The men work'd on in silence, With never a shout or cheer, Till 'twas whisper'd from how to quarter, "Start forward! All is clear." Then groan'd the ponderous engines, The moon through the fog was casting As the captain's latest order Was flash'd into the night : "Steam on! and, whatever fortune May follow the attack, Sink with your bows all northward: It was hard, when we heard that order, For it waken'd the life within us, All wrapp'd in the foggy darkness, Next Farragut's stately flag-ship Ah! many a prayer was murmur'd And the silence and night grew dreadful With the thought of what must be. For many a tall, stout fellow Close down by the yellow river, In their oozy graves they rot; Strange vines and strange flowers grow o'er them, And their far homes know them not. But short was our time of musing; That the whole great fleet was moving, Then Porter burst out from his mortars, In jets of fiery spray, As if a volcano had open'd Where his leaf-clad vessels lay. Howling, and screeching, and whizzing, Dropp'd down on the low, doom'd fortress Shattering earth and granite to atoms The whole air quaked and shudder'd Fort Jackson and Fort St. Philip, By this time were flashing and thundering Through the hulks and the cables, sunder'd By the bold Itasca's crew, Went Bailey in silence, though round him The shells and the grape-shot flew. No answer he made to their welcome, Meanwhile, the old man in the Hartford Yes, paused in that deadly tornado Have you any notion, you landsmen, I tell you, the air is nigh solid And 'twas such a tempest blew o'er us Perch'd aloft in the forward rigging, Sat Farragut, shouting his orders To the men who fought below. And the fort's huge faces of granite Now quicker and quicker we fired, A torrent of blazing vapor Was leaping to and fro; While the fort, like a mighty cauldron, So thick fell the clouds o'er the river, "Full head! Steam across to St. Philip! Starboard battery, mind your aim! Forecastle, there, shift your pivots! Now Give them a taste of the same!" St. Philip grew faint in replying, And down the swift current came sweeping At once the good Hartford was blazing, "We are lost!" 'No, no; we are moving!" Away whirl'd the crackling raft. The fire was soon quench'd. One last broadside We gave to the surly fort; For above us the rebel gunboats Were wheeling like devils at sport. And into our vacant station Had glided a bulky form: 'Twas Craven's stout Brooklyn, demanding Her share of the furious storm. We could hear the shot of St. Philip And the crash of her answering broadsides We could hear the low growl of Craven, Then, ranging close under our quarter, He waved his blue cap as he passed us; Right and left flash'd his heavy broadsides; Rams, gunboats,—it matter'd not; |