New York
has forty-three representatives, and Ohio has twenty-two, while Rhode
Island has three, and Delaware only one.
The second compromise was between the free and the slave states.
Were the slaves to be counted as persons or as goods?
South Carolina and Georgia maintained that they were persons; the
Northern states said they were merely property.
Now indeed there was a clashing over local interest; but it was
decided that in counting the population, whether for taxation, or for
representation in the lower house, a slave should be considered as
three fifths of an individual. And so it stood until the outbreak of
the Civil War.
It was a bitter pill for far-sighted men like Washington, Madison,
and others, who did not believe in slavery. Without this compromise,
however, they believed that nine slave states would never adopt the
Constitution, and doubtless they were right.
The slave question was the real bone of contention that resulted in
the third compromise. The majority of the delegates, especially those
from Virginia, were not in favor of slavery.
{150} "This infernal traffic that brings the judgment of Heaven on a
country!" said George Mason of Virginia.
At first, it was proposed to abolish foreign slave trade. South
Carolina and Georgia sturdily protested.
"Are we wanted in the Union?" they said.
They declared that it was not a question of morality or of religion,
but purely a matter of business.
Rhode Island had refused to send delegates; and those from New York
had gone home in anger. The discussions were bitter, and the
situation became dangerous.
While the convention "was scarcely held together by the strength of a
hair," the question came up for discussion, whether Congress or the
individual states should have control over commerce.
The New England states, with their wealth of shipping, said that by
all means Congress should have the control, and should make a uniform
tariff in all the states. This, it was believed, would put an end to
all the wranglings and the unjust acts which were so ruinous to
commerce.
The extreme Southern states that had no shipping said it would never
do; for New England, by controlling the carrying trade, would extort
ruinous prices for shipping tobacco and rice.
When the outlook seemed darkest, two of the Connecticut delegates
suggested a compromise.
"Yes," said Franklin, "when a carpenter wishes to fit two boards, he
sometimes pares off a bit from each."
{151} It was finally decided that there should be free trade between
the states, and that Congress should control commerce.
To complete the "bargain," nothing was to be done about the African
slave trade for twenty years. Slavery had been slowly dying out both
in the North and in the South, for nearly fifty years. The wisest men
of 1787 believed that it would speedily die a natural death and give
way to a better system of labor.
It was upon these three great foundation stones, or compromises, that
our Constitution was built. The rest of the work, while very
important, was not difficult or dangerous. The question of choosing a
president, and a hundred other less important matters were at last
settled.
{152} The scorching summer of 1787 was well-nigh spent before the
great document was finished. The convention broke up on September 17.
Few of its members were satisfied with their work. None supposed it
complete.
Tradition says that Washington, who was the first to sign, standing
by the table, held up his pen and said solemnly, "Should the states
reject this excellent Constitution, they probably will never sign
another in peace. The next will be drawn in blood."
Of the delegates who were present on the last day of the convention,
all but three signed the Constitution.
[Illustration: Signing the Constitution]
It is said that when the last man had signed, many of the delegates
seemed awe-struck at what they had done. Washington himself sat with
head bowed in deep thought.
Thirty-three years before this, and before some of the delegates then
present were born, Franklin had done his best to bring the colonies
into a federal union. He was sixty years of age when, in this very
room, he put his name to the Declaration of Independence. Now, as the
genial old man saw the noble aim of his life accomplished, he
indulged in one of his homely bits of pleasantry.
There was a rude painting of a half sun, gorgeous with its yellow
rays, on the back of the president's black armchair. When Washington
solemnly rose, as the meeting was breaking up, Franklin pointed to
the chair and said, "As I have been sitting here all these weeks, I
have often wondered whether that sun behind our president is rising
or setting. Now I do know that it is a rising sun."
{153} [Illustration: Benjamin Franklin]
The Constitution was sent to the Continental Congress, who submitted
it to the people of the several states for their approval. It was
agreed that when it was adopted by nine states, it should become the
supreme law of the land.
Now for the first time there was a real national issue. The people
arranged themselves into two great political parties, the
Federalists, who believed in a strong government and the new
Constitution, and the Anti-Federalists, who were opposed to a
stronger union between the states.
And now what keen discussions, bitter quarrels, and scurrilous and
abusive newspaper articles! A bloodless war of squibs, broadsides,
pamphlets, and frenzied oratory was waged everywhere.
Hamilton and Madison were "mere boys" and "visionary young men";
Franklin was an "old dotard" and "in his second childhood"; and as
for Washington, "What did he know about politics?"
{154} The Constitution was called "a triple-headed monster." Many
able men sincerely believed it to be "as deep and wicked a conspiracy
as ever was invented in the darkest ages against the liberties of the
people."
How eloquently did such men as Hamilton, Madison, Randolph, Jay,
"Light-Horse Harry" Lee, John Marshall, Fisher Ames, and a score of
other "makers of our country" defend the "New Roof," as the people
were then fond of calling the Federal Constitution!
A series of short essays written by Hamilton, Madison, and Jay, and
published under the name of "The Federalist," were widely read.
Although written at a white heat, their grave and lofty eloquence and
their stern patriotism carried conviction to the hearts of the
people.
"The Delaware State," as it was called, was the first to adopt the
Constitution. It was not until the next June that Massachusetts and
Virginia ratified it, as the sixth and tenth states. New York next
fell into line in July.
The victory was won! The "New Roof" was up and finished, supported by
eleven stout pillars!
On the glorious "Fourth" in 1788, there was great rejoicing
throughout the land. Bonfires, stump speeches, fireworks,
processions, music, gorgeous banners, and barbecues of oxen expressed
the joy of the people over the establishment of a federal government.
"Hurrah for the United States of America!" shouted every patriot.
{155} "The good ship Constitution" was at last fairly launched.
The wheels of the new government began to turn slowly and with much
friction. It was not until the first week of April, 1789, that the
House of Representatives and the Senate met and counted the electoral
votes for a President of the newly born nation. There were sixty-nine
votes in all, and of these every one was for George Washington. John
Adams was the second choice of the electoral college. He received
thirty-four votes, and was accordingly declared Vice President.
Thus was formed and adopted our just and wise Constitution, which,
except for a few amendments, has ever since been the supreme law of
the land. This document has been called by Gladstone "the greatest
work ever struck off at any time by the mind and purpose of man." To
it we owe our prosperity and our high place among nations.
{156}
CHAPTER XI
A DARING EXPLOIT
About a century ago, pirates on the northern coast of Africa were
causing a great deal of trouble. They used to dash out in their
vessels, and capture and plunder the merchant ships of all nations.
The poor sailors were sold as slaves, and then kicked and cuffed
about by cruel masters.
[Illustration: American Sailors sold into Slavery by the Barbary
Pirates]
You will hardly believe it, but our country used to do exactly what
other nations did. We used to buy the good will of these Barbary
pirates, by giving them, every year, cannon, powder, and great sums
of money. In fact we could not at first help it; for we were then a
young and feeble nation with many troubles, and our navy was so small
that we could not do as we pleased.
The payment of this blackmail soon became a serious affair. The
ruler, or pasha, of Tripoli was bold enough to declare war against
this country, and cut down the flagstaff in front of our consul's
house. Two other Barbary states, Morocco and Tunis, began to be
impudent because they did not get enough money.
This was more than our people could stand. These scamps needed a
lesson.
{157} You will, of course, remember Thomas Jefferson, who wrote the
Declaration of Independence. He was at this time President of the
United States. As you may well think, he was not the man to put up
with such insults.
[Illustration: Thomas Jefferson]
"It reminds me," said Jefferson, "of what my good friend, Ben
Franklin, once said in his Poor Richard's Almanac: 'If you make
yourself a sheep, the wolves will eat you.' We must put a stop to
paying this blood money, and deal with these pirates with an iron
hand."
So it came to pass that Commodore Dale was sent to the Mediterranean,
with a small fleet of war ships.
When our little fleet arrived off the Barbary coast, Morocco and
Tunis stopped grumbling and soon came to terms. We were then free to
deal with Tripoli.
Our war ships had orders simply to look after our merchantmen,
without doing any fighting. Still, to give the proud ruler of Tripoli
a hint of what he might soon expect, one of our small vessels, the
Enterprise, afterwards {158} commanded by Decatur, fought a short but
furious battle with a Tripolitan man-of-war.
The pirate captain hauled his flag down three times, but hoisted it
again when the fire of the Enterprise ceased. This insult was too
much for Dale. Bringing his vessel alongside the pirate craft, he
sprang over her side, followed by fifty of his men. The pirate crew,
with their long curved swords, fought hard; yet in fifteen minutes
they were beaten.
[Illustration: Fight between Dale and the Tripolitan Pirates]
Our sailors now cut away the masts of the enemy's vessel, and,
stripping her of everything except one old sail and a single spar,
let her drift back to Tripoli, as a hint of how the new nation across
the Atlantic was likely to deal with pirates.
"Tell your pasha," shouted the American captain, as the Barbary ship
drifted away, "that this is the way my country will pay him tribute
after this."
In the year 1803, the command of our fleet was given to Commodore
Preble, who had just forced the ruler of Morocco to pay for an attack
upon one of our merchant ships. The famous frigate Constitution,
better known to every wide-awake American boy and girl as "Old
Ironsides," was his flagship.
Among his officers, or "schoolboy captains," as he called them, were
many bright young men, who afterwards gained fame in fighting their
country's battles. One of these officers was Stephen Decatur, the
hero of this story, who afterwards, as captain of the frigate United
States, {159} whipped the British frigate Macedonian after a fight of
an hour and a half.
One morning late in the fall of 1803, the frigate Philadelphia, one
of the best ships of our little navy, while chasing a piratical
craft, ran upon a sunken reef near the harbor of Tripoli. The good
ship was helpless either to fight or to get away.
The officers and crew worked with all their might. They threw some of
the cannon overboard, they cut away the foremast, they did everything
they could to float the vessel. It was no use; the ship stuck fast.
Of course it did not take long for the Tripolitans to see that the
American war ship was helpless. Their gunboats swarmed round the
ill-fated vessel and opened fire. It was a trying hour for the
gallant Captain Bainbridge and his men. Down must come the colors,
and down they came. The officers and the sailors were taken ashore
and thrown into prison.
After a time, the Tripolitans got the Philadelphia off the reef.
Then, towing her into the harbor of Tripoli, they anchored her close
under the guns of their forts. {160} The vessel was refitted, cannon
were put on board, together with a crew of several hundred sailors,
and the crescent flag was raised. She was now ready to sail out to
a
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/31092