CHAPTER VII.THE BATTLE.
Brightly, beautifully the Sabbath morning broke over all the hills of the Northland, covering them with floods of rosy light, burnishing the forest trees with sheens of gold, and cresting each tall spire with colors which seemed born of Paradise, so radiantly bright they looked, flashing from their lofty resting-place,and glancing off across the valleys where the fields of waving corn and summer wheat were growing. To the westward, too, where prairie on prairie stretches on into almost interminable space, the same July sun was shining, as quietly, as peacefully, as if in the hearts of men there burned no bitter feeling of fierce and vindictive hate,—no thirsting for each other’s blood. Oh, how calm, how still it was that Sunday morning both east, and north and west, and as the sun rose higher in the heavens, how soothingly the bells rang out their musical chimes. From New England’s templed hills to the far-off shores of Oregon, the echoes rose and fell, ceasing only when ceased the tramp of the many feet hastening up to worship God in his appointed way. Old and young, rich and poor, father and mother, sister and brother, husband and wife, assembling together to keep the holy day, that best day of the seven, praying not so much for their own sins forgiven as for the loved ones gone to war,—the dear ones far away,—and little, little dreaming as they prayed, how the same sun stealing so softly up the church’s aisle, and shining on the church’s wall, was even then looking down on a far different scene,—a scene of carnage, blood and death. For, off to the southward, near where the waters of the Potomac ripple past the grave of our nation’s hero, another concourse of people was gathered together; their Sunday bell the cannon’s roar; their Sunday hymn the battle-cry.
Long before the earliest robin had trilled its matin song, they had been on the move, their bristling bayonets glittering in the brilliant moonlight like the December frost, as with regular, even tread they kept on their winding way, knowing not if the pale stars watching their course so pityingly, as it were, would ever shine on them again. Onward,—onward,—onward still they pressed;over the hills, through the ravines, down the valleys, across the fields, till the same sun which shone so softly on their distant homes rose also over theFederal Fly, as it has been aptly termed, moving onward to theWebwhich lay beyond, so well concealed and so devoid of sound that none could guess that the treacherous woods, wearing so cool, so inviting a look, were sheltering a mighty, expectant host, watching as eagerly for the advancing foe as ever ambushed spider waited for its deluded prey. Backward,—backward, stretched the Confederate army, line after line, rank after rank, battalion after battalion, until in numbers it more than quadrupled that handful of men steadily moving on. From out their leafy covert the enemy peered, exulting that the fortunes of the great Republic, their whilom mother, were so surely within their power, and pausing for a time in sheer wantonness, just as a kitten sports with the mouse she has already captured, and knows cannot escape. Onward,—onward,—onward swept the Federal troops; their polished arms and glittering uniforms flashing in the morning sunlight just as the flag for which they fought waved in the morning breeze. They were weary and worn, and their lips were parched with feverish thirst, for hours had passed since they had tasted food or water. But not for this did they tarry; there was no faltering in their ranks, no faintly beating heart, no wild yearning to be away, no timid shrinking from what the woods, now just before them, might hold in store, and when the whisper ran along the lines that the enemy was in view, there was nought felt save joy, that the long suspense was ended and the fray about to commence.
There was a halt in the front ranks, and while they stand there thus, let us look once more upon these those whomwe have known. Just where the good-humored faces of the Irish regiment, and the tall caps of the Highlanders are perceptible, the 13th appears in view, our company marching decorously on, no lagging, no faltering, no cowards there, though almost every heart had in it some thought of home and the dear ones left behind. Prayers were said by lips unused to pray, and who shall tell how many records of sins forgiven were that morning written in heaven? Bibles, too, were pressed to throbbing hearts, and to none more closely than to George Graham’s broad chest. He had prayed that morning in the clear moonlight, and by the same moonlight he had tried to read a line in Annie’s well-worn Bible, opening to where God promises to care for the widow and the fatherless. Was it ominous, that passage? Did it mean that he, so strong, so vigorous, so full of life, should bite the dust ere many hours were done? He could not believe it. He was too full of hope for that. He could not die with Annie at home alone, so he buttoned her Bible over his heart, and prayed that if a bullet struck him it might be there, fondly hoping that would break its force.
There was a shadow on his handsome face, and it communicated itself to Isaac Simms, who was glancing so stealthily at him, and guessing of what he was thinking. Isaac, too, had prayed in the moonlight, and he, too, had thought, “What if I should be killed!” wondering if his mother ever would forget her soldier boy, even though she might not weep over his nameless grave. This to Isaac was the hardest thought of all. The boy that would not tell a lie for the sake of promotion, was not afraid to die, but he preferred that it should not be there ‘mid piles of bloody slain. He would rather death should come to him up in the humble attic, where he had lain so oft and listenedto the patter of the rain on the roof above, or feigned to be asleep when his mother stole noiselessly across the threshold to see if he were covered from the cold and shielded from the snow, which sometimes found an entrance through a crevice in the wall. ’Tis strange when we are in danger what flights our fancy often takes, gathering up the minutest details of our past life, and spreading them out before us with startling distinctness. So Isaac, with possible death in advance, thought of his past life; of every object connected with his home, from the grass-plat in the rear, where his mother bleached her clothes in spring, to the blue and white checked blanket hung round his attic bed to protect him from the winter storm. That widow, so stern, so harsh, so sharp to almost every one, had been the tenderest of parents to him, and a tear glistened on the cheek of the fair-haired boy as he remembered the only time he ever was hateful to her. He had asked her forgiveness for it, and she surely would not recall it when she read the letter Eli or John would send, bearing the fatal line, “Mother, poor Isaac is dead.” He knew they would call him “poor Isaac,” for though they sometimes teased him as his “mother’s great girl baby,” they petted him quite as much as she, only in a different way, and he felt now that both would step between him and the bullet they thought would harm him. Eli would any way, but John, perhaps, would hesitate, as he now loved Susan best. Isaac was proud of his brothers, and he glanced admiringly at them as they marched side by side, keeping even step just as they did down Main street, with his mother and Susan looking on. One now was thinking of Susan, and one of his widowed mother.
Close by Isaac walked Bill, quiet and subdued. He had not prayed that morning,—he never prayed; butwhen he saw Isaac kneeling on his blanket he had said to him, “Manage to get in a word or two for me and Hal; we need it, mercy knows.” And surely if ever poor mortal needed prayer it wasHal, as his brother styled him. Half stupefied with the vile liquor he had constantly managed to get, he trudged on, boasting of what he could do; “only give him a chance and he’d lick the entire Secession army. He’d like to see the ball that could kill him; he was good at dodging; he’d show’em a thing or two in the way of fight; he’d take the tuck out of the Southern gentlemen,—yes, he would,” and so he went thoughtlessly boasting on to death!
Will Mather was not there. Indisposition had detained him at Washington, and with a hearty God speed he had sent his comrades on their way, lamenting that he, too, could not join them, and bidding his brother-in-law do some fighting for him.
At the head of his company Capt. Carleton moved. Firm, erect, and dignified, as if born to command, he did full justice to the Carleton name, of which he was justly proud; but his face was paler than its wont, and a tinge of sadness rested upon it as his regiment halted at last in front of what was supposed to be the hidden foe. Thomas Carleton had wept bitter tears when he laid his Mary to rest beneath South Carolina’s sunny skies, and had thought he could never be reconciled to the loss, but he was half glad now that she was dead, for she was born of Southern blood, and he would rather she should not know the errand which had brought him to Virginia, where first hemet and loved her,—rather she should not know how he had come to war with her people. There was another thought, too, which made him sad that July day. The green, beautiful woods standing there so silently before him probably sheltered more than one with whom he had in bygone days struck the friendly hand and bandied the friendly joke, for his home was once in Richmond, and there were there those who once held no small place in his heart. And they were dear to him yet. He was not fighting against them personally, he was contending only for his nation’s rights, his country’s honor. He bore no malice toward his Southern brethren, and like many of our staunchest, bravest Northern men, he would even then have met them more than half way with terms of reconciliation. He knew they were no race of bloodthirsty demons, as some fanatics had madly termed them. They were men, most of them, like himself,—warm-hearted, impulsive men, generous almost to a fault in peace, but firm and terrible in war.Tomhad lived among them,—had shared their hospitalities,—had seen them in their various phases, and making allowance for the vast difference which education and habits of society make in one’s opinions, he saw many points wherein the North had misunderstood their actions, and not made due concessions when they might have done so without yielding one iota of their honor. But time for concession was over now. Political fanatics had stirred up the mass of the people till nought butbloodcould wash away the fancied wrong. And they were there that Sabbath morn to spill it. Tom, however, did not know that the green, silent woods sheltered hisbrother, for his mother had purposely withheld from him the fact that Jimmie had joined the Southern Army. She knew the struggle it had cost him to take up arms against a people he liked so much, and she would not willinglyadd to his burden by telling him of Jimmie’s sin, and it was well she did not, for had he known how near he was to Jimmie, he could not have stood there so unmoved, awaiting the first booming gun which should herald the opening of the battle.
It came at last, a bellowing, thunderous roar, whose echoes shook the hills for miles, as the hissing shell went plowing through the air, bursting harmlessly at last just beyond its destined mark. The enemy were in no hurry to retort, for a deep silence ensued, broken ere long by another heavy gun, which did its work more thoroughly than its predecessor had done, for where several breathing souls had been there was nought left save the bleeding mutilated trunks of what were once human forms. The battle had commenced. Sherman’s Brigade, in which was the N. Y. 13th, did its part nobly, overrunning in its headlong charges battery after battery, and recking little of the shafts of death falling so thick and fast. Louder and more deafening grew the battle din, hoarser and heavier the battle thunder, denser, deeper the battle smoke, dimming the brightness of that Sabbath morn. Louder, shriller grew the Gaelic scream, fiercer rose the Celtic cry, wilder rang the yells of the 13th, as its members plunged into the thickest of the fight their demoniacal shouts appalling the hearts of the foe far more than the rain of shot so vigorously kept up, and causing them to flee as from a pack of fiends.
Steady in its place George Graham’s giant form was seen; no thought of Annie now; no thought of home; no thought of Bible buttoned over the heart; thoughts only of the fray and victory.
Not far away, and where the fight was thickest, the widow’s boys, Eli and John, stood firm as granite rocks, the beaded sweat dropping from their burningbrows, begrimed with battle smoke, as with unflinching nerve and hands that trembled not, they took their aims, seeing more than one fall before their sure fire.
White as the winter snow one boyish face gleamed amid the excited throng; the fair hair pushed back from the girlish forehead, and the scorching sun falling upon the unsheltered head, for Isaac’s cap had been shot away, and the ball which shot it lay swimming in the dark life blood of poor Harry Baker, just behind, andjust two inches tallerthan the widow’s youngest born. Poor Harry! He had done his best to keep the promise made so boastfully. In all the 13th Regiment there was not one who played a braver part than he, firing off with every gun a timely joke, which raised a smile even in that dreadful hour. But Harry’s work was done, and Mrs. Baker had but one boy now, for her first-born lay upon the ground so blackened and disfigured, with the thick brains slowly oozing from his mangled head, and the purple gore pouring from his lips, that only those who saw him fall, could guess that it was Harry. Poor Harry! We say it again, sadly, reverently, for rude and reckless though he was, he fell fighting for his country; and to all who perish thus we owe a debt of gratitude, a meed of praise. Sacred, then, be the memory of those whose graves are with the slain, far away beneath Virginia’s sky, and sacred be the memory of poor Harry Baker. His own worst enemy, he lived his life’s brief span, and died at last a soldier’s death.
“Shot plump through the upper story! Won’t the old woman row it, though?” was Bill’s characteristiccomment, as the whizzing and the death shriek met his ear, and the falling, bleeding figure met his view.
Spite of his jeering words there was a keen pang in Billy’s heart as he shrank away from the gory mass he knew had been his brother,—a sudden upheaving of something in his throat and a blur before his vision, as he began to realize what it was to go to war. But there was then no time to waste over a fallen brother. The dread work must go on, and with the whispered words, “Poor Hal, I’ll do the tender for you when we get the varments licked,” he marked the position by signs he could not miss, and then pressed closer to his comrade, saying, as he did so—
“Ike, Hal’s a goner. Shot right through his top-knot, with a piece of your cap wedged in his skull. If you’d been a leetle taller you’d been scalped instead of Hal. So much you get for bein’ ‘Stub.’”
Isaac shuddered involuntarily, but ere he could look back the crowd behind pushed him forward, and so he failed to see the ruin which, but for his short stature, would have come to him. There were no marks upon him yet,—nothing, save the uncovered head, to tell where he had been. The balls which struck down others passed him by, the wind they made lifting occasionally his fair hair, but doing no other damage. Above, around, before, behind, at right, at left, the grape shot fell like hail, but left him all untouched, and Billy, grown timid since poor Harry’s fate, pressed closer to the boy who would not tell a lie, as if there were safety there.
Onward, onward they pressed, Isaac wondering sometimes how Tom Carleton fared, and looking again in quest of their young Lieutenant Graham, still towering above them all, in spite of Rose’s prediction. The ballfor which he was the mark had not been fired yet, but it was coming. An Alabamian volunteer had singled out that form, yelling exultingly as he saw it reel and totter like a broken reed. They were well matched in size, the two combatants, both splendid marks, as Rose had said, and Bill Baker’s sure aim froze the laugh upon the Alabamian’s lips and sent him staggering to the ground, just as Isaac received his captain’s orders to lead the fainting, wounded George to a place of comparative safety.
“It’s only my arm they’ve shattered,” George whispered, glancing sadly at the disabled limb over which Isaac’s tears were falling. “Will it kill me, think?” was the next remark, prompted by a thought of Annie.
Isaac did not believe it would, and with all a woman’s tenderness he bound it up and held his canteen to the lips of the fainting, weary man, whispering,
“Water, boy, water.”
Isaac had not, like many others, thrown his canteen away, and he gave freely to the thirsty George, who, with each draught, felt his pulse grow stronger, while his eyes kindled with fresh zeal as the noise of the battle grew louder, and seemed to be coming nearer. The onslaught was terrible now. Cannon after cannon belched forth its terrific thunder, ball after ball sped on its deadly track, battery after battery opened its blazing fire, shell after shell cut the summer air, and burst with murderous hiss; shout after shout rent the smoky sky, shriek after shriek went down with the rushing wind, officer after officer bit the dust, rank after rank was broken up, soul after soul went to the bar of God, and then there came a pause. The firing ceased, the stifling smoke rolled gradually away, and showed a dreadful sight,—men mutilatedand torn, till not a vestige of their former looks was left to tell who they had been. Mingled together, in one frightful mass, the dead and dying lay, smiles wreathing the livid lips of some, and frowns disfiguring others. Arms, hands, and feet, heads, fingers, toes, and clots of human hair, dripping red with blood, were scattered over the field,—parts of the living mass we saw but a few hours agone moving on so hopefully beneath the morning moonlight, “Like leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,” they lay there now, their mangled remains crying loudly to Heaven for vengeance on the heads of those who brought this curse upon us.