Chapter III

Down gallantly and boldly
The British soldiers came,
When on their wall of bristling steel
We hurled our scorching flame.

They paused a single moment,
And then they broke and fled;
But Forguson re-formed their ranks,
Proud riding at their head.

They fell on us like panthers
In laurel roughs at bay,
And at their front, compact and firm,
The Cleaveland men gave way.

But ere a rod they drove them,
Sevier came back again,
And up the ridge the Britons ran,
Thinned by the leaden rain.

Relieved by reinforcements,
They wheeled and charged again,
O’er rock and hillock, log and stone,
And through the heaps of slain.

On Shelby and on Campbell
They charged in wrath once more,
Though every step they made in front
Was in their comrades’ gore.

But Cleaveland now had rallied,
Sevier kept firing fierce,
And through our solid centre there
They vainly strove to pierce.

Then first there rose our shouting,
And rang our wild hurra;
For well we knew that they would lose
And we would win the day.

It roused the Briton’s anger,
Who bade his men stand fast;
And, turning, tried another charge,
The fourth one and the last.

But now our blood had risen,
The hour of fury came;
And driving them within their lines,
We hemmed them round with flame.

The dead lay heaped around us,
The ground with blood was wet;
And gouts of gore hung dripping there
From knife and bayonet.

But still our hardy hunters,
As when the fight began,
Kept plying trigger busily,
And no one missed his man.

Still smaller grew the circle
Around the loyal band;
Still fell our long-pent hate upon
The spoiler of our land.

Hark! Forguson is speaking!
His voice is stern and low—
“To saddle, horsemen! Sabres draw!
And charge upon the foe!”

Ah! deadly was that order,
For, as upon his horse
Each horseman strove to mount, he fell
Or wounded or a corse.

But with his heart undaunted,
The soldier of the crown
Contrived to save one section there,
And bade it ride us down.

Down came the bold Dupoister,
And down came Forguson:
We held our fire, for well we knew
Our work was nearly done.

Down came they like a torrent—
A stream of bold and brave;
We met them like the solid rock
That breaks to foam the wave.

The clinking of their horse-hoofs
Was only heard at first,
Then came a sound as sharp and loud
As though a mine had burst;

Down falls both horse and rider,
Backward the charge rebounds,
And down falls gallant Forguson
With seven mortal wounds.

The tide was spent and harmless;
Ere we could fire again,
Up went the white, appealing flag—
None raised to us in vain.

Up went a cry for quarter,
And down their muskets fell,
While rang our cry of victory
Through nook, ravine, and dell.

And so upon King’s Mountain,
From rise till set of sun,
By hardy western mountaineers
The battle-field was won.

_MRS. MERRILL’S DEFENCE._

The event which forms the subject of the ballad occurred in Nelson
County, Kentucky, during the summer of 1787. About midnight, the
approach of a hostile party was made known to John Merrill and his
wife, by the barking of their house-dog. At first, Merrill supposed
it to be some travellers seeking shelter, and opened the door. He
received the fire of a half-dozen rifles, which broke an arm and
a thigh. He fell, and his wife, at his call, closed the door. The
Indians broke open the door, but Mrs. Merrill, who was a very large
and powerful woman, killed four of them with an axe, and they gave
that up. They next climbed the roof to effect an entrance by the
broad chimney. There was a fire smouldering on the hearth, and on
this Mrs. Merrill threw the feathers of the bed, which she had
ripped open. The smoke caused two of the remaining three Indians
to fall insensible. Braining these, she ran to the open door where
the last surviving savage was entering. He was too close for her to
strike, but she cut his cheek with the keen blade of the axe. He
gave a yell of affright and despair, and fled, spreading a terrible
story of the strength and courage of his female antagonist. A
similar instance of female courage is that of Mrs. Dustan, in New
England; but in the latter case the victims were asleep.

_THE LONG-KNIFE SQUAW._

I was out upon the Piqua, two-and-forty years ago,
Ere my sinews lost their vigor, or my head received its snow.

I was not so skilled in woodcraft as I should have been that day,
And towards the shade of evening, in the forest lost my way.

Yet I wandered hither, thither, till beside a grey old rock,
I beheld the smoky lodges of a band of Shawanock.

There was peace between the races, and a welcome warm I found,
And a supper which they gave me, by the camp-fire, on the ground.

That despatched, I fell to smoking, and as up the round moon rolled,
With a thirsty ear I listened to the tales the old men told.

There they sat and chatted gayly, while the flickering of the blaze
Led the shadows on their faces in a wild and devious maze.

And among them one I noted, unto whom the rest gave place,
Which was token he was foremost in the fight or in the chase.

He had been among the white men till he spoke our language well,
Though his speech was marked by phrases that from Western hunters fell.

There was pausing in the stories, when he turned and spoke to me,
As his red pipe he replenished—“I could tell a tale,” said he.

“Those there are of daring white men, whom no danger can appall;
But I knew a squaw among them, who surpassed them one and all.

“Six good Shawanock, my comrades, did that pale-face woman kill.”
Then I said—“Pray tell the story!” Quoth the other—“So I will.

“There were seven of us together, who upon an August day,
From the sullen, broad Ohio, up Salt River took our way.

“Up the Rolling Fork we travelled, seeking where we might obtain
Precious plunder from the living, bleeding trophies from the slain.

“By a spring-branch in the bottom, near a clearing in the wood,
Hidden by the sombre hemlocks, Merrill’s low-roofed cabin stood.

“It was built of logs of white-oak, chinked, save loop-holes here and there,
With a door of heavy puncheons, made the axe’s blow to bear.

“At its end a good stone chimney reared itself among the trees,
And the smoke-wreaths, as we neared it, still were breaking in the breeze.

“Out we lay upon the mountain, till the midnight hour came on,
Till the darkness growing deeper told the summer moon had gone.

“Then we downward crept in silence—not a rustle, scarce a stir—
Till by chance a stone we loosened, which descended with a whirr.

“Rose the dog who had been lying in the cabin’s deepest shade,
Snuffed our presence in the valley, and, to warn his master, bayed.

“Then aroused he came to tear us, in his fury, limb from limb,
But my hatchet’s blow unerring was enough to quiet him.

“There was stirring in the cabin, and I heard old Merrill say—
‘Wife, that is some wearied hunter, who perchance has lost his way.

“‘Rouse you, stir the ash-hid embers, and get ready to prepare
Bed of feathers for the stranger and a bait of cabin fare.’

“How we chuckled as he said it; then, in English, ‘House!’ I cried,
While my comrades all stood ready, when the door should open wide.

“With one hand his rifle grasping, Merrill then unclosed the door,
When we poured a sudden volley, and he sank upon the floor.

“In the fall the gun exploded, lighting up again the dark;
But no fingers drew the trigger, and the bullet found no mark.

“Ere we reached the open portal, though the journey was not far,
Lo! the woman Merrill closed it, and secured it with a bar.

“Long we hacked and long we hammered at the door with useless din,
Till at length a heavy sapling, fiercely driven, burst it in.

“Young Penswataway, our leader, stout old Cornstalk’s gallant son,
At the breach we had thus opened, entered in the foremost one.

“He had battled at Point Pleasant, and escaped the deadly ball,
By the weapon of a woman at the dead of night to fall.

“There she stood, that fearless woman, in her hand a heavy axe;
Came a sound of skull-bone crashing, and he died there in his tracks.

“Then, as four more strove to enter at the breach within the door,
One by one my slaughtered comrades sank and died upon the floor.

“Thus that stern unflinching woman managed five of us to slay,
And with axe and blow so ready those surviving kept at bay.

“Yet another entry offered; so, while I with rifle stood,
Lest the woman should escape us in the darkness of the wood,

“To the roof my two companions quickly climbed, a path to gain
By the great, capacious chimney, where resistance would be vain;

“For, so soon as they descended and attacked her on the floor,
Unopposed I’d find an entrance in the then unguarded door.

“But let no one boast his cunning, if a squaw be in the way,
Never fox hath more of shrewdness than a woman held at bay.

“From its place within the corner soon she tore a feather-bed,
And she tossed it in an instant on the embers fiery red.

“Scorched with fierce and sudden blazing, nearly stifled with the smoke,
Fell my two remaining comrades, to receive her axe’s stroke.

“Then I struggled at the entrance, and had partly made my way
When the woman came before me, like a wounded buck at bay.

“From her mouth the foam was flying, and her eyes were glazed and green;
Such a sight to shake my courage, I before had never seen.

“Turned I quickly in my terror, bounding through the darkness deep,
And I never stopped my running till the dawn began to peep.

“Now, what think you of my story?” said the savage unto me—
“Was she not a woman worthy leader of a tribe to be?”

“Ay!” I answered, “but I tell you, should you try it, you would see
We have many a hundred women that in need were stout as she.

“On the mountains of Virginia, in Kentucky’s bloody ground,
In the forests of Ohio, scores of such are to be found—

“Women tender, trusting, tearful; yet if peril forced among,
They can fight as stern and fiercely as a pantheress for her young.”

Quoth the chieftain, “If so many like that woman you can find,
You should send them forth to battle, while your men remained behind.

“I have met your braves in combat when the skies were red with fire,
And the sabres of your horsemen flashed the lightning of their ire—

“When your brazen-bodied cannon spoke their wrath to those around,
And the trampling of your legions shook the awed and trembling ground.

“Where the waters of Kanawha rush to join a clearer tide,
I was there with stout old Cornstalk, when you broke our power and pride.

“With the Mingoes, under Girty, at Fort Henry I was one,
When your forty kept four hundred baffled there from sun to sun.

“By Tecumthe’s side I battled at the Thames the day he fell,
Where continual flash kept lighting forest, river, swamp, and dell.

“But I never knew a terror, and a fear I never felt,
Save that midnight when the woman so upon my comrades dealt.

“And if I were young and likely, then, whatever dames I saw,
I would wed none save the equal of that daring long-knife squaw.”

_THE LAST BATTLE OF THE WAR._

There is no event in American history which seems to be so
misunderstood, especially in details, as the battle fought in New
Orleans after the close of the war of 1812. The commander of the
Americans at that notable repulse became afterwards a prominent
politician, or, rather, resumed his political career, and was twice
elected President of the United States by the Democratic party,
which his course in office aided to disintegrate. The contest
during the three times he was a candidate was extremely bitter,
and while he was lauded by his friends as a hero, patriot, and
statesman, he was denounced by his foes as an illiterate ruffian,
ignorant alike of military science and state-craft. The battle upon
which his fame mainly rested, was said to have been won entirely
by the folly of the British, who stupidly marched upon impregnable
works, and were shot down easily by expert marksmen intrenched
behind cotton-bales. This last error is amusing, and nothing will
ever correct it. The embankment behind which most of the militia
lay was formed of swamp-mud mainly, the best material possible for
earthworks. A few cotton-bales had been used at one point, but one
of them being fired, the dense smoke made it an annoyance, and it
was speedily removed. That my readers may comprehend the affair, I
give a brief account of the operations leading up to the fight.

The proclamations of Lieutenant-colonel Nichols at Pensacola,
which, in violation of Spanish neutrality, he occupied with a
British force, and the attempt of the enemy to obtain the aid
and co-operation of Lafitte, the head of the Baratarian outlaws,
had aroused the attention of Jackson, who acted with his usual
promptness and decision, without awaiting orders from the War
Department. He had been satisfied of these designs before, through
information obtained by means of his agents, and waited an
opportunity to strike a blow at the combined British and Spanish
enemy. He knew that New Orleans was to be the objective point of
an expedition, and prepared for its defence. Recruiting went on
slowly; the Southern Indians were openly or covertly hostile; but
the failure of a naval and land attack on Fort Bowyer, repulsed
with slaughter, and the loss of the flag-ship, disengaged most
of the savages from alliance with Nichols, and brought in large
numbers of volunteers. Jackson marched against Pensacola, where the
British were intrenched, and proposed to the governor to occupy two
of the forts with American garrisons until the Spanish government
could send enough troops to make its neutrality respected. This
the governor refused, when Jackson at once attacked the town, and
after storming a battery, most of the forts were surrendered. Fort
Barrancas was in the hands of the British, but before Jackson could
attack it, the enemy abandoned and blew it up, and with the Spanish
governor and troops embarked on the squadron and left the harbor.
The American government gave a cold support, almost amounting to
censure, for this necessary and justifiable action; but public
opinion in the South and West sustained the commander of the
Seventh Department.

Jackson, who had gone to Mobile before this to look after its
defence, received from Governor Claiborne the letter of Lafitte,
giving the British propositions and their rejection, and learned
that the citizens of New Orleans, under the lead of Edward
Livingston, had organized a Defence Committee. He soon after
left for New Orleans, where he arrived on the 2d of December. He
found the people alarmed and discordant—the masses blaming the
Legislature, the Legislature the governor, and the governor both.
There was a lack of money, arms, ammunition, and men. It is true
there were two militia regiments and a slender volunteer battalion,
commanded by Major Planché, a brave creole officer;[1] but these
were not sufficient to guard the city, which contained a large
amount of property, and had but meagre fortifications to protect
its approaches. Jackson went actively to work to improve the
condition of things by strengthening the forts, erecting new ones,
obstructing the bayous, and establishing discipline.

On the 9th of December the British squadron, having on board over
seven thousand troops, made their appearance and anchored near the
entrance to Lake Borgne. Here they prepared to land. They were not
aware of the revelations of Lafitte, and hoped to take the place by
surprise. They soon learned their error. The late commodore (then
lieutenant) Ap Catesby Jones was in command of our flotilla, and
had sent out two gun-boats, under command of Lieutenant M’Keever
and sailing-master Ulrick, to watch their approach. These reported
the fleet to Jones on the 10th, and Jones made for Pass Christian,
where the astounded enemy saw his flotilla at anchor on the 13th.
As it was impossible to land troops under these circumstances,
Admiral Cochrane manned sixty barges, each armed with a carronade
and filled with men, to capture the tiny squadron, which was manned
by one hundred and eighty-three men. He succeeded in this, with the
loss of three hundred killed and wounded, after an hour’s fight.
The American loss was only six killed and thirty-five wounded.
This partly cleared the way for the enemy, who also discovered the
passage through the Bayou Bienvenu. On the 22d, as many of the
invaders as could find transportation embarked, and landing at
the Fisherman’s Village, at the mouth of the bayou, captured most
of the picket-guard. The men taken so represented the numbers of
Jackson’s force that the invaders proceeded with more caution. They
moved slowly up the bayou, and at Villeré’s plantation surrounded
the house, and took Major Villeré, the commander of the pickets. He
escaped, however, and carried the news to Jackson.

The American general in the mean while had not been idle. He had
proclaimed martial law in the city, brought the troops to a state
of discipline, infused his heroic spirit into the population, and
sent messengers to Coffee, Carroll, and Thomas, urging them to move
forward their commands as soon as possible. On the 22d, Carroll’s
troops of Tennessee levies, all skilled riflemen, landed in New
Orleans, and Coffee’s brigade of mounted rifles were encamped five
miles above the city. As soon as the news of the enemy’s presence
was brought to Jackson he determined to attack on the night of the
23d, both to check the enemy and to familiarize his raw troops
with their work. In the mean time the schooner _Carolina_ was
directed to drop down the river in the darkness, and open fire on
the enemy’s camp. That fire would drive them upon the land-forces.

The affair was carefully managed and brilliantly carried out. The
British were driven under the levee, and the troops, excited and
triumphant, returned to the city in perfect order and with full
confidence in their commander.

The events of the night had somewhat depressed the spirits of the
enemy, and on Christmas-day, which was cold and disagreeable, a
gloom pervaded the British encampment. That day, however, their
spirits were lifted by the arrival of Sir Edward Pakenham, “the
hero of Salamanca.” Sir Edward was then in the prime of manhood,
thirty-three years of age, brave, upright, and honorable, and
altogether undeserving of the obloquy that so long hung over his
memory as the reputed author of the asserted watchword—“beauty and
booty.” He was among old friends, most of the troops there having
fought with him in the Spanish Peninsula. He gave renewed life to
the force. A battery of twelve and eighteen pounders and a howitzer
was planted so as to command the _Carolina_, and by means of hot
shot, on the night of the 27th, she was set on fire and destroyed.
The _Louisiana_, the only remaining American vessel, escaped with
difficulty. Pakenham arranged his army in two columns, one under
Keane and the other under Gibbs, and moved forward, driving in
the American outposts, and then encamped during the night, where
the riflemen annoyed them and prevented them from much sleep.
The next morning at dawn they moved to the attack, two to one in
numbers and confident of success. But they met with an unexpected
resistance. The Baratarians and the crew of the _Carolina_ came up,
and opened on them with twenty-four pounders, while the fire of the
_Louisiana_ from the river enfiladed their line, doing terrible
damage. On the right, Gibbs was not more successful, though less
terribly punished, and Pakenham was compelled to order a retreat,
which on the left became disorderly. The comparative loss was
remarkable—the Americans had seventeen killed and wounded, and
the British about one hundred and fifty—owing, doubtless, to the
terrible oblique fire of the _Louisiana_.

At the council of war called that evening, it was determined to
land heavy siege guns from the ships, to throw up redoubts, and
prepare for a regular and concerted attack. During the next few
days this was carried out, and several attempts were made to break
the American line. The fighting went on, until Sir Edward, finding
he could make no impression, concluded to hazard all in a stroke
and carry the works by storm.

Jackson during all this time was energetically at work
strengthening his position. On the 4th of January his forces were
increased by the arrival of General Thomas, with two thousand
drafted men from Kentucky, raw and undisciplined, but for
defensive work useful, being cool, brave, and good marksmen. His
intrenchments were carried into the swamp to prevent being flanked,
and batteries were placed in proper positions on the lines on both
sides of the river. Behind the levee on Jourdan’s plantation,
Commander Patterson had placed a battery of heavy guns from his
schooner, and manned them with seamen. This battery commanding
the front of the American lines, drove the enemy from Chalmette’s
plantation to a point between Bienvenu and De la Ronde’s.

On the 7th Major-general Lambert arrived with reinforcements, among
the rest Sir Edward’s own regiment, the 7th Fusileers, bringing
his force up to ten thousand men, the very flower of the British
army. This was divided into three brigades, commanded by Generals
Lambert, Gibbs, and Keane, and on the following morning an attack
was to be made on both sides of the Mississippi. Thornton was to
cross the river, and fall upon the Americans on that side before
dawn. His guns were to be the signal for the main attack. He was
detained, however, in the river, and the main attack was not made
until daylight. Thornton was quite successful, but retreated when
he learned of the terrible repulse on the other side of the river.

The incidents of the main attack and the results will be found in
the ballad.

_THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS._

Here, in my rude log cabin,
Few poorer men there be
Among the mountain ranges
Of Eastern Tennessee.
My limbs are weak and shrunken,
White hairs upon my brow,
My dog—lie still, old fellow!—
My sole companion now.
Yet I, when young and lusty,
Have gone through stirring scenes,
For I went down with Carroll
To fight at New Orleans.

You say you’d like to hear me
The stirring story tell,
Of those who stood the battle
And those who fighting fell.
Short work to count our losses—
We stood and dropped the foe
As easily as by firelight
Men shoot the buck or doe.
And while they fell by hundreds
Upon the bloody plain,
Of us, fourteen were wounded
And only eight were slain.

The eighth of January,
Before the break of day,
Our raw and hasty levies
Were brought into array.
No cotton-bales before us—
Some fool that falsehood told;
Before us was an earthwork
Built from the swampy mould.
And there we stood in silence,
And waited with a frown,
To greet with bloody welcome
The bull-dogs of the Crown.

The heavy fog of morning
Still hid the plain from sight,
When came a thread of scarlet
Marked faintly in the white.
We fired a single cannon,
And as its thunders rolled,
The mist before us lifted
In many a heavy fold—
The mist before us lifted
And in their bravery fine
Came rushing to their ruin
The fearless British line.

Then from our waiting cannon
Leaped forth the deadly flame,
To meet the advancing columns
That swift and steady came.
The thirty-twos of Crowley
And Bluchi’s twenty-four
To Spotts’s eighteen-pounders
Responded with their roar,
Sending the grape-shot deadly
That marked its pathway plain,
And paved the road it travelled
With corpses of the slain.

Our rifles firmly grasping,
And heedless of the din,
We stood in silence waiting
For orders to begin.
Our fingers on the triggers,
Our hearts, with anger stirred,
Grew still more fierce and eager
As Jackson’s voice was heard:
“Stand steady! Waste no powder!
Wait till your shots will tell!
To-day the work you finish—
See that you do it well!”

Their columns drawing nearer,
We felt our patience tire,
When came the voice of Carroll,
Distinct and measured, “Fire!”
Oh! then you should have marked us
Our volleys on them pour—
Have heard our joyous rifles
Ring sharply through the roar,
And seen their foremost columns
Melt hastily away
As snow in mountain gorges
Before the floods of May.

They soon re-formed their columns,
And, ’mid the fatal rain
We never ceased to hurtle,
Came to their work again.
The Forty-fourth is with them,
That first its laurels won
With stout old Abercrombie
Beneath an eastern sun.
It rushes to the battle,
And, though within the rear
Its leader is a laggard,
It shows no signs of fear.

It did not need its colonel,
For soon there came instead
An eagle-eyed commander,
And on its march he led.
’Twas Pakenham in person,
The leader of the field;
I knew it by the cheering
That loudly round him pealed;
And by his quick, sharp movement
We felt his heart was stirred,
As when at Salamanca
He led the fighting Third.

I raised my rifle quickly,
I sighted at his breast,
God save the gallant leader
And take him to his rest!
I did not draw the trigger,
I could not for my life.
So calm he sat his charger
Amid the deadly strife,
That in my fiercest moment
A prayer arose from me—
God save that gallant leader,
Our foeman though he be!

Sir Edward’s charger staggers;
He leaps at once to ground.
And ere the beast falls bleeding
Another horse is found.
His right arm falls—’tis wounded;
He waves on high his left;
In vain he leads the movement,
The ranks in twain are cleft.
The men in scarlet waver
Before the men in brown,
And fly in utter panic—
The soldiers of the Crown!

I thought the work was over,
But nearer shouts were heard,
And came, with Gibbs to head it,
The gallant Ninety-third.
Then Pakenham, exulting,
With proud and joyous glance,
Cried, “Children of the tartan—
Bold Highlanders—advance!
Advance to scale the breastworks,
And drive them from their hold,
And show the stainless courage
That marked your sires of old!”

His voice as yet was ringing,
When, quick as light, there came
The roaring of a cannon,
And earth seemed all aflame.
Who causes thus the thunder
The doom of men to speak?
It is the Baratarian,
The fearless Dominique.
Down through the marshalled Scotsmen
The step of death is heard,
And by the fierce tornado
Falls half the Ninety-third.

The smoke passed slowly upward,
And, as it soared on high,
I saw the brave commander
In dying anguish lie.
They bear him from the battle
Who never fled the foe;
Unmoved by death around them
His bearers softly go.
In vain their care, so gentle,
Fades earth and all its scenes;
The man of Salamanca
Lies dead at New Orleans.

But where were his lieutenants?
Had they in terror fled?
No! Keane was sorely wounded
And Gibbs as good as dead.
Brave Wilkinson commanding,
A major of brigade,
The shattered force to rally
A final effort made.
He led it up our ramparts,
Small glory did he gain—
Our captives some; some slaughtered,
And he himself was slain.

The stormers had retreated,
The bloody work was o’er;
The feet of the invaders
Were soon to leave our shore.
We rested on our rifles
And talked about the fight,
When came a sudden murmur
Like fire from left to right;
We turned and saw our chieftain,
And then, good friend of mine,
You should have heard the cheering
That rang along the line.

For well our men remembered
How little, when they came,
Had they but native courage,
And trust in Jackson’s name;
How through the day he labored,
How kept the vigils still,
Till discipline controlled us—
A stronger power than will;
And how he hurled us at them
Within the evening hour,
That red night in December,
And made us feel our power.

In answer to our shouting
Fire lit his eye of grey;
Erect, but thin and pallid,
He passed upon his bay.
Weak from the baffled fever,
And shrunken in each limb,
The swamps of Alabama
Had done their work on him;
But spite of that and fasting,
And hours of sleepless care,
The soul of Andrew Jackson
Shone forth in glory there.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Creole meant originally the native-born descendant of foreign white parents. It is now applied to the native whites in Louisiana. People outside of that state frequently misapprehend its meaning, and think the word denotes mixed blood.

_EL MOLINO DEL REY._

The continually triumphant march of the American troops, under
Scott, from Vera Cruz to the City of Mexico, in spite of greater
numbers of opposing soldiers, fighting for their own soil, led many
to undervalue the courage and endurance of the enemy. There never
was a more signal error. The Mexicans fought fiercely and well;
they displayed daring and steadiness, though they were not always
able to stand before the bayonet, to whose uses they had not been
trained. Their signal defeats, occurring after obstinate and bloody
resistance, were due to the inefficiency of their general officers.
Properly headed the Mexicans would make as fine soldiers as any in
the world.

Among the successive battles which marked the invasion, that
of _El Molino del Rey_ (The King’s Mill) was one of the most
spirit-stirring. One of the objects of attack consisted of a range
of buildings, five hundred feet in front and well fortified, known
by the title of the poem. On the left and farther off was the
_Casamata_ or arsenal, loop-holed, and surrounded by a quadrangular
field-work. Ravines and ditches, irregularities of ground, the
position of the Mexican troops, and their superiority in numbers,
made the task exceedingly difficult. The attack was begun at
daylight. The enemy fought desperately and bitterly. Carrying the
Mexican guns in the open field, the Americans were driven back with
great slaughter, but with sufficient support retook them. At right
and left the battle raged with a fury that showed the courage and
perseverance of both sides. The intrenchments were stormed, but not
until after a severe contest, and until house after house within
the intrenchments had been broken into, the Mexicans everywhere
making a heroic resistance. The loss on both sides was heavy.

_BATTLE OF THE KING’S MILL._

Said my landlord, white-headed Gil Gomez,
With newspaper held in his hand—
“So they’ve built from El Paso a railway
That Yankees may visit our land.
As guests let them come and be welcome,
But not as they came here before;
They are rather rough fellows to handle
In the rush of the battle and roar.

“They took Vera Cruz and its castle;
In triumph they marched through the land;
We fought them with desperate daring,
But lacked the right man to command.
They stormed, at a loss, Cerro Gordo—
Every mile in their movement it cost;
And when they arrived at Puebla,
Some thousands of men they had lost.

“Ere our capital fell, and the city
By foreign invaders was won,
We called out among its defenders
Each man who could handle a gun.
Chapultepec stood in their pathway;
Churubusco they had to attack;
The Mill of the King—well, I fought there,
And they were a hard nut to crack.

“While their right was assailing the ramparts,
Our force struck their left on the field,
Where our colonel, in language that stirred us,
To love of our country appealed.
And we swore that we never would falter
Before either sabre or ball;
We would beat back the foeman before us,
Or dead on the battle-field fall.

“Fine words, you may say, but we meant them;
And so when they came up the hill
We poured on them volley on volley,
And riddled their ranks with a will.
Their line in a moment was broken;
They closed it, and came with a cheer;
But still we fired quickly and deadly,
And felt neither pity nor fear.

“We smote the blue column with grape-shot,
But it rushed as the wild torrent runs;
At the pieces they slew our best gunners,
And took in the struggle our guns.
We sprang in a rage to retake them,
And lost nearly half of our men;
Then, baffled and beaten, retreated,
And gained our position again.

“Ceased their yell, and in spite of our firing
They dressed like an arrow their line,
Then, standing there moveless a moment,
Their eyes flashed with purpose malign,
All still as the twilight in summer,
No cloud on the sky to deform,

Like the lull in the voices of nature
Ere wakens the whirlwind and storm.

“We had fought them with death-daring spirit,
And courage unyielding till then;
No man could have forced us to falter,
But these were more demons than men.
Our ranks had been torn by their bullets,
We filled all the gaps they had made;
But the pall o that terrible silence
The hearts of our boldest dismayed.

“Before us no roaring of cannon,
Rifle-rattle, or musketry peal;
But there on the ocean of battle
Surged steady the billow of steel.
Fierce we opened our fire on the column,
We pierced it with ball here and there;
But it swept on in pitiless sternness
Till we faltered and fled in despair.

“After that all their movements were easy;
At their storming Chapultepec fell,
And that ended the war—we were beaten:
No story is left me to tell.
And now they come back to invade us,
Though not with the bullet and blade;
They are here with their goods on a railway,
To conquer the country by trade.”

_A TALE OF THE WAR._

The story that follows is, as the old magazines used to say of
their tales, “founded on fact.” The foundation is rather slender.
Similar incidents have occurred in all wars, ancient and modern;
and nothing delights the old soldier more, when peace comes, than
to meet a former antagonist, who, as in this instance, has “proved
worthy of his steel.”

_THE FENCING-MASTER._

You wish to improve yourself? Good! There’s a tool;
Let us see of what stuff you are made; and—keep cool.
Never hurry. On guard! When I thrust, parry so.
Longe! Gracious! Disarmed me! Well, this is a go.
“An accident?” Make me think that, if you can.
You had better give lessons than take them, young man.
Wrist of steel, form of whalebone, keen-eyed, supple, tall—
You could manage that cut-and-thrust there on the wall.

“A Toledo!” No doubt of it; here on the blade
Is the name of the Spaniard by whom it was made,
And the place where they forged it; its metal can tell
It was made where such weapons they fashioned right well;
But that, after all, has slight interest—I
Well know how I got it, the where and the why;
And thence comes a story—a memory, too.
Will I tell it? Why, yes, I don’t care if I do.

I was merely lieutenant—I never wore stars,
Though it rained brigadiers at the time; and my scars
Were got in the hours when I fought on my feet,
And lucky to keep them at moments when sleet
From some thousands of muskets upon us fell fast,
And each breath that we drew seemed like drawing the last,
And the foeman kept plying his bullets and shell,
And to right and to left comrades they staggered and fell.

’Twas at Fredericksburg Heights, where we charged like such fools,
And learned by experience—that saddest of schools—
An experience that brought us a fire-rain beneath—
Not to crack a hard nut, nor to try, with our teeth,
That I got this old sabre, and with it a scar,
From a small pistol bullet, my beauty to mar;
And a narrow escape, for an inch t’other way,
And a narrow earth-jacket I’d worn the next day.

I hated the enemy, then—no offence,
If you held ’tother side, each man acts on his sense—
And I thought they were wrong, as I thought we were right;
No doubt they thought otherwise. And they could fight.
No man can deny it; and there well intrenched
They awaited our coming, while none of us blenched,
Though we knew it was madness to charge up that hill,
That a child might have held had it courage and will.

At the word we were off. It was glorious to see
How we marched to the charge with a step fast and free.
Flags flying, throats cheering, and every rank dressed
To an inch in its straightness; when quick from the crest
Opened loudly a hundred of cannon or more,
And the path of the balls was mapped out in our gore.
We were brave, but some tasks are too fearful for man;
We faltered, we turned—who could help it?—we ran.

We tried it again with another rebuff;
And again, till we found we’d been hammered enough;
And then by the river at close of the day,
With the wounded, the men who came out of the fray—
And I tell you right glad to be certainly back—
Lay there on the ground. ’Twas a mournful bivouac,
With few of us sure as we talked o’er our loss
If they’d suffer us safely the river to cross.

I strolled out to the picket—some thirty were there,
With their arms in good order, their eyeballs kept bare—
When, an hour before midnight, there came quick and hard
The trample of horse charging down on the guard;
And we met them—a squadron of dare-devils they—
But a sharp edge of bayonets kept them at bay,
While we emptied some barrels, with never a corse,
Though we wounded one rider and crippled his horse.

The rider pitched over; his comrades they heard
His yell as he fell; but they turned and they spurred,
For by this time our camp was aroused and poured in,
And the visitors stayed not their laurels to win;
When what does this Hotspur but spring to his feet,
And, ready a regiment singly to meet,
Draw weapon, and there, right in front of our line,
To guard bring his sabre, and cross it with mine.

’Twas a regular duel: our men gathered round;
Save the clash of the blades there was never a sound.
’Twas cut, thrust, and parry—the fellow fenced well—
But at last on his shoulder a heavy blow fell,
And his sword dropped to earth—in an instant he felt
With his left for a pistol that hung at his belt,
And he fired. O’er my temple the ball ploughed its track,
When I tripped him, and threw my bold youth on his back.

I said as I held him, “This rage has no use;
You’re two-thirds a lion and one-third a goose.
Do you want to fight armies! This passes a joke;
Surrender at once, or your throttle I’ll choke.
Stop the struggling, my madman, and tell us your choice—”
“I give my parole.” ’Twas a musical voice,
With a rather thin treble. Conceive my annoy
When I found I had wasted my strength on a boy.

’Twas a boy of sixteen, with his lip free of down,
Whose ball cut a groove ’twixt my temple and crown,
And who handled his sabre as deftly and keen
As a master of fence. Yes, a boy of sixteen.
And I said, as I looked on him there where he stood,
Defiant, though conquered, and dauntless in mood,
“You crow well, my cockerel, ere you have spurs;
Has your mother more such in that rare brood of hers?”

Then he laughed, and his forefinger rose, as he said,
“You carry the mark of my spur on your head—
Who’ll give me a drink?” as at word of command
A dozen canteens were thrust ready to hand;
But ere he could choose, from his features there shrank
The blood till he paled, then he staggered and sank.
We raised him; I stooped there and pillowed his head
On my knee; and I shivered—I thought he was dead.

But no, sir, he rallied. We bore him away,
When we crossed o’er the river, ere break of the day,
Where our surgeon soon healed up his wound, and I nursed
The boy, and grew fond where I’d liked from the first,
Till, ready for prison, but hating confine,
He fled one dark night and got over the line;
And I never laid eyes on my bold shaver since.
That’s his sword, and a weapon would honor a prince.

You smile at the story—I’ve seen you, but where?
What name did you carry? “George Gaston!”—well—there!
Let me grapple your fist, boy? I’d never have known
You, with all of those whiskers. Why, how you have grown!
Twelve years! well, it _does_ make a difference, I see,
In you, as it probably _has_ made in me.
I can’t tell how glad I’m to see you at last.
Sit down; take a pipe; and we’ll talk o’er the past.

_AN AMBUSCADE._

The incident which gave rise to the following poem happened about
1861, in Western Virginia, somewhere in the Gauley River region.
The story may be correct, or not. I do not vouch for its accuracy.
At all events, I have considered it to be _si non e vero, e ben
trovato_, as the Italian proverb has it. If it be not true, it is
well feigned.

_THE CHARGE BY THE FORD._

Eighty and nine with their captain
Rode on the enemy’s track,
Rode in the grey 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 scabbard
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,
Faded and weary and weak?
Grey-backs—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 grey 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 nine of the ninety,
Honor the heroes who came
Scathless from nine 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.

Give them 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!

A NEW FOLK SONG.

The following is an attempt to add one more to the few patriotic
songs of the country. Whatever may be said of the words, the melody
and the music are undoubtedly marked by spirit and vigor.

_FLAG OF THE RAINBOW._

PATRIOTIC SONG—SOLO AND CHORUS (MIXED VOICES).

WORDS BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. MUSIC COMPOSED BY MAX BRAUN.

_Soprano and Tenor._

Flag of the rainbow and banner of stars,
Emblem of might and the shield of the lowly,
Never to droop while our soldiers and tars
Rally to guard it from outrage unholy.
]

_Words—Copyrighted, 1880, by Arthur English._ _Music—Copyrighted, 1885, by Max Braun._

Never may shame or misfortune, attend it,
Enmity sully, or treachery rend it
While but a man is alive to defend it—
Flag of the rainbow and banner of stars.

_CHORUS.—Soprano._

_Alto._ _Tenor._ _Bass._

Flag of the rainbow, resplendently streaming,
Banner of stars in the blue above gleaming,
]

Ensign, whose story is record of glory—
Flag of the rainbow and banner of stars.
]

Flag of a land where the people are free,
Ever the breezes salute and caress it;
Planted on earth, or afloat on the sea,
Gallant men guard it, and fair women bless it.
Fling out its folds o’er a country united,
Warmed by the fires that our forefathers lighted,
Refuge where down-trodden man is invited—
Flag of the rainbow and banner of stars.
CHORUS.—Flag of the rainbow, etc.

Flag that our sires gave in trust to their sons,
Symbol and sign of a liberty glorious,
While the grass grows, and the clear water runs,
Ever invincible, ever victorious.
Long may it ’waken our pride and devotion,
Rippling its colors in musical motion,
First on the land and supreme on the ocean—
Flag of the rainbow and banner of stars.
CHORUS.—Flag of the rainbow, etc.

The Orchestra Music (eight instruments) can be had from the
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Transcriber’s Notes

pg 117 Changed: Yelped the dark and red-eyed sluthhound
to: Yelped the dark and red-eyed sleuthhound