Part 9

Down through the valley the rider passed, Shouting, and spurring his horse on fast; But not so fast did the rider go As the raging, roaring, mighty flow Of the million feet and the millions more Of water whose fury he fled before. On he went, and on it came, The flood itself a very flame Of surging, swirling, seething tide, Mountain high and torrents wide. God alone might measure the force Of the Conemaugh flood in its V-shaped course. Behind him were buried under the flood Conemaugh town and all who stood Jeering there at the man who cried, “Run for your lives to the mountain side!”

On he sped in his fierce, wild ride. “Run to the hills! to the hills!” he cried. Nearer, nearer raged the roar Horse and rider fled before. Dashing along the valley ridge, They came at last to the railroad bridge. The big horse stood, the rider cried, “Run for your lives to the mountain side!” Then plunged across, but not before The mighty, merciless mountain roar Struck the bridge and swept it away Like a bit of straw or a wisp of hay. But over and under and through that tide The voice of the unknown rider cried, “Run to the hills! to the hills!” it cried,-- “Run for your lives to the mountain side!”

JOHN ELIOT BOWEN.

(By special permission of Edward A. Bowen, Esq., and of Harper and Brothers.)

64

JOHNNY BARTHOLOMEW

The journals this morning are full of a tale Of a terrible ride through a tunnel by rail; And people are called on to note and admire How a hundred or more, through the smoke-cloud and fire, Were borne from all peril to limbs and to lives-- Mothers saved to their children, and husbands to wives. But of him who performed such a notable deed Quite little the journalists give us to read. In truth, of this hero so plucky and bold There is nothing except, in few syllables told, His name, which is Johnny Bartholomew.

Away in Nevada--they don’t tell us where, Nor does it much matter--a railway is there Which winds in and out through the cloven ravines, With glimpses at times of the wildest of scenes: Now passing a bridge seeming fine as a thread, Now shooting past cliffs that impend o’er the head, Now plunging some black-throated tunnel within, Whose darkness is roused at the clatter and din; And ran every day with its train o’er the road An engine that steadily dragged on its load, And was driven by Johnny Bartholomew.

With throttle-valve down, he was slowing the train, While the sparks fell around and behind him like rain. As he came to a spot where a curve to the right Brought the black, yawning mouth of a tunnel in sight, And, peering ahead with a far-seeing ken, Felt a quick sense of danger come over him then. Was a train on the track? No! A peril as dire-- The farther extreme of the tunnel on fire! And the volume of smoke, as it gathered and rolled, Shook fearful dismay from each dun-colored fold, But daunted not Johnny Bartholomew.

Beat faster his heart, though its current stood still, And his nerves felt a jar, but no tremulous thrill; And his eyes keenly gleamed through their partly closed lashes, And his lips--not with fear--took the color of ashes. “If we falter, these people behind us are dead! So close the doors, fireman; we’ll send her ahead! Crowd on the steam till she rattles and swings! Open the throttle-valve! give her her wings!” Shouted he from his post in the engineer’s room, Driving onward perchance to a terrible doom, This man they call Johnny Bartholomew.

Firm grasping the bell-rope and holding his breath, On, on through the Vale of the Shadow of Death; On, on through the horrible cavern of hell, Through flames that arose and through timbers that fell, Through the eddying smoke and the serpents of fire That writhed and that hissed in their anguish and ire. With a rush and a roar like the wild tempest’s blast, To the free air beyond them in safety they passed; While the clang of the bell and the steam-pipe’s shrill yell Told the joy of escape from that underground hell Of the man they called Johnny Bartholomew.

Did the passengers get up a service of plate? Did some oily-tongued orator at the man prate? Women kiss him? Young children cling fast to his knees? Stout men in their rapture his brown fingers squeeze? And where was he born? Is he handsome? Has he A wife for his bosom, a child for his knee? Is he young? Is he old? Is he tall? Is he short? Well, ladies, the journals tell naught of the sort. And all that they give us about him to-day, After telling the tale in a commonplace way, Is--the man’s name is Johnny Bartholomew.

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

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

65

HIS NAME

O, the billows of fire! With maelstrom-like swirl, Their surges they hurl Over roof, over spire, Mad, masterless, higher, Till rumble--crack--crash-- Down boom with a flash, Whole columns of granite and marble: see! see! Sucked in as a weed on the ocean might be, Or engulfed as a sail In the hurricane-riot and wreak of the gale!

Ha! yonder they rush where the death-dealing steam, Over-pent, waits their gleam To shudder the city with earthquake! Who, _who_ Will adventure mid-flame, and unfasten the screw, Set the fiend loose, and save us so? Firemen, you-- _You_ willing? Would God you might hazard it! Nay, The red tongues are licking the faucets now! Stay! Too late!--’tis too late! If ruin, explosion, must come, let us wait Its coming: to go is to perish.--Hold! hold! You are young--I am old-- You’ve a wife too--and children?... O God, he is gone Straight into destruction! The pipes, men! On--on! Play the water-stream on him--full--faster--the whole! And now ... Christ save his soul!

I stifle--I choke-- And _he_--Heaven grant that he smother in smoke Ere the dread detonation! Hark!--hark! What’s the shout? _Is he saved? Is he out?_ Did he compass his purpose?... The hero! _One_ name This pencil of fire on the records of Fame Shall blazon, if justice is meted. Why here On my cheek is a tear, Which not a whole city in ashes could claim! His name, now,--_can nobody tell me his name_? --MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON.

(By special permission of Dr. George J. Preston.)

66

OLD BRADDOCK

Fire! fire in Allentown! The Women’s Building--it must go. Mothers wild rush up and down, Despairing men push to and fro; Two stories caught--one story more-- See--see--old Braddock’s to the fore, Braddock, full three-score.

Like a high granite rock His good gray head looms huge and bare; Firm as rock in tempest shock He towers above the tallest there. “Conrad!” ’Tis Braddock to his son, The prop he thinks to lean upon When his work is done.

Conrad, the young and brave, Unflinching meets his father’s eye: “Who would now the children save, That they die not himself must die.” The boy, in that white face no fear-- But, oh, it is so sweet, so dear-- Life at twenty year!

“Father--Father!” A quick Embrace, and he has set his feet On the ladder. Rolling thick, The flame-shot smoke chokes all the street, So blinds one only has descried Her form, that, through its dreadful tide, Springs to Conrad’s side.

Strong she is, now, as he, Throbbing with love’s own lion might; Strong as beautiful is she, And Conrad’s arms are pinioned tight. “Far through the fire, sits God above--” In vain he pleads; full does it prove, Her full strength of love.

Too late she sets him free-- High overhead his father’s call: From a height no eye can see Calls hoary Braddock down the wall,-- “Old men are Death’s, let him destroy. Young men are Life’s, Conrad, my boy-- Life’s and Love’s, my boy!”

Wilder the women’s cries, Hoarser the shouts of men below; Sheets of fire against the skies, Set all the stricken town aglow. With sweep and shriek, with rush and roar, The flames shut round old Braddock hoar-- Braddock, full three-score.

“Save, save my children, save!” “Aye, aye!” all answer, speak as one, “If man’s arm can from the grave Bring back your babes, it will be done; Know Braddock still is worth us all-- Hark--hark! It is his own brave call,-- ‘Back--back from the wall!’”

God, God, that it should be! As savagely the lashed wind veers, Fiercer than the fiery sea The frantic crowd waves hands, and cheers; An old man high in whirl of hell! The children--how, no soul can tell-- Braddock holds them well.

Shorn all that good gray head With snows of sixty winters sown; Griped around the children’s bed, One arm is shriveled to the bone: “Old men are Death’s, let him destroy, Young men are Life’s, Conrad, my boy, Life’s and Love’s, my boy!”...

Fire! fire in Allentown! Though ’twas a hundred years ago, How the babes were carried down, To-day the village children know. They know of Braddock’s good gray head, They know the last, great words he said, Know how he fell--dead.

JOHN VANCE CHENEY.

(By special permission of the author.)

67

IN APIA BAY

(_Morituri vos salutamus_)

Ruin and death held sway That night in Apia Bay, And smote amid the loud and dreadful gloom. But, Hearts, no longer weep The salt unresting sleep Of the great dead, victorious in their doom.

Vain, vain the strait retreat That held the fated fleet, Trapped in the two-fold threat of sea and shore! Fell reefs on either hand, And the devouring strand! Above, below, the tempest’s deafening roar!

What mortal hand shall write The horror of that night, The desperate struggle in that deadly close, The yelling of the blast, The wild surf, white, aghast, The whelming seas, the thunder and the throes!

How the great cables surged, The giant engines urged, As the brave ships the unequal strife waged on! Not hope, not courage flagged; But the vain anchors dragged. Down on the reefs they shattered, and were gone!

And now were wrought the deeds Whereof each soul that reads Grows manlier, and burns with prouder breath,-- Heroic brotherhood, The loving bonds of blood, Proclaimed from high hearts face to face with death.

At length, the English ship Her cables had let slip, Crowded all steam, and steered for the open sea, Resolved to challenge Fate, To pass the perilous strait, And wrench from jaws of ruin Victory.

With well-tried metals strained, In the storm’s teeth she gained, Foot by slow foot made head, and crept toward life. Across her dubious way The good ship _Trenton_ lay, Helpless, but thrilled to watch the splendid strife.

Helmless she lay, her bulk A blind and wallowing hulk, By her strained hawsers only held from wreck, But dauntless each brave heart Played his immortal part In strong endurance on the reeling deck.

They fought Fate inch by inch,-- Could die, but could not flinch; And, biding the inevitable doom, They marked the English ship, Baffling the tempest’s grip, Forge hardly forth from the expected tomb.

Then, with exultant breath, These heroes waiting death, Thundered across the storm a peal of cheers,-- To the triumphant brave A greeting from the grave, Whose echo shall go ringing down the years.

“To you, who well have won, From us, whose course is run, Glad greeting, as we face the undreaded end!” The memory of those cheers Shall thrill in English ears Where’er this English blood and speech extend.

No manlier deed comes down, Blazoned in broad renown, From men of old who lived to dare and die! The old fire yet survives, Here in our modern lives, Of splendid chivalry and valor high!

CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS ROBERTS.

(By special permission of the author, and of _The Youth’s Companion_.)

NOTES

[For information incorporated in the notes the Editor is indebted to many of the authors represented in the volume. He has also, in several instances, received valuable suggestions from Mr. Francis F. Browne’s “Bugle Echoes.” The notes are intended to be suggestive rather than in any sense exhaustive.]

In Time of Strife

1. PAUL REVERE’S RIDE. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, the most widely read and most beloved American poet, was born in Portland, Maine, February 27, 1807, and died in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where he had long resided, March 24, 1882.

Paul Revere, who was a self-taught engraver upon copperplate, and who at the time of the Revolution was one of the four engravers in America, rendered his first important service as a messenger in connection with the throwing overboard of the tea in Boston harbor. Before he took his most famous ride he had traveled several thousand miles in the interest of the “patriot” cause, and after

“the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five,”

continued to act as a bearer of dispatches. He was one of the committee of upwards of thirty formed in Boston to watch the movements of the British soldiers. On the memorable evening of April 18th, troops were observed marching toward the bottom of the Common. About ten o’clock Revere was apprised of this fact, whereupon he at once repaired to the house of Dr. Joseph Warren (afterward General Warren), one of the committee. There he discovered that an “express,” one William Dawes, had already been sent by land to Lexington. Hurriedly seeking his friend, Robert Newman, the sexton of the “Old North Church” (Christ Church, Salem Street), and arranging for the display of the signal previously agreed upon, Revere set out. He succeeded in reaching Lexington before Dawes, who joined him about half an hour after his arrival. The two, together with Dr. Prescott, “a high Son of Liberty,” started in company for Concord, but were intercepted at Lincoln by a party of British. Revere and Dawes were captured, but Prescott managed to escape by jumping his horse over a stone wall. It was he who rode on to Concord, alarming the countryside as he went.

Of Dawes’s part in the enterprise of the night, Helen F. More wrote thus humorously in the _Century Magazine_ for February, 1896:

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

I am a wandering, bitter shade; Never of me was a hero made; Poets have never sung my praise, Nobody crowned my brows with bays; And if you ask me the fatal cause, I answer only, “My name was Dawes.”

’Tis all very well for children to hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere; But why should my name be quite forgot, Who rode so boldly and well, God wot? Why should I ask? The reason is clear-- My name is Dawes and his Revere.

When the lights from the Old North Church flashed out, Paul Revere was waiting about, But I was already on my way. The shadows of night fell cold and gray As I rode, with never a break or pause; But what was the use, when my name was Dawes?

History rings with his silvery name; Closed to me are the portals of fame. Had he been Dawes and I Revere, No one had heard of him, I fear. No one has heard of me because He was Revere and I was Dawes.

Paul Revere was born within sight of the “Old North Church,” and almost under its shadow he lived and died (1735-1818). It is fitting, then, that to-day the passer should see, imbedded in the solid masonry of the tower, a tablet bearing this inscription:

THE SIGNAL LANTERNS OF PAUL REVERE DISPLAYED IN THE STEEPLE OF THIS CHURCH APRIL 18, 1775, WARNED THE COUNTRY OF THE MARCH OF THE BRITISH TROOPS TO LEXINGTON AND CONCORD.

2. MARY BUTLER’S RIDE. By Benjamin Franklin Taylor.

Benjamin Franklin Taylor was born in Lowville, New York, July 19, 1819. He was best known as a lecturer. He died in Cleveland, Ohio, February 24, 1887.

Of the poem the author says: “The story of ‘Mary Butler’s Ride’ is unembellished truth. To one of her grandsons, J. M. Taylor, Esq., of New York, I am indebted for the incident. To hear men say,--those far-away boys of hers, and yet busy in life’s affairs,--‘many a time I have heard her tell the story!’ brings the gray-eyed Mary Butler strangely near. It is like raising a dead century to instant resurrection.”

=1. 39.= =Stark= (John, 1728-1822), a Continental brigadier-general who distinguished himself at Bunker Hill and Bennington.

=1. 84.= =Putnam= (Israel, 1718-1790), a Continental major-general, active at Bunker Hill and in various other engagements until stricken by paralysis in 1779. His daring escape from the British soldiers by riding down a flight of stone steps in the town of Greenwich, Connecticut, occurred in March, 1779.

3. THE SURPRISE AT TICONDEROGA. By Mary Anna Phinney Stansbury.

Mary Anna Phinney Stansbury, a magazine writer who resides in Appleton, Wisconsin, was born in Vernon, New York, October 5, 1842.

Ethan Allen, the hero of Ticonderoga, though born in Litchfield, Connecticut (January 10, 1737), early removed to Vermont. He participated in the invasion of Canada under General Schuyler, and was there captured and sent a prisoner to England, where he suffered many privations. It was largely through his instrumentality that Vermont was recognized as an independent State. He died in Burlington, February 13, 1789.

The fortress of Ticonderoga (a corruption of the Iroquois “Cheonderoga,” meaning “rushing waters”) was erected by the French, in 1755, on the western shore of Lake Champlain, near the outlet of Lake George. It was originally called Fort Carillon (chime of bells) from the neighboring waterfall (see stanza 6). It was here that the French under Montcalm (stanza 13) repulsed the English under Abercrombie, on the 8th of July, 1758.

Allen’s bold capture was effected on the morning of May 10, 1775.

At the time of the taking of Ticonderoga by Allen, the garrison consisted of but forty-eight men under the command of Captain Delaplace. The Continental Congress, which Allen invoked at the time of the surrender, had not yet organized. It held its first session six hours later on that very day.

=Stanza 11.= =King David.= See 2 Samuel v., 23, 24.

The Vermont “Green Mountain Boys,” mentioned so prominently in a number of engagements in the Revolution, were first organized in 1772 to resist the civil power of New York.

In connection with Mrs. Stansbury’s poem it may be interesting to read Robert Louis Stevenson’s ballad, “Ticonderoga.”

4. MONTGOMERY AT QUEBEC. By Clinton Scollard.

Clinton Scollard, born in Clinton, New York, September 18, 1860.

Richard Montgomery was a native of the North of Ireland. He entered the British army at the age of twenty, and served with distinction under Wolfe, and later in the campaign against the Spanish West Indies. Marrying a daughter of Robert R. Livingston, and settling upon the Hudson, at Rhinebeck, he espoused the cause of the colonists at the opening of the war. In the expedition against Canada he was second in command under Schuyler, with the rank of brigadier-general. The attack upon Quebec was made early in the morning of the 31st of December, 1775. Montgomery’s death was regarded as a great public calamity. Congress passed resolutions of regret and condolence, and Chatham and Burke eulogized the dead leader on the floor of the British Parliament. At the time of his death he was thirty-eight years of age.

=Stanza 6.= =Wolfe= (James), the “hero of Louisburg” and the conqueror of Quebec, fell upon the Plains of Abraham in his thirty-second year. He is to this day regarded as one of the half dozen most noted generals that England has produced. Quebec was taken on the 13th of September, 1759.

5. THE MARYLAND BATTALION. By John Williamson Palmer.

John Williamson Palmer, a Baltimore physician, the author of the famous lyric, “Stonewall Jackson’s Way,” and Bret Harte’s forerunner in “breaking the virgin soil of California in the field of American letters,” was born in the city of Baltimore, April 4, 1825.

This ballad celebrates the heroism of the “Maryland Battalion” at the battle of Long Island, August 27, 1776, where they checked the advance of Cornwallis, and saved a portion of Stirling’s command from capture. Two hundred and fifty-nine were left dead on the field.

=Stanza 2.= It was in the Flatbush district, on the American left, that General Sullivan was driven back by the Hessians and flanked by Clinton’s light infantry and dragoons.

Martense’s lane was a “pass,” or road, on the southern border of Greenwood Cemetery. Freeke’s Mill (stanza 4) stood upon Freeke’s mill-pond at the head of Gowanus Creek.

=Stanza 4.= =Grant=, the British general who commanded the left wing in the battle of Long Island. It was he who declared in the House of Commons that the Americans could not fight, and said he would undertake to march from one end of the continent to the other with five thousand men.

=Stanza 5.= =Stirling= (William Alexander), commonly called Lord Stirling, was the eldest son of James Alexander Stirling, heir presumptive to the earldom of Stirling, who fled to America in 1716 after having been actively involved in the Jacobite conspiracy of the previous year. Lord Stirling was born in New York City in 1726. He was aide-de-camp and secretary to General Shirley in the French and Indian War, and received a commission as brigadier-general in the Continental army in 1776. After the battle of Long Island, Congress made him a major-general. He died at Albany in January, 1783.

Mordecai Gist was a major in the “Maryland Battalion” who subsequently rose to the rank of brigadier-general. He was a native of Baltimore.

6. ARNOLD AT STILLWATER. By Thomas Dunn English.

Thomas Dunn English, a physician of Newark, New Jersey, was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, June 29, 1819. Since early life Dr. English has been a contributor to the periodicals of the day. His popular ballad, “Ben Bolt,” appeared in 1842.