Some Adventures Of Major Putnam

The vicinity of the mountain-girdled, island-dotted,

tourist-inviting Lake George has perhaps been the scene of

more of the romance of war than any other locality that

could be named. Fort Ticonderoga, on the ridge between that

beautiful sheet of water and Lake Champlain, is a point

vital with stirring memories, among which the striking

exploit of Ethan Allen and his Green Mountain boys is of

imperishable nterest. Fort William Henry, at the lower end

of Lake George, is memorable as the locality of one of the

most nerve-shaking examples of Indian treachery and

barbarity, a scene which Cooper's fruitful pen has brought

well within the kingdom of romance. The history of the whole

vicinity, in short, is laden with picturesque incident, and

the details of fact never approached those of romantic

fiction more closely than in the annals of this interesting

region.



Israel Putnam, best known to us as one of the most daring

heroes of the Revolution, began here his career, in the

French and Indian War, as scout and ranger, and of no

American frontiersman can a more exciting series of

adventures be told. Some of these adventures it is our

purpose here to give.



After the Fort William Henry massacre, the American forces

were concentrated in Fort Edward, on the head-waters of the

Hudson; Putnam, with his corps of Rangers, occupying an

outpost station, on a small island near the fort. Fearing a

hostile visit from the victorious French, the commander,

General Lyman, made all haste to strengthen his defences,

sending a party of a hundred and fifty men into the

neighboring forest to cut timber for that purpose. Captain

Little, with fifty British regulars, was deputized to

protect these men at their labors. This supporting party was

posted on a narrow ridge leading to the fort, with a morass

on one side, a creek on the other, and the forest in front.



One morning, at daybreak, a sentinel who stood on the edge

of the morass, overlooking the dense thicket which filled

its depths, was surprised at what seemed to him, in the hazy

light, a flight of strange birds coming from the leafy

hollow. One after another of these winged objects passed

over his head. After he had observed them a moment or two,

he saw one of them strike a neighboring tree, and cling

quivering to its trunk. A glance was enough for the drowsy

sentinel. He was suddenly wide awake, and his musket and

voice rang instant alarm, for the bird which he had seen was

a winged Indian arrow. He had been made a target for

ambushed savages, eager to pick him off without alarming the

party which he guarded.



A large force of Indians had crept into the morass during

the night, with the hope of cutting off the laborers and the

party of support. The sentinel's alarm shot unmasked them.

Whooping like discovered fiends, they flew from their

covert upon the unarmed laborers, shot and tomahawked those

within reach, and sent the others in panic flight to the

fort. Captain Little and his band flew to the rescue, and

checked the pursuit of the savages by hasty volleys, but

soon found themselves so pressed by superior numbers that

the whole party was in danger of being surrounded and slain.



In this extremity Captain Little sent a messenger to General

Lyman, imploring instant aid. He failed to obtain it. The

over-cautious commander, filled with the idea that the whole

French and Indian army was at hand, drew in his outposts

with nervous haste, shut the gates of the fort, and left the

little band to its fate.



Fortunately, the volleys of musketry had reached the ears of

Major Putnam, on his island outpost. Immediately afterwards

his scouts brought him word that Captain Little was

surrounded by Indians, and in imminent danger of

destruction. Without an instant's hesitation the brave

Putnam plunged into the water, shouting to his men to follow

him, and waded to the shore. This reached, they dashed

hastily towards the scene of the contest. Their route led

them past the walls of the fort, on whose parapets stood the

alarmed commander.



"Halt!" cried General Lyman. "Come into the fort. The enemy

is in overwhelming force. We can spare no more men."



To these words, or similar ones, spoken by General Lyman,

Putnam returned a vague reply, intended for an apology, but

having more the tone of a defiance. Discipline and military

authority must stand aside when brave men were struggling

with ruthless savages. Without waiting to hear the general's

response to his apology, the gallant partisan dashed on, and

in a minute or two more had joined the party of regulars,

who were holding their ground with difficulty.



"On them!" cried Putnam. "They will shoot us down here!

Forward! We must rout them out from their ambush!"



His words found a responsive echo in every heart. With loud

shouts the whole party charged impetuously into the morass,

and in a minute were face to face with the concealed

savages. This sudden onslaught threw the Indians into a

panic. They broke and fled in every direction, hotly pursued

by their revengeful foes, numbers of them being killed in

the flight. The chase was not given up until it had extended

miles into the forest.



Triumphantly then the victors returned to the fort, Putnam

alone among them expecting reprimand. He had never before

disobeyed the orders of his superior. He well knew the

rigidity of military discipline and its necessity. Possibly

General Lyman might not be content with a simple reprimand,

but might order a court-martial. Putnam entered the fort,

not fully at ease in his mind.



As it proved, he had no occasion for anxiety. The general

recognized that alarm had led him too far. He welcomed the

whole party with hearty commendation, and chose quite to

forget the fact that Major Putnam was guilty of a flagrant

disregard of orders, in view of the fact, of more immediate

importance to himself, that his daring subaltern had saved

him from public reprobation for exposing a brave party to

destruction.



It was not long after this scene that Putnam took the

leading part in another memorable affair, in which his

promptitude, energy, and decision have become historical.

The barracks within the fort took fire. Twelve feet from

them stood the magazine, containing three hundred barrels of

powder. The fort and its defenders were in imminent danger

of being blown to atoms. Putnam, who still occupied his

island outpost, saw the smoke and flames rising, and

hastened with all speed to the fort. When he reached there

the barracks appeared to be doomed, and the flames were

rapidly approaching the magazine. As for the garrison, it

was almost in a state of panic, and next to nothing was

being done to avert the danger.



A glance was sufficient for the prompt and energetic mind of

the daring ranger. In a minute's time he had organized a

line of soldiers, leading through a postern-gate to the

river, and each one bearing a bucket. The energetic major

mounted a ladder, received the water as it came, and poured

it into the flaming building. The heat was intense, the

smoke suffocating; so near were the flames that a pair of

thick mittens were quickly burned from his hands. Calling

for another pair, he dipped them into the water and

continued his work.



"Come down!" cried Colonel Haviland. "It is too dangerous

there. We must try other means."



"There are no means but to fight the enemy inch by inch,"

replied Putnam. "A moment's yielding on our part may prove

fatal."



His cool trepidity gave new courage to the colonel, who

exclaimed, as he urged the others to renewed exertions,--



"If we must be blown up, we will all go together."



Despite Putnam's heroic efforts, the flames spread. Soon the

whole barracks were enveloped, and lurid tongues of fire

began to shoot out alarmingly towards the magazine. Putnam

now descended, took his station between the two buildings,

and continued his active service, his energy and audacity

giving new life and activity to officers and men. The

outside planks of the magazine caught. They were consumed.

Only a thin timber partition remained between the flames and

fifteen tons of powder. This, too, was charred and smoking.

Destruction seemed inevitable. The consternation was

extreme.



But there, in the scorching heat of the flames, covered with

falling cinders, threatened with instant death, stood the

undaunted Putnam, still pouring water on the smoking

timbers, still calling to the men to keep steadily to their

work. And thus he continued till the rafters of the barracks

fell in, the heat decreased, and the safety of the magazine

was insured.



For an hour and a half he had fought the flames. His hands,

face, almost his whole body, were scorched and blistered.

When he pulled off his second pair of mittens the skin came

with them. Several weeks passed before he recovered from the

effects of his hard battle with fire. But he had the reward

of success, and the earnest thanks and kind attentions of

officers and men alike, who felt that to him alone they owed

the safety of the fort, and the escape of many, if not all,

of the garrison from destruction.



Among Putnam's many adventures, there are two others which

have often been told, but are worthy of repetition. On one

occasion he was surprised by a large party of Indians, when

with a few men in a boat at the head of the rapids of the

Hudson, at Fort Miller. It was a frightfully perilous

situation. To stay where he was, was to be slaughtered; to

attempt crossing the stream would bring him under the Indian

fire; to go down the falls promised instant death. Which

expedient should he adopt? He chose the latter, preferring

to risk death from water rather than from tomahawk or

bullet.



The boat was pushed from the shore and exposed to the full

force of the current. In a minute or two it had swept beyond

the range of the Indian weapons. But death seemed

inevitable. The water rushed on in foaming torrents,

whirling round rocks, sweeping over shelves, pouring down in

abrupt falls, shooting onward with the wildest fury. It

seemed as if only a miracle could save the voyagers.



Yet with unyielding coolness Putnam grasped the helm; while

his keen eye scanned the peril ahead, his quick hand met

every danger as it came. Incessantly the course of the boat

was changed, to avoid the protruding rocks. Here it was

tossed on the billows, there it shot down inclined reaches,

now it seemed plunging into a boiling eddy, now it whirled

round a threatening obstacle; like a leaf in the tempest it

was borne onward, and at length, to the amazement of its

inmates themselves, and the astoundment of the Indians, it

floated safely on the smooth waters below, after a passage

of perils such as have rarely been dared. The savages gave

up the chase. A man who could safely run those rapids seemed

to them to bear a charmed life.






The other story mentioned is one indicative of Putnam's wit

and readiness. The army was now encamped in the forest, in a

locality to the eastward of Lake George. While here, the

Indians prowled through the woods around it, committing

depredations here and there, picking off sentinels, and

doing other mischief. They seemed to have impunity in this

work, and defied the utmost efforts at discovery. One

outpost in particular was the seat of a dread mystery. Night

after night the sentinel at this post disappeared, and was

not heard of again. Some of the bravest men of the army were

selected to occupy the post, with orders, if they should

hear any noise, to call out "Who goes there?" three times,

and if no answer came, to fire. Yet the mysterious

disappearances continued, until the men refused to accept

so dangerous a post. The commander was about to draw a

sentinel by lot, when Major Putnam solved the difficulty by

offering to stand guard for the coming night. The puzzled

commander promptly accepted his offer, instructing him, as

he had done the others,--



"If you hear any sound from without the lines, you will call

'Who goes there?' three times, and then, if no answer be

given, fire."



Putnam promised to obey, and marched to his post. Here he

examined the surrounding locality with the utmost care,

fixed in his mind the position of every point in the

neighborhood, saw that his musket was in good order, and

began his monotonous tramp, backward and forward.



For several hours all remained silent, save for the ordinary

noises of the woodland. At length, near midnight, a slight

rustling sound met his keen ears. He listened intently. Some

animal appeared to be stealthily approaching. Then there

came a crackling sound, as of a hog munching acorns.

Putnam's previous observation of the locality enabled him to

judge very closely the position of this creature, and he was

too familiar with Indian artifices, and too sensible of the

danger of his position, to let even a hog pass unchallenged.

Raising his musket to his shoulder, and taking deliberate

aim at the spot indicated, he called out, in strict

obedience to orders, "Who goes there? three times," and

instantly pulled the trigger.



A loud groaning and struggling noise followed. Putnam

quickly reloaded and ran forward to the spot. Here he found

what seemed a large bear, struggling in the agony of death.

But a moment's observation showed the wide-awake sentinel

that the seeming bear was really a gigantic Indian, enclosed

in a bear-skin, in which, disguised, he had been able to

approach and shoot the preceding sentinels. Putnam had

solved the mystery of the solitary post. The sentinels on

that outpost ceased, from that moment, to be disturbed.



Numerous other adventures of Major Putnam, and encounters

with the Indians and the French rangers, might be recounted,

but we must content ourselves with the narrative of one

which ended in the captivity of our hero, and his very

narrow escape from death in more than one form. As an

illustration of the barbarity of Indian warfare it cannot

but prove of interest.



It was the month of August, 1758. A train of baggage-wagons

had been cut off by the enemy's rangers. Majors Putnam and

Rogers, with eight hundred men, were despatched to intercept

the foe, retake the spoils, and punish them for their

daring. The effort proved fruitless. The enemy had taken to

their canoes and escaped before their pursuers could

overtake them.



Failing in this expedition, they camped out on Wood Creek

and South Bay, with the hope of cutting off some straggling

party of the enemy. Here they were discovered by French

scouts, and, having reason to fear an attack in force, it

was deemed most prudent to return to head-quarters at Fort

Edward.



The route proved difficult. It lay through dense forest,

impeded by fallen trees and thick undergrowth. They were

obliged to advance in Indian file, cutting a path as they

went. When night came they encamped on the bank of Clear

River. The next morning, while the others were preparing to

resume the march, Major Rogers, with a foolhardy imprudence

that was little less than criminal in their situation,

amused himself by a trial of skill with a British officer in

firing at a mark.



The result was almost fatal. Molang, the celebrated French

partisan, had hastily left Ticonderoga with five hundred

men, on hearing of the presence of this scouting party of

provincials, and was now near at hand. The sound of the

muskets gave him exact information as to the position of

their camp. Hastening forward, he laid an ambuscade on the

line of march of his foes, and awaited their approach.



Onward through the thicket came the unsuspecting

provincials. They had advanced a mile, and were on the point

of emerging from the dense growth into the more open forest,

when yells broke from the bushes on both sides of their

path, and a shower of bullets was poured into the advance

ranks.



Putnam, who led the van, quickly bade his men to return the

fire, and passed the word back for the other divisions to

hasten up. The fight soon became a hand-to-hand one. The

creek was close by, but it could not be crossed in the face

of the enemy, and Putnam bade his men to hold their ground.

A sharp fight ensued, now in the open, now from behind

trees, in Indian fashion. Putnam had discharged his piece

several times, and once more pulled trigger, with the muzzle

against the breast of a powerful Indian. His piece missed

fire. Instantly the warrior dashed forward, tomahawk in

hand, and by threat of death compelled his antagonist to

surrender. Putnam was immediately disarmed and bound to a

tree, and his captor returned to the fight.



The battle continued, one party after the other being forced

back. In the end, the movements of the struggling foes were

such as to bring the tree to which Putnam was bound directly

between their lines. He was like a target for both parties.

Balls flew past him from either side. Many of them struck

the tree, while his coat was pierced by more than one

bullet. So obstinate was the contest that for an hour the

battle raged about him, his peril continuing extreme. Nor

was this his only danger. During the heat of the conflict a

young Indian hurled a tomahawk several times at his head,

out of mischief more than malice, but with such skilful aim

that the keen weapon more than once grazed his skin and

buried its edge in the tree beside his head. With still

greater malice, a French officer of low grade levelled his

musket at the prisoner's breast and attempted to discharge

it. Fortunately for Putnam it missed fire. The prisoner

vainly solicited more merciful treatment. The heartless

villain thrust the muzzle of his gun violently against the

captive's ribs, and in the end gave him a painful blow on

the jaw with the butt-end of his piece.



The battle ended at length in the triumph of the

provincials. They drove the French from the field. But they

failed to rescue Putnam. Before retiring, the Indian who had

made him captive untied him, and forced him to accompany the

retreating party. When a safe distance had been reached, the

prisoner was deprived of his coat, vest, shoes, and

stockings, his shoulders were loaded with the packs of the

wounded, and his wrists were tied behind him as tightly as

they could be drawn. In this painful condition he was forced

to walk for miles through the woodland paths, until the

party halted to rest.



By this time his hands were so swollen from the tightness of

the cord that the pain was unbearable, while his feet bled

freely from their many scratches. Exhausted with his burden

and wild with torment, he asked the interpreter to beg the

Indians either to loose his hands or knock him on the head,

and end his torture at once. His appeal was heard by a

French officer, who immediately order his hands to be

unbound and some of his burden to be removed. Shortly

afterwards the Indian who had captured him, and who had been

absent with the wounded, came up and expressed great

indignation at his treatment. He gave him a pair of

moccasins, and seemed kindly disposed towards him.



Unfortunately for the captive, this kindly savage was

obliged to resume his duty with the wounded, leaving Putnam

with the other Indians, some two hundred in number, who

marched in advance of the French contingent of the party

towards the selected camping-place. On the way their

barbarity to their helpless prisoner continued, culminating

in a blow with a tomahawk, which made a deep wound in his

left cheek.



This cruel treatment was but preliminary to a more fatal

purpose. It was their intention to burn their captive alive.

No sooner had they reached their camping-ground than they

led him into the forest depths, stripped him of his clothes,

bound him to a tree, and heaped dry fuel in a circle round

him. While thus engaged they filled the air with the most

fearful sounds to which their throats could give vent, a

pandemonium of ear-piercing yells and screams. The pile

prepared, it was set on fire. The flames spread rapidly

through the dry brush. But by a chance that seemed

providential, at that moment a sudden shower sent its

rain-drops through the foliage, extinguished the increasing

fire, and dampened the fuel.



No sooner was the rain over than the yelling savages applied

their torches again to the funeral pile of their living

victim. The dampness checked their efforts for a time, but

at length the flames caught, and a crimson glow slowly made

its way round the circle of fuel. The captive soon felt the

scorching heat. He was tied in such a way that he could move

his body, and he involuntarily shifted his position to

escape the pain,--an evidence of nervousness that afforded

the highest delight to his tormentors, who expressed their

exultation in yells, dances, and wild gesticulations. The

last hour of the brave soldier seemed at hand. He strove to

bring resolution to his aid, and to fix his thoughts on a

happier state of existence beyond this earth, the

contemplation of which might aid him to bear without

flinching, a short period of excruciating pain.



At this critical moment, when death in its most horrid form

stared him in the face, relief came. A French officer, who

had been told of what was in progress, suddenly bounded

through the savage band, kicked the blazing brands to right

and left, and with a stroke of his knife released the

imperilled captive. It was Molang himself. An Indian who

retained some instincts of humanity had informed him of what

was on foot. The French commander reprimanded his barbarian

associates severely, and led the prisoner away, keeping him

by his side until he was able to transfer him to the care of

the gigantic Indian who had captured him.



This savage seemed to regard him with feelings of kindness.

He offered him some biscuits, but finding that the wound in

his cheek and the blow he had received on the jaw prevented

him from chewing, he soaked them in water till they could be

swallowed easily. Yet, despite his kindness, he took

extraordinary care that his prisoner should not escape. When

the camp was made, he forced the captive to lie on the

ground, stretched each arm at full length, and bound it to a

young tree, and fastened his legs in the same manner. Then a

number of long and slender poles were cut and laid across

his body from head to foot, on the ends of which lay several

of the Indians.



Under such circumstances escape could not even be thought

of, nor was a moment's comfort possible. The night seemed

infinitely extended, the only relief that came to the

prisoner, as he himself relates, being the reflection of

what a ludicrous subject the group, of which he was the

central figure, would have made for a painter.



The next day he was given a blanket and moccasins, and

allowed to march without being loaded with packs. A little

bear's meat was furnished him, whose juice he was able to

suck. At night the party reached Ticonderoga, where he was

placed in charge of a French guard, and his sufferings came

to an end. The savages manifested their chagrin at his

escape by insulting grimaces and threatening gestures, but

were not allowed to offer him any further indignity or

violence. After an examination by the Marquis de Montcalm,

who was in command at Ticonderoga, he was sent to Montreal,

under charge of a French officer, who treated him in a

humane manner.



Major Putnam was a frightful object on reaching Montreal,

the little clothing allowed him being miserably dirty and

ragged, his beard and hair dishevelled, his legs torn by

thorns and briers, his face gashed, blood-stained, and

swollen. Colonel Schuyler, a prisoner there, beheld his

plight with deep commiseration, supplied him with clothing

and money, and did his utmost to alleviate his condition.



When shortly afterwards an exchange of prisoners was being

made, in which Colonel Schuyler was to be included, he,

fearing that Putnam would be indefinitely held should his

importance as a partisan leader become known, used a skilful

artifice to obtain his release. Speaking to the governor

with great politeness and seeming indifference of purpose,

he remarked,--



"There is an old man here who is a provincial major. He is

very desirous to be at home with his wife and children. He

can do no good here, nor anywhere else. I believe your

excellency had better keep some of the young men, who have

no wives or children to care for, and let this old fellow go

home with me."



His artifice was effective. Putnam was released, and left

Montreal in company with his generous friend. He took

further part in the war, at the end of which, at the Indian

village of Cochuawaga, near Montreal, he met again the

Indian whose prisoner he had been. The kindly savage was

delighted to see him again, and entertained him with all the

friendship and hospitality at his command. At a later date,

when Putnam took part in the Pontiac war, he met again this

old chief, who was now an ally of the English, and who

marched side by side with his former prisoner to do battle

with the ancient enemies of his tribe.