John Reynolds rode his First Corps men
demon-like, all fire and fume.
He'd got the word the Rebel horde
converged upon a town
and they were feeding, plucking lives
and paring land.
Command was his.
Command his lot;
he sat a horse
as straight and dark
as crow on post.
The Iron Brigade
would not be bent that day
nor would
John Reynolds.
Centurian,
as bright as Christ
was sacrificed, and strangely
then the MEN
became the THOUGHT:
"We've come this day.
We've come to fight."
They fought as though they carried him
in every bursting charge;
they could not separate from one
who's cloak of duty was so large.
When smoke had cleared
a most unholy, certain shot
had found his neck. They laid
the wreck of Reynolds
'neath an oak
not near as tall as he.
Martyred,
he transformed
the Northern soul.
The Iron Brigade he'd led
had bled beside him,
died their parts;
had ripped into their chests
and found grenades
instead of hearts.
Next: 'Hogfeed'
