University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

Madam L—felt a deep interest in those soldiers who
had borne the burdens of our revolution. It was one of
her favourite maxims, that their services would be better
estimated when the blessings, won by their toil, were
more widely diffused, and more fully realized. Could she
have seen through the vista of future years, a band, small,
feeble, and hoary, yet bending less beneath the burdens
of age, than those of poverty, going forth like the widow
of Zarepta, to gather sticks to dress a handful of meal, that
they might eat it and die; she would scarcely have been
convinced that these were the defenders of her country.
Had she seen, in vision, a mother redeemed from servitude
by the blood of her sons, yet withholding from their
necessities a scanty pittance, till by far the greater number
of them had sought refuge where wounds fester no
more, she would not have acknowledged such an emblem
of the land that gave her birth. She could not have been
induced to believe, that her dear native country, like the
officer of the Egyptian king, in his transition from a prison
to a place near the throne, “remembered not Joseph,
but forgat him.”

The place of her residence had furnished many of those
veterans who, during a war of eight years, had rarely tasted
the “charities of home, and sweet domestick life.”
Some had fallen while the fields were sown with blood,
others had returned to share the blessings of their harvest.
A few survived with broken frames, and debilitated constitutions,
living spectacles of woe to their disconsolate
families. To these that charitable Lady extended her
unwearied friendship. Medicine for their sicknesses, food
for their tables, and condescending kindness to their
sorrowful spirits, she distributed with that judgment
which accompanies a discriminating mind.

One of these unfortunate beings, who frequently came
to sit an hour with her when she was at leisure, used to
style himself the Captain of her band of pensioners. He
was a man of powerful frame, strong features, and ardent
character. His good right hand which had so often toiled
to procure bread for the lambs of his household, had been
cleft from his body by a sabre, as he raised it to ask for
quarter in an unsuccessful combat. A crutch, which his
left hand had painfully wrought out, and inscribed with
the date of his last battle, supplied the loss of a limb,
which had been amputated in consequence of a neglected
wound. Pain, sickness, and the untold miseries of a
prison-ship, had destroyed the vigour of a muscular frame,
and given the wrinkles of age to one who had not seen
half a century.

Madam L— listened with interest to his narratives,
and often wondered at the elasticity with which his spirit
soared above the ruins of his frame. One morning as he
was seated with her, his only hand resting upon the crutch
that stood by his side, he said—

“I should take more pleasure in coming to this house,
Madam, if I could but forget that the traitor Arnold used
to reside in it. I don't like to sit in seats, where he sat.”

“I am sorry, Anderson,” replied the Lady, “that any
such image should interfere with the comfort of your visits.
I have no particular satisfaction in retracing the connection
of Benedict with our family. He was received
by my husband, more from the solicitations of a widowed
mother, than from any prepossessing traits of character.
He evinced, at the age of twelve, those qualities which
distinguished his manhood. He possessed a courage, and
contempt of hardship, which would have been interesting,
had they not been associated with dispositions delighting
to inflict pain. His intellect was rapid and powerful, but
he was impatient of controul, and devoid of integrity.”

“I remember him,” said the soldier, “in his boyish
days. He loved to cut young birds to pieces, and to
laugh at the mourning of their parents, and to torture every
thing that was weaker than himself. There is nothing
that I check my boys sooner for than cruelty to animals. It
will make you like Arnold, I say to them, and no traitor
shall be son of mine. I once met him when a boy at the
mill, where we both came with corn. He quarrelled with

the miller for making him wait, and then amused himself
by clinging to the wheel, and going with it fearlessly as it
turned in the water. I wondered at his dangerous sport,
and his bold words. I knew not then that I should live to
see him strive to plunge his country into perdition.”

The Lady, ever intent to find “some soul of goodness
in things evil,” replied,—

“Arnold possessed courage, and presence of mind, in
an eminent degree. At his unsuccessful attack on Canada,
with the lamented Montgomery, he displayed superiour
valour. You know also, that he sustained extreme hardships,
in his march through the wilderness from Kennebeck.
Beside the labour of travelling over pathless
mountains, and swamps, he and his men were reduced to
the necessity of feeding on the vilest substances, even on
the remnants of their own shoes. That he possessed active
as well as enduring courage has been often proved.
In his battle with Sir Guy Carleton on Lake Champlain,
after signalizing his valour, he was so solicitous about a
point of honour, as to prefer blowing up his own frigate to
striking the American flag to the enemy. His radical
faults were want of feeling, and of moral principle. His
fondness for pomp, and splendid equipage led him to the
meanest acts of fraud, when in command at Philadelphia.
His vindictive spirit never forgave the reprimand which
was there given him by Washington, in pursuance of the
decree of the court, appointed to investigate his conduct.
From that period, revenge, and treason employed his

meditations. He probably procured the command at
West-Point, with the deliberate design of delivering to
the foe that “rock of our military salvation.”

Anderson who could scarcely endure to yield the traitor
that measure of fame which he had earned, felt particularly
uneasy to hear it from lips that he revered, and answered
with warmth—

“I have heard his courage doubted, Madam. At Saratoga,
where he so madly defied danger, he was known to
have been intoxicated. I recollect how angry he was,
at the battle of Bemis-heights, because the command was
not given to him instead of General Gates. He came upon
the field in very ill-humour, and brandished his sword so
carelessly, that he wounded in the head an officer who
stood near. Then plunging foolishly into the most perilous
scenes of action, he had his leg fractured; and I heard
the surgeon of the hospital say, that he was so peevish, and
furious at his confinement, and pain, that no one liked to
be near him.”

Madam L—, perceiving that the object of honest Anderson's
aversion bade fair to monopolize his whole
visit, made an attempt to change the current of his
thought.

“There is a story,” she said, “which I always hear
from you, with peculiar satisfaction. I refer to the battle
of Bunker-hill, which you may perhaps recollect you have
not described to me for a very long time.”

The expression of the soldier's face suddenly changed

Debility and poverty vanished from his mind. His tall
form was raised erectly, and his tone became more free
and bold as he recited his first feat of arms. The “Last
Minstrel” evinced not more of a warriour's pride, when he
exclaimed—

“You will remember, Madam,” said the soldier, “that
it was warm weather for the month of June, when the
action, to which you allude, took place. It was on the
evening of the 16th, that we were ordered to march to
Bunker-hill. It had been rumoured that the British troops
intended to take possession of it, and we were directed
to prevent them. People say now that Prescott made a
mistake, and fortified Breed's-hill, instead of Bunker's.
But the name is of little consequence, as long as the victory
remains. We marched in perfect silence, lest we
should be discovered by some of Gage's centinels. But
some of us could not refrain from cursing the vile wretch,
who was cooping up the distressed Bostonians, like lambs
in a quick-set hedge. We did not arrive on the ground
till near midnight. Then we commenced our labours,
and it seemed as if the Almighty prospered us. Before
day-light our fortifications were completed. At dawn, the
British saw with great surprise, what had been done so
near them, without their discovering it before. Perhaps

the evil-minded Saul was not more dismayed, when the
stripling David displayed, from a neighbouring hill, the
spear, and the cruse of water, which he had stolen from
his head while he slept. They acknowledged that Yankees
could work well, and afterwards found that they
were able to fight as well. Early the next spring, when
we threw up fortifications with great despatch on Dorchester
Heights, General Howe on discovering them the
next morning through a thick fog, which, like a vessel
looming at sea, made them appear larger than they really
were, struck his forehead in great wrath, exclaiming,
“what shall I do! These rebels do more in one night,
than my army can accomplish in weeks.”

“But I beg pardon, Madam, for wandering from my
subject. As soon as our entrenchments struck the eye of
the British, a terrible fire opened upon us from Copp'shill,
the war-ships, and floating batteries, so that we might
pick up shot, and bombs, wherever we turned. We were
much fatigued after the severe toil of a sleepless night,
but none of us could think of taking rest; and what was
worse, we were poorly supplied with provisions. I can
see at this moment General Putnam moving round among
us, and animating every man who drooped, by his bold
and cheerful voice. All night he was in the midst of our
labours, directing and bearing a part. While the morning
was yet gray, a detachment of somewhat more than
an hundred men was despatched, under Captain Knowlton,
to take post on the left hand of the breast-work. I

knew not, as I hastened on with them, what a dangerous
station it would prove. Yet if I had, I should not have
drawn back, for my heart was high. When we reached
the spot, we were employed in placing one rail-fence parallel
with another, and filling the interval with the newmown
hay which strewed the field,—that field where men
were soon to lie thick as herbs beneath the sharp sithe.
In the course of the forenoon, a few more soldiers arrived,
increasing our numbers to about 1500. We made but a
scanty dinner, though those of us, who had watched all
night, and got no breakfast, were rather sharp-set. Yet
it seemed as if no man thought of food, or of rest, so full
was his heart of thouse liberties, which he was about to defend.
At one o'clock, a thick, dark smoke spread over
the skirts of the hill. We had scarcely time to exclaim—
“See! Charlestown with its fair houses, and beautiful
spire burning,” ere we saw our foes marching towards us.
Soon the smoke of the town, and that of the cannon
mingled, rising in heavy volumes towards the sky. Prescott
flourished his sword, till it cast a gleam like lightning
among us; and Putnam's voice thundered hoarsely, “Remember
Lexington.”

“Ah!” said the Lady, “it was at the report of the
blood shed at Lexington that, like the Roman Cincinnatus,
he cast the plough from his hand, and leaving his unfinished
furrow, rode in one day nearly seventy miles to join
the American camp. Washington repeatedly paid high
tribute to his bravery, and his virtues.”

Smiling at the praise of his favourite general, the veteran
proceeded:—

“Knowlton, also, the commander of our little band,
was a lion-hearted man, and his lieutenants did their duty
bravely. Colonel Stark, with his New-Hampshire
back-woodsmen, took deadly aim as if in their own forests.
The British lines, partly wrapt in smoke, marched up with
colours flying. At their head, came Generals Howe, and
Pigot, with a contemptuous, yet noble demeanour.
Three thousand well-disciplined men followed them, supported
by field artillery. First marched the grenadiers,
with their lofty caps, and glittering bayonets. We were
commanded to reserve our fire, until they were within a
few yards of us. When they reached that spot, it was
wonderful how many plumed heads fell. Dismayed at our
furious, and fatal discharge, they at length fled precipitately
towards their boats.

“Their officers pursued, menacing them with drawn
swords. With difficulty they were forced to rally. A
second time they came forward, fought with great valour,
suffered terrible slaughter, and retreated. The officers,
who forced them a third time to the charge, said to each
other, with melancholy countenances—

“It is butchery again to lead these brave fellows to that
fatal spot.”

“General Clinton stood with Burgoyne, upon Copp'shill,
gazing through his spy-glass to see the chastisement
of the rebels. But, when he marked movements of distress

in the British lines, he flew to join them, and was
seen, hurrying with distracted steps to unite with Howe,
and his council. Then they increased the fire from their
ships of war, changed the position of their cannon so as
to rake the inside of our breast-work, and advanced with
fresh resolution, attacking our redoubt on three sides at
once. The carnage became dreadful. At this important
crisis, our ammunition was exhausted, and that decided the
fate of the day. Could we but have obtained the materials
of defence, the British would never have driven us
from that hill. Perhaps they might have buried us in its
bosom.

“You know, Madam, our redoubt was lost. I never
can bear to say that we retreated, or that the English took
it; but it was lost by the fortune of war.

“When it was found necessary for us to retire, the enemy
attempted to force our little band from the rail-fence,
in order to cut off the retreat of the main body. This they
found no such easy matter. We fought till not a cartridge
was left, and then gave them a parting salute with the butend
of our muskets, as they leaped into our entrenchments.
Half our number lay lifeless, or wounded among
us. Yet even the dying forbore to groan, listening for
our cry of victory. Four comrades were shot beside me.
Their warm blood poured over my feet. One of them
was my brother, whom I loved as my own soul. Falling he said—

“Here are yet three cartridges. Take them, and God
be with you.”

“Strange as it may seem, I who could never, from my
infancy, see him suffer pain without sharing in it, took the
cartridges from his quivering hand, and paused not a moment
to mourn. I cannot tell how many times I fired,
with the same aim that I have taken at the fox in his speed,
and the pigeon in the air, when they have fallen. My
musket burst, and I snatched another from the dead hand
of a comrade. The Almighty have mercy on the souls,
who were sent by me to their last account. When we
were compelled to retire, not having a round of powder
left, and being unprovided with bayonets, our only path
was over a neck of land, where we were exposed to a
cross-fire from a man of war, and two floating batteries.

“Our loss, in that perilous combat, was less severe than
could have been expected, and would almost have been
forgotten, had not the brave Warren fallen. He was a
godlike man, and the idol of the people. He had performed
prodigies of valour that day, seeking the front of
danger. After the musket-shot struck him, an elegant
man, in the uniform of a British officer, was seen to withdraw
his arm from that of General Howe, and run towards
the fallen, with great rapidity. Waving his sword
to disperse the regulars who followed him, he bent over
General Warren, and said in a tremulous tone—

“My dear friend, I hope you are not much hurt.”

“The fallen hero lifted his glazed eye to him, and faintly

smiling, expired. This officer was Colonel Small, who
had been much in this country previously to the war,
and had formed many friendships here. He was once so
near our redoubt, during the battle, that a line of marksmen
took aim at him, perceiving by his uniform that he
held rank in the army. Putnam saw them, and striking
up the muzzles of their pieces with his sword, exclaimed—

“For God's sake, spare that man. I love him as a
brother.”

“I think I can hear at this moment, the voice of my
old general, so bold and loud. Notwithstanding his rough
exteriour, he had a tender heart for the wounded and
the prisoner.”

“I knew him,” said the Lady, “as a friend of my husband,
and occasionally our honoured guest. He had a
kind and generous nature, scorning dissimulation in all its
forms. Though he possessed valour, which even in the
language of his foes made him “willing to lead where any
dared to follow,” his energetic soul was gentle in its
affections, and easily moved to pity. I find we are always
ready to recount the virtues of those who have aided in
delivering our country; yet we ought not to forget the
merits of our enemies. Were any in the British lines peculiarly
conspicuous during this battle?”

“Madam,” answered the veteran, “had they shewn
less courage, we should have deserved less praise. Howe
was in all places, and in the midst of every thing, always

animated, and collected. He was wounded in the foot,
but disregarded it till the action was over. Major Pitcairn,
who was so active at Lexington, distinguished himself
here. At the taking of the redoubt, he was one of the
first to spring upon our breast-work. “The day is ours,”
he shouted with a clear, glad voice. He had scarcely
closed his lips, ere aball passed through his body. His son,
Captain Pitcairn, a fine young man, caught him in his arms
as he fell, and bore him to the boat, where he soon died.

“The enemy complained of the great proportion of valuable
officers, who were that day fatally singled out by
our marksmen. Ninety were among the slain and wounded;
some of them the flower of their army and nobility.
General Gage himself confessed a total loss of nearly eleven
hundred. Among us, those who died upon the field of
battle or soon after, amounted to about one hundred and
thirty. More than twice that number were wounded. The
whole of these, including prisoners, fell short of five hundred.
We were defeated solely by the want of ammunition,
and when we retired were obliged to leave several
pieces of artillery behind us. It was a stirring time, Madam,
and every thing was well enough, except our being
obliged to retreat. I always wish to leave that out of the
story.”

“It was a retreat, my friend,” she answered, “which
produced the effect of a victory. This was a battle where
the vanquished seemed to reap the harvest, and the victors
to mourn. It might almost be styled the Thermopylæ

of our revolution. It raised the doubting spirit of our
people, and taught them confidence in the resources of
their own strength. Those, who retained possession of the
field, were humbled at the gallant bearing of undisciplined
troops, and depressed at the magnitude of their own loss.
It was the first time that they had seen military skill, and
the terrour of a royal name bow before the rude enthusiasm
of liberty. It was a difficult page in the lesson of humiliation.
For my own part, I have never since looked
upon that green hill, or at the tomb of the warriours who
sleep in its bosom, without numbering them among the
silent but powerful agents who influenced our destinies as
a nation.”