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VOL. I I.
“-Nobly Done.”
They faltered for a moment there, those
men of iron nerve,
For drawing close around their lives, in
one gigantic curve,
The foe swept like a torrent wild, from
mountain rill set free :
Then quailed, alas ! the bravest heart, then
shook the stoutest knee.
In roar, on flank, from every side, those
waves of battle came,
Encircling stern, devoted hearts with
streams of lurid flame,
Engulphing ’neath its tide of blood the best
and bravest there,
And filling souls that struggled on with
dread and wild despair—
From bright and early dawn of day they’d
nobly held their post,
And oh 1 ’twas hard indeed to feel their
labor had been lost,
Their wounds and blood and bitter pain
had been of no avail:
Must they he trampled down at last like
leaves before the gale ?
Must they succumb to might and wrong,
be conquered in the strife,
Yield all they hold most dear on earth—
their country, honor, life ?
Ah, no! IJ ay’s gallant, dauntless braves
have heard the glad command,
And back they fall with rapid steps to
make another stand :
Their hands are firm as faith itself, their
hearts untouched by fear,
And loudly do they hail the words, “Halt,
boys, we’ll fight them here !”
With burning words they rally fast, loud
cheering as they go,
Defiant form their ba‘tie-line, with faces
to the foe,
And gaze upon the panic ’round, in silence
and in scorn ;
For life to them is little worth if liberty
be gone !
And there they stood, and sternly fought,
as freemen ever fight,
Winning the day so nearly lost, and
oouquering force by right,
• And while loved comrades fall around,
they check affection's moan,
The only funeral rites, the words, “ He
now is glory’s own !”
Or bending o’er a brother dead, conceal
the pallid face,
And mark, for some lon* mother’s sake,
his lowly resting place;
Or crowd around the lifeless forms of men,
like Meager brave,
llesolved the foe who took his life shall
not profane his grave.
No wonder that uur fearless chief rode
up, with kindling eye,
Eager to know “What troops are these”
who thus can dare and die ?
“Hay’s first brigade !” a soldier said,
his pale cheek flushed with pride,
rur memories ut his sunny home rushed
o’er him like a tide;
Hut. see, the Chieftain lifts his hand, and
in low tones, that thrill
i hrough every gallhnt heart that death
iias left unconquered still,
D ith brow uncovered and illumed by
morning’s glorious sun,
tu-pcats, with solemn, earnest voice, “0,
m nobly, nobly done!’’
lhat day saw deeds of noblest fame,
Heard cries of grief and woe,
i o! every arm, uplifted there, laid some
v de tyrant low,
-Y ( i win-ii the sun went slowly down, their
it cord beamed the same,
1 f acy had “nobly done” their part for
freedom and for fame.
is not this just tribute due, sweet
r of orange-flowers,
* every gallant son of thine, in this
~ f ■ * * *au strife of ours ?
; : vdi't can count their noble deeds, or
rj Jc ;l their battles won !
1 l ir record fell from truest lips when
-’.arye s heights, when five brigades
„ ' s:s yeii. and all in vain,
111 Yieek the fearful tide of blood that
Y'Wcd across the plain :
But through it all, thy gallant sons pushed
madly, gladly on,
They stormed the hill, they gained the
crest, and Marye’s heights was won!
And thus, o’er every hill and plain,
those dauntless sons of thine
Have poured their blood, an offering free,
on Freedom’s holy shrine;
They poured it forth with loving joy, nor
asked for other boon,
Than that dear .land so fondly loved,
should rise from bondage soon,
Should rise to love and venerate each
lost and living son,
And cherish with maternal pride, the
praise their valor won.
Oh, yes, Louisiana loved ! thy sons have
set thy name
Adorned with glory’s brightest beam, in
proudest niche of fame;
And those who dic'd to make thee free,
and those who live to bless,
Shall share alike thy grateful love in days
of happiness.
Behold their gravestones scattered wide
among the martyr dead !
O, “ nobly done” shall be inscribed above
each honored head;
Behold them exiled o’er the land, all
pallid, crippled sore!
Ah ! “ nobly done” shall be the halm
poured all their bruises o’er;
For they have won a wreath for thee, as
fadeless as the sun,
And God will yet redeem the land whose
sons have “nobly done!”
8. B. Elder.
Selma , Ala., March, 1865.
* Paraphrase of an incident said to have occurred at
Spottsj'lvania Court House, Ya., 3nay 12th, 1804. “Si
nan e vero e ben trovato .”
These lines appeared originally in a
Confederate newspaper, but are consid
ered worthy of a more extended circula
tion.
[Written for the Banner of thfc South.]
Reaping Dae Whirlwind.
BY MISS ANNIE M. BARNWELL, OF BEAUFORT,
SOUTH CAROLINA.
CHAPTER 111.
“ For liis was not that blind, capricious gaze,
A word can kindle, and a word assuage;
But the deep working of a soul unmixed
With aught of pity, where its wrath had fixed.”
llyron.
“ The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on,
And doves will fight in safe-guard of their brood.”
8 a : .S'>eare.
December 20;h, 1860.
My pen almost refuses to write the
words, which bring up before us such a
long array of hopes and fears, shouts and
wailings, triumphs and defeats. At tiieir
spell our memory calls back again all
the scenes so lately enacted—the days of
toil and privation—the nights of anxiety,
suffering and prayer —the crowded camp
—the weary marches, amid winter’s
snows, and beneath summer’s suns—the
battle’s fierce and deadly tumult—the
hour of victory, in which joy is clouded
by grief for the gallant hearts who died
that it might be our own —the bitter
hours of defeat, from which was born
fresh courage to strive on. And the end
of all this !--
But, I will not write of it. Be calm
my wilful pen, and resume the story of
how Gertrude Austyn reaped the whirl
wind, because that she had sowed the
fierce and fruitful wind.
It was past eleven o’clock on the night
of December 20th, 1860. By a bright
fire, in her chamber, Mrs. Austyn lay
upon a sefa, wrapped in a heavy shawl.
Only Juno was with her, crouched on the
floor, close to the fender. Captain Aus
tyn had not returned to the house since
breakfast; aYid none of her children were
now at home. Theodore had graduated,
with high honor, a-vear before, and on
reaching New York, according to his
promise, his father had sent him at once
to Germany, for a three years’ course of
study at Gottingen. Carrol was at West
Puint, and Harvey at a less famous milr
lay academy; while Wallace was study-
AUGUBTA, GA., OCTOBER 28, 1869.
ing hard at Princeton. Irene had gone
to Albany, on a visit to her father’s pa
rents, who had a large family gathering
in honor of Christmas.
A feverish excitement burned in Ger
trude’s dark eyes, and flushed her pale
thiu cheek, on that cold December night,
There had been a great deal of loud
shouting on the streets, and more than
one volley of groans and curses coupled
with the name of South Carolina, had
reached her ear. Afraid to be alone, she
had kept Juno with her, until her hus
band should return, and their talk had
been of the dear L -me in the South, and
of their children—scarcely more lier’s
than their Maumer’s—-who were scatter
ed so far and wide. The opening of the
street door below, roused them both
from a shott silence, into which they had
fallen, and Juno rose, saying :
“Flat’s him at las', so me gwine. Try
fur git to sleep soon, Miss Gcrty. You
look dis like a washout rag, poe chile.
Good honey.”
“Good night, Juno. I will try and get
to bed soon ”
The faithful servant closed the door
and entered the little closet adjoining,
where .she slept to be within call of her
mistress, who was often ill at night, mut
tering as she went:
“Now Mas Tedo gwine to bodder ’urn
to del, I know. Him is dc berry debbil
when him stat. Cos dem good fur-nutten
Yankee, cus dem cmy one. I wish to
de Lord we bin back to Calina.” -
Poor Gertrude could have heartily
echoed her wish as she raised herself to
meet her husband, and saw the black
cloud which rested ou his brow. He
strode to the lire, and stood with his back
to it, looking down upon his wife, as he
said, fiercely ;
“ 1 suppose you havn’t heard the last
news by telegraph from your beloved
Charleston. Well, that rebellious, up
start iittle spot of ground, called Soulh
Carolina, has set herself up for an inde
pendent country. She seceded to-day.”
Gertrude turned white to her very lips,
as she faltered forth :
“What will be the consequence of this,
Theodore ? Will there be a war ?”
“That depends on the course pursued
by the other Southern States. I believe
Alabama, Mississippi and Florida are
ready to follow their boastful,, pigmy
leader; but there is some doubts as to
whether the rest may not have a few
grains of sense left. Anyhow, it won’t
be much of a war. We will march down
a few troops, kill a thousand or two of
the rebels, hang the leaders, this whole
Convention, as they call it, among the
first, and after such a lesson, we will lot
tlu* beggars get oil their knees, and creep
back into favor again, I suppose. That’s
about the programme these boasting
South Carolina fools have provoked.”
“How can you speak so, Theodore?”
she cried, roused by his taunting words
and sneering laugh into some show of her
old spirit. “You can hardly forget that
you are speaking of my own people and
my native State.”
“Forget it! No, of course, I don’t,
when my having a South Carolina wife
is a daily reproach to me. Your brother
Norman is one of this seditious Conven
tion, by the way. A nice brother-in-law
for me to be cursed with, isn’t he ? What
a match I did make, looking at it from
an unbiassed point of view !”
“What a match we both made,” she
retorted hastily. “My poor father !
Disobeying him has cost me dear.”
“ And me still; dearer. But, that re
minds me of something 1 have to say to
you, Gertrude,” and ids tone lost its
sneer, and grew stern and fierce. “ It.
suits us both that we should not pretend
the love neither of us feel, in any great
degree.; I do not ask for your love, but
1 will have your obedience. 1 see now
that 1 was wrong to leave those boys of
mine so long at the South. The fear of
what has now happene 1, induced me to
return at once, and take them back to
the North. Theodore, the only one old !
enough to defy my authority, 1 have j
fixed safely out of the way; and the rest I
are yet under my absolute control, and i
shall obey me. Mark me! No son old
mine shall be a rebel; and more, if our;
country needs them, they siiaii fight in I
her defense. If there is war, I will raise i
a regiment, and return gladly to my old I
profession; and, if I go South, Carroll,!
Wallace and Harvey go with me. I will
lnr r c it so; and 1 warn you, that it will
not be safe for you or them, to oppose me.
What is the matter ?”
She had raised herself to a sitting nos
turo, when lie commenced to speak, and
as he ceased, she sank back, white and
fainting, on her pillows. He approached
her, and she pointed to the table, gasping
forth :
“Water! Oh, water!”
He gave her the tumbler, and sup
ported her while she drank the icy cold
water eagerly. Leaning against his arm,
she slowly recovered herself, and was,
ere long, able to speak. Her husband
then offered to call Juno, and in a tone
of unwonted kindness, advised her re
tiring at once to rest. But she replied
quickly and nervously :
“Thank you, Theodore; but not quite
yet. I want to speak to you first. Sit
down here beside me, and let me lean
against you. Keep your arm around
me, dear; it is not often i ask such a
favor.”
lie could not refuse her, perhaps lie
scarcely wished it. Taking the place
she made for him, he drew his arm kind
ly around her, and even asked if she was
comfortable.
“ Thank you, quite,” she answered.
Than, after a pause, the mother-love
within her heart strengthened her to
speak “Dear husband,” she said, “1
fear what lam going to say will make
you very angry ; but, please, listen to
me patiently, and let all your anger fall
upon me, not on our boys. I know it is
their duty, and mine, to obey you; and,
in all things right, dear husband, we will,
indeed, indeed we will. But will you
not, iu turn, be merciful? l)o not re
quire of us what we cannot perform, The
Youth is our country ; all the love and
sunshine of our lives came to us in
8 >uth Carolina. \ou well know how
South Carolinians love their State, and,
dear, we arc South Carolinians The
freedom for which they are strug
gling, is her right; and, as such, it is
the duty of all her sons to defend it
The b< ys all intend to make their home
in that State; and by their grandfather's
will, they will all be slaveholders when
they come of age. Do not command
them to fight against their home, their
kiudivd, their dearest principles. They
cannot obey you. Treat them like men,
as they deserve to lie treated, and do not
force them to choose between rebellion
against your authority and the dishonor
of proving recrcauc to all their highest
principles and affections.”
She paused from sheer exhaustion,
her pleading eyes fixed upon his set face'
\\ irli a great effort, she had forced her
self to speak calmly; but tier slight frame
trembled with repres ed emotion. Cap
tain Austyn had listened in silence, his
eves fixed on the fire, and h s face rigid
and stern, as if carved iu marble. When
she paused, he waited several moments
before speaking; and then his words
came with a cold deliberateness, which
sent a chill to her heart.
“Do you mean to a.-k me, then, to send
my own sons to fight for a cause I utter
ly oppose, to uphold principles I abhor,
and to stain their hands, perhaps, in my
life-blood, on the first battle-field, or force
me to be the slayer of my own children,
is that what you mean ?”
“ No, no, my husband. God grant the
fearful trial may be averted; but ii he
wills that it shall come, and our unhappy
nation sutler the horn >rs of a civil war,
leach mao wiil and must go with the sec
tion to which, iu his opinion, belongs the
right. Leave them to make their own
decision, as men, according to their own
consciences. You cannot force them to
defend the wrong against the light; you
would not. Theodore.”
“No; but I can and will force them to
defend their country against rebellion.
You have shown me plainly how the
boys will decide, and I thank you ; for,
expecting disobedience, I will take mea
sures to thwart it. Carroll needs the
closest watching, and shall have it, 1 pro
mise you. As for your pleasant plan of
having my own sons opposed to me in bat
tle, it does not altogether surprise me.
No doubt, you would rejoice to get rid of
your Yankee husband, on any terms; and
the fact of his fate coming by the hand
of a son, would not bo so very dreadful
to you, who have, for twenty-three years,
rested very quietly with your brother’s
death upon your conscience, if not ex
actly upon your hands.”
“My brother’s death on my conscience!”
she repeated wildly. “Oh, Theodore,
what do you—what can you meaa ?”
“What I say. Did it never strike you
before that your brother’s sudden hem
orrhage might have bad a cause, and that
that cause might have bee* a blow in the
breast, given in obedience to his loving
sister’s command ? Wallace, not Rich
ard, was the canting parson who followed
us that night.”
“Oil! God have mercy !” «bc
depairingly. “Oh! God, let me die !”
As the wild prayer escaped her lips,
she fell lifeless upon her husband’s
breast. He raised her hast i1 v. and bore
her to the bed, calling loudlv for Juno.
As the old woman rushed into the room,
and beheld the white, still form on the
bed. she thought that life had fled; and
falling on her knees, she cried aloud :
“0, Lord, you kill mn at las’. I know
youbinna wuk for dat, dis long time, an’
nyw dc poe chile gone from you home to
res’. Oh !de chiliun ! My Lord, wa
gwine to become of dc poe chillun ?”
Captain Austyn did not speak. So
death-like was that swoon, he too be
lieved her despairing prayer was an
swered, and a cold terror seized ids
heart, lie was a man of action, however,
and in a little while he roused himself to
call a servant, and send for the doctor.
A brief word of command put to Juno’s
lamentations, and set her about trying the
remedies usually applied by her mistress
in the attacks of faitness, to which she
was subject. The doctor arrived speedi
ly, and succeeded in restoring her to
consciousness; but so weak was she, that
no memory of the terrible scene, through
which she his passed, came to her that
night; and under the influence of a nar
cotic, she slept long and heavily.
With morning, came the recollection
of those terrible words, which had opened
before her a long vista of suffering, for
her children, and for her own past. She
had a strong capacity for loving, and the
devotion which her husband had rejected,
was n w lavished upon her children.
For, and with them, she felt keenly; and
she know that they would die, rather
than submit to be coerced into fi Citing
against the country they claimed as tiieir
own, and the opinions tney held light nod
sacred. With Carolina were tiieir hearts,
and for her defense and freedom they
would Audit, and, if need be, die. She
believed them to be right in this, and
| the passionate love of their Palmetto
State, so strong in the heart of every
South Carolinian, made her more than
willing, even anxious, to see them in the
ranks o! her brave defenders. Her
brot her Norman was, too, was the human
' being to whom she looked up with the
i fullest trust, and he was among the
I leaders, who guided the helm of her
l state, through the tierce breakers, which
) threatened her destruction. It was her
father and Norman, whom she proved
that her beys should be like, and they,
she know, would have bade them cling
to Carolina, and held their faith to her
as their highest cardcy duty. “G <o and
No. 32