Part 2

There was grummer of drums humming hoarse in the hills, And the bugles sang fanfaron down by the mills. By Flatbush the bagpipes were droning amain, And keen cracked the rifles in Martense’s lane; For the Hessians were flecking the hedges with red, And the grenadiers’ tramp marked the roll of the dead.

Three to one, flank and rear, flashed the files of St. George, The fierce gleam of their steel as the glow of a forge. The brutal boom-boom of their swart cannoneers Was sweet music compared with the taunt of their cheers-- For the brunt of their onset, our crippled array, And the light of God’s leading gone out in the fray.

Oh, the rout on the left and the tug on the right! The mad plunge of the charge and the wreck of the flight! When the cohorts of Grant held stout Stirling at strain, And the mongrels of Hesse went tearing the slain; When at Freeke’s Mill the flumes and the sluices ran red, And the dead choked the dike and the marsh choked the dead!

“Oh, Stirling, good Stirling, how long must we wait? Shall the shout of your trumpet unleash us too late? Have you never a dash for brave Mordecai Gist, With his heart in his throat, and his blade in his fist? Are we good for no more than to prance in a ball, When the drums beat the charge and the clarions call?”

Tralára! Tralára! Now praise we the Lord For the clang of His call and the flash of His sword! Tralára! Tralára! Now forward to die; For the banner, hurrah! and for sweethearts, good-by! “Four hundred wild lads!” May be so. I’ll be bound ’Twill be easy to count us, face up, on the ground. If we hold the road open, though Death take the toll, We’ll be missed on parade when the States call the roll-- When the flags meet in peace and the guns are at rest, And fair Freedom is singing Sweet Home in the West.

JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.

(By special permission of the author.)

6

ARNOLD AT STILLWATER

Ah, you mistake me, comrades, to think that my heart is steel! Cased in a cold endurance, nor pleasure nor pain to feel; Cold as I am in my manner, yet over these cheeks so seared Teardrops have fallen in torrents, thrice since my chin grew beard.

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

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

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

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

Suddenly, then, from among them smoke rose and spread on the breeze; Grapeshot flew over us sharply, cutting the limbs from the trees; But onward we pressed till the order of Cilley fell full on the ear; Then we leveled our pieces and fired them, and rushed up the slope with a cheer.

Fiercely we charged on their center, and beat back the stout grenadiers, And wounded the brave Major Ackland, and grappled the swart cannoneers; Five times we captured their cannons, and five times they took them again; But the sixth time we had them we kept them, and with them a share of their men.

Our colonel who led us dismounted, high on a cannon he sprang; Over the noise of our shouting clearly his joyous words rang; “These are our own brazen beauties! Here to America’s cause I dedicate each, and to freedom!--foes to King George and his laws!”

Worn as we were with the struggle, wounded and bleeding and sore, Some stood all pale and exhausted; some lay there stiff in their gore; And round through the mass went a murmur, that grew to a whispering clear, And then to reproaches outspoken--“If General Arnold were here!”

For Gates, in his folly and envy, had given the chief no command, And far in the rear some had seen him horseless and moodily stand, Knitting his forehead in anger, gnawing his red lip in pain, Fretting himself like a bloodhound held back from his prey by a chain.

Hark, at our right there is cheering! there is the ruffle of drums! Here is the well-known brown charger! Spurring it madly he comes! Learned’s brigade have espied him, rending the air with a cheer; Woe to the terrified foeman, now that our leader is here!

Piercing the tumult behind him, Armstrong is out on his track; Gates has dispatched his lieutenant to summon the fugitive back. Armstrong might summon the tempest, order the whirlwind to stay, Issue commands to the earthquake--would they the mandate obey?

Wounds, they were healed in a moment! weariness instantly gone! Forward he pointed his sabre--led us, not ordered us on. Down on the Hessians we thundered, he, like a madman ahead; Vainly they strove to withstand us; raging, they shivered and fled.

On to their earthworks we drove them, shaking with ire and dismay; There they made stand with a purpose to beat back the tide of the day. Onward we followed, then faltered; deadly their balls whistled free. Where was our death-daring leader? Arnold, our hope, where was he?

He? He was everywhere riding! hither and thither his form, On the brown charger careering, showed us the path of the storm; Over the roar of the cannon, over the musketry’s crash, Sounded his voice, while his sabre lit up the way with its flash.

Throwing quick glances around him, reining a moment his steed-- “Brooks, that redoubt!” was his order; “let the rest follow my lead! Mark where the smoke-cloud is parting! see where the gun-barrels glance! Livingston, forward! On, Wesson, charge them! Let Morgan advance!”

“Forward!” he shouted, and, spurring on through the sally-port then, Fell sword in hand on the Hessians, closely behind him our men. Back shrank the foemen in terror; off went their forces pellmell, Firing one Parthian volley; struck by it, Arnold, he fell.

Ours was the day. Up we raised him; spurted the blood from his knee-- “Take my cravat, boys, and bind it; I am not dead yet,” said he. “What! did you follow me, Armstrong? Pray, do you think it quite right, Leaving your duties out yonder, to risk your dear self in the fight?”

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

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

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

(By special permission of the author, and of Harper and Brothers.)

7

THE YANKEE MAN-OF-WAR

’Tis of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the Stripes and Stars, And the whistling wind from the west-nor’-west blew through the pitch-pine spars,-- With her starboard tacks a-board, my boys, she hung upon the gale, On an autumn night we raised the light on the old head of Kinsale.

It was a clear and cloudless night, and the wind blew steady and strong, As gaily over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along; With the foaming seas beneath her bow the fiery waves she spread, And bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cathead.

There was no talk of shortening sail by him who walked the poop, And under the press of her pondering jib, the boom bent like a hoop! And the groaning waterways told the strain that held her stout main-tack, But he only laughed as he glanced abaft at the white and silvery track.

The mid-tide meets in the channel waves that flow from shore to shore, And the mist hung heavy upon the land from Featherstone to Dunmore; And that sterling light on Tusker rock, where the old bell tolls the hour, And the beacon light that shone so bright was quenched on Waterford tower.

The nightly robes our good ship wore were her three topsails set, The spanker and her standing jib, the spanker being fast; “Now, lay aloft, my heroes bold, let not a moment pass!” And royals and topgallant sails were quickly on each mast.

What looms upon the starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze? ’Tis time our good ship hauled her wind abreast the old Saltees; For by her ponderous press of sail and by her consorts four We saw our morning visitor was a British man-of-war.

Up spoke our noble captain then, as a shot ahead of us passed, “Haul snug your flowing courses, lay your topsail to the mast!” The Englishmen gave three loud hurrahs from the deck of their covered ark, And we answered back by a solid broadside from the decks of our patriot bark.

“Out, booms! Out, booms!” our skipper cried, “Out, booms, and give her sheet!” And the swiftest keel that ever was launched shot ahead of the British fleet. And amidst a thundering shower of shot, with stunsails hoisting away, Down the North Channel Paul Jones did steer, just at the break of day.

ANONYMOUS.

8

THE RIDE OF JENNIE M’NEAL

Paul Revere was a rider bold-- Well has his valorous deed been told; Sheridan’s ride was a glorious one-- Often has it been dwelt upon. But why should men do all the deeds On which the love of a patriot feeds? Hearken to me, while I reveal The dashing ride of Jennie M’Neal.

On a spot as pretty as might be found In the dangerous length of the Neutral Ground, In a cottage, cosy, and all their own, She and her mother lived alone. Safe were the two, with their frugal store, From all of the many who passed their door; For Jennie’s mother was strange to fears, And Jennie was large for fifteen years; With vim her eyes were glistening, Her hair was the hue of the blackbird’s wing; And while the friends who knew her well The sweetness of her heart could tell, A gun that hung on the kitchen wall Looked solemnly quick to heed her call; And they who were evil-minded knew Her nerve was strong and her aim was true. So all kind words and acts did deal To generous, black-eyed Jennie M’Neal.

One night when the sun had crept to bed, And rain clouds lingered overhead, And sent their surly drops for proof To drum a tune on the cottage roof, Close after a knock at the outer door, There entered a dozen dragoons or more. Their red coats, stained by the muddy road, That they were British soldiers showed; The captain his hostess bent to greet, Saying, “Madam, please give us a bit to eat; We will pay you well, and, if may be, This bright-eyed girl for pouring our tea; Then we must dash ten miles ahead, To catch a rebel colonel abed. He is visiting home, as doth appear; We will make his pleasure cost him dear.” And they fell on the hasty supper with zeal, Close-watched the while by Jennie M’Neal.

For the gray-haired colonel they hovered near Had been her true friend, kind and dear; And oft, in her younger days, had he Right proudly perched her upon his knee, And told her stories many a one Concerning the French war lately done. And oft together the two friends were, And many the arts he had taught to her; She had hunted by his fatherly side, He had shown her how to fence and ride; And once had said, “The time may be, Your skill and courage may stand by me.” So sorrow for him she could but feel, Brave, grateful-hearted Jennie M’Neal.

With never a thought or a moment more, Bare-headed she slipped from the cottage door, Ran out where the horses were left to feed, Unhitched and mounted the captain’s steed, And down the hilly and rock-strewn way She urged the fiery horse of gray. Around her slender and cloakless form Pattered and moaned the ceaseless storm; Secure and tight, a gloveless hand Grasped the reins with stern command; And full and black her long hair streamed Whenever the ragged lightning gleamed. And on she rushed for the colonel’s weal, Brave, lioness-hearted Jennie M’Neal.

Hark!--From the hills, a moment mute, Came a clatter of hoofs in hot pursuit; And a cry from the foremost trooper said, “Halt, or your blood be on your head!” She heeded it not, and not in vain She lashed the horse with the bridle rein. So into the night the gray horse strode; His shoes hewed fire from the rocky road; And the highborn courage that never dies Flashed from the rider’s coal-black eyes. The pebbles flew from that fearful race; The raindrops grasped at her glowing face. “On, on, brave beast!” with loud appeal, Cried eager, resolute Jennie M’Neal.

“Halt!” once more came the voice of dread; “Halt, or your blood be on your head!” Then, no one answering to the calls, Sped after her a volley of balls. They passed her in their rapid flight, They screamed to her left, they screamed to her right; But, rushing o’er the slippery track, She sent no token of answer back, Except a silvery laughter-peal, Brave, merry-hearted Jennie M’Neal.

So on she rushed, at her own good will, Through wood and valley, o’er plain and hill; The gray horse did his duty well, Till all at once he stumbled and fell, Himself escaping the nets of harm, But flinging the girl with a broken arm. Still undismayed by the numbing pain, She clung to the horse’s bridle rein, And gently bidding him to stand, Petted him with her able hand; Then sprung again to the saddlebow, And shouted, “One more trial now!” As if ashamed of the heedless fall He gathered his strength once more for all, And, galloping down a hillside steep, Gained on the troopers at every leap; No more the high-bred steed did reel, But ran his best for Jennie M’Neal.

They were a furlong behind, or more, When the girl burst through the colonel’s door, Her poor arm hanging helpless with pain, And she all drabbled and drenched with rain, But her cheeks as red as firebrands are, And her eyes as bright as a blazing star; And shouted, “Quick, be quick, I say! They come! they come!--away! away!” Then sunk on the rude white floor of deal, Poor, brave, exhausted Jennie M’Neal.

The startled colonel sprung, and pressed The wife and children to his breast, And turned away from his fireside bright, And glided into the stormy night; Then soon and safely made his way To where the patriot army lay. But first he bent, in the dim firelight, And kissed the forehead broad and white, And blessed the girl who had ridden so well To keep him out of a prison cell. The girl roused up at the martial din, Just as the troopers came rushing in, And laughed, e’en in the midst of a moan, Saying, “Good sirs, your bird has flown. ’Tis I who have scared him from his nest; So deal with me now as you think best.” But the grand young captain bowed, and said, “Never you hold a moment’s dread. Of womankind I must crown you queen: So brave a girl I have never seen. Wear this gold ring as your valor’s due, And when peace comes I will come for you.” But Jennie’s face an arch smile wore, As she said, “There’s a lad in Putnam’s corps Who told me the same, long time ago; You two would never agree, I know. I promised my love to be true as steel,” Said good, sure-hearted Jennie M’Neal.

WILL CARLETON.

(By special permission of the author, and of Harper and Brothers.)

9

SONG OF MARION’S MEN

Our band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion’s name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood, Our tent the cypress tree; We know the forest round us As seamen know the sea; We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass.

Woe to the English soldiery That little dread us near! On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear; When, waking to their tents on fire, They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again; And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil; We talk the battle over, And share the battle’s spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier’s cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads-- The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. ’Tis life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlight plain; ’Tis life to feel the night-wind That lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp-- A moment--and away, Back to the pathless forest Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs; Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band, With kindest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton Forever from our shore.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

10

HOW WE BURNED THE “PHILADELPHIA”

_By the beard of the Prophet the Bashaw swore_ _He would scourge us from the seas;_ _Yankees should trouble his soul no more--_ _By the Prophet’s beard the Bashaw swore,_ _Then lighted his hookah, and took his ease,_ _And troubled his soul no more._

The moon was dim in the western sky, And a mist fell soft on the sea, As we slipped away from the _Siren_ brig And headed for Tripoli.

Behind us the hulk of the _Siren_ lay, Before us the empty night; And when again we looked behind The _Siren_ was gone from our sight.

Nothing behind us, and nothing before, Only the silence and rain, As the jaws of the sea took hold of our bows And cast us up again.

Through the rain and the silence we stole along, Cautious and stealthy and slow, For we knew the waters were full of those Who might challenge the _Mastico_.

But nothing we saw till we saw the ghost Of the ship we had come to see, Her ghostly lights and her ghostly frame Rolling uneasily.

And as we looked, the mist drew up And the moon threw off her veil, And we saw the ship in the pale moonlight, Ghostly and drear and pale.

Then spoke Decatur low and said: “To the bulwarks’ shadow all! But the six who wear the Tripoli dress Shall answer the sentinel’s call.”

“What ship is that?” cried the sentinel. “No ship,” was the answer free; “But only a Malta ketch in distress Wanting to moor in your lee.

“We have lost our anchor, and wait for day To sail into Tripoli town, And the sea rolls fierce and high to-night, So cast a cable down.”

Then close to the frigate’s side we came, Made fast to her unforbid-- Six of us bold in the heathen dress, The rest of us lying hid.

But one who saw us hiding there “_Americano!_” cried. Then straight we rose and made a rush Pellmell up the frigate’s side.

Less than a hundred men were we, And the heathen were twenty score; But a Yankee sailor in those old days Liked odds of one to four.

And first we cleaned the quarter deck, And then from stern to stem We charged into our enemies And quickly slaughtered them.

All around was the dreadful sound Of corpses striking the sea, And the awful shrieks of dying men In their last agony.

The heathen fought like devils all, But one by one they fell, Swept from the deck by our cutlasses To the water, and so to hell.

Some we found in the black of the hold, Some to the fo’c’s’le fled, But all in vain; we sought them out And left them lying dead; Till at last no soul but Christian souls Upon that ship was found; The twenty score were dead, and we, The hundred, safe and sound.

And, stumbling over the tangled dead, The deck a crimson tide, We fired the ship from keel to shrouds And tumbled over the side.

Then out to sea we sailed once more, With the world as light as day, And the flames revealed a hundred sail Of the heathen there in the bay.

All suddenly the red light paled, And the rain rang out on the sea; Then--a dazzling flash, a deafening roar, Between us and Tripoli!

Then, nothing behind us, and nothing before, Only the silence and rain; And the jaws of the sea took hold of our bows And cast us up again.

_By the beard of the Prophet the Bashaw swore_ _He would scourge us from the seas;_ _Yankees should trouble his soul no more--_ _By the Prophet’s beard the Bashaw swore._ _Then lighted his hookah, and took his ease,_ _And troubled his soul no more._

BARRETT EASTMAN.

(By special permission of the author.)

11

THE “SHANNON” AND THE “CHESAPEAKE”

The captain of the _Shannon_ came sailing up the bay, A reeling wind flung out behind his pennons bright and gay; His cannon crashed a challenge; the smoke that hid the sea Was driven hard to windward and drifted back to lee.

The captain of the _Shannon_ sent word into the town: Was Lawrence there, and would he dare to sail his frigate down And meet him at the harbor’s mouth and fight him, gun to gun, For honor’s sake, with pride at stake, until the fight was won?

Now, long the gallant Lawrence had scoured the bitter main; With many a scar and wound of war his ship was home again; His crew, relieved from service, were scattered far and wide, And scarcely one, his duty done, had lingered by his side.

But to refuse the challenge? Could he outlive the shame? Brave men and true, but deadly few, he gathered to his fame. Once more the great ship _Chesapeake_ prepared her for the fight,-- “I’ll bring the foe to town in tow,” he said, “before to-night!”