Poems (Terry, 1861)/Fremont's ride

by Rose Terry Cooke

FREMONT'S RIDE.

Night on creek and rancho, bound in sleep we lay,
Dreaming of señoritas and maidens far away,
The heavy tropic moonlight its plates of silver spread
Over Sonoma's valleys, and the gully's rocky bed.

Through the dreams, like thunder, came, rolling loud and long
At the gate of ranch and corral, the beat of knuckles strong:
"Boys! rouse up! they're on us. Quick! the gateway bends,
Who's out there?" "Americans! Open the gate to friends."

Through the portal pouring, eager, hot, and grim,
A hundred bearded horsemen stream in the midnight dim.
First and least and greatest, set on a mustang stout,
The leader of the hundred, the chief of hunt and scout.

Keen as sword or bullet came his rapid speech:
"Give me your horses, Señor! the Puebla I must reach!
The States shall pay you eagles. Quick! for I must be gone,
I'm bound to see Los Angelos before six days are done!"

"But, Señor!"—"Quick, the horses! Los Angelos is far,
Six hundred miles of mud and flood,—the States have gone to war.
I must be in at the death-fight! Oh, I shall make good speed!"
Away went the pale vaqueros—away went every steed.

Gallop, gallop, gallop! over stock and stone,
Through the rocky gully, through creeks of the wild cañon,
Over plain and valley, past the lonely ranch,
Grazing clumps of chapparal, swimming the flooded branch.

Dead dropped mare and mustang. "Off with saddle and bit,—
Mount another, and forward! the fight is raging yet!"
Through San Pablo tearing—tearing through Monterey—
Over bluffs and prairies gallop the mad array.

The sixth day in the morning they reach a river wide;
The bravest pause before it—Fremont is in the tide!
Over, over, over! follow him to the death!
The swollen waves roll deeper, and two are swept beneath.

Horse and rider struggle—"Forward! the brink is won!
Ride, ride for the Puebla! ride lest the fight be done!"
"Hurrah! Fremont and Freedom! Los Angelos we sight;
Now for the Mexican devils! now for a bloody fight!"

So the sharp tornado whirls from a swooping cloud,—
So comes the sudden lightning down from its lurid shroud:
One rattling shout of thunder, then to the thickest fight—
The dying plunge and quiver, the living take to flight.

They shout from the Presidio, they shout across the plain,
And the great heart of his country sends back the shout again.
Hurrah, for the Prairie Hunter! Hurrah for the People's Pride!
Hurrah! Fremont and Freedom! Hurrah for the hundred's ride!