Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the War | Page 5

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 the day?By one grand surge along the line;?The spirit that urged them was divine.?The first works flooded, naught could stay?The stormers: on! still on!?Bayonets for Donelson!
Over the ground that morning lost?Rolled the blue billows, tempest-tossed,?Following a hat on the point of a sword.?Spite shell and round-shot, grape and canister,?Up they climbed without rail or banister--?Up the steep hill-sides long and broad,?Driving the rebel deep within his works.?'Tis nightfall; not an enemy lurks?In sight. The chafing men
Fret for more fight:?"To-night, to-night let us take the Den"?But night is treacherous, Grant is wary;?Of brave blood be a little chary.?Patience! the Fort is good as won;?To-morrow, and into Donelson._
LATER AND LAST.
THE FORT IS OURS.
_A flag came out at early morn?Bringing surrender. From their towers?Floats out the banner late their scorn.?In Dover, hut and house are full?Of rebels dead or dying.?The national flag is flying?From the crammed court-house pinnacle.?Great boat-loads of our wounded go?To-day to Nashville. The sleet-winds blow;?But all is right: the fight is won,?The winter-fight for