She will go in her sleep, most likely, she has the sunk death-sleep of the old already,
(War-bugles by the Potomac, you cannot reach her ears with your brass lyric, piercing the crowded dark.)
It does not matter, the farm will go on, the farm and the children bury her in her best dress, the plow cut its furrow, steady,
(War-horses of the Shenandoah, why should you hurry so fast to tramp the last ashy fire from so feeble and retired a spark?)
There is nothing here but a creek and a house called the Henry House, a farm and a bedridden woman and people with country faces.
There is nothing for you here. And La Haye Sainte was a quiet farm and the mile by it a quiet mile.
And Lexington was a place to work in like any one of a dozen dull, little places.
And they raised good crops at Blenheim till the soldiers came and spoiled the crops for a while.
The red evening fades into twilight, the crows have gone to their trees, the slow, hot stars are emerging.
It is cooler now on the hill—and in the camps it is cooler, where the untried soldiers find their bivouac hard.
Where, from North and South, the blind wrestlers of armies converge on the forgotten house like the double pincers of an iron claw converging.
And Johnston hurries his tired brigades from the Valley, to bring them up in time before McDowell can fall on Beauregard.
The congressmen came out to see Bull Run,
The congressmen who like free shows and spectacles.
They brought their wives and carriages along,
They brought their speeches and their picnic-lunch,
Their black constituent-hats and their devotion:
Some even brought a little whiskey, too,
(A little whiskey is a comforting thing
For congressmen in the sun, in the heat of the sun.)
The bearded congressmen with orator’s mouths,
The fine, clean-shaved, Websterian congressmen,
Come out to see the gladiator’s show
Like Iliad gods, wrapped in the sacred cloud
Of Florida-water, wisdom and bay-rum,
Of free cigars, democracy and votes,
That lends such portliness to congressmen.
(The gates fly wide, the bronze troop marches out
Into the stripped and deadly circus-ring,
“Ave, Caesar!” the cry goes up, and shakes
The purple awning over Caesar’s seat)
“Ave, Caesar! Ave, O Congressmen,
We who are about to die,
Salute you, congressmen!
Eleven States,
New York, Rhode Island, Maine,
Connecticut, Michigan and the gathered West,
Salute you, congressmen!
The red-fezzed Fire-Zouaves, flamingo-bright,
Salute you, congressmen!
The raw boys still in their civilian clothes,
Salute you, congressmen!
The second Wisconsin in its homespun grey,
Salutes you, congressmen!
The Garibaldi Guards in cocksfeather hats,
Salute you, congressmen!
The Second Ohio with their Bedouin-caps,
Salutes you, congressmen!
Sherman’s brigade, grey-headed Heintzlemann,
Ricketts’ and Griffin’s doomed and valiant guns,
The tough, hard-bitten regulars of Sykes
Who covered the retreat with the Marines,
Burnside and Porter, Willcox and McDowell,
All the vast, unprepared, militia-mass
Of boys in red and yellow Zouave pants,
Who carried peach-preserves inside their kits
And dreamt of being generals overnight;
The straggling companies where every man
Was a sovereign and a voter—the slack regiments
Where every company marched a different step;
The clumsy and unwieldy-new brigades
Not yet distempered into battle-worms;
The whole, huge, innocent army, ready to fight
But only half-taught in the tricks of fighting,
Ready to die like picture-postcard boys
While fighting still had banners and a sword
And just as ready to run in blind mob-panic,
Salutes you with a vast and thunderous cry,
Ave, Caesar, ave, O congressmen,
Ave, O Iliad gods who forced the fight!
You bring your carriages and your picnic-lunch
To cheer us in our need. You come with speeches,
Your togas smell of heroism and bay-rum.
You are the people and the voice of the people
And, when the fight is done, your carriages
Will bear you safely, through the streaming rout
Of broken troops, throwing their guns away.
You come to see the gladiator’s show,
But from a high place, as befits the wise:
You will not see the long windrows of men
Strewn like dead pears before the Henry House
Or the stone-wall of Jackson breathe its parched
Devouring breath upon the failing charge,
Ave, Caesar, ave, O congressmen,
Cigar-smoke wraps you in a godlike cloud,
And if you are not to depart from us
As easily and divinely as you came,
It hardly matters. Fighting Joe Hooker once
Said with that tart, unbridled tongue of his
That made so many needless enemies,
“Who ever saw a dead cavalryman?” The phrase
Stings with a needle sharpness, just or not,
But even he was never heard to say,
“Who ever saw a dead congressman?”
And yet, he was a man with a sharp tongue.
The day broke, hot and calm. In the little farm-houses
That are scattered here and there in that rolling country
Of oak and rail-fence, crooked creeks and second-growth pine,
The early-risers stand looking out of the door
At the long dawn-shadows for a minute or two
—Shadows are always cool—but the blue-glass sky
Is fusing with heat even now, heat that prickles the hairs
On the back of your hand. They sigh and turn back to the house.
“Looks like a scorcher today, boys!” They think already
Of the cool jug of vinegar-water down by the hedge.
Judith Henry wakened with the first light,
She had the short sleep of age, and the long patience.
She waited for breakfast in vague, half-drowsy wonderment
At various things. Yesterday some men had gone by
And stopped for a drink of water. She’d heard they were soldiers.
She couldn’t be sure. It had seemed to worry the folks
But it took more than soldiers and such to worry her now.
Young people always worried a lot too much.
No soldiers that had any sense would fight around here.
She’d had a good night. Today would be a good day.
A mile and a half away, before the Stone Bridge,
A Union gun opened fire.
Six miles away, McDowell had planned his battle
And planned it well, as far as such things can be planned—
A feint at one point, a flanking march at another
To circle Beauregard’s left and crumple it up.
There were Johnston’s eight thousand men to be reckoned with
But Patterson should be holding them, miles away,
And even if they slipped loose from Patterson’s fingers
The thing might still be done. If you take a flat map
And move wooden blocks upon it strategically,
The thing looks well, the blocks behave as they should.
The science of war is moving live men like blocks.
And getting the
