THE RETREAT.
The day was ours, nobly won with sweat and toil and blood, and the brave
men who won it were thinking of the laurels so laboriously earned, when
suddenly the entire scale was turned, and ere they knew what they were
doing, the tired, jaded troops found themselves rushing headlong from
the battle-field, never so much as casting a backward glance, but each
striving to out-run the other, and so escape from they knew not what!
How that panic happened no one can tell. Some charged it to the reckless
conduct of a band of Regulars sent back for ammunition, and others upon
the idle lookers on, the curious ones, who had come “to see the Rebels
whipped,” and who at the first intimation of defeat joined in the
general stampede, making the confusion worse, and adding greatly to the
fright of the flying multitude.
It was a strange retreat our soldiers made. All law and order were at an
end, company mixed with company, regiment with regiment, and together
they rushed headlong down the hill, many in their dismay fording the
creek regardless of the shot and shell sent after them by the astonished
foe, now really in pursuit.
Some there were, however, who made the retreat more leisurely, and among
these, Bill Baker. Remembering the mark he had fixed in his own mind, he
sought among the slain for Harry, finding him at last, trampled and
crushed by the flying troops, and wholly unrecognizable by any save a
brother’s eye. Bill knew him, however, in a moment, but there was no
time now to “do the tender,” as he had purposed doing. There was danger
in tarrying long, and with a shudder Bill bent over the mangled form,
and with his jack-knife severed a lock of matted, bloodwet hair, taking
also from the pockets whatever of value they contained, not from any
avaricious motive, but rather from a feeling that the rebels should get
nothing save the body.
“A darned sight good Hal’s carcass will do ye!” he said, shaking his
fist defiantly in the direction of the foe, “but the wust is your own
this hot weather, if you don’t bury him decently;” then turning to the
lifeless gore, he continued: “Poor Hal! I’m kinder sorry you are dead.
You had now and then a streak of good about you, and I’m sorry we ever
quarreled, I be, upon my word, and I wish you could hear me say so; but
you can’t, knocked into a cocked up hat as you are, poor Hal. If there
was a spot on your face as big as a sixpence that wasn’t smashed into a
jelly, I’d kiss you just for the old woman’s sake, but I swan if I can
stomach it! I might your hands, perhaps,” and bending lower, Bill’s lips
touched the clammy fingers of the dead.
There was something in the touch which brought to Bill’s heart a pang
similar to the one he felt when he saw his brother fall, and rising to
his feet, he said, mournfully:
“Good-bye, old Hal, I’m going now; I wish you might go, too. Good-bye,”
and wiping away a tear which felt much out of place on his rough cheek,
Bill walked away, saying to himself, “Poor Hal. I didn’t s’pose I had
such a hankerin’ for him. Didn’t s’pose I cared for nobody; but such a
day’s work as this finds the soft spot in a feller’s heart if he’s got
any. Poor Hal! Mother’ll nigh about raise the _ruff_!”
Thus soliloquizing Bill moved on, not rapidly as others did, but rather
leisurely than otherwise. He seemed to be benumbed, and did not care
much what became of himself. Wading the stream he trudged on, now
wondering “What the plague they all were running for, when they’d got
the rascals licked,” and again anathematizing the shot which fell around
him.
“S’pose I care for you,” he said, hitting a spent ball a kick. “S’pose I
care if I do get killed? better do that than to run.”
Then reflecting that to be shot in the _back_ was not considered a
distinguished mark of honor, he hastened his lagging steps until the
shelter of the wood was reached. Bill was very tired, and feeling
comparatively safe, determined not to travel farther until he had had
some rest. Hunting out a thick clump of underbrush near a stream of
water, where he would be sheltered from observation, he crawled into its
midst, and was ere long sleeping soundly, wholly oblivious to the
strange sights and sounds around him, as squad after squad of soldiers
hurried by.
Meanwhile George Graham was sitting faint and weary beneath the tree,
when the first token of the retreat met his view.
“See, they are running,” Isaac said, grasping his sound arm in some
affright. “Let us run, too. You lean on me, and I’ll lead you safely
through.”
“With a bitter groan, George attempted to rise, but sank back again from
utter exhaustion. A species of apathy had stolen over him, and he would
rather stay there and die, he said, than make the attempt to flee. He
did not think of Annie, until Isaac, bending down, said, entreatingly:
“It will be horrid for Annie to know you died, when you might have got
away. Try for Annie’s sake, can’t you?”
Yes, for Annie’s sake he could, and at the mere mention of her name, the
dim eye kindled, and the pale cheeks glowed, while the wounded man made
another effort to rise. He succeeded this time, and with slow steps the
two commenced their retreat. It was a novel sight, that tall, muscular
man, towering head and shoulders above the frail boy, upon whom he
leaned heavily for support,—the generous Isaac, who would not leave him
there alone, even though he knew the danger he was incurring for
himself.
“They’ll treat us decent if we’re taken prisoners, won’t they, think?”
he asked, as the possibility of such a calamity was suggested to his
mind. Not till then had George thought of that. They would not murder a
wounded man, he was sure, but they might take him prisoner, and death
itself was almost preferable to days of captivity and sickening suspense
away from Annie. The very idea roused him into life, and with a
superhuman effort, he hastened on, almost outrunning Isaac, until they,
too, had reached the friendly woods where Bill had already taken
shelter. Just then a loaded wagon passed them, its frightened, excited
occupants paying no heed to Isaac’s cry for help, until one whose
uniform showed him to be an officer, sprang up, exclaiming:
“The strong must give place to the wounded. I can find my way to
Washington better than that bleeding man!” and _Tom Carleton_ seized the
reins with a grasp which brought the foaming steeds nearly to their
haunches. The vehicle was stopped, and the next instant Tom had leaped
upon the ground, spraining his ankle severely, and reeling in his first
pain against the astounded Isaac, who cried out, joyfully:
“Oh, Captain Carleton, save Lieutenant Graham, won’t you? We can walk,
you and I.”
Tom had not the least suspicion as to whom he was befriending until
then, and now, unmindful of his own aching foot, he assisted George to
the seat he had vacated, and watched the party without a pang as they
drove rapidly away, leaving him alone with Isaac.
“We’ll do the best we can, my boy,” he said, cheerily, as he met the
confiding, inquiring look bent upon him by Isaac, who, relieved of his
former charge, felt now like leaning for protection and guidance upon
Captain Carleton.
Alas, his hopes were short-lived, for a groan just then escaped from
Tom’s white lips, wrung out by the agony it cost him to step. Isaac saw
him stagger when he sprang to the ground, and comprehending the case at
once, he resumed his burden of care, and kneeling before poor Tom, who
had sunk upon the grass, he rubbed the swollen limb as tenderly as Rose
herself could have done.
“If we could only find some water,” Tom said, scanning the appearance of
the woods, and judging at last by indications which seldom failed, that
there must be some not very far away. “There where the bushes are,” he
said, pointing toward the very spot where Bill lay snoring soundly, and
dreaming of robbing Parson Goodwin’s orchard, in company with Hal.
“There must be water there, and human beings too, for I hear singing,
don’t you?”
Isaac listened till he, too, caught a strain of melody, as sad and low
as if it were a funeral dirge some one was trilling there.
“What can it mean?” Tom said. “Lend me your hand, my boy, and I’ll soon
find out.”
It was a harder task to move than he anticipated, for the ankle was
swelling rapidly, and bearing the least weight upon it made the pain
intolerable. Leaning on Isaac’s shoulder, he managed to make slow
progress toward the stream bubbling so deliciously among the grass, and
toward the music growing more and more distinct.
It was reached at last, and the mystery was solved. Leaning against a
tree was a Confederate officer, whose white face told plainer than words
could tell that never again would he be seen in the pine-shadowed home
he had left so unwillingly but a few months before. Beside him upon the
grass lay a boy, scarcely more than twelve years old, a drummer in a
company of New England volunteers, both little hands shot entirely off,
and the bleeding stumps bound carefully up in the handkerchief of the
Rebel, who had smothered his own dying anguish for the sake of
comforting that poor child, sobbing so piteously with pain.
“I didn’t s’pose any of you was so good, or I shouldn’t have come to
fight you. Oh, mother, mother, they do ache so,—my hands,—my hands!” he
said, the cry of contrition ending in a childish wail for the mother
sympathy never more to be experienced by that drummer boy.
A smile flitted across the officer’s face as he replied, “Had we all
known each other better, this war would not have been,” and the noble
foe held the boy closer to his bleeding bosom, dipping his hand in the
running stream, and laving the feverish brow where the drops of sweat
were standing.
“What makes you so kind to me?” the dying boy asked, his dim eyes gazing
wistfully into the face bending so sadly over him.
“I have a boy about your size,—Charlie we call him,” the stranger said.
“And I am Charlie, too,” the child replied, “Charlie Younglove, and my
home is in New Hampshire, right on the mountain side. Father is dead,
and we are poor, mother and I. That’s why I came to the war. I wanted to
go to college, sometime. Do you think I’ll die? Will I never go home
again?—never see mother nor little sister either?”
The soldier groaned, and bent still closer to the drummer boy, asking so
earnestly if he must die. How could he tell him yes, and yet he felt he
must; he would not be faithful to his trust if he withheld the
knowledge, or failed to point that dying one to the only source of life.
“Yes, Charlie,” he answered, mournfully, “I think you will. Are you
afraid to die? Did your mother never tell you of the Saviour?”
“Yes, yes, oh yes!” and the little face lighted up as at the mention of
a dear friend. “I went to Sunday School, and learned of Jesus there.
I’ve prayed to him every night and every morning since I came from home.
I promised her I would,—mother, I mean,—and she prays, too. She said so
in her letter, right here in my jacket pocket. Don’t you want to read
it?”
The officer shook his head, and Charlie went on:
“I didn’t want to fight to-day, because I knew it was Sunday, but I had
to, or run away. Will God punish me for that, think? Will he turn me out
of Heaven?”
“No, no, oh no!” and the North Carolinian’s tears dropped like rain upon
the troubled face, upturned so anxiously to his. “God will never punish
those who put their trust in Jesus.”
“I do, I do, I do!” and the trembling voice grew fainter, adding, after
a pause: “You are a good man, I know. You have been to Sunday School, I
guess, and you prayed this morning, didn’t you?”
The soldier answered, “Yes,” and the child continued:
“You are dying, too, I ’most know, for there’s blood all over us. We’ll
go together, won’t we, you and I? Will there be war in Heaven, between
the North and South?”
“No, Charlie. There is naught but peace in Heaven,” and again the white
hands laved the feverish forehead, for the soldier would fain keep that
little spirit till his could join it company, and speed away to the land
where trouble is unknown.
But it could not be, for Charlie’s life was ebbing away; the last sand
was dropping from the glass. Closer the fair curly head nestled to its
strange pillow,—the bleeding bosom of a foe,—and the lips murmured
incoherently of the elm-trees growing near the mountain home, and the
mother watching daily for tidings of her boy. Then the train of thought
was changed, and Charlie heard the _bell_, just as it pealed that
morning from his own village spire. How grand the music was echoing
through the Virginia woods, and the blue eyes closed, as with a whisper
he asked:
“Don’t you hear the old bell at home, calling the folks to church? It
has stopped now, and the children are singing before the organ, ‘Glory
to God on high.’ I used to sing it with them. Do you know it, ‘_Gloria
in excelsis_’?”
“Yes, yes!” the soldier eagerly replied, glad to find they were both of
the same faith,—that little Yankee boy, born among the granite hills,
and he a North Carolinian, born on Southern soil.
“Then sing it,” Charlie whispered; “sing it, won’t you? Maybe I’ll go to
sleep. I don’t ache any now.”
With a mighty effort the soldier forced down his bitter grief, and in a
low, mournful tone, commenced our beautiful church chant, the dying
child for whom he sang, faintly joining with him for a time, but the
sweet voice ceased ere long, the curly head pressed heavier, the
bleeding stumps lay motionless, and when the chant was ended, Charlie
had gone to his last sleep.
Carefully, reverently, the North Carolinian laid the little form upon
the grass, and kissed the stiffened lips for the sake of the mother, who
might never know just how Charlie died.
Just then footsteps sounded near. Tom and Isaac were coming, and the
face of the soldier darkened when he saw them, as if they had been
intruders upon him and his beautiful dead. Their appearance, however,
disarmed him at once, and with a faint smile he pointed to his
companion, and said:
“He was in the Federal army two hours ago; he has joined God’s army now.
Poor Charlie! I would have done much to save him!” and with his hand he
smoothed the golden hair, on which the flecks of western sunshine lay.
Isaac knew it was a Rebel speaking to him, and for an instant he
experienced the same sensation he had felt in the midst of the fray, but
only for an instant, for though he knew it was a sworn foe, he knew,
too, that ’twas a noble-hearted man, and with a pitying glance at the
dead, he asked if aught could be done for the living.
“No,” and the soldier smiled again; “my passport is sealed; I am going
after Charlie. Some one of your men did his work well—see!” and opening
his coat, he disclosed the frightful wound from which the dark blood was
gushing.
Then, in a few words he had told them Charlie’s story, adding in
conclusion,
“You will escape; you will go home again: and if you do, write to
Charlie’s mother, and tell her how he died. Tell her not to weep for him
so early saved. Her letter is in his pocket: take it as a guide where to
direct your own.”
This he said to Isaac, for he saw Tom was disabled. Isaac did as he was
bidden, and the letter from Charlie’s mother, written but a week before,
was safely put away for future reference, and then Isaac did for the
North Carolina soldier what the North Carolina soldier had done for the
Yankee boy: he staunched the flowing blood as best he could, bathed the
throbbing head, and held the cooling water to the dry, parched lips,
which feebly murmured their thanks.
The stranger saw the distinction there was between his new-found
friends, and feeling that Tom was the one to whom he must appeal, he
turned his glazed eyes upon him, and said:
“Whose government will answer for all this, yours or the one that I
acknowledge?”
“Both, both!” Tom replied vehemently; and the stranger rejoined:
“Yes, both have much to answer for,—one for not yielding a little more,
and the other for its rash impetuosity. Oh, had we, as a people, know
each other; could we have guessed what brave, kind hearts there were
both North and South, we should never have come to this; but we believed
our leaders too much; trusted too implicitly in the dastardly falsehoods
of a lying press; and it has brought us here. For myself I am willing to
die in a good cause; and of course I think _ours_ is just; exactly as
you think of yours; but who will care for my poor Nellie I left in my
Southern home? What splendid victory can repay her for the husband she
will lose ere yonder sun has set, or what can compensate my daughter
Maude or my boy Charlie for their loss?
The North Carolinian paused from exhaustion, and Tom essayed to comfort
him.
Bending over him, and supporting the drooping head which dropped lower
and lower, the lips whispering of _Nelly_, of Maud and Charlie, and of
the Tar River winding past their door, until there seemed no longer life
in that once vigorous frame.
“He’s dead,” Isaac was about to say, but the words froze on his lips,
for in the distance he caught sight of two other men coming towards
them,—one strong and powerful, the other slight and girlish-looking. Tom
saw them, too, and turning to Isaac, said hurriedly,
“Run, my boy, and leave me. They will think far more of capturing an
officer than a private. You can escape as well as not,—run, quick.”
But Isaac would share Capt. Carleton’s fate, whatever that might be, and
with a deep flush on his boyish face, he drew nearer to his companion
and stood gazing defiantly at the Rebels as they came up.
“We have nothing to hope,” Tom whispered, “but we’ll sell ourselves
dearly as possible,” and bracing himself against the tree, he prepared
to do battle, refusing at once the bullying Rebel’s command,
“Surrender or die.”
“Never!” was the firm response, and while Isaac engaged hand to hand
with the smaller of the two, Tom parried skillfully each thrust of his
antagonist, who accused him of having murdered the North Carolina
officer lying near.
Both Tom and Isaac had thought the stranger dead, but at this accusation
the white lips quivered, and whispered faintly, “No, no, they were kind
to me, the officer and the boy.”
For an instant the Rebel’s uplifted hand was stayed, and it is difficult
to say what the result might have been had not another voice called
through the leafy woods, “No quarter to the Yankee!”
Tom’s cheek blanched to an unnatural whiteness, as with partial lips and
flashing eyes he watched the new comer hastening to the rescue, the
handsome, graceful stranger, whose appearance riveted Isaac’s attention
at once, causing him to gaze spell-bound upon the face of the advancing
foe, as if it were one he had seen before. How handsome that young man
was, with his saucy, laughing eyes of black, his soft, silken curls of
hair, and that air of self-assurance, which bespoke a daring, reckless
spirit. Isaac could not remove his eyes from the young Rebel, and his
late antagonist met with no resistance, as he passed his arms around him
and held him prisoner at last. Isaac did not even think of himself; his
thoughts were all upon the stranger, at whom poor Tom sat gazing, half
bewildered, and trying once to stretch his arms toward him, while the
lips essayed to speak. But the words he would have uttered died away as
a sudden faintness stole over him, when he saw that he was recognized.
There was a violent start,—a fading out of the bright color on the
Rebel’s cheek, and Isaac, still watching him, heard him exclaim, “No,
no, not him, leave him alone,” while at the same time he attempted to
free Tom from the firm grasp the enemy now had upon him.
With an oath the soldier shook him off, then rudely bade his
half-senseless victim rise and follow as a prisoner of war. And Tom,
unmindful of the pain, arose without a word, and leaning heavily upon
his captor, hobbled on, caring little now, it would seem, what fate was
in reserve for him. He seemed benumbed, and only an occasional groan,
which Isaac fancied was wrung out by pain, told that he was conscious of
anything.
“He’s lame,” Isaac cried, the hot tears raining over his face, while he
begged of them to stop, or at least to _carry_ poor Capt. Carleton, if
they must go on. “I won’t run away,” he said, imploringly to his own
captor, feeling intuitively that his was the kinder nature. “Don’t be
afraid of me. I’ll help you carry him if necessary. Do have some pity.
He’s fainting, see!” and Isaac almost shrieked as poor Tom sunk upon the
grass, utterly unable to move another step. They must carry him now or
leave him there, and anxious for the honor a captured officer of Tom
Carleton’s evident rank in life would confer upon them, the Rebels
availed themselves of Isaac’s proffered aid, and the three, bearing
their heavy burden, moved slowly on until far beyond the bushes by the
stream, where the other soldier sat upon the ground, his laughing black
eyes heavy with tears, and his heart throbbing with a keener pain than
he had ever known before.
“I was wrong to let him go,” he said aloud. “Three against two would
surely have carried the day, and that boy at his side was brave, I know.
But it cannot now be helped. He is their prisoner, and all that remains
for me to do is to see that the best of treatment comes to him until he
is released. But what! are the dead coming back to life?” and the
soldier started up as he caught a sound of bending twigs near by.