CHAPTER XII. MORE FIGHTING
RALPH arose from the heap of leaves and brush which had served him for a bed the night through, with his bones aching and sore. The army was already stirring, for although the Passes were won, there was promise of another engagement at once. Word was passed along the line that General Lee had withdrawn his forces and crossed the Antietam, where he took up his position on a high bluff near Sharpsburg, and was thus able to command a view of the whole country. But he had met with great losses, from the dead in battle, and from stragglers. He realized the injury the latter had done him; indeed, he complained openly and bitterly, saying that his army was "ruined by straggling." But the best men of his army were still left with him—picked men, of splendid courage and vast endurance. He was determined that the coming battle should decide the campaign, and he waited calmly its issue.
"Lee has the choice of positions," the men said. "He has both flanks resting on the streams. He has the whole four bridges across the creek well guarded; that is, all but one, and that's the point we have to take. We intend to call the attention of the Johnnies to our point of attack, and throw our entire strength against the bridge that is left unguarded, and then cross. They say Lee hasn't much over 40,000 men, but they are a body we shall be proud to meet, and whip."
The artillery practice on both sides was sharp all day, but not much execution was done. At nearly five in the afternoon General Hookers corps made, a dash across the upper bridge, and advancing through the woods, fell upon General Hoods brigade, and a fierce skirmish followed, but the darkness brought it to a close for that night, and both armies rested, eager for the morning light, that they might rush at each other again.
Before sunrise General McClellan hurried Mansfield's corps to Hookers aid, while Sumner was ready to follow.
The renewal of hostilities began early. As the sun rose, his beams lighted up the two armies, angry and threatening. General Hooker threw his forces with vigor against General Jackson's, and pressed him so hard he fell back. The batteries came promptly to the front, and raked the Confederates with shot the entire length of their line, breaking their ranks in wild haste.
Crowding and forcing them back, General Mansfield came to the Unionists' aid, when a shot struck him, and he fell dead, but his command kept on, and entering the woods, got their position and held it, against immense odds. General Hooker here received a serious wound, and was carried away, just as General Sumner crossed the stream, drove the boys in gray before him, and entrenched his men near the little church of Dunker. Here the fighting raged so madly, and the artillery fire was so heavy, that a historian relates that years after, when the trees were cut down and sent to a sawmill to be made into logs, the saws were torn to pieces by the quantity of metal that had pierced the trees, and been hidden there by the growth of the wood. But in spite of this vigorous fire, no irresolution was shown, and as fast as men were shot down at the guns, others were ready to take their places, with undismayed zeal.
A lull occurred, and as the sounds of firing seemed to die away, there was great rejoicing, for to the Federal army a victory was apparently assured, when the hope was suddenly dispelled by the arrival of two divisions of the enemy, who, with a loud yell, threw themselves into a gap in Sumner's line, forcing him from his position, and across the meadows and cornfields, where he made a stand, but the foe retired again to its own position.
"Harry, see those regiments," Ralph said to a fellow soldier—"look at the race. Which will come out ahead, I wonder? They are pretty well matched—both are fleet-footed."
It was a race, indeed. A New Hampshire regiment was marching parallel with a Confederate regiment, and each were intent on reaching a certain high piece of ground. As they ran, the bullets whizzed back and forth, from both sides, and these pleasantries were kept up.
"The Johnnies are ahead—no, they have fallen back a little. The New Hampshire boys are in the lead now. They've reached the ground. Hurrah!" shouted Harry, and in his excitement he threw up his cap, and caught it on the point of his bayonet. As soon as the winners gained the coveted point, they poured shot into their late rivals' ranks.
The artillery was heaviest near the church, and the dead lay so thick that they could have formed a foot bridge the entire length of the line.
"Wonder why Porter and Burnside keep so still?" This question was asked again and again. "See the rebs mowing down our men like ripe grass! Why don't they come to our assistance?"
"They are keeping their troops as reserves. The Confeds don't hold any of their men back, but launch every one of them at us."
"That don't seem to me to be the right policy," said Ralph. "But look—Franklin has come up from Crampton's Gap just in the nick of time. He is very welcome, for there are fresh troops advancing, from the right flank of the boys in gray." Franklin's opportune coming infused new hope, and the boys' eyes brightened, cheery words went round, and muskets were handled with a will.
"General Burnside's orders are to take that bridge. We've got to do it; it won't be very much work, and then we'll soon be over to see our friends on the other side."
"You think that's easy, do you? Wait and see. We're on low ground here, but the land over the other side is higher, and the road runs alongside the stream. Those fellows have their guns well placed, and can damage us bad."
The bridge they were expected to take, was of stone, and rather narrow. The first brigade to attempt to cross was General Crook's.
"Hark! he's gone the wrong way. The rebels are pouring shot into him. He'll be cut all to pieces."
The General had struck the wrong road, and was being subjected to a heavy fire. A Maryland regiment and a New Hampshire followed him on the double quick, but retreated, as they could not stand the fire!
"There is help for us now," said Ralph, "for they are bringing up some guns that will speak loud for our side."
Two heavy guns were soon thundering over the ground, and commanding the boys in gray who were guarding the bridge? Their persuasive tones opened the passage, and triumphantly the Union men crossed the bridge, and secured the position.
Four hours had been consumed, and thus General Lee improved his chance to bring fresh troops to his aid, who drove Burnside from the heights, and retook a battery which he had captured.
The battle was over. When the rattle of musketry is heard, the smoke of battle, and the wild plunging of the frightened horses, and the shouts and fierce onset of a maddened mass of human beings is felt, there is an excitement, a fever in the blood that strengthens the arm, and hardens the muscles—thoughts of self are forgotten. But when those accompaniments are missing—when the awful stillness of a deserted battle-ground succeeds them, then the heart grows faint and cold.
Both armies were glad to rest; both sides had been rent and dismembered. Many regiments in both lines had been slaughtered unmercifully. The victory belonged to McClellan, but the sorrow and anguish belonged to those who loved the fallen ones—to the friends alike of the blue and the gray, in cottage and mansion, all over this broad land of ours.
Daily papers were a luxury, and the boys in the army were always glad to purchase them at a good round price. The newsboy is ubiquitous. He is the product of the century, and will never be shelved as are so many useful things. Their cries were welcome to those men, who were anxious to know what each day was bringing forth and when one galloped into camp, two days after the battle of the Antietam with a bag heavily freighted with New York dailies, he was surrounded at once, and his stock rapidly melted away.
"Good news!" flashed through the ranks as they eagerly devoured the news of the battle of Iuka, with Rosecrans at the head.
"It was a daring attempt," Ralph read aloud to the eager group; "the account says that the Union forces attacked Price's men in a narrow front, with ravines filled with undergrowth, where it was difficult to maintaining a foothold, with but one battery, and with hosts against them, three to one. Yet they swept down the enemy, and fought till darkness overtook them, and in the night the Confederates beat a hasty retreat."
This news cheered the hearts of the boys in blue, and while they were giving vent to their joy in different ways, Ralph's heart was filled with a solemn thankfulness, for to him it seemed as if One above surely ruled their destinies.
CHAPTER XIII. OLD BILL DIES
THE beautiful autumn days grew shorter. Novembers blasts were keenly felt, even in that sunny clime, and the boys looked forward with dismay to a winter passed in inaction.
"Why, we'll have to fight to keep warm," jolly Fred Greene said to the comrades gathered round.
Old Bill had been in hospital for many months. Ralph visited him often, and the sick man's face would brighten, and his voice grow stronger,'whenever the boy came to his bedside. But he seemed to have lost interest in everything pertaining to this life. Ralph tried earnestly to induce him to talk of the events passing around them, but without success.
One morning early in November, when he went to pay his usual visit, the boy said:
"Bill, this is my first experience as a soldier. But you have seen plenty of service before?"
The sick man shook his head slowly, but made no reply. Ralph waited a few moments, and began to think his question had not been considered worthy of an answer, when Bill suddenly spoke:
"Yes, I have been out on the border fighting Indians, for years. How I detest the redskins. They seldom come out and give a man a fair show, but they just go on the warpath, and then it's skulk and lie in ambush, and burn sleeping villages, massacring women and children. Their mode of warfare don't suit me." And the disdainful curl of the lip showed what he thought of them. After a long pause, he resumed:
"Then I was in the Mexican War. I was quite a stripling then, and I fought under General Phil Kearney. He was a fighter, brave as a lion, and when he lost his arm not a man under him but would rather it had been his own arm shot away. He's one 01 General McClellan's most trusty officers. His experience is worth millions to younger men. How I'd like to see noble Phil Kearney!"
"Why, Bill, didn't you know that he was killed at the battle of Groveton, Va., in September?"
"Kearney killed—and I've been lying here, and knew nothing about it! It's too hard. Let's hear all you know, Ralph."
"I can only tell you what we heard. You know we wasn't there to see it, but he was sent to Hooker's support, when the lat-ter's men charged Jackson with bayonets. They had an awful battle, but General Kearney had been sent to their assistance too late, and he was forced back. Hooker almost broke the enemy's line, but fresh bodies of Confederates hastening up, changed the outlook, and so the Union boys were repulsed. At six in the afternoon General Pope ordered another attack, and Kearney came up in fine style, seizing a railroad cut on the Warrenton turnpike where Jackson was nicely entrenched, and holding it for awhile. One of the Confederate regiments who ran short of ammunition, hurled great stones and fragments of the rocks at our men, killing many. General Kearney still maintained his position, but was overpowered by numbers, and driven out of the cut."
Ralph paused, but Bill's eyes were gleaming with excitement "Go on," he said, earnestly—"is that all?"
"The two armies rested till the next day, when a still fiercer attempt was made to rout the rebels, but in spite of the most stubborn fighting, our army was withdrawn from the field, and fell back to Fairfax Court House; but the next evening, September 1st, Stonewall Jackson made another attack upon General Popes flank, which was resisted hotly, and General Kearney, with Hooker, Reno, McDowell and Stevens, were there to help, but General Stevens fell dead at their fire, and as all their ammunition had been used up, his men retired at once. General Kearney started forward to reconnoiter, and was confronted by a Confederate band; he put spurs to his horse, hoping to escape, but they shot him dead."
Bill shook his head solemnly, and leaning back on his pillow, he closed his eyes, as if he had fallen asleep. Glad to have awakened even so slight attention as he had succeeded in doing, the boy continued:
"Bill, we have a new commander now. The President has relieved General McClellan, and we are to have General Burnside. What do you think of that?"
A look of the old time came into Bill's face, as he answered:
"Yes, I have a new commander—one whose call will soon be heard!"
Ralph shuddered. He knew too well the meaning of Bills words.
"I mean our army commander, Bill; General McClellan has been relieved of his command, and General Burnside has been appointed in his place."
"General McClellan—yes, he's too slow. It needs some one with a little push. But it's all the same to me, now."
And that was all he said about the change. He lay on his cot, looking intently at Ralph, and suddenly he broke out with—"I don't know why I'm so fond of you, boy, unless it's 'cause you mind me of Eddie. He was just such a little plucky, fair-faced lad as you are, and I can't help mixing you up with him."
Ralph wondered who Eddie was, but he waited patiently. Bill's eyes burned with a luster the boy had never seen there before. The sick man's face was very thin. The brown tint that outdoor life always gives had faded, and the sharp features looked more pinched and wan from their pallor. He went on in a weak and trembling voice:
"She was a beauty, and I was powerful fond of her. Her eyes were like a young fawn's, and her hair was brown as the chestnuts when they ripen in the sun. She liked Frank better nor me, and she told me so. Then when they were married, I hated him bitterly. But when the little fellow come, and they sent for me, somehow from the first time I took the little tot in my arms, and he smiled up into my face, all my anger died out. After that I would have died sooner than harm his daddy. They were happy with each other. But he died when the lad was ten or so, and left the poor wife alone. I didn't know how to comfort her, and she grieved continually. One day, when he was quite a lad, nearly sixteen, and needed his mother most, they found her dead on her husband's grave. Ah, that is the way some women love!
"That nigh killed me, but I meant to be a good friend to the boy. They took even that comfort from me, for they carried him away down South to his father's folks, and I never seed him again."
The man's face was fever-flushed now, and his words came almost in a whisper. He tossed uneasily from side to side.
"Ralph, my head bothers me—it aches so strangely. I wish—"
But the wish was never told. A wild look came over his face, his words became incoherent. A delirium had seized him, and kindly as he was tended by the nurses and his comrades, he never regained his senses. A few days of apparent suffering, and Bill Elliotts kindly heart ceased to beat. The uncouth, rugged, but brave soldier had passed on to the Great Beyond.
It was late in the afternoon of a raw November day, while the winds shrieked mournfully, when they carried him to a little valley in which they had dug a grave, into whose depth they lowered the body of a brave and true soldier, who never shirked a duty. The chaplain, a plain and tender, man, read impressively that beautiful Psalm:
"Hear my cry, O God; attend unto my prayer.
"From the end of the earth will I cry unto Thee, when my heart is overwhelmed; lead me to the rock that is higher than I.
"For Thou hast been a shelter for me, and a strong tower from the enemy.
"I will abide in Thy tabernacle forever. I will trust in the covert of Thy wings. Selah."
In a clear and ringing voice he read the solemn burial service, and the comrades of the dead soldier listened reverently. When he had concluded, some one suggested that they sing, and a clear, sweet voice broke plaintively into that exquisite hymn,
"Abide with me, fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens—Lord, with me abide; *
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me."
The voice suddenly broke into a passion of tears, and Ralph threw himself on the grave, which was fast being filled up, and cried—"Bill, Bill, you were my best friend—I cannot let you go."
There were many looks of sympathy for the boy, but death was, after all, nothing but a passing incident to men who faced it every hour, and as Ralph went back to his tent, his heart rebelled at the levity which allowed the merry jest to pass around, as to whose turn it would be next.
To him it was a new experience. He had seen hundreds of men shot down in battle, but no one had died whom he had cared for, and it came home to him. He had become deeply attached to Bill, whose cheerful, off-hand manners had enlivened the homesick boy. He had lost his comrade, but his memory was cherished, and he was missed for a long time.
CHAPTER XIV. FREDERICKSBURG
IT was with many forebodings and some outspoken prophecies of failure that many of the Union officers learned that they were to move at once upon Fredericksburg.
"It looks to me like a mad freak to send us out to assault such fortifications as are thrown up on the hills south and west of the town. It isn't right for a soldier to grumble, but when he sees a man perpetrating a piece of folly, that is going to cause a needless sacrifice of life, why, he can't help expressing himself as opposed to the scheme."
The plaint of the captain found a ready echo in the hearts of his fellow officers, but a soldier must obey instructions unquestioningly.
Early morning hours came, the camp was astir, and all preparations were made for a speedy move upon the fortifications.
"Lee has thrown up forts for five miles will stand any attack that General Burnside can make. We are going to our death."
A two o'clock breakfast, eaten in haste in the fog of early morning, was all that the men were allowed. The outlook was gloomy. The river must be crossed, but while Burnside was trying to lay pontoon bridges, the engineers were terribly harassed by the continuous fire of the rebel sharpshooters, who were using the houses skirting the river bank as places of refuge.
General Burnside determined to try the effect of shelling the town. The men who were detailed to lay the pontoon bridges were falling at their posts by the rifles in the hands of a Mississippi detachment which was hidden securely in cellars, behind walls and fences, and in every corner where it was possible to conceal a man. Crack! crack! their rifles were heard, and many a boy in blue was tumbled into the water with a bullet in his brain, to be carried away by the current. It was a fruitless endeavor to keep on with the work, the loss of life was so great. The Federals had better luck at the lower bridges, being able to dislodge the sharpshooters from their rifle-pits.
"What are the prospects for crossing?" asked Sergeant Gregory of an officer who passed at that moment.
"We'll be over somewhere about doomsday, judging from the outlook. The three bridges we need the most can't be laid under the present regime. We've got to evict those sharpshooters from the houses along the river bank, for it's worse than murder to post our men there to be picked off in that cruel fashion—all to no purpose, for bridges can never be built when men are shot down as fast as they show their heads."
The country was hilly, now and then dotted with clumps of trees, while barns, fences, and everything that was combustible, had been converted to use by the two armies, as each in turn had passed over the land. All was dreary and desolate. The sky was leaden-hued, save when a burst of flame from the cannonading would lighten it for a short space, and then it would die down, leaving it almost a pitchy blackness.
General Burnside's resolve to bombard the place had no power to oust the sharpshooters, even when tons of shells were thrown into its streets, setting fire to many of the buildings. When, after a brief rest, the engineers resumed the construction of the bridges, the same result followed—destruction of their numbers.
The town itself was almost impregnable, being completely encircled by hills, save on the river side. These heights were bristling with forts, entrenchments seamed them in every direction, and batteries were planted in such profusion that no opening presented itself for attack.
How long this slaughter would have continued it is hard to tell, but a happy inspiration came to General Hunt, chief of artillery. He suggested that a body of men could make a dash for the river, cross in boats, and besiege the sharpshooters in the houses, driving them out, and taking possession.
The daring of the plan almost took away one's breath, but it seemed the only way to silence the enemy's murderous fire, and it was quickly put in execution. The pontoon boats lay at the river bank. A band of tried men was selected for the perilous undertaking, who at a sign, without a sound or word of command, rushed from their concealment, leaped into the boats, shot out from the shore, and were half across the stream before the Confederates realized their intention. Then came a shower of bullets from their rifles, rattling like hailstones about the heads of the brave men, who held boards up before them for protection, dodging the murderous fire as well as they could, while those who were rowing pulled with a will, and the boats were across the stream in swift time. A few were shot, falling into the river, but the largest number went over safely.
Reaching the shore, the regiments ran up the hills, and succeeded in forcing the sharpshooters from their lairs, capturing over a hundred of them, while the rest fled to the hills.
The way was now clear for the completion of the bridges. A pontoon bridge is a fine piece of ingenuity.
Heavy boats, perfectly flat, often twenty feet in length, are anchored at equal distances from each other, lengthwise of the current, and beams are placed upon them to unite them; then strong, thick planks are laid across the beams, thus making a steady, wide roadway, strong enough to endure the weight of horses, heavy pieces of artillery, and the tramp of thousands of men.
While the bridge was being made, the enemy did not remain quiet, but dropped shells at various points along the river, which exploded, but happily did little injury.
The smoke of the artillery, the flames bursting from the houses, and the struggling army of the Union exposed to a pitiless fire made a picture which was never effaced from Ralph's mind, and years after, when he saw the panorama of "The Battle of Gettysburg," in Chicago, the memory of that day at Fredericksburg came back with vivid force. He was once more a stripling, in the midst of the noise and shock of battle, with comrades falling about him, torn and mangled out of all semblance of human beings, while he was miraculously preserved.
That night the Union forces rested on the ground, in the mud and frost, not far away from the pontoon bridge; and though they knew the morning would plunge them into further conflict, yet tired limbs and aching heads found the refreshing slumber which they needed. Early next morning, after a hasty breakfast, they were ready for any events which the day might bring forth.
A heavy fog hid the other shore, while the air was cold and raw. Long before the sun scattered the mists, cannonading began at the bridge, the main point of attack, but the firing became so severe that orders were issued for them to retire behind the bluffs.
At last the bridges were finished, and the army crossed to the other side of the river, under the continuous shells of the enemy. Now began a terrific struggle. General Franklin had advanced against the troops on the hill, but they had repulsed him, with much loss. General Meade's division was chosen to lead the attack. Down across the railroad they dashed, under heavy fire, their skirmishers having been sent forward, while the well-directed batteries hurled against the hills did some execution.
But the Confederates from their elevated positions poured destruction into their ranks, mowing them down. The Union forces were not daunted, but made an entering wedge between two rebel divisions, turned back their flanks, and captured prisoners and battle flags. Scaling the heights, they were met by the second line, which drove them back in confusion, and they were only saved from utter rout by General Birney, who threw his command in front of the enemy, who were pursuing them.
The sounds of battle grew louder, and as the divisions of French and Hancock moved in columns through the town, the Confederate batteries burst upon them, but they charged across the open ground, to be met by a veritable sheet of flame, which swept into their faces, and literally consumed them. No bravery, no determination, could withstand that awful fire of the enemy, who had taken advantage of an ambush which nature had seemed to furnish them, from whence they sent forth their deadly aim.
A road ran at the foot cf Marye's Hill, which had sunken so much as almost to be unobserved, at a little distance. This road was bounded at its outside edge by a stone wall, where were hidden two brigades of Confederates, who had sent forth this sheet of flame and death. Their numbers were so great, that every man at the wall was assisted by several behind him, who loaded muskets as fast as they could, and passed them to him, while he discharged them as rapidly, leaving only his head exposed for an instant, as he raised it to take aim.
In the face of these fearful odds, the Union soldiers were undismayed. No disorganization, no wavering in their ranks, but they kept on, only to meet certain death.
And now General Hancock, he whose presence was an inspiration, led the charge with 5,000 men, whose intrepid daring carried them within twenty yards of the fatal wall, only to be beaten back, leaving 2,000 dead to tell the tale of the slaughter at Marye's Hill.
General Burnside was beside him himself with rage. In the face of these defeats, he demanded that General Hooker make a bayonet charge, and those doomed men rushed forward, with a valor never surpassed, rallying again and again, until nearly half their number lay dead on the road, or torn with fearful wounds.
The rebel artillery was not idle, but as the Federals retreated, sent shells after them, still plowing their numbers with deadly effect.
A heavy storm of rain came on in the night, and under cover of its inclemency, the Union troops withdrew to the north bank of the Rappahannock, although it had been General Burnside's determination to renew the assault the next day, and lead it in person. This was a step which needed a vast deal of dissuasion on the part of his generals ere he relinquished his mad attempt.
Mud was over the shoe-tops, and the rain was falling fast when the Union army received orders to evacuate the town, and no time was lost in obeying. The pontoon bridges carried them safely across from the scene of disaster, and left the army in a sorry plight.
Decimated in numbers, the dead alone counting 12,000, disappointed, hospitals full to overflowing, the dead to bury, the predictions of defeat had been bitterly realized. It is said that the brave and dashing General Meagher went into that battle with the Irish brigade, over 1,200 strong, and came out with a little over 200.
It was plain that the men had been sacrificed through incompetency and stubbornness. Murmurs and discontent were abundant, as the army prepared to settle down in its winter quarters.