Martinsburg Gazette And Public Advertiser

From the American Traveler,

TAKING OF STONEY POINT.

The troops were at length halted: they were not yet aware of the purpose of their midnight march—something momentous was expected; for no torch had lighted them through the darkness, and the stillness had been unbroken by the soul-stirring drum, the spirit-breathing trumpet. They were within three miles of Stoney Point—a post considered impregnable—and all their energies were awakened in the dead of night for the combat about to follow. The purpose of their march was briefly told them—Stoney Point was to be attacked, and by the bayonet alone—death was to be the penalty of a single discharge. The fort was three miles in advance, situated at the further extremity of a narrow neck of land, which was to be crossed by our troops, exposed to the fire of the enemy. The march was now silently resumed, with no sound but the quick and cautious step of the soldiers—the cricket ceased from his song as they passed—and the dark shade of the forest trees fell gloomily over their path.

They had arrived within about three quarters of a mile, when the sentinels of the enemy gave the alarm. The light of a single gun—and then of another and another, burst upon the darkness—now the lights were seen gleaming from the far-off fort—soon the thunder of the artillery broke night's quietness, and the balls whizzed through the firm band who still continued their march onward. Now they are stopped by the long line of fallen trees thrown before their path—whilst soldier after soldier falls before the deadly weapons of the enemy, incapable of making any return. The axes of the hardy pioneers soon open a path—and the dark phalanxes, with their lines unbroken by the fearful thunders of the air, are near the fortress. The red beacons blaze, illuminating the midnight—and the fire is poured from parapet unreturned—unheeded but murderous.

The palisade is gained—is filled—and the march resumed. Already the bristling bayonets are fixed, the steep is gained—the parapet surmounted—and the shouts of the combatants and groans of the dying are mingled together. The British yield—and the glad sound of "the fort is ours," goes up to heaven. Alas! again, the British ranks are forced, and the deadly rush of fierce men commences with bayonet clashing against bayonet—the brave against the brave contending. 'Twas vain for England's warriors to struggle longer—our bayonets dripped with their warm blood—ours was the glory—ours the victory—the praise was due to the Lord of hosts—the Lord of victory.

*Stoney Point was taken at midnight on the 16th of July, 1779, by the Americans, under the command of Brigadier General Wayne—this fortification had always been considered impregnable.