Corporal Pike
Corporal Pike
"My name, sir," said the corporal, "is James Pike of the Fourth Ohio Cavalry, which is located at Shelbyville. What can I do for you?"
There was a few moments' silence and then a great laugh went up as the crowd decided that this was some Confederate scout, probably one of Morgan's rangers in disguise.
"What are you doing down here?" asked another.
"I am down here," said Pike coolly, "to demand the surrender of this town just as soon as I can get my breakfast and find the mayor."
The crowd laughed loudly again and the corporal went in to breakfast, where he sat at a table with a number of Confederate officers with whom he talked so mysteriously that they were fully convinced that he must be one of Morgan's right-hand men. After breakfast he ordered his horse and started out, first saying good-bye to the crowd who were still waiting for him.
"If you're from the North," said one, "why don't you show us a Yankee trick before you go?" for the Southerners were thoroughly convinced that all Yankees were sly foxes full of sudden schemes and stratagems.
"Well, I will before long," said Pike, as he waved good-bye and galloped off.
Five miles out of the village he came to a fork in the road where one road led to Decatur, which was where the main Confederate forces were located, and the other to Huntsville. Just as he was turning into the Decatur road, he saw a wagon-train coming in from Huntsville and decided that here was a chance for his promised Yankee trick. He rode up to the first wagon.
"Drive that wagon up close to the fence and halt," he said.
"How long since you've been wagon-master?" said the driver, cracking his whip.
"Ever since you left your musket lying in the bottom of the wagon," said Pike, leveling his revolver at the man's head. He drove his wagon up and halted it without a word and stood with his arms over his head as ordered by Pike.
One by one the other wagons came up and the drivers assumed the same attitude. Last of all there was a rattle of hoofs and the wagon-master, who had been lingering in the rear, galloped up.
"What the devil are you fellows stopping for?" he shouted, but as he came around the last wagon, he almost ran his head into Pike's revolver and immediately assumed the same graceful attitude as the others. Pike rode up to each wagon, collected all the muskets, not forgetting to remove a couple of revolvers from the belt of the wagon-master and then inquired from the latter what the wagons had in them.
"Provender," said the wagon-master, surlily.
"What else?" said the corporal, squinting along the barrel of his revolver.
"Bacon," yelled the wagon-master much alarmed; "four thousand pounds in each wagon."
"Well," said the corporal, "I've always been told that raw bacon is an unhealthy thing to eat and so you just unhitch your mules and set fire to these wagons and be mighty blamed quick about it too, because I have a number of engagements down the road." The men grumbled, but there was no help for them and in a few minutes every wagon was burning and crackling and giving out dense black smoke. Waiting until it was impossible to put them out, the corporal lined the men up across the road.
"Now you fellows get on your marks and when I count three you start back to Fayetteville and if you are in reach by the time I have counted one hundred, there's going to be some nice round holes in the backs of your uniforms. When you get back to the village tell them that this is the Yankee trick that I promised them."
Before Pike had counted twenty-five there was not a man in sight. He at once turned back and raced down the road toward Decatur. He had gone about ten miles when he came to a small country church and as it was Sunday, it was open and nearly filled. Fearing that there might be a number of armed Confederate soldiers in the church who would start out in pursuit as soon as the word came back from Fayetteville, the corporal decided to investigate. Not wishing to dismount he rode Bill up the steps and through the open door and down the main aisle, just as the minister was announcing a hymn.
"Excuse this interruption," said Pike, as the minister's voice quavered off into silence, "but I notice a number of soldierly-looking men here and I will take it as a great favor if they will hold their hands as high above their heads as possible and come down here and have a talk with me."
As this simple request was accompanied by a revolver aimed at the audience, one by one six soldiers who had been attending the service came sheepishly down the aisle. They looked so funny straining their arms over their heads that some of the girls in the audience unkindly burst out laughing. Pike removed a revolver from each one and dumped his captured arms into one of his saddle-bags.
"Now, parson," he said, "I want to hear a good, fervent prayer from you for the President of the United States." The minister hesitated. "Quick and loud," said Pike, "because I'm going in a minute."
There was no help for it and the minister prayed for President Lincoln by name, while Pike reverently removed his cap. Then backing his horse out of the door, he started on toward Decatur. Not a half mile from the church he met two Confederate soldiers who were leisurely riding to the church. There was no reason at all why the corporal should meddle with these men. They were two to one and he had no way of disposing of them even if he made them captives. However, the sight of the Confederate parson praying for Abe Lincoln had tickled Pike and he made up his mind to have some fun with these soldiers. As he came abreast of them he whipped out his revolver, ordered them to halt and to give their names, regiments and companies. They did so with great alacrity.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, "you are my prisoners and I am very sorry for I am so far outside of my lines that I am afraid there is only one way to safely dispose of you."
"Great heavens, man," said one, "you don't mean to shoot us down."
"I'm sorry," said Pike, "but you can see for yourself that that's the only thing to do. You are Rebel soldiers and to leave you alive would mean that you will keep on doing harm to the Union forces."
"Don't shoot, captain," both of them chorused; "we'll take the oath of allegiance."
Pike seemed to hesitate.
"Well," he said finally, "I hate to kill men on Sunday. I suppose I ought not to do this, but if you'll solemnly swear allegiance to the United States of America and that you'll never hereafter serve against the Union or be late to church again, I'll let you go."
With much solemnity, the Confederates took the oath in the form dictated, delivered up their revolvers and rode away.
The next man that Pike encountered was an old gentleman on his way to Fayetteville, who admitted that he was a judge and the next day was intending to serve in a number of political cases involving the property of certain Union sympathizers. Pike made him also take the oath of allegiance, and promise not to enter judgment contrary to the interests of the Union. He then left the road and rode along a shallow creek through the woods. About sunset he suddenly came upon an old man under the trees. He questioned him and found that he was a Union sympathizer and was told by him that there were twelve Tennessee cavalrymen and fifteen mounted citizens on the lookout for him.
"That is," said the old man, "if you're the chap that has been going around capturing wagon-trains and churches and soldiers and judges."
"That's me," said Pike.
The old man took him home and fed him and with him he left his horse and started out on foot, feeling that the hue and cry would now be out all over the country against a mounted man in Union uniform. Leaving his friend, he followed the path through the woods toward Decatur until it was dark and then wrapped himself up in a blanket and slept all night in the pouring rain. In the morning he made his way toward the railway and followed it until about ten o'clock when he stopped at a house and bought a breakfast. He had not been there long before he was joined by several Confederate cavalrymen.
"What's your business," said one, "and what are you doing in that uniform?"
"Well," said Pike, "I was told to wear it and not to tell any one my business until it was done and if you fellows don't like it, you had better take it up with the general."
Once again the Confederates concluded that he was on some secret mission. They insisted, however, on taking him to camp with them and there he stayed two days and nights, incidentally obtaining all the information possible as to the forces and the guard about the bridge. Just before dawn on the second morning, he managed to give them the slip and started across country, wading and swimming and toiling through one swamp after another until he finally reached the river bank, traveling only by night and sleeping by day. Along this bank he went for miles until finally he found concealed in a little creek a small rowboat which was tied to a tree and in which were two oars. He spent the better part of the day in loading this up with pine knots and bits of dry driftwood which he planned to use in firing the bridge. Just at evening he pushed off into the middle of the river and started again down for the bridge. He had found by his inquiries that the Confederate camp was located on a bank some distance from the bridge, as no one expected any attack there so far within the Confederate lines. All night long he tugged at the oars and aided by the current reached the bridge about three o'clock in the morning. The bridge was an old-fashioned one erected on three piers. Pike made a careful survey of the whole length of the bridge from the river and found it absolutely unguarded although he could hear the sentry call on the hill a quarter of a mile away where the troops were encamped by the town. Concealing his skiff under an overhanging tree, he toiled up to the bridge with armful after armful of fire-wood. At each end and in the middle he made a little heap of fat-wood and pine knots with a strip of birch-bark, which burns like oiled paper, underneath each. Starting from the far end, he lit the first two piles and by the time he had crossed and was working on the last, he could hear the flames roaring behind him as they caught the dry weather-beaten planking of the bridge. And now he made a mistake which was to prove well-nigh fatal to him. As soon as the fire had obtained a headway, he should have instantly stolen back up the river in his skiff. In his anxiety to make a thorough job of it he stayed too long, forgetting that in the bright light of the fire every motion he made would be plainly visible from the hilltop. Suddenly he heard the alarm given from the camp and almost instantly it was followed by the wail of a minie ball as the sentry above fired down upon him. By this time the river was as bright as day for a quarter of a mile on both sides of the bridge. Near the Confederate camp were a number of boats and Pike was already nearly exhausted by his long row and his work in firing the bridge. He heard the shouts of men as they dashed down for their boats. If he attempted to escape by water he was certain to be overtaken. Another bullet close to his head decided him and he dashed down from the bridge into the road, and plunged into the thick woods on the farther side. All the rest of that night and through the first part of the next day he traveled, following one path after another and keeping his general direction by a pocket compass. By noon he was so tired that if it had been to save his life he could not have gone any farther. The little stock of provisions which he had carried with him had been exhausted the night before and he threw himself on a bed of dry pine-needles under a long-leafed pine which stood on the top of a little knoll and lay there for nearly an hour until part of his strength came back. The first thing to do was to find something to eat. Pike did not dare shoot anything with his revolver, even if there had been anything to shoot, for fear of attracting the attention of Confederate pursuers or bushwhackers. It was now that the corporal's wood-craft proved to be as valuable as his scout-craft. If he were to go further, he must have food and he commenced to wander back and forth through the woods, his quick eye taking in everything on the ground or among the trees. On the other side of the knoll where he had been lying, he noticed a rotten log where the dry, punky wood had been scattered as if a hen had been scratching there. Pike commenced to look carefully all along the ground and finally just on the edge of the slope where the thick underbrush began, he nearly stepped on a large brown speckled bird so much the color of the leaves that if he had not been looking for it, he never would have discovered the nest. The bird slipped into the underbrush like a shadow, leaving behind fifteen brown, mottled partridge eggs. The corporal sat down over the nest and gulped down, one after the other, those eggs, warm from the breast of the brooding bird. As he said afterward, never had he tasted anything half so good. This was a step in the right direction, but even fifteen partridge eggs are not enough for a man who hadn't eaten for nearly thirty hours. Once again he began to prowl restlessly through the woods and this time his attention was attracted by something growing on the side of a dead maple stub. It was dark red and looked like a great tongue sticking out from the bark. To his great joy, Pike recognized it at once as the beefsteak mushroom. It was a magnificent specimen which must have weighed nearly two pounds and as he pulled it off from the tree, red drops oozed out and it looked and smelled like a big, fresh beefsteak. The corporal went down the hollow into the thickest part of the swamp and there picked an armful of perfectly dry cedar and scrub-oak twigs which burn with a clear, smokeless flame. Out of these he built a little Indian cooking fire by arranging the twigs into the form of a little tepee so that a jet of clear flame came up with hardly a sign of any smoke. It was the work of only a moment to whittle and set up a forked stick and to fasten a slab of that meaty-looking fungus on a spit fixed in the fork. Fortunately he had left in his haversack a little salt and pepper with which he seasoned the broiling, hissing steak. In about ten minutes it was done to a turn. Cutting a long strip of bark from off one of the red river-birches which grew near, Pike squatted down on the ground and in fifteen minutes more there was nothing left of that savory, two-pound, broiled vegetable steak. With fifteen eggs and two pounds of beefsteak mushroom under his belt, the corporal felt like another man. He coiled himself up on the dry pine-needles in a little hollow which he found under the low-hanging boughs of a long-leaf pine and resolved to take a sleep to make up for what he had lost during the last two nights. It was early afternoon and everything was still and hot and the drowsy scent of the pine mingled with puffs of spicy fragrance from the great white blossoms of the magnolia with which the woods were starred. As he fell asleep the last thing the corporal heard was the drowsy call of flocks of golden-winged warblers on their way north. How long he slept he could not tell. He only knew that he awoke with a sudden consciousness of danger, that strange sixth sense which most Indians and a few white hunters sometimes develop. Perhaps he inherited it from old Zebulon Pike who, like Daniel Boone and Kit Carson, had the power of hearing and sensing the approach of an enemy even in their soundest sleep. The corporal was alert the second he opened his eyes, but made not a movement or a rustle. The sun was well down in the sky and there was nothing in sight, but the birds had stopped singing. Finally way down through the little tunnel which a near-by flowing stream had made through the hillocks came a sound which brought him to his feet in an instant. It was a ringing note that chimed like a distant bell. Three times it sounded and there was silence, then again three times, but a little nearer and louder, then again silence. A third time it came and this time it seemed around the bend of the bayou not half a mile away. Pike knew in a minute what it was. It was the bay of the dreaded bloodhounds, those man-hunters who had learned to trail their prey through forest and fen, no matter how much he doubled nor how fast he ran. There was but one thing to do if there was time. Springing up, the corporal ran down to the little stream and leaped in. It was hardly up to his knees, but he splashed along for a hundred yards, now and then plunging in up to his waist. It ran a hundred yards or so through the swamp and then emptied into a larger bayou. Along this Pike swam for his life as silently as a muskrat, for now he could hear the baying of the dogs close at hand and suddenly there was a chorus of deep raging barks followed by shouts and he knew that his pursuers had found his lair under the pine trees. Soon the stream ran into another one and then another until Pike had swam and waded and plunged through half a score of brooks which made a regular network through the middle of the swamp. By this time the sound of the dogs had died far away in the distance and he had every reason to believe that he had thrown them off the track. Down the last stream there was a deep, sluggish creek nearly fifty feet wide. He swam until he could go no farther. It opened out into a series of swampy meadows and to his joy he saw in the very midst of the swamp through which it ran a pile of newly-split rails. Swimming over to this he found that they had been piled on a little island about five feet above the level of the swamp and surrounded on all sides by masses of underbrush and deep sluggish water. By this time it was nearly sunset and he resolved to crawl up here and find a dry place and spend the night on this island, which could not be approached except by boat. As he climbed up to the top of the mass of rails, he heard a low, thick hiss close to his face and outstretched hand. He had never heard the sound before, but no man born needs to be taught the voice of the serpent. He started back just in time. Coiled on one of the rails was a great cotton-mouth moccasin whose bloated swollen body must have been nearly five feet in length and as big around as his arm. The great creature slowly opened its mouth, showing the pure white lining which has given it the name and hissed again menacingly. The corporal was in a predicament. Behind him was the cold, dark river in which he no longer had the strength to swim. In the approaching darkness, he might not be able to find any other island of refuge on which to pass the night. There was nothing for him but to fight the grim snake for the possession of the rails. He dropped back and twisted off the thick branch of a near-by willow-tree and began again to climb up toward the snake cautiously, but as rapidly as possible, for the light was beginning to die out in the sky and Pike preferred not to do his fighting in the dark in this case if possible. As he reached the top of the pile, the king of the island was ready for him and struck viciously at him as he approached. The movable poison fangs protruded like poisoned spear-heads from the wide-open mouth and from them could be seen oozing the yellow drops of the fatal venom which makes the cotton-mouth more dreaded even than the rattler or the copperhead. The fatal head flashed out not six inches from Corporal Pike's face, but it had miscalculated the distance and before it could again coil, he had struck with all his might at the monstrous body just where it joined the heart-shaped head. Fortunately for him, his aim was good and the crippled snake writhed and hissed and struck in vain in a horrible mass at Pike's feet. Two more blows made it harmless and inserting the stick under the heavy body, the corporal heaved it far over into the water and it floated away. Pike then made a careful examination of the rails and the island on which he stood so as to make sure that the moccasin had not left any of his family behind. He found no others, however, and before it was dark the corporal moved the rails and piled them around him in a kind of barricade which shut him off from view from the water and shore and which he sincerely hoped would discourage the visits of any more moccasins. Inside of this he laid three rails lengthwise and wrung out his sodden coat and coiled up for the night on his hard bed. He woke up surrounded by the gleaming mist of the early morning and shaking with the cold after sleeping all night in his soaked clothing. As he was too cold to sleep and it was light enough now to see, he decided to start off for dry land again. For over two hours he swam and waded along big and little bayous until, just as the sun was getting up, he came out through the morass and found himself at the rear of a lonely plantation. Just in front of him an old negro was at work hoeing in a field. The corporal crept up near him through the bushes and looked all around cautiously to see whether there were any white men in sight. Seeing none, he decided to take a chance on the negro being friendly.
"Hi, there, uncle!" he called cautiously from behind a little bush.
The old man jumped a foot in the air.
"That settles it," he observed emphatically to himself, "I'se gwine home. This old nigger ain't gwine to work in any swamp whar he hears hants callin' him 'uncle.'"
At this point the corporal came out of his hiding place and finally managed to convince the old man that he was nothing worse than very hungry flesh and blood. The old darkey turned out to be a friend indeed and going to his cabin in less than fifteen minutes he was back with a big pan full of bacon and corn bread which the corporal emptied in record-breaking time. Moreover, he brought his son with him who promised to guide Pike by safe paths to the road which led to Huntsville where General Mitchel had located his headquarters. Hour after hour the two wound in and out of swamps which would have been impassable to any one who did not know the hidden trails which crossed them. Twice they heard Confederate soldiers, evidently still hunting for the Union soldier who had been making them so much trouble. Toward noon they came to a broad bayou which went in and out through the swamp. At one point where it approached the bend it became very narrow and Pike's guide showed him a fallen tree half hidden in the brush.
"Cross that, boss," he said, "and at the other end you'll find a little hard path. Follow that and you'll come out clear down on the Huntsville road, only a few miles from the Union soldiers."
Pike said good-bye to his faithful guide and gave him one of the numerous Confederate revolvers which he had captured on his trip as the only payment he could make for his kindness.
The corporal found the path all right and was soon wearily trudging along the Huntsville road. He had not gone far before he was overtaken by another negro dressed in a style which would have made the lilies of the field take to the woods. With his panama hat, red tie and checked suit, he made a brave show. What impressed the corporal, however, more than his clothes was the fact that he was driving a magnificent horse attached to a brand-new buggy.
"Stop a minute," said Pike, stepping out into the road.
"No," said the negro, pompously, "I'se in a great hurry."
The corporal whipped out a revolver and cocked it.
"Come to think of it, Massa," said the darkey in quite a different tone, "I'se got plenty of time after all."
"Whose horse is this?" said the corporal, climbing into the buggy.
"This is Mistah Pomeroy's property," said the negro with much dignity.
"Well," said the corporal, "you turn right around and drive me to General Mitchel's camp just as fast as the law will let you."
"But, boss," objected the other, "Massa will whip me if I do."
"And I'll shoot you if you don't," returned the corporal.
This last argument was a convincing one and half an hour later General Mitchel and his forces were enormously impressed by seeing Corporal Pike, who had been reported shot, drive up back of a magnificent horse in a new buggy and beside a wonderfully-dressed coachman. The general was even more impressed when the corporal reported that the bridge was gone and gave him an accurate statement as to the Confederate forces.
Corporal Pike found Mr. Pomeroy's horse a very good substitute for his faithful Bill and, to his surprise, the coachman went with the horse, since he was afraid to go back, and became a cook in General Mitchel's mess.
CHAPTER XI
RUNNING THE GAUNTLET
In the old days of the Indian wars a favorite amusement of a raiding party was to make their captives run the gauntlet. On their return home two long lines of not only the warriors, but even of the women and children would be formed armed with clubs, arrows, tomahawks and whips. The unfortunate captive was stationed at one end of this aisle of enemies and given the choice of being burned at the stake or of running for his life between the lines from one end to the other. Sometimes a swift runner and dodger escaped enough of the blows to stagger blinded with blood from a score of wounds, but still alive, across the line which marked the end of this grim race against death. It was always a desperate chance. Only the certainty of death if it were not taken ever caused any man to enter such a terrible competition. There is no record of even the most hardened Indian fighter ever running the gauntlet for any life save his own.
In the summer of 1863, three men ran the gauntlet of shot and shell and rifle-fire for forty miles to save an army, with death dogging them all the way. Brigadier-General Thomas, who afterward earned the title of the Rock of Chickamauga by his brave stand in that disastrous battle, was entrenched on one of the spurs of the hills around Chattanooga. General Bragg with a much superior army of Confederates had hunted the Union soldiers mile after mile. At times they had stopped and fought, at times they had escaped by desperate marches. Now exhausted and ringed about by the whole Confederate Army, they must soon have help or be starved into surrender. Yet only forty miles to the eastward was a body of thirty thousand men commanded by General Stockton. This general was one of those valuable men who obey orders without any reasoning about the why and the wherefore of the same. He had been commanded to hold a certain pass in the mountains until further orders and that pass he would hold, as General Thomas well knew, until relieved or directed to do otherwise. If only the duty had been assigned to some other officer, it might be that not hearing anything from the main body, he would send out a reconnoitering party. Not so with General Stockton. That general would stay put and only a direct order or an overpowering force of the enemy would move him.
It was in vain that General Thomas tried to get a messenger through with secret despatches in cipher. General Bragg knew that he had the Union Army cornered and he had stationed a triple row of pickets who caught or shot every man that General Thomas sent.
Supplies and ammunition were both running low and General Thomas was considering massing a force of men on some point in the line in an attempt to break through far enough for a messenger to escape. This meant a great loss of life and probably would not be successful as the messenger would almost certainly be captured by an outer ring of scouts which Bragg would throw out as soon as he realized what was going on. There was only one other chance. The Confederates were so sure of their own strength, and that they would eventually capture the whole army, that they had not destroyed the railroad line which ran between the two Federal camps, hoping to use the same for shipping soldiers, prisoners and captured supplies later on. Both sides of the track, however, were lined with guards and covered by a number of Confederate batteries. General Thomas decided to make the attempt and called for volunteers who were willing to run this forty-mile gauntlet between the Confederate lines and batteries. Two old railroad men offered their services as engineer and fireman and they were accompanied by an adjutant who was to be the bearer of the despatches. There seemed to be only one chance in a thousand for this engine to get safely through and the men themselves, if they were not shot in their flight or wrecked with the engine, stood a good chance of being captured and hung as spies. In fact it seemed such a hopeless chance that at the last moment General Thomas was on the point of countermanding the order when one of the men themselves gave the best argument in favor of the plan.
"It's worth trying, General," said he, "for even if we fail, you only lose three men. The other way you would have to throw away at least a thousand before you could find out whether it was possible to cut through the lines or not."
It was decided to make the trial and a dark, moonless night when the sky was covered with heavy clouds was selected as the best time for starting. The men shook hands with their comrades and each left with his best friend a letter to be sent to his family if he were not heard from within a given time. There were but few engines in the Union ranks and none of them were very good as the Confederates had captured the most powerful. However, the ex-engineer and fireman picked out the one which seemed to be in best repair, put in an extra supply of oil to allow for the racking strain on the machinery and filled up the tender with all the fuel that it could carry. At half-past ten they started after firing up with the utmost care and in half a mile they were running at full speed when suddenly there was the sharp crack of a rifle and a minie bullet whined past the panting, jumping, rushing engine. Another one crashed through the window of the caboose, but fortunately struck no one. By this time the little engine was going at her utmost speed. At times all four of the wheels seemed to leave the track at once, she jumped so under the tremendous head of steam which the fireman, working as he had never done before, had raised. The engine swayed so from side to side as it ran that it was all that the adjutant could do to keep his feet. Finally they reached the first battery. Fortunately it had miscalculated the tremendous speed of the engine. A series of guns stationed close to the track hurled a shower of grape and solid shot at the escaping engine. It cut the framework of the caboose almost to pieces, but fortunately not a shot struck any vital part of the machinery or injured any of the three men. As they whirled on, the last gun of all sent a solid shot after them which struck the bell full and fair and with a last tremendous clang it was dashed into the bushes by the side of the road. All along the track there was a fusillade of musket-fire and bullets whizzed around them constantly, but none struck any of the crew. The next danger-point was at a junction with this road and another which ran off at right angles. This junction was protected by no less than two batteries and furthermore on the junction-track was an engine standing with smoke coming out of her smoke-stack showing that she was fired up ready for pursuit. It seemed absolutely impossible to escape these two batteries. Already they could see lanterns hurrying to and fro on both sides of the track where the guns were trained so close that they simply could not fail to dash the engine into a hissing, bloody, glowing scrap-heap of crumpled steel and iron. The men set their teeth and prepared for the crash which every one of them felt meant death. It never came. By some oversight, no alarm had been given and before the guns could be manned and sighted, the engine was whirling along right between both batteries, a cloud of sparks and a column of fire rushing two feet above her smokestack. The Confederates succeeded in only turning one gun and training it on the little engine fast disappearing in the darkness. The gunner, however, who fired that gun came nearer putting an end to the expedition than all the others. He dropped a shell in the air directly over them. It shattered the roof of the caboose, wounded the fireman and blew out both windows, but almost by a miracle left the machinery still uninjured. The adjutant laid the fireman on the jumping, bounding floor of the cab and under his faint instructions fired the engine in his place. As he was heaping coal into the open fire-box with all his might, there came a deep groan from the wounded fireman.
"Try and bear the pain, old man," shouted the engineer over the roar of the engine. "We'll be safe in a few minutes if nothing happens."
"Something's goin' to happen," gasped the fireman. "Listen!"
Far back over the track came a pounding and a pushing. The engineer shook his head.
"They're after us," he said to the adjutant, "and what's more they're bound to get us unless we can throw them off the track."
"Can't we win through with this start?" said the captain.
"No, sir," said the engineer, "they've got an engine that can do ten miles an hour better than this one and beside that, they've got a car to steady her. I don't dare give this old girl one ounce more of steam or she'd jump the tracks."
Before long far back around the curve came the head-light of the pursuing engine like the fierce eye of some insatiable monster on the track of its prey. Steadily she gained. Once when they approached the long trestlework which ran for nearly a mile, the sound of the pursuit slackened off as the lighter engine took the trestle at a speed which the heavier one did not dare to use. Bullet after bullet whizzed past the escaping engine as the soldiers in the cab of her pursuer fired again and again. Both engines, however, were swaying too much to allow for any certain aim. Finally one lucky shot smashed the clock in the front engine close by the engineer's head, spraying glass and splinters all over him. Now the front engine had only ten miles to go before she would be near enough to General Stockton's lines to be in safety. The rear engine, however, was less than a quarter of a mile away and gaining at every yard.
"How about dropping some of the fire-bars on the tracks?" suggested the captain. "We've got enough coal on to carry her the next ten miles. We shan't need the fire-bars after we get through and we certainly won't need them if they capture us."
It seemed a good idea and the wounded fireman dragged himself to the throttle and took the engineer's place for a moment while he and the captain climbed out upon the truck and carefully dropped one after the other of the long, heavy steel rods across the track. Then they listened, hoping to hear the crash of a derailed engine. It never came. Instead there was a loud clanging noise followed by a crackling of the underbrush and repeated again as the pursuing engine struck each bar with its cow-catcher and dashed it off the rails. The captain suddenly commenced to unbutton and tear off his long, heavy army overcoat.
"How about putting this in the middle of the track on the chance that it may entangle the wheels?" he suggested.
In a minute the engineer clambered out on the truck.
"If only it gets wedged in the piston-bar, it may take half an hour to get it out," he panted as he climbed back into the cab.
Suddenly from behind they heard a heavy jolting noise and then the sound of escaping steam.
"We got her," shouted the engineer and the captain to the wounded fireman whose face looked ghastly white against the red light of the open fire-box. The engineer and the captain shook hands and decided to do a little war-dance without much success on the swaying floor of the cab, but they were suddenly stopped by a whisper from the fireman.
"They've got it out," he said. Sure enough once more there came the thunder of approaching wheels and the start which they had gained was soon cut down again. The heavy engine came more and more rapidly on them as the fire died down, although the captain tried to stir up the flagging flames with his sword in place of the lost fire-iron. Only a mile ahead they could see the lights which showed where the Union lines lay. Before them was a heavy up-grade and it was certain that the Confederate engine would catch them there just on the edge of safety. In a minute or so the men crowded into the cab of the engine behind to be close enough to pick off the fugitives at their leisure. The three men stared blankly ahead. Suddenly the dull, despairing look on the engineer's face was replaced by a broad grin. Entirely forgetting military etiquette, he slapped his superior officer on the back and said:
"Captain, come out to the tender with me and I'll show you a stunt that will save our lives if you will do just what I tell you."
The captain obeyed meekly while the wounded fireman stared at his friend under the impression that he was losing his mind under the strain. The engineer took one of the large oil-cans with a long nozzle and then wrapping his two brawny arms tightly around the captain's waist, lowered him as far as he could from the tender and directed him to pour the oil directly on each rail without wasting a drop or allowing a foot to go unoiled. It was hard in the dark to see the rail or to keep one's balance on the bounding engine, but the captain was a light weight and the engineer let him down as far back from the tender as he dared and held him there until one rail was thoroughly oiled. He repeated the operation on the other side and the two once more came back to the fireman who was clinging limply to the throttle.
"Now," said the engineer, "keep your eye open and you'll see some fun."
The front engine puffed more and more slowly up the grade and the pursuing engine seemed to gain on them at every yard. Already the men in the cab were commencing to aim their rifles for the last fatal volley. At this moment the front wheels of the pursuing engine reached the oiled track and in a minute her speed slackened, the wheels whirled round and round at a tremendous speed and there was a sudden rush and hiss of escaping steam. The engine in front suddenly drew away from her anchored pursuer. The engineer took a last long look at them through his field-glasses.
"It seems to me, captain," said he, "as if they are cussin' considerable. Her old wheels are spinnin' like a squirrel-cage."
The engine dashed on more and more slowly, but there was no need for haste. In a few minutes a shot was fired in front of them and a sentry shouted for them to halt. They were within the picket lines of the Union Army. The engine was stopped and the three men staggered out holding tightly the precious dispatches which they carried in triplicate and in a few minutes more they were in the presence of General Stockton. A force was at once sent out and the Confederates and their locomotive were captured and within an hour thirty thousand men were on their way to relieve the beset Union forces.
The gauntlet had been run and General Thomas' army was saved.
CHAPTER XII
FORGOTTEN HEROES
"There was a little city and few men within it and there came a great king against it and besieged it and built great bulwarks against it. Now there was found in it a poor wise man and he by his wisdom delivered the city, yet no man remembered that same poor man." Thus wrote the great Solomon, hearing of a deed, the tale of which had come down through the centuries. The doer of the deed had been long forgotten.
History is full of memories of brave deeds. The names of the men who did them have passed away. The deeds live on forever. Like a fleck of radium each deed is indestructible. It may be covered with the dust and débris of uncounted years, but from it pulsates and streams forever a current of example and impulse which never can be hidden, never be forgotten, but which may flash out ages later, fighting with a mysterious, hidden inner strength against the powers of fear and of wrong.
The annals of the Civil War are full of records of forgotten doers of great deeds, humble, commonplace men and women who suddenly flashed out in some great effort of duty and perhaps were never heard of again. Pray God that all of us when the time comes may burst if only for a moment into the fruition of accomplishment for which we were born and not wither away like the unprofitable fig-tree which only grew, but never bore fruit.
In 1862, the battle-hospitals were crowded with wounded and dying men. The best surgeons of that day had not learned what every doctor knows now about the aseptic treatment of wounds and conducting of operations. Accordingly too often even slight wounds gangrened and a terrible percentage of injured men died helplessly and hopelessly. In the fall of that year the hospitals at Jefferson were in a fearful condition. Thousands and thousands of wounded and dying men were brought there for whom there were no beds. One poor fellow lay on the bare, wet boards, sick of a wasting fever. He was worn almost to a skeleton and on his poor, thin body were festering bed-sores which had come because there was no one who could give him proper attention. From his side he had seen five men one after the other brought in sick or wounded and carried away dead. One day an old black washerwoman named Hannah stopped in the ward to hunt up a doctor for whom she was to do some work. She saw this patient lying on his side on a dirty blanket spread out on the boards unwashed and filthy beyond all description with gaping sores showing on his wasted back. There he lay staring hopelessly at the body of a man who had recently died next to him and which the few overworked attendants had not had time to carry out to the dead-house. Old Hannah could not stand the sight. When she finally found the doctor she begged him to give her leave to take the man up and put him in her own bed.
"It's no use, Hannah," said the doctor kindly, "the poor chap is dying. He will be gone to-morrow. I wish we could do something for him, but we can't and you can't."
Hannah could not sleep that night thinking of the sick man. Bright and early the next morning she came down and found him still alive. That settled it in her mind. Without asking any one's permission, she went out, looked up her two strapping sons and made them leave their work and bring her bed down to the hospital. It was covered with coarse but clean linen sheets and she directed them while they lifted the sufferer on to the bed and carried him down to her shanty. There she cut away the filthy shirt which he wore and washed him like a baby with hot water. Then she settled down to nurse him back to life. Every half hour, night and day, she fed him spoonfuls of hot, nourishing soup. That and warm water and clean linen were the only medicines she used. For a week she did nothing else but nurse her soldier. Several times he sank and once she thought him dead, but he always rallied and single-handed old Hannah fought back death and slowly nursed him back to health. Finally when he was well, he was given a furlough to go back to his home in Indiana. He tried to persuade Hannah to go back with him.
"No, honey," she said, "I'se got my washing to do and besides I'm goin' to try to adopt some more soldiers."
She went with him to the steamboat, fixed him in a deck chair, as he was still too feeble to walk, and kissed him good-bye and when she left the man broke down and cried. Old Hannah went back to her shanty and did the same thing again and again until she had nursed back to life no less than six Union soldiers. As she was not in active service, the government never recognized her work and even her last name was never known, but six men and their families and their friends have handed down the story of what a poor, old, black washerwoman could and did do for her country and for the sick and helpless.
The exploit of Lieutenant Blodgett and his orderly, Peter Basnett, was a brave deed of another kind. He had been sent by General Schofield during the engagement at Newtonia with orders to the colonel of the Fourth Missouri Cavalry. As the two rode around a point of woods, they suddenly found themselves facing forty Confederate soldiers drawn up in an irregular line not fifty yards away. There was no chance of escape, as they would be riddled with bullets at such a short range. Moreover neither the lieutenant nor his orderly thought well of surrendering. Without an instant's hesitation they at once drew their revolvers and charging down upon the Confederates, shouted in loud, though rather shaky voices, "Surrender! Drop your arms! Surrender at once!" The line wavered, feeling that two men would not have the audacity to charge them unless they were followed by an overwhelming force. As they came right up to the lines, eight of the men in front threw down their muskets. The rest hesitated a minute and then turned and broke for the woods and the lieutenant and his orderly rode on and delivered eight prisoners along with their orders.
In the battle of Rappahannock Station, Colonel Edwards of the Fifth Maine showed the same nerve under similar circumstances. While his regiment were busy taking a whole brigade of captured Confederates to the rear, the colonel with a dozen of his men rode out into the darkness after more prisoners. Following the line of fortifications down toward the river, he suddenly came out in front of a long line of Confederate troops lying entrenched in rifle-pits. Like Lieutenant Blodgett, he decided to make a brave bluff rather than be shot down or spend weary years in a Confederate prison. Riding directly up to the nearest rifle-pit where a score of guns were leveled at him, he inquired for the officer who was in command of the Confederate forces.
"I command here," said the Confederate colonel, rising from the middle pit, "and who are you, sir?"
"My name is Colonel Edwards of the Fifth Maine, U.S.A.," replied the other, "and I call upon you to surrender your command at once."
The Confederate colonel hesitated.
"Let me confer with my officers first," he said.
"No, sir," said Colonel Edwards, "I can't give you a minute. Your forces on the right have been captured, your retreat is cut off and unless you surrender at once, I shall be compelled to order my regiment," pointing impressively to the whole horizon, "to attack you without further delay. I don't wish to cause any more loss of life than possible."
The Confederate colonel was convinced by his impressive actions and that there would be no use to resist.
"I hope you will let me keep my sword, however," he said.
"Certainly," said Colonel Edwards, generously, "you can keep your sword, but your men must lay down their arms and pass to the rear immediately."
The whole brigade including a squad of the famous Louisiana Tigers were disarmed and marched to the rear as prisoners of war by Colonel Edwards and his twelve men. One of these men said afterward, "Colonel, I nearly lost that battle for you by laughing when you spoke about their 'surrendering to avoid loss of life.'"
The most terrible missile in modern warfare is the explosive shell. Records show that the greatest loss of life occurs from artillery fire and not from rifle bullets. In the Civil War these shells were especially feared. The solid shot and the grape and the canister were bad enough, but when a great, smoking shell dropped into the midst of a regiment, the bravest men fled for shelter. The fuses were cut so that the shell would explode immediately on striking or a very few seconds afterward. The explosion would drive jagged fragments of iron and sometimes heated bullets through scores of men within a radius of fully one hundred yards. No wounds were more feared or more fatal than the ghastly rips and tears made by the jagged, red-hot fragments of shells. The men became used to the hiss and the whistle of the solid shot and the whirling bullets, but when the scream of the hollow shell was heard through the air overhead, like the yell of some great, fatal, flying monster, every man within hearing tried to get under shelter.
In 1864, the 101st Ohio Infantry were fighting at Buzzards Roost, Georgia. Company H was drawn up along the banks of the stream there and one of the Confederate batteries had just got its range. Suddenly there came across the woods the long, fierce, wailing scream of one of the great shells and before the echo had died out it appeared over the tree tops and fell right in the midst of a hundred men, hissing and spitting fire. All the men but one scattered in every direction. Private Jacob F. Yaeger was on the edge of the group and could have secured his own safety by dodging behind a large tree which stood conveniently near. Just as he was about to do this he saw that some of the men had not had time enough to get away and were just scrambling up only a few feet from the spluttering shell. He acted on one of those quick, brave impulses which make heroes of men. Like a flash, he sprinted across the field, tearing off his coat as he ran, wrapped it round the hissing, hot shell and started for the creek, clasping it tight against his breast. By this time the fuse had burned so far in that there was no opportunity to cut it below the spark. His only chance was to get it into the water before the spark reached the powder below. He reached the bank of the creek in about two jumps, but, as he said afterward, he seemed to hang in the air a half hour between each jump. Even as he reached the bank, he hurled the shell, coat and all, into the deep, sluggish water and involuntarily ducked for the explosion which he was sure was going to come. It didn't. The water stopped the spark just in time and Private Yaeger had saved the lives of many of his comrades.
Of all the prizes which are most valued in war the captured battle-flags of an enemy rank first. The flag is the symbol of an army's life. While it waves the army is living and undefeated. When the flag falls, or when it is captured, all is over. In battle the men rally around their colors and the flag stands for life or death. It must never be given up and the one who carries the flag has not only the most honorable but the most dangerous post in his company. Against the flag every charge is directed. The man who carries the flag knows that he is marked above all others for attack. The man who saves a flag from capture saves his company or his regiment not only from defeat, but from disgrace.
In the battle of Gettysburg, Corporal Nathaniel M. Allen of the First Massachusetts Infantry was the color-bearer of his company. On the 2d of July his regiment had been beaten back under the tremendous attacks of the Confederate forces. Their retreat became almost a rout as the men ran to escape the murderous fire which was being poured in upon them by concealed batteries of the enemy as well as from the muskets of the advancing infantry. Corporal Allen stayed back in the rear and retreated slowly and reluctantly so as to give his company a chance to return and rally. Beyond and still farther back than he, marching grimly and doggedly from the enemy, was the color-bearer of his regiment carrying the regimental flag. Suddenly Allen saw him falter, stop, fling up his arms and fall headlong on the field tangled up in the flag which he was carrying. There came a tremendous yell from the advancing Confederate forces as they saw the flag go down. Allen stopped and for a moment hesitated. It was only his duty to carry and wave his own colors, but at that moment he saw a squad of gray-backs start out from the advancing Confederate forces and make a rush to capture the flag which lay flat and motionless in a widening pool of the color-bearer's blood. This was too much for Allen. With a yell of defiance he rushed back, heedless of the bullets which hissed all around him, and rolling over the dead body of the man who had given his life for his colors he pulled the regimental flag from under his body, and started back for the distant Union forces. By this time the Confederates were close upon him, but his brave deed had not gone unnoticed. Seeing him coming across the stricken field with a flag in either hand, the rear-guard of his regiment turned back with a cheer and poured in a volley into the approaching Confederates which stopped them just long enough to let Allen escape and to carry back both the colors.
"What's the matter with you fellows anyway," said Allen, as he reached the safety of the rear rank; "do you think I'm going to do all the fighting?"
A storm of cheers and laughter greeted this remark and the rear-guard stopped. Slowly the others, hearing the cheers, and stranger still, the laughing, came back to the colors and in a few minutes the line was again formed and this time the regiment held and drove back the attack of the Confederates. One man by doing more than his duty had changed a defeat into a victory.
Sometimes in a battle a man becomes an involuntary hero. In some of Sienkiwictz's war-novels, he has a character named Zagloba who was constantly doing brave deeds in spite of himself. In one battle he became caught in a charge and while struggling desperately to get out, he tripped and fell on top of the standard-bearer of the other army who had just been killed. Zagloba found himself caught and entangled in the banner and finally, as the battle swept on, he emerged from the place in safety carrying the standard of the enemy and from that day forward was held as one of the heroes of the army.
At the battle of Chancellorsville Major Clifford Thompson at Hazel Grove became an involuntary hero and did a much braver deed than he had intended, although, unlike Zagloba, he had shown no lack of courage throughout the battle. General Pleasonton was forming a line of battle along the edge of the woods and was riding from gun to gun inspecting the line when suddenly not two hundred yards distant a body of men appeared marching toward them. He was about to give the order to fire when a sergeant called out to him:
"Wait, General, I can see our colors in the line."
The General hesitated a moment and then turning said, "Major Thompson, ride out and see who those people are and come back and tell me."
As the major said afterward, he had absolutely no curiosity personally to find out anything about them and was perfectly willing to let them introduce themselves, but an order is an order, and he accordingly rode directly toward the approaching men. He could plainly see that they had Union colors, but could see no trace of any Union uniforms. When he was only about forty yards distant, the whole line called out to him:
"Come on in, we're friends; don't be afraid."
The major, however, had heard of too many men being made prisoners by pretended friends and accordingly rode along the front of the whole line in order to determine definitely the character of the approaching forces, fearing that the colors which he saw and which they kept waving toward him might have been Union colors captured from the Union forces the day before. Seeing that he did not come closer, one of the front rank suddenly fired directly at him and then with a tremendous Rebel yell the whole body charged down upon the Union forces. Thompson turned his horse to dash back to his own lines, but realized that, caught between two fires, he would evidently be shot either by his own troops or by the Rebels behind him. Dashing his spurs into his horse, he rode like the wind between the two lines, hoping to get past them both before the final volley came. Fortunately for him both sides reserved their fire until they came to close quarters although he received a fusillade of scattered shots all along the line. Just as he rounded the ends, the lines came together with a crash and simultaneous volleys of musketry. There were a few moments of hand-to-hand fighting, but the Union forces were too strong and the Confederate ranks broke and retreated in scattering groups to the shelter of the woods beyond. The major reached the rear of his own lines just in time to help drive back the last rush of the Confederates. A few moments later he saw General Pleasonton sitting on his horse nearly in the same place where he had been when he had first sent him on his errand. Riding up to him, Major Thompson saluted.
"General," he said, "those men were Confederates."
"I strongly suspected it," said the General, "but, Major, I never expected to see you again, for when that charge came I figured out that if the Rebs didn't shoot you, we would. You did a very brave thing reconnoitering the enemies' front like that."
"Well," said the major, "I am glad, General, that it impressed you that way. It was such a rapid reconnoiter that I was afraid that you might think it was a retreat."
When Henry C. Foster, who afterward became famous as one of the heroes of Vicksburg, joined the Union Army, he was the rawest recruit in his regiment. His messmates still tell the story of how, before the regiment marched, he was visited by his mother who brought him an umbrella and a bottle of pennyroyal for use in wet weather and was horrified to find that soldiers are not allowed to carry umbrellas. Henry was impatient of the constant and never-ending drilling to which he was subjected. One day after a trying hour of setting-up exercises, he suddenly grounded his gun and said engagingly to the captain:
"Say, Captain, let's stop this foolishness and go over to the grocery store and have a little game of cards."
The captain stared at Foster for nearly a minute before he could get his breath, then he turned to a grinning sergeant and said:
"Sergeant, you take charge of this young cabbage-head after the regular drilling is over and drill him like blazes for about three extra hours," which the sergeant accordingly did.
In spite of his greenness and his peculiarities, however, Henry had good stuff in him and the making of a brave soldier. He was known as a dead-shot and a good soldier, although still retaining some of his peculiarities. Among others he insisted upon wearing a coonskin cap and was known throughout his company as "Old Coonskin." He soon showed such qualities of courage and self-reliance that in spite of his early record he was gradually promoted until by the time his regiment reached Vicksburg, which the Union Army was then besieging, he was a second lieutenant. The siege of Vicksburg was a long and tedious affair. The investing forces did not have sufficient artillery to make such a breach in the defenses of the Confederates that a successful attack could be made. The besiegers out in the wet and mud wearied of the slow process under which the encircling lines were brought closer and closer and longed for more active operations. Lieutenant Foster especially, just as formerly he had protested against the interminable drilling, now chafed against the enforced inaction of the troops. Finally he made up his mind that he at least would get some interest out of the siege. As one of the best shots in his regiment, he had no difficulty in being detailed for sharp-shooting duty. One dark night, loaded with ammunition and with a haversack of provisions and several canteens of water, he crawled out into the space between the Union lines and the defender's ramparts. The next morning, to his comrades' intense surprise, they found that Old Coonskin had dug for himself a deep burrow like a woodchuck close to the enemy's defenses and had thrown up a little mound with a peep-hole. There he lay for three days picking off the Confederates and scoring each successful shot with a notch on the butt of the long rifle which he had obtained especial permission to use. At first the Confederates could not locate the direction from which the fatal shots kept coming. When they did discover Foster in his burrow, volley after volley was directed at his refuge, but he kept too close to be hit and at regular intervals men who showed themselves on the ramparts were kept dropping before his unerring fire. At the end of the third day, the Confederates had learned their lesson and there were no more shots to be had and once more Old Coonskin began to be bored. It finally occurred to him that if he could in any way gain possession of a height which would allow him to shoot over the ramparts, he could make the Confederate position very uncomfortable. There was no tree or hill, however, near by which would lend itself to any such idea. Accordingly the third night Foster crawled back again to his regiment and spent a day in resting and reconnoitering and receiving the congratulations of the whole regiment for his marksmanship and daring. The next night was dark and stormy. At daylight the sentries inside the city were amazed to see a rude structure standing close beside the fatal burrow. It was in the form of a log-cabin hastily built out of railroad ties and reinforced with heavy railroad iron and containing peep-holes so that its occupant could shoot with entire safety. At first it did not seem to be any more dangerous than the burrow had been so long as the besieged kept off the breastwork. By the second day, however, it had grown visibly higher and the third night found it built up by slow degrees so that it began to look really like a low tower. Finally it reached such a height that from an upper inside shelf, protected by heavy logs and planks, Old Coonskin could lie at his ease and overlook all of the operations inside the city. Then began a reign of terror for the besieged. They had no artillery and it was necessary to concentrate an incessant fire on the tower, otherwise the sharp-shooter within could pick off his men without difficulty. It was absolutely impossible for the besieged to keep under cover and still properly man the defenses against an attack. One by one the officers went down before Old Coonskin's deadly fire and it seemed to be only a question of time and ammunition before the whole garrison succumbed to his marksmanship. In the meantime, the besieging lines drew closer and closer and the never-ceasing artillery fire and incessant attacks gradually wore down the courage and the resources of the besieged. One day within an hour eleven men went down before the deadly aim of Old Coonskin, most of them officers. Suddenly the firing ceased from the ramparts and slowly and reluctantly a white flag was hoisted, followed shortly by an envoy to the Union lines with a flag of truce. A tremendous cheer went up through the weary Union lines. Vicksburg had fallen, and to this day you never will be able to convince Old Coonskin's company that he was not the man who, along with Grant, brought about its surrender.