April 2022 Pome
THE DRUMMER AND
THE GENERAL *
Pittsburg
Landing, Tenn., 5 April 1863
"Now, boy, " said the General
quietly, "You are the heart of the army.
Think of that. You're the heart of
the army. Listen now."
--
Ray Bradbury, "The Drummer Boy of Shiloh"
Young
Joby, the drummer, lay sleepless, in the cool of an April night,
Staring up through the darkness. In
the morning there'd be a fight.
He was frightened and most unready,
his eyes and his cheeks were damp,
And he wondered about the army,
stretched out in their slumbering camp.
A footstep crunched in the shadows,
the boots of a man with stars,
He smelt of brass and leather, the
smoke of his good cigars--
His sabre clinked in its scabbard as
he knelt at the drummer's side,
"Is that you, boy?" he
murmured, Joby nodded, eyes opened wide.
"I hope you're done with the
weeping, as I was, an hour ago."
"You cried?" "To be sure," said the General,
"it's a pain all soldiers know.
I order my boys into battle, knowing
well that some shall die,
But my tears are shed in
private--the troops mustn't see me cry."
"Now harken, lad, it's
important. Tomorrow, you're in
command,
For the battle hangs on the drummer,
a boy of the regiment's band.
This army of fifty thousand must
have but a single mind,
And the drummer's the one true
leader, when the General's left behind.
"If you rap out a lazy
drumbeat, the cadence a mite too slow,
The men's blood won't be warming,
going in against the foe-
They're young, all unused to battle,
untrained as a flock of lambs,
One day they're their mother's
children, the next, they are Captain Sam's.
"I dare not say to those
mothers that I wasted their precious sons,
So, boy, drum a rattling quickstep,
and we'll take those enemy guns,
Tomorrow we'll break those Rebels,
we'll win us a victory.
I've done my best for the army, will
you now do this for me?"
The General paused, and the drummer
thought hard, for a brave reply,
"Well,
sir," he managed to stammer, "I don't know, but I'll surely try!"
"That's good enough," said
the General, and his sabre jingled again,
As he rose to resume his pacing, the
facing of soul-deep pain.
His bootsteps faded in darkness, and
the boy closed a peaceful eye,
Peach-petals tapped on his drumhead,
unseen under soft spring sky,
Around him slumbered the army, fifty
thousand boys in blue,
And Joby slept well until
morning--he knew what he had to do.
4-27-97
