Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By Lewis FrankTooker1239 The Last Fight
T
No bells were struck, no whistle blew,
And when the watch was changed I crept
From man to man of all the crew
With whispered orders. Though we swept
Through roaring seas, we hushed the clock,
And muffled every clanking block.
Some petty order, straight I ran,
And threw him sprawling o’er the side.
All life is but a narrow span:
It little matters that one bide
A moment longer here, for all
Fare the same road, whate’er befall.
Broke gray and wet, we saw the foe
But half a stormy league away.
By noon we saw his black bows throw
Five fathoms high a wall of spray;
A little more, we heard the drum,
And knew that our last hour had come.
With grim, set faces, muttering;
And once a boy (the first that died)
One of our wild songs tried to sing:
But when their first shot missed us wide,
A dozen sprang above our rail,
Shook fists, and roared a cursing hail.
Their heads with cool, wet bands, and drew
Their belts close, and their keen blades ground;
Then, at the next gun’s puff of blue,
We set the grog-cup on its round,
And pledged for life or pledged for death
Our last sigh of expiring breath.
As their next shot crashed through our rail;
Then ’twixt us flashed the fire of hell,
That shattered spar and riddled sail.
What ill we wrought we could not tell;
But blood-red all their scuppers dripped
When their black hull to starboard dipped.
And nine times sent new men, who took
The whirling wheel as at death’s call;
But when I saw the last one look
From sky to deck, then, reeling, crawl
Under the shattered rail to die,
I knew where I should surely lie.
And turn in idleness the wheel
Until they took death’s beckoning hand,
While others, meeting steel with steel,
Flamed out their lives—an eager band,
Cheers on their lips, and in their eyes
The goal-rapt look of high emprise.
I heard the shot go darting by;
There came a trembling in my knees,
And black spots whirled about the sky.
I thought of things beyond the seas—
The little town where I was born,
And swallows twittering in the morn.
I grasped the wheel, and begged to steer.
It mattered not how he might fare
The little time he had for fear;
So if I left this to his care
He too might serve us yet, he said.
He died there while I shook my head.
My helpless back turned to the foe;
So when his great hulk, like a log,
Came surging past our quarter, lo!
With helm hard down, straight through the fog
Of battle smoke, and luffing wide,
I sent our sharp bow through his side.
The ragged entrance that we gave;
Like snakes I heard their green coils spin
Up, up, around our floating grave;
But dauntless still, amid a din
Of clashing steel and battle-shout,
We rushed to drive their boarders out.
My grim-faced foemen darkly drew;
Then, sweeter than the lark in spring,
Loud rang our blades; the red sparks flew.
Twice, thrice, I felt the sudden sting
Of some keen stroke; then, swinging fair,
My own clave more than empty air.
My good blade cleared a silent place;
Then in a ring of fallen men
I paused to breathe a little space.
Elsewhere the deck roared like a glen
When mountain torrents meet; the fray
A moment then seemed far away.
The empty sky dipped to the sea;
Such utter waste could scarcely lie
Beyond death’s starved periphery.
Only one living thing went by:
Far overhead an ominous bird
Rode down the gale with wings unstirred.
Dark crests to beckon others on
To see our end; then, hurrying
To reach us ere we should be gone,
They came, like tigers mad to fling
Their jostling bodies on our ships,
And snarl at us with foaming lips.
E’en then broke growling at my feet;
One last look to the sky I gave,
Then sprang my eager foes to meet.
Loud rang the fray above our grave—
I felt the vessel downward reel
As my last thrust met thrusting steel.
A green wall pressed against my eyes;
Down, down I passed; the vanished years
I saw in mimicry arise.
Yet even then I felt no fears,
And with my last expiring breath
My past rose up and mocked at death.