It was two by the clock when the boats began to move, and slowly
we ranged down the stream, silently steered, carried by the
current. No paddle, no creaking oarlock, broke the stillness. I was
in the next boat to the General's, for, with Clark and twenty-two
other volunteers to the forlorn hope, I was to show the way up the
heights, and we were near to his person for over two hours that
night. No moon was shining, but I could see the General plainly;
and once, when our boats almost touched, he saw me, and said
graciously, "If they get up, Mr. Moray, you are free to serve
yourself."
My heart was full of love of country then, and I answered, "I
hope, sir, to serve you till your flag is hoisted in the citadel."
He turned to a young midshipman beside him, and said, "How old
are you, sir?"
"Seventeen, sir," was the reply.
"It is the most lasting passion," he said, musing.
It seemed to me then, and I still think it, that the passion he
meant was love of country. A moment afterwards I heard him recite
to the officers about him, in a low clear tone, some verses by Mr.
Gray, the poet, which I had never then read, though I have prized
them since. Under those frowning heights, and the smell from our
roaring thirty-two-pounders in the air, I heard him say:
"The curfew tolls, the knell of parting day;
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea;
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
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