"Then...A Patriot I'll Be" Recieves a "5 Star Review"....

"Then...A Patriot I'll Be" Recieves a "5 Star Review"....

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The Massive Guns of Fort Ticonderoga...

The following passage is from the novel, "Then...A Patriot I'll Be". It recounts the arduous task that was performed by Henry Knox, to retrieve the captured cannon from Fort Ticonderoga, and deliver them to Dorchester Heights; thus forcing the British to evacuate Boston....

Henry Knox's Artillery Train From Ft. Ticonderoga to Dorchester Heights

....Struggling with the idea of how to get sufficient canon to Dorchester Heights for Washington’s fortifications, another war counsel was called. The officers met up and kicked around different ideas on where they would get the canons from. Now, they knew that they had some canon from when Captain John Manley captured the British supply vessel Nancy earlier, but that was not enough. They needed more guns, and they needed bigger ones too. It would do no good to stage small canon on the heights. From that distance, a small gun might not even be able to hit a target across the water in Boston. Big canon was the necessity, but Washington and his men struggled with the problem of where to get them from. Finally, the idea came to them. They remembered that Fort Ticonderoga had been captured from the British by Benedict Arnold and Ethan Allen in May of 1775. There was a massive stockpile of canon available at the fort. There was mortar, howitzers, and field guns stored there. Some of the guns were the big guns that Washington needed so badly; twenty-four pounders.

Realizing that there was a supply of canons available to the Continental Army, the counsel was positive about making the fortification effective. Finally, after all the waiting and planning, Washington could now begin his offense. There was however one very big problem facing Washington and his war counsel. Having the guns at his disposal was an extremely uplifting premise. However, the issue at hand now was how to get the guns from Fort Ticonderoga and transport them to Dorchester Heights. That is where Henry Knox would come in. The new friend of General Washington volunteered to take on the epic journey in the cold and snowy conditions. He proposed to Washington that he could make the trip and be back with the cannon in about two weeks. Washington allowed him to undertake this journey. It was the only choice that he had to fortify the heights. The Continental Congress believed in him so strongly that they granted Knox a colonel’s commission. However, the commission did not reach him before he left. He embarked on his quest in mid November, not yet knowing he was now a colonel. Firstly, he would stop in New York City to pick up the supplies he needed for the trip. From there, he made his way to Fort Ticonderoga. It was a treacherous trip through the cold and snow filled forests and mountains. He arrived at Fort Ticonderoga in early December. He made pretty decent time considering how treacherous the trip had been. No sooner had he stepped foot into the fort, he immediately got to work inventorying the guns and preparing the logistics for their transport back to Dorchester.

Once inventorying the guns was completed, he narrowed down what pieces he would be actually taking with him on the journey. He chose to take roughly sixty cannon back with him. Among these cannon were the twenty four pounders that Washington so badly needed. He also decided to take with him various mortars and howitzers; all of which could prove their weight in gold during a bombardment. He had the guns pulled on sleds by teams of oxen from the fort up to the northern end of Lake George. From there, they were loaded on ships that he had already prepared to be there waiting for him. They then began the journey across to reach the southern end of Lake George. On the way to the southern end of the increasingly icy lake, a ship carrying some of the guns sunk. Luckily though, enough of the ship was left above the water line, and she was successfully bailed out and re-floated. A few days later, the flotilla of vessels reached Fort George safely at the southern end of the lake. His first portion of the journey was a success. However, he had much more to go.

Departing Fort George, Knox had over forty more strong duty sleds built and supplied additional yoke of oxen (I have heard upwards of eighty) to pull the sleds through the heavy snow. When the “artillery train” began to move, Knox took off and went ahead of it. He made his way to Albany and met up with General Philip Schuyler. Together, the two men were able to find more equipment and personnel to send north toward the artillery train to assist with the movement. The train lumbered its way through the dense snow toward the Hudson River. Being as cold as it was, the hope was that the river would be sufficiently frozen over with ice to allow the heavy train to cross. Reaching the Hudson however, it was realized that the ice was too thin to support the massive artillery train. Knox and his men decided to assist the river in its freezing. The men began pouring water on the already hardened ice with the hopes of thickening it. To their amazement, it worked, and the train made it safely to Albany. Departing from Albany and heading toward Massachusetts, the train once again had to cross a different portion of the Hudson River. This time, the river would not be tricked into hardening enough, and a few of the heavy cannons crashed through the thin ice and went to the river bottom. Fortunately, with the fusion of manpower and oxen power alike, the guns were able to be retrieved from the river bottom. This was definitely a setback, but Knox knew how important it was to reach the heights with as many pieces of cannon as possible. Once the cannon were recovered from the river, the train mounted up and moved on. Not long after, they finally made it over the Hudson River, for the second time.

The train continued its trek toward Dorchester Heights. Word got around, and it wasn’t too secret of a mission that Knox and his guns were on their way toward Boston. As they passed through various towns, many of the local residents would come out of their homes into the cold and cheer the artillery train on as it went through. In one instance, the train received such a glowing reception by the residents of Westfield that Knox himself loaded up one of the bigger cannon with powder and fired it off. The gathered crowd responded with great applause and huzzahs.

In mid January, Henry Knox and his much needed artillery train finally arrived in Cambridge, and reported to General Washington. The guns of Fort Ticonderoga had finally arrived. They took considerably longer than the original estimate of two weeks to reach their destination. The lumbering train took ten weeks to reach Cambridge. As late as the guns were, Washington was sure relieved that they had arrived at all. Henry Knox had come through. He had delivered the cannon as promised. Upon arrival to Cambridge, he received the news that he had been commissioned as a colonel during his journey. The next step was for the newly commissioned colonel to meet with Washington and the rest of the war counsel. It was time to put together the plan of fortifying Dorchester Heights....

The Fall of Fort Washington....

In greatful commemoration to the brave men that fought in for the ill-fated defense of Fort Washington, the following passage is from the novel, "Then...A Patriot I'll Be". It recounts the experience of a Continental Soldier as he fought in the final moments before losing the fort to the combined forces of the British and Hessians....

Continental Defenders of Fort Washington

 

....We had gotten within twenty yards of the fort or so, and now we were afforded some cover fire from the men stationed atop the wooden walls of the structure. Luckily for us, this barrage of musketry caused the advancing Hessians to slow their pace just long enough for us to make it to the heavy wooden doors of the fort. As we made it to the doors, they were swung open and a group of riflemen came out to provide some more cover fire to allow us all to run inside and shut the doors tightly. As the doors shut behind us, I fell to the ground while trying to catch my breath. After all, it had been a long run and the pace was at a sprint rather than a jog. I checked on my mates and was assured that they too, though also in need of breath, were ok. Even Jessie had managed the retreat, and he now stood at the walls of the fort firing off his weapon at the enemy outside, seemingly unfazed by the run he had just participated in. I was thankful that although he was in the grasp of madness, he still had enough logic left in him to retreat when the redoubt was overrun.

While still crouched on the ground and trying to catch our breath, an officer came up to Thomas, Francis, and I and presented us with his canteen. “Drink up men, you have had quite a run from those German buggers”, he jollily said with a comforting smile. “Once you have had your refreshment, get to the walls lads. We have need for every available musket to hold the bastards off”. I replied that we would, and the officer went on to the next group of men clearly suffering from the retreat as well. I came to find out that that officer was none other than Colonel Robert Magaw.

Not taking too much time to recuperate, my mates and I quickly took our positions up along the walls of the fort, and began firing down upon the still attacking Hessians and regulars. As they had gotten so close, I was almost positive that some of my musket balls had hit their mark and taken down more than one of my foes. One shot in particular, I actually saw enter the body of a Hessian as he loaded his weapon to fire upon me……. I had just finished ramming down a cartridge into the breach of my musket, when I heard the distinct buzzing sound of a projectile whiz past my head, nearly taking my ear off with it. “Sausage eating bastards almost got me”, I thought! Now enraged, I completed my muzzle load and replaced the ram rod back into the hoops beneath the barrel. Someone was about to pay for nearly knocking me off my perch. I looked upon the mixed masses of blue and red coated enemies and found my target. There, loading his recently fired weapon, and looking back at me with a devilish smile was a big fat Hessian soldier. I was certain that this was the fellow that had fired upon me and nearly sent me to my maker. If he wasn’t the scoundrel that fired upon me however, he would suffer all the same for the color of his uniform. Time seemed to stand still, as our eyes locked upon each other. When he saw that I was already loaded and about to take aim, his evil grin turned into a look of nervous desperation, as he scrambled to get his musket ready to fire at me first. I put my musket to my shoulder and took aim down the barrel. Suddenly, I no longer felt remorse for shooting at a man in combat. Someone was going to die that day, and it was either going to be me or him. I was about to do all in my power to see to it that it wouldn’t be me.

The Hessian continued to fumble with his weapon as I steadied myself to lock my sights onto him. I wanted to make sure I had this shot perfectly executed, as I didn’t want to allow the enemy a second chance to return his fire and this time straighten out his musket ball. Looking down my barrel, I could see that the enemy soldier had now finished his weapon loading and was about to put the butt of the gun to his shoulder in anticipation of firing at me. I cursed myself for taking so long to aim my musket, and now given him the chance to present his arms toward me! Another glance to his bloated mustache covered face, and now it appeared that his demonic smile had returned. I suppose that in his mind, he had once again gained the advantage due to my stupidity of allowing him the time to make ready his piece. I knew that I had to aim and fire fast now, as my enemy was endeavoring to do the same. I once again steadied my sights and made sure that I could see his massive body from down the length of my musket barrel. He now held his piece securely in the firing position, and was involved with cocking his lock back to the second position. “I had to act now”! I rubbed my finger along the trigger and squeezed with all my might. The plume of red flame shot out of my barrel, and through the smoke, I witnessed the musket ball tear into the monstrous man’s chest. Upon striking him, a burst of red exploded from the wound, and the blood instantly covered his grayish small clothes.

The man didn’t go down right away, although he did drop his musket upon receiving the wound. At this time, I heard nothing of the war engaging around me. It was as if complete silence encased me from the horrible struggle occurring. All appeared to be at a slower pace once my shot tore into the poor German. I could only focus on this mortally wounded man at the time, and nothing more. I recall his head falling down toward his torn open chest and then rising back up again. He grasped at his wound while staring into the eyes of the American who delivered the blow. His eyes told the tale that he was not only shocked by what happened, but also a bit nervous of what was to come. The dark red blood continued to ooze out from behind his hand as it now covered the wound. Falling down to his knees, the dying soldier continued to look out to me; his tall miter hat now fallen off his massive head. I heard not groans or cries of pain from the Hessian. He simply stayed fixated into my eyes as the blood now began to come up from his gut and flow out from the corners of his mouth. I just stared at him, as I had never so graphically witnessed a man in the throes of death; let alone, the death that my musket had created for him. It took what seemed like ages for the man to succumb to his wound, but finally, the poor Hessian’s body flopped from his knees, to face down in the dirt; kicking up dust as it smashed into the ground. This was followed by a slight twitch of his torso, and then there was stillness. The Hessian had crossed to the beyond, and although I had sent him there before he was able to do so to me, I silently wished him a peaceful travel.

Once I realized that the man had died, all the horrors of war began to come back to me. Time picked up its pace, and the sounds of battle were once again as clear as they had been before my encounter with the Hessian. Around me, men were dropping at their positions in the fort. Before me, enemy soldiers were falling dead as they took on musket fire while charging the walls. The rattling of musket volleys now echoed through my head. Snapping back to the reality of war, I shook my head clear of the dead Hessian and began to load my musket; for I would need to continue my part in the defense of the fort.

We continued to fight the good fight, but there were just too many of them coming at us. As I was firing my musket out over the walls, I was nearly looking clear in the face of the enemy as he climbed up on the wooden defenses. The Hessians were climbing over the walls of the fort like a dark plague infesting the citadel. We continued firing, but the enemy’s numbers were too great. We were ordered to move back from the walls and regroup toward the center of the fort, as it was obvious that we weren’t able to stop the enemy from coming over the walls. Any man unfortunate enough to not be able to get off the walls in time was slaughtered via bayonet as the Hessian beasts scaled the defenses. It was unbearably loud inside the fortress, as the combined sounds of men screaming in pain, musket fire, and the chilling battle cries of the Hessians combined to make it nearly impossible to hear the orders that our officers were yelling out to us. At this point, it didn’t matter anyway. It had almost become a “save yourself” type of situation, as our ranks broke up during the hand to hand combat that had ensued once enough of the enemy had made it inside the fort.

In a last ditch defense, we had nearly fifty of our men line up to give the Hessians one last volley before our inevitable slaughter at the hands of these mercenaries. There was one lone sergeant giving us our final firing commands. We quickly loaded in open order and prepared for our last stand. “To the ready”, he yelled with his sword up high! Across from us was a hulking mass of enemy soldiers cutting and slashing anyone they could get their infernal bayonets to. They were so involved with their butchering that they hadn’t noticed that we were lined up to fire upon them. The sergeant flung the blade of his sword down and yelled, “Fire Men! Damn you, Fire”! Instantaneously, we all squeezed our triggers, and a massive volley of hot lead tore into the enemy as they were busy slicing up our unfortunate men at the walls.

As the smoke cleared, I noticed that we had taken out a great deal of the Hessians, but unfortunately, more of them (including regulars as well) were now climbing over the walls in waves of red and blue. The situation turned bleak. Our officers had no orders to give, and they seemed as nervous as we were. All this time, some brave men still continued to resist the invading forces from the walls; using their muskets to block the bayonets and swords coming toward them at a fevering pace. It was a sad sight to behold however, as nearly all of them were hacked up and dispatched to the earth. Desperately, we began to load our muskets one more time, with the intention that though we would inevitably be cut to bits by the ghoulish Hessians, we could at least fire on a few of them; hopefully causing some casualties for their effort....

Differences in Opinion....

The below is an excerpt from the Novel, "Then...A Patriot I'll Be". It recounts a tense situation in a local tavern during a conflict between supporters of King George III, and a man that holds intense hatred for the king....

....There was one sailor in particular that arrived at the inn one afternoon in want of refreshment. He was a middle sized man with a gray beard of a short length. The crevasses on his face were the proof of the raw and rugged life he lived. This lifestyle, I believe also gave him the appearance of looking much older, than he probably was. His hair was long and messy, and he did not wear a hat, though he carried it in his hand. The clothes he wore, surely were clean and refreshing at one time, though this was no longer the case. What was once a white linen shirt was now black from continual ware and was evident of the hard work of a man at sea. His britches, I could not gather their original state. He did not wear stockings (which was the custom of most sailors), and his shoes were decently worn. He did not seem a scary man, but one that was no stranger to hard living.

 There were two long tables and two small round tables in grandfather’s tavern. At one of the small tables, there sat a group of four well dressed “gentlemen”. They were the sort that grandfather favored to have at his inn. They were (as best I can recall), business owners from the northern part of town. Punch was served to these men, and they were merrily toasting to each others’ health, and talking of their business.

The strange sailor made his way to the far end of the tavern, and sat quietly alone at the end of one of the long tables. I believe he had cider and beer served to him. Obligingly, he placed his hat (that he had been carrying) on the table, and drank on his own with no toasts, only a grumble to himself every now and then.

After not a long time had passed, and the punch bowl was empty, the gentlemen at the round table had ordered plenty of Madeira, and libations and toasting once again began. One man yelled, “A good cheer for my stores, and shipments. May they arrive safely to harbor and not meet an unfortunate fate at sea”.  At that time, the other men expressed their cheer, and began to drink to it. Next, another of this party arose up out of his seat, and lifted his glass for another follow up toast. “Have no fear for the safety of your stores, kind sir. His Majesty’s navy is in the waters, and will see to it that your ships are protected”! The other men stood up and another of them cried “Here… Here, to his Majesty’s navy! God save King George!” The men followed with their approval to the notion, and drank down their glasses of spirits.

“God save King George”, bellowed the stranger at the end of the long table, as if in jest. “God save King George, indeed! I will never drink to such nonsense” he grumbled. “A pox upon King George, I say, and a pox upon his royal navy”, the old sailor exclaimed! He then lifted his drink, took it down in one gulp, and slammed the empty glass on the table.

Across the room, the gentlemen at the round table were speechless. They could not believe what they had just heard. Looking around at each other to see who would dare challenge this disheveled man’s words, one of them turned to look at the stranger, and with a little tremble in his voice asked. “Why do you say such words”? His companions looked between the stranger, and their “brave” friend. He then followed up, this time more assertive. “This, sir, is a British colony, and we all live under the protection and rule of England and King George the third”! “To even posses such thoughts is treason, and to actually say the words is utter insanity”! The gentlemen followed up with a hardy “here, here”, to show that they were all in agreement with what their friend had just exclaimed.

Slightly annoyed, and not too pleased, the old looking, ruffian rose from the bench behind the long table, picked up both his glass, and hat, and came around the table, all the while, his grey squinted eyes fixed on the gentlemen whom he had been “engaging” in conversation.  He walked up to their table and paused for a moment. “Do you mind”? He asked as he grabbed the decanter off the table (not waiting a reply), and proceeded to pour himself a robust glass of the gentlemen’s Madeira. “God save the king and his fleet of ships, huh”? Mumbled the man, as he pulled a chair from another table, and set it backwards among the group of men. Sitting down to the table facing forward in his backward chair, he took a hardy gulp of the wine from his glass, and flopped his dirty hat on the table, much to the “delight” of the well groomed, shocked, and now nervous gentlemen. “Let me tell you about our merciful king, and his navy led by “gentlemen officers”.  I recall everyone in the tavern, including grandfather and myself suddenly fell as silent as the grave. Most were unsure of the man’s intentions, and were more or less on guard. As for me, I wasn’t worried about violence. I wanted desperately to hear what the stranger was going to say. For some reason, this was the first time grandfather had not ushered me away from spying on the conversations of the patrons. Perhaps he was so fixed on the stranger’s next move that he had not thought of chasing me away.

“My brother and I were amongst the enlisted crew of an English man-of-war, not seven years ago”, was the man’s first comment. “It was my first tour, and his second. The French were reported out to sea, leaving Brest (on the east coast of France) with a good sized fleet, and they had been spotted three weeks prior to the east of the (English) channel. Our vessel was sent out ahead of our fleet along with a small tender to find the location of the French ships. We departed from Portsmouth, and made a heading of south by south west through the broad channel, while employing a zigzag pattern in search of the enemy”. The man paused to take another gulp of his wine and scratch his head, as if trying to remember particulars that had escaped him at the moment. “Ah, ordinary seamen, we were”, he continued. “We held no rank, but worked as hard as any man on that ship. Assigned to a gun crew, I spent most of my days below deck in drills, and preparing the guns for when we would meet our foe. Admittedly, the navy was not my true calling. Months out to sea with neither sight, sound, nor smell of land was not where my heart wished to be. I preferred the comfortable quilted feather bed of home to the cramped swinging hammock aboard ship, among other things at this time I won’t mention. My brother, Jack was more experienced a sailor then I and he found it agreeable to be out on the open sea. His hope was for a long, profitable career in the Royal Navy. I thought of his decision as foolish. He hadn’t the money to purchase a commission, and had no political attachments to further his ambitions. But still, it was the life he chose, and truly loved”.

“We were out to sea about a week”, the stranger went on with his story. “Around this time, we met with a fierce gale that pounded us severely. During the storm, we lost contact with the smaller tender that was part of our party, and we were made aware some time later, that the small ship had succumbed to the waves. Down to the bottom with fifty two honest men she went. A few of them had been acquaintances of mine for some time before.

 Having rode out the storm, and made the necessary repairs to the ship, we finally made it to the mouth of the channel, and we encountered some agreeable weather for a few days”. As the old sailor spoke, I hung onto every word that came pouring out of his mouth. I’m sure this man has lived through some most amazing adventures. Far more than the repetitive daily “adventures” we were so accustomed to in Boston, minding the tavern. After another gulp of Madeira, he promptly continued where he left off. “About one week passed, and on the horizon, the lookout spotted a sail. Not sure who the ship belonged to, or of what business they were involved with, the lieutenant of the watch ordered all men to battle stations. We were to stay that way until the ship’s colors could be seen and further until the ship could be hailed to enquire of its activities”.

Now, just for sake of knowledge, I will attempt to detail what was involved when the signal was given for battle stations, or “beat to quarters”. My father, being a sailor in the merchant service, had many acquaintances that had served aboard a warship. He relayed down to me some stories he had heard, so I acquired some knowledge of ship to ship battle. When the officer of the watch gave the command to “beat to quarters” a drummer would beat to a tune familiar to all on board. This tune meant, “Get to battle stations lads, there is to be a fight ahead”. With that, the crew of the vessel would clamber about the ship to pre-determined positions, such as their place in the gun crew below decks, as the marines climbed the masts to get to the fighting tops. Officers would take their place amongst their men, to shout out commands over the thundering fire of the cannon, and the sailors assigned their task would ascend to the cross trees, and yards in order to bring up, or unfurl the sails as their orders came to them. A scene that surely looked to be chaos, but in reality it was a well choreographed dance, where everyone knew their part. The ship itself would have to be prepared for the fight as well. Bulkheads below decks would be removed to make way for the powder monkeys running to and fro with their precious charges for the guns. The decks above and below would be covered with sand as to allow the men proper footing when running through the blood of their wounded comrades. Sand was also made to cover the floor of the surgeon’s cockpit. This was also meant to sop up the blood that poured on the floor as he was performing his amputations, and other treatments for the injured. The surgeon and his mates would prepare a bucket for the disposal of amputated limbs. The “instruments” were laid out on the makeshift operating table, that not hours before was used by the crew to eat dinner on, and will be used for the same purpose hours later. Being made of wood, the ship was prone to fire. For that measure, the powder magazine’s canvas curtains were wet down to prevent any unwanted sparks (for obvious reasons). The stove fire was put out, and leather “fire buckets” were filled with water or sand, and placed about the ship to douse any fires that may arise. On a ship, the quarters were cramped with not only men, but also livestock and stores of furniture, and supplies. The livestock and such stores were usually put into the ship’s boats, lowered, and towed behind the ship by a rope, or simply set adrift with intentions on bringing them back on board after the fighting had ceased. While this was all going on, selected members of the crew would see to it that all hammocks were placed on the upper deck, and into the netting constructed above the sides of the ship’s walls and rails. This was for the design of a barrier to protect the crew against musket fire, and splintered pieces of the ship that may flail about during battle.

The gentlemen at the table, still in disbelief that this strange scraggly rascal had just sat down with them uninvited, had stopped their drinking for some time now. One of them, being a more courageous fellow than the rest interrupted their “guest”, and carefully asked of the stranger, “pardon me sir, but you’ve been in our company for some time now, and have not yet made your point. I beg of you to please go from whence you came, and leave us to our conversation”. “I’ll leave soon enough”, the old man groaned back to the outspoken gentleman. “For, I’ve not yet completed my story, and I wish not to leave it unfinished”. He took another hearty gulp of wine, and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt, much to the chagrin of the mortified gentlemen.

“Still at our battle stations, the unknown vessel ventured closer and closer into our sights”, the man continued with his story. “Not long after, we were almost side by side with it. She appeared to by flying the same colors as us, so we initially thought her to be a friend. Finally, as we positioned ourselves alongside the vessel, our captain hailed the friendly ship and asked of her purpose. Just then, a mighty broadside rang out of her, and smashed us well! That is when she rang up her true colors, and we realized that indeed she was French. She must have been out on the same business as ours, to scout for our fleet. We exchanged broadsides for some time, and the ships of both countries were in bad resort. Many a good sailor was dispatched during this period. We were finally able to heave to, and found ourselves in the most agreeable position at the stern of the Frenchman. From this view, her name was clear, Le Reine Mere (The Queen Mother). “I’ll never forget that name as long as I am graced to live”, added the man. Recalling the name easily, as it was etched into his memory. “Pleased with our favorable position, the captain ordered a fierce bombardment with the guns on our starboard side. The command was given, and we fired at once, the cannons unleashed their deafening fury, raking our opponent stern to stem. The Frenchman was left devastated, and killed a good number of her men”.

“The captain ordered the ship to come up alongside her and prepare to board. The ships crashed together and grappling hooks were thrown, and used to lash the two wooden hulks together. The quartermaster saw to it that the boarding parties had weapons, and the command was given to board the ship. The two forces clashed, and swords flew as musket fire rang through both vessels”. The ragged man suddenly looked solemn, and seemed to stare off into the distance, as if he was watching this battle replay just outside the tavern walls. “My brother was part of the boarding party”, he said as a somewhat proud semi-smile crept onto his weathered face. “He was led by a midshipman, just recently promoted to lieutenant named Norris. Norris was a favorite of the captain, but not so much by the crew. He always seemed to be off on his own writing letters, or staring out to sea. Not much of a friendly man with his own crew, but found the company of other ships officers more agreeable while at port, or visited whilst at anchor. Many a rumbling was heard amongst the men of how he was thought to be an unsavory sort. 

The lieutenant leapt over the railing onto the French vessel followed by his men. They fought with heart and vigor through the Frenchmen on the top deck, and made their way below. The lieutenant led them into a cabin only to be met by a line of French marines with their muskets drawn to protect their captain, who by this time was hiding behind them. Lieutenant Norris, faced with this sight, cowardly jumped behind his men as the French fired. His men, now abandoned with no leader, were left vulnerable, and one shot rang true enough, and entered my brother’s chest, killing him instantly”. The stranger paused, as it was apparent in his voice, his wound from losing his brother had not yet healed sufficiently. Clearing his throat, he resumed his story. “After the line had fired, the men that had withstood the blast, charged forward (though leaderless), cutting the musketeers to pieces along with the ship’s captain. Immediately after, the men took their own cowardly lieutenant, and placed him under arrest for the act he had just committed”.

Not too long after, the French man-of-war struck her colors and surrendered. Prisoners were taken on board, and our dead and wounded were brought back to our ship. Norris was presented to the captain, and his shameful actions were explained. The captain, friendly as ever toward his favorite subordinate, did not strip him of his rank, and allowed him to continue serving as before. It was decided however, that when we made port, he would be brought to a court martial to address the charges before him. The crew, not too pleased with the captains’ decision went about the business of consigning our fallen brethren (one of which was my dear brother) to the deep, as was the tradition in the navy. Though Lieutenant Norris had escaped punishment for now, the remainder of the trip he did look much over his shoulder, as he was aware of the crew’s disdain toward him”.

“Arriving back to England, as promised Norris’s court martial was approaching.  The Norris family was a very influential name in the English aristocracy. They reportedly had close ties to the king himself, and this man was set to be on the rise in his naval career, thanks to not much talent in seamanship, but lots of money, and political leverage. The young lieutenant showed up to the event dressed in his most elegant naval uniform, surrounded by an entourage of servants, and “influential” companions. He had the appearance of attending a party or ball, more than a court martial. His accusers arrived looking less than opulent, but in great numbers. There had been quite a few men who witnessed his cowardice that day. Both sides presented their stand on the situation, and though overwhelmingly proven guilty, the verdict did not allow for it to be so. Apparently, his influences were not for naught, and the scoundrel was cleared of all charges. Smugly, he left the court with his entourage, ready to resume his navel career. It was later overheard from a credible source that His Majesty had known of this situation in advance, and saw to it that the verdict was decided well before court had even began. As mentioned before, the king was very friendly with the young officer’s family, and they did not want their beloved name tarnished as well as a blemish on what they were sure would otherwise be an exemplary career for the young lieutenant. The king agreed, and saw to it that the decision went as he had scripted it. To which it did”.

The stranger paused for a long minute. Silence was still throughout the tavern, as he lifted his head, and gazed back upon the still nervous gentlemen. “Good brave men, including my brother died that day”, the man said. “Due to the cowardice of a noble “gentlemen officer” of the king’s navy. He was never accountable for his actions thanks to that “glorious” king that you toast with expressions of joy. You say he and his men are heroes. I say he is a murderer, and his minions are all his tools to this employ.”

The man looked around the table, gazing at each of his table mates one by one. He grabbed his glass of wine, and stood up from the table and yelled. “God save King George, huh”. He then spat upon the floor. “I’ll never drink to the health of a man that stands accomplice to the murder of his own loyal subjects. I say, a pox upon the king, and a pox upon his gentlemen officers”! With that, the scraggly old man drank down the rest of his glass, and slammed it down on the gentlemen’s table. He looked at the men at the table, as if challenging them to say otherwise. After a moment of receiving no response, he picked up his hat off the table, placed it on his head, and walked out of the inn. The men at the table quietly finished their wine without offering any further toasts, politely rose from the table, and also departed the inn not too long after. Grandfather and I were left to remove the glasses, and clean up where the guests had been drinking. We worked fast, and didn’t speak a word to each other while employed with our task.



Rowdiness At A Tavern



Cornwallis Surrenders at Yorktown....

On this date in the year of seventeen eighty one, General Lord Cornwallis was forced to surrender his entire southern army to General George Washington, after a Continental siege at Yorktown, Virginia. The following passage is from the novel, “Then…A Patriot I’ll Be”. It recounts the events that lead up to, as well as transpired on that day…



Cornwallis's Southern Army Surrenders at Yorktown



In early September of seventeen eighty one, the French fleet that had been promised to the American cause had finally arrived from the West Indies under the command of the French Admiral Comte de Grasse. Originally, he had planned to launch an all out bombardment from the sea on the British stronghold of New York City, while General Washington resumed a land based attack. However, after further consideration from General Washington, Lieutenant General Comte de Rochambeau; who had been sent from France with over seven thousand troops to assist our effort (and coordinate moves with Comte de Grasse and his navy), and the French admiral himself, it was decided to attack Cornwallis’s army in the south instead; as the British general’s forces had been severely compromised due to the heavy fighting (and subsequent losses they incurred) during the southern campaign.

Much like the original plan of attack designed for New York, a combined land and sea effort was decided upon. General Washington, and Rochambeau moved their large numbered foot armies toward Yorktown, Virginia; where Lord Cornwallis had (under the orders of Sir Henry Clinton), began to throw up defenses in an effort to fortify the town until the British Navy could get to the Chesapeake Bay and evacuate his crippled army to New York. At the same time, Comte de Grasse sailed his fleet into the Chesapeake Bay in order to block Cornwallis’s army from the salvation of the British fleet from the sea.

Shortly after de Grasse’s arrival in the Chesapeake Bay, he encountered the British fleet, intended to save Cornwallis, under the command of Admiral Graves. Naturally, a massive sea battle ensued, and due to the French admiral’s brilliance as a naval tactician, the British fleet was defeated, and forced to sail north toward the protection of New York Harbor; thus leaving Cornwallis’s army alone and cut off from support from the sea by the French fleet; that now occupied and blockaded Chesapeake Bay. Toward the end of September, Washington and Rochambeau arrived with their army and promptly cut off any avenues of escape for the British. The situation had officially turned dire for Cornwallis. He was essentially surrounded at Yorktown, and soon the American-French forces would begin to encroach on his location further.

Washington began to order entrenchments dug, and the combined American-French forces began to creep closer to the British outer defenses. The whole time the trenches were being dug, colonial artillery was fired, and began to decimate much of British redoubts; thus enabling the American trenches to be dug closer and closer toward the British stronghold. As if this wasn’t a dire enough situation for Cornwallis; de Grasse’s fleet in the Chesapeake began to bombard his fortifications from the sea. The British general was taking heavy losses, and quickly running out of ammunition and supplies for his men. Unfortunately for Cornwallis and his men, there was no hope in getting replenished, as his avenues from both land and sea had been severed. Cornwallis was all alone at Yorktown, and the only option open to him and his men was to fend for themselves. All the while, the American entrenchments continued to press further toward the nearly crippled British; continental cannons continued to rain their deadly projectiles down upon them. For Cornwallis, it now began to seem that even the option of “fending for themselves” may no longer be a viable one for his surrounded army.

On October seventeenth, through the smoke and noise of the bombardment, a lone drummer was heard beating a somber cadence. Along with this musician, stood a British officer waving a white handkerchief, indicating that a peaceful talk was requested. Washington ordered the bombardment briefly stopped, and the officer was chaperoned behind the American lines for his requested meeting. During the meeting, the officer requested (as representation of Cornwallis), that Washington accept the surrender of the British army at Yorktown; consisting of nearly eight thousand men. The British requested to surrender with full military honor with their colors unfurled, and muskets shouldered. Washington however, refused this request, as the British allowed no such honor for the American forces captured at Charleston nearly one year and a half earlier. Instead, he set the terms of the surrender to include the British being required to have their flags furled, and their muskets and weapons were to be carried backward on their shoulders (as a signal of defeat) and deposited on the ground as the captured men walked through a lane made up of American soldiers on one side, and French soldiers on the other. Being in such a defeated state, and not having the luxury of a bargaining platform, the British begrudgingly accepted Washington’s terms of surrender.

Two days later, the surrender was signed, and became official. Cornwallis’s entire southern army was marched through the American-French lines, and laid down their arms in defeat. The rank and file was declared as prisoners of war, and the officers were allowed to return back to England once there were paroled. Although it has been suspected that Cornwallis hid in shame, he claimed to be ill during the surrendering of his army, and instead of presenting his sword to Washington personally, chose to send out his second in command to perform the duty in his stead. Washington didn’t accept the sword, as it wasn’t handed to him by Cornwallis himself. Instead, he had the sword surrendered to Benjamin Lincoln; his second in command.

With Cornwallis surrendering his army of nearly eight thousand men to Washington at Yorktown, it caused a shock to occur throughout the British command, and it traveled all the way across the Atlantic Ocean to England itself. The King and Parliament were now faced with the unenviable predicament of how to conduct the remainder of the war with such a massive loss in men...

Drifting To the Enemy's Camp....

The following passage is from the novel, "Then...A Patriot I"ll Be". It recounts the experience of three young friends in their small boat on the Charles River, as their lack of seamanship forces them dangerously close to the encampment of the British Army on the Boston Common...

...Our arrival came up on us before we knew it. First, you could smell the campfires smoldering. As we got closer, you could actually see the smoke rising into the air from behind the trees. We were starting to get excited and nervous at the same time. All of us on board were talking of how easy it will be to just sail past the camping regulars, and onto our intended mission. Approaching closer still, I remember distinctly hearing the commotion of camp, and the officers belting out their orders, all the while, the drums beating to their cadences. We had drifted so close now, that we could all smell the horses that were corralled near the river. Our conversation lessened and lessened as our ears and eyes became more and more attentive. We were practically right around the bend from being in clear view of the camp. My heart was beating so hard, I thought it would fly out of my chest. “We’ll just pay them no mind, and they’ll let us pass”, my friend Joseph assured us as we sailed closer to the soldiers. Joseph, being one of the braver of my mates was always dependable enough to talk us through our plans, and provide reassurance as some of us would begin to fear what we had gotten ourselves into. Then, as we came within sights of the scarlet coats and white canvas tents, quiet would envelop the boat. Now, no one was speaking; not even the brave Joseph. The only sounds were of the water lapping gently against the side of our vessel as it glided over the small waves, and the light flapping of our one canvas sail in the calm wind. We weren’t supposed to be near their camp, and we well knew it.

 Oscar noticed that we weren’t exactly where we wished to be in proximity to the common. We were drifting closer to shore then we expected. Our original plan was to stay farther out in the River, to hopefully appear small enough to not be noticed much. That plan was now a thing of the past. We were catching a crosswind, and it was blowing us closer to land; closer to the red coats that were camping in the common. None of us being proficient enough sailors, we couldn’t quite overcome the wind, and steer ourselves clear of the soldiers and back out to the middle of the river. We were in trouble indeed. Even brave Joseph was starting to show his uneasiness. “Oscar, we’ve got to get back to the middle of the river”! He yelled. “The Brits are libel to give us a black powder welcoming party if we get too close to their camp”, was his follow up statement. Thinking back, that wasn’t exactly the statement any of us needed to hear at that time. Oscar was trying his best, but we couldn’t shake the wind. As he was steering, the rest of us tried to no avail at using our hands as paddles to correct our position. All that resulted was uncoordinated splashing and even more panic and confusion. Looking toward the shore, I noticed that we had gotten the attention of a group of soldiers. They were following us along the river bank as we sailed on. Joseph said that he noticed one of them say something to another, and that man went off running towards the middle of camp. “That really cannot be a good sign”, I told Joseph. “I was thinking the same thing”, he replied. As Oscar was still struggling with the winds, the rest of us saw a man emerge in small clothes from one of the larger canvas tents. As he put his scarlet coat and sword on, it was apparent to us that he was an officer. That soldier must have run off and notified his superiors that intruders were coming closer and closer to the camp. The problem was, we were the intruders.

We were now no farther than fifty yards from the shore of the commons. By now, there was quite a display of British troops lining the banks to have a look at the brazen craft that had dared to come so close to the restricted area of their camp. The officer appeared from the middle of the group. He had a quick conversation with one of his men, and then he took action. He cupped his hands around his mouth to make a funnel to enable his words to be heard more clearly by us. “You must not come any further”, he yelled out to us in his “aristocratic tone”. “Immediately strike your colors, and stand down”, was his next order. “We have no colors to strike”, Oscar nervously said to me, “and I don’t know how to stand down”. To our horror, we noticed small boats on the shore of the camp, in which parties of men were now boarding fully armed, with the attention to launch into the river. No doubt, they were coming for us. Though it was apparent to us that we had no control of our vessel due to inexperience, the officer on land couldn’t tell this from his position. He had to make sure of our intentions, and the safety of his encampment. In what seemed like a blink of an eye, the launches were in the river, and rowing toward our out of control boat.

As they got closer, we heard the scariest words that you could ever hear from an enemy officer while “at sea”. “Prepare to be boarded. Any resistance would indicate your aggressive intentions, and you will be fired upon accordingly”, the officer from the beach announced. As the words came out of his mouth, the regulars on the shore had already formed their lines, and were now presenting muskets in preparation for a volley, should we not comply with their officer’s demands. Still not being able to control our vessel, it continued its dangerous course toward the troops. Our continued approach must have been a signal to the soldiers that we weren’t about to comply with their orders, and the next thing we heard was, “FIRE”! I don’t believe they fired deliberately at us however. To this day, I think they fired into the air as a warning shot. Of course, none of us on board saw the shots, as we all ducked down upon hearing the command from the officer. It must have been a beast of a volley, if it was anything like it sounded. The sound was deafening. It must have been about twenty or so muskets firing at once. I believe that if they wanted to hit us, they would have. Oscar, the first to lift his head up made the discovery. “Now we are in big trouble lads”, he exclaimed as he looked out over the side of the boat. The rest of us lifting our heads up at once saw the unsettling vision for ourselves. There were four launches, containing about eight soldiers a piece, about ten yards off of our port side. They meant business. They not only had their muskets at the ready, but bayonets were affixed, and ready for use. Standing up in the launch nearest us, The British boat officer barked out his orders of compliance. “Drop any weapons, and stand ready to be boarded”. He only had to wait about five seconds before he received his response. Apparently, our brave mate Joseph must have forgotten how to be brave, for he answered the British officer without delay. “We are here in peace and have no weapons”, he cried out. “You may board us at your will”. Sure we were all thinking the same as him, but now as I remember it, it was quite humorous that the bravest amongst us was the first to offer unconditional surrender. Humorous, indeed, though at the time, there was no humor to be found in our predicament once so ever.

We all stood up in the boat to show that we were unarmed, and in strict compliance with the officer’s instructions. The launches edged closer and closer to us until they were almost within arm’s reach. The boat with the officer pulled right up alongside of us, and he transferred from his boat to ours. Before saying a word, he looked around our vessel thoroughly, as if he was going to find our hidden cache of smuggled weapons, or a container filled with dispatches from high ranking Bostonians intended for vile rebellious leaders somewhere past the reach of the troops. Instead, he only found four terrified young men trembling almost to the point of dispelling their lunch over the side of the boat (brave Joseph, in tears), and a small basket of fruit that we had taken with us for our “journey at sea”. “What is your business in these waters”, he smugly asked? “Where are you from? What reason do you present for sailing this wretched tub so close to the camp of his majesty’s troops”? These were only some of the questions he asked us, as I don’t recall all of them at present.

Scared to death, not one of us had the courage to speak; for we figured whatever we said would be misconstrued. How are you going to tell an officer in the British Army, “We were attempting to illegally bypass your checkpoint at the neck, and search out the gallows that were alleged to have been there”? Yeah, right. That kind of tale would enable us to see the gallows alright. We would have a great view as we were swinging from them, misjudged, and executed as spies. Instead, we were all silent, except for Joseph’s whimpering, of course. “Have a seat, gentlemen”, the officer order to us, which of course we did right away. With that, four of the rowers from the launches boarded us, and proceeded to put our vessel under way. “Where are we intended for”, asked Oscar? “This is my boat, and what right do you have to crew it without my consent”, he blurted out; seemingly now remembering what bravery was. The officer walked over to him slowly and unsheathed his cutlass. He put it to poor Oscar’s throat, and squinted his eyes. “You must care not for where you are going boy. Care only what happens to you when you arrive”! Now, Oscar decided to grow silent again. “For you should know young man”, lectured the officer. “This is now his majesty’s vessel, and it will perform in the service of King George from hence forward”. “Oh my”, I thought. “This couldn’t possibly get any worse. We had been boarded by British troops, and now they had commandeered Oscar’s inherited treasure. What could be worse than the predicament we had found ourselves in now”? This was a question I wasn’t prepared to have answered. As I looked out and caught our bearings however, I would receive the answer anyway. We were headed right for the commons, to the spot where the British army was encamped.

Arriving to shore, the boat was beached on the sandy coast of the commons. “Rise up lads, and move out”, was the command from the officer. We did as we were told, and one by one leaped over the side of the boat into the ankle deep water, and then clambered up onto the shore. Commanded to form a single line, we were then led under armed guard through the maze of canvas tents. I distinctly remember the looks we were getting from the soldiers as they were sitting in front of their tents broiling their suppers. They all stopped their employ and looked deeply at us as we passed by. It seemed almost as if they felt for us some. They could tell that we were scared, and they probably understood the feeling. Arriving at a strange place, and asked to perform their duty without knowing what to expect from the inhabitants was a situation familiar to them as well.

Every now and then, we would get some abuse. “Hey rebel, how’s it feel to be on the other side? It’s all over for you scoundrels now. You’ll be wearing a halter by morning, traitors”! Those were only some of the remarks that I recall. We did receive plenty more. Usually, as the abuse came, the officers present would scold the offenders.  “Keep it down lads, mind your suppers and worry not of our guests, or you will soon have your own pain to worry about”, would come from the superiors to their insulting men.

Making our way through the streets of this “city”, we finally arrived at a large white marquee tent set off from the rest. “Wait here boys, you’ll be addressed shortly,” the officer instructed us. He then made his way past the sentries standing guard, and into the tent. We waited outside for some time, and then the officer returned from the tent. “Follow me, and mind your manners in this dwelling”, he barked at us. We of course followed his lead, and took his advice.

Carefully entering the tent, not knowing what to expect, our senses were on high alert. “Are we now prisoners or England? Are we being held as spies? Will we be hanged?” Those were just some of the thoughts racing through my nervous mind. I’m sure there were similar, if not exact worries flooding the thoughts of my mates as well, but they were also silent. Once all of us were inside, we focused our eyes on a tall, lanky, older officer that likewise was focusing on us. He had on a nicely powdered grey wig. I could tell it was made of the highest quality, and wondered briefly, if perhaps Edward Gerrish or his master had constructed it. On a hook in the tent; there hung his beautiful scarlet red coat and his impeccably clean black tri corn cap with gold trim. “Impressive accoutrement indeed”, I thought to myself. “This is a powerful gentleman of the king’s army. What are we in for now”?  “Good day gentlemen”, was the first thing that came out of his mouth. The second was a surprise to me. He turned to his subordinate officer that brought us to him, and told him, “That’ll be all captain. You may leave us, and I’ll summons you if I feel your presence is necessary”. “Don’t you wish for my report on these men, sir”, asked the inferior captain. The higher ranking officer, seeming a little annoyed to be questioned by this man, replied firmly, “My only wish is for you to leave us to ourselves captain. Please don’t require me to tell you again”. Now humbled, the younger officer replied, “As you wish sir”. With that he turned about and left the tent, making sure to not engage in eye contact with any one inside.

The old officer was seated in his small clothes, on a bench at a field desk, sipping what appeared to be red wine; perhaps port, or Madeira. As an inn keeper, I could recognize my liquors pretty well. “I am Colonel Mills”, he proclaimed. “And it appears you lads have found yourself in quite a pickle”. He paused for a minute, carefully planning his words before continuing with his speech. “I have been told what transpired out there on the river, and I must say I’m disturbed with what I have heard.” “Excuse me sir”, I tried to jump in. “Let me finish young man”! He bellowed to me in his deep voice as he arose from his bench. “You were told that lack of respect won’t be tolerated in here, and I expect you to act accordingly”! I quieted down again, and kept silent as the colonel spoke. I wouldn’t interrupt him again. “Now, from what I was told, you boys were rounded up as spies for sailing on the outskirts of my camp, and you didn’t respond to my officer’s command to stop your boat. This required you to be forcibly boarded, and your boat commandeered. I want to know why”, he stressed. After a brief pause, he instructed “Now, you may speak, but one at a time. I will not tolerate voices speaking over each other. Who is first?” the colonel asked.

I had sensed that he wasn’t a vicious man, and didn’t entirely believe what he was told about us. He sensed we were terrified, and I believed he wanted to put us at ease while answering his questions. “My name is Jonathan Crane, sir”, I blurted out. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to tell you our side of the story”. “Then, by all means, proceed Mr. Crane”, he replied, as he sat back down on his bench and sipped out of his glass. I crafted the greatest story that I could at the time to get us off the hook. I told the colonel of how Oscar had received his boat, and we were only taking it out for its inaugural sail. I left out the particulars about our intentions of passing the checkpoint, and reaching the gallows, of course. I pleaded to him that we hadn’t intended on coming into his camp’s perimeters. I stressed to him that we were not yet sufficient sailors, and lost control of our ship. “A strong, healthy breeze put us on a course toward your camp, and we couldn’t re-direct the boat”. I described to him. “Had we been proficient at seamanship, we never would have had the pleasure of even meeting your fine company”. I semi joked with him. I did see a smirk upon his face after this line, and it did seem to lighten the mood a bit.

I then advised him that my grandfather had just made me his partner in the tavern, and I only wished to get back to him via boat, or on foot, to resume my duties there. “Tavern huh, where is this tavern located, son”, he enquired? “We are proprietors of the General Wolfe Inn near the long wharf, sir”, I responded. “The General Wolfe”, he once again questioned? “Yes sir, have you heard of it, sir”, I asked. “Well, I have visited that establishment more than a few times. I have a fine acquaintance with the old man that owns the tavern, Mr. Stanton. I enjoy both his drink, and his conversation. Very likable fellow he is indeed”, the colonel exclaimed. “That old man, Mr. Stanton is my grandfather, and he has as of recent made me his partner. I had been employed there since childhood. It is the only business I know”, I more courageously informed him. I then advised him that I had served many an English officer in the tavern, and perhaps I have served him as well. “Well”, he spoke out. I am sure that the General Wolfe Inn is owned by an ardent supporter of King George the third, and if you are the proprietor in partnership with the old tender there, you must be loyal to the king as well. Am I correct to believe this is true young man”? He asked. “Yes sir, I am as loyal to the crown as my grandfather is known to be”, I replied to the officer, of course stretching the truth just a bit.

Pausing for a few moments, looking as if he was deciding our fate, the colonel called in his inferior officer. “Captain Lewis, please enter so I might have a word with you”. Now we were in trouble, I could feel it. “Yes sir”, the young officer replied as he entered the tent, and removed his black hat. The colonel rose from his bench and instructed the man, “These boys are innocent of the charges. I myself have interviewed them extensively, and they appear to have only lost their way upon the river, and had no intention of reaching our camp. They have proven to me to be loyal to Great Britain, and shall be immediately released. I wish you to escort them to their boat, and allow them safe passage to return from whence they came.” “As you wish, sir”, the subordinate officer replied.

After being properly dismissed, as we were leaving the tent; surprised of our easily bought freedom, we all thanked the colonel for his leniency with this matter. “Very well gentlemen”, he replied. “I don’t wish to catch you in this river near our camp again, or it may turn out to be less fortunate than today’s pleasurable meeting. Are we understood”? He questioned to us. We all replied that it was clearly understood; clear as crystal. As I was the last in line to leave the tent, I heard the old officer call to me, “Mr. Crane”? I turned about to see what the colonel was enquiring of, “Yes sir”, I replied. “See you at the General Wolfe Inn one of these days, young man”, the colonel said to me; half jokingly. “Yes sir. Your next drink there is on me”, I replied. We then made haste to our boat, and managed to navigate her safely back to our home port, regardless of our lack of seamanship.

The American Crisis....

THESE are the times that try men's souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman.Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives every thing its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as freedom should not be highly rated. Britain, with an army to enforce her tyranny, has declared that she has a right (not only to tax) but "to bind us in all cases whatsoever" and if being bound in that manner, is not slavery, then is there not such a thing as slavery upon earth. Even the expression is impious; for so unlimited a power can belong only to God...

Thomas Paine

The above is an excerpt from "The American Crisis", written by Thomas Paine. This pamphlet was a work in progress which was originally published in 1776, but had been added onto and further published until 1783. This particular pamphlet proved invaluable in raising the morale for the American cause during a time when the outcome appeared particularly bleak.
Days before crossing the Delaware River to attack the Hessian barracks at Trenton, N.J., this pamphlet was read aloud to General George Washington's rag tag army. These words were delivered just in time, as many an underfed and defeated soldier in the army was on the verge of leaving the rank and file, as their enlistments were soon to expire. Hearing these patriotic words of encouragement gave new life and vigour to the cause, and most of the soldiers stayed on with Washington and defeated the Hessians, thus taking Trenton and began the change of tide in the American Revolution. The Americans had gained a much needed victory, and proved that it was possible for them to stand up the British Army and claim their independence from Great Britain.

"18th Century Surgery During War"....

The following passage is from the book, "Then...A Patriot I'll Be". It recounts the experience of a Continental Soldier, as he painfully endures a surgical procedure following a musket ball wound to his arm, suffered during the Battle of Monmouth....

I had awoken to the sounds of horrific screaming, and found myself on a small bed in the surgeon’s dimly lit tent. Apparently, I must have passed out during my carriage ride off the field, and stayed in that manner until now. My arm was as it was when I was carried from the battlefield, except that the original tourniquet had been replaced with a different piece of cloth.

Still half dazed and weak, I opened my eyes and looked about for the cause of the unpleasant noise. Not far from where I was lying, there was a wooden surgeon’s table resting on top of two stood up barrels as legs. Lying upon this table was a young man writhing in pain. I could see that his left leg was soaked with blood, and looked badly mangled. This poor man’s wound appeared to be far worse than mine. To the eye, it was very unpleasant to behold, and I could only imagine the pain that man was going through. He was obviously a wounded soldier, brought in from the battle we had just fought. To both his left and right, there were strong men holding the young victim fast to the table, as to prevent his movement as much as possible. “Mind that man’s limbs”, a deep calm voice was overheard approaching the table. This voice belonged to a rather plump man dressed in his small clothes; his sleeves were rolled up, leaving his blood stained arms visible. He had what appeared to be a white apron (soaked with blood) draped from his neck to his knees. I took this man to be the surgeon of the unit. He was walking toward the poor injured young man with what appeared to be a wooden case. Once arriving to the young man’s side, he placed the case on the table next to him, and opened it up; revealing its contents to be full of medical devices.

The surgeon got to work examining the wounded soldier right away. This must have been rather difficult to do thoroughly, as it was still evening, and the darkened inside of the tent was only illuminated by a lantern hanging from the ceiling of the tent above the patient, and a few open candles placed as close to the table as they could get without impeding the surgeon’s business. The man on the table continued to move about against the strong men holding him down on the table. It was evident that his freedom of movement was causing the surgeon hardship in his examination, and this was angering him. “I said hold him down”, he belted out! This time however, his voice was much louder than before. The two men didn’t reply back to him, but went back to their positions of grabbing this poor man still on the table. The surgeon went into his case, took out what appeared to be a long metal probe and pulled the length of it across his blood stained apron in a manner as if to wipe it clean of any residual debris from recent operations. He then placed the recently “cleaned” probe onto the table, and reach into the case once again. This time, he produced a fine pair of spectacles, to which he promptly placed them in their intended position on his face. He picked up the probe once again, and bent over toward the soldier’s mangled leg. “Keep him steady now”, he once again reminded his two assistants, as he gripped the leg just above the wound with his empty hand.

He unceremoniously pushed the metal probe into the soldier’s injury, and began moving it about inside of the leg. The soldier screamed out in agony as the probe dug into the inner flesh of his leg, but the surgeon’s assistants did a good job in holding him down this time. I continued to lie in the bed looking over at this act with both anxiety and terror. I felt greatly for this poor man, and hated to see and hear him go through this ordeal. More importantly, I must admit; I was getting deeply concerned that once his turn was through, I would be the next one to occupy the table and endure the surgeon’s barbarities. I began to wonder if I could actually live with my wound, rather than have it looked at by the surgeon.

After a few moments of using the probe to explore the soldier’s leg, the surgeon finally slid it out from the poor man’s wound; of course his patient winced from the pain of removing it just as much as he did from the insertion of the instrument. He once again wiped it on his bloody apron and placed it back into his case. Immediately after, he used his forearm to wipe away the sweat from his brow, and then rubbed his hands on his gruesome apron again, before removing his spectacles and placing them in the case as well. The surgeon took a breath and turned to the patient stretched out in pain on the operating table. He them solemnly gave him the prognosis of his condition. “I’m afraid your thigh bone has been shattered beyond repair”, he grimly informed the young man. That leg is going to have to come off”. The young man burst into tears as soon as the surgeon informed him of his necessary intentions. Admittedly, I almost cried for him as well, upon hearing the course of action that would be taken.

“Hold him down firmly”, the surgeon ordered his assistants; not two minutes after informing the patient of his miserable fate. Once again, the soldier tried his hardest to escape from the table before the amputation could take place, but it was to no avail. The two strong men on either side held him down, severely limiting his movement. Next, the surgeon took a proper tourniquet from his case, and applied it tightly to the man’s thigh, just above the area that he would remove. Along with the tourniquet, he produced a saw and placed it on the table next to the patient. The blade of that saw appeared to me in the dim light, to have been just as caked with a previous man’s blood as his probe had been. This instrument however, he didn’t bother to wipe on his apron. The surgeon then pulled a wooden spoon out of his case, and placed the handle in front of the riving man’s mouth. “Bite down on this lad; it will help you with the pain”, he coldly instructed the panicking soldier, as he jammed the object between his teeth.

Now with saw in hand, and his spectacles back on his face, the surgeon gave the command to hold the man down firmly once more, and took a breath. He then immediately descended upon the poor man’s leg; sawing back and forth through the tender flesh of the poor victim violently, until he was forced to suddenly stop. All the while, his patient’s muffled cries and screams could be heard through the wooden handle in his mouth. I was terrified at what I had been witnessing.

The amputation wasn’t over. From the case, the surgeon pulled out another, wider saw. “This one’s to get through what’s left of the bone”, he informed the two men holding the patient down. Once again, he went straight to work sawing back and forth through the fragments of bone holding the man’s upper and lower leg together. It sounded much the same as a sawyer’s blade does, while cutting a piece of wood from a tree. The poor wounded man continued to scream in agony from behind the spoon handle, so much, that I was nearly sure that he was about to die. From this point, thankfully it was over rather quickly. As the blade of the saw made its way completely through the thigh and hit the table, both severed section’s of the poor man’s leg seemed to bounce up, only to flop back down on the bloody table. The man’s screams turned to whimpers and cries, as the cutting was finally completed. Unfortunately, he was soon to realize that his suffering however, was far from finished.

Go out and get the pan, the surgeon instructed one of his assistants, as he removed the amputated limb from the table and placed it in a nearby open barrel. Hordes of insects buzzed up from the container in a dark cloud as the leg dropped into the cask; disrupting their meal. As the patient lied sweating on the table with the spoon still firmly held between his teeth, the man had returned back to the tent with the pan. Apparently, there had been a small fire constructed outside the surgeon’s tent solely to be used for the business of heating up metal skillet pans during amputations. The man presented the surgeon with the red hot pan, to which the surgeon received it wearing thick artillery style gloves wrapped in extra protective layers of cloth. “This may hurt a bit”, he smugly informed the crying man on the table. One last time, he ordered his assistants to hold the man down firmly. Suddenly, with one fluid movement, the surgeon swung the steaming pan brutally into the exposed stump of the recently severed thigh. The skin sizzled like a strip of bacon being cooked over an open fire, and smoke bellowed up from the stump like the end of a recently fired artillery piece. The poor victim bit down on the wooden spoon so hard that he snapped it clear in half; enabling the full sound of his screams to resonate thought the tent, and I’m sure outside through camp as well. As the rancid smell of seared flesh continued to waft through the room, the surgeon continued applying firm pressure to the stump with the scolding pan, until finally, he felt that the limb had been sufficiently cauterized.

He pulled the hot pan from the poor soldier’s stump, ripping off strands of burnt and bloody skin along with it. Handing the pan to one of his assistants, he examined the stump. The smell of burnt flesh occupied the whole of the tent, to the point that I felt close to vomiting. All the while, the surgeon had bent further down toward the limb, inspecting his handy work up close. I could not understand how he could have gotten so close to that smell of roasted flesh without suffering from bouts of sickness as well. I supposed however, that if one does this duty enough, he might as well get used to the less desirable affects of his work.

“I think it might heal nicely”, he proudly exclaimed, and went to work dressing the cauterized limb with strands of linen. The man on the table had stopped his screaming, and looked as peeked as one could expect to look after such an ordeal. “You did good son”, the surgeon said to his patient, as he completed dressing his limb. He then walked over and patted him softly on top of his head. “You did very well indeed”. He then looked to his two assistants standing next to the table. “Now get him out of here, and let’s bring on the next one.

Looking around the room, and seeing no other men in as sickly a condition as I was; I knew that my turn was next.

I was promptly lifted onto the surgeon’s table, and I could attest that the two assistants that helped me on to it didn’t do so in a gentle manner. Just as roughly as they handled me during their previous task, my coat and shirt was removed in the same barbarous fashion; causing me more unbearable pain. I could see the surgeon near the table preparing for my examination. He was hunched over a small bucket of water that had been placed on a near-by table. My anxiety continued to grow with each passing moment; as I greatly feared that my arm would be the next victim of the surgeon’s “bone saw”. I glanced about the room nervously, and then brought my gaze back to the surgeon. By now, he had dipped his hands in the bucket of water, and was shaking the excess off of them and onto the floor. Walking toward me, he proceeded to dry them more thoroughly on his blood stained apron. I turned my head to the opposite of his direction, as I was nervous to make eye contact with the man that was soon to come at me with a saw. “Hold him down”! The surgeon had uttered the same words to his “henchmen” that I recall him ordering during the last patient’s unpleasant procedure. His assistants immediately positioned themselves to hold me secure to the table. I didn’t struggle, as I understood that there was no way I could escape the inevitable. The surgeon was to put into practice his trade whether I tried to withstand it or not.

I turned to the doctor, and he was now putting on his spectacles again, and adjusting them to his face. “Let’s take a look at this arm”, he calmly said. I held my breath, as I knew the pain was soon to follow. Without waiting, he hunched over me and aggressively grabbed my arm. I gritted my teeth to fight off the urge to scream as he pushed his finger into the wound and dug around for a bit. I was now at the point where I was squirming about the table, and the surgeon’s assistants had to now employ their services of holding me still. All the while, the doctor continued to explore the inside of my arm with his finger. “Ah huh”, he coolly exclaimed. “I think I might have found it”! “Found it”, I asked silently to myself? “What had he found? Whatever he found, was it good that he had found it? With this find, what does it hold in store for my suffering”? These questions began to run through my thoughts. Surely however, my questions would soon be satisfied, although I wasn’t sure if I would be pleased with the answers.

Much to my relief, he finally removed his finger from my wound. “Oh thank heavens”, I mumbled quietly to myself, under my breath. “I need more light”, the surgeon yelled out! Nearly on cue, one of his helpers quickly went to the corner of the tent and returned with a small lantern.  “Very good”, the doctor replied. “Now hold it steady near the wound”! The man holding the lantern replied with a nervous “Yes Sir”. Once again, the surgeon wiped his hands on the stained apron; this time however, adding my precious blood to its collection. Next, he went into the bucket of water that he had washed his hands in. From within, he produced a balled up piece of cloth that was soaked with water. He employed this cloth to wash the blood away from my wound, as to get a better look inside.

He then turned toward his infernal box of torturous devices and produced the same dastardly probe that was used on the previous man that had held my position on the table. Performing his same routine, he ran the probe against his apron and adjusted his spectacles. “Hold him tightly”, he ordered to his minions. I had learned that once he had spoken those words, an onslaught of pain was soon to follow. True to form, he didn’t disappoint me, as once he jammed the probe into my arm and began wiggling it around furiously, I screamed out in horror; once again, forcing his assistants to better perform their duty of holding me still.

Thankfully, this action didn’t take long, and within a few excruciating moments he had removed the probe; to which I relaxed my body and let out a deep sigh. The surgeon rested the probe on my chest, and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm.  He re-positioned his spectacles and hunched slightly toward my face. I turned to look at him. This man had now possessed my full attention. “Today must be your lucky day young man”, the surgeon said to me. Being in a bit of a daze and not sure what he meant by his statement, I didn’t reply back to him. Noticing my state, the doctor hunched down lower toward me and pulled his spectacles down to the tip of his nose, so we were now looking at each other eye to eye. He had a bit of a smirk on his face as he addressed me once again. “I think we are going to be able to save the arm”, he told me as his smirk turned into a full smile.

Being in such a weakened state, I still didn’t respond to him, but I was sure he was able to see my relief at hearing his statement; as a smile slowly crept across my face. Once again, I breathed a weak sigh of relief.

“The musket ball that hit you was kind enough to avoid fracturing any bones on the way into your arm”, the surgeon said to me. “In fact”, he added, “The only reason why you are still alive now is that the ball was so hot from the musket fire, that it cauterized most of the wound as it entered; causing you to avoid excessively bleeding out”. This was all great news, much to my relief, but I was still a bit nervous at how he intended to proceed with my remaining treatment. The surgeon stood up erect, and pushed his spectacles back up to the bridge of his nose. “Using my probe, I was able to locate the projectile in your arm”, he informed me. “I think it can be removed without incident”, he continued. Going back to his box of instruments, he produced a long pair of forceps and placed them on my chest, next to his probe. I had still not uttered a word in response to his statements, but continued to focus my attention on the doctor. “Removing the musket ball will be a painful procedure, but I will do everything that I can to expedite the process”. I knew that there was more pain to be had, but didn’t expect the doctor to tell me so as frankly as he did.

He looked about the contents of his case again, as I continued to lie still on the table. “I had a wooden spoon for you to bite down on to help withstand the pain, but the last patient I had unfortunately snapped it in half”, the surgeon informed me. Of course, I remembered the spoon snap, as I had watched the entire procedure from across the tent. The surgeon must have not been aware that I had witnessed his handy work earlier. Once again, I said nothing to the man. “How about this”, one of the surgeon’s assistants interrupted the doctor? I looked to the soldier, and he had in his hand, a lead musket ball, that he was presenting to the surgeon. The surgeon looked at the object for a moment, and ultimately agreed with his underling. “Yes……….Yes, that would do nicely”, he said to the man as he took up the musket ball in his own blood stained hand. “Bite down on this, son”, the surgeon turned to me and placed the lead musket ball between my teeth. The time for pleasantries was clearly over, and the surgeon was ready to get back to work. I did as I was advised, and bit down on the lead projectile; closing my eyes tightly in preparation of the pain. I didn’t want to see what was being done. I just wanted it finished quickly.

Again, I heard him rattling around in his instrument box. The next thing I remember was an intense cinching feeling around my upper arm, just above my wound. I bit down hard on the musket ball and grunted in pain quite deeply, as the doctor tightened the tourniquet as much as it would tighten around my arm. The next thing I heard was the dreaded words that I had heard from him throughout the entire night. “Hold him down firmly”! No sooner had he uttered those infernal words to his underlings, I knew well enough to prepare for the pain that was sure to follow.

I thought that I was sure to jump right off the surgeon’s table in anguish; and I would have if his two brawny assistants hadn’t been holding me down so securely. The pain was nearly unbearable as the doctor burrowed through my arm in search of the expelled projectile. I struggled and fought against the assistants’ grasps wildly. I bit down upon the musket ball so hard that I was quite confident I would bite it in half. Regardless of my actions, there was no way of gaining comfort in my predicament. I had to do all I could to take the pain, and pray for a quick end to the procedure.

What seemed like an eternity had finally passed, when I overheard the surgeon declare triumphantly that he had pulled the spent musket ball from my arm. Much to my relief, I opened my eyes to see the surgeon holding the blood stained, misshapen musket ball before my face; still gripped between the vice of his forceps.

Physically spent from my ordeal, I lazily spit the musket ball from my mouth and dropped my head back down with a sigh. All that was left was for the surgeon to dress my wounds, and I could finally begin the (hopefully less painful) healing process. As he cleaned out the gaping hole in my arm, stitched it tightly closed, and dressed it with fresh cloth, the doctor showed me both the musket ball that was stuck in my arm, as well as the one that I had been biting on. The one that caused all my discomfort had been distorted from a once perfect ball, and pulled into a jagged oval shape between the violent process of firing and seconds later, entering my arm. The one that I had bitten to reduce my discomfort was also now distorted. Pressed deep into the hardened lead was now permanent tooth marks; as a testament to the ordeal I had endured.



Patient Being Held Down For 18th Century Surgical Procedure





Set of 18th Century Surgical Instruments