THE BATTLE.
Brightly, beautifully the Sabbath morning broke over all the hills of
the Northland, covering them with floods of rosy light, burnishing the
forest trees with sheens of gold, and cresting each tall spire with
colors which seemed born of Paradise, so radiantly bright they looked,
flashing from their lofty resting-place, and glancing off across the
valleys where the fields of waving corn and summer wheat were growing.
To the westward, too, where prairie on prairie stretches on into almost
interminable space, the same July sun was shining, as quietly, as
peacefully, as if in the hearts of men there burned no bitter feeling of
fierce and vindictive hate,—no thirsting for each other’s blood. Oh, how
calm, how still it was that Sunday morning both east, and north and
west, and as the sun rose higher in the heavens, how soothingly the
bells rang out their musical chimes. From New England’s templed hills to
the far-off shores of Oregon, the echoes rose and fell, ceasing only
when ceased the tramp of the many feet hastening up to worship God in
his appointed way. Old and young, rich and poor, father and mother,
sister and brother, husband and wife, assembling together to keep the
holy day, that best day of the seven, praying not so much for their own
sins forgiven as for the loved ones gone to war,—the dear ones far
away,—and little, little dreaming as they prayed, how the same sun
stealing so softly up the church’s aisle, and shining on the church’s
wall, was even then looking down on a far different scene,—a scene of
carnage, blood and death. For, off to the southward, near where the
waters of the Potomac ripple past the grave of our nation’s hero,
another concourse of people was gathered together; their Sunday bell the
cannon’s roar; their Sunday hymn the battle-cry.
Long before the earliest robin had trilled its matin song, they had been
on the move, their bristling bayonets glittering in the brilliant
moonlight like the December frost, as with regular, even tread they kept
on their winding way, knowing not if the pale stars watching their
course so pityingly, as it were, would ever shine on them again.
Onward,—onward,—onward still they pressed; over the hills, through the
ravines, down the valleys, across the fields, till the same sun which
shone so softly on their distant homes rose also over the _Federal Fly_,
as it has been aptly termed, moving onward to the _Web_ which lay
beyond, so well concealed and so devoid of sound that none could guess
that the treacherous woods, wearing so cool, so inviting a look, were
sheltering a mighty, expectant host, watching as eagerly for the
advancing foe as ever ambushed spider waited for its deluded prey.
Backward,—backward, stretched the Confederate army, line after line,
rank after rank, battalion after battalion, until in numbers it more
than quadrupled that handful of men steadily moving on. From out their
leafy covert the enemy peered, exulting that the fortunes of the great
Republic, their whilom mother, were so surely within their power, and
pausing for a time in sheer wantonness, just as a kitten sports with the
mouse she has already captured, and knows cannot escape.
Onward,—onward,—onward swept the Federal troops; their polished arms and
glittering uniforms flashing in the morning sunlight just as the flag
for which they fought waved in the morning breeze. They were weary and
worn, and their lips were parched with feverish thirst, for hours had
passed since they had tasted food or water. But not for this did they
tarry; there was no faltering in their ranks, no faintly beating heart,
no wild yearning to be away, no timid shrinking from what the woods, now
just before them, might hold in store, and when the whisper ran along
the lines that the enemy was in view, there was nought felt save joy,
that the long suspense was ended and the fray about to commence.
* * * * *
There was a halt in the front ranks, and while they stand there thus,
let us look once more upon these those whom we have known. Just where
the good-humored faces of the Irish regiment, and the tall caps of the
Highlanders are perceptible, the 13th appears in view, our company
marching decorously on, no lagging, no faltering, no cowards there,
though almost every heart had in it some thought of home and the dear
ones left behind. Prayers were said by lips unused to pray, and who
shall tell how many records of sins forgiven were that morning written
in heaven? Bibles, too, were pressed to throbbing hearts, and to none
more closely than to George Graham’s broad chest. He had prayed that
morning in the clear moonlight, and by the same moonlight he had tried
to read a line in Annie’s well-worn Bible, opening to where God promises
to care for the widow and the fatherless. Was it ominous, that passage?
Did it mean that he, so strong, so vigorous, so full of life, should
bite the dust ere many hours were done? He could not believe it. He was
too full of hope for that. He could not die with Annie at home alone, so
he buttoned her Bible over his heart, and prayed that if a bullet struck
him it might be there, fondly hoping that would break its force.
There was a shadow on his handsome face, and it communicated itself to
Isaac Simms, who was glancing so stealthily at him, and guessing of what
he was thinking. Isaac, too, had prayed in the moonlight, and he, too,
had thought, “What if I should be killed!” wondering if his mother ever
would forget her soldier boy, even though she might not weep over his
nameless grave. This to Isaac was the hardest thought of all. The boy
that would not tell a lie for the sake of promotion, was not afraid to
die, but he preferred that it should not be there ‘mid piles of bloody
slain. He would rather death should come to him up in the humble attic,
where he had lain so oft and listened to the patter of the rain on the
roof above, or feigned to be asleep when his mother stole noiselessly
across the threshold to see if he were covered from the cold and
shielded from the snow, which sometimes found an entrance through a
crevice in the wall. ’Tis strange when we are in danger what flights our
fancy often takes, gathering up the minutest details of our past life,
and spreading them out before us with startling distinctness. So Isaac,
with possible death in advance, thought of his past life; of every
object connected with his home, from the grass-plat in the rear, where
his mother bleached her clothes in spring, to the blue and white checked
blanket hung round his attic bed to protect him from the winter storm.
That widow, so stern, so harsh, so sharp to almost every one, had been
the tenderest of parents to him, and a tear glistened on the cheek of
the fair-haired boy as he remembered the only time he ever was hateful
to her. He had asked her forgiveness for it, and she surely would not
recall it when she read the letter Eli or John would send, bearing the
fatal line, “Mother, poor Isaac is dead.” He knew they would call him
“poor Isaac,” for though they sometimes teased him as his “mother’s
great girl baby,” they petted him quite as much as she, only in a
different way, and he felt now that both would step between him and the
bullet they thought would harm him. Eli would any way, but John,
perhaps, would hesitate, as he now loved Susan best. Isaac was proud of
his brothers, and he glanced admiringly at them as they marched side by
side, keeping even step just as they did down Main street, with his
mother and Susan looking on. One now was thinking of Susan, and one of
his widowed mother.
Close by Isaac walked Bill, quiet and subdued. He had not prayed that
morning,—he never prayed; but when he saw Isaac kneeling on his blanket
he had said to him, “Manage to get in a word or two for me and Hal; we
need it, mercy knows.” And surely if ever poor mortal needed prayer it
was _Hal_, as his brother styled him. Half stupefied with the vile
liquor he had constantly managed to get, he trudged on, boasting of what
he could do; “only give him a chance and he’d lick the entire Secession
army. He’d like to see the ball that could kill him; he was good at
dodging; he’d show’em a thing or two in the way of fight; he’d take the
tuck out of the Southern gentlemen,—yes, he would,” and so he went
thoughtlessly boasting on to death!
* * * * *
Will Mather was not there. Indisposition had detained him at Washington,
and with a hearty God speed he had sent his comrades on their way,
lamenting that he, too, could not join them, and bidding his
brother-in-law do some fighting for him.
* * * * *
At the head of his company Capt. Carleton moved. Firm, erect, and
dignified, as if born to command, he did full justice to the Carleton
name, of which he was justly proud; but his face was paler than its
wont, and a tinge of sadness rested upon it as his regiment halted at
last in front of what was supposed to be the hidden foe. Thomas Carleton
had wept bitter tears when he laid his Mary to rest beneath South
Carolina’s sunny skies, and had thought he could never be reconciled to
the loss, but he was half glad now that she was dead, for she was born
of Southern blood, and he would rather she should not know the errand
which had brought him to Virginia, where first he met and loved
her,—rather she should not know how he had come to war with her people.
There was another thought, too, which made him sad that July day. The
green, beautiful woods standing there so silently before him probably
sheltered more than one with whom he had in bygone days struck the
friendly hand and bandied the friendly joke, for his home was once in
Richmond, and there were there those who once held no small place in his
heart. And they were dear to him yet. He was not fighting against them
personally, he was contending only for his nation’s rights, his
country’s honor. He bore no malice toward his Southern brethren, and
like many of our staunchest, bravest Northern men, he would even then
have met them more than half way with terms of reconciliation. He knew
they were no race of bloodthirsty demons, as some fanatics had madly
termed them. They were men, most of them, like himself,—warm-hearted,
impulsive men, generous almost to a fault in peace, but firm and
terrible in war. _Tom_ had lived among them,—had shared their
hospitalities,—had seen them in their various phases, and making
allowance for the vast difference which education and habits of society
make in one’s opinions, he saw many points wherein the North had
misunderstood their actions, and not made due concessions when they
might have done so without yielding one iota of their honor. But time
for concession was over now. Political fanatics had stirred up the mass
of the people till nought but _blood_ could wash away the fancied wrong.
And they were there that Sabbath morn to spill it. Tom, however, did not
know that the green, silent woods sheltered his _brother_, for his
mother had purposely withheld from him the fact that Jimmie had joined
the Southern Army. She knew the struggle it had cost him to take up arms
against a people he liked so much, and she would not willingly add to
his burden by telling him of Jimmie’s sin, and it was well she did not,
for had he known how near he was to Jimmie, he could not have stood
there so unmoved, awaiting the first booming gun which should herald the
opening of the battle.
It came at last, a bellowing, thunderous roar, whose echoes shook the
hills for miles, as the hissing shell went plowing through the air,
bursting harmlessly at last just beyond its destined mark. The enemy
were in no hurry to retort, for a deep silence ensued, broken ere long
by another heavy gun, which did its work more thoroughly than its
predecessor had done, for where several breathing souls had been there
was nought left save the bleeding mutilated trunks of what were once
human forms. The battle had commenced. Sherman’s Brigade, in which was
the N. Y. 13th, did its part nobly, overrunning in its headlong charges
battery after battery, and recking little of the shafts of death falling
so thick and fast. Louder and more deafening grew the battle din,
hoarser and heavier the battle thunder, denser, deeper the battle smoke,
dimming the brightness of that Sabbath morn. Louder, shriller grew the
Gaelic scream, fiercer rose the Celtic cry, wilder rang the yells of the
13th, as its members plunged into the thickest of the fight their
demoniacal shouts appalling the hearts of the foe far more than the rain
of shot so vigorously kept up, and causing them to flee as from a pack
of fiends.
Steady in its place George Graham’s giant form was seen; no thought of
Annie now; no thought of home; no thought of Bible buttoned over the
heart; thoughts only of the fray and victory.
Not far away, and where the fight was thickest, the widow’s boys, Eli
and John, stood firm as granite rocks, the beaded sweat dropping from
their burning brows, begrimed with battle smoke, as with unflinching
nerve and hands that trembled not, they took their aims, seeing more
than one fall before their sure fire.
White as the winter snow one boyish face gleamed amid the excited
throng; the fair hair pushed back from the girlish forehead, and the
scorching sun falling upon the unsheltered head, for Isaac’s cap had
been shot away, and the ball which shot it lay swimming in the dark life
blood of poor Harry Baker, just behind, and _just two inches taller_
than the widow’s youngest born. Poor Harry! He had done his best to keep
the promise made so boastfully. In all the 13th Regiment there was not
one who played a braver part than he, firing off with every gun a timely
joke, which raised a smile even in that dreadful hour. But Harry’s work
was done, and Mrs. Baker had but one boy now, for her first-born lay
upon the ground so blackened and disfigured, with the thick brains
slowly oozing from his mangled head, and the purple gore pouring from
his lips, that only those who saw him fall, could guess that it was
Harry. Poor Harry! We say it again, sadly, reverently, for rude and
reckless though he was, he fell fighting for his country; and to all who
perish thus we owe a debt of gratitude, a meed of praise. Sacred, then,
be the memory of those whose graves are with the slain, far away beneath
Virginia’s sky, and sacred be the memory of poor Harry Baker. His own
worst enemy, he lived his life’s brief span, and died at last a
soldier’s death.
* * * * *
“Shot plump through the upper story! Won’t the old woman row it,
though?” was Bill’s characteristic comment, as the whizzing and the
death shriek met his ear, and the falling, bleeding figure met his view.
Spite of his jeering words there was a keen pang in Billy’s heart as he
shrank away from the gory mass he knew had been his brother,—a sudden
upheaving of something in his throat and a blur before his vision, as he
began to realize what it was to go to war. But there was then no time to
waste over a fallen brother. The dread work must go on, and with the
whispered words, “Poor Hal, I’ll do the tender for you when we get the
varments licked,” he marked the position by signs he could not miss, and
then pressed closer to his comrade, saying, as he did so—
“Ike, Hal’s a goner. Shot right through his top-knot, with a piece of
your cap wedged in his skull. If you’d been a leetle taller you’d been
scalped instead of Hal. So much you get for bein’ ‘Stub.’”
Isaac shuddered involuntarily, but ere he could look back the crowd
behind pushed him forward, and so he failed to see the ruin which, but
for his short stature, would have come to him. There were no marks upon
him yet,—nothing, save the uncovered head, to tell where he had been.
The balls which struck down others passed him by, the wind they made
lifting occasionally his fair hair, but doing no other damage. Above,
around, before, behind, at right, at left, the grape shot fell like
hail, but left him all untouched, and Billy, grown timid since poor
Harry’s fate, pressed closer to the boy who would not tell a lie, as if
there were safety there.
Onward, onward they pressed, Isaac wondering sometimes how Tom Carleton
fared, and looking again in quest of their young Lieutenant Graham,
still towering above them all, in spite of Rose’s prediction. The ball
for which he was the mark had not been fired yet, but it was coming. An
Alabamian volunteer had singled out that form, yelling exultingly as he
saw it reel and totter like a broken reed. They were well matched in
size, the two combatants, both splendid marks, as Rose had said, and
Bill Baker’s sure aim froze the laugh upon the Alabamian’s lips and sent
him staggering to the ground, just as Isaac received his captain’s
orders to lead the fainting, wounded George to a place of comparative
safety.
“It’s only my arm they’ve shattered,” George whispered, glancing sadly
at the disabled limb over which Isaac’s tears were falling. “Will it
kill me, think?” was the next remark, prompted by a thought of Annie.
Isaac did not believe it would, and with all a woman’s tenderness he
bound it up and held his canteen to the lips of the fainting, weary man,
whispering,
“Water, boy, water.”
Isaac had not, like many others, thrown his canteen away, and he gave
freely to the thirsty George, who, with each draught, felt his pulse
grow stronger, while his eyes kindled with fresh zeal as the noise of
the battle grew louder, and seemed to be coming nearer. The onslaught
was terrible now. Cannon after cannon belched forth its terrific
thunder, ball after ball sped on its deadly track, battery after battery
opened its blazing fire, shell after shell cut the summer air, and burst
with murderous hiss; shout after shout rent the smoky sky, shriek after
shriek went down with the rushing wind, officer after officer bit the
dust, rank after rank was broken up, soul after soul went to the bar of
God, and then there came a pause. The firing ceased, the stifling smoke
rolled gradually away, and showed a dreadful sight,—men mutilated and
torn, till not a vestige of their former looks was left to tell who they
had been. Mingled together, in one frightful mass, the dead and dying
lay, smiles wreathing the livid lips of some, and frowns disfiguring
others. Arms, hands, and feet, heads, fingers, toes, and clots of human
hair, dripping red with blood, were scattered over the field,—parts of
the living mass we saw but a few hours agone moving on so hopefully
beneath the morning moonlight, “Like leaves of the forest when autumn
hath blown,” they lay there now, their mangled remains crying loudly to
Heaven for vengeance on the heads of those who brought this curse upon
us.