When at last the inept Abercrombie had sacrificed the lives under his command to the number of two thousand or more, and became convinced that he could not take Ticonderoga that way, he was seized with panic and ordered a retreat. As the Rangers under Putnam were the first in the assault, so they were the last to retire, being obliged to protect the retreat of the main army, and remained till dusk on the edge of the forest, where they maintained a continuous fire, to prevent pursuit. With but one-third as many soldiers as Abercrombie brought to the attack, Montcalm did not feel like pursuing the retreating foe, but contented himself with the great victory—a victory won not so much by the valor of his men as by the incompetency of his chief opponent.

Had the advice of Putnam, Rogers, and others of the Provincials been sought and accepted, much of this loss of life might have been averted, for though themselves fighting with great courage, doggedly and against all hope, they were averse to a direct assault without the cannon, with which a breach might have been opened into the fort. But the cannon reposed at the lake-side, whither retreated the defeated soldiers, with such haste that they were enabled to embark that very night, leaving their dead and many of their wounded in the forest where they lay. A few days before, after the first engagement, Major Rogers, of the Rangers, having been sent to bring off the dead and wounded of the enemy, had cruelly despatched the latter, to the horror not only of his confrere, Major Putnam, but of the British officers who became cognizant of the fact.



CHAPTER VIII

A PRISONER AND IN PERIL

The good fortune with which Major Putnam had been favored during three years of fighting a wily and treacherous foe, suddenly deserted him when, in the month of August, 1758, he found himself confronted by an Indian warrior of herculean frame, during a skirmish near Fort St. Anne. He and Major Rogers had been sent out by Abercrombie to ascertain the whereabouts of a war party which was committing depredations between Fort Edward and the lakes. The timid general was very much afraid of an attack in force by the victorious Montcalm, and constantly on the watch.

One morning, as the Rangers were proceeding through a dense thicket, with Putnam's Provincials in front, they ran into an ambush which the wary Marin, the French partizan fighter, had prepared, by posting his men in a semicircular position across the trail. Suddenly the air was rent with yells and reports of firearms, and several Provincials fell in their tracks. Putnam, taken unawares, yet as always cool and collected, gave orders to return the fire, and sent word back for support, which in the confusion incident to the sudden attack was not promptly forthcoming. Forging ahead, he was confronted by an Indian chieftain, a giant in size, against whose breast he at once placed the muzzle of his fusee, which—as those primitive flintlocks were likely to do in an emergency—missed fire. The savage then had him at his mercy, and brandishing his tomahawk above his head compelled him to surrender, when he tied him to a tree, and then left him to mingle in the fight again. As the Rangers rallied to battle it happened that the tree to which Putnam was bound came directly between the fires of both parties, and as the bullets flew thickly around our hero's position was not by any means an enviable one. Some of the balls passed through the sleeves and skirt of his coat, and in this perilous position he remained for more than an hour, unable either to move a limb or even his head.

No attention was paid to him, except that now and then a savage would approach, and seeing him there helpless and a conspicuous mark would throw a tomahawk at his head, to see how near he could come to this living target without inflicting a fatal wound. An equally savage Frenchman also approached, and aiming his fusee at his breast, would have put him out of his misery had it not missed fire. This enraged the scoundrel so that he gave Putnam a blow on the jaw with the butt-end of his musket which nearly finished him, and then left him alone.

The battle waged unevenly for a while, but was finally decided in favor of the Provincials, and the French and Indians hastily gathered their prisoners together and fled northward toward Ticonderoga. Putnam's captor stripped him of his coat and waistcoat, socks and shoes, then after binding his wrists together he loaded him with as many packs as he could pile upon his shoulders, and giving him in charge of another Indian, left him to attend to the wounded.

Poor Putnam was soon in a deplorable condition, with hands swollen terribly from the tightness of the ligature, and his feet gashed and bleeding, as he trudged along the trail beneath his enormous burden. He begged the savages to knock him on the head and end his sufferings; but he was soon to experience even more horrible sensations, for, arriving in advance of the main party at the place where they were to camp for the night, the small body of Indians that had him in charge concluded to burn him at the stake! He was suffering terribly from the blow on his jaw, from his swollen hands and mutilated feet, and also from a tomahawk gash in his cheek, so that he cared little what became of him, provided the end came quickly. To be burned alive, however, was a fate that brought a shudder to the frame of even stout-hearted Israel Putnam, and he looked on in horror while his captors stripped him naked, bound him to a tree and piled the dry brush they had gathered for fuel around him in a circle. All the while, as they labored at their fiendish task, they chanted a funeral dirge, which was almost as depressing to their captive as their sinister preparations for his immediate immolation.

"Major Putnam soon began to feel the scorching heat," says his biographer, Colonel Humphreys, who had these details from the chief actor's own lips. "His hands were so tied that he could move his body, and he often shifted sides as the fire approached. This sight, at the very idea of which all but savages must shudder, afforded the highest diversion to his inhuman tormentors, who demonstrated the delirium of their joy by yells, dances, and gesticulations. He saw clearly that his final hour was inevitably come. He summoned all his resolution, and composed his mind, as far as the circumstances would admit, to bid an eternal farewell to all he held most dear.... His thought was ultimately fixed on a happier state of existence, ... the bitterness of death, even of that death which is accompanied with the keenest agonies, was in a manner past, ... when a French officer rushed through the crowd, opened a way by scattering the burning brands, and unbound the victim."

The officer was no other than the redoubtable partizan, Marin, who exerted a wonderful influence over his savage company. He at once sent for the Indian who had captured Major Putnam, who did what he could to make amends for the dreadful treatment the latter had received; but that night, in order to prevent his prisoner from escaping, he stretched his limbs out in the shape of a cross and bound them to four saplings, then placed poles and bushes across his body as it lay on the ground with several Indians at either side, who kept watch the night through.

Arrived at Fort Ticonderoga, Major Putnam had an interview with the Marquis de Montcalm, who ordered him sent to Montreal, whither he was taken without delay, and where he met a brother American, Colonel Peter Schuyler, of New Jersey, who, possessing considerable influence, compelled the Frenchman to treat their prisoner more humanely. The capture of Louisburg, Frontenac and other posts, by the English that year gave them numerous prisoners, which they were not slow to exchange for those in the hands of the French. Thus it came about that the period of Major Putnam's captivity was quite short, for he was in Montreal and Quebec in the last days of August, his exchange was accomplished in October, and in November he was on his way to his home in Connecticut.

If the French had known who it was they held a prisoner in the person of Major Putnam, doubtless they would have been slow to permit his exchange; but Colonel Schuyler kept this information to himself, and when told by the governor that he might select whatever officer he liked to be included in the cartel, he chose his friend.

"There is an old man here," he said, "who is a Provincial Major, and who wishes to be at home with his wife and children; he can do no good here or anywhere else; I believe your Excellency had better keep some of the young men, who have no wife or children to care for, and let the old fellow go home with me."

This subterfuge availed, and Putnam went along with his friend; but whether the latter was justified in alluding to him as an "old man" is doubtful, as he was then only forty years of age. He had, however, won the sobriquets of "Old Wolf Putnam" and of "Old Put," long before, and doubtless was accustomed to be regarded as elderly, despite his jolly countenance and ever-cheerful disposition.

His kind and affectionate nature was displayed at its best on the journey home, which was long and wearisome, when he took charge of a lady, Mrs. Howe, whose husband had been killed and scalped three years previously. She had been in captivity ever since, and had endured untold outrages from her captors. Her seven children were dispersed, but five of them were recovered, and accompanied her back to her home in New Hampshire. Colonel Schuyler had rescued her from captivity, and Major Putnam constituted himself her protector during the long and toilsome journey, leading her little ones, assisting the sorrowful mother over the rough places, and sharing his meals with the unfortunate family.

What a welcome the hero received on his home-coming, from his loving, constant wife and children! They had heard of his vicissitudes, had almost given him up for dead; but at last he was with them again, and the dismal past was buried. The joy of the family at meeting again was clouded by sorrow, however, for death had entered the family circle since the father and husband's departure. Israel, the eldest son, was there, and the daughters; but the second son was absent, never to return.

On an old tombstone in the graveyard at Brooklyn, Connecticut, is this inscription:

"In Memory of Mr. Daniel Putnam, son of Col^o. Israel Putnam & Mrs. Hannah his wife, who died Aug. 8th, 1758, Aged 17 Years."

Also of David Putnam, Son of y^e above Col^o. Israel & Mrs. Hannah Putnam, who died Nov. 21, 1761, aged 1 month."

The first death, of Daniel, his pet and pride, occurred, it is said, on the very day (August 8, 1758), at the close of which Major Putnam was in direst peril, tied to a tree in the forest, environed by fire and within a circle of whooping, yelling savages. The demise of David, whom he never saw, took place while the father was away on the Amherst expedition, or just before his return from that campaign. Sturdy Israel, the first-born son, had taken charge of the farm while his father was off on his various campaigns—or at least had done his best to do so, and the family had not wanted for provisions during the enforced absences of the head of the family. As he was now a robust young man of nearly twenty, and possessed all the home-loving traits of his father, Israel was considered perfectly competent to carry on the farm at least another season, and in the spring of 1759 his father, now advanced to the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel, went away again to the wars.

Israel Putnam seemed never to know when he had enough of fighting; or else his sense of duty to the king and his country was paramount to all other considerations else. At all events, one of his bravery and force could not be omitted from the great expedition that General Amherst (who had been sent by Pitt to supersede Abercrombie) was then organizing. In July, 1759, we find him with his command at Lake George, where the second expedition against Ticonderoga set forth, following the route taken by Abercrombie, over the lake to Ticonderoga, which was reached on the 22d. On the 23d, the French officer in command of the fortress suddenly departed down Lake Champlain with nearly all his men; but Amherst did not know it, and kept on with his preparations for bombardment, having his batteries in position before he was made aware, by French deserters, that the place had been abandoned. Soon the powder magazine blew up, having been left by the French with a lighted slow-match attached for the purpose, the barracks caught fire, and Ticonderoga, which had held out so well against British and Provincial assaults, was at last laid low. It was reconstructed, as we know, and served both British and Patriots in the Revolutionary War; but is now in ruins, picturesque and imposing in their decay.

Crown Point was also evacuated by the French, and thus at last the main object of so many months' toil in the wilderness with such woful waste of life and vast expenditure of treasure, was accomplished. While Putnam and his comrades were engaged in restoring the fortifications of Crown Point, they heard the news of British victories on every hand: of the fall of Fort Niagara; and of the storming and capture of Quebec, when, on that fateful thirteenth of September, 1759, Wolfe and Montcalm found death and fame, the former at the hour of victory, the latter in defeat.

Israel Putnam met nearly all the great British commanders, with the possible exception of Wolfe, and had assisted with all his might at the upbuilding of English power in America, so it was not strange that when, later, the Revolution opened, he was looked upon by them more as a friend than an enemy. The next year, when Amherst moved upon Montreal, then the chief, almost sole possession of the French in Canada, Colonel Putnam went along, as a matter of course, and, it is gravely related by his first biographer, he assisted the general at a critical moment and in a very novel way. Two armed vessels of the enemy were likely to cause trouble to the British on the St. Lawrence, and Amherst was anxious to put them out of the way before they could sink his boats. Putnam proffered his services, declaring he could take the vessels in short order.

"How?" asked the General, somewhat amused as well as surprised.

"With beetles and wedges, and a boat-load of men," answered "Put." And, the story goes, he rowed out to the vessels, in the dead of night, drove wooden wedges in behind their rudders, and left them helpless, for when the wind came up they would not answer the helm and were driven ashore, where their crews were easily taken by the English.



CHAPTER IX

A CAMPAIGN IN CUBA

It can not be denied that Israel Putnam was already quite a traveler; but it must be added that he had so far traveled mainly within a circumscribed area. Over and over again this faithful soldier had plodded the trails and military roads, and pushed his way through the swamps, morasses, forests, of the wilderness region of New York, which by the end of 1761 he should have known almost as well as the woodland pastures of his own farm. But he was destined to extend his travels and make a foreign voyage, still in the service of the King of England, whom he had served so long and so well.

He was present at the capitulation of Montreal, one September day, 1760, and had the pleasure of meeting the Indian chief who had taken him prisoner two years previously. He lived near Montreal, at the Indian village of Caughnawaga, where he received his former captive with pride, and was highly delighted to see his old acquaintance, "whom he entertained in his own well-built stone house with great friendship and hospitality; while his guest did not discover less satisfaction in an opportunity of shaking the brave savage by the hand and proffering him protection in this reverse of his military fortunes."

Returning home at the end of the 1760 campaign, Putnam remained on his farm all winter, and the next spring set out again for what proved an uneventful season, with much hard work on fortifications and entrenchments, but no fighting of account. For, so far as the mainland of North America was concerned, the long struggle between France and England was nearly at an end. France had been shorn of her possessions in Canada, and she was losing her islands in the West Indies, where, early in 1762, beautiful Martinique (to become famous as the birthplace of the Empress Josephine, and a rich land of sugar and spices) was captured by the British.

In fact, the theater of war was transferred to the more southern regions of the Caribbean Sea, and the New Englanders took a long breath and congratulated themselves that at last they were at liberty to pursue their callings unmolested. But in this they were somewhat premature, as England was still engaged in fighting, and, no matter where her battles were fought, she seemed to expect the loyal American colonists to furnish soldiers for her wars. Connecticut, Putnam's home State, was again called upon for the same number of able-bodied men she had furnished year by year, and promptly proffered her bone and sinew to fight the wars of King George the Third.

A thousand men, besides fifteen hundred from New York and New Jersey, embarked at the port of New York, in the month of June, 1762, bound for Havana in Cuba, where British regulars were dying by hundreds of pestilence, and sorely needed those colonial reenforcements. On this, his first sea voyage, Colonel Putnam had a rough experience all the way down, and off the north coast of Cuba the transport containing himself and five hundred of his men was wrecked on a coral ledge. "Old Put" was calm and collected, never more so, though unused to life at sea, and preserved strict discipline among his men, thus aiding the mariners in their endeavors to get out rafts and boats, on and in which the entire company finally reached the shore. To his perils by fire, twice incurred, brave Putnam could now add that by flood, thus giving the spice of variety to his various adventures.

"As soon as all were landed," wrote the biographer who knew him best, "Putnam fortified his camp, that he might not be exposed to insult from inhabitants of the neighboring districts.... Here the party remained unmolested several days, until the storm had so much abated as to permit the convoy to take them off. They soon joined the troops before Havana, who, having been several weeks in that unhealthy climate, had already begun to grow extremely sickly. The opportune arrival of the Provincial reenforcement, in perfect health, contributed not a little to forward the works and hasten the reduction of that important place. But the Provincials suffered so miserably by sickness afterward, that very few ever returned to their native land again."

This is all that Colonel Putnam's contemporary, Humphreys, has to say of the most eventful episode of his hero's career, but it seems to the present writer (who has personally investigated the British and Colonial invasion of Cuba "on the spot") that the subject is worthy of more extended notice. The English expedition against Havana was occasioned by the King of Spain, Charles III, having entered into what was known as the "family compact" with Louis XV of France, by which the Bourbons were to support each other against British rapacity and aggrandizement, as they styled it.

England had long looked covetously upon Havana, which the Spaniards themselves called the "Key of the New World," situated at the mouth of the Gulf of Mexico and (in the hands of a strong power) then controlling the seaboard of territory at present comprised in the South Atlantic States of our Union. So she hastened to seize the capital of Cuba, the "Pearl of the Antilles," and early in June, 1762, the surprised and frightened inhabitants were informed that a fleet of sixty ships-of-war had landed more than 20,000 men at the little port of Cogimar, a few miles to the east of picturesque and formidable Morro Castle.

Quickly, then, the Captain-General assembled the "Junta of Defense," composed of men most eminent in military affairs in Havana, and placed before them the situation.[1] They resolved upon a spirited defense, even though their soldiers were insufficiently armed and they had no defensive works save the Morro, then about a hundred years old, and its companion fortress called the Punta, between which two forts lay the deep and narrow entrance to the harbor. This harbor was blocked by some big war-ships, and a chain was stretched across the mouth, but the English did not even essay an entrance, having landed their troops to the east, and first marching upon the Morro from Cogimar and the town of Guanabacao, which they took quite easily, and then sweeping over the Cabanas hills, where the Spaniards later built the vast fortifications which they should have constructed sooner for the defense of their capital city.

[Footnote 1: From Nociones de Historia de Cuba, by Dr. Vidal Morales; Havana, 1904.]

The Provincials arrived the last of July, and landed to the west of Havana, where stands a small fort known as the Torreon of Chorrera, which was defended with much valor, but compelled to surrender. Afterward, however, they were transported to the Cabanas hills, and there, on the site of the fortifications (above which, in 1904, the American flag last waved in token of possession in Cuba), Israel Putnam and his Provincials joined the British troops. And they were welcome, beyond a doubt, for nearly half the British army was incapacitated through fevers, and many men had died.



The arrival of the sturdy Colonials gave the besiegers of the Morro new strength, and fresh courage, and within a few days they were called upon to assist at carrying the castle by storm. The English had been a long time sapping toward the fortress walls, and a breach having been opened near the bastion, the combined assailants poured through in an invincible flood. The Duke of Albermarle, who commanded the British forces, had informed the comandante of the castle that he had mined the bastion and demanded a capitulation. But the heroic commander, Don Luis de Velasco, spurned the proffer, and as a consequence the castle was stormed, and he was included among the five hundred slain on that occasion. A tablet to his memory may be seen affixed against the seaward wall of the Morro, and from the parapet may be traced the British and Provincial line of approach.

The bastion they breached was afterward repaired; but nothing could repair the terrible losses sustained by both armies through sickness caused by exposure and bad water. More than one-third of the Colonials died of disease; but nothing seemed to trouble sturdy Old Put, who was everywhere among his men, with comfort and consolation, carrying water to the wounded, supporting the dying. The chaplain of the Connecticut troops one day recorded in his diary: "Col. Putman and Lt. Parks went off into ye country to buy fresh provisions." Two days later he noted the death of Putnam's companion in this trip into the country; and that was in October, only a few days before orders were given for the Colonials to embark for New York.

Havana capitulated soon after its only real defense, Morro Castle, was taken, and the English entered into possession. But imagine the feelings of the surviving soldiers who had gone so far and been exposed to so great peril, when they learned, less than a year later, that the city and fortress that had cost so dear had been given up, in exchange for Florida and other Spanish territory east of the Mississippi.

In Havana, where he was one day roaming about unarmed, Colonel Putnam met with an adventure which nearly cost him his life and made him the involuntary owner of a negro slave. Seeing a Spaniard beating a black man with a bamboo cane, he darted in with his old time impetuosity, and seizing the stick, wrenched it away from its owner, who, joined by other exasperated Cubans, turned upon the American and compelled him to flee to a vessel for safety. Here he was followed by the negro, who so successfully appealed to the soldier's tender sensibilities that he allowed him to accompany him home to Connecticut. There he served him faithfully, and when his master died he bequeathed to "Old Dick"—as he was called—the "Havana cane," of which the colored Cuban exile was inordinately proud.

Israel Putnam was now a man of substance, more than ever looked up to by his neighbors and honored by the community in which he dwelt. Taking up his duties of citizenship where he had left them on being summoned to war, he threw off the military habit as he might an old garment now no longer of service, and became again the contented, humble farmer. In 1763, about the time the treaty of peace between England and France was signed, he was elected "selectman" of the town in which he lived, and the ensuing spring appointed to receive the heads of such crows as should be killed in the township, for which a bounty was offered of sixpence each! Such humble offices as these he by no means despised, always lending a hand to whatever appeared in the guise of duty.

It became his duty, he thought, to go to war again, in the year 1764, when the Indians, neglected by both French and English, who had now no further need of their services, found themselves in danger of being ground between the upper and the nether millstones. They looked with apprehension upon the forts the English were erecting on every hand, and finally rose in rebellion, under the leadership of Pontiac, chief of the Ottawas. He organized a widespread conspiracy among the Indian tribes, believing he could eventually exterminate "those dogs dressed in red," as he called the English. The rising was appointed for the 7th of May, 1763, and no less than eight English garrisons were massacred, a five-months' siege ensuing at Detroit, where Pontiac himself commanded the Indians. The attacks were intermitted in the winter, but as they were sure to be renewed in the spring, a call was sent out for colonial troops. Appointed to command the Connecticut troops raised for this service, Putnam took a prominent part in suppressing the uprising, going out in the Bradstreet expedition. At Fort Ontario he met many old friends, including Sir William Johnson and his band, also the Indian chief who had captured him at Fort Ann in 1758, and who was now fighting on the side of the English with as much zeal as he had previously served the French.

On his return from this wearisome campaign, Colonel Putnam again settled down to the chosen occupation of his youth and the solace of his latter years, on the farm. Having given ten of the best years of his life to soldiering, he felt that he was entitled now to the rewards of peace. But alas! within five months of his arrival home he lost two of his dear ones by death: his daughter Elizabeth, only seventeen years of age, who died in the winter of 1764-'65, and his beloved wife, Hannah, who passed away in the April following. Of the ten children born to Israel and Hannah Putnam in the twenty-six years of their happy married life, seven were living at the time of the mother's death, the youngest only three months old, and bearing the name of Peter Schuyler, in honor of the New Jersey colonel who had befriended his father when a captive in Canada.



CHAPTER X

TAVERN-KEEPER AND ORACLE

No one could call in question Israel Putnam's loyalty, yet the year following his last campaign in behalf of King George, he might have been found opposing the Government and riding from town to town, for the purpose of inciting men to make armed resistance to the iniquitous "Stamp Act," which had been passed and made a law early in 1765. While James Otis, Samuel Adams, and Patrick Henry were eloquently declaiming against it, Putnam was for putting words into action, and as one of the "Sons of Liberty" was active in urging his countrymen to make a stand for freedom.

Though prevented by an accident from taking part in the proceedings by which the "stamp-master" for Connecticut was compelled to resign his position and disavow the office to which he was appointed, yet Putnam was foremost in bringing this condition of affairs about. It seems that one Mr. Ingersoll was appointed stamp-master by the Crown, and, on being requested to resign from such an obnoxious office by the Sons of Liberty, he returned an evasive answer. Consequently, a body of them mounted their horses and went out to meet him, as he was on his way to Hartford. Finding him on the road, they caused him to dismount and, in the presence of the company, now swelled to several hundred, to read his resignation as a royal appointee, and to shout for "liberty and property," three times, as loud as he could.

The spirit of the people, now thoroughly aroused, was very accurately expressed by Colonel Putnam, who, deputed by the Sons of Liberty to wait on the Governor of his State and inform him of the public sentiment respecting the Stamp Act, made him understand that there would be no temporizing whatever in the matter.

"But what should I do," asked the perplexed Governor, "if the stamped paper should be sent me by the King's command?"

"Lock it up until we shall visit you again," replied Putnam, boldly.

"And what will you do then?"

"We shall expect you to give us the key of the room in which it is deposited, and if you think fit, in order to screen yourself, you may forewarn us not to enter that room upon our peril."

"And then what will you do?"

"Send the paper safely back again."

"But if I should refuse you admission?"

"In that case, your house will be leveled to the ground in five minutes!"

The Governor, who desired to be loyal, and was inclined to receive the paper, was not called upon to act, the determined attitude of the Sons of Liberty, preventing any from being sent into the State. Elected a representative in 1766, Putnam was prepared to do all in his power to frustrate the intent of the Act; but, in common with his fellow citizens, was made happy by the news of its repeal. As this was then the only bone of contention between the Colonials and the King, the former hastened to send the latter a loyal address of thanks, assuring him of their continued devotion, etc., etc.

It would seem that farming, in colonial days, was almost as hazardous an employment as fighting in the wilds, for Putnam was the victim of two different accidents, by one of which he lost the first joint of his right thumb, and by the other he received a compound fracture of his right thigh. The latter being imperfectly attended to, rendered that leg an inch shorter than the other, "which occasioned him ever after to limp in his walk." Notwithstanding these injuries, he faithfully attended to his duties as representative at Hartford. In June, 1767, two years and two months after the death of his wife, Hannah, he was married to Mrs. Deborah Lothrop, widow of John Gardiner, of Gardiner's Island, New York.

As his second wife had a fine property on Brooklyn Green, in the center of the town, and as the entertainment of his numerous admirers (who came from all over the country to see him) was becoming burdensome, Farmer Putnam concluded to convert the newly acquired mansion into an inn. So he moved himself and most of his belongings (including his stock of war relics and anecdotes) from the farmhouse to the "Green," nearly two miles distant, and there set up as "mine host" Putnam, putting out a sign of the Wolfe—not of the beast he had slain in early life, but the gallant general of that name who fell at Quebec. This veritable sign may now be seen in Hartford, at the rooms of the Connecticut Historical Society, where also are several other precious relics of Putnam and his time, including some autograph letters by the hero himself.

Some one, long ago, wrote of this sign, which was affixed to one of the great trees that stood in front of the tavern on the Green, "It represents General Wolfe in full uniform, his eye fixed in an expression of fiery earnestness upon some distant object, and his right arm extended in emphatic gesture, as if charging on the foe or directing some important movement of his army. The sign seems to have fared hardly in one respect, being plentifully sprinkled with shot-holes!"

A contemporary wrote of him, about this time: "Col. Putnam served with the Connecticut troops under Amherst in the last war. By his courage and conduct he secured to himself a good share of reputation. When peace commenced he returned to the civil line of life. Of late he has occupied a tavern with a farm annexed to it."

As the landlord of a country tavern, the genial and loquacious colonel with a past peculiarly his own, possessing the rotund figure, the frame and habit of the traditional Boniface, seemed at last to have fallen into his proper groove, where he fitted exactly. Now nearly fifty years of age, with a record of ten years' fighting any one might well be proud of, a reputation not confined within the boundaries of his own country, and with some of his children already married and settled around him, he had good reason to consider himself a fixture at Brooklyn Green.

He had joined the Congregational Church, soon after the death of his first wife, in 1765, and took a leading part in building the structure that stands to-day near the site of the first meeting-house, which was erected in 1734. It was in the year 1771 that the new church was erected, opposite the house that Putnam turned into a tavern, and the old tree that bore the sign of Wolfe. Church and trees remain to-day, separated only by the public road; but the tavern itself no longer exists, the building having been torn down some time ago.

In 1772, it was voted by the parish that "Colonel Putnam take care of ye new meeting-house and ring ye bell," for which service he was to receive three pounds a year. Thus the duties of sexton and bell-ringer were assumed by this many-sided man; but he had not performed them long before he was called to go on a strange voyage in quest of lands in West Florida, which were reported to have been granted to the survivors of the French-and-Indian wars. The claims of the survivors were just enough; but their quest was fruitless, for they were not given the lands. However, a band of "military adventurers" set out, under the leadership of General Phineas Lyman, who had been in command of Connecticut's troops all through the wars, and Landlord Putnam was one of them.

Urged, perhaps, by his admirers to preserve some chronicle of his doings this time (having been so neglectful in this respect in the past) our hero actually began a journal, writing on the blank leaves of the "orderly book" which he used in his Havana campaign. This book, doubly interesting to the present generation, is still preserved by a lineal descendant of Putnam, and attests to the fact that the soldier of many wars was not equal to the intellectual effort of writing even a legible diary of his doings. He soon gave it up, in fact; but the few entries he made are exceedingly quaint and simple, as for example:

"friday ye forst of jenauary, 1773—this Day no work don—went to Church.... satorday ye 2—this day taking in goods for ye voige—good weathor. thorsday ye 7—this was a varey good Day and had almost all completed. Satorday ye 9 of Jenauary—had all things on bord and ready for sailing But the wind was so much to ye south it would not Do."

At last the "military adventurers" got away. On the 30th of January they touched in at Mole San Nicolas, island of Haiti, and a week later made port at Montego Bay, Jamaica, where, according to the veracious diarist, "we waited on ye mannegor of the plantation who treted us very hamseley—walked with ous—shewed ous all ye Works and the mills to grind ye Cain and as we went thare was a dog atacked ye manegor and in ye fight I tumbelled into won of the vats that was full of Liquer to make rum of—shifted all my Cloths and went on borde."

They finally arrived at Pensacola, where, learning to their sorrow that no lands had been granted them, they set out on a short exploring trip of the Mississippi, by the way of New Orleans, which ended north of Natchez, to which spot General Lyman later returned and founded a settlement, where he passed his last days. The gallant adventurers returned to Pensacola, thence sailed to New York, where they arrived the first week in August, 1773.

It was Colonel Putnam's intention to invest in lands on the Mississippi, it is believed, but the events that shaped toward and brought about the Revolution were yearly getting more exciting, intense, and his soldier instinct was aroused. He keenly watched the trend of events, he discussed in his tavern the exciting news of the day with visitors from all parts of the country, and his convictions were becoming stronger and stronger that something dire and dreadful was to happen.

The Boston massacre of the 5th of March, 1770, fired our hero almost to a frenzy, and while there may have been men more eloquent in their denunciations of the British soldiery, like Otis and Adams, there was none more emphatic and in earnest. Between the massacre and the Boston "Tea Party" in 1773, Putnam made his journey to the Mississippi; but he was home, and as usual alert and anxious, when the latter event occurred.

From that moment he was most attentive to what was going on in Boston, which was then the "danger spot" of the Colonies. He gave his time freely to the anticipatory work of organizing his fellow citizens into military companies and drilling them into proficiency, and he was made chairman of the "Committee of Correspondence" for Brooklyn. As such he bore to Boston, when the infamous "Port Bill" was passed, the condolences and sympathy of his fellow citizens, in a letter eloquently phrased, and—what was more satisfactory and substantial—the gift of a flock of sheep.

"We send you," the committee wrote, "one hundred and twenty-five sheep as a present from the inhabitants of Brooklyn, hoping thereby you will stand more firm (if possible) in the glorious cause in which you are embarked." And Israel Putnam, always the man for the emergency, always ready to mount and away at a moment's notice, rode all the way to Boston, driving that flock of sheep before him! When arrived there he was not received as the farmer, the tavern-keeper, the drover, but as the famous military man, hero of many battles, an American of renown. He was the guest of Dr. Joseph Warren, the patriot who was killed at Bunker Hill; but people of all classes and conditions united to do honor to "the celebrated Colonel Putnam," one of the "greatest military characters of the age," and "so well known throughout North America that no words are necessary to inform the public any further concerning him than that his generosity led him to Boston, to cherish his oppressed brethren and support them by every means in his power." The newspapers alluded to him as "the old hero, Putnam"; and yet he was only fifty-four at the time, at the period of life in which a man should be able to do his best work. "He looks fresh and hearty," wrote one of his friends to another, "and on an emergency would be as likely to do good business as ever."

And why not? Putnam himself might have asked this question, for he had by no means reached his "grand climacteric," and was still ready, willing—and able, as well—to fight the enemies of his country. He was zealous in behalf of his fellow patriots, but during this visit to Boston he found almost as many friends on the British side as on the Colonial, including Governor Gage, with whom he had fought their common enemies, the Indians. When one of them banteringly asked them whether he was going to stand by the flag or the country he answered seriously, but with perfect good nature: "I shall always be found on the side of my country!"

"Now, Putnam," another asked him, "don't you seriously believe that a well appointed British army of say five thousand veterans could march through the whole continent of America?"

"No doubt," he promptly replied, "if they behaved civilly, and paid well for what they wanted; but," he added, after a moment's pause, "if they should attempt it in a hostile manner (though the men of America were out of the question) the women would knock them all on the head with their ladles and broomsticks!"



CHAPTER XI

ON THE SIDE OF HIS COUNTRY

Ready and willing was Putnam—of that there is no doubt. Too willing, some of his enemies declared, when in September, 1774, news coming from Boston that American blood had been shed, without waiting to verify the report, he started out to alarm the country. This proved a false alarm, and he was strongly censured by those who had not kept a close watch on happenings in Boston; but he defended himself so sturdily that his critics were silenced. Two things were proved by this false alarm: that the people were ready to be aroused on the slightest provocation, for they filled the highways and flocked by thousands in the direction of Boston; again, that the British intended to stay where they were, for they extended their fortifications. Both sides were warned, and the lines of demarcation began to be visible where before they had seemed hardly to be distinguished, between loyalists and patriots. It was now either for England or for America, even the common people felt, while the leaders, like Israel Putnam, saw in the closer approach of warlike preparations only the fulfilment of their predictions.

The very next month, October, 1774, the militia of Putnam's State were ordered to provide themselves with an increased supply of powder, bullets and flints for their muskets. More vigorously than ever now he applied himself to the training of the sturdy militia; hoping for continued peace, perhaps, but preparing for nothing less than war. When war broke finally, with the first blood shed at Lexington, it found the minutemen of New England better prepared than their enemies believed, and when the news of this epoch-making event reached Israel Putnam, this great exemplar of the minutemen proved a model worthy their emulation.

The messenger with the doleful tidings found him plowing in the field back of his house at Brooklyn Green. His son Daniel was with him driving the oxen, and when the patriot had gathered the full meaning of the news he left the boy to unyoke the team, and himself hastened to his barn, where he saddled and mounted his best horse and started out to arouse the country again, as he had done seven months before. He had no doubts this time as to the truth of the rumor, for it had come direct and contained its own confirmation on its face.

The British, eight hundred strong, had left Boston for Concord, where they hoped to find some military stores. Encountering a small body of militia at Lexington, Major Pitcairn, in command of the British soldiers, called out to them to throw down their arms and disperse; but as they did not do so he ordered his men to fire, killing eight of the sturdy Americans, who even then did not run away, but joined themselves to other minutemen now assembling, and again came in contact with their foes at Concord Bridge. Just how many were slain the first message did not accurately report; but it was enough that blood had been shed, and it mattered not whether that blood was from ten men or a thousand.

The die was cast, the moment for armed resistance had arrived, and Israel Putnam tarried not for details, but sped straight for the home of Governor Trumbull, at Lebanon (the same who was afterward known as "Brother Jonathan"), and receiving from him mandatory permission to proceed to the scene of strife, hastened back to Brooklyn, arriving at his tavern home late in the afternoon. He had already been in the saddle for hours, as the news reached him between eight and nine in the morning, but before sunset the tireless warrior was again on horseback and galloping for Cambridge and Concord. He probably had received refreshment, food and drink at intervals, but he had not stopped to change his working clothes for better, and went off on both long rides in the farmer's frock which he wore when plowing in the field behind his house.

Though the Putnam mansion at Brooklyn Green is no longer in existence, the great trees that stood in front of it in his time still cast their grateful shade upon its site, and the walled field, sloping toward a verdant meadow, may be seen by the visitor, much as it lay to the sun on that lovely morning in April, 1775, when the farmer-patriot was peacefully running his furrows.

The distance to Cambridge was nearly ninety miles, yet Putnam covered it in an all-night's ride, going pretty much over the same ground he had traversed when, a young man of twenty-two, he had taken his wife and child to their new home in Connecticut. Thirty-five years had elapsed since the young pioneer had made his first venture in the world, ten of which he had passed in fighting for the King against whose soldiers he was soon to lead his fellow countrymen in war. Trained to fight the battles of Britain, yet those ten years of experience in warfare with the Indians were to prepare him for a wider, vaster field. He must now have felt this, his patriot friends must have believed it, for their eyes were turned expectantly toward Israel Putnam, as soon as the first blood was shed at Lexington and Concord.

See that sturdy figure, hurrying on horseback over the rough roads, through the darkness of the night, toward the goal of duty! The British had marched out of Boston at night, on the eighteenth of April, their purpose and their route foretold by Paul Revere (who, by the way, was in the campaign at Lake George, if not a comrade of Israel Putnam at that time). At or near daybreak of the nineteenth, at Lexington, the shots were fired "heard round the world"; at noon the British were in retreat from Concord, where they had been routed by the minutemen, and by night, exhausted, disgraced, defeated, they had reached Charlestown, under the escort of Lord Percy and his 1,200 reenforcements, where they were protected from the enraged militia by the guns of the fleet.

With such celerity traveled the news, that Putnam heard it on the morning of the twentieth; and with such celerity traveled Putnam, that he was at Cambridge on the morning of the twenty-first, and that same day at Concord, wonderful as may seem the feat performed by gallant horse and rider.

In the custody of the Connecticut Historical Society, at Hartford, the original of the following letter may be found, which attests to Putnam's arrival at Concord on the twenty-first, and to the use he made of his time:

Concord, April 21, 1775.

Col. Williams, Sir

I have waited on the com'tee of the Provisional Congress and it is there Determination to have a standing Armey of twenty-two thousand Men from the New England colonys of wh'h it is soposed the coloney of Conecticut must raise Six Thousand and beg they would be on Parade at Cambridge as Speedy as may be with conveniency together with Provisions and Sufficiency of amonition for there own use, the Battle hear is much as represented at Pomfrett—Except that there is more killed and a Number taken Prisoners—The accounts are at Present so confused that it is Impossible to assertain the number exact. Shall inform you of the Prossedings from Time to Time as we have New occurencys.

mean Time I am Sir yr very Humble Servt

Israel Putnam.

N.B. The Throop of Horse is not Expected to come on till further notice.

Sir. Being in hast and cannot write Disire a copy of this to be transmitted to Governor Trumble.

A true copy, Ebenezer Williams.

Pomfret, April 22, 1775.

In the Lexington-Concord fight, the first engagement between British and native Americans, the former lost two hundred and seventy-three, and the latter about one hundred, in killed and wounded, twenty-three towns being represented among the wounded and slain. "It was not a great fight in itself, but it was great, and even grand, in its consequences. On that day a nation was born. Then the American learned for the first time how to stand and fight for their own liberties."

The rallying minutemen flocked to the scene of the encounter, springing to arms without a thought of consequences, rising to the defense of their homes as one man, and within a week there were sixteen thousand men investing the demoralized enemy at Boston. Their alacrity in assembling at the common rendezvous has been a matter of wonder ever since, for nearly all marched on foot, without the assistance of horses or steam. The writer of these lines had an ancestor who was foremost among those minutemen hurrying to the defense of liberty, and who, it is a tradition in his family, ran nearly all the way from Beverly, twenty miles distant, with his flint-lock on his shoulder. Hence, as all were equally prompt in leaping at the enemy's throat, Putnam's remarkable feat was not at the time considered extraordinary.

In a few days our hero was at home again, having been called to Hartford by the legislators, who were desirous of consulting with their most experienced warrior, and bestowed upon him the rank and title of brigadier-general. All these events took place within the space of a week's time, and before another week had passed Brigadier-General Putnam was in headquarters at Cambridge, occupying a house which stood within the present grounds of Harvard University. General Artemus Ward, of Massachusetts, was commander-in-chief of the forces, having been commissioned by the Provincial Congress; but Putnam was the greater favorite with the soldiers, in whose vocabulary (to paraphrase a saying common at the time) "the British were the Philistines, and Putnam, the American Samson, a chosen instrument to defeat the foe."

It is a matter of record that General Ward relied upon the advice of his old friend, with whom he had fought, under Abercrombie, at Ticonderoga, and kept him always within call at headquarters. Had he followed his advice more closely, however, it would have been better for their sacred cause, as was shown in the crucial test at the battle of Bunker Hill, when Putnam's repeated requests for reenforcements were at first denied, then so hesitatingly granted that they proved of small avail.

To Putnam, then, and not to Ward, the officers and men of the assembled militia looked for advice and encouragement. They were quite naturally doubtful as to the result of their hasty action, and as most of them had never been under fire they were timid and even down-hearted. But Putnam was continually engaged in arousing both their patriotism and their hopes. When General Warren asked him (wrote Putnam's son Daniel, many years later) "if 10,000 British troops should march out of Boston, what number, in his opinion, would be competent to meet them, the answer was, 'Let me pick my officers, and I would not fear to meet them with half that number—not in a pitched battle, to stop them at once, for no troops are better than the British—but I would fight on the retreat, and every wall we passed should be lined with the dead!'"

"Our men," the General said on another occasion, "would always follow wherever their officers led—I know this to have been the case with mine, and have also seen it in other instances." And as Putnam's record had long since proved that he always led, and asked no man to approach nearer the foe than he himself was willing to go, the soldiers were enthusiastic for "Old Wolf Put," the fighter, though lukewarm in their feelings toward the commander.

They did not admire the methods Putnam employed to keep them out of mischief—these raw and undisciplined militia, accustomed to do as they liked and to take orders from no man—for he kept them actively employed all the time. "It is better to dig a ditch every morning, and fill it up at evening, than to have the men idle," said Old Put, and though the men grumbled the results soon showed that he was right.

What they also needed more than anything else was confidence, and, in order to inspire that, he paraded some two thousand of them through Charlestown over the hills soon to become world-famous, and right in sight of the enemy. He did this several times, and on one occasion took with him his son Daniel, who wrote of it afterward: "I felt proud to be numbered among what I then thought to be a mighty host destined for some great enterprise."

Daniel was then only fifteen years of age, yet he performed a man's work, proving himself worthy of his parentage, and was his father's aide-de-camp and companion. During the progress of the battle at Bunker Hill he acted as the guard and defender of a British refugee's wife and family, and stoutly did his duty, boy that he was.

Perhaps the highest tribute paid to Putnam's prowess was the offer of his old-time friend and comrade, General Gage, the British commander-in-chief, to pay him a large sum of money, and secure him a major-generalcy in the British army, if he would desert the "rebel" cause and come over to that of the King. Putnam spurned this offer, of course, as did sturdy Colonel Stark, another comrade of the Indian wars, and several others. He was all the more active, if possible, in seeking out the enemy's weak points and in attempts to reduce his supplies.

An opportunity offered, some time in the last week of May, both to annoy the enemy and gain substantial recompense for a somewhat hazardous adventure. Several hundred sheep and cattle were in pasture on Hog and Noddles islands (the latter now East Boston), and as it was feared that the British might secure them before the Colonials did, a small force was sent to drive them to the mainland. It was sent by Putnam, whose great and burning desire for a "brush" with the enemy was now about to be gratified, and as a party of marines on guard over the live-stock fired on the Americans, Putnam hastened to their rescue with a larger force.

A British sloop and schooner then joined in the fight; but the Colonials turned their single cannon upon the craft, and soon disabled the larger vessel, which drifted ashore and, after the crew had been either shot or driven away, was set on fire. In this engagement ten or fifteen British were killed and wounded, but no Provincial lost his life, though two or three of Putnam's men were wounded. They fought with great spirit, wading in water from knee to waist deep, and not only brought off all the live-stock in safety, but also took away the guns, rigging and sails of the schooner, as well as some clothes and money left by the sailors in their flight. This brisk engagement gave the raw soldiers just the confidence they needed, and they returned in high spirits to their camp.

"I wish we could have something of this kind to do every day," remarked Putnam to Ward and Warren, as he reached his headquarters, where they were waiting for him to appear. "It would teach our men how little danger there is from cannon-balls; for though they have sent a great many at us, nobody has been much hurt by them." He was wet from head to foot, and covered with mud to his waist; but he did not mind that at all, and was as hilarious as a boy just let out from school.

The British were greatly chagrined at this second defeat, the first engagement after the Concord-Lexington fight, but at an exchange of prisoners, conducted, on the one hand, under Putnam and Warren, and on the other under Majors Small and Moncrief, the sixth of June, no ill feeling was shown. Putnam and Small (whose life the former was instrumental in saving at Bunker Hill, and who were old companions-at-arms), embraced, and one eye-witness said, kissed each other, in the excess of their joy at meeting; yet less than two weeks later they were opposed in a fight to the death.



CHAPTER XII

AT THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL

General Putnam was greatly elated over the exchange of prisoners, recognizing, with the prescience of a statesman, that General Gage had conceded a point of importance as to the status of his opponents. "He may call us rebels now, if he will," he said to his son, "but why then doesn't he hang his prisoners instead of exchanging them? By this act he has virtually placed us on an equality, and acknowledged our right of resistance." That was one point gained by the general; another was, the consent of the Committee of Safety to his plan of operations against the British in Boston.

General Ward and Dr. Warren were in favor of moderation, and opposed to the scheme advanced by Putnam, of forcing the enemy to either fight or retire. They urged that they had no battering cannon and but little powder, there being but sixty-seven barrels in the whole army, and no mills to make any more when that was gone. And again, they feared for the steadiness of the men, once they found themselves opposed by the best of Britain's soldiers. But Putnam was persistent, not in advocating the bombarding of Boston, or of a large expenditure of powder and ball in trying to force the British from their position; but in fortifying the heights of Dorchester and Charlestown, which completely commanded the city.

He knew the British mode of attack and defense, knew their tactics through long observation in the ranks; and yet for him and his compatriots those same British professed to feel naught but contempt. They had always ignored the Provincials' claims to advancement on equal terms with their own officers; they thought their soldiers in the Indian wars were boorish and uncouth, merely because they paid little attention to dress or discipline; yet here was one of those least regardful of appearances (though an advocate of discipline) who knew them and their tactics through and through. And he also knew the men of his command better than any officers of inferior rank knew them. His one cry was, "fight, fight; bring our men into contact with the enemy, in order that they shall gain confidence and learn that they are really their equals, and more than that. Fight and entrench, entrench and fight; run away when it comes to a pinch, fight while you run; but fight!"

"But will our men stand before an enemy?" queried the timid ones. "Yes, they will," declared Putnam with a laugh. "Our troops are not all afraid of their heads, though very much concerned for their legs, and if you cover these they'll fight forever!" In other words, put them behind entrenchments, and he would pit them against the finest fighters that could be brought against them. The result at Bunker Hill was a vindication of his belief.

As Putnam had all along declared, it was in the nature of an impossibility for sixteen thousand armed men to besiege ten thousand other armed men without something happening partaking of violence. The war was "on," there was no doubt of that, why then hesitate at warlike measures? Still the commander-in-chief hesitated and paltered, while Putnam fumed, but labored hard.

What Putnam had advocated as the highest strategy, the seizing of some height commanding the British position, was forced upon the irresolute commander-in-chief by the British themselves. Shortly after General Gage's four thousand soldiers had been reenforced by six thousand more, under Howe, Clinton, and Burgoyne, the Americans learned that the enemy intended to take and fortify the heights of Charlestown or Dorchester themselves. As it was then the sixteenth of June, and their move was to be made on the eighteenth, there was no time to lose if they were to be forestalled; so orders were issued by the Committee of Safety, sanctioned by a council of war, for taking possession of Bunker Hill in Charlestown.

A detail of a thousand men was made from three Massachusetts regiments, to which, in order to placate General Putnam, two hundred Connecticut soldiers were added under his friend, Captain Knowlton. This small body of militia, with a few field pieces as artillery, was to sally forth to rouse the British lion in his lair. The detachment was placed under Colonel William Prescott, of Massachusetts, General Putnam "having the general superintendence of the expedition," and about nine o'clock at night, after having been paraded on Cambridge Common, and listened to prayer by the president of Harvard College, this devoted band set forth on its mysterious mission.

Striding ahead of his men, all of whom had perfect confidence in their beloved officer, Colonel Prescott led the way, accompanied by two sergeants carrying lanterns. Not until they had reached the foot of Bunker Hill, where they found entrenching tools awaiting them which had been sent ahead in wagons, did the rank and file know the object of their march in the night; yet they faltered not, nor displayed a disposition to retreat. Their leaders knew, of course; but even they were in doubt, when once arrived at Charlestown, which of its eminences to select. Their orders explicitly indicated Bunker Hill as the one to fortify, but, "though this was the most commanding and most defensible position, it was too far from the enemy to annoy their army and shipping." Situated nearer the British general position was another elevation, Breed's Hill; but this was only sixty-two feet in height, as compared with Bunker Hill's one hundred and ten. This was finally selected, but only after a long consultation, which lasted until near midnight, when the veteran military engineer, Colonel Gridley (who had been awaiting the decision in great anxiety, owing to the loss of valuable time), at once proceeded to lay out the works.

On the summit of Breed's Hill the skilled engineer quickly ran the lines of that world-famous redoubt in which our immortal freemen inflicted a technical defeat upon Britain's bravest soldiers. It was planned and constructed with a redan facing Charlestown which protected the south side of the hill, and was only about eight rods square, continued by a breastwork on its eastern side, from which it was separated by a sallyport protected in front by a "blind," with a passage-way opening rearward as a provision for retreat. The men were given picks and shovels, and at once bent to their task with feverish energy. Scant four hours they had before them, when daylight would reveal them and their position to the enemy, for June's longest days and shortest nights were near, with daylight at four in the morning. They all labored for their lives, both officers and men, and toiled without cessation to the end. The night was dark, but the stars shone bright, and by their light Colonel Prescott and another officer, Major Brooks, stole down to the shore to observe the enemy, where they were reassured by the "All's well" from the British sentries on board the ships off shore.

All was not well—for them—most assuredly; but it was not until the morning mists rolled away from the rounded summits of the hills in front that they found it out. Then they might well gaze in wrath and wonder, beholding that work as if of enchantment going on before them, on that hill-top within short cannon-shot of their shipping. But they did not spend much time in rubbing their eyes and in vain speculation, being well assured at a glance that the "rascally American militia" had stolen a march upon them in the night and brought all their plans to naught.

A brisk cannonade was opened from the war-ships upon the weary, toiling men in the entrenchment; but they still worked on, incited to their utmost by the gallant Prescott, who himself is said to have lent a hand with pick and shovel. General Putnam's predictions as to their coolness under fire were more than verified, and had he been there then he would have been surprised at their indifference to the cannonading now going on so furiously. One man only was killed in this preliminary firing, and he had strayed outside the breastwork.

"Man killed, what shall we do with him?" asked a subaltern of Prescott.

"Bury him," was the laconic answer; and buried he was, in the ditch, while the work on the redoubt went on.

General Putnam was not on the hill when the cannon-fire began, having gone back to camp to change his tired horse for a fresher one; for his gait, says the historian, was always fast and furious. At the first report, however, he pricked up his ears and sent to Commander Ward for another horse; but before his orderly returned, he had procured still another and was already on his way to Charlestown. He had tried to procure for his men not only reenforcements but refreshments, for they had taken with them only one day's rations. In this he was disappointed, General Ward refusing to send over any more men, at that time, believing the British would take advantage of his weakened force to make a direct attack upon the main army at Cambridge. But when, having arrived at the hill, Putnam conversed with Prescott and noted the necessitous condition of the men, he again mounted and in hot haste rode back to Cambridge, with an urgent plea to the commander for assistance. This time it was not refused, and again gallant Putnam rode across Charlestown Neck, at the risk of his life, to take part in the coming conflict.

Meanwhile, there was a great commotion in the British camps, and from their place of vantage on Breed's Hill the patriots could see the gathering soldiers marching for the shore. General Gage had quickly called a council, which instantly decided that the patriots must be dislodged at whatever cost. As the prescient Putnam had foretold, the occupation of a hill so near their lines made their position untenable. They must move out or fight, and not even Putnam believed they would retreat from their snug quarters in Boston town. He knew well what was coming, and was not at all surprised to see, gathering beneath the blazing morning sun of the torrid day that had succeeded to a sultry night, the thousands of redcoats, armed and equipped for battle.

After informing the anxious soldiers on the hill of the promised succor to arrive, Putnam rode along the lines and, casting his eye over the situation, perceived that it would be a grave strategic omission to neglect to entrench the hill in the rear, which was the original object of their advance. As the main redoubt was then practically completed, and the men were resting from their toil, he ordered the entrenching tools to be taken to Bunker Hill, and another work begun which might serve as a "rallying place" in case they were compelled to retreat—as undoubtedly they would be. This entrenchment was begun but never finished, owing to the lack of time. Had it been completed, and had the men been able to avail of its defenses, there might have been a different tale to tell of the final finish at Bunker Hill. But noon had now arrived, the British frigates and floating batteries were by this time not only raining shot like hail upon and around the redoubt, but sending a scathing fire across the Neck, under cover of which barge-loads of soldiers were landing on the peninsula preparatory to an advance.

Noon came, but not the reenforcements which had been promised by General Ward, so General Putnam "seized the opportunity of hastening to Cambridge, whence he returned without delay. He had to pass a galling enfilading fire of round, bar, and chain shot, which thundered across the Neck from a frigate in the Charles River, and two floating batteries hauled close to the shore," wrote one who had conversed with eye-witnesses of this scene. The neck, or narrow passage-way between the Charles and Mystic Rivers, was only about one hundred and thirty yards across and exposed to that terrible cannonade; yet over it flew the reckless rider, coat off, in shirt-sleeves, an old white hat on his head; back and forth he rode, fearless and unscathed. The great painter Trumbull, who produced the celebrated picture of the Battle of Bunker Hill, which has excited the admiration of thousands, represented General Putnam conspicuously placed in that scene, but arrayed in an immaculate uniform, with ruffles and frills, and such like accessories which "Old Put" would have spurned.

Still, the man was there, if not the uniform. His appointment as major-general was dated two days after that memorable 17th of June; but he was then, as brigadier-general, the ranking officer present, until brave Warren appeared upon the scene. The latter was discovered by Putnam just as he was wheeling about after meeting and posting the gallant Colonel Stark and his New Hampshire reenforcements behind the rail fence and grass breastwork, where they gave such a good account of themselves that day. Turning about, he saw the slender figure of the newly-made major-general before him, a sword at his side, but a musket on his shoulder.

"What, Warren, you here?" he is said to have exclaimed. "I am sorry to see you ... but I'm ready to submit myself to your orders."

"No, no, I came only as a volunteer," replied Warren. "Tell me where I can be most useful."

Pointing to the redoubt, Putnam said, "You will be protected there."

"I am not seeking a place of safety," rejoined Warren with warmth; "tell me where the onset will be most furious."

"There," answered Putnam. "That will be the enemy's object. Prescott is there and will do his duty; if that can be defended, the day will be ours."

The shouts of the soldiers announced to Putnam the arrival of Warren in their midst, and not long after another cheer proclaimed the arrival of an old friend and comrade of his, Colonel Seth Pomeroy, a veteran of the Indian wars, who, twenty years before, had succeeded to the command of Colonel Ephraim Williams's regiment at the battle of Lake George. He had been aroused by the tidings from the seat of war, and though, like Putnam, he lived nearly or quite a hundred miles away, he had hastened to be in the thick of the fight. He had borrowed a horse from General Ward, but, with characteristic Yankee caution, had left it the other side of the Neck, in charge of a sentry, and had walked over, amid the hail of shot from the frigates and batteries.

Pomeroy and Putnam would have made a good pair to represent Valor and Intrepidity, were statues desired for those noble qualities. When Putnam saw him he cried out: "You here, Pomeroy? By God! a cannon-shot would waken you out of your grave!" He was in his seventieth year, having been born in 1706, and twelve years Putnam's senior.

So they gathered, the young and the old, the learned doctor and the practical mechanic, for the defense of Freedom—a magnet that drew both Pomeroy and Warren to that since-famous redoubt on the summit of Breed's Hill. They offered their services to Colonel Prescott, and he gladly accepted them, demurring as to Warren, and tendering him the command, which was his by right of rank. But the patriot simply said, as before, that he had come to fight as a volunteer, and at once mingled with the men within the redoubt.

The movements of the British were slow, and mid-afternoon had arrived before the agonizing suspense was over and they began their advance up the hill. The eager Americans were hardly to be kept behind their earthworks, much less restrained from firing at the advancing foe, as the solid ranks came marching up the acclivity, ominously silent, with deadly intent. But Putnam was with them, riding slowly up and down the lines.

"Don't waste your powder, boys," he shouted. "Wait for orders, then fire low, take aim at their waistbands. Aim at the handsome coats, pick off the commanders!" They did as commanded, only a few anticipating orders, and at the fatal command, "Fire!" the ranks in front of them melted away like snow before the sun.

It was the same at the breastwork as at the redoubt, and at the second or third volley the remaining redcoats broke and fled promiscuously down the hill. It was not in the nature of even the bravest men to march to certain destruction, and General Howe had difficulty in re-forming his defeated troops for a second assault; but on they came, the intrepid Howe in advance and on foot, until within even a shorter distance of redoubt, breastwork, and rail fence, when a sheet of flame burst forth that carried all before it to destruction.

The scene outspread from the hill was perfectly appalling, and, to add to the terrors of thunderous artillery, from frigates, floating batteries and field-pieces, clouds of smoke came pouring out from Charlestown, which had been set on fire, enveloping the contestants, at first, in semi-obscurity. It was the intention of the British, in setting fire to Charlestown, to veil their movements as they marched up the hill; but this was frustrated by the rising wind, which carried the smoke aloft and away.

In the second advance, as in the first, the soldiers were led by General Howe, who seemed, like Putnam, to bear a charmed life, at this time having all his staff officers killed or wounded but one. For the Provincials had strictly obeyed Putnam's orders, to pick off the men in handsome coats. He himself was touched to the heart.

"Oh, my God, what carnage!" he cried, as he saw his former friends and comrades fall before the withering blast. Seeing several of his men aiming their pieces at the only officer remaining unhurt, he darted forward and struck up their muskets, exclaiming: "For God's sake, lads, don't fire at that man! I love him as I do my brother." It was Major Small, a former companion of the Indian wars, who owed his life to Putnam's intervention, and who afterward tried to requite the favor—though vainly—when brave Warren fell, by entreating him to surrender.

The sword with which Old Put struck up the muskets of his men was always visible in the thickest of the fight, waving in air, descending with resounding whacks—the flat of it—upon recreant soldiers' shoulders; held threateningly against the breast of cowardly artillerymen, when, their cartridges proving inadequate, they were about abandoning their guns.

The little field-pieces were too puny to do much harm, but they counted for something, Putnam said, as he tore a cartridge in pieces and, ladling the powder and canister into the gun, aimed and discharged it into the advancing ranks of the foe, with effect. But all was of no avail. The Americans had good cause to believe the enemy had had enough; but Putnam knew the foe and cautioned them against overconfidence. True to his predictions, they reformed for a third charge upon the hill, led, as before, by the gallant Howe, and this time, as the Provincials had nearly exhausted their supply of ammunition, they were forced to extremities.

Yet nearer than before, the British were allowed to approach, and, with their artillery enfilading the redoubt and the breastwork with deadly effect, the brave Provincials waited till they were within twenty yards before they fired their last rounds into the foe. Then they clubbed their muskets, dashed stones into the faces of the foe, fighting hand to hand, as the British poured over the earthworks in a stream. Seeing his forlorn position, Prescott ordered a retreat, and his men sullenly obeyed, fighting to the last, stubbornly contesting every foot.

Down below, on the slope near the Neck, was the infuriated Putnam, doing his utmost to urge forward the belated reenforcements. When he saw the onpouring mass of men in retreat he was wild with rage. "Halt, you infernal cowards!" he yelled. "Halt here and make a stand. We can stop them yet!" But he was overborne by the resistless stream, and with an impious imprecation on his lips he dismounted, near a field-piece, "and seemed resolved to brave the foe alone." One man only, a sergeant, took his stand beside him, but he was soon shot down, and brave Old Put was left without support. "The enemy's bayonets were just upon him when he retired," probably the last unwounded warrior to retreat from Bunker Hill!



CHAPTER XIII

HOLDING THE ENEMY AT BAY

The battle had been fought, and had resulted even better than the then enraged Putnam himself could have anticipated, for although technically defeated, the Provincials had achieved a real victory, the fruits of which were to be enjoyed by generations then unborn. For they had conquered themselves as well as the enemy, whom they had met with calm confidence; and had they been better supplied with ammunition, that enemy would never have seen the inside of the redoubt and the breastworks.

British bayonets defeated them finally, as opposed to clubbed muskets and stones cast by despairing men, whose very last thought was of retreat. Many and many a man besides Prescott and Putnam, Stark and Pomeroy, Knowlton and McClary, raged like wolves that day at its ending, to find themselves compelled to accept a retreat as the alternative of capture or death. Like lions making for their lairs in the hills, Prescott and Putnam gave way at last before the overwhelming forces of the enemy; and, after passing through the storm of cannon-balls still hurtling across the Neck, they had leisure to count up their losses; for the British were too exhausted, too much in awe of their prowess, even, to pursue.

It was a very good showing for green troops, that which told the respective losses of British and Americans: more than a thousand of the former, as against less than five hundred of the latter. Each side lost, in killed and wounded, about one-third the total number of its men, for the British brought about four thousand five hundred troops into the field; while the Americans in active conflict, including such reenforcements as reached the hill, scarcely exceeded fifteen hundred.

A very good showing, a "great victory"—yet purchased at fearful cost to both sides. A host of British officers, many of them bearing names distinguished for valor and honorable lineage, went down before the volleys of the Provincials, while the latter had also a sorrowful tale to tell. Warren had fallen, one of the last to leave the redoubt; old Pomeroy had his musket shattered, but drew off in good order, taking it along with him for repairs; McClary was killed by a cannon-ball, while boasting that the shot was not cast that would end his life; and so the story went.

One of the strangest happenings was the end of Major Pitcairn, who had ordered the first shots fired at Lexington, and who, one of the first over the redoubt, was killed by a negro soldier named Salem, falling into the arms of his son. It came about, some time after, that the pistols he had carried at Lexington (which were taken from his holsters when his horse was shot under him, and he lay on the ground feigning himself dead) were presented to General Putnam. He carried them through all his subsequent campaigns, and at present they may be found in the custody of the Library at Lexington.

One field-piece only was saved out of six guns taken by the Provincials into battle, and it was near the last one left in the field that the enraged Putnam took his stand, between his retreating men and the advancing foe, until "his countrymen were in momentary expectation of seeing this compeer of the immortal Warren fall."

That was Putnam: one of the first in the field, the last to leave it. We have seen (as all his biographers and many historians have agreed in stating) that he took a most active part throughout, exposing himself continually to the shots of the enemy, guiding, directing, leading; and that no man's commands were so eagerly received and so promptly obeyed as his. And yet there are cavilers who have raised the question as to whether he or Prescott commanded at the battle of Bunker Hill—as though it mattered much. Both were sons of Massachusetts, and Putnam an adoptive son of Connecticut, fighting on Massachusetts soil.

It is certain that neither he nor Prescott gave a thought to this matter, especially at the time the balls flew thickest.[2] They may have had differences of opinion, as, for instance, when Putnam attempted to take away some of Prescott's men from the redoubt to throw up earthworks on Bunker Hill. Subsequent events proved that Putnam's scheme of defense was the right one, and only lack of time and men prevented its being carried out.

[Footnote 2: "Putnam," says Irving, in his Life of Washington, "also was a leading spirit throughout the affair; one of the first to prompt and the last to maintain it. He appears to have been active and efficient at every point, sometimes fortifying, sometimes hurrying up reenforcements; inspiriting the men by his presence while they were able to maintain their ground, and fighting gallantly at the outpost to cover their retreat."]

As soon as once assured that the defeat of the Provincials was overwhelming, Putnam lost no time in entrenching at Prospect Hill, the first spot at which he could halt his fleeing troops. Here he stayed, working like a beaver and digging like a badger, and this strategic position, which he had seized and selected almost intuitively, he continued to occupy until appointed to the command of the center division of the army at Cambridge, where, on July 2, 1775, he for the first time met General Washington, who had come with his appointment as Commander-in-Chief recently received from the Continental Congress.

Not long after formally taking command of the army, beneath the historic elm at Cambridge, Washington made a tour of the fortifications and was astonished at the progress Putnam had made at Prospect Hill, as well as at the military skill he had shown in taking and fortifying it. Two days later he presented him with his commission as a Major-General in the Continental Army, which had been unanimously bestowed by Congress on the 19th of June, two days after the battle of Bunker Hill, and which he received on the 4th of July. Putnam's commission was the only one then presented in person by Washington, though three others had been appointed major-generals under him: Lee, Ward, and Schuyler. A great deal of jealousy and heart-burning resulted from the appointments, one of the brigadiers, General Spencer, over whom Putnam had been advanced, threatening to resign.

In these days began the friendship which existed between the Commander-in-Chief and Major-General Putnam during the remainder of their lives. Putnam's honesty, industry, frankness, and integrity interested General Washington, who was delighted with this bluff old soldier who wore his laurels so modestly. "You'll find," wrote a contemporary to a friend, "that Generals Washington and Lee are vastly fonder and think higher of Putnam than any man in the army; and he truly is the hero of the day!"

On the 6th of July, 1775, the Continental Congress sent out its formal Statement, which was read at headquarters in Cambridge on the 15th, and to Putnam's division, then at Prospect Hill, on the 18th. At the same time the new standard recently sent from Connecticut was unfurled, to the acclaim of a mighty "Amen!" and the thunder of cannon from the fort. The commotion aroused the British in their dearly-bought stronghold over at Charlestown. In the language of the Essex Gazette, proclaiming this event: "The Philistines on Bunker Hill heard the shouts of the Israelites, and being very fearful, paraded themselves in battle array."

Putnam's bold stand at Prospect Hill, so promptly taken and so stoutly maintained, kept the enemy within the territory they had purchased with the blood of their best soldiers, and they never advanced any farther into the country they coveted. The lines of investment around Boston were drawn closer and made more nearly impregnable, yet weeks and months went by without any material change in the relative positions of British and Provincials, save that Putnam still kept on digging, and creeping nearer and nearer to the foe. By fortifying Cobble Hill, an elevation that more completely commanded the Charles than his main fortress at Prospect Hill, Putnam was enabled to open fire upon the British men-of-war and floating batteries, and soon silenced and drove them away. Not satisfied with this achievement, a few days later his men were at work upon an entrenchment within half a mile and under the fire of a British man-of-war, a squad of these intrepid soldiers being commanded by his eldest son, Israel.

The British were now alarmed, and doubtless believed, in the language of a writer commenting on these events, that "every fort which was defended by General Putnam might be considered as impregnable, if daring courage and intrepidity could always resist superior force."

Still, while the British feared to advance upon the Americans, the latter, though eager to drive them out of their stronghold, were unable to do so from lack of artillery and ammunition. This lack was to some extent supplied by the capture of some ordnance ships by our gallant privateers, though as late as January, 1776, one of the Provincial colonels wrote to another: "The bay is open; everything thaws here except Old Put. He is still as hard as ever, crying out for powder—powder—ye gods, give us powder!"

Cannon-balls, several hundred of them, he had secured (if we may credit a story told at the time) by conspicuously posting some of his men on an elevation in front of a sandy hill in sight of a British war-ship, from which by this ingenious ruse he drew a rain of shot, which supplied his needs for the time being, as they were afterward easily dug out of the sand!

Among the captures by the privateers was a 13-inch brass mortar weighing nearly three thousand pounds, which was taken to Cambridge, where (according to the same veracious narrator of the "powder cry," the witty Provincial colonel), it was the occasion of a great jubilation. "To crown the glorious scene," he says, "there intervened one truly ludicrous, which was Old Put mounted on the large mortar, which was fixed in its bed for the occasion, with a bottle of rum in his hand, standing parson to christen, while godfather Mifflin, the quartermaster-general, gave it the name of Congress!"

Old Put never lost a chance for fun and frolic, though he was as stern a disciplinarian as Washington himself, who, however, must have been greatly shocked at this horse-play in which his favorite General took part. But the rank and file were delighted; and it was the possession of just such qualities, of hilarious good-humor combined with sturdy common-sense, that made Old Put a universal favorite. For dignity he cared nothing at all; for discipline he was a "stickler"; and, as the men hated the one as much as they disliked the other, yet loved and admired their rough-and-ready General intensely, Putnam proved the coherent factor in the combination that held the army together. At another "truly ludicrous" scene, somewhat later, in which Putnam was one of the participants, the dignified Commander-in-Chief is said to have laughed until his sides ached. Looking from a window of his chamber in the Craigie mansion, one morning, Washington perceived Putnam approaching on horseback, with a very stout lady mounted behind his saddle, and riding as if for dear life. The woman was an accessory of a British spy, whom Putnam had arrested, and had brought to his commander to be disciplined. It was a long while before Washington could recover his countenance sufficiently to proceed with the business.

At last, after months of waiting, the arrival of General Knox with fifty-five cannon and a quantity of ammunition, which, with magnificent daring, he had collected and brought from the forts on the frontier, put the Provincials in possession of the means they needed for compelling the British to retire. Following a council of war, Dorchester Heights were occupied on the 4th of March, the attention of the enemy being first diverted from the real object by a two-days' cannon-fire upon the other side of the city, and after a futile attempt by General Howe to assault the works erected by the Americans, on the 17th the British hastily took to their ships.

Had this intended assault by the British taken place, Washington was ready to make a direct attack upon Boston with the troops in two divisions, under the command of General Putnam. At the last council of war, it is narrated, when General Washington had requested Putnam to give more attention to the matter in hand, he replied: "Oh, my dear General, plan the battle to suit yourself, and I will fight it!"



CHAPTER XIV

IN COMMAND AT NEW YORK

The British had been forced out of Boston; they had embarked aboard their fleet; but for more than a week they lingered in the outer harbor, as if uncertain whither to go. While Washington was in doubt as to their next movement, he shrewdly guessed that the city of New York, being so advantageously situated, especially commanding communication with Canada by the valley of the Hudson River, would be their ultimate, if not immediate objective. He had already despatched thither General Lee, who was planning defenses for the harbor; but as he desired Lee to command in the South, he looked around for another man to take his place. Troops were on the way, also, under Generals Heath and Sullivan, to be followed by many more, and there was every indication that soon a large army would be concentrated in and around New York.

Who to trust with this important command was a serious question for the Commander-in-Chief, but he finally pitched upon Putnam, in whom he seemed to have confidence, though with some misgivings which foreshadowed the accuracy of his final estimate of the man. In a letter treating of a similar situation, two months previously, Washington had written to Congress: "General Putnam is a most valuable man and a fine executive officer; but I do not know how he would conduct in a separate department."

But he resolved to entrust him with the command, and on the 29th of March, only twelve days after the British had left, gave him his orders, which concluded with this expression of confidence: "Your long service and experience will, better than my particular directions at this distance, point out to you the works most proper to be raised; and your perseverance, activity, and zeal will lead you, without my recommending it, to exert every nerve to disappoint the enemy's designs."

With his customary expedition, General Putnam lost no time in getting to New York, arriving there on the 4th of April, whither he was followed by Washington nine days later. The Commander-in-Chief found, when he arrived, little to criticize and much to commend in what Putnam had done, for he had already stopped the Tories from furnishing supplies to the British fleet, had commenced to fortify Governor's Island and Red Hook, increased the efficiency of the works on Brooklyn Heights, barricaded the streets of New York with mahogany logs from the West Indies, and organized a "navy" of schooners and whale-boats, to cruise in the North and East rivers.

As Washington was absent much of the time in consultation with Congress at Philadelphia, Putnam was practically in supreme command; yet his arduous and important duties did not prevent him from attending a dinner on the first anniversary of the Battle of Bunker Hill. In a letter written by an American officer describing this event, it is more than intimated that he was ever ready to accommodate when called upon for a song or a speech on such an occasion, for he says: "Our good General Putnam got sick and went to his quarters before dinner was over, and we missed him a marvel, as there is not a chap in the camp who can lead him in the 'Maggie Lauder's song.'"

When in New York, Putnam's headquarters were on Bowling Green, where he later had with him members of his family, including his wife, who had also visited him at Cambridge, and had dispensed a generous hospitality at the Inman mansion; while Mrs. Washington (with whom both Putnam and his wife were in high favor) was at the Craigie house. His son Israel was a member of his military family, which also included Major Humphreys (who afterward wrote his biography) and Major Aaron Burr, his military secretary. His justifiable severity in proclaiming martial law, and in punishing Tories found guilty of harboring or assisting the enemy, incurred the ill-will of New York's inhabitants, and militated against his fortunes when later he fell into disrepute.

Plots against his life were formed, among them most conspicuous for its scheme of wholesale assassinations being that in which one of Washington's own guards was concerned, and for complicity in which this same man, Thomas Hickey, paid the penalty with his life, being executed on the 27th of June. Two days later a large British fleet was reported off Sandy Hook, and by the 1st of July there were more than a hundred of the enemy's war-ships and transports in the bay. The presence of this immense fleet did not prevent the proper reception of the immortal Declaration of Independence, proclaimed by the Continental Congress at Philadelphia on the 4th of July, 1776, and which was read to the troops, amid loud acclaim from officers and common soldiers, on the 9th.