THE BATTLE OF THE HANDKERCHIEFS
We are indebted to the Honorable W. H. Seymour for the following very interesting story:
There was a great stir and intense excitement one time during General Banks’s administration. A number of the “rebels” were to leave for the “Confederacy.” Their friends, amounting to some 20,000 persons, women and children principally, wended their way down to the levee to see them off and to take their last farewell. Such a quantity of women frightened the Federal officials: they were greatly exasperated at their waving of handkerchiefs, their loud calling to their friends, and their going on to vessels in the vicinity.
Orders were given to “stand back,” but no heed was given; the bayonets were pointed at the ladies, but they were not scared. A lady ran across to get a nearer view. An officer seized her by the arm, but she escaped, leaving a scarf in his possession. At last the military received orders to do its duty.
The affair was called the Pocket Handkerchief War and has been put in verse, as follows:
The Greatest Victory of the War—La Battaille des Mouchoirs.
[By Capt. James Dinkins, in New Orleans Picayune; Southern Historical Papers, Volume 31.]
[Fought Friday, February 20, 1863, at the head of Gravier Street.]
Of all the battles modern or old,
By poet sung or historian told;
Of all the routs that ever was seen
From the days of Saladin to Marshall Turenne,
Or all the victories later yet won,
From Waterloo’s field to that of Bull Run;
All, all, must hide their fading light,
In the radiant glow of the handkerchief fight;
And a paean of joy must thrill the land,
When they hear of the deeds of Banks’s band.
’Twas on a levee, where the tide of “Father Mississippi” flows,
Our gallant lads, their country’s pride,
Won this great victory o’er her foes,
Four hundred rebels were to leave
That morning for Secessia’s shades,
When down there came (you’d scarce believe)
A troop of children, wives, and maids,
To wave their farewells, to bid God-speed,
To shed for them the parting tear,
To waft their kisses as the meed of praise to soldiers’ hearts most dear.
They came in hundreds; thousands lined
The streets, the roofs, the shipping, too;
Their ribbons dancing in the wind,
Their bright eyes flashing love’s adieu.
’Twas then to danger we awoke,
But nobly faced the unarmed throng,
And beat them back with hearty stroke,
Till reinforcements came along.
We waited long; our aching sight
Was strained in eager, anxious gaze,
At last we saw the bayonets bright
Flash in the sunlight’s welcome blaze.
The cannon’s dull and heavy roll,
Fell greeting on our gladdened ear,
Then fired each eye, then glowed each soul,
For well we knew the strife was near.
“Charge!” rang the cry, and on we dashed
Upon our female foes,
As seas in stormy fury lashed,
Whene’er the tempest blows.
Like chaff their parasols went down,
As our gallants rushed;
And many a bonnet, robe, and gown
Was torn to shreds or crushed;
Though well we plied the bayonet,
Still some our efforts braved,
Defiant both of blow and threat,
Their handkerchiefs still waved.
Thick grew the fight, loud rolled the din,
When “charge!” rang out again
And then the cannon thundered in,
And scoured o’er the plain.
Down, ’neath the unpitying iron heels of horses children sank,
While through the crowd the cannon
Wheels mowed roads on either flank,
One startled shriek, one hollow groan,
One headlong rush, and then
“Huzza!” the field was all our own,
For we were Banks’s men.
That night, released from all our toils,
Our dangers passed and gone,
We gladly gathered up the spoils
Our chivalry had won!
Five hundred ’kerchiefs we had snatched
From rebel ladies’ hands,
Ten parasols, two shoes (not matched),
Some ribbons, belts, and bands,
And other things that I forgot;
But then you’ll find them all
As trophies in that hallowed spot—
The cradle—Faneuil Hall!
And long on Massachusetts’ shore
And on Green Mountain’s side,
Or where Long Island’s breakers roar,
And by the Hudson’s tide,
In times to come, when lamps are lit,
And fires brightly blaze,
While round the knees of heroes sit
The young of happier days,
Who listen to their storied deeds,
To them sublimely grand,
Then glory shall award its meed
Of praise to Banks’s band,
And Fame proclaim that they alone
(In Triumph’s loudest note)
May wear henceforth, for valor shown,
A woman’s petticoat.