Classic Poem

" Cut the cables! " the order read,
And the men were there; there was no delay.
The ships hove to in Cienfuegos Bay, —
The Windom, Nashville, Marblehead, —
Beautiful, grim, and alert were they,
It was midway, past in the morning gray.
" Cut the cables! " the order said —
Over the clouds of the dashing spray,
The guns were trained and ready for play;
Picked from the Nashville, Winslow led, —
Grim death waits ashore, they say;
" Lower the boats, Godspeed, give way. "
Did " our untried navy lads " obey?
Away to their perilous work they sped.

Now, steady the keel, keep stroke the oar!
They must go in close, they must find the wires;
Grim death is alert on that watching shore,
That deadly shore of the " Hundred Fires. "
In the lighthouse tower, — along the ledge, —
In the blockhouse, waiting, — the guns are there;
On the lowland, too, in the tall, dry sedge;
They are holding the word till the boats draw near.
One hundred feet from the water's edge,
Dazzling clear is the sunlit air;
Quick, my men, — the moments are dear!
Two hundred feet from the rifle-pit,
And our " untried " lads still show no fear —
When they open now they 're sure to hit;
No question, even by sign, they ask,
In silence they bend to their dangerous task.

Quick now! — the shot from a smokeless gun
Cuts close and spatters the glistening brine;
Now follows the roar of the battle begun,
But the boys were bent in the blazing sun
Like peaceful fishermen, " wetting a line. "
They searched the sea while a shrieking blast
Swept shoreward, swift as the lightning flies, —
While the fan-like storm of the shells went past
Like a death-wing cleaving the hissing skies.
Like a sheltering wing, — for the hurricane came
From our own good guns, and the foe might tell
What wreck was wrought by their deadly nim;
For the foe went down where the hurricane fell.
It shaltered the blockhouse, levelled the tower,
It ripped the face of the smoking hill,
It beat the battle back, hour by hour,
And then, for a little, our guns were still.
For a little, but that was the fatal breath, —
That moment's lull in the friendly crash, —
For the long pit blazed with a vicious flash,
And eight fell, — two of them done to death.

Once more the screen of the screaming shot
With its driving canopy covered the men,
While they dragged, and grappled, and, faltering not,
Still dragged, and searched, and grappled again.
And they stayed right there till the work was done,
The cables were found and severed, each one,
With an eighty-foot gap, and the " piece " hauled in,
And stowed in place, — then, under the din
Of that deafening storm, that had swept the air
For three long hours, they turned from shore
( " Steady the keel " there; " stroke " the oar),
To the smoke-wreathed ships, and, under the guns,
They went up the side, — our " untried " ones.

Quiet, my brave boys; hats off, all!
They are here, our " untried " boys in blue.
Steady the block, now, all hands haul!
Slow on the line there! — look to that crew!
Six lads hurt! — and the colors there?
Wrap two of them? — hold! Ease back the bow!
Slow, now, on the line! — slack down with care!
Steady! they're back on their own deck now!
The cables are cut, sir, eighty-foot spread,
Six boys hurt, and — two of them dead.
Half-mast the colors! there's work to do!
There are two red marks on the starboard gun,
There is still some work that is not quite done,
For our " untried " boys that are tried and true.
It was n't all play when they cut the wires, —
Well named is that bay of the " Hundred Fires. "