Chapter 17

[March 25, 1861, South Carolina having adopted the Ordinance of Secession.]

She has gone,--she has left us in passion and pride-- Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side! She has torn her own star from our firmament's glow, And turned on her brother the face of a foe!

O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, We can never forget that our hearts have been one,-- Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's name, From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame!

You were always too ready to fire at a touch; But we said: "She is hasty--she does not mean much." We have scowled when you uttered some turbulent threat; But friendship still whispered: "Forgive and forget."

Has our love all died out? Have its altars grown cold? Has the curse come at last which the fathers foretold? Then Nature must teach us the strength of the chain That her petulant children would sever in vain.

They may fight till the buzzards are gorged with their spoil,-- Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the soil, Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from their caves, And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the waves:

In vain is the strife! When its fury is past, Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last, As the torrents that rush from the mountains of snow Roll mingled in peace in the valleys below.

Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky; Man breaks not the medal when God cuts the die! Though darkened with sulphur, though cloven with steel, The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal!

O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, There are battles with fate that can never be won! The star-flowering banner must never be furled, For its blossoms of light are the hope of the world!

Go, then, our rash sister, afar and aloof,-- Run wild in the sunshine away from our roof; But when your heart aches and your feet have grown sore, Remember the pathway that leads to our door!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

* * * * *

JONATHAN TO JOHN.

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! Old 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 and 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 just meet your views, John, To wait an' sue their heirs? Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess, I on'y guess," sez he, "Thet ef Vattel on _his_ toes fell, 'T would 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 'n with 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 thet 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 t' 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 just now; but thet, somehow, May happen to J.B., Ez well 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 an' me!"

Our folks believe in Law, John; An' it's fer her sake, now, They've left the axe an' saw, John, The anvil an' the plow. Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess Ef 't warn't fer 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 't would win applause, John, Ef nowhere 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 well 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 fergive," sez he, "But not ferget; 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!"

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

* * * * *

ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC.

"All quiet along the Potomac," they say, "Except now and then a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 'Tis nothing: a private or two, now and then, Will not count in the news of the battle; Not an officer lost,--only one of the men, Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle."

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind Through the forest leaves softly is creeping; While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard,--for the army is sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And he thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed, Far away in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, For their mother,--may Heaven defend her!

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, That night when the love yet unspoken Leaped up to his lips,--when low, murmured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken; Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling, And gathers his gun closer up to its place, As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree,-- The footstep is lagging and weary; Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? It looked like a rifle: "Ha! Mary, good-bye!" And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,-- No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,-- The picket's off duty forever.

ETHELINDA ELLIOTT BEERS.

* * * * *

THE COUNTERSIGN.

Alas the weary hours pass slow, The night is very dark and still, And in the marshes far below I hear the bearded whippoorwill. I scarce can see a yard ahead; My ears are strained to catch each sound; I hear the leaves about me shed, And the spring's bubbling through the ground.

Along the beaten path I pace, Where white rags mark my sentry's track; In formless shrubs I seem to trace The foeman's form, with bending back; I think I see him crouching low-- I stop and list--I stoop and peer, Until the neighboring hillocks grow To groups of soldiers far and near.

With ready piece I wait and watch, Until my eyes, familiar grown, Detect each harmless earthen notch, And turn guerrillas into stone; And then amid the lonely gloom, Beneath the tall old chestnut trees, My silent marches I resume, And think of other times than these.

"Halt! who goes there?" my challenge cry, It rings along the watchful line; "Relief!" I hear a voice reply-- "Advance, and give the countersign!" With bayonet at the charge I wait-- The corporal gives the mystic spell; With arms aport I charge my mate, Then onward pass, and all is well.

But in the tent that night awake, I ask, if in the fray I fall, Can I the mystic answer make, When the angelic sentries call? And pray that Heaven may so ordain, Where'er I go, what fate be mine, Whether in pleasure or in pain, I still may have the countersign.

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

CIVIL WAR.

"Rifleman shoot me a fancy shot Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette; Ring me a ball in the glittering spot That shines on his breast like an amulet!"

"Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead, There's music around when my barrel's in tune!" Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped, And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.

"Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood; A button, a loop, or that luminous patch That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud!"

"O captain! I staggered, and sunk on my track, When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette, For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back, That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.

"But I snatched off the trinket,--this locket of gold; An inch from the centre 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.

* * * * *

THE TWO WIVES.

The colonel rode by his picket-line In the pleasant morning sun, That glanced from him far off to shine On the crouching rebel picket's gun.

From his command the captain strode Out with a grave salute, And talked with the colonel as he rode:-- The picket levelled his piece to shoot.

The colonel rode and the captain walked,-- The arm of the picket tired; Their faces almost touched as they talked, And, swerved from his aim, the picket fired.

The captain fell at the horse's feet, Wounded and hurt to death, Calling upon a name that was sweet As God is good, with his dying breath.

And the colonel that leaped from his horse and knelt To close the eyes so dim, A high remorse for God's mercy felt, Knowing the shot was meant for him.

And he whispered, prayer-like, under his breath, The name of his own young wife: For Love, that had made his friend's peace with Death, Alone could make his with life.

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.

* * * * *

THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE.

[September, 1861;]

We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more! From Mississippi's winding stream and from New England's shore; We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and children dear, With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear; We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

If you look across the hill-tops that meet the northern sky, Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry; And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside, And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride, And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

If you look all up our valleys where the growing harvests shine, You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line; And children from their mother's knees are pulling at the weeds, And learning how to reap and sow against their country's needs; And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

You have called us, and we're coming, by Richmond's bloody tide To lay us down, for Freedom's sake, our brothers' bones beside, Or from foul treason's savage grasp to wrench the murderous blade, And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade. Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

THE OLD MAN AND JIM.

Old man never had much to say-- 'Ceptin' to Jim,-- And Jim was the wildest boy he had, And the old man jes' wrapped up in him! Never heerd him speak but once Er twice in my life,--and first time was When the army broke out, and Jim he went, The old man backin' him, fer three months; And all 'at I heerd the old man say Was jes' as we turned to start away,-- "Well, good-bye, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f!"

'Peared like he was more satisfied Jes' _lookin'_ at Jim And likin' him all to hisse'f-like, see?-- 'Cause he was jes' wrapped up in him! And over and over I mind the day The old man come and stood round in the way While we was drillin', a-watchin' Jim; And down at the deepot a heerin' him say,-- "Well, good-bye, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f!"

Never was nothin' about the farm Disting'ished Jim; Neighbors all ust to wonder why The old man 'peared wrapped up in him: But when Cap. Biggler, he writ back 'At Jim was the bravest boy we had In the whole dern rigiment, white er black, And his fightin' good as his farmin' bad,-- 'At he had led, with a bullet clean Bored through his thigh, and carried the flag Through the bloodiest battle you ever seen,-- The old man wound up a letter to him 'At Cap. read to us, 'at said,--"Tell Jim Good-bye; And take keer of hisse'f!"

Jim come home jes' long enough To take the whim 'At he'd like to go back in the calvery-- And the old man jes' wrapped up in him! Jim 'lowed 'at he'd had sich luck afore, Guessed he'd tackle her three years more. And the old man give him a colt he'd raised, And follered him over to Camp Ben Wade, And laid around fer a week er so, Watchin' Jim on dress-parade; 'Tel finally he rid away, And last he heerd was the old man say,-- "Well, good-bye, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f"

Tuk the papers, the old man did, A-watchin' fer Jim, Fully believin' he'd make his mark _Some_ way--jes' wrapped up in him! And many a time the word 'ud come 'At stirred him up like the tap of a drum: At Petersburg fer instunce, where Jim rid right into their cannons there, And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t' other way, And socked it home to the boys in gray, As they skooted fer timber, and on and on-- Jim a lieutenant,--and one arm gone,-- And the old man's words in his mind all day,-- "Well, good-bye, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f!"

Think of a private, now, perhaps, We'll say like Jim, 'At's clumb clean up to the shoulder-straps-- And the old man jes' wrapped up in him! Think of him--with the war plum' through, And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue A-laughin' the news down over Jim, And the old man, bendin' over him-- The surgeon turnin' away with tears 'At hadn't leaked fer years and years, As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to His Father's, the old voice in his ears,-- "Well, good-bye, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f!"

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

* * * * *

STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY

Come, stack arms, men; pile on the rails; Stir up the camp-fire bright! No growling if the canteen fails: We'll make a roaring night. Here Shenandoah brawls along, There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong, To swell the Brigade's rousing song, Of Stonewall Jackson's Way.

We see him now--the queer slouched hat, Cocked o'er his eye askew; The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat, So calm, so blunt, so true. The "Blue-light Elder" knows 'em well: Says he, "That's Banks; he's fond of shell.-- Lord save his soul! we'll give him--;" Well, That's Stonewall Jackson's Way.

Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Caps off! Old Massa's going to pray. Strangle the fool that dares to scoff: Attention!--it's his way. Appealing from his native sod, _In forma pauperis_ to God. "Lay bare Thine arm! Stretch forth Thy rod: Amen!"--That's Stonewall's Way.

He's in the saddle now. Fall in! Steady! the whole brigade. Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win His way out, ball and blade. What matter if our shoes are worn? What matter if our feet are torn? Quick step! we're with him before morn: That's Stonewall Jackson's Way.

The sun's bright lances rout the mists Of morning; and--By George! Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists, Hemmed in an ugly gorge. Pope and his Dutchmen!--whipped before. "Bay'nets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar. Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score, In Stonewall Jackson's Way.

Ah, Maiden! wait and watch and yearn For news of Stonewall's band. Ah, Widow! read, with eyes that burn, That ring upon thy hand. Ah, Wife! sew on, pray on, hope on! Thy life shall not be all forlorn. The foe had better ne'er been born, That gets in Stonewall's Way.

JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER

* * * * *

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.

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 trees 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.

Tip 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!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

* * * * *

CAVALRY SONG. FROM "ALICE OF MONMOUTH."

Our good steeds snuff the evening air, Our pulses with their purpose tingle; The foeman's fires are twinkling there; He leaps to hear our sabres jingle! HALT! Each carbine send its whizzing ball: Now, cling! clang! forward all, Into the fight!

Dash on beneath the smoking dome: Through level lightnings gallop nearer! One look to Heaven! No thoughts of home: The guidons that we bear are dearer. CHARGE! Cling! clang! forward all! Heaven help those whose horses fall: Cut left and right!

They flee before our fierce attack! They fall! they spread in broken surges. Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, And leave the foeman to his dirges. WHEEL! The bugles sound the swift recall: Cling! clang! backward all! Home, and good night!

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

* * * * *

CAVALRY SONG.

Our bugles sound gayly. To horse and away! And over the mountains breaks the day; Then ho! brothers, ho! for the ride or the fight, There are deeds to be done ere we slumber to-night! _And whether we fight or whether we fall By sabre-stroke or rifle-ball, The hearts of the free will remember us yet, And our country, our country will never forget!_

Then mount and away! let the coward delight To be lazy all day and safe all night; Our joy is a charger, flecked with foam, And the earth is our bed and the saddle our home! _And whether we fight,_ etc.

See yonder the ranks of the traitorous foe, And bright in the sunshine bayonets glow! Breathe a prayer, but no sigh; think for what you would fight; Then charge! with a will, boys, and God for the right! _And whether we fight_, etc.

We have gathered again the red laurels of war; We have followed the traitors fast and far; But some who rose gayly this morn with the sun Lie bleeding and pale on the field they have won! _But whether we fight or whether we fall By sabre-stroke or rifle-ball, The hearts of the free will remember us yet, And our country, our country will never forget_!

ROSSITER W. RAYMOND.

* * * * *

KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES.[A]

[Footnote A: Major-General Philip Kearny, killed at the battle of Chantilly, September 1, 1862.]