THE RIDE OF THE SIX HUNDRED.
What Morgan’s thoughts were, what his hopes were, as he rode away from
that fatal field at Buffington Island, no one knows. With him rode six
hundred, all that were left of three thousand. He could have had no
thoughts of attempting to cross the Ohio anywhere near Buffington Island,
for he rode almost due north. It may have been he thought that he might
cross near Wheeling or higher up, and escape into the mountains of Western
Pennsylvania; or as a last resort, he might reach Lake Erie, seize a
steamboat, and escape to Canada. Whatever he thought, north he rode,
through the most populous counties of Ohio. And what a ride was that for
six hundred men! Foes everywhere; Home Guards springing up at every
corner; no rest day or night.
Close in his rear thundered the legions of General Shackelford, a
Kentuckian as brave, as fearless, as tireless as Morgan himself. But in
spite of all opposition, in spite of foes gathering on right and left and
in front, Morgan rode on, sweeping through the counties of Meigs, Vinton,
Hocking, Athens, Washington, Morgan, Muskingum, Guernsey, Belmont,
Harrison, Jefferson, until he reached Columbiana County, where the end
came.
At almost every hour during this ride the six hundred grew less. Men fell
from their horses in exhaustion. They slept as they rode, keeping to their
saddles as by instinct. The terrible strain told on every one. The men
grew haggard, emaciated. When no danger threatened, they rode as dead men,
but once let a rifle crack in front, and their sluggish blood would flow
like fire through their veins, their eyes would kindle with the excitement
of battle, and they would be Morgan’s fierce raiders once more.
As for Calhoun, it seemed as if he never slept, never tired. It was as if
his frame were made of iron. Where danger threatened there he was. He was
foremost in every charge. It looked as if he bore a charmed life. The day
before the end came he was scouting on a road, parallel to the one on
which the main body was travelling. Hearing shots, he took a cross-road,
and galloped at full speed to see what was the trouble. A small party of
Home Guards were retreating at full speed; one far in advance of the
others was making frantic efforts to urge his horse to greater speed.
Calhoun saw that he could cut him off, and he did so, reaching the road
just as he came abreast of it. So intent was the fellow on getting away he
did not notice Calhoun until brought to a stand by the stern command,
“Surrender.”
In his surprise and terror, the man rolled from his horse, the picture of
the most abject cowardice Calhoun ever saw. He fairly grovelled in the
dust. “Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!” he cried, raising his hands in
supplication. “I didn’t want to come; they forced me. I never did anything
against you.”
Dismounting Calhoun gave him a kick which sent him rolling. “Get up, you
blubbering calf,” he exclaimed, “and tell us what you know.”
The fellow staggered to his feet, his teeth chattering, and trembling like
a leaf.
“Now, answer my questions, and see that you tell the truth,” said Calhoun.
“Are there any forces in front of us?”
“N—not—not as I know,” he managed to say.
“Do you know the shortest road to Salineville?”
“Yes; yes.”
“Will you guide us there if I spare your life?”
“Anything, I will do anything, if you won’t kill me,” he whined.
“Very well, but I will exchange horses with you, as I see you are riding a
fine one, and he looks fresh,” remarked Calhoun.
The exchange was made, and then Calhoun said, “Now lead on, and at the
first sign of treachery, I will blow out your brains. Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes, I will take you the shortest road.”
“What’s your name,” asked Calhoun, as they rode along.
“Andrew Harmon.”
“Well, Andrew, I wish all Yankees were like you. If they were, we should
have no trouble whipping the North. I reckon you are about as big a coward
as I ever met.”
Harmon, still white and trembling, did not answer; he was too thoroughly
cowed.
Ride as hard as Morgan’s men could, when they neared Salineville
Shackelford was pressing on their rear. They had either to fight or
surrender.
“My brave boys, you have done all that mortals can do. I cannot bear to
see you slaughtered. I will surrender.”
As Morgan said this his voice trembled. It was a word his men had never
heard him use before.
“General, it is not all over for you,” cried Calhoun, his voice quivering
with emotion. “Think of the joy of the Yankees if you should be captured.
Let me take half the men. You take the other half and escape. I can hold
the enemy in check until you get well away.”
Morgan demurred. “The sacrifice will be too great,” he said.
“You must, you shall consent. We will force you,” the cry went up from the
whole command as from one man.
Morgan bowed his head, he could not speak. In silence he took Calhoun’s
hand, tears gathered in his eyes, the first tears Calhoun ever saw there.
There was a strong clasp, a clasp which seemed to say “It may be the
last,” then, wheeling his horse, Morgan galloped swiftly away, followed by
less than half of his six hundred.
There was not a moment to lose, for the Federals were already charging
down with triumphant cheers, confident of an easy victory. Calhoun had
posted his men well, and a withering volley sent the Federals reeling
back. They charged again, only to recoil before the fierce fire of the
Confederates. There was now a lull in the fighting. Calhoun saw that they
were flanking him on the right and left. “Charge!” he shouted, and the
little band were soon in the midst of their enemies. The Federals closed
in around them. There was no way to retreat. Calhoun’s men, seeing how
hopeless the fight was, began to throw down their arms.
“Surrender,” cried a fine-looking officer to Calhoun, who, well in front,
was fighting like a demon. Even in that hell of battle Calhoun knew the
officer. It was Mark Crawford, the captain whose horse he had captured in
Tennessee, and whom he afterwards took prisoner at Cave City. But the
captain was wearing the shoulder-straps of a major now.
“Never!” shouted Calhoun, in answer to the summons to surrender, and with
sword in hand, he spurred forward to engage Crawford in single combat. But
that officer had a revolver in his hand, and he raised it and fired.
Calhoun felt as if he had been struck on the head with a red-hot iron. He
reeled in his saddle, and then fell forward on his horse’s neck. His sword
dropped from his nerveless hand. His horse, wild with fear and not feeling
the restraining hand of a master, broke through the ranks of the Federals,
and bore him out of the conflict.
Still clinging to the neck of his horse and the horn of his saddle, he
kept his seat. He straightened himself up, but the blood streaming over
his face blinded him, and he saw not where he was going. Neither did he
realize what had happened, for the shock of his wound had rendered him
half-unconscious. His mind began to wander. He was a soldier no longer,
but a boy back in Kentucky running a race with his cousin Fred.
“On! on! Salim,” he weakly shouted; “we must win, it is for the Sunny
South we are racing.”
The horse still ran at full speed, his glossy coat dripping with
perspiration, his nostrils widely distended and showing red with blood.
But his pace began to slacken. Darkness gathered before the eyes of
Calhoun. “Why, it’s getting night,” he murmured; “Fred, where are you?”
Lower still lower he sank, until he was once more grasping the neck of his
horse. A deadly faintness seized him, total darkness was around him, and
he knew no more.
With Calhoun gone, all resistance to the Federals ceased. Of the six
hundred, who had ridden so far and so well, fully one-half were prisoners.
The Federals were greatly chagrined and disappointed when they found that
Morgan was not among the prisoners. The man they desired above all others
was still at liberty. “Forward,” was the command, and the pursuit was
again taken up.
With the remnant of his command, Morgan was nearing New Lisbon. If there
were no foes before him there was still hope. From a road to the west of
the one he was on, a cloud of dust was rising. His guide told him that
this road intersected the one he was on but a short distance ahead. His
advance came dashing back, saying there was a large body of Federal troops
in his front. From the rear came the direful tidings that Shackelford was
near. Morgan saw, and his lip quivered. “It is no use,” he said, “it is
all over.”
The ride of the six hundred had ended—a ride that will ever live in song
and story.
“Morgan has surrendered! Morgan is a prisoner!” was the news borne on
lightning wings all over the entire North.
What rejoicing there was among the Federals! The great raider, the man
they feared more than an army with banners, was in their power.