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56
THE COLOR-BEARER.
“The storming party looked in vain for the support which
had been promised it. The brigade which had been ordered
to follow it hesitated. Finally, all but one of the 150 got discouraged,
and sought the shelter of a deep ravine. William
Trogden, a private of Company B, 8th Missouri, refused to
retrace a single step. He was color-bearer of the storming
party. When his comrades left him, he dug a hole in the
ground with his bayonet, planted his flag-staff in it, within
twenty yards of the enemy's rifle-pits, and sat down by the
side of his banner, where he remained all day.”
—Report of the Assault on Vicksburg.”
“The storming party looked in vain for the support which had been promised it. The brigade which had been ordered to follow it hesitated. Finally, all but one of the 150 got discouraged, and sought the shelter of a deep ravine. William Trogden, a private of Company B, 8th Missouri, refused to retrace a single step. He was color-bearer of the storming party. When his comrades left him, he dug a hole in the ground with his bayonet, planted his flag-staff in it, within twenty yards of the enemy's rifle-pits, and sat down by the side of his banner, where he remained all day.”
—Report of the Assault on Vicksburg.”
(Vicksburg, May 22, 1863.)
Let them go!—they are brave, I know—
But a berth like this, why it suits me best;
I can't carry back the Old Colors to-day,
We've come together a long, rough way—
Here's as good a spot as any to rest.
But a berth like this, why it suits me best;
I can't carry back the Old Colors to-day,
We've come together a long, rough way—
Here's as good a spot as any to rest.
No look, I reckon, to hold them long;
So here, in the turf, with my bayonet,
To dig for a bit, and plant them strong—
(Look out for the point—we may want it yet!)
So here, in the turf, with my bayonet,
To dig for a bit, and plant them strong—
(Look out for the point—we may want it yet!)
Dry work!—but the old canteen holds fast
A few drops of water—not over-fresh—
So, for a drink!—it may be the last—
My respects to you, Mr. Secesh!
A few drops of water—not over-fresh—
So, for a drink!—it may be the last—
My respects to you, Mr. Secesh!
No great show for the snakes to sight;
Our boys keep 'em busy yet, by the powers!—
Hark, what a row going on, to the Right!
Better luck there, I hope, than ours.
Our boys keep 'em busy yet, by the powers!—
Hark, what a row going on, to the Right!
Better luck there, I hope, than ours.
57
Half an hour!—(and you'd swear 'twas three)—
Here, by the bully old staff, I've sat—
Long enough, as it seems to me,
To lose as many lives as a cat.
Here, by the bully old staff, I've sat—
Long enough, as it seems to me,
To lose as many lives as a cat.
Now and then, they sputter away;
A puff and a crack, and I hear the ball.
Mighty poor shooting, I should say—
Not bad fellows, may be, after all.
A puff and a crack, and I hear the ball.
Mighty poor shooting, I should say—
Not bad fellows, may be, after all.
My chance, of course, isn't worth a dime—
But I thought 'twould be over, sudden and quick
Well, since it seems that we're not on time,
Here's for a touch of the Kilikinick.
But I thought 'twould be over, sudden and quick
Well, since it seems that we're not on time,
Here's for a touch of the Kilikinick.
Cool as a clock!—and, what is strange,
Out of this dream of death and alarm,
(This wild, hard week of battle and change,)
Out of the rifle's deadly range—
My thoughts are all at the dear old farm.
Out of this dream of death and alarm,
(This wild, hard week of battle and change,)
Out of the rifle's deadly range—
My thoughts are all at the dear old farm.
'Tis green as a sward, by this, I know—
The orchard is just beginning to set,
They mowed the home-lot a week ago—
The corn must be late, for that piece is wet.
The orchard is just beginning to set,
They mowed the home-lot a week ago—
The corn must be late, for that piece is wet.
I can think of one or two, that would wipe
A drop or so from a soft blue eye,
To see me sit and puff at my pipe,
With a hundred death's heads grinning hard by.
A drop or so from a soft blue eye,
To see me sit and puff at my pipe,
With a hundred death's heads grinning hard by.
58
And I wonder, when this has all passed o'er,
And the tattered old stars in triumph wave on
Through street and square, with welcoming roar,
If ever they'll think of us who are gone?
And the tattered old stars in triumph wave on
Through street and square, with welcoming roar,
If ever they'll think of us who are gone?
How we marched together, sound or sick,
Sank in the trench o'er the heavy spade—
How we charged on the guns, at double-quick,
Kept rank for Death to choose and to pick—
And lay on the bed no fair hands made.
Sank in the trench o'er the heavy spade—
How we charged on the guns, at double-quick,
Kept rank for Death to choose and to pick—
And lay on the bed no fair hands made.
Ah, well!—at last, when the Nation's free,
And flags are flapping from bluff to bay,
In old St. Lou what a time there'll be!
I mayn't be there, the Hurrah to see—
But if the Old Rag goes back to-day,
They never shall say 'twas carried by me!
And flags are flapping from bluff to bay,
In old St. Lou what a time there'll be!
I mayn't be there, the Hurrah to see—
But if the Old Rag goes back to-day,
They never shall say 'twas carried by me!
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