CHAPTER 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.
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 manœuvre 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.
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.
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.
[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.
[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.
"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.