Chapter 2

_Saturday morning at 3 A.M. A stir within the Fort betrayed That the rebels were getting under arms; Some plot these early birds had laid. But a lancing sleet cut him who stared Into the storm. After some vague alarms, Which left our lads unscared, Out sallied the enemy at dim of dawn, With cavalry and artillery, and went In fury at our environment. Under cover of shot and shell Three columns of infantry rolled on, Vomited out of Donelson-- Rolled down the slopes like rivers of hell, Surged at our line, and swelled and poured Like breaking surf. But unsubmerged Our men stood up, except where roared The enemy through one gap. We urged Our all of manhood to the stress, But still showed shattered in our desperateness. Back set the tide, But soon afresh rolled in; And so it swayed from side to side-- Far batteries joining in the din, Though sharing in another fray-- Till all became an Indian fight, Intricate, dusky, stretching far away, Yet not without spontaneous plan However tangled showed the plight; Duels all over ’tween man and man, Duels on cliff-side, and down in ravine, Duels at long range, and bone to bone; Duels every where flitting and half unseen. Only by courage good as their own, And strength outlasting theirs, Did our boys at last drive the rebels off. Yet they went not back to their distant lairs In strong-hold, but loud in scoff Maintained themselves on conquered ground-- Uplands; built works, or stalked around. Our right wing bore this onset. Noon Brought calm to Donelson.

The reader ceased; the storm beat hard; ’Twas day, but the office-gas was lit; Nature retained her sulking-fit, In her hand the shard. Flitting faces took the hue Of that washed bulletin-board in view, And seemed to bear the public grief As private, and uncertain of relief; Yea, many an earnest heart was won, As broodingly he plodded on, To find in himself some bitter thing, Some hardness in his lot as harrowing As Donelson.

That night the board stood barren there, Oft eyes by wistful people passing, Who nothing saw but the rain-beads chasing Each other down the wafered square, As down some storm-beat grave-yard stone. But next day showed--

MORE NEWS LAST NIGHT.

STORY OF SATURDAY AFTERNOON.

VICISSITUDES OF THE WAR.

_The damaged gun-boats can’t wage fight For days; so says the Commodore. Thus no diversion can be had. Under a sunless sky of lead Our grim-faced boys in blacked plight Gaze toward the ground they held before, And then on Grant. He marks their mood, And hails it, and will turn the same to good. Spite all that they have undergone, Their desperate hearts are set upon This winter fort, this stubborn fort, This castle of the last resort, This Donelson.

1 P.M.

An order given Requires withdrawal from the front Of regiments that bore the brunt Of morning’s fray. Their ranks all riven Are being replaced by fresh, strong men. Great vigilance in the foeman’s Den; He snuffs the stormers. Need it is That for that fell assault of his, That rout inflicted, and self-scorn-- Immoderate in noble natures, torn By sense of being through slackness overborne-- The rebel be given a quick return: The kindest face looks now half stern. Balked of their prey in airs that freeze, Some fierce ones glare like savages. And yet, and yet, strange moments are-- Well--blood, and tears, and anguished War! The morning’s battle-ground is seen In lifted glades, like meadows rare; The blood-drops on the snow-crust there Like clover in the white-week show-- Flushed fields of death, that call again-- Call to our men, and not in vain, For that way must the stormers go.

3 P.M.

The work begins. Light drifts of men thrown forward, fade In skirmish-line along the slope, Where some dislodgments must be made Ere the stormer with the strong-hold cope.

Lew Wallace, moving to retake The heights late lost-- (Herewith a break. Storms at the West derange the wires. Doubtless, ere morning, we shall hear The end; we look for news to cheer-- Let Hope fan all her fires.)_

Next day in large bold hand was seen The closing bulletin:

VICTORY! _Our troops have retrieved the day By one grand surge along the line; The spirit that urged them was divine. The first works flooded, naught could stay The stormers: on! still on! Bayonets for Donelson!

Over the ground that morning lost Rolled the blue billows, tempest-tossed, Following a hat on the point of a sword. Spite shell and round-shot, grape and canister, Up they climbed without rail or banister-- Up the steep hill-sides long and broad, Driving the rebel deep within his works. ’Tis nightfall; not an enemy lurks In sight. The chafing men Fret for more fight: “To-night, to-night let us take the Den” But night is treacherous, Grant is wary; Of brave blood be a little chary. Patience! the Fort is good as won; To-morrow, and into Donelson._

LATER AND LAST.

THE FORT IS OURS.

_A flag came out at early morn Bringing surrender. From their towers Floats out the banner late their scorn. In Dover, hut and house are full Of rebels dead or dying. The national flag is flying From the crammed court-house pinnacle. Great boat-loads of our wounded go To-day to Nashville. The sleet-winds blow; But all is right: the fight is won, The winter-fight for Donelson. Hurrah! The spell of old defeat is broke, The Habit of victory begun; Grant strikes the war’s first sounding stroke At Donelson.

For lists of killed and wounded, see The morrow’s dispatch: to-day ’tis victory._

The man who read this to the crowd Shouted as the end he gained; And though the unflagging tempest rained, They answered him aloud. And hand grasped hand, and glances met In happy triumph; eyes grew wet. O, to the punches brewed that night Went little water. Windows bright Beamed rosy on the sleet without, And from the deep street came the frequent shout; While some in prayer, as these in glee, Blessed heaven for the winter-victory.

But others were who wakeful laid In midnight beds, and early rose, And, feverish in the foggy snows, Snatched the damp paper--wife and maid. The death-list like a river flows Down the pale sheet, And there the whelming waters meet.

Ah God! may Time with happy haste Bring wail and triumph to a waste, And war be done; The battle flag-staff fall athwart The curs’d ravine, and wither; naught Be left of trench or gun; The bastion, let it ebb away, Washed with the river bed; and Day In vain seek Donelson.

The Cumberland. (March, 1862.)

Some names there are of telling sound, Whose voweled syllables free Are pledge that they shall ever live renowned; Such seem to be A Frigate’s name (by present glory spanned)-- The Cumberland.

Sounding name as ere was sung, Flowing, rolling on the tongue-- Cumberland! Cumberland!

She warred and sunk. There’s no denying That she was ended--quelled; And yet her flag above her fate is flying, As when it swelled Unswallowed by the swallowing sea: so grand-- The Cumberland.

Goodly name as ere was sung, Roundly rolling on the tongue-- Cumberland! Cumberland!

What need to tell how she was fought-- The sinking flaming gun-- The gunner leaping out the port-- Washed back, undone! Her dead unconquerably manned The Cumberland.

Noble name as ere was sung, Slowly roll it on the tongue-- Cumberland! Cumberland!

Long as hearts shall share the flame Which burned in that brave crew, Her fame shall live--outlive the victor’s name; For this is due. Your flag and flag-staff shall in story stand-- Cumberland!

Sounding name as ere was sung, Long they’ll roll it on the tongue-- Cumberland! Cumberland!

In the Turret. (March, 1862.)

Your honest heart of duty, Worden, So helped you that in fame you dwell; You bore the first iron battle’s burden Sealed as in a diving-bell. Alcides, groping into haunted hell To bring forth King Admetus’ bride, Braved naught more vaguely direful and untried. What poet shall uplift his charm, Bold Sailor, to your height of daring, And interblend therewith the calm, And build a goodly style upon your bearing.

Escaped the gale of outer ocean-- Cribbed in a craft which like a log Was washed by every billow’s motion-- By night you heard of Og The huge; nor felt your courage clog At tokens of his onset grim: You marked the sunk ship’s flag-staff slim, Lit by her burning sister’s heart; You marked, and mused: “Day brings the trial: Then be it proved if I have part With men whose manhood never took denial.”

A prayer went up--a champion’s. Morning Beheld you in the Turret walled by adamant, where a spirit forewarning And all-deriding called: “Man, darest thou--desperate, unappalled-- Be first to lock thee in the armored tower? I have thee now; and what the battle-hour To me shall bring--heed well--thou’lt share; This plot-work, planned to be the foeman’s terror, To thee may prove a goblin-snare; Its very strength and cunning--monstrous error!”

“Stand up, my heart; be strong; what matter If here thou seest thy welded tomb? And let huge Og with thunders batter-- Duty be still my doom, Though drowning come in liquid gloom; First duty, duty next, and duty last; Ay, Turret, rivet me here to duty fast!--” So nerved, you fought wisely and well; And live, twice live in life and story; But over your Monitor dirges swell, In wind and wave that keep the rites of glory.

The Temeraire.[3]

_(Supposed to have been suggested to an Englishman of the old order by the fight of the Monitor and Merrimac.)_

The gloomy hulls, in armor grim, Like clouds o’er moors have met, And prove that oak, and iron, and man Are tough in fibre yet.

But Splendors wane. The sea-fight yields No front of old display; The garniture, emblazonment, And heraldry all decay.

Towering afar in parting light, The fleets like Albion’s forelands shine-- The full-sailed fleets, the shrouded show Of Ships-of-the-Line.

The fighting Temeraire, Built of a thousand trees, Lunging out her lightnings, And beetling o’er the seas-- O Ship, how brave and fair, That fought so oft and well, On open decks you manned the gun Armorial.[4] What cheering did you share, Impulsive in the van, When down upon leagued France and Spain We English ran-- The freshet at your bowsprit Like the foam upon the can. Bickering, your colors Licked up the Spanish air, You flapped with flames of battle-flags-- Your challenge, Temeraire! The rear ones of our fleet They yearned to share your place, Still vying with the Victory Throughout that earnest race-- The Victory, whose Admiral, With orders nobly won, Shone in the globe of the battle glow-- The angel in that sun. Parallel in story, Lo, the stately pair, As late in grapple ranging, The foe between them there-- When four great hulls lay tiered, And the fiery tempest cleared, And your prizes twain appeared, Temeraire!

But Trafalgar’ is over now, The quarter-deck undone; The carved and castled navies fire Their evening-gun. O, Tital Temeraire, Your stern-lights fade away; Your bulwarks to the years must yield, And heart-of-oak decay. A pigmy steam-tug tows you, Gigantic, to the shore-- Dismantled of your guns and spars, And sweeping wings of war. The rivets clinch the iron-clads, Men learn a deadlier lore; But Fame has nailed your battle-flags-- Your ghost it sails before: O, the navies old and oaken, O, the Temeraire no more!

A Utilitarian View of the Monitors Fight.

Plain be the phrase, yet apt the verse, More ponderous than nimble; For since grimed War here laid aside His Orient pomp, ’twould ill befit Overmuch to ply The Rhyme’s barbaric cymbal.

Hail to victory without the gaud Of glory; zeal that needs no fans Of banners; plain mechanic power Plied cogently in War now placed-- Where War belongs-- Among the trades and artisans.

Yet this was battle, and intense-- Beyond the strife of fleets heroic; Deadlier, closer, calm ’mid storm; No passion; all went on by crank, Pivot, and screw, And calculations of caloric.

Needless to dwell; the story’s known. the ringing of those plates on plates Still ringeth round the world-- The clangor of that blacksmith’s fray. The anvil-din Resounds this message from the Fates:

War shall yet be, and to the end; But war-paint shows the streaks of weather; War yet shall be, but warriors Are now but operatives; War’s made Less grand than Peace, And a singe runs through lace and feather.

Shiloh. A Requiem. (April, 1862.)

Skimming lightly, wheeling still, The swallows fly low Over the field in clouded days, The forest-field of Shiloh-- Over the field where April rain Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain Through the pause of night That followed the Sunday fight Around the church of Shiloh-- The church so lone, the log-built one, That echoed to many a parting groan And natural prayer Of dying foemen mingled there-- Foemen at morn, but friends at eve-- Fame or country least their care: (What like a bullet can undeceive!) But now they lie low, While over them the swallows skim, And all is hushed at Shiloh.

The Battle for the Mississipppi. (April, 1862.)

When Israel camped by Migdol hoar, Down at her feet her shawm she threw, But Moses sung and timbrels rung For Pharaoh’s standed crew. So God appears in apt events-- The Lord is a man of war! So the strong wind to the muse is given In victory’s roar.

Deep be the ode that hymns the fleet-- The fight by night--the fray Which bore our Flag against the powerful stream, And led it up to day. Dully through din of larger strife Shall bay that warring gun; But none the less to us who live It peals--an echoing one.

The shock of ships, the jar of walls, The rush through thick and thin-- The flaring fire-rafts, glare and gloom-- Eddies, and shells that spin-- The boom-chain burst, the hulks dislodged, The jam of gun-boats driven, Or fired, or sunk--made up a war Like Michael’s waged with leven.

The manned Varuna stemmed and quelled The odds which hard beset; The oaken flag-ship, half ablaze, Passed on and thundered yet; While foundering, gloomed in grimy flame, The Ram Manassas--hark the yell!-- Plunged, and was gone; in joy or fright, The River gave a startled swell.

They fought through lurid dark till dawn; The war-smoke rolled away With clouds of night, and showed the fleet In scarred yet firm array, Above the forts, above the drift Of wrecks which strife had made; And Farragut sailed up to the town And anchored--sheathed the blade.

The moody broadsides, brooding deep, Hold the lewd mob at bay, While o’er the armed decks’ solemn aisles The meek church-pennons play; By shotted guns the sailors stand, With foreheads bound or bare; The captains and the conquering crews Humble their pride in prayer.

They pray; and after victory, prayer Is meet for men who mourn their slain; The living shall unmoor and sail, But Death’s dark anchor secret deeps detain. Yet glory slants her shaft of rays Far through the undisturbed abyss; There must be other, nobler worlds for them Who nobly yield their lives in this.

Malvern Hill. (July, 1862.)

Ye elms that wave on Malvern Hill In prime of morn and May, Recall ye how McClellan’s men Here stood at bay? While deep within yon forest dim Our rigid comrades lay-- Some with the cartridge in their mouth, Others with fixed arms lifted South-- Invoking so The cypress glades? Ah wilds of woe!

The spires of Richmond, late beheld Through rifts in musket-haze, Were closed from view in clouds of dust On leaf-walled ways, Where streamed our wagons in caravan; And the Seven Nights and Days Of march and fast, retreat and fight, Pinched our grimed faces to ghastly plight-- Does the elm wood Recall the haggard beards of blood?

The battle-smoked flag, with stars eclipsed, We followed (it never fell!)-- In silence husbanded our strength-- Received their yell; Till on this slope we patient turned With cannon ordered well; Reverse we proved was not defeat; But ah, the sod what thousands meet!-- Does Malvern Wood Bethink itself, and muse and brood?

_We elms of Malvern Hill Remember every thing; But sap the twig will fill: Wag the world how it will, Leaves must be green in Spring._

The Victor of Antietam.[5] (1862.)

When tempest winnowed grain from bran; And men were looking for a man, Authority called you to the van, McClellan: Along the line the plaudit ran, As later when Antietam’s cheers began.

Through storm-cloud and eclipse must move Each Cause and Man, dear to the stars and Jove; Nor always can the wisest tell Deferred fulfillment from the hopeless knell-- The struggler from the floundering ne’er-do-well. A pall-cloth on the Seven Days fell, Mcclellan-- Unprosperously heroical! Who could Antietam’s wreath foretell?

Authority called you; then, in mist And loom of jeopardy--dismissed. But staring peril soon appalled; You, the Discarded, she recalled-- Recalled you, nor endured delay; And forth you rode upon a blasted way, Arrayed Pope’s rout, and routed Lee’s array, McClellan: Your tent was choked with captured flags that day, McClellan. Antietam was a telling fray.

Recalled you; and she heard your drum Advancing through the glastly gloom. You manned the wall, you propped the Dome, You stormed the powerful stormer home, McClellan: Antietam’s cannon long shall boom.

At Alexandria, left alone, McClellan-- Your veterans sent from you, and thrown To fields and fortunes all unknown-- What thoughts were yours, revealed to none, While faithful still you labored on-- Hearing the far Manassas gun! McClellan, Only Antietam could atone.

You fought in the front (an evil day, McClellan)-- The fore-front of the first assay; The Cause went sounding, groped its way; The leadsmen quarrelled in the bay; Quills thwarted swords; divided sway; The rebel flushed in his lusty May: You did your best, as in you lay, McClellan. Antietam’s sun-burst sheds a ray.

Your medalled soldiers love you well, McClellan: Name your name, their true hearts swell; With you they shook dread Stonewall’s spell,[6] With you they braved the blended yell Of rebel and maligner fell; With you in shame or fame they dwell, McClellan: Antietam-braves a brave can tell.

And when your comrades (now so few, McClellan-- Such ravage in deep files they rue) Meet round the board, and sadly view The empty places; tribute due They render to the dead--and you! Absent and silent o’er the blue; The one-armed lift the wine to _you_, McClellan, And great Antietam’s cheers renew.

Battle of Stone River, Tennessee. A View from Oxford Cloisters. (January, 1863.)

With Tewksbury and Barnet heath In days to come the field shall blend, The story dim and date obscure; In legend all shall end. Even now, involved in forest shade A Druid-dream the strife appears, The fray of yesterday assumes The haziness of years. In North and South still beats the vein Of Yorkist and Lancastrian.

Our rival Roses warred for Sway-- For Sway, but named the name of Right; And Passion, scorning pain and death, Lent sacred fervor to the fight. Each lifted up a broidered cross, While crossing blades profaned the sign; Monks blessed the fraticidal lance, And sisters scarfs could twine. Do North and South the sin retain Of Yorkist and Lancastrian?

But Rosecrans in the cedarn glade, And, deep in denser cypress gloom, Dark Breckenridge, shall fade away Or thinly loom. The pale throngs who in forest cowed Before the spell of battle’s pause, Forefelt the stillness that shall dwell On them and on their wars. North and South shall join the train Of Yorkist and Lancastrian.

But where the sword has plunged so deep, And then been turned within the wound By deadly Hate; where Climes contend On vasty ground-- No warning Alps or seas between, And small the curb of creed or law, And blood is quick, and quick the brain; Shall North and South their rage deplore, And reunited thrive amain Like Yorkist and Lancastrian?

Running the Batteries, As observed from the Anchorage above Vicksburgh. (April, 1863.)

A moonless night--a friendly one; A haze dimmed the shadowy shore As the first lampless boat slid silent on; Hist! and we spake no more; We but pointed, and stilly, to what we saw.

We felt the dew, and seemed to feel The secret like a burden laid. The first boat melts; and a second keel Is blent with the foliaged shade-- Their midnight rounds have the rebel officers made?

Unspied as yet. A third--a fourth-- Gun-boat and transport in Indian file Upon the war-path, smooth from the North; But the watch may they hope to beguile? The manned river-batteries stretch for mile on mile.

A flame leaps out; they are seen; Another and another gun roars; We tell the course of the boats through the screen By each further fort that pours, And we guess how they jump from their beds on those shrouded shores.

Converging fires. We speak, though low: “That blastful furnace can they threadd” “Why, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego Came out all right, we read; The Lord, be sure, he helps his people, Ned.”

How we strain our gaze. On bluffs they shun A golden growing flame appears-- Confirms to a silvery steadfast one: “The town is afire!” crows Hugh: “three cheers” Lot stops his mouth: “Nay, lad, better three tears.”

A purposed light; it shows our fleet; Yet a little late in its searching ray, So far and strong, that in phantom cheat Lank on the deck our shadows lay; The shining flag-ship stings their guns to furious play.

How dread to mark her near the glare And glade of death the beacon throws Athwart the racing waters there; One by one each plainer grows, Then speeds a blazoned target to our gladdened foes.

The impartial cresset lights as well The fixed forts to the boats that run; And, plunged from the ports, their answers swell Back to each fortress dun: Ponderous words speaks every monster gun.

Fearless they flash through gates of flame, The salamanders hard to hit, Though vivid shows each bulky frame; And never the batteries intermit, Nor the boats huge guns; they fire and flit.

Anon a lull. The beacon dies: “Are they out of that strait accurst” But other flames now dawning rise, Not mellowly brilliant like the first, But rolled in smoke, whose whitish volumes burst.

A baleful brand, a hurrying torch Whereby anew the boats are seen-- A burning transport all alurch! Breathless we gaze; yet still we glean Glimpses of beauty as we eager lean.

The effulgence takes an amber glow Which bathes the hill-side villas far; Affrighted ladies mark the show Painting the pale magnolia-- The fair, false, Circe light of cruel War.

The barge drifts doomed, a plague-struck one. Shoreward in yawls the sailors fly. But the gauntlet now is nearly run, The spleenful forts by fits reply, And the burning boat dies down in morning’s sky.

All out of range. Adieu, Messieurs! Jeers, as it speeds, our parting gun. So burst we through their barriers And menaces every one: So Porter proves himself a brave man’s son.[7]

Stonewall Jackson. Mortally wounded at Chancellorsville. (May, 1863.)

The Man who fiercest charged in fight, Whose sword and prayer were long-- Stonewall! Even him who stoutly stood for Wrong, How can we praise? Yet coming days Shall not forget him with this song.