CHAPTER 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.
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.
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.