Chapter 7 of 12 · 3965 words · ~20 min read

Part 7

A horse went down, a dying face Scowled darkly at the sky; A bullet clipped my comrade’s hat And lopped the brim awry.

“Come, boys; come on!” our leader cried. Pellmell we struck the line; My comrade’s pistol spat its balls, And likewise so did mine.

A swirl of smoke, with rifts of fire, Enveloped friend and foe; Death, so embarrassed, hardly knew Which way his strokes must go.

The fight closed in on every side, And tore one spot of ground; There was not room to swing an arm, Or turn your horse around.

A moment thus, and then we broke The circle of our foes. Old Hogan, in his doorway, heard The crunching of our blows, The while we used our pistol-butts, As swords, on many a head; And yet, and yet, down in that wood We left our leader,--dead.

So, now you know just how it was We had our little fun, Speeding our horses to keep up With Jim Polk Edmondson.

MAURICE THOMPSON.

(By special permission of the author, and of The Century Company.)

SHERIDAN’S RIDE

Up from the south, at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste to the chieftain’s door, The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wider still those billows of war Thundered along the horizon’s bar; And louder yet into Winchester rolled The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, Making the blood of the listener cold, As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, With Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town, A good broad highway leading down: And there, through the flush of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight; As if he knew the terrible need, He stretched away with his utmost speed; Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south, The dust like smoke from the cannon’s mouth, Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away.

Under his spurning feet, the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, And the landscape sped away behind Like an ocean flying before the wind; And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire. But, lo, he is nearing his heart’s desire! He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away.

The first that the general saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops; What was done? what to do? a glance told him both. Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath, He dashed down the line, ’mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there because The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril’s play, He seemed to the whole great army to say: “I have brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester down to save the day.”

Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan! Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man! And when their statues are placed on high, Under the dome of the Union sky, The American soldier’s Temple of Fame, There with the glorious general’s name Be it said, in letters both bold and bright: “Here is the steed that saved the day By carrying Sheridan into the fight, From Winchester,--twenty miles away!”

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

(By special permission of J. B. Lippincott Company.)

DOWN THE LITTLE BIG HORN

Down the Little Big Horn, (O troop forlorn!) Right into the camp of the Sioux, (What was the muster?) Two hundred and sixty-two Went into the fight with Custer, Went out of the fight with Custer, Went out at a breath, Staunch to the death! Just from the canyon emerging, Saw they the braves of Sitting Bull surging, Two thousand and more, Painted and feathered, thirsting for gore, Did they shrink and turn back, (Hear how the rifles crack!) Did they pause for a life, For a sweetheart or wife?

And one in that savage throng, (His revenge had waited long,) Pomped with porcupine quills, His deerskins beaded and fringed, An eagle’s plume in his long black hair, His tall lance fluttering in the air, Glanced at the circling hills-- His cheeks flushed with a keen surmise, A demon’s hate in his eyes Remembering the hour when he cringed, A prisoner thonged, Chief Rain-in-the-Face (There was a sachem wronged!) Saw his enemy’s heart laid bare, Feasted in thought like a beast in his lair.

Cavalry, cavalry, (Tramp of the hoof, champ of the bit,) Horses prancing, cavorting, Shying and snorting, Accoutrements rattling, (Children at home are prattling,) Gallantly, gallantly, “Company dismount!” From the saddle they swing, With their steeds form a ring, (Hear how the bullets sing!) Who can their courage recount?

Do you blanch at their fate? (Who would hesitate?) Two hundred and sixty-two Immortals in blue, Standing shoulder to shoulder, Like some granite boulder You must blast to displace-- (Were they of a valiant race?) Two hundred and sixty-two, And never a man to say, “I rode with Custer that day.” Give the savage his triumph and bluster, Give the hero to perish with Custer, To his God and his comrades true.

Closing and closing, Nearer the redskins creep; With cunning disposing, With yell and with whoop, (There are women shall weep!) They gather and swoop, They come like a flood, Maddened with blood, They shriek, plying the knife, (Was there one begged for his life?) Where but a moment ago Stood serried and sternly the foe, Now fallen, mangled below.

Down the Little Big Horn, (Tramp of hoof, champ of the bit,) A single steed in the morn, Comanche, seven times hit, Comes to the river to drink; Lists for the sabre’s clink, Lists for the voice of his master, (O glorious disaster!) Comes, sniffing the air, Gazing, lifts his head, But his master lies dead, (Who but the dead were there?) But stay, what was the muster? Two hundred and sixty-two (Two thousand and more the Sioux!) Went into the fight with Custer, Went out of the fight with Custer; For never a man can say, “I rode with Custer that day--” Went out like a taper, Blown by a sudden vapor, Went out at a breath, True to the death!

FRANCIS BROOKS.

(By special permission of Dr. Almon Brooks.)

THE BOND OF BLOOD

The words of a rebel old and battered, Who will care to remember them? Under the Lost Flag, battle-tattered, I was a comrade of Allan Memm.

Who was Allan, that I should name him Bravest of all the brave who bled? Why should a soldier’s song proclaim him First of a hundred thousand dead?

An angel of battle, with fair hair curling By brown cheeks shrunken and wan with want; A living missile that Lee was hurling Straight on the iron front of Grant;

A war-child born of the Old South’s passion, Trained in the camp of the cavaliers; A spirit wrought in the antique fashion Of Glory’s martial morning years.

His young wife’s laugh and his baby’s prattle He bore through the roar of the hungry guns-- Through the yell of shell in the rage of battle, And the moan that under the thunder runs.

His was the voice that cried the warning At the shattered gate of the slaughter-pen, When Hancock rushed in the gray of morning Over our doomed and desperate men.

His was the hand that held the standard-- A flaring torch on a crumbling shore-- ’Mid the billows of blue by the storm blown landward, And his call we heard through the ocean roar:

Ere the flag should shrink to a lost hope’s token, Ere the glow of its glory be low and dim, Ere its stars should fade and its bars be broken, Calling his comrades to come to him.

And these, at the order of Hill or Gordon,-- God keep their ashes! I knew them well,-- Would have smashed the ranks of the devil’s cordon, Or charged through the flames that roar in hell.

But none could stand where the storm was beating, Never a comrade could reach his side; In the spume of flame where the tides were meeting, He, of a thousand, stood and died.

And the foe, in the old heroic manner, Tenderly laid his form to rest, The splintered staff and the riddled banner Hiding the horror upon his breast.

* * * * *

Gone is the cot in the Georgia wildwood, Gone is the blossom-strangled porch; The roof that sheltered a soldier’s childhood Vainly pleaded with Sherman’s torch.

Gone are the years, and far and feeble Ever the old wild echoes die; Hark to the voice of a great, glad people Hailing the one flag under the sky!

And the monstrous heart of the storm receding Fainter and farther throbs and jars; And the new storm bursts, and the brave are bleeding Under the cruel alien stars.

And Allan’s wife in the grave is lying Under the old scorched vine and pine, While Allan’s child in the isles is dying Far on the foremost fighting line.

Cheer for the flag with the old stars spangled! Shake out its folds to the wind’s caress, Over the hearts by the war-hounds mangled, Down in the tangled Wilderness!

To wave o’er the grave of the brave forever; For the Gray has sealed, in the bond of blood, His faith to the Blue, and the brave shall never Question the brave in the sight of God.

WILL HENRY THOMPSON.

(By special permission of the author, and of The Century Company.)

A BALLAD OF MANILA BAY

Your threats how vain, Corregidor; Your rampired batteries, feared no more; Your frowning guard at Manila gate,-- When our Captain went before!

Lights out. Into the unknown gloom From the windy, glimmering, wide sea-room, Challenging fate in that dark strait We dared the hidden doom.

But the death in the deep awoke not then; Mine and torpedo they spoke not then; From the heights that loomed on our passing line The thunders broke not then.

Safe through the perilous dark we sped, Quiet each ship as the quiet dead, Till the guns of El Fraile roared--too late, And the steel prows forged ahead.

Mute each ship as the mute-mouth grave, A ghost leviathan cleaving the wave; But deep in its heart the great fires throb, The travailing engines rave.

The ponderous pistons urge like fate, The red-throat furnaces roar elate, And the sweating stokers stagger and swoon In a heat more fierce than hate.

So through the dark we stole our way Past the grim warders and into the bay, Past Kalibuyo, and past Salinas,-- And came at the break of day

Where strong Cavité stood to oppose,-- Where, from a sheen of silver and rose, A thronging of masts, a soaring of towers, The beautiful city arose.

How fine and fair! But the shining air With a thousand shattered thunders there Flapped and reeled. For the fighting foe-- We had caught him in his lair.

Surprised, unready, his proud ships lay Idly at anchor in Bakor Bay:-- Unready, surprised, but proudly bold, Which was ever the Spaniard’s way.

Then soon on his pride the dread doom fell, Red doom,--for the ruin of shot and shell Lit every vomiting, bursting hulk With a crimson reek of hell.

But to the brave though beaten, hail! All hail to them that dare and fail! To the dauntless boat that charged our fleet And sank in the iron hail!

* * * * *

Manila Bay! Manila Bay! How proud the song on our lips to-day! A brave old song of the true and strong, And the will that has its way;

Of the blood that told in the days of Drake When the fight was good for the fighting’s sake! For the blood that fathered Farragut Is the blood that fathered Blake;

And the pride of the blood will not be undone While war’s in the world and a fight to be won. For the master now, as the master of old, Is “the man behind the gun.”

The dominant blood that daunts the foe, That laughs at odds, and leaps to the blow,-- It is Dewey’s glory to-day, as Nelson’s A hundred years ago!

CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS ROBERTS.

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

DEWEY AT MANILA

’Twas the very verge of May When the bold _Olympia_ led Into Bocagrande gray Dewey’s squadron, dark and dread,-- Creeping past Corregidor, Guardian of Manila’s shore.

Do they sleep who wait the fray? Is the moon so dazzling bright That our cruisers’ battle-gray Melts into the misty light?... Ah! the rockets flash and soar! Wakes at last Corregidor!

All too late their screaming shell Tears the silence with its track; This is but the _gate_ of hell, We’ve no leisure to turn back. Answer, _Boston_--then once more Slumber on, Corregidor!

And as, like a slowing tide, Onward still the vessels creep, Dewey, watching, falcon-eyed, Orders--“Let the gunners sleep; For we meet a foe at four Fiercer than Corregidor.”

Well they slept, for well they knew What the morrow taught us all-- He was wise (as well as true) Thus upon the foe to fall. Long shall Spain the day deplore Dewey ran Corregidor.

May is dancing into light As the Spanish Admiral From a dream of phantom fight Wakens at his sentry’s call. Shall he leave Cavité’s lee, Hunt the Yankee fleet at sea?

O Montojo, to thy deck, That to-day shall float its last! Quick! To quarters! Yonder speck Grows a hull of portent vast. Hither, toward Cavité’s lee Comes the Yankee hunting thee!

Not for fear of hidden mine Halts our doughty Commodore. He, of old heroic line, Follows Farragut once more, Hazards all on victory, Here within Cavité’s lee.

If he loses, all is gone; He will win because he must. And the shafts of yonder dawn Are not quicker than his thrust. Soon, Montojo, he shall be With thee in Cavité’s lee.

Now, Manila, to the fray! Show the hated Yankee host This is not a holiday-- Spanish blood is more than boast. Fleet and mine and battery, Crush him in Cavité’s lee!

Lo, hell’s geysers at our fore Pierce the plotted path--in vain, Nerving every man the more With the memory of the _Maine_! Now at last our guns are free Here within Cavité’s lee.

“Gridley,” says the Commodore, “You may fire when ready.” Then Long and loud, like lions’ roar When a rival dares the den, Breaks the awful cannonry Full across Cavité’s lee.

Who shall tell the daring tale Of Our Thunderbolt’s attack, Finding, when the chart should fail, By the lead his dubious track, Five ships following faithfully Five times o’er Cavité’s lee;

Of our gunners’ deadly aim; Of the gallant foe and brave Who, unconquered, faced with flame, Seek the mercy of the wave-- Choosing honor in the sea Underneath Cavité’s lee!

Let the meed the victors gain Be the measure of their task. Less of flinching, stouter strain, Fiercer combat--who could ask? And “surrender”--’twas a word That Cavité ne’er had heard.

Noon--the woful work is done! Not a Spanish ship remains; But, of their eleven, none Ever was so truly Spain’s! Which is prouder, they or we, Thinking of Cavité’s lee?

ENVOY

But remember, when we’ve ceased Giving praise and reckoning odds, Man shares courage with the beast, Wisdom cometh from the gods. Who would win, on land or wave, Must be wise as well as brave.

ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON.

(By special permission of the author.)

THE MEN OF THE “MERRIMAC”

_Hail to Hobson! hail to Hobson! hail to all the valiant set!_ _Clausen, Kelly, Deignan, Phillips, Murphy, Montagu, Charette!_ _Howsoe’er we laud and laurel we shall be their debtors yet!_ _Shame upon us, shame upon us, should the nation e’er forget!_

Though the tale be worn with telling, let the daring deed be sung! Surely never brighter valor, since this wheeling world was young, Thrilled men’s souls to more than wonder, till praise leaped from every tongue!

Trapped at last the Spanish sea-fox in the hill-locked harbor lay; Spake the Admiral from his flagship, rocking off the hidden bay, “We must close yon open portal lest he slip by night away!”

“Volunteers!” the signal lifted; rippling through the fleet it ran; Was there ever deadlier venture? was there ever bolder plan? Yet the gallant sailors answered, answered wellnigh to a man!

Ere the dawn’s first rose-flush kindled, swiftly sped the chosen eight Toward the batteries grimly frowning o’er the harbor’s narrow gate; Sooth, he holds his life but lightly who thus gives the dare to Fate!

They had passed the outer portal where the guns grinned, tier o’er tier, When portentous Morro thundered, and Socapa echoed clear, And Estrella joined a chorus pandemoniac to hear.

Heroes without hands to waver, heroes without hearts to quail, There they sank the bulky collier ’mid the hurtling Spanish hail; Long shall float our starry banner if such lads beneath it sail!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

THE CHARGE AT SANTIAGO

With shot and shell, like a loosened hell, Smiting them left and right, They rise or fall on the sloping wall Of beetling bush and height! They do not shrink at the awful brink Of the rifle’s hurtling breath, But onward press, as their ranks grow less, To the open arms of death!

Through a storm of lead, o’er maimed and dead, Onward and up they go, Till hand to hand the unflinching band Grapple the stubborn foe. O’er men that reel, ’mid glint of steel, Bellow or boom of gun, They leap and shout over each redoubt Till the final trench is won!

O charge sublime! Over dust and grime Each hero hurls his name In shot or shell, like a molten hell, To the topmost heights of fame! And prone or stiff, under bush and cliff, Wounded or dead men lie, While the tropic sun on a grand deed done Looks with his piercing eye!

WILLIAM HAMILTON HAYNE.

(By special permission of the author.)

SPAIN’S LAST ARMADA

They fling their flags upon the morn, Their safety’s held a thing for scorn, As to the fray the Spaniards on the wings of war are borne; Their sullen smoke-clouds writhe and reel, And sullen are their ships of steel, All ready, cannon, lanyards, from the fighting-tops to keel.

They cast upon the golden air One glancing, helpless, hopeless prayer, To ask that swift and thorough be the victory falling there; Then giants with a cheer and sigh Burst forth to battle and to die Beneath the walls of Morro on that morning in July.

The _Teresa_ heads the haughty train, To bear the Admiral of Spain, She rushes, hurtling, whitening, like the summer hurricane; El Morro glowers in his might; Socapa crimsons with the fight; The _Oquendo’s_ lunging lightning blazes through her somber night.

In desperate and eager dash The _Vizcaya_ hurls her vivid flash, As wild upon the waters her enormous batteries crash; Like spindrift scuds the fleet _Colon_, And, on her bubbling wake bestrown, Lurch, hungry for the slaughter, _El Furor_ and _El Pluton_.

Round Santiago’s armored crest, Serene, in their gray valor dressed, Our behemoths lie quiet, watching well from south and west; Their keen eyes spy the harbor-reek; The signals dance, the signals speak; Then breaks the blasting riot as our broadsides storm and shriek!

Quick, poising on her eagle-wings, The _Brooklyn_ into battle swings; The wide sea falls and wonders as the titan _Texas_ springs; The _Iowa_ in monster-leaps Goes bellowing above the deeps; The _Indiana_ thunders as her terror onward sweeps.

And, hovering near and hovering low Until the moment strikes to go, In gallantry the _Gloucester_ swoops down on her double foe; She volleys--the _Furor_ falls lame; Again--and the _Pluton’s_ aflame; Hurrah, on high she’s tossed her! Gone the grim destroyers’ fame!

And louder yet and louder roar The _Oregon’s_ black cannon o’er The clangor and the booming all along the Cuban shore. She’s swifting down her valkyr-path, Her sword sharp for the aftermath, With levin in her glooming, like Jehovah in His wrath.

Great ensigns snap and shine in air Above the furious onslaught where Our sailors cheer the battle, danger but a thing to dare; Our gunners speed, as oft they’ve sped, Their hail of shrilling, shattering lead, Swift-sure our rifles rattle, and the foeman’s decks are red.

Like baying bloodhounds lope our ships, Adrip with fire their cannons’ lips; We scourge the fleeing Spanish, whistling weals from scorpion-whips; Till, livid in the ghastly glare, They tremble on in dread despair, And thoughts of victory vanish in the carnage they must bear.

Where Cuban coasts in beauty bloom, Where Cuban breakers swirl and boom, The _Teresa’s_ onset slackens in a scarlet spray of doom; Near Nimanima’s greening hill The streaming flames cry down her will, Her vast hull blows and blackens, prey to every mortal ill.

On Juan Gonzales’ foaming strand The _Oquendo_ plunges ’neath our hand, Her armaments all strangled, and her hope a showering brand; She strikes and grinds upon the reef, And, shuddering there in utter grief, In misery and mangled, wastes away beside her chief.

The _Vizcaya_ nevermore shall ride From out Aserradero’s tide, With hate upon her forehead ne’er again she’ll pass in pride; Beneath our fearful battle-spell She moaned and struggled, flared and fell, To lie agleam and horrid, while the piling fires swell.

Thence from the wreck of Spain alone Tears on the terrified _Colon_, In bitter anguish crying, like a storm-bird forth she’s flown; Her throbbing engines creak and thrum; She sees abeam the _Brooklyn_ come, For life she’s gasping, flying; for the combat is she dumb.

Till then the man behind the gun Had wrought whatever must be done-- Here, now, beside our boilers is the fight fought out and won; Where great machines pulse on and beat, A-swelter in the humming heat The Nation’s nameless toilers make her mastery complete.

The Cape o’ the Cross casts out a stone Against the course of the _Colon_, Despairing and inglorious on the wind her white flag’s thrown; Spain’s last Armada, lost and wan, Lies where Tarquino’s stream rolls on, As round the world, victorious, looms the dreadnought _Oregon_.

The sparkling daybeams softly flow To glint the twilight afterglow, The banner sinks in splendor that in battle ne’er was low; The music of our country’s hymn Rings out like song of seraphim, Fond memories and tender fill the evening fair and dim;

Our huge ships ride in majesty Unchallenged o’er the glittering sea, Above them white stars cluster, mighty emblem of the free; And all adown the long sea-lane The fitful bale-fires wax and wane To shed their lurid lustre on the empire that was Spain.

WALLACE RICE.

(By special permission of the author.)

BALLAD OF PACO TOWN