VIII. THE "GRAND ARMY'S" SECOND CAMPAIGN…

VIII. THE "GRAND ARMY'S" SECOND CAMPAIGN

After its defeat at Fredericksburg, the Grand Army of the Potomac had gone into winter quarters. General Joseph Hooker was appointed to command it and found it weak and shaken. Meanwhile, the Confederate cavalry was busy, especially the guerrillas under John S. Mosby, who, in March, 1863, made a daring and successful raid upon the Union lines.

MOSBY AT HAMILTON

[March 16, 1863]

Down Loudon Lanes, with swinging reins And clash of spur and sabre, And bugling of the battle horn, Six score and eight we rode at morn, Six score and eight of Southern born, All tried in love and labor.

Full in the sun at Hamilton, We met the South's invaders; Who, over fifteen hundred strong, 'Mid blazing homes had marched along All night, with Northern shout and song To crush the rebel raiders.

Down Loudon Lanes, with streaming manes, We spurred in wild March weather; And all along our war-scarred way The graves of Southern heroes lay, Our guide-posts to revenge that day, As we rode grim together.

Old tales still tell some miracle Of saints in holy writing-- But who shall say while hundreds fled Before the few that Mosby led, Unless the noblest of our dead Charged with us then when fighting?

While Yankee cheers still stunned our ears, Of troops at Harper's Ferry, While Sheridan led on his Huns, And Richmond rocked to roaring guns, We felt the South still had some sons She would not scorn to bury.

MADISON CAWEIN.

A few days after Mosby's exploit, a desperately contested battle occurred at Kelly's Ford, Va., when the National troops under General W. W. Averill attacked and were defeated by a Confederate force under General Fitzhugh Lee. Among the Confederate dead was General John Pelham.

JOHN PELHAM

[March 17, 1863]

Just as the spring came laughing through the strife, With all its gorgeous cheer, In the bright April of historic life, Fell the great cannoneer.

The wondrous lulling of a hero's breath His bleeding country weeps; Hushed in the alabaster arms of Death, Our young Marcellus sleeps.

Nobler and grander than the Child of Rome Curbing his chariot steeds, The knightly scion of a Southern home Dazzled the land with deeds.

Gentlest and bravest in the battle-brunt, The champion of the truth, He bore his banner to the very front Of our immortal youth.

A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow, The fiery pang of shells,-- And there's a wail of immemorial woe In Alabama dells.

The pennon drops that led the sacred band Along the crimson field; The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand Over the spotless shield.

We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face; While round the lips and eyes, Couched in their marble slumber, flashed the grace Of a divine surprise.

O mother of a blessed soul on high! Thy tears may soon be shed; Think of thy boy with princes of the sky Among the Southern dead!

How must he smile on this dull world beneath, Fevered with swift renown,-- He, with the martyr's amaranthine wreath Twining the victor's crown!

JAMES RYDER RANDALL.

By the middle of April, 1863, Hooker had his army in shape to advance, and on the 28th began to cross the Rappahannock for the purpose of attacking Lee, who held a strong position in the rear of Fredericksburg. On April 30 Hooker's army was all across and bivouacked that night at Chancellorsville.

HOOKER'S ACROSS

[May 1, 1863]

Hooker's across! Hooker's across! Standards and guidons and lance-pennons toss Over the land where he points with his blade, Bristle the hill-top, and fill up the glade. Who would not follow a leader whose blood Has swelled, like our own, the battle's red flood? Who bore what we suffered, our wound and our pain,-- Bore them with patience, and dares them again? Hooker's across!

Hooker's across! Hooker's across! River of death, you shall make up our loss! Out of your channel we summon each soul, Over whose body your dark billows roll; Up from your borders we summon the dead, From valleys and hills where they struggled and bled, To joy in the vengeance the traitors shall feel At the roar of our guns and the rush of our steel! Hooker's across!

Hooker's across! Hooker's across! Fears to the wind, with our standards, we toss, Moving together, straight on, with one breath, Down to the outburst of passion and death. Oh, in the depths of our spirits we know If we fail now in the face of the foe, Flee from the field with our flag soiled and dim, We may return, but 'twill not be with him! Hooker's across!

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

Lee at once prepared to fight, and a little past midnight on May 1, 1863, he put Stonewall Jackson's column in motion toward Chancellorsville. Jackson had long since proved himself one of the South's most able generals, and his command had been increased to thirty-three thousand men, every one of whom fairly idolized him.

STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY

Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails, Stir up the camp-fire bright; No growling if the canteen fails, We'll make a roaring night. Here Shenandoah brawls along, There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong, To swell the Brigade's rousing song Of "Stonewall Jackson's way."

We see him now--the queer slouched hat Cocked o'er his eye askew; The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat, So calm, so blunt, so true. The "Blue-Light Elder" knows 'em well; Says he, "That's Banks--he's fond of shell; Lord save his soul! we'll give him--" well! That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."

Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off! Old Massa's goin' to pray. Strangle the fool that dares to scoff! Attention! it's his way. Appealing from his native sod, In forma pauperis to God: "Lay bare Thine arm; stretch forth Thy rod! Amen!" That's "Stonewall's way."

He's in the saddle now. Fall in! Steady! the whole brigade! Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win His way out, ball and blade! What matter if our shoes are worn? What matter if our feet are torn? "Quick step! we're with him before morn!" That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."

The sun's bright lances rout the mists Of morning, and, by George! Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists, Hemmed in an ugly gorge. Pope and his Dutchmen, whipped before; "Bay'nets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar; "Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score!" In "Stonewall Jackson's way."

Ah! Maiden, wait and watch and yearn For news of Stonewall's band! Ah! Widow, read, with eyes that burn, That ring upon thy hand. Ah! Wife, sew on, pray on, hope on; Thy life shall not be all forlorn; The foe had better ne'er been born That gets in "Stonewall's way."

JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.

The battle began early in the morning and the Union army was soon forced to take refuge behind its works and assume the defensive. The Confederates also paused, waiting for reinforcements. The men slept on their arms that night, and arose at dawn, ready to renew the conflict.

But the Confederates did not attack until late in the afternoon. Jackson had made a long flanking movement, and just as twilight fell, he burst from the woods in overwhelming force and routed the Federal right wing. For an instant it seemed that all was lost, but at this critical moment the Eighth Pennsylvania cavalry got in touch with the Confederate flank and charged.

KEENAN'S CHARGE

[May 2, 1863]

The sun had set; The leaves with dew were wet-- Down fell a bloody dusk On the woods, that second of May, Where "Stonewall's" corps, like a beast of prey, Tore through with angry tusk.

"They've trapped us, boys!" Rose from our flank a voice. With rush of steel and smoke On came the rebels straight, Eager as love and wild as hate; And our line reeled and broke;

Broke and fled. Not one stayed,--but the dead! With curses, shrieks, and cries, Horses and wagons and men Tumbled back through the shuddering glen, And above us the fading skies.

There's one hope, still,-- Those batteries parked on the hill! "Battery, wheel!" ('mid the roar), "Pass pieces; fix prolonge to fire Retiring. Trot!" In the panic dire A bugle rings "Trot!"--and no more.

The horses plunged, The cannon lurched and lunged, To join the hopeless rout. But suddenly rose a form Calmly in front of the human storm, With a stern commanding shout:

"Align those guns!" (We knew it was Pleasanton's.) The cannoneers bent to obey, And worked with a will at his word, And the black guns moved as if they had heard. But, ah, the dread delay!

"To wait is crime; O God, for ten minutes' time!" The general looked around. There Keenan sat, like a stone, With his three hundred horse alone, Less shaken than the ground.

"Major, your men?" "Are soldiers, general." "Then, Charge, major! Do your best; Hold the enemy back at all cost, Till my guns are placed;--else the army is lost. You die to save the rest!"

By the shrouded gleam of the western skies, Brave Keenan looked into Pleasanton's eyes For an instant--clear, and cool, and still; Then, with a smile, he said: "I will."

"Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them shrank. Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank, Rose joyously, with a willing breath,-- Rose like a greeting hail to death.

Then forward they sprang, and spurred, and clashed; Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed; Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow, In their faded coats of the blue and yellow; And above in the air, with an instinct true, Like a bird of war their pennon flew.

With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds, And blades that shine like sunlit reeds, And strong brown faces bravely pale, For fear their proud attempt shall fail, Three hundred Pennsylvanians close On twice ten thousand gallant foes.

Line after line the troopers came To the edge of the wood that was ringed with flame; Rode in, and sabred, and shot,--and fell: Nor came one back his wounds to tell. And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall, While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung 'Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung.

Line after line, aye, whole platoons, Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons, By the maddened horses were onward borne And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn; As Keenan fought with his men, side by side. So they rode, till there were no more to ride.

But over them, lying there shattered and mute, What deep echo rolls? 'Tis a death-salute From the cannon in place; for, heroes, you braved Your fate not in vain; the army was saved!

Over them now,--year following year,-- Over their graves the pine-cones fall, And the whippoorwill chants his spectre-call; But they stir not again; they raise no cheer: They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease, Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace. The rush of their charge is resounding still, That saved the army at Chancellorsville.

GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.

The regiment was greatly outnumbered, and was hurled back terribly shattered, Major Peter Keenan being among the killed. But the Confederate advance had been checked long enough for Pleasanton to get his artillery into position, and he opened with deadly effect.

The Confederates paused in the face of the terrible fire, and Jackson and his staff pushed forward on a personal reconnoissance. As he was returning to his lines, he and his companions were mistaken for Union troops by his own men and were fired upon. Jackson fell, pierced by three bullets.

"THE BRIGADE MUST NOT KNOW, SIR!"

[May 2, 1863]

"Who've ye got there?"--"Only a dying brother, Hurt in the front just now." "Good boy! he'll do. Somebody tell his mother Where he was killed, and how."

"Whom have you there?"--"A crippled courier, Major, Shot by mistake, we hear. He was with Stonewall." "Cruel work they've made here; Quick with him to the rear!"

"Well, who comes next?"--"Doctor, speak low, speak low, sir; Don't let the men find out! It's Stonewall!"--"God!"--"The brigade must not know, sir, While there's a foe about!"

Whom have we here--shrouded in martial manner, Crowned with a martyr's charm? A grand dead hero, in a living banner, Born of his heart and arm:

The heart whereon his cause hung--see how clingeth That banner to his bier! The arm wherewith his cause struck--hark! how ringeth His trumpet in their rear!

What have we left? His glorious inspiration, His prayers in council met. Living, he laid the first stones of a nation; And dead, he builds it yet.

Early on the morning of Sunday, May 3, 1863, the Confederates again attacked, and after two days' heavy fighting, drove the Union army back across the river, with a loss of seventeen thousand men. But the Confederate victory was almost outweighed by the loss of Stonewall Jackson, who died May 10.

STONEWALL JACKSON

[May 10, 1863]

Not midst the lightning of the stormy fight, Nor in the rush upon the vandal foe, Did kingly Death, with his resistless might, Lay the great leader low.

His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke In the full sunshine of a peaceful town; When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak That propped our cause went down.

Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground, Recalling all his grand, heroic deeds, Freedom herself is writhing in the wound, And all the country bleeds.

He entered not the nation's Promised Land At the red belching of the cannon's mouth, But broke the House of Bondage with his hand-- The Moses of the South!

O gracious God! not gainless is the loss: A glorious sunbeam gilds thy sternest frown; And while his country staggers 'neath the Cross, He rises with the Crown!

HENRY LYNDEN FLASH.

THE DYING WORDS OF STONEWALL JACKSON[10]

"Order A. P. Hill to prepare for battle." "Tell Major Hawks to advance the commissary train." "Let us cross the river and rest in the shade."

The stars of Night contain the glittering Day And rain his glory down with sweeter grace Upon the dark World's grand, enchanted face-- All loth to turn away.

And so the Day, about to yield his breath, Utters the stars unto the listening Night, To stand for burning fare-thee-wells of light Said on the verge of death.

O hero-life that lit us like the sun! O hero-words that glittered like the stars And stood and shone above the gloomy wars When the hero-life was done!

The phantoms of a battle came to dwell I' the fitful vision of his dying eyes-- Yet even in battle-dreams, he sends supplies To those he loved so well.

His army stands in battle-line arrayed: His couriers fly: all's done: now God decide! --And not till then saw he the Other Side Or would accept the shade.

Thou Land whose sun is gone, thy stars remain! Still shine the words that miniature his deeds. O thrice-beloved, where'er thy great heart bleeds, Solace hast thou for pain!

SIDNEY LANIER.

[10] From Poems by Sidney Lanier; copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D. Lanier; published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON.

Lee waited only to rest his forces and then, for the second time, invaded Maryland, crossing the Shenandoah at Front Royal. On June 13, 1863, the army appeared before Winchester, scattered the Union force stationed there, and swept resistlessly down the Shenandoah Valley, raiding into Pennsylvania as far as Chambersburg.

THE BALLAD OF ISHMAEL DAY

[June, 1863]

One summer morning a daring band Of Rebels rode into Maryland, Over the prosperous, peaceful farms, Sending terror and strange alarms, The clatter of hoofs and the clang of arms.

Fresh from the South, where the hungry pine They ate like Pharaoh's starving kine; They swept the land like devouring surge, And left their path, to the farthest verge, Bare as the track of the locust scourge.

"The Rebels are coming!" far and near Rang the tidings of dread and fear; Some paled and cowered and sought to hide; Some stood erect in their fearless pride; And women shuddered and children cried.

But others--vipers in human form Stinging the bosom that kept them warm-- Welcomed with triumph the thievish band, Hurried to offer the friendly hand, As the Rebels rode into Maryland.

Made them merry with food and wine, Clad them in garments, rich and fine, For rags and hunger to make amends, Flattered them, praised them with selfish ends; "Leave us scathless, for we are friends."

Could traitors trust a traitor? No! Little they favor friend or foe, But gathered the cattle the farms across, Flinging back, with a scornful toss, "If ye are friends ye can bear the loss!"

Flushed with triumph, and wine, and prey, They neared the dwelling of Ishmael Day, A sturdy veteran, gray and old, With heart of a patriot, firm and bold, Strong and steadfast--unbribed, unsold.

And Ishmael Day, his brave head bare, His white locks tossed by the morning air, Fearless of danger, or death, or scars, Went out to raise by the farm-yard bars The dear old flag of the stripes and stars.

Proudly, steadily, up it flew, Gorgeous with crimson, white and blue, His withered hand as he shook it freer, May have trembled, but not with fear, While shouting the rebels drew more near.

"Halt!" They had seen the hated sign Floating free from old Ishmael's line-- "Lower that rag!" was their wrathful cry; "Never!" rung Ishmael Day's reply, "Fire if it please you--I can but die."

One, with a loud, defiant laugh, Left his comrades and neared the staff. "Down!" came the fearless patriot's cry, "Dare to lower that flag and die! One must bleed for it--you or I."

But caring not for the stern command, He drew the halliards with daring hand; Ping! went the rifle ball--down he came, Under the flag he had tried to shame-- Old Ishmael Day took careful aim!

Seventy winters and three had shed Their snowy glories on Ishmael's head. Though cheeks may wither and locks grow gray, His fame shall be fresh and young alway-- Honor be to old Ishmael Day!

Hooker, meanwhile, was almost wholly in the dark concerning the position of Lee's army, until it was partially revealed to him on June 17, 1863, when Kilpatrick's cavalry charged and drove back the Confederate cavalry as it emerged from Ashby's Gap. Still he hesitated, and the whole of western Pennsylvania appeared to be at the mercy of the invaders.

RIDING WITH KILPATRICK

[June 17, 1863]

Dawn peered through the pines as we dashed at the ford; Afar the grim guns of the infantry roared; There were miles yet of dangerous pathway to pass, And Mosby might menace, and Stuart might mass; But we mocked every doubt, laughing danger to scorn, As we quaffed with a shout from the wine of the morn. Those who rode with Kilpatrick to valor were born!

How we chafed at delay! How we itched to be on! How we yearned for the fray where the battle-reek shone! It was forward, not halt, stirred the fire in our veins, When our horses' feet beat to the click of the reins; It was charge, not retreat, we were wonted to hear; It was charge, not retreat, that was sweet to the ear; Those who rode with Kilpatrick had never felt fear!

At last the word came, and troop tossed it to troop; Two squadrons deployed with a falcon-like swoop; While swiftly the others in echelons formed, For there, just ahead, was the line to be stormed. The trumpets rang out; there were guidons a-blow; The white summer sun set our sabres a-glow; Those who rode with Kilpatrick charged straight at the foe!

We swept like a whirlwind; we closed; at the shock The sky seemed to reel and the earth seemed to rock; Steel clashed upon steel with a deafening sound, While a redder than rose-stain encrimsoned the ground; If we gave back a space from the fierce pit of hell, We were rallied again by a voice like a bell. Those who rode with Kilpatrick rode valiantly well!

Rang sternly his orders from out of the wrack: _Re-form there, New Yorkers! You, "Harris Light," back! Come on, men of Maine! We will conquer or fall! Now, forward, boys, forward! and follow me all!_ A Bayard in boldness, a Sidney in grace, A lion to lead and a stag-hound to chase-- Those who rode with Kilpatrick looked Death in the face!

Though brave were our foemen, they faltered and fled; Yet that was no marvel when such as he led! Long ago, long ago, was that desperate day! Long ago, long ago, strove the Blue and the Gray! Praise God that the red sun of battle is set! That our hand-clasp is loyal and loving--and yet, Those who rode with Kilpatrick can never forget!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

This sudden and seemingly irresistible invasion created panic throughout the North. Troops were hurried forward, and Hooker at last started in pursuit with a hundred thousand men, but was relieved of command on June 27, 1863, and General George G. Meade appointed in his place. Lee was concentrating his army at Gettysburg, and his advance guard got into touch with the Union forces on the morning of July 1. The first day's fighting ended in the Federals being swept backward to their position on Cemetery Hill. The battle continued with undiminished fury throughout the second day; and on the third, Lee determined to renew the assault and Meade decided to stay and receive it. The entire morning was consumed in preparation. Then the Confederates charged in a line three miles long, with General George Pickett and his Virginians in the van. A terrific struggle followed, ending in the repulse of the Confederates, who withdrew in good order from the field.

GETTYSBURG

[July 3, 1863]

Wave, wave your glorious battle-flags, brave soldiers of the North, And from the field your arms have won to-day go proudly forth! For none, O comrades dear and leal,--from whom no ills could part, Through the long years of hopes and fears, the nation's constant heart,-- Men who have driven so oft the foe, so oft have striven in vain, Yet ever in the perilous hour have crossed his path again,-- At last we have our hearts' desire, from them we met have wrung A victory that round the world shall long be told and sung! It was the memory of the past that bore us through the fray, That gave the grand old Army strength to conquer on this day!

O now forget how dark and red Virginia's rivers flow, The Rappahannock's tangled wilds, the glory and the woe; The fever-hung encampments, where our dying knew full sore How sweet the north-wind to the cheek it soon shall cool no more; The fields we fought, and gained, and lost; the lowland sun and rain That wasted us, that bleached the bones of our unburied slain! There was no lack of foes to meet, of deaths to die no lack, And all the hawks of heaven learned to follow on our track; But henceforth, hovering southward, their flight shall mark afar The paths of yon retreating hosts that shun the northern star.

At night, before the closing fray, when all the front was still, We lay in bivouac along the cannon-crested hill. Ours was the dauntless Second Corps; and many a soldier knew How sped the fight, and sternly thought of what was yet to do. Guarding the centre there, we lay, and talked with bated breath Of Buford's stand beyond the town, of gallant Reynold's death, Of cruel retreats through pent-up streets by murderous volleys swept,-- How well the Stone, the Iron, Brigades their bloody outposts kept: 'Twas for the Union, for the Flag, they perished, heroes all, And we swore to conquer in the end, or even like them to fall.

And passed from mouth to mouth the tale of that grim day just done, The fight by Round Top's craggy spur,--of all the deadliest one; It saved the left: but on the right they pressed us back too well, And like a field in Spring the ground was ploughed with shot and shell. There was the ancient graveyard, its hummocks crushed and red, And there, between them, side by side, the wounded and the dead: The mangled corpses fallen above,--the peaceful dead below, Laid in their graves, to slumber here, a score of years ago; It seemed their waking, wandering shades were asking of our slain, What brought such hideous tumult now where they so still had lain!

Bright rose the sun of Gettysburg that morrow morning-tide, And call of trump and roll of drum from height to height replied. Hark! from the east already goes up the rattling din; The Twelfth Corps, winning back their ground, right well the day begin! They whirl fierce Ewell from their front! Now we of the Second pray, As right and left the brunt have borne, the centre might to-day. But all was still from hill to hill for many a breathless hour, While for the coming battle-shock Lee gathered in his power; And back and forth our leaders rode, who knew not rest or fear, And along the lines, where'er they came, went up the ringing cheer.

'Twas past the hour of nooning; the Summer skies were blue; Behind the covering timber the foe was hid from view; So fair and sweet with waving wheat the pleasant valley lay, It brought to mind our Northern homes and meadows far away; When the whole western ridge at once was fringed with fire and smoke; Against our lines from sevenscore guns the dreadful tempest broke! Then loud our batteries answer, and far along the crest, And to and fro the roaring bolts are driven east and west; Heavy and dark around us glooms the stifling sulphur-cloud, And the cries of mangled men and horse go up beneath its shroud.

The guns are still: the end is nigh: we grasp our arms anew; O now let every heart be stanch and every aim be true! For look! from yonder wood that skirts the valley's further marge, The flower of all the Southern host move to the final charge. By Heaven! it is a fearful sight to see their double rank Come with a hundred battle-flags,--a mile from flank to flank! Tramping the grain to earth, they come, ten thousand men abreast; Their standards wave,--their hearts are brave,--they hasten not, nor rest, But close the gaps our cannon make, and onward press, and nigher, And, yelling at our very front, again pour in their fire!

Now burst our sheeted lightnings forth, now all our wrath has vent! They die, they wither; through and through their wavering lines are rent. But these are gallant, desperate men, of our own race and land. Who charge anew, and welcome death, and fight us hand to hand: Vain, vain! give way, as well ye may--the crimson die is cast! Their bravest leaders bite the dust, their strength is failing fast; They yield, they turn, they fly the field: we smite them as they run; Their arms, their colors are our spoil; the furious fight is done! Across the plain we follow far and backward push the fray; Cheer! cheer! the grand old Army at last has won the day!

Hurrah! the day has won the cause! No gray-clad host henceforth Shall come with fire and sword to tread the highways of the North! 'Twas such a flood as when ye see along the Atlantic shore, The great Spring-tide roll grandly in with swelling surge and roar: It seems no wall can stay its leap or balk its wild desire Beyond the bound that Heaven hath fixed to higher mount, and higher; But now, when whitest lifts its crest, most loud its billows call, Touched by the Power that led them on, they fall, and fall, and fall. Even thus, unstayed upon his course, to Gettysburg the foe His legions led, and fought, and fled, and might no further go.

Full many a dark-eyed Southern girl shall weep her lover dead; But with a price the fight was ours,--we too have tears to shed! The bells that peal our triumph forth anon shall toll the brave, Above whose heads the cross must stand, the hillside grasses wave! Alas! alas! the trampled grass shall thrive another year, The blossoms on the apple-boughs with each new Spring appear, But when our patriot-soldiers fall, Earth gives them up to God; Though their souls rise in clearer skies, their forms are as the sod; Only their names and deeds are ours,--but, for a century yet, The dead who fell at Gettysburg the land shall not forget.

God send us peace! and where for aye the loved and lost recline Let fall, O South, your leaves of palm,--O North, your sprigs of pine! But when, with every ripened year, we keep the harvest-home, And to the dear Thanksgiving-feast our sons and daughters come,-- When children's children throng the board in the old homestead spread, And the bent soldier of these wars is seated at the head, Long, long the lads shall listen to hear the gray-beard tell Of those who fought at Gettysburg and stood their ground so well: "'Twas for the Union and the Flag," the veteran shall say, "Our grand old Army held the ridge, and won that glorious day!"

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

THE HIGH TIDE AT GETTYSBURG

[July 3, 1863]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WILL HENRY THOMPSON.

GETTYSBURG

[July 1, 2, 3, 1863]

There was no union in the land, Though wise men labored long With links of clay and ropes of sand To bind the right and wrong.

There was no temper in the blade That once could cleave a chain; Its edge was dull with touch of trade And clogged with rust of gain.

The sand and clay must shrink away Before the lava tide: By blows and blood and fire assay The metal must be tried.

Here sledge and anvil met, and when The furnace fiercest roared, God's undiscerning workingmen Reforged His people's sword.

Enough for them to ask and know The moment's duty clear-- The bayonets flashed it there below, The guns proclaimed it here:

To do and dare, and die at need, But while life lasts, to fight-- For right or wrong a simple creed, But simplest for the right.

They faltered not who stood that day And held this post of dread; Nor cowards they who wore the gray Until the gray was red.

For every wreath the victor wears The vanquished half may claim; And every monument declares A common pride and fame.

We raise no altar stones to Hate, Who never bowed to Fear: No province crouches at our gate, To shame our triumph here.

Here standing by a dead wrong's grave The blindest now may see, The blow that liberates the slave But sets the master free!

When ills beset the nation's life Too dangerous to bear, The sword must be the surgeon's knife, Too merciful to spare.

O Soldier of our common land, 'Tis thine to bear that blade Loose in the sheath, or firm in hand, But ever unafraid.

When foreign foes assail our right, One nation trusts to thee-- To wield it well in worthy fight-- The sword of Meade and Lee!

JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.

Lee commenced his retreat next morning, and was able to gain the Potomac, with his whole train, virtually without molestation. But the North was too rejoiced by the withdrawal of the invaders to mourn at their escape.

THE BATTLE-FIELD

GETTYSBURG

Those were the conquered, still too proud to yield-- These were the victors, yet too poor for shrouds! Here scarlet Slaughter slew her countless crowds Heaped high in ranks where'er the hot guns pealed. The brooks that wandered through the battlefield Flowed slowly on in ever-reddening streams; Here where the rank wheat waves and golden gleams, The dreadful squadrons, thundering, charged and reeled. Within the blossoming clover many a bone Lying unsepulchred, has bleached to white; While gentlest hearts that only love had known, Have ached with anguish at the awful sight; And War's gaunt Vultures that were lean, have grown Gorged in the darkness in a single night!

LLOYD MIFFLIN.

Among the thousands who took part in that terrific three days' struggle none was more remarkable than old John Burns, a veteran of the War of 1812 and of the Mexican War, who, rejected at the outbreak of the Civil War on account of his age, nevertheless shouldered his rifle and helped repel the invaders, when they approached his home at Gettysburg.

JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG

Have you heard the story that gossips tell Of Burns of Gettysburg? No? Ah, well: Brief is the glory that hero earns, Briefer the story of poor John Burns: He was the fellow who won renown,-- The only man who didn't back down When the rebels rode through his native town; But held his own in the fight next day, When all his townsfolk ran away. That was in July, sixty-three,-- The very day that General Lee, Flower of Southern chivalry, Baffled and beaten, backward reeled From a stubborn Meade and a barren field.

I might tell how, but the day before, John Burns stood at his cottage door, Looking down the village street, Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, He heard the low of his gathered kine, And felt their breath with incense sweet; Or I might say, when the sunset burned The old farm gable, he thought it turned The milk that fell like a babbling flood Into the milk-pail, red as blood! Or how he fancied the hum of bees Were bullets buzzing among the trees. But all such fanciful thoughts as these Were strange to a practical man like Burns, Who minded only his own concerns, Troubled no more by fancies fine Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine, Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact, Slow to argue, but quick to act. That was the reason, as some folks say, He fought so well on that terrible day.

And it was terrible. On the right Raged for hours the heady fight, Thundered the battery's double bass,-- Difficult music for men to face; While on the left--where now the graves Undulate like the living waves That all that day unceasing swept Up to the pits the rebels kept-- Round-shot ploughed the upland glades, Sown with bullets, reaped with blades; Shattered fences here and there Tossed their splinters in the air; The very trees were stripped and bare; The barns that once held yellow grain Were heaped with harvests of the slain; The cattle bellowed on the plain, The turkeys screamed with might and main, The brooding barn-fowl left their rest With strange shells bursting in each nest.

Just where the tide of battle turns, Erect and lonely, stood old John Burns. How do you think the man was dressed? He wore an ancient, long buff vest, Yellow as saffron,--but his best; And, buttoned over his manly breast, Was a bright blue coat with a rolling collar, And large gilt buttons,--size of a dollar,-- With tails that the country-folk called "swaller." He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat, White as the locks on which it sat. Never had such a sight been seen For forty years on the village green, Since old John Burns was a country beau, And went to the "quiltings" long ago.

Close at his elbows all that day, Veterans of the Peninsula, Sunburnt and bearded, charged away; And striplings, downy of lip and chin,-- Clerks that the Home-Guard mustered in,-- Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore, Then at the rifle his right hand bore; And hailed him, from out their youthful lore, With scraps of a slangy repertoire: "How are you, White Hat?" "Put her through!" "Your head's level!" and "Bully for you!" Called him "Daddy,"--begged he'd disclose The name of his tailor who made his clothes, And what was the value he set on those; While Burns, unmindful of jeer or scoff, Stood there picking the rebels off,-- With his long brown rifle, and bell-crowned hat, And the swallow-tails they were laughing at.

'Twas but a moment, for that respect Which clothes all courage their voices checked; And something the wildest could understand Spake in the old man's strong right hand, And his corded throat, and the lurking frown Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown; Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw, In the antique vestments and long white hair, The Past of the Nation in battle there; And some of the soldiers since declare That the gleam of his old white hat afar, Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, That day was their oriflamme of war.

So raged the battle. You know the rest: How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed, Broke at the final charge and ran. At which John Burns--a practical man-- Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows, And then went back to his bees and cows.

That is the story of old John Burns; This is the moral the reader learns: In fighting the battle, the question's whether You'll show a hat that's white, or a feather.

BRET HARTE.

Never was the Union nearer dissolution than it was on the eve of Gettysburg. A counter-revolution had been planned, but Lee was defeated and the plot failed. A force of four thousand raiders, under John H. Morgan, had dashed across Kentucky, into Indiana and Ohio, expecting support from the peace faction; but the result of Gettysburg spoiled all that, and Morgan and his men were surrounded and captured while trying to get back across the Ohio River.

KENTUCKY BELLE

Summer of 'sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone away-- Gone to the county-town, sir, to sell our first load of hay-- We lived in the log house yonder, poor as you've ever seen; Röschen there was a baby, and I was only nineteen.

Conrad, he took the oxen, but he left Kentucky Belle. How much we thought of Kentuck, I couldn't begin to tell-- Came from the Blue-Grass country; my father gave her to me When I rode North with Conrad, away from Tennessee.

Conrad lived in Ohio--a German he is, you know-- The house stood in broad corn-fields, stretching on, row after row. The old folks made me welcome; they were kind as kind could be; But I kept longing, longing, for the hills of Tennessee.

Oh! for a sight of water, the shadowed slope of a hill! Clouds that hang on the summit, a wind that never is still! But the level land went stretching away to meet the sky-- Never a rise, from north to south, to rest the weary eye!

From east to west no river to shine out under the moon, Nothing to make a shadow in the yellow afternoon: Only the breathless sunshine, as I looked out, all forlorn; Only the "rustle, rustle," as I walked among the corn.

When I fell sick with pining, we didn't wait any more, But moved away from the corn-lands, out to this river shore-- The Tuscarawas it's called, sir--off there's a hill, you see-- And now I've grown to like it next best to the Tennessee.

I was at work that morning. Some one came riding like mad Over the bridge and up the road--Farmer Rouf's little lad. Bareback he rode; he had no hat; he hardly stopped to say, "Morgan's men are coming, Frau; they're galloping on this way.

"I'm sent to warn the neighbors. He isn't a mile behind; He sweeps up all the horses--every horse that he can find. Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men, With bowie-knives and pistols, are galloping up the glen!"

The lad rode down the valley, and I stood still at the door; The baby laughed and prattled, playing with spools on the floor; Kentuck was out in the pasture; Conrad, my man, was gone. Near, nearer, Morgan's men were galloping, galloping on!

Sudden I picked up baby, and ran to the pasture-bar. "Kentuck!" I called--"Kentucky!" She knew me ever so far! I led her down the gully that turns off there to the right, And tied her to the bushes; her head was just out of sight.

As I ran back to the log house, at once there came a sound-- The ring of hoofs, galloping hoofs, trembling over the ground-- Coming into the turnpike, out from the White-Woman Glen-- Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men.

As near they drew and nearer, my heart beat fast in alarm; But still I stood in the doorway with baby on my arm. They came; they passed; with spur and whip in haste they sped along-- Morgan, Morgan the raider, and his band, six hundred strong.

Weary they looked and jaded, riding through night and through day; Pushing on East to the river, many long miles away, To the border-strip where Virginia runs up into the West, And fording the Upper Ohio before they could stop to rest.

On like the wind they hurried, and Morgan rode in advance; Bright were his eyes like live coals, as he gave me a sideways glance; I was just breathing freely, after my choking pain, When the last one of the troopers suddenly drew his rein.

Frightened I was to death, sir; I scarce dared look in his face, As he asked for a drink of water, and glanced around the place. I gave him a cup and he smiled--'twas only a boy, you see; Faint and worn, with dim blue eyes; and he'd sailed on the Tennessee.

Only sixteen he was, sir--a fond mother's only son-- Off and away with Morgan before his life has begun! The damp drops stood on his temples--drawn was the boyish mouth; And I thought me of the mother waiting down in the South.

Oh! pluck was he to the backbone, and clear grit through and through; Boasted and bragged like a trooper, but the big words wouldn't do;-- The boy was dying, sir, dying, as plain as plain could be, Worn out by his ride with Morgan up from the Tennessee.

But when I told the laddie that I too was from the South, Water came in his dim eyes, and quivers around his mouth. "Do you know the Blue-Grass country?" he wistful began to say; Then swayed like a willow-sapling, and fainted dead away.

I had him into the log house, and worked and brought him to; I fed him and I coaxed him, as I thought his mother'd do; And when the lad grew better, and the noise in his head was gone, Morgan's men were miles away, galloping, galloping on.

"Oh, I must go," he muttered; "I must be up and away! Morgan--Morgan is waiting for me! Oh, what will Morgan say?" But I heard a sound of tramping and kept him back from the door-- The ringing sound of horses' hoofs that I had heard before.

And on, on, came the soldiers--the Michigan cavalry-- And fast they rode, and black they looked, galloping rapidly,-- They had followed hard on Morgan's track; they had followed day and night; But of Morgan and Morgan's raiders they had never caught a sight.

And rich Ohio sat startled through all those summer days; For strange, wild men were galloping over her broad highways-- Now here, now there, now seen, now gone, now north, now east, now west, Through river-valleys and corn-land farms, sweeping away her best.

A bold ride and a long ride! But they were taken at last. They almost reached the river by galloping hard and fast; But the boys in blue were upon them ere ever they gained the ford, And Morgan, Morgan the raider, laid down his terrible sword.

Well, I kept the boy till evening--kept him against his will-- But he was too weak to follow, and sat there pale and still. When it was cool and dusky--you'll wonder to hear me tell-- But I stole down to that gully, and brought up Kentucky Belle.

I kissed the star on her forehead--my pretty gentle lass-- But I knew that she'd be happy back in the old Blue Grass. A suit of clothes of Conrad's, with all the money I had, And Kentuck, pretty Kentuck, I gave to the worn-out lad.

I guided him to the southward as well as I knew how; The boy rode off with many thanks, and many a backward bow; And then the glow it faded, and my heart began to swell, As down the glen away she went, my lost Kentucky Belle!

When Conrad came in the evening, the moon was shining high; Baby and I were both crying--I couldn't tell him why-- But a battered suit of rebel gray was hanging on the wall, And a thin old horse, with drooping head, stood in Kentucky's stall.

Well, he was kind, and never once said a hard word to me; He knew I couldn't help it--'twas all for the Tennessee. But, after the war was over, just think what came to pass-- A letter, sir; and the two were safe back in the old Blue Grass.

The lad had got across the border, riding Kentucky Belle; And Kentuck she was thriving, and fat, and hearty, and well; He cared for her, and kept her, nor touched her with whip or spur. Ah! we've had many horses since, but never a horse like her!

CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.

Part of the same plot was the draft riot which broke out in New York City on July 13, 1863. It lasted four days, and four hundred people were killed by the rioters. The draft was temporarily suspended, but was quietly resumed in August.

THE DRAFT RIOT

IN THE UNIVERSITY TOWER: NEW YORK, July, 1863

Is it the wind, the many-tongued, the weird, That cries in sharp distress about the eaves? Is it the wind whose gathering shout is heard With voice of peoples myriad like the leaves? Is it the wind? Fly to the casement, quick, And when the roar comes thick, Fling wide the sash, Await the crash!

Nothing. Some various solitary cries,-- Some sauntering woman's short hard laugh, Or honester, a dog's bark,--these arise From lamplit street up to this free flagstaff: Nothing remains of that low threatening sound; The wind raves not the eaves around. Clasp casement to,-- You heard not true.

Hark there again! a roar that holds a shriek! But not without--no, from below it comes: What pulses up from solid earth to wreck A vengeful word on towers and lofty domes? What angry booming doth the trembling ear, Glued to the stone wall, hear-- So deep, no air Its weight can bear?

Grieve! 'tis the voice of ignorance and vice,-- The rage of slaves who fancy they are free: Men who would keep men slaves at any price, Too blind their own black manacles to see. Grieve! 'tis that grisly spectre with a torch, Riot--that bloodies every porch, Hurls justice down And burns the town.

CHARLES DE KAY.

On November 19, 1863, a portion of the battle-field of Gettysburg was consecrated as a national military cemetery. It was there that President Lincoln's famous Gettysburg address, prepared almost on the spur of the moment, was delivered. He said:--

"Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting-place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us;--that from these honored dead, we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion;--that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."

LINCOLN AT GETTYSBURG

From the "Gettysburg Ode"

[November 19, 1863]

After the eyes that looked, the lips that spake Here, from the shadows of impending death, Those words of solemn breath, What voice may fitly break The silence, doubly hallowed, left by him? We can but bow the head, with eyes grown dim, And, as a Nation's litany, repeat The phrase his martyrdom hath made complete, Noble as then, but now more sadly sweet; "Let us, the Living, rather dedicate Ourselves to the unfinished work, which they Thus far advanced so nobly on its way, And save the perilled State! Let us, upon this field where they, the brave, Their last full measure of devotion gave, Highly resolve they have not died in vain!-- That, under God, the Nation's later birth Of Freedom, and the people's gain Of their own Sovereignty, shall never wane And perish from the circle of the earth!" From such a perfect text, shall Song aspire To light her faded fire, And into wandering music turn Its virtue, simple, sorrowful, and stern? His voice all elegies anticipated; For, whatsoe'er the strain, We hear that one refrain: "We consecrate ourselves to them, the Consecrated!"

BAYARD TAYLOR.

IX. WITH GRANT ON THE MISSISSIPPI

Grant had a brief repose after his victories at Shiloh and Corinth; then he addressed himself to the capture of Vicksburg. The Confederates had made a second Gibraltar of the place, and so long as they held it had command of the Mississippi. Early in April, 1863, he collected his army at New Carthage, just below Vicksburg, and on the night of April 16, Porter's fleet ran past the batteries, the object of this perilous enterprise being to afford means for carrying the troops across the river and for covering the movement.

RUNNING THE BATTERIES

(As observed from the anchorage above Vicksburg, April, 1863)

A moonless night--a friendly one; A haze dimmed the shadowy shore As the first lampless boat slid silent on; Hist! and we spake no more; We but pointed, and stilly, to what we saw.

We felt the dew, and seemed to feel The secret like a burden laid. The first boat melts; and a second keel Is blent with the foliaged shade-- Their midnight rounds have the rebel officers made?

Unspied as yet. A third--a fourth-- Gunboat and transport in Indian file Upon the war-path, smooth from the North; But the watch may they hope to beguile? The manned river-batteries stretch far mile on mile.

A flame leaps out; they are seen; Another and another gun roars; We tell the course of the boats through the screen By each further fort that pours, And we guess how they jump from their beds on those shrouded shores.

Converging fires. We speak, though low: "That blastful furnace can they thread?" "Why, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego Came out all right, we read; The Lord, be sure, he helps his people, Ned."

How we strain our gaze. On bluffs they shun A golden growing flame appears-- Confirms to a silvery steadfast one: "The town is afire!" crows Hugh; "three cheers!" Lot stops his mouth: "Nay, lad, better three tears."

A purposed light; it shows our fleet; Yet a little late in its searching ray, So far and strong that in phantom cheat Lank on the deck our shadows lay; The shining flag-ship stings their guns to furious play.

How dread to mark her near the glare And glade of death the beacon throws Athwart the racing waters there; One by one each plainer grows, Then speeds a blazoned target to our gladdened foes.

The impartial cresset lights as well The fixed forts to the boats that run; And, plunged from the ports, their answers swell Back to each fortress dun; Ponderous words speaks every monster gun.

Fearless they flash through gates of flame, The salamanders hard to hit, Though vivid shows each bulky frame; And never the batteries intermit, Nor the boat's huge guns; they fire and flit.

Anon a lull. The beacon dies. "Are they out of that strait accurst?" But other flames now dawning rise, Not mellowly brilliant like the first, But rolled in smoke, whose whitish volumes burst.

A baleful brand, a hurrying torch Whereby anew the boats are seen-- A burning transport all alurch! Breathless we gaze; yet still we glean Glimpses of beauty as we eager lean.

The effulgence takes an amber glow Which bathes the hillside villas far; Affrighted ladies mark the show Painting the pale magnolia-- The fair, false, Circe light of cruel War.

The barge drifts doomed, a plague-struck one, Shoreward in yawls the sailors fly. But the gauntlet now is nearly run, The spleenful forts by fits reply, And the burning boat dies down in morning's sky.

All out of range. Adieu, Messieurs! Jeers, as it speeds, our parting gun. So burst we through their barriers And menaces every one; So Porter proves himself a brave man's son.

HERMAN MELVILLE.

The army was at once taken across the river and on May 19, 1863, a general assault was made on the town. This was repulsed with severe loss, and Grant thereupon settled down for a regular siege.

BEFORE VICKSBURG

[May 18-July 4, 1863]

While Sherman stood beneath the hottest fire, That from the lines of Vicksburg gleamed, And bomb-shells tumbled in their smoky gyre, And grape-shot hissed, and case-shot screamed; Back from the front there came, Weeping and sorely lame, The merest child, the youngest face Man ever saw in such a fearful place.

Stifling his tears, he limped his chief to meet; But when he paused, and tottering stood, Around the circle of his little feet There spread a pool of bright, young blood. Shocked at his doleful case, Sherman cried, "Halt! front face! Who are you? Speak, my gallant boy!" "A drummer, sir:--Fifty-fifth Illinois."

"Are you not hit?" "That's nothing. Only send Some cartridges: our men are out; And the foe press us." "But, my little friend--" "Don't mind me! Did you hear that shout? What if our men be driven? Oh, for the love of Heaven, Send to my Colonel, General dear!" "But you?" "Oh, I shall easily find the rear."

"I'll see to that," cried Sherman; and a drop, Angels might envy, dimmed his eye, As the boy, toiling towards the hill's hard top, Turned round, and with his shrill child's cry Shouted, "Oh, don't forget! We'll win the battle yet! But let our soldiers have some more, More cartridges, sir,--calibre fifty-four!"

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

The place was completely invested and a terrific bombardment maintained until July 3, 1863, when the town surrendered, and on the next day, the Confederate troops in the place, to the number of twenty-seven thousand, laid down their arms.

VICKSBURG

For sixty days and upwards, A storm of shell and shot Rained round us in a flaming shower, But still we faltered not. "If the noble city perish," Our grand young leader said, "Let the only walls the foe shall scale Be ramparts of the dead!"

For sixty days and upwards, The eye of heaven waxed dim; And e'en throughout God's holy morn, O'er Christian prayer and hymn, Arose a hissing tumult, As if the fiends in air Strove to engulf the voice of faith In the shrieks of their despair.

There was wailing in the houses, There was trembling on the marts, While the tempest raged and thundered, 'Mid the silent thrill of hearts; But the Lord, our shield, was with us, And ere a month had sped, Our very women walked the streets With scarce one throb of dread.

And the little children gambolled, Their faces purely raised, Just for a wondering moment, As the huge bombs whirled and blazed; Then turned with silvery laughter To the sports which children love, Thrice-mailed in the sweet, instinctive thought That the good God watched above.

Yet the hailing bolts fell faster, From scores of flame-clad ships, And about us, denser, darker, Grew the conflict's wild eclipse, Till a solid cloud closed o'er us, Like a type of doom and ire, Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues Of forked and vengeful fire.

But the unseen hands of angels Those death-shafts warned aside, And the dove of heavenly mercy Ruled o'er the battle tide: In the houses ceased the wailing, And through the war-scarred marts The people strode, with step of hope, To the music in their hearts.

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

Just at noon of July 4, 1863, the Stars and Stripes was run up over the court-house, and the Union troops, seeing it, started to sing "The Battle-Cry of Freedom." By mid-afternoon the possession of the post was absolute and the Union fleet lay at the levee.

THE BATTLE-CRY OF FREEDOM

Yes, we'll rally round the flag, boys, we'll rally once again, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom, We will rally from the hill-side, we'll gather from the plain, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. Chorus--The Union forever, hurrah! boys, hurrah! Down with the traitor, up with the star, While we rally round the flag, boys, rally once again, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.

We are springing to the call of our brothers gone before, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom, And we'll fill the vacant ranks with a million freemen more, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.

We will welcome to our numbers the loyal, true, and brave, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom, And altho' they may be poor, not a man shall be a slave, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.

So we're springing to the call from the East and from the West, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom, And we'll hurl the rebel crew from the land we love the best, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.

GEORGE FREDERICK ROOT.

Meanwhile, General Banks had been besieging Port Hudson, a position scarcely less formidable than Vicksburg, and on May 24, 1863, had driven the Confederates within their inner line of intrenchments. Three days later, a general assault took place, in which the First and Second Louisiana, colored troops, bore a prominent part.

THE BLACK REGIMENT

[May 27, 1863]

Dark as the clouds of even, Ranked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dead mass, and drifts Tempest and falling brand Over a ruined land,-- So still and orderly, Arm to arm, knee to knee, Waiting the great event, Stands the black regiment.

Down the long dusky line Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine; And the bright bayonet, Bristling and firmly set, Flashed with a purpose grand, Long ere the sharp command Of the fierce rolling drum Told them their time had come, Told them what work was sent For the black regiment.

"Now," the flag-sergeant cried, "Though death and hell betide, Let the whole nation see If we are fit to be Free in this land; or bound Down, like the whining hound,-- Bound with red stripes of pain In our old chains again!" Oh, what a shout there went From the black regiment!

"Charge!" trump and drum awoke; Onward the bondmen broke; Bayonet and sabre-stroke Vainly opposed their rush. Through the wild battle's crush, With but one thought aflush, Driving their lords like chaff, In the guns' mouths they laugh; Or at the slippery brands, Leaping with open hands, Down they tear man and horse, Down in their awful course; Trampling with bloody heel Over the crashing steel, All their eyes forward bent, Rushed the black regiment.

"Freedom!" their battle-cry,-- "Freedom! or leave to die!" Ah! and they meant the word, Not as with us 'tis heard, Not a mere party shout: They gave their spirits out; Trusted the end to God, And on the gory sod Rolled in triumphant blood. Glad to strike one free blow, Whether for weal or woe; Glad to breathe one free breath, Though on the lips of death; Praying,--alas! in vain! That they might fall again, So they could once more see That burst to liberty! This was what "freedom" lent To the black regiment.

Hundreds on hundreds fell; But they are resting well; Scourges, and shackles strong Never shall do them wrong. Oh, to the living few, Soldiers, be just and true! Hail them as comrades tried; Fight with them side by side; Never, in field or tent, Scorn the black regiment!

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

Shortly after the fall of Vicksburg, Grant was severely injured by a fall from a horse, and it was some months before he could take the field again. Most of his troops were sent to reinforce the Army of the Cumberland, under Rosecrans, which was operating against the Confederates under Bragg, in Tennessee. Chattanooga was occupied by the Union forces on September 16, 1863. Rosecrans pushed forward to the Chickamauga valley, where, on September 18, Bragg attacked in force. The battle raged for two days, the Union line was broken, and General Thomas and his division were isolated on a slope of Missionary Ridge. Assault after assault was delivered against him, but he stood like a rock, and at sundown still held the position.

THE BALLAD OF CHICKAMAUGA

[September 19, 20, 1863]

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 long As 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 lay Beneath the wild tornado that swept her pride away; Her dimpling dales and circling hills dyed crimson with the flood That 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 aide Leaned 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 deer Go scurrying from their forest haunts to plunge in wilder fear.

Beyond, our lines are broken; and now in frenzied rout The 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 flood The 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 on The 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 arise On harvest-happy farms. The locusts pipe, the crickets sing Among the falling leaves, And wandering breezes sigh, and bring The harp-notes of the sheaves.

Peace smiles upon the hills and dells; Peace smiles upon the seas; And drop the notes of happy bells Upon the fruited trees. The broad Missouri stretches far Her commerce-gathering arms, And multiply on Arkansas The 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 thee By Chickamauga River.

The autumn winds were piping low, Beneath the vine-clad eaves; We heard the hollow bugle blow Among the ripened sheaves. And fast the mustering squadrons passed Through mountain portals wide, And swift the blue brigades were massed By Chickamauga's tide.

It was the Sabbath; and in awe We heard the dark hills shake, And o'er the mountain turrets saw The 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 guns From batteries dark and dire. And where the Chickamauga runs Red runs the muskets' fire.

I see bold Longstreet's darkening host Sweep 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 lies On Chickamauga River!"

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

Through tongues of flame, through meadows brown, Dry valley roads concealed, Ohio's hero dashes down Upon 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 height In twilight's crimson waved, And all the clustered stars of white Were to the Union saved.

O chief of staff! the nation's fate That 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 thee By Chickamauga River.

In dreams I stand beside the tide Where those old heroes fell: Above the valleys long and wide Sweet 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 streams Above the fields of fall, And Chattanooga calmly dreams Beneath her mountain-wall. Old Lookout Mountain towers on high, As in heroic days, When 'neath the battle in the sky Were seen its summits blaze.

'T was ours to lay no garlands fair Upon the graves "unknown": Kind Nature sets her gentians there, And fall the sear leaves lone. Those heroes' graves no shaft of Mars May mark with beauty ever; But floats the flag of forty stars By 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 sea Of 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 shower As 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 night Here 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 roar That 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 came From 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 crag Flung 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 Mountain Raining 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 go Through 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 precedes The 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 scaur To guard the holy strand; But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war Above 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 blade As lightly as the pen.

And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dim Over a bleeding hound, Seem each one to have caught the strength of him Whose 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 lands And 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 smoke Creeps 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 Fates God has inscribed her doom: And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits The 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 drew More 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 rise To 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 spires Thou 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 hurl All the rest over it!

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

Never?--what hideous growth Is 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 ablaze Uprearing 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 sea Sumter lay; A light was overhead, As from burning cities shed, And the clouds were battle-red, Far away. Not a solitary gun Left to tell the fort had won Or lost the day! Nothing but the tattered rag Of the drooping rebel flag, And the sea-birds screaming round it in their play.

How it woke one April morn Fame shall tell; As from Moultrie, close at hand, And the batteries on the land, Round its faint but fearless band Shot and shell Raining hid the doubtful light; But they fought the hopeless fight Long 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 appals In its doom; For this blasted spot of earth Where rebellion had its birth Is its tomb! And when Sumter sinks at last From the heavens, that shrink aghast, Hell shall rise in grim derision and make room!

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

[11] From Poetical Writings of Richard Henry Stoddard; copyright, 1880, by Charles Scribner's Sons.Return to passage

X. 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 me To 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 shame On 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 wall Of smoke-hid cannon and sweep of flame Drove in our flanks, back! back! and all Our toil seemed lost in the storm of shell-- That desperate day McPherson fell!

Our regiment stood in a little glade Set 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 eyes The belching cannon smoke, the half-hid swing Of 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 right Burst a rider--His head was bare, his eye Had a blaze like a lion fain for fight; His long hair, black as the deepest night, Streamed out on the wind. And the might Of 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 line Through 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 low And the flag swings low on the mast; He has followed his mighty chieftain through The mist-hung stream, where gray and blue One color stand, And North to South extends the hand. It's right that deeds of war and blood Should be forgot, but, spite of all, I think of Logan, now, as he rode That day across the field; I hear the call Of his trumpet voice--see the battle shine In his stern, black eyes, and down the line Of 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]

Arms reversed and banners craped-- Muffled drums; Snowy horses sable-draped-- McPherson comes. _But, tell us, shall we know him more, Lost-Mountain and lone Kenesaw?_

Brave the sword upon the pall-- A gleam in gloom; So a bright name lighteth all McPherson's doom.

Bear him through the chapel-door-- Let priest in stole Pace before the warrior Who led. Bell--toll!

Lay him down within the nave, The Lesson read-- Man is noble, man is brave, But man's--a weed.

Take him up again and wend Graveward, nor weep: There's a trumpet that shall rend This Soldier's sleep.

Pass the ropes the coffin round, And let descend; Prayer and volley--let it sound McPherson's end. _True fame is his, for life is o'er-- Sarpedon of the mighty war._

HERMAN MELVILLE.

Hostilities continued about Atlanta for nearly a month, and finally, on September 2, 1864, the Confederates evacuated the city. A few days later, they suddenly attacked Allatoona, where General Corse was stationed with a small garrison. Sherman heard the thunder of the guns from the top of Kenesaw Mountain, and signalled Corse the famous message, "Hold out; relief is coming!" Corse did hold out and the Confederates finally withdrew.

WITH CORSE AT ALLATOONA

[October 5, 1864]

It was less than two thousand we numbered, In the fort sitting up on the hill; That night not a soldier that slumbered; We watched by the starlight until Daybreak showed us all of their forces; About us their gray columns ran, To left and to right they were round us, Five thousand if there was a man.

"Surrender your fort," bawled the rebel; "Five minutes I give, or you're dead." "Not a man," answered Corse, in his treble, "Perhaps you can take us instead!" Then pealed forth their cannon infernal; We fought them outside of the pass, Two hours, the time seemed eternal; The dead lay in lines on the grass.

But who cared for dead or for dying? The fort we were there to defend, And across from yon far mountain flying, Came a message, "Hold on to the end; Hold on to the fort." It was Sherman, Who signalled from Kenesaw's height, Far over the heads of our foemen, "Hold on--I am coming to-night."

Quick fluttered our flag to the signal, We answered him back with a will, And fired on the gray-coated rebels That charged up the slope of the hill. "Load double," cried Corse, "every cannon; Who cares for their ten to our one?" We looked at the swift-coming rebels, And answered their yell with a gun.

With the grape from our fort in their faces, They rush to the ramparts, but stop; Ah! few of the gray-columned army That day left alive at the top. On the parapets, too, lie our wounded, Each porthole a grave for the dead; No room for our cannon, the corpses Fill up the embrasures instead.

Again through the cannon's red weather They charge up the hill and the pass, Their dead and our dead lie together Out there on the slope in the grass. A crash from our rifles--they falter; A gleam from our steel--it is by. "Recall and retreat," sound their bugles; We cheer from the fort as they fly.

Once more and the signal is flying-- "How many the wounded and dead?" "Six hundred," says Corse, "with the dying," The blood streaming down from his head. "But what of that? Look! the old banner Shines out there as peaceful and still As if there had not been a battle This morning up there on the hill."

SAMUEL H. M. BYERS.

ALLATOONA

[October 5, 1864]

Winds that sweep the southern mountains, And the leafy river shore, Bear ye now a prouder burden Than ye ever learned before! And the heart blood fills The heart, till it thrills At the story Of the terror and the glory Of this battle of the Allatoona hills!

Echo it from the purple mountain To the gray resounding shore! 'Tis as sad and proud a burden As ye ever learned before. How they fell like grass When the mowers pass! And the dying, When the foe were flying, Swelled the cheering of the heroes of the pass.

Sweep it o'er the hills of Georgia, To the mountains of the north! Teach the coward and the doubter What the blood of man is worth! Toss the flags as ye pass! Let their stained and tattered mass Tell the story Of the terror and the glory Of the battle of the Allatoona Pass!

Sherman now prepared for a manoeuvre which was destined to be the most famous of the war. He determined to destroy Atlanta, and, marching through the heart of Georgia, to capture one or more of the important seaport towns. On November 16, 1864, the famous "march to the sea" began.

SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA

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

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

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

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

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

SAMUEL H. M. BYERS.

Through the heart of Georgia the army moved, leaving behind a path of ruin forty miles in width. Some of this destruction was no doubt necessary, but much of it seems to have been wanton and without reason.

THE SONG OF SHERMAN'S ARMY

A pillar of fire by night, A pillar of smoke by day, Some hours of march--then a halt to fight, And so we hold our way; Some hours of march--then a halt to fight, As on we hold our way.

Over mountain and plain and stream, To some bright Atlantic bay, With our arms aflash in the morning beam, We hold our festal way; With our arms aflash in the morning beam, We hold our checkless way!

There is terror wherever we come, There is terror and wild dismay When they see the Old Flag and hear the drum Announce us on our way; When they see the Old Flag and hear the drum Beating time to our onward way.

Never unlimber a gun For those villainous lines in gray; Draw sabres! and at 'em upon the run! 'Tis thus we clear our way; Draw sabres, and soon you will see them run, As we hold our conquering way.

The loyal, who long have been dumb, Are loud in their cheers to-day; And the old men out on their crutches come, To see us hold our way; And the old men out on their crutches come, To bless us on our way.

Around us in rear and flanks, Their futile squadrons play, With a sixty-mile front of steady ranks, We hold our checkless way; With a sixty-mile front of serried ranks, Our banner clears the way.

Hear the spattering fire that starts From the woods and the copses gray, There is just enough fighting to quicken our hearts, As we frolic along the way! There is just enough fighting to warm our hearts, As we rattle along the way.

Upon different roads, abreast, The heads of our columns gay, With fluttering flags, all forward pressed, Hold on their conquering way; With fluttering flags to victory pressed, We hold our glorious way.

Ah, traitors! who bragged so bold In the sad war's early day, Did nothing predict you should ever behold The Old Flag come this way? Did nothing predict you should yet behold Our banner come back this way?

By heaven! 'tis a gala march, 'Tis a picnic or a play; Of all our long war 'tis the crowning arch, Hip, hip! for Sherman's way! Of all our long war this crowns the arch-- For Sherman and Grant, hurrah!

CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE.

MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA

Bring the good old bugle, boys, we'll sing another song-- Sing it with a spirit that will start the world along-- Sing it as we used to sing it fifty thousand strong, While we were marching through Georgia. Chorus--"Hurrah! Hurrah! we bring the jubilee! Hurrah! Hurrah! the flag that makes you free!" So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea, While we were marching through Georgia.

How the darkeys shouted when they heard the joyful sound! How the turkeys gobbled which our commissary found! How the sweet potatoes even started from the ground, While we were marching through Georgia.

Yes, and there were Union men who wept with joyful tears, When they saw the honored flag they had not seen for years; Hardly could they be restrained from breaking forth in cheers, While we were marching through Georgia.

"Sherman's dashing Yankee boys will never reach the coast!" So the saucy rebels said--and 'twas a handsome boast, Had they not forgot, alas! to reckon on a host, While we were marching through Georgia.

So we made a thoroughfare for Freedom and her train, Sixty miles in latitude--three hundred to the main; Treason fled before us, for resistance was in vain, While we were marching through Georgia.

HENRY CLAY WORK.

ETHIOPIA SALUTING THE COLORS

Who are you dusky woman, so ancient hardly human, With your woolly-white and turban'd head, and bare bony feet? Why rising by the roadside here, do you the colors greet?

('Tis while our army lines Carolina's sands and pines, Forth from thy hovel door thou Ethiopia com'st to me, As under doughty Sherman I march toward the sea.)

_Me master years a hundred since from my parents sunder'd, A little child, they caught me as the savage beast is caught, Then hither me across the sea the cruel slaver brought._

No further does she say, but lingering all the day, Her high-borne turban'd head she wags, and rolls her darkling eye, And courtesies to the regiments, the guidons moving by.

What is it fateful woman, so blear, hardly human? Why wag your head with turban bound, yellow, red and green? Are the things so strange and marvellous you see or have seen?

WALT WHITMAN.

The invasion brought panic to the South, and Beauregard hastened to oppose it. But Sherman pressed on irresistibly, beating down all opposition, reached Savannah, and on December 22, 1864, marched into the city, which had been abandoned by the Confederates. On Christmas day, he telegraphed President Lincoln, "I beg to present to you, as a Christmas gift, the city of Savannah."

SHERMAN'S IN SAVANNAH

[December 22, 1864]

Like the tribes of Israel, Fed on quails and manna, Sherman and his glorious band Journeyed through the rebel land, Fed from Heaven's all-bounteous hand, Marching on Savannah!

As the moving pillar shone, Streamed the starry banner All day long in rosy light, Flaming splendor all the night, Till it swooped in eagle flight Down on doomed Savannah!

Glory be to God on high! Shout the loud Hosanna! Treason's wilderness is past, Canaan's shore is won at last, Peal a nation's trumpet-blast,-- Sherman's in Savannah!

Soon shall Richmond's tough old hide Find a tough old tanner! Soon from every rebel wall Shall the rag of treason fall, Till our banner flaps o'er all As it crowns Savannah!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

SAVANNAH

[December 23, 1864]

Thou hast not drooped thy stately head, Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed! Not like a lamb to slaughter led, But with the lion's monarch tread, Thou comest to thy battle bed, Savannah! O Savannah!

Thine arm of flesh is girded strong; The blue veins swell beneath thy wrong; To thee the triple cords belong Of woe and death and shameless wrong, And spirit vaunted long, too long! Savannah! O Savannah!

No blood-stains spot thy forehead fair; Only the martyrs' blood is there; It gleams upon thy bosom bare, It moves thy deep, deep soul to prayer, And tunes a dirge for thy sad ear, Savannah! O Savannah!

Thy clean white hand is opened wide For weal or woe, thou Freedom Bride; The sword-sheath sparkles at thy side, Thy plighted troth, whate'er betide, Thou hast but Freedom for thy guide, Savannah! O Savannah!

What though the heavy storm-cloud lowers, Still at thy feet the old oak towers; Still fragrant are thy jessamine bowers, And things of beauty, love, and flowers Are smiling o'er this land of ours, My sunny home, Savannah!

There is no film before thy sight,-- Thou seest woe and death and night, And blood upon thy banner bright; But in thy full wrath's kindled might What carest thou for woe or night? My rebel home, Savannah!

Come--for the crown is on thy head! Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed; Not like a lamb to slaughter led, But with the lion's monarch tread, Oh! come unto thy battle bed, Savannah! O Savannah!

ALETHEA S. BURROUGHS.

Sherman paused at Savannah to fortify the place and get his army into shape, after its march of two hundred and fifty miles; then, on January 15, 1865, he started northward into South Carolina.

CAROLINA

[January, 1865]

The despot treads thy sacred sands, Thy pines give shelter to his bands, Thy sons stand by with idle hands, Carolina! He breathes at ease thy airs of balm, He scorns the lances of thy palm; Oh! who shall break thy craven calm, Carolina! Thy ancient fame is growing dim, A spot is on thy garment's rim; Give to the winds thy battle-hymn, Carolina!

Call on thy children of the hill, Wake swamp and river, coast and rill, Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill, Carolina! Cite wealth and science, trade and art, Touch with thy fire the cautious mart, And pour thee through the people's heart, Carolina! Till even the coward spurns his fears, And all thy fields, and fens, and meres Shall bristle like thy palm with spears, Carolina!

I hear a murmur as of waves That grope their way through sunless caves, Like bodies struggling in their graves, Carolina! And now it deepens; slow and grand It swells, as, rolling to the land, An ocean broke upon thy strand, Carolina! Shout! Let it reach the startled Huns! And roar with all thy festal guns! It is the answer of thy sons, Carolina!

HENRY TIMROD.

Every man in the state was called to arms, but the Union forces met with only a weak and ineffective resistance. On February 16, 1865, Columbia was occupied; and catching fire accidentally next day, was totally destroyed. The fall of Columbia left Charleston exposed and the Confederate troops hastened to get away while they could.

CHARLESTON

[February, 1865]

Calmly beside her tropic strand, An empress, brave and loyal, I see the watchful city stand, With aspect sternly royal; She knows her mortal foe draws near, Armored by subtlest science, Yet deep, majestical, and clear, Rings out her grand defiance. Oh, glorious is thy noble face, Lit up by proud emotion, And unsurpassed thy stately grace, Our warrior Queen of Ocean!

First from thy lips the summons came, Which roused our South to action, And, with the quenchless force of flame Consumed the demon, Faction; First, like a rush of sovereign wind, That rends dull waves asunder, Thy prescient warning struck the blind, And woke the deaf with thunder; They saw, with swiftly kindling eyes, The shameful doom before them, And heard, borne wild from northern skies, The death-gale hurtling o'er them:

Wilt thou, whose virgin banner rose, A morning star of splendor, Quail when the war-tornado blows, And crouch in base surrender? Wilt thou, upon whose loving breast Our noblest chiefs are sleeping, Yield thy dead patriots' place of rest To scornful alien keeping? No! while a life-pulse throbs for fame, Thy sons will gather round thee, Welcome the shot, the steel, the flame, If honor's hand hath crowned thee.

Then fold about thy beauteous form The imperial robe thou wearest, And front with regal port the storm Thy foe would dream thou fearest; If strength, and will, and courage fail To cope with ruthless numbers, And thou must bend, despairing, pale, Where thy last hero slumbers, Lift the red torch, and light the fire Amid those corpses gory, And on thy self-made funeral pyre, Pass from the world to glory.

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

The cotton in the town was burned, many houses caught fire, and a magazine exploded, killing two hundred people. The city was virtually a ruin when the last of the Confederate troops--"poor old Dixie's bottom dollar"--left the city.

ROMANCE

"Talk of pluck!" pursued the Sailor, Set at euchre on his elbow, "I was on the wharf at Charleston, Just ashore from off the runner.

"It was gray and dirty weather, And I heard a drum go rolling, Rub-a-dubbing in the distance, Awful dour-like and defiant.

"In and out among the cotton, Mud, and chains, and stores, and anchors, Tramped a squad of battered scarecrows-- Poor old Dixie's bottom dollar!

"Some had shoes, but all had rifles, Them that wasn't bald was beardless, And the drum was rolling 'Dixie,' And they stepped to it like men, sir!

"Rags and tatters, belts and bayonets, On they swung, the drum a-rolling, Mum and sour. It looked like fighting, And they meant it too, by thunder!"

WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY.

The excitement of the people mounted to hysteria; there were those who advised that the city be destroyed and that its inhabitants die fighting on its ashes. But calmer counsel prevailed and Charleston, on February 18, 1865, was surrendered without resistance.

THE FOE AT THE GATES

[CHARLESTON, 1865]

Ring round her! children of her glorious skies, Whom she hath nursed to stature proud and great; Catch one last glance from her imploring eyes, Then close your ranks and face the threatening fate.

Ring round her! with a wall of horrent steel Confront the foe, nor mercy ask nor give; And in her hour of anguish let her feel That ye can die whom she has taught to live.

Ring round her! swear, by every lifted blade, To shield from wrong the mother who gave you birth; That never violent hand on her be laid, Nor base foot desecrate her hallowed hearth.

Curst be the dastard who shall halt or doubt! And doubly damned who casts one look behind! Ye who are men! with unsheathed sword, and shout, Up with her banner! give it to the wind!

Peal your wild slogan, echoing far and wide, Till every ringing avenue repeat The gathering cry, and Ashley's angry tide Calls to the sea-waves beating round her feet.

Sons, to the rescue! spurred and belted, come! Kneeling, with clasp'd hands, she invokes you now By the sweet memories of your childhood's home, By every manly hope and filial vow,

To save her proud soul from that loathèd thrall Which yet her spirit cannot brook to name; Or, if her fate be near, and she must fall, Spare her--she sues--the agony and shame.

From all her fanes let solemn bells be tolled; Heap with kind hands her costly funeral pyre, And thus, with pæan sung and anthem rolled, Give her unspotted to the God of Fire.

Gather around her sacred ashes then, Sprinkle the cherished dust with crimson rain, Die! as becomes a race of free-born men, Who will not crouch to wear the bondman's chain.

So, dying, ye shall win a high renown, If not in life, at least by death, set free; And send her fame through endless ages down-- The last grand holocaust of Liberty.

JOHN DICKSON BRUNS.

While Sherman was accomplishing his task in this triumphant manner, Grant was hammering away at Richmond. Late in February, 1864, a strong force under Kilpatrick was detached to raid around Richmond and if possible release the Union prisoners at Belle Isle and in Libby prison. They reached the outer fortifications, but were repulsed, Major Ulric Dahlgren being among the killed.

ULRIC DAHLGREN

[March 2, 1864]

A flash of light across the night, An eager face, an eye afire! O lad so true, you yet may rue The courage of your deep desire!

"Nay, tempt me not; the way is plain-- 'Tis but the coward checks his rein; For there they lie, And there they cry, For whose dear sake 'twere joy to die!"

He bends unto his saddlebow, The steeds they follow two and two; Their flanks are wet with foam and sweat, Their riders' locks are damp with dew.

"O comrades, haste! the way is long, The dirge it drowns the battle-song; The hunger preys, The famine slays, An awful horror veils our ways!"

Beneath the pall of prison wall The rush of hoofs they seem to hear; From loathsome guise they lift their eyes, And beat their bars and bend their ear.

"Ah, God be thanked! our friends are nigh; He wills it not that thus we die; O fiends accurst Of Want and Thirst, Our comrades gather,--do your worst!"

A sharp affright runs through the night, An ambush stirred, a column reined; The hurrying steed has checked his speed, His smoking flanks are crimson stained.

O noble son of noble sire, Thine ears are deaf to our desire! O knightly grace Of valiant race, The grave is honor's trysting-place!

O life so pure! O faith so sure! O heart so brave, and true, and strong! With tips of flame is writ your name, In annaled deed and storied song!

It flares across the solemn night, It glitters in the radiant light; A jewel set, Unnumbered yet, In our Republic's coronet!

KATE BROWNLEE SHERWOOD.

On May 1, 1864, a general advance was ordered, and two days later the Army of the Potomac, one hundred and thirty thousand strong, advanced into the Wilderness, south of the Rapidan. There, on May 5, Lee hurled his forces upon them. On the second day, Lee seized the colors of a Texas regiment and started to lead an assault in person. The men remonstrated and promised to carry the position if Lee would retire. The troops advanced shouting, "Lee to the rear!" and kept their word.

LEE TO THE REAR

[May 6, 1864]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JOHN RANDOLPH THOMPSON.

For two weeks a frightful struggle raged. The Union losses were fearful, but on May 11, 1864, Grant wired to the Secretary of War, "I propose to fight it out on this line, if it takes all summer."

CAN'T

How history repeats itself You'll say when you remember Grant, Who, in his boyhood days, once sought Throughout the lexicon for "can't."

He could not find the word that day, The earnest boy whose name was Grant; He never found it through long years, With all their power to disenchant.

No hostile host could give him pause; Rivers and mountains could not daunt; He never found that hindering word-- The steadfast man whose name was Grant.

HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

Grant used his cavalry most effectively, and he had a dashing leader in "Phil" Sheridan. Early in May, 1864, Sheridan and a strong force was sent on a raid around the Confederate lines, and on the 12th encountered General J. E. B. Stuart in force at Yellow Tavern. A sharp engagement followed, in which Stuart was killed.

OBSEQUIES OF STUART

[May 12, 1864]

We could not pause, while yet the noontide air Shook with the cannonade's incessant pealing, The funeral pageant fitly to prepare-- A nation's grief revealing.

The smoke, above the glimmering woodland wide That skirts our southward border in its beauty, Marked where our heroes stood and fought and died For love and faith and duty.

And still, what time the doubtful strife went on, We might not find expression for our sorrow; We could but lay our dear dumb warrior down, And gird us for the morrow.

One weary year agone, when came a lull With victory in the conflict's stormy closes, When the glad Spring, all flushed and beautiful, First mocked us with her roses,

With dirge and bell and minute-gun, we paid Some few poor rites--an inexpressive token Of a great people's pain--to Jackson's shade, In agony unspoken.

No wailing trumpet and no tolling bell, No cannon, save the battle's boom receding, When Stuart to the grave we bore, might tell, With hearts all crushed and bleeding.

The crisis suited not with pomp, and she Whose anguish bears the seal of consecration Had wished his Christian obsequies should be Thus void of ostentation.

Only the maidens came, sweet flowers to twine Above his form so still and cold and painless, Whose deeds upon our brightest records shine, Whose life and sword were stainless.

They well remembered how he loved to dash Into the fight, festooned from summer bowers; How like a fountain's spray his sabre's flash Leaped from a mass of flowers.

And so we carried to his place of rest All that of our great Paladin was mortal: The cross, and not the sabre, on his breast, That opes the heavenly portal.

No more of tribute might to us remain; But there will still come a time when Freedom's martyrs A richer guerdon of renown shall gain Than gleams in stars and garters.

I hear from out that sunlit land which lies Beyond these clouds that gather darkly o'er us, The happy sounds of industry arise In swelling peaceful chorus.

And mingling with these sounds, the glad acclaim Of millions undisturbed by war's afflictions, Crowning each martyr's never-dying name With grateful benedictions.

In some fair future garden of delights, Where flowers shall bloom and song-birds sweetly warble, Art shall erect the statues of our knights In living bronze and marble.

And none of all that bright heroic throng Shall wear to far-off time a semblance grander, Shall still be decked with fresher wreaths of song, Than this beloved commander.

The Spanish legend tells us of the Cid, That after death he rode, erect, sedately, Along his lines, even as in life he did, In presence yet more stately;

And thus our Stuart, at this moment, seems To ride out of our dark and troubled story Into the region of romance and dreams, A realm of light and glory;

And sometimes, when the silver bugles blow, That ghostly form, in battle reappearing, Shall lead his horsemen headlong on the foe, In victory careering!

JOHN RANDOLPH THOMPSON.

Grant was overwhelming the Confederates by weight of numbers, and pushed slowly on. To divert him, Lee threw a portion of his army into the Shenandoah valley, and started again to invade Maryland and Pennsylvania. A body of Union troops contested their passage at Snicker's Ferry and a sharp skirmish followed.

A CHRISTOPHER OF THE SHENANDOAH

ISLAND FORD, SNICKER'S GAP, JULY 18, 1864

TOLD BY THE ORDERLY

Mute he sat in the saddle,--mute 'midst our full acclaim, As three times over we gave to the mountain echo his name. Then, "But I couldn't do less!" in a murmur remonstrant came.

This was the deed his spirit set and his hand would not shun, When the vale of the Shenandoah had lost the glow of the sun, And the evening cloud and the battle smoke were blending in one.

Retreating and ever retreating, the bank of the river we gained, Hope of the field was none, and choice but of flight remained, When there at the brink of the ford his horse he suddenly reined.

For his vigilant eye had marked where, close by the oozy marge, Half-parted its moorings, there lay a battered and oarless barge. "Quick! gather the wounded in!" and the flying stayed at his charge.

They gathered the wounded in whence they fell by the river-bank, Lapped on the gleaming sand, or aswoon, 'mid the rushes dank; And they crowded the barge till its sides low down in the water sank.

The river was wide, was deep, and heady the current flowed, A burdened and oarless craft!--straight into the stream he rode By the side of the barge, and drew it along with its moaning load.

A moaning and ghastly load--the wounded--the dying--the dead! For ever upon their traces followed the whistling lead, Our bravest the mark, yet unscathed and undaunted, he pushed ahead.

Alone? Save for one that from love of his leader or soldierly pride (Hearing his call for aid, and seeing that none replied), Plunged and swam by the crazy craft on the other side.

But Heaven! what weary toil! for the river is wide, is deep; The current is swift, and the bank on the further side is steep. 'Tis reached at last, and a hundred of ours to the rescue leap.

Oh, they cheered as he rose from the stream and the water-drops flowed away! "But I couldn't do less!" in the silence that followed we heard him say; Then the wounded cheered, and the swooning awoke in the barge where they lay.

And I?--Ah, well, I swam by the barge on the other side; But an orderly goes wherever his leader chooses to ride. Come life or come death I couldn't do less than follow his guide.

EDITH M. THOMAS.

The Confederate cavalry pushed on toward the Susquehanna, sacked Chambersburg, and filled all western Pennsylvania with panic. Grant at once got together a large force to repel this invasion, and placed it under command of General Sheridan. On September 19, 1864, the Confederates attacked his troops at Winchester, but Sheridan beat them off and punished them so severely that he supposed they had enough. With that impression, he went to Washington on official business, leaving his men strongly posted on Cedar Creek. There, on the morning of October 19, the Confederates attacked them, front, flank, and rear.

SHERIDAN AT CEDAR CREEK

[October 19, 1864]

Shoe the steed with silver That bore him to the fray, When he heard the guns at dawning-- Miles away; When he heard them calling, calling-- Mount! nor stay: Quick, or all is lost; They've surprised and stormed the post, They push your routed host-- Gallop! retrieve the day.

House the horse in ermine-- For the foam-flake blew White through the red October; He thundered into view; They cheered him in the looming, Horseman and horse they knew. The turn of the tide began, The rally of bugles ran, He swung his hat in the van; The electric hoof-spark flew.

Wreathe the steed and lead him-- For the charge he led Touched and turned the cypress Into amaranths for the head Of Philip, king of riders, Who raised them from the dead. The camp (at dawning lost) By eve, recovered--forced, Rang with laughter of the host As belated Early fled.

Shroud the horse in sable-- For the mounds they heap! There is firing in the Valley, And yet no strife they keep; It is the parting volley, It is the pathos deep. There is glory for the brave Who lead, and nobly save, But no knowledge in the grave Where the nameless followers sleep.

HERMAN MELVILLE.

Sheridan, returning from Washington, had slept at Winchester the night of October 18, 1864, and early next morning heard the sounds of the battle. He mounted his horse and started for the field, reached there just in time to rally his retreating troops, turned a defeat into a decisive victory, and drove the invaders pell-mell back to Virginia.

SHERIDAN'S RIDE

[October 19, 1864]

Up from the South, at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door, The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wider still those billows of war Thundered along the horizon's bar; And louder yet into Winchester rolled The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, Making the blood of the listener cold, As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, With Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town, A good, broad highway leading down: And there, through the flush of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight; As if he knew the terrible need, He stretched away with his utmost speed. Hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south, The dust like smoke from the cannon's mouth, Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away.

Under his spurning feet, the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, And the landscape sped away behind Like an ocean flying before the wind; And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire; But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire; He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away.

The first that the general saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops; What was done? what to do? a glance told him both. Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath, He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play, He seemed to the whole great army to say: "I have brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester down to save the day."

Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan! Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! And when their statues are placed on high Under the dome of the Union sky, The American soldier's Temple of Fame, There, with the glorious general's name, Be it said, in letters both bold and bright: "Here is the steed that saved the day By carrying Sheridan into the fight, From Winchester--twenty miles away!"

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

Grant, meanwhile, steadily tightened his grip on Richmond, and Lee at last perceived that to hold the capital longer would be to sacrifice his army. He withdrew during the night of April 2, 1865, and the Union troops entered the city unopposed next day.

THE YEAR OF JUBILEE

[Sung by the negro troops as they entered Richmond]

Say, darkeys, hab you seen de massa, Wid de muffstash on he face, Go long de road some time dis mornin', Like he gwine leabe de place? He see de smoke way up de ribber Whar de Lincum gunboats lay; He took he hat an' leff berry sudden, And I spose he's runned away. De massa run, ha, ha! De darkey stay, ho, ho! It mus' be now de kingdum comin', An' de yar ob jubilo.

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

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

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

HENRY CLAY WORK.

VIRGINIA CAPTA

APRIL, 1865

Unconquer'd captive!--close thine eye, And draw the ashen sackcloth o'er, And in thy speechless woe deplore The fate that would not let thee die!

The arm that wore the shield, strip bare; The hand that held the martial rein, And hurled the spear on many a plain,-- Stretch--till they clasp the shackles there!

The foot that once could crush the crown, Must drag the fetters, till it bleed Beneath their weight:--thou dost not need It now, to tread the tyrant down.

Thou thought'st him vanquished--boastful trust!-- His lance, in twain--his sword, a wreck,-- But with his heel upon thy neck, He holds thee prostrate in the dust!

Bend though thou must, beneath his will, Let not one abject moan have place; But with majestic, silent grace, Maintain thy regal bearing still.

Look back through all thy storied past, And sit erect in conscious pride: No grander heroes ever died-- No sterner, battled to the last!

Weep, if thou wilt, with proud, sad mien, Thy blasted hopes--thy peace undone,-- Yet brave, live on,--nor seek to shun Thy fate, like Egypt's conquer'd Queen.

Though forced a captive's place to fill In the triumphal train,--yet there, Superbly, like Zenobia, wear Thy chains,--Virginia Victrix still!

MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON.

Tidings of the fall of Richmond went over the North with lightning speed, and in every city, every town and hamlet, public demonstrations were held.

THE FALL OF RICHMOND

THE TIDINGS RECEIVED IN THE NORTHERN METROPOLIS (APRIL, 1865)

What mean these peals from every tower, And crowds like seas that sway? The cannon reply; they speak the heart Of the People impassioned, and say-- A city in flags for a city in flames, Richmond goes Babylon's way-- Sing and pray.

O weary years and woeful wars, And armies in the grave; But hearts unquelled at last deter The helmed dilated Lucifer-- Honor to Grant the brave, Whose three stars now like Orion's rise When wreck is on the wave-- Bless his glaive.

Well that the faith we firmly kept, And never our aim forswore For the Terrors that trooped from each recess When fainting we fought in the Wilderness, And Hell made loud hurrah; But God is in Heaven, and Grant in the Town, And Right through Might is Law-- God's way adore.

HERMAN MELVILLE.

Lee, meanwhile, was trying desperately to escape the force which Grant had sent in pursuit of him. His army was dreadfully shattered and without supplies; his horses were too weak to draw the cannon; and he soon found himself surrounded by a vastly superior force. To fight would have been folly; instead, he sent forward a white flag, and surrendered at two o'clock on the afternoon of Palm Sunday, April 9, 1865.

THE SURRENDER AT APPOMATTOX

[April 9, 1865]

As billows upon billows roll, On victory victory breaks; Ere yet seven days from Richmond's fall And crowning triumph wakes The loud joy-gun, whose thunders run By sea-shore, streams, and lakes. The hope and great event agree In the sword that Grant received from Lee.

The warring eagles fold the wing, But not in Cæsar's sway; Not Rome o'ercome by Roman arms we sing, As on Pharsalia's day, But Treason thrown, though a giant grown, And Freedom's larger play. All human tribes glad token see In the close of the wars of Grant and Lee.

HERMAN MELVILLE.

Grant was generous with the fallen enemy; too generous, some of the patriot politicians thought, in releasing Lee and his officers on parole; but Grant insisted that the terms he had given be carried out to the letter.

LEE'S PAROLE

"Well, General Grant, have you heard the news? How the orders are issued and ready to send For Lee, and the men in his staff-command, To be under arrest,--now the war's at an end?"

"How so? Arrested for what?" he cried. "Oh, for trial as traitors, to be shot, or hung." The chief's eye flashed with a sudden ire, And his face grew crimson as up he sprung. "Orderly, fetch me my horse," he said. Then into the saddle and up the street, As if the battle were raging ahead, Went the crash of the old war-charger's feet.

"What is this I am told about Lee's arrest,-- Is it true?"--and the keen eyes searched his soul. "It is true, and the order will be enforced!" "My word was given in their parole At Richmond, and that parole Has not been broken,--nor has my word, Nor will be until there is better cause For breaking than this I have lately heard."

"Do you know, sir, whom you have thus addressed? I am the War Department's head--" "And I--am General Grant! At your peril order arrests!" he said.

* * * * *

A friend is a friend, as we reckon worth, Who will throw the gauntlet in friendship's fight; But a man is a man in peace or war Who will stake his all for an enemy's right. 'Twas a hard-fought battle, but quickly won,-- As a fight must be when 'tis soul to soul,-- And 'twas years ago; but that honored word Preserved the North in the South's parole.

MARION MANVILLE.

In disbanding his army, Lee issued a farewell address, copies of which are still treasured in many a Southern home. Even in the North, he has come to be recognized as the great general and true gentleman he really was.

ROBERT E. LEE

A gallant foeman in the fight, A brother when the fight was o'er, The hand that led the host with might The blessed torch of learning bore.

No shriek of shells nor roll of drums, No challenge fierce, resounding far, When reconciling Wisdom comes To heal the cruel wounds of war.

Thought may the minds of men divide, Love makes the heart of nations one, And so, thy soldier grave beside, We honor thee, Virginia's son.

JULIA WARD HOWE.