Chapter 19

And yet once more the bugle sang Above the stormy riot; No shout upon the evening rang-- There reigned a holy quiet.

The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood Poured o'er the glistening pebbles; All silent now the Yankees stood, And silent stood the Rebels.

No unresponsive soul had heard That plaintive note's appealing, So deeply "Home, Sweet Home" had stirred The hidden fount of feeling.

Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees, As by the wand of fairy, The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees, The cabin by the prairie.

Or cold, or warm, his native skies, Bend in their beauty o'er him; Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes, His loved 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.

JOHN RANDOLPH THOMPSON.

* * * * *

UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES.

[The last words of Stonewall Jackson[A] were: "Let us cross the river and rest under the shade of the trees."]

[Footnote A: Major-General Thomas J. Jackson, C.S.A., killed on a reconnoissance, May 10, 1863.]

What are the thoughts that are stirring his breast? What is the mystical vision he sees? --"Let us pass over the river, and rest Under the shade of the trees."

Has he grown sick of his toils and his tasks? Sighs the worn spirit for respite or ease? Is it a moment's cool halt that he asks Under the shade of the trees?

Is it the gurgle of water whose flow Ofttimes has come to him, borne on the breeze, Memory listens to, lapsing so low, Under the shade of the trees?

Nay--though the rasp of the flesh was so sore, Faith, that had yearnings far keener than these, Saw the soft sheen of the Thitherward Shore Under the shade of the trees;--

Caught the high psalm of ecstatic delight-- Heard the harps harping, like soundings of seas-- Watched earth's assoiled ones walking in white Under the shade of the trees.

Oh, was it strange he should pine for release, Touched to the soul with such transports as these,-- He who so needed the balsam of peace, Under the shade of the trees?

Yea, it was noblest for him--it was best (Questioning naught of our Father's decrees), There to pass over the river and rest Under the shade of the trees!

MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON.

* * * * *

THE BLACK REGIMENT.

[May 27, 1863.]

Dark as the clouds of even, Banked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dead 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 dusty 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 cold 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!

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

* * * * *

THE C.S. ARMY'S COMMISSARY.

I.--1863.

"Well, this is bad!" we sighing said, While musing round the bivouac fire, And dwelling with a fond desire, On home and comforts long since fled.

"How gayly came we forth at first! Our spirits high, with new emprise, Ambitious of each exercise, And glowing with a martial thirst.

"Equipped as for a holiday, With bounteous store of everything To use or comfort minist'ring, All cheerily we marched away.

"But as the struggle fiercer grew, Light marching orders came apace,-- And baggage-wagon soon gave place To that which sterner uses knew.

"Our tents--they went a year ago; Now kettle, spider, frying-pan Are lost to us, and as we can We live, while marching to and fro.

"Our food has lessened, till at length, E'en want's gaunt image seems to threat-- A foe to whom the bravest yet Must yield at last his knightly strength.

"But while we've meat and flour enough The bayonet shall be our spit-- The ramrod bake our dough on it-- A gum-cloth be our kneading trough.

"We'll bear privation, danger dare, While even these are left to us-- Be hopeful, faithful, emulous Of gallant deeds, though hard our fare!"

II.--1864.

"Three years and more," we grimly said, When order came to "Rest at will" Beside the corn-field on the hill, As on a weary march we sped--

"Three years and more we've met the foe On many a gory, hard-fought field, And still we swear we cannot yield Till Fate shall bring some deeper woe.

"Three years and more we've struggled on, Through torrid heat and winter's chill, Nor bated aught of steadfast will, Though even hope seems almost gone.

"Ill fed, ill clad, and shelterless, How little cheer in health we know! When wounds and illness lay us low, How comfortless our sore distress!

"These flimsy rags, that scarcely hide Our forms, can naught discourage us; But Hunger--ah! it may be thus That Fortune shall the strife decide.

"But while the corn-fields give supply We'll take, content, the roasting-ear, Nor yield us yet to craven fear, But still press on, to do or die:"

ED. PORTER THOMPSON.

* * * * *

THE HIGH TIDE AT GETTYSBURG.

[July 3, 1863.]

A cloud possessed the hollow field. The gathering battle's smoky shield. Athwart the gloom the lightning flashed, And through the cloud some horsemen dashed, And from the heights the thunder pealed.

Then at the brief command of Lee Moved out that matchless infantry, With Pickett leading grandly down, To rush against the roaring crown Of those dread heights of destiny.

Far heard above the angry guns A cry across the tumult runs,-- The voice that rang through Shiloh's woods And Chickamanga's solitudes, The fierce South cheering on her sons!

Ah, how the withering tempest blew Against the front of Pettigrew! A Khamsin wind that scorched and singed Like that infernal flame that fringed The British squares at Waterloo!

A thousand fell where Kemper led; A thousand died where Garnett bled: In blinding flame and strangling smoke The remnant through the batteries broke And crossed the works with Armistead.

"Once more in Glory's van with me!" Virginia cried to Tennessee; "We two together, come what may, Shall stand upon these works to-day!" (The reddest day in history.)

Brave Tennessee! In reckless way Virginia heard her comrade say: "Close round this rent and riddled rag!" What time she set her battle-flag Amid the guns of Doubleday.

But who shall break the guards that wait Before the awful face of Fate? The tattered standards of the South Were shrivelled at the cannon's mouth, And all her hopes were desolate.

In vain the Tennesseean set His breast against the bayonet! In vain Virginia charged and raged, A tigress in her wrath uncaged, Till all the hill was red and wet!

Above the bayonets, mixed and crossed, Men saw a gray, gigantic ghost Receding through the battle-cloud, And heard across the tempest loud The death-cry of a nation lost!

The brave went down! Without disgrace They leaped to Ruin's red embrace. They only heard Fame's thunders wake, And saw the dazzling sun-burst break In smiles on Glory's bloody face!

They fell, who lifted up a hand And bade the sun in heaven to stand! They smote and fell, who set the bars Against the progress of the stars, And stayed the march of Motherland!

They stood, who saw the future come On through the fight's delirium! They smote and stood, who held the hope Of nations on that slippery slope Amid the cheers of Christendom.

God lives! He forged the iron will That clutched and held that trembling hill. God lives and reigns! He built and lent The heights for Freedom's battlement Where floats her flag in triumph still!

Fold up the banners! Smelt the guns! Love rules. Her gentler purpose runs. A mighty mother turns in tears The pages of her battle years, Lamenting all her fallen sons!

WILL HENRY THOMPSON.

* * * * *

LEE TO THE REAR.

[An incident in one of the battles in the Wilderness at the beginning of the campaign of 1864.]

Dawn of a pleasant morning in May Broke through the Wilderness cool and gray; While perched in the tallest tree-tops, the birds Were carolling Mendelssohn's "Songs without Words."

Far from the haunts of men remote, The brook brawled on with a liquid note; And Nature, all tranquil and lovely, wore The smile of the spring, as in Eden of yore.

Little by little, as daylight increased, And deepened the roseate flush in the East-- Little by little did morning reveal Two long glittering lines of steel;

Where two hundred thousand bayonets gleam, Tipped with the light of the earliest beam, And the faces are sullen and grim to see In the hostile armies of Grant and Lee.

All of a sudden, ere rose the sun, Pealed on the silence the opening gun-- A little white puff of smoke there came, And anon the valley was wreathed in flame.

Down on the left of the Rebel lines, Where a breastwork stands in a copse of pines, Before the Rebels their ranks can form, The Yankees have carried the place by storm.

Stars and Stripes on the salient wave, Where many a hero has found a grave, And the gallant Confederates strive in vain The ground they have drenched with their blood, to regain.

Yet louder the thunder of battle roared-- Yet a deadlier fire on the columns poured; Slaughter infernal rode with Despair, Furies twain, through the murky air.

Not far off, in the saddle there sat A gray-bearded man in a black slouched hat; Not much moved by the fire was he, Calm and resolute Robert Lee.

Quick and watchful he kept his eye On the bold Rebel brigades close by,-- Reserves that were standing (and dying) at ease, While the tempest of wrath toppled over the trees.

For still with their loud, deep, bull-dog bay, The Yankee batteries blazed away, And with every murderous second that sped A dozen brave fellows, alas! fell dead.

The grand old graybeard rode to the space Where Death and his victims stood face to face, And silently waved his old slouched hat-- A world of meaning there was in that!

"Follow me! Steady! We'll save the day!" This was what he seemed to say; And to the light of his glorious eye The bold brigades thus made reply:

"We'll go forward, but you must go back "-- And they moved not an inch in the perilous track: "Go to the rear, and we'll send them to hell!" And the sound of the battle was lost in their yell.

Turning his bridle, Robert Lee Rode to the rear. Like waves of the sea, Bursting the dikes in their overflow, Madly his veterans dashed on the foe.

And backward in terror that foe was driven, Their banners rent and their columns riven, Wherever the tide of battle rolled Over the Wilderness, wood and wold.

Sunset out of a crimson sky Streamed o'er a field of ruddier dye, And the brook ran on with a purple stain, From the blood of ten thousand foemen slain.

Seasons have passed since that day and year-- Again o'er its pebbles the brook runs clear, And the field in a richer green is drest Where the dead of a terrible conflict rest.

Hushed is the roll of the Rebel drum, The sabres are sheathed, and the cannon are dumb; And Fate, with his pitiless hand, has furled The flag that once challenged the gaze of the world;

But the fame of the Wilderness fight abides; And down into history grandly rides, Calm and unmoved as in battle he sat, The gray-bearded man in the black slouched hat.

JOHN RANDOLPH THOMPSON.

* * * * *

DRIVING HOME THE COWS.

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass He turned them into the river-lane; One after another he let them pass, Then fastened the meadow bars again.

Under the willows, and over the hill, He patiently followed their sober pace; The merry whistle for once was still, And something shadowed the sunny face.

Only a boy! and his father had said He never could let his youngest go; Two already were lying dead Under the feet of the trampling foe.

But after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun And stealthily followed the foot-path damp,

Across the clover and through the wheat With resolute heart and purpose grim, Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, And the blind bat's flitting startled him.

Thrice since then had the lanes been white, And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom; And now, when the cows came back at night, The feeble father drove them home.

For news had come to the lonely farm That three were lying where two had lain; And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son's again.

The summer day grew cool and late, He went for the cows when the work was done; But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming one by one,--

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, Shaking their horns in the evening wind; Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,-- But who was it following close behind?

Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army blue; And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, Looked out a face that the father knew.

For gloomy prisons will sometimes yawn, And yield their dead unto life again; And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn In golden glory at last may wane.

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb; And under the silent evening skies Together they followed the cattle home.

KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.

* * * * *

SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA.[A]

[Footnote A: This song was sung by thousands of Sherman's soldiers after the march, and had the honor of giving its name to the campaign it celebrates. Its author had been one of Sherman's army, and was captured at the battle of Chattanooga. While a prisoner he escaped, disguised himself in a Confederate uniform, went to the Southern army, and witnessed some of the fierce fighting about Atlanta. He was discovered and sent back to prison at Columbia, S.C., where he wrote the song. He soon escaped again, rejoined Sherman's army, and for a time served on General Sherman's staff. From Cape Fear River he was sent North with despatches to Grant and President Lincoln, bringing the first news of Sherman's successes in the Carolinas.]

[May 4 to December 21, 1864.]

Our camp-fires shone bright on the mountains That frowned on the river below, While we stood by our guns in the morning And eagerly watched for the foe, When a rider came out of the darkness That hung over the mountain and tree, And shouted, "Boys, up and be ready! For Sherman will march to the sea."

Then cheer upon cheer for bold Sherman Went up from each valley and glen, And the bugles re-echoed the music That came from the lips of the men; For we knew that the stars in our banner More bright in their splendor would be, And that blessings from Northland would greet us When Sherman marched down to the sea.

Then forward, boys, forward to battle, We marched on our wearisome way, We stormed the wild hills of Resaca; God bless those who fell on that day! Then Kenesaw, dark in its glory, Frowned down on the flag of the free, But the East and the West bore our standards, And Sherman marched on to the sea.

Still onward we pressed, till our banners Swept out from Atlanta's grim walls, And the blood of the patriot dampened The soil where the traitor flag falls; Yet we paused not to weep for the fallen, Who slept by each river and tree; We twined them a wreath of the laurel As Sherman marched down to the sea.

Oh! proud was our army that morning, That stood where the pine darkly towers, When Sherman said: "Boys, you are weary; This day fair Savannah is ours!" Then sang we a song for our chieftain, That echoed o'er river and lea, And the stars in our banner shone brighter When Sherman marched down to the sea.

SAMUEL H.M. BYERS.

* * * * *

ARMY CORRESPONDENT'S LAST RIDE.

FIVE FORKS, APRIL 1, 1865.

Ho! pony. Down the lonely road Strike now your cheeriest pace! The woods on fire do not burn higher Than burns my anxious face; Far have you sped, but all this night Must feel my nervous spur; If we be late, the world must wait The tidings we aver:-- To home and hamlet, town and hearth, To thrill child, mother, man, I carry to the waiting North Great news from Sheridan!

The birds are dead among the pines, Slain by the battle fright, Prone in the road the steed reclines That never readied the fight; Yet on we go,--the wreck below Of many a tumbled wain,-- By ghastly pools where stranded mules Die, drinking of the rain; With but my list of killed and missed I spur my stumbling nag, To tell of death at many a tryst, But victory to the flag!

"Halt! who comes there? The countersign!"-- "A friend."--"Advance! The fight,-- How goes it, say?"--"We won the day!"-- "Huzza! Pass on!"--"Good-night!"-- And parts the darkness on before, And down the mire we tramp, And the black sky is painted o'er With many a pulsing camp; O'er stumps and ruts, by ruined huts, Where ghosts look through the gloam,-- Behind my tread I hear the dead Follow the news toward home!

The hunted souls I see behind, In swamp and in ravine, Whose cry for mercy thrills the wind Till cracks the sure carbine; The moving lights, which scare the dark, And show the trampled place Where, in his blood, some mother's bud Turns up his young, dead face; The captives spent, whose standards rent The conqueror parades, As at the Five Forks roads arrive The General's dashing aides.

O wondrous Youth! through this grand ruth Runs my boy's life its thread; The General's fame, the battle's name, The rolls of maimed and dead I bear, with my thrilled soul astir, And lonely thoughts and fears; And am but History's courier To bind the conquering years; A battle-ray, through ages gray To light to deeds sublime, And flash the lustre of this day Down all the aisles of Time!

Ho! pony,--'tis the signal gun The night-assault decreed; On Petersburg the thunderbolts Crash from the lines of Meade; Fade the pale, frightened stars o'erhead, And shrieks the bursting air; The forest foliage, tinted red, Grows ghastlier in the glare; Though in her towers, reached her last hours, Rocks proud Rebellion's crest-- The world may sag, if but my nag Get in before the rest!

With bloody flank, and fetlocks dank, And goad, and lash, and shout-- Great God! as every hoof-beat falls A hundred lives beat out! As weary as this broken steed Reels down the corduroys, So, weary, fight for morning light Our hot and grimy boys; Through ditches wet, o'er parapet And guns barbette, they catch The last, lost breach; and I,--I reach The mail with my despatch!

Sure it shall speed, the land to read, As sped the happiest shell! The shot I send strike the world's end; _This_ tells my pony's knell; His long race run, the long war done, My occupation gone,-- Above his bier, prone on the pier, The vultures fleck the dawn. Still, rest his bones where soldiers dwell, Till the Long Roll they catch. He fell the day that Richmond fell, And took the first despatch!

GEORGE ALFRED TOWNSEND.

* * * * *

THE YEAR OF JUBILEE.[A]

[Footnote A: Sung by negro troops when entering Richmond. George Gary Eggleston, in his collection of "American War Ballads," says that it soon found favor among the people and "was sung with applause by young men and maidens in well-nigh every house in Virginia."]

Say, darkeys, hab you seen de massa, Wid de muffstash on he face, Go long de road some time dis mornin', Like he gwine leabe de place? He see de smoke way up de ribber Whar de Lincum gunboats lay; He took he hat an' leff berry sudden, And I spose he's runned away.

De massa run, ha, ha! De darkey stay, ho, ho! It mus' be now de kingdum comin', An' de yar ob jubilo.

He six foot one way an' two foot todder, An' he weigh six hundred poun'; His coat so big he couldn't pay de tailor, An' it won't reach half way roun'; He drill so much dey calls him cap'n, An he git so mighty tanned, I spec he'll try to fool dem Yankees, For to tink he contraband, De massa run, ha, ha! De darkey stay, ho, ho! It mus' be now de kingdum comin', An' de yar ob jubilo.

De darkeys got so lonesome libb'n In de log hut on de lawn, Dey moved dere tings into massa's parlor For to keep it while he gone. Dar's wine an' cider in de kitchin, An' de darkeys dey hab some, I spec it will be all fiscated, When de Lincum sojers come. De massa run, ha, ha! De darkey stay, ho, ho! It mus' be now de kingdum comin', An' de yar ob jubilo.

De oberseer he makes us trubble, An' he dribe us roun' a spell, We lock him up in de smoke-house cellar, Wid de key flung in de well. De whip am lost, de han'-cuff broke, But de massy hab his pay; He big an' ole enough for to know better Dan to went an' run away. De massa run, ha, ha! De darkey stay, ho, ho! It mus' be now de kingdum comin', An' de yar ob jubilo.

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

THE CONQUERED BANNER.