Upon his comrade’s shoulder They lifted him so grand, With his dusty drum before him, And his drumsticks in his hand! To the fiery front of battle, That nearer, nearer drew,-- And evermore he beat, and beat His _rat-tat-too_! The wounded as he passed them Looked up and gave a cheer; And one in dying blessed him, Between a smile and tear. And the graybacks--they are flying Before the coats of blue, For whom the little drummer beats His _rat-tat-too_. When the west was red with sunset, The last pursuit was o’er; Brave Lyon rode the foremost, And looked the name he bore. And before him on his saddle, As a weary child would do, Sat the little drummer, fast asleep, With his _rat-tat-too_. RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. (By special permission of the author.) 21 THE CUMBERLAND At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the _Cumberland_, sloop-of-war; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore. Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port. We are not idle, but send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside! As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, Rebounds our heavier hail From each iron scale Of the monster’s hide. “Strike your flag!” the rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation strain. “Never!” our gallant Morris replies; “It is better to sink than to yield!” And the whole air pealed With the cheers of our men. Then, like a kraken huge and black, She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! Down went the _Cumberland_ all a wrack, With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannon’s breath For her dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast head, Lord, how beautiful was Thy day! Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead. Ho, brave hearts that went down in the seas! Ye are at peace in the troubled stream; Ho, brave land, with hearts like these, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without a seam! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. (By special permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.) 22 JOHNSTON AT SHILOH A CONFEDERATE SOLDIER’S STORY