But the sons of men who fought at Bunker Hill, at Monmouth, and Valley Forge, could not be made to understand the words, “Turn back.” The blood of patriots had been transmitted to them, and no shame could fall upon the memories of their revolutionary fathers by their acts. They had started for Washington—started to help form a nation’s bulwark around a nation’s heart, and were not to be stayed by sneers or threats.
“Forward the Sixth,”—the command given and obeyed in that moment of peril, has rendered the Sixth regiment of Massachusetts immortal! Forward, as at Lexington, with fearless hearts, unblenching lips, and unswerving tread, they marched on boldly, as they would have gone up to the cannon’s mouth.
“Forward!” A bridge half destroyed, torn up, difficult of crossing, was passed; then the air was darkened with missiles of every dangerous name and character, showered upon their devoted heads. Stones, brick-backs, clubs, anything savage hands could clutch, were hurled from street and house-top, while the hissing rush of shot and ball played wildly from musket and revolver.
Ah! it was a cruel, cold-blooded murder of innocent men—of brothers. An act of treachery unparalleled in the history of any nation, whether civilized or savage—a rendering of the “Monuments” of Baltimore a mockery for all time.
Struck down by shot and stones, wounded, surrounded, hopeless of help, these brave men yet stood their ground and even questioned whether it would be right to retaliate. A question without a parallel and proving the pure gold of those brave hearts.
ATTACK ON THE MASSACHUSETTS SIXTH IN BALTIMORE.
But the time when forbearance ceases to be a virtue, came at last to these heroic men—these tender-hearted, christianized soldiers; when self-preservation, the sternly just primal law of our nature commanded them to defend themselves. With firm front, but with sad hearts they prepared to execute the command, and many a form that would not have trembled amid the shock of battle, trembled now as his musket rang the death peal.
Unable to stand the charge, to face the deadly music their own cowardly hearts had awakened—afraid to listen to the awful tumult of battle, the mob broke and sought also to arm themselves. Save from private sources, stores, gunshops and the like, they failed in securing any, for the armories had been well protected in anticipation of this possible event. An incessant storm of stones, however, answered every musket shot, and while the fearless “Sixth” still pressed on, more than one of their number fell by the way, and was borne off helpless and wounded, by the police.
The fight was a running one, terrific in its results, as it was rapid in its execution, and though the soldiers at length succeeded in reaching the depot, with the loss of only two killed and nine wounded; while their assailants’ loss was nine killed and eight severely wounded, yet the streets were stained with American blood, drawn by American hands. The pavement stones were red with the life-tide of brothers. Stained indelibly, for though the marks have long since been effaced by the pure rains of a merciful heaven, and the ceaseless tramp of busy feet, yet they are graven on the records of the age with a pen of fire, carving deeper than steel, and more lasting than marble!