General Johnston appeared to distinct advantage. The masterly manner in
which he sat his horse attracted the attention of the commander in
chief of the army, Thomas J. Rusk, during the Texan Revolution, and
procured him the appointment of adjutant general over several eager
aspirants for the position.
As he passed along the lines to the front of the troops at Shiloh, he
raised his hat and cried out,
"I will lead you!"
To this the men responded with a mighty cheer and quickened movement,
albeit they knew he was leading many of them to death.
Hard up the slopes they pressed.
Nor shot, nor shell, nor falling men deterred them.
The summit was reached. The Federals were in retreat. A little apart
from the others, a fine target for the deadly marksman, the figure of
General Johnston on "Fire-eater" was plainly visible.
His clothing was torn in places. His boot sole was slashed by a ball,
but he himself was uninjured.
In his countenance was reflected a satisfaction of the day's results.
[Illustration: FROM THE LAST LINE OF THE RETREATING FEDERALS A BULLET
WHISTLED BACK, WHISTLED BACK AND CUT HIM DOWN.]
The wisdom of his decisions had been proven; his judgment justified.
From the last line of the retreating Federals a bullet whistled back,
whistled back and cut him down, did its fatal work in the very moment in
which he felt the conviction that success now lay with the Confederate
cause.
* * * * *
His death seemed for a time to paralyze the further efforts of his
troops, to whom his presence had been a continual inspiration.
General Beauregard took command.
Night fell and the battle was stayed.
The Federals had been driven to the banks of the Tennessee River, where
the gunboats afforded but meager protection.
From Nashville, General Buell arrived before daybreak with the needed
reenforcements. Lew Wallace came in. Grant assumed the offensive; and
the afternoon of the second day of the hard-fought contest the final
victory swept to the Federals.
What would have been the result to the Confederate cause had the great
leader not fallen that first day, who can say?
"In his fall, the great pillar of the Southern Confederacy was crushed,"
says Jefferson Davis in his _Rise and Fall of the Confederate
Government_, "and beneath its fragments the best hope of the Southland
lay buried."
ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON
I HEAR again the tread of war go thundering through the land,
And Puritan and Cavalier are clinching neck and hand,
Round Shiloh church the furious foes have met to thrust and slay,
Where erst the peaceful sons of Christ were wont to kneel and pray.
The wrestling of the ages shakes the hills of Tennessee
With all their echoing mounts athrob with war's wild minstrelsy;
A galaxy of stars new-born around the shield of Mars
And set against the Stars and Stripes the flashing Stars and Bars.
'Twas Albert Sidney Johnston led the columns of the Gray,
Like Hector on the plains of Troy his presence fired the fray;
And dashing horse and gleaming sword spake out his royal will
As on the slopes of Shiloh field the blasts of war blew shrill.
"Down with the base invaders," the Gray shout forth the cry,
"Death to presumptuous rebels," the Blue ring out reply;
All day the conflict rages and yet again all day,
Though Grant is on the Union side he cannot stem nor stay.
They are a royal race of men, these brothers face to face,
Their fury speaking through their guns, their frenzy in their pace;
The sweeping onset of the Gray bears down the sturdy Blue,
Though Sherman and his legions are heroes through and through.
Though Prentiss and his gallant men are forcing scaur and crag,
They fall like sheaves before the scythes of Hardee and of Bragg;
Ah, who shall tell the victor's tale when all the strife is past,
When, man and man, in one great mold, the men who strive are cast?
As when the Trojan hero came from that fair city's gates,
With tossing mane and flaming crest to scorn the scowling fates,
His legions gather round him and madly charge and cheer,
And fill besieging armies with wild disheveled fear;
Then bares his breast unto the dart the daring spearsman sends,
And dying hears his cheering foes, the wailing of his friends,
So Albert Sidney Johnston, the chief of belt and scar,
Lay down to die at Shiloh and turned the scales of war.
Now five and twenty years are gone, and lo, to-day they come,
The Blue and Gray in proud array with throbbing fife and drum;
But not as rivals, not as foes, as brothers reconciled;
To twine love's fragrant roses where the thorns of hate grew wild;
Aye, five and twenty years, and lo, the manhood of the South
Has held its valor staunch and strong as at the cannon's mouth,
With patient heart and silent tongue has kept its true parole,
And in the conquests born of peace has crowned its battle roll.
But ever while we sing of war, of courage tried and true,
Of heroes wed to gallant deeds, or be it Gray or Blue,
Then Albert Sidney Johnston's name shall flash before our sight
Like some resplendent meteor across the somber night.
America, thy sons are knit with sinews wrought of steel,
They will not bend, they will not break, beneath the tyrant's heel;
But in the white-hot flame of love, to silken cobwebs spun,
They whirl the engines of the world, all keeping time as one.
To-day they stand abreast and strong, who stood as foes of yore,
The world leaps up to bless their feet, heaven scatters blessings o'er;
Their robes are wrought of gleaming gold, their wings are freedom's own,
The trampling of their conquering hosts shakes pinnacle and throne.
Oh, veterans of the Blue and Gray who fought on Shiloh field,
The purposes of God are true, His judgment stands revealed;
The pangs of war have rent the veil, and lo, His high decree:
One heart, one hope, one destiny, one flag from sea to sea.
KATE BROWNLEE SHERWOOD.
OLD GLORY AT SHILOH
SPRING on the Tennessee; April--and flowers
Bloom on its banks; the anemones white
In clusters of stars where the green holly towers
O'er bellworts, like butterflies hov'ring in flight.
The ground ivy tips its blue lips to the laurel,
And covers the banks of the water-swept bars
With a background of blue, in which the red sorrel
Are stripes where the pale corydalis are stars.
_Red, white and blue! O spring, did you send it,_
_And Flowers, did'st dream it for brothers to rend it?_
Spring on the Tennessee; Sabbath--and morning
Breaks with a bird note that pulses along;
A melody sobs in the heart of its dawning--
The pain that foreshadows the birth of a song.
Art thou a flecking, brave Bluebird, of sky light,
Or the sough of a minor wove into a beam?
Oh, Hermit Thrush, Hermit Thrush, thou of the eye bright,
Bird, or the spirit of song in a dream?
_"Our country--our country!" Why, birds, do you sing it?_
_And, woodland, why held you the echo, to ring it?_
Spring on the Tennessee; hark, Bluebird, listen!
Was that a bugle note far up the bend,
Where the murk waters flush and the white bars glisten,
Or dove cooing dove into love notes that blend?
And Wood Thrush, sweet, tell me,--that throbbing and humming,
Is it march at the double quick or wild bees that hum?
And that rumble that shakes like an earthquake coming--
Tell me, O Hermit Thrush, thunder or drum?
_O birds, you must fly from the home that God gave you!_
_O flowers, you must die 'neath the foot that would save you!_
Out from the wood with the morning mist o'er it
A gray line sweeps like a scythe of fire,
And it burns the stubble of blue before it,--
(How their bugles ring and their cannon roar it!)
_In Dixie land we'll take our stand,_
_And live and die in Dixie!_
Out from the deep wood clearer and nigher,
The gray lines roll, and the blue lines reel
Back on the river--their dead are piled higher
Than the muzzle of muskets thund'ring their peal:
_In Dixie land we'll take our stand,_
_And live and die for Dixie!_
Noon on the Tennessee; backward, still driven
The blue lines reel, and the ranks of the gray
Flash out with a fierceness that light up the heavens,
When the thunders of night meet the lightnings of day.
Noon and past noon--and this is the story
Of the flag that fell not, and they call it Old Glory:
It flapped in the air, it flashed with the blare
Of the bugles so shrill and so true,
It faced quick about and steadied the rout
And halted the lines of blue.
And the _boom-boom-boom_ of the maddened guns
Roared round it thick and fast,
And _dead-dead-dead_ sang the learing lead
Like hail in the sheeted blast,
And up and around it, surge and swell,
Rose the victor waves of the rebel yell,
And Grant's grim army staggered, but stood,
With backs to the river and dyed it with blood
In the shuttle of thunder and drum;
And they cheered as it went to the front of the fray
And turned the tide at the sunset of day,
And they whispered: _Buell is come!_
Spring on the Tennessee; April--and flowers
Bloom on its banks; the anemones white
In clusters of stars where the green holly towers
O'er bellworts, like butterflies hov'ring in flight.
And the ground ivy tips its blue lips to the laurel
And covers the banks and the water-swept bars
With a background of blue, in which the red sorrel
Are stripes where the pale corydalis are stars.
Red, white, and blue--it tells its own story--
But, Spring, Who made it and named it Old Glory!
JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.
THE FLAG OF THE CUMBERLAND
THE Confederate frigate, _Merrimac_, newly arisen from her briny bath in
the Norfolk Navy Yards, with her sides new coated in an almost
impenetrable mail of iron and rechristened the _Virginia_, steamed
slowly down the river May 8th, 1862, to Newport News, where the
_Cumberland_, the _Congress_, and the _Minnesota_ of the Union fleet lay
at anchor.
The crews of the latter vessels were taking life leisurely that day, and
were indulging in various pastimes beloved of seamen. The _Merrimac_ as
she hove in sight did not look especially belligerent. Indeed she
appeared "like a house submerged to the eaves and borne onward by the
flood."
Notwithstanding her somewhat droll appearance, the _Merrimac_ had
herself well in control and was not on a cruise of pleasure bent, as the
navies well knew.
With steady determination she came on, until within easy distance of the
_Congress_, a vessel which gave her greeting with a shot from one of her
stern guns, and received in response a shower of grape.
Broadsides were then exchanged, resulting in fearful slaughter to the
crew of the _Congress_ and damage to the guns. An officer of the
_Congress_ was a favorite brother of Captain Buchanan of the _Merrimac_.
But such relation effected naught in the exigencies of war.
Before the _Congress_ could recover herself, the _Merrimac_ headed for
the _Cumberland_. The fires of the Cumberland, as she approached, had no
effect upon her armored sides.
Into the _Cumberland_ she ran her powerful iron prow, crashing in her
timbers and strewing her decks with the maimed, the dead, and dying.
Again she turned her attention to the _Congress_, remembering also the
frigate _Minnesota_ with her fiery baptisms. Upon the _Congress_ she
soon forced a surrender. The _Minnesota_ found refuge in flight.
Her work upon the _Cumberland_ was complete. And albeit the vessel had
been rammed and was sinking, her men ascended to the spar deck and
fought till the waters engulfed them. The last shot was fired from a gun
half submerged in the water.
As the ship settled to the bottom she careened slightly and then righted
herself; and the flag, as if defying the fate that threatened its
destruction, still flew above the masthead.
[Illustration: AND THE FLAG, AS IF DEFYING THE FATE THAT THREATENED
ITS DESTRUCTION, STILL FLEW ABOVE THE MASTHEAD.]
There, close to the waves--her colors almost touching the water--the
captain, who was absent from his ship, found his flag upon his return. A
harbinger as it proved of the issue that was to be.
THE CUMBERLAND
AT anchor in Hampton Roads we lay,
On board of the _Cumberland_, sloop of war;
And at times from the fortress across the bay
The alarum of drums swept past,
Or a bugle blast
From the camp on the shore.
Then far away to the south uprose
A little feather of snow-white smoke,
And we knew that the iron ship of our foes
Was steadily steering its course
To try the force
Of our ribs of oak.
Down upon us heavily runs,
Silent and sullen, the floating fort;
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns,
And leaps the terrible death,
With fiery breath,
From each open port.
We are not idle, but send her straight
Defiance back in a full broadside!
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate,
Rebounds our heavier hail
From each iron scale
Of the monster's hide.
"Strike your flag!" the rebel cries,
In his arrogant old plantation strain.
"Never!" our gallant Morris replies;
"It is better to sink than to yield!"
And the whole air pealed
With the cheers of our men.
Then, like a kraken huge and black,
She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp!
Down went the _Cumberland_ all awrack,
With a sudden shudder of death,
And the cannon's breath
For her dying gasp.
Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay,
Still floated our flag at the mainmast head
Lord, how beautiful was Thy day!
Every waft of the air
Was a whisper of prayer,
Or a dirge for the dead.
Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas!
Ye are at peace in the troubled stream;
Ho! brave land! with hearts like these,
Thy flag, that is rent in twain,
Shall be one again,
And without a seam!
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
THE MONITOR
TWO old Spanish ships had, prior to the sinking of the _Cumberland_, met
a like fate at the hands of the Confederates; and the signal success of
the _Merrimac_ now augured well for the break of the blockade.
The South was greatly elated. The North was disquieted.
Twenty-four hours later the trend of events was changed.
There appeared in Hampton Roads a strange new craft, called the
_Monitor_. It was unlike any vessel before seen, having a revolving
round tower of iron, that enabled the gunners to train the guns on the
enemy continuously, without regard to the position of the ship. The hull
had an "overhang," a projection constructed of iron and wood, as a
protection against rams.
The inventor and builder of this little giant was John Ericsson.
His,
"The master mind that wrought,
With iron hand, this iron thought.
Strength and safety with speed combined."
The vessel had been launched in less than a hundred days after the
laying of the keel, in an effort of the Federal government to have her
in service before the completion of the _Merrimac_ (the _Virginia_.)
The new warship attracted the attention of the navies of Europe and
brought about a change in the construction of war vessels.
As if indignant at the actions of the _Merrimac_ in preceding her, and
in attacking the Union fleet, the _Monitor_ bore down upon her like some
live thing bent upon retribution, and at once engaged her in a terrific
encounter.
With the hope born of confidence in the strength of the Confederate
ironclad, and her ability to overpower completely the Union flotilla,
boats filled with sight-seers had gone out from Norfolk, but with the
first terrible onset of the armored combatants speedily made their way
back to safety.
In this battle of the waters two old Naval Academy comrades fought on
opposite sides, Lieutenant Green and Lieutenant Butt, both well-known
names.
For five long awful hours the strength of the two iron monsters was
pitted against each other for supremacy on the seas, without apparent
serious injury to either vessel.
At last the _Merrimac_ ended the gigantic contest by turning her prow
and withdrawing to Norfolk.
THE CRUISE OF THE MONITOR
Hampton Roads, Virginia, March 9, 1862
OUT of a Northern city's bay,
'Neath lowering clouds, one bleak March day,
Glided a craft,--the like I ween,
On ocean's crest was never seen
Since Noah's float,
That ancient boat,
Could o'er a conquered deluge gloat.
No raking masts, with clouds of sail,
Bent to the breeze or braved the gale;
No towering chimney's wreaths of smoke
Betrayed the mighty engine's stroke;
But low and dark,
Like the crafty shark,
Moved in the waters this novel bark.
The fishers stared as the flitting sprite
Passed their huts in the misty light,
Bearing a turret huge and black,
And said, "The old sea serpent's back
Carting away,
By light of day,
Uncle Sam's fort from New York bay."
Forth from a Southern city's dock
Our frigates' strong blockade to mock,
Crept a monster of rugged build,
The work of crafty hands, well skilled--
Old _Merrimac_,
With an iron back
Wooden ships would find hard to crack.
Straight to where the _Cumberland_ lay
The mail-clad monster made its way;
Its deadly prow struck deep and sure,
And the hero's fighting days were o'er.
Ah! many the braves
Who found their graves
With that good ship beneath the waves.
Flushed with success, the victor flew,
Furious, the startled squadron through;
Sinking, burning, driving ashore,
Until the Sabbath day was o'er,
Resting at night,
To renew the fight
With vengeful ire by morning's light.
Out of its den it burst anew,
When the gray mist the sun broke through,
Steaming to where, in clinging sands,
The frigate _Minnesota_ stands,
A sturdy foe
To overthrow,
But in woeful plight to receive a blow.
But see! beneath her bow appears
A champion no danger fears;
A pigmy craft, that seems to be,
To this new lord that rules the sea,
Like David of old
To Goliath bold--
Youth and giant, by scripture told.
Round the roaring despot playing,
With willing spirit helm obeying,
Spurning the iron against it hurled,
While belching turret rapid whirled,
And swift shots seethe
With smoky wreathe,
Told that the shark was showing his teeth.
The _Monitor_ fought. In grim amaze
The Merrimacs upon it gaze,
Cowering 'neath the iron hail,
Crashing into their coat of mail,
They swore, "this craft,
The devil's shaft,
Looked like a cheese box on a raft."
Hurrah! little giant of '62! Bold Worden with his gallant crew
Forces the fight; the day is won;
Back to his den the monster's gone,
With crippled claws
And broken jaws,
Defeated in a reckless cause.
Hurrah for the master mind that wrought,
With iron hand, this iron thought!
Strength and safety with speed combined,
Ericsson's gift to all mankind;
To curb abuse,
And chains to loose,
Hurrah for the _Monitor's_ famous cruise!
GEORGE H. BOKER.
THE NIGHT OF CHANTILLY
IN March, 1862, McClellan set out from Washington to capture the
Confederate capital. At Yorktown he was held in check for a month by an
inferior force of Confederates. It was the last of May before he reached
Fair Oaks (Seven Pines), seven miles from Richmond. The Confederates
here attacked him, and a furious battle of two days' duration ensued,
when the Confederates were driven back. A notable event of this
engagement was the appointment of General Robert E. Lee, as commander in
chief of the Confederate armies; in place of General Joseph E. Johnston,
who was severely wounded.
One of the most conspicuous figures of this battle of Fair Oaks was
General Philip Kearney.
In the words of Stedman:--
"When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn:--
He rode down the length of the withering column,
His sword waved us on and we answered the sign."
"Kearney was the bravest man and the most perfect soldier I ever saw,"
said General Scott. "A man made for the profession of arms," says Rope.
"In the field he was always ready, always skillful, always brave, always
untiring, always hopeful, and always vigilant and alert."
He distinguished himself in the War with Mexico, and lost an arm while
he was leading cavalry troops in close pursuit of the retreating
Mexicans, at the battle of Churubusco, when they retreated into the city
of San Antonio itself.
Mounted upon his great gray steed, "Monmouth," he spurred through a
rampart, felling the Mexicans as he went. A thousand arms were raised to
strike him, a thousand sabers glistened in the air, when he hurriedly
fell back, but too late to escape the wound which necessitated the
amputation of his left arm.
At Churubusco ended the spectacular career of the celebrated San
Patricios battalion of Irish deserters, who deserted to the American
army on the Canadian border and afterwards deserted to the Mexicans from
the Texan border, fighting against the American in every Mexican war
battle of consequence from Palo Alto to Churubusco. After capture the
leaders and many of the men were court-martialed and shot; their
commander, the notorious Thomas Riley, among the latter. The survivors
were branded in the cheek with the letter "D" as a symbol of their
treachery.
General Kearney resigned from the army in 1851 and made a tour of the
world. He then went to France and fought in the war of that country
against Italy. At Magenta, while he was leading the daring and hazardous
charge that turned the situation and won Algiers to France, _he charged
with the bridle in his teeth_.
For his bravery he received the Cross of the Legion of Honor, being the
first American thus honored.
When the Civil War cloud burst, he came back to the United States and
was made brigadier general in the Federal army and given the command of
the First New Jersey Brigade.
His timely arrival at Williamsburg saved the day for the Federals.
In the engagement at Fair Oaks,
"Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest,
Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,"
there was no charge like Kearney's.
"How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten,
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?'"
[Illustration: "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.
"Oh, evil the black shroud of night of Chantilly,
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.
When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn
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!"
How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten,
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!"
Oh, evil the black shroud of night of Chantilly,
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.
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.