"Only a handful of my men remained;
The rest lay dead or wounded on the field;
Nor skulked their captain, but by grace was spared.
Behold the miracle!—This Bible holds,
Embedded in its leaves, the Rebel lead
Aimed at my heart. But here a scratch and there—
Not worth the mention where so many fell.
Paul, foremost ever in the deadly hail,
As if protected by a shield unseen,
Escaped unscathed.
"We camped upon the hill.
Night hovered o'er us on her dusky wings;
Then all along our lines upon the hills
Blazed up the evening camp-fires. Facing us
Beyond the smoke-robed valley sparkled up
A chain of fires on Seminary Ridge.
A hum of mingled voices filled the air.
As when upon the vast, hoarse-moaning sea
And all along the rock-built somber shore
Murmurs the menace of the coming storm—
The muttering of the tempest from afar,
The plash and seethe of surf upon the sand,
The roll of distant thunder in the heavens,
Unite and blend in one prevailing voice—
So rose the mingled murmurs of our camps,
So rose the groans and moans of wounded men
Along the slope and valley, and so rolled
From yonder frowning parallel of hills
The muttered menace of our baffled foes;
And so from camp to camp and hill to hill
Rolled the deep mutter and the dreadful moan
Of an hundred thousand voices blent in one.
"That night a multitude of friends and foes
Slept soundly—but they slept to wake no more.
But few indeed among the living slept;
We lay upon our arms and courted sleep
With open eyes and ears: the fears and hopes
That centered in the half-fought battle held
The balm of slumber from our weary limbs.
Anon the rattle of the random fire
Broke on our drowsy ears and startled us,
As one is startled by some horrid dream;
Whereat old veterans muttered in their sleep.
"Midnight had passed, and I lay wakeful still,
When Paul arose and sat upon the sward.
He said: 'I cannot sleep; unbidden thoughts
That will not down crowd on my restless brain.
Captain, I know not how, but still I know
That I shall see but one more sunrise. Morn
Will bring the clash of arms—to-morrow's sun
Will look upon unnumbered ghastly heaps
And gory ranks of dead and dying men,
And ere it sink beyond the western hills
Up from this field will roll a mighty shout
Victorious, echoed over all the land,
Proclaiming joy to freemen everywhere.
And I shall fall. I cannot tell you how
I know it—but I feel it in my soul.
I pray that death may spare me till I hear
Our shout of "Victory!" rolling o'er these hills:
Then will I lay me down and die in peace.'
"I lightly said—'Sheer superstition, Paul;
I'll wager a month's pay you'll live to fight
A dozen battles yet. They ill become
A gallant soldier on the battle field—
Such grandam superstitions. You have fought
Ever like a hero—do you falter now?'
"'Captain,' he said, 'I shall not falter now,
But gladlier will I hail the rising sun.
Death has no terror for a heart like mine:
Say what you may and call it what you will—
I know that I shall fall to rise no more
Before the sunset of the coming day.
If this be superstition—still I know;
If this be fear it will not hold me back.'
I answered:
"'Friend, I hope this prophecy
Will prove you a false prophet; but, my Paul,
Have you no farewells for your friends at home?
No message for a nearer, dearer one?'
"'None; there is none I knew in other days
Knows where or what I am. So let it be.
If there be those—not many—who may care
For one who cares so little for himself,
Surely my soldier-name in the gazette
Among the killed will bring no pang to them.
And then he laid himself upon the sward;
Perhaps he slept—I know not, for fatigue
O'ercame me and I slept.
"The picket guns
At random firing wakened me. The morn
Came stealing softly o'er the somber hills;
Dark clouds of smoke hung hovering o'er the field.
Blood-red as risen from a sea of blood,
The tardy sun as if in dread arose,
And hid his face in the uprising smoke.
As when the pale moon, envious of the glow
And gleam and glory of the god of day,
Creeps in by stealth between the earth and him,
Eclipsing all his glory, and the green
Of hills and dales is changed to yellowish dun,
So fell the strange and lurid light of morn.
And as I gazed I heard the hunger-cries
Of vultures circling on their dusky wings
Above the smoke-hid valley; then they plunged
To gorge themselves upon the slaughter-heaps,
As at the Buddhist temples in Siam
Whereto the hideous vultures flock to feast
With famished dogs upon the pauper dead.
"The day wore on. Two mighty armies stood
Defiant—watching—dreading to assault;
Each hoping that the other would assault
And madly dash against its glittering steel.
As in the jungles of the Chambezè—
Glaring defiance with their fiery eyes—
Two tawny lions—rival monarchs—meet
And fright the forest with their horrid roar;
But ere they close in bloody combat crouch
And wait and watch for vantage in attack;
So on their bannered hills the opposing hosts,
Eager to grapple in the tug of death,
Waited and watched for vantage in the fight.
Noon came. The fire of pickets died away.
All eyes were turned to Seminary Ridge,
For lo our sullen foemen—park on park—
Had massed their grim artillery on our corps.
Hoarse voices sunk to whispers or were hushed;
The rugged hills stood listening in awe;
So dread the ominous silence that I heard
The hearts of soldiers throbbing along the line.