ADVENTURES DURING THE SEVEN DAYS’ BATTLES
“Harry, we are going to move at last!”
“Who said so?”
“Captain Paulding. I just heard him talking to the general. I fancy we
are in for a bit of hard fighting now.”
“We have waited here too long, Louis, to my way of thinking. The rebels
must have a tremendous reinforcement by this time.”
It was a clear, warm day. It had not rained now for more than ten
days, and the high ground around the camp was beginning to show signs
of dust. On every side activity prevailed. Yet it was not until the
middle of the afternoon that orders reached the regiment to which the
Goreville boys belonged to move forward, in heavy marching order.
“This does mean business,” Blackwell exclaimed. “We’re either going to
march for Richmond or--”
“Or what, Blackwell?”
“Or we’re going to retreat.”
“Retreat!” came from half a dozen throats.
“Exactly, fellows. You see--”
The roll of Benny Bruce’s drum cut the remark short. Soon soldiers
were hurrying in all directions as the call to arms sounded upon the
afternoon air. Half an hour later the Goreville Volunteers were on the
march, moving down a road in the direction of Mechanicsville.
Less than half a mile had been covered, when they heard the deep
booming of cannon, followed by the sharp rattle of musketry. The shots
came in quick succession, showing that not a mere skirmish but a
genuine battle was in progress.
Louis’s heart began to beat fast. He had done no fighting since that
advance at Fair Oaks. What did the immediate future hold in store? He
breathed a silent prayer that all might go well with him.
A small hill was ascended and before the Volunteers was spread a
moving panorama of soldiers, marching, retreating, and firing so fast
that the clouds of dust almost hid the gallant fighters from view. On
another hill a Confederate battery was dealing out death with every
discharge of its four guns.
“That battery must be taken!” This was the cry that ran along the line,
as the Goreville Volunteers swept into action. “Forward, men, and keep
close. One gallant charge and the day is ours!”
Away went the men, each bayonet glistening brightly in the clear
sunshine. On and on over the tramped-down grass, the soldiers so close
together that nothing could go between them, Harry on one side of
Louis, Blackwell upon the other--on and on, through the smoke and dust.
Louis could fairly feel his heart thump against his cross-belts.
Boom! boom! boom! The Confederate battery had opened upon them
in deadly earnest. The long flashes of fire, the whistling of
grape and canister, was followed by yells and shrieks of agony
never-to-be-forgotten. Men dropped by the score and for a moment the
line staggered and halted.
“Close up! close up! forward!” came the command, and the men crowded
together again. Now came the order to fire, and the first line did so.
Then they dropped upon their knees and the second line fired over their
heads. The rifles were pointed at the Confederate gunners and several
were seen to tumble back. Then on swept the Union line, yelling with a
voice that is never heard anywhere but on the battlefield where men are
fighting for their very lives.
[Illustration: THEN ON SWEPT THE UNION LINE, YELLING WITH A VOICE THAT
IS NEVER HEARD ANYWHERE BUT ON THE BATTLEFIELD. _Page 399._]
The guns were now in plain sight, and fearful of the attack, a regiment
of Confederate infantry was hurled to the front to stay the progress
of the long line of blue. It was bayonet to bayonet, with a clash and
a crash that could have been heard for half a mile had not the general
din swallowed it up. But the boys in blue were on the run and could not
be stayed until the battery was gained and silenced.
The encounter nearly threw Louis off his feet. As the Confederates
came closer, he suddenly saw before him a tall, thin man, with a
browned, determined face. The bayonet of the man was thrust with a
vicious lunge straight for his heart. With a desperate effort, Louis
knocked the weapon aside. Then his own bayonet lunged forward and the
tall, thin man went down, pierced through the side. Like a flash he was
lost to view, as the first and then the second line of attack trampled
over his body, and Louis found himself confronted by another foe.
“The battery is ours! Hurrah!” This was the cry which rang over the
field. The Confederate infantry had been forced back, inch by inch,
until the Union soldiers now held the entire top of the hill. It looked
as if the day would remain their own.
But this was not yet to be. From the woods beyond there burst a fresh
regiment of North Carolina troops, and close behind them came some
Alabama reserves, and once again the men in gray made an onslaught,
yelling like so many demons. Some artillery also came into place,
dealing death at every discharge and cutting down those on the very
apex of the hill as with a huge scythe.
“They’re too many for us!” Who started the cry will never be known.
But it was enough to put the Union regiment upon the retreat. An effort
was made to spike the Confederate battery which had just been taken,
but there was not time enough, and in a twinkling blue and gray were
fighting in the hollow beneath the hill, “like cats in a water butt,”
to use Moses Blackwell’s words. Moses had had a shot through his ear
lobe, from which the blood flowed freely, but the thought of retiring
to the rear never once entered his head.
“If only a fellow had a drink of water!” panted Louis. The Goreville
Volunteers had reached the shelter of some brush, and the Confederates
had failed to follow them up. He looked around and found a pool close
at hand. He was kneeling to get a drink when a cannon boomed forth,
the ball ploughed into the pool and he found himself bespattered with
water and mud! He forgot all about being thirsty, but rolled over and
retreated on a run.
There was now a call to support another regiment in a different
section of the field, and once again the Goreville boys set off on the
double-quick, loading as they ran. They were now in the vicinity of the
river, and blue and gray were fighting for the possession of a bridge.
“We will go below,” said Captain Paulding, who had received orders to
that effect from the general of the regiment. “The Confederates have
found a lodging on this bank behind some fallen trees and we must root
them out.”
The march was through some swamp lands close to the river. The change
from the sunshine and heat to the damp shade of the forest trees
cooled the ardor of the soldiers, but still they went on with grim
determination. Several hundred feet were passed, when there arose a
wild yell from the right and from the left. They had fallen into a trap!
“Fire! Charge bayonets! Fall back!” These and half a dozen other orders
rang out. But no one heard them. The Confederates were hemming them in.
They must cut their way back to safety. A fierce fighting arose upon
every side. Louis charged with the others. He had taken less than ten
steps when a clubbed musket hit him alongside of the head and he was
knocked almost senseless. He staggered off to a thicket, pitched upon a
tuft of swamp grass; and knew no more.
When the young Union soldier came to his senses all was pitch dark
around him. His head ached as if it would split open, and his ears
still rang from the concussions of the battle. He endeavored to sit up,
but fell back completely exhausted.
The first sound which claimed his attention was that of the swamp
frogs. How calmly they croaked, as though such a thing as war was
unknown. Then came the cry of a distant night-bird, returning, after a
brief season of alarm, to its nest. He continued to rest and to listen,
and thus gradually his headache became more endurable.
It was the cold which finally made him arouse himself. He reckoned it
must be three or four o’clock in the morning. He listened attentively.
Far, far away he fancied he could hear the tramping of horses and the
rumbling of wagons. It was the retreat of the Union baggage trains.
The Army of the Potomac, finding the enemy too numerous, had begun its
withdrawal to the James River. A part were already at Gaines’s Mill,
preparing for the battle which was bound to come at the break of day.
“I must get back to our regiment,” he thought, and arose to his feet.
For the moment he could scarcely stand. He wondered if he had been
shot. Then he remembered the savage blow from the gun-stock. He put his
hand up to his head. There was a large and sore lump back of his ear.
Which way should he turn? It was a puzzling question. The enemy might
be all around him, and he had no desire to be taken prisoner again. He
thought of the river, close at hand. The Union army must be on or near
that, perhaps five or ten miles below. He would follow the river, for
want of a better path.
The task Louis had cut out for himself was no easy one. The swamps
were treacherous and soon he found himself up to his knees in muck and
water. He could scarcely move, and coming to a slight elevation threw
himself down, panting for breath. He was near the main stream and now
something caught his eye which gave him a new idea.
The something was a flat-bottom boat, resting half in and half out of
the water, the oars sticking over the bow. Instantly his mind was made
up. He would take to the boat and row, or rather guide himself, down
the Chickahominy until an assured place of safety was gained.
A few steps forward, and he had just begun to shove upon the bow of
the craft, when a slight movement at the bottom caused him to start.
A man lay there, his forehead tied up with a bandage. The man was a
Confederate captain.
“Who’s that?” asked the man, in rather a weak voice.
“A soldier,” answered Louis, and added quickly: “Are you alone here,
captain?”
“Yes, worse luck. Where is my command? I was struck by a glancing
bullet and knocked out.”
“I don’t know where your command is, captain. Can you get up? This is a
bad resting-place.”
“Can I get up? Why--Heavens! a Union soldier, and I thought you a
friend! What does this mean?”
“Keep still, captain,” answered Louis, and then as the wounded officer
made a movement as if to draw his pistol, the youth leaned over him and
snatched it from his belt.
“Hi! give me my pistol!” came in a weak but fierce tone. The
Confederate officer tried to rise, but Louis shoved him back.
“Keep still now. As you discovered, I am a Union soldier, and I have
no desire to be made a prisoner.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“Take this boat and row down the stream.”
“I don’t want to go down the stream.”
“In this case I am afraid you’ll have to go, captain. Lie still while I
shove off.”
“But, see here--”
“Silence, if you value your life!” and Louis leveled the pistol at the
man’s head. The threat had the desired effect. The Confederate captain
fell back, and Louis shoved the boat into the stream. The youth soon
found rowing out of the question and merely guided the craft as it
drifted swiftly along the swollen river.
Half a mile had been covered and Louis was guiding the boat around a
bend when the sounds of voices in a thicket ahead reached his ears.
To slow up was impossible and he therefore guided the craft to the
opposite shore from whence the voices came.
“Halt! In the boat, halt!” rang out the cry. “Who goes there?” and
Louis saw the glint of a rifle barrel thrust through the leaves not
twenty feet from him.
“It’s a Yank, sure ez you’re born,” came in another, but lower, voice.
“Plug him, Bart, afore he gits the chance to git away!”