Guided in his retreat by that of the fugitive wounded, the Governor
struggled bravely to the rear through the "bad bit of jungle." He was
well winded and a trifle confused. Excepting a single rifle-shot now and
again, there was no sound of strife behind him; the enemy was pulling
himself together for a new onset against an antagonist of whose numbers
and tactical disposition he was in doubt. The fugitive felt that he
would probably be spared to his country, and only commended the
arrangements of Providence to that end, but in leaping a small brook in
more open ground one of the arrangements incurred the mischance of a
disabling sprain at the ankle. He was unable to continue his flight, for
he was too fat to hop, and after several vain attempts, causing
intolerable pain, seated himself on the earth to nurse his ignoble
disability and deprecate the military situation.
A brisk renewal of the firing broke out and stray bullets came flitting
and droning by. Then came the crash of two clean, definite volleys,
followed by a continuous rattle, through which he heard the yells and
cheers of the combatants, punctuated by thunderclaps of cannon. All this
told him that Armisted's little command was bitterly beset and fighting
at close quarters. The wounded men whom he had distanced began to
straggle by on either hand, their numbers visibly augmented by new
levies from the line. Singly and by twos and threes, some supporting
comrades more desperately hurt than themselves, but all deaf to his
appeals for assistance, they sifted through the underbrush and
disappeared. The firing was increasingly louder and more distinct, and
presently the ailing fugitives were succeeded by men who strode with a
firmer tread, occasionally facing about and discharging their pieces,
then doggedly resuming their retreat, reloading as they walked. Two or
three fell as he looked, and lay motionless. One had enough of life left
in him to make a pitiful attempt to drag himself to cover. A passing
comrade paused beside him long enough to fire, appraised the poor
devil's disability with a look and moved sullenly on, inserting a
cartridge in his weapon.
In all this was none of the pomp of war--no hint of glory. Even in his
distress and peril the helpless civilian could not forbear to contrast
it with the gorgeous parades and reviews held in honor of himself--with
the brilliant uniforms, the music, the banners, and the marching. It was
an ugly and sickening business: to all that was artistic in his nature,
revolting, brutal, in bad taste.
"Ugh!" he grunted, shuddering--"this is beastly! Where is the charm of
it all? Where are the elevated sentiments, the devotion, the heroism,
the--"
From a point somewhere near, in the direction of the pursuing enemy,
rose the clear, deliberate sing-song of Captain Armisted.
"Stead-y, men--stead-y. Halt! Com-mence fir-ing."
The rattle of fewer than a score of rifles could be distinguished
through the general uproar, and again that penetrating falsetto:
"Cease fir-ing. In re-treat... maaarch!"
In a few moments this remnant had drifted slowly past the Governor, all
to the right of him as they faced in retiring, the men deployed at
intervals of a half-dozen paces. At the extreme left and a few yards
behind came the captain. The civilian called out his name, but he did
not hear. A swarm of men in gray now broke out of cover in pursuit,
making directly for the spot where the Governor lay--some accident of
the ground had caused them to converge upon that point: their line had
become a crowd. In a last struggle for life and liberty the Governor
attempted to rise, and looking back the captain saw him. Promptly, but
with the same slow precision as before, he sang his commands:
"Skirm-ish-ers, halt!" The men stopped and according to rule turned to
face the enemy.
"Ral-ly on the right!"--and they came in at a run, fixing bayonets and
forming loosely on the man at that end of the line.
"Forward... to save the Gov-ern-or of your State... doub-le quick...
maaarch!"
Only one man disobeyed this astonishing command! He was dead. With a
cheer they sprang forward over the twenty or thirty paces between them
and their task. The captain having a shorter distance to go arrived
first--simultaneously with the enemy. A half-dozen hasty shots were
fired at him, and the foremost man--a fellow of heroic stature, hatless
and bare-breasted--made a vicious sweep at his head with a clubbed
rifle. The officer parried the blow at the cost of a broken arm and
drove his sword to the hilt into the giant's breast. As the body fell
the weapon was wrenched from his hand and before he could pluck his
revolver from the scabbard at his belt another man leaped upon him like
a tiger, fastening both hands upon his throat and bearing him backward
upon the prostrate Governor, still struggling to rise. This man was
promptly spitted upon the bayonet of a Federal sergeant and his
death-gripe on the captain's throat loosened by a kick upon each wrist.
When the captain had risen he was at the rear of his men, who had all
passed over and around him and were thrusting fiercely at their more
numerous but less coherent antagonists. Nearly all the rifles on both
sides were empty and in the crush there was neither time nor room to
reload. The Confederates were at a disadvantage in that most of them
lacked bayonets; they fought by bludgeoning--and a clubbed rifle is a
formidable arm. The sound of the conflict was a clatter like that of the
interlocking horns of battling bulls--now and then the pash of a crushed
skull, an oath, or a grunt caused by the impact of a rifle's muzzle
against the abdomen transfixed by its bayonet. Through an opening made
by the fall of one of his men Captain Armisted sprang, with his dangling
left arm; in his right hand a full-charged revolver, which he fired with
rapidity and terrible effect into the thick of the gray crowd: but
across the bodies of the slain the survivors in the front were pushed
forward by their comrades in the rear till again they breasted the
tireless bayonets. There were fewer bayonets now to breast--a beggarly
half-dozen, all told. A few minutes more of this rough work--a little
fighting back to back--and all would be over.
Suddenly a lively firing was heard on the right and the left: a fresh
line of Federal skirmishers came forward at a run, driving before them
those parts of the Confederate line that had been separated by staying
the advance of the centre. And behind these new and noisy combatants, at
a distance of two or three hundred yards, could be seen, indistinct
among the trees a line-of-battle!
Instinctively before retiring, the crowd in gray made a tremendous rush
upon its handful of antagonists, overwhelming them by mere momentum and,
unable to use weapons in the crush, trampled them, stamped savagely on
their limbs, their bodies, their necks, their faces; then retiring with
bloody feet across its own dead it joined the general rout and the
incident was at an end.