Part 8

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.)

53

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.)

54

BALLAD OF PACO TOWN

In Paco town and in Paco tower, At the height of the tropic noonday hour, Some Tagal riflemen, half a score, Watched the length of the highway o’er, And when to the front the troopers spurred, Whiz-z! whiz-z! how the Mausers whirred!

From the opposite walls, through crevice and crack, Volley on volley went ringing back Where a band of regulars tried to drive The stinging rebels out of their hive; “Wait till our cannon come, and then,” Cried a captain, striding among his men, “We’ll settle that bothersome buzz and drone With a merry little tune of our own!”

The sweltering breezes seemed to swoon, And down the _calle_ the thickening flames Licked the roofs in the tropic noon. Then through the crackle and glare and heat, And the smoke and the answering acclaims Of the rifles, far up the village street Was heard the clatter of horses’ feet, And a band of signal-men swung in sight, Hasting back from the ebbing fight That had swept away to the left and right.

“Ride!” yelled the regulars, all aghast, And over the heads of the signal-men, As they whirled in desperate gallop past, The bullets a vicious music made, Like the whistle and whine of the midnight blast On the weltering wastes of the ocean when The breast of the deep is scourged and flayed.

It chanced in the line of the fiercest fire A rebel bullet had clipped the wire That led, from the front and the fighting, down To those that stayed in Manila town; This gap arrested the watchful eye Of one of the signal-men galloping by, And straightway, out of the plunge and press, He reined his horse with a swift caress And a word in the ear of the rushing steed; Then back with never a halt nor heed Of the swarming bullets he rode, his goal The parted wire and the slender pole That stood where the deadly tower looked down On the rack and ruin of Paco town.

Out of his saddle he sprang as gay As a schoolboy taking a holiday; Wire in hand up the pole he went With never a glance at the tower, intent Only on that which he saw appear As the line of his duty plain and clear. To the very crest he climbed, and there, While the bullets buzzed in the scorching air, Clipped his clothing, and scored and stung The slender pole-top to which he clung, Made the wire that was severed sound, Slipped in his careless way to the ground, Sprang to the back of his horse, and then Was off, this bravest of signal-men. Cheers for the hero! While such as he, Heedless alike of wounds and scars, Fight for the dear old Stripes and Stars, Down through the years to us shall be Ever and ever the victory!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

IN TIME OF PEACE

55

PEACE HATH HER VICTORIES

All sobbing, shrieking, swirls the gale, December in its sweep, Till ocean’s hoary face is pale With foam, abysses deep; Then see within the furious spray A ship against the gray!

The sirens sing by George’s shoal And lure their victim in, So the _Lord Gough_, through surge and roll, The dismal drift and din, Comes round to where the breakers comb Into sheer, wind-swept foam.

They see, half-way the shattered mast, The Stars and Stripes stand out; They hear, above the howling blast, Old Hughes, with mighty shout, “Now, boys, three hearty English cheers! Come forward, volunteers!”

They man their boat, these gallant tars, Though skies beat down the sea-- When falls the flag with all its stars, Then to the masthead free Runs up, the blue above, to swear, “For us Fate still is fair!”

In frosty blasts that seek to blow Their valor from the helm, They row as they would have you row When billows overwhelm: The baffled storm its witness bears-- The _Cleopatra’s_ theirs!

He thaws the winter from his bone, He mourns the ship so gone, And Pendleton tells great gales blown, Despair since drifting dawn; Water-logged, with his boats stove in, What hope was his to win?

He saw the sailors on the _Gough_-- Death stood before his eyes, He knew they would be putting off Where seas beat back the skies; His flag free on the tempest flew Lest they should perish too....

While Englishmen in mercy go Cheering, to war with Death, While the Americans can throw Off hope, for others’ breath, A tyrant Fate need slink afraid, From clear eyes, undismayed.

And oh, ye folk of English speech, When such a brood ye’ve borne, What favor need ye e’er beseech From Fate so ripe for scorn? ’Tis yours, ye freemen, by your birth, All that ye will on earth!

WALLACE RICE.

(By special permission of the author.)

56

IN THE TUNNEL

Didn’t know Flynn,-- Flynn of Virginia,-- Long as he’s been ’yar? Look’ee here, stranger, Whar _hev_ you been?

Here in this tunnel He was my pardner, That same Tom Flynn,-- Working together, In wind and weather, Day out and in.

Didn’t know Flynn! Well, that _is_ queer; Why, it’s a sin To think of Tom Flynn,-- Tom with his cheer, Tom without fear,-- Stranger, look ’yar!

Thar in the drift, Back to the wall, He held the timbers Ready to fall; Then in the darkness I heard him call: “Run for your life, Jake! Run for your wife’s sake! Don’t wait for me.” And that was all Heard in the din, Heard of Tom Flynn,-- Flynn of Virginia.

That’s all about Flynn of Virginia. That lets me out. Here in the damp,-- Out of the sun,-- That ’ar derned lamp Makes my eyes run. Well, there,--I’m done!

But, sir, when you’ll Hear the next fool Asking of Flynn,-- Flynn of Virginia,-- Just you chip in, Say you knew Flynn; Say that you’ve been ’yar.

BRET HARTE.

(By special permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.)

57

THE BALLAD OF CALNAN’S CHRISTMAS

When you hear the fire-gongs beat fierce along the startled street, See the great-limbed horses bound, and the gleaming engine sway, And the driver in his place, with his fixed, heroic face, Say a prayer for Calnan’s sake--he that died on Christmas day!

Cling! Cling! Each to his station! Clang! Clang! Quick to clear the way! (Christ keep the soldiers of salvation, Fighting nameless battles in the war of every day!)

In the morning, blue and mild, of the Mother and the Child, While the blessed bells were calling, thrilled the summons through the wire; In the morning, blue and mild, for a woman and a child Died a man of gentle will, plunging on to fight the fire.

Ring, swing, bells in the steeple! Ring the Child and ring the Star, as sweetly as ye may! Ring, swing, bells, to tell the people God’s good will to earthly men, the men of every day!

“Thirty-four” swung out agleam, with her mighty, bounding team; Horses’ honor pricked them on, and they leaped as at a goad; Jimmy Calnan in his place, with his clean-cut Irish face, Iron hands upon the reins, eyes a-strain upon the road.

Clang! Clang! Quick to clear the way! (Sweetly rang, above the clang, the bells of Christmas day.)

Tearing, plunging through the din, scarce a man could hold them in; None on earth could pull them short: Mary Mother, guide from harm Yonder woman straight ahead, stony still with sudden dread, And the little woman-child, with her waxen child in arm!

Oh, God’s calls, how swift they are! Oh, the Cross that hides the Star! Oh, the fire-gong beating fierce through the bells of Christmas day! Just a second there to choose, and a life to keep or lose-- To the curb he swung the horses, and he flung his life away!

Ring, swing, bells in the steeple! Ring the Star and ring the Cross, for Star and Cross are one! Ring, swing, bells, to tell the people God is pleased with manly men, and the deeds that they have done!

HELEN GRAY CONE.

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

58

HOW HE SAVED ST. MICHAEL’S

It was long ago it happened, ere ever the signal gun That blazed above Fort Sumter had wakened the North as one; Long ere the wondrous pillar of battle-cloud and fire Had marked where the unchained millions marched on to their hearts’ desire.

On the roofs and the glittering turrets, that night, as the sun went down, The mellow glow of the twilight shone like a jewelled crown, And, bathed in the living glory, as the people lifted their eyes, They saw the pride of the city, the spire of St. Michael’s, rise

High over the lesser steeples, tipped with a golden ball, That hung like a radiant planet caught in its earthward fall; First glimpse of home to the sailor who made the harbor round, The last slow-fading vision dear to the outward bound.

The gently gathering shadows shut out the waning light; The children prayed at their bedsides, as you will pray to-night; The noise of buyer and seller from the busy mart was gone, And in dreams of a peaceful morrow the city slumbered on.

But another light than sunrise aroused the sleeping street, For a cry was heard at midnight, and the rush of trampling feet; Men stared in each other’s faces through mingled fire and smoke, While the frantic bells went clashing clamorous stroke on stroke!

By the glare of her blazing roof-tree the houseless mother fled, With the babe she pressed to her bosom shrieking in nameless dread, While the fire-king’s wild battalions scaled wall and capstone high, And planted their flaring banners against an inky sky.

From the death that raged behind them and the crash of ruin loud, To the great square of the city, were driven the surging crowd, Where yet firm in all the tumult, unscathed by the fiery flood, With its heavenward-pointing finger the church of St. Michael stood.

But e’en as they gazed upon it there rose a sudden wail, A cry of horror blended with the roaring of the gale, On whose scorching wings updriven a single flaming brand Aloft on the towering steeple clung like a bloody hand.

“Will it fade?” The whisper trembled from a thousand whitening lips; Far out on the lurid harbor they watched it from the ships-- A baleful gleam that brighter and ever brighter shone, Like a flickering, trembling will-o’-the-wisp to a steady beacon grown.

“Uncounted gold shall be given to the man whose brave right hand, For the love of the periled city, plucks down yon burning brand!” So cried the Mayor of Charleston, that all the people heard, But they looked each one at his fellow, and no man spoke a word.

Who is it leans from the belfry, with face upturned to the sky? Clings to a column and measures the dizzy spire with his eye? Will he dare it, the hero undaunted, that terrible, sickening height? Or will the hot blood of his courage freeze in his veins at the sight?

But see! he has stepped on the railing, he climbs with his feet and his hands, And firm on a narrow projection with the belfry beneath him he stands! Now once, and once only, they cheer him--a single, tempestuous breath-- And there falls on the multitude gazing a hush like the stillness of death.

Slow, steadily mounting, unheeding aught save the goal of the fire, Still higher and higher, an atom, he moves on the face of the spire; He stops! Will he fall? Lo, for answer, a gleam like a meteor’s track! And, hurled on the stones of the pavement, the red brand lies shattered and black!

Once more the shouts of the people have rent the quivering air, At the church-door Mayor and Council wait with their feet on the stair, And the eager throng behind them press for a touch of his hand-- The unknown savior whose daring could compass a deed so grand.

But why does a sudden tremor seize on them while they gaze? And what means the stifled murmur of wonder and amaze? He stood in the gate of the temple he had periled his life to save, And the face of the hero undaunted was the sable face of a slave!

With folded arms he was speaking, in tones that were clear, not loud, And his eyes, ablaze in their sockets, burnt into the eyes of the crowd: “You may keep your gold,--I scorn it!--but answer me, ye who can, If the deed I have done before you be not the deed of a _man_?”

He stepped but a short space backward, and from all the women and men There were only sobs for answer, and the Mayor called for a pen And the great seal of the city, that he might read who ran; And the slave who saved St. Michael’s went out from the door, a man.

MARY ANNA PHINNEY STANSBURY.

(By special permission of the author.)

59

THE RIDE OF COLLIN GRAVES

No song of a soldier riding down To the raging fight of Winchester town; No song of a time that shook the earth With the nation’s throe at a nation’s birth; But the song of a brave man free from fear As Sheridan’s self or Paul Revere; Who risked what they risked,--free from strife And its promise of glorious pay,--his life.

The peaceful valley has waked and stirred, And the answering echoes of life are heard; The dew still clings to the trees and grass, And the early toilers smiling pass, As they glance aside at the white-walled homes, Or up the valley where merrily comes The brook that sparkles in diamond rills As the sun comes over the Hampshire hills.

What was it passed like an ominous breath? Like a shiver of fear, or a touch of death? What was it? The valley is peaceful still, And the leaves are afire on the top of the hill; It was not a sound, nor a thing of sense,-- But a pain, like a pang in the short suspense That wraps the being of those who see At their feet the gulf of eternity.

The air of the valley has felt the chill; The workers pause at the door of the mill; The housewife, keen to the shivering air, Arrests her foot on the cottage stair, Instinctive taught by the mother-love, And thinks of the sleeping ones above.

Why start the listeners? Why does the course Of the mill-stream widen? Is it a horse-- “Hark to the sound of the hoofs!” they say-- That gallops so wildly Williamsburg way? God! what was that like a human shriek From the winding valley? Will nobody speak? Will nobody answer those women who cry As the awful warnings thunder by?

Whence come they? Listen! and now they hear The sound of the galloping horse-hoofs near; They watch the trend of the vale, and see The rider who thunders so menacingly, With waving arms and warning scream To the home-filled banks of the valley stream. He draws no rein, but he shakes the street With a shout and the ring of the galloping feet, And this the cry that he flings to the wind,-- “_To the hills for your lives! The flood is behind!_”

He cries and is gone, but they know the worst,-- The treacherous Williamsburg dam has burst! The basin that nourished their happy homes Is changed to a demon. It comes! it comes! A monster in aspect, with shaggy front Of shattered dwellings to take the brunt Of the dwellings they shatter;--white-maned and hoarse The merciless terror fills the course Of the narrow valley, and rushing raves With death on the first of its hissing waves, Till cottage and street and crowded mill Are crumbled and crushed. But onward still, In front of the roaring flood, is heard The galloping horse and the warning word.

Thank God that the brave man’s life is spared! From Williamsburg town he nobly dared To race with the flood, and to take the road In front of the terrible swath it mowed. For miles it thundered and crashed behind, But he looked ahead with a steadfast mind: “_They must be warned!_” was all he said, As away on his terrible ride he sped.

When heroes are called for, bring the crown To this Yankee rider; send him down On the stream of time with the Curtius old; His deed, as the Roman’s, was brave and bold; And the tale can as noble a thrill awake, For he offered his life for the people’s sake!

JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY.

(By special permission of Miss Mary Boyle O’Reilly.)

60

JIM BLUDSO

Wall, no! I can’t tell whar he lives, Becase he don’t live, you see; Leastways, he’s got out of the habit Of livin’ like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three year That you haven’t heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks The night of the _Prairie Belle_?

He wer’n’t no saint,--them engineers Is all pretty much alike,-- One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill And another one here, in Pike; A keerless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward hand in a row, But he never flunked, and he never lied,-- I reckon he never knowed how.