Chapter II: Part 2

Beneath the glow of the Virgin Star They raised the song of the red war-dance. At the break of dawn with the bow and lance They followed the chief on the path of war. To the north--to the forests of fir and pine-- Led their stealthy steps on the winding trail, Till they saw the Lake of the Spirit[55] shine Through somber pines of the dusky dale. Then they heard the hoot of the mottled owl;[56] They heard the gray wolf's dismal howl; Then shrill and sudden the war-whoop rose From an hundred throats of their swarthy foes, In ambush crouched in the tangled wood. Death shrieked in the twang of their deadly bows, And their hissing arrows drank brave men's blood. From rock, and thicket, and brush, and brakes, Gleamed the burning eyes of the "forest-snakes."[57] From brake, and thicket, and brush, and stone, The bow-string hummed and the arrow hissed, And the lance of a crouching Ojibway shone, Or the scalp-knife gleamed in a swarthy fist. Undaunted the braves of Wakawa's band Leaped into the thicket with lance and knife, And grappled the Chippeways hand to hand; And foe with foe, in the deadly strife, Lay clutching the scalp of his foe and dead, With a tomahawk sunk in his ghastly head, Or his still heart sheathing a bloody blade. Like a bear in the battle Wakawa raves, And cheers the hearts of his falling braves. But a panther crouches along his track-- He springs with a yell on Wakawa's back! The tall chief, stabbed to the heart, lies low; But his left hand clutches his deadly foe, And his red right clinches the bloody hilt Of his knife in the heart of the slayer dyed. And thus was the life of Wakawa spilt, And slain and slayer lay side by side. The unscalped corpse of their honored chief His warriors snatched from the yelling pack, And homeward fled on their forest track With their bloody burden and load of grief.

The spirits the words of the brave fulfill-- Wakawa sleeps on the sacred hill, And Wakinyan Tanka, his son, is chief. Ah soon shall the lips of men forget Wakawa's name, and the mound of stone Will speak of the dead to the winds alone, And the winds will whistle their mock regret.

The speckled cones of the scarlet berries[58] Lie red and ripe in the prairie grass. The _Si-yo_[59] clucks on the emerald prairies To her infant brood. From the wild morass, On the sapphire lakelet set within it, _Maga_ sails forth with her wee ones daily. They ride on the dimpling waters gaily, Like a fleet of yachts and a man-of-war. The piping plover, the light-winged linnet, And the swallow sail in the sunset skies. The whippowil from her cover hies, And trills her song on the amber air. Anon to her loitering mate she cries: "Flip, O Will!--trip, O Will!--skip, O Will!" And her merry mate from afar replies: "Flip I will--skip I will--trip I will;" And away on the wings of the wind he flies. And bright from her lodge in the skies afar Peeps the glowing face of the Virgin Star. The fox-pups[60] creep from their mother's lair, And leap in the light of the rising moon; And loud on the luminous, moonlit lake Shrill the bugle-notes of the lover loon; And woods and waters and welkin break Into jubilant song--it is joyful June.

But where is Wiwaste? O where is she-- The virgin avenged--the queenly queen-- The womanly woman--the heroine? Has she gone to the spirits? and can it be That her beautiful face is the Virgin Star Peeping out from the door of her lodge afar, Or upward sailing the silver sea, Star-beaconed and lit like an avenue, In the shining stern of her gold canoe? No tidings came--nor the brave Chaske: O why did the lover so long delay? He promised to come with the robins in May With the bridal gifts for the bridal day; But the fair May-mornings have slipped away, And where is the lover--the brave Chaske?

But what of the venomous Harpstina-- The serpent that tempted the proud Red Cloud, And kindled revenge in his savage soul? He paid for his crime with his own heart's blood, But his angry spirit has brought her dole;[61] It has entered her breast and her burning head, And she raves and burns on her fevered bed. "He is dead! He is dead!" is her wailing cry, "And the blame is mine--it was I--it was I! I hated Wiwaste, for she was fair, And my brave was caught in her net of hair. I turned his love to a bitter hate; I nourished revenge, and I pricked his pride; Till the Feast of the Virgins I bade him wait. He had his revenge, but he died--he died! And the blame is mine--it was I--it was I! And his spirit burns me; I die--I die!" Thus, alone in her lodge and her agonies, She wails to the winds of the night, and dies.

But where is Wiwaste? Her swift feet flew To the somber shades of the tangled thicket. She hid in the copse like a wary cricket, And the fleetest hunters in vain pursue. Seeing unseen from her hiding place, She sees them fly on the hurried chase; She sees their dark eyes glance and dart, As they pass and peer for a track or trace, And she trembles with fear in the copse apart, Lest her nest be betrayed by her throbbing heart.

Weary the hours; but the sun at last Went down to his lodge in the west, and fast The wings of the spirits of night were spread O'er the darkling woods and Wiwaste's head. Then slyly she slipped from her snug retreat, And guiding her course by Waziya's star,[62] That shone through the shadowy forms afar, She northward hurried with silent feet; And long ere the sky was aflame in the east, She was leagues from the spot of the fatal feast. 'Twas the hoot of the owl that the hunters heard, And the scattering drops of the threat'ning shower, And the far wolf's cry to the moon preferred. Their ears were their fancies--the scene was weird, And the witches[63] dance at the midnight hour. She leaped the brook and she swam the river; Her course through the forest Wiwaste wist By the star that gleamed through the glimmering mist That fell from the dim moon's downy quiver. In her heart she spoke to her spirit-mother: "Look down from your _teepee_, O starry spirit. The cry of Wiwaste. O mother, hear it; And touch the heart of my cruel father. He hearkened not to a virgin's words; He listened not to a daughter's wail. O give me the wings of the thunder-birds, For his were wolves[52] follow Wiwaste's trail; And guide my flight to the far _Hohe_-- To the sheltering lodge of my brave Chaske."

The shadows paled in the hazy east, And the light of the kindling morn increased. The pale-faced stars fled one by one, And hid in the vast from the rising sun. From woods and waters and welkin soon Fled the hovering mists of the vanished moon. The young robins chirped in their feathery beds, The loon's song shrilled like a winding horn, And the green hills lifted their dewy heads To greet the god of the rising morn. She reached the rim of the rolling prairie-- The boundless ocean of solitude; She hid in the feathery hazel-wood, For her heart was sick and her feet were weary; She fain would rest, and she needed food. Alone by the billowy, boundless prairies, She plucked the cones of the scarlet berries; In feathering copse and the grassy field She found the bulbs of the young _Tipsanna_,[43] And the sweet _medo_ [64] that the meadows yield. With the precious gift of his priceless manna God fed his fainting and famished child.

At night again to the northward far She followed the torch of Waziya's star; For leagues away o'er the prairies green, On the billowy vast, may a man be seen, When the sun is high and the stars are low; And the sable breast of the strutting crow Looms up like the form of the buffalo. The Bloody River [40] she reached at last, And boldly walked in the light of day, On the level plain of the valley vast; Nor thought of the terrible Chippeway. She was safe from the wolves of her father's band, But she trod on the treacherous "Bloody Land."

And lo--from afar o'er the level plain-- As far as the sails of a ship at sea May be seen as they lift from the rolling main-- A band of warriors rode rapidly. She shadowed her eyes with her sun-browned hand; All backward streamed on the wind her hair, And terror spread o'er her visage fair, As she bent her brow to the far-off band. For she thought of the terrible Chippeway-- The fiends that the babe and the mother slay; And yonder they came in their war-array!

She hid like a grouse in the meadow-grass, And moaned--"I am lost!--I am lost! alas, And why did I fly from my native land To die by the cruel Ojibway's hand?" And on rode the braves. She could hear the steeds Come galloping on o'er the level meads; And lowly she crouched in the waving grass, And hoped against hope that the braves would pass.

They have passed; she is safe--she is safe! Ah no! They have struck her trail and the hunters halt. Like wolves on the track of the bleeding doe, That grappled breaks from the dread assault, Dash the warriors wild on Wiwaste's trail. She flies--but what can her flight avail? Her feet are fleet, but the flying feet Of the steeds of the prairies are fleeter still; And where can she fly for a safe retreat?

But hark to the shouting--"_Iho!--Iho!_"[22] Rings over the wide plain sharp and shrill. She halts, and the hunters come riding on; But the horrible fear from her heart is gone, For it is not the shout of the dreaded foe; 'Tis the welcome shout of her native land!

Up galloped the chief of the band, and lo-- The clutched knife dropped from her trembling hand; She uttered a cry and she swooned away; For there, on his steed in the blaze of day, On the boundless prairie so far away, With his polished bow and his feathers gay, Sat the manly form of her own Chaske!

There's a mote in my eye or a blot on the page, And I cannot tell of the joyful greeting; You may take it for granted, and I will engage, There were kisses and tears at the strange, glad meeting; For aye since the birth of the swift-winged years, In the desert drear, in the field of clover, In the cot, in the palace, and all the world over-- Yea, away on the stars to the ultimate spheres, The greeting of love to the long-sought lover-- Is tears and kisses and kisses and tears.

But why did the lover so long delay? And whitherward rideth the chief to-day? As he followed the trail of the buffalo, From the _tees_ of _Kapoza_ a maiden, lo, Came running in haste o'er the drifted snow. She spoke to the chief of the tall _Hohe_: "Wiwaste requests that the brave Chaske Will abide with his band and his coming delay Till the moon when the strawberries are ripe and red, And then will the chief and Wiwaste wed-- When the Feast of the Virgins is past," she said. Wiwaste's wish was her lover's law; And so his coming the chief delayed Till the mid May blossoms should bloom and fade-- But the lying runner was Harpstina.

And now with the gifts for the bridal day And his chosen warriors he took his way, And followed his heart to his moon-faced maid. And thus was the lover so long delayed; And so as he rode with his warriors gay, On that bright and beautiful summer day, His bride he met on the trail mid-way.

God arms the innocent. He is there-- In the desert vast, in the wilderness, On the bellowing sea, in the lion's lair, In the mist of battle, and everywhere. In his hand he holds with a father's care The tender hearts of the motherless; The maid and the mother in sore distress He shields with his love and his tenderness; He comforts the widowed--the comfortless-- And sweetens her chalice of bitterness; He clothes the naked--the numberless-- His charity covers their nakedness-- And he feeds the famished and fatherless With the hand that feedeth the birds of air. Let the myriad tongues of the earth confess His infinite love and his holiness; For his pity pities the pitiless, His mercy flows to the merciless; And the countless worlds in the realms above, Revolve in the light of his boundless love.

And what of the lovers? you ask, I trow. She told him all ere the sun was low-- Why she fled from the Feast to a safe retreat. She laid her heart at her lover's feet, And her words were tears and her lips were slow. As she sadly related the bitter tale His face was aflame and anon grew pale, And his dark eyes flashed with a brave desire, Like the midnight gleam of the sacred fire. [65] "_Mitawin,_"[66] he said, and his voice was low, "Thy father no more is the false Little Crow; But the fairest plume shall Wiwaste wear Of the great _Wanmdee_ in her midnight hair. In my lodge, in the land of the tall _Hohe_, The robins will sing all the long summer day To the happy bride of the brave Chaske.'"

Aye, love is tested by stress and trial Since the finger of time on the endless dial Began its rounds, and the orbs to move In the boundless vast, and the sunbeams clove The chaos; but only by fate's denial Are fathomed the fathomless depths of love. Man is the rugged and wrinkled oak, And woman the trusting and tender vine That clasps and climbs till its arms entwine The brawny arms of the sturdy stock. The dimpled babes are the flowers divine That the blessing of God on the vine and oak With their cooing and blossoming lips invoke.

To the pleasant land of the brave _Hohe_ Wiwaste rode with her proud Chaske. She ruled like a queen in his bountiful _tee_, And the life of the twain was a jubilee Their wee ones climbed on the father's knee, And played with his plumes of the great _Wanmdee_. The silken threads of the happy years They wove into beautiful robes of love That the spirits wear in the lodge above; And time from the reel of the rolling spheres His silver threads with the raven wove; But never the stain of a mother's tears Soiled the shining web of their happy years. When the wrinkled mask of the years they wore, And the raven hair of their youth was gray, Their love grew deeper, and more and more; For he was a lover for aye and aye, And ever her beautiful, brave Chaske. Through the wrinkled mask of the hoary years To the loving eyes of the lover aye The blossom of beautiful youth appears.

At last, when their locks were as white as snow, Beloved and honored by all the band, They silently slipped from their lodge below, And walked together, and hand in hand, O'er the Shining Path[68] to the Spirit-land, Where the hills and the meadows for aye and aye Are clad with the verdure and flowers of May, And the unsown prairies of Paradise Yield the golden maize and the sweet wild rice. There, ever ripe in the groves and prairies, Hang the purple plums and the luscious berries, And the swarthy herds of the bison feed On the sun-lit slope and the waving mead; The dappled fawns from their coverts peep, And countless flocks on the waters sleep; And the silent years with their fingers trace No furrows for aye on the hunter's face.

To the memory of my devoted wife dead and gone yet always with me I dedicate

PAULINE

The Flower of my heart nursed into bloom by her loving care and ofttimes watered with her tears

H.L.G.

PAULINE

_PART I_

INTRODUCTION

Fair morning sat upon the mountain-top, Night skulking crept into the mountain-chasm. The silent ships slept in the silent bay; One broad blue bent of ether domed the heavens, One broad blue distance lay the shadowy land, One broad blue vast of silence slept the sea. Now from the dewy groves the joyful birds In carol-concert sang their matin songs Softly and sweetly--full of prayer and praise. Then silver-chiming, solemn-voiced bells Rung out their music on the morning air, And Lisbon gathered to the festival In chapel and cathedral. Choral hymns And psalms of sea-toned organs mingling rose With sweetest incense floating up to heaven, Bearing the praises of the multitudes; And all was holy peace and holy happiness. A rumbling of deep thunders in the deep; The vast sea shuddered and the mountains groaned; Up-heaved the solid earth--the nether rocks Burst--and the sea--the earth--the echoing heavens Thundered infernal ruin. On their knees The trembling multitudes received the shock, And dumb with sudden terror bowed their heads To toppling spire and plunging wall and dome.

So shook the mighty North the sudden roar Of Treason thundering on the April air-- An earthquake shock that jarred the granite hills And westward rolled against th' eternal walls Rock-built Titanic--for a moment shook: Uprose a giant and with iron hands Grasped his huge hammer, claspt his belt of steel, And o'er the Midgard-monster mighty Thor Loomed for the combat.

Peace--O blessed Peace! The war-worn veterans hailed thee with a shout Of Alleluias;--homeward wound the trains, And homeward marched the bayonet-bristling columns To "_Hail Columbia_" from a thousand horns-- Marched to the jubilee of chiming bells, Marched to the joyful peals of cannon, marched With blazing banners and victorious songs Into the outstretched arms of love and home.

But there be columns--columns of the dead That slumber on an hundred battle-fields-- No bugle-blast shall waken till the trump Of the Archangel. O the loved and lost! For them no jubilee of chiming bells; For them no cannon-peal of victory; For them no outstretched arms of love and home. God's peace be with them. Heroes who went down, Wearing their stars, live in the nation's songs And stories--there be greater heroes still, That molder in unnumbered nameless graves Erst bleached unburied on the fields of fame Won by their valor. Who will sing of these-- Sing of the patriot-deeds on field and flood-- Of these--the truer heroes--all unsung? Where sleeps the modest bard in Quaker gray Who blew the pibroch ere the battle lowered, Then pitched his tent upon the balmy beach? "Snow-bound," I ween, among his native hills. And where the master hand that swept the lyre Till wrinkled critics cried "Excelsior"? Gathering the "Aftermath" in frosted fields. Then, timid Muse, no longer shake thy wings For airy realms and fold again in fear; A broken flight is better than no flight; Be thine the task, as best you may, to sing The deeds of one who sleeps at Gettysburg Among the thousands in a common grave. The story of his life I bid you tell As it was told one windy winter night To veterans gathered around the festal board, Fighting old battles over where the field Ran red with wine, and all the battle-blare Was merry laughter and the merry songs-- Told when the songs were sung by him who heard The pith of it from the dying soldier's lips-- His Captain--tell it as the Captain told.

THE CAPTAIN'S STORY

"Well, comrades, let us fight one battle more; Let the cock crow--we'll guard the camp till morn. And--since the singers and the merry ones Are _hors de combat_--fill the cups again; Nod if you must, but listen to a tale Romantic--but the warp thereof is truth. When the old Flag on Sumter's sea-girt walls From its proud perch a fluttering ruin fell, I swore an oath as big as Bunker Hill; For I was younger then, nor battle-scarred, And full of patriot-faith and patriot-fire.

"I raised a company of riflemen, Marched to the front, and proud of my command, Nor seeking higher, led them till the day Of triumph and the nation's jubilee. Among the first that answered to my call The hero came whose story you shall hear. 'Tis better I describe him: He was young-- Near two and twenty--neither short nor tall-- A slender student, and his tapering hands Had better graced a maiden than a man: Sad, thoughtful face--a wealth of raven hair Brushed back in waves from forehead prominent; A classic nose--half Roman and half Greek; Dark, lustrous eyes beneath dark, jutting brows, Wearing a shade of sorrow, yet so keen, And in the storm of battle flashing fire.

"'Well, boy,' I said, 'I doubt if you will do; I need stout men for picket-line and march-- Men that have bone and muscle--men inured To toil and hardships--men, in short, my boy, To march and fight and march and fight again.' A queer expression lit his earnest face-- Half frown--half smile.

"'Well _try_ me.' That was all He answered, and I put him on the roll-- _Paul Douglas, private_--and he donned the blue. Paul proved himself the best in my command; I found him first at _reveille_, and first In all the varied duties of the day. His rough-hewn comrades, bred to boisterous ways, Jeered at the slender youth with maiden hands, Nicknamed him 'Nel,' and for a month or more Kept up a fusillade of jokes and jeers. Their jokes and jeers he heard but heeded not, Or heeding did a kindly act for him That jeered him loudest; so the hardy men Came to look up to Paul as one above The level of their rough and roistering ways. He never joined the jolly soldier-sports, But ever was the first at bugle-call, Mastered the drill and often drilled the men. Fatigued with duty, weary with the march Under the blaze of the midsummer sun, He murmured not--alike in sun or rain His utmost duty eager to perform, And ever ready--always just the same Patient and earnest, sad and silent Paul.

"The day of battle came--that Sabbath day, Midsummer.[A] Hot and blistering as the flames Of prairie-fires wind-driven, the burning sun Blazed down upon us and the blinding dust Wheeled in dense clouds and covered all our ranks, As we marched on to battle. Then the roar Of batteries broke upon us. Glad indeed That music to my soldiers, and they cheered And cheered again and boasted--all but Paul-- And shouted _'On to Richmond!'_--He alone Was silent--but his eyes were full of fire.

[A] The first battle of Bull Run, July 21, 1861.

"Then came the order--_'Forward, double quick!'_ And we rushed into battle--formed our line Facing the foe--the ambushed, deadly foe, Hid in the thicket, with the Union flag-- A cheat--hung out before it--luring us Into a blazing hell. The battle broke With wildest fury on us--crashed and roared The rolling thunder of continuous fire. We broke and rallied--charged and broke again, And rallied still--broke counter-charge and charged Loud-yelling, furious, on the hidden foe;-- Met thrice our numbers and came flying back Disordered and disheartened. Yet again I strove to rally my discouraged men, But hell was fairly howling;--only Paul-- Eager, but bleeding from a bullet-wound In the left arm--came bounding to my side. But at that moment I was struck and fell-- Fell prostrate; and a swooning sense of death Came on me, and I saw and heard no more Of battle on that Sabbath.

"I awoke, Confined and jolted in an ambulance Piled with the wounded--driven recklessly By one who chiefly cared to save himself. Dizzy and faint I raised my head: my wound Was not as dangerous as it might have been-- A scalp-wound on the temple; there, you see--" He put his finger on the ugly scar-- "Half an inch deeper and some soldier friend, Among the veterans gathered here to-night, Perchance had told a briefer tale than mine.

"In front and rear I saw the reckless rout-- A broken army flying panic-struck-- Our proud brigades of undulating steel That marched at sunrise under blazoned flags, Singing the victory ere the cannon roared, And eager for the honors of the day-- Like bison Indian-chased on windy plains, Now broken and commingled fled the field. Words of command were only wasted breath; Colonels and brigadiers, on foot and soiled, Were pushed and jostled by the hurrying hordes. Anon the cry of _'Cavalry!'_ arose, And army-teams came dashing down the road And plunged into the panic. All the way Was strewn with broken wagons, battery-guns, Tents, muskets, knapsacks and exhausted men. My men were mingled with the lawless crowd, And in the swarm behind us, there was Paul-- Silent and soldier-like, with knapsack on And rifle on his shoulder, guarding me And marching on behind the ambulance. So all that dark and dreadful night we marched, Each man a captain--captain of himself-- Nor cared for orders on that wild retreat To safety from disaster. All that night, Silent and soldier-like my wounded Paul Marched close behind and kept his faithful watch. For ever and anon the jaded men, Clamorous and threat'ning, sought to clamber in; Whom Paul drove off at point of bayonet, Wielding his musket with his good right arm. But when the night was waning to the morn I saw that he was weary and I made A place for Paul and begged him to get in. 'No, Captain; no,' he answered,--'I will walk-- I'm making bone and muscle--learning how To march and fight and march and fight again.' That silenced me, and we went rumbling on. Till morning found us safe at Arlington.

"A month off duty and a faithful nurse Worked wonders and my head was whole again-- Nay--to be candid--cracked a little yet. My nurse was Paul. Albeit his left arm, Flesh-wounded, pained him sorely for a time, With filial care he dressed my battered head, And wrote for me to anxious friends at home-- But never wrote a letter for himself. Thinking of this one day, I spoke of it:-- A cloud came o'er his face.

"'My friends,' he said, 'Are here among my comrades in the camp.' That made a mystery and I questioned him: He gave no answer--or evasive ones-- Seeming to shrink from question, and to wrap Himself within himself and live within.

"Again we joined our regiment and marched; Over the hills and dales of Maryland Along the famous river wound our way. On picket-duty at the frequent fords For weary, laggard months were we employed Guarding the broad Potomac, while our foes, Stealthily watching for their human game, Lurked like Apaches on the wooded shores. Bands of enemy's cavalry by night Along the line of river prowled, and sought To dash across and raid in Maryland. Three regiments guarded miles of river-bank, And drilled alternately, and one was ours. Off picket duty, alike in fair or foul, With knapsacks on and bearing forty rounds, From morn till night we drilled--battalion-drill-- Often at double-quick for weary hours-- Bearing our burdens in the blazing sun, Till strong men staggered from the ranks and fell. Aye, many a hardy man in those hard days Was drilled and disciplined into his grave. Arose Murmurs of discontent, and loud complaints Fell on dull ears till patience was worn out And mutiny was hinted. As for Paul I never heard a murmur from his lips; Nor did he ask a reason for the things Unreasonable and hard required of him, But straightway did his duty just as if The nation's fate hung on it. I pitied Paul; Slender of form and delicate, he bore The toils and duties of the hardiest. Ill from exposure, or fatigued and worn, On picket hungered, shivering in the rain, Or sweltering in full dress, with knapsack on, Beneath the blaze of the mid-summer sun, He held his spirit--always still the same Patient and earnest, sad and silent Paul.

"We posted pickets two by two. At night, By turns each comrade slept and took the watch. Once in September, in a drenching storm, Three days and nights with neither tent nor fire Paul and a comrade held a picket-post. The equinox raged madly. Chilling winds In angry gusts roared from the northern hills, Dashing the dismal rain-clouds into showers That fell in torrents over all the land. In camp the soldiers crouched in dripping tents, Or shivered by the camp-fires. I was ill And gladly sought the shelter of a hut. Orders were strict and often hard to bear-- Nor tents nor fire upon the picket-posts-- Cold rations and a canopy of storms. I pitied Paul and would have called him in, But that I had no man to take his place; Nor did I know he took upon himself A double task. His comrade on the post Was ill, and so he made a shelter for him With his own blankets and a bed within; And took the watch of both upon himself. And on the third night near the dawn of day, In rubber cloak stole in upon the post A pompous major, on the nightly round, Unchallenged. All fatigued and drenched with rain, Still on his post with rifle in his hand-- Against a sheltering elm Paul stood and slept. Muttering of death the brutal major stormed, Then pitiless pricked the comrade with his sword, And from his shelter drove him to the watch, Burning with fever. There Paul interposed And said:

"'I ask no mercy at your hands; I shall not whimper, but my comrade here Is ill of fever; I have stood his watch: Sir, if a human heart beats in your breast, Send him to camp, or he will surely die.'

"The pompous brute--vaingloriously great In straps and buttons--haughtily silenced Paul, Hand-bound and sent him guarded to the camp, And the poor comrade shivering stood the watch Till dawn of day and I was made aware. Among the true were some vainglorious fools Called by the fife and drum from native mire To lord and strut in shoulder-straps and buttons. Scrubs, born to brush the boots of gentlemen, By sudden freak of fortune found themselves Masters of better men, and lorded it As only base and brutish natures can-- Braves on parade and cowards under fire.

"I interceded in my Paul's behalf, Else he had suffered graver punishment, But as himself for mercy would not beg-- 'A stubborn boy,' our bluff old colonel said-- To extra duty for a month he went Unmurmuring, storm or shine. When the cold rain Poured down most pitiless Paul, drenched and wan, Guarded the baggage and the braying mules. When the hot sun at mid-day blazed and burned, Like the red flame on Mauna Loa's top, Withering the grass and parching earth and air, I often saw him knapsacked and full-dressed, Drilling the raw recruits at double-quick; And yet he wore a patient countenance, And went about his duty earnestly As if it were a pleasure to obey.

"The month wore off and mad disaster came-- Gorging the blood of heroes at Ball's Bluff. 'Twas there the brave, unfaltering Baker fell Fighting despair between the jaws of death. Quenched was the flame that fired a thousand hearts; Hushed was the voice that shook the senate-walls, And rang defiance like a bugle-blast. Broad o'er the rugged mountains to the north Fell the incessant rain till, like a sea, Him and the deadly ambush of the foe The swollen river rolled and roared between. Brave Baker saw the peril, but not his The soul to shrink or falter, though he saw His death-warrant in his orders. Forth he led His proud brigade across the roaring chasm, Firm and unfaltering into the chasm of death. From morn till mid-day in a single boat Unfit, by companies, the fearless band Passed over the raging river; then advanced Upon the ambushed foe. We heard the roll Of volleys in the forest, and uprose, From out the wood, a cloud of battle-smoke. Then came the yell of foemen charging down Rank upon rank and furious. Hand to hand, The little band of heroes, flanked and pressed, Fought thrice their numbers; fearless Baker led In prodigies of valor; front and flank Volleyed the deadly rifles; in the rear The rapid, raging river rolled and roared. Along the Maryland shore a mile below, Eager to cross and reinforce our friends, Ten thousand soldiers lay upon their arms; And we had boats to spare. In all our ranks There was not one who did not comprehend The peril and the instant need of aid. Chafing we waited orders. We could see That Baker's men were fighting in retreat; For ever nearer o'er the forest rolled The smoke of battle. Orders came at last, And up along the shore our regiment ran, Eager to aid our comrades, but too late! Baker had fallen in the battle-front; He fought like Spartan and like Spartan fell Defiant, clutching at the throat of fate. Their leader lost, confusion followed fast; Wild panic and red slaughter swept the field. Powerless to saves we saw the farther shore Covered with wounded and wild fugitives-- Our own defeated and defenseless friends. Shattered and piled with wounded men the boat Pushed off to brave the river, while the foe Pressed on the charge with fury, and refused Mercy to the vanquished. Officers and men, Cheating the savage foemen of their spoils, Their flags and arms into the gurgling depths Despairing hurled, and following plunged amain. As numerous as the wild aquatic flocks That float in autumn on Lake Nepigon, The heads of swimmers moved upon the flood. And still upon the shore a Spartan few-- Shoulder to shoulder--back to back, as one-- Amid the din and clang of clashing steel, Surrounded held the swarming foes at bay. As in the pre-historic centuries-- Unnumbered ages ere the Pyramids-- Whereof we read on pre-diluvian bones And fretted flints in excavated caves, When savage men abode in rocky dens, And wrought their weapons from the fiery flint, And clothed their tawny thighs in lion-skins-- Before the mouth of some well-guarded cave, Where smoked the savory flesh of mammoth, came The great cave-bear unbidden to the feast. Around the monster swarm the brawny men, Wielding with sinewy arms and savage cries Their flinty spears and tomahawks of stone. Erect old bruin growls upon his foes, And swings with mighty power his ponderous paws-- Woe unto him who feels the crushing blow-- Till, bleeding from an hundred wounds and blind, With sudden plunge he falls at last, and dies Amid the shouts of his wild enemies. So fought the Spartan few, till one by one, They fell surrounded by a wall of foes. The river boiled beneath the storm of lead; Weighed down with wounded comrades many sunk, But more went down with bullets in their heads. O! it was pitiful. The outstretched hands Of men that erst had faced the battle-storm Unshaken, grasping now in wild despair, Wrung cries of pity from us. Vain our fire-- The range too long--it fell upon our friends; At which the foemen yelled their mad delight. A storm of bullets poured upon the boat, Mangling the mangled on her, till at last, Shattered and over-laden, suddenly She made a lurch to leeward and went down.

"A shallow boat lay moored upon the shore; Our gallant Colonel called for volunteers In mercy's name to man it and push out. But all could see the peril. Stout the heart Would dare to face the raging flood and fire, And to his call responded not a man-- Save Paul and one who perished at the helm. They went as if at bugle-call to drill; Their comrades said, 'They never will return.' Stoutly and steadily Paul rowed the boat Athwart the turbid river's sullen tide, And reached the wounded struggling in the flood. Bravely they worked away and lifted in The helpless till the boat would hold no more; Others they helped to holds upon the rails, Then pulled away the over-laden craft. We cheered them from the shore. The maddened foe With furious volleys answered--hitting oft The little craft of mercy--hands anon Let go their holds and sunk into the deep. And in that storm Paul's gallant comrade fell. Trimming his craft with caution Paul could make But little headway with a single oar-- Clutched in despair and madly wrenched away By drowning souls the other. Firm and cool Paul stood unscathed; then fell a sudden shower That broke his bended oar-stem at the blade. Down to the brink we crept and stretched our hands, And shouted, 'Overboard, Paul! and save yourself.'

"He stood a moment as if all were lost, Then caught the rope, and stretching forth his hand, Waved to the foe and plunged into the flood. Slowly he towed the clumsy craft and swam, Down-drifting with the rapid, rolling stream. Cheering him on adown the shore we ran; The current lent its aid and bore him in Toward us, and beyond the range at last Of foemen's fire he safely came to land, Mooring his boat amid a storm of cheers.

"Confined in hospital three days he lay Fatigued and feverous, but tender hands Nursed and restored him. Our old Colonel came And thanked him--patting Paul paternally-- And praised his daring. 'My brave boy,' he said, 'Had I a regiment of such men, by Jove! I'd hew a path to Richmond and to fame.' Paul made reply, and in his smile and tone Mingled a touch of sarcasm:

"'Thank you, sir; But let me add--I fear the wary foe Would nab your regiment napping on the field. You have forgotten, Colonel--not so fast-- I am the man that slept upon his post.' Our bluff old Colonel laughed and turned away; Ten minutes later came his kind reply-- A basketful of luxuries from his mess.

"Paul marched and fought and marched and fought again, Patient and earnest through the bootless toils And fiery trials of that dread campaign Upon the Peninsula. 'Twas fitly called 'Campaign of Battles.' Aye, it sorely pierced The scarred and bleeding nation, and drew blood Deep from her vitals till she shook and reeled, Like some huge giant staggering to his fall-- Blinded with blood, yet struggling with his soul, And stretching forth his ponderous, brawny arms, Like Samson in the Temple, to o'erwhelm And crush his mocking enemies in his fall.

"Ah, Malvern! you remember Malvern Hill-- That night of dreadful butchery! Round the top Of the entrenched summit, parked and aimed, Blazed like Vesuvius when he bellows fire And molten lava into the midnight heavens, An hundred crashing cannon, and the hill Shook to the thunder of the mighty guns, As ocean trembles to the bursting throes Of submarine volcanoes; and the shells From the embattled gun-boats--fiery fiends-- Shrieked on the night and through the ether hissed Like hell's infernals. Line supporting line, From base to summit round the blazing hill, Our infantry was posted. Crowned with fire, And zoned by many a burning, blazing belt From head to foot, and belching sulphurous flames, The embattled hill appeared a raging fiend-- The Lucifer of hell let loose to reign Over a world wrapt in the final fires.

"In solid columns massed our frenzied foes Beat out their life against the blazing hill-- Broke and re-formed and madly charged again, And thundered like the storm-lashed, furious sea Beating in vain against the solid cliffs. Foremost in from our veteran regiment Breasted the brunt of battle, but we bent Beneath the onsets as the red-hot bar Bends to the sledge, until our furious foes-- Mown as the withered prairie-grass is mown By wild October fires--fell back and left A field of bloody agony and death About the base, and victory on the hill.

"I lost a score of riflemen that night; My first lieutenant--his last battle over-- Lay cut in twain upon the battle-line. With lantern dim wide o'er the slaughter-field I searched at midnight for my wounded men, But chiefly searched for Paul. An hour or more I sought among the groaning and the dead, Stooping and to the dim light turning up The ghastly faces, till at last I found Him whom I sought, and on the outer line-- Feet to the foe and silent face to heaven-- Death pale and bleeding from a ragged wound Pleading with feeble voice to let him be And die upon the field, we bore him thence; And tenderly his comrades carried him, Sheltered with blankets, on the weary march At dead of night in dismal storm begun. We made a stand at Harrison's, and there With careful hands we laid him on a cot. Now I had learned to prize the noble boy; My heart was touched with pity. Patiently I watched o'er Paul and bathed his fevered brow, And pressed the cooling sponge upon his lips, And washed his wound and gave him nourishment. 'Twas all in vain, the surgeon said. I felt That I could save him and I kept my watch. A rib was crushed--beneath it one could see The throbbing vitals--torn as we supposed, But found unwounded. In his feverish sleep He often moaned and muttered mysteries, And, dreaming, spoke in low and tender tones As if some loved one sat beside his cot. I questioned him and sought the secret key To solve his mystery, but all in vain. A month of careful nursing turned the scale, And he began to gain upon his wound. Propt in his cot one evening as he sat And I sat by him, thus I questioned him: 'There is a mystery about your life That I would gladly fathom. Paul, I think You well may trust me, and I fain would hear The story of your life; right well I know There is a secret sorrow in your heart.'

"He turned his face and fixed his lustrous eyes Upon mine own inquiringly, and held His gaze upon me till his vacant stare Told me full well his thoughts had wandered back Into the depth of his own silent soul; Then he looked down and sadly smiled and said:

"'Captain, I have no history--not one page; My book of life is but a blotted blank. Let it be sealed; I would not open it, Even to one who saved a worthless life, Only to add a few more leaves in blank To the blank volume. All that I now am I offer to my country. If I live And from this cot walk forth, 'twill only be To march and fight and march and fight again,' Until a surer aim shall bring me down Where care and kindness can no more avail. Under our country's flag a soldier's death I hope to die and leave no name behind. My only wish is this--for what I am, Or have been, or have hoped to be, is now A blank misfortune. I will say no more.'

"I questioned Paul and pressed him further still To tell his story, but he only shook His head in silence sadly and lay back And closed his eyes and whispered--'All is blank.' That night he muttered often in his sleep; I could not catch the sense of what he said; I caught a name that he repeated oft-- _Pauline_--so softly whispered that I knew She was the blissful burden of his dreams.

"Two moons had waxed and waned, and Paul arose, Came to the camp and shared my tent and bed. While in the hospital he helpless lay-- To him unknown, and as the choice of all-- Came his promotion to the vacant rank Of him who fell at Malvern. But, alas, Say what we would he would not take the place. To us who importuned him, he replied: 'Comrades and friends, I did not join your ranks For honor or for profit. All I am-- A wreck perhaps of what I might have been-- I freely offer in our country's cause; And in her cause it is my wish to serve A private soldier; I aspire to naught But victory--and there be better men-- Braver and hardier--such should have the place.'

"His comrades cheered, but Paul, methought, was sad. One evening as he sat upon his couch, Communing with himself as he was wont, I stood before him; looking in his face, I said, '_Pauline_--her name is then, _Pauline_.' All of a sudden up he rose amazed, And looked upon me with such startled eyes That I was pained and feared that I had done A wrong to him whom I had learned to love. Then he sat down upon his couch and groaned, Pressing his hand upon his wound, and said: 'Captain, I pray you, tell me truthfully, Wherefore you speak that name.'

"I told him all That I had heard him mutter in his dreams. He listened calmly to the close and said: 'My friend, if you have any kind regard For me who suffer more than you may know, I pray you utter not that name again.' And thereupon he turned and hid his face.

"There was a mystery I might not fathom, There was a history I might not hear: Nor could I further press that saddened heart To pour its secret sorrow in my ears. Thereafter Paul was tenant of my tent-- Sat at my mess and slept upon my couch, Save when his duty called him from my side, And not a word escaped his lips or mine About his secret--yet how oft I found My eyes upon him and my bridled tongue Prone to a question; but that solemn face Forbade me and he wore his mystery.

"At that stern battle on Antietam's banks, Where gallant Hooker led the fierce attack, Paul bore a glorious part. Our starry flag, Before a whirlwind of terrific fire, Advancing proudly on the foe, went down. Grim death and pale-faced panic seized the ranks. Paul caught the flag and waving it aloft Rallied our regiment. He came out unscathed.

"At Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville he fought: Grim in disaster--bravest in defeat, He leaped not into danger without cause, Nor shrunk he from it though a gulf of fire, When duty bade him face it. All his aim-- To win the victory; applause and praise He almost hated; grimly he endured The fulsome flattery of his comrades nerved By his calm courage up to manlier deeds.

"I saw him angered once--if one might call His sullen silence anger--as by night Across the Rappahannock, from the field Where brave and gallant 'Stonewall' Jackson fell, With hopeless hearts and heavy steps we marched. Such sullen wrath on other human face I never saw in all those bloody years. One evening after, as he read to me The fulsome General Order of our Chief-- Congratulating officers and men On their achievements in the late defeat-- His handsome face grew rigid as he read, And as he closed, down like a thunder-clap Upon the mess-chest fell his clinched fist: 'Fit pap for fools!' he said--'an Iron Duke Had ground the Southern legions into dust, Or, by the gods!--the field of Chancellorsville Had furnished graves for ninety thousand men!'[B]

"That dark disaster sickened many a soul; Stout hearts were sad and cowards cried for peace. The vulture, perched hard by the eagle's crag, Loud cawed his fellows from afar to feast. Ill-omened bird--his carrion-cries were vain! Again our veteran eagles plumed their wings, And forth he fled from Montezuma's shores-- A dastard flight--betraying unto death Him whom he dazzled with a bauble crown. Just retribution followed swift and sure-- Germania's eagles plucked him at Sedan. A gloomy month wore off, and then the news That Lee, emboldened by his late success, Had poured his legions upon Northern soil, Rung through the camps, and thrilled the mighty heart Of the Grand Army. Louder than the roar Of brazen cannon on the battle-field. Then rose and rolled our thunder-rounds of cheers.

[B] Hooker had 90,000 men at Chancellorsville.

We saw the dawn of victory--we should meet Our wary foe upon familiar soil. We cheered the news, we cheered the marching-orders, We cheered our brave commander till the tears Ran down his cheeks. Up from its sullen gloom Leaped the Grand Army, as if God had writ With fiery finger 'thwart the vault of heaven A solemn promise of swift victory.

"We marched. As rolls the deep, resistless flood Of Mississippi, when the rains of June Have swelled his thousand northern fountain-lakes Above their barriers--rolls with restless roar, Anon through rock-built gorges, and anon Down through the prairied valley to the sea, Gleaming and glittering in the summer sun, By field and forest on his winding way, So stretched and rolled the mighty column forth, Winding among the hills and pouring out Along the vernal valleys; so the sheen Of moving bayonets glittered in the sun. And as we marched there rolled upon the air, Up from the vanguard-corps, a choral chant, Feeble at first and far and far away, But gathering volume as it rolled along And regiment after regiment joined the choir, Until an hundred thousand voices swelled The surging chorus, and the solid hills Shook to the thunder of the mighty song. And ere it died away along the line, The hill-tops caught the chorus--rolled away From peak to peak the pealing thunder-chant, Clear as the chime of bells on Sabbath morn:

"'John Brown's body lies moldering in the grave;
John Brown's body lies moldering in the grave;
John Brown's body lies moldering in the grave;
But his soul is marching on.
Glory, Glory, Halleluia!
Glory, Glory, Halleluia!
Glory, Glory, Halleluia!
His soul is marching on!'

"And far away
The mountains echoed and re-echoed still--
"'_Glory, Glory, Halleluia!
Glory, Glory, Halleluia!
Glory, Glory, Halleluia!
His soul is marching on!'_

"Until the winds Bore the retreating echoes southward far, And the dull distance murmured in our ears.

"Fast by the field where gallant Baker fell, We crossed the famous river and advanced To Frederick. There a transitory cloud Gloomed the Grand Army--Hooker was relieved: Fell from command at victory's open gate The dashing, daring, soul-inspiring chief, The idol of his soldiers, and they mourned. He had his faults--they were not faults of heart-- His gravest--fiery valor. Since that day, The self-same fault--or virtue--crowned a chief With laurel plucked on rugged Kenesaw. Envy it was that wrought the hero's fall, Envy, with hydra-heads and serpent-tongues, Hissed on the wolfish clamors of the Press. O fickle Fortune, how thy favors fall-- Like rain upon the just and the unjust! Throughout the army, as the soldiers read The farewell-order, gloomy murmurs ran; But our new chieftain cheered our drooping hearts.

"That Meade would choose his battle-ground we knew, And if not his the gallant dash and dare That on Antietam's bloody battle-field Snatched victory from defeat, our faith was firm That he would fight to win, and hold the reins Firmly in hand, nor sacrifice our lives In wild assaults and fruitless daring deeds.

"From Taneytown, at mid-day, on the hills Of Gettysburg we heard the cannon boom. Our gallant Hancock rode full speed away; We under Gibbon swiftly following him At midnight camped on Cemetery Hill. Sharp the initial combat of the grand On-coming battle, and the sulphurous smoke Hung in blue wreaths above the silent vale Between two hostile armies, mightier far Than met upon the field of Marathon. Or where the proud Carthago bowed to Rome. Hope of the North and Liberty--the one; Pride of the South--the other. On the hills-- A rolling range of rugged, broken hills, Stretching from Round-Top northward, bending off And butting down upon a silver stream-- In open field our veteran regiments lay. Facing our battle-line and parallel-- Beyond the golden valley to the west-- Lay Seminary Ridge--a crest of hills Covered with emerald groves and fields of gold Ripe for the harvest: on this rolling range, As numerous as the swarming ocean-fowl That perch in squadrons on some barren isle Far in the Arctic sea when summer's sun With slanting spears invades the icy realm, The Southern legions lay upon their arms. As countless as the winter-evening stars That glint and glow above the frosted fields Twinkled and blazed upon that crest of hills The camp-fires of the foe. Two mighty hosts, Ready and panoplied for deadliest war, And eager for the combat where the prize Of victory was empire--for the foe An empire borne upon the bended backs Of toiling slaves in millions--but for us, An empire grounded on the rights of man-- Lay on their arms awaiting innocent morn To light the field for slaughter to begin.

"Silent above us spread the dusky heavens, Silent below us lay the smoky vale, Silent beyond, the dreadful crest of hills. Anon the neigh of horse, a sentry's call, Or rapid hoof-beats of a flying steed Bearing an aid and orders, broke the dread, Portentous silence. I was worn and slept.