'Flag On Fire' A Spectacle

An 1875-77 photo of the Bullion Mine, Virginia City, Nev., courtesy of J. Paul Getty Museum. The photographer was Carleton Watkins (American, 1829-1916). "Most of the miners in this rugged settlement took special care to dress for their portrait, appearing in their best white shirts and black jackets," Getty notes. "Only the gentleman seated atop the trolley on the left looks as if he has just emerged from the mineshaft. The California Gold Rush peaked in 1852, yet pioneers like those pictured here continued to toil in the mines over twenty years later. While three young children appear in the picture, the women of the town are conspicuously absent. In this depiction of scattered homes carved into a barren mountainside, Carleton Watkins conveyed the isolation of the prospecting and pioneering western frontier."

by Glenn Franco Simmons

The pioneer Virginia City residents couldn't believe their eyes. Torn from a wooden pole on top of Mount Davidson, an American flag was carried by the fierce wind when it suddenly became illuminated by the setting sun peaking through storm clouds over the Sierras. The spectacle was so profound that a female poet took up the challenge and put the experience ~ which captivated countless onlookers on The Comstock Lode ~ to poetry.

This post reveals her long-lost poem, as well as the four American flags, any one of which may have been the flag torn asunder.

C.C. Goodwin mentions, in passing, poem titled "The Flag On Fire" by Anna M. Fitch in his literary masterpiece titled "The Comstock Club."

He notes that in July 1863, a heavy storm with thunder descended upon the pioneer mining outpost.

"… As the sun was disappearing behind Mount Davidson, the clouds broke and rolled away from the west,” writes Goodwin, “while at the same time a faint rainbow appeared in the East, making one of those beautiful spectacles common to mountainous regions.

"At the same time the flag on Mount Davidson caught the beams from the setting sun and stood out a banner of fire. This, too, is not an unfrequent spectacle in Virginia City, and long ago inspired a most gifted lady to write a very beautiful poem, 'The Flag on Fire.'"

"From the summit of Mount Davidson, looking westward from Virginia City, Nevada, float the stars and stripes," Fitch writes. "On the evening of July 30th, 1863, upon the breaking away of a storm, this banner was suddenly illuminated by some curious refraction of the rays of the setting sun. Thousands of awe struck persons witnessed the spectacle, which continued until the streets of Virginia, 1500 feet below, were in utter darkness."

At a time when there were sympathizers of The Union or the Confederacy in Virginia City, the poem was sure to inflame the pride of patriotism in the hearts of those who supported The Union.

The poem is cast in a reverential, almost religious, style, that seems to indicate a feeling among some observers that the illumination of the Stars and Stripes was somehow divinely ordained and proof that the United States of America would continue to prosper and be victorious in The Civil War.

What no writer mentioned was which American flag was atop Mount Davidson. We don't even know if it was one of the four most-current flags used by the United States.

An American flag used from 1861-63. Public domain.

The Flag On Fire*

by Anna M. Fitch

Up the somber

Silent chamber

Of the silver-seamed Sierra,

Where the Pi-ute

Roams in quiet

And the eagle spreads her eyrie —

Climbed on our flag, and sat in splendor

Climbed our flag, and sat in splendor

Thronged with elemental wonder.

Flushed with warning,

Dawned the morning,

O'er Nevada’s gold-girt canons

While momentous

Clouds portentous

Beat aloft their dusky pinions,

And the lengthening day slow wheeling

'Neath its swarthy height was reeling

Now the marring

Lightning scarring,

Cleaves the mailed front of heaven,

Sifting, shifting,

Drifting, rifting,

Clouds capricious course till even,

So the swarthy army marches,

Conquering through the shadowy arches.

An American flag used from 1861-63. Public domain.

Cloud-bemantled,

Storm-ensandled,

Droops the flag, all gloom-encompassed,

Now unfurling,

Waltzing, whirling,

To the music of the tempest —

While aloft the dark-browed legion

Marshals through the storm-wrapped region.

Now the crumbling

Shadows, tumbling

Into silver-skirted showers

Lo! Upbuildered

From the gilded

Eastern crags, a rainbow towers;

Linked with Carson’s purple fountain,

Circling the desert, vale and mountain.

Fire! Fire!

Fire! Fire!

Who has set the flag on fire?

What vile traitor

By Creator

Spurned, thus dare defy despair?

God of prophecy and power,

Stay the omen of the hour.

An American flag used from 1863-65. Wikipedia. Public domain.

Oh! the splendor,

Oh! The wonder,

To the worshipping beholder!

Gathering, glowing

Flaming, flowing

Skyward — fiercer, freer, bolder

Burn the beating stars of empire,

Lit by traitor-torch, nor camp-fire.

Blood nor palette,

More than all that,

Mid those starry embers linger;

Tis an omen

Sent to no man —

Signet on an unseen finger —

Prophecy from heaven’s own portal,

Borne by winged worlds immortal.

Now circling

Darkness purpling,

Plumes the rock-ribbed mountain hoary;

Yet the hallowed,

Flag unpillowed,

Burns aloft in stilly glory;

Wonder-mute, no man inveigheth;

Peace, be still! a nation prayeth.

An American flag used from 1863-65. Public domain.

In an obituary about Fitch published in "Paradise of the Pacific" Vols. 16-18 (Jan. 1, 1903), Fitch's literary accomplishments were noted.

"…  She had literary tastes, and in the exercise of her talents displayed genius," according to the publication. "One particular poem she wrote, … titled 'The Song of the Flume,' was regarded by William Cullen Bryant as classic. She also wrote 'The Flag on Fire,' 'Over the Hill,' 'The Loves of Paul Fenly,' and 'Bound Down' — a book of Fate.

"She caught a good deal of her inspiration from the scenes, the incidents and the romances of the great Pacific Slope, where most of her life was spent. With her husband she wrote ‘Better Days,’ or a ‘Millionaire of Tomorrow,’ a tale of the present period dealing somewhat with the labor interests."

Futility Of 'Holy' Wars

This public-domain photo by the U.S. Air Force shows a B-52 Stratofortress assigned to the 307th Bomb Wing, Barksdale Air Force Base, La. Photo courtesy of USAF. Photo use does not imply endorsement of such use by the USAF or photographer.

(Editor's Note: This post deviates from the present theme I'm writing about, which is the C.C. Goodwin book titled "The Comstock Lode." Both Goodwin and Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens) were part of the Sagebrush School of writers who were primarily based on Nevada.)

The War Prayer by Mark Twain

It was a time of great and exalting excitement. The country was up in arms, the war was on, in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism; the drums were beating, the bands playing, the toy pistols popping, the bunched firecrackers hissing and spluttering; on every hand and far down the receding and fading spread of roofs and balconies a fluttering wilderness of flags flashed in the sun; daily the young volunteers marched down the wide avenue gay and fine in their new uniforms, the proud fathers and mothers and sisters and sweethearts cheering them with voices choked with happy emotion as they swung by; nightly the packed mass meetings listened, panting, to patriot oratory with stirred the deepest deeps of their hearts, and which they interrupted at briefest intervals with cyclones of applause, the tears running down their cheeks the while; in the churches the pastors preached devotion to flag and country, and invoked the God of Battles beseeching His aid in our good cause in outpourings of fervid eloquence which moved every listener.

It was indeed a glad and gracious time, and the half dozen rash spirits that ventured to disapprove of the war and cast a doubt upon its righteousness straightway got such a stern and angry warning that for their personal safety’s sake they quickly shrank out of sight and offended no more in that way.

Sunday morning came — next day the battalions would leave for the front; the church was filled; the volunteers were there, their young faces alight with martial dreams — visions of the stern advance, the gathering momentum, the rushing charge, the flashing sabers, the flight of the foe, the tumult, the enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender!

Then home from the war, bronzed heroes, welcomed, adored, submerged in golden seas of glory! With the volunteers sat their dear ones, proud, happy, and envied by the neighbors and friends who had no sons and brothers to send forth to the field of honor, there to win for the flag, or, failing, die the noblest of noble deaths. The service proceeded; a war chapter from the Old Testament was read; the first prayer was said; it was followed by an organ burst that shook the building, and with one impulse the house rose, with glowing eyes and beating hearts, and poured out that tremendous invocation:

God the all-terrible! Thou who ordainest,Thunder thy clarion and lightning thy sword!

Then came the “long” prayer. None could remember the like of it for passionate pleading and moving and beautiful language. The burden of its supplication was, that an ever-merciful and benignant Father of us all would watch over our noble young soldiers, and aid, comfort, and encourage them in their patriotic work; bless them, shield them in the day of battle and the hour of peril, bear them in His mighty hand, make them strong and confident, invincible in the bloody onset; help them crush the foe, grant to them and to their flag and country imperishable honor and glory —

An aged stranger entered and moved with slow and noiseless step up the main aisle, his eyes fixed upon the minister, his long body clothed in a robe that reached to his feet, his head bare, his white hair descending in a frothy cataract to his shoulders, his seamy face unnaturally pale, pale even to ghastliness. With all eyes following him and wondering, he made his silent way; without pausing, he ascended to the preacher’s side and stood there waiting. With shut lids the preacher, unconscious of his presence, continued his moving prayer, and at last finished it with the words, uttered in fervent appeal, “Bless our arms, grant us the victory, O Lord and God, Father and Protector of our land and flag!”

The stranger touched his arm, motioned him to step aside — which the startled minister did — and took his place. During some moments he surveyed the spellbound audience with solemn eyes, in which burned an uncanny light; then in a deep voice he said:

“I come from the Throne — bearing a message from Almighty God!” The words smote the house with a shock; if the stranger perceived it he gave no attention.

“He has heard the prayer of His servant your shepherd, and will grant it if such be your desire after I, His messenger, shall have explained to you its import — that is to say, its full import. For it is like unto many of the prayers of men, in that it asks for more than he who utters it is aware of — except he pause and think.

“God’s servant and yours has prayed his prayer. Has he paused and taken thought? Is it one prayer? No, it is two — one uttered, and the other not. Both have reached the ear of Him who heareth all supplications, the spoken and the unspoken. Ponder this — keep it in mind. If you would beseech a blessing upon yourself, beware! lest without intent you invoke a curse upon your neighbor at the same time. If you pray for the blessing of rain on your crop which needs it, by that act you are possibly praying for a curse on some neighbor’s crop which may not need rain and can be injured by it.

“You have heard your servant’s prayer — the uttered part of it. I am commissioned by God to put into words the other part of it — that part which the pastor — and also you in your hearts — fervently prayed silently. And ignorantly and unthinkingly? God grant that it was so! You heard the words ‘Grant us the victory, O Lord our God!’ That is sufficient. The whole of the uttered prayer is compact into those pregnant words. Elaborations were not necessary. When you have prayed for victory you have prayed for many unmentioned results which follow victory — must follow it, cannot help but follow it. Upon the listening spirit of God fell also the unspoken part of the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words. Listen!

“Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth into battle — be Thou near them! With them — in spirit — we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended in the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames in summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it —

For our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimmage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet!

We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen.

(After a pause.) “Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it, speak! The messenger of the Most High waits.”

—

It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense in what he said.