Five Years in Texas / Or, What you did not hear during the war from January 1861 to January 1866. A narrative of his travels, experiences, and observation

by Thomas North

CANTO I.

Sometimes old letters have the strangest things
Recorded on the worn and sallow page:
The writing, too, has neither head nor wings,
But one would think that insects for an age
Had wip'd their tiny feet where black ink clings,
Regardless of the ancient scribbling sage,
Whose quill, one pointed and one feather'd end,
Had trail'd away his thoughts to absent friend.
But who can be sure, they're any more queer
Than those we moderns hast'ly pen to-day;
E'en tho' their marks so odd and strange appear,
That as we read the mind doth halt and stay
Until the brain hath got a little clear,
In order, as we let its powers play,
We well can solve what all the scribblings mean,
'Tis so at six, or sev'n, or at sixteen.
The language, too, is no more queer and strange,
As thought doth spring and file along on thought,
And spirits meet in pleasant interchange
Of fancies told, or fancies only caught;
And scarcely caught at that in his small range,
As some poor scribbler has his fabric wrought,
And in the wretched scraping swiftly tells
What feeling urges—what his bosom swells.
Those who would have this sweetest priv'lege cease,
Must ingrate be in senses more than one;
Nor dwell at home, or anywhere in peace,
Though parent, friend, daughter, or absent son,
Such name 'twere well enough they should release;
Indeed, 'twere well it never had begun,
If cold neglect in writing they do show,
No matter if the mails go swift or slow.
But some there are who never can be made
To answer letters until ages roll
Almost away, or letters are mislaid,
Or till an absent, good, and loving soul,
Full well may think the friendly hand has stay'd,
Or that the troubled fates may have control,
Or illness may—or even worse, one's doubts—
Our friend is gone away, or else in pouts.
And yet, most happy one and all should be,
If but allow'd to bring our distant friends
So near that, they may feel and truly see
Each impulse of the heart, and as it blends,
Feel truly certain that we have the key
Which opens friendship's valve, and makes amends
For many sad, unkind, and ugly things,
That daily life with all its worry brings.
One friend I've had for many steady years.
Who, though she lives a thousand miles away,
Comes ever with her joys, her hopes and fears;
Before me every feeling doth she lay,
Which stirs my own to mingle with her tears,
And ev'ry throbbing of my heart doth stay
For her, till all she feels, or thinks, or knows,
Takes root in my own breast, and there it grows.
She lives in icy—I in Southern clime:
And e'en as the bright-eyed daughters of the South,
She loves this land—so many years now mine;
Nor deems its rainy seasons, or its drouth
Objectionable, or so out of time,
If Mail sacks but unseal their widened mouth,
And bring her freshly posted speedy news
From me and mine, where fall the Southern dews.
When fierce war raged, and battle strife ran high,
She o'er the horrid din and clamor came—
In spirit came—and heav'd a weary sigh!
We look'd together on the bloody plain,
Until our crying souls no more could cry.
As saw we our own braves' expiring pain;
"Father, forgive" this wild, this raging crew,
"For" in their strife "they know not what they do!"
So oft, when Cynth'a pale, rode high at night,
And smiled thro', or o'er a rift of clouds,
She's told me of its beauty and pure light,
That whitens air, like newly coffined shrouds,
And makes the snows so flaky, keen and bright,
While skaters skim the icy lakes in crowds,
And she, with wishing, longing heart, once more
Would come, or bring me to the ice-bound shore.
In weariness of heart, the mind so dwells
On all its windings thro' the pleasant past,
Its smooth calm seas, and undulating swells.
Its earnest aims in solemn grandeur cast,
Leaves impress on our souls, which merely tells
Of evanescent things that can not last;
And e'en tho' painful, held with deep regret,
Unwillingly would we ever forget.
This is a long and quite extended reach,
Of that begun an hour or two ago;
And looks more like a set or settled speech,
Than like the stream down which old letters flow:
And so, dear reader, thro' the lengthen'd breach,
If so you please, we'll travel rather slow,
And take as we proceed—to make amends—
Some letter missives from our absent friends.
The first of friendly sort, we point you to,
By Lewis, an ally of the "lost cause,"
Was penn'd at night, in 1862,
When subject of Confed'rate army laws,
And flew the show'ring deadly bullets, flew
With little intermission—scarce a pause;
And when men bravely fought, with might and main,
To gain their independence—but in vain.
The letter said—'twas not a hasty note—
"This now to you, may prove farewell, in fine;
We're all equipped, and waiting for the boat,
That leaves her moorings somewhere close to nine,
Which soon is here—and then afloat, afloat,
And by the morning sun's first blushing shine,
We'll wear the victor's glorious laurel wreath,
Or else be shrouded in the arms of death!
"I know, good friend, this strain must give you pain;
In carelessness I would not take a step;
And taking this, if counted with the slain,
Poor mother's tears, her pillow oft will wet
For me I know—whom she'll ne'er meet again;
Yet shall I hope, before the next sunset,
That she, alike yourself, may gladly tell,
There's One above, who doeth all things well.
"There are some things to jot down here, that I
Would kindly ask, my dearest friend, of you.
If I am hors de combat plac'd, and die,
Or battle's lost or gained—here's my adieu,
But please this letter send—or please to try—
My feelings scarcely can I now subdue,
While fate obstruent says, a few hours more
May transport all to an unbroken shore.
"Should fickle fortune frown, and leave me fall
Into unfriendly and blood-greedy hands,
'Twill be like being—if I be at all—
In hands next like to those of savage bands.
It doth not matter on this earthly ball,
So much where one may be, or what breeze fans.
The unhappy casualties the post will cite,
Ere one more sun has settled into night.
"Dear Charley's going too—the noble boy—
She's sad to see him with the warring host.
His joyous look, 'tis a pity to destroy;
A thousand pities more his life were lost.
But she knows well, naught but the main decoy,
Could take him thus from her, he loves the most.
God grant him life—a long and happy life,
And one with blessings, free from battle's strife.
"And now, kind friend, I say a sad good-by;
The rolling drum doth call us to repair—
Under the dull, though quiet darken'd sky,
That may so soon be turn'd to lurid glare,
As cannons play, and iron missels fly—
To duty—parcel'd out to each a share:
But none of us can tell the sad finale:
And now again I say, good-by, farewell!"
And thus the letter ended—in a strain,
That led beloved ones at home to think,
If war should spare, that he would speak again;
But give us news from which the heart would shrink,
For so is all that comes from battle plain,
Where death holds ev'ry dear one on his brink.
Such is the fate of war—the olden story,
Where men invest their lives in search of glory.
And shall I tell, how with her hand in mine,
Poor Mary sat, and leaned upon my breast;
And how her tears fell down on ev'ry line;
And how, before the morning sun's first shine,
Her weary form was out, and loosely dress'd;
And how she pac'd the room the live long day,
Till ev'ning light had lost its latest ray!
Poor child! the premonition seemed to be,
That many trials were in store for her,
Altho' their unveil'd form she could not see;
The thought brought in her eyes a fi'ry blue:
O, for some hope to which her heart could flee!
Some healing balm the stony fates would stir!
But ere the week had told its length'ning round
The secret of her sick'ning fears was found.
Suspended hope for three long days—then came
The welcome letter from our hero-friend;
He was alive—unhurt, and just the same.
And humbly thanked high heav'n for such an end;
But ah! how many, many could he name,
Who would, with his, their own dear voices blend
No more along the lines of coming years;
And to their friends could nothing leave—but tears.
"O! would, the feelings which my bosom fill'd,"
He said, "as still we glided down the tide,
And all around in nature calm and still'd—
I could portray—I felt I could have died!
No matter then, if soon I should be killed;
If all I lov'd, and ev'rything beside,
Should leave this beautiful, enchanting world,
And into death's cold, cruel arms be hurl'd!"
"No sound was heard till late at night. The moon
Then rose, and softly also rose the wind,
And swept away across the low lagoon,
Where battle soon would rage a very fiend,
And o'er the next day's fair and glowing noon;
And, raging in its lion anger, find
Its grim and ugly den of horrors fill'd
With precious blood terrific strife had spill'd.
"And Charley"—Thus this sad'ning part began—
"Is now among the noble ones laid low;
Grim death will ne'er hew down a better man;
And we, his friends, a better crave to know.
Horror! I saw his life-blood as it ran,
And then I thought—for Mary what a blow!
'Twill rend and crush her young and grieving heart!
So good—and oh, how sad that thus they part!
"He near the gunwale bravely—manly stood,
When o'er the waters came the murd'rous shell,
And with four comrades, swept him down in blood;
They early in the carnage quickly fell;
He rais'd his head from midst the oozing flood,
And calmly listened to the changing knell;
Then eyeing me, he said, 'Come Louis, come—
My life ebbs fast—I'll soon be going home.'
"Will you to Mary my last token bring,
And promise, ere my eyes are sealed in death,
To carry her this tiny diamond ring;
And tell her then, that at my latest breath,
I'm thinking of the songs she used to sing;
And also tell her of my holy faith
In her truth and her pure, undying love;
Which can be seal'd but in the world above?
"And have my body carried back to where
The brothers, in the holy mystic ties,
Will gather in the Lodge with solemn prayer,
Before 'tis laid beneath the open skies.
'Twill do me good to know I'm sleeping there;
Ah, see! grim darkness comes! the hour how flies!
Some other things there are, I wish'd to say,
But too late now! night—home—Mary—'tis day!
"I promis'd all—then gently laid his head,
First on a knapsack, then upon my arm;
Once more he op'd his eyes, and smiling, said,
'Thanks, Lew—I'll soon be far from war's alarm.'
Once more he press'd my hand, and then was dead!
I laid him down—no fear of coming harm,
For none could pain that cold and lifeless form;
Now all was past—let battles rage and storm.
"Of more than this, I've scarcely time to speak;
You'll find reports when papers come with news;
E'en yet, I seem to hear the cannon's shriek,
As horrid forth their belching thunder spews,
In vengeance dire and most terrific wreak,
And covers friend and foe with death-damp dews!
How sinks and quails the heart at the dread sight,
When war turns fairest day to blackest night.
"The fun'ral pageantry—the solemn toll,
The cortege, like a serpent, winding through,
The muffled drum's long-sounding gloomy roll,
The death corrode that o'er the senses grew,
Or sick'ning chill which o'er one's spirit stole,
The dead march tap—they all seem still in view—
'Twas thus they bore him to the silent bourne,
From whence, in old earth form, he'll ne'er return.
"All these and more—the measur'd tread
Of good, brave men, who slowly wound along
With his remains, to their last resting place—
I scarce can realize that he is gone,
And that his form lies mold'ring with the dead;
That we're no more to hear his joyous song—
I say, all these are trooping through my mind,
Like ghostly phantoms of some awful kind.
"I'd ask, before this missive I do close,
Which now has grown to an unusual size,
Tho' half is still unwritten, heaven knows—
That you will comfort Mary, when her eyes
Are blinded with sore weeping o'er the woes,
That will wring out her soul in deep well-cries,
And rend in sorrowing weariness her breast,
Which now scarce anything can soothe to rest.
"Yet be a comfort and a friendly stay,
And bid her grapple with her fate—not grieve,
Please try to soothe the blinding tears away,
Though little now can sorrow much relieve,
Or shed of joy or bliss a single ray.
Ah! tell her how my soul is double brave,
Since't feels the spirit touch of Charley's soul;
But thoughts are quite beyond my word control.
"A few more items yet, and I have done.
I would the warmest gratitude express,
And obligations deep I owe to one—
Whose heart is with her friends in their distress,
And when their joys come on, exceed her none,
In spontaneities, to smile or bless—
To you, Lottie—who disappointments share,
All that your tender prompting well can bear.
"And now, good friend, I feel I'm badly needing
A little respite from the past few days,
Whose strange events have set a canker feeding
Within my breast, where wooing quiet stays;
But now, at times, I feel it must be bleeding,
My very brain is in a dizzy haze
Of horrid things that in succession fly
Before my eyes. Once more, dear friend, good-by."