village was situated on a peninsula, within the "horse-shoe bend" of
the Tallapoosa. Here twelve hundred warriors . . . had fortified
themselves for a desperate struggle, assured by their prophets that
the Master of Breath would now interpose in their favor. Across the
neck of land, three hundred and fifty yards wide, that leads into the
peninsula, they had constructed powerful breastworks of hewn logs,
eight or ten feet high, and pierced with double rows of port-holes,
from which they could fire with perfect security. The selection of
this spot and the character of its defence did great credit to the
military genius of Weatherford,--and his eloquence, more than usually
persuasive and inspiriting, filled his devoted followers with a
courage strangely compounded of fanaticism and despair.
At an early hour in the morning, General Coffee's command having
crossed the river and encircled the bend so as to cut off all escape,
General Jackson opened his artillery upon the breastworks, and having
but in part demolished them, ordered forward the thirty-ninth regiment
to carry the place by storm. The van was gallantly led by Col.
Williams, Col. Bunch, Lieut.-Col. Benton, and Maj. Montgomery. Amidst
a most destructive fire, they pressed to the breastworks, and
desperately struggled for the command of the port-holes. But Maj.
Montgomery, impatient at the delay, cried out to his men to follow
him, and leaped upon the wall in face of the deadliest fire. For an
instant he waved his sword over his head in triumph, but the next fell
lifeless to the ground, shot through the head by a rifle ball. A more
gallant spirit never achieved a nobler death, and the name of the
young Tennesseean is preserved as a proud designation by one of the
richest counties, as well as by one of the most flourishing cities, in
the State whose soil was baptized by his blood!
The breastworks having been carried by storm, the Indians fell back
among the trees, brush, and timber of the peninsula, and kept up a
spirited contest. But, in the meantime, a portion of Coffee's command,
and some of the friendly warriors under their distinguished chief,
McIntosh, had swum across the river, fired the village of Tohopeka,
and carried off the canoes of the enemy. The followers of Weatherford
now became desperate, and from the banks, hollows, and other
fastnesses of the place, fought with fury, refusing all offers of
quarter. The fight continued in severity for five hours; and the going
down of the sun was hailed by the survivors as furnishing them some
chance of escape. But the hope was, in the main, deceptive. . . .
. . . Not more than twenty warriors are believed to have escaped,
under cover of the night. Among these, strange enough, was the
chieftain [Weatherford], whose appellation, "the Murderer of Fort
Mims," had formed the watch-word and war-cry of his enemies in this
very engagement. Favored by the thick darkness, he floated down the
river with his horse, until below the American lines, and then
reaching the shore, made his way in safety to the highlands south of
the Tallapoosa. . .
Weatherford could not consent to fly from the nation; he felt that he
owed it, as a duty to his people, not to abandon them until peace was
restored. In this state of mind he was apprised that the American
commander had set a price upon his head, and refused peace to the
other chiefs, unless they should bring him either dead, or in
confinement, to the American camp, now at Fort Jackson, near the
junction of the rivers. His determination was at once taken in the
same spirit of heroism that always marked his conduct. Accordingly,
mounting his horse, he made his way across the country, and soon
appeared at the lines of the encampment. At his request, a sentinel
conducted him to the presence of the commander-in-chief, who was
seated in his marquee, in consultation with several of his principal
officers. The stately and noble appearance of the warrior at once
excited the attention and surprise of the General, and he demanded of
the Chief his name and the purpose of his visit.
In calm and deliberate tones, the chieftain said: "I am Weatherford. I
have come to ask peace for myself and for my people."
The mild dignity with which these words were uttered, no less than
their import, struck the American commander with surprise. [He hardly
knew what to do; but he allowed some parley and Weatherford made a
speech, ending thus:] "General Jackson, you are a brave man: I am
another. I do not fear to die. But I rely on your generosity. You will
exact no terms of a conquered and helpless people, but those to which
they should accede. . . . You have told us what we may do and be safe.
Yours is a good talk and my nation ought to listen to it. They _shall_
listen to it!" . . .
General Jackson acceded to the demands of Weatherford, and assured him
of peace and safety for himself and people.
PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE.
~1816=1850.~
PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE, the elder brother of the better known John
Esten Cooke, was born in Martinsburg, Virginia, and spent his short
life happily in his native county, engaged in field sports and in
writing stories and poems for the "Southern Literary Messenger" and
other magazines. His lyric, "Florence Vane," has been very popular and
has been translated into many languages. He was said to be stately and
impressive in manner and a brilliant talker. Philip Pendleton and John
Esten Cooke were first cousins of John Pendleton Kennedy, their
mothers being sisters.
His death was caused by pneumonia contracted from riding through the
Shenandoah on a hunting trip.
WORKS.
Froissart Ballads and other Poems.
John Carpe.
Gregories of Hackwood.
Crime of Andrew Blair.
Chevalier Merlin [unfinished].
FLORENCE VANE.
I loved thee long and dearly,
Florence Vane;
My life's bright dream, and early,
Hath come again;
I renew, in my fond vision,
My heart's dear pain,
My hope, and thy derision,
Florence Vane.
The ruin lone and hoary,
The ruin old,
Where thou didst hark my story,
At even told,--
That spot--the hues Elysian
Of sky and plain--
I treasure in my vision,
Florence Vane.
Thou wast lovelier than the roses
In their prime:
Thy voice excelled the closes
Of sweetest rhyme;
Thy heart was as a river
Without a main.
Would I had loved thee never,
Florence Vane!
But fairest, coldest wonder!
Thy glorious clay
Lieth the green sod under--
Alas the day!
And it boots not to remember
Thy disdain--
To quicken love's pale ember,
Florence Vane.
The lilies of the valley
By young graves weep,
The pansies love to dally
Where maidens sleep;
May their bloom, in beauty vying,
Never wane,
Where thine earthly part is lying,
Florence Vane!
[Illustration: ~University of Kentucky (Main Building).~]
THEODORE O'HARA.
~1820=1867.~
THEODORE O'HARA, son of an Irish exile, was born in Danville,
Kentucky, and educated at St. Joseph Academy, Bardstown, where he
taught Greek to the younger classes while finishing his senior course.
He read law, was appointed clerk in the Treasury Department at
Washington, 1845, and on the outbreak of the Mexican War entered the
army as a soldier, rising to be captain and major. At the close of the
war, he returned to Washington and practised law. He was afterwards
editor of the "Mobile Register," and of the Frankfort "Yeoman," in
Kentucky, and was employed in diplomatic missions. He was a colonel in
the Confederate Army, and after the war, settled in Georgia. On his
death the Kentucky Legislature passed a resolution to remove his
remains to Frankfort and lay them beside the soldiers whom he had so
well praised in his "Bivouac of the Dead;" and there he rests, the
soldier bard, among the voiceless braves of the Battle of Buena Vista.
This poem was written for the occasion of their interment; and it has
furnished the lines of inscription over the gateways of several
military cemeteries.
WORKS.
Bivouac of the Dead.
The Old Pioneer.
THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.
(_In Memory of the Kentuckians who fell at the Battle of Buena Vista,
Jan. 28, 1847._)
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on Life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And Glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind;
No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms;
No braying horn nor screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.
Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their plumèd heads are bowed;
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,
And the proud forms, by battle gashed,
Are free from anguish now.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are past;
Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that never more may feel
The rapture of the fight.
. . . . . . . . .
Full many a norther's breath has swept
O'er Angostura's plain,--
And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its mouldered slain.
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,
Alone awakes each sullen height
That frowned o'er that dread fray.
Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground,
Ye must not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air.
Your own proud land's heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave:
She claims from war his richest spoil--
The ashes of her brave.
Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast
On many a bloody shield;
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them, here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes' sepulchre.
Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave;
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanished age hath flown,
The story how ye fell;
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor Time's remorseless doom,
Shall dim one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb.
FOURTH PERIOD ... 1850-1894.
GEORGE RAINSFORD FAIRBANKS.
~1820=----.~
GEORGE RAINSFORD FAIRBANKS was born in Watertown, New York, but
settled in Florida at St. Augustine in 1842 and identified himself
with his adopted state. From 1860 to 1880 his home was at Sewanee,
Tennessee, and he has been on the Board of Trustees of the "University
of the South" since 1857. During the war he served as major in the
Confederate army, 1862-65. In 1880 he returned to Florida and has
since made his home in Fernandina. His "History of Florida" is
considered the best history of that state, and is written in a clear
and interesting style.
WORKS.
History of Florida.
History and Antiquities of St. Augustine.
OSCEOLA, LEADER OF THE SEMINOLES.
(_From History of Florida._[21])
[Illustration: ~Osceola.~]
His true Indian name was As-se-se-ha-ho-lar, or Black Drink, but he
was commonly called Osceola, or Powell. He belonged to a Creek tribe
called Red Sticks, and was a half-breed. He removed to Florida with
his mother when a child, and lived near Fort King [three miles east of
Ocala]. At the beginning of the Florida war he was about thirty-one
years of age, of medium size, being about five feet eight inches in
height, resolute and manly in his bearing, with a clear, frank, and
engaging countenance. He was undoubtedly the master-spirit of the war,
and by his firmness and audacity forced the nation into the war which
a large majority were averse to engaging in, and either broke up every
attempt at negotiations or prevented their fulfillment. He was to have
been one of the leaders at Dade's massacre, but was detained at Fort
King by his determination to gratify his revenge upon General
Thompson. He participated in the battles at the ford of the
Withlacoochee and Camp Izard, and led the attack upon Micanopy, where,
with his force of less than two hundred and fifty men, within sight of
the fort, he attacked upwards of one hundred regular troops in an open
field, supported by a field-piece.
His capture, [October, 1837], by General Hernandez was due to his
audacity and self-confidence. Bad faith, and a disregard of the usages
of civilization, have been imputed to General Jesup on this occasion,
Osceola having come in under a white flag to negotiate; but that
officer contended that Osceola had broken his faith in reference to
the Fort Dade capitulation [when he had promised to emigrate] and was
to be treated as a prisoner.
From all that can be gathered of his character, Osceola was possessed
of nobler traits than usually belong to his race. His manners were
dignified and courteous, and upon the field he showed himself a brave
and cautious leader. It is said that he instructed his people in their
predatory excursions to spare the women and children. "It is not,"
said he, "upon them that we make war and draw the scalping-knife. It
is upon men. Let us act like men."
Osceola has furnished to the poet, to the novelist, and to the lover
of romance, a most attractive subject, and scarce any limit has been
placed to the virtues attributed or the exploits imagined in
connection with this renowned chief of the Seminoles. A poet has sung
of him,--
"His features are clothed with a warrior's pride,
And he moves with a monarch's tread;
He smiles with joy, as the flash of steel
Through the Everglades' grass is seen."
Upon his removal to Charleston, he became dejected and low-spirited,
and gradually pined away. All efforts to interest him in a Western
home failed to arouse him, and in a few weeks he died of a broken
heart, and was buried just outside of the principal gateway of Fort
Moultrie, where his resting-place is inclosed and a monument erected.
FOOTNOTE:
[21] By permission of the author.
RICHARD MALCOLM JOHNSTON.
~1822=----.~
RICHARD MALCOLM JOHNSTON was born in Hancock County, Georgia. He was
professor of Literature in the University of Georgia, 1857-1861. He
served, as colonel, in the Confederate army, and has since had a
school for boys at Sparta, Georgia, and later near Baltimore.
In connection with Prof. William Hand Browne of Johns Hopkins, he has
published a "History of English Literature" and a "Life of Alexander
H. Stephens." His tales describe life among the Georgia "Crackers" and
they have many readers and admirers. His style has the stamp of simple
truth and is irresistible. See _Sketch_ in Miss Rutherford's "American
Authors."
WORKS.
Dukesborough Tales.
Old Mark Langston.
Two Gray Tourists.
Collection of Stories.
Mr. Absalom Billingslea and other Georgia Folks.
Widow Guthrie.
History of English Literature;
Life of Alex. H. Stephens: (both with Prof. W. H. Browne.)
Ogeechee Cross-Firings.
Mr. Bill Williams.
Primes and their neighbors.
Pearce Amerson's Will.
The following extract is a true story of an old gentleman who was
Alexander H. Stephens' first client.
MR. HEZEKIAH ELLINGTON'S RECOVERY.
(_From Life of Alexander H. Stephens._[22])
The old gentleman was brought very low with malarious fever, and his
physician and family had made up their minds, that, notwithstanding
his extreme reluctance to depart from this life,--a reluctance
heightened no doubt by his want of preparation for a better,--he would
be compelled to go. The system of therapeutics in vogue at that time
and in that section included immense quantities of calomel, and
rigorously excluded cold water. Mr. Ellington lingered and lingered,
and went without water so long and to such an extent that it seemed to
him he might as well die of the disease as of the intolerable thirst
that tormented him. . . . . . . .
At last, one night, when his physicians, deeming his case hopeless,
had taken their departure, informing his family that he could hardly
live till morning, and the latter, worn down by watching, were
compelled to take a little rest, he was left to the care of his
constant and faithful servant, Shadrach, with strict and solemn charge
to notify them if any change took place in his master's condition,
and, above all, under no circumstances to give him cold water.
When the rest were all asleep, Mr. Ellington, always astute and
adroit in gaining his ends, and whose faculties at present were highly
stimulated by his extreme necessity, called out to his attendant in a
feeble voice, which he strove to make as natural and unsuggestive as
possible,--
"Shadrach, go to the spring and fetch me a pitcher of water from the
bottom."
Shadrach expostulated, pleading the orders of the doctor and his
mistress.
"You Shadrach, you had better do what I tell you, sir."
Shadrach still held by his orders.
"Shadrach, if you don't bring me the water, when I get well I'll give
you the worst whipping you ever had in your life!"
Shadrach either thought that if his master got well he would cherish
no rancor towards the faithful servant whose constancy had saved him,
or, more likely, that the prospect of recovery was far too remote to
justify any serious apprehension for his present disobedience; at all
events, he held firm. The sick man, finding this mode of attack
ineffectual, paused awhile, and then said, in the most persuasive
accents he could employ,
"Shadrach, my boy, you are a good nigger, Shadrach. If you'll go now
and fetch old master a pitcher of nice cool water, I'll set you free
and give you _Five Hundred Dollars_!" And he dragged the syllables
slowly and heavily from his dry jaws, as if to make the sum appear
immeasurably vast.
But Shadrach was proof against even this temptation. He only admitted
its force by arguing the case, urging that how could he stand it, and
what good would his freedom and five hundred dollars do him, if he
should do a thing that would kill his old master?
The old gentleman groaned and moaned. At last he bethought him of one
final stratagem. He raised his head as well as he could, turned his
haggard face full upon Shadrach, and glaring at him from his hollow
blood-shot eyes, said,
"Shadrach, I am going to die, and it's because I can't get any water.
If you don't go and bring me a pitcher of water, after I'm dead I'll
come back and HAUNT you! I'll HAUNT you as long as you live!"
"Oh Lordy! Master! You shall hab de water!" cried Shadrach; and he
rushed out to the spring and brought it. The old man drank and
drank,--the pitcherful and more. The next morning he was decidedly
better, and to the astonishment of all, soon got well.
FOOTNOTE:
[22] By permission of authors, and publishers, J. B. Lippincott Co.,
Philadelphia.
JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON.
~1823=1873.~
JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON was born at Richmond, and educated at the
University of Virginia. He studied law, but practised little, and in
1847 became editor of the "Southern Literary Messenger." This position
he filled with great success for twelve years and he exerted a fine
influence on the literary taste and effort of his times. In this
magazine first appeared the writings of Donald G. Mitchell ("Dream
Life" and "Reveries of a Bachelor"), the early pieces of John Esten
Cooke, Philip Pendleton Cooke, Paul Hamilton Hayne, Henry Timrod, and
others.
His delicate health induced him to resign his place in 1859 and to go
farther south to Augusta, Georgia, as editor of the "Southern Field
and Fireside." In 1863 he travelled in Europe and his descriptive
letters are very bright and interesting. He later became literary
editor of the "Evening Post," N. Y.; in 1872 he went to Colorado in
one last but vain effort to restore his health. He died in 1873 and is
buried in Hollywood Cemetery at Richmond.
His writings, consisting of poems, letters, sketches, and editorials,
are found mainly in the "Southern Literary Messenger" and "The Land We
Love."
ASHBY.
To the brave all homage render,
Weep, ye skies of June!
With a radiance pure and tender,
Shine, oh saddened moon!
"Dead upon the field of glory,"
Hero fit for song and story,
Lies our bold dragoon.
Well they learned, whose hands have slain him,
Braver, knightlier foe
Never fought with Moor nor Paynim,
Rode at Templestowe;
With a mien how high and joyous,
'Gainst the hordes that would destroy us
Went he forth we know.
Never more, alas! shall sabre
Gleam around his crest;
Fought his fight; fulfilled his labour;
Stilled his manly breast.
All unheard sweet Nature's cadence,
Trump of fame and voice of maidens,
Now he takes his rest.
Earth that all too soon hath bound him,
Gently wrap his clay;
Linger lovingly around him,
Light of dying day;
Softly fall the summer showers,
Birds and bees among the flowers
Make the gloom seem gay.
There, throughout the coming ages,
When his sword is rust,
And his deeds in classic pages,
Mindful of her trust,
Shall Virginia, bending lowly,
Still a ceaseless vigil holy
Keep above his dust!
MUSIC IN CAMP.
Two armies covered hill and plain,
Where Rappahannock's waters
Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain
Of battle's recent slaughters.
The summer clouds lay pitched like tents
In meads of heavenly azure;
And each dread gun of the elements
Slept in its hid embrasure.
The breeze so softly blew, it made
No forest leaf to quiver,
And the smoke of the random cannonade
Rolled slowly from the river.
And now, where circling hills looked down
With cannon grimly planted,
O'er listless camp and silent town
The golden sunset slanted.
When on the fervid air there came
A strain--now rich, now tender;
The music seemed itself aflame
With day's departing splendor.
A Federal band, which, eve and morn,
Played measures brave and nimble,
Had just struck up, with flute and horn
And lively clash of cymbal.
Down flocked the soldiers to the banks,
Till, margined by its pebbles,
One wooded shore was blue with "Yanks,"
And one was gray with "Rebels."
Then all was still, and then the band,
With movement light and tricksy,
Made stream and forest, hill and strand
Reverberate with "Dixie."
The conscious stream with burnished glow
Went proudly o'er its pebbles,
But thrilled throughout its deepest flow
With yelling of the Rebels.
Again a pause, and then again
The trumpets pealed sonorous,
And "Yankee Doodle" was the strain
To which the shore gave chorus.
The laughing ripple shoreward flew,
To kiss the shining pebbles;
Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue
Defiance to the Rebels.
And yet once more the bugles sang
Above the stormy riot;
No shout upon the evening rang--
There reigned a holy quiet.
The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood
Poured o'er the glistening pebbles;
All silent now the Yankees stood,
And silent stood the Rebels.
No unresponsive soul had heard
That plaintive note's appealing,
So deeply "Home Sweet Home" had stirred
The hidden founts of feeling.
Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees
As by the wand of fairy,
The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees,
The cabin by the prairie.
Or cold, or warm, his native skies
Bend in their beauty o'er him;
Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes,
His loved ones stand before him.
As fades the iris after rain
In April's tearful weather,
The vision vanished, as the strain
And daylight died together.
But memory, waked by music's art,
Expressed in simplest numbers,
Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart,
Made light the Rebel's slumbers.
And fair the form of music shines,
That bright celestial creature,
Who still, 'mid war's embattled lines,
Gave this one touch of Nature.
JABEZ LAMAR MONROE CURRY.
~1825=----.~
DR. CURRY was born in Georgia, but his father removed to Alabama in
1838, and he was reared in that State. After graduation at the
University of Georgia and at the Harvard Law School, he began the
practice of law in Talladega County, Alabama. He served in the State
Legislature and in Congress, and in 1861 entered the Confederate Army.