WALT WHITMAN Ultimate Collection: 500+ Works in Poetry & Prose. Walt Whitman

. . . . he furiously waves with his hand,

       He gasps through the clot . . . . Mind not me . . . . mind . . . . the entrenchments.

      I tell not the fall of Alamo . . . . not one escaped to tell the fall of Alamo,

       The hundred and fifty are dumb yet at Alamo.

      Hear now the tale of a jetblack sunrise,

       Hear of the murder in cold blood of four hundred and twelve young men.

      Retreating they had formed in a hollow square with their baggage for breastworks,

       Nine hundred lives out of the surrounding enemy’s nine times their number was the price they took in advance,

       Their colonel was wounded and their ammunition gone,

       They treated for an honorable capitulation, received writing and seal, gave up their arms, and marched back prisoners of war.

      They were the glory of the race of rangers,

       Matchless with a horse, a rifle, a song, a supper or a courtship,

       Large, turbulent, brave, handsome, generous, proud and affectionate,

       Bearded, sunburnt, dressed in the free costume of hunters,

       Not a single one over thirty years of age.

      The second Sunday morning they were brought out in squads and massacred . . . . it was beautiful early summer,

       The work commenced about five o’clock and was over by eight.

      None obeyed the command to kneel,

       Some made a mad and helpless rush . . . . some stood stark and straight,

       A few fell at once, shot in the temple or heart . . . . the living and dead lay together,

       The maimed and mangled dug in the dirt . . . . the new-comers saw them there;

       Some half-killed attempted to crawl away,

       These were dispatched with bayonets or battered with the blunts of muskets;

       A youth not seventeen years old seized his assassin till two more came to release him,

       The three were all torn, and covered with the boy’s blood.

      At eleven o’clock began the burning of the bodies;

       And that is the tale of the murder of the four hundred and twelve young men,

       And that was a jetblack sunrise.

      Did you read in the seabooks of the oldfashioned frigate-fight?

       Did you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars?

      Our foe was no skulk in his ship, I tell you,

       His was the English pluck, and there is no tougher or truer, and never was, and never will be;

       Along the lowered eve he came, horribly raking us.

      We closed with him . . . . the yards entangled . . . . the cannon touched,

       My captain lashed fast with his own hands.

      We had received some eighteen-pound shots under the water,

       On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire, killing all around and blowing up overhead.

      Ten o’clock at night, and the full moon shining and the leaks on the gain, and five feet of water reported,

       The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the after-hold to give them a chance for themselves.

      The transit to and from the magazine was now stopped by the sentinels,

       They saw so many strange faces they did not know whom to trust.

      Our frigate was afire . . . . the other asked if we demanded quarters? if our colors were struck and the fighting done?

      I laughed content when I heard the voice of my little captain,

       We have not struck, he composedly cried, We have just begun our part of the fighting.

      Only three guns were in use,

       One was directed by the captain himself against the enemy’s mainmast,

       Two well-served with grape and canister silenced his musketry and cleared his decks.

      The tops alone seconded the fire of this little battery, especially the maintop,

       They all held out bravely during the whole of the action.

      Not a moment’s cease,

       The leaks gained fast on the pumps . . . . the fire eat toward the powder-magazine,

       One of the pumps was shot away . . . . it was generally thought we were sinking.

      Serene stood the little captain,

       He was not hurried . . . . his voice was neither high nor low,

       His eyes gave more light to us than our battle-lanterns.

      Toward twelve at night, there in the beams of the moon they surrendered to us.

      Stretched and still lay the midnight,

       Two great hulls motionless on the breast of the darkness,

       Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking . . . . preparations to pass to the one we had conquered,

       The captain on the quarter deck coldly giving his orders through a countenance white as a sheet,

       Near by the corpse of the child that served in the cabin,

       The dead face of an old salt with long white hair and carefully curled whiskers,

       The flames spite of all that could be done flickering aloft and below,

       The husky voices of the two or three officers yet fit for duty,

       Formless stacks of bodies and bodies by themselves . . . . dabs of flesh upon the masts and spars,

       The cut of cordage and dangle of rigging . . . . the slight shock of the soothe of waves,

       Black and impassive guns, and litter of powder-parcels, and the strong scent,

       Delicate sniffs of the seabreeze . . . . smells of sedgy grass and fields by the shore . . . death-messages given in charge to survivors,

       The hiss of the surgeon’s knife and the gnawing teeth of his saw,

       The wheeze, the cluck, the swash of falling blood . . . . the short wild scream, the long dull tapering groan,

       These so . . . . these irretrievable.

      O Christ! My fit is mastering me!

       What the rebel said gaily adjusting his throat to the rope-noose,

       What the savage at the stump, his eye-sockets empty, his mouth spirting whoops and defiance,

       What stills the traveler come to the vault at Mount Vernon,

      What sobers the Brooklyn boy as he looks down the shores of the Wallabout and remembers the prison ships,

       What burnt the gums of the redcoat at Saratoga when he surrendered his brigades,

       These become mine and me every one, and they are but little,

       I become as much more as I like.

      I become any presence or truth of humanity here,

       And see myself in prison shaped like another man,

       And feel the dull unintermitted pain.

      For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep watch,

       It is I let out in the morning and barred at night.

      Not a mutineer walks handcuffed to the jail, but I am handcuffed to him and walk by his side,

       I am less the jolly one there, and more the silent one with sweat on my twitching lips.

      Not a youngster is taken for larceny, but I go up too and am tried and sentenced.

      Not a cholera patient