The Yankee Tea-party. Henry Clay Watson
enemy that his horse's neck was drenched with the spouting blood of the wounded soldiers. Then reining back his snorting steed to reload, he dealt a second death upon the ranks with his never-failing bullet. The tall, gaunt form of the assailant, his grey locks floating on the breeze, and the color of his steed, soon distinguished him from the other Americans, and the regulars gave him the name of 'Death on the pale horse.' A dozen bullets whizzed by his head, when he made the first assault, but, undismayed, the old patriot continued to prance his gay steed over the heads of the foot-soldiers—to do his own business faithfully, in the belief that, because others did wrong by firing at him, it would be no excuse for him to do wrong by sparing the hireling bullies of a tyrannical government. At length, a vigorous charge of the bayonet drove the old man, and the party with which he was acting, far from the main body of the British. Hezekiah was also out of ammunition, and was compelled to pick up some on the road, before he could return to the charge. He then came on again and picked off an officer, by sending a slug through his royal brains, before he was again driven off. But ever and anon, through the smoke that curled about the flanks of the detachment, could be seen the white horse of the veteran for a moment—the report of his piece was heard, and the sacred person of one of his majesty's faithful subjects was sure to measure his length on rebel ground. Thus did Hezekiah and his neighbors continue to harass the retreating foe, until the Earl Percy appeared with a thousand fresh troops from Boston. The two detachments of the British were now two thousand strong, and they kept off the Americans with their artillery while they took a hasty meal. No sooner had they again commenced their march, than the powerful white horse was seen careering at full speed over the hills, with the dauntless old yankee on his back.
"'Ha!' cried the soldiers, 'there comes that old fellow again, on the white horse! Look out for yourselves, for one of us has got to die, in spite of fate.' And one of them did die, for Hezekiah's aim was true, and his principles of economy would not admit of his wasting powder or ball. Throughout the whole of that bloody road between Lexington and Cambridge, the fatal approaches of the white horse and his rider were dreaded by the trained troops of Britain, and every wound inflicted by Hezekiah needed no repeating. But on reaching Cambridge, the regulars, greatly to their comfort, missed the old man and his horse. They comforted themselves by the conjecture that he had, at length, paid the forfeit of his temerity, and that his steed had gone home with a bloody bridle and an empty saddle. Not so.—Hezekiah had only lingered for a moment to aid in a plot which had been laid by Amni Cutter, for taking the baggage-waggons and their guards. Amni had planted about fifty old rusty muskets under a stone wall, with their muzzles directed toward the road. As the waggons arrived opposite this battery, the muskets were discharged, and eight horses, together with some soldiers, were sent out of existence. The party of soldiers who had the baggage in charge ran to a pond, and, plunging their muskets into the water, surrendered themselves to an old woman, called Mother Barberick, who was at that time digging roots in an adjacent field. A party of Americans recaptured the gallant Englishmen from Mother Barberick, and placed them in safe keeping. The captives were exceedingly astonished at the suddenness of the attack, and declared that the yankees would rise up like musketoes out of a marsh, and kill them. This chef d'oeuvre having been concluded, the harassed soldiers were again amazed by the appearance of Hezekiah, whose white horse was conspicuous among the now countless assailants that sprang from every hill and ringing dale, copse and wood, through which the bleeding regiments, like wounded snakes, held their toilsome way. His fatal aim was taken, and a soldier fell at every report of his piece. Even after the worried troops had entered Charlestown, there was no escape for them from the deadly bullets of the restless veteran. The appalling white horse would suddenly and unexpectedly dash out from a brake, or from behind a rock, and the whizzing of his bullet was the precursor of death. He followed the enemy to their very boats; and then, turning his horse's head, returned unharmed to his household.
"'Where have you been, husband?'
"'Picking cherries,' replied Hezekiah—but he forgot to say that he had first make cherries of the red-coats, by putting the pits into them."
"That old man was sure death," remarked Kinnison. "I knew the old fellow well. He had the name of being one of the best shots around that part of the country. I should never want to be within his range."
"The old man immortalized himself," said Hand.
"It served the 'tarnal rascals right," observed Hanson. "They only reaped what they had sown. War's a horrible matter, altogether, and I don't like it much; but I like to see it done up in that old man's style, if it is done at all."
"I should like to have seen that royal officer that said he could march through our country with three regiments," said Kinnison. "If he was with Smith and Pitcorn that day, he saw there was a little of the bulldog spirit in the Yankees."
"I think," observed Pitts, "we might have that old, heart-firing, arm-moving tune called Yankee Doodle. Come, Brown, pipe."
"Ay," replied Brown, "that tune came out of this here fife naturally—almost without my blowing it. For some time, I couldn't work anything else out of it."
"Come, pipe and drum the old tune once more," cried Colson; and it was piped and drummed by Brown and Hanson in the real old continental style. The effect on the company was electric. Knives, and forks, and feet, kept time to the well-known music. Some of the old men could scarcely restrain themselves from attempting a cheer, and the young men felt themselves stirred by a feeling of patriotism they had scarcely known before. The spirit of 1775 dwelt in the music, and, as the quick notes started from fife and drum, visions of farmers leaving the plough in the furrow and shouldering the rusty and unbayoneted firelock—of citizens leaving their business and homes to grasp the sword and gun—of stout-hearted, strong-armed minute-men, untrained to war's manoeuvres, marching and battling with the well-disciplined, war-schooled, and haughty Britons, made confident by a more than Roman career of victory—and of the glorious fight at Breed's Hill—came to the minds of all present. Three cheers were given, when the musicians had concluded, for the tune itself, and three more for those who had played it.
"More ale," called out Hand, and more ale was brought; and then Hand proposed as a toast—"The memory of the men who fell on the 19th of April, 1775." This was drank standing, and a short pause ensued.
FIFER'S STORY
"Now," said Kinnison, "I expect that some of you men who know something about them times shall keep your promise of following my story."
"I'll tell you a story," replied Brown, the fifer. "P'raps some of you won't swallow it; but it's all fact, and that you'll find if you choose to hunt for the papers. It's chiefly about me and my fife, and Hanson and his drum."
"Pipe away, Brown," said Kinnison.
"Well, you see," began Brown, "Hanson and I were drummer and fifer in Colonel Brooks' regiment, at Saratoga, and we were in the battle of Stillwater, fought on the nineteenth of September. I'm not going to 'spin a yarn,' as the sailors say, in the way of an account of that battle, for that has been said and sung often enough. It is sufficient for me to say, that it was the hardest fought, and the bloodiest battle that ever I saw, and Hans n and I were in the thickest of it, where the bullets were hailing. Our regiment suffered a good deal in the way of losing men, and I saw many an old friend fall near me. But at dusk, when most of the Americans were ordered to camp, I and Hanson were unhurt. Colonel Brooks kept the field when the other officers retired with their forces. Some of the men of his regiment were tired and grumbled, but he wanted to show the enemy that they had gained no advantage over us, and that our spirits were as strong as when the day's work commenced. This conduct you might have expected from what you have heard of Brooks' character. He was all game—Brooks was. One of those whip or die men, that are not to be found everywhere. Well, as I said, our regiment remained on the field, and finally got into a skirmish with some of the German riflemen. We knew they were German riflemen by the brass match-cases on their breasts. In this skirmish, a ball struck me on the hand, went through it, and knocked my fife clear away beyond our flank. Well, I couldn't part with my Yankee Doodle pipe in that way, without trying to get hold of it again. So I told Hanson, and he put down his drum, and proposed that we should go and get it; and we did go out together, while the balls were whizzing round our ears, and got the pipe."
"Hold on, Brown," interrupted Kinnison. "Wasn't it a dark night?"
"Yes,"