Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the War | Page 5

drowned in roaring noise,
They were left just where the
skirmish shifted--
Left in dense underbrush now-drifted.
Some,
seeking to crawl in crippled plight,
So stiffened--perished.
Yet in spite
Of pangs for these, no heart is lost.
Hungry, and
clothing stiff with frost,
Our men declare a nearing sun
Shall see
the fall of Donelson.
And this they say, yet not disown
The dark
redoubts round Donelson,
And ice-glazed corpses, each a stone--
A
sacrifice to Donelson;
They swear it, and swerve not, gazing on
A
flag, deemed black, flying from Donelson.
Some of the wounded in
the wood
Were cared for by the foe last night,
Though he could do
them little needed good,
Himself being all in shivering plight.
The
rebel is wrong, but human yet;
He's got a heart, and thrusts a bayonet.

He gives us battle with wondrous will--
The bluff's a perverted
Bunker Hill._
The stillness stealing through the throng
The silent thought and
dismal fear revealed;
They turned and went,
Musing on right and wrong
And mysteries
dimly sealed--
Breasting the storm in daring discontent;
The storm,
whose black flag showed in heaven,
As if to say no quarter there was
given
To wounded men in wood,
Or true hearts yearning for the good--

All fatherless seemed the human soul.
But next day brought a bitterer
bowl--
On the bulletin-board this stood;
_Saturday morning at 3 A.M.
A stir within the Fort betrayed
That
the rebels were getting under arms;
Some plot these early birds had
laid.
But a lancing sleet cut him who stared

Into the storm. After
some vague alarms,
Which left our lads unscared,
Out sallied the
enemy at dim of dawn,
With cavalry and artillery, and went
In fury

at our environment.
Under cover of shot and shell
Three columns of
infantry rolled on,
Vomited out of Donelson--
Rolled down the
slopes like rivers of hell,
Surged at our line, and swelled and poured

Like breaking surf. But unsubmerged
Our men stood up, except
where roared
The enemy through one gap. We urged
Our all of
manhood to the stress,
But still showed shattered in our
desperateness.
Back set the tide,
But soon afresh rolled in;
And so it swayed from
side to side--
Far batteries joining in the din,
Though sharing in
another fray--
Till all became an Indian fight,
Intricate, dusky,
stretching far away,
Yet not without spontaneous plan
However
tangled showed the plight;
Duels all over 'tween man and man,

Duels on cliff-side, and down in ravine,
Duels at long range, and
bone to bone;
Duels every where flitting and half unseen.
Only by
courage good as their own,
And strength outlasting theirs,
Did our
boys at last drive the rebels off.
Yet they went not back to their
distant lairs
In strong-hold, but loud in scoff
Maintained themselves
on conquered ground--
Uplands; built works, or stalked around.

Our right wing bore this onset. Noon
Brought calm to Donelson.
The reader ceased; the storm beat hard;
'Twas day, but the office-gas
was lit;
Nature retained her sulking-fit,
In her hand the shard.
Flitting faces took the hue
Of that washed
bulletin-board in view,
And seemed to bear the public grief
As
private, and uncertain of relief;
Yea, many an earnest heart was won,

As broodingly he plodded on,
To find in himself some bitter thing,

Some hardness in his lot as harrowing
As Donelson.
That night the board stood barren there,
Oft eyes by wistful people
passing,
Who nothing saw but the rain-beads chasing
Each other

down the wafered square,
As down some storm-beat grave-yard stone.

But next day showed--
MORE NEWS LAST NIGHT.
STORY OF SATURDAY AFTERNOON.
VICISSITUDES OF THE WAR.
_The damaged gun-boats can't wage fight
For days; so says the
Commodore.
Thus no diversion can be had.
Under a sunless sky of
lead
Our grim-faced boys in blacked plight
Gaze toward the ground
they held before,
And then on Grant. He marks their mood,
And
hails it, and will turn the same to good.
Spite all that they have
undergone,
Their desperate hearts are set upon
This winter fort, this
stubborn fort,
This castle of the last resort,
This Donelson.
1 P.M.
An order given
Requires withdrawal from the front
Of regiments
that bore the brunt
Of morning's fray. Their ranks all riven
Are
being replaced by fresh, strong men.
Great vigilance in the foeman's
Den;
He snuffs the stormers. Need it is
That for that fell assault of
his,
That rout inflicted, and self-scorn--
Immoderate in noble
natures, torn
By sense of being through slackness overborne--
The
rebel be given a quick return:
The kindest face looks now half stern.

Balked of their prey in airs that freeze,
Some fierce ones glare like
savages.
And yet, and yet, strange moments are--
Well--blood, and
tears, and anguished War!
The morning's battle-ground is seen
In
lifted glades, like meadows rare;
The blood-drops on the snow-crust
there
Like clover in the white-week show--
Flushed fields of death,
that call again--
Call to our men, and not in vain,
For that way must
the stormers go.

3 P.M.
The work begins.
Light drifts of men thrown forward, fade
In
skirmish-line along the slope,
Where some dislodgments must be
made
Ere the stormer with the strong-hold cope.
Lew Wallace, moving to retake
The heights late lost--
(Herewith a break.
Storms at the West derange the wires.
Doubtless,
ere morning, we shall hear
The end; we look for news to cheer--
Let
Hope fan all her fires.)_
Next day in large bold hand was seen
The closing bulletin:
VICTORY!
_Our troops have retrieved