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PUTNAM THE BRAVE.
F all our great commanders,
The soldiers of renown
Who stoutly fought for freedom
Against the British Crown,
Was none like General Putnam,
Of whom you now shall hear :—
Where all were brave, the bravest,
A man that knew not fear!
His father was a farmer, —
One of the common kind,
‘Who till their scanty acres
And leave no name behind.
The childish years of Israel,
Which were in Salem spent,
Were just like other children’s
Not much on learning bent.
A merry lad, however,
And sturdy from his birth,
He grew like the oaks around him,
Whose roots were deep in earth.
He could outrun the swiftest,
And wrestle with the best,
And threshing with his brothers,
Do more than all the rest.
No braver, better fellow
In all New England then ;
And something seemed to mark him
As not of common men!
When one and twenty summers
Had passed o’er Putnam’s head,
He knew he loved a woman,
And soon the pair were wed.
Behold them now at Pomfret, —
A farmer and his wife,
Contented with each other
And with the country life.
She was a famous housewife,
Who could both bake and brew:
Knew how to spin, — knit stockings, —
And how to darn them, too.
There was no better farmer
In all the land than he;
From dawn till after sundown,
As long as.he could see,
He ploughed his stony acres,
He sowed his rye and wheat,
He mowed his patch of meadow
Where the clover was so sweet ; —
Gathered his russet apples,
And reaped and threshed his grain, —
Tanned berry-brown with sunshine,
And wet with sweat and rain.
Homeward, behind his oxen,
When he could work no more,
He trudged, — his good wife met him
With a cheery smile at the door!
While Putnam lived at Pomfret,
As you have just been told,
He did a deed which showed him
The boldest of the bold.
There was a wolfish monster,
But seldom seen of men,
The terror of ‘the county,
That somewhere had a den,
From which it used to sally
When all were fast asleep,
To harry the poor watch-dogs,
And kill the helpless sheep.
One night this monstrous creature,
That only lived to kill,
Stole-to the farm of Putnam,
And worked its bloody will.
When Putnam saw the havoc,
He said, “The beast must die:â€
And his eye was like a tempest
That darkens all the sky!
From far and near the neighbors
Came flocking to the place,
Armed with their trusty muskets,
And mounted for the chase.
Then after the great she-wolf
They followed the swift hounds,
Past woods, through pastures, cornfields,
_ And over marshy grounds, —
Till, reaching the broad river,
PUTNAM THE BRAVE.
It turned upon its track, And Putnam bore it proudly,
And when they thought to kill it As if he were a king?
It baffled the whole pack : Not so, —he took it simply,
Back —back to Pomfret, madly As ’t were a common thing:
Went wolf and dogs and men, Yet there was that about him, —
Until they neared a cavern ~ A look within his eye, —
Which was not known till then: — Which said, “When danger threatens,
Up, —in among the bushes This man will do—or die!â€
It scrambled, vanished — where?
At last they found the cavern, Ten happy years at Pomfret
And guessed the wolf was there. Like summer birds have flown:
“Go fetch me ropes,†said Putnam, The earth puts forth its harvests,
And while they ran for these, And seed again is sown.
He twisted into torches Suddenly peace is over,
The bark of birchen trees, — And dreadful war is come ;
Threw off his coat and waistcoat, Throughout the startled Colonies
Impatient till they came. Is heard the rolling drum:
Then, with a rope around him, The British troops are gathering
And a birchen torch aflame, With all the speed they may,
He crept into the cavern, To fight the French and Indians.
And warily looked about ; — In Massachusetts Bay,
A sudden kick, —the signal, — And the green hills of New Hampshire,
And they hurriedly dragged him out! The raw Provincials arm, —
He rose up, bruised and bleeding, And the valley of Connecticut, —
But, smiling down his pain, And Putnam leaves his farm ;
He snatched and cocked a musket, — For a company of Rangers,
Was in the cave again, — Who know his might and skill,
In further, further, creeping, Have chosen him their Captain,
Till drawing nigher, nigher, To lead them where he will.
Was something in the darkness They march and help the British
Like two great balls of fire! In many a bloody fray:
He fired! — before the thunder, To-day tney storm a fortress,
The smoke, had cleared away, To-night they steal away ;—
He stood among his comrades Are skulking in the forest,
And saw the light of day. Are drifting down the lake,
Once more, with burning torches, To fall upon the Indians,
He crept within the cave: As when the thunders break !
No great eyes in the darkness, — By fatal William Henry, ;
The silence of the grave ’ Where the earth is heaped with slain ;
Had fallen with the monster, By old Ticonderoga,
That never stirred a limb ; And the waters of Champlain : —
So by the ears he grabbed it, : In the forefront of the battle,
And they dragged it out with him, — Where thickest lie the dead,
A gaunt and grisly creature, Are Captain Putnam’s Rangers
Grim, ghastly, awful — red! With Putnam at their head !
What shouts went up in Pomfret They marched one summer morning
Because the wolf was dead! From where they camped at night,
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PUTNAM THE
And through a brushwood thicket
They struggled as they might ;
At length they reached the forest,
Not dreaming of the foe, —
Then burst a blaze of musketry
Which laid the foremost low!
They answered it like soldiers,
And each man took a tree,
To pour, unseen, his volleys
On foes he could not see.
The battle raged and shifted,
Up, — down the gloomy wood,
Till where at first were Indians
At last the Rangers stood ;—
Here, somehow, Major Putnam,
Who found himself apart,
With the muzzle of his musket
At a grim old warrior’s heart,
Was suddenly made captive,
Or ever he could flee,
And, bound with thongs of leather,
Was fastened to a tree.
The battle raged and maddened,
The bullets sped and sped ;
And now the Indians wavered,
And now the British fled :
Between the two was Putnam,
With not a Ranger nigh
To risk his life to save him,
Or by his side to die!
His clothes were riddled, — riddled
The tree above his head :
And deadlier screamed the bullets,
And yet—he was not dead!
The Indians were routed,
But the British were so few,
Though they knew their foes were beaten,
They did not dare pursue.
So sullenly with Putnam
Ihe red-skins stole away,
Feeling — for such a captive —
_ Not wholly lost the day!
They tied his hands behind him,
Till his sinews seemed to crack,
And the packs of wounded Indians
Were piled upon his back.
Through miles and miles of forest,
BRAVE.
Where light and shade were one,
Across a rugged country,
Beneath the burning sun,
They wandered slowly northward,
Till, bloody in the west,
Day died — when, worn and weary,
They stopped, at last to rest ;
And holding now a council
Their savage wrath to slake,
They stripped poor Putnam naked,
And bound him to a stake ;
And piling fagots round him, —
Dry boughs, that kindled well, —
They danced their hideous war-dance,
With many a whoop and yell.
Just as the flame was rising,
A heavy tempest came,
Whose gusts of sheety water
Put out the feeble flame. —
More fagots soon were gathered,
And the fire was built again :
The flames rose higher, nigher,
And fierce was Putnam’s pain.
But not a word escaped him,
No sign of coward fear,
Though they taunted him and mocked him,
And death he knew was near.
So unconcerned he met it,
Such scorn was in his eye,
It almost seemed a pity
So great a brave should die!
“He shall not,†cried a Frenchman,
Who waved a bloody sword,
And, dashing through the Indians
To Putnam, cut the cord
Which bound him and enwound him,
And kicked the fire away.
“T ’m spared to-night,†thought Putnam,
“To fight another day.â€
And he was, — though sworn to burn him,
Where there were none to see,’
Each hand and foot the Indians
Now tethered to a tree,
And over him spread branches
Upon whose ends they slept, —
While he in grimly silence
His watch till. morning kept:
PUTNAM THE
And though erelong a prisoner
In Montreal he lay,
He did some good, hard fighting
On many another day.
And among the French and Indians
Was none so dreaded then
As Lieutenant-Colonel Putnam,
Who led his dauntless men
From victory to victory,
And knew defeat no more,
Till seven long years were ended, —
And war again was o’er.
As back they came to Pomfret,
There rose the cry, “He comes!
Behold his banners flying,
And hark his rolling drums!
Hurrah for Colonel Putnam !â€
“Hurrah, you mean,†said he,
“For the Rangers of Connecticut,
Who ’ve marched and fought with me.â€
“ Hurrah for Put!†they shouted,
His neighbors, soldiers — all :
He hid his battered features,
And tears began to fall!
Ten, twenty years at Pomfret
Has Putnam pushed his plough, ~
And Time has left, in passing,
Some furrows on his brow.
A grave man, given to thinking,
He went upon his way,
Foreseeing what was coming,
‘And waiting for the day.
*T was England made the trouble, —
The dear old Motherland, —
Who laid upon her children
A more than mother’s hand:
And who, to fill her coffers,
And her proud lords to please,
Put royal stamps on our paper,
And would have taxed our teas:
Passed laws that were unlawful,
And many a foolish thing
Did unto her good Colonies,
When George the Third was King.
One April day, while Putnam
Is ploughing on his farm,
BRAVE.
Rides furious by a horseman,
Whose cry is, “Arm! Arm! Arm!â€
“What news? what news?†says Putnam.
And he: “The war ’s begun,
For yesterday a battle
Was fought at Lexington.â€
“Who won? who won?†“The British!â€
And he rides as if for life.
And now is heard in Pomfret
The noise of drum and fife:
The soldiers of Connecticut
Are armed and on the way ;—
Will Colonel Putnam join them?
Can Israel Putnam stay? .
Who will may skulk —the cowards!
But he is ready now:
So, standing in the furrow,
He leaves at once his plough,
And mounting, in his shirt-sleeves,
Is up and away like the wind,
With not a word of parting
For those he left behind!
It was a night in summer
As Putnam’s men stole out
Across the Neck to Charlestown,
To throw up a redoubt
On Bunker Hill and Breed’s Hill ;
They reached the summit soon,
And stacked their guns and knapsacks
* Beneath the stars of June.
They set to work at midnight,
When Putnam gave the word :
Noiselessly dropped the pickaxe,
The shovel was unheard.
Three! Four! The dawn was coming ;
But, ere it paled a star,
Some sailors on the Lively —
An English man-of-war —
Beheld the long intrenchments
Which were not there before.
The captain called his gunners,
And shot began to pour
On Breed’s Hill, and on Bunker's,
And soon the thunderous sound
Woke all the folks in Boston,
And in the towns around.
They swarmed the roofs at sunrise,
PUTNAM THE
They thronged in every street,
All faces fixed on Charlestown,
And on the English fleet.
They crossed in thirty barges,
Three thousand strong, at noon, —
Artillery and infantry,
And many a bold dragoon.
When Putnam saw them landing,
His hand was first to seize
The pine-flag of New England,
And hoist it to the breeze.
At three the British column
Were ready for the fight.
Along the Mystic River,
That flowed upon their right,
And up the slopes of Breed’s Hill,
Upon their left that frowned,
They marched in perfect order,
To pick their battle-ground ;
And all the while their cannon
Were playing on the fort,
And their men-of-war and batteries, —
And not a shot fell short!
“Lay low! lay low!†said Prescott,
Whose men were fain to rise,
“Until so close the enemy
That you can see their eyes!
Then aim straight at their waistbands,
And blaze away,†he said:
_ “And pick off their commanders,
Whose place should be ahead :—
In gold and lace bedizened —
You ’ll know their rich attire.
Vow /†—and his good sword waving,
He stamped and shouted —“ Fire!â€
The volley was so murderous
Whole ranks were swept away
Like grass before the mowers, —
And where they fell they lay,
Tumbled in dreadful windrows,
The dying and the dead:
Their bull-dog English courage
Gave way at last — they fled!
Meanwhile their right was tramping
To turn our flank and rear.
But Captain Knowlton’s Rangers
Had made a breastwork here,
BRAVE.
Of stones and old rail-fences,
With néw-mown grass between :
_ Behind the last was Putnam,
With all his men, unseen !
The bold dragoons were on them,
Lord Howe was at their head ;—
“ Now, boys/†another volley,
Again the British fled!
Again along the river,
And up the hill again,
They pressed in gloomy silence,
Among their comrades slain.
Against the strong intrenchments
Their cannon thundered still ;
And their gondolas and gunboats,
And the mortars on Copp’s Hill,
Which belched hot shot on Charlestown,
That soon was wrapped in flame:
The smoke rolled, dense and blinding,
Behind the smoke they came!
But a land breeze blowing seaward,
It crept along the shore :—
Swept by a deadlier volley,
The British fled once more!
Now for the final struggle ! —
The way to the redoubt
Is between the fence and. breastwork, —
Lord Howe has found it out,
For there he leads his bravest,
Who, cooler than before,
Receive our storm of bullets ;
And fall—but fly no more, —
But, rallying, charge with bayonets ;
Before that bristling wall
Appalled, our weak line wavers —
We break — we fly — we fall!
Clubbing our empty muskets,
And fighting man to man,
The sharp thrusts of their bayonets
We parry as we can.
Driven back — borne down — surrounded —
We hold them still at bay,
And through their staggering columns
We cut our desperate way.
The last to leave was Prescott,
And with him Warren came,
Who was to perish early,
PUTNAM THE
And win a deathless name!
But where is General Putnam, :
Who all this time has been
Where dangers are the thickest,
And all the battle seen? .
From Bunker Hill, in fury,
He ran, he rode, he flew, —
To stop his flying soldiers,
And would have done it, too,
Could a spark of his own courage
Have only fired a few:
But where the whole are ‘cowards,
What can the bravest do?
“Stand here! stand here!†he shouted,
And give them one shot more!â€
But, crowding there like cattle,
And with a wild uproar,
They all went rushing past him,
And all the field was strown
With their wounded, and their dying —
And he was left alone! —
Alone before the British,
A man of iron will, —
The most unconquered spirit
That fought at Bunker’s Hill!
One story more of Putnam,
And what to*him befell,
One winter day at Horseneck,
Is all I have to tell.
It was a wild March morning,
When, looking in the glass
To shave his stubbly whiskers,
He saw some soldiers pass, —
Distant, but coming towards him, —
Redcoats — without a word,
Half shaved, he dropped the razor,
And, buckling on his sword,
Ran out to call his troopers,
A handful at the best.
There was a hill at Greenwich,
Upon whose rocky crest
He placed them. Two old cannon, —
But less for use than show, —
Across the road he planted,
And waited for the foe,
Who came in solid column,
BRAVE.
By Governor Tryon led,
Their errand — General Putnam
To take, alive or dead!
A volley from his troopers,
Who dropped their guns and ran,
And he among the British
' Was left without a man!
Before they can surround him,
Or think to shoot him down,
He ’s spurring up the hill-road,
Away for Stamford town.
They ’re after him with curses,
They ’re after him with speed,
But still he rides before them,
And spurs his flying steed.
He rides, he flies before them,
For well he knows the need:
Speed, faster speed, my Putnam,
And swifter, swifter steed !
He ’s slowly losing, losing,
And they are gaining fast.
Galloping, galloping, galloping,
They “Il have Old Put at last!
But no —his wits befriend him,
And they are baffled still :
For, where the hill is steepest
He plunges down the hill, —
Sheer o’er its rocky ledges,
He plunges headlong down ; —
They rein up sharp, and watch him
Ride off to Stamford town.
When Governor William Tryon
Returned to Rye that- night,
It was not like a victor,
But like a man in flight.
For Putnam, and his soldiers,
Whose courage had come back,
Were hurrying him, and harrying him,
And hanging on his track :
And long did he remember
Who followed foremost there, —
The daring, grand old horseman,
Whose old gray head was bare ;
Who, grim, and scarred, and wrinkled,
Was so determined then,
He looked the Great Commander,
And was the Man of Men!
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