Chapter II: Part 2

Launches to port and starboard, launches forward and aft,
Fourteen launches together striking the little craft.
They hacked at the boarding-nettings, they swarmed above the rail;
But the Long Tom roared from his pivot and the grapeshot fell like hail;
Pike and pistol and cutlass, and hearts that knew not fear,
Bulwarks of brawn and mettle, guarded the privateer.
And ever where fight was fiercest the form of Reid was seen:
Ever where foes drew nearest, his quick sword fell between.
Once in the deadly strife
The boarder’s leader pressed
Forward of all the rest
Challenging life for life;
But ere their blades had crossed
A dying sailor tossed
His pistol to Reid, and cried,
“Now riddle the lubber’s hide!”
But the privateersman laughed, and flung the weapon aside,
And he drove his blade to the hilt, and the foeman gasped and died.
Then the boarders took to their launches, laden with hurt and dead,
But little with glory burdened, and out of the battle fled.

Now the tide was at flood again, and the night was almost done,
When the sloop-of-war came up with her odds of two to one,
And she opened fire; but the _Armstrong_ answered her, gun for gun,
And the gay _Carnation_ wilted in half an hour of sun.

Then the _Armstrong_, looking seaward, saw the mighty seventy-four,
With her triple tier of cannon, drawing slowly to the shore.
And the dauntless captain said: “Take our wounded and our dead,
Bear them tenderly to land, for the _Armstrong’s_ days are o’er;
But no foe shall tread her deck, and no flag above it wave--
To the ship that saved our honor we will give a shipman’s grave.”
So they did as he commanded, and they bore their mates to land
With the figurehead of Armstrong and the good sword in his hand.
Then they turned the Long Tom downward, and they pierced her oaken side,
And they cheered her, and they blessed her, and they sunk her in the tide.
Tell the story to your sons,
When the haughty stranger boasts
Of his mighty ships and guns
And the muster of his hosts,
How the word of God was witnessed in the gallant days of yore
When the twenty fled from one ere the rising of the sun,
In the harbor of Fayal the Azore!

JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.

(By special permission of the author, and of Houghton, Mifflin and
Company.)

13

THE MEN OF THE ALAMO

To Houston at Gonzales town, ride, Ranger, for your life,
Nor stop to say good-by to-day to home, or child, or wife;
But pass the word from ranch to ranch, to every Texan sword,
That fifty hundred Mexicans have crossed the Nueces ford,
With Castrillon and perjured Cos, Sesmá and Almontê,
And Santa Anna ravenous for vengeance and for prey!
They smite the land with fire and sword; the grass shall never grow
Where northward sweeps that locust horde on San Antonio!

Now who will bar the foeman’s path, to gain a breathing space,
Till Houston and his scattered men shall meet him face to face?
Who holds his life as less than naught when home and honor call,
And counts the guerdon full and fair for liberty to fall?
Oh, who but Barrett Travis, the bravest of them all!
With seven score of riflemen to play the rancher’s game,
And feed a counter-fire to halt the sweeping prairie flame;
For Bowie of the broken blade is there to cheer them on,
With Evans of Concepcion, who conquered Castrillon,
And o’er their heads the Lone Star flag defiant floats on high,
And no man thinks of yielding, and no man fears to die.

But ere the siege is held a week a cry is heard without,
A clash of arms, a rifle peal, the Ranger’s ringing shout,
And two-and-thirty beardless boys have bravely hewed their way
To die with Travis if they must, to conquer if they may.
Was ever valor held so cheap in Glory’s mart before
In all the days of chivalry, in all the deeds of war?
But once again the foemen gaze in wonderment and fear
To see a stranger break their lines and hear the Texans cheer.
God! how they cheered to welcome him, those spent and starving men!
For Davy Crockett by their side was worth an army then.
The wounded ones forgot their wounds; the dying drew a breath
To hail the king of border men, then turned to laugh at death.
For all knew Davy Crockett, blithe and generous as bold,
And strong and rugged as the quartz that hides its heart of gold.
His simple creed for word or deed true as the bullet sped,
And rung the target straight: “Be sure you’re right, then go ahead!”

And were they right who fought the fight for Texas by his side?
They questioned not; they faltered not; they only fought and died.
Who hath an enemy like these, God’s mercy slay him straight!--
A thousand Mexicans lay dead outside the convent gate,
And half a thousand more must die before the fortress falls,
And still the tide of war beats high around the leaguered walls.
At last the bloody breach is won; the weakened lines give way;
The wolves are swarming in the court; the lions stand at bay.
The leader meets them at the breach, and wins the soldier’s prize;
A foeman’s bosom sheathes his sword when gallant Travis dies.
Now let the victor feast at will until his crest be red--
We may not know what raptures fill the vulture with the dead.

Let Santa Anna’s valiant sword right bravely hew and hack
The senseless corse; its hands are cold; they will not strike him back.
Let Bowie die, but ’ware the hand that wields his deadly knife;
Four went to slay, and one comes back, so dear he sells his life.
And last of all let Crockett fall, too proud to sue for grace,
So grand in death the butcher dared not look upon his face.

But far on San Jacinto’s field the Texan toils are set,
And Alamo’s dread memory the Texan steel shall whet.
And Fame shall tell their deeds who fell till all the years be run.
“Thermopylæ left one alive--the Alamo left none.”

JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.

(By special permission of the author, and of Houghton, Mifflin and
Company.)

14

THE FIGHT AT THE SAN JACINTO

“Now for a brisk and a cheerful fight!”
Said Harman, big and droll,
As he coaxed his flint and steel for a light,
And puffed at his cold clay bowl;
“For we are a skulking lot,” says he,
“Of land-thieves hereabout,
And the bold señores, two to one,
Have come to smoke us out.”

Santa Anna and Castrillon,
Almontê brave and gay,
Portilla red from Goliad,
And Cos with his smart array.
Dulces and cigaritos,
And the light guitar, ting-tum!
Sant’ Anna courts siesta--
And Sam Houston taps his drum.

The buck stands still in the timber--
“Is it patter of nuts that fall?”
The foal of the wild mare whinnies--
“Did he hear the Comanche call?”
In the brake by the crawling bayou
The slinking she-wolves howl,
And the mustang’s snort in the river sedge
Has startled the paddling fowl.

A soft low tap, and a muffled tap,
And a roll not loud nor long--
We would not break Sant’ Anna’s nap,
Nor spoil Almontê’s song.
Saddles and knives and rifles!
Lord! but the men were glad
When Deaf Smith muttered “Alamo!”
And Karnes hissed “Goliad!”

The drummer tucked his sticks in his belt,
And the fifer gripped his gun.
Oh, for one free, wild Texan yell,
And we took the slope in a run!
But never a shout nor a shot we spent,
Nor an oath nor a prayer that day,
Till we faced the bravos, eye to eye,
And then we blazed away.

Then we knew the rapture of Ben Milam,
And the glory that Travis made,
With Bowie’s lunge and Crockett’s shot,
And Fannin’s dancing blade;
And the heart of the fighter, bounding free
In his joy so hot and mad--
When Millard charged for Alamo,
Lamar for Goliad.

Deaf Smith rode straight, with reeking spur,
Into the shock and rout:
“I’ve hacked and burned the bayou bridge,
There’s no sneak’s back-way out!”
Muzzle or butt for Goliad,
Pistol and blade and fist!
Oh, for the knife that never glanced,
And the gun that never missed!

Dulces and cigaritos,
Song and the mandolin!
That gory swamp was a gruesome grove
To dance fandangos in.
We bridged the bog with the sprawling herd
That fell in that frantic rout;
We slew and slew till the sun set red,
And the Texan star flashed out.

JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.

(By special permission of the author, and of Herbert S. Stone and
Company.)

15

MONTEREY

We were not many--we who stood
Before the iron sleet that day;
Yet many a gallant spirit would
Give half his years if he but could
Have been with us at Monterey.

Now here, now there, the shot it hailed
In deadly drifts of fiery spray,
Yet not a single soldier quailed
When wounded comrades round them wailed
Their dying shout at Monterey.

And on, still on, our column kept,
Through walls of flame, its withering way;
Where fell the dead the living stept,
Still charging on the guns which swept
The slippery streets of Monterey.

The foe himself recoiled aghast,
When, striking where he strongest lay,
We swooped his flanking batteries past,
And, braving full their murderous blast,
Stormed home the towers of Monterey.

Our banners on those turrets wave,
And there our evening bugles play,
Where orange boughs above their grave
Keep green the memory of the brave
Who fought and fell at Monterey.

We are not many--we who pressed
Beside the brave who fell that day;
But who of us has not confessed
He’d rather share their warrior rest
Than not have been at Monterey?

CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.

16

THE DEFENSE OF LAWRENCE

All night upon the guarded hill,
Until the stars were low,
Wrapped round as with Jehovah’s will,
We waited for the foe;
All night the silent sentinels
Moved by like gliding ghosts;
All night the fancied warning bells
Held all men to their posts.

We heard the sleeping prairies breathe,
The forest’s human moans,
The hungry gnashing of the teeth
Of wolves on bleaching bones;
We marked the roar of rushing fires,
The neigh of frightened steeds,
The voices as of far-off lyres
Among the river reeds.

We were but thirty-nine who lay
Beside our rifles then;
We were but thirty-nine, and they
Were twenty hundred men.
Our lean limbs shook and reeled about,
Our feet were gashed and bare,
And all the breezes shredded out
Our garments in the air.

* * * * *

They came: the blessed Sabbath day,
That soothed our swollen veins,
Like God’s sweet benediction, lay
On all the singing plains;
The valleys shouted to the sun,
The great woods clapped their hands,
And joy and glory seemed to run
Like rivers through the lands.

And then our daughters and our wives,
And men whose heads were white,
Rose sudden into kingly lives
And walked forth to the fight;
And we drew aim along our guns
And calmed our quickening breath,
Then, as is meet for Freedom’s sons,
Shook loving hands with Death.

And when three hundred of the foe
Rode up in scorn and pride,
Whoso had watched us then might know
That God was on our side;
For all at once a mighty thrill
Of grandeur through us swept,
And strong and swiftly down the hill
Like Gideons we leapt.

And all throughout that Sabbath day
A wall of fire we stood,
And held the baffled foe at bay,
And streaked the ground with blood.
And when the sun was very low
They wheeled their stricken flanks,
And passed on, wearily and slow,
Beyond the river banks.

Beneath the everlasting stars
We bended child-like knees,
And thanked God for the shining scars
Of His large victories.
And some, who lingered, said they heard
Such wondrous music pass
As though a seraph’s voice had stirred
The pulses of the grass.

RICHARD REALF.

(From _Poems_, by Richard Realf. Copyright, Funk and Wagnalls
Company, 1898. By special permission.)

17

BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER

Ebbed and flowed the muddy Pei-Ho by the Gulf of Pechi-Li,
Near its waters swung the yellow dragon-flag;
Past the batteries of China, looking westward we could see
Lazy junks along the lazy river lag;
Villagers in near-by Ta-Kou toiled beneath their humble star,
On the flats the ugly mud-fort lay and dreamed;
While the _Powhatan_ swung slowly at her station by the bar,
While the _Toey-Wan_ with Tattnall onward steamed.

Lazy East and lazy river, fort of mud in lazy June,
English gunboats through the waters slowly fare,
With the dragon-flag scarce moving in the lazy afternoon
O’er the mud-heap storing venom in the glare.
We were on our way to Pekin, to the Son of Heaven’s throne,
White with peace was all our mission to his court;
Peaceful, too, the English vessels on the turbid waters strown,
Seeking passage up to Pekin past the fort.

By the bar lay half the English, while the rest with gallant Hope
Wrestled with the slipping ebb-tide up the stream;
They had cleared the Chinese irons, reached the doubled chain and rope
Where the ugly mud-fort scowled upon their beam;--
Crash! the heavens split asunder with the thunder of the fight
As the hateful dragon made its faith a mock;
Every cannon spat its perfidy, each casemate blazed its spite,
Dashing down upon the English, shock on shock.

In his courage Rason perished, bold McKenna fought and fell,
Scores were dying as they’d lived, like valiant men;
And the meteor flag that upward prayed to heaven from that hell
Wept below for those who ne’er should weep again.
Far away the English launches near the _Powhatan_ swung slow,
All despairing, useless, out of reach of war,
Saw their comrades in the battle, saw them reel beneath the blow,
Lying helpless ’gainst the ebb-tide by the bar.

On the _Toey-Wan_ stood Tattnall, Stephen Trenchard at his side,--
“Old Man” Tattnall, he who dared at Vera Cruz,--
Saw here, crippled by the cannon, saw there, throttled by the tide,
Men of English blood and speech: Could he refuse?
“I’ll be damned,” says he to Trenchard, “if ‘Old’ Tattnall’s standing by
Seeing white men butchered here by such a foe!
Where’s my barge? No side-arms, mind you! See the English fight and die!
Blood is thicker, sir, than water. Let us go!”

Quick we man the barge, and quicker plunge into that devil’s-brew--
“An official call,” and Tattnall went in state:
Trenchard’s hurt, our flag in ribbons, and the lunging boat shot through,
Hart, our coxswain, dies beneath the Chinese hate;
But the cheers those English give us as we gain their Admiral’s ship
Make the shattered barge and weary arms seem light--
Then the rare smile from “Old” Tattnall and Hope’s hearty word and grip,
Bleeding though he was, and brave in hell’s despite.

Tattnall nods and we go forward, find a gun no longer fought--
What is peace to us, when all its crew lie dead?
One bright English lad brings powder and a wounded man brings shot,
And we scotch that Chinese dragon, tail and head.
Hands are shaken, faith is plighted, sounds our captain’s cheery call;
In a borrowed boat we speed us fast and far,
And the _Toey-Wan_ and Tattnall down the ebb-tide slide and fall
To the launches lying moaning by the bar.

Eager for an English vengeance, battle light on every face,
See, the Clustered Stars lead on the Triple Cross!
Cheering, swinging into action, valiant Hope takes heart of grace
From the cannons’ cloudy roar, the lanyards’ toss.
How they fought, those fighting English! how they cheered the _Toey-Wan_,
Cheered our sailors, cheered “Old” Tattnall, grim and gray!
And their cheers ring down the ages as they rang beneath the sun
O’er those bubbling, troubled waters far away.

Ebbs and flows the muddy Pei-Ho by the Gulf of Pechi-Li,
Idly floats beside the stream the dragon-flag;
Past the batteries of China, looking westward still you see
Lazy junks along the lazy river lag.
Let the long, long years drop slowly on that lost and ancient land,
Ever dear one scene to hearts of gallant men:
There’s a hand-clasp and a heart-throb, there’s a word we understand--
“Blood is thicker, sir, than water,” now as then.

WALLACE RICE.

(By special permission of the author.)

18

BETHEL

We mustered at midnight, in darkness we formed,
And the whisper went round of a fort to be stormed;
But no drum-beat had called us, no trumpet we heard,
And no voice of command but our colonel’s low word--
“_Column! Forward!_”

And out, through the mist and the murk of the morn,
From the beaches of Hampton our barges were borne;
And we heard not a sound save the sweep of the oar,
Till the word of our colonel came up from the shore--
“_Column! Forward!_”

With hearts bounding bravely and eyes all alight,
As ye dance to soft music, so trod we that night;
Through the aisles of the greenwood, with vines overarched,
Tossing dew-drops like gems from our feet, as we marched--
“_Column! Forward!_”

As ye dance with the damsels to viol and flute,
So we skipped from the shadows and mocked their pursuit;
But the soft zephyrs chased us, with scents of the morn,
As we passed by the hayfields and green waving corn--
“_Column! Forward!_”

For the leaves were all laden with fragrance of June,
And the flowers and the foliage with sweets were in tune;
And the air was so calm, and the forest so dumb,
That we heard our own heart-beats like taps of a drum--
“_Column! Forward!_”

Till the lull of the lowlands was stirred by a breeze,
And the buskins of morn brushed the tops of the trees,
And the glintings of glory that slid from her track
By the sheen of our rifles were gayly flung back--
“_Column! Forward!_”

And the woodlands grew purple with sunshiny mist,
And the blue-crested hill-tops with rose-light were kissed,
And the earth gave her prayers to the sun in perfumes,
Till we marched as through gardens, and trampled on blooms--
“_Column! Forward!_”

Aye, trampled on blossoms, and seared the sweet breath
Of the greenwood with low-brooding vapors of death;
O’er the flowers and the corn we were borne like a blast,
And away to the forefront of battle we passed--
“_Column! Forward!_”

For the cannon’s hoarse thunder roared out from the glades,
And the sun was like lightning on banners and blades,
When the long line of chanting Zouaves, like a flood,
From the green of the woodlands rolled, crimson as blood--
“_Column! Forward!_”

While the sound of their song, like the surge of the seas,
With the _Star Spangled Banner_ swelled over the leas;
And the sword of Duryea, like a torch, led the way,
Bearing down on the batteries of Bethel that day--
“_Column! Forward!_”

Through green-tasseled cornfields our columns were thrown,
And like corn by the red scythe of fire we were mown;
While the cannon’s fierce plowings new-furrowed the plain,
That our blood might be planted for Liberty’s grain--
“_Column! Forward!_”

Oh, the fields of fair June have no lack of sweet flowers,
But their rarest and best breathe no fragrance like ours!
And the sunshine of June, sprinkling gold on the corn,
Hath no harvest that ripeneth like Bethel’s red morn--
“_Column! Forward!_”

When our heroes, like bridegrooms, with lips and with breath
Drank the first kiss of Danger and clasped her in death;
And the heart of brave Winthrop grew mute as his lyre,
When the plumes of his genius lay moulting in fire--
“_Column! Forward!_”

Where he fell shall be sunshine as bright as his name,
And the grass where he slept shall be green as his fame;
For the gold of the pen and the steel of the sword
Write his deeds, in his blood, on the land he adored--
“_Column! Forward!_”

And the soul of our comrade shall sweeten the air,
And the flowers and the grass-blades his memory up-bear;
While the breath of his genius, like music in leaves,
With the corn-tassels whispers, and sings in the sheaves--
“_Column! Forward!_”

AUGUSTINE JOSEPH HICKEY DUGANNE.

19

THE CHARGE BY THE FORD

Eighty and nine, with their captain,
Rode on the enemy’s track.
Rode in the gray of the morning--
Nine of the ninety came back.

Slow rose the mist from the river,
Lighter each moment the way;
Careless and tearless and fearless
Galloped they on to the fray.

Singing in tune, how the scabbards
Loud on the stirrup-irons rang!
Clinked as the men rose in saddle,
Fell, as they sank, with a clang.

What is it moves by the river,
Jaded, and weary, and weak?
Graybacks,--a cross on their banner,--
Yonder the foe whom they seek.

Silence! they see not, they hear not,
Tarrying there by the marge;
_Forward! draw sabre! trot! gallop!_
_Charge!_ like a hurricane--_Charge!_

Ah, ’twas a man-trap infernal!--
Fire like the deep pit of hell!
Volley on volley to meet them,
Mixed with the gray rebels’ yell.

Ninety had ridden to battle,
Tracing the enemy’s track,--
Ninety had ridden to battle;
Nine of the ninety came back.

Honor the name of the ninety!
Honor the heroes who came
Scathless from five hundred muskets,
Safe from the lead-bearing flame!

Eighty and one of the troopers
Lie on the field of the slain,--
Lie on the red field of honor;
Honor the nine who remain!

Cold are the dead there, and gory,
There where their life-blood was spilt;
Back come the living, each sabre
Red from the point to the hilt.

Up with three cheers and a “tiger!”
Let the flags wave as they come!
Give them the blare of the trumpet!
Give them the roll of the drum!

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

(By special permission of the author, and of Harper and Brothers.)

20

THE LITTLE DRUMMER

’Tis of a little drummer,
The story I shall tell;
Of how he marched to battle,
Of all that there befell.
Out in the west with Lyon
(For once the name was true!)
For whom the little drummer beat
His _rat-tat-too_.

Our army rose at midnight,
Ten thousand men as one,
Each slinging off his knapsack
And snatching up his gun.
“_Forward!_” and off they started,
As all good soldiers do,
When the little drummer beats for them
The _rat-tat-too_.

Across a rolling country,
Where the mist began to rise;
Past many a blackened farmhouse,
Till the sun was in the skies;
Then we met the rebel pickets,
Who skirmished and withdrew,
While the little drummer beat, and beat
The _rat-tat-too_.

Along the wooded hollows
The line of battle ran,
Our center poured a volley,
And the fight at once began;
For the rebels answered shouting,
And a shower of bullets flew;
But still the little drummer beat
His _rat-tat-too_.

He stood among his comrades,
As they quickly formed the line,
And when they raised their muskets
He watched the barrels shine.
When the volley rang, he started,
For war to him was new;
But still the little drummer beat
His _rat-tat-too_.

It was a sight to see them,
That early autumn day,
Our soldiers in their blue coats,
And the rebel ranks in gray;
The smoke that rolled between them,
The balls that whistled through,
And the little drummer as he beat
His _rat-tat-too_!

His comrades dropped around him,--
By fives and tens they fell,
Some pierced by minie bullets,
Some torn by shot and shell;
They played against our cannon,
And a caisson’s splinters flew;
But still the little drummer beat
His _rat-tat-too_!

The right, the left, the center,--
The fight was everywhere;
They pushed us here,--we wavered,--
We drove and broke them there.
The graybacks fixed their bayonets,
And charged the coats of blue,
But still the little drummer beat
His _rat-tat-too_!

“Where is our little drummer?”
His nearest comrades say,
When the dreadful fight is over,
And the smoke has cleared away.
As the rebel corps was scattering
He urged them to pursue,
So furiously he beat, and beat
The _rat-tat-too_!

He stood no more among them,
For a bullet, as it sped,
Had glanced and struck his ankle,
And stretched him with the dead!
He crawled behind a cannon,
And pale and paler grew;
But still the little drummer beat
His _rat-tat-too_!

They bore him to the surgeon,
A busy man was he:
“A drummer boy--what ails him?”
His comrades answered, “See!”
As they took him from the stretcher
A heavy breath he drew,
And his little fingers strove to beat
The _rat-tat-too_!

The ball had spent its fury:
“A scratch!” the surgeon said,
As he wound the snowy bandage
Which the lint was staining red.
“I must leave you now, old fellow!”
“Oh, take me back with you,
For I know the men are missing me
And the _rat-tat-too_!”

Upon his comrade’s shoulder
They lifted him so grand,
With his dusty drum before him,
And his drumsticks in his hand!
To the fiery front of battle,
That nearer, nearer drew,--
And evermore he beat, and beat
His _rat-tat-too_!

The wounded as he passed them
Looked up and gave a cheer;
And one in dying blessed him,
Between a smile and tear.
And the graybacks--they are flying
Before the coats of blue,
For whom the little drummer beats
His _rat-tat-too_.

When the west was red with sunset,
The last pursuit was o’er;
Brave Lyon rode the foremost,
And looked the name he bore.
And before him on his saddle,
As a weary child would do,
Sat the little drummer, fast asleep,
With his _rat-tat-too_.

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

(By special permission of the author.)

21

THE CUMBERLAND

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay,
On board of the _Cumberland_, sloop-of-war;
And at times from the fortress across the bay
The alarum of drums swept past,
Or a bugle blast
From the camp on the shore.

Then far away to the south uprose
A little feather of snow-white smoke,
And we knew that the iron ship of our foes
Was steadily steering its course
To try the force
Of our ribs of oak.

Down upon us heavily runs,
Silent and sullen, the floating fort;
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns,
And leaps the terrible death,
With fiery breath,
From each open port.

We are not idle, but send her straight
Defiance back in a full broadside!
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate,
Rebounds our heavier hail
From each iron scale
Of the monster’s hide.

“Strike your flag!” the rebel cries,
In his arrogant old plantation strain.
“Never!” our gallant Morris replies;
“It is better to sink than to yield!”
And the whole air pealed
With the cheers of our men.

Then, like a kraken huge and black,
She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp!
Down went the _Cumberland_ all a wrack,
With a sudden shudder of death,
And the cannon’s breath
For her dying gasp.

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay,
Still floated our flag at the mainmast head,
Lord, how beautiful was Thy day!
Every waft of the air
Was a whisper of prayer,
Or a dirge for the dead.

Ho, brave hearts that went down in the seas!
Ye are at peace in the troubled stream;
Ho, brave land, with hearts like these,
Thy flag, that is rent in twain,
Shall be one again,
And without a seam!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

(By special permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.)

22

JOHNSTON AT SHILOH

A CONFEDERATE SOLDIER’S STORY

’Mid dim and solemn forests, in the dawning chill and gray,
Over dank, unrustling leaves, or through stiff and sodden clay,
With never a fife or bugle, or mutter of rumbling drum,
With shivering forms and solemn souls the Southern soldiers come;
Their long lines vanishing in mist as onward they are sweeping,
With step as silent as the dawn’s, to where the foe is sleeping.
A challenge!--“Halt!”--The expected shot,--and then a dozen more,
Like pebbles pattering down the steep the avalanche before;
And then a rush, and then a yell, and then a blinding glare,
And then a crash to lift the feet resounding everywhere!
Now vanish chill and solemn thoughts, now burns the frenzied blood;
The tottering tents toss to and fro upon the driving flood,
And the campfires flash and darken fast beneath the masses’ tread--
Now smoke behind in scattered brands ’mid wounded men and dead.
And forward crowd the fugitives in panic-driven race;
In vain in bush, ravine, and brake they hunt a hiding-place;
For still that long line onward sweeps unbroken far and near,
As War himself, with pinions bowed, were screaming in their rear.

But far beyond the panic’s reach the foe is forming fast,
And in our path stands rank on rank of long battalions massed.
Now, Southern soldiers, nerve your hearts and gather up your strength,
The time of trial waited for is come to you at length!
A hundred pieces open, and their shrieking missiles pour,
While full ten thousand muskets flash and mingle in the roar,
Till the cannon’s boom is swallowed in the din of musketry,
As the booming of the ocean when the thunders crash on high.
But momently our laboring lines are charging o’er the field,
And forcing back the stubborn ranks that only inches yield;
For at every fence they rally and oppose our surging flood,
Till their dead lie heaped before us wherever they have stood.
A Southern regiment there is matched against a full brigade,
And not a hundred yards apart in open field arrayed;
A brook half way between them through a copse of willows glides,
There’s not a rock, fence, log, or tree to shelter ours besides.
But stubbornly, undauntedly, with ne’er a cheer or shout,
With hands too busy for their lips they deal their volleys out.

Again the battle gathers strength on yonder wooded hill,
Behind whose awful batteries fresh ranks are forming still;
A reeking veil of undergrowth divides the hostile lines,
But lurid through its tangled web the vivid lightning shines!
And so affrighting Death appears behind that dreadful pall,
The stoutest spirit hesitates and flinches from his call.
Now who will pierce that curtain dire and meet the battle’s brunt,
Before their armies gather there and burst upon our front?
Again the stern, portentous cry of “bayonets” is heard,
But not again the serried line springs forward at the word;
Behind the trees as skirmishers the cowering soldiers hide,
And from afar the harmless trade of musket balls is plied.
In vain, in vain their leaders shout, they cannot make them stir,
But perish singly in the lead with scarce a follower!

But hark, a sound of hoofs behind, a clang of sabres loud!
I see a squad of mighty men go by me like a cloud!
As the immortals rode to war when Hector fought for Troy,
These ride, as if immortals, too, inspired with awful joy.
Before them spurs their leader with a form that fills the air,
So does his bearing fill their eyes, as if a god were there!
Look how he goes to battle with a glory on his brow,
As if prophetic Victory held laurels o’er it now!
They are racing to the rescue: it is Johnston rides before;
God grant they be in time to turn the battle’s tide once more!
I hear their shoutings in the din; I hear the cries to “form,”
I see a stiffening battle-line take shape within the swarm;
And again the rank advances with an impetus of wrath,
Their chieftain’s rage in every heart impels them on their path.
A thousand rifles leveled low, but every rifle dumb,
The beating of a thousand feet upon a monster drum,
A surging of the war cloud as they disappear beneath,
A sickening of the spirit and a gasping of the breath;
Redoubled din--a lull--a cheer; I would the smoke would go!
Oh, see our swooping battle flags! Oh, see the fleeing foe!
Now glory to those gallant men! and Father, to Thy hand
To-morrow shall our praises ring throughout our stricken land!

But where is he who rallied them? I miss his charger there;
I see him now ’midst yonder three whose saddles all are bare;
And two men staggering with a load this side of them I see;
Oh, who is it they carry in their arms so tenderly?
They lay him gently on the leaves. Ah, well I know him now!
I know that lordly figure and that grand imperial brow!
’Tis he; but oh, how prostrate is that form which filled the air!
And his the pallid face; but look, the glory still is there!

Oh, ye daughters of Kentucky, ere your pæans are begun,
Your lips shall falter when they tell how Shiloh’s fight was won!
Your hands shall weave the victor crown of laurels, but in vain;
His marble brow shall never feel, nor pulse beat quick again.
Oh, South, be sure a heart so pure had never loved so well!
A country which had wronged him sore he pardoned ere he fell.

FLEMING JAMES.

23

THE RIVER FIGHT

Would you hear of the river fight?
It was two of a soft spring night;
God’s stars looked down on all,
And all was clear and bright
But the low fog’s chilling breath;--
Up the River of Death
Sailed the great Admiral.

On our high poop-deck he stood,
And round him ranged the men
Who have made their birthright good
Of manhood once and again,--
Lords of helm and of sail,
Tried in tempest and gale.

Who could fail with him?
Who reckon of life or limb?
Not a pulse but beat the higher!
There had you seen, by the starlight dim
Five hundred faces strong and grim;
The Flag is going under fire!
Right up by the fort
With her helm hard aport,
The _Hartford_ is going under fire!

First, as we answered their flash,
’Twas lightning and black eclipse,
With a bellowing roll and crash.
But soon upon either bow,
What with forts and fire-rafts and ships,
(The whole fleet was hard at it now,
All pounding away!) and Porter
Still thundering with shell and mortar,--
’Twas the mighty sound and form
Of an equatorial storm.

But, as we worked along higher,
Just where the river enlarges,
Down came a pyramid of fire,--
It was one of your long coal barges.
(We had oft had the like before!)
’Twas coming down to larboard,
Well in with the eastern shore.
And our pilot, to let it pass round,
(You may guess we never stopped to sound,)
Giving us a rank sheer to starboard,
Ran the Flag hard and fast aground!

’Twas nigh abreast of the upper fort,
And straightway a rascal ram
(She was shaped like the devil’s dam!)
Puffed away for us, with a snort,
And shoved it, with spiteful strength,
Right alongside of us, to port;--
It was all of our ship’s length,
A huge crackling cradle of the pit,
Pitch-pine knots to the brim,
Belching flame red and grim;--
What a roar came up from it!

In a twinkling the flames had risen
Half way to the main-top and mizzen,
Darting up the shrouds like snakes!
Ah, how we clanked at the brakes!
And the deep steam-pumps throbbed under,
Sending a ceaseless flow;--
Our top-men, a dauntless crowd,
Swarmed in rigging and shroud;--
There, (’twas a wonder!)
The burning ratlins and strands
They quenched with their bare hard hands;
But the great guns below
Never silenced their thunder!

At last, by backing and sounding,
When we were clear of grounding,
And under headway once more,
The whole rebel fleet came rounding
The point;--if we had it hot before,
’Twas now, from shore to shore,
One long, loud thundering roar,--
Such crashing, splintering, and pounding,
And smashing as you never heard before!
For all above was battle,
Broadside, and blaze, and rattle,
Smoke and thunder alone!--
(But, down in the sick-bay,
Where our wounded and dying lay,
There was scarce a sob or a moan.)

And at last, when the dim day broke,
And the sullen sun awoke,
Drearily blinking
O’er the haze and the cannon-smoke,
That ever such morning dulls,
There were thirteen hulls
On fire and sinking!

And on the dolorous strand,
To greet the victor-brave,
One flag did welcome wave,
Raised, ah, me! by a wretched hand,
All outworn on our cruel land,
The withered hand of a slave!

’Tis well to do and dare,--
But ever may grateful prayer
Follow, as aye it ought,
When the good fight is fought,
When the true deed is done!
Aloft in heaven’s pure light,
(Deep azure crossed on white)
Our fair church-pennant waves
O’er a thousand thankful braves,
Bareheaded in God’s bright sun.

HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

24

KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES

So that soldierly legend is still on its journey,--
That story of Kearny who knew not to yield!
’Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and Birney,
Against twenty thousand he rallied the field.
Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest,
Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine,
Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,--
No charge like Phil Kearny’s along the whole line.

When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn,
Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our ground,
He rode down the length of the withering column,
And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound;
He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the powder,--
His sword waved us on and we answered the sign:
Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder,
“There’s the devil’s own fun, boys, along the whole line!”

How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten
In the one hand still left,--and the reins in his teeth!
He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten,
But his soldier’s glance shot from his visor beneath.
Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal,
Asking where to go in,--through the clearing or pine?
“Oh, anywhere! Forward! ’Tis all the same, Colonel:
You’ll find lovely fighting along the whole line!”

Oh, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly,
That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried!
Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily,
The flower of our knighthood, the whole army’s pride!
Yet we dream that he still,--in that shadowy region
Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drummer’s sign,--
Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion,
And the word still is “Forward!” along the whole line.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

(By special permission of the author, and of Houghton, Mifflin and
Company.)

25

AN UNKNOWN HERO

Sweet Malvern Hill is wreathed in flame,
From serried ranks the steel is gleaming;
Our legions march to death and fame,
Their battle flags right wildly streaming.
Each hero bares his manly breast,
And gallant hearts are fiercely beating;
With steady tramp they line the crest
O’er which an iron hail is sleeting.

Up loom the bastions grim and large
Through battle smoke that’s lowering near them;
The little drummers roll the charge,
And dying comrades raise to cheer them.
Twice forty guns with deadly aim
Strike down our lines in tones of thunder;
Yet still they press, with eyes aflame,
Till Valor’s self looks on in wonder.

But now the human tide rolls back,
A ghastly remnant grim and gory;
And countless heroes mark the track
Which led them up to heights of glory.
But one still presses on amain
Where double-shotted guns are frowning,
Above, amidst the iron rain,
He nobly wins a hero’s crowning.

Through all the battle smoke he’d seen
The saintly forms of angels bearing
The laurel crowns forever green
To wreathe the foreheads of the daring.
And eager for his priceless crown,--
The bastions scarce a length before him,--
His stalwart form at length went down
With Death and Honor bending o’er him.

Brave soldier of the Southern clime,
No stately song nor brilliant story
Shall hand thy name to future time
As one who gained immortal glory.
But Freedom, with her mailèd hand,
Has paused to brush a tear of sorrow,
And placed thee with that chosen band
Who freely pour their lifeblood for her.

And Valor, with her royal brow,
And Honor, with her stately bearing,
Have surely felt a prouder glow
When musing on thy peerless daring.
O gallant soldier, all unknown,
Though noisy Fame, we know, shall never
Proclaim thy deeds through every zone,
A hero’s crown is thine forever!

WILLIAM GORDON MCCABE.

26

BARBARA FRIETCHIE

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,

The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

Fair as a garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain wall,--

Over the mountains, winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapped in the morning wind; the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down;

In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread,
“Stonewall” Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced: the old flag met his sight.

“Halt!”--the dust-brown ranks stood fast;
“Fire!”--out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;

She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.

“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country’s flag,” she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at the woman’s deed and word:

“Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.

All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet;

All day long that free flag tossed
Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er,
And the rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honor to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on “Stonewall’s” bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave,
Flag of freedom and union, wave!

Peace, and order, and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

(By special permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.)

27

THE EAGLE OF CORINTH

Did you hear of the fight at Corinth,
How we whipped out Price and Van Dorn?

* * * * *

A long and terrible day!
And at last, when night grew gray,
By the hundreds, there they lay,
(Heavy sleepers, you’d say,)
That wouldn’t wake on the morn.

Our staff was bare of a flag,
We didn’t carry a rag
In those brave marching days;--
Ah, no, but a finer thing!
With never a cord or string,
An eagle of ruffled wing,
And an eye of awful gaze.

The grape it rattled like hail,
The minies were dropping like rain,
The first of a thunder shower;
The wads were blowing like chaff,
(There was pounding like floor and flail,
All the front of our line!)
So we stood it hour after hour;
But our eagle, he felt fine!
’Twould have made you cheer and laugh,
To see, through that iron gale,
How the old fellow’d swoop and sail
Above the racket and roar,--
To right and to left he’d soar,
But ever came back, without fail,
And perched on his standard-staff.

All that day, I tell you true,
They had pressed us steady and fair,
Till we fought in street and square,--
(The affair, you might think, looked blue)
But we knew we had them there!
Our batteries were few,
Every gun, they’d have sworn, they knew,
But, you see, there were one or two
We had fixed for them, unaware.

On they came in solid column,
For once no whooping nor yell--
(Ah, I dare say they felt solemn!)
Front and flank, grape and shell,
Our batteries pounded away!
And the minies hummed to remind ’em
They had started on no child’s play!

Steady they kept a-going,
But a grim wake settled behind ’em
From the edge of the _abattis_,
(Where our dead and dying lay
Under fence and fallen tree,)
Up to Robinett, all the way
The dreadful swath kept growing!
’Twas butternut mixed with gray.

Ah, well--you know how it ended--
We did for them, there and then,
But their pluck throughout was splendid,
They stood to the last like men.
Red as blood, o’er the town,
The angry sun went down,
Firing flag-staff and vane;
And our eagle,--as for him,
There, all ruffled and grim,
He sat, o’erlooking the slain!

’Tis many a stormy day
Since, out of the cold bleak north,
Our great war-eagle sailed forth
To swoop o’er battle and fray.
Many and many a day
O’er charge and storm hath he wheeled,
Foray and foughten field,
Tramp, and volley, and rattle!--
Over crimson trench and turf,
Over climbing clouds of surf,
Through tempest and cannon-wrack,
Have his terrible pinions whirled;--
(A thousand fields of battle!
A million leagues of foam!)
But our bird shall yet come back,
He shall soar to his eyrie-home,
And his thunderous wings be furled,
In the gaze of a gladdened world,
On the nation’s loftiest dome.

HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

28

READY

Loaded with gallant soldiers,
A boat shot in to the land,
And lay at the right of Rodman’s Point,
With her keel upon the sand.

Lightly, gaily they came to shore,
And never a man afraid;
When suddenly the enemy opened fire
From his deadly ambuscade.

Each man fell flat on the bottom
Of the boat; and the captain said,
“If we lie here we all are captured,
And the first who moves is dead!”

Then out spoke a negro sailor,--
No slavish soul had he,--
“Somebody’s got to die, boys,
And it might as well be me!”

Firmly he rose, and fearlessly
Stepped out into the tide;
He pushed the vessel safely off,
Then fell across her side;--

Fell, pierced by a dozen bullets,
As the boat swung clear and free;
But there wasn’t a man of them that day
Was fitter to die than he!

PHŒBE CARY.

(By special permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.)

29

BATTLE OF CHARLESTON HARBOR

Two hours, or more, beyond the prime of a blithe April day
The Northmen’s mailed “Invincibles” steamed up fair Charleston Bay;
They came in sullen file, and slow, low-breasted on the wave,
Black as a midnight front of storm, and silent as the grave.

A thousand warrior-hearts beat high as these dread monsters drew
More closely to the game of death across the breezeless blue;
And twice ten thousand hearts of those who watch the scene afar
Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle’s broadening star.

Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with rigid aspect stands,
The ready linstocks firmly grasped in bold, untrembling hands;
So moveless in their marble calm, their stern, heroic guise,
They look like forms of statued stone with burning human eyes!

Our banners on the outmost walls, with stately rustling fold,
Flash back from arch and parapet the sunlight’s ruddy gold;--
They mount to the deep roll of drums, and widely echoing cheers,
And then, once more, dark, breathless, hushed, wait the grim cannoneers.

Onward, in sullen file, and slow, low-glooming on the wave,
Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet glides silent as the grave,
When, shivering the portentous calm o’er startled flood and shore,
Broke from the sacred Island Fort the thunder wrath of yore!

The storm has burst! and, while we speak, more furious, wilder, higher,
Dart from the circling batteries a hundred tongues of fire;
The waves gleam red, the lurid vault of heaven seems rent above--
Fight on, O knightly gentlemen, for faith, and home, and love!

There’s not, in all that line of flame, one soul that would not rise,
To seize the victor’s wreath of blood, though Death must give the prize;
There’s not, in all this anxious crowd that throngs the ancient town,
A maid who does not yearn for power to strike one foeman down!

The conflict deepens! Ship by ship the proud Armada sweeps
Where fierce from Sumter’s raging breast the volleyed lightning leaps;
And ship by ship, raked, overborne, ere burned the sunset light,
Crawls in the gloom of baffled hate beyond the field of fight!

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

(By special permission of William Hamilton Hayne, and of The
Lothrop Publishing Company.)

30

KEENAN’S CHARGE

The sun had set;
The leaves with dew were wet,--
Down fell a bloody dusk
Where “Stonewall’s” corps, like a beast of prey,
Tore through with angry tusk.

“They’ve trapped us, boys!”
Rose from our flank a voice.
With rush of steel and smoke
On came the rebels straight,
Eager as love, and wild as hate;
And our line reeled and broke;

Broke and fled.
Not one stayed,--but the dead!
With curses, shrieks, and cries,
Horses, and wagons, and men
Tumbled back through the shuddering glen,
And above us the fading skies.

There’s some hope, still,--
Those batteries parked on the hill!
“Battery, wheel” (’mid the roar),
“Pass pieces; fix prolonge to fire
Retiring. Trot!” In the panic dire
A bugle rings “Trot!”--and no more.

The horses plunged,
The cannon lurched and lunged,
To join the hopeless rout.
But suddenly rose a form
Calmly in front of the human storm.
With a stern commanding shout:

“Align those guns!”
(We knew it was Pleasanton’s.)
The cannoneers bent to obey,
And worked with a will at his word,
And the black guns moved as if they had heard.
But, ah, the dread delay!

“To wait is crime;
O God, for ten minutes’ time!”
The general looked around.
There Keenan sat, like a stone,
With his three hundred horse alone,
Less shaken than the ground.

“Major, your men?”
“Are soldiers, general.” “Then,
Charge, major! Do your best;
Hold the enemy back, at all cost,
Till my guns are placed;--else the army is lost.
You die to save the rest!”

By the shrouded gleam of the western skies
Brave Keenan looked into Pleasanton’s eyes
For an instant,--clear, and cool, and still;
Then, with a smile, he said: “I will.”

“Cavalry, charge!” Not a man of them shrank.
Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank,
Rose joyously, with a willing breath,--
Rose like a greeting hail to death.

Then forward they sprang, and spurred, and clashed;
Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed;
Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow,
In their faded coats of the blue and yellow;
And above in the air, with an instinct true,
Like a bird of war their pennon flew.

With clank of scabbard, and thunder of steeds,
And blades that shine like sunlit reeds,
And strong brown faces bravely pale
For fear their proud attempt shall fail,
Three hundred Pennsylvanians close
On twice ten thousand gallant foes.

Line after line the troopers came
To the edge of the woods that was ringed with flame;
Rode in, and sabred, and shot,--and fell;
Nor came one back his wounds to tell.
And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall,
In the gloom like a martyr awaiting his fall,
While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung
Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung.

Line after line, aye, whole platoons,
Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons,
By the maddened horses were onward borne,
And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn;
As Keenan fought with his men, side by side.
So they rode, till there were no more to ride.

And over them, lying there shattered and mute,
What deep echo rolls?--’Tis a death-salute
From the cannon in place; for, heroes, you braved
Your fate not in vain; the army was saved!

Over them now,--year following year,--
Over their graves the pine cones fall,
And the whippoorwill chants his spectre call;
But they stir not again, they raise no cheer;
They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease,
Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace.
The rush of their charge is resounding still
That saved the army at Chancellorsville.

GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.

(From _Dreams and Days_; Copyright, 1892, Charles Scribner’s Sons.
By special permission.)

31

THE HERO OF THE GUN

The captain galloped to the front,
The foam upon his rein;
And, as he urged his swerving steed
Across a pile of slain,

He hailed the gunner at his post:
“Ho, Fergus! pour your shell
Straight in the face of yon stout line
That holds the height so well,

“And never slack your raking fire--
No, not to cool your gun;
For if we break those stubborn ranks,
I think the day is won.”