Part 7

The _Alabama_ she is gone, she’ll cruise the seas no more, She met the fate she well deserved along the Frenchman’s shore; Then here is luck to the _Kearsarge_ we know what she can do, Likewise to Captain Winslow and his brave and gallant crew. Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave Over the Union, the home of the brave! Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave, God bless America, the home of the brave!

THE BAY FIGHT

(Mobile Harbor, August 8, 1864.)

BY HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

Three days through sapphire seas we sailed, The steady Trade blew strong and free, The Northern Light his banners paled, The Ocean Stream our channels wet, We rounded low Canaveral’s lee, And passed the isles of emerald set In blue Bahama’s turquoise sea.

By reef and shoal obscurely mapped, And hauntings of the gray sea-wolf, The palmy Western Key lay lapped In the warm washing of the Gulf.

But weary to the hearts of all The burning glare, the barren reach Of Santa Rosa’s withered beach, And Pensacola’s ruined wall.

And weary was the long patrol, The thousand miles of shapeless strand, From Brazos to San Blas that roll Their drifting dunes of desert sand.

Yet coastwise as we cruised or lay, The land-breeze still at nightfall bore, By beach and fortress-guarded bay, Sweet odors from the enemy’s shore,

Fresh from the forest solitudes, Unchallenged of his sentry lines,-- The bursting of his cypress buds, And the warm fragrance of his pines.

Ah, never braver bark and crew, Nor bolder Flag a foe to dare, Had left a wake on ocean blue Since Lion-Heart sailed Trenc-le-mer!

But little gain by that dark ground Was ours, save, sometime, freer breath For friend or brother strangely found, ’Scaped from the drear domain of death.

And little venture for the bold, Or laurel for our valiant Chief, Save some blockaded British thief, Full fraught with murder in his hold,

Caught unawares at ebb or flood, Or dull bombardment, day by day, With fort and earthwork, far away, Low couched in sullen leagues of mud.

A weary time,--but to the strong The day at last, as ever, came; And the volcano, laid so long, Leaped forth in thunder and in flame!

“_Man your starboard battery!_” Kimberly shouted;-- The ship, with her hearts of oak, Was going, ’mid roar and smoke, On to victory; None of us doubted, No, not our dying-- Farragut’s Flag was flying!

Gaines growled low on our left, Morgan roared on our right; Before us, gloomy and fell, With breath like the fume of hell, Lay the dragon of iron shell, Driven at last to the fight!

Ha, old ship! do they thrill, The brave two hundred scars You got in the River-Wars? That were leeched with clamorous skill, (Surgery savage and hard,) Splinted with bolt and beam, Probed in scarfing and seam, Rudely linted and tarred With oakum and boiling pitch, And sutured with splice and hitch, At the Brooklyn Navy-Yard!

Our lofty spars were down, To bide the battle’s frown (Wont of old renown)-- But every ship was drest In her bravest and her best, As if for a July day; Sixty flags and three, As we floated up the bay-- At every peak and mast-head flew The brave Red, White, and Blue,-- We were eighteen ships that day.

With hawsers strong and taut, The weaker lashed to port, On we sailed two by two-- That if either a bolt should feel Crash through caldron or wheel, Fin of bronze, or sinew of steel, Her mate might bear her through.

Forging boldly ahead, The great Flag-Ship led, Grandest of sights! On her lofty mizzen flew Our leader’s dauntless Blue, That had waved o’er twenty fights So we went with the first of the tide, Slowly, ’mid the roar Of the rebel guns ashore And the thunder of each full broadside.

Ah, how poor the prate Of statute and state We once held these fellows! Here on the flood’s pale-green, Hark how he bellows, Each bluff old Sea-Lawyer! Talk to them, Dahlgren, Parrott, and Sawyer!

On, in the whirling shade Of the cannon’s sulphury breath, We drew to the Line of Death That our devilish Foe had laid,-- Meshed in a horrible net, And baited villainous well, Right in our path were set Three hundred traps of hell!

And there, O sight forlorn! There, while the cannon Hurtled and thundered,-- (Ah, what ill raven Flapped o’er the ship that morn!)-- Caught by the under-death, In the drawing of a breath Down went dauntless Craven, He and his hundred!

A moment we saw her turret, A little heel she gave, And a thin white spray went o’er her, Like the crest of a breaking wave;-- In that great iron coffin, The channel for their grave, The fort their monument, (Seen afar in the offing), Ten fathom deep lie Craven And the bravest of our brave.

Then in that deadly track A little the ships held back, Closing up in their stations;-- There are minutes that fix the fate Of battles and of nations, (Christening the generations,) When valor were all too late, If a moment’s doubt be harbored;-- From the main-top, bold and brief, Came the word of our grand old chief: “_Go on!_”--’twas all he said,-- Oar helm was put to starboard, And the _Hartford_ passed ahead.

Ahead lay the _Tennessee_, On our starboard bow he lay, With his mail-clad consorts three (The rest had run up the bay); There he was, belching flame from his bow, And the steam from his throat’s abyss Was a Dragon’s maddened hiss; In sooth a most cursed craft!-- In a sullen ring, at bay, By the Middle-Ground they lay, Raking us fore and aft.

Trust me, our berth was hot, Ah, wickedly well they shot-- How their death-bolts howled and stung! And the water-batteries played With their deadly cannonade Till the air around us rung; So the battle raged and roared;-- Ah, had you been aboard To have seen the fight we made! How they leapt, the tongues of flame, From the cannon’s fiery lip! How the broadsides, deck and frame, Shook the great ship!

And how the enemy’s shell Came crashing, heavy and oft, Clouds of splinters flying aloft And falling in oaken showers;-- But ah, the pluck of the crew! Had you stood on that deck of ours, You had seen what men may do.

Still, as the fray grew louder, Boldly they worked and well-- Steadily came the powder, Steadily came the shell. And if tackle or truck found hurt, Quickly they cleared the wreck-- And the dead were laid to port, All a-row, on our deck.

Never a nerve that failed, Never a cheek that paled, Not a tinge of gloom or pallor;-- There was bold Kentucky’s grit, And the old Virginian valor, And the daring Yankee wit.

There were blue eyes from turfy Shannon, There were black orbs from palmy Niger,-- But there alongside the cannon, Each man fought like a tiger!

A little, once, it looked ill, Our consort began to burn-- They quenched the flames with a will, But our men were falling still, And still the fleet were astern.

Right abreast of the Fort In an awful shroud they lay, Broadsides thundering away, And lightning from every port; Scene of glory and dread! A storm-cloud all aglow With flashes of fiery red, The thunder raging below, And the forest of flags o’erhead!

So grand the hurly and roar, So fiercely their broadsides blazed, The regiments fighting ashore Forgot to fire as they gazed.

There, to silence the foe, Moving grimly and slow, They loomed in that deadly wreath, Where the darkest batteries frowned,-- Death in the air all round, And the black torpedoes beneath!

And now, as we looked ahead, All for’ard, the long white deck Was growing a strange dull red,-- But soon, as once and again Fore and aft we sped, (The firing to guide or check,) You could hardly choose but tread On the ghastly human wreck, (Dreadful gobbet and shred That a minute ago were men!) Red, from mainmast to bitts! Red, on bulwark and wale, Red, by combing and hatch, Red, o’er netting and vail!

And ever, with steady con, The ship forged slowly by,-- And ever the crew fought on, And their cheers rang loud and high.

Grand was the sight to see How by their guns they stood, Right in front of our dead, Fighting square abreast-- Each brawny arm and chest All spotted with black and red, Chrism of fire and blood!

Worth our watch, dull and sterile, Worth all the weary time, Worth the woe and the peril, To stand in that strait sublime!

Fear? A forgotten form! Death? A dream of the eyes! We were atoms in God’s great storm That roared through the angry skies.

One only doubt was ours, One only dread we knew,-- Could the day that dawned so well Go down for the Darker Powers? _Would_ the fleet get through? And ever the shot and shell Came with the howl of hell, The splinter-clouds rose and fell, And the long line of corpses grew,-- _Would_ the fleet win through?

They are men that never will fail, (How aforetime they’ve fought!) But Murder may yet prevail,-- They may sink as Craven sank.

Therewith one hard fierce thought, Burning on heart and lip, Ran like fire through the ship; _Fight_ her, to the last plank!

A dimmer renown might strike If Death lay square alongside,-- But the old Flag has no like, She must fight, whatever betide;-- When the War is a tale of old, And this day’s story is told, They shall hear how the _Hartford_ died!

But as we ranged ahead, And the leading ships worked in, Losing their hope to win, The enemy turned and fled-- And one seeks a shallow reach! And another, winged in her flight, Our mate, brave Jouett, brings in;-- And one, all torn in the fight, Runs for a wreck on the beach, Where her flames soon fire the night.

And the Ram, when well up the Bay, And we looked that our stems should meet, (He had us fair for a prey,) Shifting his helm midway, Sheered off, and ran for the fleet; There, without skulking or sham, He fought them gun for gun; And ever he sought to ram, But could finish never a one.

From the first of the iron shower Till we sent our parting shell, ’Twas just one savage hour Of the roar and the rage of hell.

With the lessening smoke and thunder, Our glasses around we aim,-- What is that burning yonder? Our _Philippi_--aground and in flame!

Below, ’twas still all a-roar, As the ships went by the shore, But the fire of the Fort had slacked, (So fierce their volleys had been,)-- And now with a mighty din, The whole fleet came grandly in, Though sorely battered and wracked.

So, up the Bay we ran, The Flag to port and ahead,-- And a pitying rain began To wash the lips of our dead.

A league from the Fort we lay, And deemed that the end must lag,-- When lo! looking down the Bay, There flaunted the Rebel Rag:-- The Ram is again under way And heading dead for the Flag!

Steering up with the stream, Boldly his course he lay, Though the fleet all answered his fire, And, as he still drew nigher, Ever on bow and beam Our Monitors pounded away; How the _Chickasaw_ hammered away!

Quickly breasting the wave, Eager the prize to win, First of us all the brave _Monongahela_ went in Under full head of steam;-- Twice she struck him abeam, Till her stem was a sorry work, (She might have run on a crag!) The _Lackawanna_ hit fair, He flung her aside like cork, And still he held for the Flag.

High in the mizzen shroud, (Lest the smoke his sight o’erwhelm,) Our Admiral’s voice rang loud; “Hard-a-starboard your helm! _Starboard, and run him down!_” Starboard it was,--and so, Like a black squall’s lifting frown, Our mighty bow bore down On the iron beak of the Foe.

We stood on the deck together, Men that had looked on death In battle and stormy weather; Yet a little we held our breath, When, with the hush of death, The great ships drew together.

Our Captain strode to the bow, Drayton, courtly and wise, Kindly cynic, and wise, (You hardly had known him now, The flame of fight in his eyes!)-- His brave heart eager to feel How the oak would tell on the steel!

But, as the space grew short, A little he seemed to shun us; Out peered a form grim and lanky, And a voice yelled, “_Hard-a-port!_ _Hard-a-port!--here’s the damned Yankee_ _Coming right down on us!_”

He sheered, but the ships ran foul With a gnarring shudder and growl: He gave us a deadly gun; But as he passed in his pride, (Rasping right alongside!) The old Flag, in thunder-tones Poured in her port broadside, Rattling his iron hide And cracking his timber-bones!

Just then, at speed on the Foe, With her bow all weathered and brown, The great _Lackawanna_ came down Full tilt, for another blow;-- We were forging ahead, She reversed--but, for all our pains, Rammed the old _Hartford_, instead, Just for’ard the mizzen chains!

Ah! how the masts did buckle and bend, And the stout hull ring and reel, As she took us right on end! (Vain were engine and wheel, She was under full steam,)-- With the roar of a thunder-stroke Her two thousand tons of oak Brought up on us, right abeam!

A wreck, as it looked, we lay,-- (Rib and plank shear gave way To the stroke of that giant wedge!) Here, after all, we go-- The old ship is gone!--ah, no, But cut to the water’s edge.

Never mind then,--at him again! His flurry now can’t last long; He’ll never again see land,-- Try that on _him_, Marchand! On him again, brave Strong!

Heading square at the hulk, Full on his beam we bore; But the spine of the huge Sea-Hog Lay on the tide like a log, He vomited flame no more.

By this, he had found it hot;-- Half the fleet, in an angry ring, Closed round the hideous thing, Hammering with solid shot, And bearing down, bow on bow; He has but a minute to choose,-- Life or renown?--which now Will the Rebel Admiral lose?

Cruel, haughty, and cold, He ever was strong and bold; Shall he shrink from a wooden stem? He will think of that brave band He sank in the _Cumberland_; Ay, he will sink like them.

Nothing left but to fight Boldly his last sea-fight! Can he strike? By Heaven, ’tis true! Down comes the traitor Blue, And up goes the captive White!

Up went the White! Ah, then The hurrahs that once and again Rang from three thousand men All flushed and savage with fight! Our dead lay cold and stark; But our dying, down in the dark, Answered as best they might, Lifting their poor lost arms, And cheering for God and Right!

Ended the mighty noise, Thunder of forts and ships. Down we went to the hold, Oh, our dear dying boys! How we pressed their poor brave lips (Ah, so pallid and cold!) And held their hands to the last, (Those who had hands to hold).

Still thee, O woman heart! (So strong an hour ago;) If the idle tears must start, ’Tis not in vain they flow.

They died, our children dear. On the drear berth-deck they died,-- Do not think of them here-- Even now their footsteps near The immortal, tender sphere-- (Land of love and cheer! Home of the Crucified!).

And the glorious deed survives; Our threescore, quiet and cold, Lie thus, for a myriad lives And treasure--millions untold,-- (Labor of poor men’s lives, Hunger of weans and wives, Such is war-wasted gold).

Our ship and her fame to-day Shall float on the storied Stream When mast and shroud have crumbled away, And her long white deck is a dream.

One daring leap in the dark, Three mortal hours, at the most,-- And hell lies stiff and stark On a hundred leagues of coast.

For the mighty Gulf is ours,-- The bay is lost and won, An Empire is lost and won! Land, if thou yet hast flowers, Twine them in one more wreath Of tenderest white and red, (Twin buds of glory and death!) For the brows of our brave dead, For thy Navy’s noblest son.

Joy, O Land, for thy sons, Victors by flood and field! The traitor walls and guns Have nothing left but to yield; (Even now they surrender!)

And the ships shall sail once more, And the cloud of war sweep on To break on the cruel shore;-- But Craven is gone, He and his hundred are gone.

The flags flutter up and down At sunrise and twilight dim, The cannons menace and frown,-- But never again for him, Him and the hundred.

The Dahlgrens are dumb, Dumb are the mortars; Never more shall the drum Beat to colors and quarters,-- The great guns are silent.

O brave heart and loyal! Let all your colors dip;-- Mourn him proud ship! From main deck to royal. God rest our Captain, Rest our lost hundred!

Droop, flag and pennant! What is your pride for? Heaven, that he died for, Rest our Lieutenant, Rest our brave threescore!

* * * * *

O Mother Land! this weary life We led, we lead, is ’long of thee; Thine the strong agony of strife, And thine the lonely sea.

Thine the long decks all slaughter-sprent, The weary rows of cots that lie With wrecks of strong men, marred and rent, ’Neath Pensacola’s sky.

And thine the iron caves and dens Wherein the flame our war-fleet drives; The fiery vaults, whose breath is men’s Most dear and precious lives!

Ah, ever when with storm sublime Dread Nature clears our murky air, Thus in the crash of falling crime Some lesser guilt must share.

Full red the furnace fires must glow That melt the ore of mortal kind; The mills of God are grinding slow, But ah, how close they grind!

To-day the Dahlgren and the drum Are dread Apostles of His Name; His kingdom here can only come By chrism of blood and flame.

Be strong: already slants the gold Athwart these wild and stormy skies; From out this blackened waste, behold What happy homes shall rise!

But see thou well no traitor gloze, No striking hands with Death and Shame, Betray the sacred blood that flows So freely for thy name.

And never fear a victor foe-- Thy children’s hearts are strong and high; Nor mourn too fondly; well they know On deck or field to die.

Nor shalt thou want one willing breath, Though, ever smiling round the brave, The blue sea bear us on to death, The green were one wide grave.

THE LOYAL FISHER.

The wife in the cot is lonely Since the fisher went away, And the sun-burnt child it hath not smil’d This many and many a day. And the schools of mack’rel come unscared To the shoals of the inner bay.

For the fisherman said one spring-time: “Dear wife, I have set my sail These twenty years to the northern meres, The icebergs, the mist and gale, And my country hath paid the shot, good wife, However I chanced to fail.”

“Yes, paid for my sailor’s knowledge, And the skill of my ready hand; And the blue on my arm, as a sacred charm, Is the flag that guards the land. The time has come to pay that debt, Tho’ my life it should demand.”

So bravely the loyal fisher Sailed for the southern sea, Never a hook nor a bait he took For the deadly fishery; But the staunchest man at the straining rope In the northerner was he.

On the bloody deck of the _Hartford_ At last the fisher lay, The azure charm pricked on his arm Was striped with red that day; And his debt of twenty years was paid With a life in Mobile Bay.

SHERMAN’S MARCH TO THE SEA.

BY SAMUEL H. M. BYERS.

[General Sherman, in a recent conversation with the editor of this collection, declared that it was this poem with its phrase, “march to the sea,” that threw a glamour of romance over the campaign which it celebrates. Said General Sherman: “The thing was nothing more or less than a change of base, an operation perfectly familiar to every military man, but a poet got hold of it, gave it the captivating label, ‘The March to the Sea,’ and the unmilitary public made a romance out of it.” It may be remarked that the General’s modesty overlooks the important fact that the romance lay really in his own deed of derring-do; the poet merely recorded it, or at most interpreted it to the popular intelligence. The glory of the great campaign was Sherman’s and his army’s; the joy of celebrating it was the poet’s; the admiring memory of it is the people’s.--EDITOR.]

SHERMAN’S MARCH TO THE SEA.

Our camp-fires shone bright on the mountain That frowned on the river below, As we stood by our guns in the morning, And eagerly watched for the foe; When a rider came out of the darkness That hung over mountain and tree, And shouted: “Boys, up and be ready! For Sherman will march to the sea.”

Then cheer upon cheer for bold Sherman Went up from each valley and glen, And the bugles re-echoed the music That came from the lips of the men; For we knew that the stars in our banner More bright in their splendor would be, And that blessings from Northland would greet us When Sherman marched down to the sea.

Then forward, boys! forward to battle! We marched on our wearisome way, We stormed the wild hills of Resaca, God bless those who fell on that day! Then Kenesaw, dark in its glory, Frowned down on the flag of the free, But the East and the West bore our standard And Sherman marched on to the sea.

Still onward we pressed till our banners Swept out from Atlanta’s grim walls, And the blood of the patriot dampened The soil where the traitor flag falls. We paused not to weep for the fallen, Who slept by each river and tree. Yet we twined them a wreath of the laurel As Sherman marched down to the sea.

Oh, proud was our army that morning, That stood where the pine darkly towers, When Sherman said: “Boys, you are weary, But to-day fair Savannah is ours!” Then sang we the song of our chieftain, That echoed o’er river and lea, And the stars in our banner shone brighter When Sherman marched down to the sea.

SHERMAN’S MARCH

BY A SOLDIER.

Their lips are still as the lips of the dead, The gaze of their eyes is straight ahead; The tramp, tramp, tramp of ten thousand feet Keep time to that muffled, monotonous beat,-- Rub a dub dub! rub a dub dub!

Ten thousand more! and still they come To fight a battle for Christendom! With cannon and caissons, and flags unfurled, The foremost men in all the world! Rub a dub dub! rub a dub dub!