Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,”
there was no charge like Kearney’s.
In the one hand still left,—and the reins in his teeth!”
General Oliver O. Howard lost his right arm in this battle. When the amputation was taking place, he looked grimly up at General Kearney, who was present, and remarked, “We’ll buy our gloves together, after this.”
At Chantilly, a few days after the second battle of Bull Run, wherein he forced the gallant Stonewall Jackson back, he penetrated into the Confederate lines and met his death.
The Confederates had won. The dusk had fallen and General Kearney was reconnoitering after placing his division.
“He rode right into our men,” feelingly relates a Confederate soldier, “then stopping suddenly, called out,
“‘What troops are these?’”
Some one replied, “Hays’ Mississippi Brigade.”
He turned quickly in an attempt to escape. A shower of bullets fell about him. He leaned forward as if to protect himself, but a ball struck him in the spine. He reeled and fell.
Under the white flag of truce, General Lee sent his remains to General Hooker, who had the body transported to New York, where it was interred with becoming honors.
That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried.”
KEARNEY AT SEVEN PINES
SO that soldierly legend is still on its journey,—
That story of Kearney who knew not how to yield!
’Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and Birney,
Against twenty thousand he rallied the field.
Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest,
Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine,
Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,—
No charge like Phil Kearney’s along the whole line.
Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our ground
He rode down the length of the withering column,
And his heart at our war cry leapt up with a bound.
He snuffed like his charger, the wind of the powder,—
His sword waved us on and we answered the sign;
Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder,
“There’s the devil’s own fun, boys, along the whole line!”
In the one hand still left,—and the reins in his teeth!
He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten,
But a soldier’s glance shot from his visor beneath.
Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal,
Asking where to go in,—through the clearing or pine?
“O, anywhere! Forward! ’Tis all the same, Colonel!
You’ll find lovely fighting along the whole line!”
That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried!
Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily,
The flower of our knighthood, the whole army’s pride!
Yet we dream that he still,—in that shadowy region
Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drummer’s sign,—
Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion,
And the word still is “Forward!” along the whole line.
THE CAVALRY CHARGE
WITH bray of the trumpet
And roll of the drum,
And keen ring of bugle,
The cavalry come.
Sharp clank the steel scabbards
The bridle chains ring,
And foam from red nostrils
The wild chargers fling.
That quivers below,
Scarce held by the curb bit
The fierce horses go!
And the grim-visaged colonel,
With ear-rending shout,
Peals forth to the squadrons
The order: “Trot out!”
And one on the rein,
The troopers move forward
In line on the plain.
As rings the word, “Gallop!”
The steel scabbards clank;
As each rowel is pressed
To a horse’s hot flank;
And swift is their rush
And the wild torrents flow,
When it pours from the crag
On the valley below.
Like shaft from the bow
Each mad horse is hurled
On the wavering foe.
A thousand bright sabers
Are gleaming in air;
A thousand dark horses
Are dashed on the square.
Resistless and reckless
Of aught may betide,
Like demons, not mortals
The wild troopers ride.
Cut right! and cut left!
For the parry who needs?
The bayonets shiver
Like wind-scattered reeds.
That bursts from the square,—
The random-shot bullets
Are wasted in air.
Triumphant, remorseless,
Unerring as death,—
No saber that’s stainless
Returns to its sheath.
The wounds that are dealt
By that murderous steel
Will never yield case
For the surgeon to heal.
Hurrah! they are broken—
Hurrah! boys, they fly!
None linger save those
Who but linger to die.
And call in your men,—
The trumpet sounds, “Rally
To colors!” again.
Some saddles are empty,
Some comrades are slain
And some noble horses
Lie stark on the plain:
But war’s a chance game, boys,
And weeping is vain.
AN IMMORTAL TWAIN
IT is a coincidence worthy of note, and heretofore unremarked by historians, that, as in the hour of birth of the National Flag there was given to posterity the name of a great Revolutionary hero, the hour of birth of the Confederate Battle Emblem immortalized the name of a hero of the Confederacy.
At four o’clock in the afternoon of that hard-fought battle of Manassas (Bull Run), July 21, 1861, the Federals were thinning out the lines in gray. Now they were directing their efforts against the wings of Jackson and Beauregard. Jackson’s solemn visage was growing more solemn; Beauregard was anxiously scanning the landscape beyond, in the hope of discovering the approach of badly needed reënforcements.
Over the hill a long line was seen advancing. The day was hot and dry and not a leaf stirred in the dust-laden air. Clouds of smoke and grime enveloped the advancing troops and obscured their colors. General Beauregard raised his glass and surveyed them critically.
He then called an officer and instructed him to go to General Johnston and inform him that the enemy was receiving reënforcements and it might be wise for him to withdraw to another point. Still, he was not fully assured that the coming troops were Federals! The flag hung limp and motionless and could not be accurately discerned.
If these were Federals the day was surely lost. But if they were Confederates there was a fighting chance to win.
He determined to hold his position, and called out,
“What troops are those?”
No one could tell. Just then a gust of wind spread the colors. The flag was the Stars and Bars—General Early’s brigade, not a moment too soon.
“We must have a more distinct flag,” announced General Beauregard vehemently, in infinite relief: “One that we can recognize when we see it.”
In that instant was conceived the Confederate Battle Flag, used thereafter throughout the Civil strife.
After the battle, the design—St. Andrew’s Cross—was submitted by General Beauregard, and, approved by General Joseph E. Johnston, was adopted by the Confederate Congress.
“Conceived on the field of battle, it lived on the field of battle, and was proudly borne on every field from Manassas to Appomattox.”
The Confederates were routed and running in disorder. General Jackson was standing immovable. General Bee rode to his side. “They will beat us back!”
“No, Sir,” replied Jackson, “we will give them the bayonet.”
General Bee rode back to his brigade. “Look at Jackson,” said he, “standing there like a stone wall. Rally behind him.” With this his brigade fell into line.
Early’s troops arrived and formed. The Federals were beaten into a tumultuous retreat that never slacked until Centerville was reached.
From that day the name “Stonewall” attached to Thomas Jonathan Jackson and was peculiarly appropriate as indicating the adamantine, unyielding character of the man.
The motto of his life was: “A man can do what he wills to do,” and in his resolves he depended for guidance upon Divine leading. He tried always to throw a religious atmosphere about his men; and out of respect to his feelings, if for no other reason, they often refrained from evil. His mount was a little sorrel horse, that the men affirmed was strikingly like him as it could not run except towards the enemy.
The ardent love of his troops for him made the tragedy of his death the more deplorable. Mistaking him for the enemy as he was returning from the front, in the gathering darkness at Chancellorsville, May, 1863, his own men shot him,—shot him down with victory in his grasp.
The whole country was horror-struck. Friend and foe alike paused in sympathy at such a situation.
To the Southern cause it was more than the taking off of a leader; it was an irreparable loss. By his death was left a gap in the Confederate ranks that no one else could fill.
Prior to the breaking out of the war Jackson had been unknown, but in the two years of his service he accomplished more than any other officer on his side. He saved Richmond from early fall by keeping the Union forces apart, until he was joined by Lee, when together they drove McClellan from within a few miles of the Confederate Capital and cleared the James River of gunboats.
In his report from Chancellorsville, General Robert E. Lee pays tribute to the illustrious officer thus:—
“The movement by which the enemy’s position was turned and the fortune of the day decided, was conducted by the lamented Lieutenant General Jackson, who, as has already been stated, was severely wounded near the close of the engagement Saturday evening. I do not propose here to speak of the character of this illustrious man, since removed from the scene of his eminent usefulness, by the hand of an inscrutable but all-wise Providence. I nevertheless desire to pay the tribute of my admiration to the matchless energy and skill that marked this last act of his life, forming as it did a worthy conclusion of that long series of splendid achievements which won for him the lasting love and gratitude of his country.
“R. E. Lee.
“General S. Cooper,
“Adjt. and Insp. Gen. C. S. Army,
“Richmond, Va.”
STONEWALL JACKSON
NOT midst the lightning of the stormy fight,
Nor in the rush upon the vandal foe,
Did Kingly Death with his resistless might
Lay the great leader low.
In the full sunshine of a peaceful town;
When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak
That propped our cause went down.
Recalling all his grand heroic deeds,
Freedom herself is writhing in the wound
And all the country bleeds.
At the red belching of the cannon’s mouth
But broke the House of Bondage with his hand,
The Moses of the South!
A glorious sunbeam gilds thy sternest frown,
And while his country staggers neath the Cross,
He rises with the Crown.
THE HIGH TIDE AT GETTYSBURG
A CLOUD possessed the hollow field,
The gathering battle’s smoky shield:
Athwart the gloom the lightning flashed,
And through the cloud some horsemen dashed,
And from the heights the thunder pealed.
Moved out that matchless infantry,
With Pickett leading grandly down,
To rush against the roaring crown,
Of those dread heights of destiny.
A cry across the tumult runs,—
The voice that rang through Shiloh’s woods
And Chickamauga’s solitudes,
The fierce South cheering on her sons!
Against the front of Pettigrew!
A Khamsin wind that scorched and singed
Like that infernal flame that fringed
The British squares at Waterloo!
A thousand died where Garnett bled:
In blinding flame and strangling smoke
The remnant through the batteries broke
And crossed the works with Armistead.
Virginia cried to Tennessee;
“We two together, come what may,
Shall stand upon these works today!”
(The reddest day in history.)
Virginia heard her comrade say:
“Close round this rent and riddled rag!”
What time she set her battle-flag
Amid the guns of Doubleday.
Before the awful face of Fate?
The tattered standards of the South
Were shriveled at the cannon’s mouth,
And all her hopes were desolate.
His breast against the bayonet;
In vain Virginia charged and raged,
A tigress in her wrath uncaged,
Till all the hill was red and wet.
Men saw a gray, gigantic ghost
Receding through the battle-cloud,
And heard across the tempest loud
The death-cry of a nation lost!
They leaped to Ruin’s red embrace;
They only heard Fame’s thunders wake,
And saw the dazzling sun-burst break
In smiles on Glory’s bloody face!
And bade the sun in heaven to stand;
They smote and fell, who set the bars
Against the progress of the stars,
And stayed the march of Motherland!
On through the fight’s delirium;
They smote and stood, who held the hope
Of nations on that slippery slope
Amid the cheers of Christendom.
That clutched and held the trembling hill!
God lives and reigns! He built and lent
The heights for freedom’s battlement
Where floats her flag in triumph still!
Love rules. Her gentler purpose runs.
A mighty mother turns in tears
The pages of her battle years,
Lamenting all her fallen sons!
UNITED
ALL day it shook the land—grim battle’s thunder tread;
And fields at morning green, at eve are trampled red.
But now, on the stricken scene, twilight and quiet fall;
Only, from hill to hill, night’s tremulous voices call;
And comes from far along, where camp fires warning burn,
The dread, hushed sound which tells of morning’s sad return.
And a flood of moonlight breaks like a voiceless prayer for the dead.
And steals the blessed wind, like Odin’s fairest daughter,
In viewless ministry, over the fields of slaughter;
Soothing the smitten life, easing the pang of death,
And bearing away on high the passing warrior’s breath.
The one in Northern blue, the other in Southern gray.
Around his lifeless foeman the arms of each are pressed,
And the head of one is pillowed upon the other’s breast.
As if two loving brothers, wearied with work and play,
Had fallen asleep together, at close of the summer day.
Foemen were they, and brothers?—Again the battle’s din,
With its sullen, cruel answer, from far away breaks in.
OLD HEART OF OAK
TO the Navy is ascribed the larger shares in the Civil War, of overcoming the prowess of the South. “The blockade sapped the industrial strength of the Confederacy.”
A powerful factor in this blockade was David G. Farragut. Farragut was a Southerner by birth—a Tennessean—and fought, as it were, against his own hearthstone. Yet, when it is considered that from early youth he was in the marine service of the government and by arms upheld the national flag, and when it is remembered with what reverence the seaman regards the flag under which he serves, his choice is not surprising.
Scenes wherein men fought and died for the Stars and Stripes and often with their dying breath expressing adoration of the nation’s emblem were common experiences of his life.
In his memoirs is related a pathetic story of a youth’s death from accidental shooting. “Put me in the boat,” implored he of his comrades, “that I may die under my country’s flag.” Another, a young Scotchman, who had a leg cut off in battle, cried out mournfully, “I can no longer be of use to the flag of my adoption,” and threw himself overboard.
The necessity of choosing between the North and the South brought Farragut many sleepless nights and forced him between the fires of censure from the South and doubt of his fealty from the North, as it was recognized that the Southern man, as a rule, felt that his first allegiance was due to his State.
When he was but a lad of seven years, Farragut lost his mother and was adopted by his father’s friend, that fighting old Commodore David Porter, who was destined to raise both his adopted and his own son to become admirals in the United States Navy.
For little Dave Farragut the sea had always a wonderful fascination, and at the age of twelve he was made a midshipman on the Essex, a warship of 1812. The Essex one day captured a whaling vessel, and Captain Porter placed David in charge to steer her across the Pacific. The captain of the whaler, when clear of the Essex, thought to regain his vessel from the boy, by countermanding his orders. He threatened to shoot any sailor who dared to disobey him. Right here, the mettle that was to make Farragut the head of the American navy and the idol of the American people manifested itself. He repeated his order at first given; and when the mutinous captain appeared from below decks where he had gone for his pistols, he was told by the youthful commander that he would have to stay below or be thrown overboard. He chose the former.
To this same dauntless spirit, the Federal government owed the blockade of the lower Mississippi and the closing of the ports of Mobile Bay, that inflicted such injuries upon the Confederacy as to hasten the end of the war. “With ports closed,” says an authority, “the Southern armies were reduced to a pitiful misery, the long endurance of which makes a noble chapter in heroism.”
The lower Mississippi was controlled by the Confederates. Possession of the river and the capture of New Orleans could be accomplished only by running the forts situated below the city some seventy miles. To run the forts with wooden vessels and escape destruction from the armed vessels of the Confederacy in the Mississippi was a hazardous undertaking. Farragut believed he could do this. In December, 1861, he wrote to a friend: “Keep your lips closed and burn my letters. Perfect silence is the first injunction of the Secretary. I am to have a flag in the gulf, and the rest depends upon myself.”
In March he again wrote, “I have now attained what I have been looking for all my life—a flag—and having attained it, all that is necessary to complete the scene is a victory.” The victory he was soon to have.
At two o’clock the morning of April 24, 1862, the signal for the start for the forts was given. In a few moments the thunderous roar of batteries and guns broke upon the air. The river became a mass of writhing flame.
“The passing of Forts Jackson and St. Phillips was one of the most awful sights and events I ever saw or expect to experience,” says Farragut. Rafts of cotton were set on fire by the Confederates and came down the river, scattering disaster as they came. One of these caught the Hartford, Farragut’s flagship, and set it on fire. So high rose the flames that even the courageous commander was for the moment daunted and exclaimed, “My God! is this to end this way!” By the expeditious use of the hose the flames were controlled.
The strong barriers across the river were broken. By repeated and desperate efforts the Confederate boats were sunk or disabled. The levee at New Orleans was gained. The Crescent City was taken.
Thus was accomplished a feat in naval warfare reckoned without a parallel in naval history, except in that of twenty-four months later in Mobile Bay. In compliment to his exploit the rank of rear admiral was conferred upon Farragut. Of the fleet, as subordinate officers, were Dewey and Schley, a future admiral and a rear-admiral.
To his home, the victorious commander addressed the following letter: —
“My dearest Wife and Boy.
“I am so agitated I can scarcely write, and I shall only tell you that it has pleased Almighty God to preserve my life through a fire such as the world has scarcely known.”
When the ships lay safely at the levee with but one of the squadron lost, Farragut by note requested the mayor of New Orleans to remove the Confederate flag and to surrender the city formally. In curt terms the doughty mayor refused to do so, stating there was not in the city of New Orleans a man who would take down that flag. Then ensued a most unique correspondence between the two, through which Farragut made himself misunderstood to the extent that it was rumored that it was his intention to turn the guns on the city. At the expiration of forty-eight hours, however, an officer of the fleet removed the offending flag and hoisted the Stars and Stripes over the city hall.
To injure purposely the defenseless, as in turning the guns on the city, was not in keeping with the nature of David Farragut as revealed in history. Power combined with gentleness were the marked traits of his character. This gentleness had its finest reflex in his delicate attentions to his invalid wife. In the presence of her continuous suffering his warrior nature was laid aside, and his chivalric kindness shone forth in acts of rare devotion and tender care.
When he was asked one day, as to his feelings during a battle in seeing men fall writhing upon every side, he answered, “I thought of nothing but the working of the guns; but after the battle, when I saw the mangled bodies of my shipmates, dead and dying, groaning and expiring often with the most patriotic sentiments upon their lips, I became faint and sick. My sympathies were all aroused.” Markedly noticeable in his letters is the absence of self-elation over his victories. There are, rather, a rejoicing in the advancement of his cause and gratitude to the Almighty for preservation. In this we read anew the lesson of true greatness.
Just prior to entering into the noted action of Mobile Bay, he wrote his son respecting his views of duty and death. “He who dies in doing his duty to his country, and at peace with his God, has played out the drama of life to the best advantage.” Shortly after this was penned, the Hartford was steaming into Mobile Bay, under the heavy fire of guns of Fort Morgan and Fort Gaines, in the execution of a naval feat that attracted the attention and admiration of the whole civilized world.
At the mouth of the bay the two islands upon which the forts stood were less than a mile apart. The passage had been strewn with torpedoes by the Confederates, and only a narrow strip of water was left clear. Through this strip went Farragut’s fleet: the Tecumseh first, the Brooklyn next, the Hartford third. Suddenly the prow of the Tecumseh lifted: she veered and sank. The Brooklyn backed and held Farragut’s ship directly under the guns of Fort Morgan. Shot and shell hurtled in the air. The smoke grew dense. The fire from the cannons lit the heavens. Men shouted and fell.
“What’s the matter!” called Farragut.
“Torpedoes,” some one answered.
Never a profane man, he now gave vent to an oath, and cried out, “Full speed, Jouett. Four bells, Captain Drayton.”
The Hartford steamed to the front. The torpedoes crackled under her as she sped on; but the forts were passed. And high in the rigging of his ship, in full view of the enemy and imminent danger of the fiery missiles, was seen Farragut, whence he directed all the ships’ maneuvers. An officer, observing him standing there, feared lest a shot would cause his fall, and carried a rope and lashed him to the mast.
In maddened fury the ironclad Tennessee plunged straight at the Hartford. All the fleet bore down upon the Confederate ship. And crowding together, the Lackawanna, needing room, struck the flagship by accident, and came near striking the commander. Against the Tennessee every Federal ship now redoubled her efforts, until, battered and bruised and despairing, she struck her colors.
The captain of the Tennessee was Buchanan, the same who commanded the Merrimac in her fight with the Monitor in Hampton Roads. “The Tennessee and Buchanan are my prisoners, ” wrote Farragut home. “He has lost a leg. It was a hard fight, but Buck met his fate manfully.”
Fort Morgan and Fort Gaines surrendered and Farragut’s fierce conflicts were at an end. Nearly so was his path of life. Congress honored him with the rank of admiral, the highest honor to be conferred. America and foreign nations extended him the most distinguishing courtesies. And then—the unseen Pilot steered his course across the unknown sea unto the harbor of the city Eternal.
FARRAGUT
FARRAGUT, Farragut,
Old Heart of Oak,
Daring Dave Farragut,
Thunderbolt stroke,
Watches the hoary mist
Lift from the bay,
Till his flag, glory-kissed,
Greets the young day.
Looms the black fleet.
Hark, deck to rampart calls
With the drums’ beat!
Buoy your chains overboard,
While the steam hums;
Men! to the battlement,
Farragut comes.
Hurtles in wrath
Squadrons of clouds amain
Back from its path!
Back to the parapet,
To the gun’s lips,
Thunderbolt Farragut
Hurls the black ships.
Clear the boy sings,
“By the mark fathoms four,”
While his lead swings.
Steadily the wheelmen five
“Nor’ by East keep her.”
“Steady,” but two alive:
How the shells sweep her!
Over red decks,
Over the flame that plays
Round the torn wrecks,
Over the dying lips
Framed for a cheer,
Farragut leads his ships,
Guides the line clear.
While the spars quiver;
Onward still flames the cloud
Where the hulls shiver.
See, yon fort’s star is set,
Storm and fire past.
Cheer him, lads—Farragut,
Lashed to the mast!
Bears a white sail,
While the Gulf’s towering crest
Tops a green vale,
Men thy bold deeds shall tell,
Old Heart of Oak,
Daring Dave Farragut,
Thunderbolt stroke!
William Tuckey Meredith.
PINE AND PALM
(GRANT AND LEE)
Charles Francis Adams in address before Chicago Chapter of Phi Beta Kappa, June 17, 1902.
I NOW come to what I have always regarded—shall ever regard as the most creditable episode in all American history,—an episode without a blemish,—imposing, dignified, simple, heroic. I refer to Appomattox. Two men met that day, representative of American civilization, the whole world looking on. The two were Grant and Lee,—types each. Both rose, and rose unconsciously, to the full height of the occasion,—and than that occasion there has been none greater. About it and them, there was no theatrical display, no self-consciousness, no effort at effect. A great crisis was to be met; and they met that crisis as great countrymen should.
That month of April saw the close of exactly four years of persistent strife,—a strife which the whole civilized world had been watching intently. Then, suddenly, came the dramatic climax at Appomattox, dramatic I say, not theatrical,—severe in its simple, sober, matter-of-fact majesty. The world, I again assert, has seen nothing like it; and the world, instinctively, was at the time conscious of the fact. I like to dwell on the familiar circumstances of the day; on its momentous outcome; on its far-reaching results. It affords one of the greatest educational object lessons to be found in history; and the actors were worthy of the theater, the auditory, and the play.
A mighty tragedy was drawing to a close. The breathless world was the audience. It was a bright, balmy April Sunday in a quiet Virginia landscape, with two veteran armies confronting each other; one game to the death, completely in the grasp of the other. The future was at stake. What might ensue? What might not ensue? Would the strife end then and there? Would it die in a death-grapple, only to reappear in that chronic form of a vanquished but indomitable people, writhing and struggling, in the grasp of an insatiate but only nominal victor?
The answer depended on two men,—the captains of the contending forces. Think what then might have resulted had these two men been other than what they were,—had the one been stern and aggressive, the other sullen and unyielding. Most fortunately for us, they were what and who they were,—Grant and Lee. Of the two, I know not to which to award the palm. Instinctively, unconsciously, they vied not unsuccessfully each with the other, in dignity, magnanimity, simplicity.
THE CONQUERED BANNER
LIKE several other poems of renown, “The Conquered Banner” was written under stress of deep emotion.
Abram J. Ryan (Father Ryan) had been ordained as a Catholic priest. Shortly after his ordination he was made a chaplain in the Confederate army.
When the news came of General Lee’s surrender at Appomattox he was in his room in Knoxville, where his regiment was quartered.
He bowed his head upon the table and wept bitterly.
He then arose and looked about him for a piece of paper, but could find nothing but a sheet of brown paper wrapped about a pair of shoes. Spreading this out upon the table, he, “in a spirit of sorrow and desolation” as expressed in his own words, wrote upon it “The Conquered Banner.”
The following morning the regiment was ordered away, and the poem upon the table was forgotten. To the author’s surprise it appeared over his name, in a Louisville paper, a few weeks later, having been forwarded to the paper by the lady in whose house he had stopped in Knoxville.
The poem was widely copied, and was read at gatherings throughout the South with ardor and often with tears.
As an expression of sorrow without bitterness it is considered a fine example.