CHAPTER IX. FAIR OAKS
THE Johnnies are busy these times, aren't they?' "And so are we, chasing them up. I don't see that we are any nearer Richmond than we were a month or so ago."
"Nor we won't be," broke in another man, "if General McClellan repeats his Yorktown tactics. Perhaps, by the time we get to Richmond, we'll find some 'Quaker guns' there."
"It must have been kind of disheartening to the boys after lying 'round a place a month to have the rebs move out just as they were getting ready to go in, and find they had left a lot of wooden guns behind."
All the next day the soldiers were working on the redoubts, and wholly unaware of the surprise in store for them. May 31st dawned, and while they were still fortifying their position, a tremor ran through the line. "The Confederates are upon us!" was the cry, and as they tossed aside the shovels, the Confederates charged upon them with their well-known "yell" that so often echoed and re-echoed on the battle-field.
But they found brave men ready to repel their assault. The Chickahominy had swollen to such a height that bridges were carried away in its mad rush. General McClellan had thrown the left wing of his forces across the stream, but it was impossible to get reinforcements to their help.
Both sides showed unexampled bravery. General Johnston moved on toward Richmond, six miles away, where he halted, for the purpose of striking the detached wing of the Union forces. The rise of the river had hampered the movements of the latter, and it seemed as if capture was certain.
The half-finished redoubts had been occupied by General Casey's division of Keys' corps, and although they rallied several times, it was in vain. The rebels, made a detour, and stole upon their rear, and they could no longer hold them. Their line was in danger.
Meanwhile General Johnston's evident intention was to bring up a heavy flanking force between General Casey and the river whose banks had risen so unluckily for the Federals, cutting off all hopes of reinforcements.
And now a magnificent exhibition of courage was shown by Sumner. He expected orders to go to the rescue, and his men were drawn up in line ready for the summons. One bridge alone remained with which to cross the river, and its approaches were under water. Some of its supports were gone, and as the soldiers stepped upon it, the frail structure swayed to and fro, mid the rushing waters, but they passed over as speedily and safely as though it were a solid piece of masonry.
General Sumner's appearance was most opportune. He met the flank attack, and was victorious. The slaughter was fearful. In this battle 12,000 men gave up their lives—5,000 Northern men, and 7,000 Southern.
General Johnston fell, a Federal shot having taken effect. He was carried off the field, and at first it was feared by the Confederates that his wound was mortal, but after some months of suffering and enforced retirement he recovered, and a year after assumed command of the Confederate forces of the Mississippi.
Ralph was sent with one of the details to bury the dead and bring in the wounded. Trenches were dug, and the dead piled in them. Many were left where the last shot had struck them down, and earth was heaped upon them. The ground was literally blood-soaked. The dead were everywhere—the battle-field was one vast graveyard, with its tenants left unburied.
Ralph entered a little log house in a pasture near the railroad, and seated himself on a bench for a moment's rest. Just outside the door, he found the dead and the wounded packed so close that he could scarcely avoid stepping on them. To distinguish them was a hard task, for the wounded lay there so quiet and motionless, fast in that silent resignation born of despair, that, save for the dull blackness that covered the faces of those from whom life had fled, it would be easy to mistake the living for the dead.
All sorts and ages were there, in one mass—the boy, who had gone from home, ardent and hopeful, the old man who had left the record of an honorable life behind him; officers who had cheered their commands on to victory, privates who had fought fearlessly—all lay there, while horses had fallen dead across their riders, or were struggling in agony. The picture was horrible! He was r e minded of h is duty by the voice of an old man, who came into the room where he was musing.
"This is a cruel war, sir!" he said to Ralph. "I've been raised here, man and boy, nigh onto seventy years, and I never thought, when I played in these fields, that I should ever live to see them desecrated with human blood."
Ralph raised his head, and looked at him earnestly.
"No," the old man continued, "I have looked for the coming of the Lord' these many years, but I never thought He would come in blood and smoke, and the noise of battle."
"What do you mean?" the boy asked, breathlessly. "How has the Lord come?"
"Has He not come to set human beings free? Is not the black man's bondage nearly over? Is not slavery doomed? Then the only blot upon the fair name of America will be wiped out. The North and South will become brothers again, and go hand in hand in all worthy undertakings. Thus, as one family again, they will march on, to a grand and glorious destiny."
"If my mother could hear him talk!" his listener thought. "What does he mean by the blacks being set free?" For the Proclamation of Emancipation had not yet been given to the world, and the position of the slaves during hostilities had not been settled.
"Are you a Northerner?" he asked the old man.
"No, I am a Southerner," with a tinge of pride in his tones. "How do you dare say such things?".
"I am an old man, and they call me childish and silly. But I love my country, and I want to see her truly great."
"Have you always talked in this way?" queried Ralph, puzzled at the old man's language and manners.
"Always. Oh, I have paid dearly for my opinions. I have had my house torn down over my head, I have suffered in my young days; but I have lost all I ever loved, and they pity me now. I know I shall live to see my prayer answered—that we may become a free and united country. Then I shall be ready to die. Yes, it comes to that with old and young. We must all be ready to die at any moment."
With a courteous nod to Ralph, he passed out of the door, and the boy was left alone.
"We must be ready to die at any moment!" The words sounded like a knell to Ralph. Was he ready to die? He had, been carefully nurtured by that blessing to a child, a praying mother, and his boyish days were spent in the Sabbath school. Like all in the springtime of life, death seemed afar off, something that would not approach him for many years. Death was the expected portion of the old, but he had always resolutely put aside all thoughts of a future that did not belong to this life.
Now these words came home like a shock. Was he ready? He had never been a bad boy, in any sense, but still he was not ready or willing to die. At that possibility his courage forsook him; memory went swiftly back to many a childish piece of wrong-doing, which, under the fear of death, he magnified into black and unpardonable sins. Filled with sorrow and repentance he fell on his knees on the hard floor of that little cabin, with the dead so near him, and cried—"Help, O Lord, or I perish!"
A wave of tender feeling swept over his soul, and his mother's favorite psalm, the 118th which she had read to him so often, came to his remembrance, and one verse was as music to him,—"The Lord is on my side; I will not fear. What can man do unto me?" He rose to his feet, refreshed and made strong.
CHAPTER X. CAMP FUN
THAT time should not hang heavy on their hands, much inventive genius was brought into play, and no schoolboys, famous for their ability in making up games, could equal these grown men in originating sports to fill in the hours that otherwise would have been exceedingly dull. Some such safety-valve was necessary, or else many would have broken down with memories of the dear ones at home, and the depressing sights of war, and its hardships.
The camp echoed often with the songs so dear to all who can be moved by tender thoughts. Many of the men were the possessors of rich, melodious voices, that brought many a thrill of delight to their listeners, in their tones.
Ralph had a fine voice, and to please his comrades he often sang the sweet old songs of childhood, while they listened with an enthusiasm and rounds of applause that many a prima donna could not have inspired. Throwing themselves around the blazing camp fire whose ruddy sparks flew heavenward, the whole company would join him in singing the melodies with hearty goodwill, and at those moments care and danger were forgotten. Now he would give them a plaintive, gentle ditty that would make the eyes of those brown-faced soldiers moist with emotion, as home pictures started into life before them, and then a stirring song of patriotism and victory would ring out, until the blood would leap in their veins, and each man there was ready to attack any foe single-handed.
But the boy's heart was heavy, even while his humble efforts in the musical line were giving pleasure to his comrades. His constant prayer was that some decisive move might be made, by which the war might be brought to a speedy close. He was lonely, too, for "Old Bill," as he always called himself, had been in the hospital for some time, and he missed his cheery ways.
One afternoon as he sat in his tent reading, he heard peals of boisterous laughter ringing out upon the air. Going to the opening, he saw a group of soldiers gathered round some object, and heard them chaffing some one whom he could not see.
"What is the excitement, Harry?" he asked a companion who had evidently come from the scene of action.
"I just came for you to pile out and see the fun. They've got one of our boys, and are amusing themselves at his expense. Come on, or you'll be too late. The performance will be over." Ralph hurried after Harry, who was off like a deer, and going straight up to the group, he saw a crowd of men tossing another one up in the air, and letting him fall into a blanket, amid screams of laughter, and cries of "Send him up higher!"
"Pickle him in his own salt!"
"Head him up in a barrel, and send him to the cook!"
"We'll make a high private in the rear rank of him!"
"Gently, boys," the victim panted. "You don't want to be too hard on a poor fellow for having a little joke of his own."
"Who is it—what has he done?" inquired Ralph, who didn't enjoy such rough sport, and was really concerned lest they might carry it so far as to injure the man.
"It's Corporal Fred Greene, the funny fellow of Co. H,"
Tim Mackey responded. "It's his birthday, and we re celebrating it. And he's having a high time."
Fred was a mischievous young fellow, who had just seen his twenty-third birthday. If there was any chance for a joke on any member of the company, he never lost the opportunity of making the most he could out of it.
In order to impress the fact that he had a birthday, he had invited a score of his comrades to a "small spread" in his tent. The colored cook was in the secret, and through his connivance, and the help of a few cracker boxes draped with bunting, and some tin cans, he had succeeded in making quite a tasty looking table. Before the banquet began, he made a short speech of welcome, which was responded to in good faith by Franklin Field, who was deputed to do the speaking on all occasions, as he had quite a gift of extempore oratory.
Without further ceremony, Fred cordially pressed all of them to "fall to." Just at this interesting moment, the cook, a loose-jointed, wrinkled old darkey, whose huge mouth looked as if it was always ready to utter a guffaw, entered the tent, and scraping and bowing to the "gemmens," broke out with—"Sorry to put back your 'joyment, Massa Fred, but youse wanted outside, bad."
Fred rose, and with a graceful salute to his guests, begged them, in a most elaborate manner, to attack the food, which was entirely at their service. It was unfortunate that he should be disturbed at such a moment, but duty called him, and he would return at the earliest opportunity.
"This black rascal is bound I shan't have my share, but fall to, friends." Once outside, he hunted a safe hiding place waited behind a hedge.
Those left behind sat a moment lost in wonder as to where the good things sprang from. They did look inviting to these devourers of hard tack and bacon. The table had for a centerpiece a fine-looking chicken, flanked on both wings by oranges, potatoes roasted in the ashes, canned fruit, and—two huge cakes!
"Where did Fred get these dainties? He's too lazy to forage, and I don't believe he could buy them at the sutler's tent. His credit, ain't good enough," was the comment made by one of his "friends."
"Never mind where he got 'em," a gaunt, hungry-looking fellow answered. "Let's try 'em fust, and investigate afterwards." No further urging was necessary. They all "fell to," as they had been ordered, but the wry faces, choking, gasping breath, and muttered expletives, as one after another bit into some tempting morsel to find a mouth filled with salt, pepper or sand, would have been a subject for a painter. The chicken was a sham; its unusual plumpness was due to a liberal stuffing of cotton batting, the oranges were well sanded, while the cake was plentifully seasoned with salt and pepper—two condiments that are very well in proper proportions, but rather nauseating when taken in large doses.
They rose in a body—all were of one mind when they rushed out after their host, who was making for the woods at the other end of camp. A dozen fleet-footed men soon overtook him, and, bringing him back, proceeded to inflict summary punishment, amid roars of laughter, for he was liked by every man of the company.
Fred didn't play any more jokes upon those boys, and after his undesired elevation, he was quite subdued. But they all forgave him, and "Fred's birthday party" passed into a byword, when some illustration was needed to indicate a good time.
Ralph was homesick. It was useless to disguise the fact, for it began to tell upon his health. Malaria had fastened its strong hand upon him, and he grew more listless every day. He did not waver in his duties, however, and when marching orders came, he was among the first to pack his knapsack and shoulder his musket.
CHAPTER XI. SOUTH MOUNTAIN
THE summer of 1862 was hot and dry. Streams were parched, the grass was brown and burned. The army trailed through the dust, and lay down at night footsore, weary and sick. Often the only water they had to drink was supplied by "brackish" ponds, whose surface was covered with greenish slime. Fevers and malaria broke out among the regiments, and dissatisfaction was loud and outspoken. Now and then a brush would take place, or a skirmishing party would sally out, surprise a party of Confederates, bringing some of them into camp prisoners.
"Knapsacks and rations ready by seven in the morning!" Fred Greene said, one September afternoon as they were watching eagerly and impatiently for some move to be made. .
"Sure its not another of your jokes, corporal?"
"No joke this time, as you'll find to your sorrow, perhaps."
"How many days' rations are we to carry along?"
"Can't say. We're going out to interview General Lee. His victory at Manassas the other day has given him the idea that he can bring the whole State of Maryland into his army. He's traveling in that direction. He has a poster out inviting the Marylanders to enlist, but by all we hear, it won't bring many valuable accessions to his ranks."
"Why not?"
"For two reasons. If they want to enlist, they'll do so, without his starting recruiting offices. Most of the able-bodied men who wanted to go to war did so long since. Then again, most of the Marylanders are fond of the old flag. The State has never left the Union. General Lee is a fine military man, but he surely don't understand the people he's trying to interest. Hallo! what's a woman doing here? She's coming this way."
A woman, dressed in cheap, but neat and tidy-looking clothing, and holding the hands of two sad-eyed, poorly attired children, was making her way toward them. A soldier stepped up to her, and with a pleasant smile asked her if she was looking for any one.
The woman looked earnestly into his face, as she said—"You'uns all look kind. Can you show me whar to find Peter Hall?"
The man looked puzzled, and uncertain as to how to answer her.
"Don't know him, ma'am. What regiment is he in?"
"I can't tell you, sir. He is my man, and he 'lowed he wouldn't go against the old flag, for any one. The neighbors said he was a traitor to the cause, and wouldn't give him any work. So he went off in the night, and told me he'd make his way into the Union army, and as soon as he could he'd send me word whar he was. He 'lowed I could take care of the babies somehow, but I've found it mighty hard work to get bread for 'em often. They're good children, though, no better nowhar, and they don't complain, not even when they're hungry. I heard you'uns were in the neighborhood, and I thought as perhaps you'd know whar my Peter is."
"Boys!" the soldier cried to a group who were listening at a little distance. "Do any of you know Pete Hall?"
"Peter Hall," the woman corrected, with great dignity.
"Excuse me, ma'am; Peter Hall, I meant to say."
"Why, certain, I know him," a man answered. "He's in the Second Maryland, and they're over there, on the brow of that hill. Go right over, ma'am. You'll find him, I hope," he added in a lower tone. "Don't be afraid. No one will harm you."
"Me and the children have walked twelve miles since yesterday noon, and we want to see Peter bad. He'd have come out and met us, I know he would, if he'd have thought we were so near," she added, with refreshing simplicity. The idea of Peter's leaving his company, even for so important a matter as meeting her, caused a general laugh, which she did not seem to observe, but continued—"You see, we have moved since Peter went away, and he doesn't know where we live now."
"God bless the woman and her Peter," was the honest invocation sent after her, as she hurried away in the direction pointed out, and they were rewarded a few moments later, by seeing a soldier spring up from the grass where he had been lounging, and hasten forward to receive the greeting of his wife, who sobbed for joy upon his breast, while the little ones could only jump and shout in the fullness of their pleasure at seeing "Pa."
Many a man stood there, and silently wished some of their loved ones could meet and greet them also.
The entrance of the boys in blue into Frederick was a perfect ovation. General Lee had retired from the town only two days before.
This welcome thrilled their hearts. From every door and window the national flag fluttered, and the stores were decorated with the colors. Banners were strung across the streets, from house to house, while crowds of happy men and women with radiant faces, spoke words of welcome.
Good luck seemed to be showered upon them, for General McClellan here captured a copy of the orders of General Lee, which gave him a key to the whole situation. It was of very recent date, and the Confederate commander had mapped out his campaign. The information contained in these explicit instructions to his generals, enabled General McClellan to see plainly how to thwart General Lee. So he proceeded to send two corps through the two Gaps of South Mountain, with the prospect of being able to cut the enemy's forces to pieces.
Dividing his command, General McClellan ordered Franklin to Crampton's Gap, while Reno and Hooker, with Burnside at their head, were sent to Turner's Gap.
It was a toilsome task for even those sturdy men to ascend the sides of the Gaps. South Mountain towered a thousand feet above them, while the most accessible points were the two Gaps, each nearly 400 feet high.
"We've got to reach the top of those hills somehow," Ralph said. "But it's one step forward, and three backward. Our men are gaining a little. They show splendid pluck." Clambering, toiling up the rocky hillsides, the Union forces made their painful way. From behind ledges and trees, the rebel riflemen marked their slow progress, and sent many a man to his death. The company to which Ralph belonged was under Reno, and assaulted the southern crest of Turner's Gap. On the northern crest of the mountain General Hooker, with splendid courage, kept on.
Ralph now realized how desperately men will fight. He even felt that hot hatred which two foes ever feel, when pitted against each other. He saw the Federal army, scratched and bruised from forcing their way through the brush and over rocks, while the Confederate riflemen poured bullets into their midst like rain. Hot, and panting with their efforts, still they never wavered. Gibbon, with his brigade, was trying to force a passage through the turnpike in the Gap, and here also the enemy did terrible execution. The heat was blistering. The fervid rays of the September sun burned into their very blood, and the dust which rose in clouds mixed with the smoke of the powder, and choked and blinded them.
They had fought continuously the entire day. Their canteens were empty—their mouths parched and dry. Ralph saw a tall officer spur his horse forward, and fire at General Reno. That gallant soldier reeled in his saddle, and fell, but as he was borne to the rear to die, his eyes were fixed on the men he had so gallantly led, with a last look of farewell.
This contest was long. Each side fought to the death. As Ralph turned to speak to a companion he heard a wild shout: "Forward! One more such charge, and we'll have the Gap."
It was the colonel's voice, and as he rose in his saddle and cheered them on, they took fresh courage. Wild responses answered his appeal, and new strength was given them.
"We are sure of victory," Ralph said to himself, At that instant a horse dashed madly by. He bore General Garland, of the Confederate force, who was lying half across his back, as he was vainly striving to raise himself in the saddle. His hat rolled down the hill as he came to the ground with a shock; his fine features were distorted with pain, and his long, dark hair was dabbled with blood. He made one frantic effort to recover his sword, which had slid from his grasp, and then he sank half on his knees, a livid corpse. Ralph was so near he could almost have touched him, and to his dying day, he never forgot the look of agony on the wan face, as the eyes fast glazed in death.
Darkness settled down upon the earth, before the battle was won, by the Confederates withdrawing and leaving the Union forces masters of the field. But what a sacrifice of human life!—three thousand human beings sent into eternity, as the result of one day's conflict.
The loss of life was felt equally by the two opposing forces; but the boys in gray suffered a loss of fifteen hundred, who were taken prisoners.
The night was warm. The stars looked down with kindly gleams upon thousands of worn-out soldiers sleeping as quietly as little children, while the wounded were groaning with pain, as the life-blood slowly trickled over the grass which the hot sun and the trampling of feet and stamping of horses had matted into a tangled and brown mass.
Ralph's captain threw himself down by the side of the boy, as he was trying to shut out the dreadful pictures which were burned upon his brain.
"Is the victory ours?" he asked.
"It is, and a dear one to us," the captain replied. "We have left over a thousand dead upon the field; but the Johnnies have moved off, and we have orders to push on to the western side of the mountain. They raked us down in terrible fashion, but the men stood their fire like statues. There was some heavy firing over at the other Gap a while back, but it has stopped now. Hallo!" he called to a man in the uniform of an officer, "where are you going in such a hurry? Has anything happened—any new move ahead?"
The man stopped suddenly, and coming up close to them, with features convulsed and pallid, with either pain or fear, he made answer:
"Oh, captain, I'm sure I'll die, I'm in such misery. I'm all doubled up, and can't sleep. I'm in perfect agony. There—there goes that twinge again. I must try and find my regiment, and hunt up the doctor right away."
Ralph looked incredulous at the man's apparent suffering. He felt sure it was a pretense. "It's strange that he's so far away from his command, and going in an exactly opposite direction. Can it be that he's going to skip?" This was a painful thought, and brought an angry flush to his brow, for he held nothing in such scorn, amounting to abhorrence, as he did cowardice or dishonesty.
"Are you going in the right direction to join your company? If you keep on the way you are faced, you'll be more than likely to find some friendly boy in gray to snap you up."
The officer looked steadily at him a moment, while his face turned scarlet.
"Your advice is not required, sir. I shall remember your incivility at a more fitting time." And he stalked away, quite oblivious of the anguish that had racked him so short a time before.
"That fellow must be a mind-reader," laughed the captain. "He plainly knew what you thought about him. But seriously, your opinion was rather harsh; he's probably shamming to get excused from duty. For the honor of our cause I should hope no officer would be guilty of such dastardly conduct. Nor a private, either," he added, a moment after, "for the boys who carry the muskets have true grit, and don't run, only after the enemy."
"I know that's so, but when I saw him making such haste to get away, the suspicion would come into my mind. To me it seems a shame for a man with a spark of cowardice to wear a uniform."