  BY A YANKEE SOLDIER. Hunted by his Rebel master Over many a hill and glade, Black Tom, with his wife and children, Found his way to our brigade. Tom had sense and truth and courage, Often tried where danger rose: Once our flag his strong arm rescued From the grasp of Rebel foes. One day, Tom was marching with us Through the forest as our guide, When a ball from traitor's rifle Broke his arm and pierced his side. On a litter white men bore him Through the forest drear and damp, Laid him, dying, where our banners Brightly fluttered o'er our camp. Pointing to his wife and children, While he suffered racking pain, Said he to our soldiers round him, "Don't let them be slaves again!" "No, by Heaven!" spoke out a soldier,— And that oath was not profane,— "Our brigade will still protect them; They shall ne'er be slaves again." Over old Tom's dusky features Came and stayed a joyous ray; And with saddened friends around him, His free spirit passed away. At Rodman's Point, in North Carolina, the United States troops were obliged to retreat before Rebels, who outnumbered them ten to one. The scow in which they attempted to escape stuck in the mud, and could not be moved with poles. While the soldiers were lying down they were in some measure protected from Rebel bullets; but whoever jumped into the water to push the boat off would certainly be killed. A vigorous black man who was with them said: "Lie still. I will push off the boat. If they kill me, it is nothing; but you are soldiers, and are needed to fight for the country." He leaped overboard, pushed off the boat, and sprang back, pierced by seven bullets. He died two days after. I wish I knew his name; for it deserves to be recorded with the noblest heroes the world has known. |
|
