Massacre At William Henry, Part I
Young Ned was only sixteen years old when
they called for the militia to come again,
having warred with the French for three years now,
and raids had terrified the frontier towns.
But Britain needed men to hold the line,
and promised they’d be paid well for their time,
Ned’s father was quite poor, and quite hobbled,
the family farm was facing real trouble.
They sent him west, and then they sent him north,
to an outpost at the remote Lake George,
Fort William henry, that’s what they called it,
in wilderness did this new fortress sit.
Just thirty miles from Fort Carillon,
the great fortress the French had built of stone,
between them Lake George stretched out, long and thin,
a frontier both had stained with blood and sin.
The Ned the fortress didn’t look like much,
wood walls filled with earth, half-done and quite rough,
and it seemed that the fort was built too small,
outside was a camp, since they couldn’t fit all.
He’d heard in the winter there’d been a fight,
an attempt at siege that didn’t go right,
without big cannons their force had been spent,
though some boats and some outbuildings were rent.
But what Ned couldn’t know, miles away
French general Montcalm heard what spies did say,
from London French agents had sent them word
that England was striking for Louisburg.
With Britain’s main army so far removed,
Montcalm saw a chance that he could not loose,
with naught but garrisons on the frontier,
he could match their numbers, strike and bring fear.
That summer outside of Carillon’s fort
France built its army, eight thousand and more,
two thousand Indians, drawn from the tribes,
for plunder joined up and took the French side.
Down the lake they came, by land and by boat,
and soon appeared on the wilderness road,
where young Ned was stationed, he heard the shots,
with musket in hand, he raced for the spot.
Saw men in the woods, in a skirmish line,
using whatever cover they could find,
Ned found a boulder, and there he took aim,
the gun flashed but he heard no cry of pain.
Panic did grip him as he reloaded,
not ten feet away a fellow lay dead,
he fumbled with powder, and the ramrod,
his hands shaking as he prayed to his God.
Up went the musket and fired once more,
sparks flying out to singe the forest floor,
but figures kept coming, dressed in light gray,
too many men for them to drive away.
CONTINUES IN PART II.
Copyright © David Welch | Year Posted 2022
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