A TALE OF THE WAR.

The story that follows is, as the old magazines used to say of their tales, “founded on fact.” The foundation is rather slender. Similar incidents have occurred in all wars, ancient and modern; and nothing delights the old soldier more, when peace comes, than to meet a former antagonist, who, as in this instance, has “proved worthy of his steel.”

You wish to improve yourself? Good! There’s a tool;Let us see of what stuff you are made; and—keep cool.Never hurry. On guard! When I thrust, parry so.Longe! Gracious! Disarmed me! Well, this is a go.“An accident?” Make me think that, if you can.You had better give lessons than take them, young man.Wrist of steel, form of whalebone, keen-eyed, supple, tall—You could manage that cut-and-thrust there on the wall.“A Toledo!” No doubt of it; here on the bladeIs the name of the Spaniard by whom it was made,And the place where they forged it; its metal can tellIt was made where such weapons they fashioned right well;But that, after all, has slight interest—IWell know how I got it, the where and the why;And thence comes a story—a memory, too.Will I tell it? Why, yes, I don’t care if I do.I was merely lieutenant—I never wore stars,Though it rained brigadiers at the time; and my scarsWere got in the hours when I fought on my feet,And lucky to keep them at moments when sleetFrom some thousands of muskets upon us fell fast,And each breath that we drew seemed like drawing the last,And the foeman kept plying his bullets and shell,And to right and to left comrades they staggered and fell.’Twas at Fredericksburg Heights, where we charged like such fools,And learned by experience—that saddest of schools—An experience that brought us a fire-rain beneath—Not to crack a hard nut, nor to try, with our teeth,That I got this old sabre, and with it a scar,From a small pistol bullet, my beauty to mar;And a narrow escape, for an inch t’other way,And a narrow earth-jacket I’d worn the next day.I hated the enemy, then—no offence,If you held ’tother side, each man acts on his sense—And I thought they were wrong, as I thought we were right;No doubt they thought otherwise. And they could fight.No man can deny it; and there well intrenchedThey awaited our coming, while none of us blenched,Though we knew it was madness to charge up that hill,That a child might have held had it courage and will.At the word we were off. It was glorious to seeHow we marched to the charge with a step fast and free.Flags flying, throats cheering, and every rank dressedTo an inch in its straightness; when quick from the crestOpened loudly a hundred of cannon or more,And the path of the balls was mapped out in our gore.We were brave, but some tasks are too fearful for man;We faltered, we turned—who could help it?—we ran.We tried it again with another rebuff;And again, till we found we’d been hammered enough;And then by the river at close of the day,With the wounded, the men who came out of the fray—And I tell you right glad to be certainly back—Lay there on the ground. ’Twas a mournful bivouac,With few of us sure as we talked o’er our lossIf they’d suffer us safely the river to cross.I strolled out to the picket—some thirty were there,With their arms in good order, their eyeballs kept bare—When, an hour before midnight, there came quick and hardThe trample of horse charging down on the guard;And we met them—a squadron of dare-devils they—But a sharp edge of bayonets kept them at bay,While we emptied some barrels, with never a corse,Though we wounded one rider and crippled his horse.The rider pitched over; his comrades they heardHis yell as he fell; but they turned and they spurred,For by this time our camp was aroused and poured in,And the visitors stayed not their laurels to win;When what does this Hotspur but spring to his feet,And, ready a regiment singly to meet,Draw weapon, and there, right in front of our line,To guard bring his sabre, and cross it with mine.’Twas a regular duel: our men gathered round;Save the clash of the blades there was never a sound.’Twas cut, thrust, and parry—the fellow fenced well—But at last on his shoulder a heavy blow fell,And his sword dropped to earth—in an instant he feltWith his left for a pistol that hung at his belt,And he fired. O’er my temple the ball ploughed its track,When I tripped him, and threw my bold youth on his back.I said as I held him, “This rage has no use;You’re two-thirds a lion and one-third a goose.Do you want to fight armies! This passes a joke;Surrender at once, or your throttle I’ll choke.Stop the struggling, my madman, and tell us your choice—”“I give my parole.” ’Twas a musical voice,With a rather thin treble. Conceive my annoyWhen I found I had wasted my strength on a boy.’Twas a boy of sixteen, with his lip free of down,Whose ball cut a groove ’twixt my temple and crown,And who handled his sabre as deftly and keenAs a master of fence. Yes, a boy of sixteen.And I said, as I looked on him there where he stood,Defiant, though conquered, and dauntless in mood,“You crow well, my cockerel, ere you have spurs;Has your mother more such in that rare brood of hers?”Then he laughed, and his forefinger rose, as he said,“You carry the mark of my spur on your head—Who’ll give me a drink?” as at word of commandA dozen canteens were thrust ready to hand;But ere he could choose, from his features there shrankThe blood till he paled, then he staggered and sank.We raised him; I stooped there and pillowed his headOn my knee; and I shivered—I thought he was dead.But no, sir, he rallied. We bore him away,When we crossed o’er the river, ere break of the day,Where our surgeon soon healed up his wound, and I nursedThe boy, and grew fond where I’d liked from the first,Till, ready for prison, but hating confine,He fled one dark night and got over the line;And I never laid eyes on my bold shaver since.That’s his sword, and a weapon would honor a prince.You smile at the story—I’ve seen you, but where?What name did you carry? “George Gaston!”—well—there!Let me grapple your fist, boy? I’d never have knownYou, with all of those whiskers. Why, how you have grown!Twelve years! well, itdoesmake a difference, I see,In you, as it probablyhasmade in me.I can’t tell how glad I’m to see you at last.Sit down; take a pipe; and we’ll talk o’er the past.

You wish to improve yourself? Good! There’s a tool;

Let us see of what stuff you are made; and—keep cool.

Never hurry. On guard! When I thrust, parry so.

Longe! Gracious! Disarmed me! Well, this is a go.

“An accident?” Make me think that, if you can.

You had better give lessons than take them, young man.

Wrist of steel, form of whalebone, keen-eyed, supple, tall—

You could manage that cut-and-thrust there on the wall.

“A Toledo!” No doubt of it; here on the bladeIs the name of the Spaniard by whom it was made,And the place where they forged it; its metal can tellIt was made where such weapons they fashioned right well;But that, after all, has slight interest—IWell know how I got it, the where and the why;And thence comes a story—a memory, too.Will I tell it? Why, yes, I don’t care if I do.

“A Toledo!” No doubt of it; here on the blade

Is the name of the Spaniard by whom it was made,

And the place where they forged it; its metal can tell

It was made where such weapons they fashioned right well;

But that, after all, has slight interest—I

Well know how I got it, the where and the why;

And thence comes a story—a memory, too.

Will I tell it? Why, yes, I don’t care if I do.

I was merely lieutenant—I never wore stars,Though it rained brigadiers at the time; and my scarsWere got in the hours when I fought on my feet,And lucky to keep them at moments when sleetFrom some thousands of muskets upon us fell fast,And each breath that we drew seemed like drawing the last,And the foeman kept plying his bullets and shell,And to right and to left comrades they staggered and fell.

I was merely lieutenant—I never wore stars,

Though it rained brigadiers at the time; and my scars

Were got in the hours when I fought on my feet,

And lucky to keep them at moments when sleet

From some thousands of muskets upon us fell fast,

And each breath that we drew seemed like drawing the last,

And the foeman kept plying his bullets and shell,

And to right and to left comrades they staggered and fell.

’Twas at Fredericksburg Heights, where we charged like such fools,And learned by experience—that saddest of schools—An experience that brought us a fire-rain beneath—Not to crack a hard nut, nor to try, with our teeth,That I got this old sabre, and with it a scar,From a small pistol bullet, my beauty to mar;And a narrow escape, for an inch t’other way,And a narrow earth-jacket I’d worn the next day.

’Twas at Fredericksburg Heights, where we charged like such fools,

And learned by experience—that saddest of schools—

An experience that brought us a fire-rain beneath—

Not to crack a hard nut, nor to try, with our teeth,

That I got this old sabre, and with it a scar,

From a small pistol bullet, my beauty to mar;

And a narrow escape, for an inch t’other way,

And a narrow earth-jacket I’d worn the next day.

I hated the enemy, then—no offence,If you held ’tother side, each man acts on his sense—And I thought they were wrong, as I thought we were right;No doubt they thought otherwise. And they could fight.No man can deny it; and there well intrenchedThey awaited our coming, while none of us blenched,Though we knew it was madness to charge up that hill,That a child might have held had it courage and will.

I hated the enemy, then—no offence,

If you held ’tother side, each man acts on his sense—

And I thought they were wrong, as I thought we were right;

No doubt they thought otherwise. And they could fight.

No man can deny it; and there well intrenched

They awaited our coming, while none of us blenched,

Though we knew it was madness to charge up that hill,

That a child might have held had it courage and will.

At the word we were off. It was glorious to seeHow we marched to the charge with a step fast and free.Flags flying, throats cheering, and every rank dressedTo an inch in its straightness; when quick from the crestOpened loudly a hundred of cannon or more,And the path of the balls was mapped out in our gore.We were brave, but some tasks are too fearful for man;We faltered, we turned—who could help it?—we ran.

At the word we were off. It was glorious to see

How we marched to the charge with a step fast and free.

Flags flying, throats cheering, and every rank dressed

To an inch in its straightness; when quick from the crest

Opened loudly a hundred of cannon or more,

And the path of the balls was mapped out in our gore.

We were brave, but some tasks are too fearful for man;

We faltered, we turned—who could help it?—we ran.

We tried it again with another rebuff;And again, till we found we’d been hammered enough;And then by the river at close of the day,With the wounded, the men who came out of the fray—And I tell you right glad to be certainly back—Lay there on the ground. ’Twas a mournful bivouac,With few of us sure as we talked o’er our lossIf they’d suffer us safely the river to cross.

We tried it again with another rebuff;

And again, till we found we’d been hammered enough;

And then by the river at close of the day,

With the wounded, the men who came out of the fray—

And I tell you right glad to be certainly back—

Lay there on the ground. ’Twas a mournful bivouac,

With few of us sure as we talked o’er our loss

If they’d suffer us safely the river to cross.

I strolled out to the picket—some thirty were there,With their arms in good order, their eyeballs kept bare—When, an hour before midnight, there came quick and hardThe trample of horse charging down on the guard;And we met them—a squadron of dare-devils they—But a sharp edge of bayonets kept them at bay,While we emptied some barrels, with never a corse,Though we wounded one rider and crippled his horse.

I strolled out to the picket—some thirty were there,

With their arms in good order, their eyeballs kept bare—

When, an hour before midnight, there came quick and hard

The trample of horse charging down on the guard;

And we met them—a squadron of dare-devils they—

But a sharp edge of bayonets kept them at bay,

While we emptied some barrels, with never a corse,

Though we wounded one rider and crippled his horse.

The rider pitched over; his comrades they heardHis yell as he fell; but they turned and they spurred,For by this time our camp was aroused and poured in,And the visitors stayed not their laurels to win;When what does this Hotspur but spring to his feet,And, ready a regiment singly to meet,Draw weapon, and there, right in front of our line,To guard bring his sabre, and cross it with mine.

The rider pitched over; his comrades they heard

His yell as he fell; but they turned and they spurred,

For by this time our camp was aroused and poured in,

And the visitors stayed not their laurels to win;

When what does this Hotspur but spring to his feet,

And, ready a regiment singly to meet,

Draw weapon, and there, right in front of our line,

To guard bring his sabre, and cross it with mine.

’Twas a regular duel: our men gathered round;Save the clash of the blades there was never a sound.’Twas cut, thrust, and parry—the fellow fenced well—But at last on his shoulder a heavy blow fell,And his sword dropped to earth—in an instant he feltWith his left for a pistol that hung at his belt,And he fired. O’er my temple the ball ploughed its track,When I tripped him, and threw my bold youth on his back.

’Twas a regular duel: our men gathered round;

Save the clash of the blades there was never a sound.

’Twas cut, thrust, and parry—the fellow fenced well—

But at last on his shoulder a heavy blow fell,

And his sword dropped to earth—in an instant he felt

With his left for a pistol that hung at his belt,

And he fired. O’er my temple the ball ploughed its track,

When I tripped him, and threw my bold youth on his back.

I said as I held him, “This rage has no use;You’re two-thirds a lion and one-third a goose.Do you want to fight armies! This passes a joke;Surrender at once, or your throttle I’ll choke.Stop the struggling, my madman, and tell us your choice—”“I give my parole.” ’Twas a musical voice,With a rather thin treble. Conceive my annoyWhen I found I had wasted my strength on a boy.

I said as I held him, “This rage has no use;

You’re two-thirds a lion and one-third a goose.

Do you want to fight armies! This passes a joke;

Surrender at once, or your throttle I’ll choke.

Stop the struggling, my madman, and tell us your choice—”

“I give my parole.” ’Twas a musical voice,

With a rather thin treble. Conceive my annoy

When I found I had wasted my strength on a boy.

’Twas a boy of sixteen, with his lip free of down,Whose ball cut a groove ’twixt my temple and crown,And who handled his sabre as deftly and keenAs a master of fence. Yes, a boy of sixteen.And I said, as I looked on him there where he stood,Defiant, though conquered, and dauntless in mood,“You crow well, my cockerel, ere you have spurs;Has your mother more such in that rare brood of hers?”

’Twas a boy of sixteen, with his lip free of down,

Whose ball cut a groove ’twixt my temple and crown,

And who handled his sabre as deftly and keen

As a master of fence. Yes, a boy of sixteen.

And I said, as I looked on him there where he stood,

Defiant, though conquered, and dauntless in mood,

“You crow well, my cockerel, ere you have spurs;

Has your mother more such in that rare brood of hers?”

Then he laughed, and his forefinger rose, as he said,“You carry the mark of my spur on your head—Who’ll give me a drink?” as at word of commandA dozen canteens were thrust ready to hand;But ere he could choose, from his features there shrankThe blood till he paled, then he staggered and sank.We raised him; I stooped there and pillowed his headOn my knee; and I shivered—I thought he was dead.

Then he laughed, and his forefinger rose, as he said,

“You carry the mark of my spur on your head—

Who’ll give me a drink?” as at word of command

A dozen canteens were thrust ready to hand;

But ere he could choose, from his features there shrank

The blood till he paled, then he staggered and sank.

We raised him; I stooped there and pillowed his head

On my knee; and I shivered—I thought he was dead.

But no, sir, he rallied. We bore him away,When we crossed o’er the river, ere break of the day,Where our surgeon soon healed up his wound, and I nursedThe boy, and grew fond where I’d liked from the first,Till, ready for prison, but hating confine,He fled one dark night and got over the line;And I never laid eyes on my bold shaver since.That’s his sword, and a weapon would honor a prince.

But no, sir, he rallied. We bore him away,

When we crossed o’er the river, ere break of the day,

Where our surgeon soon healed up his wound, and I nursed

The boy, and grew fond where I’d liked from the first,

Till, ready for prison, but hating confine,

He fled one dark night and got over the line;

And I never laid eyes on my bold shaver since.

That’s his sword, and a weapon would honor a prince.

You smile at the story—I’ve seen you, but where?What name did you carry? “George Gaston!”—well—there!Let me grapple your fist, boy? I’d never have knownYou, with all of those whiskers. Why, how you have grown!Twelve years! well, itdoesmake a difference, I see,In you, as it probablyhasmade in me.I can’t tell how glad I’m to see you at last.Sit down; take a pipe; and we’ll talk o’er the past.

You smile at the story—I’ve seen you, but where?

What name did you carry? “George Gaston!”—well—there!

Let me grapple your fist, boy? I’d never have known

You, with all of those whiskers. Why, how you have grown!

Twelve years! well, itdoesmake a difference, I see,

In you, as it probablyhasmade in me.

I can’t tell how glad I’m to see you at last.

Sit down; take a pipe; and we’ll talk o’er the past.

Back to Index Next