A FIGHT AND ITS RESULTS.
Let us now return to the cavalrymen and see how they came out in their
assault on the Union men who had been left to guard the bridge, and
particularly to tell how Dan and Cale felt when they found themselves
going back among those who would be sure to know them. Cale was
frightened, and consequently he said nothing, but Dan was just scared
enough to have plenty of talk in him.
“Take that man up behind you,” said Captain Cullom, addressing himself
to one of the leading fours of his company.
“Up you come with a jump,” said the man, reaching down to catch Dan by
the hand.
“Oh, now, I tell you I don’t want to get up there,” said Dan. “Those
people at the bridge will surely know me, and I’ll be tumbled off with
the first volley you get.”
“Get on up there,” said Captain Cullom, and he reached over as if he was
going to draw his sword.
“Give us your hand,” said the man, getting impatient. “Now throw your
leg over the back of the horse. You are Southerner enough to do that.”
Dan finally made out to get on the cavalryman’s horse, but it was more
the effects of the sword, which had leaped half-way out of its scabbard
while the captain was talking to him. Cale was already seated behind his
man, and in response to the adjutant’s order, “Forward!” they moved
toward the bridge. Dan was more than half-inclined to cry when he found
that he must go whether he wanted to or not, and the man he was with
began to torment him.
“Oh, they will give it to you if they catch you up there,” said he, in a
tone so low that the captain couldn’t hear it. “Say, Charlie, you
remember what they done to those two fellows they caught down to
Mobile?”
“You’re right, I do,” replied the man thus addressed. “They hung ’em up
to the nearest tree.”
“What did they do that for?” asked Dan.
“Because they wanted to betray their friends into our hands,” said the
man.
“But these ain’t friends of mine,” replied Dan, “I’ve been down on them
ever since I have been here.”
“No matter. You know what we will do to them if we catch them, and the
others will serve you the same way. I would rather be in my boots than
in yours.”
“But you are going to lick them, ain’t you?”
“Lick them? Of course we are. That’s what we are going up here for. Have
you got any friends there?”
“I’ve got a father and a mother.”
“Then they had better get out. We’re going to sweep everything clean.
There won’t be hide nor hair left of a Union man to-night.”
“Now, if you will let me get off and go through the woods,” said Dan, “I
can warn my relatives.”
“Can’t do it,” said the man, shaking his head. “Didn’t you hear what the
captain said? If you were in the service you would know how to obey
orders.”
“Silence in the ranks!” commanded Captain Cullom, and this put a stop to
all conversation between them, although Dan had many things that he
wanted to say.
After this they rode along in a sort of a fox trot, but Dan noticed that
they didn’t take as much pains to go quietly as the squad had done the
night before. By the time they got to the bend Dan was certain that the
pickets had heard them and taken to the bushes, and when they got around
it in plain view of the bridge there was not a sentinel in sight. But
before they had gone many feet along the road a voice called out:
“Halt! Who comes there?”
“Draw sabres and revolvers!” shouted the colonel, and the order was
repeated by the adjutant, who galloped back along the column and yelled
out the command as he went. “Forward! Charge!”
In a second Dan was flying along the road faster than he had ever
travelled on horseback before, and in another second the line was thrown
into confusion by a discharge of rifles and carbines from the woods on
each side of the bridge. The shots were well-aimed, too, for each man
was sure of his mark. The colonel and his horse went down, and so did
the two men who were carrying Dan and Cale double. The leading four were
also badly cut up, and before the major could get up to command in place
of his colonel a second discharge followed, which came within an ace of
putting the column to a rout. Dan and Cale were on their feet as soon as
they struck the ground, the former with his left arm hanging loose and
the latter with a bullet-hole through both cheeks.
“I’ve got it now! I’ve got it now!” moaned Dan, and when he tried to
raise his arm he saw that the lower part of it was useless.
“And I, too!” yelled Cale. “What’s the matter with my face, Dan? I can’t
hardly talk.”
But Dan wasn’t staying around there to tell Cale what was the matter
with his face. In fact he didn’t think anything of his brother at all,
for his thoughts were wrapped up in his own wound. He gazed at the
fallen men who were scattered around him, heard the major issue some
rapid orders, and then he, too, fell off his horse. The pickets were
evidently going for the officers, and they made short work of them. Dan
saw and heard all this and then made a desperate lunge for the bushes,
and Cale was close at his heels when he got there.
“Oh, my face!” groaned Cale. “I wish I knew what was the matter with
it.”
“Do you think there is nobody killed but yourself?” retorted Dan. “Look
at this arm. It don’t hurt me so much, but it feels bruised, and you
have got nothing but a bullet-hole through your cheeks.”
By this time the column was under command of a captain, who had little
difficulty in rallying them, and Dan heard a yell such as he had never
heard before, the yell of charging cavalry, and he saw the body of men
sweep on toward the bridge; but when they got there they saw the Union
pickets far up the road. But they loaded their rifles as fast as they
went, and when they turned around to fire at their pursuers some man was
certain to go down. At last the captain who commanded the cavalry went
over also, and this left Captain Cullom, who was the second in rank, in
charge of the regiment.
“Forward!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “They are going on ahead
to arouse the other men, and we must overtake them before they get
there.”
Again that charging yell arose, and it was answered by yells equally as
savage from the Union men, who turned and fired another volley at them.
The ten miles that lay between them and Ellisville were quickly passed
over, and by the time the pickets had arrived within sight of the camp
there was not a man to be seen. The houses didn’t look as though there
was anybody around them, but when they came nearer they found that every
window was filled with sharpshooters. The church, too, was used as a
barricade, and as it stood broadside to the road we can imagine that it
must have been hot work for that column of cavalry to have stood against
it. As they came opposite the hotel the door opened and Mr. Knight and
Mr. Sprague stepped out.
“What is going on down the road?” asked the former.
“The rebs are coming!” shouted half a dozen voices. “They have got a
whole regiment of cavalry with them. We hain’t lost a man.”
“You have done nobly,” said Mr. Sprague. “Go around behind the
church-house and make your horses fast, and go in there. Be ready to
shoot when you hear us.”
“This looks like a fight,” said one of the pickets, as they made their
way into the church. “Boys, I laid out one traitor the first fire I had.
It was that miserable Dan Newman.”
“And I made all haste to lay out the other one,” chimed in a second.
“His brother, Cale Newman, was there, and Bob, here, shot the man’s
horse, and I took particular aim at his head. I know I hit him, but I
did not fix him. I saw him get up and go into the bushes.”
“Here they come!” said one of the sharp-shooters, who was keeping watch
at one of the windows. “There is lots of them, ain’t they?”
“Yes, but it is going to take more than they have got to get away with
us,” said one of the pickets. “If ten men can throw a column like that
into confusion, they won’t stand long against the fire of five hundred.”
“Now, all you men who can get there at the window fire your one shot,
and then fall back and give somebody else a chance,” said the
quartermaster—the one who had refused to give Cale Newman a mule. “In
that way we can keep up a regular fusillade on them.”
The Confederates came on, yelling as they went, and there was more than
one man who took note of the fact that discipline was a great thing. All
those in front were coming to their death, but not one was seen to
flinch. The men in the church began to wonder if Mr. Sprague had
forgotten how to shoot, his signal was so long delayed, and some of the
most excitable ones yelled “Fire!” as the rebels came on, but the calm
voice of their leader broke in with:
“Steady there, men. Don’t shoot until you have the word;” and scarcely
had he got the words out of his mouth when a rifle-shot came from the
hotel across the way, and an instant afterward nearly a thousand rifles
and carbines cracked in unison. The slaughter was fearful. The captain,
who was leading the charge, fell with a dozen bullets in his person, and
when the smoke cleared away so that they could see the effect of the
shot, they found that the leading company had been dismounted, and their
horses were running about as if they didn’t know which way to go.
“Now, you men at the window who have had a hand in this fall back,” said
the quartermaster; but nobody seemed to hear him. The men struggled to
keep their places, and the men in the body of the church, finding that
no opportunity was to be given them, opened the door and went out. Then
the rebels got another volley, and it was almost as disastrous as the
first. And this wasn’t the worst of it. All the men came out from their
hiding-places, from the hotel and from behind the trees that concealed
them in the grove, and the surviving rebels, seeing nothing before them
but a regiment of Union men who were backed by rifles that never missed,
and more running up to join them, took to their heels and made the best
of their time down the road.
“Get on your horses and follow them!” shouted Mr. Knight from the window
of the hotel. “Don’t let one escape!”
That was the way the rebels got scattered. The Union men pursued them on
fresh horses; and some of them, seeing that their chances for escape
were slim indeed, threw down their arms and surrendered, while the rest
took off through the woods. That was the time that Leon and Ballard
might have added some glory to their escape by capturing the two men who
went across the creek, but the trouble was they didn’t know how the
thing had ended.
“Now, if you think they were whipped we can go up the main road,” said
Leon. “But I really shouldn’t like to get so close to home and then have
them jump onto me.”
“I shouldn’t like it, either,” said Ballard, with a laugh. “I would be
apt to fare worse than you would. But can’t we go on and reconnoitre the
ground? If we find some of your men there we’ll be safe.”
“Let us try it,” said Leon. “Anything is better than walking through
this thick underbrush.”
Leon was not more than half a mile below the bridge, and before he had
gone that distance he heard somebody talking in the road. He raised his
hand to Ballard, and the latter at once took his horse by the head and
forced it down. Leon held on, and after carefully feeling his way came
upon several Union men who were gathered about a rebel who had been shot
from his horse. One of the Union men he recognized as Bud McCoy, but who
the others were he didn’t know.
“Halloo! there. You licked them, didn’t you?”
“Well, I’ll be dog-gone!” exclaimed the man, as he turned about and saw
Leon advancing upon him through the bushes. “Where have you been? Your
pap has been in a heap of worry about you.”
“And well he might be,” said Leon. “I have been a prisoner. Come on,
Ballard; it’s all right.”
The men all straightened up—they were busy getting ready to remove the
wounded rebel—and presently saw Ballard coming through the woods leading
his horse.
“And here’s the man who saved me,” added Leon. “Know him, boys. His name
is Ballard. He was going to take me down to Mobile, but after he got out
of sight of the rebels he asked me into the woods and gave me something
to eat. How many of the Confederates did you kill?”
“But first, I want to know how you came to be taken prisoner?” said Bud.
“Did you run onto the rebels before you knew it? The last time I saw
you, you were up to old Newman’s house.”
“No, I didn’t run onto the rebels before I saw them,” said Leon; and he
knew the confession he was about to make would not meet the entire
approval of Bud McCoy. “One man made a prisoner of me.”
“Who was it?”
“Dan Newman.”
“And you had a revolver in your pocket?”
“Yes, but he got it away from me.”
“Dan Newman! Well, I’ll be dog-gone! Before I would let a man like Dan
Newman capture me—”
“But, Bud, he threw me down when I didn’t know he was near me,”
protested Leon, “and when I turned over to see what had happened to me,
there was my own revolver aimed straight at me.”
“Well, you will never have an opportunity to get even with him now,”
said Bud. “He was shot right through the arm, and his brother got a
bullet-hole through both cheeks.”
“Why, who did that?” exclaimed Leon, who felt very much disappointed to
hear it. He had always contended that no Newman could handle him, and
now he would have to live with that shadow on his mind.
“I don’t know; some of the pickets did it, Tom Howe was almost as worked
up as your father. He’s down there now, helping gather up the wounded
rebels,” said Bud, jerking his head down the road.
“I hope Dan will get well, for I am bound to try my strength with him
some day,” said Leon. “Has anybody here got a horse that I can ride?”
“Take that gray,” said one of the men, “I have got to carry this man to
Ellisville, so I will have to walk.”
Leon thanked him, unhitched the horse, swung himself upon his back and
galloped across the bridge and down the road to the place where his two
friends were at work. Tom and Dawson were surprised to see him, and
while he was telling them the story he looked all around to find Dan and
Cale. He wanted to see how badly hurt Dan was, for he believed, if they
were to measure strength once more, that Dan would go under.
“There’s one thing that happened about this business that you won’t
like,” said Tom; and he spoke as though he was very much disheartened
himself. “Old man Smith was badly wounded during the fight.”
“Why, how did that happen?” asked Leon in surprise.
“Well, you must know that all the shooting that was done wasn’t confined
to our men,” said Tom. “The rebels rallied two or three times, and every
time they poured in a volley.”
“But how did Mr. Smith get hit? Wasn’t he under cover?”
“Yes; he was in the hotel with your father, but he came out. He was just
getting all ready to fire when a bullet took him in the side and over he
went.”
Leon was very sorry to hear this. He remembered that Mr. Smith had told
him particularly that he had something to say to him, and he had not
been near him since. Perhaps if he went directly home he would get there
in time to hear what he had to say. He didn’t think it anything worth
listening to, but he would show his good-will. While he was looking
around at the dead and wounded Confederates lying there—and he was
really surprised when he saw what a havoc ten guns had made in the
assaulting column—he became aware that there was a man leaning on a
rifle and keeping guard over several prisoners. Among them were Dan and
Cale. One’s arm and the other’s face had been bandaged after a fashion,
and they were waiting until the rebels were all gathered up, when they
would go on to Ellisville and be placed under the care of the doctor.
Leon gave his horse the rein and rode up and accosted Dan.
“Well, old fellow, I am sorry to see you in this fix,” said he.
“Yes, no doubt you are glad of it,” whined Dan, moving his wounded arm
to a better place.
“I am, really. I was in hopes that you and I would come together again,
and I wanted you to see that you couldn’t take me down as easy as you
did before. You handled me as easy as though I wasn’t there.”
“I can do it all the time,” replied Dan, snappishly, for just then his
arm pained him and he moved it to another position. “I can get away with
you the best day you ever saw.”
“Oh, it is very easy for you to talk that way now, but if you had two
good arms I would try you right here.”
“Say, Leon, what do you reckon those fellows will do with us after they
get us to Ellisville?” said Cale, speaking with difficulty.
“I am sure I don’t know. If I had my way with you I would send you among
the rebels, with orders not to come back. You talk of the rebels as ‘our
men,’ and you belong with them.”
“I guess you’ll stretch hemp,” said the man who was acting as sentry
over them.
“I hope they won’t go that far, but I don’t know,” said Leon, as he
turned his horse about and started for Ellisville.
It was getting dark by this time, but all the way Leon saw some signs of
the fight. Here was a dead rebel who had been shot during the retreat,
and who had fallen in the middle of the road, and he had been moved out
on one side and his body covered with a blanket. A little further on he
came across a wagon which was loaded with wounded Confederates, and the
Union men all greeted him as though they were glad to see him. There was
one thing about it, if there was any faith to be put in what the men
said to him: His father had been in a constant worry ever since he
failed to show up at Newman’s house, and he became so satisfied that
Newman was to blame for his capture—for Mr. Sprague knew that somebody
had made a prisoner of him—that he sent a squad of men back to the house
and placed them all in custody. Finally Leon came up to the place where
the slaughter had taken effect when the Confederates got ready to make
their charge, and he shuddered when he looked at it. The rebels and
their horses had fallen together in a heap until they were piled on top
of one another. The Union men had not got through removing them yet.
“By gracious, if those rebels could come up here from Mobile and see
what I have seen to-day, I’ll bet they would give up trying to conquer
us,” said Leon, as he once more gave his horse the rein and drew up
before the hotel porch. “I didn’t suppose that a battle ended in that
way. I thought the dead and wounded were scattered all around, and that
you had to hunt a long time before you found them, but—I never want to
see another fight.”
The hotel porch was empty when he got there, but a little way up toward
the grove he saw a company of Confederates, all huddled together, and
Union men were keeping guard over them. They were waiting there until
their paroles could be made out. You see they had no printing-press in
Jones county, and everything like this had to be made out by hand. He
went up into the President’s room, and there he found as many men as
could find seats at the table engaged in writing. Some of the prisoners
were there to assist them.
“The way we do this,” said Mr. Knight, addressing himself to the captain
who had last commanded the regiment (by the way, he was wounded, too,
for a handkerchief that was wet with blood was tied around his
forehead)—“the way we do this is all owing to you rebels alone. You have
not hung any of our men yet; indeed, I don’t know that you have had a
chance, but if you had hung any of them, we should pick out as many men
as had been executed and hang them to the nearest tree. We want you to
understand that these paroles are matters of life and death with you. If
you go into battle against us without being exchanged, and we capture
you, you can expect nothing but death. I think you have found out, by
the way that cavalry charged upon us, that we know how to fight. How
many men had you to go back to Mobile?”
“Well, sir, I should say about two hundred.”
“And how many had you in the first place?”
“We marched up here to assault you with eleven hundred men, sir.”
“And only two hundred escaped! That’s doing pretty good work.”
Leon was astonished when he found out that so small a number of
Confederates had got away, and then, seeing that the conversation
between the President and the rebel captain had ceased, he began looking
around for his father. He found him at last sitting at a table in a
remote corner of the room, and walked up and placed his hand upon his
shoulder. Mr. Sprague looked up, and finding Leon’s face beaming down
upon him, put his pen in his mouth and extended his hand.
“Halloo, Leon; you have got back, haven’t you?” he exclaimed; and for
the first time in his life he saw his father’s eyes filled with tears.
“Yes, sir, I have got back. Where’s Mr. Smith?”
“Mr. Smith has got his death-wound, I am afraid,” said his father,
looking down at the paper on which he was writing with a most gloomy
expression. “He wants to see you bad, and I would advise you to go down
to him at once. You will find him in the parlor, lying on the sofa.”
Leon waited to hear no more, but worked his way through the men toward
the door, stopping to shake hands with this one, or to give a bow and a
smile to another, and presently found himself in the parlor. The doctor
was there and bending over the wounded man, and so was a distant
relative of his, who seemed determined that the doctor should not
exchange any words with Mr. Smith without he could hear them. Leon had
never liked that man, Leonard Smith. It is true that he had never worked
for his father, nor for Mr. Smith, either, for there was something about
him that neither of the gentlemen approved of. He was constantly telling
around that he was going to have a lot of money one of these days, and
nobody knew where he was going to get it. Mr. Smith had a little, just
how much no one knew, and it was very clear to everyone that Leonard
Smith wouldn’t get any of it when he got done with it. Mr. Smith had
often been heard to declare:
“I’ll never help a man who is too lazy to help himself. What does that
Leonard Smith do to earn his living? He works at the logs about half the
time, and the balance he spends in visiting me. I have often told him to
go to work, but he won’t do it. He is a sort of second cousin to me, but
all the same he has no claim on me.”
When Leon came into the parlor Mr. Smith turned his head and saw him.
With more strength than a person of his injuries would be likely to show
he thrust out his hand and welcomed him in his cheery way.
“Why, Leon, where have you been?” exclaimed the wounded man. “Come here
and tell me all about it. Now, doctor, I can get along without any more
help until I get through with Leon. Take everybody out of the room.”
The only person in the room besides the doctor and Leon was this Leonard
Smith, and he didn’t seem inclined to move. He walked back toward the
foot of the sofa and leaned upon it, and there he seemed determined to
stay.
“I want you to go, too,” said Mr. Smith, in angry tones. “Take him out
with you, doctor.”
“I guess I had better stay here,” said Leonard. “You might want me to
hand you your water or something.”
“I reckon this man I have got here is enough to hand me my water or
anything else,” retorted Mr. Smith. “Doctor, I want to see Leon about
something particular, and I would thank you to take that fellow out of
the room. I haven’t got but a short time to live—”
“Come, now, Leonard, go out of the room,” said the doctor.
Leonard waited a moment, just long enough to cast a glance of mingled
hate and rage upon Mr. Smith and Leon, and then went out, banging the
door after him.
“That’s all right,” said Mr. Smith. “Now, lock the door. It will take
not more than a minute, but what little I do say I want to reach your
ears, and your ears alone. Pull up a chair and sit down.”
Leon complied. He fastened the door, and then drew a chair close to the
wounded man’s side and leaned over him.