Part 4

The senior of the rescued men appeared In age to crowd the three-score years and ten; Of stalwart form, with whitened hair and beard, The peer of multitudes of younger men, In matters appertaining to physique; He first recovered and essayed to speak. As Dad McGuire and kind old Uncle Jim Were ministering as best they could to him, In kindly interest they inquired his name, "John T. McGuire," the labored answer came. As Dad McGuire leaned over him to hear, His gaze descried a mole behind his ear, Then with an exclamation of surprise, As one who scarcely can believe his eyes, He turned the stranger over on his back, Found two more moles,--and cried--"My brother Jack!"

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Erratic as the vacillating wind, Are the mysterious wanderings of the mind. When reason lays her golden veil aside, What vagaries and aberrations glide Through the disordered precincts of the brain! What phantoms rise and disappear again! What curious blendings of reality And fact, with wildest flights of phantasy! The flickerings of reason's feeble light And relaxation into mental night, Seem as a beacon on some rock-bound coast, Which flutters, wanes and disappears almost, Then with a flash illuminates the shore, Gleams for a moment and is seen no more; Or on some starless midnight, when the storm Dissolves in chaos each familiar form, And robes the landscape in cimmerian pall, The lightnings play,--then darkness covers all.

Unlocked by fever and delirium, The cautious tongue becomes no longer dumb, And with the nervous tension overwrought, Oft gives expression to the secret thought. 'Twas thus the junior of the rescued men, A modern Hercules, both fair and young, With accent truly cosmopolitan, Raved both in English and some unknown tongue. His accents wild and unintelligible, Devoid of meaning, on his hearers fell, With the exception of the practised ear Of Russian Pete, who stood beside him there, And seemed from his expression to detect Some most familiar tongue or dialect.

When reason, with a penetrating gleam, Burst through the canopy of mental gloom, As one awakening from a hideous dream, He started up and stared about the room, Until he chanced to catch the kindly eyes Of Russian Pete, which kindled with surprise. A look of mutual recognition passed Between the men, so strangely joined at last. All that the congregated miners heard Was one, presumably a Russian word, And Russian Pete, with joy-illumined face, Held his lost brother in his kind embrace.

* * * * * * * * * *

Dazed by exhaustion, comatose and deep, The two survivors, while the tempest roared, Were through the gentle ministry of sleep To normal strength unconsciously restored.

'Tis human nature to review again The stirring incidents of joy or pain; So on the eve of the succeeding day, When four-and-twenty hours had passed away, The party grouped around the blazing light Which from the fireplace streamed into the night, And in its glow, so comfortable and warm, Recounted the disasters of the storm. Like some informal gathering, at first All spoke at once, as with a common burst; Then as the intermittent tempest wailed, The talk subsided and a calm prevailed. All watched the pitch ooze from the knots and burn, Or smoked their pipes in silent unconcern.

Some moments passed, when Uncle Jim arose, Nudged Dad McGuire, who seemed inclined to doze, And as he started up and rubbed his eyes Addressed him and the Russian in this wise: "Two days ago the three of us confessed The reasons, that impelled us to come West; Now if it please your brethren to relate The strange caprice of fortune or of fate, Which led them hither,--after all these years, The boys will listen with attentive ears."

VII. THE BLIGHT OF WAR

All eyes now sought the brother of McGuire, Who sat apart, some distance from the fire Smoking in silence, while the flickering light Mingled its crimson with his locks of white; He, with his flowing, patriarchal beard, A sage, from some forgotten age, appeared, Or wrinkled seer from some enchanted clime, Whose eye could pierce the veil of future time. There in the ever thickening haze of smoke, He, being three times importuned,--awoke.

As from his corncob pipe and nostrils broke The spiral wreaths of blue tobacco smoke, Which formed a smoky halo, as they spread A foot above his venerable head, Resembling halos which the artist paints O'er angel heads, or mediæval saints, This man of years, so calm and circumspect, Stroked his long beard, yawned twice and stood erect.

Like to a wizard, or magician old, With some mysterious secret to unfold, This man, whose bearing would command respect, Stepped forth and eyed his listeners direct; Then waiving preludes or apologies, Addressed his auditors in terms like these: "These lips, which now their secret shall reveal, For more than forty years have worn a seal. For years as hunter, pioneer and scout, I roamed the western solitudes about, Not caring whether fortune smiled or not, If memory's painful twinges were forgot. I sought, as many other men have done, Within the wilderness,--oblivion. Work is the only sure iconoclast For the unpleasant memories of the past; So as a placer miner, prospector, And half a dozen avocations more, Within the city, and the solitude, The star-eyed Goddess of Success I wooed. Twice was I numbered with the men of wealth, Twice lost I all, including strength and health. For wealth, when fortune's fickle wheel revolves Adversely, into empty air dissolves. Till fate so strangely led my footsteps here, Mine was, indeed, a versatile career. Yet none my antecedents ever guessed, Nor learned from me the cause that led me west.

This hair and beard which envy not to-night The drifting snowbanks their unbroken white, Methinks, as memory scans the backward track, Vied with the raven's glossy coat of black, When I, with some adventurous emigrants, First crossed the plain's monotonous expanse, To leave my former history behind. But who can regulate his peace of mind, Or drop the morbid burdens of the breast By simply going east or coming west?

'Way down upon the Rappahannock's shore, Enshrined in memory, though seen no more, There lies an old plantation. There I drew My infant breath, and into manhood grew. Its fields are overgrown with willows now, For more than forty years unturned by plough, While war's red desolation razed to earth The old stone manor-house that claimed my birth.

Ah, yes! 'Tis forty years ago, or more, Since, standing near the old paternal door, One pleasant morning in the early spring, With some few friends and kinfolks visiting, Two mounted neighbors stopped in passing by, And reining up their horses hurriedly Told us the news, which like a cannon ball Sped through the land, announcing Sumter's fall. The animus with which their comments fell, I heard months later in the rebel yell.

In civil war or fratricide is found No place for such as seek a middle ground. Though lines of demarcation intervene, No peaceful neutral zone may lie between. 'Tis not an easy thing to breast the tide Of public sentiment, and to decide In opposition, though the cause be right, When crossing public sentiment means fight. 'Tis easier to let the moving throng Without resistance carry you along. When he who hesitates, or turns around, May in the grist of public wrath be ground. But men there are you cannot drive in flocks; They dash like breakers, or resist like rocks.

Within my breast I fought my sternest fight, I could not view the southern cause as right, And yet I loved the people of the south; Debating thus I opened not my mouth. Both in my waking hours and in my dreams, I heard the arguments of two extremes. My conscience said: 'A uniform of blue Awaits your coming, wear it and be true.' My interests argued: 'Though the cause be wrong, Your people have espoused it right along. Your worthy family has for many years Seen sorrow only in the white man's tears. Desertion means to wear the traitor's brands, And face your friends with muskets in their hands, To slay them with the bayonet and ball, Or by, perhaps, your brother's hand to fall.'

I heard the clarion accents of the fife Fan into flames the dormant coals of strife. With blast prophetic and reverberant swell, I heard the bugle's echoing voice foretell The coming conflict, while the brazen notes Were answered by the cheers from many throats. I heard the measured rattle of the drum, Proclaiming that the day of wrath had come. I heard harangues, incendiary and loud, Meet with the approbation of the crowd. I saw the faltering and irresolute, Greeted with jeer and deprecating hoot. I saw the threatening clouds of war increase, Yet prayed for peace, where there could be no peace. The winds of slavery their seed had sown; That seed to rank maturity had grown; The cup was full, and now from branch and root, The whirlwind came to strip its lawful fruit.

I saw my friends and neighbors march away With martial tread, in uniforms of gray. I saw them raise their caps in passing by And fair hands wave their kerchiefs in reply. Then I, who had in military schools Received some insight into army rules, And, being of a martial turn of mind, Was offered a commission, and,--declined. My declination was a shock to all, 'Coward!' said they, 'to shun your country's call,-- Then stay at home, from wounds and scars exempt, But pay the price,--your former friends' contempt.'

That action was, for me, the Rubicon, Which crossed, I had no choice but follow on. But what a change! The penalty was high, My childhood's friends now passed me coldly by. I, who had been a social favorite, Received no salutation when we met. Fair ones, who used to smile, now looked askance, Or eyed me with a cold indifference. My action seemed base cowardice in their eyes, They knowing not my secret sympathies. Though of a family rich and widely known, I stood in the community, alone, Like a pariah none would recognize, Inaction was enough to ostracize. I seemed to see, like Hagar's fated son, Against me raised the hand of every one.

The time had come when I must make my choice, Defend one side with musket and with voice; Then I, to conscience and convictions true, Seemed an apostate,--for I chose the blue.

There are inscriptions on the scrolls of fate Which seem too bitter even to relate. I waive the details,--better to conceal The secret skeletons, than to reveal. I shall not tell you how my brother stormed, When he of my intentions was informed. I pass the story, how my ringing ears Were filled with threats, entreaties and with sneers. And how with tear-stained face the maiden came, Who was to be my bride and bear my name; How she appealed to sentiment and pride, Plead, supplicated,--then forsook my side; And how one evening, in an angry burst, My sire pronounced his favorite son accurst; And how a mother, clinging to her child, Saw son and father still unreconciled; And how that father, pointing to the door, Forbade that son to cross the threshold more; 'Go, go!' said he, 'but never more return! Go, slay your neighbors, pillage, sack and burn! But never while the golden sun doth shine, Be welcomed home as son and heir of mine.' I state not what in anger I replied, For anger in my breast has long since died. Renounced, despised and disinherited, I trod the path of duty where it led, And ten days later, in the rain and damp, Stood as a sentry near a Union camp.

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Fain from my recollections would I blot These images, which time erases not, And leave to history's undying page, The recitation of those acts of rage. Incarnadined with human blood appears The record of the four succeeding years. Black with the ruins of the vandal flame, A carnival of misery and shame. I must abridge, and if my hearers please, Confine myself to generalities.

From first Manassas to the Wilderness, A period of some four years,--more or less, But anyway, till long in sixty-four, A musket or a shoulder-strap I bore. Though years have passed, I have remembrance yet Of musketry and glistening bayonet. As retrospective moods attune the ear To memory's voice, again I seem to hear The cannon's deep and minatory roar, Like breakers dashing on a rock-bound shore. The bursting bomb and fulminating shell, Again their stories of destruction tell.

Again to-night, with memory's eye I view The sanguinary scenes of sixty-two, The march of infantry, the reckless dash Of cavalry, with onslaught fierce and rash; I see their sabres, glittering and bare, Flash from their scabbards in the smoky air; I hear the clatter of the horses' hoofs, And see the smoke expand in greyish puffs; As rifles flash and speed the deadly ball, I see the riders from their horses fall; Yet forward moves the furious attack, The opposing column wavers and falls back; I see the impact, combat hand to hand, Horses and riders writhing on the sand; I see the steeds with perspiration wet, Sink on the well-directed bayonet; I see them, wounded by the fatal lunge, Become unmanageable and madly plunge; Foaming and snorting with the sudden pain, They trample on the wounded and the slain; I see their riders in the stirrups stand And grasp their pistols with the bridle hand; I see the pistols flash and sabres thrust, A scene of wild confusion, smoke and dust; I hear the bugle sounding a retreat, They now retire, their victory complete; But mark the price paid for their brief success; Horses with blood-stained saddles,--riderless.

I see an army bivouac on the field, To nature's obdurate demands they yield, And on the ground, from sheer exhaustion spent, They lie without protecting roof or tent. So silently their prostrate forms are spread, One may not tell the sleeping from the dead. I see, before the campfire's fitful gleam, The sentry pace, as in a waking dream, Yet manfully subduing the fatigue Of battle, and the march of many a league, For no excitement or emotion serves To buoy his spirits or sustain his nerves. Weak from the loss of their accustomed rest, With heavy eyes and aching bones distressed, The while their weary comrades soundly sleep, The sentinels their lonely vigils keep, As from the glittering expanse of skies, The stars look down with cold, impassive eyes.

I see brigades, magnificent and large, With bristling bayonets prepare to charge; I see their banners in the distance gleam, Reflecting back the sun's resplendent beam; Within the shelter of the rifle pits, Another army with composure sits, While ever and anon a rifle's crack Seems to invite the spirited attack. From a commanding, wooded eminence, By nature calculated for defence, Upon the advancing regiments I see The murderous belching of artillery; I see their proud and militant array, Before the deadly grapeshot melt away; Before the rifle's supplementing breath, Whole columns sink in ghastly heaps of death; I see them close their gaps and press ahead, But only to augment the list of dead; I see them, stretched upon the burning sands, Clutching the air with lacerated hands; From underneath the mutilated heap, The wounded, with great difficulty, creep; Dragging a helpless arm, or shattered limb, With reeling brain and sight confused and dim, They grope, they crawl, or limp with painful tread; Their uniforms no longer blue, but red; And pinioned underneath the ghastly pile, I hear them struggle for release the while; But fainter, ever fainter grow their cries, Fainter, and fainter still, their groans arise; Weaker and weaker are their throes, until With one last quivering throb, they too, are still.

I see the vultures, as they scent afar Their portion in the reeking spoils of war; Far in the distance scattering specks appear, Which multiply in size as they draw near, Until they balance with their pinions spread, Or circle 'round the dying and the dead.

This is the realistic side of war, Which most men overlook and all abhor, Which differs from the sentiments conveyed By spotless uniforms on dress parade.

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War is a crucible that tries men's souls, A drama, stern in all its various rôles; Though saturated with all forms of crime, 'Tis celebrated in heroic rhyme; Though opposite to every humane thought, With murder, pillage and destruction fraught, In literature, in history and art, It forms the theme, or plays a leading part; Though at the best, deplorable and bad, 'Tis yet with sentiment and romance clad; Thus are the gory deeds of sword and fire, Commemorated by the bardic lyre.

Its eras, though with tragedy replete, Form stepping-stones whereon ambitious feet May mount to prominence, perhaps to fame, And write in crimson an illustrious name. 'Tis said that heroes are the fruits of war, No matter what the struggle may be for, As men will fight to make, or unmake laws, Will fight for, or against the worthiest cause. They must have heroes, though to make them drains The life-blood from the nation's noblest veins. And though no vocal adulations rise, Their heroes many men apotheosize. Man is so strangely constituted, he Must hero-worshipper, or hero be,-- So give him heroes, let the armies bleed, And he will worship them with word and deed; Though down within their breasts most men prefer To be the hero, than the worshipper.

To gain the plaudits of the multitude, The warrior, with ambitious zeal imbued, Climbs upward, and accomplishing his ends To take his share of worship condescends, Forgetting that his honors are bedewed With human tears and based on human blood.

Some streaks, in military pomp, we see, That savor much of pride and vanity, As thirst for notoriety and fame Has often fanned the patriotic flame. Though one might think that men would be content To pluck one star from glory's firmament, Yet, when they mount the ladder a few rounds, Their envy and ambition know no bounds. To wear the epaulette and strut with pride, Makes men forget that war is homicide.

Some call it fate, some call it destiny, Some call it accident; what'er it be, It seems that some have been created for The honors, some, the sacrifice of war.

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When I enlisted as a raw recruit, Promotion was no object of pursuit, But liking honor more than sacrifice, On shoulder-straps I soon cast envious eyes. For one rash act,--'twas counted bravery, Good fortune made a corporal of me. Soon, as if favored by some lucky charm, I wore a sergeant's stripes upon my arm. Twice was I wounded, twice resumed the field Before my wounds had been completely healed. I carry yet, and shall until I die, A musket ball, encysted in my thigh. Twice was I captured, twice as prisoner Drank I the dregs from out the cup of war. As if some guardian star my course arranged, Once I escaped, and once was I exchanged. Then, as lieutenant, rose I from the ranks, Received a medal and a vote of thanks.

The ladder of promotion, round by round, I soon ascended and henceforth was found Among the few selected favorites Whom fortune decks with stars and epaulettes. Though liking not the rôle of matador, Within the ruthless theatre of war, From private soldier every part I played, Until my sword directed a brigade. I wore, the night before I started west, Four medal decorations on my breast.

The war progressed, for time rolls on the same In peace or war, and sixty-three became A chapter in the annals of the past. When sixty-four was ushered in at last, To write in characters of blood and fire Its page of human immolation, dire, The waiting army lay encamped, before The Rapidan's inhospitable shore. The first few weeks, devoid of incident, Were in the army's winter quarters spent, Until the winter, on his snowy wing, Retired before the genial breath of spring. In speculation on the moves to come, The tongue of prophecy remained not dumb, But showered prognostications of defeat, Succeeded by the usual retreat, When rumors of offensive action planned As spring approached, were spread through each command. Until the troops were mobilized and massed, Until the final orders had been passed, The veterans, who had remembrance still, Recounted Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville.

But soon the dreadful Wilderness campaign, With its long lists of wounded and of slain, Vied with the carnage of the year before, If it be possible to measure gore. The tactics had been changed, for no retreat Was ordered, as the sequel of defeat; Instead of faltering or turning back, There came another furious attack, Another movement with invasive tread, And, Spottsylvania claimed its heaps of dead. Defeated, but uncrushed and undismayed, The weakened corps, including my brigade, With sadly thinned and decimated ranks, Was hurled once more against the rebel flanks. There in a hurricane of shot and shell, One-half of its surviving numbers fell; 'Twas thus Cold Harbor's quarry made complete The trio of victorious defeat.

Three Southern victories, yet like a knell Upon the Southern ear these triumphs fell; For those who perished in that dismal waste, Had fallen and could never be replaced. Though stubbornly contested inch by inch, The lines were tightened like a horse's cinch. We watched the Southern forces day by day, From natural abrasion, wear away.

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One evening as the disappearing light, Unveiled the beauties of a cloudless night, With much diminished numbers, my brigade Its camp beside the Rappahannock made, Some five miles distant from the spot of earth Associated with my humble birth.