Chapter 5
By communion of the banner,-- Crimson, white, and starry banner,-- By the baptism of the banner, Children of one Church are we. Creed nor faction can divide us, Race nor language can divide us Still, whatever fate betide us, Children of the flag are we.
JONATHAN TO JOHN
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
[Sidenote: Jan 6. 1862] _This poetic effusion of Mr. Hosea Biglow was preceded by the "Idyl of the Bridge and the Monument," which set forth another side of American feeling at the British words and deeds consequent on the unauthorized capture, by Commodore Wilkes, of the "Trent," conveying to England two Confederate Commissioners._
It don't seem hardly right, John, When both my hands was full, To stump me to a fight, John,-- Your cousin, tu, John Bull! Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess We know it now," sez he, "The lion's paw is all the law, Accordin' to J. B., Thet's fit for you an' me!"
You wonder why we're hot, John? Your mark wuz on the guns, The neutral guns, thet shot, John, Our brothers an' our sons: Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess There's human blood," sez he, "By fits an' starts, in Yankee hearts, Though 't may surprise J. B. More 'n it would you an' me."
Ef _I_ turned mad dogs loose, John, On _your_ front-parlor stairs, Would it jest meet your views, John, To wait and sue their heirs? Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, I only guess," sez he, "Thet ef Vattel on _his_ toes fell, 'Twould kind o' rile J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!"
Who made the law thet hurts, John, _Heads I win,--ditto tails?_ "J. B." was on his shirts, John, Onless my memory fails, Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess (I'm good at thet)," sez he, "Thet sauce for goose ain't _jest_ the juice For ganders with J. B., No more than you or me!"
When your rights was our wrongs, John, You didn't stop for fuss,-- Britanny's trident prongs, John, Was good 'nough law for us. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, Though physic's good," sez he, "It doesn't foller that he can swaller Prescriptions signed 'J. B.,' Put up by you an' me!"
We own the ocean, tu, John: You mus'n' take it hard, Ef we can't think with you, John, It's jest your own back-yard. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, Ef _thet's_ his claim," sez he, "The fencin'-stuff 'll cost enough To bust up friend J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!"
Why talk so dreffle big, John, Of honor when it meant You didn't care a fig, John, But jest for _ten per cent?_ Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess He's like the rest," sez he: "When all is done, it's number one Thet's nearest to J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!"
We give the critters back, John, Cos Abram thought 'twas right; It warn't your bullyin' clack, John, Provokin' us to fight. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess We've a hard row," sez he, "To hoe jest now; but thet somehow, May happen to J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!"
We ain't so weak an' poor, John, With twenty million people, An' close to every door, John, A school-house an' a steeple. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess It is a fact," sez he, "The surest plan to make a Man Is, think him so, J. B., Ez much ez you or me!"
Our folks believe in Law, John; An' it's for her sake, now, They've left the ax an' saw, John, The anvil an' the plough. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, Ef 'twarn't for law," sez he, "There'd be one shindy from here to Indy, An' thet don't suit J. B. (When 'tain't 'twixt you an' me!)"
We know we've got a cause, John, Thet's honest, just an' true; We thought 'twould win applause, John, Ef nowheres else, from you. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess His love of right," sez he, "Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton: There's natur' in J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!"
The South says, "_Poor folks down!_" John, An, "_All men up!_" say we,-- White, yaller, black, an' brown, John: Now which is your idee? Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, John preaches wal," sez he; "But, sermon thru, an' come to _du_, Why, there's the old J. B. A crowdin' you an' me!"
Shall it be love, or hate, John? It's you thet's to decide; Ain't _your_ bonds held by Fate, John, Like all the world's beside? Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess Wise men forgive," sez he, "But not forget; an' some time yet Thet truth may strike J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!"
God means to make this land, John, Clear thru, from sea to sea, Believe an' understand, John, The _wuth_ o' bein' free. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, God's price is high," sez he; "But nothin' else than wut He sells Wears long, an' thet J. B. May larn, like you an' me!"
THE CUMBERLAND
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
March 8, 1862 _The "Cumberland" was sunk by the iron-clad rebel ram "Merrimac," going down with her colors flying, and firing even as the water rose over the gunwale._
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 a wrack, 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!
KEARNEY AT SEVEN PINES EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN
[Sidenote: May 31, 1862]
So that soldierly legend is still on its journey,-- That story of Kearny who knew not to yield! 'Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and Birney, Against twenty thousand he rallied the field, Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest, Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine, Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,-- No charge like Phil Kearny's along the whole line.
When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn, Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our ground, He rode down the length of the withering column, And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound; He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of our powder,-- His sword waved us on and we answered the sign: Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder, "There's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole line!"
How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten In the one hand still left,--and the reins in his teeth! He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten, But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath. Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal, Asking where to go in,--through the clearing or pine? "O, anywhere! Forward! 'Tis all the same, Colonel: You'll find lovely fighting along the whole line!"
O, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly, That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried! Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily, The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's pride! Yet we dream that he still,--in that shadowy region Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drummer's sign,-- Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion, And the word still is Forward! along the whole line.
DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER
GEORGE H. BOKER
[Sidenote: Sept. 1, 1862] _These verses were written in memory of General Philip Kearny, killed at Chantilly after he had ridden out in advance of his men to reconnoitre._
Close his eyes; his work is done! What to him is friend or foeman, Rise of moon, or set of sun, Hand of man, or kiss of woman? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he can not know: Lay him low!
As man may, he fought his fight, Proved his truth by his endeavor; Let him sleep in solemn night, Sleep forever and forever. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he can not know: Lay him low!
Fold him in his country's stars, Roll the drum and fire the volley! What to him are all our wars, What but death bemocking folly? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he can not know: Lay him low!
Leave him to God's watching eye, Trust him to the hand that made him. Mortal love weeps idly by: God alone has power to aid him, Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he can not know: Lay him low!
BARBARA FRIETCHIE
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
[Sidebar: Sept. 6, 1862] _ These lines were suggested by a newspaper paragraph which lacked foundation in fact._
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 that 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 tost 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 with 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!
FREDERICKSBURG
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH
[Sidenote: Dec. 13, 1862]
The increasing moonlight drifts across my bed, And on the churchyard by the road, I know It falls as white and noiselessly as snow. 'Twas such a night two weary summers fled; The stars, as now, were waning overhead. Listen! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blow Where the swift currents of the river flow Past Fredericksburg: far off the heavens are red With sudden conflagration: on yon height, Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their breath: A signal-rocket pierces the dense night, Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath: Hark!--the artillery massing on the right, Hark!--the black squadrons wheeling down to Death!
MUSIC IN CAMP
JOHN R. THOMPSON
[Sidenote: Dec. 15-31, 1862]
Two armies covered hill and plain Where Rappahannock's waters Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain Of battle's recent slaughters.
The summer clouds lay pitched like tents In meads of heavenly azure; And each dread gun of the elements Slept in its hid embrasure.
The breeze so softly blew, it made No forest leaf to quiver, And the smoke of the random cannonade Rolled slowly from the river.
And now where circling hills looked down With cannon grimly planted, O'er listless camp and silent town The golden sunset slanted;
When on the fervid air there came A strain, now rich, now tender, The music seemed itself aflame With day's departing splendor.
A Federal band, which eve and morn Played measures brave and nimble, Had just struck up with flute and horn And lively clash of cymbal.
Down flocked the soldiers to the bank; Till margined by its pebbles, One wooded shore was blue with "Yanks," And one was gray with "Rebels."
Then all was still; and then the band With movements light and tricksy, Made stream and forest, hill and strand, Reverberate with "Dixie."
The conscious stream, with burnished glow, Went proudly o'er its pebbles, But thrilled throughout its deepest flow With yelling of the Rebels.
Again a pause, and then again The trumpet pealed sonorous, And Yankee Doodle was the strain To which the shore gave chorus.
The laughing ripple shoreward flew To kiss the shining pebbles-- Loud shrieked the crowding Boys in Blue Defiance to the Rebels.
And yet once more the bugle sang Above the stormy riot; No shout upon the evening rang There reigned a holy quiet.
The sad, lone stream its noiseless tread Spread o'er the glistening pebbles: All silent now the Yankees stood; All silent stood the Rebels:
For each responsive soul had heard That plaintive note's appealing, So deeply "Home, Sweet Home" had stirred The hidden founts of feeling.
Or blue or gray, the soldier sees, As by the wand of fairy, The cottage neath the live-oak trees, The cottage by the prairie.
Or cold or warm, his native skies Bend in their beauty o'er him: Sending the tear-mist in his eyes-- The dear ones stand before him.
As fades the iris after rain In April's tearful weather, The vision vanished as the strain And daylight died together.
But memory, waked by music's art Expressed in simplest numbers, Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart, Made light the Rebel's slumbers.
And fair the form of Music shines, That bright, celestial creature, Who still 'mid war's embattled lines Gave this one touch of nature.
KEENAN'S CHARGE
GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP
[Sidenote: May 2, 1863] _During the second day of the battle of Chancellorsville, General Pleasonton was trying to get twenty-two guns into a vital position as Stonewall Jackson made a sudden advance. Time had to be bought; so Pleasanton ordered Major Peter Keenan, commanding the Eighth Pennsylvania Cavalry (four hundred strong), to charge the advancing ten thousand of the enemy. An introduction to the poem, setting forth these facts, is omitted._
By the shrouded gleam of the western skies, Brave Keenan looked in Pleasonton'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-sash'd; 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 scabbards 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 wood that was ring'd 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; ay, 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.
But 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 whip-poor-will 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.
THE BLACK REGIMENT
GEORGE H. BOKER
[Sidenote: May 27, 1863] _"The colored troops fought nobly" was a frequent phrase in war bulletins; never did they better deserve this praise than at Port Hudson._
Dark as the clouds of even, Ranked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dread 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 old chains again!" O, what a shout there went From the black regiment!
"Charge!" Trump and drum awoke, Onward the bondmen 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 guns' mouths 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 crashing 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; Trusted 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. O, 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.
JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG
BRET HARTE
[Sidenote: July 1, 2, 3, 1863]
Have you heard the story that gossips tell Of Burns of Gettysburg?--No? Ah, well, Brief is the glory that hero earns, Briefer the story of poor John Burns: He was the fellow who won renown,-- The only man who didn't back down When the rebels rode through his native town; But held his own in the fight next day, When all his townsfolk ran away. That was in July, Sixty-three, The very day that General Lee, Flower of Southern chivalry, Baffled and beaten, backward reeled From a stubborn Meade and a barren field. I might tell how but the day before John Burns stood at his cottage door, Looking down the village street, Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, He heard the low of his gathered kine, And felt their breath with incense sweet Or I might say, when the sunset burned The old farm gable, he thought it turned The milk that fell like a babbling flood Into the milk-pail red as blood! Or how he fancied the hum of bees Were bullets buzzing among the trees. But all such fanciful thoughts as these Were strange to a practical man like Burns, Who minded only his own concerns, Troubled no more by fancies fine Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine,-- Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact, Slow to argue, but quick to act. That was the reason, as some folks say, He fought so well on that terrible day.
And it was terrible. On the right Raged for hours the heady fight, Thundered the battery's double bass,-- Difficult music for men to face; While on the left--where now the graves Undulate like the living waves That all that day unceasing swept Up to the pits the Rebels kept-- Round shot ploughed the upland glades, Sown with bullets, reaped with blades; Shattered fences here and there Tossed their splinters in the air; The very trees were stripped and bare; The barns that once held yellow grain Were heaped with harvests of the slain; The cattle bellowed on the plain, The turkeys screamed with might and main, And brooding barn-fowl left their rest With strange shells bursting in each nest.
Just where the tide of battle turns, Erect and lonely stood old John Burns. How do you think the man was dressed? He wore an ancient long buff vest, Yellow as saffron,--but his best, And, buttoned over his manly breast, Was a bright blue coat, with a rolling collar, And large gilt buttons,--size of a dollar,-- With tails that the country-folk called "swaller." He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat, White as the locks on which it sat. Never had such a sight been seen For forty years on the village green, Since old John Burns was a country beau, And went to the "quiltings" long ago.