I have since been in many battles and skirmishes, but I never
have witnessed such slaughter and such wild fighting as the British
storm of Ticondaroga. We became mixed up--Highlanders, Grenadiers, Light
Troops, Rangers and all, and we beat against that mass of logs and maze
of fallend timber and we beat in vain. I was once carried right up to
the breastwork, but we were stopped by the bristling mass of sharpened
branches, while the French fire swept us front and flank. The ground was
covered deep with dying men, and as I think it over now I can remember
nothing but the fruit bourne by the tree of war, for I looked upon so
many won-derous things that July day that I could not set them downe at
all. We drew off after seeing that human valor could not take that work.
We Rangers then skirmished with the French colony troops and the Canada
indians until dark while our people rescued the wounded, and then we
fell back. The Army was utterly demoralized and made a headlong retreat,
during which many wounded men were left to die in the woods. Shanks and
I paddled a light bark canoe down the Lake next day, in the bottom of
which lay a wounded British officer attended by his servant.
I took my discharge, and lived until the following Spring with Vrooman
at German Flats, when I had a desire to go again to the more active
service of the Rangers, for living in camps and scouting,
notwithstanding its dangers, was agreeable to my taste in those days.
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