Part 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AUGUSTINE JOSEPH HICKEY DUGANNE.

19

THE CHARGE BY THE FORD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

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

20

THE LITTLE DRUMMER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

(By special permission of the author.)

21

THE CUMBERLAND

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

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

22

JOHNSTON AT SHILOH

A CONFEDERATE SOLDIER’S STORY

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

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

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

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

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

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

FLEMING JAMES.

23

THE RIVER FIGHT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

24

KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES

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

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

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

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

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

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

25

AN UNKNOWN HERO

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

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

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

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

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

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

WILLIAM GORDON MCCABE.

26

BARBARA FRIETCHIE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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