Chapter 4

"But I snatched off the trinket,--this locket of gold; An inch from the center my lead broke its way, Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, Of a beautiful lady in bridal array."

"Ha! Rifleman, fling me the locket!--'tis she, My brother's young bride, and the fallen dragoon Was her husband--Hush! soldier, 'twas Heaven's decree, We must bury him there, by the light of the moon!

"But hark! the far bugles their warnings unite; War is a virtue,--weakness a sin; There's a lurking and loping around us to-night; Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!"

CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY.

[2] The above has been sometimes entitled "The Fancy Shot." It appeared first in a London weekly and is commonly attributed to Charles Dawson Shanly, who died in the late seventies.

'ROUND SHILOH CHURCH

WITHIN Shiloh Church that fateful day of 1862, no sound of song or praise was heard. But all without the leaden missiles rang and sang in chorus of red death. Green blades of grass, dew-tipped, sprang up to greet the sun that April morn, but ere night fell were bowed to earth with weight of human blood. Ne'er before had little church looked out on such a scene. Ten thousand homes and hearts of North and South were there made desolate; and twice ten thousand men gave up their lives. The world looked on and wondered.

Albert Sidney Johnston, the hero of three wars, had staked his life and cause that April day, for victory or defeat.

He met--both.

It was recognized by both the Northern and Southern armies that Johnston was a formidable antagonist. That he was a man of most magnetic personality as well as a brave officer.

Where he led men followed.

The Black Hawk War made his name familiar throughout the country. In the War with Mexico he won distinction.

As he reviewed his troops at Shiloh, he beheld on every side his friends of other days, and men who had served under him on other fields.

When the War between the States came on, Johnston was a brigadier general in the United States Army; and although he was offered any position he might desire with the Federal government, he resigned to cast his lot with the South, and against the land of his ancestry, for he was a son of Connecticut. Texas had been his home, and to the Lone Star State he felt his allegiance due.

Disappointment, as pertained to his life ambitions, had often before waited upon his footsteps when the thing desired seemed ready to his grasp. Yet, seeing his duty clearly, he did it.

To his sister by marriage, when she, in surprise at his action in resigning, wrote him in California, where he was then stationed, he replied that he was deeply sensible of the "calamitious condition" of the country; and that whatever his part thereafter regarding it, he congratulated himself that no act of his had aided in bringing it about; that the adjustment of the difficulties by the sword was not in his judgment the remedy.

Secession was to him a grievous thing.

Arriving at Richmond from the West, General Johnston was given the command of the Western Department of the Confederacy.

From September to February, 1862, he held the line against heavy odds at Bowling Green, Ky., when he retreated to Corinth, Miss., where he assembled his entire army and attacked Grant at Shiloh Church near Pittsburg Landing, Tenn.

In the flush tide of a great victory, he was struck by a Minie ball and expired in a few moments.

He rode a magnificent black animal called "Fire-eater." On horseback General Johnston appeared to distinct advantage. The masterly manner in which he sat his horse attracted the attention of the commander in chief of the army, Thomas J. Rusk, during the Texan Revolution, and procured him the appointment of adjutant general over several eager aspirants for the position.

As he passed along the lines to the front of the troops at Shiloh, he raised his hat and cried out,

"I will lead you!"

To this the men responded with a mighty cheer and quickened movement, albeit they knew he was leading many of them to death.

Hard up the slopes they pressed.

Nor shot, nor shell, nor falling men deterred them.

The summit was reached. The Federals were in retreat. A little apart from the others, a fine target for the deadly marksman, the figure of General Johnston on "Fire-eater" was plainly visible.

His clothing was torn in places. His boot sole was slashed by a ball, but he himself was uninjured.

In his countenance was reflected a satisfaction of the day's results.

The wisdom of his decisions had been proven; his judgment justified.

From the last line of the retreating Federals a bullet whistled back, whistled back and cut him down, did its fatal work in the very moment in which he felt the conviction that success now lay with the Confederate cause.

* * * * *

His death seemed for a time to paralyze the further efforts of his troops, to whom his presence had been a continual inspiration.

General Beauregard took command.

Night fell and the battle was stayed.

The Federals had been driven to the banks of the Tennessee River, where the gunboats afforded but meager protection.

From Nashville, General Buell arrived before daybreak with the needed reenforcements. Lew Wallace came in. Grant assumed the offensive; and the afternoon of the second day of the hard-fought contest the final victory swept to the Federals.

What would have been the result to the Confederate cause had the great leader not fallen that first day, who can say?

"In his fall, the great pillar of the Southern Confederacy was crushed," says Jefferson Davis in his _Rise and Fall of the Confederate Government_, "and beneath its fragments the best hope of the Southland lay buried."

ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON

I HEAR again the tread of war go thundering through the land, And Puritan and Cavalier are clinching neck and hand, Round Shiloh church the furious foes have met to thrust and slay, Where erst the peaceful sons of Christ were wont to kneel and pray.

The wrestling of the ages shakes the hills of Tennessee With all their echoing mounts athrob with war's wild minstrelsy; A galaxy of stars new-born around the shield of Mars And set against the Stars and Stripes the flashing Stars and Bars.

'Twas Albert Sidney Johnston led the columns of the Gray, Like Hector on the plains of Troy his presence fired the fray; And dashing horse and gleaming sword spake out his royal will As on the slopes of Shiloh field the blasts of war blew shrill.

"Down with the base invaders," the Gray shout forth the cry, "Death to presumptuous rebels," the Blue ring out reply; All day the conflict rages and yet again all day, Though Grant is on the Union side he cannot stem nor stay.

They are a royal race of men, these brothers face to face, Their fury speaking through their guns, their frenzy in their pace; The sweeping onset of the Gray bears down the sturdy Blue, Though Sherman and his legions are heroes through and through.

Though Prentiss and his gallant men are forcing scaur and crag, They fall like sheaves before the scythes of Hardee and of Bragg; Ah, who shall tell the victor's tale when all the strife is past, When, man and man, in one great mold, the men who strive are cast?

As when the Trojan hero came from that fair city's gates, With tossing mane and flaming crest to scorn the scowling fates, His legions gather round him and madly charge and cheer, And fill besieging armies with wild disheveled fear;

Then bares his breast unto the dart the daring spearsman sends, And dying hears his cheering foes, the wailing of his friends, So Albert Sidney Johnston, the chief of belt and scar, Lay down to die at Shiloh and turned the scales of war.

Now five and twenty years are gone, and lo, to-day they come, The Blue and Gray in proud array with throbbing fife and drum; But not as rivals, not as foes, as brothers reconciled; To twine love's fragrant roses where the thorns of hate grew wild;

Aye, five and twenty years, and lo, the manhood of the South Has held its valor staunch and strong as at the cannon's mouth, With patient heart and silent tongue has kept its true parole, And in the conquests born of peace has crowned its battle roll.

But ever while we sing of war, of courage tried and true, Of heroes wed to gallant deeds, or be it Gray or Blue, Then Albert Sidney Johnston's name shall flash before our sight Like some resplendent meteor across the somber night.

America, thy sons are knit with sinews wrought of steel, They will not bend, they will not break, beneath the tyrant's heel; But in the white-hot flame of love, to silken cobwebs spun, They whirl the engines of the world, all keeping time as one.

To-day they stand abreast and strong, who stood as foes of yore, The world leaps up to bless their feet, heaven scatters blessings o'er; Their robes are wrought of gleaming gold, their wings are freedom's own, The trampling of their conquering hosts shakes pinnacle and throne.

Oh, veterans of the Blue and Gray who fought on Shiloh field, The purposes of God are true, His judgment stands revealed; The pangs of war have rent the veil, and lo, His high decree: One heart, one hope, one destiny, one flag from sea to sea.

KATE BROWNLEE SHERWOOD.

OLD GLORY AT SHILOH

SPRING on the Tennessee; April--and flowers Bloom on its banks; the anemones white In clusters of stars where the green holly towers O'er bellworts, like butterflies hov'ring in flight. The ground ivy tips its blue lips to the laurel, And covers the banks of the water-swept bars With a background of blue, in which the red sorrel Are stripes where the pale corydalis are stars.

_Red, white and blue! O spring, did you send it,_ _And Flowers, did'st dream it for brothers to rend it?_

Spring on the Tennessee; Sabbath--and morning Breaks with a bird note that pulses along; A melody sobs in the heart of its dawning-- The pain that foreshadows the birth of a song. Art thou a flecking, brave Bluebird, of sky light, Or the sough of a minor wove into a beam? Oh, Hermit Thrush, Hermit Thrush, thou of the eye bright, Bird, or the spirit of song in a dream?

_"Our country--our country!" Why, birds, do you sing it?_ _And, woodland, why held you the echo, to ring it?_

Spring on the Tennessee; hark, Bluebird, listen! Was that a bugle note far up the bend, Where the murk waters flush and the white bars glisten, Or dove cooing dove into love notes that blend? And Wood Thrush, sweet, tell me,--that throbbing and humming, Is it march at the double quick or wild bees that hum? And that rumble that shakes like an earthquake coming-- Tell me, O Hermit Thrush, thunder or drum?

_O birds, you must fly from the home that God gave you!_ _O flowers, you must die 'neath the foot that would save you!_

Out from the wood with the morning mist o'er it A gray line sweeps like a scythe of fire, And it burns the stubble of blue before it,-- (How their bugles ring and their cannon roar it!)

_In Dixie land we'll take our stand,_ _And live and die in Dixie!_

Out from the deep wood clearer and nigher, The gray lines roll, and the blue lines reel Back on the river--their dead are piled higher Than the muzzle of muskets thund'ring their peal:

_In Dixie land we'll take our stand,_ _And live and die for Dixie!_

Noon on the Tennessee; backward, still driven The blue lines reel, and the ranks of the gray Flash out with a fierceness that light up the heavens, When the thunders of night meet the lightnings of day. Noon and past noon--and this is the story Of the flag that fell not, and they call it Old Glory:

It flapped in the air, it flashed with the blare Of the bugles so shrill and so true, It faced quick about and steadied the rout And halted the lines of blue. And the _boom-boom-boom_ of the maddened guns Roared round it thick and fast, And _dead-dead-dead_ sang the learing lead Like hail in the sheeted blast, And up and around it, surge and swell, Rose the victor waves of the rebel yell, And Grant's grim army staggered, but stood, With backs to the river and dyed it with blood In the shuttle of thunder and drum; And they cheered as it went to the front of the fray And turned the tide at the sunset of day, And they whispered: _Buell is come!_

Spring on the Tennessee; April--and flowers Bloom on its banks; the anemones white In clusters of stars where the green holly towers O'er bellworts, like butterflies hov'ring in flight. And the ground ivy tips its blue lips to the laurel And covers the banks and the water-swept bars With a background of blue, in which the red sorrel Are stripes where the pale corydalis are stars.

Red, white, and blue--it tells its own story-- But, Spring, Who made it and named it Old Glory!

JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.

THE FLAG OF THE CUMBERLAND

THE Confederate frigate, _Merrimac_, newly arisen from her briny bath in the Norfolk Navy Yards, with her sides new coated in an almost impenetrable mail of iron and rechristened the _Virginia_, steamed slowly down the river May 8th, 1862, to Newport News, where the _Cumberland_, the _Congress_, and the _Minnesota_ of the Union fleet lay at anchor.

The crews of the latter vessels were taking life leisurely that day, and were indulging in various pastimes beloved of seamen. The _Merrimac_ as she hove in sight did not look especially belligerent. Indeed she appeared "like a house submerged to the eaves and borne onward by the flood."

Notwithstanding her somewhat droll appearance, the _Merrimac_ had herself well in control and was not on a cruise of pleasure bent, as the navies well knew.

With steady determination she came on, until within easy distance of the _Congress_, a vessel which gave her greeting with a shot from one of her stern guns, and received in response a shower of grape.

Broadsides were then exchanged, resulting in fearful slaughter to the crew of the _Congress_ and damage to the guns. An officer of the _Congress_ was a favorite brother of Captain Buchanan of the _Merrimac_. But such relation effected naught in the exigencies of war.

Before the _Congress_ could recover herself, the _Merrimac_ headed for the _Cumberland_. The fires of the Cumberland, as she approached, had no effect upon her armored sides.

Into the _Cumberland_ she ran her powerful iron prow, crashing in her timbers and strewing her decks with the maimed, the dead, and dying.

Again she turned her attention to the _Congress_, remembering also the frigate _Minnesota_ with her fiery baptisms. Upon the _Congress_ she soon forced a surrender. The _Minnesota_ found refuge in flight.

Her work upon the _Cumberland_ was complete. And albeit the vessel had been rammed and was sinking, her men ascended to the spar deck and fought till the waters engulfed them. The last shot was fired from a gun half submerged in the water.

As the ship settled to the bottom she careened slightly and then righted herself; and the flag, as if defying the fate that threatened its destruction, still flew above the masthead.

There, close to the waves--her colors almost touching the water--the captain, who was absent from his ship, found his flag upon his return. A harbinger as it proved of the issue that was to be.

THE CUMBERLAND

AT anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the _Cumberland_, sloop of war; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore.

Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak.

Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port.

We are not idle, but send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside! As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, Rebounds our heavier hail From each iron scale Of the monster's hide.

"Strike your flag!" the rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation strain. "Never!" our gallant Morris replies; "It is better to sink than to yield!" And the whole air pealed With the cheers of our men.

Then, like a kraken huge and black, She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! Down went the _Cumberland_ all awrack, With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannon's breath For her dying gasp.

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast head Lord, how beautiful was Thy day! Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead.

Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! Ye are at peace in the troubled stream; Ho! brave land! with hearts like these, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without a seam!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE MONITOR

TWO old Spanish ships had, prior to the sinking of the _Cumberland_, met a like fate at the hands of the Confederates; and the signal success of the _Merrimac_ now augured well for the break of the blockade.

The South was greatly elated. The North was disquieted.

Twenty-four hours later the trend of events was changed.

There appeared in Hampton Roads a strange new craft, called the _Monitor_. It was unlike any vessel before seen, having a revolving round tower of iron, that enabled the gunners to train the guns on the enemy continuously, without regard to the position of the ship. The hull had an "overhang," a projection constructed of iron and wood, as a protection against rams.

The inventor and builder of this little giant was John Ericsson.

His,

"The master mind that wrought, With iron hand, this iron thought. Strength and safety with speed combined."

The vessel had been launched in less than a hundred days after the laying of the keel, in an effort of the Federal government to have her in service before the completion of the _Merrimac_ (the _Virginia_.)

The new warship attracted the attention of the navies of Europe and brought about a change in the construction of war vessels.

As if indignant at the actions of the _Merrimac_ in preceding her, and in attacking the Union fleet, the _Monitor_ bore down upon her like some live thing bent upon retribution, and at once engaged her in a terrific encounter.

With the hope born of confidence in the strength of the Confederate ironclad, and her ability to overpower completely the Union flotilla, boats filled with sight-seers had gone out from Norfolk, but with the first terrible onset of the armored combatants speedily made their way back to safety.

In this battle of the waters two old Naval Academy comrades fought on opposite sides, Lieutenant Green and Lieutenant Butt, both well-known names.

For five long awful hours the strength of the two iron monsters was pitted against each other for supremacy on the seas, without apparent serious injury to either vessel.

At last the _Merrimac_ ended the gigantic contest by turning her prow and withdrawing to Norfolk.

THE CRUISE OF THE MONITOR

Hampton Roads, Virginia, March 9, 1862

OUT of a Northern city's bay, 'Neath lowering clouds, one bleak March day, Glided a craft,--the like I ween, On ocean's crest was never seen Since Noah's float, That ancient boat, Could o'er a conquered deluge gloat.

No raking masts, with clouds of sail, Bent to the breeze or braved the gale; No towering chimney's wreaths of smoke Betrayed the mighty engine's stroke; But low and dark, Like the crafty shark, Moved in the waters this novel bark.

The fishers stared as the flitting sprite Passed their huts in the misty light, Bearing a turret huge and black, And said, "The old sea serpent's back Carting away, By light of day, Uncle Sam's fort from New York bay."

Forth from a Southern city's dock Our frigates' strong blockade to mock, Crept a monster of rugged build, The work of crafty hands, well skilled-- Old _Merrimac_, With an iron back Wooden ships would find hard to crack.

Straight to where the _Cumberland_ lay The mail-clad monster made its way; Its deadly prow struck deep and sure, And the hero's fighting days were o'er. Ah! many the braves Who found their graves With that good ship beneath the waves.

Flushed with success, the victor flew, Furious, the startled squadron through; Sinking, burning, driving ashore, Until the Sabbath day was o'er, Resting at night, To renew the fight With vengeful ire by morning's light.

Out of its den it burst anew, When the gray mist the sun broke through, Steaming to where, in clinging sands, The frigate _Minnesota_ stands, A sturdy foe To overthrow, But in woeful plight to receive a blow.

But see! beneath her bow appears A champion no danger fears; A pigmy craft, that seems to be, To this new lord that rules the sea, Like David of old To Goliath bold-- Youth and giant, by scripture told.

Round the roaring despot playing, With willing spirit helm obeying, Spurning the iron against it hurled, While belching turret rapid whirled, And swift shots seethe With smoky wreathe, Told that the shark was showing his teeth.

The _Monitor_ fought. In grim amaze The Merrimacs upon it gaze, Cowering 'neath the iron hail, Crashing into their coat of mail, They swore, "this craft, The devil's shaft, Looked like a cheese box on a raft."

Hurrah! little giant of '62! Bold Worden with his gallant crew Forces the fight; the day is won; Back to his den the monster's gone, With crippled claws And broken jaws, Defeated in a reckless cause.

Hurrah for the master mind that wrought, With iron hand, this iron thought! Strength and safety with speed combined, Ericsson's gift to all mankind; To curb abuse, And chains to loose, Hurrah for the _Monitor's_ famous cruise!

GEORGE H. BOKER.

THE NIGHT OF CHANTILLY

IN March, 1862, McClellan set out from Washington to capture the Confederate capital. At Yorktown he was held in check for a month by an inferior force of Confederates. It was the last of May before he reached Fair Oaks (Seven Pines), seven miles from Richmond. The Confederates here attacked him, and a furious battle of two days' duration ensued, when the Confederates were driven back. A notable event of this engagement was the appointment of General Robert E. Lee, as commander in chief of the Confederate armies; in place of General Joseph E. Johnston, who was severely wounded.

One of the most conspicuous figures of this battle of Fair Oaks was General Philip Kearney.

In the words of Stedman:--

"When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn:-- He rode down the length of the withering column, His sword waved us on and we answered the sign."