2000 HISTORY POETRY COMPETITION VICTORY PARADE
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Presenting the winnerws of the

2000 History Poetry Competition

American Civil War Category Winners

First Place I Second Place I Third Place

General History Category Winners

First Place I Second Place I Third Place

Links I Contact Us

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AMERICAN CIVIL WAR CATEGORY WINNERS
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First Place . . .

"A Frightened Boy" by Sandra McBride

"Don't fire!" the captain told us
As we hunkered in the lane.
I stroked my musket nervously
And waited to take aim.
We knew them Yanks were comin',
The air was deathly still.
My eyes were fixed upon the crest
Of Farmer Roulette's hill.
One banner, then another,
Appeared against the sky.
"Stay calm, my boys," the captain said,
"Don't be afraid to die."
A wave of bluecoats lined the ridge
And up and down the line
Hammers clicked. "Not yet, my boys,
Wait until it's time."
On they came, a thousand strong,
Spread all across the hill,
And it took all the guts we had
To wait there, calm and still.
"Ready," called the captain.
I took a deadly aim
And tried to still my shaking hands...
My comrades did the same.
The faces in the charging line
Were close enough to see.
They didn't look like evil men,
Just frightened boys like me.
"Fire!" the captain shouted.
Thunder shook the ground.
The blue wave coming at us
Crumbled and fell down.
I rammed another cartridge
In the barrel of my gun,
And through the stinking, swirling smoke
I shot another one.
My sergeant fell beside me,
Sprawled dead in bloodied grass,
Yet still them Yanks were comin'
And they were comin' fast.
The battle raged around us,
For hours we held the lane.
We fired until our guns got hot
But still more Yankees came.
"Fall back! Fall back!" the captain cried
And we who still could run
Left all of us who couldn't
Dead or dying in the sun.
Then as I fled the sunken road
And ran for Piper's corn,
I turned to take just one last shot
That awful, hellish morn.
A bullet slammed into my chest...
The last thing I could see
Was a smoking rifle in the hands
Of a frightened boy like me.

About the Author

Biography - Sandra McBride lives on a small farm near Mechanicville, New York. She is a lifelong American history buff who enjoys writing poetry, short stories, and children's fiction.

Roots - McBride's great-great-grandfather's three brothers were members of the 27th Massachusetts. All three were taken prisoner at Drewry's Bluff. The eldest, Hiram Blair, was eventually exchanged. David and Joseph were imprisoned at Andersonville, Georgia, and died there two months laters...within ten days of each other.

About the Poem

This poem is based upon the infamous battle of the Sunken Road during the Battle of Antietam, 17 September 1862. Thousands of men died there in a span of three hours of intense, close-range fighting. "In all the studies of generals and strategies, victories and losses, deeds of valor and tales of tragedy, one factor remained constant in the Civil War, as in all wars...most of the fighting was done by frightened boys," McBride says. "This poem is a tribute to the frightened boys of both sides who fought the battles with courage and honor."

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Second Place . . .

"Phillip Grine" by William Schweis

During a pause in the carnage
when the battle was quiet and still.
He climbed over the breastworks
and, slowly on down the hill.
A no-man's land
where the green grass was now blood red,
Where Alabamians and Texans lay
wounded and dying, and dead.
A short time later he came back uphill
bearing his heavy freight,
Puffing and gasping
under the strain of the big Texan's weight.
He handed the wounded Texan
over to his Pennsylvania brothers,
Then, went back down the hill
whispering softly, "There are others!"
He came up the steep hill once more
a struggling and slow pace,
Carrying an Alabama soldier
with a boyish, angelic, sweet face.
The soldiers standing by watching
were filled with both pride and shame.
Finally compelled by their conscience
to enter the young hero's game.
"We'll help you young Phillip,
to bring the next one back!"
But suddenly the Confederates
decided to renew their attack.
The soldiers quickly scrambled
back to their hilltop protection.
Only one brave Pennsylvanian
continued in his downhill direction.
They found young Phillip at battle's end
near the soldier he sought to save.
They brought the two young men to the hilltop,
each to their separate grave.
In a time of war, when the order of the day
is to kill all the enemy you can!
The light of hope burns most brightly
when man gives his all for man!
From death and carnage on Little Round Top
a brilliant light did shine.
It came from the sacrifice of a Pennsylvania boy
whose name was Phillip Grine.

About the Author

Biography - William Schweis, a resident of New York, New York, has been a Civil War buff for many years.

About the Poem

Schweis first learned of young Grine's heroic act on Little Round Top while reading Harry W. Pfanz's book, "Gettysburg - the Second Day." Schweis says, "The story touched me and that very night, I wrote this poem." It is fiction, based on fact.

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Third Place . . .

"My Son, My Son" by Lawrence Cawley

News of the battle came so slow
But we knew you were there, my son
We worried for many we did not know
And we worried and prayed for just one

Then came the letter from Ezra, your friend
With accounts of the battle so clear
Burnside had sent you again and again
Up that hill, thinking victory was near

Into the storm of hot steel and lead
Pierced once and again, still went on
Over comrades lying there wounded and dead
To reach Maryes Heights just beyond

Oh, that I'd been there my son, my son
To shelter you in my arms
To be your shield from shot, shell and gun
To protect you from all hurts and harms

But, I couldn't be with you when you fell
Instead you have died alone
I could not comfort or bid you farewell
Oh, my son, ... my son, ... my son.

About the Author

Biography - Larry Cawley is a resident of Morriston, Florida. "I have been studying the Civil War and its' causes for 35 years," says Cawley. "Although I write other poetry, the Civil War era is my favorite subject." Cawley participates in local poetry readings and gives talks on Southern heritage.

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GENERAL HISTORY CATEGORY WINNERS

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First Place . . .

"Jaws of Hell" by Basil Hall

We were company C third battalion
Making a sweep of the Langley range,
Searching for Apaches raiding north
In command was Captain Richard Haynes.

We came out of the Owen mountains
And saw where the waters fell,
We rode down a narrow green valley
Into the middle of that Apache hell.

In the dark of night they came
As silent as the serpents creep,
Around the place of our encampment
They hid in the shadows deep.

They made no march along the line
Nor did they come with a front attack,
We posted guards around our camp
To make sure we protected our back.

With the first light of dawn they came
They rose like ghosts from the ground,
We beat them back in the first attack
But two of our men were down.

Again they came, again we held
They took their wounded when they fled,
The air was filled with smoke and fear
And Corrigan and Dunn were dead.

Throughout the day our men held firm
We piled the ground with their slain,
But it seemed as if the more we killed
The more of them that came.

The sun was merciless our water low
And finally the Captain said,
If we dont break from this trap today
Tomorrow we will all be dead.

So we mounted up, the wounded we took
The dead we left behind,
The Captain in front gave the command
And we charged the Apache line.

We broke free from the trap
And rode out into the open plain,
The black smoke billowed around us
From the grass they had set aflame.

We rode hard and we rode fast
As horses and men fell and died,
But we wouldn't stop for man nor beast
On this wild and desperate ride.

We came to Juniper springs at nightfall
We knew we had done our best,
Twenty seven men had started that ride
Eighteen of us were left.

When stories about soldiers are told
And there will always be one to tell,
They'll talk about company C third battalion
And how they rode through the jaws of hell.

About the Author

Biography - Basil Hall is a resident of Warren, Ohio. Hall has always been interested in history, with a particular interest in the settlement of the American West. He writes often on this topic, narrative-type poetry dealing with fictional events and people of the era.

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Second Place . . .

"Below the Evening Star: The Saga of Bjarni Herjolfsson" by Ronald Johnson

- I -

The tortured land of fire and ice,
though no man's dream of paradise,
was home to Bjarni and his crew,
t'was there in winter they withdrew.

Throughout the spring and summer times
they plied their trade in temperate climes
as merchantmen and sailors bold
in search of copper, cloth and gold.

But when the season's work was done
and shadows lengthened as the sun
sank well below the middle plane
they set their sails for home again.

Such was their custom every year
to turn about and northward steer
for Iceland's bleak and rocky shore
and family waiting at the door.

But this year on the frozen strand
of this extremely barren land
no one was there to welcome home
these sailors who had ceased to roam.

But once ashore they quickly learned
Their families all had westward turned
And they were urged to follow close
And join them on the Greenland coast.

So then across the blue-green waves
and, unbeknownst their kinsmen's graves,
with billowed sails and spirits grand
they set their course for Erik's land.

But nature's fury changed their course
and thwarted them with awesome force
as storm tossed seas and fearsome gales
did tear and rip their tattered sails.

For days on end with clouded skys
the sun was hid from anxious eyes
and endless fog and swirling mist
would grasp them with a giant fist.

But these were Norsemen, brave and bold,
descendants of a race so old
that fact and myth were intertwined
and courage was in them defined.

So after days of constant strain,
of sleepless nights and drenching rain,
the sun appeared on high once more
and Bjarni's crew had won their war.

- II -

On placid seas the knaar rode high
beneath a cloudless azure sky
but Bjarni reckoned by the sun
their goal was far from being won.

'Eight hundred miles across the sea
and north is where Greenland will be
so guard your strength,' he told his crew,
'our voyage now begins anew!'

But as the ship was brought about
abruptly from the bow, a shout:
'It's land I see, and not so far!
Look, there, below the evening star!'

So once again the course was west
with hope that this would end their quest
but as they neared the strange new land
they found 'twas not the Greenland strand.

But still the crew of Bjarni's knaar,
who'd weathered storms and come so far,
desired to land and rest a while
before they journeyed one more mile.

But Bjarni urged them to press on,
the autumn winds would soon be gone.
With stores enough to see them through
he gave the order to his crew.

'Now hoist the sail and turn about.
You heed me well and have no doubt
I'll take you to your families dear
and that, my men, I firmly swear.'

The course once more was set for North,
for Greenland's shore and home and hearth
where loved ones waited anxiously
for those who sailed the angry sea.

- III -

Two days elapsed and once again
the cry rang out, 'It's land, it's land!' and
true enough, 'twas off to port,
the lookout's words did not distort.

This land was wooded, dark and green,
with sandy beaches, white and clean,
still Bjarni knew from what he'd heard
to call this Greenland was absurd.

'Twas true the grass and trees were green
but based on tales of those who'd seen
the Greenland heights encased in snow
this place was nothing they would know.

A landing here he did refuse
and suffered from his crew's abuse
but Bjarni vowed to see them through
and that the oath he swore was true.

So north by northeast lay the course
as onward sailed these hardy Norse
until they saw a land of stones
reminding them of whitened bones.

Agreeing with their captain's word
that this new land, which was their third,
could never be a land of worth
they deemed it best to give wide berth.

The polestar beckoned them ahead
as if it were a silver thread
when reeled in would lead them home
through ocean's waves and spewing foam.

And such it was, at dawn's first light,
appeared to them a welcome sight
for in the distance looming tall
was Cape Herjolfsness' massive wall.

By eventide the cape was reached
and Bjarni's knaar was firmly beached.
Then, as he stepped upon the shore,
he vowed he'd sail the seas no more.

But know you this, no man can say
that Bjarni's courage drained away
for his decision, wisely made,
was not because he was afraid.

He merely knew he tempted fate,
in truth he did anticipate,
that if he did at sea remain
his soul the sea would surely claim.

- Epilogue -

This was the tale as told to me
by Bjarni and his company.
When asked to speak of what they'd seen
they answered in a cautious mien.

In all their lives on land or sea,
and on this they did all agree,
that such a storm they'd never seen
nor ocean's waves that were so mean.

But then in glowing terms they spoke
of distant lands that did invoke
in any man with vision grand
desire to see this great new land.

They said the man who journeys far
will find it 'neath the evening star.
I'll find that land, I'll be the one;
my name is Lief...I'm Erik's son!

About the Author

Biography - Ronald Johnson is a resident of Durango, Colorado.

About the Poem

This poem is based on historical fact. "Having a keen interest in the historical aspects regarding the Norse discoveries and explorations of the North American continent," Johnson says, "I became fascinated with the story of Bjarni Herjolfsson. Bjarni has arguable been credited with being the first European to have sighted what was to become North America. His discovery was by chance as he was blown off his intended course which was for Greenland. He did not go ashore at any of the three ‘lands' he sighted as he was anxious to reach his father's home in Greenland. There was much dispute among the members of Bjarni's crew with regard to not going ashore but the captain prevailed. "The actual discovery of North America was left to the son of Erik the Red, Leif Eriksson who, historically speaking, was given the credit. But, to some students of history at least, Bjarni Herjolfsson receives a portion of that credit. If not for him, Leif may never have made his voyage to Vinland. "The reference to Bjarni in the poem's seventh stanza - regarding his crew sailing "unbeknownst over their kinsmen's graves" - has a basis in fact. Several of the ships accompanying Erik Thorwaldsson (Erik the Red) to the Greenland settlement sank in storms west of Iceland. Bjarni and his crew would not have known of that event prior to sailing. The latter were very fortunate to not have met the same fate."

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Third Place . . .

"The Lay of Sir Roger" by Gordon Mustain

Rest ye all and drain a cup or two
as my lute I tune and then a tale to you
will sing of noble knights
and manors spled'rous to the eye,
of Duke-born sons in liv'ried gear,
the clash of swords and lordly battle cry.

Roger, Duke of St. Remey,
the noble lord of whom I sing,
granted fife by Charlemagne
for knightly service in the spring
campaign against the Saxon horde
when, riding forth with eager sword
and ent'ring bold into the fearsome fray,
two-score Saxon knights, alone, did slay.

Born of Christian union
‘twixt Lorraine and Dunsimere,
sent as page to Pepin's court
for Lady Westering to rear,
Roger was but ten and three
when first he showed his lordly might,
dropping from an elmwood tree
as daylight vanished into night
and armed with but his practice blade,
dispatched a Saxon raider there,
cutting short with hew and stroke
the Saxon's muttered heathen prayer.

St. Remey, his castle keep,
Elanore his Lady wife,
and Will Durand, his steward there
with justice ran Lord Roger's fife.
A hundred peasants in the field
and forty more within the walls,
wheat and rye and peas the yield,
and three score knights to heed the call
when Roger took his lady's leave
and rode to service of the king
clad in mail by Bishop blessed,
his flag a falcon on the wing.

His manor courts were more than just,
his taxes fair as taxes go,
chivalry was not disdained
and no peasant suffered idle blow
from knight or steward or overseer.
At St. Remey there was no fear.

Two sons bore Lady Elanore
at Witsentide, an hour apart,
and Roger brought from Carcassone
three clergymen to teach the art
of reading and of Christian lore,
of Latin, maps, the law and more.
Quick and strong and fair of face
these noble sons, possessed of grace,
grew straight and tall and fearless, too
and through their lives no ill-wind blew.

‘Twas not until their nineteenth year
burst Britany again to flame
with rumor of revolt and war
and murder in a false god's name.
Duke Roger called his knights to arms,
awaiting not the King's command,
and sent written word to Charlemagne
he was off to tame the Saxon bands.

His sons begged leave to journey forth
and ride to battle at his side,
to wield their swords in Christian wrath
and help to stem the Saxon tide
that threatened all of St. Remey
and other manors in the west;
begged and then by Roger's hand
were knighted and by clergy blessed.

Forth they rode then under falcon's wing,
mounted each on mighty steed,
armed and mailed and crested helm'd,
Roger and his sons did lead
that army out from St. Remey
north unto the Saxon's hold,
with neither sleep nor food did ride
through cloudless heat and starlit cold,
and four days hence did journey end
on bloody field a curse to see,
Christian church torn stone from stone,
six score Christians slaughtered as they sought to flee.

Tears of rage filled Roger's eyes,
his sons, astounded, silent stood,
when the air was split by Saxon cries
and forth they surged from nearby wood
two hundred strong to sixty-five,
roaring out their Saxon vow,
"No Christian leaves this field alive!"

Spinning on his valiant steed
Roger's voice rang loud and true
above the thun'drous Saxon charge:
"For Christ! For King! ‘Tis ours to do!"
And with those words, a son both left and right,
he plunged into the Saxon midst
his sword soon lost to mortal sight
so quick his hew and stroke did fall,
so deadly rained his mighty blows
the Saxons broke before his call
as again above the battle rose,
this time sixty voices strong,
"For Christ! For King! Our duty clear!
Death to Saxon heathens here!"

The Saxons fought like men possessed,
the valley rang with battle din,
the Christian knights like warriors blessed,
each side certain they would win.
Christian blood and Saxon spilled
and never once the battle waned
and no man sought to save himself
though every hand with blood was stained.
For every knight of St. Remey
who fell upon that battlefield
three Saxons warriors died that day
and still the Saxons would not yield.
No quarter asked, no quarter given
they fought as though by devils driven
until at last but five could stand,
two Saxon lords and three of Roger's band.

They drew apart as daylight paled,
sick and wearied of the fight,
and Roger, Duke of St. Remey,
cried in grief throughout the night
for on that day his sons had died,
cut down while fighting at his side.

Vict'ry was called and perhaps ‘tis so
for the Saxon threat died that day,
but never hence did laughter know
Roger, noble duke of St. Remey.

About the Author

Biography - Gordon Mustain, a resident of Tucson, Arizona, is a writer and jeweler. A Marine Corps Vietnam veteran, he is the co-author of "Apache Tears" (1997), and author of "Afterimages" (2000).

About the Poem

"This poem," Mustain says, "was written shortly after having taken a continuing education course in Medieval European History. I became fascinated by the social roles of journalist and mythmaker fulfilled by the minstrels of the Middle Ages. Their choices of how to portray the events of their time both recorded what became the ‘official' versions of those events and shaped the future in terms of how society saw itself and thus how it reacted to new events. In many subtle ways, who we are and how we see ourselves today are concepts originally conceived in the imaginations of minstrels from the Middle Ages." It is a fictional story, based on life in the Middle Ages.

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Other History Poetry Competition Winners

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CONGRATULATIONS TO ALL WINNERS

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I N D E X

History Poetry Competition Victory Parade Home Page

About the History Poetry Competition I

HistoryOnline.Net Home Page I History Articles & Short Story Competition

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