The British are Coming!

[Eric]

On this night in 1775, Paul Revere made his famous ride.

Paul Revere's Ride - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five:
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,—
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and to arm.”

Then he said “Good night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war:
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon, like a prison-bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
A line of black, that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then impetuous stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height,
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river-fog,
That rises when the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

[Eric]

[Batesmotel]

Limey Bastages!

Culloden!

 

[Batesmotel]

10 minutes ago, Batesmotel said:

Limey Bastages!

Culloden!

 

In full disclosure, my family fought on both sides. 

[tous]

So, Paul Revere gets a poem -- 40 some odd years later and William Dawes gets forgotten.

 

 

[Batesmotel]

3 minutes ago, tous said:

So, Paul Revere gets a poem -- 40 some odd years later and William Dawes gets forgotten.

 

 

And Sybil Ludington. Rode twice as far on the 26th before the invasion of Danbury. Almost totally forgotten. 

[janice6]

Women in history got a short shrift. (An obsolete a phrase as I am to be)

What if men claiming to be woman get treated as second class citizens as women used to be.  Not too long ago even in our history women were property.  What if that man pretending to be a woman is considered to be property, and tossed on the trash heap where he belongs.  Some day......

[minderasr]

9 hours ago, Batesmotel said:

And Sybil Ludington. Rode twice as far on the 26th before the invasion of Danbury. Almost totally forgotten. 

We have a statue of Sybil Ludington in town.

[ChuteTheMall]

9 hours ago, tous said:

So, Paul Revere gets a poem -- 40 some odd years later and William Dawes gets forgotten.

 

 

It helps to advertise, with your name on silver stuff. 

[Fog]

We don't want people to be inspired by those great men, they might think it could needs be done again.

[Eric]

[Mrs.Cicero]

15 hours ago, tous said:

So, Paul Revere gets a poem -- 40 some odd years later and William Dawes gets forgotten.

 

 

Heck at least some people remember Dawes (he's included in the history told at Appleseed shoots)... it's all the rest of the riders out that night whose names we don't even remember that's sad.

[Fog]

It's a noble effort to try to remember even the least known contributors, but alas our mortal capacity falls far short. We must realize that memory of the spirit of their sacrifice in holding up a few examples, is our best hope. To all those who fought and died, who gave us liberty and freedom, we commit their memory to God and His eternal capacity to remember all.

[railfancwb]

For Patriot’s Day…

https://patriotpost.us/alexander/96663-patriots-day-hold-the-line-2023-04-19?mailing_id=7438&utm_medium=email&utm_source=pp.email.7438&utm_campaign=alexander&utm_content=header.default
 

Too long to copy and paste but worth reading. It mentions the Battle of Kings Mountain. 

[minervadoe]

Augh, the power of the pen.  Forever immortalized by the words of Henry Longfellow.

Listen, my children, and you shall here

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere.

Bernard Cornwell writes a more accurate depiction of Revere in his novel, The Fort.

In the historical note at the end, he notes: "The only other man to be court martialed for his conduct at Majabigwaduce was Lieutenant Colonel Paul Revere."

"And Americans have been hearing of the midnight ride ever since, mostly oblivious that the poem plays merry-hell with the true facts and ascribes to Revere the heroics of other men. This was deliberate; Longfellow, writing at the outbreak of the American Civil War, was striving to create a patriotic legend, not tell an accurate history.  Revere did indeed ride to warn Concord and Lexington that the British regulars were marching to Boston, but he did not complete the mission. Many other men rode that night and have been forgotten while Paul Revere, solely thanks to Henry Longfellow, gallops into posterity as the undying patriot and rebel."   .... "He was indeed a passionate patriot, and he was vigorous in his opposition to the British long before the outbreak of the revolution, but the only time Revere ever fought the British, and there, in General Artemas Ward's words, he showed "unsoldierlike behaviour tending to cowardice."

One irony to Henry Longfellow rhyming Revere's name in his poem is that Longfellow's grandfather, Peleg Wadsworth was one of the officers that wanted Revere court martialed for his behavior at Majabigwaduce.

[Batesmotel]

Then these guys showed up. 

[tous]

Yes, but at least we learned that there was a ferry across the Mersey.