APRIL 20, 1864:
The Union garrison at
Plymouth, N.C. falls to the C.S.S. ALBEMARLE. The Confederate victors massacre as many as 400 U.S.C.T. troops
stationed at Plymouth. It is the largest mass execution of black fighting men
so far, except for Olustee. Following so soon after Fort Pillow and within two days of Poison Spring, the killing
of “Colored” troops by Rebels has become a nightmarish norm.
Men in the Civil War era
were often sentimental to the point of being dewy-eyed and surprisingly naïve
about the rules of war. Although most men lost their innocence about the nature
of combat early on, the majority of them retained romantic notions about their
units and their comrades-in-arms, and even at times the enemy, throughout their
lives.
Charles Graham Halpine,
writing as Private Miles O'Reilly, refers in this poem, titled simply April
20, 1864, to his wartime experience as one of 37 officers in the original 69th
New York State Infantry Regiment (“The Fighting 69th”, the most
famous of the all-Irish Brigades in the
war) which he joined as a lieutenant on April 20, 1861. Three years later, 26
of those officers were dead; of the eleven who remain, four suffered
permanently crippling injuries. Eight hundred of the original 1000 men who
enlisted in the ranks had also perished:
Three years ago to-day
We raised our hands to heaven,
And on the rolls of muster
Our names were thirty-seven;
There were just a thousand bayonets,
And the swords were thirty-seven,
As we took the oath of service
With our right hands raised to heaven.
Oh 'twas a gallant day,
In memory still adored
That day of our sun-bright nuptials
With the musket and the sword.
Shrill rang the fifes, the bugles blared,
And beneath a cloudless heaven
Twinkled a thousand bayonets,
And the swords were thirty-seven.
Of the thousand stalwart bayonets
Two hundred march to-day;
Hundreds lie in Virginia swamps,
And hundreds in Maryland clay;
And other hundreds, less happy, drag
Their shattered limbs around,
And envy the deep, long, blessed sleep
Of the battle-field's holy ground.
For the swords--one night, a week ago,
The remnant, just eleven,
Gathered around a banqueting board
With seats for thirty-seven;
There were two limped in on crutches,
And two had each but a hand
To pour the wine and raise the cup
As we toasted "Our flag and land!"
And the room seemed filled with whispers
As we looked at the vacant seats,
And, with choking throats, we pushed aside
The rich but untasted meats;
Then in silence we brimmed our glasses,
As we rose up--just eleven,
And bowed as we drank to the loved and the dead
Who had made us thirty-seven!
