And still the night moved on in its slow and silent course, while slumber locked the eyes of most of the worthy people of Boston town, and few of the patriots were afoot. But among these was the ardent man who stood with his eyes impatiently fixed on the lofty spire of the Old North Church, and in the town itself others heedfully watched the secret movements of the British troops.
Suddenly a double gleam flashed from the far-off spire. Two lighted candles had been placed in the belfry window of the church, and their feeble glimmer sped swiftly through the intervening air and fell upon the eyes of the expectant messenger. No sooner had the light met his gaze than Paul Revere, with a glad cry of relief, sprang to his saddle, gave his uneasy horse the rein, and dashed away at a swinging pace, the hoof-beats of his horse sounding like the hammer-strokes of fate as he bore away on his vital errand.
A minute or two brought him past Charlestown Neck. But not many steps had he taken on his onward course before peril to his enterprise suddenly confronted him. Two British officers appeared in the road.
"Who goes there? Halt!" was their stern command.
Paul Revere looked at them. They were mounted and armed. Should he attempt to dash past them? It was too risky and his errand too important. But there was another road near by, whose entrance he had just passed. With a quick jerk at the rein he turned his horse, and in an instant was flying back at racing speed.
"Halt, or we will fire!" cried the officers, spurring their horses to swift pursuit.
Heedless of this command the bold rider drove headlong back, his horse quickly proving his mettle by distancing those of his pursuers. A few minutes brought him to the entrance to the Medford Road. Into this he sharply wheeled, and was quickly away again towards his distant goal. Meanwhile one of the officers, finding himself distanced, turned his horse into the fields lying between the two roads, with the purpose of riding across and cutting off the flight of the fugitive. He had not taken many steps, however, before he found his horse floundering in a clay-pit, while Revere on the opposite road shot past, with a ringing shout of triumph as he went.
Leaving him for the present to his journey, we must return to the streets of Boston, and learn the secret of this midnight ride.
For several years previous to 1775 Boston had been in the hands of British troops,—of a foreign foe, we may almost say, for they treated it as though it were a captured town. Many collisions had occurred between the troops and the citizens, the rebellious feeling growing with every hour of occupation, until now the spirit of rebellion, like a contagious fever, had spread far beyond its point of origin, and affected townsmen and farmers widely throughout the colonies. In all New England hostility to British rule had become rampant, minute-men (men pledged to spring to arms at a minute's notice) were everywhere gathering and drilling, and here and there depots of arms and ammunition had hastily been formed. Peace still prevailed, but war was in the air.
Boston itself aided in supplying these warlike stores. Under the very eyes of the British guards cannon-balls and muskets were carried out in carts, covered by loads of manure. Market-women conveyed powder from the city in their panniers, and candle-boxes served as secret receptacles for cartridges. Depots of these munitions were made near Boston. In the preceding February the troops had sought to seize one of these at Salem, but were forced to halt at Salem bridge by a strong body of the people, led by Colonel Pickering. Finding themselves outnumbered, they turned and marched back, no shot being fired and no harm done.
Another depot of stores had now been made at Concord, about nineteen miles away, and this General Gage had determined to destroy, even if blood were shed in so doing. Rebellion, in his opinion, was gaining too great a head; it must be put down by the strong arm of force; the time for mild measures was past.
Yet he was not eager to rouse the colonists to hostility. It was his purpose to surprise the patriots and capture the stores before a party could be gathered to their defence. This was the meaning of the stealthy midnight movement of the troops. But the patriot leaders in Boston were too watchful to be easily deceived; they had their means of obtaining information, and the profound secret of the British general was known to them before the evening had far advanced.
About nine o'clock Lord Percy, one of the British officers, crossed the Common, and in doing so noticed a group of persons in eager chat. He joined these, curious to learn the subject of their conversation. The first words he heard filled him with alarm.
"The British troops will miss their aim," said a garrulous talker.
"What aim?" asked Percy.
"The cannon at Concord," was the reply.
Percy, who was in Gage's confidence, hastened to the head-quarters of the commanding general and informed him of what he had overheard. Gage, startled to learn that his guarded secret was already town's talk, at once set guards on all the avenues leading from the town, with orders to arrest every person who should attempt to leave, while the squad of officers of whom we have spoken were sent forward to patrol the roads.
But the patriots were too keen-witted to be so easily checked in their plans. Samuel Adams and John Hancock, the patriot leaders, fearing arrest, had left town, and were then at Lexington at the house of the Rev. Jonas Clarke. Paul Revere had been sent to Charlestown by the patriotic Dr. Warren, with orders to take to the road the moment the signal lights in the belfry of the old North Church should appear. These lights would indicate that the troops were on the road. We have seen how promptly he obeyed, and how narrowly he escaped capture by General Gages' guards.
On he went, mile by mile, rattling down the Medford Road. At every wayside house he stopped, knocked furiously at the door, and, as the startled inmates came hastily to the windows, shouted, "Up! up! the regulars are coming!" and before his sleepy auditors could fairly grasp his meaning, was away again.
It was about midnight when the British troops left Boston, on their supposed secret march. At a little after the same hour the rattling sound of hoofs broke the quiet of the dusky streets of Lexington, thirteen miles away.
Around the house of the Rev. Mr. Clarke eight minute-men had been stationed as a guard, to protect the patriot leaders within. They started hastily to their feet as the messenger rode up at headlong speed.
"Rouse the house!" cried Revere.
"That we will not," answered the guards. "Orders have been given not to disturb the people within by noise."
"Noise!" exclaimed Revere; "you'll have noise enough before long; the regulars are coming!"
At these startling tidings the guards suffered him to approach and knock at the door. The next minute a window was thrown up and Mr. Clarke looked out.
"Who is there?" he demanded.
"I wish to see Mr. Hancock," was the reply.
"I cannot admit strangers to my house at night without knowing who they are."
Another window opened as he spoke. It was that of John Hancock, who had heard and recognized the messenger's voice. He knew him well.
"Come in, Revere," he cried; "we are not afraid of you."
The door was opened and Revere admitted, to tell his alarming tale, and bid the patriot leaders to flee from that place of danger. His story was quickly confirmed, for shortly afterwards another messenger, William Dawes by name, rode up. He had left Boston at the same time as Revere, but by a different route. Adams was by this time aroused and had joined his friend, and the two patriot leaders, feeling assured that their capture was one of the purposes of the expedition, hastily prepared for retreat to safer quarters. While they did so, Revere and Dawes, now joining company, mounted again, and once more took to the road, on their midnight mission of warning and alarm.
Away they went again, with thunder of hoofs and rattle of harness, while as they left the streets of Lexington behind them a hasty stir succeeded the late silence of that quiet village. From every house men rushed to learn the news; from every window women's heads were thrust; some armed minute-men began to gather, and by two o'clock a hundred and thirty of these were gathered upon the meeting-house green. But no foe appeared, and the air was chilly at this hour of the night, so that, after the roll had been called, they were dismissed, with orders to be ready to assemble at beat of drum.
Meanwhile, Revere and his companion had pushed on towards Concord, six miles beyond. On the road they met Dr. Samuel Prescott, a resident of that town, on his way home from a visit to Lexington. The three rode on together, the messengers telling their startling story to their new companion.
It was a fortunate meeting, as events fell out, for, as they pushed onward, Paul Revere somewhat in advance, the group of British officers of whom he had been told suddenly appeared in the road before him. Before he could make a movement to escape they were around him, and strong hands were upon his shoulders. The gallant scout was a prisoner in British hands.
Dawes, who had been closely behind him, suffered the same fate. Not so Prescott, who had been left a short distance behind by the ardent messengers. He sprang over the road-side wall before the officers could reach him, and hastened away through the fields towards Concord, bearing thither the story he had so opportunely learned.
The officers had already in their custody three Lexington men, who, in order to convey the news, had taken to the road while Revere and Dawes were closeted with the patriot leaders at Mr Clarke's. Riding back with their prisoners to a house near by, they questioned them at point of pistol as to their purpose.
Revere at first gave evasive answers to their questions. But at length, with a show of exultation, he said,—
"Gentlemen, you have missed your aim."
"What aim?" they asked.
"I came from Boston an hour after your troops left it," answered Revere. "And if I had not known that messengers were out in time enough to carry the news for fifty miles, you would not have stopped me without a shot."
The officers, startled by this confident assertion, continued their questions; but now, from a distance, the clang of a bell was heard. The Lexington men cried out at this,—
"The bells are ringing! The towns are alarmed! You are all dead men!"
This assertion, which the sound of the bells appeared to confirm, alarmed the officers. If the people should rise, their position would be a dangerous one. They must make their way back. But, as a measure of precaution, they took Revere's horse and cut the girths and bridles of the others. This done, they rode away at full speed, leaving their late captives on foot in the road. But this the two messengers little heeded, as they knew that their tidings had gone on in safe hands.
While all this was taking place, indeed, Prescott had regained the road, and was pressing onward at speed. He reached Concord about two o'clock in the morning, and immediately gave the alarm. As quickly as possible the bells were set ringing, and from all sides people, roused by the midnight alarum, thronged towards the centre square. As soon as the startling news was heard active measures were taken to remove the stores. All the men, and a fair share of the women, gave their aid, carrying ammunition, muskets, cartridges, and other munitions hastily to the nearest woods. Some of the cannon were buried in trenches, over which a farmer rapidly ran his plough, to give it the aspect of a newly-ploughed field. The militia gathered in all haste from neighboring villages, and at early day a large body of them were assembled, while the bulk of the precious stores had vanished.
Meanwhile, momentous events were taking place at Lexington. The first shots of the American Revolution had been fired; the first blood had been shed. It was about four o'clock when the marching troops came within sight of the town. Until now they had supposed that their secret was safe, and that they would take the patriots off their guard. But the sound of bells, clashing through the morning air, told a different tale. In some way the people had been aroused. Colonel Smith halted his men, sent a messenger to Boston for re-enforcements, and ordered Major Pitcairn, with six companies, to press on to Concord with all haste and secure the bridges.
News that the troops were at hand quickly reached Lexington. The drums were beaten, the minute-men gathered, and as the coming morning showed its first gray tinge in the east, it gave light to a new spectacle on Lexington green, that of a force of about a hundred armed militiamen facing five or six times their number of scarlet-coated British troops.
It was a critical moment. Neither party wished to fire. Both knew well what the first shot involved. But the moment of prudence did not last. Pitcairn galloped forward, sword in hand, followed quickly by his men, and shouted in ringing tones,—
"Disperse, you villains! Lay down your arms, you rebels, and disperse!"
The patriots did not obey. Not a man of them moved from his ranks. Not a face blanched. Pitcairn galloped back and bade his men surround the rebels in arms. At this instant some shots came from the British line. They were instantly answered from the American ranks. Pitcairn drew his pistol and discharged it.
"Fire!" he cried to his troops.
Instantly a fusillade of musketry rang out upon the morning air, four of the patriots fell dead, and the other, moved by sudden panic, fled. As they retreated another volley was fired, and more men fell. The others hid behind stone walls and buildings and returned the fire, wounding three of the soldiers and Pitcairn's horse.
Such was the opening contest of the American Revolution. Those shots were the signal of a tempest of war which was destined to end in the establishment of one of the greatest nations known to human history. As for the men who lay dead upon Lexington green, the first victims of a great cause, they would be amply revenged before their assailants set foot again on Boston streets.
The troops, elated with their temporary success, now pushed on briskly towards Concord, hoping to be in time to seize the stores. They reached there about seven o'clock, but only to find that they were too late, and that most of the material of war had disappeared. They did what damage they could, knocked open about sixty barrels of flour which they found, injured three cannon, threw some five hundred pounds of balls into wells and the mill-pond, and set fire to the court-house. A Mrs. Moulton put out the flames before they had done much harm.
The time taken in these exercises was destined to be fatal to many of those indulging in them. Militia were now gathering in haste from all the neighboring towns. The Concord force had withdrawn for re-enforcements, but about ten o'clock, being now some four hundred strong, the militia advanced and attacked the enemy on guard at North Bridge. A sharp contest ensued. Captain Isaac Davis and one of his men fell dead. Three of the British were killed, and several wounded and captured. The bridge was taken.
Colonel Smith was in a quandary. Should he stand his ground, or retreat before these despised provincials? Should veteran British troops fly before countrymen who had never fired gun before at anything larger than a rabbit? But these despised countrymen were gathering in hordes. On every side they could be seen hasting forward, musket or rifle in hand. Prudence just then seemed the better part of valor. About twelve o'clock Colonel Smith reluctantly gave the order to retreat.
It began as an orderly march; it ended as a disorderly flight. The story of Lexington had already spread far and wide and, full of revengeful fury, the minute-men hastened to the scene. Reaching the line of retreat, they hid behind houses, barns, and road-side walls, and poured a galling fire upon the troops, some of whom at every moment fell dead. During that dreadful six miles' march to Lexington, the helpless troops ran the gantlet of the most destructive storm of bullets they had ever encountered. On Lexington battle-green several of them fell. It is doubtful if a man of them would have reached Boston alive but for the cautious demand for re-enforcements which Colonel Smith had sent back in the early morning.
Lord Percy, with about nine hundred men, left Boston about nine o'clock in the morning of the 19th, and a short time after two in the afternoon reached the vicinity of Lexington. He was barely in time to rescue the exhausted troops of Colonel Smith. So worn out were they with fatigue that they were obliged to fling themselves on the ground for rest, their tongues hanging from their mouths through drought and weariness.
Little time could be given them for rest. The woods swarmed with militiamen, who scarcely could be kept back by the hollow square and planted cannon of Lord Percy's troops. In a short time the march was resumed. The troops had burned several houses at Lexington, a vandalism which added to the fury of the provincials. As they proceeded, the infuriated soldiers committed other acts of atrocity, particularly in West Cambridge, where houses were plundered and several unoffending persons murdered.
But for all this they paid dearly. The militia pursued them almost to the very streets of Boston, pouring in a hot fire at every available point. On nearing Charlestown the situation of the British troops became critical, for their ammunition was nearly exhausted, and a strong force was marching upon them from several points. Fortunately for them, they succeeded in reaching Charlestown before they could be cut off, and here the pursuit ended as no longer available. The British loss in killed, wounded, and missing in that dreadful march had been nearly three hundred; that of the Americans was about one hundred in all.
It was a day mighty in history, the birthday of the American Revolution; the opening event in the history of the United States of America, which has since grown to so enormous stature, and is perhaps destined to become the greatest nation upon the face of the earth. That midnight ride of Paul Revere was one of the turning-points in the history of mankind.
Down from the green hills of Vermont came in all haste a company of hardy mountaineers, at their head a large-framed, strong-limbed, keen-eyed frontiersman, all dressed in the homespun of their native hills, but all with rifles in their hands, a weapon which none in the land knew better how to use. The tidings of stirring events at Boston, spreading rapidly through New England, had reached their ears. The people of America had been attacked by English troops, blood had been shed at Lexington and Concord, war was begun, a struggle for independence was at hand. Everywhere the colonists, fiery with indignation, were seizing their arms and preparing to fight for their rights. The tocsin had rung. It was time for all patriots to be up and alert.
On the divide between Lakes George and Champlain stood a famous fort, time-honored old Ticonderoga, which had played so prominent a part in the French and Indian War. It was feebly garrisoned by English troops, and was well supplied with munitions of war. These munitions were, just then, of more importance than men to the patriot cause. The instant the news of Lexington reached the ears of the mountaineers of Vermont, axes were dropped, ploughs abandoned, rifles seized, and "Ticonderoga" was the cry. Ethan Allen, a leader in the struggle which had for several years been maintained between the settlers of that region and the colony of New York, and a man of vigor and decision, lost no time in calling his neighbors to arms, and the Green Mountain boys were quickly in the field.
Prompt as they had been, they were none too soon. Others of the patriots had their eyes on the same tempting prize. Other leaders were eagerly preparing to obtain commissions and raise men for the expedition. One of the first of these was Benedict Arnold, who had been made colonel for the purpose by the governor of Massachusetts, and hastened to the western part of the colony to raise men and take command of the enterprise.
He found men ready for the work, Green Mountain men, with the stalwart Ethan Allen at their head, but men by no means disposed to put themselves under any other commander than the sturdy leader of their choice.
Only a year or two before Allen, as their colonel, had led these hardy mountaineers against the settlers from New York who had attempted to seize their claims, and driven out the interlopers at sword's point. The courts at Albany had decided that the Green Mountain region was part of the colony of New York. Against this decision Allen had stirred the settlers to armed resistance, thundering out against the fulminations of the lawyers the opposite quotation from Scripture, "The Lord is the God of the hills, but He is not the God of the valleys," and rousing the men of the hills to fight what he affirmed to be God's battle for the right. In 1774, Governor Tryon, of New York, offered a reward of one hundred and fifty pounds for the capture of Allen. The insurgent mountaineers retorted by offering an equal reward for the capture of Governor Tryon. Neither reward had been earned, a year more had elapsed, and Ethan Allen, at the head of his Green Mountain boys, was in motion in a greater cause, to defend, not Vermont against New York, but America against England.
But, before proceeding, we must go back and bring up events to the point we have reached. The means for the expedition of the Green Mountain boys came from Connecticut, whence a sum of three hundred pounds had been sent in the hands of trusty agents to Allen and his followers. They were found to be more than ready, and the Connecticut agents started in advance towards the fort, leaving the armed band to follow. One of them, Noah Phelps by name, volunteered to enter the fort and obtain exact information as to its condition. He disguised himself and entered the fort as a countryman, pretending that he wanted to be shaved. While hunting for the barber he kept his eyes open and used his tongue freely, asking questions like an innocent rustic, until he had learned the exact condition of affairs, and came out with a clean face and a full mind.
Allen was now rapidly approaching, and, lest news of his movement should reach the fort, men were sent out on all the roads leading thither, to intercept passers. On the 8th of May all was ready. Allen, with one hundred and forty men, was to go to the lake by way of Shoreham, opposite the fort. Thirty men, under Captain Herrick, were to advance to Skenesborough, capture Major Skene, seize boats, and drop down the lake to join Allen.
All was in readiness for the completion of the work, when an officer, attended by a single servant, came suddenly from the woods and hurried to the camp. It was Benedict Arnold, who had heard of what was afoot, and had hastened forward to claim command of the mountaineers.
It was near nightfall. The advance party of Allen's men was at Hand's Cove, on the eastern side of the lake, preparing to cross. Arnold joined them and crossed with them, but on reaching the other side of the lake claimed the command. Allen angrily refused. The debate waxed hot; Arnold had the commission; Allen had the men: the best of the situation lay with the latter. He was about to settle the difficulty by ordering Arnold under guard, when one of his friends, fearing danger to the enterprise from the controversy, suggested that the two men should march side by side. This compromise was accepted and the dispute ended.
By this time day was about to break. Eighty-three men had landed, and the boats had returned for the rest. But there was evidently no time to lose if the fort was to be surprised. They must move at once, without waiting for the remainder of the party. A farmer's boy of the vicinity, who was familiar with the fort, offered to act as guide, and in a few minutes more the advance was begun, the two leaders at the head, Allen in command, Arnold as a volunteer.
The stockade was reached. A wicket stood open. Through this Allen charged followed by his men. A sentry posted there took aim, but his piece missed fire, and he ran back shouting the alarm. At his heels came the two leaders, at full speed, their men crowding after, till, before a man of the garrison appeared, the fort was fairly won.
Allen at once arranged his men so as to face each of the barracks. It was so early that most of those within were still asleep, and the fort was captured without the commander becoming aware that any thing unusual was going on. His whole command was less than fifty men, and resistance would have been useless with double their number of stalwart mountaineers on the parade-ground.
Allen forced one of the sentries who had been captured to show him the way to the quarters of Captain Delaplace, the commander. Reaching the chamber of the latter, the militia leader called on him in a stentorian voice to surrender. Delaplace sprang out of bed, and, half dressed, appeared with an alarmed and surprised face at the door.
"By whose authority?" he demanded, not yet alive to the situation.
"In the name of the great Jehovah and the Continental Congress!" roared out the Green Mountaineer.
Here was a demand which backed as it was by a drawn sword and the sound of shouts of triumph outside, it would have been madness to resist. The fort was surrendered with scarcely a shot fired or a blow exchanged, and its large stores of cannon and ammunition, then sorely needed by the colonists besieging Boston, fell into American hands. The stores and military material captured included a hundred and twenty pieces of cannon, with a considerable number of small arms and other munitions of high value to the patriot cause.
While these events were taking place, Colonel Seth Warner was bringing the rear-guard across the lake, and was immediately sent with a hundred men to take possession of the fort at Crown Point, in which were only a sergeant and twelve men. This was done without difficulty, and a hundred more cannon captured.
The dispute between Arnold and Allen was now renewed, Massachusetts supporting the one, Connecticut the other. While it was being settled, the two joined in an expedition together, with the purpose of gaining full possession of Lake Champlain, and seizing the town of St. Johns, at its head. This failed, reinforcements having been sent from Montreal, and the adventurers returned to Ticonderoga, contenting themselves for the time being with their signal success in that quarter, and the fame on which they counted from their daring exploit.
The after-career of Ethan Allen was an interesting one, and worthy of being briefly sketched. Having taken Ticonderoga, he grew warm with the desire to take Canada, and, on September 25, 1775, made a rash assault on Montreal with an inadequate body of men. The support he hoped for was not forthcoming, and he and his little band were taken, Allen, soon after, being sent in chains to England.
Here he attracted much attention, his striking form, his ardent patriotism, his defiance of the English, even in captivity, and certain eccentricities of his manner and character interesting some and angering others of those with whom he had intercourse.
Afterwards he was sent back to America and held prisoner at Halifax and New York, in jails and prison-ships, being most of the time harshly treated and kept heavily ironed. He was released in 1778.
A fellow-prisoner, Alexander Graydon, has left in his memoirs a sketch of Allen, which gives us an excellent idea of the man. "His figure was that of a robust, large-framed man worn down by confinement and hard fare.... His style was a singular compound of local barbarisms, scriptural phrases, and Oriental wildness.... Notwithstanding that Allen might have had something of the insubordinate, lawless, frontier spirit in his composition, he appeared to me to be a man of generosity and honor."
Among the eccentricities of the man was a disbelief in Christianity,—much more of an anomaly in that day than at present,—and a belief in the transmigration of souls, it being one of his fancies that, after death, his spiritual part was to return to this world in the form of a large white horse.
On his release he did not join the army. Vermont had declared itself an independent State in 1777, and sought admittance to the Confederation. This New York opposed. Allen took up the cause, visited Congress on the subject, but found its members not inclined to offend the powerful State of New York. There was danger of civil war in the midst of the war for independence, and the English leaders, seeing the state of affairs, tried to persuade Allen and the other Green Mountain leaders to declare for the authority of the king. They evidently did not know Ethan Allen. He was far too sound a patriot to entertain for a moment such a thought. The letters received by him he sent in 1782 to Congress, and when the war ended Vermont was a part of the Union, though not admitted as a State till 1791. Allen was then dead, having been carried away suddenly by apoplexy in 1789.
Before the days of dynamite and the other powerful explosives which enable modern man to set at naught the most rigid conditions of nature, warfare with the torpedo was little thought of, gunpowder being a comparatively innocent agent for this purpose. In the second period of the Revolutionary War, when the British fleet had left Boston and appeared in the harbor of New York, preparatory to an attack on the latter city, the only methods devised by the Americans for protection of the Hudson were sunken hulks in the stream, chevaux-de-frise, composed of anchored logs, and fire-ships prepared to float down on the foe. All these proved of no avail. The current loosened the anchored logs, so that they proved useless; the fire-ships did no damage; and the batteries on shore were not able to hinder certain ships of the enemy from running the gantlet of the city, and ascending the Hudson to Tappan Sea, forty miles above. All the service done by the fire-ships was to alarm the captains of these bold cruisers, and induce them to run down the river again, and rejoin the fleet at the Narrows.
It was at this juncture that an interesting event took place, the first instance on record of the use of a torpedo-vessel in warfare. A Connecticut officer named Bushnell, an ingenious mechanician, had invented during his college-life an oddly-conceived machine for submarine explosion, to which he gave the appropriate name of "The American Turtle." He had the model with him in camp. A report of the existence of this contrivance reached General Putnam, then in command at New York. He sent for Bushnell, talked the matter over with him, examined the model, and was so pleased with it that he gave the inventor an order to construct a working-machine, supplying funds for this purpose.
Bushnell lost no time. In ten days the machine was ready. It was a peculiar-looking affair, justifying its name by its resemblance to a large ocean-turtle. In the head, or front portion, was an air-tight apartment, with a narrow entrance. It was claimed to be capable of containing fresh air enough to support life for half an hour. The bottom of the machine was ballasted with lead. Motion was obtained from an oar, adapted for rowing backward or forward, while a rudder under control of the operator served for steering purposes. In the bottom was a valved aperture, into which water could be admitted when it was desired to sink the machine; while the water could be ejected by two brass pumps when the operator wished to rise again.
The torpedo arrangement consisted of two pieces of oak timber, hollowed out and filled with powder, the space containing a clock-work arrangement that could be set to run any time desired, and a contrivance for exploding the powder when the time expired. This torpedo was fixed in the rear of the vessel, and was provided with a strong screw, that could be turned by the operator, so as to fasten it under the bottom of a ship or in other desired location. So far as appeared, the contrivance was not unpromising. It failed in its purpose, but solely, if the word of the operator may be taken, from the absence of an indispensable article of supply. What this was will appear in the sequel.
Captain Bushnell's brother had volunteered for the perilous enterprise. A sudden sickness prevented him, and his place was taken by a venturesome New London sergeant named Abijah Shipman, or, as rechristened by his companions, "Long Bige." He was an amphibious chap, half sailor, half soldier, long, thin, and bony, and not wanting in Yankee humor. He had courage enough to undertake any enterprise, if he could only be primed with rum and tobacco, articles which he deemed the leading necessaries of life.
It was an early hour of a July morning. The sun had not appeared on the eastern horizon. By a wharf-side on the Hudson floated the strange marine monster whose powers were about to be tested. On the shore stood Putnam and many other officers. In their midst was Abijah Shipman, ready to start on his dangerous enterprise. It was proposed to tow the nondescript affair into the stream, set it adrift on the tide, and trust to Abijah's skill to bring it under the bottom of the "Eagle," Admiral Howe's flag-ship, which had been chosen for the victim. If the magazine could be attached to the bottom of this vessel, she must surely be destroyed. But certainly the chances seemed greatly against its being thus attached.
Everything was ready. Abijah stepped on board his craft, entered the air-tight chamber, closed the cover, and was about to screw it down, when suddenly it flew open again, and his head emerged.
"Thunder and marlinspikes!" he exclaimed, "who's got a cud of tobacco? This old cud won't last, anyhow." And he threw away the worn-out lump on which he had been chewing.
A laugh followed his appeal. Such of the officers as used the weed felt hastily in their pockets. They were empty of the indispensable article. There was no hope for Abijah; daylight was at hand, time was precious, he must sail short of supplies.
"You see how it is, my brave fellow," said Putnam. "We Continental officers are too poor to raise even a tobacco plug. Push off. To-morrow, after you have sent the 'Eagle' on its last flight, some of our Southern officers shall order you a full keg of old Virginia weed."
"It's too bad," muttered Abijah, dejectedly. "And mind you, general, if the old 'Turtle' doesn't do her duty, it's all 'long of me goin' to sea without tobacco."
Down went Abijah's head, the cover was tightly screwed into place, and the machine was towed out into the channel and cast loose. Away it floated towards the British fleet, which lay well up in the Narrows. The officers made their way to the Battery, where they waited in much suspense the result of the enterprise.
An hour slowly moved by. Morning broke. The rim of the sun lifted over the distant waters. Yet the "Eagle" still rode unharmed. Something surely had happened. The torpedo had failed. Possibly the venturesome Abijah was reposing in his stranded machine on the bottom of the bay. Putnam anxiously swept the waters in the vicinity of the "Eagle" with his glass. Suddenly he exclaimed, "There he is!" The top of the "Turtle" had just emerged, in a little bay a short distance to the left of Howe's flag-ship.
It was seen as quickly by the sentinels on the "Eagle," who fired at the strange aquatic monster with such good aim that Abijah popped under the water as hastily as he had emerged from it. On board the "Eagle" confusion evidently prevailed. This strange contrivance had apparently filled the mariners with alarm. There were signs of a hasty effort to get under weigh, and wings were added to this haste when a violent explosion took place in the immediate vicinity of the fleet, hurling up great volumes of water into the air. The machine had been set to run an hour, and had duly gone off at its proper time, but, for some reason yet to be explained, not under the "Eagle." The whole fleet was not long in getting up its anchors, setting sail, and scurrying down the bay to a safer abiding-place below. And here they lay until the day of the battle of Long Island, not venturing again within reach of that naval nondescript.
As for the "Turtle," boats at once set out to Abijah's relief and he was taken off in the vicinity of Governor's Island. On landing and being questioned, he gave, in his own odd way, the reasons of his failure.
"Just as I said, gen'ral," he remarked "it all failed for the want of that cud of tobacco. You see, I am narvous without tobacco. I got under the 'Eagle's' bottom, but somehow the screw struck the iron bar that passes from the rudder pintle, and wouldn't hold on anyhow I could fix it. Just then I let go the oar to feel for a cud, to steady my narves, and I hadn't any. The tide swept me under her counter, and away I slipped top o' water. I couldn't manage to get back, so I pulled the lock and let the thunder-box slide. That's what comes of sailin' short of supplies. Say, can't you raise a cud among you now?"
There is another interesting story to tell, in connection with the British occupation of New York, which may be fitly given here. The battle of Long Island had been fought. The American forces had been safely withdrawn. Washington had moved the main body of his army, with the bulk of the stores, from the city, leaving General Putnam behind, in command of the rear-guard.
Putnam's position was a perilous one. The configuration of Manhattan Island is such that the British could land a force from the East River, throw it across the narrow width of the island, and cut off retreat from below. The only trust lay in the shore batteries, and they proved useless.
A British landing was made at Kip's Bay, about three miles above the city, where were works strong enough to have kept off the enemy for a long time, had they been well defended. As it was, the garrison fled in a panic, on the bare appearance of the British transports. At the same time three ships of war moved up the Hudson to Bloomingdale, and attacked the works there.
The flight of the Kip's Bay garrison left Putnam in the most imminent peril. He had about three thousand men, and a dangerous incumbrance of women, children, camp-followers, and baggage. The weather was very hot, the roads were narrow; everything tended to make the retreat difficult and perilous. The instant he heard of the unlooked-for cowardice of the Kip's Bay garrison and the landing of the enemy, he put his men in motion, and strained every nerve to push them past the point of danger before his channel of escape should be closed.
Safety seemed a forlorn hope. The British had landed in force above him. A rapid march would quickly bring them to the Hudson. The avenue of exit would be closed. The danger of capture was extreme. It was averted by one of those striking incidents of which so many give interest to the history of war. In this case it was a woman whose coolness and quick wit proved the salvation of Putnam's imperilled army.
Sir Henry Clinton, having fairly landed his men at Kip's Bay, put them quickly into motion to cut off Putnam's retreat. In his march for this object, his route lay along the eastern side of Murray Hill, where was the residence of Mrs. Murray, mother of Lindley Murray, the grammarian, and a most worthy old Quaker lady. Putnam had sent her word, some time before, of his perilous situation, begging her, if possible, to detain General Clinton, by entertaining him and his officers. If their march could be hindered for an hour it would be an invaluable service.
The patriotic old lady was quick to respond. Many of the British officers knew her, and when she appeared, with a welcoming smile, at her door, and cordially invited them to step in and take a friendly glass of wine, the offer was too tempting to be refused. Exhausted with the heat and with the labor of disembarking, they were only too glad to halt their columns for a short rest, and follow her into her comfortable dining-room. Here Mrs. Murray and the ladies of her family exerted themselves to entertain their guests. The wine proved excellent. The society and conversation of the ladies were a delightful change from the duties of the camp. The minutes became an hour before the guests dreamed of the flight of time.
At length a negro servant, who had been on the lookout from the housetop, entered the room, made a significant sign to his mistress, and at once withdrew. Mrs. Murray now rose, and with a meaning smile turned to her titled guest.
"Will you be kind enough to come with me, Sir Henry?" she asked. "I have something of great interest to show you."
"With pleasure," he replied, rising with alacrity, and following her from the room.
She led the way to the lookout in the upper story, and pointed to the northern side of the hill, where could be seen the American flag, proudly waving over the ranks of the retiring army. They were marching in close array into the open plain of Bloomingdale.
"How do you like the prospect, Sir Henry?" she calmly inquired. "We consider the view from this side an admirable one."
What Sir Henry replied, history has not recorded. No doubt it lacked the quality of politeness. Down the stairs he rushed, calling to his officers as he passed, leaped upon his horse, and could scarcely find words in his nervous haste to give orders for pursuit.
He was too late. The gap was closed; but nothing, except such baggage and stores as could not be moved, remained in the trap which, if sprung an hour earlier, would have caught an army.
Only for Mrs. Murray's inestimable service, Putnam and his men would probably have become prisoners of war. Her name lives in history among those of the many heroines who so ably played their part in the drama of American liberty, and who should hold high rank among the makers of the American Commonwealth.
In Philadelphia, on Second Street below Spruce, formerly stood an antiquated mansion, known by the name of "Loxley's House," it having been originally the residence of Lieutenant Loxley, who served in the artillery under Braddock, and took part in his celebrated defeat. During the Revolution this house was the scene of an interesting historical incident, which is well worth relating.
At that time it was occupied by a Quaker named Darrah, or perhaps we should say by his wife Lydia, who seems to have been the ruling spirit of the house. During the British occupation of Philadelphia, when patriots and royalists alike had to open their mansions to their none too welcome guests, the Darrah mansion was used as the quarters of the British adjutant-general. In that day it was somewhat "out of town," and was frequently the scene of private conferences of the higher officers, as being somewhat secluded.
On one chill and snowy day, the 2d of December, 1777, the adjutant-general appeared at the house and bade Mrs. Darrah to prepare the upper back room for a meeting of his friends, which would take place that night.
"They may stay late," he said, and added, emphatically, "be sure, Lydia, that your family are all in bed at an early hour. When our guests are ready to leave the house I will give you notice, that you may let us out and extinguish the fire and candles."
Mrs. Darrah obeyed. Yet she was so struck by the mystery with which he seemed inclined to surround the projected meeting, that she made up her mind to learn, if possible, what very secret business was afoot. She obeyed his orders literally, saw that her people were early in bed, and, after receiving the officers, retired herself to her room, but not to sleep. This conference might presage some peril to the American cause. If so, she wished to know it.
When she deemed the proper time had come, she removed her shoes, and in stocking feet stole softly along the passage to the door of the apartment where the officers were in consultation. Here the key-hole served the purpose to which that useful opening has so often been put, and enabled her to hear tidings of vital interest. For some time only a murmur of voices reaches her ears. Then silence fell, followed by one of the officers reading in a clear tone. She listened intently, for the document was of absorbing interest. It was an order from Sir William Howe, arranging for a secret attack on Washington's camp at Whitemarsh. The troops were to leave the city on the night of the 4th under cover of the darkness, and surprise the rebels before daybreak.
The fair eavesdropper had heard enough. Rarely had key-hole listener been so well rewarded. She glided back to her room, and threw herself on her bed. She was none too soon. In a few minutes afterwards steps were heard in the passage and then came a rap upon her door. The fair conspirator was not to be taken unawares; she feigned not to hear. The rap was repeated a second and a third time. Then the shrewd woman affected to awake, answered in a sleepy tone, and, learning that the adjutant-general and his friends were ready to leave, arose and saw them out.