Miracles and Massacres

by Glenn Beck

  “Column halt!” the man on horseback barked. “Take shelter indoors! You’ve earned it, men!”

  “Damn right we have!” muttered one of the scarecrows, ice forming around his beard. “We’ve marched a good twenty miles today!”

  The men were Massachusetts militia, and the person shouting orders was none other than Major General William Shepard, the same man who had rolled out the cannons in his face-off against Daniel Shays, Luke Day, and their band of Regulators at the Springfield courthouse nearly four months earlier.

  Governor Bowdoin may not have possessed much faith in the commonwealth’s militia, but General Shepard still did to a degree.

  A thought—no, a fear—had raced through Shepard’s mind for months. Springfield possessed more than a courthouse; it also possessed a Continental Arsenal, chock-full of everything an army might need: 7,000 muskets and bayonets, 1,300 pounds of gunpowder, and 200 tons of shot. These supplies could transform a disorganized rabble into a formidable army capable of marching right to the State House in Boston.

  If the mobs seized that arsenal, Shepard’s men would be cut to ribbons against them. So might General Lincoln’s new contingents. If they made it all the way to Boston and overtook the State House . . . well, he couldn’t even bring himself to think what might happen then.

  And that was why William Shepard was marching his men through snow, ice, and cold to seize and secure that arsenal before Shays and Day finally thought of it.

  But Shepard was already too late.

  Daniel Shays and Luke Day had thought of it.

  Parsonage of the First Church of West Springfield

  West Springfield, Massachusetts

  Four months earlier: September 1786

  Even the most agitated of the Regulators grappled with the question: could their rebellion really succeed? Those who thought it could were left with another question even more difficult to answer: Was this rebellion just?

  The Regulators certainly had their grievances. Boston called the tune, and the rest of the state danced to it. Restrictive property ownership regulations kept good men from serving in public office. Squalls and storms often kept western Massachusetts representatives away from the capitol during key legislative votes. Still, this was not 1775 or 1776. There was representation now, imperfect as it might be.

  Was it right to rebel against a lawful, elected government? Should our fight be in the State House instead of the streets?

  The questions gnawed at Luke Day, and that is why he found himself seeking out the Reverend Dr. Joseph Lathrop, minister of West Springfield’s First Church. Lathrop was a man Day respected and trusted. So, after finding him at the church, Day shared a secret: He and his men were going to march on the arsenal across the Connecticut River in Springfield, seize it, and kick over the whole rotten cabal in Boston.

  “You’re wrong, Luke,” Lathrop said.

  “Well . . . no . . . I . . . I’m . . . not!” Day stammered, fidgeting with the brass buttons on his uniform coat as he spoke.

  “You’re wrong,” chided the white-haired Lathrop, jabbing a bony finger into Day’s chest, “and you know it. Your very manner tells me you know it. A resort to arms for supposed grievances is wrong. And your men know it, too. The path down which you lead them will destroy them—and you as well. If you refuse and rebel, ye shall be devoured by the sword.”

  The conversation ended abruptly, there was not even a terse good-bye, but Lathrop’s words had found their mark. Luke Day might never admit it, but he was having second thoughts.

  Daniel Shays’ Headquarters

  Wilbraham, Massachusetts

  January 24, 1787

  Armies were on the march.

  General Benjamin Lincoln had quickly assembled an army at Roxbury and was bringing it toward Springfield via Worcester. But the Regulators were marching, too. Three separate groups of them raced against time to head off Lincoln and seize the arsenal from General Shepard’s militia: Luke Day’s 400 men advanced from West Springfield; Captain Shays’ nearly 1,200 Regulators encamped near Palmer; and 400 Berkshire County men, led by Eli Parsons, another Revolutionary War veteran, marched from Chicopee. Combined, they had a huge size advantage over Shepard’s 1,100 men.

  Shays hurriedly dispatched orders to Day and Parsons: rendezvous with him before the arsenal in the waning sunlight at 4:00 P.M. on Thursday, January 25.

  The clock was ticking. Seize the arsenal before Benjamin Lincoln arrived to reinforce Shepard’s militia or do not seize it at all.

  Zenas Parsons’ Tavern

  Springfield, Massachusetts

  January 24, 1787

  The atmosphere in the normally sleepy town of Springfield was electric. From the snow-covered streets to the handful of businesses that dotted its commercial area, a sense of excitement and dread filled the town. Nowhere was this sense of foreboding greater than at Zenas Parsons’ Tavern.

  While some towns had flocked to the Regulators’ cause, Springfield was not counted among them. Its citizenry had stubbornly held loyal to their elected government. They had no appetite for seizing courthouses or marching on arsenals.

  They also, like most people across the states, carefully scrutinized strangers stopping at the local taverns, especially in times of rebellion and sedition like the one they found themselves in now.

  “Who’s the bumpkin that just sauntered in?” whispered a man attired in brown. It was a cold night and he was wisely sitting near the blazing fireplace.

  “Can’t say I know,” came the answer from a bearded man in blue. “But I do reckon that he came into town on the West Springfield road.”

  His companion nodded wisely. Zenas Parsons’ newest customer wasn’t from these parts, and West Springfield was where Luke Day’s “troops” were quartered. One didn’t need to be Ben Franklin to figure out what that might mean.

  The man in brown sauntered over to the tavern keeper to refresh his drink. While waiting, he engaged the curly-haired stranger in conversation. “Terrible day to be out,” he said.

  “That’s why I’m in here. A little grog never hurt anyone in this weather—nor in any other sort of weather!” the stranger laughed.

  “No, not at all,” said the man in blue, who was now standing on the stranger’s other side. “Hope you don’t have much further to go. Otherwise, you’ll need two glasses of grog!”

  “No, not far. Just over to Wilbraham.”

  Wilbraham was where Shays was encamped.

  “Say,” said the man in blue, “it looks like the wind’s picking up out there. I wouldn’t head outside until it lets up. Maybe another ration of grog will do the trick—on me! We like to treat strangers proper here in Springfield.”

  Several grogs later, the stranger was . . . groggy. A few more and he slumped over unconscious.

  Quickly, the locals pawed through his coat. There, inside his pocket, was an envelope sealed securely with red wax.

  A peek inside might very well be worth the price of a few glasses of grog.

  Boston Post Road

  Five miles from Springfield

  January 25, 1787

  “There’s a rider coming forward, sir . . . I think . . .”

  “Yes, I think so, too,” answered Daniel Shays, though the descending snow made seeing anything a winter’s guessing game.

  “Do you measure him as friend or foe, sir?”

  Shays, at the head of his column of men, pulled his spyglass up to his eye. “Both.”

  “Both, sir? How may that be?”

  “Friend once. But now, I doubt it. It’s Captain Samuel Buffington. I served with him in the Massachusetts Line. I rather doubt he is here to discuss old times.”

  Under cover of a gust-driven white flag of truce, Buffington advanced steadily toward his erstwhile comrade. Before reaching Shays, however, another Regulator intercepted him. “You want to see General Shays, I suppose.” Buffington indicated he certainly did.

  “Be my guest,” came the reply. “Just know that if the ma
tter isn’t settled by sunset, New England will see such a day as she never has before.”

  Such arrogant chatter failed to frighten Buffington. As he continued toward Shays, he wondered who had promoted the man to such an exalted rank. When he saw Shays’ own greeting—a pistol in one hand, a drawn sword in the other—he got the feeling that these mobbers were taking themselves a little too seriously.

  Two can play this game, he thought. Buffington’s first words virtually slapped Shays across the face. “I’m here,” he pronounced, “in defense of the country you are endeavoring to destroy.”

  “If you are in defense of the country,” Shays shot back, “then we are both defending the same cause.”

  “I expect we have differing views on what that means,” Buffington countered.

  “Let me be clear, then: we are taking the arsenal and public buildings in Springfield.” Shays’ bravado was overflowing, but his swagger suddenly abated. “Will they fight?” he asked, his eyes narrowing with concern.

  “You can count on it,” said Buffington.

  “That’s all I want,” Shays lied, as he wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck. Despite his restored bluster, he wondered whether a woolen scarf might not be the only thing wrapped round his neck in the near future.

  Buffington thought the same thing. “If you advance,” he warned Shays, “you will meet those men we are both accustomed to obey.”

  Buffington rode away, hoping for the best, but more fearful than ever that the worst was yet to come.

  Continental Arsenal

  Springfield, Massachusetts

  January 25, 1787

  William Shepard paced nervously, awaiting Buffington’s return. Would he bear news of Shays’ capitulation? No, that was too much to hope for. These mobbers would have to be brought to reason not by cool words but with hot lead.

  A militia member approached Shepard with a piece of paper. “General, a message . . . from Captain Day.”

  Shepard slowly removed his kidskin gloves and unfolded the document handed him. “Headquarters,” it began, “West Springfield, January 25, 1787.”

  “Headquarters!” Shepard snorted, “You would think that loudmouth brigand would at least see combat before assuming such airs. I know damned well where his ‘Headquarters’ is—it’s the ‘Stebbins Tavern,’ a place better suited to commanding bottles than battles.”

  Shepard read on:

  The body of the people assembled in arms, adhering to the first principles in nature, self-preservation, do, in the most peremptory manner, demand:

  1. That the troops in Springfield lay down their arms.

  2. That their arms be deposited in the public stores, under the care of the proper officers, to be returned to the owners at the termination of the present contest.

  3. That the troops return to their homes upon parole.

  Your Excellency’s most obedient, humble servant,

  Luke Day.

  Captain Commandant of this division.

  Shepard sighed. This game would be funny if it were not so deadly: neighbors firing on neighbors, a state torn asunder, and a braggart in a tavern issuing orders to a lawfully elected government.

  We’ll see soon enough, Shepard thought, just who tenders parole to whom.

  • • •

  “Company’s right on time,” William Shepard muttered. “Very polite of them.”

  He watched a small parade of men struggling through massive snowdrifts on the Boston Road growing larger and larger still.

  “Captain Buffington, Colonel Lyman, will you do the honors? Ask them what they want—for posterity’s record.”

  “My pleasure, General,” said Lyman. Both Lyman and Buffington quickly ascended their mounts to meet Shays’ advancing Regulator forces. If Shepard’s militia could not yet see “the whites” of the mobbers’ eyes from the arsenal, they could easily see their steamy breath.

  Buffington posed Shepard’s question to Shays, who promptly answered, “Barracks and stores.”

  The Regulators pushed forward and were just about a hundred yards from the arsenal’s heavily guarded perimeter when Colonel Lyman warned, “Advance no further or you will be fired upon.”

  “That’s all we want, by God!” jeered Captain Adam Wheeler, a French and Indian War veteran who stood stoutly at Shays’ side. Lyman nodded to Buffington, and the two galloped as fast as they could back to their lines.

  “Take the hill on which the arsenal and the Public Buildings stand!” Shays shouted to his troops, who responded with a great roar. If noise and enthusiasm could seize the arsenal, it would soon be theirs.

  While Shays was marching his men up the Boston Road on one side of the arsenal, Eli Parsons’ Berkshire County lads were attacking on another and Luke Day was bringing his men to bear from a third side. They hoped that their enormous show of force would force Shepard to fold.

  But something or rather someone was missing.

  Where was Day?

  Shays pondered the problem as his men inched perilously closer to Shepard’s muskets.

  • • •

  William Shepard’s prized possession on this late January afternoon was not either of his cannons—“government puppies,” his men called them—but a piece of paper hidden within his red-trimmed blue greatcoat. It was the letter commandeered the day before from a drunken messenger at Parsons’ Tavern, a critical communication from Luke Day to Daniel Shays.

  Day had been attempting to respond to Shays to inform him that he would not be available to assault General Shepard and the arsenal at 4:00 P.M. on January 25—this very hour—but that they would instead cordially arrive precisely twenty-four hours later.

  And, so, Shepard knew—though he took the precaution of posting some men on Main Street in case Day changed his mind—that he would have to defend only two sides of the arsenal, not three.

  Just as important, Daniel Shays did not know that.

  “Major Stephens!” roared Shepard, “Fire o’er the rascals’ heads!”

  Two fuses burned, and Shepard prayed that such a warning might bring his opponents to their senses. Not merely for their sake, but for his as well. He had no way of really knowing how his own men might react to drawing the blood of their neighbors and fellow countrymen. His own army, he fretted, might dissolve at the first shot.

  BOOM! . . . BOOM!

  A great, deafening roar rose from the arsenal as two cannonballs sailed safely over the heads of Shays’ advancing hordes.

  Or had they sailed safely? Most of Shays’ army lay prone, facefirst, on the snowy ground, as if they were a field of harvested wheat.

  One by one, Shays’ army arose and dusted themselves off. “March on! March on!” Shays barked.

  “Major Stephens,” Shepard ordered, his words catching in his throat as he uttered them, “Another volley—this time waist height.”

  BOOM! . . . BOOM! The cannons crashed again.

  Stephens’ cannon shot found its target, ripping through Shays’ ranks, tearing through blood, sinew, and bone like a sword through a sack of flour.

  Three men—Ezekiel Root and Ariel Webster, both of Gill, and Jabez Spicer of nearby Leyden—crumpled to the ground dead. A fourth, Shelburne’s John Hunter, was gravely injured. The vast remainder of Shays’ troops, save for a scattered handful frozen in fear, again fell prostrate to the snow-packed ground.

  “Again!” cried Shepard, and more metal rocketed through the leaden sky. But above that roar, the men manning the arsenal’s guns heard a scream that shocked them to their very marrow. Artillery Sergeant John Chaloner had moved away too slowly from his cannon’s mouth. Its fearsome blast ripped both of his arms from their sockets and its searing flash blinded him instantly.

  The sound of Chaloner’s screams echoed along with the distant rumble from the cannon. The air was thick with gunpowder, and the snow where the ill-fated group of now-dead rebels once stood was red with blood.

  Militiamen watched as the Regulators retreated. After they had falle
n back to a safe distance, the militiamen inched down to where the army had stood facing them just a few short minutes earlier. They retrieved the mortally wounded John Hunter and what was left of Root, Webster, and Spicer, and moved them to a nearby stable, where the bodies quickly froze solid.

  About an hour later, a party of Regulators advanced again, but this time under a white flag.

  “Sir, we respectfully request that we may remove the bodies of our five comrades for decent Christian burial.”

  “Five?” snorted Shepard. “I’m afraid I’ve only four, but if you care to repeat your march on the arsenal, I’ll be only too glad to accommodate you with a fifth!”

  They were not about to take him up on that. The thought of fighting their friends and neighbors was one thing; watching them actually die was another thing entirely.

  The battle was over.

  Regulator Encampment

  Chicopee, Massachusetts

  January 26, 1787

  Daniel Shays’ men had run from the armory grounds and they kept on running hard for five miles until finally reaching Japhet Chapin’s Tavern at Cabotville to Springfield’s east. At daybreak they fled farther—to Chicopee—where they rejoined Eli Parsons’ Berkshire County men. Along the way, two hundred Regulators had deserted the cause.

  A roaring fire had once threatened to engulf the entire commonwealth, and, with it, perhaps the entire Confederation.

  But now that fire seemed to be nothing but dying embers.

  Continental Arsenal

  Springfield, Massachusetts

  January 27, 1787

  “They’re back!”

  A militia sentry watched a column of men steadily advancing toward him.

  Men sprang to their posts. If Shays and his mobbers were foolish enough to attempt another attack on Springfield’s arsenal, they would ensure that an even bloodier price was paid.

  “Hold your fire!” came another shout. “It’s not Shays! It’s General Lincoln and reinforcements!” Glorious in their strength and number—three companies apiece of infantry and artillery, plus a company of cavalry—Lincoln marched them steadily along.