Читать книгу The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 97, November, 1865 - Various - Страница 2

None who saw it can forget

How they went into the fight,

Four abreast,—

Thereby was the foe perplexed,—

With the Essex on the right,

That is nearest to the Fort,

And the Cincinnati next,

The St. Louis on her left,

All so gallant and so deft,

And the brave Carondelet.

Boom, boom, from every bow!

(They'll have to answer that!)

From the Rebel bastions, now,

There's a flash.

Cool, keep cool, boys, don't be rash!

Mind your eyes, as the old Boss said;

Keep together and go ahead,—

Not too high and not too low,

Fire slow!

                Paff!

Now we have it from the Fort,

And the Rebels all a-crowing;

While the devils'-echoes laugh,

With a loonish thunder-lowing,

After every gun's report:

'Tisn't bird-shot they are throwing,—

                'Tisn't chaff!

                Ping! Ping!

If you've ever seen the thing

That can fly without a wing

Swifter than the Thunder's bird,

Lightning-clenching, lightning-spurred,—

If you've ever heard it sing,

You will understand the word,

And look out;

For, beyond a mortal doubt,

                It can sting!

                Thump!

'D y' ever hear anything like it?

Sounded very much like a ten-strike,—it

Appears they're after a spare!

Bet it made the old Boss jump,

Or at any rate awfully screw up his brows,—

Hit the pilot-house,

And he's up there,—

Must 'a' been a hundred-pounder,—

Had the twang of a conical ball,—

Would 'a' gone plumb through a ten-foot wall.

                Isn't the old Cinc. a trump?

They meant that for a damper!

Square it off with an eighty shell

And a fifteen-second fuse,

(With all the latest news!)—

Pretty well done, boys, pretty well!

Guess that'll be apt to tell

'Em all about where it came from,

And where it's a-going to,

What it took its name from,

And all it's a-knowing to!

                See 'em scamper!

The Conestoga, the Tyler,

And the Lexington, you know,

Are in line a half a mile, or

A little less, below,—

Just this side of the Panther

(Little woody island),

They've their orders–Oh,

But, after all, how can their

Wooden-heads keep silent?

Wonder 'f it don't make 'em feel bad,

Even if they ain't all steel-clad,

At being slighted so!

'Tisn't so bad a day,

Although it's a little cloudy,—

Or rather, as one might say,

                Smoky, perhaps,—

A little hazy, a little dubious,

A little too sulphury to be salubrious.

D' ye mind those thunder-claps?

Do you feel now and then the least little bit

Of an incipient earthquake fit,

Accompanied with awful raps?

But give 'em gowdy, give 'em gowdy,

And it'll soon clear away!

Old Boss ain't to be balked.—

All this, you know,

Was only the way (or nearly so)

The boys talked,

And felt and thought,

(And acted, too,)

The harder they fought

And the hotter it grew.—

But there was a Hand at the reel

                That nobody saw,—

Old Hickory there at every keel,

In every timber, from stem to stern,—

A something in every crank and wheel,

That made 'em answer their turn;

And everywhere,

On earth and water, in fire and air,

As it were to see it all well done,

The Wraith of the murdered Law,—

Old John Brown at every gun!

But the Fort was all in a roar:

No use to talk, they had the range,—

Which wasn't strange,

Guess they'd tried it before,—

And the pounding was not soft,

But might well appall

The boldest heart.

Cool and calm,

Trumpet in hand,

Up in the cock-loft,

Where 'twas the hottest of all,

Our brave old Commodore

Took his stand,

And played his part,

Humming over some old psalm!

Tut! did ye hear the hiss and scream

Of that hot steam?

It's the Essex that's struck,—

She never had any luck:

Ah, 'twas a wicked shot,

And, whether they know it or not,

It doesn't give us joy!

Thorough an open port it flew,

As with some special permit to destroy;

And first, for sport,

Struck the soul from that beautiful boy;

Then through the bulkhead lunged,

And into the boiler plunged,

Scalding the whole crew!

We know that the brave must fall,—

But that was a sight to see:

                Twenty-three,

All in an instant scalded and scathed,

All at once in the white shroud swathed!

A low moan came from the deck

Of the drifting wreck,—

                And that was all.

How the traitors'll boast,

As soon as they come to see her

All adrift and aghast!—

Hark! d' ye hear? d' ye hear?

D' ye hear 'em shout?

They see it already, no doubt.

We shall have to count her out,—

That white breath was her last,—

She has given up the ghost!

What does the old Boss think?

                Will he shrink?

Will he waver or falter now?—

A little shadow flits over his brow,

For the sharp pang in his heart,—

Flits over—and is gone,—

And a light looms up in his old gray eye,

Whether you see it or not,

That is like a sudden dawn

                In a stormy sky!

What does he think?

What will he do?—

Well! he don't say!

But I'll tell you what,

You can bet your life,

As you would your knife,

And your wife, too,

                He'll do

(And put 'em up at once!)—

He'll run these boats right up to their guns,

And take that Fort, or sink!

But, oh—oh, it was hot!

So thick and fast the solid shot

Upon our iron armor played,

It kept, like thunder, a kind of time—

Devil's tattoo or gallopade—

That, like an awful, awful rhyme,

                Rang in the ear;

And they sent us cheer after cheer.

But the boys had been to school,

And their guns were not cool;

For they knew what Cause they served,

And not a man of 'em swerved!

But on, right on, they swept,

And from every grim bow-port

Their nutmegs and shell-barks leaped

Into the jaws of the Fort!

And (to give her, perhaps, a chance to breathe)

Knocked out some of her big, black teeth!

And (to raise a better crop, no doubt,

Than was ever raised there before)

Ploughed her up into awful creases,

                Inside and out!—

For now they were up and doing the chore

At only four hundred yards,

And the death-dealing shreds and shards

Of our shell were tearing 'em all to pieces!

Hurrah for the brave old Flag!

To triumph see her ride!—

Ha, ha! they dodge and duck,—

The Snake's expiring!

Their gunners run and hide,—

By heaven, they've struck!

Down comes the rattlesnake rag

By the run,—

Stop the firing!

The work is done!—

Anyhow, she'll do for batter!—

You see now, Butternuts, you were plucky;

But that ain't "what's the matter,"—

Not by a long shot!

No, no,—no! I'll tell you what—

And you mustn't take it at all amiss—

I'll tell you what the matter is:

'Tain't because you were born unlucky,

(Bear in mind,)

Nor that you've good eyes and we are blind,—

Nothing of the kind,—

But it's something else, if it isn't more:

The reason—pardon!—you had to cotton

Was simply this: Your Cause was rotten,—

Rotten to the very core:

That's what's the matter!

But you ought to 'a' heard our water-dogs yelp!—

Just an hour and fifteen minutes!—

(Twitter away, you English linnets!)

Horizontal and perpendicular,

Fair and square, without any help,—

That is, any in particular,—

The old ferry wash-tubs of the West,

With some new-fashioned hoops, for a little test,

And a few old pounders from—Kingdom Come,

And nothing for suds but the "Nawth'n scum,"

Made these "gen'l'men" turn as white

As a head o' hair in a single night!

Cleaned their army completely out,

(We're going to give that another wipe!)

On the double-quick, by the shortest route,—

Wrung their stronghold from their gripe,—

Brought their garrison right to taw,

And made 'em get down to the "higher law"!

So that when Grant and his boys came up,

(There's places enough for a man to die!)

Swearing that we had "spoiled" their "sport,"

With a quiet twinkle in his eye,

Old Boss asked 'em to come in and sup,

And set 'em to house-keeping in the Fort!—

But all the old fellow could say or do,

They'd still keep a-going it: "Bully for you!"

"Bully" for Grant and for Foote!—

E'en if the voice must tremble,—

And "bully" for all who helped 'em to do 't!

Bully for Porter and Stemble!

For Paulding and for Walke,—

For Phelps, for Gwin, and for Shirk!—

But what's the use to talk?

They were all of 'em up to the work!

Bully for each brave tub

That bore the Union Blue!

And for every mother's son

Of every gallant crew,

Whatever his color or name,

Who, when it came to the rub,

Shall be found to have been game!

Such was the Rhyme of the Master's Mate,

Just as they found it in the locker,

With this at the foot:—

                "It's getting late,

And I hear a pretty loud Knock at the knocker!

Captain, if I should chance to fall,

Try to send me home. Good bye!" That's all,—

Excepting the date, the name, and rank:—

        "Feb. 12th, '62, – –,

                Master's Mate."

All next day a great black Cloud

Hung over the land from coast to coast;

And the next, the Knocking was "pretty loud,"—

With a sudden Eclipse, as it were, of the sun,—

And the earth, all day, quaked—"Donelson!"

But the next was the deadliest day of all,

And the Master's Mate was not at Call!

Yet nobody seemed to wonder why,—

There was something, perhaps, the Master knew

Far better than we, for his Mate to do,—

And the Day went down with a bloody sky!

But when the long, long Night was past,

And our Eagle, sweeping the traitor's crag,

Circled to victory up the dome,

The great Reveille was heard at last!—

They wrapped the Mate in his country's flag,

And sent him in glory home!