CHAPTER X

By Chickamauga's crooked stream the martial trumpets blew;The North and South stood face to face, with War's dread work to do.O lion-strong, unselfish, brave, twin athletes battle-wise,Brothers yet enemies, the fire of conflict in their eyes,All banner-led and bugle-stirred, they set them to the fight,Hearing the god of slaughter laugh from mountain height to height.The ruddy, fair-haired, giant North breathed loud and strove amain;The swarthy shoulders of the South did heave them to the strain;An earthquake shuddered underfoot, a cloud rolled overhead:And serpent-tongues of flame cut through and lapped and twinkled red,Where back and forth a bullet-stream went singing like a breeze,What time the snarling cannon-balls to splinters tore the trees."Make way, make way!" a voice boomed out, "I'm marching to the sea!"The answer was a rebel yell and Bragg's artillery.Where Negley struck, the cohorts gray like storm-tossed clouds were rent;Where Buckner charged, a cyclone fell, the blue to tatters went;The noble Brannan cheered his men, Pat Cleburne answered back,And Lytle stormed, and life was naught in Walthall's bloody track.Old Taylor's Ridge rocked to its base, and Pigeon Mountain shook;And Helm went down, and Lytle died, and broken was McCook.Van Cleve moved like a hurricane, a tempest blew with Hood,Awful the sweep of Breckenridge across the flaming wood.Never before did battle-roar such chords of thunder make,Never again shall tides of men over such barriers break."Stand fast, stand fast!" cried Rosecrans; and Thomas said, "I will!"And, crash on crash, his batteries dashed their broadsides down the hill.Brave Longstreet's splendid rush tore through whatever barred its track,Till the Rock of Chickamauga hurled the roaring columns back,And gave the tide of victory a red tinge of defeat,Adding a noble dignity to that hard word, retreat.Two days they fought, and evermore those days shall stand apart,Keynotes of epic chivalry within the nation's heart.Come, come, and set the carven rocks to mark this glorious spot;Here let the deeds of heroes live, their hatreds be forgot.Build, build, but never monument of stone shall last as longAs one old soldier's ballad borne on breath of battle-song.Maurice Thompson.

The ruddy, fair-haired, giant North breathed loud and strove amain;The swarthy shoulders of the South did heave them to the strain;An earthquake shuddered underfoot, a cloud rolled overhead:And serpent-tongues of flame cut through and lapped and twinkled red,Where back and forth a bullet-stream went singing like a breeze,What time the snarling cannon-balls to splinters tore the trees.

"Make way, make way!" a voice boomed out, "I'm marching to the sea!"The answer was a rebel yell and Bragg's artillery.Where Negley struck, the cohorts gray like storm-tossed clouds were rent;Where Buckner charged, a cyclone fell, the blue to tatters went;The noble Brannan cheered his men, Pat Cleburne answered back,And Lytle stormed, and life was naught in Walthall's bloody track.

Old Taylor's Ridge rocked to its base, and Pigeon Mountain shook;And Helm went down, and Lytle died, and broken was McCook.Van Cleve moved like a hurricane, a tempest blew with Hood,Awful the sweep of Breckenridge across the flaming wood.Never before did battle-roar such chords of thunder make,Never again shall tides of men over such barriers break.

"Stand fast, stand fast!" cried Rosecrans; and Thomas said, "I will!"And, crash on crash, his batteries dashed their broadsides down the hill.Brave Longstreet's splendid rush tore through whatever barred its track,Till the Rock of Chickamauga hurled the roaring columns back,And gave the tide of victory a red tinge of defeat,Adding a noble dignity to that hard word, retreat.

Two days they fought, and evermore those days shall stand apart,Keynotes of epic chivalry within the nation's heart.Come, come, and set the carven rocks to mark this glorious spot;Here let the deeds of heroes live, their hatreds be forgot.Build, build, but never monument of stone shall last as longAs one old soldier's ballad borne on breath of battle-song.

Maurice Thompson.

THOMAS AT CHICKAMAUGA

[September 19, 20, 1863]

It was that fierce contested field when Chickamauga layBeneath the wild tornado that swept her pride away;Her dimpling dales and circling hills dyed crimson with the floodThat had its sources in the springs that throb with human blood."Go say to General Hooker to reinforce his right!"Said Thomas to his aide-de-camp, when wildly went the fight;In front the battle thundered, it roared both right and left,But like a rock "Pap" Thomas stood upon the crested cleft."Where will I find you, General, when I return?" The aideLeaned on his bridle-rein to wait the answer Thomas made;The old chief like a lion turned, his pale lips set and sere,And shook his mane, and stamped his foot, and fiercely answered, "Here!"The floodtide of fraternal strife rolled upward to his feet,And like the breakers on the shore the thunderous clamors beat;The sad earth rocked and reeled with woe, the woodland shrieked in pain,And hill and vale were groaning with the burden of the slain.Who does not mind that sturdy form, that steady heart and hand,That calm repose and gallant mien, that courage high and grand?—O God, who givest nations men to meet their lofty needs,Vouchsafe another Thomas when our country prostrate bleeds!They fought with all the fortitude of earnest men and true—The men who wore the rebel gray, the men who wore the blue;And those, they fought most valiantly for petty state and clan,And these, for truer Union and the brotherhood of man.They come, those hurling legions, with banners crimson-splashed,Against our stubborn columns their rushing ranks are dashed,Till 'neath the blistering iron hail the shy and frightened deerGo scurrying from their forest haunts to plunge in wilder fear.Beyond, our lines are broken; and now in frenzied routThe flower of the Cumberland has swiftly faced about;And horse and foot and color-guard are reeling, rear and van,And in the awful panic man forgets that he is man.Now Bragg, with pride exultant above our broken wings,The might of all his army against "Pap" Thomas brings;They're massing to the right of him, they're massing to the left,Ah, God be with our hero, who holds the crested cleft!Blow, blow, ye echoing bugles! give answer, screaming shell!Go, belch your murderous fury, ye batteries of hell!Ring out, O impious musket! spin on, O shattering shot,—Our smoke-encircled hero, he hears but heeds ye not!Now steady, men! now steady! make one more valiant stand,For gallant Steedman's coming, his forces well in hand!Close up your shattered columns, take steady aim and true,The chief who loves you as his life will live or die with you!By solid columns, on they come; by columns they are hurled,As down the eddying rapids the storm-swept booms are whirled;And when the ammunition fails—O moment drear and dread—The heroes load their blackened guns from rounds of soldiers dead.God never set His signet on the hearts of braver men,Or fixed the goal of victory on higher heights than then;With bayonets and muskets clubbed, they close the rush and roar;Their stepping-stones to glory are their comrades gone before.O vanished majesty of days not all forgotten yet,We consecrate unto thy praise one hour of deep regret;One hour to them whose days were years of glory that shall floodThe Nation's sombre night of tears, of carnage, and of blood!O vanished majesty of days, when men were gauged by worth,Set crowned and dowered in the way to judge the sons of earth;When all the little great fell down before the great unknown,And priest put off the hampering gown and coward donned his own!O vanished majesty of days that saw the sun shine onThe deeds that wake sublimer praise than Ghent or Marathon;When patriots in homespun rose—where one was called for, ten—And heroes sprang full-armored from the humblest walks of men!O vanished majesty of days! Rise, type and mould to-day.And teach our sons to follow on where duty leads the way;That whatsoever trial comes, defying doubt and fear,They in the thickest fight shall stand and proudly answer, "Here!"Kate Brownlee Sherwood.

"Go say to General Hooker to reinforce his right!"Said Thomas to his aide-de-camp, when wildly went the fight;In front the battle thundered, it roared both right and left,But like a rock "Pap" Thomas stood upon the crested cleft.

"Where will I find you, General, when I return?" The aideLeaned on his bridle-rein to wait the answer Thomas made;The old chief like a lion turned, his pale lips set and sere,And shook his mane, and stamped his foot, and fiercely answered, "Here!"

The floodtide of fraternal strife rolled upward to his feet,And like the breakers on the shore the thunderous clamors beat;The sad earth rocked and reeled with woe, the woodland shrieked in pain,And hill and vale were groaning with the burden of the slain.

Who does not mind that sturdy form, that steady heart and hand,That calm repose and gallant mien, that courage high and grand?—O God, who givest nations men to meet their lofty needs,Vouchsafe another Thomas when our country prostrate bleeds!

They fought with all the fortitude of earnest men and true—The men who wore the rebel gray, the men who wore the blue;And those, they fought most valiantly for petty state and clan,And these, for truer Union and the brotherhood of man.

They come, those hurling legions, with banners crimson-splashed,Against our stubborn columns their rushing ranks are dashed,Till 'neath the blistering iron hail the shy and frightened deerGo scurrying from their forest haunts to plunge in wilder fear.

Beyond, our lines are broken; and now in frenzied routThe flower of the Cumberland has swiftly faced about;And horse and foot and color-guard are reeling, rear and van,And in the awful panic man forgets that he is man.

Now Bragg, with pride exultant above our broken wings,The might of all his army against "Pap" Thomas brings;They're massing to the right of him, they're massing to the left,Ah, God be with our hero, who holds the crested cleft!

Blow, blow, ye echoing bugles! give answer, screaming shell!Go, belch your murderous fury, ye batteries of hell!Ring out, O impious musket! spin on, O shattering shot,—Our smoke-encircled hero, he hears but heeds ye not!

Now steady, men! now steady! make one more valiant stand,For gallant Steedman's coming, his forces well in hand!Close up your shattered columns, take steady aim and true,The chief who loves you as his life will live or die with you!

By solid columns, on they come; by columns they are hurled,As down the eddying rapids the storm-swept booms are whirled;And when the ammunition fails—O moment drear and dread—The heroes load their blackened guns from rounds of soldiers dead.

God never set His signet on the hearts of braver men,Or fixed the goal of victory on higher heights than then;With bayonets and muskets clubbed, they close the rush and roar;Their stepping-stones to glory are their comrades gone before.

O vanished majesty of days not all forgotten yet,We consecrate unto thy praise one hour of deep regret;One hour to them whose days were years of glory that shall floodThe Nation's sombre night of tears, of carnage, and of blood!

O vanished majesty of days, when men were gauged by worth,Set crowned and dowered in the way to judge the sons of earth;When all the little great fell down before the great unknown,And priest put off the hampering gown and coward donned his own!

O vanished majesty of days that saw the sun shine onThe deeds that wake sublimer praise than Ghent or Marathon;When patriots in homespun rose—where one was called for, ten—And heroes sprang full-armored from the humblest walks of men!

O vanished majesty of days! Rise, type and mould to-day.And teach our sons to follow on where duty leads the way;That whatsoever trial comes, defying doubt and fear,They in the thickest fight shall stand and proudly answer, "Here!"

Kate Brownlee Sherwood.

Rosecrans could not reinforce Thomas, and at four o'clock General James A. Garfield was intrusted with the perilous task of taking him an order to withdraw. Garfield got to Thomas safely and the retreat began at sundown. The Confederates attempted no pursuit.

GARFIELD'S RIDE AT CHICKAMAUGA

[September 20, 1863]

Again the summer-fevered skies,The breath of autumn calms;Again the golden moons ariseOn harvest-happy farms.The locusts pipe, the crickets singAmong the falling leaves,And wandering breezes sigh, and bringThe harp-notes of the sheaves.Peace smiles upon the hills and dells;Peace smiles upon the seas;And drop the notes of happy bellsUpon the fruited trees.The broad Missouri stretches farHer commerce-gathering arms,And multiply on ArkansasThe grain-encumbered farms.Old Chattanooga, crowned with green,Sleeps 'neath her walls in peace;The Argo has returned again,And brings the Golden Fleece.O nation! free from sea to sea,In union blessed forever,Fair be their fame who fought for theeBy Chickamauga River.The autumn winds were piping low,Beneath the vine-clad eaves;We heard the hollow bugle blowAmong the ripened sheaves.And fast the mustering squadrons passedThrough mountain portals wide,And swift the blue brigades were massedBy Chickamauga's tide.It was the Sabbath; and in aweWe heard the dark hills shake,And o'er the mountain turrets sawThe smoke of battle break.And 'neath the war-cloud, gray and grand,The hills o'erhanging low,The Army of the Cumberland,Unequal, met the foe!Again, O fair September night!Beneath the moon and stars,I see, through memories dark and bright,The altar-fires of Mars.The morning breaks with screaming gunsFrom batteries dark and dire.And where the Chickamauga runsRed runs the muskets' fire.I see bold Longstreet's darkening hostSweep through our lines of flame,And hear again, "The right is lost!"Swart Rosecrans exclaim."But not the left!" young Garfield cries;"From that we must not sever,While Thomas holds the field that liesOn Chickamauga River!"Oh! on that day of clouded gold,How, half of hope bereft,The cannoneers, like Titans, rolledTheir thunders on the left!I see the battle-clouds again,With glowing autumn splendors blending:It seemed as if the gods with menWere on Olympian heights contending.Through tongues of flame, through meadows brown,Dry valley roads concealed,Ohio's hero dashes downUpon the rebel field.And swift, on reeling charger borne,He threads the wooded plain,By twice a hundred cannon mown,And reddened with the slain.But past the swathes of carnage dire,The Union guns he hears,And gains the left, begirt with fire,And thus the heroes cheers—"While stands the left, yon flag o'erhead,Shall Chattanooga stand!""Let the Napoleons rain their lead!"Was Thomas's command.Back swept the gray brigades of Bragg;The air with victory rung;And Wurzel's "Rally round the flag!"'Mid Union cheers was sung.The flag on Chattanooga's heightIn twilight's crimson waved,And all the clustered stars of whiteWere to the Union saved.O chief of staff! the nation's fateThat red field crossed with thee,The triumph of the camp and state,The hope of liberty!O nation! free from sea to sea,With union blessed forever,Not vainly heroes fought for theeBy Chickamauga River.In dreams I stand beside the tideWhere those old heroes fell:Above the valleys long and wideSweet rings the Sabbath bell.I hear no more the bugle blow,As on that fateful day!I hear the ringdove fluting low,Where shaded waters stray.On Mission Ridge the sunlight streamsAbove the fields of fall,And Chattanooga calmly dreamsBeneath her mountain-wall.Old Lookout Mountain towers on high,As in heroic days,When 'neath the battle in the skyWere seen its summits blaze.'T was ours to lay no garlands fairUpon the graves "unknown":Kind Nature sets her gentians there,And fall the sear leaves lone.Those heroes' graves no shaft of MarsMay mark with beauty ever;But floats the flag of forty starsBy Chickamauga River.Hezekiah Butterworth.

Peace smiles upon the hills and dells;Peace smiles upon the seas;And drop the notes of happy bellsUpon the fruited trees.The broad Missouri stretches farHer commerce-gathering arms,And multiply on ArkansasThe grain-encumbered farms.

Old Chattanooga, crowned with green,Sleeps 'neath her walls in peace;The Argo has returned again,And brings the Golden Fleece.O nation! free from sea to sea,In union blessed forever,Fair be their fame who fought for theeBy Chickamauga River.

The autumn winds were piping low,Beneath the vine-clad eaves;We heard the hollow bugle blowAmong the ripened sheaves.And fast the mustering squadrons passedThrough mountain portals wide,And swift the blue brigades were massedBy Chickamauga's tide.

It was the Sabbath; and in aweWe heard the dark hills shake,And o'er the mountain turrets sawThe smoke of battle break.And 'neath the war-cloud, gray and grand,The hills o'erhanging low,The Army of the Cumberland,Unequal, met the foe!

Again, O fair September night!Beneath the moon and stars,I see, through memories dark and bright,The altar-fires of Mars.The morning breaks with screaming gunsFrom batteries dark and dire.And where the Chickamauga runsRed runs the muskets' fire.

I see bold Longstreet's darkening hostSweep through our lines of flame,And hear again, "The right is lost!"Swart Rosecrans exclaim."But not the left!" young Garfield cries;"From that we must not sever,While Thomas holds the field that liesOn Chickamauga River!"

Oh! on that day of clouded gold,How, half of hope bereft,The cannoneers, like Titans, rolledTheir thunders on the left!I see the battle-clouds again,With glowing autumn splendors blending:It seemed as if the gods with menWere on Olympian heights contending.

Through tongues of flame, through meadows brown,Dry valley roads concealed,Ohio's hero dashes downUpon the rebel field.And swift, on reeling charger borne,He threads the wooded plain,By twice a hundred cannon mown,And reddened with the slain.

But past the swathes of carnage dire,The Union guns he hears,And gains the left, begirt with fire,And thus the heroes cheers—"While stands the left, yon flag o'erhead,Shall Chattanooga stand!""Let the Napoleons rain their lead!"Was Thomas's command.

Back swept the gray brigades of Bragg;The air with victory rung;And Wurzel's "Rally round the flag!"'Mid Union cheers was sung.The flag on Chattanooga's heightIn twilight's crimson waved,And all the clustered stars of whiteWere to the Union saved.

O chief of staff! the nation's fateThat red field crossed with thee,The triumph of the camp and state,The hope of liberty!O nation! free from sea to sea,With union blessed forever,Not vainly heroes fought for theeBy Chickamauga River.

In dreams I stand beside the tideWhere those old heroes fell:Above the valleys long and wideSweet rings the Sabbath bell.I hear no more the bugle blow,As on that fateful day!I hear the ringdove fluting low,Where shaded waters stray.

On Mission Ridge the sunlight streamsAbove the fields of fall,And Chattanooga calmly dreamsBeneath her mountain-wall.Old Lookout Mountain towers on high,As in heroic days,When 'neath the battle in the skyWere seen its summits blaze.

'T was ours to lay no garlands fairUpon the graves "unknown":Kind Nature sets her gentians there,And fall the sear leaves lone.Those heroes' graves no shaft of MarsMay mark with beauty ever;But floats the flag of forty starsBy Chickamauga River.

Hezekiah Butterworth.

This defeat brought Grant into the field again, though he was still on crutches. The Confederates held a strong position on Missionary Ridge and Lookout Mountain, and Grant prepared to attack. On November 24, 1863, Hooker's brigade moved forward to the northern face of Lookout Mountain, drove the enemy from their rifle pits and intrenchments, and then started after them up the slope. The mountain was enveloped in a dense fog, and into this Hooker's men disappeared. During the night the Confederates delivered a savage assault, but were beaten off. At dawn, when the Union troops scaled the palisades, they found the intrenchments at the top deserted, and unfurled the Stars and Stripes from the summit of Pulpit Rock. The Confederates were dislodged next day from Missionary Ridge and were soon in full retreat.

THE BATTLE OF LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN

[November 24, 1863]

"Give me but two brigades," said Hooker, frowning at fortified Lookout;"And I'll engage to sweep yon mountain clear of that mocking rebel rout."At early morning came an order, that set the General's face aglow:"Now," said he to his staff, "draw out my soldiers! Grant says that I may go."Hither and thither dashed each eager Colonel, to join his regiment,While a low rumor of the daring purpose ran on from tent to tent.For the long roll was sounding through the valley, and the keen trumpet's bray,And the wild laughter of the swarthy veterans, who cried, "We fight to-day!"The solid tramp of infantry, the rumble of the great jolting gun,The sharp, clear order, and the fierce steeds neighing, "Why's not the fight begun?"All these plain harbingers of sudden conflict broke on the startled ear;And last arose a sound that made your blood leap, the ringing battle-cheer.The lower works were carried at one onset; like a vast roaring seaOf steel and fire, our soldiers from the trenches swept out the enemy;And we could see the gray-coats swarming up from the mountain's leafy base,To join their comrades in the higher fastness,—for life or death the race!Then our long line went winding up the mountain, in a huge serpent-track,And the slant sun upon it flashed and glimmered as on a dragon's back.Higher and higher the column's head pushed onward, ere the rear moved a man;And soon the skirmish-lines their straggling volleys and single shots began.Then the bald head of Lookout flamed and bellowed, and all its batteries woke,And down the mountain poured the bomb-shells, puffing into our eyes their smoke;And balls and grape-shot rained upon our column, that bore the angry showerAs if it were no more than that soft dropping which scarcely stirs the flower.Oh, glorious courage that inspires the hero, and runs through all his men!The heart that failed beside the Rappahannock, it was itself again!The star that circumstance and jealous faction shrouded in envious nightHere shone with all the splendor of its nature, and with a freer light!Hark, hark! there go the well-known crashing volleys, the long-continued roarThat swells and falls, but never ceases wholly until the fight is o'er.Up towards the crystal gates of heaven ascending, the mortal tempest beat,As if they sought to try their cause together before God's very feet.We saw our troops had gained a footing almost beneath the topmost ledge,And back and forth the rival lines went surging upon the dizzy edge.We saw, sometimes, our men fall backward slowly, and groaned in our despair;Or cheered when now and then a stricken rebel plunged out in open air,Down, down, a thousand empty fathoms dropping,—his God alone knows where!At eve thick haze upon the mountain gathered, with rising smoke stained black,And not a glimpse of the contending armies shone through the swirling rack.Night fell o'er all; but still they flashed their lightnings and rolled their thunders loud,Though no man knew upon which side was going that battle in the cloud.Night—what a night!—of anxious thought and wonder, but still no tidings cameFrom the bare summit of the trembling mountain, still wrapped in mist and flame.But towards the sleepless dawn, stillness, more dreadful than the fierce sound of war,Settled o'er Nature, as if she stood breathless before the morning star.As the sun rose, dense clouds of smoky vapor boiled from the valley's deeps,Dragging their torn and ragged edges slowly up through the tree-clad steeps;And rose and rose, till Lookout, like a vision, above us grandly stood,And over his bleak crags and storm-blanched headlands burst the warm golden flood.Thousands of eyes were fixed upon the mountain, and thousands held their breath,And the vast army, in the valley watching, seemed touched with sudden death.High o'er us soared great Lookout, robed in purple, a glory on his face,A human meaning in his hard, calm features, beneath that heavenly grace.Out on a crag walked something—what? an eagle, that treads yon giddy height?Surely no man! but still he clambered forward into the full, rich light.Then up he started, with a sudden motion, and from the blazing cragFlung to the morning breeze and sunny radiance the dear old starry flag!Ah! then what followed? Scarred and war-worn soldiers, like girls, flushed through their tan,And down the thousand wrinkles of the battles a thousand tear-drops ran.Men seized each other in returned embraces, and sobbed for very love;A spirit, which made all that moment brothers, seemed falling from above.And as we gazed, around the mountain's summit our glittering files appeared,Into the rebel works we saw them moving; and we—we cheered, we cheered!And they above waved all their flags before us, and joined our frantic shout,Standing, like demigods, in light and triumph upon their own Lookout!George Henry Boker.

Hither and thither dashed each eager Colonel, to join his regiment,While a low rumor of the daring purpose ran on from tent to tent.For the long roll was sounding through the valley, and the keen trumpet's bray,And the wild laughter of the swarthy veterans, who cried, "We fight to-day!"

The solid tramp of infantry, the rumble of the great jolting gun,The sharp, clear order, and the fierce steeds neighing, "Why's not the fight begun?"All these plain harbingers of sudden conflict broke on the startled ear;And last arose a sound that made your blood leap, the ringing battle-cheer.

The lower works were carried at one onset; like a vast roaring seaOf steel and fire, our soldiers from the trenches swept out the enemy;And we could see the gray-coats swarming up from the mountain's leafy base,To join their comrades in the higher fastness,—for life or death the race!

Then our long line went winding up the mountain, in a huge serpent-track,And the slant sun upon it flashed and glimmered as on a dragon's back.Higher and higher the column's head pushed onward, ere the rear moved a man;And soon the skirmish-lines their straggling volleys and single shots began.

Then the bald head of Lookout flamed and bellowed, and all its batteries woke,And down the mountain poured the bomb-shells, puffing into our eyes their smoke;And balls and grape-shot rained upon our column, that bore the angry showerAs if it were no more than that soft dropping which scarcely stirs the flower.

Oh, glorious courage that inspires the hero, and runs through all his men!The heart that failed beside the Rappahannock, it was itself again!The star that circumstance and jealous faction shrouded in envious nightHere shone with all the splendor of its nature, and with a freer light!

Hark, hark! there go the well-known crashing volleys, the long-continued roarThat swells and falls, but never ceases wholly until the fight is o'er.Up towards the crystal gates of heaven ascending, the mortal tempest beat,As if they sought to try their cause together before God's very feet.

We saw our troops had gained a footing almost beneath the topmost ledge,And back and forth the rival lines went surging upon the dizzy edge.We saw, sometimes, our men fall backward slowly, and groaned in our despair;Or cheered when now and then a stricken rebel plunged out in open air,Down, down, a thousand empty fathoms dropping,—his God alone knows where!

At eve thick haze upon the mountain gathered, with rising smoke stained black,And not a glimpse of the contending armies shone through the swirling rack.Night fell o'er all; but still they flashed their lightnings and rolled their thunders loud,Though no man knew upon which side was going that battle in the cloud.

Night—what a night!—of anxious thought and wonder, but still no tidings cameFrom the bare summit of the trembling mountain, still wrapped in mist and flame.But towards the sleepless dawn, stillness, more dreadful than the fierce sound of war,Settled o'er Nature, as if she stood breathless before the morning star.

As the sun rose, dense clouds of smoky vapor boiled from the valley's deeps,Dragging their torn and ragged edges slowly up through the tree-clad steeps;And rose and rose, till Lookout, like a vision, above us grandly stood,And over his bleak crags and storm-blanched headlands burst the warm golden flood.

Thousands of eyes were fixed upon the mountain, and thousands held their breath,And the vast army, in the valley watching, seemed touched with sudden death.High o'er us soared great Lookout, robed in purple, a glory on his face,A human meaning in his hard, calm features, beneath that heavenly grace.

Out on a crag walked something—what? an eagle, that treads yon giddy height?Surely no man! but still he clambered forward into the full, rich light.Then up he started, with a sudden motion, and from the blazing cragFlung to the morning breeze and sunny radiance the dear old starry flag!

Ah! then what followed? Scarred and war-worn soldiers, like girls, flushed through their tan,And down the thousand wrinkles of the battles a thousand tear-drops ran.Men seized each other in returned embraces, and sobbed for very love;A spirit, which made all that moment brothers, seemed falling from above.

And as we gazed, around the mountain's summit our glittering files appeared,Into the rebel works we saw them moving; and we—we cheered, we cheered!And they above waved all their flags before us, and joined our frantic shout,Standing, like demigods, in light and triumph upon their own Lookout!

George Henry Boker.

THE BATTLE IN THE CLOUDS

[November 24, 1863]

Where the dews and the rains of heaven have their fountain,Like its thunder and its lightning our brave burst on the foe,Up above the clouds on Freedom's Lookout MountainRaining life-blood like water on the valleys down below.Oh, green be the laurels that grow,Oh, sweet be the wild-buds that blow,In the dells of the mountain where the brave are lying low.Light of our hope and crown of our story,Bright as sunlight, pure as starlight shall their deed of daring glow.While the day and the night out of heaven shed their glory,On Freedom's Lookout Mountain whence they routed Freedom's foe.Oh, soft be the gales when they goThrough the pines on the summit where they blow,Chanting solemn music for the souls that passed below.William Dean Howells.

Light of our hope and crown of our story,Bright as sunlight, pure as starlight shall their deed of daring glow.While the day and the night out of heaven shed their glory,On Freedom's Lookout Mountain whence they routed Freedom's foe.Oh, soft be the gales when they goThrough the pines on the summit where they blow,Chanting solemn music for the souls that passed below.

William Dean Howells.

By the autumn of 1862, the Union forces had established themselves firmly on the North Carolina coast, and early in the following year preparations were made to attack Charleston, the very head and front of the Confederacy.

CHARLESTON

[April, 1863]

Calm as that second summer which precedesThe first fall of the snow,In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds,The city bides the foe.As yet, behind their ramparts, stern and proud,Her bolted thunders sleep,—Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud,Looms o'er the solemn deep.No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scaurTo guard the holy strand;But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of warAbove the level sand.And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched,Unseen, beside the flood,—Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched,That wait and watch for blood.Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade,Walk grave and thoughtful men,Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's bladeAs lightly as the pen.And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dimOver a bleeding hound,Seem each one to have caught the strength of himWhose sword she sadly bound.Thus girt without and garrisoned at home,Day patient following day,Old Charleston looks from roof and spire and dome,Across her tranquil bay.Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon landsAnd spicy Indian ports,Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands,And summer to her courts.But still, along yon dim Atlantic line,The only hostile smokeCreeps like a harmless mist above the brine,From some frail floating oak.Shall the spring dawn, and she, still clad in smiles,And with an unscathed brow,Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crowned isles,As fair and free as now?We know not; in the temple of the FatesGod has inscribed her doom:And, all untroubled in her faith, she waitsThe triumph or the tomb.Henry Timrod.

Calm as that second summer which precedesThe first fall of the snow,In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds,The city bides the foe.

As yet, behind their ramparts, stern and proud,Her bolted thunders sleep,—Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud,Looms o'er the solemn deep.

No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scaurTo guard the holy strand;But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of warAbove the level sand.

And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched,Unseen, beside the flood,—Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched,That wait and watch for blood.

Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade,Walk grave and thoughtful men,Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's bladeAs lightly as the pen.

And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dimOver a bleeding hound,Seem each one to have caught the strength of himWhose sword she sadly bound.

Thus girt without and garrisoned at home,Day patient following day,Old Charleston looks from roof and spire and dome,Across her tranquil bay.

Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon landsAnd spicy Indian ports,Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands,And summer to her courts.

But still, along yon dim Atlantic line,The only hostile smokeCreeps like a harmless mist above the brine,From some frail floating oak.

Shall the spring dawn, and she, still clad in smiles,And with an unscathed brow,Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crowned isles,As fair and free as now?

We know not; in the temple of the FatesGod has inscribed her doom:And, all untroubled in her faith, she waitsThe triumph or the tomb.

Henry Timrod.

On April 7, 1863, a strong squadron under Admiral Dupont attempted to enter the harbor and reduce Fort Sumter, but got such a warm reception that it was forced to withdraw. One ship was sunk and the others badly damaged.

THE BATTLE OF CHARLESTON HARBOR

[April 7, 1863]

Two hours, or more, beyond the prime of a blithe April day,The Northmen's mailed "Invincibles" steamed up fair Charleston Bay;They came in sullen file, and slow, low-breasted on the wave,Black as a midnight front of storm, and silent as the grave.A thousand warrior-hearts beat high as those dread monsters drewMore closely to the game of death across the breezeless blue,And twice ten thousand hearts of those who watch the scene afar,Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle's broadening star.Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with rigid aspect stands,The reedy linstocks firmly grasped in bold, untrembling hands,So moveless in their marbled calm, their stern, heroic guise,They look like forms of statued stone with burning human eyes!Our banners on the outmost walls, with stately rustling fold,Flash back from arch and parapet the sunlight's ruddy gold,—They mount to the deep roll of drums, and widely echoing cheers,And then, once more, dark, breathless, hushed, wait the grim cannoneers.Onward, in sullen file, and slow, low-glooming on the wave,Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet glides silent as the grave,When shivering the portentous calm o'er startled flood and shore,Broke from the sacred Island Fort the thunder-wrath of yore!Ha! brutal Corsairs! though ye come thrice-cased in iron mail,Beware the storm that's opening now, God's vengeance guides the hail!Ye strive, the ruffian types of Might, 'gainst law and truth and Right;Now quail beneath a sturdier Power, and own a mightier Might!The storm has burst! and while we speak, more furious, wilder, higher,Dart from the circling batteries a hundred tongues of fire;The waves gleam red, the lurid vault of heaven seems rent above—Fight on, O knightly gentlemen! for faith, and home, and love!There's not, in all that line of flame, one soul that would not riseTo seize the victor's wreath of blood, though death must give the prize;There's not, in all this anxious crowd that throngs the ancient town,A maid who does not yearn for power to strike one foeman down!The conflict deepens! ship by ship the proud Armada sweeps,Where fierce from Sumter's raging breast the volleyed lightning leaps;And ship by ship, raked, overborne, ere burned the sunset light,Crawls in the gloom of baffled hate beyond the field of fight!O glorious Empress of the Main! from out thy storied spiresThou well mayst peal thy bells of joy, and light thy festal fires,—Since Heaven this day hath striven for thee, hath nerved thy dauntless sons,And thou in clear-eyed faith hast seen God's angels near the guns!Paul Hamilton Hayne.

A thousand warrior-hearts beat high as those dread monsters drewMore closely to the game of death across the breezeless blue,And twice ten thousand hearts of those who watch the scene afar,Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle's broadening star.

Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with rigid aspect stands,The reedy linstocks firmly grasped in bold, untrembling hands,So moveless in their marbled calm, their stern, heroic guise,They look like forms of statued stone with burning human eyes!

Our banners on the outmost walls, with stately rustling fold,Flash back from arch and parapet the sunlight's ruddy gold,—They mount to the deep roll of drums, and widely echoing cheers,And then, once more, dark, breathless, hushed, wait the grim cannoneers.

Onward, in sullen file, and slow, low-glooming on the wave,Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet glides silent as the grave,When shivering the portentous calm o'er startled flood and shore,Broke from the sacred Island Fort the thunder-wrath of yore!

Ha! brutal Corsairs! though ye come thrice-cased in iron mail,Beware the storm that's opening now, God's vengeance guides the hail!Ye strive, the ruffian types of Might, 'gainst law and truth and Right;Now quail beneath a sturdier Power, and own a mightier Might!

The storm has burst! and while we speak, more furious, wilder, higher,Dart from the circling batteries a hundred tongues of fire;The waves gleam red, the lurid vault of heaven seems rent above—Fight on, O knightly gentlemen! for faith, and home, and love!

There's not, in all that line of flame, one soul that would not riseTo seize the victor's wreath of blood, though death must give the prize;There's not, in all this anxious crowd that throngs the ancient town,A maid who does not yearn for power to strike one foeman down!

The conflict deepens! ship by ship the proud Armada sweeps,Where fierce from Sumter's raging breast the volleyed lightning leaps;And ship by ship, raked, overborne, ere burned the sunset light,Crawls in the gloom of baffled hate beyond the field of fight!

O glorious Empress of the Main! from out thy storied spiresThou well mayst peal thy bells of joy, and light thy festal fires,—Since Heaven this day hath striven for thee, hath nerved thy dauntless sons,And thou in clear-eyed faith hast seen God's angels near the guns!

Paul Hamilton Hayne.

It was evident that the fleet by itself could accomplish nothing, and a land attack was therefore planned against Fort Wagner, a very strong work, fully garrisoned by veterans. It was stormed on the evening of July 18, 1863, the Fifty-Fourth Massachusetts (colored), Colonel Robert Gould Shaw, leading. He was killed in the first assault and his regiment was decimated. The Confederates buried Shaw "in a pit under a heap of his niggers."

BURY THEM

(Wagner, July 18, 1863)

Bury the Dragon's Teeth!Bury them deep and dark!The incisors swart and stark,The molars heavy and dark—And the one white Fang underneath!Bury the Hope Forlorn!Never shudder to fling,With its fellows dusky and worn,The strong and beautiful thing(Pallid ivory and pearl!)Into the horrible Pit—Hurry it in, and hurlAll the rest over it!Trample them, clod by clod,Stamp them in dust amain!The cuspids, cruent and red,That the Monster, Freedom, shedOn the sacred, strong Slave-Sod—They never shall rise again!Never?—what hideous growthIs sprouting through clod and clay?What Terror starts to the day?A crop of steel, on our oath!How the burnished stamens glance!—Spike, and anther, and blade,How they burst from the bloody shade,And spindle to spear and lance!There are tassels of blood-red Maize—How the horrible Harvest grows!'Tis sabres that glint and daze—'Tis bayonets all ablazeUprearing in dreadful rows!For one that we buried there,A thousand are come to air!Ever, by door-stone and hearth,They break from the angry earth—And out of the crimson sand,Where the cold white Fang was laid,Rises a terrible Shade,The Wraith of a sleepless Brand!And our hearts wax strange and chill,With an ominous shudder and thrill,Even here, on the strong Slave-Sod,Lest, haply, we be found(Ah, dread no brave hath drowned!)Fighting against Great God.Henry Howard Brownell.

Bury the Dragon's Teeth!Bury them deep and dark!The incisors swart and stark,The molars heavy and dark—And the one white Fang underneath!

Bury the Hope Forlorn!Never shudder to fling,With its fellows dusky and worn,The strong and beautiful thing(Pallid ivory and pearl!)Into the horrible Pit—Hurry it in, and hurlAll the rest over it!

Trample them, clod by clod,Stamp them in dust amain!The cuspids, cruent and red,That the Monster, Freedom, shedOn the sacred, strong Slave-Sod—They never shall rise again!

Never?—what hideous growthIs sprouting through clod and clay?What Terror starts to the day?A crop of steel, on our oath!How the burnished stamens glance!—Spike, and anther, and blade,How they burst from the bloody shade,And spindle to spear and lance!

There are tassels of blood-red Maize—How the horrible Harvest grows!'Tis sabres that glint and daze—'Tis bayonets all ablazeUprearing in dreadful rows!

For one that we buried there,A thousand are come to air!Ever, by door-stone and hearth,They break from the angry earth—And out of the crimson sand,Where the cold white Fang was laid,Rises a terrible Shade,The Wraith of a sleepless Brand!

And our hearts wax strange and chill,With an ominous shudder and thrill,Even here, on the strong Slave-Sod,Lest, haply, we be found(Ah, dread no brave hath drowned!)Fighting against Great God.

Henry Howard Brownell.

Heavy siege batteries were at once erected by the Union forces and on August 17, 1863, a terrific bombardment began against Sumter and Wagner, and continued uninterruptedly. Ten days later Sumter had been reduced to a shapeless mass of ruins, and Fort Wagner was captured soon afterwards, but the city itself still stood unshaken.

TWILIGHT ON SUMTER[11]

[1863]

Still and dark along the seaSumter lay;A light was overhead,As from burning cities shed,And the clouds were battle-red,Far away.Not a solitary gunLeft to tell the fort had wonOr lost the day!Nothing but the tattered ragOf the drooping rebel flag,And the sea-birds screaming round it in their play.How it woke one April mornFame shall tell;As from Moultrie, close at hand,And the batteries on the land,Round its faint but fearless bandShot and shellRaining hid the doubtful light;But they fought the hopeless fightLong and well(Theirs the glory, ours the shame!),Till the walls were wrapped in flame,Then their flag was proudly struck, and Sumter fell!Now—oh, look at Sumter now,In the gloom!Mark its scarred and shattered walls.(Hark! the ruined rampart falls!)There's a justice that appalsIn its doom;For this blasted spot of earthWhere rebellion had its birthIs its tomb!And when Sumter sinks at lastFrom the heavens, that shrink aghast,Hell shall rise in grim derision and make room!Richard Henry Stoddard.

How it woke one April mornFame shall tell;As from Moultrie, close at hand,And the batteries on the land,Round its faint but fearless bandShot and shellRaining hid the doubtful light;But they fought the hopeless fightLong and well(Theirs the glory, ours the shame!),Till the walls were wrapped in flame,Then their flag was proudly struck, and Sumter fell!

Now—oh, look at Sumter now,In the gloom!Mark its scarred and shattered walls.(Hark! the ruined rampart falls!)There's a justice that appalsIn its doom;For this blasted spot of earthWhere rebellion had its birthIs its tomb!And when Sumter sinks at lastFrom the heavens, that shrink aghast,Hell shall rise in grim derision and make room!

Richard Henry Stoddard.

THE FINAL STRUGGLE

A survey of the field at the opening of the fourth year of the war shows how steadily the North had been gaining the advantage—an advantage due to superior numbers and greater resources rather than to brilliant generalship. The Union forces in the field numbered eight hundred thousand, while the Confederates had scarcely half as many, and were compelled to stand on the defensive. The North hoped to crush them by one mighty effort.

PUT IT THROUGH

[1864]

Come, Freemen of the land,Come, meet the last demand,—Here's a piece of work in hand;Put it through!Here's a log across the way,We have stumbled on all day;Here's a ploughshare in the clay,—Put it through!Here's a country that's half free,And it waits for you and meTo say what its fate shall be;Put it through!While one traitor thought remains,While one spot its banner stains,One link of all its chains,—Put it through!Hear our brothers in the field,Steel your swords as theirs are steeled,Learn to wield the arms they wield,—Put it through!Lock the shop and lock the store,And chalk this upon the door,—"We've enlisted for the war!"Put it through!For the birthrights yet unsold,For the history yet untold,For the future yet unrolled,Put it through!Lest our children point with shameOn the fathers' dastard fame,Who gave up a nation's name,Put it through!Edward Everett Hale.

Here's a country that's half free,And it waits for you and meTo say what its fate shall be;Put it through!While one traitor thought remains,While one spot its banner stains,One link of all its chains,—Put it through!

Hear our brothers in the field,Steel your swords as theirs are steeled,Learn to wield the arms they wield,—Put it through!Lock the shop and lock the store,And chalk this upon the door,—"We've enlisted for the war!"Put it through!

For the birthrights yet unsold,For the history yet untold,For the future yet unrolled,Put it through!Lest our children point with shameOn the fathers' dastard fame,Who gave up a nation's name,Put it through!

Edward Everett Hale.

Grant was made lieutenant-general, and prepared to advance on Richmond, while the task of taking Atlanta was intrusted to Sherman. Sherman began his advance without delay, and was before Atlanta by the middle of July, 1864. On the 20th the Confederates made a desperate sally, but were driven back.

LOGAN AT PEACH TREE CREEK

A VETERAN'S STORY

[July 20, 1864]

You know that day at Peach Tree Creek,When the Rebs with their circling, scorching wallOf smoke-hid cannon and sweep of flameDrove in our flanks, back! back! and allOur toil seemed lost in the storm of shell—That desperate day McPherson fell!Our regiment stood in a little gladeSet round with half-grown red oak trees—An awful place to stand, in full fair sight,While the minie bullets hummed like bees,And comrades dropped on either side—That fearful day McPherson died!The roar of the battle, steady, stern,Rung in our ears. Upon our eyesThe belching cannon smoke, the half-hid swingOf deploying troops, the groans, the cries,The hoarse commands, the sickening smell—That blood-red day McPherson fell!But we stood there!—when out from the trees,Out of the smoke and dismay to the rightBurst a rider—His head was bare, his eyeHad a blaze like a lion fain for fight;His long hair, black as the deepest night,Streamed out on the wind. And the mightOf his plunging horse was a tale to tell,And his voice rang high like a bugle's swell;"Men, the enemy hem us on every side;We'll whip 'em yet! Close up that breach—Remember your flag—don't give an inch!The right flank's gaining and soon will reach—Forward boys, and give 'em hell!"—Said Logan after McPherson fell.We laughed and cheered and the red ground shook,As the general plunged along the lineThrough the deadliest rain of screaming shells;For the sound of his voice refreshed us all,And we filled the gap like a roaring tide,And saved the day McPherson died!But that was twenty years ago,And part of a horrible dream now past.For Logan, the lion, the drums throb lowAnd the flag swings low on the mast;He has followed his mighty chieftain throughThe mist-hung stream, where gray and blueOne color stand,And North to South extends the hand.It's right that deeds of war and bloodShould be forgot, but, spite of all,I think of Logan, now, as he rodeThat day across the field; I hear the callOf his trumpet voice—see the battle shineIn his stern, black eyes, and down the lineOf cheering men I see him ride,As on the day McPherson died.Hamlin Garland.

Our regiment stood in a little gladeSet round with half-grown red oak trees—An awful place to stand, in full fair sight,While the minie bullets hummed like bees,And comrades dropped on either side—That fearful day McPherson died!

The roar of the battle, steady, stern,Rung in our ears. Upon our eyesThe belching cannon smoke, the half-hid swingOf deploying troops, the groans, the cries,The hoarse commands, the sickening smell—That blood-red day McPherson fell!

But we stood there!—when out from the trees,Out of the smoke and dismay to the rightBurst a rider—His head was bare, his eyeHad a blaze like a lion fain for fight;His long hair, black as the deepest night,Streamed out on the wind. And the mightOf his plunging horse was a tale to tell,And his voice rang high like a bugle's swell;"Men, the enemy hem us on every side;We'll whip 'em yet! Close up that breach—Remember your flag—don't give an inch!The right flank's gaining and soon will reach—Forward boys, and give 'em hell!"—Said Logan after McPherson fell.

We laughed and cheered and the red ground shook,As the general plunged along the lineThrough the deadliest rain of screaming shells;For the sound of his voice refreshed us all,And we filled the gap like a roaring tide,And saved the day McPherson died!

But that was twenty years ago,And part of a horrible dream now past.For Logan, the lion, the drums throb lowAnd the flag swings low on the mast;He has followed his mighty chieftain throughThe mist-hung stream, where gray and blueOne color stand,And North to South extends the hand.It's right that deeds of war and bloodShould be forgot, but, spite of all,I think of Logan, now, as he rodeThat day across the field; I hear the callOf his trumpet voice—see the battle shineIn his stern, black eyes, and down the lineOf cheering men I see him ride,As on the day McPherson died.

Hamlin Garland.

On July 22, 1864, Sherman ordered a general assault, which lasted two days, with heavy losses on both sides. General McPherson was killed by a Confederate sharpshooter about noon of the first day.

A DIRGE FOR McPHERSON

KILLED IN FRONT OF ATLANTA

[July 22, 1864]

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