FOOTNOTES:
[1] Creole meant originally the native-born descendant of foreign white parents. It is now applied to the native whites in Louisiana. People outside of that state frequently misapprehend its meaning, and think the word denotes mixed blood.
EL MOLINO DEL REY.
The continually triumphant march of the American troops, under Scott, from Vera Cruz to the City of Mexico, in spite of greater numbers of opposing soldiers, fighting for their own soil, led many to undervalue the courage and endurance of the enemy. There never was a more signal error. The Mexicans fought fiercely and well; they displayed daring and steadiness, though they were not always able to stand before the bayonet, to whose uses they had not been trained. Their signal defeats, occurring after obstinate and bloody resistance, were due to the inefficiency of their general officers. Properly headed the Mexicans would make as fine soldiers as any in the world.
Among the successive battles which marked the invasion, that of El Molino del Rey (The King’s Mill) was one of the most spirit-stirring. One of the objects of attack consisted of a range of buildings, five hundred feet in front and well fortified, known by the title of the poem. On the left and farther off was the Casamata or arsenal, loop-holed, and surrounded by a quadrangular field-work. Ravines and ditches, irregularities of ground, the position of the Mexican troops, and their superiority in numbers, made the task exceedingly difficult. The attack was begun at daylight. The enemy fought desperately and bitterly. Carrying the Mexican guns in the open field, the Americans were driven back with great slaughter, but with sufficient support retook them. At right and left the battle raged with a fury that showed the courage and perseverance of both sides. The intrenchments were stormed, but not until after a severe contest, and until house after house within the intrenchments had been broken into, the Mexicans everywhere making a heroic resistance. The loss on both sides was heavy.
BATTLE OF THE KING’S MILL.
Said my landlord, white-headed Gil Gomez,
With newspaper held in his hand—
“So they’ve built from El Paso a railway
That Yankees may visit our land.
As guests let them come and be welcome,
But not as they came here before;
They are rather rough fellows to handle
In the rush of the battle and roar.
“They took Vera Cruz and its castle;
In triumph they marched through the land;
We fought them with desperate daring,
But lacked the right man to command.
They stormed, at a loss, Cerro Gordo—
Every mile in their movement it cost;
And when they arrived at Puebla,
Some thousands of men they had lost.
“Ere our capital fell, and the city
By foreign invaders was won,
We called out among its defenders
Each man who could handle a gun.
Chapultepec stood in their pathway;
Churubusco they had to attack;
The Mill of the King—well, I fought there,
And they were a hard nut to crack.
“While their right was assailing the ramparts,
Our force struck their left on the field,
Where our colonel, in language that stirred us,
To love of our country appealed.
And we swore that we never would falter
Before either sabre or ball;
We would beat back the foeman before us,
Or dead on the battle-field fall.
“Fine words, you may say, but we meant them;
And so when they came up the hill
We poured on them volley on volley,
And riddled their ranks with a will.
Their line in a moment was broken;
They closed it, and came with a cheer;
But still we fired quickly and deadly,
And felt neither pity nor fear.
“We smote the blue column with grape-shot,
But it rushed as the wild torrent runs;
At the pieces they slew our best gunners,
And took in the struggle our guns.
We sprang in a rage to retake them,
And lost nearly half of our men;
Then, baffled and beaten, retreated,
And gained our position again.
“Ceased their yell, and in spite of our firing
They dressed like an arrow their line,
Then, standing there moveless a moment,
Their eyes flashed with purpose malign,
All still as the twilight in summer,
No cloud on the sky to deform,
THE LAST CHARGE.
Like the lull in the voices of nature
Ere wakens the whirlwind and storm.
“We had fought them with death-daring spirit,
And courage unyielding till then;
No man could have forced us to falter,
But these were more demons than men.
Our ranks had been torn by their bullets,
We filled all the gaps they had made;
But the pall o that terrible silence
The hearts of our boldest dismayed.
“Before us no roaring of cannon,
Rifle-rattle, or musketry peal;
But there on the ocean of battle
Surged steady the billow of steel.
Fierce we opened our fire on the column,
We pierced it with ball here and there;
But it swept on in pitiless sternness
Till we faltered and fled in despair.
“After that all their movements were easy;
At their storming Chapultepec fell,
And that ended the war—we were beaten:
No story is left me to tell.
And now they come back to invade us,
Though not with the bullet and blade;
They are here with their goods on a railway,
To conquer the country by trade.”
A TALE OF THE WAR.
The story that follows is, as the old magazines used to say of their tales, “founded on fact.” The foundation is rather slender. Similar incidents have occurred in all wars, ancient and modern; and nothing delights the old soldier more, when peace comes, than to meet a former antagonist, who, as in this instance, has “proved worthy of his steel.”
THE FENCING-MASTER.
You wish to improve yourself? Good! There’s a tool;
Let us see of what stuff you are made; and—keep cool.
Never hurry. On guard! When I thrust, parry so.
Longe! Gracious! Disarmed me! Well, this is a go.
“An accident?” Make me think that, if you can.
You had better give lessons than take them, young man.
Wrist of steel, form of whalebone, keen-eyed, supple, tall—
You could manage that cut-and-thrust there on the wall.
“A Toledo!” No doubt of it; here on the blade
Is the name of the Spaniard by whom it was made,
And the place where they forged it; its metal can tell
It was made where such weapons they fashioned right well;
But that, after all, has slight interest—I
Well know how I got it, the where and the why;
And thence comes a story—a memory, too.
Will I tell it? Why, yes, I don’t care if I do.
I was merely lieutenant—I never wore stars,
Though it rained brigadiers at the time; and my scars
Were got in the hours when I fought on my feet,
And lucky to keep them at moments when sleet
From some thousands of muskets upon us fell fast,
And each breath that we drew seemed like drawing the last,
And the foeman kept plying his bullets and shell,
And to right and to left comrades they staggered and fell.
’Twas at Fredericksburg Heights, where we charged like such fools,
And learned by experience—that saddest of schools—
An experience that brought us a fire-rain beneath—
Not to crack a hard nut, nor to try, with our teeth,
That I got this old sabre, and with it a scar,
From a small pistol bullet, my beauty to mar;
And a narrow escape, for an inch t’other way,
And a narrow earth-jacket I’d worn the next day.
I hated the enemy, then—no offence,
If you held ’tother side, each man acts on his sense—
And I thought they were wrong, as I thought we were right;
No doubt they thought otherwise. And they could fight.
No man can deny it; and there well intrenched
They awaited our coming, while none of us blenched,
Though we knew it was madness to charge up that hill,
That a child might have held had it courage and will.
At the word we were off. It was glorious to see
How we marched to the charge with a step fast and free.
Flags flying, throats cheering, and every rank dressed
To an inch in its straightness; when quick from the crest
Opened loudly a hundred of cannon or more,
And the path of the balls was mapped out in our gore.
We were brave, but some tasks are too fearful for man;
We faltered, we turned—who could help it?—we ran.
We tried it again with another rebuff;
And again, till we found we’d been hammered enough;
And then by the river at close of the day,
With the wounded, the men who came out of the fray—
And I tell you right glad to be certainly back—
Lay there on the ground. ’Twas a mournful bivouac,
With few of us sure as we talked o’er our loss
If they’d suffer us safely the river to cross.
I strolled out to the picket—some thirty were there,
With their arms in good order, their eyeballs kept bare—
When, an hour before midnight, there came quick and hard
The trample of horse charging down on the guard;
And we met them—a squadron of dare-devils they—
But a sharp edge of bayonets kept them at bay,
While we emptied some barrels, with never a corse,
Though we wounded one rider and crippled his horse.
The rider pitched over; his comrades they heard
His yell as he fell; but they turned and they spurred,
For by this time our camp was aroused and poured in,
And the visitors stayed not their laurels to win;
When what does this Hotspur but spring to his feet,
And, ready a regiment singly to meet,
Draw weapon, and there, right in front of our line,
To guard bring his sabre, and cross it with mine.
’Twas a regular duel: our men gathered round;
Save the clash of the blades there was never a sound.
’Twas cut, thrust, and parry—the fellow fenced well—
But at last on his shoulder a heavy blow fell,
And his sword dropped to earth—in an instant he felt
With his left for a pistol that hung at his belt,
And he fired. O’er my temple the ball ploughed its track,
When I tripped him, and threw my bold youth on his back.
I said as I held him, “This rage has no use;
You’re two-thirds a lion and one-third a goose.
Do you want to fight armies! This passes a joke;
Surrender at once, or your throttle I’ll choke.
Stop the struggling, my madman, and tell us your choice—”
“I give my parole.” ’Twas a musical voice,
With a rather thin treble. Conceive my annoy
When I found I had wasted my strength on a boy.
’Twas a boy of sixteen, with his lip free of down,
Whose ball cut a groove ’twixt my temple and crown,
And who handled his sabre as deftly and keen
As a master of fence. Yes, a boy of sixteen.
And I said, as I looked on him there where he stood,
Defiant, though conquered, and dauntless in mood,
“You crow well, my cockerel, ere you have spurs;
Has your mother more such in that rare brood of hers?”
Then he laughed, and his forefinger rose, as he said,
“You carry the mark of my spur on your head—
Who’ll give me a drink?” as at word of command
A dozen canteens were thrust ready to hand;
But ere he could choose, from his features there shrank
The blood till he paled, then he staggered and sank.
We raised him; I stooped there and pillowed his head
On my knee; and I shivered—I thought he was dead.
But no, sir, he rallied. We bore him away,
When we crossed o’er the river, ere break of the day,
Where our surgeon soon healed up his wound, and I nursed
The boy, and grew fond where I’d liked from the first,
Till, ready for prison, but hating confine,
He fled one dark night and got over the line;
And I never laid eyes on my bold shaver since.
That’s his sword, and a weapon would honor a prince.
You smile at the story—I’ve seen you, but where?
What name did you carry? “George Gaston!”—well—there!
Let me grapple your fist, boy? I’d never have known
You, with all of those whiskers. Why, how you have grown!
Twelve years! well, it does make a difference, I see,
In you, as it probably has made in me.
I can’t tell how glad I’m to see you at last.
Sit down; take a pipe; and we’ll talk o’er the past.
AN AMBUSCADE.
The incident which gave rise to the following poem happened about 1861, in Western Virginia, somewhere in the Gauley River region. The story may be correct, or not. I do not vouch for its accuracy. At all events, I have considered it to be si non e vero, e ben trovato, as the Italian proverb has it. If it be not true, it is well feigned.
THE CHARGE BY THE FORD.
Eighty and nine with their captain
Rode on the enemy’s track,
Rode in the grey of the morning:
Nine of the ninety came back.
Slow rose the mist from the river,
Lighter each moment the way;
Careless and tearless and fearless
Galloped they on to the fray.
Singing in tune, how the scabbard
Loud on the stirrup-irons rang,
Clinked as the men rose in saddle,
Fell as they sank with a clang!
What is it moves by the river,
Faded and weary and weak?
Grey-backs—a cross on their banner—
Yonder the foe whom they seek.
Silence! They see not, they hear not,
Tarrying there by the marge;
Forward! Draw sabre! Trot! Gallop!
Charge like a hurricane! Charge!
Ah! ’twas a man-trap infernal;
Fire like the deep pit of hell!
Volley on volley to meet them,
Mixed with the grey rebels’ yell.
Ninety had ridden to battle,
Tracing the enemy’s track;
Ninety had ridden to battle,
Nine of the ninety came back.
Honor the nine of the ninety,
Honor the heroes who came
Scathless from nine hundred muskets,
Safe from the lead-bearing flame.
Eighty and one of the troopers
Lie on the field of the slain—
Lie on the red field of honor:
Honor the nine who remain.
Cold are the dead there, and gory,
There where their life-blood was spilt;
Back come the living, each sabre
Red from the point to the hilt.
Give them three cheers and a tiger!
Let the flags wave as they come!
Give them the blare of the trumpet!
Give them the roll of the drum!