THE RED DEW
Being some small account of the war experience of an East River pilot,
whose boat was the Susquehanna, familiarily known as the Susq, and who
lost his leg and more at Gettysburg.
At de break o' day I goes t' bed, an' I goes to work
at dusk,
Fer ev'ry night dat a boat can run I takes de wheel
o' de Susq.
De nights is long in de pilot-house? Well, now
d'ye hear me speakin'?
No night is long since de one I spent wid me sta'b'ard
side a-leakin'.
I'd gone t' de war an' was all stove in, an' I seen
how a little white hand
Can take holt of a great big chump like me an'
make him drop his sand.
An' her face! De face o' de Holy Mary warn't
any sweeter 'n hern!
If ye like I'll set de wheel o' me mind an' let 'er
drift astern.
We'd fit all day till de sun was low an' I t'ought de
war was fun,
Till a big ball skun de side o' me face an' smashed
de end o' me gun.
Den anodder one kicked me foot off—see? an'
I tell ye it done it cunnin',
An' I trun meself in de grass, kerplunk, but me
mind kep' on a-runnin'.
Next I knowed I was feelin' o' somebody's face,
an' I seen de poor devil was cryin',
An' he tumbled all over me tryin't' r'ise, an' he
cussed an' kep' turnin' an' tryin';
"Good Gawd!" sez I, "what's de matter wid you?
Shut up yer face an' hark,"
An' s' help me, de odder man's face was mine an'
I was alone in de dark.
When I lay wid me back ag'in de world I seen how
little I was
An' I knowed, fer de firs' time in me life, how deep
an' broad de sky was;
An' me mind kep' a-wanderin' off 'n de night, till
it stopped where de Bowery ends,
An' come back a-sighin' an' says t' me dat it couldn't
find no friends.
Den I fumbled me breat' till I cert'inly t'ought
I never could ketch it ag'in.
If I'd bin a-bawlin' t' git a prize ye bet cher life
I'd 'a' win.
If ye're dyin' an' ain't no home in de world an'
yer fr'ends is all on de shelf,
An' dere's nobody else t' bawl fer ye—ye're goin'
t' bawl fer yerself.
De sun peeped over de hills at last, an' as soon as
I seen his rim
De dew in de valley was all afire wid a sort o' a
ruby glim.
De blue coats lay in de tumbled grass—some
stirrin' but most o' 'em dead—
'Pon me word, de poor devils had bled so much,
de dew in de valley were red!
An' what d'ye t'ink? de nex' t'ing I knowed, a
lady had holt o' me hand,
An' smoothed de frills all out o' me face an' brushed
off de dew an' de sand.
No lady had ever mammied me an' I were scairt
so I dassent say boo,
I warn't in no shape t' help meself an' I didn't
know what she'd do.
An' me heart was a-t'umpin' ag'in me ribs, an' me
lettin' on I was dead!
Till she put down her cheek so close to me mug
dat I had t' move me head.
An' she lifted me head wid her sof' white hands
an' I don't know all she done;
I was blubberin' so dat I couldn't see, but I knowed
I were havin' fun.
I lay wid me head 'n de lady's lap while de doctors
cut an' sawed,
An' dey hurted me so dat me eyes was sot, but I
never cussed er jawed.
An' she patted me cheek an' spoke so sof' dat I
didn't move a peg,
An' I t'ought if dey'd let me lay dere awhile dey
could saw off de odder leg.
Fer de loss o' me leg, t'ree times a year, I gets me
little wad,
But dere ain't any pension fer losin' yer heart
unless it comes from Gawd.
If anythin' busts ye there, me boy, I t'ink ye'll be
apt t' find
Ye'll either drop out o' de game o' life, er else go
lame in yer mind.
I never c'u'd know de reason why, till de lady
helt me head,
Dat a man 'll go broke fer de woman he loves er
mebbe fight till he's dead.
When I t'inks dat I never had no friends an' what
am I livin' fer?
I fergits dat I'm holdin' de wheel o' de Susq, an'
I sets an' t'inks o' her.
An' I t'inks how gentle she spoke t' me, an' I t'inks
o' her sof', white hand,
An' de feel o' her fingers on me face when she
brushed off de dew an' de sand.
An' I set a-t'inkin' an' turnin' me wheel, sometimes
de whole night t'rough,
An' de good Gawd knows I'd a giv' me life, if she'd
only 'a' loved me too.
THE BABY CORPS
Being some account of the little cadets of the Virginia Military
Institute, who stood the examination of war at New Market, Va. May 15,
1864, in the front line of the Confederate forces, where more than three
hundred answered to their names and all were perfect.
We were only a lot of little boys—they called us a
baby corps—
At the Institute in Lexington in the winter
of '64;
And the New Year brought to the stricken South
no end of the war in sight,
But we thought we could whip the North in a week
if they'd only let us fight.
One night when the boys were all abed we heard
the long roll beat,
And quickly the walls of the building shook with
the tread of hurrying feet;
And when the battalion stood in line we heard the
welcome warning:
"Breckinridge needs the help o' the corps; be
ready to march in the morning."
And many a boastful tale was told, through the
lingering hours of night,
And the teller fenced with airy foes and showed
how heroes fight.
And notes of love were written with many a fevered
sigh,
That breathed the solemn sacrifice of those about
to die.
Some sat in nature's uniform patching their suits
of gray,
And some stood squinting across their guns in a
darkly suggestive way.
The battalion was off on the Staunton pike as soon
as the sun had risen,
And we turned and cheered for the Institute, but
yesterday a prison.
At Staunton the soldiers chaffed us, and the girls
of the city schools
Giggled and flirted around the corps till we felt like
a lot of fools;
They threw us kisses and tiny drums and a volley
of baby rattles,
'Til we thought that the fire of ridicule was worse
than the fire of battles.
We made our escape in the early dawn, and, camping
the second night,
Were well on our way to the seat of war, with
Harrisonburg in sight;
And the troopers who met us, riding fast from the
thick of the army hives,
Said: "Sigel has come with an awful force, and
ye'll have to fight fer yer lives."
But we wanted to fight, and the peril of war never
weakened our young desires,
And the third day out we camped at dusk in sight
of the picket fires;
Our thoughts, wing-weary with homeward flight,
went astray in the gloomy skies,
And our hearts were beating a reveille whenever
we closed our eyes.
"Hark! what's that? The sentry call?" (A
galloping horseman comes.)
"Hey, boys! Get up! There's something wrong!
Don't ye hear 'em a-thumpin' the drums?"
Said the captain, who sat in the light of the fire
tying his muddy shoes:
"We must toe the line of the Yankees soon, an'
we haven't much time to lose.
"Hats off!" And we all stood silent while the
captain raised his hand
And prayed, imploring the God of war to favor
his little band.
His voice went out in a whisper at last, and then
without further remark
He bade the battalion form in fours, and led us
away in the dark.
We lamed our legs on the heavy road and a long
rain cooled our blood
And every time we raised a foot we could hear the
suck of the mud.
At noon we came—a weary lot—to the top of a
big clay hill,
And below were miles of infantry—the whole bunch
standing still.
The league-long hills are striped with blue, the
valley is lined with gray,
And between the armies of North and South are
blossoming fields of May.
There's a mighty cheer in the Southern host as,
led by the fife and drum,
To the front of the lines with a fearless tread our
baby cadets have come.
"Forward!" The air is quaking now; a shrill-
voiced, angry yell
Answers the roar of the musketry and the scream
of the rifled shell.
The gray ranks rushing, horse and foot, at the
flaming wall of blue
Break a hole in its centre, and some one shouts:
"See the little cadets go through!"
A shell shoots out of its hood of smoke, and slows
mid-air and leaps
At our corps that is crossing a field of wheat, and
we stagger and fall in heaps;
We close the ranks, and they break again, when a
dozen more fall dying;
And some too hurt to use their guns stand up with
the others trying.
"Lie down an' give 'em a volley, boys—quick there,
every one!
"Lie down, you little devils!—Down! It's better
to die than run."
And huddling under the tender wheat, the living lay
down with the dead,
And you couldn't have lifted your finger then
without touching a piece of lead.
"Look up in the sky and see the shells go over
a-whiskin' their tails";
"Better not lift yer hand too high or the bullets
'll trim yer nails."
Said the captain, "Forward, you who can!" In a
jiffy I'm off on my feet
An' up to their muzzles a-clubbin' my gun, an'
the Yanks have begun a retreat.
Said a wounded boy, peering over the grain,
"Hurrah! See our banner a-flyin'!
"Wish I was there, but I can't get up—I wonder
if I'm a-dyin'?
"O Jim! did you ever hear of a man that lived
that was hit in the head?
"Say, Jim! did you ever hear of a man that
lived— My God! Jim's dead!"
A mist, like a web that is heavy with prey, is caught
in the green o' the fields;
It breaks and is parted as if a soul were struggling
where it yields;
The twilight deepens and hushes all, save the beat
beating of distant drums,
And over the shuddering deep of the air a wave of
silence comes.
By lantern light we found the boys where under the
wheat they lay
As if sleep—soft-fingered, compelling sleep!—had
come in the midst of play.
The captain said of the bloody charge and the
soldiers who fought so well:
"The army had to follow the boys if they entered
the flames o' hell."
PICTURE, SOUND AND SONG
The battle roar is ended and the twilight falls
again,
The bugles have blown, the hosts have flown save
they in the dusky grain.
And lo! the shaking barley tells where the wounded
writhe and roll;
With a panting breath at the pass of death the body
fights for the soul.
Some rise to retreat and they die on their feet in
this terrible fight for the soul.
And horses urged by the spur of Death are galloping
over the grain;
Their hoofs are red, their riders are dead, and
loose are the stirrup and rein.
A ghost in the saddle is riding them down, the
spurs of Pain at his heels;
They are cut to the bone, they rush and they groan,
as a wake in the barley reels:
And faces rise with haggard eyes where the wake
in the barley reels.
The blue and the gray lie face to face and their
fingers harrow the loam,
There's a sob and a prayer in the smoky air as
their winged thoughts fly home.
The Devil of war has dimmed the sky with the
breath of his iron lungs,
And he gluts his ear on the note of fear in the cry
of the fevered tongues;
Like the toll of a bell at the gate of hell is the wail
of the fevered tongues.
One rising, walked from the bullet shock, seems to
reel 'neath the weight of his head,
He feels for his gun and starts to run and falls in a
hollow—dead.
The wagons are coming and over each the light of
a lantern swings,
And a holy thought to the soul is brought, as the
voice of a driver sings;
And the cry of pain in the trampled grain is hushed
as the driver sings:
My country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing.
THE VEN'SON-TREE
The busy cranes go back an' forth, a-ploughin' up
the sky,
The wild goose drag comes down the wind an'
goes a-roarin' by;
The song-birds sow their music in the blue fields
over me
An' it seems to grow up into thoughts about the
ven'son-tree.
The apple-blossoms scatter down—a scented summer
snow,
An' man an' wind an' cloud an' sun have all begun
to sow.
The green hopes come a-sproutin' up somewhere
inside o' me,
An' it's time we ought to see the sprouts upon the
ven'son-tree.
The velvet leaves the willow an' adorns the ven'son
bough,
There's new silk in the tree-top an' the coat o' horse
an' cow.
The woods are trimmed fer weddin's, an' are all
in Sunday clo's,
An' the bark upon the ven'son-tree is redder than
a rose.
The days are still an' smoky, an' the nights are
growin' cold,
The maples are a-drippin' blood, the beeches
drippin' gold;
The briers are above my head, the brakes above
my knee,
An' the bark is gettin' kind o' blue upon the ven'son-
tree.
What makes the big trees shake an' groan as if
they all had sinned?
'Tis God A'mighty's reaper with the horses o' the
wind.
He will hitch with chains o' lightnin', He will urge
with thunder call,
He will try the rotten-hearted till they reel an'
break an' fall.
The leaves are driftin' in the breeze, an' gathered
where they lie
Are the colors o' the sunset an' the smell o' the
windy sky;
The squirrels whisk, with loaded mouths, an' stop
an' say to me:
"It's time to gether in the fruit upon the ven'son-
tree."
"What makes ye look so anxious an' what makes
ye speak so low?"
"It's 'cause I'm thinkin' of a place where I'm
a-goin' to go.
"This here I've, been a-tinkerin' which lays acrost
my knee
"Is the axe that I'm a-usin' fer to fell the ven'son-
tree."
I've polished up the iron an' I've covered it with ile,
Its bit is only half an inch, its helve is half a
mile.
(The singer blows an imitation of the startled deer)
"Whew! what's that so pesky—why, it kind o'
frightened me?"
"It's the wind a blowin' through the top o' the
cute ol' ven'son-tree."
HIM AN' ME
Being a story of the Adirondacks told by me in the words of him who had
borne with buck-fever and bad marksmanship until, having been long out of
meat and patiencey he put his confidence in me and we sallied forth.
We'd greased our tongues with bacon 'til they'd
shy at food an' fork
An' the trails o' thought were slippery an' slopin'
towards New York;
An' our gizzards shook an' trembled an' were most
uncommon hot
An' the oaths were slippin' easy from the tongue
o' Philo Scott.
Then skyward rose a flapjack an' a hefty oath he
swore
An' he spoke of all his sufferin' which he couldn't
stan' no more;
An' the flapjack got to jumpin' like a rabbit on
the run
As he give his compliments to them who couldn't
p'int a gun.
He told how deer would let 'em come an' stan' an'
rest an' shoot
An' how bold an' how insultin' they would eye the
tenderfoot;
How he—Fide Scott—was hankerin' fer suthin'
fit to eat
"———!" says he. "Le's you an' me go out an'
find some meat."
We paddled off a-whisperin' beneath the long birch
limbs
An' we snooked along as silent as a sucker when
he swims;
I could hear him slow his paddle as eroun' the
turns he bore;
I could hear his neck a-creakin' while his eye run
up the shore.
An' soon we come acrost a buck as big an' bold
as sin
An' Philo took t' swallerin' to keep his
feelin's in;
An' every time he swallered, as he slowly swung
eroun',
I could hear his Adam's apple go a-squeakin' up
an' down.
He sot an' worked his paddle jest as skilful as he
could
An' we went on slow an' careless, like a chunk o'
floatin' wood:
An' I kind o' shook an' shivered an' the pesky ol'
canoe
It seemed to feel as I did, for it shook an' shivered
too.
I sot there, full o' deviltry, a-p'intin' with the
gun,
An' we come up clost and closter, but the deer he
didn't run;
An' Philo shet his teeth so hard he split his brier-
root
As he held his breath a-waitin' an' expectin' me to
shoot.
I could kind o' feel him hanker, I could kind o'
hear him think,
An' we'd come so nigh the animal we didn't dast
to wink,
But I kep' on a-p'intin' of the rifle at the deer
Jest as if I was expectin' fer to stick it in his
ear.
An' Philo tetched the gunnel soft an' shook it with
his knee;
I kind o' felt him nudgin' an' a-wishin' he was me,
But I kep' on a-p'intin', with a foolish kind o' grin,
Enjoyin' all the wickedness that he was holdin' in.
An' of a sudden I could feel a tremble in his feet;
I knew that he was gettin' mad an' fillin' up with
heat.
His breath come fast an' faster, but he couldn't
say a damn—
He'd the feelin's of a panther an' the quiet of a
lamb.
An' his foot come creepin' for'ards an' he tetched
me with his boot
An' he whispered low an' anxious, an says he:
"Why don't ye shoot?''
An' the buck he see the time had come fer him an'
us to part
An' away he ran as Philo pulled the trigger of his
heart.
He had panthers in his bosom, he had horns upon
his mind;
An' the panthers spit an' rassied an' their fur riz
up behind;
An' he gored me with his languidge an' he clawed
me with his eye
'Til I wisht that, when I done him dirt, I hadn't
been so nigh.
He scairt the fish beneath us an' the birds upon the
shore
An' he spoke of all his sufferin' which he couldn't
stan' no more;
Then he sot an' thought an' muttered as he pushed
a mile er so
Like a man that's lost an' weary on the mountain
of his woe.
An' he eyed me over cur'ous an' with pity on his
face
An' he seemed to be a sortin' words to make 'em
fit the case.
"Of all the harmless critters that I ever met," says
he,
"There ain't not none more harmlesser—my God!—
than what you be."
An' he added, kind o' sorrowful, an' hove a mighty
sigh:
"I'd be 'shamed t' meet another deer an' look him
in the eye.
God knows a man that p'ints so never orter hev no
grub,
What game are you expectin' fer t' slaughter with
a club?"
An' I answered with a riddle: "It has head an'
eyes an' feet
An' is black an' white an' harmless, but a fearful
thing to meet;
It's a long an' pesky animal as any in the county;
Can't ye guess?—I've ketched a pome an' I'll give
ye half the bounty."