Chapter 18

Five men to one the first dark wave of battle brought, it bore Down swiftly, while our youngsters waited steadfast as the shore; Behind the slender barricade, half-hidden, on their knees, They marked the stealthy current glide beneath the orchard trees.

Then forth the volley blazed, then rose the deadly reek of war; The dusky ranks were thinned; the chieftain slain by young Dunbar, Rolled headlong and their phalanx broke, but formed as soon as broke, And with a yell the furies that avenge man's blood awoke.

The swarthy wave sped on and on, pressed forward by the tide, Which rose above the bleak hill-top, and swept the bleak hill-side; It rose upon the hill, and, surging out about its base, Closed house and barricade within its murderous embrace.

With savage faces girt, the lads' frail fortress seemed to be An island all abloom within a black and howling sea; And only that the savages shot wide, and held the noise As deadly as the bullets, they had overwhelmed the boys.

Then in the dusk of day the dusky Kaffirs crept about The bushes and the prairie-grass, to rise up with a shout, To step as in a war-dance, all together, and to fling Their weight against the sick-house till they made its timbers spring.

When beaten back, they struck their shields, and thought to strike with fear Those British hearts,--their answer came, a ringing British cheer! And the volley we sent after showed the Kaffirs to their cost The coolness of our temper,--scarce an ounce of shot was lost.

And the sick men from their vantage at the windows singled out From among the valiant savages the bravest of the rout; A pile of fourteen warriors lay dead upon the ground By the hand of Joseph Williams, and there led up to the mound

A path of Zulu bodies on the Welshman's line of fire Ere he perished, dragged out, assegaied, and trampled in their ire; But the body takes its honour or dishonour from the soul, And his name is writ in fire upon our nation's long bead-roll.

Yet, let no name of any man be set above the rest, Where all were braver than the brave, each better than the best, Where the sick rose up as heroes, and the sound had hearts for those Who, in madness of their fever, were contending as with foes.

For the hospital was blazing, roof and wall, and in its light The Kaffirs showed like devils, till so deadly grew the fight That they cowered into cover, and one moment all was still, When a Kaffir chieftain bellowed forth new orders from the hill.

Then the Zulu warriors rallied, formed again, and hand to hand We fought above the barricade; determined was the stand; Our fellows backed each other up,--no wavering and no haste, But loading in the Kaffirs' teeth, and not a shot to waste.

We had held on through the dusk, and we had held on in the light Of the burning house; and later, in the dimness of the night, They could see our fairer faces; we could find them by their cries, By the flash of savage weapons and the glare of savage eyes.

With the midnight came a change--that angry sea at length was cowed, Its waves still broke upon us, but fell fainter and less loud; When the 'pale face' of the dawn rose glimmering from his bed The last black sullen wave swept off and bore away the dead.

That island all abloom with English youth, and fortified With English valour, stood above the wild, retreating tide; Those lads contemned Canute, and shamed the lesson that he read,-- For them the hungry waves withdrew, the howling ocean fled.

Britannia, rule, Britannia! while thy sons resemble thee, And are islanders, true islanders, wherever they may be; Island fortified like this, manned with islanders like these, Will keep thee Lady of thy Land, and Sovereign of all Seas!

RELIEVED!

(_AT MAFEKING_.)

Said he of the relieving force, As through the town he sped, "Art thou in Baden-Powell's Horse?" The trooper shook his head, Then drew his hand his mouth across, Like one who's lately fed. "Alas! for Baden-Powell's horse-- It's now in me," he said.--_Daily Express_.

HOW SAM HODGE WON THE VICTORIA CROSS.

BY WILLIAM JEFFREY PROWSE.

Just a simple little story I've a fancy for inditing; It shows the funny quarters in which chivalry may lodge, A story about Africa, and Englishmen, and fighting, And an unromantic hero by the name of Samuel Hodge.

"Samuel Hodge!" The words in question never previously filled a Conspicuous place in fiction or the Chronicles of Fame; And the Blood and Culture critics, or the Rosa and Matilda School of Novelists would shudder at the mention of the name.

It was up the Gambia River--and of _that_ unpleasant station It is chiefly in connection with the fever that we hear!-- That my hero with the vulgar and prosaic appellation Was a private--mind, a private!--and a sturdy pioneer.

It's a dreary kind of region, where the river mists arising Roll slowly out to seaward, dropping poison in their track. And accordingly few gentlemen will find the fact surprising That a rather small proportion of our garrison comes back!

It is filthy, it is foetid, it is sordid, it is squalid; If you tried it for a season, you would very soon repent; But the British trader likes it, and he finds a reason solid For the liking, in his profit at the rate of cent, per cent.

And to guard the British traders, gallant men and merry younkers, In their coats of blue and scarlet, still are stationed at the post, Whilst the migratory natives, who are known as "Tillie-bunkas," Grub up and down for ground-nuts and chaffer on the coast.

Furthermore, to help the trader in his laudable vocation, We have heaps of little treaties with a host of little kings, And, at times, the coloured caitiffs in their wild inebriation, Gather round us, little hornets, with uncomfortable stings.

To my tale:--The King of Barra had been getting rather "sarsy," In fact, for such an insect, he was coming it too strong, So we sent a small detachment--it was led by Colonel D'Arcy-- To drive him from his capital of Tubabecolong!

Now on due investigation, when his land they had invaded, They learnt from information which was brought them by the guides That the worthy King of Barra had completely _barra_caded The spacious mud-construction where his majesty resides.

"At it, boys!" said Colonel D'Arcy, and himself was first to enter, And his fellows tried to follow with the customary cheers; Through the town he dashed impatient, but had scarcely reached the centre Ere he found the task before him was a task for pioneers.

For so strongly and so stoutly all the gates were palisaded, The supports could never enter if he did not clear a way:-- But Sammy Hodge, perceiving how the foe might be "persuaded," Had certain special talents which he hastened to display.

Whilst the bullets, then, were flying, and the bayonets were glancing Whilst the whole affair in fury rather heightened than relaxed, With axe in hand, and silently, our pioneer advancing SMOTE THE GATE; AND BADE IT OPEN; AND IT DID--AS IT WAS AXED!

L'ENVOI.

Just a word of explanation, it may save us from a quarrel, I have really no intention--'twould be shameful if I had, Of preaching you a blatant, democratic kind of moral; For the "swell, you know," the D'Arcy, fought as bravely as the "cad!"

Yet I own that sometimes thinking how a courteous decoration May be won by shabby service or disreputable dodge, I regard with more than pleasure--with a sense of consolation-- The Victoria Cross "For Valour" on the breast of Sammy Hodge!

THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW.

(October 25, 1857.)

BY R.T.S. LOWELL.

Oh! that last day in Lucknow fort! We knew that it was the last: That the enemy's mines had crept surely in, And the end was coming fast.

To yield to that foe meant worse than death; And the men and we all work'd on: It was one day more, of smoke and roar, And then it would all be done.

There was one of us, a corporal's wife, A fair young gentle thing, Wasted with fever in the siege, And her mind was wandering.

She lay on the ground in her Scottish plaid, And I took her head on my knee: "When my father comes hame frae the pleugh," she said, "Oh! please then waken me."

She slept like a child on her father's floor In the flecking of wood-bine shade, When the house-dog sprawls by the open door, And the mother's wheel is stay'd.

It was smoke and roar, and powder-stench, And hopeless waiting for death: But the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child, Seem'd scarce to draw her breath.

I sank to sleep, and I had my dream, Of an English village-lane, And wall and garden;--a sudden scream Brought me back to the roar again.

Then Jessie Brown stood listening, And then a broad gladness broke All over her face, and she took my hand And drew me near and spoke:

"_The Highlanders!_ Oh! dinna ye hear The slogan far awa-- The McGregor's? Ah! I ken it weel; It's the grandest o' them a'.

"God bless thae bonny Highlanders! We're saved! we're saved!" she cried: And fell on her knees, and thanks to God Pour'd forth, like a full flood-tide.

Along the battery-line her cry Had fallen among the men: And they started, for they were there to die: Was life so near them then?

They listen'd, for life: and the rattling fire Far off, and the far-off roar Were all:--and the colonel shook his head, And they turn'd to their guns once more.

Then Jessie said--"That slogan's dune; But can ye no hear them, noo,-- _The Campbells are comin'?_ It's no a dream; Our succours hae broken through!"

We heard the roar and the rattle afar But the pipes we could not hear; So the men plied their work of hopeless war, And knew that the end was near.

It was not long ere it must be heard,-- A shrilling, ceaseless sound: It was no noise of the strife afar, Or the sappers underground.

It _was_ the pipes of the Highlanders, And now they play'd "_Auld Lang Syne_:" It came to our men like the voice of God, And they shouted along the line.

And they wept and shook one another's hands, And the women sobb'd in a crowd: And every one knelt down where we stood, And we all thank'd God aloud.

That happy day when we welcomed them, Our men put Jessie first; And the General took her hand, and cheers From the men, like a volley, burst.

And the pipers' ribbons and tartan stream'd Marching round and round our line; And our joyful cheers were broken with tears, For the pipes play'd "_Auld Lang Syne_."

A BALLAD OF WAR.

BY MENELLA BUTE SMEDLEY.

(By permission of Messrs. Isbister & Co.)

"Oh! were you at war in the red Eastern land? What did you hear, and what did you see? Saw you my son, with his sword in his hand? Sent he, by you, any dear word to me?"

"I come from red war, in that dire Eastern land; Three deeds saw I done one might well die to see; But I know not your son with his sword in his hand; If you would hear of him, paint him to me."

"Oh, he is as gentle as south winds in May!" "'Tis not a gentle place where I have been." "Oh, he has a smile like the outbreak of day!" "Where men are dying fast, smiles are not seen."

"Tell me the mightiest deeds that were done. Deeds of chief honour, you said you saw three: You said you saw three--I am sure he did one. My heart shall discern him, and cry, 'This is he!'"

"I saw a man scaling a tower of despair, And he went up alone, and the hosts shouted loud." "That was my son! Had he streams of fair hair?" "Nay; it was black as the blackest night-cloud."

"Did he live?" "No; he died: but the fortress was won, And they said it was grand for a man to die so." "Alas for his mother! He was not my son. Was there no fair-hair'd soldier who humbled the foe?"

"I saw a man charging in front of his rank, Thirty yards on, in a hurry to die: Straight as an arrow hurled into the flank Of a huge desert-beast, ere the hunter draws nigh."

"Did he live?" "No; he died: but the battle was won, And the conquest-cry carried his name through the air. Be comforted, mother; he was not thy son; Worn was his forehead, and gray was his hair."

"Oh! the brow of my son is as smooth as a rose; I kissed it last night in my dream. I have heard Two legends of fame from the land of our foes; But you said there were three; you must tell me the third."

"I saw a man flash from the trenches and fly In a battery's face; but it was not to slay: A poor little drummer had dropp'd down to die, With his ankle shot through, in the place where he lay.

"He carried the boy like a babe through the rain, The death-pouring torrent of grape-shot and shell; And he walked at a foot's pace because of the pain, Laid his burden down gently, smiled once, and then fell."

"Did he live?" "No; he died: but he rescued the boy. Such a death is more noble than life (so they said). He had streams of fair hair, and a face full of joy, And his name"--"Speak it not! 'Tis my son! He is dead!

"Oh, dig him a grave by the red rowan tree, Where the spring moss grows softer than fringes of foam! And lay his bed smoothly, and leave room for me, For I shall be ready before he comes home.

"And carve on his tombstone a name and a wreath, And a tale to touch hearts through the slow-spreading years-- How he died his noble and beautiful death, And his mother who longed for him, died of her tears.

"But what is this face shining in at the door, With its old smile of peace, and its flow of fair hair? Are you come, blessed ghost, from the far heavenly shore? Do not go back alone--let me follow you there!"

"Oh! clasp me, dear mother. I come to remain; I come to your heart, and God answers your prayer. Your son is alive from the hosts of the slain, And the Cross of our Queen on his breast glitters fair!"

THE ALMA.

(September 20, 1854.) BY RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.

Though till now ungraced in story, scant although thy waters be, Alma, roll those waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea: Yesterday, unnamed, unhonoured, but to wandering Tartar known-- Now thou art a voice for ever, to the world's four corners blown. In two nations' annals graven, thou art now a deathless name, And a star for ever shining in the firmament of fame. Many a great and ancient river, crowned with city, tower and shrine, Little streamlet, knows no magic, boasts no potency like thine, Cannot shed the light thou sheddest around many a living head, Cannot lend the light thou lendest to the memories of the dead. Yea, nor all unsoothed their sorrow, who can, proudly mourning, say-- When the first strong burst of anguish shall have wept itself away-- "He has pass'd from, us, the loved one; but he sleeps with them that died By the Alma, at the winning of that terrible hill-side." Yes, and in the days far onward, when we all are cold as those Who beneath thy vines and willows on their hero-beds repose, Thou on England's banners blazon'd with the famous fields of old, Shalt, where other fields are winning, wave above the brave and bold; And our sons unborn shall nerve them for some great deed to be done, By that Twentieth of September, when the Alma's heights were won. Oh! thou river! dear for ever to the gallant, to the free-- Alma, roll thy waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea.

AFTER ALMA,

(September 20, 1854.)

BY GERALD MASSEY.

Our old War-banners on the wind Were waving merrily o'er them; The hope of half the world behind-- The sullen Foe before them! They trod their march of battle, bold As death-devoted freemen; Like those Three Hundred Greeks of old, Or Rome's immortal Three Men. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow. But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

With towering heart and lightsome feet They went to their high places; The fiery valour at white heat Was kindled in their faces! Magnificent in battle-robe, And radiant, as from star-lands, That spirit shone which girds our globe With glory, as with garlands! Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

They saw the Angel Iris o'er Their deluge of grim fire; And with their life's last tide they bore The Ark of Freedom higher! And grander 'tis i' the dash of death To ride on battle's billows, When Victory's kisses take the breath, Than sink on balmiest pillows. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

Brave hearts, with noble feelings flushed; In valour's ruddy riot But yesterday! how are ye hushed Beneath the smile of quiet! For us they poured their blood like wine, From life's ripe-gathered clusters; And far through History's night shall shine Their deeds with starriest lustres. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

We laid them not in churchyard home, Beneath our darling daisies: Where to their grave-mounds Love might come, And sit and sing their praises. But soothly sweet shall be their rest Where Victory's hands have crowned them To Earth our Mother's bosom pressed, And Heaven's arms around them. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

Yes, there they lie 'neath Alma's sod, On pillows dark and gory-- As brave a host as ever trod Old England's path to glory. With head to home and face to sky, And feet the tyrant spurning, So grand they look, so proud they lie, We weep for glorious yearning. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

They in life's outer circle sleep, As each in death stood sentry! And like our England's dead still keep Their watch for kin and country. Up Alma, in their red footfalls, Comes Freedom's dawn victorious, Such graves are courts to festal halls! They banquet with the Glorious. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

Our Chiefs who matched the men of yore, And bore our shield's great burden, The nameless Heroes of the Poor, They all shall have their guerdon. In silent eloquence, each life The Earth holds up to heaven, And Britain gives for child and wife As those brave hearts have given. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

The Spirits of our Fathers still Stand up in battle by us, And, in our need, on Alma hill, The Lord of Hosts was nigh us. Let Joy or Sorrow brim our cup, 'Tis an exultant story, How England's Chosen Ones went up Red Alma's hill to glory. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

BALACLAVA.

(October 25, 1854.) _THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE_.

BY LORD TENNYSON.

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade, Charge for the guns!" he said. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Someone had blunder'd. Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turned in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd; Plunged in the battery smoke Right thro' the line they broke, Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not-- Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade? O, the wild charge they made. All the world wonder'd. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred!

AFTER BALACLAVA,

BY JAMES WILLIAMS.

The fierce wild charge was over; back to old England's shore Were borne her gallant troopers, who ne'er would battle more; In hospital at Chatham, by Medway's banks they lay, Dragoon, hussar, and lancer, survivors of the fray.

One day there came a message--'twas like a golden ray-- "Victoria, Britain's noble Queen, will visit you to-day;" It lighted up each visage, it acted like a spell, On Britain's wounded heroes, who'd fought for her so well.

One soldier lay among them, fast fading was his life, A lancer from the border, from the good old county Fife; Already was death's icy grasp upon his honest brow, When through the ward was passed the word, "The Queen is coming now!"

The dying Scottish laddie, with hand raised to his head, Saluted Britain's Sovereign, and with an effort said-- "And may it please your Majesty, I'm noo aboot to dee, I'd like to rest wi' mither, beneath the auld raugh tree.

"But weel I ken, your Majesty, it canna, mauna be, Yet, God be thanked, I might hae slept wi' ithers o'er the sea, 'Neath Balaclava's crimsoned sward, where many a comrade fell, But now I'll rest on Medway's bank, in sound of Christian bell."

She held a bouquet in her hand, and from it then she chose For the dying soldier laddie a lovely snow-white rose; And when the lad they buried, clasped in his hand was seen The simple little snowy flower, the gift of Britain's Queen.

INKERMAN.

(November 5, 1854.)

BY GERALD MASSEY.