Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the War. Herman Melville

purpose not the lingering stay

      Of old beleaguerers; not that way;

       But, full of vim from Western prairies won,

      They'll make, ere long, a dash at Donelson.

      Washed by the storm till the paper grew

      Every shade of a streaky blue,

      That bulletin stood. The next day brought

      A second.

      Later from the Fort.

      Grant's investment is complete—

      A semicircular one.

      Both wings the Cumberland's margin meet,

      Then, backwkard curving, clasp the rebel seat.

      On Wednesday this good work was done;

      But of the doers some lie prone.

      Each wood, each hill, each glen was fought for;

      The bold inclosing line we wrought for

      Flamed with sharpshooters. Each cliff cost

      A limb or life. But back we forced

      Reserves and all; made good our hold;

      And so we rest.

      Events unfold.

      On Thursday added ground was won,

      A long bold steep: we near the Den.

      Later the foe came shouting down

      In sortie, which was quelled; and then

      We stormed them on their left.

      A chilly change in the afternoon;

      The sky, late clear, is now bereft

      Of sun. Last night the ground froze hard—

      Rings to the enemy as they run

      Within their works. A ramrod bites

      The lip it meets. The cold incites

      To swinging of arms with brisk rebound.

      Smart blows 'gainst lusty chests resound.

      Along the outer line we ward

      A crackle of skirmishing goes on.

      Our lads creep round on hand and knee,

      They fight from behind each trunk and stone;

      And sometimes, flying for refuge, one

      Finds 'tis an enemy shares the tree.

      Some scores are maimed by boughs shot off

      In the glades by the Fort's big gun.

      We mourn the loss of colonel Morrison,

      Killed while cheering his regiment on.

      Their far sharpshooters try our stuff;

      And ours return them puff for puff:

      'Tis diamond-cutting-diamond work.

      Woe on the rebel cannoneer

      Who shows his head. Our fellows lurk

      Like Indians that waylay the deer

      By the wild salt-spring.—The sky is dun,

      Fordooming the fall of Donelson.

      Stern weather is all unwonted here.

      The people of the country own

      We brought it. Yea, the earnest North

      Has elementally issued forth

      To storm this Donelson.

      Further.

      A yelling rout

      Of ragamuffins broke profuse

      To-day from out the Fort.

      Sole uniform they wore, a sort

      Of patch, or white badge (as you choose)

      Upon the arm. But leading these,

      Or mingling, were men of face

      And bearing of patrician race,

      Splendid in courage and gold lace—

      The officers. Before the breeze

      Made by their charge, down went our line;

      But, rallying, charged back in force,

      And broke the sally; yet with loss.

      This on the left; upon the right

      Meanwhile there was an answering fight;

      Assailants and assailed reversed.

      The charge too upward, and not down—

      Up a steep ridge-side, toward its crown,

      A strong redoubt. But they who first

      Gained the fort's base, and marked the trees

      Felled, heaped in horned perplexities,

      And shagged with brush; and swarming there

      Fierce wasps whose sting was present death—

      They faltered, drawing bated breath,

      And felt it was in vain to dare;

      Yet still, perforce, returned the ball,

      Firing into the tangled wall

      Till ordered to come down. They came;

      But left some comrades in their fame,

      Red on the ridge in icy wreath

      And hanging gardens of cold Death.

      But not quite unavenged these fell;

      Our ranks once out of range, a blast

      Of shrapnel and quick shell

      Burst on the rebel horde, still massed,

      Scattering them pell-mell.

      (This fighting—judging what we read—

      Both charge and countercharge,

      Would seem but Thursday's told at large,

      Before in brief reported.—Ed.)

      Night closed in about the Den

      Murky and lowering. Ere long, chill rains.

      A night not soon to be forgot,

      Reviving old rheumatic pains

      And longings for a cot.

      No blankets, overcoats, or tents.

      Coats thrown aside on the warm march here—

      We looked not then for changeful cheer;

      Tents, coats, and blankets too much care.

      No fires; a fire a mark presents;

      Near by, the trees show bullet-dents.

      Rations were eaten cold and raw.

      The men well soaked, come snow; and more—

      A midnight sally. Small sleeping done—

      But such is war;

      No matter, we'll have Fort Donelson.

      "Ugh! ugh!

      'Twill drag along—drag along"

      Growled a cross patriot in the throng,

      His battered umbrella like an ambulance-cover

      Riddled