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Early in the eighteenth century, there lived in the old historic town of Salem, Massachusetts, Joseph Putnam and his wife, Elizabeth.  They already had nine children, and, in 1718, a tenth was born to them and they named him Israel, which means a soldier of God.  His career was destined to be one of the most romantic and adventurous in American history, but none of his brothers or sisters managed to get into the lime-light of fame.

Israel himself started in tamely enough as a farmer, having bought a tract of five hundred acres down in Connecticut.  Wild animals had been pretty well exterminated by that time, but one old she-wolf still had her den not far from Putnam’s farm, and one night she came out and amused herself by killing sixty or seventy of his fine sheep.  When Putnam found them stretched upon the ground next morning, a great rage seized him; he swore that that wolf should never have the chance to do such another night’s work; he tracked her to her cave, and descending without hesitation into the dark and narrow entrance, shot straight between the eyes he saw gleaming at him through the darkness, and dragged the carcass out into the daylight.  That incident gives some idea of Israel Putnam’s temper, and what desperate things he was capable of doing when his blood was up.

That was in 1735, and twenty years elapsed before he again appeared upon the page of history.  But in 1755 began the great war with France, and for the next ten years, Putnam’s life was fairly crowded with incident.  Connecticut furnished a thousand men to resist the expected French invasion, and Putnam was put in command of a company with the rank of captain.  His company acted as rangers, and for two years did remarkable service in harassing the enemy and in warning the settlers against lurking bands of Indians, set on by the French.  On more than one occasion, he saved his life by the closest margin.  He was absolutely fearless, and this, together with a clear head and quick eye, carried him safely through peril after peril, any one of which would have proved the death of a man less resolute.

He saved a party of soldiers from the Indians by steering them in a bateau safely down the dangerous rapids of the Hudson; he saved Fort Edward from destruction by fire at the imminent risk of his life, working undaunted although the flames were threatening, every moment, to explode the magazine; a year later, captured by the Indians, who feared and hated him, he was bound to a stake, after some preliminary tortures, and a pile of fagots heaped about him and set on fire.  The flames were searing his flesh, when a French officer happened to come up and rescued him.  These are but three incidents out of a dozen such.  He seemed to bear a charmed life, and any of his men would willingly have died for him.  In 1765, when he returned home after ten years of continuous campaigning, it was with the rank of colonel, and a reputation for daring and resourcefulness second to none in New England.