In the lowlands and the mountains--in Virginia
and Maryland--they bore aloft the banner of the South in stalwart
hands, and carried it forward with unshrinking hearts, to that baptism
of blood awaiting it. That was the great year for the South. The hour
was dark--a huge foe fronted us--but wherever that foe was met, he
seemed to reel before the mailed hand that buffeted his front. All
frippery and decoration had long been stripped from the army. The
fingers of war--real war--had torn off the gaudy trappings; and the
grim lips had muttered, "What I want is hard muscle, and the brave
heart--not tinsel!" The bands were seldom heard--the musicians were
tending the wounded. The drums had ceased their jovial rattle, and were
chiefly used in the "long roll," which said "Get ready, boys! they are
coming!"
So in the midst of smoke and dust,--with yells of triumph, or groans of
agony, in place of the gay cheering--passed that year of battles, 1862.
The South was no longer romantic and elated on the subject of the war.
The soldiers no longer looked out for adventures, or for the glorious
cannonball to carry off their heads, and make their names immortal. At
home, the old men were arming, and the women sending words of cheer to
their husbands and sons, and praying. In the camps, the old soldiers
had forgotten the wreaths of roses.
Pages:
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192