_ CHAPTER L. FALL IN!
There came a sound of drums. Twice on such a day, once the day before, thrice the next day, till by and by it was the common thing. High-stepping childhood, with laths and broom-handles at shoulder, was not fated, as in the insipid days of peace, to find, on running to the corner, its high hopes mocked by a wagon of empty barrels rumbling over the cobble-stones. No; it was the Washington Artillery, or the Crescent Rifles, or the Orleans Battalion, or, best of all, the blue-jacketed, white-leggined, red-breeched, and red-fezzed Zouaves; or, better than the best, it was all of them together, their captains stepping backward, sword in both hands, calling "_Gauche! gauche!_" ("Left! left!") "Guide right!"--"_Portez armes!_" and facing around again, throwing their shining blades stiffly to belt and epaulette, and glancing askance from under their abundant plumes to the crowded balconies above. Yea, and the drum-majors before, and the brilliant-petticoated _vivandieres_ behind!
What pomp! what giddy rounds! Pennons, cock-feathers, clattering steeds, pealing salvos, banners, columns, ladies' favors, balls, concerts, toasts, the Free Gift Lottery--don't you recollect?--and this uniform and that uniform, brother a captain, father a colonel, uncle a major, the little rector a chaplain, Captain Ristofalo of the Tiger Rifles; the levee covered with munitions of war, steam-boats unloading troops, troops, troops, from Opelousas, Attakapas, Texas; and a supper to this company, a flag to that battalion, farewell sermon to the Washington Artillery, tears and a kiss to a spurred and sashed lover, hurried weddings,--no end of them,--a sword to such a one, addresses by such and such, serenades to Miss and to Mademoiselle.
Soon it will have been a quarter of a century ago!
And yet--do you not hear them now, coming down the broad, granite-paved, moonlit street, the light that was made for lovers glancing on bayonet and sword soon to be red with brothers' blood, their brave young hearts already lifted up with the triumph of battles to come, and the trumpets waking the midnight stillness with the gay notes of the Cracovienne?--
"Again, again, the pealing drum,
The clashing horn, they come, they come,
And lofty deeds and daring high
Blend with their notes of victory."
Ah! the laughter; the music; the bravado; the dancing; the songs! "_Voila l'Zouzou!_" "Dixie!" "_Aux armes, vos citoyens!_" "The Bonnie Blue Flag!"--it wasn't bonnie very long. Later the maidens at home learned to sing a little song,--it is among the missing now,--a part of it ran:--
"Sleeping on grassy couches;
Pillowed on hillocks damp;
Of martial fame how little we know
Till brothers are in the camp."
By and by they began to depart. How many they were! How many, many! We had too lightly let them go. And when all were gone, and they of Carondelet street and its tributaries, massed in that old gray, brittle-shanked regiment, the Confederate Guards, were having their daily dress parade in Coliseum place, and only they and the Foreign Legion remained; when sister Jane made lint, and flour was high, and the sounds of commerce were quite hushed, and in the custom-house gun-carriages were a-making, and in the foundries big guns were being cast, and the cotton gun-boats and the rams were building, and at the rotting wharves the masts of a few empty ships stood like dead trees in a blasted wilderness, and poor soldiers' wives crowded around the "Free Market," and grass began to spring up in the streets,--they were many still, while far away; but some marched no more, and others marched on bleeding feet, in rags; and it was very, very hard for some of us to hold the voice steady and sing on through the chorus of the little song:--
"Brave boys are they!
Gone at their country's call.
And yet--and yet--we cannot forget
That many brave boys must fall."
Oh! Shiloh, Shiloh!
But before the gloom had settled down upon us it was a gay dream.
"Mistoo Itchlin, in fact 'ow you ligue my uniefawm? You think it suit my style? They got about two poun' of gole lace on that uniefawm. Yesseh. Me, the h-only thing--I don' ligue those epaulette'. So soon ev'ybody see that on me, 'tis 'Lieut'nan'!' in thiz place, an' 'Lieut'nan'!' in that place. My de'seh, you'd thing I'm a majo'-gen'l, in fact. Well, of co'se, I don' ligue that."
"And so you're a lieutenant?"
"Third! Of the Chasseurs-a-Pied! Coon he'p 't, in fact; the fellehs elected me. Goin' at Pensacola tomaw. Dr. Seveeah _con_tinue my sala'y whilce I'm gone. no matteh the len'th. Me, I don' care, so long the sala'y _con_tinue, if that waugh las' ten yeah! You ah pe'haps goin' ad the ball to-nighd, Mistoo Itchlin? I dunno 'ow 'tis--I suppose you'll be aztonizh' w'en I infawm you--that ball wemine me of that battle of Wattaloo! Did you evva yeh those line' of Lawd By'on,--
'Theh was a soun' of wibalwy by night,
W'en--'Ush-'ark!--A deep saun' stwike'--?
Thaz by Lawd By'on. Yesseh. Well"--
The Creole lifted his right hand energetically, laid its inner edge against the brass buttons of his _kepi_, and then waved it gracefully abroad:--
"_Au 'evoi'_, Mistoo Itchlin. I leave you to defen' the city."
"To-morrow," in those days of unreadiness and disconnection, glided just beyond reach continually. When at times its realization was at length grasped, it was away over on the far side of a fortnight or farther. However, the to-morrow for Narcisse came at last.
A quiet order for attention runs down the column. Attention it is. Another order follows, higher-keyed, longer drawn out, and with one sharp "clack!" the sword-bayoneted rifles go to the shoulders of as fine a battalion as any in the land of Dixie.
"_En avant!_"--Narcisse's heart stands still for joy--"_Marche!_"
The bugle rings, the drums beat; "tramp, tramp," in quick succession, go the short-stepping, nimble Creole feet, and the old walls of the Rue Chartres ring again with the pealing huzza, as they rang in the days of Villere and Lafreniere, and in the days of the young Galvez, and in the days of Jackson.
The old Ponchartrain cars move off, packed. Down at the "Old Lake End" the steamer for Mobile receives the burden. The gong clangs in her engine-room, the walking-beam silently stirs, there is a hiss of water underneath, the gang-plank is in, the wet hawser-ends whip through the hawse-holes,--she moves; clang goes the gong again--she glides--or is it the crowded wharf that is gliding?--No.--Snatch the kisses! snatch them! Adieu! Adieu! She's off, huzza--she's off!
Now she stands away. See the mass of gay colors--red, gold, blue, yellow, with glitter of steel and flutter of flags, a black veil of smoke sweeping over. Wave, mothers and daughters, wives, sisters, sweethearts--wave, wave; you little know the future!
And now she is a little thing, her white wake following her afar across the green waters, the call of the bugle floating softly back. And now she is a speck. And now a little smoky stain against the eastern blue is all,--and now she is gone. Gone! Gone!
Farewell, soldier boys! Light-hearted, little-forecasting, brave, merry boys! God accept you, our offering of first fruits! See that mother--that wife--take them away; it is too much. Comfort them, father, brother; tell them their tears may be for naught.
"And yet--and yet--we cannot forget
That many brave boys must fall."
Never so glad a day had risen upon the head of Narcisse. For the first time in his life he moved beyond the corporate limits of his native town.
"'Ezcape fum the aunt, thou sluggud!'" "_Au 'evoi'_" to his aunt and the uncle of his aunt. "_Au 'evoi'!_ _Au 'evoi'!_"--desk, pen, book--work, care, thought, restraint--all sinking, sinking beneath the receding horizon of Lake Ponchartrain, and the wide world and a soldier's life before him.
Farewell, Byronic youth! You are not of so frail a stuff as you have seemed. You shall thirst by day and hunger by night. You shall keep vigil on the sands of the Gulf and on the banks of the Potomac. You shall grow brown, but prettier. You shall shiver in loathsome tatters, yet keep your grace, your courtesy, your joyousness. You shall ditch and lie down in ditches, and shall sing your saucy songs of defiance in the face of the foe, so blackened with powder and dust and smoke that your mother in heaven would not know her child. And you shall borrow to your heart's content chickens, hogs, rails, milk, buttermilk, sweet potatoes, what not; and shall learn the American songs, and by the camp-fire of Shenandoah valley sing "The years creep slowly by, Lorena" to messmates with shaded eyes, and "Her bright smile haunts me still." Ah, boy! there's an old woman still living in the Rue Casa Calvo--your bright smile haunts her still. And there shall be blood on your sword, and blood--twice--thrice--on your brow. Your captain shall die in your arms; and you shall lead charge after charge, and shall step up from rank to rank; and all at once, one day, just in the final onset, with the cheer on your lips, and your red sword waving high, with but one lightning stroke of agony, down, down you shall go in the death of your dearest choice. _