CHAPTER V

I lay in my tent at mid-day,Too full of pain to die,When I heard the voice of Burnside,And an answering shout reply.I heard the voice of the General,—'Twas firm, though low and sad;But the roar that followed his questionLaughed out till the hills were glad."O comrade, open the curtain,And see where our men are bound,For my heart is still in my bosomAt that terrible, mirthful sound."And hark what the General orders,For I could not catch his words;But what means that hurry and movement,That clash of muskets and swords?""Lie still, lie still, my Captain,'Tis a call for volunteers;And the noise that vexes your feverIs only our soldiers' cheers.""Where go they?" "Across the river.""O God! and must I lie still,While that drum and that measured tramplingMove from me far down the hill?"How many?" "I judge, four hundred.""Who are they? I'll know to a man.""Our own Nineteenth and Twentieth,And the Seventh Michigan.""Oh, to go, but to go with my comrades!Tear the curtain away from the hook;For I'll see them march down to their glory,If I perish by the look!"They leaped in the rocking shallops.Ten offered where one could go;And the breeze was alive with laughterTill the boatmen began to row.Then the shore, where the rebels harbored,Was fringed with a gush of flame,And buzzing, like bees, o'er the waterThe swarms of their bullets came.In silence, how dread and solemn!With courage, how grand and true!Steadily, steadily onwardThe line of the shallops drew.Not a whisper! Each man was consciousHe stood in the sight of death;So he bowed to the awful presence,And treasured his living breath.'Twixt death in the air above them,And death in the waves below,Through balls and grape and shrapnelThey moved—my God, how slow!And many a brave, stout fellow,Who sprang in the boats with mirth,Ere they made that fatal crossingWas a load of lifeless earth.And many a brave, stout fellow,Whose limbs with strength were rife,Was torn and crushed and shattered,—A hopeless wreck for life.But yet the boats moved onward;Through fire and lead they drove,With the dark, still mass within them,And the floating stars above.So loud and near it sounded,I started at the shout,As the keels ground on the gravel,And the eager men burst out.Cheer after cheer we sent them,As only armies can,—Cheers for old Massachusetts,Cheers for young Michigan!They formed in line of battle;Not a man was out of place.Then with levelled steel they hurled themStraight in the rebels' face."Oh, help me, help me, comrade!For tears my eyelids drown,As I see their smoking bannersStream up the smoking town."And see the noisy workmenO'er the lengthening bridges run,And the troops that swarm to cross themWhen the rapid work be done."For the old heat, or a new one,Flames up in every vein;And with fever or with passionI am faint as death again."If this is death, I care not!Hear me, men, from rear to van!—One more cheer for Massachusetts,And one more for Michigan!"George Henry Boker.

I lay in my tent at mid-day,Too full of pain to die,When I heard the voice of Burnside,And an answering shout reply.

I heard the voice of the General,—'Twas firm, though low and sad;But the roar that followed his questionLaughed out till the hills were glad.

"O comrade, open the curtain,And see where our men are bound,For my heart is still in my bosomAt that terrible, mirthful sound.

"And hark what the General orders,For I could not catch his words;But what means that hurry and movement,That clash of muskets and swords?"

"Lie still, lie still, my Captain,'Tis a call for volunteers;And the noise that vexes your feverIs only our soldiers' cheers."

"Where go they?" "Across the river.""O God! and must I lie still,While that drum and that measured tramplingMove from me far down the hill?

"How many?" "I judge, four hundred.""Who are they? I'll know to a man.""Our own Nineteenth and Twentieth,And the Seventh Michigan."

"Oh, to go, but to go with my comrades!Tear the curtain away from the hook;For I'll see them march down to their glory,If I perish by the look!"

They leaped in the rocking shallops.Ten offered where one could go;And the breeze was alive with laughterTill the boatmen began to row.

Then the shore, where the rebels harbored,Was fringed with a gush of flame,And buzzing, like bees, o'er the waterThe swarms of their bullets came.

In silence, how dread and solemn!With courage, how grand and true!Steadily, steadily onwardThe line of the shallops drew.

Not a whisper! Each man was consciousHe stood in the sight of death;So he bowed to the awful presence,And treasured his living breath.

'Twixt death in the air above them,And death in the waves below,Through balls and grape and shrapnelThey moved—my God, how slow!

And many a brave, stout fellow,Who sprang in the boats with mirth,Ere they made that fatal crossingWas a load of lifeless earth.

And many a brave, stout fellow,Whose limbs with strength were rife,Was torn and crushed and shattered,—A hopeless wreck for life.

But yet the boats moved onward;Through fire and lead they drove,With the dark, still mass within them,And the floating stars above.

So loud and near it sounded,I started at the shout,As the keels ground on the gravel,And the eager men burst out.

Cheer after cheer we sent them,As only armies can,—Cheers for old Massachusetts,Cheers for young Michigan!

They formed in line of battle;Not a man was out of place.Then with levelled steel they hurled themStraight in the rebels' face.

"Oh, help me, help me, comrade!For tears my eyelids drown,As I see their smoking bannersStream up the smoking town.

"And see the noisy workmenO'er the lengthening bridges run,And the troops that swarm to cross themWhen the rapid work be done.

"For the old heat, or a new one,Flames up in every vein;And with fever or with passionI am faint as death again.

"If this is death, I care not!Hear me, men, from rear to van!—One more cheer for Massachusetts,And one more for Michigan!"

George Henry Boker.

On the morning of December 13, 1862, the Union army advanced to the attack. The Confederate advance lines were driven back, but rallied and drove back their assailants with heavy loss. Assault after assault was repulsed, and Burnside was finally compelled to withdraw with a loss of fifteen thousand men. He was relieved of command soon afterwards.

AT FREDERICKSBURG

[December 13, 1862]

God send us peace, and keep red strife away;But should it come, God send us men and steel!The land is dead that dare not face the dayWhen foreign danger threats the common weal.Defenders strong are they that homes defend;From ready arms the spoiler keeps afar.Well blest the country that has sons to lendFrom trades of peace to learn the trade of war.Thrice blest the nation that has every sonA soldier, ready for the warning sound;Who marches homeward when the fight is done,To swing the hammer and to till the ground.Call back that morning, with its lurid light,When through our land the awful war-bell tolled;When lips were mute, and women's faces whiteAs the pale cloud that out from Sumter rolled.Call back that morn: an instant all were dumb,As if the shot had struck the Nation's life;Then cleared the smoke, and rolled the calling drum,And men streamed in to meet the coming strife.They closed the ledger and they stilled the loom,The plough left rusting in the prairie farm;They saw but "Union" in the gathering gloom;The tearless women helped the men to arm;Brigades from towns—each village sent its band:German and Irish—every race and faith;There was no question then of native land,But—love the Flag and follow it to death.No need to tell their tale: through every ageThe splendid story shall be sung and said;But let me draw one picture from the page—For words of song embalm the hero dead.*****The smooth hill is bare, and the cannons are planted,Like Gorgon fates shading its terrible brow;The word has been passed that the stormers are wanted,And Burnside's battalions are mustering now.The armies stand by to behold the dread meeting;The work must be done by a desperate few;The black-mouthèd guns on the height give them greeting—From gun-mouth to plain every grass blade in view.Strong earthworks are there, and the rifles behind themAre Georgia militia—an Irish brigade—Their caps have green badges, as if to remind themOf all the brave record their country has made.The stormers go forward—the Federals cheer them;They breast the smooth hillside—the black mouths are dumb;The riflemen lie in the works till they near them,And cover the stormers as upward they come.Was ever a death-march so grand and so solemn?At last, the dark summit with flame is enlined;The great guns belch doom on the sacrificed column,That reels from the height, leaving hundreds behind.The armies are hushed—there is no cause for cheering:The fall of brave men to brave men is a pain.Again come the stormers! and as they are nearingThe flame-sheeted rifle-lines, reel back again.And so till full noon come the Federal masses—Flung back from the height, as the cliff flings a wave;Brigade on brigade to the death-struggle passes,No wavering rank till it steps on the grave.Then comes a brief lull, and the smoke-pall is lifted,The green of the hillside no longer is seen;The dead soldiers lie as the sea-weed is drifted,The earthworks still held by the badges of green.Have they quailed? is the word. No: again they are forming—Again comes a column to death and defeat!What is it in these who shall now do the stormingThat makes every Georgian spring to his feet?"O God! what a pity!" they cry in their cover,As rifles are readied and bayonets made tight;"'Tis Meagher and his fellows!their caps have green clover;'Tis Greek to Greek now for the rest of the fight!"Twelve hundred the column, their rent flag before them,With Meagher at their head, they have dashed at the hill!Their foemen are proud of the country that bore them;But, Irish in love, they are enemies still.Out rings the fierce word, "Let them have it!" the riflesAre emptied point-blank in the hearts of the foe:It is green against green, but a principle stiflesThe Irishman's love in the Georgian's blow.The column has reeled, but it is not defeated;In front of the guns they re-form and attack;Six times they have done it, and six times retreated;Twelve hundred they came, and two hundred go back.Two hundred go back with the chivalrous story;The wild day is closedin the night's solemn shroud;A thousand lie dead, but their death was a gloryThat calls not for tears—the Green Badges are proud!Bright honor be theirs who for honor were fearless,Who charged for their flag to the grim cannon's mouth;And honor to them who were true, though not tearless,—Who bravely that day kept the cause of the South.The quarrel is done—God avert such another;The lesson it brought we should evermore heed:Who loveth the Flag is a man and a brother,No matter what birth or what race or what creed.John Boyle O'Reilly.

God send us peace, and keep red strife away;But should it come, God send us men and steel!The land is dead that dare not face the dayWhen foreign danger threats the common weal.

Defenders strong are they that homes defend;From ready arms the spoiler keeps afar.Well blest the country that has sons to lendFrom trades of peace to learn the trade of war.

Thrice blest the nation that has every sonA soldier, ready for the warning sound;Who marches homeward when the fight is done,To swing the hammer and to till the ground.

Call back that morning, with its lurid light,When through our land the awful war-bell tolled;When lips were mute, and women's faces whiteAs the pale cloud that out from Sumter rolled.

Call back that morn: an instant all were dumb,As if the shot had struck the Nation's life;Then cleared the smoke, and rolled the calling drum,And men streamed in to meet the coming strife.

They closed the ledger and they stilled the loom,The plough left rusting in the prairie farm;They saw but "Union" in the gathering gloom;The tearless women helped the men to arm;

Brigades from towns—each village sent its band:German and Irish—every race and faith;There was no question then of native land,But—love the Flag and follow it to death.

No need to tell their tale: through every ageThe splendid story shall be sung and said;But let me draw one picture from the page—For words of song embalm the hero dead.

*****

The smooth hill is bare, and the cannons are planted,Like Gorgon fates shading its terrible brow;The word has been passed that the stormers are wanted,And Burnside's battalions are mustering now.The armies stand by to behold the dread meeting;The work must be done by a desperate few;The black-mouthèd guns on the height give them greeting—From gun-mouth to plain every grass blade in view.Strong earthworks are there, and the rifles behind themAre Georgia militia—an Irish brigade—Their caps have green badges, as if to remind themOf all the brave record their country has made.

The stormers go forward—the Federals cheer them;They breast the smooth hillside—the black mouths are dumb;The riflemen lie in the works till they near them,And cover the stormers as upward they come.Was ever a death-march so grand and so solemn?At last, the dark summit with flame is enlined;The great guns belch doom on the sacrificed column,That reels from the height, leaving hundreds behind.The armies are hushed—there is no cause for cheering:The fall of brave men to brave men is a pain.Again come the stormers! and as they are nearingThe flame-sheeted rifle-lines, reel back again.And so till full noon come the Federal masses—Flung back from the height, as the cliff flings a wave;Brigade on brigade to the death-struggle passes,No wavering rank till it steps on the grave.

Then comes a brief lull, and the smoke-pall is lifted,The green of the hillside no longer is seen;The dead soldiers lie as the sea-weed is drifted,The earthworks still held by the badges of green.Have they quailed? is the word. No: again they are forming—Again comes a column to death and defeat!What is it in these who shall now do the stormingThat makes every Georgian spring to his feet?

"O God! what a pity!" they cry in their cover,As rifles are readied and bayonets made tight;"'Tis Meagher and his fellows!their caps have green clover;'Tis Greek to Greek now for the rest of the fight!"Twelve hundred the column, their rent flag before them,With Meagher at their head, they have dashed at the hill!Their foemen are proud of the country that bore them;But, Irish in love, they are enemies still.Out rings the fierce word, "Let them have it!" the riflesAre emptied point-blank in the hearts of the foe:It is green against green, but a principle stiflesThe Irishman's love in the Georgian's blow.The column has reeled, but it is not defeated;In front of the guns they re-form and attack;Six times they have done it, and six times retreated;Twelve hundred they came, and two hundred go back.Two hundred go back with the chivalrous story;The wild day is closedin the night's solemn shroud;A thousand lie dead, but their death was a gloryThat calls not for tears—the Green Badges are proud!

Bright honor be theirs who for honor were fearless,Who charged for their flag to the grim cannon's mouth;And honor to them who were true, though not tearless,—Who bravely that day kept the cause of the South.The quarrel is done—God avert such another;The lesson it brought we should evermore heed:Who loveth the Flag is a man and a brother,No matter what birth or what race or what creed.

John Boyle O'Reilly.

FREDERICKSBURG

The increasing moonlight drifts across my bed,And on the churchyard by the road, I knowIt falls as white and noiselessly as snow....'Twas such a night two weary summers fled;The stars, as now, were waning overhead.Listen! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blowWhere the swift currents of the river flowPast Fredericksburg; far off the heavens are redWith sudden conflagration: on yon height,Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their breath;A signal-rocket pierces the dense night,Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath:Hark!—the artillery massing on the right,Hark!—the black squadrons wheeling down to Death!Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

Major-General Joseph Hooker was placed in command, and the Grand Army of the Potomac, of which so much had been expected, went into winter quarters on the Rappahannock.

BY THE POTOMAC

The soft new grass is creeping o'er the gravesBy the Potomac; and the crisp ground-flowerTilts its blue cup to catch the passing shower;The pine-cone ripens, and the long moss wavesIts tangled gonfalons above our braves.Hark, what a burst of music from yon bower!—The Southern nightingale that hour by hourIn its melodious summer madness raves.Ah, with what delicate touches of her hand,With what sweet voice of bird and rivuletAnd drowsy murmur of the rustling leafWould Nature soothe us, bidding us forgetThe awful crime of this distracted landAnd all our heavy heritage of grief.Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD

Along a river-side, I know not where,I walked one night in mystery of dream;A chill creeps curdling yet beneath my hair,To think what chanced me by the pallid gleamOf a moon-wraith that waned through haunted air.Pale fireflies pulsed within the meadow-mistTheir halos, wavering thistle downs of light;The loon, that seemed to mock some goblin tryst,Laughed; and the echoes, huddling in affright,Like Odin's hounds, fled baying down the night.Then all was silent, till there smote my earA movement in the stream that checked my breath:Was it the slow plash of a wading deer?But something said, "This water is of Death!The Sisters wash a shroud,—ill thing to hear!"I, looking then, beheld the ancient ThreeKnown to the Greek's and to the Northman's creed,That sit in shadow of the mystic Tree,Still crooning, as they weave their endless brede,One song: "Time was, Time is, and Time shall be."No wrinkled crones were they, as I had deemed,But fair as yesterday, to-day, to-morrow,To mourner, lover, poet, ever seemed;Something too high for joy, too deep for sorrow,Thrilled in their tones, and from their faces gleamed."Still men and nations reap as they have strawn,"So sang they, working at their task the while;"The fatal raiment must be cleansed ere dawn:For Austria? Italy? the Sea-Queen's isle?O'er what quenched grandeur must our shroud be drawn?"Or is it for a younger, fairer corse,That gathered States like children round his knees,That tamed the waves to be his posting-horse,Feller of forests, linker of the seas,Bridge-builder, hammerer, youngest son of Thor's?"What make we, murmur'st thou? and what are we?When empires must be wound, we bring the shroud,The time-old web of the implacable Three:Is it too coarse for him, the young and proud?Earth's mightiest deigned to wear it,—why not he?""Is there no hope?" I moaned, "so strong, so fair!Our Fowler whose proud bird would brook erewhileNo rival's swoop in all our western air!Gather the ravens, then, in funeral fileFor him, life's morn yet golden in his hair?"Leave me not hopeless, ye unpitying dames!I see, half seeing. Tell me, ye who scannedThe stars, Earth's elders, still must noblest aimsBe traced upon oblivious ocean-sands?Must Hesper join the wailing ghosts of names?""When grass-blades stiffen with red battle-dew,Ye deem we choose the victor and the slain:Say, choose we them that shall be leal and trueTo the heart's longing, the high faith of brain?Yet there the victory lies, if ye but knew."Three roots bear up Dominion: Knowledge, Will,—These twain are strong, but stronger yet the third,—Obedience,—'tis the great tap-root that still,Knit round the rock of Duty, is not stirred,Though Heaven-loosed tempests spend their utmost skill."Is the doom sealed for Hesper? 'Tis not weDenounce it, but the Law before all time:The brave makes danger opportunity;The waverer, paltering with the chance sublime,Dwarfs it to peril: which shall Hesper be?"Hath he let vultures climb his eagle's seatTo make Jove's bolts purveyors of their maw?Hath he the Many's plaudits found more sweetThan Wisdom? held Opinion's wind for Law?Then let him hearken for the doomster's feet!"Rough are the steps, slow-hewn in flintiest rock,States climb to power by; slippery those with goldDown which they stumble to eternal mock:No chafferer's hand shall long the sceptre hold,Who, given a Fate to shape, would sell the block."We sing old Sagas, songs of weal and woe,Mystic because too cheaply understood;Dark sayings are not ours; men hear and know,See Evil weak, see strength alone in Good,Yet hope to stem God's fire with walls of tow."Time Was unlocks the riddle of Time Is,That offers choice of glory or of gloom;The solver makes Time Shall Be surely his.But hasten, Sisters! for even now the tombGrates its slow hinge and calls from the abyss.""But not for him," I cried, "not yet for him,Whose large horizon, westering, star by starWins from the void to where on Ocean's rimThe sunset shuts the world with golden bar,Not yet his thews shall fail, his eye grow dim!"His shall be larger manhood, saved for thoseThat walk unblenching through the trial-fires;Not suffering, but faint heart, is worst of woes,And he no base-born son of craven sires,Whose eye need blench confronted with his foes."Tears may be ours, but proud, for those who winDeath's royal purple in the foeman's lines;Peace, too, brings tears; and mid the battle-din,The wiser ear some text of God divines,For the sheathed blade may rust with darker sin."God, give us peace! not such as lulls to sleep,But sword on thigh, and brow with purpose knit!And let our Ship of State to harbor sweep,Her ports all up, her battle-lanterns lit,And her leashed thunders gathering for their leap!"So cried I with clenched hands and passionate pain,Thinking of dear ones by Potomac's side;Again the loon laughed mocking, and againThe echoes bayed far down the night and died,While waking I recalled my wandering brain.James Russell Lowell.October, 1861.

Pale fireflies pulsed within the meadow-mistTheir halos, wavering thistle downs of light;The loon, that seemed to mock some goblin tryst,Laughed; and the echoes, huddling in affright,Like Odin's hounds, fled baying down the night.

Then all was silent, till there smote my earA movement in the stream that checked my breath:Was it the slow plash of a wading deer?But something said, "This water is of Death!The Sisters wash a shroud,—ill thing to hear!"

I, looking then, beheld the ancient ThreeKnown to the Greek's and to the Northman's creed,That sit in shadow of the mystic Tree,Still crooning, as they weave their endless brede,One song: "Time was, Time is, and Time shall be."

No wrinkled crones were they, as I had deemed,But fair as yesterday, to-day, to-morrow,To mourner, lover, poet, ever seemed;Something too high for joy, too deep for sorrow,Thrilled in their tones, and from their faces gleamed.

"Still men and nations reap as they have strawn,"So sang they, working at their task the while;"The fatal raiment must be cleansed ere dawn:For Austria? Italy? the Sea-Queen's isle?O'er what quenched grandeur must our shroud be drawn?

"Or is it for a younger, fairer corse,That gathered States like children round his knees,That tamed the waves to be his posting-horse,Feller of forests, linker of the seas,Bridge-builder, hammerer, youngest son of Thor's?

"What make we, murmur'st thou? and what are we?When empires must be wound, we bring the shroud,The time-old web of the implacable Three:Is it too coarse for him, the young and proud?Earth's mightiest deigned to wear it,—why not he?"

"Is there no hope?" I moaned, "so strong, so fair!Our Fowler whose proud bird would brook erewhileNo rival's swoop in all our western air!Gather the ravens, then, in funeral fileFor him, life's morn yet golden in his hair?

"Leave me not hopeless, ye unpitying dames!I see, half seeing. Tell me, ye who scannedThe stars, Earth's elders, still must noblest aimsBe traced upon oblivious ocean-sands?Must Hesper join the wailing ghosts of names?"

"When grass-blades stiffen with red battle-dew,Ye deem we choose the victor and the slain:Say, choose we them that shall be leal and trueTo the heart's longing, the high faith of brain?Yet there the victory lies, if ye but knew.

"Three roots bear up Dominion: Knowledge, Will,—These twain are strong, but stronger yet the third,—Obedience,—'tis the great tap-root that still,Knit round the rock of Duty, is not stirred,Though Heaven-loosed tempests spend their utmost skill.

"Is the doom sealed for Hesper? 'Tis not weDenounce it, but the Law before all time:The brave makes danger opportunity;The waverer, paltering with the chance sublime,Dwarfs it to peril: which shall Hesper be?

"Hath he let vultures climb his eagle's seatTo make Jove's bolts purveyors of their maw?Hath he the Many's plaudits found more sweetThan Wisdom? held Opinion's wind for Law?Then let him hearken for the doomster's feet!

"Rough are the steps, slow-hewn in flintiest rock,States climb to power by; slippery those with goldDown which they stumble to eternal mock:No chafferer's hand shall long the sceptre hold,Who, given a Fate to shape, would sell the block.

"We sing old Sagas, songs of weal and woe,Mystic because too cheaply understood;Dark sayings are not ours; men hear and know,See Evil weak, see strength alone in Good,Yet hope to stem God's fire with walls of tow.

"Time Was unlocks the riddle of Time Is,That offers choice of glory or of gloom;The solver makes Time Shall Be surely his.But hasten, Sisters! for even now the tombGrates its slow hinge and calls from the abyss."

"But not for him," I cried, "not yet for him,Whose large horizon, westering, star by starWins from the void to where on Ocean's rimThe sunset shuts the world with golden bar,Not yet his thews shall fail, his eye grow dim!

"His shall be larger manhood, saved for thoseThat walk unblenching through the trial-fires;Not suffering, but faint heart, is worst of woes,And he no base-born son of craven sires,Whose eye need blench confronted with his foes.

"Tears may be ours, but proud, for those who winDeath's royal purple in the foeman's lines;Peace, too, brings tears; and mid the battle-din,The wiser ear some text of God divines,For the sheathed blade may rust with darker sin.

"God, give us peace! not such as lulls to sleep,But sword on thigh, and brow with purpose knit!And let our Ship of State to harbor sweep,Her ports all up, her battle-lanterns lit,And her leashed thunders gathering for their leap!"

So cried I with clenched hands and passionate pain,Thinking of dear ones by Potomac's side;Again the loon laughed mocking, and againThe echoes bayed far down the night and died,While waking I recalled my wandering brain.

James Russell Lowell.

October, 1861.

THE WAR IN THE WEST

While the Army of the Potomac in the east was imitating the manœuvres of the King of France, stirring times were enacting in the west. Missouri was torn with dissension. The state had voted against secession in February, but the governor, C. F. Jackson, was doing everything he could to throw it into the Confederacy. General Nathaniel Lyon raised a force of loyalists, and a number of skirmishes ensued.

THE LITTLE DRUMMER[9]

'Tis of a little drummer,The story I shall tell;Of how he marched to battle,Of all that there befell,Out in the west with Lyon(For once the name was true!)For whom the little drummer beatHisrat-tat-too.Our army rose at midnight,Ten thousand men as one,Each slinging off his knapsackAnd snatching up his gun."Forward!" and off they started,As all good soldiers do,When the little drummer beats for themTherat-tat-too.Across a rolling country,Where the mist began to rise;Past many a blackened farmhouse,Till the sun was in the skies;Then we met the rebel pickets,Who skirmished and withdrew,While the little drummer beat, and beatTherat-tat-too.Along the wooded hollowsThe line of battle ran,Our centre poured a volley,And the fight at once began;For the rebels answered shouting,And a shower of bullets flew;But still the little drummer beatHisrat-tat-too.He stood among his comrades,As they quickly formed the line,And when they raised their musketsHe watched the barrels shine.When the volley rang, he started,For war to him was new;But still the little drummer beatHisrat-tat-too.It was a sight to see them,That early autumn day,Our soldiers in their blue coats,And the rebel ranks in gray;The smoke that rolled between them,The balls that whistled through,And the little drummer as he beatHisrat-tat-too!His comrades dropped around him,—By fives and tens they fell,Some pierced by minie bullets,Some torn by shot and shell;They played against our cannon,And a caisson's splinters flew;But still the little drummer beatHisrat-tat-too!The right, the left, the centre,—The fight was everywhere;They pushed us here,—we wavered,—We drove and broke them there.The graybacks fixed their bayonets,And charged the coats of blue,But still the little drummer beatHisrat-tat-too!"Where is our little drummer?"His nearest comrades say,When the dreadful fight is over,And the smoke has cleared away.As the rebel corps was scatteringHe urged them to pursue,So furiously he beat, and beatTherat-tat-too!He stood no more among them,For a bullet, as it sped,Had glanced and struck his ankle,And stretched him with the dead!He crawled behind a cannon,And pale and paler grew;But still the little drummer beatHisrat-tat-too!They bore him to the surgeon,A busy man was he:"A drummer boy—what ails him?"His comrades answered, "See!"As they took him from the stretcherA heavy breath he drew,And his little fingers strove to beatTherat-tat-too!The ball had spent its fury:"A scratch!" the surgeon said,As he wound the snowy bandageWhich the lint was staining red."I must leave you now, old fellow!""Oh, take me back with you,For I know the men are missing meAnd therat-tat-too!"Upon his comrade's shoulderThey lifted him so grand,With his dusty drum before him,And his drumsticks in his hand!To the fiery front of battle,That nearer, nearer drew,—And evermore he beat, and beatHisrat-tat-too!The wounded as he passed themLooked up and gave a cheer;And one in dying blessed him,Between a smile and tear.And the graybacks—they are flyingBefore the coats of blue,For whom the little drummer beatsHisrat-tat-too.When the west was red with sunset,The last pursuit was o'er;Brave Lyon rode the foremost,And looked the name he bore.And before him on his saddle,As a weary child would do,Sat the little drummer, fast asleep,With hisrat-tat-too.Richard Henry Stoddard.

Our army rose at midnight,Ten thousand men as one,Each slinging off his knapsackAnd snatching up his gun."Forward!" and off they started,As all good soldiers do,When the little drummer beats for themTherat-tat-too.

Across a rolling country,Where the mist began to rise;Past many a blackened farmhouse,Till the sun was in the skies;Then we met the rebel pickets,Who skirmished and withdrew,While the little drummer beat, and beatTherat-tat-too.

Along the wooded hollowsThe line of battle ran,Our centre poured a volley,And the fight at once began;For the rebels answered shouting,And a shower of bullets flew;But still the little drummer beatHisrat-tat-too.

He stood among his comrades,As they quickly formed the line,And when they raised their musketsHe watched the barrels shine.When the volley rang, he started,For war to him was new;But still the little drummer beatHisrat-tat-too.

It was a sight to see them,That early autumn day,Our soldiers in their blue coats,And the rebel ranks in gray;The smoke that rolled between them,The balls that whistled through,And the little drummer as he beatHisrat-tat-too!

His comrades dropped around him,—By fives and tens they fell,Some pierced by minie bullets,Some torn by shot and shell;They played against our cannon,And a caisson's splinters flew;But still the little drummer beatHisrat-tat-too!

The right, the left, the centre,—The fight was everywhere;They pushed us here,—we wavered,—We drove and broke them there.The graybacks fixed their bayonets,And charged the coats of blue,But still the little drummer beatHisrat-tat-too!

"Where is our little drummer?"His nearest comrades say,When the dreadful fight is over,And the smoke has cleared away.As the rebel corps was scatteringHe urged them to pursue,So furiously he beat, and beatTherat-tat-too!

He stood no more among them,For a bullet, as it sped,Had glanced and struck his ankle,And stretched him with the dead!He crawled behind a cannon,And pale and paler grew;But still the little drummer beatHisrat-tat-too!

They bore him to the surgeon,A busy man was he:"A drummer boy—what ails him?"His comrades answered, "See!"As they took him from the stretcherA heavy breath he drew,And his little fingers strove to beatTherat-tat-too!

The ball had spent its fury:"A scratch!" the surgeon said,As he wound the snowy bandageWhich the lint was staining red."I must leave you now, old fellow!""Oh, take me back with you,For I know the men are missing meAnd therat-tat-too!"

Upon his comrade's shoulderThey lifted him so grand,With his dusty drum before him,And his drumsticks in his hand!To the fiery front of battle,That nearer, nearer drew,—And evermore he beat, and beatHisrat-tat-too!

The wounded as he passed themLooked up and gave a cheer;And one in dying blessed him,Between a smile and tear.And the graybacks—they are flyingBefore the coats of blue,For whom the little drummer beatsHisrat-tat-too.

When the west was red with sunset,The last pursuit was o'er;Brave Lyon rode the foremost,And looked the name he bore.And before him on his saddle,As a weary child would do,Sat the little drummer, fast asleep,With hisrat-tat-too.

Richard Henry Stoddard.

Hostilities culminated on August 10, 1861, in a pitched battle at Wilson's Creek, in which, through bad management, the Union forces were defeated and Lyon himself was killed.

THE DEATH OF LYON

[August 10, 1861]

Sing, bird, on green Missouri's plain,The saddest song of sorrow;Drop tears, O clouds, in gentlest rainYe from the winds can borrow;Breathe out, ye winds, your softest sigh,Weep, flowers, in dewy splendor,For him who knew well how to die,But never to surrender.Up rose serene the August sunUpon that day of glory;Up curled from musket and from gunThe war-cloud, gray and hoary;It gathered like a funeral pall,Now broken, and now blended,Where rang the bugle's angry call,And rank with rank contended.Four thousand men, as brave and trueAs e'er went forth in daring,Upon the foe that morning threwThe strength of their despairing.They feared not death—men bless the fieldThat patriot soldiers die on;Fair Freedom's cause was sword and shield,And at their head was Lyon.Their leader's troubled soul looked forthFrom eyes of troubled brightness;Sad soul! the burden of the NorthHad pressed out all its lightness.He gazed upon the unequal fight,His ranks all rent and gory,And felt the shadows close like nightRound his career of glory."General, come lead us!" loud the cryFrom a brave band was ringing—"Lead us, and we will stop, or die,That battery's awful singing!"He spurred to where his heroes stood—Twice wounded, no one knowing—The fire of battle in his bloodAnd on his forehead glowing.Oh! cursed for aye that traitor's hand,And cursed that aim so deadly,Which smote the bravest of the land,And dyed his bosom redly.Serene he lay, while past him pressedThe battle's furious billow,As calmly as a babe may restUpon its mother's pillow.So Lyon died; and well may flowersHis place of burial cover,For never had this land of oursA more devoted lover.Living, his country was his bride;His life he gave her, dying;Life, fortune, love, he nought deniedTo her, and to her sighing.Rest, patriot, in thy hillside grave,Beside her form who bore thee!Long may the land thou diedst to saveHer bannered stars wave o'er thee!Upon her history's brightest page,And on fame's glowing portal,She'll write thy grand, heroic age,And grave thy name immortal.Henry Peterson.

Up rose serene the August sunUpon that day of glory;Up curled from musket and from gunThe war-cloud, gray and hoary;It gathered like a funeral pall,Now broken, and now blended,Where rang the bugle's angry call,And rank with rank contended.

Four thousand men, as brave and trueAs e'er went forth in daring,Upon the foe that morning threwThe strength of their despairing.They feared not death—men bless the fieldThat patriot soldiers die on;Fair Freedom's cause was sword and shield,And at their head was Lyon.

Their leader's troubled soul looked forthFrom eyes of troubled brightness;Sad soul! the burden of the NorthHad pressed out all its lightness.He gazed upon the unequal fight,His ranks all rent and gory,And felt the shadows close like nightRound his career of glory.

"General, come lead us!" loud the cryFrom a brave band was ringing—"Lead us, and we will stop, or die,That battery's awful singing!"He spurred to where his heroes stood—Twice wounded, no one knowing—The fire of battle in his bloodAnd on his forehead glowing.

Oh! cursed for aye that traitor's hand,And cursed that aim so deadly,Which smote the bravest of the land,And dyed his bosom redly.Serene he lay, while past him pressedThe battle's furious billow,As calmly as a babe may restUpon its mother's pillow.

So Lyon died; and well may flowersHis place of burial cover,For never had this land of oursA more devoted lover.Living, his country was his bride;His life he gave her, dying;Life, fortune, love, he nought deniedTo her, and to her sighing.

Rest, patriot, in thy hillside grave,Beside her form who bore thee!Long may the land thou diedst to saveHer bannered stars wave o'er thee!Upon her history's brightest page,And on fame's glowing portal,She'll write thy grand, heroic age,And grave thy name immortal.

Henry Peterson.

John C. Frémont had been placed in command of the department and advanced against the Confederates at the head of a strong force. On October 23, 1861, he detached a squadron of cavalry under Major Charles Zagonyi to reconnoitre the Confederate position at Springfield. Zagonyi found the Confederates two thousand strong, but charged them at the head of his hundred and fifty men, routed them, cut them to pieces, and drove them from the city. The charge was one of the most remarkable in history. The Confederates finally withdrew from the state.

ZAGONYI

[October 25, 1861]

Bold Captain of the Body-Guard,I'll troll a stave to thee!My voice is somewhat harsh and hard,And rough my minstrelsy.I've cheered until my throat is soreFor how Dupont at Beaufort bore;Yet here's a cheer for thee!I hear thy jingling spurs and reins,Thy sabre at thy knee;The blood runs lighter through my veins,As I before me seeThy hundred men with thrusts and blowsRide down a thousand stubborn foes,The foremost led by thee.With pistol snap and rifle crack—Meresalvosfired to honor thee—Ye plunge, and stamp, and shoot, and hackThe way your swords make free;Then back again,—the path is wideThis time,—ye gods! it was a ride,The ride they took with thee!No guardsman of the whole commandHalts, quails, or turns to flee;With bloody spur and steady handThey gallop where they seeThy daring plume stream out aheadO'er flying, wounded, dying, dead;They can but follow thee.So, Captain of the Body-Guard,I pledge a health to thee!I hope to see thy shoulders starred,My Paladin; and weShall laugh at fortune in the frayWhene'er you lead your well-known wayTo death or victory!George Henry Boker.

I hear thy jingling spurs and reins,Thy sabre at thy knee;The blood runs lighter through my veins,As I before me seeThy hundred men with thrusts and blowsRide down a thousand stubborn foes,The foremost led by thee.

With pistol snap and rifle crack—Meresalvosfired to honor thee—Ye plunge, and stamp, and shoot, and hackThe way your swords make free;Then back again,—the path is wideThis time,—ye gods! it was a ride,The ride they took with thee!

No guardsman of the whole commandHalts, quails, or turns to flee;With bloody spur and steady handThey gallop where they seeThy daring plume stream out aheadO'er flying, wounded, dying, dead;They can but follow thee.

So, Captain of the Body-Guard,I pledge a health to thee!I hope to see thy shoulders starred,My Paladin; and weShall laugh at fortune in the frayWhene'er you lead your well-known wayTo death or victory!

George Henry Boker.

Kentucky was another state divided against itself. For a time, it endeavored to preserve neutrality, but finally chose the Union side. On January 19, 1862, the battle of Somerset was fought, resulting in a Union victory.

BATTLE OF SOMERSET

[January 19, 1862]

I gazed, and lo! Afar and near,With hastening speed, now there, now here,The horseman rode with glittering spear—'Twas awful to behold!Ten thousand men, in dread array—On every hill and mound they lay—A dreadful sight it was that dayTo see the front they formed.The polished sabres, waving high,Flashed brightly in the morning sky;While, beaming on the dazzled eye,The glittering bayonets shone.All, all was hushed among the trees,Save now and then a gentle breeze,Which stirr'd the brown and serried leavesThat in the forest lay.But what is that which greets mine eye?Is it Columbia's sons I spy?Hark! hark! I hear their battle cry—Their shouts of victory!Still hotter does the conflict grow;While dealing death in every blow,McCook charged on the routed foeHis daring little band.Rest, patriots, rest; the conflict's o'er,Your erring brethren punished sore;Oh, would they'd fight their friends no more,And cease this bloody strife.Cornelius C. Cullen.

I gazed, and lo! Afar and near,With hastening speed, now there, now here,The horseman rode with glittering spear—'Twas awful to behold!

Ten thousand men, in dread array—On every hill and mound they lay—A dreadful sight it was that dayTo see the front they formed.

The polished sabres, waving high,Flashed brightly in the morning sky;While, beaming on the dazzled eye,The glittering bayonets shone.

All, all was hushed among the trees,Save now and then a gentle breeze,Which stirr'd the brown and serried leavesThat in the forest lay.

But what is that which greets mine eye?Is it Columbia's sons I spy?Hark! hark! I hear their battle cry—Their shouts of victory!

Still hotter does the conflict grow;While dealing death in every blow,McCook charged on the routed foeHis daring little band.

Rest, patriots, rest; the conflict's o'er,Your erring brethren punished sore;Oh, would they'd fight their friends no more,And cease this bloody strife.

Cornelius C. Cullen.

The Confederate loss was very heavy, and in one respect irreparable, for General Felix K. Zollicoffer was killed while reconnoitring the Union position.

ZOLLICOFFER

[January 19, 1862]

First in the fight, and first in the armsOf the white-winged angels of glory,With the heart of the South at the feet of God,And his wounds to tell the story;For the blood that flowed from his hero heart,On the spot where he nobly perished,Was drunk by the earth as a sacramentIn the holy cause he cherished!In Heaven a home with the brave and blessed,And for his soul's sustainingThe apocalyptic eyes of Christ—And nothing on earth remaining,But a handful of dust in the land of his choice,A name in song and story—And fame to shout with immortal voiceDead on the field of Glory!Henry Lynden Flash.

First in the fight, and first in the armsOf the white-winged angels of glory,With the heart of the South at the feet of God,And his wounds to tell the story;

For the blood that flowed from his hero heart,On the spot where he nobly perished,Was drunk by the earth as a sacramentIn the holy cause he cherished!

In Heaven a home with the brave and blessed,And for his soul's sustainingThe apocalyptic eyes of Christ—And nothing on earth remaining,

But a handful of dust in the land of his choice,A name in song and story—And fame to shout with immortal voiceDead on the field of Glory!

Henry Lynden Flash.

Near the southern line of Kentucky, the Confederates held two strong forts, Henry and Donelson, and on February 2, 1862, a Union force under General Ulysses S. Grant moved forward to attack them. The army was supported by a fleet of gunboats, and Fort Henry surrendered to thefleet before the land forces came up. The gunboat Essex led the attack and suffered severely, among her dead being Lieutenant S. B. Brittan, Jr., a boy of not quite seventeen.

BOY BRITTAN

[February 6, 1862]

IBoy Brittan—only a lad—a fair-haired boy—sixteen,In his uniform,Into the storm—into the roaring jaws of grim Fort Henry—Boldly bears the Federal flotilla—Into the battle storm!IIBoy Brittan is master's mate aboard of the Essex—There he stands, buoyant and eager-eyed,By the brave captain's side;Ready to do and dare.Aye, aye, sir!always ready—In his country's uniform.Boom! Boom!and now the flag-boat sweeps, and now the Essex,Into the battle storm!IIIBoom! Boom!till river and fort and field are overcloudedBy battle's breath; then from the fort a gleamAnd a crashing gun, and the Essex is wrapt and shroudedIn a scalding cloud of steam!IVBut victory! victory!Unto God all praise be ever rendered,Unto God all praise and glory be!See, Boy Brittan! see, boy, see!They strike! Hurrah! the fort has just surrendered!Shout! Shout! my boy, my warrior boy!And wave your cap and clap your hands for joy!Cheer answer cheer and bear the cheer about—Hurrah! Hurrah! for the fiery fort is ours;And "Victory!" "Victory!" "Victory!"Is the shout.Shout—for the fiery fort, and the field, and the day are ours—The day is ours—thanks to the brave endeavorOf heroes, boy, like thee!The day is ours—the day is ours!Glory and deathless love to all who shared with thee,And bravely endured and dared with thee—The day is ours—the day is ours—Forever!Glory and Love for one and all; but—but—for thee—Home! Home! a happy "Welcome—welcome home" for thee!And kisses of love for thee—And a mother's happy, happy tears, and a virgin's bridal wreath of flowers—For thee!VVictory! Victory!...But suddenly wrecked and wrapt in seething steam, the EssexSlowly drifted out of the battle's storm;Slowly, slowly down—laden with the dead and the dying;And there, at the captain's feet, among the dead and the dying,The shot-marred form of a beautiful boy is lying—There in his uniform!VILaurels and tears for thee, boy,Laurels and tears for thee!Laurels of light, moist with the precious dewOf the inmost heart of the nation's loving heart,And blest by the balmy breath of the beautiful and the true;Moist—moist with the luminous breath of the singing spheresAnd the nation's starry tears!And tremble-touched by the pulse-like gush and startOf the universal music of the heart,And all deep sympathy.Laurels and tears for thee, boy,Laurels and tears for thee—Laurels of light and tears of love forever more—For thee!VIIAnd laurels of light, and tears of truth,And the mantle of immortality;And the flowers of love and of immortal youth,And the tender heart-tokens of all true ruth—And the everlasting victory!And the breath and bliss of Liberty;And the loving kiss of Liberty;And the welcoming light of heavenly eyes,And the over-calm of God's canopy;And the infinite love-span of the skiesThat cover the valleys of Paradise—For all of the brave who rest with thee;And for one and all who died with thee,And now sleep side by side with thee;And for every one who lives and dies,On the solid land or the heaving sea,Dear warrior-boy—like thee.VIIIO the victory—the victoryBelongs to thee!God ever keeps the brightest crown for such as thou—He gives it now to thee!O young and brave, and early and thrice blest—Thrice, thrice, thrice blest!Thy country turns once more to kiss thy youthful brow,And takes thee—gently—gently to her breast;And whispers lovingly, "God bless thee—bless thee now—My darling, thou shalt rest!"Forceythe Willson.

IBoy Brittan—only a lad—a fair-haired boy—sixteen,In his uniform,Into the storm—into the roaring jaws of grim Fort Henry—Boldly bears the Federal flotilla—Into the battle storm!

IIBoy Brittan is master's mate aboard of the Essex—There he stands, buoyant and eager-eyed,By the brave captain's side;Ready to do and dare.Aye, aye, sir!always ready—In his country's uniform.Boom! Boom!and now the flag-boat sweeps, and now the Essex,Into the battle storm!

IIIBoom! Boom!till river and fort and field are overcloudedBy battle's breath; then from the fort a gleamAnd a crashing gun, and the Essex is wrapt and shroudedIn a scalding cloud of steam!

IVBut victory! victory!Unto God all praise be ever rendered,Unto God all praise and glory be!See, Boy Brittan! see, boy, see!They strike! Hurrah! the fort has just surrendered!Shout! Shout! my boy, my warrior boy!And wave your cap and clap your hands for joy!Cheer answer cheer and bear the cheer about—Hurrah! Hurrah! for the fiery fort is ours;And "Victory!" "Victory!" "Victory!"Is the shout.Shout—for the fiery fort, and the field, and the day are ours—The day is ours—thanks to the brave endeavorOf heroes, boy, like thee!The day is ours—the day is ours!Glory and deathless love to all who shared with thee,And bravely endured and dared with thee—The day is ours—the day is ours—Forever!Glory and Love for one and all; but—but—for thee—Home! Home! a happy "Welcome—welcome home" for thee!And kisses of love for thee—And a mother's happy, happy tears, and a virgin's bridal wreath of flowers—For thee!

VVictory! Victory!...But suddenly wrecked and wrapt in seething steam, the EssexSlowly drifted out of the battle's storm;Slowly, slowly down—laden with the dead and the dying;And there, at the captain's feet, among the dead and the dying,The shot-marred form of a beautiful boy is lying—There in his uniform!

VILaurels and tears for thee, boy,Laurels and tears for thee!Laurels of light, moist with the precious dewOf the inmost heart of the nation's loving heart,And blest by the balmy breath of the beautiful and the true;Moist—moist with the luminous breath of the singing spheresAnd the nation's starry tears!And tremble-touched by the pulse-like gush and startOf the universal music of the heart,And all deep sympathy.Laurels and tears for thee, boy,Laurels and tears for thee—Laurels of light and tears of love forever more—For thee!

VIIAnd laurels of light, and tears of truth,And the mantle of immortality;And the flowers of love and of immortal youth,And the tender heart-tokens of all true ruth—And the everlasting victory!And the breath and bliss of Liberty;And the loving kiss of Liberty;And the welcoming light of heavenly eyes,And the over-calm of God's canopy;And the infinite love-span of the skiesThat cover the valleys of Paradise—For all of the brave who rest with thee;And for one and all who died with thee,And now sleep side by side with thee;And for every one who lives and dies,On the solid land or the heaving sea,Dear warrior-boy—like thee.

VIIIO the victory—the victoryBelongs to thee!God ever keeps the brightest crown for such as thou—He gives it now to thee!O young and brave, and early and thrice blest—Thrice, thrice, thrice blest!Thy country turns once more to kiss thy youthful brow,And takes thee—gently—gently to her breast;And whispers lovingly, "God bless thee—bless thee now—My darling, thou shalt rest!"

Forceythe Willson.

The fall of Fort Donelson, soon afterwards, opened the way to the south and it was decided to advance against Corinth, Miss., with Pittsburg Landing as the base of operations. By the first of April, 1862, five divisions had been concentrated there, but the Confederates had also massed a great army near by, and on the morning of Sunday, April 6, moved forward to the attack, took their opponents by surprise, and drove them back to the river. The Confederate leader, Albert Sidney Johnston, was killed during the battle.

ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON

[April 6, 1862]

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