Produced by Ken Reeder
THE SWORD OF ANTIETAM
A STORY OF THE NATION'S CRISIS
By Joseph A. Altsheler
FOREWORD
“The Sword of Antietam” tells a complete story, but it is one in
the chain of Civil War romances, begun in “The Guns of Bull Run” and
continued through “The Guns of Shiloh” and “The Scouts of Stonewall.”
The young Northern hero, Dick Mason, and his friends are in the
forefront of the tale.
THE CIVIL WAR SERIES
VOLUMES IN THE CIVIL WAR SERIES
THE GUNS OF BULL RUN.
THE GUNS OF SHILOH.
THE SCOUTS OF STONEWALL.
THE SWORD OF ANTIETAM.
THE STAR OF GETTYSBURG.
THE ROCK OF CHICKAMAUGA.
THE SHADES OF THE WILDERNESS.
THE TREE OF APPOMATTOX.
PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS IN THE CIVIL WAR SERIES
HARRY KENTON, A Lad Who Fights on the Southern Side.
DICK MASON, Cousin of Harry Kenton, Who Fights on the Northern Side.
COLONEL GEORGE KENTON, Father of Harry Kenton.
MRS. MASON, Mother of Dick Mason.
JULIANA, Mrs. Mason's Devoted Colored Servant.
COLONEL ARTHUR WINCHESTER, Dick Mason's Regimental Commander.
COLONEL LEONIDAS TALBOT, Commander of the Invincibles,
a Southern Regiment.
LIEUTENANT COLONEL HECTOR ST. HILAIRE, Second in Command of the
Invincibles.
ALAN HERTFORD, A Northern Cavalry Leader.
PHILIP SHERBURNE, A Southern Cavalry Leader.
WILLIAM J. SHEPARD, A Northern Spy.
DANIEL WHITLEY, A Northern Sergeant and Veteran of the Plains.
GEORGE WARNER, A Vermont Youth Who Loves Mathematics.
FRANK PENNINGTON, A Nebraska Youth, Friend of Dick Mason.
ARTHUR ST. CLAIR, A Native of Charleston, Friend of Harry Kenton.
TOM LANGDON, Friend of Harry Kenton.
GEORGE DALTON, Friend of Harry Kenton.
BILL SKELLY, Mountaineer and Guerrilla.
TOM SLADE, A Guerrilla Chief.
SAM JARVIS, The Singing Mountaineer.
IKE SIMMONS, Jarvis' Nephew.
AUNT “SUSE,” A Centenarian and Prophetess.
BILL PETTY, A Mountaineer and Guide.
JULIEN DE LANGEAIS, A Musician and Soldier from Louisiana.
JOHN CARRINGTON, Famous Northern Artillery Officer.
DR. RUSSELL, Principal of the Pendleton School.
ARTHUR TRAVERS, A Lawyer.
JAMES BERTRAND, A Messenger from the South.
JOHN NEWCOMB, A Pennsylvania Colonel.
JOHN MARKHAM, A Northern Officer.
JOHN WATSON, A Northern Contractor.
WILLIAM CURTIS, A Southern Merchant and Blockade Runner.
MRS. CURTIS, Wife of William Curtis.
HENRIETTA CARDEN, A Seamstress in Richmond.
DICK JONES, A North Carolina Mountaineer.
VICTOR WOODVILLE, A Young Mississippi Officer.
JOHN WOODVILLE, Father of Victor Woodville.
CHARLES WOODVILLE, Uncle of Victor Woodville.
COLONEL BEDFORD, A Northern Officer.
CHARLES GORDON, A Southern Staff Officer.
JOHN LANHAM, An Editor.
JUDGE KENDRICK, A Lawyer.
MR. CULVER, A State Senator.
MR. BRACKEN, A Tobacco Grower.
ARTHUR WHITRIDGE, A State Senator.
HISTORICAL CHARACTERS
ABRAHAM LINCOLN, President of the United States.
JEFFERSON DAVIS, President of the Southern Confederacy.
JUDAH P. BENJAMIN, Member of the Confederate Cabinet.
U. S. GRANT, Northern Commander.
ROBERT E. LEE, Southern Commander.
STONEWALL JACKSON, Southern General.
PHILIP H. SHERIDAN, Northern General.
GEORGE H. THOMAS, “The Rock of Chickamauga.”
ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON, Southern General.
A. P. HILL, Southern General.
W. S. HANCOCK, Northern General.
GEORGE B. McCLELLAN, Northern General.
AMBROSE E. BURNSIDE, Northern General.
TURNER ASHBY, Southern Cavalry Leader.
J. E. B. STUART, Southern Cavalry Leader.
JOSEPH HOOKER, Northern General.
RICHARD S. EWELL, Southern General.
JUBAL EARLY, Southern General.
WILLIAM S. ROSECRANS, Northern General.
SIMON BOLIVAR BUCKNER, Southern General.
LEONIDAS POLK, Southern General and Bishop.
BRAXTON BRAGG, Southern General.
NATHAN BEDFORD FORREST, Southern Cavalry Leader.
JOHN MORGAN, Southern Cavalry Leader.
GEORGE J. MEADE, Northern General.
DON CARLOS BUELL, Northern General.
W. T. SHERMAN, Northern General.
JAMES LONGSTREET, Southern General.
P. G. T. BEAUREGARD, Southern General.
WILLIAM L. YANCEY, Alabama Orator.
JAMES A. GARFIELD, Northern General, afterwards President of
the United States.
And many others
IMPORTANT BATTLES DESCRIBED IN THE CIVIL WAR SERIES
BULL RUN
KERNSTOWN
CROSS KEYS
WINCHESTER
PORT REPUBLIC
THE SEVEN DAYS
MILL SPRING
FORT DONELSON
SHILOH
PERRYVILLE
STONE RIVER
THE SECOND MANASSAS
ANTIETAM
FREDERICKSBURG
CHANCELLORSVILLE
GETTYSBURG
CHAMPION HILL
VICKSBURG
CHICKAMAUGA
MISSIONARY RIDGE
THE WILDERNESS
SPOTTSYLVANIA
COLD HARBOR
FISHER'S HILL
CEDAR CREEK
APPOMATTOX
CONTENTS
I. CEDAR MOUNTAIN
II. AT THE CAPITAL
III. BESIDE THE RIVER
IV. SPRINGING THE TRAP
V. THE SECOND MANASSAS
VI. THE MOURNFUL FOREST
VII. ORDERS NO. 191
VIII. THE DUEL IN THE PASS
IX. ACROSS THE STREAM
X. ANTIETAM
XI. A FAMILY AFFAIR
XII. THROUGH THE BLUEGRASS
XIII. PERRYVILLE
XIV. SEEKING BRAGG
XV. STONE RIVER
THE SWORD OF ANTIETAM
CHAPTER I. CEDAR MOUNTAIN
The first youth rode to the crest of the hill, and, still sitting on his
horse, examined the country in the south with minute care through a pair
of powerful glasses. The other two dismounted and waited patiently. All
three were thin and their faces were darkened by sun and wind. But they
were strong alike of body and soul. Beneath the faded blue uniforms
brave hearts beat and powerful muscles responded at once to every
command of the will.
“What do you see, Dick?” asked Warner, who leaned easily against his
horse, with one arm over the pommel of his saddle.
“Hills, valleys, mountains, the August heat shimmering over all, but no
human being.”
“A fine country,” said young Pennington, “and I like to look at it, but
just now my Nebraska prairie would be better for us. We could at least
see the advance of Stonewall Jackson before he was right on top of us.”
Dick took another long look, searching every point in the half circle
of the south with his glasses. Although burned by summer the country
was beautiful, and neither heat nor cold could take away its
picturesqueness. He saw valleys in which the grass grew thick and
strong, clusters of hills dotted with trees, and then the blue loom of
mountains clothed heavily with foliage. Over everything bent a dazzling
sky of blue and gold.
The light was so intense that with his glasses he could pick out
individual trees and rocks on the far slopes. He saw an occasional roof,
but nowhere did he see man. He knew the reason, but he had become so
used to his trade that at the moment, he felt no sadness. All this
region had been swept by great armies. Here the tide of battle in
the mightiest of all wars had rolled back and forth, and here it was
destined to surge again in a volume increasing always.
“I don't find anything,” repeated Dick, “but three pairs of eyes are
better than none. George, you take the glasses and see what you can see
and Frank will follow.”
He dismounted and stood holding the reins of his horse while the young
Vermonter looked. He noticed that the mathematical turn of Warner's
mind showed in every emergency. He swept the glasses back and forth in
a regular curve, not looking here and now there, but taking his time and
missing nothing. It occurred to Dick that he was a type of his region,
slow but thorough, and sure to win after defeat.
“What's the result of your examination?” asked Dick as Warner passed the
glasses in turn to Pennington.
“Let x equal what I saw, which is nothing. Let y equal the result I
draw, which is nothing. Hence we have x + y which still equals nothing.”
Pennington was swifter in his examination. The blood in his veins flowed
a little faster than Warner's.
“I find nothing but land and water,” he said without waiting to be
asked, “and I'm disappointed. I had a hope, Dick, that I'd see Stonewall
Jackson himself riding along a slope.”
“Even if you saw him, how would you know it was Stonewall?”
“I hadn't thought of that. We've heard so much of him that it just
seemed to me I'd know him anywhere.”
“Same here,” said Warner. “Remember all the tales we've heard about his
whiskers, his old slouch hat and his sorrel horse.”
“I'd like to see him myself,” confessed Dick. “From all we hear he's
the man who kept McClellan from taking Richmond. He certainly played
hob with the plans of our generals. You know, I've got a cousin, Harry
Kenton, with him. I had a letter from him a week ago--passing through
the lines, and coming in a round-about way. Writes as if he thought
Stonewall Jackson was a demigod. Says we'd better quit and go home, as
we haven't any earthly chance to win this war.”
“He fights best who wins last,” said Warner. “I'm thinking I won't see
the green hills of Vermont for a long time yet, because I mean to pay
a visit to Richmond first. Have you got your cousin's letter with you,
Dick?”
“No, I destroyed it. I didn't want it bobbing up some time or other to
cause either of us trouble. A man I know at home says he's kept out of a
lot of trouble by 'never writin' nothin' to nobody.' And if you do write
a letter the next best thing is to burn it as quick as you can.”
“If my eyes tell the truth, and they do,” said Pennington, “here comes
a short, thick man riding a long, thick horse and he--the man, not the
horse--bears a startling resemblance to our friend, ally, guide and
sometime mentor, Sergeant Daniel Whitley.”
“Yes, it's the sergeant,” said Dick, looking down into the valley, “and
I'm glad he's joining us. Do you know, boys, I often think these veteran
sergeants know more than some of our generals.”
“It's not an opinion. It's a fact,” said Warner. “Hi, there, sergeant!
Here are your friends! Come up and make the same empty report that we've
got ready for the colonel.”
Sergeant Daniel Whitley looked at the three lads, and his face
brightened. He had a good intellect under his thatch of hair, and a warm
heart within his strong body. The boys, although lieutenants, and he
only a sergeant in the ranks, treated him usually as an equal and often
as a superior.
Colonel Winchester's regiment and the remains of Colonel Newcomb's
Pennsylvanians had been sent east after the defeat of the Union army at
the Seven Days, and were now with Pope's Army of Virginia, which was to
hold the valley and also protect Washington. Grant's success at
Shiloh had been offset by McClellan's failure before Richmond, and the
President and his Cabinet at Washington were filled with justifiable
alarm. Pope was a western man, a Kentuckian, and he had insisted upon
having some of the western troops with him.
The sergeant rode his horse slowly up the slope, and joined the lads
over whom he watched like a father.
“And what have the hundred eyes of Argus beheld?” asked Warner.
“Argus?” said the sergeant. “I don't know any such man. Name sounds
queer, too.”
“He belongs to a distant and mythical past, sergeant, but he'd be mighty
useful if we had him here. If even a single one of his hundred eyes were
to light on Stonewall Jackson, it would be a great service.”
The sergeant shook his head and looked reprovingly at Warner.
“It ain't no time for jokin',” he said.
“I was never further from it. It seems to me that we need a lot of
Arguses more than anything else. This is the enemy's country, and we
hear that Stonewall Jackson is advancing. Advancing where, from what and
when? There is no Argus to tell. The country supports a fairly numerous
population, but it hasn't a single kind or informing word for us. Is
Stonewall Jackson going to drop from the sky, which rumor says is his
favorite method of approach?”
“He's usin' the solid ground this time, anyway,” said Sergeant Daniel
Whitley. “I've been eight miles farther south, an' if I didn't see
cavalry comin' along the skirt of a ridge, then my eyes ain't any
friends of mine. Then I came through a little place of not more'n five
houses. No men there, just women an' children, but when I looked back I
saw them women an' children, too, grinnin' at me. That means somethin',
as shore as we're livin' an' breathin'. I'm bettin' that we new fellows
from the west will get acquainted with Stonewall Jackson inside of
twenty-four hours.”
“You don't mean that? It's not possible!” exclaimed Dick, startled.
“Why, when we last heard of Jackson he was so far south we can't expect
him in a week!”
“You've heard that they call his men the foot cavalry,” said the
sergeant gravely, “an' I reckon from all I've learned since I come east
that they've won the name fair an' true. See them woods off to the south
there. See the black line they make ag'inst the sky. I know, the same
as if I had seen him, that Stonewall Jackson is down in them forests,
comin' an' comin' fast.”
The sergeant's tone was ominous, and Dick felt a tingling at the roots
of his hair. The western troops were eager to meet this new Southern
phenomenon who had suddenly shot like a burning star across the sky, but
for the first time there was apprehension in his soul. He had seen but
little of the new general, Pope, but he had read his proclamations and
he had thought them bombastic. He talked lightly of the enemy and of the
grand deeds that he was going to do. Who was Pope to sweep away such men
as Lee and Jackson with mere words!
Dick longed for Grant, the stern, unyielding, unbeatable Grant whom he
had known at Shiloh. In the west the Union troops had felt the strong
hand over them, and confidence had flowed into them, but here they were
in doubt. They felt that the powerful and directing mind was absent.
Silence fell upon them all for a little space, while the four gazed
intently into the south, strange fears assailing everyone. Dick never
doubted that the Union would win. He never doubted it then and he never
doubted it afterward, through all the vast hecatomb when the flag of the
Union fell more than once in terrible defeat.
But their ignorance was mystifying and oppressive. They saw before them
the beautiful country, the hills and valleys, the forest and the blue
loom of the mountains, so much that appealed to the eye, and yet the
horizon, looking so peaceful in the distance, was barbed with spears.
Jackson was there! The sergeant's theory had become conviction with
them. Distance had been nothing to him. He was at hand with a great
force, and Lee with another army might fall at any time upon their
flank, while McClellan was isolated and left useless, far away.
Dick's heart missed a beat or two, as he saw the sinister picture that
he had created in his own mind. Highly imaginative, he had leaped to the
conclusion that Lee and Jackson meant to trap the Union army, the hammer
beating it out on the anvil. He raised the glasses to his eyes, surveyed
the forests in the South once more, and then his heart missed another
beat.
He had caught the flash of steel, the sun's rays falling across a
bayonet or a polished rifle barrel. And then as he looked he saw the
flash again and again. He handed the glasses to Warner and said quietly:
“George, I see troops on the edge of that far hill to the south and the
east. Can't you see them, too?”
“Yes, I can make them out clearly now, as they pass across a bit of open
land. They're Confederate cavalry, two hundred at least, I should say.”
Dick learned long afterward that it was the troop of Sherburne, but, for
the present, the name of Sherburne was unknown to him. He merely felt
that this was the vanguard of Jackson riding forward to set the trap.
The men were now so near that they could be seen with the naked eye, and
the sergeant said tersely:
“At last we've seen what we were afraid we would see.”
“And look to the left also,” said Warner, who still held the glasses.
“There's a troop of horse coming up another road, too. By George,
they're advancing at a trot! We'd better clear out or we may be enclosed
between the two horns of their cavalry.”
“We'll go back to our force at Cedar Run,” said Harry, “and report what
we've seen. As you say, George, there's no time to waste.”
The four mounted and rode fast, the dust of the road flying in a cloud
behind their horses' heels. Dick felt that they had fulfilled their
errand, but he had his doubts how their news would be received. The
Northern generals in the east did not seem to him to equal those of the
west in keenness and resolution, while the case was reversed so far as
the Southern generals were concerned.
But fast as they went the Southern cavalry was coming with equal speed.
They continually saw the flash of arms in both east and west. The force
in the west was the nearer of the two. Not only was Sherburne there, but
Harry Kenton was with him, and besides their own natural zeal they had
all the eagerness and daring infused into them by the great spirit and
brilliant successes of Jackson.
“They won't be able to enclose us between the two horns of their
horsemen,” said Sergeant Whitley, whose face was very grave, “and the
battle won't be to-morrow or the next day.”
“Why not? I thought Jackson was swift,” said Warner.
“Cause it will be fought to-day. I thought Jackson was swift, too, but
he's swifter than I thought. Them feet cavalry of his don't have to
change their name. Look into the road comin' up that narrow valley.”
The eyes of the three boys followed his pointing finger, and they now
saw masses of infantry, men in gray pressing forward at full speed. They
saw also batteries of cannon, and Dick almost fancied he could hear the
rumble of their wheels.
“Looks as if the sergeant was right,” said Pennington. “Stonewall
Jackson is here.”
They increased their speed to a gallop, making directly for Cedar Run, a
cold, clear little stream coming out of the hills. It was now about the
middle of the morning and the day was burning hot and breathless.
Their hearts began to pound with excitement, and their breath was drawn
painfully through throats lined with dust.
A long ridge covered with forest rose on one side of them and now they
saw the flash of many bayonets and rifle barrels along its lowest slope.
Another heavy column of infantry was advancing, and presently they heard
the far note of trumpets calling to one another.
“Their whole army is in touch,” said the sergeant. “The trumpets show
it. Often on the plains, when we had to divide our little force into
detachments, they'd have bugle talk with one another. We must go faster
if we can.”
They got another ounce of strength out of their horses, and now they
saw Union cavalry in front. In a minute or two they were among the blue
horsemen, giving the hasty news of Jackson's advance. Other scouts and
staff officers arrived a little later with like messages, and not long
afterward they heard shots behind them telling them that the hostile
pickets were in touch.
They watered their horses in Cedar Run, crossed it and rejoined their
own regiment under Colonel Arthur Winchester. The colonel was thin,
bronzed and strong, and he, too, like the other new men from the West,
was eager for battle with the redoubtable Jackson.
“What have you seen, Dick?” he exclaimed. “Is it a mere scouting force
of cavalry, or is Jackson really at hand?”
“I think it's Jackson himself. We saw heavy columns coming up. They were
pressing forward, too, as if they meant to brush aside whatever got in
their way.”
“Then we'll show them!” exclaimed Colonel Winchester. “We've only seven
thousand men here on Cedar Run, but Banks, who is in immediate command,
has been stung deeply by his defeats at the hands of Jackson, and he
means a fight to the last ditch. So does everybody else.”
Dick, at that moment, the thrill of the gallop gone, was not so
sanguine. The great weight of Jackson's name hung over him like a
sinister menace, and the Union troops on Cedar Run were but seven
thousand. The famous Confederate leader must have at least three times
that number. Were the Union forces, separated into several armies, to
be beaten again in detail? Pope himself should be present with at least
fifty thousand men.
Their horses had been given to an orderly and Dick threw himself upon
the turf to rest a little. All along the creek the Union army, including
his own regiment, was forming in line of battle but his colonel had
not yet called upon him for any duty. Warner and Pennington were also
resting from their long and exciting ride, but the sergeant, who seemed
never to know fatigue, was already at work with his men.
“Listen to those skirmishers,” said Dick. “It sounds like the popping of
corn at home on winter evenings, when I was a little boy.”
“But a lot more deadly,” said Pennington. “I wouldn't like to be a
skirmisher. I don't mind firing into the smoke and the crowd, but I'd
hate to sit down behind a stump or in the grass and pick out the spot on
a man that I meant for my bullet to hit.”
“You won't have to do any such work, Frank,” said Warner. “Hark to it!
The sergeant was right. We're going to have a battle to-day and a big
one. The popping of your corn, Dick, has become an unbroken sound.”
Dick, from the crest of the hillock on which they lay, gazed over
the heads of the men in blue. The skirmishers were showing a hideous
activity. A continuous line of light ran along the front of both armies,
and behind the flash of the Southern firing he saw heavy masses of
infantry emerging from the woods. A deep thrill ran through him.
Jackson, the famous, the redoubtable, the unbeatable, was at hand with
his army. Would he remain unbeaten? Dick said to himself, in unspoken
words, over and over again, “No! No! No! No!” He and his comrades had
been victors in the west. They must not fail here.
Colonel Winchester now called to them, and mounting their horses they
gathered around him to await his orders. These officers, though mere
boys, learned fast. Dick knew enough already of war to see that they
were in a strong position. Before them flowed the creek. On their flank
and partly in their front was a great field of Indian corn. A quarter
of a mile away was a lofty ridge on which were posted Union guns with
gunners who knew so well how to use them. To right and left ran the long
files of infantry, their faces white but resolute.
“I think,” said Dick to Warner, “that if Jackson passes over this place
he will at least know that we've been here.”
“Yes, he'll know it, and besides he'll make quite a halt before passing.
At least, that's my way of thinking.”
There was a sudden dying of the rifle fire. The Union skirmishers
were driven in, and they fell back on the main body which was silent,
awaiting the attack. Dick was no longer compelled to use the glasses.
He saw with unaided eye the great Southern columns marching forward with
the utmost confidence, heavy batteries advancing between the regiments,
ready at command to sweep the Northern ranks with shot and shell.
Dick shivered a little. He could not help it. They were face to face
with Jackson, and he was all that the heralds of fame had promised.
He had eye enough to see that the Southern force was much greater than
their own, and, led by such a man, how could they fail to win another
triumph? He looked around upon the army in blue, but he did not see
any sign of fear. Both the beaten and the unbeaten were ready for a new
battle.
There was a mighty crash from the hill and the Northern batteries poured
a stream of metal into the advancing ranks of their foe.
The Confederate advance staggered, but, recovering itself, came on
again. A tremendous cheer burst from the ranks of the lads in blue.
Stonewall Jackson with all his skill and fame was before them, but they
meant to stop him. Numbers were against them, and Banks, their leader,
had been defeated already by Jackson, but they meant to stop him,
nevertheless.
The Southern guns replied. Posted along the slopes of Slaughter
Mountain, sinister of name, they sent a sheet of death upon the Union
ranks. But the regiments, the new and the old, stood firm. Those that
had been beaten before by Jackson were resolved not to be beaten again
by him, and the new regiments from the west, one or two of which had
been at Shiloh, were resolved never to be beaten at all.
“The lads are steady,” said Colonel Winchester. “It's a fine sign. I've
news, too, that two thousand men have come up. We shall now have nine
thousand with which to withstand the attack, and I don't believe they
can drive us away. Oh, why isn't Pope himself here with his whole army?
Then we could wipe Jackson off the face of the earth!”
But Pope was not there. The commander of a huge force, the man of
boastful words who was to do such great things, the man who sent such
grandiloquent dispatches from “Headquarters in the Saddle,” to the
anxious Lincoln at Washington, had strung his numerous forces along in
detachments, just as the others had done before him, and the booming
of Jackson's cannon attacking the Northern vanguard with his whole army
could not reach ears so far away.
The fire now became heavy along the whole Union front. All the batteries
on both sides were coming into action, and the earth trembled with the
rolling crash. The smoke rose and hung in clouds over the hills, the
valley and the cornfield. The hot air, surcharged with dust, smoke and
burned gunpowder, was painful and rasping to the throat. The frightful
screaming of the shells filled the air, and then came the hissing of the
bullets like a storm of sleet.
Colonel Winchester and his staff dismounted, giving their horses to an
orderly who led them to the rear. Horses would not be needed for the
present, at least, and they had learned to avoid needless risk.
The attack was coming closer, and the bullets as they swept through
their ranks found many victims. Colonel Winchester ordered his regiment
to kneel and open fire, being held hitherto in reserve. Dick snatched up
a rifle from a soldier who had fallen almost beside him, and he saw that
Warner and Pennington had equipped themselves in like fashion.
A strong gust of wind lifted the smoke before them a little. Dick saw
many splashes of water on the surface of the creek where bullets struck,
and there were many tiny spurts of dust in the road, where other bullets
fell. Then he saw beyond the dark masses of the Southern infantry. It
seemed to him that they were strangely close. He believed that he could
see their tanned faces, one by one, and their vengeful eyes, but it was
only fancy.
The next instant the signal was given, and the regiment fired as one.
There was a long flash of fire, a tremendous roaring in Dick's ears,
then for an instant or two a vast cloud of smoke hid the advancing gray
mass. When it was lifted a moment later the men in gray were advancing
no longer. Their ranks were shattered and broken, the ground was covered
with the fallen and the others were reeling back.
“We win! We win!” shouted Pennington, wild with enthusiasm.
“For the present, at least,” said Warner, a deep flush blazing in either
cheek.
There was no return fire just then from that point, and the smoke lifted
a little more. Above the crash of the battle which raged fiercely on
either flank, they heard the notes of a trumpet rising, loud, clear, and
distinct from all other sounds. Dick knew that it was a rallying call,
and then he heard Pennington utter a wild shout.
“I see him! I see him!” he cried. “It's old Stonewall himself! There on
the hillock, on the little horse!”
The vision was but for an instant. Dick gazed with all his eyes, and he
saw several hundred yards away a thickset man on a sorrel horse. He was
bearded and he stooped a little, seeming to bend an intense gaze upon
the Northern lines.
There was no time for anyone to fire, because in a few seconds the
smoke came back, a huge, impenetrable curtain, and hid the man and the
hillock. But Dick had not the slightest doubt that it was the great
Southern leader, and he was right. It was Stonewall Jackson on the
hillock, rallying his men, and Dick's own cousin, Harry Kenton, rode by
his side.
They reloaded, but a staff officer galloped up and delivered a written
order to Colonel Winchester. The whole regiment left the line, another
less seasoned taking its place, and they marched off to one flank, where
a field of wheat lately cut, and a wood on the extreme end, lay before
them. Behind them they heard the battle swelling anew, but Dick knew
that a new force of the foe was coming here, and he felt proud that his
own regiment had been moved to meet an attack which would certainly be
made with the greatest violence.
“Who are those men down in the wheat-field?” asked Pennington.
“Our own skirmishers,” replied Warner. “See them running forward, hiding
behind the shocks of straw and firing!”
The riflemen were busy. They fired from the shelter of every straw stack
in the field, and they stung the new Southern advance, which was already
showing its front. Southern guns now began to search the wheat field.
A shell struck squarely in the center of one of the shocks behind which
three Northern skirmishers were kneeling. Dick saw the straw fly into
the air as if picked up by a whirlwind. When it settled back it lay
in scattered masses and three dark figures lay with it, motionless and
silent. He shuddered and looked away.
The edge of the wood was now lined with Southern infantry, and on their
right flank was a numerous body of cavalry. Officers were waving their
swords aloft, leading the men in person to the charge.
“The attack will be heavy here,” said Colonel Winchester. “Ah, there are
our guns firing over our heads. We need 'em.”
The Southern cannon were more numerous, but the Northern guns, posted
well on the hill, refused to be silenced. Some of them were dismounted
and the gunners about them were killed, but the others, served with
speed and valor, sprayed the whole Southern front with a deadly shower
of steel.
It was this welcome metal that Dick and his comrades heard over their
heads, and then the trumpets rang a shrill note of defiance along the
whole line. Banks, remembering his bitter defeats and resolved upon
victory now, was not awaiting the attack. He would make it himself.
The whole wing lifted itself up and rushed through the wheat field,
firing as they charged. The cannon were pushed forward and poured in
volleys as fast as the gunners could load and discharge them. Dick
felt the ground reeling beneath his feet, but he knew that they were
advancing and that the enemy was giving way again. Stonewall Jackson and
his generals felt a certain hardening of the Northern resistance that
day. The recruits in blue were becoming trained now. They did not break
in a panic, although their lines were raked through and through by the
Southern shells. New men stepped in the place of the fallen, and the
lines, filled up, came on again.
The Northern wing charging through the wheat field continued to bear
back the enemy. Jackson was not yet able to stop the fierce masses in
blue. A formidable body of men issuing from the Northern side of the
wood charged with the bayonet, pushing the charge home with a courage
and a recklessness of death that the war had not yet seen surpassed. The
Southern rifles and cannon raked them, but they never stopped, bursting
like a tornado upon their foe.
One of Jackson's Virginia regiments gave way and then another. The men
in blue from the wood and Colonel Winchester's regiment joined, their
shouts rising above the smoke while they steadily pushed the enemy
before them.
Dick as he shouted with the rest felt a wild exultation. They were
showing Jackson what they could do! They were proving to him that he
could not win always. His joy was warranted. No such confusion had ever
before existed in Jackson's army. The Northern charge was driven like a
wedge of steel into its ranks.
Jackson had able generals, valiant lieutenants, with him, Ewell and
Early, and A. P. Hill and Winder, and they strove together to stop
the retreat. The valiant Winder was mortally wounded and died upon the
field, and Jackson, with his wonderful ability to see what was happening
and his equal power of decision, swiftly withdrew that wing of his army,
also carrying with it every gun.
A great shout of triumph rose from the men in blue as they saw the
Southern retreat.
“We win! We win!” cried Pennington again.
“Yes, we win!” shouted Warner, usually so cool.
And it did seem even to older men that the triumph was complete. The
blue and the gray were face to face in the smoke, but the gray were
driven back by the fierce and irresistible charge, and, as their flight
became swifter, the shells and grape from the Northern batteries plunged
and tore through their ranks. Nothing stopped the blue wave. It rolled
on and on, sweeping a mass of fugitives before it, and engulfing others.
Dick had no ordered knowledge of the charge. He was a part of it, and he
saw only straight in front of him, but he was conscious that all around
him there was a fiery red mist, and a confused and terrible noise of
shouting and firing. But they were winning! They were beating Stonewall
Jackson himself. His pulses throbbed so hard that he thought his
arteries would burst, and his lips were dry and blackened from smoke,
burned gunpowder and his own hot breath issuing like steam between them.
Then came a halt so sudden and terrible that it shook Dick as if by
physical contact. He looked around in wonder. The charge was spent, not
from its lack of strength but because they had struck an obstacle. They
had reckoned ill, because they had not reckoned upon all the resources
of Stonewall Jackson's mind. He had stemmed the rout in person and now
he was pushing forward the Stonewall Brigade, five regiments, which
always had but two alternatives, to conquer or to die. Hill and Ewell
with fresh troops were coming up also on his flanks, and now the blue
and the gray, face to face again, closed in mortal combat.
“We've stopped! We've stopped! Do you hear it, we've stopped!” exclaimed
Pennington, his face a ghastly reek of dust and perspiration, his eyes
showing amazement and wonder how the halt could have happened. Dick
shared in the terrible surprise. The fire in front of him deepened
suddenly. Men were struck down all about him. Heavy masses of troops in
gray showed through the smoke. The Stonewall Brigade was charging, and
regiments were charging with it on either side.
The column in blue was struck in front and on either flank. It not only
ceased its victorious advance, but it began to give ground. The men
could not help it, despite their most desperate efforts. It seemed to
Dick that the earth slipped under their feet. A tremendous excitement
seized him at the thought of victory lost just when it seemed won. He
ran up and down the lines, shouting to the men to stand firm. He saw
that the senior officers were doing the same, but there was little
order or method in his own movements. It was the excitement and bitter
humiliation that drove him on.
He stumbled in the smoke against Sergeant Whitley. The sergeant's
forehead had been creased by a bullet, but so much dust and burned
gunpowder had gathered upon it that it was as black as the face of a
black man.
“Are we to lose after all?” exclaimed Dick.
It seemed strange to him, even at that moment, that he should hear
his own voice amid such a roar of cannon and rifles. But it was an
undernote, and he heard with equal ease the sergeant's reply:
“It ain't decided yet, Mr. Mason, but we've got to fight as we never
fought before.”
The Union men, both those who had faced Jackson before and those who
were now meeting him for the first time, fought with unsurpassed valor,
but, unequal in numbers, they saw the victory wrenched from their grasp.
Jackson now had his forces in the hollow of his hand. He saw everything
that was passing, and with the mind of a master he read the meaning of
it. He strengthened his own weak points and increased the attack upon
those of the North.
Dick remained beside the sergeant. He had lost sight of Colonel
Winchester, Warner and Pennington in the smoke and the dreadful
confusion, but he saw well enough that his fears were coming true.
The attack in front increased in violence, and the Northern army was
also attacked with fiery energy on both flanks. The men had the actual
physical feeling that they were enclosed in the jaws of a vise, and,
forced to abandon all hope of victory, they fought now to escape. Two
small squadrons of cavalry, scarce two hundred in number, sent forward
from a wood, charged the whole Southern army under a storm of cannon and
rifle fire. They equalled the ride of the Six Hundred at Balaklava, but
with no poet to celebrate it, it remained like so many other charges in
this war, an obscure and forgotten incident.
Dick saw the charge of the horsemen, and the return of the few. Then
he lost hope. Above the roar of the battle the rebel yell continually
swelled afresh. The setting sun, no longer golden but red, cast a
sinister light over the trampled wheat field, the slopes and the woods
torn by cannon balls. The dead and the wounded lay in thousands, and
Banks, brave and tenacious, but with bitter despair in his heart, was
seeking to drag the remains of his army from that merciless vise which
continued to close down harder and harder.
Dick's excitement and tension seemed to abate. He had been keyed to so
high a pitch that his pulses grew gentler through very lack of force,
and with the relaxation came a clearer view. He saw the sinking red
sun through the banks of smoke, and in fancy he already felt the cool
darkness upon his face after the hot and terrible August day. He knew
that night might save them, and he prayed deeply and fervently for its
swift coming.
He and the sergeant came suddenly to Colonel Winchester, whose hat had
been shot from his head, but who was otherwise unharmed. Warner and
Pennington were near, Warner slightly wounded but apparently unaware of
the fact. The colonel, by shout and by gesture, was gathering around him
the remains of his regiment. Other regiments on either side were trying
to do the same, and eventually they formed a compact mass which, driving
with all its force back toward its old position, reached the hills and
the woods just as the jaws of Stonewall Jackson's vise shut down, but
not upon the main body.
Victory, won for a little while, had been lost. Night protected their
retreat, and they fought with a valor that made Jackson and all his
generals cautious. But this knowledge was little compensation to the
Northern troops. They knew that behind them was a great army, that Pope
might have been present with fifty thousand men, sufficient to overwhelm
Jackson. Instead of the odds being more than two to one in their favor,
they had been two to one against them.
It was a sullen army that lay in the woods in the first hour or two of
the night, gasping for breath. These men had boasted that they were
a match for those of Jackson, and they were, if they could only have
traded generals. Dick and his comrades from the west began to share in
the awe that the name of Stonewall Jackson inspired.
“He comes up to his advertisements. There ain't no doubt of it,” said
Sergeant Whitley. “I never saw anybody fight better than our men did,
an' that charge of the little troop of cavalry was never beat anywhere
in the world. But here we are licked, and thirty or forty thousand men
of ours not many miles away!”
He spoke the last words with a bitterness that Dick had never heard in
his voice before.
“It's simple,” said Warner, who was binding up his little wound with his
own hand. “It's just a question in mathematics. I see now how Stonewall
Jackson won so many triumphs in the Valley of Virginia. Give Jackson,
say, fifteen thousand men. We have fifty thousand, but we divide them
into five armies of ten thousand apiece. Jackson fights them in detail,
which is five battles, of course. His fifteen thousand defeat the ten
thousand every time. Hence Jackson with fifteen thousand men has beaten
our side. It's simple but painful. In time our leaders will learn.”
“After we're all killed,” said Pennington sadly.
“And the country is ripped apart so that it will take half a century to
put the pieces back together again and put 'em back right,” said Dick,
with equal sadness.
“Never mind,” said Sergeant Whitley with returning cheerfulness. “Other
countries have survived great wars and so will ours.”
Some food was obtained for the exhausted men and they ate it nervously,
paying little attention to the crackling fire of the skirmishers which
was still going on in the darkness along their front. Dick saw the pink
flashes along the edges of the woods and the wheat field, but his mind,
deadened for the time, took no further impressions. Skirmishers were
unpleasant people, anyway. Let them fight down there. It did not matter
what they might do to one another. A minute or two later he was ashamed
of such thoughts.
Colonel Winchester, who had been to see General Banks, returned
presently and told them that they would march again in half an hour.
“General Banks,” he said with bitter irony, “is afraid that a powerful
force of the rebels will gain his rear and that we shall be surrounded.
He ought to know. He has had enough dealings with Jackson. Outmaneuvered
and outflanked again! Why can't we learn something?”
But he said this to the young officers only. He forced a cheerfulness
of tone when he spoke to the men, and they dragged themselves wearily
to their feet in order to begin the retreat. But though the muscles
were tired the spirit was not unwilling. All the omens were sinister,
pointing to the need of withdrawal. The vicious skirmishers were still
busy and a crackling fire came from many points in the woods. The
occasional rolling thunder of a cannon deepened the somberness of the
scene.
All the officers of the regiment had lost their horses and they walked
now with the men. A full moon threw a silvery light over the marching
troops, who strode on in silence, the wounded suppressing their groans.
A full moon cast a silvery light over the pallid faces.
“Do you know where we are going?” Dick asked of the Vermonter.
“I heard that we're bound for a place called Culpeper Court House,
six or seven miles away. I suppose we'll get there in the morning, if
Stonewall Jackson doesn't insist on another interview with us.”
“There's enough time in the day for fighting,” said Pennington, “without
borrowing of the night. Hear that big gun over there on our right! Why
do they want to be firing cannon balls at such a time?”
They trudged gloomily on, following other regiments ghostly in the
moonlight, and followed by others as ghostly. But the sinister omens,
the flash of rifle firing and the far boom of a cannon, were always on
their flanks. The impression of Jackson's skill and power which Dick had
gained so quickly was deepening already. He did not have the slightest
doubt now that the Southern leader was pressing forward through the
woods to cut them off. As the sergeant had said truly, he came up to
his advertisements and more. Dick shivered and it was a shiver of
apprehension for the army, and not for himself.
In accordance with human nature he and the boy officers who were his
good comrades talked together, but their sentences were short and
broken.
“Marching toward a court house,” said Pennington. “What'll we do when we
get there? Lawyers won't help us.”
“Not so much marching toward a court house as marching away from
Jackson,” said the Vermonter.
“We'll march back again,” said Dick hopefully.
“But when?” said Pennington. “Look through the trees there on our right.
Aren't those rebel troops?”
Dick's startled gaze beheld a long line of horsemen in gray on their
flank and only a few hundred yards away.