The Baby Corps

Being some account of the little cadets of the Virginia Military Institute, who stood the examination of war at New Market, Va. May 15, 1864, in the front line of the Confederate forces, where more than three hundred answered to their names and all were perfect.

We were only a lot of little boys—they called us a

baby corps—

At the Institute in Lexington in the winter

of '64;

And the New Year brought to the stricken South

no end of the war in sight,

But we thought we could whip the North in a week

if they'd only let us fight.

One night when the boys were all abed we heard

the long roll beat,

And quickly the walls of the building shook with

the tread of hurrying feet;

And when the battalion stood in line we heard the

welcome warning:

"Breckinridge needs the help o' the corps; be

ready to march in the morning."

And many a boastful tale was told, through the

lingering hours of night,

And the teller fenced with airy foes and showed

how heroes fight.

And notes of love were written with many a fevered

sigh,

That breathed the solemn sacrifice of those about

to die.

Some sat in nature's uniform patching their suits

of gray,

And some stood squinting across their guns in a

darkly suggestive way.

The battalion was off on the Staunton pike as soon

as the sun had risen,

And we turned and cheered for the Institute, but

yesterday a prison.

At Staunton the soldiers chaffed us, and the girls

of the city schools

Giggled and flirted around the corps till we felt like

a lot of fools;

They threw us kisses and tiny drums and a volley

of baby rattles,

'Til we thought that the fire of ridicule was worse

than the fire of battles.

We made our escape in the early dawn, and, camping

the second night,

Were well on our way to the seat of war, with

Harrisonburg in sight;

And the troopers who met us, riding fast from the

thick of the army hives,

Said: "Sigel has come with an awful force, and

ye'll have to fight fer yer lives."

But we wanted to fight, and the peril of war never

weakened our young desires,

And the third day out we camped at dusk in sight

of the picket fires;

Our thoughts, wing-weary with homeward flight,

went astray in the gloomy skies,

And our hearts were beating a reveille whenever

we closed our eyes.

"Hark! what's that? The sentry call?" (A

galloping horseman comes.)

"Hey, boys! Get up! There's something wrong!

Don't ye hear 'em a-thumpin' the drums?"

Said the captain, who sat in the light of the fire

tying his muddy shoes:

"We must toe the line of the Yankees soon, an'

we haven't much time to lose.

"Hats off!" And we all stood silent while the

captain raised his hand

And prayed, imploring the God of war to favor

his little band.

His voice went out in a whisper at last, and then

without further remark

He bade the battalion form in fours, and led us

away in the dark.

We lamed our legs on the heavy road and a long

rain cooled our blood

And every time we raised a foot we could hear the

suck of the mud.

At noon we came—a weary lot—to the top of a

big clay hill,

And below were miles of infantry—the whole bunch

standing still.

The league-long hills are striped with blue, the

valley is lined with gray,

And between the armies of North and South are

blossoming fields of May.

There's a mighty cheer in the Southern host as,

led by the fife and drum,

To the front of the lines with a fearless tread our

baby cadets have come.

"Forward!" The air is quaking now; a shrill-

voiced, angry yell

Answers the roar of the musketry and the scream

of the rifled shell.

The gray ranks rushing, horse and foot, at the

flaming wall of blue

Break a hole in its centre, and some one shouts:

"See the little cadets go through!"

A shell shoots out of its hood of smoke, and slows

mid-air and leaps

At our corps that is crossing a field of wheat, and

we stagger and fall in heaps;

We close the ranks, and they break again, when a

dozen more fall dying;

And some too hurt to use their guns stand up with

the others trying.

"Lie down an' give 'em a volley, boys—quick there,

every one!

"Lie down, you little devils!—Down! It's better

to die than run."

And huddling under the tender wheat, the living lay

down with the dead,

And you couldn't have lifted your finger then

without touching a piece of lead.

"Look up in the sky and see the shells go over

a-whiskin' their tails";

"Better not lift yer hand too high or the bullets

'll trim yer nails."

Said the captain, "Forward, you who can!" In a

jiffy I'm off on my feet

An' up to their muzzles a-clubbin' my gun, an'

the Yanks have begun a retreat.

Said a wounded boy, peering over the grain,

"Hurrah! See our banner a-flyin'!

"Wish I was there, but I can't get up—I wonder

if I'm a-dyin'?

"O Jim! did you ever hear of a man that lived

that was hit in the head?

"Say, Jim! did you ever hear of a man that

lived— My God! Jim's dead!"

A mist, like a web that is heavy with prey, is caught

in the green o' the fields;

It breaks and is parted as if a soul were struggling

where it yields;

The twilight deepens and hushes all, save the beat

beating of distant drums,

And over the shuddering deep of the air a wave of

silence comes.

By lantern light we found the boys where under the

wheat they lay

As if sleep—soft-fingered, compelling sleep!—had

come in the midst of play.

The captain said of the bloody charge and the

soldiers who fought so well:

"The army had to follow the boys if they entered

the flames o' hell."