Part 3
High on the hills of Hingham that overlook the shore, To watch the fray and hope and pray, for they could do no more, The children of the country watched the children of the sea When the smoke drove hard to windward and drifted back to lee.
“How can he fight,” they whispered, “with only half a crew, Though they be rare to do and dare, yet what can brave men do?” But when the _Chesapeake_ came down, the Stars and Stripes on high, Stilled was each fear, and cheer on cheer resounded to the sky.
The captain of the _Shannon_, he swore both long and loud: “This victory, where’er it be, shall make two nations proud! Now onward to this victory or downward to defeat! A sailor’s life is sweet with strife, a sailor’s death as sweet.”
And as when lightnings rend the sky and gloomy thunders roar, And crashing surge plays devil’s dirge upon the stricken shore, With thunder and with sheets of flame the two ships rang with shot, And every gun burst forth a sun of iron crimson-hot.
And twice they lashed together and twice they tore apart, And iron balls burst wooden walls and pierced each oaken heart. Still from the hills of Hingham men watched with hopes and fears, While all the bay was torn that day with shot that rained like tears.
The tall masts of the _Chesapeake_ went groaning by the board; The _Shannon’s_ spars were weak with scars when Broke cast down his sword: “Now woe,” he cried, “to England, and shame and woe to me!” The smoke drove hard to windward and drifted back to lee.
“Give them one breaking broadside more,” he cried, “before we strike!” But one grim ball that ruined all for hope and home alike Laid Lawrence low in glory, yet from his pallid lip Rang to the land his last command: “Boys, don’t give up the ship!”
* * * * *
The wounded wept like women when they hauled her ensign down. Men’s cheeks were pale as with the tale from Hingham to the town They hurried swift in silence, while toward the eastern night The victor bore away from shore and vanished out of sight.
Hail to the great ship _Chesapeake_! Hail to the hero brave Who fought her fast, and loved her last, and shared her sudden grave! And glory be to those that died, for all eternity; They lie apart at the mother-heart of God’s eternal sea.
THOMAS TRACY BOUVÉ.
(By special permission of the author, and of _The Youth’s Companion_.)
12
THE FIGHT OF THE “ARMSTRONG” PRIVATEER
Tell the story to your sons Of the gallant days of yore, When the brig of seven guns Fought the fleet of seven score, From the set of sun till morn, through the long September night-- Ninety men against two thousand, and the ninety won the fight In the harbor of Fayal the Azore.
Three lofty British ships came a-sailing to Fayal: One was a line-of-battle ship, and two were frigates tall; Nelson’s valiant men of war, brave as Britons ever are, Manned the guns they served so well at Aboukir and Trafalgar. Lord Dundonald and his fleet at Jamaica far away Waited eager for their coming, fretted sore at their delay. There was loot for British valor on the Mississippi coast In the beauty and the booty that the Creole cities boast; There were rebel knaves to swing, there were prisoners to bring Home in fetters to old England for the glory of the King!
At the setting of the sun and the ebbing of the tide Came the great ships one by one, with their portals opened wide, And their cannon frowning down on the castle and the town And the privateer that lay close inside; Came the eighteen-gun _Carnation_, and the _Rota_, forty-four, And the triple-decked _Plantagenet_ an Admiral’s pennon bore; And the privateer grew smaller as their topmasts towered taller, And she bent her springs and anchored by the castle on the shore.
Spoke the noble Portuguese to the stranger: “Have no fear; They are neutral waters these, and your ship is sacred here As if fifty stout armadas stood to shelter you from harm, For the honor of the Briton will defend you from his arm.” But the privateersman said, “Well we know the Englishmen, And their faith is written red in the Dartmoor slaughter-pen. Come what fortune God may send, we will fight them to the end, And the mercy of the sharks may spare us then.”
“Seize the pirate where she lies!” cried the English Admiral: “If the Portuguese protect her, all the worse for Portugal!” And four launches at his bidding leaped impatient for the fray, Speeding shoreward where the _Armstrong_, grim and dark and ready, lay. Twice she hailed and gave them warning; but the feeble menace scorning, On they came in splendid silence, till a cable’s length away. Then the Yankee pivot spoke; Pico’s thousand echoes woke; And four baffled, beaten launches drifted helpless on the bay.
Then the wrath of Lloyd arose till the lion roared again, And he called out all his launches and he called five hundred men; And he gave the word “No quarter!” and he sent them forth to smite. Heaven help the foe before him when the Briton comes in might! Heaven helped the little _Armstrong_ in her hour of bitter need; God Almighty nerved the heart and guided well the arm of Reid.
Launches to port and starboard, launches forward and aft, Fourteen launches together striking the little craft. They hacked at the boarding-nettings, they swarmed above the rail; But the Long Tom roared from his pivot and the grapeshot fell like hail; Pike and pistol and cutlass, and hearts that knew not fear, Bulwarks of brawn and mettle, guarded the privateer. And ever where fight was fiercest the form of Reid was seen: Ever where foes drew nearest, his quick sword fell between. Once in the deadly strife The boarder’s leader pressed Forward of all the rest Challenging life for life; But ere their blades had crossed A dying sailor tossed His pistol to Reid, and cried, “Now riddle the lubber’s hide!” But the privateersman laughed, and flung the weapon aside, And he drove his blade to the hilt, and the foeman gasped and died. Then the boarders took to their launches, laden with hurt and dead, But little with glory burdened, and out of the battle fled.
Now the tide was at flood again, and the night was almost done, When the sloop-of-war came up with her odds of two to one, And she opened fire; but the _Armstrong_ answered her, gun for gun, And the gay _Carnation_ wilted in half an hour of sun.
Then the _Armstrong_, looking seaward, saw the mighty seventy-four, With her triple tier of cannon, drawing slowly to the shore. And the dauntless captain said: “Take our wounded and our dead, Bear them tenderly to land, for the _Armstrong’s_ days are o’er; But no foe shall tread her deck, and no flag above it wave-- To the ship that saved our honor we will give a shipman’s grave.” So they did as he commanded, and they bore their mates to land With the figurehead of Armstrong and the good sword in his hand. Then they turned the Long Tom downward, and they pierced her oaken side, And they cheered her, and they blessed her, and they sunk her in the tide. Tell the story to your sons, When the haughty stranger boasts Of his mighty ships and guns And the muster of his hosts, How the word of God was witnessed in the gallant days of yore When the twenty fled from one ere the rising of the sun, In the harbor of Fayal the Azore!
JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.
(By special permission of the author, and of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.)
13
THE MEN OF THE ALAMO
To Houston at Gonzales town, ride, Ranger, for your life, Nor stop to say good-by to-day to home, or child, or wife; But pass the word from ranch to ranch, to every Texan sword, That fifty hundred Mexicans have crossed the Nueces ford, With Castrillon and perjured Cos, Sesmá and Almontê, And Santa Anna ravenous for vengeance and for prey! They smite the land with fire and sword; the grass shall never grow Where northward sweeps that locust horde on San Antonio!
Now who will bar the foeman’s path, to gain a breathing space, Till Houston and his scattered men shall meet him face to face? Who holds his life as less than naught when home and honor call, And counts the guerdon full and fair for liberty to fall? Oh, who but Barrett Travis, the bravest of them all! With seven score of riflemen to play the rancher’s game, And feed a counter-fire to halt the sweeping prairie flame; For Bowie of the broken blade is there to cheer them on, With Evans of Concepcion, who conquered Castrillon, And o’er their heads the Lone Star flag defiant floats on high, And no man thinks of yielding, and no man fears to die.
But ere the siege is held a week a cry is heard without, A clash of arms, a rifle peal, the Ranger’s ringing shout, And two-and-thirty beardless boys have bravely hewed their way To die with Travis if they must, to conquer if they may. Was ever valor held so cheap in Glory’s mart before In all the days of chivalry, in all the deeds of war? But once again the foemen gaze in wonderment and fear To see a stranger break their lines and hear the Texans cheer. God! how they cheered to welcome him, those spent and starving men! For Davy Crockett by their side was worth an army then. The wounded ones forgot their wounds; the dying drew a breath To hail the king of border men, then turned to laugh at death. For all knew Davy Crockett, blithe and generous as bold, And strong and rugged as the quartz that hides its heart of gold. His simple creed for word or deed true as the bullet sped, And rung the target straight: “Be sure you’re right, then go ahead!”
And were they right who fought the fight for Texas by his side? They questioned not; they faltered not; they only fought and died. Who hath an enemy like these, God’s mercy slay him straight!-- A thousand Mexicans lay dead outside the convent gate, And half a thousand more must die before the fortress falls, And still the tide of war beats high around the leaguered walls. At last the bloody breach is won; the weakened lines give way; The wolves are swarming in the court; the lions stand at bay. The leader meets them at the breach, and wins the soldier’s prize; A foeman’s bosom sheathes his sword when gallant Travis dies. Now let the victor feast at will until his crest be red-- We may not know what raptures fill the vulture with the dead.
Let Santa Anna’s valiant sword right bravely hew and hack The senseless corse; its hands are cold; they will not strike him back. Let Bowie die, but ’ware the hand that wields his deadly knife; Four went to slay, and one comes back, so dear he sells his life. And last of all let Crockett fall, too proud to sue for grace, So grand in death the butcher dared not look upon his face.
But far on San Jacinto’s field the Texan toils are set, And Alamo’s dread memory the Texan steel shall whet. And Fame shall tell their deeds who fell till all the years be run. “Thermopylæ left one alive--the Alamo left none.”
JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.
(By special permission of the author, and of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.)
14
THE FIGHT AT THE SAN JACINTO
“Now for a brisk and a cheerful fight!” Said Harman, big and droll, As he coaxed his flint and steel for a light, And puffed at his cold clay bowl; “For we are a skulking lot,” says he, “Of land-thieves hereabout, And the bold señores, two to one, Have come to smoke us out.”
Santa Anna and Castrillon, Almontê brave and gay, Portilla red from Goliad, And Cos with his smart array. Dulces and cigaritos, And the light guitar, ting-tum! Sant’ Anna courts siesta-- And Sam Houston taps his drum.
The buck stands still in the timber-- “Is it patter of nuts that fall?” The foal of the wild mare whinnies-- “Did he hear the Comanche call?” In the brake by the crawling bayou The slinking she-wolves howl, And the mustang’s snort in the river sedge Has startled the paddling fowl.
A soft low tap, and a muffled tap, And a roll not loud nor long-- We would not break Sant’ Anna’s nap, Nor spoil Almontê’s song. Saddles and knives and rifles! Lord! but the men were glad When Deaf Smith muttered “Alamo!” And Karnes hissed “Goliad!”
The drummer tucked his sticks in his belt, And the fifer gripped his gun. Oh, for one free, wild Texan yell, And we took the slope in a run! But never a shout nor a shot we spent, Nor an oath nor a prayer that day, Till we faced the bravos, eye to eye, And then we blazed away.
Then we knew the rapture of Ben Milam, And the glory that Travis made, With Bowie’s lunge and Crockett’s shot, And Fannin’s dancing blade; And the heart of the fighter, bounding free In his joy so hot and mad-- When Millard charged for Alamo, Lamar for Goliad.
Deaf Smith rode straight, with reeking spur, Into the shock and rout: “I’ve hacked and burned the bayou bridge, There’s no sneak’s back-way out!” Muzzle or butt for Goliad, Pistol and blade and fist! Oh, for the knife that never glanced, And the gun that never missed!
Dulces and cigaritos, Song and the mandolin! That gory swamp was a gruesome grove To dance fandangos in. We bridged the bog with the sprawling herd That fell in that frantic rout; We slew and slew till the sun set red, And the Texan star flashed out.
JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.
(By special permission of the author, and of Herbert S. Stone and Company.)
15
MONTEREY
We were not many--we who stood Before the iron sleet that day; Yet many a gallant spirit would Give half his years if he but could Have been with us at Monterey.
Now here, now there, the shot it hailed In deadly drifts of fiery spray, Yet not a single soldier quailed When wounded comrades round them wailed Their dying shout at Monterey.
And on, still on, our column kept, Through walls of flame, its withering way; Where fell the dead the living stept, Still charging on the guns which swept The slippery streets of Monterey.
The foe himself recoiled aghast, When, striking where he strongest lay, We swooped his flanking batteries past, And, braving full their murderous blast, Stormed home the towers of Monterey.
Our banners on those turrets wave, And there our evening bugles play, Where orange boughs above their grave Keep green the memory of the brave Who fought and fell at Monterey.
We are not many--we who pressed Beside the brave who fell that day; But who of us has not confessed He’d rather share their warrior rest Than not have been at Monterey?
CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.
16
THE DEFENSE OF LAWRENCE
All night upon the guarded hill, Until the stars were low, Wrapped round as with Jehovah’s will, We waited for the foe; All night the silent sentinels Moved by like gliding ghosts; All night the fancied warning bells Held all men to their posts.
We heard the sleeping prairies breathe, The forest’s human moans, The hungry gnashing of the teeth Of wolves on bleaching bones; We marked the roar of rushing fires, The neigh of frightened steeds, The voices as of far-off lyres Among the river reeds.
We were but thirty-nine who lay Beside our rifles then; We were but thirty-nine, and they Were twenty hundred men. Our lean limbs shook and reeled about, Our feet were gashed and bare, And all the breezes shredded out Our garments in the air.
* * * * *
They came: the blessed Sabbath day, That soothed our swollen veins, Like God’s sweet benediction, lay On all the singing plains; The valleys shouted to the sun, The great woods clapped their hands, And joy and glory seemed to run Like rivers through the lands.
And then our daughters and our wives, And men whose heads were white, Rose sudden into kingly lives And walked forth to the fight; And we drew aim along our guns And calmed our quickening breath, Then, as is meet for Freedom’s sons, Shook loving hands with Death.
And when three hundred of the foe Rode up in scorn and pride, Whoso had watched us then might know That God was on our side; For all at once a mighty thrill Of grandeur through us swept, And strong and swiftly down the hill Like Gideons we leapt.
And all throughout that Sabbath day A wall of fire we stood, And held the baffled foe at bay, And streaked the ground with blood. And when the sun was very low They wheeled their stricken flanks, And passed on, wearily and slow, Beyond the river banks.
Beneath the everlasting stars We bended child-like knees, And thanked God for the shining scars Of His large victories. And some, who lingered, said they heard Such wondrous music pass As though a seraph’s voice had stirred The pulses of the grass.
RICHARD REALF.
(From _Poems_, by Richard Realf. Copyright, Funk and Wagnalls Company, 1898. By special permission.)
17
BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER
Ebbed and flowed the muddy Pei-Ho by the Gulf of Pechi-Li, Near its waters swung the yellow dragon-flag; Past the batteries of China, looking westward we could see Lazy junks along the lazy river lag; Villagers in near-by Ta-Kou toiled beneath their humble star, On the flats the ugly mud-fort lay and dreamed; While the _Powhatan_ swung slowly at her station by the bar, While the _Toey-Wan_ with Tattnall onward steamed.
Lazy East and lazy river, fort of mud in lazy June, English gunboats through the waters slowly fare, With the dragon-flag scarce moving in the lazy afternoon O’er the mud-heap storing venom in the glare. We were on our way to Pekin, to the Son of Heaven’s throne, White with peace was all our mission to his court; Peaceful, too, the English vessels on the turbid waters strown, Seeking passage up to Pekin past the fort.
By the bar lay half the English, while the rest with gallant Hope Wrestled with the slipping ebb-tide up the stream; They had cleared the Chinese irons, reached the doubled chain and rope Where the ugly mud-fort scowled upon their beam;-- Crash! the heavens split asunder with the thunder of the fight As the hateful dragon made its faith a mock; Every cannon spat its perfidy, each casemate blazed its spite, Dashing down upon the English, shock on shock.
In his courage Rason perished, bold McKenna fought and fell, Scores were dying as they’d lived, like valiant men; And the meteor flag that upward prayed to heaven from that hell Wept below for those who ne’er should weep again. Far away the English launches near the _Powhatan_ swung slow, All despairing, useless, out of reach of war, Saw their comrades in the battle, saw them reel beneath the blow, Lying helpless ’gainst the ebb-tide by the bar.
On the _Toey-Wan_ stood Tattnall, Stephen Trenchard at his side,-- “Old Man” Tattnall, he who dared at Vera Cruz,-- Saw here, crippled by the cannon, saw there, throttled by the tide, Men of English blood and speech: Could he refuse? “I’ll be damned,” says he to Trenchard, “if ‘Old’ Tattnall’s standing by Seeing white men butchered here by such a foe! Where’s my barge? No side-arms, mind you! See the English fight and die! Blood is thicker, sir, than water. Let us go!”
Quick we man the barge, and quicker plunge into that devil’s-brew-- “An official call,” and Tattnall went in state: Trenchard’s hurt, our flag in ribbons, and the lunging boat shot through, Hart, our coxswain, dies beneath the Chinese hate; But the cheers those English give us as we gain their Admiral’s ship Make the shattered barge and weary arms seem light-- Then the rare smile from “Old” Tattnall and Hope’s hearty word and grip, Bleeding though he was, and brave in hell’s despite.
Tattnall nods and we go forward, find a gun no longer fought-- What is peace to us, when all its crew lie dead? One bright English lad brings powder and a wounded man brings shot, And we scotch that Chinese dragon, tail and head. Hands are shaken, faith is plighted, sounds our captain’s cheery call; In a borrowed boat we speed us fast and far, And the _Toey-Wan_ and Tattnall down the ebb-tide slide and fall To the launches lying moaning by the bar.
Eager for an English vengeance, battle light on every face, See, the Clustered Stars lead on the Triple Cross! Cheering, swinging into action, valiant Hope takes heart of grace From the cannons’ cloudy roar, the lanyards’ toss. How they fought, those fighting English! how they cheered the _Toey-Wan_, Cheered our sailors, cheered “Old” Tattnall, grim and gray! And their cheers ring down the ages as they rang beneath the sun O’er those bubbling, troubled waters far away.
Ebbs and flows the muddy Pei-Ho by the Gulf of Pechi-Li, Idly floats beside the stream the dragon-flag; Past the batteries of China, looking westward still you see Lazy junks along the lazy river lag. Let the long, long years drop slowly on that lost and ancient land, Ever dear one scene to hearts of gallant men: There’s a hand-clasp and a heart-throb, there’s a word we understand-- “Blood is thicker, sir, than water,” now as then.
WALLACE RICE.
(By special permission of the author.)
18
BETHEL
We mustered at midnight, in darkness we formed, And the whisper went round of a fort to be stormed; But no drum-beat had called us, no trumpet we heard, And no voice of command but our colonel’s low word-- “_Column! Forward!_”
And out, through the mist and the murk of the morn, From the beaches of Hampton our barges were borne; And we heard not a sound save the sweep of the oar, Till the word of our colonel came up from the shore-- “_Column! Forward!_”
With hearts bounding bravely and eyes all alight, As ye dance to soft music, so trod we that night; Through the aisles of the greenwood, with vines overarched, Tossing dew-drops like gems from our feet, as we marched-- “_Column! Forward!_”
As ye dance with the damsels to viol and flute, So we skipped from the shadows and mocked their pursuit; But the soft zephyrs chased us, with scents of the morn, As we passed by the hayfields and green waving corn-- “_Column! Forward!_”
For the leaves were all laden with fragrance of June, And the flowers and the foliage with sweets were in tune; And the air was so calm, and the forest so dumb, That we heard our own heart-beats like taps of a drum-- “_Column! Forward!_”
Till the lull of the lowlands was stirred by a breeze, And the buskins of morn brushed the tops of the trees, And the glintings of glory that slid from her track By the sheen of our rifles were gayly flung back-- “_Column! Forward!_”
And the woodlands grew purple with sunshiny mist, And the blue-crested hill-tops with rose-light were kissed, And the earth gave her prayers to the sun in perfumes, Till we marched as through gardens, and trampled on blooms-- “_Column! Forward!_”