FALL IN!
There came a sound of drums. Twice on such a day, once the day
before, thrice the next day, till by and by it was the common thing.
High-stepping childhood, with laths and broom-handles at shoulder, was
not fated, as in the insipid days of peace, to find, on running to the
corner, its high hopes mocked by a wagon of empty barrels rumbling over
the cobble-stones. No; it was the Washington Artillery, or the Crescent
Rifles, or the Orleans Battalion, or, best of all, the blue-jacketed,
white-leggined, red-breeched, and red-fezzed Zouaves; or, better than
the best, it was all of them together, their captains stepping backward,
sword in both hands, calling "_Gauche! gauche!_" ("Left! left!") "Guide
right!"--"_Portez armes!_" and facing around again, throwing their
shining blades stiffly to belt and epaulette, and glancing askance from
under their abundant plumes to the crowded balconies above. Yea, and the
drum-majors before, and the brilliant-petticoated _vivandieres_ behind!
What pomp! what giddy rounds! Pennons, cock-feathers, clattering steeds,
pealing salvos, banners, columns, ladies' favors, balls, concerts,
toasts, the Free Gift Lottery--don't you recollect?--and this uniform
and that uniform, brother a captain, father a colonel, uncle a major,
the little rector a chaplain, Captain Ristofalo of the Tiger Rifles; the
levee covered with munitions of war, steam-boats unloading troops,
troops, troops, from Opelousas, Attakapas, Texas; and a supper to this
company, a flag to that battalion, farewell sermon to the Washington
Artillery, tears and a kiss to a spurred and sashed lover, hurried
weddings,--no end of them,--a sword to such a one, addresses by such and
such, serenades to Miss and to Mademoiselle.
Soon it will have been a quarter of a century ago!
And yet--do you not hear them now, coming down the broad, granite-paved,
moonlit street, the light that was made for lovers glancing on bayonet
and sword soon to be red with brothers' blood, their brave young hearts
already lifted up with the triumph of battles to come, and the trumpets
waking the midnight stillness with the gay notes of the Cracovienne?--
"Again, again, the pealing drum,
The clashing horn, they come, they come,
And lofty deeds and daring high
Blend with their notes of victory."
Ah! the laughter; the music; the bravado; the dancing; the songs!
"_Voila l'Zouzou!_" "Dixie!" "_Aux armes, vos citoyens!_" "The Bonnie
Blue Flag!"--it wasn't bonnie very long. Later the maidens at home
learned to sing a little song,--it is among the missing now,--a part of
it ran:--
"Sleeping on grassy couches;
Pillowed on hillocks damp;
Of martial fame how little we know
Till brothers are in the camp."
By and by they began to depart. How many they were! How many, many! We
had too lightly let them go. And when all were gone, and they of
Carondelet street and its tributaries, massed in that old gray,
brittle-shanked regiment, the Confederate Guards, were having their
daily dress parade in Coliseum place, and only they and the Foreign
Legion remained; when sister Jane made lint, and flour was high, and
the sounds of commerce were quite hushed, and in the custom-house
gun-carriages were a-making, and in the foundries big guns were being
cast, and the cotton gun-boats and the rams were building, and at the
rotting wharves the masts of a few empty ships stood like dead trees in
a blasted wilderness, and poor soldiers' wives crowded around the "Free
Market," and grass began to spring up in the streets,--they were many
still, while far away; but some marched no more, and others marched on
bleeding feet, in rags; and it was very, very hard for some of us to
hold the voice steady and sing on through the chorus of the little
song:--
"Brave boys are they!
Gone at their country's call.
And yet--and yet--we cannot forget
That many brave boys must fall."
Oh! Shiloh, Shiloh!
But before the gloom had settled down upon us it was a gay dream.
"Mistoo Itchlin, in fact 'ow you ligue my uniefawm? You think it suit my
style? They got about two poun' of gole lace on that uniefawm. Yesseh.
Me, the h-only thing--I don' ligue those epaulette'. So soon ev'ybody
see that on me, 'tis 'Lieut'nan'!' in thiz place, an' 'Lieut'nan'!' in
that place. My de'seh, you'd thing I'm a majo'-gen'l, in fact. Well, of
co'se, I don' ligue that."
"And so you're a lieutenant?"
"Third! Of the Chasseurs-a-Pied! Coon he'p 't, in fact; the fellehs
elected me. Goin' at Pensacola tomaw. Dr. Seveeah _con_tinue my sala'y
whilce I'm gone. no matteh the len'th. Me, I don' care, so long the
sala'y _con_tinue, if that waugh las' ten yeah! You ah pe'haps goin' ad
the ball to-nighd, Mistoo Itchlin? I dunno 'ow 'tis--I suppose you'll be
aztonizh' w'en I infawm you--that ball wemine me of that battle of
Wattaloo! Did you evva yeh those line' of Lawd By'on,--
'Theh was a soun' of wibalwy by night,
W'en--'Ush-'ark!--A deep saun' stwike'--?
Thaz by Lawd By'on. Yesseh. Well"--
The Creole lifted his right hand energetically, laid its inner edge
against the brass buttons of his _kepi_, and then waved it gracefully
abroad:--
"_Au 'evoi'_, Mistoo Itchlin. I leave you to defen' the city."
"To-morrow," in those days of unreadiness and disconnection, glided just
beyond reach continually. When at times its realization was at length
grasped, it was away over on the far side of a fortnight or farther.
However, the to-morrow for Narcisse came at last.
A quiet order for attention runs down the column. Attention it is.
Another order follows, higher-keyed, longer drawn out, and with one
sharp "clack!" the sword-bayoneted rifles go to the shoulders of as fine
a battalion as any in the land of Dixie.
"_En avant!_"--Narcisse's heart stands still for joy--"_Marche!_"
The bugle rings, the drums beat; "tramp, tramp," in quick succession, go
the short-stepping, nimble Creole feet, and the old walls of the Rue
Chartres ring again with the pealing huzza, as they rang in the days of
Villere and Lafreniere, and in the days of the young Galvez, and in the
days of Jackson.
The old Ponchartrain cars move off, packed. Down at the "Old Lake End"
the steamer for Mobile receives the burden. The gong clangs in her
engine-room, the walking-beam silently stirs, there is a hiss of water
underneath, the gang-plank is in, the wet hawser-ends whip through the
hawse-holes,--she moves; clang goes the gong again--she glides--or is it
the crowded wharf that is gliding?--No.--Snatch the kisses! snatch them!
Adieu! Adieu! She's off, huzza--she's off!
Now she stands away. See the mass of gay colors--red, gold, blue,
yellow, with glitter of steel and flutter of flags, a black veil of
smoke sweeping over. Wave, mothers and daughters, wives, sisters,
sweethearts--wave, wave; you little know the future!
And now she is a little thing, her white wake following her afar across
the green waters, the call of the bugle floating softly back. And now
she is a speck. And now a little smoky stain against the eastern blue is
all,--and now she is gone. Gone! Gone!
Farewell, soldier boys! Light-hearted, little-forecasting, brave,
merry boys! God accept you, our offering of first fruits! See that
mother--that wife--take them away; it is too much. Comfort them, father,
brother; tell them their tears may be for naught.
"And yet--and yet--we cannot forget
That many brave boys must fall."
Never so glad a day had risen upon the head of Narcisse. For the first
time in his life he moved beyond the corporate limits of his native
town.
"'Ezcape fum the aunt, thou sluggud!'" "_Au 'evoi'_" to his aunt and the
uncle of his aunt. "_Au 'evoi'!_ _Au 'evoi'!_"--desk, pen, book--work,
care, thought, restraint--all sinking, sinking beneath the receding
horizon of Lake Ponchartrain, and the wide world and a soldier's life
before him.
Farewell, Byronic youth! You are not of so frail a stuff as you have
seemed. You shall thirst by day and hunger by night. You shall keep
vigil on the sands of the Gulf and on the banks of the Potomac. You
shall grow brown, but prettier. You shall shiver in loathsome tatters,
yet keep your grace, your courtesy, your joyousness. You shall ditch and
lie down in ditches, and shall sing your saucy songs of defiance in the
face of the foe, so blackened with powder and dust and smoke that your
mother in heaven would not know her child. And you shall borrow to your
heart's content chickens, hogs, rails, milk, buttermilk, sweet potatoes,
what not; and shall learn the American songs, and by the camp-fire of
Shenandoah valley sing "The years creep slowly by, Lorena" to messmates
with shaded eyes, and "Her bright smile haunts me still." Ah, boy!
there's an old woman still living in the Rue Casa Calvo--your bright
smile haunts her still. And there shall be blood on your sword, and
blood--twice--thrice--on your brow. Your captain shall die in your arms;
and you shall lead charge after charge, and shall step up from rank to
rank; and all at once, one day, just in the final onset, with the cheer
on your lips, and your red sword waving high, with but one lightning
stroke of agony, down, down you shall go in the death of your dearest
choice.