Yet these were late as bold, as gay;
But Mosby—a clip, and grass is hay.
How strong they feel on their horses free,
Tingles the tendoned thigh with life;
Their cavalry-jackets make boys of all—
With golden breasts like the oriole;
The chat, the jest, and laugh are rife.
But word is passed from the front—a call
For order; the wood is Mosby’s hall.
To which behest one rider sly
(Spurred, but unarmed) gave little heed—
Of dexterous fun not slow or spare,
He teased his neighbors of touchy mood,
Into plungings he pricked his steed:
A black-eyed man on a coal-black mare,
Alive as Mosby in mountain air.
His limbs were long, and large, and round;
He whispered, winked—did all but shout:
A healthy man for the sick to view;
The taste in his mouth was sweet at morn;
Little of care he cared about.
And yet of pains and pangs he knew—
In others, maimed by Mosby’s crew.
The Hospital Steward—even he
(Sacred in person as a priest),
And on his coat-sleeve broidered nice
Wore the caduceus, black and green.
No wonder he sat so light on his beast;
This cheery man in suit of price
Not even Mosby dared to slice.
They pass the picket by the pine
And hollow log—a lonesome place;
His horse adroop, and pistol clean;
’Tis cocked—kept leveled toward the wood;
Strained vigilance ages his childish face.
Since midnight has that stripling been
Peering for Mosby through the green.
Splashing they cross the freshet-flood,
And up the muddy bank they strain;
A horse at a spectral white-ash shies—
One of the span of the ambulance,
Black as a hearse. They give the rein:
Silent speed on a scout were wise,
Could cunning baffle Mosby’s spies.
Rumor had come that a band was lodged
In green retreats of hills that peer
By Aldie (famed for the swordless chargev).
Much store they’d heaped of captured arms
And, peradventure, pilfered cheer;
For Mosby’s lads oft hearts enlarge
In revelry by some gorge’s marge.
“Don’t let your sabres rattle and ring;
To his oat-bag let each man give heed—
There now, that fellow’s bag’s untied,
Sowing the road with the precious grain.
Your carbines swing at hand—you need!
Look to yourselves, and your nags beside,
Men who after Mosby ride.”
Picked lads and keen went sharp before—
A guard, though scarce against surprise;
And rearmost rode an answering troop,
But flankers none to right or left.
No bugle peals, no pennon flies:
Silent they sweep, and fain would swoop
On Mosby with an Indian whoop.
On, right on through the forest land,
Nor man, nor maid, nor child was seen—
Not even a dog. The air was still;
The blackened hut they turned to see,
And spied charred benches on the green;
A squirrel sprang from the rotting mill
Whence Mosby sallied late, brave blood to spill.
By worn-out fields they cantered on—
Drear fields amid the woodlands wide;
By cross-roads of some olden time,
In which grew groves; by gate-stones down—
Grassed ruins of secluded pride:
A strange lone land, long past the prime,
Fit land for Mosby or for crime.
The brook in the dell they pass. One peers
Between the leaves: “Ay, there’s the place—
There, on the oozy ledge—’twas there
We found the body (Blake’s, you know);
Such whirlings, gurglings round the face—
Shot drinking! Well, in war all’s fair—
So Mosby says. The bough—take care!”
Hard by, a chapel. Flower-pot mould
Danked and decayed the shaded roof;
The porch was punk; the clapboards spanned
With ruffled lichens gray or green;
Red coral-moss was not aloof;
And mid dry leaves green dead-man’s-hand
Groped toward that chapel in Mosby-land.
The road they leave and take the wood,
And mark the trace of ridges there—
A wood where once had slept the farm—
A wood where once tobacco grew
Drowsily in the hazy air,
And wrought in all kind things a calm—
Such influence, Mosby! bids disarm.
To ease even yet the place did woo—
To ease which pines unstirring share,
For ease the weary horses sighed:
Halting, and slackening girths, they feed,
Their pipes they light, they loiter there;
Then up, and urging still the Guide,
On, and after Mosby ride.
This Guide in frowzy coat of brown,
And beard of ancient growth and mould,
Bestrode a bony steed and strong,
As suited well with bulk he bore—
A wheezy man with depth of hold
Who jouncing went. A staff he swung—
A wight whom Mosby’s wasp had stung.
Burnt out and homeless—hunted long!
That wheeze he caught in autumn-wood
Crouching (a fat man) for his life,
And spied his lean son ’mong the crew
That probed the covert. Ah! black blood
Was his ’gainst even child and wife—
Fast friends to Mosby. Such the strife.
A lad, unhorsed by sliding girths,
Strains hard to readjust his seat
Ere the main body show the gap
’Twixt them and the rear-guard; scrub-oaks near
He sidelong eyes, while hands move fleet;
Then mounts and spurs. One drops his cap—
“Let Mosby find!” nor heeds mishap.
A gable time-stained peeps through trees:
“You mind the fight in the haunted house?
That’s it; we clenched them in the room—
An ambuscade of ghosts, we deemed,
But proved sly rebels on a bouse!
Luke lies in the yard.” The chimneys loom:
Some muse on Mosby—some on doom.
Less nimbly now through brakes they wind,
And ford wild creeks where men have drowned;
The pool they skirt, avoid the fen,
And so till night, when down they lie,
Their steeds still saddled, in wooded ground:
Rein in hand they slumber then,
Dreaming of Mosby’s cedarn den.
But Colonel and Major friendly sat
Where boughs deformed low made a seat.
The Young Man talked (all sworded and spurred)
Of the partisan’s blade he longed to win,
And frays in which he meant to beat.
The grizzled Major smoked, and heard:
“But what’s that—Mosby?�
� “No, a bird.”
A contrast here like sire and son,
Hope and Experience sage did meet;
The Youth was brave, the Senior too;
But through the Seven Days one had served,
And gasped with the rear-guard in retreat:
So he smoked and smoked, and the wreath he blew—
“Any sure news of Mosby’s crew?”
He smoked and smoked, eying the while
A huge tree hydra-like in growth—
Moon-tinged—with crook’d boughs rent or lopped—
Itself a haggard forest. “Come!”
The Colonel cried, “to talk you’re loath;
D’ye hear? I say he must be stopped,
This Mosby—caged, and hair close cropped.”
“Of course; but what’s that dangling there?”
“Where?” “From the tree—that gallows-bough;”
“A bit of frayed bark, is it not?”
“Ay—or a rope; did we hang last?—
Don’t like my neckerchief any how;”
He loosened it: “O ay, we’ll stop
This Mosby—but that vile jerk and drop!”w
By peep of light they feed and ride,
Gaining a grove’s green edge at morn,
And mark the Aldie hills uprear
And five gigantic horsemen carved
Clear-cut against the sky withdrawn;
Are more behind? an open snare?
Or Mosby’s men but watchmen there?
The ravaged land was miles behind,
And Loudon spread her landscape rare;
Orchards in pleasant lowlands stood,
Cows were feeding, a cock loud crew,
But not a friend at need was there;
The valley-folk were only good
To Mosby and his wandering brood.
What best to do? what mean yon men?
Colonel and Guide their minds compare;
Be sure some looked their Leader through;
Dismounted, on his sword he leaned
As one who feigns an easy air;
And yet perplexed he was they knew—
Perplexed by Mosby’s mountain-crew.
The Major hemmed as he would speak,
But checked himself, and left the ring
Of cavalrymen about their Chief—
Young courtiers mute who paid their court
By looking with confidence on their king;
They knew him brave, foresaw no grief—
But Mosby—the time for thought is brief.
The Surgeon (sashed in sacred green)
Was glad ’twas not for him to say
What next should be; if a trooper bleeds,
Why he will do his best, as wont,
And his partner in black will aid and pray;
But judgment bides with him who leads,
And Mosby many a problem breeds.
This Surgeon was the kindliest man
That ever a callous trade professed;
He felt for him, that Leader young,
And offered medicine from his flask:
The Colonel took it with marvelous zest.
For such fine medicine good and strong,
Oft Mosby and his foresters long.
A charm of proof. “Ho, Major, come—
Pounce on yon men! Take half your troop,
Through the thickets wind—pray speedy be—
And gain their rear. And, Captain Morn,
Picket these roads—all travelers stop;
The rest to the edge of this crest with me,
That Mosby and his scouts may see.”
Commanded and done. Ere the sun stood steep,
Back came the Blues, with a troop of Grays,
Ten riding double—luckless ten!—
Five horses gone, and looped hats lost,
And love-locks dancing in a maze—
Certes, but sophomores from the glen
Of Mosby—not his veteran men.
“Colonel,” said the Major, touching his cap,
“We’ve had our ride, and here they are.”
“Well done! how many found you there?”
“As many as I bring you here.”
“And no one hurt?” “There’ll be no scar—
One fool was battered.” “Find their lair?”
“Why, Mosby’s brood camp every where.”
He sighed, and slid down from his horse,
And limping went to a spring-head nigh.
“Why, bless me, Major, not hurt, I hope?”
“Battered my knee against a bar
When the rush was made; all right by-and-by.—
Halloa! they gave you too much rope—
Go back to Mosby, eh? elope?”
Just by the low-hanging skirt of wood
The guard, remiss, had given a chance
For a sudden sally into the cover—
But foiled the intent, nor fired a shot,
Though the issue was a deadly trance;
For, hurled ’gainst an oak that humped low over,
Mosby’s man fell, pale as a lover.
They pulled some grass his head to ease
(Lined with blue shreds a ground-nest stirred).
The Surgeon came—“Here’s a to-do!”
“Ah!” cried the Major, darting a glance,
“This fellow’s the one that fired and spurred
Down hill, but met reserves below—
My boys, not Mosby’s—so we go!”
The Surgeon—bluff, red, goodly man—
Kneeled by the hurt one; like a bee
He toiled. The pale young Chaplain too—
(Who went to the wars for cure of souls,
And his own student-ailments)—he
Bent over likewise; spite the two,
Mosby’s poor man more pallid grew.
Meanwhile the mounted captives near
Jested; and yet they anxious showed;
Virginians; some of family-pride,
And young, and full of fire, and fine
In open feature and cheek that glowed;
And here thralled vagabonds now they ride—
But list! one speaks for Mosby’s side.
“Why, three to one—your horses strong—
Revolvers, rifles, and a surprise—
Surrender we account no shame!
We live, are gay, and life is hope;
We’ll fight again when fight is wise.
There are plenty more from where we came;
But go find Mosby—start the game!”
Yet one there was who looked but glum;
In middle-age, a father he,
And this his first experience too:
“They shot at my heart when my hands were up—
This fighting’s crazy work, I see!”
But noon is high; what next to do?
The woods are mute, and Mosby is the foe.
“Save what we’ve got,” the Major said;
“Bad plan to make a scout too long;
The tide may turn, and drag them back,
And more beside. These rides I’ve been,
And every time a mine was sprung.
To rescue, mind, they won’t be slack—
Look out for Mosby’s rifle-crack.”
“We’ll welcome it! give crack for crack!
Peril, old lad, is what I seek.”
“O then, there’s plenty to be had—
By all means on, and have our fill!”
With that, grotesque, he writhed his neck,
Showing a scar by buck
-shot made—
Kind Mosby’s Christmas gift, he said.
“But, Colonel, my prisoners—let a guard
Make sure of them, and lead to camp.
That done, we’re free for a dark-room fight
If so you say.” The other laughed;
“Trust me, Major, nor throw a damp.
But first to try a little sleight—
Sure news of Mosby would suit me quite.”
Herewith he turned—“Reb, have a dram?”
Holding the Surgeon’s flask with a smile
To a young scapegrace from the glen.
“O yes!” he eagerly replied,
“And thank you, Colonel, but—any guile?
For if you think we’ll blab—why, then
You don’t know Mosby or his men.”
The Leader’s genial air relaxed.
“Best give it up,” a whisperer said.
“By heaven, I’ll range their rebel den!”
“They’ll treat you well,” the captive cried;
“They’re all like us—handsome—well bred:
In wood or town, with sword or pen,
Polite is Mosby, bland his men.”
“Where were you, lads, last night?—come, tell!”
“We?—at a wedding in the Vale—
The bridegroom our comrade; by his side
Belisent, my cousin—O, so proud
Of her young love with old wounds pale—
A Virginian girl! God bless her pride—
Of a crippled Mosby-man the bride!”
“Four walls shall mend that saucy mood,
And moping prisons tame him down,”
Said Captain Cloud. “God help that day,”
Cried Captain Morn, “and he so young.
But hark, he sings—a madcap one!”
“O we multiply merrily in the May,
The birds and Mosby’s men, they say!”
While echoes ran, a wagon old,
Under stout guard of Corporal Chew
Came up; a lame horse, dingy white,
With clouted harness; ropes in hand,
Cringed the humped driver, black in hue;
Herman Melville- Complete Poems Page 10