CHAPTER VI

I hear again the tread of war go thundering through the land,And Puritan and Cavalier are clinching neck and hand,Round Shiloh church the furious foes have met to thrust and slay,Where erst the peaceful sons of Christ were wont to kneel and pray.The wrestling of the ages shakes the hills of Tennessee,With all their echoing mounts a-throb with war's wild minstrelsy;A galaxy of stars new-born round the shield of Mars,And set against the Stars and Stripes the flashing Stars and Bars.'Twas Albert Sidney Johnston led the columns of the Gray,Like Hector on the plains of Troy his presence fired the fray;And dashing horse and gleaming sword spake out his royal willAs on the slopes of Shiloh field the blasts of war blew shrill."Down with the base invaders," the Gray shout forth the cry,"Death to presumptuous rebels," the Blue ring out reply;All day the conflict rages and yet again all day,Though Grant is on the Union side he cannot stem nor stay.They are a royal race of men, these brothers face to face,Their fury speaking through their guns, their frenzy in their pace;The sweeping onset of the Gray bears down the sturdy Blue,Though Sherman and his legions are heroes through and through.Though Prentiss and his gallant men are forcing scaur and crag,They fall like sheaves before the scythes of Hardee and of Bragg;Ah, who shall tell the victor's tale when all the strife is past,When man and man in one great mould the men who strive are cast.As when the Trojan hero came from that fair city's gates,With tossing mane and flaming crest to scorn the scowling fates,His legions gather round him and madly charge and cheer,And fill the besieging armies with wild disheveled fear;Then bares his breast unto the dart the daring spearsman sends,And dying hears his cheering foes, the wailing of his friends,So Albert Sidney Johnston, the chief of belt and scar,Lay down to die at Shiloh and turned the scales of war.Now five and twenty years are gone, and lo, to-day they come,The Blue and Gray in proud array with throbbing fife and drum;But not as rivals, not as foes, as brothers reconciled,To twine love's fragrant roses where the thorns of hate grew wild.They tell the hero of three wars, the lion-hearted man,Who wore his valor like a star—uncrowned American;Above his heart serene and still the folded Stars and Bars,Above his head like mother-wings, the sheltering Stripes and Stars.Aye, five and twenty years, and lo, the manhood of the SouthHas held its valor stanch and strong as at the cannon's mouth,With patient heart and silent tongue has kept its true parole,And in the conquests born of peace has crowned its battle roll.But ever while we sing of war, of courage tried and true,Of heroes wed to gallant deeds, or be it Gray or Blue,Then Albert Sidney Johnston's name shall flash before our sightLike some resplendent meteor across the sombre night.America, thy sons are knit with sinews wrought of steel,They will not bend, they will not break, beneath the tyrant's heel;But in the white-hot flame of love, to silken cobwebs spun,They whirl the engines of the world, all keeping time as one.To-day they stand abreast and strong, who stood as foes of yore,The world leaps up to bless their feet, heaven scatters blessings o'er;Their robes are wrought of gleaming gold, their wings are freedom's own,The trampling of their conquering hosts shakes pinnacle and throne.Oh, veterans of the Blue and Gray, who fought on Shiloh field,The purposes of God are true, His judgment stands revealed;The pangs of war have rent the veil, and lo, His high decree:One heart, one hope, one destiny, one flag from sea to sea.Kate Brownlee Sherwood.

The wrestling of the ages shakes the hills of Tennessee,With all their echoing mounts a-throb with war's wild minstrelsy;A galaxy of stars new-born round the shield of Mars,And set against the Stars and Stripes the flashing Stars and Bars.

'Twas Albert Sidney Johnston led the columns of the Gray,Like Hector on the plains of Troy his presence fired the fray;And dashing horse and gleaming sword spake out his royal willAs on the slopes of Shiloh field the blasts of war blew shrill.

"Down with the base invaders," the Gray shout forth the cry,"Death to presumptuous rebels," the Blue ring out reply;All day the conflict rages and yet again all day,Though Grant is on the Union side he cannot stem nor stay.

They are a royal race of men, these brothers face to face,Their fury speaking through their guns, their frenzy in their pace;The sweeping onset of the Gray bears down the sturdy Blue,Though Sherman and his legions are heroes through and through.

Though Prentiss and his gallant men are forcing scaur and crag,They fall like sheaves before the scythes of Hardee and of Bragg;Ah, who shall tell the victor's tale when all the strife is past,When man and man in one great mould the men who strive are cast.

As when the Trojan hero came from that fair city's gates,With tossing mane and flaming crest to scorn the scowling fates,His legions gather round him and madly charge and cheer,And fill the besieging armies with wild disheveled fear;

Then bares his breast unto the dart the daring spearsman sends,And dying hears his cheering foes, the wailing of his friends,So Albert Sidney Johnston, the chief of belt and scar,Lay down to die at Shiloh and turned the scales of war.

Now five and twenty years are gone, and lo, to-day they come,The Blue and Gray in proud array with throbbing fife and drum;But not as rivals, not as foes, as brothers reconciled,To twine love's fragrant roses where the thorns of hate grew wild.

They tell the hero of three wars, the lion-hearted man,Who wore his valor like a star—uncrowned American;Above his heart serene and still the folded Stars and Bars,Above his head like mother-wings, the sheltering Stripes and Stars.

Aye, five and twenty years, and lo, the manhood of the SouthHas held its valor stanch and strong as at the cannon's mouth,With patient heart and silent tongue has kept its true parole,And in the conquests born of peace has crowned its battle roll.

But ever while we sing of war, of courage tried and true,Of heroes wed to gallant deeds, or be it Gray or Blue,Then Albert Sidney Johnston's name shall flash before our sightLike some resplendent meteor across the sombre night.

America, thy sons are knit with sinews wrought of steel,They will not bend, they will not break, beneath the tyrant's heel;But in the white-hot flame of love, to silken cobwebs spun,They whirl the engines of the world, all keeping time as one.

To-day they stand abreast and strong, who stood as foes of yore,The world leaps up to bless their feet, heaven scatters blessings o'er;Their robes are wrought of gleaming gold, their wings are freedom's own,The trampling of their conquering hosts shakes pinnacle and throne.

Oh, veterans of the Blue and Gray, who fought on Shiloh field,The purposes of God are true, His judgment stands revealed;The pangs of war have rent the veil, and lo, His high decree:One heart, one hope, one destiny, one flag from sea to sea.

Kate Brownlee Sherwood.

ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON

SHILOH

His soul to God! on a battle-psalm!A soldier's plea to Heaven!From the victor wreath to the shining Palm;From the battle's core to the central calm,And peace of God in Heaven.Oh, Land! in your midnight of mistrustThe golden gates flew wide,And the kingly soul of your wise and justPassed in light from the house of dustTo the Home of the Glorified!Francis Orrery Ticknor.

His soul to God! on a battle-psalm!A soldier's plea to Heaven!From the victor wreath to the shining Palm;From the battle's core to the central calm,And peace of God in Heaven.

Oh, Land! in your midnight of mistrustThe golden gates flew wide,And the kingly soul of your wise and justPassed in light from the house of dustTo the Home of the Glorified!

Francis Orrery Ticknor.

Buell's army came up during the night, and Grant was able next day to assume the offensive and drive the enemy from the field. Johnston's death left Beauregard commander-in-chief of the Confederate forces.

BEAUREGARD

Our trust is now in thee,Beauregard!In thy hand the God of HostsHath placed the sword;And the glory of thy fameHas set the world aflame—Hearts kindle at thy name,Beauregard!The way that lies beforeIs cold and hard;We are led across the desertBy the Lord!But the cloud that shines by nightTo guide our steps aright,Is the pillar of thy might,Beauregard!Thou hast watched the southern heavensEvening starred,And chosen thence thine emblems,Beauregard;And upon thy banner's foldIs that starry cross enrolled,Which no Northman shall beholdShamed or scarred.By the blood that crieth loudlyFrom the sword,We have sworn to keep around itWatch and ward,And the standard of thine handYet shall shine above a land,Like its leader, free and grand,Beauregard!Mrs. C. A. Warfield.

Our trust is now in thee,Beauregard!In thy hand the God of HostsHath placed the sword;And the glory of thy fameHas set the world aflame—Hearts kindle at thy name,Beauregard!

The way that lies beforeIs cold and hard;We are led across the desertBy the Lord!But the cloud that shines by nightTo guide our steps aright,Is the pillar of thy might,Beauregard!

Thou hast watched the southern heavensEvening starred,And chosen thence thine emblems,Beauregard;And upon thy banner's foldIs that starry cross enrolled,Which no Northman shall beholdShamed or scarred.

By the blood that crieth loudlyFrom the sword,We have sworn to keep around itWatch and ward,And the standard of thine handYet shall shine above a land,Like its leader, free and grand,Beauregard!

Mrs. C. A. Warfield.

The advance against Corinth was continued, and on May 30, 1862, the Union army entered the city, which the Confederates had evacuated. On October 3, 4, the Confederates attempted to recapture it, but were repulsed with heavy loss. The Eighth Wisconsin carried a live eagle in place of a flag, and during the battle the great bird circled and circled above the field.

THE EAGLE OF CORINTH

[October 3, 4, 1862]

Did you hear of the fight at Corinth,How we whipped out Price and Van Dorn?Ah, that day we earned our rations(Our cause was God's and the Nation's,Or we'd have come out forlorn!)—A long and terrible day!And at last, when night grew gray,By the hundreds, there they lay(Heavy sleepers, you'd say),That wouldn't wake on the morn.Our staff was bare of a flag,We didn't carry a ragIn those brave marching days;—Ah, no, but a finer thing!With never a cord or string,An eagle of ruffled wing,And an eye of awful gaze.The grape it rattled like hail,The minies were dropping like rain,The first of a thunder shower;The wads were blowing like chaff(There was pounding like floor and flail,All the front of our line!),So we stood it hour after hour;But our eagle, he felt fine!'Twould have made you cheer and laugh,To see, through that iron gale,How the old fellow'd swoop and sailAbove the racket and roar,—To right and to left he'd soar,But ever came back, without fail,And perched on his standard-staff.All that day, I tell you true,They had pressed us steady and fair,Till we fought in street and square(The affair, you might think, looked blue),—But we knew we had them there!Our batteries were few,Every gun, they'd have sworn, they knew,But, you see, there were one or twoWe had fixed for them, unaware.They reckon they've got us now!For the next half hour 'twill be warm—Aye, aye, look yonder!—I vow,If they weren't Secesh, how I'd love them!Only see how grandly they form(Our eagle whirling above them),To take Robinett by storm!They're timing!—it can't be long—Now for the nub of the fight!(You may guess that we held our breath.)By the Lord, 'tis a splendid sight!A column two thousand strongMarching square to the death!On they came in solid column,For once no whooping nor yell(Ah, I dare say they felt solemn!)—Front and flank, grape and shell,Our batteries pounded away!And the minies hummed to remind 'emThey had started on no child's play!Steady they kept a-going,But a grim wake settled behind 'emFrom the edge of theabattis(Where our dead and dying layUnder fence and fallen tree),Up to Robinett, all the wayThe dreadful swath kept growing!'Twas butternut mixed with gray.Now for it, at Robinett!Muzzle to muzzle we met(Not a breath of bluster or brag,Not a lisp for quarter or favor)—Three times, there, by Robinett,With a rush, their feet they setOn the logs of our parapet,And waved their bit of a flag—What could be finer or braver!But our cross-fire stunned them in flank,They melted, rank after rank(O'er them, with terrible poise,Our Bird did circle and wheel!)—Their whole line began to waver—Now for the bayonet, boys!On them with the cold steel!Ah, well—you know how it ended—We did for them, there and then,But their pluck throughout was splendid.(As I said before, I could love them!)They stood to the last, like men—Only a handful of themFound the way back again.Red as blood, o'er the town,The angry sun went down,Firing flagstaff and vane—And our eagle,—as for him,There, all ruffled and grim,He sat, o'erlooking the slain!Next morning, you'd have wonderedHow we had to drive the spade!There, in great trenches and holes(Ah, God rest their poor souls!),We piled some fifteen hundred,Where that last charge was made!Sad enough, I must say.No mother to mourn and search,No priest to bless or to pray—We buried them where they lay,Without a rite of the church—But our eagle, all that day,Stood solemn and still on his perch.'Tis many a stormy daySince, out of the cold bleak north,Our great war-eagle sailed forthTo swoop o'er battle and fray.Many and many a dayO'er charge and storm hath he wheeled,Foray and foughten field,Tramp, and volley, and rattle!—Over crimson trench and turf,Over climbing clouds of surf,Through tempest and cannon-wrack,Have his terrible pinions whirled(A thousand fields of battle!A million leagues of foam!);—But our bird shall yet come back,He shall soar to his eyrie-home,And his thunderous wings be furled,In the gaze of a gladdened world,On the nation's loftiest dome.Henry Howard Brownell.

Our staff was bare of a flag,We didn't carry a ragIn those brave marching days;—Ah, no, but a finer thing!With never a cord or string,An eagle of ruffled wing,And an eye of awful gaze.The grape it rattled like hail,The minies were dropping like rain,The first of a thunder shower;The wads were blowing like chaff(There was pounding like floor and flail,All the front of our line!),So we stood it hour after hour;But our eagle, he felt fine!'Twould have made you cheer and laugh,To see, through that iron gale,How the old fellow'd swoop and sailAbove the racket and roar,—To right and to left he'd soar,But ever came back, without fail,And perched on his standard-staff.

All that day, I tell you true,They had pressed us steady and fair,Till we fought in street and square(The affair, you might think, looked blue),—But we knew we had them there!Our batteries were few,Every gun, they'd have sworn, they knew,But, you see, there were one or twoWe had fixed for them, unaware.

They reckon they've got us now!For the next half hour 'twill be warm—Aye, aye, look yonder!—I vow,If they weren't Secesh, how I'd love them!Only see how grandly they form(Our eagle whirling above them),To take Robinett by storm!They're timing!—it can't be long—Now for the nub of the fight!(You may guess that we held our breath.)By the Lord, 'tis a splendid sight!A column two thousand strongMarching square to the death!

On they came in solid column,For once no whooping nor yell(Ah, I dare say they felt solemn!)—Front and flank, grape and shell,Our batteries pounded away!And the minies hummed to remind 'emThey had started on no child's play!

Steady they kept a-going,But a grim wake settled behind 'emFrom the edge of theabattis(Where our dead and dying layUnder fence and fallen tree),Up to Robinett, all the wayThe dreadful swath kept growing!'Twas butternut mixed with gray.

Now for it, at Robinett!Muzzle to muzzle we met(Not a breath of bluster or brag,Not a lisp for quarter or favor)—Three times, there, by Robinett,With a rush, their feet they setOn the logs of our parapet,And waved their bit of a flag—What could be finer or braver!But our cross-fire stunned them in flank,They melted, rank after rank(O'er them, with terrible poise,Our Bird did circle and wheel!)—Their whole line began to waver—Now for the bayonet, boys!On them with the cold steel!

Ah, well—you know how it ended—We did for them, there and then,But their pluck throughout was splendid.(As I said before, I could love them!)They stood to the last, like men—Only a handful of themFound the way back again.Red as blood, o'er the town,The angry sun went down,Firing flagstaff and vane—And our eagle,—as for him,There, all ruffled and grim,He sat, o'erlooking the slain!

Next morning, you'd have wonderedHow we had to drive the spade!There, in great trenches and holes(Ah, God rest their poor souls!),We piled some fifteen hundred,Where that last charge was made!Sad enough, I must say.No mother to mourn and search,No priest to bless or to pray—We buried them where they lay,Without a rite of the church—But our eagle, all that day,Stood solemn and still on his perch.

'Tis many a stormy daySince, out of the cold bleak north,Our great war-eagle sailed forthTo swoop o'er battle and fray.Many and many a dayO'er charge and storm hath he wheeled,Foray and foughten field,Tramp, and volley, and rattle!—Over crimson trench and turf,Over climbing clouds of surf,Through tempest and cannon-wrack,Have his terrible pinions whirled(A thousand fields of battle!A million leagues of foam!);—But our bird shall yet come back,He shall soar to his eyrie-home,And his thunderous wings be furled,In the gaze of a gladdened world,On the nation's loftiest dome.

Henry Howard Brownell.

One more struggle closed the campaign. On December 29, 1862, the armies of Bragg and Rosecrans met at Murfreesboro, Tenn., and for four days a desperate battle raged, which ended finally in the Confederates falling back and leaving their antagonists in possession of the field.

THE BATTLE OF MURFREESBORO

[December 31, 1862]

Ere Murfreesboro's thunders rent the air—With cannon booming 'mid the trumpet's blare—Cane Hill and David Mills, stern battles, too,Had carried death to hosts in Gray and Blue.But here, more deadly, war's wild torrent rushed,And victory, at first, the Rebels flushed.The "right wing" gone, and troops in panic, lo!The battle seemed already lost. But, No.Brave Rosecrans cried out—"Now stop retreat!We'll turn to victory this sore defeat!We must and shall this battle—Soldiers!—win!Now silence yonder batt'ry, to begin!And all re-form and meet the yelling foe!Stand firm and fire a volley! Back he'll go.If not, present your bayonets, and Charge!'Tis needless on these orders to enlarge;But—Comrades!—here we conquer or we die!"And all that Rosecrans desired was done;And Murfreesboro's battle thus was won.Hail! to that New Year's Day in 'Sixty-three,And to that morrow which brought victory.Hail! to the courage of the Boys in Blue,Who fought so grandly, to their Country true.Kinahan Cornwallis.

Kinahan Cornwallis.

Among the wounded, on the Confederate side, was Isaac Giffen, a native of East Tennessee. He was terribly injured, and was taken by Dr.Francis O. Ticknor into his home and nursed back to life. He fell in one of the battles before Atlanta.

LITTLE GIFFEN

Out of the focal and foremost fire,Out of the hospital walls as dire,Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene(Eighteenth battle andhesixteen)—Spectre such as you seldom see,Little Giffen of Tennessee."Take him—and welcome!" the surgeons said,"Little the doctor can help the dead!"So we took him and brought him whereThe balm was sweet on the summer air;And we laid him down on a wholesome bed—Utter Lazarus, heel to head!And we watched the war with bated breath—Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death.Months of torture, how many such!Weary weeks of the stick and crutch;And still a glint in the steel-blue eyeTold of a spirit that wouldn't die.And didn't. Nay, more! in death's despiteThe crippled skeleton learned to write."Dear Mother," at first of course; and then"Dear Captain," inquiring about "the men."Captain's answer: "Of eighty and five,Giffen and I are left alive."Word of gloom from the war one day:"Johnston's pressed at the front, they say!"Little Giffen was up and away;A tear—his first—as he bade good-by,Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye."I'll write, if spared!" There was news of the fight;But none of Giffen—he did not write.I sometimes fancy that, were I kingOf the princely knights of the Golden Ring,With the song of the minstrel in mine ear,And the tender legend that trembles here,I'd give the best, on his bended knee,The whitest soul of my chivalry,For Little Giffen of Tennessee.Francis Orrery Ticknor.

Out of the focal and foremost fire,Out of the hospital walls as dire,Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene(Eighteenth battle andhesixteen)—Spectre such as you seldom see,Little Giffen of Tennessee.

"Take him—and welcome!" the surgeons said,"Little the doctor can help the dead!"So we took him and brought him whereThe balm was sweet on the summer air;And we laid him down on a wholesome bed—Utter Lazarus, heel to head!

And we watched the war with bated breath—Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death.Months of torture, how many such!Weary weeks of the stick and crutch;And still a glint in the steel-blue eyeTold of a spirit that wouldn't die.

And didn't. Nay, more! in death's despiteThe crippled skeleton learned to write."Dear Mother," at first of course; and then"Dear Captain," inquiring about "the men."Captain's answer: "Of eighty and five,Giffen and I are left alive."

Word of gloom from the war one day:"Johnston's pressed at the front, they say!"Little Giffen was up and away;A tear—his first—as he bade good-by,Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye."I'll write, if spared!" There was news of the fight;But none of Giffen—he did not write.

I sometimes fancy that, were I kingOf the princely knights of the Golden Ring,With the song of the minstrel in mine ear,And the tender legend that trembles here,I'd give the best, on his bended knee,The whitest soul of my chivalry,For Little Giffen of Tennessee.

Francis Orrery Ticknor.

Both the Union and Confederate armies were in need of rest and reorganization, and for a time hostilities ceased. Grant paused to collect his forces and to prepare for a manœuvre of the first importance.

THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862

The flags of war like storm-birds fly,The charging trumpets blow;Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,No earthquake strives below.And, calm and patient, Nature keepsHer ancient promise well,Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweepsThe battle's breath of hell.And still she walks in golden hoursThrough harvest-happy farms,And still she wears her fruits and flowersLike jewels on her arms.What mean the gladness of the plain,This joy of eve and morn,The mirth that shakes the beard of grainAnd yellow locks of corn?Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,And hearts with hate are hot;But even-paced come round the years,And Nature changes not.She meets with smiles our bitter grief,With songs our groans of pain;She mocks with tint of flower and leafThe war-field's crimson stain.Still, in the cannon's pause, we hearHer sweet thanksgiving-psalm;Too near to God for doubt or fear,She shares the eternal calm.She knows the seed lies safe belowThe fires that blast and burn;For all the tears of blood we sowShe waits the rich return.She sees with clearer eye than oursThe good of suffering born,—The hearts that blossom like her flowers,And ripen like her corn.Oh, give to us, in times like these,The vision of her eyes;And make her fields and fruited treesOur golden prophecies!Oh, give to us her finer ear!Above this stormy din,We too would hear the bells of cheerRing peace and freedom in.John Greenleaf Whittier.

The flags of war like storm-birds fly,The charging trumpets blow;Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,No earthquake strives below.

And, calm and patient, Nature keepsHer ancient promise well,Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweepsThe battle's breath of hell.

And still she walks in golden hoursThrough harvest-happy farms,And still she wears her fruits and flowersLike jewels on her arms.

What mean the gladness of the plain,This joy of eve and morn,The mirth that shakes the beard of grainAnd yellow locks of corn?

Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,And hearts with hate are hot;But even-paced come round the years,And Nature changes not.

She meets with smiles our bitter grief,With songs our groans of pain;She mocks with tint of flower and leafThe war-field's crimson stain.

Still, in the cannon's pause, we hearHer sweet thanksgiving-psalm;Too near to God for doubt or fear,She shares the eternal calm.

She knows the seed lies safe belowThe fires that blast and burn;For all the tears of blood we sowShe waits the rich return.

She sees with clearer eye than oursThe good of suffering born,—The hearts that blossom like her flowers,And ripen like her corn.

Oh, give to us, in times like these,The vision of her eyes;And make her fields and fruited treesOur golden prophecies!

Oh, give to us her finer ear!Above this stormy din,We too would hear the bells of cheerRing peace and freedom in.

John Greenleaf Whittier.

THE COAST AND THE RIVER

At the opening of the Civil War, the United States had proclaimed a blockade of all Southern ports. But places like Pamlico Sound and Port Royal had so many outlets that they could not be blockaded effectually, and finally, in November, 1861, a combined sea and land attack captured the latter place and gave the Union fleet a good harbor in the South.

AT PORT ROYAL

[November 7, 1861]

The tent-lights glimmer on the land,The ship-lights on the sea;The night-wind smooths with drifting sandOur track on lone Tybee.At last our grating keels outslide,Our good boats forward swing;And while we ride the land-locked tide,Our negroes row and sing.For dear the bondman holds his giftsOf music and of song:The gold that kindly Nature siftsAmong his sands of wrong;The power to make his toiling daysAnd poor home-comforts please;The quaint relief of mirth that playsWith sorrow's minor keys.Another glow than sunset's fireHas filled the west with light,Where field and garner, barn and byre,Are blazing through the night.The land is wild with fear and hate,The rout runs mad and fast;From hand to hand, from gate to gateThe flaming brand is passed.The lurid glow falls strong acrossDark faces broad with smiles:Not theirs the terror, hate, and lossThat fire yon blazing piles.With oar-strokes timing to their song,They weave in simple laysThe pathos of remembered wrong,The hope of better days,—The triumph-note that Miriam sung,The joy of uncaged birds:Softening with Afric's mellow tongueTheir broken Saxon words.John Greenleaf Whittier.

The tent-lights glimmer on the land,The ship-lights on the sea;The night-wind smooths with drifting sandOur track on lone Tybee.

At last our grating keels outslide,Our good boats forward swing;And while we ride the land-locked tide,Our negroes row and sing.

For dear the bondman holds his giftsOf music and of song:The gold that kindly Nature siftsAmong his sands of wrong;

The power to make his toiling daysAnd poor home-comforts please;The quaint relief of mirth that playsWith sorrow's minor keys.

Another glow than sunset's fireHas filled the west with light,Where field and garner, barn and byre,Are blazing through the night.

The land is wild with fear and hate,The rout runs mad and fast;From hand to hand, from gate to gateThe flaming brand is passed.

The lurid glow falls strong acrossDark faces broad with smiles:Not theirs the terror, hate, and lossThat fire yon blazing piles.

With oar-strokes timing to their song,They weave in simple laysThe pathos of remembered wrong,The hope of better days,—

The triumph-note that Miriam sung,The joy of uncaged birds:Softening with Afric's mellow tongueTheir broken Saxon words.

John Greenleaf Whittier.

The campaign along the North Carolina coast was vigorously pressed, and fort after fort was captured, until the Northern troops were so firmly in possession that their control of that portion of the coast was never afterwards seriously threatened.

READY

Loaded with gallant soldiers,A boat shot in to the land,And lay at the right of Rodman's Point,With her keel upon the sand.Lightly, gayly, they came to shore,And never a man afraid;When sudden the enemy opened fire,From his deadly ambuscade.Each man fell flat on the bottomOf the boat; and the captain said:"If we lie here, we all are captured,And the first who moves is dead!"Then out spoke a negro sailor,No slavish soul had he:"Somebody's got to die, boys,And it might as well be me!"Firmly he rose, and fearlesslyStepped out into the tide;He pushed the vessel safely off,Then fell across her side:Fell, pierced by a dozen bullets,As the boat swung clear and free;—But there wasn't a man of them that dayWho was fitter to die than he!Phœbe Cary.

Loaded with gallant soldiers,A boat shot in to the land,And lay at the right of Rodman's Point,With her keel upon the sand.

Lightly, gayly, they came to shore,And never a man afraid;When sudden the enemy opened fire,From his deadly ambuscade.

Each man fell flat on the bottomOf the boat; and the captain said:"If we lie here, we all are captured,And the first who moves is dead!"

Then out spoke a negro sailor,No slavish soul had he:"Somebody's got to die, boys,And it might as well be me!"

Firmly he rose, and fearlesslyStepped out into the tide;He pushed the vessel safely off,Then fell across her side:

Fell, pierced by a dozen bullets,As the boat swung clear and free;—But there wasn't a man of them that dayWho was fitter to die than he!

Phœbe Cary.

Especially important was the capture of Newberne, on the Neuse River, where the Confederates were strongly intrenched. The Union forces under Burnside advanced to the attack on the morning of March 14, 1862, and succeeded in carrying the works. The loss on both sides washeavy, and would have been heavier still on the Union side, but for the quick wit of Kady Brownell.

THE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT

(FIFTH RHODE ISLAND)

[March 14, 1862]

Who with the soldiers was stanch danger-sharer,—Marched in the ranks through the shriek of the shell?Who was their comrade, their brave color-bearer?Who but the resoluteKady Brownell!Over the marshland and over the highland,Where'er the columns wound, meadow or dell,Fared she, this daughter of little Rhode Island,—She, the intrepid one, Kady Brownell!While the mad rout at Manassas was surging,When those around her fled wildly, or fell,And the bold Beauregard onward was urging,Who so undaunted as Kady Brownell!When gallant Burnside made dash upon Newberne,Sailing the Neuse 'gainst the sweep of the swell,Watching the flag on the heaven's broad blue burn,Who higher hearted than Kady Brownell?In the deep slough of the springtide debarking,Toiling o'er leagues that are weary to tell,Time with the sturdiest soldiery marking,Forward, straight forward, strode Kady Brownell.Reaching the lines where the army was forming,Forming to charge on those ramparts of hell,When from the wood came her regiment swarming,What did she see there—this Kady Brownell?See! why she saw that their friends thought them foemen;Muskets were levelled, and cannon as well!Save them from direful destruction would no men?Nay, but this woman would,—Kady Brownell!Waving her banner she raced for the clearing;Fronted them all, with her flag as a spell;Ah, what a volley—a volley of cheering—Greeted the heroine, Kady Brownell!Gone (and thank God!) are those red days of slaughter!Brethren again we in amity dwell;Just one more cheer for the Regiment's Daughter!—Just one more cheer for her, Kady Brownell!Clinton Scollard.

Who with the soldiers was stanch danger-sharer,—Marched in the ranks through the shriek of the shell?Who was their comrade, their brave color-bearer?Who but the resoluteKady Brownell!

Over the marshland and over the highland,Where'er the columns wound, meadow or dell,Fared she, this daughter of little Rhode Island,—She, the intrepid one, Kady Brownell!

While the mad rout at Manassas was surging,When those around her fled wildly, or fell,And the bold Beauregard onward was urging,Who so undaunted as Kady Brownell!

When gallant Burnside made dash upon Newberne,Sailing the Neuse 'gainst the sweep of the swell,Watching the flag on the heaven's broad blue burn,Who higher hearted than Kady Brownell?

In the deep slough of the springtide debarking,Toiling o'er leagues that are weary to tell,Time with the sturdiest soldiery marking,Forward, straight forward, strode Kady Brownell.

Reaching the lines where the army was forming,Forming to charge on those ramparts of hell,When from the wood came her regiment swarming,What did she see there—this Kady Brownell?

See! why she saw that their friends thought them foemen;Muskets were levelled, and cannon as well!Save them from direful destruction would no men?Nay, but this woman would,—Kady Brownell!

Waving her banner she raced for the clearing;Fronted them all, with her flag as a spell;Ah, what a volley—a volley of cheering—Greeted the heroine, Kady Brownell!

Gone (and thank God!) are those red days of slaughter!Brethren again we in amity dwell;Just one more cheer for the Regiment's Daughter!—Just one more cheer for her, Kady Brownell!

Clinton Scollard.

The Federals had succeeded in partially destroying the navy yard at Norfolk at the outbreak of the war, but the Confederates succeeded in raising one vessel, the Merrimac. This they rebuilt, converted into an iron-clad, armed with ten rifled guns, and named the Virginia. A cast-iron ram was fitted to the bow. The vessel was completed in March, 1862, and on the 8th cast loose and steamed down the river.

THE TURTLE

[March 8, 1862]

Cæsar, afloat with his fortunes!And all the world agogStraining its eyesAt a thing that liesIn the water, like a log!It's a weasel! a whale!I see its tail!It's a porpoise! a pollywog!Tarnation! it's aturtle!And blast my bones and skin,My hearties, sink her,Or else you'll think herA regular terror-pin!The frigate poured a broadside!The bombs they whistled well,But—hit old NickWith a sugar stick!It didn't phase her shell!Piff, from the creature's larboard—And dipping along the waterA bullet hissedFrom a wreath of mistInto a Doodle's quarter!Raff, from the creature's starboard—Rip, from his ugly snorter,And the Congress andThe CumberlandSunk, and nothing—shorter.Now, here's to you, Virginia,And you are bound to win!By your rate of bobbing roundAnd your way of pitchin' in—For you are a crossOf the old sea-hossAnd a regular terror-pin.

Cæsar, afloat with his fortunes!And all the world agogStraining its eyesAt a thing that liesIn the water, like a log!It's a weasel! a whale!I see its tail!It's a porpoise! a pollywog!

Tarnation! it's aturtle!And blast my bones and skin,My hearties, sink her,Or else you'll think herA regular terror-pin!

The frigate poured a broadside!The bombs they whistled well,But—hit old NickWith a sugar stick!It didn't phase her shell!

Piff, from the creature's larboard—And dipping along the waterA bullet hissedFrom a wreath of mistInto a Doodle's quarter!

Raff, from the creature's starboard—Rip, from his ugly snorter,And the Congress andThe CumberlandSunk, and nothing—shorter.

Now, here's to you, Virginia,And you are bound to win!By your rate of bobbing roundAnd your way of pitchin' in—For you are a crossOf the old sea-hossAnd a regular terror-pin.

At Newport News lay the United States 50-gun frigate Congress, the 24-gun sloop Cumberland, and the frigates St. Lawrence, Roanoke, and Minnesota. In command of the Cumberland was Lieutenant George Upham Morris, and at noon the Merrimac was seen from the Cumberland's deck advancing to the attack. Shot and shell were poured upon her without effect. She steamed straight on and plunged her ram into the Cumberland's side. Morris fought his ship until she sank under him.

THE ATTACK

[March 8, 1862]

In Hampton Roads, the airs of March were bland,Peace on the deck and in the fortress sleeping,Till, in the look-out of the Cumberland,The sailor, with his well-poised glass in hand,Descried the iron island downward creeping.A sudden wonder seized on land and bay,And Tumult, with her train, was there to follow;For still the stranger kept its seaward way,Looking a great leviathan blowing spray,Seeking with steady course his ocean wallow.And still it came, and largened on the sight;A floating monster; ugly and gigantic;In shape, a wave, with long and shelving height,As if a mighty billow, heaved at night,Should turn to iron in the mid-Atlantic.Then ship and fortress gazed with anxious stare,Until the Cumberland's cannon, silence breaking,Thundered its guardian challenge, "Who comes there?"But, like a rock-flung echo in the air,The shot rebounded, no impression making.Then roared a broadside; though directed well,On, like a nightmare, moved the shape defiant;The tempest of our pounding shot and shellCrumbled to harmless nothing, thickly fellFrom off the sounding armor of the giant!Unchecked, still onward through the storm it broke,With beak directed at the vessel's centre;Then through the constant cloud of sulphurous smokeDrove, till it struck the warrior's wall of oak,Making a gateway for the waves to enter.Struck, and to note the mischief done, withdrew,And then, with all a murderer's impatience,Rushed on again, crushing her ribs anew,Cleaving the noble hull well-nigh in two,And on it sped its fiery imprecations.Swift through the vessel swept the drowning swell,With splash, and rush, and guilty rise appalling;While sinking cannon rung their own loud knell.Then, cried the traitor, from his sulphurous cell,"Do you surrender?" Oh, those words were galling!How spake our captain to his comrades then?It was a shout from out a soul of splendor,Echoed from lofty maintop, and againBetween-decks, from the lips of dying men,"Sink! sink, boys, sink! but never say surrender!"Down went the ship! Down, down; but never downHer sacred flag to insolent dictator.Weep for the patriot heroes, doomed to drown;Pledge to the sunken Cumberland's renown.She sank, thank God! unsoiled by foot of traitor!Thomas Buchanan Read.

A sudden wonder seized on land and bay,And Tumult, with her train, was there to follow;For still the stranger kept its seaward way,Looking a great leviathan blowing spray,Seeking with steady course his ocean wallow.

And still it came, and largened on the sight;A floating monster; ugly and gigantic;In shape, a wave, with long and shelving height,As if a mighty billow, heaved at night,Should turn to iron in the mid-Atlantic.

Then ship and fortress gazed with anxious stare,Until the Cumberland's cannon, silence breaking,Thundered its guardian challenge, "Who comes there?"But, like a rock-flung echo in the air,The shot rebounded, no impression making.

Then roared a broadside; though directed well,On, like a nightmare, moved the shape defiant;The tempest of our pounding shot and shellCrumbled to harmless nothing, thickly fellFrom off the sounding armor of the giant!

Unchecked, still onward through the storm it broke,With beak directed at the vessel's centre;Then through the constant cloud of sulphurous smokeDrove, till it struck the warrior's wall of oak,Making a gateway for the waves to enter.

Struck, and to note the mischief done, withdrew,And then, with all a murderer's impatience,Rushed on again, crushing her ribs anew,Cleaving the noble hull well-nigh in two,And on it sped its fiery imprecations.

Swift through the vessel swept the drowning swell,With splash, and rush, and guilty rise appalling;While sinking cannon rung their own loud knell.Then, cried the traitor, from his sulphurous cell,"Do you surrender?" Oh, those words were galling!

How spake our captain to his comrades then?It was a shout from out a soul of splendor,Echoed from lofty maintop, and againBetween-decks, from the lips of dying men,"Sink! sink, boys, sink! but never say surrender!"

Down went the ship! Down, down; but never downHer sacred flag to insolent dictator.Weep for the patriot heroes, doomed to drown;Pledge to the sunken Cumberland's renown.She sank, thank God! unsoiled by foot of traitor!

Thomas Buchanan Read.

THE CUMBERLAND

[March 8, 1862]

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay,On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war;And at times from the fortress across the bayThe alarum of drums swept past,Or a bugle blastFrom the camp on the shore.Then far away to the south uproseA little feather of snow-white smoke,And we knew that the iron ship of our foesWas steadily steering its courseTo try the forceOf 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 straightDefiance back in a full broadside!As hail rebounds from a roof of slate,Rebounds our heavier hailFrom each iron scaleOf the monster's hide."Strike your flag!" the rebel criesIn his arrogant old plantation strain."Never!" our gallant Morris replies:"It is better to sink than to yield!"And the whole air pealedWith 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 breathFor 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 airWas 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!Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay,On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war;And at times from the fortress across the bayThe alarum of drums swept past,Or a bugle blastFrom the camp on the shore.

Then far away to the south uproseA little feather of snow-white smoke,And we knew that the iron ship of our foesWas steadily steering its courseTo try the forceOf 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 straightDefiance back in a full broadside!As hail rebounds from a roof of slate,Rebounds our heavier hailFrom each iron scaleOf the monster's hide.

"Strike your flag!" the rebel criesIn his arrogant old plantation strain."Never!" our gallant Morris replies:"It is better to sink than to yield!"And the whole air pealedWith 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 breathFor 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 airWas 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!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND

[March 8, 1862]

"Stand to your guns, men!" Morris cried.Small need to pass the word;Our men at quarters ranged themselves,Before the drum was heard.And then began the sailors' jests:"What thing is that, I say?""A long-shore meeting-house adriftIs standing down the bay!"A frown came over Morris' face;The strange, dark craft he knew;"That is the iron Merrimac,Manned by a rebel crew."So shot your guns, and point them straight;Before this day goes by,We'll try of what her metal's made."A cheer was our reply."Remember, boys, this flag of oursHas seldom left its place;And where it falls, the deck it strikesIs covered with disgrace."I ask but this: or sink or swim,Or live or nobly die,My last sight upon earth may beTo see that ensign fly!"Meanwhile the shapeless iron massCame moving o'er the wave,As gloomy as a passing hearse,As silent as the grave.Her ports were closed, from stem to sternNo sign of life appeared.We wondered, questioned, strained our eyes,Joked,—everything but feared.She reached our range. Our broadside rang,Our heavy pivots roared;And shot and shell, a fire of hell,Against her sides we poured.God's mercy! from her sloping roofThe iron tempest glanced,As hail bounds from a cottage-thatch,And round her leaped and danced;Or, when against her dusky hullWe struck a fair, full blow,The mighty, solid iron globesWere crumbled up like snow.On, on, with fast increasing speed,The silent monster came;Though all our starboard batteryWas one long line of flame.She heeded not, nor gun she fired,Straight on our bow she bore;Through riving plank and crashing frameHer furious way she tore.Alas! our beautiful, keen bow,That in the fiercest blastSo gently folded back the seas,They hardly felt we passed!Alas! Alas! My Cumberland,That ne'er knew grief before,To be so gored, to feel so deepThe tusk of that sea-boar!Once more she backward drew a space,Once more our side she rent;Then, in the wantonness of hate,Her broadside through us sent.The dead and dying round us lay,But our foeman lay abeam;Her open portholes maddened us;We fired with shout and scream.We felt our vessel settling fast,We knew our time was brief;"The pumps, the pumps!" But they who pumped,And fought not, wept with grief."Oh, keep us but an hour afloat!Oh, give us only timeTo be the instruments of heavenAgainst the traitors' crime!"From captain down to powder-boy,No hand was idle then;Two soldiers, but by chance aboard,Fought on like sailor-men.And when a gun's crew lost a hand,Some bold marine stepped out,And jerked his braided jacket off,And hauled the gun about.Our forward magazine was drowned;And up from the sick-bayCrawled out the wounded, red with blood,And round us gasping lay.Yes, cheering, calling us by name,Struggling with failing breath,To keep their shipmates at the port,While glory strove with death.With decks afloat, and powder gone,The last broadside we gaveFrom the guns' heated iron lipsBurst out beneath the wave.So sponges, rammers, and handspikes—As men-of-war's men should—We placed within their proper racks,And at our quarters stood."Up to the spar-deck! Save yourselves!"Cried Selfridge. "Up, my men!God grant that some of us may liveTo fight yon ship again!"We turned—we did not like to go;Yet staying seemed but vain,Knee-deep in water; so we left;Some swore, some groaned with pain.We reached the deck. Here Randall stood:"Another turn, men—so!"Calmly he aimed his pivot-gun:"Now, Tenney, let her go!"It did our sore hearts good to hearThe song our pivot sang,As rushing on, from wave to wave,The whirring bomb-shell sprang.Brave Randall leaped upon the gun,And waved his cap in sport;"Well done! well aimed! I saw that shellGo through an open port."It was our last, our deadliest shot;The deck was overflown;The poor ship staggered, lurched to port,And gave a living groan.Down, down, as headlong through the wavesOur gallant vessel rushed,A thousand gurgling, watery soundsAround my senses gushed.Then I remember little more;One look to heaven I gave,Where, like an angel's wing, I sawOur spotless ensign wave.I tried to cheer, I cannot sayWhether I swam or sank;A blue mist closed around my eyes,And everything was blank.When I awoke, a soldier-lad,All dripping from the sea,With two great tears upon his cheeks,Was bending over me.I tried to speak. He understoodThe wish I could not speak.He turned me. There, thank God! the flagStill fluttered at the peak!And there, while thread shall hang to thread,O let that ensign fly!The noblest constellation setAgainst our northern sky.A sign that we who live may claimThe peerage of the brave;A monument, that needs no scroll,For those beneath the wave!George Henry Boker.

"Stand to your guns, men!" Morris cried.Small need to pass the word;Our men at quarters ranged themselves,Before the drum was heard.

And then began the sailors' jests:"What thing is that, I say?""A long-shore meeting-house adriftIs standing down the bay!"

A frown came over Morris' face;The strange, dark craft he knew;"That is the iron Merrimac,Manned by a rebel crew.

"So shot your guns, and point them straight;Before this day goes by,We'll try of what her metal's made."A cheer was our reply.

"Remember, boys, this flag of oursHas seldom left its place;And where it falls, the deck it strikesIs covered with disgrace.

"I ask but this: or sink or swim,Or live or nobly die,My last sight upon earth may beTo see that ensign fly!"

Meanwhile the shapeless iron massCame moving o'er the wave,As gloomy as a passing hearse,As silent as the grave.

Her ports were closed, from stem to sternNo sign of life appeared.We wondered, questioned, strained our eyes,Joked,—everything but feared.

She reached our range. Our broadside rang,Our heavy pivots roared;And shot and shell, a fire of hell,Against her sides we poured.

God's mercy! from her sloping roofThe iron tempest glanced,As hail bounds from a cottage-thatch,And round her leaped and danced;

Or, when against her dusky hullWe struck a fair, full blow,The mighty, solid iron globesWere crumbled up like snow.

On, on, with fast increasing speed,The silent monster came;Though all our starboard batteryWas one long line of flame.

She heeded not, nor gun she fired,Straight on our bow she bore;Through riving plank and crashing frameHer furious way she tore.

Alas! our beautiful, keen bow,That in the fiercest blastSo gently folded back the seas,They hardly felt we passed!

Alas! Alas! My Cumberland,That ne'er knew grief before,To be so gored, to feel so deepThe tusk of that sea-boar!

Once more she backward drew a space,Once more our side she rent;Then, in the wantonness of hate,Her broadside through us sent.

The dead and dying round us lay,But our foeman lay abeam;Her open portholes maddened us;We fired with shout and scream.

We felt our vessel settling fast,We knew our time was brief;"The pumps, the pumps!" But they who pumped,And fought not, wept with grief.

"Oh, keep us but an hour afloat!Oh, give us only timeTo be the instruments of heavenAgainst the traitors' crime!"

From captain down to powder-boy,No hand was idle then;Two soldiers, but by chance aboard,Fought on like sailor-men.

And when a gun's crew lost a hand,Some bold marine stepped out,And jerked his braided jacket off,And hauled the gun about.

Our forward magazine was drowned;And up from the sick-bayCrawled out the wounded, red with blood,And round us gasping lay.

Yes, cheering, calling us by name,Struggling with failing breath,To keep their shipmates at the port,While glory strove with death.

With decks afloat, and powder gone,The last broadside we gaveFrom the guns' heated iron lipsBurst out beneath the wave.

So sponges, rammers, and handspikes—As men-of-war's men should—We placed within their proper racks,And at our quarters stood.

"Up to the spar-deck! Save yourselves!"Cried Selfridge. "Up, my men!God grant that some of us may liveTo fight yon ship again!"

We turned—we did not like to go;Yet staying seemed but vain,Knee-deep in water; so we left;Some swore, some groaned with pain.

We reached the deck. Here Randall stood:"Another turn, men—so!"Calmly he aimed his pivot-gun:"Now, Tenney, let her go!"

It did our sore hearts good to hearThe song our pivot sang,As rushing on, from wave to wave,The whirring bomb-shell sprang.

Brave Randall leaped upon the gun,And waved his cap in sport;"Well done! well aimed! I saw that shellGo through an open port."

It was our last, our deadliest shot;The deck was overflown;The poor ship staggered, lurched to port,And gave a living groan.

Down, down, as headlong through the wavesOur gallant vessel rushed,A thousand gurgling, watery soundsAround my senses gushed.

Then I remember little more;One look to heaven I gave,Where, like an angel's wing, I sawOur spotless ensign wave.

I tried to cheer, I cannot sayWhether I swam or sank;A blue mist closed around my eyes,And everything was blank.

When I awoke, a soldier-lad,All dripping from the sea,With two great tears upon his cheeks,Was bending over me.

I tried to speak. He understoodThe wish I could not speak.He turned me. There, thank God! the flagStill fluttered at the peak!

And there, while thread shall hang to thread,O let that ensign fly!The noblest constellation setAgainst our northern sky.

A sign that we who live may claimThe peerage of the brave;A monument, that needs no scroll,For those beneath the wave!

George Henry Boker.

THE CUMBERLAND

Back to Index Next