Chaplain, Continental Army, America
[24 November]
"Put Watts into ’em,—Boys, give ’em Watts!”
Almighty God, Captain of the Host, who hast called thy ministers
to serve as chaplains in the defense of Right from time to time; we give thee hearty thanks for
the service of thy servant James Caldwell in the American Revolutionary War: for his example of
leadership, compassion, camaraderie, and bravery; laying down his life for the cause of liberty;
through thy Son our Lord Jesus Christ, who liveth and reigneth together with thee and the Holy
Ghost, one God, world without end. Amen
The Rebels High Priest Here's the spot. Look around you. Above on the height. Lay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the right Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall,-- You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball. Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow, Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago. Nothing more, did I say? Stay one moment: you've heard Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the Word Down at Springfield? What, no? Come--that's bad; why he had All the Herseys aflame. And they gave him the name Of the "rebel high-priest." He stuck in their gorge, For he loved the Lord God,--and he hated King George! He had cause, you might say! When Hessians that day Marched up with Knyphausen they stopped on their way At the "Farms," where his wife, with a child in her arms, Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knew But God--and that one of the hireling crew Who fired the shot! Enough!--there she lay. And--Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away! Did he preach--did he pray? Think of him as you stand By the old church to-day;--think of him and his band Of militant plowboys! See the smoke and the heat Of that reckless advance,--of that straggling retreat! Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view,-- And what could you, what should you, what would you do? Why, just what he did! They were left in the lurch For the want of more wadding. He ran to the church, Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the road With his arms full of hymn-books and threw down his load At their feet! Then above all the shouting and shots, Rang his voice,--"Putt Watts into 'em,--Boys, give 'em Watts!" And they did. That is all. Grasses spring, flowers blow, Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago. You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball,-- But not always a hero like this,--and that's all. Bret Harte, Poet