“‘But I must tell you how we’re hidin’ here.
This Otter Crick is like a crook-neck jug,
And we’re inside. The Redcoats want to plug
The mouth, and cork our beer;
So last week Downie sailed his British lake fleet near
To fill our channel, but us boys had dug
Big shore intrenchments, and our batteries
Stung ’em like bees
“’Till they skedaddled whimperin’ up the lake;
But while the shots was flyin’, in the scrimmage,
I caught a ball that scotched my livin’ image.—
Now, Jean, for Sam Hill’s sake,
Don’t let-on this to mother, for, you know, she’d make
A deary-me-in’ that would last a grim age.
’Tain’t much, but when a feller goes to war
What’s he go for
“‘If ’taint to fight, and take his chances?’” Jean
Stopped and looked down. The mother did not speak.
“Go on,” said the old man. Flush tinged her cheek.
“Truly I didn’t mean—
There ain’t much more. He says: ‘Goodbye now, little queen;
We’re due to sail for Plattsburgh this day week.
Meantime I’m hopin’ hard and takin’ stock.
Your obedient—Jock.’”
The girl’s voice ceased in silence. Glitter, glitter,
The shy wings flashed through blossom-colored leaves,
And Phœbe! Phœbe! whistled from gray eaves
Through water-shine and twitter
And spurt of flamey green. But bane of thought is bitter.
The mother’s heart spurned May’s sweet make-believes,
For there, through falling masts and gaunt ships looming,
Guns—guns were booming.
III
Plattsburgh—and windless beauty on the bay;
Autumnal morning and the sun at seven:
Southward a wedge of wild ducks in the heaven
Dwindles, and far away
Dim mountains watch the lake, where lurking for their prey
Lie, with their muzzled thunders and pent levin,
The war-ships—Eagle, Preble, Saratoga,
Ticonderoga.
And now a little wind from the northwest
Flutters the trembling blue with snowy flecks.
A gunner, on Macdonough’s silent decks,
Peers from his cannon’s rest,
Staring beyond the low north headland. Crest on crest
Behind green spruce-tops, soft as wild-fowls’ necks,
Glide the bright spars and masts and whitened wales
Of bellying sails.
Rounding, the British lake-birds loom in view,
Ruffling their wings in silvery arrogance:
Chubb, Linnet, Finch, and lordly Confiance
Leading with Downie’s crew
The line. With long booms swung to starboard they heave to,
Whistling their flock of galleys who advance
Behind, then toward the Yankees, four abreast,
Tack landward, west.
Landward the watching townsfolk strew the shore;
Mist-banks of human beings blur the bluffs
And blacken the roofs, like swarms of roosting choughs.
Waiting the cannon’s roar
A nation holds its breath for knell of Nevermore
Or peal of life: this hour shall cast the sloughs
Of generations—and one old dame’s joy:
Her gunner boy.