Custer, and Other Poems Part 13

A soldier may not weep, but drums and bugles may.

x.x.xV.

Now, Muse, recount, how after long delays And dangerous marches through untrodden ways, Where cold and hunger on each hour attend, At last the army gains the journey's end.

An Indian village bursts upon the eye; Two hundred lodges, sleep-encompa.s.sed lie, There captives moan their anguished prayers through tears, While in the silent dawn the armied answer nears.

x.x.xVI.

To s.n.a.t.c.h two fragile victims from the foe Nine hundred men have traversed leagues of snow.

Each woe they suffered in a hostile land The flame of vengeance in their bosoms fanned.

They thirst for slaughter, and the signal wait To wrest the captives from their horrid fate.

Each warrior's hand upon his rifle falls, Each savage soldier's heart for awful bloodshed calls.

x.x.xVII.

And one, in years a youth, in woe a man, Sad Brewster, scarred by sorrow's blighting ban, Looks, panting, where his captive sister sleeps, And o'er his face the shade of murder creeps.

His nostrils quiver like a hungry beast Who scents anear the b.l.o.o.d.y carnal feast.

He longs to leap down in that slumbering vale And leave no foe alive to tell the awful tale.

x.x.xVIII.

Not so, calm Custer. Sick of gory strife, He hopes for rescue with no loss of life; And plans that bloodless battle of the plains Where reasoning mind outwits mere savage brains.

The sullen soldiers follow where he leads; No gun is emptied, and no foeman bleeds.

Fierce for the fight and eager for the fray They look upon their Chief in undisguised dismay.

x.x.xIX.

He hears the murmur of their discontent, But sneers can never change a strong mind's bent.

He knows his purpose and he does not swerve, And with a quiet mien and steady nerve He meets dark looks where'er his steps may go, And silence that is bruising as a blow, Where late were smiles and words of ardent praise.

So pa.s.s the lagging weeks of wearying delays.

XL.

Inaction is not always what it seems, And Custer's mind with plan and project teems.

Fixed in his peaceful purpose he abides With none takes counsel and in none confides; But slowly weaves about the foe a net Which leaves them wholly at his mercy, yet He strikes no fateful blow; he takes no life, And holds in check his men, who pant for b.l.o.o.d.y strife.

XLI.

Intrepid warrior and skilled diplomate, In his strong hands he holds the red man's fate.

The craftiest plot he checks with counterplot, Till tribe by tribe the tricky foe is brought To fear his vengeance and to know his power As man's fixed gaze will make a wild beast cower, So these crude souls feel that unflinching will Which draws them by its force, yet does not deign to kill.

XLII.

And one by one the hostile Indians send Their chiefs to seek a peaceful treaty's end.

Great councils follow; skill with cunning copes And conquers it; and Custer sees his hopes So long delayed, like stars storm hidden, rise To radiate with splendor all his skies.

The stubborn Cheyennes, cowed at last by fear, Leading the captive pair, o'er spring-touched hills appear.

XLIII.

With breath suspended, now the whole command Waits the approach of that equestrian band.

Nearer it comes, still nearer, then a cry, Half sob, half shriek, goes piercing G.o.d's blue sky, And Brewster, like a nimble-footed doe, Or like an arrow hurrying from a bow, Shoots swiftly through the intervening s.p.a.ce And that lost sister clasps, in sorrowing love's embrace.

XLIV.

And men who leaned o'er Hamilton's rude bier And saw his dead dear face without a tear, Strong souls who early learned the manly art Of keeping from the eye what's in the heart, Soldiers who look unmoved on death's pale brow, Avert their eyes, to hide their moisture now.

The briny flood forced back from sh.o.r.es of woe, Needs but to touch the strands of joy to overflow.

XLV.

About the captives welcoming warriors crowd, All eyes are wet, and Brewster sobs aloud.

Alas, the ravage wrought by toil and woe On faces that were fair twelve moons ago.

Bronzed by exposure to the heat and cold, Still young in years, yet prematurely old, By insults humbled and by labor worn, They stand in youth's bright hour, of all youth's graces shorn.

XLVI.

A scanty garment rudely made of sacks Hangs from their loins; bright blankets drape their backs; About their necks are twisted tangled strings Of gaudy beads, while tinkling wire and rings Of yellow bra.s.s on wrists and fingers glow.

Thus, to a.s.suage the anger of the foe The cunning Indians decked the captive pair Who in one year have known a lifetime of despair.

XLVII.

But love can resurrect from sorrow's tomb The vanished beauty and the faded bloom, As sunlight lifts the bruised flower from the sod, Can lift crushed hearts to hope, for love is G.o.d.

Already now in freedom's glad release The hunted look of fear gives place to peace, And in their eyes at thought of home appears That rainbow light of joy which brightest shines through tears.

XLVIII.

About the leader thick the warriors crowd; Late loud in censure, now in praises loud, They laud the tactics, and the skill extol Which gained a bloodless yet a glorious goal.

Alone and lonely in the path of right Full many a brave soul walks. When G.o.ds requite And crown his actions as their worth demands, Among admiring throngs the hero always stands.

XLIX.

Back to the East the valorous squadrons sweep; The earth, arousing from her long, cold sleep, Throws from her breast the coverlet of snow, Revealing Spring's soft charms which lie below.

Suppressed emotions in each heart arise, The wooer wakens and the warrior dies.