Part 6
Close at his elbows all that day, Veterans of the Peninsula, Sunburnt and bearded, charged away; And striplings, downy of lip and chin,-- Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in,-- Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore, Then at the rifle his right hand bore; And hailed him, from out their youthful lore, With scraps of a slangy _répertoire_: “How are you, White Hat!” “Put her through!” “Your head’s level,” and “Bully for you!” Called him “Daddy,”--begged he’d disclose The name of the tailor who made his clothes, And what was the value he set on those; While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff, Stood there picking the rebels off,-- With his long brown rifle, and bell-crowned hat, And swallow-tails they were laughing at.
’Twas but a moment, for that respect Which clothes all courage their voices checked; And something the wildest could understand Spoke in the old man’s strong right hand; And his corded throat, and the lurking frown Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown; Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw, In the antique vestments and long white hair, The Past of the Nation in battle there; And some of the soldiers since declare That the gleam of his old white hat afar, Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, That day was their oriflamme of war.
So raged the battle. You know the rest: How the rebels beaten and backward pressed, Broke at the final charge, and ran. At which John Burns--a practical man-- Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows, And then went back to his bees and cows. That is the story of old John Burns; This is the moral the reader learns: In fighting the battle, the question’s whether You show a hat that’s white, or a feather!
BRET HARTE.
(By special permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.)
36
HIGH TIDE AT GETTYSBURG
A cloud possessed the hollow field, The gathering battle’s smoky shield. Athwart the gloom the lightning flashed, And through the cloud some horsemen dashed, And from the heights the thunder pealed.
Then at the brief command of Lee Moved out that matchless infantry, With Pickett leading grandly down, To rush against the roaring crown Of those dread heights of destiny.
Far heard above the angry guns A cry across the tumult runs,-- The voice that rang through Shiloh’s woods And Chickamauga’s solitudes, The fierce South cheering on her sons!
Ah, how the withering tempest blew Against the front of Pettigrew! A Kamsin wind that scorched and singed Like that infernal flame that fringed The British squares at Waterloo!
A thousand fell where Kemper led; A thousand died where Garnett bled: In blinding flame and strangling smoke The remnant through the batteries broke And crossed the works with Armistead.
“Once more in Glory’s van with me!” Virginia cried to Tennessee: “We two together, come what may, Shall stand upon these works to-day!” (The reddest day in history.)
Brave Tennessee! In reckless way Virginia heard her comrade say: “Close round this rent and riddled rag!” What time she set her battle-flag Amid the guns of Doubleday.
But who shall break the guards that wait Before the awful face of Fate? The tattered standards of the South Were shriveled at the cannon’s mouth, And all her hopes were desolate.
In vain the Tennesseean set His breast against the bayonet! In vain Virginia charged and raged, A tigress in her wrath uncaged, Till all the hill was red and wet!
Above the bayonets, mixed and crossed, Men saw a gray, gigantic ghost Receding through the battle-cloud, And heard across the tempest loud The death-cry of a nation lost!
The brave went down! Without disgrace They leaped to Ruin’s red embrace. They only heard Fame’s thunders wake, And saw the dazzling sun-burst break In smiles on Glory’s bloody face!
They fell, who lifted up a hand And bade the sun in heaven to stand! They smote and fell, who set the bars Against the progress of the stars, And stayed the march of Motherland!
They stood, who saw the future come On through the fight’s delirium! They smote and stood, who held the hope Of nations on that slippery slope Amid the cheers of Christendom!
God lives! He forged the iron will That clutched and held that trembling hill. God lives and reigns! He built and lent The heights for Freedom’s battlement Where floats her flag in triumph still!
Fold up the banners! Smelt the guns! Love rules. Her gentler purpose runs, A mighty mother turns in tears The pages of her battle years, Lamenting all her fallen sons!
WILL HENRY THOMPSON.
(By special permission of the author, and of The Century Company.)
37
THOMAS AT CHICKAMAUGA
It was that fierce contested field when Chickamauga lay Beneath the wild tornado that swept her pride away; Her dimpling dales and circling hills dyed crimson with the flood That had its sources in the springs that throb with human blood.
“_Go say to General Hooker to reinforce his right!_” Said Thomas to his aide-de-camp, when wildly went the fight; In front the battle thundered, it roared both right and left, But like a rock “Pap” Thomas stood upon the crested cleft.
“_Where will I find you, General, when I return?_” The aide Leaned on his bridle rein to wait the answer Thomas made; The old chief like a lion turned, his pale lips set and sere, And shook his mane, and stamped his foot, and fiercely answered, “_Here!_”
The floodtide of fraternal strife rolled upward to his feet, And like the breakers on the shore the thunderous clamors beat; The sad earth rocked and reeled with woe, the woodland shrieked in pain, And hill and vale were groaning with the burden of the slain.
Who does not mind that sturdy form, that steady heart and hand, That calm repose and gallant mien, that courage high and grand?-- O God, who givest nations men to meet their lofty needs, Vouchsafe another Thomas when our country prostrate bleeds!
They fought with all the fortitude of earnest men and true-- The men who wore the rebel gray, the men who wore the blue; And those, they fought most valiantly for petty state and clan, And these, for truer Union and the brotherhood of man.
They come, those hurling legions, with banners crimson-splashed, Against our stubborn columns their rushing ranks are dashed, Till ’neath the blistering iron hail the shy and frightened deer Go scurrying from their forest haunts to plunge in wilder fear.
Beyond, our lines are broken; and now in frenzied rout The flower of the Cumberland has swiftly faced about; And horse and foot and color-guard are reeling, rear and van, And in the awful panic man forgets he is a man.
Now Bragg, with pride exultant above our broken wings, The might of all his army against “Pap” Thomas brings; They’re massing to the right of him, they’re massing to the left, Ah, God be with our hero, who holds the crested cleft!
Blow, blow, ye echoing bugles! give answer, screaming shell! Go, belch your murderous fury, ye batteries of hell! Ring out, O impious musket! spin on, O shattering shot,-- Our smoke-encircled hero, he hears but heeds ye not!
Now steady, men! now steady! make one more valiant stand, For gallant Steedman’s coming, his forces well in hand! Close up your shattered columns, take steady aim and true, The chief who loves you as his life will live or die with you!
By solid columns, on they come; by columns they are hurled, As down the eddying rapids the storm-swept booms are whirled; And when the ammunition fails--O moment drear and dread-- The heroes load their blackened guns from rounds of soldiers dead.
God never set His signet on the hearts of braver men, Or fixed the goal of victory on higher heights than then; With bayonets and muskets clubbed, they close the rush and roar; Their stepping-stones to glory are their comrades gone before.
O vanished majesty of days not all forgotten yet, We consecrate unto thy praise one hour of deep regret; One hour to them whose days were years of glory that shall flood The Nation’s sombre night of tears, of carnage, and of blood!
* * * * *
O vanished majesty of days! Rise, type and mold to-day, And teach our sons to follow on where duty leads the way; That whatsoever trial comes, defying doubt and fear, They in the thickest fight shall stand and proudly answer, “_Here!_”
KATE BROWNLEE SHERWOOD.
(By special permission of the author.)
38
THE SMALLEST OF THE DRUMS
When the opulence of summer unto wood and meadow comes, And within the tangled graveyard riot old-time spice and bloom, Then dear Nature brings her tribute to “the smallest of the drums,” Spreads the sweetest of her blossoms on the little soldier’s tomb.
In the quiet country village, still they tell you how he died; And the story moves you strangely, more than other tales of war. Thrice heroic seems the hero, if he be a child beside, And the wound that tears his bosom is more sad than others far.
In the ranks of Sherman’s army none so young and small as he, With his face so soft and dimpled, and his innocent blue eyes. Yet of all the Union drummers he could drum most skillfully, With a spirit--said his colonel--fit to make the dead arise!
In the charge at Chickamauga (so, beside his little grave, You may learn the hero’s story of some villager, perchance), When his regiment sank, broken, from the rampart, like a wave, Thrice the clangor of his drum-beat rallied to a fresh advance.
There he stood upon the hillside, capless, with his shining hair Blown about his childish forehead like the bright silk of the corn; And the men looked up, and saw him standing brave and scathless there, As an angel on a hilltop, in the drifting mist ofmorn.
Thrice they rallied at his drum-beat,--then the tattered flag went down! Some one caught it, waved it skyward for a moment, and then fell. In the dust, and gore, and drabble, all the stars of freedom’s crown, And the soldiers beaten backward from the emblem loved so well!
Then our drummer boy, our hero, from his neck the drum-cord flung, And amid the hail of bullets to the fallen banner sped. Quick he raised it from dishonor; quick before them all he sprung, And in fearless, proud defiance, waved the old flag o’er his head!
For a minute’s space the cheering, louder than the singing balls, And the soldiers pressing forward, closing up their broken line! Then the child’s bright head, death-stricken, on his throbbing bosom falls, And the brave eyes that God lighted cease with life and soul to shine.
In the flag he saved they wrapped him; in that starry shroud he lies, And the roses, and the lilacs, and the daisies seem to know; For in all that peaceful acre, sleeping ’neath the summer skies, There is neither mound nor tablet that is wreathed and guarded so!
JAMES BUCKHAM.
(By special permission of the author.)
39
LITTLE GIFFEN
Out of the focal and foremost fire, Out of the hospital walls as dire; Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene, (Eighteenth battle, and _he_ sixteen!) Spectre, such as you seldom see!-- Little Giffen of Tennessee!
“Take him and welcome!” the surgeons said; Little the doctor can help the dead! So we took him; and brought him where The balm was sweet in the summer air; And we laid him down on a wholesome bed-- Utter Lazarus, heel to head!
And we watched the war with bated breath,-- Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death. Months of torture, how many such? Weary weeks of the stick and crutch; And still a glint of the steel-blue eye Told of a spirit that wouldn’t die,
And didn’t. Nay, more! in death’s despite The crippled skeleton “learned to write.” “_Dear Mother_,” at first, of course; and then “_Dear Captain_,” inquiring about the men. Captain’s answer: “Of eighty-and-five, Giffen and I are left alive.”
Word of gloom from the war, one day; Johnson pressed at the front, they say. Little Giffen was up and away; A tear--his first--as he bade good-by, Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye. “I’ll write, if spared!” There was news of the fight; But none of Giffen.--He did not write.
I sometimes fancy that, were I king Of the princely Knights of the Golden Ring, With the song of the minstrel in mine ear, And the tender legend that trembles here, I’d give the best on his bended knee, The whitest soul of my chivalry, For “Little Giffen” of Tennessee.
FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR.
(By special permission of Mrs. Rosa N. Ticknor.)
40
ULRIC DAHLGREN
A flash of light across the night, An eager face, an eye afire! O lad so true, you yet may rue The courage of your deep desire!
“Nay, tempt me not; the way is plain-- ’Tis but the coward checks his rein; For there they lie, And there they cry, For whose dear sake ’twere joy to die!”
He bends unto his saddlebow, The steeds they follow two and two; Their flanks are wet with foam and sweat, Their rider’s locks are damp with dew.
“O comrades, haste! the way is long, The dirge it drowns the battle-song; The hunger preys, The famine slays, An awful horror veils our ways!”
Beneath the pall of prison wall The rush of hoofs they seem to hear; From loathsome guise they lift their eyes, And beat their bars and bend their ear.
“Ah, God be thanked! our friends are nigh; He wills it not that thus we die; O fiends accurst Of Want and Thirst, Our comrades gather,--do your worst!”
A sharp affright runs through the night, An ambush stirred, a column reined; The hurrying steed has checked his speed, His smoking flanks are crimson stained.
O noble son of noble sire, Thine ears are deaf to our desire! O knightly grace Of valiant race, The grave is honor’s trysting-place!
O life so pure! O faith so sure! O heart so brave, and true, and strong! With tips of flame is writ your name, In annaled deed and storied song!
It flares across the solemn night, It glitters in the radiant light; A jewel set, Unnumbered yet, In our Republic’s coronet!
KATE BROWNLEE SHERWOOD.
(By special permission of the author.)
41
FARRAGUT
Farragut, Farragut, Old Heart of Oak, Daring Dave Farragut, Thunderbolt stroke, Watches the hoary mist Lift from the bay, Till his flag, glory-kissed, Greets the young day.
Far, by gray Morgan’s walls, Looms the black fleet. Hark, deck to rampart calls With the drums’ beat! Buoy your chains overboard, While the steam hums; Men, to the battlement! Farragut comes.
See, as the hurricane Hurtles in wrath Squadrons of clouds amain Back from its path, Back to the parapet, To the guns’ lips, Thunderbolt Farragut Hurls the black ships!
Now through the battle’s roar Clear the boy sings, “By the mark fathoms four,” While the lead swings. Steady the wheelmen five “Nor’ by East keep her”; “Steady,” but two alive: How the shells sweep her!
Lashed to the mast that sways Over red decks, Over the flame that plays Round the torn wrecks, Over the dying lips Framed for a cheer, Farragut leads his ships, Guides the line clear.
On by heights cannon-browed, While the spars quiver; Onward still flames the cloud Where the hulks shiver. See, yon fort’s star is set, Storm and fire past! Cheer him, lads--Farragut Lashed to the mast!
Oh, while Atlantic’s breast Bears a white sail, While the Gulf’s towering crest Tops a green vale, Men thy bold deeds shall tell, Old Heart of Oak, Daring Dave Farragut, Thunderbolt stroke!
WILLIAM TUCKEY MEREDITH.
(By special permission of The Century Company.)
42
LEE TO THE REAR
Dawn of a pleasant morning in May Broke through the Wilderness cool and gray, While, perched in the tallest treetops, the birds Were caroling Mendelssohn’s “Songs without Words.”
Far from the haunts of men remote, The brook brawled on with a liquid note, And nature, all tranquil and lovely, wore The smile of spring, as in Eden of yore.
Little by little as daylight increased, And deepened the roseate flush in the east,-- Little by little did morning reveal Two long glittering lines of steel;
Where two hundred thousand bayonets gleam, Tipped with light of the earliest beam, And the faces are sullen and grim to see, In the hostile armies of Grant and Lee.
All of a sudden, ere rose the sun, Pealed on the silence the opening gun; A little white puff of smoke there came, And anon the valley was wreathed in flame.
Down on the left of the rebel lines, Where a breastwork stands in a copse of pines, Before the rebels their ranks can form, The Yankees have carried the place by storm.
Stars and Stripes o’er the salient wave, Where many a hero has found a grave; And the gallant Confederates strive in vain The ground they have drenched with their blood to regain.
Yet louder the thunder of battle roared; Yet a deadlier fire on their columns poured; Slaughter infernal rode with Despair, Furies twain, through the smoky air.
Not far off, in the saddle there sat A gray-bearded man in a black slouch-hat; Not much moved by the fire was he, Calm and resolute Robert Lee.
Quick and watchful, he kept his eye On two bold rebel brigades close by,-- Reserves, that were standing (and dying) at ease, While the tempest of wrath toppled over the trees.
For still with their loud, deep, bulldog bay, The Yankee batteries blazed away, And with every murderous second that sped A dozen brave fellows, alas, fell dead!
The grand old graybeard rode to the space Where Death and his victims stood face to face, And silently waved his old slouch-hat; A world of meaning there was in that!
“Follow me! Steady! We’ll save the day!” This was what he seemed to say; And to the light of his glorious eye The bold brigades thus made reply:--
“We’ll go forward, but you must go back!” And they moved not an inch in the perilous track; “Go to the rear, and we’ll send them to hell!” And the sound of the battle was lost in their yell.
Turning his bridle, Robert Lee Rode to the rear. Like the waves of the sea, Bursting their dikes in their overflow, Madly his veterans dashed on the foe.
And backward in terror that foe was driven, Their banners rent and their columns riven, Wherever the tide of battle rolled Over the Wilderness, wood and wold.
Sunset out of a crimson sky Streamed o’er a field of ruddier dye, And the brook ran on with a purple stain From the blood of ten thousand foemen slain.
Seasons have passed since that day and year; Again o’er its pebbles the brook runs clear, And the field in a richer green is dressed Where the dead of the terrible conflict rest.
Hushed is the roll of the rebel drum, The sabres are sheathed, and the cannon dumb; And Fate, with pitiless hand, has furled The flag that once challenged the gaze of the world.
But the fame of the Wilderness fight abides; And down into history grandly rides, Calm and unmoved as in battle he sat, The gray-bearded man in the black slouch-hat.
JOHN RANDOLPH THOMPSON.
43
CRAVEN
Over the turret, shut in his ironclad tower, Craven was conning his ship through smoke and flame; Gun to gun he had battered the fort for an hour, Now was the time for a charge to end the game.
There lay the narrowing channel, smooth and grim, A hundred deaths beneath it, and never a sign; There lay the enemy’s ships, and sink or swim The flag was flying, and he was head of the line.
The fleet behind was jamming: the monitor hung Beating the stream; the roar for a moment hushed; Craven spoke to the pilot; slow she swung; Again he spoke, and right for the foe she rushed
Into the narrowing channel, between the shore And the sunk torpedoes lying in treacherous rank; She turned but a yard too short; a muffled roar, A mountainous wave, and she rolled, righted, and sank.
Over the manhole, up in the ironclad tower, Pilot and captain met as they turned to fly: The hundredth part of a moment seemed an hour, For one could pass to be saved, and one must die.
They stood like men in a dream; Craven spoke,-- Spoke as he lived and fought, with a captain’s pride: “After you, Pilot.” The pilot woke, Down the ladder he went, and Craven died.
All men praise the deed and the manner; but we-- We set it apart from the pride that stoops to the proud, The strength that is supple to serve the strong and free, The grace of the empty hands and promises loud;
Sidney thirsting a humbler need to slake, Nelson waiting his turn for the surgeon’s hand, Lucas crushed with chains for a comrade’s sake, Outram coveting right before command,
These were paladins, these were Craven’s peers, These with him shall be crowned in story and song, Crowned with the glitter of steel and the glimmer of tears, Princes of courtesy, merciful, proud, and strong.
HENRY NEWBOLT.
(By special permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company, and of John Lane.)
44
GRACIE OF ALABAMA
On, sons of mighty stature, And souls that match the best! When nations name their jewels Let Alabama rest.
Gracie of Alabama! ’Twas on that dreadful day When howling hounds were fiercest With Petersburg at bay.
Gracie of Alabama Walked down the lines with Lee, Marking through mists of gunshot The clouds of enemy.
Thrice Alabama’s warning Fell on a heedless ear, While the relentless lead-storm, Converging, hurtled near;
Till, straight before his chieftain, Without a word or sign, He stood, a shield the grandest, Against the Union line.
And then the glass was lowered, And voice that faltered not Said, in its measured cadence, “Why, Gracie, you’ll be shot!”
And Alabama answered,-- “The South will pardon me If the ball that goes through Gracie Comes short of Robert Lee!”
Swept a swift flash of crimson Athwart the chieftain’s cheek, And the eyes whose glance was knighthood Spake as no king could speak.
And side by side with Gracie He turned from shot and flame,-- Side by side with Gracie Up the grand aisle of Fame!
FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR.
(By special permission of Mrs. Rosa N. Ticknor.)
45
THE BALLAD OF A LITTLE FUN
I rode a horse, a dappled bay, Coal-black his mane and tail,-- A horse who never needed spur, Nor curb, nor martingale.
And by my side three others rode, Sun-tanned, long-haired, and grim, Wild men led on by Edmondson, Jim Polk, you’ve heard of him.
Behind us galloped, four by four, A swarthy, mottled band Of reckless fellows, chosen from The bravest in the land.
Whither away on that fair day? Oh, just a dash for fun. To speed our horses, and keep up With Jim Polk Edmondson.
Behind our backs we left the hills; We crossed the Salliquoy; My right-hand comrade smiled and said, “I fished here when a boy.”
Then from the rise at Hogan’s house, I saw, as in a dream, Reed-fringed, and silver-blue, and deep, The Coosawattee gleam.
A shot rang out! A bullet split The air so close to me I felt the keen hot puff; and then A roar of musketry.
A wind of lead blew from the wood; We took it at a run: We sped so fast along the lane The worm-fence panels spun.