15 The Assault

“It’s a story that will be told within an hour,” said Culverhouse as our army formed for the assault, “and the last word will be said inside the walls of Ticonderoga.”

“But the artillery has not arrived,” I said.

“It is not a matter of consequence,” said Culverhouse. “The bayonet will do the work.”

“And do not forget the Highlanders,” said Major McLean. “They mean to go into the fortress first.”

The old Scotchman was all animation and fire as he made ready for the battle, and he only laughed when Culverhouse said:

“I think an English regiment will have that pleasure, and I suspect that it will be a regiment in which I have the honor of holding a commission.”

“Very likely,” I said, “when both of you get into Ticonderoga you will find Americans there to bid you welcome.”

“It’s a fine rivalry, and augurs well,” said the major. “But we will make a compromise, and all go in together.”

The forest now resounded with stirring sounds, and red coat and yellow epaulet blazed against the background of woodland green. The mountains returned the echoes of trumpet and shriller fife, while the steady rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat of the drums, as persistent as the buzzing of flies, stirred the spirit of every one who had warlike blood in his veins. All around us was the vast hum of a great army forming for speedy action. Off in front the snarling of rifles told us that the skirmishers were at their trade, thrown out like antennae to feel for the enemy. The angry crackle was steadily growing louder, and the occasional spurts of flame in the undergrowth and the cry of some stricken soldier showed that the fire was beginning to scorch.

It was now that I had a chance to see how a veteran conducted himself when going into battle. Major McLean’s figure seemed to expand, and he maintained a very erect carriage, but his manner was extremely precise. There was no trace of excitement about him. He spoke in calm tones, as if he weighed his words. But his eyes were flashing, and his head was poised like that of a hound that has the scent.

The regiments were in line now, and were moving forward into more open ground. I was glad to see that the Highlanders were next to us. We would try to beat these famous troops into the fortress, and if we succeeded it would bring much glory to the colonial forces.

As we approached the open the fire of the skirmishers grew hotter. They were stinging us like bees. Not ten feet from me one of our men received a bullet in his brain, and with a little gasp fell over quite dead. Whether I felt fear or not I can not say, for every nerve was throbbing with excitement. But I did know that I felt an intense desire to rush forward, beat the enemy down, grasp the victory, and have the whole thing over at once. Some of our men were quite white in the face, as if all the blood had retreated to the heart, while others were red, as if all the blood had left the heart and gone to the face. But there was no flinching, whatever they may have felt. I noticed that with pleasure and pride. Our lines were full as stanch and as steady as those of the kilted and bare-legged Highlanders. Splendid men were they, but no more robust than our own tough and enduring Americans.

We came into the open, and far away on either side of us ran the lines of the army, columns deep, a magnificent, gleaming multitude, flashing under the bright sun with all the colors of the rainbow. Ahead of us was a field covered with fallen trees, looking as if a hurricane had swept over it, and on the far side of the open, running along the crest of the ridge, was a breastwork, or abatis, the white uniforms of the French lining it in a triple row. Beyond that ridge lay Ticonderoga, but the breastwork must be taken first.

The skirmishers of the enemy had been driven in and their fire ceased. For a moment a silence possessed the field, which was already sprinkled with bodies. Then there was a flash of light along the entire front of the army. It was the sun glancing over the bayonets as the men raised them, for we were to carry the abatis with a bayonet charge.

“The bayonet is the British soldier’s weapon,” said Major McLean contentedly, as he looked at the splendid spectacle. “Nothing in the world can stand against the Briton and his bayonet. This may not be Malplaquet or Ramillies, but it will be a day to remember.”

The army drew in its breath and began to advance again with measured step, though all but the veterans were eager to rush forward at once. The sun poured down a vast flood of light upon us, and everything seemed to swell to twice its natural size. The angry crackle from the rifles of the French skirmishers gave us another salute. Their bullets pattered like raindrops on dry leaves. They had taken up a new position in the foliage which nearly hid the breastwork, and we presented to them a glittering mark.

As we advanced I noticed the puffs of smoke and fire, and I would wonder, in a vague sort of way, whether the bullet would find a victim. And, in truth, many took the lives that they were sent to find. We were leaving behind us a trail of the hurt and the dead, and I felt the sweat wet upon my face. The men were eaten up with impatience. Angry exclamations broke from them. They wanted to know why we did not charge instead of creeping along at this snail’s pace and letting the enemy shoot us at their leisure. In common with the other officers, I ordered them to be silent, and threatened them with my sword, but I must confess that I was as impatient as they.

“Well done, lieutenant, well done!” said Major McLean, who stalked up and down in front of the Highlanders sword in hand. “You bear yourself well for your first battle, and so do your countrymen.”

He was down near the end of the Highlanders, where I could hear him easily, and his words were grateful to us all.

A long, piercing, wailing shriek, like the cry of a panther at night, rose suddenly from the rear line of the Highlanders. It was the music of the bagpipes, which I had once heard Culverhouse say was alone sufficient to frighten all the French back into the farthest wilds of Canada. Then came a great burst of music from the bands, the drums beat the charge, and we broke into a run upon the breastwork.

We raised a mighty shout as we sprang forward. I was waving my sword furiously at intervals, and then pointing with it in the direction of the wooden wall. My heart was beating heavily, and millions of black specks danced before my eyes.

The dropping fire of the skirmishers ceased, and then the silence of a few moments was broken by a succession of heavy crashes which seemed to roll from left to right. The twelve-pounders and the eighteen-pounders were talking now, and they spoke the last words he ever heard in many a man’s ear. But we swept on toward the fortress, shouting and cheering each other. We were foot to foot with the Highlanders, and off to our left the red lines of the English and the New Englanders were bearing forward in a vast, converging mass upon Ticonderoga.

Sheets of flame split the smoke that eddied around the fortress, and occasionally by the red light we saw the gunners working at the guns and the skirmishers in the timber loading and firing their rifles.

“A hot fire, a very hot fire!” shouted Major McLean in my ear, “but the hotter it is the greater the glory for us.”

I would have preferred less heat.

He seemed to say more, but the roar of the cannon was now too great for me to hear his words, and as we rapidly approached the breastwork a new and terrific din was added. It was the rattle of the small arms, as steady as the rush of a torrent, and sharper and fiercer than the deep boom of the great guns. From the wooden wall the French were pouring upon us a deadly fire from hundreds of rifles and muskets. The bullets sang among us like the hissing of a million rattlesnakes, and curses and shouts of pain from our men were mingled with the infernal uproar.

One of our lieutenants, John Norton, whom I had known nearly all my life, pitched over directly in front of me, his sword breaking in pieces as he fell. I stumbled against him, but, recovering myself, leaped shudderingly over his body and ran on. I was not hurt so far as I knew, but I was not conscious of anything save a fierce desire to get over the breastwork and at the enemy. I suppose that human feeling had fled from me, and the animal that lurks in us all had taken supreme control.

Our front lines seemed to crumble away, but the lines behind took their place. A strange, nauseating odor as of blended smoke and blood assailed us, and for the moment sickened me. The fillip of a bullet that nicked my wrist as it passed stung me to renewed exertion.

We crossed some water, whether a brook or a ditch I did not have time to see, and then we were into the timber that enveloped the breastwork like a green shroud. Only a little more now and we would pass through that scorching fire, pour over that wall, and overpower the defenders!

Then a shout of rage rose even above the clamor of the guns. The lines, Americans, Highlanders, and English alike, recoiled. We were confronted by dense masses of fallen trees, with the tops lopped off at the ends, and every bough sharpened and pointed toward us. We had charged upon rows of spikes rising above each other, and as dangerous as if they had been made of steel. Lying behind this deadly screen the French and Canadian sharpshooters redoubled their fire. Every twig and leaf spouted death.

But only for the moment we recoiled. Brave men were there that day, and desperate too. Then we rushed upon the spiked timber and endeavored to cut our way through it and reach the enemy. The ground was cluttered with the fallen, and the ghastly heaps grew fast. I heard the bones cracking like glass beaten by a tempest of hail. But we did not yield. The smoke sometimes drove so thickly in our faces that we could only strike blindly at the spikes that fended us off. Many of the Highlanders, screaming with rage and cursing most horribly, drew their broadswords and, grasping them with both hands, chopped with all their might at the insensate wood. I saw one impaled upon a wooden spike, hanging, stone dead.

Some one struck heavily against me, and through the film of smoke I saw that it was Major McLean, still unhurt, his face as red as the setting sun, and his eyes sparkling with fury.

“Major,” I shouted in his ear—what prompted me to do it I do not know—“it appears that we will not go into Ticonderoga to-day!”

“If we do not go in to-day, we will go in to-morrow!” he shouted. “No, by God, we will go in to-day! On, my men! Scotchmen, for the love of Heaven, do not let a few miserable Frenchmen and Canadians hold us back! Into the breastwork! Into the breastwork!”

The blast of a cannon split the column of smoke asunder, and I stood aghast, for I saw that only six or eight men were left with us. The major rushed toward them, waving his sword and renewing his shout:

“Over the breastwork, men! Over the breastwork!”

There was a crash as of a hundred rifles at once, and the entire squad fell. Only the major and I were left. But he staggered and dropped his sword. I seized him and tried to drag him back, but he said haltingly:

“It is not worth while, lad, it is not worth while. I’ve a French bullet in my chest, and my last campaign is over. No, lad, I will not go into Ticonderoga to-day, nor to-morrow either! Oh, to be beaten thus by an enemy whom we despised, and my brave Highland laddies slaughtered, too!”

I dragged him back some distance, and as I laid him down I heard him murmur:

“Perhaps it’s as well for me. It’s a soldier’s death for an old man, and I have lived by the sword.”

* * * *

When some French soldiers came from the breastwork a little later, they found me weeping—for I was only a boy then—over the dead body of Major McLean.

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