The Drum of Bunker Hill

Here is an interesting story of a drum that was captured at the battle of Bunker Hill from the book "American Drums of War" by George Carroll:

"The English lad who carried the drum when the British made their first attack on Breed's Hill was shot down by the first volley from the Continental trenches, and the drum itself riddled with bullets. After the second assault, and while the Redcoats were being rallied for their third and successful assault, one of the Rhode Island soldiers climbed over the entrenchments and brought back the drum. When the American ammunition failed and the defenders were driven from the trenches by the British, the drum was carried in retreat over Charleston Neck, and safely brought into the American camp. Whether the original captor had been slain, or [what other arrangement made] is somewhat obscure, but the Rhode Islanders finally drew lots for the drum. The lucky chance fell to Levi Smith, drummer-boy of the Rhode Island Regiment, who had followed General Nathaniel Greene to Massachusetts. On his first furlough he took the drum home to Providence, repaired it, and then carried it through the balance of his service in the Revolution."

After the war the drum was eventually passed down to Levi's oldest son, Israel. When the War of 1812 came around Israel marched off to war like his father, carrying the same drum that had drummed for and against the British before. A great story of muti-generational honor. Reminds me of the following song:

The Sword of Bunker Hill

He lay upon his dying bed;
His eyes were growing dim,
When with a feeble voice he called
His weeping son to him:
Weep not, my boy! The vet'ran said,
I bow to Heav'ns high will,
But quickly from yon antlers bring
The Sword of Bunker Hill.
But quickly from yon antlers bring
The Sword of Bunker Hill.

The sword was brought, the soldier's eye
Lit with a sudden flame;
And as he grasped the ancient blade,
He murmured Warren's name;
Then said My boy, I leave you gold
But what is richer still,
I leave you, mark me, mark me now,
The Sword of Bunker Hill.
I leave you, mark me, mark me now,
The Sword of Bunker Hill.

Twas on that dread immortal day,
I dared the Briton's hand,
A captain raised this blade on me
I tore it from his hand;
And while the glorious battle raged,
It lighted freedom's will
For, boy, the God of freedom bless'd
The Sword of Bunker Hill.
For, boy, the God of freedom bless'd
The Sword of Bunker Hill.

O keep the sword, his accents broke
A smile and he was dead;
His wrinkled hand still grasped the blade
Upon that dying bed.
The son is gone; the sword remains,
It's glory growing still;
And eighty millions bless the sire,
The Sword of Bunker Hill.
And eighty millions bless the sire,
The Sword of Bunker Hill.

-William Ross Wallace

-Peter Bringe

 Memor!