A Summer Christmas and a Sonnet upon The S.S. "Ballaarat." By Douglas B. W. Sladen |
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December 30th. |
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 | A Summer Christmas and a Sonnet upon The S.S. "Ballaarat." |  |
150
December 30th.
Before they went to bed, they'd madeArrangements for a fusillade
Of waterfowl upon a lake
Some six miles off and, for Lil's sake,
Will had proposed that she should ride
With the Professor by her side,
Saying that he would bring a gun
For him and bidding them ride on
Because the ‘trap’ would overtake
The riders ere they reached the lake,
But if they reached it first to wait
Below the hill-crest at the gate
So that the ducks might not be scared
Before the ambush was prepared.
The dam was of a crescent shape
With broad lagoons at either cape:
But in the middle just a thread
Of water filmed its muddy bed:
And here the angle of a fence
Gave a slight line of cover, whence
An ambushed gun might be close to
The mobs of ducks and swans which flew
In terror towards the top lagoon
When started from the lower one.
And here Will posted Phil and Hall
As really the best post of all,
Although he thought that visitors
Were likely to prefer the course
Which he himself proposed to take
Of stalking first the lower lake
And then the upper, where they could
See all the wildfowl-brotherhood
Wading or floating on the mere
And starting up as they drew near.
With broad lagoons at either cape:
But in the middle just a thread
Of water filmed its muddy bed:
And here the angle of a fence
Gave a slight line of cover, whence
An ambushed gun might be close to
The mobs of ducks and swans which flew
In terror towards the top lagoon
When started from the lower one.
And here Will posted Phil and Hall
151
Although he thought that visitors
Were likely to prefer the course
Which he himself proposed to take
Of stalking first the lower lake
And then the upper, where they could
See all the wildfowl-brotherhood
Wading or floating on the mere
And starting up as they drew near.
Will had arranged that Kit should go
With Phil and Hall knowing that so
She would have better sport, which she
Loved fully as devotedly
As any gaitered gentleman
Upon the Twelfth of August can.
But she refused to, from a fear
That Phil might prove sole cavalier.
With Phil and Hall knowing that so
She would have better sport, which she
Loved fully as devotedly
As any gaitered gentleman
Upon the Twelfth of August can.
But she refused to, from a fear
That Phil might prove sole cavalier.
The party, who were left to stalk,
After a minute's stealthy walk
Over the low ridge of a hill,
Burst on a spectacle to fill
The least enthusiastic mind
With rapture. The whole dam was lined
With teal and divers, geese and swans
And avocets and pelicans,
With ducks of half the species known
To colonists, ‘musk’ ‘black’ and ‘brown,’
Wood-ducks and mountain-ducks galore,
Blue-wings and full a dozen more,
With gulls and plovers on the shore
And snippets at the water-edge,
And bitterns rising from the sedge.
As soon as they had topped the crest
A swan, the sentry for the rest,
Gave the alarm with one long note,
Which still was ringing in his throat,
When swish in one immense efflux
Arose innumerable ducks
Leaving just stray ones here and there
For the gun-barrels brought to bear
With instant swiftness on the spot,
Where they had swam, with hail of shot.
Kit bagged a brace of black-duck, Will
Who hardly ever failed to kill
A leash, and the Professor, who
Missed with his first, with number two
Brought down a swan so far that it
Seemed quite impossible to Kit,
While Chesterfield had the good-luck
To find a diplomatic duck,
Who'd rather take its chance and stay
Among the reeds than fly away.
But Phil and Hall, as Will had said,
After a minute's stealthy walk
Over the low ridge of a hill,
Burst on a spectacle to fill
The least enthusiastic mind
With rapture. The whole dam was lined
With teal and divers, geese and swans
And avocets and pelicans,
With ducks of half the species known
To colonists, ‘musk’ ‘black’ and ‘brown,’
Wood-ducks and mountain-ducks galore,
Blue-wings and full a dozen more,
With gulls and plovers on the shore
And snippets at the water-edge,
152
As soon as they had topped the crest
A swan, the sentry for the rest,
Gave the alarm with one long note,
Which still was ringing in his throat,
When swish in one immense efflux
Arose innumerable ducks
Leaving just stray ones here and there
For the gun-barrels brought to bear
With instant swiftness on the spot,
Where they had swam, with hail of shot.
Kit bagged a brace of black-duck, Will
Who hardly ever failed to kill
A leash, and the Professor, who
Missed with his first, with number two
Brought down a swan so far that it
Seemed quite impossible to Kit,
While Chesterfield had the good-luck
To find a diplomatic duck,
Who'd rather take its chance and stay
Among the reeds than fly away.
Enjoyed best sport, for overhead,
Soon as the stalkers came in sight
Of one lagoon, arose a flight,
As thick as locusts, of huge flocks
Of swans and geese and teal and ducks,
One after other, steering for
The far lagoon's remotest shore,
Scarce noticing the ambush laid
Beneath the fence's treacherous shade.
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Of the migrating ‘mobs’ had passed,
Some dozen dying birds and dead
Lay on the ground or with sunk head
Floated upon the shallow pool
Which linked the two lagoons—so cool
And calculating was the aim
With which they timed the passing game.
The stalkers, ‘sneaking’ round to try
The far lake, found the ducks more shy
And only shot a brace or two
Of plover, while but few ‘mobs’ flew
Over the ambush and those few
So high as to be out of range.
Then Will suggested as a change
(Because the ducks would be too wild
To be again that day beguiled,
And more were lying dead than could
Be eaten while their flesh kept good)
That they should drive across and kill
The rabbits swarming on the hill.
But Lil and the Professor found
Following plover round and round
(She on her horse and he on foot
In case he had a chance to shoot)
More to their taste; nor did he find
That he lost sport to stay behind,
For several plover and a crane
Soon fell, and once Lil drew her rein
And pointed to a patch of grey
Down by the water far away,
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And put in ‘eights’ instead of ‘threes,’
And steal up to the snippet cloud
And fire both barrels and reload,
In case a bittern should be scared
Out of the reeds. He thus prepared,
Two dozen ‘pipers’ bleeding lay
Upon the sand, an easy prey,
And, loading fast and aiming well,
A huge, soft, mottled bittern fell
Which rose up from the sedge as soon
As the shot rang o'er the lagoon.
He tried to stalk a pelican
But ever since the sentry swan
Had uttered his first warning note,
They had not ventured within shot
Or even sight. And half the while
He hung upon Lil's radiant smile
And fresh voice so attentively
That many a wary duck flew by
Unnoticed until out of reach,
While he was making some sweet speech.
Will, as he drove away, had cried
That if they piled the game beside
The fence 'neath which the ambush lay
He would drive back again that way
And bring it home—of course in jest,
Not dreaming that the sporting zest
Of the Professor would suffice
Even one minute to entice
His eyes from Lil's, when they were once
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And giving it no second thought,
Though it was piled up to brought,
For Lil had seen enough to tell
How untrained horses hate the smell
Of wild game, but did not perceive
That Will was laughing in his sleeve.
However, after dinner, she
Turned the laugh on him gulelessly
By asking where the bittern was,
Which he'd brought home for them, because
They wished to have it skinned. “Bittern?”
He said not knowing where to turn
“What bittern?” “Didn't you come back
As you said, by the morning's track
To pick the game up?” “Game up? No,
You never thought I would, did you?”
“Of course we did. We hung it up,
Just where you told us, on the top
Of the two fences, where they meet,
Where Phil and Albert had their seat.”
“You see what comes of chaffing, Will,”
Observed his mother, asking Lil
What they had left, and when she heard
Their bag, remarked that she preferred
Snippets on toast to any bird
They'd shot in the whole morning's sport.
Whether it was that Mrs Forte
Was so inordinately fond
Of snippets nicely trussed and browned
Or wished mild censure to convey
156
At any rate she was not wont
Her likes and dislikes to recount
At other times so forcibly.
He only smiled, but by and by
Went out and caught a horse, and drove
The buggy to their treasure-trove,
Which, just as they were off to bed,
He brought back with diminished head
Minus the bittern, which a ‘cat’
Had nibbled or a crow pecked at
Till it could scarce be recognised
For what poor Lil had so much prized.
The tale was over long ere this,
And Lil had had—well say one kiss
In the large drawing-room, which all
Abandoned to their beck and call.
Lil was in raptures, she had not
Deemed that her lover spoke or wrote
So manfully as he had told
The story of the stormed stronghold.
She saw that like the Ithacan
Whenever in his story ran
Mention of “battles or of ships
The whole man changed” and from his lips
Poured such a stream of burning words
That he who heard beheld the swords
Dinted and red with their fierce play
And white sails bending o'er the bay.
The three poor soldiers of West Kent,
Men of the Fiftieth Regiment,
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Awaiting but the staff commands
To enter the Urumea,
The struggle in the riverway,
With ebbing tide and weedy rock,
And then the first tremendous shock
When they had gained the hostile banks
And down on their devoted ranks,
With not a stick of shelter nigh,
Poured the fierce hail of musketry
And canister and hand grenades,
And when, above the palisades,
They saw the glowing fire barrels
And gleaming piles of mortarshells
Upon the ramparts of the town,
And then the order to lie down
While the Trafalgar sixty-eights
Breached traverses and parapets,
And then that awful pause between
With its exploding magazine,
And then the ghastly, sickening glee
Which the survivor of the three
Showed in the storming, when he ran
His bayonet right through the man
Who'd killed his mate; and then the hell
Which on the conquered city fell.
Lil as he had his tale outpoured,
Pictured him with a waving sword
Urging his men into the breach
With manful deeds and manful speech,
And thought that he who thus could write
158
And yielded to his warm caress
With the old pleasing consciousness
Of helplessness when at his side
Deliciously intensified;
There had been nine that night in all,
To hear the story; Phil and Hall
Were playing billiards; Lachlan Smith
Was marking, little pleased therewith,
And Will had driven off to find
The game which he had left behind.
The barrister, who liked to hear
The stories, had stayed out to cheer
Maud Morrison, who need expect
Little from Phil except neglect.
But so Maud thought and chose to stay
Rather than throw herself away,
As she esteemed it, upon him
If she should fail to win Phil's whim.
Chesterfield had been chosen king.
The subject of the evening
Chosen by him was history,
A battlepiece of days gone by.
Accordingly the Oxford man
In a few minutes' time began
A lay of San Sebastian,
First telling them that he designed
The pieces that were shorter-lined
As speeches of the Rank and File,
And that the longer lines meanwhile
Were narrative to tell the tale
Where speeches only needs must fail.
159
SAN SEBASTIAN, JULY 31st, 1813.
A LAY OF THE RANK AND FILE.
The three Common Soldiers.We be poor men, that stand
Awaiting the command
To march with bated breath
To glory or to death;
Nor know we well wherefore
Our rulers went to war,
Save that the name of French
Has an unwholesome stench
To the true British nose.
We can well see our foes
And all that they have done
Against our coming on.
That morning, ere the clock struck half-past ten,
Down in the British trenches all the men
Were under arms, waiting the bugle call
To sound the storming-party to the wall.
And as the tide was going down they viewed
What well might daunt the sternest hardihood,
The curtain high of solid masonry,
With bastion and hornwork and glacis,
The rampart fronting the Urumea
And sweeping with its guns the riverway,
And the retrenchments the besieged had made
With gabion, fascine, and palisade
Against surprise, or storm, or escalade.
Long-sighted men could see the bayonets
Glance in the sun behind the parapets,
And cannon with their muzzles trained to bear
Upon the breach, and piled shells, and the glare
Of fire barrels along its summit ranged.
'Twere superhuman had no colour changed
E'en in the most undaunted of them all,
And had no brave men's knees begun to fall
One on the other as they waited there.
Anxiety unmans as much as fear.
And these men had to loiter till the tide
Of the Urumea should so subside
That they might pass and press to the assault,
And ev'ry moment of this enforced halt
Saw the alert, resolute garrison
Piling up gabion on gabion,
All full of earth, and fascine on fascine,
And mounting fresh guns on the ravelin.
Time never seemed so sluggishly to move
To lover waiting for his lady love
As to these poor men, till they heard the “sound
For the advance” upon the bugle wound,
Although they knew not whether it was death
Or medalled breasts for them, and laurel wreath
For the commander that the call declared.
'Twas half-past ten when they drew up, prepared
To pass the river when the tide was low,
Some half hour later; mercilessly slow
The minutes crawled, and as each one dragged by,
Watches by scores, pulled out impatiently,
Bore witness to the torture of suspense,
As did sweat drops incessant and immense
Upon the foreheads: Some men laughed aloud
Like madmen: Others, many years too proud
To bend before their Maker, strove to pray
In infantile and incoherent way,
Not unlike one who makes his first essay
Upon the ice. The very elements
Seeming to probe and augur the events
That threatened, threatened too in sympathy.
Dense thunder clouds wreathed and rolled in the sky
Like cannon smoke, and now and then a flash
Of lightning came before the general crash,
Like the chance shot that, fired by some vedette,
Brings on the action; and large drops of wet
Fell as a spent shot on the rear guard falls,
Fired at an outpost. Even animals
Sniffed something in the air: the horses' ears
Pricked and their nostrils quivered, and the steers
Reiv'd by foraging-parties from the pass
Ceased their contented munching of the grass.
At last the bugle blew,
And loud the clamour grew,
As the head columns plunged into the stream,
And French and English saw their “barrels” gleam.
They'd still well nigh a furlong more to go
Before they reached the outworks of the foe,
Part over rocks on which men scarce could stand
For slimy seaweed; part o'er open sand,
Without a rise or scrub or pile of stones
To shield the storming-party from the guns,
Trained upon them from ev'ry embrasure
By gunners skilful and themselves secure.
One of the three Soldiers.
Down in the British trenches all the men
Were under arms, waiting the bugle call
To sound the storming-party to the wall.
And as the tide was going down they viewed
What well might daunt the sternest hardihood,
The curtain high of solid masonry,
With bastion and hornwork and glacis,
The rampart fronting the Urumea
And sweeping with its guns the riverway,
160
With gabion, fascine, and palisade
Against surprise, or storm, or escalade.
Long-sighted men could see the bayonets
Glance in the sun behind the parapets,
And cannon with their muzzles trained to bear
Upon the breach, and piled shells, and the glare
Of fire barrels along its summit ranged.
'Twere superhuman had no colour changed
E'en in the most undaunted of them all,
And had no brave men's knees begun to fall
One on the other as they waited there.
Anxiety unmans as much as fear.
And these men had to loiter till the tide
Of the Urumea should so subside
That they might pass and press to the assault,
And ev'ry moment of this enforced halt
Saw the alert, resolute garrison
Piling up gabion on gabion,
All full of earth, and fascine on fascine,
And mounting fresh guns on the ravelin.
Time never seemed so sluggishly to move
To lover waiting for his lady love
As to these poor men, till they heard the “sound
For the advance” upon the bugle wound,
Although they knew not whether it was death
Or medalled breasts for them, and laurel wreath
For the commander that the call declared.
161
To pass the river when the tide was low,
Some half hour later; mercilessly slow
The minutes crawled, and as each one dragged by,
Watches by scores, pulled out impatiently,
Bore witness to the torture of suspense,
As did sweat drops incessant and immense
Upon the foreheads: Some men laughed aloud
Like madmen: Others, many years too proud
To bend before their Maker, strove to pray
In infantile and incoherent way,
Not unlike one who makes his first essay
Upon the ice. The very elements
Seeming to probe and augur the events
That threatened, threatened too in sympathy.
Dense thunder clouds wreathed and rolled in the sky
Like cannon smoke, and now and then a flash
Of lightning came before the general crash,
Like the chance shot that, fired by some vedette,
Brings on the action; and large drops of wet
Fell as a spent shot on the rear guard falls,
Fired at an outpost. Even animals
Sniffed something in the air: the horses' ears
Pricked and their nostrils quivered, and the steers
Reiv'd by foraging-parties from the pass
Ceased their contented munching of the grass.
At last the bugle blew,
And loud the clamour grew,
162
And French and English saw their “barrels” gleam.
They'd still well nigh a furlong more to go
Before they reached the outworks of the foe,
Part over rocks on which men scarce could stand
For slimy seaweed; part o'er open sand,
Without a rise or scrub or pile of stones
To shield the storming-party from the guns,
Trained upon them from ev'ry embrasure
By gunners skilful and themselves secure.
Glad are we that at last
That standing still is past,
Counting the piles of shells
And guns and fire barrels.
“Waiting's like lead” say I;
I think I'd rather die
Than stand an hour more
In rank upon that shore,
Feeling my courage ebb
As I made out the web
They weave for us up there,
Like spiders in their lair;
Though the stream is too deep
And it's so hard to keep
One's footing to the bank.
Three file slipped and sank
Upon our right just now;
But the tide's getting low.
How these jagged rocks do cut
Whene'er one slips one's foot,
If one has a bad shoe;
My right sole came in two
As we marched down the glen
Back from Soraoren.
Ah! now it's sand we're on,
I'm glad those rocks are done,
They were so slippery
With green seaweed, that we
Could scarcely stand upright,
Let alone march or fight.
I wonder why the deuce
They do not fire on us;
We must be quite half way
And all this time have they
Not fired a single shot.
It cannot be—they've not
Retreated silently?
That standing still is past,
Counting the piles of shells
And guns and fire barrels.
“Waiting's like lead” say I;
I think I'd rather die
Than stand an hour more
In rank upon that shore,
Feeling my courage ebb
As I made out the web
They weave for us up there,
Like spiders in their lair;
Though the stream is too deep
And it's so hard to keep
One's footing to the bank.
Three file slipped and sank
Upon our right just now;
163
How these jagged rocks do cut
Whene'er one slips one's foot,
If one has a bad shoe;
My right sole came in two
As we marched down the glen
Back from Soraoren.
Ah! now it's sand we're on,
I'm glad those rocks are done,
They were so slippery
With green seaweed, that we
Could scarcely stand upright,
Let alone march or fight.
I wonder why the deuce
They do not fire on us;
We must be quite half way
And all this time have they
Not fired a single shot.
It cannot be—they've not
Retreated silently?
By God, they have not. See!
Full half our men are lower
Beneath that with'ring shower
Of canister and grape.
Will none of us escape?
Oh comrades, this is hell!
Did you see that bombshell
Blow half a company
Into eternity?
This hail of musketry
Will kill each mother's son.
Unless we can press on
And make our escalades.
Why they've fixed up swordblades
Just where we should alight,
Jumping down from this height;
And we cannot stop here,
Picked off by grenadier
And marksman as we stand.
It's no good to command
Fresh men to our support,
While this infernal fort
Remains impregnable;
They're just so much fuel
For gunpowder and shot.
The engineers should not
Have pronounced the breach good;
They never understood
How strong these ramparts be.
I do not think that we
Can leave this place alive,
However much we strive,
That curtain is so high;
But if we have to die,
We'll let the foe know why,
Although we have to go
Over the blades below
Up the face of that wall.
We know we can but fall,
Whether we stand or strike,
And I, for one, should like
To have the company
Of a foe when I die.
Come, messmates, don't despair,
We have yet time to dare;
We are the forlorn-hope
And never should give up,
While life and legs are left;
That was a big hole reft
In our ranks by that shell;
'Twas close to me it fell,
And killed my right hand man,
Poor Ben Ridge; he began
Life with a better start:
'Twill break old Ridge's heart,
Farmer Ridge of the mill.
He's looking for him still
At Yalding bridge, I'll bet,
Hoping to see him yet
Come back safe home again.
He's sisters, too, poor Ben,
Crying because he's roaming,
And watching for his coming.
Well, he has ceased to roam
And gone to his long home.
It will be my turn next,
And nobody'll be vexed.
No one at Paddockwood
Thought I should come to good.
I don't mind the shot now,
I shall soon be laid low,
And the sooner to rest.
I never made a quest
Of what will follow after
Pain, lying still, or laughter.
Hullo! there goes poor Shann,
He was my left-hand man,
And yet they don't take me,
The worst man of the three.
Well, he died best of all.
He was right on the wall
When he was bayoneted;
I'll swear he wasn't dead
When the brute tossed him down
Upon the sword blades prone;
And he'd a fair young wife,
The star of my dark life,
Pretty Marion Gill,
The pride of Hunton Hill—
Aye, and two little ones,
To mourn his far-off bones,
Bleached by Biscayan suns.
Well! this Hell cannot last
Long: it must soon be past,
And we shall not know how.
Full half our men are lower
Beneath that with'ring shower
Of canister and grape.
Will none of us escape?
Oh comrades, this is hell!
Did you see that bombshell
164
Into eternity?
This hail of musketry
Will kill each mother's son.
Unless we can press on
And make our escalades.
Why they've fixed up swordblades
Just where we should alight,
Jumping down from this height;
And we cannot stop here,
Picked off by grenadier
And marksman as we stand.
It's no good to command
Fresh men to our support,
While this infernal fort
Remains impregnable;
They're just so much fuel
For gunpowder and shot.
The engineers should not
Have pronounced the breach good;
They never understood
How strong these ramparts be.
I do not think that we
Can leave this place alive,
However much we strive,
That curtain is so high;
But if we have to die,
We'll let the foe know why,
165
Over the blades below
Up the face of that wall.
We know we can but fall,
Whether we stand or strike,
And I, for one, should like
To have the company
Of a foe when I die.
Come, messmates, don't despair,
We have yet time to dare;
We are the forlorn-hope
And never should give up,
While life and legs are left;
That was a big hole reft
In our ranks by that shell;
'Twas close to me it fell,
And killed my right hand man,
Poor Ben Ridge; he began
Life with a better start:
'Twill break old Ridge's heart,
Farmer Ridge of the mill.
He's looking for him still
At Yalding bridge, I'll bet,
Hoping to see him yet
Come back safe home again.
He's sisters, too, poor Ben,
Crying because he's roaming,
And watching for his coming.
166
And gone to his long home.
It will be my turn next,
And nobody'll be vexed.
No one at Paddockwood
Thought I should come to good.
I don't mind the shot now,
I shall soon be laid low,
And the sooner to rest.
I never made a quest
Of what will follow after
Pain, lying still, or laughter.
Hullo! there goes poor Shann,
He was my left-hand man,
And yet they don't take me,
The worst man of the three.
Well, he died best of all.
He was right on the wall
When he was bayoneted;
I'll swear he wasn't dead
When the brute tossed him down
Upon the sword blades prone;
And he'd a fair young wife,
The star of my dark life,
Pretty Marion Gill,
The pride of Hunton Hill—
Aye, and two little ones,
To mourn his far-off bones,
167
Well! this Hell cannot last
Long: it must soon be past,
And we shall not know how.
What did that bugle blow?
“Cease Firing.” “Halt.” “Lie down.”
The end will now be known.
No, mates, be daunted not,
All is not over yet;
Did you see that roundshot
Shiver the parapet?
That was a Sixty-eight,
I know it by the jar;
And those men will fire straight—
They fought at Trafalgar,
And shot down hundreds four,
And silenced ev'ry gun
On the great Bucentaure,
As they passed broadside on.
“Cease Firing.” “Halt.” “Lie down.”
The end will now be known.
No, mates, be daunted not,
All is not over yet;
Did you see that roundshot
Shiver the parapet?
That was a Sixty-eight,
I know it by the jar;
And those men will fire straight—
They fought at Trafalgar,
And shot down hundreds four,
And silenced ev'ry gun
On the great Bucentaure,
As they passed broadside on.
The men were falling at the greater breach
As fast as waves in winter on the beach;
And at the lesser breach the Portuguese
Fell thickly, as the suffocated bees
Before the deadly and sulphureous blast;
And succours added corpses, till at last
Remained nought but to signal—“Halt,” “Lie down,”
And, when the forlorn hope was lying prone,
Over their heads to open fire once more,
At once from Chofre's bristling lines the roar
Of half a hundred great siege pieces burst,
And beat the ramparts down till no foe durst
Stay on the traverses that did command
Th' assaulted parapet on either hand.
And after no long time a mortar-shell,
Fired with uplifted muzzle, downward fell
Into the magazine of hand-grenades,
Fire-barrels, and bombshells, and such like aids
Wherewith the garrison had thought to hold
Their last retrenchments if the battle rolled
Over the breaches to the citadel.
And all of these, the moment the bomb fell,
Leapt up into the air in one bright flash,
And with it smoke, and after it a crash—
Just such a crash as when the Orient
High into air that August night was sent
When Nelson rode triumphant at the Nile;
And now, as then, for full a minute's while
With friend or enemy no cannon raged,
But when the smoke and dust were part assuaged,
With the appalling and unearthly cry
The British ever raise when battle's high,
The stormers leapt upon the first traverse.
Yet even then the gallant tirailleurs
Rallied, and on the top of the glacis
The tide of conflict flowed as doubtfully
As at the time when ebb and flood converge
And neither gives nor gains, and the waves surge.
Yet not for long—out-numbered and assailed
With that mad stubbornness that has prevailed
Against incredible odds in every clime,
The French shrunk backward, and in no long time
Over the lesser breach upon their flanks
Fell the fierce Portuguese, and broke their ranks.
The Soldier.
As fast as waves in winter on the beach;
And at the lesser breach the Portuguese
Fell thickly, as the suffocated bees
Before the deadly and sulphureous blast;
And succours added corpses, till at last
Remained nought but to signal—“Halt,” “Lie down,”
168
Over their heads to open fire once more,
At once from Chofre's bristling lines the roar
Of half a hundred great siege pieces burst,
And beat the ramparts down till no foe durst
Stay on the traverses that did command
Th' assaulted parapet on either hand.
And after no long time a mortar-shell,
Fired with uplifted muzzle, downward fell
Into the magazine of hand-grenades,
Fire-barrels, and bombshells, and such like aids
Wherewith the garrison had thought to hold
Their last retrenchments if the battle rolled
Over the breaches to the citadel.
And all of these, the moment the bomb fell,
Leapt up into the air in one bright flash,
And with it smoke, and after it a crash—
Just such a crash as when the Orient
High into air that August night was sent
When Nelson rode triumphant at the Nile;
And now, as then, for full a minute's while
With friend or enemy no cannon raged,
But when the smoke and dust were part assuaged,
With the appalling and unearthly cry
The British ever raise when battle's high,
The stormers leapt upon the first traverse.
Yet even then the gallant tirailleurs
Rallied, and on the top of the glacis
169
As at the time when ebb and flood converge
And neither gives nor gains, and the waves surge.
Yet not for long—out-numbered and assailed
With that mad stubbornness that has prevailed
Against incredible odds in every clime,
The French shrunk backward, and in no long time
Over the lesser breach upon their flanks
Fell the fierce Portuguese, and broke their ranks.
I thought that Sixty-eight
Would let them feel its weight;
See how the parapet
Is battered down by it.
It can't be many hours
Before the place is ours,
From keep to waterline.
Would let them feel its weight;
See how the parapet
Is battered down by it.
It can't be many hours
Before the place is ours,
From keep to waterline.
My God! they've sprung a mine
I'm not afraid to die
But now—I don't know why—
It seems so hard to go
The moment that the foe
Is likely to give in.
I don't know what is sin,
And don't know how to pray,
And, if I knew the way,
Don't know what good 'twould be.
It seems an age to me
Before we are blown up.
O God that there were hope!
I'm not afraid to die
But now—I don't know why—
It seems so hard to go
The moment that the foe
Is likely to give in.
I don't know what is sin,
And don't know how to pray,
And, if I knew the way,
Don't know what good 'twould be.
170
Before we are blown up.
O God that there were hope!
No! I've escaped this brew,
What was't the bugle blew?
“Advance.” “Double.” “Charge!” now
We'll pay them blow for blow.
That was a rare old thrust
That made him bite the dust.
I heard the bayonet squish
As it ripped through the flesh,
And felt my barrel prest
Right up against his chest:
That pays for poor young Ridge
Who lived by Yalding bridge.
This thirsty bayonet
Has Shann to pay for yet,
And pretty Marion—
Aye, and each little one.
How thick the Frenchmen fall!
Our blood's up, one and all,
With standing neath that wall
And being killed like sheep,
While they stood on the steep,
As safe as men in mail,
Just waiting to impale
Us as we strove to scale.
'Twas my turn to assault
When the call sounded “Halt,”
Or I should not be here.
Why here's the grenadier
That threw Shann's body down;
I know him by the frown
Made by a sabre scar
Received in some old war.
Perhaps he's not quite dead,
He'd best be bayoneted;
Take that, and that! I'll swear
His eyes woke to a stare
When first I ran him through:
That's more than he will do
When he's run through again.
What is that? Have the foe
Surrendered to our men?
Then, comrades, to sack ho!
What was't the bugle blew?
“Advance.” “Double.” “Charge!” now
We'll pay them blow for blow.
That was a rare old thrust
That made him bite the dust.
I heard the bayonet squish
As it ripped through the flesh,
And felt my barrel prest
Right up against his chest:
That pays for poor young Ridge
Who lived by Yalding bridge.
This thirsty bayonet
Has Shann to pay for yet,
And pretty Marion—
Aye, and each little one.
How thick the Frenchmen fall!
Our blood's up, one and all,
With standing neath that wall
And being killed like sheep,
While they stood on the steep,
As safe as men in mail,
Just waiting to impale
Us as we strove to scale.
171
When the call sounded “Halt,”
Or I should not be here.
Why here's the grenadier
That threw Shann's body down;
I know him by the frown
Made by a sabre scar
Received in some old war.
Perhaps he's not quite dead,
He'd best be bayoneted;
Take that, and that! I'll swear
His eyes woke to a stare
When first I ran him through:
That's more than he will do
When he's run through again.
What is that? Have the foe
Surrendered to our men?
Then, comrades, to sack ho!
O, surely ne'er shall phantasy recite,
A tragedy to emulate that night;
Mid houses sacked and flaming to the sky,
Arose unintermittently the cry
Of wives and tender maidens suffering
The wrong of wrongs that poets blush to sing.
Age shielded not, nor rank, nor unripe youth
From lust of the outragers; nor did ruth
Hinder from treading on a father's corse,
Or bayoneting a husband's breast, to force
The womanhood he strove from lust to shield.
And to and fro the brutal soldiers reeled
From drink to rape, and rape to drink again,
Like fiends let loose from Hell, rather than men,
As, mad with liquor and befouled with blood,
They hurled with frantic glee into the mud
Pictures and plate, and antique jewellery,
And rich apparel, and rare tapestry,
As they had been so many packs of wool,
And drank raw spirits by the bonnet-full
As they got up the kegs, and stove them in
With hideous triumph and more hideous din,
And mingled the fierce fluid with the gore
Of all who said them nay, or stood before
The drunkard or seducer at his work.
While with wan glare the frequent lightning-fork
Put the tall flames in shade and made the scene
Look trebly devilish, and, in between,
The thunder crashes drowned the voice of crime.
In gentler times, it well might look sublime
To see the flashes point the Pyrenees
And multiply reflections on the seas;
But now it seemed as if the Powers of air
Thundered in sympathy, and came to share
In the new Hell. In vain the officers,
In spite of mutinous and gnashing curse,
Strove to rein in the men, and form again
Into some order, and as much in vain
Spoke of the Castle, yet intact, where lay
With fresh battalions the undaunted Rey,
Waiting, perchance, to fall upon the foe,
And retribution wring for that day's woe.
The men, unmoved, murdered and pillaged on
And outraged, amid moan, and moan, and moan.
The Soldier.
A tragedy to emulate that night;
Mid houses sacked and flaming to the sky,
Arose unintermittently the cry
Of wives and tender maidens suffering
The wrong of wrongs that poets blush to sing.
Age shielded not, nor rank, nor unripe youth
From lust of the outragers; nor did ruth
Hinder from treading on a father's corse,
172
The womanhood he strove from lust to shield.
And to and fro the brutal soldiers reeled
From drink to rape, and rape to drink again,
Like fiends let loose from Hell, rather than men,
As, mad with liquor and befouled with blood,
They hurled with frantic glee into the mud
Pictures and plate, and antique jewellery,
And rich apparel, and rare tapestry,
As they had been so many packs of wool,
And drank raw spirits by the bonnet-full
As they got up the kegs, and stove them in
With hideous triumph and more hideous din,
And mingled the fierce fluid with the gore
Of all who said them nay, or stood before
The drunkard or seducer at his work.
While with wan glare the frequent lightning-fork
Put the tall flames in shade and made the scene
Look trebly devilish, and, in between,
The thunder crashes drowned the voice of crime.
In gentler times, it well might look sublime
To see the flashes point the Pyrenees
And multiply reflections on the seas;
But now it seemed as if the Powers of air
Thundered in sympathy, and came to share
In the new Hell. In vain the officers,
In spite of mutinous and gnashing curse,
Strove to rein in the men, and form again
173
Spoke of the Castle, yet intact, where lay
With fresh battalions the undaunted Rey,
Waiting, perchance, to fall upon the foe,
And retribution wring for that day's woe.
The men, unmoved, murdered and pillaged on
And outraged, amid moan, and moan, and moan.
You, sir, pray where were you,
You with your epaulettes,
When from the parapets
The grape rained down and slew
Us poor chaps by the score?
I daresay with the staff
Upon the further shore,
Having a sneering laugh
At some unfeeling jest,
While we poor devils, prest
Upon the open sand,
Went down hand over hand.
You with your epaulettes,
When from the parapets
The grape rained down and slew
Us poor chaps by the score?
I daresay with the staff
Upon the further shore,
Having a sneering laugh
At some unfeeling jest,
While we poor devils, prest
Upon the open sand,
Went down hand over hand.
You call us savages—
So'd you be an' you please,
If you'd been penned all day
And shot and shot away
Without striking a blow,
And seen a bloody foe
Toss on the pikes below
The bodies of your friends
Before they met their ends.
Don't talk to me of wives!
Did they think of Shann's wife
When they tossed down poor Shann
On the pikes, a live man?
Don't talk to me of lives,
Tell me! wasn't Shann's life
Worth any enemy's?
Will she have dryer eyes
Than a Frenchwoman would?
What'ud her womanhood
Have been worth if they'd won,
And then had fallen on
Her in a conquered town?
Because her eyes are brown
Would they have let her go?
Would a bosom of snow
Have hindered them, forsooth,
From soiling her fair youth?
Man, man, we are but men,
Though we wear a red coat
And march into a moat
Twenty feet deep and drown,
If we are ordered down
In battle's hour. But when
The battle's o'er and won,
A chap must have his run;
And harkee, sir, I will.
Pull out your sword and kill
Me, an' you like, who stood
Against the French all day;
I can't fight, an' I would.
I threw my piece away,
And can no weapon get
Except a bayonet.
“Drink” did you say? Why not?
I haven't had a pot
Of drink this long month's space.
“Drunk!” you know by my face!
Well, and if I were worse,
I shouldn't care a curse.
I've done my work to-day,
And mean to have my play.
“Murder!” Didn't they kill
Poor Ridge, of Yalding Mill
With a bursting bombshell,
While we were in that hell
Under their parapet,
Before the Sixty-eight
Smashed up the traverses?
Are their lives more than his?
I ran through my first man
For throwing down poor Shann;
The next for young Ben Ridge,
And the next for old Ben
That lives by Yalding bridge,
One for each sister, and then
Two for Shann's bonny wife,
And took a Frenchman's life
For either little one.
I didn't stop to count
How many more went down
When first we stormed the town.
Lord! how the blood does mount
When one gets a fair rush
And a bayonet push
After standing for hours
Riddled with steady showers
Of grape and canister.
No offence to you, sir,
But men will be men here:
And not to interfere
Is all that you can do,
And no disgrace to you,
Nothing will cure to-night
But the chill of daylight.
So'd you be an' you please,
If you'd been penned all day
And shot and shot away
Without striking a blow,
And seen a bloody foe
Toss on the pikes below
The bodies of your friends
174
Don't talk to me of wives!
Did they think of Shann's wife
When they tossed down poor Shann
On the pikes, a live man?
Don't talk to me of lives,
Tell me! wasn't Shann's life
Worth any enemy's?
Will she have dryer eyes
Than a Frenchwoman would?
What'ud her womanhood
Have been worth if they'd won,
And then had fallen on
Her in a conquered town?
Because her eyes are brown
Would they have let her go?
Would a bosom of snow
Have hindered them, forsooth,
From soiling her fair youth?
Man, man, we are but men,
Though we wear a red coat
And march into a moat
Twenty feet deep and drown,
If we are ordered down
In battle's hour. But when
The battle's o'er and won,
A chap must have his run;
And harkee, sir, I will.
175
Me, an' you like, who stood
Against the French all day;
I can't fight, an' I would.
I threw my piece away,
And can no weapon get
Except a bayonet.
“Drink” did you say? Why not?
I haven't had a pot
Of drink this long month's space.
“Drunk!” you know by my face!
Well, and if I were worse,
I shouldn't care a curse.
I've done my work to-day,
And mean to have my play.
“Murder!” Didn't they kill
Poor Ridge, of Yalding Mill
With a bursting bombshell,
While we were in that hell
Under their parapet,
Before the Sixty-eight
Smashed up the traverses?
Are their lives more than his?
I ran through my first man
For throwing down poor Shann;
The next for young Ben Ridge,
And the next for old Ben
That lives by Yalding bridge,
176
Two for Shann's bonny wife,
And took a Frenchman's life
For either little one.
I didn't stop to count
How many more went down
When first we stormed the town.
Lord! how the blood does mount
When one gets a fair rush
And a bayonet push
After standing for hours
Riddled with steady showers
Of grape and canister.
No offence to you, sir,
But men will be men here:
And not to interfere
Is all that you can do,
And no disgrace to you,
Nothing will cure to-night
But the chill of daylight.
Will asked the two betrothed to stay
After the rest had gone away,
Wishing to make apologies
About the bittern's obsequies,
And after these were laughed off, all
Lingered awhile about the hall.
It seemed so odd to Will to think
That Lil, who yet was on the brink
Of girlhood and of womanhood,
Was soon to leave their home for good.
To him she still was just a child
As bright, ingenuous and wild,
And he was curious to see
Her with her lover quietly
To form his own conjectures of
Their future happiness and love.
After the rest had gone away,
Wishing to make apologies
About the bittern's obsequies,
And after these were laughed off, all
Lingered awhile about the hall.
It seemed so odd to Will to think
177
Of girlhood and of womanhood,
Was soon to leave their home for good.
To him she still was just a child
As bright, ingenuous and wild,
And he was curious to see
Her with her lover quietly
To form his own conjectures of
Their future happiness and love.
Reader, observe the tender touch
Of nature which delights so much.
To Lil it was a luxury
To sit upon her lover's knee
Before her brother openly.
It showed her that the love she prized
Was regular and recognised.
She knew that if it did look bold
No human being would be told,
As far as Will's tongue was concerned,
And her soft heart within her burned
To symbolise in outward ways
The love which so fulfilled her days.
Of nature which delights so much.
To Lil it was a luxury
To sit upon her lover's knee
Before her brother openly.
It showed her that the love she prized
Was regular and recognised.
She knew that if it did look bold
No human being would be told,
As far as Will's tongue was concerned,
And her soft heart within her burned
To symbolise in outward ways
The love which so fulfilled her days.
| A Summer Christmas and a Sonnet upon The S.S. "Ballaarat." | |