Part 5
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.
“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country’s flag,” she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirred To life at the woman’s deed and word:
“Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.
All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet;
All day long that free flag tossed Over the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it a warm good-night.
Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er, And the rebel rides on his raids no more.
Honor to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on “Stonewall’s” bier.
Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave, Flag of freedom and union, wave!
Peace, and order, and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town!
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
(By special permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.)
27
THE EAGLE OF CORINTH
Did you hear of the fight at Corinth, How we whipped out Price and Van Dorn?
* * * * *
A long and terrible day! And at last, when night grew gray, By the hundreds, there they lay, (Heavy sleepers, you’d say,) That wouldn’t wake on the morn.
Our staff was bare of a flag, We didn’t carry a rag In those brave marching days;-- Ah, no, but a finer thing! With never a cord or string, An eagle of ruffled wing, And an eye of awful gaze.
The grape it rattled like hail, The minies were dropping like rain, The first of a thunder shower; The wads were blowing like chaff, (There was pounding like floor and flail, All the front of our line!) So we stood it hour after hour; But our eagle, he felt fine! ’Twould have made you cheer and laugh, To see, through that iron gale, How the old fellow’d swoop and sail Above the racket and roar,-- To right and to left he’d soar, But ever came back, without fail, And perched on his standard-staff.
All that day, I tell you true, They had pressed us steady and fair, Till we fought in street and square,-- (The affair, you might think, looked blue) But we knew we had them there! Our batteries were few, Every gun, they’d have sworn, they knew, But, you see, there were one or two We had fixed for them, unaware.
On they came in solid column, For once no whooping nor yell-- (Ah, I dare say they felt solemn!) Front and flank, grape and shell, Our batteries pounded away! And the minies hummed to remind ’em They had started on no child’s play!
Steady they kept a-going, But a grim wake settled behind ’em From the edge of the _abattis_, (Where our dead and dying lay Under fence and fallen tree,) Up to Robinett, all the way The dreadful swath kept growing! ’Twas butternut mixed with gray.
Ah, well--you know how it ended-- We did for them, there and then, But their pluck throughout was splendid, They stood to the last like men. Red as blood, o’er the town, The angry sun went down, Firing flag-staff and vane; And our eagle,--as for him, There, all ruffled and grim, He sat, o’erlooking the slain!
’Tis many a stormy day Since, out of the cold bleak north, Our great war-eagle sailed forth To swoop o’er battle and fray. Many and many a day O’er charge and storm hath he wheeled, Foray and foughten field, Tramp, and volley, and rattle!-- Over crimson trench and turf, Over climbing clouds of surf, Through tempest and cannon-wrack, Have his terrible pinions whirled;-- (A thousand fields of battle! A million leagues of foam!) But our bird shall yet come back, He shall soar to his eyrie-home, And his thunderous wings be furled, In the gaze of a gladdened world, On the nation’s loftiest dome.
HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.
28
READY
Loaded with gallant soldiers, A boat shot in to the land, And lay at the right of Rodman’s Point, With her keel upon the sand.
Lightly, gaily they came to shore, And never a man afraid; When suddenly the enemy opened fire From his deadly ambuscade.
Each man fell flat on the bottom Of the boat; and the captain said, “If we lie here we all are captured, And the first who moves is dead!”
Then out spoke a negro sailor,-- No slavish soul had he,-- “Somebody’s got to die, boys, And it might as well be me!”
Firmly he rose, and fearlessly Stepped out into the tide; He pushed the vessel safely off, Then fell across her side;--
Fell, pierced by a dozen bullets, As the boat swung clear and free; But there wasn’t a man of them that day Was fitter to die than he!
PHŒBE CARY.
(By special permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.)
29
BATTLE OF CHARLESTON HARBOR
Two hours, or more, beyond the prime of a blithe April day The Northmen’s mailed “Invincibles” steamed up fair Charleston Bay; They came in sullen file, and slow, low-breasted on the wave, Black as a midnight front of storm, and silent as the grave.
A thousand warrior-hearts beat high as these dread monsters drew More closely to the game of death across the breezeless blue; And twice ten thousand hearts of those who watch the scene afar Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle’s broadening star.
Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with rigid aspect stands, The ready linstocks firmly grasped in bold, untrembling hands; So moveless in their marble calm, their stern, heroic guise, They look like forms of statued stone with burning human eyes!
Our banners on the outmost walls, with stately rustling fold, Flash back from arch and parapet the sunlight’s ruddy gold;-- They mount to the deep roll of drums, and widely echoing cheers, And then, once more, dark, breathless, hushed, wait the grim cannoneers.
Onward, in sullen file, and slow, low-glooming on the wave, Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet glides silent as the grave, When, shivering the portentous calm o’er startled flood and shore, Broke from the sacred Island Fort the thunder wrath of yore!
The storm has burst! and, while we speak, more furious, wilder, higher, Dart from the circling batteries a hundred tongues of fire; The waves gleam red, the lurid vault of heaven seems rent above-- Fight on, O knightly gentlemen, for faith, and home, and love!
There’s not, in all that line of flame, one soul that would not rise, To seize the victor’s wreath of blood, though Death must give the prize; There’s not, in all this anxious crowd that throngs the ancient town, A maid who does not yearn for power to strike one foeman down!
The conflict deepens! Ship by ship the proud Armada sweeps Where fierce from Sumter’s raging breast the volleyed lightning leaps; And ship by ship, raked, overborne, ere burned the sunset light, Crawls in the gloom of baffled hate beyond the field of fight!
PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.
(By special permission of William Hamilton Hayne, and of The Lothrop Publishing Company.)
30
KEENAN’S CHARGE
The sun had set; The leaves with dew were wet,-- Down fell a bloody dusk Where “Stonewall’s” corps, like a beast of prey, Tore through with angry tusk.
“They’ve trapped us, boys!” Rose from our flank a voice. With rush of steel and smoke On came the rebels straight, Eager as love, and wild as hate; And our line reeled and broke;
Broke and fled. Not one stayed,--but the dead! With curses, shrieks, and cries, Horses, and wagons, and men Tumbled back through the shuddering glen, And above us the fading skies.
There’s some hope, still,-- Those batteries parked on the hill! “Battery, wheel” (’mid the roar), “Pass pieces; fix prolonge to fire Retiring. Trot!” In the panic dire A bugle rings “Trot!”--and no more.
The horses plunged, The cannon lurched and lunged, To join the hopeless rout. But suddenly rose a form Calmly in front of the human storm. With a stern commanding shout:
“Align those guns!” (We knew it was Pleasanton’s.) The cannoneers bent to obey, And worked with a will at his word, And the black guns moved as if they had heard. But, ah, the dread delay!
“To wait is crime; O God, for ten minutes’ time!” The general looked around. There Keenan sat, like a stone, With his three hundred horse alone, Less shaken than the ground.
“Major, your men?” “Are soldiers, general.” “Then, Charge, major! Do your best; Hold the enemy back, at all cost, Till my guns are placed;--else the army is lost. You die to save the rest!”
By the shrouded gleam of the western skies Brave Keenan looked into Pleasanton’s eyes For an instant,--clear, and cool, and still; Then, with a smile, he said: “I will.”
“Cavalry, charge!” Not a man of them shrank. Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank, Rose joyously, with a willing breath,-- Rose like a greeting hail to death.
Then forward they sprang, and spurred, and clashed; Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed; Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow, In their faded coats of the blue and yellow; And above in the air, with an instinct true, Like a bird of war their pennon flew.
With clank of scabbard, and thunder of steeds, And blades that shine like sunlit reeds, And strong brown faces bravely pale For fear their proud attempt shall fail, Three hundred Pennsylvanians close On twice ten thousand gallant foes.
Line after line the troopers came To the edge of the woods that was ringed with flame; Rode in, and sabred, and shot,--and fell; Nor came one back his wounds to tell. And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall, In the gloom like a martyr awaiting his fall, While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung.
Line after line, aye, whole platoons, Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons, By the maddened horses were onward borne, And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn; As Keenan fought with his men, side by side. So they rode, till there were no more to ride.
And over them, lying there shattered and mute, What deep echo rolls?--’Tis a death-salute From the cannon in place; for, heroes, you braved Your fate not in vain; the army was saved!
Over them now,--year following year,-- Over their graves the pine cones fall, And the whippoorwill chants his spectre call; But they stir not again, they raise no cheer; They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease, Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace. The rush of their charge is resounding still That saved the army at Chancellorsville.
GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.
(From _Dreams and Days_; Copyright, 1892, Charles Scribner’s Sons. By special permission.)
31
THE HERO OF THE GUN
The captain galloped to the front, The foam upon his rein; And, as he urged his swerving steed Across a pile of slain,
He hailed the gunner at his post: “Ho, Fergus! pour your shell Straight in the face of yon stout line That holds the height so well,
“And never slack your raking fire-- No, not to cool your gun; For if we break those stubborn ranks, I think the day is won.”
The gunner wiped his smoke-dimmed face-- “I’ll do the best I can, And down--brave fellows though they be-- We’ll bring them to a man!”
“I’ll trust you for it!”--Like a flash The captain turned and wheeled, And with his sword above his head Dashed backward to the field.
Fierce belched the cannon’s ceaseless fire, With deadly crash and din; And, though the line still held the height, Its ranks began to thin.
“Two rounds--and we will clear the hill!” But, as the gunner spoke, A sudden overwhelming storm Of bullets o’er him broke.
And when the smoke had lifted, there Still straining all his powers, They heard him shout: “Two shots, my boys, And then the day is ours!
“No matter if one arm be gone, I keep the other still; I promised I would do my best, And so you’ll see, I will!
“Let me make trial while my strength Can do the duty set; I tell you that this strong left hand Is good for service yet!”
They primed the piece, and twice he sent, With all too deadly aim, The shells that mowed the broken line, And swept the hill with flame.
“Where’s Fergus?”--and the captain’s horse Came spurring into sight-- “Where’s Fergus? let him take my thanks,-- His fire has won the fight!”
The dying gunner raised his head, His lips were faintly stirred-- “Captain, I said I’d do my best-- And--I have kept my word!”
MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON.
(By special permission of Dr. George J. Preston.)
32
AN INCIDENT OF WAR
Our new flag-bearer, pale and slim, A beardless youth of quiet mien, Much chaffed at by the soldiers grim (Before in battle he had been), Hid the heroic fire in him.
He sang old hymns, and prayed at night; “A bad sign,” quoth the sergeant bold; “Camp-meeting tunes before a fight Loosen a soldier’s moral hold, And pluck beats prayer a mighty sight.”
The boy blushed red, but tenderly He to the sergeant turned, and said: “That God should mind me what am I? And yet by Him my soul is fed-- Send this to mother if I die.”
The sergeant, with a knowing look, And winking at the rest, replied: “Yes, son, I’ll give your Ma the book--” Just then a volley rattled wide, And one great gun the valley shook.
The pale flag-bearer disappeared. “Gone to the rear,” the sergeant said; “Praying would make a Turk afeared; Those lonesome tunes have turned his head--” And then the tide of battle neared.
We formed in haste and dashed away, Across the field, our place to fill; At first a skirmish, then a spray Of cannon smoke upon a hill Flanked by long lines in close array.
Down charged the foe; we rushed to meet, We filled the valley like a sea; The cannons flashed a level sheet Of blinding flame, the musketry Cut men as sickles cut the wheat!
Oh, then we shouted! More and more The fervor of our courage rose, As through our solid columns tore The death hail’s crashing, gusty blows, And louder leaped the cannon roar!
But how could human courage meet That icy flood? All, all in vain Our counter-charge; in slow retreat We crossed the tumbled heaps of slain, With grave-pits yawning at our feet!
“Rally! For shame!” rang out a cry Forth from the thundering vortex cast; A voice so steady, clear, and high, It sounded like a bugle-blast Blown from the lips of Victory.
We paused, took hope, yelled loud, and so Renewed the charge, all as one man, Leaped where Death’s waves had thickest flow, And felt the breath of horror fan Our naked souls as cold as snow!
The volleys quickened, coalesced, Rolled deep, rocked earth, and jarred the sky, When lo, our banner-bearer pressed His standard forward, held it high And rode upon the battle’s crest!
We saw him wave it over all; Caught in the battle trough and dashed From side to side, it would not fall; But like a meteor danced and flashed And reveled in the sulphurous pall!
We swept the field and won the hill; Our flag flared out upon the crest, Where wavering, gasping, pale and chill, A dozen bullets through his breast, The slender hero held it still!
We leaped to lift his drooping head, The sergeant clasped him to his breast; “I bore the flag,” the low voice said, “And God bore me, now let me rest;” And so we laid him with the dead.
MAURICE THOMPSON.
(By special permission of the author, and of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.)
33
THE BLACK REGIMENT
Dark as the clouds of even, Ranked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dead mass, and drifts Tempest and falling brand Over a ruined land,-- So still and orderly, Arm to arm, knee to knee, Waiting the great event, Stands the black regiment.
Down the long dusky line Teeth gleam, and eyeballs shine; And the bright bayonet, Bristling and firmly set, Flashed with a purpose grand, Long ere the sharp command Of the fierce rolling drum Told them their time had come, Told them what work was sent For the black regiment.
“Now!” the flag-sergeant cried, “Though death and hell betide, Let the whole nation see If we are fit to be Free in this land; or bound Down, like the whining hound,-- Bound with red stripes of pain In our cold chains again!” Oh, what a shout there went From the black regiment!
“Charge!” trump and drum awoke; Onward the bondsmen broke; Bayonet and sabre-stroke Vainly opposed their rush. Through the wild battle’s crush, With but one thought aflush, Driving their lords like chaff, In the gun’s mouth they laugh; Or at the slippery brands, Leaping with open hands, Down they tear man and horse, Down in their awful course; Trampling with bloody heel Over the crushing steel,-- All their eyes forward bent, Rushed the black regiment.
“Freedom!” their battle-cry,-- “Freedom! or leave to die!” Ah, and they meant the word! Not as with us ’tis heard,-- Not a mere party shout; They gave their spirits out, Trusting the end to God, And on the gory sod Rolled in triumphant blood. Glad to strike one free blow, Whether for weal or woe; Glad to breathe one free breath, Though on the lips of death; Praying--alas, in vain!-- That they might fall again, So they could once more see That burst to liberty! This was what “freedom” lent To the black regiment.
Hundreds on hundreds fell; But they are resting well; Scourges, and shackles strong, Never shall do them wrong. Oh, to the living few, Soldiers, be just and true! Hail them as comrades tried; Fight with them side by side; Never, in field or tent, Scorn the black regiment!
GEORGE HENRY BOKER.
34
GREENCASTLE JENNY
Oh, Greencastle streets were a stream of steel With the slanted muskets the soldiers bore, And the scared earth muttered and shook to feel The tramp and the rumble of Longstreet’s Corps; The bands were blaring _The Bonny Blue Flag_, And the banners borne were a motley many; And watching the gray column wind and drag Was a slip of a girl--we’ll call her Jenny.
A slip of a girl--what needs her name?-- With her cheeks aflame and her lips aquiver, As she leaned and looked with a loyal shame On the steady flow of the steely river: Till a storm grew black in her hazel eyes Time had not tamed, nor a lover sighed for; And she ran and she girded her, apron-wise, With the flag she loved and her brothers died for.
Out of the doorway they saw her start (Pickett’s Virginians were marching through), The hot little foolish hero-heart Armored with stars and the sacred blue. Clutching the folds of red and white Stood she and bearded those ranks of theirs, Shouting shrilly with all her might, “Come and take it, the man that dares!”
Pickett’s Virginians were passing through; Supple as steel and brown as leather, Rusty and dusty of hat and shoe, Wonted to hunger and war and weather; Peerless, fearless, an army’s flower! Sterner soldiers the world saw never, Marching lightly, that summer hour, To death and failure and fame forever.