Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE LILY OF FORT CUSTER, by JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE LILY OF FORT CUSTER, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: And you want me to tell you the story, lad
Last Line: The lily of fort custer—and she blooms in tennessee.
Subject(s): Militarism; Soldiers; Tennessee; War Injuries


AND you want me to tell you the story, lad, of the old horse, Tennessee,
The stout red roan I rode alone on the track of that snake Pawnee,
The meanest Indian that ever bit dirt, and I hope he is roasting to-day,
For I ain't had a mount that was any account since—What did you say?
Go on with the story? Why, that's what I am, and I'm going to tell it my way!
A Hal he was—the Indian, you ask? Young man, if I had my gun
You'd go to the spirit land yourself before this here tale was done.
Three stout crosses of running blood—old Traveler, Timoleon, Empire—
A Hal on that! Aye, there's the horse the devil himself can't tire,
Molded as trim as a Gatling gun and full to the brim of its fire.

I raised him from a colt myself. My father gave him to me
When I rode West with Custer's men of the Seventh Cavalry,
Away to the shade and the shadow-land, where the Rockies prop the sky,
And the bison herd, like a powder-brown bird, afar on the trail fly—
But we never flickered in all that ride, neither Tennessee nor I.

And gaits? There wasn't a horse in camp could go all the gaits like him—
Canter and pace and single-foot and fox-trot smooth and trim.
He led the wing when the bugler would sing "Boots and Saddles!"—Away!
From sun to sun there was never a run that he wasn't in it to stay—
The showiest horse on dress parade, the gamest in the fray.

And the Rockies! O, the Rockies, lad! God made 'em to teach us how
To look from earth to Grandeur's birth—to His own great beetling brow.
I never had seen a mountain, lad! How they thrilled!—how they loomed on me!

Granite and cloud wrapped in a shroud of snow eternally,
So different from the sweet green hills of dear old Tennessee.

Homesick I grew, I know not why, when we camped in the far Sioux land;
Things were so solemn and silent there—silent and solemn and grand—
And I longed again to see the plain and the rolling waves of wheat,
And the low, soft music of the grain in the June days rustling sweet,
And the gay notes of the mocking bird, where the Duck and the Bigby meet.

But out at the Fort was a maiden,
A maiden fair to see,
And I fell dead in love with her,
And she—with Tennessee,
For she learned to ride upon him,
And her gallop across the plain
Would make you think Athena had come
To break the winged horse again.

And she was the Captain's daughter,
In rank above me far
As above the fire-fly in the grass
Beams out the evening star.
But Love—he smiles at epaulets
As he laughs at bolts and bar.

With eyes like the skies when the shower is over
And the rain drops are soothing the cheeks of the clover—
Dear drops of sympathy all too soon over!

And a face like a vase with two rose-buds in it,
Rose-buds of cheeks, to change in a minute
To the puckered-up throat of a sweet-singing linnet.

And curls like the whirls of the clouds, when the Day-king
Stops his bold ride to the West, ere making
His bed in their bank and his night-goblet taking.

And lips like the dew-wine he sips in the morning,
Mistaking her eyes for the day's in its dawning,
Mistaking her eyes and sweet Eos' scorning.

And her soul! 'Twas the goal of the Angels and Graces,
Seen in their face as they play in their races—
The purest of souls in the purest of places.

And I?
Followed no flag but the blue of her bonnet.
And I marched and I charged by the white streamers on it.
And yet when she turned her blue batteries on me
Brought up her reserve to ride over and scorn me.
I was wretched, and sorry my mother had borne me.
And surrendered, I did, though my heart was enraptured—
A prisoner, yet gloried by her to be captured.

And she?
When she was certain I'd never be free
Gave me her pity and loved—Tennessee.

Heydey! And I say
But that is the way—
Love is a tyrant that never grows old.
Bonnet and curl—
Lord, all my world
Got under that sheen of gold.
Heydey! And I say
If naught's in the way
What glory in battling for beauty to love us?
Love is a star,
To be worshipped afar,
And, like it, should be above us.

Heydey! Yet I say
There's many a way
That love finds his own, though his own be not waiting.
And lips may be mute,
And eyes may refute,
But hearts made to mate find a way for the mating.
In our long ride up from the valley
A Pawnee chief we found—
Old Bone-in-the-Face they called him then,
But now—he is bone-in-the-ground.
Starving he was when we picked him up,
And racked with ague and pain,
But he taught us a lesson we'll never forget,
Which I don't mind telling again—
The good Indians live in the school books, lad,
The bad ones all live on the plain.

The coyote! We nursed and cured him,
And then he turned his eyes
To the Lily, God help her! and when she rode
From the Fort 'neath the sweet June skies
To pluck the flowers that grew on the plain
(A pony she rode that day)
The Pawnee stole the Colonel's horse
And slipped, with a Sioux, away.
Away on the track of the Lily,
Like wolves on the trail of a fawn,
Two hours before a soul in camp
Knew the treacherous dogs were gone—
Two hours before alarm's shrill voice
Waked the echoing sentry's horn!

Away on the track of the Lily, and they lassoed her pony and rode
With her bound in the saddle and helpless, to
Sitting Bull's band at the ford—
To Sitting Bull's tent! for a life that was worse than living in hell's own
abode.

The alarm gun was sounded, we rushed through the gate—the Captain, the
Corporal, and I—
The moon had just risen, a trifle too late to see the sun sink in the sky.
The Captain looked black as the charger he rode, the Corporal sat grim on his
grey,
While I?—just patted old Tennessee's neck and he struck that long
gallop—to stay.

We struck the trail quickly; 'twas plain as could be, the pony's flat track in
the sand.
And then it was headed as straight as a bee to the North, for the Sioux's bloody

band.
A mile further on it turned slight to the right—the Captain sprang quick to

the ground,
For there in the path was a sun-bonnet bright—he kissed it; then, turning
around,

We saw the tears glitter and felt kind o' moist around our own hardened eyes,
Then stood with bowed heads for a moment while each breathed a silent prayer up

to the skies.
'Twas the work of a moment to tighten our girths, cut loose the throat-latch and

curb-chain,
Then strike for the ford—fifty good miles away across the wide stretch of
the plain.
"To the ford!" cried the father, and his rowel shot swift as a star in the flank

of his black.
"To the ford! There is no other place they can cross. To the ford! See the
course of the track!
Two hours the start! Great God give us speed," as the black went away like the
wind.
"Too fast!" I called out, but he never did heed; already he'd left us behind.

"Now, Corporal," I said, "we will test your grey's grit; 'tis a ride that the
stoutest might shun."
And I braced myself firm, held steady the bit, with Tennessee struggling to run,

But I gave not his head, for well did I know not a horse in the world could
stand
Fifty miles of a race at a heart-killing pace in the alkali dust of that land.

Galloping, galloping, galloping on,
Out in the moonlight, galloping on.
No word did we speak, no sound did we heed
But the low, muffled beat of the galloping steed.
The grey, circling dust rose in pillars and spread
Like the ghost of a cloud in the moonlight o'er-head;
And the sage-bush was plated with white in the light
As we raced, like a running team, into the night.
Beyond us, the peak of a towering cone,
Fifty good miles away, on the broad Yellowstone,
Was our snow-covered goal, in the moon-blazoned air,
And we headed full straight for the ford that was there.
Our horses pulled hard on the bit, for the dash
Was a frolic to them in the hoof-beating crash,
And the quick, playful snort, as onward we glide,
From their nostrils keep time to the lengthening stride.
The miles spin behind us, with bound upon bound
Two shadows fly on like a twin-headed hound.
My roan tossed the fleckings of foam in a ring,
As an eagle the snow-flake that lights on his wing.
And with nose to his knees and his ears laid back
He swept a clean path through the dust-covered track,
Galloping, galloping, galloping on—
Ten miles in the moonlight, galloping on.

But onward we went, head lowered, and bent
To the stride like an arrow from ashen bow sent.
My horse was now wet to the mane with his sweat,
And the grey, where the dust and the moisture had met,
Was white as the palfrey Godiva rode down
Through the dead silent street of Coventry town.
His breath comes shorter and quicker—a wheeze,
And I note that his stride is not true at the knees.
I felt of my roan, brought him down to a pace,
For the speed was terrific, the gait—'twas a race!
I stood in my stirrups and cut loose the cord
Of the cantle strap—down went the full useless load!
I threw off my saber and cavalry cloak,
My rain-coat and blanket, and, bending, I spoke:
"Steady, good Tennessee! Steady and true,
There's a race yet ahead, old fellow, for you.
Just swing this long gallop for ten miles or more,
We are frolicking now, but we'll show them before
We halt in the shadow of yon mount by the flood
The never-die spirit of Tennessee blood."
Galloping, galloping, galloping on—
Twenty miles in the moonlight, galloping on.

But see! now he pricks up his ears as we rush,
And shies with a bound to the right from the brush.
A glance, and pitifully struggling with pain
The Captain's black horse is stretched out on the plain,
And I see as I pass, with a pull on the bit,
The scarlet blood gush from his deep nostril-pit.
To the Corporal I said: "Do you know what we passed?"
He nodded—"I knew he was going too fast.
The black was dead game, but too fat and rank
To run twenty miles with a steel in his flank.
Poor fellow! But where can his rider now be?"
"Ahead, and on foot—just ahead, do you see?"
As a speck in the distance, a spot in the grey—
Then a tall, lithe figure plodding away.
He stops at the sound of our galloping hoof;
We draw curb a moment 'neath the silvery roof
That rolls o'er our heads as our steeds make a launch,
Planting stiff knees in sand, thrown back on their haunch.
"What news?" "Go on, and check not your rein,"
Said the father, as quickly he stooped on the plain.
Then rising—"From the track we're an hour behind.
For the love of your homes speed on like the wind!
But halt! Corporal, give me that good gallant grey"—
A moment, and then we were speeding away—
Speeding away through the low, creeping light,
Through the shade and the shadow, the blare and the blight
Of the heat wave that clung to the breath of the night—
Speeding away through the leg-wearying sand,
Through the hoof-stinging flint of that alkali land
With steel in our hearts and steel in our hand,
Galloping, galloping, galloping on—
Thirty miles in the moonlight, galloping on.

Not a word: as we rushed adown a long slope
We bounded as free as the wild antelope.
A coyote howls out from a neighboring hill,
An owl hoots an answer, and then all is still.
A rise in the range of our trail to the right
And our cloud-propping goal flashes bold on our sight.
"Thank God!" cries the Captain, "their powers now fail.
They have come to a trot—see the tracks in the trail!"
And crazed with the grief that a father can feel
He sends the steel home with a desperate heel.
But I mark the short breaths of the grey as he goes,
And his staggering gait as the dust upward 'rose.
"Draw your rein!" to the Captain I shouted aloud;
"Your horse will choke down in this dust-stifling cloud.
We have come many miles without water or rest—
Draw rein just a moment—" Down on his breast,
With a sickening wheeze from his steam-heaving chest,
He staggers—reels—heaves—and over he sinks,
While the blood bubbles up from its carmined brinks.
"Go on, Sergeant—on!" as he leaps to be free—
"My child and her life rest with old Tennessee!"
Galloping, galloping, galloping on—
Alone in the moonlight, galloping on.

For the first time now I felt nervous with dread;
Even Tennessee galloped less bravely ahead.
Each bush seemed an Indian as big as a horse,
Each shadow the ghost of another, across
Our path slipping on in the dim, misty light
To warn those ahead to be ready for fight.
I spoke to brave Tennessee, stroked his wet crest,
Talked of the home where we both used to rest—
The meadows, where shone the calm, blue sky above,
And the blue grass below in the land of our love—
Of the old mare, perchance nodding now in her stall,
And the father and mother—ah! dearest of all.
And I smile even now as I think of the song
I sang out aloud as we staggered along;
And Tennessee braced himself up at the sound,
For I felt his feet strike a bit steadier the ground,
And it nerved even me—not a moment too soon,
For there, standing there in the light of the moon,
Almost in our pathway—how quickly it rose!
Then,—the twang of a bow under Tennessee's nose,
Just as the horse on his haunches arose,
And the deadly barbed arrow, intended for me,
With a rattlesnake hiss struck brave Tennessee
Just under the throat, near the big throbbing vein,
And came out above, in his sweat-covered mane.
But he drew not another, for quick through his head
My Colt sent a cone of government lead—
And Uncle Sam's darling in the moonlight lay dead!
A moment's convulsion—on his knees sank my roan—
Down! and my heart sank, too, with his groan,
But, struggling, he 'rose with the staggering pain
As I spoke, and came to his senses again,
Then plunged—reeled—plunged—Great God, would he fall
With that flint in his throat? In vain was my call!
How I pitied him, struggling, the will 'gainst the flesh!
But I thought of the Lily and urged him afresh,
And I plunged both my spurs in his death-shaking sides.
He never had felt them before in his rides,
For he bounded away with the bit in his teeth
And the frenzy of death in his hoof-beats beneath.
And he ran as if knowing his last race was run—
Was there ever a grander one under the sun!

A spurt on the trail, a maiden's low cry,
Half-strangled—and then we were thundering by.
Useless my pistol! I threw it away;
Too close was the Lily—too deadly the fray!
A spring and a grapple! A hand to hand strife—
A blow—here's the scar from his murderous knife—
The next and my grandfather's King Mountain made
A path through his heart to his left shoulder blade.

A maid on the sand—and she held in her lap
Not my head—but that of a far nobler chap.
A maid on the sand—and her tears fall free
On the quivering muzzle of brave Tennessee,
While his poor, pleading eyes seemed to linger above
To tell her he galloped that gallop for love.
That's all! When I waked from a two hours' swoon
(Where I dreamed a sweet Lily grew by a lagoon
And kissed me and bound with her leaflets my wound)
The Captain was there with fifty picked men,
And they swore such a ride they would ne'er see again!
And the Captain broke down, and the Lily and me,
And we all went to camp—all but old Tennessee.
He sleeps by the shore
Where swift waters roar,
The mountain his monument
Till time is no more,
And beneath—this is carved where a boulder hangs o'er:

HERE LIES TENNESSEE,
of the
SEVENTH CAVALRY.
the
same was a horse,
yet
HE GALLOPED ACROSS
The Plain
To Fame.
Of Three, He Alone had
The Blood and the Bone
TO RUN
Fifty Miles to the Yellowstone.
To Save a Life He Gave His Own.

And now I have told you the story, lad,
Except—well, I soon came home,
For I had no mount that was any account
And I had no heart to roam.
But after a while I did go back and
I brought her home with me—
The Lily of Fort Custer—and she blooms in Tennessee.





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