To the banquet of Death prepared by the free!
Unfurl our dark banner! be steady each breast,
Till the red light of Victory hath lit on its crest!
Let it hang as the vulture hangs, heavy with woe,
O’er the field where our blades drink the blood of the foe!
Chorus—It shall never be lowered, the black flag we bear,
It shall never, never, never, no never, etc., etc., etc.
There was a young lieutenant among the prisoners given to collecting all sorts of scraps and curiosities, and so he addressed a note to Miss Mollie, begging for her autograph and copies of any poems she might be able to spare. Within a reasonable time there came a copy of the “Invitation” and an autograph of the “Black Flag,” and a reproachful letter to Lieutenant Pearson. There was also a letter to Colonel Allen, not intended for Yankee reading. It expressed a little repentance for writing so cruelly to an unfortunate prisoner—avowed a wish to treat even invaders with politeness, and wound up with the Eve-like conclusion, “But I could not resist the temptation. Yours truly, Mollie E. Moore.”
One or two other causes at the same time combined to induce Miss Mollie to visit Camp Ford, and one lucky morning Mrs. Allen escorted her in. She was one of those girls that men are a little afraid of, and that other girls do not like; she had a slender figure, a thin face, light hair, light blue, dreamy eyes, and she was accompanied by the object of the “Invitation.” There was not much of the poetess in her bearing, for she was very neatly dressed, a ready talker, and quite sharp at repartee. Yet when Colonel Burrill was presented to her as one of the “haughty foemen,” she colored, and showed a little pretty embarrassment. The friend was her exact opposite, with dark hair, dark eyes, very shy and silent and reserved, and much the prettiest Texan it was ever my luck to see.
About the same time a second notable incident occurred, being no less than a literary contest between prisoners and the outside world. One of our number had received some attention from the Houston editor, in return for which he sent him a few verses, entitled, “Pax Vobiscum.” These lines so exactly accorded with the yearning for peace, that they awakened great interest, and after a while were re-published, with the editorial avowal that they were written by a Yankee prisoner. Another literary lady, middle-aged, married, and rather stout (so I was informed), but who called herself by the infantile name of “Maggie of Marshall,” thereupon came out with a poem, addressed to “the noble prisoner,” in which she styled him, “The northern by birth but the southern in soul,” and urged him to come straight over and fight on their side. The “noble prisoner” had no earthly intention of deserting, so he wrote a second poem for the “Tyler Reporter,” in which he defined his position. “When Mistress Maggie of Marshall found that her blandishments were all thrown away, she became deeply indignant, and immediately wrote her second poem for the “Reporter,” wherein the “noble prisoner” was turned into a puritan and a murderer and a son of Cain, and finally turned adrift with the contemptuous pity: