From School to Battle-field: A Story of the War Days

Two minutes more and two soldiers were sent on the run to clean the orderly's horse and equipments. A little darky was set to work on his besplashed leggings. "I'll see you in a few minutes again," said Captain Winthrop, as he and his predecessor hastened away to report to their commanding officer. The guards changed on the pavement outside. A new lieutenant came in and looked curiously at Shorty, now being regaled with soldier coffee and a huge crust of "Capitol Bakery" bread. Fifes squeaked and drums banged on the avenue as the old guard turned off, but Hoover came no more.

When Winthrop reappeared in course of half an hour, "Badger" was ready in front and Shorty was once more in trim for a ride. A receipt for his despatches was stowed in his belt, and then as the captain would have led him forth, the lad thought of Desmond, and briefly he told the story. Winthrop nodded, went back, spoke a few words to the Zouave, and rejoined the lad. Desmond waved his hand. Winthrop grasped Shorty's and shook it warmly.

"Now don't let this mishap trouble you, Regy. No harm has been done. Good will come of it. Now, good luck to you."

How much good was to be the result of that mishap Winthrop could never have guessed at the time. How much poor Shorty had lost through that storm, that morning mud ride, that arrest and incarceration and the consequent fatigue, he was to learn within another day.

CHAPTER XXII

The general was an indignant man when, late that afternoon, he heard the details of Shorty's misadventures, but the general was just. He knew that battles had been lost and kingdoms ruined because of orders hastily or carelessly worded. He might have known, as he said to the staff when discussing the incident, that if he "told that little bunch of springs and impetuosity to stop for nothing and put him on a hard-mouthed horse of similar temperament, the provost guard wouldn't have a picnic." The general knew he could not ignore the authority of the provost-marshal, but he might have known that Shorty would be little apt to stop for sergeants, corporals, or privates when told to stop for nothing.

Only a day or two before several generals and their staffs had an amusing illustration of Shorty's immense conception of his official position. A big working party from the brigade was chopping trees in the woods a mile up the Potomac, and a big pleasure party from Washington was visiting General "Baldy" Smith on the opposite bank. For the entertainment and instruction of his guests this accomplished officer had ordered out a light battery, and with much precision that battery was driving shells into that very wood – and the axemen out. Bearing fragments of iron in his hands, the indignant officer in charge of the work galloped in to his general to say that his party had had to run for their lives, and the work was at a stand. Shorty's horse stood ready saddled, so the general bade the boy orderly carry the fragments, with his compliments, to General Smith, and tell him the battery was shelling his men, and Shorty and "Badger" went off like a shot. Over the Chain Bridge they tore, to the amaze and disgust of certain sentries long accustomed to halting everybody that didn't wear a star, and straight up to the brilliant group at head-quarters they galloped, and with scant apology and only hurried salute, the youngster panted his message and exhibited his collaterals. The general listened with unruffled calm, inspected a fragment or two with professional gravity and interest, noted the fresh powder black on the fracture and concave surface, passed them on to his visitors with some placid remark about the force of the bursting charge, and, to Shorty's unspeakable wrath, appeared to be in no wise impressed with the peril to which he had subjected the men of a comrade brigade, and even less with the presence of the bearer of the message. Shorty had counted on creating a sensation, and he and "Badger" were the only ones to show the least agitation. Bethinking himself of a supplementary remark of the officer who brought in the news – and the fragments, the lad returned to the attack. "One shell burst so close to Captain Wood's head it almost stunned him, sir."

"Ah, did it?" queried the general, with provoking calm. "And was nobody hurt?"

"Nobody was hit, sir," answered Shorty, with temper rising still higher. "But a dozen might have been."

"Ah, well, ride back and tell the general I'm glad nobody was hurt," was Baldy's imperturbable ultimatum, and the lad spurred back in a fury. Of course the firing was stopped, and later the generals grinned affably over the incident, but Shorty's self-esteem was ruffled, and he told the senior aide, to that officer's infinite delight, that further messages to General Smith would "better be carried by some other man on the staff," and of course that story went the rounds of both brigades, much to the merriment of many a camp-fire, but not altogether to Shorty's detriment.

Now, if such was Shorty's conception of the gravity and importance of his duties when bearing a verbal message from one brigadier to a junior, what was not his immensity when a hastily written despatch, conveying tidings of flood and disaster, was intrusted to him by the commander at the front to be delivered to the general-in-chief in town. Shorty rode like a demon that day, and even "Badger" was amazed, and that he, bearer of despatches to head-quarters of the army and ordered to stop for nothing, should have had to stop for bayonets and be lifted by the collar into the presence of the officer of the guard, – that he should find in the person of that officer the butt of the whole First Latin, – that he should be ordered by that – thing – to the common cells wherein were penned the drunkards and deserters, and led thither by the ear, and an impudently grinning Paddy if he was a sergeant, all this was, in truth, too much for Shorty. No comfort Winthrop could offer would soothe his wounded soul. He went back ablaze to brigade head-quarters. The general was away up the Potomac, and didn't return till late. Even then when Shorty tried to tell his tale his excitement and wrath made him incoherent. The general was amazed to think that an officer of regulars would hold his messenger after discovering that he was actually the bearer of despatches. But Shorty's animated description of that callow soldier, and by no means guarded references to his school history, gave the general a clue. He fully intended, of course, to follow the matter up, but other and more important issues came to claim his time and attention.

That night at nine o'clock the general decided to make a personal inspection along his front. Horses for himself and two aides were ordered, and Marmion, the colored hostler, presently came round to the big tent.

"Marse Prime's horse done gone stiff, sir," he said to the adjutant-general, "and I reckon Marse Reggy don't feel much like night ridin'. He's sleepin' da' on de hay."

The officer went and took a peep. Wrapped in his blanket, his head on his arms, the youngster had curled up for a nap, worn out by the excitement and emotions of the day. "Don't wake him," was the order, and the three horsemen rode away.

It was a still, starlit night. The roads were yet heavy with mud. The horses sank to their fetlocks and squashed noisily through the mire until the little party were able to turn into the cart-tracks through the thick woods, and, joined now by the field officer of the day, they pushed on to the outposts. It was the dark of the moon. The blackness of the groves and copses was intense. Objects, except on the open field or against the sky, could hardly be distinguished five feet away. But every now and then there would come the muffled challenge of sentries at inner posts of the guard, and it was over half an hour before they reached the outermost groups, with the line of night sentinels some distance ahead. To every inquiry at every station of officer or sergeant, the answer was the same, all quiet, all alert. There had been much shooting at patrols and pickets for over a month, a practice both sides soon abandoned, but at the time there was hazardous, nerve-trying duty at the front, and few men welcomed it except for the excitement. Somewhere in the neighborhood of ten o'clock, following in single file a winding wood track, a sergeant leading afoot, the party approached the southern edge of a strip of woods and halted while the corporal stepped ahead to assure the sentinel. Then the general rode quietly up to question the man, the sergeant assuming his watch the while, for even in presence of the commander-in-chief there must be no cessation of vigilance.

To the queries as to where the nearest sentries were posted? what were his own instructions? what he would do in certain emergencies? the soldier answered promptly, perhaps a bit impatiently, even as though he might have enjoyed the catechism at another time, but had some weightier matter in hand at the moment. He kept turning and glancing out across the open field to the south, stooping once or twice as though to peer at something against the sky, and the general saw and questioned.

"Anything unusual about?"

"Why, yes, sir; at least I think so. The patrol that came by ten minutes ago said that they had heard horses galloping out across the fields, and I could have sworn I heard hoofs on this here bridle-path where it dips into yon woods. By day nobody can come across here without our seeing them. By night we can't see unless we lie flat and look up, and then they could get within a rod or two."

The general bent over his horse's neck and listened. There was not wind enough to rustle a leaf. The sky was almost cloudless; the fields in front were open and silent; the dark, shadowy woods, beyond, merged in the general gloom. Far off to the right front, over a mile away, a faint light gleamed in some farm-house window. Far off to the left front, the south, there was a dim, lurid tint upon the night that might have come from dozens of watch-fires. Straight away in front the cart-track dove into the darkness on its way across the field, and, over against them, there was a dent or depression in the outlines of the fringe of timber, as it stood against the southern stars, that told where the road entered the opposite grove. It was there, right there, said the sentinel, he was almost sure he had heard horses' feet, but nothing else, not another sound.

"Did the patrol stop at your outpost?" the general asked the sergeant.

"No, sir. It went right along the line of sentries. I crawled out during the afternoon and climbed a tree in the field to our right. You can see it standing there, sir" (and, indeed, its outline was faintly visible against the stars). "I could see some distance off to the south and southwest. Lewinsville and the barns are in plain view, and some scattered farm-houses."

"Did you see any troops?"

"No, sir, but some saw me, and the bullets came a-singing, and I had to quit and crawfish back. But this path leads into a road half a mile or so out there."

And while the sergeant spoke the soldier had resumed his watch, and suddenly they heard him whisper, "Hist!"

"What do you see or hear?" murmured the sergeant, springing to his side.

"There is something out there, by thunder! coming this way. These gentlemen had better get back a bit. I can't tell how many there may be."

Somebody, – some party, possibly, stealing up to feel the pickets again, and here were the general and staff-officers unescorted! What a plum for Southern cavalry to pluck, did they but know! In breathless silence the watchers waited. The general refused to retire. Not a sound could the horsemen hear, but that sentry sprawled on the ground could not be mistaken. Not an object moving was visible. Suddenly, though low and cautious, they heard the click of a gun-lock. The sentry had brought his rifle to the ready. Then, indeed, must there be something in the wind. Ten seconds later, and low, firm, so as to be heard only a few paces away, there came the order, "Halt!" A brief pause, then, with menace in the tone, the challenge, "Who goes there?" For an instant no reply. Then in tremulous voice came an answer in the field to the right of the road.

"It's only me, suh; Marse Finlay's Brennus, suh," and there can be no doubting the Ethiopian accent.

"Who's with you, nigger? Who's back of you there?"

"Nobody, suh. I'se all alone, suh, but they's some gen'lemen way back, suh. They done give me a letter."

"Come in here, Brennus. Let's see your letter," called the sergeant, stepping warily forward, his gun, too, at the charge. And presently out from under the stars steps a tall negro boy, lithe, active, and alert. He is trembling a bit and uncertain of his whereabouts. He needs to know something before he can impart anything, and presently it comes.

"Is you gen'lemen – Yankees?"

"Yankees from the general down," answers the sergeant. "Half a dozen right here ready to hear your story." And the negro seems to recognize alien accent in the Western twang of the speaker, and to take heart at once.

"Dey done gimme a paper," he whispers, and the general interrupts.

"Bring him back to the reserve, where there's a fire. We'll examine him there, sergeant." And, turning his horse, the general leads the way.

It is nearly eleven o'clock when, a little later, half a dozen officers are grouped about the slender, tattered, weary negro, a lad barely twenty years of age, if that. To the general he has handed a roll of tin-foil, on which, as it is unfolded by the gleam of the camp-lanterns, the word "Solace" is stamped, and the thin tissue-paper it encloses bears some writing, over which the general strains his eyes and studies eagerly; bends closer to the light and studies again. Then, straightening up suddenly, he turns upon the young negro.

"Where'd you leave them? How far out?"

"'Bout two miles, suh; p'r'aps not dat much."

"Are you sure about the troops, – about the number? There are none others?"

"Ye-as, suh. Dey ain't any udder companies near."

"And you can guide us right to the spot?"

"Ye-as, suh. Certain, suh."

The general turns sharply on his senior aide. "There's not a moment to be lost. What a pity we have no cavalry! Ride straight to Colonel Connor. Tell him to rouse his regiment instantly and without a sound. Leave knapsacks and blankets in camp. Guide them here as quick as you can. Now, captain, this boy must have a rousing supper. He deserves it."

CHAPTER XXIII

And now if there is a boy reader of this story who doesn't say it is high time he is told what had become of Snipe Lawton, then the narrator never knew a thing about boys. Leaving Shorty to sleep over his injured dignity and lose another of the opportunities of his life, we will turn back the page and look again over the stirring fields thirty miles to the south. As neither Snipe nor his major nor his friend Keating, of the Zouaves, had been recognized among the dead, as they were not apparently among the prisoners, and as they certainly had not reappeared among their comrades along the Potomac, they must be looked for where last seen, close to that old brick and stone Virginia homestead, bowered in the midst of vines and fruit-trees, known as the Henry house.

Not until weeks after – long, weary, perilous weeks – was the story told, and then Snipe was not the narrator. The grave, taciturn major waxed eloquent and even diffuse for once in his life, and the burden of his song was Snipe and Sergeant Keating.

After their second brave advance along the plateau the New-Englanders found themselves unsupported on both flanks, and their men falling from the hot fire that poured in from almost every direction. The old colonel hung on to the last, but saw that to save his regiment he must withdraw, and so gave the order. They fell back fighting, closing to the centre, and only once was there anything like confusion, and that occurred close to the Henry house, when some other regiment that had suddenly marched up the slope to the west almost as suddenly broke and came surging over the right companies, carrying two of them in the rush. It was while staying this disorder that Major Stark was suddenly dashed to earth. His horse, disembowelled by a whirring fragment of shell, reared and plunged violently, falling on his rider and crushing him in his frantic agony. Almost wild with grief and excitement, Snipe sprang from his saddle and ran to the major's aid, even though a dozen gray-clad fellows came bounding at them through the smoke. "I declare," he said, afterwards, "I thought they were coming to help me. They did help, – three or four of them. They pulled that poor horse off just as we've seen a crowd pull a fallen horse out of a tangle on Broadway, and they lifted the major up and stood him on one leg, and one of 'em gave him a drink from his canteen, and another, a boy like myself, actually began brushing him off. Everybody was so crazy with yelling and shouting that for a minute they didn't seem to realize the situation."

But realization came quickly enough. The major's right leg was broken below the knee. He had received severe internal hurts and was dazed and sick, and Snipe and a "reb" between them were supporting him, when some officer shouted, "Get those prisoners to the rear! Here comes another charge." Two or three men strove to carry the crippled officer, who was in great pain, and Snipe was bidden to bear a hand, which of course he did; but their progress was slow, and in the midst of it somebody yelled, "Look out! Lie flat!" And down went everybody as a red volley flashed through the smoke veil from the west, and then, loudly cheering, another Union regiment, a big one, came charging across the plateau, and the "Johnnies" had to scramble to their feet and scurry out of the way. The regiment bounded right over them, it seemed to Snipe, and went on at the guns the rebs were dragging away, and presently it, too, was swallowed up in smoke and fire on every side, and wounded officers and men came drifting back. One of the former recognized Major Stark at once, and made some soldiers lift and carry him, and in this way they got back down behind the Henry house, where there were hundreds of stragglers, – hundreds, – and among them were a number of the Fire Zouaves, and Snipe caught sight of Keating, and the little sergeant joined them at once. "It's all up," said he. "We hain't got no discippline, or we'd a cleaned them fellers out quick as Forty could snuff out a fire." All the same he stood by Snipe and the party carrying Major Stark, and so made a way through groups of scattered soldiery until, somewhere ahead toward the Warrenton pike, they could see blue regiments still in solid line, and ambulances and wagons, and thither they bore their officer until at last they laid him behind the shelter of a stone wall; and there they found one of Burnside's regiments waiting orders, and its surgeon hurried to their aid, and slit up the major's trousers and knocked the lid of a cracker-box into splints, and deftly set and bandaged the fractured leg while the battle raged at the front. Sherman and Wilcox and Burnside still had unbroken and reliable regiments. The little detachment of regular cavalry was drawn up out there to the south on the heights near the Chinn house. The captured batteries might still be retaken if only some practised hand could put in a brigade or two together. But just as they were getting the major into an ambulance there came fierce, crashing volleys through the woods in the direction of the Junction, and a grand chorus of exultant cheers and yells. A fresh line of troops burst from the fringe of woods directly at the south and from the west of the Sudley Springs road. The regiments then advancing up the slope were struck in flank and rear. The cavalry came whirling down off the height with many a saddle empty, and everybody seemed to realize at once that more of Johnston's troops had arrived and turned the right of the line, and then everything seemed to melt away in earnest.

"Still," said the major, in telling of it later, "we could not realize we were badly whipped. We knew we must have punished them as hard as we were punished, all but the mishandling, perhaps, of those batteries, and all that seemed necessary was to fall back on the heights of Centreville and there stand our ground." But instead of going thither by the direct route along the pike, which would have held the commands together, through some further mischance the brigades, left finally to shift for themselves, drifted back the way they came, and this led to the further disaster to the north of Bull Run. No sooner had the retiring troops "uncovered" the stone bridge than Confederate guns and cavalry pushed forward, and one well-handled battery found a position from which it could easily command that suspension bridge over Cub Run, some two miles farther east. And then the fun began in earnest – for the rebs. That bridge was the sole means of escape of all Union batteries and a whole menagerie of draught animals, wagons, ambulances, and even buggies and carriages of sightseers from Washington, all surging back that way. A shell exploding on the bridge killed and wounded the mules of a heavy wagon, which was instantly overturned, completely blocking the passage for other wheels. More shells burst about the ears of the now demoralized drivers and teamsters, who cut their traces, mounted their animals, and rode madly away. As darkness fell gradually upon the scene, a dozen more splendid guns and several dozen wagon-loads of stores and supplies were left, and among the abandoned vehicles was the ambulance conveying the wounded major, watched over by faithful Snipe and Sergeant Keating.

But even now the lad did not despair. At the steep bank of Cub Run, half a mile north of the fatal bridge, a two-horse, two-seated open farm wagon had been left by its terror-stricken owners, who half waded, half swam, across and scurried up the opposite slope. A bright idea struck the boy. It was impossible to get across Cub Run with a wagon. But there were the open fields to the west of it. There were those wood roads that he had traversed the night before. Why not try that way? Somehow, between them, he and Keating got that team and wagon turned about. Then they "boosted" the major to the rear seat, where Keating supported him, while Snipe took the reins and, turning sharp to the north, with dozens of fugitives yelling caution, comment, or suggestion, he drove away from them all into the cool, dark woodland lanes that wound along east of the route the disordered column was following, and just about dusk, emerging on the other side, Snipe caught sight of the ridge and the farm-house, the scene of his exploit the night before. How changed were all conditions now! Away down on the lowlands near Bull Run, in long column of twos or fours, some regimental fragments were still strung out, trailing wearily from Sudley Ford. They still interposed, therefore, between the fugitives and the enemy. The major, though making no moan, was ashen with the agony caused by the jolting of the wagon. The sweat was starting in beads from his forehead, and Keating said they must give him rest. Huddled behind the farm-house they found the two trembling old negroes left there as caretakers. Though unnerved by the sound of battle, they had not dared desert their post. Snipe bade them bring out instantly a mattress and blankets. The seats were taken from the wagon. The mattress and blankets were spread upon the bottom. One of the old darkies cooked a substantial supper. The horses were watered and fed. Provisions, wine, and apple-jack were stowed in the wagon. The major, rested and partially revived, was lifted in. Then with Snipe and Keating trudging alongside, once more under the starlight they drove eastward on the road leading, as the old darkies said, right over to the turnpike.

But a sore trial awaited them. A mile or more they moved cautiously along, and then began the descent of a slope, at the bottom of which Snipe felt sure they would find Cub Run. There was the Run, placid, deep, steep-banked as ever, but the vitally important bridge was cut away. Grayson's troopers, to secure themselves against surprise, had destroyed it two days before. Farther in that direction they could not go. Here they could not stay. Any moment might bring the Black Horse Cavalry, of which so much had been said and so little seen, scouting around that flank of the retreating army. Away off to the southeast, about Centreville, they could hear the confused sounds of bugle calls. Away off to the south Blenker's reserve brigade was still in line of battle, covering the Union retreat. Every now and then the rising night wind would bear the distant crackle and crash of file firing, but the bigger guns were still, and here in the pitchy darkness, with a strange team, in a strange land, were Snipe and Keating, sole guardians of a precious life, – that of the wounded and suffering major. "It's of no use, boys," said Stark, faintly. "Drive slowly back to the house and leave me with the old darkies. Then you go and make the best of your way to Fairfax. You'll be safe there."

They did turn about and drive to the farm-house and "rout out" the darkies again, but only to make one of the old servitors come as a guide, for Snipe and the sergeant both declared no rebel should lug that Yankee major off to prison so long as wit or work could save him.

All night they plodded slowly on, twisting and turning through country lanes or bridle-tracks. Time and again they had to halt and scout, for the poor bewildered negro lost the way again and again, and when at last morning dawned, they were not nine miles on a bee-line north of Sudley church, but were hopelessly far from Fairfax. And now the rain that always follows a heavy battle began to fall. They hid in the thicket all the hours till darkness came again, drowsing by turns. They hitched in and again pushed northward at nightfall, but the stars were hidden. There was nothing to guide them. They groped into another thicket and hid another day, the rain still pouring steadily. Snipe "shinned" up a tree and took the bearings of the farm-houses within sight; took heart because he saw no signs of scouting cavalry, everything being now afar off to the eastward along the main roads to Washington, and, turning his jacket inside out, after brief conference with Keating he stole away through the dripping thickets, and lurked about the nearest farm until he succeeded in making a negro hear his cautious signals. Money was potent and the major had plenty. The darky brought grain for the horses, and chickens, eggs, and milk, and that night guided them through many a devious way until within an hour of dawn they were again hidden in the thick woods, still farther to the northwest and away from the travelled roads. The nearest village now seemed eight or ten miles away. Before the negro left them he hunted up a friend to take his place. Ten dollars for his night's work! It was a fortune, and eagerly his successor sought to earn as much.

And so, guided and fed by darkies, hiding by day and journeying occasionally by night, they kept on for nearly a week, heading for the Potomac about Edwards' Ferry, hoping to dodge all patrols meantime and to discover some way of slipping past the pickets as they neared the river. Nearer Washington every bridle-path they knew would be guarded. Through the relays of darkies they learned that General Beauregard's army had enveloped the defences of the capital on the south side of the Potomac, and that troops were passing to and fro all over the country between Leesburg and Alexandria. Major Stark said, therefore, their only chance was to lie in hiding somewhere until his leg had knit. Money he still fortunately had in sufficient quantity. Keating still had his rifle and revolver, though the major and Snipe had been bereft of their pistols. Their negro friend led them to a dense thicket in a deep ravine, far from the highways and byways. Wood and water were abundant. Shelter they made of boughs. Food and news the darkies brought them in quantities, and here they nursed their plucky major and studied the country toward the Potomac until at last the bone seemed knitting, and then, one starlit night, late in August, pushed cautiously on again, still taking their wagon, and with the dawn of the next day they were across the Leesburg road and deep in the woods toward the ferry. Here another stay became necessary. Southern pickets and patrols lined the banks of the stream, and a day or two later their new guide, a negro boy of eighteen, crept to them in terror to say he felt sure somebody must have "peached," for "cavalry gemmen" were inquiring at every house and hamlet. A whole company had ridden out from Vienna that very day, and they were asking if any one had seen a two-horse farm wagon, with a sick man in it, and two other men driving. Troopers were beating up the wood roads then. In half an hour the wagon was in ashes, the tires and iron work hidden in the brush, and with Stark astride one horse, Snipe and Keating alternating on the other, they pushed through the forest to another hiding-place, hearing the whoops and yells and signal shots of the cavalry every hour until dusk. Then, with their negro guide, they kept on all night long, halting and dodging every little while; hid in the woods within sound of the Southern bugles all another day; stole on southeastward all another night, until their guide said Lewinsville was not a mile away to the south, and the Yankee pickets in front of Chain Bridge only a mile or so to the northeast. That day proved most eventful of all. Hungry, thirsty, and weary, they were waiting the return of Brennus, as was the classic name of their guide, when about dark he reached them empty-handed. Not a moment was to be lost, said he. The cavalry had struck their trail and were following the horse-tracks through the woods. There was an abandoned hut, a woodman's, half a mile away, and thither Stark limped painfully, leaning hard upon his friends. They managed to reach it just in time, their horses being left to shift for themselves. They were now close to the Union lines, yet the gray pickets and patrols guarded every path. They could not hope to carry Stark through such a net-work, and he could only painfully limp and only occasionally bear a portion of his weight upon that leg. Nor could they hope to remain undiscovered another day. There was only one thing to be done. Get word through the lines to the Yankees, and beg for rescue.