REMOVED FROM THE BATTLEFIELD TO THE HOSPITAL AT CHATTANOOGA.
FOR a short time a silence that seemed oppressive followed the fierce
turmoil of the last charge of the rebels upon Snodgrass Hill and its
repulse. Both sides had exhausted themselves in the awful grapple, and
had to regain breath and thought. Then the night was pierced by the
agonizing groans of the innumerable wounded, the stern commands of
officers to their men to re-form, the calls of scattered men seeking
their regiments and companies.
The sadly-shrunken remnant of the unconquer able 200th Ind. gathered
around its regimental colors, on the front of the crest of Snodgrass
Hill, and grimly, silently prepared for the next event, whatever it
might be. The wounds of those still able to fight were bound up, and
they resumed their places in line. The worst hurt were helped or carried
back to the busy Surgeon under the shelter of the hill. The newly-dead
were brought up and added to the row of those who had already fought
their last battle. Cartridge-boxes of both dead and wounded were
carefully searched for remaining cartridges. Si and Shorty were laid at
the end of the long row.
The chill air of the evening began to revive Si and Shorty. Si's brain
responded long before any of his muscles. At first it seemed the vaguest
and most shadowy of dreams. There was a dim consciousness of lying
somewhere. Where it was, how he came there, what was going on around
he had not the slightest idea nor desire to know. There was just the
feeling of being there, without any sensation of comfort or discomfort,
wish or longing.
One by one, and very slowly, other nerves awoke. He became conscious
that there was a sharp stone or knot under his head, which hurt, and he
tried to move it, but queerly his head would not move, and then he found
that neither would his hands. This was faintly puzzling, as things are
in dreams. Then his throat became on fire with thirst, and somehow
there came a dream of the deliciously cool well on the farm at home,
the bucket covered with green moss swinging over it, the splash of cool
water when it was lowered, the trough by the side, where they used to
pour water for the fowls to drink, the muddy spot around, where water
plants grew on the splashings and drippings. Then were visions of
the eternal, parching thirst of the damned, which he had often heard
preachers describe, and he was conscious of a faint curiosity as to
whether he had died and waked up in the home of the lost.
Still not a muscle waked up to obey his will, and he seemed indifferent
whether it did or not. Then he forgot everything again, until presently
his burning throat recalled his consciousness.
He felt the cold, bracing air in his nostrils, and slowly, very slowly
at first, he began to hear and understand the sounds around him. The
shriek of a wounded comrade carried past, whose leg had been shattered,
first sounded like the hum of bees, and finally translated itself into
something like its true meaning, but he had no comprehension or sympathy
for its misery.
He tried to make some sound himself, but his tongue was as hypnotized
as his other muscles, and refused to obey his will. Yet at the moment
he did not seem to care much. His wishes were as numb as his tendons and
sinews. He became shadowly conscious of his comrades gathering around
him, picking him up, carrying him back up the hill, and laying him down
again. This relieved the sharp pain from the stone under his head; but
when they laid him down again his head fell too low. He heard the
murmur of their voices, and felt their hands searching his pockets for
cartridges.
Consciousness began returning more swiftly, though the muscles were yet
paralyzed. He could feel to the tips of his fingers, yet he could
not move them. He began to understand the words spoken about him, and
comprehend their meaning. The first sentence that filtered its way to
his brain was Lieut. Bowersox's order to the regiment:
"The orders are to fall back quietly. We'll follow the 1st Oshkosh, on
our right. As soon as it is well down the hill we'll move by the right
flank, and fall in behind it. Our wagon is right at the bottom of the
hill. Those that are not able to march will start now, and get in it.
It will move right after the regiment. Don't anybody say a word of this
above his breath. The rebels are listening sharply for our movements. We
dare not even cheer, for fear they'll find out how few are left of us.
All of you keep a lookout, and follow right after me when I start, for I
won't give any order."
Then all his consciousness seemed to wake up at once into an agony of
fear of being left behind to fall into the hands of the rebels. He made
a desperate effort to call out, but his tongue seemed dry and useless
as a cornhusk in his parched mouth, and his throat too burning hot to
perform its office. Nor could he lift a finger nor move a toe.
He found room for anger at Shorty that he did not look him up, and
satisfy himself as to his condition, and Lieut. Bowersox and the rest
seemed selfishly thoughtful of their own safety and neglectful of his.
He listened in agony to the regiment on the right marching off, to
the cautions and admonitions given those who were carrying off the
badly-wounded, and then to Lieut. Bowersox starting off with the right
of the 200th Ind.
Then he heard little Abel Waite say:
"I know that Si Klegg has some things on him that his folks' d like
to have. I know where they live. I'm goin' to git 'em, and send 'em to
'em."
"Make haste, then, young feller," he heard Wat Burnham growl. "Don't let
the rebels ketch yer. We're movin' now."
He heard Abel Waite's steps running toward him, and felt his hands
thrust into his blouse pocket over his breast. Then the boy said with a
start of surprise:
"Why, he's alive yet. Come here, Wat."
Wat and the Irishmen hastened to him. He felt
Wat's hand laid on his breast, and then held over his mouth.
"'E's certainly warm yet. Hand 'e breathes."
Shorty made a violent effort, and summoned enough strength to reach over
and touch the Englishman's foot.
"The tall feller's alive, too," said Wat.
"We must take 'em along with us," said Abel Waite excitedly.
"Yes, but 'ow?" growled the Englishman. "Don't speak so loud, you young
brat. Do you want to hopen hup that 'ell's kitchen hagin?"
"The Liftinant's far down the hill wid the regiment," said Barney
McGrath. "There's no toime to sind for him. Here, lit's pick thim up an'
carry thim down to the wagon."
He put his hand under Si's shoulder. The others did the same, Wat
lifting Shorty's feet.
"Halt, there, you Yanks, and surrender," said a stern voice just behind
Wat.
Wat looked back over his shoulder and saw a single adventurous rebel
who, divining what was going on, had slipped forward in the darkness,
with his gun leveled on the squad bearing Si. Wat realized instantly
that the rebel must be suppressed with out alarm to others that might be
behind him. He dropped Shorty's foot, and with a backward sweep of his
mighty right took the rebel in the stomach with such force as to double
him up. The next instant Wat had his throat in his terrific grip, and
tried to tear the windpipe from him. Then he flung the rebel forward
down the hill, gathered up Shorty's feet again, and gave the command:
"Hall right. Go a'ead, boys, quick has you can."
With great difficulty they made their way over the wreckage of battle
down the hill toward where they expected to find the regimental wagon.
But it had received all that it could hold of its ghastly freight and
moved off.
They were is despair for a few minutes, until Abel Waite discovered an
abandoned wagon near by, with one mule still hitched to it. Next they
found a wounded artillery horse which had been turned loose from his
battery. He was hitched in, and Si and Shorty were laid on the layer of
ammunition-boxes which still covered the bottom of the bed.
"Who'll drive the bloody team?" growled Wat. "Hi never druv a 'oss hin
my life. 'Ere, Barney, you get hin the saddle."
"Not Oi," answered Barney. "Oi niver could droive ayven a pig, on the
brightest day that shone. Oi'll not fool wid a couple av strange horses,
a wagon-load av foire an' brimstone, an' a brace av dead men, in the
midst av Aygytian darkness. Not Oi."
"Here, I kin drive two horses, anyway," said Abel Waite, climbing into
the saddle. "I've done that much on the farm."
They pushed off into the road marked by the dark line of troops moving
silently toward McFarland's Gap, and after some contest with other
drivers secured a place behind one of the regiments of their brigade.
A couple of miles ahead Forrest's cavalry was making a noisy dispute
of the army's retreat, the woods were on fire, and the fences on either
side of the road were blazing.
The long line was halted in anxious expectation for a little while, as
the storm of battle rose, and the men looked into each other's faces
with sickening apprehension, for it seemed much like defeat and capture.
Then loud cheers, taken up clear down the line', rose as Turchin's
Brigade, by a swift bayonet charge, swept away all opposition, scattered
the rebels to the shelter of the woods, and reopened the way. But
the rebels still continued to fire long distance shots at the road as
outlined by the burn ing fences.
[Illustration: THE DEAD BEING COLLECTED AFTER THE BATTLE. 220]
Though one of his team was wounded, Abel Waite had little difficulty
in keeping his place in column until the burning lane was reached. The
regiment ahead had gone through on the double-quick, and teams as fast
as they could be lashed.
"What'll we do now?" he called out to the others in his boyish treble.
"I can't git these plugs out of a walk. If we go ahead the fire'll bust
the ammunition, and send us all sky-huntin'. If we stop here them rebels
'll git us, sure."
"Go a'ead, Habe," growled Wat, after a moment's thought. "We can't 'elp
you, but we'll stay wi' you. Hif she busts, she busts, hand that's hall
there'll be hof hit hor hof us. We'll stick by the wagon, though, till
she busts, hand then nobuddy but the crows 'll hever find hany hof hus.
Go a'ead, you bloody brat."
"Cut me one o' them young hickories for a gad," said Abel, pointing to
the brush by the side of the road, "and I'll git as good time out o'
these poor brutes as they kin make, if I skin 'em alive."
Abel lashed his animals with all the strength of his young arm,
and succeeded in keeping them in something like a trot. The men ran
alongside, and fought the fire as well as they were able. Several times
the wagon-cover caught fire from the intense heat, but it was at once
beaten out by hats and blouses, and blouses were laid over the holes to
protect them against the sparks.
They succeeded at last in getting through the fire-bordered road without
an explosion, but they were all so exhausted that they could not move
another step until they rested. The poor horse lay down and refused to
get up.
Wat and Abel looked in to see how Si and Shorty had fared. The jolting
of the wagon and the cold night air had at first revived them so that
they could speak. Then they swooned again from the effects of the heat
and the stifling smoke, and were speech less and motionless when Wat and
Abel looked in.
"We've 'ad hall hour trouble for nothink," said Wat disconsolately, as
he felt them over. "The 'eat and smoke's killed 'em."
"Not by a durned sight," slowly gasped Shorty. "Seen sicker dogs'n this
git well. Nearly dead for a drink o' water, though. Then I'll be all
right."
Abel snatched a canteen, ran to a branch a little way off, filled it,
and returning, put it to Shorty's lips.
"Jehosephat, how good that tastes," said Shorty, speaking still faintly,
but far more freely than at first, after he had drained the canteen.
"Sonny, run and git some more; and mind you fill the canteen full this
time. I feel as if I could drink up the Mississippi River. Say, boys,
what's happened? Appearintly, I got a sock-dologer on my head from some
feller who thought I was too fresh. I'm afraid I'll have a spell o'
headache. But we got the flag, didn't we?"
"Yo're bloody right we did," said Wat; "hand we wolloped them bloomin'
rebels till they 'unted their 'oles hin the woods."
"That's good enough," said Shorty, sinking back.
"The column's movin' agin," said Abel Waite, turn ing his attention to
his team.
Shortly after daybreak the team limped painfully up the slope of Mission
Ridge, through Rossville Gap, on either side of which stood Thomas's
indomitable army in battle array, sternly defying the rebel hosts of
Bragg and Longstreet, which swarmed over the hills and valleys in front,
but without much apparent appetite for a renewal of the dreadful fray.
"Where do you men belong? What have you got in that wagon? Where are you
going?" demanded the Provost officer in the road.
"We belong to the 200th Hinjianny. We've got two badly-wounded men and
ha lot o' hammynition in the wagon. We want to find our regiment," an
swered Wat Burnham.
"Stop your wagon right there. We need all the ammunition we can get.
Lift your wounded men into that ambulance, and then go up to that side
of the gap. Your division is up there somewhere."
It was late in the afternoon before the overworked Surgeon in the field
hospital at Chattanooga, in which Si and Shorty were finally deposited,
found time to examine them.
"You got a pretty stiff whack on your head, my man," he said to Shorty,
as he finished looking him over; "but so far as I can tell now it has
not fractured your skull. You Hoosiers have mighty hard heads."
"Reglar clay-knob whiteoak," whispered Shorty; "couldn't split it with
a maul and wedge. Don't mind that a mite, since we got that flag. But
how's my pardner over there?"
"I think you'll pull through all right," continued the Surgeon, "if you
don't have concussion of the brain. You'll have to be--"
"No danger o' discussion of the brains," whispered Shorty. "Don't carry
'em up there, where they're liable to get slubbed. Keep 'em in a safer
place, where there's more around 'em. But how's my pardner?"
"You'll come through all right," said the Surgeon smiling. "You're the
right kind to live. You've got grit. I'll look at your partner now."
He went to Si and examined him. Shorty turned on his side and watched
him with eager eyes. His heart sickened as he saw the Surgeon's face
grow graver as he proceeded. The Surgeon probed the bullet's track with
his fingers, and drew out a piece of folded letter paper stained with
blood. Instinctively he unfolded it, and read through the ensanguined
smears, written in a cramped school-girl hand:
"Dear Si: Though I did not have the heart to say it, Ime
yours till death, and Ime sure you feel the same way.
Annabel."
"I'm much afraid the end has come too soon to a brave as well as loving
heart," said the Surgeon sadly.
"Doctor, he can't die. He mustn't die," said Shorty in agony. "The
regiment can't spare him. He's the best soldier in it, and he's my
pardner."
"He may live, but it's a very slender chance," said the Surgeon. "Men
live in this war against all science and experience, and it is possible
that he may."
"Major," said Lieut. Bowersox, coming in, "I understand that two of my
men were brought in here wounded. The report which was sent North this
morning gave them as killed. If you have them here I want to correct it
and save their people sorrow."
"One of them," answered the Surgeon, "has no thought of dying, and will,
I'm sure, pull through. I am sorry I cannot say the same for the other.
It he lives it will be a wonder."
"Neither of us is a-going to die till we've put down this damned
rebellion, and got home and married our girls," gasped Shorty with grim
effort. "You can jist telegraph that home, and to ole Abe Lincoln, and
to all whom it may concern."
And he fell back exhausted on his blanket.